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“Commander, can I use the Scrying Pool to view your memories?” Braham asks one day, apropos of nothing, sliding into the seat across from you.
You slam your glass of water back down onto the table with a loud smack , screwing your eyes shut and leaning forward as you choke on your drink. After a few seconds of intense coughing and waving away Braham’s apologies, you finally clear your throat enough to be able to speak.
“I’m sorry,” you croak, squinting at him in confusion, “you want to… what?”
“Uh, use the Scrying Pool to view your memories?” he repeats, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Only with your permission, of course.”
“…Ah,” you nod slowly, letting the question fully sink in. You bring the glass of water to your lips again as you search for the right words. “That’s…”
A complete and total invasion of my privacy, your mind supplies helpfully.
“...a strange request,” you mutter into the cup. The only thing stopping you from shutting him down on the spot is the fact that it’s Braham. He wouldn’t ask this of you without a damn good reason. “And you want to see them because…?”
At this, Braham lights up, squaring his shoulders. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what the lost Spirits said. About how I need to be a better leader if I’m going to beat Jormag, y’know? So I figured, since you’re the best leader I know-”
You can’t help the fond eye roll you give him.
“-if I got to experience some of your memories, then maybe I could learn from them,” he finishes, nodding once in determination.
“It’s definitely an unconventional way of learning,” you remark coolly, resting your chin on your hand as you level an even, challenging stare at him. You’ve cowed countless soldiers and politicians with this look alone, honed to terrifying perfection over the years.
Undaunted, Braham sets his jaw and meets your gaze dead on. “I know nothing can replace first-hand experience, but I think this would be a good way for me to practice without, uh,” his eyes flicker down for just a moment and he swallows hard. “Without the risk.”
You quirk an eyebrow at that, but you don’t miss the way he absently fiddles with something small and wooden in his free hand and-
Oh, you think, recognizing it and finally understanding. Oh.
It’s been months, but the memory of your first day in Bjora Marches stays fresh in your mind.
It had been freezing cold in the barracks of Jora’s Keep when you and Braham had gotten locked in, but the ice that froze in your veins when you watched him stumble upon the mangled body of his former guildmate was colder still.
“Alva,” he’d whispered, stricken with grief as he sank to his knees beside her body.
“I’m sorry, Braham.” The words sat like ash on your tongue, tasting the same as the first time you had ever offered your condolences and every time after that. You never really got used to it.
“Garm… used to rest his head in her lap.” Braham had pulled her head into his lap then, smoothing her hair out of her face with the utmost care. You turned away to give him as much privacy you could, but the dead silence in the barracks meant you heard every hitched breath and muttered prayer to the Spirits. When he returned to your side after a few minutes, he was clutching a small wooden figurine.
“It’s Wolf,” he explained softly when he caught you looking, “Alva made one for each of us, but I gave mine back when I left, I… I had no idea she’d kept it all this time…”
.
.
.
He carries it everywhere now: a constant, physical reminder of his failures as a leader and as a friend.
You know the feeling all too well.
Unbidden, an acrid tidal wave of bitter jealousy swells up inside you. It’s not fair. You never had the chance to practice leadership because you were thrust into your rank, your title, in the middle of a war. You had no one to guide you. Every lesson you learned was written in blood and people paid for your mistakes with their lives.
The wave reaches a roaring apex, then swiftly crashes and breaks against the rocks of your guilt and better judgement.
It’s not his fault, you tell yourself, that you were given the short end of the stick. If you had had the opportunity to practice, to learn from someone else’s mistakes without risking the lives of anyone under your command, wouldn’t you have taken it too?
Of course , you think, picturing the Pact Memorial that still stands in Caer Aval to this day, of course I would have.
“Of course,” you say, gaze and voice gentle, “I think that’s a great idea, Braham.”
“It’s okay, I wasn’t expecting- wait, what? Really?” He stares at you incredulously, the beginnings of a disbelieving grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Are you sure? Because I honestly didn’t think you would say yes so-”
“Well, now that you mention it,” you start mildly, before stifling a snort and shaking your head in amusement as he scrambles to retract his words. “Yes, Braham, I’m sure. C’mon, let’s go before I actually start having second thoughts.”
