Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In an old corner of the Last City, lies stone mansion.

Originally, it was not a mansion. It did not even exist at all in the mind of a living soul. It was instead a mere pile of stones, charred black and broken from the events that scoured the Earth. Like the land around it, it was silent and solemn. For miles around there was only death and the stray ashes of what was once people.

The stones were silent witnesses, watching the oncoming bloodbath as warlords fought each other for these barren and bitter lands. People lived and died under the rule of tyrants and they cried out for somebody to save them. Then came more battles as the newly risen fought to save what precious little remained – wars just as bloody and just as terrible.

Ashes blew across the lands more times than could be counted – and for far longer than what most people lived. An entire generation lived and died knowing nothing else, and that was the greatest tragedy of all.

But in the end, the people won. For now, the ashes that came were not from the charred remains of humankind, but from the fires of forges and cooks as life began to gather.

The assembled collection of stones were hastily thrown together into a rough shape of a building. The traumatized last remnants of humanity sheltered within, scratching together an existence that offered promise of something else. Rumors spread, and more and more began to arrive. With them they brought community, and with community came hope. They could look up and behold the entity that died to save them all, and it gave them something to continue fighting for.

The Traveler stayed above them, silent as the tomb, but a symbol all the same.

Eventually the huddle became a camp as survivors emerged from their bunkers and hidey holes – chasing the rumors of a place that offered not only survival, but another chance to potentially thrive. Numbers swelled, and enemies took notice. The stone building was rebuilt into barracks and were subsequently reinforced. Now more than just a shelter, the very first Guardians stayed within, preparing to fight off whatever came out from the dark.

And fight they did. The Fallen crashed like waves upon the first Titans, screaming and clawing to get to the God which had left them. They were beaten back, again and again. But they kept coming, desperation driving them ever forwards. The stone barracks became constrained as the ranks grew to meet the threat. The human walls could only stand so much, so work began on a proper stone one.

The Camp then became the Last City, and the stone barracks within became a mansion.

It wasn’t like a mansion of the Golden Age with its resplendent opulence and excess. It was instead utilitarian in design, with many rooms built within to hold many people. It was merely called a mansion because of its size, sprawling out to take up a decent amount of room within the outskirts of the City. It was after all, meant to hold Titans before they moved out to gain homes of their own. It sat empty for a while as work went into what would become the Tower and people obtained the luxury of their own dwellings.

Eventually, it became a home as well.

In a stone mansion in the Last City, lives an old man and his family.

These are their stories.

Chapter Text

In a stone mansion in the Last City, lives an old man.

This old man is perhaps, one of the oldest living members of humanity and a relic of a once prosperous past. He was one of the first batch of dead to be resurrected in the light after the Traveler’s final sacrifice, clawing out into a broken world. He emerged from death to a cheery voice and the cresting of a sunrise – knowing nothing more than that he was old.

His age reflects in his body, as he was old even before the Darkness destroyed the once shining Golden Age. As an Exo, his age is measured in edges of rust and scratches too deep to be smoothed over. His joints would catch and click sometimes. His knees would creak a little. A cough would sometimes tickle his county accent as his artificial lungs worked to get out bits of lingering rust. Once he was painted in colors of mottled brown, layered on each other in a pattern more fit to the rocky terrain of the desert than a city. Now the colors are faded and chipped and he never found a reason to get a new coat of paint. Why do that when it’s just going to get scuffed up again anyway? The life of a Guardian is one of scrapes and deaths and becoming covered in all types of gore. It seemed unnecessary.

Even the bright orange lights that made up his eyes seemed old. Perhaps it’s the trick of the light, or the angles of the metal that make up his face – but he seems to peer at the world with a sense of resignation and weariness.

He is so tired.

So very tired.

But there is still so much to do and live for.

Once humanity had converged enough to create the City, he took to books and combat so readily that he wondered what his previous life was like. His coloration seemed more suited for a soldier, fitting on his stocky and angular body. His mind however, seemed more for learning and teaching. An interesting mix for sure, but it made him effective for what he would eventually become.

