Disclaimer: I don't claim to own anything related to Bravely Default or Mumford and Sons' 'The Ghosts That We Knew', from which the title is sampled from.
Characters: Tiz-centric, for Megan. (omfg I forget if you've even played BD so if you haven't don't sweat it! I wrote you a back-up drabble just in case.)
Summary: Four times of falling, and two times of catching (too late). Spoilers for the end of the game.
bury my heart on the coast
The birds sing of summer, and the air drapes itself across your shoulder like a shawl, heavy and warm and comforting. You tilt your head to the sky and watch as the clouds pass by.
You have no warning before the earth cleaves itself in two with a roar. The fields of Norende buckle, cave in on themselves, and you reach out to snag Til before it consumes him as well.
"Let me go! We'll both fall at this rate!" Til's hand is so small in your own, so fragile, and you clamp your fingers around his with a gasp. His eyes are blazing up into your own, brighter even than the light that flares beneath him, and in his eyes you can see the fields of Norende and quiet dinners with Mother and a thousand little moments that never gave you pause until now.
I'm not losing you. The words pound at your skull, make your arms tremble with the depth of them, and you aren't sure if you scream them or if they're just thought. Your lungs cramp with each shallow intake of breath, and you urge Til to just reach up, to just give you his other hand—
Looking back, it happened in an eternity of a moment, but that's really not how it happened at all. In your memory it takes years for Til's hand to slip from your own, for his eyes to be swallowed up by the light that pulses and swells below.
In reality it happened in less than a second: Til's hand was in your own, and then it was not.
Somehow, that haunts you more than anything else.
.
.
The second time is a small in-between moment, a snapshot of time easily forgotten. It's half-past midnight, and Florem is as bright as day beyond the inn windows: Ringabel staggers to and fro through the cramped kitchen, the light outside infusing his hair with gold.
"Now Tiz, staying up so late isn't good for your health, you know." He wags an admonishing finger at you and almost takes out his own eye by mistake.
"Here, lemme make something to help you get some beauty rest." He gives you the sloppiest grin in the history of humankind and makes his way towards the fridge, fetching up against one of the cabinets with a muffled "Oops". Rolling your eyes seems like too monumental an effort, so you settle for watching with your hands on your hips as he haphazardly withdraws a jug of milk and sets in on the table with what you think is supposed to be a flourish.
"Milk?" You try for dryness, but it comes out as a whisper instead.
Ringabel has the sense to look affronted. "No, no, not just milk. If you do this, just like so…" He pours it into a glass, getting more on the table than actually in the cup, and warms it with a Fira. "Here." He pushes it towards you, some of it sloshing over the lip of the glass. "Warm milk."
"I…" You sigh, and fight the urge to groan. "Thanks, Ringabel."
He sweeps you a bow and then stumbles, as though the floor is sliding out from under his feet. Even though you know falling won't hurt him, something about the way his eyes fly open in shock makes you dart forward and grab his wrist. The weight of him makes you both topple, and you end up with your forehead pressed against the cold tiles, Ringabel's legs tangled with your own and the fluff of his stupidly fluffy collar buried in your mouth.
"My hero," you hear him say, but it comes out as more winded than sardonic. "If it all possible, could you get your knee off of my groin? Ouch. Thank you."
.
.
.
The cavern air reeks of mildew, and Agnes's screams rebound off the walls, shattering into a thousand echoes as Olivia crumples to the ground at her feet.
"No! Olivia! It was me… That was meant for me!" The words leave her lips in a howl, and her knees give out as though she was the one to be hit instead of Olivia. You reach out to her on reflex, catching her by the waist as she stoops to scoop up Olivia in her arms. "Olivia…"
"It was meant for both of you. How irritating." Victoria's monotone strikes a stark contrast against Agnes's anguish.
Deaf to her, Agnes continues to stroke the hair back from Olivia's face, and she shuts her friend's eyes with a shaking hand. In the tiny tremors of her fingers you can see your grief magnified, and you let her sink to the ground, the weight of her sorrow too heavy for you to hold.
.
.
.
.
The fourth time is on the deck of the Grandship. Weeks of insomnia have left you bleary-eyed and weak-kneed, and you slump against the wall, focusing only on the gentle sway of the ship beneath your feet. The nightmares have strayed into your daytime life—you'll be looking at the sky and suddenly the clouds will dissolve into fields of green concaving, the rocking of the ship melting into the violent lurching of your entire world self-destructing.
"Tiz?" You blink, and your past fades away to reveal Edea standing there, munching on an apple with vigor. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, Edea. I'm sorry. I'm just tired."
"Well, alright… if you're sure. You know you can talk to us about anything, right?" She smiles at you in a way that outshines the sun, and it hits you, suddenly, that these people—these travel companions, these once-strangers—are what you consider family now. The realization aches like an old wound, but you smile back at her with everything you can and pray that it doesn't look as bruised as it feels.
