in honor of pride month: some queer head canons for septimus heap characters!!
Septimus (first of course): aroace king! he is so the type to just have a bestie moment with jenna and beetle and just hang around them all the time but never need something for himself. He just reallyyyyyy likes learning about magyk and going on adventures with his friends!! (also the apprentice and extraordinary wizard colors are green and purple so like..)
Jenna: huuuuuuge bi energy (shout out to that scene from darke đ). she just gives huge idgaf energy.
Beetle: with a name like this he is not cisgender. bro has the most he/they energy. Both my brother and I lovee this lil guy.
there's nothing heterosexual or cisgender about this image. Also he gives huge bi energy. I think he's in a qpr with septimus while having his bi4bi with Jenna.
Marcia: the lesbian parental figure to ever. I don't have thoughts besides that this woman is not straight in any way.
Milo: polyamorous and asexual. This guy probably loves a lot of his higher ups in his crew. Why else would he be so chill being at sea all the time?
Lucy: demisexual & demiromantic (doesn't really know her attraction past that because she's only ever been into Simon). big she/they energy
Alice Nettles: any pronouns nonbinary and pan
Alther: just queer, bro does not like labels
Zelda: aromantic and lesbian. She'd probably drop something to septimus or wolf boy being like yeah when I was younger I was very popular with the ladies at the port. and they'd just be like :0
Marcellus: bro is so homosexual. The gay man to ever. good for him honestly. But he is such a hermit and introvert he really doesn't make many connections or have any meaningful relationships ://
Merrin: totally trans fem. she is so uncomfortable and emo about having to present as a guy and have a name she doesn't like that she gets into darke stuff to cope. credit to @septimus-heap for this post and pointing this out to me, you make a good point.
Wolf Boy: very aroace furry energy. also I feel nonbinary with some neopronouns to do with being raised by wolves and feeling like one of them. I also feel like being keeper of keeper cottage kinda requires a person to be aromantic because you're literally not allowed to get married so it's way better this way. Also probably in a qpr with septimus but yk it's pretty long distance so doesn't always work. but when they do get together bro is it lit.
Sam Heap: Ace and gay. Bro was sooooo confused about why the other forest heaps were so enamored with the wendron witches. He just really likes fishing.
and to finish it off strong
Jim Knee: canonically nonbinary gender fluid. Also the most gender nonconforming and outwardly queer person represented honestly. He's very flamboyant in his current appearance and iteration which is iconic. And I think it's really funny he just decided to be a guy because Merrin called him Jim Knee so he just went with it.
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just rotating in my mind the concepts of names and identity with beetle and marwick. you guys have no idea how insane i can get about this and when i can actually put together a coherent analysis. Then You'll See <3
ID: a tag reading "#also I could give you my septimus isn't the first boy Marcia rescues from the young army + give marwick a better backstory au in bullets" /end ID
đđđđđđ ALSO i have a 'marcia rescues marwick from the ya' au and I'm wondering if they're similar :O
so this is assuming that marcia did everything she could the first ten years she was extraordinary wizard, despite the fact that she couldn't really leave the wizard tower. it's a bit long, i'm so sorry. i tried to make this in bullet points but it's like, a cross between bullet points and fic.
¡ boy four zero nine is nine years old when he is left behind on a do or die mission. he had stayed under the water for too many minutes. naturally, he cannot go back to the young army. they will think he deserted and he remembers what happened to boy three four seven. so he stays where he is and he makes a home in the trees. he is a small, scrawny boy, the way most young army boys are, and all he has is his pack.
¡ he hides during the day and moves around at night, and during the night he hears the whispers of those fleeing the castle. he hears whispers of the extraordinary wizard and heâs intrigued. he knows all about the extraordinary wizard. in the young army they call her enemy number one. her eyes are cold and dark. her mouth is full of sharp teeth and red with blood. boy four zero nine is terrified of her, but these whispers make him question everything heâs ever known.
¡ after weeks and weeks, he reasons out that if the young army makes him feel bad and wrong, then they must be bad and wrong. and if they are bad and wrong, then they are wrong about the extraordinary wizard. and if they are wrong about the extraordinary wizard, then perhaps she can help him.
¡ boy four zero nine desperately wishes to save boy four one two. he knows he cannot do this alone, but if the extraordinary wizard really can end the current regime like the whispers say, then maybe he has a chance.
¡ itâs easy to figure out how heâs going to get into the wizard tower without getting caught once he starts paying attention. theyâre using the tunnels underneath the castle. he didnât know there were tunnels underneath the castle. he makes himself as presentable as possible. he infiltrates a group of refugees and finds the person in charge and tells him who he is and who he needs to see.
¡ he doesnât realize that they take him to the tower to interrogate him, not help him. he is taken to a strange, small room. he doesnât realize he wonât be meeting the extraordinary wizard here. he doesnât realize she doesnât know heâs here. he sits there, quiet and still and polite, asking when heâll speak with her. his interrogators are nice at first but then they arenât and he doesnât understand. he wonders if he was wrong to come here. why canât he speak to the extraordinary wizard? why do they think he is lying to them?
¡ and then they here it. âmadame do not go in thereââ âthis is my tower and I shall go where I like.â
¡ itâs a voice heâs never heard before, beautiful and lilting and full of anger that is not directed at him. then the door is thrown open. his interrogators let go of him and he snaps to attention out of habit. she has a commanding aura, taking up all the space in the room and then some. he trembles. this is the extraordinary wizard. this is enemy number one.
¡ she doesnât have cold eyes, sharp teeth, or a bleeding mouth, though her mouth is twisted into a frown.
¡ she doesnât talk to him at first. she deals with his interrogators, who insist he may be dangerous. she orders them all out of the room. and then it is just the two of them.
¡ at first neither of them speak. she stares at him and he stares back, but itâs unnerving because she seems to be staring into his soul. still, he doesnât look away. he is a young army boy. he is meant to be brave, even if she is towering over him. but then the unthinkable happens. he flinches, but then he understands what is happening.
