Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The commander can’t say he feels very at home in the Wizard’s Tower. For all of the (surprising number of) familiar faces he passes by when he comes-and-goes, clearing out rifts from Amnytas and Skywatch or helping the Ward with tests or experiments into demons trying to possess baby skyscales, he can’t feel comfortable around them.

It is a world so close to his own, and while it has everything to do with the Tyria he was born in and loves with all his heart, it is… very much not part of his Tyria, at the same time. It feels like an aberration, like one day he’ll wake up and the tower will be back in Garenhoff and this concept of Wizards and kryptis will all just be a strange dream from drinking too much with Braham and Rytlock.

But he wakes up again one day, and knows it's far too early because when he looks out of his room high up in the tower he can barely see the sun rising from the sea of clouds beneath them. He sighs and accepts that he, once again, has to face the reality that the past few weeks have in fact happened.

Honestly, he just wants to go home. Even with those on the Ward that have come to be like friends to him, a pang of loneliness trails after him day-in, day-out. He misses his friends back home, misses being able to actually talk to them and hang out and, by the Pale Mother, at this point he’d happily listen to Gorrik’s several hour lectures on obscure insects—diagrams and all. He misses the normalcy, as brief as it had been between the raw, uncomfortable revelation to his allies that he needed serious help to deal with the past decade of guilt and misery, and literally being whisked away by a giant, disturbed demon into an entire realm of them.

And, yes, Isgarren isn’t exactly holding him prisoner here (just a few thinly-veiled threats here and there that, for now, he shouldn’t mention a single word about Wizards or kryptis or the Ward in general to anyone), but it’s not like he can just waltz back home as if nothing happened, either. Besides, he has no idea when Peitha will need him, and the last thing he needs is to start talking to himself in public back at the Grove.

He doesn’t need people thinking there’s more voices living in his head—be they grandfathers, grand-Jormags, or not-related-but-still-ominous kryptis—even if there are.

 He debates for a moment whether he should just close his eyes again, savour the unfathomably soft bedding and try to sleep more… but his mind is already whirring and springing question after question at him.

So he relents. He swings his legs over the side of his almost absurdly large bed (Wizards seem quite fond of their lavish quarters, he’s surmised) and yawns. He clumsily reaches around for his boots, asserting his particular privilege as a sylvari by not needing to undress for sleep—he doesn’t really get cold, just likes to curl up on top of the blankets—as he slides them onto his still-clothed legs.

As he gets up to head to the door, he pauses for a moment. He looks over at the side-table by his bed, and hesitates. Eventually he decides anyway to reach out and take his scarf from where it lay in a jumbled mess atop the table, wrapping it around his neck. It blankets his shoulders comfortably, and the delicate weight makes him a bit more at ease.

He steps out into the vast hallways of the tower, taking a deep lungful of the crisp, morning air. In the distance wafts some sort of sweet smell, and he pauses to contemplate whether it’s due to a chef experimenting, or an alchemist. There is a moment when he is reminded of one of the first times he truly sat down and spent time with Zizel, accidentally drinking one of the hylek’s concoctions. It turned out not to be some kind of coffee, but did turn out to be some kind of high-grade kryptis poison. With a shudder, he decides to put the thought out of his mind. Damned Astral Ward and their odd, deliciously fragrant, toxic substances.

(And this is from the man who rather prided himself in his ability to stomach down the most rancid and random things he could find. The toxic hog was sure something else, but still nowhere near as bad as that kryptis poison...)

When his gut starts making rather displeased noises at the mere memories, he tries to distract it—for as much as one can distract part of their organic structure—by admiring the stunningly white marble floors and pillars and the ornate, golden trim of the lattices and structures around him. Pauses to look at a rather spindly but healthy looking tree planted near the bottom of a set of stairs. It blossoms with the sparsest, tinies of flowers.

For as much as he feels out-of-place in such an orderly and fine building—he’s always been more rough, hands-on and messy—he admits to himself how beautiful it is. Can think of a number of his friends who would love to see such a place with their own eyes—and if Isgarren’s contemplations turn out to be fruitful, they may just have that chance.

He amuses himself with the thought of Taimi dropping everything back in Cantha like a hot potato to rush here and never sleep again, feasting on the sheer amount of everything the Ward has to offer like some kind of… knowledge kryptis, or something.

A man like him may not fit in here, but hey, he could be a gateway for other people to experience those things instead.

The sound of his footsteps are almost uncomfortably loud as he resumes his walk, the absence of the day’s typical bustle leaving an awkward opening for every sound he makes to bounce off the high walls, deafening, with all-too-much clarity.

And too entranced by the sound emanating from his own feet, he is caught off guard when he turns a corner and meets (rather painfully) face-to-chest with another early-morning wanderer.

“Ah, damnit, I’m sorry—” Hands cupped over his nose, he looks up and the words abruptly die in his throat.

Looking back at him is a face burned into his mind. A face he sees when he returns home to the Grove on occasion. When he closes his eyes and reminisces to when he was young, innocent, and bright-eyed instead of whatever it is he’s become now. A face that has made its appearance in every nightmare that wakes him into tears and an emptiness clawing at the gaping void in his chest.

It’s been eight years, eight long, unbearable years, but not even a single detail of that face has changed.

“Isgarren!” The commander slams his hands down on the man’s desk with all the strength he can muster. Early hours be damned, he is pissed. He is possibly more angry than he has ever been in his life, and he has been grievously insulted, shot, and murdered. Nausea already pushes up at his throat, sweat on his brow as he holds it down with effort.

“Wayfinder.” The seer responds with his typical neutral, detached timbre. All four of his arms are crossed over each other, and he looks with narrowed eyes and a very noticeable sense of displeasure over Kaushue's back to the man standing far from them both.

“How could you keep this a secret from me?!” Kaushue hisses, hands trembling where he’s balled them into fists, still atop the desk. “You should know damn well how important—”

“It wasn’t important.” The man cuts him off, one hand raised. “The kryptis threat is important, not—”

“Telling me that my husband was here, in your damn ranks, this whole time?!” The commander bellows, storming directly up to the seer. He is hardly tall enough to seem like a threat, but he holds himself with all the ferocity of the dragons he descended from.

Isgarren is hardly intimidated. He has lived countless lives longer than the man below him, has faced far more terrifying and dangerous creatures—Eparch still lives, after all—and yet the sylvari expects him to be unsettled because of a tantrum. It is like a mouse nipping at his heel.

While Isgarren has adjusted, somewhat, to the man's presence, he is sorely offput by such an uncouth and frantic display. He made his choice logically, and it is something that the Wayfinder often forgets to process. He raises one arm, pointing to the man standing in the back of the room, silent throughout the whole thing. “Think clearly, Wayfinder. The man in the room with us is not even the one your emotions are crying for.” He says calmly. “And you should know that; you were there with him when it happened. Were you not?”

The memory is like a punch to the gut for the commander. “I…” All of Kaushue’s bravado and anger flows out of him in a horrible, stomach-twisting rush.

Isgarren is right.

He was so worked up in simply seeing him again that… he didn’t really stop to think. The sight of those golden eyes widening as they realised just who it was he was looking at back in that hallway. The familiarity of those leaves falling across his brow. The quirk of those beautiful lips as they pulled into a smile so apprehensive yet full of such genuine relief. Just seeing Trahearne, standing there looking every bit the way he did all those years ago...

It overtook everything else. The memory of how he had stood there in the Heart of Thorns, broken blade in hand, and collapsed under himself as the sobs tore themselves from his throat. As the flecks of stray magic fell around them like a light snowfall. All that was left of the other half of his heart.

He was just so… happy, so overwhelmed to see him again that he managed to forget for the briefest time that Trahearne had died all those years ago. That he had killed him.

“Comma—Wayfinder.” Trahearne says, and his voice is everything Kaushue remembers it was. Soft, soothing, beautiful.

