#selfpara.

The first time he had died, he had asked for death. Valerius had offered him a solution to his one and only problem. To anyone that would listen to him, his motivation for joining the Warrior’s Guild had been to prove himself, to prove that he wasn’t worthless. The Tower had told him that he was. The more he had used his magic after that, the more he had been convinced that it was true. But then he had picked up a sword and shield. It was his saving grace, the one good thing. Anger had still permeated his every thought, but he could forget about it for a moment or two when he sparred with the other warriors in the Guild.

But then there was Valerius. There was always Valerius. He’d found him at his best and worst, shown him a path that he hadn’t even thought possible. Why would he have ever said no to an offer like that? Valerius had shown himself to be nothing but proud of him. There were his tests, but every mentor had a test. Really, Agron had been eager to prove himself. He always had been.

Blood had been dropped into the basin. Then again. And again. And again. Over and over, Agron was tested. Loyalty to a man he considered a father was easy to give. He had been so damn eager. Strike down those Valerius asked him to and he would be worthy. He would be proud of him. Who else could say that? Who else could say that Valerius Noctis actually treasured them? That was what Agron thought at least. Valerius had never told him any different. If he didn’t want Agron there, it would be easy to dispose of him. It would have all been fine that night if he had just stayed at the vampire’s side. Instead, he had run into a dhampir.

Casimir. The heron mark on his blade had been placed there after years and years of hard work. Agron had put his blood, sweat and tears into his craft every single day. Valerius had noticed it with a single look. Agron had asked for death. He had wanted to become a strigoi. He had wanted to get his revenge on the Tower for all of the anger that they had placed within his heart, all of the hate. But then Casimir had to go and say that he was desecrating that heron mark. Everything he had worked so hard to accomplish, everything he had worked so hard to prove, could be gone. Instead of looking at him with respect, they would look at him with fear.

It was that thought that stayed with him that night. It was that thought that stayed with him as Valerius was captured before his eyes and then himself. Damodred had offered him a way out. She had offered him a new path.

Redemption.

It was easy for him to drop his blood into that basin again because he knew what to expect. He knew what Valerius wanted and he knew that only he could get it done. The first thought he had as the basin lapped up his blood and grabbed a hold of him was a simple one. If he died here, would Leander care? Would Kuno?

A test of faith was all this was though. As he had expected, he had accomplished what needed to be done. All he needed to do was find Valerius and put a stop to this all. But could he? Would he be able to strike when the moment came? This was his sire. He was indebted to the vampire. If Agron could breathe, he felt like he would have needed to take a single breath. His body felt lighter than ever, but his lungs felt empty.

The first time he had died, he asked for death. This time though? He hadn’t. It was his fault. He had trusted that they were not amongst anyone that would go against them. He hadn’t expected this and he should have. It had happened so fast. Kuno was right there. He had been right there. Agron had felt it happen before he could react. It almost felt painless. Was this what it had felt like before?

He hadn’t even told Leander that he loved him.

Then there was nothing. It was quiet. His soul had felt like it was slipping away.

Would Kuno feel like this was his fault? It wasn’t. He had done everything right. This was Agron’s fault. He was always reckless. He fought like he had nothing to lose. Except now he had everything to lose and Valerius had more of a hold on him than ever. He almost didn’t want to wake up. He didn’t want to…

The Tower was in shambles. They were all running around as if everything that could have gone wrong did. Wasn’t that what had happened though? Valerius had escaped. Agron’s eyes widened as he looked around.

He had died.

He had failed.

The Tower had been right. Agron, the Queensguard. Agron, the Red Knight of Lysara.

He had failed. The Tower would call him useless.

He had failed. The Warriors Guild would call him useless.

He had failed. Leander would call him useless.

He had failed. Kuno would call him useless.

He had failed.

'Come home to me, my Red Knight.'

A hand slipped from his own smaller one. It had been roughened by many years digging through dirt. Her hand had felt warm. It was a warmth that he had become so used to. They had all become used to the sensation of her warm but rough hand in their own.

They had been distraught when she left.

They had been distraught when she didn’t come back.

