Chapter Text
The Bureau of Balance hadn't felt like this since Boyland. Shit, the Reclaimers hadn't felt like this since Goldcliff with Sloane and Hurley. For this sort of thing to happen was...unexpected.
(It was peaceful, they were told, and painless. Fuck peaceful and painless though! What about them?! What about those left behind?! What about the Bureau?! It was inherently selfish and fuck if they didn't give two shits about being selfish.)
(Suddenly Lucas and his actions made more sense. He still was a dick though. That would never change.)
Angus clutched at his hat and wrung it nervously. He had the most reason to feel this way. He had such a big responsibility now. Sixteen was not the age someone normally succeeded the head of a massive organization of world-saving heroes.
Even if they were forgotten down below, on Faerûn.
Davenport howled miserably during his part. He was supposed to give a small speech but even his normal limited speaking style was impeded by his grief. Eventually Killian escorted the soggy gnome from the podium and No.3113 floated up to the podium, coughing slightly to test the thaumatergy spell cast on the whole area. It magnified her voice so that everyone in the quad could hear her. Satisfied, she began.
"I didn't know Madame Director all that well. I mean—not like some a' y'all. I joined later in an' it's kinda' hard t' for that kinda' bond that quickly. I mean...quickly for...well...yeah." She fiddled slightly and swayed where she was hovering. Though she didn't have a face, her body betrayed her worry and sorrow. Even after all this, she still felt like an outsider.
"Death...ain't too bad. It seems kinda' heretical t' say that but...it's not. It's big 'n white 'n everyone y'know is there. That's...y'know...dead, that is." Her conduit hummed, the blue light within just as bright as the day that they had found her in Lucas' lab. It was heartbreaking. "An'...'n I think she'll be pretty happy t' see some of her old friends 'gain. May th' Raven Queen watch over her." Then, piece said, No.3113 floated down from the podium and Taako took her place.
If there had ever been a less appropriate time for Taako to dress like himself, it was now. Thankfully he had forgone his usual eye-searing outfit for a simple black affair with a veil and black nail polish to match. He clasped his hands together and leaned forward on the umbra staff. "Guys. I don't...I never really...had a...place to call home. Growing up I was on the streets and yanno how that shit works: steal to eat, get beat for stealing, starve some more, repeat till dead." He waved one hand in a roundabout manner and sighed. His ears were drooping—moreso than usual—and Taako usually was good at controlling his secondary emotional giveaways. The Reclaimers held eye contact with him. Everyone else looked away, uncomfortable.
(Taako did that sometimes. One of his many drawbacks was that, even though he was nearing the age of emotional maturity for elves, he spoke his mind. He also had trouble reading the situation. This was not one of those times. This was discomfort and emotions that he didn't know how to handle and loss—and he just spoke with all the tact of a five year old.)
"But like...the Director? She made the Bureau a home for me and...I'm grateful for that. Hope you're runnin shit wherever you are. Or at least giving whoever's in charge hell." He, too, walked off the stage.
Magnus was next, treading carefully and softly. There was grey in his beard and sideburns now and his steady movements had less to do with his temperament and feelings and more to do with the ache in his joints. He tried to play it off but Merle's tonics and tinctures could only stave off the pain for so long. He stood at the podium, fighting off tears, and began. "Lucretia was strong. Far stronger than any one of us ever knew, I'm sure. In her later years—the actual ones—she fought even death itself." He laughed, dry and humorless. "She gambled her life on this Bureau and it paid off. We're only one away from finishing what she started. I vow that I and my fellow Reclaimers will find and reclaim this last relic, if not for Lucretia, then for all of Faerûn. I hope this keeps your memory strong." Then he, too, stepped down.
Merle, by all rights, should have been next, but he refused, saying something about 'last rites or someshit' and waving his hand dismissively.
(Pan, it hurt so damn bad, losing her. She wasn't his age but she had an old soul and all the sorrows that came with it. She was easy to relate to sometimes and willing to listen most others. He already missed her and it was so early in the grieving process. So soon. He had so much longer to live and he'd have to live with this pain.)
(He felt so selfish.)
