Chapter Text
“What do you mean, be convincing?”
Ivy, Ruben, and Mary Ann are walking ahead, the sound of freshly fallen leaves underfoot as the first real week of fall descends on Elmville. A strong breeze rakes through the Far Haven Woods, taking the scent of dead rats with it.
Kipperlilly hangs back, her tiny, polished footfalls stopping to turn around. Her expression is stoic. It pisses him off. He wishes she would show more respect for where they stand.
For who lies under the rotting tree not a hundred and twenty feet from where they are.
“I mean, Oisin,” and here she takes a few steps back, meeting him, her ponytail gently swinging, “that since you want to play hero and let everyone go to the party, I’m pushing some of the plans up in time a bit.”
He has to look down at her, strain his neck. His body hurts. It’s a deep soreness that sits in the muscles of his neck and shoulders, of his thighs and calves. Of his chest. He remembers that she doesn’t know what that feels like.
When he continues to stare at her, the halfling rolls her eyes. “What I mean, Oisin, is that you’re going to go to that party, and you’re going to play beer pong the entire night. You’re going to take that summoning spell,” she points to the new scroll in his hands, “and put it on the inside of every ping pong ball that you touch. And then you’re going to be fucking convincing when you hide them all over his stupid ship house.”
He glares at her. This party is starting to feel like a punishment, and not a way to keep their cover. “How am I supposed to hide them?”
“I’m going to give it to you extremely plainly, since I don’t want any instructions getting … minced.” She steps up to him, her arms crossed. Kipperlilly has always kept her anger carefully concealed, but it’s easy to spot for Oisin. It always has been. It’s the same anger, she just doesn’t need a rage shard for hers. “You’re going to flirt with her, Oisin. With that pretty elven girl you’re so obsessed with—yes, I know, and we’ll talk about how betraying that is later—but you’re going to flirt with her. And then you’re going to miss. Every. Fucking. Shot. Afterwards. That is how you’ll hide them.”
Kipperlilly turns around, leaving him in silence, walking towards their party. He feels the rage build in him, undeniable and unchecked, static in his mouth, clinging to his teeth. She did not just ask him to—
A twig snaps under her foot, and Kipperlilly turns her head back to look at him, a sinister smile on her face, her eyes entirely black. “Don’t interfere in the plans again, Oisin. Not if you’re not willing to sacrifice.” She bears her teeth—her mouth is full of fangs.
Oisin sits straight up, sweating and startled, gasping for air. His sheets are soaked, the sound of a mourning dove outside his window loud and intrusive. He fumbles through the blanket, looking for his crystal, the sudden bright light blinding him for a moment: Monday, 4:49am. His alarm won’t go off for another hour. He flops back onto his pillows with a groan.
His hand rubs idly at his chest, feeling the empty spot where the shard had been. He hasn’t had a nightmare in months. Let alone a nightmare about a real thing that happened. So, that’s fun. Oisin rubs at his eyes, letting his heart rate slow as he stares at the slowly lightening ceiling. He leans over his bed and tosses open one half of the curtains—another bright day incoming, no rain, which should make the trek into Far Haven Woods easy.
A long sigh escapes him; he’s not supposed to meet with Principal Agefort until 8:30, but there’s no use trying to sleep again after that. It’s not really enough time to go to the gym, either—not that he’s done that since … before spring break. God. He could sneak in a run and a shower beforehand, though.
Oisin gets out of bed, runs through the motions of getting ready, trying hard not to think about anything in particular while doing so. He goes the entire run around his block twice, three miles of stretched suburbia in Ballaster aching in his legs, watching as the sun rises, not thinking about anything. He goes his entire shower, scaldingly hot and rough with Ivy’s sugar scrub, not thinking about anything. He makes his lunch quietly to not disturb her, packs his field kit, and gets all the way to his car without thinking about anything.
And it’s ruined the minute he gets in the drivers seat.
Because his entire car smells like Adaine.
Like sparkly pear, and freshly conditioned leather, some sort of soft powdery scent, white birch or maybe cypress. Even after not driving it all day yesterday, it still permeates through his seats, is blown about by his vents. He doesn’t want to open his windows for fear of losing it.
That has to sound insane. To be so infatuated with someone that he’d be willing to rot in his car for the rest of time to keep her scent from leaving—it sounds like something straight out of those terrible books Ivy reads. He leans forward and rests his head on the steering wheel.
She was so pretty, driving his car. Wrong elf. Right elf, actually. He thought he would die right there, could only laugh when she stalled and got embarrassed. Her rolling her eyes at him, her dragging the spoon out of her mouth. Her glare when he opened the car door for her, their teasing banter, her crossed arms and haughty attitude. Her blushing face when he said he’ll earn it.
What did you imagine?
And if he’d gone home that night and imagined it again, alone, in the privacy of his room? Quiet as he could be, with lightning behind his teeth, and his eyes rolled back, like some sort of guilty pleasure. The way she bit her lip, the red to her cheeks, the tips of her ears, seeing her in a corset top.
Oisin takes a deep breath, and starts the car, driving towards the Academy.
Ivy had brought him up to speed on a lot of things the Rat Grinders had overlooked, or truly not even seen. Kip had been seeing Aguefort’s guidance counselor Mr. O’Shaughnessy for longer than she had let on. Mordred Manor wasn’t just the Bad Kids’ home base—it was genuinely some of their homes. Fig Faeth’s mother and Mr. O’Shaughnessy were seeing each other. Kristen Applebees and Mr. O’Shaughnessy’s niece were dating and lived there before Tracker left for Fallinel—and then Kristen and Tracker broke up because of, according to Ivy, ‘insane lesbian drama, like real girl lover behavior.’ Adaine’s parents disappeared and she was adopted by Mr. O’Shaughnessy at some point during sophomore year—when the Rat Grinders were a little busy being, y’know, killed by their leader and suffering endless rage.
