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She chalked it up to the surge of adrenaline of having survived against the demons in Vermont, but Macy found herself unable to sleep. It might have been mere minutes, or maybe almost an hour but Morpheus did not long for her company. The shadows danced on the ceiling above her, the way the branches appeared to reach for the bed, as the soft ticking of her clock felt abysmally loud. Instead, she tossed the covers aside and made her way downstairs.
This was not unfamiliar to her. Her father used to sit with her on nights like this, when her mind felt as though it was pulled across all of time and space, her thoughts racing as she tried to rearrange everything in an orderly fashion. Her father was good at talking things through to help calm her down. How she missed him, how she wanted a shoulder a lean on, to figure out the mess that their lives had become. Since meeting her sisters, and moving to Hilltowne, she had found an unlikely replacement for this gap in her life. The one person whom she often found herself turning to, was no blood relation, but instead a true friend.
But after what he had gone through, Macy could not bring herself to wake him up.
Which is why it surprised her to find Harry already seated at the dining table, cup in hand gazing into the nothingness before him. He did not quite see her in the archway, but she could feel the tension radiating off of him from where she stood: his brow was furrowed, his fingers were pressed firmly against the white cup, steam rising silently. She wondered if he even noticed how much heat his hands were conducting, that cup must be scalding against his skin but the last of the Whitelighters paid no attention to it.
Last of the Whitelighters- how heavy that knowledge must hang in his mind. It was in this moment that Macy became hyper-aware of how old Harry truly was, the losses he must have endured, the pain he carried on his shoulders. And now, with no one else in the world that could relate to that, he must feel impossibly alone.
“Harry?” she ventured, unsure if she should wake him from his reverie.
Blue-green eyes met her brown ones as she approached the table. A wan smile flitted across his face as he turned towards her, setting the cup down. “Would you like some tea?” he asked, bracing his hands against the table’s edge as he began to stand up. “No, please. I can do it myself,” she replied, her hand raised to halt his movements. He nodded slightly, focus shifting back to the table before him, raising the cup to his lips.
Silence filled in space between them, punctuated by the occasional tinkle of metal against porcelain as Macy stirred her tea. She took her seat at the table, sitting diagonally from Harry, watching him over the brim of her cup. He remained in silent contemplation, and she could not take the quiet much longer.
“What was it like?”
“I’m sorry?” he turned to look at her.
She swallowed hastily, trying to ignore the burn of the liquid against her throat.
“Dying. What was it like?”
He blinked rapidly, surprised perhaps by her forthrightness, before letting out a breath. “I don’t remember the first time, the Elders took those memories from me. This, however, this time, this death... This I will remember.”
His grip on the cup tightened.
“Death is very quiet, Macy. Even when a blade cuts through to your heart, you don’t hear anything. You think you would scream, but there was nothing. Nothing but the rush of blood in your ears.
It is strange, too. Cerebrally, I know that it would only take seconds for someone to bleed out once the heart is punctured, there is only so little the body can do when the organ fails. Yet that moment seemed to stretch for a lifetime.
And I have lived many lifetimes, Macy.”
She could not help the moisture in her eyes, or that a trail of it made its way down her cheek. The pain with which he spoke tore against her own heart, somehow evoking a visceral reaction within her. She wanted to speak, to say something of comfort, but before any words could leave her lips, he continued.
“I have outlived so many of my charges, I have survived when they did not. And I thought Death would be an embrace that I would seek, that the finality of it would be something I wanted. But when faced with it, all I could think about… was you.”
Her eyes snapped to his face, but he was still looking away.
“And your sisters. How I could not bear to leave any of you, how I wish I could have said goodbye at the least. But as I felt myself... as I died, I was glad that it was in service, and that the three of you were at least safe.”
“Oh Harry,” she whispered, her hand reaching out to grip his wrist.
“When I woke up in the grave, it felt strange, as though I could finally release a breath I didn’t know I was holding. It was dark, cold, and again, so quiet. I did not know where I was, and for a second, I thought the Assassin had captured me. All I could think of was to get out, to get to the three of you. And when faced with that grave, it reminded me of all that I had lost- the life that I cannot remember, the past I have no recollection of.
And how I did not want to lose any of you.”
“I am so glad you didn’t. I am so glad we got you back, I don’t know what I would do without you, Harry.”
He covered her hand with his own, patting it slightly. “The three of you were doing fine without me, frankly. You are wonderful strong witches, capable of so much.”
“Harry, I was dying until you found us. I would not say that we were ‘fine’ without you...”
“No, I am sure you would have figured it out even without me. The Power of Three would have found a way.”
“But we don’t have our powers, at least Mel and Maggie don’t. And all I have are these flames that I don’t know how to control fully.”
“Dr Vaughn, someone of your capabilities will master your gifts quicker than most. You always have.”
Macy smiled- her heart warming at his words. Harry always knew what to say, he knew how to find her greatest insecurity and support her through it. With him, she felt seen, and she needed him to know that.
“I meant what I said earlier. We can’t do it without our Whitelighter.”
“I appreciate that, Macy. Truly.”
She rubbed circles on the back of his hand with her thumb, hoping she could quell some level of unease that he felt. Harry watched the movement for a moment, before lifting his eyes to meet her own. Macy tried to suppress the thudding of her heart against its confines in her chest: perhaps it was exhaustion playing tricks on her mind, but there was something in Harry’s eyes that reminded her of the look the ‘Harry of her dreams’ had, a sort of longing and perhaps, desperation. She broke eye contact, squeezing his hand lightly before withdrawing her own.
The spell was broken, reality sinking in.
Ignoring the fluttering in her chest, Macy stood up, cup in hand. She made a feeble excuse of how tired she was, citing the day’s events. Harry in his turn, made no protest to stop her.
“Good night, Harry.”
“Good night, Macy, pleasant dreams.”
Close tangos with death: it made people irrational didn’t it? You were driven to do things, say things, feel things because of how close the Reaper’s kiss was. Yes, it was exactly that: chemical imbalance- and nothing more.
Right?