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no one wants a half-remembered story, so maddox memorises every detail of his death. he feels like he owes that to zeke, anyway. to hydra.[break][break]

so, all of this, too, finds a home under his skin:[break][break]

the strange, solemn smile, curved like a waxing moon, like the blade of a sacrificial dagger, impossibly tender.[break][break]

the grip at the back of his neck, tangled in his hair. he does not resist.[break][break]

the way the water closes over his head in one swift motion, greedy, all-consuming. it's so cold. he feels everything at once; he feels nothing at all.[break][break]

maddox has imagined death a thousand times by now. this, perhaps, is the closest to what he thinks it could be; what he remembers it is. it's dark. it's cold.[break][break]

except it isn't really, is it? his eyes are open underwater, despite the sting of the salt. he can see, dimly, the watery rays of moonlight that strike the surface of the sea and slither downwards in waving, silver lines. he can see, in the periphery of his vision, the reflection of stars, silhouetting zeke. the hand against his neck is, despite it all, still warm.[break][break]

he doesn't struggle. for a while, he only floats there, suspended in wonderment at this strange, secret world of shadow and starlight. it's so quiet. he knows, logically, that he is still half-standing, that they are not so deep that he has lost his grip on the sand underfoot. still, he cannot feel his legs; he doesn't think it matters, anyway.[break][break]

he holds his breath. it'd ruin the spell, he thinks, if he is rushing towards death. so, he waits. [break][break]

back in eclipse, he would often play along the riverbanks of the styx. the currents are strong there, and nearly invisible; he grew up to be a strong swimmer by necessity alone. here, in delphi, he still carves out pockets of free time to swim by the beach, during hours of the day where the sun is not watching and the sands are as pale as the moon.[break][break]

this is to say that maddox has a fairly good instinct for how long he can hold his breath for. when he feels it — that tell-tale tightness in his chest, the snap-snap of the diaphragm struggling — he knows his time is running out.[break][break]

he counts. he doesn't remember what exactly he's counting, except that he's read somewhere that there is a breaking point around ninety seconds ( though he has definitely passed that by now ), at which point the brain says, well, why not? not breathing is killing you, so why not try? he counts, random, nonsensical numbers only vaguely in order, and considers the colour of the water.[break][break]

it's not all black, you know. the deepest parts of the waters, here, are almost purple instead, dark as wine. the light isn't white, but pale, shimmering strands of silver and gold. his own hand, underwater, looks almost drained of colour. he thinks distantly of graveyard angels and marble statues; half a corpse, half a god.[break][break]

something snaps. the breath is involuntary.[break][break]

it drags water into his lungs. ice claws its way through his mouth, down his windpipe, into his lungs; it burns. for a moment longer — it feels like an eternity — he almost succeeds in telling himself not to struggle. [break][break]

( death before dishonour — the ruchbahs are masters of dying graceful deaths. )[break][break]

it doesn't last long. it's all reflex, now: the sudden spasm of limbs, an instinctual panic lancing through his body, jerking forward in an attempt to reach the surface. [break][break]

zeke doesn't let up. another steady press, insistent, and maddox can no longer tell the surface from the bottom of the sea.[break][break]

he's thrashing now, he knows. reflex, against the burning in his lungs, the sudden clamor in his skull. for a brief, terrifying second, he forgets where he is: he sees the flickers of phantasms he thought he left behind months ago. for a moment, the sea comes alive with the gleaming mouths of the dead, whispering of price and power.[break][break]

he opens his mouth to say something — to remind himself of why he's here, of what he's doing, of why he's dying. water rushes in.[break][break]

the world goes black.[break][break]

above, lyra vanishes.

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this part, he won't remember. not in the same level of clarity that he remembers dying, but the feeling will return to him on the fringes of dreams — a small shadow that peeks over the threshold of a doorway, fidgeting uncertainly with the edge of a dull brown coat. sometimes, it seems even death is troubled by how it can claim something that is already dead, and always has been.[break][break]

this part remains outside the story, outside even its margins. the ink spills and pools like blood; maddox does not remember anything but the flickers of a storm cutting across his vision, streaks of white as sharp as lightning, shadows soft-edged like feathers.[break][break]

for a while, the stars above wait patiently to claim another for themselves. but if he dies, there will be no name to mark his grave — he is not yet monster nor hero, just something nebulous still in the making, something clawing out from the space between the stars. )[break][break]

so, for a while more, maddox remains just that — dead.[break][break]

then—[break][break]

the body convulses. the carcass, sparked.[break][break]

maddox doesn't know what he feels first, actually. it hits all at once: one moment, the world is star-dappled and silent, and he cannot tell ground from sky. the next, the water is no longer pressing down on his limbs, and he sees, through a blur, frantic golden eyes, and the purple-blue-green wash of skyline behind him.[break][break]

here, the body remembers its weight, remembers the connection between synapses, between sensation and skin. the shock hits — an afterimage of it, it must be — but it still feels like a kick to the chest, still feels like something's snapped, still leaves him thoroughly winded. he tries to say something; he instinctively grabs for the hand still hovering above his chest, disoriented; he gasps for air. it is air, this time, not water, but it's too much nevertheless.[break][break]

he ends up choking, coughing; twists away a little in a graceless motion ( he's still trying to be polite, for some reason ), and as he comes back to life, he begins to notice the way the world settles around him once more.[break][break]

first: there's definitely something broken. a rib, he thinks; he can feel it move as he tries — and promptly aborts the attempt — to sit up. he bites back a startled sound; he's surprised by the pain, even though it's a familiar injury.[break][break]

second: there's a strange, burning sensation on his hand, under his rings. his brain distantly supplies a factoid about electricity and jewellery. [break][break]

third: how does the aftermath of drowning hurt more than the actual drowning?[break][break]

fourth: he should say something. his throat is so sore.[break][break]

"i—" he tries, and it comes out as a rasp. he winces. takes a moment. offers a thumbs-up instead ( i'm okay, see? ) before he tries again:[break][break]

"hi." nope, not what he was going for.[break][break]

"you look... worried?" he sits up with some difficulty, now noticing the platformer beneath him. "should i be worried?"[break][break]

he didn't somehow mess up dying, did he?

