#if she had returned instead of Valere

[awkwardauthorwrites]

Kingdom of One

Not previously posted on awkward-author. This is a brand new series

Word Count: 1k

Warning: brief mention of death/loss

Summary: Join Callista Valere, a witch who has a strange ability, as she makes the difficult decision to leave Beauxbatons to attend Hogwarts for her final year

Chapter One

Although the sun was just starting to rise over Savernake Forest in Wiltshire, the wildlife had been awake for hours. Birds fluttered around in between trees, calling out to one another, and squirrels darted across branches in search of their morning meal. The faint morning light seemed to glow as it shone through the leaves in the trees, making the forest feel almost magical. 

Callista Valere watched as the morning light slowly filtered through from her precarious position on the roof of the cottage. A steaming mug was held between her hands, and a discarded letter sat by her side. She let out a low, quiet whistle and waited patiently as her tawny owl circled and landed beside her. Honey, named for her golden colour, nipped at Calla’s finger affectionately and took the sealed envelope. 

“Could you take this to Olympe Maxime? Don’t overexert yourself.” Calla gently ruffled the owl's feathers before allowing her to take off once more, smiling to herself as the owl hooted softly as a goodbye. She watched until Honey disappeared from view in between tree branches and sighed quietly to herself. Although there was nothing left for her back in France, a small part of her couldn’t help but regret sending her now former headmistress a letter explaining that she would not be returning to Beauxbatons for her final year. Instead, she would be returning back to the UK, and with it, Hogwarts. 

Calla knew both of her parents, and her maternal grandparents, had attended the magical boarding school, but that failed to quell the anxious feeling that had settled into her stomach since the night before, when she had written the first draft of her letter. Beauxbatons had been her home since she was young, and although she would miss the beautiful castle and its grounds, as well as the people she had spent the past few years with, she knew she could not return there, or to France in general, for a while longer. The loss was still too fresh, too painful. 

“Calla?” Jack’s voice floated up to her from below. “Calla, if you’re on the roof again Danny is going to have a conniption.”

“Oh, I do love it when his eye twitches though.” She peered carefully over the edge, a small smile playing on her lips as she caught sight of Jack. “Especially when he pairs it with his stuttered ravings.”

“Yes, well,” Jack paused and let out a quiet chuckle and shook his head. “As funny as it is, it’s far too early. Come down so we can have breakfast.” He held his hand out and plucked the mug Calla had been holding earlier from the air as she floated it down. She was next, and although Jack knew better than to try and catch her as she descended, he still held his hands out hesitantly until her feet were firmly planted beside him on the ground. 

The Wilder family had been watching over various estates for the Valere’s for as far back as Calla had read in her family history. The cottage was managed by Daniel and his wife Grace, while the main house in Wiltshire was taken care of by Daniel and Jack’s parents. Although Calla had a feeling they would soon be retiring, if they could convince Jack to settle down and watch the cottage, so that Danny and Grace could move to the main house. 

“Ah, the lady graces us with her presence,” Danny grinned cheekily and bowed as she entered the kitchen, a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder. “Sit down, breakfast is almost ready.” He ignored the glare she shot at him for his brass and ushered her into a seat. With the wave of a hand, the carafe levitated over and refilled her mug while the table set itself. “It's so rare you bless us this early. Excited to head back to Rocamadour?” 

“Actually…” She avoided the gaze of the brothers and ran her fingers along the grooves in the wooden table. “Where’s Grace? This would be better with all three of you here.” Danny and Jack shared a look, before the latter went to fetch his sister-in-law. Danny continued to set the table, knowing it would do no good to push the girl any further until she was ready. It was a lesson he learned the hard way all those years ago when Vesta Valere, her paternal grandmother, had shown up on the doorstep with a shaken and soot-covered child. He was about ten years older than her, but that didn’t stop the then six year old from kicking him in the shin for asking one too many questions.

“Morning everyone,” Grace entered the kitchen and kissed her husband lightly before squeezing Calla’s shoulder affectionately. “I heard there was some kind of announcement?” She sat down next to Calla and accepted the cup of tea Danny handed her. Jack took a seat on the other side of Calla, and Daniel across from her. “Is this about you returning back to France?”

“In a way.” Calla didn’t know why she was so nervous telling the three people in front of her she would not be returning to France, or Beauxbatons, this year and instead pushed the letter she had received last night across the table, the broken red and gold wax seal flashing in the light.

“Is that a Hogwarts letter?” Daniel frowned and began to read it aloud. “Dear Miss Valere, needless to say we are surprised at your sudden request to complete your final year of school at Hogwarts School of Witch and Wizardry. However, with your excellent grades, we are more than pleased to inform you that you have secured a place at Hogwarts. Please find enclosed all the necessary books and equipment required. Term begins on the 1st September; we look forward to seeing you then. Yours sincerely, Severus Snape. Headmaster.”

“You’re…not returning to Beauxbatons for your final year?” Jack asked slowly, confusion evident on his face. 

“This isn’t a decision I took lightly,” Calla began to justify herself, “but after this summer, with my grandmother-” she paused for a second and blinked a few times before continuing. “It's too soon. I cannot return to France just yet, it would not be the same without her.” She began to pick at the food in front of her to avoid their gazes. “I’ve already informed your aunt and uncle I won’t be returning before school starts.”

“It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind,” Danny commented.

“I have,” she nodded, although she wasn’t quite sure if she was trying to convince them, or herself.

[thanatle]

Sister, I fear what I become. I thought fighting for the light was right. Now, I walk towards darkness to save others.

Doenkoen heard heavy boots approach the stairs. He briefly glanced over his shoulder before returning to counting the coin he recently obtained while the footfall grew louder.

“Ye ‘ave returned.” He forced himself to speak despite how his throat tightened.

Silence greeted him when she stopped mere fulms behind him. He resisted the urge to turn. Otherwise, it would surely be another dream bought on by too much ale. He was growing tired of such dreams of either missing daughter.

“Yes, father.”

His eyes widen before he narrowed them. He slowly turned to look. “And Valere?”

Bhaldthota’s bloodshot eyes had dark circles under them. She looked pale, as she did when she normally forgo sleep for a day or two. But she possessed a look he didn’t care for. A haunting stare that reminded him of the far-out sea during a storm.

“I…I don’t…she wasn’t…” Bhaldthota trembled, reminding him of that day she returned to him as a little child after her mother’s death. “I came back alone.”

The news tore at Doenkoen. He shared no blood with the Garlean girl but he still saw her as his own. How was he going to tell the old hag? The woman was old and hardened like the ice of her homeland, she would not take kindly to only Bhaldthota returning without any knowledge of Valere.

“Tell me what ‘appened.” Doenkoen demanded.

“I only remembered that we were fighting at Carteneau. When that…thing escaped the red moon, something happened. Valere, the others, and myself just disappeared. I have no idea what happened until I opened my eyes three days ago.”

“You’ve been missing for five years.”

“Five years?” Her voice crackled when she finally spoke again.

