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twoidiotwriters1 · 3 years

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Written In The Stars CIII (Harry Potter xF!Oc)

A/N: I know last book ended horribly but I promise this one won’t be entirely sad, just a bit frustrating– Enjoy and please leave feedback! -Danny

Words: 3,888

Series’ Masterlist

Book IV // Next Chapter

Listen to: Then -by Anne-Marie

Chapter One: A Lousy Summer.

1974

Emily wasn't going to cry where the girls would be able to hear.

She could've used a spell to quiet her own sobs, but she just needed to be in a place where there was no need to hide.

So she went to the common room, drowning her cries on a blanket and wondering how was she going to crawl her way out of this one. She thought it was unfair, she'd never experienced something so embarrassing prior this moment. Wasn't love supposed to be beautiful?

"Mily?"

The girl gave a start and cleaned her face hastily.

"Padfoot," She tried to sound casual. "What's wrong? Had a nightmare about cats chasing your tail?"

"Are you okay?" He walked up to her, ignoring the teasing. "I'm sure that if you were to talk to them..."

"I think it's clear enough," Emily averted her gaze. "All of us want things we can't have."

"That's not true."

"What exactly should I do after the humiliation I went through?" She sniffed. "He kissed me in front of everyone! I can't be near him and I refuse to be around Lily, I don't want to see any of them!"

"Mily, when I tell you Matt got the worse deal..." Sirius frowned. "The look on his face–"

"You don't need to remind me," Emily lamented. "Why can't I like him back?"

"You can't force things to happen," He shrugged. "If I could make all of you forget I would, but you'd find a way to do whatever you want anyway."

"This is not the time for jokes..."

"Talk to Moony then," Sirius complained. "I'm not good at comforting people..."

"I don't want to talk! Can we just... sit in silence?"

The girl curled up and got closer, he wrapped an arm around her awkwardly.

Really –Sirius thought with exasperation– What was she expecting? This was bound to happen, one of them would eventually develop a crush on her...

Well, more than one... but Sirius was going to take that secret to the grave. It was out of place, Matthew was way better than him– Hell, anyone was a better choice! But tonight it was just the two of them... and Emily had asked him to stay.

"It'll get better, right?" She asked quietly. "I'll get over my stupid crush and so will Matthew... we'll be back to normal in no time..."

"You were never normal," He joked.

"You know what I mean..."

"Yeah," He fixed his gaze on the dying fire, a hint of bitterness in his voice. "If you ask me, James doesn't know what he's missing..."

1995

It was the driest and hottest month of the year back in Private Drive, but Mel was freezing at the front door of Grimmauld Place.

Her mother led her in as she closed the door behind them, Mel hugged Grey's basket closer, thinking a ghost would walk out of the hall. Instead, Sirius walked in with a bright smile.

"You're here!"

Mel looked around dubiously.

"This is your house?"

"Mel! Don't be rude!"

"That's okay," Sirius made a face. "This place is hot rubbish. Your room's clean though. I made sure you'd be comfortable. I know it's hard to be away from home, stuck in such a... place."

"Well, at least you're here," She smiled. "I'm sure I'll get used to it."

"Hand me those," Sirius grabbed her trunk and walked ahead of them. "Let me take you to your rooms... Try to be quiet, my mother's portrait is mental. I tried to take it down but she glued it there. It's bloody torture."

"Language, Padfoot," Emily said, though she was far more interested in the house-elves on the shelves. "Love the decor..."

"Don't mention it," The man growled. "The house-elf that kept the house clean while I was young used to be here, I have no idea where he is, but I haven't found him. I can't wait to throw all those heads out."

"You think he died?"

"I'll find him eventually."

"So this will be the headquarters for the Order?" The girl asked, choosing to ignore his vague answer.

She'd read her mother's letters in secret until Emily found her snooping around, by then it was too late, so Emily didn't see the point on hiding it anymore.

"That's right," Sirius opened the first door of the second landing. "I figured, if I can't be of use out there, the least I can do is give a safe place where to have our meetings. It's secured with a Fidelious charm, Dumbledore did it last Saturday when he heard you were coming."

"Interesting..." Mel looked around. "Who used to sleep in this room?"

"Guests, that's why it's so plain. I thought you'd like it that way, my family wasn't keen on jolly decorations."

"I noticed," Mel grinned.

"You must be hungry, coming all this way from Remus' place. Why don't we go to the kitchen and have lunch? We can unpack later..."

Mel was helping her mother set the table when she heard a strange noise coming from the corner of the kitchen.

"What's in there?"

"It's where the elf used to keep his appliances... there might be rats in there, be careful."

When she opened the door something fell swiftly on her feet and she screamed, jumping on the table.

"What happened?" Emily circled the table. "Oh–! Sirius! I believe Mel found your elf..."

"Is he alive?" The girl asked in terror.

The creature looked ancient and dirty, with a sneer that she'd never seen in an elf before; usually, they were all smiles and compliments. This one started to insult them as soon as he lifted himself from the ground.

"Rats! Thieves! Traitors of the blood had come to rob my masters' treasures!"

"Kreacher," Sirius said. "Shut up."

The elf closed his mouth tightly but sent Sirius a deathly glare.

"He listens to me because I'm the last member of my family that still lives. Be of use, Kreacher, go clean my mother's room."

The elf's eyes shone with anger but he turned away and vanished.

"He always liked to throw tantrums," Sirius added, pulling Mel down from the table. "You're okay?"

"Yeah– it took me by surprise..."

"You jumped so high!" Her mother laughed.

"Laugh at your daughter, will you?" Mel scoffed. "Not like you're the adult or anything..."

"No one here is allowed to be an adult," Sirius crossed his arms. "Not unless we're holding a meeting. In which case we're adults. Today there won't be any, though."

"Don't listen to her, she's just upset about spending summer away from Harry," Emily mentioned.

"I'm not," She replied tensely.

"It's okay, I was beyond sad the first time I had to leave Matt for–"

"I don't feel that way about Harry," Mel retorted roughly.

"What?" Her mother's smile fell. "What happened?"

She bent down to pick up the things that fell when she'd jumped on the table.

"I'd rather not talk about it..."

"Am I missing something?" Sirius raised a brow.

"Last summer Mel told us she was having feelings for Harry..." Her mum began carefully, "I thought it was still a thing..."

"I'll tell you what it was. Stupid..." The lump in her throat formed at a remarkable speed. "I should've known better..."

"Did you talk to him?"

"He doesn't like me, Mum."

Sirius and Emily shared a look, the woman moved to hug her.

"We can talk about it if you want? Once you're ready..."

"Can we have lunch?" Mel asked quietly.

"Sure thing, little Em," Sirius nodded. "I'm a brilliant cook. Your mother's skills will be put to shame."

"How're you so sure?" Emily grinned.

"Because I remember your cooking."

