#fic title: the making of a luthier
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The Making of a Luthier
This was written for the @lukacouffainezine. Leftover sales are open until Dec. 1, make sure to get your copy! The art for this piece was done by moge_ko_draws (originally posted on Instagram, posted to Tumblr with permission) (go check out her work, she’s a great artist!)
Luka joins a club for making stringed instruments. Along the way he makes a new friend and learns about the people in his life and about himself.
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Luka considered the flier in his hand as he walked down the hallway of his school until he came to the advertised door. Other than the bold heading of "Making Music Mean More," it was a nondescript piece of paper with a room number and a vague paragraph about joining a club—but Luka knew better than to judge anything by appearance alone.
When he peeked in the doorway, though, it wasn't quite what he expected. Scraps of wood littered the small room and strange tools took command of most of the area. His eyes bounced from one work in progress to the next; even pulled apart he knew how to recognize a guitar.
He knocked on the doorframe, but when no one answered, he took a tentative step in, then another, and before he knew it his hand was lying on an almost-finished piece.
"You have a good eye," a voice said, jolting Luka out of his train of thought.
A blonde girl his age was watching him, her soft blue eyes hiding a laugh behind plastic safety glasses as she paused in her work. Although he didn't quite understand what she was actually working on. Something with a machine that shaved bits of wood off the large piece she was pushing through. The heavy leather apron she wore was covered in sawdust, and when she flipped her braid over her shoulder he could see flecks of wood entangled in her hair, too.
She flicked a switch and the machine powered down. "You here to join our little club?" A quick nod to the paper in his hands made him glance down at it, too.
"I… well… what is this place?"
"Officially it's the school's wood shop."
"And unofficially?"
"It's where M. Carpentier lets me make stringed instruments in my spare time. But the headmaster found out and now I need to recruit enough people to make this an official club before she'll let me continue 'wasting school resources.'" She rolled her eyes and propped her glasses up on her head, pushing her bangs out of her face to level him with a look. "So, what do you say, are you in?"
He blinked back at her, then looked down at the unfinished instrument under his fingers. It must've been hers. The labor it must've taken to create, the time she'd put into it already, and all alone in this workshop… she must really love it. He'd never thought about making instruments before, but now that he was…
He needed music in his life. But he never wanted to perform—commanding attention on stage turned his stomach and he liked being home too much for a life of touring. Maybe this was something he could do behind the scenes that would still help others discover their own voices and talents. Maybe this could be something he could do for him. Making music mean more.
When he looked back up, the girl was watching him with a pleased smile on her face like she already knew his answer but was still waiting to hear him say it.
"Yeah," he finally obliged her. "I'm in. I'm Luka, by the way."
Her smile grew. "Allegra. You know, like the musical term? But with an 'a' instead of an 'o.'" She flicked her glasses back down and offered him a spare pair. "Come on, I'll start you off over here on the belt sander. Less chance you'll cut anything off."
***
It took three months of time stolen in between school and helping out on the Liberty, but finally he was familiar with every machine in the shop and he was ready to try his hand at making his first guitar.
Before he could start, though, he still needed to choose a type of wood to use. It was surprisingly a more difficult decision than he thought it'd be. Was he looking for a warm sound or a deep resonance? Something light and springy or something more durable? The wood shop had plenty of scraps, but when he ran his hand over them none of them seemed… right. He couldn't explain it. But someday he hoped this instrument would be someone's voice. It felt important that he got it right.
Later that week, while he was still weighing Allegra's advice about prices versus sounds, his sister brought someone new on deck and shyly introduced her as "Rose." He couldn't help but smile as Rose flounced around the houseboat like she'd always belonged there, dragging Juleka along by the hand, her bright pink a sharp contrast to Juleka's preferred black, her effervescence practically contagious.
Watching them, it was as plain as day in the way their melodies played against each other: his sister had a crush. Not mutual, but… Rose was fond of Juleka at least. It was more than that, though. They fit together.
Contrast. His eyes widened. That's what he needed. Warmth and mellowness contrasted against something bright and springy. Rosewood and maple. The rosewood he'd have to source, but there was plenty of maple around the shop.
He gave Juleka a jumbled explanation and fumbled with his bike lock in his rush to get to the workshop.
