this was my first time participating in the challenge, and i'm so glad i did; at a total of 32,145 words, this was my best month writing through a funk that's lasted so much of the year.
i got to expand on already established stuff, like my blood-thirsting carrion birds series; elaborate on newer stories like my multi-decade queensglaive series; and introduce new characters that have been at the back of my mind for a while, like lebreau and bastian valendia. all in all, i'm so proud of what i wrote in september, and will cherish many of those pieces for a long time.
i had a hard time categorizing the entries because i wrote about so many characters across inter-connected series; in any case, you can find the full list below. but first, my personal favourites! âŹ
AFTER â 1: foster / 10: heady / 15: thunderous / 19: [extra credit] / 26: extra credit
CITY OF SHADE â 6: avatar / 18: devil's advocate / 24: illustrious / 31: [extra credit]
OTHER
NPC â 5: [extra credit]
WHAT IF â 13: oneirophrenia / 25: silver lining
THE STRAY â 27: benthos / 29: debonair
thanks to everyone who read, liked, and commented on my work during the month. it was incredible fun getting to share these characters and snippets of their stories, and i'm looking forward to continuing these projects in the future! âš
(for more information about my ffxiv work, you can check out the handy carrd i made about my characters and series. you can also view the list of entries categorized by lead/pov character below the cut)
SIHTRIC SELSSON
8: adroit / 11: preaching to the choir / 17: destruct / 22: fluster / 30: abstracted
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The high summer sun blistered down upon the palace grounds, and Saskia hoped beyond hope that the Censor would not feel her sweating through the stiff fabric of her gown when next he found some pretense to touch the small of her back. The royal terraces were crawling with legionaries in red and black and white-robed dignitaries, all arranged in perfect lines; the soldiers faceless under their helms, like puppets awaiting the tug of command on their strings.Â
Saskia had chosen for her own armour a somber dress in the current Nhalmascan styleâa gift from the Censor himselfâfar better suited for the dreary Ilsabardian mountain climes than the dry highland summer. Miserably, she hoped her mother would never see what imperial taste had wrought upon her homelandâs traditional fashions.
She was not alone in wishing the assembly would end before it had even begun. Behind her, a bureaucrat complained of the heat and openly longed for home; his neighbour muttered back snidely that âwe wouldnât have gotten this horrid little posting if not for your indiscretions with Lord Nervaâs favourite, Magnus,â which Saskia committed to memory in case it proved useful. She lifted a hand to her forehead under the pretense of shielding her eyes from the sun as she looked about the terrace, and surreptitiously wiped sweat from her shining brow.
âI hope youâre not feeling faint, my dear,â said goe Tullius; how artfully he spun himself a fable to justify his steadying hand on her back.
âThank you, Censor. It is quite hot today.â
âIndeed. I have been invited to the palace by the viceroyâs entourage after this little display; you should join me for refreshments. I shall see to your every need.â
He had worn his most expensive cologne today, likely for her benefit; Saskia could smell the notes of vetiver on the breeze. She smiled, as she always did.
âYou are too kind. I wish I could accept, but surely the viceroyââ
âWould be a fool not to wish to be graced by your presence. You have been a staunch ally to his rule; a provincial flower grown beautiful under His Radianceâs sun.â A traitor and a liar and a seductress. A Resistance spy. âI must insist, for your company is the sweetest of my days in these uncivilized lands.â
âThen I would fain accept, my lord.â
The Censor nodded, showing his most handsome smile, and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm with a pat that was almost paternal. Heat drummed inside Saskiaâs ears, but she forced herself into closer contact with him.
âAh. At last,â he said as the viceroyâs airship landed.
The commander of the XIVth Legion came shadowed not only by his tribuni, but by soldiers in uniforms Saskia had never seen before. Imperial black plate showed on their torsos and arms, but the arrangement was piecemeal, reminiscent of a mercenaryâs mismatched armour; the colourful sashes and fabrics they wore as accents reminded her of the Arroways, which brought on a sickening lurch of her stomach. They were not helmed like imperial soldiers; their heads were covered by beautifully adorned turbans, and their faces hidden by horrid, beaklike masks. Ala Mhigan colours and fabrics corrupted by imperial austerity.
She scarcely heard the specific words with which the viceroy introduced his new force, comprised entirely of young Ala Mhigans who had traded service for citizenship. A fresh sort of panic underlay her shaken state: she was meant to listen, not to lose her cool like some frightful little novice.
The commander of this new Crania Lupi was just a slip of a girl, but her gaze was cold as stone.
âVan Baelsar is certainly eager to make us forget his little debacle with the Agrius,â said goe Tullius amusedly in her ear. Did he feel her shiver? âA bit late on the draw, perhaps, but cleverly done nonetheless. Obedience comes easier when loyalty is instilled from a young age; and what good is insurgency when oneâs children wield His Radianceâs authority? They will only break themselves.â
Saskia simpered and watched the young commander and extinguished Morganaâs memory from her mind every time it welled at the sight of the girlâs hard eyes. She envisioned, distantly, punching holes with the blade of Neesaâs needle into the Censor.
When she freed herself come eveningtide, she went straight for the theatre. She opened the trap door underneath the stage with shaking fingers and descended into the hidden room that housed the Palm door, sat down on the bed, and hugged the pillow tight to her chest until it puffed into pockets of resistance. With her right hand, she slowly drove the needle into the pillow, over and over again, until she was covered in feathers.
There are no mirrors in this broken world; no men like him in its reflections.
Only a man with a face may see himself in another. The Emissary has long since forgotten the shape of his own. Too many he has worn, too many he has seen; he has been and been and been, endlessly, until all he knows to hold himself together is that he is a saint of duty.
The Griffin is in his own way without shadow; he is also teeming with ghosts. He is all broken memories, chipped away by time: a faceless man living behind a mask, hooded in white. Not a mirror, but a fragmented retelling.
His burdens have voices and cries the Emissary almost recognizes. Lesser beastsâbut beasts nonetheless.
/
The Emissary is no merchant, and the Griffin no haggling buyer. They speak not of the cost.
/
Under the cold light of the moonâand the blind, chained gaze of the one true godâa man gives his heart and the lives of his people to a new god, and it is not enough.
âIâm done,â Sihtric said, unfurling from the positively crustacean sitting position he had been working in.
Pavane held out a hand. âLetâs see it, then.â
Sihtric slid over his worksheet with an expression that was just short of smug and immediately began spinning his pencil on his thumb. He was a smart lad, and Pavane knew for a fact that he was already making quite an impression with his professorsâno small feat in the Studium of all placesâbut he still went so chaotically about writing down his reasonings that decoding his worksheets just about required a cipher key. It was impossible to separate one formula from another at a glance.
What Pavane did notice at a glance, however, was the name Sihtric had written at the top of the page, alongside his student identification.
He looked up.
âWhat?â Sihtric said warily. âI thought I did good.â
âDoes Sairsel know?â Pavane said, turning the worksheet over and tapping a finger against his name. âSihtric Selsson.â
Sihtric got that darling little look on his face he had when he felt sheepish about something and shook his head. âYou canât be in the Studium without a surname, turns out. And I didnât want them to just saddle me with âSaltâ like I was nobodyâs child, soâŠâ he said with a shrug, pulling his knees up to his chest. âDâyou think heâll be all right with it, like?â
âI think heâll be honoured, Sihtric.â
He might not have spoken to Sairsel in moons, but heâd known him well enough to at least be certain of this much of his heart. And none of this concerned him, really, but he felt a blossom of pride and affection for the two of them nonetheless.
âYou should tell him,â he added gently. âHe ought to know.â
âI will! I will,â Sihtric said.
âWaiting for the right moment?â
âYeah.â
Pavane made a noise at the back of his throat, then returned to the worksheet. After a moment, he handed it back. âStart over.â
âI got it wrong?â
âYou got it right at the end there, but you shouldnât have; you skipped two steps. And no, Iâm not telling you which. Brilliance doesnât excuse sloppiness.â
Sihtric blew out a sigh and dipped back into crustacean mode.
On the empty, unseen stage, Zenos laid his hands upon him, and it felt nothing like how Sairsel had expected. The skin was tipped with coldâthen again, it was winter, and so was hisâbut warm with blood underneath; the touch was curious rather than violent.
