Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cheii is the first to notice, of course. “Sore throat?” he questions, when Roy rolls out of bed with a yawn and a lazy, “Good morning.” Roy frowns, still disoriented with the last vestiges of sleep, and when the words eventually register he wonders what had made his grandpa ask it at all.

“No?” he tries to answer, but to his surprise, his voice does come out sounding a little croaky. It doesn’t feel like a cold, though, no tightness or pain, and it isn’t even the right season for them, anyhow. He hadn’t been out late the night before either – he’d wanted to be, but Bird wouldn’t let him tag along to whatever cool thing he’d gone to with his friends – so Roy is, at the moment, officially stumped. He sits down on the rug under his bed and caresses beneath his chin experimentally.

“Hágo,” beckons Cheii, so Roy quits trying to figure it out himself and crawls over to the centre of the room, where Cheii is sitting beside the unlit woodstove. Feather-light hands, browner than Roy’s and crinkled with age, run over his throat in their place.

“Ah…” the old man says, looking like he wants to smile, though Roy isn’t in on the joke yet. “Let me hear a full sentence.”

“What should I say?” Roy starts, and his voice comes out all weird again – up-and-down like a rollercoaster. Cheii smiles for real, now, giving Roy a light pat on the head.

“Not a sore throat. Your voice is changing,” the explanation follows, “Do you understand what that means?”

If Roy hadn’t grown up with the guy, he would have answered that he goes to school and is perfectly aware of what puberty is, thank you very much. But Cheii is hataałii – what the Anglos call a “medicine man” – and Roy knows from experience that questions like these aren’t looking for meaning so much as significance.

He goes for the educated guess. “It means I’m becoming a man, right?”

“Correct.” Cheii nods approvingly. “I like the way you phrased that. Becoming. But not a man yet.”

This is, normally, Roy’s cue. “What makes a man?” he could ask, and Cheii would take that opportunity to impart invaluable wisdom in that uncomplicated way of his. A lot of people – especially those who want to become hataałii themselves – would kill for this kind of proximity to an elder like Cheii, just to get access to all of that knowledge. Roy, being his grandson, has been given it abundantly, and with plenty of love, for as long as he can remember.

He doesn’t take that for granted, or anything, but just at the moment, he really, really doubts his ability to retain choice pearls of wisdom on an empty stomach.

So he picks a less philosophical question, for now. “You think if I ask shimá to use honey in the tea today, it’d be good for my throat?”

Cheii eases off his seat with a grunt, picks his Cattleman hat up off the rug in the same motion, puts it on, pauses to massage his lower back, and turns toward the exit. “Sage honey.”

Roy grins, and follows him out of their hogan. Like everything else about Cheii, the house is traditional, built from mud and logs and with a single, open entrance, veiled by a handwoven blanket in place of a door. There are concessions to modernity here and there – the furniture inside, the metal corral for the horses outside – but, by and large, it was up to Má and Bird and Haseya, a ten-minute walk away, to keep up with the times, not them.

Roy feels pretty lucky, to be able to get the best of both worlds like this. He lives with his cheii, but that really only means sleeping in their own hogan at night and maybe pausing to brush their teeth and wash their faces using the hosepipe outside it when they leave in the mornings. Otherwise, from breakfast to sundown, he’s at Má’s, who lives in a more modern hogan – only really distinguishable from a regular house by the fact that it is low-roofed, single-storeyed, has just the one room and door, and is structured around a central hearth inside.

And, unlike Cheii’s, which has no access to electricity and running water at all, Má’s is solar-powered. The difference is instantly noticeable the second the hogan is in sight: fencing around it and a truck parked out front. Even their corral houses different animals – sheep and goats and a guard dog, a Great Pyrenees named Fletcher who cost them a fortune but whose price still couldn’t trump Má’s complete disdain for “rez mutts.” Roy can already see the old boy, bounding along over the fence as he and Cheii get closer, and he spreads his arms to catch him in a hug, grinning in anticipation.

Sure as sunrise, he knocks Roy over the second they step through the front gate, licking all over his face, ignoring his delighted protests. Cheii makes a sound that could have been a laugh, but doesn’t pause to indulge either of them. Not that Roy would get in trouble if he stays out to play awhile, or anything, but he really is getting hungry, so he nudges Fletcher off and follows. Cheii opens the door and the pair of them stoop to enter the spacious room. It’s lively in there already, even though it’s barely eight o’ clock yet. Má is busy with her solar cooker, Bird is eating what looks like oatmeal in lethargic spoonfuls in front of the TV, and Haseya is running around shouting about not being able to find her homework.

“This is why I tell you to pack your schoolbags before bed!” Má scolds, then turns to give Roy and Cheii a welcoming nod. “You’re late this morning.”

“Ałtį́į́ Yázhí received a special gift overnight,” Cheii says with a twinkle in his eyes.

“My voice dropped,” Roy clarifies, wincing at the random inflections.

Má lets go of her wooden spoon, and it falls into the pot of oatmeal with a plop. She whirls around with a wide look and the beginnings of an overeager grin. “Bless my heart – our little boy can see, now! Go, sit with your brother, I’ll make some tea for the soreness.”

“See what?” Roy frowns, confused, but the adults are talking to each other now, so he half-grudgingly shuffles over to the couch in front of the TV and takes a seat as asked. “Hey, Bird? What does she mean?”

Bird pauses to swallow another mouthful of his breakfast, then answers him without taking his eyes off the morning news. “See girls.”

“…But I can see girls. There’s Haseya, she’s a girl.” Pointing a thumb at their sister. Strictly speaking, they’re all cousins, not siblings, but the distinction has never really felt like it mattered.

Bird grins, mischief in it, but still doesn’t bother looking at Roy. “See girls as babes. And, you know. React to it.”

“Gross!” Roy shoves him, which only makes Bird laugh.

“You asked.”

“Hey, Roy, have you seen my math homework?” Haseya – speaking of her – runs over to them, looking teary-eyed.

“No, I’m sorry,” Roy answers, feeling almost as dismayed as she looks. The two of them are the same age, but Roy has always felt a certain protective instinct toward her. A lightbulb goes off somewhere in his mind, and he leans forward to whisper in her ear, “Tell ya what, if you can’t find it, I won’t hand in mine, either. We can take the heat together.”

Haseya flushes pink with indignation. “Absolutely not, you already got in trouble twice last week!”

“Let the record show the runts are plotting something and I ain’t got shit to do with it,” Bird calls loudly, which makes Haseya practically leap away. Roy scowls at him, but he doesn’t look in the least concerned. Má walks over at that point, with a tray full of breakfast for Roy, sets it down on the coffee table, and then gives her sixteen-year-old a light swat on the head.

“Don’t swear.” She crouches, her long skirt brushing against the rug. Carefully, she lifts a mug off the tray and passes it into Roy’s waiting hands. “There, now, see if that’s warm enough…”

Roy takes a sip. Heavenly – Navajo tea sweetened with sage honey instead of sugar. He smiles wide. “’S’perfect. Thanks, shimá.”

She isn’t really his má, either, just Bird’s and Haseya’s. His má had died long before his dad had, even – died giving birth to him, the grown-ups say, the same curse that had taken her mother, Roy’s másání, and left Cheii lonely as he was before Roy came along. But that’s one more distinction that doesn’t seem important, not when he hadn’t been old enough to feel the loss of either of his parents. All he has ever known is Cheii and Má and Bird and Haseya and he’s never really wanted it any other way, not even when Bird acts all standoffish toward him when he’s with the older kids.

“My pleasure, she’awéé,” she says, now, chucking Roy under the chin affectionately. “Though not a baby anymore, eh? Our little man.” He watches, entranced, as she stands and her skirt does a little twirl all on its own with the movement, her tight bun – done up the traditional way, white yarn holding it in place – bouncing slightly, too. Bird may joke about them and all, but Roy thinks all girls and women are just beautiful, made that way. “Finish your breakfasts quickly, we don’t wanna be late for school.”

“Hey, look.” Bird elbows Roy out of the blue, nodding at the TV. “Your boyfriend.”

Roy looks: the newscaster is talking about Green Arrow, the masked archer of Star City, having been spotted fighting alongside Green Lantern the night before.

“Oh, wow! Turn it up!”

“You’re such a loser.” Bird snorts, but takes the remote and does it anyway. “What’s the big deal about a grown man running around in green tights? He doesn’t even have powers.”

“You don’t know that. Anyway, he’s the greatest archer the world has ever seen. Skill beats power, any day.”

“Greatest? By bilagáana standards, maybe,” Bird retorts, stubborn. “You could shoot better than that guy with a blindfold on, and you’re twelve.”

Roy ignores him, smiling to himself as he watches the short clip of his hero in action looping itself over again so the newscaster can finish narrating. “You know shicheii knows him?”

Bird scoffs, amused. “You still believe that? Shicheii just says it to entertain you, you get that, right? Like how he used to tell you the thunderbirds brought you to us.”

“But he wasn’t lying about that.” Roy scowls. “He was just using metaphors.” A thunderstorm had, indeed, brought Roy to Oljato. His dad, a park ranger, had lost his life saving people from the ensuing forest fire, which is how Roy had wound up in his grandpa’s care. He had been about three, and has only the vaguest memories of both the man and the incident.

And yet sometimes, he gets these dreams… he thinks it’s because the grown-ups, especially the elders, talk about it so much, probably thinking Roy doesn’t hear them. It’s not that the incident itself is a unique tragedy, it’s more that Roy’s life has seemed marked by bad omens from the start. First his mom dying the way she did, and then… well, everybody knows you don’t get close to a lightning-struck tree if you know what’s good for you, let alone an entire forest…

“Whatever, smarty-pants,” Bird interrupts his thoughts. “I still say you could make that shot easily.”

Roy watches the clip again, Green Arrow shooting a drone down mid-flight. “Yeah, probably,” he concedes. “We could take a Frisbee and my bow out with us and try it after school.” He hopes it doesn’t sound too keen, but ever since Bird started high school last year, he rarely hangs out with Roy anymore, and Roy misses it.

“Deal,” Bird says, surprising him.

Delighted, Roy scarfs down the rest of his breakfast at record speed. “I forgot something at ours – be right back!” he shouts, darting out of the hogan before anybody could stop him. A couple years back, Má had gotten it into her head that Roy ought to learn to play an instrument, thinking Roy’s love of music could translate to classical training easily. But Roy chafed at the structured lessons and music theory and all that, played guitar better than his instructor could anyhow, and Má had finally had to concede that the classes were only wasting her hard-earned money.

He gets a lot of use out of the guitar they’d bought, though – and even more out of its case. Dashing into his and Cheii’s hogan, once more, Roy heads straight for his bed, ducks underneath it, and drags the neglected instrument out. He unzips the black case, carefully takes the guitar out, and slips it back under the bed. Then he simply leaps to his feet and plucks his bow and quiver off the hook they hang from, up on the ceiling.

What can he say, dreamcatchers just don’t do it for him.

He chucks the archery equipment into the guitar case, using the straps to keep them all in place, keep them from bumping into each other and making enough noise to give Roy away. This isn’t allowed at school, obviously, so he has to sneak it all in like this whenever he needs to. Zipping the case back up again, he slings it over his shoulder, and makes his way back to Má’s. He would make something up about some audition or whatever when she asks, and then he and Bird would have a great time together, just like they used to.

There is a bus stop not far from their hogans, but Má prefers to drive them along with her on her way to work. Probably better, Roy thinks – they get to school on time without having to be up earlier than they need to be. Ever since he’d grown old enough to register it, Roy has wondered why Cheii and Má like to live out in the more vacant expanse of Oljato instead of the core of the chapter, made slightly more prosperous than certain other areas of the reservation ever since Hollywood first set its sights on Tsé Bii’ Ndzisgaii – Monument Valley, to the Anglos. It’s where the schools are, where Má does her work with the tourism department, and where Roy hopes to set up a garage someday. He appreciates the beauty and stillness of their corner, too, he just can’t wrap his head around the adults sacrificing plain old efficacy for it.

Probably one of those things he needs to get to their age to understand.

He peeks out of the backseat window. He’s timed it, and it’s always about six minutes into the drive when the roads morph from unpaved red sand to dark grey concrete. They teach, in school, that this is the place where they stop being in Arizona and cross into Utah. To Roy, neither of those names mean anything. The whole has always been Oljato, just another chapter of Dinétah…

Well that’s not entirely true, he mentally amends. It’s more that Arizona feels like a different place altogether, not this, not home. Arizona is where his má had gone to college and met his dad. Arizona is where she’d found Jesus and decided Cheii’s beliefs were all wrong, worth turning her back on the entire reservation for, even. Arizona is where Roy was born, and had lived a whole three years he can’t remotely recall before he’d found his way here again, full circle. It’s hard to believe that Oljato belongs to the same world, let alone same state, same country.

Má pulls up in front of the high school, interrupting his musings. “Hágoónee’, Bird!” Roy calls, echoed by Haseya, as Bird hops out of the passenger seat and slams the door shut behind himself. But Bird doesn’t acknowledge them, or even pause to wish Má a good day, making a beeline for the group of teenage boys loitering by the sign in front of the school building, instead. Má sighs, starting up the engine again as she mutters something about that bothersome age under her breath. Roy silently vows not to let the whole puberty thing change him that much.

Their school is the next stop, two buildings down from Bird’s. Roy and Haseya take the time to give Má a proper goodbye but as soon as she drives off Haseya starts fretting again. “It just had to be the homework for Mr Deschene’s class. I hate it when he raises his voice.”

“Ah, crap, he’s first period, isn’t he?” Roy winces, commiserating. There goes the idea of Haseya finding time to do it over…

She shivers, holding onto both straps of her schoolbag as if for courage. “It’s okay.”

But it obviously is not, and Roy can’t help thinking up ways to get her out of trouble even though she’d turned him down earlier. When they enter their classroom, he takes the seat next to hers instead of heading straight for the back row the way he usually does. Haseya gives him a quizzical look, and a very confused Johnny Teller calls from his desk, “Hey, Harper, what’s the deal?”

“Feel like paying attention this morning,” Roy calls back over his shoulder with a lazy grin. Sháńdíín – the girl sitting on his other side – half-smiles, half-gasps. “Oh my God, your voice!”

“Yeah, I know.” Roy chuckles. The noise settles into rustles and murmurs as Mr Deschene enters the classroom, and he spares Roy a raised eyebrow over his glasses, but doesn’t bother to ask about the random relocation. As soon as his back is turned, Roy leans down to rummage through his bag. For all anybody else could see, he’s looking for his textbook, and that isn’t wrong. But Roy is also slipping the sheet of paper with his homework on it out of its binder, carefully tearing off the top margin that has his name on, and then pulling it out along with his book.

Quick as lightning, he slips the paper into Haseya’s unzipped bag.

He clears his throat, opening his textbook and then subtly checking if Haseya noticed out of the corner of his eye. She’s oblivious, staring at her own book as she chews on her pencil nervously. The class drags on, and Roy is poised to shoot out of his seat as soon as it ends. When the bell rings, and Mr Deschene calls for the homework to be left on his desk, he manages to get a good two places in front of Haseya in the line.

“Your homework, Mr Harper,” Mr Deschene says when it’s his turn, and Roy responds with a shrug and a winning smile, putting his hands in his pockets for good measure.

“Sorry. Forgot.”

There’s a surprised squeak behind him that probably means Haseya is about to discover the switch. Roy knows he can count on her fear of their teacher to keep her from speaking up, though.

“You forgot,” Mr Deschene repeats dryly, giving Roy an unimpressed look. “Well, that’s very unfortunate, Mr Harper, when that would make your third strike this week.”

“Would it?” Roy returns, faux-innocent, never dropping his smile. He almost feels sorry for Mr Deschene as he takes his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling in annoyance.

“As a matter of fact, it would, Mr Harper. Beginning with Monday – when you told Ms Young you’d pay more attention in her class if she, and I quote, would only do her job better.” (Ms Young, their English teacher, had made one of the other students cry for not being able to say some Anglo word the correct way.) “And then, there was Thursday, when you and Mr Edgewater got into a significant tussle outside.” (Roy had actually been breaking up the fight before that, when the Edgewater kid almost gave Johnny a black eye.) “So. Third strike. You know what that means.”

“Principal’s office?” Roy answers, benign, earning another sigh and a longsuffering nod.

“Principal’s office. You can leave your things and collect them once you’re done.”

Oops.

Roy slides a glance at the guitar case he’s carrying, careful not to look nervous about it. He tries, cheerily, “Nah, that’s okay, my stuff isn’t heavy at all—”

But it’s the wrong move, Mr Deschene’s eyes on him now turning distinctly suspicious. “What did you bring your guitar to school for?”

Should have stayed enrolled in those classes, is Roy’s last thought before Mr Deschene takes the case from him and unzips it, staring at its contents with his mouth half-open.

He closes it.

“…Principal’s office,” he repeats, firmer than ever.

“If you ask me, you were lucky to get a suspension! They would be well within their rights to call the police on you for this!” Má scolds, sounding half-hysterical, as the three of them sit through the most miserable ride home ever. “Arrows are weapons, Roy, you have such a good head on your shoulders I wonder you don’t use it occasionally!”

“Come on, they wouldn’t call the cops on a kid,” Bird tries, but that only makes Má turn on him, too.

“Don’t you start, Bird! It’s partly your fault this happened at all! Encouraging him like that— and if you’d set a better example, with your own behaviour lately—”

“Whoa, why is this about me, now?” Bird scowls, indignant.

Roy presses his cheek to the window, feeling terrible. He can hear sniffles from his right that must mean Haseya’s crying, but everybody’s too busy yelling at each other to even notice. It feels like hours before they get home, even though it’s barely half an hour away from the town proper. Through the glass Roy can see Cheii, as usual, waiting outside the hogan to welcome them all back, even though he’s meant to be at work too, when the rest of them leave. After breakfast, his and Roy’s hogan becomes a sort of office, where people can consult him as hataałii. Or else he’s off on horseback, travelling to one part of the reservation or the other to oversee a ceremony or a sacrifice.

But he’s always back in time to welcome Roy home. Roy gets out of the truck slowly, gloomily, as Má bursts out first: “You won’t believe what your grandson got up to today—”

She shouts the entire story out loud enough for the spirits to hear, then continues her tirade against Bird all the way back into the house. Roy doesn’t follow the rest of them inside, trudging up to his cheii instead, eyes downcast.

He feels one of Cheii’s hands pet his shoulder.

“…Are you mad at me?” he ventures, concerned.

“Me?” Cheii hums, as calm as ever. “No. That would make as much sense as being mad at a wild horse for running wild. Who can fault you for being born with a free spirit to a world that can’t seem to remember what freedom is anymore?” He pauses. “No one is actually mad. Your má is scared – worried – and it comes out as anger. It sometimes does.”

He pulls Roy into a warm hug, letting Roy rest his cheek right against his chest. “I got suspended for like a week,” Roy mumbles, dejected.

“Then you can learn with me, instead,” Cheii assures him kindly. “In fact, you can come with me to Tséyi’ tomorrow. I need herbs.”

That does wonders to lift Roy’s spirits. Tséyi’ is their name for Canyon de Chelly, a place Roy loves almost more than he loves home. “Can we take the horses?” he asks hopefully.

Cheii laughs, a rumble that begins in his chest. “Part of the way. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“You think shimá would let us take the horse trailer even if I’m in trouble?”

“I know it,” Cheii promises with a little smile.

The door to the hogan bursts open, just then, with a loud slam. Roy startles and turns, in time to see Bird storming out with a mutinous expression on his face while Má yells after him, standing at the doorway, frozen for a heartbeat before she all but trips over herself trying to run after him. Cheii lets go of Roy and holds a hand out for her to stop, saying, “I’ll go. Don’t worry.”

“My tongue and his temper,” Má says, the regret in it muted, but clearly there. She gestures for Roy to come to her, so he goes, and they watch Cheii and Bird get swallowed by the night-time shadows together.

“I’m sorry, it’s my fault,” Roy mumbles.

Má laughs under her breath, stroking his hair. “No, get that out of your head, now. It isn’t. My boys are becoming men and I simply forget how that goes. Maybe if his father was still with us…”

She trails off, like she always does when the subject comes up. Má hasn’t said much about her husband since he left, back when Haseya and Roy were about eight. Spokane, he was. Roy’s still not sure if Bird’s name is too, because everyone just calls him Bird – even the elders. They have a nickname for Roy – Ałtį́į́ Yázhí, Little Bow – because Cheii’s nickname is Ałtį́į́ Tsoh, Big Bow. He has many names, Cheii, Big Bow and Mr Raymond Begay and often just plain Hataałii.