Doenkoen rose to his feet, crossing the short distance between them, and hugged his daughter close to him. The act was enough to anchor her, to prevent her from breaking under the news that her mind struggled to comprehend.

“Rest, little one.” He urged softly. “Sleep will ‘elp you more than words.”

“I’ll find Valere…I’ll bring her home.” Bhaldthota whispered.

“I know.”

[raywritesthings]

Bird in a Storm 7/17

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Laurel Lance, Oliver Queen, Ted Grant, Roy Harper, McKenna Hall, Quentin Lance, Lucas Hilton, Female OCs, Male OCs Pairing: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen Summary: The confrontation between the Hood and SWAT on the roof of the Winick Building goes differently, altering the course of Laurel’s career, relationships and efforts to save her city forever, the shockwaves of such an altered path making themselves felt throughout her family and friends. *Can be read on my AO3, link is in bio*

Ted enjoyed all of his lessons. He wouldn’t be in the business if he didn’t, even if it was all he was good at. Just like with his opponents in the past, each of his students brought something different and challenging to the ring.

Though none were perhaps as interesting as his new student: Dinah Laurel Lance.

She had taken to boxing like a dog with a bone. No one would say she was the natural body type for it, but she made up for all that and more with sheer determination. He’d been right about that good little girl act, too; the more time she spent punching the bag was time spent learning not to keep it all bottled up under a sweet smile for others’ convenience. He didn’t know everything about her life, of course, but he could surmise the highs and lows from how many times her name had been dragged around by the press for this or that thing.

She wasn’t all tough girl, either. She had a good heart no matter what clothes she was wearing or who she was trying to impress. But he hoped training here was giving her the space to figure all that out, who she wanted to be now that she’d been thrown aside by most of the people in her life. For the first time, perhaps, she was getting to go out there on her own terms.

Today there was a spring to her step and an even brighter fire in her eyes. He found himself curious and decided to remark on it.

“You’re in a good mood.”

Her answer was slightly muffled from the mouth guard she had in. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Something happen?”

Laurel paused between combinations to shrug and took out the mouth guard. “I stopped my friend’s purse from getting stolen the other day.”

“That right?”

“Mm-hm.” She took a few steps away to wipe at her neck and brow with a towel, swatting her ponytail to the side. “Got a bloody nose for it, but it was worth it.”

Ted nodded slowly. He had thought the blood and sweat and bruises were worth it, too, once. “Maybe you should’ve gone into enforcing law instead of studying it.”

Laurel snorted. “Believe me, I tried. Dad wouldn’t let me join the police academy.”

There was the chip on the shoulder again. She had a lot of those, from what he could tell.

“How was the other guy?”

“Sprained wrist. I didn’t really mean for that to happen. He was just a kid.” Her shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug. “Sara’s bullies were kids, too.”

Ted got his water bottle and took a swig. “Well, part of what you learn to do here is minimize harm. Yours and others.”

Laurel nodded and reached for her gloves to pull them back on.

He could tell throughout the rest of the session her mind was still on the encounter with the purse thief, the same way he used to turn thoughts about his matches — both official and not — over in his head long after they were over. She was more alike him than not, despite their different backgrounds.

That didn’t necessarily mean good things.

---

McKenna was really starting to wonder. Oliver was certainly a different guy than the party boy she remembered in her wild days. But she wasn’t sure if that meant he was a better boyfriend.

He seemed distracted, was the main thing. As someone with a lot on her own plate, she could understand to an extent. But it always seemed as if his mind was miles away and five steps ahead in the conversation.

They had yet to go out since that failed dinner date that was interrupted by an alert on her pager about the Dodger. Not like that had ended up being useful; the art thief had gotten away that night along with the Hood when he made a surprise appearance. Oliver hadn’t called to make new plans yet, and McKenna had been too busy to do so herself. She chose to stop by his club late one evening instead. It was a little out of her way, but she figured the direct approach would work better than playing phone tag.

He seemed happy enough to see her. They talked for a little while, nothing of real consequence. She had a shift to be getting to, after all.

His phone buzzed where it sat on the bar top, and McKenna couldn’t help noticing the notification that popped up. Especially since he was staring at it with a troubled frown.

Carjacking on Blake St. Red Honda.

McKenna raised an eyebrow. “You got a neighborhood watch app for the Glades?”

Oliver gave a little shake of the head, seeming to come back to the conversation. “I like to know what’s going on around the club.”

She smirked. “What have I told you about leaving things to the police?”

He held out both hands. “I am, believe me. I learned my lesson after you let me off for the Vertigo thing. Thank you for that, by the way.”

“We all get a little crazy about family sometimes. I got a sister.”

He nodded.

She checked the time again and pulled a face. “I should get going.”

“Alright. We’ll talk soon,” Oliver promised. He waited a beat and only leaned in to kiss her cheek when she offered it. She couldn’t say she didn’t appreciate him waiting for permission.

McKenna arrived at the bullpen to find an uncharacteristically distracted Lance at his desk. His eyes kept jumping to the radio he’d left sitting there, and she could tell he was rereading the same few lines of the latest report he’d gotten on the Hood.

A couple of officers entered the bullpen and he was suddenly up like a shot, just about when McKenna was going to ask if something was wrong.

“Hey, Valeres,” he called. One of the officers stopped and walked over. “That carjacking case, did you check that out?”

“Went to the owner’s residence and took down some information.”

Lance nodded. “Nothing else happening in that part of the neighborhood, though.”

“Nothing we picked up.”

Lance nodded. “Alright. Good work.” He turned and headed for the break room, probably for another cup of coffee.

Valeres looked to her. “Any idea what that was about?”

McKenna could only shrug.

“Blake Street is one block over from his daughter’s new place,” said a low voice just behind her. She looked back to find Hilton standing there. “He was asking you if everything was safe over there.”

McKenna frowned. “Why doesn’t he just ask Laurel?”

Hilton sighed. “They haven’t really spoken regularly since the Hood incident. So he’s taking the indirect approach. I never said it made sense.” He returned to his own desk long before Lance got back to his, coffee in one hand and the other dragging through his hair. He touched the frame of a photo briefly just before he sat down; a younger him with two smiling girls.

Oliver wasn’t the only one acting a little crazy about family, then. And maybe Oliver wasn’t just crazy about his family.

Were they really even dating? Or was his mind still occupied with the girl he’d once wronged?

It could be just as he said, that he’d gotten the neighborhood watch app for his club. But then, wasn’t that the job of his security to monitor things?

McKenna was someone who was fiercely herself. That hadn’t changed just because she’d given up the late nights at bars for late nights at a desk in the bullpen. She believed that there wasn’t a need for sorry in a relationship, but by that token a relationship required absolute trust.

She sent Oliver a text asking to meet up the next day. It was well past four in the morning when he finally replied that they could.

He took her to Big Belly Burger for lunch. It seemed so unlike something for the heir to the Queen fortune to do, but she liked that about him. She liked Oliver, and that was only going to make this harder.

“Hey, thanks for meeting me.”

“It was no problem.”