With him Sairsel had a strange freedom to speak his thoughts, so instead of wondering he said aloud, âHave you ever even touched someone you werenât fighting?â
âNo,â Zenos said, fingers splaying out against the stem of his neck. Then he amended, âThe Butcher. Her deference was a poor act; she bowed her head to me when she ought to have been snapping like a caged beast. I made her look at me.â
Sairsel shuddered under his skin for Fordola, but he couldnât bring himself to move. He was a statue, locked in stone; a tree, rooted deep in the earth. Zenos covered the marble of his throat with his palm, thumb to the running sap of his pulse, fingers to his jaw. For the first time, vulnerable as he was, he wasnât afraid. As simple as it might have been, Zenos crushing his windpipe was unthinkable in that moment.
âWhat about me now?â he asked the empty theatre, because Zenos was pressed against his back. The shape of him was palpable, perfectly defined by touch alone.
One hand moved down his chest to pause pressed against his heart and feeling his breath. He wanted to be touched.
Zenosâs hair fell feather-like against his neck as he bent his head to his. âI do not know,â he said, and brushed his lips against the shell of Sairselâs ear.
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Sihtric hadnât kept count; every one of his failed assassinations had been provoked by unfettered emotion, the product of rage or fear or heartbreak spilling over and out of him like boiling water from a pot. Impulse made for poor planning, and even poorer recall of oneâs missteps.
(By Emet-Selchâs count, the boyâs fits of aggression numbered, at this point, thirteen.)
More often than not, heâd been reactionary, and if Sairsel had been thereâhis belly made a knot of itself and tears pushed hard behind his eyes every time Sihtric thought of himâhe would have reminded him that an impatient hunter was a hungry hunter. And he wouldâve been right, of course, because Sihtric was hungry: vengeance was a starving thing.
I name thee Theron, my Lightwarden, he heard Emet-Selch say in his nightmares as Sairsel transformed over and over and over again, and forgive thee thy wandering. He both feared and wanted to understand why there had been such dissatisfaction in the Ascianâs voice, how he could be so rueful of the success of his own cruelty as if it were Sairselâs fault.
For once, though, Sihtricâs fear was greater than his curiosity. If Emet-Selch died before he understood, he could live with it, because heâd at least have succeeded, and he wouldnât have to live with him.
The plan wasnât a very elaborate one, but it was at least a plan. Rather than bite and snap like the feral little thing heâd been when he first met Sairsel, or opportunistically try to push Emet-Selch off of one of the tall buildings in his dead city, he waited for the right moment. And while he waited, he stole a stylus off of the absurdly tall desk in the Bureau of the Architectâ
âI will pretend I saw nothing,â the shade called Hythlodaeus said, with a lilt to his strange echoing voice that sounded almost playfulâ
and sat by himself and remembered the Dark. He traced the runes tattooed on his arm with the stylus, recalling how something inside him had come alive when the Saintsmaker had inked that call to the Dark into his skin, until he could just make out a faint glow under the black lines.
It ached like a bad fever to pull it to the surface without letting it free, but he could endure it. He could survive as long as he had to if it meant he could free himself and bring Sairsel back.
Emet-Selch still slept, though Sihtric knew Ascians didnât need to. Maybe he still looked to pass the time, somehow, to show that he could wait for an eternity while Sihtric grew older and more complacent. He didnât want to let himself be broken, but he was still too human to beat Emet-Selch at this game. That meant he had to act while he could; to strike that perfect hunterâs balance of patience and decisiveness.
 He stayed awake one night until he knew for certain that Emet-Selch had himself gone to sleep; until long enough passed that, if whatever the Ascianâs body was worked like a personâs, heâd be deep enough not to notice his approach. Those were really the only elements of his plan: sleep, stealth, his knife, and his own Light. He crept by Emet-Selchâs bedside and gripped his knife with both hands, willing his outpouring of Light forward until his hands looked like he held a star in the shape of a blade, and he stabbed Emet-Selch in the heart.
Or he would have, if not for Emet-Selchâs ribs. He bungled the angle: his knife skidded over bone and cut only through superfluous flesh, the Light searing Emet-Selchâs skin without ever penetrating his black heart the way it should have. The glyph flashed a foreboding red over his face before Sihtricâs eyes, and there was a brief moment where he felt warm blood spill over his hands as he wrenched his knife back in an attempt to get himself away.
But he was a barely formed speck of a cell before Emet-Selchâs primordial existence. He was done the moment metal had touched bone. Emet-Selch swatted at him as one might a fly, making him scream out a yelp like a kicked dog as the Darkness speared him; he curled up on the floor around where it faded in his middle and gasped great big gulps of air, only belatedly realizing that he was sobbing at the pain.
Not just at the pain. At his loss, tooâbecause he knew this was his last chance even before it was spoken into being, and heâd lost.
âNow, boy,â Emet-Selch said through gritted teeth. He stood over him like a lengthening shadow, his white glove stained red as he pressed a hand to Sihtricâs little insect bite with Light spilling between his fingers. âThis has gone on long enough.â
Sihtric didnât apologize, and Emet-Selch didnât make him. After all, Ascians never apologized.
The room they locked him into wasnât exactly a cell, per se.
Well. It wasnât a prison, ontologicallyâthough it did lock from the outside, he didnât get to choose when he left it, and they had put him in there because he was a flight risk. But there werenât bars on the window (mainly because there was no window, and that was the primary factor that would chip away at his sanity; the solitude wasnât much of a punishment) and his toilet and sink were both separate and inside a little cabinet rather than in the room where he slept, so there was that.Â
He was given the illusion of agency through a shelf stocked with nutrient paste and basic dry ingredients so that he could manage his own meals, bland as they were; they also let him access the sonic cleaners every other day for the sake of hygiene, which he had to admit was much more diligent than he was in washing with water when in the wilds. His cot was thin and hard and the blankets scratchy, but it was clean and free of vermin. He had a little lamp by his bedside and the ceiling fixtures first attuned to, then maintained, his circadian rhythms.Â
The House of God, the Necrolord Prime, was infinitely generous with its indentures, and its Kindly Prince immeasurably epithetical.
Sairsel could almost have been happy in this particular state of captivity, if not for all the captivity. And the fact that he had been visited by one of Godâs Saints after the first full day they had left him in pitch darkness, which had suitably unhinged him, and told in the Abyssal Celebrantâs disaffected voice that plucking him out of his refuge with his family had now given them quite an easy target to mete out punishment if he stepped even one toe out of line.
When heâd asked exactly what the line was, the Second Saint to serve the Emperor Undying had fixed him with a blank, red-masked stare and said, âFigure it out, Septem.â
His family had never taken Seventh House names, and when he did use something alongside his familial name he used Arroway, the alias his mother had worn in place of her House name. His father had never said where she was from, or why she hid, but this remnant of her was something he held close in her perpetual absence. Hearing the generic Seventh arithmonym they saddled him with always chafed.
Probably that was why the Saints used it at all.Â
He hadnât asked why they bothered with a nobody like him in the first place. At sixteen, he wasnât particularly tall or strong or showing much promise at anything beyond hunting and climbing: nothing that was beyond a half-decent construct to mimic without the cost of housing a living, breathing, shitting being. The Cohort had no need of sagittarii with the experience of wilderness and a spirit that bucked against military discipline; God and his Lyctors could make perfect constructs out of an ossicle and give it a bow if they so wished.
So, why was he even here? Why, if he was so far beneath the attention of the Saints and the First at large, did he even get these audiences with the buggers, in Godâs House? Heâd been afraid for months before he even thought of running back to his family in the first place, and a big reason for that had been that there wasnât even a fragment of an idea in his mind for how he could be worthy of the Emperorâs attention at all.
They had not stepped out into the Worldâhere the wide corridors and tall halls of the palace beyond their cold and quiet Wallsâfor years until it was all empty. There was a war on, apparently, and it was all because of that little quirk of their family of cannibalizing itself; Glaucaâs words, not Absidiaâs. Glauca had the way with words.
It was Absidia who had listened from the spaces between the Walls and said, âThe Emperor is dead again,â as though the Emperor had only ever been one man who was meant to die again and again. Little difference did the manâs name make to them: they spent the first reign in confinement, and the second in confinement, too. Politics were made not to touch them, for they were political pawns, gone to dust before they could ever join the burned-down board.
