deercountry | open | the old, old winds blowing you back around

Entry tags:

open | the old, old winds blowing you back around

Who: Luna Lovegood + you!
What: September Catch-all + Event Prompts to follow.
When: Late-August; the month of September.
Where: The Farther Shores; Gaze; Others.

☽ the pale morning sings of forgotten things | the farther shores | arrival
cw: thalassophobia; refs to drowning; possible nudity / partial nudity; amnesia-related themes

[ It's strange, remembering. At first, a little frightening — the waters all around her, the ocean floor falling away from her feet. She'd walked into the sea, her hand in another's, following the moon, the mother — she'd felt cold, at first. And she'd been frightened despite herself; feet kicking uselessly, trying to find a surface to stand upon but finding nothing there. Nothing at all; only the murky, heavy feeling of water all around her. But after a while, something seemed to wash over her — it didn't feel so scary anymore. The moon had said so, hadn't she—? It didn't feel like anything, anymore. She remembers the ocean swallowing her whole, and then being alone — bobbing silently along with the waves.

She'd felt small, quiet. She is little more than that. But— oh, she will be Something. She swims with purpose, drawn one direction. She will be Something! Something that is far more than just small and quiet. She wants to know what it is. And soon enough, she will find out — the endless ocean sweeps into shore and there's sand beneath her. Hands reach for her, soft and warm and safe. The woman smiles, her words are soft and warm, too.

Hello, old friend. It is so good to see you again. I have missed you. And she believes it, she does. And the process begins: gentle coaxing to remember, the strangeness of it all. She remembers the feeling of the cold air on her skin; paint on her fingertips, under her nails; how the forest floor feels beneath her bare feet; she remembers silver of her eyes, so wide and so curious, the curve of her smile and the taste of sugar on her tongue. She remembers, faintly, the feeling of fingers coaxing her hair — how long and pale, scraggly curls tucked carefully behind her ear. The woman is kind and patient with her, wrapping her up in the dark robe — exclaiming gently: Aren't you a small thing? Just as I remember. It's a little big for you but it'll do.

She still feels strange, different. But whole. A girl. She is... here.

The woman leaves her be after a while, and the girl sits on the warm black sand — still strange but content. Her legs stretch before her, she tries to wriggle her toes. She seems enthralled by her fingers, and bends to start drawing shapes in the sand: stars, a crescent moon, a rabbit, a leaf, all sorts of things — although they don't quite look how they're supposed to. She'll stretch as far as she can, long blonde hair covering her face and drifting lazily in the sea breeze, fighting against the fabric of her robe, partially disrobed the longer she works. Still, she seems quite happy in her own world making soft little chirrups and babbling sounds, relatively subdued. And that's where she'll stay, where she can be find by others.

At some point, perhaps after you've come across her — this strange, partially dressed girl drawing so intensely in the sand — a dog will arrive. Huge, almost wolf-like. Some kind of large husky or malamute. Maybe you followed the dog as she searched along the shore, looking for someone, or maybe the dog recognised you and is bringing you along as she looks for her owner. She's excited to see the girl, licking at her face and whining. But the girl just pets the dog, still making her little sounds — no words coming yet — looking up with wide eyes and pointing at you. Oh! It's you! Whoever you are!

Or perhaps it's much later, the day shifting to night. The girl remains on the beach amongst the drawings in the sand, the dog resting at her side. She continues to pet the dog absently; she doesn't know the dog's name but she seems know that the dog does belong to her. Has it always? Or is it just now? She doesn't know. But she's still relatively calm and quiet until she catches sight of the pale red moon that hangs in the skies. And then, the girl comes alive. She stares at the moon peeking over the horizon and after a long moment, something clicks inside of her. Recognition washes over her face, sheer delight and excitement lighting up her eyes. She starts shrieking gleefully, growing louder and louder and more incessant.

It's gibberish that comes out, but there's a few words here and there that sound like sense: Moon! I am Moon! Moon! Mum! Mum, Moon! ]

☽ every once in a while I'd sing a song for you | the farther shores | arrival pt. ii
cw: amnesia-related themes

[ Once she's gotten the hang of using her legs again, Luna walks slowly down the boardwalk. She's still dressed in the robe she'd been given by the Waker, a tiny thing swamped in the black and her long sea-soaked hair loose down her back, looking more like a lost child than anything else. But she's not alone, a huge, wolf-like dog hovers at her side — almost half the height of her. Luna keeps one hand on the dog, occasionally petting the soft grey fur of her back. Helga keeps watch of her owner, grumbling low if anyone comes too close — she seems to understand something's not quite right with Luna, and just wants to keep a close eye on her. But not even Luna can explain what it is, the pieces of her mind still putting themselves back together.

