#rather than the someone drowning and choking on the salt of a concept

[kaleuh]

the 'Ash Ketchum leaving/completing the Pokemon anime' to 'me having a long, emotional, pensive, existential bout of thought on the topics of life and change' pipeline

[consttellatio]

What Remains Once the War is Won? (Kili x Reader) - Part II

‘The King did make contact a couple months ago on behalf of his heir. They were demanding something.’ ‘And what did this son of Durin desire?’ Cîlien hands stilled, as if she did not want to sign what was coming next. You waited. A heavy sigh came and eventually, her eyes found yours. 'You. They wanted you.’ You are left to only blink and wait for your friend to get the twisted joke over with. Yet Cîlien remained unsmiling, her mouth a thin and worried line. Slowly, you remove your hands and meekly begin to sign. ‘And what did the Prince of Erebor want from me?’ ‘Your hand in marriage.'

The Princess of Aearmírë has been stolen away by the last of Durin's folk. Yet, the more time you begin to spend with Prince Kíli, the more you're starting to believe that something from your past is missing. Inspired by tictactotally_tif's 'The Winter King' on Ao3 (a truly brilliant fic). ------------------------------------------------------- Chapter II - A Gathering Storm As war approaches and forgotten memories stir, you're faced with making a difficult decision. ->Previous Chapter

Trigger Warnings: This chapter contains an attempt of sexual assault/cohesion, misuse of substances, mention and discussion of child loss and miscarriage to a secondary character (not reader), descriptions of non-canon character death, drowning and burnt bodies. Please scroll if this is uncomfortable for you. Use of gif just to resemble what the reader's makeup looks like in fic :)) -----------------------------------------------------

Your nightmares are getting worse.

For the last two weeks, as you lay down to close your eyes, the salt spray of Aearmírë’s sea turns to ash and the stench of death fills your lungs. There is an elf beside you, their lithe body crashing into you as you both narrowly manage to avoid the onslaught of flames heading in your direction.

Bodies are burning beside you, charred remains of someone unrecognisable, now broken and brittle, stares back at you. Your body and clothes reek of death and seared flesh, and only then do you realise that the smell of burning people is awfully similar to cooked pork. (You are grateful in this moment that your people do not cattle pig, you think you will never have the stomach for that palette)

You would much rather relive that dream, however, than what you dream of tonight.

In Aearmírë every child knows how to swim before they can walk. Every child can speak and hear clearer underwater than they ever could on land. Every newborn struggles to sleep on even the softest of feathered beds, for they had spent their first nine months safe inside the warmest sacks of their mother's water. So it only makes sense for you to sleep better against the solid stones of warm rock pools with a pillow of waterlilies for your head. In this dream, you drown. Impossible, the mere concept of it should be absurd. And you of all people share a name with the sea, what sense did that make?

And yet... There is a burning that pierces your throat and lungs. It's a cold flame that bites its way from the shackles on your wrists, to the weight that drags your ankles down lower and lower. When you scream a voice of a child comes out, screaming for its father, its mother and you. Help me, you scream, but the child's lungs fill with saltwater and you choke on your ambition.  But you made me, you cry to the ocean as it drags you down deeper.  But you left me, the water cries back and shoves your mouth until it's full with coarse sand and broken sea glass.  Your hands snake up to your head as if cradling it would ease the fury the sea was about to unleash upon you. Your body no longer stings, you don't realise that your cries have replaced the burn. You tug again and again on your hair, anything to cease the pain in your skull.  Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. You sink, and it crashes right through you.

-o-

Funny, how fear works.

You were born under the worst storm Aearmírë has ever seen. Your mother had stayed on the beach where even the bravest of sailors had barricaded themselves indoors. She had stayed, howling louder than the thunder that struck and decimated cliffs on the Isle of Cairhaud. Heaved stronger than the wind that tore the greatest ships to their doom, ripping through the hull as though it were just wet parchment disintegrating into mush. She had birthed a daughter, the same way the sea birthed ruin.

Stormborn, they all wanted to name you. Eist, who was more ocean than he was man, held you with pride as though you were his own trueborn grandchild.

‘Name her Stormborn,’ after Rhena passed you to him, ‘Name her after what no other man was able to survive. Name her Stormborn, for there is salt in her veins.’

Your mother hummed in dismissal and chose an elvish name instead. Because even though you achieved the impossible, even though you should never have survived that storm, even though they whispered that for a minute you had not breathed, that the leader of the Curudnen had walked into the sea with your tiny, cold body as your mother wailed, and returned with your own gurgled cries living and breathing, even though you had no right to be.

Because even though you had achieved so much in the first moments of your life, you had made one unfortunate mistake: you were born a girl.

It did not matter that Rhena was Queen, that your mother was to be Queen after her, that you were the early formation of one of the greatest matriarchies to grace this earth. Your father was one of eight sons. He hailed further East, from a patriarchal land that believed in only sons ruling and inheriting. He loved you, in his own deluded way, but made no secret of Rhun’s rule of favouriting sons, not daughters.

So that sixteen-year-old girl (because your mother was truly only ever a girl, a girl who thought she could kiss the salt from your father's pride) hummed and named you Aereth after the sea. An elvish name, in hopes that the elves would agree to a marriage- because that was the best thing you could ever give to your family.

Ironic, how life works.

You spent the beginning of your life being nursed and kissed by the Curudnen who whispered Stormborn as though it were a secret. You threw yourself off cliffs, swam with fish and collected pieces of driftwood as though they were dwarven jewels.

Your parents were not so dissimilar in the way you threw yourself into life. You tried to climb the highest rocks of the Celduin Delta, you failed, and then tried again. They tried for a son, they failed, and tried again.

Strange, how you’ve lived through war, pillages and raids to your shores, your entire family long dead and yet it’s your dreams that pin you to your sheets.

Your saviour tonight is your chambermaid, a fifteen-year-old girl who was only assigned to this post because she’s the only one who can withstand the force of your body’s hammered lashing.

‘What did you see?’ She begs, wanting to know what could have caused your fist to her chin. The girl was a child of the Curudnen, though, she did not quite have the ‘gift’ the Curudnen required their people to have. So she was placed here, to follow and serve the girl named after the sea. You don’t know her name, you don’t bother to, they all end up leaving after your nails end up raking scars into their skin during your night terrors.

Yet... she’s not quite like the others. When she asks about your dreams it’s not out of annoyance or frustration. She looks at you with feverish eyes, as if she were a follower and you a messiah.

To her, you are like no other. To her, your dreams come true.

Your eyes fall to the window where shadows from torches flicker and dance across your room. Outside, no children play in the fountain. In their stead there are soldiers. The air clangs with steel, orders being barked from bloodied men and the Curudnen’s voices rang out with frantic healing. As you looked at their faces you saw combinations of crushing grief and raging celebration.

‘How long have I been sleeping?’ ‘Since her Majesty left your chambers, your Grace.’

