Work Text:
She has to stop it. The Mother had gifted her this magic, she must try.
A day earlier. She begs the druid to not go to the conclave. To be patient, to be understanding. Someone would throw a punch and, as an Archdruid hopeful, he must counsel patience and cool heads. The Watcher has been clear with She Who Guards that certain events are fixed and cannot be undone by the divine (or divinely descended). But, if she just went back far enough, she could stop it. If any other blade went through her devotion's heart, perhaps it would beat again.
Three years, fifty weeks, and one day before, she tries to tell her love to never ask her to entreat with druids.
Her love laughs, the most beautiful sound in the realms. One that she must cherish, for there are less than one thousand, four hundred, and fifty days left. Every minute not enjoined in body or in dialogue is one wasted.
The one who captured her soul vows to only make her meditate in the most dire of circumstance, thinking that will assuages her.
That Sorrow once again finds it perchance through the heart of Mother's most devoted cleric.
Four years, two weeks, and a day before. The events that lead to her death all begin with her own mother's passing.
She has never had to consider the pain one would feel about a mother passing. Before it occurs, she ensures she has every possible healing spell prepared, as granted by the Lady of Silver, by Mother. It's a perhaps a sign that this plan can work.
A cry comes from the Tower of the Moon and she heads to help, to heal. No magics cure the woman.
She holds her sobbing love, caresses her hair. Memorizes her scent.
Two weeks before, she tries to get someone else sent as the emissary of the druids. But they see her presences as an interference by another divinity.
Threatening smites only leads to even more death.
She tries again, two weeks and a day before. These druids ever so defensive about their grove and its neutrality. But as soon as the someday-after-it-happens-Archdruid hears that a temple to the Dark Traitor has been discovered, he is interested. Asking how the temple was found, mentioning that its not too far from the place he once was captive.
The druids go; it happens again.
Fourteen weeks and three days before. She is beginning to worry that nothing will save -- no, she cannot think that.
The one who gives life meaning runs towards the edge of a graveyard.
She tries to call her back, nearly begging.
Miraculous! Turning back around --
A rock causes a stumble. The rock moves, displaying the sign of the one who brings the night. The faithful cleric wants only to please, to share the light, to dispel the darkness.
Immediately, plans are created to destroy the blasphemous temple. She can only nod along; she cannot halt the needed destruction.
One hundred years, eighteen weeks, and four days before. She encounters a nature spirit who seeks a protector. She has plans to attempt, but the poor boy seems so lonely.
The sun shines bright on a cub, wandering lost about in a glen. She suggests the baby bear as a shield. The two youths run and play in the carefree way she never experienced.
The duo follow her. They are too adorable to be cross with. As she prepares her tent for the night, the Moonlight lands on the cub.
It transforms into an elf. She knows his future face.
Eighty nine years before. Her love isn’t even a twinkle in her mother’s eyes yet but here is someone trying to alter fate to allow the someday soon sparkle glow fullest.
She shows a young cub the glorious flora from the under world. She puts him on a path to the dark, to see what discoveries he can make.
If she cannot kill him, as she cannot kill unwarrantedly, perhaps a Matron would do the task for her.
It is a cruelty to send the architect of her lover's demise on this course, but kindness had not yet prevented death.
Six hours, eleven minutes before. On her knee, she prepares to ask the question she has longed to ask since she first saw her soulmate's beautiful face.
She is halted and told that this is not the time. Yes, maybe, but not now, not like this. There is too much at stake to think about frivolous things like a wedding.
(That no parents would attend lies under her hasty response.)
They are too close to his domain, she cannot anger him when they have finally started talking again.
The general gets what he wants: his daughter free from Dame Aylin's protection.
Mother calls her home, to rest. To understand what she has been doing these past many days, months, years?
How can the Moonmaiden understand? Their souls have been entwined since that first moment. She is not sad that her lover is dead; no, she is upset that her lover is not within the Gates of the Moon. They are to be together, for ever. Death, she had prepared for.
Parted completely? How could anyone prepare for that?
Grief, ha! As if such a small word could contain a fractal of her feelings.
Nothing would be right without her, without Isobel.
Twenty eight seconds before.
How many times has she relived this nightmare?
The blade, the one she could not destroy, could not prevent from falling into his hands, is out.
He stands here, in opposition to her many plans.
Isobel finishes her oration.
This time, a different druid mentions the heresy of the Dark Moon.
Isobel pales and tries to explain. The druids stand to leave, unimpressed.
Isobel grabs onto the leader, trying to hold him to stay.
A blade goes to Isobel's throat.
Aylin punches.
Halsin reacts.
Isobel dies.
Isobel dies.
Isobel dies.
Isobel dies.
Isobel dies.
Isobel dies.