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“What’s that you got there?”
It’s a rarity for Grappling Hook to be standing still, always running around camp and half of Lost Temple. So catching the sight of them in their shared tent, sitting on the floor with a small propped up loom, Scythe can’t help but be curious.
It flusters them a bit, alarmed by her voice and the rays of light her presence introduces.
”Ah, just a lil’ something.. we got the wool, I found the dye, so decided to try my hand at this.”
Carefully, Grappling Hook offers the loom towards Scythe, who comes inside properly and kneels beside her partner. It’s certainly a “little something,” ever so slightly unevenly dyed red wool. A narrow stream of fabric, there’s room for it to grow, or maybe it’s just meant to be an accessory.
It’s then puzzling, why there’s so much dyed thread. Grappling Hook is no master weaver, but Scythe would have thought they’d have better estimation for a small work.
“Tired of the bandana?”
“Eh, I just feel like I could use an upgrade, y’know? We’re in a new chapter of our lives, chief’s giving me leeway, would be nice to make something representative.”
“Ain’t that sappy,” Scythe snickers, if only to hide her fondness. “So making yerself a belt, or?”
Grappling Hook scratches the back of their neck, hands lightly dusted in red dye. “Well, I was thinking a shawl, actually.”
Scythe deadpans. “Thought you’ve never made anything bigger than that patch up job for Bee once.”
“It turned out fine! Don’t see no harm in taking it a step further.”
“Hook, love ya to death, but yer ambition’s gonna send ya there early”
“Ay, it ain’t so deep, I don’t plan on getting sucked in, I’ll take my time with it.”
Scythe sighs. “I’ll be holding you to that. But it’s good you’ll busy yourself with something less stressful than supply runs when you can.”
“For the record it don’t mean ya gotta take up what I’m not jumping at.” They raise their finger.
It earns a scoff. “Tough talk, yer basically planning workshops in yer sleep!”
“And on a good day ya barely drink enough water to keep yerself standin’.” Their finger points accusatory, and Scythe scoots closer.
“Basta, basta, just mean to say you could use a breather. Keep it that way so you ain’t destroyin’ yerself in a different fashion.”
”Alright, alright, love. Promise.”
She knocks her arm into Grappling Hook’s side, face to face.
“We just exchanged vows, I’m holdin’ ya to every promise here on out.”
“You haven’t before?”
”Still waiting on a beer or two.”
Grappling Hook laughs, forehead gently knocking into Scythe’s, who shares the laughter.
“I get to a stopping point and get you those beers?”
”Hmph. I’ll bite.”
They kiss the side of her mouth. “It’s a date then.”
“So it is.”
They shuffle, loom back in front of Grappling Hook and Scythe resting on their side. She could use the break too, tracing over all the threads being slowly tied together.
She hums, spotting which threads got the least time soaked. Or maybe Grappling Hook didn’t dilute the dye evenly enough. Not like she has much knowledge on the art herself, but she’s got an eye for details, tricks. Her lover’s an eager inphernal, she concludes (reaffirms, really. She knows who she married).
—
It’s an increasingly endearing thing to watch Hook retreat to their tent.
In the wee hours of the morning, Hook’s steadfast in training their oziphrage: gentle reassurances to the birds when afforded and an iron grip on the reins when needed. It's a tough balance to strike, freedom and domestication. But the newspawns will need to learn the ropes soon, so this tedious task becomes a generational heirloom in the making. The ache in their biceps and strain in their carpals feels worth it. There's the new ache though, to finish every task with enough time to work on that shawl.
Scythe recognizes it too, so as she passes by the oziphrages to see a retreating Grappling Hook, the crates in her hands feel a bit lighter.
—
The pair's nightly routine acommodates Grappling Hook's pet project enough. Discordant schedules buy them some time to not take too much time from much needed pure rest.
The loom is always put aside either immediately or not long after Scythe comes in, Hook much more eager to spend time with her than the work in progress.
The dye’s long since washed out of their hands, their blankets a little less so. Happy accidents.
By candlelight, they lay together, minds coming down and unscrambling from the hot desert heat.
