Back to You
The west hospital room is not unfamiliar, but it has never been so chillingly austere. The room is as impeccably straightened as it was left before the war: the floor gleams in the darkness, every instrument perfectly aligned on sterile trays; even the shadows are crisply delineated. A perfect silence encloses the room, quieting light footsteps. The coldness inside is set apart by locked windows and blinds drawn shut, a clinical chill that seeps through bone and metal.
It is not too different from the chill of waking up in the middle of the night with a stricken battlefield blazing behind eyes sealed shut.
In the far corner, pale silk curtains cascade from the ceiling onto the floor, veiling the room's single comatose inhabitant. It has been implicitly forbidden to enter the room, but in the darkness just before dawn, all seems surreal. The battle burns under feverishly prickling skin, its ruins sunk deep to heart. Not to carry a weapon or fallen hero seems to have deprived arms of their use; they fall empty and strangely heavy.
To stand before the veil is to stand upon the burning wreckage of war from which they returned. Without touching the silk curtain, its coolness percolates through numb fingers.
He lies on the bed beside, arms longing to hold.
Miranda fingers the pale green silk hanging before her. The edges of a long, thin sheet are suspended from the ceiling and hang over Katie's hospital bed, completely obscuring her from view. A few rays of the sun slant through the window, tracing out a soft profile of her sister.
She makes out from the light gray shadows a figure lying still. It's hard to make out much else—even to see the outline of her face. She had never seemed small to her before.
"Katie," Miranda breathes her name.
"Hey Miranda," Katie says weakly, as if it hurts to speak. Her voice is thin and slightly rasped. Miranda recalls Will saying something about breathing in abrasive particles from the damage. He'd said a lot of things the other day that somehow amounted to this.
Miranda leans against the bed and grips its edge. The still silence resettles in the empty room. She watches intently, as if she could look straight through the curtain by trying long and hard enough. Miranda fingers the ends of the curtain, wondering how this was all set up in the first place.
"It's Jane's birthday in two days," Miranda tells her. Their youngest sister adores Katie. "I know she wants to see you."
"I wish I could." Katie says softly.
"Katie, you can." Miranda clutches a fistful of the curtains to her chest.
"No," The shadows shift slightly, and Miranda imagines Katie shaking her head. She breathes sharply in pain from the sudden movement and Miranda winces. "I can't."
It takes a tremendous amount of resolve not to ask why, but Miranda doesn't. She swallows her selfish curiosity and sinks to the ground, bowing her head against Katie's bed. "We just miss you. That's all."
She feels a slow movement towards her, but Katie's fingers stop short of Miranda. "I'm sorry." Katie says thickly.
Her hand lies just beside Miranda's face. She squeezes her eyes shut and remembers the feeling of Katie's fingers through her hair, deft and nimble as she braids Miranda's thick hair. Her hands were small but strong, calloused from gardening, her fingers always moving to do something. Katie never seemed to stop; she was always flitting from one place to another, doing whatever needed to be done whether it was asked for or not. The pent up energy is heavy in the room—Miranda never realized how much Katie did until now. Even with their brothers and sisters scrambling with her to do it all, there always seemed to be something that slipped through their minds.
"You know I don't care what you look like." Miranda says desperately. "I really don't." Her fingers curl into her palm, squeezing the coolness from between the loose threads. She could so easily tear down the curtain and look upon her sister. "I just miss you, Katie Kate."
Cool fingers wrap around hers. "I miss you too Mandy."
Miranda covers Katie's hand with her own, and curls her body in. She imagines pulling her sister out from behind the curtains. This is all she's seen: Katie's left hand, badly burned, the skin raw red and burned black with winding burns, a deep gash grooved into her palm wrapped in gauze, extending up her wrist behind the curtain, one of her fingers bound and broken, and her pinky missing; the rest of her body is in similar condition. Miranda holds Katie's hand as gently as she can, remembering the way they used to hold onto each other. If this is all she has, she wills it to be enough.
Miranda lies her head closer to Katie and squeezes her eyes closed. The last time she saw her sister's face burns behind her eyes.
