It's an entirely ordinary Tuesday evening when it happens — and that's probably the worst part of it. Laiken Waverly hates Tuesdays with a passion.

Of course it's a Tuesday evening in that weird time between winter and spring when all the worst things come together.

The sun is just about swallowed up by the horizon when the winds turn, and all of a sudden the air doesn't only carry the taste of salt but also the spark of a storm and the promise of heavy rain; the waves crash against the rocky cliffside and shatter into foam, but they still come up gently to curl around Laiken's ankles. Her toes are digging into the wet black sand, her hair is whipping in her face and getting into her mouth as she watches white horses form out at sea, as she follows their path with her eyes and wishes for things that aren't there anymore.

Some would call her a contradiction in being, a lost soul that loves to torture itself with all the could-have-been's. Others (namely: her mother) just call her a reckless idiot. They'd both be right, she guesses. It's not smart, what she does, but sometimes it's the only way to calm the voices and the nightmares, even if everything about this evening is a recurring theme in those very same dreams that don't let her sleep, the ones that make her leg ache in a way that can't be soothed and that chase her out here in the first place.

From the sea, fog rolls in, and she lets herself be swept up in it.

An entirely ordinary Tuesday evening. It gets dark quickly, a storm is approaching, and it's lingering already, in the air and in the way that Laiken's exposed skin feels frozen but not cold, in how her clothes are damp and heavy, her movements stiff and aching, limited in that way that she hates to realize is starting to feel familiar. Mostly, though, she doesn't really feel it, has gone numb long ago. Her heart is out at sea.

Laiken stays until even the last of the sun's rays have disappeared, then she trudges back up to the beach berm and the rocks where she'd deposited her shoes and backpack; ties the lashes in the very last of the remaining light, slings the backpack over her shoulder and turns on the flashlight on her phone. Growing up here means she'd probably still know the path back up to her house blind, but, while she may be a little stupid sometimes, not even Laiken is quite idiotic enough to attempt to make the trek in the dark with a storm coming up when the path is already slippery with dew and her balance isn't great anymore even when she isn't tired in this bone-deep kind of way.

Entirely ordinary. Tuesday evening. She's just about passed the halfway mark when, somewhere at Laiken's back, the sky lights up.

She counts to one-onethousand, two-onethousand, twenty-six-onethousand, twenty-seven-onethousand, and then there's a rumble in the distance. Still a good ways away, then, but absolutely close enough to make her heart race and her hands shake, just a little, just enough that the light skitters over the trampled path, like a mouse on the run, skips over ancient roots and stones. Laiken trips, just a little, but just enough that she has to catch herself against the rough bark of a tree, just enough that she scratches open her palm and has to bite back a curse. Fucking Tuesdays. Laiken laughs, just a little hysterically, maybe, and thinks about how glad she is that she remembered to charge her phone before coming down here.

She stops. Holds her breath, closes her eyes. Chants under her breath, "please, please, please" as she lights up the screen of her phone. Chants under her breath "fuck, fuck, fuck", when she sees the number next to the little battery symbol. Fucking Tuesdays.

Small sparks dance along her fingers, her magic too agitated to be contained. Thank fuck it doesn't usually interfere with electronics.

It's an entirely ordinary Tuesday evening, Laiken tells herself firmly.

Nothing is going to happen, because why would it?

She makes herself go on, because there's no sense in dawdling, and there's even less sense in hurrying — a broken leg is the last thing she needs with the amazing prospect of a long walk home in the dark in a storm.

The fog has gotten worse, the air feels thick enough to be cut with a knife, a heaviness in it that Laiken has never noticed before. But then there's another lightning strike and she barely counts to ten-onethousand until the thunder crashes, and really, thick air is the last of her worries now. She really should find shelter, and soon.

Avery's house is closer than her own, she knows that, but... but. She doesn't think she's ready yet, and especially not right now, when her nerves are already fraying.

So Laiken trudges on, shaky and with her heart galloping in her chest, lungs heaving and with thunder still echoing in her bones, her magic so close she can feel it sizzling under her skin.

And then, up ahead on the path, something glints in the light of her phone. Laiken pauses in her step and aims the flashlight back at the place where she saw it, absently wonders about why the clearing she's in doesn't seem familiar at all, when only a little ways ahead there should come the bend in the path where— and then she forgets all about the logistics of it when her brain finally makes sense of what her eyes are seeing.

This is not an entirely ordinary Tuesday.

***

Laiken stops and stares and wonders if maybe she's hit her head at some point today and she just doesn't remember it, or if maybe she has finally snapped. Gone round the bend, straight up hallucinating.

