Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Soft, clipped footfalls fill the heavy air, drawing Percy’s gaze as they creep behind the small outcrop of rocks while Vex scouts the way ahead. He spins lightly, ducking carefully from behind the rocks. Before them stands the tall, slanting stairs of the Ziggurat, glowing faintly with their ominous green light.

He watches, breath held and eyes narrowed as Grog, Pike, and Scanlan rush up the stairs, followed closely by Vex. There’s a beat of silence, just long enough for him to watch them clamber up the first few metres, and then a voice hisses behind him, low and urgent. He turns instantly, expression immediately guarded as his eyes meet Ripley’s. Within seconds, his pepperbox is raised at the ready, pointed straight at her face. He grits his teeth, taking a step forward as black smoke slowly begins to curl around his arm and up his wrist. It circles the barrel of the gun, wafting in great swirls of inky darkness.

“Percy, they’ll hear!” Keyleth hisses in his ear.

She’s right, of course. A gunshot now would shatter the silence they’d painstakingly kept, destroying any hope of stealth against the Briarwoods.

Ripley’s lips tilt up, features twisting into an expression that almost seems to taunt him as she steps away. She knows he can’t take the shot. It would be suicide to give away their location, and yet, his hand stays raised, trembling in place with the sheer force of power coursing through his veins. He grunts, gasps out a heavy breath. The smoke is thicker now, swirling around him, catching on the edges of his face, merging with the skin. For a moment his eyes flash a brilliant gold, flickering like sparks against the inky smoke.

His mind feels frozen, body shaking as the desperate, driving need for vengeance courses through him. He shudders, forces himself to move. Slowly his left arm rises, lifting just enough so he can grasp at his right. He pushes down hard and his arm lowers, gun still smoking with residual mist even though no bullets have been shot.

He grits his teeth again, biting down so hard they clack together with a sickening crunch. Somewhere deep in his mind, he knows it should probably hurt, but he feels no pain. He pants, waiting to see if he can hold off the shadows. For one brilliant moment, he thinks he might be safe. That Keyleth got to him in time. But then like a tsunami of emotion, the darkness rises within again, rushing up so fast he barely has time to react. He twists to the side, desperately grasping with his left hand to try and keep it from firing the still loaded gun.

“No!” he gasps. Darkness consumes him, sending him careening to the side as he fights the pulses of energy rushing through his mind. He twists and stumbles, feet catching on a loose patch of ground. And then he’s falling hard on his knees. His elbows brace against the stone floor, gun outstretched.

Anger and hatred rage inside him, swirling faster and faster as they rise up to swallow him. He fights it, holding on with everything he has. He has to beat this. He has to get it under control before he destroys his chance of facing the Briarwoods. Every moment he stands here is another wasted second. They can’t afford to lose any more time.

Orthax’s voice screams in his ears, so loud he’s sure everyone must hear it. It’s too much. Too loud. Too forceful. His eyes flicker again, burning like embers in the dark mask of smoke. It’s strong. Stronger than he’d ever imagined. In his mind, an image flashes of Ripley’s menacing smile. It taunts him, lips curled and teeth glinting. He sees a bullet rush through the air, hitting her square in the forehead. Blood explodes from the back of her head, spraying out. More, more, more. He needs to see her hurt. Needs to see her scream. She deserves it. Deserves to suffer after everything she’s done.

The smoke is billowing upwards now, engulfing his frame as he hunches over on the ground. His hands shake when they clench against the ground, nails scraping against stone. His face twists into a snarl, desperation rising as he manages to drag himself back to reality. He gasps raggedly, feeling the shift in balance as he fights against Orthax’s hold.

His eyes blink once, twice, now pale green as snatches of reality break through the single overpowering drive for vengeance. It’s just long enough for him to see Keyleth’s trembling form. She’s staring at him through wide, terrified eyes, mouth open as she shields herself with her staff. She looks scared. Scared of him. He wants to scream at her to back up. Get the fuck away and leave him there. Orthax is too strong, each second Percy holds him back is a struggle and he knows it won’t last forever. He can’t keep going like this and he can’t let her get caught in the crossfire.

Instantly his mind flashes to Vax, brown eyes narrowed in seriousness as he levels him with a fixed glare.

I swear, if you turn that thing on any of us again, I will not hesitate. I will kill you.

This is in the past, he knows it is, but it feels real.

He twists again, body writhing on the dusty floor. His fingers curl around the handle of his gun, squeezing, pressing, fighting to grasp the trigger. “No, no.” The words choke out through tightly clenched teeth, raw with desperation and panic. The energy courses through his body, cold, yet burning at the same time. He lurches to the side, rolls over completely so he’s up against the stairwell. Away from Keyleth. His mind is a foggy blur, reality swamped by billowing clouds of noxious smoke. He coughs out a breath, curls into himself. Fights and fights. He’s neck and neck with Orthax, each of them battling for control. He makes it to the bottom of the stairs, staggering slightly as his arm shoots upward, throwing him off balance with the force.