The wings of fire summoned one day marked him as a Warlock, and he rained fire down like the flash of a wildfire. Those that crept in the edges of the dark were rendered to crumbling charcoal in his fury.

But most importantly, he learned how to heal with it. The fire of a phoenix is both terrible and mighty, but it’s tears and song can heal just as readily. He preferred the latter to the former. He cared not for being seen as something powerful or frightening. He cared only for those that will live because he knew how to keep them alive.

He found his first child after the quelling of a grueling battle, the young boy sheltered under his parent’s bodies. They had died where they blocked the entrance to a hidden nook, refusing to give in even as the Fallen nearly clawed their spines out of their bodies. But they succeeded, their child had lived, and now that child was an orphan.

He had taken them in after that. He knew he could never replace the parents his little one had lost, but he wished he could cry when his new son eventually called him ‘papa’. Exos were not made for such things, but he could feel it all the same.

One child turned into two. Two turned into three. The ongoing war left so many orphans behind and not enough with the patience or time to care for them. He didn’t know why, perhaps it was a lingering remnant of his past life, but he could not stand to see a child in need.

Eventually in time, he adopted enough children that he needed a place to put them all. With that, he found the old stone mansion.

It took time to make what was once an empty and cold place into a home, but he somehow managed it. The walls once filled with trepidation for upcoming battles became filled with laughter and joy.

His children however, were all mortal. They grew up. They lived. They died. Same with his spouses. Even those that were also Guardians can and have met their permanent death, leaving him alone to mourn. Not only mortal children, but the newly risen, the ‘new lights’ he also took in and loved like his own children. They may be immortal, but many have gone out for a mission and never returned. Sometimes their shattered ghosts would be returned to him, but more often than not, there wasn’t anything left to recover.

Despite the pain, he knew that when he closed his eyes at night, the dreams that would meet him would be ones that kept him going. Sometimes he dreamed of first little steps. Sometimes of first words. First dates. First hugs. Friends. Love. Life. Nightmares were rare because there was so much good that it left very little room to dwell on the pain. Sure it hurt, especially the dreams of those that have long since gone, but somehow it brought him comfort.

As long as he was alive, the memories of the people he loved will exist as their own form of immortality.

At the moment, he is happy. He has a husband that he adores. He has twelve children that live in his stone mansion, three grown children who have since left the home, two Guardians that he had practically raised, and one very happy fat pet.

Wealth cannot be measured in riches or excess, but by how happy the life that you live makes you.

And for this old man, he is the wealthiest man alive.

Chapter Text

In a warm room in a stone mansion, lies a library.

It is not only a library, but a place to keep interesting things. A few small trinkets were left out here and there, found from out in the ruins of the old world. A gemstone. A bird skull. Pressed flowers. Interesting things that competed for space among the books and the shelves. All trinkets in view were made sure to be big enough that they could not be swallowed, especially with little eyes watching.

Many of said trinkets were lost among the hoard of books that took up much of the room.

Wooden bookcases groan under the weight of books and tablets, crammed in every available space and corner. Some bookshelves go all the way up to the ceiling, high enough that only someone with the ability to nearly fly can reach them. Seeing as this library belongs to a Warlock, it makes for a simple matter of keeping dangerous things away from little hands.

Though, he underestimated two of his daughters. They somehow managed to find a couple romance novels on the very top shelf, hidden behind some dictionaries. On one hand that lead to a very awkward conversation... but on the other he was impressed by their skill.

Most did not pay much attention to much of the library, for it was full of old medical texts, large tomes on history, notebooks filled with the scratchings of a bygone era, and other dry works not so suitable for younger eyes. For this reason, there is a bookshelf just for them.

Many of the books in this bookcase were found across the ruins of the old world. All were hunted down like precious relics and treated as such. Each book that somehow survived the Collapse was taken back to the City. Many ended up in the large expansive library maintained by his fellow Warlocks, but a select few he kept for himself.

