The Crossing Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thecrossingmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecrossinglogs2025-01-18 12:15 pm
thecrossingmods) wrote in thecrossinglogs2025-01-18 12:15 pm
THE CROSSING #1
THE CROSSING #1
It's time.
For more detail on the particulars of the event, be sure to refer to our info and planning post!
For more detail on the particulars of the event, be sure to refer to our info and planning post!
time to choose
— CALM BEFORE THE STORM
It likely isn’t a surprise, when The Ferryman speaks into your mind again. You’ve known The Crossing was coming, and for the past hours, days, or weeks (however you prefer to section your time in this place), you’ve been feeling it drawing closer.
You’ve felt the pull on your soul, guiding you to follow The River; you’ve felt the changes in the Cavern, and in yourself, a shift in atmosphere that seems to start in the humidity of the air and sinks deep down into your bones. You feel solid. More importantly, you feel vulnerable.
Those who want to pay the toll are invited to gather at The Ferryman’s point of vigil; those who don’t will at least have the draw of The Crossing to guide them.
If you have anything to say before the split, now is the time to do it.
— LIGHTS OUT
Because when the moment comes, it waits for no one.
The Lantern doesn't extinguish immediately. Those gathered with The Ferryman (and, perhaps, those gathered near The Ferryman) will see it: a precarious flickering of flame behind glass. The light shrinks, and with it comes a feeling of something else retreating, too — something that you may have understood was there without realizing it, or that you may have assumed was simply another aspect of the light itself.
The bubble of safety, you realize, is receding. And when The Lantern's Light finally goes out, so too does the shield keeping you separated from the wraiths prowling the tunnels.
The darkness closes in. The Cavern's glowing plants are now the only steady source of light in the entire chamber, which allows your eyes to adjust, but only so much; it becomes difficult to make out the faces of even those standing right beside you.
It's time, so says The Ferryman. Make your decision.
follow the leader
— PAYMENT COMES DUE
There is no pomp or ceremony associated with The Ferryman's toll collection. You need only to be willing, and ready.
The darkness seems to shroud The Ferryman more than it does the rest of you, somehow. You can't make out the features of their face, only hear their voice bidding you to step forward when you're ready. For any of you who might need a moment, The Ferryman will wait.
A mote of light appears in The Ferryman's palms as the toll is paid, growing in proportion to the number of memories it receives. It's small, but you can feel the influence of it: that protective bubble you felt recede when The Lantern extinguished grows again around the light, just enough to envelop the group gathered here.
Time to go, says The Ferryman. And even though you can't track their movements in the darkness, the light tracks it for you: over the lip of the land bridge, and down to the black River below.
Nowhere to go but forward. When you step off yourself (even if it takes a bit of psyching up to get there), you'll find that the drop is gentle, and that your steps suspend safely over the water.
Just don't get left behind.
— HEAR A VOICE THAT CAUSES YOU PAIN
And so, you journey.
You walk on the surface of The River as if it were a wide, black road. Ahead of you, that same mote of light follows in the steps of The Ferryman, illuminating the ripples they leave in the water as breadcrumbs for you to follow. The air above The River is cold, certainly, and sometimes the icy water might splash up onto your shoes or ankles — but The River is wide, and there's room enough to walk together, even if you can't see each other well. It's as comfortable as a journey like this might ever be.
But The Crossing is a trial. You didn't forget, did you?
It starts slow: sounds from the darkness that could be voices, unless it's been dark for so long that your ears are playing tricks on you? Shouts of anger, high-pitched laughter, cries of fury and despair.
Then there are words. They beckon to you from the darkness: some plaintive, some punitive. They want you to stop. They want you to stay. They want you gone. Most of the voices are unfamiliar to you, but at least one, you know very well.
You need to keep moving. If you lose sight of The Ferryman's steps, you run the risk of being lost in the Cavern forever. Or perhaps it's someone beside you who's on the edge of losing their focus, someone who needs you to help keep them on the path?
trust your gut
— FIGHT FOR YOUR LIFE
The rest of you, left behind on the banks of The River, have only your wits, the contents of your pockets, and the pull of something beyond the darkness to help you on the journey. The darkness is smothering, but not completely impenetrable: you have the glow of the Cavern plants, the faint gleam of the toll group’s steps on the surface of The River, and anything you may have picked up before you got here.
