Cipher's Personal Portable Portal
'How they meet' won the poll!
So just to make things fully contextualized, as far as they're gonna be - here's the full first chunk of this stupidly long fic I'm writing.
I hope you enjoy!
Standing in the wreckage of the burnt-out building, Dipper wishes he didn’t know who did it.
Anyone else would have left some trace sign. A scrape of blood, a hint of burnt hair. A friggin’ decent eyewitness report, even.
But here, like last time, and the time before that, and the time before that - there's absolutely zero traces. No video footage, nobody around at the time of the crime. Not even footprints.
Dipper kicks one of the remaining supports, sending a puff of charcoal up from the impact.
If he knew the bastard’s name, he’d curse it all to hell.
With a sigh of exhaustion, Dipper sits on a chunk of scorched foundation. He pulls his shoe off to tip the ashes out of it; there’s enough that the resulting cloud leaves him coughing.
Around him, the scoured west wing of the museum is silent, still, and empty. A grey-black skeleton of its former self, filled with dust and charcoal.
This arson is yet another one in a very, very long line of crimes. They’re not just ‘unrelated incidents’, or ‘bizarre coincidences’. Dipper’s not ‘being paranoid’ or ‘coming up with some pretty weird conspiracy theories’.
There’s only one person who could manage this. The same guy who turned a bank upside down - literally - and the same one who impaled a mob boss on an oversized silly straw and gave tails to half of a household last week.
It’s all connected.
Each crime is marked with the same style, mostly by how remarkably weird they are. Along with a thread of magic, distinct in its composition. One so distinctive that it's almost a flavor. Though admittedly, without certain magical analysis, it’s pretty hard to detect.
And if other freelance magicians would take the time and look at Dipper’s notes, maybe one of them would help find this asshole.
Dipper stalks through the burned building, fists balled in his pockets. He stumbles over a fallen support column, and nearly trips before he makes a hopping retreat back.
Though the culprit has been at his game - whatever ‘game’ that is - for a good half a year now, this is the most destructive ‘incident’ so far. Nobody was hurt, since it happened in the middle of the night. The one relief from a terrible crime, that only objects were obliterated in the process -
But the ashes speak for themselves.
Here, there’s nothing left.
He breathes in slowly. Then regrets the attempt at calming himself as he coughs again.
Whatever the culprit’s initial motive was, it hasn’t lasted. He’s grown not only in ambition, but also in his abilities. Things are escalating at a rate Dipper doesn’t like to think about.
Someone has to get to the bottom of this. Before it’s too late. Dipper’s got his number, metaphorically speaking, so. Well, might as well be him.
And when he proves that all of this chaos was created by the same person -
Well. A little boost to his meager reputation couldn’t hurt. Maybe a few medals and accolades. There isn’t a trophy for best monster hunter, but he can imagine standing on a podium and -
Dipper waves that thought off, swearing under his breath. Stupid. He has better things to focus on.
He’s the only freelancer on the case. Definitely the only one taking this seriously, the only one who thinks it’s the same person to begin with - and even he’s starting to have some doubts about ever finding the bastard.
Six months of tracking this guy down, and what does he have to show for it? A ramshackle compilation of incidents, a vague feeling of magic, and a description that could fit any bottle-blond actor with bad fashion sense. Scraps. He might as well pin them up and connect them with red string for all the good it does him.
Another kick sends Dipper hopping back, clutching his foot with a swear. He winces at the hole in the tip, he nearly punctured his foot on a nail.
Just his luck. Wrong place, wrong time, always just barely avoiding disaster. Dipper shows up whenever there’s an event, he’s got the means to follow the guy - but he’s always just a little too late.
Even worse, lately the guy’s been picking places… not at random, exactly. More like he causes trouble wherever it’d be the most annoying to follow.
The culprit must know someone is on his trail. But he’s not making it impossible to keep up, or even majorly difficult for a determined pursuer. Just really, really irritating, like making moves at three in the morning, or pausing just long enough for someone to catch up, then heading right back where he came from. At one point Dipper had to trudge through a literal swamp, only to find that bastard had sauntered in by baking himself a neat little trail right through the damn thing. There wasn’t even footprints to follow.
It’s a repeated point in Dipper’s notes. Whoever this is, they’re a total, absolute dick.
With a sigh, Dipper runs his fingers through the ash on the museum’s floor. Not a single thing is left beyond the shattered glass of some display cases, and the charred remains of the building. Even the enchanted metal tools have been melted into slag.
The day before yesterday, he could tell something was up. Building energy, something that felt like it was made by the culprit. Something with the twinge of a powerful curse, coiled and being wound up like a spring.
Dipper spent that evening convincing - okay, maybe also bribing, thank you Stan for the idea - the museum to let him borrow materials. The day after that, he spent all night, morning, and most of the afternoon running around slapping up anti-curse emblems. The entire south of the city warded, in a fine careful net of spellcraft. The work was exhausting. Both in running around, and in the amount of magic he’d needed to use.
But it was worth it. That evening, in the quiet and very uncursed city, all the emblems activated. Dipper would have sworn he sensed someone in the distance, cursing his own name. That night he went to bed with a smug sense of satisfaction, floating on a cloud of triumph.
Which is probably why the bastard burned down the museum next.
With another sigh, Dipper tucks his notebook back into his knapsack. He’s gleaned all he’s going to for today; in the fading evening light, searching more is pointless.
So much for all the magical artifacts. Most of those had come in really useful in messing with the guy.
…How the hell did the culprit know where they came from, though? He’d need a near encyclopedic knowledge of artifacts to know which ones Dipper used, then track them back to their origin.
Or maybe he just searched on the internet. It’s hard to tell.
Dipper just wishes there were more clues. But just like every other incident, the guy up and freakin’ vanished.
No human can disappear like that without some very irresponsible use of power. That hope is one Dipper’s hanging his hat on. After six months? He has to be reaching his limits. He’ll burn himself out before he can manage too many more incidents. Maybe Dipper will find him by stumbling on his withered, dissolving corpse.
Whoever this is is pretty strong, but no power is infinite. He can’t hide forever.
It can’t be too much longer. Won’t be. Dipper has a plan, he’s gotten really close, and - He’s good at his job, damn it. He knows he is.
Taking a deep, slow breath, Dipper lets it out. Patience is the name of the game here. He’s just gotta keep moving.
One day, he’s going to catch up with that bastard. He’ll see the guy in the flesh. Then he’ll grab that stupid dick before he can escape, again, and wipe that presumably smug look off his probably ugly face.
Turning around one last time, Dipper surveys the destruction, stuffs his hands in his pockets - and pauses.
A speck of light glints in the pile of ash. The last bit of evening sun, shining off a metallic surface.
Alert with surprise, Dipper scrambles over to the pile. Kneeling down, he brushes the dust carefully aside, careful not to disturb anything fragile that might shatter if handled wrong.
