sparky: when life gives you a friend who loves aus, brainstorm aus with them. then, write fics with shitty writing!
— me, at some point

allen: our writing is not shitty so point invalid.

okay, so idk. Discord User Allen came up with this and we brainstormed it (me laughing 24/7 at the mental image of hansel wearing a maid dress), so now i'm writing it bc yeah

is it good? it is bad? well, you're about to find out

The glass bottle almost slips through his hand when he shivers, but Hansel manages to catch it before it falls.

The wind grows colder with each step he takes, spreading goosebumps across his uncovered legs. He wishes he had worn warmer clothing before leaving home, but he hadn't expected his parents- no, the witch and her henchman pretending to be their parents- to abandon him and his sister in the forest.

He has to pay attention to where they're going. The moonlight stored inside the bottle casts a faint, flickering light over the grass, shyly brushing against the towering trees. Branches twisted into hands cling often to his shirt, and he sees himself forced to stop and take them off. The forest smells of rain, rotten fruit, and sadness. They pass knotted roots on the ground and a flowing river that glimmered as a mirror under the full moon.

Hansel regrets not having paid attention to where they were going when they first ventured in the forest. They could be back home hours ago; instead, they are walking aimlessly in the darkness, with only a glass bottle to illuminate their way and the moon to guide them. His heart aches a little with every passing thought of their parents.

Hansel shakes his head. It's not the time for spacing out. He must focus.

Gretel tightens her grip on his hand, and he flinches. The blue of her eyes is dull with betrayal and sorrow, yet he sees rage burning red deep inside. She trembles slightly, though he is not certain whether it's from the cold wind or anger - it can be both, as long as he is concerned.

A gust hits them, freezing and merciless; Hansel gasps, almost dropping the bottle for the sixth time, bones rattling against each other. His legs shake uncontrollably, skin sensitive. He hears Gretel grunt beside him. She is gritting her teeth to resist it without flinching.

He looks around - it's obvious that they are lost - and resumes walking. He doesn't know where he's taking them to, only reassured by the grass rustling beneath Gretel's shoes. His arm screams with the pain of keeping it raised all this time, but he must continue. The bottle glows above his head as if mocking them for believing their false parents.

"Are we there yet?" Gretel asks, a whisper sounding clear in his ears despite the howling wind and then disperses in the air, leaving Hansel to wonder if he imagined it.

He says in a tired sigh, "I don't know."

He feels disappointed in himself. He is aware of his limited intelligence; he's spent hour after hour struggling to understand each lesson Adam (he can't call him father any longer, not after this betrayal) taught him, and yet it was all in vain. Maybe he should have let Gretel take the lead like usual. She is smarter than him, after all.

Hansel shakes his head again. He must focus.

He glances at Gretel and, smiling, says, "It's okay, I'm sure we'll find our way back soon."

"You said this two hours ago," she snaps, teeth bared. "And look around you! We're still lost. We have no idea of the right path. We could be walking around in circles for all we know."

He swallows. The guilt comes dragging him down to the earth, an anvil on his shoulders. He stares at his shoes, ashamed and with a sob strangled in his throat. "I'm sorry," he murmurs pathetically. The hand holding the bottle shakes, but he keeps a tight grip around it.

Gretel lets go of his hand for a moment to grab his shoulder. When he gathers courage enough to look at his sister, he expects to see her frowning, to be called stupid for putting them in an even bigger mess; she is gently smiling, cheeks slightly red by the chilling touch of the wind.

"It's okay, Hansel. I shouldn't have yelled." Her hand taps his shoulder a few times, then slips into his again. She scratches her head, golden strands catching on crescent moon nails. "I'm frustrated, just that. And… maybe I'm a little scared, too. I just want to go back home."

"Me too." Hansel can't deny that he feels a bit better when Gretel holds his hand. He feels safer around his twin. Confident, even if slightly.

They resume walking and exploring the forest until they stumble into any hint to the right path. Hunger creeps into his stomach, each occasional grumble growing louder and more demanding. He takes glances at the bottle and refills it with moonlight after some minutes - the glass glows a blinding white each time, then fades to something bearable, almost weak like a lit candle fiercely surviving during a tempest.

"Don't you want me to hold that for a while?" Gretel offers, holding out her open palm.