You can travel together or alone, but you must move. The metaphysical pull on you is growing stronger and more insistent the longer you stay in one place, and the Cavern, before preternaturally silent and still, is beginning to stir.
The wraiths, once silent, shapeless, harmless shadows following you about the Cavern, have changed. Where before they were merely unsettling to look at, now they have become larger and more monstrous: sharp eyes and claws, wide eyes and mouths. Where before they were silent, seemingly both unable and unwilling to make any sound, now they wail: wordless cries of pain and anger giving away their positions in the darkness.
Some of them may even be familiar to you, once they get close enough; the wraiths that before had seemingly taken a liking to you, seeking you out and following you wherever you went, now seem dedicated to hunting you specifically.
What the wraiths want from you, it's hard to say. If they catch you, they will tear at you without strategy or direction, like a ravenous animal — or perhaps a terrified one.
Any injuries you sustain during this time, whether from the wraiths or otherwise, are just as real to you as they would have been when you were alive: you bleed, you break, and you feel every inch of the pain inflicted on you.
Nowhere to go but forward. If you follow the pull in your gut, you'll get to where you're going. One way or another.
on the other side
— A MOMENT OF RESPITE
Whichever trial you've chosen, there is, eventually, the end.
You feel it first in the atmosphere: a resettling of the off-kilterness that's been surrounding you. The air slowly becomes drier, and the darkness less punishing. The plants that line the walls of the Cavern become more and more rare, their light replaced by ambient light leaking in from somewhere above you.
For the group traveling with The Ferryman, the wide expanse of The River gradually becomes shallower and narrower, until it's hardly a trickle beneath your feet, winding through the cave system. For the group traveling on their own, there comes a point where the wraiths seem unwilling or unable to follow, their shrieks in the darkness growing further and further away.
You feel it next in yourself: a smoothing of your rough edges, aches and muscle pain and physical exhaustion melting away. For any injured on the journey, your wounds resolve themselves as if natural healing on fast-forward. Natural healing is not always the cleanest or the most comfortable, though; you might be left with scars, crooked fingers or noses, or some other lasting memory of what you risked to be here.
Lastly, once The River has narrowed enough and two groups have reunited again: The Lantern relights. The Ferryman, for all that they were nearly invisible to you in the darkness, seems just the same as they were before. You made it through, they tell you, with no small amount of warmth and pride. Let's take a load off.
You should rest. If you took anything from the Cavern to help you on your journey, you'll find that it's gone from your pockets — when did that happen? Did you set it down? It's been such a long journey, it could have been a lapse of memory.
A memory? Ah, there's something else gone too, isn't there? Willingly or otherwise. If you try to reach for it now, it's like dust in the breeze, or a dream upon waking. You know it was there once, but the harder you try to recall it back, the thinner the details get. Eventually, you might not remember even that there was something to forget.
Congratulations. The Crossing is complete.
Image credits: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 + stock imagery unless otherwise noted
It likely isn’t a surprise, when The Ferryman speaks into your mind again. You’ve known The Crossing was coming, and for the past hours, days, or weeks (however you prefer to section your time in this place), you’ve been feeling it drawing closer.
You’ve felt the pull on your soul, guiding you to follow The River; you’ve felt the changes in the Cavern, and in yourself, a shift in atmosphere that seems to start in the humidity of the air and sinks deep down into your bones. You feel solid. More importantly, you feel vulnerable.
Those who want to pay the toll are invited to gather at The Ferryman’s point of vigil; those who don’t will at least have the draw of The Crossing to guide them.
If you have anything to say before the split, now is the time to do it.
— LIGHTS OUT
Because when the moment comes, it waits for no one.
The Lantern doesn't extinguish immediately. Those gathered with The Ferryman (and, perhaps, those gathered near The Ferryman) will see it: a precarious flickering of flame behind glass. The light shrinks, and with it comes a feeling of something else retreating, too — something that you may have understood was there without realizing it, or that you may have assumed was simply another aspect of the light itself.
The bubble of safety, you realize, is receding. And when The Lantern's Light finally goes out, so too does the shield keeping you separated from the wraiths prowling the tunnels.
The darkness closes in. The Cavern's glowing plants are now the only steady source of light in the entire chamber, which allows your eyes to adjust, but only so much; it becomes difficult to make out the faces of even those standing right beside you.