One thing did survive. Thank fuck, it’s not an absolute total loss. Just, uh… Ninety-nine percent of it.
He scuffles through the still-warm ashes, cupping his palms underneath the lump and lifting it from its bed. The motion sends white puff rising up as ash slips away from the artifact.
A small black, squarish thing rests on the pile, a bit larger than both his palms put together. The material is faintly warm from residual heat, insulated by the ash it laid in - and there’s not a mark on it. Not even a scratch.
Dipper turns the artifact over in his hands with a frown. The shining black surface reveals no obvious buttons or secrets. Just a kind of phone-ish shape, though more square and squat. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say a guest dropped it on the rush to escape.
The fact that it’s still intact though. Nearly glowing with magic, a tremulous feeling under his palms - this is not dropped by some clumsy tourist. Not even Ford could put this together.
Wiping at the object with his sleeve, Dipper manages to clean off most of the smooth surface. On one of the sides, dust clings to the thinnest of engravings. The very faint outline of an equilateral triangle. No runes or other magical scribing, just… a shape.
Dipper thinks back but - no, he doesn’t remember seeing this in the collection. A quick check online reveals…
Basically nothing. There are - were - a bunch of stone and metal slabs in the archives, all described so poorly as to be useless. Some are even bunched up in groups. ‘Magical slab 1-24’ and ‘Metal artifact 1-78’, no description involved.
Not surprising. Probably dug up in some mass excavation site, transported here, then never really looked at again. The bulk nature of the shipment means it was overlooked, its magical properties never discovered.
After today, he’s just glad that even one item escaped this onslaught.
The other artifacts must not have had much to them. But some magical property in this artifact’s making must have saved it from the blaze. Fireproofing, perhaps? Against weird fire? That’s unusual. Maybe even unique.
As the only survivor, it really needs investigating.
Dipper glances over his shoulder, then around. With everyone evacuated, it’s quiet in the rubble. Nobody here would notice if, say… a clue wandered off.
The artifact slips easily into his pocket. The shape conveniently looks just like a phone, even if the shape’s a bit off. Not something that would attract any attention.
Whistling nonchalantly, ducking out of the way of local law enforcement and any onlookers - Dipper makes his escape.
Another day of pursuit. Another scene of disaster, the culprit there and gone in the blink of an eye.
He’ll be up to something new, next. Never the same thing twice, never in the same place.
Dipper will follow in his evil tracks, of course. But for tonight - his fate is another crappy hotel room.
He ditches his backpack by the door, slumping against the wall and its chipped paint. He could start going through his notes, and the pictures of the arson. Put in more work, find further connections -
But it’s been a long day, and he’s tired. He might be magical, but he’s only got so much to work with. A reasonable night’s sleep, if he can manage, will make the task loom less horribly over his tired brain.
With a sigh, he drops back on the mattress. There’s some bounce to it, springs squeaking like they’re full of mice. Hell, maybe they are. The type of room he can afford isn’t exactly decadent.
That, though, should be temporary. Dipper’s career is only just starting; freelancers in the ‘solving magical problems’ scene don’t get great rates. Especially as a beginner. Definitely without a partner; it makes him look super young. Like he’s just starting out, fresh-faced and not having any inroads.
Because this field is really stupid, and doesn’t pay attention to results. Dipper’s been fine on his own for years, and he’s done really cool things without that ‘networking’ crap.
All by himself. Totally cool with that, because Dipper’s a cool guy, sometimes. If Mabel hypes him up enough on one of their phone calls, he almost believes it too.
Though it would be nice to have some backup, it’s hard to find someone who really gets the job. Or does it in the way that Dipper goes about it. The number of people who are willing to take long treks in hyper-magical territory to search for an obscure clue, or set up really complicated traps for dangerous monsters, or talk over high-level magical theory while sitting in the rain all night just to get one body-snatcher are…
Well, besides Ford, who recently retired, there aren’t any. Only Dipper himself.
One day, things are going to change for him. All his effort will pay off. If he keeps solving mysteries, and fighting monsters, he’ll forge a reputation as someone who always gets the job done. No matter how hard it is, he can handle it. The work is picking up, too. The last six months have shown the biggest series of magical incidents in decades.
And he’s gonna be the one to get to the bottom of it.
Dipper Pines, the guy who proved it’s all connected. He’ll have it laid out in facts and math, all the evidence. They’re all gonna see that he was totally right.
Once he finally gets this guy, everything’s going to start looking up.
The sheets rustle as Dipper settles back, holding the artifact up over himself. He stares into the black surface, and a slightly distorted reflection narrows its eyes back at him.
A good mystery always intrigues him. This one should take his mind off the other, irritating one for a while.
The only remaining object from the fire is clean and smooth. A mysterious creation, of unknown purpose. Clearly riddled with magic, too; Dipper feels it running just under the surface like a rapid current. It gives the artifact a weight that has nothing to do with mass.
Power.
Did the criminal see this artifact, still intact after all the other magical objects were gone? Did he try to destroy it too, and fail? Or simply not notice he’d missed one out of thousands?
Whatever it is, it’s got a lot more going on than meets the eye.
Dipper casts a quick identifier, which comes back with nothing. He’s not surprised. That’s the first thing anyone would try. If it was that simple, he’d already have the full description off the site.
With a shrug, he traces another set of runes, his own version, adding a little more oomph behind it -
And the magic leaps back instantly, with the bizarre sensation of a bouncy ball hitting concrete.
“Huh,” Dipper says, thoughtfully. He sits up, hunching over the slab in his hands. “Now that’s new.”
A more subtle approach, then. Tracing the lines of energy with the barest brush of magic upon magic reveals something deeply complex. Thin layers twist together deep under the surface, building an entire circulatory system. Dipper has to put it down for a moment, suddenly worried that it is organic.
When a cautious prod doesn’t get a response, he relaxes. Not fleshy, just complicated. Which also proves he was right earlier - the artifact’s just as powerful as he’d thought. The spellcraft is unlike anything he’s ever seen.
Dipper rubs his hands together, starting to smile.
Even if he doesn’t find the guy he’s after, figuring this out could be a heck of a win.
Several attempts later, he’s beginning to get why this bastard brick got tossed in with all the other junk.
Nothing here is working. It simply deflects. Standard spells poing off of it like rubber, while giving his magical senses an odd, back-of-the brain afterimage of a circle with a slash through it; a firm ‘nah’.
Dipper nearly chucks the thing across the room in frustration, before shutting his eyes and taking several, calming breaths.
Okay, weird thing, weird enchantment. The ordinary stuff won’t work. The magical logic is… twisted in a way that leaves it incompatible with most everything. He’ll have to find a different approach.
“What are you?” Dipper says, low and frustrated. He gives the artifact a shake, as if he can knock the secrets out like a rock from a shoe. “What secrets are you hiding in there?”
No response, not that he expected one. With a wry smile, he taps the sleek surface with a finger, twice. “C’mon, man. Talk to me.”
