Reader discretion advised. There is language.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Post-Fang.
…
Promises
…
Promise: noun, an express assurance on which expectation is to be based.
…
You stare at the paper, heart torn in two. You want to scream, to shriek at him, but you know that there isn't any use. He's gone. He promised he wouldn't, but he left anyway. And now he promises that he'll be back if everything goes well.
Nothing ever goes well for you, and you know this.
You begin to cry.
You don't know how long you've been crying when the door opens again, the head pokes in. Soft blue eyes, kind blue eyes.
"He's a duche."
You nod, wiping at your face. I'm awful, you realize, for hiding yourself up in your room. He left the others, too, and you're here moping for yourself. There are four others—five, including the dog—that you have to take care of. And what are you doing? Sitting in your room, lights off, curtains drawn, like Romeo fucking Montague, who kills himself. You're just a stupid, idiotic, love-blind teenager. Who has to save the world.
He comes and sits next to you, offering a shoulder. You take it gratefully, and those deft hands of his wrap around you. This is nice, you realize. He's nice. Easy. This is your brother, and you don't have to think about him. You didn't have to think about him, either, and look where that's gotten you.
You stiffen, but he just smoothes out your wrinkles. "Shh. We're okay, Max."
"Thanks," you mumble, still hating yourself.
"No problem."
That gets you crying again, and you don't know why. "He promised, Ig. He promised."
"I know."
…
Promise: noun, a declaration that something will or will not be done, given, etc., by one.
…
You're looking at the ground now, thousands of feet up in the air. You remember when he used to be next to you, steady and a rock—your rock. The spot is empty—a perpetual reminder of how you allowed yourself to be used.
"Max, look!"
The brown eyes cry out, pointing downward. For an instant, your heart leaps. He's here! Dear God, he's back!
But it's just some hawks, flying in a sharp V, just like you are. The other five begin to laugh, because this is wonderful, and amazing, and you should be happy, too. But you aren't.
Because you want him here, too.
Strong wing beats lift up to you as you hover. Young blue eyes, sad blue eyes meet yours. "Should we head home, Max?"
Your trooper tilts his head, hoping for a reaction. You've been so dead lately, of course he's worried. They're all surprised you even said yes to the fly today. And here you are, still half of yourself. You don't want to be here; you want to be alone, in the dark.
But you're not. You're here, with your family, in the sun.
"No," you answer, giving a tiny smile. It's a lie, and your trooper can see that. "Go on."
You hate yourself for being so dead. You wish he hadn't made you like this. You wish you could do it all, by yourself, so you can shove it in his face next time he decides to show up. Here, look what I did without you! You fucking bastard, this is what you get when you break your promises!
But that won't change the fact that he's still gone, and you've got so much work to do.
"Max!"
The brown eyes call out again, hopeful.
You make a promise, too. The flock comes first.
It's such a lie.
…
Promise: noun, an indication of future excellence or achievement.
…
You had promise.
Jeb said that, in the beginning. You and Fang have real promise, sweetheart. You didn't know what it meant, at the time, but you liked to hear him say it.
Now, it's just a knife stabbing into your chest. You. Had. Promise.
The flock is sitting around the campfire, laughing and roasting whatever they can skewer. Marshmallows, hotdogs, burgers, and some veggies, because your mom was on a veggie kick while you were staying with her. Now that you're on your own again, the urge to please her is still there.
"Here." Your baby passes a s'more, ala Iggy, and you look at it. Graham cracker plus gooey marshmallow plus melting chocolate plus another graham cracker, sitting in your hand.
You two were kinda like that s'more.
He was the dark chocolate—dark hair that hung in his dark eyes—and you were the graham cracker—brittle and a little hard, but mushy if left out in the heat for too long—and your stupid heart was the marshmallow. He made you into a fucking marshmallow.
You give your baby a smile and bite into the s'more, breaking your graham cracker self apart and ripping your marshmallow heart in two. The dark chocolate is more or less okay—just pulled apart a bit, but still melty and gooey and steamy and delicious. The chocolate is not worse for wear.
He is still fine. He will be fine in twenty years.
You are very much not fine, and you will not be fine in twenty years, if you even live that long. You have to save the world, after all.
Yeah, Jeb, you think, watching as your motor mouth skewers another marshmallow-heart and holds it over the fire to burn. We have so much promise.
…
Promise: verb, to assure; to afford ground for expecting.
…
Your blind pyro is keeping watch, and it's the only reason you've skipped away from camp now. If he weren't, you'd probably be curled up in a ball by the fire, trying not to vomit. You've been feeling sick ever since he left, and it hasn't helped now that you've left your mom's.
Now, though, you're curled up in a ball, a mile or two away from camp and a hundred feet in the air, in the branches of a tree. Trying not to vomit. (PMS doesn't help much, either.)
You feel the other him before you see him.
"Get out of here." You stiffen as you say this, press yourself tighter to the tree and lock your arms around your knees. The other him has been following you around, not apart of your flock (God, never apart of the flock), but he's been around all the same. He likes to pop up when you're on watch. He must know that you won't leave the flock, so you'll just have to listen to what he has to say. And he has a lot to say.
He frowns at you now, his face only a foot or so away from yours. He's much too close, straddling the branch you're sitting on, and you know you could drop out of the tree and be back to the flock in less than five minutes. He's not skilled enough to follow you. It took him nearly three hours just to find you.
