The Hellhound

Ch. Forty-Eight

"The measure of who we are is what we do with what we have."

- Vince Lombardi

                                                                                   ***

Rhys' magic pushed against the edges of Sirius' brain, clamoring for his help. A fresh wave of blood gushed from Sirius' nose and he pressed his hands to his temples. Words didn't have meaning as they penetrated the angry, red mass of his brain.

All he got was a single, overwhelming feeling. A desperate plea.

Sirius let out a grunt as his legs finally gave, his knees hitting the stone floor with a painful crack. His chest was full of needles as he struggled to breathe. Rhys' eyes went wide and the magic ceased, leaving everything inside Sirius' skull throbbing and furious.

Logan stared down at him for a moment before taking a step forward. Sirius waved him off.

"Your turn," he mumbled. He traced his tongue around his mouth, spitting more blood at the foot of the gate. When Logan hesitated, eyes shifting to his brother, Sirius bent his head, his shoulders dragging. "Please. Please go make sure she's okay."

Tears dripped down his face as he closed his eyes. The sooner Logan left, the sooner Rhys could do whatever it was he didn't want his brother to see and the sooner they could leave Hell. He didn't have much left in him. Even the air of Hell—his natural habitat—couldn't heal the hurt the darkness had inflicted on him.

Silence radiated from the witch. Sirius let his head fall back, wet eyelashes clinging together as he peered at Logan. His hands were clenched into fists, his head turning to look at his brother, then the gate. Sirius watched in abject fascination as the witch vacillated between people he loved. He wondered how terrible that must be, to have a heart big enough to love more than one person—to care for more than one.

Perhaps what he needed was a push.

"She needs you," Sirius whispered. "She needs you there to help put the pieces back together."

Sirius was glad he could no longer distinguish between the taste of blood and the metallic tang of hatred. It was the only thing that allowed him to admit that there was someone Galloway needed more than him. 

That, and he wanted Rhys to stop look at him with those big, pleading doe eyes.

His stomach dropped when Logan shook his head, turning to his brother. "You need to leave."

Rhys shook his head. "No, you—"

His words were cut off when Logan grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him toward the open gates. The younger witch stumbled, barely catching himself against the gate before he went through the black swirl out of Hell. Anger flickered brilliant green in his eyes.

"Logan—"

"You are leaving, Rhysland. No more arguments."

"I'm—"

"You're dying." The words were soft. Nearly inaudible as they left Logan's mouth. But he might as well have screamed them.

Rhys went so pale his skin turned bluish. His bloodless lips formed silent words, and even as they watched, more strands of his hair were leached of color, turning the black to silver. Logan stared at his brother, looking tired and sad. He put his hand on the gate, grimacing as he touched the blood-soaked metal.

"This isn't enough. The blood of sinners isn't enough to close it. And you're smart enough to know that." Logan gave him a long-suffered look. "Did you think I'd miss all those brain waves you were throwing Sirius' way?"