A Kind of Blindness: Chapter 10/10 (Complete)
A Kind of Blindness
Fewthistle
Warehouse 13
Myka/H.G.
Disclaimer: Property of Syfy and other foolish souls who squandered the wonder that is Helena and Myka. I would never have been so unwise.
Rating: R to NC-17, dependent on chapter
Chapter 10/10
Words: 3,639 Ch 10 (43,803 total)
Author’s Note: This is a sequel to By the Pricking of My Thumbs. While it is not absolutely necessary for you to have read it, I would suggest you take a gander, if only to know what in the world is going on, since I veered completely away from canon into my own much happier world. Besides, my greedy little Muse insists on pointing out that it’s not too bad and who doesn’t enjoy a good read? *bg*. My eternal gratitude to darandkerry for finding all those missing words, removing all those extra spaces, and keeping me ever vigilant. You are the best, Tex-Ass!! Love ya!
The use of Millville, California and surrounding area is entirely accidental and wishes no harm to that lovely part of the country. I just liked the name.
A/N 2: The title of this piece comes from here: have a listen. Wait
A/N 3: Well, this is the end of this one, my friends. I wish that I could adequately express the gratitude that I feel towards all of you who have taken this little journey with me. Your kindness, your encouragement and your support mean the world to me. I hope you've had as much fun as I have.
I do hope that you will join me for the next adventure with Helena and Myka, coming soon: same BatTime, same BatChannel. It's called "Roads that Never Found You", a title kindly leant to me by boomwizard , from her wonderful HG/Myka mix of the same name.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Univille, South Dakota
Helena slouched on the park bench, her coat wrapped tightly around her, gloved hands buried in the depths of pockets, Myka’s scarf wound around her neck and chin. Her legs were stretched out in front of her, heels on the slushy sidewalk as she contemplated the tips of her boots. Her gaze moved beyond them, to the shelf of snow left behind by industrious shoveling, and beyond it, an expanse of white that meandered down to a now ice-covered pond.
The snow here was even deeper than it had been in California, strata upon strata of frozen crystals, like the chalky cliffs of Dover, although these layers were far more transient and ephemeral, at least to her. Who knows, perhaps to the good Reverend Shaw’s God, Dover was as brief and fleeting as this bank of snow. She found the thought strangely comforting.
They’d been back from California for two days. Two days of reports and less than gentle questioning by Artie. Two days of crushing guilt every time Myka touched her or smiled that sweet, understanding smile. Two days of forced bravado for Pete and Claudia, of pretending that everything was fine. Pete hadn’t mentioned what happened after she and Myka had emerged from the still smoky circle surrounding the dock, Myka supporting the minister and Helena clutching the lyre. He hadn’t asked her to explain, but she had caught him looking at her oddly, turned and found his gaze on her, a little too sharp, a little too guarded.
And even now, she doubted that she could have found the words to answer that probing look, to explain why he had had to wrench the lyre from her grasp, forcibly prying her glove-clad fingers from their terrified grip, her eyes dark and wild with fear; fear and something else, something she still didn’t want to name.
Myka had been settling the distraught minister in the truck, but she had turned at the note in Pete’s voice, at the strident “no” that rang from Helena’s lips. Myka had crossed to where the two stood, Helena clutching the lyre, Pete attempting to pry it from her grasp. Myka’s brows were lowered in concern and she’d stepped close to Helena, wrapping her hands around Helena’s upper arm and leaning her forehead against Helena’s cheek, her breath warm against her skin.
“Let go, baby. It’s okay, you can let go now,” Myka had murmured softly, her lips grazing Helena’s cheek as she spoke.
As the words had seeped into her brain, rising above the mournful groan of the ice that swelled within her, above the insidious, treacherous whisper of the lyre, she’d slowly swiveled her head and met Myka’s eyes. In the beams of the headlights, she hadn’t been able to see the green, hadn’t been able to see Myka’s expression. Her eyes had been like pieces of glass, mirrors reflecting back Helena’s image in miniature, reflecting back a small, frightened woman teetering on the edge of madness.
She had let go of the lyre.
As she did, the world had returned with a rush, all of her senses, which had been overwhelmed by the power of the lyre, suddenly alive again. She had heard the lap of the lake against the shore, heard the hum of the truck’s engine and the hiss of warm breath into frosty air. Tilting back her head, she had seen the myriad stars, her mind naming the constellations, seeking out Orpheus’ lyre which graced the sky above the great swan, Cygnus. The feel of Myka’s hands around her arm and the warmth of her body pressed against her side had reminded her fractured mind that she was still wet and freezing, as a trembling wave of shivers wracked her frame.
