#alonggoodbye

Millie clasps her hands over her mouth to smother the sob that suddenly comes tearing from her throat, the volcanic force of which folds her in half, and racks her body with shudders. She hears Mathias come around from his side of the desk, feels the warmth of his hand between her shoulders as he kneels beside and asks, What is it? What’s wrong?

He just couldn't let her quit and leave with her dignity intact.

After a week of countless fuck-ups, each more egregious than the last, she figured resigning was the only way she could save face without impugning his reputation further. She was going to give him her nametag and keys and they were going to shake on it, still see each other for coffee every week, and Millie wasn't going to cry. But here he goes instead, working his spell that makes mourners dissolve in his arms like seafoam, an otherworldly gentleness and compassion that deranges her to her core, and here she goes blubbering about it, even though it's everything she wants to hear.

Not for the first time, she's stricken by how good Mathias is to her. And she’s shamed by how little she feels she deserves it.

"I just — " Her voice is gossamer thin, barely audible save for the consonants. She wipes kohl-infused tears from her cheeks and works the rest of the sentence between her teeth to soften it. "I just want to do right by you, you know?"

If he sounds surprised at the fact, it's only because he thought he severed something when he struck Mathias in the side of the skull earlier. Despite being outfitted with improvisational restraints and a gag, the mortician had slept so soundly through his abduction that Holland nearly mistook him for comatose.

His front teeth click together a few more times before he gives up chewing the hangnail on his thumb and he busies himself finding the hearse's cruise control.

Then turns full attention back to his captive.

"Jesus, it's about time. I was getting so bored."

The easiest part about dying was losing consciousness, succumbing to the darkness and slipping into the unknown. It was peaceful. But the hardest part was waking up; it was the uncomfortable process of being rebuilt again. Depending on the cause of death, bones may need to fuse and strengthen or muscles healed until they were no longer torn. There was also the complicated matter of regaining essential functions, but the rush of blood in his ears told him that they were already firing on all cylinders. His heartbeat was slow to begin with, struggling to keep up with the sudden demand, before stuttering and kicking into a healthy rhythm; it was always an unusual sensation. A series of short gasps escaped him as he began drawing air back into his lungs, attempting to fill them to their full capacity -- but something was completely covering his face. He tried to stay calm by focusing on finding feeling in his numb fingers, before finally reaching up to pull at the material. It fell away easily, the white sheet disappearing from his blurred sight, but a set of harsh artificial lights above replaced his view.

Turning his head to the side, Mylo blinked a few times to adjust. His cheek pressed against cold metal underneath him, adding to the mystery of his whereabouts. Most of the time, he woke up in the exact place where he died. But this was new; it was unfamiliar territory. As he gradually adjusted to his body, Mylo slowly sat up and surveyed his clinical surroundings. There was hardly anything worth noting. His right wrist had a white tag, neat handwriting telling him that he was an 'unknown male'. At the base of his feet was a clear bag containing his belongings, the clothes on his back replaced with an unflattering gown. Shit. Somebody must have found his corpse and reported it, which is how he ended up here. He needed to leave right now. Dragging himself to the edge of the tray, Mylo pushed forward in an attempt to stand, unsteadily getting to his feet. But as he turned to grab his belongings, a sudden wave of dizziness hit him and he found himself stumbling backwards. Too much at once.

The trolley behind him was sent flying, eventually tipping over and crashing against the floor. Pens and other stationary scattered, ending up everywhere. A clipboard with papers attached landed near his bare feet, which he picked up in a blind panic. At the very top of the deceased form was an official header for 'Greenway Funeral Home', followed by details of his belongings and who was overseeing his case. Head mortician: M. Greenway. Gripping onto the clipboard, he continued reading on until he came across the details of his location and condition; a secluded spot in the middle of the woods, covered in multiple burns and deep cuts. No wonder he felt horrendous. He stood idle for a while, trying to remember what happened, but it was no good -- his mind was far too foggy. All he wanted to do was go home and sleep. But fate had other ideas. A door was opened at the far side of the room and it was too late to hide from the person who entered.

