Adrestes swings his bare feet back and forth through the water slowly, enjoying the cool touch against his skin and the way the golds and blues of the water ripple before turning clear again. He's in the middle of a story when he looks to his side and notices that his company's attention has been pulled from him.
He follows her gaze to the sky to see two ascended flying overhead. They sweep over them, and keep going. Out of the realm, if their course is any indication.
Amaeria lets out a slow breath, not that she needs it. Souls don't breathe, after all.
"What's wrong?"
She realizes she's been caught and straightens up a little, looking embarrassed. "I'm sorry! I was paying attention. You were talking about—"
"You looked worried just now," Adrestes interrupts.
She looks down, her ears flatten ever so slightly—it's cute the way they do that when she's trying to hide what she's thinking. She bites her lip, avoiding his gaze. "I just… you can't fool me, you know. You're a very busy man."
Adrestes stares at her a moment before laughing. "You thought they were coming to drag me away, did you?"
"It is how most of our meetings end," she says, softly. "I know I can't have you all to myself, but—" Even as she speaks, she seems to realize what she's saying, or rather, how she's saying it. She covers her face with her hands, embarrassed. "I'm sorry."
Warmth spreads through Adrestes' chest as a smile tows up the corners of his lips. He is certain he has smiled more these last few months than in all the eons before combined. He reaches out and carefully takes her nearer hand, draws it away from her face.
Lately, he's noticed that something is… off is not quite the word, but something is different about when he touches this soul, versus any other. It feels like there should be some spark, something more, like there is something there that can't quite pass between his form and her lack of one.
It is not there when he touches any other soul—not that he goes out of his way to. But on the rare instance he does, and during his last time ferrying souls, he has noticed that they do not have whatever it is that Amaeria has.
He thinks she feels it, too, though she has danced around the topic the two times he brought it up.
She's not quite ready to talk about it, and Adrestes respects that.
But the unknown element of it has pressed on him, made him want to seek out answers, if only to have them when they finally do talk about whatever it is that is trying to happen between them.
He, in his folly, asked Lysonia.
She was almost as gleeful as Eridia, and while he swore her to secrecy, he could tell from the next time he spoke with her lover that that hadn't lasted very long.
Lysonia is less of a romantic than Eridia, though she does believe in soulmates. However, she's less…obnoxious about it, and so he has confided in her a few times now, about how he is feeling things he's never felt before, including the spark that won't quite come.
"You won't like the simple explanation," Lysonia had said, leaning to one side against a pillar in Loyalty as Adrestes stood in front of her, a hesitant audience. She was merciful enough to not say that word that Adrestes does not believe in. "But the long of it is that both of you are yearning for something deeper, and it's trying to manifest, but can't because she has no body." Lysonia's grin was one for the records when she added, "I can only imagine what the hours after she passes her first cleansing are going to be like between you two."
"Lysonia!" He hissed, smacking at her arm when she cackled.
"People don't feel what you're feeling and keep their hands to themselves, Adrestes."
Embarrassing as it is, he can feel the truth of it rising through him even now, heating the back of his neck and cheeks. Because his dreams have…well, they've tried to go in that direction of late, though they always stall a little awkwardly, unsure just how to paint that scene, unsure how Amaeria will look once she has earned her physical form.
He's not sure what to do about that.
As he tries not to think of that now, Amaeria tilts her head, leans toward him a little. There is a mischievous light in her eyes that sends a shiver through him that he tries to hide. "Adrestes, are you blushing?"
"I," he drags the word out a little awkwardly, looking away from her. "I was thinking of something."
For a second, he thinks she will tease him, will ask him just what it is that he's thinking.
He half wishes she would.
Because if she does, he'll tell her, everything. Of the things he's told Lysonia. Of how his friends have taken to teasing him about how he finds a way to weave her into every conversation, of how they're all learning her likes and interests before even meeting her because he can't help but talk about her to them.
About how he wants her to meet them, how they've promised they won't give her preferential treatment, won't go easy on her when she gets to their temples, but there is a chance, a willingness for friendship there, if she wants it.
He wants to tell her how every question she asks, every time she lights up over some new little detail of Bastion that she's discovered makes him love it and her all the more.
Because he does.
They have not known each other long—it has not yet been a full year since her arrival to Bastion—but by the Archon's grace he loves her. Her smile, the way she hides her face when she's embarrassed, the way she sits up straighter when she's listening, completely pulled in by whatever he's telling her, the way she plays with her hair, how she can find the good in everytthing…
He loves her ears, too, though he knows she will lose those when she takes her kyrian form.
Thanikos has teased that she could be a writhing mass of void tentacles, and Adrestes would still say she was pretty, still think it.
And honestly, it's not far off.
It's her soul that's beautiful, and she could take any form, and he would love her.
It's a terrifying realization, one that kept him up for days longer than usual when it first hit, but each time he gets to sit with her, talk with her, it's a little less horrifying a notion.
He wishes so much that she would ask him, or tell him something similar.
She does not.
"I wish I could feel the water," she says, looking out at the pond and tucking some of her hair back with her free hand. He realizes he's still clasping her other and lets her go.
Another terror that grips him is that this is one sided.
Somehow, it does not occur to him often, but when it does, it is a nagging, ugly thing. That perhaps she does not see him as he does her. That perhaps she does not want him, as he does her.
Though…as little as he appreciates gossip, he has found himself stalling to listen to Eridia's more often of late.
Because Kalisthene told Eridia that Amaeria has fallen just as hard. That she talks about Adrestes all the time with a shy smile, that there's half a dozen aspirants who know more about him than most of the ascended do now because she tells them everything. That when she talks about him, she lights up in a way that makes that melancholy little soul who kept to herself and stared listlessly into the distance unrecognizable.
His mere presence seems to heal her in a way that nothing else can.
Adrestes wants to believe that it's true, but when she hesitates like this…
She hasn't brought up Gryst'lyn in a long time, but he thinks that the memory of her fiancé may be what is holding her back. Perhaps she thinks it too soon to move on, or perhaps she still loves him.
The mere thought stings, but Adrestes is sure that he can be patient.
He is sure that he could wait an eternity for her, so long as he knew she would be there at his side, in the end.
The bells are chiming in the distance, as always, but one of them hits an offkey note and that pulls Adrestes from his thoughts. He shivers, shakes his head. In all his years in Bastion, never once has Vesiphone let one of her vespers fall out of tune. It tis a point of pride for her.
To hear even a single offkey note is…
It is unsettling.
Trying to shake off the notion that something is wrong, he circles back in his head to what they've been discussing. She mentioned the water.
"You'll be able to—" he starts to assure her, but when he looks to his side, the grasses are empty.
Adrestes straightens up, looks around.
His feathers bristle.
He pulls his feet from the water, stands.
"Amaeria?"
Another off-tune chime resounds over the fields.
Adrestes takes a few steps before jumping into the air, gaze scanning the fields around him as he ascends higher. He holds his breath, tries to feel that pull.
There is nothing.
The chime is stronger, closer.
It hurts.
For a second, it feels like there is a rush of something else going on around him. Movement perhaps?
No, something under his skin, in his head. Like fish flitting under the still surface of the pond.
Not fish.
This is something that doesn't belong.
He winces against the pain that blooms into his head in its wake, like it is ringing between his temples rather than in the Temple of Purity.
The world around him is blurring and shifting, and his mind is drawn to when the Void attacked Bastion, though it's not quite…
This is not that.
He tries to remember what he was doing.
He is by the pond—isn't he? If he's by the pond, then he is there to meet with…
The name escapes him, but he can see her clear as day, pulling her red hair up into a bun as he walks toward her, wearing an aspirant's robe even if her skin is a pale pink instead of blue.
Liila.
Why would she…why would she wander off in the middle of a conversation?
Why would she leave?
She said 'please'…
His gaze darts back and forth, panic swelling in him, along with a miserable voice that whispers that she is gone.
That she is gone and no amount of waiting is ever going to bring her back. She will never pass her first rite, never have a kyrian form. She will never fly with him through the skies of Bastion, never curl up with him in is bed.
That spark will never be realized—
The panic rising in him stalls then because he knows that is not true. He has felt that spark, and it is so much more than that word implies. It is an electricity that floods him, that could overcome him completely if he allowed it, and there is a part of him that wants to, so much.
It is just…
It came so suddenly, so unexpectedly.
Why was it unexpected? He has known for months, every time he touches her incorporeal form, he has known that there is something there, waiting just beneath the surface.
It is unexpected and strange and wholly wonderful.
He blinks, stares down at Amaeria, her hand in his, fingers just barely touching.
No.
This isn't…
It's not right. She is not the translucent soul he knows so well, but flesh and bone, with brilliant red hair, and softly glowing blue eyes. Eyes that stare into his, full of awe because she feels it, too.
The spark finally made manifest. The electricity.
She does feel it, doesn't she?
A hand knocks her shoulder, and she slips away.
Cold washes over him where that electricity has died. It twists through him, forming knots that weigh him down, that make his wings sag, hurt.
This can't end here.
Not like this.
He reaches for her.
She is gone.
People are talking.
"We're finally making some progress."
The world is dark, and Adrestes tries to narrow his eyes, tries to force himself to adjust to his surroundings. He should know this place. He knows every inch of Bastion.
And yet…
"It looks like the mind is less likely to reject the most recent memories given up."
"It's like putting a puzzle together," says a voice he knows he has grown very much to despise in the last few…
How long has it been?
"The pieces need to have a clear place to go. When you get back to early memories, it's all so vague. That's part of what the problem is. The memories aren't sure that they belong, and so they become hostile. When there's a clear place…"
She's repeating herself.
Adrestes tries to move, but something holds him down.
"It's a problem for those who gave everything up eons ago, but—"
Boots scuff against the floor. Someone is coming closer. If he can wait until they're close enough, he can grab them and…
No.
He's tried that already.
Hasn't he?
He blinks against the darkness, tries to focus, but everything is blurry.
"Would he be more receptive to older memories now?"
His wings hurt.
"It's hard to say, he broke several of the mirrors. We still have some of his childhood, but—"
"Without a firm, clear place to settle in, the memories will become hostile."
Adrestes voice is hoarse as he says, "I'll break those…too."
"He's awake?"
"He comes and goes. It seems to work better when he's unconscious though. There's less active resistance."
"What's actually taken hold?"
"Nothing I won't get rid of the second I'm free," Adrestes says, interrupting their conversation. He wants to sound angrier, more defiant, but his energy is spent, and he cannot even see who it is he's arguing against.
There is a hush for a moment before he hears those boots coming closer again, like out of tune vespers chiming, getting closer and closer until they stop right in front of him.
"Do you think he'll fall?"
"I think he's spiteful enough that all we'll get from him is methods to help others."
"Pity, I had hoped he might stand with us, once things settled. He was so close to falling when he lost her the first time. With the proper push, maybe…"
Even as Adrestes tries to respond, to tell Lysonia that he will never stand with her again, something heavy hits him. Whether it is a spell or a boot or something else is lost to him as his world shifts and swirls.
It does not go dark.
Instead, the brilliant light of Bastion bursts to life around him. It brings little comfort.
It brings so little comfort because he knows he should not be here, in this light.
Because he does not know how he got out of the darkness.
He wants to stop, to look back and see that the cove or cave or whatever-it-is that he is being held in is actually behind him. That would settle his nerves. He could accept that he fought his way out in a blind rage or…
But not this.
He tries to turn around, but his body is moving against his will.
Or perhaps it is not moving at all.
He tries to swallow down the panic in him.
The breeze is gentle as it always is, but it does not reach him.
Did not reach him.
Something has happened.
Something he knows.
Strong wing-beats take him high into the sky, away from the peaceful world below that has not been able to soothe his nerves of late.
Lysonia is waiting for him when he gets to his private chambers, and his stomach flips when she looks at him because he knows what she is going to say, and he doesn't want to hear those words.
He wants a different memory.
If he's going to be subjected to this, it seems the least his mind could do is let him choose.
He tries to think of the memories that are his to hold. That have not been sacrificed in the name of service.
For a second, he is impossibly small, stretching up toward an older creature with kind eyes who has watched over him his whole—
No.
He wants something that is his.
Something his.
Liila's lips brush his, for just a fleeting second, but he clings to that moment, tries to freeze it. That electricity, that perfection that made his wings itch the entire time he was at the Ember Court because he wanted to chase her down and fix what he has bungled.
He wants to kiss her.
Amaeria's ghostly fingers trace over the top of his hand and that spark is begging to be realized. He turns his hand up and lets her clasp it. Her expression is shy as she laces her fingers with his, and he wonders if she would be blushing if she had a form.
A body.
No.
No, no, no.
Liila walks past him on the steps and there is a trepidation in her, a tenseness in her shoulders that hurts him. She pawns off her reports to the other mortals so that she doesn't have to talk to him.
The memories are shifting too quickly for him to keep control. They are bleeding into one another, forming connections that shouldn't be, that make no sense.
Adrestes nearly sobs, trying to hold on to anything, to make something stay solid.
Lysonia's expression is grim as she meets his gaze.
Why does he feel like her hair shouldn't be blue anymore? Like that soft powder blue ponytail should be different?
Darker.
"They're gone," Lysonia says. "Destroyed. All seven." She rises to her feet, walks to him. She puts a hand on his shoulder and when he flinches under her touch, something in her expression changes. Like she wants to take back what she's just said.
Like she can take back what she just said.
"I'm sorry." The words are rushed.
She leaves him to struggle with his grief alone.
Liila is gone.
No.
Who?
It hurts.
He could have waited forever, but now…
Now there is nothing to wait for.
The Archon smiles down at him gently. "There is a certain magic in discovering things for oneself."
He wants to ask her for help. To beg for it.
But she is gone.
Just like…
Just like…
He can't be here. He can't do this.
He's not strong enough.
"The memories should settle, given enough time."
"We don't have much of that. They're scouring the realm. If he's to fall from the Path, we'll have to knock him off it. I want you—"
Adrestes jerks abruptly, managing to knock into something. Someone.
There is a shattering noise.
Swearing.
"This isn't right."
Silence.
The world is dark, and gray hands are reaching toward him.
"This isn't…"
"Do you want your memories back?"
"Of course! But not like this. This is…cruel."
"The Path is cruel, Sybigone!"
"Sending his head to the Archon would be kinder at this point."
"If you won't help, get out."
"Let me take him to the edge of the forge. We can leave him by a road. They won't know he was here. We can keep pushing forward. There are many who would willingly participate in—"
The sounds that rise up to meet him don't make sense.
They are muddled and twisted and when Adrestes tries to lift his head to see, it is mostly shadows.
Shadows fighting shadows.