As much as his father had told him not to follow that same path, Prospero had hoped that he would see her again in those Arches. He had so badly just…hoped. If he could just hold her hand again, then everything would be alright. Now he hoped he could hold any of their hands again.

His father. His brother. His mother.

All of them had been lost to him and, every day, Prospero had hoped that he could hold their hands again. Just for a second.

It had just cost him the rest of his life.

His bloodied hands were not his own. It wasn’t him, but it was who he had been made to be. Wanting for something always cost something much more dire. And now they all knew what he had given for just the chance to have his family again.

A nail dug through his right hand and he thought of Alrik.

When he had gone through those Arches, he’d had a family. He had so much of everything he wanted that he thought he wouldn’t be able to leave. His son was…so similar to the stoic witch that threatened his life several times over. They didn’t have all that much in common personality-wise, but he had nothing but love for Alrik. He wanted to protect him so much more than he thought he was capable of. Now he didn’t have a chance to.

A nail dug into his left hand and he thought of Alessia.

They weren’t similar either, but there was something that drew them towards each other more than he could ever think possible. He didn’t want to disappoint the two people he thought of as his children. He didn’t want to let go of their hands. Alessia had been so determined to prove she didn’t care that she ended up showing just how much she had cared. It reminded him exactly of the daughter he’d had in the Arches. It reminded him of his brother. Now he wouldn’t get to truly see any of them again.

The last nail dug into his feet and he thought of Lothar.

All of them reminded him exactly of the family he had made for himself within those Arches. If nothing else, he just wanted to sit in silence with that big brute of a man. It felt nice to have someone be there and listen to him, but what made it even better was that he could truly be seen. Prospero wasn’t sure if anyone else saw him the way Lothar did. He wasn’t sure if he wanted anyone else to.

All of these people saw what he had done, but they did not get the chance to truly know him. They didn’t know why he had done what he had done. It had been selfish, but it was all he had. It was all he wanted for the price of his life.

As his lids peeled back, he saw Damakos. He had been holding onto his brother for dear life. He had been holding onto the one thing he could before he had made that wish.

Damakos’ hand reached out towards his, but Prospero could not grab it. He could not hold onto it the way he had so desperately hoped that he could.

The sun beat down on his skin, the pain nothing like he was familiar with. The fire he usually weaved felt like a cool breeze. And, as his skin peeled away, his brother disappeared.

Alrik disappeared.

Alessia disappeared.

Lothar disappeared.

Alrik’s breath trembled with that strange vibration that hummed just beneath the surface, the static of resistance or the whisper of futility - he couldn’t tell anymore. Maybe it was the death-rattle of nerves too tired to protest or something akin to acceptance but his body felt foreign now. Alrik was a vessel walked in by pain and kept warm by rage and the soul inside pressed against the walls like it no longer fit.

His mind had cracked long before all of this - down in the mines, where light couldn’t reach him, and language had degraded into muttered prayers and toothless curses. Where his own name sounded like a lie whispered through the teeth and gray matter he broke out of those who’d tried to break him first.

Pain was the only thing that tethered him to his body. The ache in his limbs reminded him that this was still his skin, though it clung to him like borrowed cloth. Above him, alien stars hung like old gods, and he thought of an old tale that spoke of Nótt and the hero who wrenched the stars from the sky to alter his lover’s fate. 

Fharzai. He had fallen fast, bent into service by the Kossith’s whims, his strength turned inward like a blade. Alrik was all that remained now - scar tissue and stubbornness. What strength must it take, to pull down the heavens? What must he become to rip fate out by its throat? He asked himself these questions, to the night sky, and wondered - without hope - if anyone was truly listening. 

Prospero.

Prospero.

Prospero.

Alrik used to think rage was a fire that propelled him forward but now it was a dying ember, smothered and sluggish - tired. Prospero had left him too little room to breathe, let alone burn. Rage was habitual now, muscle memory. They had suffered so much already that if Alrik still believed in mercy, he might have asked how much agony was enough - but mercy was for others.

He shifted, body aching as he sat up slow and deliberate, only to freeze when he saw it.

