i’m serious that is not a “i’m going to say this is bad so people feel bad and read it and tell me i’m good” thing, i abhor those, this was written at 5 in the morning on 0 sleep and an entire jar of sliced peaches.
i needed to get some words out of my brain and couldn’t sleep and wanted to think about lore and whether i can be assed to actually try to sell or trade binary and so i spawned this piece of hot word vomit garbage, and rather than let it rot in my notes like i probably should i resolved to myself to post more actual lore on this awful shitposting blog so you all have to deal with the fact that you once had to even briefly glance at this post.
slaps a second “bad, do not read” sticker on this. adds a “author is tired and should go to bed” on for good measure
It takes months of wandering before they find it.
That in itself is not strange. They are, after all, wanderers, travelers, making their rounds of the continent and stopping in any one place only long enough to regain their strength and mend their wounds and pay back their hosts with work if not gold before setting out again. Binary cannot count how many times they have circled through the eleven territories now, how long they have traveled for - he marks the passage of time in allies made, friends gained, enemies defeated.
But Sesha has been different in the past months. He has not been wandering. He has been searching, for what the others do not know, roving across the land with new purpose and determination, if not madness. He has slept little - less even than he has the others believing and certainly less than he tells Binary he does, when he draws his little lord aside from the others and asks, quietly, for the truth. Sesha always sighs a little and smiles, so small and honest and full of light and warmth that Binary very nearly feels the burn of the sun though it is night, and boldfaced lies without hesitation, as though Binary doesn’t already know the truth, as though Binary isn’t the one who cradles him and lets Sesha tuck his head below his chin when nightmares interrupt his fitful sleep, as though Binary isn’t the one who keeps him company in the darkest hours of the night when he cannot sleep. Binary always smiles back, ruffles Sesha’s hair, and reminds him to take care of himself.
It has been months of this, and now, finally, they are over. Binary looks across the piles of ruins and rubble strewn before him, at the forest and great mountain in the distance, at the bright sea around them, at the distant gleam of Light lands and the Beacon behind. He looks at Sesha, shining bright as ever despite the dark purple bruises beneath his eyes (he hates them, hates how they look, because Sesha is gold and light and warmth and radiance and purple does not suit him) (it occurs to him that he would give the world to take those bruises and bear them for his little lord) and decides that he does not like this island. Something about his place makes his skin crawl, screams wrong, wrong, wrong! and makes his skin itch with something almost-but-not-quite divine, set apart by the distinct alienness of it, the way it doesn’t resonate with his magic like he knows the power of the Eleven does. He is relieved when Sesha finally stands from where he has been crouched for the last several hours, the fingertips of one hand pressed to the dirt while the other clutches a small piece of pale white marble so tightly his knuckles turn white, and announces that it is time for them to leave. He is less relieved when he sees his little lord tuck the lump of rubble into a pouch at his belt, but puts the unease aside for now, and focuses instead on gathering the others so that they can return to the mainland. What harm could a piece of home do?
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