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Chapter Text

"No! Kim, wait, come back!"

It was too late. The Aeterna had gone in a burst of light. The Orphan stopped, mid-step, a hand half-raised to do they knew not what.

"Let them go," Narathzul said scornfully. "The faithless can flee; they are of little consequence to us."

For a moment the Orphan wanted very badly to hit him. Kim was not faithless. Kim was many thing but they were not faithless. Kim was frightened, frightened of them, of what they might do. The Orphan did not blame them. Some part of them was frightened too, frightened of Arantheal, frightened of the the Lightborn, but also of themself and what they had become.

The moment did not have the decency to pass, but before the Orphan could act on their urge, he vanished through his summoned gate. The Orphan stood there for a second and yelled the vilest epithet at they could think of; though they couldn't tell if they cursed Kim or Arantheal or even themself.

The empty halls seemed to catch the words and hurled it back at them.

Damn you, Arantheal, they thought, and plunged after him.

Chapter Text

You had thought that closing an Oblivion Gate would be hard. You had plunged into the fiery jaws of Hell, sure that you'd never come out, and yet you had.

But no, that was the easy part.

You had thought that convincing Martin that you were telling the truth to him was hard. You had stood there before him, his eyes as hard and sharp as his father's; and listened to your tale. He had believed you, at least as much to follow you to Weynon Priory.

Again, it turned out to be easier than you expected.

You thought it would be easy to stay distant from Martin. He was a prince, but more, a stranger in a strange land; much as you were, and you found yourself warming to his peculiarly humble charm. Before you left Cloud Ruler again, you realized that he was a good friend, and were secretly glad you failed.

You thought that finding the Mythic Dawn would be hard. When you had left Cloud Ruler, you hadn't even known their name. And yet, with the help of Baurus and Tar-Meena, and your own tenacity, you found their stronghold at Lake Arrius.

And then you failed. It was the first time in your new journey you had failed something so important. You returned to Cloud Ruler in defeat; but the hardest was yet to come.

You didn't know how hard it would be to watch Martin lose track of time, lose sleep, lose meals as he toiled over the Xarxes's cursed pages. He was the-- no was to be the Emperor, and he'd do nobody any good if he collapsed from exhaustion. You worried and watched.

You didn't really know what to expect when you ventured out to retrive the Daedric artifact for the ritual. It turned out to be a good thing. Daedra make their living off of being unpredictable.

You were sure it would be hard to retrieve the chestplate of Tiber Septim; and to an extent it was. The undead Blades put up fearsome fights, the ghosts dogged your footsteps. The drip-drip haunted your dreams. And then you were rewarded by Martin's relief and easy praise. It was hard but the reward was great.

You knew it would be hard to find Martin the great Welkynd Stone. His concern for you, his earnest advice hurt you in ways you couln't understand. You went out every time, knowing you might die. It was the first time you realized, truly realized how much your death might hurt your newfound friends. That was perhaps the hardest. Then when you returned with the great stone, you were rewarded by Martin's joy.

Of course it would be hard to close the Great Gate. Everything, from convincing the Countess to mustering the reinforcements from across Cyrodiil and even beyond, to the actual act of venturing into the Gate. It was fruitless to try to convince Martin to stay behind, to stay safe; but when you dove through the gate, you knew that the men couldn't wish for a better leader.

You hadn't known what to expect from Paradise, but the idyllic-seeming garden was not it. When you found the undercurrent if darkness and misery it was almost a relief. Mankar had been a cruel opponent, but when you finally stood over his body it wasn't the victory that warmed you, it was the sudden release from worry. The Mythixc Dawn was gone and who now could oppose you?

And you thought it would be easy. You thought that from then on, you could relax.

What a fallacy.

The only thing you could think as you stare at Dagon and the dragon was that You thought it would be easy.

You thought it would be easy.

Chapter Text

"You did this?"

"You shouldn't sound so surprised," Nerevar said blithely. "You seem to forget your place."

The younger Chimer took their pipe from their mouth and blew a ring of smoke in reply.

"Nobody doubts your expertise, my friend," Voryn said calmly, his deep, resonant voice as even as ever. "But I admit, this seems more Ayem's area of expertise then yours."

Vekh smirked. "Exactly my thoughts, o tall and vaguely ominous mer-friend."

Voryn ignored them.

Nerevar shrugged. "A surprise," he offered. "Ayem wanted them out of the way, I got them out of the way."

Voryn shook his head in wonder. "You are far too good for that woman," he mutttered.

Now it was Nerevar's turn to ignore him, as he had so many times before.

Chapter Text

"If," Gertrude said slowly, "if we are still trapped in the Cycle--"

"No," Tealor snapped. "They are lying."

"Are they?" snapped Gertrude, hair and eyes blazing She was so done with this. At least Narathzul had listened sometimes. "Are they?"

Yuslan said nothing.

Gertrude pushed aside an ancient mummy to stand chest-to-chest with Tealor Arantheal. "You can't even begin to think you're wrong, can you? You fucking Arantheals and your--"

"Are you truly questioning me?" Tealor said ominously. "Consider your words, Tel'lmantath."

Gertrude flinched and her hands curled into fists. "Tealor--"

Jespar tried to pull her away and failed. "Gertrude," he pleaded. "Not now."

"You Arantheals and your goddamn egoes," Gertrude said, a little more quietly this time. "Leading your followers straight into all the dirty ditches. Did you know it might actually help your causes if you put aside yourself and listened to those around you? Maybe told them what was going on sometimes?"

"That didn't stop you before," Tealor countered. "That didn't stop you when you followed my son."

Jespar saw flames in Gertrude's eyes. Tealor Arantheal was treading on very dangerous territory.

Yuslan watched, green eyes glittering.

"Listen here, Arantheal," Gertrude spat, making his name sound like a curse. "I was young. I was stupid. I wanted to be important. I wanted revenge on your people! Your Temple! I paid the price in blood A THOUSAND TIMES OVER! Don't you think I have been atoning for my idiocy.?"

Jespar winced. Standing beside Gertrude while she was shouting was not healthy for your ears.

"No," Tealor said coldly. "I don't. If anyone besides the High Ones is truly to blame for this it is you. You slew the Lightborn and began this turn in the Cycle."