Some of Adaine’s behavior makes more sense after learning that. He remembers the shrimp jump party, when they had actually gotten to talk for the first time—even through the rage, he had been ecstatic that she had come over first, that draconic pride rearing it’s ugly head, not for the last time—and she had made the comment that her family was ‘really rich’ after she asked about the material component requirements for class, like she hadn’t had to buy them herself before. Or when she got the job at Basrar’s and the ice cream shop immediately became unavailable for his party to hang out at under Kipperlilly’s decree.
And she’s taking the gold.
Oisin wants to scream. He asked her—kind of, Ivy almost blew it, but he knew the risks asking Adaine to come get her with him. In truth, he just wanted to spend time with her outside of … him coming down off a high, but he’s not thinking about that, at least not for a few more days.
But she had said yes.
So it’s a start.
He rolls the window down, feels the early morning air blow through and give him clarity. He’ll have her in his car again, the scent will come back.
Oisin might not have the same confidence as last year, but he’s got a new version of it.
***
Aguefort shuffles the papers around in his hands, peering at different sections. Mr. O'Shaughnessy sits to the side of his desk, leaning back against the chair with one leg crossed over the other with a mug of tea. Oisin is stock still in front of both of them, just like last time. The only difference is that there aren’t six others breathing down his neck.
Mr. O’Shaughnessy says, “I see no reason that it can’t be done, and I’m sure the town would appreciate the extra funds when it comes to … certain infrastructure projects.”
“Oh, I’m sure Gorthalax would love to redo the Bloodrush field, after young Mr. Seacaster’s home was so abruptly tossed into it,” Aguefort says, quickly jotting something on a notepad, and then hands it to Mr. O’Shaughnessy to look at. The guidance counselor reads it, and then pockets the note, and Aguefort leans forward on the desk, one of the KVX Bank statements held out towards Oisin. “And this is the amount you’re depositing in the town coffers?”
“Yes,” Oisin nods, “and that has the correct routing as well. The funds are in the account, but I’m still waiting on the Solesian tax documents to clear.”
Aguefort waves his hand dismissively. “Tax documents, shmax shmocuments.”
Mr. O’Shaughnessy raises his eyebrows. “Uh—”
“The Solesian tax system is a scam!”
“Now, I’m inclined to agree with you, Arthur,” Mr. O’Shaughnessy hastily offers, “on account of how much they take out of my paycheck, however, sometimes a paper trail isn’t always bad, especially for those who need it.”
“I do need it,” Oisin cuts in before Aguefort rebuts, “unfortunately. There has to be careful documentation of what’s been converted into straight gold and deposited into the bank, and where it has gone.” He grimaces. “I guess after Kalvaxus, uh, they like to keep an eye on dragon hoards.”
Mr. O’Shaughnessy leans forward, placing his mug on the desk. “That’s true, I got a buddy down at the bank who does quality control of the gold inventory, makes sure there’s no …” He turns to Aguefort. “Y’know, gold pieces that are actually curses.”
Aguefort rolls his eyes. “I accidentally gave your daughter dragon madness cursed gold from Kalvaxus’ hoard one time, Jawbone.”
The guidance counselor smiles, as if they’ve had this argument before. “That’s one time too many, Arthur.”
They go over all the necessary details: when the funds will be available (Mr. O’Shaughnessy is going to talk to his friend at KVX Bank to see if they can get the process sped up), what it’s going towards, who will have access to the account. It’s decided that Oisin will not need to be an overseer once the gold is legal in Solace, and will transfer over to Aguefort’s lawyers, who will be responsible for distribution, and Oisin is just fine with that. The added weight of making sure everything runs smoothly isn’t necessary when he still has the clean up project to contend with. Aguefort signs the documents, and has them filed away to give to his lawyer.
When Oisin goes to leave the meeting, Mr. O’Shaughnessy follows him out. “Hey, Oisin, I wanted to speak with you for a minute. Maybe we walk and talk to my office?”
“Yeah, sure.” Oisin fixes his bag strap and follows him the small ways down the hallway towards his office. “Is there something specific you wanted from me?”
Mr. O’Shaughnessy puts a hand in his pocket, fishing out his room keys. “Actually, yes, and there’s something I wanted to give to you—aha!” He unlocks the door, and Oisin is greeted with the fresh scent of lemon and lavender as he walks in. Mr. O’Shaughnessy gestures to an empty set of chairs at a corner table. “Sit, sit! Make yourself comfortable.”
Oisin takes off his backpack and sets it down next to him as he takes a seat. “What did you want to give me, Mr. O’Shaughnessy?”
The lycanthrope laughs. “Mr. O’Shaughnessy? God, no one ever calls me that anymore. Jawbone will do just fine, kid.”
Mr. O’Shaughne—Jawbone puts his empty mug on his desk and opens up a drawer, pulling out a notepad and what looks like a business card. “Well,” he starts, “I wanted to let you know that I started seeing some of the people in your party, and I never got the chance to talk to you about some of the things that happened on account of you needing to leave for your family.”
Jawbone walks over and takes a seat at the other empty chair. He hands him the business card. Oisin looks at it, and sees it’s a card for a therapist in Bastion City, Dr. Malthead Durroth. He squints at the card: that’s a dragonborn name. He looks back up to Jawbone. “But also,” he continues, “I recognize that I’m maybe not the best person to be having that conversation with you. I met Dr. Malthead at a conference back in the beginning of the year, and he’s a real great man. Dragonborn, just like you—granted he’s a black one, not blue, but I still think he could be of some real help, especially in the areas where I think my expertise lacks.”