It is still hours before dawn; the still sky is a dim gray. From a brief reflection in the mirror propped on the dresser, Miranda catches a diagonal sliver of Katie's face: light brown hair hastily raked back from her face, her honey colored eyes cloudy on the mirror's dust covered surface with dark bags like shadows, her lips pale and pressed into the grim expression which had recently become her. It passes in a moment; Katie turns her head as she walks silently across the room and out the door. Miranda reaches her hand out to touch the mirror, though she's too far away.
Just before dawn she wakes up with her arm hanging over her bed, fingers still reaching for the mirror. Later she would fling the same mirror across the room, barely missing Will's face, only to fall on her knees, frantically gathering the shards in her bloody hands as he tries to pry her away.
She has tried to piece together the events of that night so many times she forgets what she knows and what she has created.
"You don't need to know, Miranda." Katie says quietly, still reading her sister's mind.
Miranda scours her mind for every last detail of that day, trying to recall anything—a whispered word or even just a change in her expression that might have foreshadowed what was to come. She doesn't know why she wants to know what happened; it will only drive her mad with guilt or grief.
"But you were all alone." The words fall like the first raindrops in a storm. "You wanted to save the campers who had been captured as prisoners, save our sister. Malcolm said it was too dangerous – new variables to take into account, miscalculations, couldn't afford to lose anyone else – but you went anyways, you went alone. You were almost captured too but they all ran for cover when the first Imperial gold bomb was triggered. And the disturbance set off the others. The alarms were ringing, ringing so loudly that he could hear from across the boundaries. But it wasn't to alarm them, it was another trigger – the avalanche of rocks, the explosion, the conflagration – so destructive a flare that he could see it." Her fingers curl in, fingernails digging in towards her palm. Katie gasps in pain. Miranda loosens her hands and swallows hard. She scrambles in her apology, words tumble from her mouth, almost melting into sobs.
"Miranda, it's fine. Mandy, don't worry." Katie tells her. "Don't dwell on what happened. It's not for you to worry."
But it haunts you, she wants to say. She says instead, "No one cares what you look like, Katie."
"I'm not trying to be vain." Katie says softly. "I would come out – I want to, believe me, I do – but this is not the time."
"Will it ever be?" Miranda's swallows hard when Katie does not answer. "We need you. We need to know that this war will not haunt us forever, that we have risen stronger." Miranda's plea speak into the silence.
Katie finally whispers, "I know."
A moment of terrible understanding crashes through the silence as Miranda's breath turns to ice. She grits her teeth against the acrid taste of horrible guilt, sorrow, and loss, trying to swallow it whole.
The distant sound of a conch shell splits the silence and Miranda cringes.
"You should go." Katie extracts her hand from between Miranda's and it disappears behind the curtain with the rest of her.
Miranda reaches into the curtain instinctively before reeling herself back. Looking upon the green curtain, she has never felt emptier and heavier.
"It'll be okay, Miranda." Katie says softly.
Miranda marvels at her grace. She traces her fingers along the cool sheet, along the soft shadows of her sister's face. "It will be okay for you too, Katie, I promise."
With an effort, she lets her hand move away from the curtain, and turns away, wondering if anything is visible from behind the curtain.
The cabin has not slept this soundly in a long time.
During times of war – which had become all the time – nightmares plagued their restless sleep. For Travis, the first effect of stress was insomnia. It hit him halfway through the Roman siege. To keep himself busy at night he signed up for the graveyard patrol shifts or stayed up with Malcolm poring through towers of books for references and equations. When he slept, it was only for an hour or two, before he woke up in a sweat, tangled in sheets, with the sound of her screams caught in his throat and her pain – what he knows had to have been much worse – etched in his veins. He refrained from sleeping unless he was physically too tired to stop Connor from dragging him to bed.
Sometimes he lay in the dark listening to the sound of the others' sleeping. It wasn't very comforting, the sounds of restless turning, mumbled narration of nightmares, ragged breathing – Connor always sounded like he was in pain. He was afraid to ask why.
