Page 114 of Inextricably Tied

Harbinger doesn’t dream any more.

When she reaches for them, there’s a void. Cobwebs that slip through her fingers. Emptiness. She wakes groggy and delirious before the crushing reminder sinks into her chest.

Flint does his best. He’s the only thing keeping her functioning. The only thing keeping her alive, but his worry is too strong for him to tamp down on. It swells when he returns to the motel room, keycard plinking down on the table. Harbinger’s in the same place he left her, curled on her side, staring numbly at the motel painting.

Agony brought it to life. Agony, the not-quite-living thing that tried to kill her, managed to make something as abysmal as motel art magical. With him, dreary paintings provided an odd sort of comfort.

Now, every piece is as lifeless as he is.

As lifeless as she is. A carcass of reminder, her body a tomb for the loss, hosting a hollow gap in her chest where Agony had been. Living feels like reaching for a step that isn’t there, stumbling in the darkness when she tries to put her foot down on something solid.

Like the hole her father left. Overgrown after years of vacancy, but when she reaches into the crater of Agony, it’s the same shape. Jagged edges like something ripped out of her, connection vanishing, leaving her raw and open. The place Agony once filled is still tender, painful to the touch, but she knows it’ll harden the same way her father’s has. Growing wild with disuse, turning into calluses and gnarled roots until Harbinger is able to forget the ache from time to time. To make it through a single day without the debilitating pang as a reminder — until her curse takes it all away for good.

She cries when she thinks about it. Because losing a fraction of this pain means losing Agony all over again.

For a week, she hates Agony. Hates that she met him. That he made her feel anything. That Flint let this happen. In her darkest moments, she wants to punish them. Wants Agony back so she can make him suffer the same loss…but the anger turns to heart-wrenching sorrow when she looks at Flint.

He feeds her. Eases her into the shower when it’s been too many days since her last. The TV is a steady hum in the background, one small way for Harbinger to pretend she has social interaction. Until a rerun plays — one she and Agony made commentary about — and she’s dropped back into that hole she can’t climb out of.

After they escaped the OID, she and Flint holed up in the quietest motel they could find. They didn’t touch the money in their bank accounts. She only knows time is passing from the news Flint shares with her. Omen took a few others to the charred patch of earth where the girls were burned. With the banshees’ abilities, they recovered some form of remains for the families. The Break is in turmoil after word got out about the Broadleafs. Lev’s been trying to get in touch with Flint and Harbinger for days. The OID is looking for them, too, but the partners are laying lower than they ever have.

Slowly, Harbinger starts to dream again. She never goes back to the forest. Now, it’s always the same story on different backdrops that leave her feeling like she hasn’t slept at all.

Always looking for Agony. Borne into the dream with one purpose, searching desperately for him, even before her dream-self realizes he’s missing. Sometimes Flint is there, asking anyone they pass if they’ve seen a dark shadow. Sometimes it’s only Harbinger, walking through the hallways of the Convent, sprinting down endless motel corridors, crawling along the bloody dirt of the cellar.

At first, Harbinger searches calmly, pulling aside curtains and opening drawers, shifting her body to cast a shadow and hoping a disembodied smile will appear. Then she grows agitated. Furious. Tearing tarps from shelves and shoving pitchers off of tables, bursting with frantic energy that yanks her out of sleep.

Under the weight of her own grief, she forgets that she isn’t alone in it. It’s another week before she pulls her head out of the fog long enough to see Flint staring out the window. The breakfast he made sure Harbinger finished sits next to his, still untouched. That’s when she notices the dark circles under his eyes, fatigue draped heavy over his shoulders. While she’s been suffering through dreamless sleep, Flint hasn’t slept at all.

She pulls herself out of bed and into his lap. He tightens his arms around her and buries his face against her neck.

They trade places in the weeks after. Harbinger does up her catsuit with purpose. One button after another. One step at a time. She kisses Flint’s temple as he stares at the newspaper.

“You see this?”

He lays out the front page for her to read, splashed with a picture of Tamneth holding a tense press conference.

Orena Investigative Division Faces Charges for Gross Criminal Negligence and Misconduct.

“‘Bout time.” Harbinger tugs on her gloves before she sinks her backup helmet over her head.

“Where are you going?”

Even in his suffering, Flint worries. Her fingers trace over his jaw, gentler still around his broken tusk.

“I’ll get breakfast. Feels like I need to look someone else in the face. Make sure I have any interpersonal skills left.”

Maybe it’s his grief, but despite everything, Flint does his best to ease off of the protective circle he wants to draw around her. He presses his lips to the inside of her wrist. “Get more than varying shades of beige, please.”

She tucks away her keycard. “If I’m feeling generous.” Then she slips out into the crisp morning.

Cars hum along the highway. Across the parking lot, a diner welcomes its morning patrons. The sight of so many people makes Harbinger’s chest tight.

Her gloves cling to the motel doorknob. She can turn back. She’s only a step outside. But she lets the cold air swell into her lungs with icy pinpricks, a reminder that her chest is not a hollow place. She’ll try the gas station today. With that small comfort, Harbinger stuffs hands into her pockets and starts down the stairs.

It’s tempting to stay in the fog that traps her, but Harbinger reminds herself to look both ways, waiting for the Walk symbol to light. The sun’s still lazy, not yet catching the grays and blues of fuel pumps as the convenience store door dings.

Breakfast sandwiches are tempting — so Harbinger doesn’t resist. Still, she juggles a small fruit salad in the crook of her arm, adding a packet of baby carrots to the pile. Better than beige.