Chapter Text
Misthallery was once a rather small village in England. Those surrounding it, especially the city of London, were usually bigger, though they all had a rich and unique culture surrounding each. Misthallery was no different, small as it was, and housed many canals through which water pushed the occasional fish or seaman along.
Great green hills rolled and folded behind the little village, framing it and keeping it in place while the early morning would pour its fog over the streets as the villagers woke. Houses were made of brick with roofs that stretched high and nearly doubled the stature of each, and were generally very stout and sturdy, small as they were. Resilient fences drove by the ditch along the roads, painted an aged white color, and they guided carts and bikes along as people passed.
It also housed many colorful residents, each living quietly in the little town. It was uneventful and sleepy, and many liked it in such a way—it was easy to live in. For as long as it had been established until then, it was a healthy and charming village that seemed as humble as its people.
Luke Triton was a quiet and reserved boy. There wasn’t much to be done for a quiet and reserved boy in Misthallery, especially at ten years old. Luke liked to do many things affiliated with boys his age; he played pretend, drew pictures, and, most of all, he loved Hershel, his teddy bear, dearly. There was one thing, however, that was peculiar to only him and no other boy—Luke could speak with animals.
His ability was inherited from his father, though it was unknown within the household from whom or where his father had inherited it. Luke, being a quiet and reserved boy, would find it much easier to make friends with animals than with people. He’d found by the time he was six years old that there was just about as extensive and complex a community of animals in Misthallery as there was with its human population.
Luke’s father, to Luke’s occasional dismay, was Mayor Clark Triton. Of course, this meant that Luke got to live in quite a pretty spot in Misthallery, in quite a pretty home called The Triton Manor, in quite a pretty room on the uppermost floor, and the whole house sat atop a little hill. His upper-class status, however, did much to separate him from his peers, which only drove more of a wedge between the boy and potential human friends.
Though he wasn’t bullied, Luke found that he wasn’t often met with a kind or familiar gaze from another person his age. Not one that would be seen from a friend, at the very least, but Luke had grown accustomed to it, and so he made friends with the beetles and the mice and the stray cats and stray dogs that roamed the streets in humanity’s stead, and Luke was content with just that.
Yes, Misthallery was a healthy and charming village. Was . For the past few years, however, the economy had taken a decline—not just in Misthallery, but across the globe. Now, Misthallery was even humbler and sleepier, and many people were losing their homes and being forced to either move in search of better conditions, or to stay put and hope to make a living by the street. This changed everything.
The tidy streets became cluttered with people trying to sell their belongings to make a little money. Children and their families hunkered down in ditches and slept beneath bridges and against wells. Luke’s house became a little less pretty, and his family became a lot less wealthy. The aged white fences that guided carts and bikes along were now used as the basis for simple shelters, draped with old cloth and other materials to attempt to keep heads dry when it rained, and most of all, people were leaving Misthallery to search for a tomorrow worth looking forward to.
The local police had their hands fuller than ever, having to manage theft and assaults left and right as people became frenzied and panicked due to their state. People were being attacked and killed for whatever money they may have had, or at the very least for food if it was unavailable elsewhere.
The cells had all been full, and as soon as one opened again, another prisoner was filed in. They started to have to ship prisoners out to other facilities by train. The railroad was a monster financially, and many people who needed to get away were forced to resort to freight hopping.
Freight hopping was not new. No, but it was certainly on the rise. It was the act of jumping onto the boxcar of a moving train and putting your life in the hands of the rails to see where they may take you. It was not favorable to many, but to many yet it was the only option left. And so, people would jump the freight, hoist themselves into a boxcar, and set off amongst the cargo.
This took quite a toll on the Triton family, in every matter of ways; financially, emotionally, and, for a growing boy who had to curb his consumption and skip meals, physically, too.
Of course, Mayor Clark Triton took the heaviest blow in terms of slander. Being the mayor, he was responsible for keeping the village on its feet. Many residents blamed him for the fact that the depression had reared its ugly head in the town, though he was able to keep them quelled enough for the most part. There was nothing to be done on his end but try to keep everyone’s hopes up. Mister Triton knew not to take any verbal attacks or protests personally, though they did harm his image quite a bit.
