Chapter 1: A circle drawn in light
Chapter Text
“So, how did it happen?” Noctua asks as she pours the rich, fragrant tea into three porcelain cups, one of which—Ominis knows without looking—has a crack and a chip: a small, precious fragment of their distant, fragile past.
Ominis hears the soft rustle of her house dress and the faint clink of the milk jug brushing against the tablecloth, and he smiles.
He hears Sebastian’s laughter outside and the joyful barking of a dog, the wind singing through the old shutters, the lapping of waves, and the cries of seagulls over the sea inlet. Noctua’s cozy, weathered house, lost somewhere between Howth and Dublin, had long since carved a place deep in their hearts. It was a sanctuary they were always glad to return to, again and again. Sometimes, Ominis thought—though he rarely let himself dwell on it—that one day they might stay here forever, settling between the water, the emerald fields, and the ceaseless wind. Almost like in a faint, half-forgotten childhood dream.
Ominis smiles. With a practiced, precise motion, he picks up the still-elegant cup with its chipped edge and raises it to his lips. On his ring finger glimmers a simple, slender band, catching the rays of the setting sun.
Noctua’s lips curl into a gentle smile.
"Well, you know, I... we... still don’t have an answer. For a while, I thought this riddle had to be solved, that I had to find all the answers, but..."
"But?" Noctua arches her brow politely, her interest piqued as she sips the aromatic brew. Ominis chuckles softly in response.
"But over time, a simple clarity sets in: some questions are meant to remain unanswered. They just exist—on their own, without contrived rules, strict frameworks, limitations, or forms. They simply are. Alive, breathing, and filled with their own stories."
His aunt laughs quietly, and her laughter rings like shards of crystal from a wind chime—soft, tender, and delicate.
Ominis knows she herself has a whole collection of such stories tucked up her sleeves, and Noctua knows that Ominis knows. In that shared understanding, their modest, unassuming life finds its fullness.
"And yet," she smiles, "how did it happen?"
Ominis shakes his head faintly in reply.
"You already know everything. You were there. Besides, it was a very, very long time ago. But... you remember, don’t you? Times were difficult back then, and I... I was struggling."
He opens his eyes, and behind the frost-like haze of his sightless gray-blue gaze, the past shimmers faintly, veiling itself like a distant fog.
"Listen," Noctua says, crouching down in front of him and gently taking his cold fingers into her bare hands. She always removed her gloves when she believed their conversations carried too much significance, when they "grew roots" through them, as she put it. Ominis never quite understood what she meant, but he clung to her warm hands almost desperately, as if they were the last safe haven of warmth in his world. "I’ll come to see you in a couple of weeks, alright? I’ve written to Mrs. Preston. I often stayed with her when I was just a young girl myself."
"You didn’t stay with her," Ominis mutters, turning his face away and shutting his eyes tightly, betraying himself with the gesture. No matter how many days had passed since the operation, everything was still too bright, too sharp, too overwhelming—sometimes unbearably so. For all his courage and resilience, it still hurt—seeing again.
It felt as though someone had forced an enormous square peg into the small, round confines of his mind, cutting and tearing at the soft edges of his familiar world. It demanded he expand, adapt, and perceive beyond the boundaries he had grown so comfortable with.
For as long as he could remember, seeing had been his deepest wish, but after a mere week and a half—he counted!—all he wanted was to retreat back into the small, shadowed world he knew. A world punctuated by the rare moments of warmth when his aunt would take him under her wing.
Noctua believed this feeling would pass. She was convinced that away from the hustle and bustle of the city—and their eccentric family—Ominis would find it easier to adjust. He, however, wasn’t so sure. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to beg her to stay, to plead not to leave him alone again. After all, he was already twelve—practically grown—and no longer a child. So instead, he pressed his lips together fiercely, his fingers numb, and shifted uncomfortably in his neatly polished shoes.
"Alright, you’re right," his aunt sighs. "I stayed with her when I was a little older. But her home and the surrounding area still hold a special warmth in my heart. I never imagined I’d one day meet people there who would come to mean so much to me."
Ominis only scoffs in response.
It’s not that he wants anyone else. He just wants Noctua. Her small, modest house far away across the channel, her yard dog to pet, and a life without the constant need to think about how to speak, whom to speak to, or why staring directly at someone’s face is considered rude. He’s still getting used to the fact that he can see now.
“I’ll come, I promise,” she repeats, and Ominis gives a sullen nod, releasing her warm hands and picking up his small suitcase. “Someone will meet you at the station, alright?”
“Mm-hmm,” he mutters, trying his best to—what’s the phrase?—avoid her gaze.
