#jack vessalius

carlyraejepsans:

god grant me the serenity to ignore people who misread my blorbo, the courage to ignore people who misread my blorbo, the WISDOM to ignore people who misread my blorbo

panvani:

panvani:

I’m still so sad over Tomo Kimura translating Jack’s really overfamiliar speech pattern the way she did. Not that the “hello fellow teens” English speech pattern she gave him isn’t incredibly funny but he’s soooooo much more a “calls a man his age he just met ‘darling’” kind of dude

Japanese is a fun language

Seguir leyendo

See no difference

Vanity and Wax (Ao3|FF.net)

Fandom:Pandora Hearts

Summary: The black feathers my be Glen’s crown, but they’re Oswald’s chain.

Notes:This was written for @phmonth2021, Tragedy Trio Day 7 prompt: Feather. Sorry it’s so late!!

I really liked this prompt and wanted to see if I could take it to a darker/deeper place. So…have some more Oswald angst!

 I hope you like it! It would mean a lot if you could tell me you enjoyed it in the comments!

(By the way, the title comes from Alesana’s album title “On Frail Wings of Vanity of Wax”)

*

What do you think of when you think of feathers?

Soft and light, surely. A gentle thing, floating down. A patchwork of flight. Separate they are merely a collection of little useless trinkets. But when sewn together with vanity and wax they allow little hollow boned things to fly.

Such a beauty. Soft, harmless, and benign. Tied to the backs of angels and songbirds and hope.

For Oswald they were something altogether more foreboding.

The feathers he knew were black. They were attached to birds, yes, but not the little ones who sat in trees and sang songs. Rather, ones who beaks spit fire, and whose wings called chains. Well, three birds, one creature more akin to a monster out of a fairy tale, and another something in between.

Perhaps this was just a sinister fairy tale after all.

He didn’t like the ceremonies. But he would never tell anyone that. He had no choice but to through them. It was a great honor.

There was no blood relation, no heredity. But he was the successor all the same. It wasn’t a job he could just refuse. Puppet strings. Something like destiny.

We like to think of destiny as some divine inspiring force, but maybe in the end, all destiny is the puppet strings we don’t like to admit are there.

For other kings and princes and dukes, succession is a grand and wonderful honor. It happens once, when they come of age. A harmless, gallant and gallivant affair. Like a bird being pushed out of the nest, discovering his light and gentle and marvelous feathers allow him to fly.

Whoever heard of a prince having more than one succession ceremony?

Oswald would have five, each more bloody than the last.

The first happened when he was very young. He drank the blood of the Raven, and accepted its fire into his veins. Raven was gentlest, that’s why they always started with him.

The mark appeared on Oswald’s chest then, and he wouldn’t tell anyone but his sister than he cried that night, and didn’t know entirely why. But it felt like something in him had died.

The feathers fell the day, like ink splotches on the floor, on the pages of his life. Inerasable. Sealing his fate.

These feathers didn’t allow him to fly. These feathers were Chains.

The next, a few years later, was the Dodo, and though the boy’s eyes had always shown him much more than anyone else’s, the illusions told him this wasn’t all sane, or the same. That sometimes people lied.

That would be an important lesson to remember later.

The next was the Owl. The little creature with the big, starlit eyes, and the night’s wings.

The darkness suffocated.

And the feathers. Every time. Always the feathers. At the end of the day, all that was left wasn’t the fire, or the illusions, or the dark. It was the feathers, like a hole in the pages, revealing the truth of who he was becoming. He may be becoming a thing with wings, but they were flightless wings, merely for decoration, and intimidation, like the eyes on the backs of a moth’s.

Next to last was Gryphon, the one that allowed him to open the way. It was bigger and scarier than the first three, but he accepted it, tamed its blood, like the rest.

The last: Jabberwocky—(and it’s true, this didn’t make any sense at all)—the one that’d allow him to erase all his sins.

It looked altogether monstrous that day.

…Or maybe he did.

He drank the blood, and he looked at his sister—a flower bud, disallowed to bloom—and he raised his hand to her forehead, and he tried not to break.

He was the prince of the breakdown. This was the price of the crown. Sometimes one must put down their family for their profession in the end.

