Chapter Text
It was pouring when Pike Trickfoot visited her Great-Great-Grandfather Wilhand. Water squeezed between her toes as she sluggishly climbed the small road that led to the old Trickfoot abode.
Normally, she’d make this trip as easily as ever, bounding up the gravel path to the ashwood door, the sight of her childhood—from the ivy carvings vining up the wooden doorway, to a veggie garden clustered with weeds, to the Grog-shaped indentation above the doors—quickening her steps, drawing her closer to the warmth and comfort of her home.
But now, she felt as if her feet were cast in lead, dragging her along the slush road, every step a death march. It didn’t help that her entire body was waterlogged, her pants mudstained and her boots squelching. Wet hair was plastered to her skull, and deep within her body she could feel the claws of cold grip her bones.
Around her, the countryside was all the colors of night: dark blue and black and brown. The trees were nothing but shadows against the blackened sky, scoliotic and knotted.
When she had been a much younger gnome, Pike had believed for years that the trees of the Bramblewood had been ripped from the dark hills of the Shadowfell, their black roots twitching and grasping for growth before being planted on Tal’dorei. From those trees, Pike expected monsters to spring forth from their splinters—werewolves and banshees and other creatures that stalked the night and filled little Pike with dread.
But, having seen the world and faced much scarier things (necromantic women and vampire lovers and dragons hell bent on world domination), they were simply old trees to her now, too twisted to cause any real danger.
In some way, she mourned her child-like fear; to little Pike, it had been easier to conquer. The trees were just that—trees. They were not like her real, adult fear—the one that sat in her stomach like a stone, dragging her down the slushied road.
Now, everything felt rough and heavy and wrong . She shouldn't be here. She should be with her friends, back in Whitestone, or the keep; anywhere but here.
Behind her, if she peered hard enough through the sheets of rain falling like curtains around her, she could just make out the road that led back to Whitestone, her boot prints still indented into the mud. How easy it would be just to follow that trail, and ignore everything—ignore her fear, her dread, the fact that her friend group, the one that had seemed so strong and secure in their loyalty and love, was falling to pieces around her:
Vex and Percy had their duties to Whitestone; Keyleth had her elemental trials. Vax had his loyalty to the Matron; Grog had his freedom. And Scanlan had his daughter. It seemed everyone had something. But not her. Sure, she had Grog, and the Slayer’s Cake. But, truly, that was it. She had once had Vox Machina. But it seemed to be disappearing around her like morning mist, her friends burning away from her, little by little.
She could still hear their voices in her ears as she trudged deeper into the storm, and the image of them all gathered in Scanlan’s private room in Marquet was still freshly seared into her mind like a cattle burn. Vox Machina had found Scanlan Shorthalt in the labyrinthine city of Ank'harel, in a tea house called the Whistling Lady. Scanlan had changed in the time away from them—he was fuller, more lively, his voice richer. The hot Marquesian sun had done wonders for his already dark complexion (to which Pike was silently thanking the Dawnfather for). He wore more darker colors–black and purples and browns, and had styled his hair against an overly gaudy (totally not compensating for something) feathered beret. When they had arrived at the Whistling Lady, Scanlan had greeted them with open arms, inviting them to wine and dine, as well as partake in the great music that he and Kaylie had perfected on their tour.
However, as the night waned, it became clear that there was more to be said to him. It was then that Vax took the plunge and asked Scanlan to come back. It seemed as if all the air in the room was suddenly sucked out; the lights became dimmer and the shadows along the wall began to lengthen.
In a dark voice, Scanlan bid Vox Machina to follow him somewhere private; he ushered them into a side room, curtained off from the rest of the party at the tea house. The silk curtains were dark and the room was hollow, save for throw rugs and lounge pillows and low-lying tables that held gold pitchers of jasmine tea. Scanlan stood near the entrance, framed by the light of the tea house.
