Chapter Text
He hid it from them, but he hadn’t truly slept since any of it happened. Thoughts racing, eyes glazed over as he stared out the window night after night, exhaustion slowly mounted within his body as his time awake grew and grew. He could feel the extra effort it took to raise his hands, to fiddle in his workshop, even to open his eyes. But he had no choice but to carry the burden.
Hiding the exhaustion would have been harder on the road — there, he would have had to fall back into his age-old habits of keeping his body, even when plagued by nightmares, stock still. But as it was, back in the keep, he had the privacy of his own room. There, he needn’t even bother with the illusion of sleep.
He was trying. Even if he didn’t want to afford his body — the home of his greedy, vengeful mind — the luxury, he knew the science. Beyond a certain point of sleep deprivation, his body would betray him. This in and of itself was not necessarily a deal breaker, but unfortunately, he wasn’t alone. If he lost too much sleep, he would no longer be able to conceal the effects from the others, and then they would go about every interaction with him in that walking-on-eggshells way they’d been practicing since…
Since Whitestone.
Since Orthax.
Since everything.
It wasn’t as though anything had changed on the surface. They had not become soft, and thank the gods for that. Vox Machina was not a group to be soft, at least not yet, and they had the sense to know softness had little use to him anyway. Softness was an action reserved for those with access to the innermost parts of his soul, and though his friends had undoubtedly become deeply important to him, that was a part of himself that he hadn’t opened to anyone in years. Not since before the Briarwoods.
Very occasionally, when he truly couldn’t sleep and he found himself perched at the window, staring at the sky for hours on end, he found himself wishing to allow softness again. Wondering if anyone would ever even accept softness from someone as corrupted as he’d become.
He’d come close in the Ziggarut, when he’d been trapped in demonic clutches, fighting for his very soul. With so much of himself caught up in the fight, he hadn’t been able to exercise his usual restraint and keep the tears hidden. He knew Vex’ahlia, if no one else, had caught a glimpse of them. Somehow the fact that it was she who had glimpsed his broken pieces made it even worse.
His friends should not need to bear the burden of his tears. That would be much, much more than he deserved. When his mind ventured back to that moment under Whitestone, when not only the enraged parts of him, but the shattered ones, had been on full display, more guilt churned in his stomach, making him sick. The guilt joined the hurricane of shame and self-loathing that had not left his mind since the second Orthax finally released him.
That hurricane had taken up residence in every thought, every action, every feeling that coursed through him. It was how he knew his friends were wary of him, though their actions did not show it. Their wariness betrayed itself in every miniscule act.
It betrayed itself in the momentary pauses Scanlan took after each joke, eyes flickering towards Percy to make sure his humor hadn’t gone too far.
It betrayed itself in the way Pike’s hand stayed just a second longer than it used to whenever she playfully grabbed his arm. He knew the reason; she was ensuring he was still really there.
It betrayed itself in how Vax walked slightly closer to him on every outing than he had before, eyes scanning the area as always, only now Percy knew that the Rogue was searching for anything that might trigger his desire for revenge. Anything that might set him off again.
It betrayed itself in Keyleth’s chatter, how she was utterly unable to let the two of them remain in silence whenever they spoke. She filled each breath with meaningless rambles, eyes darting sideways every now and then to ensure he was listening. Keyleth was a bit of an awkward rambler, to be sure, but this wasn’t mere awkwardness; this was calculation. If he looked closely enough at her gaze, he could see it.
Hell, even Grog’s punches were lighter than they used to be, though he’d guess that was at Pike’s behest rather than the goliath’s own observation.
And then there was Vex. Undoubtedly the worst of them all, but Percy acknowledged that perhaps this was only because she had seen the most. And she acted no different — she was unique in that. Percy shouldn’t have been surprised. Since the day they met, there was something in the way Vex’ahlia spoke, how she placed her hand on his shoulder and it never bothered him, the way she always seemed to cut to the center of every problem plaguing him. She understood him — inherently, it would seem. And so she understood how much he despised any change in behavior, even when it was warranted. Even when he deserved so much worse than what they were giving him.
But even Vex couldn’t hide everything, and he could see the concern in her eyes, hidden in the shadows, behind the humorous side glances she threw at him, next to the razor-sharp focus she displayed whenever the group was faced with a task.