She didn’t remember much about the trip back to the Campbells, just brief snatches of conversation as she huddled in the back of the SUV, her coat and Myka’s wrapped around her, Myka’s arms holding her tightly, trying without success to ease the shivering as the heat poured out of the vents. They’d left Reverend Shaw in the caring hands of his parishioners with as simple an explanation as possible. What the old man decided to share with them would be up to him. They had made no effort to search the lake for John Michael. The water might not have been burning with brimstone, but the agents had no doubt that the lake had swallowed up the young man, carried him down as it washed away all his sins.
Helena knew all about sins. Knew all about the crippling need for redemption. Sitting on the bench, the blustery South Dakota wind buffeting her, sending snow swirling across the frozen ground like a sandstorm in the desert, she knew that it was time for her to find some atonement; time for her to make that sacrifice. There was no burning lake in which to sink, but there was one thing that she could do, one way she could save Myka from falling into the abyss inside her, the gaping hole left behind as every fracture and fission shattered.
She could leave.
Leena’s Bed and Breakfast, Univille, South Dakota
Myka paced the room, a mantle of unease and worry stooping her shoulders. Her bottom lip was sore and raw between her teeth, but she could not seem to break the habit, the sting of pain a now familiar companion. She kept glancing at the clock on the nightstand, the changing of minutes seeming more akin to hours as she crossed from the bed to the door and back again: one, two, three, four, five, turn. One, two, three, four, five, turn. Each creak of the floorboards, each muted thud as a branch from the huge fir outside her window was blown against the house brought with it a stutter to her heartbeat. Helena had left for town over an hour ago, purportedly to run a few errands, but there had been something in her eyes, a bleakness, an emptiness that had frightened Myka.
Not that the feeling was anything new. Since they’d left for California she had watched, helplessly, as Helena seemed to break apart before her eyes. Myka had realized, months ago, when Helena first told her and Pete that the bronzing left one conscious but immobile, that there was no way that anyone, no matter how brilliant or strong of character, could survive a hundred years encased in bronze undamaged. And each ensuing conversation, each moment that Myka spent with Helena had left her no doubt that the older woman was struggling to come to terms with her life and the Faustian bargain she had struck with the Regents. She had gotten her time machine, but at what cost? Christina was still dead. Everyone Helena knew and loved was dead and there was nothing that a hundred years or a thousand could change. Helena was alone.
Had been alone. Part of Myka wondered sometimes if being alone might have been the only way to ensure that the cracks that ran deep in Helena’s psyche did not widen and shatter, wondered if loving her had, in some ironic way, broken Helena in a way that nothing else ever could. Myka knew that Helena was wracked with guilt, guilt about Christina’s death, guilt about being happy, about being in love, about being alive. Still, she had seemed to be slowly coming to terms with it, coming to terms with being happy. Until this case.
John Michael Shaw’s constant comparison to the doomed Helen had flown like an arrow to its mark, slicing into Helena’s wounded soul. It was a fast acting poison, altering the vibrant, beautiful woman she loved into a walking shell, her eyes dull and clouded. But it was the lyre that had dealt the final blow. Myka had known, standing there on that dock, the flames rising high into the sky all around them, that she shouldn’t give Helena the lyre. Even with the dampening gloves, the artifact was too strong and Helena too weak to resist its pull, and yet, there were few other options. Plus, refusing would have meant that she didn’t trust Helena and that was one thing Myka simply could not do, could not say, regardless of the cost.
And the cost had been high. Perhaps too high for either of them to pay.
Myka forced herself to sit, balancing on the edge of her mattress, one knee jangling up and down. She tasted the coppery tang of blood on the tip of her tongue as her teeth sawed a little deeper into the wound on her lip. At least that pain was tangible, explainable: she bit and it bled. Simple. Manageable. Not like the churning in her stomach and the flutter in her chest, the sense of dread and panic that had overtaken her these past few days every time she looked at Helena. And she looked at Helena all the time: protectively, lovingly, desperately. She felt as she had as a child at the beach, having constructed the most magnificent of sandcastles, only to watch with a paralytic horror as the waves inched closer and closer, eating away at the base of her palace, until with one spectacular crash of water, her citadel had crumpled and washed away.
A voice from the doorway broke through her reverie. “Hello, darling.” Helena’s face was pale and wan, her eyes shadowed by faint purple circles.
“Hey,” Myka replied, forcing a brightness into her tone that she didn’t feel. “I was beginning to wonder where you went.”
“I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to worry you,” Helena apologized in a weary voice. “I ran my errands and then I sat in the park for a bit. It’s quite lovely there. Very peaceful.”
