Ashes

Twelve: Reunions

A/N: Aesthetic for Echo Thorne.

I think at some point, I fall unconscious against the door, because all I hear in the morning are the muttered curses that Titus spits as soon as he walks in.

"If you won't even stay in bed, Ari, how are we supposed to keep you alive?!" he grumbles, picking me up as if I weigh little more than a feather. Gently, he places me back down on the bed, making sure I'm conscious before he starts to speak.

"How're you feeling, Spunk?" he asks, his voice quiet and his eyes bleeding with worry.

"Like there's sandpaper in my throat, knives in my stomach, and dust in my eyes," I say, my voice emerging croaky and hoarse.

"And there's enough guilt in my system to make the ocean overflow," I finish, and Titus lets out a scoff that's tinged with humor.

"So basically, you're ready to see everyone else,"

We both chuckle a little at that, but I find myself agreeing against my better judgement.

"If I could get a shower, first, though..."

"Yeah, yeah. Come on, I'll show you where it is," he says, standing up and helping me to my feet.

I'm not feeling very stable; far from it, but Titus won't know that. No one will. So I force myself to stand and waste nearly all of my little energy to follow him with my back straight and my chin up, down a narrow hallway lined with rooms identical to mine, except with the doors closed.

There's a tiny room with a shower stall that's barely big enough for me to stand in, with a plastic sink, cheap mirror, and plastic toilet cramming it even further, but it's clean. And there's no sand anywhere.

"I'll have a nurse bring you a change of clothes. Take as long as you want, and then meet us all on the recreation room on deck 3," he instructs, and I nod slowly. He sucks in a deep sigh, and then pulls me again him tightly. My brother's arms are strong and comforting; they're probably the last thing I can really call home. And for once, things feel good for a few seconds.

My cheek sticks slightly to his leather jacket, either from the tears now spilling down my cheeks or just because I haven't showered, but neither of us really care.

"Don't ever scare me like that again. I thought I lost you," he says, as soon as he pulls away. I let out a watery laugh but nod anyway.

"I'll do my best,"

Seconds later, he slips out without a word and I lock the door behind him.

Weakly, I struggle with the tattered t-shirt I'm wearing until I can get it off completely. There's bloodstains from the wound on my back on it, and it's only when I take it off that I realize how much the darn thing hurts.

It had partially scabbed over with the shirt still on, so when I take it off, it pulls at the blisters and scabs enough to tear some of them open anew.

Ariadne from nearly a year ago would've cried out in pain. Ariadne now merely sucks in a sharp breath. I've endured much worse than this.

It's then that I get a good look at myself in the cheap, clouded mirror.

My eyes are hollow and sunken in, like that of a heroin addict, with dark, bluish circles under them. There's a scabbed-over cut over my left eye, deep enough to surely leave a scar. Another scar is carved into my neck, as is another mottled patch of skin over my shoulder where I was stabbed so long ago. There's another slash against my arm where Felix cut at me, as well as countless smaller scars from Arya's torture methods. Bruises and rashes from falls, scrapes, and fights litter my entire body, as well as a purplish split lip that only adds to the effect.