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Sometimes a story ends because it can. Because it has come to a natural stopping point, or the storyteller has reached the moral that they were intending while avoiding all the factors that might complicate its message. And maybe that’s all there is to it. Or maybe that’s not the true end to the story.
It is very clear in an instant that the crisis is over.
One moment there is chaos in the streets with people running for their lives or else gawking in awe, already aware that whatever they do will be too late to change the outcome. And the next…
A phoenix.
A bright, blinding light.
Silence.
And then, of all things, a river.
There are no cheers, no fanfare. Nor, Ballister thinks, should there be. After all, when the monster is the one who swept in to save the town from certain death, it raises certain questions about truth and good and evil that make definitive actions difficult.
The river’s a nice distraction for that very reason: the beauty it possesses is nothing like anything that the town’s residents have seen in generations. Perhaps not for a thousand years. Even Ambrosius is stunned to silence, unable to do anything but stare even as he holds Ballister close.
Not that Ballister knows this at the time, of course. He finds out moments later, when his grief has cleared just enough to allow for thinking about other things, when he begins wondering why Ambrosius is not fully curling into him as he usually does when they are comforting each other, and if that lack of movement means that he might be losing two dear partners that night instead of one.
But then he says Ambrosius’s name in something that sounds much more like a whimper than he intended. And Ambrosius whispers look. And Ballister does. And he understands.
That’s it, then. One final gift left by Nimona. Or perhaps a message to be found in her final act of destruction.
For him.
For all of them.
An understanding of what fear has kept from them for a millennium; of what they’ve been depriving themselves in the name of safety and protection.
And when Ballister finds this idyllic vision clouded by tears, there are too many reasons for him to pin down why.
Sometimes stories have echoes. Bits that repeat themselves over and over again like a song and refrain. Sometimes it’s an important number—three, seven, thirteen, forty, and sometimes it’s just to make part of the story stick. Maybe no story is complete without such repetitions if they want to drive a moral home. Or maybe life is just that cyclical in the first place.
Ballister’s room in the barracks is exactly as he left it.
Somehow, he hadn’t expected that.
Part of him wonders how many fights Ambrosius must have both prevented and instigated in order to keep it that way; to guard it from being emptied, or vandalized, or ransacked.
It wasn’t like there was anyone new to require its use, after all. There hadn't been a new round of recruits since their day of ascension. Not in the tumult of the Queen’s death, when an entire new program had to be put on hold. Though he has no doubt that Todd or some of the other more bully-ish or vengeance-minded knights and recruits wouldn’t have minded to see all that Ballister owned destroyed on principle.
And yet… there it all is.
The books on war, peace, and history that he’d collected over the years.
The framed article of the Queen allowing him to train as a knight, along with a picture of him as a child, standing in a position of honour at her right.
The sandalwood cologne that he’s done without for over a year now, because buying it would draw too much attention to himself.
The lopsided teddy bear that Ambrosius had made for him at age twelve, and that Ballister had faithfully slept with ever since.
It’s all there. Just as it should be.
There's a thick layer of dust over everything, indicating that the room has likely been completely untouched since he left, but that’s all. That’s the only thing to say that he hadn’t walked out of there just that morning; that it’s taken more than a few hours for him to return.
There is a hand on his shoulder, and Ballister isn’t surprised to see Ambrosius there, covered in bandages and with a splint on his right arm, and a bittersweet smile on his face.
“I couldn’t let anyone touch it,” he explains. “But I also couldn’t—I just—I couldn’t—”
And Ballister doesn't need to hear the end of that sentence. Ambrosius's actions already have said more than enough.
“I know. And thank you.”
After all, Ballister can’t begin to fathom the moral quandary that Ambrosius spent that last year in. But for this to be his solution? Well, there were far worse paths that even he himself might have gone down, if put in his partner's place.
It makes him fall a little bit in love with Ambrosius all over again.
Sometimes there is no happily ever after. Sometimes there is just tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. And maybe that means that the story is a tragedy. Or maybe, it's just an interlude in a longer, winding story.
There is no time for mourning. And really, that’s the hardest part about it. There is simply too much to do: the entire city-state in disarray, part of the Wall turned to rubble, a vision of land outside the Wall that everyone is simultaneously curious about and terrified of.