That had been midday, and judging by outside it was now the middle of the night.

‘Twelve hours?’ Or thirteen, possibly fourteen, but you were so tired, and did it even matter?

You spied the half-empty sleeping draughts next to your bed, and made sure that when the girl wasn’t looking, to hide the empties beneath the vanity. You had to think of better hiding places fast, the last maid spotted the last stash so soon and it could not happen again.

Mermaid Tears, the medicine was called. Inside the vial, it was as black as the night sky, but a drop on your tongue or finger would show its true form as a cerulean blue. In small quantities, it helps with minor ailments but causes slight drowsiness, in large it sends the body into a catatonic state so it could heal. You’d first been given it a year ago after you’d-

Your hands that have already begun reaching out for the bottle still.

Why? Why had you been given it?

Did it even matter anymore? You don't remember any of it. If something can no longer be remembered, then did it even matter in the first place?

No, you thought as you unscrewed the lid and bottled down the panic fevering in your chest, and I don’t care to.

(But you do, that panic cries out, you care so much that you smother grief with whatever can sedate it.)

When the girl turns her back you pour three drops onto your finger, and then bring it to your mouth pretending you'd pricked it.

It tastes like milk and honey, crisp salt sprinkled over smoked fish, like Dorwinion wine and aged cheese, or seaweed and lily flowers. Like mother’s milk to a newborn- like kisses against your lips of a lover you can no longer remember, - like accidentally gulping saltwater when all you need is air. Like moulding bread to a starving beggar, or clotted blood from an oozing wound, like a spinning wheel full of lies that keeps turning faster and faster pricking your finger over and over, it’s like catching a crow that’s been picking at your rotting flesh but not offering you a taste, it’s wrapping your hands around its throat as it caws: remember, remember, silly Aereth can’t remember. CAW! CAW! They found her bloodied and beaten but it was not her bones that were broken. CAW! CAW!

It tastes like honey and broken beaks.

It was all the tastes you have ever known, and yet none of them.

You finish suckling, your finger empty.

‘Queen Rhena took her forces out to meet the unbannered on the Caranthir Crossing.’ the chambermaid explained. ‘And?’ ‘She hammered them, obviously…but,’ ‘But?’ You repeated, feeling like one of those repetitive colourful birds from across the sea. ‘We lost a lot of men, and there are still ships on course to our shore.’

The tips of your fingers were cold to the touch with no feeling, a side effect of the medicine. Flexing your fingers so that the blood would circulate, you grab a bed robe made of blue shot velvet with threads of gold running throughout. You slink the material on, palming the gold trim on its sides willing for feeling to come back to your hands. You catch your reflection in the mirror. The white slip you wear bares all the scars and marks you’ve accumulated over the years, you cannot remember where half of them came from. The most prominent was the one on your face, it curved from beneath your left eye to your temple. You pull a strand of hair out of the bird's nest your sleep had turned into your hair and pulled it over in an attempt to hide it. You grab the lantern from the vanity and beckoned for the handmaid to follow.

You may be a fool to wander the halls of Malhadhu at night, but you were not so foolish to wander them alone.

For the aftermath of a battle, it is surprisingly still. Only as you near your grandmother's chambers that more and more people begin to pass you. All Curudnen or soldiers, most healers.

All stained with blood.

You grip the lantern tighter and quicken the pace.

There is a roaring fire that crackles and sparks as you enter the Royal chambers. The hearth illuminates two figures locked in a heated discussion, their voices hiss, spit and rage as though they themselves were ablaze.  At your entrance, your uncle and Eist’s voices die out like water to a flame.

‘Aereth?’ Your uncle calls, leaving Eist's side. Rhain was the bastard of your true grandfather, Rhena’s second husband. She took him in as a child mostly to spite her husband, but also with the knowledge that your mother was the first and last child Rhena swore to have.

He was quite handsome and intelligent for the bastard of a fishmonger’s daughter. His hair was a mass of dark curls, his eyes a translucent green that shifted in warning to anyone who came too close to him. He was kind and his company wasn’t too poor either, that is… if you didn’t mind socially awkward silences.

There was rarely silence with Eist on the other hand, and it was worse when the two were together. Rhain was a man of study, he put his faith into books, facts and calculations, whilst Eist put his belief in the sea and its omens. He could circumnavigate any sea or landmass just from reading the stars. After years of sailing, pillaging and who knows what other tales, his age finally has begun to show. The lines upon his face are weathered by storms, and time has stolen the bronze from his hair. Although age replaced silver and grey into his locks, it could never steal the laughter in his deep blue eyes.

‘I came as soon as I heard.’ Your robes pool around your feet like water and you’re painfully aware of how small and fragile you must appear compared to everyone clad in armour around you.

‘Are you alright?’ Eist asks, he and Rhain looking at you with the same concern in their eyes. Still covered in blood, grime and worse, your safety is still somehow their top priority.

‘Perfect,’ you grumble. ‘What’ve I missed?’

‘Your Grandmother rode out to meet the forces attacking Rhunreach. We were able to end the raid in Caranthir Crossing, but she was forced to fall back. We handled all that was left of-’

‘Rhena… retreated?’ You interrupt. ‘Rhena would never retreat.’ Your Grandmother was infamous for vowing to die in battle, there was no greater honour in her mind.

An uncomfortable expression settles on Rhain’s face, and Eist cannot look you in the eye.

‘Aereth, Rhena was badly injured, she lives but,’ before he can finish, you whirl towards their shared quarters ready to barge in.  ‘Let the Curudnen finish treating her.’ Rhain cautions, stepping in your way. ‘Then you can see her.’

Behind the door, you hear the whispers of their healing in their ancient tongue.

‘And you?’ you ask, reluctantly turning to Eist. ‘How are you holding up?’

‘You know me, lass.’ he sighs a weak smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. He strings his fingers between his hands and nervously looks at you. ‘You should know, we haven’t seen Cîlien in hours. She was not with us when we passed the gates of Luindor.’

‘She’s fine,’ you say more to yourself than him. ‘Cîlien will be fine,’

First Rhena, now Cîlien- you wish you had downed that vial.

‘You look worse than me, and I just had to wade through a river of blood, shit and worse.' Eist takes a seat upon a tattered bench, and begins stripping away his war-torn leather. You do your best to sit still beside him, knowing that pacing will only make you more lightheaded. It appears that Rhain is the only one who notices the sheen over your eyes. ‘Did you take the sleeping draught I made you?’

‘Yes.’ ‘Did it help?’ ‘No.’

‘What was it this time?’ he asks, frustrated that the seventh attempt of his concoction had still failed to work. ‘Keeping count?’ you try to jest, but as you reach for your cheeks you feel tears marking them.

‘Last month you dreamt of golden rivers running underground- last week it was mountains that could move and last night you screamed of dragon fire.’ ‘Please,’ your voice breaks, ‘Please, don’t make me say it.’

