Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Vine Staff was buzzing.

She couldn’t really tell if it was nerves or excitement. Maybe both?

She and Ghosdeeri had met before - of course they had - but then it had just been more getting to know each other; chats and time spent in silent company, either under the shade of a moonlit tree, or in the dusty halls of the archives Ghosdeeri made her home. It had never - officially - been called a date.

The place was nice. It smelt of gravy and beef stock, the scent thick and aromatic with all kinds of delicious herbs. It was lit warmly, amber bulbs buzzing in the corners, the light reflecting on the white dews of condensation that blurred the neon lights of the dark alley beyond the window. The walls were bare brick and dark iron, hung over with pictures of the family who owned the place and paintings of crisp mountain scenes that looked so cool and fresh that you could almost feel the snow on your face. The tables were rough wood, covered in a thin layer of wax, and years of accumulated food spills had stained it in a pleasant patchwork of coffee rings and natural grain. The menus were handwritten on cream card with three or four options, and the daily special was proudly displayed on the blackboard behind the elderly inphernal that worked the counter and till.

“It’s a nice place.” Vine Staff said pleasantly, and Ghosdeeri chuckled.

“That it is. I remember when it first opened - I’m always sure to check out the shops that open near the Archives - and I remember just how delicious those stews were. I would come here all the time if I could afford it.” she replied, her eyes roving over the place, before coming back to rest on Vine Staff.

Vine Staff had always likened Ghosdeeri’s eyes to cameras, even back before she knew her name. They were either constantly moving, taking in the surroundings, absorbing knowledge, or locked onto you, drinking every word you said. Sometimes Vine Staff even reckoned she saw them focus like a camera lens would.

“It doesn’t seem that expensive.” Vine Staff commented.

“It’s not really.” Ghosdeeri said, “But between utilities, taxes, paying Pwnatious what they ask for, getting food for Lightblox, purchasing artefacts and supplies… I’m left with very little in the way of disposable income.”

“Huh,” Vine Staff said, leaning back. That made sense. Vine Staff had long split paying the bills with Shuriken and Slingshot, so she wasn’t responsible for everything, especially since it was Slingshot that paid them at the end of the day. But her apartment was a fraction of the size of the Archives, and some of those artefacts must have been pricey.

“Say,” she said, “You don’t bring Lightblox out much.”

“She doesn’t… she doesn’t like coming out.” Ghosdeeri replied, “Doesn’t like people that much - poor thing - and much prefers to stay inside. I’m happy to oblige. She can handle the occasional statement giver here and there, but I don’t want to put too much strain on her.”

“That makes sense.” Vine Staff mused, before the reason they’d come here in the first place carefully put itself forwards, “So - say, you don’t mind talking more about the fears? Or- whatever you called them.”

“Mm, yes, that.” Ghosdeeri said, turning to where the waitress was coming with two steaming bowels of stew.

“The usual dear,” they said, setting down one in front of Ghosdeeri, then turning to Vine Staff and doing the same, “And one for you as well - 28.76 in total.”

“Of course.” Ghosdeeri said, pulling a small coin pouch from her pocket and rolling out the right amount of silver coins, handing them over to the waitress.

Ghosdeeri exchanged money like the old inphernals back in Vine Staff’s home, setting the coins directly into your palm, resting your hand there for a second as you patted the back of their knuckles, then settling back to whatever you were doing.

“As you were saying?” Ghosdeeri said, as the waitress walked off again, “The fears - what is it you want to know.”

“Well,” Vine Staff said, thinking over what she knew before speaking, “I mean, I guess what they’re all about. I mean, fourteen distinct fears, that’s… how do you categorise that?”

“Well, think of them like colours.” Ghosdeeri said, “See, we could argue whether my eyes are more of an ice blue or a pastel-”

“They’re ice blue.” Vine Staff said, and Ghosdeeri chuckled.

