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memento-morri-writes · 25 days ago

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Rook's Horrible, Very Bad, No-Good Day

(Aka, just one part of Rook's first Horrible, Very Bad, No-Good Weekend. (he's had two of those.))

I posted a small portion of this yesterday, but I'm just so obsessed with this scene, and I figured it's time I shared a slightly more complete version of it so you guys have a little bit more context. There's actually a lot more because a whole 'nother very intense conversation happened after this one, but that's for anther time. Enjoy getting stabbed in the heart several times in quick succession! pov: Rook wordcount: 1.7k character(s): The Liars [Rook (D&D), Sigmar (NPC)] canon status: canon session rewrite trigger warnings: mentions of death, suicidal behavior, and self-harm; implied self-sacrifice. (yk, usual Rook stuff.) summary: Rook wakes up after collapsing in the middle of a tavern. His mentor, Sigmar, interrogates him about the circumstances leading to his collapse. Note: I can only take credit for some of this, since the dialogue is as close to a direct transcript of the dnd session as I could manage. You can thank my amazing DM for all of Sigmar's gut punches here.

Rook comes to consciousness slowly, his mind fuzzy from sleep. He slowly opens his eyes, blinking them several times before he registers a wood-beamed ceiling. Where is he? He raises his head ever-so-slightly, looking around. The room comes into focus, semi-familiar. This is his room at the tavern. He has no memory of going to bed. The last thing he remembers is entering the tavern after the fight, and then…

Footsteps draw his attention away from that mystery. “Rook, you’re awake!” Sigmar rushes over to Rook’s bedside, relief clearly visible on his face. “You were out for twelve hours.” Seeing the question forming on Rook’s face he adds, “You fainted last night. It was… concerning to say the least.”

Rook slowly sits up as Sigmar continues talking. “What happened to you? I knew things were rough for you after we talked on the way here but the way you looked last night… you’re lucky to be alive.”

“I wasn’t.” The words are off his tongue and out of his mouth before Rook can process what he’s saying. “I wasn’t, yesterday.”

Sigmar peers closer at Rook, concern mounting on his face. “You weren’t what, Rook.”

Again, he speaks without thinking. “Alive. I wasn’t alive yesterday.”

The color drains from Sigmar’s face. “What do you mean? What do you mean you weren’t alive yesterday?”

Rook is taken aback by the forcefulness in Sigmar’s voice. Why does he sound so worried? Slowly, parsing out the words to keep from stumbling over them, he says, “Wolf sent an assassin after me. She succeeded.”

Sigmar’s brow furrows and his voice get louder. “Why didn’t you tell me?” When Rook doesn’t respond he adds, “Who saved you?”

“Aki. At least, I think it was him. I woke up and he was next to me.”

A flash of surprise crosses Sigmar’s face before vanishing, obscured by a new wave of concern. “What caused this? You looked terrible last night.” There’s a thread of something that sounds vaguely like fear in Sigmar’s voice as he says it, which catches Rook by surprise.

Rook takes a long moment to think. He can’t tell Sigmar the truth, at least not the whole truth. He’d tell the rest of the party immediately, and they’d all be in danger again. Rook settles on a partial truth.

“I haven’t been sleeping.” He thinks hard, trying to remember the details. “I don’t think I’ve slept more than a couple of hours in the past two weeks.”

Sigmar’s jaw drops. “With that little sleep, you’re lucky to be alive.” He looks at Rook closely, inspecting his face. Rook shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. “What has been keeping you from sleeping?”

Again Rook pauses, taking a moment to consider his answer. “I don’t know. I can’t fall asleep and when I do I wake up again shortly after.”

Sigmar narrows his eyes. “I’ve told you: you and I are the same. We’re both liars. So don’t lie to me.”

An answer pops into Rook’s head and he puts conviction behind it, laying on false hesitation as if he’s revealing a big secret. “It’s Captain Wolf. Ever since I ran into her again, I haven’t been able to sleep. I keep having nightmares. About her.”

Sigmar stares at Rook for a long moment before seeming to accept the answer. A sense of relief floods Rook’s body. His secret is safe, for now.

“Why are you doing this?” Sigmar asks, breaking the silence.

Rook blinks at him, uncomprehending. “Doing what? Coming to Torsek?”

Sigmar nods. “You’ve been pushing yourself to your limits, throwing your life on the line over and over again. Why? You’re endangering yourself, you’ve even died,” Rook could have sworn he heard Sigmar’s voice waver on that word. “But you keep doing it. What could possibly be worth that?”

An answer leaps to Rook’s lips. “Because they need me.” It comes out quietly, but seems deafening in the empty room.

Sigmar leans back slightly, eyes widening in surprise. He looks Rook up and down, as if he’s reevaluating him.

Without thinking, Rook adds, “You’re one of them.”

Sigmar, who has opened his mouth to speak, closes it again. He regards Rook for a long time. Eventually he says, “Your motivations may be more noble than mine, but at heart we act for the same reasons. I know you have not felt the care of a parent the same way I did…” He trails off momentarily, then continues, “But you are desperate for love all the same. I do everything in hopes of someday committing an act that will make the world love me. You, you act in hopes that the Vanguard will love you.” He looks Rook directly in the eyes, face serious. “You’re a fool.”

Rook says nothing, unable to summon up any kind of response to that statement. Sigmar continues, “The Vanguard does nothing but show you love, try to help you. They attempt to show you their love over, and over again. But you refuse to accept it.”

The words hit Rook like a slap, and he opens his mouth to retort, but Sigmar pushes ahead. “Instead of accepting their love, you throw yourself recklessly into danger, putting your life on the line again and again. You’re killing yourself, Rook.”

Rook’s eyes blaze with anger. He isn’t killing himself at all. He doesn’t want to die, far from it. He fights viciously for his life in every battle. He snaps back, “I’m not killing myself.”

Sigmar’s reply is swift and painful, like a bullet from his gun. “You might as well be.”

Rook finds himself speechless. What the hell is Sigmar talking about? He crosses his arms and turns away, refusing to meet the other man’s gaze.

A long silence stretches between them. Sigmar finally breaks it by saying, “I’ll help you. I just need to know that you’re telling me the truth.” His voice is surprisingly gentle, much softer than the whip-like tone from a moment earlier.

Rook looks up at him. “I am telling the truth.”

Sigmar frowns. “Rook, I told you, don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not!”

“You are. I know your tells.”

Arms still firmly crossed, Rook keeps his gaze fixed on the floor. He won’t – can’t – tell Sigmar the truth.

Sigmar seems to realize that Rook plans to stay silent, and sighs. “I can start listing off my theories. My ideas as to what’s keeping you from sleeping.”

Rook says nothing, still looking at the floor. His eyes follow the grain of the wood as it meanders through the planks.

“Did Maka do this to you?”

Before he can stop himself, Rook’s head whips upwards, mouth falling open in shock. “What? No!”

Sigmar merely nods, and Rook is hit with a sudden feeling that he may have just played right into Sigmar’s trap. Rook turns away again, trying to find the same grain on the same plank he had been before Sigmar had spoken.

“I’ve felt the same symptoms as you are now, but lesser, once before. Do you still bear Furicifer’s curse?”

A chill runs down Rook’s spine. He forces his voice to stay steady and calm as he says “Furicifer was banished. He’s gone.”

Sigmar is silent for a long moment, and Rook’s heart begins to race. Surely Sigmar will believe that. It’s not far off from the truth.

When Sigmar speaks, it almost knocks the air from Rook’s lungs. “I told you not to lie to me.” His voice is deadly serious, simmering with anger. As he begins to speak again, it grows in intensity, though still quiet. “What in the gods’ names were you thinking? We need to get rid of him.”

Rook interrupts him, voice firm. “I can’t. If I lose this curse, Furicifer is free to return to the material plane.”

Sigmar shakes his head. “We’ll find a better demonologist. Someone stronger than this Dr. Zayeed.”

Without thinking, Rook blurts out, “You promised you’d help me!”

Sigmar immediately falls silent, looking at him. His face is a mixture of sadness, concern, and something else that Rook can’t quite read. He stares at Rook until Rook grows uncomfortable, looking away. “I have two options here. I can enable you, help you continue to hide this from the rest of the party. Or I can tell them. Let them try and talk some sense into you.”

“I can’t.”

“What are you talking about? Of course you can. Tell the party and-”

“I can’t.” Rook’s voice shakes, but his tone is determined.

“Why not?” Sigmar snaps back.

“It was them or me.” The words are out too fast, and Rook regrets them the minute they’re out. But he looks up, meeting Sigmar’s gaze. He says again, softer, but more steady, “It was them or me.”

A long silence passes, and Rook eventually looks away. He stares at the ground for a long, long time, before he sees something enter his field of vision. Sigmar’s hand, holding one of the pills he’d made. Rook looks up at him, surprised. “Take it.” Slowly, Rook reaches out and grabs the pill.

He swallows it quickly, downing it before the taste can manifest on his tongue. Energy floods his body. Though he feels miles better than the day before, he hadn’t realized how much exhaustion still lingered in his body.

Sigmar grabs a pouch, presumably holding the other pills in it, and holds it out to him. Rook reaches for it, but Sigmar pulls it back. “I’ll help you on one condition.” Rook stares at him, but says nothing. “If your condition worsens again, I’m telling the party. And if you’re in your right mind, you’ll be telling them too.”

Rook’s shoulder slump in defeat. He needs the medicine desperately. He looks down at the floor again as he says, barely louder than a whisper, “Fine.”

Sigmar places the pouch in his hand and turns towards the door. “The rest of the party will want to see you.”

As he reaches the door, hand on the knob, Rook speaks. “Thank you.” The words are quiet, but genuine, tinged by the weight of Rook’s desperation. Sigmar’s hand hesitates on the doorknob, but he doesn’t reply or turn back before he opens the door. As he walks off down the hall, Rook can hear him calling out to the party, “Rook’s awake.”