Huge yellow letters flash onto the black surface.
HEY
Dipper throws the artifact, a bit awkwardly since he’s lying on his back. It sails in the air in a high thin arc, landing with a thump between his legs. He scoots rapidly backward, sheets pulling up behind him.
The artifact lies where it landed, an unmoving brick. There’s magic in the air now, but no sense of any spell building, ready to unleash power to blow his face off. The latent spellcraft of the artifact has just been activated.
More text displays on the surface, bare except for the glowing letters.
To the jerk that’s swiped my private stuff: You got some nerve! I expect this back by interdimensional mail in a week, or trust me - there will be consequences.
Dipper waits a full minute before he lets go of the headboard. Tentatively, he kneels near the…
Is this a phone?
Clearly it’s a communication device of some sort, with the freaking text messages. A phone is the obvious equivalent, only - he thought it looked far older than that, something way before mobile phones. Possible ancient. Is that a coincidence, maybe, or is it secretly modern?
Dipper taps the ‘screen’, just below the glowing words. To his surprise, there’s actually a keyboard, what the hell. This thing keeps getting weirder.
Since it hasn’t already thrown a horrible curse at him, or burst into flames - it’s reasonably safe to assume that it’s simply ‘on’. Not ‘explosive’.
With hands that are definitely not shaking, he picks it up, and types,
Who is this?
His own text pops up in blue. A strange contrast to the yellow, but he’s guessing it’s for convenience - there’s no bubbles to tell who’s said what otherwise.
A few seconds of nervous waiting later, there’s a response.
Oh hey, you answered! Well, human - You’re talking to the one and only Bill Cipher, Dream Demon, all-powerful master of the Mindscape! I’d say it’s nice to meet ya but you’re not supposed to have a direct line to me!
Dipper raises an eyebrow.
Now that’s one hell of an introduction. It might even have been interesting, if it didn’t smell of complete bullshit.
Complicated spellwork, sure. Incomprehensible architecture? Maybe. Dipper can admit it; he’s never seen anything with a web of spells on it this complex, in such small of a package.
But the idea that Dipper just stumbled onto a demonic artifact of all things. One that wasn’t instantly detected, recorded, then ritually destroyed is…
Someone’s fucking with him.
Dipper rolls his eyes as he types back,
Really? Demon? You can’t expect me to believe that.
What, you calling me a liar? ‘Cause I am, but not about this! I got better things to mislead mortals about. This is my property, not something for your grubby mortal mitts.
Dipper snorts. Guess this person’s sticking with the bit. Obviously whoever created this would want it back - but too bad. Whether they’re delusional, stupid, or just a flat-out liar, they’re really good at enchanting. It’d be a waste not to study their work.
He lies back on the bed as he replies.
Sure, have fun roleplaying, or whatever, it doesn’t make a difference. Finders keepers, losers weepers.
ARE YOU CALLING ME A LOSER. MORTAL.
Hmm, I’m detecting a certain amount of ‘crying about it’, so. Yeah. Suck it, loser.
Smirking, Dipper settles back - then his half-smile drops, as he holds the ‘phone’ a little further away from himself.
Though the blue fire building up in the screen looks like a bad sticker effect, the artifact’s also getting a alarmingly warm. It vibrates in his hands - then suddenly stops, cooling down.
Ha! Alright, alright, I admit - you got some balls.
Maybe you’ll change your tune once you REALLY know what you’re dealing with! Might wanna check the connection, if you’re even capable of it! Mortal magic doesn’t reach across dimensions!
With a grimace, Dipper taps his fingers on the phone. It’s slightly cooler now, but still worryingly reactive to… whatever happened on the other end.
Damn. Whoever this is, they’re not only really really good at enchanting, they’re also pretty confident that tracking them down won’t spoil their game. The confidence exuding from this ‘Bill’s’ words feels genuine.
Honestly, though, the suggestion is a good one. Dipper should have tried to trace the call the second he knew someone else was on the line.
Maybe ‘Bill’ thinks he won’t manage to find him. Joke’s on him, though; Dipper’s amazing at finding stuff. He’s the best tracker of magical anything in years. Maybe decades. With a solid, stable connection right in front of him? Hell, he could do this one in his sleep.
Time to call the bluff.
He casts the tracing spell, though it takes longer than usual. A few gestures and muttered ritual aren’t gonna cut it; he has to improvise around the strange construction of the enchantment. Even trailing along the magic seems harder than usual, like it resists mixing with his own, and it takes him a few attempts to match the signal.
Once he finds the right way to tune it… the lead snaps along the already-existing connection, and zips away to find its source.
The line extends out from the shabby hotel room, a plucked string in Dipper’s senses. It twists around the phone, rising slowly. Invisibly passing through the walls and the -
Ceiling? Dipper looks up on instinct, even though nothing is visible.
From there it swirls around in the air like a silly straw on steroids, and then - out, very far, in a way that isn’t up or down or left or right, just
Away.
Dipper has to cut off the tracing spell before vertigo has him reeling. The swirling sense of standing on top of a skyscraper is followed by a flip in his stomach. That he’s using a device he barely understands that reaches out into something even more incomprehensible.
He drops the phone-artifact, trying to clear his head by shaking it rapidly.
That’s not nearby. Not on this planet. Possibly, genuinely, not even in this dimension.
Shit. Bill wasn’t bluffing.
Dipper wipes sweating palms on the sheets. To pick up the phone again takes an effort, willing himself to grasp it in unsteady hands.
A demon.
All the monsters he’s fought, curses he’s broken, years of work tucked into his belt, and he’s never seen one of those.
Demons are dangerous, evil, and very, very powerful. Consorting with them is by all accounts a terrible idea. He should never have picked this up. He should hang up, and throw the damn artifact out the window, hoping that nobody else makes as dumb a mistake as he just did.
On the screen, there’s a long long scroll of yellow letters, filling the entire surface. ‘HA HA HA HA’ over and over and over again.
Before he can think better of it, Dipper starts a response. He’s halfway through a sentence - what the fuck, that’s not funny- before he pauses.
Terrible evil monster. Stupid powerful. Probably Bill sensed the tracing of the connection, like he did with Dipper’s other testing. Bill wanted the result startle him. Because he thinks it’s funny.
Dipper grits his teeth, and glares at the screen.
Actually, screw this guy. Dipper’s keeping the stupid phone. If for no other reason than spite. This ‘Bill’ guy seems pretty full of himself, like he’s totally above some human. He’s in for a bad time, then, because Dipper’s not going to let one little surprise scare him off.
Besides. The average guy would get into horrible, even deadly trouble, whereas Dipper… sort of knows what he’s doing. No, he is good at his job. Finding secrets, solving mysteries, thwarting evil jerks who think they’re oh-so-hilarious, the whole shebang. He does it all.
Taking another breath, hissing through clenched teeth - Dipper lets it out. Losing his temper isn’t going to help deal with an extradimensional being. He has to be careful.