“As I was saying, we could argue that - but at the end of the day it’s still blue. And you can never really pin point where on a line of colours that red becomes orange, or green becomes turquoise, or purple becomes pink. So, you can’t really say where the End begins and becomes the Desolation. Is the terror of finding a lost memory more about the End - the loss of a past, a constant - or the Desolation - the pain of that loss, heck, sometimes it can even be argued that falls into the Lonely, or even the Spiral - it all depends on the direction you spin it in. I mostly go off inclination and blind hunches.”

“Right.” Vine Staff said, nodding slowly, “And… I mean, we’re both, well, End- we both serve the End, but we were chosen by it. Do- do the other fears do that.”

“... Yes and no.” Ghosdeeri said, “They mostly prey on people with certain fears or inclinations. They do choose people, obviously, reach out and claim people that begin to subconsciously call on them - your brother and Slingshot are good examples of that. But a lot of this is about choice. A fear may reach out to you, but it's your choice whether or not you answer that call. Though a lot of the time we don’t see those choices.”

“That’s… ominous.” Vine Staff said, shivering involuntarily. She felt a blink of that icy, certain fear in her chest and glanced down at herself. Could she someday end up as one of the things in the statements she read? Completely deluded to the point she couldn’t see the harm she was causing, only ever chasing the thrill of that fear?

“I doubt you’ll become anything like them.” Ghosdeeri said, “You’ve got a good heart and a good head on your shoulders, so I reckon that you’ll be able to walk the line between hunger and humanity pretty well.”

“Thanks.” Vine Staff said, her face growing hot for a second, “And… if you don’t mind me asking, you?”

“I’ve done things I regret in the aim of feeding the Eye.” Ghosdeeri sighed, “It has to be done sometimes, unfortunately, but I’ve managed to tide myself over with statements willingly given by people that pass through my doors, and older statements if I really need to take the edge off.”

Vine Staff nodded quietly, taking the spoon sat next to her bowl and scooping up a mouthful of the stew. It was meaty, flavoured with a handful of herbs, and melted easily over her tongue.

“Never had Blackrock cuisine before.” she commented, taking another spoonful.

“You haven’t?” Ghosdeeri said, scooping up her own spoonful. She paused to chew, one hand placed delicately over her mouth, before speaking again once she’d swallowed, “I find that it's quite lovely. They know how to make a good stew or soup. Something about the cold mountains that makes the warmth of a hot stove so appealing.”

“I can imagine.” Vine Staff said, looking over to the paintings on the walls, “What’s it like? Blackrock I mean.”

“Oh- absolutely dreadful these days. Most of it’s industrial, and they’re very set on modernising everything, that being said… there’s still some lovely views, but you have to trek for miles to get to them. I don’t like travelling there often.” Ghosdeeri replied, adjusting her glasses with her knuckle, “Traffic doesn’t mind going there, and obviously Pwnatious is from that region - they’re family has quite a lovely estate, actually.”

Vine Staff nodded slowly. She supposed that Blackrock and Thieves’ Den would be polar opposites then. Thieves’ Den clung to the past, Blackrock pushed on without abandon into the future.

“Say,” Vine Staff said, “You never told me which faction you were from originally.”

“Originally?” Ghosdeeri said, before chuckling, “I was spawned in Thieves’ Den if that’s what you’re asking. But I stayed there for a grand total of one year, two months and sixteen days. The rest of my life is either travelling, or living here.”

Ghosdeeri was always so specific with everything she talked about; she could tell you exactly what she ate at what time on any given day, say exactly the time and date she first met you, and tell you exact time frames for everything. Vine Staff had always found comfort in that fact. That even if she forgot the time she spent with her, Ghosdeeri would remember all of it down to the second.

“So we’re both from Thieves’ Den then.” Vine Staff said.

“And that makes four out of the seven of us from there then!”

“You keep mentioning the others - but who are they?” Vine Staff said, and Ghosdeeri chuckled.

