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hibiscus-tome · 2 months ago

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if the bones still slept under that hill, none can say

hope you're having a good holiday season, @tarbuchyloewenthal! here's you're @secret-st-waidwen-exchange gift :D hope i did your watcher and her relationship with kana justice!

The issue with Sun in Shadow, Kana thinks, is that the lack of light, combined with the still, stale air, makes it difficult to measure just how large it is. The journey in had been quick, as any wicked pursuit would demand; the return, however, is slower.

He hasn’t seen them this quiet since the day they all fled Defiance Bay. It’s not a good kind of quiet — too heavy, almost crushing in its refusal to be ignored. It’s the kind of quiet that he’s always felt the need to alleviate with a factoid or a tune, though that’s always been a surefire way to earn one of Maia’s more vicious glares.

(A kind of quiet that almost feels wrong to break — heavy and suffocating and all-encompassing, like it has been the day he’d clawed his way back up through the ruins of Caed Nua, his quest an abject failure.)

As it is, Durance is already sporting quite the scowl. “All is well, my friend?” asks Kana, trying for a smile, and finds that it’s not quite as difficult to summon one as it had been the day his search for the Tanvii ora Toha had come to a bitter, miserable end.

Durance doesn’t dare smile back, but his scowl eases ever so slightly — which, by all units of measure that Kana knows of, is as close to a proper smile as someone like Durance will get.

“Do you ever think before you speak?” he retorts, and the low rasp in his voice undercuts its bite. “Or does the volume of your chanting drown even the smallest, most insignificant thought?”

Kana chuckles, and it warms him as it rumbles in his chest. “Not your finest work, my friend. I’ve heard worse from my sister.”

Durance clicks his tongue, sharply averting his gaze. His staff taps loudly against the floor, but in his footsteps is the slightest unsteadiness, almost a stumble.

A little ways away, Sagani lets out a quiet huff that could almost pass for a laugh. “You must be awfully excited to go home, then,” she says. “That’s the fourth time you’ve mentioned her today.”

“Is it really?” asks Kana, tilting his head to the side. “Well regardless, there’s no guarantee that she’ll be there when I return. She’s quite a busy lady, after all!” Alas, spoiling Ishiza may very well have to wait for a while longer.

… but what would Maia say, if she were to have witnessed what he did? She never put much stock in the gods, and perhaps for good reason — it would have only been a distraction to her when her duties do not demand that she pay attention, fold everything she learns during her travels into her understanding of the world like the Chanters’ College does of Kana?

Does any of it matter when their family has never been particularly religious? Does any of it matter when the Engwithans’ philosophy has little bearing on what their brethren in both Rauatai and the Deadfire Archipelago believe about the same deities?

Durance had been angry, upon coming to some sort of resolution regarding Magran before setting foot in here; Iovara had been nothing but kind as he laughed, and laughed, and laughed as she spelled the truth plainly for them all. Hiravias has always had plenty to say about matters aside from Galawain and Wael, and yet his attempts to dodge those conversation topics has never been so obvious. Edér hasn’t said a word at all since their final confrontation with Thaos, which is all the stranger when his silence is accompanied by a deep-set furrow to his brow.

Lightly, Sagani touches Kana’s elbow. “Leave it, Kana,” she says, quietly.

“But I wasn’t going to say anything,” he whispers back — or at the very least, it’s as close to a whisper as he can manage, which is not very quiet at all.

“You were thinking it,” says Sagani, bluntly.

But how could he not say something? How could he just leave it be, when so many of his friends and comrades have just had the proverbial rug pulled out from under their feet? How could he possibly ignore it, when the answers that so many of them had been searching for had led them to a miserable, fruitless end?

How could he remain quiet, when everything his dear friends and comrades believed to be true had turned out to be little more than a bitter, miserable lie?

(The same way, perhaps, that the same friends had remained quiet but ever present when he’d found a similar end in the depths of Caed Nua.)

A little ways away, there’s Wulfrun, her head bowed ever so slightly and her lips down-turned. When Kana makes his way over to her, lightly bumping his shoulder into hers, Sagani doesn’t protest — which is all the confirmation he needs that his attempts to help will not cause undue harm.

“How goes it, my friend?” he asks, and takes care to keep his voice soft.

