Chapter Text
She remembers happiness.
It’s all she can remember.
She knows there was a time before happiness; there are inklings of it everywhere. Booming laughter echoes in the middle of the night, soft singing whispers through the hallways of her flat. The smell of cinnamon, of dragonsblood, taking over as she hums in her kitchen. Gentle bickering, fingers intertwined, the sweat of a hard day's work on her brow. Perhaps it wasn’t always happy, but it was true joy. There was home, and a family she loved. There was food on the table, and friends that laughed together. Nights with gentle whispers, sleeping in piles. Or perhaps those are all just dreams.
Was there ever a time before the present? Work and medication and security can only do so much for one person. If this truly is all she’s ever known, then why is it so empty in her chest? Why does she look at her legs, at her cane, and feel such a sense of loss? It isn’t for her mobility. She knows there was a time when she was happier than this, and when that happiness was genuine. Even through the bad times she was happy. It's true. It's true. But she just can’t... remember.
Her hand glides across the machine, erasing yet another memory from the public mind. Articles from before; some that bear her name, and others that do not. She remembers once loving to write and to collect the histories of the world. But the thought of writing brings her nothing but bitterness now. (Toss the article away, find another. Don’t try to think about what they say.) Mentions of the war, a war they both won and lost. It’s better this way, she thinks, as trembling fingers narrow the focus so that only the article is lit. It’s better if no one remembers. (Redacted, tossed away. Grab another article for the machine.) At least then they can be happy. At least then they won’t remember everything they sacrificed to remain safe. At least—
The slider clicks into place, and it’s only after a moment of staring that she truly sees what she’s done.
APPROVED, slashed in a gentle blue across its contents. Had she done that? She must have. Her job is mundane, tedious, and she often loses herself in the hours between arrival and departure. Grabbing articles, glancing briefly over the title, deciding what to keep and what to erase. It’s easy work. But no matter how tedious and mind-numbing, she remembers. That’s her job, after all. The story-keeper, the historian, the redactor. But this? She doesn’t remember. She can’t remember. Her heart pounds in her chest as green eyes flit across the title.
TOWER OF TWILIGHT LOST.
347 Soldiers Killed. Magnus Burnsides Injured. Julia Burnsides Missing.
( Explosions ricochet around them. Taako and Lup (who? and why does the thought of them bring her such joy?) laughing as they fire off potshots. Enemies fall to their power. Not guns in their hands, but small sticks. They dance and move around each other, complimenting each other in a way she has never seen before. She wishes she could have convinced them to stay with Barry. (who?)
Her hands are raised, channeling every bit of magic (magic?) she has. She is no frontline soldier, not like Magnus. (the general?) Her place is here, in the heart of the battle. Her shield glitters around them, protecting those she calls hers. Protecting the family she loves so dearly. No one has ever been able to penetrate her shield. Until, suddenly, they can.
Metal creaks. A weapon she doesn’t recognize. An explosion of fire and shards, and her barrier cracks. Lup’s face contorts in horror. Taako turns, just as another explosion deafens the roar of battle. Her barrier shatters. Shards fly, tearing into flesh and bone. Taako collapses on top of Lup. Screams echo in her ears. )
The world returns to her once more, and suddenly she cannot breathe. Her heartbeat has increased, nearing a dangerous rhythm. Her chest tightens, threatening to send what is typical anxiety into full panic. Trembling fingers lift, touching her cheeks. Wet, warm. She’s crying. She’s always crying. Memories that don’t make sense, people she can’t remember; they haunt every hour of her life. Not even sleep brings her peace from the strangers she never met and a war she never fought in. She reaches for her medication, lifting the strawberry-flavored pill between trembling fingers.
It’s soon flung across the room.
The tendrils of withdrawal crawl at the corners of her mind, but she ignores them. There’s something the world is keeping from her. There are secrets she doesn’t understand, and she will not stand for that. Let the world descend into horror. Let the damned police find her, cast her out. If this is what it means to belong in polite society, then gods above she doesn’t want to belong. Not to them. Not to this. Taako and Lup, the names bring warmth to her heart. Magnus Burnsides, the ferocious general, sparks something familiar. She knows them. She knows them!
She has a family, somewhere. Somewhere, amongst these redacted articles and buried truths, lay the truth the world would rather forget. But not her. She’s already spent years in the dark, and now... now, she has to find them. She has to bring them home.
