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Like clock work, the summer months draw to a close, the hazy, quiet warmth of Alfea's halls reignite with the bustle of returning staff, catch-up chatter filtering through the formerly empty space. Lazily attended-to paperwork now reaches priority levels. Farah's mornings start no earlier but she's required to actually start: no more quiet cups of coffee, watching the sun rise, admiring a certain Specialist's early-morning training from the safety and anonymity of her suite. She rises with efficiency now, the familiar routine of dressing and pinning up her hair with the same meticulous detail she used to pay to her battle armor. Every year for the last sixteen years, the time arrives when she must return to duty and schedules with more rigidity than she allows herself during those free months. Sixteen years of complacency, sixteen years of a familiarity she's taken for granted.
This year is very much the same, at least in theory. The paperwork takes greater precident than before; she doesn't have an assistant to handle deliveries of inventory anymore but Sky and Terra and Sam are more than happy to help, especially if it means she isn't the one lifting the boxes of books and carrying Ben's floral samples. Saul's early morning training sessions still take place, though not as early as either of them is used to. Now when Farah wakes, Saul is there with a cup of coffee ready and waiting, a silent support and appraisal of her well being before he leaves her side. The changes feel subtle in that they slide seamlessly within Farah's typical return-to-school routine. But then the day before students arrive dawns and Farah wakes feeling not entirely herself.
She wakes too early, the sun barely reaching above the trees and a deep unidentifiable ache in her bones and muscles that have felt too strained in recent days. She can hear the steady beat of rain on the roof, a welcome and anticipated summer shower Ben's been praying for; it's also the cause of her pain, and she rubs absently at her knee, another at a twinge in her once-broken neck, marking the time on her bedside clock: four-thirty-six in the morning. Plenty of time to fall back asleep, but she's not going to, she knows that.
She swallows the pain killers dry, moving on stiff steps from the bed to the bathroom, easing back beneath the blankets to stare at the ceiling while Saul slumbers peacefully beside her. And as the light creeps across the carpet, her mind wanders, edging closer to that dark dip she usually teeters far enough from the edge not to risk falling in. Typically, Saul is there, physically if not also mentally, with a firm grip on her waist to haul her back as needed. Her hand is never empty for long, not with her students so eager to reach for it. She's kept busy enough that the cliff's edge isn't a worry; it's a barely-there precipice. But this morning, her mind is idle. This morning, her heels stray so close to that steep mental drop she can imagine the crumbling stone beneath her feet.
Another year, and she barely survived the last one. She technically didn't survive the last one. They'd finished the year strong, a school united in loyalty and grief, but the fear had still been palpable, a virus spreading through the students that'd remained until the end, not pulled out by their parents or recovering beyond the walls that'd housed their trauma. Farah has done her best not to dwell, to put one foot in front of the other for the sake of the others, if not also herself. If she allows herself to dwell, she'll spiral.
She's spiraling.
How is she meant to look the students and staff in the eye and promise protection? How is she meant to encourage moving on from last year when she can't? How can she expect their trust, their respect, considering how drastically she's failed them? If a single student shows up at all, it's an undeserved reward for her incompetence. She doesn't deserve to even hold the title of headmistress after everything she's been through, everything she's done or not done. The secrets kept, lies told, fear and mistrust fostered. It's her fault. It's all her fault. She would weep, if it weren't for the all-encompassing numb weariness that settles over her the longer she succumbs to the gravity of her own thoughts.
Saul grunts, a long, slow breath drawn through his nose that signals his return to consciousness; Farah feels the familiar warm hum of their bond waking with him, and she clamps down on the darkness of her thoughts with an iron fist. By the time Saul blinks at her with a sleep-clouded gaze, his smile is soft and lazy, no indication he's aware of her hovering breakdown.
"Morning."
"Good morning."
"You're up early," Saul glances at the clock: six-thirty. Farah musters up a smile that isn't completely forced.
"Not by much," Farah lies; she switches off the alarm, set for six-fifty.
Saul takes advantage of her shifted position to wrap an arm around her waist, hauling her closer to press a kiss to the shell of her ear.
"Everything alright?"
The confirmation she knows he's looking for, that she's not alright, catches in her throat. He rests his chin against her collarbone, that look on his face she knows he gets when there's no one else to see them like this, like he thinks she's hung the moon and stars. Now is not one of the times she feels the warmth of such a look, however: it leaves her feeling guilty and ashamed and undeserving. She so badly wants to confide in him, knows in her heart and her mind there's no reason she can't, but she can't. She wants to, but the words won't come. They swell and stick tight behind her teeth, a silent dam she doesn't have the energy to rebuild, today of all days. Because as soon as she starts, she won't be able to stop, and the words will tumble and flow, gain momentum like the proverbial snowball, and the tears will follow, and she can't afford it, much as she may want to. Not today.
