Chapter Text
A dream is an echo, a reflection of the soul. A sum of the hopes and wishes of a being, of the light within their life and their memories. Their joy and their hope, melded and shaped into an un-experience, an event that never happened, but did so in the trappings of a mortal soul.
Logically, then, a nightmare is the inversion of such. A sum of the dread and longing within a being, of the darkness that lurks in the corners of their life and their mind alike. Their internal darkness personified, trapping the soul within a prison of its own manifestation.
They exist as polar opposites, but share many features. Both rely on the mind to manifest, and they both draw from the experiences of the soul which they bestow themselves upon. They drew upon memories, of experiences and events lived by the being, and which imprinted themselves upon its soul.
But memories were worse than any nightmare, at least as far as she was concerned. For it was in a memory that she was trapped, one that was worse than any nightmare that her mind could conjure, one made worse for a single reason. It had not simply been a dream. If it had been, it was one she was yet to awaken from.
It was the monument of her failings. The obelisk of her weakness, the cenotaph of her mistakes. It was the altar where she accepted her pain and suffering for the loss she had caused, for the sacrifice she had forced. The sacrifice given for someone worth far less than she had been.
They had both stood upon that street, on that day, linked together by clasped hands. Thalia had made some stupid joke, and she had laughed along with her, she remembered that too vividly, which she supposed, was half the problem. But she never heard it repeated, not in these slumbering memories. They wouldn’t even let her hear Thalia’s voice, just once more. Instead, it was a muted hum, as if she were being held under by her emotions, and slowly allowed to drown in a sea of self-loathing.
She was an observer in her own body, but that hardly mattered. She wouldn’t be able to move even if she could. The hollowness of loss coiled in her veins, sapping her muscles of strength and her mind of resolve, forcing her to simply endure.
The worst part – always the worst part – was seeing her like this. Caught in the moment, with adoration and love behind twinkling sapphire eyes and upon rosy lips, with freckles dotted across pale cheeks. Unknowing, happy, smiling. Her last smiles, the last true ones she had, the ones engrained in Miranda’s mind months after she had last gazed upon her. Months after the final confession at the final hour. As she had clutched her in her final moments.
They had loved each other. The chance to say so never came, not before it had been ripped away, forced to share the confession as one of them clung to the last dregs of their life, and the other clung to their body long past the final breath. Love was upon Thalia’s face, clear as day, but she had not seen it the first time. It was only once the memory was pulled to the forefront as aching eyes closed that Miranda first saw it.
Love.
In the moment Thalia had loved her. And had she said it, Miranda would have responded in kind. God only knew how much she wished that one of them had said it then, before the chance was stolen from them. If only they knew that a mere handful of minutes later, Miranda would be holding her loves body, clinging to it as grief overflowed into misty tears. Carrying it as grief turned into self-loathing. Carrying it to the waiting arms of Thalia’s parents, their daughter stolen from them as an unknown hero.
Their reconciliation had been stolen from them; their amends never made. Thalia had died believing she was unloved by her parents; Miranda had been forced to divulge the confession at the funeral. It had been hard – harder than she cared to admit. The pain had driven her back to the church for the first time in four years, had forced aside her guilt in favour of striking her body in that familiar cross thrice over. And when her pain abandoned her, the pew in front of her offered a shoulder to break down upon, to spill tears upon.
She wondered, just for a moment, if God would forgive her for her actions. If any had been harmed on her watch. Had any been caught in the crossfire? She was meant to be a defender, a stalwart guardian of the people, and yet she could have committed the ultimate betrayal of that oath.
The gentle squeeze of her hand focused Miranda’s gaze upon Thalia, but the sensation was little more than a dull throb, muscles twitching at ghostly caresses. The echoes of a time lost, of memories forged in a different era. The warmth had vanished, but the longing adamantly refused to abate, rooting itself deep within her heart.
As always, the drowned echoes of the streets and the surrounding city was broken with the inevitable arrival of their foe. Concrete and asphalt crumbled before stone and crystal. Metal cried out as it tore, and glass shattered into a billion pieces as mother nature’s latest champion burst forth from the earth. Before it, mankind’s symbols of dominance over nature crumbled. That beast of stone and crystal towering over their heads, crushing before it the achievements of generations of men and women.
