Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You come back to yourself slowly, like hauling yourself out of a warm pool while wearing all your winter clothing. Altered consciousness streams off of you like water. You lose your grip on things as they flow through your fingers: the heft of Jodariel's mask in her hands; the way Rukey's claws scrabble across the ground; the warm rush of pride that blooms in Hedwyn's chest. It all slides away, leaving you slumped over your Book of Rites, spent and cold and alone in your head save the ringing echo of the Voice. Scribes, this never seems to get easier.

Hedwyn finds you first, his hands skimming over your arms and shoulders, the heat of his body warmth scorching even through your tattered robes. It grounds you—that's why he does it—and when he's somehow discerned that you're fully back in your own body, he flashes you a lopsided smile that could light a hundred—no, a thousand—celestial pyres. "There you are," he says. "Good to have you back with us, friend." He offers you a hand up.

With shaking fingers, you accept. Hedwyn hauls you to your feet and keeps a steadying hand on your shoulder as you remember how gravity works (or perhaps fails to work) with your ruined legs. He says nothing as you sway a little and lean against him. Finally, you say, "I can't come back when I never left."

Hedwyn's smile falters, but he manages to hold it in place well enough that someone without a Reader's gaze might have missed it entirely. "I just worry about you, friend. We've asked a lot of you… I know your spirit is willing, but… well, I just worry."

You scoff. "What, you think I have plans to desert you now?"

"Of course not. Never." He chuckles a little, nervously. The hand not steadying you rubs the back of his neck, a tell you recognize that indicates chagrin. Oh, Stars above, it makes your fragile heart do a dangerous thing in your chest.

"Good," you say, "because I won't." And you're grateful that it's night and that the stars only seem to shine so brightly for you, because you don't want him to see the way your face has gone flushed.

You both stand there for a moment, savoring the quiet between you. But the moment ends, and Hedwyn gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze. "All right, my friend. Let's see where we go next, then get you inside. You're freezing."

Absently, you nod. Your eyes go unfocused for a moment as you cast your gaze up and up and up to the dome of the heavens above you. You find the star that burns most brightly, and you murmur the location into Hedwyn's ear.

"Okay," he says. "Let's get some rest. We've got another hard road ahead of us."

You still don't know much about Downside geography, so you merely nod at his assessment.

Chapter Text

It's Jodariel who collects you after the next Rite, scooping you up as though you weigh nothing and cradling you close to her chest. She radiates heat like a furnace, even through her breastplate and her raiments. Unlike Hedwyn, she does not stroke you to ground your senses. Instead, she mutters things, scattered bits of nonsense that must have passed for nursery rhymes among the orphans of the Bloodborder. You catch a flash of insight, a memory: Jodariel, much younger, humming these things to a red-headed boy. And you think oh as you're filled with a rush of fondness that you can't tell whether it belongs to her or to you.

The memory fades, and you turn into her like a flower chasing the warmth of the sun. The nonsense rhymes stop, and she rumbles, "Are you back with us?"

It strikes you as so odd that she and Hedwyn should both phrase things this way. The Rites only work when you are all together, so you state, "I never left."

She scoffs as if you've missed something very obvious. "You were with us out there, but are you back with us here? I can't feel you anymore to say."

While you catch her meaning, you find yourself at a loss for how to explain. Returning to yourself after a Rite is so much less like coming back to them and so much more like putting distance between you. Perhaps you could phrase it that way, but you think that Jodariel would not understand. So you just hum a vague agreement.

This is her cue to set you down, something she does with more care than her size or her strength would indicate. You take a moment to steady yourself, a moment to bask in the warmth of her. Stars, why do the Rites leave you so cold, so starved for contact? Why do they leave your triumvirate so warm? (And why , you do not ask, do I find myself wishing to wrap myself up in them like this? But it's a thought you won't let yourself entertain, no matter how true it might be.)

No answers are forthcoming, and you know what you must do next. Keeping one hand on Jodariel's arm, you look to the stars for guidance and whisper the location that you see. She accepts your proclamation with a single nod, and you feel her palm at the small of your back as she ushers you back toward the blackwagon, and stars above it takes every ounce of fortitude you possess not to lean back into her touch. Jodariel strikes you, above all else, as a woman with little interest in such things. Perhaps even less interest in you.