“Helena, it’s about nineteen degrees outside. You’re going to end up with pneumonia,” Myka chided, rising and crossing to Helena’s side, her hands automatically reaching out to pull Helena to her. Usually Helena came willingly, but now she pulled back, a pained expression on her face.
Helena’s grim smile held little mirth. “Come now, darling, after that dip in the lake, the temperature here seems almost balmy.”
Helena folded her arms across her chest and stepped over to the bookshelf, her back to Myka as her gaze wandered aimlessly along the varied tomes. A heavy silence settled between them and the dread that had been circling Myka with all the coiled violence of a cobra at last struck, fangs sinking deep into her skin and holding fast. When Helena finally spoke, all Myka could do was stand immobilized and mute.
“I’ve been trying to…to find the right words. Trying to find the words to make you understand,” Helena said, her voice low and husky. “I need for you to listen, all right? To let me say this?”
Myka opened her mouth to reply, but only a sigh escaped. Her head nodded jerkily as she bit down hard on her tender lip, welcoming the distracting pain.
As Helena began to speak, a tear slowly edged its way down her cheek, falling soundlessly to the light blue of her shirt, followed by another and another, a slow, steady deluge that left a pattern of dark stains. “There is no easy way to say this, no magic to alter it into something either of us can bear. But I must say it, I must explain and we both will have to try and find a way to bear it. I need to go away, darling. I don’t know for how long, but I need to go.
"Please don’t mistake me, Myka: I love you to the very marrow of my bones. You are woven inside me. You’re the thread that has been holding together all the torn and ragged pieces of my soul but you cannot do it forever, my love. I will become little more than your patient, not your partner. We both know that I have become an emotional invalid, incapable of giving you back in equal measure all the support and companionship you deserve.
“Leaving is the one way I can truly show you the depth of my love, by not asking you to bear the burden of who I am right now. I beg you to understand, to know that what I must do is done in hope that I will return as one healed, one capable of being for you all that you deserve. It is not your responsibility to patch together all the broken bits of my psyche; that is something I must do myself if I am to ever have any hope of being whole again. I can’t ask you to wait for me. I can only ask that you remember always how much I love you and try to forgive me for what must seem a cowardly act.”
Myka stood unmoving, watching with an odd sense of detachment as Helena continued to cry, the tears running over high cheekbones like a dozen shallow streams, an occasional sob shaking her slender shoulders. For a few moments, she knew what Claudia’s computer felt right before it crashed, as an overload of thoughts and arguments and emotions set off a fatal cascade in her mind. She was standing in the center of a tornado, staring up as every one of her hopes and dreams were torn away and she was powerless to stop it.
Or was she?
“Bullshit!” The words were expelled with the force of a gunshot, echoing in the air between them. “Bullshit, Helena.”
Helena’s mouth dropped open in surprise, her dumbfounded expression soon morphing into one of regret and anguish. “What? No, Myka, I…,” she began, only to be abruptly brought up short as Myka stepped towards her, her eyes hard and unwavering.
“No, you don’t get to talk now. You had a chance to say what you needed to say; now it’s my turn,” Myka said roughly, using the difference in their height to stare down at Helena unrelentingly. “And you’re going to stand there and listen.”
Myka spun and stalked across the room, each step serving to increase the pent up fury that had been ignited by Helena’s statement. Helena was as good as her word, standing stock still, the tears continuing to run silently down her face. Myka stopped finally, her green eyes blazing. “You don’t get to make that decision, Helena. You don’t get to be a martyr. You don’t get to decide what’s good for me or bad for me or what I deserve or don’t deserve! And you don’t get to make unilateral decisions for us, just because you’re scared or insecure or whatever the hell it is that you’re feeling, which I don’t know, because you’ve stopped talking to me and I practically have to drag every word out of you,” she ranted, her voice rising as she gathered steam.
“Myka…,” Helena said contritely, only to be silenced by a finger jabbing at her shoulder.
“No, Helena. You had your say. You’re going to listen to me, just like I listened to you,” Myka told her firmly, trying to keep the anger out of her voice. She took a deep breath and then another. When she spoke again, her voice was gentle and loving. “I love you. Not some imaginary, perfect you that I conjured up. You, Helena Wells. You, with all your flaws and faults and rage and guilt and sadness. I love the you that loves your child so much that you were willing to be bronzed because you didn’t know how to live without her. I love the you that is so overcome with guilt because you’ve found some happiness and you don’t think you deserve it. I love the you that watches over me when I’m sleeping. The you that makes me feel things no one has ever come close to making me feel. I love the you that swam out into a frozen lake to rescue me from a crazy arsonist because living without me wasn’t an option.