But Bird has always only been Bird.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Cheii says on their way to Tséyi’ the next day. They’d driven from Oljato to Nazlini – the chapter Cheii was born and raised in – and are now on horseback for the rest of the journey. The horses are a handsome pair, a big Appaloosa called Tsį́į́łgo, whom Cheii tends to favour, and a smaller tobiano Paint called Łikizh that Roy likes. The Arizona heat is maddening this close to noon, which means Cheii has bundled Roy up in so many shawls he looks like a Jedi. It can’t be helped: if Roy had inherited anything other than a name from his dad it’s his auburn hair, the green of his eyes, his constellation of freckles, and the ability to sunburn so quickly even the brittle desert grass could lord this over him.

“What is it?” he obliges, leaning back and gently pushing his heels in to make Łikizh slow to Cheii’s pace. The steady trot gives them a chance to take in the scenery, a truly magnificent expanse of sand and stone, all gold, unlike the red of Oljato. Sometimes Roy hears tourists talk about the endless monotony of the desert, and wonders what they see that he doesn’t. The sky is empty usually, yes, but the earth never is. There’s brush, cacti, yucca, animals. Low hills and caves and even copses, if you travel to the right corners.

Cheii takes his time answering. “When I was your age, I had already made up my mind to become hataałii,” he says. “I was four when I apprenticed. They began with oral teachings and taking me along to observe the ceremonies. A prospective is expected to be familiar with at least four ceremonies by age twenty-one.” Another languid pause. “Does that sound familiar to you?”

“You’ve been teaching me that way,” Roy realises, wide-eyed. “You want me to become hataałii?”

Cheii chuckles. “That is for you to want, not me. But I would like you to have the option, yes. I think you understand the teachings well enough. And you sing magnificently.”

Roy stares at the sand ahead, awed. He’d never really given it any thought.

“It’s not the only path open to you,” Cheii continues. “You are also skilled with the bow and arrow. You can choose the path of warfare.”

“In this day and age?” Roy exhales, amused.

“Why not?” Cheii returns. “Your Green Arrow does it.”

Roy ponders that for a while. “I’ve always just wanted to finish high school and start a garage in town. And, like, for all of us to still be together… me and you and shimá and Bird and Haseya.”

“…Tread carefully, child. That’s a dream unambitious enough to tempt fate,” Cheii observes, quiet. “Tragedy always seems to spite the man who simply asks to be left alone.”

Before Roy can ask him what that means, exactly, Cheii moves on to another tangent. “You’re right, I have been teaching you the Medicine Way for a long time. You’re familiar with our coming of age ceremonies, aren’t you?”

“Like the Kinaaldá?”

“’Aoo’. That’s for when a girl becomes a woman. Haseya Yázhí will have one soon.”

“Do boys get one, too?”

Cheii squints ahead. “That’s what I wanted to ask you. There is one for when a boy’s voice changes, like yours has. It won’t be like the Kinaaldá, it will be private. Parts of it will even be painful – you don’t have to have it if you don’t want to. But if you do, you will be able to make your decision on what kind of man you want to become, then.”

“Wow.” Roy absently strokes the reins in his hands, silent for a minute. “Did you have one?”

“I did.”

“Did Bird?”

“No.”

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course.” Cheii nods, approving. “It’s always better that you do.”

“Cool.” They’re approaching the canyon now, so Roy pushes the idea aside for the minute. This is always his favourite part of their trips here, and he sucks in a huge breath to prepare. At Cheii doing the same thing, Roy takes his cue and belts out a loud whoop, then another. He doesn’t stop until the canyon is echoing with their yells and yodels, excited enough to push Łikizh on faster as well. They yell to let the spirits know that people are approaching, but Roy has always privately taken that to mean screaming out that he is alive, alive, alive.

They set up camp near the caves. They tie the horses close by, and then wander around looking for the herbs Cheii needs. “Can you shoot down those berries?” Cheii asks, pointing at a sumac, growing impossibly in an alcove of sandstone a little ways above them. Roy squints up at it from under the brim of the too-large cowboy hat Cheii had placed on his head, as the sun had gotten more intense, and he shrugs.

“Probably.”

He nocks an arrow, takes aim. The release comes too quick, sooner than he’d meant to, and though several clumps of berries get sliced off and roll down toward them, Roy sighs, dissatisfied.

“Your aim is perfect,” Cheii pacifies, picking up the fruits.

“Yeah, but I could have gotten the whole stalk,” Roy answers, disappointment in his voice. “They’re too thin. …And I guess I’m a little too quick to let go.”

“The first step to correcting something is to notice there’s an issue at all,” says Cheii.

That’s Cheii – the whole world a classroom, every moment an opportunity to teach and learn. Roy smiles.

Lunch is the frybread and blue cornmeal mush Má packed, then one of two flasks of Navajo tea. Cheii rests in the shade for a while, complaining about an ache in his stomach, so Roy goes out collecting some more and then gives the sumac another try.

By the time he finally shoots a whole stalk down and takes it back to the caves excitedly, he finds Cheii fast asleep among them. Sheepish, Roy climbs into the alcove, as well, sitting down next to Cheii’s sleeping form. Cheii says that if you fall asleep in the caves of Tséyi’, you can hear the spirits talking to each other. He wonders what kind of conversations Cheii is privy to right now.

His mind drifts back to the idea of a coming of age ceremony. Normally, Cheii isn’t that vague about anything – especially not if it can become a lesson on their history and culture – so he must really mean it when he says it’s private. Roy isn’t really fazed by Cheii’s warning that it could be painful, but the idea of being able to choose his path in life makes him equal parts reluctant and curious. It probably isn’t as literal or final as it sounds, but still. He barely knows what he wants for breakfast tomorrow, let alone who he’d like to be as a grown man…

He starts to sing, partly to while away the time until Cheii wakes up and partly to occupy his thoughts with something less serious. It’s only an old love song, not a blessing or a chant. He knows plenty of those, but this place is too full of spirits and history to toy with that sort of thing, and contrary to what Má thinks, he’s not stupid. The echoes are louder than he’d anticipated, though, and the music ends up making Cheii stir.

“Was I asleep?” Cheii rumbles, then slowly sits up, shaking off Roy’s attempt to help. “There. Like I said. You sing so well.”

“Thank you.” Roy beams, pleased. He’s seen the depictions of medicine men the Anglos put in their movies and books, and it almost always leaves out this – the core component of their skillset – hataałii, in reality, means something more like a singer, a bard. Maybe the Anglos wanted words that sounded more mystical, Roy thinks, which is stupid. Music is magic.

“What was on your mind?”

“Hmm?” Roy blinks, bemused.

“That song you were singing doesn’t tell a story half as plaintive as you made it sound.” Cheii’s little smile is almost teasing.

“O-Oh. Um. Just, the ceremony and all that, I guess.” Roy toys with his ear, embarrassed.

“What concerns you about it, in particular?”

“Like, what you said, what kind of man I can become…” Roy hesitates. “I guess I’m just afraid of choosing wrong.”

Cheii pets his hair. “No choice is set in stone. It’s not like that. At the ceremony, we will only tell you what kind of men exist, what kind you have the potential to become. But you still choose, in the end.”

“Can you tell me some of it now?”

“No. Some things can only be discussed within the ceremony,” Cheii answers. “But you shouldn’t worry so much about who you will become, Ałtį́į́ Yázhí, when you already know who you are.”

Roy shakes his head. “I don’t, shicheii. How do I know that?”

Cheii gets into a more comfortable sitting position, which tells Roy a long lesson is coming. “Many ways. But at the most fundamental level, every person in the world first defines themselves in terms of who and where they come from. We are Diné. For us, that means defining ourselves first by claiming our tribe and our clans. We call this k’é, kinship, our ties to each other.”

Roy nods, attentive. “K’é…”

“Which is why, at formal occasions, that is how we introduce ourselves. We name ourselves, and then our mother’s clan, and then our father’s, and then our grandfathers’. Try it with me. First you greet. Yá’át’ééh shik’éí dóó shidine’é.”

Hello, my family and my people. Roy repeats it, feeling connected to something already, just with those words alone.

“Now you state your name. Or names, if you prefer.”

“Shí éí Roy Harper yinishyé,” Roy obliges. “Then my mom’s clan?”

“That’s right. So you say, Tódich’ii’nii nishłį́.”

I am Tódich’ii’nii. Roy does, tangibly connecting himself to Má and Bird and Haseya, even to the woman he never got to meet.

“Now, since your father was not Diné, he doesn’t have a clan. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a people – or that you don’t belong to them also. In your case, you could say – Bilagáana bashishchiin.”

Roy winces, feeling as if the abstract web Cheii had been conjuring had suddenly snapped at one thread. White… doesn’t feel like a people. White feels more like a not-people: not-Navajo, not-Native, not-Mexican, not-Black. English, Italian, Scandinavian, all of those feel like people, but white feels more like a claim. Possibly even a sigh of relief.

“…Is there a different word?” he ventures.

Cheii seems to understand, by the look he gives him. “You can say Dághaałchííʼ Dineʼé. Irish.”

Roy tries it. “Dághaałchííʼ Dineʼé bashishchiin.” Already much better: now he has a place in mind, a language, a culture, even a struggle. Leprechauns and St. Patrick’s and Billy the Kid.

“Good. Then you name my clan, your maternal grandfather’s clan. Táchii’nii dashicheii. Then your paternal grandfather’s, which you can repeat as your father’s. Dághaałchííʼ Dineʼé dashinalí.”

Roy does, Cheii nodding along in approval as he finishes.

“And then, you say, Ákót’éego diné nishłį́.”

“Ákót’éego diné nishłį́,” Roy repeats, and he can’t help but suck in an awed breath, treasuring the words in his heart of hearts.

Cheii chuckles. “Now you see?”

“I think I do.”

“Good. I’ll teach you how to finish that with the places you come from another time. We should start back before it gets too dark.” Cheii stands, making his way toward the horses.

“Yeah,” Roy agrees, half-distracted, still turning the words over in his mind again – Hello, my family and my people. My name is Roy Harper. I am Tódich’ii’nii, born for Dághaałchííʼ Dineʼé. My cheii’s clan is Táchii’nii, my nalí’s people are Dághaałchííʼ Dineʼé. This is what makes me a Navajo man.

He smiles.

Chapter Text

The dream is always the same. Sunlight, as seen through the leaves of trees, and strong shoulders underneath him that roll with each forward movement – making him bounce, and giggle, and bounce, and giggle. Then the smell of smoke, the world going topsy-turvy as he is set down on his feet. Stay right there, Roy, won’t be long. Footsteps walking away. (No, don’t go away.) The smell of smoke growing stronger and stronger. (Daddy, don’t go away.) Thick, black clouds blurring his vision, tendrils splitting off and shooting past his lips and nose— (Daddy!) —burying deep into his lungs, and then the choking, the gasping—

And then Roy wakes up, coughing so violently he always hurts his throat and chest with it. “Here, here, water,” Cheii’s voice cuts through the panic and disorientation, and a warm hand rubs his back, steadying him, easing him closer to the hand that’s bringing a glass up to his lips.

Still struggling to breathe, still half-convinced he’s suffocating to death, Roy takes small, trembling sips. It doesn’t take as long to calm down, these days, a minute or two at most, and he even tells himself the tears are more from how real that smoke always feels, than from that awful sense of fear that the dream always brings with it. But he can see how deep Cheii’s frown is even in the half-light of dawn, and Cheii says, eventually, “You haven’t had that dream in a while.”

“Y-Yeah,” Roy manages, wiping stray drops of water off of his lips with the back of his hand. “I’m okay, shicheii. Sorry to wake you.”

Cheii passes a hand over his forehead, pushing hair out of his face and nudging him back down onto the pillows in the same movement. “Get some more rest. Still no school today, remember?” he says, in a gentle rumble. Roy closes his eyes, lulled back to sleep by the hand still caressing his head, and this time, mercifully, there is no dream, only blank nothing.

When he wakes up again, it’s to the sensation of being nudged, somewhat urgently. “Come on, Roy, up you get,” Má’s voice insists, “You can have your breakfast in the car.”

Roy squints up at her, confused. “Mmh? I’m not going to school?”

“I know you’re not, but we need to take your cheii to the health centre, and I don’t wanna leave you home on your own,” she explains. Her calm keeps Roy from freaking out about the words, but they still chase away any and all sleepiness left in him, and he rolls out of bed a little bewildered.

“What’s wrong with shicheii?”

“Nothing,” Cheii’s voice grumbles behind Má. Roy peers over her shoulder at him and is gratified to find nothing more noteworthy than an annoyed expression on his face. “Nimá likes to fuss.”

“Shizhé’é, if you still get those stomach-aches even after we’ve tried the herbs, maybe the health centre—”

“You don’t think I know my trade?”

“—Can help us get to the bottom of what’s causing them so we can course-correct, at least,” Má continues, unfazed. “It’s no loss either way, is it?”

“If it makes you happy.” Cheii sighs. “Txį́’, Ałtį́į́ Yázhí, let’s get this over with.”

Má smiles, triumphant. “You can just throw a jacket over that, sweetheart. You won’t be getting out of the car, anyway.”

“True. Bring something to entertain yourself with.”

“Hold on, I’m just gonna wait in the car the whole time?” Roy winces. Now that he knows nothing’s actually wrong with Cheii, the prospect sounds untenably boring. “Can’t I stay home? I swear, I’m old enough to take care of myself – you remember when Sani had unexpected guests and you had to drive over to lend her some extra food, má? I was fine on my own till you got back.”

“Yes, but that was over and done with within an hour,” Má hesitates. But Roy notices the way she bites at one corner of her lip, wavering. “You do get restless sitting in one place at a stretch…”

Roy perks up. “I do.”

“And you do tend to get yourself into trouble when you’re restless…”

“I really, really do.”

Má sighs. Even Cheii looks a little amused, behind her. “Fine,” she concedes, longsuffering. “But not alone. Bird and Haseya can skip school with you for today, I suppose.”

“For real?” Roy grins. A holiday for all of them – he couldn’t have imagined a better outcome. Má leaves the hogan, presumably to share the new plan with Bird and Haseya, and Cheii sits down on Roy’s bed while Roy hunts for a fresh shirt to pull on.

“Don’t let your brother trouble you, hmm?” Cheii says, eyes on the thumb that’s stuffing tobacco into his pipe. “His spirit is… tossed by uncertainty, lately.”

Roy laughs. “Pretty sure you’re supposed to be telling me not to bother him, shicheii.”

Cheii slips his pipe between his teeth. “If you notice, Coyote was always playful. He only ever found himself in trouble for it when others around him weren’t in the mood for games.”

“Ready?” Má says, just then, re-emerging at the entrance. She looks a little frazzled, and Roy can hear Bird’s voice wafting in now that the blanket at the door has been lifted:

“Why do I have to babysit when—?”

Má turns, annoyed. “Bird, I swear, if you don’t stop complaining—”

“But you could be gone the whole day! I’m just supposed to keep a pair of kids company the whole day!?”

“Go to school, then! Roy and I have more fun without your whining, anyways,” Haseya’s voice joins in, high-pitched with anger.

“You legally can’t be on your own, idiot—”

“Both of you. Inside. Now,” Má orders sternly.

She shifts, and the siblings shuffle into the hogan, Bird’s expression mutinous. “Why can’t you just go already, Roy?”

Roy hesitates, having expected Bird to be as excited by the prospect of them skipping school together as he is. “Well… I-I guess I can…”

“Bird.” Cheii stands, awfully intimidating with that solemn expression of his. “Be easy with him.”

Both of Bird’s eyebrows shoot up to meet his hairline, but he stops protesting.

Má takes over, refusing to let the sullen silence linger. “Roy she’awéé, here – your packed breakfast. There’s canned beans and tortillas in the cabinet – use those for lunch. I don’t expect we’ll be too late for dinner but if we are, we’ll bring something back from town. Bird, behave. Haseya, you make sure the boys don’t forget their homework just because you’re not at school, okay, sweetheart? Now take care of each other – shizhé’é, we’d better get going if we don’t want to leave them on their own for too long.”

“’Aoo’, ’aoo’.” Cheii sighs. Exchanging an exasperated look with Roy, he pets his shoulder, then follows Má out of the hogan. “Hágoónee’, little ones. Be easy.”

“Hágoónee’!”

They all crowd at the hogan door to watch the adults pile into the car and then drive off. “I can’t believe you got me into this.” Bird scowls at Roy, before Má has even made the first turn. “You are so selfish sometimes, you know that?”

Roy flushes. “I thought you’d like missing school! And we get to hang out, just us—”

“Oh, ignore him, Roy.” Haseya scowls right back. “I’m glad. You wanna go back to ours and watch a movie while you finish breakfast? Bird has the house keys.”

The words are barely out of Haseya’s mouth before a blur, in the shape of said keys, comes flying toward Roy’s face. Reflexively, he cups his hands to catch them. Bird is marching off without so much as a glance back to make sure his toss had landed, and Roy stares at the set and sullen shoulders disappearing… then back at Haseya, mirroring the guilt and concern in her eyes.

He spots Bird smoking by the fence around midday. Coincidentally, Haseya chooses that exact moment to declare she’s tired of playing “red light, green light,” too. “I’m gonna get some water,” she tells Roy, panting for breath as she turns to step back into the hogan, and, “Cool,” Roy concurs vaguely, most of his attention on the tall figure currently slumped against a gatepost.

He’s already halfway across the yard when it occurs to him that Bird might still be too upset to want to talk. Figuring he’d come that far already, Roy shrugs the notion off and leaps toward the fence, making a sound like several coins jangling as his fingers hook into the chain-links. Bird only tilts his face a little, cigarette hanging out of the corner of his frown, a single eyebrow arched in question. Roy grins – “’Sup?” – and stubbornly holds the cheer, until Bird sighs and deigns to respond.

“What.”

“Where you been?”

“Around.”

“Can I have one?”

“One what?”

“Smoke.”

That earns him an amused snort, and Roy tries to look indignant despite the sudden flare of heat to both his cheeks. “What?” he demands, and Bird finally turns his whole body toward him.

“You want a smoke?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“You ever smoke before?”

“Sure I have,” Roy lies, fumbling for the cigarette Bird passes him, plucked out of his own mouth, through the fence.

He holds it the way he’s seen Bird do, between two fingers, and brings it to his lips. Not so bad, Roy thinks as he sucks in his first drag— and then promptly coughs out the scratchy, hot feeling that immediately engulfs his entire throat, leaping to his eyes, even.

Bird is laughing as he yanks his cigarette back. “Sure you have,” he teases between chuckles.

“That tastes like puke.” Roy makes a face. “Why d’you like it?”

Bird shrugs. “Don’t let shicheii find out I let you. They’ll have me scrubbing floors for days, no doubt.”

Roy winces at the bitter sarcasm in his voice. It’s like the casualness of the past few minutes evaporates instantly, that brooding air hanging heavy over Bird again.

“…Are you mad at me?” he finally ventures.

Bird turns, squinting at nothing across the horizon. “Go play, or something. I just wanna chill solo for a bit.”

Dejected, Roy obliges, loosening his grip on the fence and trudging back toward Haseya. He can hear Bird murmuring something, behind him; thinks it might have been, “He’s my grandpa, too.”

Má and Cheii get back really, really late. It’s already dark out, by the time Roy hears the car again, and even Bird has made his way back indoors. “They’re home!” Haseya whoops, jumping off the couch to run for the door. Roy can’t blame her – he’s getting pretty hungry for dinner, too.

He follows, smile at the ready to welcome them both. Except Má isn’t smiling at all. In fact, Má looks a little blue, a little pale in the light streaming out from the open door. Her eyes are kind of red, too, Roy notices; smile faltering, he checks on Cheii, behind her. He looks sombre as well, which wouldn’t be unusual except that he also looks faraway, like he isn’t quite seeing in front of himself. But then he glances up, right at Roy, and his whole face softens somewhat.

“Yá’át’ééh, little ones,” he croaks, “Did you behave?”

“Did we get takeout for dinner?” Haseya pipes up, apparently not having noticed what Roy has. Má pulls her into a spontaneous, sideways hug, her smile oddly sad as she caresses her hair.

“’Aoo’, so we did. Why don’t you go get plates?”

“’Kay.”

“None for me,” says Cheii.

Má looks half-scared, half-angry as she turns to him. “Why not?”

