Ajak had been more than a healer. More than an eternal.
She had been their leader. An unwavering presence. A guide.
There had always been a tangible genuinity, a radiant warmth, a calm, steady, almost mothering presence about her that had permeated every movement made, word spoken, soft-wizened gaze given. Ajak had always known what to say, how to comfort, how to make a mission that had spanned thousands of years passed its expiration date seem palatable. Worth it.
She knew how to soothe calm into the fiery redhead that was Sprite, slow down Makarri's rapidly fluttering mind, put Ikaris in his place.
She had heralded them through centuries, shepherded them through difficult journeys, and even in the end, even when she’d released them at the tail-end of a budding war to live their own lives as they pleased, it was not because she had turned her backs on them.
No. Never.
Because it was her words, her actions that had made them a family.
She had told them then, that they’d always have her to come back too, that they’d always have an ear that would listen, a shoulder to lean on. That she’d always want to hear their stories.
It should not have been so easy to leave.
Their roots ran deep. Millennium after millennium.
A family is forever. For them more so than others.
But they did. They left.
Those months turned to years to decades, and for some of them, centuries.
Only a few took her up on offer, even then, only in fleeting moments.
Even for him, only in fleeting moments.
And now Ajak is Dead.
Then Gilgamesh. The fearless protector.
Now Ikaris. The too loyal soldier. His death was almost the worst, even with the betrayal, because the remnants of Sersi’s connection meant they’d all felt the burn when he’d flown into the searing sun.
And now Phastos stands on the shore, feet sinking into pockets of wet sand as the tide rushes in, the wind cold, forbearing, ushering in silence as the thready gold of his ability siphons back inward and he looks at what is left of his team.
His family.
Thena, faced away from the others, a precarious balance of regalness and fragility, alone by the shore.
Sprite. Freshly turned human. Shivering now that the warmth of immortality had been sapped away.
Sersi. Their newly minted leader, holding back tears and abortive movements, so clearly fighting back not only grief but struggling to reconcile the enormity of everything she’d just done.
Druig, who trembles, his lanky form swathed in crimson, swaying in the wind as the reality of what Ikaris had done came to a frightening fruition, leaning up against Makarri, who for once in her life, was so frightening still.
It is terrifyingly familiar. The aftermath of war.
The calm after the storm that no one ever really talks about.
Where the demons are fresh, but the adrenaline is gone.
In the past, it would have been Ajak who gathered them, who made sure all was well, when the deviant threat was eliminated. Gilgamesh would have prepared them a feast of colorful fruits and dark red meats and grains. Until one by one they came out of their heads and allowed themselves to join the festive celebrations of whatever nation-state that hosted them.
Now their guides are gone and the beasts defeated are not the Deviants but instead two of their own.
It is uncharted territory and Phastos recognizes the nervous thrum of jadeness, how every single one of them seems lost. Somehow young, even when he knows the truth now, knows that none of them had ever actually aged.
He can almost feel the ghostly presence of Jack nuzzling up against him and Ben hugging his pants leg, begging for one more piggyback ride.
That painful knowing itches under his skin as present as the sand beneath his feet and Phastos already knows what he has to do.
Ben and Jack were his family. His world.
But this is his family too.
And they have nowhere to go.
Makarri, the forever nomad, he knows had never set down any kind of roots
Druig's isolated, self-made haven, had been demolished in one of the first attacks, all his people forced to have been let go.
Sprite was a child now. Literally, in more ways than one.
And Thena… without Gilgamesh. It was an accident waiting to happen, through no fault of her own.
The only one who has any kind of halfway stable living situation is Sersi who makes do with masquerading as a history teacher in a small flat in East London. And something tells Phastos she won't be headed back there any time soon.
His hands throb again like they usually did when he used his powers for too long and he swallows hard to try and stifle the burgeoning headache attempting to take residence at the back of his head.
He sighs.
He knows what he has to do.
“Guys… Let’s go home.”