He thinks for a long moment before he responds.
Okay. Let’s say I believe you. Maybe. Then you should know I didn’t steal your… whatever this is. I found it lying around, and I just. Got kind of curious.
HA HA HA! Of course you were! Careful with that impulse, kid, it kills more than just cats!
A jerk who definitely thinks he’s hilarious. Dipper rolls his eyes, then, rather pettily, decides to ignore that statement.
More pressing questions take the lead. Like what the fuck he’s holding right now, and if there are any other nasty tricks in store. A little bit of him, bubbling under the surface, wonders what being a demon is like. What they get up to, common habits. Ways they could be tracked down and, y’know, defeated, maybe.
Theoretically, he’s got a line to a bunch of innocent, totally not-thwarting-related information that could be super useful to someone trying to, maybe, be a super cool monster-fighter.
Dipper backspaces a bunch over some poorly thought out questions. First things first. Like what the hell he’s holding right now.
So. What is this?
Good question! The gadget you’re poking at with your sweaty meat-paws is paired to the one I have here at my place. A little one-on-one communication assistant, if you will. Once you started groping around with your magic, it wasn’t hard to tell someone had picked it up!
Dipper raises an eyebrow. Though he already has an idea… a little confirmation never hurts.
Like, you got a notification? Or literally felt?
The latter! Kinda like smell, but by touching things with your eyeballs. And with all your prodding around you might as well have been stinking up the place! Your spells aren’t real subtle!
Hey, they’re subtle! Having weird extra senses is just cheating.
Sucks to be human, then! In that you suck at everything! What’s a LOSER like you gonna do about it?
Dipper nearly throws the stupid artifact again - but he holds back, gripping it tight. Instead he sits up, leaning down and hauling his backpack up from the side of the bed.
Maybe Bill thinks he can’t do anything. That he’s some ignorant nobody, who doesn’t have any real skills or talent or doesn’t have any friends - but he’s got that wrong. Dipper’s not a loser. Bill’s not getting away with that bullshit.
One quick unzip and a bit of rifling around later, he finds what he was looking for. Carefully, Dipper bounces the heft of a flashlight battery in his hand. Shutting his eyes, he focuses on crafting a quick working.
Magic is all about energy, and its direction. Focusing power, conveying it from one place to another. Pushing anything across dimensions would take impossible amounts of energy, stuff Dipper doesn’t have. If it weren’t for a very convenient connection, already in his hand.
Dipper has nothing on hand to actually exorcise the guy - he’s not sure that’s even possible when Bill’s where he should be - but retribution is in order.
More text lines appear on the artifact. He ignores them. Changing this up to work with the demon device is a challenge, but after figuring out how to alter the tracking spell changing this one up isn’t hard. He adjusts the flow of magic this way, into the tangle of not-veins in the device that way, finishes the chant-
Then touches his tongue to the battery.
The jolt passes through him painlessly, following the spell. It zips along his nerves, down into his hand and from there - into the artifact itself.
Where it should, theoretically end up right at that bastard.
Dipper tosses the battery back into his backpack. Picking up the ‘phone’, hunching over to stare at the screen.
That worked. He felt the energy move… unless he got the math wrong. Or a detail of his spell. Or maybe demons are immune to electricity, and he just did something totally pointless.
God. It might even prove Bill right, and wouldn’t that be the worst -
The next line of text comes in.
What the hell? A joy buzzer? That’s some real petty prank stuff! You seriously pulled that bullshit? And across dimensions?
A tense pause. Dipper taps the phone, checking for it heating up again - but another line pops up after a few seconds.
Y’know what, kid? I think I might actually like you! You’re FEISTY.
Dipper nearly does a double-take.
But no, that - what? Aren’t demons supposed to be vengeful? He was half-sure he’d have to chuck the phone out the window before it exploded in his hands.
In fact, you’re in luck! ‘Cause I’m pretty bored, and I can totally show you how to improve that jinx of yours! If you can keep up with a little theory, that is.
Because that’s not suspicious or anything. Conversation with a demon can only lead to ruin and disaster. He should absolutely, definitely stop this right in its tracks.
Still, Dipper shrugs, and types,
Try me.
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Yeah so. I gave into the urges. I’ve never felt the need to write fanfic. Ever. But here I am I guess.
I wrote this at midnight soooo, who knows how this is. Just wanted to write John thoughts because he’s my guy—so have this short little piece that I hope other people can enjoy too :)
Fic under the cut: 1.8k words.
The memory of Arthur’s silence will remain more prettifying than his agony, but that doesn’t mean that his pain … his terror as the light and awareness left his eyes—their eyes—is what John was hoping to hear.
He doesn’t know what he was hoping for. Relief? A gasping thank you? Pride in saving him? Would it be foolish to wish that the talisman fixed everything? That he would just be okay? Perhaps it is. He thinks it is. He was never going to have that. It would be unreasonable to think he would get any of that, but any joy of him living, of John fixing this, was ripped away when Arthur opened his mouth. All John wanted was a sound. A single noise, a response, any response to prove the talisman worked. He got that. He should be happy that he got that.
But he isn’t.
And Arthur is silent again.
And the world is dark—but not as dark as it could be.
John does not know what to consider if Arthur didn’t end up in the dark world … when he died. That place was the last thing he wanted for Arthur, and yet, it was always treated as a last resort. Of a sort. Between them, spoken only aloud by Arthur, so long ago now. A place they would end up together in—if they failed. It was not a future he ever wanted, but it was a possibility, even if it was one he despised the thought of. But now he knows that if Arthur dies he does not follow, instead he is left here to deal with the repercussions. To play the marker for lifeless remains, having to have witnessed, and experienced death without a choice. What if there is no place meant for them? Past all of this. He can’t exactly bury Arthur himself, if it came to it, he wouldn’t let him stay dead after all. Graves are a place of permanency, one they do not deserve, because they can be forgotten. Especially here. But John would never forget. He would never abandon him like that.
He would find a way, like today. They are stuck in this together. They both have to make their own path through this, together.
Except his body is no longer a weighted grave for them both, a tomb he would never dare leave, it is breathing. Arthur is alive—and so they are both alive, whatever that may entail. He is tentatively okay. Arthur, is okay. As okay as he can be, as they both can be. What matters is that he is alive—what matters now is keeping him alive.
John has almost lost Arthur more than once, twice, more than three times, and he wasn’t always there to fix it but he has tried to be. He often was. Every moment where Arthur falls, where he becomes immobile and lost to John, he feels himself succumb to a fragility accustomed to human bodies. Accustom to loss and fear. It’s horribly quiet without him. Even so, he saves him, he saves them both—because Arthur trusts him, and he trusts Arthur. He loves Arthur, and he is going to tell him that. He has to tell him that. Even if they both know it, to an extent. This can’t happen again without John making sure he knows it.
