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Helen, this time. Sort of randomly turned into a tag for 3x16 Awakening, and equally randomly turned vaguely Helen/Nikola-ish. *shrugs sheepishly*
Title: Picking Up The Pieces
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: Helen Magnus, Nikola Tesla, mention of more-or-less everyone. Vague Helen/Nikola
Summary: In the wake of Awakening, Helen looks back
Wordcount: 1255
Warnings/Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
grav_ity, prompt: picking up the pieces
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: Picking Up The Pieces
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: Helen Magnus, Nikola Tesla, mention of more-or-less everyone. Vague Helen/Nikola
Summary: In the wake of Awakening, Helen looks back
Wordcount: 1255
Warnings/Notes: For
grav_ity, prompt: picking up the piecesDisclaimer: Not mine
Picking Up The Pieces
She could still feel the weight of the rock in her hands, could still feel the sharp jolt and bite as it struck home, the desperate pain in her wrists. Sitting here, watching the sun go down beyond the window, listening to him happily witter away behind her, Helen Magnus could still feel the rock in her hands.
It had been foolish, neither elegant nor practical nor even remotely likely to work. It had been a fluke that it had done more than bounce prettily and almost break her hands. There had been no reason to suspect that 'bash it with a rock' had any chance of working at all. It had been, in the end, one of the most ridiculous, near-childish things she'd ever done.
Few things had ever seemed so absolutely necessary to her as that one desperate blow had seemed then. And she did not lie to herself as to why.
It wasn't for Nikola. Or only partly, though he was impossibly dear to her, and, perhaps, one of the few she really did believe worthy of eternal life. He was incredibly childish, of course, terribly foolish, but he learned, and he cared, and he wondered, and when push came to shove, he saved the world. He deserved the blood running in his veins. He deserved the chance. She did believe that. But that wasn't why. It wasn't for Nikola. Not really.
It had been for her. Almost wholly. It had been her desperation, her heart, her self-preservation that raised her hands around the stone, and brought it smashing down. It had been the wild storm of pain inside her, that cried out no, not this, not again. Not so soon. No!
She was used to loss. Or should be. She was used to walking through the wreckage, and picking up the pieces of her life, rebuilding around the gaps left by things she had loved. She was old, she was over a century old, of course she was used to it. Of course she had learned, over and over, how to do it, how to move on, how to keep living. How to pick up the pieces.
John, he had been her first lesson. The first person to break open her world, and shatter it. The first to bring her to her knees. John, who had torn open a hole in the center of her world, and left a wound that never really healed. She had learned, with him, what loss was like. She had learned how to move past it. She had learned how to build around it.
And her father. She hadn't realised, at first, that he was missing. It had taken longer, much longer, to accept that she wasn't going to find him, that he wouldn't be coming back. It had taken her longer to realise that she needed to build the Sanctuaries on her own, build her own dream from her father's memory, pick up the pieces of what he had left, the work he had started, and build them into something new. It had taken her ... so long, to forge her own path from the wreckage, around this newest hole in her heart.
And Adam. Adam, whom she had killed in cold blood, on whose death she had raised a house. Adam, who had broken something within her, and made her realise a darkness and a Nemesis inside herself that she had not known existed. Adam had cost her, some piece of herself, and she had built around the splinters.
Then the War. Oh, then the war. When all the world seemed to be falling apart, not just hers. When bombs rained down on her house, when her country sundered around her, when enemies stole what was hers and used it against her, against all she held dear. When the last threads of her family split apart, and fled to the four winds. Nikola, running ahead of the shadow of his own inventions. Nigel, to a new family and a new beginning. John ... John, reappearing only long enough to save her, to harm her, to hurt James, and vanishing again into the shadow of war. And James ...
She had drifted, after that. So much lost, so short a time. She had gathered the pieces of her heart, forged a new determination, to build again somewhere new, to make something new, in a new country, amongst new people. To build a house that was wholly her own, to reforge, once again, her life. She had drifted, in the wake of the war, moved purposefully to some foreign clime, and James ... had let her.
So many times, she'd rebuilt. So many times over her life, she'd forced herself to pick up the pieces. And now, these last few years ...
Ashley. James. Nigel's legacy. Almost the entire Sanctuary network. John, all over again, the moment she learned the truth of what had happened all those years ago. Her family. Her home. Everything she had ever built, everything she had ever made, all of it, everything. Threatened, again and again and again and again, and how much must she bear, how much must she almost lose, how much must be taken, how many times must she be expected to endure, to pick up the pieces, to start again? How many times. How many losses. How many pieces must be torn from her heart, before there was no longer enough left to put it back together?
So. Not this time. Not again. Not a thought, not conscious, but an instinct, a rage, a deep and impossible fury, that seized her hands upon the stone, and threw it against what threatened her again. She had seen Nikola slump, seen him fade, asked for an answer that wasn't going to come, that she knew wasn't going to come, and some part of her, some fundamental thing, cried no. Not him. Not now. He's almost the last, almost the only thing left of all I once was. He's the only thing that might survive, the only thing I might keep, the only thing I may hold and never have to let go. Not him! Never him! Not now!
She wasn't picking up the pieces again. This time, this time, if she must tear this stone apart with her bare hands, this time, the pieces were not going to fall. Not this time. Not now.
She could still feel the weight of the rock in her hands. She could still feel the pain as she brought it down. She could still hear the silence from where he lay. She could still feel that moment's crystalline, furious determination. Not this time. Not him. She could still feel it.
And then, layered over his silence in her memory, she recognised his silence now. Heard the living, breathing silence of him behind her, as he ghosted over to see what brought her hands to white knuckles in her lap, as he slipped into her shadow to see what kept her quiet and enraged. She heard him, so silent, behind her. And couldn't help the smile, small and pained, as he kept that silence, for once unspeaking, and merely slipped his arms around her waist, merely tugged her back against his heartbeat, and let her silently drop her head onto his shoulder.
