Playlist

by CheeseCakeParty

Every moment in their lives plays a different melody. (A collection of stories mostly about the Koopalings)

11. Look at the Sky

Look at the Sky

Porter Robinson: Look at the Sky

---

It's a dry Sunday morning when Lemmy wakes up feeling off. The moment he opens his eyes after a full night of sleep he's sluggish and his eyelids are strangely sticky and hard to open.

He feels like hasn't slept a wink; which is further from the truth because he actually turned in early last night with a lingering headache. It's two obvious signs he chooses to ignore that something is off about him.

As if the fatigue manifests into some physical being and restricts his movements, he struggles to get out of bed, pulling against ghostly restraints. He manages to roll off the bed with a groan, escaping his prison of tangled blankets by kicking his legs and flailing his arms like a drowning Koopa.

At first, he pretends there's no congestion in his chest or a consistent throb of pain behind his skull. The sweat coating his forehead is from the stifling room and not the onset symptoms of a fever; he does live at a castle surrounded by lava. By the afternoon, he hopes all these issues disappear and he can continue to live his life.

Lemmy's usual morning routine is delayed by his constant wheezing fits. His brain won't stop pounding as he drags his feet around the room as he seeks out the locations of his hairbrush and toothbrush. He halts his search to take numerous breaks. Recounting the breathing exercises he learned years ago; Lemmy inhales deeply through his nostrils, then exhales slowly from his mouth. He winces when a particular inhale sends a jolt of pain reverberating through his chest.

With his toothbrush in hand—he gives up on finding his hairbrush—Lemmy heads to his door. He casts his eyes longingly towards his unmade bed before preparing to leave his room for the day. His entire body wants to return to the cocoon of warm sheets and blankets. He shakes those lazy thoughts away.

Lemmy stumbles into breakfast like an infant learning to walk, heaving massive gulps of air but trying to hide his discomfort behind a toothy grin. No matter how many breaths he sucks in, he always feels dizzy and asphyxiated. No. This can't be happening to him. It's been over two years since he's experienced this burning ache in his chest.

He pushes through the obstacles keeping him from reaching his chair—realistically, he nearly falls on his face once or twice. He pointedly ignores the heat scorching his fingertips when he brushes the pad of his fingers against his head to alleviate the tension. He rapidly blinks the tears of frustration and pain away.

"No, please. Just go away."

Lemmy somehow manages to make it to his chair next to Iggy in the dining hall. He scurries onto it as quickly as his protesting muscles allow, head swimming when he sits up straight too fast. He nearly falls forward into the untouched waffle Iggy sets on his plate before catching himself.

His hands rest on the table to steady his swimming head, claws sinking into the dark oak wood. The room. It's moving under him. Excruciating pain seizes a hold of his lungs and squeezes, he sucks in air through clenched teeth.

"Lemmy?"

Someone says his name aloud. He's not sure who it is. He can't think straight. It hurts. Everything hurts. Not again. He's going to be trapped again. How long will it last this time? His paralyzing panic at those thoughts swiftly rushes in, accelerating his heartbeat. He sputters from the taste of sulfuric air, choking on the smoke his lungs conjure up. He spits it from his mouth and some pours from his nostrils.

Unable to contain his coughs any longer, he bursts into a painful fit of wheezing and hacking which sends his tiny body racking from the force. There's a moan as a symphony of chairs scrap against the floor in succession. It's a haunting sound.

"Lemmy!"

He recognizes that voice. That's Ludwig. Somewhere far off. Why is he so far away? He sounds so terrified. No, he should be because Lemmy will be okay. If he could just find the energy to comfort his big brother he would.

Lemmy's eyes flutter shut. He should have stayed in bed. He should have tried harder not to get sick. He's falling, he can feel it. He mumbles an apology as he teeters dangerously close at the edge, little hands grasping at his chest to force the air out of his burning lungs. Then he slips off his chair and the world turns black.

...

"Dad," Lemmy absentmindedly plays with the stray flower in the grass. It's the only one amongst the swaying ocean of green and, for some odd reason, he's fixated on it. He feels like he can relate to it somehow. "Why can't I go to school like Ludwig?"

Dad sits up from examining their garden, pulling weeds with muddy hands. Soon, the snow will start to fall and his precious garden will hibernate for the winter till spring. He sighs like Lemmy's asked a complicated question that involves knowing more than he does. Which doesn't make sense, Dad knows everything. He runs a hand across his forehead, wiping away the collection of perspiration there and smearing soil onto his pale face.

"We've talked about this Lemmy. Not until the doctor says you can."

Lemmy deflates like his favorite ball only a few feet away, pouting silently with crossed arms. Right. Because he's always getting sick. Always stuck inside or confined to the front yard when he complains of boredom and wants a taste of fresh air.

He's always set back when he wants to rush forward, pumping his arms and kicking his tiny legs into a full on sprint. He wants to be able to chase his little brother around the yard now that Iggy is able to fully run without falling down. He wants to go to school with Ludwig and learn his alphabet and make friends too. He was supposed to start school this year!

But he can't.

Overexertion isn't good for him. Born too early, that's what Mom said when he asked why he was so tiny and vulnerable. Undeveloped combined with a weak immune system like some twisted matching game, and stuck with a body that refuses to heed the commands of its control center without protesting. From the beginning, he's the child doomed to be left behind.

Defeated, Lemmy lays back on his shell beside the little flower, staring up at the blue sky. Blue, white, but always shifting and never remaining the same sight. The clouds laboriously crawl against the soft pastel blue backdrop, ushered along by the autumn breeze. They form silly shapes like fluffy white cotton candy. A grin forms on his face when a cloud in the vague shape of a rabbit crashes into another formation like its darting into the safety of a bush to hide from the cloud predators chasing it.

He sits upright, sensing the oncoming storm building in his chest. He takes a deep breath, hoping to placate it. His shaky exhale ends with a jolt of sharp pain and he begins to sporadically cough trying to catch his breath. It burns. He can't taste the fresh forest air anymore. Ash, cinders, and fear take over. He half-believes he's on fire as smoke escapes his mouth in ashy puffs.

Dad drops the gardening tools in his hands with a loud clatter. It startles a group of crows, they take off in rapid succession.

Dad's beside him in seconds, rubbing circles on his shell and gently patting him to assist in pushing the air out of his lungs. He murmurs encouraging words, helping Lemmy stand up on trembling legs. He's ushering him inside, talking him through his breathing exercises the doctor taught them. Lemmy, with watering eyes, spares the sky one more desperate glimpse before he's confined to his bed once again.

…

"Where's Dad?"

A dream. No, a memory. Dad isn't here anymore. The heat in his chest roars to life like an incinerator when his heart beat slightly escalates from his first coherent thought then settles into a dull throb when he relaxes. He doesn't have Dad by his side to walk him through the pain or hold his hand. Then… who is holding his hand so tightly?

Lemmy can hear distant conversations. Although the noise buzzing around him comes off as nothing more than garbled up syllables thrown into a blender to create nonsense. He tries to decipher it, eavesdropping on whoever currently resides in his room. Is it his room? The stinging scent of disinfect permeates through the air. It smells too clean to be his room.

He forces his eyes to open, but his head pounds out warnings when it meets the bright light and he decides it's a fruitless attempt.

"He has pneumonia… made worse from a premedical condition. He must have hatched prematurely or his egg was damaged during the nesting period. It explains why he's so small for his species. His growth is stunted, but I'm more worried about his underdeveloped flame pipe and flame sac causing irregular temperature spikes in his body."

Lemmy hears the deep, but placid voice of someone unfamiliar. Most likely stemming from a doctor in the room. Their words are intelligent and precise but their explanation is dampened by overwhelming ounces of sympathy. A sick child is never an easy concept to accept.

He remembers the grim inflection his old doctor had whenever he made a house call and delivered his parents bad news. His doctor's voice always softened like he hoped his weighty words wouldn't hurt as much as they did. Though, it never helped his parents when the truth sank into them too deeply like a dagger. Lemmy doubts it'll calm Bowser's more boisterous and headstrong personality.

The doctor beside him sighs dejectedly and someone pats his arm. Lemmy recalls hearing the same defeated sigh leave the mouth of his old doctor numerous times before. It's irritatingly familiar like a relative he'd rather not remember.

The voice continues after a clear of their throat, "He's on antibiotics to help, but his fever is quite high. He's creating too much smoke and generating too much heat from his underdeveloped flame sac and pipes. Our main priority is to bring his fever down and focus on the other issues later."

Whoever is holding his hand grips it impossibly tighter. A huge hand. Warm. Too warm. Lemmy wriggles his fingers, or tries to, but his body decides it's a pointless attempt and ignores his cries of discomfort. There's shuffling and a squeaky creak of a chair.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Bowser desperately asks. He squeezes Lemmy's hand again. It crushes his fingers. He's too weak to complain about it. It's nothing compared to the looming discomfort brewing in his chest like the distant sound of thunder before the inevitable storm.

Lemmy's out of it before hearing the rest because he's heard all of the medical jargon before explaining what's wrong with him. He's weak; he has an immune system with questionable integrity and uncooperative lungs made worse by whatever mysterious Koopa species they are. He succumbs to the fever and exhaustion without putting up much of a fight.

He isn't certain how long he's been asleep when he comes to. The pain in his chest is a manageable pulse, the doctor must have given him something to dull it. He feels a damp cloth drenched in tepid water press against his scales, wiping the dried snot under his nostrils and dabbing at the sweat covering his body. He hums appreciatively, leaning into the hand under the cloth when it caresses his cheek. It feels nice against his burning scales.