***
"So after we've soaked it, it goes on the jig," Allegra explained, pulling a dripping strip of wood out of the hot water bath it had stayed in for the past hour. "It needs to be wet, otherwise the second you try to put tension on it, it'll just snap."
With an air of expertise, she guided his hands to settle the pliant wood into the shaping jig—one of her own design, she'd told him proudly on his first day. It seemed like a delicate process as Allegra did everything swiftly but in a precise order. Once all the clamps were on, she let out a breath she'd apparently been holding.
"What now?" he asked, still dazed from watching a material he thought would be more stubborn than that bend to her will so easily.
"Now we leave it alone. It'll air dry and harden all on its own."
She smacked his hand away when he went to touch the curve she'd helped him make. Once it dried it would be the swell of the body of the guitar, perfectly curved to fit onto the player's thigh.
Something that should've been too stubborn to bend. His mom's hard-won unyielding independence popped into his thoughts. At some point in her life, Anarka had been in love. Maybe she'd even thought about spending her life with someone. He didn't know anything about his father, but he knew his mother's heart had been broken beyond repair.
She'd been hardened into her final shape, too.
And now here he was, exploring a quiet career making instruments. If he hadn't had the upbringing he did… if his mother hadn't been so hurt when whoever his father was walked away from her and her unborn children… if she hadn't had to go it all alone… things could've been different. He could've been different. Maybe Anarka wouldn't have been as focused on raising him to be independent. Maybe she wouldn't have encouraged him to find his own happiness outside of what anyone else thought of him. What anyone expected of him.
"Hello? Earth to Luka?" Allegra waved a hand in front of his face. He shook his head clear and managed to smile. Her eyebrows furrowed as she frowned back at him. "You can't zone out like that in front of a machine, you know."
He paused, his fingers hovering over the still-damp wood, before he opened his mouth to ask a question, then closed it again, choosing his words more carefully than normal.
"Do you ever feel like you're losing parts of yourself when you make these?" he finally asked.
Allegra considered him, and he almost started to apologize for not making sense when she looked over at the guitar she'd just finished—the one he'd found his first day in the shop.
"I think of it more like finding lost parts of myself," she answered him wistfully. "And letting them go."
***
"This is Ivan," Rose announced proudly. Luka smiled at the gargantuan teen, trying to decide whether to trust his instinct or his intuition. When Ivan waved shyly, Luka's intuition won out and he decided then and there Ivan was a friend.
"He plays drums and writes songs!" Rose was gushing, and Luka just barely caught the worried glance Juleka shot between the two of them. Unneeded, Luka knew, but he couldn't tell her that. Not yet, anyways.
"Welcome to the band," Luka said, extending his hand. It disappeared in Ivan's grip.
It took some cajoling on Rose's part, but Ivan eventually—bashfully—produced a wrinkled piece of paper with a poem written on it. Luka smoothed the crinkles out with the pads of his fingers.
"She screamed and ran away when I tried to sing it," Ivan said, balling his fists in what Luka interpreted as a show of embarrassment rather than anger. "So maybe it's not very good."
Luka's eyes flicked down the paper, then back up at Ivan. He would never bring it up, but he was pretty sure Juleka had told him about Ivan's akumatization. And what caused it. Ivan was in love. Luka smiled as he handed the paper back.
"Did you ever try again?"
By the shy smile that Ivan directed off to the side, Luka figured he had, and had been successful. It was a rare person that was as sensitive as Ivan but as willing to expose himself to rejection more than once.
Later in the shop, Luka picked up the rosewood intended for the fretboard. Solid, sturdy, able to withstand the cut of steel strings over time, but still softer than it looked. Not unlike his new friend.
"Are you using that or what?" Allegra asked from across the room. When he blinked back to where he was, she was watching him curiously.
"Yeah. I was just thinking."
She rolled her eyes at him. "I swear if you start talking in musical metaphors again I'll ban you forever."
"You can't ban me," he said, chuckling as he moved over to his workstation, rosewood still in hand. "I'm the only one who knows how to sweet talk the bandsaw."
She muttered something under her breath about how he was lucky he was cute and he shook his head, smiling, as he started measuring.
***
"What's up with you today?" Allegra asked, her tone bristling. "You're all… spaced out or something."