Noctua just nods and straightens, smoothing the folds of her skirt.
“They’ll meet you. You’re unlikely to mistake Mrs. Preston for anyone else. She’s... hard to miss,” she smiles, her gaze softening and warming. “Rest well, my little snake...”
Ominis turns away, sniffing, not wanting to cry like a pathetic fool. Not at all. Not even a little bit.
...but he does cry later, curled up in a ball in his train compartment, determined not to speak to anyone ever again.
Of course, he has to speak to Mrs. Preston. It seems impossible not to talk to her. Ominis is certain she’s one of those rare people who can simultaneously chatter about everything under the sun and somehow extract every detail about your life in return. By the time they’re twenty minutes into the drive to her house, he finds himself dangerously close to breaking down, recounting the time in the hospital when the boys in his ward hid some of his belongings and laughed as he, still blind back then, struggled late into the night to find them.
Naturally, Noctua had raised hell afterward, berating everyone from the staff to the boys’ parents. Ominis only knew about half of what had happened in the aftermath. Still, despite the satisfaction of some form of justice, the incident left its mark. Everything in life seemed to leave a mark. No matter how many stories he told to cover the scars and painful memories, the marks settled in layers—deeper and deeper.
Sometimes, it felt like he was nothing more than the sum of those marks, a living shadow of his own past.
...and somehow, he tells Mrs. Preston this too. Predictably, she reacts the same way most adults do—with a soft hum.
“This will pass too,” she says, turning the wheel left and heading toward the bay. “We’re all the sum of our own marks, Omi. The only difference is the mark we choose to place on top of the ones before.”
Ominis gets tangled in her words as if lost in tall grass: traces of human footsteps, touches, and voices layer upon one another, multiplying and multiplying, until the weight of them clouds his mind. Somewhere beneath all that noise, he forgets that, really, no one had the right to call him “Ominis” except for Noctua. And even then, only on special occasions. And… what was this strange Mrs. Preston saying, anyway? How did Noctua even meet her? When? Why?
“…and here we are!” the woman announces cheerfully, and Ominis blinks in confusion, staring at the old, wooden, two-story house with its windows practically bursting with the branches of cherry and apple trees. He begins to understand what Noctua could have loved so much about this place.
The house is old and creaky, filled with sunlight too bright for his eyes, faint radio waves drifting up from the first floor, and an air of lazy contentment. It smells of apples you can pluck right from the windows, of grass and the salty wind blowing in from the nearby bay. It’s steeped in a simple, everyday rhythm that Ominis finds himself drawn into, almost without realizing it.
Mrs. Preston never forces him to do anything, but somehow, he ends up picking apples in the garden for the evening’s pie, snagging the oversized old shirt she’d lent him on the thorns in the raspberry bushes, or perching like a little owl in the dusty attic, uncovering trinkets, oddities, and broken relics. Mrs. Preston, laughing, claims he’s helping her sort through the clutter and throw out what’s unnecessary, but Ominis doesn’t understand what could possibly be “unnecessary” about the old, cherished items she has stories for—stories about every single one.
He doesn’t really understand how to just be somewhere on his own. To "recover," as Noctua had written, and as Mrs. Preston had chuckled.
"Recovering" sounded strange, foreign.
"Recovering" felt as though he were a broken toy with its cracks glued back together and its face restored. As if he were meant to sit and dry in the sun, and that was supposed to be his most important task. Ominis didn’t mind "drying in the sun"—he’d always enjoyed curling up like a cat in little pockets of warmth—but now he was supposed to be… normal? Functional?
He couldn’t grasp it, couldn’t make sense of the meanings or the light, so he slept, and slept, and slept. Occasionally, he wandered into the garden.
Sometimes he would hear the distant voices of other children, or catch glimpses of heads bobbing up just beyond the fence. But the idea of talking to anyone, or seeking anyone’s company, was utterly unappealing. It was as if, after wandering for so long through darkness and cold, he’d finally found himself in a circle of light—and stepping outside it felt unnecessary, even undesirable.
And, truthfully, he didn’t have to. Not until one morning at breakfast, somewhere between eight o’clock and a peanut butter and blackcurrant jelly sandwich, Mrs. Preston casually remarked, “Why don’t you take a walk down to the bay? It’s absolutely stunning this time of year.”
That, it seemed, was where it all began.
Chapter 2: The Day the Easel Waited
Chapter by bog_rosemary
Summary:
Ominis steps into a world of sunlight, shadows, and curiosity, discovering both the forest around him and a surprising new friend.
Chapter Text
Mrs. Preston says, “Don’t be late coming back, alright? We’ll study again in the evening.” And Ominis nods very seriously in reply.
