Lost in Paradise (Peregrine x Kuno)

[Peregrine]

The fighter planes appeared overhead, darkening the midday sky like the shadows of hell.

Brennan o'Faolain's fingers curled tighter around the control wheel the moment the dark silhouettes appeared, a good thousand meters above them. His mouth instantly went dry. How many times had he seen the rounded nose and low-wing profile of the German Messerschmitt? There was no mistaking it for anything else.

What was more, he wasn't in his usual light-flying Spitfire. Instead, he was currently locked in the tiny cockpit of a HP Hampden, a medium bomber plane with a single rear-gun that was drastically weighed down by the payload they were supposed to be dropping hours from now. Instead of their target, nothing flashed below them but the endless waves of the Channel.

Barely managing to swallow, Brenn glanced over his shoulder at the three men who were packed in behind him.

"Drop the bombs."

"...Sir?"

"Drop the bombs, goddammit Orange! Unless you want to see us riddled with bullets before we even have a chance to dodge!"

It was only then that the rest of the crew seemed to notice the black dots in the sky above them. He could hear the muttered curses, the whistling of the air as the bombs were released from the undercarriage, the scream of the engine. He could smell the flames already, gasoline and burning rubber thick enough to make you choke.

"Those aren't supposed to be here. Why are those here!"

"Shut up! Shut up, Cookie. I'll line us up, you just focus on shooting."

Brenn's shouts had a clear calming effect on the other anxious men jammed into the plane's interior. He was the highest ranking officer here, but it wasn't his rank that gave them strength. Instead, it was his reputation.

Britain's best flying ace. The Hero of the Battle of Britain. Luftwaffe's Bane. God of the Sky. London's Lucky Charm.

Perhaps they believed that if anyone could get them and the 19 other bombers that flew along behind them out of this ambush alive, it would be Brennan o'Faolain. But the planes in the distance seemed to unfold as Brenn sent the plane turning sharply to the side. One became two. Two became ten.

And an entire second squadron was flying in from the opposite direction.

"A nightingale sang."

He couldn't hear anything over the sound of the gunshots now, a vicious beat that sent his heart rate soaring. It swallowed up his voice, but he could still feel it vibrating in his chest. The words followed, seeming to bounce around in his head regardless of the fact that he couldn't hear anything other than a rush of static. Even though the sun was out, everything seemed dark, gunpowder sparks creating a shower of stars.

"In Berkeley Square."

His fingers tightened over the trigger, aiming at the aircraft in front of him. And despite the unexpected smoothness of the controls in his grasp, gunfire still echoed in response. He could see it sparking, all the colors so unexpectedly vivid for a night battle.

The smell of fire had grown positively sickening now, mixed with the sharp bite of rusted metal. Smoke was trailing from his left engine, but when he asked the plane to speed up, it nearly bucked forwards, forced into a roll it should have been too heavy to execute. They skidded under one of the enemy crafts, which almost immediately began to spin wildly, its nose completely missing.

"The moon that lingered. Over London Town."

No, the plane wasn't burning. Not yet. But it soon would be if he couldn't find a way to break out of the Bf 109's encirclement. Yet the shadows of hell's angels surrounded him on all sides, and the burning corpses of his allied planes were already spiraling downwards, destined to be swallowed up by the dark waves.

"The streets of Town."

Would they live if they jumped? There was no escape in the air. He could smell blood now. The gunfire had stopped responding to him. Had the gun been taken out?

"Goddammit. Cookie. Cookie!"

"Just… push him aside. Someone has to keep shooting!"

There was no sign of any ships in the water. If they jumped, they'd freeze to death in the water just as surely as they'd burn to death if the fire got to them. Or maybe they'd burn and then drown when the plane sank.

"Were paved with stars."

There were flames now. He could feel the heat on his skin, mixed with a trickle of blood that was running down his shoulder. He couldn't feel his right arm anymore. The flames had completely covered the cockpit's window, but even though he couldn't see anything anymore the way his stomach seemed to twist within his body told him he was in an uncontrolled dive.