Perched near the edge of his a’dam was a creature no larger than a coin. Ethereal, half-light, half-breath, its wings beat with a silent rhythm. Its glow pulsed faintly like a dying heartbeat, and in that moment, Alrik saw himself in it in the same way a mirror could be cruel: not by lying, but by showing too much. The creature moved and the world seemed to blink in response because suddenly the dreadnought was gone and in its place sprawled a twisting valley cloaked in a strange, whispering mist.

He stood now at a crossroads with three paths ahead of him, each one wrapped in fog that breathed words rather than wind:

Alrik.

Vaarnok.

Secret.

Witch.

Arnbjorn.

This wasn’t the first time that dreams, mist, or tel’aran’rhiod had brought him down a path and he didn’t know if this was fate or madness, but either way he began. The air down his first path stank of wet hay, rusted iron, and old blood. With cach step Alrik was made smaller, his shoulders narrowed, his gait shrank. He kept walking until he was only a boy again, curls damp with smoke and eyes dark as ravenstone. Before him: a village burning.

A cage encircled him - familiar, cruel, intimate. And beyond it stood Asbjorn. He was watchful, distant, and far younger than Alrik ever remembered him but he had those same eyes - icy and wounded, full of righteous failure. 

Alrik wanted to speak, to say it wasn’t his father’s fault - that the Harts had always been cursed - but his throat was ash amid the blaze. Instead, Asbjorn reached through the bars, his hand warm and calloused, and pressed a small stone into Alrik’s palm. The boy-witch turned it over. It was simple, worn. Asbjorn’s voice came low, familiar:

“You don’t have to be what they make you.”

Warrior. Witch. Assassin. Hero. Alrik had been broken and rebuilt so many times that choice itself felt like a luxury, a ghost of a thing. Adapt or die, that was the rule. And neither he nor Alessia had ever been good at dying.

Alrik looked once more at the stone, then hurled it with all the strength in his child-body. It vanished into the blaze behind Asbjorn before the audible smash of a window echoed back to them. Alrik looked steadfast into his father’s eyes and spoke:

“I am still my father’s son.”

The flames surged and heat roared. Asbjorn, the cage, the village - everything vanished in fire.

What remained was a temple with its walls built from blood, the floor a pool of memories that shimmered and twisted with each step. The stained-glass windows cast kaleidoscopic visions of Alrik’s life: the mines, the witch-hunter’s death, his time as a Hidden One, the coin-blood oaths, the long crawl from Iskaldrik’s ruin. His victories ever since.

But it wasn’t the glass that held Alrik’s attention, it was the boy in the middle of the room. The one he had collared, the one with enough spark to be deemed a rahaat. Innocence still lingered in the boy’s eyes, fragile and flickering like a candle in a windstorm. The a’dam was snug around his neck, a grotesque mirror to the one that Alrik had worn but seemed to be apart from as he wandered this place of dreams and memories.

The boy tried to speak, but instead of words, a butterfly flitted from his lips, graceful and silent save for the sound of slapping wings. Alrik wanted to lie to the boy and to say he’d make it, that this didn’t have to be the end for him. But there wasn’t a lie left in Alrik that would hold - too many had died already.

Alrik thought about Juneau, had she been born-

Had she had the chance. 

He didn’t let his mind wander to the girl of untapped potential, the one that might have been, or could have been, or should have been. Life dealt her a cruel hand and from that point never let up, she was free now - as free as any of them could hope to be. Her fate would not be this boy’s.

Alrik’s hands were scarred, blunt, and brutal, but they reached out just the same and grabbed the boy’s collar. He tore. Weeks of failure, of fighting his own bondage, and now - now - Arlik pulled. Alrik remembered the rune that Fharzai had carved into his hand and that dreams were doors, he thought that no one could walk so long in the shadow that they forgot the sight of the light. He pulled because he had to, because to cease resistance was to enable death and because this boy was innocent up until the moment he crossed Alrik’s path. Alrik pulled harder, the boy’s a’dam screamed, and Alrik’s skin burned.

And the a’dam snapped free, though it sought the boy again - sought completion - so Alrik snapped it to his own throat and felt the collar coil around him once more. 

A beat passed, then the boy surged forward and wrapped his thin arms around Alrik’s hulking frame. That small weight was nearly enough to undo him, a touch without pain was- foreign now. 

