Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I remember Daxo sleeping in the chair beside my bed. He was the last thing I saw when I fell asleep, and the first thing I saw when I awoke. And when the nightmares came in the middle of the night, when I cried out Darrow’s name, he would hold my hand and tell me I was not alone. I never had the heart to tell him he was wrong.

Standing outside my room, I can see he wants to say it now. But he knows what I must face and he wishes me goodnight.

The room is quiet. Empty, as I keep it. Colder than I last recall.

Standing in the stillness, I feel my mind fraying at the edges, half-formed questions rising before I extinguish them. Threads of thought unspooling in meaningless tangles, unattended and unacknowledged.

I know that I will break. I know that I must.

Tossing my armor to the floor, I know it will be soon.

I chose the smallest room they dared to offer me, its only decoration the handful of books I keep on a shelf. No paintings, no flowers, no mementos to bring comfort. There is no holoframe on my nightstand to remind me of home or family. My son is a secret the world cannot know, and an image of anyone else would only bring me despair.

Walking to the bed, I sit on its edge, and wait.

Minutes pass like hours, and my eyes wander from the floor, to my hands, to my arms. I study the sinew and muscle there, and feel removed from what I see. Pregnancy made my body soft as it prepared to bring life into the world. I have remade it hard and lethal to protect that life. Neither feels right, neither feels like me.

I look up to find the mirror across from me, the only object that breaks the barren surface of the walls. Pushing myself from the bed, I step forward and stand before it.

I watch in silence as my reflection separates the clothing at my waist to reveal the skin beneath. I trace a finger across my pelvis, where the scar from Pax’s birth should be. I chose to remove it, to hide the evidence of his birth. But I wept after the carver erased it from me, and I long for the connection now.

A buried memory surges and I push it down. I know that I must break, but I am afraid.

The woman in the mirror steps closer, moving without urgency. I peel the clothes from my body, and watch as my reflection does the same.

I study my naked form and run a hand underneath my breast, remembering my child nursing there, the warmth of his body, the feel of his skin against mine. I remember the feel of his heart beating against me, the rhythm so much faster than my own. I feared I would never feel joy again, and then he came into being.

My eyes wander without focus before falling on my hands, noticing the sigils implanted there. Pax has none and never will. I remember Kavax pleading with me. Daxo tried to reason with me. They both wanted to spare my son the life they were sure he would suffer without them. Only Niobe seemed to understand.

My son is not Gold. He is not Red. He is me, and he is Darrow.

He is our son.

I look up to meet my reflection’s gaze and see the tears I feel falling there, cutting tracks through the dust and dirt on my cheeks.

The part of me that is my father waits.

The part of me that is my mother cries.

I reach to my neck and pull my hair over my shoulder, tugging on the small tie that keeps the braid together. The braid grows slack as I remove the last piece of fabric from my body, and I watch the three strands of gold hair unwind, separating from one another. I take the strands in my hands, pulling them apart and bringing them back together, waiting.

---

When I was young my mother threw herself off a cliff. I was too young to understand that it wasn’t a choice between life and death. It was a choice between pain and the absence of pain. I wish I could see her now. I would tell her that I understand. I would tell her that I don’t forgive her. I would tell her that I love her.

Legs pulled to my chest, I rest my head upon my knees. I feel the water weave its path across my face, gathering at the corners before falling. The metal floor of the shower is no longer the cold slab it was when I entered.

A drop of water catches in my eyelash. I let it linger, focusing on how it bends the light until I can no longer stand myself.

I ran from him on Lykos.

I ran from him tonight.

My mind has summoned every reason why those were the right decisions. I sift through each of them and only find excuses. Cowardice. Nothing but the choice my mother made.

I close my eyes.

“I loved him,” I say quietly.

I confess the words and feel the warmth of his breath on the back of my neck, remember the kisses he stole when he thought I would die. I see the concern in his eyes, feel the fear in his voice. I hear the song he sings to me and feel my chest tighten.

“I loved him,” I repeat, the words dying on my lips.

I hold him in my arms, silently asking him to share his pain, silently promising that I will never leave. I feel his body press against mine after the Iron Rain and hear his desperate need in Lycos. I watch his hope shatter as I walk away, leaving him on his knees in the darkness.

I try to find one more breath, but I cannot.

“I loved him.”

I watch him die and the last star in my night goes out.

My brother stands over his lifeless body, and I am alone. Alone without purpose, alone without hope. No chance to fix things. No chance to make things right. No chance to tell him that I don’t care what color he is, and that I love him more than anything.

No chance to tell him that he cannot die because I need him.

A sob wracks my body, shoulders jerking under the falling water. I let the sobs that follow take me, my hoarse cries reverberating off the glass and metal walls. I offer no resistance to the waves of pain that wash over me, do nothing to soften the grief and guilt that consume me.

I shout his name, hoping it will save me, but there is no answer.

---

My breathing is deep, my body exhausted, my eyes sore. I taste the last of the tears on my lips as I watch the water pool in tiny eddies before slipping down the drain.

He is alive.

For the first time since I learned that truth the thought does not bring chaos to my mind. I let the thought repeat, feeling the shape of it. In its wake, I feel the faintest echo of hope.

Clarity returns to my mind, and the questions I have held at bay slowly begin to order themselves. I work through them one and two at a time, solving those I can, cataloging and categorizing those I cannot.

The ones I am most desperate to answer are the most unknowable. I have never fully understood him, and I am less sure than ever of what place I hold in his heart. But I know the man who knelt before me in the caves of Lykos wanted something more. Not just for his people, but for us.

I stand up from the shower floor and tilt my face into the spray of the water, feeling its warmth soothe the soreness around my eyes. I take a breath through barely parted lips, feeling the humid air fill my lungs.

My feelings for him have not changed. The realization brings me concern and solace in equal measure. But I know the man I fell in love with. The man who warmed me in the snow, singing softly to ease my pain. The man who cried in my arms when he thought of the men and women he had sent to die. The man who brought me to his mother’s door, afraid and unsure, but unwilling to live a lie

That man is alive.

The father of my child lives and breathes.

The echo of hope grows louder, and I let it rise within me.

I run a finger along the fogged glass wall beside me, surprised when I feel how cold it remains. Through the glass I clear, I glimpse beyond the walls that surround me.

I can see Darrow, holding Pax in his arms, smiling down at the miracle we have made. I can see Kavax and Daxo laughing under a beautiful summer sky. I can see Reds and Golds breaking bread and standing side by side as equals.

I do not know if this is the world that Darrow will build. But it is the world I want. And if he wants it too, I will help him build it.

---

The headlights of the ship bathe the hanger in light, and I raise my hand to keep myself from being blinded. I squint over my fingers, looking up towards the mirrored glass of the cockpit. The occupants are hidden, but I can feel their eyes upon me.

I watch the ramp begin to open and feel doubt creep into me. Perhaps this was how he felt as we walked the stairs to his family home. Putting everything at risk for the future he wanted.

Now I do the same.

He steps down the ramp and turns to face me. The lights from the ship power down and I lower my hand from my eyes. I wait for him as he approaches through the dimly lit hangar, watching as he steps through pools of light and darkness.

There is no warmth in his eyes. No sign of welcome or joy.

But at his side, I see his hands are as bare as son’s, devoid of the sigils that separate our people.

“‘Lo, Reaper.”

“‘Lo, Mustang.”

Chapter Text

“Mustang?” he asks quietly.

I turn my head to look across the salvaged mattress we share. The orange glow of the emergency lamps grows dimmer by the hour, and the light that remains cuts harsh shadows across his face. The daylight that had seeped through the small port window above us is gone, replaced by snow and darkness.

“Yes?”

“How is your shoulder?”

“Prime,” I lie, wanting to bolster him. “It won’t slow me down.”

For a moment, there is no reaction to my response, his eyes searching me, studying my features. I watch him in return, and know that he wants to say something more. I wait patiently, hoping he will find his voice. When his eyes return to mine, they linger for a moment, then turn to the ceiling.