The anger and desperation that bubbled from him had been palpable as he hurled insults at them from his spot, calling them out on bullshit that had been rotting away inside of him since (apparently, according to how he saw it) day one of their found family. They didn't care about him. They didn't respect him. They were planning to drag him into dangerous adventure after dangerous adventure, with no regard to him risking his life, his future, and his relationship with Kaylie, to fulfill their own needs. They were going to rip him from his daughter, his thriving music endeavors. Even his newer idiot, Lionel, a half-orc who had followed Scanlan like a dumb puppy, who stood near the shadows of the room, a dippy grin on his face. Pike could recite his words, heavy with venom: You like me because I make jokes, and I play songs, and I give you a warm place to stay the night, and I feed you fucking chicken. But you don't really care about me. Come on. Let’s be honest with each other. You don't really give a shit about me!
All of it, every word, felt like being jabbed with needle points, drawing blood. Scanlan was always good at that, using his words to pierce right at the heart of someone. Pike had just never imagined that it would be her at the receiving end.
I have my real family here. And I am not leaving!
Anger swelled in her throat. How could he fucking say that? To his friends, to her . After everything she had done for him! She had been there for him, comforted him. Even went out of her way to bring his own daughter to him, when his own sorry-ass self was lying comatose on his bed, sick hearted and demoralized. How could he even say those words! It wasn't true–Iit had to be some kind of performance.
A voice, dark and oily, spoke within the vast space of her mind, sliding into existence. Copper for your thoughts?
Despite having heard this voice for the better part of a few days now, it still startled Pike. The voice had come to her, days ago, when she had prayed to the Everlight. Pike had not seen nor heard from her Goddess for quite some time, ever since she had thrown her amulet to the battlefield during Thordak’s rampage. In the quiet of the Keep–now the Slayer’s Cake—Pike had wanted to speak to her Goddess. She prayed, closing her eyes, and felt her sense of self slip past her mortal body and into the divine void. She had stood in the inky blackness. Like plunging into a cold bath, it had numbed her bones calling her Goddess’ name, begging her for an audience. All that answered was silence—
Until something answered back. It had been a hiss—no, a sigh. It had echoed in the vast space, filling her ears and sending dread through her spine. She strained her eyes to peer into the blackness, watching as a vague wisp of a being seemed to morph into shape.
Ever since Delilah Briarwood had struck her with magic during the Sovereign’s reception party, Pike had quietly known about the disturbingly tall shadow-at-the-back-of-her-mind. That was what she had called it; any other name seemed too permanent, too real. Pike had heard of the superstition that if one gave something a name, it became a real figure, unwilling to leave. Despite being clearly well into her adult years, it seemed that some part of her still believed in such things. And who could blame her? She had seen it several times, often just standing menacingly in the distance, staring her down like a hungry beast. She had felt its presence, its sense of hunger and intensity warf off of its body like heatwaves, and in that moment, through its hissing, she heard one word: “ Pike.”
When she had flung herself back into her body, she had thought that it had been the end. But no sooner did the day wane did the voice, no longer a hiss but more of a rumble of thunder in her head, speak to her. “ Pike Trickfoot.”
In the days that followed, the voice spoke more and more, and now, as she dragged herself through the slush road, it seemed to answer back: “No.” Defiance laced her words, strong and unwavering. She had told herself, in the days since the shadow had started speaking, that she would not let it taste even a drop of her fear. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“ Hm,” The voice purred . It was quiet for a moment, and Pike half thought that she had sent it back into the dark hole it resided in. “You are a terrible liar.”
Pike scoffed. “Will you stop? I’m fine.”
In the back of her mind, she heard its guttural grumble.
