thatonedumbitch

And while it meant that you and Suguru were more likely to be teamed up for more complicated missions, you couldn't help but pity Gojo. You could only imagine how exhausted he must've been from using his technique so much.

But pitying him didn't mean you didn't enjoy throwing objects at him as a part of 'training'. Most of those objects never actually hit him, but being able to throw them without precautions was fun enough for you and Shoko.

Watching Satoru learn more and more about Limitless made the doubt creep into your mind more. When both Satoru and Suguru were described as the strongest, you had ways to reason with your own doubt. There were two of them already, you still had your chance of being a third. Watching Suguru being stripped of the title of the strongest, despite both him and Satoru remaining at the same grade, was eye-opening. Was it really possible for you to join them, when even between them there's such a divide?

You didn't realise that you had zoned out when Gojo was explaining his technique, until he addressed Geto:

"Suguru, you lost weight," Satoru commented, his head tilted as he stared at the boy on your left. "Are you okay?"

Confused, you looked over to Suguru, trying to understand what your classmate was talking about. It was only when you took a good look at Geto, that you realised that Satoru was right. You knew that Suguru was tired, everyone saw it, but the realisation that he was now also losing weight worried you.

"I'm just fatigued from the heat. I'll be fine," Suguru replied with a soft smile.

Deep down you knew that he was lying, and you think that Satoru you too. You made a note to check on him when you catch him alone. Maybe you'd buy him a snack to make sure he fills his stomach a bit.

And you tried, you really did. You would try to talk to Geto in between classes and mission, making sure it was just the two of you so he wouldn't feel pressured to answer. But no matter what you said and how many snacks you brought, Suguru kept telling you that he was fine, that you had nothing to worry about. You only realised that you had to change your approach when you saw Satoru devour the chocolates you brought for Geto.

Desperate to help Geto, you ended up reaching out to Alfred. You ended up sending him a text asking for a call, something you had avoided since the summer when he visited Japan to see you. You did everything you could to keep the distance between you and Gotham, something only letters could provide. Your worry about Geto's health won, so you put your pride aside for his sake.

The call came in late at night, Alfred finding time between the vast list of tasks to complete for Bruce. You allowed him to express his happiness after you finally decided to call him. Let him plan making it a weekly occurrence. You were glad the butler couldn't see the way your eyes rolled at his plan. Luckily, you were able to remind Alfred that you had a reason to call before the older man could start talking about the family.

You told him about the situation with Suguru and the worry he filled you with. During the time we were talking, Alfred remained quiet save for the faint sound of his breathing. Once you finished, he didn't respond right away, almost as if he was thinking through the words he was about to choose.

"I always knew you were sensitive to others' feelings, (name)" Alfred started carefully. "Seeing your classmates and teachers disregard that with their own selfishness angers me to no end. If you were to return—"

"Alfred. I called because I trust you for giving me advice," you sighed, your hand wiping down your face. "Maybe I was wrong about calling you. I was hoping to avoid getting involved yoga involved, but since you're not willing..."

"I'm sorry, (name). I let my feelings get the better of me," Alfred apologised. "If your... friend doesn't want to talk about what's troubling him, then stop trying to get him to talk. Focus on being for him and show him that he can rely on you. Sometimes the knowledge of having somebody in your corner is enough."

You thanked Alfred for the advice and the call ended shortly after with an excuse of needing to finish homework. He made you promise to finally reply to his letter and see if your schedule would allow you to call him every once in a while. You promised to check, your fingers crossed behind your back. You knew you couldn't escape the letters, but calls are easier to make excuses for.

Alfred's advice rang through your mind as you walked through the corridors of your school. You thought about how you could show Suguru that you were there if he needed you, when you heard two male voices talking around the corner. It took you a moment to realise that they belonged to Suguru and Haibara. You paused, not wanting to interrupt the two.

"Is that so? Bring back a souvenir," Geto chuckled, and you assumed the two of them were walking about the mission Haibara was assigned to.

"You bet," Haibara chirped, setting down a can with a soft thud. "Do you prefer sweet stuff or are you more of a salty guy?"

"Satoru and (name) might want some too," Suguru remembered, and you tried not to make a sound as your name left his mouth. "So sweet, I guess. You can ask (name) what he wants.

"You got it!" Haibara beamed.

You were about to take a step forward and join the two of them, when Geto's voice echoed through the corridor:

"Haibara. Do you like being a jujutsu sorcerer?" Suguru asked and you froze, confused. "It's not too hard?"

"Well, let's see," Haibara hummed, thinking of his answer. "I've never really been the kind of guy who thinks too deeply about things, you know? I like doing something not everybody else can do. And I like working hard."

"I see. I guess that's good," Geto agreed.

You walk in, trying to not make it too obvious that you heard their conversation. You opened your mouth to greet the two, when footsteps caught the attention of the three of you, forcing you to look in their direction.

"You with the hair! Are you Geto?" a blonde woman called out. "I was wondering what type of woman you are going for?"

"Who are you?" Suguru asked, with you looking suspiciously between the two of them.

"I like the type of girls who eat a lot," Haibara admitted, smiling widely.

"Oh?" The woman tilted her head.

"Haibara" Geto scolded your underclassman, and you cleared your throat to stop yourself from laughing.

"Don't worry about her, Geto," Haibara promised, the smile not leaving his face. "She's not a bad person, I'm good at judging people's characters."

"You say that while sitting next to me," Suguru mumbled.

"Hm? Yeah," Haibara responded, the smile on his face only growing wider.

You wanted to ask Geto what he meant by his words, but Haibara grabbed you by the arm and started dragging you away while talking about the snacks he could bring for everyone. You looked back at Geto, promising yourself to talk to him about his words later.

You never really got the chance to talk to Geto about his comment. Right after you returned from a mission, you received the news of Haibara's passing. The comment was pushed further into your mind as you ran down to the morgue.

You froze in the doorway at the sight of Haibara's body lying on the metal table, the blood of his injury drying slowly. You looked away from the body and towards the two men in the room.

"It was supposed to be an easy mission to exterminate a second-grade cursed spirit!" Nanami screamed, kicking a chair. "Their faith in Ubusunagami, that was a local deity. That was a first-grade curse!"

"Nanami. You should just rest," Geto suggested, covering Haibara's body. "Satoru has taken over your mission."

"Can't we just let him handle everything alone at this point?" Nanami questioned, his eyes covered by a rag.

Suguru didn't respond to Kento's comment. Instead, he turned towards him. He asked you to take Nanami up to his dorm and make sure he rests. He suggested you do the same. He brushed you off when you took a step towards him to ask if he was alright.

Satoru managed to drag you out of your room for the first time after Haibara's death, forcing a bag of candies into your hands. Walking the corridors, the bag of candy quickly stopped being just for you as Satoru kept stealing a few every so often and pretending he didn't know what you'd been talking about when you asked if he wanted one.

With each corridor the two of you walked through, the lighter you began to feel. Being able to stop thinking about losing your underclassman, even if temporarily, was just what you needed to stop yourself from spiralling further.

The smile you barely started forming fell when you and Satoru bumped into Yaga. You knew the news he was about to give the two of you were bad just by taking one look at his face.

"Huh?" Gojo questioned, furrowing his brows.

"Don't make me repeat myself," Yaga sighed. "Suguru killed everyone in the village and—"

"I heard you the first time," Satoru scoffed.

"Suguru's old home was already an empty husk," Yaga explained, catching his eyes for a second, before returning his focus to Satoru. "Though from the bloodstains..."

You stopped listening to him then. You couldn't. There was no way that Suguru would kill those villagers, let alone his own parents. You knew him. You knew that he was the one to talk Gojo from killing that religious organisation that killed the Star Plasma Vessel. You didn't understand what pushed him to do something like that.

"Like hell he did!" Satoru yelled, snapping you out of your thoughts.

Yaga began speaking again, but you didn't stay to hear him. You dropped the bag of candy Gojo got you and turned on your heel. Without saying anything, you ran straight back to your dorm.

You tried calling Suguru, forcing him to explain himself. Maybe tell you it was an elaborate joke he got Yaga to participate in. Anything to prove that yoga was lying. All of your calls went straight to voicemail. You kept trying, your face wet from tears and snot, until you received a text from him:

Suguru: Stop that. You're being stupid.

You tried responding to the text, only to realise that he had blocked you. You threw your phone on top of the desk, having it fall on the letters Alfred sent you in the past.

Tracing the edge of one of them, you wondered about the butler's words. You begin to wonder if you should've stayed in Gotham. Or returned to the city when he first offered it. You were to desperate to prove that you belonged among your classmates, that you failed to see that Alfred might've been right.

You knew that Shoko had tried talking to you, but you never opened the door. You didn't know if you could face her or Satoru. You felt responsible for Suguru's downfall. You knew he wasn't doing well, yet you didn't do anything to help him. You should've been more attentive towards him, pay more attention. You could try to do some of the mission for him. Anything to have him stay in the school with you.

But you didn't.

This time it was Yaga who forced you to leave your dorm. He mentioned that Satoru and Shoko had talked to Geto and offered him to join him as he planned on talking to Gojo.

You silently followed Yaga out of the building, your mind racing with all the possible things Satoru could learn about Geto's actions. Did he try to get the two of them to join? If yes, why them and not you? Why would he exclude you? Were you really that weak in his eyes?

You and Yaga found Satoru as he was sitting down the stairs. You mirrored him letting your back rest on top of the stairs. Yaga remained standing in between the two of you.

"Why didn't you pursue him?" Yaga asked, staring down at Gojo with the hands in his pockets.

"Are you actually asking me that?" Satoru asked with a heavy sigh.

"Nah, it's fine," Yaga waved him off. "It was a stupid question."

"Yaga, do you think I'm strong?" Gojo asked, looking into the distance.

"Yeah, brazenly so," Yaga admitted.

"Yeah, but, apparently being strong isn't enough," Gojo scoffed, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. "The only ones that I can save are those already waiting to be saved by someone."

Alfred called you that night. You weren't sure why you picked up. Maybe you needed to hear about things outside jujutsu. Or maybe you just need a confirmation.

You ended up telling the butler everything right after the first question left his mouth. You were holding so much inside that the second someone showed concern for you, you spilt everything. You told him about Suguru, how you felt like you failed him. How he found a way to speak to both of your classmates, but not to you, despite you reaching out over and over. You sobbed, questioning Alfred if he also believes that you aren't worthy of being a jujutsu sorcerer.

You no longer thought about Alfred when he suggested that you return to Gotham. Agreed to let him book the next flight back. You promised that you would see him at the airport in a few hours.

The call ended, leaving you in silence. You stared at the black screen of your phone before standing up from the bed. You didn't look at the things you were throwing into the bag. They didn't matter, you just needed to get out as soon as it was possible. You only pack things that fit in a sports bag, leaving the rest to be dealt with by the school.

When you finished, you realised that you should say goodbye to Shoko and Satoru. You knew you couldn't face them with the news, so instead you wrote each of them a letter.

As you walked towards Yaga's room, Alfred sent you your ticket back. You stared at the message feeling numb.

Yaga didn't try to talk you out of leaving. He knew that your decision was final and fighting you about it now would only make matters worse. He offered to drive you to the airport, but you declined, only asking for him to order you a cab.

You repressed your tears when he pulled you into a hug with an apology escaping his mouth.

The numbness stayed with you as you waited for your flight to be called out. You stared blankly at the floor in front of you, counting down the time until you will be able to leave.

When the time had finally come, you heard someone call out your name. You turned around stunned when you recognised said voice. You were now face to face with none other than Suguru Geto and two girls that were hiding behind him.

"And here I was thinking I could be wrong about you," Geto scoffed, looking you up and down.

"What?" You choke out, not believing that he came to see you off.

"I always knew you weren't cut out for any of this," Suguru admitted with a smile. "That's why I pitied you. You were so desperate to prove yourself. To show that you belong in this word.

"I do belong," you argued. "I just..."

"Then why are you running?" Geto questioned, succumbing when his mouth opened, but no words left it. "You're really not that different from those monkeys."

Without letting you respond, Suguru turned around and left with the girls following behind him. You watched him disappear into the crowd as your flight number was called out again.

You got up early that morning. At least, you thought you did. It was hard to tell what time it was when the sun never changed its position in the sky.

As promised, Pascal set up a communication line with the androids yesterday. He seemed a hint out of practice; clearly, it had been ages since he’d had a reason to chat with the other beings of this planet.

Eventually, Pascal got them to agree to arrive. The details beyond that were lost to you.

Instead of worrying about it, you sat on the wooden platform of the upper tier of his village, swinging your legs off the edge. You regaled Pascal with stories of your universe, enjoying the last few hours you had left to spend with him. A gentle breeze brushed against you, rustling your clothes and bringing with it the scent of flora, the eternal blooms that thrived under the light. Beyond the forest, you periodically spotted boars and deer roaming about, feasting on never-ending expanses of greenery.

It was while you were telling him about the hell that was navigating subways that the Androids arrived.

A small convoy of people, four from the looks of it, crossed the bridges hung onto the trees, approaching Pascal’s village in a uniform fashion. They marched at a steady pace, one after the other, boots filling the same slot as the person in front of them.

Right off the bat, you clocked something strange about them. 

They all looked completely identical. It wasn’t just in the clothes they were in, but everything, from the way they walked, to the weird masks they wore over their eyes, down to the straightness of their hair. 

Strangest of all, though, was that they all had weapons hovering behind them, held up by a ring of pale yellow light. Mainly swords, though one had a polearm from what you could glean.

The group stopped at what functioned as the entrance to the village, heads tilted up to face you and Pascal, expressions neutral. Their presence caused the hair on your nape to prickle, suddenly nervous. They were (probably) your only way to get home, you couldn’t afford to give a bad first impression.

You trailed after Pascal as went to meet them, clunking down the ladder that creaked precariously under his weight. Resisting the temptation to hide behind him like a child, you stood at his side, waiting for someone to start.

The ‘leader’ of sorts spoke first. “Pascal.”

Pascal’s gears churred, a noise you recognized as him feeling pleased. “It’s good to see you again, 18.”

18? What a weird name, you thought. She was the tallest of the bunch, though the rest weren’t far behind. Her hair draped to her shoulders, bangs cut at an interesting diagonal line, but she pulled it off somehow. Her weapon was bigger than the rest, resembling a heavy greatsword. How a spinning circle of light held it up, you had no idea, and even less idea how the damn thing was used, considering it was as tall as her. 

Maybe it was for aesthetics? 

The android merely nodded, then turned her gaze toward you. “This is the human you told us of?”

“That’s right,” your friend confirmed.

18 examined you for a few seconds, standing unnaturally still. Then, she turned her head over her shoulder, motioning to the girl at her right. The girl took the hint and approached you, closing the distance in two long strides. 

Before you could do anything, her gloved hands clasped your face, tilting your head this way and that, sparing little concern for the comfort of your neck. You opened your mouth to voice your panic, but she took the chance to hook a thumb behind your teeth and pull it open wider, peering into your maw. Reflexively, you tried to jerk back, a garbled complaint bubbling up, but your struggles didn’t move her. Either, she was ignoring the way you were pulling at her arm, or she was entirely oblivious to your discomfort.

It was when she put a palm to your throat, fingers nudging into the underside of your jaw, that she froze. You had no idea what she was searching for, but she seemed to have found it in the way your heart hammered in your chest. As quickly as she had grabbed you, she let go, staggering backwards like you’d burned her.

“It’s true,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with emotion. “She– she’s human.”

In an instant, 18 and the other android locked onto you, crowding your space. Touchy hands wandered all over your body, pawing at your flesh, treating you like a novelty. Someone pinched your waist, and you squealed, batting them away.

“Hands off!” You yelped, and they all retracted from you, surprise evident on their faces. 

Chatter burst forth from them, the group babbling to each other rather unsubtly. Their conversation moved too fast for you to follow, only allowing you to catch the occasional word, like human and His Majesty, city. Pascal and you shared a glance; the robot shrugged unhelpfully. 

Then, it stopped altogether. 18 took her spot at the front again and pressed an arm to her chest, elbow raised outward, and bowed to you. “I am 18D, an android that works under His Majesty. My companions maintain similar positions in His employ. We’d be honored to escort you to His Majesty, so he may aid you in returning home.”

As one, they spoke, saying, “Glory to mankind.”

Jesus, okay, you underestimated how much androids loved humans when Pascal told you about them, sort of just assuming they were bodyguards that took their jobs very seriously. But, hey, that meant they’d keep you safe during your journey to meet whoever this ‘Majesty’ guy was, right?

“We should hurry,” the second girl rushed, jittery for some reason.

As you were about to agree, you hesitated. “Wait, I want Pascal to come, too.”

At once, you were denied. “No,” she refused, stern, but not unkind. “Machine lifeforms are not welcome in the city.”

Offense surged through you at Pascal’s behalf. “What? But he’s nice! You know this!”

“It’s a rule. No exceptions.”

“You can make one–”

Pascal called your name, interrupting your bickering. His hand reached out to you, then lowered, as if he thought better of it.

“It’s okay,” he reassured you. “They have these rules for a reason. I will be fine here.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out, stuck in your throat like thick honey. You wanted him to come with you, he’d been the only person you’d known since waking up in this strange place. 

Fuck. Your chest ached with guilt, but if even Pascal insisted on staying behind, what choice did you have? You weren’t going to win this fight.

It was with a heavy sigh and the slump of your back that you conceded. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

The androids didn’t bother providing further conversation or wishing Pascal farewell, but you were not about to leave him without at least telling him goodbye. They were already marching away, but you weren’t ready, not yet.

“Wait, hang on,” you called to them. Not waiting to see if they stopped, you hurried back to Pascal, throwing your arms around the can of gears and bolts. “Thank you for being my friend,” you murmured into his shoulder.

He didn’t move initially, then cautiously encircled his arms around you in a facsimile of a hug, more so imitating you than actually understanding the action. “Of course,” he reassured you. “It was a pleasure to have you. I hope we meet again someday.”

You kept your mouth shut at that, not wanting to let him down and say this would be the last time you’d see each other, hopefully. Instead, you squeezed him tighter, then let go.

“Bye, Pascal,” you expressed, smiling sadly.

“Safe travels,” he responded, giving you a wave that you returned.

You turned around and made your way to the androids. It was obvious that they wanted to say something about your friendship with Pascal, but they thankfully kept their mouths shut. They led you away, further and further from the little village you had come to think of as your home-away-from-home. You peeked over your shoulder to give it one last look.

Pascal continued to wave at you, even after you disappeared behind the trees and descended to ground level.

A short walk away, you noticed a shape that looked distinctly familiar, tucked away under a tree with low-hanging branches. 

It was a car – an off-road land rover of sorts, specifically. Unlike the other vehicle shells you’d seen here and there, rotted frames of crumbling rust and plastic melted under the ever-present sun, this one was in good condition. A range of floodlights were attached right above the windshield, powered off and unneeded in the current daylight. From the looks of it, the roof and windows had been removed, leaving only the frame for easy access. 

You watched as 18D popped open the driver side door and climbed in.. You awkwardly waited outside, unsure where you fit. 

And then, something grabbed you. 

You were lifted like a damn feather, your indignant caterwauling ignored completely as your effective kidnapper jumped in and plopped you right onto her lap, arms looped around your waist.

“Be careful, G!” One of the girls cried out, the one settling into the passenger seat. “She’s fragile.”

Whoever was holding you – G? – cackled. “Relax, 73. She’s fine. Aren’t you, girly?” The girl leaned forward, her lips against the shell of your ear. You fully intended to pretend that you didn’t just experience a wave of shivers at the sound of her voice.

“Well, actually–” you started.

“73H is right, 5G,” 18 interrupted. “Be more careful.”

“Sure, sure,” 5G, G, whoever the fuck she was, answered lackadaisically. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep our little human safe.”

18 grumbled something that you didn’t catch under the roar of the engine turning over. In an attempt to save yourself, you wriggled, but it was useless against the unstoppable force that was this woman’s insane strength. Her arms didn’t so much as budge at your squirming.

“Um,” you spoke up above the rumbling purr emanating from the vehicle. “I can sit on my own just fine!”

5G grinned, propping her chin up on your shoulder. “Don’t be silly! I won’t let you go, you can trust me!”

Yeah, that wasn’t what you were worried about. It didn’t help that she was unfairly pretty. All of them were, really, in that inhuman way that bordered a little too close to uncanny valley, but didn’t quite fall into the steep drop yet.

You chewed the inside of your cheek. You were a novelty, after all; the last human on Earth. Maybe they’d never seen one before? You could hardly blame them for being curious.

Still, no matter how hard you tried to squash the thoughts under your heel, they persisted, whispering in your ear that you should have stayed with Pascal.

----

The entire ride to the city, the androids stared at you.

73H frequently turned around in her seat to chat with you and 5G, and 5G never loosened her hold. The only one that seemed to not be trying to pick you apart with her eyes was 18D, but with the blindfolds they all wore, for all you knew she could have been peering at you through the rearview mirror this whole time.

“What’s it like, being a human?” 73H queried.

“Um, what do you want to know?”

“Do you really produce milk?”

The question was so outrageous, you couldn’t help yourself. You choked on a laugh, then burst out into a fit of giggles. 18D chastised her, prompting 73H to apologize profusely to you, but you found it endearing.

Fanning your face, you answered, “Some people do, yeah. Usually happens after they give birth.”

“What’s it taste like?”

“73H!” 18 shouted.

“Sorry!” She whined.

5G nudged you while 18D chided 73H. “Can humans eat mackerel?”

You nodded. “Yeah, unless they’re allergic.”

“It doesn’t jam up your circuits?”

“No–” you made a face. “Humans don’t have circuits.”

“Really?” Both she and 73H asked.

As you chatted, you observed the changing scenery. The ruined structures of ancient apartments and house foundations fell away, replaced with idyllic landscapes.

It faded away, replaced with the curious chiming of music through old speakers, the sound tinny and popping. You leaned to the side to peek between 18D and 73H, watching as your driver raced towards an… 

Amusement park?

Going straight through the entrance led to a partially destroyed statue, its body cut on a clean diagonal, as if sliced in half. Rainwater collected inside it, causing its protective coating to wear off in some places and allow the bronze to oxidize.

“What’s that?” You pointed it out.

5G shrugged nonchalantly. “Records show it used to be a machine lifeform. Good riddance.”

18D drove around it and further into the park, up a few ramps. They were steep, leaving you to fall back into 5G, but she didn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

Past the houses lining the street, the space opened up greatly, a circular plaza with an open gate at the end. It was when 18D drove onto what resembled a highway that you saw it.

A bestial fortress. The vestiges of sunlight bled through the misshapen heart of its core, your desired sunset handed to you on a silver platter. To the right of it, the remnants of a ferris wheel lay collapsed upon its siding, overtaken by nature.

“I bet this place used to be fun,” 73H sighed. “Wish the roller coaster still worked.”

“There’s a roller coaster?” You looked back to spot it.

“Oh, yeah,” 5G crooned, laughing. “Just a mess now. Bet you would have been too chicken to ride it, 73H.”

“I would not have been!”

The two bickered back and forth, with 5G provoking 73H, saying that all healer units were wusses while the other insisting it wasn’t true.

The highway curved, extending parallel to the massive structure, away from the winding pillars and tracks of the doomed roller coaster. 

It was beautiful.

You feared that very beauty would grab hold of you and never let go.

Lost in thought, you didn’t notice that your ride had reached its destination until 5G was scooping you up like a soggy, wet cat again, lifting you out of the car. Looking around, you realized that 18D had parked in what seemed to be a garage lot somewhere underground. 

Just as you were beginning to panic, thinking they were about to drag you down to some creepy-ass dungeon, 18D spun around and led your group up a ramp and out into the crimson-gold lambency of the forevermore lowering sun, hanging heavy on the horizon.

The first step you took into the city left you speechless.

All around you, skyscrapers rose to greet the sky, their spires still standing tall, even after all this time. In place of glass windows with mirror-like finishes, overwhelming amounts of bright green foliage sprouted from the sides of the buildings. Trees lined the streets in thriving columns, blooms of white and pink flowering atop the leaves.

Asphalt made way for sprawling ivy and stunning flora, pops of color breathing a sentience yet unknown to you into what was once a metropolis packed full of humans. The tram line that cut through the center of the wide street blended seamlessly with the copsewood, the passenger carriage itself serving as a home for verdure.

A squirrel skittered from bush to bush and raced up the trunk of a nearby tree, chattering with another that hid in the midst of leafage. Flocks of birds circled overhead, searching for places to nest, bugs to feast upon, and treats to stash away.

Androids roamed about in small groups, two or three making their way to wherever it was they were going. Most had white hair, but it was easy to spot those that were brunette or blonde. A few even sported brilliantly red locks, a shock of contrast against a nearly all-green backdrop.

You were so used to streets that were jam packed with people and cars, a constant buzz of sound. Instead of honking vehicles and rumbling engines, there was the swish of gentle wind between buildings. Humans were exchanged with wildlife. Things of scant importance had long since decomposed.

Fresh air flooded your lungs. You could see straight up into a vivid wisteria and bell heather sky, no haze present to block out the lustrous glow of perpetual early sunset. Stars speckled the heavens in dots of cadenced flickers.

The world smelled sweet, faintly of lemongrass and something distinctly wild that you couldn’t put your finger on. For a moment, you forgot everything, captive to the beauty of a planet undesecrated by humanity.

To your surprise, many buildings and streetlights retained electricity, burning strong in the evening hours. They made constellations of one another, their silhouettes blurred into softness by still-surviving lightbulbs and the mellowed sun. When you heard the word ‘cozy’, this is what you imagined. A place of peace, full of nature, gentle on the eyes. 

If only real life was like this. Well, your real life.