Jespar's eyes went wide and for a moment he forgot to hold on to Gertrude. It certainly explained more than it didn't, but before he could think about it, Gertrude surged forward and struck Tealor in the face. There was a crack and Gertrude went sprawling on the old stones.

"Enough!" Yuslan roared, and a wall of green energy went up between the two. "Fight about this later. Right now we have work to do."

Tealor sheathed his sword and stopped the flow of blood from his nose with a spell. Gertrude relaxed her fighting stance but not her glare.

"This isn't over, Arantheal," she growled as Yuslan's barrier went down.

Chapter Text

Alzathiri groaned through her teeth as she clambered to her feet. The padded floor did little to soothe either her bruises or her pride.

Caius watched, his blunted practice sword not even raised. Alzathiri was getting really, really irritated with the man.

She grit her teeth and drew her short hair out of her face. For a moment she studied the elder man, trying to acertain his intentions.

She feinted toward his right temple and followed with a real blow to his sternum, or tried to. Before she could figure out what gone wrong she was flat on her back again, gasping for air. He had winded her badly by ramming the butt of his sword into the bottom of her ribcage.

"Unacceptable," he said flatly. "Try again."

She rolled over, wheezing, and tried futily to claw her way up on his bed. Caius sighed through his nose and went to help her up and handed her the sword again.

She stared at him like he had just handed her a dead rat.

"No," she said flatly. "I'm done. I'm tired, I'm sweaty and I have bruises the size of Ald'Ruhn."

"No," Caius countered. "You're not. You're not done until I tell you."

Alzathiri whipped out furiously but haphazardly. Caius parried and sent the blade right back at her.

"Why?" she shrieked. "I don't need swordplay! I'm a street beggar for saints' sakes!"

"Wrong." His swordpoint hit her sternum and she was on the floor again. "You're a Blade now, remember? That's the price of your freedom."

She snarled and flung herself forward, grazing a line of cold steel down his bare chest.

"One day," Caius told her, as with a clang of metal on metal Alzathiri found herself on the floor again, "You will know these things or you will be dead. I'd advise you learn them now."

Alzathiri spat back an incredibly xenophobic, incredibly Dunmeri insult.

Chapter Text

Gertrude waited by the gate out of the Dust Pit, her hood hiding her face from the gaggle of spectators roaring and cheering and placing their bets. Gertrude just waited, sword in hand, waiting for her huge partner in the cage to step into the ring and dance.

This had not been what she was expecting. Her meteoric career in the Dust Pit may well be dwindling downward. She gulped, but outwardly did betray her nervousness. After all, she had slain one of these rotting giants on her own before-- by mere fluke it is true, but she had done it.

One of the Beast's keeper scrambled up the cage and released the Gate. Gertrude barely heard the commentator as the huge undead thundered out of its cage and cocked it's ruined eyes at the shape in the shadows.

Gertrude forced her breathing into a slow, regular pattern. In such close quarters as this, the things size would be an advantage; there was simply nowhere she could go for respite. She'd have to finish it quickly if she was to have any hope at all.

A dark shape, darker than the surrounding shadow seemed to rush forward to meet the Beast.

The Beast stumbled backward beneath the sudden and furious onslaught. Gertrude could barely see what was going on, but one thing she did understand was that the Beast was no longer her concern. Whoever that was with the blades of strange stone was now most certainly her concern.

The Beast fell and the shadow leapt off its shoulders.

Gertrude got her first proper look at this shadow, now that he was mostly standing still. He was a Rhalâim, and bore two knives of dark, sharp stone. Gertrude did not like the look of them.

"Let's see you dance," he growled, his harsh voice coming quick, shallow gasps. After he had already spun into action, he mockingly added the title she and so many others had taken to using: "Prophetess."

Gertrude wasted few words on him. She had defeated gods and men and even Fate. If he wanted to kill her he was going to have to put some effort into it.

Red Sun flew up and blocked his first knife, a mage-shield flared and sent the second skidding off her side. Now she was in her element. The stranger was fast, but she had skill and training on her side.

One, two! She feinted towards his head and blocked his reflexive swing.

Two, three! Her block had set all her weight on one foot. He swung forward again, intending to shove her off balance. Gertrude was impressedd; few of her more recent 'sparring partners' had picked up that flaw in her technique so she never got around to fixing it.

Three, four! She pivoted her weight and stepped out of the way, bringing her sword down on him.

Four, five! He blocked, surprising strength behind his arm. Gertrude broke away and sent a shallow slice down his shoulder. Six, seven! The stranger cused and stepped away. "Good fight," he said. "Now we talk."

Chapter Text

Alzathiri trudged up the alley, the two moons bright in a dark sky. Her skin itched everywhere, despite the numbing agents she had taken. She really hoped the old man was still awake because if she came on him in the middle of the night like this he very well might kill her before he knew what was going on.

She lit her thieves' lantern and pulled down the shades till only a little light was visible. and knocked.

She waited a moment and knocked again. She heard a muffled curse and the latch was drawn inward.

"Alzathiri, that had better be you," Caius growled, hoarse from sleep. "If it isn't, I'm armed."

"It's me," she said. "Caius, let me in. Please."

She drew her hood closer as the door swung open to admit her. The inside of his cabin was lit by a flaringly bright lantern.

"Gods' blood," he said when she stepped into the lit circle of his cabin She drew her cowl closer but it was already too late.

"I dealt with that Sixth House base," she said, bravely striving for a lighter tone.

"I can see that," he growled, closing the door behind her. "Do you mind explaining your current condition?"

And so, the old Spymaster listened to her story, displaying surprising patience when she stumbled or hesitated. While she talked he got up and fetched a loaf of bread and scuttle wrapped in oilcloth.

"So," he said finally. "You contracted Corprus on the dying breath of a Dagoth you killed." He noted that she did little more than toy with the scuttle and bread.

"Yeah, I did. What about it?" she joked weakly.

"Let me see," he said gruffly, motioning to her cowl. "I need to know how bad it is."

"Bad," she said in a very brittle tone of voice, but obeyed.

It was indeed, pretty bad. Caius muffled his instinctive disgust studied her face.

The sores were shallow still, but weeping yellow pus. They were small still, thank the Divines, but here in Morrowind cowls and head-wrapping was incredibly suspicious; and the disease would only spread until Alzathiri was a slobbering, mindless puppet.

Or maybe not. Caius remembered a rumor he had heard from Fast Eddy at a cornerclub a few months ago.