He actually flinches. A selfish part of him presses on his head, screams its protests against giving his bottle to his sister's hands - hands that had broken toys, hands that had let vases slip through. It's a glass bottle and nothing more than that, of course, but he treasures it. He cherishes it, as if it's a present from someone dear to him.

Hesitantly, Hansel places the bottle on her palm, his nerves whispering their relief across his arm.

"Please be careful with it." He rubs his neck, feeling silly. "I really like this bottle…"

"I will be careful. I promise."

He sighs, and shoves down the selfishness because it's not the time for that. There's no time to feel emotional over a trinket. He must focus on finding the way back home. Gretel lifts the bottle above their heads, the pale light revealing an intersection. A quick rock-paper-scissors decides which path they should take: Gretel wins and points to the one on the right.

Hansel quietly prays to Held that they reach home soon.

"Do you hear this? It's me telling you that this won't work."

"Nonsense."

And Behemo laughs, a sardonic laugh that would make Levia growl under normal circumstances, but she's fighting to keep her mouth shut. She tries to concentrate. It's difficult to ravage through a man's mind while her "brother" chrips up pointless comments and laughs her attempt off as if it's all an April's Fools joke.

He snickers behind a hand, "I must be really desperate." Magic bubbles from his other hand, threads too thin to be seen forming an elaborate spider web in the air, extending across the land. Her voice vibrates, alluring. She ought to admit that Behemo did a good job - later. Right now, she is to flawlessly imitate a woman's voice and lure a man into the temple to free them.

"You are," she huffs. All this anticipation bothers her; heart in her throat, racing with the uncertainty of whether this will work or not. It's suffocating. Her hands tremble on her hips as she digs deeper and hurried.

The idea of manipulating someone for her own selfish gains would sound absurd to the Levia of centuries ago - the Levia of the Second Period, the Levia who had a job to worry about, a mother to keep out of trouble, and a mirror image-slash-brother to look after as he grew used to his new surroundings, the Levia who fought with all her being against her murderous urges.

This Levia, however, has long succumbed to immorality.

Exhaustion clouds his eyes. Even so, he finds the strength to chuckle through sultry anger. It's the part of him that emerges often and attempts to make him think twice. He was always so impulsive and loneliness made him opportunistic, so his reluctance surprises her a little. But in the end, desperation wins him over - as she predicted.

A buzzing echoes in her head; the mental link is strong and stable. It's safe to start. She'd wandered enough in Kiril's memories to memorize his dead beloved's voice. She'd practiced earlier. She is ready.

She whispers the same way she did with their so-called prophets before they formed the Levin religion, measuring the amount of sweetness in each word and working hard on the weight of her subtle demands. She projects her voice as far as she can.

Behemo snickers, hair brushing his shoulders as they tremble with each breathless sigh. "This voice sounds sexy, sis," he says, a playful smirk decorating his doll-like face.

"Shut up!" She cuts off the connection, and she snaps at him in her normal voice.

"This is so sweet and nice! And so gross, ew! I think I'm gonna get diabetes."

Levia snarls, but doesn't answer. Distractions make her prone to fail. Failure is not an option. Kiril must come, cast the Clockwork Secret Art on the Black Box Type L to activate it and free them from their prison, though unaware of the last part.

If he notices that she isn't Elluka, they will be doomed to wait three months till the new Ma deliver their containers.

(That is, if she doesn't give birth to stillborn babies, fail to produce twins, die for some reason, or realize what she got herself into and run away with the children.)

It's not her best impersonation, but it's a satisfyingly good one to fool a broken man. Almost too easy, though she can't underestimate Kiril.

Behemo laughs beside her, nearly hysterically.

She sighs and starts again.

Disappointment is the first thing Gretel feels when she sees massive auburn doors engraved with curious symbols which remind her of Hansel's drawings. The building looms above them, and it's nothing like the cottage she called home. This is way bigger.

The word "temple" comes to her mind as she climbs the stairs and sits down, leaning on a column. Hansel nearly collapses twice in his way towards her, and lets out a long sigh of relief. Gretel takes off her shoes and rubs her aching feet.