The weapons your envoy possessed dissipated into sparkles of light as soon as they entered the official city boundary, embers fizzling away before you could enclose them in your palms and bring them to your heart.

“The King lives not far from the city center, in a castle,” 73H informed you. 

You cocked your head to the side. “Castle?”

A smile curled the corners of her mouth upwards. “Yes! He built it himself.”

“Oh,” you responded, lackluster.

You wondered if this ‘King’ had a proper name amongst the androids, or if he identified himself with weird numbers and letters like everyone else did, as far as you were aware. It would be kind of odd to always refer to him as only ‘the King’ or ‘His Majesty’, wouldn’t it?

It gave you something to ponder about as you followed 18D, absentmindedly taking in the scenery and moping about your universe not having anything remotely like this. Had you not been experiencing it firsthand, you would have dared to call it magical, far beyond the realm of possibility. The entire path you took to the so-called “castle” was like this, the pure essence of creation at the nimble hands of Earth.

And the castle itself – well, it wasn’t quite what you were expecting.

Granted, you didn’t know what to expect in the first place, but it wasn’t so strikingly simple in your mind’s eye.

Sticking out like a sore thumb, a structure of pure, pristine white material occupied a space you imagined might have once belonged to a church, a place of worship. If you paid close enough attention, you swore you could hear the whisper of unanswered prayers.

Compared to the decrepit skyscrapers, it looked brand new, untouched, raised from the ground and kept in a bubble of serenity, away from erosion and time. Your hands itched to dip into paint and press into its sides, leaving a reminder that you were there.

The massive doorway opened at your approach, and you walked through them, down a long path that led to a raised dais. A throne resided atop it, and on it sat a man, chin propped on his fist.

King was right.

The man had an undeniably heavy presence to him, one that had you straightening up.

You were never good with estimating, but you’d place his height around 7 feet, at least. He commanded the very air about him with his presence alone, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. 18D was tall, but the king beat her by a head or two easily.

Like most androids, his hair was a gleaming, cool white, resembling the underbelly of a fawn. It fluffed around his head in mid-length strands, and you bet it was soft as cotton. Part of you wanted to reach out and run your fingers through his wolf cut. 

Instead, you forced yourself to focus on his face. Unlike the other androids, he wasn’t wearing a blindfold, showing his pretty blue eyes; they swept over your escorts with little interest, then they settled on you.

And stayed.

Their striking hue made your breath catch. Stunning was an understatement, and you felt a smidge self conscious with how keenly he looked at you. You wrapped your arms around yourself, glancing away.

“Ladies,” he greeted. His tone was low and smooth. It passed over you, encircled you, and came to rest, a warm blanket made of affection and familiarity.

“Your Majesty,” your android companions all replied simultaneously, leaving you the odd one out once more.

The ‘King’ merely waved his hand. “This her, then?

18D rose first, thumping her fist against her chest before it fell to rest at her side.

“Yes, your Majesty. This is the human Pascal informed you of.”

In all the time that 18D was speaking, he never once looked away from you, wholly captivated by your existence.

His brows creased. “How did you end up here?”

It took you a moment to figure out he was asking you. “Oh, um,” you stammered, not expecting the unceremonious return of your vocal autonomy. “I… woke up here?”

Were you not currently busy getting the shit intimidated out of you, you would have considered a career as a wordsmith. With your talent for crafting intricate, yet easily-understood explanations, you could be a world-renowned author on any topic you craved to cover.

Surprisingly, the man didn’t ask you to restate yourself, moving on to ask, “What is your name?”

Hesitantly, you offered it, and received a dazzling smile in return.

“It’s a beautiful name,” he complimented. “You may call me Nier.”

Nier. 

Why was the king – Nier – the only one with a name? A proper name, one that sounded almost…

Human.

You thought to question it, but the comfort that came with a human name belonging to a man that was the closest to a human you’d seen overrode it.

Nier rose to his feet, coming to stand before you. He wielded power in his stance alone; it drew you to him.

“Come inside, we can talk more there,” he recommended, motioning to an opening off to the side. You nodded and let him guide you away from your escorts.

The door slid shut behind you, giving you privacy. Inside, you found what looked like a completely normal home, although made of the same material as the rest of the castle and his throne.

Where you expected Nier to sit you down on the couch, or at the dinner table, he kept walking until he reached the end of a hallway. He raised a hand and pressed it to the blank wall, and a hidden door parted, revealing another small room. An elevator.

You entered it with him, and soon felt the floor rise beneath you and carry you smoothly upwards. For how long, you had no way of knowing, having no indication of what floor you were on. It could have been seconds or minutes, but by the time the door opened again, you were disoriented and a hint dizzy. Nier, of course, was none the wiser, focused on bringing you into a bedroom, of all things.

Your first instinct was to think it was his bedroom – but the more you took in the details, the less that seemed likely. For one, there was no indication of anyone having lived in it; the sheets on the bed were untouched, not a wrinkle to be seen in the comforter or pillowcase, both as equally white as everything else. There was nothing on the nightstand beside the bed aside from a small lamp. The desk was blank, a chair tucked neatly under it, and if you opened the wardrobe, you’d bet there was nothing inside it.

“What…” you breathed aloud, confused.

Nier finally let go of your hand and stepped further in. “This is for you,” he said, like that gave you any sort of enlightenment on the environment.

“For me?”

“Yes,” he affirmed, laying his hand on your shoulder. Faintly, his finger brushed over your neck, the sensation little more than the lightest trace of a feather. But there was too much else going on for you to notice it properly, your focus drawn every which way. 

At his direction, the subtle persuading, you took a seat on the bed, bewildered to find that it was soft and comfortable, contrary to the blockiness you were expecting. Nier crouched in front of you, coming to rest on one knee, an arm laid lazily across the raised one. Even brought down to this level, he was nearly head-on with you, easily able to maintain eye contact.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said.

“I insist,” he asserted. “I am most happy when I serve.”

Your heart fluttered.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” He suggested. 

So, you did exactly that; you told him how you went to sleep in your world, and woke up in this one. How you met Pascal, and asked him to contact the androids with hopes that they could aid you in returning home. Now, you came to Nier with the hopes that he’ll be able to help you return to where you’re supposed to be.

“Her name is Accord,” you told him. “She’s an android, like you. Can you contact her?”

His head tilted to the side, and he put a hand on your thigh, above your knee. “Don’t worry,” he soothed. “We’ll help you get home. It’s our responsibility as the servants of humanity to serve you, and keep you safe.”

You gave him a thin, watery smile. 

“Thank you, your Majesty–”

“Nier,” he corrected.

You swallowed down the dryness in your throat. “...Nier.”

The delighted expression he gave you caused heat to rise to your cheeks. You looked away, and that’s when you heard it, a distant, muffled noise.

You spotted a nearby window where the noise came from. You turned to peer out of it, where you found dozens upon dozens of androids standing on the street below. They all hollered and flailed their arms about, heads bobbing like little whack-a-moles.

Beside you, Nier grumbled, “News travels so fast… I apologize, I hoped we’d have more time before they learned you were here.”

Leaning closer to the window, you awed at the amount of people gathered. “Are they all… here to see me?”

“Of course, they are,” came his soft reply. “You are a miracle to us.”

You peeked at him, and found him smiling tenderly at you, his expression warm and gentle. He gave you a slight nod, and you took it as permission to interact with the amassed people. Slowly, you raised a hand, and waved it at them.

Your reward was an explosive round of cheers that barely reached you, the androids jumping and waving back at you. Despite yourself, your lips tugged upwards, the tightness in your chest loosening. 

If nothing else, it was nice to know the androids were excited to see you.

Nier rose from his spot. “I’d like to show you the rest of the castle,” he explained. “If that’s alright.”

There was something about him that made you feel safe. He was kind, and you knew he’d protect you. When he extended his hand, you took it, fingers gliding into his palm.

“I’d love to see,” you said.

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Come, then. There’s much to show you.”

divider by cafekitsune ♥

(reminder to put your age in your bio/pinned before you follow me or I will block you)

[NieR masterlist]

"It's Connor's last year as Counselor, but Julia's first real year. Chiron might be amenable if you offer a lending hand since the Hermes Cabin always has its hands full with the claimed and unclaimed kids," Josie let herself smile a little as she played with the strings of her hoodie. She knew that the Hermes cabin had about twenty-five kids inside the cabin with only seven of them being unclaimed for now. Connor and Julia did their best to run a tight ship but they may not know how to handle a seven-year-old. But now that Josie thought over it a little more, the camp itself probably wasn’t really to handle a seven-year-old as well. 

The youngest camper that Josie had heard about was Annabeth Chase, who also came to camp around the age of seven, but she was quickly claimed and ushered into the Athena Cabin. Then there was Harley, who came to Camp Half-Blood the same year Josie did, but the daughter of Aphrodite was twelve next to Harley’s eight. But he had truly fit into the chaos that was the Hephaestus Cabin. But not accounting for those two, campers usually came when they were in their double digits of age and were usually used to the outside world looking down on them for their demigod characteristics. Once demigods were thrown into the structured schedule of the camp, people found places where they excelled whether it be with a weapon, languages or some sort of craft. 

Josie had found that she had an aptitude for languages. She had grown up speaking Swedish and English, and being Aphrodite’s daughter, the romance languages also came fluently to Josie. She, however, wanted a challenge and started to learn other languages that did not come quite as naturally; Camp Half-Blood had helped a lot with that, since so many people came from different backgrounds and cultures. But she had not let her talent for languages hold her back from the other skill pools from camp. She was pretty good with her daggers and was one of the best chefs in the camp, even taking up the mantle of the camp’s cooking instructor after the previous one left camp.

But with Y/N, Josie could see the boy easily getting lost in the chaos of camp. Her Aunt Nadja had given the older demigod a brief summary of the youngest Wayne without saying his name, and then Poppy had given Josie the rest of the facts after she was assigned escort duty. Y/N Wayne was a typical Gotham Academy student, raised to be prim and proper but was looked down on by other students and some faculty due to his ADHD and dyslexia. His father was the eccentric billionaire Bruce Wayne, a playboy philanthropist turned recluse due to the death of his adopted son, Jason Todd. Y/N’s other adoptive brother, Richard Grayson, had moved out and was now living in Blüdhaven; according to Poppy, who was getting his information from a seven-year-old, Richard had been fighting with Bruce for a few months and had been coming home less and less. So where did that leave Y/N, who was also clearly grieving the brother he had lost and was considered an outsider to those that were his age?

Josie decided right then that she would keep an eye on the tiny demigod, whether Chiron approved of her mentoring Y/N or not.

XX

The station wagon rolled to a stop, making Y/N blink awake slowly. He was groggy and disoriented with his cheek pressed against something soft that had not been there before -a soft, sweet-smelling blanket. The boy looked for his stolen backpack that he was once clinging to but quickly found it where Josie had placed it. Then, his attention turned to the world outside the window. The station wagon was in a campground parking lot with a bunch of other unassuming cars. There were a few other people standing around; some in bright orange shirts while there was one or two other colors mixed in. Josie’s face popped down in front of the window.

“Hey there, sleepyhead. We’re here,” Josie’s voice was gentle as she opened the car door. She quickly undid the carseat buckles for Y/N. The older demigod stepped out of the way so the younger could hop out of the car. Y/N took a better look around the campground parking lot; it was mostly surrounded by tall trees that were practically concealing the lot from view. At one end of the parking lot, there was a pathway that the other people were heading toward. Poppy was nearby holding Y/N’s trunk, chatting with another Satyr. Y/N rubbed his eyes with the back of one small hand, still clutching Jason’s backpack like a lifeline with the other. The air smelled different here; nothing like Gotham’s usual mix of rain, exhaust and old stone. This air smelled like pine needles, warm earth and something sweet.

“Where are we?” Y/N’s voice was still thick with sleep.

“Edge of Long Island. Camp is about a half-mile that way. Only a little bit of a walk, but I say it’s well worth it. Ready?” Josie gave Y/N a soft smile and held out her hand. The younger demigod looked at the hand for just a moment, before slipping his small hand into hers. The older demigod gave him a slight squeeze. Poppy trotted over, holding Y/N’s trunk with relative ease. 

Together, the trio followed after the other demigods and Satyrs down the trail path. The trees surrounding them gave way to a meadow at the bottom of a tall hill. At the top of that hill stood a lone pine tree with something golden fluttering under its needles. They took their time going up the hill since Y/N’s short legs were not used to going up earthen trails. The trio were the last to make it up to the pine tree, but once they walked past the tree, the world around them changed.

Y/N felt a wave of static electricity pass over his skin, making him shiver, and then he watched the world around them transform like a pop-up storybook. From the top of the hill, he could see a large cluster of cabins, each a different color; the biggest one was a bright sky-blue with a large wraparound porch. The smell that Y/N had been enjoying on their walk sharpened a little more, giving way to more scents: the sweet smell was revealed to be strawberries since there was a large field of them, the salt scent that felt like an afterthought deepened as Y/N looked out at the sound that was connected to the everlasting blue of the Atlantic Ocean, and the fresh pine lingered under the smokiness of campfire. There were a lot of kids; a majority of them in matching orange shirts almost like a school uniform, but there was a rainbow of other colors mixed in as well. They were doing a variety of activities: a couple of people looked to be doing a rope obstacle course high up in the trees around the camp, there were a bunch of people in the arena using all sorts of weapons, and another group of people were in an outdoor classroom looking at a chalkboard. The more Y/N looked, the more there was to see. Eventually, he turned his big eyes towards his companions, who were smiling brightly at the young demigod’s reaction.

“Well, kiddo, welcome to Camp Half-Blood. Now let’s get you to Chiron for check-in,” Poppy picked the trunk back up as he spoke, and Josie tugged lightly on Y/N’s hand to lead him down the hill towards the camp.

XX

The first thing Y/N noticed once they reached the bottom of the hill was that the campers all looked like they belonged there. Not in the way the other children at Gotham Academy belonged in their stiff uniforms and polished shoes, but in the way people did when they knew exactly where they were meant to be. They were laughing, shouting, singing, and somehow none of it felt as overwhelming as the crowds at school or the galas Bruce took Y/N to. No one here was trying too hard to seem important; they were just existing and being children. 

Josie slowed a little as the trio got closer to the large, sky-blue house. The older demigod squeezed Y/N’s hand once more, the same way Alfred sometimes did when he wanted to remind him to breathe and remain calm.

“Okay, the first stop is the Big House. We’re going to meet Chiron and Mr. D,” Y/N nodded solemnly, as if he was given a very serious job and not being led through what was, in his young mind, perhaps one of the strangest places he had ever been. Poppy gave the younger demigod a reassuring grin.

“Try not to let Mr. D scare you. He likes to pretend he’s terrifying,”

“Is he?” Poppy’s face quickly changed at Y/N’s question, like he was caught lying, which he had.

“Oh definitely,” Josie smacked the Satyr’s arm.

“Poppy! Don’t scare him!”

“What? I can’t exactly lie to him. He is terrifying. He turned Herb into a dolphin last summer,”

“He got changed back,”

“Only because Percy was visiting and could hear Herb speaking. Mr. D had forgotten he had turned Herb into said dolphin,” Y/N looked in between Josie and Poppy as they argued and walked. The Big House got even bigger up close and the younger demigod noticed that there were two figures on the porch. 

One man was in a motorized wheelchair. He had dark brown skin with gray hair and beard, wore a tweed jacket and a white shirt, and had a brown plaid blanket covering his legs despite the June heat. The man had a warm smile spread across his face as the trio got closer to the house. The other man had a grumpy expression on his face, looking like he would rather be anywhere else; he had wild curly hair and beard, tanned skin and was wearing a tiger-print aloha shirt, cut-off denim shorts and socks with sandals. As the trio got to the steps of the Big House, the grumpy man crossed his arms across his chest and cleared his throat, which made Josie and Poppy stop their minor argument about Mr. D’s grumpiness.

“You’re late, Undertow,” Poppy frowned at the wrong last name, but did not immediately correct Mr. D.

“Gotham traffic, sir. I wanted to be careful, considering who I was picking up,” Mr. D’s frown seemed to deepen even further.

“Right, that city. Everyone seems to think I have some part in its madness,” Y/N tilted his head at the grumpy man’s words.

“Madness?” Mr. D glanced down at Y/N at the sound of the young boy’s voice.

“Yes, small one. Since I am the god of insanity, people like to believe I have a hand in the making of those rogues of yours. But I am a mere scapegoat. I haven’t been there since the Kanes were in power,” Y/N knew that name, but only one person with that last name. His cousin, Kate Kane, liked to come over for the winter holidays, claiming it was only because of Alfred’s cooking; she never seemed to mind when Y/N would curl up on the couch with the older woman just to listen to Kate speak about her life growing up. The young demigod had always thought that his cousin was really cool, loving the pictures on her skin and her bright red hair.

“I know a Kane,” Mr. D’s grumpiness faded into a tired look with a sigh.

“Of course you do. Well, young Wilson, listen to the rules and I’ll have no reason to turn you into a mammal of my choice. Maybe a small bat like the one that haunts your city,” Y/N frowned at the wrong name, but it was quickly replaced by a small look of wonder at the thought of being changed into an animal. He always liked seeing the bats fly up from the Cave. Mr. D looked insulted that his threat was not taken as one; he turned his head to Chiron.

“I have cards to play. Give them the usual spiel,” Chiron looked honestly delighted as Mr. D turned on his heel and made his way into the Big House. The older man turned his smile towards Y/N.

“Welcome to Camp Half-Blood, Y/N Wayne. I am Chiron, the camp activities director,” Y/N tilted his head. He knew that name from the mythology book that Alfred had read to him.

“Like the centaur?” Chiron’s eyes seemed to twinkle.

“Exactly like the centaur,” Y/N stared at the man for a long moment, before looking at his blanket-covered legs, and then back up at the man’s face. Chiron could not help but chuckle; behind Y/N, even Poppy and Josie laughed a little.

“The wheelchair has a concealment spell,” Y/N’s eyes widened a little.

“Oh. That’s really cool,” Chiron chuckled again.

“Why, I think so as well, young Y/N. Now, why don’t you and Josefina take a seat and we can talk about how things go around our camp? Poppy, could you take Y/N’s trunk to the Hermes Cabin and then stop by the kitchen to ask one of our Harpies to send over some lunch?” Poppy nodded.

“Then, to the council?” Chiron nodded at Poppy’s words.

“Yes. Grover has returned from New Mexico and wants to know more about your findings,” Poppy looked relieved at the name ‘Grover’ and Y/N wondered who that person was. Poppy turned to the young demigod and gave his hair a quick ruffle.

“See you around, kiddo. Be good for Josie, Connor and Julia,” Poppy picked up the trunk and made his way deeper into the camp. Y/N watched him go until Josie squeezed his hand again, making him look up at the older girl. The older demigod led Y/N over to the porch swing, helped him hop up, and then took a seat as well.

XX

Chiron spoke to Y/N the same way Alfred did when he wanted him to understand something important. It was often the tone used just before a gala, when the butler explained why the boy had to wear the fancy clothes, put up with older people dismissing him while also expecting the boy to pay attention to those around him, and try to keep his expression neutral as the paparazzi took his photos. Alfred always made sure that the day after a gala was spent doing whatever Y/N wanted for doing a good job at listening to the butler’s instructions for the event. Chiron’s tone of voice, his gentle smile and knowing eyes reminded Y/N greatly of Alfred; the butler would get along well with the centaur.

Chiron spoke for over an hour about the specifics of camp. For now, Y/N would be following the Hermes Cabin schedule, but once he was claimed by his godly parent, his schedule might change. Y/N was too young for the more combat-heavy activities, such as Capture The Flag and King of the Hill, but he could be included on the other camp-wide activities, like Hide-n-Seek and Paint Balloon Tag. There were classes that Y/N was expected to pay attention to, but if he was having any sort of trouble, he could tell the instructor or Chiron and accommodations would be made.

“There is much to do here at Camp Half-Blood, but you do not need to do everything at once. You are still a child. We’re not going to throw you into the arena and expect you to become a warrior overnight. We want you to enjoy your childhood here,” Y/N did his best to pay attention to Chiron’s words, but his attention would often drift. Other kids in matching orange shirts would often walk by, each one always holding something different: bows and quivers, swords, clay pots, woven baskets and more. A pretty girl with black-yellow feathers adorning her arms and bird-like legs came with a plate of sandwiches and a bowl full of homemade potato chips, giving them to Josie and Y/N. 

“Thank you, Orie,” Josie had smiled at the bird-like girl, who returned the smile.

“Thank you, Miss Orie,” Orie’s smile softened even more as she glanced over at Y/N.

“My pleasure. Chiron, Caellaene wants to know if our new camper has food preferences or allergies,” Orie’s light brown eyes glanced back at Y/N, who was opening his backpack to get the folder of information Alfred had prepared for the camp administration. Josie took the folder from the younger demigod to hand it over to Chiron, who quickly looked through it and even handed a piece of paper over to Orie.

“I’ll let the kitchen know and add this to the binder with the rest,” Orie gave everyone on the porch one last smile before heading towards the dining pavilion up the nearby hill. Y/N and Josie tucked into their small lunch as Chiron continued to talk.

The centaur talked about the rules of camp. It was not much different from school, except the rules were more simple: no mortals beyond the boundary, no cell phones or most electronics (radios and other battery powered items could be used at a lesser extent), no leaving camp or entering the forest alone, be kind to the monsters that are allowed in the camp (the harpies only pretend to be mean, the nymphs like to play small pranks but will back off once asked, the cyclopes were kinder than they looked, the hellhounds will most likely beg for table scapes, and Peleus should be left alone though he does not mind quiet company), always help with chores, and lastly, listen to your cabin counselors.

“Any questions so far?” Chiron’s warm brown eyes watched Y/N carefully. The young demigod swallowed the last of his sandwich and thought over the centaur’s question. At Gotham Academy, the rules were long, overcomplicated, and seemed designed to make children feel like they were always doing something wrong. But these rules felt different. They made much better sense, like the rules Alfred had for the Manor’s kitchen: sharp things were dangerous, hot things burned, no attempting to cook until he could see past the counter without his stepstool, and if Bruce was in the kitchen cooking, immediately find Alfred.

“What happens if I accidentally break a rule?” Chiron’s expression softened at Y/N’s question.

“Then we talk about it. We learn. And we try again the next day. Accidents happen, Y/N. What matters is that you are trying,” Y/N nodded. That made sense; it was almost like what Alfred would say about making mistakes. Josie squeezed Y/N’s shoulder gently, making the younger boy look over at her.

“Ready to see your cabin?” Y/N nodded, slipping off the porch swing. He hugged Jason’s backpack to his chest for a tiny moment, before slipping it onto his shoulders. It was much too big for the boy to use for normal school. Its canvas was rough in some places with Jason and Alfred both mending it with different colored threads, his Batman and Robin patches were pinned on with clothespins and there were a bunch of pins of band logos that Alfred did not allow Y/N to listen to yet. But when Y/N put it on, it felt like another hug from his lost brother.

“One more thing,” Y/N turned back at the sound of Chiron’s voice; his expression had grown thoughtful.

“Y/N, if you ever need someone to talk to, about anything at all, my office is always open,” Y/N nodded, something warm settling in his chest. It was the same way Alfred looked at him when he told him he had special permission to come to the butler’s quarters if he needed anything, such as tea or if he had a nightmare; not even Bruce or Dick had that type of permission. Y/N gave Chiron a small smile, as he took Josie’s hand, waving goodbye to the centaur with his free hand.

XX

Chiron watched Josefina walk away with their newest camper. He was so tiny but almost too mature for his age. Not even Annabeth had been like that at that age; the centaur remembered the storm of emotions that happened when the daughter of Athena had come, which was understandable given what she had gone through on her way to camp. Chiron thought over the past couple months where he had to speak to one Alfred Pennyworth many times over the phone; he could tell the mortal was very protective over his young ward to an almost worrying degree. The centaur had done his best to reassure the butler that Y/N would be well protected, even divulging some details about how Camp Half-Blood has changed over the past couple years. In turn, Chiron got to know Alfred quite well over these phone calls and they spoke about the dangers that haunted Gotham’s streets; the humans transformed into monsters that would wreak havoc. The centaur was quite intrigued about the mortal hero calling himself Batman and would be talking to Diana Prince the next time she stopped by camp.

“That one’s going to be trouble,” Chiron turned his head to find Dionysus leaning against the front doorframe. His grape-red eyes were watching Josefina disappear further into camp with Y/N.

“Y/N Wayne is only seven, Lord Dionysus. What sort of trouble could a seven-year-old get into?” Mr. D glanced over at Chiron.

“Achilles and Patroclus nearly set fire to Phthia at that age,” Chiron’s smile turned into a slight grimace, as he remembered the two of his earliest students. It had been just before they had come to the centaur’s sanctuary for young heroes; it was most likely one of the reasons why King Peleus had sent them Chiron’s way. Instead of answering the god, the centaur turned his wheelchair to make his way inside the Big House, though he found Dionysus still blocking the way in.

“If you could excuse me, Mr. D, I have a phone call to make,” Mr. D huffed out a laugh, moving a little bit so Chiron could roll inside.

“Right, the overprotective butler,”

“Alfred has raised this boy like he was his own since his godly parent had placed him on the Wayne family’s doorstep. Considering his city, I believe he has a right to be protective over the boy,”

“You and I both could see the strangeness that is marking that boy’s soul…” Chiron paused. His longtime friend’s tone of voice was strange; it could almost be seen as concern.

“If you are that worried, my friend, you can always offer him sanctuary here,” Chiron glanced back at Dionysus, who was quickly changing the expression on his face back to his normal indifference.