You let her shepherd you back to the blackwagon, neither of you saying anything more.

Chapter Text

The first loss hits you like a wall of ice crashing down on your head. You can feel the flames of your celestial pyre as they are snuffed, and it sends you reeling. At a great distance, you think you feel your body falls backwards, but it's so hard to tell when you're awash in the feeling of failure. I failed, we failed, we failed our Reader, and you don't know whose thoughts those are but you want to wail that they're wrong, it's you who's failed your triumvirate.

Something drags your consciousness away from the quenched flames; it's a strange, dual sensation. As crushed as you are by your failure, you can't pull yourself out of the pool of your triumvirate's minds, so you feel the weight across your shoulders as you muscle your thin form under your Reader's arm and try to prop them up… Except you are the Reader and you try, however weakly, to use Rukey's assistance to sit upright.

"Took a bit of a tumble there, didn't you, chum?" he huffs. Either the exertion of the Rite or the exertion of shifting you have robbed him of breath. His ears are pricked forward, his nose is wrinkled from trying to sniff at you for signs of injury without you noticing. But it's hard not to notice when he's beside you and also beside you.

"I'm sorry," you croak, because you are.

"Hey, you didn't on purpose," Rukey says. You aren't sure if he realizes what you meant, and that's how you know that you're the only one in your head again.

Stars above, you ache. "I'm sorry," you repeat, because it's all you have.

Rukey huffs a vague syllable and wiggles so that your arm rests at a more comfortable angle. His slender frame fits against your side quite well, though his fire doesn't burn so hot as Hedwyn's or Jodi's. But he is warm, and he shows no signs of moving either himself or you any time soon.

His warmth seeps through his raiments and your robes and into your marrow, and things that had been numb with cold start to hurt once they begin to warm. Your chest throbs, and you can't quite stifle the pained noise in time. You hear him snuffling, feel the air that stirs around your hair. "I'm fine, Rukey. Not hurt. Just… sorry."

You raise your hand before you've thought about it, but stop the motion half-way. Before you came to the Downside, you hadn't known many curs. Hadn't known much of anyone, really. Would it be rude to—

Rukey leans back into your hand before you can finish your internal argument. "Be a pal and scratch right there," he tells you, and you oblige. His fur is thick and soft, not at all coarse like it looks. Your fingers dig into the ruff of his neck and he lets out a contented sigh. "Thanks, chum," he says after a moment, but he doesn't pull away.

You stay with him like this, hand idly stroking his silvery fur, until the Minstrel fetches you to read the stars. It's difficult to stand with the crushing weight of defeat, but with Tariq's and Rukey's help, you manage. It stings a little to let yourself be drawn from Rukey's side, but the heavens wait for no one.

And part of you thinks, as you scan the sky, that you don't want to make your triumvirate feel like they've failed you ever again.

Chapter Text

You don't know what to make of Sir Gilman when you first meet, but guiding him as he plunges into the Deathless Tempest is like plunging into those very depths yourself. His mind roils with thoughts that bubble to the surface and burst so quickly that you feel tossed about in a storm. He feels so much, so deeply, that you have to fight not to drown in him.

It takes you a moment to orient yourself—to orient him—but you reach for the memory of Jodariel's steady calm and cast it across the waters of Sir Gilman's mind. He responds almost immediately, the surface of him settling and his attention snapping into focus. We must destroy these spawn of wretched Plurnes, he tells you, and you can feel the truth of it.

You and he work as one until the eggs are gone and the meddlesome remaining Pyrehearts have been dispatched. You're already back in yourself by the time he slumps into the blackwagon's deck, but you can still feel the pull of him as surely as you can feel Hedwyn or Rukey or your moon-touched girl.

You don't realize you've dropped to your knees until your hand rests on the place you think of as Sir Gilman's neck, just below his helm. He meets your gaze with his one eye (how did he get those scars, you wonder, and how did he manage to keep his sight?). "This knight thanks you, Master Reader," he whispers so that only you might hear. "It is an honor to serve you, and this Knight hopes that you may find his service adequate."

