You will get sad.

Joseph Mallord William Turner, Fishermen at Sea, 1796, Tate, London, UK

Sometimes, I wonder if I could sleep, would I hear my own screams? The ones that escaped me as I begged you to awaken? I think that I would, and I wonder if it is a blessing that I am cursed, unable to do so.

But I know this is no blessing. Each cycle continues in the same manner. I sit, waiting for the sun to rise. When it does, everything I feel is sapped away from me. There is nothing to do; well, there is, but I wonder what the point is. The garden, I tend to it, but I do not get the same peace from it I once did. Everything is lined with memories, ones that are the only things I think of when I am alone. 

Ichi is here, along with Nivi. She has been here since Elkaj went missing. But even now, Ichi will avoid me. Not always; she will come out for food, for the occasional scratch behind the ear, but even she knows what I am. I tried to look at myself in a different light, but I could not find it. No matter how many branches I broke, how many nights I spent staring at the stars.

Acceptance. 

That was the only thing I could do: accept it. I would never be wholly good; the good part of me died next to you. The good part of me wandered away, the same way I did as I roamed burned, wishing I would wake up, that this was just a nightmare.

One week. One week until I set out with others, but honestly, I am still asking myself, is it worth it? It will be, to be in control of myself. But that is it. Part of me will die, the nightmare. Others may get hurt; I would go alone, but they said to come back with people I trust. Do I trust anyone but myself? I think I do. But every time I grow close, something happens. They become injured, go missing, die. Not all of it can be my fault; I know that. But it is my fault I get close. 

I put myself in a spot where every time I think there might be some sense of safety, I hurt. I am tired of hurting. 

One week. One week until I come home, and there will be no fanfare. I will open the door to the same dusty house, to be greeted by a silence that permeates not just our house, but my bones, my soul – if I have one.  I never thought silence could be so loud; I was used to it. But you taught me what laughter was, what happiness was. 

As I watch the moon cross the sky, I do not think I will ever feel the same feelings I had once before. 

One week, I will be free. But I do not think I will ever truly feel freedom. 

Warnings: Violence, death, general uncomfortable themes

For the briefest moment, I thought Enzo was a dead man. A blade far too perfectly poised, the strength behind it? It would have been a clean blow, but it seemed Lady Luck favored the outlaw as the voice of that damn coyote rose above the din of the fighting.

“Sweetheart, you promised.” 

For a moment, I thought I was hallucinating as I heard that all too familiar raspy voice I had first heard on the beach, as we looked together for a scared construct. The cool weight in the metal of my hand seemed to grow colder, the rain in my ears grew louder, and before I knew it, the blade had been returned up my sleeve. Unthrown. My feet carried me towards the woods; no one stopped me. I did not want them to; it was best they did not. So, I left.

A calm sense of rage. That was what washed over me. One I concealed well enough so I would not lash out. Every part of me was heavy. My hands ached, my head ached, as did my mind and my heart. One thought, as before, I knew it: my gloves had been shed, moving towards an unmoving tree like it was my enemy. My left fist connecting first.

Two.

In the span of a week alone: Two people who had died returned. Two. 

My right followed.

I could clearly remember the first time someone who had died had returned. That was Cassie. That job, that job over what? Rocks? If only we had not taken the job, she would not have died. I remembered clearly the rage and grief I had felt when I had awoken, learning she did not make it. I destroyed my room around me; I did not want it. I did not want this. I remember my tree, near the shrine of the Sirene. How I had heard voices, and there was Cassie and Hemo, swimming as if she had never died and he had not lost part of his soul. Like she had never been a corpse, cold and unfeeling.

Then, as if the realm knew I did not deserve to be happy: I should have known things were too good for too long. As if it knew. It knew I finally thought I could be happy. It took him. My wonderful heart, the better half of me. He had grown so cold; my begging to stay alive was not enough. I waited, and waited, and waited. First, in the woods, hoping just like Cassie, that he would return. That he would find me, open a hand, and tell me it would be okay.