Mrs. Preston hadn’t been his teacher, but in the evenings he diligently tried to learn the world all over again: it was rather difficult to match what had once been invisible yet understood with the clear image he now had before him.
How do you recognize that an apple is an apple if you cannot touch it, if you’ve never truly imagined the apple tree before? How do you tell that this leafy thing is an apple tree, and that one is a plum, and that one over there is a pear at all?
How can you tell, just from someone’s face, whether they’re angry? Or happy? Or full of disdain?
Ominis had known since childhood the delicate underside of the world, could sense his surroundings by faint scents, could read people through their voices, their intonations, sometimes even the slightest hints. And he had longed for sight for so long, so desperately, wishing for it on every birthday and every Christmas, but…
But sight betrayed him. What once had seemed natural, as effortless as breathing, now constantly slipped away, tempting him again and again to squeeze his eyes tightly shut just to recognize something properly. (He still hadn’t broken this habit, especially when faced with something truly difficult.)
And if Noctua had helped him begin to see, then Mrs. Preston helped him begin to live with his eyes at least half-open.
It became a small ritual:
They would light a candle in an old decorative lantern with its wrought frame and carved stars, brew fragrant tea (which Ominis carefully chose himself from the many boxes in the kitchen), and climb up to the attic. Until the sun disappeared beyond the horizon, they would chat about everything Ominis had encountered that day, or leaf through picture books. Or—try to read.
Letters were the hardest of all.
The usual ones differed so greatly from Braille that his head sometimes felt like it might burst, unable to hold what was practically a whole new language. He would frown, squirm, grumble at the impossibly hard books, but stubbornly kept trying to read about Jack climbing a beanstalk or Alice falling underground.
It was difficult for Ominis, but those evenings settled on his tired child’s shoulders like a soft mohair blanket—weightless, gentle, carrying the song of sunset birds and the scent of apple pie. And he never wanted to miss them.
So of course he nods very solemnly before just as solemnly putting on his sandals.
And Mrs. Preston smiles in reply.
And Mrs. Preston says, “Take a hat with you. And the glasses. The bay is breathtaking in the sunlight, but…it can hurt your eyes.”
Ominis bites his lip, puzzled, nods slowly, and places on his head a wide-brimmed woman’s hat, along with a pair of oversized sunglasses. They slip down a little, forcing him to push them back up again and again.
He probably should’ve taken off his shoes, dashed upstairs, and dug through his suitcase for his own glasses—the ones he’d worn for a while after the hospital—but the bay was laughing out there somewhere beyond the gate, laughing so temptingly, and Mrs. Preston was saying: “Just go as far as the first crossroads, then turn left and keep going, straight, straight, straight, until the paved road turns into tracks, and the grass on both sides grows as tall as your waist. Just straight to the very end. You can’t miss it.”
And Ominis couldn’t resist at all.
He gives her a hesitant smile, and steps out beyond the gate.
And the road takes hold of him.
The road really does stubbornly stretch beneath his feet until the first crossroads, then veers left, slowly giving way to old, time-worn cobblestones overgrown with grass, and finally twists into a pair of ruts carved by car wheels, pressed between tall grassy walls (that truly do reach Ominis’s waist).
The green canopy above his head reminds him of a cartoon—one of the first Noctua ever showed him—and he only hopes that it won’t turn into a tunnel at the end, that everything will be all right, and...
The sunlight spills in patches onto the road and across his bare arms, sliding unevenly back and forth with the shifting breeze in the treetops. Ominis keeps stopping, staring either at the golden flecks on his skin, or at the towering trees around him, or at the butterfly hovering by a huge stump, or at a fresh tread mark in the dirt, or at an opening between the trees, or...
Something catches his attention up ahead, just off the road, between the trees.
Ominis frowns to himself, uncertain what to do.
He had been told to walk straight on, but the strange shape—sitting there in the emptiness—pulls at him, and it would only take a few steps off the road...
He shifts nervously from foot to foot, curling his toes in his sandals, glances around, takes a deep breath as if before plunging into water, and does in fact dive—into the grass brushing against his bare legs, into the cool shade of the forest and the humming of insects, toward the glimmer between the trees, toward...
It’s something odd. Something that looks like sticks bound together, with a crosspiece laid across them, and something else glinting faintly in the grass. Ominis leans forward, trying to make out the little jars of something there—and at that exact moment, the oversized sunglasses slip treacherously from his nose and fall soundlessly into the grass.