Cheii fiddles with his hat. “I think… tonight would be a good night for a peyote ceremony. I need to consult about… many things. Roy’s coming of age. You know.”

Má wrenches her eyes away from him, but he persists.

“Okay? Is that okay with everybody? Roy, you don’t mind sleeping over?”

Roy frowns. “Can’t I come?”

Cheii reaches a hand out to grasp him by the shoulder, smile muted but kind. “The peyote ceremony is for adults only.”

“Come away, Roy,” Má concurs softly. “You need to get some food in you, anyway.”

She steers him inside, pushing Cheii’s hand off of his shoulder in order to do so. Roy can’t help turning to watch his grandpa leave – something deeply tragic to that lone silhouette by the door.

By the time he crawls into bed, he starts to think he might have been imagining things – Má had been perfectly upbeat, at dinner, and it wouldn’t be the first time Cheii randomly took off for an impromptu ceremony. Except that, just as he’s starting to drift off to sleep, he can hear raised whispers by the cooking area across the room.

Bird’s voice, and Má’s. “I need to get a job,” Bird’s saying. “I need to quit school and get a job, it’s the only—”

“No. No,” Má hisses. “You… you just focus on graduating. I’ll take care of this. That’s on me as your mother. You’re still a child.”

“I’m not, though. God, you’re never gonna understand that, are you? I’m not a kid, shimá, I haven’t been for a long time.”

A half-bitter laugh. “Oh, bless your heart, you really believe that.”

“I’m serious! Look, if shicheii— shimá, that’s gonna mean being really tight on money unless one of us makes up what he contributes.”

“Why is money your first thought, after news like this!?”

“Am I wrong?”

Silence.

“Shimá, am I wrong?”

Even louder silence.

“I can be sad and I can be scared at the same time. On top of everything, you’ve got an extra mouth that’s not even yours to feed, did you think about that?”

“I am your mother and I know how to do a mother’s job.”

“But you’re not Roy’s mother, though, are you?”

Roy freezes. His eyes fly open, wide into the darkness. The bundle that is Haseya, opposite him, is snoring blissfully. For a loaded minute, the only other sounds in the hogan are heavy breaths.

“It’s late, and we’ve had an emotional day,” Má’s voice finally says. “You let me worry about everything, hmm? Go get some sleep, and we’ll talk some more in the morning.”

“Like I’d get any sleep after news like this.”

“Bird. I mean it. No more.”

“Fine, I’m taking a fucking walk.”

“Don’t swear—”

“I think I get a pass. Tonight.”

For the first time Roy can remember, Má doesn’t argue.

It’s a relief to see Cheii again, come the next morning, and Roy all but throws himself into his grandpa’s arms for a hug before the man can even step past the gates. It earns him that familiar, rumbling chuckle, and weathered arms circling around his back. “What’s this?” Cheii teases, “Are you in trouble again?”

Roy pulls away to send him a pleading look. “Is it okay if we walk around for a bit? Just us?”

Cheii’s expression turns puzzled, then contemplative, all within the same minute. “…Alright. Hágo.”

Roy lets Cheii wrap an arm around his shoulder and pull him along. Fletcher decides to join them, bounding through the open gates, and Roy absently places his hand on the dog’s collar. It’s one beautiful morning, the early sun turning the red of Oljato into a deep, luscious brown. “Did you want to talk?” Cheii asks, inevitably, and Roy turns downcast eyes toward his feet.

“I swear I wasn’t listening in on purpose,” he starts, faltering a little. “But I overheard Má and Bird have a really weird conversation, last night.”

“Oh?”

Roy nods, dejected. “Bird was saying he wants to get a job. Má got mad and said he oughta stay in school, and that she’ll figure something out. What’s going on, shicheii? Are we losing money, or something?”

Cheii says nothing, for a while, frowning at the desert sand ahead. “Did you hear them say anything else?”

“Yeah.” Roy sucks in a steadying breath. “Má and Bird seem worried about… me. I mean, like… feeding me. A-And school and stuff. You know? Like… what I cost.”

Cheii’s head jerks toward him, startling Roy. As if he’d noticed the wide-eyed response, however, he quickly turns around again. “It… shouldn’t trouble you. Ałtį́į́ Yázhí. Alright? The law says you are my responsibility. Not theirs. You trust me? To make sure you’re taken care of?”

Roy squints up at him. “Of course. But, like, we’re all family, right? Like. I know shimá isn’t— really my má, but— i-it’s not like—”

“In all the ways that matter, yes, little one. Don’t you forget that.” Cheii gently ruffles his hair. “This is all… a matter of… pointless inventions. Papers. Money. Our hearts know we’re family.”

“Right.”

“It’s only that… this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. It wasn’t, for hundreds of years. Not among us. Children need attention. Growing young men and women especially. There’s only so much attention one adult would have to spare… for three…”

It’s basically word salad, to Roy. He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

Cheii smiles down at him, suddenly pulling him closer to his side. “Nothing. Maybe it was my fault all along. For this foolish old man to think bringing you home would be best… forgetting that he is, in fact, an old man…”

“Huh?”

“It’s just that your father’s family would have taken you for good.” Cheii looks so sad, so wistful. “They hate us. Our ways, our beliefs. With nimá, they believed they were saving her. I had to, I had to fight for you. If I hadn’t, you would never have even known us.”

Roy frowns. “Shicheii, I think maybe you might still be a little, uh… lost in last night’s ceremony.”

Cheii laughs under his breath, though it still sounds bittersweet. “Maybe. Maybe, little one. It’s a richer world, out there, it’s true. Depending on how you define riches. But— no, I made the right decision. It couldn’t be them. I would only trust someone who loves our people.” His hand on Roy’s shoulder loosens ever so slightly, his eyes faraway. “’Aoo’, someone who loves our people…”

And he doesn’t speak again for a long, long time.

Even when Roy tries to recall it years down the line, he won’t be able to pinpoint exactly what had struck the match. Maybe he’d been in particularly high spirits, that day – particularly annoying to Bird. Maybe Bird had been stressed out over things Roy never did get to be privy to. What Roy does know is, one second, he’d been eagerly asking to join Bird to go watch his friend’s metal band, one of the DIY shows that roll through the chapter on the back of a truck. The next, Bird’s all but physically pushing him away.

“You don’t even know what’s going on, do you!?”

Roy falls on his buttocks, flat at the threshold to their hogan. Bird is towering over him, somehow looking angry and pained all at once.

“How can you even be thinking about a stupid show right now!?”

“But—?”

“You know what, Roy, you’re bad luck. You’ve always been bad luck. Even the elders say so – that you’re marked by Coyote.”

“Bird!” Cheii’s voice, behind him, appalled and concerned at the same time. Roy’s too stunned to even get off his ass and dust off, shout back.

“It’s true!” Bird yells.

“You would do this? Now? In front of me?” Cheii sounds hurt.

Roy can’t do anything but stare as Bird’s shoulders suddenly slump, his fists clenching by his side, eyes growing wet.

“It doesn’t matter.” And his voice sounds awfully like a sob is about to burst through. “It’s just— one more in a long line of fathers and grandfathers and brothers taken from us by those stupid fucking uranium mines—”

“Bird…”

“At what point does it stop being a tragedy and just become another goddamn Tuesday!”

“Bird.” Cheii steps outside, taking determined steps toward Bird and then forcing him into an embrace. Roy watches, baffled, as Bird starts shaking, hands slowly wrapping around Cheii, too.

“It’s okay. It’s alright. I understand your pain. There’s no need to take it out on your brother.”

Bird meets Roy’s eyes over Cheii’s shoulder, then looks away again, wretched.

“Is it true?” Roy asks, later, sitting under the mud roof of their own hogan, careful not to block the threshold – for luck. The stars are an infinite expanse above them, and Roy finds it easier to speak to all those twinkling lights, instead of looking at Cheii. They make him feel small – smaller than he already does. Like maybe all of this doesn’t need to make sense, because ultimately, it probably doesn’t even matter.

But Cheii asks, “Is what true?”, and Roy, unfortunately, has to bring himself back down to earth.

“What Bird said… about what the elders think…”

Cheii sighs. “It’s a matter of perspective, isn’t it? A long time ago, the dog, in order to get himself out of trouble, offered to become a guardian forever, to keep us and our livestock safe. Well, the coyote – being a cousin of the dog – also warns people about approaching danger. You can take that as them being bad omens, certainly. But doesn’t that also, in another sense, mean that they protect us from threats, too? There’s a reason we call them ‘children of the dawn.’ You tell me. Bad luck, or hero?”

Roy ponders this for a while. He turns, feeling a little bit lighter. “Thanks, shicheii.” He smiles.

Cheii reaches out and ruffles his hair. “I had an idea, Ałtį́į́ Yázhí… it won’t be long until your summer break. We could arrange your coming of age ceremony then…”

A spark of excitement lights up Roy’s eyes. “Cool, yeah, let’s!”

Cheii chuckles softly. “I wasn’t finished. I was going to say— after the ceremony, how would you feel about taking a trip? I think you could use an adventure, this year.”

“I’d kill for a trip,” Roy answers, wide-eyed. Their family doesn’t really do vacations, unless you count the occasional weekend in the big city to catch a movie or something. “Where we going?”

“You. Not we.” Cheii’s smile mellows. “I thought you might enjoy a little… archery workshop. Hone your skills…”

Roy scrunches up his nose. “Uh, cool… I mean, no offence, but I don’t know if I’d like that as much with a teacher that isn’t you…”

“Not even if it’s Green Arrow?”

Roy stares. Cheii’s eyes are twinkling with good humour, and it makes him snort.

“Aw, come on, quit joking.”

“I wasn’t.” Cheii shakes his head. “I’ve spoken to Green Arrow – as I told you, he owes me a favour – and he’s said he’d be willing if you are.”

Roy gawks. “You mean you weren’t kidding when you said you know him?”

“Why would I lie?”

“Entertainment,” Roy manages, still gobsmacked. “Wow, I— wow. Yeah, that’d be awesome. Can I, really?”

“Really.” Cheii draws him closer, effectively tucking him under his arm. “That makes you happy?”

“You bet it does.”

“Good.” Cheii exhales, fond. “Good… that’s the only thing I want you to strive for, in your life, alright? Just to be happy.”

“Mm-hmm.” Roy yawns a little, wriggling to make himself that bit more comfortable against his grandpa’s side.

“Good,” Cheii repeats. “I just want you to be happy.”

Chapter Text

The pain Cheii had warned him of doesn’t turn out to be so bad – that part had been mostly symbolic, really, Roy suspects – and he comes out of his initiation into manhood more mentally than physically drained. The qualifications of a good man, the forewarnings of a weak or an evil man… it’s a lot to chew on, probably would be even if he had been any older going into it.

He absent-mindedly leans over the wooden fence he’s balanced on, stepping firmer on the plank, beneath him, letting his upper half double over entirely so his stomach presses against the one above – the one he’s clutching with both hands. Cheii and the elders had said this would be good for him, now that the ceremony’s over – time spent alone like this, that is – just kinda aimlessly hanging around, mulling over their teachings. He doesn’t really feel any different, he’s just full of new ideas. He squints out at the stretch of desert road beyond his fence and decides he likes it – this little time to himself, away from Bird and Má and whatever the heck’s been going on with them.

Huh, he thinks, as it occurs to him, There’s something new. Normally, brooding rambles are more a Bird thing than a Roy thing.

Maybe manhood does bring its changes.

It’s because he happens to take to it so well, that time alone, that the incident could have occurred at all. It’s an early summer’s day, but cool enough in the shade of the abandoned gas station Roy is loitering in. He’s straddling concrete, idly chucking a plum seed at the pillar opposite him and then catching it again when it bounces back. Cars and trucks are rare out here, it’s not really on the way to anywhere and the road is disused, in bad repair, so he doesn’t expect the sound of an engine that suddenly purrs up to his ears.

Mildly curious, Roy peers around his pillar, and squints. It’s a fancy one, fancier than any of the Japanese brands Roy’s familiar with, even fancier than some he’s seen rich tourists drive. Looks a bit like a Jeep, but not quite. The vehicle pulls over where the cement gives way to desert grass, which happens to be right in front of the abandoned gas station. A glint of something in front – on the bumper – as it catches the sunlight, and Roy whistles lowly to himself: he’s not planning on becoming a mechanic only to not recognise a Mercedes logo.

Somebody’s very lost, Roy thinks as he watches the driver’s door open, bracing himself to get asked for directions. The guy that steps out is smartly dressed, but totally out of place for where he’s standing: polished shoes, fitted suit. Roy chuckles quietly. He may look fly, but he’s gonna boil in that outfit, soon.

Someone sitting in the back – a lady, this time, and at least she’s got shades on – rolls her window down and sticks her head out to look at her companion. “Well?” she demands.

The guy swears. “No sign of civilisation. You’d think we could afford that new whatsit Honda rolled out – the location-tracking thing?”

“GPS?”

“That’s it. Damn Japs keep beating us to the game every time.”

“It wouldn’t do you much good out here, anyway. Look around, Parker, we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

The man – Parker – swears again. Amused, Roy starts to slip down from his perch to go offer them some help, but then Parker unbuttons his coat, presumably to beat the heat, and lifts it just enough that he can place his hands on his hips— and Roy’s eyebrows shoot up to meet his hairline as he notices an actual gun.

Anglo cops? he wonders, deciding to stay right where he is, after all. “Are we even sure Queen’s coming here?” Parker whirls around and asks the woman in the backseat.

She opens her door and steps out, too. “Unfortunately, yeah. Our intel’s solid.”

“Not solid enough if we don’t even know what mineral reserves QI’s planning on negotiating for.”

“The point is to get to his contact first, find out how much Queen’s offering to seal the deal. So we stand a chance of being able to double it.”

“I know. It’s just weird to me that management’s so eager to make that offer when they aren’t even sure what it’s for.”

The woman chuckles. “It’s Queen Industries, Parker, they’re not gonna be in talks for fool’s gold, are they?”

“So it’s all a dick-measuring contest?” Parker snorts.

“Their problem, right? What does it matter as long as we get paid?”

Roy frowns. He doesn’t like the sound of any of it. Mining… He may not be old enough to understand everything the adults talk about over newspapers or the radio, but he knows enough to get mining isn’t a good thing for Dinétah, to remember people protesting, the pain in Bird’s eyes when he’d had his outburst what feels like forever ago now.

Besides, whatever these two are talking about doesn’t sound like it’s all legal. He mentally weighs whether or not it’d be worth it to try and find tribal police to report this to – he’s still in trouble, sort of, for shoplifting with his school friends not that long ago. They let all the kids off the hook, in the end, but Roy’s sure that means they’re wary of him, now…

Still, he ought to tell some adult, at least, he decides. He hops off his perch with practiced silence, keeping an eye on the strangers as he scales the wall, trying to get to his bicycle.

He should have prioritised that instead of watching his back, however, because he trips on the stone that sticks out at the entrance to his hideout – the one he always trips over, to top it off.

Reflexively, he reaches out to grab at something and stop his fall— which turns out to be the handlebars of his bike. Unable to support the combined weight and momentum, the bicycle crashes to the ground, taking Roy with it.

He leaps back onto his feet as soon as he gathers his wits, but it’s too late, the noise has alerted the strangers. Both of them jog up to him, the man going so far as to block Roy’s way with his whole body.

“Who are you? Why were you hiding?” The woman demands. Thinking quickly, Roy shakes his head, pretending not to understand.

“No English,” he fakes a stammer, widening his eyes as if in fear and making “X” motions with his hands for good measure.

“Some Indian kid,” Parker gathers, but he doesn’t sound convinced. “…Do they come in this colour?”

The woman throws him an exasperated look. “They speak English. He’s lying.”

“Now why would you do that?” Parker narrows his eyes at Roy, bending to face-level. “Are you with Queen? How much did you hear?”

“Check for recording devices,” the woman suggests, and Parker reaches his hands out to do just that.

Panicking, Roy throws a kick in the general direction of his crotch before he can touch him. It lands, and Roy wastes no time dashing for his bike, fumbling it upright again. He clambers on, and pedals, faster than he ever has in his life. The sound of Parker’s groaning and swearing and the woman’s shouts quickly fade, but he remembers they have a truck, and there’s no way he’ll be able to outrun that. Plus, he’d be leading them straight into the chapter.

He veers into the desert brush instead, toward the functional road a ways further, praying to every god he can think of that he encounters a tribal police patrol car there. Distantly, he can hear the engine of the Mercedes already. His muscles protest as he pedals harder, going on pure adrenaline, his vision blurring. Normally, he would never stumble out here, the terrain too intimately familiar for him to not be able to account for every rock, every clump of grass. But panic makes it hard to concentrate, and his front wheel snags on a spot of soft sand which sinks as soon as he drives over it.

Yelping, Roy is thrown off his bike, and only has enough presence of mind to curl up so he takes more of a tumble than a fall.

He can hear footsteps pounding toward him. Roy curls his hands into fists, knowing he won’t be able to run now. Time to take a more direct approach—

As soon as he hears a man’s voice saying, “Are you okay?” right above him, Roy jerks his head up hard, knocking him right on the chin.

“Ow!” The voice yelps, and Roy makes another run for it.

Or tries to, anyway. Turns out head-butting the guy hadn’t been such a good idea – now he’s dizzy. He sways as soon as he gets to his feet, and only just manages to steady himself. The man currently on his knees in front of him, rubbing his no doubt sore chin, hadn’t been in the Mercedes. He’s also way more appropriately dressed than the other two – sun hat, shades, cargo pants – and the look he gives Roy is so utterly confused, Roy pauses.

Is he not with those guys?

“What was that for? I’m not gonna hurt ya,” the stranger says, sure enough.

But neither of them get another chance to say more, as the sound of an engine doing all it can to push through rough desert grass comes groaning up toward their ears. Roy whirls around, and can’t do much more than watch as the vehicle stops and both the suits from earlier step out, guns cocked.

“The hell?” The stranger beside Roy murmurs, sounding more baffled than shocked.

“I told you he was with Queen!” Parker shouts, and his companion looks absolutely livid.

“In the car. Both of you,” she orders, thrusting her gun out further to make her point.

“Queen” – whom Roy gathers must be the man with him – casually gets to his feet. “You got a whistle or something on you, kid?”

“No, and I have nothing to do with this!” Roy protests, first in Queen’s direction and then at the other two. “I haven’t seen any of you before in my life!”

“Queen” shrugs. “Tough luck. They got their guns out, so they can’t exactly back out at this point.”

“Whose side are you on!?”

“Get. In. The car,” the woman repeats, and there’s a click from her gun. “This is no joke.”

Queen steps in front of Roy, holding a hand out to push him back. “Whoever you are, if you got business with me, leave the kid out of it.”

“Yeah, right,” Parker scoffs. “So he can run into town for help?”

Queen tilts his head back enough to meet Roy’s eyes again, his own twinkling in a sheepish sort of way. “Tried. Told ya.”

The woman makes a frustrated noise, her face turning red as a tomato. She stomps up toward the pair, and Roy flits his eyes back toward Queen in panic.

He’s got sharp green eyes on her, now, and there isn’t any more humour in his expression as he pushes Roy forward by the shoulders and holds tight, marching them both toward the car. “I’m going, I’m going. You touch the kid, though, I can promise you this won’t end pretty.”

Parker looks triumphant as he follows them. He shoves Queen’s head down to force him into the backseat, but Queen’s got a protective arm on Roy’s before he can even attempt with him. It’s surreal, like a scene from an action movie, as Parker ties Queen’s hands behind him with some cord while the woman does the same to Roy. “You gonna tell me what this is about or…?” Queen asks, and the woman shoots him a deathly glare.

Or, at least, Roy had assumed she was looking at him. But then she says, “Now what, idiot!? You’ve got kidnapping, aggravated assault, anything else you wanna add to our charges!?”

Parker barks out a laugh. “Relax. This is quicker and cheaper than wheedling the details out of the Indians, anyway.”

Queen tilts his head at the woman. “This one’s not very bright, is he?”

Fury in her eyes, she jerks forward and grabs him by the chin. “Shut up. What was the deal you made?”

From the way the woman yanks Queen toward herself, Roy’s got a close-up view he doesn’t really want, there, in between them. Queen arches one blond eyebrow. “And I’m supposed to know what you mean?”

“The deal!” She shakes him. “Whatever you’re in talks with the Indians for!”

Queen blinks. “Huh?”

“Don’t you play dumb. We have recordings, phone calls— we know you were invited here to unearth untapped potential.”

