eyes of the grave

Don’t try to live so wise

Don’t cry, ‘cause you’re so right

Don’t dry, with fakes or fears

'Cause you will hate yourself in the end

-Wind, Naruto Ending 1

"that sounds less romantic and more peaceful," she says eventually before finally, finally closing her mouth around her spoon once more. old bitterness, borne from religious disillusionment, mixes with the mushroom taste of her soup and she frowns. her brief death had not been peaceful, had not been romantic. her life right after that even less so. "eternal sleep. if ones stupid god allows it anyway."

zil puts her spoon down and pushes the soup towards the tiny punk elf in a wordless offering. sayén's question catches zil off guard and has her sit up straighter, her frown deepening. was there a tell? a sign? a smell? or was this just another one of those weird things that sayén just says?

the grave priestess tilts her head, mirroring zilv’ithra without even meaning to, though where the drow’s frown is sharp and guarded, sayén’s expression is simply thoughtful. a little curious, a little sad.

she taps her spoon once against the rim of her own bowl — a soft, absent chime, and then sets it down with a quiet clink.

“dying things have the habit of finding me, so it is not hard to figure out you might have.”　might have died — she leaves unsaid, shrugging one bare shoulder. the gesture is loose, easy. unbothered.　

“i don't always like the dying things that find me, but i like you so much.”　sayén declares warmly. beamingly, even.　“so i am glad i can make sure you don't die all the way.”

then her right hand lifts and extends across the space between them, palm up.

open. waiting.

her black eyes are big, round and earnest, and there's something almost childlike in the gesture — not quite demanding, but pleading to be allowed to watch her pulse.

Sayén always surprises him with how willingly she accepts his ( admittedly extensive list of ) confessions ; she never flinches, not a flicker of doubt in her expression a single time. Instead, she nuzzles closer, & the ease with which she sinks into him spreads warmth all the way down to his toes.

      ❝    In a way.    ❞    He speaks softly enough to avoid moving his jaw too much, not wanting to deter the back & forth brush of her thumb against it. His fingers trace along one of her arms.

      ❝    In order to defeat the Netherbrain, someone had to become a mind flayer. The Emperor abandoned us after I    .    .    .    ❞

His eyebrows furrow as the memory re-surfaces. Puck understands it now, in hindsight, though it's just as fuzzy & fragmented as the rest of his memories.

She had been naive, so easily manipulated. The Emperor hardly had to lift a single tentacle to earn Puck's trust & keep it until the very end. It blindsided her when their alliance broke, though she should have known it would happen.

      ❝    I    .    .    .    ❞    Puck swallows roughly.    ❝    It only felt right that it would be me. It was my fault. All of it was my fault.    ❞

The guilt begins to burrow in his heart like a maggot. Before it can get far, Puck forces himself to keep talking, knowing he would spiral otherwise.

      ❝    But then, when I opened my mouth to volunteer, Iago cast Silence on me because they knew what I was about to do.    ❞

This makes her chuckle. Perhaps it is selfish, but she is grateful to have a twin that loves her. One that will always deny her the opportunity of heroic sacrifice, even if it had infuriated her at the time. She would never have learned what it means to truly live had they not shut her down.

The lighthearted gratitude fades quickly, however, as she remembers the rest of the story. Puck clings to Sayén tighter than before.

      ❝    It was Prince Orpheus that transformed.    ❞    His throat constricts as he struggles with the tale all over again. His vision blurs with the beginnings of unshed tears.

      ❝    But it should have been me.    ❞

sayén does not speak right away. she rarely does, listening is always her first response. her fingers never stop their slow, soothing path along his arm, tracing the fabric of his sleeve as if mapping a constellation only she can see. her cheek remains pressed to his chest for a long moment, rising and falling with each breath puck darlington takes.

prince orpheus... the name curls through her mind like old starlight, distant and cold. should be unknown but feels familiar, as though the knowledge and weight of history of those species that habit the silver void stayed with her body even when her mind could no longer remember. she has been able to gather some information as an adult and put pieces together here and there, but so much of it still feels unknown.

she does not doubt that puck’s gratitude is real. she would never dismiss his feelings, would never doubt those feelings are real and big, for she knows her wife well and knows she feels everything with immense intensity. but truthfully.... sayén cannot bring herself to feel the same reverence.

githyanki.... the word alone tastes of something metallic and old, like blood dried on the edge of a silver blade. she has no memories of the astral sea’s drifting colonies, yet the feeling has stayed within her. the phantom of a terror that has no face. the suspicion, grown over decades, that whatever stole her from her birthplace may have worn the same sharp features and spoke in the same harsh syllables as the prince in question.

she will not speak ill of the dead — not when puck carries guilt like a wound that won’t close. this is not about her. not now, not today. but truth is, she cannot give orpheus so much credit. 

finally, the priestess shifts, tilting her head just enough to look up at him. her dark eyes, pools of black with no whites to soften them, search his face with unrestrained gentleness. she sees the guilt still clinging to puck’s features, the way his shoulders brace against a weight that was never his to carry. her heart aches. it is such a heavy thing. she wishes she could lift it from him, just for a moment, just long enough for him to breathe.

“you feel guilty,”　her voice a soft murmur against his collarbone.　“because you have a pure heart. i know this about you, i have always known this.”

long pale rose hair cascades from her shoulders down and around her body as she moves to reach puck’s face. the backs of her fingers brush along his cheek. soft and slow, the way one might pet the velvet of a fawn’s ear. her touch always delicate, grounding, protective. so very protective.

“but i do not believe prince orpheus choice was entirely selfless. i do not believe it was only for you.”　her tone does not sharpen, even in skepticism it remains tender and curious.　“githyanki and illithid have been at war for so, so long. it did not need to be you. it only needed to be someone, and prince orpheus made the choice that would benefit his people the most.”

she pauses, letting the words rest. then, as if to soften any sting, she strokes his cheek again and adds,　“your twin is so very clever. you would do well to trust their judgment on this one.”　before he can protest or sink deeper into his thoughts, sayén leans forward and presses a long, adoring kiss to his forehead. her lips linger there, warm and reverent, as if she could press all her love directly into his skin, through bone, into the tender places where guilt has made a home.

“i know it feels very heavy in your heart right now, but this was not all your fault. you were not any of the ones pulling strings, so free yourself of that guilt.”