Peeling his eyes open, his hooded gaze meets the blank ceiling. He directs his attention elsewhere and finds Bowser's blurry face concentrated on wiping away the sticky sweat, mouth curved to form a frown Lemmy's never seen him wear before. Concern is carved deeply onto his face like it's a permanent expression sculpted by careful hands hoping to capture such a rare sight.

Lemmy blinks and his vision grows slightly clearer, shapes further away have defined edges now. He's enraptured by Bowser's red gaze dulled like the remnants of a dying fire struggling to burn. The eye-catching crimson color is all Lemmy can focus on without causing his brain to protest because the bland white walls are sterilizing the room as much as the stench of harsh chemicals.

Bowser's usually vibrant eyes look concave and haunted like he hasn't slept in days or he's become a ghost of himself. Lemmy briefly wonders how long he's been out if Bowser appears this miserable. Then he decides it doesn't matter. His disoriented mind doesn't care to figure it out.

Bowser notices him staring pathetically at him, glancing down to meet his half-lidded gaze. He offers him a small smile flashing his pointy canines, though it's obvious he wishes he could give him more than something intangible and useless. The smile he dons looks seconds away from collapsing.

"Hey, kiddo."

Bowser's voice is hoarse. It cracks and crumbles, he snaps his mouth closed and swallows his pointless words audibly. The shuddering of his uncertain tone scares Lemmy. Bowser rarely displays his vulnerability so freely. It's as difficult as getting Roy to expose his softer side when he clutches his feelings so tightly to his chest like a badly kept secret.

Lemmy's body shivers, teeth clattering wildly in his mouth from the combination of his fever and the icy fear slithering down his spine. He doesn't know how badly in shape he is. He doesn't bother to ask. He probably can't speak with how much his throat aches.

He's sweating from every pore, but he's still so hot and whimpers weakly. He closes his eyes, no longer having the strength to keep them open. The tremors won't stop and neither will his clattering teeth. He may chip one from the force alone.

"I know you feel like shit right now, but you gotta get better," he hears Bowser croak, but he sounds like he's speaking to him behind a wall. There's movement beside him, the sound of sloshing water as Bowser wrings out the cloth, then he's blotting at his scales again. "You scared me to death. Y'know that? But the doc says you can pull through."

There's a trembling exhale and a reticent sniff like he's crying, but trying to hide it. Lemmy doesn't open his eyes seeking verification. He figures Bowser wouldn't want him to know the truth anyways. It's best kept a secret between them and the white walls.

"You gotta pull through. I know you will," Bowser repeats with a pitchy whisper. Perhaps he believes if he says it enough times he'll project a magical cure into existence or force it into fruition. Lemmy is all too familiar with that optimistically childish way of thinking because, even now, part of him is mirroring Bowser's thoughts in his own head.

"I know. I know. I'm sorry."

A stream of apologies are the last thing Lemmy remembers thinking before he's submerged into the black void of unconsciousness.

…

Lemmy bounces excitedly on his heels in front of the TV screen, wagging his little tail to the music blaring through the cruddy electronic. The static rushing from the speakers is just as loud as the carnival music of the TV program he's currently watching, but he's too enraptured by the pretty colors to care.

His parents often switch on the television to keep him entertained while dealing with their newest arrival and only girl: Wendy. She's a cute, wiggly little thing, but she's been keeping Mom and Dad up all night and stealing away most of their time.

Lemmy watches the technicolors flash across the screen like a rainbow lightning bolt. A clown in silly make-up cartwheels across the screen, a giant grin on his face. He waves to the audience, cheering ensues drowning out the music to mere background noise.

The clown takes one brave step forward in his honking shoes, trips, landing face first into a pie garnished with whipped cream and a ruby red cherry. Despite his planned misstep with a face coated in whipped cream and chocolate pudding, he's still smiling and laughing as he gets back up, arms expansive as he listens to the roaring applause and laughter.

Lemmy giggles, happily clapping his hands. The stairs creak and he turns to spot Mom descending the stairs with a wide-eyed Iggy on her hip. Lemmy sends her a small wave before snapping his attention back to the TV. More clowns dance across the screen and more hijinks ensue.

Iggy is set free from her grasp and he barrels straight towards him. The pitter-patter of his frantic steps as he rushes to his brother's side echoes across the living room. Mom yawns as the beeps and groans of the coffee machine prepare her gross adult drink. Iggy is sitting next to him on the cushions Lemmy had ripped off the couch to make a fort with the blankets, enraptured by the show as much as he is.

Lemmy sniffs the air, enjoying the wafting scent of brewing coffee as it fills the home with different smells. It's weird because Lemmy may hate the taste after sampling a sip from Dad's mug, but he loves the earthy aroma. It reminds him of early mornings listening to song birds and watching cartoons and his Mom and Dad.

Mom sinks into the creaking recliner with a tired sigh. Lemmy hears the clinking of her spoon as she stirs up the sugar and creamer in her sunflower mug he picked out for her birthday, turning her bitter coffee into something less disgusting.

"Mom," Lemmy spins on his heels, copying the grandiose movements of the performers on TV. "Can I be a clown when I'm older?"

Mom chuckles which ends with a drawn out yawn. She takes a sip of coffee to alleviate her exhaustion, wincing as the hot liquid burns her tongue. She smiles at him, indulging him in his fantasies.

"Lemmy, you can be whatever you want to be."

He beams. He decides then he wants to be a clown because even if the clown makes a silly mistake or faces an almost impossible obstacle; he smiles. He smiles for his audience of various species, head held high and proud to just be alive. To Lemmy, the clown is the most important part of any circus. He's more than just the entertainment between acts.

The clown shows the audience that even simple missteps cannot keep him down for very long. He never drops his smile.

…

"That's right… I just have to keep smiling. Like a clown… I always wanted to be a clown…"

Lemmy wakes briefly to Bowser's deep baritone mumbling to someone in the room. He sounds forlorn. Exhausted. It's untranslatable as Lemmy's head protests when he attempts to unravel the cluster of sentences.

Lemmy knows he's responsible for Bowser's dismal tones and the ragged breaths he takes in between the many pauses. The king's certain words no longer come easy to him in his state. Bowser's worried over Lemmy's well-being to the point he sounds just as sick and miserable as him.

Lemmy hopes Kamek is forcing Bowser to take breaks. Someone has to take care of him if he's neglecting his own health.

Finally, finally! The foreign language becomes understandable the longer Lemmy stays conscious.

"He's… stable. I know he'll pull through this." Bowser clears his throat deeply. "Tell Kamek I'm sorry, but I can't work with Lemmy this sick. He can handle figuring out a few hiccups without me. Hell, he'd probably do better than me."

A forced laugh that comes off more as a sharp exhale disperses into the awkward air. Bowser's voice is stripped raw, like the words he's speaking are causing him physical pain as he forces them up his throat. Whoever he's speaking to simply hums an affirmation then the door closes.

Bowser is speaking to him now, Lemmy thinks. He barely registers most of it, shifting between being numb and aware. Bowser's voice is muted, but he knows the king is mumbling soft encouragement, dabbing a washcloth at his face that lingers on his left cheek and strokes it gingerly before Bowser removes it and plunges the cloth back into the bucket for more water.

"You're a fighter, kid," is something Bowser whispers that Lemmy grasps desperately at. He clings to the sentiment and refuses to let go. He can't let his feverish brain discard it like a fleeting memory. He repeats the phrase in his head over and over again, afraid he'll lose it if he doesn't devote to it.

Bowser is right. He is a fighter. Always has been. Mom spoke the same things at his bedside when he was too sick to move. He was a miracle, she'd say and promise him that he could sit on her shoulders for as long as he wanted to look up at the clouds he loved to find shapes in when he got better.

He has to keep fighting.

Lemmy needs to ensure Bowser knows he'll persevere; if only to alleviate the king's worries. He imagines how awful and kicked down Bowser must look right now.

Lemmy is not going to give up anytime soon. It's okay. He'll be okay. He just needs time to recover.

With blurry vision and sweat pouring from his forehead, Lemmy squints his eyes through the moisture and spots the familiar shape of Bowser's hand resting on his bed. It's a water painting of deep yellows against a white backdrop, but he knows it's the same hand he's gripped for comfort many times before. The edges of his vision pulse with the headache ripping his skull apart, but he has to give Bowser some indication he's going to be alright.

His consciousness begins to wane the more he struggles to get his body to move, thoughts jumble then cease to exist and dissipate, he can feel his body preparing to surrender to exhaustion.

Using all the energy he has in him, he twitches his little fingers, hand languidly crawling to its intended target.

"Don't worry. I'll be okay. I'm sorry."

He broadcasts those words in his head like Bowser can somehow hear them as his claws brush the back of Bowser's hand. Whatever Bowser is saying is uninterrupted by a startled gasp. The one-sided conversation halts. Lemmy's hand settles on top of his, embracing the heat radiating off of Bowser's clammy hand.

Bowser adjusts the positions of their hands so that Lemmy's hand is sheltered by his own. He squeezes it once and Lemmy tries his hardest to squeeze back. He's not leaving them. He can't leave them. Everyone is counting on him to get better.

"I'll be here when you wake up," Bowser tenderly assures him. "Take all the time you need to get better."

Content, Lemmy loosens his grip and finally slips willingly into the void of a dreamless sleep.

…

When Lemmy successfully manages a handstand for more than a minute without falling, he's elated. He slams his way upstairs, sounding like a stampede of retreating animals as he crawls up the steps. He runs to his and Iggy's room on his trembling legs. He finds his brother playing with their toys.