¡ she is kneeling in front of him to be at his level. âmy name is marcia overstrand,â she says, holding out her hand. she is tired, he thinks. he can see it in the way it pulls at her eyes, her shoulders. heâs familiar with exhaustion and yet she smiles anyway, even if it doesnât reach her eyes. âwhat is your name?â
¡ he takes her hand and gives it a little shake before he quickly pulls his hand back. she is ice cold. âI am boy four zero nine,â he replies. something in her expression changes but he doesnât understand what.
¡ sheâs looking at him in a way that makes him not want to look her in the eyes, but he wonât cower in front of her. he wonât show any fear in case she decides to eat him anyway, but that seems less and less of a possibility every second he spends with her. âwhat did you want to tell me, four zero nine?â his number sounds odd in her mouth.
¡ he needs her help to save boy four one two. he tells her everything and she doesnât say a word until heâs finished. she asks him if he deserted the young army. he didnât mean to, please donât send him back, and there are tears in his eyes and he is terrified.
¡ âfour zero nine, you are never going back there. do you understand?â
¡ she helps him calm down and just as heâs about to ask her once more if she can help him, his stomach growls. he cant remember the last time he ate, and so she holds out her hand to him once more. after only a little hesitation does he take it, and this time he doesnât let go. she leads him out of the small room.
¡ âmadame this is not a good idea.â âhe is nine years old.â her voice is sharp, cold, but he feels strangely secure. âand when you close the door to your apartment and he slits your throat, what then?â âdo you think me foolish enough to allow that of anyone? he is nine years old and if I have to remind you aganââ
¡ his interrogators step out of their way. in the apartment he eats bowl after bowl of whatever is in the pot on her stove. he eats so fast heâs not sure what it is. eventually she stops him so he doesnât get sick, and there is a moment where neither of them know what to say or do. then he yawns.
¡ she has a spare room and itâs his as long as he needs it, she tells him, leading him toward it. âuntil we save boy four one two?â he asks, and she hums, but he isnât sure if she is agreeing with him or not.
¡ when he wakes up his nasty old uniform is gone, replaced by clothes that, if worn and a little too big for him, are far warmer and cozier than his uniform. it makes him feel odd, like this is something that is his.
¡ he lives with her for six months. every time he asks her when theyâll save boy four one two she distracts him with something else. he likes living with her a lot, and eventually he starts thinking of her as his mother. he doesnât think sheâs particularly motherly, but sheâs doing what mothers ought to do, isnât she? the longer heâs there the more certain he is that the little room at the end of the hall is always going to be his.
¡ but after six months, there are men he doesnât recognize and a strange look on madame marciaâs face. stranger still, she is holding onto his pack. she tells him it is dangerous for him to stay here with her and it is an excuse. these men are going to get him someplace safe, where heâll have a new family to look after him. he doesnât want any of this. he protests. they are supposed to save boy four one two. they are supposed to be their own family, she promised, except she hadnât, had she? âyou werenât ever going to help me,â he whispers, and there are tears in her eyes. âI am so, so sorry, nine.â
¡ the men grab him and she protests that theyâre hurting him, but he hardly hears her because he is kicking and screaming. no, he doesnât want to go. please let him stay, heâll be good, and heâll never talk about boy four one two again, but madame marcia turns away from him. heâs dragged out of her apartment, and it is the first and only time he will ever call her mother. but madame marcia doesnât turn around.
¡ she cannot be a mother, she tells herself as tears stain her cheeks, as she refuses to turn around because she knows if she does, sheâll never let him leave. she isnât a mother and she never wanted to be. she cannot be a mother. this is whatâs best for everyone. but his screams echo in her ears and hours later she cannot stand it anymore. she gives the order for him to be found and brought back, but it is too late. they tell her he stomped on their toes and ran into the depths of the forest. they never found him. heâs dead then, she reasons, and she hardens herself. no more tears. no more children.
¡ boy four zero nine runs until he canât anymore. he runs and he screams, and hours later, when he has screamed himself hoarse, he is found by an old woman. âare you a beast or a boy,â she asks him, and he snarls at her. âbeast, then,â she decides, and he does not correct her. he may as well be a beast. being a boy didnât get him anywhere at all.
ok so daffodils are a really great choice because of the awesome symbolism they have, it's a cool dichotomy with the angst that is really interesting! go look it up if you have time :) anyway, here you are.
There was a special silence about the world in the early morning. Not a bad one, but not necessarily a good one. Not Always.
The early morning silence was fresh and clear, after a rain. It seemed peaceful, and yet Septimus's mind was anything but.
It had been ten years since the day he lost 409. 8 years to the day since he had left the young army. DomDaniel was defeated, he finished his apprenticeship, everything was perfect. He should have been able to move on by now, to find some peace somewhere. But as Septimus sat on the Wizard Tower's Dragon Ledge, he could only think of what he had lost.
His innocence, for one. Most people would say that Boy 412 had never had any innocence, had been broken by the world too soon for anything else to have made an impact until he escaped. And in a way, they would be telling the truth. But before, before he had been reborn into a much happier wizard called Septimus, he was 412. And 412 believed what they told him. He made Good and Bad lists, he followed orders, he had never had reason to question their Great and Glorious Cause.
That is, besides for the day Boy 409 had died. But he had pushed that deep, deep down. Past the roots of the daffodils bursting upwards in their stubbornness. Past the point of no return. He was always sad about it, but Boy 412 had not had to contemplate it - had not had time to contemplate it - until he was Septimus.
Then he had already been reborn, like the daffodils a mile below him, pushed all of that aside for the moments like this, when nobody was there, and he could be both 412 and Septimus.
.................
Spit Fyre flew up to him, and Septimus climbed on his back, not knowing where they would go.
They flew above the daffodil field below, the reborn flowers reminding him of himself. They flew above the entirety of the Castle, and above the Moat. They flew above the forest, and Septimus knew where Spit Fyre was taking him. They often left together to sit around a campfire and relax.
But this time, when they arrived at their usual clearing, Septimus noticed three things in turn.
One, there was a fire already started.
Two, a field of daffodils has sprung up almost overnight.
Three, there was a young man, around his age, sitting next to the fire.
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Iâve been sitting on this for ages and itâs still not quite how i want it. I just want Marwick to have some friends, and like, chill with them.
The Value of Acting Your Age
1.