Under your hand, you feel his muscles tense and ripple as he wiggles himself closer to you. Part of his body rests against your legs now, with his tail curling around you as if to encircle you. The cold sea water seeps into your clothing, but Sir Gilman's flesh is paradoxically warm. You can't feel it, exactly, but you can imagine the depth of his feelings as he utters the words. It draws a smile from you despite yourself.

Being mindful of the way he has arranged himself around you, you lean down so you can whisper back, "This Reader would be honored. And I think I will find your services more than just adequate."

He relaxes, then, a smile matching yours on his face.

Stars, what are you getting yourself into?

Chapter Text

Volfred settles himself next to you, fetching his pipe from his sleeve. Before long, white smoke curls from the bowl, and he lets out a contented sigh. "It is late, my child. What keeps you from your bed?" His words are pitched low, but he must not be truly concerned about being overheard if he chooses to use his voice. For which you are grateful. Your head still throbs from the force of the Voice's irritation.

He waits in silence for you to collect yourself, collect your thoughts. He is neither warm nor cool; you feel nothing from him but the steady surety of the forest.

You rub your hands over your arms as if the friction will chase the chill away. "You were a Reader," you finally say. "Did it ever stop…?" Words fail you, so you gesture at yourself and your surroundings and your entire situation. "Did you ever…?" Damnable Scribes, why can you not give voice to this experience?

"Ah," says Volfred, setting aside his pipe. "A fair question, but one which is not so easy to answer." He shifts so he faces you. His face is placid and inscrutable and part of you hates him for that. For being so vague and for the calm way he inserted himself into your band of exiles. He nearly ejected you, and now he sits here as if your are friends—

Volfred's words cut through the chain of thoughts. "Peace, child. I apologize for my behavior, but please trust that I mean you no ill. On the contrary, I do hope that you might one day regard me as you regard the rest of our Nightwings." He raises his pipe to his lips but seems to think better if it and sets it aside.

"To answer your question, it is… difficult, being a Reader. You have to sacrifice yourself, a little, to guide your triumvirate. You have to be willing and able to understand those who are unlike yourself." He pauses, sad smile on his face. "It can get easier, but it sometimes does not. Perversely, the greater your bonds with your triumvirate, the more difficult it can be. And I sense in you a great capacity for compassion."

Your shoulders slump, because on some level you understood this and did not want it to be true. You wrap your arms around yourself and say nothing.

At great length, Volfred says, "You care for them greatly, and it's plain that they care for you."

"I… I do care about them," you admit with downcast eyes. "Very much." There's no need to elaborate, you think. Volfred is a Reader and you are certain that you are an open book. He must know that your feelings run as deep as—perhaps deeper than—the pool of consciousness you submerge yourself in when you perform your duties.

One of Volfred's hands settles on your shoulder. "Do not despair. It may not get easier, but trust that it is worth it. Just as you swim with them, they swim with you. Let them feel what you feel and know they will derive strength from that."

The kindness in his inflection hurts. It jabs at the parts of your heart that already ache for your fellow Nightwings, that yearn for their closeness and companionship. You hadn't planned to spend your evening crying, but the tears come unbidden. Volfred makes a soothing noise and uses the hand on your shoulder to pull you closer.

His arms are not warm and they are only as yielding as a willow branch; but his robes are soft against your cheek and the rumbling in his chest as he talks is calming. The tears keep coming, but you have enough wherewithal to manage a hiccuping, "Why does it hurt so much?"

"It hurts because you care for them," Volfred says. "Because you are willing to let your fire burn for them. But that is the nature of caring, is it not? To allow yourself to be vulnerable for their sakes."

It is, you think, but you find yourself too drained to verbally agree. Instead you huddle in Volfred's steady embrace until the first blushes of dawn paint themselves across sky.

Chapter Text

You remember some things: the brand on your face marks you as literate; you had two friends; one of those friends outed you for your literacy; you'd been studying alchemy, but your favorite books were the fairy tales. You don't remember other things: your name; who taught you to read; why your friend had chosen to have you exiled; exactly how your legs had come to be twisted and difficult.

You find out some things on your travels: you have trouble sleeping, no matter how warm it is or how many blankets you burrow under; you don't remember having a favorite food in the Commonwealth, but you have such a distaste for porridge that you will give your ration to anyone else rather than smell it; you never much cared for alcohol before, but you have developed a taste for Pamitha's moonshine.