“If his mother is who I think it is, then I don’t think I can,”

XX

The walk from the Big House to the cabin area took longer than it probably should have, mostly because Y/N kept stopping to stare at things. A pair of campers had skated past the duo, one on a skateboard and the other in roller skates, and they seemed to be talking in a different language, but Y/N could understand the words. A group of kids stood outside the arts and crafts pavilion, different colored dyes staining their skin as they made tie-dye shirts. Up above them, some teens looked to be having a race on the rope obstacle course. When they walked past the arena, several people were fighting with weapons; the closer were two boys having a sword fight, their blades clashing so hard they made sparks.

“Is that real?” Y/N’s voice was very low, while he tugged on Josie’s hand to make the older demigod look as well.

“The sword fighting? Yes. It's required training. But they use blunted weapons, so it’s mostly harmless,” Y/N nodded slowly; he did not know what the word ‘blunted’ meant, but Josie did not seem alarmed by their fighting. At Gotham Academy, the most dangerous thing in the school yard was the group of fifth graders who thought pushing younger kids off the swings was funny. Then, there were the days where an alarm would go throughout the school and they had to go down to the shelter underneath the building to wait out a nearby Rogue attack. But, here, people were just fighting casually, even looking to be having fun with it like they were merely at recess. Y/N watched as a boy did a forward roll to duck under a spear and then use his momentum to whack a girl holding a spear on the back.

The duo passed the strawberry fields next, and Y/N’s nose was filled with that sweet scent he had noticed earlier. Kids were scattered throughout the rows, some picking the berries, some weeding, and a few just eating berries straight off the vines. One nearby girl with flowers woven into her braids waved at Josie, then spotted Y/N and immediately made a soft, cooing sound.

“Is that a new camper? He’s adorable,” The girl’s voice was sweet, but not in the same sickeningly sweet tone that the older women at galas liked to use when they pretend to care about Y/N but would insult him and his father behind their backs. She walked over to the duo. She had dirt smudged on her cheek and arms and was holding a basket overflowing with strawberries. The girl crouched down to Y/N’s level, her brown eyes warm and gentle.

“Hi there, I’m Sienna, daughter of Demeter. What’s your name?”

“Y/N,” It was clear to the older demigods that the little boy was resisting the urge to hide against Josie’s leg.

“Well, Y/N, wanna try our famous strawberries? They’re so good that even the gods like to have them,” Sienna grabbed one of the biggest strawberries from her basket and held it out for Y/N to take. The boy glanced up at Josie as if asking permission and only hesitantly reached out his hand when the daughter of Aphrodite nodded her head. Y/N took a bite, and his eyes widened in surprise. It was the one of the sweetest things he’d ever tasted, almost better than Alfred’s cookies. He finished it in three bites, juice dripping down his chin, and immediately wanted many more.

“Good, right?” Sienna smiled at Y/N’s immediate nodding. Josie pulled out a couple of napkins she had stashed in her hoodie pocket. The daughter of Aphrodite squeezed Y/N’s hand, making the younger boy look up at her; she made quick work of cleaning his face. Josie booped the young boy’s nose with a finger as the boy said ‘thank you’ to the older demigod. Sienna stood back up to her full height, and motioned with her head to Y/N.

“Vuoi che diffonda la notizia sul piccolino? (Do you want me to spread the word about the little one?)” Y/N tilted his head at the unknown language Sienna began to speak. He looked between the daughter of Demeter and Josie. The daughter of Aphrodite nodded.

“Ti prego. Di’ ai ragazzi dell’Ares di darsi una calmata quando c’è il ragazzino. Almeno un po’ (Please. Tell the Ares kids to calm down a bit when the kid is around. At least, a little),” Sienna snorted.

“Non preoccuparti. Ci penso io, Jo (No worries. I’ll take care of it, Jo),” Sienna made the OK hand gesture and gave Josie a wink.

“See you at dinner, Y/N,” With that, Sienna turned on her heel and began to walk deeper into the strawberry fields.

“Josie, what language was that?” Josie looked back down at Y/N and gave him a soft smile.

“Oh, that was Italian. Me and Sienna are both fluent in it,”

“Neat. Dickie knows a bunch of languages too,”

“Your brother?” Y/N nodded eagerly, looking excited about talking about his big brother as they began to walk towards the cabin area again.

“Dickie was raised at the circus. He said that the people there all spoke different things so he grew up learning them,” Josie blinked in surprise. She knew next to nothing about the wards of Bruce Wayne; she knew more about Gotham’s Rogues Gallery since she worried about her aunt being caught up in one of the fights.

“Oh that’s pretty cool. Do you know how many he knows?” Josie could not help the smile that spread on her face as she watched Y/N rock side-to-side as he thought.

“I think Dickie said he’s fluid in six, but can understand ten,” 

“It’s fluent, sweetie,” Y/N’s big eyes looked up at Josie, and for a moment, she felt slightly bad for correcting the child. But the daughter of Aphrodite got an adorable smile instead.

“Oh, okay, thank you, Josie,” As they finally reached the cabin area, Josie wondered how many betting pools the Hermes Cabin would make about Y/N; she was willing to bet that the tiny demigod would have the entire camp wrapped around his finger by the end of the first month.

XX

The walk through the cabin area was much slower that the one through the campgrounds; if Josie had minded, she would have spoken up. Each cabin was different to suit the gods they represented: one was an angry red with barbed wire along its roof and a stuffed boar’s head above the door, another was lilac with an overgrowth of grapevines surrounding it, there was one that the closest to the sound with soft gray walls decorated with seashells and corals, and the cabin in the center of them all was the biggest and looked like an Ancient Greek temple with a lightning bolt motif. The cabin that Josie led Y/N to was a soft brown and looked like it had been extended several times. It had a Caduceus symbol on its roof and several traffic signs attached to its walls.

“Well, this is Hermes,”

“Why do I got to stay with Hermes?” Josie kneeled to be eye-level with Y/N.

“Hermes is the god of travelers. Unclaimed demigods are considered under his protection until they are claimed,” Y/N tilted his head as he thought over the new information.

“Isn’t Mister Hermes also the messenger of the gods? So does he tell our parents when we’re here?” Josie blinked in surprise. She had not thought about that before; did Hermes tell the gods when a new camper arrived?

“You know, that’s a good question. I’m not sure, but maybe we can ask,” 

“We can ask Mister Hermes?” Josie stood up, taking back Y/N’s hand into hers.

“No, but we can ask his children,” Together, the two walked up the steps of the Hermes Cabin. One of the doors was propped open with a gladiator’s helmet that Y/N ran his fingers through its bright blue crest as they walked through the doors. Inside, there were bunk beds that went up to the ceiling built into the walls, leaving the actual floor plan open. There were several tables throughout the cabin; each looked to have something different happening at it. One table was playing a card game, another had a bunch of books and notebooks with a couple of kids doing homework and towards the back of the cabin, a teenage boy was standing on a table in front of a group of other kids. He had curly hair, freckles on his face and his orange camp shirt had several holes in it as well as tie-dye stains. A girl who was standing in front of the table noticed Josie and Y/N getting closer and nudged the boy’s legs to make him look too.

“Alright. Let’s take a break. Group up and think of some more ideas for tomorrow. I want at least five more to take to the meeting after dinner,” The group that was standing around the table broke apart into smaller groups while the boy jumped down. He smiled a lopsided grin at Josie and Y/N; the tiny demigod felt a twinge in his heart because his smile was almost similar to Dick’s when he was younger.

“Josie! My favorite daughter of Aphrodite!” Josie let out a laugh.

“Oh please, Stoll, you only like that I teach you curses in other languages. Me and you both know your favorite is Lacy and her ability to generate glitter,” Stoll gave a hearty laugh.

“You’re right. That reminds me. Hey, Fitz!” A teen with bright green hair that clashed with their orange camp shirt turned their head towards Stoll.

“What, Connor?”

“Go to the stables and find Lacy. Tell her I’ll trade some sweets that Trav sent from New Rome for 10 of her special glitter bombs,” Fitz gave Connor a thumbs-up before heading for the door to the cabin. The teen in front of Josie and Y/N turned back to them.

“Anyway, Poppy stopped by with a trunk. That must mean a new camper,” Connor turned his bright blue eyes to Y/N, who stared back at him. The teen crouched down so he could be eye-level.

“Sup, the name’s Connor Stoll. Leader of this little asylum for the next three months,” Y/N tilted his head at the word ‘asylum’.

“It’s like Arkham here?” Josie cringed but Connor looked confused.

“Uh, what’s Arkham? That sounds familiar,” Josie let go of Y/N’s hand to run a hand through the young boy’s hair; she barely resisted the urge to coo as the little demigod leaned into her touch.

“Arkham is an asylum in Y/N’s hometown, Gotham. You probably know it from listening about Batman on your radio. I know you follow hero news,” Connor blinked up at Josie, before an understanding look spread across his face. He turned back to Y/N.

“Sorry, kiddo. Wrong choice of words. We’re a rambunctious bunch but not like that. We only wage mayhem on our fellow campers and monsters, okay?” Y/N nodded, feeling a little better. He had heard about some of the awful details about the asylum back at home; before Jason, Bruce had gotten started on trying to make things better for the patients there. The Gothamite looked around the cabin; he spotted his trunk by a bunk nearby. Then, he noticed the girl who nudged Connor come their way. She had long dark curly hair pulled half-up, dark green eyes and her camp shirt was tucked into her denim shorts.

“Connor, Olivia is suggesting firecracker arrows again,” Connor’s blue eyes had a wicked glee to them, but he tried to tone it down in front of his new camper.

“I’ll talk to her. Will threatened to shave my head if we pulled that trick again,” Connor stood back up to his full height; he was probably a little shorter than Dick. He began to walk towards a brown-haired girl with a braid crown.

“Sorry, Capture the Flag strategy meetings. It’s Connor’s last year and he wants to have a win streak for the whole summer,” Y/N looked at the new girl, as Josie let out a giggle.

“Yeah, I understand. I remember the Victor twins’ last summer where they transformed camp into a miniature Olympic games,” The other girl smiled.

“That one was fun. Especially since they made people who were proficient in some of the sports have a handicap. Anyway, sorry, introductions. I’m Julia Feingold, future Hermes cabin counselor. I’m Connor’s half-sister,” Julia held out her hand to Y/N; she looked slightly embarrassed when she realized she was attempting to shake hands with a seven-year-old. To her surprise, Y/N gave the older girl a firm handshake.

“Y/N Wayne, Miss Julia,”

“Oh, oh no, please don’t call me Miss. I’m too young for that,” Y/N nodded. He knew from Alfred’s etiquette lessons to always use a formal honorific until asked otherwise; though, Jason had always had Y/N use the wrong ones for people that annoyed him at galas, which was almost everyone.

“Anyway, your bunk is over here. We wanted to give you a little privacy so you don’t have any neighbors, but my bunk is over here if you need anything at night,” Julia led Josie and Y/N to the newcomer’s bunk, pointing her own bunk, but the little Wayne’s attention was to the window his bunk was right next to. The view was mostly of the surrounding forest but also part of the sound. Y/N had to stand on his tip-toes just to look out the window; he could see some people swimming, someone had tossed another into the water and a few more people were having a chicken-fight. Y/N turned back to look at Julia and Josie, who were having a whispered conversation, but glancing over at the new demigod. Y/N nodded to himself; he thinks he was going to like it here.

XX

Y/N’s first week at Camp Half-Blood was filled with so much activity and classes. It was almost overwhelming but as a Wayne, he was used to hectic schedules. His classes did not feel like the classes he took back at Gotham Academy and the activities designed for the vast amount of energy a young demigod would have. Almost everything at Camp Half-Blood was spent outdoors in open-air areas; usually a building dedicated to said activity or sport was merely holding the supplies for it. 

Ancient Greek was taught by a son of Athena named Ramzi. Y/N was surprised by the fact that the Greek letters did not move like ones in English did. Ramzi had helped him better understand that his demigod brain was suited for Ancient Greek than English; that the shifting letters the boy often saw was his brain just trying to help. The nature hikes were led by the Satyrs; usually a different one each time and often a different trail. But the first hike Y/N went on was led by Poppy who upon seeing his former charge grinned and held out a hand for the boy to take as they walked the trail together with their group. 

Chiron taught about the ancient myths, but he mostly taught about the humans behind the myth: Achilles was a great warrior but he was not the best cook, Atalanta was a great hunter but she often cried at the sight of baby animals, Jason was a great leader but he had horrible jokes and there was so much more to the humans that would later become myths. The centaur had not minded when Y/N asked about the myth of Penelope; he had even been delighted that she was the young boy’s favorite myth. Chiron told Y/N about the Penelope not many knew; she was a warrior just as much as Odysseus. It was one of the reasons why the soon-to-be-king fell in love with the girl; that and the fact that he witnessed Penelope best several grown men at a discus match without breaking much of a sweat.

Cooking lessons were led by Josie. The daughter of Aphrodite waved from her spot at the front of the kitchen when Y/N came to his first class. There was not much the young camper could do just yet since Josie agreed with Alfred’s rule of ‘no cooking until he could see over the counter without the step-stool’, but the daughter of Aphrodite began teaching Y/N about the different herbs that could go into cooking. Swimming lessons were watched over by the Aphrodite Cabin, but a girl named Sabrine took over looking after Y/N. The young Wayne knew how to at least float thanks to his brothers, but other than a doggy-paddle, the boy could not do much else. Sabrine was easygoing with her lessons, showing Y/N how to do the strokes for swimming before she had the young camper try them.

Archery was watched over by a son of Apollo, Timoti, who was one of the tallest people Y/N had ever seen. He had long curly black hair that he kept up in a bun while at the archery range. Timoti did not seem deterred by Y/N’s short stature and limbs; everyone had to start somewhere after all. But the new camper could barely draw even the smallest of bows and gave Timoti a certified Wayne glare when the next time he came for his lessons, Y/N was handed a toy bow. The son of Apollo gave him a shrug before he showed him over to the short distance targets. When Y/N went to his first sword and shield lesson, he was greeted by a tall girl with her dark hair in a half-up half-down style and two long scars on her face. Clarisse La Rue took one look at Y/N and her frown deepened. For a long moment, the two stared each other down until eventually, the daughter of Ares lifted an eyebrow. Clarisse took long strides over to Y/N before grabbing the back of his camp shirt, like she was merely scruffing a kitten. The young Wayne was stunned in silence as he was carried across the field and deposited onto the bench next to the water coolers. Eventually, Y/N tried to argue that he was here to learn and Clarisse responded by tossing him a wooden dagger and gave the new camper one command ‘Watch’ before pointing to the field. So the young Wayne did what he was told; he watched the other campers around the sparring arena as the older demigods trained while holding onto his newly acquired dagger.

Sienna watched over Y/N as he helped pick strawberries for one of his camp chores; the daughter of Demeter made a deal with the new camper that for every basket he helped fill, he could have five free strawberries. Sienna showed Y/N how to tell when a berry was ripe, how to pull them from the vine gently and even gave him a tour of the fields that held the lesser known fruit that Camp Half-Blood grew. A son of Apollo named Lochlan watched over the arts and crafts hour, making sure everyone had access to the art supplies and that they always tried out different mediums. The red-haired teen grinned at Y/N when he got excited about finding the right shade of blue that matched Dick’s favorite sweater and then swore to help the boy find the right red for Jason. 

Pegasi riding was led by the Aphrodite Cabin while a tiny strawberry blonde girl with rainbow glitter streaks in her hair took charge. Her name was Lacy and she introduced Y/N to the smallest of the Pegasi, Lullaby. The Pegasus was still young, only two years old with beautiful black hair, mane and feathers and just a spot of white on her left eye. Lullaby nibbled on Y/N’s hair, making the boy giggle. Lacy was clear with the newest camper that he had to get to know the Pegasi before he thought about riding one, let alone flying with them. The rope obstacle course was watched over by the Hermes Cabin, often using winged shoes to glide in the air alongside those walking the course. Y/N had thought he would be scared of this activity but found himself loving it instead. The safety precautions helped; he had to wear a harness that was attached to a safety lead and Julia made the boy wear a helmet. Connor and the other Hermes kids could not help but laugh when they realized barely anyone could keep up with Y/N as he practically flew through the obstacle course, even finding clever ways to get through some of the challenges.

For meal times, Y/N was required to sit at the Hermes Cabin, not really understanding the rule about the seating. But Julia always saved a spot next to herself for the youngest camper. The daughter of Hermes also made sure that Y/N’s meals were well-balanced with vegetables, much to the boy’s displeasure. Y/N took the meal times to look around at the other campers, mostly at the Cabins that he did not have much interaction with yet. No Cabin had as many kids as Hermes, but there were some that were still large groups like Athena and Aphrodite. However, it was the tables that had barely any campers that drew Y/N’s attention the most. It was because they often looked so lonely that it felt too familiar; some tables had 2-3 kids at them, one had about 5, but there was one towards the back of the dining pavilion that had a sole occupant. Y/N did not know why a girl with white-blonde hair felt so familiar despite not even knowing her name, but it was the same feeling he got when he was near one of the ghosts at the Manor. 

The day typically ended with campfire singalongs that were always led by the Apollo Cabin; some songs were ones that Y/N recognized but mostly it was often covers of songs that were changed to better suit their Greek demigod heritage, like ‘Down by the Aegean’ or ‘Livin On a Prophecy’ or even ‘99 Cans of Diet Coke on the Walls’ which usually annoyed Mr. D. Usually, by the time of the campfire songs, Y/N was barely awake after all of the activity throughout the day and would cling to the nearest camper that would let him curl against them. Josie was the usual choice, who was always quick to wrap Y/N in a blanket since it got surprisingly cold at night, but Julia and Connor did not mind the boy snuggling against them; the son of Hermes usually liked to draw on people who fell asleep during the singalongs but surprisingly he did not do so with Y/N and Julia would rock herself and the youngest camper side-to-side, which never helped his sleepiness.

XX

After dinner was usually supposed to be some sort of sport activity for the campers. It was meant to burn off the energy they gained from dinner. But the first Monday that Y/N was at camp and this timeslot came up, it was when the Hermes Cabin hit their first snag. Because what sport could they let a seven-year-old play in a camp full of competitive teens? Volleyball often got too violent as did baseball, basketball and any other ball related sport. But it turned out that Y/N had his own idea on what he wanted to do, as he tugged on Julia’s shirt while holding a skateboard. The soon-to-be-counselor led the newcomer back into their Cabin; supposedly the best skateboarder of the Hermes Cabin was a teen Y/N had seen in passing on his first day.

“Fitz!” Julia yelled into the half-empty Cabin as Y/N trailed after her like a duckling with his acquired skateboard. The teen with bright green hair hung themself upside down from their bunk up towards the ceiling.

“Aye captain?” Fitz’s glasses were barely hanging onto their face and their amber eyes twinkled with mischief, which was a common trait for the Hermes kids. Julia rolled her eyes, but a small smile came to her face.

“I’m not the counselor yet. Don’t call me that,” Fitz laughed and crossed their arms across their chest. The green-haired teen’s face was starting to turn a little red from being upside down.

“Oh please, Jules, me and you both know that you’ve been running this place since Trav left. Conman is just a decorative figurehead,” Julia rubbed her face with a deep sigh as Fitz talked; she looked used to their words.

“I’m not discussing this again with you. Y/N needs your help,” Fitz’s amber eyes glanced over at the young Wayne, widening them some as if they had not seen the young Wayne. The green-haired teen held out their hand, though it was a little too high for Y/N to reach.

“Fitz Williams, at your service,” Y/N tilted his head curiously at Fitz’s name.

“Like Mister Darcy?” Fitz was so surprised by Y/N’s question that they fell from their bunk. They quickly sat up from the floor, fixing their hair and glasses.

“Exactly like Darcy. You know Austen? Aren’t you like a toddler?” Y/N frowned at that.

“I’m seven, and my brother, Jay, read it to me,” Not that Y/N remembered much about the plot, but the boy had always liked all the names from the book, like Mister Bingley and Kitty.

“Oh, a man after my own heart. Is he single?” Y/N hid his face into Julia’s leg. Even half a year later, he still did not quite understand what had happened to his Jay; only that Alfred said Jason would not be coming home for the foreseeable future and that he looked really sad when he said it. The boy shook his head and Fitz could see that Y/N was sad about something so they quickly changed topics.

“Anywhoosies, how may this humble child of Hermes help you?” Julia let out a snort.

“Nothing about you is humble. But Y/N wants to learn how to skateboard and well, you are the best of us here,” Y/N held up the skateboard he had grabbed from the sports shed. It was scuffed up, had a rainbow checkerboard pattern on its back, and orange wheels. The boy wondered if Alfred would take him to get his own when he got back from camp. Y/N glanced back up at Fitz, whose grin widened a little.

“Oh, I can certainly help with that,” Fitz led Julia and Y/N out of the Hermes Cabin and back towards the sports shed. They then began to throw things around to look for any protective gear the camp had. It was clear from the sizes that they were mostly for the teenaged demigods so their next stop was to the nearby Hephaestus forge.

“Oh Alphy!!” A tall teen boy looked up from where he was stitching together leather. His tanned skin and clothes had smudges of soot on them like someone else who had been covered in the stuff had patted the boy in passing. He lifted his glasses up into his brown hair as he narrowed his eyes at Fitz.

“Casse-toi, Fitz. You still owe me for the last scheme ya pulled,” The teen boy had a slight French accent. He pushed his glasses back down his nose before he started to turn back to his leather project. Fitz grimaced and rubbed the back of their neck.

“Ok, yeah. Look, Alphonse, I’m serious. I need your help,” Alphonse paused and turned back around at the lack of humor in Fitz’s voice; his eyes were still slightly narrowed however.

“Speak,” Fitz held up the safety gear they had scavenged from the sports shed. Alphonse looked confused now, and then the child of Hermes stepped out of the way and let the son of Hephaestus catch sight of Y/N.

“Ah,”

“Please, Al. I’ve heard the kid talk about his butler and I’m slightly terrified of him. Apparently, even Batman is scared of the guy,” Alphonse raised an eyebrow and looked at Y/N for clarity; the boy shrugged and gave the older boy a nod.

“Ok, but we have nectar and ambrosia. If the kid gets hurt, he’ll still be fine,” Julia stepped into the forge a little more.

“Um, actually, Alphonse, me, Connor and Will are to report to Chiron if Y/N gets injured in any way. It was a request from Mister Pennyworth,” With a small sigh, Alphonse put down his leather project. He gestured to a nearby stool.

“Alright, hop up, kid. Let’s make sure our Fitz doesn’t have the Underworld reign down upon him from your butler,”

XX

The next snag the whole camp had with Y/N was a few days into his first week at dinner. Y/N was in the middle of telling Julia about what he saw on his nature hike earlier, but then the boy’s speech started to slur a little and his eyes and head began to droop a little before Y/N snapped back up but it kept happening. At first, Julia was a little concerned when the little camper stopped talking.

“You okay, Y/N?” The kid nodded slowly but did not speak up. Then, it happened so sudden that no one could stop Y/N from falling forward, straight into his plate of spaghetti.

“Shit!” Julia and Connor’s voice was raised so high that a majority of the camp turned their way. The son of Hermes gently pulled Y/N’s head off his plate and towards him, but the boy was limp against the older boy.

“Will! We need your help!” A blond boy at the Apollo table stood up at the sound of Julia’s voice. Meanwhile, Connor used a napkin to quickly clean up Y/N’s face.

“Kiddo, come on. Talk to me,” Will Solace was at their side within seconds, since the rest of the concerned campers that started to crowd around the Hermes table got out of the way. The son of Apollo gently tilted Y/N’s head back, checking his eyes and pulse with practiced efficiency. Will let out a breath of relief after a moment. The boy’s eyes fluttered open, blinking a few times as the world swam back into focus. Connor’s concerned face was hovering a little above him, but Will was the one right in front of him and was giving him a soft smile.

“Wh’ happen?” Y/N’s voice was slurred and he tried to sit back up, but Connor kept him leaning back against his chest.

“You face-planted into your dinner, kiddo. Gave us all a scare,” Y/N looked down at his orange camp shirt; there was sauce on the top of his shirt.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Will laughed softly.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about your shirt. That’s what the camp washing machine is for. How do you feel?” Y/N took stock of his body. He felt heavy; his limbs were like lead weights, his eyelids just wanted to droop close again and his head felt fuzzy.

“Sleepy, really sleepy,”

“When’s the last time you slept?” Will’s voice was soft and gentle and did not help with Y/N’s sleepiness. His hands were glowing gold as they hovered over the boy. His expression was focused but not worried, more like he was checking something.

“L-last night? At bedtime?”

“And you got up at 7 when me and Connor woke the Cabin up,” Will looked over at Julia before going back to Y/N. The son of Apollo pulled away his hand and it stopped glowing.

“I’m not seeing any injuries or sickness. You’re just exhausted. I’m going to guess you’re not used to all the activity we do here,” Will’s voice was starting to sound far away, but Y/N tried to fight the sleepiness that was trying to claim him again. The boy adjusted himself until he was curled up fully in Connor’s lap, his head resting against the son of Hermes’s shoulder as he tried to pay attention to Will.

“He’s seven, and he’s going through a normal schedule that is supposed to tire out teenaged demigods. Speak with Chiron about adjusting his schedule. He needs a nap or two throughout the day to regain his energy. And then, I suggest an earlier bedtime,” Y/N was nodding, but it was clear that he was fighting sleep. Will looked up at Connor, who was paying attention to the son of Apollo as was Julia.

“I have not glanced at his medical files yet but I’ll do so after dinner. Just to make sure he’s not narcoleptic. If the sleepiness continues with the new schedule, I’ll ask Chiron if I can call Y/N’s guardian,” Connor looked like he was about to argue, but Will gave him a look that made him pause.