It takes a moment, but Wulfrun turns to him with a thin, brittle smile. “It’s going,” she answers. And he knows, without having to ask, that this will not be the last time she lays eyes on this place. This will not be the last time she sets foot in this place — and that, more than anything, confirms that this journey has not broken her.

Kana chuckles, and it warms him as it rumbles in his chest. “Well,” he says, “that’s the best place to start, don’t you think?”

#secret st waidwen exchange #pillars of eternity #kana rua #sagani #durance #fic

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avalost · 22 days ago

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All Things Burn Clean

fandoms: Pathfinder: Kingmaker, Pillars of Eternity characters: Tristian, Durance rating: T warnings: This work contains plot spoilers for BOTH games. Also, Durance is Durance.

summary: In a strange place, two priests meet by a fire. Their discussion turns to faith -- and it reveals that the trials they've faced in their journeys are oddly similar. (3274 words)

notes: For Durance, this takes place after the second Watcher vision, when the Watcher has spoken to him about seeing one of the symbols on his staff dying. For Tristian, this takes place after you receive The Varnhold Vanishing quest, but before the Baron/ess travels to Varnhold to investigate. At this point in their timelines, neither character knows the full truth about his own situation, and each has some (wrong) assumptions.

I mostly just wanted Durance to meet Tristian and call Sarenrae a whore. :)

Read here or on AO3!

-----

There are parts of the mortal experience that are… unpleasant. Some are obvious – I will not trouble your imagination with them now. Some are more benign, but bothersome still. The brief sensation of falling, for instance, as one drifts to sleep. A twitch; a jolt of fear; then equal parts relief and irritation as one burrows oneself again in the covers, wondering why such a thing happens at all.

But for one mortal, a host of emotions followed. Guilt. Sorrow. Regret. Long-honed instinct moving muscles that were now useless, trying to turn in midair, to open his wings. The stark reminder that those wings had been taken from him, disturbing the peace of that pleasant place between sleep and wakefulness where it was possible to forget for a time.

Only this time, the sensation of falling did not stop.

Tristian was hurtling through the air. His stomach lurched into his throat. Wind whipped his hair. Panic crashed into his consciousness, driving the air from his lungs.

There was something screaming in his ears. Were his eyes open, or squeezed shut? Sarenrae –

As suddenly as it began, the feeling of free-fall was gone, replaced by the pressure of something solid and silty against his palms and his knees. The impact had not come. He panted shallowly, his mouth gone dry, his ribcage heaving. Forgetting dignity, he let his limbs go slack, collapsing to his stomach. Every bit of solid ground beneath him was a blessing. His fingers dug into it gratefully; it felt like dirt.

His eyes drifted open. Only black greeted them, no different than when they had been shut. Pushing himself to his elbows, he swiveled his head around, straining to make out any shape, but the darkness around him was complete. Looking down, he curled his hand in the dirt. He could not make out even the outline of his fingers.

He blinked, and blinked again. He rubbed an eye with the back of his hand. There was nothing.

An echo of his earlier panic returned to him, and, like the tide drags in the flotsam, a new thought came with it.

Nyrissa.

It was her way to speak to him in dreams. Perhaps it was convenient for her to do so, or perhaps she enjoyed taking advantage of one of the countless things his strange mortal body now required. He had learned quickly that, no matter how he tried, he could not forgo sleep to avoid her.

Before, she simply waited for him to fall asleep, then invaded his dreams. It was a cruel new trick, to tear him from his bed like this. And it must have taken a significant amount of magic to transport him to… wherever he was now.

And she’s taken my sight. First my wings, now my eyes. What more can she cut from me?

What have I done to displease her this time?

Tristian lay his head back down, resting his forehead on his curled fist. Any moment now, she would appear and gloat, and rage, and list his transgressions. At least he would be spared the sight of her face; a small blessing.

He could not say how long he lay there in the dirt. His own ragged breathing seemed so loud. Time stretched. A discomfort started to form somewhere in his back. And still, no one came.

After a time, he began to feel foolish. Once again he opened his eyes, and once again there was darkness. He pushed himself to his knees, then to his feet, reaching down to brush off his robes by touch. Something at the edge of his vision caught his eye, a spark, a glimmer –

He spun. A fire! A fire, far in the distance, and he could see it!