“I love you: fractured and frightened and falling apart. And you don’t get to tell me that isn’t enough. That you aren’t enough for me. You’re not an emotional invalid, Helena. You spent a hundred fucking years locked inside your own brilliant, dangerous mind and it’s going to take time and patience and love for you to recover from that. But guess what? Those are three things we have. I know who you are, Helena. What you are,” Myka told her, making no effort to brush away the tears that were rolling down her own cheeks.
“No, you don’t,” Helena sobbed, burying her face in her hands. “You don’t know the things I’ve done. Who I really am.”
Myka closed the space between them and drew Helena carefully into her arms. She whispered tenderly, one hand smoothing through thick, silken black hair, “Yes, I do. I read the file, Helena, the one the Regents have on you. I know what you did. I know what happened to the men who killed Christina. I know about your partner’s death. But more than anything, I know the woman who would willingly die for me, or for Pete or Claudia or even Artie. And no matter what else she’s done, that’s the woman I love.”
“You deserve more, Myka. You deserve someone good, someone strong, someone…,” Helena protested, her voice muffled as she sobbed into Myka’s shoulder.
“Helena Wells, you are the strongest person I have ever known. You’ve survived things that would have destroyed most people and you are good and brave and beautiful and there is nothing that you could ever say or do that would change my mind,” Myka pronounced quietly, her lips pressed to the fine hairs along Helena’s temple. “Nothing. We’re together. I love you, you love me. So, no, you don’t get to leave. Whatever happens, whatever needs to be done or fixed, we do it together. Okay?”
Helena didn’t speak, merely nodded her head as a fresh wave of sobs overtook her. Myka slipped her fingers under Helena’s chin and tilted her head back. Helena’s eyes were closed, tears clinging to thick lashes. “Helena? Look at me,” Myka urged, her voice full of love.
Helena drew in a few shuddering breaths and opened her eyes, the irises as black as her pupils. “Okay?” Myka asked again, needing to hear Helena say ‘yes’, say anything.
“Okay,” Helena breathed, her voice hoarse and thick with emotion. “I wasn’t trying to be a martyr. I wasn’t trying to make decisions for you. I just…I didn’t know what else to do. I’m such a bloody mess and I feel so guilty about so many things and sometimes when you look at me like you are right now, with so much love and understanding, it’s all I can do to keep my head above water, because I know I don’t deserve it. Don’t deserve you.”
“Oh, baby, I know you weren’t trying to be a martyr. I’m sorry I said that. I was just so angry at you for believing that walking away was the only choice,” Myka replied contritely. “It isn’t. And you do deserve me. You deserve love and happiness and one of these days, you’re going to believe it, if it kills both of us.”
Helena gave a half chuckle, the small smile on her lips one of the loveliest things Myka had seen in a long time. “Knowing us, it no doubt will involve some sort of bloodshed.”
“Probably,” Myka agreed, taking Helena’s hand and leading her to the bed. She sat down on the mattress, inching up to rest against the headboard, and tugged at Helena, urging her to join her. After a moment’s hesitation, Helena climbed up, crawling on her hands and knees until she was able to settle across Myka’s lap. Myka had seen Helena move like that many times, usually naked and with a predatory look in her dark eyes, but today, there was only doubt and guilt and a faint glimmering of hope.
“I do need to go somewhere,” Helena said hesitantly, as if unsure of Myka’s response. “You could go with me.”
The lilt at the end of the sentence made it seem more question than statement and the hand wrapped around Myka’s heart at the obvious pain Helena was in squeezed a little tighter.
“I will go with you, wherever you need me to go,” Myka said tenderly, pressing her lips to the smooth skin of Helena’s forehead. ”I love you.”
“I know. I really do know,” Helena answered, tilting her head back to meet Myka’s gaze. There was a calm in Helena’s eyes that Myka had never seen before. The fear was still there and the guilt, but the doubt was gone. “I love you, too, my darling. I love you, too.”
Helena leaned her head against Myka’s shoulder, one arm snaking down between Myka’s back and the pillows to wrap securely around her waist. A little of the tension seemed to go out of her body and Myka could feel the muscles under her hand relax. They sat in silence, this one less fraught with apprehension, as the last of the winter’s rays slid across the wood floor, pale streaks of gold against the dark pine. Myka waited, knowing that, when she was ready, Helena would tell her where she needed to travel.
She also knew that, as Helena had said, there was no magic to make this all better. The woman now resting safely in her arms was still fractured, still riddled with guilt and sideswiped by rage at the injustice of the world, but she was not broken, not completely. And if Myka Bering had anything to do with it, she never would be.
