THE SCENES WRITTEN IN ITALICS ARE FLASHBACKS!

Rated T for one swear word and mentions of death.

This is pre-book nine, and it's just an alternate way for Jake to deal with Briar's death. I hope you guys like it and please let me know what you think!

This one-shot is dedicated to those who've read Dark Shadows ( or at least the ones that have reviewed, 'cause their names are the only ones I know), for being awesome and dealing with my horrible updating.

Lizalot, Randomness156, FaceDown2038, Lara D, Plaincrazysuckup, alexatheknight, Curlscat, dreamgreen16, limegreenwordmachine, Iris, SHARINGisn'tCARING, Scarlet Wolf, Evil Scrapbooker, Killer bunnies, yellow.r0se, karatequeen78, warisha, GrimmAdventures, Longlivethecookiemonster, Laylaenchantix101, emowriter.

You can shed tears that she is gone,

Or you can smile because she has lived.

You can close your eyes and pray that she'll come back,

Or you can open your eyes and see all she's left.

Your heart can be empty because you can't see her,

Or you can be full of the love you shared.

You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday,

Or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.

You can remember her only that she is gone,

Or you can cherish her memory and let it live on.

You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back,

Or you can do what she'd want: smile, open your eyes, love, and go on." – David Harkins.

The rose was dying.

The once proud flower seemed to curl in on itself, the bud drooping on the short stem as if bowing under the heavy weight of life. Winkles created intricate paths across the once velvety smooth petals, while a sick brown trimmed the edges, dimming the once vibrantly white color. The whole plant was hanging onto life by a thin thread, threatening to turn to dust at the slightest disturbance.

The flower had always reminded him of her . . . her touch . . . her smell . . . her beauty . . . and it was continuing to do so despite his wishes.

The rose was dying . . . surely that was no reason to scream at a little girl?

"Do you want me to get you another rose, Uncle Jake."

He leaned his back against the wall, his eyes locked onto the delicate resting on his palm. He didn't bother to sit down, though a prickly feeling was running up and down his legs and his head felt oddly light, making it puzzlingly difficult to latch onto the thoughts that drifted through his mind. A part of him knew that he felt this way due to lack of food, but he brushed the thought aside ( not realizing that he actually made a brushing motion with his hand). It didn't matter, it wasn't like he could leave and get food, anyway. It was only a matter of time before . . .

An angry thunk filled the small cabin as the door flung open and slammed into the wall, announcing the arrival of one severely ticked off parent. Jacob didn't move from his position beside the window, just continued to stare at the bit of dying beauty he gently cradled in his hand. He didn't have to look up to know that his brother stood in the doorway, didn't have to see to know that an odd mixture of anger and pity had twisted his lips into an awkward frown.

The door slammed shut again- Hank always made sure to yell at people behind the privacy of closed doors- and for one brief moment, silence filled the room, the calm before the storm. He heard Henry suck in a deep breath to prepare his lungs for whatever rant he was about to release, only to let it go in an uncertain uh.

Jacob could practically feel the hesitation radiating from his brother as Henry stared at him, though that really wasn't surprising. Hank had never been good at dealing with grief, whether his own or someone else's, he avoided it like it was the plague. He would much rather argue with someone than mumble words of comfort. His one solution was to get as far away from the source as possible, to bury it under a new life (and maybe, in that regard, they were the same), but there really weren't many places to run when you were supposed to admonish your brother for screaming at your little girl.

A mirthless smirk twisted Jacob's lips at the thought of how uncomfortable Hank must be feeling. His thumb gently ghosted over the dried rose as he imagined the internal arguments going on in Henry's mind as he tried to decide on which emotion to express: compassion for his grieving brother, or anger at the man who had just yelled at his daughter?

As quickly as the smirk came, it disappeared, leaving a sick feeling inside of him. He shouldn't be smiling.

"Jacob." His hesitation turning to firm resolve, Henry pulled out his best 'I'm a responsible parent' voice as he leaned towards anger, the emotion he was more comfortable with feeling than pity. "Why did you yell at her? She was only trying to help."

