Creak

What a curious twist of fate all this was.

The foreigner has appropriately found means for themself in Rodrik’s old room, sitting upright on the well-furnished mattress, a patchwork quilt draped over them, much like the poncho they already longed to see returned to them.

Emil had not quite mustered the courage to climb the stairs all the way, but they were able to take what sheets Kenna handed them down to their room. As they had done so, Etrika had wished them good night, but said little else. That last conversation stings like a fresh wound, and it must be stinging for her, too, but Emil is having trouble putting their fingers on why.

Granting Emil shelter is just an act of kindness for her. And her family is still helping them, despite their mistakes. That’s some relief, but… they were only curious.

Changing fruits is nothing to be ashamed of. So why did she lash out?

They turned onto their side, staring at the safe box that Kenna had left on the still dusty desk. The whole of the night was too much, too many courteous rules, too many welcomes and how-do-you-dos. Too many mistakes around an incomprehensible decorum.

But a voice in the back of their mind reminded them. When their energy was spent, they knew to try and rest, not to press further.

…That was, if rest would come.

They slide down into a supine position, gently, vertebra by vertebra. Emil’s limbs twitch unconsciously, as they try to find a good place to sit and settle in, double-checking with their eye that the door was shut.

The discomfort Emil feels this evening is deep, but not suffocating, not without the rest of the discomfort that Emil is regularly pushing down, that comes to the forefront when all else is silent.

The windstorm rattling the window is a familiar sound, and that was ultimately what allowed their mind to quiet. Emil had rested in beds before, though not quite as intact as this one, to wait out the motion of bad storms. It was considering this as familiarity that led to, if not restful sleep, at least it was sleep at all.

The storm will pass. The unday will pass. All of this pain will pass. Tomorrow will arrive. We need only be patient.

And knowing this, the light in the room darkens, until it is barely light at all.

---

There is a sudden crashing sound. Sparkling. Close.

Instantly, Emil springs up. Shaky, fast breaths. An all-too-familiar state: they roll out of bed, attempting to ignore the shape of their shadow, pull the knife from underneath their pillow, take cover behind the bed.

No apparent hostile, no vermin. They check under the bed, glance around their room. Shining crumbs on the windowsill catch their eye, and this is when they can identify what is going on.

The corner of the window is partially shattered, spidering out from a point of contact, as though something kicked it: were it not three meters in the air. Beyond it is the dark, bristling trees and threatening clouds. Through a hole about the size of their palm, the wind whistles incessantly, and leaves flutter through, the outside filtering inside. The weather is making itself known.

Their heart catches in their throat, and with all their might their body tenses up. They want to flee from this house, flee from a danger far, far too close. Wake the others, grab their stuff, and as fast as possible, out the door—

They stop themself.

An exhausted sigh, half a groan. This is not a torment knocking at their window. It’s not even close.

Be sensible.

Emil’s hands unclench, their breathing stabilizing. They walk to the window and draw the curtains closed, and the draft is silenced. A chill still permeates the space as they return the knife to their pillow, and their body to the cot.

They are quite used to sleeping outdoors, yet somehow, the prospect of the inside being incurred upon only gives them the most terrible shudders.

They think of relocating, then set that thought aside. There’s probably not anywhere empty that’s as comfy as this room in the house, and the covers are already warm. They’ll just have to bundle in the sheets a little tighter.

The thought would sound comforting if it didn’t make Emil reflexively gag, imagining all of the touching…

---

Above Emil, something bumps. The ceiling shuffles with dust, and for a moment, they stifle a cough, and their eyes blink, confused.

Creeeeeaaak...

A floorboard echoes from the ceiling. Who is awake right now? Or up there? Emil knows themself, that the adrenaline is not going to let them rest for some minutes. They want to know what that is.

They again clamber to their feet. The window does not stop whistling behind them as they again draw the blade from their pillow, wrap themselves in their tattered poncho, and step beyond the room’s quiet threshold.

---

A glance down the hallway reveals the depths of the dark and silence. The Walbravir household was… well, it strikes Emil for the first time that this may be the first home where they actually knew who lived there.