She looks around her - this isn't Elphegort and she knows it. Eve brought them to Aceid a few times, with heavy hoods covering their faces from peering eyes. She hadn't understood at the time why they had to stay out of people's sight. It doesn't matter right now. What matters is that they are in a strange country with no idea of how they ended up here or the way back home.

Perhaps they should have taken the left path instead.

"Do you know this place, Gretel?" Hansel is fixedly staring at a castle-like building far away, shimmering grey in the dark sky. He seems distracted.

"No," she answers. Though honestly, it sounds hesitant. The surroundings are barren, as though nobody had come here in a long, long time. It's like the people feel the beginning of a disaster, hovering sharp and thick in the air. An unnatural, disturbing silence. Her heart beats with anxiety.

This place… Had she been here before?

But it's not Elphegort because she can't recognize the houses nearby as the ones she'd seen in Aceid. It's not Elphegort.

"I feel like… I have been here one day," he murmurs. She finally notices how lost in thought Hansel is. He stares at the castle as if under a spell, eyes glassy and reflecting moonlight. His mouth moves quickly but no sound escapes, except for breathless gasps. Then: "It's familiar, I know. I know. This is familiar. Vaguely, but I know I've been here once."

Gretel grabs his hand, and Hansel turns at her. He's shuddering, eyes shrunken with horror, overwhelmed by a heavy feeling. She feels it too, but pushes it aside and keeps calm. As the older twin, she must be the one to have the situation under control, protect her brother from harm and make sure that everything will end fine. Hansel finds her a bit bossy, but she has to.

She hisses, "Stop it, Hansel. We can't think about this while we're here, in an unknown and dangerous land." He looks down and nods. A quiet sob rips from his throat. "We need to go back and get rid of the evil witch and her henchman."

He is staring at her eyes, but not quite looking at her; he stares at his reflection on the blue and grins sadly. This sight strikes her heart hard. "I'm sorry. I just… Sorry. I'm being stupid again. I'm so, so stupid-"

"Yes, you are - if you think of yourself this way," she growls. She pulls him to her arms. He gasps and mutters incomprehensible words as she hugs him. "It's okay, Hansel. We can find out the meaning of this place to us later."

"A-ah, I didn't mean to-"

"I know, I know. Calm down."

He squirms, but takes deep breaths and eventually swallows his sobs. She feels him smile on her shoulder. She rubs circles on his back until he scoots away from her arms and sighs. The bottle glistens on his chest, the moonlight trapped inside fading to a cold, dull shine.

"Come on," Gretel starts, wearing her shoes and handing Hansel his boots. She stands up. "We must go."

"Do we have to?" Hansel tilts his head, returning to his usual cheerful self. "Couldn't we explore a little?"

"Didn't you hear me? It's unknown, therefore dangerous."

"But we could explore the temple. It seems empty." Saying this, he walks up to the doors and pushes them open with little effort. They're unlocked, unguarded. Hansel glows with childish joy, and peeks his head inside. "Yep, empty. See?" He steps aside to let her peek too. She does.

Inside, it's flanked with rows of marble columns, glass brackets illuminating the otherwise dark hallways with the shimmering orange glow of flames. She expects a priestess to appear and scold them for invading, but nobody ever comes. She doesn't know what kind of temple this one is, but it's nothing like the temples in storybooks and Eve's tales.

Those weren't supposed to be so quiet, too.

Hansel is the first to enter and roam, feasting his curiosity with touching the columns, feeling the symbols engraved on the marble, staring in awe at the statues standing proud on the middle of the hallway. Shadows seem to pour across his feet as he kneels down and reads the inscription on the base of one statue: "Leh-vee-ah… Ah, yes. Levia, the Dragon God who created the mind of men."

Gretel frowns. This is a name only spoken during Adam's lessons, for their family belonged to the Held sect. She has basic knowledge about Levia and her brother because of that, and never felt like knowing more. It was unnecessary. She had no need to know about a god she didn't worship.

She crosses her arms, muttering, "So this is a temple dedicated to Levia and Behemo, huh?"

"It seems so." He jumps to his feet, barely emitting a sound against the polished floor.

Gretel pauses and thinks, chewing on her lip; this certainly isn't an abandoned temple, so why is it so quiet? Where are the priests? The smell of incense, the echoing hymns, the prayers craving for answers and miracles and something else beyond that? Dread creeps freezing cold in her spine, realization burning hot in her heart.