Except he never did. Even as I lay starving, dust coating me, I waited. 

Not long after him, it was Sioned. The first time in weeks that I had spoken was in front of her pyre. Me, her villain. I only went to say goodbye, but even then, I waited. I waited for her as I lay curled below the dust, waiting for her. Waiting for her loud knock and voice to pierce the door, saying we were going on an adventure.

She never came. 

Fukuro. He was the final one. Storming into my home as I waited for the floor to consume me.

“Get up.”

The tone like that of an older relative. He was not going to leave me there, was not going to let me wallow. Though I wish that he had. Reluctance was the only thing I felt as I dragged my guilt-heavy body upwards and outside. Under the moonlight, he spoke words I do not remember, blurred by grief. Only the feeling of that conversation remains with me, hope. Maybe then, a little more time, and mine would have returned as well.

Not long after, the news came from Albern Crossing. Sergeant Fukuro Saisui had died perished, and there were no remains.

Alone.

Medea, by this point, had returned to sea. They returned on and off, when land called. By this point, I had given up; I had no hope. As time passed, I kept wishing I could also go, but knowing I never would. 

Walls. 

I had decided walls would be the best. I tried building them at sixteen winters to protect myself. Very quickly, they fell as a ginger boy looked at me, saying words I did not understand. I knew, then in that moment, I wanted to be his friend. 

Then, I held him as he died. The dominoes continued to fall, and the others left. Never again. I had decided that the day I rose from the dust-covered floor. I will not get close. Not again. So, I let my words become my blade.

Each word sharpened to hit its mark. Grimshaw, Grove, Elkaj, Tyger: With a precision I was all too familiar with. 

I was far gone in the storm, each memory washing over me like the rain. I was far enough, though; over the thundering of the storm, they would not hear me as I lashed out, and no one would get hurt. 

Squaring up with a tree was not my best idea. Where had I lost my gloves? Each yell that did leave me was drowned out. The scars on my hands ached, one phoenix and one corvid, a reminder I did not want. That furthered me with each hit into the tree. Life and Death, give and take, balance. The twin birds, they mocked me.

Each breath came heavier as my blade was now drawn. Anger taken out on the trees, fingers and knuckles screaming in pain, just as I wept in it. 

Fukuro was back, but it was too late for me. Locke was back. She and I, so similar. A gift given, and she squandered it. And I? I hated her for it. She had people who loved her and still love her; they would celebrate. I could only ask why it could not have been Sioned or Monty. I hate her. While also fully aware, I would have done what she had. 

Distance. I could now buy myself distance. With a half-hearted excuse that I hoped they would buy but knew would insist was not true. They were right. I was not going to tell them they were right. 

It would eventually work: I was sure of it. Eventually, Elkaj would move on, and whenever whatever Enzo is doing is done? They will have a place to belong, and I plan to keep myself behind in the shadows. To be forgotten. I will continue to drift aimlessly in the sea of my mind, job after job, until one day I will not return from one. Just as I was supposed to be, alone.

My knuckles screamed, head against the tree now. Hair plastered to my face. I hate the rain. A steady drip… drip… drip of water and blood, dropping to the earth below. My vision continued to blur, the rasping of each breath. In the distance, I thought I heard a familiar chittering of a creature.

I needed to go home. Unsteady, I stood fully. One, two, the third step my legs gave way and all was dark. A final, fleeting thought:

“When did I become so cold?”

Three.

Paradiso, Canto 34
Gustave Doré, 1868

Mist. It was something that would coat the mountains in the mornings close to home. As it danced across rock, until the sun came out, dragging it back to slumber. It always elevated the smells of stone and dew, keeping the village hushed in the morning until day break. 

But this was not the same mist she walked through. Death, this was death. Finally, her soul in a way was free. She had said do what they want, she would return. But for now, she walked through mist. 