I’m ready for his silence to hurt, and surprised when it doesn’t.

A prolonged gust of wind whistles against the hull of the dying ship we call home for the night. The warmth in the sealed compartment is slowly ebbing, and I pull myself deeper into the embrace of the blanket wrapped around me. A few meters away, Holiday shares a story with Ragnar, and I turn to look at the unlikely pair.

She is small for a Grey. He is massive even by Obsidian standards. But he hangs on her every word as she describes a firefight on the shores of Earth. From time to time his eyes widen with excitement and amusement, silently urging her to reveal her next twist.

I listen as an uninvited guest, letting myself get caught up in the tale she shares with him, her earthborn accent adding an authenticity no Martian voice could bring. She’s a good storyteller. And Ragnar the perfect audience, listening in earnest, without expectation.

I smile to myself in the dim light, even as the ship groans and shakes under the pressure of the storm raging outside. Tomorrow we will head back into the snow and begin our trek to the Spires. But tonight we are here, and for the first time since I left Pax, I am where I want to be.

I look back to Darrow, the father of my son, resting within arm’s reach. His eyes remain fixed on the ceiling, his mind far removed from the small space we share. I used to wonder where he went in the quiet spaces that filled our time together. Now that I know, my jealousy is outweighed by my sorrow.

A laugh from Holiday breaks Darrow from his thoughts, and he catches me studying him. A small crease of concern furrows his brow.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I reply, grateful for the truth of it. But my response does nothing to ease the burden I see in his eyes. “How are you doing, Darrow?”

The question sounds as absurd as it is honest.

“Prime,” he replies without expression, the answer trailing off as his gaze returns to the ceiling.

I watch as his thoughts drift away, returning to where they were before he noticed my attention. Like so many times before, he is here beside me, but he is not here with me. Reaching across the distance that separates us, I gently squeeze his hand.

“How have you been, Darrow?” I ask, reframing the question, trying to pull him back.

He blinks a few times before a small scowl crosses his face, but he doesn’t pull his hand from mine.

“I’ve been…” He pauses, unsure. “I don’t know.”

I nod my understanding, searching for something that will keep him here with me. I find a question I know the answer to, something I know won’t hurt him.

“Have you seen your family?” I ask, hesitating as I consider how much I should reveal. “Kieran? Leanna?”

The names of his loved ones bring him fully into the moment, but now confusion replaces the uncertainty in his eyes. “How do you...” His question trails off as realization comes to him.

“I sent men to Lycos. The Sons of Ares got there first. We searched for them afterwards but...”

The squall outside intensifies and the hull of the ship trembles, the vibrations building in intensity until the broken contents of the cabinets rattle angrily. Ragnar and Holiday go silent, waiting for the wailing of the wind to break, before the emergency lights flicker out and leave us in darkness. A moment later the lights return to life, bathing the room with their fading amber hue.

“I’ve seen them,” he says when the violence of the storm passes. “They are alive and together, but now they hope for more.”

Giving his hand one last squeeze, I pull mine back and tuck the blanket tight against my body. Through the dying light, I offer him a smile.

“Alive and together is where we start.”

---

He reaches for me from across the crimson speckled snowfield, fingers outstretched, eyes wide. His cheek lays flat against the ice, blood seeping from the arrow impaled in his throat. Wet and choking coughs escape from him between each gasp for air.

I can feel his desperation cling to me from twenty meters, grasping and clawing for purchase.

Sefi rises and I step back, leaving Darrow alone beside the lifeless body of his friend. Darrow’s eyes remain on Ragnar, while Sefi’s wrathful gaze studies the survivors. First Holiday and me, then the dying man across the blood-stained snow.

The leader of the Valkyrie stalks silently toward him, axe in hand, cold rage radiating with every step. The other griffin riders part and then follow in her wake.

His eyes stay on me as the Valkyrie surround him, but I do not meet his gaze. Lips and face stained with blood, he waits for me to see him as he struggles for life.

Darrow stands up, his face a mask of grief. He looks to me and then to Cassius. I wait for him to step in, to put himself between Sefi and the wounded man. When his attention returns to me, I realize he waits for me to do the same.

The Valkyrie argue in hushed Nagal, urgent and insistent. Sefi stands unmoved, eyes on Cassius, fingers flexing around the handle of her weapon.

The snow beneath my feet compresses as I shift my weight, but I do not move from where I stand.

I feel the eyes of both men on me, waiting, expectant. One of them hopes I will intervene out of love. One of them hopes I will intervene out of pity.

Can either comprehend that I feel neither for the man bleeding in the snow?

I shared his bed to save my family. He helped kill my father after I left it. Where Darrow sees a noble light, all I see is my mistake.

The argument around him gathers in intensity, the voices of Sefi’s warriors echoing off the hills. Cassius holds a hand to his throat, trying to seal the torn flesh around the arrow. He coughs a bloody mist, adding to the blossom of scarlet snow at his lips.

There is no fear in his face, no panic that his life might end. He doesn’t cry or beg, or even acknowledge the cloud of hatred that looms above him. He simply waits, and hopes for me to see him.

I know what he wants.

I know what he wants, because I want it too.

He wants to know that he is not alone. He wants to know that his love is not misplaced.

I step towards Darrow and remove the space between us. Looking across the snowfield, I meet the gaze of the man I once laid with.

See me, Cassius. See where I stand. See whom I stand with.

I see his pale and bloody features crumble at the edges. I do not look away. I do not spare a dying man the truth. I kneel in the snow to be sure he sees me clearly through the Valkyrie that encircle him.

You are alone, Cassius. Call for the Sovereign. Call for my brother. Call for the people and ideals you have chosen in your life, and know that you are alone. Know that I am not with you.

I watch unwavering, waiting for my unspoken words to be heard. He does not look away when understanding reaches him. He does not close his eyes, does not try to escape the growing sadness I see engulf him.

The argument above him ends with a single motion from Sefi’s hand, and the field of blood and snow is silent. Slipping her axe from her shoulder, she clicks her tongue and walks away. A rider snaps my arrow in half, tossing the bloody shaft in the snow. Another wraps a cloth around his throat, and he turns to face the sky.

I look to Darrow, and behind his mournful eyes I see relief I do not share.

---

“You know, I don’t mind going with you, ma’am. Not that you need the backup, of course. Just don’t know if it’s smart to head up that way solo.” Arms folded across her chest, Holiday watches as I strap on the armor and gravBoots we pilfered from the armory. When I don’t respond, she shakes her head and reaches for her gear. “I’m coming with you.”

“No, Holiday,” I say. “I appreciate your concern. but I need you here when Darrow gets back.”

“Why?”

“To tell him I’m not here.”

Looking up from the bench, I see my smile only adds to her frustration.

“Stubborn doesn’t begin to describe you people,” she spits. “Overconfident doesn’t come close, either.”

I let my smile grow, grateful for the familiarity that lets her call me out. Snapping the last two latches on my gravBoots, I stand and rest my hand upon her shoulder. “Thank you, Holiday, but this is something I want to do alone.”

She shakes her head, this time out of resignation more than argument. “Doesn’t matter where you’re going, going alone is the surest way to make sure you never get there.”

“Now I know why you were assigned to Darrow,” I reply with an arched eyebrow.

She lets a smile curl at the corner of her lips. “Just be careful ma’am.”

With a nod I press the door controls and step out of the warm interior of Asgard and into the bitter cold that encases it. Activating my gravBoots, I hover thirty meters off the ground before accelerating toward the Spires.

I cruise along the tree line and revel in the solitude of the land, surrounded by snow and silence. In the valleys and trails that crisscross the terrain I see groups of Obsidians trekking through the wilderness, smaller clans coalescing for the great migration to come. Quicksilver’s fleet will be here in less than two days, and time runs short for things that must be done.

The courtyard leading to the halls is nearly empty when I arrive. The handful of Obsidians present take a step back as my armored body lands on the stone, but they do not cower or flee as they might have done just days before. Their gods have been slain in both reality and myth. They know that I can bleed and die.

