Chapter Text
She’s getting better.
Aelwyn is getting better, she promises, she is, but sometimes things are bad, and memories of the Nightmare Forest and that goddamn prison orb and that stupid fucking cat cross her mind when she’s trying to trance and she’ll sob , and Adaine will climb down from her top bunk and they’ll talk for hours. She always feels bad for waking her sister, but Adaine doesn’t seem all too bothered. They’re trying to be sisters again.
For the first time, rather.
Jawbone, she finds, is so good to her, too. He’s not quite a father figure yet, but rather more of a quirky uncle with the most solid advice she’s ever recieved and the coziest hugs she’s ever gotten. Reluctantly, but relatively frequently, she’s been seeing the therapist that he’d (strongly) recommended to her. Jawbone practically had to drag her out of the house for their first meeting, but, though she’d never admit it, it’s helped her sort her thoughts out plenty . Deep down, though, there’s a pinpricking, nagging little thought, telling Aelwyn that she doesn’t deserve to be in such good hands. She’d told her therapist this, to which she had replied, “Aelwyn, you deserve to be cared for.” She thinks about that a lot.
She’s also been drinking less, too, and she hasn’t touched a single drug since taking Dusk Moss in Hollyhill (where she’d absolutely tripped balls with her mom as part of a dark ritual, which is something that not many people are able to say that they’ve done before, but a one Aelwyn Abernant certainly can).
Yeah, yeah, you know this part already. For the first time in a long time, Aelwyn is doing okay.
The thing is; its not so much that she loves being at Mordred Manor, or that the Bad Kids mean the world to her or that she’s never tranced better in her life (well, that’s only partially untrue), but it’s more the purely distracting nature of the Manor’s residents that keeps her on her feet. She doesn’t have to think about things too hard, and when she begins to do so, someone will swing by to strike up a conversation, every time without fail, and the bad thoughts make their way out of the foreground of her mind. Some mornings, Aelwyn will make a cup of coffee in the kitchen and have a chat with Fig or Kristen at the table that leaves her smiling despite herself. Some afternoons, she’ll play cards with Adaine and Ayda. Ayda’s a brilliant wizard, and Aelwyn is endlessly jealous of how skilled she is at magic. She’s offered to give Aelwyn some tips on spellcasting a few times now, but she doesn’t want to bother her, so she never takes her up on it. She knows that Ayda means well, but reaching out to people is one of many things that she’s still getting used to.
And the most distracting of all is when Sandra Lynn, Jawbone and Lydia will have a night out, whatever that means for forty-something year olds, and then, sometimes, the Seven Maidens will come by, bringing fizzy drinks that are only sort of alcoholic and taste like straight sugar and syrupy fruit, and the Bad Kids will have a little get-together with their school friends, getting a bit tipsy and staying up a bit too late. Sometimes, Aelwyn will even join in, although her definition of joining in is usually sitting in a corner, nursing a red plastic cup of soda and vodka (the vodka that she’d found in the cupboard above the fridge, but she’d never tell). She doesn’t too much care for sweets.
It’s weird, seeing the Maidens all together, almost two years later; it feels like she’s looking at a completely different group of people. They’re not the seven maidens anymore, helpless and vulnerable and small, they’re The Seven Maidens; an unstoppable, fearsome force of an adventuring party, which somehow makes her feel… strangely proud of them? Well, despite the wracking guilt that she feels just seeing them. Not to mention the brooding looks of absolute bloodlust on some of their faces when they catch sight of her. She never thought it would ever be possible for a group of teenage girls to scare the living daylights out of her, but that was before she’d ever encountered the Seven Maidens.
It’s on one of these nights (specifically, the night before the Bad Kids and some other assorted friends were supposed to leave town, accompanying Fig and Gorgug on a small, week-long Sig Figs tour around Solace) that Aelwyn Abernant properly meets Sam Nightingale.
Well, it’s as proper of an introduction as is possible when one is multiple fizzy, fruity, too-sweet drinks in.