As he helps you clean up the remains of your lunch, you can’t stop your mind from dredging up every embarrassing thing you’ve ever done in the past eight years. You shut your eyes in a fruitless attempt at blocking out the memories, a long-suffering sigh trapped in your lungs.
It’s okay, you reassure yourself, you’ll be in control of the memories you show him. What could go wrong?
.
.
.
“Hey, Aurene- oh. She’s not here.” Braham says, stopping at the entrance of Aurene’s lair.
You walk past him, a smile stretching across your face as you look around the room. It teems with plant life. Curtains of ivy hang from the tops of the room’s arches while giant Maguuma lilies and dozens of other flowers grow out of cracks in the floor, reaching toward the sunbeams that stream in from the open skylight. Clusters of Aurene’s iridescent Brand crystals cover the walls, filling in the holes left by years of neglect.
In the middle of the room, the Scrying Pool gives off a faint light of its own, its waters swirling lazily as you approach. The spot where Aurene normally sits is vacant, though, just like Braham said. Closing your eyes, you reach out to the bond you share with her. It hums at the edge of your consciousness, quiet and comfortable when you’re not actively talking to her. You give the slightest tug.
‘Just checking in. Where are you?’
A few moments later, a familiar sight flashes in your mind. A vast stormy sky, filled with blue-tinted thunderclouds and stretching as far as the eye can see. The Mists.
Then, Aurene’s voice in your head, clear as day. ‘ Trying to figure out what Jormag is up to. So far… I still have no idea.’
“Are you talking to Aurene?” Braham asks. You nod. “Tell her I said hi!”
‘Braham says hi.’ you relay.
‘Hello, Braham!’
‘Alright, we’ll let you get back to it.’ You smile inwardly, a rush of affection warming your chest. ‘ Be safe. I love you.’
‘Love you too, Champion.’ Aurene croons happily in your head.
“Aurene says hello,” you say, opening your eyes. “She’s keeping an eye out for Jormag in the Mists right now. I don’t think she’ll be back for a while.”
“Oh,” Braham says, slight disappointment coloring his tone, “Does that mean we can’t use the pool?”
“I’m not sure. Wouldn’t hurt to try, though,” you answer, walking over to it. Kneeling as close to the edge as you dare, you lean over to look into the waters. Your reflection wobbles with every ripple from the pool’s constant, self-sustained swirling and you study your distorted face until you catch some movement above your mirrored shoulder that doesn’t seem to be from the pool.
“Don’t even think about it,” you warn lightly, tossing a flat, unimpressed glare over your own shoulder.
Braham, to his credit, looks sorry for maybe half a second before grinning in a way that is decidedly far from it. Still, he concedes and backs away from you with his hands slightly up in surrender. “Oh, like you wouldn’t do the same?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at you.
“I would never,” you lie, turning back to the pool so he doesn’t see your smile. You make a note to push him into it at the first chance you get. “I’ve used the Scrying Pool a few times now and I can tell you that it’s way easier to view your own memories rather than someone else’s. Feels different too.”
When you first used the Scrying Pool to view Ryland’s memories, it wasn’t anything like Kas’ glamour during the All-Legion Rally. You weren’t just wearing his face and spectating from inside his head, you were Ryland. You felt everything, including his thoughts and his emotions, as if they were your own. It had felt so real that after waking up, it took a few seconds for you to realize that you weren’t him. Aurene had to calm you down as you scrambled around for a flamesaw that was never yours and shouted for a warband you were never a part of.
You can only imagine the state you would have woken up in if you had overstayed your welcome in Ryland’s memories.
It was different with yours, though. Those were easier to fall into, like slipping into a dream, and you always woke up from those with complete clarity.
