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Owen has decided to make a soup for the Featherholders. He had collected vegetables and a bowl filled with water. She barely ever had this much food when he was alive, just eating scraps and the like. But she thinks he could figure it out. She had started a fire in the woods — safely, obviously! — and is sitting next to it, cross legged.
The bowl was on the fire, held up just above. Owen had tossed the vegetables in already. At least, he thinks she has. His hand moves to her side, and — shit, the vegetables are still there. How long had they been there? How long had the water been boiling? Is the sun still up?
He tosses the vegetables in the soup, remembering the feeling of hot water splashing against her skin. It’s almost nice, a pull to reality, a reminder that, by the vaguest definition of the word, he is human. She may not be alive, but he is human.
Owen carefully watched the bowl. She had, unfortunately, found that when he tries to focus on something, everything gets…more. Louder. The noise pushes down on her head, his ears start ringing, but despite it, she still stares at the bowl.
“Hey, you!”
“Owen, it’s good to see you.”
“Get out of here, you cheapskate, I’m not giving you money.”
“You want bread? You want my bread? You won’t fucking get my bread.”
“Hey, Owen, I got you some carrots! I was thinking we could binge eat tonight, maybe make a soup?”
Owen looks around, seeing a long, unfamiliar street in a large city surrounded by stands and sellers of food and clothing. Though he doesn’t recognize the appearance of the street, the sounds and smells and the feeling of the road under her skin was something he couldn’t forget. She’s holding a small bowl with a couple coins in it.
“No, wait.” He muttered. “I’m not…here. This was so long ago. I’m not a beggar anymore — I’m dead. I died. I’m dying.”
And then Apo was in front of her. She turned around, their eyes softening. “Do you want to go back?”
“Apo, I don’t…I didn’t want…I just wanted to make you guys food. Why am I so bad at this? Why is everything so loud? I’m in the wrong place. I’m in the wrong time. I hate it here. It hurts.” Owen grabbed his arms, rocking back and forth. “Help me, Apo.”
And then she was back. He perceives the fire, but it’s starting to die out. Or, she thinks it is. He hopes.
She can still feel the street underneath him. Still can hear the laughter and chattering of the city residents. Her fists clench, his eyes closed tightly, even though she knows that won’t help.
He’s had to be ripped from death’s embrace, from her endless walk along the Styx, to get everything ever shoved into his head without her ever having a choice. He’s mad. She’s tired. All he ever wanted was just to live peacefully, but that can’t happen. The gods seemingly don’t want it to happen. So she’s allowed to be absolutely pissed.
He can’t stop herself. He doesn’t want to. She grabs the boiling water and drinks it, the heat burning his mouth, her throat, his whole body.
But it’s quiet.
And she’s able to sleep.
~~~
“Owen? Hey.”
Owen looks up. But he can’t see anything. And it’s stayed quiet. “Apo.”
She hears a rustling in front of him. “You doing okay?”
“I’m sorry.” Owen’s voice is choked.
“What?”
“I was making a soup for you guys. But it was too loud. I messed up the time. I just wanted — I just wanted to make something for you. For the Featherholders.” Owen starts to pull at her hair. “Sorry.”
“Hey,” Apo murmured, “can I give you a hug?”
He doesn’t say anything, but wraps her arms around them, feeling her feathers under his hands. “I like this place.”
Apo returns the hug. It’s a comforting feeling, their soft hands on her back. “You can stay here as long as you need.”