Brenda Triton was a very kind and intelligent woman, and she was the wife of Mister Triton and the mother of Luke. She tried to see the good in everything, no matter how bleak the situation. That isn’t to say she ignored hardship foolishly, but she understood that there was usually a silver lining to look for. However little she may have known it, she was one of the biggest reasons the Tritons were able to keep their heads above water, for which Mister Triton and Luke adored and loved her.
Luke would be accompanying his mother to the town market to ensure her safety—or rather, she would be accompanying him. None of the family was safe when they were outside of their home, especially at the market, but Mister Triton was too busy to leave his work to join them. Still, they required groceries.
Luke had initially volunteered to go alone, but Brenda insisted on going in his place. Luke, stubborn as his father, protested.
“I can handle it, mum! I’m not a little boy anymore!” The little boy argued, already grabbing his blue cap from the hook on which it was suspended. Brenda only lifted her chin, shook her head, and crossed her arms with slightly pursed lips.
“Oh, no, young man. You remember what happened to Finch last week,” Brenda reminded him sternly. Luke stuck out his bottom lip, looking away as he prepared himself for the story. He knew. “A group of older kids really did a number on him. All for just a little pocket change, too. Think of what they might do to a boy from the mayor’s family!”
Luke sighed. She was right, after all. He respected her and was a well-behaved boy for the most part, but as well-meaning as his actions were, he would sometimes disobey. And so, after Brenda had already left the house without an escort, Luke slipped out after her.
They had made the trek to the market without much issue—save the thorough reprimand Luke received from his mother—though there were a few beggars on the street that Brenda had to politely decline. Luke stayed close to his mother’s side, shying away when weathered hands reached toward him to beg, though when pressed he insisted that he was only making sure she was protected.
Brenda was quiet for most of their time in the market, only occasionally asking Luke to pick a fruit for her. They only bought a loaf of bread, apples, and stock. It was enough to keep them fed until their next trip. Luke was used to not eating much by this point, but he often found himself missing his mother’s roast lamb.
Luke let his mother lead him back to Triton Manor. As they walked the familiar route, Luke didn’t need to pay attention to where they were going, as he’d walked the path many, many times before. He allowed himself to look at his surroundings. His eyes traced patterns in the dirt, watching valleys and canyons form millimeters deep in the soil. He watched reeds wave to the canals. He watched the playgrounds of the beetles and the bees swing and sway in the wind. He knew these. He knew their names. The beetles and the bees were dear to him as they were to the earth they lived. And yes, Luke knew their names. He knew their names as a duckling would know the feeling of the water in its webbed feet. He knew Misthallery’s name as blood would know a vein.
He and his mother were soon greeted by the sight of their home’s familiar red roofs as they crossed the bridge that ran over one of the many canals in the village. As the crimson shingles and short chimney peered over at the two, more of the house came into view as they passed the gate. The color still burned like a determined fire, living on after all it had been put through, be it the bleaching of the sun or physical bombardment from rocks pelting the mayor's house. As the trees parted to reveal the estate, Brenda handed Luke the bags she was carrying in her hand. There wasn’t much weight to them, for which Luke was both displeased and grateful for. Luke made no complaint, and, like a good son, followed his mother without a word against the bags.
As they walked up the stairs, Luke was not greeted by anyone. No; his father was much too busy with the work a mayor does for his village. Mister Triton was in his office most of the day now, and they had long since sent their maid and butler away in order to save money.
Luke didn’t mind their absence too badly. He’d liked both of them well enough, but he thought to himself that he would much rather have a smaller family. Just his mother and his father were enough for him. When they were sent off, he bid them a solemn farewell, hid behind his mother, and ducked back into the estate to do whatever he had been doing prior, perhaps speaking to the vent-mice that made their homes in the annals and cracks in the old walls of the estate.
As Luke and his mother entered the building, Luke took a deep breath through his nose and went for the kitchen to sort the things they’d bought. Luke had grown accustomed to the elegant-yet-cozy interior of his home. Of course he had. He’d lived there all his life. He knew its name.
Luke was a clever boy. He pulled a chair from the dining table and pressed it adjacent to the counter. With a grunt, he lifted himself and began to place the apples and the stock and the bread where they belonged, concentrating silently on where they went, arranging them in such a way that was nice to look at. Something, if anything, to be proud of. Something he could make for himself, albeit small.
