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Chapter Text

Gilmore waited that entire day in his lair, sleeping and mourning and doing his best not to take his rage and grief out on any mortal being the way he had on his beloved Vax’ildan last night. Vax had enjoyed it, but looking at him this morning as he’d tucked Vax back into bed in the mansion, Gilmore could see he’d crossed a line. Hopefully Vax could keep the bruises covered long enough for them to heal. Or for the seven of them to have another battle he could blame them on.

Gilmore strolled through the carpeted hallways of his lair, touching the beautiful things he’d put on display in his hoard, things he loved, things that brought back memories of times long gone, things that had once made him happy. He ran his fingers over the detuned strings of his lyre, but there was no song in him now which he could pour into the instrument. There no doubt would be again, eventually, but not today. Likewise, his ney lay atop a mound of his sound treasures, untouched since Gilmore had needed to use it to cast Time Stop in Emon.  

This was going to be a heavy task, and he was already struggling to bear the weight of it before it had even begun. Gilmore needed an assistant. An accomplice. Perhaps just more of a companion. But whom could he actually trust and rely on for such a difficult, sensitive task? One that required heavy lifting, possibly both physically and emotionally? Kima would be loyal to him, but was unlikely to have empathy for a fallen chromatic dragon. 

Who in his entire acquaintance would mourn the death of a villain and a monster? Then Gilmore had it: Cassandra. He could ask her, at least. There was literally no one else. Those who might be kind-hearted enough to support Gilmore--Allura, for example--would still not feel charity toward the dead dragon. And Gilmore was not about to bring someone who would celebrate Umbrasyl’s death to what would essentially be his funeral. 

He would have to wait until nightfall, but that was likely for the best. Less chance villagers would be coming up the mountain in the dark, and if they did, it would slow them. Furthermore, it gave Vox Machina plenty of time to loot the hoard--just thinking the words made his flesh crawl--and descend the mountain. 

Anxious and impatient, Gilmore soaked in the bath house, but got no comfort from it. So he climbed out and curled up in the hearth. The fire warmed him a little, though Gilmore felt no better. He wanted to claim the remains and lay Umbrasyl to rest with the dignity and respect he deserved as soon as possible. But all he could do now was wait. At least in the lair, he could use his scrying mirror to look in on his people; the mirror didn’t drain his personal reserves of arcane power. Gilmore had to force himself not to constantly stare at it, however. The sight of Umbrasyl’s butchered remains in the cave was infinitely upsetting. 

So instead, he looked in on his room in Whitestone. He’d left a note for Kima the day before when he’d known he would have to sequester himself while Vox Machina killed a member of his family. The stationery he’d left behind on the bed in the castle had read: 

I need time alone. Back in a few days. Don’t worry. 

Not that that would necessarily stop her from worrying, but he knew he would never hear the end of it if he were to leave again without leaving Kima some note. Now the note lay askew on the bed, showing it had been read. When Gilmore looked closer, he saw she had left him a note in return. It said, simply:

Whatever, drama queen. 

He might have taken offense if Gilmore had not been able to read her annoyance with not getting to see him. It was sweet how attached Kima had become to him in such a short period of time. 

Finally, the sun began to set in Westruun. He used the mirror to make certain Vox Machina were on their way, having little interest (for once) what they got up to back in Westruun. This day was not about Vax. In fact, if last night had done nothing else, it had proved that Gilmore was incapable of his usual devotion when in this state of grief and injury. So he forgave himself. 

As the survivors of the city threw Vox Machina a heroes’ celebration, Gilmore watched the men and women toiling up the mountain with carts to retrieve the treasure that was no longer theirs. He could be really cruel and make it so that they would not be able to find the treasure by the time they’d climbed all the way up. And for a moment, Gilmore was tempted. But, no. He was not that person, and gold was just gold. He would retrieve the black dragon’s true treasures when he got there, and the mortals would be none the wiser. They had no idea what dragons truly valued. And considering mortals only used every last bit of knowledge they had to destroy his kind, that was just as well. 