Oisin continues to stare at the card, with its little black print. There’s an office location in the city, and a crystal number. “Uh, thanks, Mr. O’Sha—Jawbone. I’ll definitely give him a call.”
Jawbone smiles and leans back in his seat. “Make sure to do it sooner rather than later, I gave him a call on Monday last week when Principal Aguefort told me you were headed back and let him know you’d be in touch.”
Crafty—Oisin gives the counselor credit, using his own reputation to make sure something gets done, it’s ballsy. He smiles back, having been caught. “I will.”
“I talked to your party members right after you left,” Jawbone tells him, “and Ivy seemed really concerned about you, especially about your family affairs. But she mentioned a couple of things that happened over the year, particularly towards the beginning, about what Mr. Cliffbreaker had … put on you.”
Killing Lucy. Nights awake until two or three in the morning working out. Runs at five. Learning to take a hit. Oisin’s stomach drops a bit. “Yeah,” he gets out. “There were … things.”
Jawbone’s face softens. “You don’t have to talk about it with me—I won’t make you do or say anything you don’t want to. But you should know that none of that was your fault, and you did the best you could under the circumstances.”
Going to that shrimp jump party. Pulling Kipperlilly back from the Bad Kids’ Last Stand exam after she killed Buddy. Arguing with her. Changing the summoning ritual. Oisin nods.
“I want you to know that I’m grateful,” Jawbone says and sits forward. “Those girls are my family. Fig is Sandra Lynn’s kid, I have guardianship over Kristen, and well, legally now, Adaine is my adopted daughter.” His voice goes quiet, contemplative. “I don’t know what I’d do if any of them got hurt.”
Oisin nods again. “I know that I did things, a lot of things, that hurt them and put their well being in jeopardy, but I’m trying to apologize. To make things right. Atone. Speaking of which,” he leans down to his backpack and pulls out the separate folder, the documents for the Bad Kids, handing them over to Jawbone. “I’m giving them their cut of my ancestor’s hoard, but since they’re all underage, a guardian will have to sign. I was going to just hand it to them, but since I’m here.”
Jawbone rifles through the folder, and his eyes go wide. “Kiddo, are you sure you have the correct amount listed here?”
He smiles. “It’s correct. It’s to split between the party. Ivy spilled the beans and let them know on Friday before I could officially tell them, but Adaine verbally accepted Saturday night. I just need signatures back from both them and the guardian for the bank to transfer it over.”
Jawbone looks back at up at him. “This is extremely generous of you, that’s not taking away from anything you need, right?”
“No, no, not at all. Rioghnach was, for lack of better decorum, filthy rich. My entire clan is well taken care of, and I threw a bit back into the hoard to accrue again, so there aren’t any worries.” Oisin grabs his backpack and stands, pocketing the business card for the therapist. “I’m going out to the Far Haven Woods today to assess damage and start making a clean up plan for there, otherwise I’d stay longer.”
“Oh, absolutely, absolutely,” Jawbone stands. “The girls didn’t mention the woods in their plans today, I thought they were still working on Loam Farm.”
“They are,” he answers. “I’m starting the woods and Lake Shimmerstone by myself.”
The counselor gives him a concerned look. “Alone? Do you need any help, Kiddo?”
Oisin shakes his head. “I’m all set, Jawbone. I don’t think I’m getting any real work done today, anyway. Just some assessment and making sure the spell I have will work on the area.”
“Well,” and Jawbone gives him a once over, “if you’re sure. I’ll have these filled out and get them back to you in a few days, sound good?”
“Yeah, that’ll be great.”
Jawbone drops the folder on his desk, and walks Oisin to the door. Before he can get his hand on the knob to open it, Jawbone stops him. “Oisin, I also wanted to thank you for getting Adaine home safe on Saturday, after the party.”
Oisin pauses. He doesn’t remember lights being on in the house, but that doesn’t mean Jawbone wasn’t watching, or that Adaine hadn’t told him that Oisin brought her home. He just wonders how much she told him. He plays it safe. “Yeah, of course, it was no issue.”
“I heard you guys got ice cream beforehand.”
There’s nothing innocuous about his statement, but Oisin hears it underneath, a subcurrent of questioning that borders on protective. Not angry, not disappointed, not even surprised—cautious, warning. He feels his hands clam up, his stomach tightens in anticipation. Jawbone is her dad, maybe not her dad dad, but a father figure: if he doesn’t approve, Adaine will never consider him as somebody past what they already are, not enemies, but not friends, either.
Oisin clears his throat, surrendering to the shift in energy. “Uh, yes, sir, we did.”
Jawbone’s eyes look him up and down, appraising—Oisin grits his teeth, berating himself for not dressing better, for just grabbing whatever t-shirt and jeans he could find still left in his drawers after Ivy went through and tossed all his old clothes while he’d been in the Waste. But then Jawbone seems to find something, and he smiles, crossing his arms. “I’ve been a bit of a wild one in my life, so I tend to be okay with whatever it is those kids get up to, but next time, put an elderly wolf’s mind at ease and visit an establishment during business hours, you hear?”