“Well, there’s Eerie, me and her had a thing going on back in the day, she still lives in Thieves’ Den and sponsors the archives - I believe she runs a sustainable logging company actually. Then would be Doomsekkar - me and her didn’t get along - though I think she ended up partially serving the Desolation, and she’s currently kicking about in the far reaches of Lost Temple - a statement about them occasionally still drifts my way. Outside of Lost Temple there’s Blizzaria; they mostly keep to the far edges of Blackrock, and they don’t really seem ready to accept their curse, though it has been twenty years since we last saw each other. Dusekkar mostly keeps to themself as well - lives in Playgrounds, haven’t heard from them in a while - believe they serve the Dark as well. And lastly there’s Sparkle - she was fun, but we never really formed a friendship. We keep in contact, and she sometimes brings me tales from the area of Lost Temple she’s made home.”

“Huh,” Vine Staff said, “That’s… a lot.”

“Indeed.” Ghosdeeri said, “It’s good to know we’re not alone however, and sometimes it is good to vent to somebody you know understands what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah,” Vine Staff said, “Meeting you properly was probably the best thing that ever happened to me to be honest.”

Ghosdeeri paused, her eyes scanning along Vine Staff’s face. It was a soft, tender gaze, and her expression softened significantly. It was hard not to notice the slight shadows beneath each wide, unblinking eye. It was only natural that they each had troubles with insomnia.

“My dear,” she said, and the tone of her voice sent Vine Staff’s heart fluttering, “I didn’t realise you thought as much.”

“Well,” Vine Staff said, trying to keep her cool, despite the dumb smile that was beginning to break out over her face, “I do. It was, good to get everything off my chest - speak to somebody who understood, as you said.”

“Hm,” Ghosdeeri mused, before stretching out her hand and carefully lacing her fingers into Vine Staff’s - her skin was cool, but not unpleasantly so, especially under the silk gloves she always wore outside the archives, “Well, I’ve always considered that kind of thing very relative. But I will say, this past month has been some of the best in my recent memory.”

Vine Staff tried not to get flustered. She’d known Ghosdeeri for a month now and they were dating. But Vine Staff had been pining for months - years even - before working up the courage to speak to her, so this return of affection was something she had never hoped to receive.

She swallowed nervously, nodding and smiling. Her fingers tightened around Ghosdeeri’s. Her heart felt like it was hammering out of her chest.

Ghosdeeri chuckled softly, her thumb lightly stroking the side of Vine Staff’s hand. Her gaze dipped to it, before sliding back up to Vine Staff’s face - to her eyes. And looking into those eyes, glossy black except for the gleaming halo of icy blue and the clear pupil - Vine Staff was reminded of staring into starlight, a spark of light in the darkness. Or maybe staring into the depths of space itself, infinite, unknowable, all-consuming.

Then Ghosdeeri slowly leaned in to kiss her.

Vine Staff was surprised at first, but leaned in to accept. It was their first kiss, and as Vine Staff would later realise, her first kiss. It was soft, with the same quiet coolness that Ghosdeeri always carried with her, like a moonlit- no starlit night. The kiss didn’t last long, but it didn’t have to, Vine Staff knew it didn’t have to. Just that brief moment, the seal to a deal they both knew about, that final bit of conformation.

Ghosdeeri settled back, and Vine Staff stayed where she was, her cheeks glowing. She fell back eventually, giggling like she was drunk, and looked over to Ghosdeeri. The light played off her eyes beautifully, and the dark cascades of her hair somehow managed to look effortless and unplanned at once. There was a slight smile in her eyes when she spoke next.

“What else would you like to know?” she asked, her tone cool and easy.

Vine Staff simply laughed and sat back up.

“Whatever you want to tell me.”

Chapter Text

Medkit kept his gaze glued on his feet. He couldn’t look up, gaze into those hundreds of unblinking, glittering eyes. Those that wrung his body free of every latent dreg of terror. He could not face the wrath, the hunger, the potent terror that scorched deep into his soul.