He didn't feel the need to answer, or to even glance at his brother. He didn't really know why he had screamed at her. Her tone and the way she had been smiling up at him had sparked a fire of uncontrollable rage inside of him, and before he knew it, tears were streaming down her face. A part of him knew he should feel something- anger, sadness, guilt, regret- but he couldn't bring himself to feel anything. He just didn't care.

"DON'T TOUCH THAT!"

"She's just a little girl." Now Hank was trying to make him see the wrong that he had just brutally committed, trying to make him feel.

Jacob blocked Henry out as he began his monologue on the atrocity of yelling at children- the beginning was always the most boring part of arguments- and lifted his head to stare out the window. His reflection stared back at him, ghostly and transparent, his eyes two black holes as dark as the bottomless pit he felt like he had fallen into.

As dark as the inside of a grave.

He looked past his reflection, barely registering Henry's words, and stared at the mound of dirt that marked the spot where she was buried. His eyes found the bush of fresh roses, and he briefly thought about how easy it would be to walk over and pluck a new one, but there wasn't any point to it. It would only die like everything else.

He sighed and his breath covered the glass in a momentary fog that blocked out the view of her grave. For one feverish moment, the thought of 'maybe it's not actually there', crashed through his mind, and then the mist dissolved.

The grave was still there.

"Jacob!" Frustrated and finally realizing that he wasn't paying attention at all, Henry snapped his name. It was the same tone he had used when they were little kids, the voice that always came just before Hank threw a pillow or something of that nature at him to catch his attention. Out of habit, Jake turned his head.

Henry's eyes widened and a small gasp escaped his lips. His blue eyes swept over Jacob with the detective skills he had tried so hard to run away from, taking in the dirty clothes that seemed to swallow his brother whole, the shadow of stubble on his chin, the dark smudges under his eyes, and his eyes . . . . The once expressive eyes that now held a thin veil of blankness that barely hid the turmoil of emotions raging underneath the surface. The eyes of a man fully prepared to launch himself over the edge.

Jacob studied his brother with the same scrutiny. Since the two had been busy doing different things for the war, Jacob physically fighting while Hank ran around with the rest of the family to find 'peaceful' solutions to the problem, they hadn't seen each other for a while. Jacob couldn't help but notice how clean, well-fed, and happy his brother looked, and that realization filled him with disgust.

"What do you want, Hank?" The scratchy voice that came out of his mouth sounded foreign, a stranger's voice, and turned the fond nickname into something mocking. "An apology?"

Henry's brow furrowed, and Jake could tell that he was thinking of the best way to respond, the best words to say. Always the overly cautious one. "Yeah, I think she deserves an apology . . . she only asked because she loves you. She cares about you." His eyes softened and his voice turned gentle, the unspoken words hovering in the air between them. We all care about you.

Jake's skin pricked as the same feral anger from before bubbled inside of him and his eyes narrowed into a glare. "If she really cares," he growled, "then she should stop sticking her nose in my business."

A flash of anger burst in Henry's eyes and his mouth opened . . . but then he snapped it shut, his eyes closing as he took a steadying breath. Frustration made Jake grit his teeth together as Hank opened his eyes again, not a trace of fury in those blue orbs. "Jake."

And there it was. The voice that he had been hearing for far too long. The voice that said, "you can talk to me, I understand." But they didn't understand. He had just had his heart ripped out, and yet he was still forced to live each moment, each second, each day in agony. They could never understand.

"I know you're hurting, but that doesn't give you the right to scream at anyone who happens to bother you."

The soft and loving note in Henry's voice grated against his nerves, and his hands automatically curled into fists by his side. It was all wrong. Henry was supposed to be furious with him. He was supposed to yell at him, not try to comfort him.