Kaushue looks back at him, and the more he looks, the more his brain struggles to reconcile everything. Trahearne is there, but he doesn’t look right when he’s wearing the heavy, thick robes like the rest of the Astral Ward. Trahearne is there, but it’s not right, because…

“You died.” He whispers weakly, snappiness and bite completely gone. A shaky hand raises up, fingers tightening in his hair as he covers his own face.

He’s thrown back to where he was all those years ago. A place he never fully came back from.

“I advised you to keep to your rooms while the Wayfinder was in our company, solely for this reason.” Isgarren sighs, shaking his head at the elder of the two sylvari. “This sort of distraction is sorely unwelcome.”

“I’m sorry.” Trahearne says, voice softer, guilt heavily latching onto every word. “I wasn’t expecting the… Wayfinder, to be awake so early. I had business I needed to attend to.”

“Apologies won’t undo the harm done. Unfortunately, there is no rectifying this mess in ways that wouldn't further damage the fragile mind of our Wayfinder, so I advise you two to excuse yourselves from my presence and discuss the… details of your situation alone.”

Kaushue looks up at him with tired eyes, opens his mouth to speak, but Isgarren only shakes his head.

“I do not take your assistance for granted, but I care little for your personal relations, Wayfinder. What matters to me is that we can handle the situation the kryptis have put us in. You must deal with your angst on your own time. As must we all.”

The seer turns his back on the two, offering no further room for discussion.

Shoulders slumped, the commander backtracks his way out of Isgarren’s quarters, Trahearne following behind him swiftly. The door shuts against their backs as they cross the threshold, and then all there is is the distant sounds of the Ward as they wake and begin tending to their duties.

The silence between the two is stifling. Thick and heavy, like a stormcloud hanging over both their heads.

Trahearne shuffles awkwardly on his feet for a moment. “Commander—” He reaches out for the smaller sylvari, but his hand meets Kaushue’s forearm, raised high.

“Please… don’t.” The commander’s voice is barely audible. His eyes are fixed on the floor, unfocused. “You aren’t him. Please, don’t pretend to be him. Don't call me that.”

He doesn’t look up to see the hurt in the other man’s eyes. He doesn’t have to.

He doesn’t want to hear it. The excuses, the explanations. He genuinely thinks that if he were to hear Trahearne’s voice again right now whatever is left of him would shatter. If he were to hear… No. No, he doesn’t want to even think about it.

“I. I have to go.” He says instead, shrugging the man away. Fingers tug at his scarf, trying to hide himself more under it. Trying to hide from the man with his other half’s face and voice but just—isn’t—him. Could never be him.

His footsteps are fast and light as he runs back down the corridor, unsure of where he even wants to go. Maybe his room is this way. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe he could run to the portal out, find himself in Lion’s Arch—could run away and maybe the Ward and the Wizards won’t find him and continue to haunt him with spectres of a life that he lost a long time ago.

It's where he ultimately decides to take himself, but as he stands there—mere inches away from the Tyria he knows and loves, from being able to go back to normalcy and his friends and away from this living hell—

‘Such a rancid taste, Wayfinder. Misery does not well suit you.’

That’s right. He could leave. Maybe he could hide from Isgarren and the others for the rest of his life. But he can’t hide from her. From everything he has promised.

There is no point even trying to hide from her what she can clearly sense rolling off him in waves. His eyes burn, grow wet as the portal in front of him warps into a blurred mess of colour. He rubs at his eyes with his sleeve, unsure if he wants to wipe the tears away or just hide them and pretend he's fine like he's gotten so used to.

But still, when he goes to answer his intrusive visitor, Peitha's name pulls from him with a weak, dry sob.

Chapter Text

Kaushue looks up to the ceiling of his room unblinking. Much like he has done for the past several days. The only time he’s allowed himself to do anything else was to sleep and let himself be haunted by nightmares, or eat the meals left at the door to his room by some unknown stranger.

Although given the little scrawly notes with ‘commander’ on them, he assumes R’tchikk. Bless her skrittish heart.

The notion of his friend’s thoughtfulness however prompts him to look over at the steadily accumulating pile of ceramic and silverware sitting on a desk by the door. A heavy sigh drags out of him, as weary and exhausted as he feels. He can’t bring himself to leave his room, even for something as simple as returning the dishes to where they belong. Too scared to run into the phantasm of the man he loved. Too scared to run into anyone else who’ll question him on why he seems so shaken and suddenly empty. Why he doesn’t seem like the vaunted hero of Tyria anymore.

Peitha’s voice accompanies him in his mind from time-to-time, offering helpful commentary on how foul his stewing emotions smell and taste. Other times she briefs him about the goings-on in Nayos, but it's never much. The kryptis aren’t ready, and honestly, neither is he.

Isgarren hasn’t crossed his path since, a fact that Kaushue is quite glad about. He isn’t sure he could handle seeing him right now without wanting to do something that would at best get him banished from the Tower, and at worst end up with him returning to the Domain of the Lost.

And Trahearne…

Honestly, he’s done his very best to avoid thinking about him. Every time his mind wandered back to the other man, the memories would flash past his eyes in a horrific display. Bile would rise in his throat at the image of Trahearne, the love of his life, standing there in the Wizard’s Tower like Kaushue hadn’t killed him all that time ago and left a gaping, jagged void in his own heart. He doesn’t know how Trahearne is able to be here. Maybe some kind of twisted joke? His mind rushes to rationalise to itself that the man he ran into was likely a product of the fractals, displaced into their reality like the others.

But that doesn’t feel right, either.

He rolls himself off the bed, rubbing at his weary face. He knows he looks like a mess, but hardly cares. And while continuing to mope with his unprecedented dilemma alone is quite the enjoyable experience, he relents to the fact that he needs someone to talk to.

Preferably someone not a Wizard, and someone not involved with one.

He’s sure he can sneak down to the portal back home without being seen—after all, he’s out-stealthed the Astral Ward before, who is to stop him from doing it again? Nobody. He’s a Whispers man, and he’ll damn well live up to it.

Just as he goes to reach out for the handle to his door, a knock comes from the other side. He freezes. Sap freezes in his vines.

“Commander…?”

It’s Trahearne.

This cannot be happening. The man had been avoiding Kaushue as much as Kaushue had been avoiding him. So why now, of all moments, did he have to come here?

“I’m sleeping.” He blurts out.

There is a pause of silence, and the commander can’t help but cringe as he pictures the puzzled, dumbfounded look on the other man’s face.

“I would like to talk to you. I think it’s important you understand what’s going on.” Trahearne says after a moment. “That is, if you’re not…sleeping.”

Kaushue wants to say no. Wants to turn the man away, tell him that he never wants to see him again… but even if it is true, he’d be telling as much of a lie if he said it. So instead, he opens the door just a crack, and looks up. Sees that face. Feels his heart clench painfully. The sick feeling rises up again, but he forces himself to open the door wider and let the man step in.

The sound of it as it closes again is deafening.

“Do you, uh…” he gestures around before realising he has nothing to offer his guest besides some scraps of bones on one of his plates. “Never mind. Take a seat, um… Trahearne.”

He’s not sure how to get used to addressing that name again. Or if he ever will.

Trahearne only nods, taking a seat on the edge of the commander’s bed, nudging the rumpled sheets out of the way. The sight makes Kaushue’s heart skip a beat—he misses sharing a bed with Trahearne. Misses waking up next to him.

“Well, I’ll try not to drag this out too long. You’ve made your disapproval of me clear.” The elder sylvari says, voice even and steady even if his eyes betray his melancholy. “It’s as Isgarren said, I’m not… your Trahearne.”

Kaushue runs a hand through his leaves. “Yeah, you’re from… one of the fractals, right? Some maybe-scenario of yourself.”

To his surprise, Trahearne shakes his head firmly. His love’s doppleganger captures his eyes, and it feels every bit as real and genuine as it had all that time ago with his Trahearne.

“Commander, do you remember why Zojja is here?” He asks softly.

He pauses. Zojja. Led here by everything she could never overcome after... He takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes to think back to that horrific day in the jungle. All of those clones. The screaming. The begging. Things he can still hear in nightmares on his darkest evenings. But then he is pulled back further. Memories land on Aurene, still in her egg, and how he put her down on that little pedestal in Tarir for her to show him—

His eyes snap open and his face falls.

