Author's note: It felt so lovely to sit back at the computer and begin writing down thoughts without torturing myself to get ideas out. This text has very slight spoilers of the Living Story 2 and Heart of Thorns expansion but nothing over the top. Possibly just whatever is present in the expansion trailers. And yes, apparently I like writing tortured characters. Who'd know.

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It was not a song. A song would imply something beautiful, Canach thought. Estranged as he was from his own mother, a song reminded him of her; the way she would move her arms, the soft sound of the leaves fluttering in the morning air, the newborn turning in her womb to wake into a new day.

Useless. You walk towards your Fate.

It was not a threat. One wouldn't want to follow a threat. A threat would make you run, would make you rebel, would give you a weapon and a place to stand your ground.

Fool. Why do you run?

Canach found he couldn't truly define Mordremoth's call. It rammed against his mind at every waking moment, it tugged at his consciousness making his teeth grit and only pure stubbornness kept him walking. He hadn't fallen prey to the dream and its obligation, why in the world would he walk freely into slavery? No. He was good as he was, even with his Countess being the annoyance that she was, even being dragged into battling what was almost his father in a way. No. He was fine.

This is inevitable.

Raising his head towards the path they were following (if one could call it path; it was barely a stretch of dirt), he directed his eyes towards the Commander. Her back was straight as a rod, confident steps barely touching the ground. She didn't speak. The only proof that she was alive and conscious were those steps and the sound of her staff – tic tic tic – against the stones.

"Commander?"

Of the whole group, the Charr seemed the less bothered with the concept of corruptible sylvari. He didn't know if it was because she knew the influence of a dragon on her own skin or because she simply liked the Commander. He was willing to bet on the second. She certainly didn't seem to like him any better, dragon influenced or not.

Tic tic tic.

"Yes, Rox?"

"It's late, boss. We should stop."

Tic tic tic.

"Are you tired already?" The woman joked (sounding everything but a joke. For it to be funny, some inflection in her tone should have been used). "It has barely been…"

"Seven hours," the Charr completed dryly. "We haven't stopped yet. And not that I'm complaining but it's likely Braham is about to collapse."

The same norn who was just as fixated in the path before him as the Commander? And who didn't react even though his resistance had been called into question? That norn? (Didn't that sound likely).

Tic Tic.

A nod. That was all the Commander gave her before she stopped, signaling the rest of the group to the same. Everything else was painfully normal, solidly efficient. A fire (small since calling out every other Mordrem in the blasted forest was perhaps more stupid than any of them felt ready to do), the share of whatever water and food they had left and the quick agreement over shifts.

Neither him nor the Commander would do so alone. They were risks.

(Idiots. If they were to turn, they would do so at any given moment, not wait until they were asleep. Mordremoth liked his kills. He would want them wide awake and wriggling underneath his hold. Who would expect a dragon to be such an attention-seeker?)

"Canach?"

The Commander had come closer while the others rested and he sat, jumping from one thought to the other. (It was so much easier to resist if his mind was filled with his voice, his words, his own nonsense). The short leaves on her head were usually of a light purple color, almost like lavender, the same tone which colored her eyes. That day they were darker, shadier, deadlier. Neither had seen the sun for a while, a sun without the whispers of the jungle dragon in their ears, and it was taking its toll, even in the invincible Commander of the Pact and Killer of Dragons.

(Or so everyone called her; did other races have any sense left?)

"You look well," he declared uselessly. "Almost as well as I'm feeling."

Her lips twisted in a familiar motion but the end result was so far from a smile, it could be considered in a different hemisphere.

"You know how it is." He truly wished he did. Especially why she remained trying to joke when every sound she uttered was so false. "Such a nice track through the forest, I almost feel right at home. Much more so than at Orr."

She was right. It felt like home. Like a Grove, wrong and dark and without his mother's arms around him.

It is right. This is your place.

It wasn't a melody. It wasn't a threat. It was a calling to a purpose which wore shackles upon its wrists and a whip on its hand.

"Sit down, Commander. You look about to fall down."

He pulled her to the ground, forcing her to sit by his side. It was their little sylvari group, the corruptible all joined in the same place, all ready to be offed if they said the wrong word.

(Yes, I see you, Charr. I also see what you do. What part of your soul did you exchange for that power? How can you dare to deem us worse than you?)

"It's alright, Canach. They don't understand," Synthaer didn't bother to raise her voice. "They can't hear him. But you do. That is enough." Her hand found his, uncaring of his wishes for solitude and sheer lack of contact, entwined her fingers with his and tightened; tightened until the sap in his body beat bluntly against the unexpected obstacle, until he was sure she was going to break them underneath her hold. For such a small sapling, the woman could summon a ridiculous amount of strength. "It's fine like this. You won't let me turn," she stated with a conviction he certainly didn't feel. "You see me falter, you will end it right there and then. You know what to see. You know what to expect. You know the signs."

Violet eyes, darker with each passing moment.

"You speak as if I'm no danger of being taken."

Another smile.

(False, false, false!)

"You wore chains before," she stated lowly. "You'll never let him put those on you."

"That makes me sound stronger than you."

"You're the secondborn here, not I."

Canach made his disgust of the nomenclature well patent in one sound.

"Zaithan didn't fall because of the secondborn." He shivered unconsciously. Something in the calling raged against the notion of a dead dragon, pushed against his shields with more and more strength. Looking into Synthaer's eyes, he saw the same renewed fight. Her fingers tightened further, as if that hold was enough to keep the calling away.

"I am asking you, Canach," the Commander whispered softly. Almost inaudibly. A prayer in the eye of the hurricane. "Don't let me be them."

She fell silent. The male had the impression nothing he said in that moment would make her utter sounds ever again. Back straight, eyes wide open and with that very same crushing hold on his hand as the moments ticked away, Canach watched her throughout the hours. The moon slowly made his track over the sky and he vaguely followed its movement, listening to the melody of the forest, the sleeping group and the promises and threats of the dragon. He found it was easier to deal with the latter like that, holding something so very solid within his grasp.

(Even if the Commander was scared.

Terribly so.

Even if that.)

With the sunlight, the remaining members of the group began moving. He saw the little Asura slip her head out of a pile of blankets, pretending very hard she hadn't been holding onto the norn's arm the whole night. The Mesmer hadn't bothered. She had barely moved from the Necromancer's side and he could read the lack of interest in anyone else's attention. Each of them battled their demons in their own way, it seemed.

(So she could stop staring at them at any moment. It felt like she was ready to comment on something which was completely out of her depth.)

"Commander." The Charr again. Worried, supportive, tail twitching in the air. "We can continue, if you'd like."

(If she'd like? What they'd like the most would be to turn right around. March up to the Grove and sleep for an Age. How would she like to walk right into Kralkatorrik's jaws?)

He felt impassively as Synthaer smiled again and released his hand before rising. The sap began flowing once more through his fingers, rushing through the last traces of warmth her hold had left behind, and the world felt the tiniest bit less real without it.

Mordremoth screamed in his mind, nails digging against the shield wrapped tightly against his mind.

Canach stared forward, watching as his Commander took to the front of the group, staff on her hand (back straight and defiant and pained).

Tic tic tic.

He followed without hesitation.