Blue eyes and unmarred features searched the mist. Looking for a hint of ginger, but he never appeared. She had searched for him once before in her dreams, but he never came. 

Dark hair, instead of white, sprawled over her shoulders down her back. Gone were the bloodied clothes, replaced with a white gossamer gown that trailed as she danced along the dream. Death. She looked and looked, but she couldn’t find anyone. Yet, her wings spread and she flew. Bare feet dancing along mist and grass, freedom. Was this freedom? To be entirely whole, where nothing hurt. Where the twins did not follow her, hands thrown up to sky, only to be interrupted by a voice. 

“Little bird.” A voice called in ancient tongue, a man stepping from the mist. Dressed in white, his face obscured. Dark hair, it flowed and flowed. Tattoos of vines wrapped his wrists, bare feet upon the grass. “You flew too far?” He was a tall man, his arms opening. 

Her arms fell; she had a feeling any other time she wouldn’t have recognized him. But here? Now? She did. Bare feet flitted across grass and mist, throwing herself into the arms of her father. 

Arms wrapped in arms, and another set joined them. A human woman with green eyes, her head resting on her daughter’s shoulder. Time soared past them as they held one another before it was broken. 

Green eyes met blue eyes as Aoi’s father looked to her mother, then both looked to her. Her mother’s hand reached for her face, dressed in the same white, flowing. Vines crept up her ankles, flowing beneath. 

“My blue bird.” Her mother spoke, thumb brushing the leaves closest to her face. 

She was a girl again. 

“So much time has passed, and look at you. All grown. But not grown fully; you are here too soon.” 

Her father pulled her in once more. 

“Still too soon, my bird. You had your wings clipped once; we only saw you for a moment. Now, they have clipped again. Why do you cry, little bird?”

She hadn’t realized she was crying, a perfect hand touching her own face. Where rivulets of tears flooded. They would not cease. 

“I- I had forgotten your faces.” And she would again, but the little shrike did not know that. “I missed you. I missed you.” There was no anger, only longing for a home she had forgotten. 

“And we have missed you too. For now, walk with us. We found someone along our way who would like to see you as you pass by.” 

All the horrible memories, the nightmares, held at bay. In the arms of her parents, she walked. They were always so strong, she remembered. The voices that would sing lullabies when she failed to sleep, the lips that would kiss a hurt better before sending her on her way. The hands that would lift her high above the world, so she could spread her wings. Strong and unflinching. 

So the three walked, mist rolling by in the morning. Air clean, they came upon a fire. She watched the embers dancing upward; her ember wasn’t here. Yet, there was another. Upon a log, perched as she remembered, was another Arsa. Forever young. 

Green eyes stared at her before a smile broke out, and he was up across the grass, scooping the bird up and twirling her. White hair cloaked them both; a kiss was placed gently upon her forehead. Gentleness she never possessed when she knew him, but he always said she did. 

“Hi, Aoi.” The boy looked down at her, hands sliding into hers. He held them, just watching her for a moment. 

She knew she continued to cry, her hands gripping his. “Rin.”

Kindness to her wickedness, innocence to her guilt. The honed edge to her jagged edges. Each one rocked her one after another, but the guilt here? It did not last long. 

His hands came to wipe her face. “Easy, thorn bird. There is no need to cry here; it is okay. Yet you may freely.” 

A hand guided her to the fire, and together they sat. Silence, only the sounds of waves that lapped upon the edges of a dream. In death. There was hope, there was love. 

Hands held hers, silence. Then her father spoke. 

“Are you going to go back, little bird?” 

Her mother nodded her head in agreement with her father’s question. 

“They want you back, you know?” 

All silence from her again. 

“I do not know. I told them, do what they wish. I think I gave up long ago. But they told me to rest, if I rest forever. Will we be here? Forever?” 

I do not think I want a family. 

Words echoing, resounding, crashing down in her mind over and over. Told to an old friend when he declared her family now. She was too many broken parts, trying to pretend to play whole. 