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two things capture his attention: that the air is warm, and that the sting that punctuates every miniscule movement has not abated. there's a startled hitch in his breath when he turns ever so slightly at the sound of laughter, as though the ability to brace for pain has yet to return.[break][break]

still, the worry fades from his features, replaced by something milder. he is once more tempted to say something cheeky — is tempted to say, well, i'm here, aren't i?[break][break]

there isn't any doubt in his mind about it, after all. or rather, there is no room for it. for every mystery and offering, for every secret and sacrifice, for every chance that hydra is never anything more than a name to an ending waiting to happen—[break][break]

—for every chance that he may have been nothing more than an abruptly truncated story-in-the-making at the hand of ezekiel belgrass, every chance that there had been nothing more to be reborn—[break][break]

—he would have gone willingly, without complaint, fighting instinct to witness everything in aching clarity.[break][break]

[break]

when he does speak, after a nod and reminding himself to breathe shallowly, he sounds curious, almost amused, like he's saying, of course it'll hurt, i wouldn't expect anything else. he watches the notes form above his skin, pale and shimmering. "they kind of look like stars."[break][break]

then, a sharp intake of breath as the magic takes hold and the bone begins to set. a millimeter at a time, jagged edge against jagged edge. it's slow, steady, excruciating.[break][break]

he tries his best not to move. it's a valiant endeavour. he ends up with a hand gripping onto the edge of the platformer for dear life, digging deep enough that he is certain he would have drawn blood if not for that layer of air. it does the job well enough. the pressure swallows the reflexive trembles and flinches from the setting of bones, even if it does nothing to hide the rest of the strain: the shiver of tension across his shoulders, resolution knitted across the slope of his brow, the way his gaze goes glassy for the briefest of moments before they dart back to zeke, and he echoes instinctively, "long live hydra."[break][break]

the next rise and fall of his ribs breathes life into something dead. this body, as always, craves the past tense; maddox is born always bracing for the end of things that have scarcely begun. so he understands, vaguely, the natural consequence of lapping ichor from the hand that feeds, of daring to step closer to the gods, to try to catch the eye of the storm, to say, what is the body you carry behind you? who are you, really?[break][break]

in every myth he has read, he knows the rhythm of feast and famine. he knows, of course, that suffering follows quench, that the rules are stranger the closer one gets to the skies, that celestial bodies move in orbits that collapse end and beginning in chronic retrograde, reliving ravages of then and now.[break][break]

"y'know, saying drowning is one of the most painful ways to die is a little misleading."[break][break]

it's not a circle, he thinks absently. he isn't aeris; his father never drowned. he is maddox ruchbah, reborn a witch of hydra — he knows there is no going back.[break][break]

he's grinning too, a little wry, when the pain finally steadies. "the coming back definitely hurts more."

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long live hydra; that's all there is. it is not a complicated story, just one that lets the moth muster an enthusiasm for the flame, lets clouds shepherd the stars, lets the nights stretch on dark, easy, welcoming.[break][break]

it's not a complicated story. out here, history has sunken its teeth into him, but so has he, into it — the breaths he takes now are but borrowed air, a creature now part relic, part fresh-creation. he's watching carefully when zeke turns towards the horizon; a silhouette lined in reflected light.[break][break]

the curl of his mouth softens into something more solemn. he has always been earnest, and yet gravity has always weighed a little oddly on him, first as a child who has always been convinced that he could fly if he leapt from the tree, then an adult who was uncertain of its weight upon his brow and chased if off as soon as he was aware of it.[break][break]

not now, though. he lets it settle; he says, soft, sincere, "yeah, i know. i won't."[break][break]

it leaves his lips as a promise and enters his mind as a wish. he means it. he wants to keep it. his mind is quiet enough that he believes he can.[break][break]

he doesn't really want to break the silence that falls over them either. so he doesn't: he lets the rhythm of the sea wash over his senses, lets the magic chase the chill from his bones, lets himself relish, indulgently, this moment of quiet.[break][break]

there's a moment, of course, where he thinks to check the odd ache beneath his rings. he examines them curiously — void on thumb, oath on index — and notes, more curious than concerned, the reddened imprints left beneath each, burns blooming indigo in the shadow. if there is blood, he can't tell. it wouldn't matter, anyway. he imagines the marks in detail, lit by bright light: the scarlet dots welling along the ridges of the inscriptions and engravings, spotting like ink-blood after a fresh tattoo.[break][break]

so this is the shape of the reborn: to carry his history on his skin, like his ancestors before him. ( long live hydra; that's all there is. )[break][break]

still, there is the briefest of pauses before they begin to head inland that maddox's hands remain as they are, curiously upturned towards the moon for no one's eyes but his own, altars to private gods bordered in blood.