#morrigan.text #my writing #dnd writing #oc: Rook #*Liars #okay: for a little bit *more* context #~2 weeks before this happened the entire party was suffering from a curse placed on them by the demon lord Furicifer.#they underwent a ritual to get un-cursed but afterwards Rook was pulled aside and told that the curse was the only thing keeping Furicifer #out of the material plane. So *SOMEONE* had to keep it. He was given the choice of taking it on himself or having the guy who uncursed us #secretly give it back to someone else of Rook's choosing. Rook being Rook took it on himself.#Since that point he's been tormented by nightmares barely able to sleep.#A few days before this Sigmar noticed Rook looked exhausted and offered to make him something to help with that.#So when we arrived in Torsek he split off to go do that. While he was gone Rook got assassinated.#the day after the assassination we got in two more fights. And on top of that Rook's been playing mental chess with the government of Torse #So all in all a very exhausting few days. In the fight that happened before he passed out he got knocked to 0 twice.#They went back to the tavern and met up with Sigmar and a couple other NPCs who were there.#The party was in the middle of filling them in on the day's many events when Rook just passed out.#Basically he had just pushed his body too far between the physical stress of combat and the lack of sleep.#He slept for ~15 hours. Sigmar stayed with him the whole time.#Also. The fact that Sigmar the Liar Extraordinaire wanted Rook to tell the party the truth about this... AUGH. IT HURTS.#It's really telling as to how much he cared about Rook because in basically every other circumstance he wanted Rook to lie to the party.#It's also telling that he caves when Rook says ''you said you'd help me. 🥺''#augh they make me so sick.#also.#I said this in the tags when I posted part of this before but when Rook said that Furicifer was gone he rolled a 26 Deception.#Sigmar rolled a 27 on Insight.#I absolutely lost my shit.#they're just so...#I LOVE THEM YOUR HONOR #my two favorite lying bastards <3333

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memento-morri-writes · 3 months ago

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whumpril day four: threat - "carrion"

(aka Carrion Backstory Chapter 1 - "Carrion")

Chapter 1 [+ author commentary] / Chapter 2 [+ author commentary] / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 [+ author commentary]

Here it is!! The backstory of how Carrion got his name, in full! I haven't shared any piece of this before, and I'm super fucking proud of this one. I'm very curious to see how people who aren't me or the DM interpret this scene, so please tell me your theories! (@whumpril) pov: Carrion | Reverence wordcount: 2.5k character(s): Carrion Vice (D&D), Orion, Beren (NPCs) canon status: canon, backstory vignette trigger warnings: violence, uncertain character death, being left for dead, discussions of unpleasant ways to die. summary: Having recently been told that there is no way to cure the (presumed fatal) Delirium corruption afflicting him, Reverence's mood sours, with potentially fatal consequences.

Reverence hung back, allowing his horse to slow as the group rode along the lonely mountain path. Barely wide enough for their wagons, and with scraggly underbrush creeping in on the edges, it could hardly be called a road. A few days earlier, when they first came across the path, they’d almost missed it. The signpost had rotten and fallen to the ground, and if not for the map Theodore had bought, they likely would have ridden right past it.

A part of him wished they had. If they had missed the path, maybe there would still be hope. Maybe his friends wouldn’t be avoiding him. He glanced up, shooting a glare at the small huddle of horses several yards ahead. They quickly looked away.

It had been like this all day, ever since they left the healer’s home early that morning: Reverence keeping his distance while the others whispered and stared. He didn’t have to be close enough to hear them to know what they were saying. How long before he turns? What if he attacks us? Is it safe to keep him around? The same questions were repeating in his mind, over and over again until they lost all meaning.

This branch of the Silver Order – Theodore’s branch – had been on the road for months. They had originally set out to investigate reports of a non-Academy mage illegally studying Delirium. They’d found him, and confiscated the Delirium, intending to take it home to be destroyed. But along the way, something had gone wrong.

Reverence closed his eyes, thinking back to that day. He and a young man named Orion, barely old enough to join the Order, had been tasked with guarding the stone. Orion, having been watching the horses during the Delirium raid, begged Reverence to let him take a peek at it. Eventually Reverence had relented, as long as Orion promised not to touch the crystal. What harm could one glance do?

Quite a lot apparently. As soon as Orion had lifted the lid of the lead-lined chest holding the crystal, Reverence’s vision had blurred, the whole world bathed in dusky purple. He remembered crying out, telling Orion to close the lid, but Orion hadn’t heard a word. Instead, hearing a beastly cry, he’d spun around to find his friend’s body swelling, spines bursting from under his skin.

He’d stumbled backwards, crying out for help. Reverence had curled in on himself, crying out in pain as his flesh reconstructed itself. The others had come running, weapons drawn, but hesitated, seeing that he wasn’t attacking.

The transformation had only lasted a few seconds, but it had felt nearly endless to him. Returning to himself, surrounded by frightened Paladins, he knew then that his life was over. No one recovered from Delirium contamination. It hadn’t taken him this time, but it was only a matter of time.

But the Order hadn’t given up on him. They’d dropped off the crystal and dragged Reverence in front of every cleric in the city. When none of them had been able to help, or even explain what had happened to him, they’d gone further.

It had been weeks now, and time was almost up. The eccentric healer at the end of this mountain path had been their final hope. There was no one left to try.

Reverence tried to convince himself that it didn’t matter. That he was lucky to have gotten even a handful of weeks before the corruption took him. But as he watched the other paladins up ahead, murmuring and looking over the shoulders, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe it would have been better to die.

Rage flared in his mind, causing him to clench his fists and grit his teeth. They were luckier than him. They were fine. They would get to move on. In fact, it seemed like most of them already had.

His muscles tightened and his horse, who had bent her head to take a bite of the underbrush, leapt forwards. Reverence quickly released the pressure on her flanks and murmured an apology. When he looked up, all of the paladins were staring openly.

Hours passed as they trekked through the forest, and Reverence’s mood didn’t improve. By the time they made camp he was fuming. When he stalked over to tie up and unsaddle his horse, she was quickly whisked away by a jumpy squire. It seemed they didn’t even trust him to do his own chores.

Feeling several pairs of eyes on his back, he walked off and pitched his tent several yards away from the rest, barely within the clearing. He sat inside, back to the entrance, and waited. Eventually the flurry of activity outside quieted down. The others were likely eating, laughing and telling stories around the fire. No. They wouldn’t be laughing. They’d be whispering – about him.

Shaking his head, he pushed aside the tent flap and stepped outside. As he had predicted, on the opposite end of the clearing, as far away from his tent as possible, was the glow of a fire. In the dimming light, he could see figures moving near it.

He sighed and turned towards the horses. He’d left his sword strapped to his saddle.

“Reverence? Where are you going?” A voice called from behind him.

Reverence spun around to see a mountain of a man stepping out of the trees. Ordinarily the sight of his friend Beren would have brought a smile to his face. But not now. He was the Order’s strongest fighter, and the fact that he was loitering near Reverence’s tent made him uneasy.

“Beren.” He nodded curtly. “What are you doing here?”

Beren shuffled his feet awkwardly. “The captain told me to keep an eye on you. So where are you going, Rev?”

The nickname sounded hollow, without the care usually attached, and Reverence scowled. “Just getting my fucking gear. I may be a dead man walking, but I can at least take care of my stuff for the next guy.”

Beren flinched, and something flashed in his eyes, too quick for Reverence to process. “Rev… you can’t seriously think I’m going to let you do that, right?” His voice wavered, but he took a step forward. “Come on, let’s go back to your tent.”

Reverence was simmering with anger now. “And why can’t you let me do my damned job? Afraid I’m gonna kill someone with it?” He took a step towards Beren. “After the Delirium gets its way, I won’t need a sword to kill you. But until then–”

“Hey! Get away from him!” Reverence wheeled around to see Orion standing with his sword in hand. A tray and several bowls lay scattered at his feet. “D-don’t hurt him!” The boy’s voice wavered as he brandished his sword.

Seeing Orion brought Reverence’s rage to a boil. “You,” he growled. “You’re the one who started this. If you hadn’t asked to see that fucking rock, everything would be fine.”

Orion’s lip quivered. “I-I’m sorry, Rev.” Again, the nickname made Reverence grit his teeth. “Look, let’s just put a stop to this now, alright? Just sit down, and–”

Something inside Reverence snapped. He would not just sit here while they killed him! Without thinking, he lunged forwards, aiming a punch for Orion’s jaw. His vision narrowed, everything aside from the boy in front of him going hazy. But when he arrived the punch missed, Orion’s head gliding by several inches below.

Orion leapt out of the way, seemingly equally surprised by the lack of impact. He stared up at Reverence, eyes wide. Reverence brought his arm back for another blow. As he lashed out, he saw an arm that was not his own. Large and swollen with muscle, the hand tipped in dagger-like claws.

Suddenly, he understood. Why the first blow had missed, why the world seemed so hazy. He tried to pull back, change the course of the blow, but it was too late. His fist met flesh and Orion crumpled to the ground.

Something barreled into him, knocking him to the ground. He thrashed, trying to get to his feet. He had to see what had happened to Orion. He struggled to his knees, but pain seared as a blade cut into his leg and he fell to the ground.

“Orion!”

He tried to shove the paladins out of the way, but there were too many of them. For every blow he shrugged off, another landed. He was distantly aware that he was wounded, that he’d taken enough hits to bring most men down, but it didn’t matter. He needed to see Orion.

A flash of silver as a sword swung towards him, and the world went black.

Reverence woke to the sound of arguing.

“With all due respect, Sir, you should have killed him right there.” Was that… Beren?

Theodore’s voice replied. “I told you. I won’t kill one of my own men.”

Reverence lifted his head slightly, and saw Beren and Theodore standing face-to-face a few yards away. Gathered around them were most of the paladins, eyes darting back and forth like pendulums wound too fast.

“Sir, that… thing isn’t Reverence anymore. It would be a kindness to–”

Anger and fear surged through Revenrence’s body and he tried to get to his feet, only to find that he couldn’t move. Beren broke off at the sound and Reverence looked down and saw himself wrapped nearly from head to toe in chains.

The paladins all turned to face him, looking at him with a mixture of fear and revulsion. He noticed now that several appeared to have been wounded in the fight, and his stomach twisted.

“Orion, is he–”

Beren stormed over and leaned down, spit flying as he said, “Keep your name out of his mouth. After what you did–”

“That’s enough, Beren.” Theodore pushed him aside and crouched down in front of Reverence. “Orion is none of your concern anymore, Reverence.”

A lump was building in the back of his throat. “Please, let me see him.”

Theodore shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

Beren grabbed Theodore’s arm. “Sir, you’ll only make things worse. Reverence is gone. Or he will be soon enough.”

“I told you – I will not kill one of my men.” He turned to another paladin standing out of Reverence’s view. “Hitch one of the carts and put him in there.”

“You can’t seriously mean to bring him with us? When he transforms again – and he will – we’ll all be in danger.”

Theodore raised a hand. “I do not intend to bring him with us.”

“Then what do you plan to do with him? You say you’re not bringing him with us, but you refuse to kill him. What else is there to do?”