Something is wrong.

She opens her mouth to call Hansel and get out of here when he chirps up, "Ooh, what's that?" and runs away towards a new discovery. He is always like this - the curious twin, the naive twin, the innocent twin. It's exasperating.

Gretel screams at him to stop, but he doesn't listen and continues his way. That makes her follow; they were lost enough already and being lost by herself isn't something she wants. She keeps calling his name as she runs, but Hansel either doesn't listen or ignores her. Her voice reverberates off the walls and unceremoniously pierces through the silence of the statues.

She gasps out the aching pain on her feet, resisting the urge to sit down. She has no idea of what pushed Hansel to run like that, when his feet are equally in pain. He will regret increasing the aching of his feet in exchange of satisfying his curiosity, she knows it.

Finally, she finds him in front of ivory doors, half-open and carved with different symbols and a huge image of a two-headed dragon. Hansel is sitting on the floor, moaning and clutching his bare feet. He's visibly swallowing down his screams as well as glaring at his feet, as if angry at them for hurting.

Gretel rolls her eyes. Typical, predictable Hansel. She approaches him and slaps his head. "Don't go running around and leaving me behind like that, you idiot," she scolds.

"I'm sorry?" he murmurs, though it sounds more like a question.

She sighs, ready to drag him out of here, but is startled into silence by the roaring of a thunder - yet it comes from beyond those doors, not from outside. Hansel cries out his surprise, his voice nothing but a quiet murmur against the intensity of the sound. Light bursts from the slit, blinding as it is fleeting.

The logical part of her tells her to run, run, run and never look back until they are far away from this temple. The alarms are blaring, screeching at her to leave because something is seriously wrong and she has nothing to do with this. She needs to go. Both of them need to go.

Instead, she finds herself approaching the doors, Hansel following her from behind. Their aching feet are almost an afterthought.

She pushes the doors open with a bit of effort. Hansel's hand slips into hers without her noticing while the other grips the glass bottle. He's shaking and his hands are cold, though she isn't sure if it's out of fear or the cold weather. She measures the amount of sound her shoes make. Compared to the commotion inside, they make no sound.

She feels like a ghost, unseen as she floats up to the victim of her mischief - but there's no amusement bubbling in her stomach. Dread replaces it, and she feels like she will become a glittering ice statue really soon, with a horrified expression decorating her lifeless face. The air is frigid and heavy. It's hard to breathe.

The man doesn't notice them. He's too busy with whatever he's doing with the huge white spear.

She smells ozone. Is this man performing magic? The air is supercharged with the smell, almost making her sick. Being here isn't safe, wherever 'here' is. She knows this, yet she can't tear her eyes away. Her legs tremble like autumn leaves barely resisting a hurricane. She thinks that her feet will shatter soon. She can't feel them anymore - they have gone numb by pain.

Which also means that walking away from there is out of the question.

"Mister, what are you doing?"

Gretel chokes the moment Hansel says this, and she really wishes to punch him across the room for asking this with an annoyingly innocent tone. Her heart springs to her throat with a rush of adrenaline. She swears if she survives, she will torture Hansel until he begs for mercy. He must have hit his head when he was a baby.

The man jumps, as if he was caught doing something forbidden, nearly tripping on his legs but catching himself a second before he falls. He turns around, and Gretel immediately notices his visible, earth-shaking despair - dark craters under glassy eyes of burnt sienna, bitten lips quivering, skin a deadly pale and with brown strands of wispy hair sticking to his forehead. He's clearly an adult, but she sees instead a boy very similar to her brother, small and scared. Lost.

"What…? Who…" he stutters, voice raspy and quiet as if he hasn't spoken in months. He wipes his glasses clean, and blinks at them fearfully. "You…! Please don't. Please don't tell anyone. I just… I really didn't want to, but…"

"Hey, hey. Calm down," she says. Letting go of Hansel's hand, she takes the man's hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze, just like she does when Hansel is depressed. The man lets out a confused gasp. "Now, tell me what happened."

He manages to breathe, "I… I didn't want to do any of this, but it's the only way. It's the only way. But- After this, it will be fine. I just… I just want her back."

