Sanctuary was – and had been – quiet.
And not without sufficient reason. Roland’s death and Lilith’s absence permeated the streets in the absence of casual conversation and indefatigable banging of hands against assorted surfaces, loitered indecorous and undisguised in the sunlight, clinging to the outline of Mordecai’s emptied bottles and Brick’s arms braced against the central console; loomed ominous and imminent like the clouds (condensation at this altitude, as he had been enlightened) that hung below, above, around them and in them, the manifestation of all the somber and despondent emotions shared between them all. It was only in Roland’s absence that people came to recognize his importance, his essential inclusion and crucial participation, the magnitude of his sacrifice and contribution on behalf of this community – all in the hope of its continuation. Through nothing other than choice, Roland had become responsible for these people: for their lives, for their safety, for their futures; they owed him everything – and in his absence, there remained only lamentation and remorse left to show for it.
Axton knew that grief. He knew the shock of unforeseen death; he knew the immediate regret from unperformed actions and unspoken words that became ‘too late’; he knew the denial and spite that came in the form of the official announcement of death – as if it hadn’t happened until the second the statement had been issued – and the received missive of passage and apologies. He knew it all but it hurt no less, weighed no less light on his conscience.
But for all his knowing, for all the tragedies he’d endured and friends’ names he remembered to warrant that knowing, Axton knew how to cope. He knew how to recover. He knew how to move on without committing the crime of disremembering.
Silence was not the answer. Pity wasn’t progress.
But the communication of these truths wasn’t as simple as speech. Words, be they unsympathetic and assertive or solicitous and cautious, did little in the reality of grief. He had seen as much, suffered through more, and, through it all, chose not to embrace resignation, promoting recognition and inducing change through action and assumption that could be seen as inconsideration and callosity. He tolerated, almost encouraged, the perception of both should it mean the extraction of an emotion besides despair: anger, amusement, frustration, contempt – no retort could harm him more than the torment imposed upon oneself in thought.
If he could interrupt this cyclical reiteration of grief, interject himself as a means to redirect emotion, then Axton would assume such an enterprise at the expense of sensitivities.
It had been this resolution that obliged him into lingering in the Crimson Raider Headquarters, lights lit to compensate for the encroaching night and air imbued with moisture as suffocating as the intangible atmosphere. It had been here that he remained, patient and anticipating the appropriate moment to approach either Brick or Mordecai, and here that the presence of another person interrupted him.
“Maya.” She seemed to struggle less than the others in the perforation left in Roland’s absence, seeming more… confused about the fact, than melancholy. He couldn’t be certain of that interpretation but an attempt at conversation, a suspension of the silence, if only momentary, couldn’t hurt. “Up for a chat?”
LOSS AND DEATH are not one in the same. death is death, the end of a predetermined cycle. there is no mourning in a simple death. it’s natural, and anticipated. no one expects to live forever. and mortality was not an unknown to her. she’d witnessed it countless times -- often caused by her own hand. there was a rush it brought on; ‘the thrill of the kill’ was exhilarating ( despite how cliché she knew the phrase was ). and from that rush stemmed control. she was able to decide who lived, and who died. by gun, by powers. careful aim, or an easy flex of the wrist and curl of the fingers -- that was all it took. maya could decide. to be able to determine such a thing was something she’d never truly experienced before abandoning the abbey; she hadn’t encountered much else before then, either.
loss remained unfamiliar. there was no one close to her, no one she cared for in any capacity, that had passed. no fond memories to bring on an aching echo. the closest she’s come was leaving athenas. the planet was the closest thing she had to home, even if it never truly felt that way. while leaving it behind was no hard decision, it still left the bitter taste of regret staining her palate. it was not something lamented, however, and it left no sense of a missing piece.
and yet, when the vault hunters collected now, it was no secret that a piece was missing, like an incomplete game board ( and there is no game without a complete set ). it was strange. everything has shifted. the air was quiet. she could feel the anger latching to bereavement, and the regret that more couldn’t be done. the siren knew it was attributed to roland. there had been no time previously for it to be processed, to sink in.
in the days that followed jack’s defeat, the deafening quiet settled in slowly. the high of victory eventually wore off ( was it ever meant to last? ) and the others truly began to realize roland was gone. it was a rare occurrence to see them so muted. maya couldn’t begin to comprehend it. she watched them say goodbye, give a touching farewell to the monument shaped in his name. it would pain her to admit during it all, even when delivering her own words, there was a lack of the same emotion everyone else seemed to display; she didn’t know what she felt.
she practically stewed in that unknown. she was uncomfortable, and uneasy. meditation was considered more than once, but every time it was ruled out. she couldn’t concentrate, not in this atmosphere. her fingers picked at the skin around her nails as she paced aimlessly, distracted by her own uncertainty until axton’s voice snapped her out of the near-trance. a jaded look in her eye lapsed in favour of awareness.
❛ i still hate the silence, ❜ she started, practically ignoring his question; her voice was hardly above a whisper, but still rang like a shout. her brows quickly knit together. ❛ -- that’s inappropriate, isn’t it, ❜ a statement more than a question; social graces were not her forte, particularly in a situation such as this, and she was fully aware. her eyes looked to axton, as if trying to read him in return. he was calm. collected? possibly. he’s seen this before, lived this before, that much she recalled. she half-considered him lucky.
❛ a chat would a better alternative, ❜ she nodded with exhaustion clear in her tone.