A/N: This is more of a character piece. Blame it on Blue—because she inspired me to do it, Ophelia—because she made me post it, Skye—because she told me to write something, and Kitty—because Kitty is Kitty and we're all insane.
Eden
1.
Julius thought that it would be the usual—walk in to the field, follow the rest of the crowd (but there wasn't a crowd, only three other people) and he didn't recognise them: one of them turned, nodded, but didn't say anything. All of Briar's family was dead—Julius knew that—and even though he'd said not to touch the body he couldn't help it… he could remember what it felt like. Still warm—but lifeless.
The field was empty and the pyre was already burning. He sighed and stood a little way off—offered up a prayer to Tethra and Manannan mac Lir, because even though Briar was his friend and friends weren't meant to betray you, he still wanted good things for Briar: good things… he sighed and looked up: the smoke rose to the sky in a thick cloud, black and also grey.
There was magic too—dormant magic, mingling with the crowd. But not much. It'd trained away.
'Julius?' the woman walked over to him—he looked up.
'Máthair?' he was shocked a bit.
She smiled—then frowned and sighed: 'Yes…'
'I thought you were still in Haven? I was coming to visit you this afternoon…'
She placed her hand on his shoulder: 'I couldn't let my son's first and last friend pass alone, could I?'
Julius turned back to look at the pyre—and the two other people were gone, but that was ok: his mother was slightly shorter than him, but she held her age with ease and placed her hand on Julius' shoulder. He sighed again—sighing, the cliché it seemed, but still he sighed—
'Julius?' she asked again.
'Yes, máthair?' his eyes were haunted and he looked older than older, and more gaunt and pale and grey and fat—she sighed. She carried her age with dignity—but he didn't—he'd never carry his age because his age was painful, and hers was just age. Age, always age… she sighed.
'Come, my son,' she said, 'we must go now, and return to the underground.'
2.
Home was home. The apartment was cluttered and untidy, and she tidied while he made coffee in the kitchen: 'You should really move,' she said, wiping a layer of dust off one of the vases, 'I mean, you can quite obviously afford it…' the running water in the kitchen stopped for a minute—she decided she shouldn't have said that, but continued her cleaning—when the water started again she was finished.
He carried both mugs with dignity.
'I would move,' he said: as he sat down.
'Then why don't you? There's some nice places up in the new parts of Haven…'
He sighed: 'I don't want to.'
The spoon clattered as she stirred the sugar: 'Why not?'
—'…too many memories.' he sighed.
She sighed.
And then she nodded.
3.
Office. Busy office. Julius sat down at his desk and stubbed his cigar in the ash tray: máthair had told him never to smoke—his magic would heal his lungs but still, it was a dirty and disgusting habit. He didn't like the taste of cigars. He only had them because it was him—and the window opened out onto the street. He perched on the edge of his seat and glanced over the paperwork.
Paperwork. Boring paperwork. He sighed and signed one form and then the next form—and then the door opened and Holly Short walked in and saluted him: he sighed and leaned back in his chair: 'What is it now, Short?' he asked, the cigar still smoking in the ash try—but he really didn't care.
—'Reporting for—duty'. Always duty. He sighed again and tried to retrieve the remains of his cigar from the ashes—but it was dead and still dying, and the hot ash flickered across his finger. He cursed and wiped it on his shoulder.
'Well?' he looked up at her.
She was standing, saluting—but he really didn't care.
'Get to work,' snapped—and then she was gone.
—in the office, she warned his secretary that he was in a bad mood.
4.
He visited the grave marker that afternoon—and when no-one was looking, place a small flower in the vase. It joined the others—his mothers—and no-one was looking when he left and went back to his gritty apartment.
5.
It was Julius that knocked the old lady down the street's hat off, and Briar who set fire to the crone's washing: but nobody really cared because they were young. And at the first ritual Julius smiled and felt the magic filling his veins—but it was Briar that touched him on the shoulder and the magic switched. Julius was breathless, but he never thought about it much after that.
—Julius jerked awake in the cold bedroom.
Mog Ruith was gone—set—Lair Báln was echoing through the window, soft and gentle moonlight: but he couldn't care and just sat up. He should have closed the window—and the air outside was icy—but he couldn't care and just sat up a little bit more. He wished for a cup of coffee—a cigar, anything—but he'd thrown it all out and down the drain, and his mother had made him promise to get a bit fitter.
He sighed and put his head back on the pillow.
…Later on in the week, he booked into a gym.
6.
Tomorrow, he dreams of Mog Mell. He sees the garden and the paradise—and floats along the river and when he looks down, he's not what he is now but what he was before: and he smiles as Briar was to him from the shore—young and at the same time old, and then everything just seems to slide in together like everything else is: normal, and yet more normal. He tosses in his sleep but doesn't wake.
The dream progresses—and he remembers everything.
The drunk night.
The graduation night.
The drunk night.
His birthday, and then later… Briar and his girlfriends.
And later still, Julius remembers everything that he's forgotten.
And for that he's thankful—but at the same time he hates it.
7.
But tomorrow, he wakes: and everything makes sense.