an: Killian feels abound in this one. First non-au I’ve written in a while. The title is pulled from Martin Chuzzlewit (by Charles Dickens)
"I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself." - Maya Angelou
"Peace - that was the other name for home." - Kathleen Norris
the strongest conjuration
Home is a strange concept. To any one person it could be a hundred different things, and every person he’s ever met has a different idea of what it means. Home, he’s found, is less a place than a feeling, that tingle of warmth in your gut, the rush you feel at the sound of a particularly happy laugh or an especially welcoming smell. Home is not a place, it is an emotion, the kind that can overwhelm you, blindside you one afternoon on some idle, mundane Tuesday.
But mostly, home is the one thing, above all others, that you miss when you’re away from it.
(He’s paraphrasing an especially wise woman, he knows, but there’s a certain eloquence to that kind of understanding that he can’t quite let go.)
Home, the elegant concept that it is, is something most people strive their whole lives to achieve.
Killian has found home, and lost it, more times than he cares to remember, but he knows now it all lead to this - his pinnacle, the zenith of his mundane (extraordinary) life.
He wonders if any of his former incarnations would believe his tale - but then, none of them had worked for this, none of them had seen what he’d seen and done what he’d done.
Not a single one would appreciate it with the same devoted passion he does.