Chapter Text
The wind whistles between decrepit buildings as she walks through the town. The Isle had once been home to her, she remembers. A longing tugs at her but she shakes it off. Not now.
The cave is just like she remembered. Last time she’d been here, he’d caught her in the act of trying to steal the ember. Maybe he already knows she’s here.
She imagines an invisible specter trailing her, eyes glaring daggers into her spine as she walks. Or maybe he just has cameras, she thinks bitterly.
She pushes the door open finally and steps into the dark room.
The place is untouched, looking exactly as it had those weeks ago, minus the figure lounging on the couch. It sits empty now, strangely plain without his cerulean flames to contrast against the black leather.
“Don’t tell me. You need my help again.”
She turns to find him leaning against the doorframe behind her.
“No,” she says. The man rolls his eyes and brushes past her. Her head whips around to follow him, but she does not move. He pours himself a cup of what looks to be coffee, steam rising from the stream and out of the white mug.
“Well? Spit it out.” He brings the cup to his lips, staring over the mug straight into her eyes.
“I just wanted to… visit.” She knows her tousled hair and bleeding lip give her away, and she knows that he knows too. He doesn’t comment on it. He simply looks her up and down and shrugs, then puts his coffee down.
“Okay. Have a seat, Mally.” She doesn’t miss his smirk and she knows he only calls her that to taunt her, but she feels the corner of her mouth upturn slightly. She collapses into the chair across from him and sighs, long and loud. He watches her.
“Can I have some of that?” She eyes the coffee pot on the table between them and looks back up at him. He simply slides his empty mug across the table to her. She sits up and pours the steaming liquid into the cup, then takes a large gulp. It burns her mouth and her throat on its way down but she holds back any reaction.
“You gonna tell me what happened?” He asks. Her eyes well up and she sets the half-full mug back on the table, then heaves a deep shudder of a breath.
“I left,” she says. He stares at her some more, and she imagines that he’s undressing her with his eyes, peeling off mental layers of scar tissue until he can read her.
“You left,” he repeats. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. A sudden spark of relief melts part of her icy spine as she realizes that he cares. That he’s concerned.
“I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t keep pretending to be someone else.”
He nods, averting his eyes.
“And why did you decide that?” His responses are careful, calculated; like he’s walking on eggshells.
“The barrier’s down. I belong on both sides. Everything I know is split between the two lands and I couldn’t let myself be corrupted by— by monarchy. Ben understands, but… his family is another story.” She sniffs and picks up the coffee mug, downing the rest of it in two quick gulps.
“I’m assuming they didn’t take it well,” he says, looking her up and down. She notices the tiny smears of blood on the rim of the white mug. It had once been pristine, shiny and white; and of course, she tainted it. Like she does with everything. Logically, she knows it will rinse off with some water and a cloth, but she pushes that thought from her mind.
“I had to knock him out in order to leave. It was just a sleeping spell, but… they always think the worst, you know?… They went after me. Chased me out. I didn’t have time to explain myself to anyone.” She looks down and a tear drips onto her thigh. She hastily wipes her eyes and sniffs, then looks up at her father.
He says nothing, but stands and walks around the table. Carefully, he sits down on the couch next to her, and wraps an arm around her shoulders. He’s stiff and awkward but she loses control of her body as she wraps her arms around him, leaning into him and sobbing. The moment is already happening before she even knows what she’s doing. He hugs her tightly as she cries, fingers rubbing soothing circles into her shoulder blade. Her leather jacket muffles most of the physical comfort he is trying to give her, but she can feel him as he mourns with her. The position should be familiar, she thinks; but it instead feels foreign, sinful. Like she shouldn’t be here, hugging her father in her time of need.
“I have nowhere to go,” she says, and he puts a hand on the back of her head.
“You’re with me. We’ll figure it out.” His grip never falters as he holds her, and she wonders if his hugs have felt the same for the past sixteen years.
Once she calms down a bit, she pulls away from him, leaning back into the couch. She immediately regrets it. His arms and torso had been warm and the chill in the air begins to set in as her heat source is removed. She doesn’t curl into a ball— that would be childish— so she ignores it.
“I’m sorry,” she tells him, and he scoffs.
“Don’t be sorry. I’m always here for my girl.” She can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not, but she smirks anyway. He reaches to the coffee table and plucks a napkin from the center, then brings it to her lip and wipes at the sticky blood.
“You, my dear, need a shower and some sleep. I’ll make you some of that tea you like.”
He stands and reaches a hand out to her, and she warily takes it. He leads her into a doorway, revealing a large bedroom. Black leather and blue accents, of course. She doesn’t comment on it. He opens another door on the far wall, and it opens into an extravagant bathroom. Black marble makes up the floor, walls, and ceiling; even the claw foot bathtub is black.
“Wow,” she mutters.
“You take as long as you need, Mally.” He ruffles her hair and she smirks, shoving his hand away. “I’ll have the maid get you some clothes.”
He winks at her before walking out, shutting the door behind him.
Mal takes her time in the bathtub. The warm water feels good on her bruised skin, and a simple warming spell keeps the bath hot for far longer than it should be. Sure, she could heal her wounds easily; but she wouldn’t let herself. Some part of her mind tells her that she deserves this, that the least she can do is suffer some pain for betraying the kingdom.
Vials and bottles line the windowsill next to her. The shade is drawn shut, of course, but she knows that there is most likely nothing but a wall on the other side of it. She drops some of the bath oil into the water and gets to work scrubbing the dirt and dried sweat from her skin. The shampoo she chooses smells like lavender. Once she finishes washing the blood and dirt from her face, she gets out of the tub. The black towel wrapped around her emphasizes the pale hue of her body. Her blue veins stand out against her nearly translucent skin. Bruises blossom in random splotches across the milky white surface.
After drying off and dressing in the black gown and robe she finds hanging on the door, she makes her way back into the common area. Hades is lounging on his couch, nestled into a book when she enters. He looks up at her and she swears his eyes soften a bit.
“I made you some tea,” he tells her, nodding to the coffee table. A new mug, purple this time, sits on the table, steam rising from the brim.
“Thank you, dad,” she tells him, sitting down and averting her eyes before she can be disappointed by his reaction. She can feel him staring at her but refuses to look up. She takes a sip of the chamomile tea.
“You’re welcome,” he responds quietly.
The two sit in silence.
About an hour later, a clock on the wall chimes loudly. Mal jumps in surprise, her determined focus on not looking at him being broken. He looks a bit startled too; he must have been focused on his book, she thinks.
“Time for bed,” he tells her, setting his book down on the table. She stands and watches him as he strides toward his bedroom. In the doorway, he turns around, confused.
“Um— where do I sleep?” She asks dumbly. He rolls his eyes. God, she wishes he’d stop doing that; but he wouldn’t be himself without it.
“With me, daughter. I don’t bite.” He turns and strides into the darkness of the room. Mal waits a few seconds and then follows him.