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nitewrighter · 4 years

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The Truth Has Two Faces Part 2

Amari Fam feels for #AmariAppreciationWeek!

Read Part 1 Here

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The trek from the watchpoint apartments to the labs and administrative building had felt unnaturally long that morning, as if every step was offering her the chance to turn back to her apartment, or veer off to the training area in the hangar to blow off steam. She saw Genji meditating in his usual spot on the cliffs, Brigitte hunched over the popped hood of the watchpoint’s sole, miraculously still-running truck, but the watchpoint was never that crowded--not when a handful of Overwatch’s members were always off doing a mission in some far-flung corner of the world. Zenyatta, McCree, D.Va, and Tracer, noticeably, were gone, and the gap left by the orca filled the tarmac with a near-blinding morning light reflecting off the sea as Pharah went up the steps to the main building built into the rock of Gibraltar itself.

Satya was in the lab, talking with Winston and Torbjörn, and displaying a hard-light projection of the watchpoint with several areas highlighted in blue. Pharah wasn’t sure whether she was suggesting them as potential areas in need of refurbishment, or vulnerable points in Watchpoint security, but both Torbjörn and Winston were listening to her intently. Those gold eyes flicked to Pharah as she walked past, then flicked to the stairs Pharah was headed towards. Towards Athena’s primary server and the offices Jack and Ana had more or less requisitioned. Satya gave a nod, but Pharah wasn’t sure if it was to her or to something Winston or Torbjörn had said. She liked to think it was for her, but at the same time, too many words were running through her own head to dwell too much on it. She headed up that other flight of stairs and down a narrow hallway before reaching the room where Athena’s main server was. She could already hear Ana and Jack’s voices on the other side of the door. She took a deep breath before putting her hand on the panel next to the door. It slid open with a whoosh and both Jack and Ana cut themselves off at the sound, looking up at her from their own holo-table.

“Mum,” it felt a little odd to be saying it, the word felt heavy in the air, “Can we talk?”

“Of course--” the words came too quickly out of Ana.

“We’ll be back later,” Pharah said to Jack. He gave her a nod. With half of his scarred face illuminated by the glow of the holo-table, Pharah, like pretty much everyone else on the watchpoint, had to consciously remind herself that he wasn’t the strike commander any more. The truth was their contact had been pretty minimal since he and Ana had joined after the incident at Volskaya. Pharah assumed that was because she punched him in the face at her mother’s funeral, her mother who was walking toward her now. And now, since she had started out not wanting to talk to Ana, he probably had the good sense to keep out of it. Or maybe the search for Reaper was all that mattered to him. Either way, he returned his attention to the holo-table, and Ana kept a tight stoic face as she closed the distance between her and her daughter, but there was something vulnerable flickering in that one remaining eye.

She’s bracing herself, thought Pharah, Probably thinks I’m going to tear into her again.

And Pharah had to consciously tell herself that she wasn’t going to do that as they headed out of the office. Pharah also knew stress was speeding up the pace of her feet, as Ana trailed shortly behind, apparently trying to gather her words.

“Fareeha, I can’t tell you how much of a relief it is that---” Ana started but Pharah stopped walking.

“Just... give me a minute, okay?” she said, pivoting on her foot to look at Ana before resuming walking.

They walked on in silence, taking an exit out to the veranda overlooking the watchpoint, where Ana and Jack often talked when the offices seemed too cloistered. The morning was now brightening up into full daylight, but the yellow tinges of the golden hour still seemed to hang in the light off the sea. Pharah raked her fingers through her hair, the gold beads at her temples clicking.

“Okay, look...” said Pharah, “Here’s what this isn’t, okay?”

“What this... isn’t?” Ana started, her brow crinkling.

“This isn’t where we solve all of our problems and cry and hug each other, and everything is good forever,” said Pharah.

“...I... never thought it was,” said Ana, glancing off.

“There’s a lot to unpack,” said Pharah.

“I know.”

“A lot to unpack,” Pharah emphasized.

Ana just nodded and Pharah felt a heat rising in her chest.

“And I don’t want you to just...” Pharah sucked in a breath, “Lie down and take it and treat it like I’m just getting my frustrations out because that’s easier than actually looking at yourself. I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and even though I’m your daughter, I’m an adult. And I want you to treat this like just as much as you’re hearing it from a peer as your daughter. Yes, I am emotional, but I’ve also taken a long time to figure out what I want to say.”

A muscle twitched in Ana’s jaw at the thought. “Very well,” she said folding her arms.

“So, to start off, I shouldn’t have been avoiding you the way I was back when you first joined the Watchpoint. I was angry, and it was childish. I wanted to inflict the pain you put me through on you for that pain’s sake. It was wrong. And I’m sorry.”

“I understand,” said Ana. ‘I forgive you’ felt too condescending at this point. Obviously, like Pharah said, she wasn’t going to lie back and simply take it, but she also knew a lot of this was a long time coming.

“The truth is, I was also dealing with... a lot of frustration about why now, why finally now you decided to join,” Pharah leveled her brown eyes at Ana, her brow set with determination, “You only joined when you realized operating independently of each other made us liabilities to each other... if the situation hadn’t gotten as dire as it had back there, you wouldn’t have even come back with them, would you?”

That’s their mission. We focus on our own. Jack had said.

Do you think Fareeha’s with them? Ana remembered her own response. Emotional. Distracted. Maybe if she had focused more--no--that was her daughter. Her daughter who was in Overwatch. In Overwatch despite everything she had done. In Overwatch despite Overwatch literally collapsing. Why wouldn’t she wonder if she was there? Why shouldn’t she---? What would she have done if Fareeha was there?

“...I don’t think I would have come back, no,” said Ana.

Pharah’s face scrunched up. “This is what I’m talking about!” she said, bringing her hands up, “You keep acting like suddenly you were completely alone after losing your eye!”

“You never responded to my letter!” said Ana.