‘Oh, Aereth,’ he comforts, bundling you into his arms. ‘It was only a dream.’ ‘But it wasn’t,’ you cry, ‘it was real.’ You press your cheek hard into his tabard, not caring about the blood, puss and worse from his patients. ‘I dreamt I was Lithien.’

Your uncle and Eist stiffen at the mention of your sister. Most people did. The truth was that Aearmírë’s children did not fear the sea. At least, not in the same way foreigners to your land did. Your people understood that both peace and cruelty coincided within the waves. It could give life as much as it could take it.

Cruel, but fair.

Aearmírë’s children are not known to fear the sea, but your sister did.

Born after six years of miscarriages and stillbirths, she was the only sibling born after you that had lived longer than a month.

Tiny, with rasping lungs and cracked flaking skin, it was clear to all who held her she was an ill child. It could have been the vials that your mother dosed herself or the fertility herbs that she bribed travelling merchants for - instead of the promise of a fertile womb, your mother’s narrow hips became sharper, bones threatening to tear its way out of its prison. Her pallid skin stretched out thin and tight across her face, as though the smallest of smiles could easily rip through it. How hard childbirth must have been on her already burdened body.

Odd and strange since birth, Lithien had been unlike any other child. She spent most of her formative years in a sickbed, where you were only ever allowed to sit at the foot of in case you over-excited her. Eventually, she became healthy enough to follow you into Aearmírë’s waters, but she had missed so much in the early years of her life that the ocean was as foreign to her as songs were to the deaf.

When you saw the sea you saw the creation of life, the harbinger of hopes and dreams, promises of destiny lulling at your feet.

Lithien saw the cracking of waves, whirlpools of terror and storms that crushed ships like they were toys. So she had stayed bundled and scared by your side, hidden far away from your mother's shores.

You looked nothing alike apart from the faint trace of your father scattered upon each other’s faces. Unlike you, she was truly your mother’s daughter, with her thin ashen hair, frail and narrow body. Even though she was covered head to toe in open sores and carried a constant sallowed expression, you thought that when she smiled it was more beautiful than any other.

Your father had brought her into this world, pulling her out of your mother before the sea could meet her, desperate to see if the sea had finally blessed him with a son.

Your father and his sea also took her out of this world.

You thought that cruel, you thought that unfair.

Lithien’s high thrilled voice always manages to cut through your dreams– that’s what wakes you up, always, the terror in your sister’s drowned screams.

‘If I ask you something, will you promise to answer in truth?’ Rhain mumbles into the crown of your head, and you choke on tears as you promise.

‘Did you truly fall from that cliff, or did you -’

Before he can finish the doors open, and the Aphadonen steps out. The leader of the Curudnen stands above the rest of them no matter what room she entered. No one looked her in the eye, it was a superstition held by all that even you followed. Perhaps that is the reason why she wore a long, embroidered veil that separated her from all others. She could have been just like the rest of the Curudnen, if it were not for the atmosphere in every room feeling as though it were being lulled towards her. The long, loose gown trails after her, the deep slashes in the front exposing her bare feet and legs, covered in ink. The majority of her body was covered in it, the palm of her hands are tattooed with waves of the sea, her arms hold ink of creatures below the sea, some you had not even known to be true.

You wondered if she were young or old beneath the blue veil. If it were lifted would it reveal a grizzled, old hag or a fair, sweetfaced maiden?

All you know is that she was the one who brought you into this world, you were how she earned that veil and title. She had held your cold and still body under the waves until the waters sought fit to give you life again.

‘Stormborn,’ she whispers in her tongue as she passes.

Definitely old, you thought, she always sounded so weary and tired, as though she held the weight of the world in the artistry she called skin.

The last time you had seen her was just a year ago, you were wounded and bleeding yet it was not your body that was broken. But you still could not remember why-

‘You may see her now,’ she calls behind her, as if sensing the turbulence of your thoughts.

It no longer matters what you could not remember.

If the past cannot be remembered, then did it ever truly matter?

-o-

You spend the following day by Rhena’s side, your hands finding comfort in tying and then untying fishing nets. Your fingers weave the rope as you stare out of the window, not needing to look as it were second nature. If Eist is not excusing himself to make war preparations then he sits at the edge of Rhena’s bed holding his wife’s pale hand. As far as you know, your Grandmother forced unbannered troops to admit defeat, it was over.

Yet if you squint at the evening sun, distant dots have begun to appear on the horizon.

Rhain has set up his apothecary in Rhena’s room. Her tables are filled with his cauldrons, vials and various other instruments. Your uncle floats around them with the grace of a man at ease, as if he were not stocking up for war. If your eyes are not on the horizon, they are watching the sprinkling of grounded pumice into that cauldron, the essence of eel in another, the slicing of shellfish before they are thrown into the brew. You watch a master in his element, the only man who dared study alongside the Curudnen devoting his life to the study of alchemy.

Eist thumps his boots against Rhena’s floor as though he were dying to say something. Something ate at him, something he didn’t want to say aloud judging at how his eyes flickered to every one of them now and then. It takes the crushing of coral, three metres of net untangled, and several vials filled with Mermaid Tears before the tapping comes to an abrupt stop.

‘I saw a crimson sunrise as we sailed into Malhadhu.’

‘Yes… you have said,’ Rhena rasps. Her usually sun-tanned skin is deathly pale, dark hair matted with dirt and grime, her underclothes tattered and bloodied.

‘It’s a bad omen, no good will come of it.’

‘You are on land now, sailor,’ Rhena teases, although the exhaustion that lines her face seeps all humour from the room. ‘Leave the troubles of a red sun to the ones on sea who need them.’

‘You forced unbannered from Caranthir Crossing, of that your people are grateful. But, their ships were still last seen crossing south over the Rhunreach River and the Trident.’ The Trident is what your people called the tip of the peninsula to the east of Malhadhu and Luindor. Tales told that in ages gone, your forebearers had come to this land, and the first king, Maelor, had planted his trident in the ground during a great storm, and declared all the lands and its seas his own.

‘Headed to Dorwinion, or Rohan, if they're smart.’ ‘And if not?’

A low sigh escapes Rhena’s chest.

‘Déothain’s ships are docked at our port, their army with it. If our numbers are as low as you believe they are then we have his men.’

‘We only have his men if Aereth accepts his proposal.’

At the mention of your name you sink further into your chair and hide deeper under your net, choosing to try and make as little an impression as possible.

‘We have Aearmírë’s sea, a sea which no one but our people can navigate. We have more steel, we have more ships, we have an impenetrable fortress that, if it comes to it, has the supplies we need to withstand a blockade for years. We are prepared in case-’ A thick, heavy cough snuffs the rest of what she spoke out, contorting her body into a frail, broken thing. When it ceases, her head flops back against the pillow, hair tumbling all over her pale forehead as she bats Eist’s help away.