It's time, so says The Ferryman. Make your decision.
follow the leader
There is no pomp or ceremony associated with The Ferryman's toll collection. You need only to be willing, and ready.
The darkness seems to shroud The Ferryman more than it does the rest of you, somehow. You can't make out the features of their face, only hear their voice bidding you to step forward when you're ready. For any of you who might need a moment, The Ferryman will wait.
A mote of light appears in The Ferryman's palms as the toll is paid, growing in proportion to the number of memories it receives. It's small, but you can feel the influence of it: that protective bubble you felt recede when The Lantern extinguished grows again around the light, just enough to envelop the group gathered here.
Time to go, says The Ferryman. And even though you can't track their movements in the darkness, the light tracks it for you: over the lip of the land bridge, and down to the black River below.
Nowhere to go but forward. When you step off yourself (even if it takes a bit of psyching up to get there), you'll find that the drop is gentle, and that your steps suspend safely over the water.
Just don't get left behind.
— HEAR A VOICE THAT CAUSES YOU PAIN
And so, you journey.
You walk on the surface of The River as if it were a wide, black road. Ahead of you, that same mote of light follows in the steps of The Ferryman, illuminating the ripples they leave in the water as breadcrumbs for you to follow. The air above The River is cold, certainly, and sometimes the icy water might splash up onto your shoes or ankles — but The River is wide, and there's room enough to walk together, even if you can't see each other well. It's as comfortable as a journey like this might ever be.
But The Crossing is a trial. You didn't forget, did you?
It starts slow: sounds from the darkness that could be voices, unless it's been dark for so long that your ears are playing tricks on you? Shouts of anger, high-pitched laughter, cries of fury and despair.
Then there are words. They beckon to you from the darkness: some plaintive, some punitive. They want you to stop. They want you to stay. They want you gone. Most of the voices are unfamiliar to you, but at least one, you know very well.
You need to keep moving. If you lose sight of The Ferryman's steps, you run the risk of being lost in the Cavern forever. Or perhaps it's someone beside you who's on the edge of losing their focus, someone who needs you to help keep them on the path?
trust your gut
The rest of you, left behind on the banks of The River, have only your wits, the contents of your pockets, and the pull of something beyond the darkness to help you on the journey. The darkness is smothering, but not completely impenetrable: you have the glow of the Cavern plants, the faint gleam of the toll group’s steps on the surface of The River, and anything you may have picked up before you got here.
You can travel together or alone, but you must move. The metaphysical pull on you is growing stronger and more insistent the longer you stay in one place, and the Cavern, before preternaturally silent and still, is beginning to stir.
The wraiths, once silent, shapeless, harmless shadows following you about the Cavern, have changed. Where before they were merely unsettling to look at, now they have become larger and more monstrous: sharp eyes and claws, wide eyes and mouths. Where before they were silent, seemingly both unable and unwilling to make any sound, now they wail: wordless cries of pain and anger giving away their positions in the darkness.
Some of them may even be familiar to you, once they get close enough; the wraiths that before had seemingly taken a liking to you, seeking you out and following you wherever you went, now seem dedicated to hunting you specifically.
What the wraiths want from you, it's hard to say. If they catch you, they will tear at you without strategy or direction, like a ravenous animal — or perhaps a terrified one.
Any injuries you sustain during this time, whether from the wraiths or otherwise, are just as real to you as they would have been when you were alive: you bleed, you break, and you feel every inch of the pain inflicted on you.
Nowhere to go but forward. If you follow the pull in your gut, you'll get to where you're going. One way or another.
on the other side
Whichever trial you've chosen, there is, eventually, the end.
You feel it first in the atmosphere: a resettling of the off-kilterness that's been surrounding you. The air slowly becomes drier, and the darkness less punishing. The plants that line the walls of the Cavern become more and more rare, their light replaced by ambient light leaking in from somewhere above you.
For the group traveling with The Ferryman, the wide expanse of The River gradually becomes shallower and narrower, until it's hardly a trickle beneath your feet, winding through the cave system. For the group traveling on their own, there comes a point where the wraiths seem unwilling or unable to follow, their shrieks in the darkness growing further and further away.
You feel it next in yourself: a smoothing of your rough edges, aches and muscle pain and physical exhaustion melting away. For any injured on the journey, your wounds resolve themselves as if natural healing on fast-forward. Natural healing is not always the cleanest or the most comfortable, though; you might be left with scars, crooked fingers or noses, or some other lasting memory of what you risked to be here.
