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Rated: T
Ichi the Witch
Desscaras & Ichi
Words: 3.4k
Warnings: Angst, Illness, Passive Suicidality,
[Ao3 Link!]
Summary: It's a particularly rough winter for Ichi, young and alone in the woods. With the snow creeping in and the fire dying out, his grip on the world in front of him begins to slip, somewhere between dream and reality.
--
It's the fourth winter when the snow comes worse than ever before.
Ichi thought he was used to the cold by now. Bundle up with furs, keep moving, he's gotten fire making down to an art by now. It's not hard. Not usually, anyway. But the fourth winter, when he's around ten, certainly something in the universes grand scheme saw it fit to knock him down a peg.
The villagers at the foot of the mountain warned him about the weather, or something like that, but it'd gone in one ear and out the other. By the time Ichi realized just how severe the snowstorms had grown, the impact was too great. A mixture of chunks of ice, frozen snow and fresh, all enveloped Druid Mountain.
Ichi is not that much of a fool. He knows the terrain is treacherous, and by the time he's concerned enough to consider taking temporary refuge in the village, it's too late. There's no safe way down.
He just has to wait.
Wait he does, and the winter drags on with a persistent vengeance. The snow shifts warm, then rapidly to cold again. Rain melts the snow into hard vicious chunks, then refreezes, then snows and obscures it all.
On one particularly awful night, the rain had froze on impact, coating the trees in glossy ice, a crystalline museum, locking all into picturesque stasis.
A particularly large pine tree had given up under the strain, and come crashing through the roof of Ichi's hut.
By this point in the winter (Ichi estimates a few months, but the days and nights blur together) he is absolutely tired of it. Spring could not come soon enough.
--
It's another miserably cold night.
The night is starless, the threat of another ice storm looms in the thick darkness of the sky, clouds covering as far as the eye can see. The only light that remains is the faint orange glow of Ichi's pitiful attempt at a fire. His fire making skills are better than this, he swears, but after the constant freezing and thawing, combined with the damage to his shelter in the last ice storm, no dry wood remained.
The little flame flickers pathetically, wavering as the winds screech and cry in the near distance. Ichi tries to keep his gaze focused on it, but there's not much else to look at.
The only thing left to do by now is wait. Wait and hope the fire catches, wait and hope the storm passes, wait for winter to end already.
That's a lot of what hunting is, Ichi knows that by now. Being patient. He's grown very used to that.
Wait.
It's the very first thing he did here, wait. Wait for someone to come back. When it became clear there was no one to wait for, he struck it out alone, yes. But Ichi had never forgotten how to wait. If anything, he'd only grown more proficient. Waiting is his forte now, the element he spends most of his time in.
Still, Ichi learned well and proper the first time. There is no sense in waiting for people. People do not come back. No one is coming to save him.
So he simply waits for the night to pass.
The air feels off tonight. Ichi's accustomed to the cold, but this freeze feels different. It sinks into his skin, biting at his finger tips, toes, legs. He's already wrapped in every pelt he's got, but they don't feel like they're doing much of anything.
Throughout this weather Ichi's spent most of his time 'inside', though he finds himself particularly exhausted. The very act of watching the fire seems strenuous, yet he can't find himself able to sleep.
Death for death bides it's time, curled up in his rib cage. There's just enough lingering tension he can't be certain that sleeping is safe now.
How long had this night gone on so far? It felt like a year, but there was no way to tell with the cloud cover.
His limbs tremble. It's unsettling in a way he can't really explain. His own body had been the only thing he could come to trust. If not that, then what?
Ichi blinks into the pure darkness. He can't make out any of the shapes anymore. Can't make out anything. Under the pile of furs, there's himself, but beyondâŚ
Huh? Wait, when had the fire gone out again?
That was odd. Ichi swore he'd been looking at it, and making sure it was lit, but somewhere along the way, it had disappeared. Right under his noseâŚ
He should probably make another one, right? When it's winter, he should be making fires. Ichi shifts under the blankets, but the mere motion stings like scraping his skin clean off. He stops.
Maybe it was just the furs in the way? If he could just lift them off, then that would work. He probably didn't need them all.
Ichi raised an arm to remove the furs. He lifts it and. Itâ
Hm.
Well, he tried to grab at the top most fur, a bear pelt, but. It isn't working. His hand isn't moving right. Slowly, though it's hard to see in the dark, Ichi tries to grabâ but his hand doesn't close. Couldn't grip anything.
