Work Text:
L Jones, from the desert. From heat, oppressive, sand dunes, plentiful, and nomadic descent. L Jones, who could not keep their wings confined to the sandbox, to the plot of land they’d wandered their whole life. L Jones, who whistled magic from the air (stole it, needing the world to bend to them), who felt their family’s too tiny confines, who went out in search of larger worlds (in search of whatever made them worth it).
L Jones.
Liam, a mage bored with his world. His life was his only responsibility, because he didn’t ask for his sister or his parents or the nomadic ways that he would struggle against for the first twenty years of his life.
Liam, a worldsinger. A dull light, humming his way through the world. He could play any tune, catch any melody. The world weaved itself in notes for him. Harmonies breathed for him and him alone, syncing rhythms around every corner, a new song each day.
Liam, a hero. The Pied Piper. He who doled out stories to wounded and scared (to a tiny replica, to the sister who bore his eyes), who gave out smiles like he had more than he could ever really use. He who fought by the sides of a scrappy young man desperate to aid and a girl named George who needed to prove herself, to save others to destroy her sins. He who translated dragons, hummed stories to the rocks, listened in color and impressions.
Liam, father, husband. He found Bea. He opened her, and cherished her. He did not take this woman for granted. He worked her into every second of his life, into every spare moment, because that made his eyes shine. It got him out of bed. He found a pocket of wonder in a broken world, and he thought to himself, this is the most beautiful thing. He found Bidi- although that followed deliberate search. He found Beatrix, times two, in sourdough loaves- in trees- together, mixing batter and covered in flour. He would have found another girl’s eyes, if he had only looked in the mirror, in his daughter’s. Laney was the first girl he’d ever wanted to protect, but Laney could handle herself. Laney was his sister, not his job, not his duty.
Liam, grieved. Husband, father, friend. A wet thud. Just his luck.
L Jones, mage. L Jones, liar. L Jones, terror.
Laney was not her brother. She admired him, wanted to be him, built herself in his image. She saw him whittle magic. She craved that heat, that suction, that pull. She chased it, desperate, until the Elsewhere practically bent to her will. Laney wore her victories, trophies, of her battle with the world. The world should have been proud it came out relatively unscathed.
Laney was not Miss. She was not to be underestimated, this lady who had stolen what she wanted and broke her way into a position she could not hold. She passed every exam with magic she could not call for, wove herself a million spells more technically perfect than her classmates’, because Laney Jones did not allow herself to be any less than perfect.
Laney Jones was a perfect shot. She fired every bullet into a bull’s eye, fixed every spell to hit as hard as possible. She twisted her magic into trophies, gorgeous knots, and made them shine bright (the ones she created herself shined brightest). She knew when she started that she would fail, and so she failed in the dark. She fought harder and more confidently than her friends; Laney fought comfortably, because she made the earth move for her. She held herself with practiced ease, because when she ran out of skills to learn, she practiced herself. She would not satisfy her mother with disappointment she didn’t deserve.
Laney Jones trailed her whole life in her brother’s footsteps. She followed his path through sand and heat, through spells, through a mountain. She walked in his shoes, far too big for her feet, until she ran out of trail. Laney went to Liam’s grave and did not see the word brother; she realized he did not choose that title, nor did he earn it.
Laney saw herself in her niece’s eyes, in her hair, in the swirls of magic that toyed in her fingertips- but these were given, not won. Bidi Jones did not follow her father. She did not need to. Had Laney Jones been able to truly be her brother, she would have noticed this, too: Liam sang melodies to the mountains- when he told stories, or for dinner and a bed, or when someone needed it. He sang about Laney when he missed home the most. By the time Laney had come to the mountains, they were humming with her baby stories, her parents, the tune of sand. They sang with home, but Laney Jones was not a mage, was not a worldsinger, was not her brother. She could not hear these tunes.
(Bidi Jones could. She heard the last decade of her father’s life, too, the closest she could come to him. She would play these songs for Laney, one day. Her aunt was as close to her father as she was. If she did not share this with Laney, neither of them would have anything at all.)
Liam Jones became a victim of a war because he did not know life beyond the desert. He spent the end of his life with his new family, saving, helping, building. He died by a lucky shot, eight years from his sister, a father. A husband. A friend. Laney Jones did not meet him in time. She finished the war he left two years before she entered it. Jones, in the mountain, meant hero- but you could never be sure which one.
Laney left her brother behind. She owed him nothing, and he owed her the same. She would take the world by storm, see more of it than he ever did. She would love his friends, wife, and daughter, but never in the same way. Never as deeply as he could, to choose them again and again. She would write a letter home, because she could not bear to do it in person- but they deserved to know, and she was not Jack.
Laney. Jones. Mage. Hero. Inexorable, built, everyday. Braver and fiercer than the whole wide world. She went out to find a place for herself, to earn her own home. She defeated monsters and villains, the whole Elsewhere. She owned whatever places she graced, and the world should have been glad to have her.