Spoilers for C3E93
Lonesome Roads
Morrighan finally stopped running when she realized her only companion was a literal shadow, clinging to her like a chilled coat.
"Will they be okay?" Cyrus asks, his voice distant and near in equal measure like a whisper from an opposing cliff.
"I- I don't know," she murmurs, slumping to the ground, her sword clattering to the ground beside her.
The last remnant of Opal is hot in her other hand, yet she refuses to release it. Holding it all the tighter.
"I love you."
Her ears fall as the tears begin to fall yet again.
"Morrighan?" Cyrus prompts again.
"I said I don't know!" she exclaims and falters, staring into the blank eyes of her friend's spirit, and sees his face fall.
Why does she cling to him so?
'I did not make you mine just for you to die here."
But a part of her has.
And she needs direction.
Where can she go?
Where is she needed?
What will be demanded of her next?
How much more will she lose?
"Fate is a funny thing, deary, but one can always find a way to tug the threads in the right direction."
The voice of the woman who cast her on this path, the one that took her first name.
She could have answers.
But what would the cost be this time?
What more could she give… no, what more would she give?
"What would you have me do?" she asks, speaking to the empty air.
There is no response, no urging, she misses when the guidance was a constant, an ever-present ringing in the back of her mind that showed her where to go.
But now there is silence, a comfort akin to the grave.
Fitting, perhaps, when she considers her position once more.
"Where will we go?" Cyrus demands, shifting closer to her, and she part of her wants to push him away, the other wants to pull him into an embrace, but she is not sure if she can accomplish either.
"I wish I knew," she mutters.
There is a flash of black, winging through sun-set tinged sky.
She looks up, and there is a raven winging towards the horizon.
A sign.
She stands, taking up her blade, and glances back the way she came.
The road is being set before her.
"Cyrus… how does it feel?" she asks.
"Hollow, yet comforting, for I am not alone." he murmurs, shifting closer to her once more, "Do you know where we are going?"
"No… but I hope it leads us back to the others in time," she states, and she starts walking.
Unspoken is a worry she fights to bury.
She has seen Opal.
What the Spider Queen demanded and stole from her?
Morrighan gave away her name.
She lost her friends.
Her only companion is a literal shade of himself.
She's going to walk the path and go where she is needed.
Yet, she can't help but wonder: "What will be left of me at the end of the road?"
Fy'ra stands, her fists drenched in blood as she confronts yet another band of this "Vanguard."
Flowers and mushrooms of verdant shades are already beginning to bloom from their corpse.
It was true what she said all those weeks ago, "The Wildmother is not kind.", but to see her vengeance, her rage enacted by her own hands, was… both haunting and exhilarating.
Her flames now carried a green tinge to their breadth, granting life as readily as they consumed it. She was a font of regrowth and healing the likes of which she had never been before.
And that had been helpful, for more than the Vanguard had become Opal's target.
Mad Arcanists, cultists, supposed traitors, aberrations born of the Red Moon, and a horrid spider that dogged their every step.
One the Queen refused to call off as if she was elated by the constant challenge.
The constant growth of her champion.
Fy'ra was still herself but growing stronger every day. The Wildmothe had been truthful in her promise. Theirs was a conversation, a growing bond that she wasn't truly certain the conclusion would bring.
Opal, though… was twisting all the more.
She continued to stretch in height, her six arms casting aside the blades at most times to wield lengthy and ichorous claws.
But what truly hurt Fy'ra in her soul was the young woman's eyes.
Jet-black, with but a glimmer of the old opalescent sheen. And she swears when she watches her as the night overtakes the day, she sees others open in the corners and panes of her face.
She looks to Opal now, pulling her claws from the belly of the woman who led this band. A towering goliath woman, now so much meat scattered about the ground.
Fy'ra's heart seizes as for but a moment, Opal brings her fingers towards her mouth as if tempted to taste the blood soaking them, but then her hands drop.
A sign that despite it all, her little sisters are still in there.
She approaches as Opal stands, looking down at Fy'ra with a flat expression.
"Are we done here?" Fy'ra asks.
Opal speaks, her voice now tinged with an insectile trill harsh to the ears, "She says yes. If we succeed, those not fool enough to kill will get to be as they were before… or they will seek to martyr themselves as well. I don't know, and she doesn't care."
"Of course, she doesn't." Fy'ra remarks bitterly, "But we can rest?"
Opal is silent, staring at the red moon resting on the far horizon to the south.
"Yes. For now, her son is attacking her somewhere else, so we have time." Opal remarks, and she turns stiltedly and begins walking toward the dark woods from which the pair had come.
Fy'ra jogs to keep up, "Opal, is she still listening?"
Opal glances at her, "Not fully."
"I suppose that is the best I can hope for," Fy'ra mutters, and she reaches out, gently taking the hand she knows to have originally been Opals.
"How are you?" Fy'ra asks, and Opal squeezes her hand just a tad.
"I'm surviving," she returns, and then in Fy'ras mind, so rare now, her true voice speaks, "And it's so hard, Fy'ra."
"I know, I know, but this will not be forever." Fy'ra comforts.
"She doesn't like that," Opal warns aloud.