“You thought a LETTER was enough after letting me think you were dead for years!” Pharah snapped, “You wrote a letter because you’re willing to chase down terrorists all over the world, but you couldn’t face me or dad! And did you even hear yourself in that letter?! ‘The world thought I was dead, I thought that was for the best.’ ‘I’ve buried those closest to me.’ ‘I cannot stop fighting, not while people are waiting for me.’ Like I’m not close to you? Like I haven’t spent my whole life waiting for you!? It sounded like you had no intention of ever seeing me again, like you thought you were going to die in battle and there was nothing I could do to stop you! That’s a great letter to get after already mourning you!” Pharah was breathing hard but she caught herself. A bitter chuckle shook her breath. “And sure. Let me write you back. Where should I have addressed it? 1800 ‘Squatting-in-the-Necropolis’ boulevard?’ You were living like a post-apocalyptic wanderer! You didn’t want me to write back. You only wrote to relieve your own guilt.”

“Fareeha--” Ana started but her own voice trailed off. She never thought of her letter as something so callous, but she supposed, with how long she had gone since talking to Pharah, that such a breakdown in communication wasn’t hard to imagine. And getting the letter itself out was enough of an emotional labor on her own end--it took so much energy to come to terms with and articulate those feelings, it already felt so raw and vulnerable that it didn’t occur to her that it sounded like a final goodbye. And when she was already dodging watchlists from Volskaya and various other criminal organizations... why would she expect Pharah to be able to track her down, when Helix literally had wanted posters of the Shrike?

Another bitter laugh, more out of discomfort than any humor, shook Pharah’s voice. “You were in Giza. You had no problem tracking down dirtbags like Hakim, but I had an address. I had an apartment. You could have seen me at any time. You could have had a bed.”

“I would have compromised your work with Helix,” Ana managed, remembering her Shrike mask on wanted posters.

“No one would know! No one saw your actual face!” said Pharah, “You saw Angela. But not me. What does that tell me?”

Ana’s mouth was hanging open, her jaw shaking a little with no words coming out of her throat.

“Angela told you about that?” said Ana quietly.

“Before she left,” said Pharah, “She stayed long enough to see me back from Vancouver and make sure things were stabilized after the Talon attack, but she was already packing up.”

“Did you two talk often, when she was doing her relief work there?” said Ana, not necessarily trying to derail the conversation, but willing to take a bit more context as relief from Pharah’s barrage. She knew Angela had no small amount of resentments toward her as well, especially with the biotic rifle.

“She butted heads with me and my coworkers when Helix had to investigate a lead at the refugee camp,” Pharah huffed, “Tried to patch things up later, but we didn’t talk much after that.” Too painful a reminder of everything you blocked me from, thought Pharah, Too resentful of you and the organization herself, but playing diplomat for my sake. Giving me crap about you being proud of me when everything I accomplished was in spite of your efforts. She didn’t know you and she doesn’t know me. Pharah decided to leave out the part where seeing Mercy’s apartment also left too much of an uncomfortable association with Ana. A more academic version of Ana, but all the trauma and still-unpacked boxes all the same. Someone ready to flit off to the next big problem in the world if it meant not having to open up those boxes. Pharah was already tired. She was already so tired of saying all these things that had been percolating in her for years. “...for what it’s worth,” she managed to dredge the words up out of herself, “I’m glad she let me know you were there.”

“So you could further justify your grievances?” said Ana, already weary.

“...so I knew you weren’t dead,” said Pharah. Ana’s lips tightened. She kept forgetting that. Kept forgetting that Fareeha had fought her own battles, that the months of silence between them were filled with unsureness for Ana’s own safety, especially after a letter that told Fareeha that she was still fighting. She thought Fareeha’s resentment had shielded her from the pain and worry of their separation, but it didn’t. It only deepened that pain with anger and guilt. They both fought to relieve guilt over fighting. A serpent eating its own tail.

Ana glanced off. “With... with Hakim I didn’t want to put you in danger.”

“Mum,” Pharah pressed her fingertips to her forehead, “I was in special forces. I could handle it.”

Ana’s lips thinned. “I don’t think of you as a soldier. I think of you as my daughter. I never wanted you to see my fights as yours.”

“I know,” Pharah said quietly, “But... when you’re young, and your mom is off fighting, it’s... very easy to assume, ‘Oh, if I fight too, maybe I’ll see her.’ And being blocked from joining Overwatch... I couldn’t not take that personally.”

“I know we’ve gone through this before but... I didn’t trust myself or other members of the old strike team not to engage in nepotism--we did practically all raise you,” said Ana, “And I couldn’t stand the idea of you getting hurt, whether under my orders, or any of theirs.”

“I figured,” said Pharah.

“But you’re here now,” said Ana, “And... you’re brilliant. I haven’t been here long, but I can see that this is who you’re meant to be.”

“And I’m glad I managed to develop those skills outside Overwatch,” said Pharah, “...I don’t know who I’d be if I had everyone fawning over me, over who my mom is.”

“And you didn’t go down with the ship,” said Ana with a wry smile tugging at one corner of her mouth.

Pharah chuckled and scoffed a little. “But even back in Helix they still talked about you. It was easier... when I thought you were gone...” her voice got misty, “And I hate that. When you were gone, I just got to remember all of the good things, how much of a hero you were, but when you came back,” Pharah sucked a breath in through her teeth, “Everything you ever did that hurt me came bubbling up. I didn’t want to give you the luxury of being something you could pluck off the shelf and dust off and forgive yourself with.”

Ana winced a little at this. “And you didn’t,” she managed, her own voice clouding up.

“But... I don’t know how much more I could hurt you than you’ve already hurt yourself,” her lips tightened, “I love you, Mum. And loving you is so hard sometimes, because you give so much of yourself away that I never know what I’ll have left,” her breath hitched, her voice cracking a little, “And I wonder, sometimes, how many more times I’ll lose you.”

Ana cupped a hand to the side of Pharah’s face and Pharah squeezed her eyes shut at the warmth of her palm, a tear budding out from her dark eyelashes and running briefly down the line of her wadjet tattoo. Ana put her other hand on Pharah’s shoulder and Pharah caught her wrist, wary. Strong. Of course she was. But then Pharah’s hand brushed up Ana’s arm and Pharah slumped into an embrace, fierce and tight, yet so tired from the weight of her own words.