He’s relieved for a moment, that Jawbone isn’t chiding him for having his daughter out at all, just that she was late—and then a half-kidding indignation rises up. Did Adaine … did Adaine lie about why they were out? Did she tell her dad that he took her to Basrar’s after hours? As if she wasn’t the one driving? He makes a mental note to bring it up to her next time he sees her—he’s bound to, afterall, with both their parties being somewhat close now. And then it hits him that Jawbone said next time as if he also expects them to keep doing … whatever it is they are doing. They’re not doing anything, though, because last night wasn’t a date as much as he wanted it to be, because she was making sure he was okay—after he admitted to making out with another girl, and then thinking about her. God, he’s an idiot.
He has the urge to slam his head against the wall, but Oisin nods instead. “I promise next time will be during business hours.”
Jawbone gives off a chuckle. “And anytime after that, as well. That is, if you plan on making a habit out of it.”
If he plans on making a habit out of it. If he plans on taking Adaine out again. His palms are sweaty again, and Oisin swallows hard. “And anytime after that,” he agrees.
Jawbone holds his hand out, and Oisin returns the gesture, shaking it.
He leaves Jawbone’s office, heads for the back exit of the school that will take him towards the wood, thoughts of Adaine still running in his head. She had told Jawbone about hanging out with him—had possibly lied about who initiated, but in reality, he’s not sure he’s even mad about that. Oisin had asked for discrete, and she had given it, holding to her word so far. But she had told Jawbone they went and got ice cream, which means she told him something, and implied enough that Jawbone assumed they were going to keep doing it.
That he was going to make a habit out of it.
That could only mean one thing, right? That Jawbone was under the assumption that Oisin wanted to date Adaine?
Oisin comes to harsh stop at the edge of the trees, Aguefort behind him.
Or that Adaine implied she wanted to.
Fuck, that’s somehow even more … he’s going insane, he needs to stop thinking about this for a little bit.
He takes a deep breath, and follows the footsteps he knows well by now, despite their disappearance. The late morning fades behind him as he steps under the cover of trees, sun filtering through leaves, underbrush swishing and crunching with each step. The heat of the day has settled in, but under the canopy of the woods it’s easily ten degrees cooler. It takes him some time to find the path again, it’s been a handful of months since he’s last tread through here, but he does, and his mind slips into autopilot, sinking into idiosyncrasies. His thoughts turn towards the nightmare from this morning, of Kipperlilly’s jagged and fanged teeth, the sudden darkening of her eyes. He couldn’t see the forest for all the trees then, but he was starting to make out the endless path they’d be walking if he held her hand. And that was only the beginning.
The business card burns in his pocket, and Oisin tries to keep his pace. He knows he has to call the guy—Jawbone knows he has to, and has made sure he would at this point. He knows he needs therapy, it had been one of the stipulations of this summer clean up assignment for his party, but Oisin is still having trouble coming to terms with it. He doesn’t need someone to tell him he’s fucked up—he already knows that.
Does he really want to rehash the shit that happened? People know, his friends know. Ivy knows. Isn’t that enough? Isn’t it enough that Ivy knows his shit relationship with his father is what ultimately led to his death? That Oisin called him and told him personally he could kill the Bad Kids and avenge Kalvaxus, that he’d be held as a hero by Rioghnach? Isn’t it enough that Mary Ann knows he would run until he was sick? That he’d sit in the weight room at school until Porter told him he could leave, screamed at to get up again, take another hit Hakinvar, they’ll come at you harder than this. Isn’t it enough that Ruben has pages upon pages of Oisin’s thoughts for songs? That he’d given the bard sections of his journal for inspiration? Pieces of his heart so brutally open and vulnerable that he’d recognize them by the chord? Isn’t it enough that he killed Lucy for Kipperlilly? That he’d shoved gem after gem after gem into her chest to no avail? That she’d forgiven him?
The trees part, and the little clearing where the Rat Grinders would meet comes into view. It’s different than he remembers, different than the nightmare. It’s brighter. It’s cleaner. They weren’t the last ones here, the police were. But there’s still a darkness that’s settled in where Lucy and Professor Badgood were. His eyes cast over the upended tree trunks, his claw marks visible in the filtered sunlight. The swept away decayed leaves on the forest floor, the hundreds of worms and spiders and pillbugs forced to find new abodes. The broken branches and the missing footprints and the dead fucking rats that aren’t there anymore and the lingering arcane energy in the ground from him.
Oisin sits down in the grass.
And he looks at it.
The nausea builds in him again, the same feeling when he got home that night, hands bloody and arms scratched and Ivy’s voice soothing in his ear as she helped clean him up. The heaving in the bushes, the dirt under his nails, the vacant staring as he wondered if he had done it wrong. If he had done it wrong, had he killed her? Had he doomed her? Why wasn’t she coming back? She wasn’t waking up—she was supposed to wake up, she was right here a second ago, try again. It’s not working, try again. It’s not working, try again. It’s not working, try again. Try again, try again, try again.
Try again.
Try again.
Try again.
Don’t interfere with the plans again, Oisin. Not if you’re not willing to sacrifice.
Oisin takes in a shaky breath, closes his eyes, and puts his head between his knees. The nausea in his stomach is almost unbearable at this point, and can feel the beginnings of heaving in his throat, chokes it down with gulps of air. His face is hot, his hands are shaky. We’re past that, Hakinvar. It’s done with. It’s over. You just saw her two days ago. You just hugged her. You just laughed with her. Lucy is alive, let her be alive. Stop seeing ghosts.
He lets the rolling in his stomach pass over him until it’s gone, until the feeling in his chest doesn’t ache with a vengeance. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but the sun is well overhead now, and he hasn’t done anything.
Maybe he does need that therapist.
He needs to distract himself, he needs to think about something. That’s probably not the healthy thing—which would be to call someone, like Ivy, or go back to the school and sit with Jawbone.