Brightly colored tomes were organized by age group, all of them worn over many, many years of hands and bedtimes. Most have been repaired quite a few times, or even copied, as paper is not as long lived as the person who owns them.

All were backed up on tablets just in case some accident befell the particular book, but most of the children preferred the paper versions. It is difficult to replicate the feeling in a tablet of being held safely, book propped up between parent and child, as the older read aloud and the younger could see the pictures within. To touch and smell the paper. To feel both the warmth of a fireplace and the safety of a full belly. It was all something we remember instinctively deep within ourselves as an ultimate form of comfort... and is rarely ever replicated once we are grown and understand the world and its ills.

The old Warlock does not remember his childhood. He couldn’t. Once the Light finds you and brings you back, you do not remember your past – save for snippets of your end or some fleeting feeling you cannot explain. His Ghost had told him before that it was not the job of a Guardian to look to the past, but to look to the future and protect those in the here and now.

So here he was doing just that.

A treasure sat on a table, next to a small sofa in the sole non-cluttered corner of the library. There was a fire place, already lit and bouncing sparks off a barrier to keep it away from the more flammable specimens in the library. It did not block the light, nore the heat, casting a comfy glow that chased away the shadows. Floating lights scattered about in the air and gave plenty illumination to see and read.

Resting on the table was a worn, faded book. He had been lucky to find it in such good condition. Chasing Fallen had led him to falling into what was once an old shopping center. Most of the goods within were rotted and little more than mold after centuries of weather. But, to his surprise a few books were kept in glass cases and protected from most of the elements – such as the one he had now.

The cover was made of leather, dyed light blue and etched along the sides with leaves and acorns in gold. The center featured a rabbit in a little coat as they sat among some lettuce, quite obviously up to no good. Within was the voice and vision of someone who lived so long ago, but has managed to find immortality in the form of a book. The Collapse took many things away from Humanity, but here, in this home, some souls from before still remained. Their voices continue long past the silence of time and whisper words of hope in the ears of the present. 

It was a strange thing to think about when the air was quiet and still. So many children passed from his home and into the world, all knowing the tales he read to them, who then told them to their own children. Tales that existed long before Humanity even dreamed of traveling to the stars, and tales that will persist long after.

If there was anything he wanted to leave his children with, was the value of a story.

It was late, and already children were huddled at his sides, waiting for tales of good things to drown out the real nightmares of the current world. Looking out beyond the walls yielded enough pain and fear, he would not have such things in his home. He will instead give them dreams of rabbits and bees and mice and all sorts of soft creatures going about their business.

He cracked open the old tome, and began to read to his young audience.

“Once upon a time, there were four little Rabbits, and their names were Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter...”

The tales of a naughty little rabbit did far more to soothe the weight of the world than any placating lie ever could. 

Chapter Text

In an old man in a stone mansion, lies a memory.

Or what might be, that last...and the first.

The last thing he could remember was watching the sky as ships burned, sending embers of red into a blackened sky. He could almost hear the screaming as one refugee ship was cut down after another, sending it’s flaming entrails crashing back to Earth. Smoke choked the air and he could scarcely breathe even with the power of artificial lungs. He tasted grit, and realized with each breath, he was inhaling the ashes of people. He couldn’t try to escape it as a torrent of grey fell from the sky like snow, blanketing the still fleeing people with the failed results of attempted escapes. But they kept trying despite the horror - even when tendrils of black shapes reached down like the angry hands of God and destroyed everything it touched.

There was so much noise that he couldn’t even hear his own thoughts. He could only bear witness to the end of the world itself.

He imagine that if there was a Hell, that it would look and sound like this.

A shriek, and a chunk of burning metal started to descend from the sky above him. He knew there was no time to run. Where would he run to? Everywhere was death. The choice was to die now, or later. He decided to die standing, one last spiteful insult to the forces that was killing everything around him.

