Branches, Birches and Junipers/Chapter 5

If family issues weren’t enough to stress over, there was the looming responsibility of running one of the most controversial, criticised groups in the school. The Future Dead Students Support Group had sprung up a few weeks after the events of Legacy Day, and aptly renamed Dead Epics Society right after its first meeting.

Icarus really didn’t know how he ended up helping to co-run it. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to remember. It involved something about accidentally making friends with Airmid Valerian, the physician from Godfather Death.

It really was ironic having a destined doctor whose guardian was Death himself to manage the group. Airmid was supposed to die from love, not family. Granted, the two remained an odd duo, a strange representation of the two things legacies perished for.

“Group shared lunch,” they said, two days before Icarus had left for his father’s wedding. “Right after you return. Hopefully that’ll increase group bonding – food always does, right?”

“How many people do you suspect will get poisoned?”

“Don’t be so pessimistic,” Airmid frowned. “A shared lunch should totally happen. Now go mass-text everyone.”

And now, a month later, this was how he ended up having to carry at least a half-dozen apple pies to an empty spare Crownculus classroom for Dead Epics.

As the hour went on, more food was eaten and even more food was being brought in.

It was actually a pretty chill gathering. Food was eaten. Lots of things happened, but describing them would be tangential to the plot, and the author already had this chapter sitting in their drafts for weeks - and by the time the republication was republished, literally three years. Therefore, to keep it short and for the writer to wrap up this storyline as soon as possible, everything was nice.

The conversation drifted off to parents at some point. Airmid threw in an off-handed comment about their biological parents dying, hugely emphasising the biological. “Real parents raise you. They don’t ditch the responsibility for their sweet bundle of joy on the third person they meet by the roadside.”

Bathilda nodded to Airmid’s remark. The waiting maid from the Goose Girl threw her perspective, saying something about the princess of the tale. Next was C. Sammy Greed, Kasim’s son, muttering something about Morgiana raising him. Finally, Icarus spoke.

“I feel like my dad only keeps me around for destiny reasons. I mean, my aunt in every single way is better than him, but I still want to make him proud for some weird reason.” Airmid sympathetically nodded with him.

There were a few other comments and remarks here and there, but those were the main ones.

Icarus also quietly noted how the Yankee never spoke a word.

———————

Dead Epics ended up at precisely 1:03PM, which threw Airmid a little off because it was two (minutes) early.

Airmid threw in a quip about letting the cleaners clean up all the trash, but Icarus said that it would be rude to do that, and insisted on cleaning up themselves.

When that was done, the two finally exited.

“That was probably the deepest thing I ever said with a chocolate muffin in my mouth,” Icarus said. “You know, that comment about my father?”

“I’m sure others say deeper things with other things in their mouths."

Icarus snorted. “Not from personal experience, I bet.” He cracked a grin, but it soon faded. Instead, he sighed. “I don’t know, I just want him to recognise that I matter, too. Not just as part of our destiny, but as a person.”

Airmid looked a him, shrugged and uttered a “same”.

Icarus didn’t know whether he should be asking this. Most people wouldn’t have hesitated – to them, Airmid was an open scientific journal. Any question would have been accepted, in the spirit of inquiry. “Does it irritate you that people – not just Death – see you as just a doctor?”

“It does more than irritates. It hurts,” they said. “It hurts because I don’t just view myself as the next physician. I’ve tried to develop a personality outside of the next physician, and that’s become a strong part of my identity. When people see me as merely the next physician, they only recognise me as something that I have no authority, no agency, no control over. I’ve become less of my own person and more of a lamppost, so to speak.”

Icarus looked down at his own feet, considering the weight of Airmid’s words. “You speak well,” he finally said.

As the physician of Death, Airmid carried the weight of the future medical industry. As the eldest child, Icarus carried the weight of a seriously messed-up family.

In that odd moment of realisation, Icarus almost envied them.