He shook his head clear of the melody that was looping through his head before he managed to smile. "Nothing. A new song stuck in my head, that's all."
She pursed her lips. "By 'song' you mean you met someone new, right?" When he only nodded, her eyebrows furrowed. "A girl?"
He hummed in response. "One of Juleka's friends. Marinette."
Clear as a musical note, sincere as a melody. Brave enough to find Ladybug on her own initiative and tell her to help his mom. And something more. He couldn't put his finger on it, but when he'd played those chords for her there was something else hiding beneath the surface. A mystery, or a secret. Something important to her—integral, even.
When Allegra didn't answer him, he realized he'd continued humming, not quite as 'to himself' as he'd thought.
"Marinette, huh?" she asked, her tone light but too careful.
Her eyes darted away from his, and she busied herself by whittling a scrap piece of wood she couldn't possibly be thinking of using as color rose to her cheeks. He looked away, guilty of seeing too much again.
He focused instead on setting another piece of mother of pearl in place for the inlay around the soundhole, admiring the unique sheen as the colors shifted in the light. He liked the way there was something more to look for in each piece. If he squinted, he could imagine he could see the whole rainbow the stones offered, but it was still barely beyond his grasp.
"Yeah," he answered softly, smiling to himself as he ran his fingers over his work. "Ma-Ma-Marinette."
***
"Run the booth?" Luka asked incredulously as Allegra pushed a paper into his hands and started pulling guitars off the wall to show at the fair.
"Sure, why not? You know everything about this place, right?"
He stopped her as she reached for the violin she'd made the past year. Seeing it in her hands, finished, he couldn't understand why she wouldn't want to share her passion with others.
"It should be you," he said. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you."
She paused, staring at his hand on hers. "Won't Marinette be there?"
He let her implication roll off him. She'd seen him go through trying to date Marinette, breaking up with her, and then worrying about how she was avoiding him. But they were friends again, and Allegra knew that. He’d rather have Marinette in his life as a friend than nothing at all. And the same was true for Allegra. They’d spent two years in the shop together. She’d taught him everything he knew.
The guitar he’d just finished was as much hers as it was his. She was in every piece of it.
Instead of telling her any of that, he just shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
She broke his grip gently and packed the violin and its bow away with everything else. He felt the tension in the air but didn’t know what to do about it.
Finally, she sighed. “I won’t be here next year,” she said quietly. “We’re moving to London, and I’ll be at another school. So it’s up to you to keep this thing going.” She turned and pressed the violin case into his hands, giving him a brave smile. “So, what do you say? Are you in?”
***
Marinette was talking to André the ice cream man when he spotted her. Smiling, he walked up as quietly as he could behind her, intending to surprise her.
“Hello, Marinette,” he said, and his smile grew when she jumped. It was nice being friends with her, teasing her. No pressure on anyone.
“Luka!” she yelped, then looked back at André helplessly. “Actually, Luka and I are just… uh—”
“Buddies,” he supplied, sensing her distress. “We’re buddies.”
“You don’t necessarily have to be in love to enjoy your own scoop of magic,” André said, apparently continuing his conversation with Marinette. He handed the ice cream to Luka, but Luka handed it over to Marinette instead. He’d never cared much for André’s ice cream, funnily enough, but Marinette seemed to like it. As they bid goodbye to André he did steal a bite from the scoop on top, though.
"I'm surprised to see you here!” Marinette said. “I thought you already knew what career you're going to have."
"I do," he answered easily, "I'm in charge of my school's booth where I tell people about being a maker of stringed instruments."
He’d led her there as if on instinct. His guitar was on display. Front and center. His hand gravitated to it the same way it always did and he picked it up, mostly to have something to do with his hands.
"What about you, Marinette? Why are you here? Aren't you on your way to becoming a talented fashion designer?"
"I don't know anymore. There's so many careers that interest me in the world of fashion, creation, decoration…" She sighed. "You're lucky you know exactly what you want to do."
"I just listen to my inner voice." He played a few notes on his guitar, listening to the sound it made more than the notes themselves. "This is the first instrument I ever made." Marinette was watching him with wide eyes and he didn't even hesitate. The guitar was in her hands.
"It took me two years," he admitted.