Kill them. Kill them all.

With Ripley gone, his mind turns to a new target. Suddenly all his will shifts, focusing on the four figures standing at the very top of the Ziggurat. His eyes narrow as darkness swarms across his vision, completely encasing his face. Warm green becomes frigid gold and black, all of the struggle melting from his features as cold, hard anger takes its place. He growls under his breath, strides up the stairs with heavy, powerful steps. “Sylas!” His voice rings out across the wide cavern, powerful and commanding. The words are tainted in hatred and there is no mercy in his hardened features.

Thoughts vanish as he advances towards the Briarwoods. He can barely remember the struggle mere moments before. His heart is cold, mind focused only on the anger taking over every inch of his frame. His body seems to vibrate with a new energy, spurred into action by some driving force. Any thoughts of stealth evaporate. He can’t wait. This has to be done now.

His eyes lock on Sylas, lips pulling back in a snarl. He raises his pepperbox, pictures the bullet rushing through the air, connecting with Sylas’ skull. That won’t kill him. It isn’t enough. But that’s okay. He wants to draw this out. Make him feel the same pain he felt years ago. He wants to see this man suffer. Wants him to scream and beg for mercy as he falls helpless to the ground.

There are voices behind him, rising up from where his friends are huddled behind the wall of the stairs, but he doesn’t hear them. He charges forward, eyes narrowed until all that shows are two burning orange embers against the swirling darkness. Vax intercepts him, dagger slicing through the air, but Percy barely notices. He charges forward, eyes still fixed on his target.

His pepperbox vibrates against numb fingers as he raises it again, movements driven by that all too familiar force inside him. He blinks and Cassandra is in front of him, familiar blue eyes catching him off guard. Another blink. Something inside him seems to clear. He feels the fog pull back slightly, peeling away from his consciousness as reality bleeds through. A gasp rushes from his lips, hands shaking as he hastily backs away. Cassandra follows, sword slashing out towards him with lightning efficiency.

Feet stumble against pavement, moving instinctively as he counters his sister’s attacks. The clang of metal against metal rings through the air. He doesn’t want to do this. Doesn’t want to hurt her. His eyes flick to the name along the barrel. Letters spelling out Cassandra de Rolo in gold writing that glints in the dark room. It’s as if it’s alive, burning hot against the palm of his hand.

Kill her.

The words are like a pulse within him, burning through the very edges of his soul and urging his hand to rise. He’s going to do it. He can’t control himself.

No. No!

He lunges forward, uses his other hand to wrench his arm up just as the shot goes off. It hits the ceiling above, sending rubble and dust showering down around them. He runs, using the moment to dart behind one of the tall pillars at the top of the structure. It’s hard to focus on Cassandra’s words. They cut deep, tearing right to the core of his being.

The Briarwoods have shown me more love than you ever did.

Have they? Percy doesn’t know. He’s the one who turned and ran, leaving his sister a bloody mess in the cold snow, arrows sprouting from her back like spines. Red blurs his vision. Blood thick and heavy. Pools and pools of it.

A voice hisses in his ear, low and sharp and menacing. He has to do this. Has to obey. The pull is so strong, it nearly chokes him as he struggles once more. His breath comes in ragged pants now, desperation and panic churning inside as his mind battles the overbearing presence trying to take over. Tears well in his eyes, hot against his already burning skin. He barely feels them as he hovers there, staring through half corrupted eyes at his sister’s firm expression. He doesn’t want her to die. He just got her back. But the pull is too strong, too powerful—

Sylas lunges out of nowhere, fist slamming against Percy and sending him toppling to the ground. Limbs shake as he tries to haul himself upright, mind blank with the internal rage rushing through his blood. The sight of Sylas is almost too much for him and he feels his control slip.

People are running all around him, fighting and yelling but he can’t make out any of the words. Hot breath rushes past his lips as his lungs gasp for more. The voice screams in his head, urging to go further, faster.

Suddenly a bright golden light fills the room. He doesn’t know where it’s coming from but it’s strong, bright and burning and aimed straight at Sylas’ body. It’s too bright to see anything for a moment, but as it fades away, he sees Sylas’ form crumble, breaking apart into dusty ash that disappears into the air.

There’s a tiny moment of relief, of triumph, and then a sudden rush of anger surges within. It clenches at his insides, tears and bites. It should have been him. He deserved that kill. They deserved that kill. He stares down at the barrel of his pepperbox, watching the letters of Sylas’ name dissolve into the air. He doesn’t even notice Delilah hunched on the ground. Doesn’t see her raise her hands and blast out a wave of magic. With a yell, he goes flying, tumbling over the rough ground to crash off the edge of the Ziggurat’s stairs.

For a moment, he thinks maybe this is it. Maybe he will die here. Maybe this is the way it will all end. If he falls now, will the being inside him be destroyed as well?

