A decade ago, following Proserpina’s stay in the underworld as a newly turned immortal goddess, they used to spar on the abandoned clearing not too far from the Kashima’s residence, away from prying eyes.
This was supposedly training.
Both of them had been taught the basics of self-defense ever since they have started school by their dad but following their… captivity (no thanks to that shitty bloodsucker), William was a bit behind so it was unanimously decided that he should continue learning how to fend for himself.
Or in other words: Winters gets a perfectly legitimate excuse to beat her little brother up in broad daylight and William Veil is the poor, unfortunate soul assigned as her glorified human punching bag.
It goes without saying that his sister’s fighting style has always been swift and efficient whether William was simply watching or going against her weaponless or not, as she moved in a seemingly deadly dance; serenity and brutality wrapped into one.
Where every breath counts.
Every single step calculated.
William had always thought of her to be somewhat meticulous even before she became a goddess, but here and now… he couldn’t help but think there was something predatory with the way she fought.
They had started off slow, the two of them circling one another and patiently waiting for the other to do the first move, feeling for weaknesses, for an opening… although William couldn’t somehow help but feel like a cornered animal with the way she looks at him, her gaze too focused, heavy with seemingly murderous intent despite the deceptively lax air she exuded, as if to lull him into a false sense of security.
And then, as if sensing that he was hesitating for far too long, Winters suddenly charged forward at the next second, her movements a frightening blur of black, more shadow than flesh and blood.
William twists out of the way.
It was only thanks to his ingrained reflexes of being her sparring partner for so long that gave him the initiative to wisely sidestep into a half-twirl instead of meeting her head on, tipping his head a few inches backwards when her elbow suddenly came aiming for his head as he moved, nearly clipping his chin in the process had he been seconds too late.
William briefly wonders to himself if it’s not that Winters has become too quick, but that everything else is moving a bit too slow around them. If this is what her eyes could see far within the depths of shadows, deep within her domain of darkness where she is to reign; a world where time and light ceases to exists, and she has to patiently wait always wait for it to be safe for her little brother before she allows herself to move instead of leaving him behind like a useless, lump of flesh.
The funny thing is, William does feel like that useless, lump of flesh that Roman liked to dub him as when their eyes met while he stumbles but quickly regains his footing.
When Winters waits for him long enough to be ready on his feet instead of taking him down there and then once more, minding her strength and pulling her punches, giving him a fighting chance to hit her very nearly on the face when she suddenly comes too close, all the while prolonging their spar and letting him think he even has a chance of winning.
As if William is the same little kid she was always reminded by their dad to play gently with, and William sneers at the thought, charging towards that infuriatingly blank face that has become of his sister.
Winters must have sensed his anger, the growing frustration welling within him—or maybe she has had enough of this farce of a fight as well because the next thing William knows, up has suddenly become down. And at the next second, he was crashing hard onto the ground, air punched out of his lungs as he wheezes, painfully flat on his back with her shadow looming almost threateningly above him.
The adrenaline was slow to fade, but not quick enough to keep him from not feeling the throbbing ache on his back, his muscles sore from the exertion. And the rapid, almost painful beat of his frightened heart.
This must be what an animal about to get slaughtered feels like.
“Come now, little brother,” Winters was saying above him, her voice light, too light as she stands over him, looking down at him with those impossibly dark eyes of her’s. The tip of the wooden sword, the shinai—and it’s not even a real blade, damn it—is an inch away from William’s throat, hovering dangerously close enough for him to feel it pressing firmly on his pulse, “… you’re making it look like I’m bullying you.”
“That’s… because… you… are,” he huffs, in between breaths.
“No, William. This is training,” she pauses, seemingly considers the undignified heap of limbs that he is, “…which you are failing at, by the way.”
It took him an embarrassing second or two before he finally manages to find his voice to say: “I’m definitely sure this counts as bullying.”
“It’s not. You’re just too easy.”
“Well, your teaching method sucks.”
She bristles, “You just liked complaining.”
“No. I liked not getting tossed around like a pancake.”
“This is me helping you—what more could you want?” she pokes him sharply on the pulse, once, and thankfully doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even react when he jerks away from the wooden sword and couldn’t stop himself quick enough to hide it, “William, you can’t be done just yet. Get up.”
