westwhere | a boy and his umbrella

( Another slate, tired day, rain dripping down in slow trickle. Ships slowed, drifting by, dallying at customs where the fresh restrictions of the dictator Caius Justus weigh and dilate bureaucracy. More than most, the criminal world senses danger, the usual suspects withdrawing when the scent of proverbial, political blood corrupts the waters.

A child needn't worry. This child, carved wooden fox mask safely set on his face, strapped with two fragile hands — he has no worldly concerns. He waits in the middle of a secluded road by the docks, booted feet stubbornly, childishly sunken in puddles.

He had assumed, the girl would greet him and return his umbrella, as they'd agreed. Instead it's... )

...oh. ( He's silent, far too long. Remembers her. Yes, Clara. Clara. ) ...you don't look sick anymore.

( But then his gaze dances each way of her, hunting, chasing the whereabouts of his umbrella. )

[ It is indeed her, and Clara isn't alone. Flanked on each side she feels as safe as she possibly could be in this situation, given she has no idea what the Child may or may not be capable of. The umbrella is in her hand, semi-behind her leg and angled toward Red, just in case. ]

No, not sick anymore. Thanks to you, I think? Was it you, or was it the umbrella?

[ Might as well cut to the chase. ]

( Oh! Oh, there his umbrella is — handsome and shiny and dashing, as ever. He seems stupidly, impossibly pleased to see it, already reaching out a hand for it, before remembering — and she asks, too — )

...me. ( But it's sheepish, in the way of children who know they've done something very wrong indeed, but lost now to history. )

Toss it over. ( A pause, then: ) Don't touch me. I'll catch. I'm strong.

( So many months now, and he still struggles with knowing when he'll turn the healthy to sickness. )

Look, I'm really sorry, but it isn't gonna go that way, not yet.

[ She doesn't like interrogating children as a general rule, but she needs to know she isn't screwing over an entire group of people into never leaving, or getting sick, or worse. His request not to touch him is noted (he's the contagious one?) and she shakes her head. Her voice is gentle though, not stern. ]

I need to know what this umbrella does, and why you want it back after you left it with me. If it's important, it would help to know why.

Edited 2023-11-22 17:03 (UTC)

( This... seems to at once surprise and anger him, slight hiss betraying the start of a tantrum that brews but never quite shapes into a storm. His hand snaps behind his back. )

I gave it to you. Because. It was. Raining. ( Slowly, carefully enunciated as if speaking to someone he thinks... a little daft. ) And you were sick.

( But perhaps that's not enough. ) And sick people get sicker in the rain.

( Give it a moment. Another. )

And I want it back. Because it's mine.

Yes. You gave it to me when I was sick and it made me better. That was nice, so thank you.

[ Holding the umbrella around the middle rather than the handle, she looks at it, than at the Child. ]

Are you worried it's going to rain again?

Look around. It's always raining.

( ...even now, the weather's menacing, threatening a storm. He seems, for all his power, if not destitute, then menaced by the signs of poverty: battered shoes, thinned clothes. Only his mask seems sturdy, carved to last. )

My friend gave me that umbrella. I don't like him anymore, but I like the umbrella. It's big. It's got... a lot of room. ( It is, in fact, a rather nice umbrella. )

...why? Do you... need it? ( Squinting, tipping his head to the side. ) You're small. But you're grown up. You can buy another one.

[ She can't help but want to help the Child, and be suspicious of him at the same time. It doesn't feel good, but raining sickness down on everyone accidentally would feel worse, so. ]

Your friend in the white hat? Not a friend then anymore, did you argue?

[ She moves closer, then crouches so that she's more eye-level with him ~~not that she has to crouch down much~~. ]

If I give this back, I need to know that no one can't hurt anyone with it. If someone bad took it away from you, what could they do with it? Sometimes it's better to let grownups keep things.

[ There's the niggling thought that it might have more power than he knows if it was given to him by someone. ]

...it's an umbrella. How are you going to hurt anyone with — ( But then, she's within proper line of sight, which means, hands closed on his mask, he can consider her at length. ) Are you going to beat someone up with its stick?

( No, no; he answers rapidly enough to underline he's already thought it over. ) It's going to break. I bet you it breaks.

( And then there's the second question, asked prior. One he hesitates to answer, until, voice wavering and soft, he musters: )

My friend in the white cloak. That's him. Was him. He's not my friend anymore. You're right. ( Well, then. ) He knew my dad died, like your little friend whos' a boy said. And he... he made my dollhouse, but half the people in it were... wrong. And not real people.