“Medkit.” the voice hissed, both unfitting and perfectly fitting for its owner. It was a soft, smooth voice, like silk, like honey, oozing full and sinister from the Father’s lips - so laden with power that Medkit felt his constitution wavering. It was a voice you felt like you could trust, you could depend on - but Medkit knew that was false, he’d known that long ago, “You understand why you were brought here?”

“I have been… rebellious. Straying away from your safety. Disregarding what you’ve done for me.” Medkit said, the words crawling, thorned and sticky from his throat before he could think about them. His fingers dug into his legs, each of his nails protected by the thin layer of fabric that covered it. His breath tasted foul in his mouth. Perhaps the infection was finally unfurling itself, showing itself to the uncaring eyes of this false prophet.

“Exactly.” the Father growled, and Medkit felt his presence shift closer to him. But didn’t see it. Did he carry a sickness? He certainly wrought it in his dreams, perhaps he encouraged it along.

“Look at me.”

It wasn’t a request.

Medkit looked up, his body shaking with the desire not to. To fade away and get away from all this. To somewhere he knew was safe and clean. But his head still raised, the muscles in his neck flexing involuntarily, and he cringed instinctively back at the unblinking arcs of eyes that now had him pinned in place. He focused on them instead of the real one that sat glittering in the skull of this monster.

“You understand what the consequences are, right?”

Medkit nodded slowly.

“Good. Now, we have noted that you’ve become, more independent as of late. Moving to Crossroads, keeping more and more to yourself… some would say you’re trying to run away. Perhaps from people all together.”

The ice cold calm of the fog sunk into Medkit’s heart. What he wouldn’t do to be there, rather than in this place with its muggy atmosphere - perfect conditions for moulds and bacteria of all kinds - and far, far from anyone that could hurt him. The world began to fade out, the shapes becoming more indistinct.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you! Stay, stay! We have much talking to do.”

The words pinned him to the chair more than those eyes. The Broker sat by the edge of the table, chin resting coily on the desk, his eyes glinting like glass beads as a spider made its steady way down from his hairline.

“See what I mean?” he said, the same fixed smile on his face as always, “Always so ready to scurry away. Plus, those crystals do have a taste of the Lonely to them - so I say that he ascended a good while ago.”

“And you can be sure of that?”

“Not completely - but he’s in deep enough that I’m certain he meets our needs.”

“Good.” the Father said, “Now - shall we tell the others?”

“Oh, certainly.” the Broker said with a bright smile, “Now, come along.”

Medkit stood up.

He was a passenger in his own body now. The Broker had the strings, and he could make him dance whatever dance he wanted him to do. And now that dance was to follow the flowing trail of the Father and Broker - who practically skipped his way out of the room - though those cold, calculating eyes turned to fix on him.

Medkit’s gaze was locked ahead, his march was rictus and jerky, as every muscle in his body was locked to run, to turn and bolt. But he couldn’t, all he could do was fight back the building tears behind his eye, the boiling bubbling terror that filled his being and that desperate need to fall away, to return to that oblivion of whitish grey.

But he couldn't, he just couldn’t.

A ceremony was called. He could feel the new eyes on him as they shuffled into the grand hall, hear the whispers settle among them. 

Secrets were not kept for long here.

They spread like a wildfire.

Like a sickness.

At least three people here had the taste of rot on their tongues, and walked these halls. The spores and bacteria would work their way through his hooves, sink into his soft flesh, and find the mycelium that made up his no doubt already rotten core and finally overpower the brave attempt his immune system had made against this whole thing.

A tear he couldn’t hold back slithered down his cheek, soaking into his mask as he stared down at the ground.

“Greetings all.” the Father said, flicking out his tail to reveal the rows and rows of eyes that sat nestled in the feathers, “I have called you here today to announce the ascendance of yet another of our number. Another key piece to our puzzle that is a world of fear. You all know Medkit?”

A rush of whispers, rumours, secrets he’d been foolish enough to share.

