A/N: And because I can't write decent action scenes for toffee, you're getting an epilogue/aftermath.
Disclaimer: I own nothing of Mad Max, no matter how shiny and chrome. I blame TV Tropes entirely for Nux's part.
Manifest Destiny: Epilogue
Five months have passed since that day.
The day when the Immortan and his followers burned out in a blaze on the Fury Road.
The day the women of the Citadel rose up to guide the people, and to change the lives of all around them.
The day the Road Warrior nodded farewell to them all and strode out into the Wasteland once more.
There is now a small pond at the foot of the waterfall. Green tendrils are starting to spread outwards and upwards, into all the nooks and crannies in the Citadel's walls.
She can see The Dag, her belly now swelling high and firm, scrambling over the rocks beside the waterfall and carefully scrutinising each plant. A group of War Boys watch her from the foot of the rocks, all ready to catch her should she slip.
Her slim fingers trail over the leaves, tracing the path of each stem in turn.
There might be flowers soon.
A new Green Place.
She turns and squints against the morning sun at the descending platform. Furiosa, her wounds now fully healed, stands with the head of the Milk Mothers, both gesturing down the length of Fury Road towards Gas Town and the Bullet Farm. Today's supply run is almost ready to depart.
A band of giggling, unruly War Pups cluster adoringly around Cheedo at the edges of the pond, only daring to disturb the surface of the water with her explicit say-so.
Two older Pups keep a careful watch on their younger companions as they listen to the youngest Wife explaining something, her hands darting through the air like birds.
High above, she knows Toast, the Milk Mothers, and the rest of the remaining Vuvalini will be monitoring the water levels, the number of plants in the hydroponics area, the requests from the construction teams on the ground, and so many other things.
The Citadel is at peace, but that doesn't mean they aren't ready for war.
The grief comes as it always does, in a sudden wave that stabs at her heart and makes her catch her breath. She sits down atop a dusty red rock and closes her eyes, fingers digging into the dirt even as she feels the gentle pressure of his goggles around her head.
Her toes clench and curl inside her battered boots as she reminds herself to breathe.
She misses him.
More than she realises, and even after only a few days in his company.
She always thinks that he should be here with them, with her, in the new Citadel he helped make possible.
But he always knew he would die young, die ill.
He didn't know how historic he would die on the Fury Road.
She hopes that wherever he is, there is green.
Perhaps Valhalla is green.
She thinks he would like that.
She sighs and shakes her head, pulling herself out of her contemplations.
There is still so much to do before she can journey there herself, and it won't be for a long time yet.
But for now, she will help create a patch of Valhalla here, in the Wastelands.
Valhalla doesn't look that shiny, not from here.
He squints through the doorway carved into the massive sun-coloured wall and tilts his head.
From here, he can make out some of the faces of the War Boys who had gone before. Some are feasting, some are fighting and roaring, and the rest are cheering them on.
He can't see the Immortan from here.
He's not sure he wants to.
And he can't see any of the Vuvalini either.
But maybe they wouldn't want to go there.
He looks down and sighs.
"You got what you wanted, War Boy."
Not like he's got a choice here.
He takes one slow step forward.
"That's not the only choice."
He jumps slightly at the voice, his heart, or something like it, fluttering in fright.
He recognises that voice.
But…
He turns around and tries not to flinch.
The Splendid Angharad stands before him, gold-brown hair loose over her shoulders, a shiny gold chestplate over her long white dress, and her belly now flat as his own. The scars over her face and arms shine silvery-gold against her skin, ugly and beautiful at the same time.
A plump, sandy-haired baby is tucked into the crook of her arm, happily chewing on its fat little fist.
"But…you…"
The eldest Wife smiles.
"Died? Yes. Me and this one both."
She pulls the baby - her son, he realises belatedly – safely into her arms.
"We were given a choice, when we stood where you stand now. There is Valhalla, which you have more than earned your place in… or there is another place. A green place."
Green place?
Something that sits where his heart once was gives a tug.
