Archive of Our Own ^beta

Aloth’s heart still quickens whenever his father enters, ready for disaster at a moments notice. He hasn’t hit Aloth since Iselmyr awoke, but Aloth is ever ready for that to change. Fortunately, today he seems content to criticise Aloth for the slow speed at which the chores have been finished. Aloth’s mother looks at him sadly, wishing she could somehow make his life better, instead acquiescing when his father demands a drink. Aloth isn’t ready when Iselmyr blurts out insults at the man, demanding he get it himself. Aloth quickly resumes control, only to be targeted with a painful tirade as his mother watches, too scared to act.

One day, Aloth will tell his friends of a great mistake, and his guilt will drag his gaze to the ground as he does so. He will expect to be cast out as an enemy, and rightfully so by his judgement. Alteia will look at him, disappointed, shocked, and hurt. Yet, she will forgive him. So too will his other companions, albeit some requiring the Watcher’s support. Asking Iselmyr’s opinion on the Leaden Key will shift the conversation to the pair’s relationship. After decades of trying to hide her, Aloth will realise that letting her surface isn’t so terrifying, at least not in front of the Watcher, and she will accept both personalities as they are as she calmly tries to mediate a peace between them. Aloth will lay awake that night, wondering why Alteia would care.

Eder’s house is empty every time he returns to it, and he wonders if he can still call it a home. An uncomfortable topic, but his mind is otherwise unoccupied, so the train of thought slips in like a squatter. It takes him through a list of things he doesn’t have; friends, safety, happiness. A family. The house means little to him now, save as a reminder of what he’s lost. He looks out the window to the dilapidated remains of the tree house he and Woden built as boys, and lets the vision pull him into the past. He watches through his memories how he and Woden would smile and yell, fight and play. What he had, only made clear by its absence. He thinks it will never return.

One day, he will return after weeks of campaigning to Brighthollow, a bright inn standing in stark contrast to the imposing fortress around it. The visage will restore his strength, as he runs towards it, eager to meet those inside. He will be greeted, and by the hour’s end he will tell stories of his adventures over a hearty meal. His companions will laugh and bicker, smile and cry, and live. As the night wears on, he’ll return to his room with a smile on his face, surprising himself with the thought that he’s eager for the next day.

Kana gazes at the shores of Rauatai, and all of a sudden it dawns on him that he will not do so again for a very long time. His fear suddenly swells in size, ambushing him with the desire to leap overboard and swim for home. He forces it back down, he’s made his decision, but it isn’t finished yet. He tries to cover it with his desire for new horizons, but he can’t ignore the fact that he’s sailing away from everything he’s known. His rationality has long known that he ventures far from the protection and care of his siblings, but his emotions have realised this only now. He dismisses them with a reminder of all the trouble they’ve caused eachother, but the loss will quietly gnaw at him for a long time.

One day, he will meet a man on campaign simply to learn of his brother’s fate. Kana will ponder if any of his siblings would do the same, and the man assures him that Kana would be surprised at how far they’d go. He will think back to this conversations a few days later, when an attacker grievously wounds him. Before Kana can think about it, his companions will form up over his fallen body, protecting his with theirs. It will take him some time to process that he’d happily do the same and more for any of them.

Sagani and Itumaak walk along the road in silence. She fills it with what sounds of her village she can conjure into her mind, trying not to think about how time wears down the details like wind eroding a sculpture. Bit by bit, her faith that she will find her way home wanes. Yet, it is the same thoughts of home that drive her on. Even if she will never again stand among all those who care for her, she marches on because she cares for all of them in turn.

One day, she will prepare to return home, and find that it isn’t so easy as she had thought. The choice will hardly be able to be called such, she will know she must return to her homeland, but the same impending loss will loom over her just as it did when she started the journey. It will not surprise her, the Watcher and her companions will be family like the family that will beckon her home. The start of her journey home will be bittersweet, knowing that from know on, there will be a home she will fondly remember no matter where she goes.

Pallegina strides through the halls of the Academy with head held high. She holds no pride, but she projects it out of spite. Her so-called brothers look at her with polite disdain, not overtly criticising her but subtly denying her companionship and support. Her heart is starved for affection, so she feeds it with patriotism, hoping love for her country will act as a substitute for the love of her peers, hoping the care of her superiors will act as a substitute for the care of a parent. She does not mind calling it the Brotherhood Of Five Suns, but her feathers flare in annoyance whenever someone ever-so-subtly emphasises the first word.

One day, she will enter the dining hall of Brighthollow for breakfast and be briefly confused by the others making room for her to join them. Her companions will invite her to the conversation, discussing the lands she has seen and her work for the Brotherhood. The Watcher will empathise with Pallegina’s experience as a Godlike, and the pair will trade stories of absurd superstitions and inappropriate questions. She will realise that, to them, she is nothing important, or rather just as important as all others, no more and no less. She will spend the rest of the day repressing a smile.

The midwife works tirelessly to engineer the perfect family. Erasing some spite here, a boost to will there, and families grow. The lives of the villagers are gardens, and she is a tireless gardener. She sits on a verandah, pretending to be disinterested as a child runs past. She knows the young boy has a strong soul and a rich and varied past, but she says it is the frail soul of a boy that needs to be cared for. The boy’s father swallows the lie, and promises to give that care. Care based on a lie is better than none at all, she thinks. The father rushes after the child, baffled by how a supposedly weak soul could fuel such a canny and talented child. The midwife reaches out and gently scrubs the discrepancy from his mind. A gardener’s work is never done.

