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When Descole revealed the truth, and the memories began clawing apart the rotten wood of their coffins, Hershel slammed a shutter down on his emotions. He needed to be functional, efficient, present. It wouldn’t do to get swept up, not when so much was at stake. Not when Luke was watching. And so he put on a mask of stoicism and secured it with cold metal bolts.
Perhaps it wasn’t the best decision. His reaction time certainly suffered—he couldn’t process what Leon was doing until the dagger was already buried deep in Aurora’s heart. (Heart? Did Aurora have a heart? She certainly didn’t have blood—) And it took Luke walking towards the beams to spur him into action. Needless to say, Hershel was not operating at full capacity.
But he was holding it together. It was nice to have an excuse to scream.
It was harder, afterwards.
Descole—Desmond—(Hershel?) was gone. Dead? Who could say. Left Hershel’s life just as dramatically as he’d reappeared. That was cruel, Hershel thought, adding hurt and confusion and grief to the growing amalgam of emotion locked behind the groaning door in his head.
Emmy stood at an uncomfortable distance. That was something else, wasn’t it? She’d betrayed them all. The entire basis of their working relationship was a lie. Sure, she had clearly grown to care for them, and regretted turning on them. But she’d held a blade to Luke’s throat. Hershel didn’t know if he could forgive that. He was glad that she hadn’t immediately thrown herself at his feet to apologize. She could probably tell he needed space. She had gotten good at reading him. Hershel wasn’t sure how to feel about letting a traitor get so close.
He wasn’t sure how to feel in general, really.
Then Leon Bronev did something surprising. He reached out; told Hershel his ‘true’ name. Hershel shut him down on instinct. Theodore was not his name. That man was not his father.
But then he faltered. A bolt of desperation punched through the wall he’d built. In the past few hours, Hershel had effectively lost three meaningful connections. And so he plastered on a smile and backtracked. “Perhaps we could be friends someday,” he told the man who had threatened his parents and killed the young girl in his care. At least Bronev had the sense not to accept the olive branch as though nothing had happened. He merely tipped his head, and let the police lead him away. Hershel felt Luke’s eyes burning holes into the back of his skull. Maybe not the best lesson to teach the boy…
They stood in silence for awhile, watching the last remnants of the Sanctuary disappear beneath the lake’s surface. Hershel needed the time to carefully replace the brick that had been dislodged in his head.
“Come along,” he told Luke, after the last ripples in the water had faded. The boy seemed reluctant to follow. That was certainly understandable, given the circumstances, but Hershel could feel the weight of it all pressing down harder with each passing second. He would very much like to be alone. And for that to happen, several things needed to be done first. So he took Luke’s hand in his, and gave a gentle tug. Luke fell into step after that.
The next thirty-six hours were a bit of a blur.
The Bostonius was gone, though fortunately enough, all of their luggage was left in a heap in its place. Hershel would’ve been annoyed that their valuables had been left out in the open, had he been able to feel much at all.
They all made the trek back down to Froenburg (Emmy slinking behind like a nervous dog, tail tucked between her legs), and Hershel herded them all onto a bus to go to the nearest hospital. It was the responsible thing to do. They’d all quite literally died, and Hershel’s heart kept fluttering painfully. Brenda would surely hunt him down had he not done his due diligence.
Miraculously, everyone was fine—though the doctors were rather alarmed by the signs of disrupted heartbeats. They had to spend the night for observation.
Hershel bit the bullet and called Luke’s parents. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to manage such a thing without the current wall built up within his brain.
“Yes, hello Clark. We are cutting our trip short and returning as soon as possible.”
“No, we are alive but I am not sure if we are alright—”
“We’re currently receiving medical attention—”
“We’ve been—there was a trap and—we all lost consciousness for a prolonged period of time so—”
“I know. I’m so sorry. I’ll let you speak to him.”