Marwick feels tired, aching, whittled down to his insides and then beaten with one of the broomsticks that Chief Cadet kept in his room just for that purpose. Septimus isnât with him to curl his hand around his, this time, or to pace around the room cursing the man who hurt his very best friend under his breath. Itâs just him, just bruised bones.
âThere's not much for you in the Keeper's Cottage, anymore.â
âI am busy,â Marwick lies. He pretends to fiddle with the sleeve of his tunic, not meeting her eyes. This is a nice patch of the Forest, and a nice tree, thick and veined and seemingly alive. Marwick's seen a lot of trees
Zelda looks at him, at the foot of the tree, especially elegant in the way only being a misty silver-white ghost can do. He kicks his foot out a bit, heels of his shoes scuffing at the roots running through the ground, breaking up the earth.
âYou need to be around people once in a while, dear,â Zelda insists. A flick of her hand turns Marwick's eyes to hers, instead of where they were ignoring her somewhere amongst the branches. âThere's another purpose to being Keeper besides the Dragon Boat, though I don't know what, but I don't want you to think just because you are Keeper you can't visit anyone. You don't need to stay there all the time.â
Marwick stays quiet.
Zelda's lips curl down a bit, disapproving, like when she found out he had thrown his sandwich into the marshes instead of eating it. "Marwick. You don't have to grow up so fast. I planned on you becoming Keeper later."
Marwick stops. He stares at the little frayed edges of her patchwork dress. He is suddenly very aware of the fact that his hands and arms were covered in scars from the Young Army.
âI know," he says. Then, âI don't think you had a choice for me growing up too fast.â He clenches his fist, angry lines curling around his calloused fingers, pale scars against dark brown skin. "I was in an army of child soldiers."
Zelda looks at him, and he doesn't not look back, gaze dropping down to the ground, to the dark forest soil. He barely hears her sigh. Then a bigger hand rests on his shoulder, warm and comforting, see through and not at all there. He hadn't realized he was close enough for her to touch.
Then she says, "Oh, Marwick," and he crumples, shoulders sagging down and eyes all wet and wanting to feel her, solid, but knowing he'll never be able to again.
He looks up at her finally, helplessly, frantic. Zelda is smiling, her eyes had soft and sad. She looks at him like she always does, like he is hers, a baby bird with a broken wing that can never quite be fixed. âI donât want to go to the Castle," Marwick admits. "There are too many people I have to be.â
âYou have family and friends,â she says, as if he sees them more than twice a year, as if his brothers have ever come to visit him instead of the other way around. âBe yourself and that will be enough for them.â
His distress at the thought must show on his face; her expression turns to pity. He wouldâve turned bitter at that if she were alive, but she's not, and all he feels is numbness running through his veins.
âIâm sorry,â she says, which confuses Marwick, âI failed you.â That confuses him even more, because he is pretty sure he's failing her, if anything. A Keeper without a Dragon Boat. A Keeper with nothing to do.
âThat's not true, Zelda,â he says.
âI failed you. I promised you'd get to be fourteen, and I failed you.â
âIt doesn't matter, though.â Marwick presses his hand insistently onto hers, curling his very much present fingers onto her not-there ones, as much as he can without passing them through. It isn't that they aren't together, just that they're  overlapping from different places, right on top of the other. She took him in and cared for him, and he's not forgetting that. âIâm okay. I like being Keeper. I like the cottage.â
"You promised you'd act your age, Marwick," she says, quietly, sadly.
"I have friends," he says. If it's important to her, it can be important to him, though right now he's too numb to understand why. "I'll visit them, I promise."
"I'm glad," Zelda says, smiling finally, seeming to melt against the backdrop of the tree. âYou keep your promises.â Then her eyes turn blank, like his when he was staring at the roots in the dirt. This one is directed at him. Blank eyes staring through blank flesh staring through blank skull staring through blank brain, right out through the back. She stares even past Marwick, towards the trees behind him and through that, too.
If Marwick looks in her eyes, he'll be able to hear all of her thoughts. Her irises have become holes
âZelda?â he asks. His eyes are wet. She does not reply.
He lets himself out.
2.
The thing about Jenna, when friends and family are concerned, everything has to be a spectacle. Not a huge one, not really, but Jenna's all fire and brightness and love thrumming through her bones, and whenever he visits the Castle, even for a little while, she wants everyone to share her joy.
Thereâs an announcement of his arrival, last minute and directed at all available brothers. Thereâs an informal ceremony to welcome him, a breakfast at the Palace, Sep and Jenna and Nicko inexperienced in conducting it but supplementing their performance with excitement. Septimus always remembers all his favorite foods.
Two days after he shows up, everyone throws a party, and everyone comes. Itâs all congratulating him on being the first male Keeper and thanking him for things he doesn't know and asking if he can tell them about being a triplet, maybe. Marwick gets asked a lot by younger kids if he can talk about this particular experience, because Matt wonât even acknowledge them if they ask him and Marcus lies about it so obviously that his tall tales conflict.
Marwick's not sure whether or not they know that he didn't know Marcus and Matt existed for so, so long, and now that he does he feels more like a wayward younger sibling than a triplet, an equal. He should probably tell them that it's not even an experience he's really had, and to go ask for thrilling tales of being a twin from Edd and Erik instead. Itâs something to think about for next time. Marwick makes a mental reminder to his future self to bring it up with the little kids.
Lucy knits him a shirt. She presents it to him as soon as he arrives, so he won't have to do it with everyone watching him, distracted by what's in front of him and forgetting to double check for the possibility of knives pointed at the nape of his neck. She also gives him a book, all pictures of plants and cities from all over the world and maybe twelve words, tops. The only kind of book he'll ever like. Marwick has thanked her but wants to thank her even more; these gifts and what they mean to him deserve more than even just silent appreciation. Marwick thinks that she deserves a million new yarn balls, a meeting with the all available monarchy across the globe, legal ownership of the moon and then on. Lucy's own interests tell a bit of a different story.
The party is almost over by the time she pulls him aside. All the tenseness floods from his shoulders, and he sags against her. He loves Sep and Jenna and what they are doing for him, but too much noise has always bothered him, every since he fell into the river and could hear the rush of water coming up to meet him, like his heartbeat mirrored back, intensified. It's too much.
