#some lightkeeper: sometimes i can still hear their voices...

[utilitycaster]

The prologue to the episode actually becomes unintentionally extremely funny in retrospect because three of the circle members do ultimately make it out, including "the unknown arsonist" so either Candela decided to just be like "yeah the Circle of Needle and Thread disappeared but they seem to have saved the Fourth Pharos in the process" so as to provide some cover and privacy to the three survivors who presumably are retiring after this ordeal; or this report was filed while the circle was busy throwing chickens at sandworms.

[newsiegirlscout]

Sometimes when there are two things that I love very much, I put them together and achieve serotonin.

Tinker Bell x Tangled, high fluff ahead; a oneshot featuring a highly kintsugi narrative. Ah, the irony of having written this earlier and having the ending eaten by Tumblr, thus resulting in the story's own rebuilding--and crying, a lot of crying.

It had been a long day, and when the tinker sparrowman showed up, Quirin suspected the trials of dustkeeping advisor were still long from over.

"Fly with you, Quirin!", he greeted, wings fluttering softly with excitement, "I don't suppose you still have this week's ration? I got, ah, a little caught up with a new idea, you know how it goes." 

He chuckled sheepishly, but before the elder could so much as get to the right name in the leafbook checklist, the tinker had unrolled a new ink-smudged diagram from his bag. 

"It's going to really help the harvest talents! If we just put irrigation lines here, here, and here", he said, gesturing to a few places on the diagram, "Then we can counteract the alkalinity of the soil with this compound--oh, and if we add just a pinch of a common leavening agent, they won't have to worry about crossbreeding stronger stems!" 

Varian's wings glowed a soft tangerine with pride as Quirin spread it out carefully on the counter. When the tinker had first Arrived, and the first mutters had soon after reached the Dust Tree, he had assumed his enthusiastic disposition and friendly chatter were a ploy to win him over in defense, or perhaps get more dust; it wouldn't have been a first. But by the autumn harvests, he had relentedly admitted to himself that Varian simply had too much excitement to share and too few friends to share it with. In spite of himself, Quirin must have taken on a warmer attitude towards him and started listening more attentively to his plans somewhere along the line.

"Varian", he said softly, his hand not leaving the dust ration just yet, "The harvest faeries are growing butterfly weed by the second line. You'll cut right through the roots. And where do you think you're getting this? The rings?"

"'s okay, I'm using supplejack vines." he countered, waving it off, "Those wrap around other vines or roots without bothering them too much. Annnnd, I just found these by the mainland..." 

With a fluttering hop and too much fidgeting with the grass ties on his bag, Varian proudly held out one of many eyelets, perfect for irrigation. 

Quirin gave the high-spirited tinker a pat on  the back. "So long as you're careful, boy. Get one of the water talents to reinforce your goggles--and you might as well ask them to bring the rest of the talents as well." 

"Thanks, Quirin!" he chirped, sweeping the ration and the blueprints into his bag, "You won't be disappointed, I promise!"

It wasn't until moments after Varian had left that Quirin realized he had implied a use of dust in this compound of his...and that his feet had never left the ground on the way home. 

#################################

When Varian arrived the next week, to say he looked miserable would be to say his invention had merely not worked as he had planned. 

Dripping wet from his burst goggles to the tips of his sodden wings, he smiled weakly for a moment, then sighed. 

"Soooo it turns out supplejack is flammable." 

"Mm-hmm." Quirin responded, passing him a blanket of moss to dry off with. If he'd had a pinch of pixie dust for every angry harvest talent who'd implored him to withhold the rations in the last week, the tree would never need so much as a grain of blue dust 

The tinker's gaze was focused on the floor, tears welling up in his eyes. "I'd fly backwards if I could." he apologized. As an afterthought, he held up the edge of one damp wing, its costal margin and apex singed. "Well...I'd fly anywhere if I could."

"Not again, Varian." Quirin sighed softly, and the newer arrival's heart sank. 

"Did you ask Rapunzel to heal that for you?" Notable for her ornate golden wings, the lightkeeping guardian should have at least been able to fix the worst of the damage and let the sparrowman fly in a week or so, but he shook his head and wrung out the towel. 

“Sh-she was busy with some of the other faeries, and I-and I didn’t know where else to go. Besides, it, heh, probably won’t be the worst thing if I stay grounded for a little while.”

“Probably not.” he agreed, “It would be a shame to lose my favorite regular, though.”

Varian gave a soft slight smile, followed by a half-second’s wince as his wings protested the attempt at instinctual quavering. “Really, sir?”

“Sure as anything.” Quirin responded, smiling warmly. A moment later, that smile was gone, replaced by a firm hand on his shoulder and a stern glare.

 “It isn’t as though we get a lot of happy visitors nowadays, what with whatever you’re doing with the dust.”

“--alchemy--”

“Varian. Do us both a favor and don’t let me hear any more of it. You’re lucky enough not to have lost your wings this time; I’m legally allowed to withhold or cut dust rations if you manage to find a way to destroy the fields like this again.”

The tinker’s glow burned a brief peach with indignation as he slammed his hands onto the counter. “But alchemy could really help Pixie Hollow! All the last plan needed was a different breed of vine; all the test subjects even showed consistent a-accrescence in response to the solution.”

“The tests are irrelevant if the results aren’t the same when it’s demonstrated. Pixie Hollow can’t have any more harvests destroyed.”

“The fields will grow back stronger than before.” he retorted stubbornly.

“The harvest talents won’t.” Quirin shot back, pinching the bridge of his nose with frustration, “Varian, tinker talents may delight to tear their work down only to build it again better than before, but harvest talents invest their whole livelihoods into their fields. Just the slightest change disrupts the crop yield, and no faerie can afford to push that deadline.”

The sparrowman’s shoulders dropped. “The harvest talents were....rea-really hurt because of...me, weren’t they?”

“I’m afraid so.” the dustkeeper responded gently.

His shoulders trembled, the tears in his eyes finally spilling down his face. "Now win-winter is going to be delayed an-and they'll have to scrap the whole field and-and-and..."

And Quirin wrapped him in a hug affectionate and strong and just loose enough not to jostle his wings and everything was safe if just for a minute.

"Shh, shh", he murmured, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "Though the harvest talents might not forgive you today or tomorrow, they will soon enough. They'll work together to restore what they can, and the fields will be ready to sleep by winter. Hush now, lad, what do tinker talents do best?"

"Tear things down and build them up again better than they were before." he answered quietly.

"So long as you're doing your best to be better today than you were yesterday, think of it as rebuilding. You've got to quit thinking of yourself as scrap when you're simply not off the iron yet."

Varian sniffled, a flicker of a wince as his wings protested his instinctual attempt at fluttering. "I guess repairs to the harvest carts would make a pretty good start, then?"

Quirin gave the tinker talent a firm pat on the back. "I think they'd appreciate it a lot."

"Oh, and Varian?" he called as the other stopped in the doorframe, softly tossing him the dust rations, "If you ever need a patch, I can always make time for a favorite regular."

He caught the bag with a gentle hit to the chest, a grin lighting up his face like a sunbeam. The sparrowman's wings were stilled, but in the last light of the afternoon, his glow was as warm an orange as the dustkeeper had ever seen it.