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offsidekineticist · 5 months

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FINALLY

I mentioned in another post that I was going to split the next chapter into three chapters and...uh...I lied. It's Giliys's Terrible, Horrible, Awful, No Good, Very Bad Day, and splitting it into three parts just kind of messed with the flow. So, uh...sorry it's so long...

CW: Hurt people hurting people (dysfunctional/abusive family or relationship dynamics); problems eating; poor bedside manner; migraines; rotting body parts; use of a gendered slur; cops being jerks; mass casualty incident; loss of control/blackout; suicidal ideation; saying goodbye

What I Said Back In Brastlewark

Everything comes to a head the day Qweck returns to check on Thay’s hands. The day starts off miserably. The day before was one of Thay’s Bad Days, when he couldn’t manage the energy to leave the apartment, which meant he couldn’t eat all day because of the Stench. The night was also bad. He pretended to sleep, but by now you can tell the difference from the way he breathes–soft, shallow breaths when pretending, long and loud when asleep.

Despite being hungry and exhausted, Thay forces himself out of bed at dawn. You’d rather he save his strength for later, so you can get him to someplace where he can eat, so you put a hand on his shoulder.

“Thay, I think it’s ok if you stay in bed–I think she’ll understand, on account of bein’ a healer–”

“I will not have her thinking I’m bedridden,” he snaps through grit teeth, swaying in place. He is unsteady on his feet, but he is standing. He looks around the apartment. “Where’s the incense?”

Your brow furrows in confusion. You had brought home some incense you swiped from Temple Hill the other day, hoping it would cover up the stench so Thay could eat at home. Turns out that layering two strong smells on top of each other just gives Thay migraines. “It’s in the cabinet, but why–?”

“Light some.”

You should know better. You should know better by now, but you argue with him anyway. “Uh…Is that really such a good idea, Thay? You’re already having a rough day, and last time–”

“Shut up and light the damn incense,” Thay snaps, even sharper than usual. You feel the fire in your chest, the whispers almost too quiet to make out–how dare he speak to you that way? How dare he tell you what to do, like you’re just–

Instinct takes over, pushing away the fire. Shame and guilt at having disappointed him replace the rage and indignation. “Of course. I’m sorry,” you say softly, bowing your head slightly as you retrieve the incense from the cabinet and put it in a bowl on the table to light. You can tell as soon as you’ve lit the incense that this was a bad idea: Thay’s skin goes from stone gray to ashy, and his jaw tightens as he’s determined not to be sick. But you don’t say anything. You don’t offer to put out the flame.

You help him dress, and then he settles down on the floor. “Fetch me my book?” he asks, and you retrieve his latest book from his bag. It’s one of the ones he got from Rivad, you’re pretty sure. He’s been reading through them near constantly since arriving in Kintargo, and it became even more intense once Qweck left. You think this book is about summoning circles, given the illustrations. Every time he reads it, you want to ask him to read out loud so you can follow along, but you know better.

You open the book to the bookmarked page and hold it up in your lap for him (“What do you think you’re doing?! You do not ever lay a book flat! You’ll break the spine!”), and you can immediately tell Thay is only pretending to read. His eyes are unfocused, staring straight into the book instead of moving back and forth across the page. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, and you realize he probably can’t read with that migraine of his. He’s just going through the motions so it will look like he’s reading it when Qweck arrives. He her to find him at the start of a cheery morning reading his book. He doesn’t want her to know how much he’s struggling. He doesn’t want anyone to know.

(Except you. Everyone gets his best face except for you.)

It’s hard to judge how long the two of you sit there like that–you usually judge the passage of time by how many pages he’s asked you to turn–but eventually there's a knock at the door. Thay flinches at the noise with a slight whimper. You gently close the book and set it down on the floor in front of him as softly as you can before getting the door.

Qweck looks well, for the most part–less tired than she did last time you saw her. She’s paler than usual, but given how she’s covering her mouth and nose with her hand, you can guess why.

"Why does half the city smell like rotting flesh?” she demands without preamble.

“Nice to see you too, princess. Settled in so well to rich folk life that you forgot what the rest of us smell like, have ya?” you say, stepping aside so she can get into the apartment. Her ear twitches in frustration.

“We both know it didn’t smell like this before I left. What happened?”

"Fuck if I know, I just live here. You try asking the shiny jackdaws about it? Maybe they’ll care once someone from uptown asks.”

(The answer is that Hell doesn't let its holdings go without a fight. Hell is coming for Kintargo, and the birdbrains who “liberated” the city can’t fucking stop it.)

“Giliys, stop antagonizing our guest,” Thay says with false gentleness. When you turn to look at him, it’s all you can do not to gape, because there he is: it’s the old Thay, his mild disapproval of your antics evident in the way his bottom lip slightly juts out like a disappointed pout, but an affable twinkle in his eye assuring you he isn't angry. For a moment you're back in Brastlewark, and the last several months have all been a bad dream, and you have to remind yourself of the truth. Even knowing how skilled Thay is at disguising his feelings, it’s still shocking to see just how good he is at it.

Qweck stares at him a moment, and your heart sinks. She won’t see through it. She’ll think he’s doing great, and still nobody will know except you.

“Is that incense?” she asks.

"Helps cover the Stench,” Thay explains with a wry smile.

“And that isn't making things worse?” Queck asks.

"Hard to get much worse than corpse stench, isn't it?” Thay says with a chuckle as he stands up, and gods, the migraine must be bad because he actually winces.

“It’s actually giving me a headache,” Qweck says. Thay slips for a moment, his expression freezing.

“Giliys!” He hisses.

“Yes, Thay,” you say as you hurry to put out the incense.

Recovering himself, Theo returns his attention to Qweck. “How shall we do this, Healer?”

Qweck looks at Thay suspiciously and then looks at you as you hurriedly smother the burning incense. Your eyes meet, and you search for any sign that she knows that this is an act. Any sign that she sees through this and knows how badly he’s struggling.

The moment passes, and she returns her attention to Thay. “I just need something flat to rest your hand on. A stack of books will do.”

He grimaces at that before he puts back on the cheeriness. "Promise I won't leak blood or pus on the books?”

“Have you been leaking blood or pus?”

"No.”

"Then this won't change that. Where's the bag?”

"Here,” you say, holding up Thay's biggenlil bag. One by one, you take out books on infernal hierarchies and arcane geometry and the construction of summoning circles and whatever else the Order of the Rack deemed too subversive for public consumption until you've made a stack tall enough that Qweck won't have to bend over to reach Thay's hand while she works. She and Thay both settle by the stack of books, and she takes out a small pair of scissors to cut through the bandages she used to make her makeshift splints.

Thay does a spectacular job of hiding it, but the tightness in his jaw is giving away the fact that this hurts. It doesn't stop him from making small talk or chuckling at Qweck's dry sense of humor.

Halfway through working on his second hand she decides she's had enough. "You don't have to pretend for me, Theo. It's alright if you're in pain.”

The expression freezes on his face. "Well, the last time I let you see how much pain I was in, you left, so you'll forgive me for being skeptical.”

Your heart sinks. She sees through him–at least enough to know his hands hurt–but it doesn’t matter. She’s not coming back.

Qweck’s face tightens. "I see,” she says, cutting off the last bandage. "Should I bother asking how they feel, or are you going to lie to me about that, too?”

He slowly opens and closes both hands, ignoring the barb. "It's fine,” he announces. He pauses before looking sheepishly at Qweck. "Genuinely, it's fine. My affect is not a deception, I just. I didn't want to be misunderstood.”

“Is that what you think happened last time? I just misunderstood because you didn't put on a performance for me?” Thay freezes, and you can see him struggling to find the correct answer through the pain. Qweck must see it too because she closes her eyes with a sigh. "Your hands have atrophied, and you're going to have to learn how to use them again. Giliys can show you where I'm staying. I want to see you twice a week for conditioning.”

“Twice a week–I'm sure that's unnecessary.”

"Of course you are. Wealdays and Stardays at noon. Don't waste my time by skipping.” She turns her attention to you. "Do you have any flayleaf you need me to measure out?”

“Forgot to pick up the new batch yesterday, so I'm going to take care of it today. Figured I'd stop by the cafe this afternoon,” you say.

(“Thay, I have to go–it's just for a couple of hours, but she's gonna be here tomorrow and I need to get the medicine before–”

“Please–please don't.”)

Qweck rolls her eyes. "Of course, because I couldn't possibly have had my own plans for the afternoon. Fine. I'll see you in a few hours.” She turns back to Thay. "I don't know why you're lying to your healer about your health, but I do know that your hands are not, and probably never will be, back to normal, so don't strain them by pretending they are.”

"It really isn't so–”

"Theoven,” she says sharply. "Your hands are holding together by a thread. Do not ignore the pain. If something aggravates it, you stop, and if that's too much for you, let me know, and I can save us all a lot of grief by just amputating now. Is that clear?”

Theo nods but you can't tell how much of that got through to him. You hope he got it because otherwise you'll have to be the one enforcing this bit of doctor's orders, and judging by how he responds to your limiting his flayleaf dosage when he has a flare up, that won't be fun. Qweck, however, seems satisfied with that–or at least satisfied that if Thay loses his hands he won't be able to blame her. She picks up her doctor's bag and stands up.

"Well, if that's all, I'll be off.”

"It was wonderful to see you again,” Thay says, as if that can somehow salvage the situation.

"I'm glad. It would have been nice if I could have seen you too. Remember: Wealday at noon.”

It is only after the sound of her steps on the stairs has faded that Thay suddenly doubles over and lets out a half groan, half roar of pain that turns into violent but futile retching. You hurry to his side and, seeing that he's shaking and gasping for breath, you scoop him up in your arms and carry him back to the bed. It’s not hard; he is disturbingly light these days.

You gently lay him on the bed. You turn away, but he reaches out, with a hiss of pain, very weakly grabs your sleeve.

“Don't go,” he gasps.

You were just going to shutter the window. The light makes the migraines worse. You know it will be better for him if you go and come back–

–but he said no.

So you climb onto the bed, carefully shielding him from the sunlight from the window as best you can, gently stroking his hair as he whimpers and gasps in pain and he buries his face in your chest, and you wish he would just let you help him right.