“I don’t wanna…” he whined, turning his head away.
“You’re acting like a child,” Winters scolds.
“That’s because I’m a minor,” he snaps.
“And clearly an embarrassment too,” she retorts, pulling the wooden sword back to her side, “I never thought of my brother as someone to give up too easily. How disappointing.”
The way Winters had crafted her words and presented it as a deliberate insult is far too clear to see to the naked eye. And William hates it because he knows how (and from where) Winters has learned to fight with words, thinly veiled with control, and intent, with the knives you wouldn’t see coming. He has never been good at that kind of fighting.
What’s worse is the fact that he is aware that she riles him up on purpose; knowingly makes him angry enough since they both know that it is the fastest way to drive him into action.
Even if said action was purely out of spite.
“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not really your brother, yeah?” he snipes, snatching his own wooden sword off the ground and rolling himself up to his feet before launching himself at her in one go before he regrets his words.
As she raised her sword to block him, here up close, William can see the way her eyes narrowed, lips curling into a wry smirk… he couldn’t help but think there was something angry in her smile, something almost dangerous, “And what, pray tell, does that supposed to mean, little brother? Are you disowning me? Is that it?”
There’s no right answer to that (and he wasn’t that cruel to force open that specific can of worms) so William deliberately keeps his mouth shut as he powers his way forward, trying to push her backward.
She doesn’t even budge an inch.
‘I’m not really your brother…’
Already he regrets saying that.
He shouldn’t have said that.
He shouldn’t have said that—!
Instead of allowing herself to back down a few steps to let him take the lead (as she usually does), Winters suddenly forces her blade through, a testament of the glaring difference between their brute strength alone, making William grunt as he was the one forced to stumble back lest his wooden sword gets broken—as it was prone to do against the force of nature that was the goddess of shadows.
In that same second, Winters suddenly reared her sword back before lunging for his neck, and it was only half-luck and half-clumsiness that allowed William to dodge it as he takes a hasty, three backward steps.
“Does it matter if we do not have the same blood father? Does being a daughter of Hades suddenly made me not the same child Warren Veil has doted upon for fourteen years?” Winters mercilessly plows on, clearly having developed a cruel streak from her brief stint in the underworld—hell clearly does that to you—as she continues to poke and prod on that particular nasty wound, a gaping hole that the only parent they have ever known left them with.
“Winters, I—” he swallows, willing his grip on the wooden sword to remain steady even as he hurriedly fixes his stance, blocking or desperately trying to dodge her clear attempts to hurt him for real now.
“Does it really matter?” she repeats, a snarl.
“No.” he whispers. “It never did.”
…and if necessary, hold his ground.
Instead of jabbing him over the chest—right where his regrettably human heart is—William can actually tell Winters had held herself back at the last possible second when he suddenly stood still in favor of harmlessly allowing her shinai to tap him right where his heart is safely, sounding beating like a drum.
“You win,” William sighs, raising his hands up in surrender.
He couldn’t help but think of the surgical precision with which Winters had held her blade was as impressive as it was scary.
She still didn’t say anything though.
Just stares at him, consideringly.
Winters has that look in her eyes again. The one that reminds him of the never-ending darkness that his sister had half-dragged him into in a bid for freedom or risking death just to escape from that hellhole; it was the same abyss staring down at William with cool indifference as if it’s already finished him off a hundred times over far within its dark domain in completely different ways.
It’s times like this that made the difference between the two of them so stark even though William has not forgotten for a second that she is dangerous, the most dangerous thing there is if continuously provoked.
He’ll never forget it: his sister’s ice-cold fingers seizing him by the arm, almost wrenching it off as she half-drags, half-crawls to the pool of shadows with him in tow, her strength vicious and excruciating even in the wretched state she’d been brought to, and William’s body, fragile and helplessly weak, another burden for her to bear.
“William,” she breathes out, his name.
He startles, the small hairs on the back of his neck standing straight to attention at the way she said it, because there was something soft, desperate, and lost in the way she enunciated his name. He waits, staring at her. But she doesn’t say anything else, only stares back at him.
An unfinished thought.
