Fight the Darkness

by W. J. May

  What did he care if he got expelled? He was at rock-bottom already.

  Even Jason had been summoned to try to get Simon to leave, but it was a request which his Botcher staunchly refused. He came, alright. In fact, there had been many nights when Simon would open his eyes to see his trainer standing there in the darkness by Tristan’s bed, silently watching.

  But he never tried to influence Simon. Never once demanded or even suggested that he should go. As far as Jason was concerned, Simon could stay as long as he pleased. Once or twice, he’d even viciously intervened when the staff tried to have him forcibly removed.

  And so Simon remained. Sitting in his chair. Paralyzed by the ‘same.’ Each day blending into the next. Staring at a young man who would never open his eyes.

  Of course, not everything had remained the same. Outside the gated Guilder bubble, the world had continued turning at remarkable speed, sweeping everyone along with it.

  Simon had returned to his dorm only once, right after the accident. He’d done so under great protest, and only to pack a bag of clothes. It was only then that he saw he wasn’t the only one packing. In a room across the hall, Argyle was filling a bag for himself.

  It should have been a heartbreaking moment, but it was lost in the middle of a nightmare so real that Simon didn’t even register it until Argyle was long gone. Sitting in the hospital, he’d had many days to replay the images in his mind. The way Beth and Argyle, brother and sister, had a tearful farewell. Not unlike the one that Jacob had shared with Ethan just a few months earlier. The way she’d shown him her tatù, and he’d forced a watery smile—vowing to help her in whatever way he could. The way his face had clouded slightly when he saw Simon watching.

  It was only later, pacing the infirmary at four in the morning, that Simon realized the reason for the subtle change. A relationship between himself and Beth was no longer something that was even remotely allowed. From the second that beautiful inked sun had appeared on her lower back, their love had turned from something celebrated to something forbidden, all overnight.

  Their friends would not support it. Their family would not support it. Her brother would not support it, either.

  He and Argyle had locked eyes from across the hall, and the silent message was clear: Simon would be the one to stop. Simon would be the one to leave. Simon would not lead Beth down a road that could only end in misery and tears.

  Unable to see anything past the ruins of the astronomy tower, he’d simply stared, numbly, and watched as Argyle loaded his things into a cab. Beth climbed in after him, after softly kissing Simon on the cheek and whispering a hushed goodbye.

  She would be back soon, she’d promised. They would sort this all out.

  But Simon knew she wouldn’t.

  The world of tatùs was brand new to her. The fact that magic really did exist in the world was already blowing her mind. She could not also be told that it was this very magic that would tear her apart from the boy she loved. Not on the same day. Not by Simon. Argyle would tell her himself, once they were safely back in Scotland.

  Another painful sigh welled up in his chest and Simon lowered his face into his hands, releasing Tristan in a rare moment of freedom. How the hell could Beth have possibly been inked? How the hell could their entire world have been turned upside-down so suddenly? And with such a unique design.

  Simon took another deep breath as he pictured the fiery sun, going over each and every detail with almost covetous attention in his mind. Slowly, the room steadied. The colors brightened, the lines and edges returned to where they belonged. When he looked back up to reach out once more, he noticed for the first time that the wires that crisscrossed his friend’s hand were tangled.

  “Hey,” he raised his voice, calling down the hall for Peter, “are these things supposed to look like this?” When he got no response, his temper—which was on a short fuse those days—got the better of him. “HEY! Somebody get over here and take a look at this!” He pushed to his feet, glaring down the deserted hall. “Is it too much to ask that you do your freaking jobs?!”

  After a few moments, a door opened at the far side of the building.

  “Finally.”

  Simon sank back down into his chair, only to stand immediately up again when he saw who had come into the room. Needless to say, it wasn’t Peter-the-orderly.

  “Good afternoon, Simon,” Masters said calmly. “Still terrorizing the medical staff, I see.”

