Oscar awoke screaming with an agony tearing apart his insides. His body involuntarily wracked and writhed. Everything was dark, or everything was bright? The scream emptied him, no breath to break the pain into chunks he could manage, the way he'd learned to do. He grasped helplessly at his clothes, his skin, hugging himself tighter and crushing his lungs against bruised ribs. He felt himself running out of air, but couldn't hold back the scream if he tried. If he could try. Oscar's innards contorted, and he crescented concave into himself. His shrieks gashed through his throat like serrated knives, louder and louder, rendering him weaker and weaker — until, all at once, the pain let him go.
His limbs fell limp to the ground, breathing labored, ribcage stabbing at every inhale. He lay there in shallow breath for a full minute before he felt any air enter his lungs. The moment it did, it birthed a frail sob. Then another. Then a stuttering of coughs. His hands trembled.
What was that? He couldn't quite lift his head; his neck wouldn't allow it. Oscar cursed himself for skipping so many aura training sessions. Where are we? He pressed his hands into the dirt beneath him… Dirt. Ground. What else? Oscar pried open his eyelids, one still protesting from its bruise, and rolled to his side. Trees. Grass. A blade poked up right in front of Oscar's face — the thick kind that curls lengthwise. Oscar knew this kind of grass well. Unrolling it made for a decent makeshift instrument whenever he got bored. And on a farm, you get bored. He swirled his fingers in the grass and gripped at it. Gravity, he could feel that, too.
Oscar figured that was his cue to get up. He pushed himself to sitting, almost numb to his injuries after… whatever had just happened. It'd hollowed him. Using the trunk of a nearby tree, Oscar dragged himself to his feet… almost. His hand slipped on the bark and he collapsed to his knees, dizzied. "Okay," he conceded. "In a bit." Retrace your steps, he instructed himself. "I remember… sand. A sandstorm. We— we made it to Vacuo, the grimm attacked, and then…" The train of thought tapered. "Huh." Everything else blurred. He could state where he'd just been and what he last remembered, but his grasp on the day's events ended there. He let his breathing deepen and slow, let the cool air soothe his raw skin. Cool air and darkness. Nighttime, okay.
"Any idea what just happened?"
There was no reply.
"Oz, there's no one else here, that was directed at you."
Still nothing. "Oz?" Oscar tossed his eyes about his surroundings, as if Ozpin would be standing somewhere. "Oz?" Panic threatened to take him again, but Oscar squeezed his eyes shut and stuffed his head in his hands. I finally calmed down, can't let that go to waste.
"If you're trying to teach me something, now is really not the time," Oscar said. "So if you're anywhere in there, please just say something."
No one but quiet spoke.
What could've happened to him? "Can you even hear me?" The resounding silences tugged at Oscar's heart. Oz wasn't responding, but, he wasn't gone gone, was he? No. No, I know you're still somewhere. I can tell. He paused. Nodded. "I can tell."
Oscar's eyes stung with bits of sand graining his eyelids. He rubbed at them to find that tears were already helping flush them out. "Oh. Thank you." It came out a wilted whisper, and didn't make sense, but he couldn't muster the energy to care. He wiped his eyes on his cloth — the patterned one he kept in his inner jacket pocket. It smelled awful. But beneath the awful, it smelled like home. Oscar refused to wash it after the first time had nearly removed the scent entirely. With clearing eyes and steadying breath, Oscar properly began to survey his surroundings. He plucked and fiddled with a blade of grass as he took it all in. The dirt was damp. Not wet enough to be mud, but the damp ran deep. There must've been a days-long storm that'd ended recently, within the past couple days at most.
Oh, great. His clothes were damp, too. On his back and sides, his trousers — wet weight glued his clothes to his skin. His clothes… Oscar looked down to see the scorch marks still on his chest and a speckling of small, blunt punctures in the fabric covering his knees, the kind he knew came from landing hard on gravel.
Gravel? There'd only been sand in Vacuo. It must've come from here. Where there's gravel, there's usually a path. Oscar ran his hands through the grass looking for pieces that could lead him to more. "It's too dark."
Right, no response.
Scroll! Oscar might've been frustrated for forgetting he had an actual flashlight with him, but in light of current events, he'd cut himself some slack. Oscar retrieved his scroll from his pocket. It was cracked, but— phew. It still works. He turned on the light. It flickered erratically. Better than nothing. Oscar scanned the ground with the scroll until he caught a sparkle of something in the grass. Gravel! Oscar stood slowly and followed the glints, an unmistakable crunch sounding progressively louder beneath his boots as the dirt glittered more and more. The trees grew sparse, and then— "Oh, thank gods," Oscar breathed. The first sense of relief flooded him. "A trail."
Trails usually lead somewhere, Oscar recalled with a smile.
Maria! The feelings his shock had barred finally hit him. He spun around, knowing they wouldn't be there but needing to check. Ruby, Jaune, Nora, R— where are they? Ren, Nora, and Emerald were in Vacuo… but so was he a few minutes ago, so could they be—?
"Guys? Is anyone there?" Oscar picked a direction and started down the path. He raced through his memories aloud. "Okay. We got the refugees to Vacuo, the grimm attacked… Penny didn't come through, but then Winter—" Oscar slowed. "So that means…" Oscar stopped. Oh. His face fell to his feet. Penny. He couldn't linger in grief. He forced himself to keep walking, but didn't leave Penny on the path behind him.
"Okay, what next." It wasn't a question; it was a task. "Winter came through and we dealt with the grimm… then it's fuzzy… then…" Oscar struggled against the blurriness. "Then we were somewhere else, and Winter told us — and Whitley was there, and the others — she told us that the others—" Oscar's guts twisted.
No… "No, no, no, no—" Oscar bolted down the trail. "RUBY?!" His legs flurried as if on their own, ignoring the clanking of bone in his knees. "JAUNE?" He took turns shouting their names. "Yang!" And as he called out to each of his friends — "Blake!" — he remembered one by one — "Weiss?"
They're dead. They're all already dead. "Anyone?" Oscar's lungs burned, and his scroll sputtered out. He slowed in the darkness and checked the screen. Dead. He clutched it tighter. A trembling crawled up his throat. How he ached to h—
Wait. Where was his cane? Where was his cane? Oscar reached behind him, astonished he hadn't checked immediately. "Please, please— oh…" His fingers found metal, and lifetimes of constancy worked to reorient him. He took the breath it offered. Maybe he should be tense right now, but he lacked the willpower to keep it from consoling him, at least long enough to fill his lungs. Oscar pocketed the scroll and cradled the cane in both hands. His eyes traveled along it from end to end. Holding it stirred a vague warmth somewhere inside him, and an even vaguer sadness. "You're sure you're not there?"
Nothing but cicadas. Oscar had strangely missed the irritating buzz of those stupid bugs and the obnoxious squawks of linnet birds. He missed nature telling him when to wake up and when to go to sleep. He missed disobeying it. There was none of that in Atlas, and Vacuo was probably too arid. No, it doesn't get quite like this anywhere else.
Oscar stopped. Anywhere else.
"Mistral." The air was so normal that he hadn't taken note of it — he'd always been acutely aware of the artificial Atlas air and the metallic sting it left on his tongue, so returning to this felt like… Well. Like a breath of perfectly unnoteworthy air. "Mistral." Oscar picked up his pace, eyes straining to make sense of the darkness. The moon silhouetted mountains in the distance, a view Oscar knew well. "We're in Mistral!"
A branch snapped behind him. Oscar whipped around, cane poised to defend. His heart pounded. "Hello?" He hoped he sounded braver than he felt, calling out to rustling leaves in the night. He gathered some authority. "Who's there?"