At this point, Emil knows the drill. Stepping lightly and quickly across the floorboards, they are almost a ghost passing through the hall, their knuckles wrapping around the knife’s handle as their eye rapidly adjusts to the familiarity of shadow. Every breath is a calculated motion, a balanced between hearing and being heard.

They did not know exactly why they had brought the knife, but upon reflection, it made perfect sense to them internally. Of course they would need to protect themself, if this was some vermin, or even a thief… yes, a thief who had used the tree outside to swing into a casual home invasion, whom was moving fast, on account of the noise…

They could hardly blame this hypothetical thief. This place would be a very juicy target to anyone from their homeland. But this was Emil’s turf, and so long as they could, they would want to prove to Etrika and her family that they were safe… if not prove that to themself.

The stairs whine quietly under Emil’s weight. They know not to weigh too heavily on each foot, head on a swivel (on account of the missing eye), though it was still difficult to do it appropriately. Emil tightened the poncho around them, hoping to obscure their position as much as possible.

As Emil climbs, the peaked roof of the attic comes into view, stealing a breath from their lungs. They are actually going up here. Boxes around every corner, the smell of dust and freshly-cut grass. At this juncture, they stop, stock-still, and wait to hear something.

The creaking continues. There’s a startled, silent breath. Jangling, like something metal clinking against itself… boots? A necklace? This thing does not appear to be making themself very quiet, at least upon initial inspection. This reinforces the theory of it being some kind of vermin.

Glancing down to take stock, Emil realizes they’re shaking. It’s been some time since they’ve… done this, specifically.

They glance through the banister (not that Emil would know that word, knowing such a feature only as a “climb-fence”), down towards Etrika’s room. They had a slight instinct to knock, to double-up, to get someone else’s eyes and ears here to help. Emil was trained well in scavenging alone, but had more recently grown used to working as a team, one checking for another...

The unbidden thought of their friends makes their mind spin even faster. If they descend back towards Etrika now, they might let this thing get away.

You can do it, Emil, speaks the memory of a friend.

Yes, they think back. I have to.

Emil’s feet move for them.

---

A light is cast from the far side of the attic. From the window: fresh morning light, it must be. Their eye squints into the glow to see a shape moving about up here.

A younger uuman, turned away from the stairwell. Their posture is fit, but staggered: overwhelmed, with emotion or stress. Both arms rested on the windowsill. They are wearing a poncho, just like Emil’s.

At their feet sits a strange box of things, and an emerald, inset in a brooch, which glimmered in the skylight, casting uneven mystical rays of green throughout the attic.

There’s a sound from below. A voice speaks in a language that isn’t familiar to Emil. Both they and this figure flinch.

The skylight outside is haze-filled, shaded by curtains, but its unmistakable blueness feels so unfamiliar. It feels so strange, indistinct. And it silhouettes both of them.

Emil suddenly realizes that they are not standing behind any cover, as the figure turns towards them. The contents of that box at their feet seem shiny, cherished. A well-used notebook. A translator. A shining ring.

There’s a sudden recognition on the figure’s face.

The room seems taller, dizzyingly so. Emil lunges forward heavily, the knife swinging wildly outwards. The poncho flies from their own body, but that doesn’t matter right now. What matters is stopping this thief. Stopping—

The figure leaps backwards, and Emil stumbles. Their weight is uneven, their steps too hasty. The light in the room burns as the shadow takes advantage, sweeping a leg.

Emil’s body hits the wood, their chin knocked sharp against their skull. Their head is ringing.

But they’re quick on the defense: an upward swing, a kick with both legs. A direct hit with the latter sends the shadow scrabbling against crates labeled with older years. The shadow assumed their target clumsier, and was right: but a worse fighter, hardly. Emil has years of combat experience on this stranger, which is clear even as they had to improvise rising to their feet.

The atmosphere in here is oppressive, the beat of both hearts as one, heavy breathing. Emil almost wants to shout out, to call for a parley; but before they can say a syllable, the shadow is rising to their feet, crying out furious. A survivor.

Emil rushes towards this thief. They want to knock them out, maybe take them to the hor– community authorities… This isn’t a person that can be reasoned with right now. They were going to steal stuff that belonged to the people downstairs. They were going to make a huge mistake.

In haste, Emil misses the stranger drawing a knife.

