Summary: Sometimes the people we lose are closer than we think. Candace/Julius. TVS: Offering. T for tragedy.

A/N: Phew, submitting this just in the nick of time. This is my entry for the 12 Days of Christmas 'Offering' prompt. Lyrics below belong to Lily Allen, not me, yadda yadda.

The Mizuko kuyo is a real thing. Any discrepancies are done for the sake of story.

From The Ashes

We had forever

We never got it together

I waited for you

For you I made it better

When Candace opened her eyes everything was white – harsh and white. She caught glimpses of her surroundings, the stark fragments of a hospital room bleached through as if with acid. Slowly, blurred figures came to life in front of her, morphing from a kaleidoscope of shapes and lines into Jin, Anissa, and Julius.

Candace blinked up at the trio, her gaze falling onto Julius. The usual spark in his eyes had vanished, replaced by desolate, red-rimmed pupils. Shadows outlined the angles of his face, hollowing out his expression until nothing but anguish remained. Candace's heart stopped mid-beat. No, she thought desperately, it can't be.

"Candace, Anissa and I are so sorry. We did everything we could," Jin's words came out broken, as if he could taste the bitterness of their loss and struggled to remain professional. Candace squeezed her eyes shut. Please, she begged, don't let this be real.

"P-please tell me the baby is alive," she asked weakly.

When nobody spoke Candace begun to shake violently, her entire body collapsing like a dam under too much pressure. Her fingers clenched around the hospital sheets, so tightly she felt her fingers might explode. The silence sliced through Candace, puncturing her heart like a knife; for a selfish moment, she found herself wishing it would impale her completely.

"We will make the arrangements with Perry," Anissa told Candace, placing a hand gently over her balled fist.

Candace deflated, sinking into the sheets like the material was quicksand. The thought of tomorrow – of Perry's arrangements – made her numb. "Thank you. That is a warm gesture," she replied.

Julius sat down beside Candace and she opened her eyes to look at him. Up close, the bones of his face looked prominent and the lines around the corners of his mouth were twisted as if he were racked with physical pain. Instinctively, Candace shifted her weight so she was closer to him. He leant forward and smoothed the matted tendrils of her hair, tenderly wiping away the strands caked to her forehead with sweat and tucking them behind her ear.

Neither of them started crying until Julius' strangled whisper reached Candace's ear: "Our baby was a beautiful boy. He looked just like his mother."

The contrast between the Harvest God and the Harvest Goddess was striking. Sparks of fire bound the former, stencilling his towering figure in a bright, golden glow; the latter was softer, gentler, her willowy frame outlined with ripples of water that shimmered between light and dark blue. Their auras danced and whirled around one another, painting streaks of magnificent light between them – two competing elements momentarily becoming one.

Surely, resolutely, they perched on the mountaintop, almost statues in their stillness. The passage of time was meaningless to them – an infinity or several seconds could have passed before the Harvest Goddess turned to speak with her fiery counterpart. "Ignis, can't we intervene – just this once. Their grief blinds me."

"Silence," roared the Harvest God, his voice booming like a thunderclap. "This is how it must be!" He inhaled to cool his temper. "The fates have dictated it so."

The Goddess Spring was a somber place. Quiet and still, the space of worship whirred with a mystical energy, lulling all that visited into a reverent trance. Julius and Candace stood atop a grassy platform in its center, a ribbon of water rippling around them. Hands entwined, the pair stared up at the brilliant tree in front of them. Dawn had broken moments ago, tinging Castanet shades of cold grey, but the leaves above glistened radiantly, as if the sun were already beaming upon them.

Candace's whole body trembled as she took a step forward. Here, she thought, here is where my son will rest. Her knees jack-knifed to the ground. This is goodbye, isn't it? The back of her quivered, as violent and desperate and delicate as a wingless butterfly trying to escape a predator. Julius placed a hand on her shoulder. He couldn't steady her – his own fingers were shaking far too much - but Candace appreciated her husband lending her whatever little strength he had.

"Our poor baby," Candace whispered. Julius tightened his grip, his hands burrowing between her neck and collarbones.

Silence stretched out between them. Neither of them moved as the first slivers of sunlight pierced the sky, slipping through clusters of leaf and branch and onto them in ribbons of glowing orange. Wordlessly, and once the sun was hanging still in the sky, Julius reached into the sling around his waist and pulled out their baby. His tiny body was cloaked in a cashmere blanket and a lump emerged in Candace's throat as she remembered how much care Shelley had taken in weaving it for them – for him. He will never feel warmth or softness, she thought, stricken.

Julius bent down and placed his child at the base of the tree. Numbly, he recited the words Perry had instructed him to say: "Oh Harvest Goddess, protector of nature, giver of life, please grant our child peace and allow him to bask in your eternal love…"

As Julius spoke, in soft and strangled notes, Candace remembered how her husband had fought against this very scene – the Mizuko kuyo ritual. Rather than burying their son, they would offer him to the deities of the land, so spirits could guide his soul back home to the heavens. Before realising it was the towns way of honouring lives fated to never begin, Julius had been outraged that their son would be used as a sacrifice. May he find peace and comfort, Candace prayed. She opened her eyes to see Julius staggering away from the tree and towards her. May they both.