He closed his eyes.

“And night will be no more. They will need no light of lamp or sun, for the Lord God will be their light, and they will -”

There was sudden silence-



-and he came to a sudden awareness, his mouth full of dirt and an immense pressure jabbing into his metal and silicone skin. It was dark, so very dark...and there was no room or air to scream. There was only the immense urge to dig and push, hands scraping into frozen ground and peeling back the delicate materials that made up his finger tips. Why was he underground? What happened? The dim sense of something missing was overshadowed by the terror of being buried alive. Running along side the panic was a soft voice, urging him to keep going. But who was that?

It felt like hours of clawing, the persistent feeling of suffocation choked his actions and made him clumsy. But finally, there was a dim light, and he crawled his way out from under twisted wrecks of metal and ice and into the light of a sunrise. He was a mess, the casings on his hands and fingers torn away by his scramble to the surface – and he could only collapse against the debris and snow. He gasped outwards, the fans in his throat fogging the chilling air.

“Eyes up, Guardian.”

He was too tired to jump, confusion and pain outweighed fear for the moment. The exo turned his head to look to the voice, squinting against the oncoming sun. What met him was a small drone-like robot, staring back at him with a singular blue eye. It was in a casing that reminded him of a white flower, ‘petals’ flexing and turning with what might be anxiety or excitement.

“What?” He coughed out some lingering pieces of dirt and rust with the question. 

“You’ve been dead for a little while, but I brought you back.” The drone clicked and flexed their points outwards as they hurriedly explained. “I know that is a lot to take in, but it's true.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle, the lingering pain of panic was starting to fade, curiosity winning out. “Bringin’ me back from the dead? Heh. And you picked me? Strange little critter, aren’t you?”

The drone hummed to itself for a moment as they regarded him. “You’re taking this a little better than some other Guardians.”

“What, you expected me to scream? Rage? I’m too old for that, at least, I think I am.” He looked down at himself. He knew his hands were ruined, but the rest of him wasn’t in any better shape. The paint job of mottled patterns of brown were scuffed, edges of rust and scratches marring the surface. He turned his arm to the side and looks at his legs, equally banged up and clothed by burned scraps. "Yep, pretty sure I'm old."

“Here, let me help.” The drone moved in the air to linger by his hands. “That looks terrible.”

Before he could say anything else, a beam of shining white light emitted from the drone’s eye and washed over his hands. At first, the light felt warm...homely...like a gentle hug on his tired body. He watched, amazed, as the delicate silicone and riveted metal pieces began to knit themselves together. In no time at all, his hands were whole again, though still somewhat banged up and scuffed.

“Sorry, that was the best I could do.” The drone seemed apologetic at that fact, swaying to and fro as it cut off the beam of light. “When we bring back people, we bring you back as you were.”

“Makes sense.” He rested for a moment, laying his now restored hands on his lap and glancing to the sunrise. The sun had peeked up further, casting golds and reds as a rim of bright blue began to rise behind it. He tried to reflect on what was going on, but he was drawing up blanks. The only thing he could remember before him was terror, flashes of light, an act of defiance, and...a sad finality. He realized the he couldn’t remember much at all. Just that he was an Exo, an old one, and he had been dead. “I think there might be somethin’ wrong with my noggin.” He finally said after a moment of silence, looking to the floating little robot.

“Oh?” The drone moved in, and like a bee or a bird, rested itself on his knee.

“Yep. Can’t remember much of anything. Don’t know how I got in that hole. Don’t know…well hell, I don’t know my own damn name! Ain’t that a bitch?” He couldn’t help but chuckle. It was absurd! He must be dreaming! Maybe he was glitching and he was somewhere else, hallucinating this whole thing?

“That’s normal.” The drone stated, weight feeling very real on his knee. “Guardians are supposed to look to the future, not be caught in the past.”

“Well, that an’ probably things get broken in the whole...erm…bringin’ folks back part.”