“Untapped—?” And then Queen’s eyes go wide. And his mouth falls open. And he breaks into uncontrollable laughter. “You thought—? You thought that was literal—? Holy shit. Flat out admitting to corporate espionage is one thing, but to that level of sheer stupidity? I commend you.”

The woman blanches. Parker pokes his head into the car again, looking outraged. “He’s bluffing! Get it out of him with the gun.”

His companion glares at him, straightens back out of the car, and slams the door on Roy’s side shut. Then she marches around the car all the way to Queen’s side, grits out, “A word?” and just drags Parker away, only barely giving him enough time to close that door, too.

As soon as the suits leave – Roy can see them yelling at each other through the dusty windshield – Queen’s expression changes entirely, cocky sarcasm morphing into a sober frown and hawk-like stare. “Sorry to drag you into this, kid,” he whispers. “But you’re clearly one brave fella. If I can get us out of here, can I count on you to take us back into town? Get help?”

“Of course,” Roy whispers back.

Queen nods, once, brisk. The next thing Roy knows, he’s making quick work of Roy’s bonds, and before Roy can even think to ask what happened to his own, he’s leaning over and opening the door as carefully as possible, easing it back inch by silent inch. “Go,” he urges lowly.

Heart hammering, Roy obediently snakes out of the half-open door. He’s about to straighten up and make a run for it, but Queen, following behind, forces his head down with a strong hand. He keeps them bowed that way until they make it behind the car, and then with a quick clap to Roy’s back sends them both bolting through sand and brush like foot-racers at the gunshot.

Queen’s clearly not used to the desert, his footfalls heavy in all the wrong places. “You’re making too much noise, you clumsy lug!” Roy hisses through gritted teeth.

“Sorry!” Queen calls back, not even bothering to whisper anymore – no point, their pursuers have definitely heard them and are now on the chase – no way is he leading them into the chapter, Roy decides. He runs toward his hideout instead. Better to make a stand there than put everyone else in danger…

Oblivious, Queen follows him, only looking confused once Roy scrambles into the abandoned gas station, drops to his knees on the grass, and starts shoving rocks and loose bricks aside with his bare hands. “Okay, this isn’t the town…”

“They’re still following!” Roy shouts, by way of explanation. He digs his hand into the crevice beneath the wall, and yanks out his stash – a bow and two quivers.

“Nice,” Queen says, approving. “You hunt, or something?”

“I practice! I keep spares out here ’cause sometimes I forget to bring my equipment out with— never mind that, can you shoot?”

Queen barks out a laugh. “Million-dollar question.”

“Over there!” a voice calls, distantly, and Roy whips around, leaping to his feet with an arrow nocked and ready. He dashes in front of Queen, legs automatically spreading into a firm stance. In the station, he has a slight advantage: he can see the suits approaching from out the broken window, but they wouldn’t be able to get as clear a shot.

“Good form,” Queen observes mildly. “Shoot fast and straight, kid. And try not to hurt anybody!”

“Are you kidding? You couldn’t shoot fast or straight! Out of the way and let an expert handle this!” And Roy elbows him back, determined to keep him safe, too. Only thing is, he isn’t sure who or what to aim for. He can see the suits inching warily through brittle grass toward the gas station, but does he really want to wound them? If not, how else is he supposed to stop them?

“Here.” Queen’s voice turns so adult-like and authoritative, all of a sudden, Roy reflexively lets him yank his bow out of his hand before he can even think it through. He turns, about to protest, but the surprise of seeing that Queen has already strapped on his other quiver stops him. The man’s stance suggests he’s no stranger to archery, like Roy had assumed, and he watches with a half-open mouth as an arrow sails through the window and knocks against Parker’s gun. Parker yelps and drops it instantly.

Snapping out of his shock, Roy quickly yanks his bow back, face burning. “I-I can shoot, I just wasn’t sure where to aim!” he protests – then proves it by loosing two arrows in quick succession to disarm the woman the same way while Parker’s distracted swearing and blowing on his hand. Then he keeps up a steady barrage of arrows at their feet so they can’t pick up their weapons.

Queen laughs, delighted. “Good job! Speedy little creature, aren’t you.” And with two quick pats to Roy’s back, he jogs out of the gas station toward their would-be abductors.

Roy decides to follow, keeping one arrow nocked and trained on the pair, trying to look as menacing as he can behind Queen. “Hands up and keep ’em there!” he shouts, inspired.

“Smart call,” Queen drawls. He casually leans down to pick up the guns while the suits grudgingly obey. There’s some clicking noises, which Roy gathers means he’s slipping out the magazines – rendering the guns useless. He’s too wary of their pursuers to turn away from them and actually watch.

“So. Corporate spies, eh.” Queen deigns to look up again, with a small and crooked smile that’s too smug to be reassuring. “Well, don’t I feel like Coca-Cola. You gonna make this easy for all of us and tell me who sent you and why, or would you rather answer to the cops?”

All he gets are sullen glares in response.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself. Guess it’s our turn to say…” he turns toward Roy, and winks.

Roy grins. “Get in the car! Now!”

“—Won’t admit to anything. We can book them on charges of aggravated assault, but… I’m afraid we can’t help you find out who their employers were,” Officer Claw tells Queen, looking a little baffled as his eyes keep flitting back to Roy. “Harper, uh… we let your grandpa know to come pick you up from the station.”

“Not a problem,” Queen says, waving a careless hand as he leans back against his chair. “My lawyers will be in touch as soon as their lawyers spring ’em. We’ll sort this out ourselves.”

Roy scrunches his nose up at him. “You don’t seem to care that much, considering those people were after you.”

Queen chuckles. “Well, it’s more a company thing than a me thing. And hardly my first rodeo.”

“Always says exactly what’s on his mind, this one.” Officer Claw shakes his head disapprovingly at Roy, sending Queen a half-exasperated, half-apologetic look.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Queen grins down at Roy. Vindicated, Roy hides his own, into his shirt collar, squirming in his chair. He’s not about to give lip and get himself into trouble, too, but it’s pretty awesome to have an adult on his side in front of an officer, regardless.

Officer Claw clears his throat, then changes the subject. “Mr Queen, could you enlighten us on how this misunderstanding occurred at all?”

“Sure. Very funny story. So I got this old acquaintance ’round these parts who called me the other day, right, and—”

They’re all distracted by a knock on the office door, and when Roy turns around to look, another cop is holding it open for Cheii to enter. Cheii looks pale, and relief lights up his eyes when they finally spot Roy. Feeling terrible for worrying him, Roy gets off his chair and dashes up for a hug.

“Hazhóó’ógo, hazhóó’ógo,” Cheii murmurs as he holds Roy close.

“Speak of the devil!” Queen’s voice exclaims, behind them, and Roy turns, confused, to watch as the man steps up to his grandpa and shakes his hand. “Big Bow, is that you?”

“Oliver.” Cheii acknowledges with a tight smile. “I understand you protected Roy from those people. ’Ahéhee’.”

“Nah, he mostly took care of himself. No way, so this is the grandkid you were talking about?” Queen – “Oliver,” apparently – appraises Roy again as if for the first time. “Wild. Last I saw you, kid, you were about this high and round as a beach ball.” He laughs at his own joke as he holds a hand against his knees to indicate Roy’s height.

Roy blinks. “We’ve met before?”

“Uh-huh. You must have been about, what—?”

“Three,” Cheii offers, smile distant as he rubs across Roy’s shoulders.

“Right, right. My copter had crashed about near your home. Your grandpa, here, pulled me out of the wreckage. Allowed me to recuperate with your family – saved my life, basically. You don’t remember me at all, huh?”

Roy shakes his head no, wide-eyed.

Oliver chuckles. “Aw. You got pretty attached back then.”

“It’s true,” Cheii adds hoarsely. “Cried your little heart out when he had to leave.”

Put that way, Roy realises he does remember, vaguely. The jovial laugh, and strong pale hands, and alien accent. It’s the green eyes that had thrown him off – he’d thought those images were memories of his father.

Cheii and Oliver are still chatting while he’s having his epiphany. “Kids that age love me, for some reason. I’m told I have a Santa-like disposition. Thinking maybe I ought to grow a beard out.”

“I’m sure.”

“The teens and early teens, though – they tend to mostly treat me like I’m one of them.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“Wait…” It finally dawns on Roy, then. “If shicheii is the friend you were talking about… and he invited you over here… and… with the way you were shooting back there…”

Oliver gives him a crooked smile. “That’s right. Sounds like you’re the untapped potential I’m actually here for.”

Roy’s eyes go round. “You mean, you’re Green—!”

Cheii hastily clamps a hand over his mouth, while Oliver laughs. “No, you’re green. I’m seasoned. That’s why your grandpa called!”

Chapter Text

Má fusses with the luggage like Roy’s moving to a different continent, or something. “It gets cold in Northern California,” she laments, “We should have gone shopping for something warmer…”

“Not in the summers,” Haseya points out, leaning over the bedpost to watch Má fold things.

“Untrue, it’s still colder than here,” Má insists. “And it rains!”

Roy sighs, bored out of his mind, sitting on the floor beside her with his back against the wall. “Come on, shimá, if you keep unpacking and repacking that thing, I’ll never get out of here.”

“That guy’s loaded, anyway, can’t he just buy something if Roy needs it?” Bird contributes, lounging on the bed next to where Má’s fretting.

She sends him a chastising look. “We don’t live off of charity. And that goes for you, too, Roy, don’t you accept a single thing.”

“Okay, okay…”

Bird groans, equally frustrated, and peels himself off of the mattress. “I’ll see if I got any old jackets.”

“Gee, thanks.” Roy blinks. “That’s… weirdly nice.”

“Anything to end the torture.”

“I just don’t understand why shizhé’é wouldn’t mention how soon you needed to be leaving. And what is all this rush?” Má clicks her tongue. “You would think you were going to an actual camp, with a timetable and everything.”

“It’s Green Arrow, shimá! He’s probably got a really packed schedule and made time just for me, ya know?”

“What’s he need a schedule for?” Bird snorts, returning with a huge sack slung across one shoulder, no doubt full of old clothes. “What does he even do outside of team-ups with others? Knock people out using boxing glove arrows for minor misdemeanours?”

As if on cue, Oliver – Ollie, Roy mentally corrects, the nickname the man had insisted on – peeks in through the hogan door. “Batman fan, are you?” he asks, with an amused twinkle in his eye.

Bird colours. “Uh…”

“Howdy, folks.”

“Come in, come in!” Má turns and beams welcomingly. “Just a few last-minute things. Are you sure you can’t put off leaving for another day? I wonder if Roy doesn’t need a shopping trip…”

Ollie steps inside, pauses to slap a palm against Roy’s, then gives Má a smile and an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, ma’am, flight’s already booked.”

“I have to admit, I’m a little surprised you fly commercial. If that’s alright to say.”

“Yeah, don’t even get me started. Private flights are some of the worst offenders in fuel consumption and carbon emissions. Heck, I don’t even like to fly first class, unless my company makes me. We’ve only got the one planet, you know what I mean?”

“Well, how did you get in?”

“Same way we’re going out – flew into Flagstaff, took a shuttle ride into the reservation.”

“Commendable.”

“Nah, only doing my part. Anyway, that’s not even a blip on the radar when it comes to preventing a real climate disaster. Mark my words, ten to twenty years from now…”

And he just goes on and on and on, making Roy and Haseya catch each other’s eyes, and suppress giggles. Ollie’s only been with them a night, but it’s been great entertainment figuring out his “on” switches – trigger statements that just launch him into these endless rants. Not that Roy should be laughing, really – he probably gets the exact same way about Green Arrow. “Hey, Ollie?” he manages between a smothered chuckle. “How long until the bus gets here, again?”

Ollie checks his watch. “Like half an hour?”

“Cool, I’m gonna go see if shicheii’s back yet. That’s fine, right, Má?”

Má waves a hand at him, sheepish. “Oh, go on. You did help the first time around, you’re right that I unpacked again…”

Roy laughs, and drags himself back onto his feet. As he exits the hogan, he can hear the adults remark about him:

“Pretty independent kid, isn’t he?”

“He’s always been that way. Such a free spirit. Which can be a handful at times, it’s true, but…”

Puffing his chest, he jogs on in the direction of their own hogan. Cheii had ridden off somewhere early that morning with the vaguest of explanations – something about buying a souvenir – and Roy would have joined him if Má hadn’t caught him right after breakfast, to help with the luggage. He’s temporarily distracted by Fletcher blocking the gate, bounding back and forth like he’s in the mood to play tag before he can decide to let Roy pass. Obliging, Roy chases the dog around for a bit, although he must spend at least fifteen or so minutes at it because the clip-clopping of hooves calls his attention next thing.

Roy glances up. “Shicheii!”

Cheii gives him a brief smile, then takes his time ushering Tsį́į́łgo into the corral. “Good morning, Ałtį́į́ Yázhí. Are you ready to leave?”

“Yeah, more or less.”

“Good…” Cheii hums. Taking slow, careful steps, he walks over to Roy, who beams and tilts his head up, expecting a hug or roughened hands messing with his hair.

But Cheii doesn’t do any of that, he just fishes something out of his front shirt-pocket and bends to meet Roy’s eyes. Roy thinks, apropos of nothing, that it wasn’t that long ago when Cheii had to crouch down into a squat to get to face-level with him.

“Here.” Cheii tugs one of Roy’s hands forward, palm up, and places a little parcel on it. Roy recognises the packaging – Má works with this particular small handicrafts business. They mostly sell to the tourists. Curious, he uses his other hand to shake the thing out of its package. A handwoven wristband – thick black threads and a round centrepiece of red and blue beads about the size of an adult man’s watch. “You should take a piece of home with you,” Cheii continues. “The blue is turquoise, representing Father Sky. The red is coral, representing Mother Earth. I hope that… if you ever feel homesick… you can look at this and remember that no matter where you find yourself, we all live under the same sky. We all walk upon the same earth. Alright?”

He ruffles Roy’s hair. Touched, Roy eagerly slips the wristband on. “That’s awesome, shicheii. Thanks a lot.”

Now Cheii pulls Roy into a hug, holding on so tight it’s like he’ll die if he lets go, or something. Roy pats his back in sympathy. It must get pretty lonely for Cheii without him around, and the only reason he arranged this trip at all is probably just to cheer Roy up after his random streak of bad luck. Roy silently promises himself that as soon as he gets back, he’ll be on his best behaviour – no more getting into fights with Bird or in trouble at school, and making poor Cheii worry so much.

“Are we all good to go?” Ollie’s voice calls from behind them, and Cheii pulls away, clearing his throat as he stands. Roy turns: Ollie’s got his luggage in hand, Má and Bird and Haseya crowd the doorway to watch and wave, and Cheii steps up to Ollie with an expression so sombre Roy thinks for a second he’s stretching that hand out because he’s about to punch him, or something.

But Cheii only pats Ollie on the shoulder once, of course. “Take good care of him.”

“Ah, don’t worry about a thing. I’m great with kids,” Ollie says, blasé, and sends Roy a wink over Cheii’s shoulder. “I promise I’ll return him to you folks in one piece.”

“Make sure you restore the brains department especially,” Bird shouts, teasing, making Roy stick his tongue out and Má give him a light swat on the head.

“Oliver.” Cheii grasps Ollie’s arm, visibly startling both him and Roy with the sudden movement. “I mean it. You owe me a life debt. Take care— love him. As much as we love him.”

“Geez, relax, it’s only a couple months.” Ollie chuckles. “First time sending him off on his own, huh? You gotta get used to it sometime. I mean, look at the size of him, he’s growing fast.”

And man, if that doesn’t make Roy feel ten feet tall all of a sudden. “Yeah, shicheii, this is gonna be great.” He grins. “Thanks again! See ya soon!”

Má waves. “You behave, now!”

“Don’t forget to keep a diary!” Haseya shouts, both hands sweeping the air above her head frantically. “You’re not gonna remember all the details otherwise! I wanna hear all about Star City!”

“Promise! Bye!” Roy shouts back, then turns and jogs to catch up to Ollie. “So, how long is the journey gonna be, exactly?”

Ollie smiles at him. “Seven hours, give or take, but that’s not counting the wait at the airport… oh yeah, this’ll be your first time flying, huh… well, I had to book an overnight flight ’cause I need the shuteye so we can drive ourselves to my house, once we land. Which is a real shame, ’cause the view would have been amazing, otherwise. You haven’t lived till you’ve seen the mountains from up that high. The desert, too, come to think of it. Oh – did you pack your own equipment?”

“Yeah, right here.”

“I have a lot to work with, if not. Although I guess you’ll want a shot with some trick arrows, anyway, huh?”

“You bet I do!”

“Whoever would’ve thunk. So tell me, kid, how’d you get that good?”

“Well, I first started learning with my grandpa…”

And they fill the first leg of the journey with inane chatter like that, some kind of strange kinship already blossoming on this alone.

The outside world is such a feast for the senses Roy barely gets a wink of sleep on the plane. Escalators, elevators, vending machines, weird toilets that are half-full of water before ever using them. He can’t help pausing to explore them all, half-certain he’s holding Ollie up, except that Ollie doesn’t seem to mind, thank goodness. And of course he really, really wants to know how an aircraft works at all, which Ollie woefully knows nothing about, but promises he’s got a friend who can tell Roy all about it if Roy can wait – Roy does, for all of five seconds, before some other cool new thing arrests his attention.

By all accounts, he should have been exhausted by the time they land, but the excitement of it all keeps him wide awake. “There’s so many people,” he marvels as they make their way toward baggage claim, which earns him that mix of amusement and delight in Ollie’s eyes that’s been there the whole time he’s been watching Roy bounce from one discovery to the other.

“Star City’s is actually a pretty small airport, you know. Wait until you fly into LA.”

Roy inhales, awed. “No way. I don’t believe you.”

That makes Ollie bark out a laugh. Then he turns, and whatever he sees makes the smile freeze on his face, start to falter. Roy looks as well – and startles to see some stranger grab his bags right off the carousel.

“Hey, that’s mine!”

“’S’okay, Roy, he works for me.” Ollie isn’t smiling at all, now, as he places a hand on Roy’s shoulder and steers him toward the man loading their things onto a trolley.

“Mr Queen.” The man acknowledges with a brief nod, as he continues doing whatever he’s doing. He’s kind of an intimidating guy, burly build and shaved head and eyes hidden behind these big, black shades that make Roy think of spies in action movies.

“You know, I’m pretty sure I told Wilson I’d drive in myself,” Ollie snaps, in a tone Roy hasn’t heard him use once the whole way here.

“Mr Johnson was concerned about your lack of security,” the stranger answers, but Ollie interrupts before he can say any more.

“How’s it any of Dan’s business what I do or don’t do?”

“All due respect, sir – it is, if you’re moving back into the estate.”

“For Christ’s sake, I’m not moving back into the estate, I just need the space to host my little guest here. I already called ahead about— didn’t Wilson get in touch with your people?”

“I’m sure Mr Johnson prepared things exactly because he did,” the stranger says, monotone. “The valet you hired has your car ready and waiting outside, sir. I’m only here to escort you.”

Roy watches this exchange with wide eyes, hardly understanding a word. The look on Ollie’s face is stormy, like he has half a mind to yell at this man currently wheeling their luggage away. But he doesn’t, just gives Roy’s shoulder a squeeze and then mutters, darkly, “Come on.” They exit the airport, but it’s tangible how Ollie’s suddenly no longer in that good-humoured holiday mood.

“Is everything okay?” Roy ventures the second they climb into one of the cars waiting for them outside: a retro-looking green thing Roy can’t even identify, with a hood longer than the rest and a sort of pointed front end and round headlights that are partly covered by the angular wings jutting out on either side of the bumper. The name of the model is written on the front, in cursive, something with an “A” – but Roy’s never seen anything like it back home before, and hadn’t had time to try and decipher it.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” Ollie sighs, turning on the ignition. “Don’t let me put a damper on your trip, okay? The guys that run my family’s estate just really get on my nerves, sometimes.”

Roy’s not sure what an “estate” entails – the image that comes to mind is something like a fairytale castle – but decides to keep that to himself. “So, like, you don’t live there usually?”

“Nope. I have a penthouse in the city, but that’s not gonna work for the kinda training I had in mind.”

“Meaning we’ll be staying with your family?”

“Ah… no.” Ollie chuckles under his breath. “There is none. Family, that is. My parents died when I was fifteen.”

“Oh.” Roy colours. “Sorry.”

“No, not at all.”

“Mine too, uh… my parents, I mean. They died, too.”