"You know," he said slowly. "There might be a way to fix this."

Chapter Text

Gertrude sat on the floor of Zorkban's cellar, watching over the unconscious Yuslan. Here in the Undercity, even in Zorkban's; perhaps especially in Zorkban's, you left no one in his condition alone.

The bump on his forehead was considerable but Gertrude felt that he had definitely gotten the better of their 'disagreement'. He would have a few bumps and bruises but she had entropic wounds that were, among other things, extraordinarily painful.

He was beginning to stir. Gertrude did not envy him the headache he was going to have. Arcane fever and a mild concussion would be a most unpleasant combination, but at least his skin was still in one piece.

She was tired, in more ways than one. Seeing the wreck that the trip had made of Yuslan, she began to wonder if a trip of her own would be such a good idea. She was unsre if she could take it, physically or mentally; the fever alone would take days to fully recede.

But the lure of seeing, or at least hearing Kim again was powerful indeed. Creator as her witness, she only wanted proof that somewhere he was alive and happy.

Yuslan groaned and lifted his head. Gertrude stiffened, rememberg the lash of his magic; but his madness seemed to have passed. When he saw her, saw the grimy, lamp-lit cellar, he sighed slowly and dropped his head again.

"I don't think," he said, "it would be a good idea to do that again."

Gertrude almost laughed.

"No," she replied. "I suppose... not." Even as she spoke, she felt a peculiar sense of resigned loss. The crystal would not be able to open again; she had examined it when he was still unconscious. Yuslan had lied to her, raised false hopes, and then dashed them.

And yet she couldn't bring herself to be angry at him. He had done more or less as she had almost done.

Chapter Text

"What on earth--?"

Nora stared at the suddenly very guilty pile of kids, Maccready and Hancock. They had frozen in a remarkably amusing tableau, and Nora was hard put not to keep her mouth from twitching even with the sobering backdrop.

The living room that Nora had so carefully chipped into the Fortress was a mess: ancient stuffing leaked out of couch pillows, the bare bones of the sofa itself serving as a fortress wall where Maccready and Nat and Duncan were repelling the invading forces of Hancock and Shaun. Hancock had one leg over the couch.

Nora was torn between laughter and tears, but tears were gaining the upper hand. She had spent a lot of time in this living room; maybe a stupid project, but she had poured a lot of time and determination into it. After the sleepless nights of going on the settlement rounds with Preston, the deathclaws and everything else she was very close to the breaking point already.

Now all her work was ruined.

Mac, who had known her longer than anybody except Piper and Nick recognized the danger signs first. He flushed dark even under the dirt, the half-guilty, ingratiating smile sliding off his face.

"Nora," he said awkwardly. "Look, we-- he-- I--"

Nora pressed her lips together, and swallowed hard. "Look at this," she said shakily. "I-- I-- Please just… nevermind."

She faltered, and then turned on her heel and walked out, leaving the guilty party stewing in the remains of their fun.

Maccready slowly climbed to his feet, for a moment he intended to go after her. But his steps stopped and he turned back to the other miscreants.

"This is going to be a lot of work," he said wearily.

Chapter Text

The rain spattered down in a fitful drizzle, streaking against the bronze bell that sat in its tower, spitting into the Shadowgod's face where they sat beside the silent bell.

So much had changed. They had changed. Loss had carved itself into their soul, scarring face and heart. Joy had lit their world on a few memorable occasions. Victory, even at bitter, bitter cost, had been snatched from the jaws of Fate's Edge.

And they were tired, tired of the world. They had seen it at its worst and its best, and as far as they were concerned, the best was gone.

The Shadowgod watched silently as droplets pattered into the fishpond. Kim would have loved old Tirin Abbey; the time-worn chapel and mostly-peaceful woods (for a moment a smile crossed the Shadowgod's face; remembering one memorable summer with pumas and a wild boar), the collection of precious books, the joyous feast-days. The simple, but happy life the Shadowgod had led before that letter speaking of their magical talent had arrived.

The Shadowgod wiped their face. The water on their face might have been rain or tears. Nobody would know.

So much death. So much death had stained their hands, advertently or inadvertently. Perhaps it did not show in their hands but it showed on their soul and in the nightmares that plagued them, night after night.

The good-hearted monks had welcomed them back with open arms. Good old Aratornias had nearly died of a heart attack and proceeded to call for a feast-day in the name of some minor saint nobody had ever heard of.

They wondered how Arkt was doing, and if angels ever woke up in cold sweats, dreaming of their failures over and over, dreaming of what they might have done differently.

A disjointed memory drifted across their mind; a lecture on the nature of magic from Vanmiria. "The best way to think of it is usually this: Anything that can happen, will happen, has happened, or is happening now, but not necessarily in this eventuality."

Somewhere, the Shadowgod thought, Somewhere I am happy. I suppose that's all I can ask.

Then, in direct couterbalance, a burst of savage selfishness welled up. Why can't it be me? they thought. Why can't I be happy? Why am I the one who sits in the rain with my ghosts?

Rain spattered fitfully down, a small answer indeed. The Shadowgod sat in the belfry, not even bothering to wipe away the water that trickled down their face.

It might have been tears. It might have been rain. Nobody would know.

Chapter Text

You sat behind the counter of the old general store that had once served the Terrero mine and now served the out-of-state tourists. It was raining, which meant that few enough people would be driving up and down the canyon, and fewer would be stopping. Locals were the only ones who'd be up in the mountains in this weather, and locals though the store was more or less a waste of money.

You had to admit that they were probably right.

Your phone rang startlingly loud in the quiet of the store. You yanked it out of your pocket and answered without checking who it was. "Hello, (Y/N) (Y/L/N) here, who is this?"

"(Y/N)," Miko said. "Hey, uh, sorry if this is a bad time, but have you seen Ratchet?"

"Ratchet? No, why would I have seen him?"

There was clear reluctance in her sort-of stalling 'eh'.

"Miko," you say warningly.

"He, er, got in an argument with Optimus. A pretty big one."

"What, Ratchet?"

"Yes,, Ratchet," Miko said impatiently. "He left the base to blow off some steam, heading in your direction. Optimus is asking you to go look for him because he isn't responding to calls."

But it's cold and raining you thought, but kept that to yourself.

"All right," you sighed. "I don't think anyone's coming up the canyon right now anyway, but if I get fired I'm blaming the bossbot."

