#poor baz

I also miss Simon more than I would have believed possible, like a hunger pain that no food will banish. Now that I know what it’s like to be with him, to be needed by him, it feels like torture to be separated from him this way. It’s like life hadn’t had enough of making me into a cosmic joke; the boy I’ve loved desperately for years finally realizes he doesn’t hate me, and somehow, miraculously, has feelings for me too, and not two weeks later, I have to put all this distance between us. Simon clung to me like I was his life raft in a raging flood in the days after the Mage’s death. I let him; Crowley, I clung to him in return. I left him with Bunce for long enough to go home and talk some sense into my Father, and by extension, the Coven. Then, I got right back in my car, drove to the Bunces’, and walked straight into Simon’s arms. I’ve barely been away from him since, except to go home and sleep. There were simply far too many people in that house already for me to spend nights there. Every morning, I’d show up with a tray of coffee for me and Penelope and a bag full of pastries for Simon. We’d watch films with Penelope’s annoying siblings, or sit up in Penelope’s room while she read and occasionally told us something interesting she had learned. Simon and I sat on the floor at the foot of her bed. He’d practically climb into my lap and just sit there, running his fingers through my hair over and over again without speaking for hours at a time. Sometimes, we’d go for walks around the Bunces’ neighbourhood, Simon clinging to my arm and occasionally pulling me into someone’s garden to snog me against a brick wall or behind a rose bush. He hasn’t spoken much at all, even when it’s just me and him, but he kisses me fiercely and often. That’s as far as we’ve gotten, and it’s enough for me, for now.

The Coven extended the holiday break by a week, but after that, it was announced that classes at Watford would resume as normal, as if anything could be normal after what had happened. Simon didn’t even blink when Mitali Bunce asked him gently if he’d like to finish out the year at school. He shook his head silently, then turned his face into my shoulder. That was that. Penelope deciding not to return either was a bigger surprise. There was turmoil in the Bunce household for days. Simon didn’t ask me if I was going back; I think he knew. Leaving him nearly changed my mind, but I drove away from him when the day came, and here I am: back at Watford, where everything looks exactly the same, and I feel like I’ve never fit in less.

At night, I creep down to the Catacombs to hunt, too numb to even muster my usual self-hatred as I do what I have to do to survive another day, and then slink back to my cold bed, exhausted and worn thin. I haven’t had the courage to venture as deep as my Mother’s tomb since school started up again. If I’m honest, part of me is afraid to face her since learning that she came back for me, and I missed her. Logically, I know she’s not down there, really, but I can’t help feeling that I’ve failed her. Tonight, I’ve finally worked up the nerve to visit. I need to talk to someone, and the only person here I can open up to is her.

I hunt efficiently in the first few passageways of the Catacombs, taking a moment to wipe my mouth on my handkerchief and tidy my hair and clothes before I venture deeper, down the dark tunnels I know so well. I don’t need light to find my way, but ever since my late return to school last year, true darkness makes my skin crawl and makes it feel like there’s not enough air for me to breathe properly. I conjure a flame and let it hover over my palm as I walk slowly down the winding hallway, feeling strangely nervous.

Don’t be ridiculous, I tell myself firmly.

I reach the entryway to Le Tombeau des Enfants and pause, resting my free hand on the stone arch and steeling myself for what lies inside. I force my feet forward, and then I’m standing before her tomb. I use the flame I’ve been carrying to light a torch next to the inscription and run my fingers over the letters, carved in stone: Natasha Pitch, beloved wife, sister, and mother. I sink down to my knees, turning to rest my back against the wall. I used to feel a bit foolish for speaking aloud to my dead mother, but over the years, I’ve realized that it doesn’t matter. No one is ever down here except for me; if I want to talk to her, I can. I clear my throat.

“I know I haven’t been to visit in a while,” I start, and then I flounder briefly, remembering how she came for me, searched and searched, but I wasn’t here. I swallow back the guilt, pushing it aside for the moment.

“Mother, you know how I’ve struggled with Simon Snow, with my… feelings for him, and the expectations of the families in regards to him and I being on opposite sides of the war. Well, a lot has changed. So much, actually, I hardly know where to start. Simon and I… it turns out we’re better together than we ever were as enemies. He’s the best thing in my life, Mother. I love him, and I think he loves me too, but he’s hurting so badly right now; I don’t know what to do. That bastard finally paid for what he did to you, and what he did to Snow… Simon isn’t his heir anymore, he never should have been put in that position in the first place. He deserved so much better. I want to give it to him, but I can’t be what he deserves; I’m not—”

I take a shuddering breath, pressing my clenched fists over my eyes.

“I’ll never be good enough for him; I’ll never be able to be truly good. Because of what I am, obviously, but also because… I think I’m broken, Mother. When it happened, when I… turned, I felt that no one I loved would ever be truly safe with me again. Of course Father and Daphne worked out what was going on, but what could they do? There was no one to help me, to guide me… I was terrified to be near the children, terrified to be near anyone, especially after the dog—”

I close my eyes, feeling the bile rise in my throat as memories rush unbidden through my mind. This is a box better left unopened, and I try to force myself to count my breaths, to think only of numbers and halt the flow of images tormenting me.

“There’s been so much death, Mother. That’s what I have to offer him; only death. He deserves a beautiful life, especially after all he’s survived and sacrificed to save us all. If I were stronger, I would let him go and find happiness with someone better; but the way it feels to be loved by him… I’ve never experienced anything like it, and I’m far too weak to give it up. And he needs me right now, more than ever.”

I turn and look up at her name above me, and I’m reminded that on the other side of this wall, all that’s left of her body is still there, lying inside a stone box… my breathing accelerates, my vision blurring, the feeling of claustrophobia overwhelming me in this dark chamber so deep underground. I wrap my arms around my knees tightly, too tightly, trying to hold myself together. A sob tears itself from my throat, and I’m choking, panting for air—

Why isn’t there any fucking air down here?

I’m rocking back and forth, feeling lightheaded and nauseous. The minutes stretch longer, my sharp gasps breaking through the oppressive silence. I don’t know how much time passes before the phantom weight finally lifts from my chest, and my breathing slows. My face is sticky with tears, and my hands are clinging to my hair. My fingers feel stiff when I release them, and my scalp is tender from the tension.

“Mother, I’m sorry,” I whisper.

She’d be disgusted by me. If I were stronger, I’d do what she herself had done when faced with the half-life I inhabit, but I’m not. For now, I force myself to stand, clenched muscles and aching joints screaming in protest. I rest my forehead against her name.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell her.