This story is very dark. Like, VERY DARK. I mean, there is a lot of death. A lot of lot of death. Suicide and everything. So if you're sensitive to that kind of thing, or just don't like reading about death in general, I would not advise reading this. For those of you who don't mind reading about this kind of stuff, I hope you enjoy.
Time
Hovering up there, the cold wind whistling in his ears, he watched. He observed. He looked down at the world, at the specks of land on this vast expanse of water. And with ethereal wings he flew ever higher, tears streaming down his face. Were they tears of joy? Or tears of despair? Perhaps they were both, perhaps he felt both emotions, roiling inside him. He wafted like a feather on the wind, fragile and light, and went ever higher. Ever higher.
X
The first to leave him was Granny. She had refused immortality, refused the chance to live forever. She had deemed it unnatural, insisted that she would live out her life as she always had. As a mortal. They tried, of course, to persuade her to join them, Mr Canis especially, but she had remained adamant. She would have her time on this planet, she said, and then she would be together with Basil. And together they were. Together, at last.
...
The Wolf surged in her, in crooked powerful waves, with gnashing teeth and a bloodstained tongue. It clawed at her defenses, at the fragile shields of her mind, large horrible scores left behind, deep scarring marks. She fought him back though, pushed against him with all her might, and Papa had helped. Through their multiple meditation sessions they did it together, sent him back to the shallow pit in which he slumbered, focused not on the dark but on the light, on the vibrancy of human goodness, instead of the consequences of that same human's sin.
But one day the Wolf lunged, and she flinched. And when she came to, when she saw Papa lying there, surrounded in a pool of red, she screamed. Screamed, and screamed, and screamed. Until she felt the rope tighten around her neck, and she fell silent.
...
Grief can do terrible things. It can ruin you, distort your memory and your mind, make yourself feel as if you're only observing, instead of actually doing. You're only watching yourself walk, can only hear the muted thump of bare feet on pavement, you cannot feel the hard ground beneath your toes. It numbs you, a horrible sensation of nothingness, and as you trudge through life you touch everything, as fast and frequently as possible, as you long for the sensation of sensation, and yet you feel nothing.
And that is what grief is. A vicious neverending cycle, as desire follows failure, over and over again, until finally you do not care, until finally desire falls, and all that is left is failure. Jake 'felt' this, as he mourned for her, for Briar, mourned so much that eventually he went full circle, and he changed. He saw but did not register, heard but did not listen, touched but did not feel.
That's why when Daphne asked him how to use this glowing ring, he just nodded and mumbled incoherently. He never felt the force of the explosion, the heat of the searing flame, did not hear her screams, or the popping of burning wood, nor did he see the floor rushing to meet him, or the enclosing darkness. All he did was nod, like a broken toy. And broken he was. Was.
Now, he is nothing. Not broken, not fixed, not shattered, not whole.
He is nothing, and he dragged Daphne down with him.
...
The only thing worse than failing to finish something is living in the knowledge that you could have prevented something, and failed to realise the opportunity. She felt as if she was responsible for their deaths, felt as if she had just realised just how important that day was she could have stopped Daphne from going over.
Because now, the day her daughter and brother died is the same day in which Briar had died. She should have known, should have been more sensitive to the feelings of her brother, and how dangerous and careless he was. But she didn't, and now they were dead, and it ate at her. She was helpless, she could do nothing. She, Veronica Grimm, the most assertive, motivated woman, could do nothing.
She was reminded of this every day, and every day she wilted a little inside. She could not move on, could not progress from this pain, and this grief, and this immense self-fury. She was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and they started to move closer and closer, pushing into her.
Her husband stood by her, trying as hard as he could to console her, comfort her, tried as hard as he could to push apart the two menacing figures, inching ever closer. But his efforts were in vain, and his strained arms began to shake, and so did hers, and finally they let go and they hugged.
And they were crushed.
...
She had lost everyone. All the people she had ever loved had died, gone through suicide or accident or madness. Her grandmother, her sister, her uncle, her mother, her father. All lost.
And she very nearly lost too.
She very nearly avoided the sweeping fingers of Death, very nearly avoided the corruption of evil, the blistering fervour of fire, the closing vice of helplessness.
She missed it because at the last moment, someone pulled her to the side. Someone let her cry into their shoulder, kissed her until her lips were swollen, hugged the heaving breath out of her.
He was the reason she made it through, the only reason she managed to forge her way out of the labyrinth, out of that maze of suffering, into the sunshine outside.
And something followed the glory of that sunshine, the clear pure heat it produced, a different kind of heat.
The heat of dragon flame.
Her upraised sword melted, became a puddle of liquid metal, and she crumbled.
...
He could not continue. His feet failed him, aching legs trembled, as well as his wings, and he fell down down down, hard. He could feel but could not feel, as he withdrew into himself, into his heart and soul and mind. And he was horrified by what he saw. Or rather, by what he could not see.
Everything around was tainted, touched by death, not one happy memory remained, not in a single crevice, or hole, or shadow. All that was left was memory, the memory of pain, and the memory of corruption. He tried to turn back, but he couldn't. The door was locked behind him, and he lacked the strength to fight his way out, lacked the drive and the motivation, and the reason.
Because now he could no longer think, only remember, only re-experience events which plagued his dreams, daydreams as well, haunted him in sleep and waking. And it tortured him. But finally, even that ended, and he lifted himself off the ground as the knife flashed towards his heart, red and slick and steady in his shaking fingers.
X
Time can make the body heal. But it can also make the body hurt. For time devours all, consumes everything that it touches, on its insatiable quest for nourishment. It can never feel full, only hungry, and even when it eats, its eyes continue roaming for more. More.
Puck realised this, as he drifted above, and he cried. For he knew he was leaving everything behind, letting them roam around on their own. But also, he was going to be reunited with everyone, with his family and his friends and with her. And for that he smiled, both sadly and happily, and looked upwards.
He would be with them again.
Be with them, forever.
This is probably the darkest story I've ever written. And the most amount of death I've ever written about. I actually got the idea from a book I was reading which I borrowed from a friend about Greek and Roman myths, and there was this great quote 'Time, the devourer of all things'. So I was thinking about that quote and how interesting and philosophical it is, and it got me thinking about immortality, and how even Everafters can die. Thus, this story was born. Anyway, I hope you liked it, I tried to make the ending as optimistic as I could under the circumstances, please review.