"Oscar?" The shadows emitted a faded but cutting voice, accompanied by quickening, dragging footsteps. The voice hit Oscar square in the chest, and his heart froze. A pair of thick, outstretched arms emerged before anything else, and before Oscar could even see the person's face, he'd already begun sprinting towards her.
"Aunt Mel!" He collided with his aunt. Her arms wrapped around him so fast he almost forgot they'd ever left him. There was absolutely nothing coherent going on in his head. Whatever he was feeling, it was so bright white that it blinded him. "Aunt Mel…" Oscar sobbed once into her woolen coat, then stifled it. "I've missed you so much."
"Where have you been?" Aunt Mel squatted and gripped Oscar by the elbows, the way she always did to force him to look at her. Her patched dress dipped in the damp dirt, and she looked up at him with dark, baggy eyes. "Answer me."
"I—" Oscar choked before the syllable could escape his throat, and the tears came running down his face. Like he was a little kid again. Crying because he'd gotten lost in the forest, being scolded for leaving the farm. Like nothing had changed. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry that I—" That what? That he'd left? He had to. That he hadn't called? The CCTs were down. That she'd had to suffer so long not knowing? Bile in his throat. She's had to suffer so long not knowing.
"What were you thinking?" Aunt Mel's tone flipped from concern to accusation. "You leave a note that makes less sense than anything I've read my entire life, and then you just disappear on me?"
"I'm sorry." Oscar couldn't remember any other words. "I'm sorry."
"You were gone for weeks! I talked to half the town, and no one knew where you went! Do you know what that kind of worry'll do to your poor aunt?"
Oscar pulled back. "Weeks?"
"Yes, weeks! Two whole weeks of not knowing where you were! You think I can handle the farm work on my own?"
"…What?"
Aunt Mel adopted her singsongy teaching voice. "Leave your crops untended and the bugs'll—"
"I know, I know," Oscar said reflexively. "The bugs'll surely end it." That's what she was the most upset about? The crops?
"Very good. I hope you've learned your lesson." Aunt Mel stood and swatted the dirt from her skirts. She looked Oscar up and down, then yanked him back into another, firmer hug. "Never do that to me again. Swear it."
Where are you? Oscar pleaded with the barren place he'd lost. "Can we just go home?" I need you.
How lonely it was, to call out to his mind and hear only an echo.
Chapter 2
The walk back felt unreal. Oscar's eyes knew every twist in every tree root, his feet recognized every slight deviation in the path, but his heart was a stranger to these woods.
Aunt Mel babbled on and on about responsibility and thoughtlessness, gripping Oscar by the wrist. On autopilot, Oscar peppered in some 'mhm's and 'yes ma'am's. His head swam, unsure what to freak out about first. There was too much craziness to focus on any one part of it, or even sort through which things did and didn't make sense. So for now, he walked with eyes fixed forward.
"Answer me when I ask you a question," Aunt Mel snapped.
Shoot. "Uh, sorry, what was the—?"
She grumbled. "Like talking to corn. Perfectly good ears that don't know how to listen."
Yeah, yeah. "I just didn't hear you." At least the conversation was familiar enough.
"The gods gave you two ears and me just the one mouth, it ain't right making me do twice the work."
Yeah, I'll be sure to thank them for that.
Aunt Mel marched onward, amber frizz popping out of her bandana. "Now tell me where you've been."
Oscar swallowed. What can I even say to that? "It's…" He settled for the default. "A long story."
"Oh, good!" Sweetness infected Aunt Mel's tone. "Then you must be chomping at the bit to tell me all about it. You do so love your stories."
A bubble of guilt expanded in his chest. You'd think after Salem this'd be nothing. The bubble popped in a short laugh.
"Glad you find this so funny," she said. "No matter that I've been all alone these long weeks, growing old with no family around to talk to."
"Have you talked to the neighbors at all?"
"If you ever paid attention to the calendar, you'd know the trip to the market was a few days ago, so yes. I had to go all by my lonesome. 'Tunie asked about you, and I had to tell her you'd come down with hay fever to keep her from asking too many questions. You know how she gets."
"I didn't leave to get out of a market trip, if that's what you're implying."
"There you go, putting words in my mouth. How about you put some in yours instead and answer the damn question?"
Oscar had never heard her this angry with him. Darkness cloaked her features, too much to make out an expression, but her voice said it all. He sighed. It was more than warranted after how he'd left. Come on, he urged himself. She deserves at least some explanation. "I… went to the city," he ventured.
"The city?" Aunt Mel stopped and yanked him in front of her. "By yourself?"
"Not exactly."
"You gonna keep being vague or are you gonna explain yourself?"
"I'll try to explain myself," he promised. "But, it still might be somewhat vague."
Her brow crinkled. She let go of his wrist and wrapped him up in a third hug. "You scared me near all the way to death, you know that?"
Oscar's heart sank. He'd hardly thought about it, hardly allowed himself to. He hugged her back as sincerely as he could. "I should've told you I was leaving. I should've talked to you in person. I was scared, and I—" I just didn't know how, and I— "I—"
"C'mere, little wildflower, come here and listen close." She pulled his head into her dress. "I'm just glad you're alright, alright?"
'I'm just glad you're alright.' The memory of Ruby's hand touched his shoulder. He shrugged it off. I'm not.
Aunt Mel pulled back, the worry of wrinkles on her forehead deepened by shadow. She squinted at him, glasseslessly scanning his face. Oscar was surprised she could even recognize him in the dark in these clothes.
Oh, right. The screams.
"We'll chat more once we're inside," she said. "Might wanna start thinking about how you're gonna talk your way out of this one."
Oscar nodded, and the two headed on. The farm wasn't far now, judging by the downhill slope of the path. Crickets joined the cicada's song in a discordant cacophony. Too loud to think.
The trees cleared, and there it was. The weather-worn fence marking the boundary of their property. 'Fence' always felt like too generous a word. Fallen boards halfheartedly holding each other up to maintain the illusion of a fence enclosed the farm. That was more accurate. Too flimsy to keep anything out or in. Why he'd let such a false barrier bar him for so long he may never know.
A few yards more and they reached the gate. Aunt Mel went through the performance of undoing the useless latch, and swung it wide for Oscar to step through. The hinges creaked an invitation.
He hesitated at the threshold. I can't go back. I need to find everyone, I need to—
"Please, do take all night." Aunt Mel folded her arms and tapped on her sleeve.
Oscar's knees buckled and begged. I'm not making it anywhere like this, am I? He drew in a breath for as long as he could, slow and soft. When it'd filled him up, he held it a moment. Kept it close. Then let it go.
Oscar stepped back into the known.
...
Amazing how a completely useless fence with a broken gate, a fence incapable of keeping out even the most pathetic of grimm, could instantly make him feel safe. Amazing how being inside its borders felt worlds apart from something he could lean over and touch on the other side.
Oscar's awe at the concept was short-lived, replaced by the mounting realization that the feeling wasn't reciprocated. His surroundings seemed to recoil from his presence. The very air held its breath as he passed through. I can't blame you. This wasn't a place accustomed to intruders.
He tried to shut it all out and let himself be ushered into the kitchen house. Aunt Mel lit the counterside lantern and bolted the door behind them. For what reason was anybody's guess. It wasn't like they had anything worth stealing, even if there were anyone nearby to do so. While his aunt limped over to crack the window, Oscar looked around the room, taking it all in.
It was strange, being back here. Here, where everything was wooden, and small, and safe. The world before he'd fallen through it.
