Chapter Text
The next few days went like that: him trying to be nice, Caroline brushing him off like a minor inconvenience. But most of all, what bothered him was that EVERY. DAY. WAS. CLEAR. Maybe if he fixed the pendant, it would fix something in their relationship, too, but the sky refused to cooperate. Pierre was starting to lose hope for his relationship. It soon came back to him on the 23rd of summer, exactly five days after he broke the shell, in the form of rain knocking loudly against the window like a wake-up call. Just his luck, it was a Wednesday, when he closed, both because it was some of the townsfolk’s day of worship, and because he couldn’t afford to be open every day of the week.
He skipped breakfast, threw on his jacket and tucked the box under his arm where he was now used to it being, and faced the pouring, heavy rain outside without a coat. It could have been before the sun even rose, it was raining so hard Pierre couldn’t tell. He assumed it was early, going on the fact that Caroline and Abigail were still fast asleep. The beach was just as violent. The waves crashed harder than he’d ever seen them against the docks and the shore, propelled wind that nearly blew his glasses off.
Perfect weather for ghosts, Pierre figured.
He carefully crossed the concerningly thin, wooden plank of a ‘bridge’ connecting the two beaches. He couldn’t see much of anything, nearly keeling over in a tide pool the hard-hitting rain concealed. Maybe this was a bad idea. He kept walking, more towards the area where the beach met with the forest, and for a moment he caught sight of something. Or someone. It was only a flicker, then it was gone. Then, he saw something blue. Another flicker of black hair, a tall stature, but nothing concrete. He could almost see through it.
“Are you the Mariner?” Pierre had to yell to even hear his own voice. He felt stupid for a moment when nothing answered, but then a man, tall and thin with a torn blue shirt and a long black beard appeared only feet away from him. He wasn’t sure if the rain let up, or it was some sort of magic, but he could suddenly see and hear a lot better. He tried to make eye contact, but if he looked too hard at the man his image gave way, and he could see the grove of trees behind him clearly. It kind of made him sick.
“Yer married, lad,” The Mariner gave him a knowing smile, “I can’t help ya.”
“Nonono- I don’t need a new one,” He reached into his jacket, and pulled out the box, flipping it open. Somehow, not a single raindrop landed inside. “I need you to fix mine, if you can.”
The Mariner narrowed his eyes at the pieces, even held out a hand and brushed his fingers across a few, which Pierre would have thought impossible. He looked confused. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“What?”
“I didn’t make this, lad. It’s a fake. Definitely magic, but not mine.”
“What?” Pierre felt like he was on a wild goose chase, “Why would she need a fake?”
“Well…” The Mariner looked a little sympathetic, “I can only grant pendants to those who are in true love.” At that, the other’s heart dropped. Seeing the look on Pierre’s face, he stammered, “But I’m sure yer wife had some other reason. Maybe she couldn’t pay the price?”
Pierre nodded. That had to be it, “Who made it, then?” Why was his voice shaking? Why did he feel so horrible about this? That sickening feeling in his stomach was back. He almost wanted to throw up.
The Mariner studied the shell again, “Hm. It’s purple…” YES. IT IS PURPLE. WHY DID EVERYONE FEEL THE NEED TO SAY IT WAS PURPLE? HE HAD EYES. “It looks like the work of the Wizard. He’s the only other magic user ‘round these parts.”
Pierre had heard of the Wizard, yes. But to hear the literal ghost he had just met, and somehow wasn’t phased by, mention him, was unnerving. Today was a bad day for his secularity. He thanked the Mariner for his help and instructions, and continued on his seemingly endless quest as the sun fully rose.
There was a thought in the back of his mind telling him he had been duped as he trekked past the ranch and the sculptor’s cottage, along the south river and through tall grass, all in the still unrelenting torrent of rain. Eventually, though, the sparse woods cleared enough for him to catch sight of a high tower in the distance, point sharp as a needle. He walked faster, around the oddly shaped cliff it stood on and finally, traversed the perfectly placed, unnecessarily high staircase leading up the hill to the… Wizard’s? Tower, ignoring the creak of his knees.
It looked like something out of a fairy tale, or even a cartoon- made of huge slabs of stone, like a Jenga tower, the gaps big enough that the expanse of ivy clinging for life further and further up it could grow between them. The vines hung heavy with purple blooms that ever-so-slightly glittered the air with something gold.
He knocked against the varnished, splintery oak door. There was a rustle, then someone called "Just a moment!" with a conciliatory voice he didn't recognize.
Pierre sighed, shaking the water out of his hair like a dog, and tried to get the water (and now pollen) off of his glasses now that he was under the porch. A second later, the door cracked, held by a chain. Dark purple eyes glanced him over him hastily, then the door shut and latch clicked and a man, probably the Wizard in question, held it open, "Pierre! I've been expecting you."
"You have?" He cocked an eyebrow as he was ushered inside, the box still tucked his jacket, "I'm sorry, have we met before?"