“That might be true as well. I don’t know for sure.” The drone alighted itself once more to the air, the golden light of the sun reflecting off the stark whiteness of the shell around it. “But I know for sure, that we should get moving. It’s not safe here, and you need some supplies.”

He looked around at a literal wasteland. Twisted wrecks, burned out monoliths of stone…all covered in a thin layer of snow. A deep feeling within told him that there used to be homes here...people. But it was all gone. Buried under the diamond-like glitter of the snow, stretching for miles and miles. Looking down at himself yielded similar results. He had nothing to himself but scattered torn rags. No weapons. No proper clothing. Nothing.

“I kin’ see that.” He said, and slowly stood up with a creak of his joints. “Just where do we go?”

“There’s chatter of a camp being set up somewhere.” The drone stated, seemingly pleased that he wasn’t making a fuss about everything. “We’re going to all try to meet up there but...it’s a bit of a walk.”

He could only nod, looking out at the seemingly miles and miles of empty, frozen land. “Before we go off an’ do that...I do have a question.”

The drone whirled around and focused its eye on him. “Well, we do have plenty of time. Go ahead.”

“Just what in the hell are you? And why pick me?”

The drone bounced in the air, looking a little excited about the question. “Oh! I’m a ghost! I’m your ghost! Your partner forevermore. Here on behalf of the light. And why? Well...you just felt right.”

He nodded. As weird as the situation was, it made sense to him. “And what’s your name?”

“I don’t have one.” It admitted, petals drooping slightly.

He chucked. “That’s fine. I don’t have one either. Maybe we can go and find some that fit along the way?”

He didn’t know how, but he just knew that the ghost smiled. He could feel it, and he figured that it would take some getting used to, especially if they were to be partners.

“I’d like that very much.” It said, warmth in their voice. It felt lovely against the chill and emptiness of the dead world around them.

"Alright, sounds good to me!" The old man did his best to smile back despite being made of metal, but it seemed like it was just fine to his ghost. 

With that, the two began to walk, leaving the now empty grave behind and into a new dawn.

Chapter Text

Under a stone mansion in the Last City, lies a basement.

Actually, it was more like a glorified hole than anything else.

Rough and only just barely finished, it found use as a root cellar – back when electricity was better spent on defenses than common comforts. Still, it did it’s job. Food could be stored away from the heat and constant fighting, kept cool and preserved in the darkness. It was sorely needed, seeing how much Titans needed to eat in a day to keep in peak condition, and food needed to keep from being spoiled.

When the walls were built and the mansion was renovated, the cellar became redundant. There was electricity now, refrigerators, things that no longer needed archaic techniques to remain viable. When the Titans moved out, the basement was covered up and left behind.

The basement now has a use.

Two young girls, barely teenagers, surveyed their work. The darkness within was banished with the bright light of flashlights and lanterns. Lights were strung up in corridors and in tunnels, casting a warm yellow glow over everything. Spare stone and bits of old tile paved the once dirt floor, allowing the place to remain somewhat cleaner. There was a lot of holes dug into the walls, lined with scrap wood and made into storage cubicles. Inside these were all sorts of gadgets and trinkets. Silverware, bowls, random bits of circuitry, canned food, and other such gear were organized and put in their own spots. Most were obviously second hand, but repaired with the best of their abilities. Papa had encouraged their pursuit, providing tools they needed and helping them work. He had understood the need for a secret place, which they were both very grateful for.

They had made a hollow to shove mounds of pillows and blankets in, making a warm little nest to snuggle. A few stuffed animals were tossed in as well, something you’d never expect to come across underground. Some tunnels stretched out away, heading to other places and bolt holes, but those were still a work in progress. The main entrance was under the big table in the courtyard, the tile carefully chipped to allow it to open like a trap door. Unless you looked for it, you’d never expect the tunnel to be there.

It was their little hideaway where they could retreat to when needed.