Hershel handed the phone over to Luke and left the room. He got the feeling listening to Clark fret over the boy might break the dam. That could not happen yet. He returned several minutes later, after splashing his face in the bathroom sink and steeling himself for the inevitable.
To his surprise, Clark was remarkably understanding when Luke gave the phone back. The boy must’ve played up the fact that Hershel had been hurt too. There was a quiet rage lacing Clark’s words, but also concern. “Did something else happen?” He asked. “You sound like you did when…”
Ah. Hershel supposed that if anyone might recognize the distinct monotone he’d taken on, it would be Clark. “Yes,” he replied bluntly. “I am not ready to talk about it.”
Clark let him go. Hershel considered himself lucky.
They were cleared to leave the next morning. Hershel proceeded to book them all plane tickets home. Emmy seemed shocked for a moment, then very guilty. She meekly insisted that she could afford her own ticket, and that Hershel shouldn’t feel obligated to help her anymore. Hershel merely shook his head with a small smile. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly to make his assistant pay for her own travel. Emmy did not argue further.
The plane ride went by without issue. Luke wanted the window seat, so Hershel spent the entire time staring at the back of the seat in front of him.
Emmy parted ways with them at the airport. “I’ll… clear my things out of your office on Monday,” she said solemnly.
Another jolt. That desperate need to cling onto what he had reared its head again. “You do not have leave,” Hershel blurted.
“… We can discuss it later,” Emmy replied, eyes glinting with remorse, then disappeared into the crowd.
Hershel took a deep breath. Almost done. He and Luke found the Laytonmobile, packed their things into the trunk, and set off. All things considered, the drive from the airport to the Triton’s house was fairly short. But now that the end was in sight, time seemed to crawl at a snail’s pace.
“Why do you think he saved me?” Luke asked out of nowhere.
Hershel bit his lip. “… I suspect he grew to care about you, my boy.”
“Huh…” Luke let the conversation wither and die there.
Clark and Brenda met them outside their door. Brenda swept Luke into a tight embrace—and Hershel really did wonder what Luke must have told them, because Clark gave Hershel a hug as well. “Get some rest, Hershel. We’ll talk later.”
Later. Hershel nodded. Yes, later. Any more pressure right now and the dam would surely burst. Later, later, later…
The walls immediately began to crumble the moment he was alone in the car. He gripped the wheel stiffly, knuckles going white. Come on now. At least pull out of the Tritons’ driveway. Hershel did, and managed to just barely make it back to his flat in one piece.
The front door closed behind him with a soft click. Hershel did not unpack. He did not take off his coat, or remove his shoes, or even turn on the lights. The hat remained firmly in place. He just headed straight to his bedroom. Dropping his trunk by the nightstand, Hershel collapsed into bed and huddled under the covers. It probably would’ve helped to pull a weighted blanket out from the closet, but by this point he was utterly spent.
To his surprise (and begrudging relief), it did not hit him all at once. The mask had been so firmly bolted in place that it took time to pry away. So the churning maelstrom of emotion only escaped in thin rivulets at first. Hershel’s breath hitched, his eyes watered, and he finally let himself begin to cry.
It started with grief.
Aurora was dead. It didn’t matter if she technically wasn’t alive in the first place. The girl found excitement in discovering new things, which was more than enough to endear her to Hershel. She was kind and compassionate and always willing to learn. She was alive in all the ways that mattered. Hershel was supposed to keep her safe, and he’d let her slip from his fingers like sand.
Desmond Sycamore was gone. He may not have even been real. Hershel had considered him a friend. He’d been so excited to find someone that shared in his enthusiasm, someone that could challenge him. He found their little rivalry amusing. And it was all fake. Or perhaps it wasn’t. Hershel wasn’t sure what would be worse. Whatever the case, Descole was no longer around to ask.
Emmy was… still there, however briefly. Hershel knew she was going to pull away. And he honestly couldn’t blame her. He doubted—even if Emmy remained on her best behavior—that things would ever be the same. Perhaps some distance would be good. It still hurt.