Everything right, but everything wrong. And now it makes sense.

“You’re a clone.”

It was a possibility he’d brushed off a long time ago. They’d seen what happened to Logan. To Zojja. There were whispers, rumours, hearsay. But they’d never seen… never came across…

“Yes.” Trahearne looks down at his hands, folded together on his lap. “And I’m the only one that survived. The others… whether it was the terrain, the wildlife, or maybe even Pact soldiers… I only found their remains.”

“Then what, what are you doing here?” Kaushue asks, because his mind is spinning and he doesn’t want to think about one dead Trahearne, let alone several.

“It was Mabon who found me.”

The charr sighed to himself as he turned over another body, as ravaged and horrific as the others. But as with all the others, he still took a moment to cover the remains with nearby foliage, unable to simply leave them exposed. A matter of respect, really.

"It seems like none survived.”  He murmured to himself, shrugging in a defeated motion. Despite his own disappointment, he supposed the results were at least in-line with what Isgarren expected the outcome to be. Mabon was sure he’d get an earful and a lecture when he returned to the tower about wasting time on frivolous ventures like this. Even if to Mabon himself such frivolities were as serious as any duty under his wing.

He turned to leave, to whisk himself away back to the Tower and report his (lack of) findings, when movement caught his eye.

Cautiously, he approached a curtain of delicate, thin vines, covering something—or possibly someone. He pulled it back, slowly, slowly. And it revealed what appeared to be a hollow of sorts, the vines and an overhead growth of moss and stone covering it from sight. But more remarkably, within that hollow was a sylvari. One he knew the face of far too well. He’d watched this one since they first realised the Pale Tree had begun producing fruits of her own; and just as surprised as any to discover said fruits were their own little race of beings.

Mabon, especially, had taken to the strange, plant-like beings. And that’s why he was here in the depths of the Maguuma Jungle. Or at least, partially why.

Mordremoth had fallen weeks prior, the news still passing through the halls of the Tower in frequent. He had taken it upon himself to find those sylvari who could not re-acclimatise to their past lives, to offer them shelter and a new home amongst all of those in the Ward who had nowhere to go and no-one to understand them. He had seen the damage the Jungle Dragon had brought even upon the sylvari in the Ward's care; the screaming and tears and the way some were still unable to return to duty. Perhaps would never be fit for it again. He could not imagine allowing ones hurt so deeply wander aimlessly and alone in a world that had come to reject them.

So of course, when he caught wind that the sylvari’s firstborn, the very first of them all, had possibly been sighted in the very deepest part of the jungle… he couldn’t very well pass up the opportunity to investigate. The man had died, after all.

He disguised his argument to Isgarren that he was seeking an anomaly; that it would cause severe distress for the people of Tyria, were the man to somehow still be alive and sighted. And when Isgarren reminded him, once more, that personal matters and the smaller scale strifes and worries of the people below were not to overtake the big picture, their duties and responsibilities to Tyria as a whole and not in fragments… well, he argued his way out of that too.

‘If he is still alive, the sylvari’s firstborn could prove to be an invaluable asset to the Astral Ward.’

Whether it was that Isgarren was convinced, or the man was simply too exhausted to argue further with him (knowing that Mabon, despite it all, despite his beginnings, still carried sentimentalities and attachments to things he should not), he allowed Mabon’s leave.

So there he was, miles deep into the Maguuma Jungle, having come face-to-face with the many discarded corpses that all looked like the firstborn, even if it was hard to tell through lingering corruption. And finally found one that still breathed. One that looked up at him in terror, confusion and daze in his poisoned eyes as he shrunk deeper into the hollow, away from him.

Mabon knew by now what he was—knew the moment he had found the first one of them—that he had come from a mordrem pod, and was not the person he’d been suspected to be.

But he still reached his paw out, offering it to the terrified sylvari. His time overseeing work on the fractals had taught him much about what made something ‘real’. That even the copies made from those alternate possibilities were beings of their own making, too. And the being in front of him was very much the same. Real. Alive.

Trahearne, for that’s what he was with all technicalities aside, may have no longer belonged within Tyria. But he would have a place with the Astral Ward.

Mabon would see to it.

“He was a good man.” Kaushue says, voice soft.

While he thinks everyone in the Court and the Ward are good people—even if his morals simply can’t accept Isgarren’s stances—he thought it was the most true of Mabon. He had spent many an hour with the denizens of the Tower, trying to accustom himself to their world, merely listening in on the stories they would have of the Mursaat. Tales of downplayed heroism and empathy that would make any sylvari of the Dream proud. It makes him wish with the slightest envy that there had been someone to guide him when his place in the world became so vague and hazy.

“He was.” Trahearne agrees, looking back up at him. “He never failed to remind me that it didn’t matter what I was, I deserved a place in this world.”

A silence falls over them after that, but at least it isn't uncomfortable. Doesn't make the commander want to claw at his own bark in an attempt to deal with the flurry of emotion running through him. Realising however that he can't avoid the man's gaze for the rest of his time here, he tentatively looks up. His first real look of the man, no trying to avoid his face in fear of the shadow of memories that hurt to revisit. It hurts when he notes that everything really is exactly the same as it once was. He wants to stride over, cup the ridges of his cheeks and kiss him.

But he doesn’t. He can’t.

“You’re just like him.” He ends up saying with a voice strained with desperation. “But… you’re just not…”

“I have his face. His voice. His memories.” Trahearne takes a shaky inhale. “But whoever he could have been, and who I am now, those aren’t the same. They never would have been. So I understand.”

“His memories?” Honestly, he should have suspected it. The way the man struggled to call him ‘Wayfinder’ when to him Kaushue had always been his ‘Commander’ was enough of a tell. But still, hearing it…

“Yes. I can remember the moment my Wyld Hunt finally came to its end. How overwhelming freedom was; a calm in my heart at long last. How you stood beside me, how you smiled at me and let me rest on you in my exhaustion. The pure, crisp scent of the Artesian Waters.”

That’s where they fell in love.

“I can remember the cheers and laughter from Fort Trinity, watching Orr in the distance while the sun set. Relishing at last in its freedom from Zhaitan. I remember you coming up to me, pulling me along and scolding me with a smile on how I should learn to relax too.”

That’s where they shared their first kiss. Where they took each other’s hands and stepped back into the fort not as the marshal and the commander, but as two halves of a whole.

“I can remember the way you cried in the Grove on that most beautiful of days. I cried too. I remember the efforts Aife and Kahedins went to to make sure there were no interruptions. It was so quiet, so peaceful, the fireflies dancing around the pond while we stood there, side by side…”

That’s where they married. Where they finally had their chance to push aside responsibility and everything that wasn’t them. He had many happy days with Trahearne, but that one was probably the happiest he had ever been in his entire life.

“But I don’t remember… when it all ended.”

The smile that had been slowly creeping onto the commander’s lips fell.

“Mordremoth… made me before that, and from there the memories between he and I diverge. I can claim to be everything your Trahearne was, but… that moment between you two isn’t something I ever experienced. I’ll never truly understand it, no matter how much I may want to.”

Trahearne stands and takes a tentative step towards the commander. When the man shows no desire to put distance between them, he strides forward until they’re so close he can practically feel Kaushue’s breath against him. But there is still space, room for the commander to escape to if he needs it. If he wants it.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you, ever since Mabon brought me here, and I learned to cope with my new reality.” Trahearne admits, gently gripping the commander’s shoulders. “He had so much more to worry about, and it was selfish of me, but I constantly asked him to update me whenever he heard anything about you.”

Kaushue looks up, breath hitching. Trahearne is looking at him with such devotion, such familiar love and affection. And such pain. His voice fails him.

“I wanted to be there. And I—I couldn’t be.” Trahearne’s eyes shut, cheeks wet. “I’m so sorry.”

The commander has no words for him. Instead, his shaky hands reach up to cup Trahearne’s cheeks, pulling him down into a kiss. He hopes the man doesn’t realise just how wet his cheeks are, too.