One is hit hard on the back of the head and slumps down, into another's arms. Her wings drag across the floor as she is pulled from the room.
He tries to conjure anima, some simple spell to help her.
Pale light barely dances around his fingertips before pressure hits him again, and he is drifting.
His head hurts. His throat hurts. His wings hurt.
His heart hurts.
She is gone.
The wards were not made fast enough and now whenever he comes through Olympic Village, he sees a little steward who sits alone and stares listlessly out into the clouds that obscure the edge of the realm.
Just like she did.
When she first got here.
Before Bastion could begin to work its magic and heal the loss and heartache that so plagued her.
He wants to see her smile, wants to tell her that she will be alright, that eternity will be so much kinder than those final moments in that darkened woods.
Whenever he steals a moment to watch her when she's not paying attention, Liila's shoulders slope like the weight of all reality sits on them, and she is crumbling, so very slowly.
She needs to know that she is home.
The runes glimmer softly on her cheek and neck, and he knows there are more.
They hurt her.
Amaeria doesn't even look up as they view her final moments. She knows what is coming, and she does not want to witness it again.
Adrestes does not want to witness it again.
As Adrestes lets his most recent soul go, to slip down to the Arbiter, hateful runes flicker around it, and it is stolen before his eyes.
When he finds the man, he begs and pleads to be saved from the rotting corpse he is bound to.
Adrestes' wings ache from flying faster than he can, his fingers lock from holding on too tightly.
Amaeria doesn't watch as her captor catches up to her. Her final moments are cruel and drag on far too long.
Olympic Village is quiet, the souls are unsettled. No one talks about what happened, but the aspirants have gone through more practice spears in the last few weeks than in the last eon.
There is too much pain.
It is not all his, but that does not make it better.
It is soul-crushing.
The ascended deal with so much death.
More than any other realm.
More than Maldraxxus.
It is…cruel.
But someone must do it.
But it hurts.
It hurts too much.
If Adrestes keeps these memories, he will fall from the Path.
He needs to cleanse them.
Even if Eridia is not available, even if the disciples are busy.
He can handle it himself.
Because if he doesn't, he is going to fall because the Path will not give him the one thing he wants most.
Just to see her again.
The wind whispers gently around him as his gaze turns downward, ever drawn by a pull that should no longer exist.
There is a familiar figure, sprawled out on the rocks below, red haloing her.
That's not right.
Souls don't bleed.
He flies down, bothered that he is certain he's done this before, certain he's felt a similar terror before.
When he alights, he sees her, laying in the soft light of Bastion, unharmed.
Unharmed, yet still recoiling from something in her dreams, something that shouldn't be there.
That shouldn't have ever been there.
He reaches for her.
She is standing in front of him, real, corporeal, eyes wide and ringed with dark circles, filled with a terror he wishes he could banish from her. His fingers skim her cheek and that electricity is there, strong and true and perfect, and he knows that this is the spark that has tried to form so many times, that this is what they've felt and never spoken of.
Her hands come up, reaching back for him.
"Amaeria…"
She pulls away.
It is different this time.
It's not hesitation that draws her back, but something else.
Pain.
Like he's said something…
An unfamiliar little creature walks along, hands clasped with talons and another's, swinging as her voice echoes in his ears. "Anyone who uses Liila's other name is mean and can't be trusted."
Liila?
"I don't dislike you, either," she says, peering up at him, and there is something there, something that he can't quite place.
But her words bring a relief to him that he can't explain.
Her lips feather against his, and she is blushing in a way that takes his breath away. "Y-your cheek…"
"Little Liila," says a blind aspirant.
Arios ducks behind a wall, only to peek back around, feathers sleek, like he might run away. "It's like she didn't exist."
She stands just out of reach, one hand almost extended to him, fingers half curled in. Her lower lip trembles for just a second before her expression smooths, and she eerily calm.
She turns away from him, and he is terrified that he has caused some irreparable damage, that she will disappear again, forever this time.
Instead, she fights. She weaves ahead of him, half shadow, half light, fighting back black wings.
"Maw Walker!" Kalisthene calls out, and the mortal ducks out of the way of a halberd before taking down their attacker.
Why is she fighting alone?
Adrestes tries to reach for his mace, but both his arms are restrained. He struggles to free himself.
"Calm down, we're almost out of here," Arios whispers in his ear.
The world swims.
Adrestes' feet move slowly through the water as he talks. When he looks up, the creature beside him is kyrian, with pale blue skin and a spill of teal hair twisting over her shoulder, her wings tucked against her back.
"Amae—Liila?"
"She'll be due for a kyrian name," Thanikos says.
She looks up at him and smiles as a rune lights up on her cheek. A feather falls from her wings, dirty and twisted. The skin around the rune begins to rot.
So do her wings.
She has to feel it, feel her form falling to decay around her, but she just smiles at him, soft and sad.
Resigned.
Just like when she awaited Nebi's judgment all those years ago.
There is a snap.
Her jaw hangs slack on one side as she stares at him, reaching out a hand that is little more than bone with flesh hanging in loose strips from it.
He flinches and instantly regrets it.
The look on her face…
Her gaze drops, even as the rot spreads, makes her body shudder, like there is not enough left of her to keep herself up. She pulls her hand back to herself, turns away.
"There will be nothing left but scraps. Not enough to bear through the veil."
"No!"
Adrestes jerks forward, hand reaching to take hers, to do something, anything to stop what is coming.
He failed her once, but he can make this right. He can fix this, if he can just—
He catches the hand in front of him, grips it tightly, breathing uneven.
It doesn't matter how she looks, so long as she is not hurting.
He loves her, and he will keep her safe.
This time will be different.
This time…
The hand in his does not pull away.
He focuses on it, pushes back the blurring world and reality.
The fingers are a healthy blue. The flesh is intact.
Even as relief starts to flood through him, a little voice whispers that that is not right.
This hand is too big to be hers.
He looks up, and stills when he realizes he's looking at Kalisthene, gripping her hand, not Amaeria's.
Not Liila's.
Kalisthene offers him a reassuring smile, a nod. Words that don't mean anything because Adrestes doesn't know where he is.
Where Liila is.
She was just with them, wasn't she?
"Rest."
The voice comes from his other side, and Adrestes' attention snaps toward it to find Thenios is kneeling beside him. A large hand rests on his shoulder, tries to guide him to a large chaise that's pillows have recently been knocked all over the place. There are stewards hurrying to right the mess.
Adrestes' right wing is extended and when he tries to tuck it against his back, it hurts.
So badly that he snaps his attention toward it, certain he will see chains.
Instead, an anima weaver is holding her hands out to him, to show him she means no harm, concern plastered to her gentle features.
"Wh-where…"
Adrestes feels like he's been slammed in the head with a war hammer, over and over. He tries to focus, tries to remember how he got here, to stay in the present as that familiar water moves to lap at his feet. As he takes in a ragged breath, anima washes over him, through him, and he feels more…
Alert.
Kalisthene is taking advantage of how Adrestes is still clinging to her hand and carefully draws him back to the chaise, to lean across it so that his wings can be tended to. He lets Kalisthene guide him, slumping into the soft cushions and then hissing in pain as more anima washes over him, through him. It should make him feel better, but when it gets to his wing, there is a dissonance, and it hurts.
"The Archon will be here shortly," Thenios says, turns his attention to the anima weaver. "Until then, push it back as much as you can."
"You've been poisoned, polemarch," Kalisthene offers when Adrestes' brow pinches together. As he fights another wave of those waters trying to stretch up and pull him back. "Nothing that can't be fixed."
"It looks to be more of what Devos used on me," Thenios adds. He pats Adrestes shoulder, gently, before finally letting him go. "I do not envy the aches you will have, but know they will go away, given time."
He drifts, tries to remember how he got here, tries to ignore the acute pain in his wing that is becoming more and more prominent as his twisting memories settle down.
This time, when the anima washes over him, he knows it is the Archon's magic. It is stronger, deeper than anything any other soul in Bastion could ever hope to conjure.
It flows through him like an ancient river, like it could drown him as easily as save him, and that that is all up to him. He embraces the flow, feels the way the anima curls warm around him, like soft light and gentle breezes.
When it reaches his wing, there is a stall. Pain shoots through him, back along the channels, as though trying to corrupt all that there is.
All that he is.
And then, with a snapping crackle, it is gone.
The world tilts around Adrestes, and he slumps down, into the soft cushions beneath him.
As everything fades away, he starts to fight it, not wanting to get caught up in that blurry march of mismatched memories, mismatched fears.
But they do not rear up as they have before.
The vespers and chimes sound out gently around him, and he feels the presence of the Archon nearby, strong and reassuring that nothing will harm him, for that would go against her will.
And nothing goes against the Archon's will.
The world is fading gently, and as he finally embraces it, he can hear Kalisthene speaking. She sounds… concerned.
"He called her Amaeria."
Liila jerks a little, nightmares chasing her consciousness, attempting to find their way into her waking world. She cannot remember the specifics, just that she was afraid.
The sound of floorboards creaking under heavy boots follows her out of her dreams.
She shudders, takes a moment to orient herself.
She feels…wrong.
It's wrong because she knows she should feel worse than she does. She was crying, wasn't she? Her cheeks should be puffy and stiff with salt from all the tears she's shed. Her throat should ache from the hiccupped sobs that wracked her body so completely. The rest of her should feel stiff and bruised and utterly abused.
Because that's how she always feels after these little breakdowns of hers.
She's had five, that she can remember.
The first was when Haa'aji first saved her—she'd been so certain then that he was a trick, so certain that the chatty creature who brought her food and patted her head as he talked about a place where the dead didn't stalk the woods couldn't be real.
She'd broken down, unable to stand his optimism, knowing that her tormentor would be there any moment to drag her back into her private hell. Knowing that he would wait until the second she bought into that wicked hope to strike. She had sobbed because she wanted the ruse to pass, to go back to the usual torture. It was kinder than this false freedom.
Haa'aji hadn't known what to do, other than beg her to be quiet because she was going to attract the ghouls.
The second time was when she had finally rid herself of her tormentor. She had broken down again. It had taken years, but her guild had been there for her, and they had raided the monster's workshop in Icecrown. He had been beheaded, and that alone would have been enough to leave her teetering on sanity, unwilling to quite believe that it could actually have happened, that the creature she most feared in all of existence could actually be dead.
That she could actually be free.
Because even with him lying at her feet in pieces, she hadn't felt any freer.
That would have been enough to send her spiraling, except then Gryst'lyn had shown up and wanted some stupid reunion.
Between the lack of a real shift in feeling her freedom from her tormentor and Gryst'lyn's demands that she remember who he was and come home and marry him, she had broken down in Dalaran.
The third time had been when Timmons Burlaste, the forsaken warlock she'd been infatuated with, had rejected her, abandoned the Horde all together and her with it. He had embodied darkness so well, the darkness that had embraced her when the Light let her go. When it abandoned her and left her in that miserable room without a door.
And in the end, he hadn't wanted her either.
It had been her fault. So long as she had been willing to follow him, further and further into that void, he had been happy to take her hand.
But then…
She had told him there was good in him, good in so much of the world, even if people didn't always see it, and he had gotten bored.
Or maybe he had just wanted to prove her wrong.
But he had left, and it had shattered all the pieces she'd been trying to put back together, like a twisted stained-glass window.
When Teldrassil had burned, it had taken its toll, too. She had gone to the shore, looked out at the charred remains of the world tree and, for the fourth time in her life, something had broken inside of her. It wasn't just that she knew people who had been there, people who hadn't made it out. It wasn't just about the faces she would never see again.
It had been more.
It had been the little ones and the innocents, knowing they had suffered needlessly.
It had been the real chance for peace that had been taken with such a simple and needlessly wicked act.
It had been the helplessness that she could not stop it, could not fix it.
And then, finally, there was the fifth time, the time when N'zoth had gotten too far into her head.
When he had shown her just how easily the world would move on without her in it, just how interchangeable she was with any other well-meaning dolt. He had shown her the damage that never would have happened if she hadn't come back. If she had just stayed a broken plaything in a room without a door.
There was no place for her in this world or any other, and she had finally allowed herself to admit that she knew he was right. That she did not belong in the mortal coil at all.
That in all the deaths that had claimed her, surely one of them should have taken her somewhere else. To whatever great unknown came next.
Five times everything had become too much. Five times she had broken down, her senses abandoning her to a sorrow too deep for her to fight.
She had always ended up a mess when her tears finally dried. Dried snot, a mucky feeling in her gut, strained eyes, her heart hurting because the tears hadn't done anything to fix what hurt it.
Each time, she had felt it coming.
Each time—save that first time—she had found somewhere quiet, somewhere isolated, and broken down, alone.
And each time, without fail, when she'd finally come back to her senses, Haa'aji had been there, offering her water to rehydrate, some sort of treat to nibble on to fill her empty stomach, and stories to take her mind off whatever was happening.
Because no matter where she dragged herself off to, he always found her.
And he always helped her find her way back.
Except for now.
This time is different.
This time, when she feels her cheeks, they are clean and soft, as though her tears have been wiped away. Her body doesn't ache, either.
Healing magic, perhaps?
And, of course, Haa'aji is not there.
She can't help but search her surroundings for him, anyway.
Pelagos smiles when her gaze comes to him, and she feels a bubble of gentleness in her chest that matches his expression so perfectly.
Liila reaches up and rubs her eyes, trying to make herself appreciate the care that she has been given. It feels…strange.
Different.
Though not entirely unwelcome.
"How long was I asleep?"
"A couple hours," Pelagos says, setting down the scrolls he's been reading and then moving over to sit with her on the chaise she's on.
That makes her look around again. She expects to see that they are in Hero's Rest, but they aren't. It takes her a moment before she thinks she recognizes the area as somewhere in Elysian Hold. The place where Inaar and Carroll usually sleep.
Neither of them are present at the moment.
She shifts a little, pauses when a taloned hand offers her sweet juice. Stanikos chirps when she looks up, feathers fluffing a little as Liila accepts the drink with a barely audible 'thank you'. He sits down across from her, content to just exist there with them.
Liila's brow pinches as her mind muddles through the fog that's overtaken it. It seems there's no cure for that. She sits there, holding her cup and staring blankly at its surface, at the reflection of the world in the soft orange of the juice, before things abruptly click into place. Her head jerks up and she nearly drops her cup. "Adrestes—"
"They're looking after him," Pelagos says, a bit too quickly. One hand catches Liila's shoulder before she can shoot to her feet as the other steadies her drink to stop it from spilling. "I…he's resting now, from what we've heard, not that they've told us much."
"Polemarch will be fine," Stanikos says, nodding firmly. "We get him in time."