( The tragedy of Serthica, by any other name. )

And my mom found me. My mom who put me in the... in the mountain? She said she hadn't looked for me more, because he'd hurt her. ( His voice turns somehow, unexpectedly gleeful. ) But he didn't. And he should have. So... he messed up there too. And we're not friends anymore.

Sounds like things might be getting happier for you, even if you lost a friend. Maybe your mum can make you something even better than a dollhouse?

[ She wants to talk to him and this is the most he's said in one go, so she smiles brightly at him to match his very random glee. Note taken on what he's said, so she can remember to tell others the exact wording. ]

You knew your special umbrella would make me better, but did you know most umbrellas can only do two things? They can keep you cool if it's hot and you need shade, or they can keep the rain off of you. I never, ever saw an umbrella that took away a sickness. Not anywhere else in the universe.

[ She offers a small smile, then digs into her pocket for a sweet, the last one she has from a carefully hoarded gift. With one hand still on the umbrella, she offers the candy in the palm of her hand out to him. ]

I like you. Your umbrella was the first thing anyone ever gave me after I came here. I thought it was a prezzie, the way your friend gave it to you.

( A prezzie. He tries the word on his tongue, murmurs it. Seems to arrive at no definitive conclusion, and so slowly, carefully nods along with it, as if it will somehow expedite understanding. Then, the way your friend gave it to you.

And, oh. He understands now. )

No. I was lending it. And it didn't make you not be sick, I did. ( There is only so much merit that an inanimate object should be allowed, when there's a perfectly pouty little boy here to receive it instead. )

The umbrella was just for the rain. ( Why is this the part that seems to challenge her? Adults are difficult. ) So I want it back. I'm leaving my friend. I'm taking it with me, because it was a gift for me, and I don't have another one. And I want it. And it's mine. So I should have it! There.

[ Clara is less certain it's more than just an umbrella the more she listens. He's a kid, and kids latch onto things. And she believes him when he says he made her better. She's worked with kids a long time, she trusts her gut, and more importantly, she believes it's what the Doctor would do. The kid is a kid, and he wants what might be one of the only things he has, back. She takes in his appearance, and she knows she's going to give it to him. If he makes them sick or not sick, the umbrella has nothing to do with it, she's pretty sure. ]

How did you make me not sick? That's why a few of us were worried it was more important than just special to you. And my memory is fuzzy, but I remember I didn't feel better until the umbrella was over me. Can you maybe understand why I thought it was more than just this?

[ She knows he's a kid who very probably doesn't care much because he just wants his stuff. Still, never hurts to say it. ]

No one knows a ton about you, not even your name. And we've been hurt a lot. Makes people nervous, even when it's something super silly like an old umbrella.

( He listens. It is in the way of children, at least, to pretend to heed. And then he's crouching, finding himself the nearest puddle, and a stick besides — and poking at the water. And how did he do it? )

...I don't know. I just thought about it. ( There are a number of things that he appears to take for granted: the mask, bound tightly on his face. His strange, numerous abilities. )

I don't know how I do what I do since my mother put me in the mountain. To hurt. ( This, harder, meaner, with a shiver. ) My friend says the mountain was just like his water. That it makes things and takes things, and it took me, and it gave me things, like the water took him, and it gave him things, and it's... all power.

( At this point, his stick seems to hit the shallow bottom of the puddle. ) But he lies. He said he had a little girl, and she was my age, and I never saw her. He lies about everything.

[ Clara frowns, and she believes that the Child can't explain it better, not that he won't. She believes the adults around him are right pieces of garbage and the Child never stood a chance. But, another child, a different one? She's pretty sure that's the first time she's ever heard anything like that before. ]

I'm sorry you've been lied to so much. You trusted him.

[ At this, she puts the umbrella down on the ground between them. ]

That makes it hard to trust other people, but I wasn't keeping your umbrella to be mean. I was scared, that's all. Maybe you can understand that a little, at least? I'm not sure who to trust.

[ She's hoping he won't bolt now; this is the risk, the chance she's taking by handing over the umbrella while they're talking. It's either a good idea or a monumentally bad one, and she figures she'll find out either way soon enough. She doesn't move away, doesn't stand, and she watches the disturbed water ripple. ]

I don't want anyone else to get sick or hurt, not any more than anyone has been already. Including you.

