the stories are true.

Rules: tagger gives a word, then for each letter of that word you share an excerpt from your WIPs that start with that letter.

Tagged by @queerofthedagger Thank you! My word is HOME (which is very fun considering I've been working on some fics with that as their theme)

H - This is Not a Second Chance (Celebrimbor gets dragon-amnesia post-fall of Nargothrond and gets found by his father and uncles; canon still happens after that and I try to make all the readers cry)

He did not know what that word Tyelpë meant. Could only hold the dog and shake as that one order - run, run, run - began to fade away, leaving him empty and hollow. “Help,” he said, the word a cracked whisper. The word choked with smog and burning and terror that erased every thought. He held tight onto the dog as he spoke. “Help.”

Time after that turned into a blurr. There were hands that lifted him up. Gentle, careful of his burns and scratches, cradling him close. More words, some in a language he understood and others in a language he felt that he should know but could not remember. The dog left when he was placed onto a horse. He cried but did not know why. 

Had he run far enough? Had he been caught? 

“Easy, Tyelpë,” said the moonlight-haired elf. “We’ll be at Amon Ereb soon. Just hold onto the horse and trust me to lead, all right?”

He said nothing. The elf’s words fell on him like snow: cold, making him shiver, disappearing through the gaps in his mind. 

O - Oh Sing, Defiant Stars (all SoF survive the kinslayings but Maglor gets amnesia at Sirion and still does a twin kidnapping; very NOT canon-compliant)

One hand was made from metal, glinting like polished brass. The lord, Lindir guessed, from how everyone else backed away or bowed to him. The leader and the one who would decide how best to hurt him. 

But the lord’s hands, when he reached out, only ghosted over Lindir’s shoulders. “Laurë,” he said again, that strange word.

Should he bow? Lindir had not bowed for the orcs no matter how much they kicked him, but they had been servants of Morgoth. These were elves - but they were also murderers. The words stayed stuck in his throat, and all he could do was stand there, dumb and shaking, eyes dropping to the ground. He couldn’t look at the red-haired lord, or the beautiful horses, or the bright, eight-pointed star that decorated the deep red banners. His heart ached. His head screamed, as though something deep within the back of his mind was trying to tear it apart. 

“Bring the healers,” ordered the lord. He may have said other things, but Lindir could barely focus on his words.

M - To Haunt These Golden Halls (Maedhros searches and grieves for his lost brother; Maglor misunderstands and thinks he's happier without him - happy ending don't worry)

Maglor said nothing, could only stare up at his brother, drinking in the sight of him. Centuries upon centuries had dulled his memories, tarnishing the image of Maedhros. Now, there he stood, alive again, and there were a thousand things Maglor wanted to say. 

I missed you, I’m sorry I could not reach you in time. That I threw it away. I was right to throw it away. Do you forgive me? I’m sorry I was not enough to keep you in life. Please say you forgive me. Maedhros, Maitimo, Nelyo, I missed you. 

His mouth stayed locked shut. 

Would Maedhros yell at him now? Chase him out of the garden? Welcome him and kiss his forehead, like he had when Maglor was small and woke up from a nightmare? He tensed and waited. 

But Maedhros only stared down at him and said, “What is your name, stranger, and what are you doing at my home?”

E - Little Crab in the Big City (Fëanor forgets his crab son in the Valinor shopping district and so Maglor and Bilbo go on an adventure together. Maedhros is never trusting his father to babysit ever again)

Even Aman, with all its power, could not prevent a mortal mind from slowly breaking down. Or so Gandalf had sadly warned him. 

The crab scuttled a little to the left and then a little to the right, giving Bilbo a few more clicks of his claw. Above their heads came the cry of a bird - a seagull, perhaps, though Tirion was far away from the coast - and the poor thing hid behind Bilbo’s leg. 

“There, there, do not fear. I will not let such a well-mannered creature such as yourself become dinner.” Bilbo held out a hand. “A busy street such as this is no place for someone so easily trampled. Would you care to travel with me?”

The crab let out a series of fast clicks, eagerly scurrying forward. Carefully, Bilbo lifted him up and placed him on his shoulder, wrapping one long end of his scarf around the crab to keep him warm. 