Iggy is startled as Lemmy bursts into the room speaking so quickly it sounds like gibberish. Little Iggy drops the toys in his hands to the ground with a yelp. He turns to his brother, head tilted with a question on his mind, but a mouth that he rarely uses.

"Watch, Iggy!" Lemmy exclaims giddily.

He shows Iggy how much he's accomplished, crouching down and pushing his tiny body upward. He counts the seconds he can hold the position until he teeters, landing on the carpet with a small thud, shell first. This handstand lasted two more seconds than his last attempt.

Lemmy's stunt manages to pull words from Iggy's usually silent mouth as he gushes his amazement, clapping his hands. Lemmy beams even brighter, the rush of something inexplicably warm bursts in his chest like a balloon full of confetti. He takes off at high speeds to find someone else to perform for, pounding back down the steps and to Dad's study where he knows someone definitely is.

Lemmy shows Ludwig next who regards him with befuddlement. The eldest sits over his piano, tinkering with the keys until his instructor arrives. When Lemmy announces he has something amazing to show him, Ludwig tentatively closes the piano with a longing sigh and gives his little brother all his attention.

Lemmy's handstand this time around is four seconds longer than the handstand he performed for Iggy and he climbs to his feet, arms expanded as he imagines the echoing cheers and confetti raining down on him. Ludwig stares in bewilderment, hand draped across the piano, tapping his claws against its surface like he's imagining a song in his head he wishes to play.

He waits for an unspecified amount of time, staring expectedly at his brother. Then Ludwig's eyes widen slightly as he realizes Lemmy's attempt at a handstand was the "amazing" thing he wanted to show him.

Ludwig snorts out a laugh, brow quirked. "What are you doing?"

"Practicing to be a clown in a circus." Lemmy lowers his arms, rocking on his heels. He can't contain his excitement. It seeps into his inflection, voice light and fluffy like a child's song. It's infectious because his brother's usually stoic expressions morph into a wide grin.

Mom says Lemmy is one of the few members of the household that can get Ludwig to smile like this without much persuasion or prompt. Every time he manages to achieve such a difficult feat, Lemmy grows warmer in the cheeks, his smile pulling harder at the corners and the urge to continue his silly antics just to hear his brother laugh is overwhelming.

"Why a clown?" Ludwig asks, humoring him.

"Because I want to make people laugh like I make you laugh."

If Lemmy can wipe the glum, emotionless looks off his brother's face with a simple handstand and relish in his rare smile then he's more determined to learn any circus trick he can. Ludwig appears touched by his words, sharp eyes softening and crinkling at the corners from his grin.

"You're too smart to be a clown," Ludwig says, resting a cheek on his hand. "You could be the ringleader."

"The ringleader?" Lemmy mimics back the foreign word, tilting his head, intrigued.

"Mhm," Ludwig nods once, "they run the entire circus."

"Do they still get to have fun?" Lemmy inquires meekly, tapping his claws together as his tiny brain dissects all the information his brother is dumping on him. He leans in eagerly to hear his brother's intelligent response. Ludwig knows everything like Dad. He's so smart. Lemmy relies on his and Dad's wisdom the most to learn about the complexities of life he can't comprehend just yet.

Ludwig laughs and Lemmy grins because he caused that sound to leave his brother's mouth and he hadn't done anything of notoriety to. Was Lemmy destined to make others happy like a clown? He must be.

"Of course they still have fun," Ludwig snickers, "They're the heart of the circus. Without them, there wouldn't be a circus."

Lemmy's never thought of leading anything before. His parents are the leaders of the house and he follows Ludwig's suggestions because his big brother is smarter than him. He gets to go to school and learn from teachers while Mom tutors Lemmy at home. Reading can be tricky for him, but Ludwig is a studious student and helps Lemmy where he fumbles with pronouncing the bigger words.

Can Lemmy do the same job as them when he's older? Is it possible for him to teach and direct others, run an entire circus, and make others happy at the same time?

"You think I can do it?" he questions, fixating his gaze on his brother's face. Ludwig half-smiles, the palm of his hand hiding the rest of it.

"Lemmy, I think you're capable of anything. We all have goals we strive for and mine is the piano." Ludwig sits up and gestures to the instrument in front of him like he's introducing an old friend.

"Would you like to listen?" Ludwig offers.

Lemmy nods his head.

Ludwig turns back towards his piano, adjusting his slouched posture on the bench, back rigid and straight. He lifts the case protecting the worn down ivory keys of his precious instrument. Lemmy excitedly crawls onto the bench beside his elder brother and it's the one time Ludwig is not agitated by another's proximity. He says nothing when Lemmy's legs brush against his and he kicks his little feet impatiently.

Ludwig begins a twinkling tune much different from the somber pieces he and his instructor play during his practice sessions. Lemmy recalls when Ludwig's songs were clumsy sounds and off-key discords. He's improved so much since then. Lemmy closes his eyes blissfully, moving his body to the sweet sounds and attempts to hum along.

He leaves Ludwig's side when he spots the piano instructor hovering at the door critically studying his brother's fingers gracing the keys and playing another upbeat song from memory. He scoots off the bench so the elderly Koopa Troopa with bushy grey eyebrows and a matching mustache can take his place beside his brother.

Ludwig stops, furrowing his brows and questioningly calls out Lemmy's name. He turns towards the door and smiles pleasantly at the Koopa in greeting, but Lemmy knows it's not the same smiles he gets out of him. Those are only saved for him.

This smile is a practiced response crafted from his well-mannered upbringing and mature temperament. Something Ludwig stole from Dad by mimicking and studying Dad's movements and expressions. They hold their teacups the exact same way and wrinkle their noses at anything they deem too foul or ill-tempered to deal with.

Lemmy leaves with his own thoughts, inspired by the music and his brother's words. If Ludwig believes in him then maybe he can run an entire circus if he applies himself. Ludwig is usually never wrong.

He just has to get better first.

…

"Ludwig..."

His older brother has been on his mind since he came to. He desperately wants to see him sitting beside his bed instead of the Koopa nurse watching over him.

The nurse smiles sympathetically and informs him that his siblings aren't allowed to visit just yet when he questions Ludwig's whereabouts. Something about his older brother's presence is comforting to him like a child clutching a knitted blanket or stuffed toy when they're afraid.

Lemmy once found value and safety in those materialistic things from his favorite starry ball or the ratty teddy bear he had dragged into baths and ruined its fur. All that changed when the fire ripped it away from him; he sought out that attachment and sentiment from his older brother.

He'd rather clutch his brother tightly, knowing Ludwig is alive and here with him than have it be something as replaceable as a teddy bear.

Lemmy is strong enough to sit up in bed today and his fever sits at the border of being slightly concerning, but not cooking his insides to a crisp. He's lethargic and warm, but not scorchingly hot to the touch, his throat aches, and a disgusting layer of soot coats his tongue.

He tries to kick off a layer of blankets because he feels suffocated by the weight on his chest, but that causes the nurse watching him to tut. She pulls the covers back over him insisting he try to stall his shivers since it only generates more body heat and spikes his fever.

According to the nurse, he's been stuck in this stupid bed for four days. The nurse is optimistic that it's a positive sign since his fever is lowering. She had proclaimed hopefully that it's the lowest it's ever been. Lemmy isn't convinced. He's familiar with experiencing a 'good day' and then plunging back to the murky waters and swimming between the lines of consciousness.

It's like his traitorous body loves to rip his hopes away when he starts to believe everyone around him telling him that he is indeed getting better. His condition isn't like the sweet relief of breathing through your nose after experiencing congestion for three days or finally tasting the delicious saltiness of chicken soup on your tongue; it's a strenuous process of building his energy back up and hoping the littlest germ or flare up doesn't send him back to bed.

The kind Koopa nurse slowly spoon feeds him tasteless broth—or he assumes; he can't taste much of anything with his sinuses clogged and poisoned by the tinge of smoke lingering on his tongue. She offers him a cold drink of water on the tray in front of him despite the fact he's hooked up to fluids with a needle embedded in his left arm. He hasn't required a ventilator yet. The nurse is convinced he'll be better in no time and appears surprised when Lemmy voices his concerns aloud.

He knows he can still manage to breathe on his own, but for how long? He pretends the ache in his chest after every breath isn't real, hoping childishly that ignoring it will make it go away. Sometimes he burps up tiny bursts of flames in between slurps, but the nurse hastily assures him it's his lungs dispersing the congestion and build up of smoke created by his underdeveloped flame sac.

Lemmy spares the tiny tube in his arm a heated glance before opening his mouth to accept more of the bland broth given to him. He feels more and more like a helpless child every passing second he's confined to his bed. Even with his weak state, his fingers strum and dance against the itchy blanket draped on his lap. His pathetic body may not want him to move, but his mind is ready to spring out of bed. Though, the tube in his arm and the nurse won't allow him to escape quietly.

Intravenous therapy isn't anything new to him and he's more annoyed by the fact he's back to where he used to be as a younger child than by the needle. He clutches his blanket tightly, tears stinging his eyes, but blames it on the heat of the broth scorching his tongue and sore throat.

Lemmy can't be trapped inside again. He has to get better. The nurse feeds him more broth, saying hollow words of encouragement like he's a toddler using their utensils the first time. He's never one to lash out, but his anger clashes with his irritation and he scowls. He leans in for another slurp when his stomach gurgles.

Lemmy pauses, eyes slowly expanding. His tongue suddenly feels strange and his mouth is full of excess saliva, rushing up his throat with heat and acid. He turns his head away from the questioning eyes of the nurse offering him another spoonful and vomits on the floor.