It seemed to Pike that lately her friends were more preoccupied with each other than ever. It made sense: Pike had sensed that tensions had become taught between them, and as expected, attachment and independence were bound to happen. The eventual breaking of the group, the snapping of ties. No friend group was bound to stay together forever. Everyone had their own roads to follow–Vex and Percy were the leaders of Whitestone now, with guards to order and laws to write. Vax was the Matron’s champion, her steward in death. Keyleth was finishing her Aramente, on her way to become the new leader of the Ashari. Grog was… Grog, happily downing drinks and food with not a care in the world, roaming the wilds as half-giants ought to do. And Scanlan had his world tour with Kaylie and the rest of his adoring fans.
“Your thoughts are loud. Louder than the rain. You need to quiet them.”
“What, no–”
“Little one, your mind races with problems that are not your own. If you do not, they’ll consume your mind. Quiet them.”
Pike blinked. “I’m sorry.”
The voice purred. “What is it about their plights that distracts from yours?”
Pike sighed. She could ask herself the same thing. Her thoughts churned to answer. “They’re my friends.” There was a pause. “And I care about them. Is that wrong?”
“You are a priest of the Everlight; I suppose that it is in your nature to stick your nose into other people’s lives. Gives fulfillment to your own lonely existence. “
Pike sucked her teeth. “What does that even mean? You’re just a voice in my head. You don't know anything about my life.”
“I know plenty. It was not exactly the most riveting of childhoods you had.”
Pike rolled her eyes. “Thanks.”
“You care for your friends, but do they care for you?”
Silence stretched thin for a time. Around her, the rain seemed to go stronger, falling harder than before. The countryside, once a dreary brown, had now slipped into a darker grey. Trees and bushes became obscured by the downpour, and the mud beneath her feet seemed to turn mushier, sticking to her trousers with ease.
“Of course they do–”
There was laughter, deep and echoing. “ Look around you, little one.”
Pike stood in the middle of the road. Rain puddled around her boots. Around her, there was nothing more than a slushy road and copses of bushes and birch trees that seemed more cage-like than she remembered in her youth. Save for the hissing of rain and the distant rumbling of thunder, all was silent.
Further on, on the horizon, Pike spied the distant glow of Westrunn; it had been a while since she had visited the town. According to gossip from Whitestone, it seemed that the village had grown in popularity: no more was it sleepy and forgotten, protected by the mountains that ringed it. Thanks to its part in the Herd of Storms’ uprising and the battle against the dreaded dark dragon Umbrasyl, life had returned in a flourish, with businesses thriving and the population having begun to steadily rise again after being felled by the Herd.
The once sleepy little town was thriving far beyond what she expected.
And as far as she knew, she was utterly alone.
“ I suppose there is a satisfaction to it, troubling your thoughts with the plight of the others. Their happiness ensures your own—to some extent. Your goddess was always the most…” There was a pause, a breath between time where the voice seemed to be thinking—could sentient, dark voices even think?—of a word, sour on its nonliving tongue. “Sentimental. And I suppose that extends to you as well. After all, you are her blood.”
Pike blinked, startled. It was always a slap in the face whenever the voice said those words. You are her blood.
It’s a lie, Pike told herself, quickly, before the statement could dig roots into her mind. It had to be. She wasn't a part of the Everlight like that.
Sure, Pike had heard tales of divine beings–those who fought in the name of their gods, imbued with magic. There were demi-gods, or even other celestials whose own blood ran with the power of others. But that wasn't Pike. Pike Trickfoot was Pike Trickfoot: great-great-granddaughter of nothing-too-special Wilhand Trickfoot, who had risen up from his no-good family to raise her in the faith of the Everlight. She was an esteemed member of the famed Heroes of Tal’dorei: Vox Machina. There was nothing special about her. Her powers came from her devotion; nothing else.
“ You’re lying again.”
“Will you shut—”
There was a jolt, like a small shock of electricity; Pike yelped as it alighted within her temples, nearly bringing her to her knees. She stumbled against her feet.
Pike blinked. Did…did the voice just give her the equivalent of a hand slap? Was it even allowed to do that?