Mel was spending some quality time with Buckbeak when Sirius walked in. It was almost midnight and her mother had gone out on a mission.

"Is it okay if I join you?"

Mel shrugged.

"I know you said you didn't want to talk about it, but maybe you'd like to talk to me now?"

The girl remained silent.

"C'mon, Mel! We'll live under the same roof for a while, let's practise our social skills!"

"My social skills are fine, thanks."

"I heard from a reliable source that you're still scared of speaking to large crowds..."

"I simply don't find it exciting," She lied.

"Well then, I'm not a thousand people, but I have a nice pair of ears that would love to listen to fifteen-year-olds' problems."

"I'm sure your godson will have plenty once he's back."

"He's been demoted to my godson?" Sirius taunted.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"All right, we won't talk about him... What about your father?"

"What about him?"

"Well, when he was about your age–"

"He kissed my mum and she turned him down?" She replied tiredly. "So what? They married anyway..."

Sirius frowned.

"They didn't know they were going to marry each other, that's what! Matt didn't look like himself for weeks! Your mother'd been rejected, that's why your dad kissed her. He thought it would help... to this day I don't know why he thought that, but alas, it worked!"

"Did you know the other?" Mel asked. "That kid mum used to like?"

"A fool," Sirius shrugged. "A nice fool, but an idiot nonetheless... your parents were lucky, Mel. They found a way to fall in love, but even if that hadn't been the case, your father would've found someone– your mother would've found someone... It's not that we're meant to find just one person and stick to it. Most times it's just finding an equal that understands you and suits your needs, and there are plenty of those."

"I don't want anyone," Mel pouted. "I hate this, and I wish there was a way I could avoid liking people. It's hideous."

Sirius laughed.

"Trust me, you'll regret it if you don't give someone a chance. Though I'll tell you this, no person in this world will ever be fully worthy of you, little Em. And even if it's true and you don't find one, your life will still be full of adventures."

Mel didn't think she was that great, but whatever had happened between Harry and she felt right, it felt natural, she'd been able to see a future with the boy. Then again, that could've been her childish and gullible self thinking that her first love was going to last forever. Maybe, if she were to try hard enough, she'd be able to see someone taking Harry's place.

"Have you ever been in love?" Then she added rather bashfully. "I mean, not that I have, but you know..."

Sirius cleared his throat.

"It was a long time ago. Long before leaving Hogwarts... It wasn't meant to be, nor my place."

They fell in comfortable silence, watching Buckbead nibble some bones.

"If you really want to help me," Mel started. "You can teach me how to avoid detention..."

"Nice try," Sirius laughed. "Emily warned me about you... My official answer is no."

"What about your off-the-record answer?" She inquired, standing up at the same time as him.

"Only the days Mily's not in the house."

Kreacher kept insisting on following her around as if she were a criminal, making sure she wasn't touching any of his old trinkets. She didn't have any interest in doing so; everything had dark magic, she'd sense it without even having to touch them.

On a normal day, she'd go to the attic to spend time with Buckbeak, sometimes Sirius would make tea and they'd sit there talking about his adventures in Hogwarts. He'd tried several times to ask her about Harry, but she would ignore him every time.

Dumbledore visited one morning to ask her to keep it all a secret, what they were doing there, meaning that if she was planning on sending letters to Harry, she wasn't allowed to talk about the Order. But Mel wasn't writing to him at all, and her letters to Hermione and Ron were always vague. Both of them were under the impression that Mel, true to her nature, was keeping an updated knowledge on Harry's whereabouts, that she didn't confirm nor denied.

Erick wrote to her a week after she'd moved to Grimmauld Place. Anne went completely unmentioned, but that was expected. He was busy looking for young supporters, things got a bit complicated when Eliot Flint got sick again and Erick had to look after him. He seemed to be having just as a dreadful summer as she was.

It wasn't that her mother, Lupin, and Sirius would leave her to rot inside this huge house, but they were adults who had their minds set on important matters, and she had nothing to do but overthink about him.

She still had feelings, but she was doing her best to bury them. Mel was hoping that once in Hogwarts she'd find a way to be okay with his existence. She didn't want to get rid of him altogether, that was impossible.

"I take that you're having a rough morning?" Sirius spoke from the doorway.

Mel gave a start, looking up from her seat at the kitchen table.

"I had a nightmare," She said drowsily.

"Same as before?" Sirius knew about her dreams, but that day she didn't want to talk about them. Today all she wanted to do was to sit in silence and drink her coffee.

"Have you had breakfast already?"

"No. I came here so Kreacher would stop nagging about me trying to steal the rubbish he keeps in the living room."

Sirius chuckled, walking up to the stove.

"Maybe if you praise my mother's portrait he'll stop..."

"Would love to, but I'm not a good liar."

"I can help you with that," He turned around for a moment. "Don't laugh when you speak, don't smile– if someone accuses you of causing mischief, act like it was the most insulting thing you've ever heard."

"What if they don't buy it?"

"Confidence is key, Mel. If you believe it, then it's done."

"Sirius, you're not giving my daughter bad advice, are you?" Emily walked in.

"Not at all," Sirius said, feigning surprise. "It shocks me that you think so, the only thing I want for Mel is her well being!"

"He's good..." Mel snickered.

"You have to pick your battles wisely, Paddie. A fifteen-year-old, or an experienced witch that's old enough to hex you," Emily warned him.

"I'll trust my luck," Sirius smirked.

"I got Molly's answer by the way," She ignored him, "The Weasleys will be here next Tuesday."

"Hang on... where will everyone sleep? I know the place is big, but..."

"Ginny can sleep with you," Emily started, "Ron can sleep in Phineas' room, the twins can sleep in the room next door to yours– Molly and Arthur can stay in Walburga's room..."

"But Sirius is in that room," Mel tilted her head.

"Yeah..." Emily glanced anxiously towards the man. "Sirius will take my room. I spend the night outside anyway, remember? Like uncle Lupin."

"But sometimes you don't."

"Little Em," Sirius told her. "Don't worry, your mother and I will make sure everyone's comfortable. As much as this bloody house can be..."

Mel knew Sirius was less than happy about spending his days locked up in the house where he'd lived the worse years of his life, but he was glad to have her, or at least he'd said as much. According to him, Mel was a lovely housemate.

She also knew there was something going on between the two adults. She could see it in the way Sirius would stare at her mother when she wasn't paying attention, and the way her mother would look more cheerful than usual after talking to him. The nights where she had to eat with the two blatantly flirting felt like personal karma from all those months she'd spent recklessly ogling at Harry in front of her friends.

"Can Hermione come too?" Mel asked.

"D'you think she'll want to come to this musty old place?"

"Please?"

Sirius sighed.

"Look at those eyes, Mily. I can't say no to those eyes!"

"Those are my eyes," The woman crossed her arms. "I can."

