COUNTING STARS

She counts three heartbeats before her eyes close in the red. She counts to three before she opens them to the stones on the beach. Three coughs for the water in her lungs, three breaths for air to be sweet again. There’s three people inside her. The girl, the summoner—and whatever she is now. She doesn’t know but she knows she isn’t the same.

It takes three days to escape and three weeks to find them. She expects no celebrations, her joy at her people has always been her own. The unease has turned to horror. Hands move towards weapons, eyes look anywhere but don’t meet her own. It’s only Pym who pushes past her fear, who hesitates only a moment before throwing her arms around her.

“Thank the Gods your back,” she whispers.

Nimue doesn’t know what Gods would do this, but they aren’t the kind you thank with things like words or belief.

“You’re dripping,” Squirrel says when he sees her, direct as always.

“I drowned,” Nimue says. Her voice hurts from disuse.

“Are you a monster now?” He asks. She shrugs, she doesn’t know. She thinks she might be.

“Squirrel,” Pym scolds.

“It’s alright,” Nimue rasps, “is it wrong if I am?”

“No,” he says, “you’re not wrong.”

It takes her three seconds to realize she’s forgotten how to smile.

Arthur holds her for three wonderful heartbeats. He smells of earth and Folk and Nimue is so glad to be in his arms. Any remnants of her heart are with her people and he has kept them safe, as he promised he would. His front is dark when she pulls back. She wonders in how many ways has she stained him? He doesn’t let her go. He strokes her cheek with the back of his hand. He calls her his. The fear in his eyes he pushes past, the fear makes her love him more.

“Thank you,” she says, “beloved.”

“My Lady.”

Three steps.

She sees him out of the corner of her eye.

Three steps, three breaths, three seconds. He’s fast but the dark is easy for her now. She’s not expecting him to throw it back at her. Her surprise is not enough to catch her off guard. Her magic is stronger, she throws him about and pins him down. She replaces each vine he cuts twice over. If she is a monster let her be the Hydra. Let her overwhelm him until there is nothing but his foul memory. Their eyes lock as she relieves him of his weapons and pins his arms. People are yelling but she holds them back and advances on him.  She wants to see the fear he’s inflicted. She wants to see him hurt.

“You were right to hunt me,” she whispers, crawling vines across his skin and up his throat,, “you should have been better at it,” she looks at the patches of green that follow her vines, “you aren’t the first Fey to be scared of me.”

“No,” he rasps.

“No?” She mocks, “I can feel your pulse racing,” she leans closer, “I smell it,” she inhales, “it smells like—“

Everything goes green.

Then black.

It takes her three breaths to open her eyes. For the first time since she drowned, she feels warm. It almost hurts. When she opens her eyes her father is looking at her. Only he doesn’t look like her father, like the powerless man who let her go. He looks ancient. She knows that look, it’s the one she’s always seen in her mother’s eyes. She realizes she hasn’t seen her mother. She died and her mother wasn’t there. She must truly be damned.

“Father—“ he cringes from the name.

“Child,” he puts his hand on her brow, “I am so sorry.”

She has no absolution for him.

Perhaps this is how her mother felt, whenever she thought of him.

Perhaps this is how everyone in her family is destined to feel about each other.

She finds Squirrel crouched over the fire. She finds her monster next to him. Squirrel looks but doesn’t get up, the monster does. What kind of evil does it take to be a monster’s monster? The kind that is disarmingly sitting by the fire breaking bread with her old friend. She’s wet and cold again. She feels like a monster as she approaches. Too close and the flames begin to sputter. She takes a step back.

“It’s alright,” Squirrel says and elbows his monster. He pretends not to notice, “do it.”

“No.”

“You said you would,” Squirrel says, “you said I could ask three times, remember?”

This monster who knows nothing of honor takes a deep breath of frustration, pushes up his sleeve and slips his hand into the flames. She watches as they change. Everything turns green and warm.  Her feet propel her forward and she stands by the fire, savoring the warmth. Wet and cold is how she is, but just for a moment she can pretend that she is a living girl again.

“Fey Fire was supposed to be gone,” she says. She looks at him, “you didn’t give this to your Brothers.”

“It’s not to be shared,” he says.

“So a slow death is better?” She demands. He glares up at her, “or do you just enjoy causing suffering?”

“He only enjoys causing himself suffering,” Squirrel mutters.

Nimue snatches back her vines.

She cannot snuff out the only innocence left in the world. She looks at the monster. On any other face the look would be embarrassment, but he hasn’t earned that from her. She has no sympathy for him.

“Does he have a name?” They look at each other. She sees the monsters lips part, “I wasn’t talking to you.”

Squirrel hesitates and the fury steals her breath. He’s protecting a monster. She should have expected the Paladins to pull something like this. Children, good people, none of it has ever stopped them. The monster is upside down, dangling above his green flames. Is he fireproof? Does she care? Squirrel is shouting for the others but Nimue doesn’t care. Let them come. Let them see. They will keep Squirrel safe.

“Lancelot,” the monster breaks through her rage with a word, “my name is Lancelot.”

She releases him mid air and is only mildly disappointed when he manages to land on his feet. He pulls the green from the fire and it winks out. The last thing it shows is him pushing Squirrel behind himself. His eyes don’t leave her. She hears the others come running. She cannot bear to have them see her like this.

The calls of her name chase her into the dark.

She wishes she didn’t miss the warmth.

“What am I?” She asks her father.

“Something beyond this world,” he says, “and my daughter.”

“I wish my mother were here,” she says, “she would fear me, wouldn’t she?”

“She didn’t fear me,” Merlin points out, “I can’t imagine her ever being afraid of you, even now.”