A flash of silver with black chasing it. Emil yowls in pain, one of their…. Their sides… Bleeding profusely, spouting blackish-red… Why was their body betraying them, at a time like this? So vital… and now to be made to feel so painfully real… Grief.

The foreigner only just manages to lift their own knife before it is parried away by one that looks the same. Before something sharp finds their windpipe.

A pain so deep that it is barely felt, as their carotid artery splits open into a rooting network, like a tree whose roots are liquid. Like a plant, they drink, fed by Emil’s strength, in their moment of weakness. And so this life is made whole. The image fixes in their mind.

The light is darkening again. Flickering out. Steps upon the stairs. Emil is scared. Emil is scared and there is no answer. They failed. They are in pieces, their heart pure anger. They fade.

A strangled cry from both parties as a shape twists unusually, and slams into nothingness behind them.

And in some relief, all at once, it is over.

---

There are grunts of pain from the hallway. Etrika’s eyes blink open. The sky is not light out, yet, but she has barely slept, and the sound is enough to draw her awake.

Too much pans across her mind in full color. The day was painfully long, but the night felt longer. Before going to bed, she’s killed a few hours on her equations, but her scattered thoughts couldn’t pilot her pen. No new runes, no new operators, no new results. Not even a crossed-out attempt.

She, too, changed her fruit?

He… they said it like it was nothing. Like it didn’t define her relationship to all those around her. Like it was as easy, as casual as flicking a switch. People don’t change that fast. Nothing does. It’s not normal.

When rapid, unplanned change heavy of consequences happens, we call it a disaster.

I don’t want you to cause a disaster.

…This thought process is pain, for that to come back to mind. She must allay it before it carries her into darker territories.

Etrika and Rieli. They might not be normal, but they can be abnormal together. They are both okay to be this way.

Another grunt from the hall reminds her why she stirred from her shallow sleep in the first place. Maybe Emil is also stuck barely sleeping, and maybe this is her opportunity to apologize.

The wind, ever her comfort, gently whistles beyond her still dark window as she clambers to her feet. It was howling earlier, and now the quiet has become… unsettling?

Gathering her breath, she nudges the little automata clock on her nightstand. The timepiece, which she’d gotten from a museum gift shop a handful of years ago, took the form of a whirring mechanical chick inside an egg, who popped out its eggshell-covered head. It peeped before talking.

> IT'S [THREE] [BIRDY] [FOUR]! YAAAWN! WOW! YOU’RE EARLY TO GET THE WORM, I SAY, TWEETY-CHIRP!

You do say that, Etrika mutters quietly to herself, exasperated by the energy differential between herself and the toy.

> MAMA SAYS: DON’T WAKE ‘FORE THE SKY DOES! IF THE GODS CAN’T SEE YA, THEY CAN’T SMILE AT YA! CHIRP!

Etrika stifles a wry laugh as the little Clock-a-Doodle-Doo winds back into its egg. Never heard that one before.

The girl gathers her reading lantern from just aside her bed, igniting it, producing a tiny but usable amount of greenish light, ideal for seeing in the dark and little else. Hopefully it would be just enough to not appear as an intruder to a nervous guest.

With the lantern, and into the hall. She realizes the sounds are indeed coming from Emil’s door, as she both hoped and worried.

She glances around. She seems to be the only one of her family to awaken to answer this. Good. More alone time with Emil.

Emil? her voice whisper-shouts. Everything alright?

A terrible grunting emerges from within. Hyperventilation. Etrika nudges to knock on the door, only to find that it simply is not closed all the way.

Emil…?

The door creaks open to her touch. The lock on this door has always been a little too loose, and Rodrik moving out hasn’t motivated her parents to get it fixed. Etrika feels as though she’s being invited, if not by Emil then by the room itself. An incredibly rude entry, but… well. As long as they remain asleep, the crime remains without victim.

Just a peek.

She leans inside. The green light of the lantern mixes with the dark gray-blue, with some orange filtering in from the streetlamps outside. In it, in shadowed grayscale, she sees Emil. Their white hair, fallen over the left side of their disturbed face, agitates with their fast breath. They must be having a nightmare.