But when the second Emperor diedânot the first who had been three men, but the one who had only ever been half of oneâAbsidia attached meaning and gravity to that fact, and they crawled out from behind their Walls and into the World.
Absidia walked and walked. Glauca stood still. She drifted through the World only moments and found the Emperor in the empty throne room, this place which begat another war and this corpse that had begat them. It was the first time their lord father was a thing of flesh before her, blue-lipped and stiff and crusted with his own dark blood.
His flesh fascinated her. She would have liked to see it when their darling brotherâs work was fresh and Fatherâs skin did not slough into the split cavity of his neck, to have gotten a clearer view of the tendons and white bone that still connected his head to the rest of his body. As it was now, a gory black mess, she missed a great deal of detail.
âBaby, this is vile,â Absidia said chidingly when she returned to Glaucaâs side after her exploration of the World yielded nothing more than different sorts of Walls. She reached for her sisterâs thin arm and hugged it with both of her own, tangling their bodies into one in remembrance of their time in the womb. âWhy did he not finish the job?â
Glauca did not answer. Her head tilted to mimic the angle of Fatherâs on his corpse, so that Absidia could not help but tuck the fall of colourless hair back from her face and behind her sisterâs ear.
âAll this talk of Brother dearestâs strength and he canât even go through beheading Father proper,â Absidia went on.
âI donât think he cared.â There was some dignity in a beheading. Not so in ending a sprawled, miserable corpse with a dangling head. âSweet stupid baby, donât doubt he is everything they say. He never cared about anything, thatâs all.â
âAdmire. Please. I would be curious to meet him, butâadmiration, Abse? Thatâs for little children.â
Absidia affected a grimace that looked more a pout. âHe got everything,â she whined. âAnd you make it sound like you admire him.â
She might have gotten her wish, had Absidia not heard footsteps then and grabbed Glaucaâs hand to drag her out of the World and back into the Walls.
/
As the Tower forms out from the World and around the Walls, Absidia catches a butterfly with wings so blue it may well be charged with ceruleum. Glauca sews and sews while Absidia lays out the insect ever so carefully and pins its wings.
âLook,â says Glauca, turning over her work.
âWhat is that thing?â
âItâs Brotherâs pet monster.â
Glauca is very proud of her work. She trails the pad of her finger down a cheek. Absidia presses her own cheek to Glaucaâs shoulder, slipping into brief reverie, then says, âWould you like to pin it with my butterfly?â
âYou do it.â
Diligently, Absidia spreads the arms of Brotherâs pet monster like butterfly wings and pins its hands, then its feet together. Glauca tilts her head to contemplate the pair like she watched Fatherâs head clinging on to the rest of his flesh.
Saskia was bathing when Neesa stole into her flat.
The intrusions no longer scared her; for the sake of Saskiaâs ever-fraying nerves and Neesaâs own safety, after Saskia had emerged from a doorway with a butcherâs knife in hand, she made a habit of announcing herself with short, hissing bursts between her lips, as though calling a cat.
âIn here,â Saskia called in a worn voice like a blunted knife. She made an effort to smile when Neesa came in, but Neesa had a good eye for truth-finding and not even her lovely liar could dupe her. Not after so many moons spent in each otherâs company.
But Neesa wasnât such a stickler for truth that she would ruin her own visit so quickly by demanding honesty when Saskia would rather feign gladness at seeing her. She watched Saskiaâs pretty fingers trace unseen patterns along the waterâs surface, droplets glistening on the metal of her rings, and chose her approach.
âFeeling fancy,â she said, sitting down on the tiles beside the tub and bracing an arm on the edge. Saskia had picked some sweet-smelling bathing oils, herby and delicate: Neesa already wanted to press her nose to her skin and taste them from her body.
Saskia said nothing and leaned forward to hug her knees to her chest. And of course Neesa wanted to ask what weighed on her, but it would likely be imperial business, and she never wanted to hear unless she was listening with her lordâs ears. So she just pressed her cheek against her arm and trailed the fingers of her other hand down the warm, smooth line of Saskiaâs spine.
âWould you like it if I joined you?â
The wet tip of one of Saskiaâs loose black curls stuck to her cheek as she tilted her head and managed a small, real smile. âWash the grime off first,â she said, and designated an ewer and washcloth beside the bath.
âNo, I thought I might hop in with my shit-caked boots. Anything to toughen up my sweet topsider lass,â Neesa said, gladly stripping out of her clothes.
âI like my chances at making you softer better,â Saskia said, still smiling.
Neesa liked the presence of her eyes; she liked seeing the way Saskia tracked her movements like a student learning from a master, committing all her little habits to memory to either replicate or decode later. It made her feel naked in a way that wasnât exactly common in the Undercity, which meant the novelty had a little less of danger to it.Â
And the parts that did, because eyes werenât always welcome down thereâwell, Neesa liked those, too. Danger was half the reason she got along so well with Wulfric.
But she certainly didnât care to be thinking about the old man now. She wanted to watch Saskia watching her as she washed the Undercity from her skin, scrubbing at her arms and hands and letting water drip down the center of her chest. It was a show of mundanity, because she had never been all that good with sultriness; from what little Saskia had told her about that Mora of hers, now that she had given up on waiting for her to return, that was what Saskia liked in a woman. Plain honesty.
Saskia wasnât all that charmed tonight, though. She watched her, and there was appreciation in her gaze for certain, but no hunger; no fire. Which was perfectly fine with Neesaâor it would be if Saskia just wasnât in the mood for sex, rather than empty behind the eyes like she was now.
Neesa finished washing with a swipe of the washcloth for the sweat between her legs and tossed it aside. She lowered herself into the water, legs tangling with Saskiaâs, and took just one moment for herself to enjoy the warmth embracing her body and the sweet smell rising from the water.
Then she shimmied closer to Saskia and put a hand on her knee, fingers gently pressing against the soft, giving skin behind it.
âWhere are you?â she asked, catching Saskiaâs eye with touch and voice.
She didnât have to answer; and for a moment, she looked like she didnât want to. In the end, though, Neesa was right in thinking she needed to.
âRinomyâs,â she said, displeasure stretching her mouth into a thin line. âI went to see Gawain on my way back from the palace. There were Imps thereânot to drink. Talking in that way they have of âjust talking.ââ
That was never good. âWhat did they want with him? Heâs just a tavern keeper.â
âI donât know what the official pretext was,â Saskia said wearily, because the pretext never really mattered. âWhen I got there, they were already at implied threats. Because, by their reckoning, if they arenât drinking there and half the public houses in the district never got back up from the sacking, then it follows that heâs involved in treacherous business.â She swallowed and shook her head. âThe things they said to himâof himâŠâ
âThey wanted to get a rise out of him,â Neesa finished grimly. Likely theyâd wanted an excuse. âThought he was an easy target.â
Saskia nodded and sniffled, though there were no tears in her eyes. From what Neesa knew of old Gawain, even at his age and with a missing leg, he would never be an easy target. One good punch was all it took for him to gain an advantage, and with the imperials, one good punch was always one wrong punch. In her fondness for Saskia, Neesa dreaded the rest of the story.
âI had to step in before he killed them or they killed him. I said he was a model peregrinus, that their superiors certainly enjoyed his hospitality, that he would sooner spit on the insurgents than serve them a single drink.â Now her voice began to shake, quiet and strangled in her throat. âStars, the way he looked at meâlike I had debased him.â
âHeâs still breathing,â Neesa said, reaching for her hand. âAnd they donât know about you and him up here and us down there helping each other out. All that matters.â
âI hate them, Neesa. I hate them all.â
It wasnât just them; Neesa understood that. Every day, Saskia hated the words out of her own mouth and the role she played a little more. And some days it simply threatened to eat her whole.
Neesa reached for her, shifting their bodies so they were tucked together on the same side of the tub and she was cradling Saskia against her.
âWhen enough timeâs passed, youâll find me their names,â she said calmlyânot a request, not a suggestion, but an inevitability. âAnd Iâll take care of it. They wonât fuck with our warriors again.â
That was a lordâs promise: the Palm would always make good sport of nameless imperials fated to die in the dark.Â
The boy was still feverish in recovery from his last trials, and the Saintsmakerâs subsequent walk in his memories. It was in these times that they guarded him most fiercely: to watch for adverse effects, or for the delayed onset of manifestations they so eagerly awaited.
