Note: written WELL BEFORE Stargirl 2x07 THANK YOU VERY MUCH The weight of the stones press down on his mind, and his shoulders and fingers ache with the tension of exerting his will on everything around him. The stone, the steel, even the dust in the air that catches in his lungs as he turns on his knees, grit digging hard into his palms. This isn’t a fight Henry King can win. This isn’t a fight he’s planning on winning.
He’s known since the Hospital, in a way, when his father walked away with Mahkent. He’d turned, and a thought had struck his mind like an arrow, tangled images of warning and regret and farewell. Henry had just been too stubborn. He’d thought, he’d really thought he could do this. Could save him. But his father had known he would be beyond saving, and he hadn’t listened. The man standing in the tunnel opposite him now is the father he’s known since his mother died. Since he killed her, Henry has to tell himself, changing the story for a second time in just hours. His father stands there, tall and proud, cold and cruel and exacting. Beyond them, light from the Cosmic Staff flares, and he can hear the straining of Harris--Rick-- trying to pry the bars open. There are two ways this fight will end, and Henry knows he won’t live in either of them. He just can’t die with one of them, either. So that leaves the path before him. He brings his mind to bear on the bars at his back, walling off that entire section with something he can sense but not see, straining to keep them together and intact. He looks up at his father and there is nothing in his eyes. Not Hatred, not pity, not love. No anger, no remorse. This goodbye is hollow. It is for show, for finality. The real goodbye was at the hospital, when his father turned to the elevator knowing that whatever chance they had to be a family had ended. He had chosen that, and Henry would never know why. And as the roof groaned and screamed and cracked above him, Henry made his own choice. He twisted, looking through the dust and shimmer of the barrier he held firm. They’re all standing there, pressed close, Yolanda’s claws striking sparks again and again, tearing at the mental shield, and his guilt hammers it back into place. He will not let her die. He already let so much happen to her. No. He caused it. He wasn’t passive. That’s the problem. He should have fought for her. He’ll die for her instead. As long as the barrier holds, they’ll be safe. The bars will buy them time, will shield them from the collapse. He holds her gaze for a moment. I betrayed you. I’m sorry. I love you. He is no poet. His thoughts are even clumsier than his words. They will have to be enough. “I am sorry.” He repeats it aloud, his head aching with the effort of holding the world up around them just a little longer. He wants to scream, his fingers scrambling for a grip, and kind of stability. His eyes flick to Courtney. Stargirl. His cousin. She was right, she was right about everything, and suddenly he has to make sure she knows it, that they all do, that this doesn’t make them all as hard and bleak and cold as--as--well. “You were right,” he croaks. “People are good. Don’t let this change you.” He doesn’t look away as his hold on the stone snaps, a brittle rubber band stretched too far. Over the roar of rubble and piping, he thinks he can hear Yolanda scream his name, but no. It’s not audible. It’s in his mind. Before the light from the staff and the four dim lamps go out in a crash of weight and pain, one more thought slams into him, shattering his barrier. He must have made it up himself, but as last moments go, he’s glad to die with Yolanda’s voice ringing through his heart. I love you. I forgive-