"Oh, please," he hissed, "tell me how, in all your infinite wisdom, you can possibly know what I'm feeling? Last time I checked, the woman you loved was still alive . . . or is there something you're hiding from everyone? Is there another Goldilocks you just forgot to tell us about?"

The corners of Henry's lips pulled down slightly in disapproval. "Jake . . ."

"And I can yell at whoever the hell I want to."

Jake allowed himself to feel a burst of sick satisfaction as Henry's eyes narrowed. There were few things in the world that Hank hated more than being interrupted. "Stop acting like a child," he snapped.

"Oh, I'm acting like a child?" An incredulous laugh, dry and hoarse, shot past his lips. "That's something coming from the man who spent the last few days moping around camp 'cause he didn't get what he wanted." He plunged on, a crazed sort of adrenaline seizing him at the sight of the fury on Henry's face. "Why are you even here, Hank? Would you have come if I had dared to scream at someone other than your precious kid?"

"They were precious to you once, too." Henry stabbed a finger at him, as if to send his point home.

"And how would you know that? You were asleep half of the time!" His face moved, whether it was a sneer or just a twitch, Henry didn't know, it was gone before he could tell. "They didn't even know I existed, just like everyone else in this town." Jake's voice dropped down to a whisper, shaky with accusation, as his head cocked to the side. "Why is that, Hank? Were you ashamed of me too?"

Henry's flinch was barely perceptible. "You dropped off the face of the planet, Jake! You didn't tell anyone where you were going or if you were ever coming back! For all I knew, you didn't exist anymore." There was something like desperation riding underneath the anger in Hank's voice, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as Jake. "And you know Mom wasn't ashamed of you, no one was. She was just trying to protect you!"

Jake snorted, "Oh, sorry, my mistake." He turned back to the window, lifting his hands to message his temples in the hope of alleviating the pressure that had suddenly built up inside his head. "Why don't you go and take care of you family, Hank? You've taught me my lesson." He sneered, hoping that Henry would leave. Fighting with his brother wasn't helping like he had thought it would. The drowning sensation was still . . .

"Do you think this is how she would have wanted you to act?"

Jake froze, every muscle in his body locked in a moment of shock as Henry kept talking. "Do you really think she would want you to yell at people?"

"Shut up." The words were a whisper, choked out by his suddenly breathless lungs.

Henry ignored him. "Do you really think that she would want you to wallow in self-pity, to shut yourself off from the rest of the world and everyone who cares about you?"

"I said SHUT UP!" Eyes blazing, he spun around. Fury, hot and contagious, coursed through him at the realization that the man in front of him had dared to talk about her. "You don't know what she'd want; you never even cared to meet her!" He stabbed a shaking finger at his brother, his voice rising to a shout. "You were too busy with your self-righteous prejudice against Everafters to even think about meeting her!"

"I hate to break it to you," Henry's voice rose to match his own, "but if this is what she'd want, then you were in love with a jerk!"

Someone screamed. Whether it was him or someone outside in the camp, Jacob never knew. He lunged forward, the sound echoing in his ears, one fist arching in front of him to connect with the shocked face of his brother. Lack of sleep and food turned the punch into something that was more like a slap, and he knew Hank had been hit with worse, but that didn't stop a pained look from flashing across his older brother's face as he took a step back, hand to his already red cheek.

For a moment, the two men stared at each other, their heavy breaths the only sound in the room. Jake looked at Henry and waited with a desperate anticipation, waited for his brother to retaliate, waited for the punch that he wasn't going to avoid, 'cause somehow, someway, that was going to make everything better. Come on, hit me, fight me, do it! But he knew Henry wouldn't. Maybe if they were still hormonal teenagers bent on proving their manliness to anyone who even dared to look at them sideways, but not now.

"She's dead." Jake's voice cracked as he turned away from Henry, running his hands through his hair. His whole body was shaking, from fatigue, hunger, anger, or grief, he couldn't tell anymore. "She's dead." He wondered if the words were meant to be an explanation, or an apology, or a cry for help, but in the end, they were just words. And words never helped.

