A/N—I don't own anything. Michael Scott owns The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel.
Summary: Contains SPOILERS for The Warlock. **************The hard part wasn't knowing that he was going to die. The hard part was coming to terms with the fact that Will was.
Crystal Clear
Every shadow seemed to be a memory; every trailing finger of darkness, a whisper. He saw the years flit in and out of reach like dying butterflies—watched them fall slowly to the crystal ground like the wilted petals of a flower—examined them, without touching them, scrutinizing every second of their fading life—all with a fervent hunger, as if he could cling to them all the tighter by staring. Beneath the translucency of those failing years, those faltering minutes, he saw the spidery veins of the gemstone craft, each one weak and trembling, like the hands of a tired clock, counting down the deadly seconds until it unwound.
"Palamedes?"
He tore his gaze, reluctantly, from the flitting memories, like a child torn from a mother too soon. Slowly, he met Will's pale blue gaze, swallowing as he struggled to hold it. He could feel the guilt of those who have failed rising in him, and it seemed to him that already his friend's fragile life had slipped from his fingers, the broken remnants crashing against him, biting, like glass shards.
A few pieces of paper shone starkly in Will's hand, making his pale skin tanned against the vibrant white. Ink from a leaked pen stained the tips of his fingers, and left shadowy smudges on the papers. The dark liquid, shining ethereally in the shadows, looked like blood.
"What he—what Abraham said doesn't—isn't like a death sentence. He hasn't signed anything. He hasn't made you sign anything."
Not literally, at least. But figuratively, every scrape, every bruise, every drop of blood that had stained the ground, or tainted the water, or smeared against the metal of the vimana—all constituted a part of a signature that they hadn't meant to give. By the time Abraham had spoken to them, the sentence was written, signed, and sealed.
In the golden tear that Abraham had shed, Palamedes had seen his death. He had seen Will's. He had a hard role to play, but it was there, in small print.
That hard part wasn't knowing that he was going to die. That hard part was coming to terms with the fact that Will was.
He returned his gaze to the floor, tearing his eyes away from the images he saw in Will's eyes.
The years were gone—the petals swept away—and the clock had stopped ticking. The hands were frozen...
And everything was crystal clear.
The funny thing about the saying crystal clear, he realized, was that you couldn't actually see through crystal. The spider web memories got in the way.