Thalia always dragged them from the open street, away from the carnage unfolding before them, and into that back alley. It was where Miranda always broke, caught staring at the humourless, yet somehow optimistic smile upon the pale features of the girl who stood before her – kindness caught in sapphire eyes, layered with weak mirth and tender attraction. Love never shared openly.
“Once more?”
The line broke through the dull hum and the throb of panic, just as it always did. A simple phrase – two words, but it was the invocation of a promise sworn many months before. In pale hands lay a rosy, red charm of carnelian, the crystal on a small chain of silver. It seemed to be silently repeating the question, as if there were a choice.
“Once more.”
Pale lips met rosy red as the agreement was uttered. Gentle arms wrapped around both girls, as light encompassed the duo for a heartbeat, before it folded in upon itself, and the back alley was filled with nothing but a soft breeze.
"Miranda."
With a sudden jerk, Miranda awoke at the intonation of her name. The burst of adrenaline faded away quickly as her knees painfully struck the underside of the desk she was seated at. It was only through sheer force of self disciplined will - and maybe the hand that suddenly held her shoulder and kept her upright - that she didn't then subsequently face plant the table.
"Are you feeling okay, Miranda?"
The tender words pulled Miranda's attention away from the pain, and found her staring into pair of concerned light brown eyes, ever so slightly out of focus and misty. A concerned noise left the figure in front of her, and it was only then that Miranda realised she had awoken crying, salty tears spilling from her misty eyes. A brief brush of her eyes with her wrist dispelled the inhibiting moisture, and brought the woman standing next to her into proper focus.
Dr Zoë was looking at her with concern, leaning down to eye level with Miranda and resting her right forearm on the student's desk, her left hand still resting on Miranda's right shoulder. With a gentle squeeze that conveyed a tender warmth, Dr Zoë spoke, her tone quiet and gentle - full of compassion and understanding. "Hey. You're still not doing so good, are you Miranda?"
Silence was more comfortable, and so Miranda maintained it, unwilling to speak at that moment, lest she sabotage her own words with her briefly compromised mental state. A simple shake of her head, gentle as it was, was enough for Dr Zoë to give a soft sigh and pushed herself off of the desk, still maintaining her gentle hold on Miranda's shoulder. "I understand that its.. Tough, losing someone so important to you. God knows I've had the same experiences... Have you given any more thought to speaking to a psychologist?"
"Can't."
With a resolute, or perhaps a somewhat desperate, shake of her head, Miranda repeated the answer she had given thrice now, turning away the offered hand. She wasn't lying - it could get even more people killed if she had spilled her metaphorical guts, and no matter how much confidentiality was promised, it wouldn't make any difference. They would know - they always knew. It had happened to Kris, and no matter how much she and Kris disagreed on various other factors, that was one of the few points they were in agreeance on.
Her stomach churned just a little. Blaming the dead, and one so young, always bit away at her resolve. It felt like a smear on her moral compass.
"You should at least try, Miranda. You don't have to deal with this alone." Dr Zoë's words were almost certainly meant to be comforting, but Miranda couldn't help the sudden start she gave at them. They echoed almost verbatim what she had been told a dozen times by an ally most unlikely.
"You don't have to do this alone, Miranda."
'Yes I do, Quin. Not again, no one else dies.'
Her eyes screwed themselves shut, cutting off her sight as she jerked her head to the side, looking away from the well meaning science teacher who had just stepped on a landmine totally unbeknownst to her. To her credit, Dr Zoë didn't react beyond a soft utterance of an apology. "Sorry. That was evidently the wrong thing to say."
The silence was the only confirmation that Miranda gave, but she knew the teacher understood regardless. The hand on her shoulder squeezed comfortingly, the sensation tugging Miranda's lips out of the grimace that had resided upon them, back into the thin, pale line that they had been before. The thin, pale line they had been for months.
"You should get some more sleep. You're ahead in this class for now, but I cant promise that will stay the same. Some one will eventually call me out on it. I'll have to say something."