Speaking of your own memories…
“I think I know the perfect one to start with,” you say, dipping a hand into the pool and focusing on a memory you’ve already used it for. You’re not sure if you’ll be able to access a memory without Aurene here, never mind control it. You don’t even know if two people can go in together, or whose body Braham would end up in. So you start off easy. Something you both remember. The leather of Braham’s armor creaks as he settles down next to you and does the same. He watches on in awed silence as the water glows brighter, swirling faster and faster until a small whirlpool forms in the center and pulls at the lily pads closest to it.
A familiar darkness crowds the edge of your vision and you let yourself fall backwards into the memory.
.
.
.
It’s not hard to spot Braham when his blood-red hair contrasts so starkly against the bright, white snow that covers the land and comes down heavy from the sky.
That, and he’s also waving at you from where he stands outside the gates of Cragstead.
“Hey!” he greets once you’re in earshot, shouting over the wind, “Hey, thanks for coming.”
You glance around. “Just us, huh?”
Braham grimaces. “You heard what Brimstone and Whitebear said. I tried sending out notices too, but…” he shakes his head, determination hardening his features. “Nevermind that, we have to go. My friends are in there.”
Turning your eyes upwards, you catch sight of billowing plumes of dark smoke as they start to pour into the sky. A strong gust brings the stench downwind and both you and Braham wrinkle your noses in distaste at the same time.
“No time to waste,” you nod. “Let’s go.”
You tighten your grip on your weapons and follow closely behind Braham as he leads you through the driving snow to the heart of Cragstead, cutting a path through the strange alliance of Flame legion and dredge along the way.
This is an evacuation mission, first and foremost, you remind yourself. Your gaze sweeps over the empty lodges and homesteads, searching for people. It’s not so different from the evacuation missions you used to do with your order when Zhaitan was still alive and a threat, its Risen minions encroaching further and further into the homes of Tyria’s minor races.
You find the villagers soon enough, all rounded up into small groups in the center of the town and trapped inside shimmering domes of fire magic. An equal number of charr and dredge guard each dome, their mechanical weapons whirring and spitting the occasional flame.
Braham growls at the sight and hefts his mace, rolling his shoulders in anticipation.
“Wait,” you caution, throwing an arm out to stop him from charging in. “We can’t just rush in. We’re way outnumbered.”
“We took care of those other guys just fine,” he argues.
“Those were just stragglers we picked off,” you gesture at the domes scattered around. “Here? There’s a dozen of them and only two of us. We can’t take them all in an open fight-”
Braham makes a frustrated noise and you hold up your hand.
“-which is why we switch tactics,” you finish, flashing a sharp grin at him. “They haven’t noticed us yet. Here’s the plan.”
The thing is, you’re no stranger to being outnumbered. Your entire time in Orr was spent leading handfuls of people on high risk, high reward missions, after all. It was kind of your specialty.
So it’s with practiced ease and calm authority that you explain your plan now, laying out a classic divide-and-conquer strategy that’s gotten you and your small squads through countless skirmishes against all odds.
It’s a flawless ambush, all things considered.
You and Braham hit them hard and quick, fighting in tandem as you push the offensive and give them no time to react or warn their allies before you cut them down. And with the help of his protective guardian magic, you two manage to free everyone without a single casualty.
“Where are the others?” Braham asks immediately as he helps an older man to his feet.
Despite his clearly injured arm, the man pulls him into a quick hug before answering. “They were chased up the mountain, to the shrine. I wasn’t- I wasn’t fast enough…”
“It’s okay, Haslo, I’ll go. Will you be-”
“We’ll be fine, thanks to you.” Haslo claps him on the back. “You and your friend be careful!”
When Braham looks over at you, you nod. Of course I’m coming with you.
The trip up to the shrine is shorter than you expected, but you think that might have something to do with the lack of flaming charr or dredge along the way. That only puts you more on edge and you ready your weapons, wary.
