i do think abt it sometimes for sure! i never rly had a strong direction to take it though so i wasn’t fully sure where to go with it. probably it would end up that beau was vital to the treaty negotiations as a cobalt soul monk & also the consecuted soul of leylas’s wife/guardian/wife&guardian & there was also a storyline of like. there’s a really dangerous balance you Must walk as a consecuted not just reliving the same lives & making the same mistakes over & over again & acting out the same vengeances but taking the chances of a new life & making new experiences & pathways & letting your soul & heart expand. & so even though beau Loves leylas, love written into her from those past lives, & that love is kinda the endless soulmate sort of love, i think she ends up leaving the dynasty & continuing to explore w the mighty nein & it’s just like. i have loved you for five lifetimes. i continue to love & serve you in this one, but by merit of birth & new experiences i have come to love the empires people too & i refuse to partake in your war. im going to help my family stop this ancient weird evil & im going to explore the feelings i have for others & im going to live the most i can of every moment

& i think leylas is deeply hurt at first & then as beau sends her letters & artefacts from various places they go & shares the information she collects for the cobalt soul as well, leylas comes to the understanding of like. she still loves me. this time it’s a different love, a distant love but no less powerful, bc beaus love language is 100% information. & it’s wild bc that’s smth that leylas understands about her very quickly not bc her past lives were the same but bc they were different. they all challenged her though & so beaus choice is heartbreaking but it’s also. soothing? in a funny way? bc beau can change so much but she’s never going to stop driving leylas nuts

you bury your husband where he’d asked you to, just behind the house.

(“i’ll be back,” he tells you, cradles your face in his shaking hands. “if the mother permits it. i’ll come back to you.”

you smile, because you don’t want to say that you’re not sure if she will.)

you haven’t been home in a long time. clarabelle runs from the house to greet you, holding the tatters of the hat you’d given her all those years ago onto her head.

“caduceus,” she says, breathless, “what brings you home?” and then the smile slides off her face.

(the mother gives you gentle repose early in your career. it’s a simple spell, just keeps decay from the body for a short time. it predates revival magic, she tells you, was a way to allow proper burial rites to be made, long before mages’ heads swelled stubbornly with the idea that there need not be a funeral at all. that they were better than the earth calling them home.

you use it twice. once, before you are married, and once after.)

behind you the horse snorts and shakes, rattling the lead.

(“i want to bring him home properly,” you say. caleb pauses in flipping through his older books— there’s a pedantic streak in all of you. for transmutary incumbent caleb widogast, it shows in his refusal to copy his spells over until the binding splits from his first spellbooks, and maybe not even then.

“it’s a dangerous road,” he says. “we buried someone on it already.”

you laugh. “yes, well. i want to visit him, too.”

“are you angry with him?”

“for what?” you already know, but caleb’s words will show whether there is more to wait for in the next century.

“for choosing to return. for not wanting to leave.”

ah. so he has done it, too.

“no,” you say, because caleb is not just asking after fjord. “the earth is patient. she waits until someone has decided to stay.”

“would you? return?”

another laugh works up in your throat, but it’s twisted and wrong.

“i have time.”

—

a horse, a pall is a small task for a chain of tharizdun. a larger task is declining the offered parade.

you take your husband’s body home in almost perfect silence. the horse chews its bit, the wheels of the pall rattle stones. it’s a cicada year.

the grave on glory run is in full bloom. you stop to gather a bundle of flowers, pale pink and purple and red, and carefully pull aside the layer of crawling vines to see that despite everything, the coat remains.

“would you choose the same, if you knew what you carried? were you in there when it shattered?”

are you already back? will i get to meet you after all?

the sway of the infant grove in the summer breeze is no answer, but you weren’t truly expecting one. below the earth, fungal fibers wrap the bones of mollymauk tealeaf like a chrysalis. awaiting a transformation that will never come, because the home is empty, the light is out.

what a beautiful thing.)

the earth makes no qualms about who is laid where, but the clay family still has a special plot for itself.

you watch calliope dig from the window. fjord is laid out in the burial room, still wrapped in the comforter you’d brought him home in.

“are you staying?” clarabelle asks.

“yes,” you say. “once i bring the last one home. this is where they’ll know to find me. you can leave then, i’ll look after the house, and mom and dad.”

“i—“ she was the only one to ask you beforehand, the first time. not that you knew how to say anything other than that you’d be okay, but it stuck with you nonetheless.

