Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is dark.

It isn’t that he is afraid of the dark. He is four years old, after all, and four year olds are very brave. He just…doesn’t like it, is all.

And so, one moonless night, he crawls out of bed and slips out of his room. Just a few doors down, candlelight spills into the darkened hall and he creeps towards the light like a moth drawn to flame. Inside, his mother sits before the vanity, running a brush through her long black locks. His father reclines on the bed, chattering quietly as he watches her work, content to bask in her presence on this rare night together.

They look so peaceful, so happy together, that he is afraid to break the moment for something as silly as being afraid of disliking the dark. He got to spend time with his father earlier, after all, hearing tales of the great house they would move to soon. He can manage the rest of the night on his own. He steps back, ready to retreat to his room, but his weight falls on that one creaky plank. He freezes, but it is too late.

His father’s gaze shifts to the door and lights up when it lands on him. In an instant, he is swept up in a hug, strong arms wrapping tightly around him. His mother joins them near the door, her hand settling in his hair, the concern in her golden eyes compelling him to admit the reason for his midnight visit. Before he knows it, he is bundled deep under the covers of his parent’s bed, his mother pressed close on one side, and his father on the other. They tickle him and tell him stories of fantastic lands where trees shed their leaves and ice falls from the sky. He laughs and laughs, and by the time his father leans over to blow out the last candle, he is already half asleep.

It is dark, but there is no room for fear when he is surrounded by love.

Chapter Text

It is dark.

It is a night made for blankets and braziers, for mugs of spiced tea and sneaking into his parent’s bed. Instead, he stands before the pyre, pressed to his mother’s side as the flames release his father to his next life.

The news had come days ago, a messenger whispering apologies and pressing a tattered, but familiar cowl into his mother’s hands. He had watched her dissolve into tears and listened when she told him what happened. He saw the neighbors come and go, felt their tender pats on his head, and ate the food they offered (though he did not taste it). He had seen the men ferry his father into the house; watched as they washed the blood and grime from the unmoving body and wrapped it in a simple white gown. He had helped to stack the kindling below the pyre, then clung to his mother’s hand as the flint was struck and the Mystic chanted the releasing ritual.

All along he waits, convinced his father would wake up any minute, laughing at the all the fuss around his nap and teasing everyone for worrying. He waits for himself to wake up, for his mother to smooth back his hair and for his father to mess it back up; their presence reminding him that the past few days were nothing but a terrible, awful dream. But as the flames grow and the smoke rises high in the sky, and his father still doesn’t wake up, it hits him all at once.

His father is gone.

Tears spill over his cheeks, his chest aching as he gasps for air around the sobs that claim his body. The flames burn hot, but all he feels is the aching cold inside him where his father used to be. His mother, who had stood pale but composed through the ceremony, crumbles at his grief. Dropping to her knees, she pulls him close, silent tears dropping from her face as they mourn together. There is nothing to say.

It is dark, and although they are together, they are alone.

Chapter Text

It is dark.

His mother’s grip is firm around his free hand, tugging him urgently along the street as the last of the daylight fades away. His shoulder burns as each jogging step jostles his left arm from where he holds it close against his chest, and he swears he can still feel pressure of the man’s meaty hand wrapped around his wrist as he tried to wrench him away from his mother’s grasp. He shudders at the memory and tightens his own grip on her hand.

He doesn’t know why they are running. He doesn’t know why they had to leave the cottage by the oasis and come to this place where the ground is green and the water tastes of salt. What he does understand is that stopping is no longer an option. The man had found them the first time they stopped, hoping to rest their feet and refill their water skins, and they had barely managed to flee into the crowd of pale-skinned strangers. When they finally dared to stop again, hoping to trade for some bread and clothes, the man was back and had almost taken him away, only letting go when his mother had raked her nails across his face. His gaze darts from the uneven cobblestones to the purple bruises rapidly darkening on his mother’s cheek, and he swears to the Gods he will never stop moving again if they will shield her from such hurts.