âLetâs get out of here,â Lucy says, an order and not a question, and really, sheâs still a Gringe at heart, and who is he to deny her anything?
It takes exactly zero effort to get past Sam Heap, working as bouncer to keep the littlest kids out and the older people in. He winks, pretends to whistle and examine something off to the side, all the while unclipping the rope in a single practiced movement. Thatâs really nice, Marwick thinks. Heâs probably going to give him one of the cool herbs he brought from the cottage, or maybe one of his daggers. Sam'll like that. Marwick gives him the thumbs up when the two of them walk out.
Thatâs how they get to Lucy's house. How their escape has turned into their own party, Marwick canât exactly remember. It might have something to do with Lucy asking him if they could have a little party and him agreeing vehemently, but anything is possible.
Regardless, there are pillows on the floor. There are two bowls of salty snacks for Lucy to eat and Marwick to pick at. There is music floating in from the window, and Nicko Heapâs voice singing sea shanties to accompany it. Heâs somehow agreed to let her braid his dreadlocks, even with his aversion to touch and jumpiness at people being behind him.
âWhere's Simon?â he asks, if only to break the comfortable silence thatâs making him feel kind of sleepy. He thinks that the comment works, though. He doesn't know where Simon is at all, and his face whenever he sees Marwick is sort of amusing, even if he feels a little cruel for thinking it. It's okay, though. Marwick didn't actually blind his eye or anything, and it was in defense of Septimus.
Lucy's voice comes out a little obstructed from the many peanuts in her mouth. âMarcellus is hogging him,â she complains, tugging a little to hard on his hair.
âLucy, don't be daft, he works for him.â Marwick coughs to stop an unnecessary laugh from spilling out. He thumps a fist on the barrel of his chest. âYou could demand for him to have normal work hours, maybe. I'm sure you're intimidating enough.â
Lucy hums. âGood idea. But he's not invited right now. This is more of sibling date.â
âRupert's not here. And Matt. And Marcus.â
âA best friend date,â she amends. Then, âI wanted you to myself.â
Marwick doesnât even try to keep himself from smiling, doesnât cover his mouth with a hand, doesnât move with the urge to make it look terrifying, exaggerated, instead of genuine. This isnât any of the Heaps, as much as he loves them too. Even the mention of her being his older sister, considering him her best friend, is making his face feel hot. Her wanting him around is making his heart beat too hard against his ribcage, feeling too swollen and big to be at all healthy.
Sheâs eight years older than he is, a significant difference when youâre twelve and twenty, which they were when they first met, and it has never really mattered. The life-threatening situation they were in at the time helped speed the process along, but they went from complete strangers to allies to people who shared secrets and teased each other within days, despite him dissing her fiancee at every chance he got. Not once has Marwick felt like they arenât equals, like they werenât getting the same thing out of this friendship.
âOh,â he says. There are a million and one other things that he could have said, his mind racing, but the only thing that came out was less of a word and more a result of having to breathe to be alive.
âYeah,â says Lucy, both her smile and the peanuts still being in her mouth audible in her voice. She swallows. She laughs a bit. She tugs one of the three locks of hair sheâs braiding a bit too hard on purpose. Marwick blindly tries to elbow her in retaliation and Lucy blocks it with her knee, stumbling a little, not as versed in self defense.
Lucy is still working on his hair, all deft movements, when the musicians start up a new song that wafts through the window, all jaunty and lively. He sees it instantly, a jolt of recognition sparking in her eyes, the way she suddenly sits bolt-upright. A slow smile spreads on her face, and he smiles back out of habit.
âI used to dance to this,â she tells him, dreamy, and although they have been friends since that whole debacle with the Light and the pirates and the Coven, he didnât know she could to dance at all.
âYeah?â
âSimon and I met in dance class,â Lucy continues, âand we got paired up because we were both late.â
âThatâs romantic,â Marwick deadpans, and Lucy huffs out a laugh, tugs on his hair. He feels like he should be surprised about her apparent skill, but heâs noticed before that she moves with a dancerâs grace, heavy and stomping and light and fluid, all at once, come on, itâs obvious.
âSo you know how to dance?â He can tell sheâs revisiting old memories, and wonders, for a moment, what she looked like when she was his age, fourteen years old and temper that barely fits in her even now. âThatâs cool.â
âI can teach you,â says Lucy, curling a short strand of her own hair around her pinkie finger.
The thing about that is, Marwick doesnât doubt sheâll be a good teacher or that heâll take to it quickly. Heâs always been a rather fast learner. That isnât it at all. Itâs just that heâs never ever learned anything for fun and only fun, not even once.
But. Lucy is taking his hand and tugging, enough to get his attention but not enough to make the decision for him, and heâs reminded of another thing, that fun is meant to be a priority. That itâs meant to be a priority, and the Young Army was unnatural. And, well, he trusts Lucy, nearly the same amount he trusts Septimus, more than anyone, anything, in the whole world.
Marwick makes a show of being reluctant and pensive, something that no one in the room buys, and then agrees. âFinish my hair,â he says, very sure of himself, âAnd then weâll dance.â
âAlright.â
âAs long as you donât tell Simon. Or any of your brothers-in-law,â says Marwick, even though he doesnât really care about that at all, fake-doubt fake-clear in his voice, and Lucy laughs.
After a good few moments of practiced movements with her hands, Lucy scoots to the side so that she can look at her work. She thinks, curls the braid over his shoulder in the front.
Lucy smiles inquisitively, squints, rests a curled index finger on her chin. Then, âWe kind of look alike.â There is no room in the statement for questioning, it being the usual misplaced order, as per Lucy's awfully endearing habit.
Marwick turns his head to look at the one mirror in the crowded room, mounted on the other side. He tries to make the movement go quicker to hide his slow reluctance.
What he sees is more surprising than heâd thought it'd be. Everything Marwick had noticed about him changing was noticed from looking down at his own arms or seeing his hair fly in front of his face. They were noted, crumpled into balls and then thrown in the mental garbage can, as he hadnât really cared or thought they were significant enough to really think about it.
They really do look alike, if you look past the obvious.