He doesn’t have time to register an answer. A hand grabs his arm, warm and real and alive. Green eyes tilt up, a breath rushing past numb lips. His sister stands above him, a million emotions in her eyes as she drags him back up over the edge of the stairs. His own eyes soften for just a moment, relieved to see that Sylas’ control has melted with his death, but then movement catches his attention and he whirls around.

No way in hell is he going to let Delilah escape.

Time blurs again. He’s half aware of people moving all around him—his friends, but the rage is back now, digging its fiery claws of hatred into his chest. They’re all just standing there. Why are they just standing there? He slams his body against the heavy doors, punches and pounds at the stone. It doesn’t budge.

Vengeance.

The voice hisses again in his ear. Or maybe that’s his own voice. He doesn’t know anymore, nor does he care. Minutes pass as smoke begins to leak from his sleeves, rushing up all around him. He can see Vax knelt in front of the door, trying to unlock it. There’s a beat of silence, a moment of peace, and then the double doors swing open and Percy’s running.

Inside, everything is vibrating with energy. The walls seethe with unknown shapes, dark agonised souls that writhe in pain as purple energy swells around Delilah’s form.

Time flashes by as the energy rises. Percy can hear the screams of his friends, but he can barely see through the rage coursing through his body. There’s a figure, tall and menacing, and then as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone again, replaced by a dark spinning orb. He barely sees it, stepping forward and sending shots in quick succession into Delilah’s prone form. The screams of his family echo in his ears, urging him to shoot again. To kill her. To end this woman’s miserable life.

A part of him is aware that Keyleth is on the ground, half cradled in Vax’s arms. He should care. Should be screaming and trying to help. But all he does is stare. His heart has no room left, filled to the brim with boiling, burning anger. Killing Delilah is all that matters now. Maybe it’s all that ever mattered.

He presses his pepperbox to her head, ignoring Vex’s horrified shouts. She’s saying something about Keyleth, he thinks, but it doesn’t matter. If they stop to save her now, Delilah will slip away into the darkness and this whole mission will have no meaning. His life will have no meaning.

The others must have come up with a plan, because they’re suddenly scrambling out of the room, hurrying back down the stairs of the Ziggurat. Percy’s whole attention is still fixed on Delilah as Cassandra grabs her by the hair and yanks her up. He follows, eyes fixed on the crumpled figure of his nemesis.

They make it to a tunnel some distance away from the structure. The concept of distance is hard to decipher, but it doesn’t really matter anyway. Delilah is thrown to the ground and he steps forward, pepperbox raised.

There’s a whispering hiss around him, ominous and cold. His chest clenches in anger as he spits words of rage and presses his pepperbox right against Delilah’s mouth. Her eyes are wide, terrified, and his body burns with satisfaction.

Voices rise all around him, they’re talking to him, he thinks, and his lips move beyond his control. He feels the muscles clench, spell out words his mind never formed.

Finish this. Do not get distracted by these useless pawns.

It’s right. He turns back to Delilah, finger sliding over the trigger.

Good.

His lips move again, snarling out the words Orthax commands. He blinks and suddenly Vex is standing there, familiar dark eyes staring straight into his. He needs to tell her to leave. To yell at her to run far, far away from here.

Her hand brushes his face, pulling away the mask he barely knew he was wearing. It clatters onto the ground, leaving his face exposed. Wisps of darkness flit before his vision, distorting Vex’s image until she feels like a shadow entity as well.

I don’t want to kill her.

Tears well up in his eyes, spilling over the edges as he feels pain and fear course up to meet the hatred already burning through him. His hand is still outstretched, shaking as he tries to will it down. It won’t move. It’s out of his control. Never has he felt so helpless. Suddenly he’s back in the dungeons of Whitestone, silver blades slicing through pale skin. Red splatters across the floor and Delilah’s cold eyes gleam with satisfaction. He’d been helpless then, too. In his desperate search for revenge, had he traded one helplessness for another?

His hand is shaking now, muscles spasming as his mind fights desperately for control over Orthax’s power. But the demon is too strong, he can feel his fingers move, feel them slide over the trigger, careful, slow.

Vex is still standing there, unmoving, focused. Why won’t she move? Her voice is so strong, so confident. Like she believes in him underneath all of this darkness. Like she trusts him. She shouldn’t. He doesn’t deserve that gaze, that trust. Because he’s tainted by darkness, too stupid and reckless to care about anything beyond his own need for revenge. Demons don’t run to just anyone. There’s a reason Orthax found him, and maybe that’s what this all means after all.

It's a terrifying thought. Something he’s known deep down for a long time. But whatever happens that night, whatever transpires next, Percy knows one thing. Vex will not die at his hands tonight.

Biting down hard on his lip, he waits until coppery liquid spills onto his tongue, waits for the taste to fuel the rage and determination within. And then he lashes out, snarling as he fights internally against Orthax’s hold. It works for a fraction of a second, long enough for him to unclench his muscles and pull his arm all the way upward. It isn’t much, but it’s enough, and the muzzle of the pepperbox is slammed up against his own chin.