After what feels like forever, they finally escape the city. They hide in the hollow of a tree, watching the city gates closely for any sign of the menacing man. As the minutes pass and no one follows, they finally dare to breathe. Cloaked under the cover of the night, they creep further into the forest and find an abandoned camp site near a river. Pulling their supplies from the bag slung over her shoulder, his mother secures his injured arm in a sling of torn linen and rubs a salve into the finger-shaped bruises on his wrist, whispering apologies the entire time. One-handed, he returns the favor for the bruises on her face, then helps to fashion a crude shelter for the night. They huddle together under their blankets, taking comfort in each other’s presence until they finally drift to sleep.

It is dark, but for now the dark is safety.

Chapter Text

It is dark.

He clings to his mother’s hand as they follow a winding mountain path. The air is cool, crisp in the way only an early autumn night can be. A breeze snakes through the trees, shaking leaves turned the red and gold colors of sunset tumbling to the forest floor. Clouds fill the sky, stealing what light the waning moon may have offered to ease their path, but she walks with a certainty he hasn’t seen since they left the oasis behind.

He stumbles over a root poking from the path, but his mother steadies him on his feet. He is tired, and his wrist throbs, and his shoulder aches. He wants nothing more than to stop and rest, to take advantage of the relative safety of the night and sleep. But his mother whispers strength in his ear (“Keep going, love – we’re almost there!”), and he keeps walking.

It is dark, but the soft glow of torches coming from just over the next hill keeps him moving.

Chapter Text

It is dark.

It is a time of night when people are normally tucked in their beds, but it seems the sounding of the horn summons the entire town to the center square. Men and women, many sleep-mussed and draped in nightclothes, wander out from the houses and gather in small groups around them. Although by some silent agreement they do not approach, he can feel the weight of their eyes on his arm, on the sling; hear the whispers in his father’s tongue about the bruises on his mother’s face, and how their shoes are now more patches than cloth. He is not sure how to feel in this place – somehow neither welcoming or threatening – so he hides within the dusty silk of his mother’s robes.

Soon enough the crowd parts, and a small woman dressed in a dirt-spattered dress comes forth. Despite her humble attire, she brings to mind the Mystic of the oasis – aware of her authority, but gentle in its application. She speaks to his mother, asking where they had come from, and how they had found this isolated village. He can hear his mother answer, can feel her hand pressing him from his silken shelter into the torchlight. He sees the Mystic’s eyes narrow as they fall on his sling, on their bruises; sees her frown at the story of the man that chased them in the city.

“Please,” his mother pleads, her hand tightening in his hair as she bows, “We just want to get away.”

It is dark, but for the first time in weeks, that night he sleeps in a bed.

Chapter Text

It is dark.

He wakes slowly, reluctant to leave the wonderful dream of firelight, warm meals, and soft beds. Soon enough the sun would rise, his mother would wake, and they would be up and walking. But for now he savors the illusion of warmth and safety. It is not until the light of the rising sun forces his eyes open that he realizes the dream is reality.

He sits up, looking around the room the Mystic had brought them to last night. The space is at once organized and cluttered with books haphazardly stacked on the desk in the corner and crammed between knick-knacks in the shelves lining the walls. Sunlight drifts through lacy curtains, illuminating his still-sleeping mother. She is tucked under the mismatched assortment of quilts piled on the bed, more peaceful than he had seen her since they left home. He considers waking her but hesitates when he sees the exhaustion still etched in the dark circles under her eyes. Instead, he slips quietly from the bed, secures his arm in the sling, and heads to explore the rest of the house.

Their door opens to a hall made welcoming with colorful rugs and cheerful paintings. He creeps down the hall and peers into the rooms he passes, finding them in the same state of organized chaos as the one he left. In one, jars and pots are tucked into shelves and bundles of herbs hang from the ceiling. Another has a large map tacked to a wall and a desk scattered with piles of parchment. Other rooms are closed; although he is curious to their contents, he is even more drawn to the scents of spices and baking bread wafting down hall from the kitchen. He wanders towards the space, finding the Mystic pulling something from the oven.

