{se} my lips are full of ruby lies

Jude

I remembered I had fists today
I wash my hands and they are red like the sunsets of paradise

Jude had always hoped he'd be a better person than his parents. Not that they were bad people, but every child wants to achieve more, to heal, to do better. They think themselves above the vices and coping mechanisms of the people that created them.

As a fist cracks against his cheek, forcing him backward into a chair and making his ears ring with the trauma of the blow, Jude wonders if this is all inevitable.

He's drunker than he's ever been and he still knows it's not enough. Still too pathetic and young to know how to hold his liquor properly enough to achieve more than the faint vestiges of drunkenness. It does nothing to dull the hurt of his head hitting the floor, or the boot that finds his ribs. At least it lends him enough coordination to sweep the man's legs out from under him, sending him crashing down to the floor and allowing Jude the chance to struggle on top of him, grab the front of his shirt and punch downward blindly again, and again, and again -

He's pulled off, he doesn't know by who. Thrown out into the chill of the night, swollen eye creating blurry vision that makes the bonfires in the distance multiply. The waves are loud, unnaturally so, and the discordant noise hurts his ringing ears. Stumbling away, he sags against the farthest edge of the building he can reach and sinks down to sit with his head between his knees. Only then does he start to cry, fingers grasping tight at his own shoulders until the fabric bunches and his knuckles bleed white. Ugly, heaving cries that scarcely have enough air for their own creation.

It hadn't helped. The drinking, the fighting, the hurt or the cold. Everything is still wrong, and for the first time in his life Jude is left with nothing more than his anger and his hurt. Such a well-mannered boy, people used to compliment in crooning, grateful tones. Never troublesome, always soft-spoken. So what is he supposed to do with all this anger now?

Am I a murderer?
Or did I just kill all my thoughts in self-defense?

The King swam slowly down the canal. There had been a time when he would have stopped in the bar for a drink and a quiet greeting to its owner, watching the people gather and chatter and sing drunken songs while he quietly enjoyed their successes and their energy.

Now, he was uncertain of his welcome, and Torchline's waves were large enough this season without adding to them. The Tidebreaker was turning away, prepared to swim past on his way to the shore and the open sea beyond, when the muffled, hoarse sobbing reached his ears.

It would not be the first time someone was crying outside a bar. But there was a hopeless, wounded note to the sound that reached straight through the scars that crossed his chest and plucked lightly at the strings of his heart, pulling him nearer. As near as the water's edge would let him come, at least. In the end it did not matter who it was; one of his people was hurt, and perhaps he could offer some solace.

But in the end it did matter as emerald eyes recognized Jude in the darkness, and the Mer King paused for only a moment in stunned silence before he pulled himself out of the water until only the end of his tail still trailed in the canal. He had nothing to offer except his presence, but his deep voice was quiet as he spoke. "May I stay here with you awhile?"

Jude

I remembered I had fists today
I wash my hands and they are red like the sunsets of paradise

Most Torchers have the decency - or the indecency - to leave someone alone in the depths of their misery. Even a young man like himself. No matter how kind Hadama may be, or how civilized Torchline has been shaped to be, too many years of self-service has taught the citizens to turn a blind eye to the suffering of others.

He's not sure if it's luck or cruelty that ensures the one person in Torchline who would care is the one who stops and listens.

Hadama is a blurry, mirrored figure as Jude looks up, eye swollen nearly shut and blood thick in his nose. He peers from over his elbow like a pathetic imitation of Lucifer, the maelstrom of anger and hurt louder in his head at seeing his father's friend and fellow leader. Or, former fellow leader. He wants to spit and warn him away like a wounded animal protecting itself, but those insufferable manners grip his throat and keep his head bowed where it belongs.

"'s a free country," he mutters, nasally and gutteral. The smallest act of rebellion he's ever seen, and yet it feels momentous on his own tongue. But whatever strength he had vanishes back into the heavy breathing of impending tears, the grief of it all crashing back over him. Hadama lies just within reach, but Jude doesn't feel any less alone. "Don't think I'm due any favoritism now." Because the letter had mentioned another due to be delivered to Hadama's hands, but he has no way of knowing that he'd arrived home too soon for that to have happened.

Am I a murderer?
Or did I just kill all my thoughts in self-defense?