( There: his umbrella. Reaching for it, he's squirrel-like, at once skittish and impetuous, hand wavering. He reaches out twice, pulling away futilely at the last moment, before a third attempt lands the umbrella in hand.

Then, he feels across the wood, as if uncertain it's as free of fault as it presents itself, finally raising it over his head, then thrusting it into the ground and opening it. Its canopy, inclined at an angle, sits just so to cover half of his back. )

It doesn't look broken. ( Far too pleased: ) Good job.

( Exactly how Clara was expected to annihilate this umbrella is a matter of mystery that only children can truly answer. )

I'll be fine. I'll be on my own, and strong. Like my father was. He used to have animal friends. ( A pause, then, shrugging and far too blithely: ) He's dead now. The little boy in your group told me. He's evil. He's mean, and he's evil, and you shouldn't like him. He's got eyes as dark as his heart. He's going to be worse than my friend, just you wait.

Why would I break it?

[ She can't help but laugh, just a little under her breath. It's just such a normal kid reaction and serves as a good reminder. She has so many questions, while he's talking; it's too casual the way he talks about everything, but if this is all he knows? Maybe that tracks. ]

Which little boy? I can't keep track of everyone. And I honestly don't know who in our group likes your dad. [ She pauses, pressing her lips together for a brief moment. ] You know, it's hard for me not to worry about you. You're just a kid, how do you protect yourself? That's another reason I thought the umbrella was magic. I thought you could use it to protect yourself.

I don't know his name. I didn't ask. ( Something about being confronted with the unnatural conclusion of your father's mortality will sour and constrict an introduction. He shakes his head. )

You don't need to worry about me. I can still make things sick again. And people. And I can... I can do worse now, if I want. I think... I don't think they knew what was in the mountain.

( What is in him, now. He shrugs, dropping back to draw closer to the umbrella and its minor protection from the elements. )

I'm fine. You can be fine, too. Just stay out of his way. My friend... he'll look for all of you. His patience is running out. I think... he's sad, all the time. He has this little, stupid doll, and he combs her hair all the time. It's creepy.

( Says the child who refuses to remove his fox mask. ) But then he's angry. And you never know when he'll be angry, and the dark water comes out. So just... stay away from him.

Does he ever call the doll anything?

[ Alarm bells sound in Clara's head, but she manages to stay calm on the outside, she hopes. ]

Did something in the mountain give you special powers? If you can control them I bet you could help us. Maybe we're the ones who need you, and you're important, kid. Like a hero in a story. Why don't you stay with us so we can help one another? Stronger together, and all that.

[ Where does he go, and who is this other doll? Is she real, not real? ]

...yeah. The mountain. Holy Ke-Waihu. ( His voice seems frail, somehow. Husked. ) Your people went there. Stopped the volcano from... ( He shudders. ) Before, they'd stop it with... with sacrifices. Like me. My mom put me there. And I went. And...

( Here, he seems to wish to shrug, as if in dismissal. Fails to, far too clearly overcome. Something in him perishes, brittle. )

I'm not staying with you. And I don't know the doll's name. I think it was his daughter's. He likes her. I guess... most parents like their children.

( And suddenly, it strikes him: ) She died. Maybe that's why he likes her. He talks about her often. How he... made death not be anymore, so he'll make her death not be anymore. But he hasn't figured out how. Everything his water wakes up is... wrong.

( Mindless, withered, undead. Not a person. )

None of that should've ever happened to you.

[ This kid deserves a hug, or something friendly. He told her not to touch so she doesn't reach out, figuring she knows what happens if she does. She feels bad for him, though. Betrayed by family before he could even know what the word meant. ]

Okay, so the doll is a placeholder for his daughter while he figures out how to bring her back, which is going pretty badly, so far as I can tell.

[ Each try seems to be going about as well as the last, so as far as getting better at it goes, it doesn't seem to be happening the way it's supposed to. ]

He's really bad at it...he must be missing a piece. He still needs something, and none of us know what that is yet. Everything he tries makes the dead things worse in some way; there has to be a way to fight back if you want to. If we want to. If you were a grown up, what would you do?

[ Even if the ideas are nonsense there could be some suggestions in them. He has to have imagined himself free, now that he knows his friend is not his friend? What goes on in the mind of a little boy in a fox mask? ]

I'd leave.