Long, thick eyelashes, his meant for hotter suns than what is felt at the Castle, hers inherited from her mother. Hair, falling straight and heavy, surrounded by flyaway strands. Though his is shorter than hers, it feels just as long from the comforting weight of the braid on his scalp.
Their eyes have the kind of familial similarity that he and his brothers have, the kind that should have alerted them to the relation between the three of them, despite being in different barracks.
Hands. Criss-crossing little white scars, calluses on fingertips, hers from sewing and embroidery, his from holding daggers and untying rough knots.
Their heights are different. Their builds are different. They hold themselves in the same way, though, used to being underestimated by people who donât really see them as people.
Eyes. Dark brown and upturned, with prominent eyelids, under thick brows.
Mouths. A disproportionately large upper lip, in the way that is interestingly unlovely. The one dimple in their right cheek when they both smile, genuine and real. The dark birthmark on the corner.
All of those birthmarks, in general. Little dark spots, like freckles but too far apart. Zelda says- said- his are cute, which means that Lucy's are cute. Marwick can agree with that part, at least.
The two of their appearances are kind of how he and Marcus and Matt have the same mannerisms, despite growing up a forest and a Castle apart. It reminds him of the stories Zelda used to tell, the ones that spanned back several centuries, how when he was eleven he once brought her flowers for what he thought was maybe her birthday, the first of January. It was the wrong day, as it turned out, but she thanked him and sat him down to listen to a story, one about the fates and their weaving, connecting the world and everyone in it to each other.
He thinks that this is maybe a sign that he and Lucy were always supposed to belong together. Instead of voicing this thought, he turns to one of his best friends and nods his head.
Lucy looks delighted, like she had wanted more than anything for him to agree with her. She holds out a hand, asking.
Again, again. Who is he to deny her anything? He takes her hand, pulls her to her feet, and she teaches him to dance.
3.
If Marwick is in the Castle for more than a week, he offers to make himself useful.
He knows he's not expendable anymore. Septimus knows that Marwick knows he's not expendable anymore, but if he's not being useful, then, well, he doesn't know what to do with himself. Itâs alright though, sometimes, maybe. He finds the mindset is useful for getting things done. For helping other people. Septimus always finds something for him to do. He's good like that.
This one has to be his favorite.
âYour right leg is great, but the left is over-correcting,â Marwick says, and kneels to take a kidâs foot and angle it in the right way. The second he does, the faulty leg heâd been eyeing is in the right position, with the right stiffness. âIf you line your feet up properly you have the right base. The rest of the form will follow.â he stands up, wondering if he should pat the kid on the head to let her know heâs not mad at her, or disappointed. Sometimes he can come across like that, when heâs not paying attention.
To his utmost relief, the kid just nods determinedly and gets back to practicing her blocks. She doesnât burst into tears or anything, like heâs always afraid they might, though it hasnât happened yet.
Marwick teaches the class of six-to-ten year-olds the basics of sword fighting most evenings before sunset. It would probably be weird if they started crying only now. He still hasnât memorized most of their emergency contacts for if they get hurt. He still hasnât memorized most of their last names, though he knows their first ones.
Arianna. Sheâs almost terrifyingly smart for her age; whenever he explains or demonstrates anything she draws a diagram of it in the dirt with her wooden sword. Every time he corrects her form, she scuffs parts of the notes out with the sole of her shoe and redraws them, making edits. She takes his constructive criticism and listens to his implied cues and makes him feel just generally pretty inadequate. Sheâs got dark skin and beautiful little braids done fresh every five days, more put together than most adults Marwick knows. Â
Lorcan. Heâs only six but looks older, with curly dark hair and an excited smile. He bounces when he talks, but has the smooth neutrality of a diplomat. He talks to the other children like heâs making a business transaction, a proposition that will end with the other one being killed, though he isnât unkind. Heâs got an unnerving interest in the undead and occult, and a book about demons from his older brother that he insists on reading aloud to the class.
Kayla and Cassius. They donât look anything alike and Marwick doesnât think theyâre even related. Theyâre just both the youngest and tiniest of the bunch, and he doesnât even want to touch them for fear of breaking bones, though he knows that thatâs unreasonable.
Eliza. Sheâs always got dirt on her cheeks and seventeen bandages wrapped around her leg, her elbows and knees scuffed. The girl tucks and rolls and dives even when the class isnât supposed to be learning evading tactics. Sheâs smart too, but in a different way than Arianna. In a way that she can take his techniques that work for him and adapt them to work for her, without changing the concept. He thinks, out of all of them, she wouldâve done the best in the Young Army, and then hates himself for doing so.
Barney Pot is the only whose surname he knows, if only because of Septimus accidentally calling him Hugo all the time, then correcting himself sadly and quietly. Heâs not bad at using a sword, but he is bad at actually doing his repetitions instead of just plopping down on the ground to play with the lizards in the nearby bushes.
Heâs doing it right then, in fact. Marwick stifles a fond but exasperated smile, kneeling down to Barney's height, keeping attention on the other children from the corner of his eye if only to make sure Lorcan doesnât point his wooden sword at anyone again. He slowly raises an eyebrow at Barney, who looks simultaneously ashamed and confident. âWhat do you think youâre doing, kiddo?â
Then his eye catches the lights along the path of the Palace.
The lights that Maize Smalls lights only after the sun sets. The lights that means that the kids should have already long since returned to their parents.
âOh, no,â whispers Marwick. He turns to the children, trying to keep his face level and expectant.
Arianna speaks. He can always count on her. âIâm going to go find Mum,â she says, then walks out to do exactly that. Good girl.
The other children donât look as inclined to make his life easy. They stare up at him with pleading eyes, like a baby wolfhound, like one more minute. Marwick is definitely sure that he couldnât even teach one other position in a minute, so he isnât at all tempted by their dumb adorable faces and the fact that they seem to think that heâs pretty cool.
So, at least outwardly, Marwick just rolls his eyes and begins to shepherd the group with force. âNo, nuh-uh. Sorry, but I'm the boss. Get out, back to your parents. This is my patch of the forest.â Some of the children plant their feet firmly on the ground. Heâs strong enough to still move them, but his arms begin to strain.
âCan we get our dinner and come back to eat here?â asks Cassius.