This was the ninth solstice since his birth; the passing of every year, of the sunâs apex in the unseen sky above the Lightless, left them with less time. The fourteenth inched ever closer, every day taking the boy towards the one where the Saintsmaker foresaw he would become.
The frequency of his illnesses grew with each trial, but the Saintsmaker refused to lose hope. The Dark around them spoke to the Light in him, coaxing it, nurturing it; when the Light would answer, he could finally rise to becoming the saint who would guard the Dark.
âSaintsmaker,â said the boy in a small, croaking voice. Unprompted, unbidden. âWhoâs Prometheus again?â
âPrometheus?â they asked in return.
âItâs been stuck in my head since I got sick.â
His point of reference was the illness, for he no longer had the memories of the trials. The Saintsmaker felt an involuntary twitch in their metal hand, like a leap of the heart: this was the first time. The first echo of the trials lingering in his consciousness, a phantom pain promising a beginning.Â
And the Saintsmaker had no knowledge of the name the boy spoke; the Dark had no answer. They had never thought that to be blind might be so exhilarating, but they contained their hunger for the signs of his awakening.
âWhere might you have heard of this Prometheus before?â they asked calmly, taking the same voice they always did to prompt him to look withinâto grasp for answers himself that he might find what surrounded them. âThink well.â
âI canât think,â the boy said, raising a hand to his head. His fingers always sought the place the Saintsmakerâs had touched for their walk in his memories, instinctual; he squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the blanket closer around his small shoulders. âI must have read it in one of your books, yeah,â he decided at last. âWill you remind me when Iâm better so I can look?â
The Saintsmaker stroked the boyâs hair with their metal hand. âI will, sun-child. Now rest this weary head of yours,â they said, knowing full well that no book of theirs bore the name Prometheus within its pages.
But they would make certain to remind him to look for this name, for not even the Dark knew what he might find alongside it.
/
âAzem.â
Always that reprimanding toneâas if the title could only be spoken in an attempt to bring its bearer in line.
âA name for an empty seat,â replied its former scion, eyebrows raised, smiling wryly behind their mask. They so often smiled as though privy to a joke only they knew.
âYou speak as though you were stripped of this seat. Was it not Azem themself who abandoned their duty?â
âNo. No. I embraced my duty. I left behind our memories and our legacies in star-fire for those who will come after usââ
âYou have turned from defector to traitor. What need have we of legacies if we could have salvation?â
âSo thatâs what this is, then,â understood the defector. âAn attempt to convince me to return to the ranks and contribute to the unthinkable. In your mind, would my traitorâs punishment come first, or after we have already gone too far?â
Their words were only met with disappointed astonishment.
âThe time you waste trying to talk circles around one of the last souls on this star to believe in you.â
âTime is of no essence. Our time is past. The fire will live on. Punish me or leave me be, but know that I would surrender to an endless cycle of torment rather than live frozen in time with the rest of you.â
âYou are a fool, Prometheus,â Emet-Selch said, sharp with disenchantment.
Again Prometheus smiled, ever self-satisfied. âFuck you, Emet-Selch,â they said, and the distance of the title cut in its refusal of the name: refusal to know the one who thought to know them best.
/
When they came to the edge of the stars, Sihtric let go of the Exarch and ranâpast him, forced to lean on his staff to hold his battered and weakened body up; past Emet-Selch and the roiling rage of him. He ran to Sairsel on the ground, trembling, bleeding with Light.
The cocoon was already beginning to take form around him.
Desperate and sick with fear, Sihtric took Sairselâs face between his hands. âDonât,â he begged. âDonât let him win.â
He saw, in some hidden corner of himself that pushed back the Light, a part of his own soul reaching out to Sairselâs. The sun calling to the fire of the hunterâs star, handing down a bloodied axe like a lifelineâthe same axe that was once at Sairselâs throat, the first time their fates collided.
When Sihtric stood to guard Sairsel, the Light obeyed the sun: it would make no monsters of his own.
Emet-Selch knew, thenâunderstood, in the depths of his soul, even as his mind refused to acknowledge what he saw as the light burst around the boy and the warrior, when within it stood the shade of an old friend: of the two of them the boy is the true power.
It was in spite that he gave the boy his nameâand it was within this truth that he would kill that broken, pale, would-be father of his, or die his final death in the attempt.
/
â What of your legacy? Your legacy: the thing that will make you unforgotten. You cannot tell me that you are content to renounce this, too.
â I wish for no legacy than for every soul to choose her own path. Not to merely tread that which I have walked before.
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It was not the first time Bastian oen Valendia had been stolen from the very castrum in the dark of night, nor would it be the last. Now that they finally had a ship againâBastian would not ask which imperial fleet had been relieved of one of its vessels so that they would tell him no liesâthe pirates had an even easier time of it, at least in their escape; in the morning, the duplicarius would alert his pilus to the malfunctioning searchlights on the eastern walls, and all would be well in Castrum Valnaini again.
In the meantime, the pirates led one more successful heist, and their prize had a few hoursâ freedom to be no more than Bastian Valendia again. For all their efforts, they deserved better company than he: too long he spent alone up on the deck as they flew together to whichever locale they had chosen for this particular outing, watching the stars pass him by in silence.
He hadnât always been such a contemplative man; perhaps Stjr remembered this. Perhaps that was why she stole him.
Perhaps it was for the very same reason she had taken up with her young companionâto fill the silencesâand why she put herself again and again in Bastianâs path with him: to remind him of what once was.
Asterion had a very particular walk: a determined sort of stride, but never so quick as to seem hurried. He was a man whose every trait was honed towards appearing unbothered, a shield that was desperately difficult to penetrate. Bastian was beginning to have a keen familiarity for so much of him; he recognized those steps coming up on the deck without turning, or a single word being spoken.
He was also no Viera. Stjr, too, was uniquely recognizable.
âWeâll be arriving in Radz-at-Han soon,â Asterion said as he settled beside Bastian. âStjrâs banished me from the helm of my own ship.â
âThavnair? How exotic,â Bastian said, unsuited to light-heartedness as he was. He gazed down at Asterionâs hands where his wrists were crossed over the railing, idly spinning the multi-coloured rings on his fingers. âThese are new.â
Asterion held up the fingers of one hand to better display them. âThey are indeed,â he said with a self-satisfied look Bastian didnât understand straight away. âPlunder from a monastery.â
When he understood, Bastian straightened his spine, turning his body towards Asterionâsâwhich only made the pirateâs sly smirk widen. âNot the one in Golmore.â
âThe same.â
âThat was you?â Bastian asked, like a fool. He couldnât believe Stjr, of all people, had agreed to such a plan.
âThe IVth is aware, then? How did your legatus take itâfuming, I hope? Did he sweat?â Asterion said, managing some impossible balance of smugness and eagerness. When Bastian only gave him a flat look, he smiled again to himself and found some honesty. ââA day late and ten gil short,â my father always said of me. If I can make Noah van Gabranth feel that way even once, Iâll sell my ship for parts and retire to a fat and happy life on the coast.â
âYou donât mean that.â
âPerhaps not that last bit.â
There was no taming a wanderer from his lifeânot one to whom wandering itself was the appeal. Bastian knew this of Asterion and Stjr both. But some trace of melancholy lingered in Asterionâs eyes, in spite of all he did to veil it from even himself; that Bastian should make out its shape and colour was in itself a wonder.
He extended a careful hand, still unused to the intimacy the pirates had both welcomed him into, and touched his fingers to the nape of Asterionâs neck. At the brush of Bastianâs fingers along his hairline, Asterion tilted his head, leaning into his touch.
The palace was still in disarray after the chaos of the last few bells; Saskia knew she would not have been able to stride in uninterrupted as she had otherwise. In any case, she had no desire to let herself be stopped by any of the Commanderâs menânot after today. She was making straight for the infirmary, and no one would dissuade her from it.
Her anxiety and frustration only increased tenfold when she finally reached the right hallwayâwhich should not, by rights, have already been familiar to herâand nearly marched straight into the wall that was Raubahn Aldynn himself.
Saskia stopped herself just short of colliding with him and briefly looked up, too proud to meet his eyes. âCommander,â she said coolly, in a tone Morgana would have been delighted to hear from her twenty years agoâperhaps not now that it was directed at her lover.