“it’s different than the first time. i’ve seen the world, and i want to be home. you deserve the chance to decide.”

she leans against you in the kitchen, in front of the window overlooking the backyard. calliope wipes sweat from her brow, and turns to look at the two of you, leaning on her shovel.

i imagine she has rather conflicting views on the whole thing.

on the one hand, the empire have been enemies in some way or another for centuries, and are distinct from the dynasty in that they have lots of humans. we’ve seen in canon that a consecuted human will be taken home (presumably, though maybe they are killed again & returned to the beacon. i doubt that). humanity has been the face of her dynasty’s enemy (or one of) for some time, including being the cause of at least one of her deaths & the death of her wife in two (in my story). additionally, as you said, humans have a greatly reduced lifespan

on the other hand, with the expansion of the dynasty & the theft of the beacon, humans & non-elves as consecuted souls are becoming less rare & it is understood in my story that it isn’t the body that is the thing revered but the soul. this was learned after having souls returning at all. then it included returning as male, female, nonbinary or some other gender. then it included other races & that was another change they had to learn to understand & accept. so the humanity of it, racially speaking, isn’t an issue except that it is because of their histories. it’s simply a new way of experiencing & learning with/from/about her partner.

i am of the opinion that beau & her past lives (this is her fifth, i think) have changed more than leylas’s ever have. leylas has, of eight lives, been a female drow for five of them. whereas beau has crossed both gender & race (admittedly, all consecuted have largely been drow for most of their lives but that has been changing ofc) whether that says smth about fate or chance or probability or something about the soul itself, that’s for you to decide

ooh i haven’t done consecuted au in ages! fair warning, i don’t have a concept in mind to fulfill this prompt so imma just,, write & hope that it comes to me

//

They bring Beau back to the Xhorhaus and care for her as best they can, a restoration when they think it might help but mostly salted stew and a cold cloth draped over her neck. They replace it when it quickly becomes drenched in the sweat that pours off her and Beau is left feeling half-melted, like a wax statue, as the sweat and water droplets sit in a tepid film over her entire body. She feels herself sloughing away piece by piece in small and then larger sections; it’s not real—Beau is as hale and whole as ever—but there is something working at her mind that regects who she is, burns and melts away at this form with her weak eyes that cannot catch the moons light, the long arms and unfamiliar hands. The multitudes of selves within Beau clamour to claim sections of her, of themselves in her form, and at one point, when Beau looks down at her hands and finds she does not know them, she moves to the stairs that glide up to the second floor and she lays on the cool grey stone.

The ceiling of the entrance—hall? not quite—of their gifted house is high here. It rises to the second floor along with the staircase and above the doorway is a large circular window of fogged glass that fills most of that space. Beau stares up at it and shivers with fever and clench-jawed dismay; nothing that is happening to her feels good or normal or makes any kind of sense.

She remembers a party. Here in this room. This house they’ve had all of a month. This house that stands barren and watched, with her and her empire compatriots. This house that has never seen a guest while they have been in it—she remembers it filled with people and the chime of laughter and quiet conversation. Beau doesn’t remember herself, but she remembers this.

A party, back when the threat of war did not loom overhead. There were many of those times but the memories seem to be less immediate than those of Beau’s many deaths—a knife, plunged into—

She snaps her eyes back to the window.

Circular fogged glass.

‘Do you think it’s supposed to look like the moon?’ Lee asks her. She looks bored; she always looks bored at events like this.

Surathai flicks her eyes to the window. ‘Hmm.’

Lee scowls. Drinks deeply of the goblet in her hand.

‘Have I offended?’ Surathai asks, tone smooth and empty of apology or any of her own upset. And she is upset. Why? The thought shakes through her like the ringing of a bell and Surathai shivers with it. For a moment, she could swear that sweat dripped in a column down her neck, her spine. But the night is cool and she had not been permitted to wear her armour; her fine long tunic is untouched by sweat.

‘Have I offended,’ Lee repeats, the tone mocking.

Surathai arches a brow. It will make Lee furious. Why? That whisper comes again, and not far behind, like heavy blunt fingers poking and prodding, Who is she? What is this party?

Surathai glances about the space. She misses the way Lee scowls toward her as she scans the space: the Den umavi are clustered together like gossiping hens deeper into the house, their consorts either at their shoulders or, if they’re particularly lax, a step back from that most holy of spaces.

Lee tries shift deeper into the house without her, flanking through the east wing, a spacious library that corners onto the small dining hall.

Surathai wasn’t reborn yesterday. She follows easily. Each time Lee tries to ditch her, Surathai adjusts.

‘The more I must pay attention to you,’ she says, stepping into the space by Lee’s shoulder after the young woman had managed to put an entire door between them, ‘the less attention I have for would-be assassins.’