It was the same when the Queen died too, of course. But that time, Ballister had needed to run away, to find a way to cauterize the wound and stop the bleeding. To find a way to keep himself alive long enough to figure out next steps, let alone see them to fruition.
There would be time later to cry, he told himself—he keeps telling himself. But for now, the city needs to come first. The needs of the people had to come first. It is his duty as a knight to protect them after all. And for all that the city had betrayed him, it's a duty that he clings to.
There had been very few casualties in all of the chaos (thank Gloreth), but there are still many injured. There are still many made suddenly homeless. There is still a pile of rubble that will need clearing up, and there are still dangerous weapons mounted to the Wall where it still stands.
There will be many, many questions. Questions that he’s longed to know the answer to since before he had a mechanical arm, questions that have arose since Nimona's ashes floated to the ground, and questions from all the time in between.
What happens to the knights now? What purpose will they serve? And how selective should their recruitment be going forward?
What happens to the Wall? What is it protecting us from, really? And what would the city lose, if it were to come down?
Why did the Queen die? Has Ballister earned his official pardon? And what is the will of Her successor?
Who was Nimona? What was she? And is she truly gone?
Was this Gloreth’s will all along? Was she misguided from the start? And how should this colour the city's understanding of its storied past moving forward?
It all makes his head hurt, and all he wants to do is lie down and cry and cuddle up to Ambrosius, and sleep until it is all over and he can just walk and breathe and not worry about anything at all.
But there is work to be done, and Ballister’s life was never going to be an easy one. And so he keeps working.
Sometimes endings are sad. Sometimes endings are happy. Maybe the difference between the two is when the story ends. Or maybe, all it takes is a different storyteller to make the difference.
“So are you left-handed now?”
The question is so unexpected that Ballister isn’t sure he knows quite how to respond.
“Huh?”
“I mean, your right arm is….” Ambrosius trails off, desperately not wanting to say the words that will make their twin roles on that horrible, fateful day that much more real.
“Oh. Ah. Yes. That,” Ballister says, filling the silence for him. “Well, I kind of had to be for a while. I mean, I was kind of left with only one viable option to begin with. But my prosthetic is very good. I worked hard on it, and the technology that was available even to an outcast like me was quite surprisingly advanced. So it’s not exactly as good as a real hand—I can’t feel temperature or basically any sensation for one thing, but the amount of dexterity I have is surprisingly advanced. So if anything, I suppose I consider myself ambidextrous now.”
“Ambidextrous, huh?” Ambrosius sounds like he’s tasting the word, rolling it around on his tongue. And then an elephant (metaphorical, and very much not pink and shapeshifting) sits on it, and he sighs.
“Look, Bal, I—I’m really—I mean, I can’t imagine—I—“
“It’s okay,” Ambrosius,” Ballister promises, wrapping an arm (his right, fleshy one) around Ambrosius’s shoulders. “You were doing your duty. You did exactly what needed to be done, and what we both were trained to do. I would likely have done the same, if our positions had been reversed, and it would’ve been twice the scandal then. Ambrosius Goldenloin, direct descendent of Gloreth herself. The entire city would have been in riot and ruin.”
“They were already in riot and ruin enough over you,” Ambrosius noted. “And they shouldn’t have been. You trained harder than anyone, and were better than almost anyone in our year. To be used and framed like that, set up so obviously. I—“
“Did what you needed to,” Ballister repeated. “You acted for the good of Queen and City. And you did your duty well.”
“Still,” Ambrosius sighs again. “Arm chopping is not a love language. And it’s really not something I want to ever have to do again.”
“Me neither,” Ballister agrees. “But you know? It’s funny. You’re not the first person to give me that line.”
“I’m not?” Ambrosius asks, perking up a bit as he bewilderedly meets Ballister’s eyes. “Who else would ever make a line like this?”
And Ballister meets him with a sad, but amused grin. “You’re never going to believe me.”
“Oh really? Try me.”
And so he tells him.
Sometimes, you don’t know where you belong anymore, or why you’re still around. And maybe that means that the story was never about you in the first place. Or maybe your story is still yet to begin.
Ballister is not one of the first few to venture outside the Wall. He is asked, as is Ambrosius, if they want to be amongst the exploratory party to lead the way, but both refuse.