He mumbles an apology, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand then sinks back into the sheets, exhausted. He closes his eyes to keep from crying, stifling his tears by squeezing his eyelids tightly shut. His head throbs. His headache is back again and announces its presence by slamming against his skull. It mocks him. Laughs at the moments he had been persuaded by the nurse's words,

Lemmy knew it was too good to be true. He hates this stupid body. He hates this stupid room. He just wants to see Ludwig…

…

When Lemmy is finally allowed to attend school again; he starts in the same grade as Roy since he missed more than half of the school year last year. Although he's slightly older than everyone in his class, he's still the smallest out of the bunch of Koopa children. Thankfully, he's a few inches taller than the Goombas and a few of the skittering moles.

Roy is indifferent to Lemmy's presence, choosing to play and eat with the friends he had made last year. They all moved up together, ecstatic to find they shared the same class again. High-fives and arm punches were exchanged like pleasantries amongst them. Lemmy enviously watched with a tinged of excitement and hopefulness that he'd find friends like Roy.

Lemmy, unfortunately, doesn't have that advantage of knowing his fellow classmates. He barely had time to make friends in first grade before he was pulled out of school for the rest of the year. He's, at first, understandably uncertain on the proper procedures of acquiring friends.

He's unable to broach the subject to a group of Koopas and Goombas giggling amongst themselves. He can't move his feet forward to introduce himself, feeling uncharacteristically shy.

One Koopa child in a baseball cap takes notice and catches his eyes and waves at him. Lemmy smiles brightly like Mom says to do. It's apparently the best smile she's ever seen in her entire life and so Lemmy chooses to wield it proudly.

He finds a friend in a timid Goomba named Goombster, who doesn't talk much. He reminds Lemmy of Iggy whenever he falls into one of his silent phases and closes off to the world around him. Lemmy learns to get along with most of his classmates as the weeks pass by and habitually entertains the mass of children whenever they ask with his newest tricks.

As of right now, he can clumsily juggle the apples he brings from home, manage a perfect handstand for ten minutes before his arms grow sore and he tumbles, cartwheel across the schoolyard, and he's starting to test his balance on a ball.

The last one requires more training and poise, but he's getting there. He hopes to eventually find the perfect epicenter and maintain his balance before using his agility and roll around on the ball like a second set of legs.

Dad inquired where Lemmy had acquired all his newest skills from. Lemmy proudly jumped into the conversation about how he learned all his tricks from watching the clowns and performers on TV. Dad grinned at him as he rapidly explained himself.

It was the same proud grin that graced his face whenever Ludwig or Iggy came back with perfect test scores. Lemmy had never been on the receiving end before since he's still playing catch up at school and his grades are average at best.

"You learned all that just from watching them?" Dad asked.

Lemmy nodded. "Yep! It's easy."

The look on Dad's face after he exclaimed that made Lemmy feel like perhaps it wasn't as easy for others. Was it not as simple as watching someone perform it and trying it yourself?

Lemmy's shows gain the attention of his classmates and he gains a small following. They share sparkly stickers and snacks in exchange for tricks. For some inexplicable reason, Lemmy's drawn more to Goombster's side and his wallflower personality than his other classmates.

Lemmy wants to see the shy kid smile and when he manages to make the Goomba's mouth twitch at the corners after telling a joke from a candy wrapper, Lemmy decides to make it a secret mission like the spies on TV.

Roy appears annoyed by his older brother joining his class. He pretends they aren't even related and congregates with only the more popular children who find Lemmy childish and weird. Lemmy is slightly hurt by the frigid shoulder from his brother, but he plays with Goombster and keeps his tricks and performances away from Roy.

The scowl on his brother's face stings more than the bruises he gets on his knees when he tumbles over.

That all soon changes.

An obnoxious Koopa boy from a grade up approaches Lemmy and Goombster during free time. Lemmy is pushing the tiny Goomba on the baby swings, laughing as Goombster shrieks when he goes a bit too high for his liking. Before Lemmy registers what's happening, he's roughly shoved to the ground leaving Goombster in the cold hands of the bully.

The Koopa catches the chains of the swing, yanking it firmly to jostle Goombster to a halt. The Koopa taunts him and cruelly laughs as Lemmy dusts off his bloody knees while Goombster sniffles, begging him to leave them alone. It's the first time Goomster's ever been so vocal and Lemmy hates the circumstances.

He curls his fists as they tremble. For the first time in his life, Lemmy wants to swing a punch at this kid. He steps forward—

Then there's a vicious roar. Lemmy turns in time to spot a flash of pink as it tackles their bully to the ground. Roy is on top of the screaming kid, using his fists to land blow after blow. He's shouting threats, unrelenting as the kid becomes the one begging Roy to stop his onslaught.

Lemmy manages to sedate Roy's ire with a gentle hand on his stiff arm and a small, almost frightened, tone. His brother somehow hears him over his own growling, stumbling off the crying kid. He directs his cold gaze to Lemmy, dropping his eyes to stare angrily at the blood on his knees and caked dirt on his body like it's his fault.

Lemmy offers him a smile. It's crooked, uncertain; he isn't exactly sure how he should be feeling. Roy is usually always so cold with him so he's lost for words. His young brother drags his narrowed eyes off the wounds on Lemmy's knees and towards the crying Goomba in the baby seat.

His anger melts away as he approaches the hysterical Goomba cautiously then pulls Goombster out of the swing and sets him beside Lemmy.

Goombster looks up at Roy with wide-eyes like Roy is his savior. Lemmy snorts a quiet laugh at the awestruck expression, wiping the tears from his friend's stunned face. He smiles brightly when he assures Goomster he's okay when the Goomba spots his scraped knees.

Their teacher comes running from all the noise, grabbing Roy roughly by the arm. He gives them a thumbs-up before being dragged inside.

…

"I hope… Roy isn't beating himself up… over this…"

Lemmy's breath hitches, caught in his throat. Using all the energy he has, he pushes out a ragged breath and gulps in greedy amounts of oxygen.

"It hurts. I can't… breathe. Please… Ludwig… Roy…"

Like Lemmy predicted, his fever climbs higher and higher. The nurse stuffs ice packs under his arms to help cool him down and dabs desperately at his face as the doctor—he thinks it's a doctor—runs tests. Lemmy breathes in another bated breath, but suddenly finds resistance from his lungs.

Who is sitting on top of him? Why can't he breathe correctly? He gasps for air, squirming to shake off the pressure on his chest, he can't open his eyes.

Voices. Shouting. He recognizes two out of the many he hears. Machines panic, clashing wildly with the pandemonium of roaring commands. He's slipping. He forces the air from his lungs but chokes on heat as someone presses forcefully down on his chest and he spits up hot air that chars his dry lips. He's on fire. Burning. He'd claw at the cinders in his throat if he could move his arms.

"Ludwig… I'm scared…"

He whimpers because it's the only thing he can do, sputtering out smoke and tasting stale ash mixed with the acidic taste of bile.

Then there's something on his face, something is shoved up his left nostril then glides uncomfortably down his air pipe. Clean oxygen rushes into his lungs. Whatever it is, it's breathing for him and it hurts so much. The symphony of machines grows steady, the usual rhythm returns. The voices simultaneously sigh in relief.

A slight burn branches up his arm where the IV is buried into his skin. He settles into the darkness provided by the burning like it's a gentle embrace, blissfully numb.

…

The doctor sticks a thermometer in his dry mouth for thirty uncomfortable seconds until it finally beeps once. Lemmy hears the doctor let out a low hum at the numbers he reads, but can't decipher its meaning. Thoughtful? Grim? Content? He doesn't know and he hates not knowing.

His body is too worn down from fighting off his newest case of pneumonia to open his eyes, but he's conscious enough to use his other senses to understand the context happening around him. There's shuffling beside his bed, metal clinks, and a chair squeaks.

Somewhere further in the room the floor creaks under someone adjusting their weight and he knows it belongs to one of his parents waiting patiently for the doctor to deliver his results. A cold object slithers under his thin sheets and rests over his chest.

He shudders briefly, but doesn't stir or shuffle away. It feels nice on his scales. He knows this instrument. Mom calls it a stethoscope and Dad keeps a spare in his study. The doctor is listening to his lungs.

"He's getting better," the doctor says as he removes the chilly metal from Lemmy's chest. Lemmy recognizes Doctor Jones' voice. He's the only one who makes personal house calls all the way out here. "His fever is almost gone and his lungs sound clearer. A Magikoopa's healing magic would be helpful in this situation, but—"

Doctor Jones trails off, letting the context fester away at the silence like acid eating flesh. The room is stagnant, Lemmy can vaguely hear one of his siblings skittering down the hall. Until the floor moans as someone steps forward, taking the initiative. It's not surprising it's Dad.

"Thank you, doctor."

"I'm sorry, Morton." Doctor Jones' gruff voice softens from a combination of sympathy and apparent frustration. "I wish I could do more, but I've never had to work on your species until you moved in. I'm not going to pretend I know the end results here. He's on steroids, but I don't know how much they'll continue to help."

"You're doing the best you can." Dad's words are encouraging, but his tone is solemn and flat.

"Perhaps if you take him to castle town—" Doctor Jones' suggestion is interrupted by Mom's frantic shouting.

"No! We can't risk that," she hisses, her voice a violent whisper. She doesn't want to disturb Lemmy's dreams, but she isn't aware that he's as awake as a sick child can be.

"I understand your hesitation, Ann, but King Samael is gone. He cannot hurt them."