A few beats passed before Henry spoke, slow and cautious. Trying to calm a wild animal. "I know, and I'm sorry. But you can't keep living like this, Jake. You have to let us help you. "

The noise that burst from his lips sounded like anything but a laugh. "Help me? Help me how?" He dragged his eyes from the floor to stare at his older brother. Why didn't he just leave, already? "By getting me to talk to Friar Tuck so he can tell me a load of bull? So he can try to convince me that this is all somehow 'God's will'? Thanks, but I'll pass."

Henry threw up his arms. "Fine, you don't have to talk to Friar Tuck if you don't want to. You can talk to me . . . or Mom . . .or even Mr. Cani – or not." He quickly added when Jacob started to open his mouth. "But you can't keep locking yourself away from everyone else. You need to sleep, to eat . . . you need to move on."

"Move on?" The words came out in a hysterical shriek as feverish eyes locked on to Henry in disgust. "Move on? The woman I love is dead and you expect me to . . . what?" He flung an arm towards the door. "To go outside and . . . and to laugh? To joke around with people . . .to . . . to keep living like nothing even HAPPENED?!"

Henry jerked back a step as Jake's scream echoed in his ears, his hands rising to block any possible strikes from the crazed man in front of him, but none came. As if someone had flipped a switch, all the anger that had filled both of the men drained away, leaving emptiness in one and a growing worry in the other.

"Grief isn't the same as love, Jake." Henry's voice sounded softer than a whisper as it broke the silence. He stared at his little brother, pleading with him to understand, but Jacob wouldn't meet his eyes. "You need to realize that."

"Apparently, I need to do a lot of things." He couldn't tell if he had actually said the words, or if his mouth had just moved. The cabin felt small and suffocating, the walls pushing in on him from all sides. He started to move towards the door, his steps heavy and slow and yet surreally light. He didn't know where he was going; just that he had to get out.

Henry quickly took a step forward and put a hand on his brother's arm, stopping him. "Jake . . ."

"She's gone, Henry." The doorknob under his palm felt icy cold compared to how hot and sweaty the rest of him felt. "She's gone because . . ."

He felt Henry stiffen behind him, the hand on his arm tightening. "Because . . .? You can't seriously be . . . what happened wasn't your fault! You can't blame yourself for her death! Gosh, you did the same thing when Dad died and . . ."

"You seemed perfectly fine with me doing it then." He shook off Henry's hand, opened the cabin door and shut it on his brother's shocked face.

It looked like a scene straight out of an old black and white horror movie. A thick layer of ash turned the ground beneath his feet into a dark carpet. Blackened tree trunks stretched toward the sky like scraggly fingers, and the cloying, sulfurous smell of dragon fire filled his nostrils.

An unnoticed cold wind blew by, covering what little skin he had exposed in goosebumps and tossing ash into the air. Jake stared around in a sleepwalker's bewilderment, a nauseated feeling twisting his stomach. Why, out of all places, had he come here? The whole place felt odd and strange, like a piece of Hell that was dragged to the surface of the earth. Not a single sound reached his ears, no birds twittering, no small creatures scuttling by . . . just silence.

"I've always hated silence."

With a gasp, Jake wildly spun around, eyes wide and heart pounding a fast beat in his chest. He turned in a circle, hope battling with life-weary cynicism inside of him as he scanned his surroundings. He could have sworn . . . it had sounded like she had been right beside him, almost as if she had been stretched out beside him on the grass, staring up at the sky.

"I've always hated silence, the type that only happens when you're all alone, and you know there's supposed to be noise, but there isn't any. I know it sounds ridiculous and . . . and stupid, but it always made me feel like something . . . well, like something bad's about to happen."

Jake stopped moving, and for a moment he wasn't standing in the forest anymore, he was lying on his back on the grassy hill, staring at the woman beside him.

"It was silent in the tower before I . . . before I fell asleep."

She had always said 'fell asleep'. Never 'cursed', never 'placed under a spell', just 'fell asleep', like it was an average thing that could happen again at any given time.