He pulled on the controls, riding on pure instinct and the way his body seemed to twist around him under the pressure of gravity to try and get some measure of control back. Yet the plane didn't respond. Everything seemed to have gone silent.

"And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square."

The impact flung him forward, his head colliding with the dash. And as cold water began to rush over his skin, everything went dark.

 

[Kuno]

The water's mirrored surface served as a double-edged sword. One could see the reefs at the bottom of the ocean, the brilliant, iridescent scales of tropical fish swarming the mass of still life at its center. But as the hunter could so easily spot her prey, so too could the reverse occur. It was the only explanation for the canoe that floated upon the crystal edge predatorily. It did more than just provide simple passage for its sole occupant: it obfuscated her entirely.

In the old days, Calypso used to dive straight into the wide expanse of teal and catch the fish with her bare hands. She was strong enough, fast enough. Water was to her what the wind was to a runner. But time passed through her hands like a sieve, and as her isolation stretched long before her, unyielding, her interest in remaining stagnant in her habits waned quickly.

"A nice day again. Maybe I'll catch a shark."

There was no one to talk to but herself. She had grown so used to it now with no one else on that island; who better to spin the yarn with besides herself? The gods thought she had gone mad. Maybe. Maybe not. A more sane person might have found a way to kill themselves by now. But those were the perils of immortality. Nothing like the curse of endless life to make one wish for death.

"I see you. You think you can hide from me but you can't." Calypso peered over the boat's edge at the gaggle of nurse sharks encroaching on the edge of the reef. She caught her reflection in the water's surface; a tan, freckled face, delightfully plain and small. Wisps of brown strands stuck out haphazardly in all directions.

In the distance, something bloomed behind her left ear. Her eyes snapped to the object caught in the water's lens, and then she turned wide-eyed to the source of that peculiar shape.

She had seen them before. Airplanes, Apollo had told her once. Airplanes were what traversed the skies these days much like Helios and his golden chariot. They appeared like gnats among the clouds; buzzing, flying, and meandering about the blue open horizon with all the impatience of a motor vehicle. Ordinarily they flew on, passing her solitary confinement within the span of minutes.

This time the plane was headed straight towards her. And fast.

Calypso rocketed to her feet. It was plummeting towards the sea, this aircraft; black plumes of smoke bled from both of its wings, and the brilliant red of fire flashed like a beacon through its pilot window. Barely, she could see a figure through the glass, his hands on the wheel of the plane. Her eyes strained to see his movements --

It made an impact. The force of the plane hitting the water was a deafening sound; barely ten yards away, Calypso jolted, the reactionary waves smacking against the sides of her canoe and shoving it back. As it bucked to and fro, the woman held on, her eyes locked onto the chaos just yards away. Fire still raged across whatever surface of the plane remained untouched by water. But even that was transient; the right side was sinking, and with it the plane bowed, its nose dipping down into the ocean. She watched as the broken glass of the shattered windows escaped into the water.

She couldn't see the pilot anymore.

The frigid cold of the ocean sluiced over her back as she dove into its depth. She was fast; frantically, her hands clawed forward, forcibly pulling her body forward towards the rapidly descending front of the airplane. The pilot was hunched behind the controls, his head hanging lifelessly forward. Calypso punched through the remaining glass and seized at him, frustration building in her when his body refused to lift. But then she saw it: a restraint of sorts, locking him into place. The seconds ticked by ominously as she fought at the contraption holding in together.

His head broke the surface into air twenty seconds later. A beat passed, and Calypso appeared beside him, gasping as she held him up against her body. He was as still as a corpse. But on the canoe she saw it: his chest moving ever so minutely up and down, his pulse slow...yet steady. The woman sat back against the edge, wiping her drenched hair from her face. There should have been joy in her heart; the man was young - and alive. That he could lay claim to the rest of his life thanks to her should have made her feel anything but the cold resentment she then felt welling up in her like bitter drink.