"I suppose not, but I've heard quite a lot about you," The man hummed, holding out a hand to him, "I am Rasmodius, but most call me M. It's very nice to finally make your acquaintance."
He shook it cautiously. Ras-what now? What was this guy's deal? Pierre had half a mind to think this whole thing was somehow a practical joke, but as he looked at M, at least a foot taller than him, with springy purple hair and eyes to match, wearing black robes that dragged to the floor and impossible-looking jewelry, he started to doubt his own judgment. He almost felt inferior.
The inside of the tower was weird, too. It was dimly lit, shelf after shelf of books and crystals he'd never seen before lining one of the walls. There was a huge, candle-littered rug on the floor with a symbol he didn't recognize and- for Yoba's sake, why was there a cauldron?! He realized he had been staring around like a madman when M leaned down to his height, looking at him as if he expected him to say something.
Pierre cleared his throat, "I need you to-" "I know why you're here. I've already seen this event unfold," M interrupted, "You need me to fix the mermaid’s pendant. I did make it, by the way. I do hope it was at least convincing."
He hadn’t handed the box to him, but he was already holding it by the time Pierre realized it was gone from his pocket. The Wizard took a long stride away from him and placed the box on a table adjacent to the cauldron. His heels clicked when he walked. He produced some sort of journal or book out of nowhere and scanned a dog eared page, then sent it back to wherever it came from, and flipped the box open. With a wave of his hand, he drew the shattered pieces out of their makeshift coffin, where they floated in midair. He circled his palm around the mass, as if shaping a ball of clay. The shards grew closer together, then closer, then they disappeared behind the swishy sleeve of his robe for a moment and landed in M’s palm. The pendant was whole again, though the colors might have been a bit off.
M came back over and tucked the necklace into Pierre’s hand, then looked at him almost apologetically, “I can mend any shell or stone,” He said softly. Weird flex, but okay. Pierre might have thanked him, but he kept talking, “But, I am afraid I cannot fix your other… issues.”
How did everyone know about things that weren’t their business in this damn town? “I just wanted to say…” He perked back up as M continued, “I did not know about your marriage. When it started, I mean. That’s no excuse, but I do hope you know I did not mean you any harm.” M squeezed his shoulder.
What did that even mean? Pierre felt like half of what this guy was saying flew right over his head, but he thanked him anyways, and left in a hurry.
It was only on the walk home, when the rain had cleared, that Pierre thought of what M had said to him again, and looked down at his pendant now tucked around his neck, as if it would give him an answer. He noticed that it had managed to turn a deeper purple, now the hue swirled from the far end of the shell up to the middle, and swallowed up the orange like a virus. He thought of how the violet had reminded him of Abigail when it broke.
Then, he recalled that he hadn’t seen his daughter dye her hair in at least two years, and some dumb, late night conversation she had with him while making ramen noodles about how the purple dye she bought at CVS must have been top quality, because her roots didn’t seem to change through the entirety of senior year.
He thought of Caroline’s day trips to the south side of town, and how he had always assumed it was to go see Marnie. Her oddly placed bruises she blamed on anemia.
Pierre began to shake.
By the time he got home, it was around mid-morning. He stormed in, barely sparing a smile to Abigail before bursting into the sunroom Caroline was usually in when she wasn’t out. And he knew she wasn’t out, because, well… he was just where she would most likely be. Sure enough, she was sitting at a little table in the room sipping tea, without a care in the world. She raised an eyebrow at him when he came in.
He yanked the pendant off of his neck, though still careful enough as to not break the chain, and held it out in front of him, “What is this?”
She gave him one of her hard, judgy stares, and it pissed him off. “You’re tracking mud in the house,” She sighed.
“Caroline! What is this?!” He tried not to raise his voice, lowering it to more of a hushed hiss. Abigail was still in the house.
“A necklace?” Her eyes lowered into more of a glare, “What’s wrong with you lately?”
“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with me is that I accidentally broke this, and I went through hell to get it fixed, and I talk to that ghost, and lo and behold! It’s not even REAL, he couldn’t give one to you! Cause apparently you didn’t love me enough?! And I thought… maybe it’s all a misunderstanding- I...” He ignored the tears brimming at his eyes, scrapping upsetting thought, “But, somehow, it got even worse! Cause the guy who actually made it knows you very intimately, doesn’t he?!”
Caroline paused for so long that it made him think she was shocked, that he might have jumped to conclusions like she had always said he did, and he was all wrong and he was the villain. Please, just let him be the villain this time. But, instead of being wrong like he so desperately hoped for, Caroline placed down her cup and stood, inched a little closer to him. She took the pendant into her hand and ran her thumb along one of the curves filled deep with purple.
Time seemed to slow in the sun room.
“Twenty years,” She said, voice dull, “And this is the first time you notice something off? Are you really that surprised? I gave you all of the signs. I never, ever loved you.”
