Returner Issues

Chapter 3

In a little musty, slightly dusty bedroom, the morning was creeping in. Birds could be heard outside, chirping, tweeting, and just making noises for the heck of it, to the chagrin of the small boy who inhabited the little room. In his half sleep he turned over, bringing his quilt over his face and nuzzling his nose into the chocobo feather pillows. His bed creaked under his shifting weight, adding to the annoying morning noises.

The sun, that tricky star, rose in the dewy air above the planet, and the light crept through the boy's curtains. What sad curtains they were, holes here and there, and made of a gauzy, flimsy material that barely hid anything like curtains should. Because of this, Locke groaned into the pillows, really wanting to sleep a little longer.

As he sat up, muscles stretching, legs swinging over the side of the bed, the sounds of his grandmother cooking breakfast perked him up. He ran a hand through his messy brown hair, and his back muscles seemed to cry in protest to all of the movement. He groaned again, reminded of the previous day's events.

Hopefully his grandmother would be in a better mood today.

Locke went home pretty late the night before, after all the children were already in bed, and his father had returned from the pub.

The reason he was so late was because he was in shock, so after his new friend left he fell backwards into the leaves. He just laid there for hours watching the clouds swarm over the moon, watching the stars twinkle and shine, like lanterns in the night sky. His mind reeled, his eyes teared up, his pulse quickened and slowed as he replayed those words over and over.

"I wanted to know if you'd play with me."

After awhile it dawned on him that he forgot to ask the boy's name and that made him feel incredibly rude. But then again, the boy did not ask for Locke's name either, so he guessed they were even.

He lugged himself up and went to his closet to yank down a shirt and a pair of black pants. While he changed into his day wear, tossing his nightclothes into the wooden hamper in the corner, he hoped to see the boy again that day.

His murky blue eyes kept to his plate during breakfast, staying lowered as he brought a forkful of egg to his mouth, barely glancing up when his father stumbled in. His face needed a shave, his hair looked dirty, his eyes were red and puffy from his hangover. Grandmother clicked her tongue, unhappy with her son being such a deadbeat, and got up to fix him a plate. Willow sank into his chair, breathing "Good morning" to his mother and son, voice forgettable and flat. Between bites of salted pork and toast, Grandmother brought over Willow's food and a mug of her special hangover cure. It was a strange concoction that apparently had ginger and other unrecognizable herbs.

Locke wolfed down the rest of his food, and quickly flew through his morning chores so he could go back to the woods. His grandmother did not mind him going off so quickly, satisfied that he was so prompt with his work.

The forest behind his house was large, with tall oak and spruce trees that created a canopy of leaves and branches. Sunlight streamed down softly, casting the wood in a yellow glow that glinted off leaves, tree bark, pollen, and rocks.

Through an almost tunnel like area Locke went, searching for the right area to wait on the boy from the day before. An area that was close to the trees and stones that the village children played around. Locke's best bet was to be close to Kohlingen if he wanted to be spotted by the dark haired boy who thought that he killed Locke simply by knocking him out of a tree. He decided that the boy must not be very bright because even Locke, who didn't attend school due to his chores, knew that it was rather difficult for somebody to die just by falling out of a tree. Break a bone? Yeah, but die? Not likely.

On the smoothest boulder he could find, Locke perched atop it, legs out in front of him comfortably, hands behind him, propping him up, and face held skywards, enjoying the sun rays that filtered down from above through the leaves.

An hour or so passed by, and Locke decided to stay there, figuring he had nothing better to do that day. Shifting to lay on his back, the brunette stretched out, and eventually fell asleep there in the forest.

Running, running, why am I always running?

Fast footfalls came behind him. Chasing him. Getting closer and closer.

Around a corner, down an alley, up and over the wire fence.

Pausing, I look down at my feet, chest heaving, panting, gasping.

In my left hand is a jewel necklace stolen from a lady's throat.

I smile briefly, before taking off again, not stopping once until I reach the next town.

Locke felt something firm poking and prodding at his head, waking him from his dream, eyes fluttering open to see the boy from yesterday holding a stick.

"You're not dead again, are you?" He asked, giving Locke a toothy grin.

"Nah, cut that out," Locke said, sitting up, blinking in the afternoon sun.

"Good, because I don't think I have anymore mojo to bring you back to this world a second time."

"'Mojo?' What in the goddess' name are you talkin' about?" Locke quirked his eyebrow up, returning the boy's smile.

"You don't know? Seriously?" The boy's eyes widened, in what looked like honest surprise.

"Mojo is another word for magic. You know what magic is, right?"