It only makes her feel slightly better to hear that. It’s Arthur and Pym and Squirrel who are afraid but like her anyways who really matter. But it’s Morgana who appears in a black dress in an instant, who throws off her veil and runs to her without any hesitation. She’s ephemeral, like a shadow and Nimue feels very much a drowned fish in front of her, but they collide like two lost stars. Nimue knows she’s weeping and thinks you can hardly tell with how she is now. There are no tears on Morgana though her shoulders shake with sobs. Perhaps this is who they both are now.

“I thought you were dead!” Morgana cries.

“I’m as dead as you,” Nimue says and she throws her head back and laughs, “oh I’ve missed you.”

“Not as much as I’ve missed you.”

There’s the old, the new and the yet to be. In Morgana’s embrace all three sing sweetly together. Nimue wishes that was true for everyone else. She longs for hugging them to feel as it did. But only Morgana is the same, even if she is now shadow and air. They have become monsters together and if Nimue had to choose someone to walk the path with, it would be Morgana. She looks Lancelot up and down.

“Betrayed anyone lately, pet?” She sniffs.

“Only my brothers,” he replies simply.

“Which ones?”

She rolls her eyes and loops her arm with Nimue’s. It’s almost easy to forget they know each other. That they are connected in a very odd way. She doesn’t seem surprised to learn that he’s a Fey and Nimue realizes it is rather ridiculous to assume the Church didn’t know. They didn’t speak of it, to be sure,  but everyone seems to have known. It earns him favor with no-one, she thinks Squirrel was probably right and he enjoys causing his own suffering. The people she knows from the church, who believe it’s doctrine, all seem to enjoy their own masochism. Not as much as inflicting it on others, but they enjoy it all the same.

“I’m glad you kept your wits about you,” she says to Morgana.

She shudders to think of how the convent, how any of this, would have been without her.

It’s three weeks before she finds herself alone with him.

She sleeps but not really, she dreams in memories and powers. Sometimes when she sleeps she walks. There are no village walls to stop her in the place they are in, just endless endless fields. She opens her eyes to find she’s lost. The dripping never leaves a trail, everything looks the same. She is about to call out when he parts the grass with a covered hand. More and more of his layers have found their way to other people, bodies more in need of warmth than pride. He takes care not to touch the grass.

“Are you going to try and kill me?” She asks.

“I would have taken my chance when you were asleep,” he says.

It’s a wonder that their voices sound alike. She’s forgotten how to have a conversation, he doesn’t seem to ever have learned. He’d be pitiful if not for their history. She supposes she would be the same. Somehow they have become two monsters standing there. One of water, one of fire. Her skin crawls at the realization and the part of her that is still a girl wants to turn and flee. From him, from this, from everything.

“I’m not your Queen,” she says. He raises an eyebrow, “you’re not one of my people.”

“I didn’t ask to be.”

“Good,” she says, raising her chin, “so we’re clear.”

He looks at her silently. Patiently. She wants to tell him to leave her, but she’s not sure how to get back. She knows he knows the way. She remembers him, eyes half closed and nose turned up to the wind. Sniffing her out. Like a dog. Her stomach or what’s left of it recoils. Is a dog loyal to only one master? She cannot remember. She cannot think about it. She’s already dead so she isn’t sure it even matters.

“Take me back,” she says.

He inclines his head and steps forward, leading the way.

The safety of her people is the only thing that matters now. She needs to get them somewhere. Somewhere away from the Paladins and away from the mortals. She cannot do it alone. Morgana goes, quick and shadow, she dissipate and reappears like a dark, comforting thought. The first thing she always does is remove the veil. As if seeing Nimue and her brother lets her shed one piece of madness. When she does it this time, the usual determination is gone and replaced by a joy that Nimue hasn’t seen on her face in a very long time.

“I’ve found it,” she says

“Where?”

“It’s far, but I can lead us there. We’ll be safe,” her smile slips, “we will have to pass by Paladin territory.”

“You’ll lead us,” she says to her friend. She looks at him, “you’ll guide us there safely.”

Morgana squeezes her hand.

“I need a map,” Lancelot says.

He finds a way through for them, all of them. Though it takes him a few moments to figure it out. She gets the sense that taking care with groups of people is not his forte. But he tells them where they need to go and how to be prepared for what the Paladins might do. She would thank him but she decides to do that if they get to where they need to go.

“Be careful about trusting the Ash Folk,” her father says.

“Because he has something you need?” She asks.

“Because they have nothing to lose,” he says, “that’s a dangerous thing.”

“I don’t either,” she begins, but then stops. Her people, her people need her. Even if a voice tells her that Arthur will see them safe to where they are going, that they are in good hands, she knows she can do a better job. “If it comes down to it, I don’t either.”

Merlin scowls and she tries not to equate it with the look her mother sometimes gave her when she was particularly stubborn. When she acted like her father. She’s become a monster like him and far worse. She has nothing to lose because she will only be able to lead them so long. So far. Then her time will be done and she doesn’t know what comes next, but it scares her. Perhaps there is a hell. She’s fairly certain she’s been to it, the idea of returning to it terrifies her. She finds him easily enough, scouting out a route. Second guessing himself.

“Are we this for a reason?” She asks, “is there a purpose?” He looks at her quietly, “I’m asking you a question. What does your God say about it?”

“Nothing,” he says.

“Nothing?”

“God doesn’t speak of Fey,” he says.

“What does that make you?” She asks.

“Damned,” he says simply.

She is as well but she loathes having anything in common with him. She’s afraid that if she starts to count the things, she will find too many. She doesn’t want anything in common with him, but at least she’s like this. At least she can tell herself that the girl she was wouldn’t. What she is now, well, she doesn’t know if there’s a point in drawing lines between monsters anymore.

“Hell hurts,” she tells him flatly.

She enjoys the flash of fear in his eyes too much.

It doesn’t stop him though.

He’s there, damn him. Her power doesn’t stop him. He lurks like a shadow. Like he’s stalking her and maybe he is. Maybe this is always how things were fated to go. Her longing for the girl who ran off on her mother’s hatred sours to bitterness as she thinks this might be how it was always meant to be. Her mother was to meet her father, she was to be born. She was to have hopes and dreams, to think she could escape her fate. But fate wins. Fate always wins. And the world is unbearably cruel, even to someone like her who only has one foot in it.