"I got my father's smile though," She said cheekily. "Please? It could be my first birthday surrounded by friends!"

"You heard that, Mily? Her birthday," Sirius said without missing a beat. "Are you going to deny such a simple request to your only daughter?"

"Oh, you two are unbelievable!"

"Is that a yes?"

"You have five minutes to write that letter and send it– Wipe that smirk off your face, Black. You're washing the dishes tonight."

Mel and Sirius high-fived, laughing at Emily's annoyance.

"And here's where we'll be sleeping!" Mel dragged Hermione into the room.

The house was definitely more fun now that the Weasleys and Hermione were there, from time to time some members of the order would visit as well as her uncle. The place almost felt like home.

"You're not sleeping with your mum?"

"My mum and Sirius share–" She stopped abruptly. "Mum goes out a lot, sometimes when she's here Sirius will give her his room so she can take the bed and he sleeps on the couch."

"Ginny sleeps here too?" Hermione examined the jumpers laying around on the other bed.

"Yeah!"

"How is she? She's over Harry now?" Hermione smiled. "She's okay with him liking you and all?"

Mel groaned internally. This was going to be a long month if people kept asking her about Harry.

"Harry doesn't like me."

"Please, Mel–"

"No," The girl interrupted. "I actually talked to him this time. Don't ask. It's better if we just forget it."

Hermione stared at her in shock.

"I–I could've sworn he... that he..."

"'Mione," Mel stared at her. "Forget it."

Hermione nodded, sitting down at the edge of the bed.

"Careful with the twins, by the way," She continued calmly. "They're free to do magic now, and they're out of control."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Ginny and Hermione were acting oddly ever since they found out she wasn't talking to Harry. They had the right to be, it was strange to see how unfeeling she was about being so far away from her former best friend. The twins and Ron, on the other hand, weren't that worried. They thought it was her way of coping and, in a way, it was.

They kept asking a lot of questions about Erick though, whether if he was to be trusted and exactly how much could they get away with. Mel thought it was funny, so she answered as many questions as she could.

Her birthday passed without much of a fuss, suddenly she was fifteen and just as quickly, Harry was too, but he wasn't there to celebrate. For the first time in weeks, she wished he could be there with them, she didn't dislike him as much as to wish him a bad birthday.

Hermione and Ron started to write to him. She tried to write a Happy Birthday note but it sounded stupid, she knew it'd be far from happy, all alone in Privet Drive. That night he would open his window only to see hers completely shut.

Erick's present had been one of those old radios his Grandad used to make with a note that said 'So you can practice your dancing' signed with two E's. She and the twins used it a lot while working on their products, that way it would drown the noise and their mothers wouldn't suspect as much. Mrs Weasley was on edge lately, Percy and his father had gotten into a real nasty fight and now the boy was gone, it had the poor woman in a terrible state.

One night after dinner, Fred walked into her room.

"Hey," She said without looking up. "Erick told me there's a station where they do these radio novels? I'm trying to find them, bet they're hilarious..." She said while toying with the buttons of the object.

"You're all right?" He asked, sitting next to her.

"Brilliant."

It was a lie. She'd been having a terrible headache for the past twenty minutes, probably because of the lack of sleep and the white noise.

"I'm not the best talker, and you don't have to say anything, but–"

"Not you too, Fred," Mel rolled her eyes, turning off the radio. "I told you I'm fine–"

"Exactly. I'd never seen you so calm about leaving Harry before, there must be something," He raised a brow.

"It's called growing up," She scoffed. "He's capable of looking after himself. You know it, I know it..."

"A real grown-up wouldn't avoid confrontation."

"That's rich coming from you, considering you keep hiding your products away from mummy."

"That's not fair, you know it's a safety measure!"

"Okay then," Mel stood up. "This is my safety measure. I don't talk about things that don't concern others..."

Fred caught her wrist and stopped her from leaving.

"Lady..."

"Using my nickname in that aching voice won't change my mind," She raised a brow. "Let go."

"Don't be grumpy, you're starting to sound real' bossy and you haven't gotten the Prefect badge yet!"

"Fred..." She tried to move. "Please, my head is killing me..."

"Did you guys fight?" He tilted his head, finally letting go. "I don't get why you fancy him if you're always bickering..."

"I don't like Harry."

"Yeah, right," Fred laughed.

"I don't," She tried to follow Sirius' advice and kept a neutral expression. "We went to the ball as friends. He saved me during the second task because I was his friend. What Skeeter wrote was rubbish, I don't fancy him."

"If you insist," Fred shrugged, but she could see he wasn't buying it.

He stood up as well and she realized, with a strange sense of accomplishment, that she was tall enough to reach his chin. She was about to point that out when something completely different came out.

"Why did you ask me to the ball?"

"What?"

"You said it was because you thought it'd be fun. Was that it?"

"Why does it matter?"

That was a good question.

Why did it matter?

But also, why not Fred? He was handsome, funny, smart...

It wasn't that she didn't like him, it was that she hadn't picked him. Sirius said there was more than one person for her, she just had to find them. Mel wasn't ready, but she would eventually, and if she could pick...

"It doesn't," Mel sighed. "I was curious, that's all. Ron used to think you fancied me, you know? I told them it was stupid..."

"Well, not stupid," Fred was quick to correct. "Just... I don't know, unlikely."

"Am I unworthy of your affection?" She joked.

He eyed her intently, like pondering the idea she had put out there. Suddenly, her mother stormed into the room.

"Harry was attacked," The woman blurted out.

"What?" Mel snapped, walking away from Fred.

"He's all right, but he used magic. The ministry has been looking for an excuse to get him– I'm afraid he just gave them one."

"Get him?"

"If we don't do something, he'll be expelled from Hogwarts."

"How– we're not– Do what?" She stammered.

"They're bringing him here," Her mother replied. "Harry's coming."

Next Chapter —>

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translations-by-aiimee · 3 years

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Dig a Grave to Dig Out a Ghost - Chapter 11

Original Title: 挖坟挖出鬼

Genres: Drama, Horror, Mystery, Supernatural, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 11 - Reason

Are there really people in this world that, no matter who you ask, no one has any information about him?

The weather forecast says that today’s temperature will go above 30 degrees for the first time this season. At noon, the white and scorching sun reflected off of the marble floor tiles outside the main building of the school. Lin Yan and Yin Zhou were sitting on the stairs relatively speechless. They spent the past three hours of phone calling around to find the address of the small Daoist priest. Lin Yan stayed up all night. The lack of sleep for many days made the world confusing and blurred around him. His senses were all fuzzy. He buried his face in the palm of his hand and he rubbed his forehead. He raised his head and exhaled.