Oh, hardly the only one, though Hadama would readily admit that most of his citizens were a self-interested lot. Still, there were often hidden pearls within even the toughest of clams. He was simply the first to have passed by who had heard the sound of a heart breaking beneath the waves upon the shore.

Dark as the night was, Jude's pale skin reflected moonlight where it was undamaged, and shadow where blood had run over that fair hide. Though most of the young man's face remained hidden there was enough scent of alcohol in the air to provide some guess as to both the cause and the effect of the night's events.

Or at least, the secondary cause.

"Mmn," he acknowledged of the muttered... grumble? Certainly a far gentler a barb than anything Kaiden usually threw, the mershark blithely unaware of social niceties or the concept of courtesy, and Hadama accepted it without complaint. "And yet, you have it," the mermanta said gently, unaware of the storm on the edge of Torchline's horizon. "So long as I am King." He glanced towards the bar, a weight pressing a silent sigh from his chest before he turned back to the wounded young man upon the sand.

"For the eye, if it is needed," he offered instead, conjuring a handful of small, icy spheres from the water and offering them to Lucifer's shadow. He had no cloth to wrap them in, but hopefully Jude would have something if, indeed, he would accept the ice at all.

Jude

I remembered I had fists today
I wash my hands and they are red like the sunsets of paradise

Any bitterness fades as Hadama's collected kindness remains unwavering, unbothered by his pitiful barbs. It just makes him feel hollow and sad, and the grip on his own shoulders becomes something more like a desperate hug, or weak lashings meant to hold himself together. After everything, Hadama's kindness stings like saltwater in an open wound.

Looking past Hadama to the strange, tall waves glowing seafoam bright in the moonlight just beyond the canal's edges, Jude swallows thickly and tries to pretend he's not looking away to avoid having to see evidence of a lie in response to the question on his tongue. "Is it only because you're King?" His voice wobbles perilously, luckily audible from where he is still peering, guarded and wounded, from behind his own arm.

Unfurling only enough to scoot closer and lean forward over his legs to take the spheres of ice, he slips one arm out of his jacket sleeve and uses the fabric to wrap them in before resting his face against them in place of his knees. The chill creeps into his eyes and makes the ridge of his brows ache with cold, but at least it feels good against the swelling. Blessedly, it also conceals his expression entirely for this next bit. "Do y'only care about me because of my dad?" It comes out small and vulnerable, far younger than his years. His legs creep closer, body tightening into a smaller ball. "I don't know who I am without him. Dunno if I ever was anythin' to everyone else but an example of his perfection." Perfectly raised despite all the turmoil, perfectly behaved even in the face of mockery and invasiveness. Always easy to compliment a boy like Jude. But is he anything to the people of Torchline when he's not at his father's side?

Am I a murderer?
Or did I just kill all my thoughts in self-defense?

Though he rarely meant to cause pain, there were times it was unavoidable, even if by accident. Perhaps, if he were lucky, it would be the pain of a bone being reset so it could heal straight again. Not without a scar, but not without some catharsis, either.

If he were not, he would only make things worse. Reason enough to be cautious in his approach and in his words to the young man who sat bleeding beside him, both outside and in.

The question was as unexpected as it was trembling, and Hadama did not rush to answer. He created his ice and he considered his reply with all the gravitas and seriousness that he took with planning Torchline's defenses.

The question that followed was even more surprising, and as Jude curled into himself Hadama watched and then turned his gaze out to the ocean to note the swells that raced farther up the beach than they ever had before. Time, and tide, and change...

"Do you remember," he began, his words slow with the weight of one man's world balancing on them, "when we built a bridge together in the Greatwood?" He could not create illusions or dreams, but between them a trickle of water began to flow, snaking across the sand. And as Hadama looked down a bridge of ice began to grow, spanning the tiny rivulet in slow arcs. "You are your mother's son. And your father's. But most of all, you are Jude. And you would be worth knowing if your parents were the humblest farmers in the Hollowed Grounds."

He raised his head again, and his emerald eyes were clear and calmly certain as he considered the young man with the blackened eye. "Do you think your father is perfect?"

Jude

I remembered I had fists today
I wash my hands and they are red like the sunsets of paradise

Hadama's silence is unfairly cast in the light of the ice that spiderwebs chills through his throbbing face, felt as something removed and impartial instead of kindly and contemplative. Everything feels darker and crueler out here with only the moon and the waves to light the way on a path he's terrified to tread alone.