“Do they let you fuck?” She asks one night after nearly killing Merlin. Her father waves her off but she lingers outside his tent, “or is it just murder that’s allowed?”

“Does it matter?” He asks. His words have started to come more freely, but not freely enough for her liking.

“It does to me,” she says. He raises an eyebrow, “I miss being warm.”

He stares at her and she wonders if either of them is sure that she’s joking. She can’t fully say. Being warm sounds wonderful and she’s not sure if she’s meant for wonderful things anymore. But if she boils it down, his fire is the thing that makes her feel warm. The only thing.

“So are you a virgin?” She asks.

“That’s not important.”

“Of course it is, I want to be warm for longer than a virgin can last.”

He huffs and that’s the only indication he’s uncomfortable. She relishes his discomfort. She wants him to be uncomfortable so he’ll stop being so stubborn and so incendiary and such a shadow. She wants him to feel pain, even just a fraction of the pain he’s caused her.

“Don’t you have Arthur for that?”

She hisses through her teeth. Arthur is good. Arthur will be great. Arthur is not warm. He’s not what she needs right now. And she is not what he needs either. They are bad for each other. She doesn’t care what Lancelot thinks of her. He’s as damned as she is, she just has a better reason to face hell.

“You took everything from me,” she says to him, suddenly in front of him. So close she can almost feel it. He looks down at her but he doesn’t look away, “the least you can do is give me the memory of being warm.”

His throat bobs but he doesn’t look away.

That doesn’t make him brave.

“Nimue—“

She kisses him so he shuts up.

She kisses him because it makes him uncomfortable, because she wants to hurt him. Mostly she kisses him because the idea of her name on his lips is utterly unbearable. He’s never kissed anyone before, that much is very clear. But he’s fought people. He translates it into the language that he knows. She digs her teeth into his bottom lip to help him along and suddenly finds herself pressed to the wall, the warmth from his skin seeping through her wet gown. Things come in threes.

It’s warm.

It’s painful.

It’s copper.

They pull apart and their mouths are wet with her water, their saliva and his blood. It’s an ugly thing, kissing him. It’s a betrayal and greed. Perhaps his church was right and she is sin. Well she knows that she’s sin now, but perhaps she was always sin and this was just the inevitable conclusion of it. She looks down to see that his shirt is wet and sheer. She slides her fingers to the mark on his shoulder and she watches him watch her. Something dark is in his eyes.

“Burn with me,” she offers.

“No.”

“You will. One day.”

He takes the warmth with him when he pulls away.

She mourns for it again.

He doesn’t leave.

She damns him all the same.

The island is beautiful when she sees it across the impossible body of water. Something in her unravels at the sight of it. It will be safe. She will make it safe. Morgana looks at her tearfully and grasps her hand without any fear.

“You did this,” she says to her friend.

“We did this,” Morgana says, “we’re so close.”

“Tomorrow,” Nimue tells her, “it will be done tomorrow.”

Lancelot finds her along the shore, feeling the rocks under her feet. She hears him coming but she keeps her eyes focused on the still waters and and the island. Storm clouds are coming in and soon it starts to rain. She doesn’t mind it. When she turns Lancelot is still there looking out at the water.

“You cannot go where they are going,” she says, “you’re not ready.”

“And you?”

She smiles painfully.

“I guess the flames haven’t melted your brain.”

He searches her questioningly but she kisses him instead. She doesn’t want questions or his pity. Maybe it’s fitting that he’s here when she gives up the last of everything. When she goes to pull away, his arms tighten around her waist. His request doesn’t have to be spoken to be heard. But he doesn’t have the right to request anything of her.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “for what I did.”

“I know you are,” she tells him, “that’s not enough.”

“I know.”

He flattens his hand on her sternum and she breathes in the warmth that coils down in her bones. She’s not mortal anymore, not flesh or blood, there’s nothing there for the fire to fuel itself. So it simply burns where her heart used to be. When she steps back, his arms drop and she picks up the sword.

“Kneel,” she says., “A knight of the Fey is one with the land, as enduring as the Great River, and as true as Arwan’s Bow,” she says, “we are born into the dawn to pass into the twilight,” she raises her chin, “you are my knight now, Lancelot of the Lake. You serve me. And I command you to follow Arthur, until you return.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Things come in threes.

The waters close over her and fill her lungs again, but the fire still burns in her chest. She is water and fire and girl. She is living and dead and the sword in her hands. She settles ad floats and the lake becomes hers. Hers to control, hers to guard, hers to be. None will touch her people now as she wraps around them, carried by the current in the water. She watches them cross and she watches those who stay. Lancelot and Percival and Arthur. In time there will be others. One day she will even share the sword. One day she will let them all pass to Avalon. It’s both one day and happening and long in the past.

Squirrel has not shut up since the woods. Lancelot does not know how he has so many words in him or where he’s getting the energy from. He’s put the boy on the horse while he walks on foot just to have some damn space between them, but the hint has gone right over Squirrel’s head. Which makes sense because the boy is a child. The idea of him being warped like Lancelot knows he was warped was horrifying, but some evil part of him thinks at least then the boy would be quiet. Instead of asking a thousand questions and prattling on about a home and a people that Lancelot knows he took from him. It’s a flagellation he deserves, but it’s wearing on his patience.

“Why are we stopping?”

He ignores the question and shrugs off his cloak and tunic.

“What’s that?”

He continues to ignore the questions and undoes the girdle, pulling off the hairshirt. Of course his silence is not taken well, he hears Squirrel hop off the horse. Lancelot ignores him as best he can and reaches for his tunic, nearly toppling the boy in the process. For a boy who has seen some truly awful things, Squirrel still looks stunned at his torso. Even the green cannot take the old scars that dot his flesh, though the chafing of the hairshirt makes them look worse.

