Mural by Banksy (2003) in Beit Sahoud, Palestine, often referred to as "Rage", stolen by the company Guess in 2022 along with some other Banksy works and used for marketing, clothing, etc (details of copyright and news reports are rather limited, but Banksy was very upset about his works being stolen) - value unknown (picture credits unknown)

Chapter Forty-Five

March was the slow dawn of mourning.

March was calling my parents, and saying I'm sorry.

March was holding Simon as close to my heart as I could, just shy of burying him in my veins, and being held, like warm soil embraced the dying.

March was knowing how goddamn unfair it all was. It was being so overcome with loss I couldn't breathe, realizing how much this surely reminded Simon of his mother, and being tortured, because I was unsure how to fix it. It was feeling that grief rip me apart at the seams; standing still, as torment etched its reminders in my soul, marking me with a tattoo I'd wear forever. I was painfully aware of how much Simon hid his own pain, how he opened his own scars for me; how Simon was always taking a knee to hold up the sky above my weeping shoulders.

Believe me, I knew in my deepest trenches he did it to protect me.

I knew he hid his pain so as not to overshadow mine. I knew that—yet my fear whispered he did it for other reasons. My insecurities gleefully hooted it was because he didn't trust me; I wasn't worthy for his darkest parts, it said, because he knew just how dark my own twilights were. Surely, he had no desire to share our nights when my dusks scared him enough. Why would he?

March was fear.

March was spending every day at Damar as I watched the fading of an empire. It was spending foggy mornings and waning days with Geraldine, but never saying what needed to be said; feeling trapped between my anger and my grief in a way that paralyzed me.

Purgatory isn't an in-between, it's Hell with a different name and marketing.

I'd known it, I'd sworn it, I'd continue confessing it to the skies again and again—I was a coward.

I was too afraid to do anything but exist while Geraldine withered. Incapable of anything but witnessing like the spectator I was, too angry to forgive, too hurt to forget, and too terrified to know the truth. March was learning grief was a many-faced thing; Janus haunted my nightmares and woke me with my own wailing. Grief didn't always come with warning. Grief didn't always rattle before it struck. But sometimes... sometimes, it did. When grief gave notice, when it wasn't a harsh strike but an elongated poisoning, it was brutal and drawn out. If there was time to prepare, as enemies gathered on the horizon, then waiting for loss was all one could do... so it was long. And hard. And splattered with guilt.

GUILTY GUILTY GUILTY GUILTY GUILTY GUILT—

Guilt for leaving. Guilt for staying. Guilt for even closing my eyes, because time was fleeting, running out in front of me. Guilt for things not done, words not said, guilt for everything, anything. Guilt for stopping—even to breathe—because the clock was ticking—because I knew there'd be days in the future when I would kill to come back to the present. It was knowing I would regret these moments no matter what, that these were the moments I'd do anything for just one more of when the dust settled. This was now, and these damn nows would haunt me one day.

March was watching the Whitehills come together. It was being horribly blessed to witness the empire tighten its armor and stand proud, joining forces in a way only families like theirs could. Whitehill was a family so fierce, so unflinchingly united, so effortlessly powerful in their closeness, that even the creeping onslaught of mourning was celebratory. The process of grieving was worshipful and beautiful, it was what anyone would wish for when their own demise loomed. The Whitehills celebrated her life with her; they didn't panic over its ending.

I'm not a Whitehill.

I watched Mr. Whitehill care for his dying mother. I watched Mrs. Whitehill care for her family. I watched August care for his clan. I watched Eliza care for the adults around her, as they reverted to lonely, orphaned children under circumstances like these. I watched. I watched the earth waken, as blooms peeked out to test the days, and the season started to pickup speed in its metamorphosis. I watched the people around me change, too, while I stood still.

It was March.

But it wouldn't be March forever.

It would end, like all things did.

March was knowing some shade of truth. March was knowing August and I needed each other, especially now, but unable to do it. Unable to reach out, though it killed me cut by cut. March was knowing how much we needed to forgive, needed to move on, but feeling like we were polar ends of magnets only coming close when forced by hand. We sat next to each other while Geraldine told stories. We stood side-by-side on walks, while she took in the coast, and suffered beside each other in stubborn pain. We'd keep doing it as long as we could. We'd keep subjecting ourselves; even though being so close, yet so far away, only made it harder. I needed comfort only August could give. He needed a hand only I could extend. Neither of us would do it.

No, being near him was having the medication to ease my ache sitting on the table beside me, yet still too far away to reach it. Too stubborn to take it. Too ill to get up for it. Too paranoid to believe it. I'd present him my lungs in my cupped palms, throat still bloody and stained, before I requested more of his heart.

August deserves better.

August and I were oceans apart, our lighthouses dark, though we walked the same coast. Damar felt like that a lot these days. I wasn't on the same tides as Geraldine or her grandson, but I was sprayed with the same salt and drowned by the same nets. Being at Damar was sitting under a tree with poisoned roots; it was just a matter of waiting for it to fall, even as I enjoyed the shade it provided. I knew it could crush me at any moment—but I was too addicted to the beauty to take shelter from its dangers.