Lee scoffs.

‘Leylas,’

‘Shouldn’t you be calling me Your Majesty,’ Lee cuts her off, and the words sound bitter as she spits them toward her. ‘If you’re so intent on playing as my guard dog, at least do it properly.’

Surathai blinks. ‘Is that why you’re upset?’

Lee looks up from the spread—delicious, fresh, a real effort from the new Den—and for the first time this evening her lips soften from the flat obsidian slash they have been.

‘It’s a party, Sura. You’re my betrothed. You’re supposed to be on my arm, not at my shoulder.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh,’ Lee repeats, but this time her mocking is far more gentle. Teasing, really. ‘You didn’t know?’

‘Was I supposed to?’

‘You’re not exactly dressed to fight assassins,’

‘I would make do.’

‘It’s a very expensive fabric.’

Surathai plucks at her tunic with a slow of mild distaste. ‘You do not need to buy me expensive items. Especially not clothing.’

‘I’m the Queen, nothing is expensive for me,’ Lee says with a wave of her hand. She laughs then, not quietly, and waves her hand far more imperiously when varied heads turn to look at the Queen and her Consort half-hidden in the next room. Lee waits until everyone averts their eyes. Then, ‘I’m joking, Sura. Don’t look so foul with me.’

‘Our people have need of that coin,’

‘I know, my love.’ The endearment slips out, the way so many secrets and memories do between them.

They’ve said those words many lifetimes over; they still bring a bruising flush to Surathai’s cheeks.

‘Hmph,’ she says.

Lee ducks her head.

No longer upset, Lee loses the sharp bearing with which she had cut through this party so easily before. She is caught in many a discussion with many a boring individual and as the night wears on, so too does the party on Lee’s patience.

Surathai steps in before Lee’s new tongue can get her in trouble with an old friend. She wraps her fingers around Lee’s wrist and pretends to not be surprised when Lee rests a good portion of her weight comfortably into her.

‘It’s a party tonight, Taskhand,’ Surathai chides. She is allowed to chide. Her only concern is the Queen and does not have to pretend otherwise, unlike her betrothed. ‘Forgive us but we haven’t had an opportunity to dance...’

‘Of course.’ The Taskhand bows, excuses himself.

Lee shifts, sets her chin on Surathai’s shoulder. ‘Bodyguard or betrothed, whichever, don’t let anyone talk to me for—the rest of the night.’ A great yawn cracks her jaw.

‘Shall I glare at them?’ Surathai asks, voice soft, cajoling.

‘Oh yes. You glare so nicely.’

‘Mm. I do try.’

Lee chuckles. Shifts closer still, winding her arms around Surathai’s middle in a loose hug. Sura returns the gesture slowly and begins to sway to the gentle music that drifts through all of this house.

‘What time is it?’

‘Late. Early, really.’ Sura glances to one of her disguised guards, flashes a question. When they respond, she tells Lee, ‘Three in the morning.’

Lee groans. ‘My feet are killing me.’

Surathai hums. Is doubly relieved that she had passed over the death trap shoes that had been delivered with the outfit. Her own boots could carry her halfway to Asarius Settlement before she started to blister.

‘Shall I carry you home?’

Lee’s arms cinch tighter. She turns, nose brushing against the sensation skin of Surathai’s neck. ‘Would you?’ she asks. Breathes. The question tickles against her skin on that quiet exhale; Surathai shivers.

‘Of course.’

‘Because I am your Queen?’ Lee asks. She tucks her face more fully into Surathai’s neck so that her expression cannot be seen no matter how Sura tries; her tone is entirely empty save for the note of the question.

Sura hesitates. She isn’t sure precisely what Lee wants from her; her fallback then, the oath she had sworn two-fold upon her sword, and the promise of her rebirth itself. Dedication to her Queen, and all else that follows—honesty, forthrightness, protection. Love had not entered that vow on any iteration; that was sworn later, that third oath, upon her knees once more.

‘Because you are my queen, and my wife-to-be, and my wife-who-was, and the woman I choose life after life.’ Lee hums. Surathai frowns. Had that not been the right answer? She searches her mind for what is missing and can think only that she would like for Lee to laugh. ‘I like carrying you,’ she blurts, feeling abruptly and stingingly her young age at the clumsy words.

She gets her wish though. Lee laughs suddenly, pulls back—not out of her hold, but enough that she can see Sura’s face.

‘Is that so?’

‘Well—I’m—‘

‘Strong.’ Lee drags a nail down one of Sura’s arms, over the dip and trip of her muscles. ‘I‘ve noticed.’