“I heard.” Ollie gives him a small smile. “Kinda weird, missing people you didn’t really have much of a relationship with, huh?”

“Yeah.” Roy exhales, smiling back. It’s a strange feeling, almost like relief, to hear someone else verbalise the thought. People always treat the subject with such sympathy, failing to notice the way it makes Roy squirm uncomfortably – their pity always makes him feel vaguely guilty for not actually warranting it. Ollie, on the other hand, just nods and says, “I get that.”

Roy wriggles in his seat, pleased. “By the way, what kind of car is this?”

“Oh, you like cars?”

“Yeah!”

“Well this, my friend, is a 1963 Studebaker Avanti. Which I actually bought in ’70-something, years after they stopped production. Hell to get a hold of, let me tell ya. And thrice its original price by then, never mind all the customisation… but I like it, don’t you?”

“Yeah! What kind of car is the Arrowplane?”

“The what?”

“You know, the car you drive as Green Arrow. The yellow one.”

“Arrowplane?”

“Yeah, I call it that ’cause it looks super-fast. Like, jet-fast.”

“You call a car a plane.”

“Fine, fine – Arrowcar.”

Ollie laughs and laughs and doesn’t stop. “You’re a priceless one, Speedy.”

(A 1957 Chevy Bel Air, it turns out.)

Oljato was red. Nazlini, all gold. Star City is stretches and stretches of green – every single shade of it, from emerald to olive to lime-like to even a hint of aquamarine, in the waters, whenever lakes peek out at Roy from in between the trees.

Not at first – at first, it’s all an anxiety-inducing stretch of concrete and stone. Roy isn’t used to seeing so many paved roads and buildings in one long stretch, and he can’t help fiddling with his wristband, feeling bizarrely like the soil beneath them is being smothered under all the cement. But then the roads slowly start to empty of cars, more and more trees start to pop up alongside, and then it’s nothing short of wonderland – a gorgeous panorama of hill and lake and sky, trees and shrubs and bushes Roy doesn’t even know the names of.

He can hear bird-calls he’s never heard before, spot flowers he’s never seen. At some point he remarks about a particular scent, and Ollie tells him it’s pine. “Kinda gross mixed with the damp, though. From the rain, when it’s winter? But yeah, gotta love that smell in summer.”

When the roads start to wind and go up-and-down more, Ollie lets him know they’re close. Castle on a hill, Roy thinks to amuse himself— except when the car in front of theirs, the escort one, makes the next turn and drives up to a huge double-gate, Roy’s jaw drops open as he discovers that’s exactly what it is.

“Welcome to the Queen Estate,” Ollie tells him with a smile, as they drive through the cast-iron gates after the other car. “Or, as it was called before my egomaniac of a father married into this family – welcome to Hillcrest Manor.”

Roy can only gawk. He barely spares a second for the gravel pathway, immediately entranced by the towering trees all around him. The trunks on some of them are actually red, nothing Roy’s ever seen before. It’s quieter, off the road, and he’s not sure if that’s why he can hear the rustling of leaves so clearly, or if there’s just so much greenery on the property it gets that loud.

The cars drive on, and Roy watches the dirt-and-gravel road wind up and up – there’s a huge house at the end of it, up in the distance, and behind that what looks like a whole forest.

“This entire place is yours!?”

“Officially, yeah. In practice it’s a little more complicated than that,” Ollie answers. “Stop me if I say something confusing, okay? I got no reference point for what does and doesn’t make sense to a sixth-grader.”

Roy huffs. “I’m pretty smart, you know. And I’m turning twelve in November.”

Ollie chuckles. “Okay, well, we’re sitting on about 250 acres of land, here. Most of which is prime hunting ground. So the grounds are open to the public – for hunting, or hiking, or nature trails, that kinda thing. It’s so the estate can basically pay for itself, and something called an estate office oversees all that. Make sense so far?”

“Yeah.”

“The house is private. To be used by the family. But the estate office technically runs that, too – least in terms of upkeep, hiring staff, all that jazz.”

“So what can you do?”

Crooked smile curling from the side of Ollie’s face. “Live in it, sometimes. Well, I am on the board of the family trust – that’s like the, uh, office behind the estate office—”

“The bosses’ bosses.”

“Sure, let’s go with that. But it’s a board, ya know, so I’m only worth so many votes. There’s members with more sway – relatives of mine who’ve been around longer, for example – and then just… professionals who know better. Supposedly. Accountants, lawyers, landscapers, heads of security, people like that.”

This stops making sense about halfway into the board talk, but Roy nods and acts like he understands.

They drive up to and then around said house, now. It’s huge, and looks like something out of a medieval fantasy. Roy barely has enough time to admire the exterior – three storeys, bricks and stone and timber (grey), steep roof (green), steps flanked by two columns leading up to the front door – before the car makes another smooth turn – a pond with ducks! – and then eases into a garage that’s attached to the house. Roy thinks that’s called a wing, but can’t be sure.

The stranger from the airport gets out of the other car, first, taking Roy’s things out of his trunk, which is bizarre to watch. Roy follows Ollie out of theirs, too, and can’t help pausing to take in more of his surroundings instead of listening to the adults talk. The back of the house is just as grand as the front, with a sprawling lawn and flowerbeds and more trees. A large stone terrace, furnished with a bunch of outdoor chairs, wraps around the rear. Roy can just about see the back windows too, from that angle – big ones, almost floor-to-ceiling, and the curvy top halves are like the ones he’s seen whenever he’s passed by churches back home: stained glass – then he turns back around again to survey what they’d left behind.

Magnificent. Rolling hills and dense forests and the gates they’d just driven through are so far down from the house the security guy’s booth is barely a dot on the landscape. It’s like something out of Haseya’s picture-books, some magical house deep in an enchanted wood. “What do you think?” Ollie’s voice comes up behind him, and Roy can only grin and shake his head.

“I can’t believe you actually live here…”

Ollie chuckles. “Well, I don’t. I grew up here, though, sure.”

Airport-guy returns, empty-handed this time. “Mr Queen, I left your luggage beneath the stairs.”

“Thanks.” Ollie steers Roy forward by the shoulder, again, and the two of them stroll back around to the front of the house – Roy having to restrain himself from asking to pause and watch the ducks.

The wooden door is even bigger up close, imposing as heck. Above it, on the stone, is a carving of some sort – a face, but Roy can’t tell what kind, human or animal – and then Ollie pushes the door open, before he can get a better look, and ushers Roy inside.

“Wow,” Roy marvels as they step into the entrance hall. There’s polished wood everywhere, a huge staircase with an iron railing opposite Roy. Bunch of closed doors that Ollie doesn’t bother to identify just beneath that. When Roy tilts his head up, an actual chandelier.

“This way,” Ollie says as he starts to steer Roy toward the second door to the right of the staircase, which is half-open – Roy can just about get a glimpse of what looks like a kitchen. But then, just as they pass the first door, a voice from the opposite side calls: “Oliver!”

Roy turns (relishing in how his shoes slide against the polished floor). The first door to the left of the staircase – doors, really, a set of double doors – have been thrown wide open, and a man, the man who’d called for Ollie, is standing at the threshold. He’s skinny, pale, has salt-and-pepper hair and glasses. Both of his hands are in his trouser pockets, giving him a nonchalant air.

“Dan,” Ollie says, sounding surprised. And then he seems to shake himself out of it and pushes Roy forward, approaching the man.

“Uh, Roy, remember our talk about the estate office? Well, this is our estate manager, Dan Johnson. Consider him the, uh, head honcho. Dan, Roy Harper – he’ll be staying awhile.”

“Hi.” Dan holds a hand out for Roy to shake, which Roy does, but he doesn’t like his smile. Weirdly forced.

“Oliver, welcome back!” another voice wafts out from the room beyond, and Dan makes room for a woman, this time, to exit. She’s browner, has her dark hair done up in a tight bun, reminds Roy of more familiar faces back home except that she’s dressed like a hotel receptionist – name-badge and everything.

“Maria,” Ollie smiles and gives her a hug, then gestures to Roy. “Maria Hernandez. Housekeeper and all-around wonderful human being. Roy Harper. Guest… of archery-related pursuits.”

“Well, hello there.” Maria bends to meet Roy’s eyes with a warm smile, and shakes his hand, too. Liking her better already, Roy smiles right back and shakes enthusiastically.

“Hi, señora. ¿Se habla Español?”

“Ah, claro que sí, cariño! Where are you from?”

Roy opens his mouth, about to answer, but Dan cuts in, clearing his throat. “Sorry, I’m pressed for time here. Can I just confirm how long you two will be staying?”

Ollie frowns. “Two months, give or take. You don’t have to bother about a thing, we’re not gonna need much—”

Dan chuckles indulgently. Roy really, really doesn’t like him – it’s that condescending sort of smile he’s seen on cruel adults, before, usually the ones who consider him stupid. “I’m only trying to do my job, here, Oliver. It’s completely your prerogative to come and go whenever you want, and with as many guests as you want, of course, but, I mean, it’s a matter of common courtesy, isn’t it, to give us some prior notice?”

“But I did—”

“I mean, all due respect, you don’t have any idea what it takes to run an estate of this size, do you? You’re short-staffed as it is, you no longer have any security or a first-contact lawyer—”

“Somehow my own fault that my last bodyguard literally tried to kill me and my lawyer got merked, is it?”

“—And with a minor in your care, well, that’s just the perfect recipe for a lawsuit waiting to happen. For starters, the house isn’t staffed for permanent residence anymore—”

“I do well enough, don’t I?” Maria tries to speak up, exchanging a sideways look with Ollie. “Oliver doesn’t use all the rooms. And he cooks for himself.”

“Yeah, and I drive myself, too, which you blatantly ignored.”

Dan sighs, patronising. He takes his glasses off and absently rubs them, taking on the tone of a longsuffering parent talking to a spoilt child. “I don’t have the authority to… direct… you in really anything, of course. And it’s wonderful that you’re finally taking an interest in the estate, ever since the unfortunate incident that took your parents from us. But I’d like to offer some advice – as the family pays me to do – and I sincerely hope you take it to heart.”

Roy steals a nervous glance up at Ollie. This guy Dan somehow manages to turn the whole situation on its head, making Ollie sound like some callous rich jerk that doesn’t consider his staff and is totally unreceptive to suggestions. He expects Ollie to bristle, stand up for himself the way he had at the airport. But Ollie doesn’t, just takes it all with a deep frown.

“Now,” Dan continues briskly, “You obviously underestimated running the household, which is fine, considering how you’ve been… away for so long. I’m sure you’ll catch up and learn eventually. There’s no need to concern yourself with the estate staff, I’m more than happy to oversee that on my own. But, I would appreciate it if you could consult with Maria about house staff, and get back to me – or Wilson, if you prefer – as soon as possible. So we can start allocating your personal budget as required.”

Ollie gives him a long look, then exhales, something bitterly amused in it. “Some sentence, huh?”

“Hmm?”

“That you can start allocating my personal budget. Not so personal, in that case, is it?”

Dan puts his glasses back on. “If you’re insinuating that the trustees don’t allow you enough autonomy, Oliver, I’m sure your uncle would be more than pleased if you were to demonstrate that you’re ready to take over operations yourself. Until then, isn’t the CEO chair of Queen Industries enough?” He chuckles, like he’s making a joke, but there’s no real amusement in it. “Although I suppose it’s true what they say – have more, want more, eh?”

And then he gives Ollie what’s apparently supposed to be an amiable pat on the shoulder. Then he waves to Roy, robot-like, and just like that, starts toward the front door again.

“Enjoy your visit, Mr Harper.”

“Fuck.” Ollie swears as soon as the door closes behind Dan, startling Roy.

Maria looks scandalised, too. “Maybe we, uh, ought to consider our language, around the little one?”

“Oh.” And Ollie turns to Roy again, wide-eyed, like for a second there he’s forgotten Roy’s right next to him. Now that he’s back on track, though, he gives Roy a mischievous smile. “Eh, what’s it matter, anyway. Consider this house a no-rules zone. Free kids make free citizens!”

“Hold on, now. My rules do go!” Maria protests, even as Roy laughs and follows Ollie up the stairs. Ollie wraps an arm around his shoulder, leaning down to whisper conspiratorially into his ear:

“My first word was literally fuck.”

Roy laughs harder, delighted to hear it from an adult. “Stop!”

“What? I’m telling the truth,” Ollie returns, laughing along. He leads Roy up to the second floor, which is decorated much the same as the first one. There are a bunch of closed doors here, too, but at least three are open, this time. “This is where I actually spend most of my time when I’m here,” Ollie corroborates, sure enough. “That’s the sitting room over there, where we hang out, watch TV and things. That one’s my bedroom. You get the guest room – that one there. Go ahead, explore, I’ll bring your things up.”

Excited, Roy dashes toward the room Ollie indicates. It’s amazing – darker wood, and alongside the green of the rest of the house, there are accents of navy blue, too. He’s never seen that big of a bed before – queen-sized, he’s pretty sure, then chuckles to himself at the pun – and then a built-in desk and chair to one side of it, a door on the other.

Attached bath? Roy thinks eagerly, and rushes to open it. It’s exactly that, with a glass-encased shower and everything. He skips back out into the bedroom, checks the view out of his window. Like he’d thought, it overlooks the pond. Perfect.

“Everything to your liking?” Ollie asks, a little effort in his voice as he squeezes through the door with all of Roy’s bags and then drops them to the floor. “If not, you just let me know.”

“I love it!” Roy grins. “Hey, you think you could show me around some more? Like, outside, I mean? While it’s still light out…”

“Yeah, sure, sounds like a plan.” Ollie exhales, contented, and places both hands on his hips as he surveys the space. He barely gets time to breathe, however, before Maria’s voice wafts up:

“Oliver, phone call from the office!”

Ollie groans. “Didn’t they literally just—?”

“I meant your office!”

“Ah.” Ollie turns back toward Roy and shakes his head apologetically. “Sorry, kid, I gotta take that. How about you hop in the shower, huh? That’s great for the muscles right after a long drive. Come on downstairs as soon as you’re done, and then we’ll take a little hike.”

“Cool,” Roy answers, opting not to tell him he doesn’t really know how a shower works, exactly. It’ll be fun to figure out on his own, anyhow.

Ollie turns and steps out of the room again. Roy can hear his footsteps bounding down the stairs. Then his loud voice, presumably into the phone, “Effie, there was spies.”

Bored already, Roy shrugs and heads back into the bathroom.

The grand tour is so much better with Ollie, rather than Roy trying to figure out what’s what all on his own like before. The man turns out to be quite the nature enthusiast, able to name almost every plant and critter Roy’s curious about. Redwood, Douglas fir, pine, cattails and lily-pads and they even spot a squirrel or two. There are wooden signs in some places – “hiking trails,” Ollie calls those paths – warning people to look out for other animals, too: deer and raccoons and more.

“Remind me to introduce you to the groundskeeper,” Ollie says, at some point. “Emma knows every single species like the back of her hand. Getting on in years, though…”

He can even identify the weird face above the door that Roy had spotted when they’d first entered. “That. Is a mythical figure called the Green Man, my friend. Goes back to… medieval English folklore, I think? Maybe older than that. He’s a pretty common motif in old-world architecture, apparently…”

And Maria pokes her head outside, amused. “Somebody was paying attention to the tour guides, hmm?”

Ollie laughs. “Hey, you hear those guys circle the house that many times a day, you can’t help but absorb something.”

“I ordered in for dinner, if either of you are hungry.”

Roy can’t even begin to describe the food. So rich, and so much meat. He doesn’t dare eat more than one serving, afraid it’ll mess with his gut. It’s the meal that does it, in the end – he finally feels exhausted enough to go to bed. Excusing himself from the table, like Má had taught him before he left, Roy trudges up the stairs toward his new bedroom, pleasantly worn-out.

He’d jinxed it, apparently. The second he crawls into bed, all sleepiness evades him. It’s the silence – so unnerving, so unlike sleeping in one hogan with Cheii or Má and Bird and Haseya. How in the world can anybody stand having a house this big be virtually empty? Feeling weirdly alone, Roy huffs and shucks the blankets away, pulling on the nightgown Maria had left out for him (he’s sure Má’s warning not to accept anything doesn’t count if he’s not planning to take it home). Hesitantly, Roy peers across the hall into Ollie’s bedroom. Finding it still open and empty, he decides to check downstairs again.

His ears perked for the sound of human voices amidst the chilling silence, Roy carefully makes his way toward the kitchen as soon as he picks up conversation. He doesn’t mean to sneak at all, it’s just that he’s not sure whether he’d be intruding, so out of pure habit he makes his footsteps light as he inches closer. The lights are out in the hallway, which certainly aids that. He can see Ollie and Maria still seated at the kitchen island where they’d all been having their dinner before.

He gets closer to the door and peers around, weighing whether or not to announce his presence yet – the adults seem to be having a serious conversation, and the glass in front of Ollie is filled with a liquid that looks and smells familiar enough that Roy knows this is firmly a not-for-kids kind of hangout. “—It’s not me he hates, I know that— it’s what I represent,” Ollie’s saying, all the good humour that Roy’s already gotten used to missing from his expression. “And I can’t hold that against him, you know?”

“Your mother was right that you’re too soft-hearted,” Maria answers. “At the end of the day, you’re still his employer.”

Ollie huffs. “You don’t get it.”

“¡Que va! Tell the working woman more about class consciousness, please, Mr Got-Political-at-College.” Maria laughs. “If it’s not my sympathy you want, what do you want?”

Ollie gives her a rueful smile, one hand cradling the back of his neck. “Is he right, though?”

Maria sighs. “Well, it was pretty short notice, this visit. We had to make up the guest room, the master bedroom, restock the pantry…”

“See, I didn’t even think about any of that. Feel like a jerk.”

“I don’t mind. Believe it or not, you’re a lot easier to keep up with than your parents were. Mr Johnson can be much more demanding, as a matter of fact.”

Ollie exhales, amused. “Quit talking like you’re ancient.”

Maria rolls her eyes. “Fine, I may have been but a lowly housemaid— I’m sorry, domestic assistant— when they were the bosses, it’s true, but…”

“You totally shit-talked them in Spanish back then.”

“What makes you think I don’t do the same to you, hmm?”

“Touché.” Ollie laughs into his glass.

Maria pauses, and Roy can’t be sure, from that angle, but he thinks she looks almost concerned. “I thought you quit, by the way. The drinking.”

“Hmm? Oh.” Ollie’s answering smirk is dark and bitter. “Well, I’ll just quit again.”

“…So long as you don’t find yourself thrown overboard a yacht and stranded on an island one more time…”

Ollie laughs harder. “Hey, better than this house. Every time I come back here I feel like I’m only a teenager again – at the mercy of everyone older.”

“Why did you come back?”

“Had to. Promised the kid’s grandpa. He saved my life, you know.”

Maria sighs. “Let me guess – you were drunk that time, too.”

“Probably. I don’t even know. Those years— after college and the divorce— kind of all blur together, these days.” He takes another swig of his drink, emptying the glass. “The fucking eighties… what a godforsaken decade. And it’s only gonna get worse, you know. It’s only gonna get worse and worse and worse…”

“Okay, cheery.” Maria chuckles, pulling on her coat and slipping her handbag through one arm. “I’m off to bed. Goodnight, Oliver.”

“Wait, hold on, you’re supposed to tell me what other staff you need…”

She pauses, at the other kitchen door – Roy’s not sure where that one leads, yet – and hums. “Could do with a few more cleaners… and you definitely need a shopping assistant. I’ve seen your sad attempts at reasonable budgeting.”

Ollie, having poured himself another glass, lifts it up as if in a toast. “Gotcha. Night, Maria.”

“Goodnight.”

And then Ollie turns back to brooding at the island counter with a look that Roy’s all too familiar with – it’s very like Bird.

He straightens, takes a deep breath, then crosses the threshold. “Um, hey, Ollie…”

Ollie startles, jerking his head up to meet Roy’s eyes. “Well hey, bud. What’s the matter, can’t sleep?”

Roy nods, sheepish. He has to fight the bizarre urge to toy with the hem of his shirt. “I’m… kinda not really used to sleeping all alone… so…”

“Right, right, you all share in your culture, don’t you?” Ollie makes a sucking noise with his teeth. “Forgot about that. Would it help if we moved you to the room next to mine? I could also leave my door open.”

“Oh, but I don’t wanna be too much trouble…”

“Not at all.” Ollie exhales. “Tell you the truth, you’d be helping me out, too. Would you mind switching? Since the master bedroom’s all done up and ready. I’ll take the musty one. My old room.”