Theodore glanced at Reverence, holding his gaze for a moment before turning back to Beren. “There was a ledge partway down the ravine a little ways down the road. We’ll leave him there.”

Beren stepped back, eyes wide. “You’re going to just abandon him?” He looked appalled at the notion.

“It’s the best thing I can think of. He won’t be able to hurt anyone from there.”

Beren looked like he wanted to say more, but Theodore turned away, calling for uninjured men to haul Reverence to the wagon. They approached warily, torn between not wanting to take their eyes off of him and being unable to look him in the face.

When they began to lift him, the chains cut into his wounds, sending bolts of pain shooting through his body. He cried out, and the paladins hesitated.

“Come on, do it quickly and get it over with.” Theodore’s voice was sharp as he ordered them on.

Slowly, awkwardly, the paladins carried Reverence over to the waiting cart and lifted him inside. He was breathing heavily, and his head was fuzzy from the pain. He paid little attention to the movement around him as the paladins saddled their horses.

When the cart finally began to move, every bump in the road was painful. He gritted his teeth and bit down on his tongue until he tasted blood to keep from crying out. In the corner of his vision he saw Theodore riding alongside the cart, watching him. His face was grim.

After several agonizing minutes, the cart rolled to a stop and the paladins dismounted. Several of them climbed up on the wagon, surrounding Reverence. He braced himself for the pain as they lifted him and carried him to the edge of a cliff. They were preparing to lower him over the edge when Theodore spoke.

“Stop.” Hope flared in Reverence’s chest, his heart beating faster. Maybe Theodore had changed his mind. It wasn’t too late. But the captain’s next words shattered his hope. “Remove a few of the chains. The whole bundle is too heavy for our ropes, and we want to be sure we still have some in case we need it on the way home.”

Hurriedly, the paladins obeyed, unwrapping a few lengths of chain from around his body.

“Take off one more. He’s injured enough now that he shouldn’t pose a threat in this form, and if – when – he transforms, he’ll grow enough that they’ll be a serious problem for him.”

Aside from Theodore’s commands, no one spoke. It was late now, and completely dark aside from the moon, whose waxing crescent was just barely visibly over the trees. By tomorrow it would be the new moon.

The moment of peace was broken all too soon by Theodore’s curt, “Lower him.” The paladins lifted Reverence and lowered him inch by inch over the edge of the ravine. His legs had been freed just enough that he was able to use them to push away from the rocks, preventing even more injuries.

He went down, 10 feet, then 20. He estimated he was 30 or 40 feet down the side of the cliff when he finally touched the ground. The paladins continued to lower him until he was able to half-slide, half-sit to the ground.

Above him, the paladins began to pull the rope back up as Reverence looked around his new grave. The rocky outcropping they had placed him on was tiny, no more than 6 feet wide and 10 feet long. Aside from a few bits of moss, it was completely barren. It certainly felt like a fitting place to die. And he was certain to die here. The road was so rarely traveled that chances are he would starve or die of thirst before someone passed by. And even if they did, he was so far down that they wouldn’t be able to see him.

Beren’s distant voice pulled him back to the present. He glanced up to see two figures looking down on him, silhouetted by the faint moonlight. “Sir… are you certain you want to do this? Death from thirst or starvation is not a quick one. Wouldn’t you rather be certain that he di–”

“Enough, Beren. What’s done is done. Try your best to put Reverence out of your mind. Before long, he’ll be nothing but carrion.”

The figures disappeared from view, one after another, and before long the horses’ footsteps and the sound of the wagon’s wheels faded into the distance. Reverence was alone.

#whumpril #whumpril2025 #whumprilday4 #threat #whump #dnd writing #my writing #oc: Carrion #Theodore's last line of dialogue him me like a lightning bolt one night a few months ago when I was getting ready for bed.#Truly it felt like some kind of divine inspiration. Carrion's entire backstory wrote itself in my mind in a matter of minutes.#I've never experienced something like that before or since.#anyways. Keep your eyes out for my author's commentary reblog of this piece bc there's a LOT going on.#Feel free to tell me your theories but I'll tell you right now Reverence is an EXTREMELY unreliable narrator here. :)

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cupoftrembling · 9 months ago

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Alterity

Jamais vu.

Jamais vu is not a new concept, the idea of knowing without knowing. To know which way the sun rises, without ever once seeing the dawn, that is jamais vu. To hear the child’s melody on the air is jamais vu. To know where, just right, to sneak the knife in is jamais vu. Every culture across the Askaven Continent is aware of jamais vu. Of course, there are different reasons why one experiences it. Some theorize that there is a collective weft of the mind that connects each and every one of us. The idea is that, when we think something, it joins the Grand Weft of Isosa. A weft that we all have access to and can pull resources from. A memory bank that allows, across time and space, a connection between one another.

Others think that at every moment we constantly extrude harmonic striations; the way our bodies interact with the air sends out signals to anything and everything, constantly displaying our true intentions to one another. Those who follow such ideas say that jamais vu is just us picking up on the harmonic resonance of one another, intuiting one’s desire as our own. When I focus and know, beyond knowing, the story the man who sits in front of me was told by his father when he was a child, it is simply me picking up on his body language and pheromones at any given point. That these jamais vu’s are just biological impulses that we are, to one degree or another, receptive to.

I am not here to debate the merits of which theory is correct.

Because they all call the experience jamais vu. A Mariposian word. At the center of this concept, like at the center of all things, is Mariposa. Derived from the name of a fallen angel of Auleen, the words “jamais vu” have infected the very discussion of the topic. Whenever I broach one of my contemporaries, how few they are indeed, they discuss the merits of the different social philosophies surrounding jamais vu. But the language, it does not matter. Empyrial, Mariposian, Celestial, Eastern, Algeran. Each of them talk about the concept using the cage of language that is jamais vu.

“Why?” I ask them, hands wrapped around a leather bound journal. “Surely, your own tongue must have the words for jamais vu?” I plead with them, my eyes wet with concern and with frustration.

They blink back at me, their own eyes glazed over with some sort of deep understanding. As if whatever words, whatever concept, has been kept from them, locked away in the vault by the supplanting arcane taradiddle. “I’m sure there are.” They rationalize, “But what else could it be but jamais vu?”

Jamais vu: A thief of a concept that makes a home in places it is not welcome. They know, without knowing, that the Mariposian word is the most accurate, most well conceived word for what we experience every day.

What Reva experienced on that boat, in the cold, salt brined waters off the coast of Ashosh Ai could only be described as jamais vu.

There were four people on that boat that dreadful day. Reva was the abjur of the group, the one specialized in defensive and negative magics. Herah was the muscle who wore a scar across the bridge of his nose. Formen of the Wastes was a prevoker whose own magics suffused sinew and bone. And Mirabell was the pretty little skald from foreign shores.

And then there was Dawn.

She sat at the back of the boat, hand on the rudder of their all but silent vessel. Salt soaked water stuck to the edge of her brow, slicking her blonde hair back tight against her scalp. Each of these thieves were all dressed in Dawn’s favorite shade of purple, mirrored in outfit by their patron. She wore a grin, pernicious and deceptive, wide on her face. It didn’t sit right to Reva, who had seen that smile several times. It was almost as if her mouth was too wide, or too deep, for her face. Ravenous, as the Wolf had often been described to be. Her teeth too sharp, her tongue too dextrous. Dawn’s mouth was something to fall into, to be ensorcelled by.

Dawn’s other hand, the one resting on her slacks, had a single, plain gold band around her ring finger. She fiddled with it with her thumb. A wedding ring, a Mariposian practice. Dawn was not married, or if she was she gave no care or concern for her wife, as Reva’s own experience had shown her. But the noise that Dawn made as she rubbed that ring drilled a thought into Reva’s mind. It was louder than the engine, louder than the crashing of waves, louder than the prattling rainfall. It was a clear moment, obliterative of any other thought or sense that might have been had.

It was a sunny day in Mariposa, and the air was thick with the smell of lavender berries. Dawn was walking, hand in hand, with a woman who Reva had never seen before. Long, auburn hair and skin that smelled like an old book. History. She knew, beyond knowing, that this unfamiliar woman usually wore her hair up in a small, tight bun, but that Dawn liked it down. Dawn reached down to a stand, picked up an apple, her daughter’s favorite, and placed it in a small, handspun wicker basket. She was smiling in a way that was not her own smile, a smile that looked unfamiliar to Reva. Something natural, something more akin to the human form. The woman smiled back. And then, she was gone.

But Dawn, she remained smiling the same way that she had, moments before the not-quite-a-memory had wormed its way into Reva’s mind. Her eyes had narrowed, as if she was aware of the abjur’s intrusion into something private. Her thumb was now as far away from that ring as possible. “Got something on my face?” She half joked

“Yea, that look you give me.” Reva brushed off the memory. It was something she wanted to imagine, something that she felt she wanted. Perhaps that was Reva’s future she was picturing. It was almost convincing enough, like a hand on the back of your neck or a sword over your head you can almost swear isn’t there. Reva smiled as the boat glided through the water.

Dawn smiled back and looked towards the shore, only moments away. With her ringed hand, she reached into her vest and drew her revolver. Snubnosed, and easily concealable, it was not a model you or I would be familiar with. Completely bespoke, made by the perilous thief herself. It had a silver frame with pearl handles. The cylinder of bullets inside of it, much like the revolvers of the weaponsmiths of Mariposa that had inspired it, dripped with a sort of chill. As if anticipatory, they made no noise. They did not hum like the acausal bullets of other guns. A weapon, silenced. A breath, held.

The boat hit the shorebank, jostling Reva from her seat. She lurched forward and caught herself on the rope handle of the craft. Only one person stood on the shore: a tall, stout knight with hair interlaced with the flowers of summer. He looked regal, in the same way a blade might. He eyed the party with suspicion. Formen of the Wastes took a step off the boat and, noticing the sentry, raised a long rifle to meet his eyeline. The Wastral looks through the slits of his wide helmet, eyes wide and jittery from the ampule of Auleen’s Blessing he had hidden in his nose. He tells himself it was to calm a shaky hand, and I am sure at some point he had been correct.

Dawn raised her hand and placed it on Formen’s barrel, lowering the rifle to the ground. “Friend, not foe.” She smirked. “At least, as friend as we get.”

The sentry rushed towards the landing party. Mirabell stretched her legs and caught a dirty look from Reva. Mirabell had too long of fingers to be human and that smile she wore looked a bit too wild to be anything but trouble. She looked like a mockery of the human form, flesh stretched out over too much body. She dug her toes into the sand underneath of her and sighed a breath of relief.