"Hmhgh?" The confusion slid past his teeth in a long drawn out breath, though by the time it left Ichi's lips it was more of a slurred groan.
The sound doesn't echo. Did it even leave his mouth? Would it matter, if there's no one around to hear it anyway?
Be patient. Wait. What he already knows echoes against his brain. There's nothing else to do. No winter lasts forever, and the snow will melt, and the warmth will return. In the meantimeâŚ
Well, it does him no good to exhaust himself trying to stay awake. With no fire to tend to, there's nothing to worry about as he sleeps. Not more than usual, anyway.
Ichi curls in on himself a little tighter. The stinging of his skin against his clothes, his blankets, his pelts, it's all so harsh. Feels damp, feels warmâ then cold. Ichi wonders for a moment if he's cut himself somehow, but it wouldn't matter if he had. The mere thought of trying to bandage himself right now sends his head spinning in circles. He'll be fine, it can wait. He's survived worse.
The more he tries to sink into sleep, let blissful unconsciousness welcome him away from the chill, the more he can't.
It's so unnerving, even the slightest disruption from his usual habit of instant release. Something's wrong, something's bad, his mind repeats it again and again.
His legs hurt. They ache from the cold, sting against his skin. His head hurts. It spins and shakes, unstable as if it would fall right off his neck. His chest hurts. His heartbeat quickens, twitchy and unbalanced.
Death for death yowls from it's place behind his heart, no longer content to just sleep. A ringing, a warning call. There is a threat approaching, Ichi's body knows innately.
But, what? There's danger, he's certain there's danger, but Ichi can't sense a presence. In the darkness, he can't detect any movement, can't see any shadows shifting, any reflections of eyes. Really, he can't see anything. Not even in the spaces where the light once reached. With his head tilting and his eyes unable to focus, it feels as though Ichi is somewhere else entirely. Perhaps nowhere at all.
âŚIs this bad? This isn't good, right? The idea is small, and far from urgent, but it stays present in Ichi's mind. He can't move. It won't stop snowing. The air grows thick and frozen. The snow is filling up his lungs. The darkness stretches on forever.
Is he going to die? Is this what death feels like? He's been close before, but this was different. The fingertips of death curling around his throat and pulling him into a tight embrace.
That's not good, right? He can't die. It would be awful to die. If he died he
Huh?
If Ichi died, then⌠what?
Why was it so important he stayed alive, again? Was there some reason?
What did Ichi want, anyway?
There had to be something, right? To make it worth it, to endure all this. For surviving is such a desperate thing, an act impossible to divorce from effort and desire. Who would pour so much into this task if there was nothing as reward for all that anguish? Or was it a simple fear that kept him clinging on. Fear of what would come next, fear of the unknown. Fear of death.
Ichi does not want to die, he knows this. âŚBut he cannot think of why.
What does he want, if not death?
He wantsâ
He wantsâ
A hand on his shoulder.
He can practically feel it. There's the weight, the force of the slightest push. So, so warm. Burning hot, and yet, so comfortable⌠it strokes his shoulder slowly, gently, then carefully moving into tiny repeating circles.
A dim part of him wants to panic, but death for death doesn't kick into drive, and the rest of him is too encompassed in the cyclone to care.
Oh⌠Ichi thinks, yes. That. He wants that. Those gentle strokes, that careful movement.
Almost as soon as he had imagined it, the sensation fades away. It isn't fair, Ichi wants to moan.
She walks closer, leaning over him for a moment. His bangs, slick with sweat, are pushed back against his head.
There's a chill, sinking into his skull. The cold seeps in, bleeds through his body. How could the cold grow ever stronger, when he's already so, so frozen? It's unspeakably cruel. No more cold. Please, please just. No more.
He's too weak to really fight it, but still he twitches, the quickening of breath and body attempting to move on its own. Though unsteady in their rationale, still driven to survive.
He can't, he can'tâ He's going to freeze to death here, all alone in this shallow grave of his own making. He's going to die.
"You'll be fine."
But it's so cold. The ice has crystallized in him and it rots him from the inside out. Eating away, leaving only the hollow, unending chill of oblivion. Ichi's heard that sometimes when you're hypothermic, you start to feel hot instead. He doesn't believe it. Not now, as he feels cold so intrinsically a part of him as his arms, his head, his heart.
