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razzle-zazzle · 9 months

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Whumptober Day 01: but now this room is spinning while I'm just trying to fill in all the gaps

Safety Net

2628 Words; Dion Sees Ghosts AU

TW for mentions of Death, memory alteration

AO3 ver

The orphanage was loud.

It was crowded, full to the brim with children who had lost their parents to the Deluge. Full of other ghosts, all of them swarming and following their children around. Marona leaned against Lazarus for stability, the ebb and flow of all the other ghosts threatening to give her motion sickness.

Augustus was quiet, rocking slowly on the balls of his feet. He was quiet, lacking the light and life he had had before the Deluge. Marona wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around him and take him away with her, back to the circus back to safety back to Lazarus—

Her hand passed though his curls with barely a reaction, like she wasn’t there at all.

And in a way, she wasn’t. She and Lazarus both died to the Deluge, both died during their protest, with nothing to show for it but a son left behind.

“Well, I suppose there’s no point continuing to protest.”

Marona barked out a startled laugh. “Lazarus!” Her husband's face remained even, blank eyes belying the humor in his tone. They’d been dead for a few days at most and Lazarus was already looking to lighten the mood.

Her gaze drifted over to Augustus. He had always been such an energetic boy, inheriting his father’s ability to keep a room alive. But now he was quiet, still reeling from the loss.

Lazarus frowned, kneeling before their son. “If only you could see us…” He muttered, his hands hovering over Augustus’ shoulders. Their son didn’t react to any of it, staring right through them.

The orphanage was cold. There were too many ghosts here, too many frigid forms filling the space. Marona wanted so badly to wrap Augustus in her arms, but that would only make things colder.

But the cold was comforting, somehow. Lazarus’ weight as he leaned against her wasn’t the same, but there was something comforting about it, about his presence.

Marona supposed that Lazarus would always be like that, even in death. Always brightening the room he was in. Always her safety net, the wall she could lean against when the world pressed in around her.

But he could never be Augustus’ safety net again. Neither of them could, now that they were dead.

+=+=+=+=+

Nearly a week later, a man came for Augustus.

It took Marona a moment to recognize him—she’d never seen this man before. He’d said his name was Ford Cruller. That was…

Marona felt her chest loosen. This man… he’d been Lucy’s lover before it all. It softened one of her worries, that he had come to get Augustus. Her son would be taken care of. That she couldn’t be the one to do so—that Augustus had lost both of his parents so quickly and viciously—irked her, but she was powerless to do anything about that.

(Powerless to do anything at all).

Marona and Lazarus followed after their son as Cruller led him away. It took hardly any effort on her part—wherever her son went, Marona knew she would follow. No matter what.

Cruller held her son’s hand firmly, pulling the boy in close. The surroundings blurred, the whole world seeming to spin—

They were standing on a dock in front of a large wooden building, shaped like an overturned turnip. Cruller was already leading Augustus along the wooden walkways onto dry ground, where a dome made of colored glass awaited.

Marona had never been here before, but she recognized it from her sister’s descriptions. The Heptadome was exactly as Lucy described it, colored glass catching the moonlight—

Moonlight?

“I don’t believe we’re in Grulovia anymore.” Lazarus commented. Marona grabbed his hand, squeezing it for reassurance.

“I know this place,” She said, “Lucy wrote to me about it. We’re in America.”

Surely, that Cruller had brought Augustus all the way to his home in America—and that was where they had to be, based on their surroundings—could only be a good thing, a sign that Cruller would take care of her son. But a sense of foreboding clung to her like frost. Something wasn’t right.

Inside the Heptadome, Augustus was sitting at the center of a machine Marona couldn’t recognize. Cruller put a hand to his temple, and—

Marona knew that psychic powers could be subtle, that battles could be waged inside the mind with none the wiser on the outside. The machine glowed and crackled, Cruller’s brow furrowed in concentration—

And then it was over. Cruller was helping Augustus down from where he’d been sitting, her son frowning up at him. Marona could not for the life of her figure out what all that was, and a glance at Lazarus confirmed that he couldn’t tell, either.

Cruller was already leading Augustus out of the building, across the wooden walkways to Lucrecia’s old turnip-shaped dwelling. He stopped just outside the building, holding Augustus’ hand firmly.

The surroundings blurred again. The starry night sky was gone, replaced by the clear blue of daytime. They were in a small field, no buildings in sight. Circus tents loomed over the area, the sounds of people moving about coming from within. And there, standing at the edge of the grounds—

Lucrecia. Bitterness and melancholy filled Marona’s throat at the sight of her sister, alive and whole. She was dressed in her old clothes, before the Deluge. She kept glancing around, as if looking for something, her lips pursed in worry.

