Is the Aftermath Always This Confusing?
The wind rustled through the overgrown oak leaves and toyed with Jonas Foster’s black hair. The former death mage and hit for hire stood on the cracked sidewalk, his hands in his jacket pockets, and stared at the small, white house. Literally eighteen years had passed since he’d set foot on this walk, eyes on this place, but the sharp ache in his chest was vividly fresh. In his head, he kept repeating the words he’d heard just two hours before.
"…sorry about this, Jonas. Hell, it took me a long time to get the courage to call you. We don’t *know* for sure if this is what happened, but…"
Jonas’s head hung, and he swallowed hard, his shoulders slumped. He moved up the weather-worn path and stumbled when his boot hit the front step. He didn’t realize he was shaking until he tried to sit down and nearly fell. Collapsing bonelessly on the honeysuckle shrouded porch, the former death mage leaned against one of the supports and closed his eyes.
It was over.
If there had ever been a point in his existence that made going on worthless, it was this one. Never before had he felt so weak, so utterly superfluous. Iris. Dead. The two words dangled in front of his eyes, danced through his head, almost gleeful, certainly mocking. Brutal images flowed in their wake: images of carnage, blood, broken limbs and, worst of all, most *damning* of all- blood-stained feathers. He made a sound in the back of his throat, pressing his face against the scratchy wood. Sobs were building; he could feel the pressure in the back of his throat. Jonas swallowed again, feeling the tightness of vein and tendon. His world, the whole reason for his life was now…gone.
And they’d found a feather at the latest crime scene.
The former death mage drove his fist into the weathered floorboards, feeling the wood crack satisfyingly. The pain of bruised knuckles made no dent in the welling void that was threatening to overwhelm him. Iris. Gone. Forever. Because of a human. Plain old human hands had snuffed out the life of, well, everything. Especially his life. There was nothing he could have imagined that would have been more devastating. Jonas honestly couldn’t think. He couldn’t plan. Breathing was like struggling for air underwater. It was a sickeningly familiar feeling, mingled with sharp nostalgia. Jonas whimpered softly and hid his face in his hands.
"…hey."
He looked up, dark eyes glazed. The redhead on the porch roof, her long braid of blood-gold hair dangling as she peered upside-down at him, tilted her head a bit. Swinging off of the porch roof, she twisted neatly in midair and landed on the wobbly railing. Honoria Wingate shook a few strands of hair out of her eyes and crouched with instinctive ease on the narrow, unstable surface. Jonas wiped hastily at his eyes, trying to force something approaching words over the lump in his throat. The fae tilted her head, then sighed.
"Yeah, they told you." She shifted her weight, eyeing him for a moment. "Bertram’s on the way to the hospital. Andrew thinks he had a stroke."
Jonas glared at her, the welling fury and hurt echoing in his voice. "Any other cheerful fucking news you want to share?"
"They’re alive. If she’s dead, she’s dead. None of us can bring her back."
"Oh no?!?" Jonas leapt to his feet, snarling in her face. "What makes you think I can’t bring her back?!?!?" His mind flashed back, so many years ago, the furious defiance wilting as suddenly as it had bloomed- the bargaining, the research, the waiting, the aching… He wobbled, then abruptly sat down again. Without any segue, he was crying.
Honoria shifted her weight, but made no move to comfort him. Perhaps that’s why the muffled sobs slowed, and Jonas looked up at her, almost pleadingly. "I don’t know what to do," he choked, wiping at his eyes. "I…her…I can’t do it all over again. I have nothing left. Nothing! She was it, all I had. I gave everything up for her. My life, money, time, my will…" Jonas’s head dropped. "I haven’t got anything left."
"Oh grow the fuck up," Honoria hissed. She met Jonas’s startled look with a cold gaze. "You didn’t give up a damn thing. All you did was make her a defenseless princess in an ivory tower, and yourself a martyr. Everyone danced to the same fucking tune, and for what? One girl? What makes your daughter more important than someone else’s?"
Jonas scowled blackly. "No one else’s daughter was like Iris. She was unique, and you damn well know it."
"Bullshit. Why? Because she was fae? Because she used to be Dia? Or because she was yours?"
"She WAS mine, damn it!" Jonas slammed his hand down, a snarl escaping him. "If not for me, she never would have existed!"
"Egocentric bastard."
"What?!?"