The light of her phone's flashlight flickers and shakes — the unicorn continues standing there stock-still, like a deer caught in headlights, only that it's definitely a horse with a horn on its forehead instead of a deer, and it's not headlights but just Laiken's crappy phone. Which is shaking, because her hands are shaking, because breathing suddenly feels like a chore and she isn't sure if she's up to the task.

Thunder crashes, far too soon, and Laiken flinches; the unicorn's eyes go wide and wild, but it doesn't move.

(She was six years old when she stopped believing in unicorns. She's twenty two when she meets one face to face, and they're both terrified.

Laiken isn't sure why this is so funny. Isn't sure why she feels so much like crying.)

The unicorn doesn't move, and so Laiken doesn't, either. It's a hulking mass somewhere across from her, at the other end of the almost-clearing, barely visible in the light of the crescent moon that peeks through gaps in the clouds sometimes. Barely visible in the feeble shine of the flashlight of Laiken's phone. It makes the unicorn's eyes glint in one moment, its (very long, very sharp and pointy) horn in another, and its wet black fur in the next.

She's lucky the flashlight works at all, Laiken thinks, considering that her battery's down at maybe three percent by now.

She really is a bit of an idiot, Laiken thinks a second later, when the flashlight flickers and dies. She should have known that with her magic as unsettled as it is it's gonna jinx her one way or another, even if it doesn't usually mess with electronics.

She really could have used a bit of good luck, here. But thunderstorms and good luck don't go really well together, for her. They never did.

So now it's pitch-dark and all of a sudden it's like Laiken's other senses open up; she can hear the waves crashing against the shore, down where she came from, can hear the leaves rustle in the trees, the heaving breath from giant lungs of a creature that's almost as scared as Laiken is.

She can smell the wet dirt, the richness of it that comes with the beginning of spring, thawing and waking up, can smell the metallic tang of the blood on her hand, the distinct and familiar smell of horse mixed together with an entirely unfamiliar aspect of magic. And it's a kind of magic that Laiken hasn't yet encountered in someone else, she's pretty sure of that, although of course she's everything but well-versed in the topic. But magicks always carry a certain scent with them, for Laiken, and this smells like Weaving, like knitting needles and warm wool, a cup of peppermint tea and a fire in the hearth, but muted somehow, dampened, and not just because of the rain.

It's strange, but it's a good kind of strange, maybe. It might give her an angle to work here, a way to get home safely; without getting hit by lightning and without getting trampled by a panicked horse. It already helps to focus on this, like solving a puzzle steadies her hand, and it takes the immediate edge off of the panic, although it's still there, of course, thrumming in her veins, and it won't leave until... until it leaves. It's not like she's found a good coping mechanism yet, not even after a year.

So.

Weaving, she can do.

Maybe. It might be worth a try, at the very least.

Laiken opens her senses again, deliberately this time, tries to find a way to do this that won't spook the unicorn, but maybe reassure it, or at least convince it that trampling or skewering Laiken are not its only options in self-defense; that self-defense might not be necessary at all.

A lightning-blackened tree stump should do, she thinks, and ignores the irony. Lets herself taste salt and storm-spark on her tongue, smell rain and dirt, hear the whoosh of the wind as it parts around the unicorn's large body.

She feels for the currents of magic in the air, separates the storm energies from the ones that belong to the forest itself, so familiar and foreign all at once. She remembers the way the air had thickened, before, and suddenly she's sure that she's not where she used to be. But that doesn't matter right now, what matters is the eager way the not-quite-dead-yet tree's energy responds to her touch, arches into it like a cat demanding to be pet, and the way she can almost feel, as attuned to the energies as she is, the unicorn's ear twitch, its—his tail swish, his head lower to watch more closely, curious despite himself.

And then Laiken works out the knots and the hurts, soothes the lightning's burn and encourages the roots to explore further, reroutes some of the forest's general magic pathways to give the wood enough energy to be able to heal itself, eventually.

And then she just breathes for a while, closes her eyes and tries to find a way out of her headspace without tipping right back into panic, because as well as she's been able to ignore it for now, she knows that the thunderstorm hasn't abated, not yet.

And then... and then.

There's a presence at her side, suddenly, large and warm and wet, and the unicorn blows a breath at her, shakes out his entire body as though to get rid of any lingering tension. Laiken manages not to jump in surprise, somehow. The unicorn nickers as though he knows and is laughing at her.

"I resent that," Laiken says, because she does, and because she's always talked to her horses, and just because this is a mythical magical creature that's very likely more intelligent than any other horse she's worked with before does not mean she'll be able to change her habits just like that.

Thankfully, the unicorn doesn't answer. (Laiken doesn't think her poor, fragile mind could have handled that.) He does come closer, though, and when Laikes reaches out with her hand, slowly and carefully, he presses his muzzle against her palm and nibbles, then catches her eye and turns around, starts to walk away.