“Well, I know how busy we’ve both been.” They ordered their food and ate for a while in mostly silence, broken only by the occasional question about work. They didn’t seem to talk about much other than work. She’d tried asking once about his time away, but that had gone terribly.

Once she had finished, McKenna wiped her hands on a napkin and drew in a breath. “I guess I’m just wondering where we see this going, Oliver.”

He set his food down and frowned. “You mean us? I thought we’d just take things as they went for a little while.”

“I’m worried they’re not really going anywhere, is all,” she confessed. “We both have things we’re prioritizing in our life over this. I’m trying to solidify my position as a detective on the force, you’re trying to open your business.”

He nodded but waited for her to continue.

“And there might be people we’re prioritizing, too.”

Here, he spoke. “What do you mean?”

“You aren’t the only one keeping an eye on the Glades. Lance was interested in that carjacking, too. Because of Laurel.”

“McKenna…”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” she stated for the record. “I’m just asking if there’s some unresolved stuff you need to work through before you’re ready to give a new relationship a chance.”

Oliver sat there, his face blank but his eyes showing just a hint of an internal struggle. “Laurel was my friend before everything else.”

McKenna nodded. She remembered.

“And she’s always going to be someone I care about. That doesn’t change no matter who I’m with or what kind of disagreement we might be having. That’s something a potential partner should probably know about me.”

McKenna took that in. She wasn’t a jealous type, and she trusted that those five years on an island had taught Oliver a lesson about cheating. She also didn’t believe Laurel could be interested in being one of many women after that experience. But did she want a relationship where she knew on a certain level her partner maintained a commitment to a past lover? That would warrant more thought.

“Okay, here’s something you should know about me,” she decided to say for now. “I’m very dedicated to my job, and I will do what is necessary. That’s going to put me in danger a lot of the time, especially with my being on the anti-vigilante task force. I could, theoretically, be killed out there.”

“Well, not by the Hood. I mean, he hasn’t killed anyone in law enforcement, has he?”

“Not as yet, but he’s fought them. He’s a lawless killer, Oliver. We can’t assume he has any boundaries.” She watched him shift uncomfortably. “I know you’ve been through some traumatic experiences and lost people close to you. I’m telling you that you could lose me too, unexpectedly and violently. Is that something you’re okay with?”

His mouth opened and then closed. She thought he might be considering the idea for the very first time.

“Here’s my suggestion,” she continued. “We take a break, think things over, decide what we both want and what we’re willing to agree to. I want us to be able to trust each other, Oliver, and that means knowing where we’re coming from.”

He picked at a fry. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

“Okay. Text me when you’ve had a chance to think about things. We’ll talk. Open line of communication, right?”

It took a beat longer than it should have, but he lifted his head to meet her eyes. “Right.”

McKenna managed a small smile and stood, leaving the restaurant. She honestly believed this was the best choice for them going forward. If it wasn’t meant to be, it wasn’t meant to be, but she’d rather come to that decision as rational adults than see it end in some messy catastrophe. 

And it wasn’t necessarily over yet.

---

Roy wandered down the aisles at Khan’s, looking for something cheap he could make one-handed. His wrist was still bothering him, but he had money now from selling off the pain meds. He could put up with a little pain just for that. The cash could last him through the whole next month if he budgeted it right.

Thea Queen had come by his place once since their meeting that day. He didn’t know how she got his address, or why she’d bothered. What was he to her besides some sort of helpless case she could feel good about?

At least, he’d thought that way until she’d opened up about her past with drugs. Now he wasn’t sure if she was doing this to make herself feel better or if she genuinely didn’t see why they couldn’t be on good terms. She didn’t get that wasn’t how it worked in this town, did she?

A scream came from outside. Roy dropped the hot pocket he’d been considering and raced out the door, Mr. Khan on his heels.

Two women stood by the bus stop in some kind of ethnic dress. The one had her arms over her head while her friend tried to shield her, her hair falling loose. Roy turned to the right and saw a man with a shaved head jogging up the street and waving a colorful scarf through the air as he whooped and hollered.

“Yeah, this is America!”

Roy’s good fist clenched. “Hey!”

The man gave a start and then picked up the pace, almost all the way down the block. Roy was about to start after him, but a hand landed on his shoulder.

It was Mr. Khan. “Hood!”

“What?” Roy looked around. It was broad daylight, was the vigilante really—

“Hood. Your hood, boy. For the lady.”

Roy glanced back at the women, now crying as they huddled together. He shrugged out of his red hoodie and tossed it to Khan, then took off down the pavement.

“I’ll be right back!”

Roy rounded the corner and kept going, the man re-entering his line of sight and giving him a burst of speed. He was almost a full block behind him though. A few shoppers and shop keeps were out along the sidewalk, some of them staring at the man in confusion as he passed.

He could feel a stitch in his side as he kept up the brutal pace. He wasn’t going to catch up.

“Hey, somebody stop that guy!”

The man glanced back over his shoulder at Roy’s desperate yell, and that gave a woman the opening to jut her leg out and trip him. A very familiar woman.

“Oh no,” Roy breathed to himself as Laurel reached down and picked up the scarf.

“Jesus, lady, I’m bleeding!”

“Yeah, well don’t use this to mop it up. Doesn’t look like it belongs to you.” She looked over to Roy as he made it the rest of the way there. “So, what’s the story?”

“There’s a lady back there,” Roy panted, jerking his thumb back towards where he’d come from. “That’s her head scarf thing.”

Laurel nodded in understanding, then glared down at the man on the ground.

He glared right back. “Like that’s proof. You assaulted me!”

“Great, you can take it up with the police. Make sure to ask for Detective Lance,” she replied with cool confidence. Then she turned and bent to pick up a watering can Roy only just noticed she’d had to set down to stop the guy.

The guy scrambled up and grabbed hold of her hair in one quick flurry of movement. Roy darted forward, catching him around the neck while Laurel struggled to throw them both off.

“What’s going on out here?” An old woman asked, standing in the doorway of the shop Laurel had come from, Green Glades.

Roy staggered back in the next instant as Laurel broke free, a tearing sound and a cry of pain resulting. The guy staggered back as well but twisted and pushed Roy off him, and he only just caught himself on his good arm as the guy took off.

“Laurel!” The old woman cried. “Are you alright, dear?”

“Fine, Pam,” Laurel said with more of a grunt than anything. She was gingerly prodding at her head. “I think he tore out some of my hair.”

Roy winced. That had to hurt.

Pam came forward and brought an arm around Laurel’s back. “Let’s get you inside, then. Have a look at that.”

“Yeah, let me just—” She turned back towards Roy, holding out the head scarf that she’d balled up protectively in her fist. “Can you make sure this gets back to the woman?”

Roy nodded. Khan could probably point him in the right direction if the two of them weren’t still at the bus stop.

“Sorry about that,” he added, gesturing to his head.

Laurel shook her head. “You were doing the right thing. I’m glad I could help.”

She started to follow her boss inside, but Roy called out, “Hey. Why’d you tell the guy to ask for Lance?” The few times he’d had run-ins with the cops so far, the guy was a total hardass.

Laurel smiled, a little wry. “He’s my father.”