“Why are you wearing that? It looks like it hurts.”

“That’s the point,” he says.

“Why would you make clothing that hurts?”

“To atone for sinning.”

“Was rescuing me a sin?”

The boy really is too damn clever. Lancelot wants to say that it was but it doesn’t feel like one. It feels like the least sinful thing he’s done in a very long time. He pulls on his tunic and cloak. Both breathe easily against his chaffed skin. He picks up the shirt and puts it in the saddlebag before turning back to Squirrel to help him onto the horse.

“No, that’s why I’m taking it off.”

“But you’ve been wearing it this whole time,” Squirrel says, “do you always wear it or just after you burn down a village?”

Lancelot picks up the reins. Maybe something will spook the horse and it will trample him.

“Always,” he says.

“Do you sin that much?”

“Yes,” he says, thinking that will be the end of it.

“Why?”

Evidently the horse is not going to trample him. He’s used to obedience from his steeds. Both of them are traitors, it would seem. He stops and turns around. Sitting astride the mount, Squirrel doesn’t look like sin. He looks like a boy. Lancelot has always know he was different fundamentally from the Brothers, but the idea of twisting someone so young makes his stomach roll. It is not the boy’s fault he was born of the Fey. Suddenly the actions of the Brothers and the Church seem far more like hubris than piety. They seem like blasphemy.

“In the eyes of the Church, being Fey is a sin,”. He says.

“I know that,” Squirrel says with an eye roll.

“That’s why I wear that,” Lancelot says.

“So you’ve been punishing yourself every day because you were born a Fey?”

When it’s put like that, it seems foolish. But it is the truth and Lancelot nods.  Squirrel is blissfully quiet. Though his silence comes at a moment when Lancelot finds he actually wants to hear what the boy has to say. Squirrel is quiet for a moment longer and then turns around, fishing the hairshirt out of the bag. He holds it in his hands, frowning at the irritation it causes. He looks at Lancelot for a moment and then hurls the thing as far as he can. Admittedly it’s not as far as he probably intended, the shirt isn’t terribly aerodynamic and it lands with a plop in a puddle of muddied road.

“Why did you do that?” He asks.

“So you don’t put it on again,” Squirrel replies.

Lancelot knows they cannot leave evidence like that behind. He had no choice but to go and pick up the garment. What surprises him is how much he wants to leave it there. He doesn’t want to touch it, though he feels like he should long for it. He walks over to the garment and picks it up. He’s not foolish enough to think the action of getting rid of the shirt will mean getting rid of his burdens. But when he sends it farther off the road and Squirrel lets out a whoop, he feels as though he’s done something good. He picks up the horses reins and resumes leading onwards.

“I bet you feel better. Gawain always felt better after taking off his armor.”

The name of his old enemy is almost as odd as his own name. Though he’s not sure what to call him, if enemy is really appropriate. He’s not sure of anything really. His stark world has become muddled, with only the certainty that the Brotherhood will kill him if they find him. He would say the rest of the Fey would too, but that’s not a certainty like the others. Lancelot’s only hope has been that he will be put into purgatory. That perhaps his deeds will be great enough that God will save him from the hellfire.

Kindness is not something he’s hoped for in a very long time.

“Will you tell me about him?”

Squirrel perks up more, if possible, and begins to rattle off everything he knows. It’s a young boys dream, some mix of fantasy and reality painted by second hand stories. Lancelot isn’t sure what is fact and fiction, but that isn’t important. He’s not hunting the knight. This is a story, not information he can use or lessons he can learn. Just a story told by a young boy who can still believe in those in a way that doesn’t leave marks on his skin. Lancelot lets the words wash over him as they make their way down the road, pausing only long enough to put his cloak in saddlebags. Without the hairshirt, there’s room for it.

Not for the first time in the past few days, he wonders why God is testing him like this. If he’s being kept alive as penance, if this is punishment or opportunity. He’s forgotten the difference in the unending wave of pain, but he supposes it doesn’t matter now. Besides if he dies and the horse dies, all this will have been for nothing. If the horse survives the boy at least has a chance. He grunts and ignores the new patch of wet that spreads. He turns the steed off the path, at the very least there’s trees and water nearby. It’s not much but it will do.

Getting off the horse hurts worse.

He grips the saddle and takes a deep breath, fighting back the wave of pain and nausea that blackens his vision. Morbidly he wonders if Gawain is happy that the Ash people will be gone from this continent again, but the thought comes back to him that he isn’t. Wherever he is. He’s good at seeing a lie, he knows those words about brotherhood were the truth. There’s a tug on his cloak and he looks to see his charge has gotten off the horse on his own. The fact that he didn’t hear him, well that’s another sign that this is about to end.

“There’s water this way,” the boy tells him, “lean on the horse.”

“Are you always this clever?” He asks.

The boy shrugs and he smiles at his ego. He’s unafraid, it’s not something he’s used to seeing from the Fey. Especially one so young. He leans on the horse as they make their way the last few steps to the stream. He lets the horse go and covers his hand as he uses the tree to ease himself down.

The action doesn’t go unnoticed.

“What happens if you touch the forrest?”

“I don’t do that,” he says.

“But what happens if you do?”

He peers upwards. The dying light does him no favors and he’s not foolish enough to think that this means the conversation will be dropped for any reasonable amount of time. He supposes there are worse ways to die. Not that he ever expected his death to be a good one. He opens his eyes when he feels his foot being tapped and looks up into the cross face of his charge. He’s been told again and again that the Fey are animals without manners. That they lack any sense of decency. But his charge looks offended at his silence and that makes him smile.

“What happens?”

“I don’t do that,” he repeats.

“Why not?” He doesn’t have an answer, “Lancelot, tell me why.”