“And I was so afraid of losing you,” Ana said quietly, “That I pushed you away. Further. And further. And further.” She brushed a hand down Pharah’s back. “You were never something to be plucked off a shelf... but... my own memory kept freezing you in time. There is so much I blinded myself to in trying to protect you. In fighting for you. I blinded myself to you. Shored myself up against your pain as if it was my own. And... I can’t tell you how sorry I am for that. But we’re fighting together now.” A sigh escaped her, “And as much as that terrifies me...” Her fingertips pressed hard against Pharah’s shoulder blade, “I’m even more scared of not having you in my life.”

“I said this wasn’t where we cry and hug and everything is good forever,” said Pharah, her voice creaking.

“Don’t worry, ḥabībti,” said Ana, stroking a hand down the back of Pharah’s hair, “We still have so, so many problems.” Pharah huffed out a half-sob half-chuckle against Ana’s headscarf, and Ana pressed her face into her shoulder. “But I am so proud of you. And I missed you so much.” said Ana softly.

“I missed you too,” said Pharah.

Ana brushed a finger along the gold of Pharah’s hair beads. She remembered braiding them into Pharah’s hair back when the Omnic Crisis first started, telling her that it was the light of the sun and the flesh of the gods and that they meant no matter how far away she was, she would always protect her. But now, in her own Fareeha’s arms, Ana realized she felt safer than she had ever felt in years.

#ana amari #fareeha amari #pharah #Overwatch #overwatch fic #amari appreciation week #implied symmarah

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bluraaven · 7 years

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We are the Flame

4. Reynauld

The walk back to the estate passes with Reynauld lost deep in thought. He pays no attention to the village, or the path they take. Dismas moves like he knows where he is going, and Reynauld follows, his eyes on the other man's back. The knight's mind is like a nest of disturbed bees, buzzing with scattered thoughts, and no matter how hard he tries, he cannot make sense of the chaos.

His barony, still a good eighty miles from the border, is as far north as he had travelled before, and he had only been there twice in his life. The South may be lost to him forever, but he had failed to take into consideration the strangeness of the Northerners. They are acknowledged by the church as people of the Faith, as they too obey the Verse of the Light – yet there are a few voices who would claim they are barely one step above non-believers.

Reynauld has seen enough to confirm that indeed their worship differs from the customs of his homeland. Here, the people's faith is like a flickering candle compared to the blazing sun of the South, and laws and the authorities' attitude concerning the pursuit and punishment of acts of heresy are rather lax.

Reynauld had witnessed plenty acts of casual heresy answered with blatant nonchalance rather than outrage, and he no longer expects piety from the folks he encounters on the road.

In the South, to insult a member of the Order of Light is a death sentence. Even the king defers to the High Faith, and the most powerful families arose from the ranks of the Order. It would have been his good right to take the attacking man's life in the name of the Light. No lawman would dare question his decision. Immunity from prosecution is granted to him by his status, which had only ever earned him respect, fearful looks, and mutters of the common people behind his back when they thought he couldn't hear.

Reynauld isn't sure on whose behalf Dismas had acted when he had intervened. He had known of the group's nature, as one recognizes their own, but he had stood with the knight. Did he want to get into their good graces? Was there some shred of solidarity between what is alike? It would certainly make more sense than their own uneasy alliance.

Before Reynauld can find answers, or come to any kind of a conclusion, they enter the house and find that Mallory has been waiting for them. Normally, the knight would retire to ask for guidance in prayer, but this looks like an emergency that requires immediate attention. His own dilemmas can wait.

"What happened, lass?" Dismas asks, when it becomes obvious that something has deeply upset the heiress.

Instead of instantly explaining what had transpired, Mallory offers them a seat first. The act, the ritual of formality, appears to have a calming effect in and of itself. It is something Reynauld is very much familiar with. He lets himself sink into an old armchair that creaks loudly in protest to his weight while Dismas ignores the invitation altogether and leans against the chimney with his arms crossed.

Mallory is struggling to find the right words to begin, while they wait for the bad news to hit them. The moment stretches, growing to the point of discomfort, where the knight wishes Dismas would speak up again – the man never seems to shut up after all – if only so there was something to divert the focus. Reynauld would offer some manner help, but though it is part of his vows to give succour to those in need, he knows not how. His own ways of dealing with distress involve solitude and meditation. He has never been close enough to another to know how to handle their emotions. The knight lowers his gaze to his hands, scarred from nicks received both in practice and in battle, and tries to fight down the uneasiness building up inside him.

"It seems that my grandfather was not only interested in the Occult, but actively practiced it," Mallory says at long last. "His diary speaks of an evil, sealed away under the mansion."

"Do you know anything more concrete?" Dismas enquires cautiously.

A good question. 'Evil' sounds very... abstract. Reynauld had encountered many forms of it; sometimes obvious, but most often well camouflaged behind sympathy and sweet words that would seem like reason save for the warning of his heart.

Mallory shakes he head. "My grandfather's writings do not make for the lightest of reading. I will try to find more clues, but the way he phrased certain sentences... I believe it is a physical thing my grandfather had locked up. This house has an extensive tunnel system underneath it. I know that some passageways reach as far as the cliffs by the sea, and then there is the Undercity. The Warrens."

"Undercity?" Reynauld asks because this is the first time he has heard anything like that mentioned.

"Yes," Mallory nods. "The Hamlet is built atop the ruins of a far older city, one that stems from a time before our civilization. There are places where you can enter these ancient halls, though many have collapsed over time. A darker tale suggests that there was a grand necropolis here, once."

Dismas crouches down and begins to feed the fire more logs as the room sinks into silence and everyone turns what they had learned over in their heads.

"Please tell me you have some good news," Mallory says after a while, when no one else speaks up.

"We found a blacksmith," Dismas tells her. "A man by the name of Farley."

"Farley?" Mallory lifts her face from her palms. "Farley is here?