For all of his arguments and self-justification on why he can’t do this, he doesn’t spare his trepidations a second thought. For years it had plagued his heart; how he would give anything to kiss Trahearne, to be with him just one last time. So he takes his chance and leaves the regret and confused feelings to be an afterthought.

Trahearne matches his passion—his desperation—as he wraps his arms tight around the commander, pulling him closer. Like he can’t bear to let him go. And he can’t. Their kiss is salty, messy, and then Trahearne parts from him to let the commander sob freely, all hiccups and mess, before they pull each other in again.

It won’t make up for eight years of yearning and heartache, but it is infinitely better than nothing.

But they have to part eventually, and when they do, the commander buries his head against Trahearne’s chest. “I’m sorry,” he says, still shaky and tearful.

“Why are you apologising?” Trahearne asks, stroking his back in comforting circles.

“For kissing you like that.” Kaushue takes a deep breath and grips tightly onto Trahearne’s robes for stability. “I faltered. I just… I need time.”

The elder sylvari pulls back to tilt Kaushue’s head up. It’s a conversation best had face-to-face rather than chest-to-face, he thinks. “I understand. I didn’t come here to force you into anything. I just needed you to know why this was happening.”

“…Thank you.”

“So take your time. And if at the end of it you realise that you'll never see me in the same light, I’ll respect that.” It’s as hard for him to say as it likely is for the commander to believe.

It might have been manageable to deal with his constant yearnings when the commander was so far from his reach, but now… now he is right there. Every bit the same man Trahearne loved. Every bit the same man that Trahearne still loves.

And, as tough as it is to swallow, part of that love means needing to let him go, if that’s what he wants.

Chapter Text

He wakes up less with a headache and more a perpetually-lingering sense of shame, embarrassment, dread, and several other emotions probably as-of-yet undiscovered by mortals.

The commander rolls onto his back, no longer trying to smother himself in his sleep with his absurdly fluffy pillow. As he stares up at the ceiling, it’s almost like the start of every other day this week… except today he lays there with the mental image of himself weeping like a human newborn and getting far too intimate with a doppleganger of his long-dead husband.

“‘I faltered’. Thorns, you absolutely did, Kaushue. You absolute fool…” He groans to himself, covering his entire face with both hands.

It’s a half-regret. Because he doesn’t regret getting to live out a few moments of release from what is unarguably the heaviest weight lingering over his life… but by the same logic he really, really regrets putting hope into the other man’s head. His own too.

Sure, they look the same. They sound the same. And by the things said last night, this Trahearne shares their most important, beloved memories together. But is that enough? Nothing really changes the fact that this Trahearne isn’t really the one who stood by his side practically ever since he awoke.

Whatever it is they’re both doing here, they’re just running the risk of messing each other up more, aren’t they? But on the flip side, teeming with all the optimism that Kaushue himself sure doesn’t have, maybe it could turn out okay. Maybe whatever this is actually can be managed. But then again, maybe…

He sighs. It’s too complicated, and running himself in circles over maybes and what-ifs does him absolutely no good.

Maybe he really should head back to the mainlands. Not to run away, just to… get a grip. Perhaps one of his friends will have an idea, some sort of advice, as long as he…obfuscates the more confusing and very much top-secret aspects of his dilemma.

He supposes he could ask Rytlock. ‘What’s it like getting back together with your ex after a breakup?’ Except for Kaushue it was less a ‘break up’ and more a ‘traumatic mercy kill’. And he still isn’t even sure if Rytlock is actually back with Crecia or what. It’s confusing.

And considering the commander has been very noticeably single for the past eight years, it would cause a lot of uncomfortable questions. After all, he’d lost both of the men he’d ever loved. If he’d ever found someone else after that, his friends know he wouldn’t keep that to himself.

He’s too much of a hapless romantic to shut up about those kinds of feelings.

So, alright, Rytlock is a no-go, but maybe he could ask Logan. ‘What do you wanna do if you want to be with someone but there are a lot of complicated moral factors that make you unsure about it?' …but he thinks Logan probably wouldn’t like that conversation.

He’s also worried that such a line of topic would come back around to that time in Amnoon where he got particularly wasted and made out with Canach. Of course his friends weren’t going to keep that to themselves, and they’ve never stopped teasing him about it since. But for him it’s a whole can of worms he’s not interested in opening again.

So instead he mentally rifles through his other friends. Kas and Jory? Probably not the best idea to ask them about relationship troubles while they plan their own wedding. Taimi and Gorrik? Ha. The two of them are still in that ‘honeymoon phase’, or however people call it—never a good time to bring up relationship drama.

Braham?

Oh boy. Definitely not Braham. Last he checked, the kid was (finally) getting to work through all those similar years of hurt and misery. Right now would sure not be a great time to approach him with a whole slew of the commander's complex and all-too-raw struggles.

They had enough of each other's mental warfare back in Bitterfrost, and it had cost them a handful of years of friendship, so Kaushue would much rather not re-tread those footsteps. After all, Joko and his entourage aren’t around to facilitate a ‘trapped-in-nowhere-about-to-die-so-might-as-well-make-up’ scenario for them again should they get into another vicious argument.

He supposes he could try actually asking Canach himself, after all they did go on that ‘date’ a few months ago. But given everything, it’d be too awkward to discuss the commander’s love-life with him.

And thus he decides, Logan it will have to be, whether he likes it or not.

He spends much of his morning prepping everything for his visit, from making sure his wallet is well stocked to accommodate waypoint and lodging fees to getting his hammer back in shape. There have been too many kryptis heads leaving dents in the poor thing, so he opts to give it some love with a nice wipe down and sanding.

While the simple act of maintenance drags him into a trance, eventually a knock brings him back to reality. He tries to find an apt place to leave his hammer but instead just decides to dump it on his bed. He is sure that if these beds can hold norn and charr, then they can definitely deal with the weight of one measly hammer.

He is only mildly surprised to find Trahearne at his door. After all, before the man left last night he had promised to check back in on Kaushue in the morning. And just like the real Trahearne, he was apt at keeping his promises.

“I brought you breakfast,” he says with a smile, presenting a tray stacked with toast, about a dozen things to put on said toast that Kaushue is unable to quite discern, and something that smells like apple juice but he isn’t entirely sure of that either. Seems like the poison-coffee fiasco really left a number on his psyche. Nonetheless, the commander steps aside to allow Trahearne in, closing the door behind them with a soft click.

“I bumped into R’tchikk down in the kitchens.” Trahearne continues. “I think she may be a little upset at me usurping her position of food-bringer, but I’m sure it’ll be fine. It was nice to see her again.”

Trahearne puts the tray down on the small table, and then after a moment his eyes turn back to the door. Fearing that the man was about to leave as swiftly as he came, Kaushue gestures for his guest to sit. It earns him a raised brow, but even so, Trahearne seems happy to accept the unspoken invitation and sits down at the other side of the table. The commander himself is relieved that the topic is anything but last night. The sheer embarrassment leaves an uncomfortable itch on his bark, so anything to deviate away from the horrible sensation is perfect.

“I’m sure, too.” The commander says as he takes his own seat. “I don’t think that girl has a single mean bone in her body. Maybe for kryptis, but even then I’m not entirely sure.”

Trahearne lets out a loud snort of laughter, and Kaushue can feel his eyes almost pop out their sockets as they widen at the sound. Did that noise really just come from Trahearne, of all people?

“Sorry! Sorry.” Trahearne fiddles with the tray, busying himself with buttering one of the toast slices. It’s very… normal. And for the commander, that itself feels very, very strange.

Kaushue instead decides to focus on starting his breakfast too. He is single-minded as he works, but it soon falls to frustration as he struggles with trying to apply some hazelnut-smelling spread to his toast. He pauses himself, trying to squash the foolishness starting to burn his eyes, but then Trahearne is reaching over towards him. Midway through, however, a look of realisation washes over his face and his hands pause to merely hover over the commander’s.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I-I was compelled to…”

Even with the frustration eating into his mood, Kaushue can’t help but smile. Just the smallest quirk of the corners of his lips, but still a smile. Despite the years, the man’s desire to assist him seems to have remained untouched. So Kaushue raises his hands just a bit to brush against Trahearne’s.