The feathers sprinkled the world like blackened snow as the chains ran her through.

And she smiled, and she said something he couldn’t make out. Her spirit may have been devoured that day, but the ghost of her unspoken last words would roam these halls until he was torn apart.

The feathers were all that was left of her when she died.

The feathers became his mark, as they had been his predecessors; the knowledge that Glen had been here, and had done something wonderful, and possibly terrible. The moth’s eyes.

He didn’t have to use them often, but sometimes there were deals, and duels, and neither were quite fair.

He always won. It was five against one after all.

—(Until that day. When that one was a bloody black rabbit)—

When others saw those feathers, they saw the seal of a noble king. The proof that he flew, and he fought, and he knew, knew everything, knew a little too much—(Do I really know anything at all?). They were the signet that he was Glen, a more telling mark than any brooch, medallion.

When Oswald saw those feathers, he could only see Lacie’s blood, like melted wax.

Sometimes he even thought he saw a drop of red in the black, until he understood it was nothing more than the memory of her eyes pooling in his brain.

He used them all the same, and he tried to remember that these feathers were his crown.

The only day he saw them as something different was that day. The day when the Chains that held the world together came down, and the sky was falling. He sent his Chains to hold it back up, their feathers a trail of hope for any who came across them, knowing that the five would use their wings to hold the sky up if that’s what it took. He rarely had to use all five, nor understood why he needed so many. On that day he understood. On that day…they were beautiful.

But, sending them into the fray left their master defenseless and exposed to friends, and their scythes.

******

The family held each others hands tight, sweat carving tracks across their skin, breath shallow as a tide pool. They didn’t understand what was happening, but the Earth was shaking, and Sablier was burning.

They ran through the streets, unsure where exactly they should go—and, clearly, neither did anyone else—just trying to get away, wherever that may be.

A building crumbled before their eyes, falling with a deafening thud upon the street before them to a chorus of screams, and they skidded to a halt, looking all around.

The mother looked to her husband for guidance, and the father tried to look brave, like he knew where to go next, but pain and panic was infecting his eyes.

His daughter held tight to her parents, trying not to cry.

Even the son, who always liked to seem brave, bit his lip as he looked up at his parents.

But what could they do? Everything was falling apart, and no one had any idea why, or where to go. What hope was there? They didn’t even know which direction to run towards.

As they were standing there trying to figure out where to go next, and not lose hope, a great gust of wind rushed by them, and drifting down to them upon the ashen air, the light shape of a black feather.

“Papa what is this?” The daughter asked, reaching out to catch it.

“It’s Glen-sama,” he exhaled.

He looked into the horizon to see the wings of a great and terrible beast; a Chain that in that moment was the personification of hope. He wrapped his arms around his family, both a smile and tears breaking out across his face.

“He’s going to save us.”

Glints (Ao3|FF.net)

Fandom:Pandora Hearts

Summary: The color silver shows up a lot during Oswald’s life, namely in the form of sharp things. Only at the end does he understand the color’s true nature.

Notes:This was written for @phmonth2021, Tragedy Trio Day 1 prompt: Silver. Sorry it’s so late!!

If you liked this fic, please consider commenting!! You have no idea how much your comments mean to me. They make my entire week, and motivate me to keep writing stories like this!!

*

Silver glinted in the moonlight. Little Lacie smiled, mischief in every motion, and rushed at her brother.

Oswald nearly lost his balance dodging her jab, shutting his eyes and swiping feebly at air thereafter.

When he opened his eyes he saw she was standing there, raising an eyebrow as if to say Really? At least give me a good fight.

He righted himself, standing up straighter, holding out the sword to show he was ready, trying to actually feelready…and ended up wincing and bracing himself as she rushed at him.

“Come, nii-sama.” She lowered her sword. “You have to at least try to fight back!”

“But…I don’t want to hurt you.”

She smacked him on the rear end with her sword, making him jump.

“You’re not gonna. And I know that’s not the real problem. Now really try this time. I’ll even let you take the first swing.”

He took so long to situate himself in the right position that she rolled her eyes. When he swung she smiled and parried his move.