Somehow, those eyes hurt him more than any action she could have taken.
Suffice to say, they were all treading too carefully around him, and it was more than he could stand. After he had fallen apart so terribly, after he had nearly destroyed all of them along with himself…
How could they think that any amount of gentleness was enough to repair him? How could they continue to show him kindness, to open their hearts, when it was exponentially more than he deserved? If they could not feign normalcy — and perhaps, he thought, they shouldn’t — then why not punish him with all the cruelty his mistakes had earned him?
Every act of sympathy made him sick. There was a small part of him that wanted to cling onto each act, to hold it close to his heart, but that wish was buried so deep in his mind that he was almost entirely unaware of its existence.
If he were to tell Vox Machina about the nightmares, they would show him kindness, and that kindness was more than he could bear.
So he went through the same cycle over and over again. Wash up. Catch a glimpse of himself in a window. Shudder, barely recognizing the monster before him. Climb into bed. Wince at the softness of the sheets, befitting of a hero, but nowhere near befitting of someone like him. Close his eyes. Usually his racing thoughts would keep him awake for hours until he gave up. But sometimes physical exhaustion overcame his churning mind, and sleep would come, for a moment.
And that was worse.
Because when he slept, he watched himself over and over. Sometimes from the sidelines, sometimes through his own eyes, unable to resist or change his own motions, unable to suppress the unwanted sentiments that poured in and flooded his heart. Every action he regretted, every life he’d nearly taken, every step closer and closer to monstrosity, played on repeat in his mind, until he’d come to a mirror, and the green eyes staring back at him were so far from human that he wanted to gouge them out on sight.
A carriage driver crawling away, screaming in pain, blood pooling on the ground, and joy coursing through Percy’s veins as it happened.
Vengeance tasting sweeter on his lips than anything he’d ever dreamed of. Gunshots firing, Professor Anders’ jaw flying sideways, blood spattering Percy’s glasses and clouding his entire vision with red. Rather than reeling back in horror, he laughed. Revenge wasn’t a necessary evil. It was utterly euphoric.
The moment, in the prison, when Pike’s glowing, angelic form told him to leave, to run away from his friends until he could fix this. Every heartbreak he’d caused, every life he’d nearly ended from that moment onward, could have been avoided if he’d only listened to her. But instead he snapped. Called her foolish. Each moment after that weighed even harder on his heart, knowing that he’d had the chance to walk away.
He hadn’t even stopped with euphoric murder. Murder, or at least killing, could theoretically be justified under certain circumstances. But he had been ready to rip Delilah Briarwood apart and let her live. And that wasn’t self-defense. It wasn’t even revenge. It was pleasure in pain. Torture. Torture like Anna Ripley had once enacted on him, the very reason he had deemed her an irredeemable monster. And there he was, gleefully jumping at the chance to do the same.
And if all of that wasn’t enough, he’d taken the only family he’d had left and nearly cost them all their lives.
He’d left Keyleth dying on the ground without a shred of remorse.
Shot Grog in the shoulder and not bothered to see if he lived or keeled over right then and there.
Their names, and Cassandra’s, had swirled over the barrel of his pepperbox, and for each of them, there came a moment where they stood directly before him, his finger on the trigger, and he imagined the explosion that would come if he pulled it just another centimeter.
He never reached euphoria for that; that was some comfort. But Orthax had coaxed him into ambivalence. Convinced him that the lives of his sister, his friends, didn’t matter. Convinced him that Vex’ahlia meant nothing to the world as his fingers closed around her throat.
In his worst dreams, he fired the pepperbox. His fingers closed. The bodies of everyone he’d ever cared for littered the floor around him.
And he smiled.
Some nights, only one event haunted him before he woke up, gasping for air and clawing at his chest, hoping to rip out his heart and end the torment right then and there.
Other nights, it was all of them, piling on and on until he truly believed he might perish from their weight, a weight he never let go of, even during daylight. He wouldn’t mind perishing from it. But he knew that, for some unknown reason, Vox Machina would suffer if he did. And he couldn’t cause them any more pain. If nothing else, he owed them that.