It’s an odd thing to hear his name. He hasn’t heard it in so long, it should sound like the name of a stranger. But it doesn’t. It echoes and rolls through him like a living thing. It brings with it the smell of warm fires and  his mother’s bread. Things he hasn’t thought of in so long. Fire was theirs. Fire was familiar. Comforting. It was how the Paladins snuck up on them, they didn’t smell that the fire wasn’t their own until the first ones had started to burn.

“It always got me punished,” he says finally. It doesn’t matter if the boy laughs or tells him he deserves to get punished, that’s nothing he doesn’t know, “so I stopped.”

“They’re not here,” comes the reply, “it’s just me and the horse. We won’t punish you.”

“I’ve done too much for the forest to help me now.”

“No you haven’t.”

He looks at him curiously.

“My friend did horrible things too. Killed loads of people and everyone was scared, so she tried to stop. But when she called on the forest, it always helped her,” he shrugs and sits next to him, “I can hold your other hand if you’re afraid.”

He feels his hand being grasped by the child. The touch startles him, it’s been a long time since anyone has touched him. It is the kindness that he didn’t expect at the end. He expected to be surrounded by people afraid of him, whether they were the brothers he had chosen or the brothers he was born to, he couldn’t say. But the fear was universal in them regardless. It was, perhaps, the one thing they had in common.

“You’re very brave,” he says finally, “and clever. You’ll be able to find them.”

The boy looks at him, seeming to realize he has no intention of doing what is being suggested. He’s familiar with boys who are forced to grow too fast, the ruthless things you must do to survive. He knows the Knight was right, he has forced many children to give up their innocence. He knows the hellfires that await him. He wonders if all of them have remained alive like the boy here. He thinks that they all may have shown him the kindness. The mercy. Odd that he should find it right before death.

“You’ll help me,” the boy tells him and without an ounce of remorse, he takes their clasped hands and flattens his against the soft earth.

The reaction is as damn fast as it always is.

It hurts just as much.

The green whispers through him and pulls him back together. He thinks he screams but he can’t be sure. He’s not sure if he exists at all or if he’s just part of it. Tracking is one thing, it’s removed. Letting the green do its work in him, that is something he’s successfully avoided since boyhood. It takes everything. Every wound, every bruise. He has to shove himself away from the tree lest his back close around his cloak. The green works and works, knitting back together every hurt. He’s part of it for endless, terrifying moments before it spits him back out, whole for the first time he can remember.

He gasps and longs for the pain.

He gasps and becomes aware of Squirrel’s hand locked around his wrist, not letting go. The green has worked on him too. His bruises and cuts are gone. Lancelot remembers his mother connecting him to the green a lifetime ago, but the memory has been pushed so far back he’s surprised he recalled it at all. Squirrel looks surprised and prods at his eye, realizing it doesn’t hurt anymore.

“How did you do that?” He asks.

“I don’t remember,” Lancelot tells him, “did I scream?” He looks around. The horse is grazing peacefully nearby so he couldn’t have. Not like it felt he was, “are you alright?”

“You healed me,” Squirrel points out.

“So physically at least,” Lancelot says. Now he realizes that he doesn’t have his main weapon. Damn. “I need a sword.”

Squirrel perks up.

Michael bristles and puffs up. Walt takes another drink of his coffee. Dealing with an alien is hard, dealing with an orphan is hard. Dealing with Michael’s prepubescent hormones makes him want to throw himself out of the window. Walt doesn’t think he could have gotten him at a worse time if he’d actively been trying for it. He can’t quite figure out if there’s a specific thing that sets him off or if it’s just everything. It seems to be the later.

“My species matures faster,” Michael says.

“I didn’t realize you were such an expert,” he says.

Michael’s glare almost makes him regret saying it. But he’s done stupider things to scarier people. Michael might be telekinetic and he may owe the boy something he can never repay, but Michael’s still a punk kid. Walt’s read enough parenting books to know you can’t just give kids whatever they want. You gotta discipline them. But not like the disciplining his old man used to do. Walt refuses to be that kind of person. The disciplining was kind where you said you were disappointed in them and they shaped up because that was supposed to be worse than being mad. Walt doesn’t believe it works on anything except tv but he’s got a preteen alien sitting at his kitchen counter so he’s going to try.

“So you’ve never been to a doctor?” He says. Michael shakes his head, “dentist? Any medical professional?”

“Of course not, I’d be in a lab somewhere if I did.”

“How do you know that?”

Michael stares at him. Walt knows he’s full of shit, that he’s the farthest thing from an expert on aliens despite being one. The old guilt churns through him. He got time with Miss Nora, time that Michael needed more than him. He ran away as a kid but he was able to find out about his own body. What he could and couldn’t do. Aside from being able to move things with his mind, he’s not sure Michael knows anything. Michael pushes his cereal around as Walt waits for his answer.

“May I be excused?” Michael asks in a weird impression of an obedient child. Walt chokes on his coffee.

“What? No,” he sputters, “where’d you learn manners?”

“Two families ago,” Michael says. Fucking smartass.

“And how do you know you can’t go to the doctor?” Walt asks.

Michael says nothing.

Walt can see where this is going a mile away. More than a mile if he’s being honest. He doesn’t need two eyes to see that Michael looks like a scared kid with a secret. God knows he used to see the look on his own face enough to recognize it, even if it’s been a damn long time since he saw it. Dropping it isn’t going to help either, he’s a bad sell on a good day in the parenthood department. He’s surprised he got approved at all after the way the social worker looked at the junkyard.

“Did one of the others tell you that?” He ventures.

Michael freezes and the look on his face shifts to horror. How the hell this kid is going to keep being an alien a secret is beyond Walt. They’re going to need a lot of rules. He’d say that he’s surprised Michael has kept it a secret this long, but the exorcism would say otherwise. Before Michael can sputter another lie or choke on his cereal or something, Walt decides to put him out of his misery.

“Your mom led me to the eggs,” he says, “I know there were three of you.”

“We were found by the side of the road,” Michael says, shifting from horrified to angry.