Lastly, once The River has narrowed enough and two groups have reunited again: The Lantern relights. The Ferryman, for all that they were nearly invisible to you in the darkness, seems just the same as they were before. You made it through, they tell you, with no small amount of warmth and pride. Let's take a load off.
You should rest. If you took anything from the Cavern to help you on your journey, you'll find that it's gone from your pockets — when did that happen? Did you set it down? It's been such a long journey, it could have been a lapse of memory.
A memory? Ah, there's something else gone too, isn't there? Willingly or otherwise. If you try to reach for it now, it's like dust in the breeze, or a dream upon waking. You know it was there once, but the harder you try to recall it back, the thinner the details get. Eventually, you might not remember even that there was something to forget.
Congratulations. The Crossing is complete.
Image credits: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 + stock imagery unless otherwise noted
no subject
[It's not anger in his voice, when he responds, turning a heavy gaze on Frieda. In the faint light, it's hard to make out the fine lines of his face, but there's such strain there, a piling and spilling over of a grief long-banked.]
No, he -
Who was that man to you? When he killed you? A stranger? A stranger, who killed you, in the end.
[Harsh, maybe - his natural bluntness is harder to smooth over in grief.]
Not - the only man in the world you thought you could trust.
no subject
When he asked you for help, was it with genuine hope that you'd aid him? Did he know of your duty?
[Did Celehar's friend(?) hope that he'd betray his oath for his sake? Or did he merely choose him as his confessor, so that he'd hear of his sin - whatever it was that led to his death - from his own lips rather than through hearsay? Of course, even Celehar may not know - and if the former is true, then there really may be no consolation.]
no subject
It would be easier if Evru would curse him for what he'd done. In death, even if he could not comprehend it in life. His anger would have made the wound clean, rather than leaving this hurt to fester and scar through Celehar's heart as it has. Instead he's left with this tumult. The ache of knowing that Evru committed so terrible an act. The guilt in knowing his desperation. The shame, and the despair of it all.]
It was not my help he asked. He did not know - not until they took him. In death I cannot be a comfort to him, for it was by my word he came to be executed, Min Reiss.
[He tries, so hard, to keep his voice steady, but on 'executed' it cracks, more rasp than spoken. He shakes his head.]
We must keep walking.
no subject
For that to have been his punishment, his sin must have been severe. In turning him in to the authorities, you did right by the person or people he harmed.
["Killed", more likely, it death was deemed a fit sentence. Yet, that man's voice sounds so defeated, so broken - not angry or aggressive at all. She's sure she heard him say that he saw no other way out of his situation. If she can excuse her own killer, who's to say that she wouldn't excuse this man, too, if she knew of his circumstances?]
...
Do you want to move on?
[She hardly feels motivated. While her current state, free from her ancestor's vow, enabled her to express her regret, the facts remain the same: She abandoned her own people and let the Founding Titan, a threat to the wider world, fall into the wrong hands. Celehar's similarly unsolvable dilemma only adds to her unhappiness.]
no subject
For all his pain, Celehar hasn't yet felt the urge to cry. He's wasted all the tears he has on this, or so he thought, years ago, when the wound was still fresh. He'd thought it a hollow ache that grieved him but was not so fresh that he could not carry on.
But that single questions sets his eyes blurring. He takes a breath, then lifts his hand to his face, a quick swipe of his sleeve to mask the damp eyes, adding an attempt to smooth away the curls coming lose from his braid, a poor attempt to mask the original need for the gesture.]
I loved him, Min Reiss.
[And yet as plain a declaration as that is, he finds himself bracing for judgement and withdrawal. Does he expect it? To love a murderer. He can only remember the gentle misunderstanding of the emperor. The scorn of the court and his cousin Csoru. The head of the village's hatred for him and Evru both...
He does not mean to turn away Frieda's pain, to compare it with his own - she was caught in that same, terrible situation as Evru. She and that man both - to kill, or perhaps to die in not killing - and maybe, in the end, to die no matter what choice was made.]
Having made that choice, what more can I do, but keep moving? If I am too weak to keep going here, when I found the resolve to kill him?
no subject
She doesn't know what to say for a long moment, but she embraces him once more, trying to express her sympathy (and still unaware at how uncomfortable the close contact is to him).