Arms around Scythe, Grappling Hook finds themself playing with strands on their quilt, rubbing the twisted strands between their fingers.
Peeking at the gesture, Scythe rests her hand on theirs.
"So antsy. Runnin' races down to your fingertips."
Their hand goes limp, forehead against Scythe.
"Guilty as charged."
—
Every Lost Templan knows you can't drop your guard at the bazaar. So many brushed elbows gives ample opportunity for a valuable or two to be snatched without any notice. The plethora of stalls displaying people's craft, wearable or consumable alike. Plenty can turn heads, and plenty can get back to focusing on what they came to buy. Grappling Hook's adept at this, usually. But despite getting the foodstuffs they needed this trip, they can't help but stare at bright saffron, in its brilliant color akin to gold amongst the other bags of spices.
"We should go 'fore the sun's too high, will be a pain to fly in." Scythe chimes.
"...Yeah- yeah."
Scythe raises an eyebrow. "What's got ya distracted?"
Grappling Hook bites the inside of their cheek, much to their wife’s discontent.
“Oye.”
They give in with a sigh. “Saw some.. saffron. Thought of somethin’ I could add to my eh.. thing.”
Scythe can’t help but snicker. “Geez, this craft of yours gets ya as flustered as when we was youngins.”
Grappling Hook’s face begins to color match the work in progress shawl in question. “You said it yourself, I ain’t ever do nothin’ like this—”
“Let’s go get you that saffron, ah?” She smiles, the curve crinkling her eyes when Hook lights up at that.
They barely even bother to haggle, they’d just be content to walk away with the spice. Not with Scythe by their side, at least one of them still has sense.
—
Their shared tent’s filled with saffron’s aroma, a steaming bowl of threads being dyed off to the side. They did in fact delay with their purchases, but who’s anyone to chatisse them? (Their Chief, briefly)
“Have you noticed how many houses in the medina have little bits of bamboo sticking out of them?” Grappling Hook asks, once the day’s over and they’re in each other’s comfort again, knuckles rolling over Scythe’s cheek.
She huddles closer on their bed of pillows. “Mmyeah. It’s a structural thing, keeps everything compact.”
“The more ya know.”
She hums. The more you know.
The couple’s purchase lulls them to sleep that night.
—
The Scorch is one of the most chaotic days Grappling Hook’s ever lived through.
All that running up and down the camp serves a purpose akin to marathon training with how frantically Grappling Hook dashes towards their wounded. So much needs to happen at once: count their dead, get the ones alive to safety, upheave everything and get far, far away from these divine flames. It's dizzying and blurry, and everything becomes a fuzzy hue with no boundary to distinguish shapes from sky.
Their ears ring, but laying eyes on the grotesque body of Scythe and staining their hands with crimson, well the next sensation is the scream that tears their vocal cords apart.
The thought of that loom entering their mind would hurt more than touching the flames.
—
Out of sight out of mind is a powerful thing.
The concept of breaks vanishes. Lost Templans need to band together or else no one's going to survive.
Supports have their work cut out for them, patchworked tents being the first semblance of an infirmary. Scythe’s been comatose for almost a week, every spare second Grappling Hook could spare being at her bedside.
Word of mouth travels farther than the sands, their previous Chief has fallen to the flames, and a lonesome inphernal wishes to spread gospel over yonder.
It’s so bothersome, being unable to have proper funerals, unable to give grace to friends, family, mentors. It’s at the forefront of Grappling Hook’s mind as the camp grows dark and solemn in a mass mostly for symbolism at this point.
A madman’s word can’t house any more space than necessary. Grappling Hook takes it upon themself to lead the remaining Wranglers. It has to be someone.
No one puts up any fight about it. They could almost be convinced it was fate, but that would imply fate included the Scorch. Having such a thing set in stone might break the one cog still furiously pushing Grappling Hook forward.
It leads to them hauling debris, gathering any usable wood for kindling, food preparation, any semblance of supplies. These first days will be critical, assessing what’s essential and what’s not.
Which is why they find it odd that one of the inphernals on the new camp lugged the loom.
