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Once again, she kneels amidst scorched rubble, digging through the debris with diamond fingers. (Her hands were shaking too hard, before.) This time, at least, there are no bodies twisted amongst the wreckage.
This, she wants to scream, this is why I tried to send them away.
It was always just a matter of time, before the sentinels were used against them.
At least she was prepared for the worst. (She always is, and it's never enough.) Hank was kind enough to show her the general direction of her quarters, and to refrain from asking why. It's barely an hour before her fingers scrape steel.
She heaves her safe from the wreckage. It's scratched and singed, but intact. She lets her diamond form go, heaving a private sigh of relief, paying no mind to the debris cutting into her legs, the ash staining her clothes. The lock is broken, and she senses no one nearby; it's too easy to pry the door open.
A bouquet of copper roses tumbles into the rubble. She caresses the delicate craftsmanship before tying the bow around them again. Kevin had found synthetic fabric, so he could tie it with his bare hands. She's relieved, suddenly, that she hasn't tried harder to bring him home.
She feels no shame in blackmailing Wolfsbane into watching over him; the girl has become erratic, reckless, and she needed that extra insurance. All the same, her heart twists when a silver pendant catches the fading light. She pulls it by a simple black cord, and remembers when she first saw it, dangling from Rahne's pale, shaking fingers.
“I hate t'be a bother, miss, but before I go home - “
“Mm?” She wasn't nearly as distracted as she sounded, but appearances are everything. She waited until Rahne cleared her throat before she looked up.
“A necklace?” Her brow furrowed as she leaned forward, reading the inscription curved around a simple illustration - Saint John Baptist de La Salle.
“Aye.” Rahne stared at her hands, twisting the black cord. “I know it's not elegant, or stylish – nothing like the quality of your own jewelry, t'be sure - “
“The point, dear.”
Finally, Rahne met her eyes. “He was born centuries ago, in France. His family was wealthy, an' he had a good education, becoming a priest and a doctor. But he saw all of the other children, poor an' forgotten; he left all of his life behind t'give them a proper education. T'give them hope.” She thrusts her hands forward. “He's our Patron Saint of teachers, an' – you've done so much for us, when you didn't have to - “
Emma pressed a finger to her lips, cutting the girl off. Then, with careful tenderness, she took the pendant.
“Thank you, Rahne.”
It was so long ago. She was so confident in her abilities to heal and hone and protect them all, Erik's students and hers.
Her hands are trembling again as she reaches further inside, through a jumble of mugs and crafts and figurines, to retrieve a faded portrait. She stands so proudly in her tailored vest and pencil skirt, her children sharp and sure in their matching uniforms.
Her first Hellions.
She thought she could redeem herself, by giving a new team that name; that she could honour their memory with new hope. Instead, Brian died in agony, Cessily was taken and tortured, Julian is in critical condition -
She resists the urge to become diamond again. Instead, she reaches for the ridiculously garish mug Julian gave her months ago, sporting all of the team's signatures. Brian's mug said “children's tears”. Noriko gave her a jar of candy labeled Chill Pills, with a note to share with Professor Summers.
“Cheeky little brats.” It's a hoarse mutter, and she blinks hard a few times. Just because no one will see her cry is no good reason to actually do it. Bad enough, that she's wasting so much time here. There are plans to be made, after all, and new battles to be ready for.
It's almost enough to pull her away, but as her head turns she glimpses several sheets of music. Her throat goes dry as she reaches for it, and remembers.
It had been a very long time since she was easily intimidated. It felt like several lifetimes since she'd allowed herself to feel small. She had stood strong against gods and monsters, never flinching.
Facing Lucinda Guthrie made her want to curl up and die.
Somehow, this woman – this mother, the kind so many of her students longed for, strong and kind and stalwart – could look at her without hatred, without condemnation, before they buried her son.
Scott felt her freeze beside him; without missing a beat, he took the box from her hands and stepped forward.
“These are Jay's belongings, Mrs. Guthrie.” He nodded towards the sitting room. “If you'd like - ?”
“Yes, dear, thank you.”
She felt those words stab him right in the heart, but his expression didn't change at all as they followed her. The box was full of clothes and books and pictures, and Lucinda clutched each one to her chest, as if she could feel her son through everything he left behind.
Scott gestured for them to leave her be, but just as they turned, she asked them to wait.
She was holding up several pages of sheet music, stapled together.
“I think this is for you.”
She reads it again now. It's a song of renewal, of friendship, of hope; it's an ode of love and gratitude to everyone in the school.
It's not difficult, to pinpoint the lines about her.
And you guide us all in your different ways,
Through the nights and through the days.
Queen of ice with her shining heart,
Will and cunning does she impart.
Through sharpest tongue and fiercest mind,
A better future she will find.
NOTE: Too on the nose? Rework. Ask Sooraya.
She chokes out a laugh, clutching the pages to her ruined blouse.
Never again, she vowed, as she held Sophie's body in her arms. Never again, when she held Celeste.
What was it she'd told Jean, scarcely a year before the Decimation? I loved those children. I wanted them to be independent and strong and - And none of that mattered, in the end; all she has now are trinkets.
You know they're more than that.
Scott has kept his distance; he's still not close enough to actually see her.
Do I? Her thoughts are sharp and dry. I suppose you also have a vault of useless sentiment.
Yeah, but I don't keep it in the school. Too dangerous.
There's that bleak, dark humour she'd fallen for despite herself. She can't bring herself to laugh.
He's coming closer, now; she can hear his him plowing through the wreckage of his only real home. I think we should display all of this properly, once we get settled.
Is that so. Her tone is softening, and her eyes are starting to sting. All of the ash, no doubt.
Yeah. And I bet we could get Lila to sing Jay's song.
There's no denying the tears now. She remains silent until he kneels beside her, and then she lets herself collapse into his arms.
I would like that.