And when he feels Trahearne’s fingers gently close over his hands, guiding him in something so simple, it feels… nice. Comfortable.

It is an amicable silence as they eat, arising fond memories of how they used to struggle awake in the morningtimes at Caer Aval, barely rested when their evenings were spent with words and plans and looks that promised something neither of them truly understood at the time. They would have their morning rations together, side by side while the sky paled from deep inky blues into the murky yellow that permeated all of Orr’s skies.

They never talked much back then, either. They didn’t really need to.

But he can see Trahearne looking at him, seemingly deliberating whether he wants to continue with his toast or say something.

“Go ahead,” Kaushue prompts, earning him a sheepish smile.

“Sorry. I guess it’s a bit… odd. Getting used to this sort of thing again. Seeing you. Talking to you.” Trahearne says, placing the toast back down onto his plate. “I suppose… hm. Well, what are your plans for today?” He looks a bit unsure of himself even as he asks it.

And he’s right to be. It is probably going to be ‘odd’ for a while, trying to acclimatise to being around each other in a normal capacity. Just seeing Trahearne opposite him, eating his breakfast and smiling and acting in all the ways that both do and don’t define him makes his bark itch. It’s all so normal when what is happening between them absolutely isn’t. His head is spinning just the slightest, although maybe the waterworks from the night before have just left him dehydrated.

For now, he can’t make heads or tails of his feelings for Trahearne, let alone in a romantic aspect… but he does wants to be friends. If things can’t work out like they used to, he wants the man to remain in his life in some capacity.

He can’t bear cutting Trahearne out of his life willingly.

He finds himself beginning to spiral, feelings forcing themselves up his throat—but to focus on the discomfort and uncertainty of ‘them’ is not why Trahearne has come to visit him, so Kaushue squashes the thoughts, intrusive as they may be. He needs for things to just be okay for a little while.

“Well, uh, I’m planning on leaving the Tower for a while,” Kaushue answers honestly, licking some stray jam from his thumb, trying to stay the tremble in his arms. “I need some perspective… and to probably quell the anger of everyone who was worried sick about me vanishing for a month or so without a trace.”

He figures Taimi already passed along the news of ‘hey, the commander isn’t dead or washed up on the shore of a foreign land again!’ to everyone else.

“I see.” Trahearne smiles at him. “Well, I can only imagine your guild must be in shambles without their leader.”

The commander tilts his head a little. “We’re not really a guild anymore. No more elder dragons, and all. We’re just people going their own ways now.” But he supposes ‘Dragon’s Watch’ is less a guild and more just the name their friendships have taken on.

After all, guilds, family, friends… they’ve all become rather interchangeable for him over the years.

Distracting himself from the impending sense of homesickness, Kaushue reaches down for another slice of toast. He is keenly aware of Trahearne’s eyes on him, and thus is determined to do it without his help this time. Yet, the intimidation is too much and he dollops a large wad of butter onto the slice and balks. Too much, entirely too much. But he doesn’t want to admit to the other man that the sheer notion of making food for himself is nerve-wracking with Trahearne watching. So he buckles up and commits to his mistake, letting his knife glide through the wad, spreading it across the unassuming slice of toast.

When he is done he can feel the weight of it, the slice practically limping. Nonetheless, he resolves himself and munches down on his soggy breakfast in faux content.

And perhaps, when Trahearne makes a sly comment on it, grin full of a rather unfamiliar mischief, all Kaushue can do in response is make a weak whine.

When it is time for him to head out, Trahearne reaches out for his hand while they walk together on the grass outside. And unable to resist himself, Kaushue reaches back, letting those long fingers fit snugly between his as they always had.

But as they step out into the more populated areas, other members of the Ward look at them in shock and surprise. When he sees the way their eyes dart between him and the man by his side, Kaushue’s heart sinks. He can’t help but wonder if everyone was in on keeping Trahearne a secret from him.

Trahearne’s hand squeezes him tight, and the commander looks up to catch his gaze. “Don’t pay it any mind.” He says with his usual comforting smile.

Yeah. He just kind of… has to, doesn’t he? Isgarren’s words ring loudly in his head, and he begrudgingly agrees that he wouldn’t have been able to focus on the kryptis and Cerus and Peitha and all of that if he’d known.

“I just don’t feel like I really fit in here, y’know.” He mumbles, moving in closer to his companion’s side. “It’s strange being a complete outsider. Strange knowing that everyone knew but me…”

“You’re right, and it’s okay to be uncomfortable about it.” Trahearne motions slightly to the other members of the Ward as they pass by, no longer paying them any mind and going back to their day-to-day business. “I didn’t fit when I first came here, but I knew nobody meant to make me feel that way. And I know they don’t mean to make you feel that way either.”

Kaushue goes to open his mouth, but then there is a certain sound of very light feet approaching them at a rapid pace.

“Least of all her.” Trahearne sighs with smile.

“Skritt is blessed on this day!” R’tchikk exclaims as she skids to a halt before them, Gladium looking (ever so mildly) embarrassed as she catches up to her diminutive friend. “The commander and Mister Marshal, side by side, in the flesh! Or, um, the bark.”

Said commander turns his head slightly, raised brow asking the question for him.

Trahearne rubs the back of his head while a purple glow washes over his cheeks. “A nickname.”

Kaushue chuckles softly at the reaction. “Well, at least I’m not the only one holding onto old titles in some fashion.”

A movement out of the corner of his eye grabs his attention, and he and Trahearne turn back to see the charr making a waving motion at them. Satisfied that they’ve noticed her, Gladium gestures towards the sylvari pair, paws swift and dexterous as they cut through the air to convey her thoughts.

“Oh, I was just escorting the commander to the Lion’s Arch connector.” Trahearne says to her, embarrassment abated. “And yes, before you ask, Isgarren is aware and the situation is for us to work through.”

Kaushue watches as the charr makes more complex moves with her paws, struggling to keep up. He can catch a few words here and there, but most go over his head. A small pang of jealousy hits him as he sees Trahearne reply with ease, but cannot exactly fathom who or what he’s feeling it for.

It is R’tchikk pulling on his pant leg that brings him out of it, diverting his attention down to the skritt. Her erratic movements seem to have calmed, looking up at he commander with the countenance of a kicked sylvan pup.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” Kaushue asks softly, just catching in his peripheral that Gladium and Trahearne have stopped their conversation to look at her too.

She lets go of his leg but the expression remains. “Commander will come back, yes?”

He lets out a sound of relief, something between a sigh and a chuckle. Aware though he is that it’s not a good way to address those shorter than him—Canach has punched him for it before—Kaushue kneels down in front of her. “Of course. I promised to help settle this kryptis business, and I will.” He takes a momentary pause, then reaches out to pet between R’tchikk’s ears. “And, well, you’re my friends.”

For as much as he feels an outcast amongst the denizens of the Tower, R’tchikk and Glade with their familiar, jovial natures have done much to give him somewhere to look to for comfort. They're a bit like home with R’tchikk’s loyalty and optimism and Glade’s welcoming, strong nature. Reminds him of old friends and eases the homesickness just a bit.

“R’tchikk is glad!” The skritt reaches up to hold his hand with her small (but not too small) clawed pair. The look she gives him is bright, back to her usual self. “Skritt has admired commander through tales and legends, but your being here is a wonderful dream!”

Gladium next to her makes a series of gestures towards Kaushue with a notable smirk on her face. He can only look at her with a somewhat befuddled expression—he doesn’t get most of the words. “Uh, sorry, I…”

She gives him a reassuring smile before tilting her head towards Trahearne who responds with his own nod back. The teasing is palpable in his tone as his lips part. “She’s probably your biggest fan in the whole world.”

“Gladium!” R’tchikk’s voice cracks, coming out as a squeak. And, oh, Pale Mother, it is adorable.