Sam with her crop top and her hoop earrings, Sam with her cool sneakers and lazy smile, walks over to Aelwyn where she’s posted up on the couch. She doesn’t say anything, just sits down next to her, taking sips of her condensation-covered can, which Aelwyn can tell she’s keeping at a perfectly chilled temperature with a cantrip.
“Hi. Um.. Sam, right?” Aelwyn says finally, clearing her throat and trying to speak loudly enough to be heard over the music in the room.
“Yeah.” Sam replies. “Hi, Aelwyn.”
She gets goosebumps at that, Sam knowing precisely who she is. Obviously, she knows. She knows who she is, what she knew, what she did. It makes Aelwyn feel defeated that, still, more people know the old Aelwyn than the new Aelwyn, and some don’t even know that the new Aelwyn exists at all. Sometimes it hits her that the new Aelwyn, despite slowly getting better, doesn’t exactly get out much, so it’s not like she should expect people to know that she’s different now. However, it still feels like a bit of a gut punch when someone looks at her and clearly only sees someone vicious and cruel, an accomplice in bringing about the end of the world (twice, even, but who’s really counting?).
Whatever. It’s a work in progress.
Sam’s fingers drum on the aluminium of her drink can, and she sighs. “I didn’t really wanna come here. I’m not huge on parties anymore.”
A bitter laugh practically crumbles from Aelwyn’s mouth. She notices the “ anymore”. That’s the most important part, to Aelwyn at least, because she’s the same. In fact, she’s been working on that one a lot. She doesn’t run around, cross-faded into oblivion, recklessly flinging spells, letting herself get taken advantage of, and then waking up to the feeling of acid rising in her throat anymore.
Now she’s, like, kind of a normal person in that regard. Only that regard, though.
“Neither am I.” She says, and it sounds like one word. “Um. Sorry. I guess I just… realized we’d never really spoken before.”
Sam gives a small laugh. “Yeah. Well, I guess we are now, huh?”
“I suppose so.” Aelwyn replies, realizing how formal she must sound. Fix it, fix it, fix it. “You look really nice.” She adds. Wait. Fuck. How much have I had to drink?
Sam furrows her brows, almost in surprise and confusion all at once, it seems. “Oh. Thanks.”
Aelwyn looks at Sam, who stares into her drink, and it’s then that a stupid little fraction of a piece of old Aelwyn shoves her way out of hiding, and she’s saying fuck it. Fuck it! Live a little.
“Wanna make out?” Aelwyn asks.
Old habits.
“Oh! Um…” Sam is visibly taken aback at the idea, but then she’s glancing around to see if any of her friends are looking, and then she’s looking back at Aelwyn. Aelwyn doesn't say anything else, even though what she wants to do is play it off as a joke, but then Sam’s mouth threatens to lift in what appears to maybe be a smile. “Yeah. Sure.” She says. That’s all she says. And it’s all Aelwyn needs to hear.
She doesn’t think it through, but nonetheless, she takes Sam to an empty hallway that’s tucked away from the party (Mordred Manor is notorious for having plenty of these). Then, they’re pressed together and she tastes the alcohol on Sam’s breath and it’s warm and sweet. She kisses her noncommittally, and it’s weird and dreamy and all-too-familiar. Old Aelwyn is delighted at this unexpected turn of events.
Sam is kinder than the boys she’s done this with before, though. She holds Aelwyn’s mid back with an open palm so that she doesn’t lose her balance, and she kisses her slowly, and Aelwyn lets her and lets her.
But then, in a sudden, staggering moment of realization and the feeling of Sam moving impossibly closer to wedge her thighs around one of Aelwyn’s own, her hips shifting forward, she remembers herself and pulls away from the kiss. She accidentally bites down hard on her lower lip in the process, and it begins bleeding.
“Wait.”