  He took a seat on Tristan’s other side—graciously ignoring the guilty blush that rose up in Simon’s cheeks as he tentatively sat back down himself.

  “I see he’s still doing exactly as he was before.”

  The headmaster’s voice was neither encouraged nor disappointed. Merely steady. And a little sad as he gazed down at his fallen student.

  Simon nodded numbly, reaching out once more to take Tristan’s hand.

  Despite his relative inability to feel anything outside the walls of his own depression, he had to admit that he was strangely grateful to Masters. Although the headmaster was rarely on the school campus itself, there hadn’t been two days that had gone by when he hadn’t stopped in to check on Tristan personally. He didn’t feel the need to gush, cry, or over-comfort like some people. He seemed content to simply sit and wait. He didn’t insist that Simon leave, either. Nor did he once mention the fact Simon had missed almost two weeks of school in the month before finals.

  Simon sat with him for a while, in a silence that was not at all uncomfortable. In fact, despite the fact that Royce Masters was the most frightfully intimidating person he knew, he found himself oddly comforted by his presence.

  After a few minutes, Masters leaned forward with a slight frown. “You know,” his fingers fiddled with the IVs sticking out of Tristan’s arms, “I think these are crooked.”

  Like he’d received a shock, Simon bolted to his feet. That same anger swam fresh through his veins and he’d just opened his mouth to scream again at the missing orderly, when Masters rounded the cot and appeared suddenly at his side—placing a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said in his deep, reassuring voice. “In the meantime, Simon, I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

  For a moment, Simon just blinked. His brain had been so hardwired into the mind-numbing wait that any deviation from that routine knocked him right off balance. As if sensing his distress, Masters waited patiently, offering Simon a faint smile when he finally nodded his head.

  “Okay,” he said slowly, almost warily, “what do you want?” If Masters requested that he head back to the dorms or go to class, Simon was prepared to forget their camaraderie in a second and put him on the same hit-list at the medical staff.

  But Masters asked for neither of those things. In fact, his favor caught Simon quite off guard.

  “I’d like you to go spend some time with Jason in the Oratory.” He fixed Simon with his signature piercing stare, although there was a distinct gentleness around the edges. “He hasn’t been doing well since the accident. He’s cancelled well over half of his training appointments. I was hoping you might have a brief session with him. Help take his mind off things.”

  Again Simon just stood there, his sluggish brain struggling to catch up. He hadn’t had a full conversation with anyone in well over a week, let alone a full night’s sleep, and he found that he was having trouble keeping pace. In the end he finally just repeated the request, a look of vague confusion clouding his face. “A training session?”

  Masters nodded briskly. “When you’re finished, please report back to me here and tell me how everything went. If you think it’s necessary, I’ll stop in and see Mr. Archer myself.”

  Simon was confused. The last time he’d seen Jason there didn’t seem to be anything especially wrong. Yes, he’d screamed at Dr. Stanton to bring Tristan a better blanket, and when the poor doctor didn’t move fast enough he’d thrown a scalpel into the wall. But that was pretty much par for the course with
Jason.

  Then again, if Masters said he was really unwell...

  Simon offered the headmaster a shaky nod, preparing to do as he’d asked. But then his eyes returned to the hospital cot and his feet refused to move towards the door.

  “I’ll wait with Tristan while you’re gone.”

  Before Simon could make sense of what was happening, Masters took a seat and picked up Tristan’s hand—holding it exactly the same way that Simon had done just moments before. At the same time, an orderly came in to straighten out the lines.

  Hesitating, Simon backed slowly away, uncertain as to his course. Uncertain as to whether he could really leave the room. Uncertain as to what might be waiting for him on the other side. His eyes flickered once more to the bed, ready to shut down and change his mind, when he saw Masters regarding him calmly.

  It was this steadiness that finally propelled him out the door. Back into the land of the living.

  “HEY, SIMON!”