The two girls were used to such life from before being adopted. They were simply children of a pair of statistics. They had been fairly young when both their parents went off into the wilderness to gather supplies, who had kissed them goodbye and told them they would return soon.

They never came back.

The two twins were then left on their own. They had tried seeking help, but they were told to go to various people, would then pass them off to someone else. It ended up turning into a never ending circle, a cycle that just brought more heartache than it was worth. Eventually, they both realized that they couldn’t rely on other people to help them, they had to help themselves. They vanished into the night much like their parents did, and set about to make a life for themselves.

For several years they were alone. Learning to steal. Learning to stay hidden. Learning how to dodge the invasions that happened from time to time. The Cabal was the ultimate lesson in survival. Together, they stayed alive and out of sight until the City was taken back. It was almost like a game, looting places for supplies without getting caught by the roaming patrols or the raging fires. By now, they had learned how to be silent, dipping from shadow to shadow to stay just a step ahead of those trying to kill them. Scattered bolt holes and dens were established across the city, ready for them to hide in should they be noticed.

It was the life they lead for a long time. All through the Red War. All through the Endless Night. So much happened in such a short amount of time, it was astonishing. They learned. They adapted.

And then one day, they caught an Eliskni in a trap.

They had known about House Light and their subsequent move into the Last City. What they didn’t know was that after the Endless Night, they’d be able to wander about this far into the residential district. It was normal for them to set traps outside their dens. Nothing deadly, that would attract too much attention. But a noose trap rigged with some old tin cans did just as well to alert them when someone was getting close.

So imagine their surprise when the trap went off, and they emerged from their bolt hole to see what they had caught, only to see that they strung up an Eliskni Captain. It was a good thing they rigged the trap to pull up fairly high, because said alien was wriggling and flailing their arms in an attempt to escape. They were only a bare few millimeters away from being able to touch the cobblestone with their claws. It saw the two girls, and it began to at first, plead with them in the rough, chittering language of their people. Seeing that it had no effect, it tried speaking again in common.

“Hello! Young ones!” It spoke. “Please let me down!”

The two girls did the only thing they could do in such a situation.

They started to poke it with sticks.

They wriggled and tried to move, shouting curses as the two twins meticulously poked them, like little scientists observing life in a petri dish. Finally it just gave up, looking as pathetic as a large scary bug alien could, begging them to at least not poke out their eyes. The two obliged such a request, and just poked elsewhere harder.

“Ello there,” the poking was interrupted by a new voice, old and scratchy. “Can ya both stop pokin’ my darlin? I’d much appreciate it.”

They stopped their poking and looked up at the newcomer. They both had an inkling to just book it, but something stopped them this time. The Warlock didn’t seem to be a dangerous type, looking over at the caught Eliskni and obviously trying to not laugh. Eventually, he couldn’t, and started snickering, leaning down to rest his hands on his knees as he laughed.

The twins looked at each other, somewhat confused. They were identical and close enough that they could nearly read each other’s thoughts. For the moment, they were both unable to really come up with anything to do as they looked back at the laughing Warlock. The Eliskni just sighed in relief from the now lack of pokes to their person.

“What a good bit of work there!” The Warlock caught his breath as he walked over to examine the trap. “Did you see anything before it went off there, Vreken?”

The Eliskni shook their head, making them sway a little on the rope. “Nothing.”

“Well then!” He put his hands on his hips before turning to look at the kids. “You got yourselves a talent, it seems! Where are your folks? Did they teach you that?”

Both girls were speechless for a moment, before one began to speak. “No…” she said. “No parents.” They weren’t sure WHY they were talking to this strange person, but so far he didn’t yell at them, or try to throw things at them. They were shocked that they were being spoken to as people, and not some vermin that did nothing but cause trouble.

The old exo looked crestfallen at that. “Who’s lookin’ after you both, then?”

“Nobody.”

The exo was silent for a moment, seemingly in thought. He looked over to the Eliskni and then back at the children. “What are your names?”, he asked after a moment of thought.

