Work Text:
That almost sounded like…
No. This was the Dreamlands, it couldn’t be.
And—there it was again—a distant, melancholy cry from the East. Oh.
“Faroe… Faroe, have you lost all sense of direction?” Jane intoned, already resigned, as Faroe pivoted towards the sound. “Not that you had any to begin with.”
Step, two, three… the sand whispered under Faroe’s boots as she left Jane's provocations unanswered. She was glad for the ever-present layer of wind that flitted over the desert; it would erase their tracks as if they’d never existed. Was, already, erasing them.
“Fine. I lied.”
Nine, ten, eleven…
It was nice to be forgotten by the landscape. Oh—that's a line. Faroe rolled the words around her head, turning them silently over on her tongue. It’s nice to be forgotten by a landscape / So rough, it caresses…hm.
Poetry made the terrors of the Dreamlands just a bit less dreadful. If the Trader was an ass, at least he peddled the beautiful remains of this world's trash; if the forest's predatory darkness had moved with them, at least it embodied the past that clung to her and refused to let go. It’s nice… It’s… shit. So rough, she caresses / Like sandpaper, smooths—
“Faroe!”
A smile danced across Faroe's lips. “So you were saying, you lied about what?”
“You’d have a good sense of direction, if you actually deigned to follow it.”
“I am. Following it.”
She wished that the desert was something other than sand. It would be so much easier to just walk, instead of slipping down, back—
“You have a good sense of direction.”
“Thanks! That’s very kind of you to say.”
“Now would you please tell me what’s going on.”
Beat. Just to be difficult.
“That was a loon cry, and it sounded close. There’ll be water, probably? We could catch a bird to eat, blowtorch it.” She absently flipped Arthur's lighter, indulging a flicker of pride at her and Jane's invention. Hairspray-and-lighter-turned-flamethrower was, at the very least, more interesting than a gun.
“We ate a day ago, Faroe. This is just wasting time.”
“For you, maybe.”
Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty five… It’s nice to be forgotten by the landscape / I was never here / for her rough caresses… no. Huh.
Like sandpaper, she smooths / by choice, I erode…
Hopefully it would be a real loon, not some fucked-up Dreamlands abomination. A loon with teeth for eyes and tentacled feet. Maybe it would be possessed by some long-lost soul impersonating her father, speaking in tongues only Jane could understand.
Occult rumblings, but with a British accent. Faroe giggled.
“What?”
“Nothing, I—” Another loon cry announced the gentle rippling of wind upon water.
“Oh. Stop. You were right—there’s an oasis, the size of a small lake.”
“I’ll say.”
“The water is black and viscous, reminiscent of the moat in the underground city. It slopes almost imperceptibly upwards in a shallow dome and undulates gently; I would think it would pop at a touch if it weren’t for the reeds growing in the shallows. Pinpricks of golden light drift just beneath the surface like underwater fireflies.”
“And…?”
“There is a group of three loons drifting among the reeds. An additional two have settled down at the water’s edge.”
“Most important information last,” Faroe observed without bite as she made her way forward. The sand felt thicker, coarser here; it crunched under her feet. “Tell me when I’m close.”
“Stop… here. They’re eyeing you warily, but they don’t seem alarmed.”
“They don’t know what I am, I suppose.” Faroe handed the hairspray to Jane, flicking Arthur’s lighter open. “Closest?”
“Five feet, 2 O’ clock.”
“Blow it, then we’re going to try and grab it.” She swung their hands together in a practiced move. Whoosh went the fire as Jane pressed down, and Faroe lunged—
Feathers, slipping under her fingers. Feathers slipping—
—under her fingers thrashed a wingtip. She was five and she'd caught a loon and the surprise meant
fear pain alarm allAtOnce
she instinctively tightened her grip instead of letting go (It’s biting me Dad, Dad, it’s biting me)
Arthur was there (You need to let it go, Faroe—)
with strong hands prying her stubborn
fingertips
open—
Faroe let go.
Her shoulder wrenched forward as Jane slammed the loon down into the earth (Faroe, what—) breath echoing harshly (Faroe, fucking help me goddammit, I can’t hold it—) and she brought her hand down and felt the crack and sharp stab of a skull under her fist (What the fuck Faroe) and spread her hands down and pinned the loon’s neck to the floor (tightened her grip instead of letting go)
It was dead.
“Faroe, why the fuck did you punch the loon.”
Its eyes popped, spilling slick across her knuckles.
“Fuck.” She lifted the loon limply up by the neck. Fluid trickled down her fist, and the pungent smell of singed feathers wafted up to her nose. “Why did we have to blowtorch it before catching it?” Heartbeat thud-ded in her ears.
“Because you wanted to.”
“Right.” She unflexed her fingers, not quite opening her palm, and the loon’s beak caught the top of her fist before dragging sullenly through the rest of her hand. Sand dulled the thick thud of its body flopping to the ground.
“Way to respect a carcass.”
“Oh, you’re one to talk.” Faroe followed it, thud, sitting heavily down. “Sorry.”