Their hands hold the sheets tight against their body, the comforter done up right. An arm is tucked under one of their pillows, while another of them drifts out the side of the sheets, a finger catching the moonlight from the windowsill. Their hands fidget, gripping the–

Her eyes go wide as her mind connects the dots.

Hold on, are those… two right arms…?

She leans a little closer, squinting into the dark. No, it’s clear, she did not miscount. Visible at least are, from two stacked shoulders, two… right arms.

The lump in the bed is fairly indistinct, but she can see more hands. One, two… three more than expected? Five arms…? At least two on each side, with three on their right for sure. Completely normal hands (one even wears a ring, glinting in the nocturnal light) in completely abnormal numbers.

Twitching in bed, all of the sheets move at once with Emil underneath them, like an oversized writhing insect.

It dawns on Etrika that she is seeing something she was not supposed to see. They’ve been hiding their body from her all day.

She closes her eyes, as though this would undo her voyeurism, but they open up again, almost on their own. Her body is stock still. She tries to look away, and do – to their face.

And what’s more, their face, not bearing the eyepatch they’d religiously kept on… where she was expecting to see simply a shut eyelid, or even some cotton… she instead sees two shut eyelids, vertically stacked, where their right eye should be.

A teratrauma victim, she realizes. These must be war wounds.

Her peripheral vision notices the lights of the night are bouncing on something sparkly, right at the base of the night stand.

There, what must’ve been a glass of water has toppled over and shattered, most likely from one of Emil’s involuntary gestures. That must’ve produced quite a sound.

Etrika shakes her head. Comfortable in her theories about Emil’s origins, she would like to ensure they're comfortable and undisturbed until morning comes, in a few short hours. Whatever mission they have, they deserve to tackle it without getting glass in their feet.

She kneels down to analyze the scene, judging the distance between the sparkly bits on the ground and the wastebasket near the doorway where she stands.

She practices her exhale twice before doing the real thing, drawing two fingers up, separating them only to rotate her forearm counter-clockwise. The gentle air in the house briefly jolts as Etrika’s spell takes… the wind sweeping the debris up and into the basket in one fell swoop, without Etrika having to creak another floorboard. Her hand feels a little dead afterwards, but she’s gotten more than used to pins-and-needles, and shakes it out.

She bites her lip one more time, before settling for this small magic accomplishment. Her hand gently pulls the door shut, her face falling, imagining what horrific things this veteran (and one her age, at that) was having a nightmare about. With each question of hers answered, it feels like three more immediately pop up.

And so she retreats to her own bedroom, her body having fully convinced her it might be best to think about all of this in the morning.

---

In the Walbravir house, Kenna is always the first one up.

He doesn’t need a toy alarm clock to wake on time; the early morning light never fails to awaken him around 7:00. Sweeping away the bedsheets with a leg, Kenna stretches and yawns loudly before checking the time on the clock, on the wall opposite him. 6:47.

His morning routine will have to wait. Better make sure that Emil hasn’t… well, that the box is in his hands, rather than someone else’s.

Automatically, he puts on his nightshirt, zips up the matching pants, slips on some slippers, and finally, wipes his glasses before pushing them onto the bridge of his nose.

The hallway, as he takes the first steps of the day, is utterly deserted, inhabited only by dancing, diaphanous dust. The weather beyond the windows is beautiful; last night’s storm is gone without a trace.

Kenna raps a fist on the door of the family’s guest.

Emil?

No immediate response. He knocks again, louder, and soon hears a nervous commotion beyond the threshold, punctuated by an interjection in an unknown language.

It’s me, Kenna! he announces politely. You slept alright? Can I come in?

N-no! replies a weak, tired voice. Uh – I want say – I must dress.

Oh. No problem.

Emil opens the door warily after a minute or two, with pronounced dark circles under their eyes. Already dressed, in that short a time? Kenna finds it hard to imagine anyone more efficient than him in the morning.

You can enter. Sorry, stammers Emil before tightening the strap of their eyepatch.

Emil, with peculiar hesitation, moseys over to the window and opens the shutters. Immediately, the room is flooded with light and the coolness of summer; outside, another shutter or two can be heard opening in houses opposite. On the street, parents are accompanying their children to school. The sounds of the city, muffled in the distance, blend into gentle white noise with the sounds of the river and its hydroelectric plants.