It was starting again.

--------------------------------------------------

Calypso had little else to do but take care of him.

The pilot hadn't stirred when she'd lugged him onto shore. His eyes did not so much as open a crack as she laid him out on the small cot in her home. Compulsively, she kept checking if he was still breathing, and always each assessment stayed true. The same tiny rise and fall of his chest, the same steady thrum of his heart. She avoided looking at his face longer than necessary as she'd tended to his wounds. He had a pretty nasty gash at his left temple, and his arm had been burned, no doubt the first to be scorched by the raging flames. Luckily, it did not seem worse than second degree.

She started a fire to warm the room before she took a seat by his side, her healing salves and supplies assembled in a basket in her lap like purloined treasures. Her eyes flickered to his face briefly --

-- then down and away, listless.

I will not love this man. I will not love this man.

Slowly, Calypso took a wet rag from her collection and began gently dabbing at the man's bloodied features.

 

[Peregrine]

Smoke stung the back of his throat. He could hear the heady rumble of the plane's engine, the heart-stopping bursts of gunfire that clogged up his chest like cotton. He could hear the radar ping as it found the flying death hidden in the darkness.

Everything was dark. Clouds had obscured the stars and moon, and the spotlight beam seemed to swirl in front of him as it caught on the endless streams of dust that filled the air.

Shadows were swirling at the edges of his eyes. He knew the planes were there, and surely they'd seen him too. In a moment the gunfire would begin, the bullets flicking past him, some occasionally letting out a high-pitched note as they pinged across the metal of his plane.

He had to prepare. Dodge, climb, roll, anything that would get him out of the line of fire. But he couldn't move.

He didn't know where his hands were, even as he desperately struggled to reach for the yoke in front of him, find the triggers. Yet, instead, the entire cockpit seemed to be twisting around him, and the hands of the Germans were clawing at his skin, prying his mouth open, fingers crawling down his throat.

He felt the gorge rising in his throat in protest, and as the whole plane rolled to the side his body twisted like that, his back arching up as he heaved.

A mixture of seawater and bile dribbled out of his mouth, and Brennan couldn't even breathe in before his chest bucked again, stomach contracting in a desperate attempt to remove something that wasn't even there.

The back of his throat was stinging, burning under the raw abrasion of acid and salt. The burning on his tongue felt like the pinprick of tiny needles, but it removed the lingering memory of the flavor of smoke that had filled his mouth.

His heart was racing so fast it felt like it was about to explode out of his chest, but Brenn focused on inhaling the moment his throat relaxed.

He had to focus. The enemy planes wouldn't miss the smallest opening. If he was distracted…

"A nightingale sang…"

He could hear birdsong.

For a moment, all the thoughts in his head seemed to freeze. It was only then that he realized his trembling hands were clenched around the edge of a red blanket, placed over a white stucco bench, instead of wrapped around the yoke of a plane.

He wasn't in the seat of a plane. He wasn't in a plane at all. He was in some sort of building, a dark floor stretching away in front of him. He could smell fresh fruit and clean air. And there was a pair of legs next to him.

Slowly, Brenn lifted his head, before his eyes met another gaze.

"Ah."

It was only then that the memories began to gradually straighten themselves out. He remembered the encirclement of fighter planes, followed only by a blur of chaos that culminated in his plane hurtling towards the ocean.

If he'd had the chance to think of it, he would have assumed he'd never wake up again.

"Thank…" he tried to speak, but the attempt was interrupted by a pained burst of coughing, followed by another bout of nausea.

When his head lifted again, his eyes darted about, looking for the faces of the young men who had been riding in the back of the plane with him. He couldn't find them. "Orange? Cookie?"

But, no. They'd fallen into the middle of the North Sea. There hadn't been a ship in sight, and none of them had time to eject from the plane before it had hit water. The Hapden would have taken on water like a sieve, before being swallowed up into the depths of the ocean. They'd be 50 meters down in a few minutes, nothing better than fish food.