"But his son—" Mom starts to say quickly then falters. There's hesitation there. Her words weighed down by something unknown. Doctor Jones fills in the noticeable pause by clearing his throat.

"His son is still a kid himself and hasn't shown us any reason not to trust him." The doctor's bag closes with a click. He heaves once as he picks it up. "Last I heard, he's still searching for survivors."

"Why?" Mom presses like the force of that one word alone will rupture, squeezing out all the answers with it. "Why should he care what's happened to the rest of us? His father made it his personal mission to wipe us from existence."

Mom sounds angry. Furious. Lemmy has never heard such heated cinders pour from her mouth. He briefly wonders if he imagines the smell of ash is in his head or if Mom's words ignited the air around them. Doctor Jones sighs, unaffected by her tangent.

"He is not his father. Perhaps he is trying to make amends. I cannot say what King Bowser's intentions are. I'll continue to do the best I can for Lemmy, but just know there are other options available to use at your transgressions. Perhaps the King himself will offer you aid to conserve the dying Draconic species. Castle town is but a pipe trip away."

The doctor's coat ruffles as he places it back on and his footsteps echo as he makes his way to the door. The door gently closes behind him leaving his parents in a silent so tense Lemmy shivers. Vaguely, Ludwig's muffled voice is heard through the walls as he offers to escort the doctor out.

Lemmy doesn't know what any of that means. He doesn't know why Mom and Dad are so afraid and his exhaustion decides he doesn't really care.

…

"Mom… Dad…"

Lemmy hears humming. It's throaty, off-key, and scratchy. To a trained musical professional like Ludwig; it would sound like a travesty, but not to him. It's familiar. He's heard the song before. But when? He can't recall much. His memories are currently hazy and distant, like he can spot the figures in the fog across from him, but can't define them.

Until his lagging brain offers him some respite. A brief recollection, a flash of the past. The same song hummed the same way while he struggled to stay awake for longer than one measly minute.

Floating around in his dreams is when he believes he hears the song the most. During those times where he's borderline conscious, but trapped in his unmoving body and uncertain if it's just the remnants of his lucid fever dreams or if it's a glimpse into the outside world.

He recognizes the voice and tone of the one humming to him, but is unable to conjure up a name. His mind decides it's helped him enough and throbs when he tries to push for more information.

The door creaks open and the humming stops.

"Sorry I took so long. I had to put the brats to bed."

Bowser. That's Bowser. Lemmy cannot forget the encouraging whispers he's been receiving, casting and bleeding into his dreams.

There's a tired sigh beside him. Something pats his hand then let's go. Clothing rustles, heavy footsteps draw closer to him and shake his wobbly cot.

"I assume that means you're staying here again."

Kamek! Kamek's voice is drenched with concern, laced with a tinge of agitation? Annoyance? Whatever it is, he isn't happy. That's who's been humming him soft lullabies then. How could Lemmy forget Kamek?

His drifting thoughts in his brain are listless, barely coherent, but still there. He must be under the influence of pain medication. He's numb and too relaxed to everything happening around him.

"I have the baby monitor here," Bowser grumbles. "It's not a big deal."

Kamek huffs under his breath. Lemmy barely catches the remnant of it breeze past his lips so he safely assumes Bowser doesn't hear it at all.

"Bowser, you—" Kamek relents with a soft sigh. For once, the mage doesn't speak what he wants to say. He sounds like he wishes to protest the king's decision, but has no energy to start an argument. Lemmy imagines Kamek shaking his head, pointy cap swaying with his movements.

"Very well, Your Tiredness. Good night."

Lemmy chooses to let his body drag him back to sleep. He slips into dreams where things are less complicated and painful.

…

Lemmy learns a lot through the conversations floating around in his room, whispered words and soft sentences raking through the stagnant air. Inferring and imaging the body language he cannot see and reading the shifting tones of voices saying one thing but meaning another. When he's strong enough to open his eyes and watch the gestures he images in action, he finds himself right more than wrong.

It becomes a game he plays with himself.

Thinly veiled lies are easy to shatter through when he reads between the pauses, catches the stutters and slips of the tongue and watches the barely perceptible squirms. It slowly becomes a second talent to him.

When Mom plans a surprise party for his seventh birthday, he figures it out without much thought or digging. She smiles tightly when he asks if he'll get a cake this year, closing her eyes like it'll shield the window into her soul. She clears her throat loudly before she answers. It's a tactic she uses to stall for time, he wonders if she notices how often she uses it.

Mom answers his question ambiguously, spitting out a poorly thought out story about Dad taking him to the park to fly kites and how he'll be too busy to enjoy cake. He ignorantly smiles back at her, pretending he hasn't caught on to her strange behavior. The kite flying is to buy them time for his party. He fakes his shock when his family jumps from behind the couch, proving his assumptions correct.

When Lemmy notices Dad nursing his second cup of coffee in less than an hour, he asks out of concern if everything is okay. Playing up his cuteness by placing a tiny finger against mouth and cocking his head, he wonders if Dad will fall for it and be honest with him. Dad grins, rubbing the eye crust off his eyes with a curled fist and his glasses fall back down to settle onto his snout. Lemmy receives the same forced smile he witnesses curve Mom's lips when she's about to lie.

Dad adjusts his glasses, yawning loudly. Lemmy hears the crack in Dad's voice as he feeds him falsities through his teeth about work being the cause of his hectic sleep schedule. Lemmy nods like he's persuaded by his straightforward words, hopping out of his chair and scurrying up the stairs.

Though his mind is still young and slow on certain cues, he catches on to the gist of unspoken conversations and hidden gestures. Ludwig had been right. He wasn't stupid. He was smart, just not at the same things as him. Speaking of the eldest, Lemmy finds the most use for his skills when used against his older brother.

Ludwig's stoicism, his mild deposition, and the maturity he flaunts that Lemmy always found admirable are part of Ludwig's personality when viewed at face value. The big brother he wished to be like, the confidence he wished to allude like Ludwig had… minor cracks and fractures. Microscopic cracks unnoticed by strangers, but still visibly there if you squint. They're fissures which still manage to influence his brother's actions despite their size.

When Ludwig brings home a perfect test score, Dad's praises light up his face. Though, when Dad directs his attention back to Larry babbling in his high-chair for food, Ludwig's pride falters, crumbling up his excitement like a worthless sheet of paper full of scribbles. He hides his disappointment with a firm nod of his head and hangs it on the refrigerator with an air of defiance.

It's such a quick and rapid flash, Lemmy is surprised to have noticed it at all. He starts to pay more attention to his big brother after that.

Ludwig's fingers dance across the keys, snout held high as his body sways to the changing notes of his newest score. Lemmy peaks through the door of the study, spying on him. Then his brother's finger stumbles, notes crash like waves rushing against a tiny boat, and he ends the song on a pitchy tune.

Just one little mistake and his brother's posture deflates like he's been repeatedly kicked down. Ludwig groans frustratedly, gripping his hair between his fingers. He grumbles under his breath, mumbling the words "useless" and "klutz" over and over again.

Lemmy learns through studying Ludwig that he's extremely hard on himself. His own worst critic. The small shifts to his brother's supposedly unwavering personality momentarily display his insecurities. Between the false confidence and narcissistic gloating is a pitch black pit of doubt dragging him down by measly missteps.

Ludwig plays the part of a perfect prodigy because maybe he hopes one day those voices in his head taunting him will be silenced. After all, if everyone around you believes it then you should too. Right? Lemmy decides to bring his brother up as much as he possibly can to help the process.

He drowns him with compliments and gushes over his musical scores despite barely comprehending the shapes or sounds of the notes. He acts like an awestruck toddler at Ludwig's perfect grades and tells him he wishes he was as smart as him. Whenever Ludwig's smile turns crooked or his eyes dull from the lack of motivation, Lemmy is ready to leap to his aid with encouragement.

It changes Ludwig for the better. He finds Ludwig actively seeking him out, asking if he wishes to hear his newest song or openly talk about his interests in history and science. Instead of staying inside their stifling house, Ludwig chooses to sit outside underneath the apple tree and watch Lemmy cartwheel around the yard, offering advice using science jargon Lemmy can't exactly understand.

At night when they lean out the open window staring at the stars, Ludwig points to constellations, tracing them with his finger and speaks their names. He tells Lemmy the stories behind them which Lemmy eagerly soaks up and has plenty of questions to ask when Ludwig is finished.

He once asked Ludwig if there were clowns in space and his random question caused his eldest brother to giggle. He never received a proper response, but let it go as he watched Ludwig wipe tears from his eyes.

As Ludwig begins to open up to others, Lemmy turns his mind reading abilities towards his other siblings, eager to help them too. It may not be how a clown makes others smile, but Lemmy decides he'll do whatever it takes to help his family.

He learns through intense observations that Roy's hostility works like a defensive outer shell to keep others from prying too deeply. While Iggy's sarcastic cadence and indifference is wielded like weapons to swat the painful mockery of his classmates away from his fragile heart.

He approaches Roy's stubbornness the same way he tackles Ludwig's confidence. Rubbing his face against his brother's arm and spouting about how Roy alludes coolness from every cell of his body. Despite Roy's seemingly endless supply of stubbornness, he falls for Lemmy's schemes and cute act.

The recurring chill Lemmy once experienced from Roy at school dissipates from existence. His younger brother grins more often at him now and sometimes plays with him and Goombster during recess instead of his other friends. Whenever a bully gets too close to Lemmy, Roy becomes his bodyguard. Although Lemmy hates having to rely so heavily on Roy; Roy deems it his duty as his stronger brother to protect him.