Sorry to awaken you like this, Kenna apologizes as he steps through the door. I’d rather pick this up right away.

Emil, seeing Kenna move for the insulated box, reassures him in advance.

I have not opened, I promise.

Good.

With the secure container under his arm, Kenna glances at the window.

Beautiful day out. Don’t forget to send me your new address, so I can give you… your funds.

‘Fonds’? Oh.

Emil quickly takes the translator out of their bag, and after the usual song-and-dance, Kenna’s words become clear.

Etrika said I am going to sleep at the uni… versity.

Your dorm number, then, Kenna clarifies with a smile.

As he returns to his room, he notices the trash can beside the desk.

You didn’t hurt yourself, I hope?

Uh?

The stranger doesn’t seem quite awake.

The broken glass. You didn’t cut yourself? We’ve got a broom closet; you could’ve gotten up and asked for one, no trouble.

Emil turns to the nightstand, then to the trash can besides Kenna. Their answer is slow.

I… wanted to not bother.

Poor fellow, Kenna thought, observing their worried face. Yesterday’s argument must’ve put them off.

It’s fine now. Head to the kitchen; I’ll join you there soon.

He slowly shuts the door.

---

> IT’S [SEVEN] [O’CLUCK]! TWEEDLE-TWEET! WOW! THE BIRDS ARE SINGING, AND SO AM I! CHI-

Etrika slams the palm of her hand on the replika to silence it.

...Come on, girl.

Her normal morning routine is usually much shorter than Kenna’s. No slippers, no readjusting of clothes, no cleaning of glasses. But today, she’s got a little something extra to do.

She ambles over to her desk with heavy steps, on legs that feel like cotton. She slides open the window above, then rummages through a pile of graph paper with one hand, while the other covers her eyes, momentarily blinded by the brightness of day.

Ah, there it is. The scribbled-on worksheet from the day prior, the one she was covering with ink when Emil met her in the park. Luckily, she didn’t throw it away after copying its contents neatly elsewhere. She folds it clumsily in half, then in quarters, then in eighths.

Paper in hand, she immediately leaves the room and makes for the stairs, headed towards the dining room.

Her footsteps alternating between carpet and hardwood, she draws the blinds (Hm. Weather’s not bad.) in half-awake mechanical habit. She looks to the large green plant in the corner of the room; no need to water it today. The clock… yeah, it’s fine, it’s wound. Anything else? Nothing, it seems.

Finally sure that no chores will trouble her thoughts, she turns towards an ornate dresser between two windows, facing the family photos.

On that dresser is the small, bronze family altar.

Nestled in a geometrically-engraved base, mounted on four stout legs, the stoneware offering bowl still smells of the incense Etrika burned yesterday morning for the Banneret, so that He might bless her with the energy she needed for her studies.

Yesterday was energetic indeed.

Although anxiety somewhat gnaws at her, she will have to ask Emil for some forgiveness. She thus turns her mind towards the Observer.

Placing the sheet of crossed-out formulas within the bowl, she takes a lighter, also plated in bronze, from a compartment in the altar, and sets fire to the paper.

Smoke rises from it gently, but no further than ten centimeters or so into the air, before turning blue and lazily, mesmerizingly swirling around the paper. The paper continues to burn slowly, but the ash and embers that separate from it remain enclosed within the circumference of the bowl. Waiting.

Etrika joins her fingers in a downward-pointing triangle, and closes her eyes.

Observer, hear me now. Grant me Your patience, and safeguard me from what divides us: myself, and the one I invited here. May our mistakes grant us growth, without weighing upon us. May they and I…

As she prepares her next words, she turns her hands to point upwards.

May they and I find understanding in our shared concerns, and through You.

Not that inspired a prayer, but it will do. The swirl of smoke, still confined to the bowl, accelerates silently as it coils around the paper like a snake. The paper begins to turn to ash rapidly, the smoke condenses together, and finally, in a small, almost inaudible puff, the smoke coalesces into nothingness. In its place sits a small, sourceless, cyan flame, clearer than any normal fire, floating above the bowl, now a little more filled with charred remains.

Upon the back of the altar, the engraved octagram of the Virtues reflects the flame’s brilliance, just before it scintillates and vanishes, leaving behind an bizarre, pungent, yet comforting scent.