“Excellent. It has been far too long since I’ve had a companion on an adventure.” Bilbo opened up his notebook and readied his pen. “Now then, where was I? Oh yes…”

Thanks for tagging me!! Love that the word is CRAB, lol.

C - but for the look in his eyes (ongoing Celebrimbor-is-taken-at-the-parley-instead-of-Maedhros bullet-point fic)

Curufin creeps into the room where Maglor is sitting by Maedhros’ bedside. His second oldest brother looks tired, worn; Curufin hates himself for what he is going to ask, and the sight of Maglor’s exhaustion makes him hesitate. But he hesitates too long. Maglor sees him.

“What is it, Atarinkë?”

He can hear the attempted softness in Maglor’s voice, but it still comes out creaky and ragged around the edges.

He bows his head, feeling like a child.

“Makalaurë…”

He can see his brother open his mouth, looking impatient, but he raises his head to look at him, and whatever Maglor sees on his brother’s face makes him close his mouth.

“Were the healers not busy with their patients, I would ask for a sleeping tincture…whenever I close my eyes, I see…I see…” He cannot finish the sentence, not with the sob rising in the back of his throat. He swallows painfully.

“Could you…could…” His voice is trembling now, and he finally swallows his pride and projects his desire to Maglor through ósanwë.

Maglor’s expression gentles, and he sighs. “I cannot leave Nelyo.” He pats their oldest brother’s hand [...] on the bed next to him, and Curufin immediately feels a wave of guilt wash over him [...]

“But if you would still prefer it, then you can stay here.” He pauses and then pats his leg. “Here, Curvo.”

He comes gratefully, and now beyond caring, he crumples by Maglor’s side and rests his head on his brother’s lap, as he did centuries upon centuries ago. He needs that ancient memory now, he thinks, to comfort him. To remind him what they are fighting for.

Maglor begins to hum, a simple, soft melody, and then begins to sing in a voice tinged with gold, shot through with the gentlest care, and Curufin falls asleep.

(Spoilers omitted :P)

R - but for the look in his eyes

“Respect for our lord, now.” Mairon grips his shoulder and pulls his hair, forcing his head back.

And Tyelpë looks up and up and up at the dark Vala towering over him.

Morgoth’s eyes are like cold flame, an intense blue that seems to shift in hue with every blink.

Everything about him emanates darkness; it is as though instead of projecting brightness, he projects shadow. Any light that comes close to him is instantly absorbed.

Tyelpë had seen Morgoth once or twice in Aman, back when he was known as Melkor, but never close up. His family had greatly distrusted Morgoth his entire life, and his father kept him as far away from the Vala as possible.

A - Celrond [Celebrían x Elrond] fic (don't want to reveal the name quite yet; it's a fluffy, sweet oneshot of the two of them exploring the woods around Imladris)

And then all of a sudden, he turned, and for a split second panic flared within her as she thought she would crash into him. But he quickly caught her hands and used her momentum to pull her into a spin. She let out a surprised laugh as he did so, and they turned, the spin becoming less coordinated as they both became dizzy, and then they staggered to a halt, breathless and giddy. They were both too busy smiling at each other like fools while catching their breath to realize that they were still holding hands.

B - yet to be named Finrod-centric fic (Finrod and Beren are rescued from Sauron's dungeons and Finrod reunites with [redacted character] later on)

Blood. Blood everywhere. Blood on his hands, and on his face, and on the rough stone beneath him. Finrod fell back into darkness. He woke to the sound of singing close by, and that was how he knew he must be awake—for there was no singing in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, and in his dreams it was always far away. That was Orodreth and...Maglor? He shook his head in disbelief; he must still be dreaming. Why would his cousin be here? His head muzzy with sleep, he attempted to stand up, but his feet caught in a blanket that was covering him, and he pitched forwards. His hands found the ground first, yet he did not have the strength to prevent himself from fully face-planting into the earth. Finrod groaned as he pulled himself up with shaking arms. All he could think was that he needed water, and he needed to know if Beren was alright, and he needed…he needed… He turned to try to pull his feet out from the blanket, but pain lanced through his side and he felt a shriek rip through his throat as darkness took him again.