"They did say he should recover in a few days," Pelagos adds. "They've been doing their best to keep it all quiet, so I don't really know what happened. They won't tell us anything, but maybe if you talk to them…"
"Why would they tell me if they won't tell you?"
"Because you're his soul—" Pelagos cuts himself off when she looks at him. "You have a connection with him that we don't."
"Barely," Liila mutters, she draws her knees up to her chest, feeling oddly vulnerable in the open area. She wishes she had the walls that line two sides of their corner in Hero's Rest.
"You're up!" comes Kleia's voice from off to her side. It is laced with relief.
As Liila looks up, she sees that Kleia is walking swiftly toward them, Blood at her side. He thumps his fist against his chest when he catches her gaze. He's no longer sporting an ill-fitting robe, but now dressed in plate armor again, a helm in place to cover his face. His armor is a light gray, with gold and white accents. When he notices her attention on his gear, he lets out a soft humph. "Howl's an ass."
Liila can't help a faint smile at that, though she can't hold it long. "You're missing your spikes. And skulls."
Blood comes over, turns so that she can see his shoulder, see the pattern etched into the metal. "Do you see this? Fucking feathers. What am I? A void-damned arakkoa?"
"You're an honorary kyrian," Liila teases, despite herself. Her voice falls a little flat, but Blood is good enough to ignore that, to pretend she sounds like her usual self.
"I have never been so offended in all my life," Blood says. He sits near Stanikos as Kleia settles in on Liila's other side. He mutters about looking like a damned paladin.
Liila swallows, again thrown by the fact that her throat isn't as dry as it should be. She finally takes a sip of her juice, watching as Blood grumpily settles in and declines a cup when offered. Stanikos appraises him a moment before accepted that he does not want anything.
They grow quiet.
It is only for a few seconds, but she cannot stand it.
The silence beckons to all the emotions she is struggling with already.
Nodding her chin toward Blood, she goes for a topic she hopes will spawn a full-fledged conversation, maybe a story to get her mind off of things. "Were you in the raid on Castle Nathria? I heard I missed it."
Blood shakes his head. "No, I was twiddling my thumbs out here, still. Howl wouldn't send me my armor until after. Said he didn't trust what that Deni fellow could do with the death runes." He pauses, then leans forward. "Oh, and so you know. Howl found my sinstone."
Liila's brow shoots up, even as Pelagos lets out a surprised noise. Apparently, Blood hasn't told anyone about this yet. "Yeah. I was a prideful bastard in life. I hear someone called the Accuser has already heard that I'm here in the Shadowlands, and she wants to get her claws on me, toss me in a tomb somewhere to atone for my sins. I doubt she even has the full list." He pauses, then smirks. "Also, apparently Mitchell is hiding in Maldraxxus now because he's afraid that he went to Revendreth, too, when he died. There's no word on his sinstone, though, if he has even one."
"He thinks he was judged, too?" Kleia asks, head tilting.
It occurs then to Liila then that finding out that seven souls were judged worthy of Bastion, seven souls taken back by the Scourge, likely means that all the souls taken back by the Scourge were sent somewhere.
Every forsaken soul.
Every death knight.
Possibly the other four who are cursed as she is.
The ramifications of learning her little twist are much further reaching than she'd considered.
It makes it easier to think of, when she thinks of just how many people are now facing the same sort of reality as hers. Of being able to see where they were to spend their eternity before it was ripped from them.
"Why would Mitchell think he's going to Revendreth?" Pelagos asks.
"Because he's paranoid," Blood says.
"Because he was tricked into helping make the plague even more lethal than it was," Liila corrects.
Blood tilts his head, not approving of her correction. "Well, he made it so a higher ratio of the dead would get back up as shambling corpses. It didn't really affect the mortality rate."
"Apologies," Liila says, and her voice is a little stronger, a little more normal already. When she notices both Kleia and Pelagos still seem confused, she sighs. "Mitchell thought he was helping find a cure for a plague, but they really just wanted a fresh set of eyes to figure out why it wasn't performing the way they'd hoped."
"If they'd given him time, he might have," Blood adds. "But as soon as he pointed out what had gone wrong with the plague to begin with, they killed him and raised him."
"Well, it wasn't a they, so much as it was Shawn," Liila says, grimacing.
"Shawn?" Pelagos straightens up. "The mortal who comes by and helps Pelodis with his phalynx? That Shawn?"
"Yep," Blood and Liila say in unison.
"Oh," Kleia breathes, frowning.
"He was under the Lich King's control," Liila says. "So his actions weren't his own, but…"
"Speaking of," Blood says, drawing their attention back to him. "Shawn was at the raid on castle Nathria, and apparently, he was mind controlled, so Howl's concern was well-placed." He pauses before adding, "Everyone was glad you weren't there. To go through that."
"Haa'aji told me," Liila says.
"He's been—of course he's been out here," Blood shakes his head. "Is he here now?"
"No," Liila says, and she can't help how bitter she sounds.
There's no reason to hold it against him. He needs to be with the kids.
And if she wanted him to be able to look after her and guide her through her break downs, she should have stayed with him.
After all, if she had stayed, she could have pretended that the polemarch liked her for her. Not because…
She wonders suddenly if the long silence in Oribos, when they had first gotten a real chance to talk, was because he had been waiting for her to acknowledge that she knew him. She wonders if that's why he always frowned at her so much, in the beginning.
If it was because he knew who she should be, and was displeased with what she was instead.
A poor imitation, as Gryst'lyn had so succinctly put it.
She doesn't notice the tremble in her shoulders until Kleia has wrapped her arms around her. She rests her chin on the top of Liila's head.
"Did you know…?" she asks, without meaning to. When Kleia shifts a little, Liila motions to Pelagos without looking at him. "Did you both…?" She can feel the confusion radiating from Pelagos, and she clears her throat before clarifying. "You said I was familiar when I first got here."
What she's asking clicks into place.
"I wouldn't say I knew you," Pelagos says, moving closer, as though he might throw his arms around her, too. His tone is anxious, but she can't bring herself to look at him, to assure him that it's okay. "I just…helped corral you a couple times." He pauses. "You have a tendency to go places you shouldn't." He laughs a little awkwardly. "Out of the village, into the Maw, all over."
"Sounds like not much changed," Blood offers. There's an attempt at softness in his voice that has Liila glaring at him.
"I never met you," Kleia says.
"Ikaros knew you, like Stanikos," Stanikos says, perking up. He has misread the atmosphere of the conversation, and clicks his beak happily a few times. "Ikaros misses you lots. Thought you were unmade. He very happy you safe."
Liila can't help but stiffen at the thought of another soul to disappoint.
It's bad enough there were three in Azeroth.
And only three.
Here, though, she has a feeling there will be considerably more…
She leans her head against Kleia.
She feels small.
Too small.
Abruptly, Pelagos leans in and hugs her too, half crushing her between himself and their soulbind.
It is not an unwelcome feeling.
It is then that Blood seems to realize something and grows oddly quiet.
Liila takes in a slow breath. "Adrestes knew…"
She can't bring herself to say it.
"Yes," Stanikos says, though he seems to have caught on to the dismal mood. He sounds anxious, too, when he speaks. "You very good friends, always."
"You said I always knew where he was," Liila murmurs.
Stanikos nods, tilts his head. "That a good thing, yes?"
They want Amaeria.
"Is there…" Liila's voice cracks a little before she manages to steady herself. "I imagine there is still a lot to be done out here, yes?"
"That can wait," Kleia says. "You need your rest."
The mere thought of lying down and surrendering herself over to her subconscious is horrifying.
Liila has not slept since Mitchell's announcement that she was meant for Bastion, since she admitted that she knows she made it here, once upon a time…
It hasn't even been a day for her, yet, even if it has been eleven here.
That alone would be enough to ruin her dreams, but she keeps thinking of Adrestes, of him pinned down as he was. Of the darkness around him, of the way he looked, so haunted.
Even if she has never seen that expression on his face, she knows it well.
She has been there.
Did you miss me, Miss Lightswill?
"I won't—" Liila takes in a slow breath. "I won't sleep well. It would be better if I could do something. Be useful."
Pelagos hesitates. "Well, I was going to go to Ardenweald to see if we could get something from the Winter Queen for the crest. You could come with me."
"I don't think that's a good idea," Kleia says, holding Liila a little tighter, even as Pelagos sits back.
Liila pulls away from Kleia, and it seems like her soulbind will fight with her for a moment, before she finally relinquishes her hold.
Ardenweald had a way of making her dreams a little better, if she remembers correctly.
"That sounds like a good idea. Let's go."
Mikanikos has finished affixing the vessel to the crest, and as much as everyone is celebrating, Pelagos can't quite bring himself to do the same, especially considering he knows first-hand the cost of the artifact he has brought home.
Grubby snuggles against his neck, letting out a sad squeaking noise.
They are both feeling the loss of Willowblossom.
He quietly excuses himself from the group standing around, listening to Mikanikos explain how much better the crest will be, and looks around until he finds Liila and Blood, standing off to one side of the Commons, speaking quietly to one another.
As Pelagos comes close enough to hear them, he realizes that Blood is speaking in a hushed voice, and that almost makes him stop, to give them their privacy. However, he can't stand the thought of being alone, and keeps his pace.
Blood's head is bowed a little, apologetic.
"I'm sorry. That I told them." His voice is low, gruff. "I thought…well, I guess I thought you'd come to terms with all that mess. You did use the name."
"I stopped, too."
"I just figured that you were better known as the Dragonlily, that you liked the name more or…I didn't mean to bring it all crashing down again."
"It's fine. Mitchell told them about me about the same time you did. And Inaar was looking into it anyway. It would have come up regardless."
"At least the dipshits aren't here," Blood offers.
Liila lets out a dry laugh.
Pelagos doesn't catch what she says because her heart hurts too loudly. For an instant, he can clearly see an elven face, twisted with anger, glaring so intently. It is not a flicker, but a slow fade from his mind.
You're not my Amaeria!
Grubby makes a soft noise from his shoulder, and Pelagos looks down at it, reaching up and petting the caterpillar gently. His own heart hurts for Willowblossom's sacrifice. There is too much pain all around, lately.
Despite everything, he feels a gentle reassurance that he will be alright.
From Liila.
He moves forward, deciding against eavesdropping any further.
"I'm going to check on something in Maldraxxus and then I'll be back," Blood says as Pelagos walks over to them. "Apparently they might have something that can sort of block certain sensations from going through from soulbind to soulbind."
"Oh?" Pelagos says, feeling a little uneasy as Liila tilts her head. He wonders if she will jump on it, if she will want to dismantle their connection.
She is so much frailer than she lets on.
"I mean, if you're in battle and your soulbind gets killed, that would be disorienting, and disadvantageous," Blood says. "I was actually looking to block my memories, but that sounds like a worthwhile trinket to look into, even if it can't do that."
Blood offers them a farewell and then he is off, through the newly established portal to Oribos.
"While Blood was under the Lich King's control, he slaughtered entire villages, massacred innocents," Liila says, drawing Pelagos out of his thoughts. Even as his brow pinches together, she looks at him. "He doesn't want any of the 'nice people' here to have to see that."
"Ah," Pelagos says, nodding slowly.
Liila is wilting.
Since binding with her, he has felt an ache that never quite goes away. It is not physical per se, not emotional, either. It is her soul that is wounded. A wound that is obscured by flesh and curse, but one that is so deep.
He is not sure whether he would be able to keep going himself, if he had a similar pain.
One thing his has not told her is that anything she does feel through their soulbinding will always be muted to some extent. No one feels the exact intensity of another's emotions, even if it is strong. And with the way things are doubly muted through their connection, anything they feel from each other will be a fraction of what the other is truly feeling.
That ache he feels is something wicked inside of her.
And he has struggled with various pains and doubts enough to know that when something like that is so strong, it makes tolerance for other things wane.
And her tolerance is spent.
She hurts, and now she hurts from whatever has happened most recently. Whatever has made all the little fears and doubts and pains rear up and twist into untamable beasts that she walks around and pretends are not there, somehow.
He wonders if she would have fallen from the Path, were she on it.
Pelagos is scared for her.
And he feels helpless because he does not know what he can do to make things right. She is his friend, and she is his soulbind, and he wants to help banish all the pain that is crushing her.
He struggles to think of something good to do, to say. He notices Kalisthene is hovering near where the polemarch normally waits for missives. "Would you like to check in and see how Polemarch Adrestes is doing? Maybe you can visit with him."
As soon as he says it, those twists of heartbreak shift inside of her, sharp and fresh. It is not like when she wanted to avoid him because she thought he did not like her. It is something so much deeper.
Abruptly, a voice rings in his ears, loud and clear as though someone is speaking right in front of him.
They want Amaeria.
"I don't want to be underfoot," she mumbles.
He barely hears her answer because that memory has caught his attention so completely.
Without realizing it, he reaches out and catches her hands. "Whoever said that to you is wrong."
She looks up at him, surprised, confused. Liila blinks, shakes her head. "What are you talking about? I didn't say…"
"They're wrong," he repeats. "They don't know what they're talking about. We—I don't want Amaeria at all. I barely even knew—"
There is terror in her eyes as she realizes what he is saying, what he is responding to.
Absolute terror at being read so completely. And then there is anger bred from that fear, anger that she cannot keep him out, anger that she is so vulnerable.
And then.
There is a shift.
It is like a cold wind sweeping in. Her eyes glow darker—almost black—for just a second.
And there are shadows.
So. Many. Shadows.
Even as someone calls out a warning nearby, Bastion's light comes back in full force, and Pelagos is standing alone. Grubby lets out a soft whimper.
A hand lands on his shoulder and he looks up, terrified, into Kalisthene's bewildered gaze. "Liila needs help."
Liila stands in the open fields of Bastion, eyes wide.
So that's how those wards work.
She hadn't want to hurt Pelagos, but she had wanted to hurt something. Anything. She had wanted to bring down those pretty floating platforms, to tear apart those peacefully waving banners, to lay waste to all the pretty perfection around her.
She had wanted to have some modicum of control.
Even if it was destructive.
And as soon as that feeling had risen up, as soon as the shadows that should not be in Bastion had come to her with such little encouragement…
She was expelled.
She stands there, in the soft grasses, with that impossibly gentle breeze, and wonders what will happen now.
She's been expelled from Elysian Hold.
It's hardly the first time she's gotten banned from a city. Usually there's a bit more theatrics involved. An explosion or two. They're always unintentional—and not directly her fault—but…
She supposes that Bastion and the Archon have had plenty of time to get used to dramatic little outbursts over the eons. Granted, she doesn't remember the wards having done that to the forsworn before, but… they did disappear pretty quickly once the wards were repaired.
Liila looks around slowly, turning until she can see the hazy spires of the hold in the distance.
