I KNOW. I'M SO SORRY.
Seriously. I suck. I really did mean to update earlier… but damn it life, for getting in the way. I think I really needed a kick in the ass (in the form of attending Fan Expo and seeing Rachel Skarsten put her arm around Anna Silk and say the word 'Valkubus') to get going with this, and I did it.
Yeah. So this is finished.
And I'm reeeeally happy with it, because I actually managed to wrap up the crazy storyline idea I came up with ages ago (like Chapter 4!) So I hope you guys like it. And I apologize again.
Also, let's do a disclaimer. I don't own Lost Girl, or any of the mythology/phrases from mythology that occur in this chapter/story.
Okay. I think that's it. Is anyone else nervous? Eeeeee.
Let me know what you think. Love you guys.
xxxxxxx
Their footsteps sound strange. They are the loudest thing in the hall, the most prominent. But the most insignificant. They are walking through a mystical, ethereal palace of the gods, journeying back to their home. Bo couldn't care less. They might as well be walking through a back alley. It doesn't matter at all to her.
Because Tamsin hasn't spoken yet.
The first words out of the valkyrie's mouth allow Bo to let out a breath she doesn't realize she has been holding. She listens, rapt. And terrified.
"It's typical, really," Tamsin says, an edge of bitterness to her soft voice. "I was always the oddball – the valkyrie who wasn't completely obsessed with fate, with the mystical, with the unknown. As a rookie, instead of wandering the palace with my jaw on the floor at the beauty, I was in rundown outskirts, guzzling any spirit I could find, covering my face so people wouldn't know I was anything other than another drunk commoner." Bo sees Tamsin's jaw work, sees her teeth grind together. "I'm important, aren't I," she asks, and her voice is weary. "I'm something you tell your children about in stories."
Bo doesn't want to answer her. She doesn't want to have this conversation, she wants Tamsin's desire to just be like anyone else to be fulfilled. She knows the feeling well – the feeling of not fitting in, of feeling like you are just so undeniably different in a way you can't change. She cringes inwardly, and knows that as much as she wants everything to be as simple as that… it just isn't. "I've… heard of you," she says finally.
Another long exhale drifts from Tamsin's lips. "Of course you have," she mutters dejectedly. Then she turns her head, her eyes losing their distant quality and focusing completely on Bo. Her jaw is set, and the lines of her face are serious. "So, are you going to tell me? What you know? Who I am?"
Yes, that is what Bo has been planning to do. That is why she brought this up, that is why she's having this painful conversation. But as she looks into the eyes of the woman she loves, she thinks about it. And she decides that yes, she has to tell her. But … "Tamsin," she says, and her voice is clear now, strong. "I don't care."
Tamsin's expression doesn't change, and there is a confused flicker in her eyes as she tries to process that sentence. "What the hell are you talking about, succubus," she deadpans after a second.
It's so simple to Bo. "I don't care," she repeats, and she wonders at the truth of that. "I don't care about this identity bullshit, about who you are. You can't control it – you never could. But this part of you – it doesn't change anything, Tamsin. In fact, it just makes you… more you." She stops speaking for a moment and just takes in the beauty of the woman holding her hand. And she thinks about how lucky she is. "And I love you."
Tamsin's laugh is kind of strangled – a funny little noise in her throat that sounds both pained and incredibly happy all at once. "You're so weird," she says. And then she exhales slowly. "Although I guess I'm one to talk."
Bo can feel it. The words on her lips, the need to just… get it out. "Tamsin," she starts, and suddenly she knows exactly what to say – exactly what she feels. "You're strong. You're brave. You're so goddamn smart."
One blonde eyebrow arches, amused. "Self talk? Really?"
"You're a bit of an asshole," Bo continues, a smile edging onto her lips. "But you have a good heart." She takes a deep breath. Getting close. "You're a valkyrie. You're a warrior. A soldier."