“He is soon to rise to the ranks of the Lonely.” then that gaze slid onto Medkit, in all its vicious, gleeful hunger, “And can you tell us about that, Medkit?”

He tried to fight the words, but they burst out of his chest, ran unbidden from his jaws and filled the space with such great weight and meaning that he wanted to sob. And the tears rushed from his cheeks, catching in the fur there, but soon soaking to skin, and those that weren’t soaked up by his mask dripped from the sides of his jaw and landed with a splash against the marble.

He told them about Subspace. About Sword. About the Silent End and the Chasing Justice, and his visit to the archives, about what drew him to the Lonely, about everything. It all came pouring out, and he could do nothing to stop it. He wanted to claw at his throat, to dig deep into his flesh and tear out his own larynx, so that he may never speak again. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything but gut himself to a stadium of hungry wolves. Wolves who lapped it all up.

When he finished, the hold on him was released, and he staggered back, mist rushing around him. He needed to fall back, but the Broker’s words cut through that pleasant cold like a knife.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

No.

No please.

Please.

He didn’t want it.

He couldn’t get it.

That would mean he couldn’t leave.

He needed to leave.

The wolves had already surged from the stands, and their jaws seized around his flesh, as he was pulled by the wrist from where he’d fallen back.

His hooves slipped and tripped on the stairs as he was dragged down. He could control himself now, yes, he just couldn’t fade out, he couldn’t escape. He was boxed in, trapped, choked.

Four people held his arm down, rolled back his sleeve, peeled back the gauze that protected the delicate surface of old burn scars, exposed his rotten, diseased flesh to open air for the first time in days. And one person brought out the ink and needles.

Please.

Please not this.

He didn’t want this.

He needed to get out to escape, but with so many eyes on him, so many bodies pressing in - it was impossible to be alone. To be forsaken.

Someone loosely sketched out the design on his flesh.

How many people had that pen touched? How many bacteria, and spores, and what have you had just been transferred onto his skin, skin that was just about to be left as an open wound? He tried to struggle away, but the weight on his upper arm and wrist made that impossible.

It was then that the needle touched flesh, and his entire body stiffened. The pain bolted down every nerve, bringing with it the innate possibility of hundreds of types and strains of infection. It sank black ink and rot into his very being, the magenta roots strived towards it, his skin peeled away in great, rotting clumps of flesh to reveal what he had always been, what he always would be - horrendous and rotten to his core. Finally, the weight receded and he slid to the earth, arm still raw in front of him.

An eye stared from his skin, a forever, cutting mark that burrowed into his flesh and looked back to him. He was a part of this now. A fly in a web - bloated with corteseps that he deluded himself into thinking were never a part of him and where something else, something other.

He had to get it out.

The fog brought brief reprieve, it was cold and it was clean, and he was the infected thing that staggered, heavy and bloated through the halls, bringing the taint of disease into the only place that was clean.

He fell into the room, its floors slick with water, and he slammed into the sink.

Get it out.

His fingers shook as they twisted on the faucet. The old liquid clung to his hands, bringing with it sticky untold thousands of bacteria and his fingers lashed along his coat, scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing just trying to get it off - get it off before his skin peeled away to the bone with the horrific rankness of that which waited in the water.

Get it out.

His arm burnt. It burnt with the heat of a fever. The heat of that hand, that room, that sticky mycelium root.

Get it out.

The soap was familiar and cleansing. It slid in his fingers, slick with bubbles and solution designed to kill, and he placed it on his skin. The inclusion of this foreign cleanser made it burn all the more. His skin was bitter and infected and it was being destroyed by that meant to clean. As it should be.

Get it out.

His fingernails dug into the soft surface of the bar, crescents of red material slithering under them.

Get it out

The wound burnt, but he couldn’t stop - not now, not now.

Get it out

His hand burnt.

Get it out

His skin puckered and wrinkled. Bubbles slid through the fur of his arm, a consistent white froth.