( This, curt but snapped, steely. As if he's he's taken nothing seriously until now. ) I'm leaving now. I'm going to go... ( But he seems to be considering. ) ...west, I think.

( Where all the dead things sleep. But they can't touch him. Then, just as he's on the verge of rising, he thinks her words over — )

I didn't say it's getting worse. Just that what he does ends up wrong. ( A constant product of... mediocrity. ) Grown men and women like to make things up. Maybe it's so they're less lonely.

( Certainly, his mother had no such troubles. )

...I don't care. I'm taking my umbrella now. ( A pause, then, carefully: ) It was nice of you not to break it.

( He truly is grateful, getting up and capturing the umbrella to drag behind him. )

Edited 2023-11-27 16:26 (UTC)

We're trying. None of us asked to come here, you know. All we want is to leave. Instead, we're caught up in a web of politics that aren't ours and didn't ask to be a part of.

[ She has no idea if there was a point to this or if she's slowly losing her mind. As it turns out, she could've handed the umbrella off to anyone, it wasn't special to her or meaningful to her first meeting with the Child. Rubbing her face, she exhales and shrugs her shoulders. ]

Kids, historically, make things up all the time, so let's not limit that to grownups, okay? [ What else is she supposed to say? ] Anyway, enjoy your umbrella. Good luck not making anyone sick, I guess?

( Oh. Oh, but she's speaking of sickness, and she's angry in that biting way grown men and women deploy when they think he won't understand them. Only he does, he always does, and some part of him — eyes fleetingly soft — does not relish it, looking back at her. )

...don't be mean. ( And unspoken, That was mean. ) It makes you a bad person if you keep doing it.

( Trust the young boy who razed half of a citadel through his sheer existence. ) Then no one will want to talk to you anymore. And you'll be all alone.

Trust me. I'm not being mean. I want you to be okay. I want everyone here to be okay. Unfortunately for all of us there's no instruction manual on how to get out of this world. Why can't we work together?

[ He's pretty independent for a kid, if he even is a kid. He's not a regular kid at the very least. ]

Is that why you're alone? You were mean?

I'm alone because I make people sick. So I'm keeping them away from me, this time.

( And so her wishes, however kindly — sting, for how he snaps back, firmly reaffixing his rattled fox mask back on his face. There's an anger that at times simmers into resignation, a heat that buries, then erupts. Volcanic. )

I've helped you once already. ( Back then, with Serthica, attempting to sustain everyone, while a cure was worked. ) I'm not going to help you against my friend. Because he was a bad friend, and he... he hid a lot from me. But I'm not a bad friend. So I'm... staying out of it.

( He's told her, he thinks, enough already against the only man who kept him company. )

If you're so stranded against him... you can call me. I'm not promising anything, but... you, though. Just you.

[ His tantrum impresses and surprises her, but she lets him continue talking, and reminds herself he's a kid who was tossed in a volcano. ]

If you can still look out for him, you're a better person than he is.

[ Does that mean he'd make them all sick again if he and his friend made amends? Even with the offer he's extending. ]

If we ever need to talk again, I promise. Just me. ...How would I get a message to you though?

[ She gave him the umbrella in one piece, but she doesn't know if he believes her promise and wouldn't blame him if he didn't. ]

( ...that, at least, seems to galvanize him, to give him purpose. He'd been drowsy before, by comparison, listless. Now, springing alive, he starts to chase through his pockets, the little coin purse bound with crude rope beneath his shirt, against his skin, even to peel back his mask only a finger's width and search somehow within it without revealing his face —

Before finally fishing out the object of his hunt from a back pocket: a communication pendant, less refined than most. A wooden, carved piece signed for Ke-Waihu. He offers it out to supply Clara its code for correspondence. He makes it clear, tapping his foot impatiently, that he expects the pendant back. )

You can use that. ( And then, pouting: ) Don't share my details. They're secret.

( He is the most popular little boy in this world. )

[ Turning the pendant over in her hand, she looks at it almost reverentially before wrapping her fist around it. ]

If this gets used and it isn't me you see, something happened.

[ She doesn't necessarily want to think about that, not now that she's found some happiness. ]

Thank you. I'm glad I could give that back to you.

[ Gesturing at the umbrella, she gets ready to leave, feeling sure about the conversation and his gift. At least this time she knows it is a gift. ]

a boy and his umbrella

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