He doesn’t say anything for a long time, just stares down at rough, calloused hands. No one else says anything either, relying on Rhena’s wheezing to fill the void. Rather quickly, she gains enough strength to breathe with ease and that stops, so the silence dips from comfortable to awkward to painful.

‘What was my betrothed like?’ You ask breaking the silence. Rhena, who is possibly on her death bed, still manages to roll her eyes.

‘Polite, talkative, quite easy on the eye,’ Eist replies, his boots have gone from tapping to slowly rocking back and forth. ‘He’s had a gift made for you, soaked it in our waters for it be blessed. He’s learnt all of our customs, has even asked for your wedding to be blessed by the Curudnen … that is if you still follow the old faith.’

‘That is,’ Rhena chokes ‘if she accepts.’

‘How was his trip?’ You ask, pretending that Rhena could not be heard.

‘Surely that’s something to ask him yourself?’ Eist takes a swig out of a flask that you know does not hold water. ‘Speaking of trips, how was your fall?’

‘Fine,’ you grumble, ripping a piece of newly tied rope out to start again.

‘Didn’t sound fine.’ He looks at your battered and bruised form, waiting for an explanation. When he doesn’t get one, he leans forward to examine the ropes you’ve tied. ‘Well, at least you didn’t scream.’

‘I didn’t,’ you snapped, red cheeks blazing. ‘And I won’t when I’m called to fight.’

‘Don’t,’ Rhena warns.

‘How am I to rule our people one day if I do not fight for them?’ ‘She’s right,’ Rhain spoke from his dark corner of the room. ‘Should we fall, they will look to Aereth to rule.’ You smiled, comforted that at least one person believed in you. You should speak freely more often, Uncle. 'Or...,' he continues, 'they'll coup and usurp her at any sign of weakness.' No, you take it back, you much prefer him silent.

‘We will not fall, because we are not under attack,’ your grandmother hisses. ‘I killed the sack of shit they called a leader, this war was won before it even began.’

That uncomfortable silence returns and the air grows heavy. No one looks at each other, even Rhain hunches over an empty cauldron, pretending there is something fascinating at the bottom so he can hide from the rest of the room. Your stomach twists, a sea of doubt beginning to storm in your chest.

‘I fear,’ Eist begins slow, tensing his body in preparation for the onslaught. ‘this war is far from over.’

Rhena snaps.

‘It’s not a war if the boy they call a general shits himself and cries for mother when I hold a trident to his throat.’

You roll your eyes, ignoring the twang of jealousy over having a mother to cry out to.

‘I’m not a child, you were half my age when you took the throne.’ At fifty-seven years Rhena outlived five brothers, two husbands, a daughter and six grandchildren and all that remains of her legacy is you.

It must be lonely, you think, having to rule over a sea full of ghosts.

‘I was a child, I am giving you the choice that I never had. To not fight, to not marry... and yet you spit it back in my face.’ ‘By marrying Déothain, I secure our line. To him, I am the future of Aearmírë.’ ‘To him, you’re just prize. A trophy he can show off until he realises you’re not as shiny as he believes you are.’

Before you have a chance to respond, whether that be to bite back or to wipe the tears that build in your eyes, Jory presents himself to the room. He rests his hand over his heart, and bows as low as his wounds will allow him, before rushing to Rhena’s side and handing a scroll with shaking hands. Unravelled, the parchment is wrinkled and deformed but you don’t focus on the rushed writing or the broken seal. Instead, dread pools in the pits of your stomach as your grandmother’s face turns grey.

‘Well?’ Asks her husband, who has never mastered reading the Curudnen’s tongue. ‘Rhena?’ he starts again, in a voice of a concerned lover, not a King. ‘They're here,’ she whispers, disbelief scarring every inch of her face. ‘They’re already here.’

No, you wanted to cry, no, no, no. No one but your people could navigate The Sea of Rhun so fast and no one could enter the water surrounding Malhadhu unless the Curudnen blessed their travel.

‘How long do we have?’ ‘Hours… if we’re lucky and the tide slows them.’

The fishing net drops at your feet.

‘I’d like to speak to my Grandmother... alone.’ you state, and everyone in the room manages to scatter.

You turn back to your grandmother- ‘Déothain will not give us his men unless I marry him.’  ‘He sees no point in losing men and ships for a land or bride he won’t own,’ she says and you kneel at the bed beside her.

‘You know what I have to do.’ 'You don’t,’ she breathes, it sounds like agony, ‘I don’t want you to.’

‘This was our deal, remember? I said when I returned that I’d take my place as your heir. If you won’t let me fight, then at least let me help our people?’ Leaning forward, you curl your fingers around her hands which were clawing her sheets. Slowly, you uncurl them from their death-grip and examine how both of your hands were stained, yours with blue poison and hers with blood. ‘I know why you’re afraid but I am not my mother, I am your heir. I'm not a fool when it comes to men. It will be easy, he’ll do whatever I say.’

‘Yes… I am quite aware of the effect that you have on men.’ A small, fragile smirk teases at the edge of her lips, and then it’s whisped away as soon as it appears. ‘Go now, before he leaves.’

You’re only good at obeying orders if they're from someone else’s mouth, blame that on eldest daughter syndrome. You’re no good at following orders if they’re your own, you can blame that on the self-destructive flair you inherited.

‘Love you,’ you whisper against the brow of her head, ignoring the sweat and grime that stained it. As soon as your lips leave her, you spin toward the door.

‘Aereth,’ her voice calls, it is hoarse and barely there and almost gets lost in the whisping of your robes. ‘Cîlien will be waiting for you in your wedding bed, do as she says even if it means disobeying your husband. Cîlien will deal with it.’

You know by it, Rhena means him.

But Cîlien is gone, Cîlien has not been seen. By law, the moment you say your vows you belong to your husband. How can anyone save you from what happens behind closed doors?

‘Aereth,’ she begins again. ‘You will rule this land someday, let no man forget that. Don’t let them forget like your mother did.’

-o-

The walk to the chambers in which your guests are hosted isn’t long. It's made even quicker by the rushing of soldiers passing by, causing you to pick up your pace.

You didn’t care how tonight ended, as long as it doesn’t end with the slaughter and pillage of your city. Then, you’ll consider it a success.

You unbutton the top of your shift so the right amount of skin was on display, let your robe drape down exposing your bare shoulders. You barely manage to readjust the lock of hair covering your scar before the door is yanked open.

Déothain stands before you frozen, as if unsure where to place you. He is not tall at all compared to the average man, but is powerfully made enough that it feels as though he towers over you.

He’s handsome, you think as ice-blue eyes widen before bowing deep, as if just remembering that you are royalty. Oh, your mouth drops as you take in jet-black hair that cascades to his shoulders.

(You dreamt of hair like that once. A man sat between your legs as you ran fingers through thick, tangled hair. Except his locks were not as dark, they fell soft and unkempt around his shoulders.

You debated braiding it, you debated putting a crown on it.)

‘Are you alright, Princess?’

Remembering reality, you sink into an even deeper curtsey, making sure you feel Déothain peering down your dress as you do.