She made to walk on past him, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm. Her bodyâs first instinct was fear: a man of his bulk, of his martial fame, and her with nothing but Neesaâs needle in her boot; even with only one arm, the objective danger he posed was evident to every part of her that had survived the occupation. But quickly enough, fear gave way to renewed defiance; the contempt with which she looked up at him was enough to make him release her at once.
âThe chirurgeons will allow no one inside,â Raubahn said in a calm voice that belied his distress. âNot even I.â
âWill she live?â
Almost imperceptibly, his jaw trembled; Saskia could feel the exhaustion coming off of him as though his aether had been made material, but she refused her natural impulse towards sympathy. âItâs too early to tell.â
âWell,â Saskia said, and found no other words she wanted to say to him. She was about to turn on her heel and blindly head back to the theatre and the comfort of Neesaâs arms when Raubahn spoke again.
âHow did you know to come?â he askedâonly to answer his own question. âLet me guess: your elusive Resistance contact.â
âIf you must know, it was Grand Steward Riot who told me of Morganaâs condition. And before you start doubting Asheliaâs devotion again: it isnât like she tells me of everything that goes on between these walls. She only contacted me because she understands that I still care deeply for Morganaâs well-being.â
Raubahnâs eyes narrowed at her. âBefore I start doubting her devotion again?â
âPerhaps if your council had actually listened to Ashelia instead of casting doubt upon her every move regarding the Undercity, it wouldnât have come to this,â Saskia snapped, âand Morgana wouldnât be on deathâs door having protected a man so desperate to prove himself still strong enough to lead he forgets his own duty to her!â
Raubahn looked as though he had taken an unexpected blowâthe sort that only made a man fight harder, angrier. It was the first Saskia saw of the hot-tempered man who had made his reputation as the fiery leader of the Immortal Flames.
âThis coming from a woman who has done nothing but obfuscate in service to a game of subterfuge she no longer needs to play,â he replied harshly. âAll this to thwart the very same council you accuseâwhich, so very recently, accused you of abetting the Empire. When Tibostâs people began to clamour for retribution, who do you think argued for your contributions to the Resistance? Whose voice joined Asheliaâs to give credibility to your Undercity contact in spite of your continued refusal to name your allies within my ranks?â His voice rose, resounding within the hallway: âBark at me again about the sort of man I am, and I may finally give you reason to doubt that I could be anything but an ally to you.â
Saskia flinched again in the face of his anger, but she was her mothersâ daughter, and she stood her ground.Â
âIs that all? Because you defended me against that farce of a list, I should be grateful that Morgana again has been grievously wounded in your service in spite of your duty as a man to protect her?â
âMorgana chose this position. I would never disrespect her by acting as though my duty to protect her supersedes her dutyââ
ââShe chose this,ââ Saskia repeated scornfully. âHow many times will you tell yourself this before you find the words wanting? Or perhaps you already do. Perhaps your anger towards me is only a shade of your anger at your own failureââ
âEnough, you two,â said Ashelia as she quickly strode from one end of the hallway to them, commanding as though she were not two decades younger than them; this was the Grand Steward speaking. She drew near, keeping her voice quiet so as not to carry. âI know this is a difficult time,â she said, giving Raubahn a meaningful look, âbut there are better places for this conversation, unless you want the whole palace to wonder whether all this isnât much more personal than it seemed five minutes ago.â
âIsnât it?â Saskia asked, not tearing her gaze from Raubahn.
âBelieve it or not, this is bigger than you or me or Morgana Arroway. If we werenât certain when we woke up this morning, this attack proves it,â Ashelia said seriously. She jerked her head back towards the direction she had come, away from the infirmary. âThe old Riskbreakersâ offices. We need to talk.â
âI think sailors have more interesting stories than sky pirates, generally.â
Rygdea dropped a heavy piece of machineryâone that suspiciously looked as though it were essential to the running of the ship, and should be inside it rather than on the deck, but what did she know?âand gave Lebreau his most affronted stare, grinding their conversation to a complete halt.Â
âShe says to the sky piraââ (a narrow-eyed pause as he remembered his usual insistence that he was no pirate) ââairship captain.â
Lebreau smiled in a manner he called know-it-all and leaned against the gunwale, tossing the apple sheâd stolen from the galley up in the air once before sinking her teeth into it.
âI grew up around sailors, you know,â she said around a mouthful. It was a thick, humid day; the sort where the wind was dead on the ground. This high up, there was never no wind, but today it tasted different: heavier, less wild. A sailorâs curse. âThey see so much of the world. You should hear the things Iâve heard them say they pulled out of the seaâlike thereâs nothing but monsters down there.â
Thereâs monsters everywhere, darling, the captain almost replied, but decided against it. Playful irritation always suited him better, with her.
âThen why are you up here eating my rations instead of some unlucky seadogâs ship?â he said, pointing his wrench accusingly at Lebreau.
âThe sea isnât where Iâm going to find out about my past,â she replied, heavy with meaning; she fixed Rygdea with a serious stare he pointedly avoided by renewing his attention towards his tinkering.
âThe past ainât all itâs cracked up to be, girly-girl.â It wasnât the first time they were having some version of this conversation; every time, Rygdea sounded more tired. âTrust me. Itâs full of complications, and at your age, you should be running as fast as you can from complications so they donât catch up with you when youâre my age.â
âAm I a complication to you, then?â
âWithout a doubt,â he said, not hesitating for a moment. âA complication and a pain in my ass.â At her sulking look, he suggested brightly: âDrop you off in Limsa next time we fly over Vylbrand, then?â
âNot a chance,â Lebreau said determinedly. âI know youâre hoping Iâll forget, but you made me a promise and Iâm holding you to it.â
The promise was this: one day, when she was ready, he would tell her why he had taken her to the orphanageâand she was determined to be whatever he needed her to be so that he could think of her as ready. And in the meantime, she got to be on a ship. It wasnât all so bad.
Rygdea only shook his head at her.
âYouâve got grease on your nose.â
âHuh?â he said, rubbing greasy fingers on the perfectly clean bridge of his nose.
âHa,â Lebreau said.
She quickly made her exit back down before the galley before he could think to saddle her with gun maintenance as punishment; if she cooked something good enough, heâd probably forget.Â
âPain in my ass, girly-girl!â Rygdea called after her.
(note: this is a continuation of last weekâs extra credit entry)
The city was already lost by the time Wulfric made it to the surface. Heâd raced through tunnels rocked by blasts above, run past frantic folk being ushered to safety by sigil-bearers whose territories didnât risk collapsing over their peopleâs headsâit was already hell below, but it was worse above.
He faltered for two steps, once he was fully out of the tunnels. It was the fire-rain sky: the same heâd seen in Nhalmasque all those years ago, the black of their ships blotting out the stars with wave after wave of soldiers. For a moment he was powerless again, gripped by a boyâs fear until the sounds of gunfire shook the soldier awake. A new spike of adrenaline, and he was running again, barely aware of the tingling numbness shooting down from his right shoulder to his fingertips.
It was still a long way to his family. He cut through the alleyways like an Undercity shadow, like a Glaive infiltrator; he ignored the screams that would have forced him to fight and waste time he didnât have.Â
The imperials had already barricaded the stairs that would have taken him straight to the house. Wulfric swore from between his teeth and veered west, thinking to cut through the theatre district; a blast sounded close enough to make his ears ring and send him sprawling onto the cobblestones, arms covering his head. The ground shook from a tumble of bricks just ahead of him: an archway had crumbled into the side of a nearby building.
A blessing of destruction. Sidestepping a body mangled by stone, Wulfric sprinted up the ledge the fallen bricks offered him and jumped, catching the edge of the roof and dragging himself up. Half of his body resisted the effort, grown clumsy from age and two decades of skulking underground, but quickly remembered itself. Climbing had been easy, once.Â
He set to running again, his path far clearer now from aboveâand the burning city, too, was clearer. Smoke rose from Barrel Street, he realized with a cold stab of fear. There was no time to doubt the jump without the use of magicâbut Stars, he felt empty, so fucking pale compared to the man he had once beenâas he leapt from rooftop to rooftop. Soon he was back in the streets below, just a few strides from Rinomyâs, his knee shrieking with pain from some wrong move in his landing,
But he didnât stop. He could only run and pray it would be empty.