She had told the boy of the egg, but he had never asked what happened if the shell cracked. She was the cracked shell, empty and unwhole. Never to find something that filled her once more, the light gone. Flooded away, brought down upon her with such a vigor, she wanted it to burn her away. Each sin, each misgiving, each harsh word she spat at another in the name of building a wall. A sinner, repentant, but never fully repentant. 

“Your heart weighs with guilt.” Her mother spoke softly, her hand brushing her daughter’s hair, each loose strand brushed away from her eyes. “Here, my child, you need not hold it.” 

Her mother reached for her hands, curled into fists, and unfurled them. “Your hands were never meant to be for violence, but they were used for such. Someone else twisted them that way.” 

Fingers looped with fingers, Rin now. His green eyes bright, not the dull, lifeless things she had last seen. “He did that to us, Aoi. He is horrible, but you need to know — you did what you had to survive. Now, it is time to live.” 

Survival. How long had she been surviving for? Had she ever truly lived? The fire crackled. Her eyes tore away as one snapped, crackled, and it popped up towards the sky, before twinkling it out. Her ember. She had lived for him, then he had left her. One after another, they all left, and she moved from living to surviving. 

His footfalls across the grass, her friend's hands upon her shoulders. His white hair drifted about them both. How she hated her hair when it was like that. A reminder of what she never could be. 

“Go live for us, thorn bird. Think you can do that? You have another family, even when you push them. They will follow, just as the waves do. You can push them, but they will pull you towards them. Unrelenting.” 

Another soft kiss to her forehead, “Go, Hato. Return to them after you have rested. We will still always be there.”

Blue eyes looked up at the green, her expression falling. Pathetic, she always was. So full of love she tucked away. So full of a panic that came out in anger. She blinked, her vision blurring. 

“Okay.” An unusual softness, “But please. Let me stay a little longer.” 

Alive.

She was alive.

Alive.

Alive..

Alive…

She had died, but she was alive. A grave had blossomed and out fell herself, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care that she was alive; she could have stayed dead, and she didn’t think she would mind.

Yet she was alive.

But Rowena- Sioned - She was also alive. That was all she cared about.

Maybe it was some sort of greed that still lingered from the curse; maybe it was a hope things could go back. Aoi wasn’t sure, but she knew she was alive. 

“A light fell on you,” Roy had said, “But that vampire, he hit you fatally.”

He was dead.

Dead.

Dead..

Dead…

“Was the body burned?”

“Not sure, I was too focused on you.”

Fear.

Fear..

Fear…

He was dangerous; she knew that much. But it was not her main focus. She was alive. Sioned was alive, even if she called her a villain, even if every meeting ran into her trying to kill her, her friend was alive. There was no part of her that even thought to hesitate to pause and think.

Think, Aoi, think.

She would save her.

For those I love

The rest did not matter; those she loved would always come first. Very few would she grant the title of ‘friend’ to anymore. No, ‘friend’ always meant they died. Sioned had died, she knew she had died. She had spoken at her pyre, voice hoarse, embroiled in grief. Her coin, her consideration. It lay atop, set on fire long after she had left. They had burned her body; she couldn’t be undead. What had happened?

“Magic?” Roy had suggested, but she didn’t know. A steady staccato of tapping, quickened by an anxiety that sat low in her chest. 

Magic. She wasn’t a mage; had a mage done this to her? What had killed her to start with? She would need to find out. She needed to find out. She was not letting go, not this time. She would hold on, even if it stole the breath from her lungs over and over. 

See the job through. She hoped the others had seen the job through and burned the body. She would find out.

See the job through. She would save her, not alone. She knew she couldn’t do it alone. She would get down on her hands and knees; she would beg; she would offer up every physical thing she had ever owned, if it meant bringing her home.

Dead.

Alive.

Fear.

Hold on.

Hold on..

Hold on…

This time, there was no more room for errors.