Word Count: 724

Back to Earth—still whole, still living, no worse for wear than before, a beautiful world full of the undeserving, who had no idea how close they’d come to losing it all. Back to the Vanguard house, their home away from home even if it never quite felt like it, where they could clean themselves up and relax in relative safety and comfort.

Vyn shut himself away in one of the bathrooms, locking the door to bar entry. It gave the illusion of privacy, of isolation, in a house where he had anything but. If any of the others had need of him, they would simply have to look elsewhere.

Then again, so few cared, they probably wouldn’t even notice he’d gone.

Stop, he told himself.

Vyn inhaled sharply. He made an effort to wrangle his thoughts. It would not serve him well to be unkind, even in his own head. Of course the others cared. Some would notice, even when he didn’t want them to. Some would worry. Aliez might come knock on the door, might extend his compassion and concern before Vyn was ready to accept it.

He treated his wounds on his own, minimal as they were—a cut beneath his hair; a nick on his cheekbone; a sliver of broken skin at his jaw Vyn hadn’t noticed until he forced himself to look in the mirror; a few sore spots on his hands, where sharp pieces of broken scale and struck him. Vyn scrubbed the drying blood from his hands and his face at the sink, watched the water turn pink before it swirled down the drain.

His rifle had already been put away upon their return. Vyn took off his capelet next, then the tactical vest he favored. The flowers he’d had in his hair earlier that night had been blown away by the storm, lost on a hilltop he had no desire to return to. Smears and splashes of blood stained his bodysuit, threatening to pull him back into memories he would rather avoid.

A hilltop. Caedus. The Knight. Commander Cydfae…

Stop.

Vyn stepped into the shower before the water warmed. He forced himself to bear the cold, let it soak his hair and disguise the inevitable tears. He tipped his head back and breathed—a careful inhale, a deliberate exhale—as the temperature slowly increased. Cold. Cool. Tepid. Hot. Scalding. The discomfort was immaterial. Vyn focused on the burn against his skin rather than the heat in his eyes. Steam rose around him, clouding his vision as much as emotion did.

He cleaned himself of sweat, of any remaining blood, of specks of debris and a few flecks of ash. The evidence of the battle was gone before he’d even finished taking stock of it. If Vyn tried hard enough, if he cast his mind elsewhere, he could pretend none of it had happened. Maybe the rending of his heart was as much of an illusion as his solitude. Maybe the hope he’d had before tonight, shallowly planted but carefully tended, had been nothing more than a dream, gone when he woke, not ripped away by his own harrowing thoughts.

When he was satisfied by his cleanliness, Vyn plugged the drain and sat down, letting the tub fill around him.

The Commodore would be expecting them soon. No doubt he would be as confident and composed as always. He would say kind, supportive things. He would extend his own hopes, share his wisdom, and reiterate his unfailing faith in them. He would be proud and appreciative. He would be grand and lofty and noble, and Vyn would struggle to restore the part of himself that responded to it, angling toward the Commodore’s praise like a flower to sunlight when all he wanted to do now was cry and scream and break things, to be anyone other than himself, to feel anything other than this—bitter and broken and desperately unhappy, when he used to be so gentle and sweet and full of dreams.

He would never be that again.

Stop.

Vyn turned off the water with shaking hands. He closed his eyes to everything, held himself still like he could regain some semblance of control over himself, but his breath hitched and the tears still fell.

So he sank beneath the water, let darkness and heat surround him, until his lungs burned.