âGav?â Wulfric shouted as he burst through the door. His boots crushed broken glass from the windows underfoot; there was smoke coming from the cellar. Panic set his lungs alight. âGAWAIN!â
A voice rose in answer; not Gawainâs, and not with words he could make out. Wulfric followed the cry outside, through the back door, along a trail of blood towards the shadows of the alley. He didnât recognize her right away; not curled up onto herself like this, with half of her face mangled.
âHeâs not here,â Mâzahre said with a strange smile in her broken voice. Wulfric dropped to his knees beside her, but she pushed his hands away. âI told him to go home; he hasnât slept in days. Rock-headed bastard was in with the Resistance to bring down the Mad King.â
âFuck, Mâzahre,â Wulfric said, his trembling hands still hovering over her bloody body. âWeâve got to get you out of here.â
She shook her head as best she could. âThatâs not gonna happen, boss. Go and keep your family safe. My manâs going to come for me.â
Wulfric didnât know that that was true; neither did she. But still she said, âIâll be fine! Go!â
He swallowed. âSee you on the other side,â he said, finding her knee intact and giving it a squeeze before running off again.
He could have gotten lost and still known how to find the house by the crackling of magic that permeated the air, by the sharp smell of fire and smoke that had nothing to do with ceruleum: Avis was in the street with both hands raised high, holding a stormy barrier up against the sky. It covered half their neighbourhoodâdestructive force harnessed into protection. All her.
She could guard against magitek from above, but not the soldiers. That was Gawain, booming with anger, a bowgun in hand. And for a moment, Wulfric thought they might actually see this through, defend their home even while the whole world was falling apart around them.
He sprinted forward, breathless, knives in his hands. Then he heard something like a thunderclap, echoing loud in the dome of strange quiet granted by Avisâs magicâand he felt a burst of pain in his abdomen. He stumbled back and fell to his knees before he fully realized there were two bullets in his belly, and someone was shouting his name.
Avisâs voice cut through it all. âFrey, donâtâ!âÂ
Sheâd married a woman almost as stubborn as she was. Freyja came into Wulfricâs view like pale starlight, her gentle hands on his burning body as she sank to the ground beside him and pulled him up against her.
âGet down!â Gawain shouted, and Freyja was bent over Wulfric as he loosed a volley of bolts into soldiers approaching from the mouth of the street. She cradled his head and held his hand, and it was wrong, he wasnât supposed toâ
âFrey?â Avis said breathlessly over her shoulder.
âHeâs gravely wounded,â Freyja called back.
âIâm still breathing,â Wulfric said, fighting through the blinding pain thundering through him as he shifted to try and put himself between Freyja and danger. A stupid, reckless, tired smile worked its way onto his lips. âHow many times are you gonna have to watch me die, hey, Highness?â
âYou wonât die,â Freyja said. That was just for him, quiet and hard with fear.
âSorry I made a mess of my rescue again.â
Freyja shook her head; the way she clutched his hand was more than just fear for the inevitable. âSheâs tiring, Wulfric,â she said, her grave eyes darting over to Avis. âSaskia is inside. Sheâll kill herself to protect her.â
Wulfric choked back a whimper as he moved again, stretching his legs out in front of him to try and sit up at the sound of heavy footsteps. When tried to hold an arm out in front of Freyja, she graciously took on the burden of much of his weight.
âI only see one way out of this. Through you,â Freyja said.
âIâm no use to anyone like this, Frey,â Wulfric replied quietly, the taste of failure thick and bitter on his tongue. All these years, all the fightingâall for this.
âIf you had the strength to fight again, could you do it?â
âPlanning on pulling those bullets out of me with your bare hands, Princess?â
âThe queenâs magic,â Freyja said, and a wave of dizziness washed over Wulfric. âThe Glaiveâs magic. I could give it to you.â
Wulfric looked into her face, wide-eyed. The ground shook beneath them.
âWhat?â
âCould you do it?â Freyja repeated, more firmly this time.
âYes,â Wulfric said breathlessly, unthinking as something surged through himâpushing against the white-hot chill of pain. Anticipation set his heart to racing.
Freyjaâs hand tightened around his in what he next understood as an apology as it moved to his abdomen, pressing against his wounds. Wulfric bit back a scream; she touched her brow to his, her breath soft against the jagged scar on his cheek. And when she spoke, they were not Queen Eivorâs words, nor Freyja Emeryâsâthey were those of Celes Altius, the Oracle, his queen.Â
âBlessed Stars of life and lightââ she began in a soft voice, an achingly familiar prayer that gave way to the firmness of one who knew how to commune with the gods themselvesâ âI, Celes, daughter of the last queen of Nhalmasque, beg of you a knight. Deliver us my champion, Wulfric of Clan Greyhunt.â
When she poured the magic into him, Wulfric did scream. His vision sparked, black and sylleblossom blue; his whole body burned in an instant as power rent his veins and took up every space, every last hollow inside him. For a moment, he thought he had died once more as he felt the touch of the Stars themselves, unfathomable and ancient. Already once they had denied him, when Ysbrandâs corpse had been weighing his own broken body down, and nowâ
You again.
There was only complete and utter clarity in their wake.
He raised his hand and threw a burst of lightning down the street, stopping the advancing magitek weapon in its tracksâand he sprang to his feet as though he were thirty years old again, as though he hadnât had two bullets inside him moments ago, breathing through the exhilaration.
âWulf,â Gawain said.
âIâm fine,â Wulfric called back. He helped Freyja to her feet, holding her hands tightly in hisâthere were no words to say what he felt towards her in the momentâas he guided her towards Avis. âLet go of the barrier and get your wife inside,â he said to her.
Avis looked at him with dark eyes, unwilling to lower her guard at firstâbut she trusted him more than he ever thought he might deserve from her, and she was exhausted. Her hands shook as she dropped her arms and surrendered. The noise of chaos was deafening in the absence of her barrier, closer than ever.
âIâve got the neighbourhood,â he said. âAll of you inside. Gav, make sure she saves her strengthâlast resorts only. And keep that crossbow close.â
âYou donât need to tell me,â Gawain said.
âI know,â Wulfric replied with a smile. He glanced over his shoulder at the mouth of the street again; the magitek weapon was still crackling with electricity, but it wouldnât stay down for long, and neither would more soldiers be far behind. When looked back to Gawain, he knew this was a farewell; Gawain knew it, too.
âCome back to us, brother.â
âWait for me.â Wulfric pulled his hood over his head and secured his mask over his nose, giving a single nod. âFor hearth and home.â
With one last look at his family, he took up his dagger, and then he threw it down the streetâand his body followed, leaving only sparks of magic in his wake.
For the first time in over two decades, Wulfric was whole.
/
The battle had already taken him halfway across the city when he first stumbled at the end of a warpâas though he were fighting Ysbrand again, Ysbrand who understood his mind and his instincts and would swat his daggers away to sabotage his jumps. But his blade had gone down his chosen path; it was his body that half-resisted the jump. Wulfric ducked under the swipe of a gunblade, threw his dagger to strike into the imperialâs neck, and it felt as though the jump had taken strips of his skin away.
Blood slicked his hands, almost cold against the white-hot sparks of magic crackling beneath his flesh. And he knew, intimately, that it was not Freyjaâs gift failing him.Â
When he threw his dagger to jump to a rooftop, nausea gripped his belly like a bad memory; he came up short of the roof thinking not now, not now, threw again, and then he was freefalling as his body refused to answer, just for an instantâlong enough for his heart to thrum with panic before he was barreling across the roof. He scrambled to his feet with the weight of his years on his shoulders and saw the size of the pursuit below.
More imperials on him meant they werenât in the streets after the more vulnerable, but he wasnât going to get out of this; not with exhaustion sinking into his limbs, with his bodyâs growing resistance to the one thing that made it alive. He conjured fire and launched it down at the bulk of the imperials, and it singed his fingers.
Wulfric ran across the rooftop to lead them farther away in their chase of him, feeling the blinding white of their searchlights on his back; he warped back down into the street and, soon after, felt a trickle of blood from his nose. His breathing was starting to burn in his lungs.
He had to duck behind a mass of rubble as gunfire cracked through the air, panting as his flesh remembered the so recent puncture of their bulletsâand then it stopped, and he heard their comms screeching awake.