She's not sure how to feel about his resolve to move on, either. Wouldn't it be fine to not have the wherewithal, to be so shattered by the deed as to give up? It takes her some rumination to find a reason to push herself forward.]
...
It wouldn't be shameful if all your resolve were gone after that, I think. But if we stay here, this will be our eternity, won't it? If we move on... if we move on, we'll forget.
[Once more, she wonders if they truly deserve that mercy, but while it's hard to forgive herself and Celehar seems to have equally little lenience towards himself, she doesn't want him to be tormented by this memory forever.]
no subject
He's not a man used to, or perhaps comfortable with, casual shared affection, but walking through this waking nightmare together is more intimate than just a simple gesture of comfort, sorely needed in a time of pain. His hands are gentle with awkwardness when he rests them on her shoulders, for just a moment.
Which is why it was the cost. A memory to give up, to finally fade into darkness. That's a light he has to hold onto. He's doing this for a reason. And Evru - ripping his heart out and leaving it behind, if he must. So he draws back, to meet her eyes, his face drawn.]
I do not want to forget him, [He admits, quietly.] And yet -
no subject
It's... it's tormenting no matter what, isn't it? To remember, but to forget as well. If we stay here, these may be the voices we'll hear from the whispering pools.
[It's nowhere near proven, but what could they possibly become if not wraiths, and where could they go but back to the cavern and its catacombs, with no light to guide them? Her tone turns softer as she asks:]
Did he return your feelings? Do you know?
[It's a hard question to ask, but the answer will determine whether she'll be able to encourage him to at least try to hold on to the memory of loving and being loved in kind.]
no subject
Yes.
[Does that make it better?
In the end... he doesn't know.]
Do you - think we will? Hear them again.
[He wasn't the one who listened to the pools, after all. The thought... he finds it disquieting. Will they even remember those voices? No wonder those shades malingered so.]
no subject
At his question, she uncertainly shrugs her shoulders.]
I don't know. When I put my head underwater, the voices were too indistinct to differentiate. But maybe, the wraiths could hear them clearly.
[Pure speculation, nothing they should risk their continued existence for - all the less since it'd only cause them pain. If they push on ahead, at least they have a chance of an eventual oblivion.]
If we follow the light, then... I don't know.
[Said light is more of a suggestion that a distinct landmark now, a faint shine like the glow left behind on one part of the horizon after the sun has set.]
no subject
Uncertainty, in death as in life.
[What a grim irony it is, isn't it? That the end is not the end. That this same pain plagues them here, together. That the question of continuing on in the face of pain still occupies them so.
He looks to her, remembers the pained determination in her voice as she called out into the dark. It seems strange, to use the formal inflections with someone who has heard - and known - so much. He doesn't consciously register the shift in his words now, won't until later, when the switch has become habit.]
... I wouldst not ask thee to remain, alone, in the dark.
no subject
In turn, she extends a hand to him.]
Let's walk together, then.
[Even now, she still needs the support. Following a light so faint and fleeting on her own, she might just give up and fall to her knees on the water to be swallowed up or found by the wraiths.]
no subject
The shivers still haven't quite left him, and he walks with his head turned towards the dark water below them, ears low - but he does walk. And in carrying on, it's some fragment of his calling, that surfaces to him - the need to listen to others.
It starts with a single low, cautious question.]
Thou'rt nobility?
no subject
Royalty.
[It's not a correction so much as a confession, delivered with a faint mirthless smile.]
But we lived as nobles, to hide from the people. Our duty was not to rule, but to keep those terrible powers from being used to oppress others ever again. We Eldians are a cursed race. We brought great suffering over our world.
no subject
but Royalty has him stumbling, nearly pulling his hand back.]
That -
[Before he catches himself. He is not in the Court, where improper behavior towards the Emperor would see him killed by the man's nohecharei, and even if this were, he's already dead. There's nothing more that can be done to him, on that measure. So he clears his throat, ducking his head and murmuring an apology, to listen to the rest, strange as it sounds to him.]
Sounds like a heavy burden.
no subject
...
It was. I was unable to speak of it to anyone, not even my own family. Can you believe that I volunteered for it - to be the one to inherit the lost history of the world, and the power to control the titans? I was an ignorant little girl to think that I could succeed where my uncle had failed, but... I wanted to free our people so badly. It was only after the succession ceremony that I understood why we have to live behind our Walls, that it's the only way to protect the outside world from our monstrousness and cruelty.
no subject
[The enthusiasm of the young, the determination to do right... yes. It takes a particular kind of strength, to face that and not be worn down by it. He thinks, briefly, of Edrahazivar VII - the young half-goblin Emperor. Assailed on all sides by his court, but determined to be kind despite it.