Miko laughed. "Good luck," she said and hung up.

You pulled on the sweater you had the foresight to bring, and ventured out into the streaking rain between you and your (normal) car.

Turned out, he wasn't that hard to find. The red-and-white medic was sitting on the old bridge, pedes hanging off the side, staring into the plumes of whitewater. He didn't even look up when the car's headlights blazed down the road. You hoped it was just because her recognized you.

By the time you had gotten out of your car, the wind had picked up, throwing the rain sideway and rendering conversation impossible. You eyed the unused bridge, unsure of how safe it would be to get on there with the big medbot. You didn't know how much he weighed in earth terms, but it was probably a lot more than that bridge could handle.

Oh well. You only live once.

You stepped on the gravelled bridge, half expecting it to snap.

It didn't.

Ratchet still ignored you.

Deep breath. Another step. "Ratchet!" you barked.

He didn't even look up. "What do you want, squishie?" he growled.

Deep breath. Another step. The bridge groaned and you surpressed the instinct to bolt. "Optimus needs you to go back to the base," you said, doing your level best not to panic and flee.

He snorted. "No," he said. "Not yet."

Deep breath. Another step.

"Ratchet," you say, trying to put some steel into your voice.

"No."

Deep breath. Another step. "Ratchet, you're going to be seen!" you shout. "Dammit!"

He said nothing, only cocked his head toward you.

"Fine," you said. "But I'm not leaving." I'll annoy you back to base or at least where you won't be seen as easily.

He turned back to the whitewater. "I don't want company."

Deep breath. Another step. If the bridge broke now it would send both of you into the swollen river. "That's why I'm staying. I figure I'll just irritate you until you go back to base."

That surprised a chuckle, albeit a wry one, from him. "You'll get very wet," he warned.

Deep breath. Another step. You nervously eyed the river as you sat down roughly within reach of Ratchet, just in case he was fast enough and kindly disposed enough to catch you in case the bridge did break.

There was silence that neither of them broke. The bridge did instead, with a tearing groan and soft snap. Your eyes went wide. Shit, shit, shit, shit.

"Ratchet," you asked, trying very hard not to squeak. "Did you happen to read the signs?"

The medic shrugged. "Too much graffiti," he said laconically.

"Well, there's a reason those roadblocks are there," you said, gesturing toward the weathered wood. "Uh... vehicles of any kind aren't really allowed up here... with good reason."

The bridge punctuated your words with a creaking groan. You flinched.

Unfortunately, Ratchet decided to be difficult. "I am not a vehicle right now," he pointed out.

"Ha-ha," you said sarcastically, though your voice was edged wiith hysteria. "Ratchet, I'm serious. Fowler's going to raise hell if you--"

Snap! Crrraaackkk!

Throwing your self-image to the winds, you shrieked a muddled invocaton of Deity and tried to scramble away from the bend in the bridge. Ratchet yelled something you had no spare brainpower to understand because fuck it all, you were falling in!

You had a moment to contemplate your watery demise in pounding whitewater before Ratchet's servo caught you in a none-too-gentle grip just as the bridge finally caved and sent Ratchet an you into the river.

You gasped as the truly monumental splash sent water surging up in a backwards rainburst, soaking you in the process. Docbot groaned a probable expletive in Cybertronian, and you saw a rent in his arm's exoskeleton, exposing glimpses of the protomatter beneath.

Ouch.

Never the less, the first words you blurt out are: "I told you so."

Ratchet glared, and for a moment contemplation of dumping your aft in the river flashed across his faceplate.

"Well," he said ruefully, surveying the damage and rubbing the very sizeable dent in his aft. "I have some explaining to do when we get back."

Chapter Text

"What are you doing?" Arcee asked.

You wiped away the drops of sweat that beaded on your brow from the exertion. "What does it look like?" you asked. "Practicing. Sparring, sort of."

"Yes, I see that," the femme said, rolling her optics at your attempted smartassery. "Why?"

"Why," you returned, "would I be drilling with weapons? Maybe I'm tired of being useless."

She offered a derisive snort as you picked up the metal bar you had been weight training and staff-drilling and swung it through the first moves in you routine. "No offence squishie, but you wouldn't last five minutes against a 'con. Leave the fighting to us."

You didn't dignify her with a response, and continied your routine. High strike, low strike. Horizontal block. Left-side strike, right-side strike. Vertical block. Low strike, high strike. Vertical block. Right-side strike, left-side strike. Horizontal block.

"Arcee? Arcee? Oh, hi." Jack.

"Change your mind?" you grunt, muscles grating with every movement.

"About what?" Arcee asked curiously, glancing between you two.

"I asked him to spar with me," you gasp, setting the metal bar on the ground. Your arms were already sore. "He said no."

"I don't want my head bashed in," Jack retorted. "Arcee, weren't we going for a ride?"

"In a minute," Arcee said, still watching, optics half-lidded with thought. "In a minute."

Even though your muscles were screaming, you tried to go through the routine again. One more time.

When you came to the end, muscles screaming, you looked up at your audience and grinned wryly.

"Do you still want a sparring partner?" Arcee asked suddenly.

"What, now?" you asked, thoroughly taken aback.

"Yes. Now."

You glanced at her, smallest of the Autobots, and still three times (more or less) as tall as you and more than fifty times heavier. "You'll kill me."

"No I won't. I can play nice."

You weighed your options, though not for long. "All right."

Arcee grinned wickedly and bounced out to meet you.

High block. Arcee brought down her servo in what would have been her version of a light tap, but probably would have laid you out with a concusssion. Your already weakening arms shuddered under the blow.

I'm going to lose very badly and very quickly.

High strike. The staff dinged against Arcee's knee. She whooped with pain and skipped backwards on instinct.

High block-- shit!

"Game over," Arcee said casually. You glared at her, trapped beneath her pede that pinned you lightly in place.

"Point taken," you grumbled as she removed her pede and you clambered to your feet.

"Good," she said brightly, obviously not thinking about what point had been made.

"Can we do this tomorrow?"

Arcee narrowed her optics. "What," she said flatly.

"I am going to figure out a way to do this," you said determinantely.

"Squishie, you can't learn to take down a Cybertronian," Arcee said wearily

"Watch me."

Chapter Text

Gertrude and Kim took refuge in a cave about halfway down the mountain's slope; a crevice in the rock that widened out into a wedge-shaped den, sheltered from the driving winds.