But this is never going to happen again.
Because Arthur died this time, and he almost lost everything. John felt the cold stone visage that he left in his absence. There was nothing here without Arthur, more so than just the lack of connection to their body, but the emptiness was staggering. He was alone. Completely and wholly alone in a space meant for two.
He hadn't felt terror like that since Arthur slit his throat before the King—but this was worse. They’ve grown … so much—and John wasn’t there to see the aftermath of his actions back then. This, he was aware of, in every aching moment of uncertainty. This could have been prevented, couldn’t it? They didn't need to go after the talisman, but they did, and John didn’t see her—not until it was too late. It was his words that made her kill him—an appeal made to the wrong person. Arthur wouldn’t have died if made the right decisions. But he always seems to make the wrong ones, no matter how hard he tries, that he and Arthur have in common.
But Arthur is alive again, so why does it still feel like he is grieving?
Arthur wouldn’t have gotten hurt, wouldn’t have died, if John wasn’t here. But John wouldn’t be here, who he is now, without Arthur. Perhaps that would be more demoralizing if Arthur hasn’t so vehemently stated that he doesn’t want to be rid of John, that they are in this together, until they both get what they want … no matter what that may be. Perhaps that is just happiness, in the end, no matter what it looks like. From one harrowing experience to the next, until they may finally rest. Arthur wants him here, in spite of all the pain it causes, and will continue to cause. Because Arthur is his friend, and more than that, but he is his friend.
Arthur might even be … pleased with his actions. That he has found himself, both with him, and all that he has learned for himself. That he knows who he is, in truth, after everything.
Even if he knows who he is now, who he wants to be, who he will always be—he knows he will want Arthur there too. Arthur who has been there for all his mistakes, his achievements, their joy and sorrow. Arthur deserved to be here for this too, but he wasn’t, and maybe that was the push he needed. He used to defend so much of himself to Arthur, expectation after expectation, misstep after misstep. But Arthur also gave him hope, the sanctity of trust, showed him love and sacrifice, and remained alongside him even when that trust was broken. Even if some mistakes can’t be forgiven … They let them rest. Arthur lets it rest, so they can move on, so they can grow.
Is it so wrong to become … whole without him there to witness it? Or is that how it was always meant to be. To be entirely his own, must he first be alone?
He hopes not, it is a terribly bleak thought, besides it can’t be. Not in every single world, even if Kayne said he … doesn’t change much. There must be some place where there is more joy to be held in his ownership of self. A better circumstance that does not lace his pride in one of their darkest moments. In his choosing of hope. In his choosing of Arthur. One that doesn’t extend off of a devastating fear, off of death. He doesn’t know if he would wish to change this, he would have—if Arthur was truly gone—but he isn’t, so he will just have to see how this plays out.
He is going to share everything he said—everything he did, with Arthur. Because he deserves to be a part of it. Because they do this, all of this, together. Because he wouldn’t be here without him. Because together they are whole of two, just like he said, just like he will say.
It’s not as if he will ever fit into the messy expectations of what it means to be human, per say, but he doesn’t need to. All he needs is to perceive himself as what he wants to be—and Arthur’s perception helps to, even if he doesn’t always meet that. Humanity will be whatever he wants it to be. However he defines it to be. A neutral point, in it all. For he is not a piece to be slotted away, but a piece to be shelved along the masses, every individual part given a space of its own, and it is a space he deserves. A space he had long since earned.
A space they both deserve, to play their own key.
Because Arthur is alive—and so is he, in every sense of the word.
He’d panicked, when Arthur lost consciousness again, for a second he thought he had lost him once more. John had been so ready to reach for the talisman for a second time—for he wasn’t going to allow Arthur to leave, not yet, not ever. But he was breathing, albeit raggedly, but he was. John was going to keep his promises, he had to. He was going to take care of this, of him, and they were both going to be okay. Just like the times before this, and everytime that may come after, because Arthur isn’t going to die.
They’re going to get their happy ending, despite what she said, one where Arthur does not end up as a corpse.
An ending where they both know want they want, what they deserve, who they are.
Moving Arthur to the witch’s bed was difficult, to say the least, without exasperating the wound and the subpar stitching ... even if it has improved. John won’t allow it to get any worse—and Yorrick keeps telling him it’s survivable, or that he is more likely to survive anyway. Even so, John periodically checks to make sure Arthur is still breathing, that his heart is still beating.
Arthur is alive. He will stay alive.
He should stop worrying, Yorrick keeps spouting that he is arguably fine. He should stop.
But the reality is that he can’t, and he doubts will for a long while to come.
He is intimately aware of every minuscule movement Arthur makes, of every second of awareness he gains, and he coaxes him back to the present through all of it. A melody of promises, of reaffirming how he feels, telling Arthur everything over and over and over. It doesn’t matter if he is aware of what he says, if he hears him at all, John will repeat his words for as long as they are needed.
John never lets him arrive to the dread of waking up alone, speaking as soon as he stirs and recognition strike, each and every time. They are never going to be alone again, severed or separated, and John tells him that. Because they are whole together.
And eventually, when Arthur finds his speech, a gentle—hoarse voice long since worn by constant yelling born from the suffering of the waking. He repeats back everything John has been telling him through the suffering of uncertainty, of recovery and knowing and fear.
Arthur moves, ever so slightly, before John can protest—and he brushes his hand, John’s hand. It is a little thing, but it is such a stark constant to the stillness he had before. After the pain of it all, this is a relief, a reprieve. Arthur is alive and John can tell he’s weakly smiling, even if that is not something he can see, when he speaks up for the first time in hours.
John isn’t surprised by what he hears, he already knew, after all. They’ve both said it before. But John it is nice to hear regardless, because together, they are whole. A comfort to both him and Arthur both. He does not want to live, to experience life as it was shown to him, without him. He wouldn’t have gotten here without him. Together they are whole. Both their own wills, colliding, and depending on each other. Made by each other.
Arthur is alive.
Arthur is alive and he breaks the one sided silence by saying, “I love you too.”
Perhaps that, for now, is enough.
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The Frozen Lake
It was the third day since he had stopped feeling like dying.
About a week ago he had woken up from his far too lifelike fever dream and a few days later the last spikes of the fever itself had been gone too just like the hallucinations it had brought in his sleep.
He still had been sick though and welcomed Rael telling him to stay in bed until he was perfectly healthy again all too eagerly.
While he still sneezed every now and then, it was at least tolerable now, still annoying but he didn’t feel incredibly uncomfortable anymore.
That day, just like the last and also the ones before that, he had awoken late. Against Rael’s order to stay in bed he had found the courage to get up and take a look out of the window. It was a sunny day, which in Coerthas still meant that it was bitterly cold though. But the sun was shining brightly and already high in the sky too which meant it had to be almost midday. He had slept way too long again, way to many hours for a surprisingly dreamless sleep. Or maybe it was exactly the lack of dreams that allowed him to finally rest, after all in the past there rarely had been good ones…
For a moment he considered to go downstairs and ask for a late breakfast if that wasn’t too insolent given the late hour but then a knock sounded from the door.