She's been sent south.
She feels raw and bruised, inside and out.
And it is only made worse by the absolute terror that is echoing to her from Pelagos.
Kleia is worried, too, but Pelagos…
He was trying to help her. Her anger has shifted enough now that she can see that. He had seen—or heard?—what Haa'aji had said to her, and he had tried to make things better.
He was trying to help her, and rather than be grateful that someone was on her side, she had been furious that he could see, that all her defenses that protected her and kept others out were useless because he could see past it all.
And a much smaller part of her had been angry that he would say something against Haa'aji, ridiculous as that is.
It had felt like…
Like exactly what he had warned her of. Of how these groups she has fought in the past work to isolate their targets, to cut their ties.
Ever since Mitchell and Haa'aji said what they said—the whole day, long as it's been—it has been festering in her and a little voice has whispered that so many of the people getting drawn into the Cult of the Damned and the Twilight's Hammer hadn't realized what was happening to them until it was too late. It had been whispering that if she watched her interactions with the kyrian more, she might see what the others were suspecting, might realize she was being indoctrinated before it was too late.
So when Pelagos had told her not to listen to Haa'aji…
He hadn't even known that had been Haa'aji's voice.
Oh, this is a mess.
He's so upset.
So upset…
She should go and make things right. She should—
Will she even be able to reenter Elysian Hold?
Liila looks down at the swaying grasses and then up at the sky. It is clear and perfect, as always. Bells ring out softly in the distance, only the largest's notes reaching her all the way out here.
Perhaps it is better if she does not go back.
Not now, anyway. As she is, she is sure she will lash out again, and she can be quite vicious. She's a priest after all. She's good at figuring out the weaknesses in people's minds, not that she uses such skills terribly often.
She doesn't want to say something to Pelagos that she'll regret.
There is no place for you here.
It would be better if she had not come back to Bastion at all.
But if she hadn't…
Surely, they would have found Adrestes without her.
Though…how much longer would it have taken?
And why does everyone seem to look at her differently now?
Is it because of the fact they know she was one of their lost souls? Or is it because she was able to lead them to their polemarch with such little effort? Pelagos mentioned she had a connection to Adrestes, that she would be told more information because of it, if only she asked. Kalisthene seemed to indicate as much, too. And she heard someone whispering about her and the polemarch as she was passing by on the way to deliver the last artifact for the crest.
Willowblossom.
The gossip had ceased when Liila had looked at the two ascended talking, making damned sure they knew she could hear them. They had hushed. Not even a greeting or attempt to save face. Perhaps they knew she was in no mood for it.
Blood had taken her aside to apologize, said he had meant to earlier, but hadn't known how to shake Pelagos or Willowblossom long enough to get a proper dialogue going. Because he'd figured she would want it to be private.
Liila does her best to send a mental hug to Pelagos, hoping that perhaps that will be enough to calm his nerves. That perhaps she can do less damage if she just stays away.
His terror does seem to quiet down, though she doesn't know what that means.
Soulbinding is such a tricky, stressful thing.
Taking in her surroundings, Liila heads to the nearest tree and sits down, back resting against the trunk. She puts her head in her hands. She is exhausted, but she does not doubt that if she goes to sleep now her dreams will be absolutely awful. She'll likely wake up just as tired as she is now.
Maybe she should undo her soulbinds.
This can't be good for either of them. They have their own lives to worry about and do not need hers forced on them every second of the day.
They do not need her.
For the first time, she wonders if she should switch covenants.
Though…any soulbinding would be a bad idea. She wouldn't want to subject Marileth or Dreamweaver or Theotar to her 'spinning wheel' of emotions, as Pelagos called it.
She wouldn't want them to see her memories.
No one deserves to go through what she went through, even if it is just an echo of it played out in one's mind.
Maybe she should go back to Azeroth.
The people here took down Sire Denathrius without her, after all.
As she is, it feels like it will not be long before she undoes all the work she has done over the years. All the effort she has put into piecing herself back together since her escape from the Scourge. She can feel herself slipping, knows that her grip on reality is going to start to waver, like it does when she wakes up from her worse night terrors. Those minutes where she doesn't know where or when she is.
Her head droops forward, eyes closing despite her resolve not to sleep just yet.
In an instant, she sees Adrestes, laying on the ground, bound. Floorboards creak in that wretchedly familiar way as her tormentor slowly paces around the polemarch, knife in hand, head tilted as he appraises where he can stick the blade so that it will do the most pain with the least amount of serious damage. Wouldn't want things to end too quickly, after all.
Liila's eyes snap open.
She swallows.
She needs to do something.
Something that will keep her mind away from what has happened, from all that has ever happened.
Getting to her feet, she starts walking, not really paying any mind to where she's going. Maybe she can just walk until she passes out. Walk until the sleep that claims her is void of thought and dreams.
Maybe when she wakes up Haa'aji will be there.
He's always made things better.
Except…
They want Amaeria.
She tries not to think.
It is not until she reaches the outskirts of the Temple of Humility that she realizes just how far she has gone. She feels the shift in the air, feels as she enters into the wards.
She's a little surprised they let her in, surprised that the realm hasn't marked her an enemy.
If she wants to get out of the realm, she will need to go to the anima gateway. But to do so will require that she walk through the temple, to the busier parts. And she doesn't doubt she will be stopped, and she doesn't want to deal with people.
Especially not good people.
She wanders along the edge of the wards until she finds somewhere that is secluded and obscured. Trees shade near the outer wall, with a cliff coming near it. If she tucks herself away here, she won't be visible from any angle. The only one who will be able to find her will be Adrestes and from what she's heard, he won't be on his feet for days.
Assuming he can feel her the way she can feel him, of course.
She goes there, tucks herself against a tree trunk, pulls her knees to her chest, and puts her head on her knees.
She should not have come back to Bastion.
Everything is such a mess.
"May I join you?"
Liila stills.
How…?
Slowly, she lifts her head just enough to peer up at whoever is talking.
An aspirant kneels before her. His expression is gentle, his smile kind. He must have seen her wandering along the outskirts of the temple and followed her over.
Dammit.
As she stares at him, an even worse realization sets in.
She feels like she should know him.
From somewhere.
She can't place it though. It's…
Panic swells in her because this is what she doesn't want to happen. This is why she doesn't go to the village, this is…
Abruptly, Liila lurches to the side and retches. Her body heaves and trembles, and she throws up what little she ate for dinner with the kids, what feels like a lifetime ago.
When she comes back to her senses, a hand is rubbing her back in small circles. A handkerchief or cloth of some type appears in her peripheral vision when her stomach finally calms down. She takes it, wipes her mouth.
The pristine white is sullied.
That feels like a fitting theme for her, of late.
Sullying everything she touches.
Handkerchiefs, soulbinds, memories, names.
The aspirant guides her over to a different tree, not far from the first, and she numbly lets him take her there, waiting.
Waiting for him to call her Amaeria and start with the questions that she can't answer. For the inevitable disappointment that she is not what he expected.
For the inevitable rejection.
"Has anyone told you you're very good at sneaking around?"
Liila rolls her gaze toward the aspirant, frown firmly in place. If she was talking to anyone other than a kyrian, she would assume this was sarcasm—he noticed her after all. She almost tells him that clearly she's not good enough, but she doesn't have the energy left to fight.
His voice is so… familiar.
She's so tired.
"Not in the mood for compliments?"
When Liila merely makes a noncommittal noise, he nods in acceptance.
Silence settles over them.
She's not having the same flashbacks that seem to come with what she used to know, like when she met Kalisthene or Adrestes.
And yet…
"Did you know Amaeria?"
"No," he says. "I heard a little, but never met you—"
"Her," Liila corrects. "You never met her." She looks at him, eyes narrowed. "How do I know you then?"
He tilts his head, appraising her. Then he leans toward her, a whisper of a smile in place. "I'm usually a lot taller."
The outline of wings flicker behind him. The outline of ascended armor adorns his figure, as well. It is for just a second, and then she is looking at the aspirant again, simply dressed and wingless.
She stares at him, mind a muddled mess as she tries grapple with what she's just been seen, assuming it is real and she's not just falling to delirium.
"Chyrus?"
He smiles. "At your service."
Liila appraises him, glances around and then back. "How are you…"
He settles back against a tree so that he is facing her, his leg extended beside her. "There are benefits to being a paragon."
Tired as she is, Liila can't help a dry laugh. "Pretending to be an aspirant is a benefit?"
"When it comes to getting into smaller places, for a start," Chyrus says, motioning around them. With the low trees and the proximity of the wall and cliff, there is definitely no way he could have come here as the winged giant she knows.
Liila examines him. His wings are actually gone, she's sure of that. He wouldn't be able to sit against the tree like he is, otherwise. Kleia has given a wall or two a forlorn look when she's found Liila and Pelagos sitting against them before sitting in front of them instead, leaning slightly forward so that her longer feathers don't bend awkwardly. If Chyrus' wings were just hidden, he would still need the room for them, like Kleia.
He's about the size of an acolyte, of Kleia, before she got her wings.
Liila is so tired, and yet…perhaps if she can talk to him, perhaps her mind will wander far enough away from bad things that when she falls asleep, the nightmares will not be as merciless. "How else does this help?"
His smile is warm. "Well, we can wander the temple grounds, check in on people, see who is struggling when they might otherwise try to hide their burdens from someone higher ranking."
"You trick people."
"If someone asks for my name, I give it."
"But you know they won't believe you," Liila says, accusingly.
"I showed you who I was, didn't I?"
He has her there.
They sit there a moment, appraising one another. She knows his expression is considerably lighter than hers. She can feel the bags under her eyes, feel the sharp glare that she can't quite soften, despite knowing she should.
She hates authority figures, and she hates when they try to sidle up to her and play nice. Better that they just tell her what they want her to do and be done with it.
"If it's to help people who are intimidated by authority, then how does it help if they know you're you? It seems like it would be the same problem, regardless of what you look like."
"I have found people tend to find me more approachable at eye level," Chyrus replies. "And this also helps me sneak around." He winks. "If I hear some aspirants are at odds with one another, I can saunter over, eavesdrop, see what's really bothering them in ways that I can't if I summon them before me and demand they tell me their problems."
"So you do trick people," Liila says.
He smiles as he shakes his head. "I wouldn't call it tricking them, per se." When Liila's frown grows, he considers it, tilts his head back to rest against his tree. "I don't remember much about being an aspirant—it was terribly long ago—but I do remember when I was in Purity, still cleansing my memories, I saw Vesiphone alight near the edges of the temple. I had been looking for her to ask…I don't remember the question, but I saw her land and then she was…small. Like me." He motions to himself. "I was baffled. Why would a paragon want to be so small, why would they give up their wings? Was this some imposter pretending to be her? Had I caught on to some great scheme?"
His eyes dance as he looks at Liila. She watches him warily.
"I followed her. Through the whole temple, because she walked the entirety of it," he makes a motion with his hand like he is winding through paths. "She would stop and help as asked, as if she were just an aspirant. She did menial tasks, she helped others cleanse, but the part that stuck out the most to me was when she found an aspirant by herself, crying. She asked her what was wrong, offered to help. The aspirant told her she doubted even the Archon herself could help." His smile is brilliant. "And she replied, 'Well, I am her paragon. Let me try.'"
Liila arched her brow. "But she didn't believe her."
"No, she didn't," Chyrus says. "But she didn't need to. She needed someone to listen. She started swearing, crying, ranting. About how she didn't feel she would ever get her wings because how could she let go of memories that wouldn't let go of her? How could she move on from things that clung to her so tightly?"
"What did Vesiphone say?"
"She told her of the different cleansing rituals, how they work, which memories they target. She told her of others who had struggled in the past, of her own struggles. She was patient, she was kind. She held the aspirant's hand."
"Where's the aspirant now?" Liila asks. When Chyrus tilts his head, she motions to him. "I doubt you'd tell me a story that ends with her falling from the Path."
"No, I suppose the memories I cherish do mostly have happy endings," Chyrus says with a laugh. "She's a bearer, now." He pauses. "But you know, my point was that that aspirant would never have screamed at Vesiphone the paragon. And because of that, she would never have heard what she needed to hear to be able to move forward. Another aspirant would have been able to commiserate and offer some help, but they wouldn't have had the knowledge, the experience to really walk her through her doubts like Vesiphone did." He motions to himself and then out broadly. "If you keep your eyes open, you'll see all of us, every now and then." He winks. "Though I'm the easy one. It's harder to recognize the others when they're not wearing their helms and hoods."
Liila stares at him.
He's so…likeable.
It makes her anger want to ebb and rise at the same time. She wants to sit and talk peacefully, but she also wants to tell him that no amount of tricks and stories will make things better.
She glances toward the entrance to their little hideaway, wonders if anyone else knows they are there.
"Can the Archon do the same?"
"Who do you think showed me how to do this?" He grins. "She hasn't had time of late to walk her realm. Something she's quite displeased about."
Liila looks him over. "Why tell me this?"
"Why not?"
"I'm not kyrian," she says.
"You were sent here to become one."
"And then I was dragged back."
"That…" Chyrus' smile falls for the first time. "If we could go back and undo that—"
"The bronze flight would never let you," Liila says. When he arches his brow, she sits a little straighter. "They wouldn't let me. They won't let anyone change the past that they have in place now. They feel it's the best timeline." She motions to herself. "They've sent me into the past to make sure certain things happen." She pauses. "Into the future, too. Once."
"Why you?"
"To make sure someone dies," Liila says, deflating. "Or lives, though that seems to be less often. Really, it's about ensuring that something specific happens. I guess the details don't always matter, so long as that something specific comes to pass."
"But why you, specifically?"
"I was there," Liila says, shrugging.
He nods again. For a second, she thinks he will press further, that she will end up telling him that she went to the Bronze Flight twice, hoping that they could free her of her curse by letting her go back and make sure it simply never happened. The second time, Chromie had taken her aside, shown her a myriad of events that would never happen if she were not there, if she were not cursed.
N'zoth had shown her another set, much later. His had been less pleasant, less uplifting.
It is good, though, to remember the events Chromie had shown her. Liila has all but forgotten them, recently. One of them, the one that had mattered most to her, was that if she and Haa'aji had never crossed paths, he would have died to the Scourge, about two weeks after the day they met.
Then there was the best man in the world, Gregor Smithson. He had somehow maintained his free will, even through death, and had resigned himself to fish until his rotting corpse wasted away to nothing. If Liila and her band of misfits had not happened by, had not been attacked by a Son of Arugal, Gregor would have wasted away as he wished. Instead, he had gotten up and tanked the worgen with a damned fishing pole, saving them.
He had become one of their guild leaders, down the line.
