An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Rating: Gen
Character: Hannan & Vaelus
Summary: Hannan is greeted by the oldest friend he can remember, and in return reminded of the newest friend he made and the promise that entwines them.
(Post c4e31)
There was no time, and thus, there was never any chance.
Death had never been an enemy, not something to hunt nor something from which to hide. In the beginning of his youth and immortality, he rarely gave it more than a passing glance. The opportunity was always there for it to come knocking, effective immortality was not total immortality, but it was a shadow that always lingered over others, not him. Never him.
In his years as a druid, turning away from that promised eternal life and all the chains it carried, he learned he was remiss to never consider death for the force it was. Not a fear, but a necessity. Not an end, but a renewal. Not a villain, but one part of a larger cycle he found enough beauty in which to dedicate his never-ending life.
Not a weapon, but a promise against She who held such sweet power and taut chains. She who would deny them all the fullness of the life she promised.
In the past few years, death had become a companion. It was every bit the claws extending out from his hands as he was its dutiful talons. It was the mask he slipped on like a second skin as he was every bit its vengeance against those who slipped its grasp. And it was, regrettably, a bit of a courtship. His wish for death to claim him was not large, nor was it one that he would rush, but it was a thought entertained more than once. To finally be claimed by the only true friend he felt remained while fighting in its very name? It was a compelling wish for someone with as many years as him.
Perhaps it was foolish of him to think his dear friend wouldβcould be able to grant him such a thing. Hannan always figured his death would come at the hands of too many undead, or when a mark finally proved to be more wily and made of more mettle than himself. Something noble, at the least, befitting of a member of the Circle of the Hunt. The middle of Obrimus Manor was not where he was meant to die, least of all from a simple word spoken by that damnable man.
Well, Amadah had always harped on him for having little tact. He knew it to be true, but even he believed the Sundered Houses were in no position to openly attack any follower of the Old Path. That was his true foolishnessβan assumption of safety, an underestimation of his quarry.
It wasnβt really all that upsetting though. It granted him a definitive end to the compelling nature of those too oft thoughts. And death greeted him as the old friend he was; there was no scar on his body compelling him to rise again, nor any voice demanding it from a place beyond his comprehension. A small blessing, considering where he died. All that remained around him were a star-dappled sky and an old forest whose path he had tread hundreds of times in life.
It was finally time for one last walk down the Path, one as its target and not its guide.
He didnβt need anyone from the circles to guide him through the forest, he knew the steps intimately well. Still, the yearning for companionshipβone aside from death, one of lifeβ¦proofβ¦hopeβfor this final trek became stronger than he ever anticipated once he was staring down the tall trees alone.
It could not be helped, he was not so impractical as to not understand that.
So, he set off on his own towards the entrance of the ancient forest where he knew his dearest friend resided. The stars glittered overhead and the wind gently billowed around him as he began his walk, calm, confident, assured with each next step. His fight was over, his old friend was finally inviting him home, his feet tread the Path thousands had walked before him and thousands would walk after him, were he so lucky to believe in those he left behind. And it was not quite so lonely when he considered it that way.
It was a scent on the breeze that halted his footsteps.
Vines of jasmine curled in the trees at the entrance of the Old Path. Just before the shadows at the entrance of the forest, Hannan stood frozen, staring at the white flowers dotting the leaves like the stars pricking the inky sky above. In the distance, faint cries shattered the silence, unreal in all but memory and yet heart-wrenching all the same.
So many had come and gone before him. So many of his own peopleβno matter how long he denied itβhad been trapped in the chaos after the Shapers fell. How many more cried out the same way he heard in those fleeting moments before hope was proven true?
Unconscious, his hand reached out, a claw delicately brushing over a white petal hanging low in the branches. Another scream rang out, still only memory but just as raw and powerful and beautifully broken as it was when it was real and occurring. It shook like the loudest thunderclap at the peak of a storm, and Hannan could only close his eyes while his fingers wrapped lightly around the vine.
She had sacrificed so much and he had promised.
Two weeks ago and that would have meant nothing. A promise in life was nothing in death. Duty bade him forward, and true, even as he hesitated he could feel something deep and innate in his marrow urging him to walk into the comfort of the shadows, but it was fascinating how quickly a stranger could root herself so firmly in his heart. Even more so to be a Sister whom he did not trust, but proved to ultimately share far too little with her kin and far too much with him.
And in one of the last acts he witnessed on the mortal plane, she had given the worldβgiven him a hope he dared never consider, in the face of a sacrifice he knew the cost.
He had promised. Though he wavered, feigning the process of a hard decision as his eyes peered into the dark of the woods and his hands clung to the tree, he already knew his answer. Something deep and old and innate demanded he walk forward. Something in his heart bucked at the very notion.
He had promised. His fight was not over.
The jasmine vine snapped in his closed fist, a portion of it coming with him as he pushed himself straight from the tree. Into the echoing dark, he affirmed what his heart already knew. βA belief for a belief.β
It seemed fair. Vaelus had given up her belief in Sylandri, her desire to save her family, and all the meaning of those two things in between in order to give rise to one of the most beautiful acts of sacrifice and hope he ever had the privilege of witnessing. The least he could do in return was uphold his promise. It was not even a forsaking of his beliefs; he would return to the Old Path once the time was right, with many more in his tow when Vaelus and her company succeeded.
There was no βifβ to question.
His gaze slid from the darkness of the Old Path down to the vine in his hand. He opened his fist slowly and whispered a request to the greenery in his palm. The broken vine snaked around his claws in response and made its way down his hand, settling around his wrist in a tight circlet. And if the nature of AramΓ‘nβeven in death, even after his choiceβwas still responding to him, then there was nothing else to question.
βI will return.β
He whispered his promise to the Path he knew to tread before turning away and launching himself into the air, wings bursting forth to carry him deeper into the Underworld. Deeper into the unknown and uncertainty that came with abandoning his belief, and for one, brief moment, he understood how she had felt.
But he had promised, and he would be steadfast in that promise. He had a family to find, and stories to share that should make them proud of their daughter and sister.