"Thanks, Edea."
"Hmm." Swallowing her last bit of fruit, she leans in close, hands on her hips. Her lips part, but before she can speak the Grand Ship tilts onto its side, and suddenly you're not on the Grand Ship at all but on the hills of Norende, the earth sliding out from underneath you as Til is sucked into the void—
Your fingers lock with Edea's before you can stop them. It's the only thing to keep her from losing her footing, and the two of you stumble as the ship rights itself with jarring suddenness. "Thanks, Tiz." She blows a stray tuft of hair off her forehead. "What the hell was Ringabel thinking? I thought he knew how to drive this thing!"
You choke out a laugh, but it's cut off with a sharp intake of breath when Edea squeezes your fingers. "You're always the one to catch people, Tiz—I'll be sure to catch you if you ever fall, okay?" She grins at you again and you feel as though you've swallowed the sun: your heart feels scorched and tender, and you can only nod as she drops your hand and dashes off to berate Ringabel, her hair streaming behind her like sunlight.
.
and the two times he was the one to be caught
.
Déjà vu syndrome shows itself in the form of the splintering of rock beneath your feet in the temple of fire. Egil—not Til, you tell yourself; not Til, not Til, not Til—is there beside you, and then he is not. The lava that seethes below has an almost golden sheen to it, and your hand flashes out to grip Egil's wrist on reflex. You're distantly aware of Edea staring at you with eyes glossed with terror and of Ringabel gripping your arm as though it's a lifeline, but it's nothing more than a backdrop against Egil—Til—Egil gazing up at you with trusting brown eyes.
I'm not losing you. I'm not losing you. I'm not losing you.
"Tiz!" someone screams, and then Ringabel's fingers are ripped from your own and you're falling. It all happens in a series of shutter-clicks in your peripheral: Agnes breaking away from Airy and throwing herself down the quaking row of boulders. Her hand reaching out to you. You reaching out to her. Your fingers colliding, intertwining.
"I'll toss Egil over to you." The words come out in a rasp. "Get him out of here."
You can feel her arm quivering under the weight of you, but she holds firm. "I'm not going to let go."
"But we could both end up falling!" You wonder if this is what Til felt in those last moments—desperation shot through with a sliver of hope.
She gasps out something you don't catch, and you can feel her slipping. The heat from the lava licks at the underside of your shoes, and you tighten your hold on Egil until you hear bones crunch.
"Tiz! Egil!" A sudden yank on your arm forces the air out of your lungs, and one minute you're dangling there and the next you're being hauled up into warm arms, Egil panting on the rocks beside you. Agnes's hair tickles your chin, and when you meet her eyes she gives you a smile watery with exhaustion and relief. Edea's sweaty cheek is pressed against your own, and Ringabel's arm is tight against your shoulder. A smile cracks across your lips, and you let them help you to your feet, their arms at the ready to catch you if you fall.
.
.
Dear Egil.
Dear Agnes.
Dear Edea.
Dear Ringabel.
Your quill stills after each of their names. There's so much you want to say, but most of it clots up behind your fingers. Outside your window, the birds sing of fall; the air drapes itself across your shoulders like a shawl, light and cool and nostalgic in a way you don't want to explore. You raise your eyes to the sky and watch as the clouds pass by.
"Well, I suppose it's time to return what I've borrowed." The words stick in your throat. You put each letter on the desk of the inn and head out to face the day, soaking up the way it feels to take a breath, to put each foot in front of the other.
The grass of the graveyard, when you get to it, is as lush as the fields of Norende; you reach down to brush the purple petals of hyacinth as you pass by. The sun presses smudges of gold against your eyelids every time you blink, and suddenly, despite everything, you're afraid. Your feet still in front of the tombstone, and you inhale shakily through your nose, letting the wind card chilled fingers through your hair.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
It's time.
You press a quivering hand to your heart and the world is full of light.
There is no one there to catch you when you fall.
.
.
.
A possible addendum:
You aren't there to see Ringabel pick up the letter addressed to him and put two and two together. You aren't there to see Agnes crumple to her knees without someone there to catch her, and you aren't there to see Edea nervously laugh, to see her shake her head in furious denial.
"He's just sleeping." The words come out raw, and she falls down beside you, fisting her hands into your shirt and shaking you. "Wake up, Tiz. Wake up."
Someone besides Agnes is crying. It takes Edea a long time to realize it's her.
There's no blood, and somehow that makes it worse; somehow that makes it almost plausible that you're sleeping, that you're a second away from opening your eyes and saying, "I'm here. It's okay. Sorry for worrying you."
You don't.
Evening slowly drains the sky of colour, and their tears dry along with it. Agnes is still hiccupping when she comes to take your cold hand in your own and give it one last squeeze before leaving you so that you can finally, finally sleep.
"Goodnight, Tiz."
fin