March was... awful.

But still I squeezed March for every drop it could give me, and watched as the Widow faded away.

It was forgotten now. It was only a relic, forgotten within news articles, left on dusty webpages; a victim of crime podcasts and 'Top Ten Thefts' lists. It was just an empty frame at the museum. Another loss in the pages of art history.

It wasn't the first. It wouldn't be the last. It wasn't even the most missed.

It was just a painting.

Maybe it always was.

And perhaps only the FBI would look for it forever.

Maybe I should've been looking for it, too. It kept me awake every night, so maybe I should've been looking. Maybe, maybe, maybe—but I wasn't. No, I was frozen as March withered. I didn't know the exact reason the Widow wouldn't be found, couldn't be found—but I didn't ask. I didn't, because sometimes the Widow felt like just another crime. What'd ruined my life was just another cruel twist of a desperate world. It was just another loss, another brutality handed out for nothing. That was it: everything I'd gone through had all been for nothing. I'd faced and fallen under a thousand knives, but it was like dying for a deity that wasn't real, and not knowing until it was too late.

"Eleanor," the voice mumbled above me. "You have to sleep."

The husky voice of the man I loved was ice water poured on the dying. It jolted me back to reality, out of one pain and into another, pulling me away from the dark.

The blanket he placed around my shoulders was warm, thick. I clenched it tight with cold fingers and looked at the man now sat beside me on the couch. "I can't," I lamented.

Simon nodded. I hated that look in his eyes. I hated how beautiful he looked even when washed with pity and understanding.

"I know," he promised.

His smile was crooked when he reached for my frigid hand. His fingers weren't like mine; his palm was a cradle of heat. Not only that, but I could feel his gaze like prickles of sun on wet skin, like a beautiful June afternoon. I could feel his love like warmth I wasn't meant for—because I didn't deserve it. I wasn't sure what I deserved, but it wasn't Simon. It was never Simon.

I swallowed that truth, though, and turned back to whatever movie I hadn't been paying attention to on the screen. I pulled the blanket tighter around me, like it'd protect my wounds, like it'd hide the new daggers in my back—like it'd protect him.

Who am I protecting now? Simon? Geraldine? August? Myself? Who am I doing this for?

It'd been a particularly bad day with Geraldine. Her breathing was turning wet, rattling, and her lack of fight had turned the battle into a terrible slaughtering. Nurses had moved in, doctors had been called, other options had been discussed, but Geraldine had sent most of them away. The test results didn't lie. Perhaps, for once, neither did she. She was tired. She was as withdrawn as the moon at dawn, eager to slip away. She was done. She'd done her time.

Had I done mine?

Earlier, I'd begun to realize I'd waited too long. Geraldine was a fading screen and I hadn't saved anything. Now, I feared I had lost my opportunity for answers. Geraldine was tired, and sick, and Geraldine wasn't Geraldine anymore.

I didn't know if I'd get answers even if I asked.

I didn't know what mattered and what didn't.

I didn't know what came after March.

I didn't know what waited for me when I couldn't hide behind Geraldine and her mountains of secrets anymore.

I didn't know, and I was scared.

When the movie ended and a new one began, I turned it off. I looked at Simon, instead. He was tired, too. His chin was tilted back, eyes half-closed in dreamy fatigue. His head lolled to look at me when the silence turned noticeably static. Even now, muggy with sleep, tinged purple and grey, he attempted a grin. My heart skipped, stuttered, stumbled at the sight. There was an innocence about this type of sleepiness. When teetering on the line before bone-hollowing exhaustion, sleepiness invoked drunken joy and ditzy calmness, especially on him; it clenched my chest and made me want to coo with his cheeks in hand.

I reached a hand out at the thought. A curl had fallen onto his forehead. I tucked it back while he watched me with glazed eyes and parted lips.

"You should go to bed," I whispered.

He leaned his head back, eyes sliding shut. "Come with me."

I nodded, though he couldn't see me.

I offered a hand to my exhausted love. He peeked an eye open, squinting from the table lamp, and took my hand without hesitation. I was quick to join him under the covers once we retreated to the bedroom. Simon was a needy sleeper; the type that wanted to touch at all times, the type that sought my touch even in his dreams; the type that loved so wholly it scared me.

He wrapped me in his arms the moment I slid under the sheets. We practically shared a pillow from our closeness, a tangle of limbs and breath and silk. I closed my eyes. It was the best trap I could lie in, the best anchor to be tied to, and the best cage I could reside in.

And I tried to sleep. I really did.

But the days were running out. The seconds, the secrets, the sordid truth; it was all seeping out of my cupped hands like paint thinner.

Tell him.

How could I claim to love him when I was lying to him?

Tell him.

He was my last sanctuary, what would I have left if he revoked my privileges? What would I have left if I told him the truth... hell, what if he left?