Luna walks as if in a daze, slow and uneven steps, taking the place in — or trying to. There's so much around her: so many sights and smells she doesn't really know where to look first. It's... dizzying, overwhelming. Her mouth opens and closes silently, brow upturned for a moment: hungry. And with the scent of cream and sugar so thick in the sea air, she doesn't really know where to go — doesn't have the sense to approach a stall.

Instead, something else catches her eye — the twinkling strings of fairy-lights that hang low across the boardwalk. Luna stops, stares for a long moment, utterly mesmerized. She... she remembers these, somehow. She remembers them as good, in some way. Her stomach rumbles softly and she makes a soft sound — her hands reaching up for the lights, fingers straining.

Maybe they'd be good to eat, she thinks. If she could just reach them. ]

☽ your timid smile | luna's home, gaze
cw: n/a

[ The rain seems almost endless, the sky thick with full, dark clouds. Days seem to drag on in a watery blur for the most part, downpours to drizzle and back again. Until one evening, the skies seem to ease off in their assault on the city below as the daylight fades to dusk. For a short while, things seem calm. Peaceful even. It's nice, even if the clouds never fully leave. Even if there's a definite chill in the air, summer on its way out. More rain will come soon, but for now there's a break — the pale blood moon keeping watch above.

And then comes the haunting melodies that grace the open air: Moon Presence sweeps low in the skies, swirling effortlessly around building tops — moves with meaning and without it too. She goes where she pleases, it seems. She sings to the city as night approaches, soft ethereal music that seems to echo across different part of the city. As she moves through Gaze, she seems to hover around on a particular street for some reason — low, easy circling that seems a great deal more meaningful. It seems something has caught her attention.

Until it becomes apparent that on this one particular street in Gaze, there is a teenage girl sat upon the roof of a tall Georgian-style townhouse. It appears that she's climbed out from one of the attic-room windows, quite at ease as she perches. Luna stares up into the skies, wide eyes watching Moon Presence as she draws close for a moment and then swirls away again. It's hard to tell from the height, but there's a conversation of some sort — the girl speaking softly to her whenever she floats close by.

This is who's gotten Moon Presence's attention for the moment, until she notices whoever's watching the two of them and turns to look. Luna blinks and looks down at the pavement, beaming and then waving at the person below. She looks delighted. ]

It's alright—! Everything's fine—! Come say hello—!

☽ rise above the mountains and the stars and the sea | archaic archives, gaze
cw: n/a

[ It's a delightful discovery to find that the library is so close to home, that she lives in the same district as it. It doesn't take her long to venture to the Archaic Archives; trust the Ravenclaw to make a beeline for such a place. While she does give the museum artefacts a look through, she's more interested in looking for some particular books. She wanders around purposely but on occasion some kind of curious thing on display will catch her attention and she'll stop to examine it for a short time before returning to her wanderings.

She'll be here for a good while, easy to come across as she carefully makes her way around the mazes of the library. Deerington's library will always have a special place in her heart, but this place is quite something. She'll definitely be found here often in the future. And certaintly she doesn't look lost at all, if you happen upon her. She looks quite at home, in fact. ]

It seems so easy to get lost in here, doesn't it?

[ And despite her words, she seems quite cheerful. ]

contact

heolstor or heolstor#5725 for planning/plotting. event-related prompts to follow. plotting post is here

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( Slowly, he's been able to re-learn how to move, and speak, and understand. It's been a long process for the boy who isn't empty, but too full. There's so much to sort itself out within him, and it still hasn't fully evened out into a stabilised form. His eyes are strange, if one looks at them closely enough: one seems blacker than the other, its pupil swollen, the white of it slightly bloodshot, like something beneath the surface has iritated the organ. Sometimes he forgets the name he's slowly regained, forgets he's Peter. (Is he Peter, or is someone else Peter? He still has to coax it out of himself.) Every once in awhile his tongue gives a soft, involuntary click.

He doesn't know how long he's been here, has no real awareness of it, but some hours must have passed, because eventually Peter's able to walk again without falling. He wanders the Boardwalk, encountering others, not quite remembering any of them the way he should, but— they seem to remember parts of him. And there's a part of him that several people are aware of, a direction they coax him to: he's lost, but there's someone to find. There's someone named Luna.

