Chapter Text
Allura’s first thought, when Vox Machina had told her that a conclave of chromatic dragons had attacked Emon, had been wild, terrible relief that Kima was safe. It was not the thought she wished for herself, and would later reproach herself for, but she had long since reconciled herself to it; ten, five, even one year ago, she would have sternly reminded herself that she had made her choices, just as Kima had. But today, with the char of flesh heavy in the air and the screams of the dead still echoing across the stones, the knowledge that Kima was far from Emon, that Kima was safe and whole and unburnt, had washed over her and left her gasping and ruined in its wake.
She had sworn to herself, many years ago, that she would stand firm behind her convictions and not allow herself to be swayed by her regard for Kima. She had told herself, sternly, quietly, dejectedly, wistfully, that it was friendly regard she felt, gentle rivulets of affection that would run dry over the years. She had turned her back, distracted herself with Emon and matters of growth and harvest and trade, and returned now to find a sea lapping at her feet, inexorable and undeniable as the tide. She had stepped into cool relief, knowing that there was a storm at her back and not caring, for just a moment, so thankful was she that Kima was safe.
Then Vox Machina tells her of the arrival of an Ancient Red Dragon and all other thoughts flee in his advance. She has no thought for Emon, or herself, or Kima, only remembered fire and pain and terror that flares bright in the shadow of memory. She stumbles and is saved from falling only by Drake’s hand on her arm but she can spare him no thanks, for Thordak, the Cinder King, is upon them. She is mindless now, blind and deaf and nerveless, choking on the scent of charring flesh.
She chokes, and falls dying, and resurfaces standing in Greyskull Keep with Drake at her side and Vox Machina before her and ash and dust swirling through her hair and her path laid at her feet. She has a duty, to her people and to Emon and to Kima and to herself, and she cannot falter, even as her heart quakes and wails in her breast. There will be time later for sorrow and recriminations and would-have-beens; there must be.
There must be.