"I think so, but I only have the stories my grandmother told me when I was little to go on," Locke replied, feeling pretty darn happy to be having a conversation with somebody his age.

"Well, do you know that it's a sort of mystical force that lets you control elements, and other neat stuff like that," The boy went on, plopping down on the stone next to Locke.

"I was reading all about in this new book my father got for me in Jidoor."

Diverting away from the conversation, Locke asked,"What's your name anyways? I'm Locke."

"Oh, I'm Arcell. Did I forget to introduce myself last night?" He asked, rubbing his head with a grin.

"Yeah, but it's alright. Nice to meet you!" The brunette held out a hand, laughing some. Arcell grabbed Locke's hand and shook it vigorously.

"Nice to meet you too, man! Now back to magic..."

The boys spent the rest of that day under the elm and oak trees talking about all the folklore and fairy tales they had heard. Arcell apparently had a strange fascination in anything abnormal and whimsical.

At supper time, the black haired boy had to run back home or his mother would be angry that he was late again. Locke understood, and waved with his entire right arm at his new friend.

"See you tomorrow Locke! Same place?" Arcell called, stopping a few yards away to hear the answer.

"Yeah, sure, man! See ya!" He yelled back, hopping down from the rock.


"Hey sonny, have a nice day out? The flowers seemed happy, so that means the weather was good," Grandmother croaked from the stove, stirring some vegetables around in her frying pan.

"Yeah, actually, Gran. I made a new friend too," Locke smiled, happy that his grandmother was in a pleasant mood that day, a rarity in itself. Perhaps his good mood had rubbed off on her as he had approached the house.

"Oh really now? He isn't imaginary is he?" Grandmother clucked, adding a pinch of pepper to the veggies.

"Ha ha, funny. No, he is not imaginary at all. His name is Arcell," Locke smirked, feeling triumphant that his new friend was not indeed a figment of his imagination like Larry had been. He went to the sink to wash his hands, then started to set the table with silverware for the evening meal.

"What sort of things did you two do then? Play in the woods and burn ants and other bugs with a mirror?"

"We talked about stuff," Locke said, putting a fork and knife on either side of a plate on the round table, then went back to the counter to get another set.

"What sort of stuff did you boys talk about? Hmm? Girls perhaps?" The old woman pried, her wrinkled mouth turning up in a grin.

"We talked about magic and legends."

"Really now? Well, I could spin a few yarns for ya if you want some new material. Bring that Arcell boy by tomorrow after breakfast and I'll tell you some stories about this area that nobody else in the village knows an inkling of!" She lifted her cooking pot and poured the creamy soup into a serving dish, and scraped the vegetables into a plate. Locke came over and carried the dishes to the table after finishing with the forks and knives. He saw the soup, and remembered to grab some spoons from the cabinet.

The pair sat down at the table across from each other, Grandmother caught her grandson's eyes. Her slightly milky pale eyes glittered, crow's feet drooping at the skin to the edges of them.

"Don't neglect to thank the agriculture goddess for the food sonny," She clucked, grinning some.

Locke sighed, "Thank you oh goddess Siren, for your help with the crops, and for providing us with tasty food."

"Good, here's a roll," The elderly woman chirped, handing the boy a yeast roll with her aged hand.

"Thanks Gran," Locke said, cringing. He didn't really believe that the agricultural goddess was named Siren, or that there was an agricultural goddess. But he had to play along with what his Grandmother told him or she would be very angry with him.

Despite having to thank what he thought to be a false goddess, Locke really enjoyed his grandmother's cooking. He figured it went along with her being an herb doctor.


Willow staggered in when Locke was finishing up the supper dishes, minus the plate left for his father, and fell face first on to the sofa in the main room. He heard his grandmother's knitting needles stop clicking together, then a moment later, a sharp smack was heard.

"Ouch!" His father's slurred voice cried.

"Wake up you dolt! Go eat dinner, then you can pass out," His grandmother snapped, easily annoyed at her son.

And so Willow walked as if he were trying to walk on someone's back into the kitchen. He sat down and ate rather sloppily, still intoxicated. Locke scowled at his father, leaving the room with out so much as a good night wish.

In Locke's little bedroom with the dust balls and musky curtains, he lay on his bed in silence. He hoped that his father would not say or do something stupid whenever he brought Arcell to their home the next day.

A sigh left his chapped lips, and the thought, "It really is difficult being the son of a man with a shattered heart. I hope I don't become him when I grow up."


A/N: Hahaha, bet cha thought I gave up on this story. Pssssh, nah. Life just happened, and is settling down, thankfully. Anyways, thanks for reading! What tales shall old Widow Cole weave in the next chapter? Stick around, and you'll find out!

-Abs. Yuki