It is early evening when Theo finally falls asleep and you're able to leave to find his medicine. You need to be quick–hell's influence is at its strongest after dark, so the less time you spend out at night, the better. The sun is almost touching the horizon line, ready to sink into the sea for the night when you leave the apartment. By the time you've arrived at the fisherman’s supply shop by the harbor, delivery in hand, the sun is gone.

You have to pound on the door three times before it opens.

“Shh!” hisses the dwarven tiefling at the door. You're pretty sure she gave you her name at some point, but you just call her Ears because of her huge, bat-like ears. She glares at you with beady eyes. “Are you insane being out after dark?” She ushers you inside.

“Shit don’t stop needing to be done just cuz the sun got lazy,” you snap. She laughs.

“All that halfling luck's gone to your head if you think you're not bullshitting. Good to see you, I guess. Was beginnin’ to think the guard got to ya,” the tiefling said, crossing her arms. “Them or the ghosts.”

“Yeah, well, they didn’t.” You set down the bloody bag on the counter, mood soured more than usual by the old 'halfling luck' line. “All three are in there.”

She opens the bag and immediately chokes on the stench. “Fuck–how long have you had these?”

“A couple days. Shit came up so I couldn't get to you right away. Didn’t realize they were rotting that bad.”

“How the fuck don’t you notice this?” She demands, still gagging.

“All of Redroof smells like that.”

“You poor bastards. Fuck.” She ties off the bag. “Drop it in the river on the way out, will ya? Gonna have to light some incense or something to get the smell out, shit.”

“Did you get me the good stuff this time?”

Ears’s tail flicks in irritation, and she rolls her eyes as she turns back towards the shelves behind her. “I did what I could. Best I could manage was more raw stuff.”

You grit your teeth, ignoring the heat in your chest. “That wasn't the deal.”

“No, the deal was you take care of my competition, and I do what I can. Look, you want the stuff so bad, you break into the castle and take it.”

You clench your teeth. Supplies are limited in Kintargo. Trade has been disrupted so that anything that relies on imports has become absurdly expensive. It's even worse when the goods in question are medical in nature–any medicines that can’t be easily brewed from local herbs are now kept and dispensed by the City of Kintargo. It was one thing to break into a mostly empty mansion and take a few of the less notable baubles; it would be another to break into the headquarters of the provincial military, the city guard, and the local hellknight order to take highly valued medicine.

(You could pull it off, you’re sure, but only if you weren’t planning on staying in the city after)

So instead you’re stuck knocking off petty criminals so a kid with delusions of grandeur and a connection in the docks can give you the stuff that's too shitty to sell to alchemists. You’re just able to wrestle down the heat in your chest when you see the size of the herb pouch Ears is holding.

“What the fuck–that’s nowhere near enough!”

“That's what I got. You have any idea how much that little bag is worth in this city right now?” She gets a sly look on her face. “Now, I might be willing to stick my neck out a little for a full-timer.”

There it is. Ever since she realized you were a professional and not just some goon with a knife, she’s been trying to get you to agree to being the lieutenant of her “crime empire” of pickpockets and muggers. “I’ll think about it.”

“You always say that.”

“I’m always thinking ‘bout it.”

“Aww, Lucky, I’m flattered! But I’m gonna need an answer soon. This is a lot of effort to go through for a man who won’t commit.”

The innuendo startles you, and without instinct to tamp it down the rage burns in your chest. How dare she try to ensnare you? How dare she mock you? How dare this waif, cursed with a speck of hellishness, mock the vessel of hell itself?

You force the fire down through sheer force of will. You ignore how the flames roar in fury, robbed of sustenance.

I am hungry, hellhound!

You snatch up the herb pouch out of her hand, ignoring the fire. “I’ll be by when I need more,” you snarl as you go to the door. She doesn’t resist, only grins smugly at you–she likes unsettling you, likes reminding you that there’s nowhere else to go.

The fire burns, and it takes all you have not to let it consume her for her insolence.

“Don’t forget the hands!” Ears shouts after you.

“Don't forget it yourself, you fucking pussy!” you shout over your shoulder before slamming the door behind you, holding the fire in your chest so it doesn’t spread. Once you're sure you're not going to catch fire, you take a deep breath and begin walking.

Qweck is staying with Laria Longroad, who runs the Long Roads Coffeehouse in the Villegre. The Villegre is Kintargo's university district, situated against the city's northern wall–on the opposite side of the city from Ears's supply shop. You don't exactly like having to cross a helltouched city at night, but you don't have much choice.

You never put much stock in the "lucky halfling" myth–you always figured that if you were really lucky, you wouldn't ever have been a slave–but considering you make it to the docks, catch the ferry across the river, and make it as far as Alabaster Academy without seeing any trouble, maybe there's something to it. The hair on the back of your neck is just starting to settle down when a shriek cuts through the air and rattles your bones. You flinch and cover your ears. You'd heard rumors about this–a phantom that screeches through the night, uttering oaths and curses in dark languages. You think it's Infernal that she's screaming, but you don’t understand the meaning. You don't know what the phantom–ghost–wraith–thing wants, but you don't intend to find out.

You sprint down the street, and you feel the warmth spread from your chest down towards your legs, driving you faster and faster. You will pay for that when you stop, when the fire won't die back down and hide in your chest anymore, but the creature's wails are in your ears, and you need to find shelter now.

You ignore the CLOSED sign in the window and barrel through the door. A halfling woman with fair hair–Laria Longroad–startles from her work cleaning the countertop and looks up.

“What the fuuu–oh! It’s you.” she says, eyes widening in surprise before she smiles like she’s happy to see you.

(Laria always smiles when she sees you. You have no fucking clue why. You’re just as much of a dick to her as you are to everyone else who isn’t Thay, but for some reason that doesn’t faze her.)

“Yeah, sorry to show up so late, I just gotta talk to Qweck about something,” you say.

"She said you might come around. But you're outta luck," Laria says, disappearing behind the counter again before walking around it to get to you. “Qweck’s gone to bed. Early sleeper, she is, but I suppose that’s t’be expected, what with her being Irorian and all.”

Shit. “Well, I guess I better go wake her up.” You move to walk towards the back, toward the stairs that you know lead to the apartment upstairs, but Laria steps in front of you.

“If you give me the medicine, I’ll see that she gets it and brings it to you tomorrow. She needs her rest. Today was rough on her.”

You huff at that. “Sure it was. She spent less than an hour with us. I think she can handle five minutes with me to get Thay’s pain down from excruciating to torturous.”

She doesn’t react right away. Then she reaches out and takes your arm. “Come sit down, Giliys. There’s something I’d like to talk with you about.”

You almost tell her to fuck off, but you’ve always had a soft spot for Laria. You knew her when she was first on the run after beating a slaver to death with her bare hands, and you got to watch her grow into the tiller she is today. She thinks you had something to do with that. Maybe you did; you did check in on her a lot when she was getting established in Kintargo. And you were maybe a little more honest than usual with her about your history when you caught her crying over the blood on her hands.

The point is, you never had a sister, but if you did you’d kinda hope she’d be like Laria. If Laria says she wants to talk to you, well, you gotta make sure the guilt isn’t getting to her (she’s not as used to it as you are, on account of being an all around better person than you). So you let her lead you to a table and you both sit down across from each other.

“Everything ok, Kid?” you ask.

“I should be asking you that,” she says. “We haven’t talked since you arrived, but from what Qweck has told me, you’ve been on a rough ride the last couple of months.”

You wave her off. “I’m fine. I’m not the one who got tortured for a month.”

“That doesn’t mean it hasn’t been hard.”

You shrug. “It is what it is. You said there was something you wanted to talk about?”

She hesitates before nodding. She's thinking through her words before she speaks, and that's not a good sign–Laria has never been afraid to speak her mind, at least not to you. “It’s funny," she says, looking over the shop. "Most days I’m used to it, but every now and then I stop and look around and think ‘this is my place. My shop. My home. I own this.’ And it’s just…for a second I don’t believe it. It’s like the Laria from before just popped into my body, and she just can’t grasp the idea of having any of this.”

You relax slightly. She just wants to talk about her feelings, and she's hesitating because they're about the Old Times. Nothing too bad, you just gotta listen and nod and not be a dick. “Yeah," you say with a nod, "yeah, I think I get what you mean. Not that I have a coffee shop or anything, but…yeah. I know that feeling.”

(You used to get that feeling when you’d visit Thay, when you’d sit on his couch with a mug of hot cocoa and realize you have a friend, that this beautiful, wonderful soul was your friend and chose to be your friend, even though you had proven to him from the moment you met that you didn’t deserve–)

“It gets me thinking, sometimes,” Laria continues. “Reminiscing, I guess you could say, about how I got here. Remember the first time you visited after I set up the shop?”

“The time you fucking poisoned me? Yeah, I remember that.”

She chuckles at that. She didn’t actually poison you, she just gave you a cup of coffee on the house, and that was how you learned that you fucking hate coffee. “I remember I mentioned I was thinking of hiring some folks to help out–another server or two. And I said I thought maybe it could be a way to help the slaves we freed. Give them a job, help them get on their feet and figure out who they want to be now that they’re free. And I remember you said something that stuck with me. You said not to make a server out of anyone still learning how to be free, cuz the customers will act like masters and make them forget they're free.”

“Yeah, I remember that, too.”

“And it's funny, because even all these years later, sometimes I catch myself falling into that–not often, but if it's been a busy few days, and I've got some cranky customers who haven't had their coffee yet, sometimes the old scars start aching, and I catch myself saying sorry to some snobby brat screaming at me in my own shop, you know?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s been a couple decades since the last time I had a real job–well, ok, I've never had a legit job, but, you know, a job with a boss–but yeah, I remember what that was like.”

She pauses for a long moment, and you begin to wonder if you’ve said something wrong. And then, disturbingly gently, she says, “It’s not just a job that can make us feel like that, though, is it?”

She's not here to talk about her feelings. There's something specific she's fishing for, and you don't like it. You can feel your expression harden. “Get to the point, Kid.”

She sighs. “I just want to make sure you haven’t forgotten that you're free. Because Qweck said some things that have me thinking that maybe you have.”

Your jaw almost drops.

