Death
Inside the white walls and floors of St. Mungo’s Hospital, past the receptionist’s office and all the way down the hall of the ICU unit, a boy sat by the bedside of the patient in Room 400, holding her hand.
He was a small boy, average for his age, but small nonetheless, because he was only eleven. His hair was dark and unruly, falling over his forehead in thick curls and sticking out at the top of his head in a stubborn cowlick that refused to go away, no matter how many receptionists with hairdressers for sisters took a crack at it with the scissors from the front desk.
He wore a navy blue jacket, dark jeans and a gray sweater, even though it was May, and he would sooner cook to death in the stiffing New York summer. His clothes were expensive, but too big for him, like he was expecting a growth spurt any day now. The red nylon backpack he took to school every day hung snugly around his shoulders, stuffed to the brim.
In the reflection of his rectangular glasses, the red lines of the heart monitor machine rose and dipped like a mountain range.
“James?”
“Yes, Ma’?”
Euphemia smiled at him, her expression warm and loving despite it all— despite the pale pallor of her skin, despite the knitted cap fitting snugly around her skull, despite the breathing tubes wrapped around her cheeks like a crown that slipped a little too far of her head.
Despite, despite, despite.
“You have to go to school, James.” Euphemia squeezed his hand. It probably took all of her strength, but it was strong. Firm. The strength of a woman who did not go down without a fight. “Education is important.”
“Of course, Ma’.” James said quietly. “I’ll go soon.”
“That’s good.” Euphemia closed her eyes again, sighing softly. “That’s good, my James. Ah, what did I do to get a son like you?”
“You were just good, Ma’.” James took her hand in both of his own, bringing her feather-soft knuckles up to his lips. “You were just a good mother.”
Euphemia laughed softly. The sound was like honey, dripping over the steady beeps and thrums of machinery. “Oh, my James. A charmer just like your father, that’s what you are.”
James smiled softly. “You liked his charm, Ma’, from what I hear.”
Euphemia laughed again. It was breathy, soft. Her eyes couldn’t seem to stay open. “He’ll be by soon, don’t you worry. You can get the whole story from him.”
“I know the whole story,” James said. He blinked back the wetness in his eyes as he smiled at her. “You were right here in this hospital. Running rounds. The girl that had fallen into a coma after giving birth had just woken up. You were so happy, because her daughter was such a—”
“—Such a doll, yes,” Euphemia sighed. “I thought it was one of our nurses in the room with her. Turns out I wasn’t even close.”
“He thought you were lovely.” James continued. “The loveliest doctor in the whole city.”
Euphemia sighed again. “He was pretty lovely himself… my Fleamont. He’ll be by soon, James. Soon.”
James lowered his head to the bed, pressing their clasped hands to his forehead. “I know Ma’.” He whispered. “I know.”
There was silence then, nothing but the steady beeping of the machines and the soft hissing of the breathing tubes to keep him company. Nobody came to check on them, no nurses, no doctors, not even the spirits dared to poke their nosy heads through the walls.
James Potter was alone at his mother’s bedside.
Dr. Euphemia Potter. The highest ranked female doctor in the entire city, in the entirety of New England. The daughter of immigrants that fought her way to the top by tooth and nail, part of the first big waves of women that made their way through doctorate school. She was known for being caring and gentle, for making every patient feel loved. And she was strong— the strongest woman James knew.
She was his mom.
And she was dying.
James didn’t know how long he sat there, holding her hands in his own, watching her sleep while the sounds of everything else faded away.
It must have been a long time, because his legs were starting to fall asleep by the time he noticed the man standing at his shoulder.
He was tall and slender, and dressed in all black; slacks, a turtleneck, and a long trench coat. His jet-black hair hung around his head in soft waves, and his tanned face was clean-shaven, like one of his mom’s favorite Bollywood stars.
For a moment he just stood there silently, watching his mom sleep with his hands tucked in his pockets. Then, without moving, or breathing, or displaying any other signs of life, he spoke.
“Hello, James.”
James gripped his mother’s hand tighter. He did not look in his direction. “Hello.”
The man sighed softly, as if expecting that. “You know why I am here?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know who I am?”
“...Yes.”
This time, a soft chuckle escaped the man’s lips. “You don’t sound so sure.”
James swallowed. “You’re a god. One of the gods of the Underworld.” The shadows writhed nervously at his feet, reaching long tendrils up towards the hospital bed. “You’re my father.”
The god took his hand out of his pocket. James noticed there was a faded red string tied around his wrist— just like the one his mom had. He poked the air and it rippled, as if it were a pond. The machines stopped beeping. The hum of noise from the hospital faded away. His mother’s breathing paused. Even the colors dulled, as if he were looking at an old photograph through dirty lenses. James whipped around in alarm. “What did you do?”
His father turned his head towards him, allowing James to see his face. He had two differently colored eyes; one black as night, and the other as red as blood. They seemed to flicker, as if he were staring into torchlight.
“I am Zagreus.” He said softly. “The god of rebirth, childhood innocence, and lifeblood. The Prince of the Underworld, the Lord of Snakes, the Ruler of Elysium, and the Guard of the Isles of the Blessed.” Zagreus placed his hand gently on James’s head. “You are my son. You should never have been born.”