He tried to think, and think fast. He went for her side, she parried that too.

“How did you get so good at this? I don’t recall Glen-sama teaching you.”

“That’s because I taught myself!”

When she made her own attack he shut his eyes and raised his sword, and was surprised to find it struck against hers.

He opened his eyes to find she was grinning at him.

“Practice,” she said like he’d answered his own question. “Just like you’re doing now. That’s how.”

The small victory, added to his sister’s encouragement, gave him newfound confidence.

After a series of attacks and parries, she put her leg behind his to trip him, taking his sword as he went down.

“That’s not fair!” He spluttered.

“Looks like you still have much to learn, nii-sama.” She smirked, crossing both swords. “But you’re getting better. Maybe Glen won’t totally crush you during your next lesson.”

******

As Oswald looked in the mirror, violet glinted in silver.

A new sort of darkness had overtaken his eyes.

Or maybe it was darkening at this moment.

Was it sorrow? Was it guilt? Or was it something more vicious than that?

He remembered. Silver was once such a beautiful color. Sword fights in the backyard at one in the morning when they were too little to hold the swords right. Treasure, teacups, music boxes, and clocks. The mirrors were merely there, never malicious with their words.

As he watched those chains pierce his sister and hang her suspended bloody in the air, and he spoke those cursed words, he thought that silver was a terribly ugly thing, holding reflections of even uglier.

In the days following, as he greeted the mirror in the mornings, he found it was no longer benign; its words were hissed, hurtful and malignant. His eyes looked like someone pulled the buttons off a stuffed animal’s face, revealing the holes and stitches behind them.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever see either the color silver, nor his own eyes, as something beautiful again.

******

Clanking, clashing, the glinting of sun off of silver.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Glen-sama!”

“And Jack!”

“Jack?”

“Jack Vessalius!”

“You know, that boy who’s always hanging around Glen-sama!”

“What are they doing?”

“They’re fighting!”

“Fighting?!” There was fear in the word.

“Not like that! It’s all in good fun!”

Jack jumped back sharply, sucking in his stomach, Glen’s blade narrowly missing.

Glen tried not to smirk, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, circling his friend like some animal intent on its next meal. He knew Jack didn’t stand a chance against him.

Jack curbed his any surprise with a smile, holding his sword up higher.

“If I didn’t know better I would have thought you were actually trying to kill me!”

Glen clicked his tongue as if to say Maybe you thought right.

When Glen came at him Jack blocked it just in time clanking dotting the air as swing after swing met each other in the air.

Glen’s next move nearly found its mark, but Jack ducked, rolling along the ground to avoid it. Before Jack could strike him in the back Glen’s sword met his once again.

Jack looked up at him, violet cast over his shoulder upon his friend like he was a small worthless thing.

Jack’s attempts to get back up found him kicked in the chest and relieved of his sword. Glen stepped on the blade for good measure, holding his own to Jack’s throat.

“I win again.”

******

The silver was drunk, drunk on red, seeing orange in dizzying displays. Orange and black, gold and red. Painted roses. Purity turned to dread.

Blood drained along his sword. The blood of innocents. Of women and children.

This was the name of mercy. This was the name of tragedy.

The green of Jack’s eyes stuck out like the only living plant in a greenhouse in which the rest of the foliage burned. He always thought those eyes held nothing but water, warped reflections, and masks.

As he held out his sword, he saw his own violet eyes too. He saw them in mirrors and each day, but this was perhaps the first in a long time darkness there didn’t convict him of wrongdoing, but rather assured him he was doing right thing.

That didn’t make it any easier.

This was the work of a madman, a monster, who needed to be stopped at all costs. The damage mitigated as much as he could at least.

But that madman was his best friend.

Once he saw silver as a beautiful thing, as it symbolized late nights laughing, and early mornings singing.

Then, years later he saw it as a repulsive thing, far too sharp, too ravenous, too permanent.

Now, he saw it as somewhere in between. Sometimes the only thing that can fight the dark is with a sharper darkness, one that has been forged in the light.

That didn’t make it beautiful, but it made it something more than ugly.

The silver in Jack’s hand carved across Gilbert’s back.