"Seems so." The other man takes the poker to stir the coals, then straightens again. "But that's about as far as good news go."

"I would see him," Mallory decides and promptly rises from her seat. "Did you speak to him?"

"Not very much," Dismas says evasively. "But apparently he's been here for a while, so maybe he'll tell you something he wouldn't tell us."

Thus, Reynauld finds himself on the way to town for a second time today. But he would rather accompany Mallory now than sit and wonder what manner of wickedness Mortimer Dumont had committed within these very four walls.

When they enter the building, Farley appears to be busy sorting through some personal effects, and he and Mallory greet each other like old friends. Of the smith's former companions there is no sign.

They learn that while the townsfolk could not depart the Hamlet, they also were unable to approach the estate itself, which is strange, seeing as Dismas, Mallory and himself had no trouble doing so.

"So, we cannot leave," Mallory summarizes. "Not even to get help from outside."

"Perhaps you could," Farley muses, "You're of his blood. And it looks like those with you profit from your... protection? Resistance?" The old smith shakes his shaggy head. "Don't ask me; I have no mind for magic. But it's certainly worth giving it a shot. For the rest of us, though, there's no way out. We tried, but there's some spell that lies on the Old Road. It would lead us in circles, and after hours we'd end up on one of the trails that leads straight back to the Hamlet.

"What if we do not take the road?" Reynauld suggests, having listened closely to everything the smith had said.

"You wanna trek through the Weald?" Dismas asks, incredulous, his eyebrows climbing into his hairline.

"It is a forest," the knight replies, slightly confused as to where the problem lies, "Like any other."

"The Weald ain't just another forest," Farley explains. "It's older, and darker. There's things that live between those trees, things that don't want to be disturbed."

Every forest has at least one fable like this associated with it. Mostly such tales serve as entertainment and to keep children out of the woods, but seldom is there more than a grain of truth in them. And even if there was; "The Light can penetrate every darkness," Reynauld quotes the Verse.

"Darkness maybe," the smith agrees, "But brambles and thickets? If you want to give it a go, I won't be stoppin' you, but trust me when I say we've already thought of that solution. Barely made it out alive."

"What happened?" Mallory asks with concern in her voice.

"I ain't entirely sure," the smith answers, running a hand across his bushy brows. "It doesn't seem real, thinking of it now. The forest was crawling with creatures, blighted and twisted and mad. Rabid animals attacked us on sight. We lost Jubert to lockjaw when a dog bit him in the arm. But the worst part is; there's people out there, too. Crazy, and slavering for blood just as the beasts do." He lowers his voice into something that is barely above a whisper. "Your grandfather did some terrible things."

Rather than bow under the weight of such information, Mallory stands straighter. "Whatever he did, I will set right again."

"You were always a tough girl," Farley remarks with a fond if sad smile. "I'll do whatever I can to help you and your companions, but I'll be honest with you. What resources we had have grown thin over the years. And if you don't find a way to open up the Old Road again, we may well run out of metal and tools altogether.

Mallory nods in understanding, eying the worn but freshly swept floor, before she turns to address Dismas and Reynauld. "Would you give us a moment?"

They wait outside while Mallory and the smith catch up on more private matters. Reynauld crouches down with his back to the house wall. There is a crate with a small pile of logs drying in the sun, and he picks one up and turns it over in his hands. It's good hardwood; he might look into getting some for himself later. The crusader tosses it back, and it lands on top of the stack with a soft thock.

When the knight looks up, he sees that Dismas has his legs crossed at the ankle and is rolling himself a cigarette. He has a pair of red leather gloves tucked behind his belt. They match the scarf around his neck in colour. Reynauld isn't sure why he notices them now. He stands again just as Dismas lights up, and the smell of tobacco wafts over and curls lazily around them.

"What do you think it is they're talking about in there, Rey," Dismas speaks up halfway through his smoke, quickly following it up with, "– I may call you that?"

"If it pleases you," the crusader replies frostily, a cold pressure spreading in his chest.

"It's just," the northerner says, "That Reynauld is a mouthful."

Be that as it may; only one person had called him thus before. And they were someone dear to him, and not a loud-mouthed thug he had met in a run-down tavern on the crossroads to a cursed village.

"That is not for us to know," Reynauld answers the original question, since it is clear that Mallory and Farley have known each other for some time and their conversation is none of his or the other man's business.

"I bet it's us, actually," Dismas continues as if he had not heard. "Maybe my smarts and sense of wit. But 's probably how you almost chopped off a man's head off."

"He gave insult to me, and attacked." Was he supposed to let himself be struck down, or to let the besmirch to his honour go unchallenged?

"What was it? To insult a servant of the Light is to insult the Light itself?" Dismas quotes what Reynauld had told him this very morning. "See? I was listening." He taps his ear.

The knight can see him smirk around his cigarette. From this angle, with the other man's left side facing him, he cannot see the scars Dismas likes to hide behind his scarf.

"I do that sometimes. But yeah. I don't blame you. I would've shot the guy right in his ugly face if he'd tried that sort of shit with me." He takes one last drag, then tosses what's left of his cigarette down, grinding it into the soft earth with his heel.

The crusader turns to face him, and he can see the other man tense momentarily. "Why did you stop me then?" Reynauld asks, the one thing he does not have to consult the Light in order to find out.

Dismas tucks his hands under his armpits and stomps his feet, giving his surroundings a glare. "You know what's funny? I'm asking myself the same thing."

By all means this conversation is over, and Reynauld leans back against the wall, enjoying the sunlight on his face. Next to him the other man paces restlessly, giving off the impression of being at war with himself.

"You wanted to know what it is I'm doing here," Dismas says suddenly, and Reynauld opens his eyes and turns his head to regard him again. "Before," he says, jerking his head in the direction of the field where they had confronted the villagers. "Believe it or not, I'm trying to be a better person."