His vision is wavering, entire body trembling as Orthax snarls to life again within him, angered by the act of defiance.

Horrified shouts rise from his friends. It hurts, hearing their voices. He doesn’t want to die. Not really. But if it’s between him and Vex, he’d choose himself every time.

Orthax screams in fury, tendrils of darkness rising to yank the pepperbox away and throw Percy off balance. He falls hard, body writhing as pain sears through his entire being. He’s shaking and burning, anger biting so strong at his insides that he can barely breathe as Orthax seizes control again. His body moves without his command, vanishing with lightning speed and reappearing somewhere to the left. It hurts and his mind can barely keep up with the movement. His fingers are wrapped around Vex’s throat, squeezing down, down.

He doesn’t want this to happen. Doesn’t want to give up control. He’s messed up. This is all wrong and he has to fight. There must be a way to gain back control. If only he were strong enough.

But he’s not.

Black mist rises all around him, stronger than ever before. It twists and writhes, curling around his form and diving deep within him. Pressure grows in his head. It’s like something is swelling inside, growing bigger and bigger until it finally bursts. Searing pain blisters through his head, exploding in a sharp blast that swallows his entire reality.

He’s falling. Falling into dark, boiling blackness. The world shimmers before his eyes, whiting out in a brilliant flash before everything is plunged into darkness again.

He comes to on the ground, crouched in a cloud of billowing mist. Voices echo through the darkness, mumbling words in familiar tones that send chills scuttling down his back.

The darkness flickers, colour bleeding in to form familiar arched windows and a dusty blackboard. He’s sitting there, watching Professor Anders scrawl words in white chalk. Vengeance.

False sun glows through the windows, but the room is cold, lifeless.

The image shifts again, dark tendrils spiralling up to lick at his chest. Sylas appears, and within seconds, there’s a knife to Cassandra’s throat.

Gunshots ring out through the room as rage boils within him, striking lightning fast like an angry serpent.

Smoke billows up, rising to swallow him in violent, raging swirls of darkness.

He’s sitting at the dinner table, his families’ voices echoing all around. But it’s wrong. All wrong. Deep red spills across the white table cloth, pooling around his plate and dripping down over his legs. It’s hot against his skin, sticky and thick. The blood of his family, gurgling out across the table. He looks down at his hand, watches deep crimson roll in thick beads down his wrist to splash sickeningly against the floor.

He’s on his feet, pepperbox raised to shoot bullet after bullet toward the gloating form of Stonefell that suddenly looms up across the table.

The hate. Embrace it.

Orthax’s voice is louder than ever, irresistible in its insatiable power as visions of his dying parents claw and grasp at his coat. What use is his life if he can’t even avenge his own family?

He spins again, stares down at Stonefell’s crouched form. One shot is all it would take. Right to the head. He could watch Stonefell’s brains splatter across the floor.

Fight it!

A new voice, desperate and tinged with panic. Vex.

For the first time, he looks back at Orthax, stares straight into the hollow golden sockets that pose as eyes. His voice hisses out, spilling words that clang against Percy’s mind, louder than the phantom ringing of metal. There are images too, flashes from his past. They speed by, twisting in a dizzying display of colour and darkness and anger.

He whirls, screaming out in anger at the looming figure of Orthax. A voice is speaking, urging him to let go. To stop all of this. To let go of the hate. But he can’t. Because hate is all he has, and if he lets that go, will he even be himself anymore? Maybe once there was more to Percival de Rolo, but the day he dove into that river, something inside him died.

There’s a figure, standing before him, speaking. The words are hazy at first, indistinct, but as they start to shiver into focus, he recognises the figure standing there. No, figures.

Orthax screams through his mind, voice drowning out the feeble calls of his friends. He shakes and burns, hunching over as waves of shear power crash over his body. He can feel his heart clench, tightening into a tiny ball of rage and fury spinning deep within his chest. But he’s seen it. A glimpse into the reality of Orthax’s mind. If he gives in now, his friends will die. Each of them slaughtered at the hand of one who had once called them family.

He wants to give in. Close his eyes and let the rage consume him. It’s easier to hate. Easier to swallow all the guilt and sorrow and morph it into burning hatred so he doesn’t have to feel. But is revenge really worth it if it comes at the price of all that he’s trying to avenge?

No. A de Rolo should never stoop that low. Pride burns too deep to throw all his ideals away just like that.

Shaking fingers curl over the trigger of his pepperbox, pressing down slowly as he aims once more at Delilah’s broken form. He hesitates, clenches his teeth so hard it aches through his jaw. And then, with lightning reflexes, he lowers his left hand and presses the trigger. The shot goes off with a bang, bullet hurtling straight through his outstretched hand.

Pain explodes through his fingers, shocking him further into himself. The room shudders before his eyes, half formed illusions blurring with reality in a dizzying mix of clarity.