Grappling Hook has half a mind to be upset, and it bleeds more than they intended when questioning the inphernal who brought it in.
“Ah, uh a lot of us got clothes burnt.. with the cold nights, thought it’d be worth it
It’s a bit embarrassing, how they failed to consider that need.
”..Right. My apologies for being confrontational—”
“No, no don’t worry— clothes ain’t the biggest casualty at the moment, I get it. Where should I, uh, put this?”
“Just put in my tent for now, we’ll figure out schedules later.” They hardly hear themself say that sentence. Why would they say that?
“Got it, boss.”
Well, too late to take it back now, they’re helping lug that loom to the tent.
—
Scythe wakes up in the middle of the night, unceremoniously.
If anyone could see her, they could tell her gaze is faraway and glassy, the day of the Scorch still settling.
There’s no one attending at the moment, the medic has their back turned, it’s like she hasn’t woken up yet.
She feels as thought it’s partially true, until the medic comes to the realization with all the clamor of the whole flock of oziphrages.
At the news, Hook runs right past all their bowls, the loom.
—
Scythe isn’t the same. Losing an arm, people, and land will do that to an inphernal.
Her awakening is probably the only event to bring hope back to Grappling Hook’s eyes, a juvenile prayer for some semblance of normalcy.
But with Grappling Hook running across the camp even more, now out of desperation rather than celebration, that’s just not feasible.
“I barely see ya, Hook.” Scythe notes, voice smaller. It feels weird, leaning on fence posts with one arm. Grappling Hook is standing at attention, but her words feel like they’re coming from underwater.
“I know love, I’m sorry, there’s just.. so much to do.”
When hasn’t there been?
“S’ppose that shawl’s on hiatus.”
“..Hardly given it that thought.”
Painfully, she can see that just fine.
Their threads are fraying. There’s burn marks and strings loose.
It lets stray fibers in, and Scythe can see them just fine.
—
The night routine is uncanny.
“Is there something wrong?” Grappling Hook opens, facing the back of Scythe’s head.
“What isn’t?” her voice trails off, hand resting on the hides on the floor, feeling every single tuft. She really took it for granted.
“Lemme rephrase.. what’s on your mind?”
“What isn’t?” she repeats, fingers clenching.
“…Mm.”
If Grappling Hook could see her, they could tell her gaze is still faraway and glassy.
A madman’s words have woven into her heartstrings.
They should invent a loom for those. It would have spared a world of hurt.
— + —
The coolness of the (it’s not really shared now, is it?) tent is freezing now.
God, they’d really give anything to not be here alone right now. They’ve half a mind to walk right back out, assert their leadership — the mantle feeling as rigid and ill fitting as it would be to wear the late Chief’s skeleton, the two are the same conceptually— and get back to work. But Beehive demanded otherwise, not after nearly letting the oziphrage free earlier.
It doesn’t take a genius to realize Scythe’s leave has shaken Grappling Hook to their core. Anyone can tell Grappling Hook’s usual busy body efforts will just unthread the fragile progress the Redcliff Wranglers have now (Father Overseer took Scythe — so to speak — what stops his ideals from taking more?). Leave the busying to the busy bee, hah. Hah.
So much died with the Scorch, no? Whether they realized it or not. So many bodies reduced to ash, so much land relinquished to the Church, so many hearts shrunk to half their size and up for the taking.
Their legs practically fold in on themselves, knees hitting hide and face meeting pillows, the ringing in their ears is near unbearable.
Just this shawl won't do anymore. They prop the loom with an echoing clink, wood creaking.
They can’t help but wonder if they cursed them all, with so much spare red thread that didn’t have a purpose until now, with an aim to satisfy the pain radiating through their bones. But that’s precisely why they can’t give it any more thought.
Grappling Hook strings the thread — they’ve really gotten better at this, or maybe they’re just that headstrong — with practiced precision, before folding their shawl by the collar and turning it inside out.
This will become a poncho, they resolve.
This is how keep busy.
Maybe then finally, with the last strings of saffron yellow, will they truly be the leader of the Redcliff Wranglers.
— + —