Ballister doesn’t want to find himself shut out again, still half-afraid that the invitation to leave will turn out to be a cruel trick, as half his life seems to have been, or else that once he steps beyond the city's Wall, he will never want to return.
Ambrosius doesn’t want to risk leaving Ballister behind and make him suffer yet another crushing loss.
But they agree to hand-pick the ones that will go on the mission: volunteers who Ambrosius trusts, who have shown kindness more than cruelty over Ballister’s time in the academy.
When the group comes back hale and whole, with pictures of nature and animals and beauty beyond their wildest dreams, Ballister has to excuse himself so he can cry in relief.
He still doesn’t venture out himself—he still doesn’t trust himself to run away and never come back, and he desperately does not want to do that—but he stands by Ambrosius’s side as de facto leaders of the rebuilding effort.
Together they oversee the Wall's repairs, ensuring the gap is made safe and permanent.
Together they work to see weapons removed from the top of the Wall, and more places of community added in their stead.
Together they hear from a group of entrepreneurs interested in finding ways to promote trade with other city states, and another interested in designing and promoting ecotourism.
Together, they start making it possible for everyone to be able to look beyond the Wall, rather than only being able to see within.
There is still no time to mourn; nor is there really enough time to rest. But it does his heart good to see the city healing, nonetheless.
Sometimes it’s easy to see death as the end. A smash cut to black that cannot be undone. Ink spilled all over a parchment making it unreadable, its message forever lost. And maybe stories truly die with the teller. Or maybe someone else will tell the story.
Ballister has nothing to do with the memorial to Nimona.
Ambrosius has nothing to do with the memorial to Nimona.
No-one knows exactly how it sprung up; who it was to leave the first drawing or flower or candle. One day there’s a couple things left at the Wall, right by the hole, where a pair of Wanted posters still hang. The next day, a few more items are added, and the next, a few more. And every day thereafter, the memorial grows.
A few of the images and messages of thanks include Ballister, too. Fewer still, Ambrosius. But all are for Nimona, thanking her for her work. For her being. For her sacrifice.
Some show her as a girl, some as a bear, some as a shark, or a monster, or that final, flying bird. At least one tries to chronicle every known form, from otter to ostrich to whale, and Ballister wonders where on earth they got the information on her full bestiary. But more than that, he wonders what Nimona would think of such an outpouring.
Would she be glad to finally be accepted?
Would she let it go to her head, and demand to be worshipped by her so-called boss?
Would she hate the attention, and wish to be left alone?
A part of him is glad not to know the answer, not to have to deal with the consequences any more than feeling his heart swell at this outpouring of love for a girl—no, a person—no, a creature—no, a Nimona—who was denied the warmth of acceptance for longer than he cares to fathom.
The rest of him wishes that he could see her smile or grin or scowl at the sight, and hear her voice as it spewed horrible, dangerous ideas once more.
But there still is no time for mourning, and still so much to be done.
Sometimes a story gets passed through so many hands that it starts to lose all semblance of truth. Perhaps it has been made to fit a moral, or been slimmed down and embellished as memory and personal taste allows. And maybe put through multiple hands makes a story more worth telling. Or maybe it’s important to reclaim your story.
A phoenix. That flying bird of light had been a phoenix.
And of all the creatures she could have turned into…
Ballister knows his legends well, as does every knight. It’s considered part of the basic training at the academy to be well-versed in legend. After all, How else was one supposed to know what might come over the Wall? And a phoenix….
Phoenixes are powerful creatures; one of the few that the Wall could not begin to protect the city from due to their immense size and ability to fly. The way to bring them down was with the largest crossbows they had, and even then it would only subdue for a time. Because phoenixes were a creature that both were and were not immortal.
Phoenixes could die—could be killed—and at that time of demise, the phoenix would turn to ash. But from those ashes, they would always be reborn.
And Nimona chose a phoenix when she died.
But that meant—It could mean—Could it mean?
Nimona wasn’t a phoenix. Phoenixes were cyclical creatures, sure, but not ones known for shapeshifting. And for all that Nimona had been insistent that she wasn’t a people, or a girl, or a bear, or a shark, or anything else (except for when she was, of course) she hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about how her different shapes affected what she could do.