Fin
Fewthistle
Warehouse 13
Myka/H.G.
Disclaimer: Property of Syfy and other foolish souls who squandered the wonder that is Helena and Myka. I would never have been so unwise.
Rating: R to NC-17, dependent on chapter
Chapter 10/10
Words: 3,639 Ch 10 (43,803 total)
Author’s Note: This is a sequel to By the Pricking of My Thumbs. While it is not absolutely necessary for you to have read it, I would suggest you take a gander, if only to know what in the world is going on, since I veered completely away from canon into my own much happier world. Besides, my greedy little Muse insists on pointing out that it’s not too bad and who doesn’t enjoy a good read? *bg*. My eternal gratitude to darandkerry for finding all those missing words, removing all those extra spaces, and keeping me ever vigilant. You are the best, Tex-Ass!! Love ya!
The use of Millville, California and surrounding area is entirely accidental and wishes no harm to that lovely part of the country. I just liked the name.
A/N 2: The title of this piece comes from here: have a listen. Wait
A/N 3: Well, this is the end of this one, my friends. I wish that I could adequately express the gratitude that I feel towards all of you who have taken this little journey with me. Your kindness, your encouragement and your support mean the world to me. I hope you've had as much fun as I have.
I do hope that you will join me for the next adventure with Helena and Myka, coming soon: same BatTime, same BatChannel. It's called "Roads that Never Found You", a title kindly leant to me by boomwizard , from her wonderful HG/Myka mix of the same name.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Univille, South Dakota
Helena slouched on the park bench, her coat wrapped tightly around her, gloved hands buried in the depths of pockets, Myka’s scarf wound around her neck and chin. Her legs were stretched out in front of her, heels on the slushy sidewalk as she contemplated the tips of her boots. Her gaze moved beyond them, to the shelf of snow left behind by industrious shoveling, and beyond it, an expanse of white that meandered down to a now ice-covered pond.
The snow here was even deeper than it had been in California, strata upon strata of frozen crystals, like the chalky cliffs of Dover, although these layers were far more transient and ephemeral, at least to her. Who knows, perhaps to the good Reverend Shaw’s God, Dover was as brief and fleeting as this bank of snow. She found the thought strangely comforting.
They’d been back from California for two days. Two days of reports and less than gentle questioning by Artie. Two days of crushing guilt every time Myka touched her or smiled that sweet, understanding smile. Two days of forced bravado for Pete and Claudia, of pretending that everything was fine. Pete hadn’t mentioned what happened after she and Myka had emerged from the still smoky circle surrounding the dock, Myka supporting the minister and Helena clutching the lyre. He hadn’t asked her to explain, but she had caught him looking at her oddly, turned and found his gaze on her, a little too sharp, a little too guarded.
And even now, she doubted that she could have found the words to answer that probing look, to explain why he had had to wrench the lyre from her grasp, forcibly prying her glove-clad fingers from their terrified grip, her eyes dark and wild with fear; fear and something else, something she still didn’t want to name.
Myka had been settling the distraught minister in the truck, but she had turned at the note in Pete’s voice, at the strident “no” that rang from Helena’s lips. Myka had crossed to where the two stood, Helena clutching the lyre, Pete attempting to pry it from her grasp. Myka’s brows were lowered in concern and she’d stepped close to Helena, wrapping her hands around Helena’s upper arm and leaning her forehead against Helena’s cheek, her breath warm against her skin.
“Let go, baby. It’s okay, you can let go now,” Myka had murmured softly, her lips grazing Helena’s cheek as she spoke.
As the words had seeped into her brain, rising above the mournful groan of the ice that swelled within her, above the insidious, treacherous whisper of the lyre, she’d slowly swiveled her head and met Myka’s eyes. In the beams of the headlights, she hadn’t been able to see the green, hadn’t been able to see Myka’s expression. Her eyes had been like pieces of glass, mirrors reflecting back Helena’s image in miniature, reflecting back a small, frightened woman teetering on the edge of madness.
She had let go of the lyre.
As she did, the world had returned with a rush, all of her senses, which had been overwhelmed by the power of the lyre, suddenly alive again. She had heard the lap of the lake against the shore, heard the hum of the truck’s engine and the hiss of warm breath into frosty air. Tilting back her head, she had seen the myriad stars, her mind naming the constellations, seeking out Orpheus’ lyre which graced the sky above the great swan, Cygnus. The feel of Myka’s hands around her arm and the warmth of her body pressed against her side had reminded her fractured mind that she was still wet and freezing, as a trembling wave of shivers wracked her frame.