So he still breathed, at least for the moment.
It was in one of these dreams that he first heard the voice. It was whispering, and echoed from the back of his mind, as Orthax had. But that was where the similarities ended. This voice wasn’t rasping and rough, reeking of anger. This voice was soft. High-pitched. Almost playful. There was a musical element, a singsongy quality to it. In just a few words, it sang of escape, of joy, of a life free from the burdens tearing him apart.
This could all be over.
That first time, he barely registered the sound. It was a dream, after all. Strange voices echoed in dreams all the time. And it wasn’t as though he hadn’t spent many a nightmare wishing for things to be over.
The only reason it stuck in his mind at all was because of how strange the voice sounded.
A few days later, it came back. He was dreaming and Vex was there, and his hand was around her throat, again, seconds away from squeezing every drop of life out of her.
You monster.
No mistaking it this time. He froze, and dream-Vex fizzled out of existence.
One more phrase echoed in his mind as he jolted awake.
Don’t you want to fix it?
Of course I do, he thought to himself as he rose, again giving up on sleep. Surely this strange voice was a manifestation of his subconscious, though he wasn’t sure why it felt the need to state the obvious. If you’ve got any brilliant ideas, I’m all ears.
He didn’t think he’d spoken the last thought aloud, but faint laughter echoed from the corner of his room as he finished the phrase. He froze, and the room fell into silence.
Probably a hallucination of some sort. He was deeply sleep-deprived, after all. Since the voice had first appeared, his nightmares had become more violent, more vivid. Some nights he tore his friends apart while they were still breathing. Sometimes he even liked it.
The last dream was the worst yet. Each and every one of them lay dead on the floor, mutilated almost beyond recognition. Vax’s legs were utterly inhuman, purple and swollen, broken and bent at odd angles. Bloody, empty sockets stared coldly up at him where Keyleth’s eyes should have been. Vex’s braid had been torn out of her skull, so viciously that blood and brains and broken bone seeped out from where it used to be. The pattern of her injuries made no sense, but Percy didn’t stop to question it. A large gash ran down Cassandra’s chest, her ribs and somehow still-beating heart poking out.
Percy walked over, took her heart in his hands, and crushed it. He felt the blood spill over his hands, and he grinned.
All at once, the anger of the dream dissipated, and he was left staring at his friends, his family, utterly destroyed…all because of him.
His knees buckled and he sank to the floor. He would have cried, if he thought he was worthy of crying.
And then the entire dream went red.
And then the voice. This time it was accompanied by strange, faint, music, almost like an organ, but softer, more haunting, and more uncanny. It was almost reverent, but something was very wrong with it.
Don’t you want to give them something better?
For the first time when he awoke, he was not in a panic. He gazed straight ahead, still hearing the faint, haunting strains of music somewhere far away.
“Yes. Yes I do.”
The first time he heard it outside of his dreams, he was with Vex. Not an uncommon place for him to be.
Even before Whitestone, Vex had a tendency of dragging him on meaningless tasks and errands, filling his time with conversations that led nowhere of import, and yet were unmistakably pleasant. Words flowed easily between them, and conversing with her felt simpler, safer, than anything Percy had done in quite a long time. Since the Briarwoods, the frequency of their outings had only increased; not unnaturally, and not to a degree where Percy would have ascribed it to pity, but he found himself in her company more and more all the same.
This time, they were shopping for weapons, a longstanding tradition between the two. But despite his best efforts, he couldn’t focus on her words. His mind kept going back to the whispers and the music, piercing through his dreams again and again.
Had he imagined it? Had he truly been so desperate to fix things that he’d made it up?
It wasn’t the most implausible explanation. But selfishly, he wanted to be wrong. He wanted this thing to be real. He wanted a solution.
“Percy, dear, did you hear me?”
He blinked. Vex was staring at him, head tilted slightly, brown eyes all business unless you knew where to look, in which case you would have caught the deep concern lurking below the surface. The same concern that had lingered there ever since Whitestone.
Right. Conversation.
“Sorry, erm…repeat that?”
Vex’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, and he could tell she was wrestling with the urge to ask him if he was alright. Thankfully, she didn’t. He wasn’t sure what he would have said — or if he’d have been able to say anything at all.