“Not to send him home, but to find a way to adjust his home schedule. That way he can be better prepared for next summer,” Y/N had finally lost his fight against sleep once more and went limp in Connor’s arms. Will let out a small chuckle.

“Yup, definitely exhausted if he’s choosing Connor as a pillow. I say let him sleep, but maybe somewhere that’s not a dinner table,” Julia stood up, pushing away her full plate.

“I’ll take them back to the Cabin,”

“Nope. I’ve got him. You finish dinner, Jules. You barely ate anything,” Connor stood carefully with Y/N cradled against his chest. The boy did not even stir, one small hand fisted loosely in the fabric of the son of Hermes’s camp shirt. Will stepped out of Connor’s way as he stepped over the table bench; the son of Apollo laid a hand on Julia’s shoulder, making her look up at the blond boy.

“Connor’s right. You need to eat too. We can’t have you running ragged as well. But, after you finish, go get something small for Y/N to eat in a little bit,” Will looked at the plate of spaghetti the Hermes Cabin had started to clean up. Y/N would probably be hungry when he wakes up later. Julia nodded in understanding. Connor gave his little sister a small appreciative smile before he began to walk out of the dining pavilion. The other campers parted easily to let him through, and Y/N slept on, oblivious to the concerned whispers following them.

“Did he seriously just face-plant into his spaghetti?”

“I thought he was having a seizure or something. That was scary. He’s just a baby,”

“Will said he’s just tired,”

“Yeah, but he also said something about narcolepsy. Did you see how fast he fell? It was like someone hit his power button,” Connor ignored the murmurs, carefully navigating back to the Cabin area. The evening air was starting to cool down, carrying the laughter and shouting of a nearby volleyball game. Y/N shifted slightly in Connor’s arms, burrowing closer to the warmth of his chest, and the son of Hermes could not help but smile a little despite himself.

“Alright, kiddo, let’s get you to bed,” The Hermes Cabin was mercifully quiet when Connor pushed open the door. Most of the Cabin was still at dinner or headed for their sports timeslot. Connor gently laid Y/N on the younger boy’s bunk, grabbing the pillow from the head of the bed and tucking it under the boy’s head. Y/N’s eyes fluttered open for just a moment, glassy and unfocused.

“Jay?” Y/N’s voice was small and sleepy.

“It’s okay. Go back to sleep,”

“Mmkay,” And just like that, Y/N was out again. Connor stood there for a moment, his heart heavy in his chest. He had asked Poppy about the specifics of his new camper’s family after his first nightmare at camp; he had called for a ‘Jay’ then too. Connor had been through war before and lost siblings who just wanted their existence to be acknowledged; for all that he did wrong, Luke had still been Connor’s older brother and there were days that he still missed the old Luke. But Y/N was just a kid, too young to lose someone that close to him, and then have his father drown himself in his grief, neglecting Y/N and his needs. Connor glanced at the backpack that the new camper took everywhere, despite it being too big for him. His eyes traced over the patches and pins adorning its canvas; it was clear that the bag did not truly belong to Y/N. Connor turned away from the backpack and leaned down to open Y/N’s trunk. He grabbed the pajama shirt on top of the clothes inside and carefully swapped out Y/N’s messy one, figuring the kid would appreciate not waking up in dried tomato sauce.

When Julia finally slipped into the Cabin an hour later, holding a plate of food, she found Connor sitting on the floor beside Y/N’s bunk, absently flipping through a worn book. He looked up when she got closer, one finger pressed to his lips.

“He’s been out cold the whole time,” Julia let out a soft sigh of relief, walking the plate over to the mini-fridge the Cabin had. She, then, walked over to Connor, catching sight of Y/N in his own bunk finally. The newest camper was completely dead to the world, hugging his pillow instead of having his head on it.

“Did Will say anything else?” Julia sat down before she answered Connor’s question with a shake of her head.

“He finished his food and headed for the healing tent. Probably to look over Y/N’s medical file, like he said he would,” Connor sighed a little, leaning his head back against Y/N’s mattress.

“Okay, I’m going to stay with him for the rest of the night. But pass a message to our siblings for me, they need to keep an eye on Y/N during the day. If he falls asleep like that again, they need to tell you or me,”

XX

Letter dictated by Connor Stoll, son of Hermes

Dearest Alfred Pennyworth of Gotham,

How fare ye? How I long for thee and the rainstorms of Gotham. But alas, I am here at Camp. It is a joyous time here and I am looked after by all around me. The food is good, but not quite like yours. Connor stole my last biscuit, but he calls them cookies. Do thou mind sending some to Camp? Particularly extras so my favorite cabin counselor of all time, Connor Stoll, can have some of his own; he really likes mint chocolate chip. 

The activities and classes art fun. They don’t leave me restless like school. A kid in my Cabin, Fitz, be teaching me how to skateboard. He covered me in all sort of protective get since he was worried how thou would react if thou found out I got hurt. But it was so much fun. Can I hast a skateboard of mine own? 

How be Pa? And Dickie? Hast they made up? Hath Pa been eating? I’m also sending them letters. I know the rules: nothing about the magic of camp or being Greek. But Dickie should be happy. A girl named Clarisse helped me dost a cartwheel. I fell over a bunch but always got back up to try again. Nay sign of mine mother yet though, but Connor says this be common. It’s only been a week. 

Oh, there’s the conch shell. Dinner time.

Love you

Y/N

PS from Connor: Sorry, Alfred, I couldn’t help myself. I felt important when the kiddo asked me to write a letter for him. But seriously though, he’s doing great. Everyone at camp adores him and is looking out for him. Chiron is going to try to schedule some nap times into Y/N’s schedule. He dropped like a fly at dinner last night, face first into a plate of spaghetti. Put the whole camp in a tizzy until our head medic checked him out and Y/N woke back up. I’m guessing he doesn’t do that at home since at first Will had worried about narcolepsy but it wasn’t in the file you sent. Will said it was because Y/N is still young for a demigod; his body craves all the activity we go through, but his energy reserves aren’t built up yet. 

I’m only kidding about the chocolate chip cookies, but if your baking is that good, could I trouble you to bake a celebration cake for my little sister? It’s actually my last year here as counselor, and I’m officially handing over the reins to her at the end of summer. And I just want to be a good big brother to her. I can pay you kinda; I have a surplus of drachma that I was going to divvy up with my siblings, but I can trade you some more. I saw Y/N’s supply and it’s probably going to last a year or two here. The kid’s trying to save them for a rainy day, but we’re trying to encourage him to use the coins to call you when he misses you badly, which is almost every night. 

Oh, he’s been experiencing nightmares. It’s commonplace here, so we usually make warm honey cinnamon milk to help the nerves. But Julia moved bunks so Y/N wouldn’t be so alone at nights; we thought we were helping by not giving him a bunk neighbor. 

I know you’re worried, Alfred, but Camp Half-Blood looks after its own. Y/N is protected even when he doesn’t know about it.

XX

Written by Josie for Y/N

Dear Dickie

I hope Alfred told you I went to a summer camp. It’s a lot of fun. I think you would have fun here too. They have a tall climbing wall that people flip off of. No trampoline here but a girl named Clarisse is teaching me a cartwheel. I fell over a bunch but always got up to try again. 

My cabin counselor, Connor, reminds me of you; he tells a lot of jokes. My favorite activity so far is skateboarding. I’m only allowed to skate through the camp right now but Fitz said I can try the small half-pipe soon. 

Oh, I’m learning Greek for one of the language classes here. Is that one of the languages you know? 

How have you been? Did you and Pa make up? How is Miss Kori? I miss her too, can you tell her that? 

I love you, Dickie. I’ll write again soon.

Y/N

XX

Written by Josie for Y/N

Dear Pa

The summer camp is really fun so far. It’s really pretty too. I like to go sit at the dock and look out at the ocean in the morning. The sky and water are so blue here, Pa; sometimes the water is so clear you can see all sorts of fish. But I think I miss Gotham’s grays.

I’m making lots of friends. There are a lot of kids like me. They have ADHD too. No one here thinks I’m weird for it. There’s a girl named Sienna who showed me how to pick strawberries. An older kid named Fitz is teaching me how to skateboard. And my Cabin counselor, Connor, reminds me a lot of Dickie. They would get along so well, bad jokes and puns all the time. 

Did you and Dickie make up yet? You both just got to say you’re sorry. I hope you’re eating. I know Alfred’s worried about you and I am too. 

I miss you, Pa. I’ll write again soon. I love you.

Y/N

XX

The days at Camp Half-Blood began to blur together in the best possible way. Y/N’s new schedule -with its carefully placed nap times at midmorning and midafternoon- made a world of difference. The young demigod was still tired by the end of each day, but at least he wasn't falling into his dinner plate anymore. The older campers had made it into a game to see who could catch Y/N falling asleep first. It had somehow become a competition on who would get to carry the young demigod back to his bunk. Connor and Julia were tied but Josie and Fitz were close behind them. Y/N found that he did not mind the older demigods picking him up all the time. It reminded him of being carried by Dickie when they were younger and the world was still simple. Or of the way Jason would carry him piggy-back as they ran through the deserted hallways of the Manor.

Weekends for Camp Half-Blood were usually free-time, giving Y/N the freedom to choose what he wanted to do. Sundays, however, were for the camp-wide activities. The boy did not mind being left out of the more combat-heavy exercises; he would just spend that extra time exploring while avoiding the forest where the games were being held. Usually, someone of the Hermes Cabin would be excused from playing so they could keep Y/N company. A lot of the time, it was Fitz volunteering; they claimed they were more of a lover than a fighter, though Y/N did not understand what the child of Hermes meant by that.

“Alright, look alive, Baby Bat,” One thing Y/N liked most about Fitz was all the nicknames they gave everyone: Connor was Conman, Julia was Captain, Clarisse was Grumpy. Y/N’s nickname was Baby Bat; Fitz claimed it was simply because he was from Gotham, but still the Gothamite liked it. Y/N looked from trying to tie his shoelaces, as Fitz rolled closer to the boy on their own skateboard.

“Today, we’re going to learn how to do an ollie. It’s the foundation for, like, a bajillion other tricks,” Y/N scrambled to his feet, grabbing his own skateboard.

“What’s an ollie?” Fitz’s grin was pure mischief.

“Watch and learn, little one,” The child of Hermes popped their board into the air with a snap of their tail, all of its wheels lifting off the ground before Fitz landed smoothly back down. Y/N’s eyes went wide. He wanted to do that. He wanted to learn everything.

Fitz spent the next hour breaking down the motion, showing Y/N how to position his feet, how to pop the tail, and how to jump. It was frustrating and slow, and Y/N fell more times than he could count. But each time, Fitz was there, helping him get back up, giving him pointers, making sure he took quick breaks to drink water, and telling him he was doing great for a seven-year-old. 

“There you go, kid!”  Fitz cheered as Y/N managed to get all four wheels off the ground for a split second. The younger demigod let out a delighted shriek, which turned into a yelp as he lost his balance and tumbled sideways onto the soft grass. Fitz jogged over, flopping onto the grass next to Y/N. The child of Hermes gave the Gothamite a lopsided grin.

“You’re a natural, kiddo. Next summer, we’ll get you started on kickflips and the big half-pipe,” Y/N was covered in grass stains and tiny scuffs, but he was grinning ear to ear. In the distance, the two campers could hear the fighting going on in the woods; Capture The Flag seemed like it was going great.

“Do you think Alfred will let me skate at home?”

“Depends. Is he as scary as you said?” Fitz sat up and began to brush some of the grass off themself. Y/N sat up as well, taking off his helmet.

“He’s not scary. He just looks at you and you want to be good,” Fitz snorted.

“That’s called fear, kid,”

“No, it’s called respect. I don’t want to disappoint him. He’s been so sad lately…” Y/N’s smile faded a little, but he shook it off.

“But when I go back home, I’m going to tell him all about skateboarding and maybe he’ll let me keep going,” Fitz’s expression softened a bit, as they reached over and ruffled Y/N’s sweaty hair.

“I’m sure he will, buddy,”

XX

My dear Y/N

It warms my heart that you are having a good time. When I received your letter this morning, the gray sky opened up and it began pouring. I believe Gotham missed you as well. 

If you keep practicing and show me when you get home that you can handle a skateboard on your own, we shall discuss obtaining a skateboard of your own. 

Your father has been…occupied as has Master Dick. I have not witnessed any further arguments while they’re both up in the Manor. But I can say that your father has been eating. I believe he finally has had enough of his protein shakes. Thank the gods. 

As you’ve certainly noticed, you have a care package. The silver tin is for yourself only, the green one is for Mister Stoll, and the red one is to share with your Cabin mates. I have had much time to myself while you are gone and our family occupied, so I spent the time baking and working on different recipes. But now I have found myself a project to work on. 

I await your next letter. Have fun, Young Master.

Alfred

XX

To Mister Connor Stoll

I must admit that the letter you wrote for my charge had made me chuckle. I’m glad that your camp is watching over him. I had received a call from Sir Chiron and a Will Solace about improving Y/N’s schedule while he is at home. Hopefully we will not any more impromptu falling asleep at the dining table. I must say I have given him many lessons on dining etiquette but nothing prepares you for falling asleep into your meal. 

By now, Y/N has surely given you the tin of biscuits I’ve sent to you. Never be afraid to ask for more. You are looking after my charge, this is the least I could do. If you could tell me what kind of cake your sister will like and when you want me to send it, I can begin planning the cake. No drachmas necessary; I have secured more and have my own stockpile. 

I entrust you with Y/N’s safety, Connor Stoll. 

Alfred Pennyworth of Gotham

XX

Little Wing

I’m so glad you’re having fun. When you come back from summer camp, you’ve got to show me your cartwheels. Kori is good, she misses you too. She made me promise to take her with me when you come home so she could see you herself. 

I miss you too. Keep having fun.

Dickie

XX

Y/N

Glad you’re having fun. Be good. When you come home, we can have dinner and you can tell me all about your summer camp.

Your father

XX

Before he knew it, a month had passed by with Y/N at Camp Half-Blood. The boy was starting to get used to everything; he did not get lost as much anymore, he remembered to pay tribute to the gods at meal times without being prompted to anymore, and he was even excelling in his classes. And yet, Y/N’s godly parent still had not claimed the boy. Connor and the rest of the camp tried to distract the young Gothamite: Fitz would show off tricks on the big half-pipe that was nestled behind the arena, Connor would tell all sorts of jokes that even Dick would groan at, Josie finally gave into Y/N’s big eyes and he learned how to make pancakes, Julia grabbed some translated books from the Athena Cabin and would read to Y/N before bed every night, and even the grumpy Alphonse placed a pair of noise-canceling headphones on Y/N’s head when the summer solstice came and there was a huge firework display.

Then, Y/N woke on the first of July and something felt different. There was a heaviness to the air that was reminiscent of what it felt like before a huge storm that would cover Gotham, and yet the sky above the boy currently was crystal blue. Y/N was in the middle of a Greek mythology lesson with Chiron. This week, Chiron was explaining about the gods and goddesses of the Underworld and today’s lesson was exploring the story of Hecate, the goddess of magic, crossroads and ghosts. The Gothamite had perked up at that last part, thinking about all the ghosts back at home. The ghosts at camp were different; they were fainter, more like echoes than people.

“Y/N, are you paying attention?” Chiron’s voice made Y/N look back down, away from the sky.

“Yes, sir. Sorry. You were talking about Hecate and her role in the Underworld,” Chiron raised an eyebrow, clearly expecting that Y/N had not been paying attention.

“Correct, Y/N. Please, keep your eyes up front. Hecate is one of the more powerful gods, though she often keeps to the shadows. Her domain is vast and complex. She is the goddess of magic, of the boundaries between worlds. Many consider her both a protector and a threat, depending on the circumstances. The same could be said for her children. Hecate is the mother of the Empousai, vampiric creatures who serve her will. But not all of her children become monsters. Her demigod children often have a natural aptitude for the mystical arts, for understanding things others cannot. They are seers, sorcerers, spirit guides and those who walk between worlds,” Chiron paused, looking at Y/N with a curious expression; the boy almost had stars in his eyes.

“You seem very interested in her,” 

“I can see ghosts,” Y/N had not meant to blurt that out. The other campers in the lesson turned to look at the Gothamite. Y/N shrank back, embarrassed. 

“I mean, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that…” Y/N chanced a glance up at the centaur, but Chiron’s expression was not one of shock or disgust. It was thoughtful.

“Y/N, many demigods who can see the dead are children of the gods of the Underworld. Have you always been able to see ghosts?” Y/N nodded slowly.

“I thought everyone else could. But then I saw how sad Grandma Martha got when Pa walked right through her. Teta Mary always tries to hug Dickie when he’s sad. There are others too: Grandpa Thomas, Unchi John and Aunt Catherine. The others didn’t tell me their name. They just watch me. They just look sad,”

“Y/N, I want you to close your eyes and think about something for me,” Chiron’s voice was as gentle as it had been the first day. Y/N obeyed, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Think about the ghosts you see at home. Are you afraid of them?” Y/N shook his head.

“No, they’re not scary. They’re lonely,”

“What about the ghosts at camp?” Y/N thought over the ghosts he has seen throughout the camp: Satyrs that linger on the edge of the forest, kids in gladiator gear that watch over the arena and the ones that lingered outside the dining pavilion that watch the camp gather for dinner -they always looked the loneliest.

“They’re lonely too…”

“Open your eyes, Y/N,” The young camper opened his eyes and the world around him was shimmering. He looked up to find a symbol floating above his head: crossed torches. It was glowing a soft silver-white and the torches that were lit around the open-air classroom had their flames turn the same silvery color. All the other campers were staring at Y/N with wide eyes, but the young demigod could only look up at the symbol above him.

“What is that?”

“That is your mother’s symbol, Y/N. Crossed torches. The goddess of magic, of secrets, of the night. Your mother is Hecate,”

XX

The news of Y/N’s claiming spread through Camp Half-Blood like Greek fire. By the time the young demigod made it to the dining pavilion for lunch, every single camper seemed to know. The Hermes Cabin had already cleared a spot at their table, but Connor and Fitz had other ideas.

“Wait, wait, wait. We can’t just let you sit down like nothing happened,” Connor held up his hand to stop Y/N as he approached the table. The son of Hermes had a wicked grin on his face.

“Yup. This calls for a proper celebration,” Fitz agreed, already positioning themself behind Y/N. Before the Gothamite could ask what they meant, two pairs of hands grabbed him and hoisted him into the air. The youngest demigod let out a surprised squeak as Connor and Fitz lifted him onto their shoulders, parading him around the dining pavilion like a victorious champion.

“HAIL, Y/N WAYNE, SON OF HECATE!!” Connor’s voice was loud enough that the entire pavilion could hear him, but it only made the whole camp start to cheer. Everyone was making some sort of noise: clapping, stomping their feet, banging their hands on the tables and whistling. Y/N’s face felt hot, but he could not stop the grin spreading across his face. It was so different from the galas back home, where people clapped politely because they had to, where the attention always felt like a performance. This was loud, chaotic and genuine.

“Put him down before he falls!” Julia shouted over the noise, but she was smiling too. Connor and Fitz carefully lowered Y/N back to the ground, and the boy wobbled slightly, dizzy from the sudden height change.

“You’re officially one of us now, kid,” Connor ruffled Y/N’s hair. The son of Hecate looked around the pavilion at all the smiling faces. For the first time since Jason left, he felt like he truly belonged somewhere.

XX

After lunch, Chiron pulled Y/N aside before he left for his next class.

“There is someone I believe you should meet. She’s been waiting for you,” Chiron’s voice was gentle and he was in his magic wheelchair, so Y/N did not have to crane his head just to look up at the centaur. The son of Hecate tilted his head.

“Waiting for me?” Chiron just smiled his gentle smile and gestured toward the path leading to the Cabins.

“Follow me,” They walked into the Cabin area but did not go near the bigger Cabins. Instead, the two took a smaller path that led to the newer Cabins until they were standing in front of a small Cabin. It was made with dark wood with shiny black stones inlaid around its foundation, there was moss growing on its roof, and a chimney bellowing white smoke. When Y/N stepped closer, he noticed there were symbols carved into the cabin’s doorframe. The dark purple door opened to reveal the girl with white-blonde hair. Her hair was pulled back into a twisted bun with a few strands of hair framing her face, she had impossibly green eyes and was wearing a black shirt under a pair of lavender shortalls. The girl was also barefoot with an anklet of green stones around her right ankle.

“Is…is that him?” The girl had a slight southern accent as she looked at Chiron. The centaur gave her a nod.

“Lou Ellen, meet Y/N Wayne. Your new brother. Y/N, this is Lou Ellen Blackstone, your half-sister,” Y/N looked between Chiron and Lou Ellen, his eyes big as he processed this new information. He had a sister.

“Y/N, you are excused from your afternoon activities. Take the afternoon to move into the Hecate Cabin and get to know your sister. She will have much to teach you,” Lou Ellen opened the Cabin door some more and stepped out of the way. Chiron

“Come on it, hon,”

XX

The inside of the Hecate Cabin was nothing like the Hermes Cabin. Where the Hermes Cabin was organized chaos and noise, this Cabin was quiet and orderly. Bookshelves lined every wall, filled with worn leatherbound books and papyrus scrolls. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and something smoky. Crystals and candles were placed carefully everywhere. There were only two beds: both were next to the windows on the sides of the room, one was neatly made with coffee brown sheets while the other one looked a little more lived in with dark purple sheets, a small hoard of pillows and a stuffed frog. Y/N looked up at the ceiling and found constellations painted in silver covering the area. His wide eyes then caught sight of what looked like a mask on a top shelf of a bookcase, but then the mask opened its dark eyes and blinked down at the small boy. A screech came from the mask’s mouth.

“Oh, that’s just Maeve. She’s saying hello,” Lou Ellen walked toward the table in the center of the room. She whistled, gesturing to a branch attached to the table.

“Come down and show-off,” Maeve let out a tiny screech before she flew down from her spot in the bookshelf. She was a beautiful American barn owl, mostly white with reddish brown patches on her back. The owl was staring down Y/N, who felt a little intimidated by the eerie noises the owl could make. Maeve opened her wings, letting the boy have a good look at her feathers.

“He’s probably never met an owl before. Not everyone knows what an owl is actually supposed to sound like. Get used to the staring,” Y/N looked between Lou Ellen and Maeve.

“Are you talking to her?” Lou Ellen looked up from the book she had been glancing at on the table. She looked a little embarrassed.

“Yes. Sorry, I should explain. I’m new to this. Teaching, I mean. I had to learn everything myself with our mother occasionally sending me books. Here, come sit,” Lou Ellen gestured to a pair of chairs that was on either side of the table, sitting down in one herself. Y/N walked over and hopped up into the empty chair, glancing at the books that covered the table and wondering what they were about.

“So, first, Maeve. She isn’t just an owl, she is my familiar. She can help with my magic, but she is mostly a companion. Being children of Hecate can be a lonely existence," Maeve hopped down from her branch, walking down the table until she was in front of Lou Ellen. The daughter of Hecate reached forward to tickle the owl’s chin.

“We share a psychic bond, which means I can hear her voice inside my mind,” Y/N stared at Lou Ellen and Maeve with bright eyes, fascinated by the idea of an animal familiar.

“Cool. Will I get one too?” Lou Ellen shrugged her shoulders, but gave her little brother a small smile.

“Probably when you’re older. Mother didn’t send Maeve my way until Camp Half-Blood changed after the wars,” Y/N had only heard a little bit about the Second Titan War and the Second Giant War. A lot of the other campers did not like to talk about the Second Titan War, but Connor told Y/N it was because they had lost a lot of demigods in that war on both sides; people just did not want to be reminded of those who had died. There was a memorial garden that was near the Big House that had statues, pictures, and plaques about people who were lost during those times; sometimes Y/N spotted Clarisse there leaving a flower in front of a photo of a beautiful girl.

“But our Mother will want you to know the basics before she even thinks about sending a familiar your way,” Y/N tilted his head in confusion.

“The basics?” Lou Ellen grinned.

“Why, the basics of magic, of course,”

XX

Despite Y/N’s clear excitement to learn about magic, the rest of the day was spent getting to know one another. Lou Ellen was a year-round camper, who did not really like to leave the safety of camp but has accompanied people on quests before due to her skillset. She knew of only one other child of Hecate, but he was forbidden from ever stepping foot inside Camp Half-Blood for the rest of his life; he chose the wrong side was all Lou Ellen would say about him. 

“So, where are you from? Usually, Mother picks places that are connected to her domain when she wants to have a new child. I’m from St. Augustine, Florida, one of the oldest cities in America, but also one of the most haunted,” The siblings had moved over to Lou Ellen’s bed as they talked to be more comfortable, while Maeve went back to her roost on the bookshelf. Y/N was hugging the daughter of Hecate’s stuffed frog to his chest while Lou Ellen was drawing symbols into a sketchbook.

“Gotham,” Lou Ellen’s neon green eyes looked away from the sketchbook.

“Oh, you definitely have me beat. My town only has one hero, and he spends most of the time pretending to be a pirate for tourists,”

“Sounds better than Condiment King,” The two siblings shared a laugh; though Y/N was more of a giggle because he could remember how much his father and brothers hated fighting Condiment King.

“But, I can understand why Mother chose your city. Even I know that Gotham is a hellmouth,” Y/N tilted his head curiously.

“What’s a hellmouth?” Lou Ellen tapped her fountain pen to her lip as she thought over how to explain. 

“A hellmouth is a place where the barriers between worlds are thin. Where monsters, spirits, and all sorts of magical things can cross over more easily. Places like Gotham, New Orleans, Sunnydale, Sleepy Hollow reside over a hellmouth. They’re like magnets for the strange and the dead,” Lou Ellen looked up from her sketchbook and could see that Y/N was not completely understanding what she meant by a barrier. The daughter of Hecate put her sketchbook down onto the bed and flipped to a blank page. She drew two circles close together but not touching and then put a line in between the circles.