One day, she will sit silent in Brighthollow, reflecting on a past which she has buried in the way only a cipher can, trying to undo her work and lamenting her past self’s skill. Meanwhile, Alteia will patiently mediate an argument between two of their companions. With rationality and insight, the Watcher will form a solution to the satisfaction, if not pleasure, of the pair, and they will leave, Alteia sighing in relief as they do so. The Grieving Mother will watch her, and think that she would be an excellent mother, were it not for the Godlike’s sterility. As the Watcher turns to comfort another companion, bothered by their past, the Grieving Mother will realise the Watcher is a mother, not to a family forged by blood, but one forged by shared circumstance and the bonds of life-threatening conflict.

Zauha sits in his cell, lamenting his failure. His family, his comrades, everyone he’s known was counting on him, and he failed. He searches for enlightenment in the suffering, to no avail. His Nalpazca brothers and sisters, all dead. His blood family, in chains. His home, turned to ashes. He thinks this suffering, this intense loss, will hopefully drive him to achieve the power of the anitlei. It does not. All he can do now is await the executioner.

One day, he and his companions will be thrown to the wolves by a capricious goddess. They will stare at the crystal running through the fallen moon with trepidation. They know one of them must sacrifice themselves for the others, and each will be torn between the loss of their own life, and the loss of a friend. Finally, Zauha will make up his mind. He will be ready to suffer for his new companions, a chance to redeem himself for his past failures. The Watcher will sigh in sad relief, a willing volunteer taking from her the burden of making the choice. She will praise him, saying she was honoured to know the last of the Nalpazca warriors, and as a final gift grant him a diving helmet with which to prolong his suffering. He will feel excitement at the impending suffering, but a pang of another emotion he won’t recognise. The goodbyes will be final and heartfelt, all saying words one only says when they don’t think they’ll get another chance to say them. A few minutes later, he will be surrounded by intense cold, a level of suffering he had rarely matched. He will try to let everything go, but with a start he will identify the elusive emotion: regret. He won’t want to lose his companions, his friends, his new family. Satisfying himself with the physical pain, he will make for the surface

Maneha can’t leave home fast enough. Her entire life has been lived under the protective auspice of her parents, and she has grown tired of it. Her pack carries only the essentials as a ship takes her away from her childhood. Her parents have promised to keep their home open for her, but she does her best to forget about it. She’s excited, more than she’s even been, and as she stares at the horizon, she promises herself she will never look back.

One day, she will look back. The years will have dulled her youthful enthusiasm and spite, and without them clouding her vision home doesn’t seem so bad. She’ll sit by a dying campfire with her friend Alteia, their Awakened dreams keeping the both from sleep. They will talk about their homelands, on opposite sides of the known world, and the families they left there. Maneha will say she couldn’t get out of home fast enough, and Alteia will empathise. Yet, Alteia will say that there’s something to be said for familiarity and routine. The words will stir memories of peace and comfort in Maneha, the contrast making the campsite feel even colder. For the first time in decades, Maneha will yearn for her family.

The young trapper kneels in the smouldering ruins of what was once her home. She cries in grief and rage, and her mind grasps for something, anything , to hold on to. There is nothing but ashes. So, she cries. Tears form rivers through the ashes and burns caking her face. She wishes her mother would come up behind her and gently wrap a blanket around her as she had done in the past, but there is no source of comfort today. There is nothing but ashes. Ashes, and vengeance she realises. She saw them, dozens of them, remembers their faces. She promises herself that they will pay. For she has nothing else to live for.

One day, she will lean on the wall of Brighthollow as her friends recount the success of their last campaign. The celebrations will continue into the night, and the Devil will lament the loss of her ability to drink. Still, this will leave her to be the only one fully cognisant of Eder’s drunken antics. As the night wears on, the motley band of misfits Alteia assembled will laugh together, and the Devil will surprise herself by laughing with them, genuinely. Maybe Galavino hadn’t taken everything from her, she will ponder.

Hiravias walks alongside the Celebrants of Hawk and Ivy. One of them points out to him the different tracks in the mud, and from there recounts the events that left them. A band of treasure-seekers entered a ruin of the Builders, he is told, and upon leaving those ruins they were set upon by Glanfathan hunters. Hidden in some bushes, Hiravias finds a tattered note, and is praised by his follow druids for his perception. Laughing at the outsiders for their audacity, he picks up the note and reads it to himself. It’s a letter from a father to his daughter, saying that he’s willing to risk death by Glanfathan arrows if it means paying the animancer’s price to save her. The words poke a hole in Hiravias’ heart and lets the zeal drain out. H e is troubled, but his mentors assure him that no true family would consider betraying the laws of the gods for eachother.

One day, he will recall the letter as he follows Alteia into the works of the Builders, and feel his very identity torn in two. He will know that now he himself has committed a grave crime in the eyes of his people, something he shouldn’t have even considered. Yet, he will feel more obligation to this random pack that picked him up on the side of the road one day than he ever had to his people, or even the gods themselves. When asked, he’ll tell the others to not mention the subject lest he remember he ought to be slaughtering them, but in truth he won’t wish to discuss it lest he have to come to terms with the fact he cares more about the Watcher’s band than his own people.