---------

Thanks again for the tag :)

Titles generally come last for me, so I'm afraid none of these snippets have one.

T - Post Order 66 AU involving Obi-Wan on Corellia, and an unbeknownst to even himself Force sensitive kid Han Solo

The problem with the old man making a habit of doing things like saving street kids from two-credit thugs with his weird tricks was that eventually, somebody was always going to snitch. “Hey,” he called, palming the cylinder in the robe’s pocket.  It rolled into his hand - lighter than he had expected, and warmer, and when he drew his hand from the pocket and pressed, blue light shot out of it in a blaze. Everyone in between him and the stormtroopers abruptly found other places to be. “Jedi.” The word echoed from all corners of the street. That was the rumor some snitch had sold. Jedi. One Jedi. Which meant if Han was out here holding a lightsaber . . . Well. No need to hunt further, right? One Jedi, right? Solo. He was good at that. “Heard you were looking for me,” he said. Then he was flinging himself down the nearest alleyway because if there was anything else he was good at, it was knowing how to run.

H - yet to be named Mistborn: Wax and Wayne fic where the title characters were instead born in Era One.

Hindsight suggested that Steris should have realized that Waxillium Ladrian was not who he pretended to be when he had agreed to marry her. If her dowry had not been enough to convince three previous men to overlook her deficiencies, there was no reason for Lord Ladrian to be any different - unless, of course, he was not actually Lord Ladrian and had no intention of sticking around to put up with her deficiencies for longer than it took to claim her dowry. She had plans for if Lord Ladrian proved to be a cruel husband; she had plans for if he brought home children not her own. She did not have plans for if his dear friend Wayne shrugged off a crossbow bolt to the eye in the midst of a rival house’s assassination attempt. That was not a Misting ability. That was a Terris ability. A very, very forbidden one. Lord Ladrian did not seem at all surprised. . . . Lord Ladrian had always been abnormally prone to risking metal jewelry, a touch of fashion unusual to him. She could scream, she supposed. There was still a ball ongoing beyond the balcony door. She could scream for help, and the two of them would run off into the night - . . . and she would have another broken engagement to show for it. “We should throw the body over the railing,” she said through half frozen lips. “It’s dark enough for anyone to mistake the blood for spilled wine until I can clean it in the morning.”

E - AU where most of the sons of Feanor die in the first battle but successfully retrieve the Silmarils; Caranthir is slowly dying of a poisoned wound and trying to prepare bby!Tyelpe for kingship.

Even after the incident, Tyelpe played a lot of chess with his uncle.  He did most things with his uncle these days, sticking to him like the forge ash once had to his father and grandfather’s hands. It was better to stick close; his uncle said it was the best way to learn things and that Tyelpe needed to learn things as quickly as he could. He wished fewer of those things had to do with talking and more of them had to do with the forge. “There’ll be time for the forge,” his uncle promised him, wincing a little as he leaned forward to move a piece. “But I can’t help you much with that. You already know most of what I let Atar teach me. I’ve scrounged up as many of his and Curvo’s old notes and apprentices as I can; you can learn from them . . . later. Once I’ve taught you everything I can.” Tyelpe, quite deliberately, moved one of his rooks into his uncle’s traps. He did not look away from his uncle as he did so. He had learned his lesson about that. His uncle did not sigh. He would have, before they came here; he didn’t now. He did say, “You can’t keep getting rid of pieces just because you don’t want to keep track of them, Tyelpe.” He knew that. But he could make stupid moves on the chess board every time his last uncle said something stupid about . . . later. It was important that his uncle not get any even stupider ideas about already having taught Tyelpe everything he could. “Move the piece back,” his uncle ordered. “Try again.” He thought about not moving. But then his uncle’s hand twitched as if to do it himself, and his own hand jolted forward immediately. It was one thing to make a point, and another thing entirely to make a point that would once again force his uncle to lean across the board.

N - yet another deaging fic . . . this time targeting Elrond in the Second Age.