Through his nose, Oscar took a series of steady, conscious inhales. The cedar-tinted air, the whistle of wind through the cracks, the whine of rotting floorboards – Oscar had expected home to fill his lungs. Instead, it tasted of remorse. Looking around, the room felt more like… like a museum to his past. Well-constructed and historically accurate, but fabricated in some way. The welcome feeling he'd prepared for, the normalcy… it never came. The familiar had become foreign.
Or, Oscar thought against his will, I've become a foreigner to it.
Aunt Mel lit the other two lanterns before turning back to Oscar. "Alright. There, you see? Safe and sound." She smiled with obvious effort and retrieved her glasses, rubbing the lenses on her apron before donning them. "Are you ready to tell me—" She stopped at the sharpened sight of her nephew. "What happened to your face?"
"It's okay," Oscar said. Truth be told, the black eye was the least of his concerns.
Aunt Mel crossed the room in as few strides as she could. Her knuckles brushed Oscar's jaw as she went to cup his cheek. He jolted backwards, smacking his lower back into the counter's edge and knocking over the spice rack. He sucked in a breath with mouth and eyes clamped shut. Four shadows danced on the backs of his eyelids. Laughter in his ear.
"Hold still," she said. "Let me get a good look."
"That's okay, really. It's just a black eye, it'll heal as soon as I—"
"Let. Me. See."
Oscar stiffened, clenching his fists in preparation of her touch.
Aunt Mel held his face in both hands, hands much more calloused and nails much shorter than the last to have held it. That helped. "Who did this to you? I'll march over right now and give them a piece of my mind!"
The image of his aunt strutting up to Hazel and giving him a stern lecture made Oscar puff a laugh from his nose. "It's no one you know. Besides, I…" The final look in Hazel's eyes flashed before him. His voice dropped. "It won't be a problem anymore."
Aunt Mel released him. "Problems don't go away as easy as you'd think. Once you've found one, it follows you around like a stray dog. It might leave you alone long enough for you to think it's gone, but the moment you get used to the quiet? That's when it'll bark. And it won't hesitate to bite."
Another silly idiom. He used to tease her over her convoluted sayings, but now, silly though they were, he was able to appreciate the truth beneath. "You're right," he said. Hazel may be gone, but he was only a rook. Much more powerful pieces were still in play. "I've fended off a symptom; I've far from cured the illness."
She stared at him, too long for comfort. After ages, she blinked into an odd smile. "Have you been reading that old book of poems again? You sound like the last line of a sonnet."
"Sonnets rhyme."
"Hah, guess that answers my question."
It'd been a long time since he'd read it, actually, but his ribs begged him not to waste his breath denying it. In retrospect, Oscar shouldn't have been at all surprised to find the majority of incarnations had turned to poetry and fairytales in order to cope with it all. As far as vices go, there'd been far worse. Wonder which I'll latch onto. The idea sickened him.
"Just do me a favor and speak with me straight. I'm talking to my nephew, not Silent Osmium or whatshisname."
"Silas," Oscar corrected. If only she knew she was, in a way, speaking to both. Hardly any memory of that life had transferred to Oscar so far, but the name, curled in sunken gold on the cover of his anthology, was one Oscar had traced many times over, daydreaming about what sort of life a person must've lived to have unearthed so many time-buried tales.
While Oscar ruminated over the answer, Aunt Mel had gone to dunk a washcloth in the sinkside bucket and returned. "Here." She pressed the cloth to his eye.
Oscar again pulled back from her without thinking. "It's alright, I can do it." He took the rag and held it to his bruise. Water dripped down his sleeve.
"Better?"
Marginally. "Much, thank you."
"Good." Her tenderness hardened, a stony jaw overtaking softset eyes. "Now sit."
Oscar did as he was told.
"Do you have any idea what time it is?"
"Late?" Oscar guessed brilliantly.
"Yes, late! About half a month late! I've spent every waking moment of the past two weeks searching for you, you think I've been able to sleep?"
Two weeks? "You didn't start looking when I went missing?" She'd let months go by without a thought?
"You know I can't get far on this knee. I had the neighbors out looking for you the moment I found your note."
Oscar lowered the rag. "I'm sorry."
"What possessed you to up and leave like that? What made you think you could survive out there on your own?"
What possessed you. Oscar might've laughed if not for the unfiltered heartbreak on his aunt's face. What made you think you could survive out there? The easy answer was Ozpin. The harder answer was youth. Youth, and all the faith, vanity, and blindness that came with it. He had survived, long enough to outlive all three.
"What's going on, Dandelion? Did something happen? Was it something I said to you?" Worry shook her fingers. "Please, Oscar, just tell me why you left. I can't help you if you don't tell me."
Exactly. "Can we talk about this in the morning?"
"'Can we just go home?' 'Can we just talk in the morning?'" Aunt Mel frowned with arms waving about. "When are you gonna start treating me with respect? I'm supposed to wait until you're ready to stop hiding things from me? How many secrets are you keeping? I mean, look at you!"
Oh no. He should've known better than to deflect like that.
"What are you wearing?" Aunt Mel's grilling returned with sudden fervency. "What, the clothes I give you aren't good enough?"
"No, Aunt Mel, I just needed—"
"We don't have the money! How did you even—" She gasped. "Did you steal those?"
Oscar recognized this as the rhetorical stage of her interrogations, where the intent was to bombard him with more questions than he could answer until he was too confused to lie, or something. Honestly, Oscar had had quite enough of interrogation over the past few days.
"And what's with all the belts?" She threw her arms up as if in distress. "Who in all Remnant needs that many belts?"
Oscar didn't reply. He was too tired to fall for her bait. Too tired to argue her logic. Yup, I stole combat gear because I don't appreciate your fashion sense, you hit the nail on the head. He waited for Ozpin to ask if that was sarcasm.
"..ff the jacket." Aunt Mel's muffled voice rose to clarity.
"What?"
"We're washing those clothes." Her tone went back to something quilten, rather than… I dunno, like dried hay? Still a little itchy, but softer, and with caring intent. At least a quilt keeps you warm. "You're filthy."
Oscar didn't object as she helped to take off his jacket, muttering about the belts each time she had trouble undoing one. She straightened, and her eyes jumped to the top of his hair. "And just how long have you been my height?" She clasped a hand to her forehead. "Oh, Brothers, the years are creeping up on me." Oscar hadn't even noticed he no longer had to look up at her. He just wanted to sleep.
Aunt Mel slid Oscar's jacket off his shoulders, and folded it over her arm. "There. Now how's about you get changed and throw this in the laundry pile while I heat you up some supper? Oh for the love of—what purpose could this possibly serve?" She gaped at the belt harness. "Forget it. Go clean up."
Oscar nodded once. An expression he couldn't quite place deepened in her eyes. He dismissed it for the time being.
Taking his jacket and the spare lantern, Oscar stepped back into the night, greeted again by the relentless cicadas. Fireflies winked at him as he trudged towards the barn. Without his jacket on, the breeze against his skin alerted him to a litany of bruises on his arms, too faded to see, but not to feel. He suspected there was more bruise than skin at this point. Sure, Jaune had helped him restore some aura, but Oscar had been too weak to maintain it long enough. One of the others probably would've recovered completely by now, but he'd never been very good at using aura for healing. Whatever had been done to his ribs, on the other hand…
Oscar sucked air through gritted teeth. Don't think about it. Thinking about it made the pain so much worse. His aura had been intact in Vacuo, but whatever had just happened had drained it beyond reach. Overnight, he thought. It'll come back overnight. You need food. You need sleep.