“Ex-fucking-scuse me?!” you demand. “You–hold on. I–wow. Okay. So, just on the word of sheltered kid who lived in a cloister until a month ago, you’re accusing someone you’ve never met–someone, I will add, who has more goodness in his thumb than either of us have in our whole fucking bodies–you think he’s acting like a master cuz his ungrateful cunt of a daughter said so?”

“It’s not about him," Laria says, eyes wide. "It’s–”

“But it is! Of course it is! People don’t just forget they're free when they feel respected, do they? Not when they're decades removed from slavery. So she thinks he’s taking advantage of me? Of course she’d think that–she despises him!” You don’t notice your voice rising, or how it shapes itself towards the highborn Egorien of your youth. “As long as I’ve known her, all she’s ever had to say about him were backhanded comments about her guardian–never her father–her guardian, the collaborator, how he burned books for Thrune and was just as complicit as any hellknight. He took her in, raised her on his own, and she has nothing but contempt for him–and so she started pouring poison in your ear and you just believed her?!"

"That–that's not–"

"You did! You didn't even question it, you just accepted it as divine prophecy! But of course you did–she’s a pretty face, isn't she? She's someone new and exciting and we both know you–”

The phantom's wails cut through the air like a knife, and you hear her Infernal vows of vengeance against the adventurers who killed her.

You understand her.

The shock of it knocks you out of your tirade, and suddenly you realize you’re standing up, your chair overturned behind you. You tower menacingly over Laria, both hands on the table in front of you–hands flaring with sparks as smoke rises from under your palms and fingers. She stares at you in silent terror, right hand reaching for a dagger you taught her to keep in her bodice. It’s no use, though–the fire in your chest has spread through your body, and you know from the siege camp that a knife in your chest will just make things worse–

So you run. You bolt across the cafe out the door, Infernal words that you can understand pounding in your ears, trying to get her out, out, OUT! But still the woman wails and still you understand, and still the fire roars and demands escape because you promised.

The heat grows and grows in your chest and your hands and your feet, and you realize you need to get as far from people as possible because you can’t hold it in anymore and people will burn. You race towards Villegre Park–not even nobles are crazy enough to go for a walk in the park after dark.

You make it. With desperate effort, you make it to the center of the park–or close enough. You drop to your knees and wrap your arms around yourself. You feel the fire rising inside you. The scar on your chest glows red under the drawstrings of your shirt. You squeeze your eyes shut and clench your teeth with a growl and then, with all your might, you let go–

–and nothing happens.

You’re left panting and sweating from exertion and heat and emotion, but there is no relief. The fire in your chest still burns, still spreads and demands release.

I want my souls, hellhound.

You sit on the ground uselessly, shaking with anxious energy, feeling like you want to tear off your skin and escape the confines of your body. The fire burns without warmth, leaving you to shiver in the cold of the night even as your insides are consumed by an inferno.

It's hard to say how long you sit there, wrestling the hellfire under your control. It’s harder to say how long you would have remained were you not interrupted by someone grabbing your shirt collar and picking you up off the ground.

“And what’s your business here?” It’s a guard–two guards. One of them, a tiefling with curled horns, holds you up by your shirt, while the other, human by the look of them, searches you.

“Stop,” you grind out, while the fire roars in your ears.

“Hey now, what have we here?” the human guard says triumphantly, snatching the pouch of flayleaf from your belt. They open the bag and take a quick sniff. “Flayleaf–the actual leaf? Got ourselves a connoisseur, we do!”

“Fellas at the harbor must be doing a good job of keeping out the hard stuff if he’s resorting to that shit.” He drops you on the ground and puts his foot on your back before you can react. He bends over to handcuff you and he puts weight on your back, and–

And–

And it’s dawn. You’re not in the park anymore. You're still in the Villegre–you can see the academy's tower to the west–but you are on some street surrounded by smoldering ash. There are piles of ashes and scorch marks on the sides of buildings, and you suspect they form a trail that will lead you back to the park. You don't care to test that theory. You are covered in ash, your clothes are scorched, and your hands sting when you move them, burned with hellfire. The rage is gone. The flames are silent.

She is silent.

Maybe halflings are lucky–after all, you woke up. She lost grip on you–took too many souls at once–and while you don’t remember how you know this, you know she would never have let you go if she didn’t have to. You might have been lost forever if she hadn't gorged herself. You were lucky.

This has to end. You’ve kept her at bay for years, but that time is over. Next time she won’t let you go. Next time she’ll know better, and she’ll never wake up. She’s silent now, quieter than she’s been since you arrived in Kintargo, sleeping off the feast of the night before. If you’re going to end this, now’s your chance.

The sun is rising over the city. It makes the water shimmer, and it’s beautiful. It’s all beautiful. You wish you had seen it before. You wish you could see it after. You are glad you see it now.

You don’t remember the walk back to Redroof, your mind in a haze. This is the third time you’ve resolved to cut to the chase, but something about this feels different. It feels real this time. You hate that your last kill will be with that stupid decorative dagger you swiped from an idiot noble–you’ve sharpened it until it could do fucking surgery if you wanted, and it still cuts wrong. Maybe you just miss your old dagger. Maybe there’s only so much you can do with a weapon that wasn’t made to be used. Maybe you should throw yourself off the bridge like you planned when you first got here. Or maybe Qweck will agree to slit your throat for you.

You arrive, and Thay is awake. He looks at you in alarm. Right–you're badly burned, dressed in scorched clothes and covered with ash. "Gilly–what–"

"I'm dying,” you blurt out. Thay freezes. "Or–no. I need to die. The devil–I’m losing control. She’s been getting stronger since we got here, and I can’t–I can’t hold her back anymore, and someday soon she’s gonna take over and I won’t ever come back, and fuck if I know what she’ll do but she just burned a path through the Villegre and killed gods know how many people, so I know it won’t be anything fucking good. So…so I have to die.” Thay doesn't say a word. His face doesn't shift. So you do what you always do when you’re anxious about the silence: you keep going. "I thought you should know, so…y'know. You could patch things up with Qweck and make arrangements before–”

"No,” he says softly, almost keening.

“It'll be fine, Thay. She loves you, she'll–”

"I'm not losing you again!” It's an animalistic snarl, feral and harsh. The sheer intensity of it strikes you speechless for a moment before you find your words and carry on.

"You...you have to, Thay. It'll be alright–you don't need me. I haven't really been helping much, anyway. You'll be fine without me.”

"I won't!” he exclaims, and there’s a naked desperation in his expression you don’t recognize. “I won't be fine without you–how could you think–” He stops short, trying to collect himself. “I'm sorry–I know I've been awful, I'm trying, I swear, but it's just so hard, and it's not working, but I'm trying, I–please don't give up on me, Gilly, I won't survive it, please!” His expression shifts, and it takes a moment to quash the hope you feel when you realize he has an idea. “The contract–show me the contract! There must be a way to break it, there always is, and we can–”

“There’s no contract, Thay,” you answer wearily.

He seems to almost recoil in confusion. “No contract–as in you lost it?”

“As in there was never any contract. I just let her in, and she’s stayed ever since.”

“But–but that doesn’t make sense! What kind of devil–there has to be a contract, we just have to find it. It might take some time, but–”

“We don’t have time, Thay. She’s gonna wake up soon, and then she’ll want more souls.”

“Then give them to her! We live in Redroof, for Aroden's sake, surely you can find someone who won't be missed!”

It takes a moment for you to process–to understand what he wants you to do. When you understand, you have a moment of sickening clarity: there is something very wrong with Thay, and you've been making it worse. He’s been so twisted up inside that he’s starting to become like you. You need to leave for his sake as much as for the sake of the souls you'd have to reap to stay.

"I'm going to go tell Qweck,” you say as gently as you can, “so she knows to come see you. I don’t have much time, so I probably won’t be back before…yeah. I just want you to know…I’m so, so sorry for…for lying to you. For tricking you into helping me, and letting you think I maybe…might be….almost good somewhere deep fucking down. I’m so fucking sorry. And…And…” Oh, how these next words catch in your throat. “And I meant what I said back in Brastlewark. About why I couldn’t let you volunteer. I meant it. I fucking meant it, and if you don't believe anything else I’ve ever said–and I sure as shit haven’t given you much reason to–please, for the love of all that’s holy and good, please believe that.”

You allow yourself a moment–barely any time at all, just a moment–to look at him, and for this moment, and only this moment, you believe with all your heart that halflings are the luckiest of creatures, and you are the luckiest of halflings, because surely only the luckiest of the lucky ever behold beauty like this.

The moment passes. It's time to go. You hear his voice behind you, hear him sobbing, begging you to stay, but it's no use. You've already seen him for the last time. As much as you'd like to stay and stare at him forever, it's time to go.

You step out from the shade of the apartment into the brightness of your final day, and you don't look back.

#pwotr pals #oc: theoven derenge #oc: giliys #oc: qweck varnaj #the (totally platonic!) breakup arc #part 16

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offsidekineticist · 7 months

Text

Here it is. Part 15. I have outlined the rest of the arc, so I think we're more than halfway through now. Looks like there will be a total of 25 parts.

CW: child death, crippling guilt, despair, magically induced suicidal ideation, internalized ableism, vomiting, emotional abuse, emotional breakdown

It's Still Not Enough

You lose track of time sitting on the bench by the river. Something about it was soothing in a way few things have been lately. There’s something beautiful about the sound of running water. Maybe it’s because it reminds you of home, of growing up and living on the banks of the Brastle River. Or maybe it goes even further back, to before you were in Brastlewark, when you and your mother trekked across the deserts of Katapesh. Water is life, and in those days water was scarce. You don’t remember seeing a river or brook in Katapesh, but you spent the last few months of your mother’s life in a gnomish oasis town called Finderplain. There was, in the center of the town, a pool filled with water from a natural spring, and every day you would go down to the pool with a bucket half your size that you would fill with water before dragging it back home. The pool wasn’t a river, but you fondly remember the sound of the water moving into your bucket - especially when you dallied and dragged the bucket back and forth, trying to generate a wake, or dunking the bucket into the water to create a short-lived vortex.

Water is life. Water is safe. And maybe…maybe water is healing, too.