Before leaving his lair, Gilmore prepared himself as best he could, changing into one of his few black robes, tying his hair back, and taking a moment to tint his nails. They would be too dirty to tell the difference by the end of the night, but it was the thought that mattered. Then Gilmore took up his cane and opened a portal back to Whitestone. He stepped back into the catacombs below the castle. As much care as Cassandra had taken in restoring them and having them cleaned up, it just made her resting place more obvious. Especially for someone with a good sense of smell. There was no more dust to betray her footsteps leading up to the secret door, or spiderwebs on the walls to show where the cracks were kept clear of the hidden panels. But Gilmore knew Cassandra’s scent, and he was an infinitely better tracker than even Vex’ahlia, with millennia more experience in checking for traps.

Part of the redesign to the catacombs was that there were places to rest and reflect now, with torches burning throughout. It made Gilmore’s wait easier; he didn’t have to stand just outside Cassandra’s resting place, like an ambush. He levered himself down onto the nearest stone bench. It was cold, but predictably so, and Gilmore used a warming spell to get comfortable while he waited. The snap and crackle of the torches sprinkled throughout the catacombs at thoughtful intervals--for those who did not possess low light vision--was comforting, and Gilmore listened to their merry music, going into somewhat of a trance-like state.

That may have been how Cassandra managed to sneak up on him again. Gilmore heard her heartbeat before her step, and felt a wave of territorial rage from just behind him. When he turned, Cassandra’s eyes shone unnaturally, reflecting the torchlight, and her fangs were bared. “I apologize for surprising you like this,” Gilmore said, calmly. Where vampires were concerned, Gilmore was perhaps the least likely being to take fright, regardless of threat display. But he should have taken into consideration that her waking instinct would be to identify a rival predator in her territory and move to eliminate the threat.

“Lord Gilmore!” She immediately began to gather her composure, wiping spittle from her lower lip as she hid her fangs, and taking several long blinks to put the legendary glamour back on her eyes. “I...my apologies.”

“Not at all.” Gilmore had remained seated for the duration of this exchange, calm, feet planted on the floor and hands resting on his cane, which was beginning to gather further enchantment as he used it. Gilmore shifted over a little on the bench, patting the seat beside him in an entreaty for her to join him. He waited for Cassandra to sit down, smoothing her wide skirt under herself in order to do so in a ladylike way. Was that tulle under her gown? Gilmore had to know where she’d found it, and if he might use her source as well. 

Once she was sat down, Cassandra leaned ever so slightly toward him, in a way Gilmore recognized a person who is starved for physical affection is apt to do. He took his left hand from his cane and put one arm loosely around her, for though she was needful of physical contact, Cassandra was also unused to it, especially from someone other than one of her own kind. 

Feeling the pressure of his arm, Cassandra leaned just a tiny bit into his embrace. “What is it?” she asked. “Is Percy alright?” 

What a loaded question in this instance. “Percival is quite well,” Gilmore said. “This is...not a matter regarding your official duties to Whitestone.” He paused, struggling with the words themselves, how to put it, and also with the emotional labor it took to say the words out loud. But the less he thought about what Umbrasyl’s death meant in the larger picture, the easier it became. “I was wondering...I have a particular task...one that’s quite unpleasant to perform, but which cannot wait. And the nature of it...requires that I perhaps should not be alone.”

“That sounds serious,” she said, looking concerned. “Whatever is it?”  

“One of my family has been slain.” Cassandra’s eyes met Gilmore’s, sympathetic. “Understand...this is a death which to most is cause for celebration--”

“Say no more,” she said, placing her small, cold hand on his. Where Vax’ildan’s pale skin was a rosey shade of ivory with hints of blue undertones, Cassandra’s was deathly white, almost waxy by comparison. It was a wonder no one had taken notice--or perhaps it was not. Gilmore was immune to any glamour she might be casting. “Whatever I can do, I will,” she said. 

Gilmore took a deep breath. “If nothing else, I would appreciate the company. I haven’t had to do something like this for a long time. Alone, even longer. It dredges up a lot of old memories.”