This, however, sounds different. He watches her, as well as he might in the dark.]
Behind the walls?
[The man calling to her... is that not something he spoke of? It has the weight of ritual and tradition behind the words, to his ear, more than simply the walls of a city.]
no subject
The Walls are my people's sanctuary and cage. Three circular concentric walls, taller than any building, the outermost marking the border of our inhabitable land, all erected by the king who led our people into exile a century ago so the rest of the world could heal from our oppressive rule. They're made of titan armour - harder than anything, indestructible and impregnable. Or so we thought.
[Given what Celehar overheard of the confrontation that played out, evidently the Walls were breached.]
Outside, the mindless titans - our foul legacy to the world - besiege us. Anyone who leaves the Walls will be devoured by them. The powers I inherited should have allowed me to control them, even unmake them... but my ancestor's vow to protect the outside world at our expense was unbreakable.
no subject
Dost thou regret it?
no subject
I do. How could I not? I left my people in the belief that they were the only ones left alive, that we were all alone. They had no idea that there was a world out there that hated them. Even now that our judgement day has come, they may not realise it, seeing how the other nations are weaponising the titans to eliminate us.
[She's sure that the breach of Wall Maria was brought about by the intelligent titans - the direct descendants of her Founder - that were left in the care of the freed lands outside. As such, her people may not see any other humans, only the well-known monsters that have always besieged them.]
But had I not acted the way I did, it would have brought about more bloodshed. Had my people learned of the truth, they'd have prepared for conquest once again - or, if not that, they'd still have wanted to go out into the world, and the other nations would have retaliated against their return, knowing full well what horrors they could bring about. If we Eldians accept our end, nobody else will have to suffer.
...
I know that in withholding it all from them, I stole their chance of doing so, but who could possibly accept such a fate? My ancestor knew that the people would refuse the sacrifice.
no subject
[There are grim tales in the Ethuveraz of the fate of child emperors. Even Edrahasivar VII, full if barely adult on his coronation, had struggled mightily simply from having lived a life away from the intricacies of the court, had furthermore suffered multiple assassination attempts in the process. Placed in such a grim position, he could hardly assume less pressure had been placed on Frieda - and as such, he steadied himself, steadying her in turn]
... Did you know, that the world beyond would hate you so sorely? Even after so long removed?
no subject
When I volunteered to succeed my uncle, I was every bit as ignorant as my people. I had no idea about the world outside the Walls. I thought that if only I could withstand the ghosts of our ancestors that possessed him - that's how I explained his inaction to myself, at the time -, I could unmake the titans and free our people from their cage. A child's dream. Needless to say, I failed. I failed all my people and, in losing the Founding Titan, I also failed the outside world. I was weak. I was...
[She trails off, shaking her head once more. She wasn't ready to kill, perhaps too ready to accept death... but even if that had been otherwise, her opponent was so much larger, he had the physical advantage.]
Please don't blame my family. They, too, were ignorant. My uncle didn't tell them, and neither did I. Our ancestor's vow stilled our tongue.
no subject
[His tongue feels awkward on the first name, more so than the switch to more informal language, but there's a more important note to make here, so Celehar forges ahead.]
Power can change many things, but to divert a course already set... even great will can only redirect things gently, lest the one doing so be destroyed by it. So it was in the Ethuveraz - and so it must, I believe, be true everywhere.
It is not my place to judge you here. Silence became thy burden - let it now be settled.
no subject
Had it only cost my life, I'd gladly have paid the price. I already knew that taking on my ancestors' powers would only leave me a short time to live. But...
[She shakes her head once more, already having told him everything. There was no way to do right by everyone.
His company does give her solace as they slowly but surely catch up with the Ferryman's light.]
no subject
[For a time Celehar is silent, his expression wistfully thoughtful.]
Wouldst that it had not happened in these circumstances, but if it were in my power I might have introduced thee to Edrahasivar. Thy concerns must mirror his - I think thy worries might have found an echo in him.
I cannot say what thy choice ought have been, if there was even a right choice to be made, but if thee wouldst find the burden again too heavy, I wouldst listen.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)