A muted hum was the only noise Miranda made in response, but she tipped her head just a little, acquiescing to the request. Dr Zoë had been good to her for some time now, she had allowed her to sleep through multiple of her classes, even if she really should have been called out on it long ago. But she had a point, Miranda would eventually begin to fall behind if she left her learning for late into the night. Not to mention, she didn't want Dr Zoë to get into any trouble.
The silence reigned for a few more minutes, before Dr Zoë sighed softly to herself, releasing Miranda's shoulder and cutting off the bridge of security that had stretched across the yawning abyss of her emotional turmoil. The brunette teacher ran her fingers through her ponytail and gave a sigh. "I can't stay much longer, sorry. You've already stayed past homeroom, but I'll let Jenny know you were with me."
"Thank you, Doctor." She wasn't one to misread the obvious request, clearly Dr Zoë had things to do that evening, and who was Miranda to interfere with her teachers responsibilities. Dr Zoë gave the girl a concerned, yet comforting smile, before she stepped away and began to pack her things into her bag, whilst Miranda merely collected the notebook and textbook into a neat pile, before hoisting them into her arms as she stood.
"Oh, and Miranda?"
She was at the door to the lovingly decorated classroom when the call of her name drew her gaze back to the softly smiling science teacher, who had her head tilted just a little bit. She was clearly concerned, but expressing that though the welcoming expression and soft smile. "Don't be a stranger. You have my number, and I'm always willing to talk."
Miranda's gaze drifted downwards, tracing the line of the door frame and eventually settling on the metal panel screwed to the frame, where the latch of the door would click into when closed. She wouldn't meet Dr Zoë's eyes - that would be too hard. Instead, all she managed was a soft reply, before she pulled the books against her chest and slipped out of the room. "Sure."
The walk to her locker was across the same bland linoleum that covered the floor of just about every room in the school, the granite patterned texture the only thing breaking up the monotonous light blue colouration of the surface. She had slept well past the usual dismissal time, so there were only a few milling students left around the campus - small groups of juniors clustered together happily chatting away. They were annoying with their presence, Miranda wanted nothing to do with them, and they probably wanted nothing to do with the moody senior trying to slink past unbothered, but it didn't stop their presence driving Miranda further into the halls, away from the windows that seeped amber light through their panes.
Her locker was a simple thing, utterly unremarkable in its nature, not on any end or in the middle of anywhere, just a simple metal box amidst a sea of other metal boxes. Her combination was nothing special either, no fancy symbolism or special meaning behind the numbers she dialled in, just a string of figures that gave her access to the metal box where she kept her belongings. The textbook and notebook were promptly deposited on the upper shelf, and the backpack pulled from the recesses, onto her shoulder.
She paused, as she always did, at the back of the locker, and the fabric prayer knot hanging at the back of the locker on a hook made for a hat. Softly, they swayed in an invisible breeze, the orthodox cross spinning slowly, stopping just as it faced Miranda dead on, a silent accusation being conveyed.
Emotion bubbled to the surface, and a tanned hand reached inside the locker to retrieve the rope, taking it into her hand and, swiftly, her pocket, silently accepting the accusation and making a silent promise. With that silent promise made, Miranda swung her locker shut and fastened the lock, before staring at the closed door for a second longer than necessary, thumbing the knots in her pocket with a tender caress, as if they would fall apart if faced with anything more.
A peal of laughter broke her from her stupor, pulling her head to the side at the direction of the noise, and drawing from her a tired sigh as she stepped away from her locker and down the hallway, back towards the school entrance. Her evening, it seemed, would be busy. She would be going to the cemetery, once again.
Her first step into the amber rays of the sun, shining upon the top step of the schools entrance, brought with it only a single thought, a single reminder of her creed, and her duty, as her gaze swept over the city sprawling below the hill upon which the school sat.
We sacrificed so much, for this.