They know they have been lied to.

I retract my helm and acknowledge each of them with a glance before making my way across the cobbled courtyard. Entering the halls, I follow the directions Holiday provided, working my way through candle-lit staircases and passageways, the sound of metal on stone echoing with each step. I find what I’m looking for when I encounter a pair of Valkyrie standing guard outside an open doorway.

They watch me warily as I approach, minute changes in their stance and footing revealing the lethality of these warriors. I see their uncertainty grow with each step I take, their hands moving slowly to the axes at their sides. I stop ten meters short, and declare my intentions.

“I am Virginia au Augustus. I am here to pay my respects to Ragnar Volarus.”

The Valkyrie glance at one another, neither sure what to do with me. Before they can decide, a third woman steps through the open door. The lines of her face are broken by the azure symbols of Sefi and the Reaper, but it’s the recognition in her eyes that catches me. Signaling for her sisters to stand down, she motions for me to approach.

“You fought with Ragnar,” she says with a knowing nod. “You may pay your respects. My watch ends, and yours begins, Virginia au Augustus.”

Crossing through the doorway, I am met by cold midday light that pours in from a pair of high-arched windows. The soft white rays illuminate the motes of dust that dance around the body of the giant. The raised stone slab he rests on fills the center of the barren room. Walking to his side, I retract the armor from my hands, and place them lightly on his arm.

“I am here, Ragnar.”

Looking down at his pale, tattooed face, I know that he is not here. This body is not Ragnar. The flame that animated him and that illuminated those around him has been extinguished. He is gone from us, now and forever, this body merely a reminder of the man. But is as close as I can be, so I am here.

“Your friends in Tinos wait for you, Ragnar. They wait to welcome you home and celebrate your life.” I struggle for composure in the silence, continuing when I find it. “Their children and grandchildren will know your name. My child will know your name. I will tell my son the story of Ragnar and hope that he lives by your example.”

Feeling my throat tighten, I pause to exhale.

“But there are debts unpaid between you and me. Trust given when none was earned. Promises made that have yet to be fulfilled.”

I feel a tear threatening to spill from my eyelid, and let it fall.

“Thank you, Ragnar. Thank you for believing in me when I never gave you reason to.” My words reduced to broken whispers, I force them from my lips. “Thank you for keeping Darrow safe. For showing me that we could live for more.”

I stop, unable to continue through a quiet sob. Leaning over, I rest my head on his chest.

“I promised I would repay your faith, Ragnar Volarus. I will keep my promise.”

---

Twilight fades, and I watch my breath crystallize in the cold evening air. I start counting the lights below Asgard, knowing I will never finish. Campfires and torches fill the valley below the once sacred fortress, providing warmth and light to the Obsidians who prepare to leave their world behind.

When the morning sun rises on this frozen land, the home they have known will be nothing but a memory. In the history of the tribes, there will be a before, and an after. But I do not hear despair in the sounds that reach my balcony high above the valley floor. Only the occasional laugh or howl that takes me somewhere else.

“What are you doing out here?”

The sound of his footsteps is muffled by the thin layer of snow covering the walkway, his approach muted by the occasional whistle of the wind.

“I could ask you the same,” I shoot back with a smile. A bone-chilling gust carries across the stones, and I pull myself deeper into the thick blanket draped over my shoulders.

“That should be obvious,” he says, stepping to the wall beside me. “I’m looking for you. You’re going to freeze to death.”

“Concerned, are you? If you’re that worried about my warmth you could do something about it.”

It’s meant as a playful tease, but they never work quite right with Darrow. Too much hope on my part, too much thinking on his. I catch his reaction from the corner of my eye, and I cut off his rejection before he can find a painless way to deliver it.

“What do you see?” I ask, nodding to tents and fires that spread below us.

He follows my eyes and surveys the mass of Obsidians that have gathered around Asgard. Across the polar region there are dozens of encampments like this one, hundreds of tribes spending their last night on the snow.

“A fighting chance,” he says after a moment. “And you?”

“Something new.” I look up at him, picking out the features his son inherited. “Like you, Darrow.”

He cups his hands to his mouth and exhales deeply, sending swirls of condensed vapor streaming through his fingers. Rubbing his hands together for additional warmth, he studies me.

“Are you ready for Tinos?” he asks.

I make a show of my breath turning to ice. “Does the temperature ever rise above freezing there?”

“Yes.”

“Then the answer is yes, I am ready for Tinos.”

“You know what I’m asking, Mustang,” he says without humor, ignoring my efforts. “You won’t be popular, even for a Gold. We’ll need to be careful.”

I would tease him for the concern, but it means too much to me. I reach out from my blanket and take his hand, lending him my warmth.

“I’ll be fine, Darrow,” I assure him. “Have you been paying any attention for the last ten days? The last five years?”

“I have been,” he says, his eyes moving to where our hands meet. For a moment I think he will break the connection. Then I feel his thumb caress the ridge of my knuckles. “I know you can take care of yourself.”

When his eyes return, I recognize something I know, something I understand, something I’m grateful to see. The fear that tomorrow will be less than today, because the people we love won’t be there.

“I’ll be careful,” I say, pulling his hand to my cheek, letting myself have the moment, telling him the words I would want to hear. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Chapter Text

“Slag this,” Dancer says, his voice echoing loudly off the walls of the war room. “You certainly are your father's daughter, aren't you?”

“Dancer-”

“No,” he says, his eyes meeting mine. I recognize the Red anger, hotter than Gold. What had been annoyance has turned darker, centered on me. “Even for a Gold you think a lot of yourself, don't you, lass? Walking in here like you bloodydamn know what's what, when you don't know shit. Looking down at us from your lofty perch.”

The hologram of Quicksilver in the center of the table remains silent, as does Theodora to my right. To my left, Daxo steeples his fingers and waits for Dancer to continue. At the end of the table, I see the faintest of smiles appear at the corners of Victra's lips.

“Let me tell you something, lass. Nobody here's impressed with you. And sure as hell nobody trusts you. You've got information to share? Information that will help us? Give it to me and we'll see what it's worth, if anything. Otherwise, stop wasting my time.”

One of the Reds standing along the wall steps towards Dancer. Turning away from us to hide his lips, the man leans close to Dancer and begins to whisper.

My eyes drift down to the table as I play out my miscalculation, working through the ways I could have shaped the course of the conversation. I tell myself it was a reasonable mistake, but I find no comfort there.

I had assumed it would be different. I should have known better. Despite all of the obvious differences, Darrow's people and mine are more similar than either would ever admit. We do not forgive, we do not forget. We remember. Even a diplomat like Dancer.

It strikes me that he may be the first Red that can truly claim that title. Building alliances that span the system, measuring every word that leaves his mouth, playing the long game. He'll work with anyone he needs to in order to achieve his aims. By that measure, Victra and I should be equals in his eyes.

But when he looks at Victra, I see disdain. When he looks at me, I see something worse. Something personal.

I wait till his eyes return to mine, finally knowing what I look for, looking past the pretense. When I see it, I feel my anger rise to meet his.

It’s not because I am Gold. Fitchner showed him how little that can mean. It’s not because of my family, though he frames it as such for the others in attendance. It’s not even because he thinks I will betray him. Anyone at the table could do the same.

I can hear each of those reasons in his words, but when he meets my eyes, I see the truth.

He hates me because I walked away. Because he believed in Darrow, and Darrow believed in me. He might have even been foolish enough to believe that I truly loved Darrow until I found out what he really was. A lowly Red.

“I need ten minutes,” Dancer says, his voice calm, but the anger still clear. “Please, excuse me.”

I want to get up from the table and stop him. To tell him where he can shove his gorydamn opinions, to tell him I’m here because I believe in Eo’s dream. I’m here for my son’s future.

Instead, I say nothing as he limps towards the door. His small entourage follows him as he leaves, the sounds of the Tinos briefly pouring into the room.

The hologram of Quicksilver turns to those of us remaining. “Can we all agree that could have gone better?” he asks.