"I do not care," Fy'ra replies defiantly, and the wind around them flares with heat as if in agreement: "We walk this path together until the threat of the Ill Omen is finished, then…"
She lets the implication hang, and Opal smiles, but she can't tell which part of her it is.
"How is Ted?" Fy'ra asks, and the look on Opal's face is stark confusion.
The words that follow turn Fy'ra's flaming blood to ice.
"Who?" Opal asks.
"Y-your sister." Fy'ra chokes, a dawning realization punching into her core.
Opal pulls her hand from hers, and looks into the dark shadows between the trees and there, the flaring of additional eyes.
After several moments of silence, she looks down at Fy'ra, and it is not an illusion, for four pairs of inky-black eyes burrow into her as Opal says, "You're the only sister I have in this world, Fy'ra."
Fy'ra is stunned into silence as Opal keeps walking, her true voice trickling into her mind: "And I will always remember that. Thank you for being here with me."
"I- you're welcome." Fy'ra returns, the realization that Ted had once again paid the lion's share of her sister's actions drilling a cold nail of resentment ever deeper into her heart.
"This is only until this plight is over, swear it to me." Fy'ra growls, feeling a point to her teeth that was not there a moment before.
The wind caresses her in warmth, which she takes to be an agreement.
So she will wait, and she will work and she will protect Opal from all that comes at them in the days to come.
But not forever.
Nature is not kind, and it appreciates an ambush.
Dariax wanders Zephrah for days until he finally accepts that Dorian is truly gone.
"Why'd he leave me?" he asked himself and pretty much everyone around, but they couldn't find the answer any better than he could.
He was alone. Again.
Had he upset Dorian? Did he blame him for Cyrus dying? He-he had the healing mojo. He could have got to him, done something, paid close attention but-
But he'd wanted to save Opal.
To hug her and tell her everything would be okay to rip that crown off and chuck it in a hole.
But he failed at that, too, huh?
Maybe that's why they had all left him.
They were better at this than him, saving the world. He'd always been just along for the ride, trying and not really managing to keep up.
Dorian was a hero, Morrighan was a Champion, Fy'ra had all the answers ever, and Opal… Opal was strong. She'd held onto that burden without complaint for so, so long.
And he… had just run along behind them, trying to prop them up when they needed it.
But it wasn't like the first three ever actually needed him. They had their shit together in ways he couldn't even dream of!
But Opal, he could have- he should have-
"I should never have let her take that crown," he mutters, bitter with himself as he downs another drink in that little post Dorian had left him in. He glances at the lute, and more self-loathing burbles up.
"I should have put it on, or let Poska take it, or left it with the Wildmother." he continues rambling, "I should have done something."
"You trusted her." a soft voice remarks beside him, but he doesn't look up.
"I did! I do, I- she was- she is- I should have done more to help her!" he yells, and heads turn to look at her.
"You did," the voice comforts him. Suddenly, his head feels lighter, and a memory comes unbidden.
She hadn't asked them to leave her.
She'd fallen into his arms, curling in and sobbing softly for a moment before falling into a peaceful sleep. The first in a while.
"You did what you could, how could you have known a god could feel desperation?" the voice offers, and he glances up, a beautiful Kitari woman smiling down at him, one he recognizes.
"It-it's you." Dariax breathes as the Observer smiles and gently moves some of his unkempt hair out of his eyes.
"It's me," she states.
"Do you need me in the fight, the big moon fight that folks have been telling me about, cause I'll go, I just…" he falters, uncertainty eating at him, "I don't know how much good I can do."
"You do good in everything you attempt, Dariax," she comforts, "But I require nothing of you, for I am simply content at the moment to watch how this all transpires."
"You-you're not afraid?" Dariax asks.
"The fear of the unknown is never far away," she offers, "But unlike others, I will not let myself be ruled by it."
"Then… what should I do?" Dariax murmurs.
"Be true to who you are, aid where you can, I am not looking for a Champion Dariax, but there are many out there that simply need a friend." she offers.
His face falls, "I was a friend to Opal. To Dorian and the others, look how well that turned out."
"Their roads have diverged from yours for now, but I do not think that will be forever." the Observer states.
"Really?" Dariax remarks, hope returning ever so slightly.
"Their road will be trying, the paths winding, for you and for them each, but nothing in the stars states that the end that awaits you all is a tragic one. Keep hope." she offers.
"Well…" Dariax mutters, swirling his drink and glancing up at her. "I guess I have something to fight for after all, yeah?"
"I'd say so," she states with a smile.
He grins back, somber and reserved, and then glances around, catching that same look in the dozens of faces around him.
"Hey folks!" he calls out, drawing their gazes to him, "Next rounds on me!"
The mood around him goes on an upswing, and he turns back to the Observer as she looks around her with gleaming eyes.
"So… wanna stay for a drink?" he offers, "Or a song, maybe?"
She laughs, "You amaze me, Dariax Zaveon."
He chuckles, rubbing the back of his head bashfully, "Th-thank you.'
And he sits with her, talking about times long past and hopes yet unachieved, his heart soaring at the prospect that when all this is over, he can see his friends once again.
Not considering how changed they all might be.
But as the saying goes: Ignorance is bliss.
Goodbye, Crownkeepers, for now… or forever.