Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Instinct took over when he threw himself in front of the blast that threatened to destroy those he had, until now, called his enemies.

He let them go, encouraged them to go, and it couldn’t have felt more right.

They left with their answer, and he found his. His path was clear. He turned to face his death, as content as he could be with so much left undone. Such a long life he’d lived, and so much of it he’d wasted.

He didn’t live to see the results of his efforts, but the force and trajectory of the swing, he knew, were enough to send the Titan tumbling beneath the clouds to join its fallen kin. A shame the refugees had been left stranded, abandoned by their “saviour”, but it couldn’t be helped.

The light grew brighter, engulfing his vision with its blinding incandescence.

He smiled, and knew no more.

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She was facing away when it happened, but the light still managed to dazzle her, stealing her sight and robbing her of breath.

The sound followed, crashing into her like a wave, like a foghorn whose only purpose was to announce what she desperately did not want.

He was dead.

His name fell from her lips, expressing all the things she’d wanted to say but never could in the two simple syllables. Staring into the distance, turning to face the direction he must have been, she stood numbly and silently wept.

She tried to think, tried to breathe, but the pain smothered, strangled, suffocated her, and she couldn’t.

This was always a possibility. Any one of them could have died at any time. The concept wasn’t new, but the reality? Raw, and oh so painful.

She had to fight to restrain a broken laugh. He’d broken his promise.

No way in hell would she break her end. Punching his ashes wouldn’t be as satisfactory as punching the smile off his face, but she’d have to make do.

She turned, as she knew he’d want, and resolved to live. For him, and for everything that could have been, she would live.

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He watched her fall, watched the tentacle pierce through her (delicate, far too delicate) flesh and emerge the other side. Watched her stop, crumple in on herself, slide to the floor. Watched her go still, hair spilling lifelessly around her like a cape of sorrow.

He watched her, the one person who’d always been there, the one person he couldn’t live without, the one person he truly loved - his sister - he watched her die.

Rage blinded him. Hadn’t they mocked the boy an eternity ago for his reckless, grief-filled charge at the death of one he loved? How ironic that he now would do the exact same. He, too, charged, desperate for revenge, desperate to save her (it was too late; she was gone).

The cries for him to stop were distant, dissolving into the ether before he could digest their meaning. Fog clouded his mind, his thoughts consisting only of pain and grief and anger, a fierce, raging fire that seared his soul and begged for release.

Death hurt, he realised belatedly, as his Core was ripped from his body, and the rage in his mind turned to a dull nothingness. Death hurt a lot.

It wasn’t as if he wanted to live in a world without her - without them - when they were all he had left.

His time on the stage was over.

He fell still.

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She was trapped.

She was also content, happily serving the very man (could he even be classed a ‘man’ anymore) she’d always sought to defeat.

Maybe ignorance does bring bliss, but to him, watching her blindly follow and remember nothing of the truth (all while looking so much like her), her ignorance could not have hurt more.

She stands with the enemy now, with the equally-misguided bunch of kids still clinging to the hope Elysium brings. They, too, are caught in his web of lies and deceit; they, too, question all the wrong things. Her staff is held aloft, her power radiating off in waves, her expression fierce with a determination he knows all too well.

They’d been partners once, after all, working together to serve and protect her.

But she’s gone now, and they stand on opposite sides of the war.

And only one remembers.

One is happy in her new life, but unknowingly trapped. The other is tormented by his past, but free to do as he wishes.

He can’t leave her like this.

The path to her is clear, and he crosses the distance in an instant.

He’s often wondered the best way to help her: steal her from his grasp and try to explain the truth (why should she believe him), kill him (a work in progress).

Kill her.

The sword pierces through her easily, cracking what’s left of her Core Crystal (his fault again) - as fragile as the most delicate, valuable, ornate jar.

She chokes, they yell. He adopts an indifferent attitude, but he mourns the person she was (and still is, just with misguided intentions).

Her staff clatters to the floor as she rapidly loses her strength, and he has to look away.

When her hand brushes against his cheek, his gaze is drawn back to hers, and he is yanked forcefully back to the past.

(He used to find her physical similarities endearing. Now it just hurts.)

Jerking back and letting her fall, he darts away as quickly as he rushed to kill her.

Would she hate him for this? Almost certainly.

Later that night, when everything is over and she is long gone, he mourns not just for her, but for her as well.

If only he could reverse the clock.

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He only realises exactly what his Driver is planning when he impales himself.

When it hits - and it hits all at once, a whirlwind of information slamming into him - he doesn’t question it.

Sadness is felt, of course. A decades-long adventure, from a life of nobility to nothing to the Mercs, over so soon, so easily, all for some kids they barely know.

Yet he doesn’t question it, doesn’t even think to. These are good kids, with hopes and dreams they wish to achieve, promises they wish to see through, lives they wish (and deserve) to live.

He’d always thought they’d go out protecting one of their villagers - their family.

In a way, that’s exactly what they’re doing.

All he can do is transfer whatever power he has left through the scythes impaled in his dear friend and wait for the end.

When it comes, he closes his eyes, and lets go.

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A slow rise.

An even slower fall.

The gentle movements of the Gormotti’s chest were oddly mesmerising, and she struggled to draw her gaze away. Rhythmically she breathed, in, out, in, out, and, subconsciously, her own breathing slowed to match.

So slow.

Carefully, as cautiously as if handling a newborn, she traced her fingers down the sleeping girl’s face. Her serene expression didn't falter at the touch. Far too often her smile would twist with the agony of her illness as it reared its ugly head, so to see her at peace…

It was a rare sight, and one she treasured.

Was her breathing slowing even further? She wasn't sure - it was so, so slow.

A slow rise.

An even slower fall.

Then nothing.

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He was so still.

Her Prince was an enthusiastic man, filled to the brim with a boundless energy that spilt into every exaggerated gesture and cacophonic exclaim. Now he lay motionless, the energy finally finding it's limit, leaving him dull and lifeless and still.

He tilted his head. It was such a small action, barely even a movement at all, but right now she welcomed even the smallest proof that he was still alive.

An apology. He actually apologised for this. He'd done this for her, to save her from bandits and a life of slavery and hell, and he was apologising.

If he wasn't so gravely injured she would hit him. She knew he could be stupid, but this was on another level entirely.

Ten years. They'd been together ten long, exciting, adventure-filled years.

She refused to let it end here.

He was at least twice her size, a mound of muscle that she could not hope to compare to, but even so she dragged his (unconscious now, and far too still) body over her shoulders and began to walk.

And walk.

And walk, until her body gave out entirely and they toppled to the ground, defeated.

She'd failed.

At least she wouldn't remember what she’d lost.

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He was so innocent, wide eyes full of innocence and idealism and integrity that she herself lost long ago to the cruelty that runs unchecked in the world. She looks down at him, meets his gaze, and mourns.

Mourns for the purity he will soon lose.

Mourns for the child she will soon lose.

Mourns for the life she will soon lose.

If only she could protect him, as a mother should. Instead she is forced to abandon him, hoping against all odds that the world will be kind to him.

She knows, though, that the chances are slim.

Unable to meet those eyes any longer, she lets her own slide close. She murmurs a soft apology, one rife with regrets and sorrows and grief that she cannot truly put into words, and pushes.

As the shouting draws closer and her son falls silent, she prays for his safety.

It’s out of her hands now.