And he'd been in that plane with them.

Brenn's eyes vacantly wandered around again, before finally settling on the woman in front of him. His slow thoughts ground to a halt once more.

She was as delicate and refined as an orchid flower. Delicate freckles dusted her cheek, framing a slightly upturned nose. Soft lips, and gentle, doe-like eyes.

As he stared at her face, a single tear rolled down Brenn's cheek.

"I didn't think I'd make it."

He'd sent bombs dropping over Berlin, and fighter pilots crashing into the heart of London. Who knew how many innocent lives had perished at his hands. He'd thought Heaven far out of his reach. Yet an angel had come for him anyway.

 

[Kuno]

Calypso

They always came injured. Her boys, her cursed gifts from Zeus. Only birds with broken wings stayed grounded, and so, too, did the same philosophy follow for the ones she saved.

Calypso always watched them wake. Like birds, they were wild and unpredictable upon first waking. The gods only knew what horrors had been rendered to them before coming to her island, and it always took a moment to settle them. To reassure them that they were safe, that they were alive, and that their reality had not been shattered. In that regard, at least, the fallen goddess could empathize. She knew it was like to feel in an instant that your world was upended from around you.

Trying to avoid looking at the man's face was like abstaining from water in the fiery heat of the desert. The battle's outcome was inevitable; the longer he slept, the more Calypso's eyes drifted to her ward. She rather deliriously told herself it was in order to continue assessing him, but ah - lying to one's self was a poor reflection of age.

The dark curls atop his head had dried and unfurled, framing his youthful, pale face. Ancient men of old had once pined for defined, sculptured features like his, a Michaelangelo-like perfection to his largely unmarred skin. The bandage about his skull covered the sole injury at his forehead, and Calypso could not help thinking what a shame it was that it would leave a scar.

His eyes were a warm brown when they finally opened an hour or so later.

Calypso waited. She watched them cloud with confusion, rolling about the room with no direction and no understanding. His lips parted and…

...gibberish spilled out. Words and sounds in no particular order interrupted by a coughing fit that had the woman lean in, prepared to help him. But no such assistance was needed. The man righted himself - physically, mentally, and emotionally.

"I didn't think I'd make it."

Calypso looked away from the unspoken appreciation in his eyes. "You're lucky," She replied back in English, picking up on his native tongue. On the small table beside her were the dregs of her unused bandages, salves, and an ewer of water. She grabbed hold of the alabaster finish and poured some into a cup.

"Are you in pain? Discomfort?" Her eyes drew up to meet his own again. The man's skin had colored well from the heat, although it still held a faintly pallid sheen. She pressed a hand to his flushed skin; it was warm, though whether from the blankets she had layered upon him, from the fireplace, or from a budding fever, she could not say just yet.

Raising the cup, she brought it to his lips.

"Drink. Just a little, slowly," She urged.

 

[Peregrine]

"Lucky..." Brenn repeated softly, the word causing a strange surge of conflicting emotions to rise his heart and wrap out around his lungs and stomach. For a moment, he felt like puking again. So many people had called him lucky. Lucky to survive so many brushes with death, nary a scar to prove it happened. Lucky that many dangers had seemed to skate around him as though by chance or happenstance. He'd hated it.

Brennan would have considered it true luck to be born in a completely different era, one where bombs and bullets didn't fall from the sky with impunity.

Yet he couldn't completely deny her words. It was his greatest fortune in life that God hadn't turned away his soul, after everything he'd done. After everything this war had forced him to do. After everything his superiors had demanded of him. After...

The angel's question brought him out of his erratic thoughts, his trembling pupils stilling and once more coming to rest on her face. The edge of the house was wide open, looking out at a paradisiacal garden. The flowers and lush greenery framed her face like an aura.

It was a welcome distraction from the headache that had wrapped around his head like a rubber band was squeezing his brain, or the persistent aching in his right shoulder. In fact, most of his body ached, a mixture of tension, cold, and stress that hadn't quite faded away from his muscles.