“Good morning, little friend,” she greets, seeing him as she sets a golden pan of pastries on the table, “It’s good to see you up.” Suddenly nervous, his tongue stumbles on the words of greeting and thanks he wanted to offer. Even draped in a stained apron and sprinkled with flour, she still radiates that quiet power he saw last night, and he doesn’t want to offend her by saying the wrong thing. She must sense his struggle, for she smiles and pulls out a chair, “Are you hungry? It’ll be a bit before anyone else is awake, and I could use some company for breakfast.”

He nods, then clambers carefully into the chair she offers. His mouth waters as she places a pastry coated in honey and dotted with nuts on his plate. Part of him wants to devour it, to take the entire roll and stuff it in his mouth. But the rest of him knows better; it’s poor manners, his mother would say. Not to mention he knows from experience that filling an empty stomach so quickly never ends well.

And so he eats the pastry slowly, savoring the buttery flavors bursting from each bite. A mug of tea appears near his plate, hot and sugary and a perfect match to the rich taste of the sweet. It is delicious in a way that he had forgotten a meal could be. He wishes this moment filled with warmth and cinnamon could last forever, but inevitably the mug is drained and the last morsel of sweet bread consumed. He plucks at the stray nuts and crumbs dotting the plate, mourning the end of the meal, but before he can do more than consider retreating from the table, a small voice breaks the quiet of the kitchen.

“Mommy?”

He stiffens for a moment at the table; it seems silly now, but it hadn’t occurred to him the Mystic would share her space with others, let alone with a child. Like all her Sisters, the Mystic of the Oasis had no family, no children; only day servants, a garden of plants, and a menagerie of animals rumored to be more familiar than pet. He had never questioned the why of such isolation – all Mystics belonged to everyone and no one, their generosity and blessings transcending blood ties – but when he turns to see the child in the doorway, he is grateful this Mystic bucked tradition.

Just like her mother, this child carries the bearing of a Mystic. But while the woman glows like a beacon in the night, her daughter shines like the morning sun. She is young, yes, all pink cheeks and chubby fingers, but the potential is there, just under the surface. It shimmers in her hair, a flame banked but waiting to be fanned to life. It glimmers in her eyes, verdant pools overflowing with the nurturing power of the earth. And most of all, it blooms from her smile, a shy curve that welcomes him to her day, and pulls him unerringly to her orbit.

It is light, and today it means more than just the sun in the sky.

Chapter Text

It is light.

He learns the girl is a chatterbox, once she gets going.

Through breakfast she is quiet, gifting him her smile, but not her words. He can tell she is curious though, for her eyes keep flickering to him while she eats. He pushes distractedly at his empty mug and tries not to stare at the girl or the meal she consumes with abandon. She hums with delight at the taste (he agrees), honey smudging against her freckled cheeks and crumbs raining down on the simple linen of her nightgown. She must notice his gaze, for at some point she pulls on her mother’s skirt as she passes, and whispers something urgently. The Mystic smiles, and shortly after a second pastry appears on his plate and more sweet tea warms his cup. She disappears as he finishes the welcome addition to his meal meal, reappearing with a clean face, a simple cotton frock, and courage enough to speak to him.

“Do you want to play?”

He is surprised, but nods – he would never deny a Mystic’s request, even one so young – and they begin to play. He doesn’t know the game, but the child is more than happy to teach him.

At some point his mother emerges from her room. She smiles as she passes him, smoothing a hand over his hair and pressing a kiss to his forehead before joining the Mystic at the table. Soon enough, the sounds of quiet conversation fill the room as the women chat over hot mugs of tea.