Roy stared in surprise as she disappeared through the door of the florists. Sure, detectives weren’t rich the way Thea Queen was rich, but what was a cop’s daughter doing slumming it out here with the rest of them?

Roy returned to the bus stop by Mr. Khan’s store to find no one there, but a look inside the shop revealed the man had brought both women inside to recover. He presented the head scarf sheepishly and was met with tears and profuse thanks, both of which made him uncomfortable.

“You are a good boy at heart. We may make a good man of you yet, Roy,” Mr. Khan declared. Roy just shrugged as he pulled his hoodie back over his head.

Then he took a walk over to the community center. It didn’t do much these days besides organize little league teams, but it had free WiFi and he didn’t have to buy anything to use it. He got out his phone and searched the name Laurel Lance, surprised by the number of articles that popped up.

The woman everyone had said was in with the Hood. She was the same person.

Roy didn’t know how he felt about the Hood. On the one hand, part of him thought it was about time some of those men the vigilante had gone after got a bit of a taste of repercussions. On the other hand, little had improved in the Glades themselves.

He read about Laurel’s fall from grace after the kidnapping incident, how the pro bono law firm she’d worked for had let her go after pressure from on high. Typical. The system was broken from top to bottom, even the people that were supposed to be helping. Either they looked the other way or they got chewed up and spat out like she had.

But Thea Queen was still friends with Laurel, even though the older woman had supported a vigilante who made it his business to go after the one percent. Maybe the Queen heiress wasn’t completely the high and mighty princess he’d always assumed she would have to be.

---

Laurel spent that night nursing the back of her head where it was still sore from the scuffle outside the shop. It would feel better eventually, and she was lucky Pam had been more concerned about her well-being than about employees rough housing out in front of her store.

“You did a good thing stopping that man. Lived up to your name, too. The laurel is a symbol of victory,” her boss remarked.

“Well, I guess I was owed one by now,” Laurel replied wryly.

When she recounted the story to Anita and Jerome over dinner at their place, the two seemed far more animated about it.

“Girl, you’re crazy!” Anita exclaimed as her boyfriend let out a low whistle. “Are you trying to end up in the hospital?”

“I didn’t really plan to get involved in a fight. It just happened. I would have been fine if he hadn’t gotten a hold of my hair.”

“Yeah, well that’s one advantage to keeping things short,” Jerome said, passing a hand over his own cropped cut.

“Yeah, you might be right,” Laurel had agreed quietly, taking another bite of her acarajé.

She liked her hair the way it was, but she could see how it disadvantaged her in a fight. That was one of the things they’d gone over back in her old self defense classes.

She posed the question to Ted at her next lesson. The man shrugged.

“It’s your decision. I don’t teach people to fight dirty in the ring, so you should be fine.” His look turned rather pointed at the word should, so Laurel quickly changed the subject.

What clinched the deal was Anita, or more accurately her job. The hair salon her neighbor worked at was doing a donation drive, according to the flyers on her table when Laurel came over for their informal sewing lessons. Hair above a certain length would be taken to make into wigs for those unable to afford buying them.

“Do you think my hair would work for this?” She asked, fingers touching a flyer.

Anita paused after making another stitch. “Yeah, could get some inches off you. You’d have to be willing to go pretty short, though. Would you be okay with that?”

She shrugged. Laurel had never really had short hair before, but then what was the harm? It would grow back. After all the change in her life recently, this felt like such a small thing, and it would help somebody else. More importantly, it was something she could choose to do, rather than her being forced into doing it.

“Okay,” said Anita. “Stop by when I’m there. We’ll make sure it looks good.”

Laurel came by the salon the next day after work, glad for the chance to put up her feet and let somebody else pamper her a bit. Anita smiled wide when she saw her reflected in the mirror.

“Hey! Give me fifteen to finish up.”

Laurel waited, letting the chatter of the salon wash over her. She recognized a few women from here or there in the neighborhood. One had even come in to the shop for a bouquet arrangement for her mother the other day. Laurel had put the whole thing together herself without Pam’s supervision.

Soon enough, she was sat in the chair by her friend after a quick wash that had felt pretty good. “So I’m thinking we can still give you a little length on the one side if we part your hair further on the left. See?” Anita combed her fingers through to give a demo of the effect.

“Yeah, sounds good. I trust you.”

Anita shook her head, her long ponytail swaying side to side. “You are too willing to roll with the punches, Laurel. Alright, let’s try it.”

It was a lot longer sitting in the chair than at her usual hair appointments. Anita kept pinning up, cutting, pinning, and cutting over and over again. She felt, gradually, like a weight was being taken off her.

Eventually, Anita used the blow dry and fussed with her hair a bit, then told her to check it out in the mirror. Laurel stared at herself for a solid minute, processing the difference.

“You hate it. Oh, I knew you would.”

“No. It’s...just really different.” She gave an experimental shake of the head, seeing how her hair moved now. “I think I needed the change.”

“Yeah?” Anita played with it some more. “It is kind of fun. The new you.” She leaned in closer. “We should dye it. Do something real crazy.”

Laurel grinned. “Maybe next time. Thanks for doing this.”

“Hey, thanks for donating.”

About the only person she had to show her new look off to the next day was Pam, and the older woman was very complimentary which certainly didn’t hurt her ego. A couple of customers who had been in once or twice before remarked on it as well to her surprise, and Laurel found herself smiling through most of the day.

Pam shuffled up to her as she finished counting up the register. Laurel handed her the total that went into the woman’s safe upstairs. “Here you are.”

“Thank you. I have something for you, too.”

Laurel froze, and then it hit her. “Another plant?” Her violet hadn’t survived long past the transfer to Tupperware container, so she should have realized something like this might happen.

Pam nodded. “I want you to try again.”

“I just don’t know if raising plants is for me, Pam.”

Her boss acted as though she hadn’t heard. “Sansevieria trifasciata. 'Laurentii'.” She hefted a much larger potted plant with long, straight leaves and no flowers onto the counter. “Known by a variety of names. ‘Snake plant’. ‘Mother-in-law’s tongue’. I prefer ‘Viper’s bowstring hemp.’”

“Bowstring, huh?” Laurel sighed. “Okay, what do I need to do to take care of it? How much sunlight should it get?”

“That’s the beauty of it. You don’t have to keep it by a window, you don’t have to water it much. It’s a tough plant, evolved to survive a harsh sun and droughts — and it thrives in the dark.” She smiled.  “The night is when it comes alive.”

Laurel found herself smiling back.

She carried the plant the whole walk home, balancing it with care as she took out her keys to unlock her door. Rather than leave it on a windowsill or somewhere else precarious, Laurel stuck it in a corner on the floor. She brushed her hands off on her jeans and stood back to admire the effect. Not bad.

Laurel made herself some canned soup and afterwards washed all her dishes from that week. She clicked around on her phone for an hour while she waited for the water to heat up again for a shower. Once her nightly ritual was completed, she sank into bed, hardly even noticing the lumps in the mattress as she drifted off.