Instead, hands reach for his backpack. He pulls out his spell book and opens to the last few pages where he theorized all day yesterday a way to make cleaning this place simpler. Losing himself in work may not be healthy, but it was at least productive, and the whole reason he came out here. Cleaning this place isn’t going to get rid of the memories of what you did, subconsciously, unbidden to the forefront of his mind. Don’t use it as an excuse to prove your worth.
“Shut the fuck up,” he mumbles to himself.
Adaine had made a modified Mold Earth and Mending contraction spell which Ivy said seemed to be working, but took a lot of time, consistent casting, and only did so much at once. Oisin knows that a spell like Move Earth would do more over time, but it wouldn’t separate it, and following Adaine’s thinking of adding Mending to it would be too difficult—he’d have to cast it several times underneath in order for it to work properly, so his mind had immediately gone to Creation, with the thought that if he could backwards engineer it to remove the shards instead of create more, it might be a better fit. It could run in twelve hour intervals, and the space it used would ensure he could get entire sections of the forest done in days as opposed to the months it would take using the cantrip contraction. None of the material components would be consumed, so he could just use the same things over and over and not run out.
He’d written it last night, albeit hastily before he passed out. Oisin reads over the spell again, making sure he’s got the backwards variation correct, comparing it to the forward primary version of the spell, fixing the runic language he’d misspelled last night in his tired state. When he’s satisfied, Oisin stands and grabs the material components he’d need—the iron bladed knife in his kit, a small bag he filled with different soil types, and the pieces of rage shards from beneath his feet. He conjures a Mage Hand, placing his spell book in it’s grip and holding it up for him to cast.
His hands move, tracing the runes in the air, catching where the contraction is, letting it fall over his fingers. Oisin feels the energy, the ground beneath him shaking with the force of Move Earth. “Damir,” he speaks, and his fingers spark, the blue of his magic shifting to purple and red as Creation attempts to sever the ties between the ground and the rage shards.
The ground quakes, a rumble rolling through it as the spell takes hold, but the arcane energy fizzles suddenly, and slowly dims, the earth sinking back into place, as if it had never been moved. The red shards gleam up at him from below, unchanged.
Oisin grabs his spell book and stares at the runes. What the hell? It’s all draconic, his entire spell book is in it, and he used the draconic variants of the spells—so why didn’t it work? Maybe Creation was enacted too early, the ground not moved enough in order to separate anything. He flips the page, copies over the beginning of the spell, and then adds in the extra runes to make Move Earth longer before contracting with the backwards form of Creation.
He hands his spell book back to the mage hand, grabs a quick swig of water from his kit, and then cracks his knuckles. Trial and error, that’s what today is about. His shoulders roll, the pain in his left duller today thankfully, and he begins casting the spell again.
The rumbling is deeper this time, he can feel it starting low and slow, and the sound of tree roots bending, stone tumbling together as the section of earth in front of him rolls, wave-like and hilly across the expanse of forest in front of him. His hand dips, and he hits the contraction. “Damir,” he repeats, and his magic surges forward, blue to purple to red, and he watches as Creation rips through the ground, rage shards tumbling with it like briar weeds through the Red Waste, collecting and gathering.
His hands drop, the spell finishing on his end, but he watches as it still goes, and Oisin feels a euphoria washing over him, pride and excitement that it’s working. All that stupid fucking studying he did last year, all the work he put in—it was at least worth it, had paid off in the end.
Oisin lets the spell keep going—he can check on it tomorrow morning and make sure it works the way he thinks it will—and grabs his crystal from his backpack. It’s late in the day already, he’d wasted more time than he thought just sitting there, and like clockwork, his stomach growls loudly. He grabs his pack, pulls his uneaten lunch out, and turns to leave the woods, letting the magic work behind him.
He doesn’t look at the spot where he buried Lucy again.
***
“Just call him,” Ivy says, rolling her eyes.
Oisin glares, “Oh my God, please shut up.”
The two of them sit on the couch in the apartment. It’s days later. The spell is working fine, a few tweaks the next day has it working perfectly, and Oisin has a kind of pride in himself he hasn’t felt in a long time. Making the summoning spell, and figuring out how write it on the inside of ping pong balls had been an accomplishment he’d taken pride in, despite the intentions behind it. He had divorced the reason from the rhyme in regards to it—it was skilled work, and it took time and energy and thought, it belonged in the portfolio of what he’d accomplished, what education had done for him, what his practically insatiable need to know and understand and do has done for him. This spell was different though, because there was no need to separate the weal from the woe—the spell is good, and the work is good, and it’s leading towards something he needed anyway.
Right now, though, with his crystal in hand, Oisin feels none of that pride.
He’s hesitating calling that therapist. He knows exactly why, too, because if Oisin is truly great at anything, it’s intellectualizing his feelings. Making that spell and having it work proves that he’s capable of fixing things on his own, that the things Kipperlilly and Porter and Jace did—things he participated in—doesn’t dictate what he does now. But calling the therapist feels like admitting to himself he can’t fix it, and that’s a wound to his ego he hates.
It’s not bad that he can’t do it alone, Oisin tells himself. His party isn’t any less strong for talking to Jawbone—or a legitimate therapist, in Lucy’s case, too. They would all be supportive. They would all understand. They would all commend him. There’s no shame in the therapy game.
So why can’t he just do it?
Ivy stands from the couch. “Look, I’m exhausted from today, so I’m gonna go shower and get in bed and give you some privacy.” She puts her hands on her hips. “I’m only making you call this therapist. I’m not asking you to talk to her . You can decide when you want to—or don’t want to, that’s perfectly fine. But this guy?” She points to the business card in his hand. “I’m making you do this.”