He had always heard that heaven was painless, that every injury or disability would be rendered whole. However, as his eyes once more wandered to the lush garden that filled his vision, he found himself easily accepting the contradiction.

It was a courtesy, a period of adaption that would allow him to adjust to this new reality, and a reminder. It stood as a reminder of the past he'd come from, positioned in sharp contrast to the garden in front of him, the delicate angel that was tending to him, the rich fruit that sat in a bowl on the table next to him. All of it so that he wouldn't forget how blessed he was to be here now.

The pain seeming to echo backwards to every other wound that had marred his flesh and shed his blood since the moment this hated war had begun. For how long had he dreamed of paradise, an escape from it all? The angel's cool hand lifted the fringe of his hair, resting on his forehead, and he found himself once more staring into her eyes.

He didn't image a day would ever come when he could take such a beautiful sight for granted.

"It's fine," he replied, voice still hoarse from the stinging in his throat. Unconsciously, he licked his dry lips, only to see the angel lifting a cup for him a moment later. As it came to the edges of his lips his shaking hands unconsciously lifted to brace it. However, rather than cold ceramic, his fingers met warm, soft skin.

His hand immediately flinched backwards, his eyes dropping to stare into the depths of the cup. As he carefully sipped at the water, a flush stained his cheeks.

 

[Kuno]

Calypso

Ah. He was blushing.

Calypso said nothing, but her eyes averted. Youth and its ticks, as they were so wont to do, intruded in the strangest of moments. The illusion of not noticing it was the best reprieve she could give for him. She let her hands linger just long for him to take a proper drink, and then she was pulling away, setting the cup down beside her.

Men made for tricky patients. They liked to hide the hurt, driven by either foolish pride or quiet humility to dismiss the injuries wrought to their bodies. The man's admission that he was fine - despite his own hands shaking from sick - had brought a familiar tilt to the goddess' brow.

"As you wish," she replied curtly. Why argue with him? He would be confined to that bed until he was well, regardless of his own opinions towards his health.

Speaking of his health. Calypso's gaze drew up to the bandage about his temple. How hard had he hit his head? She fixed herself straight in her seat, meeting his eyes with a level gaze.

"I was out on my boat when I saw your plane come down. I...didn't have time to see if there were others on there." Though knowing the gods and their foul sense of humor, any other men aboard would have been dead long before impact just to frustrate her efforts. Mayhaps Zeus' hand had brought the vessel down itself. "I brought you back to my island several hours ago. Did what I could to patch you up," She explained loosely.

Of course, the feeble magic used to heal the burns on his arm went unmentioned. Not that it would matter if he was concussed.

"Can you tell me who you are?"

 

[Peregrine]

When your plane came down.

The words seemed to echo in Brenn's head like rumbling waves of thunder after the strike of lightning. The people of Britain might have called him the God of the Sky or the King of Aerial Warfare, but to Brenn the sky had always seemed more like a curse than a blessing. Who would have imagined that love and excitement had once brought him to the plane. He cursed that choice, cursed his younger self.

A plane wasn't freedom. It was gunpowder and smoke and gasoline and blood. It was the heat of flames as the endless drone of the engine was interrupted like the coughing of the ill. He didn't... he didn't want to think about it.

He realized he'd started humming at some point he didn't recognize, the noise nothing more than a faint vibration at the base of his throat as he slowly exhaled. For a moment, he heard the sharp voice of his commanding officer.

Pay attention, goddammit Brenn.

Even if he knew that voice was nothing but a figment, he couldn't help but introduce himself by his full military rank.

"Group Captain Brennan O'Faolain."

But what was the point of rank in Heaven? None.

There was no point.

"...Brenn. Just call me Brenn."

The feeling of relief that swept through him seemed to ease his clenched mind, and the echo of her voice slowly surfaced back in his memory.

"James Lacey. Anthony Doe. Theodore Thorn. They're good kids. Good kids in a bad situation. I don't know if you can put in a word for them? It's the last thing I can request as their officer. They deserve far more than I do."