Message received.

Etrika?

She jumps, turning towards the kitchen.

Emil’s staring at her, their eyes filled with fear. They heard it all, no doubt.

I–

Her breath catches again. No, no, no… Not another panic–

Etrika? The hourglass, they remind her, concern piercing through the apprehension.

Yes. The hourglass. The… what was it again? Empty it. Slowly. Breathe out completely. Until it is empty. One minute. Two minutes. Just two minutes.

The calm seems harder to capture than yesterday, when they held a hand on her shoulder to ground her. She doesn’t know if the gesture would’ve helped her again.

I’m… sorry. I was praying.

You have a kayal disease?

Her head, which had been bowed bashfully until then, lifts towards them.

No, it’s just – huh? What’s that mean, “kayal”? Pass me the translator, please?

Emil approaches and does so without another word. The replika’s nasal voice gives her the answer she expected.

[Δ>Θ]{ TERATRAUMA. }

She sighs.

It isn’t… a disease. Kayal, maybe, yes, probably a little. But lots of people have what I have. It happens.

An awkward pause follows.

I’d rather change the subject, I… Have you eaten anything yet?

No. Kenna said I must wait him.

Good. A small victory to steal from her brother, and it will help her to focus, to bring up the subject.

You can sit back down. I’ll make something to eat.

They comply. She staggers as she walks to the refrigerator, still shaken. Emil’s gonna give her a heart attack at this rate.

She opens the steel door of the cabinet, which welcomes her with a cold blast of air to her face.

You fine with eggs and jam?

Out of the corner of her eye, past her glasses, Emil’s blurred silhouette bows in agreement. Reaching a hand into the refrigerator, she takes out a perforated compartment containing half a dozen eggs, and a small glass jar half-filled with a dark, purplish substance glistening with sugar.

Emil watches her intently, impassive but observantly taking in every detail. They’re not too surprised by a perpetually fresh pantry; just another one of those replikae that people here must be used to. Etrika’s back, her loose hair tumbling down, completely conceals her emotions as she sets out a number of slices of bread and four eggs on the kitchen counter, rolling sideways for a few moments before coming to a stop.

There is no shame, being kayal.

Emil’s statement catches Etrika off guard. She turns, brushing a strand of hair away with a hand to reveal a morose expression.

I told you I wanted to change the subject.

They lower their gaze.

Sorry.

They’ve said something wrong again. Everyone here seems to misunderstand everything. It’s all so tiring. They–

Etrika pushes the plate towards them, before their eyes.

It’s nothing. Help yourself. Not as hungry as you must be.

She watches them look up, a slight disbelief on their face. They tighten their poncho with one hand, reaching out with another towards the plate.

Thank you.

She moves away from them to open a cupboard and take out a frying pan. As she turns a small valve on the stovetop, an ethereal flame shoots from a burner. Back to the fridge, and soon, a pat of butter is melting on the metal. Etrika has a few minutes to speak her mind.

Actually…

Hm?

Look them in the eyes.

Emil chews slowly, waiting. Neutral expression.

Actually, I wanted to say sor– apologize, for yesterday. For that ‘fruit’ stuff. I imagine you have different ideas about certain things, where you’re from. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.

They nod slowly, confirming their understanding.

It’s a bit harder to talk about that here. At least, in Presquile, anyway. People feel comfortable with just two predefined options, or two ‘fruits’ if you prefer. It’s not easy to be anything else.

Emil tilts their head and looks around the room, deep in thought.

It is easy for Rieli because her fruit is among the two.

Bingo.

Not for me.

Her eyes leave them.

No, she murmurs.

The butter.

Oh, damn it–

She almost let it burn. She quickly lifts the pan, spreads the butter, cracks the eggs, and lets them brown in the pan.

Apologies, she continues, her hands full. My parents can be jerks, and I wasn’t any better than them last night.

I understand. You prayed for that.

Their response is abrupt, but not dismissive.

I forgive.

Thank you.

She stirs the pan again. Good: the eggs separate from it smoothly, leaving no burnt remnants behind. She plates them, covers them with the usual spices (salt, pepper, cumin, Lornadian herbs), before cutting the result into four quarter-circles, each topped with a soft yolk.