“Hey, Thay?” You break out of your reverie to see Gilly eyeing the now overcast sky nervously. “We should probably go. It’s getting pretty late - don’t wanna be caught after dark.”

You certainly do not. There have been rumors circulating around Redroof of vengeful ghosts stalking the streets at night. You’re skeptical of the details of the rumors, but you know for a fact something is preying on the people of Kintargo. The other day you happened to overhear a couple talking about a family down the street from you whose son was found, his head removed, after he stayed out playing too late.

You hop off the bench and give the river a last fond look before pawing the strap of your bag over your shoulder, less irritated by how much you struggle with it than you’ve felt in some time. Less angry about how hard it’s going to be for you to walk home. Less bothered.

Yes, water is healing. You should try this more often.

You are about to set off back the way you came, when Gilly speaks up. “I think I know a shortcut,” he says, more subdued than usual - the river seems to have affected him, too. “It could get us home with less walking. I think. Might get us home before dark.”

“That would be preferable,” you say dryly before gesturing to let him pass. “Lead on.”

(You really should have known better. Giliys is good with maps - he has to be, given the life he’s lived - but he doesn’t have a map of Kintargo.)

Gilly leads you down a series of side streets. It makes sense at first, but the more turns he leads you down, the more like a maze things begin to feel, and the longer the shadows grow.

The first time you stop for breath is when Gilly says he needs to stop to get his bearings. For once, it doesn’t seem to be an excuse.

“You have no idea where we’re going, do you?” you say once you’ve managed to catch your breath enough to speak.

“Of course I do! We just - the fucking streets - well, I know where they were supposed to go!”

He has no idea where you’re going.

“I think we should double back and start again from the waterfront,” you say, the calm from the river beginning to fade. Gilly looks rankled, but nods with an exasperated growl.

“Ugh, fine. We’ll try it again another time when it’s not so late - I’m telling you, there’s a fucking shortcut somewhere around here.”

“I’m sure,” you say as you turn around and begin backtracking the way you came.

The trouble comes at the first intersection. You turn right. Gilly turns left. Neither of you notices until you’re both across the intersection from each other.

“Where are you going?” you call.

“Back to the fucking bench! Where the fuck are you going?”

“Back the way we came - I thought we said no more shortcuts.”

“This isn’t a fucking shortcut, this is how we got here!”

“No, we came from this street and turned left!”

“No, that’s two whole fucking blocks back this way that we turned left!”

“We went down three blocks before making this turn!”

And so on. You do eventually close the distance and take the dispute to the side of the street when you notice passersby staring at you.

(You should have told him to shut up and just asked one of the passersby for directions. Why did you indulge him like that? Were you so desperate for normalcy that you forgot safety? That you forgot who he is?)

Five minutes of back and forth solve nothing except to make you both less certain of the correct way back. You realize, with dawning horror, that you’re lost at dusk in a city that becomes markedly unpleasant at night.

“Ok, look. We know Redroof is southeast of where we are cuz there’s no fucking way we walked far enough from the waterfront for that not to be true. So we just turn south and east until things start smelling like shit and then figure out where we are and get home.”

You cross your arms. “Which way is south?”

Gilly looks up, about to reckon the direction from the sun’s position - only to realize the sky is overcast.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Ok, fine, you got me. You got any bright ideas?”

You open your bag and start reaching for books. You don’t remember having any books that would have a map of Kintargo, but it’s worth a shot when the alternative is wandering around in the dark. Unfortunately, your hands splinted as they are, you’re just pawing at the contents of your bag while the passing tallfolk occasionally take a moment to stare as they walk by.

(Of course, that’s why you didn’t ask for directions - the passersby were all tallfolk. You’re used to being the shortest person in town - you’re not used to being shorter by this much, and, frankly, it’s intimidating to attempt to flag one of them down. But Giliys is used to being among tallfolk. You should have made him do it.)

“Ok, look. I say we pick a direction and keep going till we hit some shit we recognize cuz we’ve been there or it’s a landmark or some such shit. Worst case we just wander till it’s so fucking dark we can see the fucking stars if we get away from the fucking lanterns. Either way, we figure out where the fuck we’re going. Yeah?”

You close your bag with a huff. “Fine. Next time we go back the way we came.”

Gilly chooses the street neither of you thought was correct, and you follow him.

(You agreed on which street you should have gone on, you only disagreed on which direction–why didn’t you just flip a coin and travel the street until you had gone far enough to figure out if it was the right way?)

You follow the chosen street until you come to a strange sight: a model building–some kind of prison?–at least as tall as you are in the middle of a field. There’s a distinct sense of foreboding, of unwelcomeness, but something about the situation piques your curiosity. After all, it’s not every day you find a foreboding model building in the middle of a field. You move towards it to examine it more closely.

“I think we should turn back, Thay. Thay? Thay!”

You pay him no mind. As you approach the building grows to full size. The sense of foreboding feels even stronger now that the building is looming over you. With black walls and barred windows, you recognize with a terrified lurch this isn’t someplace you want to see–this is a place of pain and punishment.

Exactly where you belong.

You’re suddenly hit with a wave of memories–cruel words to Gilly, outbursts at Qweck. You see your old friend Cei, back before your being a bleachling turned her away. You see her trying to help you through what you both thought were your last days, and you see yourself snapping and belittling her for refusing to leave you to die miserable and alone.

You see your brother as he was the last time you spoke to him, back when your hair was orange and your skin russet. You see him staring at you, pain written across his face, and you see the moment when you finally pushed him so far he couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. You see him whimper. You see his mortification at allowing that expression of weakness. You see him break away, tearing across the living room of that house in Brastlewark that’s home to neither of you, now. You see him flee the home he’s known his entire life, watch him escape your rage for the “safety” of hellknight training.

You see your every flaw and foible. You see your anger. Your anger that you can no longer control. You’re a danger to everyone, you realize with horror. You lash out, and not only can’t you control it, you can’t even take responsibility for it. It always feels like you’re on the outside looking in, watching your body and words lash out, but it’s not just your body; it’s you!

But even when you are in control, it’s still not enough, is it?

You see the library. You see children cowering as hellknights clap you in irons. You see yourself freeze. You shouldn’t have frozen. The children were afraid. It was your responsibility to soothe them. Your responsibility to keep them from doing something foolish.

“Leave Mister Theo alone!”

She is so small, and the hellknights are so tall, but still little Pel rushes towards them without hesitation. Of course she does–this is what you taught her to do. You taught her–and all of the children you’ve ever taught–to stand up for what she thought was right, even when it’s scary, even when nobody else would.

You taught her to die.

She hits the bookcase and falls to the floor and doesn’t move and there’s so much blood–

And it’s all on your hands.

She might not be dead! You don’t know–they dragged you out before you could see–

It makes no difference. She could live. She could die. In either case, you are equally guilty. Justice demands penance.

You understand now. This is where you belong. This is where you will pay. This is where you will die. The only thing left is to face it with dignity. It is finally time for you to learn the lesson you taught to Pel. You had so many chances to improve, to be better, and you wasted them all. Now it’s time to answer for–

Something barrels into you from behind, wrapping its arms around your waist, knocking you to the ground. Your face hits the cobblestone with a crunch of pain in your nose, but that’s irrelevant. The pain is a fraction of what you deserve–and justice demands that you continue. That you do the right thing, even if it’s terrifying. You need to move forward.

You try to wriggle away, but whatever has hold of you, its grip is solid. It picks you up off the ground and begins running, even as you struggle against it, shouting at it to let you go, clawing at its arms with your still splinted hands because justice demands penance.

You struggle to the point of exhaustion. You feel sick to your stomach from exertion. And then the stench returns.

It’s too much. You throw up on the ground, on the arms around your waist, on your uselessly kicking legs, on your shoes. You are suddenly free, falling onto the cobblestone street on your hands and knees, your stomach still trying to empty itself. You're vaguely aware of a figure kneeling by your side, a gentle hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. It’s Gilly.

The adrenaline begins to subside and some clarity returns. The magnitude of what you just tried to do hits you, and then the shock hits. You almost went back. You almost, willingly, went back to being buried alive and, you’re certain, mercilessly tortured.

“Gilly?” you ask wearily, confused. Gilly takes a long deep breath.

“Yeah?”

“What happened?”

“A piece of fucking hell is sitting in the middle of Kintargo,” Gilly says, trying to be gentle but his anger clear in his voice. “Some kind of trap to lure in poor fucking bastards and drag them back to the rest of hell. Fuckers almost got you.”

“But they didn’t get you,” you say slowly. “Why?”

Giliys goes very still, but the circles continue. “Not much point in trapping what you already own, is there?” he finally says.

You’re exhausted. You’re disgusted. You’re breathing in the stench of corpses and your own sick. You’re so busy just existing that you have nothing left to stop yourself. “Hm. Convenient.”

The soothing circles stop as Giliys’s whole body stills. “What?”

You take another gulp of air–you almost taste the stench, but it’s not as bad as through your nose–before repeating yourself. “Convenient. The whole situation. How incredibly convenient.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that you chose a route that would lead us straight to an infernal trap that you were immune to, but I would need to be rescued from by some heroic hellion.”

“Wait–”

You don’t let him speak. It’s like all the times before–all the times you saw–it’s you, but it doesn’t feel like it’s your choice. You don’t know what you would choose if it was. “Did you really expect me to fall for that? That just because we had a nice afternoon–because you’ve been starving yourself–I would forget what you are? That I would trust a word that you say when you try to tell me that you didn’t know that trap was there?”

The hand withdraws from your back. Giliys reels back.

“I didn’t–”

“You decided to take the shortcut! You chose the direction when we were lost! You led us straight to the trap, and you expect me to believe it was an accident?!” You’ve sprung up, still kneeling on the pavement but now sitting upright. You’re shouting. You’re causing a scene in the middle of the night when people are trying to sleep, in a neighborhood where unknown forces are preying on fools caught outside after dark, but the part of you that is aware of that isn’t the part of you that cares about things. That part of you is screaming and can’t stop. “Were you hoping I’d buy it and just be so overwhelmed with gratitude that I’d forget what you did? Or were you trying to remind me just how lucky I am that you think I’m different from your prey?” He doesn’t say anything, and that just makes you angrier. “Good job on the trap, by the way! Intriguing, excellent craftsmanship, strong sense of foreboding - all top-notch, fantastically theatrical. Much more efficient to trick a city to walk themselves into a prison than to damn souls one by one. Your masters must be thrilled.”

