Chapter Text
There's not really any kind of transition period. It doesn't feel exactly like waking up, either, nor like falling. Wilde's just aware that one moment he's crashing through a disorienting planar void of some kind, flailing his arms desperately in hopes of making contact with one of his companions, and the next moment he's splayed out motionless on a flat surface, being brushed by something dry and prickly.
He curls himself up out of sheer instict, tucking his knees up to his chest and folding his arms over his head in hopes of protecting the soft squishy vital parts of him from the scraping grasping things.
He begins to process his surrounding slowly, as his senses catch up to him one by one. First the play of light over his closed eyelids and the warmth of sunshine over his skin, then a gentle cool breeze through his hair, and eventually he can make out the sweet arid smell of prarie grasses. It takes him embarrassingly long to parse the prickly scraping feeling against his skin as the gentle rustling movements of those same prarie grasses and the sharp ends of stiff stalks broken under his weight.
Oscar's aware of one other sensation, one that's become familiar to him since he woke up in that unfamiliar bed with Zolf waiting beside him, his hair bleached white and his body wiped clean of a lifetime of marks and scars. A gentle tugging in the back of his mind, pulling him back to the Garden, to the place he knows he will someday find his final rest. He's certain, though not sure how, that if he just chose to he could throw himself back into that dissonant clamouring dark place in between planes, and that, through one way or another, he would end up where the Garden wanted him to be.
He doesn't though, not yet, because this place seems peaceful, at least for the time being. Somewhere to catch his breath for a few minutes before hurling himself back into chaos. When he opens his eyes he's met with sunshine, blue sky, and the gentle dancing of dull green and yellow fescue grasses as they reach their golden segmented heads up to the sun.
Oscar allows himself to lie there for a moment on the scrubby ground, allowing the breeze and the warmth to lull him into a relaxed stupor. Eventually though he pushed himself to his feet, wincing as a wave of dizziness clouds his vision and fills his head with painful cotton, before that too subsides and he's able to take a proper look at his surroundings.
They're familiar, though he's never been here before. Arid plains are just arid plains no matter where in the world you are, and although the architecture of the red-roofed building a few hundred feet away isn't something he can immediately place, a farmhouse is still a farmhouse. The plains spread out into rolling hills in every direction, and behind the house they eventually give way to rounded green mountains, their peaks neither tall nor jagged enough to stop plants growing along their slopes.
The sun is just begging to approach the horizon (or maybe it's just risen, Oscar's not exactly an expert in reading the skies) and his shadow is long and spindly in front of him as, with no other way to go, Oscar sets off towards the house, the tall grasses parting around him like water.
He pauses for moment as he takes his first step, struck with a strange, sensation. It feels as though he'd been standing in a fast-flowing river, and the moment he leaves the place he'd woken up he steps out of the current and into a still eddy. He wonders at the feeling for a moment, but figures there's not exactly anything he can do about it, so he continues.
The sun is at his back, which is likely the only reason he sees the figure before they see him. Even then, he's only a few dozen feet from the house when he notices them standing in front of one of the doors They're dressed in grey and very small, maybe a halfling or a gnome, and when he shouts in greeting they look up like a startled deer before turning to run back into the house.
He doesn't have long to wonder about their brief interaction though, because less than a minute later the door burst open and the person runs out, followed by four more figures. It's clear now that they're all human children, between about eight and sixteen years old and all dressed in simple tunics. He's also alarmed to notice that they're all armed, three with daggers, one with a spear, and one with a loaded shortbow. They look like they know how to use them too, and they move to surround him with a level of speed and precision that would be impressive even for most adults.
Wilde is completely unarmed, but he can feel that his arcane connection to his magic is unbroken, even here. When he opens his mouth and begins to sing a sweet and legato melody, a few of the children give each other quizzical glances. These only last for a few moments though, because by the time he finishes his short song, four of the five children have collapsed to the ground.
The only remaining child, a tall stocky boy of maybe sixteen, goes from confident to terrified the moment he sees his companions fall. His eyes go wide, and his hands tremble as he brandishes his two daggers at Wilde, eyes darting between Oscar's face and the fields behind him.
"It's okay, they're just asleep." Says Wilde, as calmly as he's able. "I promise I'm not here to hurt you, I just want to know where I am."
The boy just shakes his head and mumbles something, eyes locking on something just over Oscar's left shoulder. Wilde opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted by the touch of cold steel against his throat, a slender arm locked over his shoulder. He freezes, and the boy relaxes visibility. Wilde can feel the free hand of the person holding him move, and the boy nods once and scurried back through the door.
After the door shuts behind him, Wilde is left with nothing but the continued press of the dagger against his neck and the slightly laboured breathing of his assailant in his ear.
They stay like that for a few moments before the person speaks. It's another child, maybe a girl this time, and she's speaking a language that he parses after a moment as Latin. He'd taken a class on it at Trinity, as a young man he'd been fascinated by the hubris and corruption of Rome, but that had been over a decade ago and he hadn't exactly been practicing.
Her voice trembles slightly but her tone is clear and firm and the arm holding the dagger does not waver. She's threatening him, that's apparent enough. He thinks she's asking him what he did to the others, but telling him not to speak magic or he'll never speak again. Oscar knows Comprehend Languages as well as Tongues, either of which would make this interaction much easier, but he's not willing to risk another casting, so he fumbles a few words in stilted Latin, trying telling her that they're just asleep, they'll wake up soon, and that he doesn't want to hurt anyone. He's not sure if she gets his point, but his throat remains intact for the time being, so he counts that as a win.