How was he supposed to explain this to his aunt? Worse, how was he going to convince her to let him leave again? He passed the water pump and considered washing up, but the idea of heaving the lever up and down… Maybe he'd just rinse his face in the sink in the barn. Funny how much weaker he felt now that he was safe. Guess when you don't need to be strong, you don't have to treat weakness as the enemy.
Speaking of which. They're dead. The second Oscar reached the door to the barn, the thought attacked him again. Dead. He gripped the door and yanked it sideways. It flew open faster than anticipated, and he teetered a bit. Ruby, Jaune, Weiss—
Stop it. He entered the barn.
They're dead they're dead they're dead they're—
"Shut UP!" The yell stung in his raw throat. At least the voice in his head he was yelling at was his own for once. And Oz is... somewhere? Somewhere far, I think. And they're dead. Winter said dead. Fell. To their deaths.
Why them? Why couldn't it have been him? Not that he was eager to die, but at least he'd come back, sort of. But the others, they were dead forever. Completely. Dead forever. Gone completely. The grief was muffled in a way that promised to hit him full force once he regained the energy to process it.
No, they can't be dead. Ruby figured something out and got them all to safety like she always does. Winter just wasn't there to see it. But there was no conviction to these thoughts.
Oscar tossed his jacket on the laundry pile. He'd have to change into a shirt and drop this one off on his way back to the kitchen, though he doubted any amount of scrubbing could remove the stains Salem had left.
Gingerly, painstakingly, Oscar hoisted himself up the ridiculously tall ladder to his old room. 'Old' room. He chose not to linger on that.
Until he opened the door. The smell of books and mold brought him back instantly. The warm hues and intricate rug, the low window and nightstand. Oscar blinked at it all.
It's so… small. Nothing had changed, but somehow what had once felt cozy now gave him an almost claustrophobic feeling. Not even just because of its size – something else about it felt… constraining, almost. Like walking through a memory of a life he'd left behind. A life he no longer owned.
It's okay, he's gone.
"He's not gone!" Great, he'd gotten so used to talking to Oz that in his absence he'd resorted to arguing with himself. Himself, himself, that is. Not that he'd never done that before meeting Oz, but it wasn't the same; no part of him ever expected a response back then. This was the first time since Oz had paired with him that Oscar was sure no one was listening in on his thoughts. Out of everything going on, one of the most bizarre was the awareness that he should be relieved to be alone in his head again, that it should feel like a miracle – but all he could feel was panic and loss. Thankfully, exhaustion numbed some of the panic.
Oscar sat on his bed, running a hand along the blankets. So much warmer and thicker than the flimsy white sheets of the Atlas dorms. Rougher, too, but that was fine. He lightly traced the patterns on the quilt that lay folded along the foot of his bed, the one his aunt claimed once belonged to her sister. His mother. Oscar had stopped using it as anything but decorative years ago. If his mother had wanted to keep him warm…
His bookshelf. How long had it been since he'd sat down and read a book? Not a book on the history of Remnant or combat techniques borrowed from the Atlas library, but a storybook, just for fun? It used to be one of the only things he did for himself, his one lifeline to knowing a world existed outside of his own, fictional or not. Now, he existed outside of them. He felt faint. Maybe he really had hit his head when he'd fallen – and maybe that was why he couldn't hear Oz?
No. Oscar recalled the spattering of rips on his pants. I fell too hard on my knees for my head to have been that affected by impact.
Right, 'cause there's a standard amount of impact for knocking an ancient soul out of your head.
If Oz could be knocked out of me by force, he would've been a long time ago.
Whatever the case, Oscar needed to take some time to really consider what he was going to tell his aunt. Going in with no plan could mean revealing too much too fast, or make her think he was nuts, or scare her so much she wouldn't risk him leaving again. If that happens…
Oscar set the 'if' aside. Better to start with the 'what' and hope to find the 'how' along the way. Dizzying by the moment, he laid himself on the bed and rested his eyes, resolving to get up and change in a minute. When the minute had passed, he granted himself another. Then another.
Just one more…
This is wrong. Oscar hadn't even opened his eyes, and already something was off. He lingered in the semidarkness of his eyelids and took in the feeling. Or tried to find it, more like. To pinpoint that unmistakably incorrect something.
It wasn't the sunlight draping itself across his cheek, warm and glittering to the touch. It wasn't the cedarwood scent or the humble itch of his blankets, wasn't the robins and wrens littering the sky with chirps and titters. What else was there?
You're overthinking this, Oscar told himself. Enough stalling. He pushed his hair back from his sticky forehead and opened his eyes. Everything where it belonged, everything as remembered. The books on the shelf overflowing to the floor, the chest with the broken lock — perfectly untouched, perfectly intact. So much was right, so what was so wrong?
For the first time since he could remember, the night had passed dreamlessly. No nightmares, either, no memories, no flashbacks… Maybe that was what was so unsettling?
Oscar pushed himself to sitting and leaned back on his hands. "Mistral," he reminded the empty room. "In the countryside. At the farm. My home." His throat contracted twice on that last bit — once on 'my,' and once on 'home.'
"Aunt Mel found me." Ruby is dead. "Brought me back here." Penny is dead. "And told me to—" Oh, shoot. He'd never gone back to have dinner like Aunt Mel had asked.
By now the sun had nearly reached its peak; his aunt was bound to be awake. Were it half a year ago, the sight from his windowsill would've sent Oscar into a dull dread, knowing how far behind he was on chores and how much harder he'd have to work to catch up by dusk. Instead, he let himself gaze through the glass just a moment.
Probably shouldn't keep her waiting. Oscar forced his overworked and underpaid muscles to hoist himself out of bed. His joints stiffened in protest. So much for healing in my sleep.
At the foot of the bed lay a fresh set of clothes, folded neatly atop his mother's quilt. Right. Laundry. He really should've thrown his blackened shirt in there last night before letting himself lie down. Staring at the pile, a strange shakiness crawled up behind his heart. She shouldn't have come all the way up here on her leg.
Oscar propped his foot on the bedframe and hung the clean shirt over his thigh. When he removed the one he'd been wearing for days, it brushed cruelly against his chest wounds, and he saw stars. He bit his tongue and finished the job in one quick movement, wincing but unwilling to look at the damage Salem had done. Not now, not yet. Oscar pulled the clean shirt over him as quickly as he could, before the pain had a chance to subside and reignite.
It only took a couple seconds to catch his breath. As the initial sting retreated to background noise, the shirt grew noticeably less and less comfortable. Oscar tugged the sleeves up — his arms had only gotten partway through on first attempt — but they resisted his squirming. Ugh. He almost wanted to just chop them off — the sleeves or the arms, either or. After plenty of twisting and jerking, they got in well enough. Cut off at the forearm, though.
She must've used the actual dryer for this. It'd make sense, since there wouldn't have been much time to hang dry overnight. Using the washer and dryer was a luxury reserved for special occasions only. Oscar always looked forward to how it made the fabric soft and warm and smell of lavender, even if it did occasionally cause their clothes to shrink a bit. But he'd always rolled the sleeves to the forearm anyway, so this wasn't so different. He pushed them up past his elbows and tested his range of motion. Better. He resolved to bring the dirty shirt with him and hand-scrub it after breakfast so he could change back as soon as possible. The jacket was missing, probably still drying on the clothesline, but it wouldn't have gotten along with the Mistral heat, anyhow.
Moving on. Oscar held the pants to his waist, and, as expected, found it'd be useless to try and put them on. He thought about checking the trunk for more in hopes of finding a pair that hadn't shrunk, but considering he'd had to get his new ones re-tailored a couple weeks into Atlas, when Ironwood had noted the lack of mobility in his legs, he figured all his old farming trousers would be a tight fit now. He settled for the dirty ones he had on.
