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The weeks following the supposed end of the world were nice. They were nice. They were nice. Anathema tried to convince herself of this every single day that passed since she tossed the second book of prophecies into that bonfire.
And, objectively, they were nice. The sun was always shining brilliant yellow, green, pink, orange plants were in full bloom. Roads were never busy. Everyone in Tadfield just had an extra spring in their step because everything was just so nice.
“It’s very nice outside,” Newt mused, stepping behind Anathema, who stood in front of her cottage’s large window. “Isn’t it?” He continued with beige pleasantness, then taking a sip of his tea. Anathema’s hands strained as her grip tightened on the deep blue curtains.
“Yes, it’s nice,” She tried to keep her voice even. However, her shaking hands gave her away.
“Are you alright?”
Anathema yanked the curtains shut and closed her eyes, staggering back from the window. Newt, red with worry, tried to steady her, but she dodged his hands and headed for the couch. Her breath came out shallowly as she sat, resting her face in her hands, closing her eyes to only see black misery.
Newt followed.
“Anathema?”
“I’m sorry.” Her voice cracked, splintering grey and silver.
Newt kneeled in front of Anathema, placing a hand on her knee and the other on her shoulder. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” He murmured, pale yellow reassurance, “What’s wrong?”
Anathema sighed angrily, ripping her glasses off and tossing them on the coffee table. “I don’t know.”
“I know the feeling.” Newt said simply.
She looked up and finally met his eyes, his own glasses forming a window through which Anathema saw his warm green sympathy looking right at her. He knew what she needed at this moment. She nodded for him to continue.
Newt turned around, resting his back against her legs and his hands in his lap. He swallowed before speaking, “I really don’t know what to do now. It’s all been nonsense— my life, I mean.” A sigh. “I could never land a job. You know why.” He laughed softly, “And it was years of that, just… Not being able to live, or become independent because of it. Then,” he tilted his head back, smiling at Anathema, “I met you.”
Anathema smiled back softly, projecting pink fondness to soften the jagged blue shards of his pain.
“I mean, suddenly you were telling me I had a purpose— a job.” He tilted his head back down, staring at his hands, “It was as if you told me I wasn’t actually useless. And, I believed you, and we saved the world, and now…”
“We’re here.” Anathema muttered.
“Yeah.” Newt sighed, “I never had a particular eye for the future, you know? It was always, ‘let’s try to get a job,’ and then eventually, ‘sorry mum, couldn’t stick it.’ It was that over and over again.” He shook his head, “But for a moment, I thought of the future because I had you to guide me. You showed me I had a future, and it was actually written and you had faith in me and you believed in me. But now…”
Anathema didn’t let him finish. She moved her legs from behind his back and slid down to the floor next to Newt. She sidled next to him, intertwining their fingers. Pink.
“I know.” She said softly.
“I don’t have a future anymore; it’s just me and my cursed computer soul meant to haunt Europe forever.”
“You still have me,” Anathema squeezed his hand, “We’ll find your purpose together. I still believe in you.”
Newt nodded, eyes shining bright green. “That’s enough for now.”
“That’s enough for now.” Anathema repeated. She looked down at their hands, holding each other tightly. Her breath had evened over the course of Newt’s venting.
There was something that was itching to be said, but she knew she shouldn’t, but it hurt to keep the idea stewing around in her head, swirling bruised yellows and oranges. So, she said, “Agnes said we were meant to be together.”
“Yes.” This put an ease in Newt’s shoulders.
“But,” Anathema swallowed, fearing the man’s reaction, “Didn’t you say that I should stop being a descendant?” Tears welled in her eyes, “Stop blindly following what she says, and actually do what I want?”
Rather than an aggressive or heartbroken reaction like Anathema had feared, Newt simply knit his brows close together for a moment. He took a deep breath, pulling himself together. Anathema was struck by his aura— swathes of yellow support and purple care, with only a twinge of red hurt.
“What is it that you want?” He asked, voice so soft and solely focused on Anathema that the tears in her eyes finally spilled over, rolling down her cheeks. She knew that if she looked in a mirror she would see them trailing bleeding blues and piercing silvers.
She didn’t bother to wipe them away, “I don’t know— that’s the thing, I don’t know what I want.” She tried to speak clearly over the lump in her throat that had been residing in her stomach for the past few weeks and had finally gotten its chance to surface, “I’ve been subscribed to stories of what I should do and how I should feel and... “
“It’s gone.” Newt whispered.
“Yeah.” Anathema felt like a safety net had been ripped out from under her. She was freefalling through air she had never touched before. Suddenly, she had to figure out how to live without instructions, and that terrified her.
Then, the terror for her future subsided in favor for red hot rage.
“It’s just,” the red deepened into a burgundy of fury, “Great-Great-Great-Great-Fucking-Great Grandma Nutter guided everyone in my family, but me,” she spat out, spiraling in red and brown and burning orange, “Sure, she made sure I saved the world— well, helped you save the world,” she laughed angrily, “But she gave my mother a fortune, a guide to find love, a guide to make me! A guide to happiness!” She finally wiped her eyes, dragging inky blues across her face, “What about me?” She choked on her words, face a mess of lost and heartbroken colors.
“Why can’t I be happy?” She whispered.
Newt pulled Anathema close, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. She saw bright yellow and muted browns through the blues that tried to blind her.
She continued, “I’ve thought about it, and maybe,” her eyes screwed shut. “Yeah, maybe that’s what her next book was.” She smiled humorlessly, “Maybe it was ‘Anathema Takes London’ and I’d know exactly what to do, and we’d get married and have kids and somehow you’d have a career that never dealt with computers ever. But...”
She whispered the next words she uttered, white hot fear crawling its way up her spine, “God, what if it was just the guide to another apocalypse? What if I had to be a tool-- a pawn to stop the inevitable, again? I know I would have to, I couldn’t not do anything if I knew— and I cant fucking deal with that.” She shook her head, burying her face into Newt’s soft embrace, “It eats away at me— knowing I destroyed that book. I destroyed my future.”
Newt pulled her away, firmly facing her directly to his face. He made sure she was looking at him properly before saying with dark blue seriousness, “You didn’t destroy your future. You created it.”
“What?”
“If you kept that book, you would be signing away your life again. But willingly. And you,” he stroked her cheek with his thumb carefully, “Are just too damn good for that,” with each sentence, he wiped away each of the ice cold blue tears on Anathema’s cheeks, “I’ve always needed a guide. You need to be yours. I’m here with you. You get to decide what happens next. You get to write the next book.”
“I’m a lousy writer.” she sniffled, though pure gold was warming up her frigid cheeks, lighting her from the inside.
Newt laughed, a similar gold surfacing on the apples of his cheeks, “I’ll help you write it, for as long as you’ll have me.”
Anathema smiled, “That’s enough for now.” She whispered.
“That’s enough for now.” He repeated, eyes shining green with specks of gold love in them.