James felt like he’d been punched. Out of instinct, his eyes flicked towards his mother, lying frozen in time.
“Do not mistake the facts for my feelings,” Zagreus continued, catching his gaze. “I very rarely fall in love with mortal women. Even rarer the woman that can see through the mist— the woman that falls in love with who I truly am.”
Zagreus’s eyes shuttered, and James saw grief and pain fill his gaze, before being washed away by his reserved expression.
“I loved your mother dearly, James.” He continued. “And I fear…. I may have loved her too much, caused the fates to take notice on her. On you. You were never supposed to be born. The Sea, the Sky, the Underworld, we are rulers of domains that are too powerful for humanity. You, will be too powerful for humanity, James. I swore an oath, and I have broken it.”
James tried to swallow the emotions bubbling up inside of him. So much displaced grief, love, relief— his father had swept into his life at what felt like the very end of it, with his soft voice and his hand warm atop his head. He felt grounded and flighty at the same time, as if his body was flying away and leaving his heart behind.
“Why are you here now?” He whispered. “Why…” Why at this moment? Why tell him now, now that he would be in the worst danger of his life? Why now that he would be all alone?
“Your mother is dying.” Zagreus murmured. “You know this.”
James inhaled shakily. “Yes.”
“I am here to take her with me.”
Tears dripped down his face. “Yes.”
“Do not despair. You have seen death all your life, James Potter. You know she will be happier where she is going. She cannot stay with you.” Zagreus paused. “This part of your life will be hard. You will be alone.”
James could barely see through the tears gushing out of his eyes. “Yes,” he choked out.
Zagreus knelt down, wiped the tears on his cheeks.
“It hurts to be reborn, does it not?” He whispered gently. “The light burns when you have lived your life in darkness. That does not mean you do not need it to see. You are being set free, James. Your life will be whatever you make of it. Everything you have learned, the love that you have been blanketed with, it will be your cover in the cold. You will not be alone forever. That is a life the fates have yet to make. So do not fear. You are my son. You will know how to start again. You will be reborn as many times as you need to. Death is not always of the soul, James.”
“Death is letting go.” James sniffled, recalling his mother’s voice when the ghosts outnumbered them and he did not know how to make them go away. “And I choose when to let go.”
Zagreus smiled at that. “Yes you do.”
He stood up then, walking past him to his mother’s bedside. Even in the silence of the moment, Zagreus’s expression seemed to sing a thousand songs, speak a thousand breaths.
“Euphemia, darling,” he whispered, “it’s time to go.”
There was nothing, at first. Then she exhaled softly, and from her prone body rose a shimmering iridescent spirit, brighter than any ghost that haunted the halls of St.Mungo’s, brighter than the stars at night, than any sun in the sky.
“Fleamont,” Euphemia Potter sighed, and she was eleven years younger now, dark curls trailing past her like a curtain of silk, worry lines fading to lively young skin. “You came.”
“Of course, my love.” Zagreus said, placing a kiss on her transparent knuckles. “I promised, didn’t I?”
“Still such a charmer.” She laughed. “Who would’ve thought.”
“The Underworld isn’t all dark and gloomy.” Zagreus said. “My mother is the goddess of spring after all.”
He smiled softly, and for a moment, his reserved expression gave way to something… bright. Lively. The kind of face that could belong to a god of childhood. “We even have gardens.”
Euphemia laughed again, her translucent form lighting up like a flickering sun. She looked away from him to where James was still standing, holding in his tears in with all his might. His mother looked beautiful. She always looked beautiful, but now, in the shadow of Zagreus’ magic, hand in hand with the Prince of Darkness, she looked radiant.
Wasn’t that just cruel irony, that at the moment of her death, she looked more alive than ever? Or maybe... it was how things were meant to be. Perhaps it was life that dimmed the light of the spirit. Perhaps it was not cruel irony, but the way of the world.
James didn’t know. He didn’t care. There was only on truth in his heart he cared about, and she was leaving him forever.
“I love you, Ma’.” James whispered. “For as long as the stars live.”
Euphemia floated closer, cupped his cheek with her translucent fingers. They were cool and silky, and carried none of the warmth of his mother’s calloused skin. “And I’ll love you, James,” she murmured. “Long after the stars have gone.”
James closed his eyes, and felt the cool press of his mother’s kiss on his forehead one last time. His tears flowed freely, crashing down his cheeks like torrents of rain. It’s not fair. He thought. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.
When James opened his eyes again, his parents were gone.
He was alone in his mother’s hospital room.
For that at least, he found room in his heart to be grateful. Euphemia’s body had disappeared along with her— James didn’t think he could handle looking at his mother so empty and lifeless when she had always been everything but.
One final mercy from the god of the place where mercy did not exist, he supposed.
James didn't know how long he stood there, crying silently. When he finally came back to himself, he wiped his face with his sleeves, streaking his jacket cuffs with snot and tears.
