When Simon comes to see her he’s frantic, eyes wide and bloodshot, sure fingers shaking. “River,” he breathes and it’s like a whispered prayer, a thankful offering that he can touch her, feel her once again after all these years.

“Simon,” she returns quietly, fingers pressed tightly together in her lap. “I’ve missed you,” she intones but it’s all wrong and Simon doesn’t notice. Instead he takes her hands, leading her to one of the private grottos that litter the Academy’s large estate. “How are mother and father?” she asks calmly again, back straight and body poised.

“Are you ok?”

“Of course I am silly, why wouldn’t I be?” She asks, tone suggesting his question is preposterous. She gives him her brightest smile, little fingers seeking out his in a physical attempt to smooth. She can already see the confusion washing over Simon’s face, his mouth opening in his trademark sign of disbelief.

“But your letters…” he sputters as the grip on her hand moves beyond gentle.

“I know I haven’t written,” she continues as though he hasn’t spoken, “but there is just so much to learn here Simon.” Her eyes are glassy and her skin pale but she smiles still. “You’re busy saving lives, I don’t expect you to be keeping up with me.” There is a frown in her words that he does not see and all he can do is stare at her, mouth agape.

“You said they were hurting you,” he whispers, voice low and desperate.

There are little ears everywhere but he does not know this even if River does. She wants to tell him to be quiet but her mouth remains traitorously still. “I’ve been doing some research into this place. What they’re doing here is wrong; they’re hurting you and other gifted children. You may not realize it but they are.” His voice is full of patient fear, worries about a future he can see clearly. “Please River, let me help you,” he begs, voice cracking.

“Oh Simon,” River says and pulls him close. He knows so much, too much. She doesn’t want to, she tries to rebel against the voice in her head but the argument is short and all too soon she feels her hand slide up his back, cup his neck. Her thumb presses gently against his Adams apple and her other fingers find the small gap in his vertebra. “I’m sorry Simon,” she says when he falls limply in her arms, a strange and quiet warmth settling over her.

When they come to collect the body blue hands sooth her cries and tell her she’s a good little girl before they wipe her memory. When she wakes the next morning full of misplaced guilt she wonders why Simon never came for her.