They had long since got rid of the names their parents gave them. It seemed to hurt less to leave those in the past with their mother and father. They had chosen new ones that seemed to fit their new life, and wordlessly, they both came to an agreement.

“Cloak.” “Dagger” They pointed at themselves, identical down to the clothing. It was going to be hell trying to tell who’s who, and they looked forward to the confusion they will cause.

The old man smiled, as much as an exo could smile. “How’d you both like a home?”

A few minutes of chatting. A few minutes of freeing an alien from a trap. A few minutes of feeling safe enough to have your hand held. A few minutes that completely changed a life for a better.

They had all gone home together.

Together, they made it a home.

Chapter Text

In a stone room in a stone mansion, lies a simple monument.

It requires no decoration, no finery - just a smooth surface in which to transcribe a name. No dates, as many of these names were recorded long before Humanity could scratch together enough time to make a new calendar. After the Collapse and for a long while after that, survival was more important than knowing what day of the week it was. 

For awhile these names were scratched into soft bark from trees or pressed into clay to dry in the sun. Without the use of much technology, humanity had to return to the old ways for a little while. Clay was much more stable than paper it seemed, and as long as they were kept dry - names were never forgotten. They survived until the first stone of the wall was laid and the names could be moved to something more durable than wood or clay. The precious things such as handprints remained as they were, neatly arranged so they can be easily seen.

Illuminating the names are a few candles kept lit, throwing warm light unto cold stone. It made it feel more like a golden memory than a grave, both equally cherished but one less painful than the other. A few trinkets both around the monument and on shelves are illuminated as well, all different but somehow cohesive. To look upon them wouldn't really reveal just what treasures they were unless you knew what they were. The old man did, and would sometimes rest his fingers on some items, taking the time to remember. To feel. 

On a nearby shelf is a cloth doll stuffed with sawdust, hand made and loved so much that a few buttons are missing. Next to it is a drawing on paper, precious but crumbling. Many more crowd beside it. A Golden Age snow globe of the solar system.  Bottle caps from scavenged bottles of soda long since gone. A wooden horse carved by hand and missing an ear.

A pair of baby shoes.

A few sets of shattered pieces of metal, kept safe in padded boxes. Eyes within forever dark.

A few rings resting among dried Forget-me-nots.

Items cared for and free of dust, arranged where they could all be seen. Where they can all be remembered. Where one isn't overshadowed by the other.

Also in the room sits a chair, equally old and worn but still used. It is not a chair to grieve in, but a chair to sit and let the river of memory carry one along. There is equal laughter as there is tears, the good and bad, the triumphant and the broken, the loved and the broken hearts.

For one so long lived, it was impossible to forget any of them. But just in case, they were kept here.

He dreads putting more names on the stone, but life marches onward. Children grow, having children of their own, who go on themselves to have more. A never ending line of joy that he himself cannot be a part of, not when you forever linger outside of life and death.

But that is okay. He is there to catch the ones that fall out of line and help them back into it.

Not just children reside here, but friends. Comrades who went away on missions and never came back. Friends who died side by side in the never ending tide of danger. Crusades marched and lost.

He does not go to Luna if he can help it. That whole place is a giant grave, the ghosts within wearing the faces and last words of people he knows. 

Still, the monument is here where he can sit and remember. Even when the Cabal crashed into the city, the room managed to survive, somehow. Maybe it is somehow blessed. Perhaps love is as magical as claimed in the old stories, but as a man of science he couldn't hope to guess. All he could do was just accept it for what it was.

The old man sits on the chair, making sure the candles too stubby to burn are replaced. Being sure that nobody will come in to disturb him for the moment. Not that people were forbidden to enter, but he just wanted a little time to himself.

"Hello, everyone. It's nice to see ya'll again. " He spoke aloud, leaning back with his eyes closed and orange burning in his throat. "I want to tell ya'll about some friends I made..."


Immortality lives in this room.


It's both a blessing and a curse.