The girl chatters at him endlessly, telling him the story of the tawny-haired doll he is assigned to direct – how the doll is a gift from her grandmother who lives in the town with the big castle. She sings a song she heard men singing at her grandmother’s home, something about a lady with holes in her stockings. He thinks it sounds silly, but not nearly silly enough for how much the Mystic and his mother laugh when they hear it. She talks about her own doll, a ragdoll with brick-red hair, for which she has been given the name “Aka”. She pauses mid-chatter to stare directly at him.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

“Oberon,” he offers, and he distantly notices the women stop talking.

“O-Over-Ober-” she attempts the name a few times, then shakes her head, “Too long.” She cocks her head, and offers a compromise, “I’ll call you Obi!”

“Obi…” he repeats, lips wrapping around the unfamiliar, but dear shape of the nickname, “Okay, I can be Obi for you.”

And with that, play resumes, and he learns his own doll’s name is Shima, and that she is best friends with Aka, even if Aka sometimes steals Shima’s clothing.

(He doesn’t notice the tears that rise in his mother’s eyes as he accepts the nickname. He doesn’t realize these are the first time he has spoken since he and his mother whispered comfort to each other for bruised faces and yanked shoulders. He doesn’t notice how the adults’ topic of conversation shifts, how the Mystic’s brows furrow in concern for their predicament, nor how his mother’s voice cracks as she describes that dark day.)

They continue to play, barely pausing to inhale some sandwiches at lunch, and before he knows it the sun is setting. They all share a warm, spiced stew with crusted bread and creamy butter for dinner, and although he longs to take in each moment, his eyelids feel heavier and heavier once his belly is full. His mother smiles and lifts him in her arms to carry him to bed. The little Mystic follows along, and somehow discovers he does not have a stuffed animal for the night. Offended, she huffs and shoves a well-loved bear from her own collection into his arms with strict orders to snuggle it tightly. He does as instructed, and whatever spell the child had placed on the bear must be strong, for he is asleep almost as his head hits the pillow.

It is dark, but for the first time in weeks, his dreams are light.

Chapter Text

It is light.

The days in the peaceful village pass swiftly.

He and his mother are slowly folded into the life of the village, the Mystic’s blessing apparently serving as all the proof needed by the others to welcome them in. Their dusty, travel-worn clothes are cleaned and packed away, silks swapped for soft linen and sturdy wool. His mother is drawn into the local tailor shop, her neat stitches and clever embroidery quickly gaining favor among the ladies. He tags along at first, fetching cloth and thread, or running whatever errands need running. He has never been good at staying still without good reason, though, and the shop’s owner is not impressed by his ability to scale the shelving. His skittering only increases once he receives the Mystic’s blessing to stop wearing the sling, and quickly after he is shooed towards the community garden where his energy might be put to some kind of use.

This turns out even better than he could hope, for it turns out the Mystic manages the gardens alongside her other duties. He feels spoiled to get to spend so much time in her presence, let alone that he is allowed to help her gather materials for her work. His days are made even better whenever the little Mystic-in-training tags along. She is too young yet to really help with the work, but her chattering helps him to learn the names for the workings of the garden.

The first day she is with him in the garden, he is put to work watering plots and pulling up small, unwanted plants that threaten to choke out the delicate herbs and steal nutrients from the crops.

“These weeds are the worst,” she bemoans, small hands tugging desperately at one of the undesirable plants, “Help me get it, Obi!”

“Yes, Yuvati,” he kneels and tugs the deeply rooted plant – the weed – from the ground. He hadn’t been sure how to address her at first, especially after she had gifted him with a new Name, and he knew better than to ask for hers in return. Yet Sahiba feels too large for one so mall, so he figures a title just a hair smaller would fit well enough.

Another day he helps to dig up purple and orange tubers from the ground. They look a bit like aaloo but he lacks the word in his father’s tongue.

“Carrots!” the little Mystic contributes excitedly from her place beside him when asked for their name, where she is occupied brushing the dirt from the carrots before placing them in a basket. She starts to talk about the different kinds of foods prepared from the colorful roots, but he can’t help but be distracted by the soil he works in. He has never seen dirt so dark and moist, and he wonders how powerful this Mystic must be to bless such a wide swath of land.