Victra's faint smile grows, reveling in my failure.

"He made up his mind before we started,” I say. It’s true, but it's a weak defense. No defense. “He wasn’t going to share anything with us.”

Daxo leans forward, the table creaking quietly under his weight. With a raised eyebrow and a disarming smile, he catches Theodora’s attention. “Theodora, may I have a minute of your time while we wait? I think there’s common ground for us to find here.”

“Certainly.”

The hologram of Quicksilver flickers and switches to a holding pattern as Theodora and Daxo exit the room.

Alone with Victra, she raps her knuckles slowly on the table in mock applause.

“Prime job, Virginia. Prime.”

I take in the woman at the end of the table, fur cloak wrapped over her shoulders, and recall the last time I shared her company. A crisp autumn day, sitting with her and Lorn under a willow tree after the Iron Rain. I meet her eyes now and see the same Victra I remember from that day, and yet something entirely different. A reincarnated version of the cold harpy that I knew. Not risen from the ashes like a phoenix, but like a wolf that gnawed off its leg to escape a hunter’s trap. Hurt and traumatized, waiting for someone to come close enough so she can rip their throat out.

She wears the mantle of the Howlers, honoring Ragnar’s return, declaring her clan and allegiance without reservation. The mangy cloak is a far cry from the elegance that comes to mind when I think of the Julii family. Mud and dirt cake the fur along the trailing edges, where tangles form knots that may never be undone. I can imagine the odors of food and smoke and life that cling to it. It looks ridiculous on her, but I can’t deny the jealousy that it stirs within me. A symbol of the acceptance she has earned and I have lost.

“How are you, Victra?” I ask. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Is it, darling?” she asks, raising a mocking eyebrow.

“It is. I thought you were dead until a few weeks ago.”

“That’s sweet, Virginia. Did you mourn for me?”

She swats my olive branch to the floor and I give her the conflict she seeks.

“Do you mean before or after my father’s funeral?” I respond, keeping my voice level. “No, Victra, I didn’t mourn for you. You’ll forgive me if I didn’t find the time.”

She tilts her head, venom in her smile. “Did you mourn for Darrow?”

Her taunt summons the memory unbidden, and I feel it crash upon me like a breaking wave, the pain and fear it brings consuming me for the span of a heartbeat. I let her see nothing, steadying my voice before I speak. “Yes. More than you will ever know.”

She watches me and I wait, tense, preparing for the cruel rejoinder she never delivers.

The two of us fall into silence, leaving only the quiet hum of the ventilation system pushing air through the room. The muffled sounds of Tinos echo against the door, a Red lilted laugh reaching us from a distant hallway. Above the table, the holding pattern in the hologram display flickers briefly, rotating slowly in an endless cycle.

As the seconds tick by, I am struck by a thought and look back at the woman across the table. How odd and broken are the people that Darrow holds close? What does it say that I fight against myself to be counted in that small number?

What does it say that Victra will always be listed among them?

She is everything wrong with my people. She is cruel for the sake of cruelty. Driven by revenge and grievance. Unconcerned with the inequity that our lives have been built on.

But Darrow sees more, and when I look at the woman now, I see it too.

I see the choice she makes. The family she chooses. Even if she had somewhere else to go, this is where she would be. Standing beside the people that have earned her loyalty. Not small or petty people, but people like Darrow and Lorn. People worthy of what she gives.

And when I think of the possible futures that I hope to build for my own family, I cannot conjure one without her.

Picking up the olive branch, I try again with something I know she will understand. Something personal, so she knows the value of it. Something unexpected, to pierce her defenses.

“I thought you and Darrow were lovers once,” I say, offering her a small smile. “I thought it was you that kept him from my bed.”

A brief, honest laugh escapes from Victra, and I let my smile grow.

“We were aboard the Pax,” I continue, turning back to the empty hologram display. “The day he vouched for you. There was something. Something more between you. I saw it in the way you looked at each other, and I thought I had lost him. I thought that the reason he had never come knocking on my door was because he had found everything he needed at yours.”

I pause, surprised to feel old insecurities mix with new, noting how little difference there is between the two.

“I was determined to win him back from you.” I say, looking back to her. “I went to his room that night and did my best Victra impression. I demanded he notice me instead of waiting to be noticed.”

There is welcome mirth in her expression, her own smile reflecting mine. “And?” she prompts.

I try to keep the moment between us, but I know the smile fades from my eyes as I recall the memory. It would be simpler if she had been the one that kept him from me. Simpler than the doubt I feel living in a dead girl’s shadow.

Victra reads my silence and nods, her smile fading with mine.

“I remember that day,” she says, after a moment. “You thought you couldn't trust me because of my family. I thought you were intimidated by me. All we had were impressions and guesses.”

“Yes,” I agree, hopeful.

“But that’s changed. Now we can let our actions speak for us, can’t we?” There is no poison in her voice, but the words slide out slow, like the accusation she intends them to be. “You made your choices. You abandoned Darrow when you found out who he really was. You discarded another man you claimed to love, and put an arrow through his neck.”

“I never abandoned Darrow.”

“The value you place in people seems directly tied to what you can get from them at any given moment,” she continues, ignoring me. “I know you were about to make peace with the Sovereign, despite everything she’s done to people you claim to care about. I know what you were willing to trade to become ArchGovernor.”

I’m about to stand, to challenge her, but I see something soften in her eyes. I hold my tongue, waiting as she studies me.

“I also know that where armies and armadas have failed to destroy Darrow, you could undo him with nothing but a glance and a whisper.” Her eyes search mine. “What I don’t know is whether you will.”

I shake my head, both in surprise at her words, and my disbelief in them. “You overestimate me. Or you underestimate him.”

She rejects my reply with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“I’ve told Darrow not to trust you, because you’ve shown you can’t be trusted. Sevro thinks you deserve another chance. I think you’ve been given one more chance than you deserve." She straightens up in her chair, and exhales a long, quiet sigh. “But I know my words will go unheeded. Regardless of how much faith he places in me, or the danger you pose, he will not listen.” Her eyes drift down to the floor where the edge of her wolf cloak rests, and she pulls it onto her lap. “When all is said and done, the heart wants what the heart wants, no matter how foolish it is.”

The heart wants what the heart wants. She says it with such certainty, as if it were a fundamental law of nature. She’s not the Victra I knew. Maybe I never knew her.

What would this Victra think if she knew what my heart wanted? Would she still think it so simple?

I could do it. Give my heart what it wants. I could find him now and tell him the truth. Tell him about the miracle we share.

My eyes move to the door as I consider how simple it would be.

“Somewhere you would rather be?” Victra asks, following my gaze.

“Yes.”

I hear her chair push away from the table, and look back.

“Yes, you’ve got the right idea,” she says as she stands. “Enjoy the rest of your meeting. Can I offer some advice, Virginia? Pretend you don’t think you’re the smartest person in the room.”

Remaining seated, I have to tilt my head slightly to meet her eyes. She looks different than when I walked in the room, but I know that change is in me, not her.

“Thank you for standing by him. For staying with him.”

“Save your gratitude, darling,” she says with a smirk. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“Regardless of your reasons, you have my thanks. I’ve never given you enough credit.”

“No, you haven’t. But Darrow gives me too much.” She makes her way around the table, placing a hand on my shoulder when she reaches me. The contact is cold, and devoid of affection "He always wants to believe that people are better than they are. Even when every piece of evidence says otherwise."

She looks down at me with a predator’s smile, and I see the wounded wolf.

"Do you know the first time I ever took notice of you, Virginia? It was at the gala on Luna, when Darrow made such a scene. I wouldn’t have paid you any attention at all, but he couldn’t stop staring at you. Personally, I thought you and the Bellona boy made quite the couple. It was clear that Cassius was smitten with you." The hand on my shoulder squeezes and I resist the urge to pull away. "Was it hard to put him down?"

I don’t know what answer she wants, so I give her the truth.

“No.”

She considers my response, and then moves to stand behind me, her free hand coming to rest on my opposite shoulder.