Not even a very paranoid mind could have construed the soldiers as hiding which puzzled him more than anything else. The soldiers were right there in the middle of the forest clearing, carefully spread out around Artanis and what he could only assume was Gil-Galad the king. Maglor waited in the thicket, trusting his hard won woodcraft to hide him from their eyes and trying to marshal his scattered thoughts. Artanis had tired of their scattered meetings. It was her right. She had decided to turn him in to the king’s justice; that was her right too. He would have expected her to wait with the Sindar and her husband, but - it was her right. But. Surely he was owed the courtesy of an ambush instead of . . . this? Unless . . . was he meant to see this? Did she want him to run? But what kind of fool was Gil-Galad if he had accepted that such a trap as this would work? Maglor had sent the children to Gil-Galad under the assumption he could keep them safe. A fool could not keep them safe, even if long years had passed since the term children had rightfully applied. The king spoke a few words. The guards moved to a new formation. With the movement, his view shifted. He could see Gil-Galad and Artanis better now. Could see how still Artanis was standing, could see the weapon at her waist - Could see the child sitting against Gil-Galad’s legs, slumped and tangled like a broken puppet. The safety of the thicket was a memory in an instant. The guards were rustling into action, but he didn’t care. “Call it off, Artanis,” he said, his own voice strangled and desperate in his ears. “Call your illusion off.” It was an illusion. He knew it must be the moment conscious thought surpassed instinct; it was a glamour sung up from memory at worst, not something real. It had been long since any image so small and young of Elrond, whether of him well or shattered, could have been real. The image’s head had jerked up at the sound of Maglor’s voice. “Artanis,” he begged. Elrond’s - the image’s eyes still showed faint traces of weeping, but the tears were gone now; his eyes were empty, empty, empty, but they were locked onto Maglor all the same. “This is no art of mine,” she said. Of course it was. Of course it was, this was bait to catch him, it wasn’t - it wasn’t - None of the guards had fired their bows. None of them had approached. “Maglor?” The voice was cracked and thin. Desperate. Elrond, he decided, though he might be the king of fools for it. Elrond’s voice was cracked and thin. Elrond’s voice was desperate. Elrond’s voice that was so, so high and young.

F - A several-years-post-canon Wingfeather Saga fic with Janner & Sara's wedding, mostly focusing on Sara & Artham

Finally Sara decides to plunge right into it. “So. Janner and I are getting married next month.” Artham looks up from his paper, an even wider grin breaking out at the reminder. “I’ve heard, as has every man, woman, child, and goat in the surrounding ninety leagues. Congratulations! Should I act shocked?” Rolling her eyes, she drags a chair out from the table beside him, plopping down in it. “You’re very funny.” “Very true. Now that you’re broached the subject, is there something that you need?”

I - The Bookseller and the Sock Man, in which Oskar N. Reteep has the Bilbo Reflex of inviting startling callers to tea.

It’s not the cleanest of rooms, for it has been a long time since he entertained callers, but Oskar gets the feeling that Peet won’t mind very much. He locates the kettle with little fuss (top of the fourth bookshelf on the right), two clean mugs (in use as paperweights), and even a small pot of sugar tucked into a corner (the last surviving member of a set his mother had left him). While the tea begins to curl little wisps of steam into the air, Oskar dusts off his hands and turns to his visitor. Peet has actually managed to advance a few paces past the open doorway in the intervening minutes, and though he is still tensed defensively, with all limbs held close to his body, he studies the room intently with something like curiosity. Feeling Oskar’s eyes on him, he jumps, and his gaze falls to the floor at his feet. “All right, now?” Oskar isn’t sure why he feels the need to ask— it’s clear Peet isn’t all right, but he’s not sure how to help. He starts by clearing off the little coffee table he’d been given as a house-warming present over a decade ago. Two chairs he appropriates from his office, and a dish cloth from the sink with which he grasps the kettle to pour. Two mugs of tea, and minimum casualties.

N - A Home By Any Other Name - The Igiby family's first Dragon Day in Glipwood.