Kayla beams. âYeah, weâll pick up our litter and everything!â
âNo.â Marwick's gait starts to move even faster. âWe stop at dinner time for a reason, and the reason is ants will eat you out here and I will cry if they do.â
âWe didnât even getâta pluck out your eyes and summon an ghost yet,â says Lorcan, mournfully, chin tilting up so far that he can see Marwick even while heâs pushing he forward, hand firmly planted on his back.
âMaybe tomorrow,â he says, gentle, âbut it is time for dinner now.â Then he pushes the rest of the children beyond towards the lights, watches them give up on staying with him, walking in a pack towards their homes, turning to wave every so often. Marwick waves back until they're gone, then turns back to pick up the abandoned wooden swords.
There is another person there.
Marwick stops in his tracks. His mind races, wondering how they could've been so close without him noticing. Wondering how he got so distracted. His hand curls around the sword at his waist.
âI wouldnât have actually summoned a ghost, or whatever,â he tries to explain, words coming out way too fast and jumbled, âI don't even know how- I was just trying to get them to listen. Â And I'd never do anything to scare them like that I swear, and anyway they see ghosts all the time-â
With that last word, his vision suddenly catches up to his brain. The other person is grinning. Itâs just Jo-Jo Heap.
âI didnât know you were good with kids,â he says. He puts his hands on his hips, like he had meant for the statement to sound like a personal affront. There's a half smile still on his face, reminding him a little too much of Marissa.
Marwick's brain fizzles trying to come up with what exactly about what Jo-Jo overheard made it seem like he was at all responsible enough to care for children. He tries to make up another excuse, or at least apologize in another way. â...Hhuh?â Nailed it.
Jo-Jo laughs. âYour secretâs safe with me.â He puts a finger over his mouth, like shhhh, but when Marwick really thinks about it that isnât a gesture that makes sense for what he just said.
Jo-Jo shrugs a little, untangles part of his cloak from his arms, says, âYou know, though, I bet we could get Jen to let you teach more classes.â
That makes no sense. It doesnât make sense at all. Marwick's brow furrows. âI don't understand.â
He shrugs. âI donât know, just, they seemed like they were having fun?â
âHaving fun? By threatening... to pull my eyes from my head?â
âThatâs just ten year olds. Theyâre edgy.â
At that, Marwick can relax. Jo-Jo's been called edgy a few times too, despite being sixteen-going-on-seventeen. âYeah, I guess,â he says, and mimics Jo-Jo's shrug. âThey do really well when they listen to what I say. Good kids.â
âYou like them,â Jo-Jo observes, then quiets a bit. He suddenly looks a little uncomfortable, fidgets with his fingers. He shifts on his feet a bit, then fiddles with something halfway out of his pocket- a flute, Marwick realizes. âActually, Marwick, I, uh-â
The tenseness returns to Marwick's shoulders, and he stands all prickly and still, a solider. They stare at each other for about ten seconds and then Marwick blurts out, âAre you looking for Marcus and Matt?â
Jo-Jo blinks several times, says, âNo. I mean. Iâm not looking for anyone else. Iâm here becauseâ well, for you.â
Because that doesnât sound creepy at all. Marwickâs mind is racing, filling him with momentary panic. Heâs going to have to rename him from Jo-Jo the Forest Heap to Jo-Jo the wanted serial killer.
âRight,â Marwick says, voice all polite and level. Thereâs a short pause. He shifts, uncomfortable, and adds, âFor, um, any particular reason?â
Please donât say homicide, Marwick thinks.
âThis is going to sound kind of crazy, I know-â
Heâs going to say homicide.
Jo-Jo smiles sheepishly. âWe, um. Kind of suck at sword fighting? Or anything with knives. Me and Erik and Edd, that is.â He pulls out his flute and turns it rapidly in the air, making a wooshing noise, probably a nervous tick but looking like a weapon, in Marwick's eyes. They always do. âYou'd think we'd be good at it after living in the Forest, and Sam is, but me ân the twins are kind of- weâve got different talents. Just saying.â
Marwick lets his shoulders drop in relief, his momentary panic flooding out of him. Jo-Jo doesnât even look like heâd want to kill anyone, anyway, but itâs nice to sure, just to be safe. Letting your guard down never did anyone any good.
And, well, heâs definitely had this conversation before, a bit more teary, with the kids who saw this class wasn't for them. âWell,â he says, almost practiced, his slightly hypocritical speech, âthat doesnât negate your worth, at all. You arenât less useful just because weâre in some bloodfest universe and your aptitudes work for stuff other than attacking people. Being useful isnât even the most important thing, anyways. It doesnât even list. Did someone say something? Was it Matt or Marcus? I can duel them for you, I think.â
Jo-Jo cuts him off with a pearl of laughter, setting his flute down. âMarwick. If we got into a close range fight, weâd die. Teach us too? And also give Sam some pointers, maybe?â
Oh.
Jo-Jo smiles at him tentatively, fondly, when he stops dead. Itâs an expression heâs only seen on Septimus or Lucy or Zelda before, like what the unusual thing he just did was endearing and not annoying or creepy or weird. Marwick is vaguely startled, feeling like his heart is swelling abnormally big, pushing against the inside of his ribs, but in the other way. The okay, good way thatâs not bad. They want him.
Heâs quick to reply, if only to get this conversation over with. Not because he thinks he likes the idea of hanging out with the four of them even more, outside the setting of the Forest and away from the undercurrent of fear he used to carry with him wherever, whenever. Not really.
Regardless of the reason, Marwick swallows the lump in his throat and nods. âSure thing.â
4.
There is nothing different in how he is around his brothers, except that sometimes they see him now. Itâs okay, though, Marwickâs done this too. In the way that he sat across from them at Jenna and Septimusâs birthday and looked into his own eyes staring back and didnât see, in the way that they knew that there had been three of them but never saw that it was him. Knowing they were family was like flipping a switch, almost. Like realizing an absent you had, a gap in your heart.
But at the end of the day, itâs the same. Like watching a boy fall into a fast flowing river just inches away from you, like sitting across from each other at meals and having snowball fights and speaking in the same voice. The three of them never saw at all. All what-if and could-be and we-shouldâve-looked-for-each-other-more but they still didnât notice, even when they were staring each other dead in the face.