She does that sometimes too.
Winters would call his name almost seemingly out of nowhere but when prompted, she’d only look at him, stare at him, as if afraid to let him out of her sight. As if she’s soaking in on the fact that he’s alive and real… that this life is real and he’s still here, with her.
And there’s a lot of things that William wants to say.
I’m sorry, the first thing he wants to blurt out, I shouldn’t have said that. I was wrong. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it, Winters. Please. I’m so sorry.
You are still my…
Winters only tilts her head at him as if she can hear his thoughts before giving him a short nod, as if in acknowledgment, as if in understanding. I know, she seems to say even without speaking. I know what you are trying, and failing badly, to say.
She lowers the shinai and steps back.
“Same time tomorrow.”
And that was the end of it.
William clears his throat, trying to keep his voice calm and light as he lowers his own wooden sword, “Hey, what do you think of guns?”
“That you’re too young to be anywhere near it.”
…Yep.
Still a little bit angry.
He ignores that—he kind of deserved it, anyway—and bravely carries on as though uninterrupted, “Is it cool if I somehow learn how to use one? Besides, I have a feeling that firearms are going to be more of my speed.”
She raises an eyebrow, almost incredulous.
He shrugs, “What? Dad has a hunting rifle!”
“He did,” Winters concedes, her voice dropping into a low, almost mournful whisper, the same cadence whenever she speaks of Warren, “He showed me how to shoot once… but that was a long time ago.”
“Cool!” he chirps, beaming at her.
“Hm?”
“Think you can teach me?”
Her lips pursed into a flat line, and she looks completely unimpressed at the idea but seems to clearly think on it. “A gun,” she says, her voice falling into a monotone, “…you want to learn how to use a gun.”
“Well, duh.”
“Immaturity and firearms are not a good mix.”
William rolls his eyes as he crosses his arms, “And you couldn’t possibly be thinking that fighting up close is going to be such a huge help for me—not if I’ll be fending myself against monsters twice my size, speed, and strength. Besides,” he raises the wooden sword and shakes it in front of her for emphasis, “…it’s not like I’m any good with all this.”
She lightly pushes it away from her, “Fine.”
“Wait,” he perks up, “Really?!”
“I’ll let you learn how to shoot if,” William tries not to physically deflate when a wicked grin slowly crawls up to her face, “…and only if you can manage to hold your own against me with a blade.”
“That’s not fair!”
This time, it was his sister’s turn to roll her eyes at him, “Give me a break, Will, does it looked like I can teach you right now? No. It’s best if you learn this first then… that.”

He deadpans, “You just don’t know how to use a gun, do you.”
Her momentary silence was almost incriminating.
“…I do know how to use a gun,” Winters finally admitted, letting her voice fall into an almost whisper as the clouds roll by, half covering her in darkness, “I may have learned it the hard way, but I do know. I just don’t like how the sound reminds me of thunder.”
. . .
“It’s a silence that’s different from the one left at funerals and wakes. The silence of the dead carries with it a sense of finality; it’s a silence you know you must get used to. But the silence of a missing child is not something you want to get used to; you refuse to accept it, and so it screams at you. The silence of the dead says, Goodbye. The silence of the missing says, Find me.”
—Dennis Lehane
. . .
Proserpina smiles at Alastor’s retreating back as he merrily heads off to the direction of the kitchen, no doubt checking on the muffins they had left to cool off before she lightly knocks on William’s door.
No answer.
She frowns, “Will…?”
Her heart pounds, almost maddeningly in her ears, echoing the sharp rap of her knuckles against the wood with each second passing without a word from her brother before she phases straight inside his room.
Looking around, the goddess of shadows could feel the tendrils of dread creeping up on her as she stares at the guitar still lying almost innocently from where they had left it just this early morning, instantly reminding her of the fact that it’s literally been hours since she had last seen and heard from her brother.
He’s not here.
In fact, she can’t even sense William’s presence.
Not in his room, not in this building… no. No, that can’t be right. William has no assigned missions for this particular date and if he has someplace to go to, he always tells her beforehand so why–?
