The body on the cot is Newt's, but it isn't her Newt.
Tina finds she can't look at it directly, and it has nothing to do with the fact that the fundamental shape of it has been altered. It has nothing to do with the blood she can see crowning his head and splashed across his face or the bruises that never had the chance to form.
It has everything to do with the physical weight of death in the room. It smothers her. Her eyes refuse to take it all in, so instead she lingers on the outline of the form: the dirt of battle that grimes the fingernails; the burnt and filthy hair atop the head; the altered outline of limbs, no longer riding easily against each other but broken and bent at unnatural angles.
Theseus had gone in before her and bolted out soon after to retch into the bushes by the door. He attempted to warn her of how awful it would be, but every time he opened his mouth he produced only miserably strangled sounds.
Eventually, Tina had pushed past him and gone to see for herself. She froze on the threshold of the room that held him, sudden bravado gone, and had to close her eyes and dig deep (he wouldn't want this you're stronger than this you can do this) before moving to sit next to what remained of the man she loved.
She sits there for hours, or perhaps seconds. She isn't aware of the passing of time, but she knows the candle has burned down to a stub. She knows it was daytime when she arrived, and that they were well into the night now. Worse still, she knows her silent vigil means little in the end.
You can't bring back the dead, and it's a lesson she had learned young.
A footfall sounds and Tina turns her dull eyes to find a young woman standing there. She is apologetic yet firm when she explains that Tina must leave—they must wash and prepare the body for travel. He's to be returned to England for a full burial, she goes on, by order of the Minister of Magic himself, and the stasis charms need refreshing. Surely Tina can understand.
The girl is shifting uncomfortably by the time Tina thinks of a suitable reply, and she doesn't recognize the sound of her own voice.
"I'll do it."
The girl starts to say something and then stops to nod slowly, unwilling to argue. She takes a quick step back when Tina stands, then cants her head in a familiar listening posture that sends another wave of grief through Tina. She stifles it ruthlessly.
"Please bring me a pitcher of water, a cloth, and some oil. Something scented. Lavender, if you have it. I'm going to do this without magic if I can. He deserves that."
The woman leaves and returns quickly with the requested items, then sets them gently on the table. She quietly exits the room when Tina bows her head to gather her will. She patiently submerges her grief, calling on experience taught by the loss of her parents, and once she's sure she can remain calm she sets to work.
She strips him without magic but must use it to set his uniform to cleaning and mending itself. Once he is naked and Tina sees him fully, her blunted emotions seem to transmit to her from a far-off land. She is no healer and no mortician, but she knows enough magic to lift her wand and set his body to rights. She finds it easier to look at him once his head is no longer crushed to one side, his limbs no longer bent.
Starting at his crown, she dips the flannel and swipes it over him, her touch impossibly gentle. His hair alone requires three changes of water, and she's disappointed to learn that she must use her magic to refill the pitcher. But Tina perseveres, and when she is finished, every inch of him—from front to back, side to side—is clean. She even manages to work the grime out from beneath his fingernails and to comb his curls back from his brow.
In the low light of the candle, he appears to be sleeping.
Once he is clean to her satisfaction, she uses the lavender oil to dab his forehead, the motionless spot over his heart, and the third finger on his left hand. She rubs the oil into his strange new skin until she can no longer feel it. Then she kisses each of these places, breathing her love into him one last time.
Tina redresses him in his uniform by hand and is careful to set his collar and insignia perfectly. She ties his boots and arranges his arms and legs. Her last task is to fold his hands over his abdomen; that done, she steps away slowly, suddenly at a loose end.
She doesn't notice the vicious kink in her lower back and doesn't see that the sun has once more risen. She can't feel the shattered remains of her heart cutting into her lungs, robbing them of breath, but she is distantly aware that a large amount of time has slipped from her, and she knows that she is exhausted. She still has some reserves left though, so she kisses the corner of his mouth, breathing in the scent of lavender and fall leaves that clings to him.
"Goodbye, Newt," she manages, and that's when the tears start to fall.
They bury Newt on a beautiful spring day, the sky a flawless blue veil above them.
He is given the full honors promised by the Minister, but it all seems hollow and plastic to Tina, who sits between Theseus and his parents. The entirety of the Scamander clan is stoic. Tina fits right in, with her dry eyes and firmly set jaw.
She is asked to speak, but she knows she does a poor job of it. She cannot put into the words the Newt-shaped hole in her soul, and the pain that loss leaves behind. She cannot tell them of the man who allowed her, and only her, to see every facet of his life. There are no words to express her love for him, so she stumbles through with tales of adventures before the war, before mud and loss and pain, and she leaves the crowd wondering. She doesn't care.
She is allowed a moment with the casket, and into it, she tucks a lock of her hair, their first letters confessing their shared love, and a new letter just for him. It seems fitting. Their love began with a chance meeting but was confirmed and solidified through long dispatches exchanged over years. It hurts her to lose even one of those cherished messages, but she thinks she can live with the pain.