Iggy is more difficult to tackle. He isn't very talkative unless alone, refusing to join in on family conversations during meals like he's bored. He chooses to wallow in his room, tinkering with electronics and toy parts for fun instead of joining his family for game nights or hang-outs.

Lemmy decides enough is enough. He misses the Iggy from years ago, eager to learn about the world and tackle obstacles without the fear of being seen as eccentric or weird. Truthfully, who cares what others think? Lemmy doesn't and he hopes to show Iggy he shouldn't care about those bullies either.

Lemmy figures the best approach is to annoy him by seemingly acting ignorant. Pouring on the compliments would make Iggy suspicious and getting too clingy would aggravate him in the worst possible way.

So Lemmy purposely begins conversations in Iggy's presence during dinner, casting him tiny glances he probably can't feel. Lemmy will say something simple like, "Mom, can you pass me—" then end the sentence there with an air of finality.

It causes incredulous looks to be exchanged around the table, Iggy especially appears confused by this, but unaware. When Mom proceeds to ask for more information, Lemmy pretends he hasn't said a thing and shoves a forkful of food into his mouth as an excuse.

Eventually, after speaking in fragments, his ingenious plan has the desired effect. He can tell his incomplete sentences leave Ludwig irritated, but curious by Lemmy's suddenly spotty memory and Iggy is beginning to grip his fork too tightly beside him to be seen as normal.

"Mom, can you pass me the—" Lemmy says during a meal then ends it there, fiddling with a French fry. His fries require ketchup, but he'll sacrifice his favorite combination if he has to for the sake of his plan.

"Ketchup, Mom," Iggy exasperatedly interrupts the usual silence that ensues. "He wants the ketchup."

Lemmy smiles his gratitude at his brother as Mom hands him the ketchup bottle, sending confused looks towards Dad from across the table. Iggy, as intelligent as he is at his age, quickly catches on afterwards. The purposeful lapse in Lemmy's sentences were meant for him to complete and only him.

From there, it becomes a word game. A game they only play between each other. Iggy begins to talk in the same fragmented way just so Lemmy can excitedly complete them for him. Mom and Dad find it endearing, Roy thinks it's creepy, and Ludwig pulls Lemmy aside and compliments him on being so astute and sly.

Soon, Iggy abandons the confines of his room to chase after his brother. They share everything; stories, lollipops, and even the same colorful hairstyle when Lemmy decides blonde hair is too boring and wants the colorful Mohawks in Mom's old school photos. Iggy even learns how to do a one-handed handstand just so he can be the wingman in Lemmy's shows.

They're closer, inseparable even. Iggy can look at Lemmy and know exactly what he's thinking without him needing to say anything and vice versa. There are plenty of times when they trick strangers into believing they're twins despite Lemmy being two years older.

Their complex conversations only get more obscure to outsiders. Littered with inside jokes only they understand and sneaky glances exchanged too quickly to catch. Oftentimes, it feels like they're speaking a completely different language altogether.

Fueled by the positive results of his meddling, Lemmy decides to wield his talent to figure out the mystery surrounding his family. He knows it's bugging Iggy and Ludwig, but he chooses to listen to them ramble off theories than offer any of the information he's collected over the years.

Before Lemmy shares any of the conversations he's heard during his time stuck in bed, he wants to dig a bit deeper.

While Mom is explaining fractions to him as they sit on his bed because his slight fever caused an uproar in the house and he had to be kept home and closely monitored, Lemmy inquires what a Draconic Koopa is. He's heard the word before, from the many conversations between his parents and Doctor Jones while he was lying sick in bed.

Snapping her mouth closed, Mom grows silent. Her eyebrows furrow and her face hardens. The textbook on his bed tumbles to the ground when she reaches for him. She grips at his shoulders too tightly. Pinpricks of pain stab into his shoulders when her claws sink into his scales like little serrated knives.

"Where did you hear that word?" She desperately questions, blue eyes wild.

He recognizes this look on Mom's face. It's the same look that crosses Wendy's soft features when she believes she's heard something creeping under her bed. It's the same look Morton dons when thunder rumbles and lightning flashes outside his window and he cries until Mom soothes him.

It's fear, but on a completely different scale system because those are silly childish fears that can be overcome with age or the comfort of a parent. This is something he's never witnessed contort Mom's expressions almost painfully. She's never afraid. She fearlessly tackles obstacles with a grin on her face daring the world to knock her down.

At this moment, she's terrified. Pupils dilated, almost nonexistent little specks of black, the hands digging into his shoulders tremble. She appears petrified, unable to move. She's stuck in a hellish nightmare, relieving it right in front of him. Lemmy caused this. He's responsible for this.

"From you," Lemmy replies, voice climbing higher because her fear seeps into him. He's scared too. "It's the reason I'm sick, right?"

Mom shakes her head. Her reassuring smile is nothing more than a grimace. There is absolutely nothing comforting about it.

"You're a regular Koopa, Lemmy. Don't ever say that word again. Please."

Her eyes speak of memories. Memories that keep others up at night and haunt their victims like a vengeful spirit. Lemmy wants to escape. He shifts uncomfortably.

"Mom," Lemmy whines, trying to pull away, but finds he can't. "You're hurting me."

She snaps out of the paralyzing fear holding her in place. Her grip relaxes and she forms a sorry excuse of a smile. The tears running down her cheeks tell a different story. A story he can't figure out. His talent for reading others is a scrambled mess. He sees fear, apprehension, and guilt pass across her face all at once in succession.

He shouldn't pry further. He shouldn't have pried at all.

"I'm sorry, baby." Mom pulls him close. She pets him frantically, her heartbeat still elevated and beating into his skull. He feels guilty for causing her this much panic. "You're just a normal Koopa. All of you are. You have to be, Lemmy. Please, just listen to me and never ask questions like that again. Never repeat that word again."

Lemmy, shielded by the world in Mom's embrace, decides to remain ignorant. For Mom and Dad's sake as well as his siblings; he won't try to solve this mystery again.

…

"Why… am I so weak?"

Lemmy wakes to the sound of dueling voices. One is hoarse as they choke on their words while the other is terrifyingly calm, hoping to assuage the other's ranting. To Lemmy, they sound distant and muddled, like he's trapped underwater.

He's unable to strain his hearing to get any grasp of the world above the surface until his consciousness gradually returns to him. He submerges his head above the cold depths of his murky mind and fights the currents to remain aware of his surroundings.

He wills an eye open, disgusted by the collection of crust gluing it closed and chooses to remain a blind spectator. Fresh oxygen rushes in through his lungs; breathing is oddly easier now. He wriggles his snout to find resistance from a mask stuck over his mouth. He did need a ventilator after all.

"Heal him, please," Bowser is begging. He sounds desperate, on the cusps of being hysterical. "You gotta do something. You heard the doctor; he could die, Kamek."

"Your Majesty," Kamek sighs."There is no guarantee it won't kill him. His body is weak enough as is. Adding more to the mix could make things exponentially worse."

A pregnant pause. An intake of air. It's too quiet for too long.

A loud, wall-shattering sob breaches through the thick silence. Lemmy's previous thought is something he immediately wishes to take back. He'd prefer the unmoving silence.

"I failed these kids." Bowser sharply inhales then releases it all in a forceful rush, gasping as he attempts to pull himself together. "I failed Lemmy. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit."

A guttural growl rattles the room. Lemmy smells a brief cloud of sulfur wafting through the air. For once, it isn't dispersing from his lungs.

"I should have asked, I could have prevented this. I was so careless and too busy living in some damn fairy tale."

"You didn't fail anyone," Lemmy wants to say, but his throat is swollen shut. He feels the familiar mask placed over his face move when he tries to pry his mouth open and there's a stuck tube down his parched throat feeding oxygen into his lungs and breathing for him. It doesn't hurt—he's on some kind of pain meds because he's pretty numb to it—but it's excruciatingly uncomfortable and foreign.

"Bowser," Kamek says his name softly, "Do not blame yourself. The children said he hasn't been sick in years. They did not know the severity of his illness either. Their parents were quite secretive."

"I know," another growl gurgles up Bowser's throat, "I just feel so damn helpless."

"I believe Lemmy will pull through. He is amazingly strong for his size and stubborn when it counts. After he recovers, I promise you that I will fix what I can to ensure this never happens again."

Bowser exhales loudly. "I'm holding you to that. Something so easily dealt with if they had just taken the kid to a Magikoopa specialized in healing magic going ignored for this long. I just feel responsible for this somehow."

"You are not—" Kamek begins to protest.

"They were hiding because of Dad," Bowser swiftly interrupts his advisor. He cuts through whatever speech Kamek is prepared to preach to him. "The kids' parents were afraid I was gonna pick up where he left off. They probably knew how easily he could have been saved, but they couldn't risk it. They'd put the entire damn family in danger. When Dad wanted a bloodline dead; he'd hunt them all down."

Bowser's previous spike of anger subsides, leaving his body with a heavy exhale. His voice turns somber, uncharacteristically quiet. His hand settles over Lemmy's.

"I can't stop thinking about how lucky I am that Junior's a healthy brat."

His hand disappears leaving behind a ghosting warmth. The chair creaks as Bowser stands with a drawn out groan. Lemmy thinks he hears the pop and click of muscles as Bowser stretches his limbs.

"Speaking of Junior; I should probably check on him and the others. Ludwig hasn't been sleeping, Roy is still locked up in his room, and Iggy won't talk to anyone. Although Wendy is probably the worst right now; she keeps demanding I let her see him. I keep telling her she can't, but she won't listen to anything I say."