Nia’s lucky to have the cottage at all. Podo had grown up in the cozy building, as had his parents, and his grandparents, and his great-great-great-grandparents, so they had plausible buy-in at least. Neighbors talked as they always did, but the talk was about what Old Man Helmer used to be like and how much the little ones resemble their great-great-great-great-great-grandparents, and not at all about their sudden appearance or lack of belongings or how strange a name was Igiby. They’d shown up just before the Fangs, and nothing makes Skreeans stick together like common enemies so clearly demarcated. So they’re lucky. In their neighbors, in their ignominy, and yes, in their new home. It’s still standing and nobody contests their deed. An old bookshop keeper has even given them a few books about Glipwood as a housewarming gift. Nia’s been using them as a booster seat for little Kal; they’re very useful.

D - A potential continuation of Wisdom to the Wise, on Esben investigating the First Books.

Dang it. Well, this isn’t working. Esben sighs, and regards one of the books open before him. It is turned to a page full of Old Hollish, bearing little resemblance to its modern form, and there is something familiar about the carefully inked symbols. He pulls the book closer, and peers intently at it. Though he doesn’t have the First Books on him, he’s spent at least dozens of hours staring at their writing over the past month and a half, and the text, devoid of meaning, is practically burned into his eyelids. The text here and in the First Book look similar, though he can’t place why. The style of script, maybe? Or were the symbols somewhat similar in form? He can’t place it, and in frustration he twists to peer at the letters upside-down, in vain hope that it will clarify things. To his shock, it does. Like a puzzle piece slotting into place after several unsuccessful attempts to jam it in, the words, upside-down, fall into the shapes held in his mind with a perfect fit. “It works,” Stunned, he stares down at the page. “It… works.” Several nearby Annierans, peacefully paging through volumes and scribbling in spare paper, nearly leap out of their skins when their king, grinning like a madman, suddenly whoops and sprints out of the library, an old book clutched in hand. The door is already swinging shut by the time racing hearts still, Esben long gone for his room.

-

Arundelle: What's your type?

Artham: tall, graceful, turned into a tree for a while

Arundelle: *equal parts in love and exasperated with this man* Your BLOOD TYPE Artham!

Artham: oh *looks down at gaping hole in his side* red. *passes out*

*Hawk Screams*

“Are you okay little hawk?”