(You know he didn’t set up the trap. Giliys is frighteningly clever, but breaking the fabric of reality to summon a piece of hell to Kintargo is well beyond his ken. That doesn't make you any more able to stop.)

“We should tell someone,” he says quietly, finally speaking up. “About the trap.”

“Oh, so you can be the hero of the hour for discovering the trap you set? Well of course, by all means! Because of course a man, completely lost, running for his life–sorry, running for his ‘friend’s’ life–would be able to remember where the authorities could find this hell prison that he accidentally stumbled upon. Obviously. Certainly nothing suspicious there! Of course this known agent of hell has nothing but the best of intentions towards the city and had nothing to do with a piece of hell itself coming to Kintargo! I mean it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Giliys doesn’t say a word. “Isn’t it?!”

“Okay,” he says softly.

“‘Okay?’ That's all you have to say for yourself–‘okay?!’”

“What do you want me to say? Tell me, and I’ll say it.”

You don't know what you want him to say. You want him to say something that will fix this, that will fix you, that will make this anger go away, that will make you stop, but you don't know what would do that. You don’t think anything can do that.

“I don’t want to be placated! I want you to be sincere! But you wouldn’t know sincerity if it hit you over the head with a brick, would you, Giliys? You just say what people want to hear! ‘I’m sorry,’ ‘I love you,’ ‘I’m here for you’ they’re all just words to you! Buttons you press to get people to do what you want, to get them off your back! And I was an idiot to fall for it again.”

You force yourself to your feet. The stench is back, which means you’re back in Redroof, and now that you know that, you recognize this street. You’re on Old Main, the road that runs from the western end of Old Kintargo to the eastern end of Redroof. Up ahead the road will split three ways: left will take you to the top of Temple Hill, straight will take you to Bridge Street, and right will take you to the northern end of Devil’s Nursery, the poorest neighborhood in the already impoverished Redroof. You’ll be turning right.

You start walking. A few moments later, you hear footsteps behind you. You don’t look back. It’s just Giliys.

You manage to get home and drag yourself up the flights of rickety stairs to your apartment without making any stops, even if you are completely out of breath at the top. For a moment you allow yourself a moment of triumph for the feat.

Then you realize you still have to open the door.

Still gasping for breath, you start pawing at the door, trying to grasp the doorknob between your hands so you can twist it and open the door. It doesn’t work. This apartment was built for tallfolk. The doorknob is almost as high as you are tall, and your hands are still splinted and aching like hell with every attempt to curl your immobilized fingers around the knob. Every time you think you’ve got it, every time, it’s started to turn, your hands slip, and the doorknob turns back to where it started.

You bang on the door with your palm in frustration, hissing at the jolt of pain it causes. The anger rises to a fever pitch. You kick the door in fury, and then you kick it again. Again and again, you kick the door, your grunts of effort getting louder and more bestial with every impact. Your breathing speeds up, but you barely notice, kicking the door for refusing to open.

You finally scream. It’s not a high-pitched scream of terror. It’s a roar, like a bear’s, of anger and frustration from your chest, as you slide down the door into a pile on the ground. Why does everything have to be like this? Why are you so damn useless?

Because you deserve it. Justice demands penance.

Giliys steps forward. He doesn’t look at you. He takes the knob in one hand and opens the door before entering the apartment. He doesn’t shut the door behind him.

#pwotr pals #oc: theoven derenge #oc: giliys #part 15 #the (totally platonic!) breakup arc #i'm so sorry #this hurt to write

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offsidekineticist · 1 year

Text

For owlcatober prompt #6, "family"

CW: grief, loss of a family member, referenced nonverbal episode, estrangement, lack of closure, spiders mentioned

The Sixth of Lamashan

You hate this day: the sixth of Lamashan. You hated it when it was just Ascendance Day to you, just a day when Iomedae's faithful ran around with toy swords to celebrate their goddess passing the test of the Starstone. But now you hate it for what it does to Thay every year.

"A birthday on Ascendance Day–that must've been rough when he was a kid."

"Not really–it wasn't nearly as popular in Brastlewark as it is here, so his birthday easily overshadowed it."

He always takes today off from his storytelling. Instead he comes downstairs and quietly prepares a cup of tea for himself before returning to your room. He doesn't speak during this process, even if spoken to. Sometimes you think he's lost in memories. Sometimes you think it's one of his nonverbal episodes. Whatever the case, it is in silence that he goes to your room and settles down in a rocking chair with the same book he reads every year: On Fighting Demons, by Regill Derenge.

"Wait–you have a brother? What the fuck–I've known you for thirty fucking years and you never told me you have a fucking brother?"

"Well it hardly matters now that he's dead, now, does it?"

You hate it. You hate seeing him in pain, but you especially hate seeing him in pain over someone who doesn't deserve it–and from everything your husband has told you, Regill Derenge doesn't deserve shit from Thay. Even ignoring the fact that he was a hellknight (though you're not sure why you'd ignore that), the guy apparently sat down to settle his affairs and didn't think Thay deserved so much as a notification of his death. Thay only found out because one of the other expats from Brastlewark heard about it from her sister and offered her condolences. Because apparently the local newspaper in Brastlewark got a notification and an obituary to publish, but Thay? Why the fuck should he be told his little brother was dead?

"Don't hold it against him–we parted on difficult terms. I was rather cruel to him. I understand why he wouldn't want to see me again."

"He didn't have to see you again. He just had to write a fucking letter for you to read after he died."

Thay still hasn't read that obituary. There's something in there he's afraid to see. He won't say what, but from the way he tenses up when you ask about it, you can guess: it has something to do with Rivad.

"Was he there? Was he there, Thay?"

"I don't know. If he was, I don't want to know."

So every year, like clockwork, you send the kids out to play at being knights with the Iomedaeans while you sit in the kitchen and stare at the wall and wait, because your husband is mourning his asshole brother who didn't bother reconciling and might have fucking tortured him.

"It's my own fault–I tried writing to him once, but the letter came back and…I gave up. I should have tried harder to find him."

"Thay, you lived in the same fucking house for a hundred fucking years. You're not the one who should have tried harder."

It's always long after dark, the kids sound asleep, by the time you hear the door open. His eyes are always dark from crying–they don't get red because his blood is gray–and he always apologizes for keeping you up so late. You sometimes answer with words. You always answer with a hug.

"Does it help? The book, I mean."

"I don't know. I can't hear him when I read it. Maybe I'm not listening closely enough. Maybe I've forgotten what he sounded like. Or maybe he changed so much that I just don't know what he sounded like anymore."

You lead him to bed and let him rest his head on your chest. He falls asleep listening to your heartbeat while you card your hands through his hair. Sometimes he quietly cries himself to sleep. Sometimes he tells you stories as he drifts off–the time Regill made Thay sneak into a pub for their first drinks, or how Regill used to just lay down and take naps wherever he felt like, or how Regill was terrified of spiders, and whenever he found one in their bedroom Thay would carry it outside and then regale his brother with tales of the itsy bitsy spider's grisly grisly death.

"You never actually killed them?"

"Of course not. I considered them my friends."

"..."

"I was a very lonely child."

You always stay awake until he's sound asleep, keeping vigil against some unknown threat, some monster made of grief. And every year, lying in the dark listening to the sound of Thay's breathing, you become more convinced that Thay deserved a better brother, and Regill deserved worse one. You know not every hellknight goes to hell after death, but if there's any justice in the world, Regill did. And every year, on the sixth of Lamashan, you hope the devils of hell are as creative as you are, because he deserves to suffer for what he's still doing to Thay.

#owlcatober 2023 #oc: theoven derenge #oc: giliys #pwotr pals #pathfinder wotr #hey look i actually did an owlcatober #and to nobodys surprise #its ANGST #also Regill doesnt have a canon birthday afaik so I decided its today #youre welcome #regill derenge

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offsidekineticist · 10 months

Text

This one is unusually short, but it feels the right length.

CW: estrangement, ableism, chronic pain, lack of access to medication, very negative self-talk.

Without Results

Qweck has always reminded you of your brother. Her eyes–those bright, golden eyes–were so much like your brother's eyes. Her intensity could easily match your brother's at his most obsessed. Neither were the type to stand aside if there was something out in the world that needed fixing. Qweck was barely 13 when you were struck by the sobering realization that she would leave Brastlewark just as your brother did. At first you were so afraid you would lose her the same way you lost him, lashing out in pain when she left you forever, so you resolved that this time would be different. You had decades to come to terms with her place being beyond Brastlewark, to teach her that her path was hers to tread, and you would love her wherever it led her. And it worked–when she left, you accompanied Qweck to Ostenso, supported her as she petitioned to be accepted into the monastery, and then, when she was accepted, you said your goodbyes and returned home. She didn't write as often as you'd hoped, but you understood: she had her own life now, and you were relieved–and proud–to realize you didn't resent her for it as you had resented your brother. Qweck had left, but she wasn't lost. She still visited you. Still wrote to you. Still loved you.

And now you've gone and fucked it up.

“Pathetic. No self control, no discipline.”

He is not like he was when he left Brastlewark. Like you, he has lost much of the expressiveness of your youth, and what was once a frenetic energy demanding expression through fidgeting and pacing now appears as a coiled spring, carefully controlled but ready to explode at a moment's notice. But his voice is the same. His cadence is the same.

“I'm sorry,” you choke out, and it’s such a pathetic fraction of what you should tell him after what you said all those years ago, but it’s all you can manage when just the sight of him makes your hands hurt and your heart pound and your ears ring.

Your brother sneers at you. “‘Sorry’ means nothing without results. You’ve already proven you can’t change. You just hid behind the bleaching and pretended you had.”

He’s right. He knows he’s right, and so do you. It’s why you never bothered apologizing for your outbursts–how can you say you’re sorry for something you know you won’t stop doing? But you can’t accept that. You’re too broken to accept that, so you feel the rage rise up in you and take control and–

“And you hid behind your armor and your ‘duty’ and just abandoned your people to build a world where we can’t live!” you hiss through grit teeth. “When exactly did you decide you hated yourself so much that anyone like you didn’t deserve to live?”