Cruller brought Augustus over towards Lucrecia—

“Mom!” Augustus broke into a run, wrapping his arms around Lucrecia.

Marona felt her heart shatter.

Lucrecia knelt down to wrap her arms around Augustus. “My little Gussy,” she breathed, holding him tight. One of her hands was already carding through Augustus’ curls, offering the comfort that Marona could never give again.

No. No no no—

Cruller!

Marona grasped at Cruller’s shoulders with icy fingers, cursing at him. Her hands phased uselessly through the man, through the spineless little coward—but he flinched nonetheless.

Cold hands on her shoulders braced her, leading her back. Lazarus’ face was stone. Marona shuddered.

She glared at Cruller. Screaming at him would get her nowhere.

(Nothing she did could get her anywhere.)

Lazarus’ touch was a grounding force. It tethered Marona to the here and now, held her fast to the reality of the world around her.

She was dead. She couldn’t do a damn thing to affect the living.

(But at least she wasn’t alone.)

Cruller watched Lucrecia and Augustus for a moment more before leaving. Marona wanted to grab him by the shoulders and drag him right back. She wanted to scream.

She leaned back into Lazarus, instead, letting him ground her.

This was real. Marona’s sister was taking her name, her life. Was convinced that she was Marona and Augustus was her son—

This was real. This was real no matter how much Marona wished it wasn’t.

Lucrecia held Augustus in her arms and promised not to leave him again (when she’d never left him in the first place, it was Marona who was dead and gone and standing uselessly to the side—), and all Marona could do was watch.

This was real.

+=+=+=+=+

“We’ve failed as parents.” Lazarus solemnly intoned. Marona snickered.

“He’s trying his best.” She pointed out. And indeed, Augustus was trying. It was a flustered effort, but an effort nonetheless.

Lazarus huffed as their son once again lost a chance to lovestruck stammering. His eyes remained as blank as a ghost’s ever were, but Marona knew it was taking everything he had to keep a straight face. They loved their son more than anything, for all that they could do nothing but watch.

The girl came around again, and Augustus gathered his wits. “You know…” he started, only to trail off as she turned her attention onto him. Marona could see every word he’d wanted to say falling right out of his head.

The girl’s lips pursed. “Know what?”

“Cockroaches can live up to two weeks without their heads!” Augustus stammered out, his face flushed.

Lazarus laughed, loud and boisterous. The sound caught Marona off-guard—she hadn’t heard it in so long. Oh, how she had missed the sound!

Her sister’s voice cut through her reminiscing. Marona turned her attention back to her son, who was hiding his face in his hands. Lucrecia had a bemused smile on her face, even as sympathy filled her tone.

“Oh, Gussy…” Lucrecia ran her hand through Augustus’ curls, murmuring sympathy. A pang of bitterness rose up in Marona at the sight of her sister filling the role that was supposed to be hers, the role that she couldn’t fill because she was dead—

Lazarus pulled her aside. Ghosts didn’t need to breathe, but Marona acted as though she was taking a deep breath anyway. It didn’t help. But Lazarus was a constant presence against hers, a wall she could lean against when the world pressed in around her.

She couldn’t give her son advice, could do nothing but watch—

But she had Lazarus by her side, and that was enough for now.

+=+=+=+=+

Maybe the girl—Donatella, that was her name—liked random trivia. Maybe it was the natural charm that Augustus had inherited from Lazarus. Maybe it was Lucrecia’s support and advice.

Maybe it was all of those things.

Regardless of the cause, it wasn’t long before Augustus and Donatella hit it off. Wasn’t long, the months turning into a year and a half of flirting and working together, until Marona and Lazarus were watching as Augustus worked up the nerve to ask Donatella to marry him. He was so much like the boy of years prior who could barely talk to her without getting too flustered to speak. They could do nothing but watch, Lucrecia offering the support that Marona so desperately wished to offer.

“This won’t be easy,” Augustus said, “And I know it’s not a real ring.” There was so much sincerity in his eyes, so much honesty in the way that he was almost trying to talk Donatella out of it. She stared, hand over her mouth, and Augustus continued to ramble—

And then Donatella grabbed him by the shoulders, her mouth against his.

Marona’s heart ached with pride. She leaned against Lazarus, unsteady from the love and pride welling up in her. This was her son, this was the honest young man he had grown up to be. This was real.

