@aulisdeer asked: “i can’t breathe, i can’t –”
( ♛ ) — Her smaller hand was wrapped around his tightly, but as she spoke—the panic in her voice ringing clear despite how faint it was—he felt her grip begin to loosen, her breaths coming in shorter bursts than they had been. It was the telltale sign that she was fighting hard to stay awake. He squeezed the hand he held a little tighter, but still just lightly enough that it wouldn’t be painful—she’d been hurt too many times already. The least he could do for her was minimize the pain at the end.
❝ A doctor— ❞ he croaked, knowing full well none of them would be able to do anything. Dammit. Iphigenia was still a child. She’d been a child when her life was first ripped away from her, too; all those years ago for a cause that was by no means her own. It was a cause that hadn’t even really been his, but still they’d all been called to pay the price for it. There was something so much crueler about the world and its machinations when one sat trapped in the small sterile white box of the dying. It pulled forth memories of betrayal, of guilt. Guilt settled deep and all at once, but there was no time to wallow in it, to berate himself over what he could and could not have done, what he should and should not have noticed, all of the things that had lead up to this very moment. After all, each second was precious as she fought hard to hold on—he would cradle them as gently as his shaking, panicked hands would allow. Even if she was unable to talk to them anymore, the consistent beeping of the heart monitor was more than enough to stave off the grief for now, but it would only last so long.
Unlike the last time he had watched her die, this time was particularly unceremonious.
Her eyes fluttered shut and her breathing evened out, slowing to something more normal. His own breath caught and he stilled, eyes widening. It was nothing good, he knew, and there wasn’t much one could do to fight something so damning as a gunshot wound, but still he hoped. It was the kind of hope that one only felt in the face of the inevitable, something faux and hard to grasp, the kind of hope that only belonged to fools. It was something that couldn’t really be called hope at all. It was the doorman for the all encompassing sorrow that came upon losing a loved one. And it opened the door wide as her hand went slack in his.
He dropped his forehead onto their clasped hands, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to keep the tears at bay, but the pressure only proved to displace the traitors faster. He willed it not to be true, thought that perhaps he could will it to turn out differently, could will her heart back into beating, could will the flat line to stop its incessant screeching in the new silence of her hospital room. It was the kind of silence that only came with the volume of the flat line and grief of those in the room. Praying to Hades was something he tried to avoid for things like this, but gods he’d be more than willing to pay whatever price if he would just give her back. He would take her damn place, give her every breath he had left in this life if he could. But the gods didn’t bargain like that anymore. They hadn’t for a long time.
He opened his mouth to say something, to Pyrrha and Kyr, but what could he say ? There were no words of comfort that he could possibly offer to any of them that wouldn’t sound like lip service. Iphi was important to all of them. His mind was settled somewhere between the real and unreal—he had enough sense to be afraid that any words that might slip out right then would come out as raw and angry as he felt. They didn’t deserve that, not when they were feeling just the same. Instead of saying anything at all, he laid her hand by her side and stood, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes until bright white stars danced in front of them. There was nothing he could say. Pressing his teeth into his lip until he tasted iron, he cursed the gods until her family arrived… and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t silently curse them, too, fairness be damned.
Grief was a volatile thing, dark and all-consuming. Patroclus felt ripped open wide for the world to see in the face of tragedy. Maybe he’d become complacent and far too comfortable in this new life, too used to the monotony of their daily lives, even with the unprecedented amount of shit they’d all undoubtedly been through. He’d made the mistake of getting used to things as they were, of expecting life to continue on its ascension to better-than-before. He should have known better. He should have expected something. He should have expected something like this. He wished it could have been anything but this.
He was torn apart and raw, angry and messy, and so, so heartbroken. But then, the guilt crept toward him silently, but no less noticeable. Even so, this wasn’t about him. None of it was. He could think on that later. For now, she and the others were what mattered. Misery had lain its unmistakable hand on the group and death had chosen to suffocate them, grinning sharply and laughing. Easily, without warning, but also so very slowly, tortuously, with nothing they could possibly have done about it.
She... wasn’t supposed to be here. It was a miracle Celia hadn’t put up more of a fight today, to be honest.
But... she felt she had a duty to see. She was... involved, sort of. At least, she had known Iphigenia, if only mostly through Celia’s eyes. Perhaps it was because Iphigenia was a former goddess -
Past tense, in several meanings of that word implying existence.
She had stood outside for several minutes. It didn’t feel right to be there - she knew how most of the girl’s friends felt about herself.
But still... Aphrodite couldn’t deny it. The emotion - deemed love - that had compelled the lady to shoot her lover, and misfiring at the unfortunate child instead.
It wasn’t right. That wasn’t the pure, beautiful love that Aphrodite desired. It was corrupted - and even she couldn’t say she particularly approved of that kind of passion. Love was supposed to be the opposite of cold death, not its precursor.
When Iphigenia’s parents passed her on their way into the now-quiet room, she peeked inside. Patroclus... He probably could use some... kind words.
As quietly as she could, she entered the room, and walked to stand by Patroclus. Hopefully, he wouldn’t look up and notice it wasn’t... Celia speaking.
Sorry for what? She hadn’t pulled the trigger. So why had she-
She was sorry that the girl lying on the hospital bed was loved so well by the ones left behind. Maybe, then, they wouldn’t feel -
But also... she was sorry. A side casualty in two stories that Aphrodite might have been able to help rewrite... but she didn’t.
Aphrodite does not hold regrets. She casts her eyes down towards the wall, hoping her green irises won’t be noticed.