"I missed this," Kim admitted, watching Gertrude lighting the fire at the mouth of the cave so they wouldn't be smoked out and the fire wouldn't suck all the air from the cave.

"Not the near-death experiences I hope," Gertrude joked, rising from the fire and turning back to Kim. She set the pot-sticks up and motioned to Kim to hand her the snow-stuffed leather sack that had once been a bear's stomach.

"No," Kim said, a little half-smile on his face. "I could probably do without those. But I do enjoy our travels together."

Gertrude chuckled as she set the bulging skin over the fire. "We could all use less near-death experiences," she said fervently, crawling back to the nest of blankets Kim had made. He sat in the midst of them, still shivering from being soaked to the skin.

Gertrude couldn't help but glance back at him, colour leeching back into his lips and hands, his hair hanging lank and still dripping around his face. First the passage collapsing in, then the army of skeletons, then Kim went and fell through ice and into a river. Gertrude fervently thanked whatever capricious principality watched over her and ensured that they were both still alive.

Gertrude picked up a blanket and roughly toweled down Kim's hair. He flinched but submitted to her ministrations.

"How do you feel?" she asked, her hand warm against the cold skin of his shoulders.

"Better," Kim said stoically.

Better? You adorable idiot, Gertrude thought affectionately.

She checked on the slowly bubbling/not yet boiling water; giving herself an opportunity to mull over the very full day they had had; Tealor Arantheal, the Predestination that now sat in Gertrude's pack, the sort-of conversation they'd had in the caved in corridor.

Without realizing it, Gertrude's cheeks began to prickle. What a time to have found that admittedly fortunate lever!

She sighed through her teeth and rummaged through Kim's pack, searching for the cloth-wrapped noodle-balls she had brought as quick, on-the-march food.

***

"Are you all right?" Kim asked as Gertrude went about cleaning up after their meal, subtle emphasis on 'you'. He stood, wool-woven blanket still pulled tight around his slim form.

"I'm fine," Gertrude said dismissively. "I've been worse."

Kim looked rather exasperated. "Gertrude," he said firmly.

She sighed. "I'm a bit tired, but I'm fine otherwise." Kim looked pointedly at her bandaged arm and she sighed. "Mostly fine."

"My point stands. Let me deal with this."

She took one look at his mutely determined eyes and surrendered; crawling into the nest of furs and blankets with well-disguised thankfulness.

"Thank you," she murmured quietly, snuggling into the blankets. Kim made no move to acknowledge that he had heard, but he doubtlessly had.

Gertrude's eyes began to slide shut against her will, the sandy feeling of sleep put off too long weaving the spell of warm, bewitching sleep. The sound of Kim warding the cave and snow hissing on the fire were as soothing as any lullaby.

Half-asleep, she remembered something she had been meaning to tell him since they had been trapped in that cave-in. "Kim?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you too."

Chapter Text

Gertrude knew she was dreaming.

This was nothing like her other dreams; muddled and strange rearrangements and recollections stitched together in one big crazy-quilt. This was bright and frighteningly vivid.

Two men, one in black, one in white, fought with sword and spell. The very air trembled, as if reality itself shuddered beneath the power of the two seraphim.

Why was she here? Gertrude held her hands over her ears, trying to block out the words she did not understand, the bell-like sounds of metal on metal, the grinding rumble of the very earth as it shuddered beneath her feet.

But because tis was a dream, she heard them anyway.

Gertrude was frightened (she was only eight summers, remember), but it was at least a change from the nightmares of smoke and fire and the stench of burning flesh.

So she did what any reasonable eight-year-old would do. She sat down and watched, murmuring one of the prayers for her soul that Aratornias had taught her after he had caught her dropping Brother Sor's half-copied book out the window; petty revenge for his criticism of her habit of doodling in the matgins. It might not have been wholly appropriate, but she figured it was better than nothing.

The dark-winged man looked up suddenly, his head snapping up as she began to mutter her prayer. Gertrude went silent, eyes wide, as he suddenly launched into the air, his powerful wings sweeping dust into his opponent's face. As he rose into the air, she saw his face sweep the ground.

He was looking for her.

And he found her. Opponent forgotten, he swooped down on her.

Gertrude did not scream, though that may have been due less to her fortitude and more to the fact she was frozen, in fear or by spell, she did not know.

There was something strangely ravenlike about him, in his dark eyes and darker wings. He landed with strange grace and seized her by the shoulders.

"You should not be here," he said. "Wake up, youngling; you must leave."

Gertrude did not know she obeyed until she woke up, staring at the stone ceiling of the dormitory. It was the third time she had dreamed of the dark man.

Chapter Text

>Gertrude's first response to Tealor's ultimatum about joining the Holy Order was quite literally: "Not interested, thank you." She hadn't even meant to say it aloud; but it was apparent that four years of stress and two of hard drinking had eroded her filter to all but nothing. His reaction had been more or less what one could expect from an Arantheal, and now she was doing it anyway.

The thought was probably funny, but she was not really in a position to appreciate it. She, the Shadowgod, slayer of the Lightborn, becoming a Keeper in Tealor Arantheal's Order. The number of times her employment was getting flipped was not particularly pleasant, though ironic.

Gertrude was beginning to think there was some sort of Deity, and something she had done had mortally offended it. There was no other explanation she could think of for the amount of slag she had gone through.

There were two novices who shared the dubious honor of being inducted into a religious order that was now essentially obsolete; a short, stocky, dark-haired girl with a strange mark on her cheek, and an Aeterna who was nearly taller than she was. Calia greeted her warmly enough, and despite her bad mood, Gertrude couldn't help but be gruffly warm in return. Dunwar, the Aeterna, was nothing of the sort, and Gertrude relished even the small vent that lashing out at his obnoxious airs offered.

Jorek was blunt and obviously bitter about her acceptance into the Order. Gertrude rather liked him, in a peculiar sort of way; despite the fact that he obviously didn't like her. His animosity she could handle.

The visions... she had a harder time with those.

She was half-way across the stone bridge across the river when she smelled something like brandy-breath on the air, and then, as if she had been struck over the head, she doubled over, the world slowing like she was stuck in thick honey.

"...bottle of booze and your bloody dust..."

"Coarek would have conquered the city!"

"...and then you will be ashamed..."

