Many thanks to @themanwhowas, @Assembler, @Skyrunner, @Golden_, @googol88 and @fabledFreeboota for betareading.
Many thanks to @MugaSofer for fact checking.
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I bit my lip, hand still stubbornly at my side.
"It's not going to get easier," Dennis told me.
"I know," I said. I swallowed around the dry lump in my throat. "Thanks for coming with me."
"Happy to." He put an arm around my shoulders. "Come on, Taylor. You wanted to do this."
"Yes. I did." Slowly, my hand came up and, with a hollow rapping, I knocked on the door.
There was a pause. Then, footsteps in the hall, and the house's front door opened.
Sarah Pelham stood on the doorstep. Her eyes were sunken with lack of sleep and her hair was slightly unkempt, but there was a tired, wan smile on her face as she glanced down at us. I only wished I didn't have to remove it all too soon.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
"Yes," I said, stumbling ever so slightly over the words. "I—I need to talk to your family. May we come in?"
The smile faded, replaced by a wary frown. "What is this about?"
I gritted my teeth for a moment, then looked down. "My name's Taylor Hebert," I said. "But—Shielder and Laserdream know me as Annatar."
Silence fell for a moment.
"I see." Mrs. Pelham's voice wasn't the cold, furious growl I'd half expected, but she also wasn't exactly warm. "Come in."
Dennis and I followed her inside.
"Oh," I said, glancing at Dennis. "This is Dennis. He's—"
"Clockblocker. I know," said Mrs. Pelham, and her voice was a little gentler. She even gave Dennis something of a smile. "He came by a few days ago."
"Taylor would have done the same," said Dennis. "She's been confined to the Rig—except for school—until yesterday. Aegis has too, and I think he'll come by later today."
"I see." Mrs. Pelham sighed. "And why
are you here, Annatar?"
"To apologize," I said honestly. "I know an apology can't—doesn't do much of anything. It's worth less than the air that carries it. But it's all I have."
She studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Come into the living room," she said. "You shouldn't be talking to just me."
She led us down the hall towards a large opening into the wall, which opened into a large, comfortable room, furnished with a plush sofa, a loveseat, and two armchairs. Light streamed in from the two large windows, giving the whole room a bright, outdoor feeling. On one wall a fireplace sat empty, and over the hearth were varied mementoes and decorations—a volleyball trophy, a tennis ball, a small porcelain sculpture, and a soapstone bust of a severe-looking man with long, wild hair, whose identity I couldn't guess at.
All of this I noted in the background as my eyes darted between the people seated in those armchairs and sofas. I'd expected to meet the Pelhams, but I hadn't expected
all of them—and the Dallons, too—to be in the same room when I arrived.
Amy Dallon was in a chair, her head leaning back against the cushions so that her throat was exposed, looking up at me through hooded eyes darkened by exhaustion and lined with stress. In the seat beside her was her sister, looking mournful.
On the loveseat, Carol and Mark Dallon sat. Mark looked tired, and his face was slightly slack as if in apathy. Carol looked more angry than anything else. Nonetheless, she didn't rise, and nor did she pull her hand from her husband's.
Neil Pelham was seated on one side of the couch. He lips were turned down and his eyes were sad, but he seemed calmer than most of his family. On the other sat Crystal Pelham, hunched over a mug, who immediately sought Dennis' eyes, before glancing at me. Her gaze was hollow, and her eyes were marred with dark shadows.
"Everyone, sorry for the interruption," said Mrs. Pelham. "You all know Dennis. This is his teammate, Taylor Hebert."
Suddenly Glory Girl's face twisted in rage. She stood up in a rush, as if involuntarily, and snarled "
Annatar."
I wanted to back away. I didn't. "Yes," I said.
A few faces changed. Mrs. Dallon, like her daughter, sneered at me. Crystal blinked, her brow creasing, her eyes going back to Dennis in something like a question. Mr. Pelham frowned in a sort of mild dislike.
Everyone, however, shrank into themselves a little—except Amy, who just pulled her head up off of the cushion, her eyes rolling, and prodded Victoria in the thigh. "Vicky," she said. "Aura. Off."
Vicky's fists clenched for a moment. Then, when they loosened, the room relaxed. My eyes flickered down to Narya on my finger. I hadn't even noticed.
"What are you doing here?" Vicky growled.
"I came to apologize," I said.
The girl gave a derisive laugh. "It's been almost two weeks," she said. "What, did the PRT say you had to?"
"She's been—" Dennis began, but I raised a hand to silence him.
"Let me," I said, meeting Vicky's eyes. "I've been under house arrest on the Rig since that night. I couldn't go anywhere besides straight to and from school. I'd have come here immediately if I could—but I've disobeyed enough orders for a while."