  The bright sunlight stung Simon’s eyes, and he ventured outside like one emerging from a cave. His hand came up to shield his face, but by the time he was able to focus the boy who had greeted him in passing was already long gone.

  Geez—it’s loud out here! Has it always been so loud?

  Well aware that Masters was most likely watching from the windows, he avoided the crowds and headed straight for the Oratory. He would see what was wrong with Jason, have a quick training session, and report back as soon as possible. Every second away was a second he should be there. Watching. Waiting. Praying for a change.

  A change that would most likely never come.

  A blast of chilled air hit him in the face the second he opened the door to the Oratory. With summer only a month away, the state-of-the-art air conditioner was running around the clock, filling the high-ceilinged, domed room with a welcome breeze of cold air.

  Simon made his way quickly across the deserted room, heading for Jason’s office down the hall. It was a familiar journey; one he’d made a million times before. But being back in the outside world wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. With every step, the memories attacked him anew.

  Jason had reached the collapsed tower at the same time Simon did. He remembered looking up and seeing his mentor sprint across the lawn in what looked like slow motion, pushing everyone out of his way, sliding to his knees in front of the rubble.

  He worked with a strength Simon never knew Jason had. He threw aside the rocks like they were nothing, reaching inside and lifting out Tristan’s mangled body with delicate hands.

  “I need a doctor!” he’d screamed, cupping his fingers over Tristan’s forehead like he could prevent any more damage simply by willing it so. “Get me a doctor over here!”

  Simon had stood there, as frozen and pale as the rest; watching with wide eyes as Jason picked him up again and started running him towards the infirmary. It had taken a second for Simon to follow. For him to snap back to life long enough to move his feet. But as Tristan had flown past him, leaving behind a trail of crimson blood, Simon had reached out and touched his arm.

  It had been a reflex. An impulse he couldn’t control. If he could summon Tristan’s ink, then surely he couldn’t be dead, right? If his tatù was still there, then surely he’d wake up.

  Nothing had happened. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t copy the fox.

  After taking a deep breath, Simon turned his thoughts away again and lifted his hand to knock softly on the door. There was the sound of shuffling papers on the other side, and a voice called out, “Come in.”

  If it was possible, Jason’s office was even messier than it had ever been before. Piles of folders and stacks of creased paperwork made little mountains on every surface that could support them, creating a slightly manic atmosphere. And there was Jason. Sitting right in the middle of it.

  He looked up with irritation as the door pushed open. Irritation that turned to open-mouthed shock when he saw who was standing on the other side. “Simon?” At once, the piles of paperwork were pushed aside. In a movement so fast it was invisible to the human eye, he leapt to his feet. “Is everything okay? Did he—”

  Simon shook his head quickly. Of course Jason would think that. And by now, the illusion of hope had vanished to the point where Simon knew he wasn’t about to say, ‘Did he wake up?’ He sighed. “Everything’s fine. Everything’s the same.”

  The panic slowly left Jason’s eyes, replaced with an uncharacteristic uncertainty. He stared at Simon from across the desk, not knowing quite what to say. Like his young apprentice, he wasn’t the most open or friendly of the bunch. Conversation did not come naturally. In the end he simply asked, “Was there something you wanted?”

  Simon’s eyes tightened as he looked Jason up and down. He didn’t seem especially damaged, as Masters had led him to believe. At least, no more so than usual. And the mountain of paperwork sitting on his desk implied that he hadn’t been cancelling appointments.

  Still, there was only one way to be sure.

  “Can we have a session?”

  Jason’s eyes lit up in surprise, and he nodded quickly. “Yeah, sure.”

  IT DIDN’T TAKE MORE than a few minutes on the Oratory floor to see that Simon had been hoodwinked by the best of them. Jason was clearly not the one who was in trouble.

  It was Simon.

  And on that note, Masters had acted not a moment too soon...

  “That’s...uh...good, Simon.”