Honoria tossed her hair out of her face, lavender eyes glinting. "You heard me. You think that just because you had something to do with Iris’s whatever, that you’re the centre of the earth? How do you know Dia wouldn’t have reincarnated anyway, huh?"
Jonas rose, his eyes glittering like obsidian. "Because she wouldn’t have. I used be a *mage* you damn bitch! I gave that up FOR HER!"
Undaunted, the fae curled her lip at him. "Good for you. Didn’t help the guilt that you changed your life for Dia *after* she’d died, did it?"
Jonas snarled. "The fuck do you know? You’ve never loved anyone in your life! You’re fucking psychotic!"
"Shut up before I shut you up," she hissed, real threat in her voice. Her hand twitched, possibly towards a weapon, and she took a deep breath. "If I thought you were any saner than I am right now, I’d kill you. As it is, I’d recommend closing your trap before I forget that." She looked at Jonas, disgust showing clearly in her eyes. "You think you’re the only one who’s ever lost? Ask Bertram about his wife. Ask Andrew about Mellyissa, or Nathan about his dad. You’re not the only one who’s ever hurt, Jonas. What did you lose when Dia died, anyway? A dream? A friend? Hope? Some fantasy you wouldn’t even admit to? Did you even lose a lover? No." The fae shifted her weight, her lips tightly set.
"Your problem is that you know, deep down, that nothing would’ve happened if she’d lived. You didn’t have the balls to actually get something going. She was dangling on a string, waiting *for you,* and you were happy letting her. Was it an ego thing?"
Jonas roared in fury and swung. With the fluid ease she’d always shown, Honoria moved out of the way. "Why didn’t you tell her before she died? Did you think it’d kill your big, strong man image for her to hear it?"
"I couldn’t!" Jonas rounded on her, his hand balled into white-knuckled fists. "I *couldn’t* tell her. It just wasn’t in me, okay? I couldn’t admit it to her. Hell, I couldn’t admit it to myself! I didn’t know I wouldn’t have time!"
"No one ever does," Honoria retorted, tightening her grip on the railing. "No one EVER fucking does. You think any of us knew it’d be the last time we saw someone alive? That everyone doesn’t ache because they s narled or didn’t say or do something before that person was gone? Christ, Jonas! Grow up!"
She couldn’t duck that. The former death mage’s fist caught her squarely on the bridge of her delicate nose. The crunch of breaking bone was muffled by the crash as she fell backwards through the honeysuckle-tangled trellis and into the overgrown flower bed below. Jonas froze, shock replacing the self-righteous fury that had burned through his veins. There was a long moment of silence, and then he dared to walk forward, looking over the railing with trepidation.
Honoria drew her hand away from her nose, the thin bridge decidedly askew, and her lavender eyes shifted to Jonas, darkening even as they did so to pure aubergine. Blood ran unheeded down her lips and over her chin. She smiled slowly, her upper lip already puffing up. "What we do now can’t make up for what we did in the past Jonas. Did anyone ever tell you that?"
The former death mage made a sound, holding his hands out apologetically, his eyes locked on the continual flow of bright crimson blood. He moved a bit, shifting towards the stairs, fumbling in his jacket pocket for a handkerchief. Honoria backed away, her feet moving easily through the tangle of vines, wood and broken flowers. She flicked her hand, spattering blood across the old pavement, and her swollen lip curled. "I guess not."
"…Honoria, I…" Jonas found he couldn’t form a sentence, and realized his hands were shaking. He swiftly balled them up and shoved them into his pockets. Without another word, the fae shook her head, spattering blood left and right, then leapt. Jonas’s dark eyes followed her slender form, swathed in voluminous black, as she landed lightly on the roof, then moved over the peak of the house. With rubbery knees, he sat on the porch steps and put his head in his shaking hands, trying to breathe.
With one punch, he’d done irreversable damage to both of them. Honoria’s nose would possibly never be the same again, barring some fae healing, and he… Jonas swallowed. Blood was irrevocably tied to the feelings of the former death mage’s heart, for when he’d seen the fae look up, her ivory skin stained with crimson, he’d realized exactly how he felt. At least this time, the blood was living, not seeping life leading to death. Jonas groaned and thumped his head against one of the porch supports. Honoria may be very much alive, but how the hell was he supposed to tell her that when he’d broken her nose, he’d realized he was in love with her?