He still can't quite remember the shape of her, but there are other things within him, things that he's able to recall as the hours pass. Soft palms and gentle fingers, quiet tears, and warm smiles. By the time Helga finds him, he remembers that Luna means the moon.

The large, wolflish dog recognises him, and Peter recognises her, though it takes him a moment to understand it. His hand gently spreads over her head, some sensation of relief, happiness to see her — and in the next moment, some sensation of cutting loss. Rex isn't here, comes the intrusive thought, foreign at first in its suddenness, and then too, too familiar. Somehow he knows it. Rex is someone important to him, and Rex is gone, and Peter will never see him again. His strangely uneven eyes ache a little; moisture glosses them for a moment. He follows the dog with a quiet desperation as she guides him, his feet bare against the sand, his lean body still adorned in the black garment he was given. His hair is a wild tangle of sand-crusted, windblown curls. Glinting as he moves is a bracelet made of leather and beads, a bright blue. He'd found it in the bag, though it took him awhile to understand what to do with it.

Now he knows, and it rests there against the bone of his wrist. Blue. Blue is important.

The dog's found someone sitting there: runs up to them, licking, whining, excited. The person turns to look at him, all wide eyes and strange sounds, and he almost cries out, almost crumbles. )

My witch. ( The two words are whispered under his breath, but he barely hears himself even say it, doesn't even quite comprehend that he has. His still-wet eyes widen; he's lowering slowly to the sand beside her to kneel, hardly daring to breathe. What comes next, he is aware of, and he's looking at the girl (small, fairy-soft, robes half hanging off of her) like he's seeing her for the first time in his life, and yet — simultaneously, somehow, as though he's known her for all of it.

His Luna. )

I found you.

[ The dog seems to come out nowhere, but she isn't afraid. But she's taken aback by the delight of it for a moment, how happy it is to see her and the girl makes a soft little squeal in reply — face thoroughly 'cleaned' as it greets her. Her hands reach for the dog's fur; it feels familiar somehow, the texture of it under her fingers, how soft and warm. She can't pinpoint it, though. She feels she knows this dog, but she can't quite grasp it just yet.

It'll come to her in time, she supposes. Like a nice surprise of sorts. She gently presses the dog away and the dog sits and whines softly, incessantly — tail wagging furiously. Helga is patient, despite her excitement — she has found Luna! And not only that she's found Luna's boy! She found Peter! She's pleased with herself, but the boy needs to see her owner too. Even Helga understands: they're very important to one another.

When the girl looks up with her wide eyes and pointing fingers, there isn't much in terms of recognition in her eyes. Not quite. She greets the boy with a series of sounds, gibberish mostly. Soft little chirrups and whines, half-words. Pleased. But the boy stares at her for a long moment, drops down beside her and she pauses, gets a better look at him now he's closer — there's something familiar about him, too.

'I found you.'

The girl exhales softly, expression sobering. He was looking for her—? She doesn't understand, not yet. Her head tilts slightly, eyes catching his — the mismatched pair of black and a little bloodshot and the other warm, dark brown. She knows those eyes, she does. Both of them. How does she know them? Why is he so familiar to her, and yet not all at once? She lets out a long, low whine — frustrated at the thought, at herself. There's something there, inside of her, and she tries desperately to coax the pieces together — whatever those pieces are.

Two hands reach for him; tries to reach for his face — fingers clumsy and heavy. She can't move well, she wants to draw him near. She makes the long, low sound again, brow pinching. He found her, he knows her. Did she lose him? ]

( There's a soft echo of a smile — the first he's really had since waking up here — as he watches the girl and the dog. Somewhere in him, he knows how intelligent the great creature is, and that she's led him here. He's grateful but swallows it for now, letting Luna have time with her instead. Later, there'll be many, many good pets for Helga.

For now... he watches the girl see him, take him in, with those odd sounds that aren't language, and barely sound human, but she isn't something scary. She's.... like a child, almost. Something so small and innocent sat there in the sand drawing. He's nervous, he realises, a quiet anxiety blossoming in him. Nervous... of her? To be forgotten by her? He's only barely remembered, either; he understands this is difficult to do. Not too long ago he'd barely been able to speak either, and he's still... strange. But there's a deep protectiveness of her state that he recognises as vulnerable. Now that he's found her, he won't ever leave her; he knows this, immediately. He'll keep her safe.