“I understand,” Cassandra said. “Of course. It would be an honor to accompany you.” Gilmore turned and hugged her, because he was feeling emotional, and it was difficult to stay serene. She leaned into his embrace in the way of someone unused to hugs, which was sadder still. Tal’Dorieans were so formal and miserly with their displays of affection, especially those of high birth. 

“I’m ready to leave when you are,” Gilmore said, letting her go. “I know you’ve just awakened, so I’ll wait however long you need--until you’re ready.”

“What should I prepare?” Cassandra asked, having no real clue of the work ahead.

“Riding boots, perhaps, or clothing you don’t mind getting soiled. Beyond that...I can’t really say. The remains are...will be much to deal with.”

“I see,” she nodded, looking thoughtful, just processing. “Then I shall go change clothes and return momentarily. Would you prefer to leave from here?” Cassandra asked.

“I think that might be best.” Not just because Gilmore did not want to waste energy climbing all of those stairs, but also because they were less likely to run into anyone asking questions down here. 

“Very well, then.” Cassandra nodded and rose, offering a small curtsy before heading up into the castle. 

Interesting that, since he’d come to Whitestone, the common supposition about Gilmore was that he was a person of status--with the exception, of course, of Vox Machina, for whom he would likely never be more than a lowly shopkeep. And that was partly by his own design. Still, no one here in Whitestone seemed to have fallen for it. How long had Gilmore dreamed of being treated like a common man? And yet, it felt good to be appreciated again. 

It wasn’t very long before Cassandra returned in an old set of riding clothes that matched his own black robes. Gilmore used the cane to rise from the bench, and took her hand before casting Teleport. Though Gilmore had not been to the mountain in ages, the caves in Gatshadow were impossible for him not to focus on now. The blood spilled there screamed to his psychic senses across the expanse, invoking his geas, demanding blood for blood, that the violence must be repaid in kind. Teleporting directly to the scene of the crime was not difficult at all.

Chapter Text

The two of them appeared without fanfare just 60 feet into the neck of Umbrasyl’s lair. Gilmore took a moment to make certain they were alone, and not likely to be joined or interrupted any time soon. Cassandra let go his hand and began to move toward the mouth of the cave. “Take care, my dear,” Gilmore told her. “There is an active arcane trap at the entrance.”

Umbrasyl’s warding runes had been clumsily cast. So carelessly, it seemed, that even a non-Arcanist had been able to bypass them unharmed. How desperate and rushed must the black dragon have been to make a home here and not even shore up what few defenses he had? Vox Machina had a vision of the Chroma Conclave as all-powerful ancient beings with nothing better to do than destroy and subdue. When Gilmore looked around these caves, he saw a beast driven to desperation in search of safety and a bit of comfort in an unforgiving world. But it was hard to feel victorious over your foe if you saw him in an empathetic way. That was one of the tools of the conqueror: never see your opponent’s point of view. 

“I see it,” Cassandra said, using supernatural speed to climb the cave wall and avoid the trigger glyph stones. Once he saw her safely outside, Gilmore turned to the task ahead. He could not blame Cassandra for exiting quickly. The odor inside the cave was beyond offensive. The smell of desiccated, rotting flesh was overpowered by the smell of acid bile that slowly spread from the pools Umbrasyl had created to mark his territory and begin to change the landscape of the caves, as well as the bile leaking from his corpse, causing accelerated decomposition. These two smells mingled not just in the air, but in the body itself, where bile had mixed with blood and flesh for a unique state of putrefaction. 

But smells could be overcome. What could not be gotten past was the ruin of the body itself. It had been inexpertly butchered and partly flayed, and that had been after the skull had been splintered, hacked through with some blunt instrument Gilmore could only guess was Grog’s greataxe. Even though he had not seen the battle, Gilmore could recreate it in his mind easily from the scene before him. The wretched beast had cornered itself here in unfamiliar territory with no real magic to speak of to guard it. Natural deterrents like mountains and caves and acid would never have been enough to save it; slayers always found ways around such things. 