“So these are two of the realms, and this is the Veil. Think of it as a forcefield that keeps the two worlds apart. Now a Hellmouth is a hole in the Veil, allowing things to seep through to each side. Now, the worlds can influence each other; they can turn humans into something worse and even let monsters live normal lives,” Y/N thought about Gotham, of how most of the Rogues were once normal humans until something inside them snapped and they changed for the worst, of Poppy’s confusion about the monsters in Gotham that had jobs.

“Is that why Poppy was so confused by the monsters back home? The hellmouth?”

“Your Satyr guide? Probably. The Council of Cloven Elders know about the basics of a hellmouth, but they wouldn’t know what to do with one,” Y/N looked back up at Lou Ellen.

“What do you do with one?”

“Mostly you keep it stabilized. But that takes a lot of magic,” Y/N hugged the stuffed frog tighter to his chest.

“Will I have to do that? Stabilize Gotham?” Lou Ellen’s expression softened. She reached over and gently tucked a strand of hair behind Y/N’s ear.

“I can’t lie to you, Y/N. You probably will have to be the one to stabilize Gotham, but Mother isn’t expecting you to do that right now. You haven’t even started to learn magic yet,” Y/N scooted closer to Lou Ellen as the older girl wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders.

“You’ll teach me though, right?” Lou Ellen leaned her head against the top of Y/N’s.

“You bet. I have so much to teach you, but right now, I still want to get to know you. Now, tell me more about those brothers of yours,”

XX

Even though Y/N moved to the Hecate Cabin, he still followed the schedule he was given with the other Hermes kids. Lou Ellen did not have a schedule of her own that she kept to; she wasn’t obligated to do so since she was an older kid like Connor and Clarisse. The new son of Hecate was not treated any differently with his claiming, though some of the other younger kids were expecting Y/N to start showing off magic tricks as soon as he learned. 

Since Lou Ellen was worried about Will coming after her about overloading Y/N’s schedule with more lessons, the weekends were when the two Hecate kids practiced magic. So Saturday morning, after breakfast, Lou Ellen led Y/N back to their little cabin. The table that was in the middle of the room was mostly cleared off. Instead, Lou Ellen’s sketchbook sat with her supply of fountain pens and ink bottles, but there was a new sketchbook with its own pen on Y/N’s side of the table. The two siblings took their usual seats. Y/N had to sit on his knees just so he could see the table properly. He eyed the new sketchbook with barely contained curiosity, fingers twitching to open it.

“Before we start anything, I need you to understand something,” Lou Ellen’s voice was slightly serious and made Y/N look up at her.

“Magic isn’t like what you see in movies or read about in storybooks. It’s not about waving a wand and saying fancy words. It’s about intention, focus, about understanding the language of the world around you, and about respect,” Y/N nodded, trying to look as serious as his older sister.

“What’s the language of the world?” Lou Ellen smiled at Y/N’s question, before she opened her own sketchbook.

“I’m glad you asked,” Lou Ellen showed the first page and it had strange symbols on it. However, for some reason, they looked familiar to Y/N, but he could not figure out where he recognized them from.

“These are glyphs. They are the basic building blocks for magic. Anyone can learn how to use them, but it takes years of studying for them to activate a simple spell. While children of Hecate can understand them just with a glance, tell me what does this one represent?” Lou Ellen pointed to a tiny spiral on the page.

“Wind?” Y/N got a smile as an answer, before Lou Ellen pointed at a different glyph. This time, there were two small lines of waves.

“Water?” 

“Good. Let’s try a slightly harder one,” Now Lou Ellen was pointing at a pentagon with a star inside touching each corner of the shape.

“Protection,” Lou Ellen put her sketchbook down.

“Oh, you’re a natural. You’re going to be a menace when you get to learning, ain’t ya?” Lou Ellen’s slight southern accent came out, but her words only made Y/N grin.

XX

From then on, Y/N’s summer became a whirlwind of learning. Lou Ellen had shown him the glyphs and expected him to repeat them until he could draw them without a reference. Y/N’s hands soon became stained with the various colors of inks the Hecate Cabin had in stock. While the Gothamite was practicing the glyphs, Lou Ellen was going through the bookshelves throughout the Cabin, setting books aside so that Y/N could take with him back to his hometown. The son of Hecate even got used to the strange screeches from Maeve, knowing that the owl could not help the noises she made.

But the magic lessons were only part of Y/N’s growth; he continued to bloom in other areas in the camp as well. Clarisse had finally allowed the Gothamite to leave the bench, and was even given a small wooden sword. But the daughter of Ares would only allow Y/N to swing the sword repeatedly to get used to its weight. Timoti let the Gothamite try out the smallest bow again and he could finally pull the string back. Ramzi thought that Y/N was excelling with Ancient Greek and could read translated stories at a second to near third-grade level. The son of Athena even promised to give the son of Hecate and his butler a demigod contact out in the normal world that could provide books that are translated into Greek. Josie began to teach the Gothamite more simple recipes: scrambled eggs, mashed potatoes, french toast and even an easy bread dough. Fitz celebrated when Y/N managed an ollie without falling over before taking the boy over to the smallest half-pipe the camp had.

Just because Y/N was in the Hecate Cabin did not mean that he did not stop interacting with the ones who watched over them. Connor tried to include the Gothamite in his pranks; the Ares kids were easily distracted by the endless questions Y/N had about weapons while Connor planted glitter bombs around the Ares Cabin. Julia still would read stories to Y/N during free time. Poppy would often check on Y/N and still occasionally led the nature walks. Josie would often spirited the Gothamite away and to the Aphrodite Cabin while her siblings would play dress-up with Y/N.

Before Y/N knew it, the summer was almost over. The glyphs Lou Ellen had taught him were becoming second nature. Y/N could now draw a dozen of them without looking at the references he was provided. Though, Lou Ellen insisted that knowing the glyphs and actually using them were two completely different things.

“You’re not ready to cast anything yet. You need to understand what you’re drawing, the intentions behind the spells and how you want the glyphs to transform into spells,” Lou Ellen’s voice had made Y/N look up from a flame glyph. The daughter of Hecate was organizing the Gothamite’s trunk so he could have room for the books the older girl had prepared. Maeve was currently napping on Y/N’s pillow so she could be near Lou Ellen. 

“You got to promise me, Y/N. No trying to cast until you come back next year,” Lou Ellen’s neon green eyes looked over at the Gothamite, as she waited for the child to promise. Y/N nodded his head, which got a small smile in return.

XX

The day before Y/N was set to return home, he awoke to a small satin pouch on his pillow. It was tied with a silver ribbon and had faint silver markings stitched in its satin. The boy did not immediately open it, and instead he hopped out of bed, running across the room to shake Lou Ellen awake.

“Wha-? Y/N, hon, it’s too early,” Lou Ellen did not do mornings well; she was usually one of the last kids to arrive at breakfast. Y/N hopped into his big sister’s bed, watching the girl blink up at the Gothamite. The boy held up the satin pouch. 

“This was on my pillow,” Y/N’s voice was filled with barely contained excitement. Lou Ellen sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes before taking the pouch from her little brother. The daughter of Hecate turned it over in her hands, reading the faint silver markings.

“These are protection runes. This is Mother’s work,” Lou Ellen looked up at Y/N with a soft smile as she placed the pouch back into the boy’s hands.

“Mama?” Lou Ellen’s smile softened even more at the term Y/N used for their mother.

“Go ahead, open it. It’s most likely the first of many gifts she will send you. She’s not the most present of mothers but she tries to make up for it,” Lou Ellen had spent the summer telling Y/N all about Hecate. Maeve was the first gift their mother had sent the older girl, but then there were the many books that lined their Cabin walls and the clothes that were sent through the Hermes Express. Y/N pulled the silver ribbon loose and upturned the pouch’s contents into his hand.

A dainty silver necklace fell into the palm of Y/N’s hand, on it was a small charm of a triple moon. Each moon face held a different gemstone, though the boy did not know the meanings of the stone: black tourmaline, smoky quartz, and moonstone. The necklace felt warm like it had been sitting in the sun for a while.

“Pretty,”

“There’s a spell on it. One of Mother’s specialties, a notice-me-not. It will make people not quite pay attention to you, but it won’t make you invisible. It should be helpful with your monster-filled city,” Lou Ellen had the anklet that Hecate sent before her first quest still wrapped around her ankle; it had the same spell. The notice-me-not did not work on demigods, those aligned with the camp or clear-sighted humans, regular mortals however might have a reaction to it; Lou Ellen wondered how Y/N’s family would react to the spell.

“Help me put it on?” Y/N handed over the necklace to Lou Ellen before turning around. Soon, the necklace was secured around the child’s neck. It felt warm against his skin and Y/N reached a hand up to touch the charm.

“Thank you, Mama,” There was no answer from Hecate, but a scent of herbs and smoke drifted into the room and Y/N felt a faint breeze ruffle his hair.

“Alright, now lay down with me until the conch goes off. You woke me up too early,” Lou Ellen grabbed Y/N, making the younger boy giggle and lay down on the bed with his big sister. The boy cuddled into his big sister’s side, tucking his head against her shoulder. 

XX

The drive to Gotham was long and quiet. Y/N had fallen asleep before they even reached the highway, exhausted from all the goodbyes. Almost the entire Hermes Cabin had seen the Gothamite off. Connor probably would not be back the next summer but he said he would look forward to the younger boy’s letters. Julia gave Y/N a hug, already looking forward to the next year; supposedly, Connor had made Capture The Flag plans that included the Gothamite as an ace-in-the-hole but he had not been allowed to use them yet. Fitz would also be there next summer and was looking forward to throwing Y/N onto the big half-pipe. Poppy kept the radio in the station wagon low and the air conditioning gentle, letting the boy sleep in the backseat. 

When they finally pulled into the familiar gates of Wayne Manor hours later, the sun was just beginning to set, painting the stately home in shades of orange and purple. Y/N woke slowly as they got closer to the large mansion. He blinked, disoriented, and peered through the window to see the familiar stone walls. Alfred was standing at the opened front door, looking exactly as he always did; immaculate in his suit and tie and his posture perfect. Y/N barely waited for the station wagon to stop before he started to undo all the belts of the carseat. 

“Alfred!” Y/N pushed the car door open and rushed forward. The butler caught the young boy easily, his arms wrapping around the boy’s small form with a gentleness that belied his age. For a long moment, he said nothing, simply holding Y/N.

“My, my. It seems camp has agreed with you, Young Master. You’ve grown at least an inch, maybe even two,” Alfred’s voice was thick with emotion he would never fully admit to.

“I missed you. I missed you so much,” Y/N’s voice was muffled against the fabric of Alfred’s shirt. The butler’s hand came to rest on the back of the boy’s head, his fingers threading gently through his hair. He looked over Y/N’s head to where Poppy was standing by the station wagon, a soft smile on his face. The Satyr brought over the boy’s trunk; it was not as light as it had been before the summer started. Y/N and Alfred reluctantly pulled away from each other, though the boy reached a hand up to grab onto the butler’s suit jacket.

“I trust my charge has behaved for the camp?” Poppy let out a soft laugh.

“Sure. Let’s go with that. The Ares kids forgave Y/N pretty quickly at his puppy dog eyes. Connor was the one who went running after the prank was set off,” Alfred looked down at Y/N with a raised eyebrow, but only got a cheeky smile in return. Poppy pulled out a heavy looking envelope out of his hoodie pocket.

“Thought you might want these,” Alfred took the envelope and glanced inside, only to find a bunch of photos. The butler looked up at Poppy, who gave the man an easy smile.

“Y/N had a lot to do during the summer. I had the other campers and Satyrs snap photos when they could,” Alfred took out one of the pictures. It was of Y/N with a tall boy standing in front of the younger boy, the older boy looked to be gently painting warpaint onto the Y/N’s face; it was neon green and very reminiscent of the domino mask his brothers used to wear as Robin. Alfred could not help the soft smile that spread across his face. He closed the envelope, placing it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“I appreciate this sincere gift. If I could trouble you to do the same in the upcoming years,” Poppy winked at Alfred.

“No problem, Mister Pennyworth. Now I got to get going, Gotham traffic is a nightmare. Remember, if you have any problems or see any monsters sniffing around the Manor, call the camp,” Poppy walked back to the station wagon, waving goodbye to Alfred and Y/N. The two watched the car leave down the long drive, before they looked at each other.

“Dinner, Young Master?” Y/N eagerly nodded.

XX

“Alfred, where’s Pa?” Y/N looked up from the homemade spaghetti Alfred had made. It was a little better than the dish he had fallen asleep into; though the butler was watching him carefully. Alfred let out a small sigh.

“He is preoccupied at the moment. The Riddler escaped this morning,” Y/N frowned, but knew that the job came first; that did not mean it did not hurt. Despite sending a letter almost every week to her family, the only one who returned the most of her letters was Alfred; Bruce only sent the brief one at the beginning of the summer while Dick sent one or two and the occasional postcard from cities the Titans went to. Y/N had so many drawings he wanted to give his father, friendship bracelets that he wanted to give his brother and his friends, and a misshapen clay pot and mug for Alfred.

“Oh, okay…Has he and Dickie made up?” The frown that deepened on Alfred’s face was the only answer Y/N got.

XX

After dinner, Alfred made Y/N go down to the gym to burn off the energy dinner provided him. But afterwards when the boy made it up to his room, he found that while it looked like it had barely changed in the three months he had been gone, there was something different. A tapestry that covered one of the walls in his room had been moved to a different wall. In its place was a door. Y/N stood in the doorway of his bedroom, staring at the strange door. His small hand was still held onto the doorknob, and he blinked a few times as if expecting the new door to vanish. It did not.

“Alfred?” Y/N’s voice was small, but carried down the hallway. The butler appeared at the top of the stairs moments later, a dusting of flour still on his sleeve from the baking he had been doing.

“Yes, Young Master?”

“What’s behind the door?” Alfred walked closer, and Y/N could see something in his expression that he rarely saw on the butler’s face; it was something almost like excitement.

“I had hoped you would ask. Why don’t you open it and see?” Y/N glanced between the door and Alfred, before he walked into his room to the new door. The heavy oak door swung open to reveal a narrow spiral staircase made of stone. The boy looked back at Alfred, who nodded encouragingly. Y/N stepped onto the first stair, his small feet barely making any sound on the stone.

The first level he reached opened into a room that took Y/N’s breath away. It was a dressing room that was the same size as his bedroom below. Built-in shelves lined two walls while built-in dressers and closet rods lined the others; there were several cushioned benches throughout the room. It looked like all of their clothes had been moved up here while there looked to be room for more clothes and shoes. A large, full-length mirror stood in the corner, its glass reflecting the fairy-lights that Alfred had lined all around the room.

“This is for me?” Y/N’s voice was barely a whisper as he glanced behind him at Alfred.

“Indeed, Young Master. I thought you might appreciate a space of your own to store your belongings. There is more, if you’d like to see,” Y/N glanced at the spiral staircase that continued upward, before he nodded eagerly. Together, the two climbed another flight of stairs.

The second level was even more incredible. Two walls of tall windows that overlooked both the Manor grounds and out towards the city of Gotham while the other walls had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that were barely filled with books. There was a large desk near the window that overlooked the Manor gardens with a comfortable looking chair. In the desk drawers was a surplus of fountain pens, ink bottles, and other art supplies that would make any artist jealous. The window that looked out towards Gotham had a window bench with cushions and blankets in Y/N’s favorite colors. In the center of the room was a round table with a few more chairs. The walls were lined with the same fairy-lights from down below.

“I thought you might need a quiet place to study your…new interests,” Alfred’s voice was carefully neutral, but Y/N knew that his butler was referring to the things Lou Ellen had taught him over the summer. The boy turned and looked at his butler with shining eyes.

“Thank you, Alfred,”

“You are most welcome, Young Master. But there is one more level,” Y/N gasped and was already racing for the next flight of stairs as Alfred finished speaking.

The third level had a door that opened to an outdoor area. The terrace was as large as the rooms below, with stone balustrades that looked out over the sprawling grounds of Wayne Manor. There was comfortable outdoor furniture set up, perfect for stargazing or reading on warm days. A few potted plants decorated the area; a few small flowering plants that would attract butterflies. In one corner, there was a fire pit and a supply of firewood. But what caught Y/N’s attention the most was the view. From here, he could see the entire estate and even some of their neighbors’ houses, and he could see Gotham illuminating the night sky across the river as the Bat Signal was lit up, calling out for Y/N’s father. And above the boy, a canopy of stars that seemed brighter here than anywhere else.

“It’s beautiful,” Alfred came to stand beside Y/N, his gaze also fixed on the stars above. The boy leaned against the butler’s side.

“Do you like your surprise, Young Master?” Y/N nodded, his eyes tearing up. Alfred ran a hand through his young charge’s hair.

“Good. Originally, this tower was used for storage. So I had spent the summer renovating everything to your liking,” Y/N had always seen the tower when he played outside and he had always wondered where its entrance was. He never thought to look behind the tapestry in his room.

“Thank you, Alfred. I love it,” Alfred’s eyes twinkled with delight, pleased that his young charge was happy with his new tower. Y/N now had a space where he could practice the magic his mother had gifted him, a place where he could be himself without the weight of Gotham’s expectation pressing down on him. But even as Y/N made his way back down to his bedroom, he could not shake the feeling that something had changed. The necklace around his neck was warm against his skin, and the loneliness that haunted the Manor’s halls had already started to press against Y/N’s body.

Y/N Wayne, son of Hecate, had come home. And his family would never quite see him the same way again.

A/N: FINALLY!!!!! I am so sorry for the long wait for this chapter. I did not mean for the mini-hiatus that happened. But so much stuff happened in my life that made it hard to write. Thank you for waiting.

Not in any way a stranger could have named, perhaps. The woven walkways were still strung between giant mangrove roots, the platforms still alive with the rhythm of hands at work, of children racing over sun-warmed wood, of nets being mended and fish being cleaned and voices rising over the endless breathing hush of the sea. But something in the air tightened all the same. The clan did not stop moving. It only moved differently, like a body drawing a breath and holding it.

You stood beside Tonowari when they arrived, just behind and slightly to his left, where the leader of the hunting parties would stand when judgment was to be watched but not yet spoken. Salt wind dragged across your skin. Your queue lay over one shoulder. The white marks of your avatar body caught the late light faintly, and though your build had always remained closer to the forest people than the reef people around you, the years had given you the easy balance of one who belonged here. Not by birth. Not by blood. But by time, by battle, by work, and by love.

It still did not stop them from looking.

You had long since learned how to feel it before you saw it. The way glances snagged on your hands, on your narrower tail, on your shoulders, on the traces that marked you as something that had not begun on Pandora no matter how deeply you had rooted yourself into it after. Most days you could let it pass like a tide under a canoe. Most days you could remind yourself that your mates had chosen you in full sight of what you were, that Tsireya’s laughter had first shaped itself around your name, that Ao’nung had once fallen asleep on your chest with seawater still drying in his hair after training. Most days it was enough.

This was not most days.

Jake Sully stepped forward carrying exile in the line of his body. Neytiri stood beside him like a drawn blade. Their children hovered near enough to their parents to show loyalty and far enough to show strain. Even before anyone said anything, the village had already seen the tails. The hands. The faces. The traces of sky-people blood riding alongside Na’vi bone.

And because the clan had seen them, the clan had thought of you.

Ronal’s gaze slid over the newcomers slowly. She did not spit the words some might have expected. She was too controlled for that, too sharp. Her judgment was worse for being clean. Her eyes rested on each child in turn, cool and measuring, then went to Jake, then back to Neytiri, then flicked once toward you before returning to Tonowari.

“They are very unlike us” she said.

That was all. Nothing louder. Nothing cruder. But the thought spread exactly as if she had named it outright. You felt it move through the gathered Metkayina like current through shallow water. Not all at once. Not boldly. Just enough. Half-breed. Strange. Wrong-shaped. Sky-touched. The same old poison dressed in softer cloth.

Tonowari spoke then, giving them uturu as his mercy demanded, because war and grief had driven them there and because he was not small enough to turn away those who came seeking sanctuary. You loved him most in moments like that. His voice was steady, his judgment larger than fear. Yet even while you loved him for it, some quieter and uglier part of you noticed that he never turned to the clan and stopped the way their eyes had slid to you too. He offered protection. He did not challenge implication.

Beside the Sullys, Lo’ak’s face set in that stubborn, bristling way boys wore when they had been cut too many times and refused to bleed where anyone could see it. Kiri stared back with painful calm. Neteyam stood straight as a spear. Tuk all but hid herself against Neytiri’s side.

Then Tsireya came up from the water, bright and curious and open as dawn, and the moment bent in a different direction for a heartbeat. Lo’ak looked at her as if the sea itself had climbed out to stare back at him. You would have laughed if the tension in the air had not still been sharp enough to cut.

Ao’nung and Rotxo ruined the moment almost immediately.

They did not begin at full cruelty. Boys rarely did when they were performing for a crowd. They started with the tails, with the shape of hands, with that dangerous tone that asked a question not because it wanted an answer but because it wanted permission to laugh. Tsireya told them to stop. Ao’nung did not listen. His eyes had gone to the Sully children with a brightness you knew too well. Not simple meanness. Worse. The thrill of sensing where the group’s cruelty would be safest, and stepping into it because it would make him bigger in their eyes.

You did not miss the way his glance brushed past you before he opened his mouth again.

That hurt more than it should have. It hurt because you knew where he had learned that comfort. Not from nowhere. Not from silence alone.

Still, the scene moved as it needed to. Tonowari assigned his children to help the Sully children learn the way of water. Only when Jake turned to him with the rigid, humiliated gratitude of a warrior accepting mercy with both hands did Tonowari glance toward you.

Tsireya was the one sent forward in the end.

That fit better than anything else could have. She was bright where the moment had gone brittle, open where the clan had narrowed in on itself, and young enough to step toward strangers without carrying quite so much of the adults’ suspicion in her bones. When Tonowari told her to show the Sullys where they would stay, she went without hesitation, all kindness and curiosity, gesturing for them to follow her deeper into the village with the easy grace that seemed to live in every part of her.

The others moved with her after a brief pause. Jake remained close to Neytiri. The children hovered around their parents, tense and watchful under so many eyes. Lo’ak looked like he wanted to stare at everything and fight half of it at the same time. Kiri was quieter, reading the village as if it might speak back if she listened hard enough. Tuk stayed tucked close. All of them followed Tsireya across the woven walkways and root-bridges while the clan watched them go.

You stayed where you were, still beside Tonowari, your face unreadable even while your thoughts moved harder than you wanted. Ronal had not said much, but she had not needed to. The clan had heard what sat underneath her judgment all the same, and because they had heard it, they had remembered you too. You could feel it in the aftertaste of the moment, in the glances that had lingered just a fraction too long before turning away.

Tonowari waited until the nearest listeners had drifted farther off before he spoke your name.

His voice was quieter now, stripped of the public weight it had carried a moment before. You looked at him, and something in his expression made you follow when he tilted his head slightly toward one of the outer platforms. It was not secrecy, exactly. More the instinct of a leader who knew when a conversation would grow teeth if it was given to the clan to overhear.

You went with him in silence.

The platform he chose sat a little apart from the nearest cluster of walkways, close enough to the village to remain within sight and far enough to let the noise of it blur into distance. Wind rolled in off the sea, carrying salt and the faint scent of algae warmed under the late sun. Below, the water shifted around the roots in restless blue-green ribbons.

Tonowari rested one hand against the rail of woven mangrove and looked out rather than at you immediately. “I want you to teach Jake Sully” he said.

You did look at him then.

For a beat, all you did was stare. Not because the request made no sense. In some ways it made too much. You were one of the strongest fighters in the clan. You understood adaptation better than most. You knew what it was to enter a people not shaped like yourself and learn anyway, hard and fast and under the pressure of never being allowed the comfort of true ignorance. Still, suspicion rose in you before duty did.

“Why me?” you asked.

Tonowari turned then, and he was too perceptive not to hear everything under the question. Not only why me because of skill. Why me when the clan has just been reminded what I am. Why me when Ronal looked at them and the people looked at me after.

His face softened, though not with pity. He had always known better than to offer you that. “Because you are capable” he said. “Because you see more than what is in front of you. Because he will need someone who understands both pride and shame if he is to learn quickly.”

Your mouth tightened. “That is not the only reason.”

“No” Tonowari admitted.

The honesty stopped you from hardening further.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice even more. “He is Olo’eyktan to his family even if he stands as refugee here. If he fails, the rest will feel it. If he is isolated, he will become harder to guide. You know warriors. You know how men like him carry humiliation. And…” He paused, studying you carefully. “There may be things in him you will understand more easily than others would.”

You held his gaze a long moment. “Because he was one of the sky-people.”

Tonowari did not flinch from it. “Yes.”

The word sat between you.

You looked away, out across the water where Tsireya’s bright figure could just be seen leading the Sullys farther along the village edge. Jake walked near the back now, his attention shifting everywhere at once despite the discipline in his posture. Soldier’s habit. Marine’s habit, maybe, though that thought came and passed before you had fully named it.

“And Ronal?” you asked at last.

Tonowari’s expression changed, not with irritation but with the knowledge that there was no use pretending that piece did not matter. “Ronal trusts you.”

“That was not my question.”

His jaw flexed once. “She will not interfere.”

You gave a short, humorless breath through your nose. “Another answer that is not the one I asked for.”

Tonowari accepted that too. “She does not like this burden being here at all” he said plainly. “But she does not doubt you. Neither do I.”