"I've asked everyone. I was on the same project team with him, in the same research program, in the same dormitory before, his friends. . . He seems to have no friends, and he doesn't seem to have any relatives nearby. How do we find him?" Yin Zhou put his phone down. He grabbed the balled-up piece of paper on the ground, spread it out and read it again: "He has no class this week, and they have all gone to prepare materials for the thesis topic. Do you want to go back to the small temple to ask?"

"Please, you didn't see what happened yesterday. It was like a News Years' celebration from hell. I'm afraid that if I go back, the monk will take the peach wood sword and smack me three times over." Lin Yan said weakly. "You check first, I'll watch from behind."

"Hey," Yin Zhou poked Lin Yan sneakily, and there was a small white flash on the edge of his glasses: "What did you do with the ghost in the end?"

Lin Yan curled his knees into a ball and replied reluctantly: "I've already told you eight hundred times. We watched the nightlife of Wudaokou for the rest of the night."

"Watched the nightlife? Were you drunk?" Yin Zhou drew close to Lin Yan. "So, are you enemies turned friends? Is the fighting done? Should I expect any relationship in the future now?"

"Please watch what you're saying. He's watching now." Lin Yan raised his head lazily, blinked his eyes vigorously, rubbed his temples vigorously to keep himself awake: "No kidding, he disappeared at dawn, but I could feel that he was still there. The strange thing was that he didn’t seem to understand what I was saying to him. The monk said that the ghost wouldn't remember being a human being. He was basically. . . just like an animal."

"You have to find A-Yan quickly. I'm afraid that something will happen to him." Lin Yan said: "And he must know more than we do."

Yin Zhou slapped his thigh vigorously: "I always hang out with the three-dimensional people and get dragged into messes like this."

"Hack into the files of the school's dormitory. Students are supposed to register their new address when they move out. Maybe there's a clue there."

At 2:30 in the afternoon, Lin Yan and Yin Zhou appeared in front of an old five-story house on Dadong Road.

This city had many similar-looking buildings. Land prices were soaring day by day. Developers couldn't afford to dismantle them. Residents had no money to move. Over time, older houses like this one had become ugly scars in the cluster of new buildings. The old-style design had poor lighting. Even in broad daylight, it was dark and damp. The grey paint on the wall had peeled away, exposing the brown-red brick wall underneath; the dusty bicycles and broken furniture had piled up in the alleyway, never cleaned. From time to time, a mouse would hop past, staring at the intruder's whereabouts vigilantly in the dark with its small eyes.

"Shouldn't this place be demolished?" Yin Zhou stared at the address on the note in disbelief, and then looked up at the old residential building that seemed to be crumbling: "If you live here, you won't be able to run away if there's an earthquake." Lin Yan felt a bit guilty. He had heard that the little Daoist had been in a bad family situation and had been relying on part-time work to subsidize his tuition, but he hadn't expected it to be this bad. He shouldn't have kept quiet when he was kicked out of the dorm. As a result, he could not live in a dormitory and pay 1,000 yuan a year, so he left to rent a house in a place with little money.

The two cautiously walked through the small alley. Lin Yan pulled away a spider web hanging above his head and asked Yin Zhou's back: "What's the number of A-Yan's house?"

"0023" Yin Zhou patted the dust off his jeans and looked up at the surrounding house numbers in confusion: "But this should be the bottom floor."

"The basement." Lin Yan said in a deep voice.

The old corridor was full of rubbish, and it was so dark that he could barely see the blue and gray stripes of the stand-up collar T-shirt on Yin Zhou in front of him. There was a damp and mouldy smell in the air. He didn't know why, but Lin Yan suddenly remembered this one thing he saw in a movie. In a ghost film called "The 4th Floor", the woman in white at the end of a creepy corridor tilted her neck, and her dark hair showed two dark eyes. Lin Yan shook her head vigorously, trying to get rid of the fantasy in his mind. He couldn't help but laugh at himself. He must be really sick because all he could think of were ghosts all the time.

Yin Zhou stopped and pointed to what Lin Yan had said before. He saw a simple door at the end of the corridor with the number 0023 slantingly engraved on the door. Just as Lin Yan was about to knock on the door, Yin Zhou cut him off and put his ear on the door.

"Someone's talking." Yin Zhou frowned and adjusted his glasses: "I can't hear what they're saying. . ." He raised his finger to his lips and made a silent gesture. Seeing Lin Yan hesitate to listen, Yin Zhou grabbed him. He yanked his collar forward harshly. The soundproofing of the old house wasn't very good. They could make out intermittent voices inside through the door panel, speaking slowly, and occasionally letting out a low laugh or two.

"There's A-Yan's voice. Does he have guests?" Lin Yan murmured and turned back. After thinking about it, he felt that listening through the wall wasn't ethical, so he pulled Yin Zhou back and muttered: "Don't listen. People will think we're trying to rob the place."

The door was suddenly pulled open. Yin Zhou lost his balance and tumbled forward a couple steps. He propped himself up on the door frame to stand firmly, and explained embarrassingly: "Hi, hi, hello, hello, I thought no one was coming."

There was no response, the doorway was pitch black, and the sound of the door panel swaying slightly echoed in the empty corridor, "Squeak--"

A slender hand was holding the door frame, and a pale face flashed in the darkness. Yin Zhou came face-to-face with him, widened his eyes and cried out, "Ghost!" Then he hurriedly backed into Lin Yan. Lin Yan hadn't expected it, and he didn't have time to see what happened. Whatever happened, they both retreated instinctively. Yin Zhou stepped all over his feet, and the two fell into a shameful ball on the ground.

A timid male voice rang from above his head: "Brother Lin Yan?"

The light turned on, and the person standing at the door was the little Daoist A-Yan.

When he entered the house, Yin Zhou couldn't help but anxiously mutter. He followed Lin Yan reluctantly and walked into a small spotless two-bedroom house with simple furnishings. A white candle was lit on the coffee table in front of the old sofa, the wax drops forming small bumps around the candle's edge on the tabletop. Lin Yan and Yin Zhou sat down and looked around curiously. This wasn't a place where they expected young people to live. There was a faint smell of traditional Chinese medicinal herbs in the air. A compass and a peach wood sword were placed on the old cabinet, and an aged portrait of a person hung on the wall. Yin Zhou asked Lin Yan who the old man in the portrait was. Lin Yan quickly motioned him to shut up, and whispered that this was Tao Hongjing, the founder of the Maoshan School of Daoism.

When he saw A-Yan's unique appearance at school, he always thought that it was all for show. Lin Yan didn't expect that he really had some connection with the Maoshan School, known for their effectiveness in exorcising ghosts. A-Yan was still wearing the weird blue robe as he walked in with two teacups. He leaned over to blow out the candles on the table and respectfully handed the teacups to Lin Yan and Yin Zhou. The ceramic cup had been a Buy 3 for 10 Yuan bargain at a roadside stall, but the tea was still fragrant and tasted pleasant.

