Taking up nearly a third of the lakeside, the size of the gathering dwarfed its sound, which was only a smattering of hushed conversations not much louder than the crackling of the brazier coals. Clear groups could be sorted out with the naked eye—there were many huddles of white-haired nixes, their breath invisible in the chill air compared to those around them exhaling hot clouds of condensation. Among them was Nio, and the deer half-breed Alita had her thin arms tucked into the nix's arm. Some were less obvious—families and friend groups and squadrons, bundled up against the cold, many of them comforting each other. A small cluster of Arnasons, accompanied by Daybreak's huge, watchful silhouette, stood nearer to the ships on the right.
Tree remembered. She remembered holding a handmade bow in her freezing paws, standing underneath the drifting snowflakes, staring hollowly out at a single vessel instead of many, holding a king instead of his people. She glanced sideways, somewhere near where the Warden hovered invisibly, and knew that the demon was remembering both Haddock's funeral, and others that Tree herself hadn't even been present for. The event was made uniquely strange by the knowledge of the oldest body amongst the others, wrappings distinguishably dirty and decomposing, but laying just as nobly with the dead as though he'd always belonged. As far as Treepelt understood it, an exact copy of the man she currently stood entwined with. She hated that her children were with her, to experience what she wished she hadn't, but she tried to insist with herself that it was a good thing—it was the end of a terrible era, and the start of a much better one.
Dario stayed near the Arnasons, antlers rising like a crown above the group's heads, and Milae was not far off, standing huddled with a boar half-breed with whom he shared the same distant, hollow look. Milae knew Bhaem had not had enough time to say goodbye to Tulli's tiny form, but he knew any amount of time would not be enough.
By the boat with an empty deck, a man stood at its stern, one paw on the rear figurehead, another on the railing. He was bent over slightly, and the thick shawl around his shoulders still bared his auburn hair and feline ears to the freezing air. The shoreline gravel gritted against itself as he rocked almost imperceptibly, forward and away, keeping his head ducked against his chest.
Liam's two months of mental sedation had been a godsend. Both he and Nala had learned their lessons seven years ago after the death of the Praetor. He had fought off her comfort and she had hesitated to give it, fearing the removal of his autonomy or agency, and the result was a very tumultuous recovery that was difficult for not just Liam, but for Kendra and Tree, too. With both of them fearing another devastating blow to his psyche, they agreed that the next traumatic experience he went through, they would do things differently. His rescue from the now-dubbed Blackout Timeline definitely qualified, and he had been heavily dependent on Nala's ability to quickly cut off a flashback or a panic attack, holding his memory hostage until he calmed down. It made a huge difference, and made him far more useful for tying the loose ends of the Rebellion into the new tapestry of the Sovereignty.
Today, Liam had not only requested a few minutes away from his family; he also asked the Warden to withdraw completely. It upset her, not because she was offended, but because she had so few other ways to soothe him. As of now, she held at a distance, gently sensing Liam, but doing no more than brushing her mind against his in solidarity. He paused in his rocking, buckling slightly over the ship's railing and dry heaving once, wiping away sour saliva with his wrist.
She stirred, uncomfortable. Let me—
"No. I'm okay." Liam fixed the empty deck with a hard stare, trying to bring the details of its wooden planks into focus instead of his memories. Treepelt was standing behind him, ready to embrace him once he returned, but at the same time…she wasn't. She had bled out in the shadow of High Central's walls, under a scarlet sun. The same went for Kendra—at a distance, Kezia had disintegrated her, Jin and Daybreak in a blaze of radiance. He had no clue what had happened to Vox. The thought of his father possibly still being alive, still searching for him, brought the nausea back tenfold. And Nala…
"Fuck," he whispered hoarsely. Survivor's guilt didn't even begin to describe it. But he wanted--needed--to feel it. "Fuck, fuck…"