Alright. Clothes: check. Scroll: dead, but check. Cane— Oscar hitched it to his back. Check. As he let it go, he remembered what he was missing.
"Hey, Oz? Any chance you can hear me now?"
Oscar wasn't expecting a reply this time, but apparently he'd been hoping for one. Maybe Oz could hear him and was just unable to respond? Doubt it. Last time Oz was 'gone' Oscar hadn't ever tried to reach him, hadn't ever wanted to, but he'd always suspected that if he asked, Oz would've answered. But this wasn't like before. Last time I could tell he was still in my head. This is different. Something, some unreliable feeling deep in Oscar, told him Ozpin was still somewhere. Just not here. Not entirely, at least.
That's literally not possible. If he could do that he would've at some point.
The feeling didn't listen to reason.
One more time. Oscar stood before the mirror in the barn, leaning over the sink to get a closer look. His black eye hadn't fully healed overnight as he'd hoped, but it did look and feel much better. The scratches on his face and residual bruising on his arms had disappeared. His ribs… not so much. But he could stand and move sufficiently. He'd just have to try not to breathe too deeply.
Now that he was looking in the mirror, his clothes were even smaller on him than he'd thought — more than shrinking in the wash would explain. His shirt was verging on a crop top. Oscar could practically hear Yang saying, "Crop top, get it? 'Cause you're a farmer? Eh? Eh?" until someone either laughed, groaned, or threw something at her. Oscar watched the corner of his mouth twitch upwards.
The sink sputtered on as Oscar turned the faucet to rinse his hands and face. The lukewarm water felt like sweat, but there was a strange satisfaction in watching the grime from his skin run down the drain. In the absence of a clean rag, he dried his face on his shirt, then fastened his cummerbund around his midsection to cover the gap — he didn't need any teasing from his aunt over an exposed bellybutton of all things. He straightened and rolled his shoulders back, which the shirt was not happy about. It stretched, but only to an extent. The arm seams slid up to the tops of his shoulders, creating weird little pockets of excess fabric above them. It was difficult not to wriggle, but doing so made the shirt rub against his chest, so he tried to abstain.
With everything that'd been going on in the past few months, he must've neglected to notice just how much he'd grown. He'd have to check the notches in the barn door to see by how much, but for now, he needed to focus on the mirror.
Gripping the rim of the sink, Oscar leaned in, feeling foolish. It hadn't worked the first three times, but he didn't know what else to try. Besides, four's your favorite number, right?
Oscar locked eyes with his reflection. "Hello?"
He waited. "Are you there?"
Nothing. He sighed. Well, it was worth a shot. His own feelings aside, whatever was going on would be easier to figure out with Oz around, even if just to have someone to bounce ideas off of.
Fine. I said that was the last time, no more delaying it.
What was he going to tell his aunt? He didn't even know what'd happened. How could he tell the truth if he didn't have an explanation? Or even evidence — Oz was gone, too. He might've wondered whether this were a dream, but in all the confusion he hadn't considered that as a possibility until this morning, when he was very sure he was awake.
Oscar steeled himself and headed out. Huh, I don't remember closing the door last night. Hopefully Aunt Mel wouldn't lecture him about grimm again. As if those tiny pests could climb a ladder. With one firm yank, Oscar flung it open, and shielded his eyes against the burning flood of sunlight.
He wasn't quite ready to leave yet. As a convenient excuse, he granted himself a moment to check the marks on the door frame. Even without measuring, the most recent one — marked shortly after he'd met Oz — was clearly below him. He grabbed a knife off the wall, stood up straight against the frame, flattened his hair, and dug a line in the wood at the top of his head. Oscar turned to compare it with the previous. It was a pretty decent gap. Eyeballing it, he'd guess it was about a… four, maybe five-inch difference. Wait, seriously? In what, six months? Seven, tops?
Months. Aunt Mel had said weeks. Oscar aligned the knife with the markings to get a better idea of the gap, as if unsure he was imagining it. He wasn't. Closer to four, I think. They really needed to get a ruler. He returned the knife to its hook.
Okay. No way could I have grown this much in a couple weeks, so my memory isn't wrong. He should've known that already, what with his clothes and scroll and all, and he did, but weirder things had happened. The notion that it'd all been fabricated in a coma or dream wasn't out of the realm of possibility. He slouched against the wall. His aunt had never been great with time, but he would've thought her nephew going missing for half a year would've felt like more to her than a couple weeks.
His legs wobbled beneath him. Woah. Oscar caught the door frame and waited for the spots to fade from his vision. Without yesterday's adrenaline coursing through him, his body succumbed to weakness. Food. I need food, and water, and I need to sit down. His knees bent more. No, he scolded them. If I sit now, I won't get up.
Oscar stepped into the day, stopping briefly to pump some water for washing dishes, and made his way to the kitchen house. He set the bucket by the broken sink and began to prepare some oatmeal. As he was pouring the milk—
"Slept in, huh?"
Oscar's jolt spilled milk down his sleeves. He scrambled to wipe it off the counter. "Why do you do that?"
"Jumpy," Aunt Mel noted. "Got something to hide?"
"I just didn't see you."
She hummed and sat at the table, signaling for him to join her by tapping a finger on the surface.
Oscar set the pot on the fire and took the seat across from her. "Uh, sorry I fell asleep last night."
"Oh, don't be, it gave me an excuse to turn in early myself. I think we both needed the rest. Besides, is that really the thing you wanna be apologizing for right now?"
Right. "Aunt M, I am so sorry for leaving you like that. I wasn't thinking about the crops, or the market trips, or—"
Aunt Mel snorted. "'Course you weren't. Lucky for you, Daff down the road came along to pick up your slack. But thank you. And you've got an apology headed your way, too."
"Oh, no, please, you don't owe me—"
"Too bad, it's coming. I shouldn't've been so harsh with you last night. Didn't realize till the sun woke me I spent more time berating you than welcoming you home. I'd hardly slept a wink since you left and when I saw you all the feelings just came outta me at once. You were only gone a few days, I just… I worry."
"Months."
"Excuse me?"
Oscar wasn't sure whether he'd planned on saying that aloud, but it was done. "I've been gone for months, not a few days." Aunt Mel's mouth opened, but Oscar didn't give her time to object. "What day is it?"
"I— pretty sure it's a Wednesday."
"I meant of the year." You'd think she'd get that from context.
"Mm, 13th July, if my math is right."
Wait, what? Oscar faltered. Is she… okay? "No, that's not— that's only a couple weeks after I left." Or nearly a year after.
"Well, would you look at the scholar over here, putting one and one together!" Aunt M mimed raising a glass in a mocking fake toast. "'Months,' he says. Always so dramatic."
"Tree blaming the apple," Oscar said without thinking. Oh, gods, that was out loud, wasn't it?
Aunt Mel gave a quick laugh. "Apple should be thanking tree for the shade, 'stead of tossing it back around. But I guess that's on the tree for handing it out in the first place, huh?"
A smile crept to Oscar's face. Why was I so afraid to write you? All those months he could've been talking to her— Months. "Hang on, July? Did you mean to say January?" Both months started with a J; it easily could've been a slip of the tongue. She'd still be about a week or so off, but that'd be par for her.
Aunt Mel opened up her arms to the room. "I know, right? I can hardly believe it myself! We oughtta be getting you ready for school soon. Daffy's pop is taking her back-to-school shopping in the square this weekend. I'm sure they'd be more than happy to bring you along. Daffy's been worried like crazy, looking for you and asking about you every spare minute she gets."