"Virginia, if you betray us. If you betray him…” She leans down to my ear and I can smell her fur cloak as she whispers to me. “Be prepared to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder, waiting for my razor to remove your pretty head from your pretty body.”

I push up from the chair, standing slowly and letting her hands slip from me. I turn to face her, looking up to meet her eyes.

“Aboard the Pax, you said I would look back one day and feel foolish for how I treated you. You were right.” I reach out and take her hand in mine. “I promise Victra, if you are capable of it, one day you will feel the same.”

Chapter Text

They each watch me, waiting, judging this enemy in their midst. Wearing light armor and carrying scorchers, they all look worn beyond their years. The youngest of them, a boy barely in his teens, looks at me with a mix of curiosity and anger. The older men are easier to read, easier to understand, despite their stony expressions. There is no room for curiosity in their eyes, only the fury of former slaves studying one of their slavers.

I feel the light weight of the razor at my hip, and remind myself that they let me keep it for a reason. They are here to protect me. Not from external enemies, but from people just like them. People that have every reason to want me dead.

Before I met Darrow, I had never even spoken with a Red. Not even in passing. My father kept me sheltered, and my mother never took me beyond the borders of our estate. Before she became broken beyond repair, she would have done anything to keep me safe.

Feeling the gaze of a dozen Red eyes upon me, I wonder what she would think now, seeing what I fight for. I’d like to believe she would be proud of me, but it’s the unknowable that keeps me awake at night.

“Done with your meeting?” a voice to my left asks.

He stands up from a chair beside the doorway and drops the stub of a small, thin cigar to the ground, extinguishing the embers with the heel of his boot. He’s older than the rest of them, his creased and grizzled complexion framed by grey. A head shorter than me, I tilt my head to meet his gaze. There’s something in the way he looks at me that’s different from the others in this group, a level of comfort that isn’t bravado or showmanship.

“Yes,” I reply, grateful to be out of the room, tired of jousting with Dancer. “I can see myself back to my ship, thank you.”

“I’ve got no doubt of it,” the man replies with a nod. “Just as I’m sure you could cut down everyone who tries to kill you between here and there. But are you going to clean up that mess? Or will you leave scraping carcasses off the floor to me and my men?”

A smile cracks my lips as I admire the man’s ability to make a point. “Fair enough,” I answer. “Could you please escort me back to my ship?”

“Sure thing, lass.” He makes a quick gesture to his men, familiar Grey hand signals. “Just got one stop we're going to make first, hope you don’t mind if we take the long way.”

I nod my agreement and follow the older man, the rest of the group forming a perimeter around the two of us.

“I watched all of the faces coming out of that meeting of yours,” he says as we walk. “Victra was smiling, which means it was misery for everyone else.”

I let out a laugh and look over at him. The comfort is still there, an ease I haven’t seen in anyone else’s eyes since I walked off the shuttle this afternoon.

“It was a long day,” I offer as confirmation of his observation.

His head is on a swivel as we move through the halls, scanning everyone and everything except me. As if he cares about this assignment, cares about what he is protecting. As if the Gold woman standing beside him was worth protecting.

We reach a walkway leading down to a lower level, and he switches from my left side to my right, putting himself between me and the point of greatest exposure. Around us, people stop what they’re doing and watch as we pass, heads turning and following the new Gold in Tinos. The old Red beside me meets each of their eyes, a passive challenge and warning to stay away. And whatever they see when they look at me, some small piece of it fades when they see him.

“It doesn’t help that you’re so tall,” he mutters to himself, eyes sweeping the area. “Like trying to hide a bloodydamn clawDrill.”

“Don’t worry,” I reassure him. “I’m watching too. No one’s going to try anything. These people respect you.”

“They respect me!” he barks with a disbelieving laugh. “I’ll have to tell Darrow that one. Little shit will die of laughter when he hears that.”

I slow a step, looking over at him. “You know Darrow, then?”

“Aye, I know the bugger,” he replies, a lopsided smile creeping across his face. “I changed his diapers more than once. I’m his uncle.”

I stop, and he stops beside me. I’ve read every record, recall every detail, and Darrow’s only uncle is dead.

Unless he’s not.

“Narol?”

“Aye.”

I watch him for a second, and feel something rise in my chest. A connection that flows from Narol to Darrow, from Darrow to my son. Blood of my blood. I step forward and wrap my arms around his shoulders, embracing him. He’s stiff in my arms, surprised, and I’m about to pull away, before he returns the embrace and pats me firmly on the back.

“It’s good to meet you, Narol,” I say as we pull apart.

“Well,” he says, scratching the back of his neck as a blush of color stains his cheeks. “I guess now I’ll have to thank the little shit for that.”

I glance around at the rest of the security detail and find a mix of smirks and frowns, but the smile on Narol’s face remains.

A child’s scream echoes from further down the corridor, and I snap my head up to find the source. The sound is followed a second later by the high-pitched laugh of another child, and I realize the first cry wasn’t pain, but surprise. More laughter and cries mix, and I recognize the sound as something I haven’t heard in years. The sound of children at play.

I look back to Darrow’s uncle. “Narol, where are you taking me?”

He nods his head and motions for everyone to keep moving. “We’re going to get you a hot meal and a drink. But there’s someone who wants to join us.”

---

A woman lifts her small child off the ground and nearly falls fleeing from me. Others simply pull their children to the side of the crowded dormitory entryway, watching me like bears guarding their cubs. I wonder if they can hear the sound of my heart pounding uncontrollably in my chest, and if they mistake it for something other than fear.

Narol leads me through the cramped hallways, his men left outside to avoid panicking the people that live here. I would laugh at the idea now, if it weren’t me that parents were hiding their children from, or if I could do anything to stop the adrenaline flooding my veins.

We reach a door at the end of a long hallway. Narol points to it and reaches out to knock. For a moment, I consider reaching out and stopping him, convincing him not to do this. For a moment, I’m outside a door in Lycos, watching Darrow step through as I wait behind.

His knuckles bang against the door three times in quick succession.

“It’s me,” he says, loud enough to penetrate into the room beyond. He looks to me, offering a quick smile, and then back to the door.

I squeeze my fingernails into my palm, hard enough to draw blood, before forcing my hand to relax.

“Coming,” a muted voice calls back.

There’s nothing to be done. She’ll think what she thinks. I can’t change what-

The door swings open, and she’s young. She’s too young by half.

“Is Deanna here?” Narol asks.

Her dark eyes take no notice of Narol, fixed on me like mine are on her.

“No,” the woman says with a shake of her head, her wild, red hair brushing over her shoulders. She takes a step back and motions for me to come in. “She’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Narol looks up at me and nods towards the door. “I’ll see you out front.”

“Come in, please,” she urges, finding a smile for me.

“Thank you,” I reply, returning the smile and stepping inside.

The room is small. Smaller than my room on the ship. In the periphery of my vision, I see stacks of bunks and rows of shoes. A battered table too small for the number of people that sleep here. But my gaze stays fixed on the dark-eyed woman.

Not Eo, I know, despite what I see. Not like Narol, back from the dead. But I know her like I know them all, names and details from reports I read late into the night, read more times than needed.

“Deanna, will be back in a few minutes,” Dio says again, sounding as nervous as I feel. “Can I get you some tea, or a glass of water?”

It’s not until she asks the question that I realize how dry my throat has become. “I could use a glass of water, thank you.”

She nods and walks past me to a small sink in the corner of the room, taking a cup from a mismatched set on the shelf above. “It’s Mustang, right?” she asks without looking back. “I’ve wondered, is that a common Gold name?”

“No,” I laugh lightly, despite the tumult I feel inside. “Darrow came up with it.”

She nods, and glances back at me. “A Red name, then.”

I hear movement behind me, the sound of fabric dragging across the floor, and I turn to find the source. From behind one of the bunks an infant crawls into view, a beige blanket caught under her knees as she pulls herself forward. A girl, with a shock of red hair, and dark eyes like her mother.