Gods be damned, Lucretia Greenfell is a historian, and she will find the light of truth.
Across town, Magnus Burnsides sits amongst the furniture of his empty manor. A mug of beer sits half-finished on his coffee table. Beside it rests bottle of medication, opened but untouched. He should take one. He knows he should. They offer happiness and warmth, years of horrors erased in a moment of compliance. The war is too much, sometimes. The screams of his soldiers, the smell of blood as another of his friends fall. There’s soo much there, so much he doesn’t want to remember. But then... but then there was also so much joy.
The government and the doctors, they all promise contentness. All he has to do is eat what they give him, smile and wave when it’s asked of him. It’s certainly not the horrors of war, but Magnus wouldn’t exactly consider this existence happy, either. He’d once had happiness; he can remember that. The sort of happiness he yearns cannot be replaced by a government-mandated pill, nor the chemicals they add to the water and food. The sort of happiness he remembers belong to a red-eyed woman who’d stolen his heart with a smile.
Tinkling laughter, bright brown eyes; those are the things he remembers, even now. Soft hands against his rough ones, fingertips tracing the scars he’d earned over the years. A soothing heartbeat beneath his ears as lithe hands run through his hair. Quiet nights spent in their cabin, with dogs nosing their way between their mother and father. It had been a simple life. In those days, he’d not been the General Savior, but a simple farmhand and blacksmith. He’d been a boy with warmth in his heart, with a love he’d known and lost.
It’s too much, he thinks, and reaches for the bottle. His fingers hesitate before shifting, to take the beer he’d poured hours ago. Warm and tasteless, but better than nothing. It seems there’s nothing here that isn’t laced, he thinks. Fuzziness returns to his brain. Memories slowly begin to fade once more.
Maggie, look out!
He jumps to his feet, head twisting this way and that to find the source of the voice. His left eye is too fuzzy to focus, the war having stolen that one from him, and his right strains to make up for it. Shadows dance and twist, contorting into people and faces he knows, but doesn’t recognize. A figure standing taller than his height. A bearded man with kind eyes. Identical figures, standing back to back, holding hands. A shorter man, red tinting his figure, moving closer to one fo the twins. (Are they twins? He thinks so.) Two women, with their foreheads pressed together. One taller, built, with a warhammer strapped to her back. The other much shorter, but he knows her strength lies within.
They’re talking, whispering, just as the ghosts always do whenever they appear. Typically, he can’t hear them. Their words are muffled, rushing water in a creek. One of the women lifts her hand, to rest it against the other’s cheek. He waits for the rush, and then the hallucinations will end, just as they always do. But this time when they speak, it’s clear.
Keep them safe.
I won’t be long.
Don’t let anything happen to him.
I never have.
Two voices, voices he hasn’t heard in years. Voices he can’t remember. One belonging to a woman he’d grown up beside, considered his sister. (He’d had a sister, once. She’d drowned when he was eleven. She was the only family he’d had. Wasn’t she?) The other voice rumbles in his ears, a hint of a lisp hanging onto certain words. His chest warms. He loves her. He loves her voice.
In his lonely manor, Magnus drops to his knees, and remembers.
Doctor Highchurch stares blankly at the body before him.
The syringe in his hand trembles as he struggles to piece together what just happened. Another rebel, a member of the Memorium, as they’ve taken to calling themselves. A band of outlaws who refuse to eat or drink what is provided. They refuse to take their medication, to accept the world for what it is. They want to disrupt the happiness of Neverwinter and bring about the days of old. They want the past, and the horrors that come with it. But more than that, they want to force the entire population to relieve the horrors of the past. That’s not allowed. No one wants that.
It’s fine, the logical part of himself tries to say; it’s fine. He is doing his job to protect the city. It’s fine. People need him here, to do this sort of work. Not everyone can rise above their mistakes and turn a new leaf. Those that can’t should not be part of their society. Those that can’t don’t belong among them. It’s better this way. War and panic are a thing of the past. Their mistakes are forgotten. They don’t need to remember.
But no matter how he tries to reason it, something within fights. A little bird, struggling against a too-tight cage. A man he knew once, speaking of courage and a life far from people, a life on the sea with just the two of them. Seven of them. Two of them? A god with gentle words, before gods were eradicated. A god who encouraged peace and love, offering hope even in the darkest times. They were both men of freedom, of life. Wherever they are, he hopes they’re happy. He hopes they’re real, and that they’re happy.