"Wendy… you're probably terrified right now…"

"Of course, their detrimental little piece is missing. He's what holds them together." Lemmy hears the smile in Kamek's tone. He wishes desperately he could see such a rare sight in action. "Without him, they're a bit lost right now."

"Me too," Bowser mumbles. He must be hovering above him. The burning, fluorescent lights behind Lemmy's eyelids turn to black. Warm heat caresses his sweaty face. Smoky and humid. "I miss hearing the kid laugh."

Despite Lemmy's lucid state, he feels a gentle hand sift delicately through his hair. The tips of claws brush his scalp and then the sensation is gone, replaced by cold air. Bowser's retreating footsteps echo, almost syncing up to the beeps of machines pushing more air into his lungs.

Kamek sighs heavily, grasping Lemmy's hand. His grip is firm.

"I know you will pull through this and I promise you that I will ensure this never transpires again."

…

Bowser beckons him to follow after Lemmy's taken a nice bath. He's not exactly afraid of Bowser, but he figures he should check on the rest of the pack to ensure everyone is accounted for before going off on silly adventures. Though, the gentle look in Bowser's eyes is enough to pull him forward, following along as he intently listens to him ramble nervously.

Until Bowser stops, deciding that walking involves using too much of his brain power.

"This kinda seems out of nowhere, but—" Bowser's hand twirls, stirring the pot to search for the next proper set of words to say. He furrows his bushy red brows, mouth twisted.

"If you guys have nowhere else to go," another long pause as he audibly swallows his thick hesitation, "would you want to stay here?"

Lemmy blinks.

"Why are you asking me?"

"Well," Bowser clears his throat awkwardly. "You're the second-in-command, aren't ya?"

Is he? He ponders the foreign idea for a moment. Before any decision is made, Ludwig and Roy seek out his opinion. Really, he's a glorified tie-breaker. Lemmy never has the chance to settle on a definite answer because Bowser starts talking again. He clearly cannot handle the silence.

"I figured I should ask you and—uh, dammit—" Bowser rubs the back of his head, glancing hectically around the hall like he's searching for an answer embedded on the cobblestone. "What was his name again?"

Lemmy giggles as he watches the King of the Darklands fumble. The noble kings in the fairy tales Dad would read always seemed so… put-together and stern, carrying regality and words of wisdom like it weighed nothing while King Bowser looks to be the exact opposite. He's too focused on appeasing a bunch of random kids.

"Ludwig?" Lemmy's supplies with a giggle after deciding the king has suffered enough. Bowser nods and sends Lemmy a thankful grin, sharp teeth and all.

"Yeah, that's it. Thanks, Iggy."

Lemmy laughs harder, unable to correct him. He manages to eventually reintroduce himself between his fits of laughter drawing a flush to Bowser's face. The king profusely apologizes for his idiocy and attempts to promise he won't make the same mistake again.

Lemmy waves it off; there are seven of them and it's only been a few hours since he let them stay the night. It's not realistic to believe he knows all their names by now. Even Mom stuttered sometimes when she called for one of them, going down the list until she finally remembered who she was shouting for.

So King Bowser wants them to stay? It's strange. Unrealistic, even for an optimistic Koopa like Lemmy.

It grows even weirder the more Lemmy thinks about it. If he remembers correctly from school, the King of the Darklands is young, around nineteen? He's barely old enough to be called an adult according to Mom's standards.

"Men didn't reach maturity until twenty-five," she'd rant and rave until Dad assured her that the young Koopa at the convenience store meant nothing when he addressed her as "ma'am."

Why would Bowser want to take in a bunch of children and tarnish his young adult life with such hefty responsibilities? As king, Lemmy imagines he has enough to worry about at this very moment. Unless this is all a dream and Lemmy has finally lost himself to all the delusions he dreams of like Iggy warned him would happen. It really feels like Lemmy's been thrown into a story ripped straight from various fairy tales.

Lemmy decides, as he watches King Bowser struggle to maintain a decent conversation he's half-listening to, that King Bowser is a weird Koopa. Which, to someone with rainbow hair and skills in self-taught acrobatics, is hilariously ironic. He giggles.

"I'll talk to the boss," Lemmy says. "See if I can soften him up to the idea."

…

"I want to see Bowser... I miss him."

Drifting between the lines of consciousness and dreamland, Lemmy doesn't know how much time passes. Somewhere along the way, the tube is removed from his throat and the mask disappears from around his mouth.

He wakes up to find someone moving his body in various positions or someone poking and prodding his scales. He experiences a few coughing fits that rouse him awake, dispelling mucus and smoke from his lungs before returning to sleep.

One particular moment of consciousness, he feels the steady thrum of magic pumping through his veins, sucking away all the discomfort with a buzzing warmth. He knows it's magic because he's been healed using such arcane means before by Kamek whenever he got hurt.

He almost feels weightless and well enough to hop right out of bed until the strange Magikoopa in red tending to him—it's definitely not Kamek—places a hand to his chest to keep him from doing just that and he passes out again.

As his fever begins to recede, Lemmy stays awake long enough to catch a glimpse of Kamek furiously flipping through a stack of books or spots Bowser in the chair next to him wiping at his scales and face with a washcloth. Mostly, Lemmy stares up at the plain white ceiling, counting tiles before returning to sleep, bored.

When Lemmy awakens today, he immediately feels the layer of dried sweat on his scales, rubbing uncomfortably against the blanket placed over him. He wrinkles his nose at the disgusting sensation; he probably smells awful and he can feel the oil collecting on his unwashed and itchy scalp.

When he opens his eyes he's met with the blinding fluorescent lights humming above his head and the friendly pattern of tiles he's memorized. He fights through the brightness, refusing to close his eyes for too long.

He's terrified he'll fall under again and miss his opportunity to stay conscious and he's determined to move his stiff muscles. He rapidly blinks away the colorful shapes swimming in his foggy vision.

Groaning, he tests his strength and is shocked to find he can sit up using his elbows without shaking or passing out from over exerting himself. His body still heaves, gasping for breath like he's run across the entire castle, but he doesn't feel woozy. In fact, his stomach growls, appetite letting him know it's returned with a vengeance.

The magic must have assisted in speeding up the healing process because he recalls being bedridden for months after a flare up since his body still felt like utter garbage. Right now, he's ready for a nice meal and a long shower.

Slightly disoriented and fumbling with his barrage of thoughts, his eyes begin to scan the too white room full of blinking machines, eyes trailing to the IV connected to his tiny arm and finds a giant hand resting on his bed. He notices he's not alone.

Bowser sits on the chair beside his bed, a bucket of water at his feet, snoring loudly. Heavy bags rest under his closed eyes; he must have finally succumbed to the lack of sleep after keeping him cooled down.

Lemmy shivers when the air conditioning groans to life, pulling the blanket further up his chest. Curious by this, he places a hand over his forehead to find he isn't as hot to the touch as he was before. He still feels sleepy though and he settles back into the pillows listening to Bowser's snores rattle the entire room and the ticking clock.

He giggles when a particularly grating one escapes his mouth, sounding more like a broken engine unable to start than a Koopa stuck in dreamland.

Eventually, Kamek walks into the room with a blue leather book hooked under his arm. Almost unconsciously, the mage's head turns towards the cot. His shoulders rise slightly when he notices Lemmy staring back at him.

"Oh, Lemmy," he says, a bit startled. He adjusts the frames slipping down his beak. "You're awake."

He sets his giant book next to its stack of leather bound siblings on the desk a few feet from the row of cots then approaches the bed, placing a hand to the child's face. The mage smiles when Lemmy leans into the warm hand, sighing happily. He missed the skin to skin contact that he can actually verify is real and not some fever dream. Finally, he can reciprocate the action with a thankful smile.

"You're no longer burning up and the color is returning to your face. How's your appetite?"

"It's—" Lemmy's voice is grating from the lack of use. Thankfully, his stomach growls louder this time, interrupting them and giving him a moment to clear his throat. He laughs lightly. "I'm hungry."

"Good, good," Kamek nods, causing the overhead light to bounce off his frames and momentarily blind him, "I'll fetch a servant to bring you something light. It won't be anything extraordinary, but if you manage to keep it down this time then we've definitely made progress."

There's a lift to Kamek's usually vapid tones, like he's relieved and happy to see Lemmy as much as Lemmy is to see him. His eyes then fall to Bowser's sleeping form in the chair snoring away.

The bits and pieces Lemmy remembers come flooding back to him. Bowser's despondency, his uncontrollable crying and him begging Lemmy to pull through. Lemmy's mouth curves into a deep frown, brows furrowing.

Kamek notes his unwavering gaze and crestfallen expressions and hums. "He hasn't left your side for more than an hour or two at a time since you've been here."

Lemmy looks up at Kamek. "How long was I out? It's all a bit fuzzy."

"A week and a half. You gave us quite a scare at the breakfast table when you fainted. I'm relieved to see you so alert now. Especially after the rough couple of days you've had. I suppose that's the beauty of magic and science at play."

"How is everyone else?"

Kamek clicks his tongue. "Would you prefer the honest answer or the vague answer?"

Lemmy stares at him expectedly. "You don't have to sugarcoat it, Kamek. I can handle it."

Kamek huffs out a dry laugh. "Of course you can, I forgot who I was talking to. Your siblings have been distant. Worried. Most of them weren't eating or sleeping much."

Kamek's head turns to Bowser sleeping in the chair. "My Anxiousness included. We couldn't have your siblings visit and risk your immune system catching something else. I know you requested to see Ludwig a couple of times."

He did? He must have said some of his thoughts out loud without realizing it.