But as a bird, she could fly. And as a whale, she could hold immense mass. And as a rhinoceros, well, that horn sure was a sturdy weapon when she charged. So then, as a phoenix, could she, then, too, come back?
There was no guarantee, of course. Even if that had been her thought process, unless she had tried it before—unless she had chosen to die in the past, due to circumstance or just to see what would happen—then even she surely wouldn't have known for sure. But it was entirely possible that somehow, through some great knowledge or fluke or chance of fate or calculated risk or whatever in the name of all things it had been, Nimona was still out there.
And if there was, then this was no time to be sitting around wondering.
There was no time for mourning, after all. But this could be classified as a rescue mission. And if Nimona was going to go back anywhere, then Ballister knew just where to look.
Sometimes, the end of a story is clear-cut. Sometimes the plot is all wrapped up, and everyone is alive and happy, or dead and mourned, and that’s all there is to it. And maybe that’s the way that all stories are meant to end. Or maybe it’s still the middle of someone else’s story.
The shack is just like Ballister’s dorm room: exactly as he’d left it. The dust somehow seems thicker, though, no doubt due to the roof being less than perfectly weatherproof, and there being cracks here and there from age and misuse and deliberate attack.
Nimona would say it was fitting for a lair. And Ballister would say it wasn’t a lair at all. And then she’d go in calling it one anyway, because so far as Nimona was concerned, what she said always was what went.
Here he finds the table, still with a singed, half-finished game on top of it.
Here he finds a rusty nail, lifted a scant centimetre out from the floorboards, and he really should have hammered it back in by now except there had never been time, and he always knew full well that it would just be re-drawn-out anyway because Nimona lived for that sort of casual danger.
And here he finds the innocence-turned-vengeance wall, now obsolete in both its forms, complete with a vandalized picture of Ambrosius that would probably make his partner…
It strikes Ballister that he doesn't know what Ambrosius would think of it. Would it make him angry? Sad? Amused? He’s not sure. Nor is he certain that he wants to know. But it doesn’t matter—he has a better use for the wall now, anyway.
He tears it all down: the pictures of potential suspects, the drawings of brutal massacre, the words and strings connecting ideas together, and in its place posts a single picture: one that he’d taken from the tribute by the gap in the Wall: A picture drawn by a young child of Nimona's usual human form, surrounded by hearts and the words “we love Nimona”.
She would appreciate seeing that, he thinks, whenever it is that she chooses to return.
Whenever she can return.
If she can return.
And now, he thinks, there might be time for just a small bit of mourning, except there’s not—of course there’s not—because there’s a knock at the door.
Ambrosius must have followed him. The others knew where to find him there at the end, had come to arrest him and beat him up and make him pay for crimes he didn’t commit and hatred he’d never deserved. And even if Ambrosius had nothing to do with it, that meant that he’d have the information needed to follow him too if he wanted. It feels uncomfortably abrupt, but now is as good a time as any to show off the space and how he’d made his arm. Though maybe he'll try and keep Ambrosius away from the defaced picture, just in case.
He ziplines over to the door and opens it wide, but Ambrosius isn't on the other side. In fact, no-one is at all. And there’s only a moment within which for him to wonder isn’t this exactly how it went when Nimona first appeared before—
“Hey, boss.”
He turns around, and there she is. Or, well, there Nimona is, anyway.
Sometimes stories change over time. Sometimes the morals are lost or become different, or a new spin eclipses all the rest. And maybe there is something to be gained from clinging to the original. Or maybe it’s important to reinterpret the story for yourself.
The person—thing—entity standing before him is definitely Nimona.
The voice is right. The bearing is right. The stance and colouring and everything is right. Except the entity is decidedly less feminine and more androgynous. Like someone had taken the same clay and shaped it slightly differently, until the thought of she somehow no longer applied.
…and then Nimona turns into a shark and does the teeth clicking thing, and Ballister doesn't know whether to laugh or cry or just stare stunned. But then Nimona is laughing (still in shark form—could sharks even laugh like that on land without suffocating?) and pulling him into a very awkward but firm and insistent hug.
“So, didja miss me?” Nimona asks, and Ballister feels himself nodding; feels the tears prickling at his eyes.
“Nimona. How—“
“Good question, Boss,” Nimona says, letting go and turning back into that androgynous figure. “The answer is the same as usual, though: because I can.”