She makes a sound that seems melancholy, and it makes his heart ache softly as he leans in closer, only for the girl to reach for his face with hands that still haven't remembered how to work themselves. Peter catches them for a moment, gently pressing his palms on top of her knuckles, staring at her as she frames his face that way. He... knows this. He knows what it is to be held by her. His odd eyes swim with it, with some deep emotion, and he swallows again. )

It's all right. I'm— here.

( He whispers, tries to reassure her, having a hazy memory of how lost he'd felt, how... overwhelmed in ways. He's looking her over, worried— and realisation creeps in, the awareness of things he hadn't had before, needs for modesty. One of his hands moves to slowly, gently, coax the shoulder of her robe upwards, covering her up a little more again. )

I'm... Peter. ( The name still feels weird, foreign against his tongue which only seconds ago had spoken of its own accord. My witch, it had said. Something moves within him with a desperation to reach out to her; Peter doesn't stop it, lets it move, and his mouth gives a soft murmur — but it isn't anything in a true language, either. It's a mixture of them, of languages; it's nonsense, said in a soft, hushed hiss; for a moment he speaks in tongues.

But then he's reaching his hand back up to her head, fingers brushing against the messy waves of her hair, very gently combing through some clumps of sand, the way a man (Michael) had done for him earlier. )

[ He's here. He's here with her, and she wishes she could remember what that means. Why he's so achingly familiar to her, how he carefully fusses over her as he gently tugs her robe back into place. There's a slow nod and she repeats the name back, only not as a word but as a sound — managing to echo the syllables but nothing more. Peter. She wishes she could speak, wishes she could remember how to speak; it's something there within her but quietly locked away, much like everything else.

But then something shifts in him, there's a soft hiss of noise, words and not words. The girl's eyes widen, mouth silent moving. Oh. She holds his face as gently as she can, fingers awkward and bent at his cheek. She recalls a word. A flutter of recognition in her eyes; she wants to draw it in the sand — crown. But she keeps her hands where they are, holds onto him. Without thinking, her tongue clumsily brushes against the roof of her mouth; a quiet little click.

His hand move to her hair, brush against it. It feels nice, her head tilting into the touch. The girl makes a few more sounds, content little trills like a small bird. She remembers this: something that had helped her remember herself, having hair. The feeling of fingers gently tucking her hair back. She takes his hand to show him, fumbles with it as she tries to direct it to tuck her hair behind her hair: like this, she remembers it like this.

There's something on his wrist and her gaze turns curiously, catching sight of something blue there. The girl blinks, stares for a long moment in a daze at the colours, the tiny rectangular stones of the bracelet. She frowns, her fingers moving to brush against it, petting it gently. There's another word, this one she tries to voice; her tongue feels heavy and strange and can't enunciate it properly. But it's clear enough: ]

Green. [ Wait, hasn't she seen that before—? She nods quickly, speaks the word again, insisting. ] Green.

( Even if she's just repeating, imitating the word from him, hearing the girl say his name... helps. Something in him flutters, touched upon by hearing the name coming from her. It's... important, when this girl says his name. It means something important.

It isn't only Peter who's touched upon by her, and the other thing with him feels seen too, seen and held and comforted. It's some innate thing in him, like instinct: her tongue gives that soft sound, that familiar little click noise, and not-Peter breathes quietly in response, eyes widening just a bit. There was a girl who told him, a girl named Loose. She said he had a witch like her, only a different kind. She'd used glyphs to display her magic, and she said that his witch used a wand. He hadn't fully been able to understand then, but.... he knows now, being faced with her, that this really is his witch. He's found her.

There's a soft echo of the sound given back to her, a little brush of his tongue to the roof of his mouth: a quiet exchange of awareness. He's here, too; he's glad to see her. And then it's Peter who's brushing his fingers through her hair, careful, still worried for her. He lets her guide his hand, watching quietly as she coaxes his fingers, and then he's giving a soft smile, understanding. Gently, he tucks strands of her hair behind her ear, and then repeats the gesture to the other. He can see her face much better now, curly tangles softly urged from it. Yes, he knows this face. He knows it very well. Memories stir within him, soft pieces of things, and he's giving a quiet sound when she notices the item around his wrist, manages to speak.

'Green'.

...Green. There's blue, and there's green, and he knows this now; it's gently flooding into him. She'd made these for them. Peter's eyes widen, blinking against a sudden pinprick-warm feeling. )

That's right— this one's blue, but there's another. One that's yours. Green.