But theyâre all trying, and thatâs enough, most of the time.
Marcus and Matt have a cramped little flat near the Gothyk Grotto, with a bunk bed and far too low ceiling and a thousand rugs, and then basically nothing else. Itâs way too comfy, this flat. Marwick could just lie on the floor and be out in a flash, which is probably dangerous. But he doesnât care, even after Septimus threw a heart shaped pillow on him. Why his brothers have one is beyond him, but itâs so soft that naturally Marwick just lets it sit in his lap like it belongs there. Itâs seems like it does, anyway. He has never not had this exact pillow in his lap.
âPlayer on your right, so Marwick. This card's hypothetical: you get a million crowns but they can only be spent buying expensive presents for the people you hate.â Marcus peers up at him over his deck. âWhat do you do?â
Marwicks moves his piece forward on the board, then attempts to lean back against the wall and mull over his answer, but the wall is too far away and he just sort of falls over. He blows hair out of his eyes and says, âIâd buy things they hate. Some really awful things, like a lifetime supply of that stuff Sep likes to eat.â
âHey,â says Septimus mildly. He pokes Marwick in the side.
âLike, cabbage sandwiches, especially. Sent to their house everyday.â
âHey,â says Septimus, less mildly. âAnyway, thatâs not even that bad. They can sell the sandwiches for money.â
âBut wait,â Marcus interrupts, now perched on the only other pillow in the room. Itâs a nice pillow, more of a cushion, but Marwickâs pillow is better. âWhoâll even buy sandwiches like that? I mean, theyâll go bad really fast and they donât sound that appealing to begin with.â
âYou know what I would do?â Septimus asks, ignoring Marcus. âIâd keep the money my entire life, making sure the person I hate knows that I have it but wonât spend it.â
Matt cracks a smile, cocking his head to the side in a way that all three of them do, all the time. âWow. Ruthless. Your turn, Marwick.â
Marwick draws a card, sees itâs one of the wordy ones, tosses it to Septimus. He catches it easily.
âThis card says that Matt has to go to jail,â says Septimus. He taps two of his fingers on his chin, reading it out loud. âThe player to your right spends three nights in prison. They miss three turns unless they pay fourteen thousand in bail money.â
Matt does not have that much in bail money. In fact, he has negative money already. Matt frowns, leaning across the rug to inspect the card; Septimus holds it above his head with one arm, uses the other to push him back. âOkay, now youâre just making things up.â
âIt says on my card that youâre a sore loser,â adds Marcus adds. He's no longer sitting like a normal person; he's hanging upside down, with his legs hooked over the top bunk and his head inches above the ground.
Marwick snorts, running with the joke. He picks up another card and pretends to read it. âThis one says that youâre bad at this game, Matt.â
Septimus leans over to his left, peering down at the card Marwick is holding. âAnd thereâs even a fine print!â He plucks it out of his hand, eyes going wide and mouth opening into an incredulous âOâ shape. âIt says right here that youâre broke.â
To his left, Marcus grins, half-fond and half-cheeky, his eyes narrowing. For a moment, he looks more like Marwick than Matt. âIt also says that Iâm better looking that you.â
Marwick nods, all straight faced, accommodating. âThe lettering is very small.â
They reach over without looking to high-five each other, missing the first time. The second time they do it the movement is flawless and totally cool. Matt's frown is getting deeper and more exaggerated by the second.
âOkay!â says Matt, throwing his hands up in the air, âI get it! Blah, blah, blah, itâs always make fun of Matt time. Matt accidentally bit a rock once, Matt always loses his tunic! The newest one is that Matt sucks at this game! Add that to the list of dumb stuff youâve made fun of me for, I guess.â His hands falter in the air for a while longer, mentally grasping for more things to complain about. Instead, they fold in front of his chest, hard, a defeated look on his face. âYou all,â he says, erring on the side of a grumble, âare so annoying.â
Marcus laughs again, louder, looking as delighted as he ever possibly could be. Marwick hides a smile of his own behind an inconspicuous hand, before catching Septimus's eye and succumbing to laughter as well.
âYou're not bad at other games,â Marcus says reassuringly, still upside down. He lets an arm drop down and uses it to ruffle Matt's hair clumsily, all dead weight. "Just awful at this one."
âYeah,â says Septimus, his face open and happy. He seems to be forgetting the fact that this is the first board game he has seen Matt play, ever.
Marcus flips upwards, then nimbly jumps down onto the floor, landing on Marwick's left knee. He blindly reaches sideways to grab the front of Matt's shirt and tug him towards the fray. He makes it there, knocking over board game paraphernalia in the process.
âThe four of us,â Marcus says gravely, wringing an arm around Septimus's neck, âmake for a grand time.â
Marwick tenses, but relents to his whims. As if he had a choice. âIf either of you drop out of the game and make Sep the default winner, I'm leaving the Castle forever and never coming back,â he says, only half-joking.
âIâd come after you,â retorts Septimus, as if thatâs a good comeback.
"No," Marwick says, "I'll be doing important things in my cottage and you'd be sulking in the corner because I don't make cabbage sandwiches."
Septimus throws his arms in the air, hitting everyone in the face, and then apologizes, says, "Marwick. Listen. That place has the best cabbage on earth and you just squander it on those rabbits-â
"Have you ever eaten cabbage from anywhere else?" Marwick wants to know.
Septimus admits that he has not.
âAdorable. Can we shut up and enjoy the moment?â says Marcus. âLike, this is a good moment.â
5.
Zelda is leaning back in the one the chairs near the fire, her face blank and her eyes soft. It's almost winter, but the Big Freeze hasn't reached the Marshes right now, not yet. The warmth in the cottage is nearly palpable, all scattered cushions and leaping flames and the blanket Marwick has wrapped around him, made of patchwork pieces.
"I'll have to go soon," Zelda says, and Marwick looks away.
"Not now. It's too cold out," he says, deliberately misunderstanding. His bare feet scuff at the floor, worn and wooden and shining from all the cleaning he does that Zelda forgets to do.
"Marwick," she tries, softly prodding. All quiet and concern and undying patience. "I'm worried about you."
"You don't need to be." Marwick sniffs, hard.