Proserpina glances at the charger he had messily left lying on the bedside table before her gaze slides down to her pocket, her gloved hand already fishing for her cell phone. Should she call him? The time on the screen shows it’s definitely late for him to be wandering around…
She should definitely call him.
If William has gone out then, shouldn’t he be back by now?
Suddenly recalling the many times William has come home late with his cell phone battery dead or on ‘Do Not Disturb’ mode on purpose because he had his earphones plugged on with music and doesn’t want to be bothered has Proserpina instantly stomping down on the irrational pangs of that sudden bout of restlessness before it drives her straight to paranoia.
She doesn’t really want William (let alone Alastor) to call her out on being overprotective… or worse, that she’s overreacting.
That’d be unnecessary.
It’s fine, William will be back soon.
It’s going to be fine…
Returning back to the hallway, Winters soon change course at the last minute and makes her way straight to the dining room where Alastor passes her by with a gentle grin before he heads off to his room.
And from there, she waits.
The snow has stopped falling by this point.
But William still has not stepped through the front door of the hotel, let alone anywhere near the building. In fact, she thinks he’s not even in the area.
She can feel her stomach getting queasy at the thought, but instead of butterflies fluttering about in her stomach, it only feels like there’s a bunch of angry buzzing bees picking and prodding her insides, making her extremely uneasy as she shifts on her seat, glancing over at the time on her phone once more.
Her finger hovers indecisively.
One phone call won’t hurt, right?
…Better safe than sorry.
Right? Right…
With that thought in mind, Winters hurriedly dials his number… but much to her dismay, William does not even pick up the call. What the hell?
She swallows, uneasily.
There are plenty of reasons why William couldn’t answer his phone right now, let alone why he is even outside in such a late hour. It’s not… shouldn’t even be that much of a big deal, anyway.
This is nothing new; William has gone out for much longer and much later and in all different kinds of godforsaken hours (whenever he’s out on a mission for sure, but not like this) … besides, he’s already an adult. He’s turning 22 in a few days, too.
William can take care of himself.
He doesn’t need his sister worrying over him.
Maybe his phone died again (but didn’t he already charged his phone before he went to sleep last night?), maybe he had left his phone on silent and had forgotten all about it, maybe there’s no signal where he is...
But where is he?
Proserpina gnaws at her lower lip to keep herself from groaning out loud, lest Alastor hears and comes running, propping her elbows up on the table to cradle her head. Look, just because she had lost William once (to Rei, even if it is all in good intentions…) before does not mean she will lose him again.
Because she will not.
Winters had promised to Warren long ago that she would take care of her little brother. She would not lose her remaining family like that so easily again. Never again.
Being unavailable for a simple phone call does not easily equates that her little brother is in danger, Proserpina firmly reminds herself, pointedly ignores the sinking feeling in her chest that makes the thought feels too much like an excuse, like pinpricks of needles.
She’s more than aware that she can be such a pessimist to a fault, a paranoid one at worst but she cannot keep on jumping to worst case scenarios like this even though it sort of feels justified at most times.
It is not fair to William.
…and it is not sane or healthy.
Just because she had been through a whole lot of terrible things in life, it gives her the right to expect that the worst will happen to them again. Because it will not. It doesn’t have to. Surely she had already filled her quota of misery from the Fates to last them through a lifetime…?
So, she waits.
One hour, two hours, three, four, five, six…
She blinks, staring at the time.
It’s been seven hours already.
And if she had been nervous earlier, now she’s genuinely afraid. This time, Proserpina cannot think of anything to justify what her brother was doing out this late and for so long. It’s literally past 12 now. It’s already morning. Why hasn’t William come back yet?
What’s going on?
She swipes her thumb over the screen, her finger only moving on muscle memory as she dials his number again. Her heart was practically crawling up her throat as she anxiously waits for the call to connect.
Please pick it up, Will. Pick it up…
“The number you have dialed is either unattended or out of the coverage area. Please try your call later. The number you have dialed is either unattended or out of the coverage…”
No.
Her heart dropped all the way into her heels, her entire body going rigid as she stared at the too-bright screen, almost unseeing as she watches the glass slowly spider-webbing with cracks.
The phone case creaks under her fingers.
03:03 AM.
The moment the worst did, in fact, happen to her again.