She turned to Lazarus, leaning her forehead against his. Lazarus wrapped his arms around her, even as Lucrecia’s voice floated over to the newly-engaged couple. Any bitterness Marona could have felt at the reminder of her current state was washed away by Lazarus’ hold.

This was real. Augustus was dipping Donatella in a kiss, the two holding each other so tightly that Marona couldn’t help but recall her own engagement. This was real, and as Marona looked into Lazarus’ eyes, she couldn’t help but press her mouth to his own.

This was real, and Marona couldn’t help but be proud.

Marona rested her hand against her son’s shoulder. This was real.

+=+=+=+=+

Her grandson was looking at her.

Marona’s grandson was looking at her, wide blue eyes following her every movement like—

Like he could actually see her.

But that was ridiculous.

“Marona, dear,” Lazarus sidled up next to her, “Is something the matter? You have that look again.”

Marona wordlessly drifted to the side. Her grandson’s gaze followed her.

“I must be losing my mind.” Marona muttered. Her grandson was barely four and she was already getting dotty. The living couldn’t see ghosts—it was simple fact.

“You? Losing your mind?” Lazarus leaned against her, “Should we start checking the cupboards for it?”

Marona chuckled. Every time she had lost something when she was alive, it inevitably ended up in a cupboard or drawer somewhere. She had turned the whole caravan upside down, once, looking for her glasses—only to find them in a cupboard she swore she had already checked.

She turned her attention back to the matter at hand. “It’s…” Marona gestured towards their grandson, who had turned his attention back to where Augustus was practicing with the juggling pins. “I could swear he was watching me.” The explanation felt so strange, even with Lazarus watching her patiently, not a hint of judgment. Marona had more than enough judgment for herself.

“Stranger things have happened,” Lazarus offered, “Didn’t you have a grand-aunt who wrote about seeing ghosts?”

That was true. She and Lucy had never met her, but the woman’s journal remained even after she had passed. Was it possible, then, that her grandson was the same?

Marona shook her head. That would be extraordinarily lucky, she felt. More luck than she and Lazarus had.

“I’m probably just seeing things.” She decided. Lazarus’ brow raised in doubt, but he said nothing.

This was her reality. She and Lazarus were dead, and the dead couldn’t talk to the living. This was real.

“Why are you sad?”

Marona startled at the sound of her grandson’s voice. She looked down to find him grasping her skirt, looking up at her with wide eyes. “You’re always around Dad,” he continued, oblivious to the way Marona’s heart threatened to leap out of her incorporeal chest, “and Dad’s fun to be around! But you always look so sad.”

This was real. Her grandson was looking at her, could see her—

Marona kneeled down to look her grandson in the eyes. “Your dad makes me very happy,” She replied, “I’m only sad because he can’t see me.”

She could tell him. She could tell him that the curse wasn’t real, that his Nona wasn’t his Nona and that the ghost kneeling before him was his real grandmother. She could tell him so many things, words she wanted to say to Augustus but couldn’t because he was alive and she was dead—

Marona wrapped cold arms around her grandson. There were so many things she could tell him. So many things she should tell him.

She felt Lazarus’ presence behind her. “Dear…”

Her grandson was four. He didn’t need that burden, didn’t need to have his head filled with the worries of a dead woman. He was too young. It wasn’t her place.

Marona looked at her grandson. He looked so much like Augustus, yet he had Donatella’s nose and eyes. Everything he represented, every hope she had that her family would turn out alright and continue to grow—

She couldn’t tell him. Not at this age.

But he could still see her, and that gave her a sense of hope. Maybe she wasn’t so utterly powerless.

This was real. Marona and Lazarus were dead, unable to interact with the living, and yet her grandson could still see her, for all that the thought seemed so impossible. This was real.

+=+=+=+=+

Her grandson wasn’t looking at her.

Marona’s grandson wouldn’t look at her, actively ignoring the Deluge victims that followed Lucrecia around.

He could see her, and yet—

He shivered when they pressed too close, curled in on himself as though it might keep the cold at bay. He wouldn’t talk to any of them, would ignore them if they tried and run away if they pushed.

Marona couldn’t say she didn’t understand why. Of the drowned following her sister that were coherent, very few had anything nice to say about the family they followed. Perhaps, if she and Lazarus did more, if she had been there when her grandson got trapped between the crates instead of cooing over the new baby—

Her grandson could see her, and she was still powerless.

Lazarus’ hand slipped into hers. Resignation weighed heavy on his face. There were no jokes, this time—just the comfort he could offer as her husband and safety net.

They would make do. They’d have to.

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