Roy blinks. “How’s that help you?”

Ollie says nothing for a second, then breathes out a silent laugh. “Nothing. Sorry, I’m a little bit tipsy. Don’t make much sense.”

“Oh.”

Ollie squints at him. “Hey, you really not sleepy?” He leans forward, something eager in the squeeze of his shoulders. “Wanna go on a night-time adventure?”

Roy’s eyes go wide. “With Green Arrow?”

Ollie laughs, standing off his stool. “Let’s not jump the gun, there, Speedy. Arrow-related, though, sure.”

Roy bounces in place. “Yeah, let’s go!”

“Alright, alright. Let’s get you into something warmer, first.”

Thankfully Ollie had old boots that fit Roy fine, or else stumbling around in the dark might have been even worse. Ollie has a huge flashlight with him, but still – the forest cover on the property blocks out even the moon and stars. “Scared at all?” Ollie asks, at some point into the journey, and Roy scoffs as he shakes his head.

“Are you kidding?”

Ollie chuckles. “Hey, genuine question, wasn’t trying to insult your manhood.”

“Quit teasing.”

He punches Ollie lightly on the arm, making him dodge and laugh. “No, it’s pretty safe, though – the most you gotta worry about out here is coyotes.”

“Oh, I know how to deal with them.” Roy rolls his eyes, then cups both hands around his mouth. He sucks in a deep breath, and then he barks, once-twice-thrice, in quick succession – a perfect replica of the animal’s echoing cry that always makes it sound like more than one of them’s around.

Ollie starts. “Jesus, that’s uncanny.”

Roy laughs. “Scared?”

“Fuck you. Hey, teach me that sometime.”

“If you say the f-word to me, can I say the f-word to you, ’cause if you’re allowed but I’m not allowed on account of age reasons then that’s not really fair.”

“Very true. Matter of fact, I’m encouraging it.”

“Fuck you, then.”

Ollie chortles. “Rock on, kid.”

“How far are we going?”

“Almost there. Here, grab my hand, this part’s tricky.”

And he holds out a pale hand toward Roy. It’s warm, when Roy takes it, and firm as it clasps around his. Like it’d be impossible for Roy’s to slip out – impossible for him to fall. The thought, for some reason, makes him feel ten foot tall and bulletproof.

“Alright, history lesson time,” Ollie says. “You know what the Gold Rush was?”

“Uh, yeah, I think Bird did that in school. That’s, like, when everybody was flocking to California in search of gold mines, right?”

“Got it in one. Back in the 1850s,” Ollie corroborates. “So, then. My folks, my mother’s side of the family, that’s where their money came from. My great-great-great-grandfather, one Franklin O’Neil, struck gold out in the Mother Lode and then turned that into a roads-and-transportation business… yada, yada, yada. Point being, his kid then got the grand idea to try that for himself.”

They start to go upward, so Roy knows they’re on a small hill, now. “That’s fast-forwarding to when Star City – well, Starling City, it was back then – was first founded. After the old settlement here, Fort Plymouth, burnt to the ground during the Great Fire of 1897. Like I said – roads and transport business, so our company salivated at the chance to help rebuild that place into the city we know and love today. Twice-great-grandpa also figured it would be a smart move to buy up the sort of land that most of the mines were found on, at the same time – fertile land, plenty of water, sort of like this estate.”

“This place has been around since the 1890s?”

“Mm-hmm. Upon acquiring which, he set out mining, in secret – right where we’re standing here.”

Roy glances down at the beaming circle the flashlight makes around his feet, awed. They’re definitely on top of a hill, now.

“Unfortunately for him – and pretty fortunately for the rest of humanity – the mine turned out to be useless. The family covered it up with landscaping and such, but that also just so happened to be when World War I broke out.”

Ollie leads Roy on, and when he squints, Roy can see some kind of shed up ahead… or a barn, maybe, it’s really big.

“So – and you gotta remember, a lot of people thought that would be the war to end all wars – the family decides, hey, let’s not blow up the mine, let’s maybe use it. You know, like a bunker.” Ollie guides Roy toward the door of the probably-a-barn, grunting as he heaves the wooden latch open. Then he pushes the doors inward, and ushers Roy inside.

“Of course, subsequent generations only continued to fix it up, especially during and after World War II. Still keeping it secret obviously, else it wouldn’t be much use for selfishly protecting only one singular wealthy family, would it?” He snorts. As he shines his flashlight around, Roy can see that it’s actually a garage – an abandoned one, possibly, judging by the pointless husk of an old car that’s sitting in the centre, all the chains and hooks dangling from the ceiling, and the worktables strewn with outdated tools and parts.

“This way,” Ollie gestures, and Roy follows him to one side. He’d thought it was a boarded-up wall, but then Ollie clicks a switch on the side and metal doors slide open – an elevator, big enough to transport a car.

Ollie steps in, nudging Roy along. “Well. When I inherited the thing, I thought up some… other uses for it.” He presses a button, again, and the doors slide closed, the elevator rattling softly as it descends. “Star City’s really becoming a technological hub ’cause of our universities, you know. Met a particularly bright mind a few years ago, one William Magnus. He helped me deck this out, in exchange for funding a, uh… side project of his.”

The elevator lurches to a stop, then automatically opens. Roy’s jaw drops. The space lights itself up the second they step out as if it can sense movement – and Roy can only stare at what he’s greeted with. White worktables with what look like unfinished trick arrows on them. Panel after panel of proper ones lining the wall. Quivers in neat rows, on the floor, big enough to fit so many arrows Roy wonders if he’ll ever grow strong enough to lift them. There are even spare sets of Green Arrow costumes.

“Well, Speedy,” Ollie drawls, as he steps up to a nearby table, swipes one of those iconic green Robin-Hood-hats off it, and plops it on Roy’s head. “Welcome to headquarters.”

Chapter Text

1989

He takes another swig of gin, swaying a little as he squints down at the words carved into the tombstone in front of him. It’s kinda funny, reading the name “Brianna Stone” on an actual stone, and that makes him snort out a sort of laugh, ’cept that it’s too bitter to really be one. If she were here she’d really lay into him for that. If she were here she’d lay into him for a lot of things. But she’s not here, and he’s never been the type to buy into feel-good nonsense like souls or an afterlife, so he can’t even make believe she’s somehow watching anyway.

Begs the question of why he’d bothered to make this trip at all, of course, and he’s not sure he has an answer beyond “guilt.” Well, perhaps morbid curiosity. He’d wanted to see what happens to the vanguards of a doomed revolution when the inevitable puts them six feet under. The answer is bleak: none of Brianna’s family had shown up, because they’d cut ties with each other in the name of decency and liberation respectively. None of her later comrades had shown up either, probably having blown themselves up with homemade bombs, too. That or they’d all gone the way of Delbert, and taken off the stupid hats in favour of their real uniforms – FBI or CIA or whatever other alphabet spook had been pulling the strings all along.

All hail your dead heroes, Ollie thinks with a grim smirk.

He’d been expecting the squelching footsteps through the muddy grass that now approach him. He doesn’t bother looking up, instead swirling his bottle to gauge how much he’s got left – damn, only about another gulp or so. “Ollie?” a familiar voice calls, but he doesn’t even acknowledge that. The thing about friends, though, is they by definition won’t leave well enough alone. He never should’ve bothered with making any in the first place.

There’s a firm pat on his shoulder, sympathetic in a sombre way. “Glad you came,” Andy says, and she even sounds like she means it.

Ollie shrugs. “I watched her die.” What else was he supposed to do, abstain?

“We all did,” Andy commiserates, and through the drunken haze Ollie remembers secret identities are a thing.

He huffs, amused.

“The revolution will not be televised, but its murder sure fucking will,” Ethan says darkly, somewhere to Andy’s left.

“Murder?” Ollie scoffs. “Brianna pulled the goddamn trigger herself, and well before that became literal.”

Andy lets go of him, and he can hear Ethan sigh. “I meant metaphorically— I meant Del.”

“Oh, great, metaphors,” Ollie drawls, sarcastic. “Let me guess, you’re writing a piece on this.”

Ethan deliberately steps into his line of sight, and Ollie is forced to acknowledge the frown, the condemnatory raised eyebrow. Alongside the denim jacket, loose jeans, shoulder-length hair. God Almighty, grow up, Ollie wants to spit at him. But he doesn’t, and Ethan says, “Not fresh after her funeral, obviously, but sure – I think The Rebel Voice ought to acknowledge the government’s part in all this. She’d still be here if—”

Ollie laughs, he can’t help it. “Give me a break. There’s nothing you can say about COINTELPRO that hasn’t been said to death already, and spoiler alert? It ain’t gonna do shit, like it didn’t after all the other ‘rebel voices’ did it first. Who the fuck’s still buying your rag, anyway?”

“Told you he was gonna be Ollie about this,” Andy says dryly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ethan’s lips pull into a thin line. “The movement doesn’t end just ’cause the mainstream got bored with talking about it, brother. You of all people ought to know that.”

“Oh, my God, wake up.” Ollie grits his teeth. “You and Brianna are dragging the sad corpse of a dead revolution around like it matters. Look around you. Does it seem like the hopes we had are ever coming true? A guy we thought was our friend turned out to have been a spook pretending all along! Brianna’s dead, she’s dead.”

“Which is exactly why it matters! Talking about this is an act of witness—”

“To whom!?”

“The next generation that picks up the fight! Or are you so arrogant that you think it was ever supposed to end with us?”

“Yeah, right, them.” Ollie suspects his laughter is starting to sound almost hysterical. Oh well. “No, I’ll tell you who you’re witnessing to, smart guy. The next generation of spooks and pigs that are gonna learn from our fucking playbook, gonna know exactly how to better infiltrate and divide and field off the suckers that will pick up your so-called fight like nothing more than annoying bugs on the back of a giant beast because that’s exactly what they’ll be, Ethan, we’re on the left, we lost your fucking fight a long time ago and pathetic dreamers like you and Bri just can’t let that go— we had our chance and we blew it, pardon the pun, and we’re never gonna be allowed that much freedom ever again, they’re gonna make damn sure of that.”

“I can name a hundred events going on right now that prove you wrong. And they pulled out of Vietnam, at least we won that.”

“Then entered Panama, what’s your point?” Ollie scoffs. “See anybody protesting that? Give it time, we’ll come up with an even more bullshit war, and you ain’t gonna hear a peep from people, you know why? ’Cause they’re tired, they’re cowards, they’re brainwashed, or all three. Big Brother’s gonna keep ’em all docile with their comfortable fantasy-land, with Hollywood or the Bible. The ones brave enough, stupid enough, to start shit? They’ll just take care of them exactly how they took care of us. Execute the violent ones. Hell, execute the non-violent ones too, if they’re the wrong colour skin. Make the rest operate with a handicap of so-called ‘pacifism’ while they get to react as violently as they damn well please. When we’re all toothless, leave us to fade into obscurity somewhere among the academics, or so disincentivised we put on the suits, shave off the hair, and throw away the flower wreaths. Play the game again like good. Little. Sheep.”

“You mean like you did?”

“I’m no fucking hypocrite, brother, I mean exactly like I did.” Ollie laughs, bitter. “’Cause that’s all that’s left to do when you pick a fight with a system that fundamentally benefits you and then lose. Either commit and move to the fucking mountains, like all the true radicals did, or reintegrate, ’cause you have the option, ’cause that’s how systems work. That’s why the machine keeps turning, and that’s why we’ll never, ever, win.”

“Can I just say it’s stellar how you two are doing this over Bri’s grave?” Andy drawls. “She’d love that.”

Ethan sighs. “She’s right, Ollie. You’re drunk and we’re all in mourning. Stop.”

“How ’bout you stop, huh?” Ollie spits. “You think when I talk about whom the system benefits, I only mean myself? Get real, and go look in a mirror! If you think it’s at all meaningful what you do – your pointless pamphlets and dressing up like a sad caricature of yourself for no end other than to make sure nowhere respectable ever employs you – well, think again, buddy. ’Cause if you were doing anything that mattered? That actually threatened them in any way?” He shakes his head, staring at the grave. “You can bet you’d be down there with her now.”

“Son of a—”

Andy throws herself between them before Ethan can take a swing. “Alright, that’s enough macho posturing to last us all a lifetime. Jesus.”

“We were all friends! Comrades! You’re the one who chose to turn your back on us!”

“I had no choice! We live in two completely separate worlds! Maybe if Bri got to see the behemoth from the inside, the way I do— see how impossible it is to kill— she’d still be here right now!”

“Shut up, Ollie,” Andy grits out. “Ethan, walk it off. Go.”

Ethan goes, his posture sullen, his eyes hurt. Andy turns to Ollie, and he almost wishes she would punch him, too.

“I saw Moons,” is what she bites out instead, surprising Ollie so much the anger actually stalls for a moment. “Yeah,” Andy continues like some kind of accusation. “She’s got a kid now. Told me she bumped into you a couple years ago – Nepal or something, was it?” She shakes her head. “Funny how you love to pretend none of it mattered now, and that we’re all beating a dead horse into the ground, when according to her? You miss the old days more than any of the rest of us put together.”

Ollie takes one last swig of his drink, emptying it. “Fuck my privacy, I guess.”

Andy makes a frustrated noise. “It’s called friends being concerned about their friend, even if he is a massive asshole who cuts ties the second adult life does what it does and makes us go our separate ways, because he’s too scared to accept youth doesn’t last forever and times change.”

Ollie’s eyes flash. “Don’t pretend you have the slightest idea— you don’t— can’t know what it’s like— you really think I get to just do whatever I want— associate with whoever I want— without consequence? Now that they have me under their claws again?”

“Since when does Oliver Queen give a flying fuck about consequence?” Andy challenges. “If you did, you wouldn’t be prancing around in green tights playing bow-slinger, would you?”

Ollie stills. “How’d you—?”

Andy rolls her eyes. “Oh, sure. Brianna’s final transmission is right next to a blond Robin Hood wannabe, totally unconnected to our blond Robin Hood wannabe.”

He says nothing, prompting a sigh out of her. “If you really don’t believe in anything anymore, why’d you pick up that bow, brother? What happened on that island?”

Ollie stares down at the empty bottle in his hands. He can hear Andy shuffle. Exhale.

“Well, whatever it was, I’m glad. I’m glad it helped you find your spark again. I’ll bet it’s not easy to be forced to live your life, being who you are, and I guess Green Arrow is the only way you can fight n—” The word tapers into the beginning of a sob, but she quickly swallows it down. “—Now. But you know what? Don’t pretend it’s all roses and rainbows on this end either, okay? You know Ethan’s flat fucking broke? He’s paying for the ‘rag’ you once wrote for out of pocket. We lost Bri, and Del— apparently our friend Del never even existed. This isn’t even the only funeral I’m attending this week, Ollie! We lesbians are left to bury our gay friends when the whole world neglects— just lets them die of this virus because fuck us, am I right?”

She takes in a quivering breath. “So I get— I get that it’s hard to fight right now. That it feels impossible. But excuse me if I don’t have a lot of sympathy to spare for people who get to choose not to.” She steps in front of him, forcing him to meet her eyes. “When you say you’re afraid of consequence, all I wanna do is call you a coward. But I won’t. I won’t. Because Green Arrow is apparently a thing you’re doing, and that… gives me hope. That the Ollie Queen I know is still in there, he’s just going through some tedious identity crisis.”

Ollie swallows, tears his eyes away.

“Hey, if dressing up like Robin Hood is a step toward bringing my friend back, I’m for it. If he does show up again, let him know San Francisco ain’t that fucking far from Star City, would you?”

“Andy…”

She shakes her head. Steps closer, and gently pries the bottle out of his grip. “You hear what happened to Abbie?”

Ollie closes his eyes. Nods.

“Just don’t go down that road, that’s all I’m asking,” Andy murmurs, staring at the empty glass. “Burying your friends really fucking sucks. Now you know it, too.”

Ollie exhales a silent, bitter laugh. “I won’t.” Tried. Something spiteful up there refuses to let me.

“Good.” She nods once, curt. “Then see you some other time. And cut Ethan a cheque or something, would you? I mean, he’d probably wipe his ass with it, but the gesture itself might be nice.”

“Go home, Zercher.”

“Bunch of us are getting together to grab drinks and remember Bri the way she’d want us to, actually. Should I bother asking if you’re coming?”

Ollie glances up at her, and she chuckles, rueful.

“Thought so. Fine, then. Take care, Ollie. I mean… take it easy. Yeah? Don’t… do something stupid.”

That amuses him. He manages a hoarse, “Yeah,” to appease her, then watches her nod and turn, walk away. Watches her back disappear down the hill. He sighs, turning around to lean against the tombstone behind him. Don’t do something stupid. He’d thought Brianna was doing something stupid, something desperate, when she quit legal politics and joined the radical elements of the SDS.

Now, he imagines the weight of the bow in his hands, and thinks he finally gets it.

Early June, 1993

Ollie startles awake. What a bizarre memory to dream about, is his first thought, especially now of all times. And his second thought is – where the fuck am I?

He blinks. He’s on the floor – the cold, hard floor – and had apparently fallen asleep sitting up, back against the wall. Ugh, his neck is not gonna thank him for that, later. There’s a weird weight on his thigh, and when he glances down, he sees a little head of long, auburn hair all strewn across his lap. Oh, right. The kid. Roy’s curled up on his side, still fast asleep. Cute, Ollie chuckles to himself, idly bringing his wrist up to check the time on his watch—

Shit.

He bounces his thigh lightly. “Roy, hey, Roy, wake up.”

“Mmh?” Bleary green eyes bizarrely similar to his own glance up, hardly coherent yet.

Ollie moves, making Roy sit up with a yawn. “Okay, panic a little, we fell asleep down here and if we don’t get back to the house before Maria realises we’re not in our rooms—”

He watches the words register, Roy’s eyes fly open. “Shit!”

“Come on, come on!” Ollie half-laughs as he drags Roy by the hand toward the elevator, almost feeling twelve years old himself. They barrel down the hill, out of breath by the time they reach the house, the kitchen, a second before Maria emerges through the staff entrance, one quizzical eyebrow arched at them.

“Morning… walk…” Ollie manages through gasping breaths, by way of explanation.

Which makes Roy crack up, laughter mixed in with tortured inhales, setting Ollie off as well, and leaving Maria to stare in absolute confusion at the pair of them trying and failing to speak.

Late June, 1993

There really isn’t much he can teach Roy that Roy doesn’t know already. The kid’s a natural talent – and faster than anyone Ollie’s ever seen to boot. He’d thought he was quick, at twenty-nine arrows a minute, but Roy beats his record on the first week. After picking his jaw up off the floor, Ollie had settled on a training regimen designed to help Roy hone in on that to his advantage: lighter arrows, lighter bows. Ollie’s own are weightier, tailored for power, for impact, more than ease of draw. Sometimes Ollie forgets he’s not, in fact, also a kid, and finds himself fantasising about what their styles would be like paired together, out on the field…

Anyway. Good thing the kid’s content with the novelty of learning to shoot trick arrows, and the day-to-day of life on the estate, else Ollie would feel like the poor thing gained nothing from this trip. He doesn’t get the appeal, personally, but Roy loves the place, and doesn’t really know how to hide it. He’d even won Emma over with sheer, innocent enthusiasm. To watch the cranky old head groundskeeper, with her stiff ponytail and perpetual overalls and short, stout build, melt and turn all maternal around Roy has been equal parts hilarious and gratifying.

Her cabin used to be one of Ollie’s strategic safe havens on the property, once upon a time… he’d get sick to death of the atmosphere in the house, and tramp outside, to the tune of absolutely no one caring. Then he’d knock on her wooden door, once-twice-thrice. She’d let him in without a word, and he’d get to curl up with the dogs while she makes hot chocolate for them both…

Now there’s usually five in there, him and Emma and Roy and two new dogs, pair of Cane Corsos named Rocky and Sable. Ollie leaning against the small marble counter, with a customary mug of hot chocolate in hand, looking on in amusement as Emma talks Roy through her giant albums and logs, naming animals and pointing out spots on the estate Ollie must take Roy to. Roy might crack a joke that actually sends the old woman into fits, which is new, and one time, he’d even asked her how come a woman both beautiful and knowledgeable wasn’t married, cheek forgiven because of how cute it was coming from the little guy. Ollie hadn’t been able to stop laughing at that one. Roy’s folks are bound to have a heartbreaker on their hands in a few years…

To be honest, Roy seeing the place through fresh eyes, and seeing it his way in turn, has made it easier to stomach moving in again. Ollie doesn’t even have to use his parents’ old room, thank fuck, now that they both decided Roy gets that one. He won’t lie, he’d taken a kind of vindictive thrill in ordering the master bedroom torn apart, reupholstered for a preteen’s use. And his own room, too, where he can now hang up whatever he damn well pleases, stock the shelves with books and records he actually likes, even if he is several decades too old to actually do either.