Her knees struck the cobblestones with a painful jolt that went straight through her spine and she retched, vomiting every scrap of food and drink in her stomach. Her head swam as if she was drunk, her stomach sloshed as if she was hungover, and everyone was looking at her like she had spontaneously become a Myrad.

Small, strong hands wrapped around her arms and hefted back to her feet. Gertrude staggered for a moment, but cast a grateful smile back at Calia.

She had been right about her.

Chapter Text

Gertrude sat in the prow of the airship that bore her name; a lone figure caught between clouds and stars. The moonlight softened the features that had hardened under her wears and cares, until she looked like the young novice she had been so long ago. She had lost track of how long she had sat up here; but it had been since the sun had set at least. She had just sat, not moving, not thinking, not worrying, not wishing.

It was so very quiet up here. Even the muffled machinery-sounds seemed to fade into nothingness. Jespar, Yaela, her assistant and Calia had long since retired, Kurmai was likely poring over his charts. She had managed to absorb all of this without thinking, without needing to think, but now a fleeting thought, an image crossed her mind.

Her chest tightened at the thought of Kim. Ever since their rather catastrophic fight, neither had spoken to the other. The hurt from the Kim's harsh words was still there; and like rubbing salt on a wound, it began to ache again at the melancholy turn her thoughts had taken. Worst of all, it had hurt so much because he had been right. Right about all of it; every single stinging accusation he had hurled with precise accuracy, right into every tender part of her soul.

And damn it hurt.

And she still wanted him back.

Her eyes stung-- dammit, she had told herself she wasn't going to cry any more! She blinked furiously, hoping that it would do the trick.

Come on, think of something cheerful. she told herself, but a small, petty corner of herself snapped: Like what? I can't think of one! godsdamned! cheerful! thing! that has happened for the past three years.

Now she was angry and sad; her previous calm fading like melting snow beneath the sudden torrent of conflicting emotions. This was precisely why she hadn't moved or thought for hours; why she had, in fact, ignored Calia when she had come to tell her that dinner was ready. Why she was now absolutely starving.

That was an excellent distracting thought. She stretched, wincing as stiff muscles were pulled out of the positions they had found themselves locked into for hours. She'd find something to eat and go to bed.

She heard soft footsteps, noises incongruous with the wind and machinery, and jerked around.

It was Kim.

"Gertrude, wait," he said when she scrambled to her feet. "Wait, I-I wanted to talk to you."

She stopped. "I'm listening," she said cautiously, hoping he didn't hear the hopeful catch in her voice.

If he did, he didn't show it. "I wanted to talk to you," he said softly. "To apologize."

Damn it, I'm going to cry, aren't I? She blinked very fast. "No-- no need," she said quickly, her voice sandpaper-rough. "What you said--" her voice broke. Damn it. "What you said was true. It was all true."

She turned away from him, bracing herself on the rail so he couldn't see her face. "I should be the one apologizing for what I've done to you." Her throat had taken on a life of its own and was strangling off her voice.

"No, Gertrude." There was such quiet fortitude in that soft, effortlessly kind voice. He had changed so much from the frightened slave he had once been. "I lashed out; I should take the blame."

"No, you were right," Gertrude argued, turning back to him. "I have been overprotecting and difficult and--"

Kim cut her off with long, sweet kiss; a trick he had learned very quickly in their three years together. Gertrude stiffened, then melted, and scowled when Kim pulled away.

"Are you saying you didn't want an apology?" Kim teased.

"I never wanted anything else."

Chapter Text

The customs-master office was an overlush exercise in red and gold. Velothi twiddled her fingers and tried to ignore the massive heap of metal disguising itself as a person who happened to be standing right in front of her, trying to explain their...unique situation.

"I don't care how 'special' these circumstances are," the customs-master said, irritation beginning to overlay his pompousness. "There are certain rules and regulations that must be followed upon your arrival!"

"But we need to see somebody! Urgently!"

Velothi grinned. Upsetting a Prime did not seem like the safest road to walk, but then she wasn't here to comment. In effect, at least for this leg of the journey, she was a prisoner of Imperial law, so she legally had no voice. She had been enjoying abusing the loopholes and didn't intend to break it now.

"I need to know the name of the person you are looking for if you want me to be of any help to you," the man said, hope tinging the irritation that overlayed the pompousness. Velothi privately though this was better than a play.

"I don't know his name!" Venerus shouted.

"Then how do you expect me to help you?"

Something in Velothi's skull seemed to chime softly, and she stiffened, attention suddenly ripped away from the pageant playing out before her. She hadn't known that the tracking chip carried a communicator as well.

"As admirable as the Prime's attempts are, I need this to be over with quickly. Kill him now," a dry voice commanded, seeming to echo inside her mind. Velothi knew enough, barely enough, to realize that it was only stimulation of certain areas of her brain, but the meaning behind this certain stimulation was unmistakable.

"What?"

She hadn't meant to speak aloud, but the looks on her companion's faces told her that she had.

"I said that unless you can show a special waiver or have enough money to afford a decontamination--" the customs-master began.

"I said kill him. Need I remind you that I hold the key to the detonator I have implanted? And if you must know, he has what you need to find this Henna."

The bastard had her there. The agreement had been that she find this 'Henna' and she could go free again.

"How?"

Bewilderment seemed to glimmer in Venerus' opticals. "Velothi, what--?"

"Is she a mental case?" the customs-master asked with interest.

"Stab him with the letter-opener. You've killed before so it won't be hard now, will it?" There was snide, malicious humour in that damned voice.

"Fine."

For the record, I hate you, dipshit.

Velathi crouched over the limp, still-warm corpse, carefully going through every item of clothing on his person.

"Hurry up," growled Venerus, looking extraordinarily nervous. His plating clicked as he shifted his almost-too-big bulk; his nerves (or whatever passed for them) tight as fiddle-strings.

"Give me a minute or give me an hour," the little Hlaavanoran hissed back at her companion without looking up. "This will take time."

"We're going to get caught," Venerus snapped.

"You're a Prime. We could say we were investigating the crime scene." Clothing yielded nothing. She decided to try the shoes, remembering one particular story she had heard about diamonds in a man's bootsoles.

Chapter Text

Gertrude sat in the chair the huge, bear-like Apothecarii had summarily dismissed her to. Carbos, the thin, dark, suspicious one watched her from the fire while he asked with all the sarcasm he could muster: "So we're brewing potions for complete strangers now?"