"Don't worry, Briar." A flirtatious wink as he grabbed her hand, "I'll protect you."

A strangled cry tore from his throat as the memory left just as quickly as it had come. He was left standing, eyes wide, mouth open, staring at the empty air in front of him. No one was there. No one had ever been there. He was all alone.

"No!" He frantically spun around to stare at a blackened tree trunk . . . and then turned to look at another . . . and another . . . and another, looking for something, anything, familiar. 'Cause he should be able to tell, right? He should be able to know immediately where she had died. But there was nothing in the way the burnt wood looked, or in the direction the tree leaned, or its height . . . there was nothing that caught his attention, there was nothing that screamed at him "SHE DIED HERE!"

He slammed his palms into his forehead, his body shaking and hunching forward as he resisted the overwhelming urge to puke. But of course he wouldn't recognize anything; he had been too busy playing tricks on a dragon to know that she had just broken against a tree.

"You can't blame yourself for it. . ."

A groan lodged itself in his throat as self-loathing twisted inside of him. But Henry was wrong. He didn't blame himself because he couldn't. To be able to blame himself for her death, he would have had to been able to do something, but the charm had left him completely paralyzed, blind, and mute.

There had been nothing he could have done to stop her from dying. There had been nothing he could have done to stop her from slamming into the tree. There had been nothing he could have done to stop her from charging at that dragon, probably in the hopes that wherever she ended up, he'd be there waiting.

"I'll protect you."

He had been completely helpless.

He broke into a run, not caring about where he was going, not caring about the Scarlet Hand or the monsters that roamed the forest, not caring about anything.

Her death wasn't his fault . . . and he hated himself for that.

The town of Ferryport Landing was eerily empty. The streets were cleared of the regulars that used to walk down the sidewalk, people he used to joke with when he was a child, people who only gave him curious looks when he came back, his memory wiped clean from their minds. Broken glass and piles of junk took their places, pieces of bikes, toys, and the odd appliance strewn out across the sidewalks and in random piles in the middle of the street.

Jake ignored the trash, walking over and through it like it wasn't even there, even when something sharp managed to slice through the sole of his shoe and stab the bottom of his foot. His brain hardly registered the small pain, he just continued to walk forward to the place he both dreaded and urgently longed for.

His steps didn't slow when his destination came into sight. His view of the building kept switching from the broken down husk it was to the bright, crowded, happy place it had once been, as if reality was batting with the fond memories he was desperate to hold on to.

He walked through the hole where the door had once been – a glass door, a tiny bell at the top that let out a small ding- he walked into the room, stepping over broken chairs and overturned tables- crowded with people, huddled over books or papers, clasping warm mugs in their hands, the indistinguishable mumble of conversations floating in the air- and stopped in the middle of the room.

He stared at the broken countertop, the melted cash register, at the cabinets that held the broken remains of coffee mugs, at the spot on the wall that had once been occupied by the strangest painting he had ever seen, and remembered the strong scent of coffee as he first stepped in, the overwhelming desire for caffeine that wasn't his mother's coffee, 'cause her's stunk, and the childish excitement of trying something new.

He walked up to the counter and put on his best smile for the two grumpy women that were glaring at him, he bet they were some poor girl's fairy-godmothers, and stared up at the menu with intense concentration.

He didn't look down when he heard the door to the kitchen open, didn't look down when he heard the grumpy women hurriedly mumble something. He only looked down when he heard those five words, the words that had started it all.

"How may I help you?"

The memory shattered like glass, leaving him alone in the all too empty building, the silence that she had been so afraid of surrounding him.

It was like a punch to the stomach, the pain that hit him as the memory slipped away like sand between his fingers. His breath caught in his throat as a primeval desperation choked him. An intense desperation to go back to that place, to that time, when everything was happy, when everything was perfect, when all he had to do was look down and he would see her smiling up at him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the destruction that surrounded him. Trying to convince himself that it wasn't really there, that the coffee shop was still intact. That there were no broken tables . . . no broken lights . . . broken windows . . . broken glass . . . broken, broken, broken, just like her body had been the last time he held her.