The blow strikes well, finding a weak spot in the crusader's armour, and punching right through. It is easy for him to bare his shortcomings to the Light and to ask absolution for the wrongs he had wrought. It is another thing entirely to confess even the shadow of doubt to another mortal sinner. Reynauld looks down the dirt lane, over the broken ruins that used to be homes and softly admits, "Me too."

"Well." Dismas stops his fidgeting for a moment to look at the crusader with a piercing gaze. "Not killing that fucker was probably a good start."

Reynauld fears they might yet find the lowlifes turn on them, in which case he will deal with the situation as ordained by the Light, but until then he is interested in seeing what the fruits of Dismas' act of mercy will be. "If I am to be 'Rey' does this mean you go by 'Dis?' he enquires to take his mind off the matter for now.

"I've gone by much worse," the other man assures him, and despite himself the knight can feel his lips tug into a smile before he school his features back into impassivity. Now that, he can imagine all too well.

"Don't pull a muscle," Dismas mutters.

"Pardon?"

"Oh look, here they are," the northerner turns when the door behind them opens and Mallory steps out.

"This was a trap," the Heiress says as soon as the door of the mansion falls shut behind them, locking away the outside world. It is not difficult to tell that she is livid, with red spots blossoming high on her cheeks and ice in her voice. "He trapped me!"

What are their choices now? To spend the rest of their lives in this squalid village? Reynauld had seen the cities and wonders of the East, had lived in the holy city, and even the poor town he had called his home for three years after his exile had not been as remote or as downright pitiful as the Hamlet.

"You, lass, might make it out yet," Dismas comments cynically. "Others aren't so fortunate."

"I did not come here to abandon the people, or you, or my duty!"

Dismas lifts his hands defensively when she rounds on him. "Just sayin'."

"This is not helping," Mallory decides, huffs, and runs a hand through her hair, messing up her hairdo. "You are quiet," she tells the knight, and puts her hands on her hips, her pose expectant of an answer.

Reynauld prefers to listen and to work out the solution to any problem presented in due time rather than to speak rashly. He definitely does not feel up to making any decisions of great consequence right now. His eyes burn; feeling hot and dry. Sleep eluded him last night much as the nights before, and... how many others before that? His thoughts are slow and sluggish like a river choked with jetsam.

"Evil and Darkness cannot prevail before the Light." It is a simple truth he holds on to. "We shall drive them out!"

"Hey," Dismas says, succumbing to a fit of laughter out of nowhere before the Heiress can find a suitable reply. "It could be worse."

"Hm?" Mallory and Reynauld both look at the man who appears to have been stricken by madness.

"The tavern could be out of booze."

"I bet you twenty silver the Caretaker knew," Dismas says once they have retired to their rooms and the door closes behind them.

Even if he were a betting man, that is some odds Reynauld would not take. It seems very unlikely that the old man, who had been so close to Mallory's ancestor, did not know at least a part of the truth, and failed to divulge it. There is something else that does not add up. Reynauld fights down the exhaustion that is weighing him down and opens his eyes, looks towards the other bed where Dismas is lying stretched out on his back with one arm under his head.

"If no one from the village could leave," the knight asks, turning the events of the past days over in his head, "How is it that he could?"

He can see the glow of the fire reflected in the other man's eyes when they dart over to meet his for a second. "Makes you wonder, eh?" Dismas asks softly.

It is not a pleasant tone. For a while Reynauld believes he will say something more, but all the other man does is eventually shrug, turn over so that his back is to the crusader, and mutter, "Sweet dreams."

Reynauld considers it a good night if he has none. He too closes his eyes, but all that does is heighten the feeling of strangeness. The air feels different around here; humid and chilly, and it smells rich of greenery rather than sun-warmed bedrock and dust. Their dinner had been a quiet, cheerless affair, and though well cooked, the meal had been bland to his taste. One of the things Reynauld misses most about the south – apart from the warmth – is the food; richly spiced dishes and ripe fruit.

He spends a wistful moment remembering dining on braised lamb with dates and sweet potatoes – not that he had often eaten this well. The Order had deeper pockets and more resources than the regular army, yet he had heard stories of soldiers cooking up their boots and belts during sieges, or when the supply lines broke.

But he does not wish to linger on the toil of war, of cities of brimstone and gold going down under a human sea of steel. Of blood congealing on gem-encrusted tiles of places once holy, now cleansed of false gods.

Minutes pass, then an hour. The moon is now visible from where Reynauld is lying. When it disappears again, he gives up on sleep. The knight adds a few logs to the fire, moving quietly so as not to wake Dismas, then sits on the bed with a pillow under his back and his eyes closed, and lets his thoughts drift.

Inadvertently they wander to today's events. By the grace of the Light, the Order, and his sacrifice to lord and land, he is all that is good and holy. Yet today he witnessed a life saved where he would have taken it without thought. Today, a foul-mouthed, vulgar mercenary had stayed his hand, had called him out for murder.

And... he hadn't been wrong. The familiarity of the situation is bitter in his throat.

Reynauld takes a deep, albeit shaky breath.

How can a mortal mind ever truly grasp the will of the Light?

This squalid Hamlet, these cursed lands and blighted woods; are they where he can finally redeem himself? It is hard to believe that anything of consequence could happen here, so far away from civilization, when he had failed to find salvation and enlightenment in the Holy Land. But he had set his course, and he would be forsaking his vows if he steered away from it.

The crusader only knows he must above all else keep Faith. To stray from the path of righteousness; therein lies damnation.

Is this to be my test then?

He thinks of the people he has met and the dangers they have overcome together, and tasks that may yet lie before them.

This, the blank state of meditation, – it is the best rest he can hope for.

When Reynauld wakes, he feels disoriented and more exhausted than he had yesterday evening, but he knows that the state will pass eventually, once his mind and body become more active. He picks up his rosary again, if only to give his idle hands something to do until it is time to say his morning prayers.

Eventually Dismas too wakes, and with nary a word said between them, the two men descend for breakfast. Once they have eaten, they prepare for their first venture below the mansion.