âAll units cease fire. Ala Mhigo is fallen.â
Wulfric wanted to laugh, wild and frantic with the grief of what he already knew but couldnât face.
âRepeat, all units cease fire. First cohort, report to the royal palace to await the orders of Gaius van Baelsar, viceroy to the imperial province of Gyr Abania. Second cohort, begin patrol and restore order in the streets. All remaining insurgents are to be summarily executed.â
You are out of time, Deathseeker.
I know.
Wulfric closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the rubble, drained of everything he had left. All that remained to him was surrenderâbut he wouldnât surrender to Garlemald. Not in life, and not in death.
He dragged himself back to his feet and, with the last of his strength, slashed his dagger in an upwards arc through the air, cloaking himself from the imperialsâ eyes. He didnât have to look down at himself to know that it was more a shivering mirage than a proper cloak, but that didnât matter; all that did, now, was that he could make his way out of the city before they caught him.
He could have gone homeâback to Avis and Freyjaâs and Gawainâs, to see them all one last time, but he didnât want Saskiaâs last memory of him to be the broken, disfigured shadow he was now. Better it be whatever she remembered now, the uncle she had known when he could bring himself to be with his family.
And Gawain would find his body when he didnât return. He would know where to look.
The sun was beginning to rise from behind the smoking wreck of the city; it lightened the sky across the lochs, grey-blue and without stars. Wulfric let go of the last of the cloaking magic clinging to him as the rise of the hill came into view, or maybe it wore awayâhe didnât know. He only knew how weary he was, how badly he wanted to breathe without the taste of blood in his mouth.
Somehow, he managed to climb the hill with the very dregs of his strength, stumbling the last few steps to the lone treeâthe one whose roots had known Marcoâs ashes.
âHey,â he said quietly. âHope you donât mind that I rest the old bones here a bit.âÂ
He settled down with difficulty on the ground, in the cradle of two roots, and pressed his back to its trunk. A breeze rose from the waters: a westerly, pushing away the smoke and bringing salt up to his lips. His eyes fluttered closed, if only for a moment; when he opened them, the sky was awash with pinks and oranges.
âIâm glad Ashley picked you a nice view,â he said, blinking away tears he hadnât shed for Marco in a long time. He pressed his lips together; it pulled stiffly at the pinched skin of his scar. âI hope him and his are all right.â
It was what it was. Wulfric didnât have enough left in him to wallow in what was lost, in his failures; he simply closed his eyes and decided, for once, to feel peace for having come to the moment he had waited for since he was eighteen years old.
CODA
âCome on, old man.â
The girl was patting his cheek and tugging at his arms, her struggle against his weight evident. Dead weight, and her a scarecrow, not yet twenty.
He wasnât dead yet, because he said, âNeesa?â
âYyyup. Gonna help me help you, or what?â When he didnât move or answer, she groaned out an exasperated breath. âLook, Auntie would kill me if she knew I was out here for you, so letâs crack on.â
Everything hurt, but with Neesaâs help, Wulfric managed to get himself to stand. She wrapped a skinny arm around his shoulders and stroked his hair, supporting him against her own weight.
âThere. Letâs get you home, Gramp.â
Wulfric looked back at the tree one last time as though expecting to see his body still nestled among the roots, slowly rotting away atop the hill; but there was nothing but grass, disturbed by his and Neesaâs footsteps.
Sairsel has lost count of how many times it has come to this.
Sometimes he has his bow, and he wins; sometimes he has his gunblade, or a sword, and it isnât enoughâhe isnât enough; sometimes he chokes the life from Zenos with his bare hands and it doesnât feel like winning.
âWinning.â As though the outcome of every cycle can be measured like the result of a gameâas though there isnât just a little more loss in every one.
He is tired of dying. He is tired of seeing the good in killing. Of thinking, it was either him or me.
(Maybe, says his loverâs head from his beltâthe burden of death he never wants to be liberated fromâthe problem isnât that itâs either you or him.)
âWhat do you mean?â Sairsel asks.
(Maybe itâs that itâs always you and him.)
âNo need to be jealous for my sake, Viper.â
(Of the deranged fucking madman? Please. I know Iâm all head and no heart these days, but I canât exactly be bothered.)
For the first time in⊠gods, too many cycles, Sairsel finds it in him to smile. He allows himself a moment to lean back against a boulderâthis time, they are in his domain, his hunting groundsâand unhook the head of his beloved from his belt. Only vaguely, he remembers his own horror at what he had become, with the axe in his hand to preserve the last of Pavaneâs spirit, but his presence is now as mundane in its atrocity as it is a lifeline.
(You fell in love with a necromancer, he says as Sairsel touches his brow to his and closes his eyes. It comes with the territory.)
Sairsel only regrets that he never had a choice; that he still doesnât.
He has finally understood why his grandmother called all her stories tragedies: no matter the telling, the way she would change the events at her young audienceâs urging for a happier, or stranger, or more gruesome outcome, every story she told was an inevitability. Always the hero was trapped within it, she said, bringing them into complicity.
âWhen do we set him free?â Nairel had asked, once.
âWhen the story ends,â their grandmother replied.
Sairsel is still looking for his way out. The Hermit becomes the Fool, playing his part upon a stage he cannot bring himself to exit. And from the wings he hears movement, a shadow wending its way between the trees: the villainâthe hero, the narratorâis come.
(Look alive, darling. Time to fight again.)
âWhat if I didnât?â he asks, trading the head for his weaponâhis gunblade, this time. He runs his fingers down the flat of the blade, along the keen edge of it, and thinks that there is no point to it. Zenos is near, now; if Sairsel had his bow, he could soon loose upon him.
(What are you saying? Youâd just lie down and die?)
âMaybe Iâve just got it turned around. Maybe this isnât how I deny him,â he says. And Zenos comes, death wrought in blood and gold, and smiles like he has found a prize. âWhat if Iâve just been accepting, all this time?â
Zenos raises his great and terrible blade, poised to strike, and Sairsel tosses his own aside. That is enough to make him falter, for doubt to part the cold fire.
With death at his throat, Sairsel gives nothing. âIâm more than this. I want something that isnât this,â he admits, looking up and meeting the eyes that have been his every horror for too long. âI just canât fathom that you could ever be a person. Someone who puts his head down at night and dreams of missing a lesson or replying to a letter far too late.â
(Thatâs the problem: he only dreams of a world on fire.)
âHow can I make you understand that thatâs what I am?â
âI know what you are,â Zenos says with disarming, indomitable certainty. Then he smiles again, cold and pale in his affection, and cradles Sairselâs body with hand and blade. (Powerless, Pavane seethes.) âWhat if I told you I killed every living thing in your wood on my way to you?â
Rage flares inside Sairselâs body in an instant, and he is trying to tear Zenos apart with teeth and bare hands again. And then the blade is inside his chest, cutting him open as though to reach his heart, and he joins all the other rotting things on the forest floor.
âMy friend,â he hears as his body twitches, choking on his own blood, âI will accept you even in your moments of doubt.â
Sairsel wakes up in the water where Pavane drowned himself to bring him back to his broken body, the very first time. He stumbles to his feet shaking and weary, dragging himself from the riverbed, and runs a hand through his hair.
He takes a breath and picks up his bow from the grass, gritting his teeth in resignation.
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Wulfric ignored the sour taste in his mouth and huffed out a breath, stretching out his legs. He kept his eyes on the movement out in the Sprawl; his focus on the Undercity always rooted out any discomfort he might have with the past before it could take.
âShe wonât be sleeping in that bed if sheâs afraid he might come to steal into it,â Seax replied with a chill to her tone much unlike the unaffected attitude she had towards most things. âIâve got her somewhere safe; sheâll be sleeping fine there.âÂ
And maybe she understood something Wulfric didnât intend to communicate when he glanced at her, because she shook her head, clicked her tongue, and added, âNumber of favours I owe her, Iâll stay a moon in her place to knife a man whoâs got her scared if thatâs what it takesâare we clear on that? If youâre so bored with being warm and dry for a few hours, I can stand watch on my own and you can fuck off.â
âThatâs not what I was saying at all, Seax,â Wulfric said, as reasonably as he could make it sound, once it was evident Seax had finished speaking; if heâd learned anything from her since coming to the Undercity, it was that you didnât interrupt someone like her, even if it was with the intent of correcting a misunderstanding.