 

[Kuno]

Calypso

An airship captain. He looked young for someone of such high rank. His name, too, was funny; Brennan O'Faolain. It sounded so musical rolling off his tongue. If memory served her correctly, then perhaps he was...Scottish? Irish? Somewhere from over there. The gods truly had hand delivered him to her.

Unfortunately, the man stopped making much sense soon after that, and what little faith he had instilled in her of his own lucidity quickly dissipated. Calypso stared blankly.

"Put in...a word for them?" She echoed. "Put in a word...what?"

His eyes were so clear, so open -- was it possible he was hallucinating?

"I don't know who those men are. If they were with you on the plane, they're dead now." The words were unexpectedly blunt, but Calypso was unfazed. "I'm sorry. Perhaps when you're better and can go home, you can put in a...word for them."

Whatever that meant.

Abruptly Calypso stood, going over to the fireplace. If he was awake, she would get him to eat something. The soup she had made earlier while he slept had cooled some, and she hung it on an iron hook above the dancing flames. A word for them…

Should Apollo come, she would ask him what he thought of that.

 

[Peregrine]

Brenn's head shook sadly. "Yeah. I know. There was no way to survive that."

Brenn had always found death terrifying. Even when so much of it surrounded him, he'd always avoided it. Even as he brought it upon others, he'd always fought it off with a passion. Surely those boys had been scared, as they plunged to their deaths. He couldn't remember, but he believed it.

Now that the moment had finally come, he could only pray they felt half as much relief as he did, waking up to find such a beautiful afterlife waiting for him. Because if he made it into Heaven, surely they could, too.

"I don't know if my word will count for anything. I may be a servant of God, but I'm still just a man in the end. I doubt someone like me gets any say in a soul's judgement."

When he went home. Wasn't Heaven the final home of all of them? Where was he going?

If this wasn't Heaven yet, then it must be Purgatory. A place for his soul to rest and heal, while he waited for judgement.

...Maybe he hadn't made it to Heaven yet. Maybe he wouldn't make it at all. If that was the case, he would have preferred being cast directly to Hell. At least then, he wouldn't have to suffer with the memory of a taste of paradise.

Yet she'd said he was lucky. Surely a woman as beautiful as her wouldn't torment him with false hope.

"How long will it be, miss Angel? Until I can go to Heaven? There are a lot of people waiting there I'd like to meet again."

 

[Kuno]

Calypso

The idea of putting a sleep-inducing herb in Brennan's soup was tempting. Misplaced selfishness aside, the man needed sleep. The body needed rest to heal, and Calypso was certain that his babbling would only grow worse the longer she continued to pry information from him. She was pushing him too much. Still - it was important to let him say his piece, no matter how muddled and strange it was.

Just a little soup, she thought to herself. Just a little to help him sleep.

He was talking about God as she sat back across from him. Not a god; the God. Her eyes scanned his face sporadically, darting away every now and then to the setting sun outside her door.

And then he called her something odd.

The bowl was hot in her hands, and yet the sensation went ignored, forgotten. Her eyes stared intently at Brennan.

He...he thought this was heaven. And that she…

Gods above.

"You're mistaken. I'm not an angel." She leaned in closer, her eyes searching. Could he see? Could he see the imperfection of her living body? Could he hear the honest inflection of her voice? "Brennan, you and I - we are alive. I took you from the water before you died. I brought you back to my island to heal. Look-"

In an instant, she seized one of his free hands, rough skin pressed against the smoothness of her palms.

"Look," She urged again. "Feel. Can't you feel my heartbeat in my hands? You - we are alive. I'm not going to let you die, okay?"

 

[Peregrine]

Not an angel? Alive?

It didn't seem possible. The words were almost foreign to him. Meaningless noise.

Yet he felt his breath hitch in his throat, adrenaline suddenly causing his heartrate to skyrocket in something that far more resembled panic than it did relief. How many times had he escaped death by the skin of his teeth, somehow managing to walk away from something that should have been fatal with nothing but a little bit of blood and ringing in his ears?