A simple hug, a genuine thank you, a moment of sincerity, then Alrik’s command:

“Run.” “Hide.” “Don’t come back.”

The boy was gone then, the temple collapsed, the boy vanished, and now Alrik stood in a chamber of bones, mirrors, and chains.

In front of him, Raksha sat on a throne made of the broken, their limbs twisted and their eyes vacant. Her face was ash-painted, and she hummed a lullaby from his childhood - his father’s voice in her mouth. A story about the stars and about a man who defied fate. Behind her was a flaming door that pulsed like a heartbeat, hungry and wanting. It was Alrik that it wanted, his flesh, his sin, his soul - it dared him to run, to try and promised the consequences. 

“Say your name, Vaarnok,” Raksha said. “Say your name, and I’ll release you.”

Vaarnok. The name they gave him, paraded like a chained beast. It wasn’t freedom, it was fiction - a mask they’d nailed to his face. He didn’t believe in their version of freedom because if they wanted him dead, they’d do it. If they wanted him free, they’d do it. This was no choice, the cards were permanently in their hands - and even if they weren’t - Alrik would not give an inch, would not bend. 

He'd told Beowulf once: when he returned to Iskaldrik, it would be in flames, not for peace. From the ruin of their past, he intended to build a future.

A thousand years from now songs would be sung about the Last Battle and the skalds would spin their tale, but when Alrik was through there’d be nothing left of the Kossith and when the Wheel next turned, no one would ever remember they were here. He would not give them their choice, he’d choose violence.

Alrik stepped forward, gathered as much spit and phlegm as he could across the tarmac of his tongue, then horked at Raksha’s feet. 

It wasn't akin to Tamlen to ever be crippled with nostalgia or worry but all the warder had was miles and miles, sands of time separating him from his wardee; that alone bore consternation. Confidence was inflicted upon the worldly from the moment he'd been born, uninhibited by fear, his courage stemmed from his ego. Luck had gotten him far, but it was evenly meshed with wisdom; his replicated pilgrimage had not brought him to every hidden abode as it had warranted for Laer, but it had bolstered the summer warder with the credence that he was more than capable to complete this journey. To bring home the allies the fey were in desperate need of. The time of drow had attempted to shroud the reign of the fey and though the worldly was propped as a mere relic of time, embittered by the cumbersome nature that the mortals had placed upon his kind; he would not allow his people to go quietly into defeat. Bested they'd been, but with the allies they sought, Tamlen would not come back empty handed.

"Child of the sun, what is it that disturbs you?" The soratami surprised Tamlen, though he directed his eyes up in a slow pan. The elegance of the moonfolk could not be avoided, it was instinctual in their being as the robes flowed out from their form, only one coming forth to chat with the worldly tonight. Confidence was clumsy and though it shielded the warder, armed him with calculated bravado, it was not an eternal river to steal from, it proved to be a dwindling vestige and Tamlen shrugged.

"I fear to come back empty-handed," becoming lost within the Astral Sea would provoke the certainty that they'd all tried with all their strength and might. Delving into the sea and unearthing with lives lost or allies unfound was something else entirely. In spite of the soratami's promise of hidden allies within, Arvandor was home to the Selandrine; it was one of the last homes for the elves not plagued by a consuming rot.

"Our successes are not final nor are our failures fatal," the soratami seemed solemn and firmly astute. They could recognize that responsibility was deeply ingrained into the worldly, that this troupe alone was a paramount endeavor that Tamlen must succeed upon. "You are struck with baseless fears that bind you and your faculties. Relinquish yourself from these mortal boundaries and you will come to learn that all the wonders you seek are within yourself."

Tamlen sat a little straighter though it wasn't with it's typical conviction. It was easy for his ego to be inflated by the likes of mere mortals, other eladrins, but the moonfolk commanded innate respect; there was no room for egotistical grandeur among the splendor of the Sky Realm. Laer had sternly reminded Tamlen that they did not take kindly to greed and the worldly was apt enough to figure that spiritual and emotional greed was meshed into that, too.