The guild that fought old gods and rogue elemental lords. The one that brought down dragon aspects.
Impervious.
If not for her curse, if not for her, so many paths would never have crossed. The guild that saved the world time and time again would never have existed.
How could she have forgotten that?
As if she really has to ask that when she can still hear N'zoth's voice ringing in her head from time to time.
For the first time that she can remember, those whispers that she has no place feel…hollow.
"Do you feel we failed you?" When Liila blinks, stares at him, Chyrus tilts his head. "Is that why you want to reject Bastion?"
"I'm not—" Liila starts, but stops herself.
Because she is, isn't she? She's been pushing this realm away since the second she set foot here.
Since the second she can remember setting foot here.
"I don't remember being—" she starts again, but stops. What she's about to say isn't…entirely true, is it? And she feels like Chyrus deserves the truth. She's not sure why—it's not like they've spoken directly before this. He's barely spoken in front of her, during their few encounters. She doesn't know him.
Perhaps that's why.
"I have these flashes of memory. Little things, like it would come back, if I let it."
If she didn't reject it.
"Why don't you?"
"What good would it do?" Liila shakes her head.
"What would it hurt?"
"A lot," Liila says. "It already hurts."
"But that's because you're rejecting it. What if you didn't?"
The answer comes to mind so suddenly, so clearly.
If she doesn't reject Bastion, it will reject her.
Just like Gryst'lyn and the others from her past.
Won't it?
"You know, my friends warned me about this," Liila says, crossing her arms as she looks at him. "They warned me that your lot would do something like this."
"Like what?"
"Try to pull me into the flock."
Chyrus' laugh is rich. He leans his head back. "I promise you, Maw Walker, if—when your time comes—you do not wish to stay here, you will not. Our job is most often thankless, and we do not need people here who will bear resentment. One cannot carry that and souls."
Liila isn't sure what to say to that.
"We speak of worth and worthiness often enough, but it boils down to the fact that you are a dedicated soul who was sent here because the Arbiter knew you could withstand the pressure that comes with bearing souls." He shrugs. "That's the truth of it. It's painfully simple, really."
"The Arbiter thought Amaeria could," Liila whispers. "I'm not… I don't think she would send me here again. Not as I am now."
"Are you not dedicated?" Chyrus asks.
"Depends on the day."
"Considering you crossed the veil between life and death to protect your people, I'd say most days look pretty good."
"I didn't…" Liila looks down, picks at her nails. She thinks back to the night that Bwonsamdi came to her, told her that her skills were required. She has told herself that the reason she is here is because of that, but the truth is that she would have come out here anyway, even if a god hadn't summoned her to fix things. "I did it for me. Because the mawsworn are bringing back souls, and I was afraid he would show up at my door. Or that I would come out of my room and find him sitting there, surrounded by…"
She remembers the dream of Chi'rhi being in that room. She remembers subsequent dreams of waking up and walking through the house to find a bloodbath, to find pieces of the children scattered across wet puddles of blood, to find Haa'aji twisted and broken at the feet of the one who had spent so much time making certain she had no hope.
She has looked for him, in the Maw. She's thought she felt his gaze on her once or twice while she was there, but so far, she has been unable to find him. And she has been afraid that that meant he was back on Azeroth, hunting her and everything she holds dear.
She came out here to put herself at ease, to feel like she was doing something instead of waiting for him to show up and pick up where he left off.
"I might have been good enough for this place once," Liila says, voice faint. "But that was a long time ago."
"I heard that you don't remember being Amaeria."
"I don't."
"Then how do you know you're so different now?" Chyrus asks.
You're not my Amaeria!
She doesn't want to talk about that. About the scorned ex fiancé. She shifts where she sits, shivers. "According to the records I could find, Amaeria never committed any felonies. I have." She pauses, lifts her shoulders weakly in a shrug. "A lot of them."
"So Amaeria never got caught," Chyrus dismisses.
Liila can't help but laugh at that, disbelieving. When she meets Chyrus' gaze, he shrugs, arms crossed like hers are. "I told you I never met her, but I did know of her. She was here less than a year and caused no less than eight panics at Olympic Village," he says. "She would not stay in the areas that are considered safe for new souls." He motions to himself. "I do not usually hear about any souls, so the fact that I know that means she…means you were a troublemaker then, too."
"You know, that's the first time I've ever heard someone say something bad about Amaeria," Liila says. "Other than she was too sweet and too kind and too perfect." She runs her tongue over her teeth briefly, frowning. Chyrus has a single brow quirked, as though he most certainly expects a further explanation. "Her fiance's best friend did not like that she stole him away, so he was a bit bitter about how great she was."
"Did no one want to talk to you about who you were?" Chyrus asks.
"Most everyone who knew Amaeria is dead," Liila says. "Parents, friends, fellow priests. There's only three left standing and they're…they're adamantly against me. Because I'm not her."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Chyrus says softly. When she looks skeptical, he feigns indignance. Or maybe he really is. "What? No one deserves to be rejected like that."
"I know that," Liila mutters.
It is still nice to hear.
"I heard that Adrestes called you Amaeria."
Liila winces, despite herself.
In an instant, Chyrus has moved closer, so that he is sitting in front of her, his hands clasping one of hers. "You should know: Adrestes did know you—"
"I know," Liila says. "Flashes of memories, remember?"
Chyrus catches her gaze and holds it, searching hers for something. "He gave up his memories of you after you were lost to us." He waits, to see if she will interrupt him again, before continuing. "He gave them up, but the forsworn returned some of them to him. Or tried to. We're not entirely sure how much was done, how much took hold, just yet."
Liila straightens up, horror creeping into her. She knew he was tortured—that much was obvious—but to have his mind tampered with…
"When he called you Amaeria, he did not know where or when he was," Chyrus says. "He has been in and out of consciousness since you saved him, and he is coming back to us slowly, but for now… He's called me Disciple Chyrus twice. And I haven't been a disciple for a very, very long time." Chyrus squeezes her hand. "He knows you're Liila. Before he was taken, he told people who were hearing about how you were one of our lost seven that they shouldn't call you by your old name. That you're Liila now. He knows who you are," Chyrus stresses. "He's just a little lost right now."
Tears brim on Liila's eyelashes as her lower lip trembles. She looks away, pulls her hand free—he does not try to stop her—and wipes at her eyes. "So you've seen him?"
"I have."
"And he will be alright?"
"He's demanded his armor twice already," Chyrus says, a smile tugging at his lips. "He'll be up and about in no time, despite everyone's efforts to make him rest." He nods to her. "Like you, from the looks of things."
Liila rolls her eyes.
"You could go see him, if you'd like. It might settle your worries."
"What makes you think I'm worried?"
"Aside from you voicing them just now?" When she scowls, he tries to hide his smile. Chyrus holds his hands up. "I admit that I have ulterior motives. I know he'd like to see you." He pauses, watches her. "He wanted to talk to you about…a myriad of things. He was absolutely restless, waiting for you to come back from the mortal world."
Liila's brow pinches for a second as she wonders what he would possibly want to talk to her about.
And then, rather abruptly, she remembers their accidental kiss.
Liila's eyes widen before she covers her face with her hands. She can feel the heat rushing up, into her cheeks, to the tips of her ears. She'd all but forgotten about that, with everything else going on.
When she dares to peek at Chyrus through her fingers, he is biting back a grin. "I'm sorry. I…he didn't share the details with me, if that makes you feel better."
The idea of going to see him…
It feels a little less daunting, after talking to Chyrus. If Adrestes really got rid of his memories, then he wasn't always frowning at her because he thought she was some miserable shadow of what she had been.
And to know he was telling people to call her Liila…
That means more than it probably should.
She is tempted to ask if she really can see him.
But…
Liila groans, leans forward to rest her head against her knees. "Can I even go back to Elysian Hold?"
"Why wouldn't you be able to?"
"I was expelled."
"What?"
"The wards. I got upset and they…"
The silence that meets her is unsettling. She wonders if he is reconsidering this happy little chat. If he is appraising her as a threat now, instead of a wayward soul to guide. When she dares look up, he seems utterly puzzled. "The wards never went off."
"I…I was there and then I wasn't."
Chyrus considers it a moment and then abruptly, a knowing light flickers in his eyes. He leans into his palm, fingers curling over his face, partially hiding his smile. "I was in Elysian Hold. Pelagos raised an alarm, said you were in danger. He said the void took you."
"That wasn't the void," Liila mumbles.
"We knew that, because the wards hadn't been tripped," Chyrus says.
"That was me—"
When she looks up at Chyrus, he smiles, gives her a short nod. "It was you."
Liila shakes her head, runs her fingers through her hair, pushing it away from her face. When did it fall down? "You're saying…I kicked myself out of Elysian Hold."
"You did."
"And I traumatized my soulbind."
"I wouldn't go that far." Chyrus lets his hand fall away. "Pelagos is stronger than people give him credit for."
Liila stares at him, and then curses. "If he thinks the void took me—"
"I sent word to let him know you're here and safe."
Liila slumps back against the tree she's at. She's lucky she came here, rather than just wandered the fields. Poor Pelagos…
"Thank you."
"Of course."
The words are earnest, sincere.
This place is so genuinely kind.
She tries to smile, tries to joke. "I can't take much more of this. Everyone here is so unbearably nice."
"Unbearably?" There is a note to his tone that says he gets her attempt at humor.
Liila opens her mouth to respond, but doesn't know what to say. She shrugs a little, for lack of a better response.
"You never answered my question."
"I don't remember your question," Liila says, thinking back over what they've discussed and drawing a blank.
"Do you feel we failed you?"
"No." The word comes quickly. "No, I know the Scourge is a beast. I imagine you didn't expect they could drag people back from here." She pauses, wilts a little despite his agreement. "I always assumed they just caught me before I could go anywhere. Or that I was never dead long enough to go anywhere." She thinks back. With her anxieties dropping, it is getting harder to push back her weariness. Her mind is getting muddled. "You said I—you said Amaeria was here almost a year?"
"She was."
Liila tries to think how long that would be in Azerothian time. "That means I was dead for…months?"
"The time difference is not an even flow," Chyrus says. "It could have been months, could have been a week. The realities aren't meant to interact. Souls aren't meant to go back, so the difference in the passage of time is supposed to be irrelevant."
She shouldn't be talking about this. Not when she's so tired. Not when she's so raw.
The sound of floorboards creaking ticks in her ears, and she shudders. She can smell the rot, feel the brittle wood against her back.
She hopes—
A hand rests on her shoulder, and she jerks away instinctively, attention snapping toward the owner, breath held.
Chyrus' brow is pinched, hand withdrawn just enough to give her space. He lets his hand drop back to his lap.
She looks away quickly, trying to gather herself. She searches for something to say, anything. She can't help but think of it now, however. Of that year that she was here. That year she cannot remember. That year that wants to be remembered.
"Did I ever…do you know if Amaeria ever got a kyrian form?"
"No," Chyrus says. "She was still a soul when she was taken back. They all were." He pauses. "It can take centuries before souls choose to move forward, to take on their next form, so her still being a soul after less than a year was unsurprising."
Liila slowly stretches her legs out in front of her. They're stiff. "I've lived a long time since then. Fifteen years. I shouldn't come here because of her actions."
"You want to be judged again? When the Arbiter is restored and you finally pass on?"
Liila doesn't point out that she can't. "I just… I don't want people thinking… expecting me to belong here. Because I don't. I wasn't the one judged worthy of this place. I'm not…"
"If you look at it that way, none of us are here on our own merit." When Liila looks at him, confused, Chyrus motions to himself. "It was not the actions of Chyrus that brought me here. Kleia was not Kleia, Thales was not Thales." He pauses a tic before adding, "Adrestes was not Adrestes."
Liila shakes her head. "But that's not…" Her shoulders slump a little as she looks away. "The Archon said that being good is at your core. All of you. Every soul who comes to Bastion. Even if the trappings change, you're still…you."
"So why are you the exception?"
When she looks up at him, he is not smug to have caught her in a trap. Instead, he is watching her with a patience and an understanding that feels so…foreign. He is leaning, one elbow propped against a knee, hand against his cheek as he watches her, waiting.
Liila looks away. "I don't… I'm not saying I'm an exception."
"Aren't you?"
"I'm not an exception," Liila says, struggling to find the words. Only the ones she hates so much come to mind. She wrestles with herself a moment before giving up. "I'm too broken."
"I don't know that I agree with that," Chyrus says, leaning forward and taking her hand again. "But I do think you're wounded. And you haven't been able to heal properly."
"I was doing okay," Liila says, looking down. "I was, but…things just keep…happening. And they won't stop."
"Things have a way of doing that." Chyrus seems to consider it before looking at her. "I don't pretend that I can make things better with a word or a spell, but may I make one suggestion?"
"I'm listening."
"You need rest. When was the last time you slept?"
"Earlier today—"
"I mean really slept, really rested."
Liila fumbles for an answer, thinks back.
Abruptly, she realizes that she hasn't slept well since the night the veil was torn open.
It has been months.
Months of fighting through the Maw and Maldraxxus and her fears.
Months of constant running, from place to place, goal to goal. Never pausing, never giving herself a chance to breathe, to process all that is happening.
"I think you will feel better if you can get some sleep."
"I'll just have nightmares," Liila says.
"The vespers will help with that," Chyrus says, standing up. "The ones here are strong, but if you fear your dreams will be too wicked or if you think they'll be echoes of memories, then I'd suggest going to Purity. The temple's designed to ease that sort of burden."
"Kicking me out of your temple, hm?" Liila says softly.
"Everyone has their strengths, and I know mine," Chyrus replies. "And banishing the haunting echoes of memories does not count among them. That is Vesiphone's expertise." He offers her a hand up. "If it doesn't help, feel free to come back and yell at me."
Liila stares up at him for a moment before shaking her head. With a defeated sigh, she reaches out and takes his hand.
Pelagos' breathing evens out slowly as he lays beside Nikolon. The ascended's fingers trace gently across his bare stomach and chest, invisible patterns that send pleasant shivers through him. Nikolon is on his side, watching Pelagos with a look of utter fondness that he can't help but reciprocate.
He wishes he had had the courage to reach out to Nikolon earlier.
Maybe if he had, the ascended never would have fallen. Maybe he could have been his saving grace.
Maybe it's arrogant to think that way.
Nikolon fell because he was so troubled by all the pain so many aspirants were going through. He was troubled because he had seen it happen again and again throughout the eons, but had always pushed the thoughts aside, until there was no room to push.
Pelagos quietly chastises himself for thinking that he could be enough to combat all of that.
And anyway, what they have now is good. Nikolon does not need to be on the Path for them to be…perfect.
Except that so long as Nikolon is off of the Path, he is in danger.
