"Elegy"

This author owns nothing whatsoever... well, okay, except for the original characters that he might recycle for his own stuff later. He does that a lot.

Author's Note: Well, here we are. As I am fond of saying, this whole thing was supposed to be a single shipping fic. As it stands, however, the story you are about the read is the final installment of the series that started with Estranged. So far, the reading order is as follows: Estranged, Cold Metal, The Few Remaining Strands, Ashes, The Third Sorceress War (Acts I-III), The Fated Children and finally, Elegy. Being the last, this one has a few callbacks to the previous installments.

Timeline-wise, far as I could calculate, this story takes place 23-25 years after the game, around 7 years after the events of The Fated Children - I dropped the ball on stating exactly when one of the previous installments took place, but I estimate it to be around 25.

Last but not least, if you like it, please review.

Prologue

EVERY MORNING SINCE EDEA.

(Brea's war.)

The snub-nosed revolver was a gift; it had been given to her on her birthday seven years ago, a month after Edea. It was a work of fine art, and bore the touch of somewhat reluctant Shumi craftsmanship. It was coated in silver, with intricate lines etched into every available inch in flowing, red, elegant curves. The stock was wooden, sanded and shaped into perfection, and it bore her name, written in the Shumi language.

The gun was a .47 caliber, just like her twin pistols. She had removed its safety mechanism after getting back to her suite on that day. It was a habit. The first rule of sharpshooting was that you had to be sure you should pull the trigger, as when the bullet left the barrel, you couldn't take it back. Brea interpreted it differently. To her, a safety mechanism was just unnecessary; she had to be ready to shoot at any moment, so her trigger finger extended along the barrel was all the safety any gun she had would ever need.

Presently, the revolver had only one round in the chamber, and the hammer was cocked. It was sitting atop her white-make up table, reflected in the panoramic mirrors. A little ways from it was the plastic, golden casing of her lipstick, which was the only make-up she ever wore. Number 54, Centra Sun, a vibrant-blue based pale red. One of the very few things that were her own, had been her own since the Trabian Atrocity.

Her palms were pressed firmly against the smooth, glass surface of table, on both sides of the gun. Her fingers were spread out, slowly pressing in her fingerprints.

Brea looked up from the gun and into the mirror. Brown eyes looked back. Red hair, still messy from the night, hung around her pale face. Her cheeks were still a bit puffy, as were her lips. The silver chain of Jake's cross was visible around her neck, and the cross itself, hanging between her breasts, was like a tattoo to her - always, forever there.

Her eyes darted to the envelope stuck to the corner of the mirror. She knew that it had a single, folded page in it, bearing four words that were meant to explain everything if that morning went differently than the hundreds of mornings before this one.

She looked down at the revolver again. The solitary bullet inside it, waiting to be let loose, wasn't just a piece of metal meant to kill, but a question.

It was the embodiment of what she lived by...

...but would it be what she died by?

A moment's hesitation. Then it passed.

Brea withdrew her hands and caught her own eyes in the reflection. On the precipice, leaning, but...

"Not there."

Brea got up to get dressed.