“Mama, can we make a carrot cake tonight?!!”

And with that, his attention is back on his little Mystic, (respectfully) demanding details of the forthcoming dessert.

(The carrot cake, he discovers later, is excellent, with deeply spiced batter, dried fruits, and sweet frosting.)

One day, they work together to pick and clean small green fruits called “cucumbers.” He is skeptical at first, (“They are green, Yuvati, how can they be ripe?”), but they are crisp and cool, tasting of sweet water in a way that reminds him of the oasis. He feels as though he could eat the entire crop, if given the chance, but apparently their taste can be made even greater.

“We make pickles,” the Mystic explains, guiding her daughter’s hands as they gather other components that will apparently also go into the pickle spell, “and they will last long into the winter in addition to tasting good.”

“As you say, Sahiba.” He is a bit skeptical that anything could improve upon the fresh, cool cucumber but who is he to question great magic?

And so he and his bear head to bed that early that night, eager to begin the next day’s pickling. The Mystic helps them to tie kerchiefs around their faces, shielding them from the sharp scent of the potion brewing in her pot. As the potion bubbles away, he works with the little one to stuff glass jars full of the cucumbers, herbs, and garlic, although they spend about half of the time making funny faces at each other by widening their eyes and raising their brows. Soon enough though, their game ends as the potion is completed, and the Mystic pours the hot liquid into the jars before capping them off. They repeat the process for several more hours, until finally the processing is done, and they open the windows to let out the strong smells of brine and pickling.

But even when the odors have left and the home has been refreshed by the mountain breeze, he finds himself still wearing the kerchief, gladly coerced into play before dinner. They take turns playing thief, and then genie, and then sorcerer, roles ever changing until neither of them can quite remember the game anymore.

He notices his mother’s return, and greets her with a hug, reveling in the touch of her once-again unblemished hands in his hair. He tells her about his day, chattering about cucumbers and pickling and their genie game. He notices her smile but doesn’t quite catch the prayer she offers the Gods in thanks for this peaceful interlude. And then it is time for dinner, and they are herded to the table, and he finds that pickles are even better than cucumbers, especially the set brewed with mirch (“Eww, chili peppers!”) the Mystic pulled from her secret cabinet.

The little Mystic does not like the special pickles as much as he does, and he can’t help but laugh when her face grows nearly as red as her hair when she tries them. She pouts at his teasing, but all is forgiven when he offers to always take the spicy ones from her plate in the future. For dessert, they share a slice of the sweet carrot cake, and he slides to bed with his belly full. Snuggling into his mother’s side, he hugs his borrowed bear tightly as he drifts to sleep.

It is dark, but his world is made light by battered bears, carrot cake, and spicy pickles.

Chapter Text

It is dark.

He doesn’t remember everything, but he knows it ends much like it began. The horns blare and he jolts awake, blankets and bear tumbling from him as he looks for the source of the sound. The townspeople, mussed with sleep and garbed in nightclothes, gather in the square, chattering nervously until one of the town scouts comes to the Mystic. He can’t hear what the messenger says, but he knows it can’t be good.

He hears the crowd get louder. Groups draw together, seeking news and counsel in the uncertain situation. Another scout returns, and the men disappear into their homes only to return minutes later fully dressed and well-armed.

The Mystic speaks to his mother, and he sees the color drain from her face. She wrings her hands – a nervous habit she had just barely shed in this place – and speaks urgently. More adults gather around the women, voices rising to debate what should be done.

He is herded inside by his mother. He listens to her instructions to dress in his warmest set of clothes and the sturdy set of boots he had been given. He helps his mother pack their belongings into their bags, clothes and tools and the few precious things they had managed to grab on their flight from their oasis home.

The Mystic appears in the door, a linen-wrapped parcel clutched in her hands, just as his mother carefully settles the smaller bag across his barely-healed shoulder. 