The armour is a familiar weight on his shoulders and hips, allowing Reynauld to be someone, something else. Not himself, not a human susceptible to mortal flaws, but an instrument of the Light, blade and shield, armoured in faith and steel. Kings and armies cannot stop the warrior whose task is done in the service of the Light. Neither will whatever spawn lurks in the wake of Mortimer Dumont's sin.

Mallory's blood is the key that opens a gate made through sorcery; extinguishing all but two of their torches. The remaining ones splutter, but steady after a moment. The Light is with them; or at least it is watching, judging them worthy to continue this quest.

"Will you take the torch, Sister?" the knight asks Junia. He has his hands full with a longsword and shield, even though the latter is strapped to his arm. She does so, holding it high overhead so as to best illuminate the corridor. The darkness that presses in on them from all sides is as unnatural in origin as the malady that lies upon the land; born of foul magic.

Reynauld takes point. The usual scrape of his boots resounds harshly and much too loudly in the heavy silence. From what could be an any estate's wine cellar – the walls are even lined with wooden racks filled with dozens of dust-covered bottles – a wide archway leads deeper underground.

They have barely passed it when something strange happens to the corridors. Before his eyes, the stone appears to melt and shift, stretching, swirling, then reforming and setting again. The archway remains, but now there is nothing beyond it but the same violet-tinged blackness of the seal Mallory had undone just minutes before.

"Feckin' hell," Dismas curses quietly. "Did ya all see that?"

"This blackness – it is unlike anything I have ever seen!" Junia gasps, her hand clenching around the handle of the torch.

"Nihil potest extinguere Lumen," Reynauld reminds the sister. Surely their being here must have a purpose, a reason. Light, after all, shines brightest in dark places. "Lux vult."

"Lux vult," she breathes in response, and the words steady her. Any traces of fear drain from her face and are replaced by determination.

"Looks like there is no going back that way," Mallory says, her voice wavering somewhere between wary disbelief and panic.

Reynauld hesitates, before tentatively stretching out one arm towards the nearest wall.

"Don't touch 'em!" Dismas says sharply, but it's too late.

The crusader's hand makes contact with the stone. Even through his gauntlet he can tell that it is cool and slick from the damp, but definitely solid.

A deep sigh escapes someone in the back.

"We could try the blood again?" Paschal suggests, much too merrily for the situation.

"I don't think it's going to be as easy this time," Mallory answers, marginally calmer. "The diary spoke of a key... I thought I was the key to get past the seal. Now I believe that we need to find something to open the way back again. But it can't hurt to try, right?" Despite the waver in her voice, she holds out her am without hesitation.

The doctor makes another shallow cut into Mallory's forearm, the second thin line joining the first, already scabbed over one.

This time though, when Paschal flicks it at the seal, the blood has no effect. The barrier flickers briefly, but remains stable.

"Allow me," Junia says while the rest of them stare at the magic blocking their way out of the cellar, transfixed. The Vestal lightly grasps Mallory's arm in her hands before she he puts a palm on the cuts and in a burst of golden light, the skin closes under her touch, not leaving behind even the faintest trace of a scar.

Reynauld can feel the sharp pinpricks of sweat all over his back, accompanied by a choking dryness in his mouth. 'It is just two small a scratches,' he tells himself, 'Mallory surely is glad to be rid of them.' It helps, a little bit. He has to actively keep himself from reaching out to soothe an ache that it not there.

It is not real.

Instead, he kneels to ask the Light for its blessing.

"Light seize me!" the knight prays sinking down on one knee, "Make me your instrument! Light, guide my sword and grace my strikes that I may turn away the blackness!"

He rises again, without an answer. The Light will do with them as it wills, but that does not mean man is free from the boon and burden that is choice. His is to stand fast in the face of adversity, to be a soldier of Faith when despair reaches for the hearts of others.

A tense hush descends over the group, not breached by as much as a whisper.

They have no choice but to follow the path that is set out before them, caught in the trap Mortimer Dumont has laid for them. The walls close in on them once they enter the corridor. They seem aware, alive even. Invisible eyes track their every step from the shadows. Watching. Waiting.

How long does their group walk these accursed hallways?

They have to wrap the torches with oil-soaked rags twice to prevent them from going out, but the time doesn't seem right, somehow. It is neither short nor long. Have mere minutes passed? Or was it hours? Proper lamps or less makeshift torches would be better, but all of those have been extinguished when the magic barrier collapsed and all attempts to rekindle them have failed so far.

By now the humid air is cold enough this far underground that they can see their breath; white puffs of mist escaping numb lips.

The first time the dead assault them, Reynauld moves out of habit, his body acting before his mind can comprehend what it is that lurches at him from a shadowy alcove. Once human, now it is a skeletal body clad in the remains of a hauberk and with a rusty shortsword grasped in bony, fleshless fingers. It staggers towards them, brandishing the sword in one hand, the other reaching towards the crusader's head, as if it wanted to grasp his throat, and crush the cartilage protected by his bevor, or dig the tips of its fingers into the soft flesh of the knight's face.

In its frenzy to get to him, it practically drives itself onto his blade, but there are no organs to puncture; no blood to spill. So instead Reynauld strikes it with the pommel of his sword, and the skull caves in on itself, shattered into pieces. Broken teeth fall to the floor, shimmering in the low light like pearls. And when the magic reanimating the body finally fails, and the corpse collapses in a heap of bones, Reynauld can see a dozen more advance upon them.

A woman is screaming, the high-pitched sound bouncing off the walls making it sound as if it was coming from all directions. Yet to him it seems far in the distance, muted by the roar of blood in his ears and layers of protective gear.

The undead do not care. Unhearing and unseeing stumble forward on stiff-jointed legs, and every now and then the light of the torch reveals the shine of what few pieces of metal have not corroded over the centuries.

As terrifying as the foe is at first, the skeletal figures are just dry, brittle bone, and Reynauld's hallowed sword cuts cleanly through the first wave of the undead. But when they fall, cloven in two, it is not their end. Some break apart and disintegrate, but of several others the upper part drags itself on. Their jaws work, greedily snapping shut, the clack of teeth the only sound these unholy creatures can produce.