“Ah, good to be home.” Mirabell's grin grew wider as she stretched her arms behind her head. Reva hears a sickening crunch as bones settled back into some new, terrible shape. “Been too long, Ashosh Ai.”

The Sentry descended on them, pulled his plumed helmet from his head, and furrowed his brow. His eyes were like Mirabell’s, constantly sparkling with a light not quite there. “Mrs. Allcott, you’re late. You’re almost three hours late” His voice was somber, as if at a wake. Reva draws her pistol for a reason she can’t quite place. “I’ve put a lot on the line here just-”

“Brightwind, it's me you’re talking about.” Dawn took a step towards the man and placed a reassuring hand, the one with the ring on it, on his shoulder. She smiled wide in a way that always made Reva weak in the knees. “I’d never put you in a position where I’d let you down, right?”

Reva turned towards the castle behind the shore as her employer and their contact began to talk. Herah was standing off to the side, observing the treeline just above the shore.

“You good?” Reva raises an eyebrow, quietly joining him. Herah was a tall, wide man. Short, cropped hair kept tight to his scalp. Burned onto his arm, right where his shoulder meets neck, was a small flower. Segmented in seven different petals. The symbol of Mariposa’s merchant army, employed for any sort of conflict the kingdom would ever need. She never asked how he got the scar on his nose.

“I don’t like how exposed we are right now. We should have landed up the coast a bit.” He motioned towards a small bay further up the shoreline. It sat in the castle’s shadow, the brickwork looming against the sun. Somewhere, above them, they could all hear a song. Mournful, cruel, with notes disharmonic and dissonant. Reva fought the urge to cry, yet a single, lonesome tear rolled down her cheek. “Any Tom, Dick, or Harry could stumble upon us and alert the whole island.”

“It's closer to the castle than we are.” Reva shrugged. “Maybe Dawn knew it’d be more guarded.”

“I like Dawn and all,” Herah glanced down at his companion. “But something tells me she didn’t think through the plan that hard.”

“She hasn’t gotten us killed yet.”

“That she hasn’t.”

A moment passed. The wind whipped and howled, stirred into frenzy by the storm on the horizon that never seemed to get closer. The singer shifted melodies, the lyrics now about Reva’s childhood, about being lost and scared. This she knew, even if the words were foreign to her. About being stuck in the underbrush, about it getting dark and no one coming to find you.

“Do you think we’re actually after a panpipe?” Reva rubbed her arms, as if to stave off a chill. Herah looked at the woman with confusion. The air was damp and heavy with wet, hotter than the Cambion Coast. “I mean, seems pretty banal.”

“I try not to think about what we’re here to do.”

Reva raised an eyebrow. Behind them, Dawn laughed loudly, as if hearing the best joke ever told. Nobody buys it. “Is this a special case?

“No, it’s not.” Herah sighed, eyes skirting downwards. “We’re here to take something of value from someone who values it. It makes me sad to think about it for too long.”

Reva smiled and clapped the mountain of a man on his back. “You’re in the wrong profession, friend.”

“Can’t help what I’m good at.” He smiled back at her.

“You can, though.” Reva’s smile dropped, just a bit. It is softer now. Sadder, almost.

“Yeah, but.” Herah looked out towards the sea. There was a storm out there, somewhere. A roiling, boiling thunder that kept the sky alight. He could feel it, he just couldn't see it. He shuddered off the thought, letting it roll from the back of his neck. “This is easier. More right, I guess.”

Reva frowned and looked down. Herah placed a large hand on her shoulder.

“It doesn’t feel right.” Reva chided, feet kicking an errant shell.

“Chin up, Rev.” Herah’s thumb rubbed where Reva’s neck meets her shoulders. It is the same motion her mother used to do, years ago. Comforting. It is not something he had ever done before, nor was it anything he’d most likely do again. “Maybe I’ll steal you something shiny, something just for you.”

“It's time.” A gruff voice came from behind them -- Formen. His long rifle was slung over his shoulder. His clothes were long and flowing, like clouds that flew too high. His helmet wasImperial make, Reva noticed the moon with the sword driven through it that he tried to scratch out, but whether he had it because of his background or because the Western Wastrals trade almost exclusively with the Empire of Night was unknown. The cloth that wrapped around his hands was black and red, fabrics intertwining and woven together to make something that kept out the cold but wicked sweat away. He looked good standing on the sand, steady, as if he was born for it.

“The boss want us?” Herah raised an eyebrow. Formen nodded. The storm would have to wait. “That’s all I’ll need to hear. Reva, come on.”

Reva nodded in return. The sentry had replaced his helmet at home point, and was now standing next to Mirabell, who’s smile was wide and childlike, right where the sand turns to grass. Dawn was a couple steps behind, gun drawn, wheat blonde hair slick with the salt of sweat and the sea. A small path unfurled in front of them, through the thick brush and unnaturally dense trees. A small, stone arch demarcated the trail. Reva walked, feet already feeling heavy and worn. She fought the urge to catch up with Dawn, to walk in lockstep with her. It made her feel childish whenever she did, as if she was a little lost dog following around its master.

Brightwind put his hand up and the group stopped with him. He looks back and grins. Past the helmet, past the visor and the mystery of whoever this man was, Reva recognized something. Something primal, something pure.

Pride.

“Stick to the path, friends. To where I step.” He said, tongue uncoiling like a snake between his lips. “There are old things here. The Sundance Throne is an hour walk from here, and the ceremony has already begun.”

“You hear the man, right?” Dawn looked back at her thieves, her perilous cadre. “You wanna live long enough to get paid, you gotta respect this place. It sure as shit don’t respect you.”

The thieves all grunted in approval and, in a moment, were swallowed by the wilds.

If you’ve never been to the Sundance Throne in its prime, I pity you.

Imagine, if you will, a castle nestled deep in some primordial forest. The stones interlaced with flowers and vines, the arches tastefully decayed. Banners that ripple in slight wind, heralding pristine monarchical traditions that predate the very sands of time. On the air, fruit and song and revelry carried like pollen, like breath. It was infectious. It was an Avalon of a better, more right age. An age of gallantry and of knights, in which rule did not need maintaining and all was right and in its own place.

It was like a place out of Reva’s storybooks, the ones her mother read to her as a child. She would sit on her mother’s lap, light flickering slightly overhead as she read to her. The only scion of a minor corporate noble in Mariposa, Reva would have needed to be well versed in the world, even the parts of it that never have been true. She would ride on her nursemaid’s shoulders like she was a grand steed, strike the head cook in the back of his head with a rolled up piece of paper as he had his smoke.

She placed a hand on one of the stone bricks of a dilapidated archway as they exited the forest. It was like the archway that demarcated her old chateau in the countryside. If she looked hard enough, cared to scour over every inch of the brickwork, she knew she could find her old initials somewhere on here. Faded, time worn, but still there.

Dawn looked at Reva with pity first, and then slight annoyance. In her hand, just hidden by her sleeve, was her snubnosed revolver. Her thumb was on the hammer of the weapon. She had no illusions of what this place could be. But she was not a cold woman, nor a cruel one.

“It's beautiful.” slipped from Reva’s mouth in a moment of un-vigilance. “How long has this place been here?”

“No idea.” Dawn shrugged, voice modulating in odd ways. “You ask the queen of this place, she’d say forever.”

Formen grunted. “I’d rather not ask her a thing.”

There was a slight pause, pregnant and awkward. Reva coughed. “Right.”

“Always the serious one.” Dawn smirked, hand still pressed tightly to her revolver. “Can’t let the pretty girl have a bit of fun?”

“Fun can be had after the job, miss.”

Their guide had put his helmet back on, but Reva knew the weight of the gaze of the glaring eyes beneath. They were the eyes of the Queen of this place.Judgemental, right, and true: this Reva knew without knowing. He quickly disappeared into the oncoming crowd.

Reva was surprised to see this many bodies here, on an otherwise deserted island. From the beachfront, the castle looked dilapidated. Banners flew and waved, but they were tattered. And the wilds had long overtook this place. Here, now in the shadow of the Sundance Throne itself, this all remained true. But there was a certain air of pageantry to the decay now. The vines that, from the distance of the shore, looked as if haphazard and random now had the arrangement of parade streamers, brightly petaled flowers almost looking like triangular banners. The heavy canopy disguised the equally dilapidated, and yet still inhabited, stone and thatch buildings underneath them.

And the people --

Maybe hundreds were approaching this grand, stone circular stage. It reminded Reva of the sacrificial circles of the Orcish Hinterlands. Places that the old and ancient Orcs once had inhabited before turning to Isosa worship, now used only during holidays and ceremonies. However, over the years, the sacrifices became more and more symbolic, with men and women throwing pieces of burning memories into the center of the circle.

These, however, looked just as active as ever. In fact, it was the only structure in the square that had no vegetation across it at all. Even the grass that creeped along the party’s feet, the grass that made Reva wish to take her boots off and feel it between her toes, thinned and disappeared as it approached the stone structure, replaced with the sandy shoal that this island was no doubtidly made from. Reva knew, beyond knowing, what rituals were performed here. And for who they were performed on.

She pretended her shudder was from the sea air.

All manner of folk were here in the Sundance Throne, from all corners of the Askaven Continent. Long fingers, straw hair, big pointed grins. There were Orcs and Humans and Elves and all manner of things which are not those. Long, slender things who look almost like you or I. Things that hide between blades of grass. Things who hide between bolts of lightning.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Mirabell grinned her toothy grin. Her shoes were still off and the blades of grass wrapped themselves around her toes. She looked back at Reva and grabbed the abjur’s hand. “Not another place on the continent like it.”

Reva clenched her fingers around Mirabell’s. They felt like worms, writhing around beneath her skin. “Maybe not another place like it in existence.”

“Maybe,” Mirabell continued. “Just maybe, I can show you around after the job is done.”

Reva looked around her. Her companions, Dawn, had left. Formen, most likely, absconded to some high tower or parapet to look over the courtyard. Herah and Dawn folded into the crowd, becoming like them. Even now, with how intimately she knew her employer, she would not, could not, be able to identify her. She has become, for this moment and for what felt like forever, a stranger. She steeled herself and, delicately, looked at Mirabell.

“This place is your home?” Reva asked, the question heavy on her tongue. Her throat was dry. Mirabell wrestled down the need to flee, to grab her something to drink. “This queen is your queen.”