read on A03

~~~

Leeli has never once been scared of thunderstorms. 

Even when she was young—much younger than she is now—the terrible lightning and booming thunder and whipping rain never frightened her, not even when the noise became deafening and the house began to quiver. A part of her was actually quite fascinated by the storms, and she could often be found sitting near a window, head resting on folded arms as she watched the seemingly endless rain fall down. She never flinched at the thunder or lightning. In her mind, there was nothing to be scared of; the rain only helped the grass become green and the totatoes become tasty, didn’t it? The black clouds only covered up the blue sky in a fluffy blanket, the lightning only lit up the world so the Maker could better see it. 

Her brothers could not be persuaded. 

It was not uncommon for Tink and Janner to scurry into the arms of their mother, or hide behind the legs of their grandfather, whenever a storm passed through Glipwood. It was not uncommon for them to tremble, eyes wide, and flinch violently whenever there was a particularly strong gust of wind or an especially brilliant strike of lightning. Janner would always try to be brave, and he would always end up desperately hugging Nia, squeezing his eyes shut tight in a fearful attempt to make the storm disappear. 

Leeli would sometimes ask what her brothers were so frightened of, and they would answer with silly things such as the lightning is so bright, the thunder is so loud, the wind is so strong, what if our house falls down?

“It’s just the way storms are,” Leeli would remind them. “It can’t help being loud or bright or strong. Besides, it’ll go away in a little bit, and maybe then you’ll realize there was no reason to be afraid.”

Tink and Janner never really listened. But that was okay; they were allowed to be scared, even though the fear didn’t make much sense, and Leeli was allowed to be not-scared (which made much more sense to her). 

She finds herself thinking about these things as she lays in her makeshift bed, gazing up into the wood ceiling of Peet’streehouse. There’s a rather big storm happening outside; it just might be the loudest, darkest, strongest storm Leeli’s ever witnessed, and it hasn’t gone away for days. 

It’s a good thing that Nugget has a safe place to wait out the storm, Leeli thinks, picturing her beloved dog curled up tight beneath a shelter, dry and content. Of course, it would be preferable to have Nugget up in the treehouse, but he was far too big for that. He’d probably bring the entire treehouse down with his weight!

Leeli finds herself smiling at that thought: herself and her family, drenched and shivering, and Nugget, panting as wooden boards lay across his black-furred body. 

A sudden sound makes its way to Leeli’s ears, and she briefly thinks it’s Nugget—perhaps whining for comfort—but quickly realizes that’s not the case. This sound is too quiet to be Nugget, and sounds… human. 

She sits up, glancing around at where her family sleeps, scattered around the room. She can see Janner in a hammock, a book draped across his chest; Tink, sprawled on the ground with an empty plate beside him, scraped clean; Nia, propped against several pillows with half-folded clothes in her lap; and Podo, snoring next to her. The only one she can’t see is…

The noise comes again, and Leeli’s eyes widen as she recognizes it: whimpering. 

“Peet?” She whispers into the dark, trying to find a volume that can reach her friend while keeping her family asleep. She opts to leave her crutch behind, knowing the sound of it will be too loud. The treehouse is small enough for her to make do without it, anyway. 

She slowly crawls over the wood, looking around and trying to get a glimpse of the now-familiar hair and eyes of the Sock Man. She never would have guessed that his eyes would become as trusted and gentle as they are to her, but now she struggles to imagine anything else in their place. 

“Peet?” She whispers again, squinting. It really is rather hard to see without a candle. 

Something moves in the corner, and Leeli’s eyes brighten. “Peet? Is that you?”

It moves again, and Leeli smiles. “I see you. I’m coming.”

Peet whimpers, and Leeli’s smile vanishes. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

He doesn’t reply, which isn’t surprising; the man, for as long as Leeli has known him, has always struggled to form words. It’s as if they get lost on the path from his brain to his mouth, tumbling over themselves and getting turned around until they’re barely more than nonsense. 

But he tries. 

Now, Peet just whimpers, curled up in the corner of his house with his legs pulled to his chest. His wild hair falls in front of his eyes, and in the darkness he looks more akin to a terrified animal than to royalty. 

Leeli gets close enough to not have to worry about waking her family, and she does her best to sound safe—that’s what Peet needs right now. “Hi, Peet. What’s wrong?”

The Sock Man quickly shakes his head. Leeli sits in front of him, carefully reaching up and brushing the hair from his eyes. 

She tries not to gasp. “You’re crying!”

Peet stares at her, watery eyes shining in the dimness. Every few seconds, a new tear runs down his face, dripping onto the floor. His lip quivers. 

“What’s wrong?” Leeli asks softly, using her sleeve to wipe away the water on his face. “If you’re hurt, I need to tell mama. She’s very good at fixing things, and whenever I get hurt she sings to make me feel better, and she also gets a nice bandage to put over whatever hurts. Do you want that, Peet?”

Peet shakes his head again—slower than before. He sniffles. 

Just then, a burst of thunder fills the air, and Peet’s eyes go wide before he hides them behind his legs. His entire body shakes. 

Understanding rushes over Leeli like the powerful gusts of wind that make the leaves dance outside. “You’re scared of the storm. Aren’t you?”

Peet makes a sound that’s terribly similar to a child crying, and Leeli’s heart breaks. 

“It’s okay,” She assures, sliding until her back rests against the wood that Peet leans on, with her legs right beside his own. “Storms are loud, and it’s okay to be scared of it. It’ll go away in a little bit.”

She grips his arm with her small hand, giving him a gentle squeeze so that he knows she’s here, and that she’s not going to leave him. Peet leans towards her, crying into his legs. 

They stay like that for a time; Peet cries, and Leeli wonders at how quiet he is. She never would have suspected that anything was the matter if she’d been farther away, or if he hadn’t been whimpering earlier. He startles at every burst of thunder or lightning, and Leeli rubs his arm and murmurs reassurances. 

Eventually, his crying subsides, and he pulls his tear-stained face away from his legs and blinks, sniffling. 

Leeli offers him a small smile. “See? The storm isn’t going to reach us from in here. Your treehouse is safe.”

“Safe,” Peet repeats, in that way he sometimes does when he’s nervous. “Your treehouse is safe?”

“Your treehouse.”

“Your treehouse. My treehouse.”

“Yes. Yours.”

Peet is quiet for a moment. His eyes squint together. “My housetree—my treehouse. I built it in the woods, the soods are wafe. The woods are safe. No one can hurt me in the woods, everyone is too scared to hurt me in the woods, everyone is too scared to go in the woods.” And then, like a sudden realization, he declares, “Safe is lonely.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Leeli scoots closer to him. “You’re safe now, and I’m here. We’re all here.” She gestures at her family, and Peet follows her hand with wide eyes. “You’re not lonely anymore.”

“Lot nonely anymore—not lonely anymore. Yes.” Peet nods. “Yes, yes, not lonely. Leeli Iggyfeather is here. LeeliWingiby. Leeli…” 

His lips move silently, and his brows furrow with concentration. 

When he appears to have made no progress, Leeli smiles encouragingly. “I can just be Leeli if my last name is too hard to say.”

Peet shakes his head. “No. Leeli Wingfeatherby, Leeli… friend. Friend Leeli. Special.”

He looks at her so suddenly and so sharply that she blinks. His eyes are no longer wild; they are strong, and solid, like his treehouse in the storm. “Leeli is special. Leeli is… not lonely. Geeli is lood—Leeli is good. Leeli Featherby.”

He can’t seem to get her name right, but Leeli smiles anyway. “I’m glad to be your friend, Peet.”

Peet’s eyes widen. “Friend?”

“Of course! Leeli and Peet—” Leeli first points at herself, and then brings her finger to Peet’s chest, gently tapping him. “—friends. Forever.”

Peet’s eyes fill with tears, but Leeli isn’t worried. He’s smiling. “Not lonely.”

Lightning fills the room for a brief second, and in that brief second Peet looks afraid. 

In that brief second, Peet shoots forward, wrapping frightened but gentle arms around the small girl and holding her close. Leeli allows herself a few seconds of surprise before she returns the hug, wrapping her arms around his neck. 

“Friend,” Peet whispers, voice trembling. “Leeli friend. Safe. Leeli safe. Not lonely. Leeli safe. Leeli safe.”

“The storm isn’t going to get you,” Leeli whispers back, promising. “You’re safe, Peet.”

“Leeli safe,” Peet chokes, hugging harder. 