"The green bamboo leaves from Mount E-Emei are a specialty of my hometown. Master gave it to me. If I ever feel homesick, I drink this."

Yin Zhou was stunned by A-Yan's dismissal of their meeting moments ago. He gulped and asked calmly: "Didn't you have guests over? Why didn't you turn on the lights? I was scared to death just now."

The little Daoist's expression suddenly changed. He whispered a 'no'. Yin Zhou raised his eyebrows and glanced at him. The little Daoist couldn't stand sitting under his stare. He turned around and took out a tray from the cabinet, placing it on the coffee table carefully. "I was only talking to them," A-Yan said. On the tray were some boxwood carvings of different figures and animals. The carvings were lifelike, their eyebrows, beards, and even the folds in their clothes were clearly visible. Lin Yan picked up one and studied it. He was stunned: "Isn't this your master?"

A-Yan lowered his head and replied: "Yes. It can be boring living by myself sometimes. I sculpt some small things to pass the time and tell them my thoughts. Talking to them makes me feel better." He pointed to the woodcarvings on the tray and said: "These are my parents, sister, and our family cat."

The wood carving was covered with a thick layer of grout, soaked in oil; it looked very well-used. Except for the monk set off to the side, the remaining sculptures made up a set; there was a boxwood table, an exquisite miniature chair and the smiling family of three with their ball-shaped cat. Lin Yan touched the cat's head and couldn't help but admire the work. He said: "These carvings are really good, they're very heartfelt. A-Yan, if you're homesick, don't forget to book tickets with me if you want to go back home for the Mid-Autumn Festival. The school will give us a group discount."

A-Yan froze: "No I won't. My parents passed away long ago. I want to work and send money to my sister to study."

Lin Yan hadn't meant to touch a soft spot when he commented. He put down the woodcarving and apologized. A-Yan didn't care: "It's okay, I-- I'm used to it. I don't have any friends. When I carve these and talk to them, it feels like they're still here."

"I'm your friend." Lin Yan comforted him: "Carve one for me when you get the chance. Your craftsmanship is really amazing."

"Okay, I'll show it to you once I finish it." The little Daoist smiled, his eyes sparkling: "By the way, you-- you guys were looking for me because of the ghost thing that followed you?"

Lin Yan nodded. He sat upright and took a deep breath. He sorted out the things that had happened since encountering ghosts and said, "I heard you say that ghost resentment is too powerful and there is no way to overcome it. I wanted to know if there is another way to send him away without dispersing his spirit. He almost choked to death three times." A-Yan frowned and shook his head, "That's not it. Al-- Although I can't see him in places with heavy yang energy, I can feel that he's very sad." After that, he pondered for a while: "He didn't mean to harm you."

"Evil ghosts have no human consciousness, and those who die suddenly have resentment. Only when they wander in between the worlds of the living and the dead and find something to kill can they calm their hostility. My master said that they are so powerful that they have to be eliminated. I have the ability to look into the eyes of a ghost and understand their emotions, so I can't always disperse their spirits. Think about it, a murdered ghost who has waited for hundreds of years in a dark and cold grave; what else can you feel except profound sympathy?"

"Loneliness. Unbearable loneliness." A-Yan stared at the wooden carvings on the plate, his eyes suddenly distant: "On July 15th, the gates to the ghost realm will be open. He wants to take you to his world. It's too unbearable to be alone." The last sentence was hushed, almost self-deprecating.

Lin Yan picked up the cat woodcarving and fiddled with it. To be honest, he did sympathize with the ghost. He even closed his eyes to try and imagine himself in the ghost's shoes. The closed, silent, unknown horror of death, a blackened skeleton in the faint light of a miner’s lamp sleeping quietly. First, he is hidden in the coffin, then under a layer encrustation, and then inside an airtight tomb room, with a heavy bluestone tomb door, layer upon layer locking the soul away to keep it from rising again. No matter how magnificent the mausoleum is, and how rare it was to be buried in one, what's the use of it? Only the sound of his heartbeat could be heard in the eternal darkness. No, there isn't even a heartbeat.

Death is the loneliest thing. A deadly but lonely ghost, after hundreds of years of silence, waiting for someone to finally sense its presence.

How tragic yet oddly optimistic.

#dig a grave to dig out a ghost #dig a grave to dig out a ghost translation #chinese novel #chinese bl #english translation #yaoi novel

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kusunogatari · 5 years

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[ Something New || Chapter Two ] [ @abyssaldespair ] [ Uchiha Obito, Suigin Ryū, Suigin Reiji ] [ Verse: White Hands of Healing ] [ Previous || Next ]

...he’s been dreading this. And yet...he knows it’s something that has to be done.

There’s no revealing his intentions, insisting instead he’s going on a short walk. Won’t be gone long. Ryū gives a curious tilt of her head, reclined with Reiji in her arms, but doesn’t protest.

“Be safe.”

The well-wish earns a quirk of his lips, heading out and shutting the door with a small sigh. It’s not often he heads out on his own unless for his village-assigned tasks. There’s still something a bit...unnerving about being here. About being stared at. Whispered behind.

He does his best to ignore it.

Instead, Obito turns from the little house and makes his way to the proper village quarter. It’s one he hasn’t dared visit since his return to Konoha. Mostly because he doesn’t have much reason to.

But partly because he knows it’s largely as full as it is because of him.

...but that’s why he has to go.

A lot of things have been brewing inside him since the trip to the hospital only a few days ago. Since then, mother and baby have been healthy, if not a bit weary. And Obito has had a lot of thinking to do. A lot of reflecting. Even now, the inkling he felt when first handed his son bothers him. That memory…

...and the true realization of what he did.

Which is why, as he passes under the archway leading to the village cemetery, he knows what he has to do.

Their graves are above the typical - which makes sense. A Hokage and his wife aren’t exactly your regular, run-of-the-mill citizens. Even clan heads’ graves can pale in comparison. But even then, there’s a humble simplicity in Minato and Kushina’s gravemarkers.

...Obito has to wonder who made the orders, given neither of them had any family left to speak for them that could.

For a long moment, he just...stands before them, reading the inscriptions over and over, looking at the date, realizing how many years it’s been. How many years...since he took their lives away. Left their newborn son an orphan.

...and now...he has a son of his own. Alongside the pride, the joy, the disbelief...is a sinking and undeniable grief, guilt...and shame. He tries to imagine being in Minato’s shoes, now. Knowing what he knows. Feeling what he feels. How he, too, would fight tooth and nail, give his life, if it meant keeping Reiji safe.

Ryū, he knows, would do the same.

He tries to imagine the fear, the fury, the fight for a life he treasures beyond his own. Not only that, but his wife’s. Minato faced a monumental threat that night: one against not only his family, but his village.

...and it was all his doing.