She didn’t remember much about the trip back to the Campbells, just brief snatches of conversation as she huddled in the back of the SUV, her coat and Myka’s wrapped around her, Myka’s arms holding her tightly, trying without success to ease the shivering as the heat poured out of the vents. They’d left Reverend Shaw in the caring hands of his parishioners with as simple an explanation as possible. What the old man decided to share with them would be up to him. They had made no effort to search the lake for John Michael. The water might not have been burning with brimstone, but the agents had no doubt that the lake had swallowed up the young man, carried him down as it washed away all his sins.
Helena knew all about sins. Knew all about the crippling need for redemption. Sitting on the bench, the blustery South Dakota wind buffeting her, sending snow swirling across the frozen ground like a sandstorm in the desert, she knew that it was time for her to find some atonement; time for her to make that sacrifice. There was no burning lake in which to sink, but there was one thing that she could do, one way she could save Myka from falling into the abyss inside her, the gaping hole left behind as every fracture and fission shattered.
She could leave.
Leena’s Bed and Breakfast, Univille, South Dakota
Myka paced the room, a mantle of unease and worry stooping her shoulders. Her bottom lip was sore and raw between her teeth, but she could not seem to break the habit, the sting of pain a now familiar companion. She kept glancing at the clock on the nightstand, the changing of minutes seeming more akin to hours as she crossed from the bed to the door and back again: one, two, three, four, five, turn. One, two, three, four, five, turn. Each creak of the floorboards, each muted thud as a branch from the huge fir outside her window was blown against the house brought with it a stutter to her heartbeat. Helena had left for town over an hour ago, purportedly to run a few errands, but there had been something in her eyes, a bleakness, an emptiness that had frightened Myka.
Not that the feeling was anything new. Since they’d left for California she had watched, helplessly, as Helena seemed to break apart before her eyes. Myka had realized, months ago, when Helena first told her and Pete that the bronzing left one conscious but immobile, that there was no way that anyone, no matter how brilliant or strong of character, could survive a hundred years encased in bronze undamaged. And each ensuing conversation, each moment that Myka spent with Helena had left her no doubt that the older woman was struggling to come to terms with her life and the Faustian bargain she had struck with the Regents. She had gotten her time machine, but at what cost? Christina was still dead. Everyone Helena knew and loved was dead and there was nothing that a hundred years or a thousand could change. Helena was alone.
Had been alone. Part of Myka wondered sometimes if being alone might have been the only way to ensure that the cracks that ran deep in Helena’s psyche did not widen and shatter, wondered if loving her had, in some ironic way, broken Helena in a way that nothing else ever could. Myka knew that Helena was wracked with guilt, guilt about Christina’s death, guilt about being happy, about being in love, about being alive. Still, she had seemed to be slowly coming to terms with it, coming to terms with being happy. Until this case.
John Michael Shaw’s constant comparison to the doomed Helen had flown like an arrow to its mark, slicing into Helena’s wounded soul. It was a fast acting poison, altering the vibrant, beautiful woman she loved into a walking shell, her eyes dull and clouded. But it was the lyre that had dealt the final blow. Myka had known, standing there on that dock, the flames rising high into the sky all around them, that she shouldn’t give Helena the lyre. Even with the dampening gloves, the artifact was too strong and Helena too weak to resist its pull, and yet, there were few other options. Plus, refusing would have meant that she didn’t trust Helena and that was one thing Myka simply could not do, could not say, regardless of the cost.
And the cost had been high. Perhaps too high for either of them to pay.
Myka forced herself to sit, balancing on the edge of her mattress, one knee jangling up and down. She tasted the coppery tang of blood on the tip of her tongue as her teeth sawed a little deeper into the wound on her lip. At least that pain was tangible, explainable: she bit and it bled. Simple. Manageable. Not like the churning in her stomach and the flutter in her chest, the sense of dread and panic that had overtaken her these past few days every time she looked at Helena. And she looked at Helena all the time: protectively, lovingly, desperately. She felt as she had as a child at the beach, having constructed the most magnificent of sandcastles, only to watch with a paralytic horror as the waves inched closer and closer, eating away at the base of her palace, until with one spectacular crash of water, her citadel had crumpled and washed away.
A voice from the doorway broke through her reverie. “Hello, darling.” Helena’s face was pale and wan, her eyes shadowed by faint purple circles.
“Hey,” Myka replied, forcing a brightness into her tone that she didn’t feel. “I was beginning to wonder where you went.”
“I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to worry you,” Helena apologized in a weary voice. “I ran my errands and then I sat in the park for a bit. It’s quite lovely there. Very peaceful.”