Gilmore stepped up to the corpse, finding a stretch of unmarked hide to rest one hand against. “I am sorry, my friend.” He took several moments to commune with the deceased. Umbrasyl’s etheric body lingered; when Gilmore moved around to the front of the poor creature, he saw why. What amateur trophy harvesting was this? Gilmore trusted Vex’ahlia to know better, so it must have been one of the others. He should have a talk with them. Not so that they could do better in the future, but to leave the taking of trophies to those who knew at least a small fuck of what they were doing. The tongue, heart, lungs, liver, and both spleens remained. The ruin that had been made of the eyes...that seemed tactical, but also stupid. So very stupid. It showed just how little value they saw in even an adversary of this magnitude. Loathe as Gilmore was to imagine anyone setting his organs on a scale to sell them for coin, it was worse to leave them here like this, as one might do with rotting meat, thrown to the dogs. 

In some ways, that was really what this came down to, wasn’t it? If Vox Machina did not know him in human form, how many of Gilmore’s people would be willing to drop what they were doing to fulfill a contract at the Slayer’s Take for one hundred pounds of gold dragon hide? How little were the lives of any of his kind worth when it came right down to it? 

It went against nature to hunt and slay metallic dragons, every last one of whom had devoted their lives to aiding mortals. But without culture, without history, without empathy, what did that really mean here in the Fourth Age, where everything revolved around the distribution of wealth and power? His heart was heavy, and Gilmore rested against Umbrasyl’s side for long moments, both lost in the possibility and struggling against entertaining such dark ruminations. A soft touch at his shoulder brought Gilmore back out into the present. 

“Who were they to you?” Cassandra asked gently. 

“I do not know,” Gilmore said heavily. And that was not precisely true. He could track Umbrasyl’s heritage and lineage if he chose to do so. But the truth was, Gilmore did not wish to know. How many blood relatives had he lost through the centuries? How many siblings, nieces, cousins, great grandchildren? It hardly mattered. All dragonkind were family. Not wyverns or dragonborn--both of which had very different genetic and arcane origins. But dragons, what few of them remained, were all bound by blood. No one got along with all of their family, but that did not negate the bond. 

“I think I understand,” she said, holding onto his sleeve for fear of pushing the boundary of intimacy. “What can we do for them?” 

Gilmore tried to stand up straight, but the weight was in his heart, not on his shoulders. “We can do something about this space, to start,” he said, turning to glance back at the taunt Vox Machina had left in the back wall, carved with one of Umbrasyl’s own teeth. Gilmore moved to the rock face and pressed his hands against it, pouring all of his heat into the surface until the rock became molten and malleable. He removed the tooth and let gravity erase the writing, turning it back into something that resembled a cave wall. Cassandra watched in silent awe as Gilmore turned away, the intense heat having had no effect on his clothing or his appearance. 

“And beyond insult, we can repair injury,” Gilmore said, walking back to the body, his hands now cooled. He pushed carefully against Umbrasyl’s hacked breast, reaching one hand deep to touch the resting heart and call forth the heartstone. It was small, Umbrasyl’s spiritual power not particularly great in spite of his age. Gilmore withdrew his arm, revealing a small, uneven gem of black amethyst lying in his palm. He wrapped it in silk and placed it inside a locket he’d brought for just this purpose. The enclosure adjusted to fit the size of the gem. Gilmore rested his hand against Umbrasyl’s breastbone and recited a Draconic funerary incantation. Cassandra jumped back in alarm, much further than a human could have managed, as the black dragon’s head fell back, the nictitating membranes closing over the ruin of his eyes as Umbrasyl exhaled his final breath. 

“Before we take him,” Gilmore said. “It’s important to rescue his treasures before the looters come.” He turned to look at her. “Will you keep watch for me?” 