She walks away then, before Oisin can say something back—she’s right, he doesn’t have it in him to talk to Tilly yet about what happened, and he doesn’t know when he will.
But he can talk about the other things.
Oisin waits until he hears the bathroom door close and the shower kick on before putting the number in and calling.
It rings a few times. It’s too late, he’s not going to answer, Oisin’s going to have to leave a voicemail—
On the other end, a man’s voice greets, “This is Doctor Malthead Durroth.”
Oisin waits a second, listening to see if it’s his answering machine he caught, but when the pause extends far too long, he replies, panicked, “Uh, yes, hi, uh, my name is Oisin Hakinvar, I’m sorry to call you so late.”
“It’s not an issue,” the man says. “How can I help you, Oisin?”
“Yes, um, I wanted to talk to you about possibly setting up—uh,” he stutters. “My guidance counselor gave me your card and recommended you, as a, um, as a therapist?”
There’s a gentle rumble from Dr. Durroth, and it sounds so similar to his own, to his family’s, that something settles in Oisin. “Yes, yes, absolutely. Are you a student in Bastion City?”
“No, I’m from Elmville. I wanted to know if you had any openings, or were taking new clients or … something like that.”
“I do have openings, and I am taking new clients, or something like that. I believe,” there’s a rustling sound on the other end, “that I have a vacant spot in my roster, but it can always be discussed if you’d prefer someone else in the practice or what have you.”
“No, um, my counselor, Jawbone O’Shaughnessy, recommended you because … you’re dragonborn, and specialize in draconic therapy.”
There’s a long pause between them, and Oisin taps his fingers on his knee. “I see,” Dr. Durroth says, “I remember our conversation about you, now, apologies. I just found your name in my book. I know Jawbone and I talked about a few of the things that were possibly plaguing you in regards to some … recent events.”
Oisin nods, and then feels incredibly stupid. “Yeah, there have been some, uh, things that have happened this past year.”
Dr. Durroth makes a soft grunting sound, and then exhales. “I have some time, if you’d like to talk—Hakinvar, you said?”
“Hakinvar is my family name. My first name is Oisin, yes.”
“Is your family from the Waste?”
Oisin stands, and begins pacing around the living room. The sound of Ivy’s shower is still coming from the bathroom. “We are, blue dragon clan.”
“I’ve never been, unfortunately, but I was raised in the Swamps of Ruin, myself. Might I ask what brought you to Elmville?”
“I wanted to study magic,” Oisin tells him plainly. “There’s a school here—a preparatory of sorts, that I had originally applied to, uh, Hudol? But I realized at the last second that I preferred practical magic—not that arcane theory isn’t great, but you can only analyze Bashtai so many times before his words start to lose all flavor. So I joined an adventuring academy instead.”
“You’re at Aguefort, right?”
“Yes.”
“I always enjoyed the people I met from there—real salt of the earth, in my opinion.”
Oisin moves to the sliding glass door that goes out on the balcony, looking out into the backyard, into the copse that extends behind their building. “A lot of those I’ve met there are like that, I enjoy it a lot.”
“Oisin, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, if that’s alright?”
“Uh, sure.”
The moon is rising, not full, but close to it, and the light illuminates along the tops of the trees. Dr. Durroth says, “I specialize in dragonborn, Oisin, because I am one, of course. It gives me great insight into our race, and some of the fundamental things that go on with us in regards to it. When I was talking with Jawbone O’Shaughnessy about you, he brought up concerns about some of the things that happened to you with your old professor, Porter Cliffbreaker. How has your anger been? Have you noticed any upticks in draconic behavior since, what we can dub as the corruption?”
Oisin turns and leans against the glass panning of the door, feeling the cold seep into his shoulders. It feels good on the still sore one. “I uh, yeah. I have. I’ve noticed that some of the smaller inconveniences seem to set me off more than big things—I can stay a lot calmer when it comes to like, disagreements or whatever that are arguably more important than when the littler things happen. I never really used to be that way. Not a lot of things got to me at all before … the corruption.”
“I see, and Jawbone has informed me of your clan’s brawl—in truth, I had already heard of it before him. It’s not often the clans have a full fledged tournament anymore, so when one does happen, it tends to … rocket through our circles. He mentioned you won, which is quite an accomplishment for someone your age.”
“I did win,” he replies.
Dr. Durroth hums idly. “Are you currently running your clan?”
“No, I didn’t want to stay in the Waste, so I turned leadership over to my cousin. It was her and I at the end, and I felt like she deserved it more than I did. I split most of the hoard up between who was left and kept a bit for myself.”
“Is it all gold in your hoard? Or do you have material possessions in it as well from your family?”
Oisin hesitates. “Um, it’s not—I don’t—” he sighs. “I put a bit into a bank, just for accrual, but most of what I’ve taken I’ve … given away. It’s not part of a hoard.”
“Do you have a hoard, Oisin?”
“… No, I don’t,” he answers. There’s a part of him that doesn’t want to say more—Dr. Durroth as a dragonborn, probably has one, and Oisin’s unsure his reasoning won’t irritate the man. But the other part of him, the one that’s dying to be understood by someone who understands his nature, thinks he might just get it. He takes a deep breath. “I don’t hoard because I don’t … like, the feeling. I don’t like the … possessiveness that comes with hoarding. So I try not to keep flashy things around me. Or stock up on stuff.” His eyes scan the apartment, and almost everything in the living room, every piece of decoration in here has Ivy’s prints all over it. “I’m pretty minimalistic.”