He eyes snapped open as the room began to sway around him, a dizzying sense of vertigo bubbling up inside of him. He felt like he was falling-he was always falling- like everything he knew, his friends, his family, were flying past him and he couldn't grab on to them . . . he didn't want to grab on to them. He just wanted to keep falling and hope that he would one day hit the bottom.

"You need sleep . . ."

A hysterical giggle burst past his lips, his body continuing to sway, but he never fell, and the ruined coffee shop never changed. Sleep didn't help. It only made everything worse. He would dream whenever he would finally collapse into unconsciousness, his grief tired brain spinning tales of what life could have been like if she had lived. Long kisses over glittering rings . . . children's laughter – they always sounded like her-, old hands, winkled and worn, intertwined . . . and then it would shatter. Breaking into pieces as he was cruelly forced back into a life without her.

Other nights he would scream, shout, cry, shriek, fill himself with as much alcohol, magical potions, drugs that he could get his hands on, trying, so very hard, to get back there. Back to the dreams, the hope, the joy, back to his world.

But it would always end with him realizing that his dreams were just that. Fantasies that only lasted for brief seconds, that weren't real. This was real. This was reality. She was gone, dead, buried, and never coming back.

He collapsed, his knees cracking on the dirty ground, his brain not registering the pain that snaked up his legs.

He would never be able to hold her again. He would never be able to kiss her, to look at her, to talk to her, to spend just five seconds with her. He would never be able to hear her laugh, hear her sing, or tell stories of how things were done back when she was young. He would never be able to hold her hand, to lose himself in her eyes, to tell her that he loved her . . . and it hurt.

A bloodcurdling scream filled with pain, regret, sorrow, hate, longing, ripped itself out of him. He slammed his fist repeatedly into the ground, gladly accepting the numbing pain, as another scream tore from his lips . . . and then another . . . and another . . . and another . . ., his fist adding a desperate beat.

"GIVE HER BACK! GIVE HER BACK!"

He needed to wake up, to open his eyes and realize that this was all just a nightmare. That it wasn't real. That she was still alive, still breathing, still laughing. That she was still with him, that she hadn't left him, that he wasn't alone, 'cause he couldn't . . . he couldn't . . .

He curled into a ball, his screams turning into sobs. Tears streamed down his face as his body shook with each cry.

"Please." A choked plea muttered into the burnt and dirty floor.

He just wanted to go back. Back to the times when he would flirt with her over a cup of coffee. Back to the times when he would listen to her complaints about her over-protective fairy-godmothers, and then would follow her to the store 'cause she felt like an ungrateful jerk and needed to buy them a gift. Back to when he would make it his daily goal to make her laugh so hard she snorted. Back to the late night phone calls, long walks under the moon, and midnight talks on park benches when Sleeping Beauty had been too afraid to fall asleep.

"Please."

But she was gone, and she was never coming back.

"Please."

He didn't fall asleep. Darkness never came to drag him down to peaceful unconsciousness. He was left curled on the floor until his body stopped shaking from sobs, until tears stopped streaming down his face, until all the aches in his body morphed into one over powering numbness, the muscles screaming at him to move.

The urge to not move, to stay in that position until he either died of natural causes or something came along to kill him, danced around his head, tantalizing in its simplicity. But as always, thoughts of his mother, and all the things that he had already put her through, pushed away any thoughts of allowing himself to die.

He slowly began to push himself onto his knees despite the part of him that begged him to stay on the floor and never move. He had already taken her husband away from her, the least he could do was stay alive so that she didn't lose a son, too.

His shaky arms were hardly able to bear his weight, and his hand . . .

He froze and stared down at his hand, transfixed by the bruised knuckles and the small cuts that were dripping blood onto the floor and onto the shards of broken mirror.