“Aye.” Mirabell responded, thumbs rubbing across Reva’s palm. Her brogue is heavy, thicker now than it had been. The crowd of almost people and never-weres envelop them as they walk. Their bodies are warm to the touch, radiating that sickly sweaty heat. Somehow, somewhere, trumpets began to blare. “You’re wondering why I would steal from her.”

Reva nodded.

Mirabell looked over across the courtyard, past the canopy of trees, past the banners and flowers and the birds with human eyes. She saw it, dear reader:The Sundance Throne, the castle of Queen Titania. And, from its tallest spire, a voice echoed across the island. It sang an old song, older than words, but not older than stories. A single, lonely aria of all that you've never wanted to hear.

“Because I love her.”

Reva raised an eyebrow. “An odd reason.”

“This queen, like all queens I suppose, is more than an individual.” Mirabell gripped Reva’s hand that bit tighter. “She is, she can be, everything we can aspire to be. The limit of our bodies is the limit of hers. And when she is resplendent, like the sun, that is wonderful. There would be wind in our sails and beneath our wings.”

“But when she isn’t…”

“Exactly. I love my Queen, but she will kill me.” Mirabell glanced downwards. “She will kill all of us.”

“How?”

“The world has changed, and she has not. Or maybe she has, and I just have not noticed. We are not creatures made for this place.”

Reva smiled, a single tear rolling down her cheek. An effect of the song, an effect mirrored in her companion. “You can be, though. You can break yourself into shape.”

“What do you think I’m trying to accomplish here?” Mirabell laughed slightly to herself. “I wouldn’t have agreed if I did not believe I could.”

Reva nudged her companion with her shoulder. “Are you our secret benefactor?”

“Hah!” She smiled. The wind was cool between the two of them. Mirabell remembered the first time she had met this ‘secret benefactor’. The smoke filled room, the velvet cushions, the mournful piano that echoed through the manor. A single, plain gold ring on a long finger. Mirabell touched it to her lips and Reva’s mouth tastes like datura and ash. Mirabell let go of her hand. “Maeve I am not.”

“So you’ve met her?”

“Once. She was beautiful. Hair like fire, with these long satin white gloves that extended past her elbow.”

“She sounds resplendent.”

“She is.” Mirabell sighed. “We’ll meet her after this job is complete. In Mariposa.”

Reva smirked. “From one Queen to another, huh?”

“We live in a world of Queens,” Mirabell looked towards the horizon, where the sun meets the storms. “Queen Mariposa, Queen Titania, even Isosa above us. There are the common, and then there is the uncommon. Masters and slaves.”

“What about us? Those would spit in the eyes of the Queens. The servants who swipe the silverware from the table.”

“We hope and we pray that no one knows us enough to categorize us as either or. That is where we die, Reva, when we are known.”

A small, faint crack of lightning echoed across the sea. Reva flinched. Beside her, a man with vines woven between his beard glared at her. His eyes were like diamonds, cold and hard. White, as if he was blind. His hair was thick and braided with moss and lichen. He looked like an old yew tree, standing tall on a hill above large, rolling cliffs. On his hip, a broad sword of white stone. On his back, a titanic bow, hand bent from that ancient tree. There was no string, and no arrows either. On his hands, Reva knew, there was blood. This man glared at her, acknowledging her flinch. Reva knew in his eyes that she was an outsider. That no true son of Ashosh Ai would flinch at the storm.

And that is when the sky, grand as she was, opened her mouth.

“Children of Ashosh Ai! Those who love me and are loved in return!”

The voice of the sky was sharp, cutting through the air like ozone and blood. Reva’s head snapped towards the source of the noise but she couldn’t quite find what caused it.

“For years, my outrider knights have braved the dark places of this cruel world.”

The man in front of Reva grunted, stepping between Reva and the stage in front of her. He was tall and broad, rolling hair cascading in curls down his shoulders. His bow rested on his neck like the plow of some grand draft animal. In his beard, the flowering vines blossom. He glared down at Reva, moisture clinging to the hair around his mouth. The sun haloed his head and it was as if the fire itself surrounded him.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” His voice was coarse, like loamy sand. Reva, truly, had no idea what he meant by that. “Who do you report to?”

Reva swallowed hard and tasted the bile rising in her throat. “Um.”

The sky continued to speak: “To shine my light deep into the untrue alcoves and hidden enclaves.”

The man took another step toward her. Around his neck, a small knot of wood. Between the ridges and lines of the plant’s matrix, a small light glows. Red, like autumn leaves. “You’re not an outrider. I know all of them. So, you have to be one of their crewmates, right?”

Reva cannot tell if he’s merely goading her or playing some sort of cruel joke. His face, old and scarred, was not jocular. His hands were the perfect size of Reva’s neck. He could, would, crush her in a moment. Not a magick in the world would save her. This she knows.

“To carve truth into a world of lies.”

“I’m with Vanglorious.” Reva stammered the first name she can think of., the knight she entered with.

The man in front of her smiled. “No you ain’t.” He took another step toward her. “I know his crew. Good neighbors, one and all.”

“To cleave peace from war.”

“New hire.” The words roll from off her tongue, possessed by the spirit of knowledge never known. “After Bittersmith ate it outside the Cambion Coasts.”

“To fulfill our purpose in this cruel place.”

“I could call him up. See who’s bandying around his name.” He gripped Reva’s hand tight. She felt her bones starting to buckle, a small hairline fracture around one of her carpals. Her skin blooms with immediate bruising.

Reva’s eyes narrowed. “You should do that.” She drew her gun.

“Ser Yew, please forgive me.” Mirabell whispered as she, too, freed her weapon, a small wooden knife from her sleeve. It was sharp as iron and it slipped in between where Ser Yew’s ribs would have been. Mirabell twisted the t-shaped handle as the knight’s hand gripped her back in an approximation of camaraderie. He didn’t cry out, doing so would be an insult to his station. He just gripped Mirabell like she was an old friend and locked eyes with her. She smiled warmly.

The sky cracked with violence. On the curl of its lips, the voice sharpened to a razor’s edge. “We have company.” The crowd turned to face the unwelcome. In their eyes, the flash of lightning. Like the eyes of animals caught in a beam of light. All individuality, all sense, all compassion wiped clean in a moment. Ser Yew drops Reva’s hand. Mirabell twists the knife up, driving it so far deep that her fingers themselves pierce his skin.

Behind her, another set of fingers lace through Reva’s other hand. The skin is calloused and bitter. A mechanic’s hands, a thief's hands --Dawn’s hands. Mirabell locks eyes with Reva. In a moment, all of what might be flashes before her eyes. Smokey rooms and a panpipe in the hands clad in scarlet. A place for peace. She can give Reva nothing but this.

“Run.”

Mirabell was torn limb from limb. The crowd descended on her like wolves on a lamb. Verdant viscera and bone and sinew and gore splattered on their muzzles. Hands. Claws. A flash of white teeth marred in the violence. Biting and tearing. Reva tried not to see it. Tried to shut her eyes to it as she flees through the flood of the crowd, all clamoring to sink their teeth into Mirabell’s flesh. She tried to block out reality, keen her mind on her footfalls in front of her, to what place might approximate safety here. On the hand in her hand. Tight, desperate, and together.

She failed, every time.

Dawn slammed the door behind them, chest heaving from exertion. Reva threw her hands to her knees. Her chest burned, lungs coiled in knots from the running. Her hands trembled, dousing her pants in Mirabell’s blood. Green blood. Reva always hated being right. The room they found themselves in appeared to be empty, a boon, and limited to only one entry, a bane. It seemed to be a small mess room, with windows looking out towards the courtyard. A tapestry hung on the opposite wall, a burning tree emblazoned in its heart. The courtyard out the window was the same that Reva thought she was in just moments ago. The crowd was restless, even from this distance that much was clear. Queen Titania had disappeared, along with her entourage.

“How, ah.” Reva caught her breath. “How long were we running for?”

“Not sure.” Dawn lied. Forty-three minutes almost exactly. “Fey magic, makes time pass funny.”

“So they are fey.” Reva shot Dawn a look. From outside the door, she could hear running, faint shouting. They were looking for her. Looking for them. They will do to Reva what they did to Mirabell. Rip her flesh from her bones, floss their teeth with her hair. She will be made nothing. Rewa locked her eyes with Dawn’s, her glare knife sharp. This woman is her killer. Reva shoved her harder than she intended to. “You should have told us this, Dawn.”

Dawn glared back at her. They should have made it to the center of the castle by now, they’re just wasting time now. “Yea well, would you have gone otherwise? Gotta be worth all the coin I was gunna give you.”

“No.” Reva sighed and followed Dawn’s eyeline. “Babe, you can’t just lie to me like that.”

Dawn crossed the room and looked back at Reva over her shoulder. “I can, though. At the end of the day, you came with. I didn’t hold a gun to your head.” Dawn motioned over to the crowd. “You wanna see if they’re any nicer than me?”

Reva broke their gaze. “I don’t, no.,” her mouth thinned into a hard line. “But we’re only making it through this if we’re a team, Dawn.”

“Yeah.”

“And I deserve some answers.” Reva crossed the room to be next to her employer. Not her lover, not her friend. At least, not at this current moment. “Who hired us?”

“A noble out of Mariposa.” Dawn shrugged. “I don’t know any more than that.”

More shouting from outside the door. A bit closer now. Reva’s hands began to shake. “What are we stealing?”

“A panpipe.” Dawn replied. Her eyes were focused on the door. “I didn’t lie ‘bout that.”

“Do you know why it's special enough to get Mirabell killed?”

Dawn blinked. “No.” She lied.

Reva sighed. “You’re in the dark as much as we were then, fuckin figures.”

Dawn raised a hand to the nearby hanging tapestry. Her fingers traced along the flames of the burning Castle Elphame like they had along the bumps of Reva’s spine. Her face was inscrutable, but her touch was gentle, as if the threads were woven braille, a message only her hands can parse. Reva’s eyes softened at the sight, her shoulders untensing. This was a side of Dawn that Reva knew. Dawn’s fingers reach Durandal. Here, he was depicted in a small, almost childlike manner. In his hands, he was holding a silver blade, like a shard of moonlight. His fingers bleed, as do his eyes. Next to him, his adversary: The Wolf. Her head is shaved, her eyes covered in soot. She is smiling with thousands of teeth. Behind them both, the Wyld burns. The death of all fey. This was a tapestry depicting the Fall of Elphame, the time when the fey lost their immortality. A child’s story.

“This must be The Blade Awoke.” Reva remarked, off-handedly. “Titania’s daughter who became her son.”

“Durandal.” Dawn said. “You’ve heard the stories then?”

