[Ronan wasn't quite sure what he had expected to happen after Hennessy sapped most of the power from the ley line.
Not enough to manifest even a piece of the Lace with. Not enough for Ronan to live off of, either.
So, yeah. If he was honest, he guessed that he'd expected to die. But selfishly, if he didn't think about Opal or Matthew, he was okay with it. This wasn't his fault. And he'd tried, hadn't he? Could anyone say that he hadn't be fighting to stay alive? After that summer, he'd been spiraling out of control, and he remembered the way that Declan had pushed him, hands on his shoulders, Ronan tensed with the prediction of violence that was as sure as a memory.
But no, it was worse: it was the truth. And he could almost see how it pained Declan to say it in the way that he snarled the words, how he grasped Ronan's shoulders and then pushed him away. He'd almost laughed it off, but he'd known. So he'd done all he could to find a way for him to live without him. To make it so that when Ronan lost the struggle, Matthew wasn't another casualty on his hands.
Yet.
Things got better, strangely. There was Adam. There was Ronan and Declan who got through his birthday without Ronan even being particularly tempted to punch him in the face. He kissed Adam, impulsive, unsure if he'd live through whatever was coming. And he thought finally that maybe he wanted to. Not that he forgot about Kavinsky- but slowly he was becoming a little less urgent about joining him. So when he almost died, he fought- fierce, pieces of dreams in his fingertips, threads plucked from the light of stars that didn't yet know they were dead, the rain of storms that were nothing but a promise. Ronan dragged into the dark and seizing ever shard of light he could find.
Time was a circle and that night he'd lost track of endings and beginnings- it would have been easy to slide away. But instead he brought back scribbled notes that said tooth and claw, tooth and claw... like a promise to give all that he had. Sharp music notes he grasped in his fingers, blue flowers, mint plants, and- of course- flaming crowns because he still wanted to be kings.
But maybe it was why Glendower had been dead, too.
Ronan thinks he imagines it as he's being unmade- terrified to his heart as the thing turns him inside out, pulling the threads of him into nothing, so he's choking on sea water and stardust- but he'd swear that someone holds his hand as he drowns. Blue eyes bleeding black, dying as it tries to unmake him inside out, between the trees and branches and oceans that ran in his veins.
So Gansey dies, and then he doesn't. Ronan does drop out of Aglionby. But he doesn't drop out of life.
He tries. He really tries to live a life, to date Adam Parrish, but it turned out that he didn't really know how to do that either. So Ronan did what he always did: he dreamt and he fought and he died. Except again, he doesn't. The nightwash doesn't claim him. It would have been poetic even -- a dragon of fire and a white Mitsubishi so sharp he almost called said the boy's name in the dream. He thought that maybe he'd done it before, but couldn't quite remember.
It's leaves and branches and cool, soothing comfort, a presence that wraps around him with lingering touches. Lindenmere, of course. Magic that reaches through the dark and keeps him breathing, again, like it had before. Almost like Lindenmere was a better sort of dreamer itself, knew how to keep Hennessy from touching the line that kept them alive and connected.
But, there was something off. There always had been, but Ronan had been trying not to face it -- making the same mistake twice. Was Lindenmere even a forest, or was that just the shape he gave it because it was easier? So he didn't have to think about it; naked in a lake or a waterfall or flowers and music, the bassy, pulsing electronica that made him feel like he could breathe. Trees had seemed right for Cabeswater. But Lindenmere was more- a different creature. Dangerous, but not in the way of fairytale forests. Dangerous like Ronan had been a summer not so very long ago.
Lindenmere knew him in ways that Cabeswater had never been human enough to understand, would have replicated pieces it could grasp and got the thesis wrong.
His perfect dream had been a gift from Lindenmere: no people, no one he could bring back with him, no horrors to ruin Adam with. Just his hands on the wheel of a beautiful car with a black grille that bared its teeth, and the glee of high speed and cataclysm of vehicular mayhem. All he brought back with him was the joy; almost like the happiness of racing a beautiful boy.
Cabeswater wouldn't have understood the very human desire to drive a gorgeous fucking car through the front of a shitty club playing music you hated. But Lindenmere did.
It loved him better than he knew how to appreciate, flirted with him in a way that felt familiar, all firelight and warm shadows in a summer night. He should feel more alone, and yet, somehow, it felt almost like sharing breath. It was a forest and yet it felt intimate and close, like it understood the pain that bled into the air. Was there anyone like him? Anyone that could stand him?]
The car- in the dream- will you tell me about it?
[There were almost tears in his eyes just from acknowledging it. But he had to know. Had to know if the truth that whispered around his heart, teased even by Bryde, if it was real or just another dream. So he walked through Lindenmere's strange woods, like the scene of all the fairytales that had never been told. He reached up, letting his fingers brush against leaves, trail against the bark of a tree- open affection, but it was always easier with Lindenmere than anyone else. And he waited, his heart skipping against his ribs.
He had to fix the whole fucking world, so many dreamers he needed to save now-now-now... but this was more important.]