Get it out

Get it out

Get it out

GET IT OUT

GET IT OUT

GET IT OUT

GET

IT

OUT

The bar clattered from his fingers, falling away over the tile. His arm was raw, bleeding, and that eye still stared, bloody in its black line work, leering up into him and peeling back his flesh and baring all that was horrible and rotten.

He screamed. The sound finally ripped itself unburdened and horrible from his throat. It echoed in that space, rebounding back to him, amplifying the crushing swell of everything a hundred fold.

He saw his face in mirror warp, a smile of bared teeth, an eye that flashed, skin that dripped away - his exact copy.

His back slammed into the floor and he howled, the entire weight of his life falling out between his teeth in a horrendous, rotten surge of uninterrupted vowel. His fingers lashed his face, his legs struck the air aimlessly, he howled to everything and nothing. But it didn’t help. It made it worse.

Only fitting.

An animal does not get reprieve from its own savagery.

And an animal he was, writhing on the floor, teeth gnashing as he howled to the god that now existed in his very skin to watch him from the inside out. Perhaps he should go through with removing his tongue, his teeth, his lips, his throat. Remove all that could speak so that no soul ever heard him again. That he did not bother anyone with his pointless, useless moaning.

He did eventually run dry. The howl trailed off into a horrific, choked end, strangled by the weight of the fungus in his throat. He still sobbed, silent, horrible sobs that jerked his chest and shoulders and made his throat burn with bile.

He was alone here. Nobody would hear his screams, his cries. He would lie here until he scraped himself together, stared his rotten face in the mirror and accepted that he was just like him, no matter how hard he tried to fight it. But the fog was nice. The fog was clean.

Somebody stepped into it.

She crouched down, and set down a cup, pushing it towards him with glinting, familiar talons.

“Come on, get this in ya.” her voice was unusually soft, and Medkit uncoiled his fingers, shaking to reach the glass, then tugging back. It would be covered in all sorts of infection. And what poisons would she feed him.

“It’s clean.” she said, “Made sure of that. My hands are clean, and the cup’s clean, and the water’s clean. So drink.”

He took the cup cautiously and slowly sipped it. Eventually he crawled into a more upright position, swallowing down the ice cold contents so that it settled slowly in his stomach, that icy certainty that sat little at ease with how knotted it was.

“Better?” Scythe asked, shifting to sit cross legged.

Medkit had no answer. His throat was raw and his teeth ached. He wanted to throw up, to unearth the infection and show to her that he wasn’t clean. He didn’t deserve this sympathy.

“Wasn’t my plan yer know. I wanted to wait just a lil’ longer.” Scythe added, looking over to him, “...Yer gave somethin’ to the Archivist then, did’ya.”

Medkit nodded. There was no point in lying to the boss.

“Ah, been thinkin’ about doin’ that myself ya know? Would be lovely. Tell her about the plans.”

Medkit shifted, sitting up fully and staring into the dull reflection of the water. It was him, face streaked with tears and rubbed raw, but it was him. Not- not that.

“Look.” Scythe said, looking over to Medkit, and there it was, that unusual sympathy, “Ya take as long as yer need. Yer part of my pack, and I need my healer in top nick - look what yer’ve done to yerself.” she held her hand out, as if to take his chin, but pulled back, “Say, I can see what I can make for ya, if that helps. But for now. In date and seal unbroken - here.”

She dropped a small square of mint chocolate into his palm, then stood up, and walked out, leaving Medkit alone on the wet bathroom floor. He stared at this small gift, this undue kindness, then closed his fist around the small square and fell over.

The fog rolled into that room.

He was alone.

Where he belonged.

Where he deserved to be.

Chapter Text

It had been a clear, fresh night, the kind where they would go to sit on the edge of the cliff to the north and look out to the construction in the south. The sounds sometimes drifted to them from downwind, but then the wind had been at their backs, ruffling the feathers on Sisyphus’ back as he preened. The air had been fresh and clean, and it had been a pleasant temperature, maybe around ten degrees if Ghosdeeri had to guess. This memory was from the seventh of July, 2800 AR, starting at roughly 21:02. This was the same year they had their quiet birthday, where even Ghostwalker had reluctantly dragged himself along with the festivities.