It’s the fact that he has the option at all.

And the new memories built in there, Roy buying time, pretending he isn’t trying to stall retiring to his own room, the “important” questions he asks Ollie growing more and more nonsensical the later it gets. When he finally concedes, he double-checks that Ollie’s door would stay open, yes, kiddo, promise, sleep tight, morning always comes sooner than you think. It’s not quite enough to supplant the old memories of sulking in there, contemplating throwing himself bodily out the window, if only it wouldn’t give the downstairs staff a fright and a terrible mess to clean up…

But it comes pretty damn close.

They’re lounging by the creek, taking a break from training. Ollie can’t remember the estate ever feeling this peaceful – almost as peaceful as Pops’ homestead, almost but not quite. Roy, with his infinite energy per usual, is splashing barefoot around in the water, cooling off. “Think I’d still get lost out here on my own,” he’s saying. “It probably takes months to learn your way around beyond doubt!”

Ollie chuckles, leaning back on his arms, savouring the cool water against his ankles where he’s sitting on smooth rock. “Believe it or not, this place is on the smaller side compared to similar.”

“No way.”

“Mm-hmm. At some point we donated a good chunk to the national park. If I had it my way I’d donate it all.”

Roy stops skipping, wading toward Ollie. “Why?”

Ollie hums. “Lots of reasons, but mostly I feel weird living on so much land when the city’s staring down the barrel of a housing crisis.”

“What’s that?”

“A lot of folks don’t have a place to live.”

“Oh. That sucks.” Roy sits down beside Ollie and kicks his feet. “On Navajo Nation we don’t buy houses, we’re given them.”

“So I hear. Good system, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Ollie nods, heart heavy. “Would that we all wised up that way, kid.”

“Yeah, wish there was something we could do to help out without the estate bosses getting mad.”

“Estate bosses.” Ollie chuckles. “Like mafia dons. I like that.”

Roy grins, delighted. Ollie reaches a hand out and ruffles his hair, an impulse that’s new but very frequent of late.

“Say, you wanna help out for real? I’m still not letting you come with me on patrol, but—”

Roy perks up, making Ollie laugh.

“—Lemme finish! You can tag along to help pass blankets and pillows around for our unhoused citizens sometime, if that doesn’t sound too boring.”

Roy squints. “Do we still get to take the Arrowcar?”

“So we’re just calling it that now, huh.”

“Ooh! Do I get a codename? And a costume?”

“Guess you’ll need one to be out with me.” Ollie rubs his chin. “Well, costume-wise, I just happened to be dressed up like my favourite folk hero, Robin Hood, when the press caught me fighting goons for the first time.”

“I know! I read it in the fanzines.”

Ollie chuckles. “You got any heroes like that?”

Roy nods, eager. “Billy the Kid.”

“Aah. Fastest arrow in the West, eh?” Ollie smiles. “Too bad he doesn’t really come with an iconic look.”

“Why can’t I just dress like you?”

“Hmm, potential…” Ollie shrugs. “We’ll workshop it.”

“Cool. Hey, do you ever camp out here for fun?”

Ollie turns to look at him, eyes twinkling. “You wanna?”

“Heck yeah!” Roy bounces in place. “If I were you I’d do that every night.”

Ollie wraps an arm around his shoulder, yanking him close in a playful, loose headlock that has Roy laughing and squirming at the same time. “Not as much fun alone.”

Mid-July, 1993

“—Further investigation, we were able to confirm that they were indeed under the employ of Big Dipper. Their lawyers have reached out, and stressed that they would be willing to settle out of court.” Effie shuts her little folder with a quiet thump. “Good for you, sir.”

“Neat.” Ollie idly catches the ball he’d woven out of rubber bands during a particularly tedious board meeting as it falls from where he’d tossed it in the air. “What I still don’t get, though, is why they bothered spending money for corporate espionage on a company with no trade secrets…”

“Well, Dipper is trying to break Silicon Valley, I believe.” Effie adjusts her glasses. “In which case it’s likely to be QCore-related, isn’t it?”

Ollie frowns. “There is no QCore yet…”

“Precisely.” Effie gestures with her hand. “It’s been a few years now, since your bombastic announcement that you were dissolving all our defence contracts and our arms subsidiary – that you planned on investing in tech, in QCore, instead. And since then… silence. No offence, Mr Queen, but that would give anybody the impression that, well, something was being kept under wraps…”

Ollie winces. In all honesty, he hasn’t figured out what QCore is supposed to be yet, but he’s not about to say that out loud. Not that Effie isn’t likely to have guessed already.

“Ah… well.” He clears his throat. “We don’t wanna just be the next NeXT or— whatever Microsoft’s doing, you know? It’s in our best interests to take our time on something, uh, unique.”

Effie shrugs. “None of my business. You’re the boss.”

“…The board hasn’t asked about the delay, right?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Do you want me to let you know as soon as I hear something along those lines?”

“Please. You’re a gem.”

She smiles, shaking her head. “Just as long as it reflects on my paycheque, sir. Have a good day.”

“See you tomorrow…”

As soon as she steps out of his office, Ollie drops his legs from his desk, replaces them with his elbows, and groans into his hands. Fuck. He’d been running from it – literally, hopping aimlessly from one country to another. He honestly spends barely half his year in Star – which is still, somehow, an improvement from how long he’d stay away before he had to take over the CEO chair at QI. He wishes he had someone he could talk to, someone he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he could trust. Hackett had been that, before the whole murder attempt situation. Now whom did he have? Wilson? Nice enough, but you can never be too wary…

He stares at the phone on his desk. Call someone? Who’d get it? Bruce Wayne? He snorts, no, he’s not putting himself through that again. Ted Kord? Doesn’t know him all that well…

Pinching the bridge of his nose with a longsuffering sigh, he decides he has no choice but to bite the bullet, call the person he wants to call. He picks up the phone, feeling a little disgruntled, like he’d lost some kind of holding-out challenge, as he dials the by-now familiar number. It’s only that they’d met up barely a couple months ago. Too soon to call again, Ollie frowns, he’ll start to think Ollie actually wants to nurture their friendship, or something. The thought almost makes him hang up, but then the call connects.

“Yellow.”

Ollie sighs again, defeated. “I got a situation, but it’s completely unrelated to the Greens.”

“Oh, hey, Ollie,” Hal greets on the other end. “Hold on, let me set you down and figure out the hands-free on this thing…”

“What? Why?”

Hal huffs, half-exasperated. “Some of us are still busy at the job at two in the afternoon, Mr Boss-man.”

“Huh. When’s your lunch? I can call back.”

“No, you’re fine.” Hal sounds a little farther away now, and there’s the sound of metal dragging against cement, tools clicking and clacking. “What’s the problem?”

“…Honestly, I don’t know why I’m telling you except that you were there,” Ollie starts, regretting this already. “But… you remember after Minglia, when I decided QI wasn’t gonna be involved in conflicts like that anymore?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, you know, obviously I had to get the board on board, right? So I sold them this whole… spiel… about our ethics and blah, blah, blah… I even showed them the most horrific of our footage from the warzone…”

“Naturally.”

“But – while that did affect certain sensibilities – it’s really not enough to sell everybody on writing off our very fat military paycheques just because, know what I mean?”

“Mm-hmm, yeah.”

Ollie exhales. “I had to give them something else. Some alternative to justify the loss. So, I said we oughta rebrand with a tech subsidiary. QCore. Gave ’em this whole bullshit history lesson on how our company has always been caught on the back foot, right, only barely catching up to everybody else, and now Apple’s doing its thing basically in our backyard, so why can’t we do what they’re doing… you get the gist.”

“Yup.”

“I can be pretty persuasive when I wanna be.”

“I’m well aware.”

“Oversold it. They bought it hook, line, and sinker.”

“Hold on,” and there’s slight incredulity in Hal’s tone that tells Ollie he caught on. “Are you trying to say you didn’t actually…?”

“…Have an idea for a new venture?” Ollie passes his free hand over his face. “…Yeah.”

“Damn.” Hal laughs a little. “And it’s been, what, three years since Minglia?”

“Two and a bit.” Ollie winces. Funny, it always feels like he’s known Hal longer than that. “So, yeah, that’s uh… that’s the situation…”

“Quite a pickle. Would it help to talk to Carol about this, maybe? She’d definitely know better than I do.”

Ollie blinks. “Carol… Ferris? Your boss’s kid?”

“She runs the show now, actually. You know her?”

“I mean, of course, we all kinda know each other vaguely.” Ollie rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, met a couple of times… think she also went to my sister school.”

“You have a sister?”

“No, a sister school, like when a boys’ school and a girls’ school— never mind. Sure, what the hell, why not. Think you could put a word in so it doesn’t come out of nowhere when I reach out?”

“Yup, I got you. Exactly what I was thinking.”

“Thanks, pal.”

“Don’t hit on her.”

Ollie snorts, rolls his eyes. “Oh, of course that’s how it is. Isn’t dating your boss a little unethical?”

“Isn’t lying to your shareholders about a non-existent project—?”

“Fuck you.”

Hal laughs. “Wait, so this means you’re not abroad right now, right? Are you in Star?”

“Oh, yeah. Long story. There’s this kid. You should visit.”

“Count on it. What kid?”

Ollie makes a dismissive noise, noticing someone approach his office through the glass by the door. “I’ll catch you up. Also I don’t live where I did. Send you the address later.”

“Sure?” —And Ollie hangs up on Hal’s bewildered tone. Before the familiar, stout figure can start knocking on the door, Ollie calls, “Come in.”

“Afternoon,” Wilson says with his usual barely-there smile as he enters, closes the door behind himself. “Pardon me coming in person, but you did say this was to be handled with discretion…”

“Oh, the lawyer thing?” Ollie straightens his back. “What d’you got for me?”

Wilson clears his throat, tilting his head side-to-side, like, so-so. “You said you didn’t want to replace Wendell, yes? Meaning you’d prefer someone just as… discretionary, cutthroat, and—”

“Loyal,” Ollie emphasises, with one arched eyebrow. “I don’t want some sucker that’s likely to get sweet-talked by the board – or worse, my family. If I’m gonna have a personal lawyer on my payroll, they’d better be my personal lawyer. ’Specially since the decision to cut all our defence ties after Minglia wasn’t exactly universally welcomed. I have a feeling I just might actually need a good lawyer sometime soon.”

Wilson nods, fiddling with his collar. “Well, then I have good news and bad news. The good news is I have definitely located a candidate that fits the bill, and he’d be more than interested to hop on the team, such as it is…”

Ollie chuckles. “It’s just you, me, maybe like two people on my house staff, and Effie, Stan, and I’m not convinced you won’t turn snake the next time I forget to put the laundry out.”

“Touché.” Wilson points an acknowledging finger at him. “And the bad news is also possibly good news, depending on how you look at it? This man has never lost a case, but. He’s also generally known for his cover-ups, Oliver. If you have any skeletons in your closet, he’s the man to bury them, and bury them well. With any other employer, I would be more than happy to recommend those credentials. But since I’m talking to you…”

“…Ah.” Ollie toys with the click pen in his hand.

Wilson sighs. “This is why you should never have approached me as a friend,” he laments, sarcastic. “I can’t make objective, professional decisions now.”

“Aw, come on, Bruce Wayne and his butler are like father and son,” Ollie laughs half-heartedly. “Okay, let’s hear it, what’s your professional opinion?”

“He always wins, and discretion is his specialty. It’s an excellent investment, particularly since you’re anticipating conflict…”

“And your personal one?”

Wilson shakes his head. “I’m just not sure that either of us want to know what his own skeletons are.”

“Mm.” Ollie nods slowly. “How annoying are Dan’s people being about me hiring somebody soon?”

“Oh, you can count on me to field them off.” Wilson scoffs, dismissive. “Are you saying you’d like more time?”

“Not at the cost of Dan or my uncle hiring someone on my behalf, though. I’d never be able to trust their guy, no matter how much sleazier ours might turn out to be.”

“Understood.” Wilson nods, curt and professional. “I can more than handle the estate office, and I’ll keep looking in case a less controversial candidate turns up.”

Ollie smiles. “How much am I paying you again? Ought to double it.”

“You really do.” Wilson straightens like he’s just remembered something. “What is all this I’m hearing about my position being changed to personal secretary?”

Ollie half-groans, sheepish. “Come on, they wanted me to give ’em a name and I don’t trust anybody else.”

“You do know I actually have a hospitality degree that qualifies me as a butler or other head of staff, yes? I’m emphasising head.”

Ollie goes for the innocent look. “Can’t you be both?”

Wilson sighs, longsuffering. “You can change my duties and not my title, will that suffice?”

“Deal.” Ollie grins.

Shaking his head in exasperation, Wilson leaves the office, with a parting promise that he’ll keep Ollie up to date on the lawyer situation. Exhausted, Ollie figures it’s a good enough time to wrap up for the day and head home. Which has always been his favourite part of the days he’s actually required to show up at the office, even if that’s hardly twice or thrice a month, but lately he’s been looking forward to this even more. Bizarre, considering it’s his childhood prison— home he’s returning to, but…

He gets there. He doesn’t bother using the front door, instead getting out of his car and jogging up toward the main entrance to the staff wing, which is conveniently in the garage. It opens into the narrow hall, a dormitory kind of vibe with doors on either side, and then he follows that down to the staff kitchen at the end. There’s laughter and conversation coming out of there already, a homey little symphony, and Ollie peers around the threshold to Roy, Maria, and Alejandro, one of the groundskeepers, making something together, conversing in animated Spanish. He smiles.

“Hey!”

Roy, kneeling on a chair to watch Maria and her rolling-pin on the countertop, turns quickly, like an overeager pup. “You’re back!”

“What’s cooking?”

Maria gives him a lazy grin of her own. “Roy was telling me how his mom makes tortillas, we’re trying to recreate it.”

“She’s my aunt, actually.” When Ollie gets close enough, Roy leans up higher on the chair and winds both his arms around his shoulders, forcing Ollie to pick him up, piggyback-style.

“Oof. You are way too tall for this,” Ollie chuckles, but obliges, Roy’s own laughter full of mischievous glee.

“Suffer.”

“Mm, very smart move to pull on the guy that’s holding your new quiver hostage…”

Roy bounces, excited, making Ollie go, “Ow!” between a laugh at the weight.

“It’s ready!?”

“Yup, and you tell your ma it’s an early birthday present, no takebacks allowed.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Hey, Alejandro, put on some music, would ya?”

“Got it,” the young man replies, turning on the radio beside him. Ollie’s not familiar with the tune, but Roy is, singing along loudly – kid’s got a heck of a voice on top of all his other talents.

Ollie closes his eyes for a second just so he can savour it, the sound of contentment.

Mid-August, 1993

The “Arrowcar” – and the name’s growing on him, honestly – makes the usual turn at the exit into, seemingly, woodland, and then drives on until it reaches a “no trespassing” sign in the middle of the forest. Ollie drives on past it, up to what looks like a rusty old gate. When the car trips over the sensors by getting so close to the gate, there’s a hair’s breadth between the bumper and the iron, however, it automatically slides open to let him in. Then it’s only a matter of driving in and upwards into their base, the gate closing behind them silently.

“You know,” Roy says, hopping out of the passenger side, “When I imagined Green Arrow’s adventures, I never figured buying old people’s groceries for them into it.”

“Well, get used to a lot of that,” Ollie drawls, amused. “Crimes and disasters aren’t an everyday thing, you know. How’d you like the fit of that costume?”

“’S’neat. Tell me who I’m supposed to be again?”

“Will Scarlet! Have you not seen the Robin Hood movie? The one with Errol Flynn?”

“Nope.” Roy grins, bounces. “Movie night?”

“Movie seminar,” Ollie says, exaggerating indignation. “Fastest to change gets to pick the snack—”

And Roy’s out of his new red tunic at lightning speed, making Ollie laugh.

Once they’re in civvies again, they stroll down the hill and toward the house together. It’s past dinnertime, so the house will be empty, Maria having long retired to her room, or out visiting. Ollie had told her they were going hiking. Sure enough, only the halls are lit up when the pair of them get closer.

Ollie opens the door. “You wanna shower or eat first?” he asks absently, shucking off his outdoors shoes.

“There’s mail,” Roy says instead, nodding at two envelopes resting on the nearby cabinet.

Ollie hums and walks over, picking them up. He notes the Arizona address, and smiles as he turns and waves them at Roy.

“Yours, kiddo.”

“From home?” Roy asks eagerly, rushing over and grabbing them out of Ollie’s hands. His eyes scan the backs, then he makes a puzzled noise, returning one to Ollie. “This one has your name? Mine’s in Navajo, yours is in English…”

“Oh. Huh.” Ollie blinks, taking it back, and Roy’s right. “Wonder what your folks want with me.”

“Probably inviting you to come stay over sometime.” Roy smiles. “’Kay, can I read mine upstairs, and then I’m gonna take a shower real quick?”

“Knock yourself out, I’ll heat up dinner,” Ollie concedes, watching Roy dash up the stairs, taking his letter with him.

He makes his own way toward the kitchen, idly turning on the lights with one hand, the other twisting the envelope around between two fingers. As he checks on the slow cooker and decides to leave it be for a few more minutes, he sits down at the island counter and rips the paper open. It’s a letter, alright, all in neat, old-fashioned cursive. Big Bow’s legal name is signed at the end.

Oliver, it begins, and Ollie settles down to read.

And he stills. Starts again, brow furrowing. He’d read right, but he couldn’t have. He starts over once more—

—The unavoidable truth is that the cancer is killing me. As a matter of fact I’m certain that by the time this reaches you, I will be gone. I couldn’t bear to have Roy watch that. He’s so young and has lost so very much already. I have also explained this to him in his own letter, in words he’s more likely to understand. But this message is just for you. I am so sorry, and I urge you in the name of your debt to me, please take care of him. Enclosed is all the documentation you might need, for legal purposes. If this decision of mine enrages you on his behalf, then I know I have chosen the right guardian for my—

Feeling as though all the blood has drained out of his body, Ollie leaps to his feet, runs out of the kitchen, thunders up the stairs, throws Roy’s bedroom door open—

Too late. Roy’s standing in the middle of the room, lost, two hands clenching paper tightly. He’s literally frozen, shaking all over. “Shit, Roy,” is all Ollie can say, rushing forward, and dropping to his knees. Helpless, he places both hands on Roy’s shoulders. Roy turns to look at him, completely blanched, eyes wide with shock.

“O-Ollie, I don’t understand,” he manages. “I don’t understand…”

Ollie pulls him close, holds him tight, clenching his own eyes shut at the sound of hitched breathing, the sensation of Roy’s entire body trembling, how his hands are just frozen in place.

“He said I can’t go home— he said he loves me, but I can’t go home,” Roy gets out, sounding completely dazed. “I don’t— what does that mean, I— no, this isn’t happening, this isn’t real—”

Ollie doesn’t know what to do – can only rub Roy’s back, and let him cry into his shoulder, sobs so loud and petrified they break his own heart. “We’ll fix it— we’ll fix it,” he manages, though he isn’t even sure how. “You’re gonna be okay. Hey, you’re gonna be okay…”

Minutes later and Maria’s up at the house again, hugging Roy against her on the living room couch while Ollie paces back and forth, yelling into the phone – Roy’s family doesn’t own one, but he could call their chapter house, not that it’s been very fruitful – they confirm Big Bow’s passing at the very least, and Ollie can only stare at the weeping little body huddled against Maria, lost for words. “No, no, fuck this,” he grits out, hanging up after yet again being unable to get a hold of Roy’s aunt or cousins. “We fly back first thing tomorrow. Kid, I promise, we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“I can’t,” Roy sobs, making Maria hold him tighter, her own eyes glistening. “He said not to. Th-They probably don’t even want me back…”

“Hey, no.” Worried, Ollie squats down in front of the couch and caresses his hair. “Your family loves you…”

“No— no, I cost too much and I’m bad luck—”

“The letter didn’t say that, did it?”

Roy shakes his head roughly, flinching like the movement hurts, mumbling something in a language Ollie doesn’t understand.