“Caroline…” Pierre choked back the tears as best he could. Everything hit him like a train, his last bit of hope that he was wrong torn to shreds, “What is wrong with you? Why? We have a family-” His voice broke, “We have a daughter!”
“ I have a daughter, Pierre.” She spat, and he recoiled as if she’d hit him. He shook his head, and quickly made his exit. Abigail had been leaning against the door, “Dad? What’s wrong?” He didn’t want to involve her, so he ignored her, too, and left the house as not to explode in front of his daughter. Walking outside, he caught stares. Of course he caught stares, he was crying like an idiot in the middle of town square, in a place where the most exciting gossip was usually someone’s new haircut, and everyone politely ignored things more serious. He opted to head for the trail he always used to walk along when his meds didn’t kick in fast enough or he just needed to take a breather, the one that the sidewalk to the right of his shop lead to, past the Community Center and the carpenter’s house.
Pierre felt as if the weight of today’s events hadn’t fully hit him yet, and maybe he hadn’t been bracing for impact well enough. Every little glare, comment that made him uneasy, every twinge of jealousy over all the years had piled up to prepare him for this, but it still managed to hit him in the face when he wasn’t looking.
He just wanted to fix the damn pendant.
He was still crying, albeit on and off, when he was finally alone with the trees and the flowers, and found a drier spot under a tree to sit and think. Caroline’s words echoed in his head like a mantra. They bounced around his otherwise absent skull like a ping pong ball, echoing and panging with regret for everything he could have done to prevent this. How could he have messed up this badly?
Soon, the tears turned to dry sobs, and his breaths turned to short gasps for air, deep and straining but still not producing enough oxygen. He curled into a tight little ball under the tree, and it was only then when he realized he had neglected to take his anxiety medication this morning. It probably wouldn’t have helped much, but it was still upsetting.
He could have curled up and died right there, hyperventilated himself into passing out for the third time this week. He was so out of it that at first he didn’t notice someone talking to him, the gentle hand on his shoulder. Someone was telling him to take slower breaths. Breathe in deeply, wait five seconds, breathe out. He could barely hear them- the goddamn ringing in his ears was too loud- but he tried to listen, and slowly came back to clarity.
He sat up, and through the tears, saw that the one who helped him was Morris. He looked weird today. Well, no, he looked weird every day. He was wearing a sunhat, and had set down a covered basket next to where he had knelt in front of Pierre. So he hadn’t been lying.
“Pierre? Can you hear me now?” Morris moved some of the now teary damp hair out of his face, pressing his palm to his forehead, “Are you okay?”
Yeah, I’m fine, just ruined my own life, casual Wednesday, he thought, and promptly started to cry again. Great.
“Hey, hey, breathe.” Morris wrapped an arm around him, and Pierre hadn’t realized how touch-starved he had been until he did, “try not to make yourself more upset.” He sunk into his shoulder, and cried until he could level his breathing again, which didn’t take nearly as long as it would have on his own. Eventually, he managed to gather himself together enough to move away a little, clearing his throat, “Uh. Sorry.” His voice still cracked.
“It’s okay,” Morris smiled a little, one of those pitiful ones. Fake, again. It was still a nice sentiment. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Normally, he would say no. He didn’t talk about anything with anyone, and if he did, it was out of spontaneity, but, as it had proven to him again and again, this was not a normal day. Oblivion, this was not a normal week.
“She cheated.” Pierre sniffled, “For a very, very long time. Long enough that Abby isn’t mine. She said she never loved me.” He shrugged, not even attempting to mask the devastation in his face, “So. I guess that’s it, then. I was never a good enough husband.” The tears started to surge back, “If I would have just-”
“It’s not your fault.” Morris put his hand on top of Pierre’s, and he hesitated. Somehow, that was all it took. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? No, no, it was definitely him. It was always him. “B-But I must have-” “She cheated. That’s on her. If she didn’t say outright she wasn’t happy, or talk to you about it, that’s not your fault.”
“Oh.” He breathed, furrowing his brow, “I guess- I guess that does make sense.” He wanted to say something, a thank you, maybe, but just ended up leaning closer to the other.
Before he realized what was happening, he leaned in, and their lips brushed together briefly. Pierre didn’t even register it, or the hot feeling in his face, as a kiss for a moment because it had been so long since he had kissed someone and felt them mean it back.
Morris was the first to pull back, looking mortified, “I am so sorry, I didn’t-” But Pierre pulled him back and kissed him again, held him tight and didn't let go until he was light-headed and they both needed to catch their breath. He was more sure of it the second time, because, maybe this is what liking someone was actually supposed to feel like. He had needed a refresher, and boy did it feel different, and so much better than anything he had ever felt towards Caroline.
Only an hour later, he found himself at the Mayor’s doorstep. He knocked, confident and sure of himself for once, and Lewis couldn’t even open the door fully to greet him before Pierre announced, “Good morning! I need to file for a divorce.”