Work Text:
This is not the first time Davrin has stared down death.
There was a moment, at his joining, when the light caught the metallic sheen of the chalice and was swallowed by the dark questionable liquid within, when Warden Ninthia caught his eye - the Volunteer, not blighted, not conscripted - and told him clearly “This is your death, one way or another. Be sure.”
He was sure.
This is not the first time Davrin has stared down death. The Archdemon at Weisshaupt. The greatest honor and greatest horror a Warden can face. Davrin accepted it would be his, the final blow, the final vessel, the light that would cleave the darkness and allow the world to march on.
He was sure. Fate was not.
This is not the first time Davrin faced down death. It is not the first time he has lived.
That wasn't how the story was meant to go. Davrin is left adrift. Unsure. Faced with the impossible impossibility of living.
One way or another. If not a blaze of glory, then it will be a slow dimming descent. But maybe the in between would be worth the inglorious finale. The glow of friendship and possibility of love and growing old with a griffon and isn't that a nice dream?
But it is Fate delayed, not Fate avoided. Tearstone Island. Ghilan’nain the Guide, the Mother of Halla, the Maker of Monsters. Rook is bound, suspended, going down swinging and Lucanis is trapped, but trying, cutting his way free and third time's the charm isn't it?
They just need time.
And Davrin has an opening.
One way or another. Whatever it takes.
This is not the first time Davrin has stared down death.
And he is sure.