He's not expecting an old memory to be what Hadama brings up first, and it's enough to get him to pause and slowly lift his head from his knees to watch the King with something like wariness shining from his bloodied face. Dark eyes - his mother's eyes, as Hadama quietly reminds him in so many other words - follow the trail of ice as it builds a bridge meant to span a gap Jude can feel in his chest. But worthiness has never been something Jude has attributed to himself, and though it's a comfort to hear, it's not enough to fully lower his defenses.

Questions, however, he can answer.

"I don't think anyone is perfect," he argues weakly, only for his eyes to fall back to the bridge between them. Maybe it's his inherent sentimentality, but the metaphor makes him want to be more honest. "But through everything, Dad was always the one who stayed. Who tried. He's as close to perfect as I can imagine someone being." Jude had always been closest to Harper of all his parents, and the man's utter dedication to Jude had not gone unnoticed. Nor had the effects of that dedication - exhaustion and hurt that had been direct inspirations for Jude to age himself, wanting to lighten the burden on his father's shoulders. "He's my Dad," he says like it's a phrase that holds the entirety of the world. Hero worship, love, codependency. But it also comes out lost, because how is he supposed to cope with his father finally joining the ranks of parents who have abandoned him?

Am I a murderer?
Or did I just kill all my thoughts in self-defense?

The waves crashed high and loud nearby, but neither so high nor so loud as to interrupt them. It was a concern for the daylight hours, when the crown was firmly back upon his brow. Tonight, however, his attention was on one wounded young man, alone in the night despite the mermanta's presence at his side.

His question was both simple and not, and Jude's answer was one that called forth echoes of lost childhood and the pain of learning that one's parents were neither infallible nor immortal. Hadama listened as argument turned to explanation and finally to pure emotion that transcended any differences between their species. He inclined his head deeply, almost a bow for the love and loss that comingled in the young man's voice.

Not for the loss of his father, but for the loss of innocence that came with realizing a father was only a man, imperfect and fallible.

"Yes." The mermanta returned his green gaze to the face of the young human, half-hidden though it was behind hands and ice and bruising. "And he always will be." However else the world changed, Hadama was as certain as the tide that Harper would always love his son.

"But he does not need to be perfect to be your dad. And I do not think that you need to be perfect to be his son."

The 'river' continued to flow, wending its slow way down the beach towards the ocean, and the bridge shone faintly blue in the moonlight, casting an occasional sparkle on the sand to dance with the mica flakes already therein. Hadama maintained its shape against the comparative warmth of Torchline's night, holding it firm and unmelting.

Jude

I remembered I had fists today
I wash my hands and they are red like the sunsets of paradise

Sometimes it's easier to watch the wind and twist of Hadama's magic than the man's calm, understanding face. Jude's eyes flicker between the two when he can't stand to continue watching one or the other.

It's an argument that's easier to speak than to put into action, and Jude sinks deeper into his arms in a petulant sort of defensiveness. "Being perfect is what people expect. Anything I do is a reflection on my dad." Jude extends one leg and nudges his shoe against the end of one of the icy bridges Hadama has created. "And not just my dad but my mom too, and what that means as a demigoddess of Frey." Luckily the awareness of his connection to Phoebe has dwindled over the years since she moved to the Greatwood, but it hasn't vanished entirely.

"There is no being 'just Jude'." And the poison returns to his tone as he spits it, hateful and bitter, only to pause and look out over the tumultuous waves. "But maybe now there is. Starting with this." Toppling the tower of perfection in a cyclone of bad decisions. And maybe, says the tiny child in his chest, it will make his father take notice and come home.

Am I a murderer?
Or did I just kill all my thoughts in self-defense?

It had been some time since Hadama was a sulky teenager. The weight and passage of years had not completely erased those memories from his mind, however, and he, too, had once felt the need to lash out and make choices he would later regret.

If he hadn't made them, lived them, and learned from them, however, then he would not be the man he had become.

Emerald eyes remained solemn, and for all that Jude's petulance was the province of a much younger heart the mermanta accepted it with due seriousness for the pain that was currently the center of the young man's world. And in his silence it made space for Jude to come to some conclusions of his own.