Then, Candace sunk into her husband's arms, clinging to the lapels of his maroon jacket like they were the only thing keeping her afloat. Ever since she had held her lifeless child in the hospital room, Candace had felt like she'd been swept in an eddy of despair, one that was tugging her downwards and into a darkness that threatened to crush and break her. Now, Candace was drowning, suffocating in the finality of this moment; the echo of her sobs could be heard from the Mining District.

Cocooned in one another, neither Julius or Candace noticed the bundle of blankets gently collapse to the ground, nor the outline of their baby disintegrate. If they had, there was a chance they would have seen the sprig of green blooming to life beneath it.

It took a week for the sprig to grown into a stem, and another for it to bud. Inside the flower, nestled among the unfurled petals, was a sleeping Harvest Sprite. The Harvest Goddess waited patiently for her newest child to enter the world, constantly guarding the plant as it blossomed.

Enthused by it all, Finn buzzed around the growing stalk and prodded it. "When do you think he's going to wake up?"

Daren glared enviously at the slumbering sprite. "It better be soon," he mumbled, yawning. "I'm getting sleepy just watching him grow."

The Harvest Goddess smiled at their antics. "We will meet him in the summer," she said before turning to face the orange sprite. "I am entrusting him to you, Finn. You will be in charge of teaching your brother what it means to be a good Harvest Sprite."

Despite being so close to the Flute Fields, Candace and Julius were one of the last to arrive at the Firefly Festival. The lively, sun-filled days of spring had smoothed the tides of their grief into tiny ripples, steadying them in the current. There would always be sadness – it was as much a part of them as the waves in the ocean – but like Mira had told them quietly one evening: there would come a time when they would be able to mourn with the shore in sight.

Before leaving, Candace and Julius lit a candle for their stillborn son. Holding each other gently in comfort – as they had done countless times before – they watched the flame flicker on and on, until there was no more wick to burn. Then, after the light had extinguished, they left their home. Candace walked slowly, her ankles swollen and body heavy. Julius did not leave her side, and his hand snaked around her waist so it rested on the bulge of her stomach. Together, the three of them arrived at the festival.

Perry greeted them, his expression tender as he handed Candace her lantern. Smiling sadly, he pushed a second moonstone into her palm while he said: "He will always be alive inside of you, Candace. Tonight you should celebrate that."

"T-thank you, Perry," Candace said, smiling sadly. "You have blessed us with such kindness this year…I thank you from the bottom of my heart."

Crouching down by the stream, Candace placed both moonstones in the flimsy base of the lantern – one for her and one for the boy they'd lost. Julius was beside her, the edges of his shoulder resting warmly against hers as he held the paper flower in place. She turned to him, eyes misty. "My love," she whispered. "Are you ready to let go?"

Julius shook his head. He grabbed her hand and placed it atop the lantern, curling his fingers around hers so they were both clutching the opening. "Now I am," Julius told her. His grip loosed ever so slightly; the river gently began pulling the lantern away from them. "We should let it go together," Julius said softly, his fingers slackening even more against hers.

"Together," Candace repeated. A heartbeat later she flattened her palms and released the lantern to the water.

Silently, the pair watched it flutter down the stream, as bright and brilliant as a shooting star. The townspeople paused by the water's edge and held their moonstones at their sides; this moment didn't belong to them. While the light of the lantern faded away, and before anyone else moved, Candace saw a twinkle of orange light in the trees. That looks like – she blinked and it vanished. It must have been a firefly, she told herself, furrowing her brows at the foliage. The back of her neck prickled as the strangest sensation crept through her. Equal parts warm and unsettling, Candace had the distinct feeling she was being watched intently from above.

Impossible, she thought.

Years passed and Angie grew into the vibrant image of her parents, Candace and Julius. A veritable bundle of curious energy, Angie was forever skipping around Castanet and searching for beautiful trinkets. The townspeople quickly became used to seeing her violet shock of hair pop up in front of them, usually in the nooks and crannies of her mother's shop.

Angie was seven when she grabbed her parent's hands and dragged them out into the garden. "Follow me, I made a new friend today!" She paused to point excitedly at one of the rosebushes. "See, see!"

Perplexed, Candace stared at her husband, then back at the rosebush. "Angie dear, can you tell me what you're pointing at?"

Angie groaned loudly and threw her tiny arms into the air. "Him! Right there!"

Him.

Candace's eyes began to shine. Julius patted the top of Angie's hair, ruffling the bow slipping from her head. The pair were unable to see anything beyond the dark green of the rosebushes leaves and the red of its blossoms, but they smiled peacefully beside their daughter.

"Can't you see him?" Angie asked, her eyes widening in confusion.

"No, sweetie," Candace began gently. "We can't."

"He's right in front of you," Angie repeated with a pout. "Look harder!"

"It's okay, my pretty girl," Julius said, kneeling beside her. "Why don't you tell your friend that we say hello?"

"Yes, that's a wonderful idea," Candace affirmed, her voice cracking like glass. Taking a deep breath, she tracked her daughters gaze and smiled at the center of the rosebush as she said: "Tell him we've wanted to say hello for a very long time."