But your brother is not who he was when he left Brastlewark. Your words don’t pierce him as they did then. He doesn’t fear your disapproval anymore. He doesn’t love you anymore.

“We both know,” he says, rolling his eyes, “that you are wildly extrapolating from your scant knowledge of Axis to justify why my leaving upset you. Why don’t you tell the truth for once, Theoven? Admit what it is that really frightens you?”

A coldness grips your heart, but still you barrel forward, hearing yourself repeat your worst mistakes. “Nothing frightens me anymore! I am a bleachling–the worst thing I could imagine has happened to me, and I’m still here. What do you think you could possibly do to me that would be worse?!”

“‘The worst thing you could imagine?’ Really?” He arches a brow sardonically. “The bleaching was never your worst fear. Your worst fear is one you have, by some miracle, avoided all these years: chasing away everyone who might have been willing to tolerate you. But even miracles must end. You’ve lost Brastlewark, and now you’ve lost Cleric Varnaj in the same way you lost me. How long until you’ve chased the halfling away, I wonder?”

You would clench your fists if they weren’t splinted. “Shut up,” you growl.

“You act like he’s beneath you,” your brother continues. “The fact that he hasn’t left you for that alone is a miracle. Given your reaction to his declaration of love, he likely holds even less affection for you than I do. Most likely he is held here by some guilt over his lies, or some obligation to care for you when you have nobody else. But how long do you think he will last now that he has to tolerate you alone?”

“I said shut up!”

“He’s going to realize soon that he can do better for himself. That he doesn’t have to stay and be treated this way. And when that happens, he will leave. You will be all alone, helpless, worthless, useless. Do you know what I think of that, Theoven?” A shark-like grin spreads across your brother’s face. “I think you’ll deserve it.”

The rage is too much. You need to get it out, but your body isn’t strong enough–it never was before the bleaching, either. That doesn’t mean you won’t try. You spring forward from your bed, reaching for your brother's neck to grab and squeeze until that disgusting smile slips from his face and he realizes what a mistake he’s made becoming your enemy.

You are awake. Arms are wrapped around you as you squirm, what was intended to be a howl of rage instead only a whisper.

“Hey, hey, it’s ok! You’re ok, Thay. You’re ok. It’s just me.”

“Regill?” you whisper.

“It’s me, Thay. It's Gilly.” You relax. Another nightmare, that’s all. You should have realized–words always became too heavy to speak when you saw him in Rivad, of course it was only a nightmare. You’ve already begun to forget what it was about, beyond the fact that your brother was there. You’re safe. Gilly is here, so you’re safe.

Gilly holds your head to his chest, one hand carding through your hair with the other on your shoulder, holding you close. “You’re alright. You’re alright,” he whispers softly, over and over, and you melt into his arms. You’re safe. Gilly is here, so you’re safe.

And then you remember why that should make you feel bad.

During the time apart, you had hoped that in time your feelings would fade. You don’t know if it’s because of everything that’s happened or if you are just innately weak, but you’re even more attached now than you were before. Even beyond the fact that he dresses you and feeds you and assists you in everything including basic bodily functions, you can barely bring yourself to sleep without him. When he goes out to buy food or takes a job, you spend the whole time on the edge of panic, curled up in a fetal position on the bed, wondering if he will come back. So far he always has.

You can’t be like this. You need to be stronger. Someday–someday soon–it’s going to be time for him to ‘pay rent,’ and he will damn another innocent to hell. You refuse to be party to that. You need to be strong enough to tell him no. You need to be strong enough to do the right thing. You need to be strong enough to send him away.

There’s a sudden, painful spasm in your right hand. It’s so intense, even compared to the usual ache, that you can’t help the half strangled moan that comes out of your mouth.

Giliys freezes. “Hands?” he asks. You nod into his chest.

“Hurts,” you whimper, disgusted with your weakness. “Medicine.”

He sighs. “I’m sorry, Thay. I can’t give you more.” You growl at that–actually growl, like an animal. You know why he says this–you don’t have access to medicinal flayleaf, so he’s dosing out an illegal recreational drug for you as a substitute. If the dosage ever goes too high, the drug will start working as intended and cause hallucinations. And given what you tend to see when you hallucinate, it’s probably better to endure the pain. But your hands don’t understand that, and neither does whatever takes over when you get like this.

“Then what use are you?” you watch yourself snap. Giliys starts carding his hand through your hair again, but you’re not having it. You push him away and settle on your side with your back to him, wincing at another throb of pain from your hands.

You hear a quiet sigh. “I’m sorry,” Giliys repeats quietly, almost defeatedly.

“‘Sorry’ means nothing without results,” you say, a faint sense of deja vu washing over you. “Now shut up and let me sleep.” There’s a long pause.

“Okay,” Giliys finally says. “Sleep well, Thay.”

You take a deep breath before closing your eyes. You will sleep through this pain. You will sleep through this anger. You will sleep without his comfort. You will learn to live like this. You will learn to live without him. You have to, or you’ll die.

#pathfinder wotr #pwotr pals #oc: theoven derenge #oc: giliys #knight-commander oc #The (completely platonic!) Breakup arc #part 13

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offsidekineticist · 1 year

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New breakup arc chapter!

CW: aftermath of torture, description of injuries, gore, monster, dark and cluttered claustrophobic space.

Brastlewark's Official Dinosaur Skeleton Day

You really hate Qweck right now.

She hasn't done anything wrong, of course, which is the problem. For once, she was a complete badass. Two people went into that room, and only one came out covered in blood and viscera to toss a signifer's mask at Thay's feet and reassure him he was safe for the first time in weeks. She was perfect, except that you had wanted to rescue Thay like a fucking white knight from a fairytale and sweep him off his feet and–

Which is fucking stupid, of course–first thing the guy says to you is "are you happy now, Gilly?" Last time you saw him he said he'd fucking kill you if he ever saw you again. But somehow you thought he'd be happy to see you? That he'd see you as his hero sweeping in to save the day? That he'd, what, apologize for treating you that way, for misjudging you somehow? Fuck no. Thay fucking hates you now. Of course it's his fucking daughter that saves the day. And you're a piece of shit for being jealous of his fucking daughter.

Neither of them say a word to you. You're a third fucking wheel in the middle of what was supposed to be your operation. But your plan nearly got you all killed, so it's probably fair that they're ignoring you.

The three of you make it to the top of the stairs, and Qweck opens the door. You all squint in the suddenly overwhelmingly bright light, but your eyes adjust quickly, and now, finally able to see him properly, you're struck by how terrible Thay looks. At some point they must have taken his shirt–you suspect you'll find his back covered in lashmarks–which makes it impossible to miss how thin he is. He's lost weight–a lot of weight, which is concerning because there was never much of him to begin with. You can tell from how his veins protrude from his skin that he's dehydrated. His face is gaunt, his eyes sunken in. On his right cheek you see slashed flesh that's healed oddly, like it was never treated, and has stitched itself back together as best it can into what will soon be a mess of jagged scars. You suppress a shudder at the thought of how many times screaming must have reopened those wounds. He's grown a sad, patchy, not-worthy-of-the-name beard on his chin, which explains why he was always so careful to keep himself clean shaven.

"Giliys!" Qweck hisses, interrupting your assessment of Thay's appearance. "What now?"

"Why the fuck would I know?" You demand.

"You're the subject matter expert here!"

"Yeah, and my subject matter expertise are telling me that we're trapped in a fucking hellknight citadel with no weapons, no getaway driver, no idea how this fucking place is even laid out, so we're fucking screwed. So why don't you see if your path to perfection doesn't have a detour through a secret tunnel or some shit?" you snap.

"Shhhh!" Thay hisses, waving his hands. He struggles to get more words out, but you already hear what he hears–someone's coming. You push him down the corridor away from the sound, careful not to touch his wounds, barely able to keep from shivering because your hand is on his back with nothing between his skin and yours.

"Where are you going?!" Qweck demands, half jogging after you.

"Away from here!" You snap, and then abruptly stop, putting your arm in front of Thay to stop him. He hunches over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath–of course he does, they haven't been feeding him. "Shit," you say.

Right in front of you, the left wall of the corridor disappears, granting you full view of the training grounds–and, if you continue, granting the knights in the training grounds full view of you.

You frantically look for a solution. To the right–there's a door to your right. You try the knob. It's locked. You take out your set of lockpicks.

"Where were you hiding those?" Qweck demands.

"Shut up and keep watch!" It's a tricky lock. There's magic involved, much to your chagrin. You can break it, but that would mean using–

"Halt!" Your pursuers are finally within sight. With a primal growl, you summon hellfire and burn away the magic holding the door shut, wincing as it burns through the wrappings protecting your hands, still healing from the last time you used it. Before it can consume anything else you call back the hellfire. It settles in your chest, uncomfortably warm.

That's the trouble with hellfire. It won't return to hell empty handed. You'll have to damn a soul before the day is out.

You ignore the questioning look Qweck gives you as you open the door. She pulls Thay's arm over her shoulder and half drags him through the door, managing to give you a side eye as she passes. Again, you ignore her as you follow and slam the door behind you.

You are almost too eager to escape your pursuers to be dismayed when you realize the door leads to another set of stairs spiraling deeper into the earth. You hear Thay desperately trying to catch his breath, see his feet stumble and skip steps, Qweck's iron grip the only thing keeping him from tumbling down the stairs. You hear the knights behind you shouting.

At the bottom of the stairs is some kind of storeroom. It reminds you of Thay's attic, but huge. Aisles of shelves turned into tunnels of clutter, so narrow that surely tallfolk weren't expected to traverse them, magical lights casting pale blue light as far as they could before the shadows cast by the clutter snuffed out the light. And the clutter itself–

Mummified body parts. Cursed looking wands. Books with covers made of tanned human faces.

"What the fuck," Qweck breathes, even her composure breaking at the miasma of cursed magic she could surely sense.

"Less horror, more hiding! And don't touch anything!" You exclaim, pushing Qweck forward. She says a quick prayer, and a mote of light appears in her left hand. You're almost able to run through the tunnels of stuff, being careful not to touch any of the obviously cursed artifacts, eventually pulling your charges into a nook made by stacks of books and crates next to a shelf where the ambient magic felt less dangerous.