Orthax lets out a furious screech, rising up and up in a spinning cloud of darkness that explodes across the cavern. Percy falls to his knees, clutching his injured hand. Blood splatters across the floor, running down his wrist just as it had in his vision, but this time it’s his own blood. It’s comforting, somewhere deep below the pain, because if he can bleed, that means he’s real.

“Percy!” Cassandra dashes forward, tumbling down next to him on the floor. Her eyes are wide with fear, fingers already scrabbling to put pressure on his wound.

He lets out a shaky breath, staring down at his trembling hands for a moment. His head spins, making words hard, but he manages to gasp out enough to reassure his sister that he’s sound of mind. Or as sound as one can be after demonic possession.

The others gather in around them, squishing up against each other as they try to get a good look at him. It’s overwhelming, even if he is grateful as Vex and Cassandra each take one of his arms to help him up.

He opens his mouth, ready to form a thank you, but suddenly an eerie, shuddering laugh echoes out through the cavern. Percy’s head whips around, eyes narrowing in on Delilah. Her hair is matted with blood, broken body curled as she crawls up the steps.

He braces himself, preparing for the familiar surge of rage, but where the heat had burned so viciously before, there’s now a cold hard sense of resolve. He steps forward, features iced over with calm determination. There’s a beat of silence, then Delilah begins to scream out, voice desperate and ravaged as she raises her arms into the air.

There’s a flicker of lightning energy and then a flash of metal against candlelight. Cassandra moves in a blur, thrusting her sword deep through Delilah’s throat.

Cassandra pants, hardened eyes glaring down at the broken form, then turns and walks away. As she passes him, her shoulder brushes against his and he feels a shudder run through him. He stares straight ahead, feet tethered to the ground. It feels as if he stands waist deep in a viscous pool of mud. Like if he tried to move he’d be sucked down into its depths.

He thinks people might be speaking, but his hearing is gone, drowned out by a heavy insistent buzzing that grows steadily louder.

He lifts one foot, gaze still unmoving as he sets it down. The few feet to Delilah’s body feels like a mile, but he eventually makes it there. He stares for a moment, eyes tracing the hands that had dealt so much pain and suffering. She deserved to die, and Cassandra deserved to have that moment, even if watching his own sister kill is something he never imagined he’d have to witness.

He stoops and hefts the broken body into his arms, then turns and strides after the others. As he walks, he feels the phantom eyes of Orthax bore into his soul, but he doesn’t look back. His arms and chest are wet with warm blood, giving the illusion that he’s bleeding out as he walks. Maybe he is. That would be fitting, after everything he’s done. He’d been so close to murdering his friends. His throat suddenly feels very dry, and he longs for a glass of water to wash away the stench of blood and soot in the air.

They need to destroy Delilah’s body first though. Nothing stays dead long in Whitestone these days, and he’s not going to leave this task unfinished. He’ll dump her in the acid, letting her form be swallowed by the tool she’d used to painstakingly create the pieces of her ritual. It’s poetic, in a way, and deep in the pocket of his robe, his pepperbox seems to burn with an unsettling warmth.

Chapter Text

The walk to the acid pits feels like hours, yet at the same time, it feels like no time has passed at all. Percy watches the bubbling liquid rise up around Delilah’s body, sucking her down into its depths. There’s no way she can come back now.

He turns to leave, stepping away from the acid to walk towards the exit. As he moves, he feels something pulse against his skin. The metal of his pepperbox burns with an unnatural warmth, stronger this time. His hand falls to his side, searching for the source of his discomfort, if it’s even real. Some small part of his mind hisses this is all in his head. A hallucination brought on by adrenaline or whatever emotional turmoil he’s currently going through.

Fingers slide over the handle of his gun, pulling it out and holding it up so he could look at the barrel. The metal is clean now, empty where the golden letters of his enemies had scrawled across its surface.

“Percy, can I see that for a minute?”

His head snaps up, eyes blinking as he’s momentarily startled by Scanlan’s voice.

“My pepperbox?” he questions, then dips his head in amusement. “Regardless of its origin, it can still prove to be an effective weapon.”

But Scanlan’s already shaking his head, finger waving as he launches into all the reasons why keeping the gun is a bad idea.

Percy lifts up the weapon, holding it out to show Scanlan the now empty barrel. “The demon is gone.”

Scanlan just stares at him, hands on his hips, not budging. He opens his mouth again, diving in with more arguments to back up his case, which don’t work, because this is a very expensive and effective weapon. He’s poured hours of work into crafting it, staying up through the night to hammer over a hot iron.

So he’s not about to give it up. But somehow, beyond his control, he finds himself moving to obey.

Scanlan’s looking at him with an intense look, one he recognises all too well from other encounters they’ve had. He gets out half a sigh before he’s holding out the gun. “I’m keeping the ammo,” he says darkly, shaking the few remaining bullets back into his pocket.

“Mhm. Sure, buddy. As long as that pepperbox is in my hands at the end of this.”