In about half an hour, they'll reconvene for coffee, dessert, and a card game, and this family recipe for emotional spackle will miraculously smooth everything over — they'll be laughing, kissing each other's cheeks, and doing it all again next Sunday like nothing ever happened.

Until then, they enjoy their customary post-dinner cooldown apart. Everett continues grinding his ax out on the patio, getting the rest of the piss and vinegar out before they're forced to make up. Mathias hasn't asked for it, but he's about to get an earful of deep, dark secrets known only to password journals and God Himself.

Before he starts in, Everett glances over his shoulder to ensure their privacy and spots Halia through the screen door. With a wave, he beckons her to come join them. "The stories I could tell you about Jan, Merc, would make the devil clutch his fuckin' pearls." He knocks back the rest of his drink. "Wanna hear one?"

This thing seemed to be evolving on its own between them: since that first incident, word had spread. While he didn't mind being Halia's 'husband' from time to time, Logan found himself sometimes losing himself in the moment perhaps a bit too easily. For instance now, watching her twirl in that beautifully simple dress that helped her shine even brighter than she already was.

He's speechless with a stupid little smile on his face.

Logan comes back to his body when she comes over and grasps his arm: he leans down to her automatically, like he's always done it really, and hums quietly as she kisses his cheek. Thank goodness he'd gone home and showered from his long day at the factory before coming out tonight. As she allows him to lean back up a bit, he wastes no time in bringing a hand to the base of her skull, were he gently applies the slightest of pressure while he kisses her forehead.

He feels like...what is this feeling? Is it finally happiness? Something so pure as what he and Halia have developed in the past few weeks, or rather not exactly pure but exciting, still gets him weak in the knees. He had indeed done himself up a little more than normal specifically for her tonight: no doubt she noticed.

"You're never late, darling." He muses quietly, keeping his voice on the level with hers though his hand has fallen to rest on her shoulder, the other on the small of her back. "You know, what I wouldn't have given to see you in my military days. To have danced with you in uniform...the boys would've been speechless." He can't really believe he's said it but he also can: he's a shell of the man he used to be, what with his scars and chronic pain with PTSD.

The water was cold, cold.

The river embraced her roughly, icy and hard, as she dove head-first into it. It was a good kind of hurt, like a hammer that breaks a chain. The Eurotas froze her blood and Helen not only welcomed the feeling, but learned to enjoy the sense of purification that it provoked above any discomfort. The sky was at its darkest – and there was freedom in that, too. In being faceless, nameless and utterly alone (but for the guards she’d commanded to await her in the woods). 

Not too long ago, she could only have seen the blessings of the Eurotas. The river, the valley–they were a spiritual force that gave fertility to Spartan lands and Spartan wombs, but she’d come to learn there was danger there, too. There, the king of the gods could bless a queen with his children. There, a foreign king could loom, concealed between the tall bulrushes surrounding it and steal a young princess from home, family and heritage. Not too long ago, she’d believed the land itself could keep her safe. She knew better now, but still Helen swam, as though she had not a care. At this hour, one could even bear the illusion that the river belonged only to oneself–not even the servants had yet risen to fetch water for the palace. 

She swam until the exercise warmed from within. She swam until her muscles ached, and then a little more until the ache dissipated into strength. And then she stopped, all of a sudden, taken by the sheer intuition of a presence, though there was little to be seen around her but shadows. Whoever her company was, Helen could sense it was no mortal. Not when the faint coo of owls in their trees appeared to grow distant and muffled and she could hear only the water–and feel neither cold nor warm nor tired nor energetic, just the sheer awareness of the presence.

Breathing deeply, Helen held herself together. She would not run or cower–she was still Helen of Sparta, daughter of Zeus and Leda, and ever so forbidden to shudder by the weight of this lineage.