Vicky held my gaze for a moment, before looking away. There was silence.
"Let me get you chairs," offered Mrs. Pelham.
"I'll stand," I said.
"And we can make room for Dennis," said Crystal, smiling at my teammate. "It's fine, Mom. Sit down."
So Mrs. Pelham sat beside her husband, and Dennis sat beside their daughter. Vicky sat back down beside her sister, and I was left, alone and upright, surrounded by mostly hostile faces.
Yet a few were not so. Mrs. Pelham looked more sad than anything, Amy didn't look anything besides tired, and Dennis, of course, was giving me an encouraging grin.
Encouraging was a good word. From his support, and from the Ring of Power on my finger, I drew
courage, and continued. "If I hadn't been on console that night," I said, "I'm fairly certain Aegis wouldn't have gone after Bakuda without PRT support. I encouraged them to do that—I thought we could take them, and I thought we needed to. I thought that the risk was worth stopping Bakuda that much sooner, after all she'd put the city through."
"You don't have a comatose son," said Mr. Pelham. His voice was calm, but cold.
"No," I said quietly. "I don't. I do have a father in the hospital for severe burns—courtesy of Bakuda. He was hit on the first day of her campaign. It's not an excuse… but I was angry. I wanted to stop her—now, at the first opportunity. That's why I pushed the Wards—and New Wave's heroes—to go further than they should have. And I…." I trailed off and looked out the window, gathering my thoughts.
Apologies did not come naturally to me. They never had, and Narya was probably not the ideal Ring for the purpose—but I'd been afraid that, without Narya's warmth, I might not have had the courage to come here at all.
"When the bomb went off," I continued, "I thought I'd lost everyone. I don't
have anyone besides the other Wards and my dad. I thought I'd gotten every single person I care about—who wasn't
already in the hospital--killed, in a single night of bad decisions. I don't"—I swallowed again—"I know that pain, loss, grief, and the like are
emergent things." My voice was growing stronger now. This was more familiar terrain. "I know that the moment when you lose someone is only the first cut, and not even the deepest. I know that real
loss comes when you go into their room the next morning and realize that they're not there; when you turn to them at meals and find their seat empty; when you see their hair in the window of a shop across the street, or their eyes walking towards you down the sidewalk, and it hurts because it's not
them. I know that real grief comes after the initial bereavement; that it's in the thousand little ways you see them in everywhere they're missing."
Mrs. Pelham had a hand over her mouth, and the other was in her husband's tight, two-handed grip. Crystal was looking down into her lap, her hair hiding her face from me, and Dennis had thrown an arm around her. Mr. and Mrs. Dallon were huddled closer together, although the woman was still looking at me with measured dislike. Vicky's eyes were closed and her lips were pressed together. Of the entire family of capes, only Amy looked almost totally unaffected. Her head was back against the chair again, and her eyes were closed now, though I could tell by the hard edge to her posture that she wasn't sleeping.
"I know," I said, "because I lost my mom a few years ago. I know from experience. And even though Shielder isn't dead, I know what my pride, my anger, my stupidity put you through. I'm so, so sorry."
"Can you heal him?" It was Amy speaking. Her eyes were still closed, her posture hadn't changed, but her brows were slightly furrowed, now. "You healed your own concussion."
"I intend to try," I promised. "Now that I'm out of house arrest on the Rig, I intend to start volunteering at the hospital. I'm much slower than you are, and I'm less sure of my limits, but I promise—I'll do whatever I can for Shielder."
"Then that's all we can ask," said Mrs. Pelham. Her voice was slightly choked. "I—thank you, Annatar. It means a lot, that you came to talk to us."
I smiled sadly at her. "It was the very least I could do."
"I hope you learned something from all this mess, at least," said Mrs. Dallon, her voice hard. "You—"
There was a chime then, from Amy's direction. Her hand reached into her loose hoodie and pulled out a phone, which she glanced at. Then she sighed and stood up.
"Sorry to cut this short," she said. "My shift's starting at the hospital."
"Right," said Carol, still watching me. "See you at home."
"You sure you're okay to volunteer?" Crystal asked. "You're—"
But Panacea was shaking her head. "I'll be fine."
"You need sleep."
Panacea smiled slightly. I noticed her shoulders were a little hunched, and her neck was bent, as if she carried a great weight over her back—but her spine, her back, was perfectly straight. I wondered if she even noticed that in herself.
"I'll see you at home, Vicky," she said, glancing back at her sister, and then she was gone even before Vicky had finished replying.
-x-x-x-
"Hello." The man smiled up at me, clipboard and pencil in one hand.