There’s a long pause, and Oisin can’t tell what it’s for. He pulls the crystal away from his ear, making sure the call hasn’t dropped, but no, it’s still going. In the silence, he stands up from the glass and walks towards the kitchen. After another few seconds, Dr. Durroth asks, “You are a wizard, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you came to Elmville to study magic.”
“Yes,” he repeats.
“And you enjoy the more practical applications of magic, rather than it’s theory?”
Again, “Yes.” He opens the fridge and grabs one of the mango sodas him and Ivy keep on hand for Mary Ann. He feels his crystal buzz in his hand a few times with a text message, but doesn’t look at it yet. It’s probably just Ivy.
“Practical applications of things, especially magic, still requires a vast knowledge of the subject to pull from when applying the arcane. What school are you?”
Oisin squints. “I’m a conjurer. I focus on summons mostly.”
“Summoning requires extensive mental fortitude and knowledge of the arcane adaptabilities. Do you tend to take lots of notes on things?”
Lots of notes? Oisin’s on his third spell book. “You could say that.”
“Oisin, I’m of the belief that you don’t not hoard, it just doesn’t seem to be gold or material possessions. In your chosen area of study, and from what I’ve learned about you between Jawbone and now, I’m more inclined to believe that you far more value things like intellect and knowledge. Jawbone has said you’ve created some extremely powerful spells—that doesn’t come easy. I think what you covet most—we can call it coveting, or desire, instead of hoarding, if that’s more preferable—but I think what you covet most is of the mind. Is the immaterial.”
Oisin puts the soda down on the counter and stares blankly at it. “T-The … immaterial. What do you mean?”
“Immaterial meaning things that are not physical—in a sense, knowledge can translate to material goods in some cases. Do you tend to keep old notebooks from previous classes? Or textbooks? Even things you haven’t read, or are unsure if you’d ever read.”
His stomach rolls at the thought, immediately seeing the stacks of books at Ruben’s house, the threadbare notebooks from his years at Aguefort shoved into a clear plastic bin under his bed, the handfuls of nonfiction in his bookcase on topics he had found interesting but never delved into. “Fuck,” he whispers. Oisin turns around and slides down the cabinets, sitting on the kitchen floor. “I hoard.”
The way he would get angry at Ivy for borrowing a book—he just thought it was because she always so careless, would leave the spine split open to a page, would dogear things instead of using a bookmark. The first time him and Kipperlilly had honestly fought, when she’d used one his notebooks sophomore year and re-highlighted certain segments in a different color than what he’d used—he’d chalked it up to being picky about his things, about needing systems to stay organized.
“I am more than willing to delve deeper into this for you at some point, to help you understand what exactly it is that you find valuable that might help you better narrow down some of these feelings.”
His mind shifts to Tilly, covered in gold and jewels, her expensive bedsheets, the luxury of her bedroom—that hadn’t done anything for him. That hadn’t excited him the way it should’ve, the way it would’ve other dragonborn. It hadn’t made him want—the bloodspine had done that. He wasn’t possessive about it. Is he weird for that? “Is that why gold … doesn’t do anything for me?”
“It’s most likely the reason, material possessions might not mean much to you unless associated with some form of knowledge or intellect. But Oisin, I want you to know that this isn’t a bad thing. The immaterial might not be common as a hoard, but it certainly happens, and it is normal. I’ve met a handful of other dragonborn that hoard immaterial things, one woman I met valued justice and became a lawyer here in the city. This is not something that will displace you from others.”
Oisin stares at the cabinets in the kitchen that are eye level with him. The paint is chipping on the side of one, exposing the woodgrain underneath. Another’s hinge is missing a screw, and is hanging on by sheer will alone. A small relief is afforded to him, when Dr. Durroth tells him that he’s normal. He doesn’t think his family would think the same, but it’s enough to know right now that there are others who do the same.
“In fact,” Dr. Durroth continues, “I would love to see your library in a decade. It’s bound to be impressive.”
Oisin takes off his glasses, and gives off a snort. “Yeah, I’ve got like three bookcases now, and that’s just these past few years in school.”
“Oisin, I’d like to make an appointment with you to really start talking more about some of the things that have happened this past year, and figure out how best I can help you understand or come to terms with certain events.”
Ivy pads into the kitchen just then, her hair in a towel and wearing a big t-shirt she’d stolen from him and a pair of sweatpants. She pauses when she sees him sitting on the ground, and tilts her head. He nods at her. “I’ve got a car,” he tells Dr. Durroth. “So traveling to Bastion City won’t be too much of an issue if you only do in person appointments.”
“I’d prefer our first visit to be in person, but after that I’m sure we can set up some sort of video chat or call time that way you’re not required to drive for each session. We can also discuss how often you’d like sessions to be and any other preferences.”
“Yeah, absolutely, I can come next week sometime if you’re available.”
Ivy smiles at him and gives him two thumbs up. Oisin rolls his eyes at her but smiles back.
“I’m looking at my calendar, and it seems like I have an opening next Friday around ten in the morning. Would that work for you?”
“I will make it work,” Oisin replies.
“Wonderful, I will see you then. I look forward to meeting you in person, Oisin.”
“Me, too. Thank you, Dr. Durroth.”
Oisin hangs up and Ivy bounces her way over. “How did it go? You made an appointment! What’s he like? Is he a good fit?” She grabs the soda off the counter and sits down next to him, opening it and taking a sip.
He grabs the soda from her and sticks his tongue out mockingly. “Yeah, I think he’ll be a good fit. He asked me a few questions about myself and … answered some things.” Oisin takes a deep breath. “He thinks I do … hoard. Just not gold. Or material things. He—he thinks I hoard … the immaterial, something that I value. Like intellect or knowledge.”