That should have eased you more than it did. Instead you found yourself searching his face for something smaller and meaner. Pity. Calculation. A hope that you would understand the Sullys because you were enough like them to make use of. Whatever he saw in your expression made his own grow steadier.

“This is not because I see you as closer to them than to us” he said, and now there was a firmness in him that left no room for retreat. “It is because I know exactly where you stand. With us. With this family. With this clan. Do not insult me by thinking I have forgotten.”

The rebuke was gentle only in tone. It landed harder for that.

You looked at him properly again. There was no hesitation in him now, no uncertainty, no crack through which old fear could crawl. For a brief moment the pressure in your chest loosened.

Then duty returned in full.

“If I do this” you said “I will not coddle him.”

Tonowari’s mouth twitched faintly. “I would be disappointed if you did.”

You folded your arms over your chest and stared out at the village once more. “And if he cannot learn?”

“Then at least he will fail honestly.”

That, more than anything, sounded like Tonowari.

Silence stretched for a few breaths. At last you nodded once. “Fine.”

Tonowari let out a breath so slight most would not have caught it. You did. He had wanted this more than he had let show. “Thank you.”

You shook your head. “Do not thank me yet.”

That almost drew a smile from him, but it faded before fully forming. Instead he stepped closer, slowly enough to give you time to refuse him if you wished. One of his hands came up to rest lightly at your waist, warm and familiar, and for a brief moment he only looked at you. Then he bent and kissed you.

It was soft, short, and almost unbearably gentle. No heat, no urgency, nothing that belonged to hunger more than affection. Just the quiet press of his mouth to yours, sweet with reassurance and the kind of love that had long since learned how to speak in smaller gestures. When he pulled back, he stayed close for only a heartbeat more before letting you go.

“I will send him to you after they settle” he said.

You watched him go.

——————————————————————

By the time Jake found you, the sun had shifted lower and the village had settled into that restless in-between hour when work had not yet ended but the worst of the day’s heat had broken. You were near one of the outer racks checking spear bindings, more to give your hands something useful to do than because the task truly needed doing. The sounds of Awa’atlu drifted around you in pieces: children splashing in shallows below, women calling to one another from the fish platforms, distant laughter, the low hush of water against root and wood.

You heard his steps before you turned.

Jake stopped a respectful distance away. For a moment neither of you spoke. Up close, it was easier to see what had first flashed at the edge of your notice before. The way he held his shoulders. The way he looked at space first, then movement, then exits, then finally people. The kind of stillness that was not ease but readiness worn so long it had become a second skin. He looked older than his face alone accounted for. More tired too.

He inclined his head slightly. “Tonowari said I’m with you.”

His Na’vi was serviceable, accented hard, each word carrying the weight of effort. You let him finish before answering.

“For now” you said.

Something in his expression shifted, not quite amusement and not quite resignation. He had likely already learned enough in the village to know that this was your version of mercy.

You set the spear aside and faced him fully. For a moment, you let the silence sit between you, weighing him properly now that the village noise had fallen farther away.

“Tonowari believes you can learn” you said at last. “I have not decided yet.”

Jake took that without visible offense. If anything, something in his posture settled, as if bluntness was easier for him to understand than politeness.

“Fair enough” he said.

You crossed your arms over your chest. “You will listen the first time. You will not argue every correction like wounded pride makes you smarter. And you will not expect me to make this easy because you were Toruk Makto, Olo’eyktan, or anything else that matters somewhere other than here.”

That finally pulled the faintest shift in his expression. Not quite amusement. Not quite irritation. More like recognition of a hard tone he had heard before in other places, under other chains of command.

“Got it” he said.

You held his gaze another beat, watching for the usual signs. Swagger. Resentment. The need to prove himself immediately. Instead you found exhaustion, discipline, and something heavier buried under both.

That did not make you trust him. It only made you think he might be worth the effort.

For one strange beat, the air between you altered. Not softer. Sharper. Recognition trying on a shape before either of you trusted it enough to name. Neither of you moved first. Neither smiled. Yet some old instinct, buried under years and planets and new bodies and new loyalties, stirred its head.

You broke eye contact first because you disliked the feeling of being read.

“Walk” you said.

Jake followed without protest. You led him down one of the narrower village paths where the platforms thinned and the sound of the central marui softened behind you. For a while you said nothing, making him keep pace over slick wood and curving roots, watching whether he looked only at where he stepped or at the full environment around him. He adapted quickly, though not gracefully. Not yet.

At last you stopped near a lower platform where the tide had come in high enough to lap against the woven supports.

“If you are to remain here” you said, turning to him “you will learn more than how to swim their way and breathe their way. You will learn when not to take up space. You will learn when pride becomes a burden for everyone around you.”

Jake absorbed that without visible offense. If anything, his gaze grew a shade more direct. “You always start this friendly?”

“No” you said. “Normally I am worse.”

That did it. One corner of his mouth moved before he could stop it.

You noticed. So did he.

It vanished almost at once.

He was silent after that, and to his credit he did not push.

That, more than the recognition itself, was what made you decide he might actually be teachable.

——————————————————————

Jake Sully learned like a man who understood that failure was no longer private.

The first few days, you gave him no softness. You made him run the shallows until his breathing turned ragged. You corrected his stance with the blunt pressure of your hand against his shoulder and the sharper crack of your voice when words failed. You showed him how to move his balance lower on the slick roots, how to enter the water without fighting it, how to watch the current rather than only the surface. You kept your explanations short in Na’vi because he needed the language in his mouth as much as the skill in his limbs. When he stumbled, you made him go again. When he swore under his breath, you pretended not to understand.

By the end of the second day, both of you knew you were pretending.

He had just surfaced from another rough dive, pushing wet hair out of his face and coughing salt from his throat, when you said, “You are still trying to win against the water.”

Jake wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That obvious, huh?”

The English snapped between you so suddenly that both of you stilled.

Then, despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched.

“Yes” you answered in the same language. “Painfully obvious.”

He barked a laugh. It came out rougher than amused, but it was real. For the first time since arriving, some of the tightness in him loosened.

“Jesus” he muttered. “That’s nice.”

“What?”

“English. No offense, but my brain feels like it’s getting beat with a shovel half the time.”

You folded your arms over your chest and looked at him a long moment. “You are doing better than you think.”

“Yeah?”

“No.”

That got a fuller laugh out of him, and there it was again, that quick flash of recognition. Not intimacy. Not anything you needed to fear. Just the strange, immediate ease of finding another person who had once stood under the same hard sun, listened to the same dead humor, worn the same kind of damage into the body until it became posture.

From the shallows, you saw Tonowari turn his head slightly from where he spoke with a group of hunters farther up the beach.

He looked away almost at once.

You told yourself it meant nothing.

——————————————————————

What unsettled your family was not one thing. It was accumulation.

Jake began to catch more of your English when it slipped out around frustration or instinct. Once, when he planted his foot wrong on a root slick with spray and nearly went backward into the water, you grabbed his arm and snapped “Watch your footing, soldier” before thinking. He froze. Then he stared at you with dawning disbelief.

“No way.”

You let go too quickly. “What?”

“That’s marine. Nobody says that like that unless—” He laughed under his breath. “You were one too.”

You did not answer immediately. Waves lapped around your calves. Farther out, ilu rolled just under the skin of the sea like ghosts. At last you said “A long time ago.”

“Still counts.”

“Not here.”

He studied you with a little too much understanding. “Yeah. I get that.”

You hated how much you liked being understood without having to pry your chest open for it. Hated, too, how dangerous that liking could look from the outside when no one else shared the language that carried it.

So you cut the moment short and sent him back underwater.

But these things added up. A phrase here. A tone there. A curse muttered in English when he swallowed too much water and came up sputtering. The half-grin you could not quite stop when he made some dry, bitter joke about command structures and impossible missions. The day you found yourself humming under your breath while sorting spears after training and he looked up from where he knelt checking a woven net.

“Hold on” he said.

You stopped.

“No” he said, staring. “No way.”

Your fingers tightened on the shaft in your hand. “What.”

“That song.”

You had not heard that song in years. Not truly. It was old even before Pandora, older still by the time it had crossed light-years with you in memory alone. Some fragment of Earth, half nursery-rhyme, half cheap old melody from barracks speakers and scratched recordings and a place so far gone it barely felt real anymore.

You should have denied it.

Instead you said “You know it?”

Jake let out a disbelieving breath. Then, very softly, he sang the next line.

Your whole body went still.

It was absurd. It was stupid. It was nothing but a few words from a dead world carried unexpectedly into salt air and reef light. And yet the force of it hit you somewhere behind the ribs. Something old and buried sat up inside you all at once.

So you sang back.

Not loudly. Not beautifully. Your voice had never been built for softness. Jake’s was worse, rough and low and frayed at the edges. But between you the melody formed anyway, pieced together from memory and laugh-broken mistakes and the sort of embarrassed amusement soldiers learned when they recognized one another being sentimental by accident.

When it ended, the silence after felt strange.

“Damn” Jake said.

You looked away toward the horizon because your throat had gone unexpectedly tight. “Yeah...”

“That was… damn.”

You stayed quieter this time.

Neither of you noticed Tsireya standing farther down the beach with an armful of shells for a long few seconds. By the time you did, her expression had already smoothed itself into something easy. She came forward smiling, asking what the song had meant, asking what language it was, asking if you would teach her a little of it.

You answered gently. You always answered Tsireya gently.

But that night, when you returned to the family marui, Ao’nung was sharper than usual. Ronal’s attention lingered on you too long before dropping. Tonowari asked how Jake had done, and the question was ordinary, but something under it was not.

You noticed.

You said nothing.

——————————————————————

Lo’ak came to you slowly.

It began with small things. Not intimacy. Not confidence. Observation.

You were the first among the Metkayina adults to acknowledge the Sully children’s progress without loading the praise with surprise or mockery. When Kiri held her breath longer than anyone expected, you told her so plainly. When Neteyam adapted his form in the water, you nodded once and said he learned fast. When Tuk followed Tsireya through shallow reef channels without fear, you crouched to her height and told her she was brave. And when Lo’ak took an ilu ride that ended ragged but stubbornly recovered, you caught him at the shore while everyone else focused on the larger lesson and told him “You corrected quickly. That's useful here.”

He looked at you then as if he did not know what to do with approval that had no sting hidden inside it.

After that, you caught him watching you now and again. Not often. Enough.

You did not go to him at once. Boys like Lo’ak could smell pity the way akulas smelled blood. He would have bolted from it. So you waited. You watched how Ao’nung needled him, how Neteyam shielded him when he could, how Jake’s discipline fell hardest on him and Neytiri’s worry sharpened around him until both could sound like disappointment if a child heard them at the wrong angle. You watched how Lo’ak learned to grin before the next blow landed, how he bristled before anyone touched the sore place because he had learned that if he bared his teeth first people mistook it for strength.

Then came the day Ao’nung and his friends crossed too far.

It played out near the waterline with enough witnesses to make it uglier. Rotxo laughed first. Ao’nung followed, circling the Sully children with that loose-limbed swagger boys wore when they believed the world had already decided in their favor. Tails. Hands. Foreheads. The mockery came quick and mean. Kiri’s expression closed. Lo’ak stepped forward at once, ready to start the fight that had already been offered to him.

You moved before he could.

“Ao’nung.”

Your voice cracked across the space hard enough that every child there froze.

Your son turned. Shock hit first, then defiance. He had expected adults to ignore it. He had not expected you.

“Mother—”

“No.”

The word came flat as stone. You crossed the sand until you stood between the two groups, not facing the Sully children at all. Facing him. Only him.

“What do you see when you look at them?” you asked.

Ao’nung lifted his chin. Around him, Rotxo and the others went still with the instinctive caution of boys who realized too late that the game had shifted.

He said nothing.

You took one step closer. “Say it.”

His jaw tightened. “They are not like us.”

The words struck with the force of memory because you had heard them before. Not always aloud. Not always with witnesses. But enough.

“No” you said. “They are not. And yet they are under our protection. They are guests. They are children. Is this how I taught you to carry strength?”

Ao’nung’s eyes flicked away for the briefest instant. Shame. Then anger, because shame rarely came alone at his age.

“They are freaks” one of the boys muttered from behind him, too quiet perhaps in hope of escaping notice.

You heard it anyway.

So did Lo’ak. So did Kiri. So did Tsireya, who had just reached the edge of the group and gone pale.

You felt the word land inside your own ribs like a thrown stone. For one terrible instant you nearly lost your hold on your face. Nearly let them all see exactly where it had struck. But you had stood through worse than a child’s cruelty, and this was not the moment to bleed.

Instead you looked at Ao’nung and said, very quietly “Then what does that make me?”

Silence.

Not one child moved.

Ao’nung’s eyes snapped back to yours, wide for one naked second before he forced them harder again. He had not expected that. He had not expected to be made to look directly at the bridge between what he had said and who you were.

“You are not—” he began.

But he had no ending for it.

You spared him none.

“You will not speak that way again” you said. “Not of them. Not of anyone under this clan’s shelter. If you do not know how to carry your rank with honor, then you will carry nothing. Go.”

He stood frozen just long enough to reveal the child still living inside the almost-young-man shape of him. Then he turned sharply and stalked off, his friends scrambling after him in uneasy silence.

The Sully children remained where they were.

You still did not look at them immediately. Your hurt was too near the surface. You knew if you met Lo’ak’s eyes just then you might show too much.

When you finally turned, Neteyam looked wary. Kiri looked as if she had understood far more than you wanted her to. Tuk only seemed confused. Lo’ak had that same braced expression again, like he did not trust good things not to twist into something else.

So you kept it simple.

“Go with Tsireya” you said. “Training is not finished.”

Tsireya stepped forward at once, relief and loyalty all over her face, gathering the others with the soft authority that came to her as naturally as tide.

Lo’ak lingered half a second longer.

You gave him one small nod.

He went.

Only when they were gone did you let yourself breathe.

——————————————————————

That night Ao’nung found you outside the marui.

The village slept in pieces, never fully. The sea muttered against the roots. Wind moved through hanging shells and fishbone charms with a sound like soft rattling breath. You had come out because you could not bear one more look, one more half-thought, one more silence from inside. You stood on a narrow platform over dark water and let the night keep your company while the tears you had denied yourself earlier escaped anyway, quiet and furious.

You heard him before you saw him. Young warriors always thought they moved more silently than they did.

“Mother?”

You swiped at your face before turning. He saw anyway. Of course he saw. Ao’nung had always been able to read your pain more quickly than Tsireya. He simply had less practice handling it.

He stood a little distance away, no longer broad with performance. Just young. Just your son. His shoulders had lost all their earlier swagger.

“I should not have said those things” he said.

His voice was low, roughened by shame he clearly hated. You waited.

“I should not have let them say them either” he added. “It was wrong.”

Still you waited.

Ao’nung swallowed. “I was angry.”

“Angry at children?” you asked.

“No.” He stopped, jaw tight. “At… everything.”

That at least was honest.

You looked back out over the water. Moonlight silvered the surface in broken bands. “Do you know why your words hurt?”

“Yes.”

“No” you said. “You know why they upset me. That is not the same.”

He flinched. Not visibly enough for a stranger. More than enough for you.

After a moment, you went on. “When you call them freaks, when you make their bodies into something to be mocked, you are not speaking only to them. You are speaking into a wound that existed before they arrived. A wound you have seen this clan touch in me all your life whether you named it or not.”

Ao’nung’s breathing changed. Slight. Tight.

“I know” he said.

You turned then and finally looked at him fully. “Do you?”

His face worked with things he did not know how to say. Defensiveness. Shame. Pride. Fear. The ugly confusion of realizing that someone could love you fiercely and still be disappointed in the shape you were taking.

“I did not mean you” he said at last, and it was the sort of thing a child said because he still believed intent could erase impact.

Your chest ached.

“I know” you answered softly. “But it doesn't erase that I still am lime them.”

Tears burned again. You despised them. You let none fall this time.

Ao’nung took a hesitant step forward. “I am sorry.”

This time, because it was him, because he had come on his own and because he was trying in the only way he knew how, you reached out. Your hand settled briefly against his cheek.

“I know” you said.

He leaned into the touch before he caught himself. The movement was small, almost involuntary, but you felt it all the same. It broke you a little more, because for all his sharpness and pride and the cruel stupidity of what he had done earlier, there was still something achingly young in the way he sought comfort before remembering he was meant to stand tall without it.

Your hand slid from his cheek to the back of his head before you could think better of it.

“Ao’nung” you said softly.

That was all it took.

Whatever stiffness had been holding him upright gave way at last, and he stepped into you with none of his usual swagger left, leaning his weight against you as if he had forgotten for a moment how to keep it all inside himself. You drew him in without hesitation, wrapping both arms around him and holding him close. One hand spread broad between his shoulder blades while the other rested at the back of his head, keeping him there with a gentleness that only made the ache in your chest deepen.

He did not speak. Neither did you.

For a little while, the two of you only stayed that way in the dark, with the sea breathing quietly below and the night moving around the edges of the platform. Ao’nung let himself be held in a way he would have denied wanting in daylight, all the sharp edges of him gone quiet for once. You pressed a kiss to his hairline and held him tighter for a heartbeat, as though that alone could soothe every place where disappointment had cut through both of you.

When he finally pulled back, it was slowly and with visible reluctance, his face turned partly away as if he could hide how much he had needed it.

You let him have that dignity.

He swallowed once, then straightened. “Goodnight, Mom” he said, voice rougher than before.

Your hand brushed briefly over his arm before you let him go. “Goodnight, baby.”

Only after he had disappeared back into the sleeping village did you stand there alone and let the thought come that you had been keeping away.

Ao’nung had been comfortable enough to say those things because he had heard their shape before. Maybe not in those exact words. Maybe not from Tonowari’s mouth. But from the clan. From whispers. From tones. From Ronal’s colder judgments uttered when you were not near enough to answer. From silences that let implication breathe.

And if Ao’nung had learned it there, if he had learned that such thoughts were sayable, then what had Tonowari and Ronal allowed to live around your children in all these years?

Worse still, what had they themselves believed and merely loved you enough never to say?

The question lodged like a hook and would not come free.

——————————————————————

After that, Lo’ak became a shape at the edge of your days more often.

He did not come to confide in you. Not yet. But he began staying back when the others ran ahead. He lingered after lessons under excuses that fooled no one. Once, while Tsireya helped Tuk with a breathing exercise and Ao’nung wrestled some challenge out of Rotxo farther down the reef, you found Lo’ak sitting alone on a low root with his feet in the water, staring out so hard at the horizon it looked like he was trying to force his thoughts into it.

You could have left him.

Instead you sat beside him without asking.

For a while neither of you spoke. Water moved around your ankles. A school of tiny fish flashed silver below. Somewhere overhead seabirds cried.

At last you said “You glare like your father.”

Lo’ak snorted before he could stop himself. “That’s not a compliment.”

“No” you agreed. “It is not.”

He glanced at you sideways then, suspicious amusement mixing with caution.

You let the quiet stretch again until he settled back into it.

When you spoke next, your voice was lighter than the weight of the question. “Did you want to punch Ao’nung?”

Lo’ak huffed. “Kinda always.”

“Reasonable.”

That earned you a real look. The first one not filtered through wariness.

You did not smile. Not much. Just enough.

A little of the tension left him. “You were really pissed.”

“Yes.”

“Because he was being a skxawng.”

“Yes.”

Lo’ak nudged water with one foot, watching the ripples. “And because of the other thing.”

There it was.

You turned your face toward the sea again. “Yes.”

He was quiet a long while after that. Then he asked, too casual to be casual “Does it bother you?”

You could have lied. You almost did. But something in the set of his shoulders stopped you.

“Of course it does.” you said.

Lo’ak looked down at his hands. Five fingers. Strong. Capable. Wrong, to some eyes. He flexed them once.

“Oh” he said.

It was such a small sound. Such a bare one. It carried more than any long confession would have.

You understood then, with a painful clarity, that no one had told him what he needed to hear. Not in a way that had sunk in. Not enough times. Not with the right weight.

So you spoke carefully, because some truths had to be laid in a boy’s hands like knives turned hilt-first.

“Listen to me, Lo’ak. The shape of your body does not lessen you. Not your hands. Not your tail. Not your face. Not any piece of you. Anyone who tells you otherwise is trying to make themselves feel pure by cutting someone else smaller. That is not truth. That is cowardice.”

He stared straight ahead. You were not certain he was breathing.

“You are Na’vi” you went on. “You are your father’s son and your mother’s son. You are yourself beyond both of them. You do not have to earn personhood from people who look at you and see only what is different. Do you understand me?”

Lo’ak’s throat moved.

“Maybe” he muttered.

“Then I will say it again another day.”

That made his mouth twitch a little. Not quite a smile. Near enough.

And because he was still a boy, because the ache in him had not erased the impulse to test, he said “You really think I’m perfect?”

“Nobody is” you said at once.

His head whipped toward you, offended.

You let him stew half a second before adding “You are loud, impulsive, and you make decisions like someone throwing knives blind in the dark. But none of that has anything to do with the body you were born into.”

Lo’ak barked a laugh so sudden it startled both of you.

You joined him. Very briefly.

From then on, he sought you more.

Not always alone. Sometimes he just drifted toward wherever you were helping set lines or checking spears or returning from a hunt, offering clumsy help he would never have offered before. Sometimes you found him with Tsireya and Tuk, and he was easy there, gentler. Sometimes he caught you between duties and asked sharp questions about fighting, or hunting, or how long it had taken you to feel like you belonged in reef water. Sometimes he said nothing at all, only sat near enough that the silence became company.

The Sullys noticed. So did your family.

Jake and Neytiri, to their credit, did not pry. You saw the awareness in Jake’s eyes, the cautious gratitude in the way he sometimes let Lo’ak drift toward you without calling him back. Neytiri watched too, more guarded, but she recognized help when she saw it. She simply did not know its shape.

Your own family did not have that grace.

Tsireya’s jealousy came first and hurt the least. She grew clingier in small ways, touching your arm more often, leaning against you when she spoke, asking if you would braid shells into her hair that evening or come see some little thing she had found in the tide pools. It was not suspicion. It was fear of displacement. You answered it at once, gathering her close whenever you returned home, pressing kisses to her forehead, telling her stories while you worked her braids loose and redid them, letting her fall asleep with her head in your lap when the nights grew longer.

Ao’nung’s came in the form of watchfulness. He did not mention Lo’ak directly. He simply observed too much and went sharp around the edges whenever he found you speaking to the Sully boy alone. Shame still sat between the two of you after his apology, not healed, only softened over. That made everything worse.

Tonowari and Ronal felt different.

They held it in. They trusted you, and because they trusted you they hated the feeling all the more. You could see it in what they did not say. Tonowari lingering longer after evening meals, listening when you spoke of training but not asking the questions beneath his quiet. Ronal watching your face when Jake’s name came up and then turning away before the glance could become accusation. Their discomfort did not come from believing you unfaithful. Not yet. It came from seeing parts of you open in ways they had never been invited into.

That was what jealousy often was at its core. Not fear of replacement. Fear of exclusion.

You almost understood it enough to forgive.

Almost.

——————————————————————

The fracture deepened before it broke.

You began hearing things you had never let yourself fully hear before. A pause in conversation when you approached. A woman on a fish platform lowering her voice just a breath too late. A boy saying something under his breath about sky-blood and getting hissed into silence by his sister. None of it new, perhaps. Only newly impossible to ignore once Ao’nung had put shape to it in front of you.

And Ronal, for all the love between you, did not help.

She was not careless with you. Never that. In private she touched you with certainty, trusted your judgment in battle, shared the weight of the children and the home and the clan’s expectations. But she had always kept a harder core than Tonowari, and in moments where the Sullys were discussed her words carried enough old disdain to stir every insecurity you had spent years trying to bury. She did not call them demons. She did not need to. A tone could do the work. A look. A certain refusal to separate strangeness from contamination.

Each time, you said nothing.

Each time, something in you bent a little further.

Then came the day you learned she had spoken more plainly when you were not there.

Not from Tonowari. Not from some dramatic confrontation. From chance. From walking behind a half-screened section of woven wall and hearing the tail end of a conversation between Ronal and two women who had come seeking her counsel. You only caught enough to understand. The Sully children. Their bodies. Their blood. The risk of letting too much of the sky-people remain in the heart of the clan. Ronal’s voice cool and unsparing. Not once your name spoken, but you heard yourself in every omission.

You left before they saw you.

That night you could not eat.

When Tonowari asked what was wrong, you said you were tired. Ronal looked at you too long and said nothing. Ao’nung picked at his meal. Tsireya chatted about some little thing from the reef until even she felt the heaviness and fell quiet.

You slept badly. When morning came, you threw yourself harder into your duties.

No one stopped you.

——————————————————————

The argument began with almost nothing.

That was the cruel part. The worst fights often did.

You had spent half the day with the hunting parties and the latter part of the afternoon checking on the younger trainees. By the time you returned to the marui, salt dried tight over your skin and exhaustion sat meanly in your bones. The family meal was nearly ready. Tsireya was helping set woven plates in place. Ao’nung was cleaning a spearhead with too much force. Tonowari sat mending something with hands that only looked calm. Ronal had her back partly to you, sorting herbs and shells for medicines, her profile sharp in the slanting gold light.

You entered and the shift in the marui was immediate, small but noticeable all the same. Tsireya brightened first, coming to you at once, and you kissed her forehead as naturally as breathing. Your hand rested briefly on Ao’nung’s shoulder as you passed, even though he did not look up, his attention fixed too carefully on the spearhead in his hands.

Tonowari’s eyes found you next.

He was seated near the center of the space, broad shoulders slightly bowed over the piece of mending in his hands, but the moment he saw you he straightened a little. Not enough to make it obvious. Just enough that you caught it. His gaze moved over your face in one quick, quiet check, as though measuring your tiredness, your mood, the weight you had brought back in with you from the day. When you paused near him, he reached out and let his fingers brush lightly over your wrist. It was a small touch, gone almost as soon as it happened, but it carried the kind of familiar care that long years built into instinct.