Oh, and the fire; don’t forget to turn that off. She extinguishes it with another turn of the valve.

Well, enjoy! she exclaims as she serves them the plate and cutlery, before sitting down beside them.

Emil inhales the aroma of breakfast, then follows Etrika’s lead and places an egg on a piece of bread before taking a bite. All those spices. They never cease to amaze.

It is great.

I hope so, replies Etrika with a smirk.

The stranger wastes no time. Their half of the eggs is gone so quickly that Etrika wonders if they even had time to taste it. The toast had already disappeared into their stomach before she even sat down.

Emil’s about to wipe their mouth crudely with the back of their hand, but Etrika stops them in time.

Hey, don’t get your new clothes dirty!

Emil freezes in surprise, then follows Etrika’s gaze, pointing towards the sink.

Left knob, she specifies. Soap and towel right next to it.

They move backwards (more than forwards) towards the counter. Turning the blue valve carefully, a thin stream of water begins to flow from a large, curved tap.

Emil rubs their hands under the cold water. The soap has an indescribable fruity scent. Then, they dry their hands carefully on a checkered towel, hanging from a hook.

Are they all washed? she asks, distractedly.

Yes, I–

Huh?

‘All’?

Time stands still for Etrika and Emil for a few seconds. They turn to each other in unison, contemplating the terror in each other’s eyes.

You saw?!

No! I didn’t – I didn’t look on purpose!

Their voices rise.

You really saw!

I didn’t mean to!

You must say nothing.

I never PLANNED to say anything!

You saw what, exactly?

Just your arms and your eyes! Stop yelling!

You also! I…

Emil’s voices trails off on a disjointed note, their single pupil reduced to a pinprick.

You saw my eyes, they realize. You were in the room while I slept.

She turns pale.

I- I-

You entered why?!

They recoil so abruptly that they bump into the refrigerator door with a loud, metallic clang. Etrika wishes she could make herself small, so small; turn into a speck of dust and float away, leaving it all behind.

I-I heard you having a nightmare, she stammers. I wanted to talk to you.

You have not awakened me. You said nothing to me.

I was scared!

Scared of me?

No!

Scared of what?!

THAT YOU WON’T FORGIVE ME FOR YESTERDAY!

Her throat burns. She hasn’t shouted that loudly, but it veruy much feels like it. Her voice dropped two octaves under the stress. A salty taste in her mouth. Fuck. She wipes away her tears.

Gods, Etrika. You good?

Kenna chooses the perfect moment to appear at the corner of the dining room, a box under one arm and his coat half-on on the other. Emil has just enough time to pull down their poncho as he approaches.

Sorry. It’s…

She and Emil fall silent and look down, suddenly aware of the racket they’re making. Her brother puffs out his cheeks, sighs heavily, and sets the box full of gems on the corner of the kitchen table so he can finish donning his coat.

I’m already tired of having to be the adult for the both of you. Do you really have nothing better to do? I don’t really understand what you were arguing about last night, but if you can have breakfast together in peace, surely you can forgive each other without further shit-flinging, right?

His brutal honesty push them both to silence. With his coat now buttoned, he retrieves the insulated box and gives them one last exasperated look.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to deal with the part of your troubles that I graciously said I would. Try not to tell the entire island your little secrets before I get there.

The door slams shut.

Emil and Etrika look to one another, neither daring to make the first move.

After a very long few seconds, they speak again.

You heard me having a bad dream?

Yeah. You… It didn’t seem like an average nightmare, judging by how much you were twitching.

No.

Above them, quick little footsteps pound the floor. Rieli is up, and, as is customary at the start of summer, she’s going to pester her parents to get up earlier and take her to the park before school. Because the weather is pretty and it would be silly not to take advantage of it.

Do you want me to wake you up? If it happens again?

Emil, disarmed by the question, frowns.

Yes, please. But I will sleep elsewhere, so I will handle alone.

Their tone is bitter. They don’t appear very keen on reconciliation, at least not until they add:

…Thank you. For the broken glass.

New footsteps upstairs. The smaller, quicker ones are closing in, now rushing down the stairs. Etrika gives Emil a nervous laugh.

You’re welcome. It would’ve been much harder to clean up blood.