"It's this or we're calling in the real medics, alright? Just trust me. This will make you feel better."
There's something steady in her voice, a solid anchor tethering Ichi down from the cotton clogged fogginess that seeps from the snow and into his brain. Even as the words are nonsense, the threads reach him.
He wants to. He wants to trust her, but it's such a foolish thing to do. Foolishness is not something Ichi can afford. Trust is a rose, it's a delicate sculpture. Beautiful to observe but fragile. Out here in the winter woods, there is no place for it.
With slow, laboured movements, breath catching in his throat and freezing to icicles in front of him, Ichi attempts to pull the cloth down and off his head.
"Oi, what did I just say? Brat."
A strong grip encloses around Ichi's wrist, pulling it back down and tucking it back beneath the blankets.
"Don't make me tie you down or something."
The clear threat should light something in Ichi, but he finds no flames bursting from the stray spark. Perhaps by now even death for death has frozen over, curling up just to die. If that's the case, then surely he doesn't have much life left in him.
"âŚYou really are far gone, huh."
Yes. Far, far away, adrift in the snow and buried beneath the ice. Without the steady pulse of instinct to guide him, there is nothing left to rely on. The only one Ichi can trust is himself, so without even thatâŚ
The hand tries to pull away. Snapping at his veins, death for death (or something else, perhaps, though it lacks the blood lust it makes up in kind with raw desire) reels forward, and Ichi grabs her wrist with all the might he can summon.
Don't let go. No matter what, you absolutely cannot let go. No matter how much the cold air stings his skin, no matter how badly his fingers tremble, hold on with everything you can. Though everything else faded to white, this lone instinct remains. Why doesn't matter. It's the only thing he can hold onto.
If she goes now, to the infinite snow scape and the shifting static of the night, she will never return. She will freeze and she will die if he lets go. When they go, they don't come back. Until the frost bite claims your fingers dark and hard and rotten, don't you dare let go.
"I'm not going anywhere."
Liar! She was trying to leave just now, he knows she was! And why wouldn't she? Everyone does. That's simply the way of things, and Ichi is far too wise in the ways of the world now to be deceived by such a simple trick.
With inhuman strength; how in this cold, Ichi can't fathom, she yanks her arm away.
A deep primal fear bites at the inside of Ichi's stomach. The ice spreads throughout his gut. He can't let her. He can't.
"Please," The words tumble out of his mouth faster than expected. Though they never did any good before, though he must know somewhere they'll do him no good, he can't help himself. Rusted from a lack of use, squeaky and strained, "Don't go. Don't go, don't leave, don't leave please don't leave. I'll be good this time don't go, pleaseâ"
Unsuited for his mouth, his lungs reject the phrase and Ichi doubles over, hacking out a series of coughs that reverberate against the pines in the distance. He can feel the impact of each dry wheeze, the echo resonating inside of his brain. Some of the letters must fall back down his throat, slicing it up as they slid down. It stings like saltwater.
"Eugh. Alright, alright. Upsie daisy. Scooch over a bit."
A palm rests squarely in the center of his back. Dripping in, then pouring through his skin, is a calm warmth that pulsates outward, than resonates throughout Ichi's entire body. It lasts only a single fleeting moment, but it's enough to calm the coughing fit.
"Making me waste manaâŚ"
The bed creaks as she shifts position, the mattress dipping under their combined weight.
When Ichi regains the mind to sit back up, scramble into some sort of defensive posture, into some method that would make her stay, he finds an arm already around his shoulders. He tenses automatically.
"Relax."
Warmth, warmth, warmth. It melts Ichi's nerves, his tension, his brain (though that, he muses, may have already evaporated.) Waves of starlight, sunlight, all melting the ice away in this single solitary place.
It's only natural. Just instinct, the basest knowledge all warm-blooded creatures hold within them. Like a moth to a flame, like birds to the south, only fulfilling his need to keep the cold at bay. There's nothing special about it. There's not. There's no meaning, it's justâ
He needs it. He needs her.
On the fumes of any strength remaining, Ichi reaches around her torso, pulling himself in as close as he can. He can ignore the scraping of his skin, the protesting whine of his bones, the wheeze of his lungs. He's endured worse before and he will again. But how long has it been since Ichi's had this kind of heat to gravitate to? Winter has been months, but even before that⌠No, surely it's been years since Ichi had been warm. As much as he can, as close as he can, as tight as he can. Just don't let go, alright? He can't let her go. He can't let go.