"Who, exactly?" Hansel frowns.

"Elluka," the man answers, dreamily. But he shakes his head and, realizing their confusion, explains, "She was my fiancée. She… died. My sister, well… I don't want to talk about it." He finally gives up on explaining, which frustrates Gretel. Then, he concludes with a smile, "I'm trying to bring her back."

"Eh? But isn't she dead?" Hansel scratches his head. "Like, in the Heavenly Yard already?"

That makes her frown. You can't bring people back from the dead, as far as she knew. Death was final, inescapable. That's why it was such a big deal when someone died. Any type of necromancy is frowned upon, regarded as abominable and a mockery at the gods' creation. Such black magic was forbidden, according to Eve and Adam - even so, it was possible to find a necromancer in the shadows, hiding from the Senate and continuing an abhorrent practice.

But it wasn't possible to bring someone back. Necromancy could only reanimate their corpse, not resurrect them.

The man mumbles, "Yes, yes, but with the ark's power, I can… Yes, I can bring her back. Revive her to her former self." He turns back to the ark. Magic bubbles from his palms, dull like his eyes. "I can hear her voice, telling me what to do."

Hansel glances at Gretel and twirls his finger near his ear, implying that the man is crazy. She will have to agree.

She sneers, "The ark doesn't have that power. Fath- I mean, Adam told us about it. Besides, we shouldn't even be here."

"That's because they don't know what's wrong with it," he sighs, and Gretel grits her teeth. He talks as if she is a silly, spoiled child who knows nothing beyond the fence of the garden; she is no child, she is fourteen already. He continues, "It's old and broken by time, but this can be easily fixed - with the Clockwork Secret Art."

The spell's name is vaguely familiar; she can't remember exactly what it does, but she knows it's powerful as it is risky. It needs concentration, a large amount of magic power and practice.

Which, if she's being honest, doesn't look like the man in front of her has.

"Okay, uh… What's your name again?" She curses herself for not asking the man's name earlier. Where are her manners? As much bossy as she can be, she doesn't wish to be regarded as uneducated. She is rude, but with good intentions.

He answers, sounding distant, "Kiril."

"Okay, Kiril. Listen to me - this isn't right. You are grieving and I understand it, but playing with things you cannot control is far too much. This voice in your head is probably just a hallucination. You should go home, calm down and accept Elluka's death."

Kiril shakes his head. "I'm breaking the rules, I know, but nobody will notice. I will leave quietly and nobody will ever know."

"Quiet, you idiot!" Gretel hisses. "Can't you hear your own words? You sound like a madman. Just forget about this! It's impossible to bring someone back from the dead!"

"No!" Kiril screeches. Angry tears glimmer in his eyes, burnt sienna gone frantic and infuriated. His teeth crash against each other, shine wickedly in the unnatural brightness of the spell acting by its own. "It is possible! You just don't understand. As soon as it's done, I'll walk out this temple holding Elluka's hand, and we will marry like I promised her. I need to do this quickly before- huh?!"

Suddenly all rage vanishes. Confusion blooms on his expression, and Gretel arches an eyebrow. Wasn't he ranting a second ago?

"Um, guys?" Hansel murmurs, hand raised like he is in the classroom, asking permission to talk.

She ignores him. "What is it?"

"The voice… Elluka's voice…" he starts. Gretel prepares to scold him again, but she feels disturbed by the horror creeping in the shine of his eyes. "She… She called me a half-wit dumbass."

"So?"

"She never called me that. She was a sweet person. This-"

"Heeeey!" Hansel points at the ark. "There's something wrong with the ark!"

Her eyes widen as she takes in the scene before her. The air is crackling with power, the white spear gathering energy for the blast. Sparks start flying. Ozone fills her nostrils. The beginning of the end. Apocalypse. Something akin to fear wells up from her heart. If this is a dream, she wants to wake up.

The next moment, she's swallowed by the explosion, heart and all.

The blinding light plummets him into a haze, familiar to him from the time Climb One crashed; his cranium is too heavy, brain melted into a sticky sea that crashes its waves against his head, limbs as if they're being pressed against the ground. Crushed. He can't feel Levia's presence anywhere - he imagines, eyes fluttering open, that he should be capable to feel her spirit data as they're sharing a body.