‘Forgive my intrusion, but I heard you were asking his Majesty for a possible wedding date?’ ‘I… yes,’ he stammers as you catch his gaze on your chest. ‘His Highness is most kind,’ he recovers, diplomatic.

Anger ripples in your core. You both know that he will let your people burn out of spite of your refusal. You wonder how much it would ache, for him to have made this perilous journey only for him to keep his favourite parts confined to his breachers. Stay demure, otherwise, your city falls.

‘How about tonight?’ You offer, mustering the appearance of a timid girl who has never been this close with a man on her own before.

Here, with your slip displaying so much skin, lips trembling, eyes wide and afraid, you look so frightened, so innocent.

You know how to play men, you know exactly who you need to be in order to get what you want. Those who look at you are so easily blinded by youth.

Déothain, predictably, puffs up.

-o-

You think it must be nerves, as your fingers pick apart the frayed edges of your veil.

It’s just excitement, you tell your maids as your stomach sinks and bile rises in your throat. It’s just fear, as you adjust, and then readjust, the crown on your head over and over again.

The ocean can be like that sometimes when it senses a new course on the horizon. It will carry your vessel along the waves, even if it must be dragged along the coral and reefs on the way. But in the end, there will be something better, something so great it will spread out open wide at your feet without you even realising.

Or so you tell yourself.

Every bride in your land wore dresses made of gold and sunlight, you will be no different. They paint your eyes and the crown of your head in glittering golds and spattered sea blues. The entirety of your forehead is covered in blue like it were warpaint.

Is love supposed to feel so warlike? You trade armour for a corset and yet it is no more comfortable. The bodice is made of shells and pearls, your jewellery is made of sea glass and driftwood. Your body is no longer sure where the sea ends and you begin. Your dress is made of pure sunlight, each layer sewn with beads and jewels whilst your hair is pinned with coral and beads under a jewelled net. Your veil takes the entirety of your bedroom floor, every stitch telling a story. Your grandmother drips the ends of your fingers until the beginning of your wrists gold. You did hers in return and wondered whether she could not see stained blue dots from your habit or if she just choose to ignore them. Some of the younger Curudnen stand by your door silent and waiting. Their bodies are draped in robes of dark blue, runes painted in the same colour across their arms and face. Their hair hung long and wet around their faces, pieces of shells strung throughout. Around their arms they covered themselves with material vaguely similar to fishnets, the rope was wrapped tightly with remnants of shells, seaweed and other drowned things. They much looked like poor, drowned things thinking of it, especially compared to the golden shine of your kin.

‘Is this what you want?’ The circles under Rhena's eyes now look like they belong there. ‘I want my people safe, I want to stay forever by your side.’

You thought of that man you dreamed of, how sweet it had felt to run your fingers through his hair.

‘I can learn to love him,’ you whispered as Rhena watched your dreamlike state. ‘It won’t be hard.’

You look more beautiful than you ever have. You feel worse than you've ever felt.

It takes three people to hold your train, when you reach your great hall all of them scatter like candles in the wind.

‘It’s time to let her go,’ Rhain whispers and eventually has to force Rhena into relaxing her claw-like grip. It is Eist who takes her by the side and gently walks her out of the doors.

‘I’ve made plenty of elixirs to be safe,’ he confides quietly. ‘They are similar to the ones I concocted when you first started your monthly courses. This acts the same, but you will need to take them once monthly to stop any unwanted pregnancies. There’s enough stocked for a year, and if you forget to take any I can brew a-’

‘Thank you,’ you interrupt before he can go on, ‘for everything,’ ‘What you’re doing for your people, for us, no one will forget it.’

As you tuck yourself into his arm, you look up and spy that under his cloak hides deep, rich metallic silk.

The purples of mourning.

‘Really?’ You roll your eyes. ‘I’m not dying. It’s a marriage, not a death sentence.’

I am not my mother.

‘Don’t blame me, Eist and Rhena are both wearing theirs too.’ You roll your eyes deeper into your skull that you swear you can see the stone archway behind you.

‘Why?’ you ask, to which he then shrugs. Yet the small lift and fall of his shoulders were so simple and broken that you knew you would never crack the layers to Rhain’s meaning.

At least someone was mourning the little girl who once flung herself off the highest peaks with a storm in her teeth.

You’ve spent years fighting, travelling and bringing allies and intelligence to your family's throne. Now all you’ll be remembered for is spreading your legs to a stranger in hopes of rearing an heir. You remember Rhain’s concoctions, not if I have a say in it.

You bite your tongue harder, tasting blood as the great doors open and the descend to your future dawns faster.

The beach is shadowed in darkness, there is a breeze in the air and the servants who come to hoist your train hold on tighter. The only source of light comes from the candles held by all those waiting on the beach. Standing in the water were the Curudnen, further out the Aphadonen who stood alongside your Queen.

In the palm of Rhena’s hand is a small candle, whose flickering light seemed to sing sorrows in the amethysts that decorate her mourning robes. The wind causes her hair to be strewn and tangled, black kohl around her eyes smudged and smearing more and more each second.

Waiting for you at the water’s edge is Déothain. As Rhain hands you over, you note that under the moonlight his hair somehow appears darker than you thought possible, black as midnight even. It is tied up high and the smell of heavily fragrant oils coming from it hit you like the tide.

‘I was told that Aearmírë’s brides were mesmerising, but you truly are-’ ‘Later,’ you whisper, looking out at the sea you can see distant outlines of ships devoid of all colour.

Taking your hand from your uncle, he leads you into shallow water. Your handmaids follow behind, holding your train until the water reaches your knees and you come to a halt. They let go and the train along with your veil spirals out circling on the water around you.

As the Aphadonen opens her mouth to speak, your eyes focus on the sea behind her. You are unable to focus on the vows and prayers she preaches, your attention laying only on the ships that draw nearer and nearer. Your husband squeezes your hand tight, when you look up you see kind eyes and a tight-lipped smile that says ‘I know, I see them too.’ You take small comfort in knowing you are not alone.

Moonlight bathes the water of the bowl the Curudnen brings before you, when it is obstructed by wisps of clouds she mumbles a short prayer before passing to Rhena.

Moving before you, she dips the golden tips of her trembling fingers into the bowl before splashing it onto your face, your chest and your wrists.

‘For the life you have and for the life you will create. For the children you will give back to the sea.’

Déothain repeats the same verse after you and his hand comes to grip your waist, the other your back.

‘I pray you never stray too far from each other’s waters, for you to always return to each other’s shore,’ Rhena murmurs.

‘May you never stray,’ Déothain repeats, lowering your body into the cold waters. ‘May you always return,’ you reply as your body is dipped low into sharp water that stabs like ice. When you submerge you are heaved against the chest of your husband.