“I was younger than you when I found the eggs,” Walt says, “you ready to take care of three kids?”

Michael has the grace to look down, shake his head and mutter an apology. It doesn’t make Walt feel much better but right now he’s the adult. He doesn’t need anyone to hold his hand of absolve him of his sins. Especially not when it comes to the aliens. Michael shifts his weight and licks his bottom lip before looking up at him carefully. Walt can’t imagine the war going on in Michael’s head. Or, actually, he can. He doesn’t know where he comes out in all of this or why the hell Michael should trust him.

“Max can heal,” he says, “humans and us. He knows we’re different.”

Walt nods, he guesses it was too much to hope that something in this would be easy. He sighs and picks up the paper. The idea of Michael having to forge documents is not one he wants to entertain. He almost signs the damn thing himself. But Michael is a kid, if for some reason they get caught he can blame any number of things. If Walt gets caught, Michael goes to someone else. When he looks up at Michael, the boy is watching him intently. Walt slides the paper over to him. Michael goes for it eagerly and Walt puts his hand over it.

“You tell me when you do this kind of thing,” he says, “you shouldn’t be doing it at all but we don’t have a choice. The way I see it, here’s the safest place for you right now. But there’s gonna be a lot of lying involved so we gotta be honest with each other. Think you can do that?”

“Yeah,” Michael says and Walt believes him. He watches as Michael hunches over and gets to work, “I gotta do this for Max and Iz too,” he says and glances upwards.

Belatedly Walt realizes he’s asking for permission.

“Whatever you gotta do,” he says.

A few days later when Michael asks to go on a camping trip with them, Walt agrees and ignores the stupid feeling in his gut. He makes sure Michael has the phone number to the cell he’s got on him, then he makes sure he can recite it from memory. It’s just supposed to be one night and Walt tells himself that they are human enough that nothing terrible is going to happen. But when the damn phone shows a number he doesn’t recognize, he realizes how stupid the reassurances have been.

“You okay?” He asks instantly. There’s silence, in the background he thinks he can hear someone crying, “Michael,” he says, “remember what we talked about?”

“I need you to come pick us up,” Michael says finally, “I—“ he hesitates.

“Am sorry to wake me up?” Walt says, already pulling on his boots, “don’t worry about it.”

“Thanks,” Michael says.

He gives where they are and Walt hauls ass to the location. Michael is standing near the road looking anxiously out. A ways back Walt can see Max and Isobel huddled together. It’s odd to see them all together. He hasn’t since the group home. Michael is skittish but stubborn as he gets out. Walt looks him up and down.

“You hurt?” Michael shakes his head and Walt exhales, “you need my help?”

“We took care of it,” Michael says, “we just need a ride,” he licks his bottom lip, “please.”

Walt wants to demand answers to what it is and what they took care of, but he can see the desperation on Michael’s face. It’s almost as heartbreaking as him asking for help with a please or the look on the twins behind him. Walt reasons that what was done here is done, there’s no fixing it. So he motions them into the car. The three of them nearly collapse with relief and Walt wonders if this is the first time that they’ve gotten help from an adult. He helps them pile their stuff into his truck and watches as Max helps Isobel in and scrambles after her.

“Are they hurt?” He asks Michael when they close the door.

“Not physically,” Michael says.

“I guess that’s the important part right now,” Walt says, “get in.”

Michael scrambles in and he gets in after him. No-one speaks, the only sound is Isobel’s heavy breathing which echoes loudly in the car. Michael reaches over and turns on the radio, finding something that covers up the sound. Walt watches the three of them move seamlessly, taking care of one another in little ways that seem almost instinctual. Hell, maybe they are. What the hell does he know about families and how they take care of each other? No-one says anything as they drive. Walt gets off the main way and drives to a quieter place and pulls over, killing the engine.

“I know you all want to go home,” he says, “but your parents are going to want to know why.”

“Don’t you?” Max asks. There’s a quiet authority in his voice that’s damn unnerving.

“Course I do,” Walt says, “but I want you all safe more than that.”

“I killed someone.”

Walt whips around. Max meets his eyes but there’s no defiance in his. It’s that same authority. He killed someone and he knows why he did it. That’s damn powerful stuff. Walt feels sick at the sight of it. That’s not an expression anyone should wear, but especially not a kid. Isobel lets out a shuddering breath that gives away exactly why Max feels so justified. He’s almost afraid to look at Michael but he forces himself to do it anyway. Michael’s head hangs and the guilt rolls off him in almost palpable waves. When he raises his eyes to Walt’s, they’re bright. But he swallows and forces the emotions back.

“I buried him,” Michael says.

Walt hates the relief he feels.

“Deep?” He asks, “shallow graves—“

“He’s buried deeply,” Michael cuts in.

Walt almost tells him to not interrupt and then stops. That isn’t something important right now. He looks between the three of them and sighs. It’s not important but he’s getting the feeling that this is their life. He’d better get used to it.

“Don’t interrupt,” Walt says. Michael raises his eyebrows, “I’m not putting your manners on hold until weird shit stops happening, I’ll be old and grey if we wait that long.”

“You’re already grey,” Michael points out.

“Grey-er,” Walt corrects, “the way I see it I can take you all home or I can take you all nearby and give you a night to sort out your feelings. It’s not a lot but—“

“Nearby,” Isobel croaks.

Both the boys nod and the decision is made. Walt puts the car in gear and takes them nearby where he found them. When he goes to get their tent and gear out, none of them look thrilled at the prospect. He doesn’t blame them.

“Get your sleeping bags out,” he says, “you can camp out in the back,” Max and Isobel trade looks.

“What?” Michael says, “he knows what we are, I don’t think Max wetting the bed is gonna upset him.”

