#But I have a lot of feeling about Cassandra trying to act less Necromancy because she's still trying to fit in

[nekrotisch]

[pagerunner-j]

All right. In response to this prompt: this was one of the ideas that crossed my mind at “still technically undead royal couple.” The other was a lot darker. But Cassandra deserves a damn break.

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For all that Vox Machina had done to save Whitestone, sometimes Cassandra worried about what shadows they were bringing back to it.

She knew, because it was patently obvious regardless of how much her brother neglected to tell her, that Percy had died at least once. For his friends to have returned him to Whitestone as a corpse—she shuddered still to think of it—and resurrect him here, in this town once ruled by necromancy, was a thing she still wished they’d been able to mend with less stirring of memories. Of course, the town held Pike in high esteem, and her magic beyond reproach. There seemed to be such a thing as a clean return to life, and that was what she’d offered. So there was that much to hold to, at least.

Still, the town had a long memory, and a complex, wary one where death was concerned. Cassandra’s experience with the matter was worse than most. And for Percy to not only return from the dead, but partner himself (although he still wouldn’t admit to that in any sensible fashion, either) with Vex’ahlia, who herself had brushed with death, and was twinned with one so hand in hand with it…

That was something else again, and Cassandra had no idea what to make of it.

So she’d asked a few things, discreetly, trying to get a better grasp on exactly what Vax’ildan represented. She’d read about the Raven Queen, trying to understand Her goals and ease her own mind. And—just the once, one solitary time—she went to the graveyard to visit the temple.

That was strange on so many levels she could barely count them all.

“The Professor’s been…removed,” Zahra had told her some time before the visit, sounding a bit more flippant than she possibly should have about disinterring one of Cassandra’s tormentors. Then again, she didn’t really know. Cassandra was, upon occasion, just as reticent as her brother. “His family’s remains are far off now. The site’s unmarked but properly sealed, as requested. I can tell you where it is…”

“No. That is—tell the guard, I suppose. But…no, I don’t wish to know.”

Zahra had eyed her then, her scrutiny unnerving. Cassandra had had her share of practice hiding secrets, though, and at least Zahra didn’t pry.

In the end, the result of her compatriot’s work—and of Percy and Vax’s own contributions—was this reappropriated crypt. All its old symbology was removed, all its new icons distinctly different. Cassandra eyed the raven’s silhouette above the door before she put her hand to the latch. I should have told my bodyguard, she thought. They keep warning me about the graveyard. I shouldn’t be here alone…

She opened the door regardless and stepped in.

Despite all expectations, it felt oddly familiar. All shrines served the same basic function, she supposed; certain elements were bound to recur. But the candles, several of them softly burning, led her to something she’d read about but still swallowed hard to see. A basin filled with dark, thick liquid sat at the center of the altar.

Cassandra breathed in the tang of blood and felt her throat close up, and her whole body tense with the urge to flee. Or fight. Or dash that basin straight against the wall.

She did none of those things. Instead, she shoved thoughts of knives and fangs and sacrifices out of her head, clenched her fists at her sides, and walked closer.

The Raven Queen abhors necromancy, she reminded herself, slowly and methodically. The books had said as much, and so had Vex, the one time Cassandra had dared to ask. She stands against everything the Briarwoods were for. Her champion helped fight them for you. This altar is to respect Her place in the natural order of things, that’s all.

Inevitably, a tiny, doubtful whisper followed: But did my brother’s friends go too far in bringing Percy back to me? Does She forgive such things, too?

She bit her lip so hard at that thought that she drew a drop of blood, and she reached up, startled, to wipe it free. For a moment afterward, all she could do was stare at the crimson smudge on her fingertip.

Then she held her breath, and acted on instinct. Still holding the question in her mind, she lowered her trembling hand and touched that finger to the pool.

It was quiet. It was cold. Cassandra shivered where she stood, slowly beginning to feel woozy, as if she’d just slid underwater. She wondered what in the world she thought she was doing. Then she heard something, or thought she did, echoing softly from all directions.

Paths may be changed, and destinies deferred, it said. The whisper was like a woman’s voice, heard from a long, difficult distance. You know this as well as anyone.

Cassandra’s eyes widened. She could see her face in the pool suddenly, its shape wavering as her trembling finger disturbed the liquid. Behind her, though…behind her in the reflection was something else.

He was spared a fate I could not control. Do not fear my judgment of it. Beware only the choices not made under such light.

The voice grew clearer, and eerily focused.

The sort that you have witnessed.

That last words sounded so close to Cassandra’s ear that she whirled around, jarring the basin where it sat and nearly knocking all the breath from her own lungs. But the room was empty. All Cassandra saw was stone and the flicker of candelight, and the lingering impression of a space where someone should be.

Cassandra shut her eyes against it. In the darkness behind her eyelids, the idea—and the identity—of the speaker only became more clear.

You know what was done here, said the Raven Queen. You watched. You remember. Share those secrets. Tell my champion where the shadows linger, and what else must be banished. Such is his task. Such is his duty in my stead.

There was a faint stirring of air in the room, a sweep of motion. Cassandra tensed again, only to feel something like a touch—the lightest brush of fingers against her cheek.

But not all burdens must be yours, child, She said. Live, before you come to me.

Cassandra gasped, and all at once her eyes flew open. For a split second she saw a face, or imagined one, pale and still but with dark, sad eyes. Then it vanished. All she saw now was that the room was empty, all its candles extinguished. But the doors to the crypt stood open, letting faint moonlight spill in across the stone.

Cassandra stood exactly where she was for a long, long time. She watched wisps of smoke rise and fade from guttering wicks. Then she slowly stepped outside.

The air was crisp and cold, but the chill didn’t feel unkind anymore.

Cassandra breathed deeply, listening to the echoing caw of a bird in flight. Then she closed the doors of the temple and returned to the castle, where for the first night in weeks, to her surprise, she slept without nightmares at all.