A hail of bullets slamming into some far-off wall ripped her from sleep. Laurel sat up in the dark, listening intently. There was a faint echo of return fire even further away. She waited and listened some more.

Silence. She didn’t know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or not. Silence also meant no intervention, not from the police or anyone else.

Laurel laid back down but couldn’t seem to find whatever comfortable position she’d had on the lumpy mattress. Or calm her racing mind.

She sat back up again, drawing her knees to her chest and hugging them.

As much as she spoke of the hope Oliver was giving people, living here forced her to face the facts: fear was the ruling emotion of the Glades. Fear and apathy. After all, she hadn’t even bothered to phone the police, had she? Not when she knew they wouldn’t come.

The Glades had been abandoned by just about anyone who had the power to do something about it, and even Oliver was here by coincidence more often than not. He was more concerned with the billionaires on his father’s list than the people they’d hurt. Laurel didn’t doubt he cared, but it was in an abstract sort of way; they would benefit in the long run from his interventions. Trickle-down justice for a system built on trickle-down economics.

Laurel got up and went to her little kitchen, rooting around in the dark to see if there was any tea left in her cabinets. Something to calm her down. She was only being so uncharitable to him because she was tired. It would be impossible for Oliver to take on all the city’s ills, five years of training or no.

The mission was probably easier to rely on. It was concrete and had an endpoint, however distant. How could any one person hope to turn the tide of violence and crime in the Glades?

But if no one did anything, nothing would get done. Wasn’t that the whole reason she believed in Oliver’s crusade?

Maybe the problem wasn’t that one person couldn’t change everything. Maybe the problem was that she and everyone else were relying on just one person.

Laurel shut the cabinet and turned away, leaning her back on the countertop. That kind of thought froze a person, really made them question what they were doing.

What was she doing? Sitting around in a cramped apartment, barred from the courtroom and her way of making a difference. And not for the first time. She’d become a lawyer to help people, and she’d only chosen that path because she’d been denied even the chance to apply for the police academy. Since she’d been turned away once more, it was time to find another means of saving the city. And Oliver was already providing one example.

An illegal one. But in a system as broken as theirs, did legality really matter?

She’d lost her job, her boyfriend, her father hardly wanted to talk to her anymore except to try and convince her to sacrifice her principles for a bit of comfort. What more did she have to lose?

People in the Glades didn’t have another option like she might. They didn’t have people ready to bail them out or let them live in safety. They didn’t have the choice to be involved in this fight or not; their very homes had been turned into the battleground.

If she was going down this path anyway, why not commit to it?

Laurel breathed in and out, her heartbeat loud in her ears. This would change her whole life. If she were ever caught…

But she couldn’t keep living like this anymore. She didn’t want to wait for things to happen to her. She didn’t want to constantly feel like there was more she should’ve done.

No more trying to save the world. Time to actually do it.

[cecilspeaks]

143 - Pioneer Days

We are thirsty. We cannot see. We don’t know what time it is, we are nearly here. 

Welcome to Night Vale.

Pioneer Days are upon us again. This is, of course, just the folksy rebranding that the public utilities department gives to randomly selected days throughout the year, when they cut all services without notice. The lights go out, the air conditioners grow warm, the food spoils, the water supply dries up. All residents are required to dress in the costumes of early settlers to make the whole thing feel festive and patriotic. Failure to dress in era-appropriate clothing, such as overalls and soft meat crowns, will result in punitive measures. Including being called a time traveler in a pejorative tone of voice, as was traditional punishment for all real time travelers back in the early days of Night Vale.

Polls show that these civic holidays are increasingly unpopular, but this time it’s going to be different, the utilities department promises. “It’s going to be way more fun, we swear. Just bear with us, you’re so brave. You’re all my brave little pioneers,” the pamphlets scattered around town assure us. “After all,” the pamphlets continue, “what is bravery but endurance? What better way to honor the struggles of our ancestors than through personal discomfort and grim acceptance? These are the values our town was founded on, aren’t they? Aren’t they?!” the pamphlets shout. The pamphlets writhe on the ground. The pamphlets inhale sharply and become still. In an effort to sway public opinion on pioneer days, the utilities department has unveiled an interpretive boardwalk and historical display, set up in an open expanse of desert miles from town. The intention of the display is to bring a sense of local pride and education to the community, and to be a fun family centered activity that can take people’s minds off the panic inducing existential questions that come from being so very alone in the dark.

And now traffic. You had a dream when you were young. In the dream, you woke up on the couch after a nap just in time to see your family driving away, leaving you alone in the house. They’ve never done that before, you’re much too young, too small to be left alone. There are no lights on and everything is soft with shadows. You see a brown paper bag on the table. They must have left it there for you. Is it food? You don’t know how to feed yourself yet. The bag suddenly lurches and tips over onto its side all by itself. A snake slides out onto the table, drops to the floor, and slithers rapidly toward you. You try to scream.

This is the moment you were supposed to wake up, but it isn’t a dream, is it? Your whole family really did abandon you. You grew up in this house alone after that, just you and the snake. It wasn’t poisonous but that doesn’t mean it was a good companion. It came and went without consideration for you at all, sunning itself on rocks or squeezing rodents to the death whenever it pleased, sometimes not coming home for days. You cleaned up its discarded skins during the molting season. You let it sleep curled next to your body for warmth in the winter months, even though it could only give back cold indifference in return. But you had no one else, that’s just how it was. You still see each other once a year during the holidays out of a sense of duty. You follow each other on Facebook, but neither of you check that site anymore. You waited to wake up from this dream of your youth to find your family had never left, that they were still there with you. You are still waiting to wake from this dream. This has been traffic.

I’m getting more details about the Pioneer Day’s display and celebration. Along the interpretive boardwalk, visitors will come to several viewing platforms where they will see the bleached bones of select citizens’ ancestors, scattered across the sun scorched earth. Those who won last night’s raffle must remit their ancestral bones by noon in order to be featured in the display. Further along the walk, spectators will be treated to an animatronic re-enactment of the battle for the scrublands, an event in which several key town founders bravely fought against the giant benevolent arthropods that used to exist in this area. As visitors will see, the beasts were all slain easily by our intrepid settlers, as the animals were unaccustomed to violence of any kind and regarded the human newcomers with only gentle curiosity. “They had to die,” intones the robotic voice of a mechanical man in a waistcoat, as he stands triumphant among piles of enormous multi-pointed legs. “For they were too visually disconcerting to live,” he booms.

There will always be a booth sponsored by the historical society displaying repurposed slide film from random strangers’ family vacations that have ben collected at garage sales over the years. Accompanied by plaques with made up historical narratives about the pictures. For example, there’s one of an elderly woman playing shuffleboard on a seniors’ cruise entitled “Griselda Fords the River”. It tells the tale of when pioneers first got to the sand wastes and there was a big scary river running through it, and how they had to risk their lives just to reach the land that we now have the privilege to take for granted. A lot of plaques have a kind of passive aggressive tone like that, actually.