“Of course,” Cassandra nodded, moving back to the cave entrance. It didn’t take Gilmore long. He knew the patterns, by tradition and nature, that Umbrasyl would have followed. His sense of smell and arcane sight just confirmed what Gilmore had already guessed. The things the black dragon had cherished most were hidden high, where amateur slayers like Vox Machina would not have even thought to look: a few statues, large gems, and other works of art, including a painted glaze pot depicting the creation myth that Gilmore was tempted to take for himself. It was a fine piece of expert craftwork, old, and not something he would have expected to find in Westruun. Gilmore placed them all carefully in his satchel before moving on to the next cache and discerningly sorting through everything. The silver flute he found at the bottom of the last hidden cache made Gilmore very sad. What would someone think of his own fine collection of musical instruments from fallen civilizations? Would they wonder why a monster cared about songs he could never play?

Finally, he was done. Out of spite, Gilmore was tempted once more to lock away the remaining gold and bric-a-brac from Westruun so that no one could have it. But what was the use? They’d likely just kill another dragon that much faster to get their hands on its hoard. He left the rough hiding place Vox Machina had carved out as-is, just adding an enchantment of his own that would allow no one to open the latch unless they had generous intentions. 

“Gilmore?” Cassandra had returned to the inside of the cave. 

“Yes, my dear. Are they close?” He turned to look at her. 

“I’m sorry…” she looked embarrassed, and slightly feral. “I haven’t fed today…” 

“My dear. You should have told me sooner.” To be fair, he should have asked about Cassandra’s routines before dragging her away as soon as she’d risen. “Do you need to hunt?” 

She looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I don’t really know how. The things Sylas taught me...they do not apply in these circumstances, and I have been trying not to think of them or duplicate them since he was slain.” 

“Would you like me to catch something for you?” he asked. 

“I’m sure I could kill something,” she said. “Hunting was a family hobby when...when I was a de Rolo.” 

“You still are,” he told her reassuringly. “I’m sure there’s a hare or a ground squirrel somewhere about.” Gilmore walked beyond the mouth of the cave to have a look. “But are you sure you wouldn’t rather have something more substantial?” He glanced down the mountain at the Westruunians climbing toward them. 

“Oh, Master Gilmore, I couldn’t. They’re innocents.” She was standing at his elbow before he could blink, gazing in fright and fascination at the group below. 

“I’m not suggesting you kill one of them,” he said. 

“It wouldn’t feel right,” Cassandra said. 

“What if I tell you which one of them might deserve it?” Gilmore asked, glancing down at her. 

“You mean you can look into their hearts?” She blinked up at him.

“A skill I learned from someone more devoted to justice and maintaining order than I, but yes.” And one he hadn’t used in a long time. 

Cassandra glanced around at their surroundings. “How long do you think it would take to catch something?”

“That depends,” Gilmore said. With the amount of activity around the cave, and considering its previous inhabitant, there was even less of a significant fauna population this far up Gatshadow than he’d expected. “It may require some digging, but I can probably find you something within the hour.”

“Just tell me,” she said, looking down at the approaching mortals. “And I’ll decide.” 

“Very well.” Gilmore closed his eyes and focused on the group below. They were, by and large, a group of ordinary men and women, craftspeople and their close family members that were toiling up the mountain in companionable silence. But there was one who stood out to him like a sore thumb. A thief and a murderer of women, who had lied and tricked his way into the group, claiming to be a refugee, when he was in fact an opportunist. 

“The one with light hair and a red beard. He’s wearing a blue cape he stole from the Margrave’s corpse after the goliaths dismembered him and put him on public display as a warning to others.”

“In poor taste, perhaps,” Cassandra said. “But I’m not sure I would qualify that as evil.” 

“He murdered his way through what was left of the city’s red lantern district after the dragons came,” Gilmore continued, eyes open in a trancelike state as he read the man’s sphere of influence and recent past. “A confidence man who took advantage where he could, and harmed those who offered him shelter.” 

“Breaking the laws of hospitality,” Cassandra said, her eyes glowing like mirrors in the darkness. “That’s not just a crime against individual people.” 

“I’m glad you agree,” Gilmore said, feeling that murder currently suited his mood much better than anything he’d done so far today. 

Cassandra disappeared from his side. Then there was nothing but the swiftest flash of movement below, and the red bearded man disappeared from his group, where he had been neither pulling nor pushing a cart up the mountain, nor holding a torch for those who were. 