Once he was done, he pulled the chair back to the table and began to leave the kitchen. He passed his mother then, but of course, she didn’t let him leave without a quick peck to the forehead. Luke groaned in protest, but really, he didn’t mind.
He ran up the stairs, his feet catching and tripping him every few steps, and to save himself, he would stretch his hands in front of him to push himself on his feet again, in a hurry to catch nothing in particular. Luke stopped as he saw the room to his father’s office still open.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the whole of the room as well as the man sitting right in the middle of it all. He was surrounded by stacks of papers and files, practically buried beneath them. His head was hunched over one particular document, and he scribbled relentlessly on the surface. Luke could not see what its contents were, for he was too short. Even if he were to stand on the tips of his toes, only his nose would peek over the surface of the desk. And so, Luke did not try to see over the top.
The dimming light of the dying sun still bled through the emerald curtains, giving Mister Triton enough reason not to turn on his desk lamp yet. That, or he hadn’t thought to do so yet, paying no mind to his straining eyes. They were squinted, and Luke could see that his head was so close to the paper that he would not be surprised if his eyes were touching the surface of it directly.
Luke let his eyes trail to the side, to the waxy planks in the floor, to his feet planted on the blue mat in front of the office. He sighed and sniffled tiredly. He looked back up to his father, who, still, was working on whatever it was he was writing, eyes still plastered to the surface, head still craned over whatever work he’d been fettered to.
“Dad?” Luke pipped, meaning only to capture his father’s attention. Mister Triton, absorbed in his demanding work, seemed to have allowed it to fly over his head. No, Mister Triton did not stir. Perhaps he felt that the sound was only idle noise, something his head conjured up to keep him from feeling too lonely. Luke repeated himself, only louder.
Upon the second inquiry, Mister Triton lifted his head finally. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and his hair was slightly messy, likely due to running his hand through it countless times while looking over complaints and bills and fees and whatever else a mayor may have had to deal with then. His eyelids drooped wearily over his pupils, and he blinked slowly, registering the sight before him.
Though gaunt and dark as his face was then, it seemed to brighten when he saw the boy in the doorway of the office. His little boy. Yes, Mister Triton adored him, and it was as if the dark circles and messy hair meant nothing to him then as he stood up in his chair and made his way to Luke, keeping his eyes on the boy.
“Oh, Luke! I didn’t hear you come home. Are you alright? I was worried something might have happened to you and your mother.” Mister Triton knelt in front of the boy and placed his hands on his shoulders. He looked over his small round face, his expression softening at the sight. Luke smiled sleepily up at him, his cheeks pressing up into his eyes.
“We’re alright, dad,” Luke reassured, and Mister Triton sighed, letting his shoulders drop a little. He looked over the boy’s face again, noting the lines under his eyes to match his own. They were both tired, in their own right.
“You certainly look like you could use a rest,” Mister Triton teased, to which Luke only squinted for a moment to rub one of his eyes. Mister Triton huffed, stood up, and began to nudge Luke out of his office and down the hallway.
Luke still went to bed at a reasonable time. As much as he may have hated it sometimes, he was clever enough to know that it was for the best in the end, as much of a fit as he might pitch when asked. Tonight, though, Luke was just tired. He hadn’t eaten as well as he should have been, and that leaves a person sluggish. Yes, Luke was tired, and he craved the love from his parents rather than food at the moment. It was a nice sendoff, and almost always promised good dreams.
Mister Triton brought the boy to his bedroom, opening the door and urging him inside. Mister Triton always liked to say goodnight to Luke, and so did Missus Triton. It was a simple act, though one they both loved just the same. Luke, no matter the circumstance, was always to know how much they both treasured him.
And so, Brenda joined her husband at the side of their son’s bed. Brenda handed him his bear, or rather she tucked it in beside him, pressing its soft, velvety body into the mattress beside the boy. Mister Triton carefully pulled Luke's cap off of his head, placing it on one of the posts of his footboard.
The two made sure Luke was snug beneath his blankets, and made sure his pillow was soft. Then, one after the other, they leaned down and kissed the boy on the head.