An incredulous laugh burst from him, a strange sound that died quickly in the black silence. He turned all around, searching for anything else, but there was nothing; no shapes, no shadows to make out in the unending black. He looked up. If there was a sky here, it was devoid of stars or moon.

What is this place…?

Tristian turned back to the fire, unwilling to let it out of his sight. He reached into his pocket and, to his relief, his fingers closed around his carving of Sarenrae. The familiar curves of the wood radiated a gentle, comforting warmth. He drew it out and whispered a prayer of gratitude.

There was no answer.

He was alone.

He sighed. Perhaps Nyrissa waited for him by the fire. But there was nowhere else to go.

-----

The fire was ringed with fallen logs. As Tristian approached, he saw not a nymph, but a man sitting hunched, staring into the flames. Long, oily brown hair cascaded from the stranger’s head; an unruly beard struggled against the leather cord trying to contain it; the robes he wore looked as though they had been pulled from the fire, blackened and singed. The man’s face had not been spared whatever misfortunes had befallen him – the skin was cratered, pock-marked with the remembrance of some affliction. It was disquieting to see the firelight dance across its uneven surface.

Tristian’s footsteps slowed, but too late. The stranger did not move, but his eyes jumped sharply to meet Tristian’s. There was something predatory in that gaze. “Whose hand dragged you here, then?” the man asked, his voice rough.

Where was Nyrissa? Was this stranger one of her servants? She had forbidden Tristian from speaking of her to anyone… No, it was too dangerous to assume. Lies fell so easily from his traitor’s tongue now. “None but my own,” he said, “though I am unsure where I am, or how I came to be here.”

“Hmph. That makes two of us, then,” the stranger grunted. He turned his attention back to the flames as they licked at the firewood. “But it seems that fire still burns here. And in time, all things burn clean.”

It was not exactly an invitation, but it was cold in the darkness, and the warmth of the fire was hard to resist. Cautiously, Tristian approached a log and sat, keeping a fair distance between himself and the stranger.

The man made no move to stop him. From here, Tristian could see sweat beading liberally on his forehead, trickling down his temples, collecting at the tip of his nose. Had he been sitting by the fire so long? Tristian shivered, and held his hands out to warm them. As he did, the stranger’s keen eyes roamed over him once more, taking in the wide sleeves of his robes and the carving of Sarenrae that he had laid in his lap. “You call yourself holy, then?” he asked.

Tristian hesitated. Once, the answer would have come easily. Now… The stranger’s questions were benign enough, yet somehow they dug under Tristian’s skin. The silence hung between them, expectant. He chose his words carefully. “My name is Tristian. I am a priest of merciful Sarenrae.”

“Merciful!” The man barked a laugh, grating and unpleasant. “Mercy… Mercy is far from the gods’ minds.” He shifted, propping a hand on his knee, looking thoughtful. “Sarenrae, you say? Not one I’ve heard of. More gods out there than knees to knock together at their altars... Could be there’s one that doles out mercy. Could also be another whore, and leave you on the side of the road with naught but the breeze to caress your cock.”

Tristian stammered. Everlight, forgive this man his words, and grant me the patience to –

“Though from the look of you, you’ve never been far from this Sarenrae’s teat. Never been tried in the fire.” He stuck the end of his staff into the fire and shifted the logs, making a plume of sparks rise into the darkness. Where had that staff come from? Tristian was sure he had never taken his eyes from the stranger, yet his hands had been empty.

The staff was a sinister thing, its wood so black it looked burned, inlaid with symbols glowing molten orange all along its length and decorating its head. He withdrew it from the flames and laid it across his lap.

It was as if the man had been incomplete without his staff, but was now whole. The staff, the robes… Realization washed over Tristian. “I did not catch your name, nor which faith you follow,” he offered.

“I follow no one, whelp, and you’d be wise to do the same. Forge your own path. Face your own demons. Look them in the eye, so you know them as well as they know you.” The stranger’s gaze bored into Tristian.

“I meant no offense! I just meant – your staff, and your robes… I thought those were the robes of a priest.”

The man looked down at the staff resting across his knees. His eyes followed its length, eventually fixing on one point – one of the glowing symbols, a circle made of twelve smaller circles. One of the circles burned brightly; the rest were dim, flickering like fading embers. “Aye, they were.” His voice went quiet. “Once.”