‘The Aphadonen pronounces you as husband and wife.’ Before you can react, Déothain lips are pushed against your own. Perfumed hands clutch your waist, chest, thighs, anywhere they can touch. When he releases you, you find Rhain’s face is a grim sight and Eist grinds his teeth so hard you can hear it.

Rhena’s face is still and impassive, as though nothing a man can do can shock her.

‘Gather your men and ready your steel, our ships and soldiers are waiting on you.’ Her whole body shakes as though it may crumble, but she looks brave and terrifying, her dark eyes on fire. ‘You may escort your bride to your marriage bed and return when you reach its doors. Aereth will remain safe there.’

You turn to find that most of the candles have been extinguished from the wind. Seeking Eist’s face, you can tell by his expression that this is another one of his bad omens. Remembering how to walk with all the dignity you can muster, you hold your hand out to your husband to guide you from your waters. You won’t give anyone on this shore an inkling of fear or shame. You walk to your marriage bed with your husband by your side, head held high.

-o-

It takes you longer than you like to admit to return to your chambers. Your sopping, wet skirts weighing heavier than any Aearmírën brides had warned you. Somehow your body does not give out beneath the weight of your skirts and manages to hold yourself up on the vanity. On the carved driftwood lays a tiny, curled note.

Running late - C

The lock of the door rattles behind you and your stomach sinks as your husband's body presses up against you.

Alone.

‘You were asked to return-'

‘You truly are the most beautiful bride I have ever seen,’ he mumbles into your neck. ‘How can I be asked to part so soon?’ Before you can get used to the feeling of iron studs crushing your back from his jerkin, two hands dig sharply into the fabric of your waist and force you into facing him.

‘Are you alright?’ His claw-like grip falters and gentle hands wipe away tears that you hadn’t realised had fallen. ‘Why do you weep?’

A hard question with a simple answer.

You do spend most of your days suddenly crying out of nowhere without realising. You can never give an answer as to why, only that there are days where it feels as though all the grief in your bones finds a way to cut bloody ribbons out of your heart.

‘I am just so happy to be your bride,’ you lie.

His gaze still lingers on your figure, even though you are crying, even though this is the most modest dress you’ve ever worn.

‘Liar,’ two hands rip the thin fabric covering your collarbones, and all you can do is watch as the shells and pearls of your dress are sent exploding across the room. Fingers trail along your exposed neckline and the flesh that peeks out the top of your corset. You keep your eyes fixed on the details of the wall behind you, imagining you were anywhere else before focusing on holding yourself tall as Déothain attempts (and fails) to peel back more layers of your dress.

‘Do not fear war, Aereth.’ He whispers, mistaking your trembling as dread for the war brewing outside and not the unwanted touch of his skin. ‘I will not fall, I will return to warm your bed.’

‘Perhaps, if your chambermaids are kind enough to relieve you of your clothes, you would not have to wait that long.’ His arms twist around you, one hand holding you down by your shoulder, the other slithering down to your thighs. ‘Actually, I do not think that I can.’ His mouth presses down hard on your lips. His cheeks are freshly shaved, it is rough and leaves burning rashes wherever he touches.

With a crash, the door swings open along with the sound of familiar footsteps. Cîlien does not wait to be called in, she enters as though she owns the place. In a way, she always has. It takes her a moment to see your dishevelled appearance, your body pressed against Déothain, his own looming above it.

Her fingers inch toward the blade concealed in her riding cloak.

Déothain barks orders at her, frothing at the mouth with frustration. In response, Cîlien ignores him and looks only at you.

‘I can kill him if you’d like?’ She signs, forgetting (ignoring) that by Aearmírë’s law Déothain now has every right to your body. ‘I could make it slow, we’d dump the body in the marshland where nothing ever grows.’

‘What does the she-elf say?’ He spits.

‘The battle has begun,’ you lie, sparing him. ‘Your people call on you to lead.’

He nods, unafraid, not aware that the real danger is not war, but instead stands in this very room with curved ears and elvish braids. His hand clamps onto the back of your neck as he pulls you in for one last kiss. He follows the chain that hangs around your neck all the way down to where it nestles between your breasts. Pulling the necklace out, his fingers grip the conch shell and pushes it against your lips.

‘Pray that I make it back to you, pray that when I return you will give me many sons.’

I pray you fall on your own sword, I pray that when I see you next I will be a widow, dressed in the purples of mourning.

You press a kiss against the shell before he lifts it high above your head and over his own.

He barges past Cîlien as though she were nothing, as though she does not eat men like him for breakfast. The moment that he leaves, your friend is on you, quickly adjusting your dress so you are decent, lithe fingers attempting to remove any marks left on you.

‘Are you-’

‘No,’ you signed, ‘and I don’t wish to speak of it.’

You wait for an ‘I told you so,’ but instead, she grips your hand and leads you to the door. You follow with no questions asked, even when your journey meets its end at Rhena’s stables.

‘They’re here,’ a voice calls from the dark. You turn and find your grandmother still in her drenched robes. Dark bloodied spots have begun to blotch their way through the fabric. Before you can reach for her she is dragging you toward her mare.

Your bare feet dig deep and plant themselves in the ground. ‘I’m not leaving.’

‘You are,’ Rhena declares and pulls a short dagger out of her sleeve. She and Cîlien drop down to their knees and make fast work out of slicing and cutting the train of your skirt.

‘I can fight,’ you argue as you watch beads of sweat drip down her fevered face. ‘You know I can, you’ve seen it. I can fight better than any unbannered scum-’ ‘It is not the unbannered that I fear,’ she spits, throwing away the fabric. She pulls riding boots toward you and taps twice on the leather, signalling you to slide your feet in.

You do not.

‘You fear the dwarves?’ You cry. ‘There is a war on our shores and you fear dwarves?’ ‘How do you know-’ Rhena’s eyes find Cîlien’s and realisation sets in. ‘It doesn’t matter, I will not put it past their kind to strike when our people are suffering.’ ‘I’ll explain everything when we see each other again,’ she promises as she forces your feet into laced boots. You have to help her up, her strength wasted on making sure you would not trip over yourself.

She is so weak, you think as you take in her fevered state, so weak yet unafraid. She will not be fighting tonight, and you can tell from the way her jaw is locked in a tight, tense way set to spoil if you tug on it.

‘Cîlien will take you to Dorwinion, there you will be offered refuge. You must only travel there if the wine road is safe. There is a cabin not far where our scouts and rangers rest.’

‘I know of it,’ you grumble as you’re forced onto the mare. It’s too dark to see what shade its coat or mane is, you settle on the name Shadow for the shadows are all you can currently see.

‘You will stay there until you are given the signal that the wine road is safe. When you get to Dorwinion, tell no one of your marriage. There will be many men who will offer their swords if they believe you are unwed.’

‘I can fight-’  ‘And you will,’ Rhena declares over your cry. ‘If Aearmírë falls.’ ‘It won’t,’

‘If it does, then you must be the one who claims it back. You cannot do so without an army.’ ‘Is that not why I was just wed? For my husband’s army?’