The cemetery was a morose place, as it always was. It was a haven of peace and quiet amidst a bustling city of technology and motor vehicles. Resting atop another of Arcadia's hills, it was a private sanctuary from the modern world, one that even the most deviant members of society dared not violate, dignifying it with silence, if not total avoidance. Even their foe, mother nature herself, dared not send her minions to it, perhaps out of some respect for the memory of those gone before, or simply down to chance, Miranda did not know.
Nor did she particularly care. Not at that moment, when she stood upon hallowed ground again.
She felt out of place, standing in her school uniform with her black hoodie over it, backpack hoisted over one shoulder and the hood flopped atop it. All the other mourners wore black, dresses and suits, veils and hats clutched over hearts, staring at the coffin of some unnamed person being interred, only the soft murmurs of the priest's dedication heard at this distance. The sun was beginning to set, and it had prompted her to don her sunglasses, but even they did little to disrupt the amber rays cast across the cemetery as the sun sunk lower and lower, light bouncing off the slowly encroaching clouds. The sun made reading hard, but she knew what the grave before her said.
She had read it so many times by now, the simple black granite headstone seared into her head.
In Loving Memory of
THALIA KARIS
Beloved Daughter
Unsung Hero
Defender of Arcadia
She paid the ultimate price,
so we that are left do not have to.
Staring at the simple slab of granite that summarised the life of her closest - and for a while, only, friend in this busting, yet strangely isolated, city, Miranda's forced breath hitched on an invisible point as the her arm rose to her forehead. Her body froze for another heartbeat, left hand clutching the knots as her right stuttered in time with her breath, before it finally marked out a trio of crosses over her upper body. The prayer was hardly that, a simple recitation ingrained in her since she was a child, half way across the world. She had never believed the words much, back when she was younger.
That had changed. She had taken that offer, that charm, and it had returned her to her faith.
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
The pair of charms in her pocket felt heavier than they ever did, and Miranda's eyes screwed themselves firmly shut for several seconds, cycling through a handful of repetitions as she searched for stability.
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
She hadn't been that religious, and here she was, praying a sinners prayer in front of the grave of the girl she had nearly committed an unforgivable sin with.
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Her stutter should have been unusual - she had come here more than two dozen times in the months since Thalia's death, but she always reminded herself of that fact. Unforgivable sin - her family would shun her, her faith would shun her. No matter what they thought here in America, her homeland would have refused to acknowledge her relationship as legitimate. If it had been a relationship.
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
There had been rumours, almost certainly. Whispers about her and Thalia, but they held no weight, not now. Not whilst the dead were so freshly buried, not whilst the sacrifice still weighed heavy. No one went around insulting the dead so soon, not with the valorous service given, and the sacrifice willingly made.
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
She probably appeared to be a devoted member of society, tending to the grave of a hero, praying for her immortal soul, praying for a friend. The truth was so much different - she was selfishly praying for herself. For forgiveness for temptation.
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Her emotions receded, and her eyes unwound themselves from their closed state. The granite headstone was constantly adorned with flowers, all brilliant and fresh - likely replaced on the daily by dedicated fans with more money than common sense, although the centre of the slab remained free, a paradoxically dignified respect for the dead, perhaps stemming from stories about the rapture.
"I'm sorry."
Her voice was always hoarse when attending to the grave - no matter how much water she had drunk before hand, no matter how little she had spoken that day, finding a clear and steady voice was simply impossible for her at this point. Subconsciously rubbing her throat, Miranda left her verbal speech at that - it was an innocuous enough phrase, and everything that she could say aloud, she would.
Focusing her gaze upon the beautiful red Carnelian charm that hung from the corner of the tombstone, Miranda felt the slight calm wash over her, as she knew it would. Thalia's charm had always had that effect upon her - something that Julia had tied into the Wicca meaning behind the gemstone, which was said to comfort those who were in mourning. It might have just been a placebo, but Miranda was still eternally grateful for the relief.
It would be eternally difficult confronting those she had sent to their deaths. Those who had trusted her, and who had died believing they would get to see the next tomorrow. Who had faith in her, just as Miranda had in God.
Faith.
Julia's Celestine blue charm felt like it weighed a ton in her pocket now, clutched between her unsteady fingers that had abandoned the prayer rope, rubbing tenderly over the crystal attached to the black charm etched with wiccan symbols - paganist ideology. Heretical.