Aelwyn’s voice is hushed, a barely-there whisper just a fraction of an inch away from Sam’s face. She feels sick. There’s blood on her teeth. It tastes like pennies and pathetic anxiety, and she’s knocked off kilter. She’s light-headed, it’s made worse because she’s drunk, and she knows this feeling much too well. “I can’t do this.”
Sam looks at her, a bright flush of violet flooding her face. “Oh god, I’m so sorry, holy shit. That really… escalated. I’m so sorry.”
Aelwyn looks down at their interlocked legs, now less so than before. “Oh goodness, shut up, it’s not you, I promise.” Aelwyn says, giving Sam’s forearm a little squeeze. “It’s just- it’s fucking stupid , but I just don’t think that, like, anything… more than just, like, kissing is going to be good for me right now, and- ” She sighs. “Look. I’m drunk. You’re drunk. We obviously shouldn’t have been doing this in the first place. I’m sorry.”
Sam rubs her temple with two fingers. “I totally get it. I- yeah. Thanks for telling me.” She slurs the last bit slightly. God, this was dumb. “Uh. Why don’t we just… go back to the party.”
“Yeah.” Aelwyn mutters, then speaks louder. “Yeah. Okay. Um… okay. Have a nice night.”
Sam doesn’t reply, and it feels bad. It all feels bad.
The party is uneventful after that; they head back out to the main room after composing themselves and fixing their hair so that nobody becomes suspicious. Sam rejoins the Maidens and gets to talking to Antiope and Danielle about some rumour about somebody from Aguefort that Aelwyn doesn’t know. Aelwyn doesn’t drink any more than she already has, and resorts to sneaking into the kitchen to make some tea for her already queasy stomach (she gets a confused look from Ragh Barkrock, and she discreetly flips him off) before heading up to her shared bedroom with Adaine.
Not too much later, Aelwyn hears the muffled goodbyes of friends from downstairs as they leave in small groups at a time, and soon, the party is over with the last set of headlights disappearing down the road. Well, head light , as Fabian is the last one to leave on the Hangman. Aelwyn knows that his bike drives completely on its own accord, but she still deeply hopes that he’s sober as she watches him tear off from the driveway through her window at the very top of the Manor. A teeny-tiny piece of her heart still cares about that boy, but in the same way that she cares about the rest of the Bad Kids. He doesn’t even feel like an ex, but rather a dear friend of a friend.
The steam from the cup of tea in her hands rises on her face in soft wisps of mint scented water vapour, and it calms her nerves a little bit, even if she is still humiliated. Guilty, too. Why did she have to relapse into her old persona who loved to scream and giggle and cry oh, look at me! I like to party and get fucked up and hook up with people I barely even know! Look at me, look at me, look at me! Aren’t I so pretty? Please tell me so as I drink this shot.
She really thought she’d shedded that, she’d come so far . This is exactly why she shouldn’t drink. New rule: no more alcohol for Aelwyn. She imagines writing it on a sticky note, clipping her bangs back and sticking it on her forehead with a comical smack .
Soon, the sounds of quiet feet padding up the creaky wooden floorboards of the Manor make their way upstairs.
“Okay. Night, Fig.” Comes a quiet, giggling voice from the end of the hallway, and moments later, Adaine appears in the doorway of their bedroom. She looks worn out, ready to turn in for the night, and she’s holding a glass of water.
“Hey.” She says. “Where were you?” She doesn’t sound accusatory, she sounds concerned.
“I’ve been up here for a bit.” Aelwyn replies.
Adaine reaches into her closet and grabs a sweatshirt, pulling it over her head. “You okay?” She asks as her head pops out of the top, mussing up her soft blonde hair.
Aelwyn nods. “Yeah. I’m good.”
Her lip is still bleeding. She pulls it into her mouth to get the blood off, but the cut is still visible.
Adaine looks at her long and hard, then sighs. Aelwyn knows that sentiment all too well; it’s sister-speak for Adaine knowing something is off, but that she should probably forget about it for both of their sakes.