“Scanlan, do you have any idea how much it cost me to make this?”

“Many, many gold, I’m sure,” Scanlan says consolingly, holding out his hand a little more insistently.

With another sigh, Percy hands the weapon over. His fingers linger against the metal for a moment, longing to snatch it back, but Scanlan’s already pulling it out of his grip.

“Thank you,” Scanlan sings. He hefts up the gun, examining it for a moment before tossing it straight into the acid pit.

For a moment, Percy’s breath catches in his throat, his mind reeling as he catches up with what just happened. “Why…” he groans, dropping his head into his hands. It hurts, seeing the hours of painstaking work dissolve in the bubbling acid. It’s as if he can feel every enchantment disappearing into the air, dissolving along with all the gold he’d used to obtain such enhancements.

But as he rubs tired fingers against his eyes, a sharp hiss of anger rises from the pool. Snapping his head up, he catches the tail end of black smoke wafting up from the surface before it disappears into the bubbling acid. Well fuck.

“See?” Scanlan exclaims, almost vibrating in place as he points forcefully towards the pool. “That fucker was still in there!”

Percy just stares at the green liquid, jaw slack as he processes the meaning behind what they just witnessed. Orthax had still been buried in the pepperbox. He could have walked away from that room with the demon still in his grasp, still possessed and a danger to his friends. A shiver scuttles down his spine and he suddenly feels a little lightheaded, though that could easily be due to blood loss.

“Percy.” A hand lands on his shoulder, gentle yet firm.

He tilts his head, reluctantly dragging his eyes away from the pool. They meet Vex’s dark, worried gaze, her brows creased with concern.

“We should go,” she says, and Percy finds himself nodding. Vex looks like she wants to say more, but she keeps quiet, and they turn to leave.

His feet feel numb as they make their way out of the tunnels and back into the castle. It’s strange, being back in his old home after so long. He’s never seen the halls so empty and there’s a chill to the air that has nothing to do with the weather. Another shiver runs through him. Over the years, he’s dreamed about home many times, but now that he’s here, it doesn’t quite feel right.

“We should tell them what happened,” Keyleth says, voice shaking ever so slightly on the words. She’s clutching her staff close, like she expects to be ambushed at any moment. “They need to know the Briarwoods are dead.”

Mutters of agreement filter through the group and they make their way outside, leaving the cold, empty halls behind.

It’s colder outside, but Percy’s glad for the fresh air. The chill bites at his throat as he drags in a breath, calming his nerves enough that he can ground himself in reality. He needs to be strong for his city. His people have fought tirelessly to stand up against the evil festering in the city, all because of him and the rest of Vox Machina. He can’t think about resting or dwell on his own fears until the city is safe and everyone’s taken care of and informed on the new developments.

So he steps forward, diving into the duties he’d left behind for so long.

He works on autopilot, falling into familiar patterns of speech and behaviours that are so drilled into his being, he can act without thinking. Which is good, because he isn’t sure how well his mind is working. He doesn’t feel in control of his thoughts, which is far from ideal. Control is something he’s good at. Something he’s always been good at. Until Orthax. He’d thought the demon lent him more control, strengthening the resolve he already possessed, but he’s starting to realise he’d given up all of it when he’d allowed Orthax into his life. The thought scares him more than he cares to admit, so he pushes it down into the depths of his mind, moving on to help organise food for the injured who’d fought in the city.

~*~

It’s long after sundown when they finally make their way back to the castle. The townsfolk have gathered what food they can scavenge up, but Percy barely touches his. There’s a cold knot deep in the pit of his stomach, gnawing away like a living being inside of him. The chill reminds him of Orthax, and as the night wears on, his anxiety grows.

There’s an air of anxious relief amongst the survivors. Keyleth has taken to nervously rambling an account of the fight to anyone who will listen and Scanlan’s plucking his lute in a way that clashes with all the other voices. It’s all too much, and Percy wishes they would just stop.

By the time the clocks strike midnight, caskets of ale have been laid out across the tables and the noise has increased to overwhelming levels. At some point during the evening, Vax must have slipped off, because he’s nowhere to be seen. Curse him and his ability to vanish into thin air at the slightest hint of disturbance. Percy would love to have that skill right about now. It’s late enough that he can get away with a less skilful exit though, and he’s pretty sure no one notices as he sets down his plate of uneaten food and slips into the hallway.

The palace is quiet, unsettlingly so, and as he steps into the dim hallway he’s instantly swamped by a tide of exhaustion. Wearily, he makes his way to his old room, feet following the familiar path down the hall. It’s almost like he’s a little boy again, stumbling to his room after studying late in the library. It’s as if no time has passed at all, and yet, that time feels like a lifetime ago.

The door creaks open with an unsettling groan, revealing an almost untouched interior. It feels weird being back there, but he’s too tired to dwell on it much. He pulls a pair of sleep clothes from his old dresser, stripping off his sweat soaked garments and folding them neatly on the chair in the corner of the room. He can worry about washing them and bathing himself tomorrow. Despite the blood and sweat coating his frame, he’s too tired to attend to it tonight.