You don’t hesitate for a second at the entrance of the cave, charging in to catch the massive Flame legion charr and his grunts off guard. You’ve only known Braham for a few days and fought alongside him for less, but you two fall into a steady rhythm almost instantly, barely having to exchange words. You make quick work of the goons, letting him take care of the hulking charr. Braham doesn’t even let him get a taunt out, stunning him with a shield bash before swinging his mace into the charr’s snout with a brutal, deadly uppercut, spraying blood across the cavern walls.
With the threat taken care of for the time being, you and Braham free the rest of the villagers and escort them down the mountain, dispatching any stray Flame legion or dredge who tried to escape in all the chaos. While there weren’t any casualties, fortunately, there are still plenty injured, so while he talks to some of the other villagers, you help tend to the wounded as best you can. They have a long walk to Hoelbrak ahead of them, and you don’t envy them the trip.
You’re tying off a bandage when you hear him call your name.
“There you are,” he says, stopping in front of you. “Hey, thanks for everything. Really, I mean, I don’t know if things would’ve turned out as well as they did if you hadn’t shown up.”
“Glad I could help,” you say, tilting your head at him. “What are you going to do now?”
“After we get everyone to Hoelbrak, I’m gonna find out where all these Flame legion and dredge are holed up so we can track them down.” He pauses, then rubs the back of his neck with a nervous laugh. “Uh, that is, if you still wanna come along…?”
You smile and cross your arms. “Guess I’ll see you soon, then?”
The pleased grin Braham gives you is warmer than any hearth and twice as bright.
“See you soon!”
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.
“Oh no,” Braham mutters, the first thing you hear as you blink away the last of the memory. “Oh, Spirits, noooo.”
“Something wrong?” you ask, keeping your voice light even as you eye him up and down in concern. It was his first time using the Scrying Pool, after all. Had it affected him differently?
He shakes his head. “No, I’m fine, I just… I just can’t believe I used to wear my hair like that.”
You keep a straight face for an admirable three whole seconds before bursting into snickers. When Braham groans and buries his face in his hands, you only laugh harder.
“For what it’s worth,” you say, smiling, “I thought it suited you.”
He glowers at you. “You’re just saying that.”
You make a non-committal noise and wiggle your hand in a “so-so” gesture. He groans again, falling backwards onto the floor.
“That was really cool,” he says after a while, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. “Being in your head, I mean. I felt so… in control the whole time. Like I knew exactly what I was doing.”
“You weren’t so bad yourself.” Leaning backwards on your hands, you tip your head back and close your eyes. “You were impatient — well, you still kind of are — but you handled yourself better than some soldiers twice your age. And you’ve only gotten better since then. Give yourself a little more credit, Braham.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you watch him flush at the praise, sitting up abruptly.
“Thanks,” he coughs into his fist, fighting a grin. “So, uh, any more memories you feel like sharing?”
You hum. “Several, actually. Ready to go again?”
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You, grabbing the handles of a cannon with both hands and holding on for dear life as The Glory of Tyria lurches to the side, sending Destiny’s Edge, Pact soldiers, and Risen alike sprawling flat on the deck. When the airship finally rights itself, you waste no time, bracing your shoulder against the cannon and shoving hard until you have Zhaitan directly in its sights. The Elder Dragon is on the verge of death, pieces of its own body sloughing off itself as it clings desperately to the side of the tower. You take a deep, steadying breath and fire.
You, the only thing standing in between a crowd of fleeing civilians and a swarm of cutthroat Aetherblade pirates as they drop down from their airships. Lion’s Arch can be rebuilt, but lives can’t be replaced. You do a quick headcount, zero in on the weakest-looking one, and leap into the fray.
You, tracking down your teammates one by one as you tear through the dark, vine-twisted labyrinth under the Silverwastes, an undying behemoth of a Mordrem wolf hot on your heels. You lead them all safely through the maze, driven by the fierce desire to protect your friends. You will not lose anyone today.
You, the legendary Pact Commander, at your best.
After a few back-to-back trips down memory lane, you both decided to take a short break. For his part, Braham had opted to swing his legs over the edge of the pool, dipping his feet in. When he asked whether or not it was okay to do so, you just shrugged and told him you had already cannonballed into the water before. Multiple times.