Tell him what you did.

Did it matter what I'd done? Really? Now, after everything, did it matter?

"Go to sleep, παπαρούνα," Simon mumbled after I'd readjusted for the millionth time. I went limp, feeling soft and full as his lips pressed a kiss to my shoulder. My thoughts vanished like the Widow who'd caused them.

When Simon was this tired, dripping with weariness and well-earned accomplishment, he slipped up. There was nothing more amazing to me than the vulnerability of the man beside me when he was half gone. He'd had a hard day, too. Riverwide was working security for a foreign heiress while she stayed in town for business dealings, and the woman was a little flighty.

Little demanding. Little airy. And a really bad poker player, too.

Not that I'd let Simon or any of the Riverwide team know I knew her, in any degree, or lack of, separation. I'd never admit to Simon I had another finger dipped in the pot of his clients. I just quietly hoped he wouldn't find out. They had their hands full with her impromptu outings, random dates, and lack of concern over her own well-being, so we hadn't spent much time discussing it. It wasn't the easiest case, but I reminded myself it wasn't the worst, either. She was lax with her spending and budgets; they'd get a pretty penny for their work.

Or she'll get a call from yours truly. Tatiana sometimes needed a little push, even back then.

I twisted in Simon's arms, turning to face him. His face was slightly hidden by the pillow; his holy features were just barely distinguishable in the dark. His breathing was slow and steady. For a moment, I tried to match him breath for breath, but my lungs started to protest, and I was forced to collect air at my own pace.

"I love you," I mouthed.

"I love you," he mumbled.

I stared at him, shocked. He was sleeping, I was sure of it. Or, at least, I'd thought he was. I waited, open-mouthed, heart pounding in my ears and throat, but Simon didn't say anything else. He only pulled me close again, tucked his chin into the crook of my neck, and warmed me with his breath rolling over my chip-laden shoulder.

His comfort was the extended hand of a god, offering me mercy, and I wanted so bad to take it. I wanted so bad to say yes, to melt into him, to forget everything and anything. I wanted it... so why couldn't I have it?

I didn't usually have this much trouble sleeping. Before—well, before the theft, before the discoveries, before I went to Damar—I used to sleep well. I used to sleep with lavender oils and silk eye-masks, with night creams and serums, with white noise and foam pillows. I used to sleep feeling like I'd accomplished something.

Now, I only heard a ticking clock.

God, I was back where I'd started.

How could I be sleeping when time was running out? How could I be sleeping when there were so many questions? How could I be sleeping when there were so many people who thought the world was finally at balance—when in truth, it'd never been so undone? So upside down? So messed up? So horribly, awfully unfair? How could I be wasting time when I didn't know how much of it was left?

Simon grunted in his sleep, scrunching the pillow up higher to mold to his ear.

I love you.

Sometimes, I watched Simon like I was an outsider to our relationship. He was good. I knew people said that a lot about their significant others; I knew that was cliche. I knew it, and yet I couldn't help it. Simon was good, like orcas are good, like gardeners who yank weeds to plant blossoms are good. There was no such thing as perfection. There was no perfect person, and Simon didn't claim to be it, of course. But maybe that was what made him good. He was good, like days at museums were good, like tossing tides still felt in bed after a day at sea were good. He was good. Simon was normal. Simon was Simon, and that was enough.

He was enough.

Besides, while there was maybe no such thing as perfection, maybe there were ideal counterparts to complement each individual. Maybe some people fit better than others by cosmic design. Maybe there were perfect matches despite the inherent flaws of the individuals.

Maybe you're my maybe and my forever and everything in between.

Though, there were a lot of things that hung in the air between us. There were a lot of things that strained bonds unseen, a lot of things he didn't know. A lot of things I didn't know, too.

But, as if some meek consolation, I knew March. I knew March, because I'd lived through it. I'd made it through another month with mud-slicked boots, tangled hair, and bloody scrapes on my hands, with pink cheeks; I'd made it through by counting sleepless nights and agonizing days.

I'd make it through tonight, too.

Even when I dreamt of poppies, and waves, and widows. Even when I woke with names on my lips and tears in my eyes. Even when I cried in my bed, and cursed the sun that rose another day, taking more of our dwindling time. I'd make it through March.

I'd make it because I didn't have a choice.

Because I'd never had a choice.

I don't usually do life updates, but I wanted to give an idea of where I'm at. After a year of treading water, I've finally got the type of job I was hoping for! It's been a long year of applications, so I'm very excited. But, getting the job means I'm moving several states away in a very short period of time—so please bear with me. We're in the home stretch of the book, and it moves fast, so a lot of attention to detail is needed. And of course, I've obviously got a lot of moving parts around me at the moment! It'll be a balancing act, but the new job means a lot of change and hopefully eventually some more time for writing.

My next book is in the tentative works, too. I'd love to begin posting it before the end of the year. Keep an eye out in the next few months for it! It's... different. (Another new challenge for me!)

- H