The sheets feel cold against his skin as he crawls into the bed, prompting another shiver to rush through his body. He closes his eyes, slowing his breathing and willing sleep to claim him. As soon as they’re closed, darkness wafts before his eyes, tendrils of smoke looming with glowing irises that seem to glare right through his being.

He rolls over, huffing out a frustrated breath and rubbing tired fingers over his face. This is proving to be a lot harder than he anticipated.

He lays there for a while, feeling his chest rise and fall slowly as he waits and waits. Despite his exhaustion, it’s a long time before sleep finally claims him, and when it does, his dreams are marred by darkness and fear.

He’s back in the tunnel under castle Whitestone, hands shaking as they hold his pepperbox aloft. Golden letters glow across the surface, curling to form a word that sends ice curdling through his stomach. Vex’ahlia.

He blinks, and Vex is standing before him. Her mouth moves, but he can’t make out the words. It’s as if he’s underwater, unable to hear anything other than Orthax’s low, gravelly voice hissing in his ears. She’s speaking urgently, pleading and begging. Her face is scrunched up in fear, eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears.

Deep within his chest, an ache grows, but his hand is moving without his command. He grits his teeth, tearing his gaze away to stare again at the gun. Don’t do it. Don’t pull the trigger. Don’t kill her.

But for each urgent phrase, Orthax supplies another, countering each word with his own overpowering commands.

Percy’s fingers squeeze without his control, shifting and pushing down until a loud shot echoes out around them. His eyes meet Vex’s for just a moment, long enough to see the horror and fear in her eyes before the bullet slams straight into her head. It connects with her skull and explodes on impact, dark mist billowing up around as blood splatters across the grey stones.

His mouth opens as a desperate, agonised scream rips up his throat. He tries to run, but his feet are rooted to the ground, frozen in place by some unseen force.

Another figure darts forward from the shadows, long hair whipping over his shoulders as he drops down next to Vex’ahlia’s crumpled form. A wail rips from the shaking figure and he turns, meeting Percy’s eyes with a deadly dark gaze.

“How could you?” Vax chokes.

Percy tries to speak, to apologise and say he didn’t mean to. This wasn’t him. And he’d gladly take his own life if it could bring her back. But already his hand is rising again, lifting the pepperbox with practiced ease. Tears well in his eyes, falling freely as he holds the gun aloft and points it straight at Vax.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, voice ragged and torn by the devastation of his own actions. “I can’t stop.” Sweaty fingers slide over the trigger, finding purchase and pressing down hard. A bang goes off, so loud it physically hurts against his ears.

Vax’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, shock written there against all the horror and despair. He doesn’t try to move, just takes the bullet straight to his head and crumples on impact, falling in a shuddering heap on the ground. He lays there lifeless as blood begins to seep from his body. At first, it’s just from his head, but then deep gashes appear across his frame, ripped as if from some invisible claws that rake over the exposed skin. Dark blood wells up around him, spilling over to pool on the stone floor. His face is ripped up next, flesh torn apart and disfigured by unseen claws. The blood begins to rise, spreading out and lapping over Percy’s boots. There are other bodies now too, his friends, his parents and siblings, all lying lifeless on the floor as blood pours forth in a tide of red. It crawls up his legs, rising and rising until he can barely keep his head above the surface. Hot metal fills his mouth, burning as his head goes under for a second. He lifts it up, gasping to breathe, but instead, he sucks in more blood, forced to swallow the horrible thick substance. His stomach turns and he coughs, frantically trying to stay afloat, but he’s too weak and his feet are still rooted to the ground. Red stains his snowy hair as he scrabbles frantically at the air, trying to find something solid he can use to drag himself out. But his hands fall through endless gallons of thick liquid and he sinks down, down as the blood fills his lungs and everything fades.

~*~

He wakes with a start, body jolting against the bed as he’s thrust into consciousness. His eyes snap open, revealing the blurry view of a familiar room. Why is he here? This can’t be real. This is his old room, this—

His stomach lurches, souring as Vex’s face flashes before his eyes, bleed leaking from hollow eye sockets. Suddenly he can feel the blood boiling within his stomach, all of the mouthfuls of tangy liquid he had unwillingly swallowed.

Fuck.

He shoves himself off the bed, legs weak and shaky. His hand grabs the counter, nails scrabbling against hard wood to keep himself from crumpling straight onto the carpet. Everything is slightly blurred without his glasses, but he doesn’t have the energy or forethought to try and locate them. He pushes away from the desk, stumbling to the door and yanking it open.

The hallway outside is dark and silent as he makes his way down it, hand pressed against the far wall to keep himself steady. His heart pounds in his chest as he walks, pulsing along with the throbbing ache in his skull.

You killed her. A voice whispers in his head.

Vex is dead because of you.

A choked breath rushes up his throat and he quickens his step, feeling his insides churn as horror floods his body.