She's careful to keep her mind clear, as gentle and calm as the waves she practices picturing to calm the tumultuous thoughts of others threatening to invade and quiet her mind. It's a practice she's used since her own Alfea days, before Rosalind's more extreme methods took over, and a trick she's implemented again just recently when the sudden resurgence of her magic was too overwhelming following her resurrection. The levity in her tone is forced, but not detectibly so when she smiles at the man she adores, and who adores her right back, knowing she's breaking his unsuspecting heart keeping this bottled up. When he discovers her ruse, as he's likely to, his anger will be non-existent, his disappointment crippling, and his own hurt more painful than any wound she's been afflicted with.
"I'm fine."
She follows her words with a kiss pressed to his nose and a smile he returns easily.
"Coffee?"
"Please."
He sits up, then presses his full weight to her chest so he can pepper her face with kisses until the weight in her mind eases and she's swallowing back her mirth. She indulges him in a proper kiss, watches fondly as he slips a shirt over his naked torso and disappears into the kitchen. She hates how quickly the smile drops from her lips, but she can't help it. Not today.
~
"...missing a batch of aconite but not to worry there, it hasn't been swiped, I've got an invoice from the company about a delay and- Farah?"
She blinks, aware in that simple action that her lids have dipped lower than is acceptable for a conversation with a colleague, let alone a friend. It's exhaustion, plain and simple, and as the morning hours drag on the effort of holding her head high grows harder and harder. The rain lashes hard against the windows, a mirroring of her overwhelming emotions. She clenches a fist loosely atop her checklist, woefully unfulfilled, and manages a bland smile for Ben.
"I'm sorry. I am paying attention-"
"You and Saul," Ben gripes, "No appreciation for the finer details of horticulture."
It's a joke, a tease, and it doesn't fall flat, but it slides easily beneath the cracks in her emotional armor, poisoned with unspoken things she doesn't hold Ben accountable for not saying because she knows he wouldn't. But she hears them all the same, those venomous adders snaking into her mind reminding her of her failings as a friend not to humor Ben in this most basic of interests, something he shared with dear Rose. But now with her gone, why, knowing the pain of her passing, does Farah find it so difficult to lend an ear? Beyond inventory, beyond invoices and potion supplies, why does Ben put up with her?
She's still spiraling, riptide drawing her out to sea, caught in a current of her own making. She keeps her head above water by sheer force of will, but she's slipping.
"Farah?"
"I'm fine."
The lie falls easier from her lips with every additional time she utters it, twice more to Saul at breakfast when he'd caught her staring out the window at the rain, and once even to Terra, the bewildered earth fairy tossing out steadying hands when her pseudo-aunt almost walked straight into her, brows furrowed in concern as she'd asked after the mind fairy's well being. Farah, far more familiar with lying to her students, hadn't hesitated a second before reaffirming -a futile attempt to convince herself, too- that she was "fine."
Ben's brows are furrowed just like his daughter's, gaze a little too lingering, a little too appraising. Farah forces her smile to be softer, but it feels strained, and she purses her lips to cover it. Storm clouds are gathering behind her eyes, between her temples, rumbling with upset and the strongest pressure for tears she's felt yet. She takes as slow a breath as she dares through her nose, careful to keep it steady. She's prepared to brush the moment aside, perhaps confirm exhaustion, as Ben is probably expecting, but her friend beats her to the punch. The invoices are set aside and he rummages through the pocket of his forest green cardigan, handing Farah a handkerchief she knows has dried many a childish eye of crocodile tears. She takes it, with the robotic instinct of one being handed something regardless of her puzzlement as to its offering; when she turns a critical eye to Ben, his smile is soft and sad.
"You're crying, my dear."
Despite the handkerchief clutched in a vice-like grip, she swipes her free hand across her cheek, feels both the trickle that replaces what she's just removed and the dampness on her fingers. The breath she takes now is shuddering and she dabs at her eyes with the handkerchief futilely, the evidence of her tears releasing the flood she's been holding back all morning.
"I don't know why I'm crying. I don't know what's wrong with me," she admits, trying to brush the moment aside -should she blame hormones?- but Ben tuts, coming around the side of her desk to rub soothingly at her back.
"Nothing's wrong with you," because he knows what she really means, and the admission has her tears falling harder, faster, as she knew they would, silent grief turning to stifled sobs Ben muffles against his shoulder when he turns her to him for a hug.
"Nothing's wrong with you," Ben repeats, "I've had a feeling this was coming."