‘I wasn’t. Last time.’

‘Hmm.’

‘You like?’ Sura asks, clumsy pre-century flirting clogging her thoughts and tongue. She flexes. She hopes this isn’t the life Leylas decides actually this version of my wife is far too awkward.

//

Beau comes awake at the sensation of a cold hand on her head. Blinks up into blue.

‘Jes?’

Her friend smiles, relief clear across her face. ‘Beau! You’re awake! Oh my gosh, Beau, I’ve been so worried, you were on the stairs and you were, like, just staring at the roof and Fjord said maybe you had been paralysed or, or, your mind was gone because you couldn’t hear us and that wasn’t a fun time at all but then you started talking and Caleb said it was Undercommon?’ Jester says all in a rush.

Beau hears most of it. She understands most of what she hears.

‘It’s getting worse, Beau,’ Jester tells her.

‘I know.’

‘I think it’s time.’

‘I dont—I don’t want—‘

‘I know,’ she agrees, and winds cold fingers into Beau’s.

The shock of it is nice, like cold water on a hot day. Refreshing. Beau clutches at Jester’s hand, tries not to feel like the other girl has seen too much of her, seen her sick and shivering and way too fucking weak, tries not to feel like so much grime at the bottom of the bucket.

‘I know it’s scary, Beau, and you probably don’t want people in your mind,’

Beau agrees with a grunt.

‘But we don’t know how to help you and—‘ Jester catches her bottom lip between sharp teeth, worries at it. Her brows push together and up, the picture of concern. ‘You’re in pain, Beau. We don’t want—I don’t want you in pain anymore. It’s awful, it’s just awful.’

She blinks up at her best friend. ‘Feels—like my head is all - crammed full.’

‘Memories?’

‘Mm. Yeah.’

‘Does it hurt?’

The heat begins to ebb and fade, lulling her and sapping with it her energy. Beau feels heavy, her tongue dry and thick in her mouth. ‘Only when I die,’ she says unthinkingly.

Jester gasps. Squeezes her hands tighter. ‘Beau...’

‘Ask ‘em if it’ll help? I wanna—finish this. Stupid. To put it off. Stupid.’

‘No, no.’ Jester brushes her fingers over Beau’s clammy forehead. ‘Not stupid. You’re just—stubborn.’

The assassins had been caught long before they reached her chambers. A human woman, dark hair long around a moon-blessed face, pale and round and full. She would look lovely - sweet, even - if not for the look of absolute hatred in those eyes. 

‘You know who I am.’

It is not a question. 

‘Yes,’ the assassin spits. She lunges forward, strains against the silver-link chains that hold her in place. ‘Empress bitch.’

“caduceus.”

“hmm?”

he’s washing vegetables in the sink.

“what are we going to do?”

caduceus doesn’t look up.

“well, i was planning on sautéing these. finally grew some nice saffron this year, haven’t done that in a while. should be a good dinner.”

“after that.”

he keeps washing the vegetables.

“what do you want to do?”

“i want to remember you. everything that happened. i want to know.”

“wouldn’t you rather just be here, together, again? isn’t it enough that you’re you again, and i’m still me, and we’re all here?”

“beau had to teach me how to spell my name.”

caduceus turns off the sink. his hands, full of tubers, hang in the sink from limp arms. he doesn’t turn around.

There’s an event being held at the Lucid Bastion. A gathering of the dens to remind them of what is important in this time of unforeseen peace following the talks. What is important is mentioned in a brief welcoming speech—unity, cooperation, momentum leading into discovery, all that propaganda shit—but from the looks of things at the party, it’s very small foods and a truly colossal amount of some amber-coloured drink that goes down sweet but kicks like a horse with the afterburn.

Beau digs it.

good question. i think . the consecuted au is so much about duality & the dicotomy of past & present, & self & other, expectation & the question of whether someone is as they were bc the soul is permanent & unchanging or bc the memories are powerful enough to colour the individual’s growth again in their next life,all that rly fun stuff. so while beau is struggling with that, i think she’s too kind & too clever not to see a woman who is grieving for her wife in leylas & it’s just. i imagine them arguing & parting ways & then beau returning to apologise or continue less heatedly & she comes across leylas barefaced, dressed without armour or station, just sitting on her couch & not crying exactly but she’s just so Tired. bc her wife has returned but she’s Fighting the consecution & Fighting her memories & Fighting to be more of who she IS than who she WAS & it’s all Fine—except that she was her wife & leylas misses her

& i just imagine beau stepping into the room & coming over to sit with her & she just. gives into the however many lives she has lived & the impulse & she hugs her