"I already told you I'm not going anywhere. You really never listen."
This is for both of their benefit. This way she won't freeze in the snow. They can stick together for warmth. When spring comes, he can go back to normal. He's used to that, it's okay. The snow melts, the world thaws, people will leave, Ichi will be alone. These are the constants of nature, and they are the stable rocks from which Ichi moors his life. She will leave, and the cold will return, but if she could just stay. Not for long, never for long, but just for tonight. Just to conserve warmth. If only that, then Ichi's certain he could endure all the rest without complaint for the rest of time. If only to be warm tonight.
"Warmth is the last thing you need right now."
But he's so cold. Whether Ichi vocalizes a reply or not, he can't tell. The jumble in his mind all tangles nothing, so if any words come out of his mouth, he couldn't hear them, let alone register what they were. All fades to white, all fades.
"Hm."
The words streak past his eyes, caught in the blur of snow and swallowed by the dark of night. Dimly, he knows she's speaking, but the words, the meaning⌠they're slipping out from his unsteady hands. On and on, nonsense that doesnât quite resonate. It doesnât really matter. The sound is enough. The gentle vibration, the soft thrum. Not alone. He'd be alright with just that, really. As long as she didn't go. As long as they stayed warm.
The cruel howling of the winter wind sounds like trickling laughter.
âGod, youâre even clingier than Libro was. Such a brat.â
It softens, somewhat. The whipping reduces to a flutter.
"Ichi," His name slips into his skull with the grace of a fishhook, and lodges itself there, âI⌠shit, you wonât even remember any of this tomorrow.â
Shuffling, then the slightest impact. Cool freezing against his forehead. Something small, cool, metallic grazes against his cheek.
âI canât pretend I⌠I couldn't⌠I can'tâ fix anything. But I wonât leave. I promise.â
The words echo through her and into his skull. Down through his gritted teeth, and trembling nerves, swirling up and across his chest. A warmth blossoms there, a flame or a burn. The fire had long since died, yet then, Ichi swears he can feel it ripple out over his ribcage. Proof of connection, a vow not yet made, family unlike anything he had known. Sprouted from this tiny spark, then set ablaze.
Then it all washes over into a relieving cool, and Ichi hadn't realized how nice that would feel until it was.
"Told ya so."
Though the calm, cool sensation has settled over him, that quiet warmth still huddles in his chest. An ebb and flow, gentle as the lull of the sea once the storm had past. Though those winter storm clouds still dampen all light from this night, and the chill will certainly return by morning, for now, Ichi is calm. Without even thinking about it, he drifts away into listless sleep.
--
In the early hours, the sunlight streams in through the slit in the curtains catching every speck of dust in the pure white beam slicing through Ichi's room.
Ichi wakes up abruptly, as always. There's a crick in his neck, and his arm is still asleep. His hair is a mess, bangs slick with sweat plastered against his forehead, a strand caught in the creases of chapped, dry lips. His lungs are heavy, and he's all too aware of his throat, raw and swollen.
The fever, however, has broken.
All the heat that remains is pooled around him. In the blankets, the late summer air, and Desscaras, from where Ichi can barely catch the glimpse of her.
Head lolling off to the side, one arm slung around Ichi, braids splayed in every direction. It's tricky for Ichi to catch her expression from hereâhead positioned somewhere between her torso and lap; half propped up against her stomachâbut he swears it looks almost⌠peaceful.
Maybe that's still just the fever talking.
In the early hours, with his breath still wheezing in his lungs, and the lukewarm towel half over his eyes, Ichi closes his eyes again. The clock quietly ticks on. Desscaras' fingers are tangled in his hair. There is no need for vigilance. Sparing no further thought, he quietly slips back into sleep, and for once, rests well.
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What I wrote since I forgot my headphones on the commute to work this morning
How do you describe a colour without any comparison?Â
Itâs a trickier task than once envisioned. Everything you can say about a hue necessitates comparing it to something else. Its intrinsic qualities are difficult to quantify.
Take for instance, yellow. The yellow-orange colour I see now, on the only trees left to hold any colour. These shallow shades are the only ones remaining this autumn, after the storms have blown every bright red - deep purple - warm orange away.
This is already a comparison. I cannot tell you what the yellow is like on its own. I refer to a season, a state of life, for you to call your own experience upon. To align our memories and minds, sharpening the lens to try and narrow to a point.