Tamsin is silent, her green eyes alight. She knows it's coming too. She squeezes Bo's hand, and age old words echo in her ears, numbing her brain, quickening her heart. Words from old stories that always felt just a little more significant than they should have. …Rising with the sun, a skeleton in black armor mounted on a white horse...
She feels the words leave Bo's lips like a final puzzle piece settling into its vacant home.
"You are Death."
She doesn't realize how right it is until she hears it.
… And then she feels it.
Death is young. She sits alone, apart from the others. They are… different. She clenches her fists, and her nails bite into her palms.
Tamsin's heart pounds in her throat.
Death is older. She feels the twinge in her chest again, the subtle, pinching feeling that only is noticeable every once in a while. It feels strange. It feels like she is letting something go.
Blood is in her mouth, and she feels the twinge. The one she has almost forgotten about. The one that happens so often it has faded into the background of who she is. Now she knows, though. Every time someone dies. Every time she has to let someone go.
Death leaves home. She can't be held down anymore. It feels wrong. She can't follow someone else's idea of life. It is not meant for her.
Tamsin grits her teeth. She was never meant to follow the path of life.
She is meant to end it.
"Tamsin…" Bo's voice is soft, wary, but there is no regret there. "I know this feels so huge for you. But it's always been there. It's just – you know, now."
Tamsin laughs without humour. She thinks back to the dís, thinks back to all that has happened. "I'm a plot point, Bo," she says, her voice flat. "I'm meant to guide others on their journey, not have my own." She grimaces. "I always knew that, at least."
A soft laugh escapes Bo's lips. "And since when have you ever listened to someone else's plans for you? You have a huge burden, Tamsin, but it's your life."
There is a short pause. And then the blonde smiles wryly. "Who better than Death to dictate her own life?"
This is a slightly twisted way of putting it, but isn't that just like Tamsin? Bo squeezes her hand. "Exactly."
It feels like they should speak – should process this, should acknowledge the heavy weight of the information that has been thrust out in the open. But at the same time, as Bo walks along, she overwhelmingly doesn't feel the need to. It's strange, but somehow it is less like something new has happened, and more like something old has finally fallen into place. 'This has been the weirdest fucking thing I've ever done,' she thinks, and her lips twitch in a silent, flickering smile.
They walk. One foot in front of the other.
Tamsin is leading – she knows where she is going. The white halls are bright, all the same. Somehow though, they are less threatening now, less foreign. As Bo walks, she feels – almost at home. The sticky haze of fear that seemed to have been surrounding them since they arrived in this place is gone. There is no feeling of being watched, of being tracked. Without knowing, Bo knows the Einherjar are not following them anyone. She takes a deep breath. The air is clear.
The air is getting clearer, actually.
Dyson has noticed too. His voice is rough when he speaks up from behind them – he has been silent for quite a while. "It feels different, here," he remarks. "Lighter."
Bo glances to her right to see Tamsin nod. "We're close," she says, an excited lilt to her voice.
Bo has to ask. "Close to what?"
And then they turn a corner, and the 'what' becomes very apparent.
Tamsin smiles. "Close to the gate."
The gate is… magnificent. The white marble structure stands with ethereal, godly pride; towering over the three of them. It is carved so beautifully Bo could weep – scenes of winged beings in the throes of battle adorn the massive structure, and ornately designed wreathes of white marble are seemingly woven into the sides. Bo feels her mouth drop open in awe.
And the centre, the glowing area in between the pillars of the gate… it is simply unreal.
It lives. This is the only way to describe it. It is a pulsing, living thing – full of this unbelievable energy that seems to emanate from the gate towards the three of them, rippling outward like a wave of life. Bo feels it warm her face, and wonders if it's possible she will get a tan.
It's incredible. Incredible.
"Wow," says Dyson.
Tamsin laughs softly. "That's one way to say it," she mutters. But the awe present in her voice is the same as Dyson's. Her face is lit up, aglow with the godly light from the gate. She is radiant.