Quickly he hurried back to bed, just in case it was Rael, but the person who carefully peeked into the room a few seconds later wasn’t a viera.
“Ah, you are awake! That’s good!”, Haurchefant exclaimed happily and brought a small tray with hot soup and also something warm to drink. “It is so late already, you must be horribly hungry. Alphinaud checked in on you earlier but you were still fast asleep and he didn’t have the heart to wake you.”
A little uncertain on how to answer to that, A’viloh just nodded. Haurchefant grinned, put down a mug on the bedside table and handed A‘viloh a comfortingly warm bowl filled with some rather delicious smelling stew.
Instead of fetching the chair from the small desk by the window, Haurchefant sat down at the lower end of the bed balancing the tray with his own lunch on his knees. Rael once told him that ishgardian society had an absurd amount of strict and antiquated rules and so A’viloh couldn’t help but wonder, that although it seemed like a very appropriate distance to him, in Haurchefant’s hometown the fact alone that he dared to sit on someone else’s bed was probably scandalous.
“I hope you don’t mind me having lunch with you.”, the Elezen asked as he noticed A‘viloh staring.
Quickly the Miqo’te lowered his gaze to his bowl of soup. “Not at all.”, he muttered and tried a spoonful of the food just to change the topic. “Mhh, this is very good!”, he mumbled, still chewing, surprised by how good this really was compared to the bland food and bitter teas Rael had usually brought him these last few days. It must have been the Viera’s way of punishing him for running away.
Haurchefant laughed and then for a while they ate in silence.
“You look a lot healthier already.”, the Elezen stated after a while with an amiable smile on his face before taking a sip from his mug.
A‘viloh shrugged a little embarrassed, since it had been his own fault that he hadn’t been well in the first place. “Only because all of you took so good care of me.”
Haurchefant nodded. “You know, you had us all horribly worried right?”
“Sorry about that.”, he said and guitily looked into his mug.
Curiously Haurchefant eyed him for a moment. “Why did you do that anyway? Run out into the storm.”
A bit surprised A’viloh looked up. Had they all thought he had done this on purpose? “There wasn’t a storm when I left! What do I know about weather? I didn’t expect it to start snowing, let alone that much!”
That made the Elezen chuckle again but he still looked at him expecting an answer.
“Still… why did you leave?”
“I assumed Rael told you…”, A’viloh replied not sure what Haurchefant wanted to hear exactly. He nodded. “Rael did. But maybe I want to hear it from you…”
A’viloh sighed. His plan hadn’t been very smart and he felt a little uncomfortable having to explain his reasons to someone else, when in retrospect it didn’t make much sense even to his own ears.
“You know the… circumstances under which we fled Ul’dah… I couldn’t… um… the fact that we didn’t even know what happened to our friends… I wanted to find out, because it doesn’t seem fair to me that we escaped while all of them didn’t…”
“Mhh…”, Haurchefant nodded thoughtfully but let go off the topic for now. Instead he asked, „And how are you feeling today?”
Somehow that question confused A’viloh even more.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a simple question, isn’t it?”, he said still smiling politely.
Of course it was a simple question. Just the answer felt unreasonable complicated to him. To make things even more difficult people who asked such a question usually wanted to hear “I‘m fine, and you?” or “Very good, thank you.” for an answer and rarely the truth. They certainly didn’t want to hear “A few days ago I was convinced I was going to die and honestly it wasn’t that bad, so now I‘m still not sure wether I am happy to still be alive or not”.
“Alright… I guess.”, he mumbled instead. He had never been a good liar and could only hope that this fact wasn’t too obvious for the Elezen.
“You know what?”, Haurchefant proclaimed after watching him thoughtfully for a second. “Today is a wonderful day. We should go for a walk.”
“A walk?!”, A’viloh exclaimed wide-eyed, as if he had just asked something unreasonable of him.
“Why not?”
A’viloh couldn’t think of a good reason why not, other than that he was supposed to stay in bed, so he shrugged.
“Where’s Rael?”, he asked instead.
Haurchefant smirked. “Do you need Rael’s permission to go outside?”
“Of course not.”, the Miqo’te protested. “But Rael will be mad if I run off again, especially against their orders to stay in bed.”
“Rael and Alphinaud went to the observatory earlier.”, Haurchefant explained. “We’ll be back before they are, I promise.”
What was A’viloh supposed to say against that and also against the expectant look on the Elezen’s face. He took another glimpse towards the window and decided that it looked nice enough to go outside.
“Fine.”
“Good!”, Haurchefant exclaimed happily and collected their empty bowls and mugs. “There should be warm clothes for you in the wardrobe. If you need anything else just ask someone. I’ll wait for you by the northern gate.”
After Haurchefant had left, A’viloh remained sitting in his bed for a moment longer contemplating on the Elezen’s question. Yes, he felt better again. But better in what comparison? Better than a few days ago when he had felt and also been half-dead? Though he didn’t feel sick anymore now, there still was a weigh on his heart. From his plan that had failed so spectacularly and even more so from the dreams he wouldn’t have minded to keep on dreaming forever.
Vehemently he shook his head and decided not to think about that now or he would just crawl back under the blanket of his comfortably warm bed again. Instead he got up and took a look into the wardrobe. Almost none of these were his own clothes of course since all he possessed were the ones he had worn on his body that day they fled Ul’dah. Very unsuitable for this climate. But neither did he see the borrowed clothes he had worn that night when he had tried to run away. Everything in here looked even softer and warmer like someone had wanted to make sure he was feeling comfortable. To his surprise the things didn’t look that much too big for him either, unlike his last set of clothes. Besides a few Hyur most people here at Camp Dragonhead were grown up Elezen but these clothes looked like they belonged to neither. Maybe it were clothes for Elezen children, he wondered and also thought that in that case someone must have brought them here just for him.
Grateful for so much effort he picked a few pieces and got dressed. Lazily he ran his fingers through his hair to get rid of the worst knots but the look into the small mirror at the washbasin, where his tired face stared back at him reproachfully, just made him sigh. Once he was ready he took the warm coat out of the wardrobe too and went out to look for Haurchefant. Just as he had said, the Elezen was standing by the gate that led to the north-east, towards the ruins of the Steel Vigil.
From afar Haurchefant already recognised the Miqo’te, his bright red hair a singularity among all the people living here. Pleasantly smiling as always he waved at him and A’viloh couldn’t help but smile a little too and wave back as he hurriedly walked towards him.
“There you are! I see the clothes fit you nicely.”
A’viloh nodded.
“They do. Thank you very much for these.”
Haurchefant dismissively waved with one hand. “It’s the least I could do…”
But he had done a lot more than that, A’viloh thought. “I think there’s more I need to thank you for. Rael told me it was you who saved my life.”