Sweet, little Gilbert, who only wanted to help. Sweet, little Gilbert who never did a thing wrong. Sweet, little Gilbert who Glen always thought Jack was fond of.

That silver was teeth and tongue, and maybe it wouldn’t kill him, but it was enough to show the truth behind his best friend’s eyes.

He learned that day that silver was neither evil nor good. Silver is merely a lens of men, showing the truth behind the eyes, the appearance, the intentions. Reflections sometimes speak louder, truer words than real images. And that means the color can be both beautiful and terrible, sometimes at the same time.

And on that day, it was both sheer horror and a sheer relief when silver severed him to pieces.

******

But death, for Glen Baskerville, did not mean the end of him. His soul merely traveled, lodged itself within the chest of a young boy unable to face his own eyes.

He knew what that was like.

So afraid of his own soul, was he, that he put a silver sheen between his eyes and the world, so he could never see the world as it was, nor could the world see him as he was. The color convicted him; though it obstructed the truth, it shouted that very truth at him every morning he put them on.

And that boy was right to not want to face the truth, for once he faced his own eyes, all he could see was the dark. Once the silver revealed the truth of the boy’s identity, he could do nothing do stop Oswald, nor could anyone else. Oswald would fix the past, without a Chain, or the Abyss’ will, no matter the cost or casualty.

All would be set right. All the tragedy would be circumvented. A new world would be erected, one which was saved from all this blood, and in which silver would be but a benign color.

So on a certain day, centuries later, a day on which memories walked and nightmares daydreamed, he raised his sword above his little sister’s head.

He had killed her once before. Worse than killed her. At least now she could return to the world anew. This wasn’t some sort of previously unknown and umentioned evil act. He was just doing what he already did, except moving the date earlier in time. Early enough to rewrite his past crimes. To spare the rest of them the pain of his mistakes.

But silver is a lens and judge of men. Once you face the color, it will always tell you your true intentions.

He hadn’t been able to catch her last words, all those centuries ago, and he couldn’t stand it.

“Forgive me, nii-sama.”

She had looked at him that day—today—like she suddenly understood it all, and he couldn’t stand it.

Had she known? Had she known that her existence would be the cause of all this tragedy? Was that why she felt the need for forgiveness? Or was it something more than that?

As he grew up, had she seen in her brother, the eyes of a man who once raised a sword over her head?

Or—smiling fool—did she see today, in the man who raised a sword over her head, the eyes of her brother?

God he missed that smile.

This was the moment. The moment he’d been waiting for, longing for, hunting down. The moment when he’d set the entire universe, right.

But…the new universe may be right, but it would be one in which Lacie never got to spend those early mornings—(or late nights, depending on your definition)—teaching her brother how to sword fight.

This Oswald would never eat with his sister, or play with her, or hold her close when one of them had a nightmare.

This Oswald would never get to see his sister grow up to be a beautiful, and half mad woman, who ran about the world, giving broken men reasons to live, when they got into arguments.

This Oswald would never see his sister smile again, nor hear his sister’s laugh again, nor her beautiful singing voice.

This Oswald would never capture her song in a music box so that he could let it out on the days he felt saddest.

Silver fell with the snow.

I still have much to learn, don’t I?

Premonitions 

Fandom:Pandora Hearts

Character Focus: Glen (Oswald) Baskervlle, Jack Vessalius, Vincent Nightray, Gilbert Nightray, Kevin Regnard, Oz Vessalius 

Summary: Jack, Glen, Vincent, and Gilbert thought they were going on a relaxing vacation in the mountains, but a creature from The Abyss has a bit of an adventure in store…or is it a warning? 

(Written for the Phmonth19 Tragedy Trio prompts “Wolf,” “Ruins,” and “Winter.”)

(For those who’d like some Glen, Jack, Vince, and Gil cuteness. There’s at least a little of that here, which was super fun to write. )

Notes: If you can believe it, this is actually a fic for Phmonth19! It was for the Tragedy Trio prompts “Wolf,” “Ruins,” and “Winter." 