“Okay. But don’t make me cast detect thoughts on you, ‘cause I will .” She teases, climbing up the ladder to her top bunk. Aelwyn rolls her eyes with a scoff. She wouldn’t, but okay .
“I’m going to get some rest. So should you.” Adaine tells her gently, and Aelwyn nods, though she knows Adaine can’t see her from her top bunk. “Night.” Her sister says. Aelwyn repeats it back.
She’s out like a light almost immediately, but rather than go into a trance, she falls into a deep sleep for the first time in what might be years. She dreams that she’s standing on a coastline, and cool splashes of seawater mist her face as calm waves push and pull against the sand at the edge of the water. Dream-Aelwyn closes her eyes and tilts her head up to the sun to feel its warmth, and a gentle hand rests on Dream-Aelwyn’s shoulder. But suddenly, there is no sun, and then she’s the sun, scalding and unforgiving and furious.
Real-Life-Aelwyn forgets the dream entirely the moment she wakes up.
————
Penelope Everpetal had always been something of an enigma to Aelwyn. She was always pretty and bubbly, sarcastic and cunning, but mostly, she was ambitious . Anything she wanted fell right into the palms of her hands. She knew how to make the world bend in her favour, and she did it well. There was truly nobody better to crown an eternal prom queen.
The two of them had become fast friends while working with Kalvaxus, always meeting up after school, planning, spellcrafting, gossiping. Aelwyn soon had learned that Penelope was actually kind of sweet underneath her cold exterior, a side of her that she certainly wasn’t known for around school (if Aelwyn’s being honest, she, let alone most, wouldn't even think to fathom the idea of such a different version of Penelope). She’d always figured that Penelope had decided to trust her because she was another cool girl her age that was involved in Kalvaxus’ plot. She failed to understand that logic; Aelwyn Abernant is not one to trust so easily.
Penelope talked about Sam Nightingale often.
On one night in particular, a crystal call that had originally begun as a discussion about potential candidates to trap in palimpsests got derailed quickly the moment Sam was brought up.
“I just worry about her.” Penelope said, her voice muffled on the other end of the line. “Like, I know we can’t ditch the plan, and I should just fucking follow through and let it happen, but she’s also, like… kinda my best friend, y’know?”
“I get that.” Aelwyn replied. She didn’t. She had never had a best friend. She didn’t tell Penelope that. Too embarrassing.
She heard Penelope sigh. “Johnny’s gonna do it. He figures it’ll be easy, and honestly? I’m just glad it doesn’t have to be me.”
Aelwyn nodded, even though Penelope couldn’t see her. “Yeah.” She said. “I mean, you could try and get Sam to stay away from Johnny if you really want to save her.”
Penelope considered this for a moment. “That might actually work. I just worry that she’d think I’m like, trying to break them up or something. Which, okay, I wouldn’t be opposed to them breaking up, ‘cause Johnny sucks, but I just…” She paused, sighing. “I don’t want her to be mad at me. I really love her, she’s my best friend.” Her voice dipped in volume, and Aelwyn felt a pang in her heart. She loved her.
“Is she really your best friend?” Aelwyn asked her.
“Yeah, at least I think so.”
“She’ll understand, then.” Aelwyn told her.
Penelope sighed again. “Yeah, maybe.” She practically breathed. “Thanks for being a good listener, Aelwyn.” She said.
Aelwyn felt a pang of imposter syndrome; was she a good listener, or did everything Penelope said go in one ear and out the other? Was she paying attention to her troubles or the sound of her soft voice on the other line?
“Sure.” Aelwyn said. She could practically hear Penelope smiling through the phone, could practically see the two matching dimples on her cheeks.
“Okay, so. More importantly than all that, what colour top should I wear to school tomorrow? Blue or yellow?”
“Yellow, definitely.” She always looked best in yellow.
Penelope Everpetal was cold, it was impossible to argue that she wasn’t, but Aelwyn still can't deny that she had a heart; and though tucked away, slowly and ever so slightly breaking, it was still warm.
She had never anticipated going to her funeral. At least, not this early.