And in that quiet, there was pain. Nearly imperceptible, but an eternity spent listening to mortals’ prayers and ferrying them to their destinations had honed Tristian’s ear. Sometimes, a prayer did not address a god. Sometimes, a prayer did not ask for help. Sometimes, a prayer was a single word, said quietly to a stranger near the fire.

“Did something happen?” he asked gently.

The strange man flinched. His brows drew down, every bit the predator once more, and for a moment his grimace showed yellowed teeth. “I am a missionary, a priest of Magran. I walk her path. I submit to her trials. I wield her holy flame, and give its gift to any I find deserving… or needful.”

Magran…?

A goddess Tristian had never heard of. When the man said he did not know of Sarenrae, Tristian thought he must be from a remote land, perhaps Tian Xia or Arcadia… but where could he be from, if the place had gods that not even a deva knew? And when Tristian asked about this goddess, the man growled as if the question prodded at a deep wound in him.

“It sounds like a hard faith to follow,” Tristian said.

The man grunted appreciatively. “Not for the faint of heart. The road is long, and I have walked it a long time.”

“I do not know of Magran, but perhaps that isn’t a surprise, as you have not heard of Sarenrae. Still, Magran must be pleased to have a servant so devoted to her.” Tristian watched him.

To his surprise, the priest did not bristle that time. “Hah! She is a fickle bitch. She does not want devotion. What she wants is someone who can withstand the heat of her loins.”

Tristian coughed. “You are… free with your words when you describe her. You do not think it will provoke her ire?”

“Hmph. She is the goddess of trials. Let her come. There is nothing she could do to me that she has not already done.”

There it was again – that glint of pain. “What has she –”

“What do you know of devotion, anyway?” The priest snarled, spittle flying from his lips. He turned to face Tristian. “How far would you go to follow your Sarenrae’s path? Would you walk into fire, if she asked it of you? Would you walk into ruin?”

Would I –? “I…”

“As I thought. You watch yourself. The gods use us, then cast us away when we are no longer of use.” The priest turned his gaze back to his staff.

No longer of use…

The silence, the unbearable silence, greeting his every effort to reach the divine. The weight of his limbs. The cold so deep within him, cold like he’d never felt before…

“But you know this.”

The priest was looking at him knowingly, studying him. Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face. He bit his own tongue, cursing his carelessness, then spoke cautiously. “It is… possible to… to lose the grace of the gods. And if that happens, then – then one must pray for their forgiveness.”

“Is that what your goddess teaches you?” The man brayed a laugh. “Mercy, forgiveness… Magran does not deal in such petty currency. Not like your Sarenrae. Have you managed to pray your way to her forgiveness, then?”

“No.” Barely above a whisper, slipping from his lips before he could stop it. A plea of his own. A prayer.

The priest continued to watch him, eyes skewering him, peering past the mantle of lies he shrouded himself with. His single word had tumbled forth from beyond that shroud, and as more words poured out, he did not stop them. “I disobeyed her. I acted rashly. I should have called the others, but I wanted to do it myself. I wanted the glory for fixing it, me and no one else. I wanted her – her warmth…”

“And the trial was not what you thought. The trial was not a test of your abilities, but your nature.”

“I was so foolish… If only she would hear me. I would never disobey her again. I would do exactly as she asked, everything she commanded, if only…”

“Mercurial, they are. Even if you do all that she asks…” The priest heaved a sigh like a bellows. “You can do all she asks, and she’ll still cast you out.” His voice was quiet again.

“No. That cannot be. There must be a way –” Tristian shook his head desperately, but the priest was not looking at him anymore. He stared into the fire, but he hunched down, and his eyes had grown distant. “Is that… Is this what happened to you? You were cast away? By your – by Magran?”

The silence lingered between them, broken only by the crackling of the wood. The priest spoke slowly. “I did all she asked of me… Me, and the others. Twelve of us. We crafted the bomb from fragments of our very souls… Yet when we sought to feel the warmth of her approval…” His finger traced a symbol on his staff, the symbol made of twelve circles. “There was nothing but silence.”

“You did all she asked? And she punished you still?” Terrible cold came over Tristian. “Then… there is no hope for me.”