"How could you possibly have known that," and it's less a question than a demand for an answer because she doesn't do this. She doesn't fall apart for no good reason. She feels Ben's chuckle against her cheek, his hands still tracing soothing paths up and down her arms.
"Because I know you, Farah, and I know when you're upset. Saul mentioned you weren't quite yourself this morning, but he didn't want to push you if you weren't ready to share."
And she feels foolish now for thinking he wouldn't have noticed, for no one knows her as well as Saul Silva, and vice versa. She huffs not-quite a laugh, throat blocked with emotion and nose stuffed with congestion. She draws back from Ben's embrace, sniffing hard and dabbing at her eyes again, smudging mascara across the faded fabric.
"I'll wash it," she murmurs forlornly, fingers toying with the fraying edges and Ben chuckles again, crouching to take the handkerchief and wipe her eyes properly.
"And it'll certainly come out. Rose charmed it herself never to stain."
"Everything is tarnished," she murmurs in weary explanation, and Ben leans back, arms draped over his knees.
"How so?"
"Rosalind. Everything," Farah waves a hand noncommittally, "Alfea was meant to be a safe space, a place the children could learn without fear, but it isn't, not anymore. I've failed them. I abandoned them to her influence and neglected to adequately pick up the pieces left behind."
"Might I ask that you not be quite so harsh on my best friend?" Ben demands, and Farah blinks, more startled tears tracing clear tracks down her cheeks.
Ben stands to lean one hip against her desk, "You see, she's had quite the terrible year, confronting demons from her past, digging up old traumas, not to mention having herself dug up after she was killed by her former mentor. It's in my best herbologist's opinion that you go easy on her."
"Ben-"
"Might I remind you you couldn't walk on your own power a few months ago?" Ben continues, "And not even moments after you woke from your inconceivable resurrection you were demanding information on the well being of your students. You nearly gave yourself a stroke worrying after Bloom, and you nearly gave Saul and I a coronary sneaking off as you did after Rosalind a second time. And you nearly died again. For good Farah. I don't know that you fully grasp the consequences of your own martyrdom."
"It was never my intention to be a martyr-"
And there's a bit more strength in her disagreement, but Ben interrupts again.
"Intention is nine-tenths of the law," he quotes sagely, "But in this case that one-tenth holds far more weight. You may have intended the outcome of Rosalind's first attack, but you had no way of anticipating the nature of her second. And I don't know that you've let yourself think about it. No," he corrects, "I know you haven't. Because you've never given your feelings any consideration when there are others involved, and now it's all catching up with you."
Ben ducks his head to catch her eye, and Farah feels shame heat her cheeks at the realization she's been avoiding his gaze.
"There is nothing wrong with you," Ben repeats, again, "There is nothing wrong with prioritizing the feelings of others, but there is also nothing wrong with allowing yourself to feel your own feelings. And nobody blames you, nobody thinks less of you for it. You're allowed to cry and be upset at what is quite an upsetting thing."
"I am upset," Farah confirms with another sniff, fingers twisting the handkerchief Ben had returned to her.
"As you should be."
"I was terrified."
"Quite understandably."
"I feel so useless and- overwhelmed," and the tears begin anew, Ben reaching for her again without hesitation. It solves nothing, not really, but it's cathartic, and Ben's right, it's overdue. Like unblocking a culvert destined to be refilled with debris, but for the moment, her mind feels refreshed, troubled waters running clearer with the silt settling back on the river bed.
"Do you feel better?" Ben asks when the well has run dry, and Farah does feel well enough to pout, respond indignantly:
"No."
But then she sighs, fingers catching at the pins in her hair when she tries to run a hand through it; she contents herself with twirling those loose curls around her face, twining them round and round her finger.
"Yes. But I don't know why."
"You don't have to," Ben advises, "Sometimes it isn't about deciding why something helps, only that it does. There's absolutely no reason why hot chocolate and biscuits at midnight helped Sam and Terra with nightmares, but it did, no matter what the parenting books said about sugar and bedtimes. It's enough that it makes you feel better, it doesn't have to make sense."
Farah sighs, confronted now with itchy eyes and paperwork sure to irritate them further, and far fewer hours left to accomplish all she needs to before the start of term. But before that same feeling of overwhelming can creep back up to block her throat, Ben speaks.
"I believe Saul should be finished setting up the training grounds," he cranes his neck as though he can see out the window, but they both know he can't. "I'd say it's time for a cup of tea, a snack, and then we can put that 'headmaster' title to good use and have him tackle some of this. No reason you can't share the load."
"No," Farah concedes, "That sounds perfect. Thank you Ben, I mean it."
"I know. And you're welcome, my dear, any time."