The bridge cracked beneath the pressure of the questing shoe, icy splinters falling into the tiny stream below. Hadama considered the broken construct and, after a moment, the ice began to rise again. Not as it had been - he was careful to keep the cracks visible, shifting the temperature of the water with fine control to freeze the repairs as a thicker, milkier color - but in a new shape: a little taller, a little broader and more stable and less like a confectioner's dream of a bridge. But it still connected to the previous lengths, and still functioned as a means of safe passage over the water for any tiny creature that wished to cross it.

"What is 'this?'" he asked quietly, "And who do you wish to become... as yourself? Outside of their shadows."

Jude

I remembered I had fists today
I wash my hands and they are red like the sunsets of paradise

The lack of condemnation or frustration has the invisible spikes on Jude's shoulders retreating by the minute. Though his father had never done the same, he had suspected some kind of disapproval or irritation given the unnecessary violence he'd provoked. Unaware of the reckless driving force behind his actions - a desperate need for attention and validation - Jude can only sit puzzled and on-edge as Hadama calmly rebuilds the broken section of the bridge that his shoe had destroyed.

Maybe that's why he has the desire to test the King's boundaries, the limitations of his understanding and peace. Maybe that's why he lifts his chin like he has something to prove, like he's daring the world to take one last shot. "Showing everyone 'm not just gonna sit around quiet. If they're gonna talk about me, it's not going to be praising me, or my dad's parenting." A wild gleam comes to his hazel eyes. "Instead they'll mutter and complain and insult him for not stopping me. I'll be the example of his imperfection." And it will be glorious, and they will have to respect Jude's tenacity and strength if nothing else. Surely that will be what happens.

The question that comes after makes him hesitate. Does it matter what he wants to be? All he knows is he doesn't want to be in their shadows - but does he even believe he can crawl out from them? Right now, no. It seems too far-away a goal, so he shrugs and recedes slightly, energy dissipating. "I...don't know. Anything but them, I guess." Not hard to achieve when he has a king, a queen, and a demigod to compare to.

Am I a murderer?
Or did I just kill all my thoughts in self-defense?

What had been knocked down could be rebuilt. Not the same as it had been, no, but change did not have to be a bad thing. There was a reason that Hadama chose to gild his scars in gold, etching the lesson of each one indelibly into his skin where he would not forget them.

He had made mistakes but he had survived and was the stronger for them.

Whether Jude would be able to say the same in years to come would be up to the young man, and the time that stretched ahead of him. But Hadama remained quiet, his boundaries as fluid as the tide that surged and crashed nearby, outside the range of his calming magic. He tilted his head, listening to the fierce boasting, and if it sounded very much like Jude might regret such a choice someday, well.

"You are old enough to make your own decisions," he agreed. And then paused, looking thoughtfully down at the rebuilt bridge of ice and starlight. "Old enough that your father could not easily stop you." Old enough to be held accountable for his own actions, rather than for his parents to be blamed more than tangentially. But with luck that particular lesson would not be too harsh in the coming days of the road Jude was choosing.

If he followed through with it, Hadama could not stop him. He looked back to the young man as the bravado faded and his next answer was leavened with an honest sincerity that drew a nod from the mermanta. This, he could at least do something about, if Jude chose to let him. "If I can help you, I will try."

Jude

I remembered I had fists today
I wash my hands and they are red like the sunsets of paradise

Jude had hoped that hearing those words from Hadama’s lips would empower and comfort him, but he just feels…empty. Disappointed. But why? It’s exactly what he wanted to hear, the validation he craved the moment this spiral started. He can’t even figure out a proper response because he can’t hide the emotions plainly displayed on his face, so there’s no way he’ll manage it if he tries to speak. He wouldn’t even know what to say.

He equally isn’t sure how Hadama could possible help him, but he looks at the Tidebreaker through his drooping curls and can’t help but doubt. Jude doesn’t trust promises. He hasn’t since he was a child. So he just shrugs and curls further into himself. “If you want I guess.” Jude won’t hold his breath. Not until he sees some proof.

Standing is a painful collection of moments and movements but he grits his teeth and braces himself with a hand on the wall of the bar. “I’m gonna go to the fountain…thanks Hadama,” he murmurs, and turns to limp off, incapable of stomaching the weird feeling of disappointed aimlessness in his stomach.

- Fin!

Am I a murderer?
Or did I just kill all my thoughts in self-defense?