I liked a lot of the prompts during Phmonth19, and wanted to find a way to use multiple simultaneously. I liked the idea, but ended up struggling with where I wanted to go with it, and having too much to do during Phmonth19, so it didn’t get written then. But I liked it enough to continue it and return to it eventually.

I hope you enjoy it even so!! Please know that when you comment you are both making my entire week, and motivating me to keep writing more fics like this one!!

Premonitions

A young boy weaved in and out of the crumbling artifices, hopping down from a half-broken wall to a mossy ledge on a lower level of the ruins. It was probably a room in the past. It wasn’t now.

They’d warned him not to go in here. But if forbidding something was incentive for most kids, it was practically a command to him.

They told him it was dangerous, unsafe, that anything could fall and crush him, or crumble beneath him, not to mention that there was a sort of energy here: it infected people, made them into madmen and monsters, and if said monstrosities didn’t attack and kill you…you might just become one yourself.

As if he needed a better invitation.

Most regretfully, he hadn’t found any horrifying monstrosities yet. Just a bunch of cracked stones and sewer rats looking for corpses to clean off. Occasionally something shimmered in the dirt, but more often than not it was just a rusted piece of metal, or cracked bit of glass.

He kicked up a board to see a dagger laying there. He frowned, considering it, before picking it up, examining the details on the hilt. Might make a nice souvenir if he could manage to clean the rust off.

He couldn’t help but wonder what happened here. People said this place was dropped into the Abyss, that it had become a hole to swallow all that dared to enter. But what exactly did that mean? He’d heard of the Abyss, and the Chains that lived within, but never of anything other than sinners being dropped into it. What kind of atrocities had everyone there committed to warrant the whole city being dropped into the Abyss?

He kicked another rock, before glancing up, his red eyes widening.

A wolf sat in front of him.

He hadn’t even heard its footsteps. It just sat there on the wall above him, swishing its tail. He took a few steps back.

It was gold and ethereal, its tail long and wispy, like a gust of wind frozen into flesh. Said tail flicked back and forth. White eyes left trails in the air—like slits in a mask, only letting the golden light inside it break through the eyes—yet they held no mal intent—(he’d learned to be able to see that, to feel it, almost). It seemed intelligent.

Was this one of the monstrosities they warned him about?

His hand tightened around the dagger.

The wolf stood, but after it took a few steps forward it looked over its shoulder as if to ask “Are you coming?”

The boy took a step forward himself, to run after its disappearing tail, compelled by some inclination; he knew he ought to follow it, that it wanted to show him something.

“Kevin!Kevin!” A familiar voice called from far away. “I’ll not have you sullying the Regnard name with another one of your insolent games! If you get eaten by some Chain you’ll only have yourself to blame!”

When Kevin looked back the wolf was gone.

*****

Jack breathed deeply through his nose, as he entered the cabin, then breathed out just as noisily.

“Smell that mountain air! I just love the snow, don’t you? I always feel like something’ amazing is going to happen!”

Glen rolled his eyes, dropping their bags—(which Jack had made him carry inside, citing the fact that he was carrying Vincent).

“Say, Jack…” the boy sitting on his shoulders spoke, “do you think we’ll see the northern lights up here?”

“I don’t know! …What do you think, Glen?”

“Probably not.”

“Aww!” Vincent pouted, bumping his fist on Jack’s head.

“Ow!” Jack reacted in an over exaggerated way.

“Eh! I’m sorry!”

When Jack had found out about the cabin the Baskervilles owned in the mountains he knew it would be the perfect place to spend a few days relaxing and playing in the snow—and what better way to remember how to have fun than to bring Gilbert and Vincent along?

When Jack brought up this idea, Glen had blatantly refused. Ever the responsible leader, Glen didn’t take vacations from his duties. But lately he had started having conversations with the rose bushes, and everyone agreed he could stand a few days off.

Glen was just starting to unpack their stuff when—

“You guys want to go sledding?” This was Jack’s voice, of course.

It was a resounding “yes,” from the kids, complete with jumping up and down and shouting.

“We just arrived,” Glen grunted. “Wasn’t the point of this trip to relax?”

“And what better way to relax then hurling yourself down a snowy mountain on a thin piece of wood?”

Glen blinked. “Reading.”