Max lets out an indignant squawk and suddenly they’re teenagers again. Or two of them are. Isobel still smiles though which is a lot better than the look she was wearing a few minutes ago. The three of them clamber into the back. It’s not the first night that Walt’s spent in his car, but it definitely wasn’t on his plans for the night. Still it’s kind of nice to hear the three of them talking in the back of the truck. The world’s going to be a mess in the daylight, but he hopes that one night of feeling safe will mean something. Somehow. He closes his eyes and opens them and it’s somehow daylight and the three of them are standing there.

“Here,” Michael says, handing him a paper cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” he takes it, looks at the time and swears, “lets get you back before your parents freak out,” they all climb in, “happy birthday,” he adds.

He drops them off and drives him and Michael home.

“Come here,” he says before Michael can get in the house. He leads him to another part of the junkyard and opens up the hatch, “I found this when I bought the place,” he says. Michael looks nervous and Walt rolls his eyes, “you think if I wanted to hurt you I wouldn’t have done it last night?”

That makes sense to Michael and he shrugs, following Walt down the ladder. Walt’s done his best to clean out the dust and get some damn lights going, but it hasn’t been the easiest job to finish Michael’s back. He supposes that the work’ll go faster if it’s the two of them. Michael looks around the space slowly, taking in the white board and couch Walt has down there.

“I figured you might need your own space, when things get crazy. Or you need to do your alien thing,” Walt says, “it’s deep enough you shouldn’t disturb anything up there.”

“This is mine?” Michael repeats.

“I know it’s not much but I figured—“

He’s not expecting Michael to throw himself at him or squeeze the daylights out of him. It’s an objectively awful hug. Awful enough to make Walt’s good eye tear up and his throat tighten. But only because it’s a damn shame no-one taught the boy to hug properly, not because the kid’s hugging him at all. He claps him back on the shoulder which is what you’re supposed to do. He thinks. Hell do either of them have any business hugging?

“Happy Birthday,” he says.

“Alex just found out that there are aliens in the universe and you’re one of them,” Walt says, “and he dropped everything to help you. Seems that might warrant a phone call.”

“He didn’t just find out,” Michael snaps, suddenly finding his voice, “he just got around to telling me. He and Kyle have known for weeks.”

Walt leans back in his chair and looks at Miss Nora. The shock on her face is giving way to something far more curious. Being imprisoned may have done a number on her, but he recognizes the look in he eyes just as well.  Michael has to collect himself and plaster on something almost innocent before he looks at his mother. Walt can’t exactly blame him for wanting to put his best self forward for her, even though he’d like to think that they all are aware that doesn’t matter to Miss Nora.

“So how has this been going on?” She asks.

“Nothing’s going on,” Michael says.

“Since they were teenagers,” Walt corrects, “though things have been rough since Alex came back from his last tour,” he looks at Michael, “you know his father hates you because you’re an alien.”

Michael snorts and then straightens up like he’s made a decision.

“His dad hates me because I’m bisexual,” he says. Miss Nora looks confused, “I like men and women,” Michael elaborates.

Walt wasn’t fully expecting him to say it. He’s been giving them their privacy, he doesn’t know if Michael told her. Looking between the pair of them though, it seems not. Miss Nora doesn’t seem to fully understand why Michael looks so stressed about it. She puts a hand on his wrist which gets a soft smile from Michael.

“Not everyone here thinks that’s okay,” Walt says, “especially Alex’s father.”

“Which part?” Miss Nora asks.

“The boys liking boys part.”

“Why is that any of his business?” She questions. Walt exhales even though he knows it was silly to think Miss Nora would draw a line at that. He shrugs, “I think Walt’s right, he probably dislikes you because of the alien thing.”

“It’s not about him,” Michael says, “Alex wants to get on with his life.”

“Alex is scared,” Walt corrects, “his father used to beat the tar out of him for liking boys,” he ignores the look Michael gives him. He’s lost his patience with the secret keeping, “he was fighting a war, got hurt and just came back recently. He’s feeling vulnerable,” he explains. He meets Michael’s venomous look, “Michael hasn’t been helping.”

“He’s been telling me to go away!” Michael protests.

“He didn’t look like he wanted you to go away in Caulfield,” Miss Nora says.

The outrage on Michael’s face is heartwarming. Walt’s got no stomach for the hallmark style crap that’s been happening, even though he understands the need for it. He’s glad the band aides been ripped off though. He’d glad they’re past that point and onto acting like a family. He’s never been under the illusion that they’re a proper one, but he knows they’re a good one. Or as good as any can be under the circumstances.

“So everyone’s on his side?” Michael demands.

“We don’t want you to get hurt,” Miss Nora starts.

“It’s ten years too late for that,” Michael snaps, “he left. By choice. And he keeps leaving. So I’m not going after him,” he pushes himself up, “I gotta go clear my head.”

Walt sighs after the door is shut and gets them both more coffee. He doesn’t know how Miss Nora is taking the news that Alex is a Manes or that her son has a dramatic love life or that he’s bisexual. It’s a lot for anyone to take in. Or anyone who hasn’t sepent the past decades being imprisoned and tortured. She doesn’t look particularly shell shocked as she looks out the window to see Michael going off to clear his head.

“Is it better if I call Alex over here or if you drive me to him?” She asks.

“Probably bringing him over here,” Walt says.

“Tell him I’m too frail to travel,” She advises, “does Michael need to cool off or should I follow him?”

Walt wants to tell her he’s her son. And he is. But Miss Nora looks at him steadily and patiently and he seems to belatedly realize that she’s waiting for him to tell her. After all he raised him.

“Give him a minute,” he advises, “I’ll go find my damn phone.”

The things is rarely charged since Michael graduated but he’s always kept it around in case Alex needs to get to him. There’s been a few times over the years he’s been damn glad he didn’t turn it off too. Like last week. But that hasn’t meant he’s kept it charged. Once it’s up he finds the last number from Alex. He’s not surprised when Alex picks up on the first ring.

“Don’t get too excited it’s me,” Walt says.