Pelagos felt the Archon's fury when Adrestes was returned to Elysian Hold, having heard Liila was back and not finding her in Hero's Rest. He had just landed in Elysian Hold, his larion too slow to keep up with Kleia, when he felt it.
Pure, unadulterated anger.
Like a wave, it had swept out, through him. He had been terrified. The ascended around him had been terrified. The stewards had stopped whatever they were doing, eyes instinctively turning up to some point high above, as though they could see the exact spot where the Archon stood, as though they could see her brimming with rage.
Pelagos had known before word actually reached him that the polemarch had been found and that he was hurt, because he could think of no other event that would lead to that much rage from their god.
Nikolon had felt it, too, apparently.
His little encampment had almost fallen to hysterics, as many had simply known that if they could feel that wrath, that the Archon was coming for them.
It had taken everything he had to calm them down.
There are thirty-five forsworn in Courage now. Seven ascended and twenty-eight aspirants. A couple of them talk about wanting to come back to the Path. One has asked Pelagos if he thinks it could be possible, though most are so careful because even among the forsworn here there is a lack of unity. The only thing that really binds them is that they do not agree with what the forsworn in power are doing. They do not think the attacks and the fighting is right, but they are not strong enough to put a stop to it.
He has heard a few stories now, about those who tried.
Supposedly, speaking out against the forsworn from within results in a fast track to the Maw.
None of them are certain of this, but it is the answer they get, and it seems to be either that or the dissidents are killed.
Pelagos wishes that Nikolon would not go back to Loyalty. He wishes that he would stay and guard the aspirants here, but Nikolon is too committed to getting any who wish to escape their freedom.
Nikolon's lips brush Pelagos' shoulder and then he leans forward and kisses him on the lips when Pelagos looks his way.
"I'm rather fond of that line," he murmurs, reaching up and lightly tracing a spot between Pelagos' eyebrows, right above his nose. "I'm curious to know the thoughts that make it."
Pelagos offers him a faint smile.
He doesn't want to tell him how worried he is for Nikolon's safety, though. He has voiced it twice already, and all it does is make Nikolon upset because there is no good solution, and it's not like Pelagos has any alternatives to offer.
Instead, he falls back to another problem. "I'm worried about Liila."
Nikolon's brow arches. His fingers drum slowly against Pelagos' chest. "After all that, all this," he kisses him again, "you're still thinking about her? I must not be a very good distraction."
Pelagos rolls closer to him, catching his face in his hands and kissing him deeply, smiling against Nikolon's smile when he drags him closer, as though they might get lost in one another again. "You are the perfect distraction."
"Good to know."
Now that Pelagos has thought of Liila, however, he can't quite get his mind to drop her.
That storm inside of her is finally settling.
He knew when she came back to the Shadowlands. One moment, he was feeling the emotions inside of her come up clearly, albeit faintly, and the next, they were back to that whirlwind. They were more intense once she was back on this side of the veil, too.
He wonders what being soulbound to a mortal will be like once the veil is restored, once they have to part ways, however brief or long that may be.
Nikolon is watching him, expression neutral. "Really?"
"She's my soulbind," Pelagos objects. "I…want to help her, but… I tried. Someone said something so horrible to her, something that hurt so deep, I heard it, as though they said it straight to me." He looks away, toward the sky. "I told her they were wrong, and she just…"
"I heard something," Nikolon says slowly, "and I've been wondering about it ever since, but I didn't want to…" He hesitates. "What made you decide to soulbind with the Maw Walker?"
Pelagos blinks, surprised. "I was told to, actually."
"So it wasn't your choice," Nikolon clarifies.
"No, but—"
"I heard that it was Devos' idea," Nikolon says quickly, wincing a little at the look Pelagos gives him. "And if it was her idea, she wanted you to bind to a mortal because she thought it would go badly."
Pelagos sits up a little. "If it was like that, the Archon would have had us undo the binding once Devos betrayed everyone."
"Perhaps," Nikolon says slowly, "they are waiting for you to let them know that things are…difficult."
"Others are bound to mortals, too," Pelagos says, feeling indignant. "Others are going through the same thing—"
"That you refer to it as 'going through' is—"
"Experiencing the same thing," Pelagos corrects. He frowns. "I'm happy to be soulbound to Liila—"
"It makes you anxious constantly," Nikolon interrupts. "She makes you anxious constantly."
Pelagos flounders a little before saying, "She's one of our lost seven."
"And?" Nikolon sits up as well, adjusts his wings and frowns. "Pelagos, you are not responsible for her. You do not need to shoulder the burden of—"
"Being Liila's soulbind isn't a burden!" Pelagos cries out. "And it's not bad most of the time. She has a good soul and a good heart and she's just…a little delicate. And she accepted you with no questions asked."
Nikolon holds his hands up in defeat. "I'm sorry that I upset you."
Despite Nikolon's further attentions, Pelagos simply sighs. "I should…get back."
"Don't leave on a sour note," Nikolon whispers, pulling Pelagos so that his back is flush against the ascended's chest. "I am sorry."
"I know you're just worried for me," Pelagos says softly, leaning back against him. "But Liila is my friend and I'm not going to abandon her. Even if this was Devos' idea."
Despite the determination in his voice, he can't help but feel uneasy at the thought.
The idea that the fallen paragon had been gunning to make him fall…
He turns his head and meets Nikolon's next kiss with one of his own. Perhaps its selfish to use his soulmate like this, but he really doesn't want to think.
Not right now.
He'll go back in a little while, but for now, he just wants to exist in the moment. Surely, that is not too much to ask.
"Maw Walker?"
Liila blinks and turns to see a familiar ascended has landed near her.
Disciple Kosmas, if she remembers right.
When he has her attention, he introduces himself as such with a smile. "Forgive me if I'm intruding, but you looked like you might nod off, and close to the edge as you are, I didn't want you to fall."
When he speaks, it is with a voice that is deep enough to be a tauren's, and it throws Liila a little. However, she recovers quickly. "I just…" she tries to think of the best way to explain it. How to tell him that Chyrus escorted her to the anima gateway—with wings and height returned—and saw her off, to Purity, but that once she was here, she didn't want to bother anyone because everyone was so…busy.
Aspirants need cleansing, and the temple needs repairs, and she doesn't need someone's help to fall asleep. She figured she would find somewhere quiet, out of the way, and attempt a nap, if she could get up the nerves to face her dreams.
"Nightmares?" the disciple asks, pulling her from her thoughts. She is spacing now, the wear of the last few months slowing her down.
"Yes."
He turns, motions for her to follow him. "We have a few places around the temple designed to accommodate aspirants—and mortals—with such troubles."
Already, that slithering terrors that have plagued her most recently feel like it is being held at bay, like each resounding ring of the great vespers overhead pushes it back a little further.
Liila can only imagine how well this temple must work when it has all of its bells.
New ones are being made, she's heard.
Purity's restoration is taking precedence over Courage, mostly because of the type of rite that Purity leads. More than a few of Courage have admitted, some resentfully and others with pride, that courage can be proven anywhere, but memories need to be cleansed a certain way. Once Purity has been restored, efforts will be split between Courage and the Locus.
Someone mentioned that Loyalty will need repairs, once it is retaken, but no one seems to be adding it to the list just yet.
"I don't suppose you have any soundproof rooms?" Liila asks, laugh weak, as they walk.
She has a feeling she'll be thrashing and fighting against whatever comes when she does let herself drift off.
Disciple Kosmas nearly stops in his tracks at that, glancing down at her, concern flickering across his features for an instant. "You know, if you need any memories cleansed, we would be happy to walk you through it."
"Can you remove a whole year in one go?" She lets out a dry laugh, though when she looks up at him, she sees that he does not echo her humor.
Instead, he merely says, "No."
Liila winces a little, despite herself. His tone is too…caring. She shouldn't have made such a dumb joke. It seems most of her jokes don't go over well here in Bastion. The people here are too compassionate to laugh at them. They do not share her dark humor.
"Such things can be tricky," Disciple Kosmas says, continuing to lead her through the temple. It's so much emptier than it was before the attack. Most people they do pass are in the midst of their own rituals and barely notice them, if they do at all. "It was an ongoing trauma, I take it?"
"Yes," Liila says.
It feels odd that her year of imprisonment can be surmised so easily, but she supposes that when one lives forever, a year doesn't sound long at all.
Before she can tell him, it's fine, she wasn't serious, he says, "Those sort of things are better dismantled in pieces. There are usually certain repetitive actions that can be addressed in one go. Memories of a certain warning or a certain path taken or a specific noise or—"
"Creaking floorboards," Liila says without thinking. She can almost hear that hateful sound, even as they walk quietly through so peaceful a place. It feels like it will start at any second, as soon as she lets her guard down.
"Yes," Disciple Kosmas replies. "It would not untangle everything, but we could cleanse something like that. And with that gone, some of the other memories would lose a bit of their edge. They would become more manageable."
It makes sense, she supposes, though she's not certain if forgetting those goddamn footsteps would actually make the rest of her memories of him any better. It wouldn't erase the cruelty.
But it might numb some of the terror that comes with it…
She tries to think of what things he did, without really focusing on them, of things that could go, pieces that could be forgotten to make the rest more…
Benign is the first word that comes to mind and it almost makes her laugh in contempt.
As if anything he ever did could be considered benign.
"What about other things? Laughs, sneers—"
"Laughs, most certainly," Disciple Kosmas says, "but sneers…anything to do with faces would generally be done last, when purging traumas."
Liila glances up at him, finds he is watching her. He is so… calm. "Oh?"
"We have found that when the faces of those who have inflicted pain are taken away before the memories of the pain itself, it can cause…chaos. The mind can attach different faces, create false memories that must be dealt with just the same as if they were real."
"Like you know someone broke your arm, but you don't know who, so your mind starts making people up to fill it in?"
"Or using the faces around you," Disciple Kosmas says, frowning. "That makes it harder to accept help, when you can't be sure if the one helping you is the one who hurt you to begin with."
Liila shudders at that. She knows how disoriented she can become, even when she knows what her tormentor looked like. "I can imagine."
"If you would like, we can take a shot at cleansing those footsteps from your mind."
Liila stops where she is, stares ahead. She barley notices how Disciple Kosmas stops just a step or two ahead of her, pauses, looks back.
What Haa'aji said before she came back has not left her, for even a breath, and every time someone new smiles at her, she feels it creeping back in.
They want Amaeria.
It does not hit her as hard as it did the last time it came to mind.
She wonders if she has the vespers to thank for that.
Or perhaps Chyrus.
Or Pelagos.
The edge is dulled, but it still hurts.
"Would you be offering this if I wasn't one of those lost souls of yours? If I was just some random mortal?"
The question seems to genuinely surprise the ascended, and he blinks, confused.
"Our offer is to any who have offered us aid. Consider it a small gesture of thanks for all you have done for us," Disciple Kosmas says. "I've had similar conversations with both Carroll and Inaar, if that puts you at ease."
"Did they accept your help?"
"No," Disciple Kosmas says as they resume walking. "They struggle with their memories of the Maw. In the end, they decided it would be pointless to undo that sort of memory, as they will just be going back soon enough anyway. Neither wanted to have that 'first time' feeling with seeing how bad the Maw is again. I told them that once this is over, I would be happy to help them forget before they go back to your side of the veil." He turns, heading toward a building that is tucked back against the cliffs that encompass the temple grounds. "I do not know if they will take me up on the offer." He pauses, glances at Liila. "It is extended to you, as well, of course. To any mortal who aids us."
Liila nods.
When they stop, the walkway splits in two directions, a smaller path heading toward that building, and another heading off toward pools in the distance.
Disciple Kosmas looks down at her, tilts his head. "The decision is yours, Maw Walker. Would you like to cleanse your memories?"
"I don't imagine that's something to do when one's tired," she mumbles. She feels like she's making excuses, but doesn't know why. "I don't think it'll be a memory to fade readily."
"May I see?"
Liila blinks, surprised, as she looks up at him. How she can forget, with all the soul mirrors and soulbinds and everything else, that the kyrian can peer into memories is beyond her. She fidgets.
She does not like the idea of sharing memories. She hates that it can happen with her soulbinds, that they can see her stronger memories, the ones that make her own stomach turn, even after all this time.
But the idea of being rid of them… Of not hearing branches bending in the wind that turns into the echoes of those creaking floorboards on a bad day… Of not idly thinking that Blood's boots ring differently than his did or…
Because it is always there, always ready to rear up when she does not expect it.
The idea that she could be free of that…
The idea that this is not being offered because she was some soul the kyrian laid claim to, but because she is actively helping them now…
This offer is to her, to Liila.
"Okay."
Her voice is small, and it seems to surprise them both.
"You're sure? You need not do something you are not comfortable with."
Liila nods, feeling awkward. "I'm sure. No harm in trying, right?"
Disciple Kosmas leads her to the side of the path, as though the get out of the way of the bustle that certainly isn't there. He takes her to one of the nearer flat rocks, bids her to sit with him. She does so, and when he is content that she is comfortable, he reaches out, a single fingertip brushing against her forehead.
In a blink, the light of Bastion is gone.
It is dark, the windows boarded to keep the sickly light beyond from reaching into this miserable room without a door.
The air is rotten, as is the wall that will splinter into her back, if she moves against it. Somewhere beyond, people are crying, someone is trying to sing a song and sobbing because they can't remember the tune anymore.
Liila's arms are so thin, half scabbed cuts running along them. Her hair falls unevenly around her, in her face, and she makes no effort to push it back. If she does, he'll know she cared enough to move it. Better he think she is empty, gone. Maybe then he will let her go, let this end.
And then she hears that godawful sound.
The start of the floorboards creaking down below. A steady rhythm she knows by heart.
It goes across the room, up the stairs.
One after another.
The floorboards creak, the metal shifts against metal. The sobbing grows quiet.
Everyone knows better than to let him hear them cry. When he's in the mood to pick, he always goes for whoever is crying the hardest.
The footsteps reach the landing and continue closer.
Wicked as it is, she wants them to keep going, past the open, empty doorway, to someone else.
The footsteps stop.
It looks like it's her turn today.
Disciple Kosmas' expression is ever calm as Liila blinks, flinching against the brilliant light around them.
In a breath, he is on his feet and a hand is offered to Liila, to help her up.
"What's the verdict?" Liila tries to smile, but it fails before it's formed. She looks down.
The nightmares are going to be bad this time around.
When she doesn't take his hand, he reaches down and catches hers. "I think you will sleep better once this is gone."
Her gaze snaps up to his. She can't hide her disbelief.
"You can really get rid of it?"
His smile is as brilliant as the realm around them. "Most certainly."