And then they'd give him a week to rest, and send him right back out to the battlefield.

How many times had he just considered running? Escaping to somewhere far away from the bullets and death. Yet it seemed the entire world was getting consumed by war. There was nowhere to run. So he just kept fighting.

Brenn's circling thoughts were interrupted by the soft touch of her skin against his palm. But even more than the warmth of her hand, he felt her gentleness. Her kindness. His drifting eyes lingered on her face for a moment, before straying around the house. Unfamiliar architecture. And a gentle paradise that waited outside the window.

Embracing her fingers with his own, Brenn gently shook his head. "It's okay," he reassured, not even entirely sure why he was trying to comfort her. Maybe it was a part of the rules. He didn't know. But there were several things he did know.

"My plane went down in the middle of the North Sea. There was nothing but freezing ocean water for dozens of kilometers in every direction. A place like this... there's nothing like it within a hundred kilometers of where we were shot out of the sky."

Yes, this place was impossible. A beautiful miracle, the realm of the divine.

"I thought I'd be afraid of being dead, but I'm not. I'm calm. I'm just grateful that I get to spend the rest of eternity in such a paradise."

 

[Kuno]

Calypso

Truly, Calypso had misjudged him. It wasn't that the soldier had hit his head too hard, no; the boy was entirely cognizant of his environment. Too cognizant...hence, the subsequent disbelief. The cold, brittle Northern Sea - they could not have been anywhere more different. Yes, of course he thought he was in heaven.

Still. Her empathy did not dull her frustration.

With a long sigh, the Titan released his hand. "A paradise, huh…"

He wouldn't understand any of it then and there. Not the reasoning behind him being there, nor the faint bitterness in her tone at her prison being called a paradise. She took a moment to try and rein in the spite that always rose anew at the beginning of this process, but a frown still hovered on her lips as she looked down, jaw clenched.

"I am...glad. Glad that you are calm," She finally said, gaze rising to meet him once more. "That is good."

It begged the question: would he still be just as calm when she made him understand what had really happened? Perhaps he'd be truly disappointed and leave sooner - which was better. The sooner the men made their inevitable departure, the better; for her, and for them. He was no different.

The heat in her hands reminded her of her obligations, and she slowly raised it, letting Brennan see it.

"I have soup here that I made. I'd like you to eat some, and then get some rest. So you can-"

Heal, she wanted to say. But people didn't need to heal in heaven, right? Or so the talk of the pantheons went. Calypso cleared her throat.

"I'll show you around this place later."

 

[Peregrine]

"Yes."

Emotions. Even now, in the calm and safety of death, they rattled about in him. Like chaos. Like a never-ending torture that threatened to drag him into a darkness he couldn't see, only feel. They built up in his chest, dark and thick as dirty oil.

He could feel the emotions coming off her, too, radiating like waves. They tasted like salt and oil and blood.

He didn't want to think about them. Not hers, not his.

The longer he sat here, the more sense it made that he couldn't go straight to Heaven. He was dirty. Unclean. War had stained him so much that even Heaven couldn't accept him in this state.

So there was nothing to do but wait. Wait for this paradise to slowly wash him clean, until he was finally worthy.

His head was spinning, causing nausea to rise up his throat once more. The heat of the bowl of soup he received from the angel's hand seemed to radiate through his palm, up his arm. The smell of salt and fish and garlic tickled the inside of his nose, and he raised the bowl to his lips almost reflexively.

As the hot soup poured down his throat, the thick liquid soothing his smoke-burned throat, Brenn couldn't help but let out an almost reflexive hum, the noise half relief and half contented rumble.

He lowered the bowl of soup slowly, savoring its flavor. It wasn't rich in the way some of the heavily spiced soups he'd eaten in London might be, but it was simple and wholesome. "I'll rest," he agreed. "There's no hurry."

His eternity had only just begun, after all.