Jack grabbed his arm, pulling him out into the snow. “Don’t be such a fuddy duddy. Come on!”

Glen glared at his friend as he promptly dragged him off into the snow.

Soon they were flying up to the tallest hill they could find on Raven, then, after they successfully reached the top, they proceeded to push each other down it on sleds, with much giggling and whooping (from everyone except Glen). When they reached the bottom, they would fly back up on Glen’s chains—(who seemed to enjoy the show).

At one point, a little while into the festivities, Vincent was waiting for his turn when something in the corner of his eye flickered. He turned to see in the woods, behind a tree, a creature.

Vincent froze when he met the wolf’s gaze, a shiver running up his spine, more than just the cold, his face twisting in fear.

“What’s wrong, Vince?” Jack put a hand on his shoulder, glancing from the terrified boy to the empty air he was fixating on.

The wolf ran in a figure eight around two of the trees, brushing up against them, its form leaving tracks in the air. Then it paused again to stare at the boy with white, smoky eyes.

It didn’t look completely there.

Vincent pointed shakily towards it.

Jack put a hand on his shoulder. “…Where?”

He pointed more emphatically.

“I’m sorry Vince, I…I don’t see anything.”

“What’s going on?” Glen asked, hopping off Raven and landing beside them with Gilbert in a flurry of black wings.

Vincent just kept pointing, his finger a vibrating signal.

Glen’s eyes widened.

“What is it?” Jack demanded.

“It’s a wolf. Or at least…” he paused, noticing the strange color, and misty nature of the creature.

“I don’t see it,” Gilbert said softly.

“That’s okay,” Jack crouched down by him, “Neither can I.” He stood back up to his full height, reasoning with Glen, “If you two can see it, and we can’t…”

Glen nodded at him, before taking a few steps forward, and finishing the thought:

“I think, more likely than not, its something from the Abyss.” He squinted at it, watching it playfully thread the trees. “I think it wants us to follow it.”

Vincent tensed at the idea.

Glen looked over his shoulder, his eyes flicking to the boy. “I can always go after it by myself if you’d like to return to the cabin.”

“Oh it’ll be fine! Don’t worry!” Jack took the hands of both boys. “With Master Glen with us, nothing’s going to hurt us!”

Glen rolled his eyes, but Jack’s words seemed to comfort them.

Un-summoning Raven, Glen walked in front, the other three following a short distance behind.

When the spectral wolf saw they were going to heed its call, it moved further into the forest, always dancing around the trees as it waited for them to catch up.

They followed it quite some ways—(especially since they were tired from all the sledding)—until the trees stopped abruptly in a cliff edge. Jack had to put his arms out in front of the boys to keep them from walking any further.

As they raised their eyes, they saw across the gorge a plateau.

“I-Is it still there?” Gilbert asked softly, looking all around them.

Vincent and Oswald looked around but the wolf wasn’t anywhere close to them.

“There!” Vince pointed after a moment. The wolf was across the gorge, weaving in and out of a stone ruin on the plateau.

“Are you sure that’s safe?” Gilbert asked nervously. “Maybe we’ve followed it far enough…”

Glen had already summoned Jabberwocky, and was currently climbing on its back.

“You coming?” He asked the group flatly, holding out his hand.

The three glanced at each other, before Jack helped the kids onto its back, and hopped on himself. Jack hugged the boys tightly, as Gilbert held just as tightly to Glen’s coat.

The wind was cold and biting as they flew through the air, but the ride was very brief, and they landed moments later in a puff of dust in the center of the ruins.

“What is this place?” Jack asked the air, and no one answered.

They ventured cautiously into the ruins, at first sticking together, but soon curiosity overtook them, and they each wandered in separate directions, captivated by different rooms. The place wasn’t too vast though, and thus didn’t allow them to stray too far from each other.

Glen found the throne room, or where it most likely once was; a huge empty room in the center of the ruins, empty, save for the collapsing chair, backed by the skeleton of a large window, holding broken pieces of colored glass. He slowly marched up to it, running his fingers along the ghost of the chair, looking out the window at the now frozen water far below, wondering what sort of king ruled here.