Lemmy's gaze drops to the blanket draped on his lap covered in various stains of different colors and shades. He tries not to think of the context behind some of them. The rusty brown color splattered on the white sheet could only be one fluid in particular. He tasted copper during some of his coughing frenzies. At the time, he was uncertain what was reality and what were dreams.

His siblings must have been so terrified. He recalls all he wanted to do was to see them as he laid sick in bed. They've lost so much already; what would they do if he hadn't pulled through? He shivers, shoving away that dark thought he's been dodging since he first was stuck in the infirmary.

Lemmy sighs, rubbing at his tired eyes to hide the moisture threatening to fall down his face.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?" Kamek chuckles like his apology is absolutely absurd. In this context, it is, but Lemmy can't stop himself.

His bottom lip trembles and he swallows, wincing at the ache in his throat. "I made everyone worry."

"Then I refuse to accept your apology because you shouldn't feel guilty for something out of your control."

"I haven't had a flare up in almost two years, so I figured maybe I outgrew it or something, but I was wrong."

"A premature Draconic Koopa—without the aid of magic—doesn't usually survive the hatching process due to the undeveloped lungs and flame sac. You are quite a miracle to have not only survived infancy, but toddlerhood as well." Kamek smiles. "How fitting; given how much of a beacon you already are that you'd also be the perfect example of overcoming nearly impossible obstacles."

Lemmy's face flushes and he wishes he could blame it on the ghosts of his fever. He sinks lower under the covers.

"Stop. You're embarrassing me."

"My, you are quite a modest thing, aren't you? So unlike some of your siblings," Kamek jokingly comments. Lemmy let's his blush answer for him. Kamek doesn't celebrate his victory for very long and he noisily clears his throat.

"When you're strong enough; I can have a medical Magikoopa fix the abnormalities to your flame sac causing you to experience these flare ups and become vulnerable to sickness. It's akin to asthma in humans, Toads, and average Koopas, but more complicated and complex. None of those species are capable of breathing fire which is what usually causes more fatal issues."

"Is it that easy to fix me?" Lemmy isn't convinced. Though, Kamek has never lied to him before.

"It's not a simple wave of the wand; magic therapy for a few weeks, numerous tests to ensure we aren't making things worse, and a lot of fluids to keep your body in top shape in order to recover. It will be strenuous, but worth it in the end. This family clearly needs you."

Lemmy wrinkles his snout. More fluids means more needles in his arms. He glances at the bruises on his arm from the various IVs the doctors must have stuck in him. He had been numb to all the poking, he barely remembers the sensation. Kamek sighs, gaining his wandering attention.

"I should probably find that servant to get you some food into your system. I must admit, though. It's nice to see His Loneliness finally settled down for a nap." Kamek chuckles at his wording, like he's jokingly speaking ill of a child he clearly loves. "He's been a stubborn brat these past few days, and here I thought he'd outgrow it when he got older."

Kamek shakes his head and sighs wistfully. "I was such an optimistic fool back then."

"I can hear you," Bowser grunts like an annoyed teenager, further proving Kamek's point. Puffs of ash disperse from his nostrils, Lemmy admires the swirl and dances of the billowing smoke.

Kamek adjusts his frames. "Good, perhaps you'll finally listen to me."

Bowser snorts, half-asleep. He mutters something about Kamek being a "senile old fart" causing Kamek to laugh good heartedly as he walks out the door. Lemmy giggles at their entertaining antics, having missed it.

At the light sounds of Lemmy's laughter, Bowser bolts upright. Crimson blood-shot red eyes stare back at Lemmy in disbelief.

"You're awake." Bowser's hand immediately flies to Lemmy's closest to him. He grasps at it, rubbing his thumb frantically against the back like he's testing if this is real or a dream. Lemmy tightens his grip the best he can and pulls a smile onto Bowser's face.

"It's nice to see you, kid," Bowser breathes.

Bowser sinks his sharp teeth into the bottom of his dry lips, letting out a shaky sigh. He blinks rapidly to ward away the moisture building up in his eyes, but a stubborn tear spills down his cheek and onto the blanket.

Lemmy expands his arms weakly, waiting for the inevitable bear hug. Bowser is slow on his approach, his beefy arms hovering around the child with uncertainty and reluctance like he's afraid he'll either wake up or he'll break him in half. Lemmy can't decide which reasoning is the one controlling Bowser's hesitation more.

"I was so worried you weren't gonna make it. Don't scare me like that again or you're grounded," Bowser sniffs then laughs humorlessly at his joke, resting his chin on Lemmy's head.

Lemmy can feel the Koopa King's body shudder from his quiet crying. It's relieving to see him fall apart so easily. Especially after all Lemmy's put the poor king through.

Bowser works so hard to keep up a undefeatable

deposition around his soldiers and peers, but why does his mask fracture and fall to ruins around them? He's not afraid to show his softer side to them.

Lemmy knows the simple answer staring back at him: Bowser loves them. He loves them like a parent would love their child. He doesn't even seem to realize it yet. None of Lemmy's siblings see it either. The only one who appears aware of this is Kamek. Nothing escapes the mage's sharp eyes for very long.

"It's okay," Lemmy soothes, patting his palm against the rough plastron underneath his hands while shedding his own tears of relief. He can feel the pounding heartbeat under his palms. "I'm here now. I won't leave you."

His reassurance fuels Bowser's courage. He properly hugs the child, pulling him closer without upsetting the IV stringing from his arm, and sets a hand on the back of his head. Lemmy listens to the tenacious thud, thud, thud of Bowser's heart fill his head. He closes his eyes, lulled by the sound, and smiles.

…

Lemmy stares out of his window at the twinkling stars above his head, admiring the milky streaks of galaxies, clusters of lights, and the sideways Cheshire grin of the moon. The house is quiet for once. Only the critters of the night stir, creating a symphony of sounds all their own.

He closes his eyes momentarily to take in the familiar scents of pine and the lingering scent of wet dirt from the garden below his window, fleshly watered from the downpour minutes ago. A puddle collects on his windowsill and he absentmindedly twirls his finger in the water, creating streaks and smiley faces with the tips of his claws. He giggles quietly at the disfigured smile of his drawings.

The other occupant in the room stirs. The bed squeaks under the shifting weight, but Ludwig remains asleep. The chilling breeze rustles the trees and Lemmy smiles at the sensation laced with tiny droplets caressing his face like a loving friend. He thinks back to his time spent with Dad today.

Only mere hours ago, they sat outside under the same sky with Lemmy cozily seated in Dad's lap as they talked about anything Lemmy wished to say. Dad liked to dedicate alone time with each child and just catch up on their lives. Tonight, it was Lemmy's turn and he chose to go stargazing outside before the clouds rolled in, bundled up in Dad's huge arms.

Lemmy talked about anything; his siblings, his favorite stories, and school. School had been a sore subject recently due to his above average grades, but Dad wasn't mad at him for his lack of attention during certain lectures.

"You're an amazing kid. I don't expect you to be good at everything. You excel at matters of the heart more," Dad said with a proud grin. "Despite everything you've been through you still smile. You're destined to do good things. You'll go far. I know it."

Lemmy looked up at Dad, wondrously. "Like running my own circus?"

Dad had laughed, meeting his questioning gaze with a glint of humor swimming playfully in his eyes.

"Of course, just don't travel too far because I'd miss you," Dad poked his sides drawing out a few giggles from him, "but I'm sure you could spread your joy to others with that smile alone. You're the family's bright beacon."

"Beacon," Lemmy repeated back the odd metaphor and nodded in agreement. "I'm a beacon to others." He tilted his head, craning his neck to stare at Dad curiously. "Including you?"

Dad nodded without hesitation, his arms wrapped around Lemmy as the wind shook the trees and he shielded him from the cool air. Lemmy rubbed his face against Dad's chest radiating heat like an oven, trying to keep his snout from growing too cold. They'd have to return inside the moment his nose started to run and he wanted to selfishly soak up their time together a little longer.

"You're a beacon to me." Dad's tone was soft and delicate. His words soothingly vibrated in Lemmy's head, caressing his eardrums. The serenity it always brought to him was instantaneous. Dad chuckled, running a hand through his hair.

"Whenever I see you smile or hear you laugh, I can't help but hope for a better tomorrow. I never want that spark to disappear from inside you. Life can be rough sometimes, but can you promise me that you'll try to retain that optimism and whimsical thinking?"

Lemmy squirmed out of Dad's embrace to grin widely at him. He bounced in his arms. "I promise, Dad! I'll be just as bright as a lighthouse! No, brighter! Like a star!" he stretched his arms wide, "The sun even!"

Lemmy smiles fondly as the memory fades and he stores it away. He gently pushes himself away from the open window. He spares the grinning moon hiding partially behind a cloud one last glance and wishes it good night. He quietly slides the window down until it remains open a crack just in case the rain decides to return. He doesn't want to wake up to a puddle gathered on the floor. Ludwig would go ballistic if his music sheets got wet.

He scurries into bed and buries under the cozy covers, cuddling his teddy bear close to his chest. He inhales the fruity scent of his shampoo permeating off its coarse fur from bath time and closes his eyes.

Like he promised Dad: Lemmy will be the beacon or the star his family needs. No matter the circumstances.

---

Welp, enjoy. If you're wondering why the memories aren't in past tense; it's on purpose. The kid can't tell you what are dreams and what aren't so I figured I'd confuse the readers too since he's not the best Koopa to get perspective from at the moment.

If Lemmy wasn't your favorite Koopaling then he is now. We should all accept it. Though, I swear my favorite is Larry.