Work Text:
“She didn’t tell me anything.”
The ghost hovers around Amity’s shaking body, buried under the thick covers Eda had wrapped her in. She was as pale as the moon, maybe even paler than that—Luz doesn’t know. Even the white and black world she was in, she could tell that that’s not the color Amity was supposed to be.
Eda just sighs.
She doesn’t respond to her statement and instead moves towards the bed where Amity is, removing the melted piece of washcloth and refreezes it with a flick of her magic. She held Amity’s shoulder gently, preventing her from pulling away before putting the washcloth back on the girl’s forehead.
Amity whines in her sleep. Eda shushes her, deft fingers wiping away her sweat-plastered bangs so softly that Luz hurts.
(She was, once, that girl in the bed.)
“Yeah, kids. They tend to do that.” Eda finally speaks up.
“Do what?”
“Not tell anyone things.”
Luz frowns at her and clicks her tongue, but she doesn’t say anything else.
What else could she have said to her, anyway?
Amity’s sick days go by slowly, until the point where Luz doesn’t bother watch Eda take care of Amity anymore, now. She’s worried for her—of course she’s worried. But what else is there to see? Not the concerned, caring look Eda wears when she takes care of her. Not the way she fed her so patiently, the way she tips the glass into Amity’s chapped lips. Not the way she held her so softly—
Luz wanted to slam her knuckles into something. Anything.
(But she couldn’t even do that, either.)
Luz laughs at herself, swallowing the jealousy, the painful irony. You brought this onto yourself.
She did. She most definitely did.
It’s such an irony that she spends the rest of her days swimming in her own pool of shame and regret.
“You’re upset,” Eda notes from her place in the kitchen.
Luz doesn’t say anything to that. She stays in her place from the windows, hovering around the room, doing nothing in particular. She watched the owl lady bring two plates of dinner in her hands and settles each on the opposite sides of the table before settling down in her seat.
And Luz waits, she waits from her place because that’s all that she could do, now. Watching the corridors, expecting Amity to come out already feeling better.
(She doesn’t.)
Eda eats her dinner in silence.
“Can I… ask?” Luz says hesitantly.
“Ask what?”
“The plates.”
Eda raises her eyebrows for a split-second before realizing what she had meant. “Oh, I…”
Luz waits for an answer.
“I don’t think you know what the answer is, don’t you, Luz?”
There’s a moment of heart-clenching silence before Luz finally gets what she means. What came out of her was a silent, oh.
“You’ve… always have…?”
“Always.”
“Always.” Luz repeats. Guilt pools in the bottom of her chest. “What else do you…?”
“Your clothes,” Eda begins with a strained voice, “your room, your books, your dinner, or maybe the fact that you never told me what was wrong until you—”
Silence.
“I’m sorry.”
Eda exhales heavily. “It’s…”
“Not okay,” Luz hovers towards the dinner table slowly, her translucent figure gleaming below the kitchen’s dim light. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“You’re my kid.”
“I am.”
“And it was my job to protect you,” Eda tells her. “If only I could’ve done better—”
“Hey,” Luz chides, “don’t—don’t do that.”
“What else was I supposed to do, Luz?” She asks. Luz could see it, the gnawing guilt in her chest, the pain of a mother who lost her child. “What do you think I’d—”
More silence.
“I’m sorry,” She tells her.
“I’m sorry, too, Luz.”
What now?
Nothing, Luz thinks. Nothing at all. She’s dead, and… “Well, at least I’m still here, aren’t I?” She tries to smile.
Eda hesitantly reaches for her. Her hand went through, but it still cups her cheek gently. “My kid,” she whispers. “Luz, Luz, Luz…”