Chapter Text
“ What fire does not destroy, it hardens.
Oscar Wilde
She died on a Tuesday.
A heart attack, the doctors told him, “ Too many years of stress on her body , it was bound to happen. It was inevitable .”
Inevitable. Like she had no fighting chance. Another reminder of how he failed yet another person that dared to enter his life. Another doomed soul.
His mother. The woman who loved him so much that she suffered for it almost constantly. There would be days where memories of Sainte Hilde would overtake her , plague her and shut her off from the rest of the world. Her beautiful eyes would glaze over, and body would become still, and she herself would become a vault , with a lock that was forever unable to crack until she would let him.
And Wylan was not a locksmith. He was hardly anything at the moment. Juggling the different tasks that kept him intertwined with the two lives he managed to control because they were handed to him.
So , when his mother was lost within herself he would place her in the garden, shaded from the sun but able to feel the breeze and the flowers beneath her feet. Her red hair would glisten in the sun but he knew she was not aware of any of these things . Her hair, one of the few traits they shared, was no longer curly like his.
No, He took that away.
And her as well. It may not have been deliberate, but in the end , he claimed her.
Because she would be HIS.
The servants and housemaids were having trouble getting him to leave the house. He ignored meetings and celebrations, letters and symphonies, and the piano and the flute.
His flute. The one his mother loves to hear him play.
Loved.
Because she was gone . It shouldn’t have hurt as much, he has lost her before. But it was fake before, he didn’t understand before, and He controlled him before.
But it wasn’t fake anymore. His mother was dead. And his reaction was quite childish.
He destroyed some of her unfinished paintings, blues and yellows consumed by a childish flame. He burned sheets, notes, dresses , and empty easels. The fire made it easier to pretend they never existed in the first place. It was spring cleaning , he told himself , Clutter had no room in the Van Eck household. That itself was the scariest part.
His mother was dead. His name was not changed and he had no heir. He was still Wylan Van Eck.
His father had won. His hands were decorated in every color of the rainbow but his father had won.
And he was alone.
Jesper was off traveling , learning and growing his power as a Fabrikator. Wylan had encouraged him to, comforting him that he wouldn't be alone, he had his mother. And Jesper wasn’t even here to mourn with him, to comfort him.
Jesper lost his mother, he knew how this felt. He could help . But Jesper was not here. He didn’t even have the guts to get someone to write to him.
He was a coward. Running away from everyone and everything.
His other companions weren’t there either. Letters would take a while, and he didn’t want to burden them further. Inej was sailing, slaughtering every slaver and freeing every slave. She wouldn’t have time to journey back to Ketterdam and mourn someone she hardly knew. Nina was in Ravka, and Wylan wouldn’t dare make her attend another funeral.
Matthias was….
That left Kaz. And one does not ask Kaz Brekker to mourn with him. The man was busy running the Barrel, Inej’s visits gradually getting him to be closer to his Crows.
But one does not ask Dirtyhands to a funeral.
So when Wylan threw the fresh dirt on the wooden coffin , he was alone. Complete and utterly alone. Marya Hendricks was dead to the world.
He had lost and Jan had won. He may have been rotting in a Hellgate cell, but he won.
He stumbled blindly home with a bottle of Kvas. He sent every servant out, not on the streets mind you, he wasn’t cruel , but on a paid vacation to a place of their choosing . The small staff filtered out, wondering whether or not they would see him alive when they returned .
The next day , he blew up his father's room. He stomped over to his mother’s closet and pulled out a pair of dark brown leather gloves . They were his mother’s gloves, actually bought by his father , when his wife wanted to wear white ones with yellow splotches on a night out. They were ugly and rough . Another instance of his father that plagued his mother’s thoughts. They slid on perfectly , the brown leather attached to his skin like a second one. He ripped through his father’s closet and dumped out every single belonging . Pictures, watches, dress shoes, coats, hats, and scarves littered the floor like one of his mother’s paintings. The gloves were practically silent as he ripped every single item out of his father’s massive closet.
Once that was complete , he brought his mother’s paints . Squeezing the tubes, he splattered the bed , the floor , and the walls. The items shimmered under reds and hues of various colors. It was breathtaking and beautiful. But she was not here to admire it.
His father’s voice echoed in his mind. “ I know what’s best for you. Sooner or later , you will thank me for my cruelty , Wylan.”
The voice would always be there, judging him, marking him, OWNING HIM. And Wylan would rather drown in the canals again then be his once more.
The chemicals came next. Phosphorus gasoline, toluene , kerosene and just plain alcohol were poured and soaked every inch of the pile like some kind of forbidden baptism. He was careful not to spill any on himself, and wouldn't want to die in the process, although everyone would be better off without his presence.
The liquid kept within the pile, as he slid a gas mask into place . He stripped down to his black waistcoat and black slacks , choosing to remain in the same clothes as the funeral. The gloves now contained a stray match , his father’s cigar lighter laying on the soaked pile , gradually soaking up the Kvas and paint.
His mask and goggles snapped firmly in place, completely airtight , and his father’s bedroom was in an outer wing of the mansion. Far away and distant , like the person who slept in it.
He took a breath, and struck the match against the hallway and dropped it across a fuel line. The fire consumed the acid and began drawing a pattern , a dangerous one , leading up to the pile of flammables.
Wylan took a breath as he stepped into his cellar. Deep and safe.
Coward. Always running away.
And when he let it out , the belongings Marya Hendricks and Jan Van Eck were no more.
The only thing that survived the blast was a metal curtain rod. Half melted with a metal ball at the end . And as he twirled the rod, reminding him of Kaz’s crow head cane, Wylan Van Eck got the most wicked, most despicable , and most horrific idea.
The gloves were undetectable at this point, he forgot he was even wearing them.
He was going to kidnap his father.
And make him pay.
For Inej, Jesper, Matthias , Nina , and Kaz. For his mother. He should feel awful , but instead he was glad at the fact none of his friends were around to stop him. He should feel remorse and grief .
But he didn’t .
He really, really, didn’t .