The knight is forced to remember the bandits who ambushed them on the Old Road.

Perhaps Dismas had been right about them after all.

Those old weapons brandished by the undead may be no match against his armour, but even through leather and steel Reynauld can feel their touch when they grasp his legs and ankles. They swarm him faster than he can slay them, each body felled instantly replaced by another as they try to drag him down with them.

The world grows hazy. Shouts and screams, and the sounds of battle; all are muffled behind a wall of white fog. His sword arm grows heavy and he wonders what the point of fighting is anymore. The crusader feels an icy cold burn in his chest as the dead call him to the grave with familiar voices and the sweet promise of rest and darkness.

He longs for it, more than he has anything else.

A shot goes off behind Reynauld; a skeleton lets go of his am, knocking off another.

The knight lifts one leg, heavy like his boots were filled with lead, and stomps down on a corpse, breaking its spine. The lethargy begins to lift as the will to live reinstates itself. The mist clears, just for a moment.

Then, the hallway is filled with smoke – the real kind this time. It is bitter on his tongue, and not even Reynauld's visor can protect him from the sting as his eyes tear up. He is effectively blinded, unable to make out more than blurry forms through the acrid vapours.

Someone – or something – crashes into him from the side, the force of the impact making him stagger. A woman curses behind him, and he feels more than hears metal grind on metal as a blow glances off his armour.

Not knowing whether what hit him is a friend or foe, he holds his shield in a high guard, and from behind its cover he blindly stabs in the direction the enemies came from. When something hits the knight's shield, knocking him back and jarring his arm, he pushes back and kicks out, before swinging his sword in a wild arc; a move that would most likely cost his life in battle. But these enemies are unthinking, unfeeling and relentless. The blow gets him some breathing space, the pressure falling away.

A burst of light from behind the knight illuminates the corridor for a split second, and the fiends flinch back from its radiance, clutching at empty eye sockets in a parody of the living.

"Light, take you!" Junia shouts, brandishing mace and versebook with equal fervour.

Her spell burns away the last residue of smoke, and Reynauld charges forward, into the thick of the fray. He smites every corpse that comes within reach of his sword, keeping them away from his comrades at every cost. If he goes down, they will be overrun and without protective gear of any kind, neither of them can last long.

There is no finesse to this battle. It is brutal, each chop tearing through the decayed bodies. Limbs are sliced off, but the dead do not bleed or cry out in pain. They do not drop, screaming in agony, as their life blood flows out of them and stains the ground crimson, making the footing treacherous.

The simply keep coming.

Reynauld tries not to think about how they are desecrating these bodies; but it is fight or die and he consoles himself that these empty shells are no longer the vessels of the people they once were. Empty of a soul, they have been filled with malice – and purpose. Right next to him another skeleton collapses, its head disintegrating from one of Dismas' bullets.

Then, silence.

It hits them so suddenly, that the loudest sound they can hear is that of their own laboured breathing.

"Is everyone alright?" Mallory asks into the silence that follows. There are a few nods, ayes and an affirmative hum from Paschal.

Reynauld does not participate, but tears off his helmet. His eyes feel dry, an itchy burn making him want to rub them so badly, even though he knows it's probably a bad idea. At least the cool air on his face is bliss after the stifling heat of the helmet. He feels the beginning of a headache form from the weight, and rolls his shoulders, rubbing his neck.

"Sorry! I'm so sorry!" Paschal apologizes, appearing next to him out of nowhere with a waterskin. "Better wash it out," the doctor suggests, pulling the stopper and pouring the water into his cupped hands after the knight has taken off his gauntlets.

It stings at first, but after a moment the unbearable itch becomes less, until it finally subsides. Reynauld slumps against the wall, focused on nothing but getting his lungs full of chilly air, while he tugs at his collar to let in even the slightest waft. Beneath his armour he is hot and sweating, but that might change quickly once he cools out. It would be better if they kept moving, for as long as they can.

Reynauld sees Dismas nudge the remains of one of the skeletons with the tip of his boot. "Reanimated bones... ," he can hear the other man wheeze, "How can such a thing exist!?"

"Necromancy," Junia replies between gasps. "A foul art, outlawed by the Light."

Dismas mutters something incomprehensible in answer, but when he looks up, his and Reynauld's gazes lock.

"You good?" the other man asks.

Reynauld nods in answer. The shock of seeing the dead rise and attack them still has him shaken – and he is far from the only one. But while he may have been bruised and knocked around a bit during the skirmish, no blow had made it past his armour. But not everyone wears mail and plate.

That no one else got hurt either by the friend or foe is a matter of sheer luck.

"This ain't gonna work," Dismas presses out after having a look at the assorted members of their group, as if he had read the crusader's very thoughts.

The other man's excellent marksmanship may have saved him before, but he also has the lingering suspicion that several of the blows he had received have been dealt to him by his companions.

It is only by the Light's grace that none of the others were shot or stabbed during that skirmish. If they wish to proceed, they will need to do so with some semblance of order; and thus the crusader assigns each member of their party a position. He puts himself in the front, the bulwark that will intercept any attackers and keep them off the others.

Junia is slightly behind and to his left, her task to keep the torch burning and summoning the Light's radiance, as well as to help anyone who should suffer an injury. Paschal is in the middle, keeping enemies at bay with her polearm or pinning them against the wall until someone else can finish them off. To the far right and back, Dismas' path is unobstructed. Mallory's task is to look out after herself and to help out those who call for aid.

The women nod while Dismas listens to the instructions with dark, unreadable eyes, watching Reynauld from above the rim of his scarf. Weighting the knight's decision. But he takes up his place without protest.

They press on.

The further they get, the more they seem to move backwards in time. This part of the ruins is in decidedly worse shape than the corridors closer to the cellar. When they come up on a blockage where the tunnel appears to have caved in, there is a breach in the stonework right next to it.

"Left or straight ahead?" Junia asks. If they moved some of the rubble, they could possibly create an opening large enough for them to squeeze through.

"Left," Dismas answers without hesitating.