He leaned against the wall and buried his head in his hands, angry, upset, frustrated, and hurt. He heard the door fling open, heard someone run into the room and then come to a halt.

"Geppetto didn't recognize me," he muttered into his hands. Geppetto's confused face flashed across his mind, sending another stab of pain through him. It wasn't that no one remembered him that bothered him – in fact, it could be a blessing sometimes, especially considering how many times he broke all the toys in that man's shop-, it was the reason why they didn't remember him. The reason that slapped him in the face every time a familiar face asked him who he was.

A dry laugh escaped his lips as he tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling, letting his hands fall to his sides. "I guess it's for the best, though, right? I did screw up big time . . . and . . . and on the bright side, it's better to be seen as a stranger than as the guy who got his dad killed, right?" He snorted, his lips twisting into a foul replica of his normal smile. "I guess there really is a good side to every bad situation."

"Oh, Jake." He finally looked down and she was there, in front of him, throwing her arms around him. His body tightened in shock but then he melted into the embrace, hugging her back as he buried his face in her hair, hanging onto her like she was the only steady object in a constantly shifting world. Not for the first time, he felt that he could stay that way for the rest of his life, wrapped up in her arms . . . but then she pulled away.

He looked down at her, some pathetic excuse of a joke ready to fly from his lips, but the words died when he saw the tears that filled her green eyes. "Briar . . ."

She lifted a hand and her finger tips lightly brushed against the wet tracks on his cheeks, left over by the tears that had slipped unnoticed from his eyes. He leaned into her touch, his shocked eyes locked onto her face, onto the tears that were slowly making their way down her cheeks. It never ceased to surprise him how much it hurt to see her cry.

"Please," her voice was a pleading whisper, "please stop hating yourself . . . ple . . ." Her hand gently wiped his tears away as her other hand moved to the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair. "Please don't cry . . . I . . . I can't stand to see you . . . please."

Jacob stared down at his bruised hand, and watched as a tear, tiny and crystalline, fell past it to smack against the ground. His head slowly lifted and his eyes, hot and swollen, found the spot where he had first met her.

"You don't know what she'd want!"

But he knew. He knew exactly what she would want.

He gently pulled out the dying rose from his breast pocket. The decaying plant was just a shadow compared to the vibrant flower it had once been. Now it seemed to blend in well with the coffee shop, colorless and devoid of life.

It was nothing like her.

Briar had been beautiful. Stubborn as a donkey, especially when it came to situations that would undoubtedly get herself hurt, and much too kind for her own good. She had been a helpless scaredy cat and a hilariously bad athlete. She had been a secret nerd with a hidden passion for the melodrama of old detective shows. She had had great taste in movies, and horrible taste in men. She had been everything to him: a friend, a co-conspirator, a therapist, and the only women he would ever want to marry.

And she deserved so much more than to be remembered in grief.

He pushed himself to his feet, the rose cradled in his hands. Her memories deserved to be met with happiness and laughter, not tears and anger.

He walked towards the counter, not taking his eyes off the flower. He had memorized how many steps there were to the counter a long time ago.

Her memories deserved to be cherished, not viewed as things that only caused pain.

And they deserved to never be forgotten.

He stopped in front of the counter.

And he was going to make sure they never were.

"Briar," his voice, scratchy and raw from screaming, wavered with pain as the words that he hadn't been able to say at her funeral came pouring out. "I'm so sorry that I couldn't protect you . . .that I wasn't there when you needed me. . ." He stopped as tears began to stream down his face, his chest rising with a shaky breath before he pushed himself to continue, because he knew if he stopped, he would never say it. "I love you so very much and it hurts that I can't see you or talk to you, that you aren't here anymore. And there are times when I don't even think that I can keep living . . . that I can't even move . . ." his voice dropped to a whisper, "but I'll try, okay? I promise, I'll try for you."