Two years in the shop with Allegra. Two years of finding pieces of himself and putting those pieces and thoughts into the wood. Everyone he loved was there, some way or another.
The inlay he’d created shone in the sun as Marinette admired the guitar, casting a rainbow between the strings for the briefest moment.
The flier had simply read “Making Music Mean More.” He hadn’t known then that by walking into that room he’d find what he was meant to do—and what he was made of.
#Luka Couffaine#juleka couffaine#rose lavillant#ivan bruel#marinette dupain cheng#lukacouffaine zine#fic title: the making of a luthier
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15 fics with Harry pursuing unusual careers
I love the adrenaline and potential angst within the Auror partners trope as much as the next guy, but we can all agree that our mental health improves 10 times when we see Harry leaving the Ministry, embracing other possibilities and making his own destiny. This rec list hopes to celebrate those creative, disruptive, feel-good fics that are not afraid to come up with the most absurd positions and original job titles. They can be fun, smutty, depressing, hopeful or cathartic; there’s a little bit of everything in here and I’m hoping to bring some hidden gems into everyone’s radar, too. Happy readings!
Twisted Wizards by Enchanted_Jae (T, 3k)
Draco is just putting his life back together when Potter comes along and mucks it all up again. Job: storm chaser
The R. Correspondence by noeon (T, 7.5k)
While working on the Bagshot papers, Draco makes an important discovery for British Wizarding History. Now if only Harry can keep him alive long enough to enjoy it. Job: private security consultant
Per my last letter (I hope you choke on it) by @fluxweeed and @lastontheboat (T, 10k)
Or: the one where Harry has writer’s block and Malfoy isn’t helping. Job: writer
Home County, orphaned (G, 10k)
Harry is an architect and the reluctant part-owner of his own firm. Malfoy works at The Ministry but doesn’t actually have a proper job title even though what he does sounds as though it’s pretty important. Job: architect
A Working Title by mindabbles (E, 12k)
Another in the long line of absurd biographies finally drives Harry to a desperate act. How desperate he doesn't know until his ghost writer shows up at his door. Job: Daily Prophet columnist
An Improbable Bout of Summer Madness by acari (E, 16k)
Draco had planned a quiet, peaceful summer holiday with his son. The last thing he expected was to find Potter here, in Draco's little Cornish retreat. Making fudge in a shop? The idea was too ludicrous for words. Job: fudge shop owner
The Strongest Affinity by @eidheann (T, 17k)
Trouble finding a wand for Scorpius leads Harry and Draco to something they never imagined. Job: wandmaker
Phoenix Repair Services by carpemermaid (E, 20k)
Draco hires a suspiciously private wizarding handyman to fix his kitchen when he returns home to find it destroyed. He expects a middle-aged wizard with greying hair and a pudgy gut to show up. Instead, he gets Harry Potter—with a utility belt and a charming smile—who is more attractive than he has any right to be. Job: Handyman
The Snitch-Maker by Omi_Ohmy (T, 21k)
Draco is content with his Snitches, with the tap tap tap of his hammer, and the tiny gears and sharp scent of metal in his workshop - until one day Harry Potter appears, asking for help to solve a rash of Snitch-tampering in the Quidditch world. Job: QUABBLE official (Quidditch representative)
Silhouettes in Sunsets by Pie (T, 22k)
Draco Malfoy was a Gringotts accountant by day and a luthier by night, making musical instruments that sang the language of the player’s heart, language audible only to the ears of his soul mate. Harry Potter was a struggling quill pal to the children of war and the owner of Hedwig’s Owl Emporium on Diagon—haven for future pets, owls retired from services and orphaned chicks. Job: Owl Emporium owner
Better To Burn Than To Fade Away by Ren (E, 23k)
Harry Potter is a legend in the world of broomstick racing. He's won almost every cup, trophy, and bowl – except for the historical London-Nome which has been on hiatus for the past several years. Now the London-Nome is starting again, and Harry will do anything to pull off one last big win. Job: broomstick racer
Doing the Lambeth Walk by @blamebrampton (T, 26k)
There are only three traditional choices for the cashed-up hero after victory. Harry Potter is too young to settle down and provide the wizarding world with a happy ending, and has too acute a sense of humour to spiral downwards into a spectacular flame-out. That leaves a life of good works. Job: Owner of a Social Housing and Care Centre
All Roads by @korlaena (M, 36k)
Draco hates his job at the Prophet. He hates it even more when he’s assigned to write an article on Harry Potter, who left the country three years ago after their falling out. Draco doesn’t want to face the truth about himself, but he’s stuck between Harry and his duty, and he’s out of options. Job: Magizoologist
Whimsical by strawberryrose (T, 42k)
In which Draco is completely out of his depth (until he isn’t), Harry builds something improbable with the help of his friends, and everyone bonds over food. Job: amusement park owner
What Shall Not Be Unearthed by @iero0 (E, 49k)
At the northernmost point of Shetland, surrounded by pointed cliffs, towers the Ootsta Lighthouse on a small isle in the middle of the open sea. Little does Harry know that he's not the only new lighthouse keeper. Draco Malfoy is as obnoxious as he always was, with his posh tone of voice and his luxury yacht jumpers. Job: lighthouse keeper
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Title: Good Luck, Forsyth
Thirsty Note: Guys, I cannot believe we’ve already hit 100 followers. I would never have imagined this much love and support for my writing and I am beyond thankful for all of you. So to celebrate, I decided to write a fic that’s been in the back of my mind for a long time now. I hope you guys enjoy~!