“Hi Mr. Sanders,” Alex says, “how are you?”
 “Alive,” Walt says, “but I’ve known for years, how are you?”

“Alive,” Alex says and doesn’t elaborate. Still a punk.

“Well Miss Nora would like to thank you if you’re feeling up to it,” he says, “she’s not fit to travel,” he glances out the window to see Michael gesturing wildly and Miss Nora standing with her hip cocked and her arms crossed. Dramatics seem to be genetic, “so I told her I’d ask if you could come over, make an old woman happy and all that.”

He hears Alex hesitate and doesn’t blame him, but Alex was also raised to do the polite thing when it came to his elders. Not that he always does that. But Miss Nora’s not some homophobic monster. And he’s seen Alex do more to make his family name worth something than most of them.

“I don’t think Michael and I should see each other right now,” he says.

“Well lucky for you he’s out clearing his head,” Walt replies, because a half truth is better than a blatant lie, “and Miss Nora’s not really up for much talking. She just wants to thank you.”

He can see the wheels turning in Alex’s head before he finally exhales.

“I can come over in ten minutes,” he says.

“Sounds good,” Walt tells him, “see you then.”

He tries to shove away the guilt, then he tells himself he’ll figure out a way to make it up to him. Alex is a good man, far as he can tell. He’s good for Michael and Michael is good for him. Usually. He also knows that when they’re hurt neither of them is good for the other. Thinking about Alex makes his scars ache. Healing Michael’s hand was a process. But they could explain that. You can’t explain a missing limb or organ in the same way. Not that Alex ever knew that was an option. But Jesse did. The whole thing is such a clusterfuck, he’s more willing to open the door and deal with that mess.

“—he’s the one being ridiculous. I’m not throwing myself at him again like some lovesick puppy.”

“That wasn’t my question,” Miss Nora says. 
“I don’t want to talk about him!”

“Great,” Walt cuts in, realizing adding this much guilt to his tab before breakfast can’t possibly be good, “because I think we’d better finish eating,” Michael throws his hands up and rolls his eyes, “you want me to cut up your pancakes and make train noises while I’m at it?” He asks as Michael stomps in. Miss Nora looks at him, “it’s how we feed children.”

“I’m not a—“ Michael cuts himself off with a swear, knowing damn well that what he’s saying makes him sound like exactly that, “I’m done talking about this with you two.”

“That’s fine,” Walt says as they all wind up back at the kitchen table. 
Michael’s eyes narrow and Walt just thanks his lucky stars for Alex’s good timing as the doorbell rings. Before any of them can say anything, Nora motions the door open. Walt realizes he’s going to have to reinstitute the rules about when and where telekinesis can be used. On the other side of the door, Alex looks stunned, his eyes darting around. Walt’s not sure if it’s the telekinesis, Nora not looking on death’s door or Michael’s presence. Though when his eyes settle on Michael, Walt’s got his answer.

“You’d better come in,” he says.

Alex doesn’t move.

Michael doesn’t react to all the eyes being on him, but then again there is one pair he cares more about. His jaw tightens and clenches before he pushes himself away from the table and walks out the front door, dragging it closed behind him. Miss Nora watches it curiously. Walt doesn’t know if she can listen or not, besides he figures he’s got bigger things to worry about considering Michael’s got no reason to hide his powers. At least that’s one less thing standing in the way of whatever’s going on with them.

“He looks like Tripp,” Miss Nora says.

“The resemblance doesn’t stop there,” Walt says, “he’s a good man,” he looks at her, “seems like you know that.”

“He was going to drag Michael out of there,” she says, “I think Michael was going to leave with him either way.”

Walt ignores the shiver. Michael’s lived with the threat of winding up in a place like that his whole life. Walt’s always known the day may come when he’d have to get him out. One way or another. He just hadn’t counted on someone who wasn’t Max or Isobel also being there. He’s not the nosy type, no more than he has to be to keep Michael safe. Not that Michael needs him to anymore, but old habits die hard. Besides he’s never fully soundproofed anything so they could hear if they were being snuck up on. It’s not like it takes much to eavesdrop.

“—I could stand here and tell you that I didn’t want to leave, but I did.”

Miss Nora comes over wth just as much interest in the conversation. Walt wonders what his life has become and if Alex knows what he’s signing up for with all of this. If he knows he’s going to spend his life surrounded by dramatic, eavesdropping aliens.

“I didn’t help,” Michael mutters.

“You were in pain, I just didn’t know what to do. I handled it completely wrong, especially because it was my fault in the first place.”

Walt swears under his breath. He has no idea if Michael’s going to tell Alex what went on or how not his fault his pain was. He’s not a betting man, but even he doesn’t know if Michael’s instinct to protect Alex outweighs his instinct to protect his siblings.

“It wasn’t you.”

“You don’t have to try and make me feel better—“

“No, I’m serious,” Michael cuts in, “Isobel was in trouble. I had to help her. I had to make her think I did something bad.”

“But—“ Alex’s brow draws together.

“It was alien stuff okay?” Michael says, somehow guilty, defensive and heartbroken all at once, “you couldn’t know.”

To his credit, Alex straightens up slightly and gives Michael a hard look. Walt’s impressed, he doesn’t know if he’d do the same if he was in Alex’s shoes. Michael looks away. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Miss Nora frown.

“Right,” Alex says carefully, “of course not.”

“What? You think I didn’t want to tell you?” Michael questions.

“I don’t know—“

“Of course I wanted to tell you!” Michael says, “but we never told anyone,” Alex raises his eyebrows, “Max told Liz recently. I wasn’t expecting you to go on some kind of alien discovery treasure hunt, Alex.”

Alex scoffs and Walt is oddly proud of him for not taking Michael’s crap. He doesn’t think anyone needs his approval but if Michael ever got that backwards notion in his head, Alex would get it. Probably. Guilt’s a hell of an enabler. Which is probably why Walt steps away from the eavesdropping to put on another pot of coffee.