pv The fault in our stars

'I apologise,' Archer said hastily. 'I- I-' he faltered, uncertain what to vocalise, uncertain even what was racing through his mind at the present moment, uncertain if he was even here, uncertain if she was even here. So uncertain. 'I apologise,' he eventually said once more, reluctantly settling for he could not seek other words. He only allowed himself to sink into her, for she had allowed it herself and he would make every second worthwhile. Yet, a voice in the back of his mind kept pestering him that the girl was no caregiver or elder sister... just someone he did not even know the name of.

'I could leave if that is so desired,' Archer said quietly, framing his sentence in every way that shouted he wanted to stay in her embrace. His tears stained her cardigan, and despite everything in him all he could do was bury himself further in it, smothering his features almost until he could not feel his breath any longer. She smelt like Maman, fresh soil just after a summer rain, forest glistening with morning dew. Her hands were cold, but nestled in her, he was warm, he was at home, wherever home was supposed to be. If she had still not let go, he would cling onto her, slender arms wrapping around her waist. 'Merci¹,' Archer murmured into her, slipping into French as his psyche fell into the familiar frame of his mother. 'Merci beaucoup²,' he said, tears streaking down his cheeks in torrents of gratefulness. Sniffling, he had some semblance of self-collection before saying, 'Thank you, I am so grateful for you.'

Sitting upwards from his kneeling position, Archer turned to face the heavens once more. '"It's very beautiful over there,"' he said, voice plagued with a painful musing. 'Those were Thomas Edison's last words,' he added in explanation. Gaze following the moon, he whispered, 'I do not know what he meant by "there". All I can do is hope that it is somewhere... and I hope it is very beautiful.' If he had to pass on, perhaps he would enjoy entertaining the notion he would land somewhere brimming with wildflowers and books. Shaking his head lightly as he rose, Archer walked over to the edge of the tower once more, small hands tightly grasping the railing. Closing his eyes against the mountain drafts, he stood there in silence, the subtle scent of drying leaves picked up by the wind as it dispelled Anastasia's familiar aromas. Perhaps they were like leaves, merely matter, meant to serve there perhaps than be gone from the world forever. Thoughts clogging up his throat, he beckoned towards the girl, 'Please, I would appreciate it tremendously if you come join me.'

1: Thank you
2: Thank you so much.

@Anastasia Blackwood-Varney

Anastasia's words, though meant for comfort, only caused Archer to furrow his brows at the prospect of a loved one dying. Yet he said no words in return, distress soon dissipated from his face as those hazel eyes harboured a whimsical gaze into the distant nothingness. Returning to their static stillness, he would not speak in the familiar embrace of quietude, unless the blonde broke their silence first. Feeling Boreas' strokes through his hair, heavy gales softening into gentle breezes, his other senses seemed to have hightened at the lost of speech, every second a reminder of his stargazing sessions with Maman.

Looking out on Ursa Major and Minor, Archer was reminded of his own Callisto's favourite poem. 'From too much love of living,' he started, eyes flitting towards Anastasia's as if seeking that glint he knew well. 'From hope and fear set free,' he continued, speech strengthening as the customary lines consoled him. Then looking up towards the sky, as if truly giving gratitude for the deities above, 'We thank with brief thanksgiving whatever gods may be.' Now closing his eyes once more, envisioning the letters scratched into the yellowed pages of an old commonplace book, handwriting crooked, 'That no life lives forever, that dead men rise up never.' Letting out a breath, he finished the piece, 'That even the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea.' His fingers tapped on the railing, in rhythm to Shakespeare's ba dum ba dum pentameter. Opening his eyes to the stars once more, he murmured, 'My mother adores this particular work of art.' Looking towards Anastasia once more, expectant as if she held the answer, 'I do not know what Swinburne meant. I do not know why my mother loves it for that matter.'

The Duncan family had always been one in search of answers. Archer's grandfather had loved the Ministry in hope to discover the most glorious meaning of life. Papa wrote novels on themes meant to be explored and wholly dissected. Maman had given up influence and wealth to map out treacherous terrains. Yet now Archer could only admit to himself, to Anastasia, to this entire world how little answers he had to his millions of questions. 'I do not know,' he conceded. Then in explanation, 'I do not know who's going to die, or when, or where we go after we die. I do not know how to stop people from dying either, I do not know if we even should. I do not think anyone knows, not the great ancient philosophers or Harry Potter or Tom Riddle.' With a small though not at all bitter laugh, he continued, 'Most certainly not you or me.' He wished he knew though. If only he knew. Hands tracing the mortar that still held the tower together after all this time, he said, voice losing its steady, oration-quality, 'So I do not know if it is turly beautiful over "there".'

Despite tears still clinging onto his face, Archer laughed once more, though this time it was a true, clear sound that rang through the tranquility. 'But I know it is beautiful tonight, so I might as well not give a damn while it lasts.'