I reached for the other, my helmet securely on my face, and shook. "Hello. I'm Annatar. You're Mr. Brent?"
"Yes. Please, sit down." He gestured to the armchair across from his own.
The room was small—cozy. Paintings in warm, soft colors dotted the walls, and light poured in from one open window, alongside the cooing of pigeons and the faint murmur of activity in the streets below. A tall vase sat in one corner of the room. Besides this and the two armchairs, the room was furnished by a lamp—likely defunct, now—which stood straight in a second corner, and a couch which, with the armchairs, formed a half-ring around a glass-topped coffee table. In a third corner was a small desk with a closed, leather-bound book on it, and a straight-backed chair. In the final corner was the door through which I had just entered.
"Should I lie down and close my eyes?" I asked.
He chuckled. "If you'd like. For myself, I think Freud was a very smart man who happened to be wrong almost one hundred percent of the time. But this is
your time, here—if you want to lie down and discuss your dreams, we can do that. If you want to talk about what happened two weeks ago, we can do that. If you want to sit down and say nothing for an hour, we can do that."
I raised an eyebrow, likely barely visible under my mask. "Thought I was required to
talk to a therapist."
"I won't make you talk," he said, shaking his head. "If you're not comfortable talking to me, I have no intention of forcing you. All I can do is assure you that I take doctor-patient confidentiality very seriously, and tell you that
I've found that talking can often help, even when someone has no, for want of a better word, 'problems.'"
I smiled bitterly. "I'm a cape," I said. "I've got problems aplenty." I sat down in the other armchair, and leaned back slightly, wiggling to get comfortable.
"Would you like to talk about that?" His voice was calm, gentle—neither coaxing nor eager, simply cursory.
"Sure. Why not?"
"I get the feeling you don't have anything in particular you want addressed."
"Not really," I agreed. "Do you know why I'm here?"
"Why don't you explain it to me?" He brought his pen to his lips in an unconscious gesture, still watching me closely. "I've heard a little, but I haven't heard your perspective." He was watching me, but not uncomfortably so—it didn't feel like I was under scrutiny. It was more natural than that.
I shrugged. "I was cocky, and led my team against Bakuda when we weren't supposed to go up against her. She detonated a bomb that I thought killed my friends"—well, she'd done that twice, but that was beside the point—"and I killed her. I don't know what, from that, got me sent here." I smiled wanly. "Probably all of it, to some extent."
"Well, which do
you think is most pressing? Or do you think something else is more important?"
I glanced out the window. "I don't regret my part in beating Bakuda," I said slowly, "but I do regret disobeying orders, because of what it almost cost me—what it
did cost Shielder, and New Wave. So, that, I guess."
"You feel ashamed?" There was no judgement, or even assumption, in his voice--only a desire for clarification.
"Yes." Then I thought about it. "No. Guilty."
"What's the difference, to you?"
"Shame is feeling like someone else blames me for something, and regretting the loss of their esteem. Guilt is
being that other person."
"I think I understand. Guilt is… from the self, then, while shame is from outside?"
"I'd call it self-directed." I looked back at him. "I'm ashamed of myself, as opposed to
being shamed by others. I'm—I'm not the person I thought I was."
"And who did you think you were?"
I thought about that for an unexpectedly long time. "I don't know."
"Would you like to talk about that?"
"I'd like to
work on that," I replied with a faint chuckle. "Introspection, I guess. I should do more of that."
"There are tools to help with that. Would you like to hear about some of them?"
"Sure."
"The obvious is a journal." He nodded at the bound book on his desk. "Recording your own thoughts in a stream of consciousness, even if only once in a while, can be a great help in organizing your thoughts."
"Sort of like airing them out with a therapist?"
He smiled at me—a gentle, natural expression. "Yes, very much like that."
"I'll give it a try," I decided.
Why not, after all?
"If you do, I'd like you to keep a couple of things in mind," he said, leaning forward almost imperceptibly. "Just be sure you're honest with yourself. Don't censor yourself, whatever you do. You're the only person reading, so there's no reason to. The whole point is to understand yourself better—you can't do that if you're not putting your real self on the page."
"I understand."
He nodded. "Some other tools exist, of course. Meditation, for one—although I can't do more than explain the basics, there."
"I might look into it, thanks." I shrugged. "I'm good with words, though. A journal's more my style, I think."
"Of course. Now, we've still got more than half an hour. What would you like to talk about?"
I shrugged wordlessly. For a moment he considered me.
"Is there anything else about the Bakuda incident that's been bothering you?" he asked. "Or anything else, for that matter—it doesn't have to be a big deal—even just a small annoyance. Sometimes talking about even little nuisances can help us deal with them."