And then there’s the matter of his parents. The biological ones. The ones that he was just now starting to remember.
The grief broke apart and sank back down as freshly unearthed memories bubbled to the surface. Like mummified corpses miraculously rising from a tar pit. Hershel remembered his father—excitedly showing him an arrowhead he’d discovered. Hershel remembered his mother—singing him a lullaby as she gently stroked his hair. Hershel remembered his brother—trying to teach him how to spell with letter blocks. All brief flashes, still images and blips of sound. Blurry and covered in dust.
And then something more concrete rose from the muck. Clearer images, cloaked in a haze of fear.
Uniformed men loomed in the doorway. They were carrying guns. They began to shout. Father shouted back. Mother tried to shield Hershel and Theodore with her body. Hersh—Theodore began to sob in terror. One of the men fired a round into the ceiling. Mom shoved the boys away and told them to hide. Hershel dragged a wailing Theodore up the stairs and tucked the two of them away in the linen closet. Somehow, the shouting seemed louder from in there. Theodore shook and screamed and cried, until Hershel nearly suffocated him with a towel in attempt to stifle the noise. Fortunately, Theodore quieted by the time the men stomped through the house in search of them.
Theo—Hershel found himself trapped in that closet for a long while. He curled into a ball and clutched at his head and panted, getting tangled in his bed sheets.
By the time the muddy floodwaters receded, it was long past midnight. Hershel peeked out from his covers to find his room shrouded in darkness. It took him a moment to recall that there was a bedside lamp. He turned it on with trembling fingers, hesitated, then picked up the landline phone. He paused again before dialing. Surely they’d be asleep now, right?
Hershel’s chest twinged. His breath caught. The water threatened to swell again. Hershel dialed his parents’—his real parents’—number, and kept dialing until Ma picked up.
“Hershel dear, what’s wrong? What on earth has you calling at this hour? Are you alright?”
“Hi, Ma, I’m so sorry,” Good grief, by Hershel’s voice, it was obvious he’d been crying. “I know it’s late, I just—something came up, and—I remember. I remember my brother.”
“Ooh, oh dear. You’re at home, right? Do we need to come get you—”
“No, no, I just need to talk. I need to hear you. Please…”
Once Ma was convinced that Hershel wasn’t on the verge of a total nervous breakdown (which, was still in the cards, all things considered), she let Hershel ramble. He kept information about recent events to a minimum, he didn’t need his mother to worry any more than she inevitably would. But he absolutely unloaded about the memories. He spoke of what he could recall of the Bronevs, of his forgotten sibling, of the event that stole them away. He even detailed the name swap, which got a sympathetic hiss from Ma.
“I’d always wondered,” she mused. “For the first few months, you’d get confused whenever we called you by name.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“Hm?”
“My childhood. I don’t remember it too well,” Hershel was finally starting to settle. He’d emptied out decades old lockboxes and now he felt all hollowed out. “I think it might help to be reminded of something nice.”
Because Hershel’s childhood was nice. He recalled that much. It wasn’t his parents’ fault the things in Hershel’s head had been jostled a bit too much. Lucille and Roland were wonderful parents who made him feel safe and loved.
Hershel certainly felt loved as Ma described a series of past events. Having a family picnic, going apple picking, visiting the aquarium. And maybe he was starting to feel safe again too.
Or maybe he was getting tired. Hershel failed to suppress a yawn, and Ma chuckled lightly.
“I’m not boring you to sleep, am I?”
“No Ma, I think the hour is merely catching up with me.”
“It certainly is late. Are you feeling better? Will you be alright if I let you go?”
“Yes, I believe so,” Hershel wasn’t lying, which was good. He hated lying to his parents. “But… would it be alright if I…?”
“You’re welcome to visit us anytime, dear.”
The next day, Hershel would take her up on that offer. But for the time being, he bid his mother farewell, and finally let himself rest.