"If said strangers are about to die of fever, then yes," Finn bit back. "There was that oath we swore once, remember? To heal the the afflicted, to--"

There was a wry twist in the little man's mouth. "Whatever."

"Thank you," Finn replied with exaggerated exasperation. He turned back to his herbs, huge hands remarkably deft as he sorted through them. "Gruntroot, gruntroot, ah! Here we go. He scooped up the pouch and went to the little table he had set up with his alchemical apparatuses. Gertrude couldn't see most of what he was doing, but recognized an adept at work from her own dabblings in the craft. He muttered as he worked, little scraps that Gertrude could barely hear. "...sheer cap... some water... Ha! Done."

He held up a little wooden bottle. "Here it is," he said. "Now Ah can't make any promises--"

For a moment Gertrude debated the wisdom of taking a potion from a complete stranger, but promptly ignored that line of thought as another wave of nausea crested in her stomach. If it wasn't what Finn said it was, it would probably come right back up again. Finn shook the bottle and turned to offer it to her, just as Gertrude thought she heard something groan and snap.

Carbos stood bolt upright. "Shit! Finn, the still--"

Gertrude doubled over in the chair, feeling like someone had just swung a solid frying pan into her midriff. Voices assaulted her ears as the world seemed to slow like it was suddenly caught in honey. A nimbus of eletricity seemed to surround Finn.

"Er... Explosions? I'm not sure I..."

"That'd be great wouldn't it--?"

"...they've hit me..."

"Do something, dammit! Do something!"

Gertrude tried to scream, tried to cover her ears, but she couldn't move a muscle.

Finn stumbled backwards. "Sod it," he grumbled.

Carbos was still on his feet. "Blazes, Finn, do I have to watch every step you take? That a fucking close call?"

Finn sighed, attention momentarily diverted from potions and their administration. "Look, I'm sorry, all right? We can pick up a new one in Ark."

Gertrude was still trying to process what had just happened to her, barely paying attention to the men's needling conversation. Her head was ringing like the monastery bells and her eyes watered furiously.

"Here," Finn said, pressing the potion into her trembling hand. "Drink. It'll help."

She barely managed to uncork the little bottle and drank it in one gulp, grimacing at the bitter edge. Almost immediately her vision began to clear and her head slowed it's pounding ring. Finn smiled broadly through his beard. "See, you look better already. Still, you should talk to a priest as soon as you can. The gruntroot will wear off in a few days."

"Thanks," Gertrude managed, sinking her head into still-trembling hands. "If-- you don't mind-- what just happened?"

"What, the still? Bad quality and too much heat, I reckon. But, eh. What will be, will be."

Gertrude felt very cold all of a sudden. "No-- the explosions... the voices...I-I..."

"Explosions? I'm not sure I follow?"

"That would be great, wouldn't it?" Carbos said from the fire. "Finn Dalires, died 8234. Cause of death: exploding still."

"Ha-ha," Finn said sarcastically. He was starting to look nervous. "Look, I really don't know what you're talking about. I-"

"What's that?" Carbos said suddenly, rising from the fire. "Finn, something's--"

An arrow cut him off midsentence.

Gertrude couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. It was happening, just like her vision and she couldn't stop it. She couldn't help when Finn was struck, she couldn't stop the arrow that came toward her.

Chapter Text

The Beacon hummed, the strange drone drowning every other sound in Gertrude's ears. She stood at the parapet, looking down at Ark with eyes that did not see, deaf to all. A lone figure bathed in the dim, moon-like glow of power that surged through the mechanical veins of the weird machine; she stood like a half-stone sentinel on the prow of Malphas' great ark of stone.

"Gertrude? Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you."

Lexil. Gertrude turned away from the city and its multitude of tiny lights.

"No, no, no, it's fine," the Prophet said wearily, passing a hand over her eyes. "What did you need?"

Lexil had the grace to look moderately abashed. "I didn't," he said. "I simply wondered what you were doing."

"Ah." Gertrude turned back to the city. "Just thinking. You're welcome to join me if you are so inclined."

Lexil correctly interpreted this invitation as a request for someone to talk to, and joined her at the prow of stone. "If it isn't too private," he asked, "What were you thinking of?"

Gertrude was quiet for a moment, tracing patterns on the back of her hand with her other thumb. "A lot," she admitted. "Mostly what I'll do after... you know, after this. If there is an after." She added this last sentence so quietly that none but an Aeterna could have heard. Lexil was quiet, simply listening. "I mean, I can't go back to what I was doing. And I cannot do this anymore. I can't keep running on crisis mode; I can't keep losing friends, I can't--" she stopped with a harsh, shaky breath, unable to finish.

"You could stay," Lexil said softly. "I... would... I mean, it would be a great loss if you were to leave us. Perhaps you can help us rebuild, rebuild an Order without the Lightborn."

Gertrude turned to him, a halting smile on her face, and a half-hearted teasing light in her eyes. "What were you going to say?"

The Archmagister dropped his eyes. "Nothing," he muttered. "It's... not important."

The halting smile became a real one. "Lexil," she said warningly.

He looked very awkward for a second, a sight both amusing and heartwarming. I should not have said that was written in across his expression in broad strokes. "I... would miss you, personally," he admitted. "I have rather enjoyed our... friendship."

The smile became a full-blown grin. "That is very kind of you, Lexil," she said, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Goodnight."

Lexil only managed to recover sufficiently once she was already halfway down the stairs, but he called a shaky 'goodnight' in return.

Chapter Text

"Prophetess," Tealor greeted as the broad-shouldered woman stumped into the room.

Gertrude offered a nod in return, but skipped the preamble. "What do you need, Arantheal?"

Tealor raised an eyebrow at her bluntness. "I'm advising you," he said. "It is only a matter of time before Yuslan and the Archmagister decipher the map you retrieved, and once they have, we are leaving."

Gertrude sat, a breach of etiquette in the presence of her lawful superior, but she didn't particularly care. This alliance grated more on her nerves every day, and right now she was too tired and antsy to hide it. "I am listening."

The Grandmaster sighed. "If you have any unfinished business, I would advise you to take care of it; now. You might want to let the mercenary know as well." The order was thinly veiled indeed.

"Jespar?" Gertrude asked, raising an eyebrow. "Sir, with all due respect, may I offer some advice?"