“Goodnight, my boy,” Mister Triton cooed, petting his soft brown hair back for a moment before he stood, walking to the doorway to wait for his wife.
“Goodnight, dad,” Luke responded, watching his father depart, still feeling the warmth of his hand on his forehead.
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” Missus Triton whispered, kissing him one more time on the cheek. She allowed her lips to linger for a moment, showing just how much she loved the boy. She stood up as well, but before she could join her husband, Luke stopped her.
“Wait!” Luke exclaimed in a hushed voice. Brenda looked down at the tired boy, and her gaze shifted to his teddy bear as he held it up towards her. “Hershel, too?”
Brenda felt her lips curl upwards, smiling warmly. She hummed as she knelt back down, taking the bear’s soft paw in her hand. She looked into its eyes. They were small and beady, yet warm and gentle as they sat upon its cream-colored snout and shiny grey nose. They seemed to hold the definition of the word ‘love’. They stared back at her with a sort of promise. It was her gift to him—to Luke, her boy—and so, it held Love.
“Hershel, too,” she responded, placing a quick kiss against the bear’s fuzzy brown forehead, releasing its paw, and allowing Luke to cradle it close.
She saw him regarding the bear’s fur, pinching the soft fabric between his index and his thumb. Upon the way his eyes seemed downcast, she gently lifted his chin with a finger. Luke blinked slowly up at her as he met her gaze.
“Things always get better, my love,” she reassured him softly. As unprompted as it seemed, she could read Luke well. It was clear that there was turmoil within him, too. He was a clever boy. He was not oblivious. He knew the circumstances. With her words, he seemed to relax. Luke hugged Hershel closer.
“Sometimes I hear you and Dad speaking,” Luke began quietly, pinching one of the bear’s ears. “About how we might have to leave home.”
Brenda’s face softened with a gentle empathy. Yes, they had been discussing it. Their residence in Misthallery was in question. It was a dying town by now, yes, and the three of them knew it, as much as they didn’t like to speak of it out loud. There was a threshold to any family, no matter how strong or large, and the Tritons just seemed to be meeting it.
Brenda tutted him softly. “Luke, darling, I want you to listen to me,” she began, cupping the boy’s warm cheek in her hand. He looked up at her with his drowsy eyes, and the bear seemed to do so, too.
“We live in Misthallery, but Home will never leave you. Home is where love is, and love lives in you, my darling. And we love you,” she finished, smiling down at him and touching him softly on the tip of his nose. Luke smiled wearily.
“Please, don’t ever forget how much we love you. Goodnight, Luke.”
As his mother and his father both joined each other’s side at his doorway, they took a moment to look at the boy. His eyes were now closed, and he was trying to drift.
They saw the boy as a sort of anchor, really. Something to brighten the shade of gray. A star in the middle of the night to provide a guiding light to a lost ship at sea. One day, things will be better. Yes, they will be better. Luke said so. Not verbally, but he said so in the way that he smiled and laughed at himself if he tripped whilst playing. Said so in the way that he seemed to love things just the same, no matter the situation. Even if he wasn’t always sure they would get better, Luke said so.
See, Luke had always craved light. He craved love. No, that is not a bad thing to crave. It’s not selfish to crave these things. Luke craved light, and so he sought it, whether or not he knew he did. And, reader, those who seek light are sure to find it. The sun rises again, and no cloud is truly dark enough to eclipse it. People are meant to seek light. That is why there are lightswitches, why there are candles, why there are matches and lamps. So that we may hold it when we need it. So that it may live in our hands when we need it to.
And when he let himself think about it, Luke was comforted by the fact that he had something that could never be taken. Something that would not be bartered or begged from his possession. He had something that will never be bought or sold, only given.
Love.
It was weightless, yet it carried his entire being. It kept them all afloat. It kept their minds alive.
Yes, things would get better. Luke said so. Mama said so. Papa said so. The sun said so when it rose, and the clouds said so when they parted.
Eventually, there will be a tomorrow to look forward to.
Clark flicked off Luke’s lightswitch.
“I love you,” murmured a gentle, disembodied voice as Luke slipped into unconsciousness. He wasn't even sure if it was spoken by anyone at all. Perhaps it was merely the beginning of a dream as it pulled him along by the hand to let him rest.
And the door was shut.