She looks up from the floor at me, studying the stranger in her home, and smiles.

“Don’t mind her,” Dio says from the sink. “She’s just doing her rounds now that she can get around. Wait ten minutes and she’ll be back in the same spot.”

The pace of my heart slows as the child watches me, using the corner of the bunk to pull herself up to her feet, before wobbling back to the ground. I crouch so she can see my face without craning her neck, and her smile widens.

“She’s beautiful,” I say, quieter than I intend.

Straying from the support of the bunk, she crawls towards me, her blanket left behind as she makes her way across the floor. Arms and legs churning in awkward concert, she crosses the distance between us, her smile never fading. Her hands find purchase on my knee as she balances herself and rises uncertainly to her feet.

She reaches up to me with a tiny hand.

I look back to find Dio watching us, the glass of water forgotten. Her eyes waver, and I understand the doubt I see in them. The monster invited into her home, now hovering over her daughter. I know the instinct she feels to put herself between me and her child, and feel nothing but empathy and admiration for her.

I begin to rise, slowly, so as not to topple the girl, before Dio’s voice stops me.

“Go on,” she says, softly. “She likes you.”

As gently as I can, I reach back to the child, who lets out a short squeal of joy when I lift her into my arms. She’s heavier than Pax was, and she smiles in a way I never got to see him smile. Her eyes are full of curiosity, wandering over my features, pausing when she meets my eyes. She reaches for my ear, leaning into me to get closer, her small fingers exploring its details when she gets hold.

Her eyes come back to mine, and I see Dio’s daughter. Eo’s niece. Pax’s cousin.

In another life the two of them might grow up together, go to school together. They might have stories about their aunts and uncles and family fights that they would laugh about when they were older. One day they would sit down, wondering where their childhood went, and be grateful that they shared some of it together.

She might teach him the joy and sorrow of her people. He might stand beside her, fighting for them.

Not another life. The life we fight for now.

“You’re a natural,” Dio says, stepping beside me. Her expression turns sad when she looks up at me. “What’s wrong?”

I smile back at her, and wipe away the tear rolling down my cheek.

“Nothing,” I say, my voice breaking as another tear spills over my eyelid. “Your daughter is amazing. She reminds me of someone.”

The concern in Dio’s eyes doesn’t fade, and for a moment I’m sure she’ll reach for her daughter and remove her from my arms. Instead, she steps closer, placing a supportive hand on my back. I thank her with a wordless glance, and pull the child closer to summon the feel of my son against me.

The little girl’s attention moves from the moisture in my eyes to the smile on my lips, her expression uncertain. She makes up her mind and the confusion is gone, laughing as she decides it’s joy that she sees in me. Reaching for my cheek, she runs her tiny hand towards my eyes and spreads a tear across my skin. Another falls and splashes against her fingertips.

I hear the hinges on the door behind me groan, and I remember where I am.

She moves slowly through the door frame, one foot dragging slightly, but her eyes are clear and focused on me. There’s a scowl on her face, and I stiffen my spine, shifting the girl into one arm, trying to wipe away the tears that remain.

Meeting the woman’s gaze, I see the scowl is not for me, but for the tears that I try to hide.

Stepping close, she reaches up and finishes what her granddaughter started, gently wiping away the last of my tears.

---

Walking through the halls of Tinos, I contemplate what a strange group we must be to the people we pass. Children running between armed guards, a young mother holding her baby, and a matronly grey-haired woman leaning on the arm of a Gold.

Her arm hooks through mine for support, the pace of her movement is slow, the length of her strides small. But there is quiet confidence in each step. If she feels the weight of the many eyes upon us, she gives no sign of it.

A few meters ahead of Deanna and me, Narol takes point. Behind us, Dio tries her best to keep the children from getting separated in the crowded halls. She had offered her arm to Deanna when we left the dormitory, but her mother-in-law had insisted on mine.

Deanna asks if I’m hungry and when I last slept. Trivial questions, asked specifically because they are trivial, asked solely for the comfort provided in hearing someone ask them. But I answer her plainly, without calculation, showing her I’m willing to go deeper, if she wishes. And somewhere in the middle of our walk, when the difficult questions have yet to be asked, I’m gripped by the fear that they won’t be.

“Iro! Reagan!” Dio shouts, shifting her infant from one hip to the other. “Get back here!”

A trio of Red workers welding metal supports look up to find the source of the sound, their eyes catching on me before they reach Dio. One of the three flips open the visor on his welding helmet to see me without its protective filter, his eyes narrowing. The other two watch me silently, their faces hidden from view.

Narol’s pace slows, his focus falling on the group of welders, waiting for them to meet his emotionless gaze and return to their work.

“Don’t mind them,” Deanna says, acknowledging the attention for the first time. “They stared at Victra the same way. Some will come around. Some won’t.”

I nod, grateful. Not just for her comforting reassurance, but for the unspoken statement beneath it. Some of her people might need time, others might need evidence of my good will. Somehow, she needs neither.

The acceptance should bring me peace, and it does, in small measure. I want this woman’s trust more than I can rationally explain, and I have it. But it feels unearned and fragile, if only in my own mind.

“Ask me,” I say, quietly.

She tilts her head to look up at me, the pace of our walk slowing further.

“Ask you what, lass?”

Ask me why I left your son in Lycos. Ask me why I came back. The pounding in my chest returns, and I shake my head, uncertain.

“Anything,” I say.

One of the children squeezes between Deanna and me, turning sideways to fith through the narrow space, then dashing ahead of the group. Another follows, insisting on the same path her brother took, laughing when we make room for her to give chase.

“There’s a time…” Deanna begins, hooking her arm back in mine and watching her grandchildren run into the distance. “There’s a time when all you want to do is keep them safe. You would do anything to keep them fed, and healthy and free of pain. If you could lock them in the house for the rest of their lives you might do it, just to spare them from everything outside of it. But you know it’s not enough. Being safe. Being alive. They aren’t the same thing as living. So they go out into the world and you pray that they come back each day. Then you pray that they found something out there that puts a smile on their face, even if just for a single second.”

Deanna stops and turns to me, her eyes moving from my sigils, to my hair and then to my eyes, studying each of my Gold features in turn.

“My son went out there. Into a world I couldn’t begin to imagine. And when he came back to my door, he came with you. Of all the people and things he found out there, it was you he wanted to bring back to me.”

The pounding in my chest is gone, replaced by a tightening in my throat. Replaced by the simple understanding of what lies between a mother and her child.

“I’ve sung the Fading Dirge twice for my son,” she says softly, watching as I try to blink away the burning in my eyes. “I know I can’t keep him safe. But I’ll never stop praying he finds something...someone...that makes him smile each day.”

---

It’s almost morning when I hear his voice at my door, the rapping of his knuckles breaking through the silence of the room. I’d lost track of how long I’d been staring into the darkness, unable to sleep. The alcohol from the commissary still numbs my senses, but does little to stop the ceaseless turning in my mind.

“It’s me,” he calls from the other side of the door.

I sit up from the bed in a fog. How long has it been since the last time I slept? Yesterday. On the ice, in Asgard, awake before dawn to begin the Obsidian migration. It seems like a week ago.

Why is he here?

I turn on the lights and search for my clothes, discarded without care at the foot of the bed. I had thought sleep would come quickly, but every moment from the day had replayed in my mind. The blazing anger of Dancer, the cool distance of Victra. Dio’s eyes and the laugh of her child. Narol and Kieran pouring drinks. Deanna’s touch on my shoulder when she said goodnight.

“Mustang?” he asks, knocking once more.

“One minute,” I answer, finally breaking through the haze of alcohol and thought.

I drank too much. Was happy to do so, happy to have a reason to, despite being out of practice. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, and I look for the glass of water beside my bed. I drain it, before pulling on my clothes and heading towards the door. As I do, I catch my reflection in the mirror.

Stray hairs escape from my braid, dark circles under my eyes. I realize I look like I feel. He’s seen me worse than this. Every day at the Institute, probably. Some days worse than others. I start toward the door then stop, returning to the nightstand to grab a hair tie. Quickly pulling the braid loose, I fix my hair behind me in a simple ponytail, and open the door.