Tonight he's okay; Travis listens to the rhythmic breathing of his brother in the bunk below. He closes his eyes and focuses on matching the pace and breadth of his breathing. The air tastes of smoke and shrapnel. He tries to relax his body, but even as it screams from the ache of tension and overuse in every muscle, it refuses. He listens for the sound of Connor's breathing, but the roar of blood and fire breaks free from a thread of memory, unraveling what had never been strung together. Fire blazes through him from the inside out with a heat that catches fast and consumes slowly. Pain sears in every direction, tearing him apart one muscle fiber at a time, feeding the flames that catch at the ends. Shards of burning Imperial gold and glass lace through his skin into his blood, rushing in every direction to destroy what remains. He struggles to breathe as he sinks in a pool of blood and falling debris, unable to scream as pain shrieks through his body.
He wakes up gasping for air, shivering violently, his body burning feverishly inside, covered in cold sweat. The fires and rubble are gone, but the burning, lacerating pain remains in his still aching body. He's curled on his side in a fetal position, his face half buried in the sheets beside his pillow, arms wrapped around stomach, fingernails digging into his sides.
Travis flings his sheets aside and silently stumbles out the door.
Will stands hesitantly in the doorway of the west hospital room. He's become familiar with this room from years of serving as a medic, but he suddenly feels out of place.
The room is completely straightened out, every bed is made, every instrument in its place, the floor gleaming clean. The only occupied bed is in the far corner, covered in a light green curtain. There is something chilling about her predicament. The Demeter kids skirt in and out to check on her, barely spending any time inside. There are whispers of what actually took place and what it left her with.
Will clenches his jaw. Katie is one of his best friends at Camp; he's spent countless hours on the floor of her cabin playing card games, chatting late into the night, and writing his best poetry sitting beside her, leaning against the boards of her bed. Katie has always been one to give—she was willing to give her life—and it saddens him that no one is by her side.
He crosses the room. "Hey Katie."
"Hi Will," Katie's voice is soft and dazed; she has just been given painkillers.
Will swallows hard, realizing that he hasn't seen her face in weeks. Chiron insisted on treating her and gave no explanation.
"How do you feel? Is there anything I can do for you?" Will leans against the bedside table and grips the green curtain. It's made of light green silk and impossibly thin—only one thread thick except at the cross-stitches—but completely opaque; the most he can see through is a vague shadow. Katie is lying very still; he can't see the movement of her lips or breathing.
"That's alright, I don't need anything," Her voice replies softly.
"How about some company?" Will offers. "Chiron hasn't let anyone come in for the last few days."
"That'd be nice." He imagines Katie smiling, but she sounds so tired.
He reaches hesitantly towards the curtain and lightly rests his hand on her shoulder. She stiffens and makes a sound like a suppressed gasp of pain. He can only imagine the extent of her wounds; it was a miracle that anyone was able to be saved from the burning wreckage she was mired in.
"Don't you have a certain someone to tell me about?" Katie tries at being playful.
Will smiles. "Yeah, a lot." He twines his finger around the green silk, feeling guilty again. "I'll tell you about it some other time."
Katie is quiet for a moment. "I make everyone feel uneasy, don't I?"
"No." Will says fiercely, his fingers curling through fistfuls of her sheets. It suddenly dawns on him why she is isolated and why Chiron himself arranged this. It makes him dizzy with anger. "Don't ever feel that way, Katie."
Her reply is unspoken, but he hears it in the silence.
"We want you to be a part of us, Katie." Will longs to reach inside and take her out to see for herself. "We want you to come back."
Katie shifts slightly, towards the edge of the bed. Will kneels by her bed and rests his arms beside hers. After a long silence, she says, "Tell me about what Camp is up to. It must be a busy time."
"Yeah, busier than last time." Will says absently. He describes the peace between the Greeks and Romans, the new shrines and temples to be built, the cross-camp programs to be implemented. He glosses over them in as little detail as possible; it feels cruel to tell her about moving on when she can't. He understands why she feels the need to hold back, but can't find the words to tell her that it's okay not to, because she is right.
"That sounds exciting. Everything's going well?" There is real hope in her voice, enough to break his heart.