In the darkness, Gilmore could hear a single human heartbeat leap into rapid-fire, beat faster and faster, and then slowly calm.

Chapter Text

Gilmore closed his eyes and paused for a moment to take in the night air. If he blocked out the tragedy behind him in the cave, and ignored those coming up the mountain, it was peaceful here, the air crisp and cold; almost cleansing. Before he had quite achieved a meditative state, Gilmore heard Cassandra return, hiding behind some scorched spruce behind him. “Don’t look at me,” she said, her voice sounding briefly inhuman. 

“I’ll do whatever you like,” Gilmore told her. “But remember: I’m not one of them. Are you ready to leave this place?” 

Her answer was emphatic. “Yes.”   

“Come along, then.” 

Walking back inside the cave, Gilmore used Levitate on the body so that he could wrap it more easily. Then he withdrew three fine linen cloths from his satchel, one by one, each piece growing larger as he drew it from the pocket dimension. Gilmore took his time, folding the sheets carefully around Umbrasyl’s remains. If not for the active acid, he would have washed the body first. But that wasn’t possible here. Gilmore tied the cloths in place with braided ropes while Cassandra watched from a respectful distance, her eyes still burning like silver coins in the moonlight. Gilmore did not mind it, and he did not think Umbrasyl would have either.  

Once the ruin of the body had been given its respect, Gilmore turned and opened the secret portal, casting it into the ruined wall from which he’d erased Vox Machina’s message. It seemed fitting. He needed to go through first so that the domain would recognize him. “Would you mind following behind?” he asked Cassandra. “This is sacred space; other species are usually not welcome. But so long as I set expectations, it should be safe for you to come through.”

“Alright,” she said, looking rather nervous, and he did not blame her. “Will you tell me when?” 

“As long as I’m through first, it should be fine,” Gilmore told her. “The portal won’t last long, so just follow behind the body.”

“Very well.” 

Gilmore stepped past the portal into the graveyard at the end of the universe, and saw it as it truly was: an amalgam of all the elements, vast as the natural world, and cosmic in its infinity. The sky was the orange of fire reflected in smoke. The earth, pock-marked as though that of a distant planet, with deep caverns and tunnels woven like well-worn trails through a honeycomb. The ocean loomed on the horizon, stretching on and on, the endless waves beginning from beyond the curve of what was visible and ending just yards away on a rocky beach. The soft lapping of the waves, a soothing white noise, was both familiar and alien in this landscape. The air was not just smoke and ash, but cumulus clouds full of thunder and lightning, hanging on a backdrop of deep space, the music of the spheres, stars sprinkled throughout the night sky, twinkling and dancing, comets sailing, planets going through their revolutions and rotations, and all of it far more than the mortal mind could conceive. 

The dragons’ graveyard recognized Gilmore. He belonged here, and had visited its shores many times. It also recognized Umbrasyl, and welcomed him home. Gilmore quickly primed the space to recognize Cassandra as connected to him. She was not welcome, but she would be allowed here, as part of his presence. 

Then Gilmore took the skeins of space and concept in his fist, and adjusted them for a mortal’s perception. As Cassandra stepped through, she would see one of the old pre-constructs those who had come before Gilmore had determined long ago: a pristine garden surrounded by decorative stone walls, where moon gates gave glimpses of graceful pagodas and shaded resting spaces beyond, and sky, mountains, and water were maintained in perfect balance with one another. Where fat multicolored fish darted between lotus stems in numerous ponds, shimmering dragonflies rested on waterlily pads, and turtles slipped into the water with a soft plop as you walked by. The carefully laid stone paths were interrupted here and there with vibrant murals that had been constructed pebble by pebble. Here, flowering quince and peonies bloomed in one area of the garden while simultaneously, pomegranates and peaches bloomed in another. And beyond those, red thread-leaf maples grew amid the colorful fall crowns of ornamental pistachios and ginkgos.