He’s shaking as he pushes open the door to the bathroom. It’s dark inside, but he’s glad for that. He doesn’t want to see his own reflection in the mirror he knows hangs above the far wall. Stumbling into the room, he collapses next to the toilet, biting back a grimace as his knees hit the hard, stone floor. He pants, blinking hard to try and clear his blurry vision. But of course, he isn’t wearing his glasses, so it remains stubbornly blurred.

He stares down at the surface of the water, feels the way his chest seems to jolt with each throbbing pound of his heart. In the dim light, the water seems to glow red, and suddenly it’s like the room is filled with blood again. He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing the thoughts to go away. It was a dream, just a dream.

A sharp crack echoes in his mind and he sees Vex’s skull split open. The life drains from her eyes as blood pools on the carpet. Seconds later, the same happens to Vax, his body crumpling straight into the pool with an agonised shriek of horror at his sister’s fate.

Percy’s eyes snap open again and his body shudders all over, convulsing as nausea and horror rush through him. He leans over, panting as he gags up what little he’d managed to eat the night before.

His hands shake where they press against the tiles, fingers numb and unfeeling. His throat burns and his eyes water, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare shift for fear he might trigger another flashback or whatever images keep haunting his unseeing vision.

Time passes slowly, his awareness fading in and out as he shakes and shivers, body suddenly freezing in the cold castle. He wishes he had a blanket, or even Trinket’s warm fur to curl up against. Everything feels off and wrong, like it’s all shifted a little to the left and he doesn’t know what’s real anymore.

When he finally lifts his head, his legs are numb and stiff from crouching on the floor for so long. His heart has slowed, stomach calmed to an unsettling quiver instead of the raging sickness from before. He pushes himself to his feet, wiping a hand over his face to catch the cold sweat that’s collected there. He feels gross and shaky, and beyond exhausted. Sleep. He needs sleep. He’s just running on the aftereffects of adrenaline and sleep deprivation. After he gets some rest, this will all be gone.

He splashes water on his face and pushes out into the hallway, only to run smack into a large, solid, something.

An exclamation of alarm jumps from his lips and he stumbles back, instinctively reaching for his pepperbox. Which isn’t there, because Scanlan threw it in an acid pit and he’s currently wearing a very sweaty pair of sleep clothes without his holster.

“Percy?” Grog’s worried tone asks.

“Ah, Grog.” Percy forces a smile, hand reaching up to adjust his glasses, which… also aren’t there. “I was just heading down to find a glass of water. All that fighting left me rather parched.” He doesn’t quite look at Grog, automatically adopting a tone of mild sleepiness.

But Grog just stares at him, eyes narrowed. “You’re sick?”

Percy blinks, quickly shaking his head and laughing lightly as he dismisses the comment. “Of course not. Just thirsty.”

Grog’s eyes narrow even further. “I don’t know if I believe that.”

Percy fights the urge to turn and walk away. Fleeing would only make the situation more suspicious. Why did Grog have to choose now of all times to be frustratingly observant?

Still in front of him, Grog clears his throat. “See, I was on my way to the kitchen myself, cause when we fight all fierce like that, I get pretty hungry. And I thought, maybe I could find a little extra ale to go along with it, you know, since we were celebrating the big victory. But then I heard a sound, like, coughing? Gagging. You know. And I wanted to see if whoever it was was okay, cause they sounded really bad. And then you walked out.” He looks straight at Percy as if challenging him to disagree.

“Oh.” Percy keeps his features carefully schooled, expression neutral and pleasant. “Did you?”

Grog frowns again. “I just told you.”

Percy takes a single step back, throwing a hand out to rest against the wall in his best attempt at a casual stance. “I guess I overdid it a little with the ale last night, nothing to worry about. I’ll be fine after a good night’s rest.” He keeps his tone as casual as possible, like he’s simply reporting on the weather.

Grog frowns for a moment longer before his expression shifts. “I didn’t know you drank that much. You’re finally learning how to properly celebrate. Vax is gonna love this.”

“Oh, no… Please don’t tell Vax.” Percy drops his head into his hands, rubbing still trembling fingers over his eyes. At least Grog’s attention has shifted away from concern. Blaming it on alcohol had been a good call.

“Why not?” Grog asks, deflating slightly.

“Because I don’t want the entire castle knowing my private business, now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my room and get some actual rest.” He pushes past Grog, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Good night,” Grog calls after him, sounding slightly stunned but still a little amused over the prospect of Percy overindulging in ale.

As he leaves, Percy doesn’t dare turn around. He forces himself to walk confidently to his room, ignoring the way his head spins with waves of dizziness that suddenly wrack his frame. As he pushes open the door, a soft hiss echoes through his mind.

Sleep, Percival. Sleep and lie in wait.

He forces the words down, ignoring them as he slides back under the sheets. He lays awake, staring up at the ceiling and trying to pretend the red flecks in the paint don’t remind him of blood.