Will lays his head in his arms and stares at the curtain, trying to see into it. "Yes." One word never felt so heavy. He wishes he could see her face, and on the other hand he would feel so guilty. Her breathing has slowed and she is less tense. Will knows it means the painkillers are about to pull her into sleep. He leans forward and touches his arm to her shoulder. This time it doesn't hurt her. "I'll stay with you until you fall asleep. I know the feeling of being dragged off to sleep. It's paralyzing."
"Thanks, Will." Katie says faintly.
"Katie," Will says softly. He recognizes the faint chemical scent in the room and knows she won't remember the few minutes. "I'm sorry you were alone when it happened."
"It had to be that way." Katie's words are wisps. "In case something like this happened."
"Promise me you won't do that again." Will says wearily, knowing she might never get the chance.
"I guess I wasn't really alone though." Katie muses, her voice floating. "Someone brought me back. I remember. Can't see his face… all the flames… gold… told me to hold on…" She is quiet, and for a moment Will thinks she's fallen asleep, but her voice asks him, faintly, "Do you know who brought me back?"
Will's throat constricts as he is brought back to that day. "Yeah." It wasn't possible to heal all the horrifying injuries; he hurt to know this could only be more true for her.
Katie's voice flutters, "Oh," or maybe she said who? He's not sure; he can't tell her anyways.
Will listens to the sound of her breathing, and from the length and pause between her breaths, knows she's fallen asleep. He pulls a chair up by her bed and sits, pulling his knees up to his chest like a child and stays with her, remembering the better days when they used to stay up with Miranda, telling ghost stories and evading the curfew harpies. He tries to capture every detail of her face, with the sinking feeling he might never see it again, but he's already forgotten the exact way her hair falls.
He doesn't try for sleep, but wanders back to the west hospital room, where he inevitably finds himself each night. The room is almost completely dark, but for the dim gray light of impending dawn straining through the curtains. His eyes adjust to the dark enough to draw outlines.
His hand falls along the silk curtain, and he shivers slightly.
"It was my fault." He tells himself aloud.
The sheets rustle. "What?"
He steps back, startled. "I didn't mean to wake you up, I – I'm sorry."
"Travis?" Katie sounds surprised.
"Yeah, sorry." Travis steps back. "You should get back to sleep, I shouldn't be disturbing you."
"No, it's okay."
"You need rest, I'll leave." Travis turns and crosses the room.
"Wait," She says. He winces at the strain in her voice. "Can you stay?"
Travis nods, surprised, though she can't see. "Yeah, of course." He takes the chair beside her bed. "Is everything… okay?" She would never ask for his company.
"Yeah, I… I'm – "
"It's okay." Travis cuts off her pause, remembering too late how much he hates the question when everything obviously isn't. "I can't sleep anyways."
"Why not?"
"I…" He grimaces at the thought of his nightmares. "Well, what keeps you awake?" It's an unfair question, and he doesn't want her to have to answer it, so he swallows his pride, "I still have dreams… from the war. I think we were supposed to put it behind us, but I can't."
"Yeah, we're supposed to keep moving on, changing and growing." Katie says, with unintentional sadness. Travis hurts to think of her trying to restrain her sorrow, to the point of respecting others' right to move on over hers to live. "Otherwise they'll never find peace."
He notes that her comment is not self-inclusive. "And what about you?"
She is quiet.
He traces his thumb along the threads of the curtain, and pulls back from reaching behind the curtain so she won't feel alone. He leans his head against the side of the chair. "There's this part of my dream I can never wake up from." He wraps one arm around his stomach. "I – I don't know if I can explain it, but it's this feeling like I'm burning from the inside out, and everything, all the debris, is falling through me. Sometimes when I wake up that feeling doesn't go away and I think I must be going—"
"You're not crazy."
"You're not selfish."
She breathes sharply, shaking. He reaches for her, his hand settling lightly on her shoulder. She flinches, probably from pain, but doesn't push him away. He fights the urge to hold her. "I'm a reminder that the war is always with us, that time and peace are not enough. In a time when everyone needs to heal and rebuild from ruins and—" Her voice breaks, her breathing ragged and pained. She says brokenly, "I can't stop seeing fire. In my dreams, on my body, it – it's everywhere."