Ominis panics: the glasses belong to Mrs. Preston, and though he’s sure she wouldn’t scold him, the last thing he wants is to lose them and bring back bad news. He bites the inside of his cheek, crouches lower, then drops onto all fours, groping blindly through the grass in search of the missing glasses.
And he freezes like a startled bird at the sound of a bright voice behind him.
“Hey! What are you doing with my paints and easel?!”
Ominis turns around: disheveled, anxious, just as he is—wearing the oversized wide-brimmed hat, with a puzzled, bewildered expression on his face, and dirt-smeared hands.
She freezes opposite him, her face angry—now Ominis knows that this is what anger looks like—holding brushes in one hand pointed at him, a white canvas tucked under her arm, and a halo of curly fair hair around her face. She seems shorter than him, she seems like a knot of pure indignation and…
Ominis tilts his head up at the three-legged structure and clicks his tongue in recognition.
“Oh, so it’s an easel!” He blurts out, smacking his palm against his forehead. Of course, how could he not realize—his aunt had told him stories about learning to paint, even let him touch one, and yet…
A muddy mark stays on his forehead in a messy blotch. But Ominis doesn’t see it.
“Well, yes…” The girl says, sounding almost uncertain, and Ominis stares back at her just as uncertainly. “And what did you expect to see?..”
Ominis blinks. Twice. Looks back at the easel, then back at the girl.
“I don’t know.” He admits honestly. “I…”
He falters. With Mrs. Preston, he never had to explain his perception problems: the doctors already knew, his aunt already knew, Mrs. Preston already knew—and with kids his own age, he’d simply never had the chance. And what everyone else seemed to know instinctively while he didn’t at all… that embarrassed him. And made him angry.
“…I was looking for glasses,” he finally says.
The girl snorts, blowing a particularly curly strand from her nose. She still holds the brush pointed at him.
“Uh-huh, sure. And what were your glasses doing next to my easel?” Her brows draw together furiously, and Ominis glares back just as furiously.
He doesn’t like this, doesn’t like it, doesn’t like it. He’s about to stand up sharply, but then a small movement of his foot brushes against something, and Ominis in one motion scoops the glasses up from the grass.
“See?” He says, his voice edged with irritation. “I wasn’t lying!”
The girl regards him with doubt, but lowers her brush. The anger in Ominis eases, and he adds, reluctant and awkward:
“I just… wanted to look.”
And really, this is where he should collect himself and leave—away, away, back to the road leading to the bay, without wandering off ever again, and just… But then she tilts her head to the side, her voice softens, and she says:
“I haven’t seen you around here before.”
And Ominis blinks again.
“I… I’m not from here…”
Talking like this—face to face, eye to eye—feels strange, unfamiliar, and he grows shy, his shoulders involuntarily hunching forward a little. The shadow of the hat falls over his face, and he thanks Mrs. Preston for giving him such a helpful thing.
“Oh,” the girl states simply.
Her anger suddenly dissolves, she smiles awkwardly, and that smile makes the little clearing with the easel seem even brighter than it already is.
“Sorry, then,” she says. She shifts the brush to her other hand, still clutching the canvas, and extends her free hand toward Ominis. And Ominis, without thinking, takes it, letting her pull him to his feet—so that he stands almost half a head taller than her.
“It’s just… the local boys broke my easel a few times when I left it alone, and you standing there like that…”
Ominis nods—simply nods, in understanding. In her place, he’d have lashed out angrily at a suspected vandal too.
But he still grumbles. Just a little, the tiniest bit.
“Do I really look like the local boys?..”
She gives him a very careful look, from head to toe, then smiles a little uncertainly.
“Not really, no.”
And Ominis looks back, hesitant. He really ought to apologize and head on his way, but the canvas slips from under the girl’s arm. Ominis instinctively leans forward, ready to help, to catch it—but she bends at the same time, and they end up bumping foreheads in their attempt to grab the heavy frame.
They freeze, startled like sparrows.
And then—almost at once—burst into childish giggles, which turn into light laughter.
“Sorry,” Ominis finally says, rubbing his sore forehead and helping her lift the canvas back onto the easel. “I just wanted to see the bay, but then I saw your easel and got curious, and I just… My aunt paints too, and I just…” He sighs, spreading his now-free hands vaguely in the air. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
“It’s no big deal,” she answers with a smile. “At least now we’re acquainted.”
Ominis nods in agreement.
“Elio,” she says, offering her open hand.
Ominis stares at it for a second before hurriedly taking it.
“Ominis,” he says in return.
And he smiles.
littlejony on Chapter 1 Thu 20 Feb 2025 01:00PM UTC
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bog_rosemary on Chapter 1 Sat 22 Feb 2025 02:49PM UTC
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