And maybe, that’s all the answer he really needed.
Sometimes you don’t know what story you’re in. Sometimes you’re looking for all the wrong signs and signals, and miss the important ones entirely. And maybe that means that you need to become more trope-savvy. Or maybe you just need to find another story.
He takes Nimona to see the Wall.
To the gap where she fell.
To where cranes are busy removing weaponry, and adding all sorts of greenery.
To the ever-expanding tribute that by now takes up several sections of Wall.
“They’re thinking of building a statue,” he explains. “There’s been at least five petitions already. And with the reorganization of the knights, there’s certainly the budget to spare. Though the exact form—“
Nimona’s eyes are wide. “A statue? Of me?”
“Yeeeees,” he replies, drawing out the word a little. He knows what has to come next, and the extra seconds that the drawing out of this word allows him are all he has to brace himself for it. “As I was saying, there's been some debate over the exact nature of the statue; whether you should be a phoenix or a girl or another beast, or—“
“Can I be fighting the Gloreth statue?”
“That’s probably not a good idea…”
“Can I be kissing the Gloreth statue?”
“I don’t think that’s much bett—wait what?”
“Oooh, we could be kissing and fighting. There's nothing like a rivalry full of homoerotic tension, right?”
Wait, was that a comment on him and Ambrosius too? Ballister shook his head, trying to shake all of the questions this was awaking in him far, far away.
“Look, I don’t think anyone wants the two of them interacting at all—“
“Well I do, and it’s my statue, right? C’mon let’s get to the bottom of this!”
And that was all the warning that Ballister got before being dragged off, with no time to even think about all the consequences that this would bring.
Sometimes protagonists aren’t actually heroes, and antagonists aren’t actually villains. Sometimes things are a little muddled up, and good and evil aren’t at all what they appear. Maybe this means that you were cheering for the wrong person all along. Or maybe it just means that people are more complicated than the vehicle of storytelling allows.
Nimona is staring at Ambrosius.
Ambrosius is staring at Nimona.
And Ballister is caught somewhere in between the two, not entirely sure of where or how to begin.
He is saved from it, though, by Ambrosius and Nimona both speaking up simultaneously.
“I thought she was dead!”
“I thought he was your nemesis!”
And Ballister has no other option but to pinch the bridge of his nose, take in a deep breath, and respond to them both.
“Nimona was dead. Or at least I think she was. But since she was a phoenix, and phoenixes rise from their ashes….” He gives a vague gesture, allowing Ambrosius to fill in the rest of the details for himself. “Also, I’ve been meaning to ask, but I’m not entirely sure it’s she anymore?”
“It’s not,” Nimona agrees. “It never really was, but it's also never been worth making a fuss about, since it’s like the least offensive thing people generally call me.”
“Then what is—“
“It’s Nimona.”
Ballister sighs. “I thought as much. And as for Ambrosius… you were the one who declared him my nemesis. He—we were forced on opposite sides of the debacle, as you know, but we were, and I’m happy to say that we are…”
He gives another vague gesture, and it’s met with the sound of retching.
“Really? REALLY?” Nimona asks, once they’ve stopped making gagging noises. “You’re back with the guy who literally chopped your arm off? Arm chopping is still not a love language!!”
And at that, Ambrosius’s eyes go wide.
“Holy… someone else really did tell you that!”
And, for the first time since all three of them had been in the same room, Ballister feels the corners of his mouth pulling into the semblance of a smile.
“Told you.”
Sometimes, “happily ever after” wraps things up too simply. Even the bravest of heroes has bad days, and even the most perfectly-matched lovers have spats. Maybe that makes the entire story a lie. Or maybe it's just showing a convenient break between chapters.
Nimona and Ambrosius don’t get along all that well.
Ballister should have expected this. After all, the symbol of all that was Good and Right, with the literal pedigree to show for it, and the monster who, despite being now-beloved, was also half of the reason for the city’s disarray in the first place? The combination kind of had sworn enemies all over it.
Plus, even if Ambrosius was far from being literally Gloreth, the fact of his bloodline probably played into it a little too.
Thankfully, they both like Ballister. And they both respect that the other is important to Ballister, however begrudgingly, and so an uneasy truce quickly forms.