"Did I ask for it?" Tealor snarled, frayed temper dangerously close to snapping. Gertrude opened her mouth to snap back, but thought the better of it and took a deep breath.

"What about the Archmagister?" she asked, voice dangerously level. The bare civility in the room was stretched as thin as bowstring, and Gertrude knew that one wrongly-worded phrase would probably set off a firestorm. "He probably knows more about Pyreans than any of us. Such experience could prove invaluable, should we come across anything... well, unexpected in the ruins. And, as he has proved, he is more than capable in combat."

Tealor scrutinized her closely, his grey eyes searching for... something.

"You make an excellent point, Prophetess," he admitted grudgingly. "I will think it over."

Gertrude rose, offered a truncated bow, and excused herself.

Chapter Text

Gertrude did her best to explain what had transpired as she and Lexil all but ran through the ancient ruins. It was a long, complicated story, and occasionally she had to backtrack and muddle along as best she could. Lexil asked no questions, but that might have been because he had no spare breath for any. Gertrude had set a killing pace, desperate to reach the surface, desperate that this time, this time, she could do something right and stop this vicious Cycle, or at least, slow it up.

Only now, at the foot of the stairwell did she stop.

"I assumed something was amiss," Lexil panted, bracing himself against a wall for a moment's rest. He was as disheveled as Gertrude had ever seen him. "Neither Sha'Rim nor the Grandmaster even attempted to help me. I'm only lucky I managed to find another way in, or else I never would have found you." His expression shifted, concern is his golden eyes. "And you are-" He groaned, his eyes going wide and one hand going to his face. Gertrude felt a chill trickle down her spine when she saw the silver veins of light he tried to hide, felt a dim, dull burning pain in her head.

No...

"Oh, no," she whispered. "Lexil, are you-?"

"I am... fine," he managed. "My... head feels...as if it is on fire. If this is how it feels down here, then..." he seemed to struggle for a moment, and Gertrude wondered if he was searching for a god or godlike figure she hadn't killed. He gave up. "What about you? Can you feel it?"

"Faintly," Gertrude said, knowing he could see the pain, the dead defeat in her eyes, and not bothering to hide it in her voice. "It's dull. Bearable."

"Then the Black Guardian was right," Lexil said, and the wonder and curiosity that he tried to muffle in his voice almost made Gertrude smile. That was Lexil, all right. "You... your 'Fleshlessness' protects you somewhat. Oh, by Malphas, it just doesn't make any sense... and yet it does."

"It does," Gertrude agreed sadly. "Would that I had time for a personal crisis over it, hmm?"

Lexil blinked, almost visibly coming back to Vyn with a start. "Of course." He stood up straight. "And as to your decision... is it final?"

Gertrude blinked back tears. Everything in his voice, in his eyes, in the way he held his hands behind his back told her that he knew. He knew that her decision was final. Her chin trembled dangerously as she spoke. "I- I cannot just let the High Ones run their roughshod way over humanity. And... besides..." she offered a weak smile. "It's the way I'd want to die. Maybe it's just me being a spiteful old crow, but I need to spoke their Cycle and maybe even send it off the proverbial cliff. After all they've done, after all their damned Cycle has given and taken, they deserve all of it and more. It... It's too late for Enderal, but... the survivors can see our mistakes and learn from them, and maybe... maybe, they can stop the High Ones."

Lexil bowed his head. "I expected no less from you," he said quietly. "I... I should go, then. Qyra is close enough to reach by Myrad, and maybe I... No. I will make the Golden Queen listen to me."

"And I expected no less from you," Gertrude said, still with her sad smile. "Do not forget me, Lexil."

"I never will." There was quiet determination in his voice. Looking at him now, beaten and bruised and still unbroken, even after all that had happened, Gertrude understood why she had fallen in love with him.

And there it was. Right where it had always been, even when she was desperate to ignore the simple fact that yes, she was in love with Lexil Merrâyil. She had pushed it away and refused to acknowledge until now, now when it was all but too late.

"Lexil," she said, her chest uncomfortably tight. "Before... before we part ways, I need to tell you something. Except, I'm... not... great with the words. I need you to know--" A rising sob cut her off. Damn it, I might regret this.

He was so tall she had to tug him down to kiss him properly, but kiss him she did, fighting back tears. It was only when she felt a wetness on her cheeks that she realized were his tears did she let herself go, and let the tears that had been building up for years go free.

This. This almost makes it all worth it.

Chapter Text

Alzathiri sat, crosslegged on the rug that Sul-Matuul had laid out for her, as an esteemed visitor/adopted member of the tribe. She fidgeted with the meat the Ashkhan had offered her, roasted and heavily spice; yet another token of the Ashkhan's esteem.

Sul-Matuul watched her from his place at the fire. His crimson eyes were as sharp and inscrutable as ever as he watched her eat in silence.

"You are not at ease," he said, his rough, gravelly voice curious. "What is wrong, Clanfriend?"

Alzathiri nibbled on the meat to buy herself time to answer. "Nervous," she said dismissively. "I'm always nervous before starting a journey."

Sul-Matuul raised an eyebrow. "That is not all of it," he observed. "You are afraid of what is to come."

"If you knew already, why did you ask?" Alzathiri countered, though there was little venom in her voice.

Sul-Matuul smiled. "Courtesy, perhaps," he offered. "Or perhaps a desire to make conversation."

Alzathiri chewed this over a little bit. "Fair enough," she said. "I am perhaps, a little bit... afraid, as you so delicately put it."

"Why?"

"Because I-I- First, I need a promise that what I say will not go beyond this yurt."

"Given, as mush as is within my power," the Ashkhan said, spreading his hands.

Alzathiri nibbled on her lip. Should she confide her doubts in the Ashkhan? Doubts that had not been assuaged even by the vision in the Cave of the Incarnates; even by the words of the spirits of the previous Incarnates.

Foolish doubts.

Why not.

"I am... doubtful of my own abilities," she admitted slowly. "Do not judge me too harshly, Sul-Matuul, for it wasn't really that long ago I was a simple street thief. Now... now I am alone in a strange world of powerful people. It is hard not to be afraid among giants."

"Even when you yourself are a giant?" Sul-Matuul returned. "Do not fear. You have proven yourself to me many times over; I have no doubts. And neither should you. Come, try the tea."