“Mhhh…”, Haurchefant tilted his head as if he wasn’t sure if this statement was entirely the truth. “Rael is too humble. They played a bit of a role in that too. After all it was Rael who noticed you were gone. And it was also Rael who didn’t leave your bedside and tried their best to heal you.”
A’viloh remembered waking up and finding the usually quite touch-averse viera cuddled up to him with a look on their face so horribly sad like he had never seen on them before. Rael had pretended it was nothing but it had been a very unconvincing performance. Asked about it Alphinaud had only offered a few sentences about how worried Rael had looked and how they had used all kinds of spells he himself had never seen or heard of before, all of it to try and save him. It had made him feel even more guilty for his stupidity.
So maybe Haurchefant was right. But still it had been him who had risked going out into the storm to find him.
“Anyway. I still want to thank you! Honestly.”, he insisted. But how honestly was it really?
Sure, he was glad to still be alive. After all his plan hadn’t been to run out into a blizzard and freeze to death, although some of them seemed to think that was the case. But once he found himself in this situation he had to admit that he had welcomed his fate rather willingly. A fact that shocked even himself a little looking back at it now.
“You’re welcome. After all you wouldn’t be any help to your friends frozen to death out there.”, Haurchefant joked with a wry smile on his lips.
“I guess not...”, A’viloh muttered, the topic of his friends making his mood visibly sink again.
Of course the Elezen noticed and his smile turned into a playful grin. “But I acted a little selfish too, you know? I think Camp Dragonhead is a lot friendlier with your company and I would like to have you and your pretty smile around a little longer.”
For a moment A’viloh’s eyes shot up to look at the others face before he quickly pretended that something somewhere a little bit to his left was a lot more interesting. Sometimes Haurchefant randomly said things, A’viloh hadn’t had the slightest idea how to react to. Not because he was that oblivious but simply because it puzzled him. Nonetheless the air suddenly didn’t feel that cold anymore on his face.
Haurchefant was always very kind to him. Well, he mostly was kind to everybody but sometimes he seemed to admire him especially. Him of all people, although there was nothing special about him. Haurchefant sometimes spoke of him like he was one of the greatest heroes of all time and it felt so ridiculous to him. He was just silly, cowardly A‘viloh! What had he ever achieved in his miserable life to justify such admiration? The people called him a Warrior of Light but wasn’t that some grand overstatement? Some days he thought all of this had been a horrible mistake. A great misunderstanding! Then he wondered how he had ever gotten entangled in this madness in the first place and also if he ever would get out of it again. But what else should he do with his life anyway...
While A’viloh’s brain still screeched in desperate search for a proper response, Haurchefant seemed to realise he had flustered him and glossed it over by gesturing to the gate.
“How about we walk a few yalms? There’s something you need to see!”
Still too dumbstruck to speak or to even wonder what the Elezen was talking about, A’viloh nodded and then proceeded to follow him out into the snowy landscape.
After a few minutes Haurchefant paused and took a deep breath. “Isn’t the air wonderful today?”
A’viloh followed his example, breathed deeply and let his gaze wander over the snow covered landscape with a few pines here and there and the mountains and ruins of the Steel Vigil in the distance. The air was cool and fresh, still cold enough that the warm sun couldn’t melt the snow. Instead the rays of sunshine made the scenery shine and sparkle as if everything was covered not in ice but in millions over millions of tiny diamonds.
“It is.”, he answered and smiled, surprised how beautiful this inhospitable landscape could be, before with a sudden spark of curiosity he finally asked. “Where are we going?”
“It’s not far anymore.”, Haurchefant said with a grin on his face and pointed into another direction. Shortly after and only a bit further ahead they reached a small lake.
As they got closer A‘viloh noticed that it not only was covered in a layer of snow and ice but also that quite a few off-duty soldiers, given the proximity to the camp he assumed they had to be, were standing right on top of the frozen lake. No, they were not quite standing. It looked more like they were dancing or flying maybe. More or less gracefully they moved over the lake‘s surface in fluid swift strides, some just moving in wide circles and other swirling around this way or that. A’viloh had never seen something like this and it looked strange and impossible but at the same time very beautiful to him.
The two of them had almost reached the lake by then, A’viloh a few steps ahead to get a better look at the wondrous people on the ice and he already wanted to ask how they did that, when his attention was drawn elsewhere by a curious squawking sound.
“Oh! Look at them!”, the Miqo’te exclaimed, his fascinated smile still turning a little brighter, as he gestured to a small flock of wild geese resting at the shore of the lake. With ruffled feathers they sat closely huddled together at the edge of the ice and suddenly A‘viloh couldn’t help but worry about them. They looked so unbothered by his presence, sleeping through the day and all the hubbub around them, looking all exhausted and frozen with their puffed up feathers. Like anything could happen to them and they wouldn’t even mind.
Strangely he wondered what he himself had looked like when Haurchefant had found him unconscious in the snow. He must have been a pitiful sight. Had the Elezen thought him beyond saving too, just like he himself had. What if he had found him a little later or not at all? Maybe that would have been better, a voice murmured to him just like it had so many times before and for a moment, tempted by the grief heavy on his heart once again, he almost believed it.
But no, he would be dead then and while he would have liked to imagine that this would mean he could be with his loved ones again, it was not exactly what either of the tribes he had lived with believed.
Vaguely he remembered his father working for hours, digging a grave at what used to be Wellwick Wood. An elderly woman too exhausted by their long journey, his grandmother if he remembered correctly, had died shortly after they had arrived there. With a sad smile on his face his father had explained to his children, who had stared down into the hole in the ground with confusion in their eyes, how by returning her body to the earth there could still grow new life from this death.
Or the drake tribe of the Sagolii Desert, who always burned their dead and left the ashes to be carried away by the desert wind, believing that it would make it easier for the deceased‘s aether to return to the Aetheric Sea and create something new elsewhere.
With a sudden sharp pain in his heart A’viloh realised that neither of the people he loved had gotten the burial they would have wanted for themselves. And neither had A‘viloh himself wanted to die in the coldness of Coerthas and be forever forgotten under a thick layer of snow and ice. He had thought about dying before but never had he been this close to it. For a second he wondered if this was something worth speaking to Rael about, but he wasn’t sure they wouldn’t misunderstand and get mad at him again.
“Why do you make such a sad face now?”, Haurchefant asked having noticed the smile slip from the Miqo’te’s face. But A’viloh just vehemently shook his head and focused on the geese again.
“They must be horribly cold.”, he wondered in a voice that suggested he already planned to take all of them to the safety of his comfortably warm room.
Haurchefant chuckled. “Don’t worry, they survived the storm out here after all. They keep each other warm, that’s why you‘ll rarely see one of them alone. A bit like you and your friends.”