"Cover the light but keep it handy in case we have to run," you whisper to Qweck. "And for the love of the gods, don't touch–"

"Qweck!" Thay interrupts excitedly with more energy than you'd expect given how much he's been gasping. You turn to see him taking something off the shelf behind you.

"Thay–no–!"

"It's the biggenlil bag!" he whispers gleefully, holding up his mother's bag. It's an old and faded canvas satchel, lovingly mended with little happy little embroidered bees and spiders and beetles. "I thought–you can't track it, see–anti-scrying charms because mother–well, mother was a monster hunter, you see, and–" he stops suddenly, looking at the stack of books you had taken shelter by. "My books! Not all of them–I mean, I think all my books are here but–so many books–new books!"

And then he opens the bag and starts pulling it upside down over a stack of books. Because half-starved, bloodied, wheezing and running for his life through a vault of extremely cursed shit, obviously Thay's top priority would be getting new books.

Qweck starts desperately trying to convince him to stop, but your mind has begun turning. If you've stumbled across Thay's things, that means this isn't a mere vault of cursed things. You've discovered the evidence rooms of the Order of the Rack. This is where they hide the shit too scary to leave in public but too important to burn on the pyre. Like Thay's books, apparently.

Gods, these assholes' priorities are fucked.

But if the shit down here is evidence, there is probably something you could use. Something that could perform violence on the scale of killing the half dozen hellknights you can hear carefully clanking through the aisles, but that could do that without also unleashing a small apocalypse. Something that's cursed, but only a little cursed. Or maybe just enchanted, like Thay's bag.

You let some of the fire in your chest flow into your right hand–not so much that it burns, but enough that your hand glows as you ignore the pain of burning fire under your skin. You inspect the shelf behind you, reaching out with your sense of magic as you visually inspect the contents. You recognize some of it–uniforms almost certainly taken from the corpses of Reclamationists; holy weapons and armor blessed by Iomedae; letters and books of ciphers and maps. It seems that there is some sort of system to how this mess is organized after all, and the idiots think Thay's in league with those jumped up altar boys. And of course none of the fuckers they took this shit from used daggers or hand crossbows or anything you'd find fucking useful.

You're going to have to venture farther afield, back into that cloud of cursed magic, away from the oasis of holy magic the Reclamation armor created. Pressing your lips together you turn to Qweck, still trying to convince Thay to stop gleefully collecting new books.

"Stay here. I need to check something."

"No–don't split up! That's a terrible idea!" You hear her whisper loudly as you ignore her and continue your search. Away from the Iomedaean collection, the magic is heavier, like a cloud of thick smoke. So much potent magic you don't dare touch because you don't know what it will do to you. You search for something weaker– something that might let you figure out what it is before it eats your soul.

You stop at a small crate, locked with magic. The magic is potent, the arcane equivalent of wrapping chains around a chest, but you don't sense anything inside. You reach out with your glowing right hand and let your fire burn away the arcane lock. You ignore the wrath of hell roiling inside you, demanding satisfaction, and open the crate.

It looks like a small model of a dinosaur skeleton. It barely comes up to half your height, bones and skull made of what looks like clay, hooked together with little metal wires that seem to have been baked into the clay bones. It's the kind of thing you'd expect to see on Thay's desk in the library right before he explains matter-of-factly that it is Brastlewark's Official Dinosaur Skeleton Day and that, yes, that is a real holiday celebrated in Brastlewark for the past three hours because one of his kids adores dinosaurs and another loves bones and another loves sculptures. But there is something peculiar about it. It doesn't feel magical, but it doesn't quite feel mundane, either.

It's only one you see tiny ribbons of flame trying to escape through your fingers towards the skeleton that you realize what it is. This is a golem, or the skeleton of one, currently dormant, but very hungry. When activated, it would call nearby magical artifacts to itself and use them as flesh and fuel. You're not entirely sure why someone would want a golem that indiscriminately eats any nearby magic items, but you do know that such a device activated here, in a vault of cursed magic, would be pure chaos.

Right now you could use a little chaos.

You take the skeleton out of the crate with your left hand, careful to keep the burning hellfire of your right hand away until you're ready. You briefly think of Thay, so happy to be reunited with his mother's bag. The anti-scrying enchantments Thay had mentioned should protect it from the golem's notice and, therefore, its appetite. If it doesn't, well, hopefully it will at least buy you time to get him somewhere he can mourn its loss in safety.

You take a deep breath and then let it have the hellfire it has been trying to drink from your fingers. Fire begins to swirl in its ribs and its skull like you imagine a soul might, and the skeleton begins to move. You hear the crates around you begin to rattle, and you cut off the flow of hellfire and run.

You rush back to the nook as quickly as you can. "Run!" You shout. A swarm of holy longswords flies off the shelves above your heads, missing you only because of your small stature.

"What did you do?!" Qweck demands.

"No time, just run!" You grab both gnomes by the shoulder with either hand, pushing them down the aisle as fast as you can as the shelves and boxes begin rattling. You hear the breaking of glass and cracking of wood as crates and trunks and cases cannot contain the magic within. Enchanted stones, cursed jewelry, blessed weapons–all manner of magical items–burst from containment towards the strange skeleton you activated. You are barely able to escape from the aisle in time for the shelves to crash down as its contents explode towards the rapidly self-assembling monstrosity you've unleashed.

The golem's reach extends outward, tremors spreading through the library and the ground itself begins to shake under the sheer force of hundreds of magical artifacts dragging themselves across the room to sate the beast's hunger. You push your gnomes under a table pressed against the wall that seems unaffected by the madness–just an old table holding some old books and a crate of mundane items–sheltering there while the creature takes shape and the knights begin to shout.

"What did you do?!" Qweck repeats, shielding Thay with her body and straining to be heard over the roar of a hundred cursed objects joining themselves into one.

"Watch!" You shout back, pointing at the scene unfolding: shelves falling, crates cracking, things breaking, hellknights screaming, and a dark figure taking shape at the center of it all. The creature roars, standing on two legs, a tail sweeping out and crashing into hellknights unfortunate enough to find themselves in its path.

"And this accomplishes what, exactly?!" Qweck demands. The golem snaps its jaws at a hellknight. Its teeth, an array of magical daggers and shortswords, punch through the knight's armor like foil as it shakes its head like a dog with a ragdoll before tossing its toy aside and snapping at another knight. This one jumps back quickly enough that the golem's teeth only slice her neck. Her body falls while the golem keeps her head.

Blood running from between its teeth and down its jaw made of amulets and jewels, the golem freezes, as if it has heard a distant sound. It stands a moment like a prairie dog tasting the wind before letting out a terrifying roar and charging, magic items still chasing it like a comet's tail. It lowers its armor-laden head and hits the wall with an earth shattering crash. The wall cracks and the rock behind it splits as the golem crashes through the earth leaving a tunnel in its wake.

You smirk at Qweck. "After you, princess."

"You want us to follow that thing?! Did you see what it did to those hellknights?"

"Would you rather stay here?"

She almost says yes, but just before she can you both hear the sound of clanking armor and concerned shouts as more hellknights rush down the stairs. She growls in frustration. "You are the worst subject matter expert!" she hisses at you as she hurries into the tunnel. You just help Thay to his feet and chuckle, still smirking–until Thay roughly brushes your grip off his shoulder.

Right. He still hates you. A cursed chaos golem won't change that.

He almost trips rushing to catch up with Qweck–rushing to get away from you. She puts an arm over his shoulder and leads him forward into the dark as he leans into her, accepting her support without a second thought.

You know you're only proving him right, but you can't help it–you really hate Qweck right now.

#oc: theoven derenge #oc: giliys #oc: qweck #pathfinder wotr #pwotr pals #part 8 #The (Completely Platonic!) Breakup Arc

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offsidekineticist · 10 months

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(I apologize for this but I'm too curious how he'll answer) Theo - Have you ever lost someone close to you? Who was it? How did you cope with it?

This took me so long to pin down what he'd say. Putting this one under a cut for CW: "think of the children" style bigotry, dehumanization, harassment, bigotry ending a friendship

He smiles, but it is not a happy smile. "I think it might be easier to list the people close to me that I haven't lost. Almost everyone I've ever been close to I've lost. Qweck and Gilly are the exceptions for now. I should probably clarify that most of the people I've lost did not die. Most of them are still alive, they're just...out of reach.

"If I had to pick one to talk about...Cen Walfwaffle. Yes, that should be lurid enough to satisfy you. Cen was a neighbor who lived two doors down from me, originally from Iceferry. She became my best friend after Regill left. She put up with a lot - I wasn't the most stable person in those days, and I could be very selfish. She probably should have given up on me, especially once the bleaching took hold. She tried so hard to stop it, and I was just ready to let it take me, so I lashed out at her a lot. None of that ever chased her away. She was still visiting me daily when it ran its course and I was still there.

"Nobody in Brastlewark responded well to the change, and that hurt. People I'd known for years couldn't bear to look at me - and those were the polite ones. Cen was not one of the polite ones.

"I was convinced for years she would eventually come around. I hoped so - I was finally pulling myself together enough that I could love well, and after all she had done for me, I wanted to be the friend I should have been before. So I trained myself to seem normal - not just for her, mind, but...I had hoped if I could be a gnome who survived the bleaching instead of a bleachling, things might go back to how they used to be.

"The last straw was her interfering with Qweck. Cen doesn't think bleachlings have feelings, you see, so she had already tried to get me fired because she thought I would hurt or corrupt the children somehow, but she became obsessed with 'saving' Qweck from my 'emotional neglect,' despite never having so much as spoken to her before. At one point she pulled Qweck aside and told her 'Theoven has changed his mind, but you can live with me now, instead.' Fortunately Qweck has always been assertive, so she marched up to my door and, on the verge of tears, asked that she be allowed to take her favorite stuffed dinosaur. I didn't much care for reconciling with Cen anymore after that."