Travis clenches his jaw, his arms aching from the effort to hold back. "You're not the only one, Katie. I wear the war every day, and so do others."
"You don't understand, Travis – "
"I do, Katie, that there are – "
"No, it isn't – "
"I'll show you."
"What?"
"I'll close my eyes."
"What do you – ?"
"I won't see you, I'll close my eyes, so you can see for yourself, that you are not alone."
"What do you mean?"
"You'll have to see, won't you?"
"I…" She falters. He can feel her despair, her fear. After a long moment's pause she says quietly, "Okay."
"Okay," Travis says gently. "Hold on." He gathers the curtain slowly, she stiffens, and picks her up with the curtain. He gently places her in the middle of the bed, sitting against the wall. From just holding her body he can tell how much pain she is in. He sits beside her and closes his eyes. "Ready?"
After several long moments, he hears the rustle of the silk curtain very slowly move aside. There is a sharp gasp. He feels a coolness approach him, and moments later her fingers lightly touch the dark burn across his neck and collarbone. Her fingertips softly trace the path of a jagged gash along his jaw. He can feel her hands shaking from the way the tension in the air changes. Her movements are slow, painful. She touches his forearm, gently following the edge of a still raw burn to his wrist. It's a tentative, shy touch, as if she's afraid to hurt him.
"It's okay," He tells her, staying perfectly still, eyes closed. He slowly reaches up and peels off his shirt, then the bandages underneath.
"Travis…" She whispers, in shock.
"It's okay," He reassures her.
Her breathing is shallow and sharp, as her shaking fingers touch the blistered burn covering his left shoulder and upper arm. She traces a black and red burn across his chest. His muscles tense from the effort not to shake from her touch, as her fingertips graze the still painful lacerations across his rib cage that will never close. Her fingers flutter across his bruised diaphragm; he clenches his teeth as they fall across the torn muscle of his upper abdomen and almost flinches when she touches the unhealed wound on his stomach, a long, red, blistered burn interrupted by two parallel gashes.
"Travis," Katie's voice shakes, her breathing ragged. A teardrop falls on his knee. He reaches slowly, blindly, to hold her. His hand touches her side and she cries out; blood falls on his fingers; her skin is blistered, raw and gashed open, her ribs brittle. "Travis Stoll," Katie's voice breaks, "It was you, you were the one who found me. You were the one who walked through fire, the explosion…" She tenderly touches the wound on his stomach. "That was a folded piece of Imperial gold shrapnel." Katie sobs, "You brought me back." Katie's hand touches his shoulder, and she slowly touches her forehead to his chest. Tears stream down her face, sliding onto his chest. He holds her as gently as he can, feels her bandages against his body, her burns, blisters, and gashes like Braille on his bare skin. She holds him tightly, even though he knows it hurts her.
She touches his eyelids ever so lightly, her fingertips brushing against his eyelashes. Slowly, he opens his eyes. "Katie," His dark blue eyes hold her gaze. Pale light streams through the window, falling on her face. She flinches and sinks her head - she is unrecognizable. He reaches slowly and touches her face, holding her gently in his hand. "I brought you back, and I will bring you back again."
Katie tries to speak, still shaking.
"It's okay, I'm here." Travis brushes away a tear, illuminated by dawn light. "You're going to be okay." Her eyes fix upon his with all the intensity of the sun and earth. "Are you scared?"
Katie wraps her fingers around his wrists. He wraps one arm around her and takes her hand. She whispers, "I'm terrified."
"That's okay," Travis looks into her honey colored eyes, his gaze strong and reassuring. "Just trust me."
Katie bites down on her quivering lips and nods. She looks at the outline of the rising sun through the curtains and tightens her jaw. "I trust you."
Travis wraps her blanket around her and picks her up gently. They look around the room. "You're not coming back." Travis tells her.
"No," Katie says, her eyes determined.
She looks up at Travis and they smile as he steps out into the daylight.
After finishing the series these are still the characters I come back to. Let me know your thoughts :) Favorite line, if you have one.