Bo doesn't have the words. Not yet. So she simply stands, watching, waiting. She feels Tamsin squeeze her hand, and she wonders if maybe this moment could just last forever.
But she remembers things then – flashes, things that seem almost from a whole other life. She hears a laugh in her memories, a soft giggle from an ebony haired girl. Kenzi. And she can almost smell oak, almost feel the smoothness of her favourite bar beneath her fingertips, hear the familiar chuckle of its owner. Trick.
And then she does have the words, does have the will. And she turns her head to look at Tamsin. "Let's go home," she says.
A slip of paper is in her hand – a slip of paper that seems as though it was from forever ago. There is blood staining the edges – of course there is – but the words scrawled there are still readable:
'One will ride in on a black horse, the decider of all but yet to be decided
One will follow, always, doomed to be broken
One roams alone, soon to expire.
Invoke these names to open the gate.'
Bo's eyes flash over the words of the spell, taking them in, processing them.
'One will ride in on a black horse…' Tamsin inhales next to her, her own sharp green eyes undoubtedly taking in the words for herself. And the valkyrie is steely eyed – Death is ready. Present.
'One will follow, always, doomed to be broken…' Dyson is to her left now, the blue of his eyes locked with the beauty of the gate, still. And Bo feels the back of her neck get hot. She needs to tell him. She will. But the important thing, as it always is with Dyson, is that he is here. Always. Present.
'One roams alone, doomed to expire.'
Uh oh.
Oh no.
Oh no, no, no, no.
Fuck.
"Fuck." Bo startles as her thoughts are voiced – Tamsin has reached the same line she has, and has undoubtedly come to the same jarring conclusion. "We killed the motherfucker," seethes the blonde, her eyes wide with the realization and voice shrill with panic. "Fuck. He's dead. We killed him!" She drops Bo's hand, running her fingers frantically through her own blood stained blonde hair, pulling at the strands. "But we need him!"
They're doomed. A dreadful, sinking feeling surrounds Bo's heart, and she feels her mouth go dry as a horrible numbness envelops her. They can't escape now – they have killed the Wanderer, killed her father, the last piece of the puzzle. The gate won't open.
The gate won't open.
A howl of misery fills the air – Dyson has heard their words, realized the truth, too. His shoulders shake – he is losing his human form, losing his grip on his wolf. His howl becomes more animal, truer, as his body warps, as his skin sprouts fur, as his hands form claws. His clothes rip and then he is in motion. He bolts from Bo's side, and he is running toward the gate, his anguished howl still filling the air.
"No, Dyson!" comes Tamsin's voice, and although she is fast, she is not faster than a wolf – she races after him, but Dyson is too far gone.
His howl is pain, pure animal pain.
And then he thrusts himself into the centre of the gate.
Bo's cry of fear rings in the air, but she barely hears it – Dyson's body is lit up by the light, frozen in mid leap, a wolf surrounded by the raw energy of Valhalla. And time seems to slow down, freeze to a stand still.
Seconds crawl like years.
And Bo watches.
The gate is angry – this is not how it is supposed to go. It needs three things, three names to be invoked. And it has only the body of one.
Not acceptable. Not the way it should be.
So the gate spits him out.
The wolf hits the marble hard. There is no escaping it – bones shatter. Blood spills on pristine white floor. Doomed to be broken. "No…" comes a whisper. The valkyrie kneels at his side, her fingers entangled in his fur. "You idiot," she says again. "You Fool."
It is grim. It seems as though there is nothing left. They are trapped in this place, and the Fool lies still. Unmoving. Unbreathing.
But then he opens his eyes. And when he opens his eyes, and looks up at the woman at his side, he does not see a valkyrie, backlit by the glow of the ethereal gate. Before him, he sees, rising with the sun, a skeleton in black armor mounted on a white horse. He recognizes it as Death. And so he humbly asks, "Have I died?"
And the Skeleton answers, "Yes, in a way. You sacrificed your old self. That part of you is gone, dead."
