Many Paths to Tread
In the end, he goes out with both a bang and a whimper.
At sixteen, he is invincible. He is threatened with fangs and claws, and adrenaline surges through his veins, tingling his skin, as the world around him glows with a surreal amount of detail. His heart pumps with a strange combination of fear and excitement, and somehow despite everything he can't quite bring himself to appreciate the danger. So he rushes into carparks filled with prowling shadows, and he stares down hard faces of weathered men with nothing more than a quip, and he throws the bottle filled with explosives with barely a second thought.
It's not until he is alone in his bed that he remembers crawling on wet ground near her blood-drenched figure, and his pale frame slowly starts to tremble.
At seventeen, he knows that this is the end. He's been beaten, and broken, and when his focus drifts he can almost hear the soft repetition of a riddle he knows all too well. His body aches, his chest hurts, and when he turns the shining metal toward himself he struggles to muster the energy to care. His voice shakes, betraying his fear, but he knows he's never had much of a tolerance for pain and he supposes that this time no one can hold it against him. His friends' desperate pleas cut into him and he whimpers internally, and in his hesitation the puzzle pieces fall into place.
Later, he wonders if he would have found the courage to go through with it. He likes to think he would have, but then again, part of him is filled with doubt. Because he's finally figured it out. He's not the hero of this story, he's not the one who protects others, who always has hope and a mission and a reason to keep going. He's not the person who makes it to the end. But if he tries, there's still a chance he can do something meaningful on the way. So he stares at the ceiling and tears track down his face and he whispers promises into the darkness to carry on her legacy, and his words are swallowed by the silence.
At eighteen, he hears the shot before he feels it. His ears are ringing with the bang and he has already collapsed to the ground before he realises that he is hurt. His leg is on fire, and the pain shoots through his whole body, and he opens his mouth in a scream. His hand slips in his own blood, and the crunch of leaves beneath heavy footsteps prompts him to raise his head.
The sunlight is glinting off the barrel of the gun and he freezes, transfixed. His heart is pounding, and the familiar fear is building within him until he feels as though he can't contain it. His breathing is coming in sharp bursts, and for once he cannot form any words. He closes his eyes, and so he does not see when gun is knocked from the man's hand as claws slash at his chest, again and again.
It is only when he is alone in his hospital room, medication seeping through his veins, that he stops to wonder at the sinking sensation of regret that had flooded him at the sound of his rescue.
At nineteen, he has never felt so alone. The road stretches wide and empty before him, and the familiar grumble of his engine fills the silence. His thoughts drift, memories of empty lacrosse fields and video games and pool fights teasing him with their distance. He's been away too long, he knows it, but now he is finally starting to ease the constant ache of their absence as he turns his Jeep towards home. He wonders about the reception he will receive when he arrives. They hadn't understood when he told them he was leaving, they had questioned him gently then angrily as he found himself unable to explain. Their messages and voicemails had initially come in thick and fast, before gradually petering out in response to his continued silence.
Leaving was as much as surprise to him as to anyone. He was the one with the plans, with the meticulous research and extensive notes. He had never thought he would leave without design, and yet, when he left the hospital that day he knew with a certainty that reached his soul that he needed to go, even if he couldn't explain why. And so he had packed up and ignored his phone and for once trusted himself, and now he finally understood. He had lost so much of himself back then, to kanimas and hunters and chimeras and nogitsunes, and he hadn't even realised until he had left them all far behind. But the weeks had dragged by, and the months had dragged on, and eventually he found that he was no longer waking to sweat-soaked sheets and a hammering heart, and he could accept a friendly face without searching for hidden cruelty. His laughter had sounded foreign at first, but now it is a part of him in the way that it used to be, and his chest burns not with fear but with a hope that he had thought he would never feel again.
The trees pass in a blur, and he feels his mouth twitch into an involuntary smile as he passes the sign announcing his home. He relaxes into his seat, and for the first time since it was just the two of them against the world, he feels complete.
It is not until he is blinking at a gravel sky that he realises that he's been hit. The burning pain is familiar, and his screams are swallowed by the night as his hand instinctively grasps the pole bursting through his skin. His stomach is wet with blood, and he struggles for breath as he coughs the metallic taste from his mouth.
The gravel crunches and the hulking shadow moves toward him, red eyes glowing through the darkness. It raises a clawed hand and he blinks dark spots out of his vision as the world spins around him and the figure's edges start to blur.
For a moment, time freezes, and despite everything his heart warms at the familiar face. And then the world fades, and he is gone.