“How could—?” Maria clears her throat, swallowing down the same anger Ollie knows must be mirrored in his own eyes. “You know what, it’s late, so much has happened, how about you go get some rest, hmm, cariño? I know, I know it’s hard, but we will get through this together, and we must wait for morning before jumping to any conclusions…”

“Help me get him up to my room,” Ollie manages, and Maria nods, short and understanding. Ollie doesn’t get a wink of sleep all night, helplessly bent over the sleeping body on his bed – passed out from sheer grief and exhaustion.

It takes hold, come the next morning. Roy can’t get out of Ollie’s bed, can barely eat a crumb. Ollie tries to tempt him with everything Roy’s liked of his cooking so far, but it’s no use, and Ollie can only hover, holding aimless, rambling one-sided conversations he hopes are more comforting than a nuisance. Roy’s responses are few and far between, and at some point he mumbles a phrase that sounds something like “ghost sickness.” After which he bursts into tears without explanation, leaving Ollie to hold onto his shoulder, lost for what else to do.

He cries himself to sleep again late in the afternoon. Maria peers in, looking as worried as Ollie feels. “Do you want me to stay with him? You ought to get some rest, too.”

“I’m fine,” Ollie murmurs, grim. “Did you ever figure out that recipe he wanted? I could try that… or would it just upset him worse?”

“Oliver, please, a little nap can only help you both,” Maria insists, and drags him out of the room by the arm. As soon as his head hits the pillow in the bedroom adjacent, he drifts off, unaware of how exhausted he’d been until that second. Bad call – he ends up passing out for quite a while, and the next thing he knows, someone’s shaking him urgently.

“Roy,” is the first thing Maria says. It’s all that’s needed to send Ollie’s eyes flying open, make him rush to the room next door.

Roy’s not there.

“I can’t find him— I searched the whole house,” Maria says, beseeching. “I’m sorry, I only stepped into the kitchen for a minute, and—”

Ollie isn’t even listening anymore, hurrying to his closet, grabbing a thick coat and a flashlight. “Get Emma and the security guys on the phone, let ’em know. You wait here in case he returns.”

“You think he’s still on the grounds?”

Ollie huffs, half-bitter, half-amused. “How many times have I tried running away from here, Maria?”

And he thunders down the stairs, out into the twilit lawn.

The part of him that he could never quite get out of that house, no matter how many states, countries, or continents apart he tries to move it, knows exactly where to go, following an ancient, loaded path through grass, up hills, and past wood. You can’t get off the property the usual way, through the front gates, because there’s the security booth and he’s just gonna send you right back inside. No, you trudge on in the opposite direction, clinging to the hope that the place must end somewhere. The pain must end somewhere.

“Roy!” Ollie shouts as loud as he can.

(What are you, stupid? Is the only thing his father had said to him when they’d found him.)

“Roy, can you hear me!?”

(He caught pneumonia from being out all night. No one spoke about it again.)

“Roy!”

(God in heaven, how old are these trees? How many sobbing footfalls have they watched, apathetic, trying to escape them?)

“R—” and he pauses, ears perking at the sound of quiet weeping.

He swirls his flashlight in the direction of the noise, following, sharp. Eventually the circle of light lands on a huddled-up figure beneath a giant oak, and the relief that floods Ollie is so violent it’s all he can do not to drop to his knees. “Thank God,” he gasps, rushing toward the boy. Roy’s teary face glancing up at him is the last thing he sees before he envelops him in a tight hug.

“Lemme go,” Roy sobs, “I have to go!”

“No, you don’t.” Ollie holds him tighter. “If you can’t go back, you can stay right here, kiddo, I promise. I promise.”

“I can’t!” Roy protests wetly. “It’s my fault shicheii died. I’m bad luck. Y-You’re gonna get hurt, too.”

“Listen to me.” Ollie pulls away, holding Roy firmly by the shoulders, looking straight into his eyes. “You wanna talk to me about luck, kid, I watched my parents get killed by a pack of lionesses and lived to tell the tale. I made it out of a deserted island. I can’t even count the number of times people have tried to murder me and failed.” Myself included. He cups Roy’s head. “You are not bad luck. And if you were, I say try me.”

Roy’s face twists in pain, and he lurches forward, throwing both arms around Ollie’s shoulders. “What’s gonna happen to me?”

Ollie shuts his eyes in sympathetic grief, rubbing his back. “You’ll stay right here. And I’m gonna take care of you. If you’ll let me, I’m gonna be your family now.”

“What if they don’t let you keep me?”

And he’s not sure if Roy means the law, his own relatives, or Ollie’s. But he can feel an old, familiar fire rekindling in his chest he hasn’t felt since college, making his lips thin, eyes narrow, and hands around Roy tighten.

“I’d like to see them try,” he challenges.

Chapter Text

At first it’s the dream again. Same light. Same trees. Same shoulders. And then the hands turning Roy’s world upside down suddenly change, pale to brown, smooth to calloused. There are two voices speaking in tandem, stay, I’ll be back for you. Two hands petting his head, two sets of footsteps walking away, a familiar, tired old silhouette against billowing flames in the distance, the smoke choking him and Roy yells don’t stand there shicheii you’re gonna die—!

He gasps awake again, fighting for breath. There’s a split second of panic where he doesn’t recognise his surroundings, and then sense returns, and Roy deflates against Ollie’s bed. He’s… cold. No other way to put it. Star City was always colder than home, he knows that, but this is the first time it feels like it, almost right down to his bones.

Tears spring to his eyes. Tired of this already, Roy viciously wipes them away with a drag of one sleeve. There’s an urgent feeling bubbling up in his chest, like he wants to scream, but instead, he shoves the bedsheets aside like they’d personally wronged him and hops onto the floor. The curtains are drawn, but he can tell it’s not night-time anymore. Other than that, he doesn’t know what day it is, let alone when.

He trudges out of the bedroom, listening for voices. Thankfully, he can hear conversation almost immediately, and he crosses the hallway to the top of the staircase. He’s just about tall enough to look over the railing, peer down to the heads in the foyer below – Ollie’s blond curls, Wilson’s patch of balding. And then someone Roy doesn’t know. He’s also blond, though a lighter shade.

“—Trust me to get it done right,” the stranger’s saying in a voice so cheerful he sounds like something out of a TV ad, a man trying to sell a product. “You leave the documentation with me and this’ll be such smooth sailing you wouldn’t even remember legalities are involved here.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” says Ollie, sounding grim. “I don’t just want the guardianship in name, you catch my drift? I need an absolutely iron guarantee that Roy gets the same status as any blood relation of this family, with everything that entails. A trust fund of his own at the least.”

“Ah, you think that’d be met with some sort of pushback?”

“I don’t just think, I know.” Ollie exhales. “So can you do it, or do we hire someone else?”

The stranger laughs indulgently. “Ollie – can I call you Ollie? – do you remember the scandal that broke a couple years ago, when Scott Vandenberg cheated on his wife?”

“Vaguely…”

“Divorce never even made the tabloids and he got to marry his mistress within the year. No one would dare challenge the new missus’s claim to the house or her fair share of the money – and I do mean literally. There’d be quite the court battle if anyone did. You follow?”

“And you made that happen?”

“I made that happen.”

A pregnant pause. Roy lifts his chin off the railing and begins to walk downstairs, half-aimlessly.

“Incontestable guardianship rights and a trust fund so secure, even I shouldn’t be able to touch it,” Ollie says again. “And no cap. I don’t want anyone else to get a say in how much Roy does or doesn’t have.”

“Too easy,” the stranger assures. “Once that’s in the bag, we can work our way up to getting him more. But can I ask why you don’t just adopt the kid? That would make a… transfer of assets a lot easier. Not that this is impossible as is, of course.”

Ollie sighs. “I would if I could. It’s just that I’m not convinced he’s really been abandoned. Something’s off, here. ’Least a guardianship will give the family time should something come up and it turns out they got played. Doesn’t feel right for me to butt in out of nowhere if he’s still got living relatives, you know what I mean?”

“Well, if time’s what you want, a guardianship’s perfect. Gives his relatives until he turns eighteen.”

Roy gets close enough to be noticed, at this point, hovering there on the landing. He can sense the heads turning toward him without even looking, and Ollie stretches one beckoning hand out.

“Hey, bud. Good sleep?” he asks as soon as Roy slogs over and tucks himself under Ollie’s arm. “You know Wilson, and this here’s—”

“Conrad Miller,” the stranger introduces himself, bending to Roy’s height, shaking his hand. He has a broad face, almost square, and his smile is so canny it for some reason makes Roy think of the coyotes back home. “Your new guardian’s new lawyer. You must be Roy. Tell me something, Roy – you wanna stay with Oliver here? Become part of this family?”

Confused and more than a little wary, Roy presses closer to Ollie’s side, nodding once.

“Yeah?”

“Well, then you’re gonna.” Conrad winks. “You are now one of the very lucky boys who get absolutely anything they want. And I’m the magic man that makes sure of it.”

With this vaguely ominous statement, he straightens, his grin unwavering. “I’m sure you’ll want some quality time – me and Wilson can sort out the rest. If you could just give me the details of any past run-ins you might have had with the law, Ollie, just to make sure they won’t be obstacles to your getting custody.”

Roy’s head shoots up, a little worried, but Ollie doesn’t seem fazed. “There were mass arrests at a few protests I took part in, back when I was in college.”

“Any charges?”

“None that stuck.”

“Might as well have never happened.”

“Okay, how about a DUI?”

“Just the one?”

“Yeah.”

“No problem. Oh, these college protests – were you acting on your own, or as part of some organisation?”

Now Ollie frowns. “Why, could that be an issue?”

Conrad lifts a shoulder, up then down. “Depends on the organisation.”

“SDS – same as half the student body.”

“In a leadership capacity?”

“No.”

“Underground?”

“Not even a little.”

“You’re fine.” Conrad gives him an amiable pat on the arm, then Roy. “Not like you were with the Panthers, huh? Come on, Wilson, let’s chat.”

“That’s not funny,” Ollie grits out even as Conrad makes for the living room, already out of earshot. Wilson, with a sheepish air, pauses to give Roy a kind smile and a squeeze on the shoulder.

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Roy.”

“Thank you,” Roy manages hoarsely. Wilson’s smile goes taut like a rubber-band stretched too far and then he turns, follows after Conrad. Roy watches the living room door close behind them, feeling far away, like it’s playing out on a movie screen. Only Ollie’s hand running through his hair keeps him somewhat present.

“You hungry yet?”

Roy shakes his head no, but he can’t help turning pleading eyes up at Ollie, though he’s not sure what it is he wants. It makes Ollie uncomfortable, Roy can tell. His eyes shift like it hurts him to meet his, then return, then shift again. There’s concern in the furrow of his brow, but also tension seizing up his body, making the pat he eventually settles on giving Roy mechanical, awkward.

“Listen, kiddo,” he tries, “Are you sure you don’t want us to fly back, just for a bit, just to see what’s up? I mean, there must have been some sort of funeral, or—”

Roy flinches. “Stop talking about him.” If they’re not careful, they’ll end up binding Cheii’s spirit to this realm forever. And he hadn’t been around long enough to teach Roy how to handle that – how to grieve right, exorcise his chʼį́įdii, help him pass on. Maybe he’d taught Bird, he thinks. Maybe there’s some new hataałii already, helping Cheii cross over.

And it isn’t Roy. Will never be Roy again. There’s a sudden ache in his heart as Roy wishes he could hear Cheii’s teachings one last time, could tell him he does want to take over this trade after all. He shakes his head, as though that would get the thought out too. Now he’s the one holding Cheii’s memory behind.

“I get if you don’t want me here, but say it straight,” he manages, unable to explain any of this to this bilagáana.

Ollie clutches his shoulder, turning him around with an earnest look in his eyes. “That is not what I meant,” he promises. “I’m fighting tooth and nail to let ya. I’m just not sure how else to…” He trails off with a quiet sigh, squats down as his hands slip from Roy’s shoulders down to his arms. “We don’t have to go anywhere if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t,” Roy lies, because Ollie wouldn’t understand if he says it truthfully, says he can’t.

“Alright.” Ollie’s voice gentles as he nods, sighing again. “Look, um…” He falters, turning away. “What I mean is…” He sucks in a deep breath, meets Roy’s eyes. “You know what, how about we go take a walk, get some air? Do you good. If you’re up for it.”

“Okay,” Roy nods, letting Ollie loop an arm around his shoulder as he stands, steers him toward the door.

They step out onto the grass in silence. Roy has to admit the sound of the wind rustling through the trees, birds chirping at each other, is oddly calming. Ollie clears his throat. “You know, uh… I was pretty close to my grandpa, too. My mama’s dad.” When Roy glances up at him, he finds him squinting ahead at nothing. “Didn’t live out here. They had— have— a homestead in Arkansas, and… every other summer we’d go.” He pauses for so long Roy had almost thought the tangent ended there, but then he picks up again with a world-weary exhale. “Yeah, I loved it there. My… well, my dad didn’t like it a lot, so often he’d call it quits barely a week into the vacation and then it’d just be me and my mama and my uncles and Pops – my granddad, that’s what everybody called him.”

He’s smiling to himself, Roy notes, if barely. “By, uh… by the time my parents died, he wasn’t… in full possession of his faculties anymore, you understand what I mean?”

Roy makes a sound of agreement – Sani, their oldest neighbour on the reservation, had gotten that way too, confusing Roy for her fully grown son – and Ollie nods.

“I had to go live with my uncle instead – my dad’s brother, that is – and then boarding school. And then Pops died, but I was in boarding school, so I couldn’t go.”

Roy averts his gaze to his shoes. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, that’s okay. My point in telling you this, is… well, funerals and things… humans invented them for a reason. You know? It’s… it’s really important. To grieve.” He squeezes Roy’s shoulder. “You feeling up to going all the way to our secret garden?” Their little joke, a play on the book Roy had loved from the second-floor library. Roy nods yes, and they head up the usual hill.

Eventually they’re entering the garage above their base below, stepping into the elevator. It spits them out into the all-white room, and rather than letting Roy run free, for once, Ollie leads him toward one of the corner worktables, the ones that have drawers. “Just a sec,” he says as he unlocks one, yanks it open. He pulls something out, then turns and walks over to Roy again.

Roy can tell from the shape of it that it’s a knife, even though the blade is hidden under a leather sheath. “When I got home, they gave me some of Pops’s things,” Ollie says. “He’d left me this especially – it’s a fixed-blade knife from when he was in the military.” Ollie unsheathes it, and it gleams like it gets polished regularly. “Not his favourite. That’d be the hunting knife he got from his own pops, and so on. But if there was one thing we disagreed on, it was killing animals for no darned reason, so I guess he didn’t see the sense in giving me that.” He chuckles lowly.

Roy’s anticipating it when Ollie holds the knife out to him, handle first. He lurches backward, shaking his head firmly. “We don’t keep the dead’s belongings.”

“Oh, so it’s a cultural thing, is it?” Ollie hums, nodding absently. He puts the knife back into the drawer, slides it closed again. “Sorry about that.”

“…Okay.”

Ollie leans against the table, crossing his arms. “You know how to make your own equipment, Roy?”

“Yeah.” Roy nods, feeling his eyes sting again, and he shuffles from one foot to the other, blinking up at the ceiling, fighting back tears. “Shicheii… shicheii taught me.”

“Yeah, I guessed as much.” Ollie sniffs. “Pops taught me, too. A survival bow and arrows, out of nothing but that knife and what Mother Nature deigned to provide.” He smiles to himself. “Pops was always saying how people were getting way too comfortable having machines do all the work, and how important it was to work with your own hands. How it tethers you to your body, and whatnot.” He shakes his head, fond, like he’s remembering an inside joke. “Was always taking digs at me and my mama for having other people wait on us ‘hand and foot’ too. Which is doubly funny, ’cause if there was anybody in this house that knew how to take care of ourselves, it was me and— ah, I’m rambling, though. Um— what I was gonna say, was…”

He pauses, that look of discomfort returning. Leans off the table slightly, kicking one leg back and forth. “For reasons I couldn’t articulate, at the time, I spent ages just carving one arrow after the other, the very day I got home from school and they gave me this knife.” Roy can see him visibly swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I know now it was my way of… I suppose it can be called paying tribute. I honestly think that’s why we have funerals and death rites and the like. You gotta… you gotta take a moment to honour them, and then… then it’s a tiny bit easier to let go. Trust me.”

Roy stares at the floor through blurred vision, then up at Ollie again, watching him rub the back of his neck in a bizarrely nervous gesture, by his standards.

“I thought… well, you clearly have your reasons for not wanting to go back and pay respects that way, and I won’t probe, I won’t overstep. But I wanted to show you there’s other ways too, if you feel like maybe doing something like that might help. If you want, we can go pick up some deadwood and feathers and put ourselves to work. Or if not, and you wanna try something else, that’s fine, too. You… you just let me know.”

Roy swallows around the lump in his throat. It’s hard to hear anyone talk about death this freely, but it’s obvious Ollie means well, endearing how hard he’s trying. And Roy’s grateful, can’t help wanting to throw him a bone. In a sense an activity like this is more about Cheii’s life than his death, anyway. “Maybe… maybe I could show you the way shicheii taught me to do it,” he offers. “And then you could show me how your grandpa taught you.”

Ollie smiles, both sympathy and relief in it, one hand still cupping the back of his neck. “I’d be honoured, kiddo.” He straightens. “Lead the way.”

Later, Roy manages to accost Maria before she retires for the night, asks for her help because she’s known Apache, she’d told him so, and is therefore likelier to understand. They sneak away when Ollie falls asleep, and Alejandro goes too, and they burn up Cheii’s letter and the wristband he’d given Roy and Roy cries while they go up in smoke but never again.

The rest of the summer is a complete blur. They go to court exactly once, parade Cheii’s letter to Ollie and the stipulation in his will that Roy belongs in his care and Má’s written consent in front of Roy so impersonally he feels like livestock being traded simple as that. And then they don’t make him go again, but people come over to ask him lots and lots of questions and “evaluate” the estate and interrogate Ollie like he’s some sort of criminal before disappearing as suddenly as they come, though Ollie says they can be expected to show up every once in a while from now on – Roy can’t help wondering, tangentially, if that’s why he hasn’t seen Ollie down a single drink since this all started.

Ollie puts up his penthouse and moves into the estate for real, which means Wilson moves in, too – putting the handful of part-time cleaners Maria had enlisted to “staff the house for residence again” out of a job. Both of these things earn another visit from that Dan guy at some point, during which there’d been a shouting match so loud, Roy heard it all the way upstairs even through the closed doors of Ollie’s study. This is irresponsible even for you, what do you know about raising a kid, and I know what not to do, no thanks to you and your not-so-secret desire to be my father’s son instead of me. And don’t make this personal and the hell it was, you think just ’cause I’ve been letting you talk to me any which way you’re part of the family now, you shut your mouth about Roy or you’ll find I’m way more of a Queen than you think I am. And Dan storming out with a beetroot face.

“Oliver on the warpath,” Maria calls it in that sardonic way of hers. “I haven’t seen this in a while.”

Ollie’s had to go into work that day, and Roy’s sifting through his lunch in the staff kitchen. Maria and Wilson are milling around with their own chores just outside in the hallway and clearly don’t think Roy can hear them.

Wilson’s voice, in response: “Have you known him long?”

“Oh, well, he was a teenager when I started working here, and I was around twenty, twenty-one… he always got chatty with the staff, and I was closer to him in age, so you can imagine.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that… so he’s always been this way, then.”

“Mm-hmm. I was suspicious of it at first, my mother had these horror stories about employers who insinuate themselves to you like that just to take advantage of it…”

“Understandably. I worked for a widow, before this, and she had that same sort of hunger for companionship. It’s loneliness – they don’t have friends who aren’t on their payroll.” A sound, like sucking in teeth. “One does have to tread carefully – it’s all well and good for them to forget this is a business relationship, with nothing to lose if it falls through. But what about us?”

“Right? Half the time I think Oliver imagines I’m going to be here forever, and I don’t have the heart to tell him I have bigger dreams than this. I’m actually saving up to go to college.”

“That’s wonderful. I wish you luck.”

“Thanks, Stan.”

Roy toys with the food on his plate. Emma will be retiring by the end of next year, too, and then Alejo gets to take her place, and presumably there’ll be a new groundskeeper to fill the role he vacates. Home used to mean family, and family used to mean forever. Summer’s at its end and the seasons are changing and Roy’s holding on for dear life.