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When he had begun to gather together what remained of the Guild, he never expected to run into any of his former comrades. Lovecraft, after having finished his contract, went back to a sleep he rightfully earned; Margaret, last he heard was in a coma; Lucy had defected and was presumably close with the agency; Poe also had ties to the agency and went off to do his own thing; Melville was collaborating with some other organization; Fitzgerald and Louisa had found each other and formed a new Guild, and Twain went back to America. Then there was Hawthorne who, after the incident with the Zelda had left the Guild entirely. Rumor had it that he had a role to play in the Guild’s final demise, but there were so many rumors that John wasn’t certain what was real, and what was purely fiction. Regardless, he knew that he would not be seeing his former allies again, and if he did, it would be on opposing sides.
Of course, all of this suited him just fine, and for months he kept plugging away and soon had enough members to have a group of his own. His ultimate goal was to see Fitzgerald fall, but seeing as how he rose back to a place of wealth, John knew that he wouldn’t go down so easily. This did not deter him, and for months he had come up with many strategies, though most were never carried out due to lack of resources, as well as ability users. If John really wanted to put a plan into motion, he had to admit to himself that he would need the help of others. However, the rest of the Guild had split up, and with his partner gone off to who knows where, John was left alone.
At first the loneliness was easy to ignore; he buried himself in his work and scheming while gathering what remained of the Guild, and any assets he could find. Yet as the months dragged on, the loneliness inside grew, and it became harder to ignore. This feeling worsened when he realized that he had depended on his partner to fill a void deep inside. For as long as he could remember he always had someone, whether it was his siblings, or the other members of the Guild. To be completely and utterly alone was not something he was used to, and the desperation for a human connection had nearly driven him to despair on more than one occasion.
Fortunately for him, he would run into a potential partner, though it was in the form of a most unlikely individual.
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When John found him, it took him a good moment to recognize the other; everything from the robes, to his glasses, to his neatly kept hair was a far cry from what John remembered. More surprisingly was the overall air surrounding the other; Hawthorne used to hold himself in high esteem, always proclaiming that he was selected by God to pass judgement on the corrupt and immoral sinners he came across. As such he had a tendency to look down on others, much like his now comatose partner, which had always irritated him. This person was the exact opposite; quiet, timid, fidgety, as if he was being pursued by something only he could see. His tone, which had been so certain and confident now was marked by hesitance and fear.
This man was not Hawthorne, not the one he knew.
Yet, as John helped the other man to his feet and brought him towards the group, there was something about this change that drew him in. This was a man who had fallen far worse than Fitzgerald, and who had changed drastically. He was far more vulnerable and uncertain about everything, a feeling that John knew well but often hid. Here was a man who was so thoroughly broken that, even if he was put back together, would not be entirely the same. This was contrasted with Fitzgerald who, even after falling himself had not changed a bit. Hawthorne, who once stood but could no longer, was in a place where a bond could be formed.
Perhaps now he could befriend the former pastor whose presence he barely tolerated when they worked together. Of course that would be if the man ever remembered his name.
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After a few weeks went by, John could see glimpses of the old Hawthorne coming back. Slowly his memories returned one by one, and after many days of struggle he started to clean himself up. He even donned a new pair of glasses, namely thanks the Remnants help with procuring the necessary funds. He had even started eating, though it would take many more meals before he regained the weight he lost.
Even as Hawthorne slowly returned, there was still much that had changed. His personality was a blend of his old self and a newfound deprecation, and he could not remain still for more than a few moments. The nervousness and fear that John found him with still remained, and it only worsened at night when John, unable to sleep himself, heard the screams for hours on end. It made him wonder on more than one occasion just what had happened to Hawthorne, though every time he brought it up, Hawthorne would fall silent and remain so for hours. Clearly whatever happened had been major, and it wouldn’t be until many months later that he found out through bits and pieces.
This newer Hawthorne would take more time to get used to, but John was confident that he could reach out to him, and bond in a way that only two broken individuals could.
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“Nate, you’re not eating again.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat something.”
“Do I?”
“We’ve been over this; you need food, and you are going to eat it, or do I have to force feed you?”
Hawthorne looked away, the faintest hint of pink appearing on his cheeks. “…I am quite capable of feeding myself, thank you very much.”
“Then prove it to me.”
“…I do not deserve it.”
Those words caused John to sigh. He was repeating the same old argument he used last week, and the one before that. No matter what John said or did, Hawthorne had it in his head that he didn’t deserve anything but death, and while John often shared similar sentiments, he didn’t want to hear it from him.
“Do any of us, really? I mean, not one of us are good, and we never were.” The words struck a familiar chord, and out of nowhere a bible verse came to Hawthorne’s mind and with it another memory. He recalled that John had grown up in a Christian household similar to his own, so it made sense for him to know, and make such a reference.
“…that is true, though I would argue I am far worse.”
“Don’t flatter yourself; you don’t know me or my backstory, and I don’t fully know yours. However, I can tell you that I’m no saint.”
“…but did you murder innocent people?”
“Didn’t we all? What do you think Twain, Lovecraft and I had to do on many of our missions?”
“You also were not tricked and used as a vessel to commit those acts; you did so of your own volition.”
“And? Still doesn’t make you worse. In fact, it makes you better.”
“How so?”
“Think about it; even though you went to the Rats, you never expected things to turn out like this. I and my partner knew full well what we were doing, and we did it anyway. Sure that doesn’t make you any more of a saint than I am, but it does make you better, at least by a bit.”
“…I’d have to disagree.”
“I know, but I’m not going to stop telling you until it sinks into that head of yours.” A small, amused smile came to his lips, which caused Hawthorne’s brow to furrow.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just realized that we’re more similar than I thought.”
“If you are referring to how both of us messed up to the point of no return, I’m inclined to agree.” John’s lips twitched at that.
“Who would’ve thought I’d be getting along with our resident pastor, who is also a stick in the mud.”
“Ex Pastor. I hardly qualify for such a title after what happened.”
“You didn’t deny the stick in the mud part.” This earned him a huff, which only increased his amusement. Even though this was not a partnership he saw coming, John had to admit that having Hawthorne, no, Nathaniel around was pleasant. He was no Lovecraft, but he filled the void that had been empty. Nathaniel was very much a friend, or as close to the term as John wanted to admit. Perhaps something more might develop down the road, but those thoughts and fantasies were for another time. For now he would simply enjoy Nathaniel’s company and see where things went.
He was content and happy, and that was all that mattered.