She's learning first-hand that a human can survive formerly unimaginable losses.
After, when the crowds have dispersed, Theseus takes her aside. He has a book of photographs for her, Newt through the years and stages of his life, the last few pages featuring herself as well. He also has their rings, and a rolled-up slip of parchment with an official stamp. Tina isn't ready for the confrontation but he saves her by handing over the items and asking a single question: "How long?"
Tina pushes a lock of hair behind her ear, careful to avoid his eyes. "Since before I returned to England, the last time. He insisted we keep it quiet because he didn't want to paste a target on my back. I thought you knew, but realized you didn't when you interrogated me a few weeks ago. We were going to tell everyone after...well, after. I'm sorry."
Theseus swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, and his voice is thick. "I'll ensure you get full benefits. I'll see to it that the rights of his estate are passed to you. My parents won't be an issue, they're too broken to object, and they love you besides. My brother would be apoplectic if we did not see to his widow properly."
Tina is too choked up to speak so she simply nods. Theseus clasps her shoulder once, hands achingly familiar for all they are different, and leaves her alone. Tina pushes the simple gold band onto her finger and reverently places Newt's larger one on the same chain that carries her locket. Then she stands, hands clasped, in the copse of trees while the crowd thins and disappears, and eventually, she leaves too.
Tina returns to Paris and the welcome embrace of her sister with little fanfare.
She settles in with her sister and Jacob and, for the first time in years, finds that she has no demands placed upon her. The war still rages but the Ministry is looking the other way; MACUSA has granted her indefinite leave, and she isn't sure how she feels about that. She is tired and restless and gray in a way that is utterly foreign to her, and in her lowest moments, she wishes for an excuse to vent her spleen on someone.
She sleeps more than is probably healthy and finds herself put off by food. Queenie and Jacob are wonderful but they are not Newt, and they cannot draw her out of her misery. Worse still, the effects of her grief on her body worsens as May turns to June, and her sister nags and worries until Tina relents and visits a healer.
She receives news there that rocks her to her foundation, and brings the smallest sliver of color back into her life.
Tina spends a few days after her realization in a twilight state somewhere between grief and adulation, and miserably feeling guilty for both.
She's gotten quite skilled at Occulmancy but she can't keep Queenie out forever, and when her sisters pry's this new secret from her head, they share a good cry before Queenie insists on doting on her. Tina agrees for the health of herself and the secret she carries before plunging into guilt-ridden misery for every slight moment of happiness or relief she feels.
"He wouldn't want that," Queenie says after many days of this and directs her soft gaze to Tina. "He would want you both to be happy and healthy. Tina, you're allowed to be happy about this, because it means a part of him is still alive."
Those simple words go far to shatter the walls Tina's built up around herself, and after a cleansing cry—I'd better get used to this, she thinks once her sniffles have quieted. I'm in for a few more months of it—she composes herself and scribes a quick letter to Theseus. It seems somehow fitting that he be the first of the Scamanders to know.
He sends back a parcel containing, amongst other things, the stuffed Hippogriff Newt carried as a child. He also insists on seeing Tina, and she goes to visit him that week. Eventually, they settle into a pattern of regular visits with tea and biscuits, as summer wanes and the world cools.
While Tina's waist expands to accommodate the new presence within, they both take the first slow steps toward healing.
Then comes a morning in early January when Tina awakens from sound sleep to sharp, glassy pains. She has been prepared for weeks so she sees herself off to the hospital, determined to face this latest challenge alone. There is no one there to hold her hand as she sweats and strains, but toward the end, she could swear that strong arms wrap around her, that soothing words in a beloved voice sound low in her ear.
She attributes it to exhaustion, wholly focused on her task, and their child comes into the world on a tide of blood and tears.
Her daughter is wrinkled and frowning when the mid-witch places her in Tina's arms, and she quickly decides that it's the most beautiful sight she's ever seen. The baby has Tina's skin and build, but her eyes and hair and jaw are every inch her father. The baby hiccups then calms down enough to gaze at Tina before dozing, perfectly content and unaware of the pain and love that had gone into bringing her to this point.
"Hello," Tina breaths while staring at her daughter's brand new face, and she thinks she may be crying but she isn't sure. The baby sleeps on, supremely unconcerned.
Tina shifts to recline against the pillow, cradling her child, their child and tilts her head back. "Artemis," she tells the air, and the breeze that flows through the room feels approving. "Her name will be Artemis Scamander, and she will know her father's face because she will see it every day in her own."
Tina closes her eyes, seeing Newt in her mind: smiling at her as he cleans up after the creatures in his case; frowning over some correspondence or another, quill grasped firmly between his teeth; taking her hand in secret and slipping a slim gold band on her third finger, murmuring promises he would always do his best to keep; straining in the dark, pressed into her and gasping adorations; a thousand more, all at once, all glowing with joyous recollection.
"Newt," Tina says in wonder and opens her eyes to gaze straight into the sky. "Newt, look at what we've done."
And death shall have no dominion.
Dead man naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.
- Dylan Thomas