Who: Briar Moss and a ghost What: Hauntings aren’t always terrible When: Late Saturday night Where: His bedroom Warnings: none Status: Complete Narrative
It had started with a nightmare. The same kind he had all the time. Memories of Chammur, of using his magic to kill someone. He'd weaponized plants before, poured magic into them, made walls, thorny barriers to slow soldiers down, never anything that actually hurt anyone if they just stayed back. Until he'd been made to choose, to protect Evvy and pour his magic into killing for her, or to let some kid he was responsible for get killed. It had been an easy choice in the moment, but the aftermath hadn't been easy. The nightmares were common. Briar had learned to live with them.
Hearing about people seeing ghosts hadn't bothered him. He had his own ghosts, thought he saw them some days no matter what was going on around him. He didn't really believe people could come back from the dead like that. Spirits left and that was that. He didn't worry much when he started seeing faces more and more. The men he’d killed, old gang friends who’d gotten sick or knifed. The Dedicates he hadn't been able to save. They were all the people he remembered all the time.
Briar couldn't have expected a dirty, thin girl appearing in his room in the middle of the night.
“Flick?” he whispered harshly, looking at her. She didn't look sick at all, not like she had while he watched her wasting away. She looked almost healthy, as good as any street kid could. “What're you doing here?”
“I don't need t’be looked after no more.” Her high voice, rough accent reminded him of home, of Summersea and of the streets before that. “I'm alright now.”
“You ain't,” Briar protested. “You're dead.”
“Ain't nothin’ that can hurt the dead, right?” Crooked smile and half broke teeth twisted his heart. She’d been good people, a smart kid, and she hadn’t deserved what had happened to her. There was nothing he could have done to stop it, but if they’d been better, smarter, they could’ve saved her.
“What’re you doing here, Flick?” he asked again, a little more tired, feeling a lot older than his fifteen or so years.
“Just came to get a few winks. Been busy an’ I’m tired.”
Briar understood why she’d come to him if she wanted to get some rest, didn’t understand how the dead could be so busy though. Street kids, the smart ones anyway, didn’t try sleeping on their own. It was too dangerous, thieves and killers and people just wanting to rough them up for existing were everywhere and sleeping alone was just asking for one of them to come around. Even pairs was risky, out in the open. Looking at the bed around him, Briar just nodded, climbed to his feet and unceremoniously, for the first time in a long time, yanked all the covers off, hauled the mattress to the floor in a corner, piled the blankets and his pillow onto it in a rough bundle resembling a nest, and held out a hand to his friend.
“C’mon. It’s safe here.” He could keep her safe here, even if she wasn’t really there to keep.
Like the little girl she was, no more than ten or eleven, about as old as he’d been when he’d gone to Winding Circle, Flick scampered over, crawled into the nest, her eyes lighting up in the darkness of the room. “You sure got it nice, Briar. I ain’t never felt nothin’ this soft.”
“Too soft,” Briar grumbled. He’d come to really like that softness, the warmth. Comfort was one of the good things about living with Lucas and his wife. It made him feel like he had money or something. He waited until Flick did as she was told, watched her curl up with her back to the corner, like any street rat looking to protect herself, have a fighting chance if anyone did come her way, before joining her, face against hers, arms around her thin body protectively. It hardly even felt like she was there. He didn’t know what he’d expected, curling up with a ghost.
“You like it here?” Flick asked, quiet and small against his chest. And Briar just gently grabbed a handful of her hair, it felt softer than it should, cleaner, and ruffled a little.