“Maybe…”, A’viloh answered thinking about this comparison for a moment. “I just wish it wouldn’t always be me who needs to be taken care of. But as proven in Ul’dah and now once again I am simply too weak and useless to keep myself alive, not to mention anyone else.”
The Elezen’s face got a little stern as he folded his arms in front of his chest. “Don’t say that, I am sure it’s not true! This was just bad luck! You are neither weak nor useless!”
A’viloh shrugged. “But that’s how I feel right now...”
Slowly Haurchefant nodded before speaking again with a silent but determined voice. “Listen. I‘ll never forget how bravely you fought for Francel although you barely knew him. You could have gotten yourself in trouble with that and you helped him anyway.”
“It’s not like I did that on my own -”, A’viloh tried to protest but was immediately interrupted. “But you still helped! And I’m sure even without Rael you would have done so!”
Another shrug was all Haurchefant got in response, so the Elezen thought for a second before making an offer. “You want to make yourself useful, right? Get stronger? I could teach you how to fight like a real ishgardian knight, with sword and shield. Or we have some dragoons at Camp Dragonhead too! I’m sure there’s a lot you could learn from them.”
A‘viloh‘s face turned to disbelief. “I really don’t think I could fight with armor and weapons this heavy…”
“You can’t say so if you don’t try! And I have you know that dragoon armors are surprisingly light. How do you think they could still be this agile otherwise? Promise me to at least try training with them a little!”
He didn’t really want to agree to that. He knew he would make a fool of himself. But how could he say no with Haurchefant trying everything in his power to cheer him up. Weakly he shook his head and muttered: “Fine…”
“Perfect!”, Haurchefant exclaimed with a bright smile on his face. “I think an early reward for your efforts is appropriate then!”
Confused A’viloh watched him take a small bag off of his shoulders, which he hadn’t even noticed until now. For a moment the Elezen was busy undoing a knot before he opened the bag and presented to A‘viloh a set of two weirdly shaped blades attached to pieces of wood with leather straps. He had no idea what these constructs were meant to do and that was plainly visible on his face. “What’s that?”
“Ice skates of course!”, Haurchefant said as if that would explain it all but the Miqo’te‘s face remained clueless, so Haurchefant gestured to the lake behind them. “You attach them to your boots so you can walk on the ice like this!”
“Oh!”, A’viloh exclaimed as he understood what Haurchefant was planning. “I don’t think-… I mean I‘ve never-… You don’t really want me to step on that lake do you?” The idea somehow scared him.
“Why not?”, Haurchefant asked for the second time today with this smile that made the question sound like a challenge.
“It’s just a bit of ice!”, A‘vi objected. “What if it breaks?”
The Elezen shook his head and proceeded to fasten the metal blades beneath his boots. “Ah, don’t worry. The ice is thick enough, it will take at least a few more days to melt.”
“I don’t know…”, was all A’viloh replied as Haurchefant pressed another pair of skates into his hands. But the Elezen remained determined and took a few wobbly steps through the snow and onto the ice. “See! I can stand on it and it doesn’t break! You are a lot lighter than me, so why wouldn’t you be able to?”
Oh, you don’t know my bad luck!, A‘viloh thought but Haurchefant didn’t look like he would take that for an excuse. Instead he stretched out a hand towards the Miqo’te. “Come one! Believe me, this is going to be funny!”
For a second A‘viloh pondered his options. The idea of nothing but a little bit of ice between him and the water still terrified him but Haurchefant seemed so excited about this and the other people actually seemed to have fun too. Maybe he should at least pretend to try... Reluctantly he sat down on a rock and tried to put on the skates just like Haurchefant had done a moment ago.
“The clasp on the back too. Make sure none of them are loose… Yes, that looks fine!”, Haurchefant helpfully explained. As A’viloh got up, he almost flopped right back down into the snow. It was a weird feeling to balance his whole weight on only two thin pieces of metal. As he carefully took the first few steps towards the lake Haurchefant reached out for him once more. “Here! Take my hand! I don’t want you to fall…”
Hesitantly A‘vi stepped onto the ice and immediately felt like the ground was being pulled away beneath his feet. He struggled for balance, feeling himself falling backwards, so Haurchefants arm was a very welcome thing to hold on to.
With a chuckle the Elezen tried to loosen A‘vi‘s desperate grip on his arm and instead took each of his hand in one of his own before carefully making slow steps backwards pulling A‘viloh over the ice, which A’vi could swear was making suspicious crackling sounds below them. There was no way to tell the blades beneath his feet not to move, so all A’viloh could do was try not to fall and plead to Haurchefant with ears flat on his head and panic in his eyes, as he slowly was pulled further onto the lake. “No, no, no. Take me back, that’s a horrible idea!”
“Calm down. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I promise.”, Haurchefant said soothingly and continued to explain to him how to move on the ice skates. And in fact the Elezen’s calm voice slowly made A’viloh feel less anxious. His hands, frantically clasping at Haurchefant’s, relaxed along with his legs. It was still a weird feeling to be standing on the ice but now it felt a lot easier to remain balanced. He glanced at the people around them while remaining as still as possible, studied their movements for a moment and then tentatively tried to mimic the way they slowly pushed their feet above the slippery surface. To his surprise he really moved forward without much effort and also without feeling the sensation of falling again, closer to Haurchefant who had steadied him with his outstretched arms so far.
“See! It’s not that difficult.”, he said while making another step backwards so A’viloh had to follow with another step forward. The Miqo’te, strangely excited about the fact that he was actually moving on these weird ice-blades, laughed happily. “You are even going backwards!”
Haurchefants laughed. “One step after the other. Let’s teach you how to go forward first, hm? I‘ll let go off one of your hands but don’t worry, I still got you. One feet after the other just like you did before…”
In fact it almost felt easier now that he could use one of his arms to balance himself. Very slowly at first they floated above the icy surface of the lake but soon A‘viloh got braver. Once he almost lost his balance but for a comparably tall and strong person like Haurchefant it seemed like a very easy task to keep a small Miqo’te on his feet. Almost falling had felt like a shock for a second but only moments later they were laughing about it and in the end A’viloh was surprised and also a little proud how quickly he had learned and how much fun this was.
He wasn’t sure how much time they spent there on the frozen lake but at some point a bell sounded from the nearby Camp. Startled A’viloh looked up (and almost lost his balance again). “How late is it? I’m sure you have more important things to do than this! I’m sorry if I’m keeping you from doing your work.”
But Haurchefant just laughed and teased, “What could be more important than prove to you that not all of Coerthas is a deadly wasteland trying to kill you? But I think we really should return soon. I don’t want you to get cold again and after all we also don’t want Rael to find out about this little excursion, do we?”
For a second A’viloh wished the viera could see him now and wondered what their reaction would be like. The thought made him chuckle.
And as they floated, one last circle around the lake, A’viloh couldn’t help but wonder that maybe it was happy moments like this. The reason he was still here. Moments that made his life worth living.
---
inspired by the poem The Reversal by Leila Chatti
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