Chapter Text
Quinn woke up with the knowledge of two things: the first was the bone deep certainty that their brother was in desperate need of their help. The second was the almost-pain, cold-burning that lived deep in the bones and sinew of their hand and the bright sick-green flare that lit up the stone walls in time to their pounding pulse. The sick-green reflected off the muted silver helmets of a ring of guards, swords drawn and pointed at Quinn, like they were dangerous, about to explode. Like Quinn was a mage.
Two women stepped into the ring of guards, bringing a more natural light and a deepening of Quinn’s fear. They wore the uniform of the Divine’s personal entourage, and nothing good could come of being questioned by the Left and Right hands of the Most Holy. Minutes passed -- or was it days? -- before Quinn was pulled to their feet and pushed up the stairs into the open air.
There was something wrong with the sky. The Fade was bleeding from a wound behind the clouds, dropping demons like blood. Quinn’s hand throbbed with the beat of their heart. The shorter dark-haired woman -- Cassandra -- pulled them along through the crowd, jeers falling like stones at Quinn’s feet. The not-pain burning-electricity of the Fade-scar flared and Quinn’s arm went numb to the shoulder. Even if Quinn could find their axe, they doubted they would be able to swing it.
The huge wooden doors to the first of the stone bridges banged open and suddenly all Quinn could see was the broad shoulders of their brother as Aydan rushed at them. Quinn breathed in the sweat-leather-lavender smell of him, and pressed their head -- aching and bruised -- against Aydan’s. There was a pain like relief that settled in Quinn’s chest to match the pain in their hand. They could handle whatever the world threw at them now that Aydan was back by their side. Where he belonged.
A cough from Cassandra brought them back to the present -- and the present’s desperation. Aydanl’s mouth curled down in a sneer and took out one of his ever-present knives to cut away the bonds on Quinn’s wrists. Free to shake out the pins-and-needles buzzing from the not-scar, the tear-in-the-Veil, the sick-green on their palm, Quinn breathed a sigh of relief. Trapped made everything worse.
Quinn looked up from their hands to see Aydan yelling at Cassandra, arms gesturing wildly. Quinn approached and laid a hand on his shoulder. Aydan stopped mid-sentence and turned to face Quinn, eyes falling shut. The violet paint on his eyelids had yet to rub off, but the precise black lines framing his lashes had long since smeared. Quinn faced Cassandra and stated, immovable as stone, “Aydan comes with me.”
Cassandra growled deep in her throat and Quinn’s hand squeezed tight, pulling the seams of Aydan’s formal tunic tight across his bicep. Aydan moved his own hand to cover Quinn’s, lacing their hands together and squeezing tight. The presence of their twin was a balm, a stone against the storm, a tether to prevent Quinn from free-falling into insanity.
Aydan pulled Quinn to a table filled with weapons and put a familiar axe into Quinn’s free hand. They felt, suddenly, that they all had a chance again. The weapon, a forgotten heirloom from a forgotten corner of the Trevelyan estate, had fit the forgotten twin, the unwanted child, like another limb. Cuihmne, it was called, the letter carved in precise lines along the haft.
There was something that was often misunderstood about the twins: Aydan was good at talk, not at being the wall that didn’t break. He was good at finding the cracks in the mortar that could break down the building, and finding the gaps in armour. Quinn was much more straightforward than that. They could not bend their mind that way, could not see from the shadows the way that Aydan could. But with an axe in hand, they could strike where Aydan pointed, strike with enough strength to bring down cities. Aydan knew where to go. Quinn was their strength.
Together, the twins made swift work of the demons that fell like snow. They climbed the mountain, stopping let Quinn close the gaping wounds in the air. Wounds the same colour as their not-scar. There was a dwarf with an odd relationship with an odder crossbow who fit as if he had trained with them for years, and an elf who was soft-spoken and steadfast, whose healing magics felt like a wash of cool water over parched throats. Quinn was surprised at how well the pair of them, as unusual as they were, were able to fit into the ebb and flow of the twins’ movements. Cassandra fit a little less easily, but as long as she remained out of the way of Quinn’s axe, they managed to get along fine.