If you make it to the end of the walk, you will be greeted by Earl Harlan, who will demonstrate how to make cherries jubilee, a staple dish among the early Night Vale frontiers people. “You feed a goose cherries until it can no longer walk or stand on its own,” Earl explains. “Then you light the goose on fire until its screams become whimpers, and when it’s finally silent, you extinguish the flames. The goose’s blackened flesh is full with tar enzymes that are very good for your skin and eyes. The red liquid pooling around it is only cherry juice. Only viscous cherry juice,” he explains as he dishes out samples of the boiling native cuisine directly into people’s outstretched ravenous hands.

That’s not all. The fully immersive interactive theater segment is last. You’ll be blindfolded and placed in the back of a cargo truck. Hours later, you will step off of the wooden blank and be free to enter into the desert, to try and find your way back home. Just like the pioneers did it. You don’t realize how the boardwalk is designed to be completely disorienting until this moment, when you step into the endless desert and look to all horizons and see only identical sagebrush and chaparral and nothingness. As if you’ve entered a mirrored fun house made only of hot dirt.

More on Pioneer Days, but first The weather.

[“Vines” by Super Boink https://superboink.bandcamp.com/]

As you wander lost in the desert, you first experience a dizzying sense of freedom. You can go wherever you want, the future is yours to shape. The possibilities seem as endless as the vast wasteland in front of you, but when you look behind you and realize you can no longer see the interpretive boardwalk or any other sign of human life, that sense of freedom becomes abject despair. You realize that taking risks is only fun when you have safety net. When that risk is a choice.  Now that you’ve been swallowed up into the blistering wilderness, you learn that choice has always been an illusion. You must go forward. The sun sinks lower. The dark air blurs the edges. You feel a cool breeze sweep over the sand – and you are grateful for that. Your lips bleed.

It’s nightfall when you come to an old homestead. It has no roof and leans to one side. There is no door, but there is the shape of a door, the black rectangle of absence. You feel compelled to go in, as would anyone confronted by a structure with an entrance, but you hesitate. You recognize this place, yes. You saw it in the slide film display by the historical society. There was a picture of it taken many years ago. It depicted the same house, only it had a roof back then. It did not lean to one side, and two children, barely toddlers, were standing out front. They had no heads, they had chickens roosting on top of their necks instead. The accompanying explanation said that it was a double exposure, a photographic art form that early Night Vale settlers dabbled in to pass the time. There was a whole collection of these photos displayed: a bath tub filled with blood. A levitating skull on fire. A baked ham with long luxurious hair. “The first Night Valers were incredibly adept at trick camera work,” the historical society insisted nervously when questioned. “Cameras had come to town at least a hundred years before cameras were invented, due to the rampant time traveler problem back in those days,” they explained. “We found the pictures in a locked trunk buried near the railroad tracks,” blurted a younger historical society member who was immediately shushed by the elders and relegated to selling merch.

You hesitate in the yard, until you can no longer ignore the siren song of the wind through the broken bones of this place, screaming at you to enter. Inside, the only piece of furniture left standing is a kitchen table. On top sits a sealed jar packed to the brim with pickled eggs. Your child asks if she can have one. Your child is with you, she’s ben riding on your back the whole time and you forgot all about her. That’s incredibly alarming. How can a parent just forget their own child like that? “Yes, honey,” you say, trembling with the effort of keeping your voice calm. “You can have one.” You set her down and she scampers across the dusty boards, and she feeds. She feeds ravenously. She asks for a bedtime story next, it is her bedtime after all. At least she says it is. You don’t know what time it is, but somehow she senses it and you trust her instincts.  Habits are comforting, rituals are important. It’s what keeps us grounded. It’s what prevents us from shouting uncontrollably and clutching at our eyes. “Once upon a time, there was a child who looked very much like you,” you begin. “No,” she interrupts, “the child looks like you.” “It doesn’t matter,” you say, “because it was actually a dog, not a child, be quiet now. Here’s the story. A dog ran away from home and had many adventures and then returned to its family and everyone learned lessons.” “What kind of adventures?” she asks. “Unspeakable adventures,” you say. “Is this a true story?” she asks. “Every story is true,” you say. She’s still awake. You point through the roofless void and tell her to count the stars, hoping to bore her into unconsciousness. “There are no stars,” she says. You acknowledge that the thick dark air obscures any light that might be in the sky, but “we can see them anyway,” you tell her, “because we know the stars exist.” “How do we know?” she asks. “Go to sleep,” you say.

After she’s asleep, you walk through what’s left of the old house and wonder if this is your new home now. There are many things you think you see standing in doorways or huddled in corners. Luckily, most of them are not real. The only thing that’s truly there is a nest of baby arthropods, bedded down in the tattered remains of a blood stained prairie dress. They appear to be orphaned, but they are together, intertwining all of their legs and blinking all of their eyes and wriggling as one large familial mass. You know you don’t belong here. This is their home now, as it was their home before, long before there was ever a house. You lift your child’s sleeping body and enter the desert once more. You look behind you and see the silhouette of a chicken-headed toddler standing sentinel in the yard. It’s not real, it’s just a double exposure.

As light lifts itself above the horizon, something shiny catches your eye in the distance. You move towards it, because it’s the only thing to move towards. You don’t feel hope or motivation, only the pull of a random focal point that keeps you going forward. Eventually you come upon an enormous parking lot full of vintage cars. Some are early models made of skin and mud and some are mid-century coupes with fins and hardtops and spinal columns. Hundreds of chrome bumpers glare in the blinding half-sun of dawn. What’s all this? you wonder in the daze.

“Hear yee, hear yee!” shrieks an individual in a tricorn hat, ringing a handbell. “What is this?!” you shriek back, grabbing them by the lapels. They do not acknowledge you. “Hear yee!” they cry again, but do not elaborate further. Suddenly the pounding of drums and deafening squawk of brass, a marching band is playing. Colorful streamers trail through a clear blue sky. It’s the city parade. You made it to the end of the Pioneer Days interpretive display and celebration! You accept another liquid handful of scalding cherries and stumble home with your drowsy young still clinging to your back.

As you enter your own silent house, completely free of all public utilities in celebration of Pioneer Days, you are overpowered by the scent of rotting kale in the stuffy air. And you breathe it in deeply. You rejoice. You weep. The only source of water is the puddle on the kitchen door, fed by the constant drip of the defrosting freezer. And you kneel down and drink from it, until you are satiated.

Things don’t look as bad as they once did, do they? The walls aren’t closing in on you anymore, they embrace you. The dark screens of your electronic devices no longer reflect your own boredom back to you, they reflect only relief on your haunted face. The inconvenience of no public services pales in comparison to the night you spent merely surviving in a howling unstable universe. It’s all about context. It’s all about managing your expectations. That’s what the utilities department pamphlet was trying to tell us all along. And of course about celebrating the Pioneers spirit, something something forefathers, vintage cars and other stuff like that.