“Don’t quite think they’re just stories anymore.” Reva cast another quick glance at the window. “A fey believed so strongly in a cause, that he broke his name to serve his mother. He became a weapon to stop The Wolf.”

Dawn chuckled. “Didn’t work, did it?”

“No, but,” Reva smiled “I think it's a sweet story. To believe, so strongly, that you might change who you are.”

“You see love here?”

Reva reached over to put a hand on Dawn’s shoulder. “Who wouldn’t?”

Dawn couldn’t decide if she wanted to smile or frown. She produced a knife from her scarf and tore it into the fabric. Her knife cut through the strands of history, excising Durandal from the story.

“What are you doing?” Reva says in a half-laugh, as if forgetting where they are.

“I dunno,” Dawn lied. She kept cutting, tearing fabric away until just the Wolf remained. She now burns alone, fighting an enemy long defeated. Blades raised with nothing there to cut or rend. “I wanted to do it, so I did. Keep a little souvenir here. Of love.”

Reva frowned. Is she making fun of her? Dawn was a lot of things, but cruel she was not. At least, Reva wanted to believe that. She tried to reach across to Dawn, to see what she might be thinking. What she might be feeling. She attempted to force a jamais vu, mind keening on a singular want and desire. To know Dawn better, to attempt to bend this woman she loves into a shape Reva can understand. There is nothing for her efforts. All she sees is Dawn and the mystery woman on that sunny spring day in the Mariposa market. The same vision she saw on the boat. Dawn narrowed her eyes. Her thumb rubbed along her ring in her closed fist. She could feel the intrusion on the back of her neck, like a shiver before a rumbling storm across a city. So her mind shifted, directing the attention to what she wanted to be seen feeling.

“You’re a weapon, aren’t you.” Reva chided. She was being metaphorical, her disappointment in Dawn’s intrusion dripping from her words. “I attempt to bridge the gap, you cut me away. You were made to hurt.”

“No, I’m not.” Dawn placed her hand along the fraying fabric of the tapestry. Durandal used to be there. And now, he is not. She holds him in her hand. “It was something I chose to be.”

“You can choose to not be it, too.” Reva considered the gap between them once more, but thought better of trying to bridge it once more. “If you wanted to.”

“We have a job to do, Reva.” Dawn looked back at her and smiled in the same way she once did to her wife. The same way she had in the memory Reva had plucked. “We can talk about what I want to be once we’ve survived and we’re rich.”

“Ah,” Reva refocused, remembering with sudden clarity exactly where she was. The voices are distant again. They do not know where they are -- yet. “Yeah.”

“Come on.” Dawn sighed going for the door. Towards the unsafety of the castle. “Maybe we can meet up with the others.

Reva always follows her.

In front of them, Herah’s blood pooled as he slumped against the credenza. Muddy red and brown fading into the threaded gold of the carpet. He was frowning, his face permanently held in slight puzzlement. Reva had never seen him frown before, or if she had all thought of it was obliterated from her mind by what was before her. In his hand, a small gold idol. Many hands and all sharp angles. Something shiny, just for her. Reva brought a hand to her own mouth, blocking a silent scream.

Above him, Vainglorious Brightwind, Third Outrider Knight of Queen Titania the Eternal. His armor shone with all the fierceness of the Sun, like he was something out of a storybook. It caught light that wasn’t there, refracting the gilded bricks and fabrics of the Sundance Throne. He lifted his alabaster cape towards his blade and cleaned Herah’s blood from it. His helmet, which had bornDurandal’s likeness on the front, was discarded at his feet, the solemn visage shattered by Herah’s errant gunshot.

“Brightwind…” Dawn sighed. In her hand is her silvered revolver. A frail thing. Her fingers gripped tight around the pearl handles. Knuckles white.

“Don’t you ‘Brightwind’ me, Allcott.”

“You’ve killed my employee.” Dawn motioned towards Herah’s chilling corpse. Reva raised an eyebrow in disgust at Dawn. An employee? The tattoos on Reva’s hands began to glow white hot.

Brightwind laughed, hollow and shrill, like he was trying to hide it from some prying ears. “My Queen ordered this man dead personally.” His gloved hand struck his chestplate. Right over his heart. Maybe he saw Dawn looking there. Maybe he saw the errant twitch in her fingers. Maybe, just maybe, he felt it on the wind. But here, even beneath that armor, his heart was exposed. Imperiled. “You know what she would do to me if I were to disobey.”

Dawn centered her pistol, leveled at his chest. Brightwind’s hands trembled.“Yeah, what I’d do to you would be a blessing, right?

“Don’t be like that, Allcott.” Brightwind took a step forward. The hammer on Dawn’s revolver clicked.

“Like what?”

“Unreasonable.” Another step. Herah’s body was reflected in his shining armor. Titania gave that armor to him, years ago, for leading her people from the Wyld to wherever new hell this place was. Vainglorious kept it polished to a mirrored sheen. Even if the light got too bright, even if the sun reflected off it in his eyes. He would never stand to have it sullied. “She was behind me. What else was I supposed to do?”

“You respect your queen enough to kill for her,” fell out of Reva’s mouth, “But not enough to keep us from stealing from her.”

“Leash your pup, Allcott.”

Reva’s vision flashed red. “What the fuc-”

“You don’t get to call her that.” Dawn cut her abjur off. “You’re no better. Reva’s right, you jumped at the chance to betray her, you know, as long as your ass wasn’t on the line.”

Reva met Dawn’s eyeline, twisting her foot into the carpet, like a viper coiled to strike. It was in the way the light moved around Dawn. It was not passing through her, it was not blocked by her. In this moment, Dawn cast no shadow. She was not radiant. She was not a queen. She would not need servants to kill. This Reva knew.

“I don’t know what-” Brightwind began.

“What I mean?” The side of Dawn’s face is obscured by her revolver. “I mean that you’re a coward. And I don’t do business with cowards.”

And Reva knew --.

She ground her foot against the fine carpet below her, the one sodden and heavy with her friend’s blood. Her tattoos were white hot, glowing like molten metal through the veins of a crucible, and her fists ossified into steel. The muscles of her leg contract and tear, hardening as well. Her veins contracted, slowing her blood flow to a crawl under the pure pressure of transformation. Brightwind was maybe thirty feet in front of her. He kept his eyes on her mate, on the woman holding his death in front of him. She was gleaming, this Reva knows. She was what Reva will disappear into.

She crossed the distance before Dawn could pull the trigger. The thief blinked and, in a moment, Reva was not beside her. Dawn was surprised when she saw her employee in front of her, blocking her shot. No longer is his heart exposed, no longer is his death clean and known. Reva ruined this. Dawn fought the urge to shoot anyway, swallowing down that disgust somewhere deep. Reva’s fist made contact with Vainglorious Brightwind’s chestplate. Though it may be infused with ancient and gleaming magics, bronze will forever remain no match for steel. The breastplate dented like the hull of a sinking ship. A small, sharp gasp shudders past his lips. His feet slipped from underneath him. His blade fell from his grasp. It hit the floor with a clatter that echoed through the halls of the Sundance Throne, heard by all except Dawn, Reva, and Vainglorious Brightwind.

Behind them, Dawn lowered her pistol slightly. Not enough to not be ready if she was needed, but enough to hesitate if she ever was. Enough to miss any shot she might have taken. Reva, on the other hand, remained a blur of violence. She reared her fist back again, skin broken and bloodied from the contact with the metal plate. Clang. She struck him again, another dent in Vainglorious’ armor. Blood flew this time, immolate as it soars through the air. Brightwind stumbled another step back, feet pulling the carpet runner up like waves on the shoreline. His chest was heavy and bruised, blood pooling around a broken rib. His body was not mortal, it was not physical. This is what Titania had promised him, that this armor and this purpose would make him perfect.

And yet, why does it ache?

He could not take another blow. Her fist glowed like fire, her eyes ablaze with rage. He twisted, pulling his broken torso back as he stumbled away at the last moment, and her fist sails past him, carrying her in cruel momentum. She tumbled forward, curling her body so her eyes were still locked on the knight’s in front of her.

“Shit.”

Behind the two of them, Dawn cursed. The ravenous crowd had found its way into the castle. Two of them, mouths and hands stained with Mirabell’s gore, began to lumber towards the three of them, their eyes glowing like an animal caught in firelight, senseless and lost. In their hands, cruel and jagged blades. Even I could not be sure they could tell friend from foe. She glared at Reva and Vainglorious, locked in mortal peril. Reva dropped her weight, arms braced at either side of her. Reva’s fist, iron and stalwart, dripped crimson. It, for a moment, made Dawn’s breath hitch in excitement. It was something so human, to her at least. To raise arms to defend what you love, enough to break yourself for it. Dawn fought a smile as she leveled her revolver against the interference. This was not her fight, but it was one she could ensure they had alone.

Dawn broke into a sprint, blowing past Reva and her knight-errant. Reva bore her fist again in front of her. “Come on, Brightwind. You’re mine.” The words dripped from Reva’s mouth like rabid spit. They froth as they escape from her lips. She lunged forward, hand grasping for Brightwind’s neck. There is exposed flesh there. Something weak, something to break. She would grab him there, crack him open like a crab. Reva, beyond anything, knew that the coward was squishy down to the core.

Three gunshots rang out. Dawn knelt, elbows braced on her thigh. A soldier’s stance to eliminate sway. Pure instinct, beaten into the circuits and servos of Dawn’s very logic. It felt right to hurt, to kill. Two landed dead center onto one of the revelers, the one with straw hair and a sea breeze scent. He dropped to the floor, dead before his mind could comprehend what had happened to him. His companion, a skinny little redhead redcap, brandished bloodied blade and was missed by inches. The redcap let loose a scream and looked down at his erstwhile and new friend, seeing the wounds burn and sizzle from the projectiles. He was made for this moment. To hurt his Queen’s foes.

Brightwind raised his arm to block Reva. Her fist made contact with his vambrace at the moment that Dawn fired another shot and the metal crumpled instantly. Reva’s fist continued it's trajectory, pinning Brightwind’s now useless arm against his sternum. The two of them fell to the floor, legs locked between each other. Their breath was heavy, labored. Reva straddled the knight, teeth bared and hand holding his own arm to his throat. Not enough to choke him, but enough to make his breath shallow and pained. Dawn turned around to see another three knights emerge from where they came from. A large man carried a censer like a flail. He had to lean down to make it through the doorway, barely squeezing through. Behind him, two thin, armored forms with spears that stab and bite.

