She'd had to step out of the wing, into a quiet side room to tap out frantic messages to Reina, digging for details. Her heart felt torn, between getting on a train immediately bound for Twelve to be with Ansel, whose injuries sounded grave-- passenger or cargo or whatever it may be, she'd live-- or to be with her son who had just endured the unthinkable, recovering just up the hall. She wished she could split herself into pieces for each of her children, to give them what they needed right now. She felt like she wanted to sob, scream, tear her own hear out, but it all got stuck in her chest, behind a stopper of numbness. She couldn't break down. Literally couldn't, her body wouldn't let her, numb with what felt like unending disbelief and grief. It all felt too big to be real, like a dream, and for a long while, she sat on a rubbery hospital chair, staring at the white wall across from her. There was a painting there, something abstract, blue and green. Probably chosen to be soothing to patients. By the time she remembered to move again, the arches and curves of each brushstroke were burned into her memory.
Hestia did not know how long had passed when she emerged again, but the detail of Peacekeepers were gone. Only two stood guard outside her son's room, and there was no protest this time when she entered. Slate needed her. He may not know about Twelve. This was the time in her life she'd felt the most fragile, most inhuman, and he needed her right now. So she worked her face into something she hoped came off as calming, neutral, like the painting, and stepped toward her child's bed. "Slate?" she called softly, not wanting to wake him if he was getting well-deserved rest, or if he wasn't, well... feeling particularly lucid. Sometimes tributes came out the other side with only a tenuous grasp of reality, and she didn't know what to expect. She could quash down the overwhelming urge to pull him into her arms until she knew it wouldn't cause him panic.
@slate-skylar