She had clashed with Julia over it, at least on a few occasions. Not as much as Rosa had - at least according to the others, but Miranda wouldn't stoop so low as to not hold on to it, just in case. It was a long shot, that Julia was alive, no body was found, but it was one that they wouldn't rule out. She had tried, tried to cut herself off emotionally, and tried to say Julia was dead. It hadn't gone well.
Her jaw throbbed tenderly, the ghost of Thalia's touch, this time far less tender. She had deserved the hit, she freely admitted such, and it still ached, even three months later.
Three months..
What she would give to wind the clock back those three months.
It would remove the suffering - emotional and physical. The pain - mental and physical. She would never have lived with the limp she had walked with for a week after being thrown out of a fifth story window. The heart wrenching cry from Thalia as Pamela never made the rendezvous, the frantic searching for her body - for something to give the Clayton's to bury, at the very least.
The back breaking aches and pains, the mentally fraying stress of two girls doing the work of five. The exhaustion of living double lives, of alternating who got to sleep at night, although often it was neither of them, stuck in their rooms sending messages back and forth.
She wouldn't have the memory of Thalia appearing before her, of her taking the blow that should have been for Miranda. The memory of the back breaking pain as she had landed, nor the memory of that mangled wreck of what should have been Thalia's left leg-
Her right hand flew to her mouth as she threw herself aside, as if to escape the memories. Her left forgot the charm in her pocket, and began furiously dancing across the prayer rope, even as she suppressed the need to dry heave. The pray helped, sending the trauma slinking away, like a dark symbiote, back into its box where it waited for Miranda to return to the cemetery, waited for her to let her guard down.
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
There was always a worse fate. Always.
Kris still lived.
There was an itch in her fingers now - a craving that scratched at the underside of her skin. Smoking was foul - it was something she had grown up screwing her nose at when her father did it, and yet here she was, craving a cig. It had been Julia who gave her the first one, and that was it all it had taken for Miranda to adopt the same nicotine craving, seeking the relief from the world shattering stress that had been lumped upon her. She hadn't been rich, like Thalia. She couldn't afford to go around seeking out dealers for pot.
She preferred it to smokes, but she had no means to acquire it. Not to mention, she couldn't afford to get busted, not being the last one left.
Kris wasn't dead.
She grit her teeth and flexed her hand, just to dispel the craving as her mind continued to drift towards implosion. Kris still lived, sure, but she would rather be dead. Paralysed from the waist down was a fate worse than death, in Miranda's opinion. And probably Kris' too.
At least she could sleep at night.
Thank God for Doctor Zoë.
The pain at the corners of her eyes throbbed again. The nap in Dr Zoë's class wasn't nearly enough to pay back her deposit on sleep, and her body was crying for rest. The constant pressure - the fear of an attack happening whilst she slept. It was too much. The risk too high.
Last time she did they missed a threat, the national guard was called in. Over a hundred people had lain dead at the end, and Miranda was solely to blame for the incident. She hadn't been there, and the people had seen that. They had suffered and died and it was her fault. So she turned up to every event, every single threat by the spawn of mother nature, the earthborn crystalloids who smashed and destroyed humanities progress seemingly at random, dead set upon creating more of themselves. To propagate, to grow their race. They kept showing up, no matter how few, or how many she destroyed.
They leeched her energy by throwing themselves forwards mindlessly.
It was almost a strategy - but the crystalloids hadn't shown themselves to have a big overarching strategy yet. Quin had even said that they were just here to destroy and grow their numbers. They had stood before them for years, slowing them down, blocking their plans and fighting them, until their numbers dwindled. But every lost fighter, every girl who fell in the fight, was another lost member. A burden on the remainder.
There was a bench nearby, and she did think about resting there, but she wasn't sure if she could trust herself to not fall asleep if she sat down on it. The cold chill in the wind, ultimately, dissuaded her from sitting down, driving her out of the hillside cemetery.
Home, for whatever it was worth. Maybe she'd finally get some sleep - if only the crystalloids held off for one evening.