“Enough. Cast your doubts aside and go forth. A few more steps, now. So close to answers”. The voice purred gleefully, as if it couldn't wait for her to get closer. Within her muscles, she felt a small tug, almost as if an invisible hand was gently urging her along.
Pike reached the doorway just as a clap of thunder reverberated in the air around her. She flinched in the dark, her temples throbbing.
“I shouldn't be here,” Pike whispered. From the doorway, she felt the warmth of the house, spilling from between the cracks of the door. It was a pleasant balm against the bitter chill that had latched itself to her skin and hands. "Not like this. He’ll ask questions—”
“Then counter with your own. Don't let him speak until he answers what you have been seeking. He is the oldest gnome in the entire wood. What have you got to fear?”
“That he’ll tell me something that’ll set my entire world on fire”
“Isn't this what you wanted?” the voice asked, “ Answers? No one can give you what you want but him. He is, after all, your great-great-grandfather. Who better to tell you of your nature? He holds all you’ve sought after.”
“ Yes,” Pikes said. “But…”
Within the vast space of her mind, there was a gentle nudge of action, a calm hand against her sense of self. Instantly, Pike raised her hand to the door; her fingers trembled. “Go forth,” the voice said. “ Just a little farther, little one.”
Before her, the house was awash in golden light, tendrils of cutting thick marks against the dry patch of dirt beneath the overhang, turning the trickling water into shards of gold. In the belly of the house, Pike could just make out the shape of her Papa Wilhand as he bustled about the home, tidying his dishes and clearing ash from the fireplace with a rake. It was an action that she knew well, his daily routine undisturbed. Pike watched for a good heartbeat, noting how he went about his business.
Wilhand often retold the story every chance he got, proudly explaining how he had had a dream one day: of a humble home that sat at such a position that the window overlooked the rising sun. The Everlight was the goddess of the Dawn, a paragon of new beginnings. Positioned right under the Dawnfather, the Everlight had been Wilhand’s salvation, redeeming him from the atrocities of the others in the family and allowing him to forge a new path. The Everlight had been the perfect god for an older gnome like Wilhand, and as such, it made sense to build a hearth and home with those godly virtues in mind for a little gnome child to live in.
A new home for Pike, to grow with love and joy. The hearth would give warmth to her new life, and a home would protect her soul. No longer would her name be tarnished by those before her.
Wilhand was putting the final log on the fire when Pike softly knocked on the door, the wood rough against her knuckles. Muffled by the door, Pike heard her grandfather’s signature woop, before the sound of footsteps grew louder. From the other side, she heard the sudden snatching of many metals. After his near-death encounter with the Herd of Storms so long ago, she had always remembered how he fussed with the multitude of locks drilled into the door, always checking and rechecking for his own sense of safety. She heard each lock, clicking against each other. The door opened with a creak; she spied one singular eye peeking out against the brightness of the fire.
Pike answered with a voice barely above a whisper. “Pop-Pop…”
“Ah!” Wilhand wrenched the door open. Light flooded the dooryard; Pike held up a hand at the sudden assault to her eyes. “Pike!”
Quick as lightning, the older gnome swept his granddaughter into his arms. His grip was strong (for being such an older gnome) and the scent of medicinal herbs filled her nose—ginger and lavender and some other earthy herb she couldn't quite name. He was solid and the weight of him pressed into her felt whole and heavy and right. Pike tucked her chin into his shoulder, holding him close to her, clinging to him like a life-raft amidst a restless sea. His hands were warm against her back, and she nearly spilled tears when he began to rub circles into the small of her back, a gesture she had known all her life.
“Oh Sweetheart, you’re home!” Wilhand gasped, pulling from her grasp. Pike wanted desperately to dive back into his arms. “Good Gods, Pumpkin, you’re soaking wet! Did you walk all this way in the rain? Where are your friends—”
“Do you have a towel?” Pike asked, her voice more hurried than she had wanted to let on. “And can we talk inside?”