James grimaced at the sight of them. He supposed he should get used to being dirty. It would be hard to stay clean now that monsters would be on his tail for the rest of his life.
James looked at his disgusting sleeves. His stomach rolled. No. Not yet. He wasn’t running for his life yet.
He was in the middle of wiping his face and jacket clean with the complementary tissues on the beside table when a cold whisper of wind crossed his spine, and a shimmery transparent head popped out of the wall next to him.
“Hey, J-man, I felt death roll through here— but it was weird death, you know, like not Death, death, you know.” The spirit hesitated, seemingly realizing the state James was in. “Uh, is your momma… you know, gone now?”
Way to be sensitive about it. James tossed the tissues in the trash and rubbed his face. He felt like he’d been run over by a truck. Maybe two trucks. His heart ached so badly, he would probably read a flatline if anyone tried wiring him. And here was Lalo, rubbing sewage in the wound.
Ghosts. They hadn’t had hearts in so long they’d forgotten how to use them. At least they had given him up until now before invading his privacy.
James sniffled and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. He couldn’t let himself linger. He couldn’t let himself fall apart. People would have questions, especially now that his mother’s body was… especially now that they had an empty bed where there should not be an empty bed.
CPS would be at the scene in milliseconds, ready to whisk him away to some stranger’s house. The only reason they hadn’t gotten him yet was because the hospital staff had pulled every string in the book to keep him by his mother’s side. James already practically lived at the hospital anyway, so what was a few more months surrounded with qualified people he had known since birth watching him?
“Lalo,” James croaked. Jeez, his voice was wrecked. “Did the machines alert anybody?”
“No sir, bossman, Cleotilda disconnected everything per-fec-tly.”
James nodded and fixed his glasses more securely on his nose. “Okay. As far as anyone knows, I’m going to school like normal. If anyone asks questions, or gets suspicious—”
“Run ‘em through and make em’ shiver.” Lalo whooped. James ignored his crazy air somersaults and clenched his hands in his pockets. He could do this. He could. He was ready.
James was not ready.
The hospital looked unchanged. The nurses still hurried through the hallways, smiling and waving when they saw him. The doctors still nodded in his direction. His patient friends still called out to him from their respective rooms. James Potter made his way to school like he always did, backpack on his back, corny jokes and bad attempts at flirting with the nurses on his lips.
There was nothing outwardly different at St. Mungo’s hospital on that lovely and bright May morning.
Nothing except James himself.
He could pretend. He could pretend very well. He could smile, and joke, and walk with a fabricated pep in his step.
But James wasn’t the same. He knew it, and the ghosts knew it. The ghosts that trailed behind him in one huge mass, following along behind him on his premeditated path like a funeral procession following behind a casket.
Every hallway they passed, people shivered and pulled their hospital gowns tighter around themselves. Nurses hesitated on their clipboards. Doctors shivered while taking temperatures.
They were ghosts of motorcycle accidents. Gunshot wounds. Cancer. AIDS. Childbirth.
They followed James Potter past the Maternity Ward he had been born in. The children’s room he had grown up in. The vending machine he always got his sugar cookies and Coke from. The cafeteria that packed his lunch. The receptionists that taught him how to write in cursive.
They followed him all the way to the hospital entrance, hovering behind him when James hesitated at the glass double doors.
”What’s wrong dear?”
Martha. Died of childbirth. Relishes any chance to be the mother she never got to be.
”I… don’t know,” James whispered. He stared at the tip of his white shoe, frozen at the edge of the upside down WELCOME mat. “I can’t move.”
He couldn’t. He couldn’t take another step.
”We talked about this James.”
Paul. 17. Home invasion that ended with a knife through the gut.
“You’ve got to allow yourself to let go,” he continued, “You’re still clinging with the skin of your teeth. Come on, step outside. Be free and find yourself, man.”
James swallowed. He didn’t feel much like a man at the moment. But he had to be. He had to be brave. He was on his own now, after all.
James turned to look back at the hospital one last time. The white and green walls. The ugly flowerpot artworks. The patients waiting to be attended, sitting in chairs along the curve of the reception hall.
One of them caught his eye. A woman. She rose half out of her chair and opened her mouth, probably to ask him if he was alright. James really needed her to not do that. He might burst into tears if she did.
”Young man, are you—“
”WHOOOO!” Lalo flew out of the woman’s chest and spun twice around her head, making her shudder so violently that she plopped right back down into her chair without saying a word. “THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!”
James had to stifle the urge to drop his jaw all the way to the floor. That was NOT what he had meant.
Lalo just grinned at him, something soft in the gleam of his translucent eyes. “Go, J-man,” he said flashing him a wink. “We’ve got your back.”
Lalo. Died of AIDS at 21.
James swallowed. He gave him a jerky nod and turned around again, facing the doors he had walked through a hundred times before.
This time, he would not be walking through them as little James, son of Dr. Euphemia Potter.
In fact, he wouldn’t ever be that boy again.
Steeling his nerves and inhaling sharply, James Potter, demigod son of the Prince of the Underworld, walked out of St. Mungo’s hospital with his chin held high and his fists clenched tightly around his backpack straps.
He did not look back.