Still, the advice bestowed upon him was not clean cut but Tamlen had the fumes of the evening before dawn's first light hit; and he'd have plenty of time to deconstruct it as the troupe traveled towards Arvandor. The Astral Sea was limitless, suspended above any distinguishable length of time; the summer warder was certain that down time would be a plenty so long as the sea remained a tranquil ally that allowed them effortless passage to their goal.

The soratami before him held out an empty hand but soon, floating above it as effortlessly as their robes billowed out upon their sides, was the dawnstone shard. Tamlen was strangely quiet this evening, revelry and wonders surrounded him but the warder had been racked with each possibility of such wonder or danger that could await the troupe under the limitless span of the Astral Sea. What the soratami garnered appeared as a mere gem strung along a necklace, but with what their kind protected and venerated here; he could presume it held great strengths within.

Silence had settled over them, he'd already said enough in lieu of their need for assistance; Tamlen needn't dare ask for anything else and so he let the soratami guide the way. "The shadow is the greatest teacher for how to come to the light." The necklace had been hovering above their ivory-blue flesh but it now settled gently into the palm of their hand.

Tamlen could resonate with those words. Perhaps not directly but he'd seen the influence of Dareth on Nirvaan; how someone who was once an enemy of their people could garner immeasurable and cherished insight. Sometimes there was good hidden within great acts of evil. Dareth's story was something to venerate; the once warder had made the ultimate sacrifice and he'd chosen to honor that by refusing Lloth's teachings, by turning back to memories which were once stolen from him. If he and Aegnor could be converted, salvaged from the brink of imminent darkness, there was hope for other defectors; there was hope to create more in their wake.

The soratami made a gesture and Tamlen bowed his head in tandem acceptance. He could feel the cool material of the chain slink around his neck, the very antithesis to the blazing warmth of his flesh. It illuminated briefly, an iridescent shard that suddenly sank into the confines of his chest. It was painless as the eladrin's essence married with whatever composed the shard and Tamlen immediately stood straighter, lips slightly pursed as he tried to contain his reverence for their kind and the teachings they still held within. "Darkness, death, light. All such things, in their end and in their beginning, are one. Light and shadow - they are of the same coin, it is a matter of choice if we are to illuminate our paths or be at the mercy of darkness." The soratami offered the faintest quirk of a smile, garnished with tender, ancient eyes that spoke of great promise foreseen for the warder.

no tiene nada que esconder. lo ha repetido tantas veces a lo largo del día hasta que se lo terminó creyendo. no es algo que le cuesta, no cuando no hay nadie en quien confíe más que en él mismo. entra en la oficina de la consejera como si fuera su habitación, simplemente reposando su mano en el respaldo de la silla frente al escritorio, esperando por una señal de la mujer para hacerlo. incluso, tomándose su tiempo, dejando que ella lo haga primero, antes de hacer lo propio. 

bienvenido, reuben. me alegra que estés aquí. ¿o debería llamarte ryeok? el expediente no es muy claro al respecto. 

“reuben es correcto. sólo mi familia me llama ryeok,” responde con serenidad, incluso esbozando una media sonrisa afable, fácilmente adornando facciones. mantiene las manos en los reposabrazos en la sila, sueltas, como si preocupaciones fuesen nulas. entonces, evoca una pausa antes de corregirse: “mi familia y mis amigos cercanos. uno significa fuerza, el otro es un nombre bíblico. los dos me gustan, mi padre pensó que sería buena idea que mi hermano y yo tuviéramos un nombre fácil de pronunciar en inglés. haría más fácil la transición hacia américa, si es que alguna vez dejábamos corea... como ocurrió eventualmente.” 

corea... sí, leí algo al respecto. ¿tu problema escolar fue la razón por la que tu padre tuvo que dejar su puesto? porque tu madre sigue siendo conocida allá, ¿no es así?

si su pulso se acelera repentinamente, lo oculta con una media sonrisa y uno, dos parpadeos de grandes orbes, como si no diera crédito a lo que escuchaba, como si hubiese escuchado mal. “pensé que esto era una sesión con una consejera escolar, no un interrogatorio,” su voz permanece en control, labios que se mantienen adornados con una pequeña sonrisa. 

entenderás que tenemos que saber de dónde vienen nuestros alumnos. especialmente con los últimos hechos ocurridos en alabaster, que--