“Do you walk the path of your goddess, or do you merely prattle her words?” The priest’s voice thundered like the crack of a great log splintering in the flames. Tristian jumped. “When you see the trial for what it is, you throw yourself on the ground and grovel?” He drove the butt of the staff into the ground so suddenly that beads of sweat flew from his scowling face. “I did not wallow, when Magran stopped speaking. I set out to show her that I am worthy. You must show your Sarenrae that you are equal to the challenge she has given. Show her you are a man, not some whelp, and you are worthy of her womanly heat.”

“I – I cannot! I had no choice! I was – imprisoned. Threatened. I had to do as I was told, or never feel Sarenrae’s light again…”

“Is that all? And it broke you?” Contempt filled the man’s voice. “If the one you pray to gives you fire, you must walk through it. Burn for her, so that nothing can burn you again.”

Burn for her… Tristian had been created from Sarenrae’s light. Once, that light had been all that he’d known. Her realm was suffused with it, and even when he roamed beyond its bounds, a fragment of it lived in him. When Nyrissa took his wings and extinguished that spark… He was so cold. So heavy. Each dawn he prayed for Sarenrae’s deliverance, and each prayer was met with silence. And so he had followed Nyrissa’s orders, stacking his transgressions one upon another, building himself a profane tower to climb back to Nirvana…

And still, he was afraid. He feared to face his goddess, to know her wrath. None were beyond redemption before Sarenrae, but the shame of what he had done in Nyrissa’s service – he feared that it would burn him alive before he could ever be redeemed. Yet this stranger’s words... If the one you pray to gives you fire, you must walk through it. Could he walk through the fire of his disgrace to stand before the Cleansing Light? Could he burn for her? Would her sacred flame reach the cold place within him, and warm it once more?

Tristian was trembling. He breathed in, and his lungs expanded gratefully, unfurling like wings. He felt weightless, dizzy.

The strange priest had turned away, and busied himself jabbing the end of his staff into the logs to stoke the fire once more. Its light played across his features, outlining him against the black nothingness beyond. A priest of a goddess unknown to Tristian. Uncouth, irascible, but… wise. With a tenacity that Tristian had rarely seen in mortals. Surely his goddess had not severed his link to her for a few unpleasant words. Why, then…?

Tristian exhaled. “You are right,” he finally said, “more right than you know. If Magran is the goddess of trials, then she could not ask for a more devoted servant. You see my trial clearly, when I did not. You follow her tenets with such determination, despite her silence. I will pray to Sarenrae for you. I will pray that your path leads you to Magran’s light once more.”

The priest fumbled with his staff, nearly dropping it into the flames. He caught it ungracefully, and when he turned to Tristian, his face had shifted. His brows eased, smoothing the creases of his face, and he looked startled. For several moments, he said nothing, his mouth opening and closing again. “Hmph,” he finally grunted. “Her light… I hadn’t thought… It is strange, that her road has led me into the dark…”

“She gave you a task, and you fulfilled it,” Tristian pressed. “I do not pretend to know the will of the divine, but I cannot see why she should forsake you for that.”

The priest was watching him with keen interest now, but there was a hunger in his eyes that had not been there before. A hunger for connection, for answers. For the first time, Tristian saw him clearly. That hunger was burning him up from the inside, buried deep within him, in the same place where Tristian had nothing but a cold dark emptiness.

He helped me. Perhaps I can help him… “Could it be that you have already completed your trial?”

“Completed my…” The priest clutched his staff so tightly his knuckles went white. “No. It can’t be. If the trial is complete, then the road…”

Nyrissa. The thought returned like an insistent tide. No, I do not believe this is her interference. However… He spoke carefully. “Sometimes… there are complications, with the gods. Obstacles that deafen them to our prayers. Sometimes, we must take new paths to return to their grace. Unexpected paths. Perhaps… the road you are on now is such a path. I hope it leads you to Magran, stranger.”

The priest held Tristian’s gaze for a long moment. All traces of the predator were gone from his eyes. He looked somehow more whole, more… mortal. “...Durance,” he finally said. “You may call me Durance. You have been more honest than most, Tristian. You have… Hmph. I hope… May your trials reveal the truth to you.”

The fire crackled quietly in the darkness.

#this was such a challenge to write!#and now it's done! whooo!#pillars of eternity #pathfinder kingmaker #pathfinder: kingmaker #pfkm #pfkm spoilers #poe spoilers #durance #tristian #<- maybe the only post to contain both these tags? haha #ana writes things #ana writes pillars #ana writes pfkm

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