He has a good position now, with a wife and children. A career that can never falter, with more and more people like him needed every day. Despite their best efforts, the Memorium continue to rise in strength and numbers. More people turn to their pasts, refusing to consume what they are given. He has seen how the past tears them apart. He has seen people go mad from the mistakes of the past. The world needs him. These people need him.
Of all the doubts that plague his mind, that statement has never faltered. The world needs him. They need his hope, his life, his warmth. But do they need him like this? Or do they need him somewhere else? As someone else?
It’s best not to think about it, he tells himself, and shakes his head. The police or street cleaners will take care of this. They will stitch up, erase the man from the past and present. There is no room in Neverwinter for someone who insights such thinking, such sadness. He slips the syringe into his pocket, turning from the body, and continues down the streets. Around him, lamps hum with power, one by one extinguishing. The smell of baking bread fills his nose as windows open. Perhaps he’ll grab a fresh loaf once the shops are open. Civilians reach out their windows to wave at him, to greet him, calling him their friend, their savior, their doctor.
There was a time when you were so much more.
He tries to shut out the voices, but they only come back stronger.
A time when the world wasn’t on your shoulders.
He knows.
A time when you didn’t chase down those desperate for escape.
Is it true? He doesn’t remember. If it is, he doesn’t want to remember. They’re too far gone. He is too far gone. Blood coats his hands, and no amount of scrubbing could ever make him clean again.
“Any news on our little rabbit?”
Her voice splits the silence, muffled but real, and Taako turns from communications system he and Lup man. Her sudden appearance is enough to make him flinch, though it’s more out of habit than actual fear. He could never fear Her. One ear pins back, the other still too damaged to move properly, as he turns to glance at his sister. Lup reaches down, to intertwine their fingers. Her injured arm hangs limp by her side. Today is not a good day for the damaged.
“He’s been caught,” she says, and gives Her a sympathetic look. Taako offers a comforting squeeze, and she is quick to return the gesture. He can’t seem to meet Her eyes. So instead, he rests his head on Lup’s shoulder, and simply allows her to do the talking. Sometimes it’s for the best, she thinks. “Dragonling reported in an hour ago that the Good Doctor caught him. Usually the Doc’s careful, but... but this time, the poison was too much. He was dead by the time the kid found him.”
“Fuck.” She moves across the room, from the smoldering fireplace to the boarded window. Graying trees sway as the breeze picks up. Someone screams from down the way. She can smell blood, and isn’t sure if it’s from the past, or the present. Her tusks click together. “We could have used him. Where was his caught?”
“Two miles from the safe house, Ruby.” Lup releases Taako’s hand and stands, moving to stand beside their leader. Violet eyes shift from the nothingness outside to Her face, once more mentally tracing the scars she had already memorized. Scars that weren’t there before the war. Scars too horrible for Neverwinter to ever accept into their fold. “The Good Doctor had no idea where he was going. We’re still safe.”
“Well, there’s that, at least.” She takes a moment to find Lup’s hand, squeeze. Then she turns from the window, offers Taako a light smile. The situation isn’t ideal, but they’re doing their best. They have no other choice. Her hand lifts, signing the words that leave her mouth. “Was Angus able to retrieve anything from his person?”
Taako nods, glancing down at the notepad in his hand. “He found their addresses, written down just as you asked. Do you—?”
She nods, and Taako begins to list them off. Davenport, living in a little boathouse in the docks of the Waterdeep. No big surprise there, she thinks bitterly. He’s too much trouble to have amongst the common folk, but he’s still a hero. They wouldn’t dare cast him out. Barry, in the very heart of Neverwinter. He’s become a “physicist” now, studying the magic he doesn’t believe exists. Magnus, to the very north of Neverwinter. Her heart aches at the thought of him alone, separated from his family. Not for long, though; they won’t be apart for long. And then Lucretia, currently serving as a Redactor for the Archives of History. Erasing the stories she spent years to craft, the articles she loved so dearly. She lives in a flat not far from Magnus, and yet the two have never been seen together. She can’t imagine.
Taako places aside the document once he’s finished, turning to look at her. “So what’s the plan, boss?”
Her hands move effortlessly as she says, “We bring our family home.”