The world here existed in pristine order and harmony, perfectly manicured for the mortal mind to take in. The reality of the universe was far more chaotic, but Gilmore appreciated the meditative mind that had gone into organizing it all for viewing. This meticulous devotion to order was very metallic culture. 

Cassandra gasped, looking around at all of it. “I’ve never seen anything like it...so beautiful!” Gilmore took her hand and led the way down a winding path out of the garden and into a pine forest, Umbrasyl’s remains drifting quietly behind them, attuning to the space. The pine forest rose up a steep incline, but they did not have to hike far before they were descending, this time to a misty swamp, acrid but peaceful, with nothing disturbing the surface but bubbles rising from the hot springs beneath the waters. It smelled of moss and steam and brackish water, but not unpleasant. They crossed a bridge of solid earth to a small island in the midst of the swamp. Vertical stone pillars there held names and histories. Gilmore lit the lamp that hung there, its flame burning blue and violet as he stood among the memorials. He found Umbrasyl’s wooden grave marker and carried it to the five-element stupa where his name had already been carved. Gilmore took a moment to read Umbrasyl’s history, reminding himself of the black dragon’s deeds. All told, and through such a long life, it was not a great collection of crimes. And no more than what the gazelle might carve out in memoriam of the lion. There was very little spite here, which Gilmore could not say would be true of his own grave marker. 

Cassandra lingered behind him just off the causeway, somehow sensing this was not her ritual to partake in. Gilmore folded his hands and recited the ancient Draconic sutra while the wrapped remains drifted out over the peaceful swamp. As he chanted, Gilmore laid Umbrasyl’s body gently to rest on the murky waters. When he finished, the landscape responded with a gentle ringing sound, as of bells, finger cymbals, or prayer bowls. Behind him, Gilmore saw Cassandra shrink from it. To one unused to this landscape or ritual, that sound was no doubt unsettling. Gilmore stayed on the island and waited until the swamp had taken in the remains, watching them slowly sink into the viscous, green-black waters. 

Being here in this singular place was getting Gilmore in his head. He felt a kind of homesickness, but the kind that came from missing a person the way you would miss a place. He could not leave without visiting his own dead. “There’s one more place I’d like to go,” he told Cassandra. “I would understand if you don’t wish to stay.” 

“This is a beautiful, calm place,” she said. “I have no wish to leave soon, but if you require privacy…” She was never less than courteous. 

“No, I believe it’s for the best if I am not alone here.” To put it mildly.

“Very well.” Cassandra nodded and took his arm as they strolled back up the mountain. This time they took a different path, veering off within the forest to climb another face of the steep rise. The landscape changed as they walked, from fir trees to wild pear and mulberry, almond, walnut, and juniper. And when they emerged into the world beyond, a desert plain stretched out before them, with more mountains just visible in the distance. Gilmore led the way down to the sands, drawing on the night so that Cassandra would not be anxious, though the sun here was not true sun and could not harm her. By the time they reached the basin, it was full dark, and the night was darker still with no moon in the sky. The distant stars were their only company. “Where is this place?” she asked. 

“A place that no longer exists,” he replied. “Except in memory.” And feelings he’d buried as deep as they would go. The way the landscape worked here, they could traverse miles of desert in just a few steps. Gilmore swiftly found the arrangement of natural stone he was looking for. It formed a shallow cave and a stair that led up to a window rock overlooking the magical landscape beyond. At the top of the steps, Gilmore lit the oil lamps and sat down on the large, worn rug in front of the window. There were names carved into the adjacent stone wall. They formed patterns, almost a mandala Gilmore could let his eyes unfocus and read if he sat here long enough. 

“Where are they?” Cassandra asked, hesitantly kneeling down on the rug behind him. Gilmore turned and gazed out the window that had been carved of windworn sandstone. The whole desert was a graveyard, stretching out in its vastness before them, inconceivably far. Someday I will bury you here, Gilmore promised, as he always did when he came here. And then I will finally be free of you. And then what will I be?

Gilmore reached out to touch the names carved into the floor just in front of the window, his fingers reading by touch alone, opening up those scars in his heart just long enough to remember all of them. They were gone. All gone. Mortals believed parents should not have to outlive their children. But it was much more common among his kind. 