Angharad reaches out a hand to him.
"Come and see."
He hesitates for only a moment before he takes her hand, embarrassed at the feel of his rough, callused palm on her unmarked fingers.
The peaceful darkness behind her shimmers, and reforms into another walled kingdom, gates open in welcome.
Beyond those gates…
He lets go of her hand and staggers forward, eyes wide.
Beyond the sun-coloured walls and the golden gates of this new place…there is green.
Green in every direction. Green like the highest reaches of the Citadel.
Green so far before him that he can't see where it begins or ends.
And not just green, but reds, yellows, blues…flowers and plants in every colour he can name and more than a few he can't.
Pools of clean water are sprinkled across the green, shimmering peacefully in a light that looks just like the sun. The whole place smells like fresh water, and new life.
Figures in pinks and browns are scattered through the green, some in groups, others by themselves.
All of them look happy.
He turns in a slow circle, trying to take everything in.
He lets out a shocked laugh.
A delighted baby squeal behind him brings him back to himself. He wheels around to face Angharad, who is fussing over her child with a fond, almost sad look on her face.
"Where…what is this place?"
Angharad smiles. Her nose wrinkles slightly.
"This," she gestures to everything before her with a free hand, "is Freya's Field."
He knows he looks confused.
He can't help it.
It's not every day you find out there's an afterlife all in green.
She chuckles and strides forward, hair blowing in the breeze.
"Those who die in battle or childbirth have a choice when the Valkyries come to claim them – to go to Valhalla, or to Freya's Fields."
She studies the scene before her.
"You were claimed by a Valkyrie before you died."
…Rictus yanking the War Rig's air scoops above his head…
…His stomach feeling like it had sunk to his boots, but his heart swelling in pride as he watched them escape…
…His last words to her…'witness me'…
…Capable stretching her right arm out before her, and plucking something out of the air before pulling it to her heart…
…The fire had burned, but he had felt no pain…
He smiles.
So she was a shield-maiden after all. And to be claimed by her, and for this…
He stares up at the endless sky, and then back at his guide. "Were you a Valkyrie too?"
She smiles fondly, and shifts her son from her hip to cuddle him against her breastplate. The little one squeals and pats at the shiny metal, leaving smeary handprints over its surface.
"I was, I am, and will be again."
Her blue eyes darken with sadness. She walks past him and sits down on a little mound of grass beside the nearest pond, gesturing for him to join her.
"There will always be death in the Wasteland, as certain as there is life. You can't always control your death, but you have a choice on how to live your life."
He sits down next to her, stretching his legs out before him. "And…after you die?"
"A result of how you lived, but even then, for those who are chosen, they have a choice."
He leans back, propped up on his elbows, and studies the great gate before him, and the greenery around him.
"Will…will she have this choice as well? Capable, I mean. And the others too."
"Between Valhalla and here? Yes."
He thinks on this.
"…Would she know? That I'm here and not there?"
She casts an expectant smile upon him. "So you do want to stay here?"
He nods.
"My choice. And I think she'd like it here more than Valhalla."
"Then I think we can arrange something. To make sure though, you'd have to wait here until she passes on, so that she can see you."
"How long would that be?"
"Not for many decades yet, thanks to what you did for her and my Sisters."
He grins fondly.
"Good."
He sits up and shuffles himself across the grass to sit next to her. The baby stares at him with wide blue eyes, then ducks his head into his mother's shoulder.
He proffers a scraped and scarred finger, just in the baby's eyeline. The baby gurgles and reaches up to grab onto it, his grip surprisingly strong.
Decades. Tens of years.
A long time to wait.
Angharad leans against him, bright and solid and warm. Her hair gently tickles against his bare shoulder. The baby gums down on his finger, coating it in drool. He looks more like his mother than he does his father.
A warm wind whips around them. Freya's Field smells like what he thinks peace smells like.
He turns his face to the golden gates, closes his eyes, and smiles.
No, this is pretty good, all things considered.
There's no better place to wait for a Valkyrie.
END