“How are you feeling? No headaches or anything?” you ask after a few minutes of rest.
“Nope. I do feel pretty commander-y, though.”
You snort. “Commander-y?”
“Mhm. I’ve been in your head too long. Any second now, I’m gonna start spouting a bunch of your expert advice.” Braham clears his throat and puts on an exaggerated voice that you swear sounds nothing like you. “‘Remember, it doesn’t matter how long the hog’s been dead. It doesn’t matter that it’s been sitting in a toxic cloud. You can always try to eat it.’ ”
You roll your eyes and swipe your hand through the water, splashing him. “Okay, that’s it, I’m revoking your pool privileges. We’re done here.” You pause, expression turning thoughtful. “Actually, I think we are done here. I don’t think I have any more memories to show you. None that would help, anyway.”
“Hmm, what about your time in Elona? I wasn’t there for that.”
“Uh, you definitely were,” you say, shooting a quizzical smile at him. “Or do you not remember storming Joko’s palace with me?”
“No, no,” Braham laughs, waving dismissively, “I meant before that. I wasn’t there for… ugh, what’s his name again? Balthazar?”
For a brief, blissful moment, you only recall the part where you killed him.
Then your free hand flies to your chest on instinct, ghosting over a wound that no longer exists.
“What about him?” you ask, a little louder than necessary. You cringe inwardly, but Braham doesn’t seem to notice.
“Well, everyone told me you somehow took control of Joko’s Awakened army and got them to fight on your side,” he shakes his head, chuckling. “I didn’t believe them at first, but that sounds exactly like something only you could pull off.”
You can hardly hear yourself over the frenetic pounding of your pulse in your ears. “Did they… tell you anything else?”
“Not really,” Braham frowns, finally turning to face you. “Why, is there- woah, hey, are you alright?”
You open your mouth to answer, but nothing comes out.
“Commander?” His voice spikes with worry.
Swallowing hard past the lump in your throat, you try again. Still nothing.
You’re so preoccupied with trying to force yourself to speak that you don’t even realize your other hand is still in the pool until you feel the tug of an old memory on your consciousness.
Ripping your hand out of the glowing water in a panic, you can only stare in horror as that does nothing to stop the ancient, powerful magic from pulling you helpless back into the dark.
.
.
.
Everything hurts.
You wish it would stop.
It doesn’t.
You throw yourself to the side, narrowly dodging a fireball as it blazes past your head. Ducking behind a crumbling pillar, you press your back up against the stone and try to catch your breath.
You’ve bought yourself some time, at least.
This is a fight you know you can’t win, but the walls of flames surrounding the spire prevent your escape, so your only hope is to keep Balthazar distracted until reinforcements arrive.
“Any second now,” you mutter, and you don’t know if you’re trying to reassure or convince yourself.
You grit your teeth as another wave of pain wracks your body. There’s a nasty gash in your side, larger and deeper than the rest of your cuts, and it oozes sluggishly, soaking your armor in blood.
It’s bearable for now, but you can’t afford to be slowed down.
“Are you hiding, Commander?” Balthazar sneers, “How pathetic.”
Your answer to that is to dart out from behind the pillar, launching a flurry of attacks along his flank and back. When he twists around to send a volley of fireballs your way, you just tuck yourself into a neat dodge-roll, avoiding them all with ease. If you wince and stumble on the landing, you pretend not to notice and hope he didn’t either.
“Aw, you missed!” you taunt, sounding way braver than you feel, “How pathetic!”
Balthazar’s face contorts in fury. “Enough!” he shouts, and both the flames surrounding him and the spire seem to burn hotter than ever.
Before you can react, the ground beneath your feet erupts in a column of fire and you scream as your world is engulfed in a white-hot inferno. When the initial blinding agony finally passes, you find yourself sprawled out on the ground, pointed stones digging into your back and your weapons flung too far out of your reach.
Get up.
You only manage to twitch your fingers.
