lem0nicecream
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A Burden Worth Bearing by lem0nicecream
Fandoms: とんがり帽子のアトリエ | Tongari Boushi no Atelier | Witch Hat Atelier (Manga)
29 Jun 2026
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Summary
When the morning dew on the grass began to freeze in the coldest, early hours—a sign of imminent snowfall within the week—Dagda sewed him a pair of mittens, constructed with pine-green fabric that looked suspiciously like one of their old sheets, and lined with thick, soft bundles of sheep's wool. He didn't know where he got the wool. He got the sense Dagda hadn't wanted him to know, so he didn't ask, despite his curiosity. He wore the mittens all day and all night, refusing to take them off come bed time.
He tried his hardest not to think about the purple-dyed fingers of the kids stuck in subzero nights. Dying in the cold, alone and afraid. He tried not to think about how much easier Dagda's life would be, if he stopped being afraid, and allowed his body to succumb to the elements.
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How Custas met Dagda, and learned to accept that his life was worth something beyond being a burden.
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Cutting a dark, back-lit silhouette in the centre of the doorway is the shape of Chihiro. His face is shrouded by the gloom, but Hiruhiko could recognize his outline anywhere. He sees it in all of his good dreams, and even some of the bad ones.
"What are you doing here?" Chihiro sounds angry when he speaks. He's got a snarling look to match his tone. Hiruhiko supposes it makes sense; he's not got the most stellar track record for peaceful meetings.
Hiruhiko hasn't totally figured out his reworked definition of friendship yet, but he's come to the understanding that violence will not bring the two of them closer like he once thought, so he needs a different approach.
"Looking for you." Hiruhiko stoops down and folds his legs under him, sitting himself down in the wet grass of the yard, the dew on the blades seeping through the legs of his pants and sticking to his skin.
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Yearning to amend his connection with Chihiro, Hiruhiko finds himself at the Rokuhira residence, daring to ask a question he's not sure he wants the answer to: if friendship isn't about violence, then what is it?
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The memory of his sister's body going still, of her taking her last breath—he couldn't forget it. He'd been learning to accept her absence, to live in honour of her memory, but the pain was still sharp even if it wasn't new. Like the partially closed wounds littering his body, stinging despite the fact they no longer bled.
He hadn't known Alda long, but he'd risked his life for him. Without the man, John would've lost; not just his own life, but the lives of all of Grius, the lives of Bob, of Lily, of Master Pano.
To lose Alda so soon… He refused the notion.
In the midst of the fight, John had thought himself willing to lay down his life for them all. To die a hero's death and save the ones he cared about. For Emma's sake.
If he'd died, who would remember his sister?
If he'd died, how would he pass on the love and courage his sister had shown him to the world?
And maybe, he's realizing, there's a point to living even if it hurts.
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Yazur tilts his head to the side, and though his expression remains stagnant, his eyes gleam with curiosity. "You accompany me quite often already, Serios. Do you really wish to spend all your time on patrol with me?"
"It is dim here without your radiance to guide me, my Lord." The words barely scratch the surface of the depth of his devotion to Lord Yazur. He doubts the words to truly describe his reverence even exist.
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Serios is desperate to be closer to his Lord.
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The black t-shirt he wore—Zanka didn’t know how he could tolerate the colour in this heat—clung tight to his skin, loose by only mere inches instead of his usual three-sizes-too-big apparel he donned on other days. A terrible observation for his brain to focus on, because although the curtains were closed to block out the sun and light barely reflected off the dark material, Zanka could still trace the faint outlines of his waist and his ribs and his chest with his eyes, and now he was struggling to inhale again because his throat scratched like sandpaper, dry despite the fact he’d just taken a drink.
Zanka raised his water bottle to his lips to find it empty.
Follo rolled his head over to him then, and Zanka clutched the empty bottle as though it were a stress-ball, his fingers going numb from the tension.
“You ever think about the ocean?” Follo asked.
Leave it to his torturer to bring up water when he’d run out.
Series
- Part 1 of big book of zollo
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