She felt him feather a kiss over her temple, this one piece she had not yet let fall, this one piece she had not yet lost. She let him hold her, this one piece of her past as immortal as she. Now, again, at least.
And, painfully, she smiled.
She could still feel the weight of the rock in her hands, could still feel the sharp jolt and bite as it struck home, the desperate pain in her wrists. Sitting here, watching the sun go down beyond the window, listening to him happily witter away behind her, Helen Magnus could still feel the rock in her hands.
It had been foolish, neither elegant nor practical nor even remotely likely to work. It had been a fluke that it had done more than bounce prettily and almost break her hands. There had been no reason to suspect that 'bash it with a rock' had any chance of working at all. It had been, in the end, one of the most ridiculous, near-childish things she'd ever done.
Few things had ever seemed so absolutely necessary to her as that one desperate blow had seemed then. And she did not lie to herself as to why.
It wasn't for Nikola. Or only partly, though he was impossibly dear to her, and, perhaps, one of the few she really did believe worthy of eternal life. He was incredibly childish, of course, terribly foolish, but he learned, and he cared, and he wondered, and when push came to shove, he saved the world. He deserved the blood running in his veins. He deserved the chance. She did believe that. But that wasn't why. It wasn't for Nikola. Not really.
It had been for her. Almost wholly. It had been her desperation, her heart, her self-preservation that raised her hands around the stone, and brought it smashing down. It had been the wild storm of pain inside her, that cried out no, not this, not again. Not so soon. No!
She was used to loss. Or should be. She was used to walking through the wreckage, and picking up the pieces of her life, rebuilding around the gaps left by things she had loved. She was old, she was over a century old, of course she was used to it. Of course she had learned, over and over, how to do it, how to move on, how to keep living. How to pick up the pieces.
John, he had been her first lesson. The first person to break open her world, and shatter it. The first to bring her to her knees. John, who had torn open a hole in the center of her world, and left a wound that never really healed. She had learned, with him, what loss was like. She had learned how to move past it. She had learned how to build around it.
And her father. She hadn't realised, at first, that he was missing. It had taken longer, much longer, to accept that she wasn't going to find him, that he wouldn't be coming back. It had taken her longer to realise that she needed to build the Sanctuaries on her own, build her own dream from her father's memory, pick up the pieces of what he had left, the work he had started, and build them into something new. It had taken her ... so long, to forge her own path from the wreckage, around this newest hole in her heart.
And Adam. Adam, whom she had killed in cold blood, on whose death she had raised a house. Adam, who had broken something within her, and made her realise a darkness and a Nemesis inside herself that she had not known existed. Adam had cost her, some piece of herself, and she had built around the splinters.
Then the War. Oh, then the war. When all the world seemed to be falling apart, not just hers. When bombs rained down on her house, when her country sundered around her, when enemies stole what was hers and used it against her, against all she held dear. When the last threads of her family split apart, and fled to the four winds. Nikola, running ahead of the shadow of his own inventions. Nigel, to a new family and a new beginning. John ... John, reappearing only long enough to save her, to harm her, to hurt James, and vanishing again into the shadow of war. And James ...
She had drifted, after that. So much lost, so short a time. She had gathered the pieces of her heart, forged a new determination, to build again somewhere new, to make something new, in a new country, amongst new people. To build a house that was wholly her own, to reforge, once again, her life. She had drifted, in the wake of the war, moved purposefully to some foreign clime, and James ... had let her.
So many times, she'd rebuilt. So many times over her life, she'd forced herself to pick up the pieces. And now, these last few years ...
Ashley. James. Nigel's legacy. Almost the entire Sanctuary network. John, all over again, the moment she learned the truth of what had happened all those years ago. Her family. Her home. Everything she had ever built, everything she had ever made, all of it, everything. Threatened, again and again and again and again, and how much must she bear, how much must she almost lose, how much must be taken, how many times must she be expected to endure, to pick up the pieces, to start again? How many times. How many losses. How many pieces must be torn from her heart, before there was no longer enough left to put it back together?
So. Not this time. Not again. Not a thought, not conscious, but an instinct, a rage, a deep and impossible fury, that seized her hands upon the stone, and threw it against what threatened her again. She had seen Nikola slump, seen him fade, asked for an answer that wasn't going to come, that she knew wasn't going to come, and some part of her, some fundamental thing, cried no. Not him. Not now. He's almost the last, almost the only thing left of all I once was. He's the only thing that might survive, the only thing I might keep, the only thing I may hold and never have to let go. Not him! Never him! Not now!
She wasn't picking up the pieces again. This time, this time, if she must tear this stone apart with her bare hands, this time, the pieces were not going to fall. Not this time. Not now.
She could still feel the weight of the rock in her hands. She could still feel the pain as she brought it down. She could still hear the silence from where he lay. She could still feel that moment's crystalline, furious determination. Not this time. Not him. She could still feel it.
And then, layered over his silence in her memory, she recognised his silence now. Heard the living, breathing silence of him behind her, as he ghosted over to see what brought her hands to white knuckles in her lap, as he slipped into her shadow to see what kept her quiet and enraged. She heard him, so silent, behind her. And couldn't help the smile, small and pained, as he kept that silence, for once unspeaking, and merely slipped his arms around her waist, merely tugged her back against his heartbeat, and let her silently drop her head onto his shoulder.
She felt him feather a kiss over her temple, this one piece she had not yet let fall, this one piece she had not yet lost. She let him hold her, this one piece of her past as immortal as she. Now, again, at least.
And, painfully, she smiled.
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