I have no way of knowing that you see the same yellow I do. Ignoring the simple matter of colourblindness, how am I to know the way you perceive yellow, the way your eyes reformat the waves into signal, projecting reality inside the back of your kindâ is the same as mine?
I canât know it.Â
Everything, I think, is like this.Â
An endless series of reformatting, translating, adapting. There are too many things we donât understand, canât experience know or see. I have to change it first, to share it.
The act of sharing requires a human connection. Requires it to be changed.
On the walks late at night, I look up to the trees overhead. My brother doesnât see the empty branches reaching over us, looking down at his feet. But I do, and through my gaze, following my outstretched hand, his view and mine grow a little closer. I make him see the branches how I do, I point out their crisscross canopy, and maybe he sees something like that too.
I donât see the slight rustle in the leaves, the flash of movement when a frog hops across our path. But my brother does, and he pulls my arm back, directing my attention to the tiny shining eyes in the darkness. He tells me to watch it breathe, to see the slightest twitch of its feet. For a second, I can believe I saw it closer to how he did.
We never see the world the same way twice. Iâm always chasing, running after memories that have fermented in the bottom of my skull. Aged into something different, something new.
Itâs started to rain here. This November morning, when only this yellow remains, and the blanket of clouds above has slowly begun to slip back down to earth, exists as it does now, for me, alone.
But as I write this, I turn into something new. A memory, a story, something pretentious I tapped into my phone at the bus stop.
It seems these days my life exists only in processes. Learning, growing, moving, improving. For as much as I fear my own stagnation, Iâve never been stably at the end point of anything. Maybe it doesnât exist. Maybe thatâs the point of it, the point of me.
To see, to hear, to take within myself and change. Then to share it again.Â
If I take all these little things, the yellow, the rain, and turn them into something new, then it becomes something else for someone to observe. Then they can do the same, and the cycle goes on endlessly. Autumn to winter; green to gone and yellow; clouds to rain; me to you.
Rated: G
ISAT
Loop & Siffrin
Words: >500
Warnings: Standard Siffrin Time Loop Melancholy
[Ao3 Link!]
Tiny fic I wrote back when I played ISAT!
---
What to ask�
You ponder over it for a moment. Thereâs a lot confusing you, but whether Loop will have helpful advice at all is a coin toss. Only, instead of being between Odile and Isa, back and forth all resulting in the same answer, youâre not friends youâre barely allies so quit worrying about itâ itâs whether youâll be mocked for even asking, or given the slightest thread of a lead to follow.
You shift your gaze towards the grass youâre sitting in, not wanting to look Loop in the eye while you ask.Â
âIâve been seeing myself around the House.â
âSeeing yourself?â
You explain to Loop the phantoms you can catch a glimpse of, just a few steps down the hallways. No one else seems to catch them, and thatâs the only respite youâve got. Only there for a moment, frozen in place. Always you, and only you. Alone.Â
âHmm, maybe theyâre a memory of some sort? A remnant of your past loops?â
Remnants? Thatâs what Odile calls the strange ones, the little oddly shaped sadnesses with the crests, with the burnt sugar smell and the wavering form.
You hesitate before speaking again.Â
âCould it be⌠a sadness?â
Loop reels back in amusement, and already you feel your heart sink in your chest. You asked a stupid question again.
âA sadness? Youâve been seeing versions of yourself and you think itâs a sadness?â
Loop raises an eyebrow, somehow, and asks in the same teasing tone as always,
âAre you sad, Stardust?â
Sad? Is that what you would call it?
This feeling, the heavy weight in your stomach that grows and grows each time itâs forcibly pulled out of you. Each time you see yourâ allies repeat the same things again, the same lines, the same pain. Youâve lost track of how many times youâve watched the hits collide, youâve heard the short gasps of pain from each of them so well they echo in your mind even now. The feeling in your mind, when with each passing moment, your memory distorts. You cup your hands through a murky sea and pull out more dirt and rocks, the same agonies in these loops fill up the spaces where before was. Before grows more and more distant, the static in your mind grows louder, for every word you look at it only grows from a buzz into a roar and it is all incomprehensible.
Would you call the feeling of that âsadâ?
No. That isnât the word for this.
You donât answer Loop, and they donât care. Youâre not sure they ever care about anything they ask you.
It doesnât matter. You're sure if there was a word for what youâre feeling, you wouldnât be able to say it.