“That said, thank you for being her friend. Our friend.” Trahearne continues. “I’d hate to see the look on her face if you chose not to return. She adores you.”

When he catches the inquisitive look on Gladium’s face as she looks over at the other sylvari, he can’t help but turn his head and look too. And what he finds is a hint of shyness hiding away amongst the golden hues of his eyes.

R’tchikk’s embarrassed squeaking fills the air while Gladium chuckles soundlessly at the reaction. The commander, however, takes his hand from the skritt’s head and stands up once more, eyes locked on the man next to him.

Shuffling ever so slightly closer to Trahearne, he reaches out tentatively for his hand. His head dips as he looks back towards the girls, glow blooming across his cheeks. “Like I said…” He swallows lightly. “I have important things here, too. So I’ll be back. Definitely.”

The squeaking stops abruptly, R’tchikk frozen in place as she looks at them both. Hurriedly, Gladium scoops her up into one strong arm, tossing the skritt over her shoulder. She makes a rapid series of motions towards them both and gives Trahearne an apologetic smile before taking off with R’tchikk in a completely different direction.

“…What was that about?” Kaushue asks looking up at him, eyebrows knitted together where he can’t figure out what just happened.

“I think Glade was worried that R’tchikk was going to, how to put it…” He taps his chin with a finger on his free hand. “Have a ‘fangirling moment’ the likes of which you’ve never seen.”

The commander’s face pulls into one of utter bewilderment. “…O-kay. I won’t ask.”

Trahearne nudges him along and they resume their walk, the astral glow of the portal approaching nearer and nearer. As they stop before it, there is a reluctant moment where neither wants to be the first to let go, but after a small, reassuring squeeze from Trahearne, their hands part again.

“Do you know when you might be back?” He asks, turning to face Kaushue. While the commander knows Trahearne is certain that he will return, there is still the slightest air of trepidation following him.

“A few days, at most. Less than a week. Promise.” Kaushue replies, fiddling with his hammer strap. “I’ve some people to see. Calls to try and make. Sisters to catch up with. But if Peitha contacts me for anything, I’ll be right back.”

“Is that the kryptis woman I’ve heard about?”

Kaushue blinks for a moment before realising—of course, Trahearne wouldn’t really know much of anything about her if he’d been confined to his room for the entirety of the commander’s time here. “Yes, she, uh. Was in my mind. Still is.”

When Trahearne’s eyes grow wider and a scowl falls across his face, Kaushue grabs his arms in a reassuring motion. “Not like that. She’s not… like him. She has only ever aided me.”

He appreciates the concern, but he doesn’t want bad blood or tension between them. He needs Trahearne to believe in his trust in her.

“If you’re sure. But if she ever—” The man is cut off by a finger pressed to his lips.

Kaushue looks up at him with such sincerity glinting in his lilac eyes. “If I felt threatened, I would never keep it from you.”

Confusing relationship dynamics aside, this Trahearne comes across with every sliver of reliability and steadfastness as the one he knew in his youth. He can trust him with his life, even if he can’t yet trust him with his heart.

“Of course. I believe you, I do.” His hand raises up to gently pry Kaushue’s fingers away, but then he takes his chance to press the faintest of kisses to the man’s hand. “I just can’t shake my concerns when it comes to you.”

The commander glows brightly. “Thank you, but you don’t need to be wary of her, so don’t worry too much about me, okay?”

Trahearne’s gaze meets his, lips still grazing his bark. “I will try my best.”

Feeling his glow begin to creep down across the rest of his body, Kaushue pulls his hand back. Perhaps a bit rough, if Trahearne’s reaction is anything to go by, looking much like a startled cat. “Sorry, I, uh…”

“No apologies, it’s um… obvious.” Trahearne says, gesturing to the commander’s exposed arms, now accentuated by luminous icy blue. “It wasn’t my intention, honest.”

And Kaushue believes him. It’s certainly hard to reign in actions that once were commonplace and normal between them.

…And then he pulls on Trahearne’s lapels anyway, standing up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to the ridge of the man’s cheek. “That doesn’t mean anything, by the way, I’m just thankful for… everything.”

“Of course.” The man smiles at him, making no move to reciprocate.

…Even though the commander wants him to. But also doesn’t. Why does he have to keep making things more complicated for himself?

Instead he takes off towards the portal, only pausing when he is in breathing distance between the Tower and Lion’s Arch. He turns to look back over his shoulder and sees Trahearne standing there still, seeing him off until the end.

“Oh, and, uh… if you don’t mind, could you maybe find some language books for me?”

Trahearne chuckles. “I was planning on spending the day at the Bastion of Knowledge anyhow. It will be done, Kaushue.”

The commander leaps through the portal, not allowing Trahearne to see the dumb grin on his face that hearing his name again brings.

It is already mid afternoon by the time he makes it to Divinity’s Reach, but at least he’d been able to get hold of Logan to arrange meeting up in the same day. He takes it as a rare win against the man’s schedule.

His gaze turns up to the building before him, a bit shabby, but completely inconspicuous. The perfect place for two of Tyria’s heroes to be meeting up for a little get-together, he thinks. He takes a step indoors and bathes in the familiarity. It’s very nice. The vibrant bustle of a simple tavern, all dim lights and drunken ramblings and the (mouthwatering) stench of the best booze the more common side of Divinity’s Reach has to offer.

Kaushue has always preferred small, cosy, beat-up places like this.

Logan is already waving to him from a table in the corner, a cloak and hood around him obfuscating his face. The commander immediately notes the man’s very-casual-very-much-not-a-dapper-military-uniform-for-once underneath it and smirks.

The downsides of fame.

He strides over, noting with curiosity on the way that nobody reacts to his presence. Even if he wasn’t the saviour of Tyria (a half dozen times or so by now), he is still a sylvari in a human tavern. And a glowing sylvari at that with how dim the lights are.

But it’s not something he particularly cares too much about and takes his seat opposite Logan, propping his hammer against the wall and tucking his faulds underneath him. “Trying to hide from the fangirls, fanboys, and whatnot, eh, Logan?” He chuckles.

“I never thought a day would come that I’d have to wear a hood to have some peace in my own city, that’s for sure.” The man says, giving him a tired look. “If I have to deal with one more reporter…”

Kaushue puts up a hand with a grimace. “Oh, believe me. I understand.”

They share a chuckle, and then Kaushue’s eyes survey the room around them. “I’m almost surprised I didn’t receive a huge welcome… or harassment campaign, depending on your point of view. Slayer of elder dragons, destroyer of cults, and saviour of the realm and all that.”

“Well, it makes sense for me, I’m a human.” Logan gestures to him with an already semi-drained mug. “I’m a local hero, everyone here knows my face, but for anyone else, like a sylvari such as yourself…”

“They just recall the gossip and drama.”

“Exactly.”

In all honesty, Kaushue certainly doesn’t care for the lack of fanfare... but he does love to play up the theatrics when he can. So he slumps in his seat, props his elbow up on the table and rests his cheek against the palm of his hand. “Oh, woe-is-me. Now I must proceed to drown my sorrows in the strongest liquor there is and get myself shit-faced to cope with the disrespect.”

He raises a hand, waving over a rather lovely barmaid with long red hair and equally red cheeks. “Yes, sir?” She asks with a wide smile.

Perhaps a little too wide, especially from someone who—judging by the building’s interior—likely gets a paycheck maybe once a year. Kaushue figures she must either really like her job or must like being tipsy on the job. Maybe both.

He’s a Whispers man. He can relate.

“Ma’am, I will leave a generous tip for you if you can get me the hardiest stuff you’ve got. I plan on leaving here with a fully distorted sense of direction and believing everyone has a secret twin I never met.” He says, finding amusement in the way the woman’s eyebrows shoot up. “Anything with an upwards of eighty percent chance of leaving me unconscious is a good place to start.

“I’ll definitely do my best.” Her eyes are wide as she jots it down onto a small pad. If he had to guess, it probably isn’t likely for patrons to come in basically asking to be put into a coma, but he is built different. Quite literally. As the barmaid walks away, quite the look of amazement twinkling in her eyes, he can hear mutter a ‘well, damn’ under her breath.