“Helena, it’s about nineteen degrees outside. You’re going to end up with pneumonia,” Myka chided, rising and crossing to Helena’s side, her hands automatically reaching out to pull Helena to her. Usually Helena came willingly, but now she pulled back, a pained expression on her face.
Helena’s grim smile held little mirth. “Come now, darling, after that dip in the lake, the temperature here seems almost balmy.”
Helena folded her arms across her chest and stepped over to the bookshelf, her back to Myka as her gaze wandered aimlessly along the varied tomes. A heavy silence settled between them and the dread that had been circling Myka with all the coiled violence of a cobra at last struck, fangs sinking deep into her skin and holding fast. When Helena finally spoke, all Myka could do was stand immobilized and mute.
“I’ve been trying to…to find the right words. Trying to find the words to make you understand,” Helena said, her voice low and husky. “I need for you to listen, all right? To let me say this?”
Myka opened her mouth to reply, but only a sigh escaped. Her head nodded jerkily as she bit down hard on her tender lip, welcoming the distracting pain.
As Helena began to speak, a tear slowly edged its way down her cheek, falling soundlessly to the light blue of her shirt, followed by another and another, a slow, steady deluge that left a pattern of dark stains. “There is no easy way to say this, no magic to alter it into something either of us can bear. But I must say it, I must explain and we both will have to try and find a way to bear it. I need to go away, darling. I don’t know for how long, but I need to go.
"Please don’t mistake me, Myka: I love you to the very marrow of my bones. You are woven inside me. You’re the thread that has been holding together all the torn and ragged pieces of my soul but you cannot do it forever, my love. I will become little more than your patient, not your partner. We both know that I have become an emotional invalid, incapable of giving you back in equal measure all the support and companionship you deserve.
“Leaving is the one way I can truly show you the depth of my love, by not asking you to bear the burden of who I am right now. I beg you to understand, to know that what I must do is done in hope that I will return as one healed, one capable of being for you all that you deserve. It is not your responsibility to patch together all the broken bits of my psyche; that is something I must do myself if I am to ever have any hope of being whole again. I can’t ask you to wait for me. I can only ask that you remember always how much I love you and try to forgive me for what must seem a cowardly act.”
Myka stood unmoving, watching with an odd sense of detachment as Helena continued to cry, the tears running over high cheekbones like a dozen shallow streams, an occasional sob shaking her slender shoulders. For a few moments, she knew what Claudia’s computer felt right before it crashed, as an overload of thoughts and arguments and emotions set off a fatal cascade in her mind. She was standing in the center of a tornado, staring up as every one of her hopes and dreams were torn away and she was powerless to stop it.
Or was she?
“Bullshit!” The words were expelled with the force of a gunshot, echoing in the air between them. “Bullshit, Helena.”
Helena’s mouth dropped open in surprise, her dumbfounded expression soon morphing into one of regret and anguish. “What? No, Myka, I…,” she began, only to be abruptly brought up short as Myka stepped towards her, her eyes hard and unwavering.
“No, you don’t get to talk now. You had a chance to say what you needed to say; now it’s my turn,” Myka said roughly, using the difference in their height to stare down at Helena unrelentingly. “And you’re going to stand there and listen.”
Myka spun and stalked across the room, each step serving to increase the pent up fury that had been ignited by Helena’s statement. Helena was as good as her word, standing stock still, the tears continuing to run silently down her face. Myka stopped finally, her green eyes blazing. “You don’t get to make that decision, Helena. You don’t get to be a martyr. You don’t get to decide what’s good for me or bad for me or what I deserve or don’t deserve! And you don’t get to make unilateral decisions for us, just because you’re scared or insecure or whatever the hell it is that you’re feeling, which I don’t know, because you’ve stopped talking to me and I practically have to drag every word out of you,” she ranted, her voice rising as she gathered steam.
“Myka…,” Helena said contritely, only to be silenced by a finger jabbing at her shoulder.
“No, Helena. You had your say. You’re going to listen to me, just like I listened to you,” Myka told her firmly, trying to keep the anger out of her voice. She took a deep breath and then another. When she spoke again, her voice was gentle and loving. “I love you. Not some imaginary, perfect you that I conjured up. You, Helena Wells. You, with all your flaws and faults and rage and guilt and sadness. I love the you that loves your child so much that you were willing to be bronzed because you didn’t know how to live without her. I love the you that is so overcome with guilt because you’ve found some happiness and you don’t think you deserve it. I love the you that watches over me when I’m sleeping. The you that makes me feel things no one has ever come close to making me feel. I love the you that swam out into a frozen lake to rescue me from a crazy arsonist because living without me wasn’t an option.