"Don't call her that." The mention of something as mundane as back-to-school shopping left Oscar hazy.
"Speaking of, I don't want you reading any more poetry books or anything else till you've finished up with your math textbook."
"I did. I filled out all the answers — I showed you, didn't I?"
"The red one, right?"
"Yes."
"Mhm. You're supposed to be on the blue one, but the spine snitched on you: you've never once cracked it open."
"If I can do the grade 12 book, why should I have to do the grade 10 one?"
"Because that's what you'll be turning in to the schoolhouse. I only get so much freedom in teaching you, you know. You still have to meet the requirements."
"Shouldn't exceeding them be enough?"
"We've been over this more times than a cat cleans its behind. It ain't my call. Do the book, you don't have much time left."
"School doesn't start anytime soon." On second thought, he and Daffodyl would be coming back from break right about now. Ohh. That's what she meant they're shopping for: the second semester. He should go with them, Daff would probably appreciate the buffer.
"I know it feels like a lifetime away, but classes will be here before you know it. The days go by so quickly in the summertime."
Maybe for you. Farm work and heat ensured summer was the longest season of all. Besides— "It's not summertime. It's not even spring yet."
Not that I'll be going back regardless.
Oscar blinked. Right. He'd almost gotten caught up in a world he didn't belong to anymore. A world of schoolbooks and market trips, where the biggest threats were bullies and bollworms. Something like nostalgia burrowed itself in his chest, but not quite. He wasn't sure there was a word for the feeling.
"You think I can't tell the difference between winter and summer? I know I'm getting a little long in the tooth, but I'm not that far gone."
"No, it's just— sometimes you forget to cross the days off. Are you sure you didn't accidentally—"
"I'm sure," she snipped. "Missing a day or two is one thing, but you think I'd forget the calendar for months on end? I don't know what game you think you're playing, but it ain't right messing with an old woman's head."
"Can you show me?"
Aunt Mel made a great display of hauling herself out of her chair and ripping the calendar from the wall. She slapped it on the table in front of Oscar. "Read it and weep, bucko: I win this round."
Oscar took the calendar. It was open to last year, and not a single date past July 11th had been marked. "I thought you said it was the 13th?"
"So I forgot to cross yesterday off, sue me. Something came up." She ruffled his hair and sat beside him.
"But… No. No, it's late January. Of next year." He flipped forward through the pages of the calendar, searching for any stray markings, but all the squares were blank.
"January? Have you been in a coma or something?"
"What, no, how does— wouldn't that be the opposite of a coma, if I thought it was later than it—" Oscar cut himself off with a measured breath. "What I mean is, I left nearly seven months ago. In June."
"Really," Aunt Mel deadpanned. "You're really asking me to believe you spent months wandering around the forest without a single soul finding you."
"No, I wasn't here. I've mostly been in Atlas, up until yesterday— well, I was earlier in the day, but then we went to Vacuo. And I don't—"
"Vacuo?" Aunt Mel scoffed. "What'd you want to go there for? Ain't they in a drought?"
"It's a desert, Aunt M."
"No sass," she warned, but there was no bite to it. "Just get to explaining."
"Alright, we— I was in Vacuo, after evacuating—" The realization struck him. "Atlas! Is it still—"
"Still full of pricks? I'd wager." She looked sideways at his abrupt change of topic.
"No! It fell. Atlas just fell onto Mantle. I was there, I saw it." I helped cause it.
"That's ridiculous. If anything like that'd happened, I'd know."
True. Aunt Mel kept up with the news almost religiously. Lightning Dust was one of the priorities on the bartering list every trip, just so she could keep the TV on. No, Oscar reasoned. Word wouldn't have reached the other kingdoms yet, not with Amity being down.
They would know about Salem, though.
"Aunt M." Ozpin would never have let him do this. Ozpin isn't here. "Do you recognize the name… Salem?" He held his breath.
"Uhm… You thinking about Selmers from the market? We don't talk much, why?"
She didn't know. "No, someone else." Should he tell her? He dipped a toe in. "So, there wasn't a recent broadcast from Amity?"
Aunt Mel tilted her head and loosened her brow. "Honey, Amity's an arena. The CCT towers are what broadcast. I thought you knew all this? You're the one who wouldn't stop yammering about how 'poorly-designed' Remnant's communication system is since I got you that book when you were ten. Are you feeling feverish at all? Did you hit your head?"
"Maybe," Oscar conceded. "But I'm telling the truth. I was in Vacuo, then I woke up here. That's all I know."
A buttery softness spread over Aunt M's face. "Sweetpea, you could've hopped an airship express from your bed straight to Vacuo and wouldn't have got there and back in the time you've been gone. I don't care how scared you are of punishment, lying about where you've been won't do either of us any good."
"I'm not lying!" Oscar jumped from the table. "I've been gone for half a year." His voice cracked. "And you didn't even notice? Is— is this a trick? To teach me a lesson or something?" Oscar forcibly calmed himself, but remained firm. "I am sorry I left the way I did, but this is urgent. We don't have time for mind games. Please, tell me you know it's been months?" Oscar couldn't hold back the desperation from his words if he tried.
"Are you… feeling alright?" Aunt Mel reached across the table in his direction. "Cause I'm only giving you the grill thinking you're in a state of mind for it."
"Please, just tell me honestly — how long ago did I leave?" Oscar looked her straight in the eye, watching close.
"Just under three handfuls of days." She held up her hands. "No games, I swear it."
Her eyelid didn't twitch. Could it really be July? The humidity and nightlife would support that, actually. July. Unless he had been in a coma and his aunt had just been using the wrong year's calendar — which was entirely possible — that meant a six-month difference in their accounts. Well, either way that'd be the time gap, just in different directions. Half a year between yesterday and today. Or between yesterday and last night, to be more precise.
Two potential explanations for this discrepancy came to mind: either some sort of magic or force had gotten him to wind up in the past somehow, or time passed differently outside of the farm. Neither of which made much justifiable sense, but again, neither did most of what he'd learned since leaving. Better to assume it wasn't a dream and hope it was. Oscar started pacing to clear his head.
If time works differently on the farm — or the whole area, since she went to the market — that means… He struggled to finish the thought, but couldn't think of a way it'd work. He'd have to come back to that one.
If time rewound, I didn't move with it. Otherwise I wouldn't have these clothes, or a scroll. Or the cane. Oscar dismissed the urge to hold it. And I'm back here, on the other side of the world, without Oz.
Maybe Aunt Mel was just mistaken. It wouldn't be the first time. For all her jokes about how her mind was going, the underlying worry was evident. But January in Mistral would never be this warm. And come to think of it, there'd been no strawberries in the window boxes outside the kitchen, clearly having been freshly harvested. The cornstalks stood tall, the tomatoes in the early stages of ripening, and the gourd patch lay as barren as he'd left it, save for a couple sprouts. It was hard to see much more than that through the window, but this was not the state of crops in midwinter. Wait, when did I walk over to the window?
Oscar blinked hard. Focus. What was going on just before I got here? He worked backwards. Sandstorm, refugees, portals — maybe something had gone wrong with the portals and that's why he was here? Some sort of delayed side effect? But then it should've happened to everyone. Maybe Ambrosius had found a loophole in the team's request. Oscar had been the only one to collide with the portal in an attempt to go back, could that mean something?
Or maybe it had nothing to do with the Staff, and was a super unique semblance someone had used on him. If it were, it'd more likely be an illusion of sorts, but he doubted even Emerald would be able to pull this off. Still, new semblances popped up all the time. But who in Vacuo would do that? And why? No one there but his allies knew who he really was.