( He turns his head to look around — he'd found this in a bag near himself, and maybe there's one for her, too.... Peter slowly gets to his feet, moving his hands into the girl's, trying to help her get to her feet if she's able. He's very careful, knowing full-well how difficult it might be. )

Can you stand up...? Like this, with me? We can find yours. Your green.

[ The girl's eyes widen, recognition flits in her gaze. There's something definitely there, someone else hides behind his mismatched eyes. It's quiet, still. But it looks at her as her tongue clicks without thinking, clicks softly back. She thinks the word again, crown — and then another comes to mind: king. A king lives inside the boy, she remembers. And even if she doesn't quite understand what that means, she's alright with that. It's not knowledge that feels scary to know. She's pleased she remembers.

But the king moves away again, lets the boy come out to tuck her hair behind her ear — something as easy as breathing in a way. There's little chirping sounds from her; soft, contented babblings when he realises what she wanted him to do. This is nice, she likes this. It feels like he's done it before, that perhaps it was his hands she remembers — his fingers carefully tucking strands back. Yes, yes it was — she knows this. It was him. It fills her with warmth, a lop-sided grin at her lips.

She nods quickly, eyes widening and bright: her green. Yes, yes. She would like to find her green. Yes. It's something important, it must be. The boy says it is, a version of his own bracelet that's hers. He's important to her — yes, of course. ]

Green, green—! [ The more she says the word, the clearer it starts to sound. Not perfect, but it's something. But standing is... another trial entirely. The girl uses him to place her weight on as he moves his hands to hers, trying to pull herself to stand.

It's difficult though, the clumsy shifting of limbs, awkward and stiff — hard to move on the sand. Her enthusiasm shifts into another frustrated whine, low in her throat; expression twisting into upset. She doesn't quite know how to hold the weight of herself just yet, how to keep her legs straight and steady, how to plant her feet on the ground.

Her legs threaten to buckle and she grabs onto him to stop herself falling, and just... accidentally barrels into him, face-planting into his chest. The girl makes another sound, another whine muffled by the fabric of his robe.

... It sounds apologetic. This is very difficult for her. ]

( Peter's smile is slowly returning as she repeats the word — there's a nod of encouragement, gentle but eager too. Yes, that's right, that's good! Green; green is important. He wants to help her remember things if he can, though he knows it will take time. It's taken time for him; it's still a slow process within himself. )

There you go.... You've got it— ( He continues to encourage the girl as he tries to help her stand, a difficult process. He remembers this too: so much falling.... others had helped him up here and there. Eventually he could walk again, but... it was hard. He won't rush her, letting her take time, lean against him as she needs.

Then suddenly she's crumbling, legs buckled — Peter's hands scramble to grab for her forearms as she falls right into his chest. Alarm immediately shoots through him, but... she's not hurt, just out of sorts, and Peter finds himself laughing quietly at the soft whine into his clothing. Laughter still feels so new for him, but the sound comes naturally — an amusement, but it's more fond than anything. Empathy blossoms from him as he gently moves one of his hands to the back of Luna's head, fingers stroking affectionately, soothing little pets. )

No— No, it's okay. This is hard, but you're doing great. ( Peter praises the girl softly. He doesn't know if she's capable yet of understanding all of the words, the meanings to them, but his tone is gentle, encouraging. )

I'll help you. Like this— ( He crouches downwards a little, so that his other arm can find her waist, hooking securely around it. Then he's very slowly standing up straight again, trying to help draw Luna's body upwards with him, holding her to himself, tight and warm and secure. )

We can just stand for a few minutes. Like this, you and me. ( Give her a bit more chance to get used to standing, to having her legs in that kind of position; there's no rush. He might have to carry her, and he will if it comes to that, because he is absolutely not letting her leave his side — but for now, Peter's content just to stand there with Luna for a few long moments, helping her stay upright with his arm still firmly around her waist.

And he's gently fussing over her, his free hand moving up to carefully dust some sand from her cheek with his thumb, and to re-tug her oversized robe up over her shoulder, murmuring softly. The process of helping Luna is progressively helping Peter remember more words, phrases, too. )

This thing's just swallowing you....

[ He laughs, but she knows deep down it's not to make fun of her. There's a kindness in his laugh, he doesn't mind her stumbling legs and unsteady feet. She shifts her head slightly, looking up at him with wide eyes — she's forgiven, even though it seems there's nothing to forgive. She nods slowly, once, a very slight movement of her head and he's moving again: help. He's helping her.