Reynauld agrees with him. They have no time to lose, Junia and he both cannot sustain the torches on faith alone for very long. He shudders of the thought of being trapped here, underground, wandering in the dark with no food and only enough water to prolong the suffering. Forced to wait until the dead come for him, to make him one of their own...

He tries to shake such dreadful visions from his mind, but the unease, the awareness, lingers. At this point turning back is not an option. Step by step they realize the full extent of this maze, and that without maps or knowledge of its twists and turns they might never find another way out. Reynauld can feel his companions' disquiet, but at this point they have gone too far to give up. They have to keep going.

The narrow passage opens up into a large chamber with an arched ceiling so high, the flickering torchlight barely reaches it. Columns line the length of the hall, and when something crunches underfoot, Reynauld's attention is drawn to the floor. Once, it may have been a ornate mosaic, painted tiles and colourful stones arranged in swirling designs– now it was mostly broken.

Statues with blank eyes watch them from shadowy alcoves, holding eternal vigil, and between them...

Between them, coffins line the walls.

"I guess the tales about the necropolis were true." Mallory says in a hushed tone, as if afraid to raise her voice to a normal volume.

The last thing they expect in this Light-forsaken place is to run into another live human being. The woman is clad in a strange black garb, antiquated and frayed from too much wear.

She stares at them with wide, fear-filled eyes. And before they can as much as call out to her, she raises a crude staff, turns on her heels and runs, rounding the corner, and disappearing out of sight. They make to follow, but then a hollow crack stops them dead in their tracks.

Left and right, the coffins start to break open.

Most of these bodies are in a far worse state than those they had encountered before, although there are also a couple stronger and better preserved than the ones they have faced before. Those pose a serious threat, but what the weaker skeletons lack in strength and in limbs, they make up in sheer numbers.

They have to retreat, back to where the tunnel provides a convenient chokepoint, and only a few enemies can come at them at a time. Bodies fall by the dozen, bones littering the corridors until they pile up, creating small mounds.

"Aren't you dead yet?" Mallory gasps, one wild swing pinning her adversary to the wall long enough that the knight can crush its skull.

"They were," Paschal says, her dreamy voice somehow rising above the clamour of the fight.

"That's the problem!" Dismas yells from behind, but he holds his position, his fingers a blur as he reloads his flintlocks. "Gods! The earth crawls with these bastards!"

The unintended barricade ends up working in their favour. Junia's calls upon the Light, and whenever it flares up, the foe reels, recoiling as if in actual pain. Paschal and Mallory's polearms keep anything trying to climb over at bay, while Reynauld handles the close quarter combat, and Dismas thins out their enemy's ranks from the back, until finally, nothing moves anymore.

Perhaps it is just Reynauld's imagination, but... no! The torches do actually burn brighter now, greedily licking up.

"I see something further up ahead!" Junia calls out. After the battle, there is no point to being quiet anymore. If there is anything or anyone nearby, by now they know they are here.

At first glance, the structure looks like a table from a distance, but once they get close they can see how massive it is. And carved into its surface are depictions of some grotesque form of life, with a multitude of eyes, teeth and limbs. It looks like something that had come straight out of the mason's nightmare. Below the thing, humans kneel, prostrating themselves on the ground.

Not a mere table then. An altar.

And on top of it – Dismas grabs the object before anyone can stop him. So much for caution. But instead of some cursed artefact one would expect in such a place, it turns out to be...

"Moustache cream?" Dismas' voice drops into a dangerous growl. "This is why we did this? For a bottle of fekkin' moustache cream!? Oh, the old cunt had a sense of humour alright."

"I think... ," Mallory says hesitantly, "I think this may be the key."

"What, you wanna style up your beard, lass?"

"No," she retorts with more force. "But it is an item that belonged to my grandfather, and his diary spoke of a key, so unless you have a better idea – ?"

"What do we have to lose?" Junia asks, and Dismas huffs, nods, and runs his fingers through his hair, mussing it up.

"Yeah. Shit, sorry. Ain't your fault your pap was a perverse lunatic." He points at the tin in Mallory's palm. "Let's hope this works."

In the end they do not have to get creative. The mere presence of the small tin sears a hole in the fabric of the magic with the same ease a flame would burn through paper. Mallory holds the ancestral trinket higher, and bit by bit the seal flakes off, dissolving and disappearing, until the archway is once more just a stone arcade. The darkness beyond is the simple gloom of a cellar. Visible in the light of their torch is the staircase that led them here.

They storm forward as one, racing up the stairs and bursting through the door and into the estate. The mansion is as it was; old, dusty – quiet, save for when the floor creaks. There is even a fire in the living room chimney, though it is burning low. How much time has passed, up here? How long were they truly gone?

Reynauld tugs off his gauntlets and stuffs them behind his belt, before crouching before the fireplace. The warmth it still gives off is like a balm to a wound. The realization of what they have been through is just setting in now that they have time to consider it.

He wonders, have they passed the test? They must have, if the Light has further use for them.

Junia and Paschal both perch on some seats. Their rigid posture and the weapons they do not let go of betray how very much on edge they still are. Mallory outright collapses into one of the plush armchairs, half-swallowed by the cushions.

Only Dismas is pacing – again. The jerky movement is getting on Reynauld's nerves. He is about to snap at the man to stop, when Dismas does. Comes to a halt right in front of the window, and stands there as if rooted to the ground.

"Uh, Rey? Mallory? Everyone?"

The knight cannot discern what it is exactly that he hears Dismas' voice, only that it is not the usual drawl he had come to associate with the other man.

Dismas turns back to the room, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. "I think you should see this."

Reynauld approaches the window with a sinking feeling that turns into blank dread when he sees the display outside. The Hamlet has disappeared, and instead of its usual blue, a maelstrom has opened in the sky, swirling with the colours of the void.

Typo of the week: "It's certainly worth giving it a shit." #but is it?

As always, thank you for reading! You can also find the story on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9482381/chapters/21455927

#blu's corner #fanfiction #writing #darkest dungeon #dismas #reynauld #we are the flame

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