I drummed my fingers along my leg for a moment in thought. "I guess I'm just getting frustrated with the aftermath. I'm getting tired of staying on the Rig," I said eventually. "My dad was injured in Bakuda's bombing spree, and I've been staying on the Rig since. I've only been allowed to leave the Rig except for school since Saturday, too."
"Do you feel that's unjust?" he asked. "Or unfair?"
"Not really. I screwed up, against Bakuda." I ran my tongue against the tips of my front teeth as I thought. "I understand why they were keeping me confined—especially since, for at least a few hours right after, it looked like I might be arrested. That was cleared up pretty quickly, but it still wasn't clear what was going to happen to me."
"And what is going to happen to you?"
That wasn't actually a simple question, despite all appearances. "In the short or the long term?"
"Either." He gave me a small smile.
I sighed. "In the short term, I'm still staying on the Rig until my dad gets out of the hospital in a couple days. With luck, he'll be out by Wednesday. In the long term, they want to relocate me to San Diego for training over the summer."
"Which would you rather discuss? The short term or the long term?"
"I don't much care either way. The short term, I guess—let's go chronologically."
"Okay. How do you feel about you father coming out of the hospital soon?"
"Relieved, mostly." I hesitated. "Partly because I'm glad Dad's out of the hospital, and partly because I'm glad to be getting out of the Rig."
"You don't seem to be enjoying staying there."
"I like my team—the other Wards. I like some of the Protectorate. Assault can be really funny, Armsmaster's a good man, and Miss Militia is trying to accept me, but it's hard for her. And she's not the only one. A lot of the PRT officers aren't happy with me."
"Are they making trouble for you while you're there?"
"Nothing I can't deal with." Then I thought about that. "Actually, I can deal with a lot. No, not really. It's just that I don't have anyone much to talk to when the other Wards are busy. I feel like they're refusing to work with me just because I'm dangerous."
"Are you not dangerous?"
"I'm
very dangerous. But so are the Triumvirate." I sighed. "I
get it, I just don't like it."
"Well, I think going back to your father will be good for you. Staying in a place where the people don't care for you emotionally isn't healthy."
I shrugged. "I can take it, but yeah. Glad to be going home soon."
"Now, if you're willing, let's move on to the long term. You said they plan to relocate you to San Diego?"
"Yeah. It's like a Wards training camp. Shadow Stalker did it last summer, just after she was recruited. I see why, and I'm honestly okay with it. I just—haven't really had so many friends before now, and I won't enjoy leaving them behind."
"Are you worried you won't be able to make new ones?"
"No." I shook my head. "I just like my current ones. I don't doubt I'll get along with the San Diego capes—if I can get along with Shadow Stalker, I can get along with them—I'll just miss the Bay."
"Do you have problems working with Shadow Stalker?"
I looked down at the Ring on my finger. "I did," I said.
"Would you like to talk about it?"
"I'm not sure."
"Take your time. We can talk about something else, if you like."
He watched me as I thought. I took a little over a minute to do so.
"You work with capes fairly often, right?"
"Yes." He nodded. "Sometimes through the PRT, sometimes through other channels."
"Then you're familiar with the trigger event?"
His brow creased in concern. "I am."
"She caused mine." I held his gaze. "I won't tell you the details—I value my identity too much."
"I understand." He watched me, a slight frown on his face. "Shadow Stalker caused your trigger event?"
"Yes. We've reached an accord since then. We work together well, now. But"—I hesitated—"There's some part of me that—I don't know if I can forgive her. Ever."
"I think that's quite reasonable," he said, his voice smooth and gentle. "No one should expect you to simply get over something like that. It doesn't make you a bad person."
"I know." I shook my head. "I'm not worried about that. I just—I feel bad for her. She's trying so hard to put it behind her, to take the team as it is, and to find her place in it. And I don't want to make that harder for her."
"You can't be the perfect image of forgiveness, Annatar. No one can."
I pursed my lips. "I can try."
He frowned slightly. "Holding yourself to an impossible standard is a dangerous thing to do. It can push you to greater heights, sometimes, but it also puts a lot of stress on you. All too often, that stress is too much."
"I can take stress."
"We can all take
some stress. But everyone has a breaking point. You shouldn't push yourself so hard that you reach yours."
"I haven't reached it yet."
"All the more reason to be careful. I doubt you
want to." His face twisted minutely in real sadness. "I've met people who have."
I nodded slowly, and thought, unexpectedly, of Bakuda. "I can accept that."
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Consider reading the first chapter of From the Journal of Annatar before continuing with the main story.