Get up. Now.
Your throat burns raw. When you try to speak, the only thing that comes out of your mouth is a pained whimper.
GET. UP. BEFORE BALTHAZAR-
You sense Aurene before you see her.
“Ah, the scion, finally come here to defend her champion.”
Finally…?
It clicks. Your heart stops.
Balthazar’s been toying with you this whole fucking time.
It’s impossible for you to form words, let alone make any sort of loud noise, so you try to warn Aurene through your shared bond instead, panic rising with every passing moment that she doesn’t respond.
‘GET AWAY,’ you practically roar at her, ‘TRAP. IT’S A TRAP. YOU’RE FLYING RIGHT INTO A TRAP, TURN AROUND, PLEASE-’
And Aurene roars right back at you. There are no words you can hear—you don’t think she’s old enough for that yet—but she can convey her feelings through the bond and right now she’s drowning out your desperate warnings with them. She refuses to abandon you. You are her guardian and her champion and she loves you and you promised over and over to protect her so she promised the same and weren’t you the one who taught her about loyalty in the first place?
It takes one self-sacrificing idiot to know one. You would laugh if you weren’t so fucking terrified of losing her.
Your vision swims and you only catch glimpses of Aurene’s skirmish. She’s a bright blue blur, swerving expertly in the air as she dodges fireballs and lets loose her devastating dragon breath every time Balthazar tries to swat her out of the sky. Snarling, he launches some sort of phantasmal chains at her and-
No.
No, no, no, nonono-
“Aurene!” you scream. The exertion sends you into a coughing fit, but you don’t care.
You’re crying now, too. You don’t care.
Balthazar is saying something, but you stopped listening to him ages ago. It’s a monumental effort just to crane your head towards Aurene, your vision clearing long enough to see her staring at you, eyes blown wide in fear as terror rolls off her in waves.
She tries to apologize and you rush to soothe her.
‘It’s okay, it’s alright ,’ you reassure, ‘ you have nothing to be sorry for, I love you so much, it’s not your fault, never your fault.’
Maybe you’re projecting a little. Whatever.
You only stop when a giant metal boot steps squarely into your line of sight, blocking her from view. You glance up.
Balthazar towers over you, his giant, flaming greatsword hovering menacingly by his side.
The fear that lances through your gut is primal.
You can’t die yet. Not here. Not now.
He notices the way your wide eyes trace his sword and bares his teeth in a humorless grin. Oh, he’s enjoying this, relishing the power he has over you.
“I thought you would put up more of a fight, given your reputation,” Balthazar remarks casually, circling you. With a lazy wave of his hand, his sword floats over and suspends itself in midair right above your chest.
Your already labored breathing dissolves into short, shallow gasps.
You can’t die. You’re not ready.
He lets the sword hover for a few more seconds before grabbing the hilt with both hands, raising it higher over your body. His face twists with hate, eyes blazing molten gold as they bore hungry and vengeful into yours.
You don’t want to die.
The edge of the blade glints orange from an indifferent sunset.
Please.
There’s a sickening crunch as he swings it down hard into your chest, punching through your armor and sternum and crushing most of your ribcage in the process. Then the blade severs your spine and you lose all feeling in your lower body.
Distantly, you think you hear someone scream, high-pitched and anguished. Was that Aurene? Or Taimi? Maybe both.
Certainly not you, although you’d tried to. What remains of your lungs are filled with more blood than air at this point, and it pours out of your mouth when you open it.
I’m sorry , you think, but you can’t remember what you’re apologizing for. Or who you’re apologizing to.
You’re so tired of blood. Tired of pain. Tired of feeling.
Everything hurts.
You wish it would stop.
It does.
.
.
.
The only reason you don’t wake up choking back a scream and clutching your chest like Braham does is because you’ve relived this in your nightmares far too many times for it to rip that kind of reaction out of you anymore. Still, it takes you longer than normal to push yourself into a sitting position and even longer for your pulse to even out. Fighting the urge to curl up and disappear from the world, you rush over to where Braham sits hyperventilating.