There's a faraway look in his eyes as he pauses. He sighs through his nose, and then, with a practiced gentleness, he continues. "I suppose the point I'm trying to make is...there are many ways to lose a loved one. They might live two doors down, but still be beyond your reach because of prejudice or circumstances or wounded feelings. The hurt from that kind of loss...it's not any less legitimate than losing someone through death. It's a different kind of hurt, but it is still a loss, and it's alright to grieve the loss, even knowing they're alive and well."

#oc: theoven derenge #pathfinder wotr #pwotr pals #ask game #thanks for the ask!

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offsidekineticist · 1 year

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This probably should have been 2 chapters, but while I think the first part could be fleshed out into chapter length with a different POV, I'm less confident about the second, arguably much more important part. Also I'm impatient and want to share this bc being like "I can't mention this thing about my blorbos cuz it's a spoiler for my fic" sucks.

CW: gore, blood, burning, exhausted/traumatized character having difficulty communicating, character being possessed and corresponding loss of bodily control, mentions of torture in folklore (implied sexual), Sleeping Beauty (Disney) style dubcon

For the Velstrac

The sun hurts. Your eyes squeeze shut by themselves. You try to stop them because you can't sleep, but the sun hurts so they do what they want. The air is warmer than in your cell, but it moves more, which helps with the sleepiness. it smells like dew, instead of must and excrement and blood.

It's nice. The only problem is that it's loud. There's shouting and the clanging of metal weapons and screams and the roar of flames–

Your eyes slowly adjust to the glaring light. The hole leading to the tunnel into Rivad is just behind you. In front of you is a vast camp of soldiers–mostly paladins, if you had to guess–presently in a state of chaos because the dinosaur shaped collection of artifacts that dug your escape route is rampaging through their camp and growing as magical weapons and armor fly in a flurry towards it. Soldiers are desperately trying to stand their ground as their weapons, tabards, protective amulets, or even their very armor are pulled into the beast to sate its appetite. Others–poorer soldiers, judging by their shabby armor–rush through the camp, movement uninhibited by the golem's call, trying to help their fellows.

A paladin in shining holy armor loses grip on the tentpole he used to steady himself. He flies towards the golem, and you watch his armor almost explode with blood and viscera as it twists and compresses to fit into the bizarre three dimensional puzzle circling through the camp.

"Shit–we have to stop it!" Qweck says, voice pitched high with conviction, and you feel a twinge of pride along with your exasperation. Qweck, so concerned about others–but she is hurt. She's doing her best to hide it, but you can see the bruising on her neck, can hear the strain in her voice. She's been brave–so incredibly brave–but it needs to stop. You need to get her home. She needs a healer.

"How?!" Giliys demands from just behind you, and you wince at how loud he is.

"You mean you activated some kind of artifact eating golem of doom without knowing how to turn it off?!" Qweck demands, and you can tell she is losing her grip on her self-control by how her ears are twitching–they only do that when she's really angry.

"Not like it came with a fucking instruction manual!" Gilly snaps. Qweck closes her eyes and takes a deep, long breath before opening her eyes and speaking.

"Get Theo to the ship as we planned. I'm going to stay and help."

"Are you fucking crazy?" Giliys demands as Qweck steps towards him, your arm still slung over her shoulder. "Look at that thing! It just headbutt a tunnel through solid fucking rock! What the fuck do you think you'll be able to do?"

"Heal the wounded, for one," she snaps, passing your arm to Giliys so she can run healing into danger, still injured herself. You grab her shoulder, ignoring the pain in your broken fingers as you do.

"No," you say as sternly as you can manage with a voice worn raw by screaming. "Qweck, you're–your neck–I can hear–you need a healer."

"She needs a healer? Fuck that, Thay, you need a healer–which is why you're here in the first place!" Giliys says, rebuking first you and then Qweck. "You wanna put this guy on a ship without a healer? In his condition? That's a fucking death sentence!"

Qweck's mask is perfect, the very image of Irorian calm–but her ears are still twitching. "Then find Vrakka and have her go with you." Vrakka–the druid girl? But she–Brastlewark must be hundreds of miles off.

"Find Vra–sorry, Princess, my bird calls are rusty. Did you miss the part where the bitch flew away?"

"No," you interrupt, because Vrakka is not the point and neither are bird calls. "No, it's not–I'm not–the ship isn't–if you're staying–I have to–I mean it's my job to–you need to be safe. I need you to be safe."

"You hear that?," Giliys says. "Thay needs you to be safe. Now let's fucking go before the altar boys catch us."

Qweck ignores Giliys and puts both hands on your shoulders. "You've done your job, and you've done it well," she says, eyes locked with yours. "Now I have to do mine." She shrugs off your grip on her shoulder as she lets go of yours and plunges into the chaos of the camp.

"Qweck! No!" You call, arm reaching uselessly towards her. She's gone. She's gone and she's hurt and she's–

"Fuck–what the fuck are we supposed to do now?!" Giliys howls, enraged.

"Help me help her," you rasp.

"Yeah, right. What are you gonna do, fall on it?"

"Giliys please!" A lump is forming in your throat making it even harder to talk than it already I'd. "She–she is–she's–please."

Giliys closes his eyes, a look of resigned exasperation on his face. "Fuck. Why'd you have to go and say please? Fine." He begins dragging you with him towards the camp.

"Thank you."

"Don't fucking thank me! I'm dragging you to your fucking death!" He spits on what probably used to be a paladin as you pass and enter the camp.

"Don't need–it's ok to–you can't–be nice."

"Be nice?!"

No, 'be nice' wasn't what you meant. You meant that he didn't have to pretend to be cruel, that you saw through it. But you're exhausted, and words are hard, and you've barely the strength to use them, so instead you just repeat "thank you."

Giliys grunts. "Not like I can put you on a boat until a healer sees you anyway. What the hell, why don't we just go out in a blaze of glory trying to save a bunch of altar boys from a fucking dinosaur? Not like I got anything else scheduled for fucking ev–kch!"

It happens so quickly you're not sure how it happens. One second you're leaning on Giliys as he gripes about helping Qweck. The next there's an enormous blade poking through Giliys's chest, pulling him–and you–towards the golem.

"Gilly? Gilly!"

He stares at the blade in his chest, his feet–and yours–dragging across the ground. "Shit," he wheezes. "Can't–can't hold it–Thay, run."

"Can't hold whah–"

Giliys pushes you away. You fall. Fire explodes from his wound. You cover your face, curling into a ball to protect yourself from the fire. A strange, inhuman laughter fills the air.

"FINALLY!" You peek through your fingers up at Giliys. He is floating a foot off the ground. He holds the blade with his bare hands and pulls. Out comes the sword, the hilt soaked in blood as it crashes through his chest, tearing the wound even wider and leaving behind a gaping hole, gushing with blood and fire.

You're not supposed to take the weapon out of a stab wound if you can help it. That makes the victim bleed out faster. You reach out and grab the weapon as it flies towards the golem. It drags you a few feet until you manage to toss your open bag in its path. The sword flies into the bag, and the bag goes still as its anti scrying spells hide the sword from the golem's hunger.

There. Now you can put the sword back in Giliys's chest once he stops floating.

(You really are exhausted)

You're able to push yourself to your knees and look up. The hole in his chest is closing–or you think it is. Less fire and blood seems to bleed from it with each passing second until the hole is closed. His eyes light up with flame as he holds up and examines flaming hands.

"YES. THIS WILL DO NICELY. NOW BURN."

Streams of flame fly from Giliys's hands, devouring soldier after soldier after soldier. It's no normal flame–it leaves tent and banner and wood untouched, but consumes flesh and blood. Whatever has taken control of Giliys is cackling in perverse joy.

Your eyes scan the scene wildly looking for someplace to hide, some way to escape–you know the moment it looks down, you're doomed. Movement and a flash of green catch your eye. Qweck, about twenty feet behind where Giliys stood when he was impaled, sheltering behind a rack of spears and shields.

Qweck is here.

Oh, gods, Qweck is here.

You need to stop this now. You don't have time to retreat and regroup, Qweck is right there, and the second that thing sees her, she will burn. You need to bring Giliys back to himself, because even if he can be killed like this (probably not), even if you were physically able to kill him (certainly not), you know you'd never be able to bring yourself to do it because of your damn fool, treacherous, everbreaking heart.

Wait.

"For the Velstrac," you whisper to yourself in realization. A poem written by an unknown Nidalese Desnan, the finale to a collection of poems written by the narrator (the Lover) about the person they loved (the Beloved). The last poem is the most famous–and the saddest. The Beloved, damned to the Plane of Shadows by Zon-Kuthon's hold over Nidal, becomes the Velstrac, eager to torture the Lover with sadistic parodies of their former love. And yet, whereas most poems in the collection carry an underlying tone of fear or anxiety over Zon-Kuthon's hold over the Lover and the Beloved's souls, "For the Velstrac" ends with hope.

For with each kiss thy eyes have brighter seem'd

So by my pain I shall see thee redeem'd.

It would seem absurd to you if you were in your right mind. But you are exhausted and hurt and afraid and bound to protect Qweck, so you grasp at ideas with the clumsiness of a child, push yourself to your feet, and pull Giliys down out of the air to be saved by True Love's Kiss.

It's a terrible first kiss. Truth be told, you don't find the act of kissing itself particularly appealing. Your enjoyment of that and more intimate acts has always come from seeing your partner's ecstasy and knowing you caused it–the satisfaction of having done well, of being such a good partner that he has devolved into a lesser state of coherence. But Giliys himself is unable to react, and his body, still floating off the ground, puppeted by an unknown power, reacts with violence, his arms flailing unnaturally, twisting out of joint. His body is hot to the touch, and your lips are screaming at you to withdraw. But slowly, painfully slowly, the heat fades. The flailing stops. You feel Giliys sink downward onto his feet, and then collapse in a heap. You do not let go of his shirt in time. You fall with him, aching and exhausted, lips burning from this cruel mockery of what you've wanted for years.

You're too exhausted to move. You're sprawled on top of him, but you're too exhausted to move. Your ear is pressed against his chest, and you can hear his heartbeat–at first racing, but slowing in time to a gentle, steady pace that promises safety and carries you to sleep.

#someone please buy Qweck all the drinks #oc: theoven derenge #oc: giliys #oc: qweck #pwotr pals #pathfinder wotr #The (Completely Platonic!) Breakup Arc #part 9

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