“I was asking what you think of these.” She was holding up two near-identical sets of arrows. “I certainly need something, but I could use an engineer’s opinion.”
She could easily make the decision on her own and they both knew it, but her asking pleased him anyway.
As he took the arrows for closer study, the very tips of his fingers brushed hers, and the faintest of blushes crept up the back of his neck.
He shoved it away within seconds. Now was far from the time for such impulses. As if he deserved them anyway.
“These are much more aerodynamic,” he managed to say, handing the chosen set back to her. “Better value for money.”
She smirked slightly as she took them back. “Funny,” she quipped, a mix of sarcasm and something that he’d call affection if he didn’t know any better, “they have little hearts on them. I thought you’d hate it.” Her eyes flicked playfully towards his own, and it was obvious that she was trying to get a rise out of him. Didn’t stop him from blushing, though.
“I…didn’t notice.”
He wasn’t sure exactly when these little quips had crept into their conversations. It was as if he’d blinked one day and there they were. Though he knew she was merely playing with him, as a friend would, he found himself unable to look at her in exactly the same way as he had before.
One final laugh rang through the air as Vex grabbed his wrist — gently, for she was always gentle, despite the game of it all — and pulled him over to another section of the shop.
For a moment, he allowed himself to laugh too, and to appreciate the extra sparkle that flashed in her gaze when he did.
But the moment was all too fleeting, as he realized where in the shop she’d pulled him to.
Metals. Hammers. Black powder.
Her name on the barrel. Shot after shot.
Someone was screaming…or was it everyone?
“Percy?”
The shop swam back into focus, and with a sinking heart, Percy realized he hadn’t hidden his reaction quite quickly enough. Vex’s gaze was just left of true eye contact, brow furrowed, her worry apparent despite her best efforts.
“You said you wanted to rebuild it…I’m sorry, dear. I should have known it was too soon.”
Of everyone, she was the only one who hadn’t spoken of Whitestone’s events since they’d occurred, so the fact that she felt compelled to bring them up now spoke volumes about how much Percy had overstepped.
Too open. Too needy.
Too broken.
When would he learn?
And there it was. Organ music from somewhere far off in the distance. The edges of his vision began to take on a red tinge.
Laughter echoed through the shop, louder and clearer than he’d heard it in his dreams.
“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Vex’s frown deepened. “Percy, are you certain that you’re…”
He cut her off. He couldn’t bear to hear the end of that question one more time. “Fine.” The word sounded flimsy even to his own ears, but what choice did he have? The alternative was honesty he couldn’t afford. So he forced a smile. “Just…considering optimal material structures.” It was a lie and they both knew it, but to his relief, she let it go.
There was a whisper waiting for him just before the laughter subsided, before he and Vex could return to mimicking normalcy. It seemed to linger in the corner of the shop, waiting for him.
See how you hurt her?
See how you hurt them all?
Would it not be easier to let it all go?
What do you mean? He didn’t even have to say it. Somehow he knew that mere thoughts would be enough to get him the answer he wanted.
Ease the burden of forcing them to care for you.
Cease to worry about every little misstep.
Come with us—
“Percival.” Vex’s voice was playful once again as she stood, leaning on the doorway of the shop. She could forget his faults much too easily. “Are you going to stand there all day?”
“No, no,” he muttered, more to himself than to Vex. “I’m coming.”
The red at the edges of his vision was still there, as was the music.
If I leave now, he thought, making sure to piece out every word clearly. It could break them. Not a deal I’m willing to take.
As Vex spun around in the doorway, Percy’s entire vision suddenly turned crimson, and her form morphed into…Percy didn’t know what. It was nearly human, but there was something undeniably off about it, something he couldn’t quite place his finger on. Perhaps the gaze was slightly too empty, the fingers too long, or the legs too thin. Percy couldn’t quite tell, in part because his eyes seemed unable to focus on any one part of the creature for more than only a second.
Then the red faded, and Vex’s face swam back into view. But he could hear the message, loud and clear, etched somewhere inside his mind.
They’d never need to know.
After that, he started looking for it. Wishing for messages hidden in his mind, wondering if he was missing something, some sign. Listening intently to every conversation, hoping to hear that organ music hidden between the words.