@Anastasia Blackwood-Varney, apologies for the delay on this one!

Which merciful god bestowed upon them the romanticisation of something as grim as death itself? Whoever bestowed such delightful beauty and clarity upon mere words? Or was artistic muse only a coping mechanism for harsh reality? He knew death was a recurring theme in Swinburne's work, but he knew with more certainty that it ought not be a recurring theme in his life. All Archer offered in response to Anastasia was a nod. Her answer, although made perfect sense with every scientific analysis, failed to satisfy his artistic ideals. Through the double pillars of Atticus and Marguerite was a child prone to logic but determined by emotions, and for such a child, her answer had not sufficed. His mother's sensitivity or affinity towards a certain type of poetry however, was an acceptable placeholder until a more definite answer was achieved.

At the blonde's deterring reply, his eyes, having just glinted in a mirror image of the stars above, dimmed back to a dull actuality. Despite harbouring no desire to speak, he clarified, tone losing its enthusiasm and zest, ‘I do not intend on doing anything “stupid”.’ Her hardening voice was discouragement for him and at so, he sighed, voice faltering and proving itself useless. Archer merely pressed his lips together as the high winds whipped against his cheeks. ‘I do not believe I have versed myself very clearly. ’ That had came at no surprise for Archer, the depth of night often reduced his eloquence. ‘I want to die feeling like I have lived. Being stupid is no prerequisite in that case.’ He shook his head with a sigh, gesture not directed at Anastasia nor himself, just the cruel void below them. ‘I suppose that heavily depends on our definitions of living. We might meet the biological criteria but after all, as Oscar Wilde said most people only exist.’ Running across his family line was the forever-present desire for the extraordinary, for a life more than the humdrum existence governed by rules. Like any child, Archer aspired to follow in his parents footsteps. He was learning that the extraordinary never fell from the sky. Archer had to find his own.

‘Tell me please, what constitutes as a fulfilled life for you?’

@Anastasia Blackwood-Varney

'I only exist.'

Archer's face fell. It was barely a whisper, carried away into the wind if he had not been listening closely. Aimlessly twirling his fingers around the railing, he sighed into the night. They were both still children, she taller but barely older than him. Now with his eyes better adjusted to the darkness, the Scot spied two black circles under Anastasia's eyes. Something told him this was not an irregular occurrence.

All she did was sink onto the cold stone floor, knees drawn up to her chest, looking so small despite being Archer's upperclassmen. She was far too alone in this world that was as unforgiving as the hard tiled ground. He kneeled down by her, sharp edges digging into his knees. His lips were pressed tight, fingers fumbling with the hem of his shirt, uncertain how to proceed. He only stayed there with her, in an reality so far away from the stars above, listening to her anguished answer, watching her as her breathing fluctuated and as she buried her head in her despair.

Archer had forgotten the lyrics, but the tune was still familiar as it always had been and it stubbornly came to him anyway. He hummed, gently, initial sound shaky with hesitance. Words slipped in and out, "beach", "adventure" and "centred" were among the rare words he was able to remember, barely enunciated without clarity. They sounded wrong in his mouth, strange compared to Maman's steadily soothing voice. 'Cause it's too cold for you here and now, so let me hold your hands in the holes of my sweater. Hot chocolate. Roaring fireplace. Pattering rain. She had sung to him that night. It had been a very warm night.

@Anastasia Blackwood-Varney

Song Archer is humming: Sweater Weather - the Neighbourhood

‘I can’t remember,’ Archer said finally, lips still pursed in thought. His eyes flitted to the distant stars, memories floating upwards in the murky sea of his psyche, as if the seemingly minuscule pinpricks of light were millions upon millions of projectors, an ocean of clarity when his own mind threatened to collapse. He wished magic could jog his memory, not just the tile but the lyrics he still treasured, flashes of his childhood that refused to be replayed or relived. He had been too naïve to think the answers always laid in books, too naïve that he had remembered how to brew the Herbicide potion but forgotten such a staple memory of his younger years. Feeling as if he was slipping so so far away into these open waters, he took a breath and continued, ‘My mother used to sing it to me when I was a lot younger.’

Archer gaze slipped towards Anastasia, her cashmere sweater catching his attention. That. It had been something about that. Every part of her reminded him of his mother, oddly yet comfortingly, in a way he could not understand. Lines, sung uneasily and unsteadily, came to him before faltering once more, ‘Use the sleeves of my sweater… let’s have an adventure….’ Having never paid much attention to the words before, he was taken aback at how befitting the lyrics were (ironic if he would actually look at the song’s romance in full). The rest of the song still remained in a haze, but after all the adventures Archer had been on with his mother, it was enough to know that the world was not an encyclopaedia of answers.

Perhaps Maman never fully knew the lyrics either. Perhaps that was the beauty of things.

@Anastasia Blackwood-Varney

Sorry for the wait! I genuinely forgot I haven’t replied yet but here on now it should get a lot faster.