He gently placed the rose on the counter, careful not to break the dried petals. He straightened and closed his eyes, letting himself drift back to the day when they first met. The day when she first stepped into his life and all the days that followed. Days when she stayed beside him, loved him, even knowing the horrible things that he had done.

"Thank you," he whispered, knowing that the words would never be able to convey the gratitude, the thanks, and the love he felt. "Thank you so much." He turned around, his eyes opening, and walked out, leaving the rose and the coffee shop behind.

He was halfway down the street when he heard a voice call his name. He turned around, hand drifting towards one of his pockets as the image of an angry Scarlet Hand member flashed across his mind, but relaxed when he saw his brother hopping off the flying carpet a few feet behind him.

"Jake!" Relief covered every inch of Henry's expression as he walked toward his little brother . . . only to come to a hesitant halt. Jake could tell from the way his shoulders hunched, his eyes shifted to the left, and the way he nervously scratched the back of his neck, that Hank was about to mutter a very gruff apology. Whether it was for what happened in the cabin, or for something that happen long in the past, Jacob didn't really care.

He shook his head slightly, and offered Henry a small smile, one that he met with his own. They both inconspicuously looked around, just in case someone was lurking around the destroyed town, before quickly throwing their arms around each other in a hug, tossing in a manly grunt and a hard pat to the back for good measure.

A brief silence stretched out between them before Jake nodded his head towards the setting sun. "Did you get lost?" His voice was still scratchy and the sound of it caused Henry's eyes to narrow, but his older brother didn't push it.

Hank shrugged. "I thought you were still in camp, and by the time I realized you weren't, it was already late."

"Ah," Jake nodded his head as sagely as he could while covered in dirt and ash. "Did you bring any, uh, food?" He really wasn't that hungry though he figured if he asked for some Hank would stop looking at him like he was some sort of rabid animal.

Henry blinked in surprise before he began to search in his pockets. "I think I have a candy bar somewhere . . .got it!" He pulled out a half-eaten chocolate bar and held it out, the concerned look still etched onto his face.

Jake eyed the candy bar dubiously before grabbing it and walking past his brother. "I see where Daphne gets it from," he muttered as he hopped onto the carpet ,and then he froze, a sick feeling settling in his gut.

"Don't worry," Henry said as he pulled himself onto the magical rug. "She's already forgiven you, though it wouldn't hurt if you gave her the rest of that bar." He nodded his head towards the chocolate as the carpet began to 'fly'.

"Right," Jake muttered, placing the spit covered candy in one of his many pockets. He could tell by the way kept glancing over his shoulder at him that his brother was itching to ask him where he went, but at the moment, that was the last thing Jake wanted to do. He casually glanced over the side of the carpet before raising an eyebrow at his brother's back. "Really, Hank? We're flying so close to the ground that I can actually see the snails passing us."

Henry looked at him over his shoulder, his blue eyes studying his face. They both knew it was a weak attempt at a joke, but it was the only way Jake could think of to let Henry know that he would be okay, eventually.

After a few seconds, Henry's eyes narrowed. "Fine. You drive, then, since you're the expert."

Jake held up his hands. "Oh, no. You need all the practice you can get."

The two bickered and argued the whole way back to camp, Henry furious and hot tempered Jake cool and snarky. It was almost like normal, except for the obvious way Hank was carefully choosing his words and the random bursts of silence as Jake stared off into the distance, wrapped up in his own thoughts. It wasn't quite the same, but it was still nice.

When they landed, Jake went off in search of a certain little pig-tailed girl, who had probably already picked a fresh rose for him. His fingers gently brushed against the bruises on his knuckles as he weaved his way through the Everafters, some eyeing him with surprise, others with undisguised joy.

He knew he wasn't anywhere near to being healed, knew it would be a long time before her memory didn't send a stab of pain and longing through him. But he would get there one day.

His eyes spotted Daphne sitting beside the food tent; the little girl was watching Sabrina chase the fairy around with a stick, the blonde's angry threats echoing in the air.

A faint smile tugged at his lips. And he had plenty of people who would help him along the way.