That is, if it worked.

Behemo pushes himself up and looks down. Slender, pale fingers meet his sight instead of deadly, dark claws. He frowns but quickly assumes that he's unconscious. Temporarily trapped inside of his own mind because he didn't withstand the process. Since Levia isn't here right now, he will stick with his assumption until he asks her what really happened.

The place his mind recreated, however, is unfamiliar.

Trees pierce the sky colored of a combination of sunset orange and pastel blue, and shine with the fading rays of the white sun. The entrance to the forest is bottomless black, as if he would be swallowed by the void and torn into pieces in an agonizingly slow death. A garden stretches in front of him, with blooming flowers and healthy-looking herbs. Botany isn't his specialization, though he can tell that there is oregano there and perhaps rosemary. And beyond it, an abandoned cottage, with plants sprouting from the walls as the wood decays.

Behemo shakes his head. This definitely wasn't created based on his memories - in that case, is it from Levia's? He doesn't remember her commenting about any cottage in a forest, though she could have maintained it a secret from him.

"Hello?"

Behemo flinches at the voice, spine freezing up by shock. He looks over his shoulder and finds a small boy in a worn out white shirt and yellow shorts standing behind him, smiling awkwardly as if he is attempting to look as friendly as possible. Blonde strands tickle at his ears, fall in the right spots without hiding his glittering blue eyes. For some reason, he carries a glass bottle hanging on a black string around his neck. But what really gets Behemo's attention is the uncanny resemblance the boy has to him.

In an instant, he knows, a bitter taste stinging his tongue, it's not a mere coincidence. The boy is a decaying, imperfect copy of him - a successful result of Project Ma. His mind is bombarded with questions, each fighting for dominance over the rest, and he notices that some of them don't seem to come from him. Levia is nowhere to be seen, regardless of his attempts to feel her spirit data. Is this him?

Is this him?

Is he inside this boy's - his designed container before the mother stole the babies - body?

In the end, the plan worked?

The bitterness hasn't gone away. Something cries out within him that it wasn't supposed to go this way, as if a gear in the clockwork was replaced and caused all the others to take the story to a different direction.

But he would take what he could get. Humans adapt remarkably well, and that extended to virtual backup of humans.

"I'm-" When he attempts to sit up, the boy rushes to his side and places a hands on his shoulder and another on his back, gently helping him. Behemo smiles shakily at the boy. "Thank you…" he says softly in a way he hasn't done in a long time. It's not overwhelmingly sweet, but it's a pleasant flavor that makes his taste buds tingle and sing.

"No problem! I'm glad that you are fine," he responds eagerly. His smile shines out of him, and Behemo feels himself smiling more confidently. The boy's eyes hold an uncommon purity.

This should be easy.

The boy raises a hand as if asking for permission to talk in a crowded classroom. Shoulders slightly tense, cheeks flushed and shifting his feet occasionally, he seems shy. "May I ask you something?" Behemo nods, lips pulling to a playful smirk. This boy is cute, in all his awkwardness and bright smiles. A cinnamon roll, an obedient child - he reminds Behemo of himself before he left Earth to the virtual simulation of the Second Period. "How are you here?"

"Here, where?"

"In my mind. Because I'm sure I had fallen asleep earlier because of a freaky explosion in a temple."

"Ah, I see." So he really is inside this boy's body and therefore sharing the same mental plane. Like Levia explained to him. "Well, you see - it seems that we are sharing a body. I know it sounds strange, but I can explain-"

"Oh? Sharing a body? Wow, this sounds pretty cool!" Sparkling awe bursts from the boy's eyes.

Sweat rolls down the side of Behemo's forehead. This was… rather unexpected. He waited for protest or confusion, not joy.

It feels wrong to take advantage of such a naive boy who most likely believes in fairytales and hasn't opened his eyes to reality yet - but Behemo is far past the point of holding back.

He will take what he can get.

Even if guilt strikes his heart down and crushes it under its unbearable weight.

"Ah, by the way, my name is Hansel!"

Hansel holds out his hand in a friendly gesture. The smile is blinding.

"That's a nice name," Behemo comments, and shakes Hansel's hand firmly, as if silently sealing a pact with a unaware victim. "I am Behemo. Behemo Barisol."