Kavinsky-Lindenmere-Mister-Impossible stuff
Not enough to manifest even a piece of the Lace with.
Not enough for Ronan to live off of, either.
So, yeah. If he was honest, he guessed that he'd expected to die. But selfishly, if he didn't think about Opal or Matthew, he was okay with it. This wasn't his fault. And he'd tried, hadn't he? Could anyone say that he hadn't be fighting to stay alive? After that summer, he'd been spiraling out of control, and he remembered the way that Declan had pushed him, hands on his shoulders, Ronan tensed with the prediction of violence that was as sure as a memory.
But no, it was worse: it was the truth. And he could almost see how it pained Declan to say it in the way that he snarled the words, how he grasped Ronan's shoulders and then pushed him away. He'd almost laughed it off, but he'd known. So he'd done all he could to find a way for him to live without him. To make it so that when Ronan lost the struggle, Matthew wasn't another casualty on his hands.
Yet.
Things got better, strangely. There was Adam. There was Ronan and Declan who got through his birthday without Ronan even being particularly tempted to punch him in the face. He kissed Adam, impulsive, unsure if he'd live through whatever was coming. And he thought finally that maybe he wanted to. Not that he forgot about Kavinsky- but slowly he was becoming a little less urgent about joining him. So when he almost died, he fought- fierce, pieces of dreams in his fingertips, threads plucked from the light of stars that didn't yet know they were dead, the rain of storms that were nothing but a promise. Ronan dragged into the dark and seizing ever shard of light he could find.
Time was a circle and that night he'd lost track of endings and beginnings- it would have been easy to slide away. But instead he brought back scribbled notes that said tooth and claw, tooth and claw... like a promise to give all that he had. Sharp music notes he grasped in his fingers, blue flowers, mint plants, and- of course- flaming crowns because he still wanted to be kings.
But maybe it was why Glendower had been dead, too.
Ronan thinks he imagines it as he's being unmade- terrified to his heart as the thing turns him inside out, pulling the threads of him into nothing, so he's choking on sea water and stardust- but he'd swear that someone holds his hand as he drowns. Blue eyes bleeding black, dying as it tries to unmake him inside out, between the trees and branches and oceans that ran in his veins.
So Gansey dies, and then he doesn't.
Ronan does drop out of Aglionby.
But he doesn't drop out of life.
He tries. He really tries to live a life, to date Adam Parrish, but it turned out that he didn't really know how to do that either. So Ronan did what he always did: he dreamt and he fought and he died. Except again, he doesn't. The nightwash doesn't claim him. It would have been poetic even -- a dragon of fire and a white Mitsubishi so sharp he almost called said the boy's name in the dream. He thought that maybe he'd done it before, but couldn't quite remember.
It's leaves and branches and cool, soothing comfort, a presence that wraps around him with lingering touches. Lindenmere, of course. Magic that reaches through the dark and keeps him breathing, again, like it had before. Almost like Lindenmere was a better sort of dreamer itself, knew how to keep Hennessy from touching the line that kept them alive and connected.
But, there was something off. There always had been, but Ronan had been trying not to face it -- making the same mistake twice. Was Lindenmere even a forest, or was that just the shape he gave it because it was easier? So he didn't have to think about it; naked in a lake or a waterfall or flowers and music, the bassy, pulsing electronica that made him feel like he could breathe. Trees had seemed right for Cabeswater. But Lindenmere was more- a different creature. Dangerous, but not in the way of fairytale forests. Dangerous like Ronan had been a summer not so very long ago.
Lindenmere knew him in ways that Cabeswater had never been human enough to understand, would have replicated pieces it could grasp and got the thesis wrong.
His perfect dream had been a gift from Lindenmere: no people, no one he could bring back with him, no horrors to ruin Adam with. Just his hands on the wheel of a beautiful car with a black grille that bared its teeth, and the glee of high speed and cataclysm of vehicular mayhem. All he brought back with him was the joy; almost like the happiness of racing a beautiful boy.
Cabeswater wouldn't have understood the very human desire to drive a gorgeous fucking car through the front of a shitty club playing music you hated.
But Lindenmere did.
It loved him better than he knew how to appreciate, flirted with him in a way that felt familiar, all firelight and warm shadows in a summer night. He should feel more alone, and yet, somehow, it felt almost like sharing breath. It was a forest and yet it felt intimate and close, like it understood the pain that bled into the air. Was there anyone like him? Anyone that could stand him?]
The car- in the dream- will you tell me about it?
[There were almost tears in his eyes just from acknowledging it. But he had to know. Had to know if the truth that whispered around his heart, teased even by Bryde, if it was real or just another dream. So he walked through Lindenmere's strange woods, like the scene of all the fairytales that had never been told. He reached up, letting his fingers brush against leaves, trail against the bark of a tree- open affection, but it was always easier with Lindenmere than anyone else. And he waited, his heart skipping against his ribs.
He had to fix the whole fucking world, so many dreamers he needed to save now-now-now... but this was more important.]