  Jason made a half-hearted attempt at congratulations as the two of them watched the knife Simon was supposed to have caught sail across the room and lodge itself in the far wall. It stuck out like a badge of shame. Taking its place in line with half a dozen others.

  Simon didn’t even try to respond. He just lifted his hands and tried to prepare as Jason raised another one and sent it flying through the air.

  This time, it actually whipped across his knuckles.

  “Shit,” he cursed quietly, wiping the blood on the side of his shirt.

  Jason pursed his lips, but said nothing. Any other day, Simon would have been happy for the reprieve. But for whatever reason, the last thing he wanted now was for Jason to cut him any slack.

  “Don’t go easy on me,” he demanded, lifting his hands again with a look of intense focus.

  Again, the knife sailed past his sluggish hands.

  “Come on, I can do this!”

  Jason raised another blade behind his head, but he seemed reluctant to be throwing sharp objects near Simon’s face. After a moment, he lowered it again with a sigh. “No, you can’t.”

  If Simon thought the reprieve was bad, the cold hard truth was even worse. “Yes, I can!” he insisted. “Throw it!”

  “Why, so it burrows in the wall with the others?” Jason gestured behind him to the row of Simon’s failed attempts. “You know... I’m getting close to writing my own name.”

  “Jason, stop it.”

  “Just need to work on the syllables...”

  Simon growled. “Enough already, could you just—”

  “I’m serious. Just a few more throws, and—”

  “How can you be like this?!”

  The sudden shout was met with a ringing silence as they stared at each other from across the room. Jason was as still as a statue, but Simon was panting. The hospital fog had finally lifted and he was shaking, his arms and legs were trembling so hard.

  “How can you go on like everything’s normal?! It’s NOT normal! Why is everyone pretending that everything’s exactly the same?!”

  There was a strange pounding in his ears. Like they no longer knew how to process sounds above a certain decibel. But even though Jason was one of the only people exempt from his accusation, Simon was too incensed to care. One of his best friends was back in Scotland, one was still reeling from the fact that her entire life had been turned upside-down, and the other was lying on a bed in the infirmary—unable to open his fucking eyes.

  It was too much.

  The who
le thing was too much.

  And there, under the weight of the frigid air, with a line of silver knives lining the wall behind him, Simon crumpled to his knees. He’d lost Beth. He’d lost Argyle. He was losing Tristan.

  “He won’t wake up,” he whispered, bowing his head to the floor. “Why won’t he wake up?”

  A thousand memories flashed before his eyes. A thousand happy, sunlit days where the two of them were training, or laughing, or out plotting to change the world. Days where it seemed like nothing could ever possibly go wrong. Days where they felt invincible.

  All of them ended with a bolt of lightning from the sky.

  “It’s my fault,” he murmured, rocking silently back and forth. “It’s my fault he was even up there. He never would have gone if we hadn’t had that stupid fight.”

  In a flash, Jason was beside him. He didn’t pat Simon on the back or squeeze his shoulder. Jason wasn’t prone to such physical displays of comfort. But he sat down on the mats in front of Simon, folding his legs up beneath him. In a way, it was more reassuring than any amount of hand-holding ever could be. It forced Simon to be strong enough to lift up his own chin.

  “It was lightning from a storm,” he said quietly. “You didn’t cause it. You didn’t force Tristan to go up there.”

  Simon started shaking his head, and he raised his voice sharply to be heard.

  “Simon.”

  The two of them locked eyes.

  “Even if he never wakes up...you didn’t do this.”

  A dry sob wracked Simon’s body, and he bit down on his lip as he tried to stop the flow of tears. To hear it said like that, aloud, by someone else. To hear it acknowledged as a possibility...it felt like it was ripping him in half.

  “Do you think that’s going to happen?” he asked quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “Do you think he’s never going to wake up?”

  Jason stared at him thoughtfully for a long while. “I think it’s going to be a fight. And I think Tristan’s one of the best fighters we know. If it was up to me, I’d put my money there.”