“You are late” he said.

There was no reprimand in it. Only notice.

“Work took longer” you answered.

Tonowari gave a low hum and let his hand fall away, though not before his thumb brushed once against your skin. “Sit when you are done. You have not rested enough these past days.”

Before you could answer, Ronal looked up from where she sat sorting herbs and shells into neat little groupings by her side.

Her expression was harder to read, as it often was when others were near, but you knew her too well not to catch the brief pause in her hands when you stepped fully into the marui. She looked at you for a moment longer than necessary, her gaze moving over the damp salt dried into your skin, the tension still holding across your shoulders, the faint exhaustion under your eyes. Then she clicked her tongue softly, almost under her breath.

“You pushed too far again" she said.

The words should have sounded sharp. From anyone else, they would have. From Ronal, they carried that familiar edge of concern dressed in sternness, the shape it most often took when she did not want to soften herself in front of the children.

You exhaled through your nose, too tired to fight the gesture for what it was. “I am still standing.”

“Yes, Ronal said, dry and unimpressed. “And you think that is always the same as being well.”

Tsireya hid a smile at that, clearly having heard the argument before.

For the briefest moment, your eyes met Ronal’s properly. Something quiet passed there. Not tenderness made obvious. Never that, not in front of everyone. But something steady and known, something that had lived in the spaces between the three of you for too long to need much dressing.

You shook your head faintly, more to yourself than to either of them, and moved at last to wash.

——————————————————————

It could have ended there.

Instead Ronal said, without turning “Lo’ak was looking for you again.”

The words were ordinary. The tone was not.

You stilled with water running over your fingers.

“I saw him” you said.

“Mm.”

That sound. Small. Dismissive. Heavy with all the things left unsaid.

You dried your hands slowly and faced her. “If you wish to say something, say it.”

Tsireya froze. Ao’nung’s head lifted. Tonowari’s hands went still over the mending in his lap.

Ronal turned then. Her face was controlled, but not enough. “You spend much time with him.”

“He needed guidance.”

“He has parents.”

The words landed harder than they should have because you had given your life to children who were not of your body and never once resented it. Because you knew exactly where your deepest insecurity lived. Because Ronal knew it too.

“So do ours” you replied, voice already sharpening. “Yet that has never stopped me from raising them.”

Tonowari looked up fast. “Enough.”

“No” you said without taking your eyes off Ronal.

Ronal set down the herbs in her hands one by one with terrifying care. “The clan sees. The people speak.”

“And you listen.”

Her nostrils flared. “I am Tsahìk. I hear what moves through my people.”

“You let it move.”

“That is not the same.”

“No?” Your laugh came sharp and ugly. “Then tell me, Ronal, when they look at the Sully children and see something tainted, something wrong-shaped, something less, do you think I do not know what else they are seeing in that moment?”

Tonowari stood. “Y/n—”

“DO NOT.” You barely spared him a glance.

The words came out so loud and raw that the whole marui seemed to freeze around them.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. No one even breathed properly. It was not only the force of it. It was the fact that none of them could remember the last time they had heard you scream at all, much less heard it turned on one of them. Not Tonowari. Not Ronal. Not the children. You were not gentle by nature, not always soft, but this was different. This was something torn straight out of the center of you, stripped of discipline and pride and every careful restraint you usually kept wrapped tight around your hurt.

Silence crashed into the marui so hard even the sea beyond seemed to retreat.

Ronal’s chin lifted higher. Hurt had reached her now, and pride arrived right behind it. “You are twisting this.”

“Am I?” Your voice rose. “Ao’nung did not learn those thoughts from water and wind. He learned them here. In this clan. In this home. In the things said when I am not present and the things not challenged when I am.”

Ao’nung jerked upright. “Mother—”

“Be silent.”

The words cracked out of you with a force that seemed to stun even yourself.

Ao’nung went still at once. So did everyone else. It was not simply that you had snapped at him. It was that none of them were used to this version of your anger, this loud, shaking, barely-contained thing that tore out of you without the usual control wrapped around it. You could be stern. You could be sharp. But this was different, and the shock of hearing it turned on him kept Ao’nung rooted where he stood.

Ronal’s eyes flashed. “You accuse me of turning my son against you?”

“I accuse you of feeding him poison and calling it caution.”

Tsireya made a strangled sound. Tonowari stepped between you by instinct, but you moved sideways before he could block the line of the fight.

The words struck. Not because they were true in the way she meant. Because some part of them touched something real.

Your face twisted, more wounded than angry for one naked second.

“Never offered you?” you shot back. “You speak as though you ever reached for them.”

Ronal went still.

You laughed once, harsh and shaking. “Do you know how many times either of you asked about where I came from? About the life before this one? About the language still living in my mouth? About the things I lost?” Your voice rose again, raw with old hurt now, with something far older than the Sullys and this argument and even the clan’s whispers. “You accepted that those parts of me existed, yes, but you never wanted to stand too close to them. Never wanted to know them unless they could be made useful, or small, or easy to set aside.”

Tonowari’s expression changed at that, guilt flashing through it before he could hide it.

You did not spare him either.

“I did not hide those pieces because I wished to keep you out,” you said, voice breaking around the force of it. “I kept them quiet because no one asked. Because no one looked at those wounds and wondered what they were made of.”

The silence that followed hurt worse than shouting.

You had kept those fragments hidden. Not maliciously. Not knowingly. But because pain went silent when no one around you shared its language and because the ones who claimed to love you had never truly learned how to ask for it.

“You think I would betray you for friendship?” you asked, voice trembling now with fury.

“I think” Ronal snapped, and now she was shouting too “that demons return to their own. I think perhaps you feel the pull of sameness and do not know it. I think perhaps that is why you go so often where you are reflected.”

Everything in you went cold.

Tonowari moved at once. “Ronal.”

But she was too far inside the blow already. You saw regret hit her only after the words were gone.

You stared at her. “Do you see me only as a demon, then?”

Ronal was breathing hard. Wounded pride, jealousy, fear, and years of buried prejudice had tangled too tightly to unwind cleanly. In that moment she chose anger because anger felt stronger than retreat.

“Yes” she said, in a voice that shook. “In this, yes. What else calls a mated woman away so often if not the demon in her? What else lets her laugh and sing and hide herself with another male as though the bond of her family is not enough?”

Tsireya began to cry.

The sound barely reached you. Your ears were roaring.

You stepped forward so fast Tonowari actually reached out to catch your arm and missed. “You dare” you said, each word raw. “You dare accuse me of cheating while standing in the home I built with my own hands. While speaking to the children I fed, bathed, taught, held. While wearing medicines I gathered and skins I cured and weapons I sharpened. You dare call me demon after I gave you every piece of my fucking life?!”

Ronal’s face crumpled for a heartbeat under the force of it, but you were beyond mercy now.

“You put those thoughts into Ao’nung’s mouth” you went on, voice breaking louder. “Do not deny it. He did not invent that cruelty. He learned from the contempt you carry when you think I am not looking.”

“I was protecting this family!” Ronal shouted back.

“By teaching our son to despise people like me?”

Ao’nung surged to his feet then, shaking with his own helpless rage and terror, too young and too proud and too frightened for either of you.

“Stop talking to her like that!”

You turned on him in disbelief. “To her?”

His chest rose and fell fast. “She is my mother.”

The words hung. Not wrong. Not enough.

Pain and fury made you crueler than you meant to be. “And I am what, then?”

Ao’nung’s face twisted. For a second you saw him realize the cliff edge. He stepped anyway.

“You are not even my true mother” he spat. “You are not my real parent.”

The world stopped.

There were sounds after. Tsireya sobbing. Tonowari barking Ao’nung’s name in horror. Ronal’s sharp inhale like she had been stabbed. But all of it came from very far away. What you heard most clearly was the split inside your chest. Clean. Final. A thing tearing where you had thought it had grown too strong to tear.

Tonowari crossed to you quickly, hands half raised. “Y/n, listen to me—”

“No.” You reeled back from him too. “NO. NOT ONE OF YOU.”

Tsireya ran forward then and you almost broke on the sight of her, but you could not stay. Could not breathe inside that marui another second.

You snatched up the nearest things that were yours. A wrap. A knife. Your bow. A small satchel hanging from a peg by the entrance. Tonowari called your name. Ronal did too, and hers sounded ruined now, but you could not hear anything except the echo of demon and not my true mother and the older, deeper voice inside yourself whispering the worst of all.

You could not even give them children.

Perhaps that was what had always sat beneath it. The old failure. The body that had crossed worlds and changed shape and still would not do this one thing the clan understood without question. You had told yourself for years it did not matter, because Tsireya and Ao’nung were yours in every way that counted. But pain was a scavenger. It dragged up every buried bone when called.

You fled before you screamed.

You climbed until your hands bled.

Not badly. Just enough for the sting to keep you in your body when grief wanted to blast you out of it. You left the clustered marui of the village behind, crossed a tangle of roots and tide-cut stone, and found one of the old trees farther inland where mangrove gave way to the slightly drier edges of forest. There, high above ground and water both, you wedged yourself into the cradle of thick branches and finally let the collapse come.

It was not graceful. It was not quiet.

You cried until your chest cramped and your throat felt flayed raw. You hit the trunk once with the heel of your hand hard enough to bruise. You cursed in English because Na’vi felt too sacred for the ugliness in you and because no one was there to hear Earth’s dead language anyway. Then you curled in on yourself with your forehead pressed to bark and shook like something hunted.

You thought of Ao’nung as a small child reaching for you from Ronal’s arms the first time he had chosen to come to you without prompting. You thought of Tsireya feverish and half asleep, her fingers tangled in your braid while you sat up all night cooling her skin with damp cloths. You thought of Tonowari holding you after hunts gone bad, of Ronal’s mouth at your shoulder in the dark, of every year you had given to this family, this place, this life built on the bones of another.

Then you thought of the clan’s eyes on you when the Sullys arrived. Of Ronal saying unlike us. Of whispers. Of silences. Of Tonowari never quite cutting them off. Of every time you had chosen gratitude over fury because love seemed more important than being right.

The night gave you too much room to think. Sleep would not hold for long, and every time you drifted close to it your mind kicked you back awake with something sharper waiting. So you lay there in the cradle of branches staring through gaps in the leaves at scraps of dark sky and let yourself wander somewhere crueler.

Your thoughts found Lo’ak because of course they did. Not just Lo’ak as he was now, all sharp edges and stubborn pride and hurt packed into the shape of a boy trying not to show where the world had bruised him, but Lo’ak as he had been when he was smaller, when his hands had still looked too big for the rest of him and his ears and brows and fingers had marked him out before he could even understand why people were staring. You thought of the way eyes lingered. The way silence changed texture around him. The way even kindness could turn ugly when it carried pity underneath.

And then, against your own will, your mind made the leap. If you had ever carried a child of your own here, if Eywa or fate or whatever force ruled these things had ever placed that life in your arms, would they have looked like that too. Would they have had your blood written into them in all the ways this world knew how to notice and punish. Five fingers. Strange bone structure. Some soft human wrongness visible beneath Na’vi skin. Something beautiful to you, maybe, because it would have been yours, because it would have been theirs, because love would have made every difference sacred. But not beautiful to everyone else. Not safe.

The thought hollowed you out in a new place. Because once it came, another followed it, quieter and somehow worse. Maybe Tonowari and Ronal had known. Maybe not in words, not in any deliberate, spoken way, but somewhere deep and practical and afraid. Maybe some part of them had always been relieved that no child had ever come from your body. Relieved that they had been spared the risk of loving a child the clan might look at the way they looked at Lo’ak. Relieved that they had been spared explaining your traits in the face of tradition, in the face of gossip, in the face of that old, ugly instinct to sort the acceptable from the strange.

You shut your eyes hard enough to see color behind them, but it did nothing. The thought kept gnawing. Not because you truly believed they would reject such a child once placed in their arms. That was what made it hurt in a different way. You knew Tonowari would have loved fiercely. You knew Ronal, for all her pride and sharpness, would have fought like a knife for anything she called hers. But love after the fact was not the same as wanting before the fact. It was possible to love deeply and still feel relief at being spared a harder road. Possible to adore you and still be grateful that you had not given them a child who would carry the most visible proof of what set you apart.

Your stomach turned. Suddenly the old grief was tangled with something meaner, more humiliating. It was one thing to wonder whether they had ever looked at you and seen difference they tolerated because they loved you. It was another to imagine they had looked at your empty hands, your empty womb, and thanked the stars in some quiet hidden corner of themselves that it had stayed that way.

You pressed the heel of your hand over your mouth to hold in the sound that wanted out. Below you, the forest breathed and shifted and remained indifferent. Somewhere distant, water moved against root and stone. You thought of Lo’ak again, of the set of his jaw every time he pretended he did not care, and something inside you cracked with a tenderness so painful it felt almost like guilt. Because if a child of yours had looked like him, you knew with horrible certainty that you would have loved them past language, past reason, past fear. You would have torn the world open with your bare hands before letting anyone make them feel lesser for it.

And that, perhaps, was the sharpest wound of all. That no such child had ever existed, and yet you were grieving them anyway. Grieving the possibility. Grieving the shape of a life you had never let yourself hold long enough to name. Grieving the chance that perhaps, somewhere under all this hurt, you had wanted more than you had ever admitted. Not just mates. Not just a place. Not just borrowed children who had become yours through devotion rather than blood. Something smaller and more dangerous. Someone who might have carried your difference openly into the light, forcing everyone around you to reveal exactly how much of your strangeness they could truly bear.

For a long time after that, you did not sleep at all.

——————————————————————

Morning did not fix anything.

That, perhaps, was the hardest part. Dawn came all golden over the water as if the world had not been split open. The village woke. Nets were lifted. Fish gutted. Children called to one another. Duties remained, indifferent to heartbreak. So did you.

You returned at first light only long enough to wash your face in cold water and tie your hair back properly. Then you went straight to your responsibilities. The hunters needed directing. Tracks from the night tides needed reading. Two younger warriors had argued over spear allocation. A net line had torn along one of the outer shallows and needed stronger hands to repair it before midday.

The clan saw you.

Of course they did. Word had already spread. You could feel it in the way voices lowered when you passed, in how no one quite dared ask anything. Their curiosity warred with the very obvious truth written in your face. So they watched instead.

Let them, you thought.

If they expected you to vanish because your heart had been broken in private, they did not know you at all.

By noon Tonowari found you near the storage platforms where dried lines and harpoons were kept. He approached alone, which was at least wise.

You did not turn when you heard him.

“Y/n.”

You kept checking a spear haft for warp.

He stopped a careful distance away. “Please.”

That made you laugh once under your breath. Not kindly. “You ask for gentleness now?”

Tonowari absorbed the blow without flinching. “I ask for a chance to speak.”

You finally looked at him then. He wore grief openly. Guilt too. It would have moved you yesterday. Today it only hurt.

“Where was this chance” you asked “when I needed you to stop the clan from looking at me like I was something lesser the moment the Sullys arrived? Where was it when Ronal spoke and let implication do its work? Where was it when Ao’nung learned those thoughts under our roof?”

His face tightened. “You think I don't know I have failed. I know I have.”

“Then let that knowledge keep you company.”

He stepped forward despite the warning in your posture. “I did not think—”

“No” you cut in. “You did not. That is exactly it.”

For a second you saw anger spark in him too, not at you but at himself, at the impossibility of saying enough. Then it died. He stood there broad and wounded and unable to mend with strength what strength had failed to protect.

“I love you” he said simply.

Pain sliced fresh through your ribs. “Then you should have protected me better.”

You walked away before he could answer.

——————————————————————

Tsireya came later.

Where Tonowari approached like someone handling a blade, Tsireya came like she always came to you: quickly, heart first, tears already threatening. You found her near the outer shallows because she had clearly searched until someone told her where you were. The moment she saw you, she ran.

You caught her automatically. There had never been a world where you would not.

Her arms wrapped around your waist so tightly it almost hurt. You dropped to your knees in the wet sand at once to hold her properly. She was crying before she even tried to speak. You kissed her forehead again and again, smoothing damp hair back from her face, murmuring broken comforts in Na’vi and half-English endearments that survived from a life she had never known.

“None of this is your fault” you told her. “None of it. Do you hear me?”

Tsireya nodded against your neck and cried harder.

You rocked her a little, because once upon a time that had been enough to calm every storm she brought to you. “You did nothing wrong.”

“I should have said something” she choked out. “I should have stopped them sooner. I saw Ao’nung growing mean and I thought he would soften. I should have—”

“No.” You tipped her face up until she looked at you. “You are not responsible for carrying what the adults failed to carry. Not you.”

Her mouth trembled. “Come home...”

That nearly broke you all over again.

You drew her in and held her. “I cannot” you whispered.

“Not ever?”

Your throat closed. You made yourself answer honestly. “Not yet.”

Tsireya nodded because she was kinder than anyone deserved and because she understood even when understanding hurt. She clung to you another minute, then let you wipe her face with your thumbs as if she were still little enough to fit entirely in your lap.

When she left, she looked back three times.

You watched every step.

——————————————————————

The family felt your absence exactly as you knew they would.

Not because you flattered yourself irreplaceable. Because every home had a rhythm, and you had been part of theirs for too long not to leave silence where your habits belonged. No second pair of hands to catch the small work before it fell. No evening rounds through the marui checking straps, medicines, children, weapons, weatherproofing. No body dropping tired beside theirs at the end of a long day. No one to laugh first when Tsireya made some bright joke. No one to sharpen Ao’nung’s practice blade after he had abused it against coral. No one to shoulder against Ronal while sorting herbs. No one to trade a quiet look with Tonowari across a crowded family meal.

Absence was never just emptiness. It was the shape of all the things that failed to happen.

Ao’nung felt it hardest after the first shock passed. Shame made him restless. Restlessness made him stupid. He trained too hard, snapped too fast, and once nearly got himself clipped by a reef edge because his focus was split in six directions at once. Tonowari hauled him out and cursed him senseless for it. Ao’nung took the scolding without fighting back because his thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

Ronal carried hers more inwardly. She did her work. She led. She helped heal. She moved through the village with the same proud spine and uncompromising hands. But she slept poorly, and when she thought no one watched her eyes went to doors, walkways, platforms, the outer edges of the village where you should have been appearing any minute with wet hair and sea-salt on your skin and some tired complaint ready on your mouth.

Tonowari wore his like a stone tied around the chest. He had always been large enough to contain pain without spectacle. That did not make it smaller.

You did not see all of this firsthand.

You only saw enough to guess the rest.

And still you did not return.

——————————————————————

It was Lo’ak who found you on the second evening after the fight, though not by design.

You were coming back from the outer roots with a bundle of repaired line over one shoulder and a small catch looped at your hip when you spotted him sitting alone where mangrove shadows met the darkening water. He did not hear you at first. His posture gave him away before his face did. Folded in. Guard up. Something raw fresh in him.

You almost kept walking.

Then you remembered how it felt to be left alone with hurt large enough to swallow speech.

So you went to him.

He looked up fast when your steps reached him, visibly startled, then awkward. “Oh. Hey.”

You set the repaired line aside and lowered yourself onto the root beside him. “You choose lonely places.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Guess so.”

You studied him in profile. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Mm.”

Lo’ak huffed. “You do that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That thing where you act like you already know I’m full of crap.”

“I do already know.”

He gave you a sideways look. Even in the gloom you could see the fight between pride and relief.

At last he muttered “Dad got on my ass again.”

“About?”

“Everything.” He kicked lightly at the water below. “The ilu stuff. The diving. Ao’nung. Me not thinking. Me thinking too much. Pick one.”

You listened.

“He doesn’t say I’m messed up or anything” Lo’ak said after a moment, staring hard at the darkness. “Not like that. He just… with Neteyam it’s always trust and expectations and all that warrior stuff. With me it’s like he’s waiting for the next screwup.”

There was no accusation in his voice by the end. That made it sadder.

“And your mother?” you asked.

Lo’ak shrugged again. “Mom loves me. She just…” He grimaced. “She just doesn't say he isn't right.”

You sat with that.

After a while you said “When people are afraid for someone, they often speak badly. They think fear will sound like discipline if they make the voice hard enough.”

Lo’ak snorted faintly. “That doesn’t make it suck less.”

“No” you agreed. “It does not.”

Silence. Then, softer, he asked “Did you mean it?”

You turned toward him. “Mean what?”

“What you said before.” He did not look at you. “About me.”

You understood.

“Yes” you said. “I meant it.”

Lo’ak swallowed. The dark hid his eyes, but not the tremor that went briefly through the line of his jaw.

“Okay” he murmured.

Nothing dramatic followed. No collapse into confession. No sudden ease. He only sat there beside you a little longer than before, and when you rose to leave he rose too and carried half the repaired line without you having to ask.

Sometimes trust entered by the smallest door.

——————————————————————

By the third night, the ache in you had sharpened into something cleaner.

Not less painful. Clearer.

You knew you could not keep sleeping in scattered places forever. You also knew you would not return to the marui only because they missed the space you filled in it. Missing you was not enough. Love was not enough. Not when love had left certain injuries untouched for years because addressing them would have required discomfort.

So when dusk deepened and your feet turned almost without thinking toward the old path that led to the spirit place the Metkayina kept near the inland meeting of root and freshwater, you let them.

The Tree of Voices. Mangrove-wrapped, sea-breathed, threaded with swaying tendrils that caught moonlight in pale glows. The place always quieted you. Tonight it only made you careful.

You saw Ronal before she saw you.

She floated near the top of the great tree, posture bowed in a way you had almost never witnessed from her. Not weakness. Pleading. Real pleading. It stopped you cold enough that your first instinct was to turn away before she looked up.

You pivoted.

“Please.”

Her voice cracked on the one word. You froze with your back half turned.

For a long moment neither of you moved. Then slowly, because running now would have been a kind of cruelty and because some exhausted, still-loving part of you could not do that to her, you turned back.

Ronal had risen to her feet. In the silver-blue light her face looked carved from grief. She came no closer until you allowed it by staying still.

“Do not leave” she said.

“I already left.”

“You know what I mean.”

Yes. You did.

The wind shifted. The floating tendrils stirred. Somewhere beyond the roots, water moved over stone.

You folded your arms hard across your chest. “You have words now.”

Ronal closed her eyes briefly. “I should have had them sooner.”

“That is not apology. That is observation.”

Her gaze came back to yours, wet and unshielded in a way that startled you more than any shouted argument had. “Then hear this. I was wrong.”

The simplicity of it hit harder than defense would have.

She took one slow breath. “I was jealous. I was afraid. I heard pieces of you I could not share and instead of asking for them, I made them suspect. I let the clan’s uglier thoughts sit too near me. I told myself I was protecting what was ours, when in truth I was protecting my pride. And when I was hurt, I used the cruelest words I could find because I knew where to wound you.”

Your jaw tightened so hard it hurt.

Ronal’s voice shook more now, but she did not look away. “No. I do not see you only as demon. I do not even see you as demon at all. I see my mate. I see the woman who has stood beside me through blood and storm and birth and grief. I see the one who raised my children as wholly as if they had first quickened under her own heart. I see the one I hurt because I was not strong enough to master my fear before it mastered my mouth.”

Pain and love and fury all surged at once so violently you nearly stepped back.

“You said it” you whispered. “You cannot unsay it.”

“I know.”

“You let those thoughts live around our son.”

“I know.”

“You let the clan’s whispers touch me for years.”

Ronal’s face crumpled. “I know.”

There it was. No defense. No reaching for context before accountability. It left you without the clean fuel of rage.

You hated that.

“And what of Ao’nung?” you demanded, because if you could not keep striking her, perhaps you could at least keep from softening. “What of Tonowari? What of the fact that none of you protected me where protection should have been simple?”

At that Ronal’s eyes filled properly and one tear slid down without her wiping it away. “Then do not forgive us yet.”

The words hit so unexpectedly you stared.

She took a step closer. Stopped. Waited. “Be angry. Stay angry. Ask more of us than one night of grief. But do not stay gone while we try to become better than the people who wounded you. Come where we can answer. Punish me with your honesty if you must. Not with your absence.”

Your throat worked uselessly around an answer.

Then Ronal, proud Ronal, fierce Ronal, lowered herself to her knees before you.

It was not dramatic. That made it worse. Better. Truer.

“I am asking” she said, voice almost breaking fully now. “Come back and let me mend what I can. Even if it takes long. Even if you do not touch me. Even if you do not call me beloved for many nights. Come back.”

Something inside you gave way then, not into easy forgiveness but into the terrible truth that you loved her still. Loved her enough that the sight of her bowed hurt almost as much as what she had done.

You crouched before you knew you meant to. Your hands found her face roughly, as if you could still be angry through touch. Ronal leaned into your palms with a shuddering breath.

“If you ever say those things again—”

“I will spend the rest of my life earning the right not to.”

You exhaled, shaking. “That is not how forgiveness works.”

“No” Ronal whispered. “But perhaps it is how atonement begins.”

For a long moment you stayed there, hand on her face, anger still alive and grief still raw and love refusing to die under either. Then footsteps sounded behind you, hesitant and stopping short.

Tonowari.

Ao’nung.

Tsireya.

Of course.

You looked over your shoulder. Tsireya was already crying again, though more quietly now. Tonowari’s expression was almost painfully careful, hope warring with the knowledge he had no claim to it. Ao’nung looked worst of all. Stripped bare by shame. Younger than he had in years.

He took two steps forward and stopped so abruptly he nearly stumbled.

“Mother” he said, and his voice cracked so badly you closed your eyes.