Dawn cycled her revolver, acausal bullets off gassing their alchemical memories. She still had three shots worth of energy left in the chamber, but the man before her lumbers and takes up the whole hallway. Her thumb ran the rounded edge of the cylinder as she assessed the brute. He wants to luxuriate this, to crush them at his own leisure. To enjoy every feeling of bone snapping against metal. She has the time to reload. Brightwind locked his legs behind Reva’s back and flipped the two of them over towards Dawn. His arm was shattered and useless -- He would not last in a straight up fight. Reva’s hand still clung onto his neck guard. She pulled him in close and ripped the bronze from off his body, rivets and leather tearing uselessly. Her fist lost its hue, hand purple and bloody. Her teeth began to glow white with fire.

His neck exposed.

Her teeth finds purchase in its side.

The large man was above them now. Reva could not see him, eyes shut in rapturous enjoyment. Vainglorious’ blood tasted like clipped grass and white wine, earthy and intentional. She hated how much she enjoyed it. Brightwind let out a garbled scream like an Ortolan drowning in armagnac. Dawn’s pistol leveled at the brute above her lover. The hammer clicked-- a single shot. The man fell to the floor, blood pooling between his eyes. His companions dropped behind him. He is meat now, to be used as a shield. Dawn continued to fire. Flesh tore away from his corpse in chunks. Red and brutal, they flew through the air. The backblast coated Dawn’s face in soot and sulfur. Sparks from metal striking the acuasal bullet screamed in immolate joy, striking her cheek. She did not feel it.

She would not let them take Reva. Not while Brightwind still lived.

Reva pulled away, ripping sullen flesh away from Brightwind’s neck. Green arterial blood shot across glittering golden bricks.The viscera caught in the light, and the hall was filled with a momentary sanguine constellation. Vainglorious Brightwind looked up at Reva Ambrose, only daughter of Misha Ambrose, and watched her swallow. His own green blood stained rivulets down her mouth and the front of her shirt. He brought his hand to his throat to staunch the blood, but there was just too much of him gone, too much missing to keep himself together. He, in that moment, became the first to recognize her for what she really was, that borrowed hunger in her eyes.

And then, at last, he was gone.

The knife in his hands fell to the floor, discarded, useless. In another world, Reva would have hesitated just a moment longer, and his knife would have found purchase in her heart. The two of them would have been intertwined there, raw and bloodied on the floor. Viscera and lifestuff mixed together on millenia old tile and stone.

This, dear reader, this Reva knew.

And then, she heard it: Dawn firing off another salvo from her service weapon. She was standing over the hulking beast of a corpse not six feet from Reva. Her nonfiring hand dug into the neck of something tall and thin and hateful. His companion lay crumpled, riddled with holes. The side of her dominant arm was covered with soot and burns, backblast of repeated shots from her revolver. Her quarry looked up at her like Reva had done numerous times. Reva sees, in that moment, herself in the kneeling man’s position. In wood lined rooms on the road, on silken sheets, in dark pulsing drumbeat backrooms of bars and clubs. Pleading, doe eyes wet with tears and exertion. Dawn raised her thumb to cup the man’s face. It is gentle, almost. Tender. And then Reva sees the bruising around his neck from where Dawn’s boney fingers crushed his windpipe. She places the barrel of her revolver against his forehead like a kiss. He lets out a scream as the hot metal burns his flesh. Dawn narrows her eyes.

She pulled the trigger.

And the man fell to the floor, spent.

There was a moment where the gunshot echoed throughout the hallway. Another, where only their two ragged breaths can be heard. Reva stared at Dawn. Her gaze stays low for a long time, locked on the man beneath her, before she turns her head towards Reva. She half expected her lover to be dead. She saw it, in her mind's eye, that vision of another world like a shiver on the back of her neck. Jamais Vu. The two of them, intertwined in violence on the cold stone of the Sundance Throne. Reva was not dead, though. Her hand was bloodied and bruised. Her mouth dripped with blood not hers. In her eyes, something wild and wolven. But, she was not dead.

The two stared at each other a moment more. Wind whipped outside as a storm began to batter the island of Ashosh Ai. Dawn’s revolver hung by her side, still gripped in Dawn’s white knuckles, her face inscrutable. Blank, like the woman that Reva had known for six years was not there. As if replaced with a simulacrum that Reva might never have known. Another insidious thought crept her way into Reva’s mind. Was that really Dawn? Not the Dawn in front of her now, but the Dawn that she had known. Was she the illusion? Doubt crept, as the cold light of violence obliterated those falsehoods, , replaced Reva’s lover with an automaton of cruelty.

“That’s my Reva.” Dawn said in a voice mechanical and unlike hers. There was no odd modulation, it’s too light and too smooth to be Dawn’s voice. She smiled, but only with her mouth. Small flecks of blood covered her face, but Dawn bore no wounds. It was as if the thing in front of her is a hallucination, unscathed by violent reality. She took a step forward and if Reva had the energy to move back she would have. She climbed down from that massive corpse in front of her and placed a hand on Reva’s neck. Her fingers were cold, and Reva knows this was how they had always felt. She rubbed her thumb along Reva’s lower lip.

And Reva Ambrose began to cry.

“How long are you going to give me the silent treatment?”

This was the first thing that Dawn said to Reva in hours. They had reached the entrance of Titania’s throne room some 30 minutes ago. It was a set of gold doors with no handles and no locks. The tops of them disappeared into the darkness, leaving Reva with a sense of unease. By her internal map, the one that she knew not where it came from, they had reached the top of the Sundance Throne. There was no more ‘up’ to go. And yet, these doors crawled onwards. Anything could be up there. There could be infinite layers to the world, yet uncovered, yet unexplored. This was not how her storybooks ended. In them, there would be a queen beyond these doors. A queen to depose, to unthrone, to usurp. The cruel and wicked tyrant dashed upon the blades of the right and true.

Reva and Dawn were not right, and they were not true. They were thieves in the night. They were never to be known, this was never to be an event that would have been written about. A thing was to disappear and those who steward it would be none the wiser.

Nobody was supposed to die.

But now, this was an event. This moment, where Dawn was fiddling with the lock on a door that had no lock, was to be recorded by someone. It would be pondered and examined and studied. There would be a motive that would be ascribed to the dead and cause ascribed to the actions that followed it. She knew, beyond anything else, that these actions, this perilous theft, would change history in some way. That if the world was to reset, if the Celestial Civil War was to happen again and again, this moment would somehow become fixed in reality itself. That Mirabelle and Herah and Brightwind would always die on this cold, shale island in the middle of nowhere. Try as she might, she may never have been able to save them.

She looked down at Dawn. The lock in front of her is not real, but a simulacrum, manifested.. She had seen Dawn do something like this before, a way to interface with the underlying magick of whatever bound the doors shut. Turing abstract fundaments to reality, making the complex magickal code underneath them simple. Dawn had said before that it requires an intense concentration, that Reva was never to speak as she was performing this lockbreaking. Either Dawn was worried about Reva’s feelings so much to usurp such concern or she never needed the concentration to begin with.

“I’m not.”

“You’re lying to me.” Dawn chided. “Come on, babe. I think we’re beyond that.”

Reva chuffed and clenched her fist absentmindedly. Her two fingers are broken, the rest of her hand is bloodied and bruised. But she survived, and Brightwind did not. “How do you mean?”

“I’ve seen you.” Dawn looked back at her without turning her head. Purple iris shining through past bottle blonde hair. “The real you that I think you’ve kept locked up.”

Reva narrowed her eyes. “How do you mean.” She repeated herself, firmer.

“You’ve never turned your teeth to violence like that. Usually, you keep those for me.” Dawn chuckled, turning her eyes back to her task. “You were radiant.”

“I don’t feel radiant.” Reva looked down at her feet. Her boots were covered in green blood, as was the front of her pants. She felt heavy, wet, soaked and sodden with blood. “I’ve never done that before.”

“You haven’t?”

“No.” She paused. “I saw something. In here.” She tapped absently against her temple with her broken hand.. She winces in pain when the ruined bones make contact.

“What’d you see?”

“I saw Brightwind, um, Vainglorious. I saw him bleeding you dry. I saw him killing me, and then you. And, in that moment, I knew what I needed to become.”

“A set of teeth?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Reva crossed her arms and looked at the door they came from. There were no footsteps, no one would dare to venture this close. The castle’s defenders had to have known where they were, how close they were to their prize. There was no escape, no way out. And yet Dawn continues to press forward.

“Durandal.” Dawn looked back again. Her voice was cold. Mechanical, like the projected lock in front of her. “He did something similar.”

“That’s the story.”

“It's truth. He carved himself into a blade, for the love of his mother.” Dawn looked down at the door again, at her own reflection in the glittering gold. “He changed who he was, fundamentally. Shifted from female to male, broke his name in half.”

“His name?”

“The names of Fae, their true names -- they’re powerful.” Dawn recounted. “If we steal one of them, we could make any fae do anything. Even Titania. We can compel them to unmake themselves.”

“Is that what we’re stealing here, Dawn?” Reva stepped forward, in her eyes she could see that power. Rending the very being asunder, unmaking who they are at their conceptual level. It is what Dawn is attempting to do to this lock, what Reva did when she tore Vainglorious’ throat in half. What happened to Mirabell. “Are we stealing Titania’s true name?”

“I’m a thief, not a revolutionary.” Dawn chuckled. “I’m not in the queen toppling business anymore.”

“Then what are we doing here?” Reva took one more step forward. Her fists are clenched.

Dawn turned around now, facing Reva. She was on her knees, looking up at her former lover. Dawn knew this now. No matter what happened, no matter who survived. The two of them are never to touch each other in love, ever again. “Are you threatening me, Reva? You going to bare your teeth like you did to Brightwind?”

There was a pause. A beat. The air in the room went cold. Reva felt the pieces of Vainglorious fallow in her stomach, the salty brine of his blood in the back of her throat. She felt her teeth grow long and grow sharp, glow white hot with the Wolf’s Rage. And she knows, now, what she is channeling. Wolf magic. Chaos and entropy upon her lips. She took a moment, and breathed. She forces a Jamais Vu, not with Dawn this time, but inwards. Hunting for the capability, to see if there was any part of her who could turn those fangs upon Dawn, the woman she loves.

She never finds it.

“No.”

“Then stop wasting my time.” Dawn turned back around, a look of disappointment on her face. “And fucking let me work, Reva.”

There was another moment of pure silence.

“Who is she?” Reva asks. She regretted it the moment it slips her lips, as if that question, so implied by every interaction, was never to be asked.