He takes a small step back into the hallway, as if surprised at how close we would be when the door opened. His eyes are troubled, the line of his shoulders bowing slightly under the unseen weight I know he carries. If my exhaustion is visible to him, he gives no sign of it.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “What are you doing here?”

“I spoke with Cassius.” His voice is weary. He scans both directions down the hallway, and then turns back to me. “May I come in?”

We sit at the foot of my bed as Darrow repeats what Cassius told him. He tells me that the brother I shared a womb with, the man who killed our father, has stolen enough nuclear weapons to scour the surface of Mars, and render our home as lifeless as the Ash Lord left Rhea. He tells me that my twin, the man who had our older brother murdered out of jealousy, who cut off his own hand out of spite, has the power to end the life of every soul on this planet.

I hide the terror I feel, letting him see none of it. Nor do I let him see the love I still harbor for my brother, unable to cut it from my heart. The monster who is part of me.

As Darrow finishes sharing the details of his conversation, my stomach begins to turn, the question I’ve been unable to ask for weeks returning to the front of my mind. I can’t form the words, afraid to ask, afraid I’ll never sleep again. Afraid that if I know how my own flesh and blood tortured this man sitting beside me, I’ll never be able to stop the tears.

The fear and love I feel sends a tremor through me. It takes every ounce of my will not to wrap my arms around Darrow and never let go.

I force the emotions from my mind as Darrows shares his plan. He looks for my counsel. Maybe even my approval. I give him both, grateful that he shares his burden with me. More grateful that he understands why we must leave our home to save it.

“Our people can’t live on ashes,” he says when the details are done, and once more I fight the urge to hold him.

“No,” I agree.

He drags his eyes from the floor and up to me. “I’ll need you to be there when I tell them, Mustang. If there’s going to be anything left to rebuild, it needs to start now.”

“Your plan is a good one.” I let my lips curve into a small smile. “It’s a good enough plan that they’ll think it’s mine if I’m in the room. Let’s not give them that excuse, Darrow. I can stay here while you meet with them.”

He looks around my room, searching the empty walls and shelves.

“I’ve never known you to be this…” He pauses, gesturing at the barren room, searching for the polite way to say it. Somehow still unsure of me. “Utilitarian.”

“I have my books,” I say. “And a war to fight.”

He nods, but can’t hide the sadness that passes behind his eyes. As if mourning the girl he knew who took pleasure in decorating her room with flowers and art. Maybe wondering if the joy and peace we knew together after the Institute would be the last we ever tasted of it.

Even if those days were built on a lie, the peace was real. The feelings were real. For me.

“I want you to be there,” he says after a moment, as though that were reason enough.

“Okay,” I nod, deciding it is.

The line of his shoulders eases, and I can see the tension around his eyes and jaw relax, even if just slightly. I know both will return tomorrow, and the day after that. But I’ll be here too.

He rubs his chin, and lets out a long, quiet breath, his eyes glazing over in thought. The first sign he’s given that he might feel any of the exhaustion that weighs on me. It’s easier to ignore when you’re moving, fighting, struggling. Harder to ignore when all you want is the stillness of this moment to continue.

“It’s almost morning,” I say, quietly. “We can talk to them then.”

He looks back to me, his eyes studying the features of my face, his expression shifting as he finally sees through my efforts to hide my fatigue. “I’m sorry I’ve kept you up,” he says. “Get some sleep.”

He places his hands on the edge of the bed, but I stand before he does.

“You need sleep, too.”

I walk across the room to the light controls on the far wall and press the switch. The room goes dark, except for the dim emergency lights running the length of the wall. His feet shift as I return to the bed, as if preparing to rise. I pretend not to see it, try to hide the falter in my step, and slide onto the bed opposite from where he sits.

Pulling a pillow beneath my head, I watch him in the darkness, reaching out with my thoughts.

Stay with me. Just for a few hours.

He leans over and unlaces his boots, pulling them off his feet, one, then the other, hitting the floor with a quiet thump. He lays his head on the pillow beside mine, his eyes closed before he fully comes to rest.

I shut my eyes and listen to the sound of his breath, inhaling and exhaling, welcoming the sleep that follows behind it.

---

The hangar is quieter than I expect, the maelstrom of activity from the day before all but absent. A single shuttle glides through the exterior bay doors, slipping into the subterranean tunnels leading out of Tinos, on its way to ferry more of our new allies from the pole. The evenly paced bang of a hammer echoes off the steel decking and walls, breaking through the engine whine of a nearby cargo loader.

Across the hangar, Darrow gives a nod to Dancer and steps away, his eyes turning back to where I sit on a stack of supply crates. I watch Dancer as they separate, looking for any signs of doubt or misgiving, but his expression is focused, his acceptance of the plan clear in his demeanor.

Darrow strides toward me with a half-smile. He turns something over in his hands, and tosses it to me in a low arc. I snag the apple out of the air as he lifts another to his mouth and takes a bite.

“Someone’s pleased with himself,” I say.

“That went well,” he replies, taking a seat beside me on the crates, close enough that our elbows brush.

“You did well,” I counter, offering him the smile he’s earned. I hadn’t said it earlier, but I wasn’t sure he would be able to convince the others that leaving Mars was our only choice. “Always a flare for the dramatic, though, Darrow. Was impaling your razor in the table planned, or just an improvisational flourish?”

He throws me a sidelong glance. “I thought you liked it when I improvise.”

The grin that forms at the corner of his lips makes my own smile grow, remembering a summer afternoon shared years before on my father’s estate. The smell of his skin, the weight of his body, the feel of the grass beneath me. I shouldn’t take the bait, shouldn’t engage in this game, but seeing him relaxed enough to play it...

“You know it’s the other way around,” I purr with an arched eyebrow, holding my gaze long enough for him to yield and look away with a quiet laugh. I revel in the sound, the comfort it brings to me, tell myself it was worth whatever I risked.

Looking back across the hangar, I take a bite of the apple he brought me. It’s firm and fresh, unlike the preserved and processed foods we’ll be eating on the trip out to Jupiter. With no resupply lines, and so many mouths to feed, the logistics will be difficult enough without worrying about luxuries. If things go well with Romulus, we might have more options on the return trip. Assuming there is one.

My stomach dips when I consider the possibility there might not be one. That Pax might be left without either of us to protect him. Darrow’s arm grazes mine and the dip in my gut turns into a knot. It twists inside me until I have to look away and hide my eyes from him, sure that if I met his gaze in this moment I would tell him everything.

“You need to tell your mother,” I say flatly, fighting to keep the emotion out of my voice. “Let her know we’re leaving.”

“I know,” he says.

“Don’t wait.” I push down my feelings with an iron hand, deep enough that I can’t hear them roar at me, and turn back to him. “Don’t let her find out from someone else.”

He studies me, unsure of where my insistence comes from, but gives a small nod. “Okay,” he relents, a gentle smile forming on his lips, its appearance summoning a memory not from long summer days, but from the endless winter nights we spent blanketed in frost and cold. It’s a smile I haven’t seen in years, and my eyes linger on it, the knot in my stomach unwinding as the memory soothes the ache I feel inside.

We fall into a comfortable silence, like the kind we shared during those bone-chilling nights in the snow, when the rustle of the wind against the tent was the only other sound between us. A silence comfortable enough that the thought of what I keep from him returns to my mind, this time without dragging along the edge of panic that has accompanied it in recent days.

It’s not fair to him, I know this. He looks at me and sees that girl who laid beside him in that frozen tent. Maybe he sees the leader of House Augustus. I look at him and see the father of our child.

What would Pax mean to him? Anything? Everything, like he is to me? I know some part of me would break if he didn’t love our son the way I do. I challenged Darrow to prove he wants to build a better future, but it’s no longer that fear that keeps me from telling him the truth.