This battle was different from all the other ones we have had. There were more enemies, more screams and more blood, and there was a lot more at stake here.
Go figure, the Deliverance had just started to become something and here we are dying because of it. I look to my left to see Lukas and Clive fighting off a group of terrors, to my right is Tobin and Gray teaming up against a few straggling arcanists. Ahead of me is Forsyth charging ahead as he usually does, all gallant and diligent like a true knight.
I shake my head. It was Forsyth and his damned ideas that got me into this mess, and he isn’t even here to cover my damn ass while I’m shooting enemies down left and right. I don’t even get any praise from that man, just a lecture about working harder.
I hear rustling behind me and turn as I ready my next arrow. I turn and narrowly avoid a fireball aimed straight at my head.
“Damned arcanists,” I say under my breath, firing my arrow. I watch as it hits the bastard right in the chest, and smirk as he falls to the ground. I may not put as much effort into this whole fighting thing as Forsyth, but I am damned good at it. It’s my job to stay behind and cover the front runners as best I can. Typically that Tobin kid helps, but this time there’s too many enemies to count. “Always making me work harder than I should.”
I watch as Forsyth impales another Duma Faithful asshole on his lance and continue running ahead. He doesn’t even spare a glance backwards. He normally tries to stay near my side, one to make sure I’m ‘doing my part’, and two because I know the bastard cares about my well-being or whatever. Truth is, I don’t want to see him on the bad end of a lance either. But, I know he can hold his own like I can.
Another fireball flies past my head from the right this time and I draw another arrow. I take aim but the bastard leaps to the side at the last minute. He shoots off another round of fire that I somehow manage to dodge as I’m prepping yet another arrow. I hear the scream of a Cantor to my left where Lukas and Clive were fighting as I fire off another arrow, this time hitting my mark. The arcanist falls and I take a second to catch my breath and my surroundings.
Forsyth is still up ahead, mowing down enemies left and right. It really helps that he has that hefty suit of armor, otherwise the fool would’ve been long gone by now. To my left, Lukas and Clive are racing up to aid Forsyth, and come that much closer to the enemy line. To my right, Gray and Tobin are racing over to aid Alm and Kliff fighting off another group of terrors. I’m left alone behind the scenes, but the thick forest I took shelter in should be enough to hide me from the enemy’s sight.
I prep yet another arrow and take aim for my next target, a tricky witch sneaking up behind Forsyth. I know how much he hates dealing with witches, so I figured I’d be a nice guy and help him out a bit.
As I’m about to fire off the arrow, the witch pauses and suddenly vanishes. Gods I hate when those damned witches do that.
I lower my bow, scanning the battlefield for her reappearance.
Next thing I know, I feel a hot heat behind me and have little time to react.
I somehow manage to fire off an arrow and take care of the damned witch, but I feel the heat spread through my entire body. The pain starts to spread, and I quickly feel all the energy I have left slowly leave my body. That’s the thing about those damned witches magic. You’re lucky if you can survive it, but sometimes you wish it’d have killed you instead.