âCome here.â Zelda beckons him, and he gingerly steps forwards. She reaches out and grabs her his hand, her grip stronger than he expects. "I'm spending more and more time in the past these days. I'm scared one day I won't even remember who you are."
Marwick stays quiet.
âI have some things I want to tell you. And I want you to try to always remember them.â
âOkay,â Marwick says, all hushed and soft, too young even to his own ears.
"There's people who care about you, dear. Your friends. Your brothers." Marwick winces, and she pretends not to notice. "I'm not the only one. You need to surround yourself with them whenever you can. Promise you'll visit the Castle often."
"Okay," Marwick repeats, his eyes damp.
"Promise you'll never overwork yourself. Do your job but donât forget to have fun too," Zelda continues, and Marwick feels more tears form as he realizes what she is doing. A final impartment of wisdom, before sheâs too far gone to have any to give.
"I won't."
âI mean it. You make fun a priority, alright, dear?â
Marwick nods.
âDonât worry about what other people think.â
âYou know I donât,â Marwick says, temporarily affronted, and Zelda smiles at his indignity, hugely and crinkled at the eyes and mouth, in a way that makes it obvious how they got there in the first place.
âIf you donât know what to wear, overdressed is better than being underdressed. Look at me!â
Marwicks lets out a wet little laugh at that, Zelda in her patchwork dress, looking more like a tent than fancy wear.
âWhen you meet the right person, you will know. Never waste your time with people who arenât right for you.â
âKeepers arenât supposed to get married.â
âWeâve broken one tradition so far.â Zelda looks him in the eyes, says, âThe role of the Keeper has changed. We are changing with it.â
âAlright.â
"Promise you won't take on too much weight." When he hesitates, she adds, "Marwick, there is value in acting your age. Promise not to forget that."
âPromise,â Marwick says, nearly too torn up to speak anymore. Tears sting at the corner of his eyes.
âAnd when Iâm gone and youâre Keeper all on your own you are going to feel like you have no idea what youâre doing. And, Marwick, dear, youâre going to be terrified. But just know that youâll figure it out, and itâll be just fine, in the end.â
âOkay.â
âAnd sometimes it gets really hard. One thing you have to remember is that you're just as important as whatever you are Keeping. You understand that?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I do."
"You're doing good. I'm proud of you, dear. If it ever gets too hard, tell someone. Jenna or Septimus, maybe. Being alone is not fun, I know, I've done it for a long time. I think Keepers have done this for too long, all alone. If you need a partner, a team, ask for the Queenâs permission, and then go ahead."
âZ-Zelda?â Marwick prompts, when sheâd stopped speaking for a few long seconds.
âNever forget how proud I am of you. How much I love you.â The grip on his wrists tightens.
âOf course I wonât,â Marwick chokes. He tries to wipe the tears from his eyes, but itâs too much. âZelda- Zelda, I love you, too.â
"I know, dear. One more thing."
Marwick tilts his head to the side, asking. This feels unreal, like a dream, like his head is spinning and making up stories, like heâll wake up tomorrow in his bender in the Forest and realize that nothing has happened, nothing at all. He's only been with her for three years. This is too soon too soon too soon-
"Promise you'll remember me?" Zelda's voice breaks on the last word, and Marwick flings himself into her arms, bony chin bumping the cushioning patchwork on her shoulder, clutching her tight.
"I promise," he says, tears stinging hot as fall down hard and fast, and she holds him there for a long, long time, his grandmother and mentor and best friend and mother all at once.
oh hey that thing where I keep trying to feel my way back into Marwick? is still happening sometimes? anyway, this is literally a sketch I freewrote TRYING TO MAKE MYSELF PUT WORDS ON A PAGE and it was in a notebook and I forgot it and I opened the notebook a month later and went? uh? I like this? I donât remember writing it? huh. itâs not at any particular time or about any particular thing since the plot has not entirely. revealed itself to me in any particulars (since the old one is largely out due to... shifting continents and ages) and is also pure rolling-in-my-own-id but nevertheless I donât automatically cringe at it, which is a good sign I guess.Â
HERE IS THING. my terrible children.
 I was never very good at being a host but a demon in my apartment was not something I'd prepared for at all. I felt as though I ought to offer him a drink and also make him leave as quickly as possible. I settled for asking him if he needed a glass of water.
 The demon said that no, he did not need a glass of water. I pictured him nursing a Coke or a bottle of iced tea and discarded the idea of hospitality altogether.
 He sat in the battered armchair by my coffee table with his forearms braced on his knees looking unsettlingly ordinary. Or nearly ordinary. Someone properly ordinary, say, an actual person, would have moved a little, and probably would have eyes that went somewhere instead of being flat and lightless like the dark side of a two-way window looking into a small empty room, though that was one of the things about him I was trying not to focus on.
 âAnyway,â I said, as competently as I could muster, âwhat sort of grave portent have you brought me this time? Death omens? Two ominous statements for the price of one? I'm in horrible danger, time to pack a bag? This is all starting to feel a bit like a mortal peril pop quiz.â
 He grinned at me. âYou should have a bag packed already,â he said, âfor emergencies. I really thought we'd made that clear by now.â He stretched out his arms and hands, starting with his shoulders, and I wondered if he, or his body, really did get stiff, or if this was just another thing he did to look unconscious and ordinary and trick my lizard brain into thinking he was a person and therefore safe. Being manipulated made me scowly, and so did his quips, and so did the fact that I couldn't stop baiting him back, so I scowled at him to try to make myself feel like I was at least keeping up.
 âI've got a few death omens,â he said, settling back into formation. âWould you like to pick one out?â
 âI don't have time for the run-around.â Scowl. Be assertive. Stop trying to out-quip someone who's been bored for a thousand-odd years and probably picked fights with Oscar Wilde for the hell of it and who besides which has absolutely no moral boundaries. âWill you just explain why I had to let you into my apartment after business hours?â
 This time what I tried not to examine was the pleased look on his face, like a cat that had manouvered itself onto an inappropriate table, but of course that long light smile was all I could see. âYour home is being watched,â he said. âI think it's best that I remain here tonight.â
 âOh fuck,â I said, and pushed away from the wall to get myself a drink.