This usually results in practical jokes being played on Ambrosius (always Nimona’s fault), and words with their politeness strained to the breaking point being used for Nimona (by Ambrosius, of course). It also means that Ballister finds himself being pushed and pulled in every direction at once as they both try to spend one-on-one time with him alone from the other, usually at the exact same time.
Nimona likes to go out in the city; to be stared at, and to wave, and to receive gifts and accolades and smiles from whoever they come across. And it’s nice, seeing Nimona getting the sort of reception that they deserve. But even as full of bravado as Nimona always seems to be, they don’t like to go out alone. As if the same fear and scars that stop Ballister from crossing the wall make Nimona wonder what would happen if there was no-one around, and someone else decided that a monster needed destroying in the name of so-called justice.
And Ambrosius, well, he is restless with Nimona around, even when it’s just the two of them and Nimona is somewhere else, sleeping or wrecking who-knows-what havoc within the building they are all currently calling home. Maybe it’s because they both know Nimona could break in at any moment—could already be there, disguised as something tiny if Nimona wanted to.
“I just want to be alone with you,” he whines one day. “I want some peace and quiet, like we used to get back in the barracks.”
“We never got peace and quiet back at the barracks,” Ballister replies, and that just makes Ambrosius groan because he knows it’s true.
“But I want you,” he repeats, and Ballister understands. And he doesn’t know what he can do to solve it that would be fair to all involved.
And then there’s a loud boom, indicating that Nimona has probably blown something else up, and there’s no time to think about it anyway.
Sometimes there are simply too many stories. Sometimes it’s hard to tell where the threads all belong, or how to untangle them all into a cohesive narrative. And maybe you just need to grab onto one and see it to its end. Or maybe you need to set them all down, and write your own story.
It’s the worst possible idea to spend some time away.
He can’t leave Ambrosius and Nimona alone. He can’t leave the city with so much work left to do. He can't go outside the Wall because what if he never comes back?
But Ambrosius and Nimona have come together to make a decision: the one thing that they have ever agreed upon to the best of Ballister’s knowledge. And together they have packed Ballister a suitcase and given him a ticket for a weekend away in a small cottage by the river.
“But what if I get lost,” Ballister asks.
“They’ll take you right there,” Ambrosius promises. “It’ll be lovely.”
“But what if I run away?”
“Then you’ll have to fish and hunt and face wilderness for yourself,” Nimona replies. “Metal.”
“But what if I—“
“Go,” they both say. And so Ballister packs his things up and heads into the waiting hovercraft, which will drive him to a quiet place on the second nearest bend of the river.
The scenery is beautiful. There are trees that Ballister doesn’t know the name of, and crystal clear water, and thick, luscious greenery. And the cottage is fully stocked with food enough to last for weeks, let alone a weekend, and the is bed so soft he might drown in it. And at night, air is so clear that he thinks he can see thousands more stars than he could in the city.
It is quiet there.
There is nothing to do.
And for the first time since this whole adventure began, Ballister feels the tears stinging at his eyes and lets them flow freely.
Now, for the first time that he can recall, there is time enough to mourn.
Sometimes there is an end to the story. And sometimes, the denouement of one tale is the catalyst for another. That’s how life works after all: there is always another story, just waiting to be told.
Against his better judgement, Ballister does not run away.
He cries.
He walks.
He swims in the river.
He eats more food than he probably should.
And he takes time to clear his head and think.
There will be much to do when he gets home.
There will be decisions to make on the statue. And perhaps they can’t give Nimona interaction with Gloreth, but if they can feature her different animal forms, then perhaps that will give Nimona enough artistic freedom to enjoy it.
There will be time needed with Ambrosius. Sure, Ballister needed to mourn, but Ambrosius has needed to hold on this entire time too, and if it takes arranging a romantic weekend alone to get his partner's head back on straight, then Ballister will need to make that happen, too.
There will be time needed for himself, as well.
How did it take being pushed out of the city to see how little he’d been taking care of himself? How much he’d been doing everything without a break until it was unhealthy?
He isn’t sure how to stop that yet, but maybe with a little bit of help, he’ll be able to make it better.
This isn’t how the story ends, after all. It is merely one little stopping point.
And he wants to make sure that the next one, and the one after that, and all the rest of the ones moving forward, lead to as happy an ending as possible.