I feel the exhaustion creeping in more and more, and I finally succumb to it, letting my tired and worn out body slump to the ground. I can still take aim and fire off shots if necessary, but damn am I tired.
I watch Forsyth and Lukas tag team a cavalier in the distance. There is no one around me, all of them up in the front lines fighting tooth and nail with these damned Duma bastards. A few minutes pass and I know that my condition won’t get any better, and gods be damned I have to ask Silque for some of her healing magic if I want to be any use in this fight. I search the battlefield to find her and spot her up behind the main line of fighters, in the process of healing Mathilda. Next to them is another forest for me to take cover in. If I can manage to make it to that point, I’m golden. I pick myself up off the ground, cursing the witch as my body shakes from the effort.
I hear a quiet rustling behind me, and turn just in time to watch a sword come down onto me, slashing my thin armor like paper. I feel a pain blossom from my neck and shoulder, and curse as I fall back to the ground. The dread fighter has a look of impassiveness on his face, one that rivals my own, and raises his sword once more, coming down and creating a gaping gash on my lower back before running off to take on the rest of the Deliverance.
The pain is exploding at this point, my entire body is already weak from the witch’s magic, and I find it increasingly difficult to lift my head off the muddy ground. I can see the pool of blood already forming around my body and with every passing second I can feel my body grow weaker. Even my voice doesn’t work at this point, just a low raspy whisper screaming for someone, anyone to come help. Though I know it’s pointless, the battle is too intense in front of me and I doubt anyone would notice I’m not there alongside them. Hell I can’t even blame them, it’s their hides on the line up there.
I can somehow manage to lift my head to watch my comrades, my friends, fight in front of me. Fight without me. Fight without noticing I’m gone, without noticing I’m dying.
I catch a glimpse of Forsyth striking down another enemy, and I can’t help but laugh at the irony. Here I am, dying for that bastard’s dream. Oh well, I guess I wouldn’t have it any other way. If made to choose who dies, it’s best it’s me. The Deliverance needs Forsyth, and I know he’ll become one hell of a knight one day. Better than I’d ever be.
I can begin to feel my body go numb, slowly creeping up until I can’t feel anything at all. I guess it’s better than feeling excruciating pain, but still, I can’t help but wish that I wasn’t dying. Especially without getting to say goodbye to that idiot. Go figure, I actually might miss these bastards in the Deliverance, even the mamby pamby nobles.
I hear a cry, but not one of pain. I look up and refocus my vision on my army ahead of me and watch as the enemy leader falls to Alm’s blade, the rest of the Deliverance crying out in victory.
I smile to myself, knowing that they all will live to see another day. Clive runs to Mathilda for one of their disgusting victory kisses, and Alm and co. all rejoice together while Silque and Faye work to recover any wounds sustained. Lukas gets pulled into the celebration with Alm and friends and Luthier and Delthea are arguing once again.
My vision starts to go cloudy, but I can rest knowing that everyone managed to make it out alive. Well, everyone but me that is. I look up to see Forsyth turning, looking for something. I can vaguely hear him calling out my name, but my voice is shot and I can only manage a weak whisper. Pathetic.
With all of my strength left, I manage to lift myself up enough to get a clear view of the battlefield. The last one I’ll ever see. Blood is everywhere, and I can guarantee some of it’s mine, but ahead of me, the Deliverance seems relatively okay.
With that I let my body fall, succumbing to my exhaustion and the warm feeling that is now replacing the numbness. Across the field I watch as Forsyth continues calling out for me, and I manage a weak smile. The poor dude. I know he’ll lecture my dead body, because that’s how Forsyth rolls.
What I wouldn’t give to hear one more lecture.
With the last of my energy and the last of my breath I say the only thing on my mind;
“Good luck, Forsyth.”
—————————————
I watch Alm strike down the enemy’s leader, a pesky arcanist with terrible magic that caused more trouble than he should. This was the worst battle we’d fought so far, and this victory was a major step forward in our journey. The Deliverance can finally take a breather.
Everyone around me was celebrating the victory, cheering each other on and checking to make sure no one was mortally wounded in the process.
Speaking of celebrations, this is where I typically lecture Python about his laziness in battle. I look around the faces surrounding me, hoping to see his impeccably bored and impassive face among them, but to my surprise he is nowhere to be found.
