part of me, part of you
Apr. 26th, 2026 08:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sidewaysTitle: Part of Me, Part of You
AO3: Link
Rating: G
Series: Widdershins (Jack O'Malley, Widdershins)
Wordcount: 611
Summary: Mal and Widdershins reflect.
Remarks: The grand climax of the webcomic Widdershins featured one last little nibblet of worldbuilding to... well, raise even more questions, frankly. I wrote this vignette in rushed response. It's been a very enjoyable journey, overall.
◘◘◘
It was the humans who woke us up, Widdershins says.
Not in so many words, of course. Needs Mal for those; Mal's mouth and his throat and the lilting turn of his accent (and if he never has to hear himself described in his own voice again, it'll be too soon).
He's been learning, though, to make sense of the rest of it: the way the shadows fall across the street in the late afternoon sun, the shape of pigeons whirling home to roost, the hubbub of a crowd, the bright flash of a spirit darting between the trees. The humming in his chest. All the ways the city talks.
Mal leans back, palms pressed to the sun-warmed tiles of the Witch House roof, and says, “Hope you're not looking for an apology. Don't think we can go takin' it back now.”
It was simpler then, Widdershins says, almost nostalgically. Easier, after a fashion. Pacifica wasn't wrong there. But we all have to grow up some day, don't we?
“Aye. So they keep bleedin' telling me.”
Widdershins laughs. A flurry of wind kicks leaves up in a circle, drawing a dog out tight against its leash, barking excitedly. Sunlight catches a window just right, throwing sparkling reflections against the wall. A man remembers boyhood long enough to jump cracks in the pavement, then grips the brim of his hat and hurries on, casting sheepish glances over his shoulder.
It's the way it is, luv. Warm and peaceful. The rock-solid certainty of an anchor. It's the way it should be.
And humanity could count itself lucky to have an anchor who believed it, he knew. Certainty had clashed against certainty, and the cold depths of the ocean had proved unable to stand its ground in the face of the city's gentle affection and empathy for all of life's complexities. Pacifica had been too withdrawn from the world to understand even its own desires in full - but she was growing up now, they all hoped. With a little help.
“If people are part of it…” A thousand of them, hanging out of windows, gathering on the streets, bundling into carriages; talking, shouting, and always, all of them, feeling. “Almost sounds like that'd make you the strongest one o’ the lot, having us camped all over your business like this.” Uncertainly, Mal says, “Like maybe you din't much need me t’ deal with her.”
It was never really a matter of need with you. More trouble than you're worth, half the time. Mal gives due consideration to flipping the cold butt of his last cigarette over the edge. Considers as well the likely unlikelihood of the wind somehow managing to throw it back in his face just so, and keeps his hands where they are. The feeling in his chest cools, the brief humour sobering. As for strength…
What did it cost an anchor to fight? He had seen the bruises on Nyree's neck, afterwards; the deep fatigue in Arpana's eyes. Knows it had twisted their anchors, however briefly, to struggle like that. Sitting and thinking on it, Mal finds he can conjure his own queasy idea of what it might mean to draw on strength that comes from people.
We dealt with it the way that we should have. Let that be all that needs to be said.
“Aye,” Mal says again, more fervently. “And there's truth in that, an' all.”
The sun continues its lazy slide towards the horizon, and under its light the people of Widdershins continue living; laughing and lying, hating and helping. And witch and city, not needing words, sit together in the heart of it, letting it be.
AO3: Link
Rating: G
Series: Widdershins (Jack O'Malley, Widdershins)
Wordcount: 611
Summary: Mal and Widdershins reflect.
Remarks: The grand climax of the webcomic Widdershins featured one last little nibblet of worldbuilding to... well, raise even more questions, frankly. I wrote this vignette in rushed response. It's been a very enjoyable journey, overall.
◘◘◘
It was the humans who woke us up, Widdershins says.
Not in so many words, of course. Needs Mal for those; Mal's mouth and his throat and the lilting turn of his accent (and if he never has to hear himself described in his own voice again, it'll be too soon).
He's been learning, though, to make sense of the rest of it: the way the shadows fall across the street in the late afternoon sun, the shape of pigeons whirling home to roost, the hubbub of a crowd, the bright flash of a spirit darting between the trees. The humming in his chest. All the ways the city talks.
Mal leans back, palms pressed to the sun-warmed tiles of the Witch House roof, and says, “Hope you're not looking for an apology. Don't think we can go takin' it back now.”
It was simpler then, Widdershins says, almost nostalgically. Easier, after a fashion. Pacifica wasn't wrong there. But we all have to grow up some day, don't we?
“Aye. So they keep bleedin' telling me.”
Widdershins laughs. A flurry of wind kicks leaves up in a circle, drawing a dog out tight against its leash, barking excitedly. Sunlight catches a window just right, throwing sparkling reflections against the wall. A man remembers boyhood long enough to jump cracks in the pavement, then grips the brim of his hat and hurries on, casting sheepish glances over his shoulder.
It's the way it is, luv. Warm and peaceful. The rock-solid certainty of an anchor. It's the way it should be.
And humanity could count itself lucky to have an anchor who believed it, he knew. Certainty had clashed against certainty, and the cold depths of the ocean had proved unable to stand its ground in the face of the city's gentle affection and empathy for all of life's complexities. Pacifica had been too withdrawn from the world to understand even its own desires in full - but she was growing up now, they all hoped. With a little help.
“If people are part of it…” A thousand of them, hanging out of windows, gathering on the streets, bundling into carriages; talking, shouting, and always, all of them, feeling. “Almost sounds like that'd make you the strongest one o’ the lot, having us camped all over your business like this.” Uncertainly, Mal says, “Like maybe you din't much need me t’ deal with her.”
It was never really a matter of need with you. More trouble than you're worth, half the time. Mal gives due consideration to flipping the cold butt of his last cigarette over the edge. Considers as well the likely unlikelihood of the wind somehow managing to throw it back in his face just so, and keeps his hands where they are. The feeling in his chest cools, the brief humour sobering. As for strength…
What did it cost an anchor to fight? He had seen the bruises on Nyree's neck, afterwards; the deep fatigue in Arpana's eyes. Knows it had twisted their anchors, however briefly, to struggle like that. Sitting and thinking on it, Mal finds he can conjure his own queasy idea of what it might mean to draw on strength that comes from people.
We dealt with it the way that we should have. Let that be all that needs to be said.
“Aye,” Mal says again, more fervently. “And there's truth in that, an' all.”
The sun continues its lazy slide towards the horizon, and under its light the people of Widdershins continue living; laughing and lying, hating and helping. And witch and city, not needing words, sit together in the heart of it, letting it be.