If there was a way to rid Vox Machina, to rid the world, of his burden without them ever knowing…
Well, he was already a monster, but he’d be even more of one if he didn’t take the opportunity.
Instead of nightmares, he lay awake night after night, turning the possibility over in his mind. Sometimes he’d waver, selfishly, and the thought of something — or someone — to stay for would cross through his mind.
But then his thoughts would lead back to Whitestone, to the screams of his friends, to the sounds of Cassandra’s pleas and Vex’ahlia gasping for air as he squeezed the life out of her.
And he would remember that his reasons to stay didn’t matter.
At last, at dinner with everyone one night, the music rang out again.
Unlike every other time the whispers had come, this wasn’t a moment of stress. Not a memory. Not even a flash of guilt. Instead, it was…lovely. Ordinary.
Grog had accidentally run his fork clear through the table and was now trying to cover it up. Scanlan was cracking all the expected jokes that had the entire table groaning. Pike was desperately attempting to help Grog wrench the fork out of the wood, with absolutely no success whatsoever. Vax, Vex, and Keyleth were all laughing, and Percy could see a thumb war between the twins occurring under the table. He himself — always a quieter participant to begin with when it came to group events — hung back and observed. The laughter, the lightness, the absence of any imminent threat, was refreshing. It was a reminder of what their group could have been, had he not dragged them into his mess.
And with that thought, his heart sank yet again, and the storm in his mind returned. He wondered dimly if he’d ever be rid of it.
When he glanced down at the table again, a message lay before him. Despite its out-in-the-open placement, he was certain that only he could see it.
See how they rejoice when you stay silent?
Music filled his ears and red began to pool into the corners of his eyes again.
See the joy in their eyes when you let them be?
The voices of his friends suddenly seemed very, very far away.
Let them rejoice. Let them be free of you.
Though he was wary of anything unknown in his mind since Orthax, Percy found himself utterly unable to protest.
Unable to wait any longer, he slipped out of the keep late that night. It was a full moon, and though the forest could be risky at this time of night, the bright sky made things marginally safer. Besides, considering his purpose in the woods, he really had very little to lose.
He had no true idea of where he was going, only his guilt pulling at the sides of his chest, ready to burst him open. It acted akin to a thread, pulling him through forested pathways, off into ditches, through ferns and briars and thorns. He must have walked for hours, and by the end of the ordeal, he had utterly no clue where he was. But as he walked, the music, which had started as faint echoes between the rustling of leaves, became deafening. What had been a faint hint of red in the corner of his eye morphed into a solid wall, so intensely crimson he could barely see where he was going; only enough so as not to lose his footing.
And the laughter came from everywhere. It echoed off every tree, through each leaf, and burrowed its way into every last nook inside his mind.
If he had anything to lose, he might have thought to be afraid.
At last the music crescendoed to a climax, and he felt a tug on his heart as his feet — almost of their own accord — came to a stop. He was in a thickly wooded hollow, the trees growing so close together that, in retrospect, he wasn’t sure how he’d entered in the first place. The canopy of leaves above him was so dense that almost no moonlight seeped through. Were it not for the eerie red glow, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to see at all.
A moment passed, and he realized he should probably speak.
“Alright, I’m here.”
No words. Only laughter and music.
“What do you want?”
If anything, the noises got slightly quieter.
Rage swelled up in Percy like he hadn’t felt in ages. “Dammit!” Instinctively, he reached for his pepperbox, only to remember that it had been destroyed. Nonetheless, he fell into a fighting stance, or the closest thing he could manage under the circumstances. “Are you going to get rid of me or what?”
Dead silence. He froze, waiting.
And then a ripple through the trees — no, inside, inside the trunk — and a figure emerged. It was akin to the figure he’d seen in the shop’s doorway. Nearly human, with some unidentifiable aspect unmistakably wrong. Though the creature presented as an ally, Percy felt his right foot instinctively step back, his left hand ready to protect his face.
When no immediate threat posed itself, he allowed his hand to slowly drift downward, as he asked again, “What do you want?”
When the whispers came this time, they came from all sides, piercing through him to the very center.
It’s not what I want, Percival. It’s what I can give you.