Leave it to Python to be hiding when the victory finally comes. I know Alm commands him to stay in the rear to cover the front liners, but by this point he normally makes his way up to the front lines to congratulate me on my efforts, in a very Python-like way of course.
“Python?” I call for him but there is no answer. Not that I expected anything different. I start to walk away from the celebrating Deliverance, searching for the lazy bastard.
Knowing Python he’s probably propped up in a tree somewhere, sleeping. He loves hiding away in forests, one to make it harder for the enemy to see him, and two, because he is lazy as hell and doesn’t want me lecturing him in the middle of a battle.
I continue walking backwards, scanning the area in an attempt to find him. The bodies of our enemies are scattered in the grass, beaten and mangled. Victory doesn’t seem as sweet when you take the time to look at the damage you have caused, but alas, such is the life of a warrior.
I come across a few corpses with Python’s arrows lodged in them, so he must be near here. He probably knows the battle is over but his lazy ass can’t be bothered to come and celebrate. Yet another thing to add to the list of lectures today.
The further I walk without finding him smirking down at me, the more worry I begin to feel. Python likes to hide away from me after battles to avoid a lecture, but normally he comes down at this point. My calls for him become louder and I can hear the panic rising to my voice.
I come across an area with more blood than usual. My heart starts pounding, hoping that it’s only our enemy’s blood and not…
I see a figure laying in the muddy grass a few steps ahead of me, hidden away in the bushes of a forest. I can see the familiar tuft of blue hair and I can feel my heart race. Leave it to Python to be sleeping on the job.
“For goodness sake, Python, get up!” I scream. I half expect him to roll over and give me an eye roll and grumble about my annoying attitude, but he lies there still.
Strange.
I walk a few steps closer to him, but I stop in my tracks. Python isn’t just lying on the ground, he’s slumped in an awkward position, surrounded by a pool of… of blood.
“Python?”
I get closer, my heart racing a mile a minute, the worry creeping up inside me so much I feel I’ll explode. This can’t be happening.
I finally reach his side. I bend down, nudge his unmoving body, and gasp in horror at the gaping gashes across his back and neck. This truly cannot be happening.
“Python? Python, please wake up.” I can hear myself say, but I know already in my heart that he’s gone. I know a dead body when I see one, and Python… he’s gone.
I was too late.
I couldn’t protect him.
I never got to say goodbye.
I can feel a tightness form in my chest, and I can vaguely hear myself sobbing. I reach down and grab his unmoving body into my arms and watch as he slumps lifelessly into my lap. His face is relaxed for once, not a hint of annoyance to be found.
“Python,” I whisper, moving my hand up to wipe away the mud on the side of his face. “Python, I, I’m sorry.”
I cradle the man closer to my chest and bury my face in the shoulder that isn’t gashed and bloody.
I can hear the other members of the Deliverance coming up behind me, each gasping or holding back sobs. We have never lost a member so close to us before, yet no one can feel the pain I feel at this moment. Python was my best friend, believe it or not. My world will never be the same without him.
I feel a soft hand grasp my shoulder, and that’s when I realize I am a blubbering mess and holding onto Python’s body for dear life. I can hear Clive’s voice trying to comfort me, but I cannot be bothered to listen to what is being said to me. The only thing I can think of is Python.
Python, who died without anyone noticing.
Python, who died laying in the mud and a pool of his own blood.
Python, my best friend, the one person I cared about, dead.
And I couldn’t even say goodbye.
All my tears are gone at this point and I feel nothing but a hollow emptiness inside of me. I scoop Python’s lifeless body into my arms, look to everyone watching me with tears of their own, and move Python’s body to a nearby field of flowers that was saved from the battle.
I gently lay him down, and take one last long look at my dearest friend. I lean in and softly kiss his forehead, push back his hair, and lay his bow by his side.
“Python, I’m sorry I never got to say goodbye,” I whisper, wiping away my tears. “But I will win this war for you. I will live for you, but I will never forget you.”
I feel the tightness back in my chest and have to take a moment to compose myself.
“I love you, Python,” I give his hand a final squeeze.
I take one last look at my best friend in his final resting place, before I tear myself away.
“May we meet again, old friend.“
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