Jaw clenching, Obito’s fists curl at his sides - not in external anger, but internal. What a fool he’d been...so embroiled in hate, in loss, in rage...he’d taken everything from a man who’d done his best to give him everything. Minato had his flaws - maybe he could have done something more to save him, save them - but in the end, he did everything he could for his team. For his village. For his family.

And it was his actions that cost him everything. Facing him in the fourth war - seeing that understanding light cerulean eyes as he teleported to his prior student, putting the pieces together - it had stung.

But now...now he truly understands that weight. Of what he stole. What he robbed from not only Minato, but Kushina...Naruto...he tore a family apart because of his own feelings of betrayal and hurt and anger. Now that he has one of his own...understanding what he did is unavoidable.

“...I can’t even apologize,” he then rasps, finally speaking, voice shaking. “There’s no apology in this world or the next that would begin to scratch the surface. But...I understand now. I’ve come to understand so much. Not just about you, and what I did to you. Both of you. But everyone, I…” He punctuates with a deflating sigh. “...I can’t excuse my choices. I did what I did. It was born of manipulation, but eventually...I embraced it all the same. I was cruel and angry for the sake of being cruel and angry. I wanted the world to feel what I’d felt. To lose what I’d lost. But now...I am the one coming to realize what I took. That fear is now my fear.

“...I have a son. I never expected to. I thought I would live the rest of my days alone, in my purgatory, while the rest of you dreamed. It was to be my penance. But I...was distracted. Led astray. And the only reason I’m here, now...is because of her. The only reason I had to keep going was her. And now...I have another. They are...my only reasons. My world. My…” He can’t seem to find a word strong enough.

“...I’m sorry. It’s not enough, it will never be enough, but...I want you to know how much I regret now what I did. I can’t change it. But I...I know now. I know that feeling. If someone...if they…” His sentence breaks apart, fractured by emotion. “...I would do just as you did. No hesitation. To me, nothing is more important. My life, it’s...it’s nothing without them. Had I never found her...I’d be content to disappear. There was nothing else once it was all over. I made it through that war because...I made her a promise. To see her again. And if it couldn’t be in the world of dreams...it was up to me. So I fought. And I prevailed. And now, I have this...tiny little world that’s my own. If I lost it...I would cease to exist. So I know why you laid down your life. I would do the same, now. I just...regret that I forced that choice on you.

“...maybe it’s not enough, but...I’m going to try to do better. To use what time I have left to...make amends. I know I can’t ever repay all my debts. Not in a thousand lifetimes. But...in this one I have...I want to try to make things right. I want to love my wife. I want to raise my son. And little by little, work off a shred of the debts I owe. I’ll always have this guilt. I suppose that’s part of my sentence. To live the rest of my days with that weight. That knowing. But in the end...my biggest regrets come from you. You, and my team...and my family. The only people who cared. Who I...gave up on. Because I felt you’d given up on me. I…”

Obito sighs. He’s carried on for far too long as it is, but...well, this has built up for more than half his life. And his new perspective means introspection. He’s never had much chance to voice any of this aloud...nor any reason to.

“...I’ll keep trying. It’s all I can do. But...I felt I should finally speak to you. Admit that I was wrong. Try to...somehow make this right, as best I can. I had to tell you that...I understand. I know, now. And I’ll try to use that knowing to...be better. If I can.”

...with that, Obito finds himself just about out of words. And somehow, he feels...exhausted. And yet, perhaps...just a little lighter.

“...I’ll bring him here. Someday. Tell him the truth. Hope he’ll forgive me. He...deserves to know who his father was...and who he is. When he’s old enough...I’ll let him make that decision for himself. Maybe...if she could still find good in me...he will too.” A long moment of silence passes, staring at their names.

“...until then...I guess I’ll say my goodbyes.” Feeling awkward, he nonetheless bows deeply over the stones, a kind of restless uncertainty in his chest as he walks away. It plagues him all the way home, still quiet as he steps inside.

And then, from another room, he hears a melodic, “Okaeri!”

Something in him stills at the word. Helps to ground him. Though still somber, he smiles softly to himself, removing his shoes and stepping in.

“...tadaima.”

A wee sequel! Technically this was Meg's idea, but I liked it so much I had to write it myself...whoops. Hopefully I pulled it off okay. I tend to make characters talk a lil too much, but...then again, Obito's got a LOT on his mind, and...I feel like he'd feel able to open up to Minato, like he used to as a genin. idk if there'll be more to this, but since THIS idea tied into the first part, I thought I'd just make it a second chapter here. Buuut yeah! Hopefully it's passable, aha - I still get nervous writing Obito for some reason, especially when it's mostly JUST him, and his thoughts. *skips away* Thanks for reading!

#abyssaldespair #uchiha obito #suigin ryū #suigin reiji #white hands of healing [ canon verse ]

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eponymous-rose · 7 years

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Fic: Everything (Anything) True [Scanlan | 3200 words | T]

[AO3 | FFN | More Fic]

Scanlan's a master of deception. Turns out reality is a moving target when the words you sing keep changing it.

Everything (Anything) True

This much is true: his mother's grave marker, grown over with flowering vines, is in a quiet, wooded place dappled by sunlight. In the summer, the peace is broken only by the murmur of wind through the leaves.

"So what I'm saying is that I think you're gonna be pretty useless at this," Dranzel says, glaring from underneath the wide brim of his hat.

Scanlan sets his drink down on the table and props himself on a chair, crossing his legs underneath him to get enough height to see over the edge of the table. Time was, Dranzel's formidable glower would've made him seriously consider retiring to the countryside to sing to nice, harmless farm animals and help improve crops in a place where nobody ever heard of half-orc violinists. Now he just rests his chin in the palm of his hand and grins until Dranzel, with a snort, smirks back.

"This just isn't my wheelhouse," Scanlan says. "No shame in that, it takes all kinds. I'm awfully good at the music side of things, and you know it. Didn't think I was signing on for thievery."

"We're supplementing our income," Dranzel says, smile dropping away again. "I know you're quick with words. Figured you'd be good with your hands, too."

Scanlan waggles his fingers. "I don't get many complaints."

Not so much as a flicker of a grin. Ouch. "Well, you're getting one now. You're gonna get your fool face smashed in if you try and lift a purse. You're quite possibly the least subtle person I've ever known."

"I am," Scanlan says, "extremely subtle."

"Your hat has seven feathers in it," Dranzel says. "Three of them are glowing."

"Well, you can't expect me to sacrifice fashion on the altar of subtlety, can you?" Scanlan pulls off the cap, though, and pokes at the novelty enchanted feathers to douse their glow before replacing it on his head.