Percy raised an eyebrow. He’d heard this tune before, and he did at least have the sense to be wary of it. “Go on…”
The laughing, whispers, and music began to swirl around him. He could feel them mixing with the spirals of guilt in his mind, so potent that, after a moment, he could no longer distinguish one from the other.
You see the pain you’ve caused your friends. The risk. You could have killed each and every one of them.
“Your point?”
You know they shouldn’t have forgiven you.
“Again, your point?”
You see the burden they carry when they forgive you now. You see the way they ache with every conversation.
This made him pause, a faint tremor shooting through his hands.
They can’t handle you anymore. Not after what you did. Not after what you’ve become.
His left hand was fully shaking now, and it wasn’t because this creature scared him. It was because he knew that it was right.
“What do you propose we do about it?”
I can rid the world of you. I can make you into something good.
The first sentence, he’d anticipated, but the second… “You mean if I agree to this, the world gets something better?”
Something shifted in the music. Added dissonance, perhaps? Percy wasn’t enough of an expert musician to tell.
The world gets the perfect you, Percival. The one you could never give.
A ripple went through the forest around him. A figure emerged, getting closer and clearer, visible even in his blurred, red-tainted vision, until…
Percy was face-to-face with himself. If he didn’t know better, he’d say he was looking in a mirror.
Terror surged up inside him, and he was faced with the sudden realization that this was far more than he had bargained for. He turned to flee, but realized with increasing dread that the woods had completely sealed themselves up behind him. There was nowhere to run.
Fret not, dear little de Rolo. Take another look.
With nothing else to do, he did.
See those hands, free of burns. They have never known the trigger of a gun.
The reflection unbuttoned its shirt, revealing a perfect, pristine chest.
No scars, Percival. He has not known your pain.
Slowly, Percy raised his gaze to meet the eyes of the…not-him.
See those eyes? They are full of light. They do not bear the pain that yours do.
The more Percy observed the figure, the more he realized the voice was right.
He is not broken, Percival. He can be loved.
And he knew, as the being’s last words echoed, that if anyone was carrying the misguided notion of gifting him love, they’d be a thousand times better off handing their heart to someone unbroken. Someone like the unblemished, perfect not-him.
Gods, he envied the creature.
“And you promise they’ll never know?”
This time, the response came not from the forest, but from the reflection in front of him. It spoke in a perfect impersonation of his own voice. “I swear on my family’s name.”
It was exactly how he had said the same phrase under Whitestone. Even Percy himself would have trouble distinguishing the sound from his own voice if he had to.
But he wasn’t ready yet. He had one final question to ask, swallowing hard as he raised his gaze to look upon the first creature, the one whose features he couldn’t pin down. “What happens to me?” A beat. Might as well ask what he was really thinking. “Do I die?”
He wanted the answer to be yes. Why leave the world with this broken, despicable version of him when a better one was simply waiting to fill the space he was stupidly, selfishly occupying?
The creature’s mouth curled into a smile. Everything you know will come to an end.
Sure sounds like dying to me.
Even if it wasn’t, he so badly wanted it to be that he was willing to accept the answer.
His hand was seconds away from that of the creature when a jolt of fear ran through his body, and greedy second thoughts — his own hesitations and fears — began to cloud his mind. The creature, noticing, waved its hand.
All at once, he was under Whitestone again. Everything was bloodied, ruined, torn apart, by him, always by him. His foot touched something, and Cassandra’s corpse stared blankly up at him. He could still hear screams echoing off the walls. They sounded like Vex’ahlia.
You did this.
You ruined them.
But I can fix everything.
He blinked and he was back in the clearing. Before cowardice could stop him, he reached out and shook the creature’s hand. “We have a deal.”
The creature’s mouth curled up into a wide, inhuman grin. That was the first thing Percy noticed. The second was that the creature’s hand was undeniably cold, and despite its shimmering form, not soft like human skin, but hard, like plastic or metal. Startled, Percy instinctively pulled his hand back, but the creature’s grip was like iron, and he found himself unable.
We have a deal. The voice was in his head again. No turning back now.
The entire world flipped upside down, and Percy only had time to think that this may have been a very, very bad decision before everything went dark.