Logan looks at him incredulously. “For someone with no interest in them, you do have quite the way with women, Commander.”

“I have quite the way with getting my hands on booze, I think you mean.” He grins, leaning back in his chair. “You’re the one with all the girls fawning over him, aren’t you? How’s that coming along? Found yourself a sweetheart to finally settle down with?”

He has to double-take when he sees Logan’s cheeks turn just the slightest bit red.

“Oh, wow. What’s her name? Or his. Or theirs.”

“Her name is confidential, for the time being.” Logan replies, taking another swig of his drink, perfectly aware that any trying to weasel out of the topic would just make things worse. “Nobody knows, and that’s for the better right now.”

“Oh, come on, you won’t even tell me? What about Rytlock, or Caithe? Aren’t they like, your super best friends?” The commander leans over the table, likely breaching all sense of ‘personal space’, but not particularly caring.

“Especially not them. I don’t need Caithe getting weird on me—”

“Caithe? Why Caithe? Unless—” Kaushue’s eyes light up (rather literally, in fact) at the words. “She’s a sylvari! You’re dating a sylva—” His exclaim is cut off by Logan’s hand clamping over his mouth.

“What part of confidential don’t you understand?” He groans. “That was a slip up on my part, but you don’t need to broadcast it to the entire tavern.”

Kaushue pries the man’s hand off with little effort, revealing a dumb grin. “I think it’s great!” He says, reducing his voice to a whisper. “We’ll be like in-laws!”

Logan grimaces. “And that’s where we’ll drop the topic.”

The commander can only chuckle at it, leaning back into his seat and gracefully allowing the man his own air to breathe.

“Anyway, what was with the summons, Commander?” Logan asks as he downs the last of his drink and motions to the barmaid for another. “It’s a bit unusual for us to spend time one-on-one, isn’t it?”

Kaushue winces a bit at that. It is true that, of his close circle of buddies, Logan is something of a rarity when it comes to casual hangouts. But there was always something going on, and the human’s position left him little time for socialising.

At least they can rectify it now there are no more Elder Dragons and hopefully no more charr civil wars.

“You’re right.” The commander sighs, looking into his mug. “I suppose that I just… needed some counsel, and you seemed the best person to ask.”

“Me? Advice? Interesting choice there, Commander.” He smirks as a freshly filled mug is slid across the table his way, foam frothing over the edge and marking the wood.

Kaushue can only shrug. “Oh, you’re absolutely right. But I think you’re the one who can help the most.”

“Well, let’s hear it then.”

The commander takes a deep breath. In. Out. In. Out. Logan has seen, heard, and done worse. No matter how Kaushue phrases it, he’s sure it won’t phase the man.

“Say there was someone important to you, and they… left your life. For a time. And you met them again but they seem so… different, yet the same. What would you do?”

Logan’s face settles into unusual seriousness. He leans in closer to the commander, voice hushed. “Is this about the time you bumped into Canach in Caledon again?”

“H-huh? No, not that. This isn’t about him…” He squeezes his mug tightly. Maybe there is no real way of working around this. Maybe he just has to…

“Can I talk about… Maguuma?”

The way Logan pauses mid-sip doesn’t get past him. He’s heard him and Rytlock and Canach make jokes about what happened but… seeing Zojja again has only made Kaushue think. Worry. About how much of that jungle wormed its way into Logan’s mind like Mordremoth did to his own.

“…Abrupt topic change, Commander. But… yes. Go on.”

“No, no it’s related. Honest. I’m just asking, if, uh, if… we lost you… but one of your copies survived…” Kaushue can only be momentarily glad that he has no heart. From what he understands, it would currently be working itself into a frenzy for bringing this up. “How do you think we should treat it?”

“How do you mean? Like, bringing home a replacement when the family fish dies?”

His tone isn’t harsh, but it feels like a punch to the face. Is that really what he’s doing to Trahearne? Doing to their memory?

“Like…” His hands tremble. He can feel the heat rising in his bark, but fights it down with all his strength. He absolutely doesn’t want to cry. Doesn’t want Logan to see him that way. “Say it was… fine. It speaks and acts just like you and isn’t trying to kill us. Would we just… accept that as ‘Logan’, or something else?”

Logan’s shoulders slump, a long and heavy sigh escaping him. “Commander, I think I know where this is coming from.”

It blindsides him. “Y-you do…?”

“News travels fast among friends. I know what happened in that Canthan mine, Commander.” He leans in closer, and discomfort is palpable across his face. “We know how hard it’s been to come to terms with losing him, but this is… worrying. I know there were rumours, but nobody has ever found one of his supposed clones.”

Kaushue can’t help but blink. Okay, this is… not what he expected.

“You can’t keep holding onto hopes of seeing him again, it’s not healthy for you. I know it must be harder now there are no more dragons to focus on, but I really think you should get some help.”

His mouth opens and closes much like a fish while he struggles to think of a response. “I… Yeah, sure. I’ll look into seeing if Serimon can spare me some time.”

This isn’t what he came for, and now he still has no answers and Logan probably thinks he’s crazy. He morbidly wonders what Logan would think if he just dumped the entire truth on him, from Isgarren and the Tower to Kryptis and ‘well actually, Trahearne still is alive in an abstract sense so actually I’m not losing my mind because of grief’.

But he can’t, because Isgarren absolutely would kill him. Maybe he’d kill Logan too. Or kidnap him. His mind wanders to Logan's reaction if he suddenly had to live and work in that Tower for the rest of his life and be unable to tell his friends what happened. He’d probably hate it, to be honest.

He blinks when he sees a fresh, frothing mug in front of him. A quick glance up reveals Logan giving him an awkward smile. “Glad to hear it, friend. Now, unless there’s anything else, how about we get back to it, yeah?”

Kaushue takes a deep gulp of his drink in response. Maybe Logan really wasn’t the best person to come to about it all, but… in a way, the outcome still helped. The man cares, has his back. It’s good to be reminded that no matter who moves on with their lives now, he isn’t without them.

But, for as much as Logan would rather push him back into more lighthearted topics and away from what he perceives as a delve into Kaushue’s personal torments, the commander takes his chance to speak. There’s never felt like a better moment.

“I just want to say… I’m glad it was you. The Pact, I mean.” He murmurs softly, hands tight around his drink. “You were the right person to take over from him, and I know Trahearne would agree.”

The ensuing silence leaves him pondering whether there’ll be a response at all, or if Logan would prefer to ignore it and leave the heart-to-heart at ‘I’ll talk to someone’.

“High praise from you, Commander.” Kaushue is surprised when Logan’s tone is softer than he’d ever heard it. It makes something tighten in his chest. They really have been friends for so long, been through much and more together, and he’d never really stopped to wonder if maybe it had been weighing on the man’s shoulders for a while now.

He opens his mouth to speak, but then Logan is smiling against the rim of his mug, and there is something distant in his eyes. “Perhaps it’s just in my nature to fill in the shoes of others.”

It is late by the time they leave the tavern, stepping out into the chilly, empty streets of Divinity’s Reach, scuffed cobblestone and dinged roof slates illuminated only by the harsh guide of the moon and the slowly waning streetlamps.

…Although, instead of leaving, it is more ‘the awkward stumbling of two newborn deer as they both try to fit through a door at the same time’.

But at the very least, Kaushue has reached his inebriation goal, and is fairly chuffed about it—the Wizard’s Tower has been pathetically low on booze and he has always loved his drink. He looks over at Logan, also teetering along like he barely realises he has feet that both point different directions, and lets out a snort of laughter.

“Doesh your girl know you can get, *hic*, drunk under the table by a veg… veg’table…” He teases, pushing at the human’s shoulder.

“You don’t have a l-, a liver… ish hardly a fair fight, Commander.” Logan complains back, face red from drinking probably half his body weight.

Kaushue throws his arms into the air, exclaiming musically; “You are lookin’ at Tyria’s Belcher’s Bluff champion~! I c’n drink anyone und’r the table!”