Ivy’s eyes open wide. “That’s … interesting. Not in a bad way, obviously, but I’ve never heard of that.”
Oisin shrugs. “He said it’s not common, but that it’s not abnormal or anything. He mentioned knowing a couple of dragonborn that do it.” He takes a sip, and then remembers that his crystal had buzzed earlier, and pulls it back out to check.
Ivy hums, “Well, that’s a good thing, then! Might explain why there’s not piles of gold all around the apartment, huh?”
He pulls up his messages, and sees there’s an unknown number that’s messaged him.
And then the nausea kicks in again.
(unknown): hi. it’s adaine. i got your number from ivy today at the farm
(unknown): i wanted you to know that misty got back to riz about the perfume
(unknown): she said it’s clean. there should be no lingering effects, but if you feel any weirdness in the paralysis department to follow up with a physician
(unknown): i hope you’re feeling better, let us know if we can do anything
Oisin turns to look at Ivy, unsure of what he’s feeling. “You gave Adaine my number at the farm today?”
Ivy is looking at her nails, inspecting her cuticles. “Oh no,” she feigns. “Was I not supposed to?” Her eyes shift to look at him again, and a grin replaces her bored expression. “You can thank me later. But also, big boy, you must have done something right last weekend because she is the one who asked me for it, I didn’t just do it on a whim.”
He looks back to his crystal, staring at the messages.
Adaine texted him.
He quickly adds her number to his contacts and switches back to the thread. His fingers hover over the keyboard before he responds.
(oisin): hey, thanks for letting me know. i appreciate it.
(oisin): i feel okay, nothing that didn’t predate it.
(oisin): will you thank Riz for the discretion for me?
“Look at the two of you,” Ivy singsongs over his shoulder, “texting, ooo, when are you getting a ring~”
Oisin shoves her shoulder a little too hard and she lets out a yell before falling onto the floor, laughing as the towel undoes and her slightly grown out pixie cut tumbles out. He looks back to his crystal and sees the little ellipses of her replying before they disappear.
And then start again.
And then disappear.
He looks back to Ivy. “Am I just supposed to start texting her now? What do I do?”
Ivy stretches out and puts her arms behind her head, getting comfortable on the floor. “Oh, you’re so sad and pathetic, you have no game.”
“Ivy.”
Her hand comes up to wave dismissively at him. “Yes! You just text her now! Put some of that wizarding smartness on the line and show her you’re interested!”
He looks back down and sees she’s typing again, and right below his message to her is:
[deleted message]
His eyes open wide. Did she send something and immediately delete it? Why hadn’t he been looking at his crystal?!
(adaine): it’s no issue. i think riz just said it was something he was investigating and he couldn’t talk about it
(adaine): but in any case, you can tell him yourself tomorrow for movie night
(adaine): ivy told you about movie night, right?
He throws a glare at Ivy. “What the fuck is movie night and why is this the first I’m hearing about it?”
Ivy props herself up on her elbows. “Oh shoot, tomorrow is movie night, isn’t it? The Bad Kids do it once a month, and they’ve given us a standing invitation. I completely forgot, honestly.”
He wants to scream.
(oisin): she did.
(oisin): just now.
(oisin): i’ve debated for years now about just writing stuff directly on her forehead.(adaine): are you coming?
(adaine): i know you weren’t here for the last one but your party (name pending) was
Oisin hesitates, and then thinks better of himself. Adaine is asking if he’s coming.
(oisin): do you want me to come?
He sees the little ellipses pop up for a second, and then vanish again. His stomach turns, waiting. It’s another moment of staring at his screen—he’s not looking away this time, in case she tries to delete a message again—before Adaine replies:
(adaine): yes
(adaine): you should come
(adaine): kristen found some insane action movie she wants to subject us all to
(adaine): so if i have to watch it, so do you
He smiles wide and leans his head back against the cabinets for a moment.
Ivy laughs, “Lovesick. Truly, I’m disgusted by you.”
Oisin ignores her.
(oisin): i think Kristen and i will get along, i like insane action movies.
(oisin): the worse the plot the better.
(oisin): i’ll be there.(adaine): cool
(adaine): i’ll see you tomorrow night then
(adaine): mordred, 7pm(oisin): i’ll see you tomorrow night, mordred, 7pm
He looks over to find Ivy staring intently at him. “What?”
She shakes her head, grinning, laying back down on the ground. “Nothing! Nothing! It’s just that it’s so cute and lame and you’re actually talking to the girl you’ve been pining over for three years. I’m extremely proud!”
He grabs the mango soda back from her—when had she grabbed it again?—and takes a sip, pointedly ignoring her words when he hears another vibration.
It’s Ivy’s crystal this time, and she fishes it out of her sweatpants pocket and looks at it above her head. He watches as the grin on her face extends to a fully open mouth, and her eyes shoot open to a comically wide degree. She chuffs, “Biiiiiiiiitch, I just got added to a group chat?”
“What?” he asks incredulously.
Ivy laughs, typing something on her crystal. “Oh, this is so fun, why didn’t you tell me having friends was fun?”
“Who’s in it?!”
She turns her head, still smiling. “It’s me, Fig, Kristen, Lucy, Mazey, Mary Ann, Aelwyn fucking Abernant, and Fig’s girlfriend Ayda Aguefort. ”
Oisin is baffled staring at her, but then the dread sits in. Adaine is not in that chat. “No …”
Ivy’s laughter fills the kitchen, a cackling, witchy sound. “It is so fucking on! We are so back, baby!”