Dranzel sighs, long and drawn-out, and rubs his forehead with the heavily callused palm of one hand. He's got the same look he did when he had to tell the group about their third, fifth, and seventh drummers' untimely demises. "Look. Shorthalt. I'm not gonna pretend this is a totally normal troupe of performers, okay? We're having some financial problems, and if you want to join us full-time, I need to know you can pull your weight. I'm sorry. I hope you find somewhere you can make your mark, but raw talent isn't gonna pay the bills."

Scanlan scratches at the scruff on his chin, settling back in his chair. "Pick one."

Dranzel takes his hand away from his face to tap a finger on the table. Scanlan watches his face shift from curiosity to wariness to resignation. "One what?"

With a wave of his hand, Scanlan encompasses the busy tavern. "Any poor sod in this place. I'll take their purse."

"I'm not gonna come bail you out when you get thrown in the stockade. And I'm sure as hell not gonna risk my neck if someone pulls a blade instead."

"I know, I know." Well, he's pretty sure Dranzel's half-faking the hardass routine. "You know what? I'll figure something out. Wait here."

He hops down off his chair, forestalling the stunned beginnings of a protest, and meanders cheerfully to the bar; people are packed in tightly enough that even he has to shoulder his way through from time to time. It takes him a moment to spy a likely mark: an elven woman with close-cropped black hair, perched on a barstool, completely engrossed in her mug of ale. Her purse is dangling from her belt, weighted down by a solid mass of coin, and Scanlan glances back across the room to see Dranzel straining his neck to watch. Scanlan winks.

"Hey," he says, softly. "Don't turn around."

The elven woman promptly turns and looks at him, very nearly overbalancing on her seat.

"Okay," Scanlan says, as she scans the crowd and eventually thinks to look down to his level. "We'll work on the whole following-instructions thing." He lowers his voice even further; taken in, she leans in closer. "Listen, I need you not to react to what I'm about to say."

The elf squints at him. "What?"

"I think there's a thief in this tavern. No, don't look around," Scanlan says, but the woman's already straightening up in her seat, one hand clasping her purse. "He's very good, and very well known to the authorities."

"Didn't get my coin," she says, narrowing her eyes.

"That's exactly how he operates," Scanlan says, making a show of scanning the crowd. "Takes just enough from every person's purse that they're unlikely to miss the surplus."

This time, the woman's brow furrows, and she hunches away from him untrustingly to open her purse, counting out the coins. "No, see, seventeen silver and three copper. That seems about right."

Scanlan schools his facial expression to one of mingled sympathy and pity, smile straining at the corners under the weight of its recipient's misfortune. "I'm so sorry to ask this, but are you absolutely certain there isn't a coin or two missing?"

He watches her brow wrinkle further as she visibly revisits every drink she's paid for this evening. The number's high enough that she comes up with the obvious answer. "I... now that you mention it, I guess I'm not sure. Why wouldn't he just take everything?"

Scanlan makes a point of lowering his voice again; this time, the humans seated to either side of his immediate quarry lean in a little as well, unconsciously. "Because that keeps him from being suspected, which keeps him from getting caught. I work for the city, and I've been on his trail for years. I think he's damned close to getting enough money to split town for good, and we need to stall him as completely as we can."

She stares at him doubtfully. "You don't look that official."

Okay, so maybe Dranzel has a point about the hat. "Exactly. I'm incognito. You think anybody's going to suspect someone who looks like me as law enforcement? Barkeep's been kind enough to let me scope things out tonight." Summoning his best grin, he waves to the scrawny halfling behind the counter, who pauses midway through washing a mug to smile back in good-natured confusion. "And I approached you because I suspect you're a regular here. Somebody the people trust."

The elven woman flushes, pleased. "I suppose I am, at that. It really is a bit of a shithole, though, to be perfectly honest. What can I do to help?"

Five minutes later, he wanders back to Dranzel's table. "Didn't see you take her purse," Dranzel says, leaning back in his chair. "What did you have to talk about all this time?"

"Oh, you know, this and that. Life, wealth, happiness." Scanlan perches back on his own chair and, resisting the urge to turn around and watch the fruits of his labor, starts working on finishing up his mug of ale.

Dranzel crosses his arms and watches in silence. As he does, the permanent sneer at the corner of his mouth worries its way into something a little more tight-lipped, a little closer to his breaking-the-bad-news expression. "Look," he says, shifting the silence at last, "I understand that you're on your own, now, and I'm not unsympathetic—"

"Excuse me."

Scanlan suppresses the urge to do a victory dance on the table right then and there. Instead, ignoring Dranzel's stunned expression, he turns to grin at the elven woman. "Right on time. I assume you were as careful as we discussed?"

"Absolutely I was." She starts to lift something onto the table, then hesitates.

He waves away her concerned glance at Dranzel. "A colleague. My business partner, in fact."

She glances over her shoulder, gnawing uncertainly on her bottom lip, then seems to come to a decision. Blocking the motion from the view of the rest of the tavern as best she can, she lifts a heaping sack of coin onto the table; it's heavy enough that she actually strains with the effort. "And here's the list," she says, placing a sheet of parchment, covered with lines of neat scrawled writing, on top of the gold. "Every person's name and the contents of their coin purse carefully documented."

"Nicely done," says Scanlan, kicking the gawping Dranzel under the table to get him to shut his mouth. "We'll keep these funds in a safe down at the stockade for everyone to pick up tomorrow. Our man will have no money to leave town tonight, which should give our team enough time to pick him up."

The elf crosses her arms, glancing furtively over her shoulder. "And as we agreed?"

"Of course," says Scanlan, reaching blindly into the bag to pull out a heaping handful of silver and bronze coins. "All yours. Sometimes a little bit of money goes missing down at the stockade. We have petty cash to help account for that kind of loss. Get yourself out of this shithole, if that's what you want."

"Gladly," the elf says, with a genuine grin. "Gonna go visit family out east, I think. Pleasure doing business with you."

"Um," says Dranzel, watching her elbow her way through the crowd and out the door. "What, uh."

"Well, hide the money," Scanlan says, and, taking pity on Dranzel's terrified expression, adds, "I just told her there was a thief around and convinced her it was in her best interest to help us gather funds from her friends to keep in a safe place until this all blows over."

"You robbed the entire tavern?"

"Not the whole thing. Just the people she was particularly well-acquainted with."

Dranzel finally drags the sack of money back under the table and out of sight, then rubs at his forehead. "I... how in the hells did you lie like that?"

"I say things and they happen." Scanlan shrugs. "It wasn't a lie, really, from her point of view. She was fed up with this place and helping me meant she got to leave. I didn't need her to believe me so much as I needed her to enjoy the idea of the lie better than the truth. Convincing her friends got easier when she was making the extra effort."

"There must be a small fortune in here," Dranzel says, softly, glancing down at the bag in his lap.

"Just so you know, you looked really weird saying that to your crotch. Not very subtle."