‘Déothain will be dead by dawn and so will his men. By the time you reach Dorwinion, you will be a widow in need of an army.’

There is blood smeared on Rhena’s brow, wet crimson seeps through her dress yet still she tucks your feet into the stirrups like you were a child that couldn’t quite reach. ‘There is a change of clothes waiting for you in the cabin. Here, take this,’ she pants, thrusting a heavy and tightly threaded bag at you. ‘Your uncle packed it.’

Words fail you as the stable doors swing open, the Common speech dries upon your mouth and your mother-tongue is all you can manage to call out.

‘Nain,’ you whimper for your grandmother.

‘You leave that dress at the cabin you hear me? Let no one know you were married tonight.’ Her breathing is slow and heavy, her eyes have begun rolling into the back of her head.

‘Nain,’ you call again.

‘You’ll need a warmer cloak,’ and with that, she throws a thick, furred cowl upon you.

‘Nain,’ you shout, and you swear the roaring of the waves grows louder with your cry. ‘Don’t do this, don’t make me leave, don’t send me away again.’

For a moment Rhena looks at you and you are no longer speaking to a Queen. Instead, a frail, battle-worn woman who has lost so much looks back at you.

‘You’re all I have,’ she pleads, tangling your fingers with her own. ‘We are all that is left. I won’t lose you again.’

And with that, she kisses your wrist and the gold from your wedding paint swirls with her blood. She then whispers into the ear of the mare between your thighs in your mother-tongue: ‘Ride hard, ride true.’ With that the horse whines, before charging off into the night.

‘Don’t turn back,’ she calls, but softly, very softly.

You were a stubborn and terrible child, always chasing after thunder and storms for the thrill of the wild. You never listened.

You still don’t.

So you turn back, ignoring your veil hurtling in the wind behind you, desperate for one last look.

Rhena crumbles over death-white hands, and weeps. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- ->Next Chapter -> Masterlist Hopefully I will be able to provide a map of this before next chapter to help picture your land.

Translations: Aearmírë - Jewel of the Sea Curudnen - Water Witch Aereth - Female name for the Sea Cîlien - Daughter of Renewal Malhadhu - Golden Seat/Throne Luindor - Blue Land Lithien - Daughter of Ash/Sand/Dust Aphadonen - Follower of the Sea Caranthir - The Red Falls

'Nain' is Welsh for 'Grandmother/nana/' etc, although it is typically used more in North Wales and rarely in South (we use Mamgu which doesn't really fit the vibe).

If you'd like to picture the aesthetic/imagery for this fic I have a Pinterest board that will provide chapter by chapter inspiration for you to visualise. Here is the link for this chap (I didn't do the first because I'm weak)

I've made a Spotify playlist to accompany this fic, you can find it here

Thank you for all the kind comments and likes! Was not expecting so much for a film that came out ten years ago lmao. Very appreciative of all of them, they helped very much when I was struggling with creativity <3 :))

Not the happiest with this chapter as it feels very lore dumpy and uneventful but Kili will appear next chapter I PROMISE ! SHORT KING IS COMING TO SAVE YOUR FISH ASS! Again, likes and comments are much loved if you are feeling that generous :) x let me know your theories lmao

[arthurian]

can you do a newtmas fic where it's thomas and minho talking and minho asks thomas what he thinks would have happened if newt lived, and you can take it from there?

wowowoWOW I just want you to know this concept hurt me and I love it.

The Darkness of Ephemeral Things

Characters: Thomas & Minho - with lots of Newtmas refs ofcWords: 2,255Read this on AO3. If you have ideas in mind for something you’d like to see written, my requests are currently open!

He was somewhere around nineteen years old, if he looked his age, and Thomas had already discovered that knowledge could be a very damning thing. The safe haven was beautiful, if you didn't know what it had cost them to get there. Thomas often wondered if he would enjoy the softly swaying cat tails, the air that tasted ever so slightly of salt, and the sun that kissed your skin just enough to warm but not burn you, if he didn’t know the damage inflicted on the rest of the world.

If he didn’t know the names of so many people who weren’t alive to see it.

Some months had passed since the fall of the world he knew. Since Denver had ceased to be the sanctuary the world wanted it to be. Since he’d lost his one of his best friends and the person he loved. And Thomas still felt the ache.

The ache that told his brain there was something missing from his body. The ache that made his bones feel brittle and cold. The ache of a body that should have been next to his but wasn’t, and would never be again.

It was the ache that often sent him away from the bonfires of his companions, and had Thomas creeping towards the hills surrounding their little corner of the world, where he could watch over his friends in quiet solitude. Most days, no one questioned it when he quietly rose from dinner and slunk away. Sometimes, Minho or Aris would try to stop him with a sad smile or a wave to join them, but Thomas rarely let that stop him.

Sometimes that ache demanded space from the rest of the world. Sometimes that ache wouldn’t let him breathe until he’d shed a few silent tears, alone in the dark.

Tonight, the tears would not come. Thomas had been waiting for what felt like hours, watching as fires died out and people returned to their tents and sheds or whatever they’d built to house them, and claimed sleep for the night. The stars were bright here. Tiny beacons to keep the blackness of night at bay. Sometimes they comforted him. Sometimes Thomas hated them for staying the same when everything else had fallen apart.

He did not startle when Minho sat himself in the sand beside him, staring down at the last remaining fire and the few kids left laughing around it. Sometimes Minho felt the ache too, and he would join Thomas in his silent watch, but never for long. Minho’s ache seemed to subside once he understood that Thomas was still breathing. Thomas was glad he could offer his friend that small solace, even if it wasn’t an intentional act.

They sat together for a few quiet moments before Minho broached the silent, his tone strong but contemplative. “You come up here more than you used to.”

Thomas considered lying for a moment, but settled on the truth. It was Minho, after all. If anyone deserved the truth from Thomas, it was him. “I don’t always feel right. Being down there with the rest of them.”

“You belong down there more than anyone else.” Minho told him, and though his head stayed pointed towards their encampment, Thomas thought he saw Minho flick him a concerned glance. “You’re the reason we’re all here, Thomas. Everyone looks up to you. That’s your place; your home. After everything we’ve been through, that’s one of the only things that should feel right to you.”

“They’re all just - so happy.”

Minho seemed to pause in shock at that. He pressed at Thomas almost tentatively. “And you’re not?”

This was the conversation Thomas always hoped to avoid. Because how was he supposed to explain to people that were happy that he couldn’t even find the strength to want to take a deep breath? That sometimes he could feel himself suffocating on the weight of all he’d lost, and he simply didn’t care? That sometimes he went to bed, and hoped he wouldn’t wake up, if only so he’d be reunited with the faces that haunted his dreams.

But Thomas kept his suffering quiet, the way he always had. Even when he ached for someone to move in close, to press their shoulder against his in comfort, to tell him it was okay to want things you couldn’t have. Thomas would always let himself sink into oblivion rather than risk someone drowning with him.