The Fool cannot keep from weeping. "Forgive me," he says, embarrassed by his tears.
"There is nothing to forgive," Death replies.
And the Fool sees the truth in those words. He, too, feels like a skeleton, all that he was stripped away. This, he understands, is how all great transformations start, by removing everything down to bare bone or soil so that something new has room to grow. "What do I do?" he asks.
It is not Death who answers.
"Get up," says Bo. The words surprise her with their power. She does not understand what is happening. She does not understand her own certainty, her own strikingly deep knowledge that this is what needs to happen, this is how it needs to be.
The Fool looks to her, his eyes pained, unsure. "I cannot," he says. "I am broken."
Again, the words leave Bo's lips before she can understand what they even mean. "The old part of you is broken," she says. "You sacrificed yourself for me, again and again. Your bones shattered for that, shattered for your sacrifice." And then she pauses, and she thinks. And then she speaks purposefully – she realizes what has truly occurred. "You need to leave your love for me behind." She smiles. "You need to be able to grow."
There is a long pause, the time stretching on seemingly endlessly. But then the Fool's body stirs, and in a second he is in the form of a man again – a strong, whole man, unadorned with blood or scars, clad in only now shredded rags of black. His eyes are on fire, alight with his own power, his own individuality. His new life.
And the Fool stands, a new man. "You're right," he says simply, looking to his former lover. "But I can't do that here. I need to go home, Bo." His gaze flickers to Death, and then back to the succubus. "We all do."
Bo knows the truth of that. She shuts her eyes tight. There is something she is missing, still. Something glaringly obvious, just out of reach. Something that will truly allow everything to fall into place.
The Wanderer is the third part of the puzzle – the third name that must be invoked to open the gate. The Wanderer - doomed to expire. Bo chews morosely on her own lip. Well he certainly was that… expired. Dead. Gone.
... Wait. If he is gone, how can he still be the name to open the gate?
Bo opens her eyes.
He can't be. Her heart races with excitement, and a realization that is slowly growing. He isn't. And she looks at Death, and the sharp green eyes she adores meet her own. "The Wanderer reigned in Valhalla, didn't he? For ages?"
Death's returning gaze is steely. "For eons."
Bo meets that gaze. "Like a king?"
Death lifts a shoulder in a half shrug, not understanding. "I suppose so. Like a king."
Bo's heart is pounding harder now. Her eyes dart from face to face, from Death to the Fool, and back. "When a king dies," she starts, slowly and carefully, as if speaking too fast might taint the truth of her words. "He passes on his throne." And she takes a step forward. Closer to her companions. Closer to the gate.
The Fool's brow is furrowed, as he tries to comprehend her words, tries to understand. "Yes," he agrees slowly, his confusion evident in his voice.
And then Bo is right before him, and a smile begins to grow on her face. "He passes on his throne," she repeats, "To his oldest son." And her brown eyes flash a brilliant blue. "Or, if you will – his oldest daughter."
And now the Wanderer's smile is wide. With her right hand, she reaches out to grasp the fingers of Death, the woman she loves with every fibre of her being, the woman whose bright green eyes are now wide with realization, and joy. And the Wanderer and Death share a gaze that brims with the hope of their future. A future full of possibilities, happiness, and love.
Tearing her eyes away from her love, the Wanderer reaches out with her left hand, and grasps the strong hand of the Fool. His grip is familiar, but different now. His blue eyes flash, and the Wanderer knows that this is a new man – but still an old friend. And undoubtedly, one of the best friends she will ever have. And the Wanderer and the Fool share a gaze that acknowledges that bond. And they smile, together.
There is only one thing left to do. And with an unspoken agreement, they begin.
The three companions, hand in hand, turn to face the gate.
And Tamsin says: "Death."
And Dyson says: "The Fool."
And Bo says: "The Wanderer."
And a brilliant white light erupts from the magnificent marble gate of Valhalla, enveloping the three of them. And taking them home.