"Point taken." Dranzel shakes his head, then grins, broadly. "Well, I'm glad. Didn't want to have to give you up for something as small as money, you know. We're all family here, and there's no question you'll be able to pull your weight." He reaches out to flick at the feathers on Scanlan's cap until they're glowing again. "'I say things and they happen,' huh? Welcome aboard, Shorthalt."

This much is true: his mother's grave marker is in a busy, crowded city cemetery, one identical stone amid rows and rows of nameless dead. Sometimes he can't recall which one is hers.

As it turns out, big knock-down drag-out heroic fights sometimes get a little... violent.

Grog and Tiberius are pulled out of the fight early, drawn into the forest in hotheaded pursuit of three members of the bandit gang. By the time the rest of the group figures out that their heavy hitters are temporarily out of play, the second wave of bandits swarm down from some sort of treetop lookout and attack in earnest.

Basically, long story short, somebody with an unfairly large club wallops Scanlan in his left temple and things go real quiet for a while.

He wakes up gasping in the snow, right arm numb from being pinned beneath him at an odd angle, and tries to suppress his shivering with an effort, holding as still as he can until he's entirely certain nobody's standing above him debating whether or not to finish him off. Thus reassured, he rolls onto his back, rubs at the matted blood in his hair, and stares up into a swirl of white: the blizzard promised by the heavy clouds that were dogging their tracks all day.

"Ow," he says, softly, into the storm.

Getting to his feet is an exercise in ignoring nausea and the spinning of a world already gone a little wavery with all the snow, but he manages on his fourth or fifth try to stand shivering and squinting in the storm, rubbing his arms. "Hey," he says, experimentally, and the wind tears the word from his mouth. He takes a breath, imbuing his voice with a little arcane weight. "Hey! Anyone?"

A pause, an ominous silence, and then a ragged cough, somewhere off to his right. As good a direction as any. Probably not too far, if he can hear it over the howl of wind. He starts walking.

He nearly falls over Vex's body.

For a horrible second he's pretty sure she's a corpse, pale against a shocking smear of red in the snow, but her face is tensed up in pain and he can hear her breathing, quick and uneven. "Okay," he says. "Okay."

It takes an effort to bend down beside her, and then a greater effort not to throw up at the combination of his throbbing head and the heavy stench the wind whips back in his face: the too-familiar stink of lots and lots of blood. As near as he can tell—and looking closely isn't exactly helping him keep his stomach right now—someone's managed to stab down from above right behind her clavicle and into her chest cavity. No sign of the weapon, but enough of the bandits were carrying longswords that it doesn't take a real stretch of the imagination to picture one of them catching an archer off-guard.

He touches her forehead, a little helplessly, and jolts back when her eyes shoot open. "Scanlan?" she wheezes.

"Oi," he says, and then just sort of stops having anything interesting to say because watching a friend die in the snow wasn't exactly on his to-do list today. He grabs her hand instead to hold it between his, cold and heavy.

"Shit," she says, which about sums it up. "Pike?"

"No, I—" Scanlan squints into another blast of wind and snow. "I can't find anyone. I think we're it. I'm out of potions, I don't—"

"Vax?" Her voice, this time, is very soft.

And, you know what, fuck it. Healing's a thing he's seen people do, and it's not like he hasn't made stranger things happen just by singing.

So he sings something he's pretty sure his old troupe used to croon whenever they wanted their audience in a particularly teary-eyed daze that might make them a little more susceptible to misplacing their valuables, but he tells himself it's something that goes back further, that it's a song his mother would sing to him in a fine, clear, bell-like voice. He tells himself it's soothing in the way that Pike's smile is soothing, that it knits bone and muscle and sinew like Pike's spells do, that it encompasses that same terror at being drawn out of peace and into pain, that same relief at her warmth and nearness and comfort. He tells himself all of these things, and he believes them.

He isn't even surprised, really, when he feels the familiar jolt of arcane energy firing along every nerve ending, setting up strange resonances that hum and crackle until the song comes to a familiar end.

When he finally looks down at her, feeling hollowed-out and shaky, Vex is staring back at him. The horrific wound has begun to seal, the blood slowing to a trickle. "Huh," he says, and turns away from her to be noisily sick in the snow.

Even above the howl of the blizzard, he hears her sit up behind him, coughing with a lot more strength than she'd had moments ago. "What in the absolute fuck, Scanlan," she says, but there's a laugh in her voice. "How did you do that?"

"I can do many things," he says, which would've sounded a lot more mysterious if he weren't busy trying to clean out his mouth with fresh snow. "Just do me a favor and stop almost dying, okay? That was messed up."

Vex stays quiet long enough to trick him into turning around and meeting her eyes; she smiles pure relief at him. "Nice song, though."

Scanlan sighs, heavily. "It was sort of nice, wasn't it?"

They sit and shiver in a weirdly companionable silence until Vax finds them, melting from the shadows like some sort of ghost, and anyway the important thing is that Scanlan only shrieks the one time and definitely doesn't try to tackle him when he appears out of nowhere. After that, things happen quickly: tearful reunions, joining the rest of the party hunkered down to wait out the storm in a particularly pleasant and not at all damp and terrible cavern, enduring the squabbles about who'd fucked up the worst now that everyone was safe. Scanlan bows out of the conversation as soon as possible to find a quiet corner of the cave, curling into his bedroll with his face to the wall and the new melody wavering through his mind.

Pike sits next to him, after a while; even without looking, he'd know it was her. Mostly because nobody else's armor clanks quite so loudly. "Hey, you. Vex told me what happened."

He picks at a bit of dirt ground into the edge of his bedroll. "Rough fight. You weren't with us when we got separated, and I guess we had to make do."

"That's amazing, though." The grin in her voice makes him roll onto his back to see the real thing, finally meeting her eyes. "D'you think you could do it again?"

He doesn't need to think about it. "Definitely. I got the hang of it. There's a line of counterpoint I could probably incorporate to improve it, given a little time."

"Okay! Mine definitely doesn't work the same way, but that's great."

Pike's smile broadens, then, and Scanlan says, slowly and deliberately, "I'm in love with you, you know." The words feel strange, not quite right, but they also feel reality-shaping in the same way the song had.

"Well, all right," Pike says, her grin unfaltering. "You hit your head pretty hard. Get some rest, maybe?"

Scanlan curls back to face the wall, listening to her footsteps fade away, moving back to the others, and can't quite keep from humming softly under his breath, singing himself to sleep.

This much is true: his mother's grave maker is a worn-down stone he scooped up in his desperate flight from the goblins, the weight of remembrance in his pocket.

"I love you," he says. "If nothing else, believe that I'm going to make this right."

"If you've taught me anything, Father, it's that saying something doesn't make it happen."

This much is true: his mother has no grave marker at all, and most days he tries to forget.

#critical role #critical role spoilers #eponymous fic 2017 #scanlan shorthalt #critfic #parental death mention///

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