Laiken kind of wants to keep him, and instead just watches him leave.

It's probably better like this, especially if this is just a dream. Although it probably wouldn't be so fucking cold if this were a dream, or at least her hand wouldn't still sting.

Lightning flashes again, illuminates the clearing, and it's barely two seconds this time, until thunder cracks. Instinctively, Laiken ducks, curls herself up and ignores the pain in both leg and hand, crushes her phone against her chest and wishes fiercely that this damn Tuesday could just be over already. Wishes that the memories weren't still so fresh, wishes that she'd buried them better, that she'd built her walls higher, more stormproof; that she hadn't chosen today of all days to go be maudlin at the beach. Wishes and wishes and wishes, and absolutely does not shriek at a concerned neigh way too close to her ear.

"What're you still doing here?" she mumbles, does not look up, because it wouldn't really make a difference anyway, she can't see anything without a lightning strike, and she really can't handle many more of those. The unicorn, unsurprisingly, does not answer. He does nudge her shoulder, though, nickers in a way that sounds questioning. "I'm fine," Laiken says, not even trying to sound convincing, and opens her eyes, studies the blades of grass she's sitting on, tries to think of any last words she'd like to say, just in case. She blinks. Lifts her head. Almost chokes on a gasp.

Of course the unicorn's horn is glowing now.

"You're beautiful," she can't help but say, hoarse from the coughing fit and some kind of emotion that she's unable to put a name to.

The unicorn does not react with the proud posturing she'd kind of expected, though, he goes still instead, nostrils flaring and tail swishing. The light dims considerably. He's afraid, Laiken realizes, and has no idea why.

"I'm sorry," she says, searches for words and finds herself at a loss. She closes her eyes, lays her head down on her knees, ignores the spark of pain at the positioning. Tilts her face to the side and looks up at the unicorn again. "I won't hurt you. I'm a little lost myself, you see? I've never been in this part of the forest before, but I'm afraid of thunderstorms and I really wanna go home. Do you think you could show me the way?"

Laiken does not expect that to get her anywhere, but it feels good to have said it, especially when the next lightning-and-thunder-crash makes her flinch violently and bury her face in her knees, the skin at the back of her neck prickling with how close it was, how untamable the energies.

The unicorn nudges her again, though, a little more tentatively maybe, but enough to teach her that she should stop expecting things of him because he's not going to conform to her boring imagination.

He stays calm while she tries to get up on her own, lends his strength when she finds that she can't. He lets her rest a hand on his shoulder, takes some of her weight while he leads her along a path that only he can see, apparently. He pauses at some point, and when Laiken looks up from where she'd been focussing on setting one foot in front of the other, she realizes that she knows where they are, now.

"Are you coming with me?" she asks, almost stumbling over the words, she's so tired. She definitely stumbles when she tries to step forward on her own, sways and only stays upright because the unicorn quickly moves in front of her so she can catch herself on his back. "Yeeeah, don't think I can do this on my own."

But, for once, the unicorn doesn't seem like he's listening, staring at the ground instead, watching his hooves. He lifts his head higher and breathes deeply enough that Laiken can feel his lungs expanding under her palms, powerful and alive. He breathes again, in the same deep way, and now that he mentions it, the air does feel less thick than it did just seconds ago, and Laiken only notices now that it's gone that there was an uncomfortable tension in her body the entire time that she was in the unknown parts of the forest. She's pretty sure that this is supposed to mean something, that it's important somehow, but panic is exhausting, and healing that tree was exhausting; she's in pain and still has some way to go before she'll be home, and the storm isn't exactly letting up yet. Thick air still does not rank very high on her list of priorities.

And the unicorn might be shaking it off as well, she thinks, or at least his attention is back on her, and when she takes a step he moves out of the way, lets her lead this time.

His horn glows a little brighter with every step they take.

***

It's not Tuesday anymore when Laiken finally falls face-first into bed.

There are flashes of leading the unicorn into an empty stall in her parents' stables, of providing him with food and water, leaving the door open and telling him that he's free to leave should he choose to do so, and then there's pretty much nothing except a whole lot of pain and stumbling, but somehow she must have made it.

Her clothes are disgustingly wet and cold, but she's a Millennial; her first instinct is to grope around for the charging cable with her eyes already closed, plug in her phone and then roll out of bed again to somehow peel herself out of the clothes.

The phone dings with incoming messages as she's wrestling her pyjamas top over her head, and after she's curled herself into her blankets to try and get warm, instead of going to sleep like a sensible person would, she checks her messages. Half-asleep as she is, she painstakingly types out an answer, because leaving someone with the blue check marks but no response is impolite as hell.

She barely remembers to press send and set her alarm for tomorrow (later today, ugh) and put the phone back on the nightstand before her eyes fall closed and do not open again.