When you opened them, he was crying too. Not prettily. Not with dignity. Like a boy who had discovered too late that words could not be taken back just because terror came after.

“I was wrong” he blurted. “I was angry and stupid and I wanted to hurt and I said the worst thing I could think of because I knew it would hit and I hate myself for it and I know that is not enough and I know I am yours, I know that, I know it, and I am yours too if you still want me, please—”

He broke there.

Tsireya covered her mouth, sobbing. Tonowari looked away briefly as if the sight of his son’s grief struck somewhere too tender to witness directly. Ronal, still kneeling beside you, made no move to intervene. Wise again, for once. Let him say it.

You rose slowly and faced Ao’nung fully.

He flinched before you even touched him.

That nearly undid you.

“What you said” you told him, voice low and steady only by force “will stay with me for a very long time.”

He nodded frantically, tears falling. “I know.”

“You do not get to speak from pain and call the damage smaller because you did not mean all of it.”

“I know.”

“You are my son" you said, and his face broke open entirely. “You are my son whether blood says it, or the sea says it, or Eywa herself says nothing at all. But if you ever weaponize that wound again, I will not spare you for your age.”

Ao’nung was crying too hard to answer properly. He nodded anyway.

Then, because you were never not his mother no matter what you had told yourself in the dark, you opened your arms.

He came into them with a sound you would remember for the rest of your life.

You held him while he shook. Tsireya collided into both of you an instant later, wrapping herself around your side and pressing tear-wet kisses to your shoulder and jaw and temple as if trying to prove you were really there. You drew her in too. For a few breaths the three of you stood locked together, all pain and salt and forgiveness-not-yet-but-love-still.

When you finally lifted your head, Tonowari still had not moved.

You looked at him. “And you.”

His mouth almost twitched through the grief. “Yes.”

“You do not get to be the calm one and imagine that is enough. Your silence has teeth.”

Tonowari bowed his head once. “I know.”

“You should have stopped it long before now.”

“Yes.”

“You let me bear things alone because you thought surviving them meant I needed no shield.”

His eyes closed briefly.

You let him sit under that. Then, because he had owned it with the same painful honesty Ronal had and because love made monsters and mercies of all of you, you held out one hand.

Tonowari took it like a man accepting judgment.

When he stepped close, he did not pull you into him immediately. He only rested his forehead against yours and breathed. That hurt most of all. The restraint. The understanding that your anger still lived and had to be honored.

“I missed you” he whispered.

You shut your eyes. “Good.”

He laughed once against your skin, broken and relieved and miserable all at once. “Cruel woman.”

“Yes” you said.

That made Ronal huff a damp, half-laugh from where she had finally risen, and suddenly the impossible thing happened.

The pain remained.

So did the love.

They stood together and did not cancel each other out.

——————————————————————

You did not return to the marui that instant. You made them walk back with you slowly. You made them answer. Not every question. Not every hurt. But enough. Along the root-paths under moonlight you spoke of the clan’s whispers, of old wounds, of the ways love had not absolved them from confronting the ugliness around you. Ronal did not shy from hearing it. Tonowari did not hide behind leadership. Ao’nung spoke little after his apology, but every word he gave was honest. Tsireya stayed close enough to touch you every few breaths as if still making sure you would not vanish again.

By the time the family marui came into view, you were exhausted to the marrow.

The sight of home almost drove you back. Then Tsireya laced her fingers through yours and tugged very gently, and you let her.

Inside, nothing had changed and everything had. Your sleeping place remained as you had left it. Your things, the few you had grabbed, were not there because you still had them. Yet the air itself felt different. More careful. Less sure of itself. Good. Let it be.

Tsireya made you sit before you could decide not to. She brought water. Ao’nung, red-eyed and subdued, disappeared and returned with the wrap you had left behind days ago, folded more neatly than he had ever folded anything in his life. Ronal stood at the edge of the space as if uncertain whether approaching would wound more than soothe. Tonowari lit the low lamps and then simply remained near, visible, available, not pressing.

You looked at them and felt the ache all over again. You stood there for a long moment, looking at them all in the dim light of the marui.

Tsireya’s face was still wet with tears. Ao’nung looked wrecked by his own shame, all the sharpness gone out of him at last. Tonowari stood quiet and careful, as if one wrong movement might send you slipping away again. Ronal had not tried to come closer since your return, but her eyes had not left you once. The weight of everything still sat there between you, bruised and breathing, but it no longer felt like something that would swallow the whole family alive if no one spoke.

You let out a slow breath and looked away for a moment, gathering yourself.

“If I come back” you said at last, your voice tired but steady “then I will not return to silence. I will not come into this home and pretend nothing was said. I will not make myself smaller so the rest of you may feel more comfortable with what you have done.”

“No” Ronal said immediately, her voice low and rough. “You should not.”

Tonowari nodded once. “You will not have to.”

You looked at Ao’nung then, and some part of your chest still hurt too badly to soften fully, but there was room for something gentler now too.

“And you” you said quietly “will not hide from me when you are ashamed. You will face me. Do you understand?”

Ao’nung swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, Mother.”

That word nearly undid you again.

The silence that followed was not easy, but it was no longer cruel either. It simply existed, full of exhaustion and the remains of tears and the fragile uncertainty of people who had broken one another open and were now being forced to learn how to touch the wound without making it worse. For the first time since you had left, the marui felt less like a battlefield and more like a place where healing might someday be possible.

Tsireya was the first to move.

She stepped toward you slowly, as though afraid you might still pull away, and when you opened one arm for her she came at once, folding herself against your side with a soft, shaking breath. You wrapped her close and kissed the top of her head. She clung to you without embarrassment, pressing her face into your shoulder the way she had as a child whenever the world felt too large or too sharp for her soft heart.

“I missed you” she whispered.

Your eyes closed. “I know, sweet girl.”

Ao’nung lingered only a moment longer before he came too, slower than his sister had, more uncertain, but no less in need of it. He did not throw himself at you. That was not his way. He only moved close enough that you could reach for him, and when you did, when your hand caught his arm and pulled him nearer, the tight control in him gave with almost frightening speed.

You drew both of your children in against you then, one on either side, and held them.

For a while none of you said anything. Tsireya’s breathing gradually evened under your hand. Ao’nung stood tense at first, then slowly let himself lean just a little into your side, no longer pretending he did not need the reassurance of your touch. You kept one arm around Tsireya and the other around him, your fingers stroking once down his back before settling there. The simple familiarity of it hurt and soothed in equal measure.

Across from you, Tonowari watched with something raw and grateful in his face. Ronal looked quieter than you had seen her in a long time, her expression stripped bare by remorse and love and relief she did not seem to know what to do with.

When the children finally eased back, you were left facing your mates.

For a heartbeat no one moved.

Then Tonowari crossed the small distance between you in that same careful way he had worn since you returned, broad body held back by restraint rather than confidence. His hand came up slowly, giving you every chance to refuse him, and rested against the side of your neck. Warm. Steady. Familiar enough that it made your throat tighten.

“You do not have to forgive everything tonight” he said softly. “You do not have to be whole tonight either. Just stay.”

The words were so simple that they lodged deeper than any grand speech could have. You looked at him, at the honesty in his face, at the grief he had made no attempt to hide from you, and nodded once.

“I can stay” you said.

Something in him eased then, not all at once, but enough. He bent and pressed his forehead gently to yours, saying nothing more, and in that silence you felt apology, relief, and love all tangled together. It was not enough to erase what had happened. It was enough to remind you why leaving had hurt like tearing out part of your own bones.

When Tonowari stepped back, Ronal still did not move immediately.

Her hands were clasped too tightly in front of her, a rare tell from someone usually so composed. At last she came toward you, slower even than Tonowari had, and stopped close enough that you could see how red her eyes still were.

“I do not know how to touch you tonight without fearing I have lost the right” she admitted.

Your anger stirred again at that, but more tiredly now than before. “Then do not decide for me.”

Ronal’s breath caught.

You reached for her first.

The look that crossed her face at that was almost painful to witness. She stepped into you as soon as your hands found her arms, and the moment she was close enough you pulled her the rest of the way in. Ronal held herself tightly for all of one second before breaking and wrapping both arms around you with a quiet, shaking exhale that seemed pulled from the bottom of her lungs. You held her through it, one hand at her back, the other slipping up into her braids.

“I am here.”

At that, Ronal made the smallest wounded sound and held you tighter.

The rest came more quietly after that.

No more shouting. No fresh wounds. Just the family settling around one another in the weary aftermath of too much pain finally spoken aloud. Tonowari brought water. Tsireya, still reluctant to let you out of reach, sat pressed close to your side while Ao’nung fetched the wrap you had taken when you left and set it beside you with lowered eyes. Ronal insisted, in the old familiar way that was half command and half care, that you sit before your legs gave out under you. This time, when she said it, a faint thread of warmth lived under the sternness again.

You sat.

Slowly, naturally, the others gathered around you. Tsireya curled in first, leaning against you with her head on your shoulder. Ao’nung sat near your knee, not touching at first, but close enough that the distance no longer felt like rejection. Tonowari settled at your other side, one arm stretched loosely behind you along the woven supports, near without crowding. Ronal remained in front of you for a few moments, as if still confirming to herself that you were real and staying, before finally kneeling close and resting one hand lightly over yours.

No one rushed to fill the quiet.

That was what made it kind.

The sea breathed beyond the marui walls. Night sounds moved through the village in soft layers. The lamps burned low, throwing warm light over tired faces and damp lashes and shoulders slowly unclenching after days of strain. At some point Tsireya’s eyes drifted shut, her breathing evening out where she rested against you. Not long after, Ao’nung shifted closer in tiny increments until his shoulder brushed against your leg. He did it as if hoping no one would notice.

You noticed.

You said nothing, only let your hand settle into his hair for a brief, gentle stroke. Ao’nung’s eyes closed for half a second at the touch before he ducked his head. That alone told you how deeply he still needed to feel he was forgiven, and how young he still was beneath all the pride.

Tonowari reached for one of the woven blankets and spread it over all of you with the same quiet efficiency he brought to every act of care. Ronal watched him do it, then leaned in and pressed a small kiss to your cheek, so soft it barely seemed to land. You turned just enough to let your forehead brush hers in answer, and the relief that moved through her was so visible it made your chest ache.

By the time the night deepened fully, the marui had gone still around you.

Tsireya was sleeping against your side. Ao’nung had not quite fallen asleep, but he sat drowsy and quiet near your knee, no longer fighting his own need for closeness. Tonowari’s hand rested warm and solid over your ankle beneath the blanket, a grounding touch more than anything else. Ronal remained tucked close enough that your shoulders brushed, her presence careful now in a way it had not been before, as though she had finally understood how precious your trust truly was.

You looked at them and felt the ache still there.

Not gone. Not erased. Still bruised, still tender, still real.

But underneath it, and around it, something softer had returned too. Something stubborn. Something home-shaped.

Your family had hurt you. They had failed you. They would have to live with that and do better, and you would make certain they did. But they were still yours, and you were still theirs, and tonight that truth was no longer a weapon in anyone’s mouth. It was only a promise resting quietly in the dim light, wrapped in warm bodies and salt air and tired love.

“I’m going to break up with you,” Damian mutters as you shift him by the shoulders, turning him around beneath the skeletal winter trees of the Gotham park, their bare branches webbing together overhead like veins against a washed-out sky.

Snow crunches softly under your boots as you move, the kind that hasn’t decided yet if it wants to melt or commit, and Damian can hear the giddy lift in your breathing even before he hears the faint jingle of metal as you clip the plush Robin keychain onto his backpack. Your fingers are swift but careful, fussing with the tiny ball chain like this is something sacred, like if you don’t secure it just right the whole day might fall apart.

“You love me,” you coo, voice bright and teasing, making absolutely sure the clasp is fastened before you gently turn him again and rest your chin on his shoulder, your scarf brushing his jaw, warm and soft against the sharp cold of the air.

“It doesn’t even look like him,” Damian sighs, gesturing with his chin toward the small stand set up along the park’s pathway, where a folding table is draped in a faded black cloth and weighed down at the corners with stones so it doesn’t lift in the wind.

You look anyway, at the angry little chibi face of the plush that's no taller than ten centimeters, expression stitched into a permanent scowl, tiny blush marks sewn into its cheeks. It’s surrounded by others just like it, all handmade, all a little uneven in that earnest way. 

“It looks exactly like him,” you say without hesitation. “Now pay the nice lady, Damian.”

He grumbles as he reaches into his wallet, fingers stiff from the cold, but when he hands over the cash there’s a small, barely-there smile he doesn’t bother to fight. “You’re the Robin fan, not me,” Damian says as he turns back to you, snowflakes catching briefly in his hair before melting away. “Why do I have to wear the Robin keychain?”

“We’re going to match,” you grin, already turning back toward the stand like you’re being pulled there by gravity itself.

Two tables have been pushed together, forming a long, uneven display: the popular heroes clustered on one side where most people stop—Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman—Robin placed neatly beside Batman like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and then, as the stand stretches on, the choices on people get stranger, more niche.

“Match?” Damian repeats, softer now, the word settling somewhere behind his ribs. His ears might as well perk up, even if he doesn’t realize it. He already knows the keychain will disappear into a drawer the second he gets home, hidden from judgment and siblings alike, but right now, standing here in the snow with you smiling up at him, he can’t bring himself to care.

Then something catches, sharp and unexpected.

The last time you wanted to match with him, it had been phone charms—two little chibi anime characters swinging from your cases, identical except for color.

Love interests.

The memory lands quietly but heavily, like snow piling up until a branch finally gives.

“Who are you picking?” he mumbles, resting his chin on your shoulder as you look at the stand, voice low enough that it almost blends into the hush of the park. Your hair tickles his cheek, your scarf smells faintly like your perfume and something warmer beneath it, and if the world were kinder to him, if this weren’t Gotham and public and complicated, his face would already be buried in it, pretending the cold didn’t exist at all.

Damian feels his stomach drop the moment you reach for it.

Your fingers hover for only a second before lifting the Flatline plushie from the stand, the small fabric body light and unassuming in your hand. You hold it up to show him like it’s obvious, like it’s already decided, snow catching briefly in the stitched hair before melting away. “Matching set, see—”

“No.”

The word cuts through the cold air sharper than it has any right to, abrupt enough that it startles even him. His smile is gone before you can register it, wiped clean like a slate dragged through snow.

You blink at him, confusion flickering openly across your face, your brows knitting together as if you’re trying to reorient yourself in a conversation that just took a wrong turn. “What do you mean no?” you ask softly. “Aren’t they dating?”

“No,” Damian repeats, faster this time, too fast, shaking his head with a firmness that feels rehearsed, defensive, like if he says it clearly enough it’ll become truer than it already is.

You hesitate, then glance back down at the plushie in your hand. It’s cute in that deliberately rough way—stitched eyeliner, a crooked smile, jagged strips of fabric meant to pass as hair. Someone put care into it. Someone thought it was charming.

You would agree.

To Damian, it’s a mirror he didn’t ask to look into.

From the outside, it probably looks like you’re considering whether to buy another toy. From the inside, he’s fourteen again for half a second, standing too close to a decision he made when he was younger and louder and trying very hard to be something other than a child. A pretty idea, he thinks bitterly. That’s what it was. Not good. Not smart. Just pretty in the way things are when you don’t yet know how sharp the edges can be.

Only a fourteen-year-old boy would do that to himself, he thinks—would step into a relationship with someone whose morals clashed so violently with his own and call it maturity instead of what it really was: curiosity dressed up as bravery. Damian was acting his age without realizing it. Making mistakes not because he was careless, but because he didn’t yet know what was worth protecting then.

“I swear I saw them kiss in some magazine when I was like fourteen,” you mumble, tilting your head just slightly, blinking that way you do when you’re genuinely confused, the kind of look that would melt someone else entirely, maybe make them brave enough to reach out and take your hand. But Damian has priorities right now.

“Nope.” He shakes his head firmly, voice low and final, cutting through the muffled hum of the park.

“Well… she’d still go really cute on my bag,” you murmur, eyes dropping to your black purse with its silver clasps, silver catching faint light and matching the tiny chains on the plushie like a cosmic coincidence.

“If you want something to match your bag—get like… I don’t know… Black Canary? I’ll get Green Arrow and—”, Damian starts up hopelessly.

You pause, shrugging, as if you can’t quite see the logic or consequences of this little suggestion.

“Do you have something against emos?” You chuckle, awkwardly, nervously, because the way he’s gripping the strap of his backpack and staring at the plushies like they’re miniature conspirators is absurd and almost endearing.

Damian wants nothing more than to bury himself in snow and never come out, to let the cold cover him like armor, but there’s warmth in your voice, stubborn and bright, that sticks to him anyway, like the last ember before winter fully claims the city. He shifts, quietly, unsure whether to scowl or laugh, and the snow keeps falling, silent witness to the chaos you bring.

“Babe… I go to Comic Con,” Damian sighs, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s already exhausted by a battle he knows he’s losing. “What do you think?”

“Then…” you brighten instantly, voice lifting with dangerous cheer, “…I’m buying her!”

It’s obvious now—you’re doing this on purpose. Less about matching, more about poking him until he reacts. You pivot on your heel, already half a step past him, snow crunching under your boots.

“So you hate me,” Damian says, loud and dramatic, pitched just high enough to be heard over the low murmur of the park.

That’s what stops you.

You freeze mid-step, breath fogging in front of you as the words settle in your chest. It’s ridiculous. It’s harmless. And it sounds exactly like something a clingy, needy girlfriend would say to get her way.

Worse—you’re pretty sure you’ve said it to him before.

Slowly, you turn back around, eyes narrowing with interest instead of concern. 

Oh. 

Oh two can play that game.

“Oh?” you hum, leaning into it, letting your shoulders slump just a touch. Your voice softens, exaggerated, wounded in a way that’s almost theatrical. “So… you don’t trust my taste?”

You glance down at the plushie in your hand, thumb brushing over the stitched smile, then lift it up beside your face like a comparison photo, tilting your head. Snow dusts into your hair and clings to your scarf, framing you like you’re part of the display.

“You don’t think she’s pretty?”

The park seems to go quiet around him—snow falling heavier now, lights blurring, the vendor’s stand glowing too brightly in his peripheral vision. Damian feels heat crawl up his neck as if Gotham itself is laughing at him, every flake of snow another accusation.

He stares at you, at the plushie, at the smug little curve of your lips that he wants to kiss off.

More importantly though, Damian wants to bury himself in the snow.

After he kills himself.

Preferably before you say anything else.

Two options.

Yes—okay, fine, I’ll buy it for you—let’s match. And Damian knows the second he plucks up the courage to tell you his secret, the real, hidden identity beneath all the layers of leather, gadgets, and shadow, he’ll never be able to let it go. It will linger like a blade at his ribs, a promise unfulfilled. Fuck, maybe you won’t even care that he called his ex-girlfriend pretty in front of you, but he will. Damian holds honor like a lifeline, grips it harder than he does his own shadow, and the last thing he wants is to ever diminish yours—even with something so small, so meaningless to everyone else and possibly you.

No—just pick something else. And he has to watch it: the flicker of disappointment cross your face, subtle but sharp, like icicles breaking underfoot. Your shoulders slump, just a little, your smile forced and small, fragile against the cold wind curling through the skeletal branches overhead. It lingers for what feels like an hour in the still, gray Gotham afternoon, punctuated only by the soft crunch of snow beneath your boots. He hates it already.

So he picks neither.

Instead, Damian’s sharp gaze flicks past the smaller plushies—the chibi Robin, the little Flatline you’d picked up with careful hands—to the towering, overpriced giants at the back of the stand. 

Batman and Superman, looming like they’ve stepped out of a newspaper cartoon, stitched with care, their soft capes catching the faint light of the hanging bulbs strung along the vendor’s table. 

The tags gleam, $150 each, bold and unapologetic. 

Or.

Hold onto a spinning pull up bar for 10 minutes for a chance to win.

“We match with those,” he says, voice low but decisive, a knife of authority cutting through the quiet hum of the falling snow.

You blink, heart tipping forward in your chest, tracking his line of sight, eyes glistening as they flicker between him and the plushies. Your words come out hesitant, fragile, soft as frost melting on bare skin. “I…I don’t know, Damian…those are…a little pricey. And if your thinking about the second option I don’t want you to strain yourself—”

Not a no.

Damian practically runs to that fucking bar.

There’s a small wait, stretching like it’s testing your hesitance, the snowy Gotham afternoon muffling the usual chaos of the park. Two boys, maybe fifteen, fumble at the little bar, their hands slipping over the smooth surface. You wince when the taller one loses his grip entirely and falls backward into the snow, boots flailing, a small puff of icy powder puffing around him. 

Your scowl sharpens as the old man running the bar part of the stand cackles, the laugh too loud, too brittle, a sound that makes the air feel colder.

You open your mouth, “Hey, I don’t know—” and stop. Mid-sentence, your gaze falls on Damian. And all the chatter, the clatter, the wind whipping icy flakes into your scarf, fades. He’s there, quiet but unyielding, every movement precise, deliberate. His shoulders squared against the cold like a prince, his hands adjusting the straps of his backpack, the faint tilt of his chin, the way he surveys the small chaos of the park as if he can contain it all with sheer will.

And he notices you. Not the boys or the falling snow or the absurdly loud old man—just you. The way your fingers curl slightly tighter on his coat sleeve, the tilt of your head, the slight flush rising against the winter chill. 

You can feel it in the way he shifts, the careful calculation of his steps, the subtle angle he takes to stand beside you rather than in front of you, the gentle awareness of your personal space. He carries you in that way, like he’s holding both of you in balance without touching too tightly, a quiet knightship that leaves a warmth behind.

Okay. 

Weirdo.

The thought strikes, soft, unbidden, curling like smoke into your chest. Determined, stubborn, impossibly careful—he’s all of it and somehow still this impossibly magnetic presence, grounding and wild all at once. You notice the sharpness of his jaw under the winter light, the way his silky black hair captures a few snowflakes, the way he carries himself like every small motion is meant to shield you, protect you, be near you without needing to touch.

…Your weirdo.

And it hits differently now. You can’t help it; you watch the way he shifts, just the faintest tilt of his head toward you, the way he glances at your footing on the cracked snow covered pavement, small things that are just for you. You want to reach for him, to lean into that protection, to let yourself melt into the care he carries in the simplest motions. 

The thought betrays you before your mind can resist: he’s yours, always has been, and the snow, the park, the ridiculous little plushies, they all fade to the edges. All you can see, all you can feel, is him.

“Hey.” You mumble it so quietly it almost dissolves into the cold air, more breath than word.

Damian glances down at you, dark and thick brows knitting just slightly, thrown off by how suddenly your demeanor shifted from hesitant to soft, how the energy around you has shifted. The park hasn’t changed—snow crunching under boots, the two teenage boys still failing spectacularly at the bar a few feet away, the old man hovering near the stand like a gargoyle—but it feels like the space between you has narrowed anyway. The fair hums around you, crowded and loud in theory, yet everyone is wrapped up in their own little worlds, conversations overlapping and blurring together until it’s all just background noise.

“Mhm?” he murmurs back, instinctive, distracted—and then his hand is at your waist, firm and warm through layers of fabric, guiding you just a little closer to him, just a little farther from the walking path. It’s protective without being obvious, the kind of touch that says I’ve got you without ever needing to say it out loud.

You hesitate for half a second, then lean into your scarf, hiding your mouth and nose like it might save you from your own boldness. “Can we make out later?” you whisper, the words barely surviving the cold, ridiculous and sincere all at once.

For one frozen moment, Damian short-circuits.

Then he physically shoves you back toward the walking area with the most controlled and gentle force you've ever felt, his free hand flying up to yank his scarf over the lower half of his face, eyes wide and burning as red creeps up his ears. You burst out laughing immediately, loud and unrepentant, the sound bright against the gray winter air.

He turns away sharply, shoulders stiff, absolutely refusing to look at you, while you’re still cackling like you’ve just won something. And maybe you have—because even as he pretends to recover, its like his hand can't leave your side even for instant, lingering just enough to remind you that he did not say no.

“Happy?” Damian mumbles once the two of you are back in your apartment, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft finality. The space feels different immediately—quieter, sealed off from the cold and the crowd and the noise. No one else is home. Just you, just him. The heater hums low in the background, and somehow the room already feels warmer than it should.

“Very,” you say brightly, grinning down at the Batman and Superman plushies cradled in your arms. They’re oversized, ridiculous, far more expensive than anything you’d ever justify buying for yourself.

Damian hadn’t even broken a sweat.

The memory flashes uninvited: the way a small crowd had slowly gathered as he stepped up to the bar, coat shrugged back just enough, gloves still on, expression bored in that familiar way that always means he’s about to show off without admitting it. The effortless strength in the way he’d lifted himself, clean and controlled, hanging there like gravity was optional. The man at the counter growing redder by the second because he must have been sure the bar was polished to the point of only causing slip. 

The murmurs. The phones discreetly angled because Damian Wayne is practically a B-list celebrity. 

And Damian—trying and failing to hide his grin because you were staring at him like he hung the sun and strung the moon.

Even bundled up, even half-hidden behind winter layers, the way you looked at him had warmed him more than the coat ever could. He’d felt it in his chest, in the way his balance wavered for just a split second when he caught sight of your face.

Especially when you’d turned that sharp, unapologetic glare on the small group of women giggling nearby, daring them to keep looking.

That glare—Gods. It was the only thing that almost made him lose his grip entirely.

Now, back in the apartment, he watches you from a few steps away, plushies in your arms, cheeks flushed from the cold and excitement, eyes bright and satisfied as you find a place on your bed to situate the one you want to keep. His shoulders finally loosen, tension bleeding out of him as he exhales.

Yeah.

You’re happy.

The proof of it makes his heart settle.

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