“mi problema escolar fue desestimado como un rumor malicioso,” interrumpe, seguido de gélida curva que está lejos de alcanzar la usual y bien estudiada calidez de orbes oscuros. “sé lo que está pensando, hacia dónde van sus conjeturas, pero no tuve nada que ver con lo que pasó en daeil. incluso la policía abandonó ese caso. creo que no necesita más que eso para desestimarlo también,” corte en conversación es afilado, como la sonrisa que no ha desaparecido de gruesos carmines, terminante en un tema que no desea tocar. no había pensado en ese episodio de vida en meses, tan fácil que se deshizo de culpas que ni siquiera lo recordaba. “mi padre dejó su puesto porque le ofrecieron uno mejor en d.c., quería estar más cerca de mis abuelos también. no hay más. mi madre sigue viviendo en seúl casi todo el año, no hay nada de secreto en eso.”

pareces molesto, reuben. ¿es así como te sientes en este momento? 

negativa es entregada con un gesto de su cabeza. “me gusta ver hacia el futuro, consejera. y no me gusta que las personas indaguen en mis asuntos. especialmente en uno que ya quedó cerrado. tampoco veo la necesidad de traerlo a colación de nuevo, ¿no prefiere preguntar algo más?” termina por juntar sus manos sobre su abdomen, apoyando la espalda en el respaldo de su silla, y sí, su vista atenta a la contraria.    

ya que lo mencionas, sí. no soy tu enemiga, reuben. quiero que hablemos lo mejor posible. ¿qué piensas sobre los acontecimientos ocurridos en alabaster últimamente?

si contiene el rodar de sus ojos es todo un milagro, palabras que no tienen sentido alguno para sí. toma aire y entonces, responde: “lo mismo que todos, supongo. que algo así no debería ocurrir en un lugar como alabaster. no ocurre en harvard, ni en dartmouth ni en yale...” enuncia, porque no es la primera vez que lo piensa, ni es la primera vez que escucha en su cabeza la voz de su madre, sugiriendo un cambio a alguna de las universidad que justo mencionó. “quien sea que deba hacerse responsable por eso, debería comenzar a hacerlo en serio.”

claro, comprensible. dime reuben, ¿te afectó la muerte de anastasia?

“no la conocía,” responde casi de inmediato, como intentando hacer memoria. lo cierto es que no la había visto más que en algunas pruebas, a lo lejos. ninguna charla hubo de por medio como para que fuera más que una chica de vermilion. “pero, como toda muerte, es lamentable. nadie merece morir así, y menos en este lugar.” 

¿tienes apoyos dentro de alabaster?

“está mi hermano,” respuesta es rápida, asintiendo una vez. lejos está de confiar absolutamente en el mayor de los carter-shim, pero era algo ¿no es así? al menos, sabe que en casos extremos puede acudir a él. “tengo un par de amigos también. en sterling,” ¿realmente lo eran? no imaginaba a ninguno de ellos, en caso de realmente necesitarlo, extendiendo una mano hacia sí. “y en crimson. creo que son suficientes.”

¿sientes que te cuesta confiar en los demás?

sí. “en absoluto,” reacomoda la postura de sus piernas en aquel incómodo asiento, cruzando un tobillo sobre la rodilla opuesta. “confío en mi equipo. en algunas otras personas también,” certeza tiñe sus palabras, aunque artificial. y lo considera, por un momento, porque últimamente se encuentra a sí mismo confiando en más de uno. confianza que, ha mostrado, no ser del todo buena. 

¿cuándo fue la última vez que lloraste o te desahogaste? 

definitivamente no eran lo mismo. ladea su rostro un poco, como si realmente estuviera considerando una respuesta seria. “¿desahogarme? hice un viaje de skii a aspen este invierno. fue casi catártico, si le quiere llamar así. las montañas, la nieve, y el increíble y continúo sexo,” responde, verdades a medias y una verdad, sinceridad que busca simplemente causar aunque sea una nota de la incomodidad que le causó por un momento a él. “cuando lo necesito, también me gusta ir a nadar.” 

¿te preocupa algo en este momento?