"I won't hurt you," he says, trying to give you a smile to show that he's telling the truth.
You stare at him, wondering if he thinks he's the shit. (He probably does.)
"Bullshit."
And you tip off the branch and zoom off, because he's so full of empty promises.
The first him promised that, too.
And look where that got you.
…
Promise: verb, to engage to join in marriage.
…
You kind of want to gag.
The dog is swooning again, going on and on and on about his lovely new wife. (You still think it was kind of stupid that they got married, but your baby had been so happy…) Your motor mouth and your baby are both listening, huddled close on the park bench. The pyros are out scouting for food. Or wires. You don't really care, seeing as they're low on ammunition and you'd rather them be over-prepared than under-stocked.
Somewhere, your personal stalker is watching. He won't show up, since you swore you'd dismember him the next time he did. You should be good until next Tuesday.
It's the dog that's making you sick, with his pitchy, breathy, love-soaked accounts of her sparkling eyes or her beautiful fur or her melodious voice.
She's a dog, for crying out loud. She eats dog food and drinks from the toilet like all the other dogs of the world—except for yours, that is. Lucky you.
You notice that you've been fingering that ring for the past few minutes. You take it out of your pocket now, watching the tiny little stone glint in the sunlight. It's real, though you have no idea how you know this. Nor do you have any idea how he could've afforded it.
He must have loved you a helluva lot, then. (Was it really all that long ago?)
When he'd given it to you, you kind of figured it was extra. He'd already promised on the beach that he'd never leave you again, but you thought the ring meant a little more. It meant he wanted to stay with you, save the world with you. You thought it meant he wanted to raise a family with you, stupid as you were.
You thought a lot of things, but, as is often the case, you were oh-so wrong.
You toss the ring in the trash next chance you get.
…
Promise: verb, to make a promise of something (a specified act, gift, etc.) to a specified person.
…
Your mother is calling you back, and that's why you're all here. It's a good pit stop, this cave, and though they all thought you'd be hurting by being here, you're not. Well, you're not hurting about this.
It was your cave, but before it belonged to you and him, it belonged to the six of you. This is where you all joined up, after you rescued your baby from that hell-hole.
You're not sure if he remembers that part of it.
Your second takes a seat next to you on the ledge, while the others scurry around and prepare for take-off.
"We should scare him," he says. "Give him hell."
"Yeah!" Your trooper appears at your other side, his blue eyes angry. "Let's leave him a note or something."
"Dear Fang,'" your motor mouth begins, shrugging on her backpack, "'Nudge thinks you're an asshole.'"
"'So does the Gasman.'"
"'Iggy thinks you should go die in a pit.'"
"'Total wishes you'd never been born.'"
There's a slight pause before the next one, as if she really had to think about this: "'Angel wishes you'd told us what you were thinking.'"
They're all looking at you now, wondering what you want to say right this moment to your former cage-mate-best-friend-right-wing-man-second-in-command-boyfriend-love-of-your-life-and-also-soul-mate.
You can't look at them when you whisper, "'Max wishes she coulda seen it coming.'"
"'Signed, your ex-family (the flock).'" Your baby mimes a loopy signature in the air, and you and your second stand.
Her brother nods, still looking angry. "I say we leave it here, under a rock or something, and never come back. Make him worry."
Your second gets an evil look in his eye, and he glances in your direction.
You know what he'll say before he does. "I say we post it on his blog."
The six of them agree, all looking rather murderous. They want to see him suffer as much as they have—they want him to suffer ten-fold.
As you take off, one-by-one, your heart splinters.
Yeah, you told yourself it didn't bother you, being here.
What a lie.
You just forced it down, way down, and now you're the last one to leave, and you're crying.
He promised to be here in twenty fucking years.
He thought you'd be okay on your own for twenty years. Well, newsflash, you think, I'm not okay.
You're on your knees now, and you're having trouble breathing. You're chest is constricting, and you're gasping in air, but it's not helping. He wants to be here in twenty years, but you can't breathe right now.
Wing beats precede your second dropping next to you, pulling you to his chest like he's doing more and more of nowadays.
"We won't come back here," he whispers into your hair. He doesn't promise it, because he knows your issues with promises, but it's an oath all the same.
You suddenly really, really want him to have trouble breathing. You don't want anyone to be there for him when he's gasping on the floor. "And that letter? We'll get it on his blog?"
Your second grins, a genuine, gleeful-Iggy grin that usually follows a huge-ass explosion. Maybe there was one.
"Hell yes."
That's a promise, too.
But it's one you know won't be broken.
…
FIN
...
Forgetting about ANGEL, I think that Max and Ig would become really close. Not romantically, because I see their relationship more familial (like Harry and Hermione), but they'd both be really, really mad at Fang. And upset. Max, for obvious reasons, but Ig would take a great toll, too. Fang was his brother, and now he's basically in charge because Max isn't all she can be.
The others would be hit, obviously, too, but Ig and Max would take Fang's departure the strongest, I think. I'm not sure they were as affected by it as they could have been, in the books.
Reviews, by the by, are Nevermore. (That's the title for the final Max Ride novel—it'll be out early next year ish. God, I just hope JP knows what he's doing.)
Lots of Love,
Your faithful author,
Lea