Next option. If it's magic, it'd have to... no. It was no use rummaging through memories. Oscar was well aware time magic and semblances were unheard of outside storybooks and folklore. Oz would've seen it by now. Besides, if I was sent back in time, why would I be here? I should still be in Vacuo, or at the house in Mistral, right?
The possibilities rotated in his head, each too flimsy to latch onto just yet. And if—
"I hate to interrupt your little daydream—"
Oscar swiveled, remembering where he was.
"—but I'm gonna need some more information out of you."
"Of course. Sorry." Oscar unclasped his hands and lowered his arms to his sides. It makes no sense. None of this makes any sense. "Okay. Listen," he said. "I don't know what's happened or how I got back here, but something really strange is going on. I haven't had a lot of time to think about it, but I suspect it's some form of magic. Maybe... time travel, or advanced dilation, or something along those lines." He held up his hands at the wrinkling on her forehead. "I know, but I'm serious. There's some sort of… disruption of time going on, I think." No use hiding it from her, he figured, as ridiculous as it surely sounded to the both of them.
Aunt Mel stared at him awhile before manufacturing a weak veneer of amusement. "Magic, huh? There bats up in that attic of yours?"
"That joke has never been funny." Oscar could only hope she didn't make comments like that to Daffodyl while she'd been helping in his absence. "And I'm serious. And I think you know that." Oscar leaned both hands on the table and met her eye. "As I said, it's a long story. It's probably best I don't get into details right now, but you have to trust me when I say that Remnant is in danger, and I need to go back and help."
"What're you… Now, why are you talking like it's the end of the world?" Aunt Mel fluttered a dismissive hand by her heart. "Ain't this a time of peace?"
"You and I both know there's no such thing."
One look at her and Oscar wished he could take it back. He shouldn't have phrased it so gravely, delivered it so intensely. He hadn't meant to remind her of The Great War, or of her daughter, but her eyes told him it was too late. It was a harsh wound to prod, but it was true. Peace is fragile. So long as its priority is self-preservation, it's no more than a collective fiction. The more Oscar ruminated on his new memories, the more 'peace' revealed itself to be a hypothetical. 'An invaluable time of peace,' Ozpin had called it. What an empty thing to say from above. Ask any Faunus, this was not a 'time of peace.'
All color had drained from Aunt Mel's face, her lips, her knuckles. She wouldn't look at him. "You must've caught a cold in that rain," she said. "You're not yourself. You need to rest up till you're better, then we'll talk when you're back in your right mind."
"Not myself?" The quiet words escaped him without warning.
"You're talking like you're the only one who can save the world from some disaster that—" she looked over each shoulder "—isn't anywhere in sight. I know you're growing up, and I know that's hard, but you're still a child. My child. And I like you just the way you are. So quit acting like something you're not."
"I'm not 'acting' like anything." For some reason, the accusation pricked at him. "I'm doing what needs to be done, because the adults aren't." He balled his fists and straightened. "You're right; I am a child. But I'm not the same one who left you. That Oscar is gone." His nails dug into his gloves. "Whether I like it or not, whether you like it or not, I'm not going to stand here and pretend I haven't changed, because I have." More than you could comprehend. More than I can understand.
"Fourteen," she said sternly. "You've been alive fourteen years. And you think fourteen days is enough to rewrite all that?"
"Fifteen years alive," Oscar corrected. "Six months rewritten."
"Oh, no you don't! Your birthday isn't till October, you can't just round up like that."
Is she even listening? "I'm telling you, I don't know how it's still July here, but I've been gone half a year. There's got to be some unheard of magic at play—"
"I don't want to hear any more of this. You're a teenager, I get it. You're trying to find yourself, define yourself, all that and a barrel of beans. It's real easy to let that warp your reality. This ain't the first time you've gone on about some magical hogwash or tried to sneak off on an adventure. And what happens every time? You come right on home the next day." She tapped the table repeatedly. "Really, I thought you'd grown out of this years ago. You just need to get your feet back on the ground and your hands in the dirt, that's all. I'm confiscating your storybooks. No more excuses, and don't you dare think about leaving again, especially in this state."
I'm not going to be able to convince her, am I? Oscar hated the way his thoughts reverberated now. It wasn't like before, when Oz had locked himself away. Here, Ozpin was no more than a cavity in Oscar's skull.
Wait. Oz may not be here consciously, but our souls can't have been fully separated, I don't think. No, I can still feel it. He couldn't help but think about what that meant. Not important. If some part of Oz is still part of me, can I still…?
"Can I show you something?" Oscar blurted. "Um, I'm not sure it'll work, but, I'm willing to try if it means you'll believe me."
"No promises."
Oscar took the seat opposite his aunt. Cupping his hands out on the table, he released the tension in his shoulders and jaw, closed his eyes, and concentrated. Use as little as possible. He squeezed his eyes tighter, and attempted to call upon Ozpin's magic. It was a lot harder to locate without him. Oscar tried to hone in on the magic that was his own now — the well he'd intuitively drawn from when protecting Yang and Emerald. Something stirred. A familiar sensation vibrated through his limbs and filled his chest like static. The current traveled down his arms, into his hands, his palms, and…
He opened his eyes. Nothing. The static within him fizzled out, leaving him cold. Oscar stared at his hands with an open mouth. "Huh?"
"'Huh?' What were you trying to show me? That you went and got your gloves all tore up?"
Part of him was relieved it hadn't worked, but a louder part was just confused. "No, that was supposed to…" He couldn't say it now with no proof. Is it because I was holding back? He wasn't too keen on the alternative. But maybe he could show her something else.
"Wait, let me try this." Oscar centered his thoughts on his aura. It must've recovered overnight, given the disappearance of his superficial wounds. He shut his eyes and dug deep. It took a short while to gather enough concentration to block out the world, longer than usual.
There it is. Unleashing the energy, his aura lit up and coated him in green. Instant relief poured over his body, healing him in ways he hadn't realized he was hurting. It untangled knots between his shoulder blades, dulled the itching on his chest, even lessened the pain in his ribs. But within a few moments, it flickered and faded. Oscar blinked. Again: huh?
But Aunt M had already shot up out of her chair. "Whoa— wh—!" Her words fled from her breaths. "When did you learn how to do that?" She wore a look of horror. "Your whole eye's fixed, how did you learn how to do that? Who taught—"
"I trained," Oscar said. A bit of an overreaction, but at least it got her attention. As grateful as he was to have so much pain lifted, the weakness of his aura had him a bit concerned. "I went to the city and I trained."
"You enrolled at Haven Academy? I told you, there's no way—"
"No, I didn't. I'm too young anyway." He probably could've gone if Oz had told Leo to let him in. But that wouldn't have ended well.
"What about that girl from Beacon? She was in the Vytal tournament at fifteen, remember? Fifteen! You're only a year off, what if they made you an exception, too?"
Poison needles threaded Oscar's heart. "She was a… special case. I was — am — far from her skill level. I've gotten much better, though." How much by my own merit is hard to say. He bit his cheek. What a stupid thing to care about. "Also, I'm fifteen."
Bubbling billowed from the stovetop. Oatmeal burbled over the rim of the pot and dripped down the sides. "Oh, not again." Oscar hurried to switch off the fire and wipe up the mess. He ladled some oatmeal for the two of them. "Sorry." Luckily his aunt never seemed to mind overcooked food.
Aunt Mel fell back into her chair. Oscar set the bowl and spoon in front of her with a muted clatter. She made no move to eat, just sat there with rising and falling expressions Oscar couldn't quite grasp.