Killian stood at the podium, Carey next to her, fiddling with the ring on her finger. She took a deep breath to steady herself and Carey leaned against her and thrummed, a low sound that calmed the Orc woman. "The Director was the best woman I have ever known, my wife excluded. She was open and supportive and, yeah she was a hardass, but never without reason. She pushed us to be better than the us that existed at the time. She stood there with her staff and a frown on her face, but I've never felt so much love from an employer before. And she was more than that; she was a friend and she was family." She took a shuddering breath and bit her lip with one of her oversized fangs to keep herself from crying. Carey took over then.
"She officiated our wedding, the Director. I've never felt more accepted for who and what I was than when the Director said 'you may now kiss the bride' and Killian swept me off my feet and into the first of many brilliant kisses of my marriage. She never looked down on me for my past, nor did she look down on me for who I loved. The Director may be gone, but I'll make sure that she is never forgotten. In that vein, I've commissioned a song from our own resident bard: Johan. If you would?"
Johan stepped up to the podium and Carey and Killian stepped away, eyes glistening with unshed and burgeoning tears. He solemnly pulled out a gorgeous spruce violin, gilded with ornate spirals of gold and inlaid with small stones—lapis lazuli, larimar, and moonstone—that accented the simple beauty of the instrument. It was something that Johan had commissioned in Neverwinter for a private concert for the Director that she had never gotten to hear.
(Fuck, he had so many good compositions and now no time to play them. He wasn't an elf of luxury, but he afforded himself this one. He wanted it to be special.)
(It wasn't going to happen now.)
The song was complex, rising and falling in tone and mood. First there was a light airy pizzicato of movement and growth. Then it was followed by a waltz that sped up quicker and quicker until even Carey could barely see his fingers fly across the bridge, hemidemisemiquavers striking fast and true with the clarity of bird calls. Next was a hop to 6/8 sonorous refrain that could only be noticed by the sudden drive and lilt to every second note. That transitioned into a mournful lament that brought everyone to tears. Finally it was a striking waltz again, strong and driven. It was a testament to the Director's tenacity and will, even in death. When he finished there wasn't a single dry eye in the gathered Bureau. Everyone was various stages of crying—from big Ghibli tears that dropped off their chins in gobbets to silent streams of sorrow to the ugly crying that involves ever inch of them—and Johan cleared his throat.
"This was a, uh, piece for the Director and I am...I won't be giving this one to the Voidfish. It's called Lachrymose and I'm going to get it copied and sent down to Faerûn to become a legit piece. This is the only one I'm ever gonna be able to do but it's good. It's very good." He, like many others before him, smiled sadly. "May this composition carry your memory to all of Faerûn, Lucretia."
Many other members of the Bureau came and remembered the Director, one-by-one paying their respects and recounting tales of hilarity and woe. Everyone laughed and cried and soon the only ones who hadn't remembered her was Merle and Angus. Awkward and unsure, Angus stepped to the podium, his hat a knotted mess in his hand. He gave a sad look to the Voidfish's tank and then to the remainder of the Bureau that stood before him. With a deep breath, he began.
"Miss Director was very good at her job. She ran this place like a well-oiled machine and without her, it would have fallen to pieces very early on. Those are big shoes to fill." He looked down at his feet, voice quieting. "I'm not the best person. I'm not strong or fast, but I am smart and I think I've got a pretty good grasp on magic, thanks to Taako, so I'm not too bad off. But this isn't about me; it's about the Director." When he looked up again, his whole demeanor was different, more confident and self-assured. He continued, "she only did what she thought was best for Faerûn as a whole. She protected those who could not from things they knew not. It is our duty, as members of the Bureau of Balance, to take the torch that she has lit, and carry it forward. I can't speak for all of you, but I know that I will put my all into maintaining and supporting the bureau she loved so much. And I will never, ever forget her."
Now, finally, it was Merle's turn. He stepped up and turned towards the crowd. In his arms was a lovely bouquet of flowers, bright and healthy. Adonis blossoms lined lilies and pink carnations that was all wrapped and framed in spirals of white birch bark and tied off with a light blue ribbon that bore a metal Bureau of Balance insignia. Merle solemnly and silently placed the bouquet on the floor and walked away. Everyone knew what he meant.
(No one knew, really. Maybe Angus because of how smart the kiddo was, but everyone else was in the dark. It was a secret message from Merle to Lucretia that only he, Angus, and Pan knew and he was fine with that. He didn't trust himself talking though so the silent remembrance would have to do. And he was certain she would approve.)