Adrestes uses the nearest wall to hold himself up as he glares at Eridia, who is blocking his path and holding the items he has gathered. "Give them back."
"Adrestes, stop it."
"If you don't want to help, then stay out of my way," he growls. He makes a move to grab for the bells she is holding, but she dodges back easily. It's not even a dodge, if he's honest. More of a slight slide back, barely a step. To get to them, he's going to have to let go of the wall, and he probably won't be able to stand if he does that.
His body is mostly healed, but he's been told it will be days before the weariness leaves him, and he doesn't have that kind of time.
"I can just get more," he says, defiant.
She lets out a huff. "I understand that you are upset—"
"Upset?" Adrestes echoes. "They were in my head! They tried to drag me off the Path—"
He tires to step away from the wall, to make a grab for the bells. She hops into the air, out of reach. The bells clang softly from the movement.
Adrestes stumbles and falls, barely catching himself on his hands and knees. His right wing hurts.
Ridiculous, considering he's not even using it.
Thenios did say the aches would last a while. Even if he hadn't been poisoned with something from the Maw, his feathers haven't started to come back in into the spot that was stabbed, and it's going to itch like crazy. He suffered one wing injury eons ago, but he remembers how utterly agonizing it was regrowing his feathers, how he had tucked himself away once just to scrape his nails against the tender skin around his pin feathers, willing them to come in faster so that he could be whole again.
This time, with the poison, it seems like the injury will be even more of a pain than last time.
At least, with his wings tucked against his back, it's harder for others to see the bare spot. He won't be flying for a while.
"Honestly…" Eridia exhales.
Adrestes doesn't look up.
Instead, he curls his fingers into fists, tells himself that he's being pathetic. If he just focuses enough, he will be able to get to his feet, get to a cleansing pool, and make this right.
An older figure holds out a small vase. It is broken. They ask why he is taking the blame when it was—
No.
No, no, no.
He pushes himself up, but it's not with enough force, and he just collapses right back to where he was. His wings feel heavy.
There is a moment's pause, the sound of bells being set down a ways away, and then the soft plodding of feet. Eridia's hands grip one of his arms. She helps him to his feet, though he is still shaky on them. "How did you even get here?"
"The gateway," he mumbles, despite himself. Already, he's starting to feel guilty for accusing her of not wanting to help him. Because just looking at her, meeting her gaze, he can see the compassion there, the helplessness. "I'm sorry."
"You're a sorry sight, that's for sure," Eridia says. She loops his arm over her shoulders and guides him toward one of the resting areas. "I can only imagine how panicked your healers must be, looking for you right now."
"I have to get these things out of my head," Adrestes whispers. "Please. Please, if you don't want to do it, just leave me to it. I can handle it myself."
"If I leave you to it, you'll fall into the pool and drown and then what?" She shakes her head. "I'll tell you what. Then I'll be cleansing the memories of whoever finds a dead polemarch in the cleansing pools. You know it'll be an aspirant, too."
"This isn't a joke."
"No, it's not," Eridia says, tone firm. She pauses to give him a glare. "Try to be objective."
"No."
"If an aspirant was kidnapped and tortured and we rescued them and they wanted to go through a cleansing when they were still recovering, would you let them?"
Adrestes glares at her. "I'm not an aspirant."
"My point is, I will help you when you can be cleansed, and not a second sooner."
Adrestes tries to stand up straighter, to pull free from her and stand on his own, to show her he is not some frail soul who must be reminded that patience is a virtue. His usual strength is sapped, however, and he merely wobbles against her.
"You can either rest here or in Elysian Hold," Eridia says. "Your choice. But you are not setting foot in a cleansing pool until Vesiphone says you are well enough."
Adrestes is torn. Part of him wants to shove her away, to make a dash for his discarded reagents and fly to the nearest pool, whoever's already there be damned. But he knows he doesn't have the strength to do that.
He is, effectively, at her mercy.
And he knows that, unlike her soulbind, she has it. She will not make him suffer intentionally.
It is just so…hard. With all the little things in his head that shouldn't be there.
He destroyed most of the mirrors that held his memories, but he wasn't able to break them all. He's not even sure all of the memories he's regained. There are fleeting flashes of childhood games, a figure or two of a race he doesn't recognize, and then there are the memories of Amaeria and the fight to save souls from the Scourge. Not all of them stuck, he knows that.
But enough did.
And they should not be there.
He tries not to think of them, tries not to let them settle. Whenever his mind goes to one, he forces himself to think of something else, to try to think of something he knows he should have.
His ascension, his promotion to polemarch, his first encounter with the Maw Walker, watching her from the top of a pillar as she told her harrowing tale. Things like that.
But then, when he thinks of more recent events with Liila, he gets…confused.
Like he knows her favorite color, but can't remember if he should know her favorite color, or if that's actually Amaeria's favorite, if perhaps Liila's is different.
He knows about the fiancé.
That's one he shouldn't have.
He thinks.
Or has he talked with Liila about…?
No, her love life has never come up. He's fairly certain of that. He has been drawn to her, but his feelings never turned in that direction…
Did they?
He loved Amaeria, and part of him tells himself that he loves Liila, but another part says that it is far too soon to know that.
They have never had a chance to sit and have a real conversation.
Except by the water.
No.
That was Amaeria who he spoke with by the water.
Wasn't it?
It doesn't help that in the end, Amaeria and Liila are one and the same. Liila may not have memories of that time, but he does, and he can see it. She is still the same person. The way she laughs, the way she smiles, the way she hides her face in her hands when she's embarrassed, the way she cares more about the people around her than herself.
Even if the memories are gone, her soul, her core is still the very thing he fell for.
Or are his memories bleeding together, making him see similarities where there aren't any?
And just what happened that her children would tell people that anyone who calls her Amaeria is mean and can't be trusted?
He wants to talk to her.
So badly.
But at the same time, he's scared to, because he's got all this mess in his head, and he doesn't want to say the wrong thing and see her heart break because of him all over again.
There's got to be a reason she doesn't associate herself with that name. Something substantial.
He feels so damned lost.
If he can just get rid of what shouldn't be there, then everything will be fine. He will know whatever he is left with is what he should know, what he should have. He will be able to talk to her, to get to know her, to have that fresh start the Hands teased him about.
Even as he starts to beg Eridia again to just get him to a pool, to let him get rid of the pieces that don't belong so that he doesn't feel like his grip on reality is slipping, a voice calls out, "Tell them we found him. He's fine."
Eridia stops in her tracks, looks ahead and smiles with relief as boots touch stone. "Would you help me? He's being incorrigible."
Thanikos strides over, flashes Adrestes a smile when he looks up. Without any further prompt, he loops Adrestes' other arm over his shoulders. "Where are we going?"
"There," Eridia releases Adrestes's hand long enough to point before taking hold of him again, like she thinks if she doesn't, he'll jerk is arm free from her and make a run for it.
In truth, he might've tried earlier, but now, with Thanikos holding his other arm, there's no way he can get away. Miserably, he resigns himself to having to go where they take him.
That is, until he feels the pull.
Adrestes stops, his feet dragging a little when they try to pull him forward. Thanikos stops with him, while Eridia tries to keep going, nearly falls because the other two are too firmly in place.
"You're supposed to be helping me," Eridia laments, glaring at Thanikos.
"Liila's here?"
Thanikos' brow arches. Eridia's stance shifts.
"She's resting."
"Why is she here?"
Silence meets his question, and after a miserable pause, he turns so that he can look at Eridia.
There is a calculating look in her eyes that he does not like. "You can see her, ask her yourself, if you'd like. If you promise not to try to do anything stupid like cleanse your own memories until after Vesiphone has said it's safe."
Adrestes can't help the annoyance that floods him. "You can't stop me from seeing—"
"You have the fortitude of a limp feather right now, and you're in my temple. You really want to tell me what I can and can't do?"
When Adrestes looks to Thanikos for help, he shrugs. "I am not about to make Eridia mad."
"I'lll get Voitha involved," Eridia says. "She'll be on my side."
"Traitors, the lot of you," Adrestes mutters.
"Promise you'll wait, and we'll take you to her."
Adrestes is tempted to say no, that the only thing he'll wait for is for Eridia to be distracted so that he can do what needs to be done and then once his mind is wholly his again, he will go see Liila on his own.
However, that pull is such a distraction.
He wants to follow it. He's wanted to follow it every time he's felt it, since his rescue.
It's stronger now, somehow.
He's sure of that, though he can't quite place when it became stronger. When she found him? When they kissed? Or does it go back further, to that first touch?
With that pull as it is, he doubts he'll be able to focus on a cleansing.
Holding his head a little higher, he lets his gaze move toward Eridia, who is waiting, expression neutral. "…Fine."
"Say you promise," Eridia demands.
Adrestes' smile is thin as his eyebrow twitches, ever so slightly. "I promise I will not make any attempts to cleanse myself by myself until Vesiphone says I am ready."
"That's not quite—" Thanikos starts, but Eridia hushes him.
"I'll take the victories I can get right now." She adjusts her grip on Adrestes' arm. "Figures you'd make me lug you all over the place."
The walk takes an eternity, or at least it feels like it. Once, Thanikos stops and asks if they shouldn't just let him rest somewhere closer. His suggestion that Adrestes can see Liila later dies on his tongue when Adrestes glares at him.
They go to one of the smaller buildings. It only sports a few superficial cracks ton one spot near the door, the only remnants of the fighting that had engulfed the area a few months ago. Inside, it has a few mats arranged in neat little rows. They are too small for ascended. This place was made for aspirants, as much of the ground areas of the temple were.
Adrestes barely sees any of that, however, because as soon as he is in the doorway, his gaze is drawn to the far corner where he sees her.
Thanikos lets him go because they cannot walk three abreast through the doorway at their size, and Eridia gives him his freedom when he reaches out for the nearest wall. He walks himself the length of the room, though his strength gives out right at the end, and he sinks down, kneeling just shy of her mat.
Liila is curled up around a pillow, her face snuggled against it, hair hanging in a loose braid behind her, with a few loose wisps of red resting across her neck and shoulder. Even though he cannot see her face clearly, he knows that she is resting well.
It's not like the time he found her before, when she was tense, in the throes of a night terror.
He starts to reach out, to brush her hair back, but stops when his hand is hovering just shy of her. He frowns, letting his hand fall back against his leg as he stares at her. At how little space she takes up on her mat.
"Was the Maw Walker always so tiny?" he asks, before he can stop himself. He thinks back to their interactions, to the times they walked together, to the times they've sat together—because he's sure they have done that, at least once. He thinks of when he's flown with her in his arms.
And then his mind flashes to a dream, of her legs wrapped around his waist and her fingers in his hair, of lips desperately trying to memorize each other.
In his dream, there had been a height difference, but it hadn't been…this bad.
"Aren't they tiny?" Thanikos whispers back, a bit too enthusiastically. He has squatted at Adrestes' side, though he, too, is watching Liila. "Sometimes I just want to juggle the whole lot of them." When Adrestes turns his gaze, slowly, to stare at the Hand, he glances back at him and shrugs. "I said what I said."
Eridia nods from where she leans over the two of them. "Whenever I see Inaar, I just want to pick her up and hug her, like a plushie."
"Thank you!" Thanikos says.
Adrestes looks back down at Liila because if he doesn't, he is going to try to beat both of the Hands with energy he doesn't have. Her breathing is soft and even and she looks so…peaceful.
"I'm sorry you can't talk to her," Eridia says, "but a deal's a deal. We should get you somewhere—"
"I'll stay here," Adrestes murmurs. He eases himself down so that he can sit near Liila.
For a moment, there is a silence and when he looks up, he worries that Eridia is going to argue with him, insist he rest somewhere that is better equipped to handle ascended. After all, if he extends his wings, they will take up a good chunk of the room, and with the dreams he's been struggling with, it's likely he might end up trying to fly in a panic, which could cause some minor chaos until he's gathered himself enough to recognize where he is.
It happened twice while he was in Elysian Hold, blankets and mending supplies scattered, a steward terrified.
Somehow, though, he has a feeling that if he sleeps here, he'll be fine. The vespers here are designed to stave off night terrors, after all.
Eridia is quiet a moment longer before straightening up. "I will go get you some blankets, so we don't have to try to line the mats up to accommodate you." Her feathers grow sleek against her. "If you set one foot out of this building while I'm gone—"
"I'll watch him," Thanikos assures her.
Eridia appraises the both of them a second longer before nodding. "I'll be back."
And then she is gone.
Adrestes sighs, runs his hand over his short hair, glances at Thanikos. "Thank you."
He merely shrugs. "If you try to run from here I will absolutely knock you flat on your back."
"Noted," Adrestes says, rolling his eyes. He looks back at Liila.
That pull is so strong, and he can't help but reach out again. This time, his fingers just barely skim against her skin as he brushes back those loose strands of hair.
She lets out a soft sigh, pulls the pillow closer and snuggles it tighter.
"Do you think you're the pillow?" Thanikos asks.
"The only reason I'm not tossing you out the door is because it would wake her."
"Of course," Thanikos replies, grinning. Silence has barely had time to settle over them before he reaches out and lightly nudges Adrestes' shoulder. "There is one good thing that's come out of all of this." When Adrestes gives him a suspicious look, Thanikos points down at Liila. "She found you by following that pull."
Adrestes stills, looking back down at her. In the time since waking up, since being coherent enough to come here to discard his unwanted memories, he has never actually thought to wonder how he was found. He had just assumed…
"So now you know she feels it, too."
"Kleia? It's good to see you. What brings you to Purity?" There is a pause. "And Pelagos, yes? Good to see you both."
Kleia knows that deep voice anywhere, and she turns to find Disciple Kosmas landing near them, a warm smile in place. She returns it, though it is gone quickly. "I heard that Liila is here. Is she alright?"
"She was very upset earlier," Pelagos explains.
Kleia looks at him, at the determination in his expression, and cannot help but smile again.
Disciple Kosmas nods to each of them, though his gaze lingers on Kleia for just a second longer. "Her cleansing was a success, and she's resting now."
Both Kleia and Pelagos blink, surprised.
"Cleansing?" Pelagos echoes.
"Well, it's hers to talk about if she'd like, but hopefully it will help make her dreams a little less…painful."
Kleia knows immediately when it happened. She felt it on the way over. Both she and Pelagos had had a flash of a memory, something wicked. And then there had been a shift, as though Liila felt lighter, somehow.
The memory had faded.
Neither of them had realized it was fading because it was actually fading from the source. They had assumed it was just one more trauma coming up and fading that they needed to try not to bear witness to.
Because since Liila's emotional storm began, there have been more than a few memories that have flashed before Kleia. Pelagos does not seem quite as susceptible to them. Kalisthene said it was because he is not yet ascended. He cannot see memories as clearly as they can.