Eventually, her eyes glazed over and settled on the window. "Y'know," she said with gentle wist, "your aura looks an awful lot like your mother's."
Oscar's stomach turned to stone. What did you just say? "She… unlocked her aura?" Had his mother been a Huntress after all? Had his aunt been lying to him this whole time?
"Not for fighting." Aunt M's voice dropped. "For survival."
Oscar set the oatmeal on his placemat, but his appetite had left him. My mother. Aunt Mel almost never talked about her. A long stretch of silence followed. Oscar took the moment to fill her a glass of water.
"It was strong," she added. "But not strong enough to save her."
The patter in Oscar's chest grew to a beating, afraid to press for more. Afraid to do anything that might interrupt.
Aunt Mel turned to him. "I don't know what 'training' you may or may not have had, but it will never be enough to keep you safe."
"I know." Oscar addressed the floor. "I've kind of given up on the idea of safety as something you can hold onto."
"You can here." She reached out to him, a tender earnest itching up her voice. "We can. It's safe here, Oscar."
He looked at her, at the plea in her eyes. "You know I'm going to leave again, don't you?"
"Oscar." Her voice was hardly above a whisper. "What is going on with you?"
Trying to answer that would take days, if it could even be fully answered. It's not like I know nothing, he argued internally. There's so much I could tell her. "I... really can't tell you everything right now, but I promise you'll know soon. I just, please believe me, I have to go." That's it? That wasn't even an answer! "If the circumstances were different, I'd stay. I'd stay, and tell you everything I know. But, as it stands, staying isn't an option for me."
Aunt Mel frowned at him. "I don't like you like this. Talking like you're the authority here, treating me like I'm a child you're protecting, like you think you can handle things I can't."
I don't like you like this. Oscar tried to set that aside for later, but couldn't offset the way it ached. "I'm sorry, that wasn't my intention. I just need time to think about how to tell you." And what to tell you. "But, as for leaving, I don't really have a choice in the matter."
"There is always a choice, Oscar." Aunt Mel folded her hands. "We are nothing without the choices we make. I want you to remember I said that."
How nice it must be, to believe life is nothing more than the parts you can control. "Maybe," he said with a noncommittal shrug. "But even so, my choice is the same."
"Honey, you're scaring me. You say you don't know what happened, either, so how do you expect me to let you leave here in good conscience? It only took you two weeks to get all beat up and dirty and talking about magic and endtimes. If anything else could happen to you, how can you ask me to let it?"
"You're not wrong to worry." Oscar pressed the glass of water into her hand and closed her fingers around it. "A lot's already happened to me. And more surely will. But..." He bit his tongue, knowing what he was going to say next would cause his aunt distress, but it needed to be said. If he really had found himself six months in the past… "The world's about to go to war again."
Aunt Mel's eyes widened, then reddened. Oscar knew she'd blame it on allergies if questioned. He'd only ever seen his aunt truly cry once a year — always on the anniversary of her daughter's disappearance. Always clutching a letter she refused to let anyone read.
Oscar knelt by her chair and took her arm, looking up at her hand-hidden face. "I know. I know you blame yourself for letting her leave. And I know I never met her, but if she's anything like you, she would've gone whether you'd let her or not."
"And so would you." Below her palms, Aunt Mel's lips tightened, the way they did before ending a conversation she didn't like.
Oscar slouched. "I'm sorry."
"Quit saying that!" She twisted away from his touch. "'Sorry' don't mean a thing if you'd do it again."
"You letting her make her own decision wasn't the wrong thing to do."
"Don't—"
"Whatever happened, it wasn't your—"
"Oscar, stop—"
"I didn't want you to be faced with the same choice with me," he admitted.
Aunt M broke eye contact.
Now that he'd said it aloud and seen the look on her face, it finally sunk in why he'd so easily agreed to leave without warning. She didn't need another choice to regret for the rest of her life. He didn't want to be the reason she cried twice a year.
"I convinced myself that was a selfless act. But whether it was denial or naïveté, it wasn't fair to you. I'm sorry." He tried to meet her eye. "I will never stop being sorry for not giving you a chance to say goodbye. So I'm doing it this time." Poor Aunt M. She'd never gotten to see her daughter grow up, and now her second chance had come back all grown up without her.
She drank from her glass. Her face held a quiet, unfamiliar expression for a long time before she resumed blinking. "I should've expected it. Leaving without giving a reason or so much as a goodbye — it's practically a family tradition, isn't it?"
Guilt churned in Oscar's gut. Her daughter, her sister, then her nephew. Who hadn't she lost? Oscar tried to say 'I'm so sorry,' but his mouth wouldn't open. Instead, he rose and wrapped his arms lengthwise about her shoulders. Her hand came up to grip his forearm. They stayed like that for a while, long enough that she started to tremble.
"You deserved a real goodbye," he said into her ear. A teardrop landed on Oscar's arm. He swallowed hard. How many of these had she shed for him already? "You deserved a real explanation." Water built up in a dam behind his own eyes. He'd gone so long without crying; he wasn't sure he was ready to welcome it back. But the reintroduction was long overdue. The dam burst, and he let it.
Oscar rested his forehead on the side of his aunt's. "You deserve so much better than the life you've lived."
Aunt M faced him, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear. "There's no such thing as deserving a good life. I've had a good life, I've had a terrible one, then good again. While I had you, it was a good one." She wiped a tear from Oscar's chin.
And now he'd be leaving her again. All alone with another terrible life. But if he didn't, she wouldn't have a life at all. He wondered which was worse. And how much of that wondering was an excuse.
"So was mine," he said softly. Of course he'd dreamed of more, wished for a bigger life than the one she'd made for him, but it'd never been an unhappy one. He'd never appreciated boredom and monotony for what they were, always blaming them for the emptiness he felt. Only now could he recognize them as byproducts of safety and stability. Aunt Mel must have worked so hard to give him that. But he'd left, and the emptiness persisted. In this moment, Oscar couldn't recall it ever feeling stronger. "I'm sorry I took that from you. I'm sorry I can't give it back."
"Oh, no, Dandelion..." She smiled sadly and worked her fingers through the tangles in his hair. "Any life where you aren't happy will never be a good one for me." She held him by the shoulders and scanned his face. "I love you more than the waking world, you know that?"
"I know." Oscar crossed his arms over his chest to hold each of her hands, hugging himself in the process. "I love you, too." He thought about the clothes she'd laid out on his bed, how she must have climbed the ladder on her bad leg just to bring them to him. A fresh round of tears wavered in his eyes and fell. "Thank you."
"I don't need to know everything. I don't care if you think I won't believe you. I just need to know why." Her jaw quaked. "I won't press you for anything else, but please... Please, Oscar, just tell me why?"
Oscar looked at her, at the face that'd always remained so strong and unyielding. He weakened at the sight of it now, utterly helpless and hurting.
She deserved to know. More than that, Oscar wanted her to know. And there's no one here to stop me. "Okay."
Her grip loosened. Oscar doubted she was breathing.
"It's… a lot to take in. But if anyone can handle it, it'll be you." He hoped that was true. Oscar clenched his fists, trying and failing to steady the shaking in his bones. "It started about a week before I left—"
A high-pitched, earsplitting shriek sliced the air. "HELP! Somebody help!" The cries rang from just outside. "Anyone, please!"
Oscar didn't hesitate. "Stay here," he instructed. Before she got a chance to react, he slipped out of his aunt's hands and bolted for the door.
"Wait!" She called his name, but it was futile; Oscar had already left her protests to fade behind him.