Suddenly the weight of it was too much. Gilmore was temporarily unable to pretend anymore; the mask did not fit. Here before his grief, he was naked, a lonely monster on the edge of the world, laid bare before the inevitability of entropy, the cruelty of humankind, the loss of love. 

He would have screamed his grief into the whirlwind if it would have done any good. But Gilmore had long ago spent years, decades crying out in pain for the inability to bring them back, howling his grief, in fury at his own survival in the face of so much loss, and it had made no difference. All of that noise, and it had never changed a thing. Had never made the loss one ounce easier to bear. Had never brought a single one of them back. 

And so he sat before the pattern of names now, and the graves beyond in silence, unable to stand for the weight of it all, tempted as he always was to lie down and remain here with them.

Cassandra moved up next to him and put her arms around Gilmore, resting her head against his shoulder. He was glad he had not come alone, or he might well have stayed. How long they sat there was hard to say. Time passed differently here beyond the mortal world. It felt like both hours and minutes. Here in the forever desert, the sky did not move. It would remain night until Gilmore willed it otherwise. He would not have paid attention to the passage of time on the mortal plane at all but for his companion, who risked an unpleasant death from the sun if they waited too long to travel. “I think we can go,” Gilmore said at last, softly, having to force himself to speak the words through a fog of grief. 

“Just a little longer,” Cassandra said, wiping blood-soaked cheeks with her sleeve. Gilmore found his handkerchief and gave it to her. Maybe that’s what had prompted him to ask her to come along tonight: Cassandra was still grieving her own family. Was grief what kept her voice so quiet always? And she too young to have learned how to construct a mask and believe in it to the point of transformation. With one arm still wrapped around his shoulders, Cassandra reached for Gilmore’s hand, squeezing it with bone-crushing force. He returned the same pressure, understanding. 

*

Finally, Gilmore brought them back to the quiet halls of rest beneath Whitestone castle. The torches were still burning, just as when they’d left. But now the sun was coming up outside, beyond the stone walls, where they could not harm Cassandra directly. Indirectly, Gilmore leaned heavily on his cane, supporting both of their weight as she began to slump against him, the sun commanding Cassandra’s body to sleep. Had they not gone so far afield and done so much emotional lifting, she might have been awake and alert as he had seen her more than once during the day. But this time, Cassandra was drained as he was--perhaps moreso, as she had just visited a place she was never meant to be, and spent hours there. 

Gilmore tucked Cassandra back into her resting place, making sure she would recover and there was no drain on her physical body before closing lid and trap door. Then Gilmore exited by way of the hidden door that led back out into the de Rolo mausoleum. By comparison to the place they had just been, it was a very mortal place of interment with a very mortal conception of time and space and austerity; limited, though well-intentioned. Especially now in its restored state, it felt sterile and claustrophobic to him. 

What Gilmore would have really liked to do now was go for a long flight to stretch his wings. But that was not an option, especially here, and by daylight, no less. He still felt out of place, and Gilmore decided he needed to return to his lair until he fully recovered emotionally. But first, he needed to acquire sustenance. He seemed to remember the last time he’d eaten was days ago now.

He cleaned up in expectation of being seen, fixing his face and putting on a pleasant smile he did not feel. Gilmore made his way to the kitchens, where he begged a few morsels of the cook and her assistants, though they were busy preparing breakfast and doing the baking for the day.

As Gilmore waited off to one side so as to keep out of their way, he heard the outer door open and saw Kima come in, still sweaty from her morning jog. He raised a hand in greeting, not certain if the smile still lingered on his face. 

Without saying anything, Kima walked straight to Gilmore and put her arms around him, wrapping him in a firm, solid hug. “What was that for?” Gilmore asked in surprise, fighting to keep his feelings in check in the face of such empathy.

“He said you needed a hug,” Kima said. Gilmore did not have to ask to which “He” she referred. 

He patted her on the shoulder, returning her hug as much as he dared. “Well, even a broken timepiece is right twice a day.”