Dawn did not turn back around. “Who is who?”

“When I turn to you and focus, and you rub that ring and shut me out, I see a woman. Black hair, messy bun. Spring’s day in Mariposa.”

“Oh,” Dawn said plainly. “Her.”

“You owe me that. Who is she?”

Dawn looked more intently into the lock in front of her. The ring hummed a tone that sounded like spring on the wind. Reva did not need to force a connection to know what she was thinking of. Reva can see Dawn’s reflection in front of her. Before, all she could see was her own reflection. Dawn’s had been absent. Now, the two of them are visible. “Yeah, ok. I can give you that.”

Reva crossed her arms. “Who. Is. She.” She asked now, for a third time. The irony was not lost on Dawn. The compulsion of threes.

“That woman is my wife, ah, ex-wife.”

Reva sighed, letting her breath slip from between her lips. That’s what she had feared. She walked to the window and looked over the island. The crowd was ravenous. They churned like the waves on the sea below them. Torches and swords are held aloft, making them look like glittering stars in the void. The moon looked at them from above, hanging hungry over this tableau. It was not night, not moments ago, but the Lady of Hounds will not be denied.

“You don’t sound too sure. You’re still wearing her ring, after all.”

“We never got divorced.” Dawn paused her ministrations with the lock. “I think she thinks I’m dead. Or wishes I am.”

“I could have forgiven that, Dawn.” Reva looked over at her shoulder. “I always kinda figured I wasn’t your main girl.”

“How’s that?”

“When you kiss me.” Reva breathed. “I can always tell you’re trying to kiss someone else.”

Dawn looked up at Reva, dropping the lock entirely. “And you’d be ok with that?”

“I liked you, Dawn.” Reva looked back at her. In her mind, she pictures this a romance storybook. Where the grand gesture of love might save the day. “You’re brilliant and radiant. I didn’t care in what way, I knew I needed to have you.”

The corner of Dawn’s mouth twitched. She isn’t sure if it was a smile or a frown. “You’re nothing like her, you know.”

“Then, what was she like?” Reva glared at Dawn out of the corner of her eyes.

“You don’t wa-”

“You don’t get to tell me what I do or don’t want.” Reva interrupted. “What was she like, godsdamnit?”

Dawn flinched, just for a moment. “I knew she was the brilliant one. Smart as a whip, with eyes that glittered like diamonds. She was ambitious to a fault. That, if the need arose, she'd hurt me if she had to, and I wouldn't be able to fault her. That woman reminded me of someone I knew once.” The words escaped out of her, as if compelled. “She saw through me immediately. Saw through the illusion and the half truths, knew me in a way I hadn’t been known for years. I became her assistant, and we made great things. Beautiful bits of knowledge that have never nor will ever be replicated.”

“So what happened?”

“Later happened. I knew I was falling in love. And I knew that if I loved her, I couldn't, wouldn't, be the thing I promised to be. I'd like to think she wouldn't fault me, but I dunno.”

“You’re right.” Reva looked back at Dawn. She did not think Dawn would look up from her task for this conversation. She knew, beyond knowing, that she did not have that respect for Reva. To be wrong angered her. “I sound nothing like her. Why were you even with me?”

Because Reva was a self pitying pissant. Because Reva was a silly girl who still believes in things like love. Because she was everything like Dawn and nothing like Blair, like Her.

“Because I hate you, and you love me.” Dawn’s voice was cold, but it was not distant. It was not mechanical. It was, for good and for ill, unmistakably Dawn, hard, and hoarse and real.. “We need each other. And that type of thing neither of us could ever give up.”

The lock clicked. It fell to the ground and then disappeared into star stuff. Dawn, still looking at Reva, stands up, shakes her shoulders, and then looks towards the door. It appeared as if nothing had been done to it, but as Dawn raised her finger to it and pushed, it gave way, opening as if some grand giant had compelled it to do so. She disappeared within.

Reva did not move, not for what seems like ages. There was a part of her that wanted to peer into that vault. To see what gilded treasures Titania had hoarded away for centuries. Gold stacked to the ceilings, swords and weapons with names of yore, maps to hidden islands where adventure might yet be found. It was, I am sure, magical to imagine what is in there. And so, unburdened by truth, she continued to stand.

Dawn and I, however, are not so liberated.

The room itself was barren. The coffers of the island had long run dry. Everything on this island served not out of coin, but out of devotion to their lady. Not even cobwebs remained, the spiders that lurked here having long died of eternal starvation. There had been no living being that had stood inside the vault in years. And, at the center of a worn piece of marble fashioned into a pillar, was a small panpipe, standing upright and leaning on nothing. It was wooden, strapped together with vines that smelled like apricot wine. It played the tune of a better story. A kinder one. Dawn raised a hand to it and cradled it gently. It was warm and it felt like love. With her other, she pulls out a small tapestry piece.

Durandal.

It was soaked through with blood and crumpled, but Titania’s son no less. She places the pan pipes within her scarf. And she pauses. A thought crosses her mind. She hefts Durandal in her hand like the cloth weighed more than gold. On his face, now smattered with red and green blood, was woven a brutal scream. A challenge, for a wolf at his door. She smiles warmly, and places him on the pillar.

Reva saw Dawn exit the vault and sighed, eyes closed in contemplation. She opened them and sees Reva, a look passing between them. Dawn’s cheeks were stained with tears but she was smiling, clasping the pan pipe to her chest in both hands. Reva was smiling as well, for no reason in particular. She doesn’t know why she smiles. Dawn looks down at her ring on her finger. That solid gold band that kept Reva from Dawn, the real Dawn. The thing that obscured so much. She moves to take it off.

And then it happened.

Reva did not need to force it this time, and the weight of absolute reality hits her. There is a library, far beyond the horizon, with books that stretch until forever with every kind of knowledge you’ve never wanted to see. At the center of that place, a star, unburdened by time. And at its entrance, a woman with blonde hair stands. Her nose is not crooked and her hair is not curly and her eyes are not purple but it is Dawn. Her natural curls straightened to a painful degree and with her hands nailed behind her back. Her clothes match her eyes, a deep and true azure. Like waves one would get lost in.

A woman with floor length black hair stands in front of her, leaning on the counter and she is smiling like Dawn was smiling at Reva. It is a smile wide enough to get lost in. And in every moment, Reva knew this was what Dawn was protecting, this memory of this woman. What she had kept Reva from at every turn, distracting her with sentimentality and affection. Whenever Reva had leaned in for a kiss, this is who was kissing Dawn back. She leans over the counter, grabs Dawn by her lapel, and plants a single, toothy kiss on her cheek like a maiden sending her knight to war. When she pulls away, there is a mark that will never be washed off.

Reva had seen what she thought Dawn was, in that hallway with Vainglorious. That violent thing, carved from many shaped cruelties and inflicted upon reality. Whether or not that was Dawn at all was irrelevant. Reva knew this to be her lover, now. No longer was she this brilliant woman. No longer was the edge of Dawn’s body the edge of Reva’s mind. And yet, she was standing before her, the grand illusion of Dawn becoming ever so close to shattering. In this light, her skin looked real, with veins and blood and secrets buried just beneath the surface. If Reva tried, if she looked deep within her mind's eye, she could see Dawn’s heart in this very moment, reflected in that black haired woman’s eyes.

This radiant truth scared her.

It scared her because no longer could Dawn be a construct, no longer could she contain Dawn within herself. She would not be the blade in the night or the perilous thief or her lover or any other sort of childish and selfish thing that Reva might need. As the toothy mark on Dawn’s cheek grows ever wider, as the gaps between the then and the now come to a screaming collision, Reva turns away. The room grows cold. Dawn’s ring stops just before her knuckle. Her tears dry up. Behind her, there is the past. The comfortable reality Reva thinks is the truth. Where Dawn would brandish blade and they might be in love. She sees it now. In the market places of Mariposa, in the face of a woman that would never look like her. This would be her future. She could carve away everything from the tapestry of life to make it so. She would become the knife and cut away the present and past to make way for this future.

“In this, I find you.”

Reva never sees it coming.

So lost in this reality was she did not hear the voice of the Queen of All Fey. She did not feel the creeping hands behind her, twelve of them, ghosting her legs, up her body, and wrapping themselves around her very neck. The fingers were as sharp as lightning and gentle as every lover Reva had ever felt. This is what Titania lived in, what drew her to Reva Ambrose. The overwhelming, intoxicating and unbearable reality of the past. Reva did not hear her own bones snapping, or feel the blood pooling in her lungs as the fingers crawled down her open, gormless mouth. All she could hear is a child that is not her’s asking for another apple. She does not feel them tearing and ripping and biting and laughing and rending. All she can feel is a wife that is not her’s talking about the weather. And, in a moment that felt like forever, Reva’s strings snapped, and her body falls limp. And in her glassy, bloodshot eyes, Dawn could see what she is seeing. She could see her own ex-wife infecting Reva’s final thoughts. Dawn didn’t even see herself.

All Dawn could ever have done is run.

Dawn emerged onto the beach just as the storm began to batter the island.

In front of her, Formen of the Wastes. He stood against the boat, rifle resting on the ground next to him. The waves were choppy, but there was no sea that would keep Dawn on this island. She was dripping with blood, and her revolver was running hot. She ran so fast, and so far - thirty nine minutes, fifteen seconds.

“Boss.” He nodded.

“You’re still alive.” Dawn sighed, relieved. From the sky, the queen of this place begins to scream. The clouds roil, the monstrous seas churn. “How?”

He shrugged, his rifle scraping slightly against the boat as it floats against the shore. “I didn’t let anyone get anywhere near me.” He looked up to the castle. It looked so still down here. He couldn’t hear the roiling crowds. “I saw Mirabelle eat it, but I lost track of everyone else.”

“Gone.” Dawn looked back at the castle. “We need to leave now.”

“Shame,” was all Formen could muster. Dawn glared at him out of pure instinct. There was a part of her that understands his blaise attitude, a part of her she wants to think is true. “Hopefully they took some down with them.”

Dawn approached the boat. “They did, they were absolutely beautiful” She looked down at Formen’s rifle and met the eyes of her reflection in its barrel. “At least they died for something.”

“Not like us, huh?” Formen shrugged, picking up his gun and loading himself onto the boat. “Getting rich for nothing?

Dawn followed him onto the boat as well, and would not say a word until the island disappeared into the distance.

#cup of trembling #creative writing #fantasy #writing #dnd writing #dnd #dnd5e #pathfinder #fantasy horror #horror writing #horror #Dawn Allcott #Dawn

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