He settled on the least painful version of the truth. “I can’t just forget what happened before we got here, Minho. Not the way everyone else seems to.”

Minho let out a noise of startled disgust. “You’re one stupid shank if you think any of us have forgotten what had to happen to get us here. Everyone down there has demons. But we’re alive. And we’re allowed to be happy about that. So are you.” Minho’s voice softened. “One day it won’t hurt so much.”

Thomas didn’t know if he believed that. How could pain like this ever go away? Did you ever really know if you’d be okay again? Did you ever really come back from the kind of loss that made you wish you could forget how to breathe?

And Thomas thought maybe he was a little more broken than he was capable of healing, and he wasn’t entirely sure what to do about that. So instead of thanking his friend for his consolation, he offered him another small truth.

“I’m not sure I can bear losing anyone else. If I let myself get close to them, and something happens - I’m just not sure I can bear it.”

Minho looked at him sadly then. So sadly that if Thomas hadn’t already been broken he would have shattered all over again.

“We can’t all be together forever, Thomas,” Minho said, though not unkindly. “You know that.”

And Thomas did. Better than anyone.

There was the truth that terrified Thomas the most: they were all human, ephemeral things. They would all break. They would all fall. They would all die. And there was no guarantee that he wouldn’t be one of the last to go, forced to watch as the rest fell away into the other memories that haunted him.

And that was the darkness of ephemeral things - they were a light in the deepest black, until they weren’t. But even after, you remembered what that light looked like, and you couldn’t help wondering what could have been if it had stayed.

Their silence fell like a blanket of steel around their shoulders. Thomas was sure Minho could feel the weight of it; the cold press of despair that was creeping from Thomas’ body and tainting the air. He wanted Minho to leave - to take his happiness and hold it as close and he could possibly keep it, and let Thomas sink alone.

Minho didn’t leave. He’d never fled when things grew alarming or tense or frightening; not since that first day in the Maze when he’d left Thomas to save Alby and face the Grievers alone. Thomas had the feeling Minho was still trying to make up for that small moment of cowardice, despite Thomas having forgiven him long ago.

“Do you ever think about it?”

Minho’s question startled him, mostly because it was seemingly out of nowhere and Thomas had no idea what he meant. “Think about what?”

“What would have happened, how you would feel, if Newt hadn’t died.”

A Griever crash landed in the narrows tunnels of Thomas’ heart. The pain he’d been shoving down, already unbearable, forced itself to the surface with renewed vigor and an even more acidic weight. The tears came, and he couldn’t stop them and wasn’t sure if he should even try. Because every beat of his heart was too fast too hard, and he could feel it in his head in his toes behind his eyes and he can’t breathe fast enough to lie.

“Every day.”

The words rushed out of him along with a choked sob. Of course he’d thought about it. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Thomas had analyzed every decision and every step and every aching breath he’d taken with Newt at his side, and thought of all the things he’d have done differently in hopes of changing the other boy’s fate.

If Newt had lived, if Newt had lived… Thomas would be in heaven. He’d be living in a dream, somewhere on a cloud that never settled itself on the ground. He’d be perfect he’d be whole he’d be healed.

And what a selfish thought it was, to wish that Newt were here and alive and that he were the one sitting next to Thomas instead. To wish that he’d say, Bloody hell Tommy, stop being ridiculous! We’re alive. We ought to be celebrating! And Thomas would believe it, the way he believed so many things, simply because Newt told him too.

If Newt had lived, maybe Thomas wouldn’t be harboring a secret in his heart that felt like it was tainted with a Griever’s sting, sending him through the Changing again and again and again, bringing back the most terrible memories of his life. Memories that haunted him. Memories of the fight to survive. Memories that were also the best of his life.

Because Newt was in them. There at Thomas’ side. Where he belonged.

Thomas had left his body in that crank place. He’d run for what he’d done and not looked back. He hadn’t said goodbye he hadn’t said he was sorry he hadn’t said I love you.

And it was love. Not loved. Always love because that would never be past tense. Not with Newt. Never with Newt.

And sobs were shaking him in earnest even though he hadn’t spoken, and Minho pressed his shoulder against Thomas’ in silent comfort but said nothing until Thomas wasn’t so ragged and tortured and frayed at the edges.

“I miss him, too,” Minho finally said, and there was a thickness in his voice that made Thomas realized his friend had been crying too. “I know it’s not the same, but I miss him, too.”

“Not the same?” Thomas queried, perplexed.

Minho flashed him a pitying look, with a half smile. “Newt was one of my best friends. We both know he was more than that to you.”

“I - What - How did you -” Thomas stammered, but he couldn’t form the words.

“It’s okay.” Minho said simply, looking away and nudging Thomas with his shoulder again. “We all knew. Even in the Maze. Even when Teresa and Brenda were around. It was just the way you two were magnetized together. Like you couldn’t stand to be apart. Like you weren’t supposed to be.

“Newt… He wasn’t okay in the Maze. I know you know that; that he told you how he got his limp. Even after his leg healed, he was still haunted and scared. Until you. From the day you stepped out of that box, you brought a little life back into him. I guess I just didn’t realize how much life he put back into you.”

Thomas’ muscles quivered with the strength of forcing back his sobs. He wanted to cry until he could never cry again. He wanted to go to sleep and dream of the boy with the strange accent and the chocolate brown eyes and the golden hair Thomas wished he could run his fingers through. He wanted to break and plead and offer himself up in exchange for the one person he would do anything to bring back.

But he couldn’t bring Newt back. Nothing he did would ever bring him back.

“I don’t know how to do this without him, Minho. I don’t think I want to do this without him.”

“So don’t.”

Thomas’ head reeled, but he couldn’t piece together in his brain. “What do you mean?”

Minho answered so simply, as if it were the easiest thing in the world, “Just because someone dies, it doesn’t mean they leave you. Newt can be with you every step of the way if you want him to be.”

And with that, he stood up and left Thomas with his reeling thoughts, as if he understood that Thomas needed to come to understand what that might mean on his own.

People were ephemeral. They burned brightly, for a few brief moments, and then they faded away. But maybe Thomas was wrong. And maybe Newt wasn’t ephemeral.

Maybe Newt was eternal.

He had lived and he had died, but Thomas would never let him truly die. Not if he looked at things the right way. Newt was alive in every breath Minho took, in every laugh the survivors shared, in every moment Thomas found the strength to smile. His body was gone, and would continue to be gone, no matter how deeply Thomas wished the opposite, but his spirit - Newt’s spirit lived on in each and every one of them.

He had left them. He had joined them. A piece of his essence, of his strength and composure and resolve and love, a piece of his soul, a piece of his sacrifice, was now grafted to each of their hearts like armor.

With a heaving breath, and a few more careful tears, Thomas found the spot on his heart where’d he’d placed the one love he would never let go of, offered it a thanks for never leaving him, and rose to his feet to go and join his friends.