She holds onto him tightly — a little too tightly, she can't quite manage softer grips just yet — as he gently helps to draw her upright once more. Her legs still shaky, but she leans on him, a good weight to help get used to the feeling of standing. He's warm, solid. There's a few more chirrups and babbles, pleased as getting to stand — she feels tall. No longer something small. ]

You and me. [ It comes out garbled, much like her other words — an echo of his. Her head lolls back, a crooked grin on her face as he brushes sand from her cheek. She likes this boy, she thinks, knows. It comes as naturally as that familiarity: he's someone she knows, someone important, someone she likes.

It helps. Helps her slowly put pieces together again. The dog at their feet rises to stand again, her tail wagging and the girl looks down to her. Something clicks into place: ]

Helga. [ She gasps the name softly, her face brightening. Her name is Helga; this dog belongs to her. An idea forms: the dog could help them. The dog is clever. ] Helga, green. Helga help.

[ Helga tilts her head, letting out a soft confused sound. The direction isn't clear. ]

( There's a small hitch of his heart when Luna repeats the words to him. 'You and me.' Like a little bird imitating and grinning, but it makes his heart flutter all the same. You and me is important, just as important as blue and green. ...It's the same thing, even. Those snippets mean the same thing.

And once again, Peter feels things fluttering in him, stronger now, the closer he is to her. The memories associated with her help him remember other things too, things connected with his senses: flowers blossoming and the smell of hot chocolate, the sound of soft rain falling while he and the girl hid tucked somewhere safe in the woods. Bursts of light, of magic....the feeling of a long, thick scar beneath his fingertips. The shimmering of a red thread. The pluck of guitar strings, and cold snow gathered up into his palms. There are so many memories with her — but they aren't overwhelming him; they were already there inside. It's simply like his vision is slowly becoming clear again, where it was blurred and hazy before.

He loves her.

His eyes are a little watery now, and he's blinking down at Helga as Luna addresses her dog. With... her name. She said her name; she's remembering things. Maybe one word at a time, maybe slowly, but— she's coming back to him. Peter knows she'll come back. They always come back to one another.

And there's a sudden little swell of pride at Luna asking the dog for help; it's smart of her. Even in this state, her brain is working like this... She's wise. He's proud of her, his smile growing as he looks to the dog. )

Can you find something? Something like this? ( He carefully lets go of Luna with one arm, holding his wrist with the bracelet out to Helga so she can sniff it. ) It looks... feels, smells, like this.

( It might still be in a bag, but Helga's nose is a powerful ally... and Peter turns back to Luna, giving her a little squeeze, a hug, more encouragement. )

That was such a good idea...! Are you okay, though? Do you want to.. sit back down? ( He gestures to the ground, eyebrows lifting as he tries to convey what he means. If Helga can fetch the bracelet, it would spare Luna having to fumble around, and she might want to rest again. They can sit and wait, if she wants. )

[ It's a long road, but she's getting there. And it's exciting, in a way: like finding clues to a puzzle. She's in good spirits over it, despite the frustrations of not being able to do things properly, or not quite grasping words. Glad to remember Helga's name, glad to slowly remember him. She nods eagerly as Peter explains what she means: yes, yes — helps her say what she wants to say. There's another grin up at him, thankful and pleased all at once.

And it's far better direction; the dog understands, wagging her tail as she steps forward to sniff the bracelet on Peter's wrist. It smells like him, mostly — but there's still traces of the girl, too: in the leather, in the makings of it. Helga turns away, snout to the sand as she starts to scour the sand, trotting one way then another as she moves further away from them.

The girl grins, babbling softly at the dog and then laughing at the praise. A good idea—! This'll make things much faster, she can find her green! ]

Mm. Sit back down, sit back down. [ The gesture helps her know what he means and she nods. This standing business is difficult, even with his help. Besides, she was having fun drawing in the warm sand — some of her doodles now unfortunately scrubbed out by getting to her feet.

But once they're back down to sit again, she'll be reaching to smooth it over, ready to start again. She'll reach for his hand, clumsily closing his fingers into a fist save for his index before directing it to the sand. ]

Do this. [ ....... she wants him to draw with her.

It's a good ten minutes before Helga's darting back, a leather satchel in her mouth — muffled barks announcing she's found the 'something'. Well, close. This definitely smells like her owner on the inside. She drops it at their feet, returning to lick the girl's face for a few moments. ]

Helga good. [ The dog steps back and she reaches for the bag, shaking it gently as she tries to open it. Fine motor-skills are... a little hazy right now. She doesn't really She sulks gently in her frustration, before pushing it towards the boy: please help. ] Open? Open!