“Please stay,” she says, and he wishes he didn’t know what his mother’s answer would be, “We can hide you here, keep you and your son safe.”

“Thank you, but we can’t,” his mother’s hands shake as she fiddles with her own bag, but she meets the Mystic’s gaze head on, “We have put you at too much risk already.”

“We are used to risk here,” the Mystic says, but sighs with resignation. She holds out the parcel, “For the road – some bread and cheese, some of the fruits we’ve dried, and a few jars of healing salves. It’s not much, but it will keep you through the start of your journey.”

His mother takes the parcel and bows deeply. He does the same, for it is the least he can do for all the peace this far-flung Mystic has brought into their lives, “Dhanyavaad Sahiba; we are forever grateful for your assistance.”

And with that, their time in the village is over. As they prepare to head out, on their own once again, he can’t resist the urge to take just one last look back. It had only been a few short weeks, but this place with its green ground, purple carrots, and overflowing kindness had started to feel something like a home. And unlike when they left the oasis, this time they left not only a place, but a person.

He realizes then that he didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.

It is dark, and the forest path seems to grow darker with each step away from the village’s light.

Chapter Text

It is dark.

The lack of light is one downside, he supposes, to his present hiding place. The upside of his hiding place, of course, is that it hides him from the lookout. Of course, that lookout hadn’t done a very good job looking out, as he hadn’t noticed them infiltrating the warehouse until his bumbling partner had dropped half of the goods in the loudest way possible. The tawny-haired girl is new to the game, and very lucky that this is far from his first job. He made her an opening to rush off with their mark, and then led the lookout and the city guards on a merry chase around town. It will be a while yet before they give up looking for him – this job is not the first he’s taken against this particular shipyard – so he figures he may as well make himself comfortable. Or as comfortable as the inside of a barrel can be, at least. He could have sworn this very same barrel was roomy enough just a few weeks ago, but now he can barely cram himself inside.

This is hardly the worst place he has been, however, and he is fairly confident he will be able to get away this time, so he tries to count his blessings.

He is glad, at least, that he’d managed to let the new girl get away. There is something about her – the freckles maybe, or perhaps the copper tones in her hair – that reminds him of another. He hopes that girl forgave him for disappearing. For leaving the teddy bear she had so kindly gifted him on the ground in his borrowed room. For stumbling over the pronunciation of carrot, and rudabega, and turnip. For never saying “goodbye,” or “thank you”, or any and all of the things that he should have said.

Then again, perhaps she forgot him.

Part of him thinks that might be for the best if she forgot. Sometimes he wishes he could forget. He fears even more that he will forget; that the shape of his mother’s smiles in that town and in the oasis before it, will slip away, becoming blurred and indistinct like his recall of her voice. Bittersweet as they are, his memories of his mother in the village are better than… well. The other ones. His hand reflexively reaches for his pocket, to clutch at the shining bauble that is his last physical connection with her. He could never bring himself to pawn it, no matter how much his hungry stomach might protest. There were too many memories of his parents (twinkling eyes and sparkling gem and silken strands swaying to the rhythm of their dance) captured in the ornament to part with it.

His mouth dries and his eyes begin that telltale burn, so he shakes himself from his musings. He had long ago learned that in this place tears won him nothing but disdain. There is no one here to soothe him, no gentle touches to brush the tears away. His only choice is to push them down, shake it off, and get on with the next moment, the next job, the next day.

He turns his attention back towards the sounds of traffic outside. He can still hear people walking by, but there is less urgency and importantly, no sounds belying armed sentries. Slowly, he pushes up on the lid, poking his head up to peer over the lip of the barrel. He looks up and down the street, searching for any signs of the city watch or lingering traps. Seeing nothing aside from the usual bustle of the town, he decides it is safe enough to head out. He has a partner to find, loot to double check, and a well-earned bounty to claim.

It is dark, but he keeps moving forward, filled with the memory of light.