~~~

Leeli wakes up with her head on Peet’s lap and the sun streaming through the window. Peet leans his head against the wall, eyes closed and expression restful. 

Leeli grins, sitting up and stretching. “Peet? Peet, wake up!”

Peet’s eyes open quickly. “Happy dream!”

“Happy dream?”

Peet smiles, nodding. “Yes. No storm in dream, just safe and berries and Leeli.”

Leeli’s heart warms. “Maybe we could go find some berries later. Look outside!”

Peet’s smile wavers. “Storm.”

“Not anymore! Look, the sun’s out!”

Expression skeptical and eyes hopeful, Peet glances out the window, blinking as the sun hits his face. It only takes a few seconds until he gasps in delight. “Sun bright! Sun bright! Water on the leaves, none in the air, all gone!”

He turns, looking unbelievably joyful as his gaze falls on Leeli. “Leeli made the storm safe! Leeli made the storm hide for tanother ime—another time!”

Leeli giggles. “I didn’t make it go away. It did that on its own.”

“Leeli safe! Leeli safe!” Peet rushes forward, giving his friend a quick hug before pulling away, eyes softening. “Leelisafe. Leeli saved me.”

“Saved you?” Leeli tilts her head. “How?”

Peet’s lip quivers, and he hugs her again. “Leeli saved me. Leeli saved me. Leeli saved Peet!”

He laughs, a beautiful sound that bounces off the treehouse. It’s the sort of laugh that would make flowers grow. 

Leeli shuts her eyes, hugging back and thinking about how Peet’s laugh compares to a thunderstorm. 

There is no comparison, really. Thunderstorms are neither good or bad, but Peet’s laugh is only good. 

~~~

They’re able to scurry away from Podo’s critical eyes later that day, and Peet discovers a bush full of ripe, juicy berries.