“I love you: fractured and frightened and falling apart. And you don’t get to tell me that isn’t enough. That you aren’t enough for me. You’re not an emotional invalid, Helena. You spent a hundred fucking years locked inside your own brilliant, dangerous mind and it’s going to take time and patience and love for you to recover from that. But guess what? Those are three things we have. I know who you are, Helena. What you are,” Myka told her, making no effort to brush away the tears that were rolling down her own cheeks.
“No, you don’t,” Helena sobbed, burying her face in her hands. “You don’t know the things I’ve done. Who I really am.”
Myka closed the space between them and drew Helena carefully into her arms. She whispered tenderly, one hand smoothing through thick, silken black hair, “Yes, I do. I read the file, Helena, the one the Regents have on you. I know what you did. I know what happened to the men who killed Christina. I know about your partner’s death. But more than anything, I know the woman who would willingly die for me, or for Pete or Claudia or even Artie. And no matter what else she’s done, that’s the woman I love.”
“You deserve more, Myka. You deserve someone good, someone strong, someone…,” Helena protested, her voice muffled as she sobbed into Myka’s shoulder.
“Helena Wells, you are the strongest person I have ever known. You’ve survived things that would have destroyed most people and you are good and brave and beautiful and there is nothing that you could ever say or do that would change my mind,” Myka pronounced quietly, her lips pressed to the fine hairs along Helena’s temple. “Nothing. We’re together. I love you, you love me. So, no, you don’t get to leave. Whatever happens, whatever needs to be done or fixed, we do it together. Okay?”
Helena didn’t speak, merely nodded her head as a fresh wave of sobs overtook her. Myka slipped her fingers under Helena’s chin and tilted her head back. Helena’s eyes were closed, tears clinging to thick lashes. “Helena? Look at me,” Myka urged, her voice full of love.
Helena drew in a few shuddering breaths and opened her eyes, the irises as black as her pupils. “Okay?” Myka asked again, needing to hear Helena say ‘yes’, say anything.
“Okay,” Helena breathed, her voice hoarse and thick with emotion. “I wasn’t trying to be a martyr. I wasn’t trying to make decisions for you. I just…I didn’t know what else to do. I’m such a bloody mess and I feel so guilty about so many things and sometimes when you look at me like you are right now, with so much love and understanding, it’s all I can do to keep my head above water, because I know I don’t deserve it. Don’t deserve you.”
“Oh, baby, I know you weren’t trying to be a martyr. I’m sorry I said that. I was just so angry at you for believing that walking away was the only choice,” Myka replied contritely. “It isn’t. And you do deserve me. You deserve love and happiness and one of these days, you’re going to believe it, if it kills both of us.”
Helena gave a half chuckle, the small smile on her lips one of the loveliest things Myka had seen in a long time. “Knowing us, it no doubt will involve some sort of bloodshed.”
“Probably,” Myka agreed, taking Helena’s hand and leading her to the bed. She sat down on the mattress, inching up to rest against the headboard, and tugged at Helena, urging her to join her. After a moment’s hesitation, Helena climbed up, crawling on her hands and knees until she was able to settle across Myka’s lap. Myka had seen Helena move like that many times, usually naked and with a predatory look in her dark eyes, but today, there was only doubt and guilt and a faint glimmering of hope.
“I do need to go somewhere,” Helena said hesitantly, as if unsure of Myka’s response. “You could go with me.”
The lilt at the end of the sentence made it seem more question than statement and the hand wrapped around Myka’s heart at the obvious pain Helena was in squeezed a little tighter.
“I will go with you, wherever you need me to go,” Myka said tenderly, pressing her lips to the smooth skin of Helena’s forehead. ”I love you.”
“I know. I really do know,” Helena answered, tilting her head back to meet Myka’s gaze. There was a calm in Helena’s eyes that Myka had never seen before. The fear was still there and the guilt, but the doubt was gone. “I love you, too, my darling. I love you, too.”
Helena leaned her head against Myka’s shoulder, one arm snaking down between Myka’s back and the pillows to wrap securely around her waist. A little of the tension seemed to go out of her body and Myka could feel the muscles under her hand relax. They sat in silence, this one less fraught with apprehension, as the last of the winter’s rays slid across the wood floor, pale streaks of gold against the dark pine. Myka waited, knowing that, when she was ready, Helena would tell her where she needed to travel.
She also knew that, as Helena had said, there was no magic to make this all better. The woman now resting safely in her arms was still fractured, still riddled with guilt and sideswiped by rage at the injustice of the world, but she was not broken, not completely. And if Myka Bering had anything to do with it, she never would be.
Fin