They stand there together, neither one moving, the only movement the quiet rustling of the grass, casting dancing shadows in the sepia-toned light of the approaching sunset.
Oscar loses track of time, feeling like he's drifting in this strange dream he's found himself in. He's jolted back to reality when the door swings open, the boy returning at the heels of a new stranger, along with half a dozen more children. Their leader is taller than most of the children, their short black hair shot through with streaks of grey and interrupted by a large blotchy white patch. They're wearing a dark grey toga belted at the waist, and as they stride towards him, they smoothly pull two daggers from somewhere within their clothes.
Oh.
Well that explains things.
Some things.
Actually, he was still rather confused.
The moment of recognition makes Wilde start, enough for the girl's dagger to draw a bead of blood from his throat. She must think it's in fear, because she snorts in amusement. Wilde hardly notices, the gears in his brain working at full speed as he pieces together his situation.
It's not another illusion meant to unseat him. He's not quite sure how he knows this, but he does. This place feels far too real, the brush of tall grass around his ankles, the heat of the dying sun on his neck, the warm sun-baked scent of the prairies. No, whatever this is, it's either an illusion so skilled as to be beyond what Wilde thought possible, or else it's real. He cautiously chooses to believe the latter.
Sasha, for it is Sasha, there's no doubt in his mind about that, has changed significantly in the years (millennia?) since they'd last spoken. She seems taller, more sure of herself, holding her head high and her shoulders straight, though with less tension than he'd ever seen in her. She's older, but not by too much, maybe her mid forties if Wilde had to guess. Her eyes are fixed on him with a familiar keen distrust, and the grace and control with which she weilds her daggers has only increased.
She's not trying to be stealthy as she approaches him though, clearly confident in the ability of her young protegés to keep him from making a break for it. She shouts something at him, or maybe at the child behind him, but it's in Latin and it's not a word he knows, so he just remains still as the distance between them closes, waiting for the moment of realization to come.
It does, eventually, though it takes longer than he might have expected. He supposes it makes sense though, from her perspective she likely hasn't seen him in nearly two decades, and it's not like his own appearance hasn't changed significantly since Damascus. She's about ten feet away when she freezes, that effortless grace leaving her for a moment as she nearly stumbles over her own feet. One of the younger children behind her doesn't stop in time, walking straight into her and barely managing to catch himself before he falls to the ground.
Wilde hardly notices though. His eyes are locked on Sasha's, trying to gauge her reaction. She seems to be doing something similar, because for nearly ten seconds they do nothing but stare at each other, Sasha quickly masking her wide-eyed shock with a calculated neutrality Wilde is all-too familiar with.
The children around her are beginning to look at her with some confusion, and even Wilde's unknown captor seems somehow uncertain. They don't do anything though, and are clearly waiting on Sasha for instruction. The world lingers in uneasy silence until Sasha finally speaks, thankfully in English.
"Where did we first meet, how did you get there, and what did you want."
Wilde smiles a bit. This is something he's become familiar with, this is something he can do. He speaks out, loud and clear but mindful of the blade still pressed to his throat.
"We first met in Hamid's apartment, after I broke in while you were away. I was there because I wanted to scout you for Meritocratic work, but you wouldn't talk to me so I slept with Bertie, which I regret to this day. You, Sasha Racket, first introduced yourself by threatening to slit my throat, not unlike your young friend is doing right now."
As he speaks, Sasha begins to tremble ever so slightly, and he sees her knuckles whiten around her daggers. When he finishes she's quiet for a moment. Then she fixes her eyes on the person behind Wilde and speaks in Latin, telling them to release him. After a moment's hesitation the knife leaves him and he can breathe again, and the person steps silently around him to join Sasha and her companions.
He was right in assuming they were a girl, it turns out. She's somewhere in her mid teens, with dark skin, lean muscles and broad shoulders. She's wearing a loose olive green dress that in no way undercuts the simmering distrust and hatred with which she looks at Oscar as she moves to stand beside Sasha.
Sasha puts a steadying hand on the girl's shoulder, but otherwise does not acknowledge her, instead letting her gaze flick to the four slumped bodies on the ground.
"They're just sleeping?"
"Yes. I'm sorry, but they caught me off guard. They'll be waking up in the next few minutes."
Sasha nods, but nonetheless kneels down to press two fingers to the neck of one of the children to confirm his words. Only then does she rise and begin to approach Wilde. He can't help but feel a flash of trepidation as she examines him, daggers still in her hands. This sharpens into a spike of fear when she lunges towards him.
Instead of the expected flash of steel and pain and spray of blood though, Wilde is met with Sasha's arms wrapped around him in a tight hug, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Wilde is so surprised that it takes him a moment to reciprocate, holding her close and resting his chin on top of her head. It overwhelms him for a moment, the fact that she's here, that she's alive, that against all logic he gets to see her again.
Finally, he speaks. "Well, it's been awhile, hasn't it?"
"Yeah." She says, then coughs to clear her throat. "Yeah. It's, uh, it's knife to see you again mate."
It's an atrocious pun, even by his standards, but he still finds himself laughing, for the first time in weeks, in months even. He's laughing, and then he's crying, and then it all catches up to him, and a wave of dizziness overtakes him. He slumps against Sasha, still laughing deliriously, as he slips from consciousness.