But now that I think of it, we do spend a lot of our days distracting ourselves from physical reality. Maybe we really can use this time to experience life more solidly in the physical world, the way our ancestors did. Who needs modern conveniences when we have each other, right? Hold your loved ones close tonight. After all, you have nothing better to do. I’m coming home now, Carlos. I know you can’t hear me. No one can hear me. The power’s out here in the station just like it is everywhere else. We haven’t been broadcasting anything for days now. And even if we had bee, your radios don’t work anyway. but habits are comforting. Ritual is important.

Stay turned next for – whatever you think you hear. Good night, Night Vale, Good night.  

Today’s proverb: The leading cause of death is having a body.

[valdim-heyworth]

Hunting Samuel Teague - Karazhan Conclusion

Part 1 | Part 2

In relation to: Goodnight Rian, Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Wake Up Rian

Blessedly, outside the town of Strahnbrad, Theron Valteric had managed to help Valdim Heyworth to his feet. He'd helped get him moving again, made easier as the much larger beast shifted into his human form. Together, they rested only long enough to share information, and give Valdim's potion time to take effect.

Rian had fainted. She was in a coma. What he'd feared was all coming to pass, now, and he was moving too slowly to prevent it. Together, as family, the two gathered their things and journeyed to Karazhan.

The tower was just as impressive, just as intimidating as his first visit here, what felt like a lifetime ago. The rusted iron portcullis lifted with surprising ease, signifying that the rust had already been broken once recently - very recently. The whole structure reeked of dark magics, still.

Cautiously, the two magic-users entered, Valdim cursing under his breath, quietly, "Ligh'... I forgot what a place this is..." He shakes his head, “It still gives me chills.” Theron lofted his gaze around, "Now, yeah.. but it'd been a sight before the cobwebs." Came his muffled tone from behind his mask.

Valdim nods, looking over the dust and cobwebs. "It was, Theron. It was..." His wolf-eyes looked over the expanse before him. "Some gall, using Karazhan..." Theron glanced back towards the Worgen “Fitting really, with the Teague's being friends of the Guardian.”

“...Wonderful. I may 'ave known'im. 'Ow did Rian look, Theron?”

Theron canted his head this way and that. "Pale... I'd assumed it was from the trouble she had with delivery. Maybe I was wrong." He hadn't seen the memories from Pyrewood, hadn't realized the same conclusions that Valdim had. “I doubt it. Samuel Teague is close. An' he 'as your mother.”

Theron quickly spoke up, as they wandered through the seemingly endless halls of Karazhan. “When she fell..”

Valdim blinked, only half hearing his words, “Yes, Theron?”

Theron shook his head, "Rian, She's the strong one. For her to not respond.." He huffed a sigh and picked up his pace. Together they moved faster, Theron's boots creating a steady cadence upon the stone floor, Valdim's claws scratching upon it. “We'll stop 'im… Ligh'...I forgot 'ow big this place was.

Theron smirked, likely playing smart to distract himself from the reality of what they faced, “Ah, you've been places bigger than this.” They turned a corner, almost running now. A pile of skeletons and corpses long picked over by scavengers littered the base of the rickety stairwell.

Valdim frowned, “Not many,” he eyed the bones tightening his grip on his staff. He snarled, his voice like gravel. "I jus… ' I hope we're not too late ---”

“You've heard about the Ball? The massacre of the nobles? Think since the Teagues were here and lost, their blood in the halls would offer more to him?”

Valdim's eyes widened at the thought. It seemed like more than leylines were at play here. Samuel Teague had chosen this spot carefully. “Per'aps..." The Library grew ever nearer, even old memories of this tower had led him to believe as much. The pair of adventurers hurried, spurred by their desires to resolve this, finally.

Theron's eyes looked over the faded and cracked paintings along the wall. “Shouldn't be too much farther.” The Worgen paused, freezing for a moment upon entering the once-forgotten library.  His fierce eyes look around, noting ancient tomes along musty bookshelves, wary, feeling a strange magic in this place.

Theron took in the library and its many tiers, various levels of elevation, seemingly endless in scope. "I... it's all a puzzle.." He muttered with frustration. Feeling the energy of the space, Theron motioned his hands over his collected mana-gems and loosed his own staff in preparation for anything to come.

A distant echo of a voice cried out, Valdim recognized from the memories, muddled by distance and the faint crying of a woman, “Where was your Light then…!? What good have you done, but fail and betray your family and vows? You will be released from your sin and born anew.”

Valdim snarled, feeling a rage fill him, the curse of Worgen. He holds his staff upward, blinking closer to the sound, trying to stay hidden behind rows of books. Simultaneously, Theron whispered a power word, fading to nothing more than a pale glimmer, gripping his own staff as he moved swiftly at Valdim's side through the bookcases, until they reached the stairs. It was as they reached the edge of the large cluttered study, they found their hunt had finally paid off.

Two large lumbering ghouls worked steadily, appearing nearly whole. One remained near a fireplace, as the other tinkering with supplies at the table. Between the two stood Samuel. Finally. His flesh only slightly rotted, appearing nearly fully restored. A foul profane chant beckoned from his lips, echoing now throughout the study. Laid before him was a woman, paled and grey, showing signs similar to the corpses found in Strahnbrad. Her wrists and ankles terribly bound as her head lazily lulled in protest to the Forsaken Lord's work.

Valdim cursed under his breath, furious at the man before him. His eyes narrowed, knowing who the woman was upon the table, immediately. Although they were so far separated, the sound of her pain filled him with rage. The Arcanist whispered towards Theron, "Get close. Stop th' ritual. I'll be a distraction." He suddenly swung from behind the shelf, an arcane blast launching towards Samuel Teague, hoping to make an impact.

"Samuel. This 'as gone on long enough."

Theron pressed forward not needing to be told twice. Reflex taking over, the younger mage suddenly pulled from where he stood to hide behind a closer bookshelf, as Valdim moved for his distraction.

Lord Samuel Teague glimpsed up from his chanting. A wry smirk pulling at his lips as the arcane blast collided and hissed against the barrier unseen. The forsaken offering a snide dip of his head continuing with the ritual.

The Worgen growled at that. He spinning his staff in the air again, summoning up his arcane reserves. "Perhaps y'didn' 'ear me, Sammy. I said this ends 'ere!" Another eruption of force, cracking loud against the Forsaken's barrier, carrying more force, and power than Lord Teague had accounted for. It all came down like shattering of glass. An angered sneer curled at the edge of his nose as he gave an upward nod.

Lady Elizabeth Valeric 's lips pulled into a tired smile. Her hidden messages had worked, her help had arrived. "You know.." Were the words that came from quivered lips. Who she was speaking to was uncertain.

Samuel Teague was close to finishing his spell work and refused to let it fail. The ghoul by the fire turned towards Valdim, pulling two hot pokers from the fireplace. Valdim blinked to the side, a shimmer of light here he once was. He frowned, muttering words of Arcane might, trying to counterspell the terrible Forsaken. Theron, seizing the moment, launched his own bolts of power, but neither seemed to affect the monster before them.

The woman on the table, Elizabeth, gasped and arched with a small cry, the shift in intensity of the spell work causing great pain.  Her beautiful auburn locks began slipping to grey.

There wasn't enough time! 