( As Helga starts her search, Peter turns his attention to helping Luna sit back down; standing was maybe good for a bit, but he knows it's going to probably be a good while before she's capable of walking anywhere. That's okay; he'll sit with her, he's not going anywhere.

So down he goes, careful, folding long legs inwards as he sits down alongside the girl. Peter's blinking as she reaches for his hand, limply letting her shape his fingers how she likes, waiting to see what this is about.... oh— she wants him to draw. The boy smiles, slowly dragging his finger against the smooth surface of the beach. He'd missed this so much, he thinks. Missed being with her, spending time with her. Things are still out of sorts and strange and lost, but she's still Luna and he's so happy he's with her now. )

You wanta draw some more? We can totally do that. Though I have to warn you... I'm no good at this kind of thing. ( Again, he has no idea if Luna can process half of what he's saying, but he keeps talking to her the same as though nothing's any different. And it's simple shapes he'll trace out: some swirls, a sun, some clouds.... a stick figure with one leg longer than the other. Peter's dipping his head to laugh here and there at his own creations, quiet little sounds shared only with Luna, and enjoying watching what she comes up with.

By the time Helga returns, there's a little array of drawings in the sand, and Peter looks up at the muffled barking, his heart skipping a beat. Had she found it? Is Luna's bracelet really still inside? He hadn't even prepared himself for the thought it might've gotten lost.... )

Oh— Here, let me see if I can help you with that. ( Peter takes the bag as Luna pushes it his way, giving a little empathetic smile at the frustration; he gets it, 100%. He remembers a lot of frustration, too. But it's okay; he'll help her. Carefully, almost... nervously, the boy opens it up, pulling back the sides. And there's a glint of bright green; he exhales quietly, feels his heart clenching up all tight. It's there. )

It's here... your green.

( Slowly, he draws the bracelet out and turns towards Luna, holding it up to show her, and to hand it to her if she wants to examine it for herself for a moment. )

I can put it on you. Like mine— like this. ( Peter holds up his wrist again and taps it, then gently taps her wrist, too. The same spot — they're the same. )

No good? You? No, you good. [ Yes, she absolutely wants him to draw with her. She grins widely, her own hand reaching for the sand to start her own doodles, back to drawing moons and stars. Sometimes there's no actual shape, just little squiggles and patterns. Still, it makes her happy; making those little noises to herself, chirruping and babbling contentedly, pausing here and there to watch him. It's like a conversation of sorts with those little sounds, soft noises of amusement shared between them. It's nice. She likes this. This is nice.

He takes the bag from her and she waits eagerly, leaning in close to watch him open it for her. She's very excited, her green is in this bag, she thinks! It's a rather good job he's here and she nods several times.

And then he produces it: an identical bracelet to his, but in green, held together with brown leather instead of black. The girl inhales sharply, freezes — her eyes wide and staring as he holds it out to her: It's here... your green.

It's hard to explain it; not like something snapping into place, but more the murky waters clearing. Her expression flutters; the almost giddy smiles and excitement in her slowly fades into something softer, silently stunned. She takes the bracelet from him, holds it in both hands — a thumb brushing over the beads.

She made this. She made both of them. The boy taps his wrist, then hers — offering to put it on for her. She looks at him for a brief moment, before her gaze shifts back down. She made them bracelets, matching ones, for Christmas, last year. She made them bracelets in one another's favourite colour. Green is his favourite colour, hers is blue. There's a shaky inhale of breath, her eyebrows raising in a quiet realisation: ]

Peter. [ The word still clunky on her tongue, but said with purpose. The most recognition she's shown yet. Slowly, she looks up at him — tearful but there's a quiet joy to the remembrance. How could she forget—? Thank Merlin, she remembered.

A little sound escapes her lips, something almost like a sob. She loves this boy, she loves Peter. Even if the all the pieces aren't all back to her yet. Her fingers close tightly around her bracelet. She made them bracelets because she loves him. She wanted to make them for them, the little ways they speak to one another without words. ]

Love you. [ More little gasping sob-sounds. She remembered. She remembers him. ] Love you.

( He watches her see the bracelet, watches her face, her eyes. Something more solemn comes over her as she examines it, and Peter falls silent, staring at her instead of the item, for those few long moments.

He's afraid to frighten her with this, he realises suddenly. Or upset her. He remembers being... upset, during certain times, certain things he'd been unable to recall. Some strange feeling of emptiness, the awareness of certain loss without knowing what caused it. He doesn't want to make her... hurt. He hesitates, heart skipping a beat; but then—

'Peter'.