But back to the cliff.

She’d been apprehensive, watching the lights that sparkled in the distance as Inphernals worked late into the night, building the new grounds for what would later become the thriving city of Crossroads. It had been about seven or eight miles away from where they were sitting, but it seemed a universe removed from them at that moment. One of the last of the old gods, and the newest of the corpse roots’ victims, watching from so very far away.

He’d dressed loosely that night. He’d done that a lot in his later years. His hair hadn’t been tucked into his collar, so it draped around his shoulders in a dark curtain, and he’d worn a khaki green button-up instead of his usual uniform. Even then the button’s had been done a little messily. None of his earlier array of jewellery had been on display, except the gleaming silver of his vertical labret, resting between the hooked green of his fangs.

Ghosdeeri at the time had always thought that his lack of effort was just him getting comfortable with her, with being closer to her - something like that. In hindsight it was probably the first sign of his eventual decline. Why bother looking nice when you may end up becoming a monster anyways?

Ghosdeeri had missed the time when he did put some effort in. When Ghostwalker was off on business, and Venomshank would bring out the record player - funny to think that was new then - and they would listen to his favourite bands together, while he braided her hair, or they did outlandish makeup together, or curated outfits. Before the despair fell on his shoulders quite as heavily. Before he found the maggots in his soldiers, before he vanished for two days and came back sobbing, before the icy certainty fell around him, and Atlas gave up his struggle.

That night, on that cliff, at that time, she’d kicked her feet out over the empty air, staring down the 85.9 metres to the bottom. She, like many times before, had wondered what it would feel like to jump. To tumble to the bottom and fall to the ground in a shattered heap. She would see that eighty-one years, two months and six days from that day, but here her thoughts were innocent - if a little morbid.

“What’s on your mind little dove?” his voice had been soft, as it so often was. Ghosdeeri had always liked that nickname. She had always worn white.

She’d shrugged, looking over to the sparkling lights, then looked over to her father.

“You?”

She hadn’t yet grasped compulsion, and she never noticed the flicker of something sorrowful in his eyes until she turned the memory over and over in her hands, running it smooth and clear like a hundred other memories of the same kind. So his answer had been cloaked in deception. But not the vicious kind.

“Not much either.” he’d paused then, looking out the way she’d been looking, before sighing.

“How far do you think they’ll end up going?”

“Don’t know.” she had said, sitting back, “Whole island if it gets crowded enough.”

“Maybe so.” he’d laughed quietly, before his face fell into something more thoughtful, “Firebrand would have loved this.”

She’d lifted her head then. She had always loved hearing the tales about her father’s family, what they’d been like. She felt she had to preserve that for him. So that memory wouldn’t go to waste.

“You think so?”

He’d nodded sadly.

“This kind of thing? A way to bring Inphernals of all factions together, safe from their individual conflicts and struggles...” he’d trailed off, before laughing, “I wouldn’t put it past him to do it himself.”

She’d nodded thoughtfully in return.

A connective tissue. A warm soul. That’s what Firebrand had always been. That’s what Venomshank had always described him as, the one he’d always softly lamented the most, for not knowing him longer.

Ghosdeeri crushed the charred flower petals in her hand.

The city had taken thirty years to swell to fill the island. And almost thirty more to become what it was today. But Firebrand’s estate remained, unbothered by the rising clutter around it.

Ghosdeeri’s gaze slid between the branches of the tree, to the tower in the centre of the city. The cliff was gone. Had been for centuries.

Most of her childhood was gone. Crushed under cement and brickwork. She didn’t mind it.

Most of the time.

Her talons dug around the blackened lotus flower, and she crumbled it away into dust and petals.

She still had the memory of its beauty. Not just the pain.

She could still remember the pain.