He’s passed the test I set out for him. I’ve met and held and laughed with the people Darrow fights for. Pax’s grandmother and cousins, his aunts and his uncles. The people that are my son’s family as much as they are Darrow’s.

And if they are my son’s family, what does that make them to me?

“Thirty-five days from here to the outer moons,” he says, the sound of his voice breaking into my thoughts. “It must feel like you just left.”

“No,” I shake my head, staring blankly at a spot across the hangar. “Too much has changed.”

“For the better, I hope.” His reply is laced with amusement, the sound almost foreign to my ears.

I look over to find him watching me with a knowing half-smile. As if he recognized the distance in my gaze, knew it was his turn to pull me back from wherever I had gone. And beneath that purpose, I hear his hopeful wish that the words are true.

A myriad of calculated responses come to me, some that tease, some that downplay, all of them able to deflect, all of them able to minimize the weight of my answer. I ignore them, grateful to be here, to be in this moment.

“Yes,” I nod, letting him see the truth in my eyes. “For the better.”

---

I turn off the datapad and lay it beside me on the bed, closing my eyes to the darkness, knowing this attempt to find sleep will be no different than the ones that preceded it. I try to shift my focus to the rise and fall that comes with each breath, the weight of my body against the bed. I fail, as a small rattle echoes from one of the air vents in my room, the sound starting and stopping at random intervals, demanding my attention. I never noticed it before, which means it wasn’t there before. Something deep in the ventilation system that’s come loose since we landed in Tinos, taunting me.

The rattle in the vent stops and I open my eyes. My attention drifts around the darkened outlines of the room, landing on the shelves above my bed and the books I keep there. Then the empty nightstand. The barren walls.

I hate this room. I hate every gorydamn inch of it.

Endure, my father would say, and somehow that’s who I’ve become. Someone not living life, but keeping it at arm’s length. Spending the few hours Darrow and I shared in this bed sleeping, instead of...living. All the passion and warmth of his people, and this is where I hide. No wonder it’s Eo he dreams of, even when he’s beside me.

I sit up, putting my feet on the floor, and wait for the rattle in the vent to return. When it does, I try to predict when it will stop, remembering each of the previous intervals and how they differed in pattern and duration. My guess is off by two seconds. Closer than each of my previous attempts. In three more cycles I’ll have all the data I need to predict the duration to within half a second, maybe less.

“No,” I say, whispering the word, rejecting the distraction. “No.”

Rising from the bed I turn on the lights and aim for the bathroom, washing my face with ice-cold water that shocks me fully awake. I let my hair down and retie the braid, then dress with fresh clothes from the closet. My razor hangs from the wall next to my armor and I ignore it, leaving it resting and untouched. I walk past the mirror without stopping, not interested in the dark circles under my eyes or the self-doubt I know I will find.

I step from my room into the empty hallway, picking the shortest route to the ship’s exit. A familiar site greets me as I make the last turn and start down the ramp. A contingent of House Telamanus Greys guarding the base of the entryway, and a small group of Pit Vipers standing opposite.

“I don’t need an escort,” I tell the nearest of the four Sons of Ares when I reach the bottom of the ramp. He scowls and opens his mouth to reply, but I turn away before he finds the words to challenge me. I don’t look back as I stride across the hangar deck, giving him and his men no opportunity to reconsider my authority in the matter.

Leaving the hangar, I slow my pace, letting the angle of my shoulders relax. It’s nearly midnight, but the hallways are still full of Reds, all of them watching me as I move alone amongst them. It’s an odd game, meeting the eyes of the curious, avoiding the eyes of the angry. Asking for acceptance without demanding it, respecting those who will never offer it.

No matter whether they watch me with curiosity, hate or something in-between, all of these stares are better than the empty room I’ve called home for too long.

“Excuse me,” I say, stopping a young woman coming the other direction. Her attention had been fixed on me, seemingly unable to look away, her eyes full of questions rather than anger. Those same eyes go wide with fear as I approach, and she takes a step back from me. I lower my eyes and bow my head, offering a smile and honest words. “I’m sorry, you’re the first friendly face I’ve seen in a few minutes. I’m lost. Can you help me?”

It takes a few seconds for my words to register with her, but she nods quickly when they do. She gathers herself, tucking a stray rust-colored curl of hair behind her ear and gives me directions to the lower levels, pointing to the next turn I need to make. I leave her with my thanks, and she gives a simple smile in return, so easy and true it nearly breaks me to see it.

I make my way down the ramps, down to the lower levels, sleepier and less crowded than the levels above at this time of night. The lights here are dimmed to conserve energy, the silence broken only by my footsteps.

I’m sure of my path now, though I’ve only been once before. The broad main corridor is distinct in size and character, even if the sound of children is now absent. The few people that do cross my path keep their distance, the stares less obvious now that there’s no crowd to hide in.

As I approach the dormitory, I notice a pair of teenagers standing in a darkened alcove, holding each other, just deep enough into the shadows that their kiss can be considered a secret. I smile as I walk up to the door, seeing that my passing presence isn’t enough to break them from their moment.

The entryway is empty and I follow the steps I took the day before. First right. Last door on the left.

I don’t give myself time to think, time to reconsider. No moment to let the doubt that has started circling find purchase. I step to the door and knock, mimicking Narol’s pattern from my first visit.

Muffled voices reach me from the other side of the door, Dio’s laugh growing louder as I hear footsteps approach.

“Mustang?” she asks when she opens the door, her child resting between her arm and her hip. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello, Dio,” I reply, her daughter’s eyes lighting up when they see me. “I know it’s late, but-”

“Don’t leave her standing out there,” Kieran’s voice calls from around the corner. “Come in, lass.”

“I was about to invite her in, Kieran,” Dio snaps, then smiles at me as she steps aside. “But Darrow’s not here if you’re looking for him. I think he’s with Sevro and Victra.”

“Okay,” I reply, stepping inside. “I was I just-”

I stop mid-sentence, stepping forward quickly as Dio’s daughter leans out of her mother’s arms, reaching for me unexpectedly. My hands are on the girl even as Dio regains her balance, a smile flashing on all three of our faces as the child squirms into my arms.

“Looks like she remembers you,” Dio laughs.

“Is it true?” I ask the smiling babe, my own smile growing wide enough to match hers. “Do you remember me?”

“Sit here,” Deanna’s voice calls from behind me, the sound of her chair pushing back slowly from the table filling the room. “I’ll make some tea.”

“Tea?” Narol asks as I turn to see who else is in the room. “She nearly drank us under the table last night. Leave the tea for Darrow, Mustang’s more Red than he is now.”

A hand touches my elbow and I turn once more to find a new face. “I’m Leanna,” the woman says, introducing herself with a friendly smile. “Darrow’s sister.”

“It’s good to meet you, Leanna,” I say, shifting the child from one hip to the other and offering her my hand. She takes it, but only to pull me into a welcoming embrace, wrapping her arms around both me and the child.

“She likes you,” Leanna says, pulling back and looking at the girl.

It shouldn’t mean as much to me as it does, to hear someone say it. To see the innocence in this child’s eyes, blind to the differences between us. To know she is my family, and I am hers. To know in my heart, I will fight for her as I do for Pax.

“C’mon Mustang,” Kieran says, pulling out the chair Deanna vacated for me. “Let me show you how to beat Narol at cards. Sadly, it’s not difficult.”

Narol mumbles a curse under his breath, sparing the ears of the children lying in their bunks on the other side of the room. I slide into the chair while Dio’s daughter plays with my braid, her mother helping Deanna put a kettle on the stove. Beside me, Kieran shuffles a worn deck of playing cards as Leanna pulls up a chair and joins us at the table.

The hand is dealt and I watch them play, hear them laugh, join in their smiles. A comfort settles over me that I haven’t felt in years, since before my mother died, and I feel the words slip out as little more than a whisper, my voice so low that I’m not sure anyone hears them. Not even sure to whom I direct them. Only knowing that they must be said.

“Thank you."

Deanna’s hand comes to rest on my shoulder. “Those words aren't needed, child,” she says. “Not with family.”