“Faroe…”
“I know, I know.” She laughed, hollowly at first, then with genuine mirth. “Killing a loon messes me up more than killing an actual person.”
There was silence, save for the gurgling convulsions of the wind as it echoed her laughs back at her. Distorted giggles scuttled around her ears before crawling away, sending the remaining loons afluttering across the pond.
Leech. Even her voice wasn't her own anymore.
Water sloshed gently, somewhere over near her feet. Sand stuck to the back of her neck. Faroe could just see the oasis, as Jane had described: a dark, gravity-defying dome, undulating up, down, up, down, swaying slightly like a water-bubble formed around the rim of a mug too full. Sometimes Faroe would overfill her cups on purpose and make a game of not spilling it—she’d place it down and lower her head, sipping directly from the center of its surface. Her father and Uncle Park had chuckled at her; Daniel had drilled the game out of her as soon as he could.
“Loons look kind of like priests.”
Faroe sighed. She could practically hear the gears turning in Jane’s head, and as tempting as it was to ignore her, she deserved more than Faroe’s frivolous defiance.
“I used to chase loons when I was little.”
“Oh?”
A tentative hope crept behind Jane’s voice, and Faroe softened. Sometimes she forgot how mindful Jane tried to be, whatever be the remnants of the King swirling through her mind. God, she was good. She sat up, passing her hands around for the fallen loon.
“It’s just under your knees. You stepped over it when you sat down.”
“Can you hold it? Down? Like that.”
With Jane pressing the loon into the floor, she began deftly plucking out feather after feather. “But yeah. I liked them more than ducks. Pitch black heads and funny little red eyes, of course I did.”
“Mmm.”
“There were only ever one or two in the city park’s lake, though. I’d only get to see more when my father took me every other Saturday to this forested pond just outside of Arkham. He’d help me crumble leftover bread into little balls to feed them, and once they’d all gathered, I’d have a go them.
“But then I actually caught one. Hell, I actually caught one Jane, and I had no fucking idea what to do. I reached my little hand out and grabbed onto a wing and started bawling because I was so frightened. This poor bird was just, pecking at me, probably thinking it was about to die, and it hurt but for whatever reason I just couldn’t figure out how to let go.
“And my dad stood awkwardly over me, shouting at me to release it.” She pitched her voice lower. “Faroe, let it go! Like damn Father I’m trying. It took him a frankly sad amount of time to figure out that he could actually do something while my hand got mauled, but when he did, he reached down and pried my fingers open.”
“That’s why you let go.”
“Yup.” She popped the p. “It’s like he finally filtered through after all this time.”
“Huh.”
“Mhmm.”
Her fingers scratched at filaments. The loon’s body was cooling now, skin puckering as she pulled away feather after feather.
“Do you still think about him?”
“I guess.” Another feather plucked, discarded. “I think about Uncle Park more, though.”
Plucked, discarded. Plucked, discarded. Plucked, discarded. Plucked—discarded, choked—
“Faroe—”
“No. You don’t get to be sorry. I don't either.”
“And why not.”
“Nothing's changing how you killed him with my hands.” It wasn't an accusation, really—just a statement long gone rotten.
After prying her fingers open, her father had drizzled water over the cuts and thumbed away the blood. Asked her if she still wanted to walk their hike around the pond like they usually did. Recited one of his goddamn poems at her.
I’ve got promises to keep, he’d said, raising his eyebrows towards the overgrown path and rattling what was left in the breadbag. And miles to go before I sleep. Come on. You’re okay. Say it too, hm?
“Forget it. We still have miles to go.” Faroe let the last feather drop to the ground and roughed her palm over the loon’s carcass. “We’ve wasted enough time here, so we better cook this thing and eat. Blowtorch.”
The loon was bad. She picked the meat off its bones, doing her best not to taste—and when they were done, she gathered them up and just. Threw. It felt good.
“Oh, Faroe—” Jane’s voice lilted, permeating with wonder. “do that again.”
A drumstick, hurled—
Splash.
“The underwater fireflies are swarming. They move in schools from all over the oasis as if of one mind, coalescing into the single point where the loon hit the water. It’s almost too bright to look at.”
“That’s… something.”
“Do you want to sleep here? It seems peaceful enough.”
“No.” Faroe dusted herself off and threw the rest of the loon in, allowing Jane one last parting glance towards the oasis before turning away.
“Alright then. Lead the way.” A pinky linked with hers, then a hand. “The blue sun is setting now. The cliffs are just ahead.”
Step, two, three. The wind would cover up their tracks again, and her presence would disappear save for some bones at the bottom of the lake. To be forgotten by a landscape—to be forgotten by the Dreamlands—well, it felt peaceful.
“Jane?”
“Yes, Faroe?”
“I have another poem for you.”
“Yes.” The hunger in Jane’s voice was something visceral, violent. Faroe tightened her grip on their hand, brushing over their wooden finger.
“To be forgotten by a landscape / Is to float, untethered. The wind / So rough, caresses, / Like sandpaper, smooths. / And even as she strips my flesh away, / Draws her tongue over my bones, I plead:
Please—
Erode me.”