“Hey, Braham, hey, look at me, you’re okay, you’re okay. You’re here, you’re alive,” you reassure, and you’re surprised at how calm you sound. You work on getting him to match your breaths, counting out every inhale and exhale.
“Oh, Spirits,” he chokes out after his breathing steadies, his voice nearly cracking as tears prick in the corners of his eyes, “that was… how- h-how did you survive that?”
Your mouth shuts with an audible click. Biting your tongue, you look to the side, carefully avoiding eye contact.
You could lie.
Lie and tell him the airship made it just in time and the medics brought you back from the brink with a miracle. Another close call, but you pulled through like you always do. Spare him the pain, the grief. It’s been years, and there are more important things to worry about right now. It would save you both so much trouble.
“Commander?” he asks softly, earnestly.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
“I didn’t,” you admit, barely above a whisper.
Deafening silence, for a beat.
Two.
Three.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Braham says eventually. When you finally bring yourself to look at him again, his brows are furrowed in confusion. He stares at you in concern, scrutinizing. “You’re… definitely still alive.”
“I sure am.” Neither of you miss the tired bitterness that bleeds into your sarcasm. You wince and sigh, running a hand over your face. “I’m sorry, it’s just… It’s a long story.”
And to this day, you still haven’t told anyone all the details. You’re not sure if you ever will.
“Who knows?” Braham asks.
The question catches you off guard. “Uh, Rytlock, Canach, and Kas were there when it happened. Taimi… overheard.” You don’t know which is worse: being the one to hear you die, or finding your body after the fact.
They’re not the only ones who know, but they’re the only ones who matter. Even then, you swore them all to secrecy.
“Taimi called me around that time,” he says.
Your eyes widen. “Did she…?”
Braham shakes his head. “She was crying too hard,” he says, speaking slowly as he focuses on remembering. “She said something about you, but she couldn’t get the words out. When I tried to ask her what was wrong, she just hung up on me. Then she called me back a day later to say it was nothing and to pretend it never happened.”
“Huh,” you say, because you can’t think of anything else.
“I always wondered what she was trying to tell me,” Braham smiles sadly at you. “Guess I know now.”
You swallow hard. “You’re… taking this a lot better than I thought you would.”
“I’m not the one who died,” he shrugs, even as his hand comes up to brush across his chest absentmindedly.
But you know how it felt, you think, How I felt.
The thought hangs in the air, unspoken.
“Are you okay?” Braham asks after a while.
“Yeah,” you answer quickly, automatically, “I’m fine.”
He raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “Are you sure?” He looks pointedly down and you follow his gaze.
Your hands are shaking where they rest in your lap. Gritting your teeth, you clench them into fists. They don’t stop.
“I’m fine,” you repeat, more to yourself than anything. “I’m fine. ”
The shaking travels up your arms until your shoulders are trembling as if under an invisible weight. This is so embarrassing, so humiliating. You’re pathetic. You-
You don’t resist when Braham pulls you into a warm embrace.
“It’s been years,” you mutter, blinking rapidly against the itchy heat behind your eyes. “I thought I’d be over it by now.”
“It always hits you when you least expect it,” Braham says quietly, “I’m sorry, Commander.”
The noise that comes out of you is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. You know he knows you hate pity, but this is the farthest thing from it. “When did you get so wise?” you tease.
“Learned it from you,” he says, voice tinged with pride, and now it’s your turn to flush. He squeezes you tightly once before letting you go. “Are you okay?” he asks again.
“Yeah,” you say, and this time you mean it. You breathe in deep, feeling lighter than you have in ages. “I’m okay. Thank you, Braham.”
“Glad to hear it,” he grins, and promptly shoves you right into the Scrying Pool.
His boisterous laughter echoes off the walls and drowns out your indignant spluttering. When you pull yourself out of the pool, drenched and dripping water everywhere, he scrambles to his feet and breaks into a dead sprint down the hall.
You chase after him, smiling, and leave your memories behind you.