The Worgen considered another plan, embracing the beast inside him, instead. He growled, suddenly launching himself at Samuel, wicked claws outstretched. Valdim took the most direct path, charging the Necromancer, the Ghoul plunging two hot fire pokers into his side, as he surged past.

Samuel held fast against the assault, catching the beasts wrists. His chanting halted but the power of the spell held, waiting for the final words. "Mutt..." The man sneered and laughed, "Should have stayed away like a good dog!"

Theron rushed to the table where his mother lay as Valdim went for Samuel. The younger mage reaching for a stone to summon forth a barrier of his own. His gaze turned to Val with a nod as he prayed his own barrier would hold better than the forsaken Lord's had.

Valdim now felt the pain of the hot poker in his side, having burned terribly, piercing the thick flesh. That wound and the one from Strahnbrad taxed him. There was --- another method to silence him, end the ritual, and times were desperate. Baring his great teeth, the Worgen went for Samuel's neck, hoping to rip out the undead flesh. But teeth snapped just out of reach.

Samuel sneered at the Worgen, powerfully, beginning to laugh darkly as he was held, a rolling chuckle filled with darkness. Yet, the arrogance soon fell from his face as he felt his spell work falter -- interrupted somehow.

"What did you do?!"

(This happens simultaneously with the conclusion of this. https://rian-kestavin.tumblr.com/post/173202075261/good-night-rian-part-3 )

Light showered the study brilliantly and breaking away the shadow's hold upon this place. The weight of the dark magic shifting to the light. Theron flinched in the flash, raising an arm to cover his gaze as he held to the barrier around him and his mother's form.

Valdim had felt a weakness, a fatigue coming over him. He wounds were too much - but suddenly that light pouring through the room began to heal him, returning lost strength. Like a creature gone mad, Valdim started grinning, murmuring arcane words. His once-tired body began to glow with shimmering purples and blues, and arcane eruption exploding from his form.

Samuel now staggered in the Worgen's arms, the arcane burns beginning to tear at freshly restored flesh. The combination of blows brought the Forsaken lord to his knees. A grin pulled at his lips, torn away, "You're too late, you know.." He gasped out. "I die and you gain nothing, Dog." The ghouls stumbled back, hot pokers ringing against the stone as the undead creatures collapsed from the blast.

Valdim snarled, pulling back his lips, revealing his terrifying maw. He spoke quietly, the words somehow carrying weight in the room. "I gain satisfaction." Wicked claws moved to grasp upon Samuel's neck, tearing into the flesh, feeling the soft meat split between his fingers.

Theron watched, the Lord's laughter soon fall silent, his body jolting to get free of the tearing claws.  He called out to Valdim, "The fire, Val! Finish this for good!" The younger mage gripped his staff working to hold back his own anger and hatred for the creature.

Valdim heard the words calling out from behind him, Theron, a voice of reason through the cloud of rage that he once so carefully controlled. The beast turned, throwing Samuel Teague's unliving corpse into the flames of the fireplace. The Arcanist, Valdim shrunk, his human form looking towards the heat with an insistence.

"Burn, Samuel Teague. You're long overdue." Valdim glances back at Theron, "Elizabeth?!"

The younger mage held his gaze to the burning and writhing Forsaken Lord. A blast of his final darkness billowed out in the heavy plumes. Souls he'd taken wailing to their freedom. Valdim turned back looking at the frail looking woman. Her life essence had been stolen - running on fumes now. There was a peacefulness that washed over her as she felt the spell-work cease. Stepping to her side, Theron's gaze looked her over with a pained expression.

"You can fix it, Val? Right?"

Valdim looks over the poor woman, noticing the peace on her features, a small frown on his lips. "I-I don' know. Maybe a priest. Per'aps..." He swiftly left her side, in a panic, moving back towards the book Samuel had been chanting from, frantically turning pages looking for some way to reverse the process.

Elizabeth Valteric moved her hand to hold Theron's as she met his gaze. "He kept his promise.." A slow smile found her lips. "Valdim?" She tried to sit up but found she hadn't the strength. "Theron give... give us a minute?" Came her tired voice.

Valdim flipped through pages with a continued panic, the fear swelling, unable to find anything, his heart racing in his chest, trying to find some way to undo what had been done. As she called out, his shoulders trembled, "No! Elizabeth. We can fix this---"

Theron blinked his glossy gaze, he freed his mask before leaning down and placing a kiss to the woman's brow.

"Val.. She wants to speak with you." he gave a gentle squeeze to her hand, "Hold on, Mum, yeah?"

He let his hands freeze, realizing the terrible weight of reality. The wizard turned slowly, walking over towards Elizabeth, shaking, now. Theron stepped back letting the two have their space. Valdim begins to speak, his words catching, meeting her eyes with tears. "I'm sorry..."

Elizabeth Valteric shook her head and reached a hand for his own. "Don't you dare." Her own eyes watered, "You saved them when I couldn't. I'm the one who should be sorry." Her green hues fell from his own as her regret pulled at her seeing this impossible man who hadn't a bit since the last she'd seen him so long ago.

Valdim places a hand against her cheek... So much to say. So much time missed. Except...

He reaches into a bag, retrieving a small glowing orb, placing it in her trembling hands, wrapping his own around her gaunt fingers. "I missed you." Vladim's eyes met her own, even at this moment, choosing the selfless option.

"These orbs store memories. You have..." He paused feeling emotion building,  "You have a granddaughter named Serenity. Share a memory with her. She deserves to know who you are." He swallows, teardrops falling from his eyes.

Elizabeth Valteric blinked away her own tears, she was well familiar with how the orb worked. She gave a small nod. "You're not getting.. getting out of this." She spoke stubbornly, causing the hint of a smile to cross Valdim's face before she offered the last memory.

Playing out in the orb, now, the image of Valdim Heyworth playing with two young twins near the fireplace in their home in Willow Grove. A younger Elizabeth had been in her office and came looking for a distraction - It wasn't long before she was on the floor playing too.

Laughter and happiness.

She'd known many wonderful times but these days with simple enjoyment were her favorite.

Valdim leans over and presses a kiss against her lips, briefly, knowing that these were truly their last moments. After all this time. "Goodnight, Elizabeth. You can rest now. Theron and Rian are safe. I loved you Elizabeth, I always did." He stepped away, slowly, knowing Theron deserved his moment.

Elizabeth Valteric 's hand trembled slowly as she dared return the kiss. "I love you, too." Offering her last smile to him before he stepped free and allowed Theron to take his place. Looking to Theron, "You watch over him." She tried to offer as her son took her hand. "Watch over our family. I.." She swallowed once, "I love you... all..." Her hand fell still and the life left her gaze. Elizabeth was truly free of her torment.

Theron gripped his mothers hand tight. He was about to respond as she drifted away. His eyes dripping quiet crystalline drops as Theron moved to his knees. He hadn't any words as he quietly sobbed, Valdim pulling him into a deep, silent, hug.

((That’s a wrap! Thanks so much to @rian-kestavin! Tagging @theron-valteric for completeness, and @householt because of Rian’s involvement. Thanks for reading so much! ))