When he turned around, the wolf was sitting in the center of the room, swishing its tail at him. Glen was sure it wanted him to understand something, but he couldn’t quite discern what.

He noticed at the side of the room there was a large structure. At first he mistook it for a collapsed bit of wall, but upon closer inspection, he realized it was a piano. He set his fingers on a few of the notes, but they only gave a croak.

It’d been too long.

He lifted his head and raised his voice to ask the wolf about the place, and learn if it could respond, but it had moved on.

Gilbert found the old kitchen, the food there long since turned to compost for rats and roots. Then he found the servants’ quarters not too far from there, full of rotting bedframes and hungry mice, wondering what sort of servants were here, and if their king was as noble as Glen-sama.

He didn’t see the wolf pass beneath the doorframe behind him.

Vincent found a room that likely belonged to a child. It was faded, but there was paint on the walls: designs of flowers and vines. He almost stepped on a clay sculpting of a bird that may have served as a toy, once.

On a broken dresser he found a box which, once opened, turned out to play music, the notes discordant after years of rust and neglect.

He thought he saw something else, and lifted up the half-bug-eaten board. He immediately dropped it, wishing he hadn’t, the something that was there making him cover his mouth in shock and horror.

He felt a nudge at his back, and almost screamed, whirling around to see the wolf behind him. Fear glued his lips, welled his eyes with tears.

The wolf cocked its head to the side, as if confused by his fear. It licked his hand, and Vincent drew back, though it felt like a brush of wind.

“W-W-What do you want?!” He stammered.

But he could not understand the wolf’s words.

Jack descended a staircase a bit further out of the way and found—more in tact than much of the buildings—a dungeon.

It was a large stone room, lined with cells, sectioned off by rusting bars. He pressed one open with a creak and found an empty room, and a skeleton. He continued on until he found one without a skeleton, whose bars were bent, as if the person within had managed to escape through them. He entered through to find there was a journal in this one. He picked it up, brushed and blew off the dust and frost, the pages just as creaky and unwilling to budge as the doors.

He sat on the floor where he found it and began to read. Many of the pages were too damaged by time to read, the ink fading, the pages crinkling and crumbling, but he could make out at least bits of the story. It seemed the writer was in love with a girl, but, due to her being the ruler of this kingdom’s queen, they could never be together. As the pages continued, the writer seemed to grow more and more obsessed with her; his phrases containing less and less sense and sanity. Jack couldn’t tell exactly how he ended up in the dungeon, nor how he apparently broke out—if the bends weren’t made by weather or time—but in his not-quite-sane state, he must have done something very stupid. Maybe a lot of things.

When the final pages became too illegible, he looked up and saw in the waning sunlight, the tally marks on the wall. As he began to dust and defrost them, he realized the whole wall was covered in them. He ran his hand over the grooves, thinking of how long this person must have been left alone inside himself, and what that might do to a person.

He couldn’t see the wolf pacing around his feet, reading over his shoulder, couldn’t feel the wolf trying to nudge him, nor hear the wolf try to ask him voicelessly: “Do you understand? Do you understand?”

“There you are.” A deep voice broke the silence, almost making him jump.

Glen was standing in the doorway, Vincent and Gilbert at either side of him—(Vincent clinging to his coattails rather tightly).

“Did you find anything interesting?”

Jack set the journal on the floor beside him, standing and stretching, yawning the words: “Not really, no.”

Upon noticing the pink light cast on the floor through the small window, Jack asked, “Do you think we should head back?”

Glen gave a curt nod, turning around to leave, and Jack ran to catch up.

*****

A young boy with golden hair and green eyes stood in the midst of a ruin; a caved in part of the city—or what once was the city.

After putting his hand to his chin in thought, and a good dose of looking around, he pulled a watch out of his pocket. When he flipped it open it began to play the soft tinkling notes of a somewhat sad song.

“I still don’t know what exactly happened here,” Oz muttered softly to himself, “but…I’m going to do everything I can to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

He didn’t see the wolf poking its head out from around a wall behind him, didn’t see its ears perk up, nor, now that someone had finally heard and headed its warning, hear its satisfied howl;

“Thank you, Dear Rabbit.”