âNo? What are you saying, then?â
âJust that there are more efficient ways of fucking up a guy when you know his name, his face, his haunts and his friends.â
Seax liked that; her voice edged back towards the unbothered. âEver so proactive,â she said lightly. âNormally, I would agree with you, but this is different. He gets a knife in a gutter, and that can be the work of any rotten fuck heâs gotten on the wrong side of this week. But he gets it in her house, and that teaches the whole neighbourhood: no one fucks with Eda and gets away with it. Not on my watch.â
âYeah, I get that,â Wulfric said.Â
Perhaps for the third time since he had sat down by the window, he pulled his dagger from the sheath at his thigh to busy his hands, running through the balance drills heâd learned from his blademaster as a youth. Easy as breathing.
Seax watched him flip the knife again and again, twirling it with the flat of the blade between his fingers, shifting his grip from forward to reverse. Then she said, âI know youâre eager to bloody your teeth, little wolfââ and in this she was wrong about him: heâd never been eager for blood, not really, just for anything to keep him movingâ âbut youâre going to drive me up the walls. Come here.â
He stilled the knife and pointed to the window, questioning.
âWe donât need to see him coming. If he shows, weâll know.â
Wulfric supposed that was true. He shrugged, sheathing his dagger as he stood and crossed the short distance from the front of Edaâs home to her bed, which she separated from the rest of her place with a curtain Seax kept drawn back. At Seaxâs invitation, he sat across the foot of the bed and kicked off his boots.
âShe wonât mind us being in here?â he asked with some remnant of topsider modestyâor whatever it was Seax called it.
âI owe her a lot of favours, but still not enough that Iâll sleep on the fucking floor just to avoid her bed while Iâve got her good and cozy in my hideout.â
At that, Wulfric chuckled and stripped off his coat, boyishly satisfied when he managed to toss it over the back of Edaâs lone chair. Again Seax watched him, chin tucked in her palm, as he rolled up his sleeves. Without warning, she reached out to trace a finger over the thin band of black ink revealed just below his left elbow.
It wasnât the first time an Ala Mhigan had touched his tattoosâheâd had enough lovers follow the lines on his skin to adjust from the feeling of wrongness to appreciating their touch, but Seaxâs curiosity felt different. Sharp, like the rest of her; and he liked that about her, that rough loyalty that was conveniently devoid of affection. He simply hadnât been prepared for it to come in contact with the still-raw Nhalmascan parts of him, even though sheâd already bedded him more times than he could count.
âThese are so strange,â she said, tilting her head as she studied the lines at the side of his neck. Her thumb brushed the pattern down the shell of his ear. âAre they from the glorious soldiering days? Battle marks?â
âWhat does it matter?â
Seax shrugged and dropped her hand to his lap. âDoesnât,â she said, giving his thigh a squeeze. âBloody touchy all the time.â
Unceremoniously, she shifted her weight to lean towards him and began to unlace his trousers. Wulfric raised his hands.
âWhat are you doing?â
âPassing the time,â Seax said simply, slipping a hand inside his trousers. âWhy, you got a better idea?â
He shook his head. âNot one,â he said; his mind had very quickly emptied. âCarry on.â
âGood boy,â Seax said. She drew closer so that her mouth was close to his ear, but refused any reciprocal touch. âHands to yourself. Remember: youâre done when I say.â
Wulfric bit back a reflexive aye, sir. With her, it was always better to say nothing.
/
(Marco had stuffed more coal into the stove than was reasonable in anticipation for his return; Wulfric saw the thoughtfulness in the gesture the moment he stepped inside the cellar, but didnât comment on it. He never knew how to say the simplest things, these days.
âHow was it?â Marco asked, sitting up in bed. The movement made Montblanc groan at his feet and huddle closer, laying his head on Marcoâs lap with no acknowledgement of Wulfricâs entrance.
âBad,â Wulfric replied wearily. He gestured to his half-soaked clothing, but said little more, not wanting his foul mood to infect Marco when he was so close to sleep. As he yanked off his boots, he said, âDonât worry about it. Thereâs nothing to be said about Berntâs incompetence that canât wait until morning.â
Rather than watch Wulfric hop around on one leg while he peeled off his wet trousers, Marco leaned over the bed to toss him a dry pair. âHere. Theseâll keep you warm while yours dry.â
âThanks. Fucking freezing.â
Wulfric removed his shirt next and laid out his clothes to dry; for a moment he lingered in front of the stove, shivering as the heat warmed his bare chest and arms. He shook out the wet tips of his hair, too, fingers catching on the beads threaded into his braids.
âHey, Wulf. Can I ask you something?â Marco asked carefully. He scratched Montblancâs head with an idleness to his hands, just for something to do that wasnât staring at the black lines under Wulfricâs shoulder blades.
âOf course you can.â
âYour tattoos. They mean something, donât they?â
At first, Wulfric meant only to nod and leave it at that, knowing Marco wouldnât push; instead he sat at the edge of the bed, folding his hands together, his thumb running back and forth across the line running down the center of his middle finger.
âTheyâre⊠my fate,â he said with something of a shrug, because he could think of no better word. âIn Nhalmasque, we have seers; we seek them out before adolescence to hear a pronouncement on our fate, and then they draw our life lines on our bodies. We preserve them throughout our teenage years, and when we come of age, those we didnât let fade get tattooed. I kept all of mine.â
Marco nodded, serious. âWhat did the seer say they were?â
âShe didnât. Itâs up to us to give them meaning; some of them Iâm still not even certain of.â
Wulfric could feel Marcoâs eyes on his back, and the question he was too polite to ask.
âThese I know,â Wulfric said, crossing an arm over his chest to tap a finger over his shoulder. âAvis and Gawain. I trust them with my back.â
âI get it,â Marco said, and Wulfric knew that he didâknew that he was thinking of Ashley and Ălodie. If he was Nhalmascan, they might be lines on his back, too.
He didnât ask which ones Wulfric hadnât figured out yet, and Wulfric didnât wonder; one day, sooner than he expected, he would know the Undercity for one of the lines down his neck, like a blade at his jugular.)
Morganaâs fingers stilled on the straps of the armour. Intimately, she knew his discomfort as though it were her own: to face her back in this moment, to stare at the cloak upon her shoulders. Hers was no tattered flag of a broken nation; the pair of griffins rampant on her back, swords crossed, told another story entirely. A story of her own choosing, thick with echoes of the past.Â
The dull black of the scales on her chest took on a blade-sharp gleam as she turned to look at him.
âDo you?â she asked, her derision so much like his own. He did not move from the shadows, not yet, to step forward into the biting of her light. âAre you going to do something about it?â
He opened his hands, showing them empty; there was no blade at his belt. There might be one, hidden in his sleeve, waiting for her to be near enough to plunge a dagger into her bellyâand wouldnât that be some irony? Him, of all people, deciding her end in this moment. Would he hold her as he did it?
âWe already know how that story ends. Swords will never be enough.â
âYou could try words. Try and conjure the reality you desire just by speaking as you did then,â Morgana said, as though handing him the secret to her own destruction could ever be so easy. âIf anyone could ever know what it takes to make me change course, itâs you.â
âAre you asking for a way out?â
Morgana smiled, hardened by purpose. âNo.â
âThen Iâll say nothing. I wonât speak of your madness, or of his heart,â Ilberd said, and finally stepped forward into the cold light of the full moon. âBut I will say this: you had better be prepared.â
In his hand was not a blade, but it felt like a sacrifice. She took the mask from him in silence, holding it in both hands as she considered this, her last step before the abyss.
âIt was never just for Ala Mhigo,â she said at length, âor your family, or our people. Was it?â
âWhy?â Ilberd replied, turning it on her. âWhat is it for you?â
Morgana smiled again at that, and went on. âThe actions, perhaps. The purpose. But the Griffinâthat was for you.â
He did not need to speak his answer aloud; she already knew.
âMaybe you were right,â Morgana admitted thoughtfully. âMaybe we are the same.â
Ilberd watched as she put on the maskâas she pulled on the hood of her cloak and wholly disappeared inside the Griffin. He was as powerless as she had been then: his only purpose to witness, and to untangle the pieces of his soul from hers out of what would remain of Yiazmat.
âThis will hurt, when it happens,â she warned him. âBut know that I will make Zenos pay for the last time.â