But they have been…awful.
Mostly, it is a human man who delights in breaking bones and tearing flesh. Hopelessness sweeps through, cold and brittle, when he comes to mind. Sometimes, it is an elf, so twisted with rage that he seems almost corrupted by grief itself. Pity and old anger and frustration come with him. When Adrestes comes to mind, there is pain, a feeling of being rejected and unwanted that is so acute. And then there is that one. The one that Pelagos saw.
They want Amaeria.
Kleia is glad she never knew Liila before, glad that she can prove that wicked whisper wrong with ease. Because those words have been echoing, and they bring such grief.
And under it all is her pain, her curse.
That she can get away from even a little of what is plaguing her…
Kleia wishes she had suggested it, after all.
"Would it be alright if we checked on her?" Pelagos asks.
Disciple Kosmas nods. "I'm afraid I can't lead you myself at the moment, but if you follow this path, take the third left and second right, you'll get there." He pauses. "If you get lost, ask for the chamber set aside for the mortals."
He lingers a moment, flashing Kleia another smile before he is back in the air and gone.
When Kleia finally looks away, she finds Pelagos watching her with a look that says he is trying to decide what to make of something. She feels her feathers fluff a little before she motions. "Shall we?"
The itch to fly has never been so bad as it is now, but Kleia forces herself to keep her feet on the ground. Pelagos is worried, and she doesn't want to leave him alone just to calm her own nerves.
Because even if Liila is resting and doing better now…
Kleia felt it, even if she wasn't there. The way Liila's soul went so…still. So cold.
The way Pelagos panicked so completely.
Kleia had thought they were still in Ardenweald and had gone to Elysian Hold to get a portal to Oribos, to cut her travel time down. It had been pure luck that she had arrived in time to find Pelagos, demanding that Kalisthene sweep the realm for a Void attack, because clearly something from that realm had claimed Liila.
He had been so terrified, so much so that he hadn't listened to the few ascended who had seen whatever had happened, who had told him that whatever it was, it wasn't the Void.
It had been unsettling, apparently, for shadows and darkness to suddenly be right there in the middle of the hold, but it hadn't been an attack. The wards would have activated if that had happened.
It hadn't been until Kleia had wrapped him in a tight hug that he had begun to calm down. He had explained what had happened again. Kalisthene had told him, now that he was finally calm enough to hear her, that they had people looking around the hold for Liila, that they would find her, and she would be fine.
Kalisthene had seemed upset by it, too, though she had schooled herself well enough that Pelagos hadn't noticed.
Thinking back now, Kleia wonders if the disappearance reminded her of what happened with the seven, when they were taken. How they had been there one moment and then simply gone the next, dragged back to another reality. They had been Kalisthene's charges, after all.
Kleia had convinced Pelagos to help check around the hold rather than try to fly out over the surrounding fields on his larion. She didn't want him going into unwarded areas. The forsworn seemed to be lashing out a bit harder now that they'd lost the polemarch. She had told him that if he reached out, he would feel for himself that Liila was calming down, wherever she was. That she was safe.
Because she wouldn't feel as…muted if she were in danger.
Then word had come that she was at the Temple of Humility.
Pelagos had insisted they go.
When they got there, however, the people they asked said they hadn't seen Liila. Kleia had tried to tell him that it was a big temple, that it was easy for people to miss one another all the time.
She had told him to feel her, through the soulbind.
Because something was changing.
It was subtle, but… but it was changing.
Some of that hurt.
It wasn't that it was disappearing, necessarily, but perhaps… like some wicked, angry beast, it was being subdued, falling back into the slumber it was in when they first met her. Kleia suspected that something helped her in Humility, and now, here, something else is finally reaching to quiet that whirlwind inside of her. It feels like more than just a cleansing, if Kleia is honest.
At the time it started, when Liila would have just gotten to Purity, Pelagos was too riled to feel it.
Kleia had suggested he try to do something to relax, rather than chase down Liila right then. She had worried that the two might feed off each other's anxieties, and that it would make things worse for both of them. Pelagos hadn't seemed to like her suggestion, but he had taken it, slipping away to go check on Nikolon.
At least, she assumes that's where he went, considering the peace that came over him shortly after.
Now that the doubts about their fallen friend have been overcome, he seems to be the surest balm to many of Pelagos' anxieties. It makes Kleia a little jealous, if she's honest. She is his soulbind, and yet it is Nikolon who can put him at ease most readily.
There are whispers that Liila and the polemarch are soulmates, which means they should complement each other so perfectly, should bring peace to each other—even if that is clearly not happening at the moment—and now Pelagos seems to have found someone who puts him at ease in a way that no one else can. It reminds Kleia of her first soulbind, of how she had been sure they would be bound forever and how they had then just…grown apart.
After her soulbind had gotten their wings. After they found more and more reason to use them, to leave her behind, on the pathways and the Path, soaring ever further out of reach until there was nothing to reach for.
Kleia tries not to dwell on it too much. She tries to be a better soulbind to the others than her first was to her. Not that she holds any fault…
It is just a tricky thing.
She is happy for both of her soulbinds, of course. And she will be there for both of them for as long as they will have her. She just… it would be nice to be needed. Wanted.
When they come into view of their destination, Pelagos perks up a little. His steps falter for just a second. "Is that…Thanikos?"
Kleia peers ahead. "I think so."
"What's he doing here?" Pelagos asks, brow pinching.
Kleia can only shrug. After all, the Hand usually splits his time between Wisdom and Humility, checking in with his charges and making sure that their training is going as smoothly as it can, considering they have been displaced.
He doesn't have any charges here, that Kleia knows of.
Perhaps some of the abductees have started cleansing the memories they cannot bear?
When he sees them, Thanikos simply nods and holds a finger to his lips to keep them from calling out any greetings or questions.
He is leaning so that the doorframe rests between his wings, and he takes up most of the doorway.
Pelagos walks up to him, motions inside before saying in a whisper. "Is Liila here?"
"She's sleeping."
It is very odd that the Hand of Courage seems to be guarding their soulbind. Kleia tries not to feel anxious, tries not to let Pelagos know this turn of events worries her. After all, why would she need a guard at all?
"Is she okay?" Even as he speaks, Pelagos peeks past Thanikos and a small, 'oh' escapes him before he falls quiet.
Kleia perks up, peering over his shoulder and then, without thinking taking to the air so that she can see more clearly.
At first, she sees Polemarch Adrestes, lying on a few haphazard blankets. His wings are tucked back behind him, where he sleeps on his side, and he is wearing simple robes, similar to one Kleia has been given to wear when she is resting and out of her armor. Even curled up as he is, the polemarch's large form feels like it takes up most of the room.
Shouldn't he be back in Elysian Hold? They said it would take him days to recover and it hasn't even been one full one yet.
He must be why Thanikos is here.
Kleia glances around, searching the space for Liila before looking back at the polemarch and realizing that Liila is there with him, curled up against him. One of his hands rests in her hair, and she looks as though she has nuzzled up against his neck.
"Enough of that."
The words are a barely whispered wind that reaches Kleia's ear, and she lets out a squeak as she realizes that Eridia is right behind her. Kleia drops back to ground, feeling a flush in her cheeks. She shouldn't have pried into such a private moment. As she looks back at Thanikos, he's grinning.
Eridia stands just behind Kleia, a look of mild reprimand in place. "You shouldn't spy on others."
"She's their soulbind," Thanikos whispers in a drawl, defending them. "They just wanted to make sure she was well."
That eases some of the lines of reprimand on Eridia's features. "Well, if she was alone, I'd be happy to let you sit with her, but with Adrestes being the pain that he is, you should probably just come by later. Or wait for her to come to you."
"Adrestes is being a pain?" Pelagos asks, curious.
As Eridia puffs out her cheeks, Thanikos shakes his head. "He's just…recovering."
Kleia glances past Thanikos again, though she can't see the two clearly anymore. It seems they're still trying to keep things quiet, even now. At least Liila doesn't seem to be in the dark anymore.
Eridia looks like she wants to say more, but she refrains, likely because Kleia and Pelagos are in no position to hear about the woes that might be happening. Even if it does involve their soulbind, at least partially.
"Do you know how long she'll sleep?" Pelagos asks. Kleia can see the way his brow pinches, how he's reviewing his own cleansings, trying to remember his average recovery times, based on which ritual was performed. She can't help but smile his way.
"Oh, well. No." Eridia says, and shakes her head. "And honestly, when she wakes up, she may linger just because…"
"Because they're soulmates," Thanikos whispers, clasping his hands next to his cheeks and batting his eyelashes for a second.
Eridia stands a little taller. "They are, and you are not going to make fun of that."
"I am definitely going to make fun of that."
"Not a word!" Eridia hisses in a loud whisper. "We are going to be respectful this time around!"
"You are going to be respectful this time around," Thanikos says. "I am going to tease him endlessly."
Eridia crosses her arms. "Don't you have aspirants to train?"
"Apolon and Artemede are more than capable of handling things for a few hours," Thanikos dismisses. "I'm fine with babysitting."
At that, Eridia narrows her eyes. "I feel like he could persuade you to—" She pauses abruptly, seemingly just remembering that Pelagos and Kleia are still there. She looks down at them. "If you would like to stay nearby, there are plenty of tasks that need to be done, but otherwise—"
"What a cruel taskmistress," Thanikos says, shaking his head. He looks at Pelagos. "So you now, we're much more laid back once you get to Courage."
"Don't act like you don't keep your aspirants busy, too," Eridia mutters.
"We're fun busy," Thanikos insists. "Weapons training and endurance building." He smiles at Kleia. "I recall you excelled with the warhammer."
"Oh, yes," Kleia says, surprised that he remembers her at all. It has been ages since she was in Courage.
Thanikos looks at Pelagos. "If you don't have a favored weapon yet, we'll find you one."
"I use a dagger," Pelagos says, a little awkwardly. "Though I prefer spells, if I'm honest."
"Well, that's something for him to look forward to," Eridia says, before Thanikos can start talking again—because he looks rather enthusiastic about the idea of discussing daggers and spells. "But really, you two should—"
"I'm curious," Thanikos says leaning forward. "You two are the Maw Walker's soulbinds."
"Yes," Kleia and Pelagos respond, slowly.
"Did she ever say anything to you about the polemarch? About being drawn to him or…"
"Oh!" Kleia says and then flinches as she realizes she was a little loud. After Thanikos has checked on the sleeping duo and flashed a thumbs up, she adjusts her voice. "Well, she did ask me if we had anything where you were just drawn to someone. I told her about soulmates, and she asked about being drawn to someone who doesn't like you."
Eridia seems to have forgotten she was just trying to shoo them away. "She thought he didn't like her?" When Pelagos and Kleia nod, Eridia's shoulders and wings drop a little as she rolls her eyes, shaking her head dramatically. "Of all the… of course he would do that." She sighs. "I feel sorry for the Maw Walker. Her soulmate doesn't believe in soulmates."
"That's okay, neither does she," Kleia says, with an awkward laugh.
Eridia looks at her. Thanikos snorts. Then he freezes and peeks back into the room, as though worried so simple a sound will awaken the two.
Or perhaps they are only worried about waking the polemarch.
"She'll be alright," Pelagos says, smiling softly. "After all, soulmates have a way of making things better—"
He cuts himself off when he finds rather abruptly that Eridia is right next to him, leaning forward, hands on her knees, so that she is closer to his eyelevel, appraising him with a calculating look. "Spoken like one who's found theirs."
Pelagos' cheeks flush darker. "I…yes."
Kleia's heart skips a beat.
He's found his…?
Suddenly, it makes sense.
She knew he and Nikolon were close, but he hadn't told her that they were…
"I know all the soulmate couples in the realm," Eridia says, "but I don't know about you."
"Oh, it's…we really just found each other."
Eridia lets out a high squee before dodging when Thanikos tries to smack at her to get her quiet. The lot of them are still a moment as Eridia peeks back into the chamber to see that the two are still sleeping and then her gaze snaps back to Pelagos, a mischievous grin in place. "Who is it?"
At that Pelagos' expression freezes.
And dread curls through him so surely that it spills into Kleia.
And she realizes that he can't answer without revealing that they have been helping the forsworn.
To one of those most wounded by the forsworn.
Even as Kleia is about to announce that she is his soulmate—if only to distract Eridia and give Pelagos a chance to recuperate—Thanikos interjects. "Let him have his new love in private. Did you want everyone bothering you when you first found your soulmate?"
"I was telling every person that looked our way that she was mine," Eridia replies, tone clipped, stance indignant. Her wings fluff a little before she schools them. "It's something to be celebrated. With everyone. And we could use some good news."
"You could use some good news," Thanikos corrects.
Eridia looks like she might pout a second before schooling herself. "If you don't want to tell me, I understand."
The way the last two words are strained, Kleia is very certain that Eridia does not, in fact, understand.
At all.
"I would just want him to be on the same page with telling people," Pelagos fumbles.
"So they're a him. That cuts out half the realm," Eridia murmurs, eyes rolled up as though she can see a list in her head.
"Eridia, no." When she gives her fellow Hand a look that says he can't tell her what to do, Thanikos abruptly scowls. "Look, he's one of mine. Alright? And he's been through enough without you pestering him and setting him center stage for the whole realm to gawk at."
That seems to quell the curiosity in the Hand of Purity, at least for the moment. She stands a little straighter, looks back down at Pelagos. "Well, I am happy for you, aspirant. I hope you can make your way through your rites together so that you can keep close—"
"Stop trying to fish for whether he's an aspirant or not," Thanikos snaps.
Eridia rolls her eyes. "That said, if you need something to do, there is much work to be done."
"We'll report to the cleansing pools to the east," Kleia offers.
Eridia nods, gives them a reassuring smile. "Thank you. And I really am happy for you, aspirant." She looks back at Thanikos. "Send for me the second he's up."
She takes her leave, and Thanikos lets out a long, slow sigh.
Pelagos looks back at him. "Thank you for that. I…I suppose it's odd to want a bit of privacy about something so—"
"It's okay," Thanikos says, giving him a short, dismissive nod.
"I'm sorry you had to lie."
"I wouldn't call it a lie," Thanikos says, shaking his head. "I consider him and his group to fall under my purview these days."
Kleia and Pelagos both start to dismiss themselves to go tend to the tasks they promised Eridia they would do, when what the Hand of Courage has said sinks in. Both of them look up at him slowly to see that he is watching them with an uncanny calm.
Thanikos offers them a wink and then nods with his chin. "You'd best not keep Eridia waiting. If she tries to bother you about your soulmate again, tell her I'm telling Vesiphone about The Thing. She'll leave you be."