His eyes widen a little at the way she says it this time, how she looks up at him. It's... strange; they've been Luna's eyes this whole time, but it was like something was... not gone, just hidden. Now it's like it's surfaced again, a certain... lucidity. A recognition. Like she knows him.

Peter doesn't move, his own pair of oddly mismatched eyes staring. But they're looking a little different now, too — the odd blacker one seeming to settle a little, its pupil no longer so stressed. The natural brown of his eye slowly peeks out from that darkness a bit more.

He almost asks if she's okay when she makes that sob-sound, his heart fluttering, one hand lifting like he'd take hers, comfort her.

'Love you.'

Peter gasps this time, a quick, quiet sound. His eyelids flutter; a lump immediately reappears in his throat. He feels... like he can't breathe, but it's not in the familiar, scary, painful way. He feels too full of something, but it's not that Other thing, not its aching brightness.

It's his own love for her pressed up against the curve of his ribs, swollen and warm and soft, and he gives a little sound of his own. His eyes, already wet, fill with a hot warmth, glossing over with tears. Peter's lifted hand moves, and then the other one joins it; he cups her face, wants to soften those little sob sounds before they might overwhelm her. )

Luna. ( Her name's whispered; Peter swallows hard. He feels happy, so happy, and it makes him want to cry. He's suddenly flooded with the feeling of home. This person is home, and he realises he's home for her, too. )

Love you. I'm here, I—

( A watery smile breaks through with another soft gasp. )

I love you.

[ She leans her head in closer as he moves to hold it, as if moving closer to the surface of murky water. Things seem clearer now, sharper, and she wants to grab at them as much as she can — bursting with a kind of almost-glee as she recalls things once more.

He whispers her name and it startles a little sound out of her, her eyes opening wide: oh, her name. She couldn't remember her name, didn't know what it was. He says it so softly, and it feels right. She utters it in reply, her voice hushed. That's her name, yes. He told her her name, helped her remember it.

Her eyes are glossy with it all, too full with her joy. Love you. There's another sob. A grin blooms from her, wide and delighted through the little sob of happiness; she doesn't know how else to express it. He's here with her, they didn't lose one another — just a temporary parting, somehow they always manage to find one another again.

She shifts closer, pressing her forehead against his, another little sob-sound escaping her lips — relief and happiness shifted into one. She's still smiling, her hands reaching to grasp onto him, anything she can reach — she doesn't want to let go of him. He's the person she loves, and he loves her in return. ]

Love you. [ She utters it again, softer this time. ] You found me. You help me remember. I'm Luna.

[ She's Luna. ]

We stay. [ They chose to stay with one another, didn't they? In the end. They didn't go back to their own worlds, to their own homes; they decided to be home here. They chose to stay. ] We... we choose to stay. We stay.

( The girl's forehead touches gently to his, and it's yet another thing that feels so familiar, so right: memories trickling out of him. There's a soft, warm light that he feels when he's with her, and Peter feels it now. A togetherness, a comfort, like he knows that no matter how lonely things feel, he won't be alone.

She's reaching for him as he cups her face, and he's sifting his fingers back further into her hair, affectionately. After a moment, Peter gently lifts his head up a bit, so that his lips can brush her forehead with a soft kiss pressed to cool skin. Then he's moving back down to eye-level, looking into Luna's familiar silvery-grey gaze with a gentle, warm smile. )

We did. We do. Choose to stay.

( He's remembering it fully now, those lingering odd edges to his own memory smoothing out now that he's found Luna. They chose this. To come here, not knowing what would be through that Door, but knowing they'd go together. He still doesn't know what's coming; what's up beyond the beach, in the city, in this world. But he's found her, and he'll never, ever leave her. )

We stay together.

( Peter slowly removes his hands from Luna's face, so that he can gently take the green bracelet and ease it onto her wrist for her, thumb brushing over the beads for a moment. Then he's leaning forward to wrap his arms around her again to hug, wanting to be close to her for as long as he can. They don't have to get up and go just yet.... wherever it is they're meant to go from here. They can stay and sit here for a little longer, in this spot where they've found each other. They can just be together.

The boy slowly closes his eyes — now both of them fully returned to their natural warm browns — and lets himself melt into Luna, holding onto her, breathing her in. He loves her so much, it aches. He's at home. )

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— posssssibly wrap~?