And you discover that the Downside, for all of its inhospitable harshness, is quiet. Far more quiet than even the tiny sliver of the Commonwealth that you remember. You'd never been rich enough to live in the most bustling parts of the city, but it was still rare to ever find peace and quiet. Now, that's all you have.

You hate it.

But it's difficult to complain when you know your team's worries and fears and dislikes almost as well as your own. It's difficult to ask for things when you know it may run counter to your team's desires. Sleep is a cherished thing. You can't bring yourself to do anything that might disrupt it.

That's why you find yourself outside the blackwagon, staring up at the stars. You're between rites, so they don't do much other than shine with a cold light. But it's second nature to watch them now.

The fire had been banked hours ago, once Hedwyn had finished cooking, but there are still a few embers left. Enough for you to try to work some warmth back into your stiff fingers. Scribes, why is everything so frigid to you now?

"Reader." The sound of your title startles you into squawking, even though it is murmured low and soft. You turn to find the moon-pale silhouette of Tariq emerging from the wagon. He has left his hat inside, but he cradles his lute in his hands. You have to wonder at his priorities. "Apologies," he says, and his solemn voice makes it sound like a proclamation. "May I join you?"

You gesture widely at the empty clearing. "Have at."

Tariq settles himself at your side but at enough of a remove that your personal bubble is intact. Of the members of your party, Tariq is the one most likely to keep his distance, followed only by Big Bertrude. That he chose not to settle on the opposite side of the fire speaks volumes for how you must look—either you look so wretched that he doesn't want to stare directly at you, or you look so pitiful as to make him want to offer support.

"What brings you out of the bunk at this hour?" Tariq queries (he does not do something so mundane as ask). "It is late and you should rest."

Well, that answers that. You shift uncomfortably and resume trying to work some of the stiffness out of your hands. "I couldn't sleep. No sense in being a nuisance inside."

"Ah, I see." He adjusts his grip on his instrument and one hand goes to the tuning pegs. "What keeps you from sleep, then, Reader? Would you care to talk about it?"

You don't, not really, but Tariq is perhaps the only person in your band you don't know that well. If he has hopes or dreams or pet peeves, he never says. And he is, perhaps, the one member of your Nightwings that you might talk to about this, free of guilt. "It's too quiet," you whisper. "I can't sleep when it's too quiet. Too much room to… to think about things." Things like the Voice or your place on the team or what will happen once everyone has been liberated and you're left by yourself without even the blackwagon because what are the Nightwings with only a lame reader and nothing else—  

The notes of an arpeggio drift to your ears, gently dragging you away from the spiral of your thoughts. Tariq's elegant fingers play along his lute's strings with a grace you have only ever imagined. Without his hat to hide his face, you can see his gaze is fixed on you. Expectant. He cycles through playing a handful of scales before plucking an aimless tune while he waits.

"That's…" You stop yourself when you realize that your mind has gone blissfully quiet in the face of his practicing. "Thank you."

"My pleasure. This is a service I have performed for many a Nightwing, and one which I do gladly." There's a hint of a smile on his lips, you think. "Come, Reader, sit closer. It is late and the fire burns low. I do not believe Sandalwood would take kindly to your catching a chill."

You obey him, eyes already drooping now that your thoughts have stopped racing. Your head drops onto his shoulder, but it doesn't seem to deter his playing. He turns his eyes forward, and you find yourself entranced by his meandering music as you watch the embers go cold.

"Do you not sleep?" you hear yourself mumble into his tunic sleeve after a while. His playing does not stop, but he chuckles a little.

"Dear one, I believe I was sleeping when you first met me. I had been sleeping for some time, and I may someday find myself slumbering like that again. I find it makes the prospect of sleeping every night much less palatable." You feel rather than hear him chuckle again. "But that is my burden to bear, not yours. Please, Reader, I beg you to rest your eyes."

You do as you are bidden. The strains of his song resolve themselves into something soothing and light, and you find that this, combined with the easy rhythm of his breathing, carry you off into your own slumber.

When you wake, you are wrapped in a blanket on your favorite cushion in the common room, with Tariq's hat perched on your head such that it blocks out the first rays of the morning sun.