“Ish not even the same as a drink-off, you…you…” Logan stumbles over his words, trying to find an apt insult for his plant-based friend. “Weed.”

“T-that's the best you got? Weed? C’mon, *hic*, Logan, I’ve heard what you call C'nach! Can’t even spare me a s-shtupid pun?” He scowls, or at least, he thinks it’s a scowl. In reality it is more of a pout. “You rather we shtart a real fight, huh? I c’n take you!”

“We’re drunk. That's a shtupid idea, Commander.”

“I’ve been fightin’ drunk since I was a sapling! Ish nothin’ to me, Captain Thackeraaay~!” He flexes his non-gloved arm. There’s no muscle—he is made of wood after all—but his bark is tougher and more resilient on his arms.

It’s from all that lugging around a hammer almost as tall as himself, after all.

The two burst into peals of laughter, barriers down to let their unbridled idiocy free on full display. As they make their way down the streets in the general direction of where an inn would be, they ‘bicker’ back and forth, likely waking up anyone trying to sleep through their racket.

And then they’re in the darker part of town, not particularly out of the way, but certainly less travelled. They still elbow and quip at each other, until an odd noise cuts through their banter, coming from an alleyway nearby. The men turn their heads towards it, annoyed that their rather deep and intellectual conversation had been interrupted.

And sobriety washes over Kaushue as graceful as a bucket of ice water—a chill spiking down his back, frozen and otherwordly and becoming steadily all-too-familiar.

After his and Logan’s drinking bout there is probably more alcohol than sap running through him, but he was born and raised in a warscape. He knows battle—has known it longer than he’s even been awake in the world. Not even being borderline blackout drunk could hamper his sense of danger.

“Logan, wait.” He slurs out, stretching his arm out to barricade the man from going further. “Ish dangeroush.”

He knows what it is. The ominous red glow only growing stronger—

“Ish probably just bandits. I c’n take bandits.”

—the humanoid shapes that draw closer, revealing their twisted deceptions as they become more and more abstract and inhuman as the shadows recede—

“I dun think they’re bandits, Logan. I think they’re demons.”

—the way the Heart of the Obscure thrums where he has it hidden in a pouch on his belt—

“What d’you mean you think they’re demons?”

—the way the moonlight reflects their pale, fleshy forms as they leave the alleyway and shadows behind.

“Sorry, didn’t mean t’ say ‘think’.” Even with the alcohol kicking around his system, Kaushue is precise and stable as he pulls his hammer from his back. “I know they’re demons.”

Chapter Text

They watch from behind a wall of vine as Mordrem Guard push and pull along the Pact soldiers—humans, asura, a norn or two. No sylvari. The sound of sobbing and angered yelling fills the area, but are quickly silenced when one brings their thick blade up to the neck of a particularly distraught woman.

“Our Master has plans for you.” They growl out through the distorted vines of their vocal cords, voice a haunting mockery of what it must have once been.

“We have to intervene,” Trahearne whispers to his allies, brow furrowed together. They cannot simply sit here and allow innocent people to suffer for his mistake.

“You’re right. We should.” Logan says, pointedly taking a place by Zojja’s side. “Not you.”

Trahearne looks as confused as he does… angry, in a fashion. “What are you implying? They are my soldiers, I should be part of this—”

“And you remember what happened to the last group we tried to help?” Zojja looks somewhat guilty for bringing it up, but she knows she’s right. “You’re a sylvari, and right now, that’s a… liability to people’s trust in us.”

Trahearne tries to swallow, but his throat is too scratchy, too dry. The last group… they ran in fear, they wouldn’t trust the three of them. Wouldn’t trust him. And when they found the group again… there was very little left to be found.

But he can’t let others fix his mistakes for him. He led them here, it is his fault. “If I can save them, then it is my duty—”

“But who have you even saved so far?” 

Trahearne’s breath catches in his throat. He backs up against the vine wall, gaze trapped on the golden glow of Logan’s eyes. The man is smirking at him with a grin too wide for his face, bouncing the shaft of his hammer against one palm.

“You can’t even save yourself.” Zojja adds in, sharing Logan’s affliction with burning eyes and inhuman smile. “Only Mordremoth can save you. Save this world.”

He doesn’t understand. They were by his side all this time, they were fine just a moment prior—how, how is this happening? How could the dragon have gotten to them so easily?

Cold sweat pinpricks his entire body as he fights to breathe around the tightness in his chest. “No, I have… I have to save them from Mordremoth…”

He cannot let it claim more innocent lives. He cannot let Mordremoth paint his hands red with even more blood he never intended to spill—

And then the vine wall starts squirming against his back, tendrils detaching and wrapping around his arms and legs. He yells out and tries to pull away, but the tendrils pull back stronger, dragging him close again.

‘You struggle, but without me you have no purpose.’ Mordremoth’s voice booms in his mind. ‘You are mine.’

“No… no! I’m… I…” His words come out garbled, mind fracturing into splinters as his flesh warps into thick, rough bark, and his mind—

His mind—

‘You still don't understand…’

It all turns dark, everything, the sound of Wynne’s voice, the feel of Riannoc’s hand against his cheek, the few times Caithe ever smiled at him—

‘There was never Trahearne…’

The commander—

‘There was always Mordremoth’

Gasps tear from his lips as his eyes snap open, throwing him back into his unlit room in reality.

Still half-awake, it is as though the darkness closes in on him like a skelk seeking vulnerable prey. Like all those years ago, his guiding light—the faces of his soldiers, of the Commander, fading and warping into things he couldn’t understand beyond the voice in his mind whispering to destroy. He clutches frantically at his chest, breathless as he tries with desperation to force air into his lungs. With what little energy he can muster, he pulls himself onto his side with shaky arms, trying to stay the trembles surging through him with his blanket pulled high over his head.

It has been years since he dreamed of Maguuma.

Minutes pass by agonisingly slow, but when the paralysis of the shock finally ends, he sits up with a languid motion and allows his legs to hang over the edge of his bed. He tries to recall the techniques Narcisse taught him to deal with panic, how to calm himself when nobody was around to steady him, and does his best to take deep breaths, slow and paced.

He looks out into the darkness of his room, telling himself that the strange shapes are just his books. His writing supplies, his small array of potted plants. Not Mordremoth.

Tendrils will not suddenly crawl from beneath his bed. There is no space for them, and they are nowhere near the jungle. It is not rough foliage brushing his arms, but rather just his blanket.

The lights are just reflections from where the moon pours in through his window, bouncing off the trims of his clothes and the buckle of his belt. Not the glowing eyes of mordrem waiting for the right moment.

The sounds are just the wind outside, and faint, distant chatter of Ward members who are more nightowls than the rest. Not vines dragging across the ground, and not the whispers of the Guard as they plan their next steps.

And eventually the trembles finally stop, and he is sure it is his bed beneath him and not the fleshy, plantlike texture of the mordrem pod. It settles in that he is within the Wizard’s Tower. That he is safe. That in all his years there, he has never once been in any danger that he could not be protected from.

He gives himself a moment, takes a deep breath, and allows the sobs to escape him, joining in the sounds echoing softly in the distance.

“Your health is fine… physically, at least.” Narcisse says as she gives the man a look over, pushing his leaves back from his face, testing the sturdiness of his bark. “Your mind, however, seems pretty shaken up.”

“I had another nightmare,” he admits with a tired sigh. “It’s been a long time, I don’t know why they came back so suddenly.”

Narcisse taps her finger against her chin for a moment, pondering. “Do you suppose it has to do with the Wayfinder?”

“The comm— t-the Wayfinder?” He is already sure he knows the answer, but can’t resist asking. He isn’t quite ready to place blame based just on his own suspicions.

“Watching him from afar with…” her face falls somewhat, “Mabon’s reports… was one thing, but now you’ve actually met him again. I didn't need to be personally tutored by Aviala to know how difficult this is for you.”

“But… I’m happy to see him.” He tries to argue. “And he lets me be near him, we’ve even spent time together like we used to.”

Narcisse sighs, letting her hands cup his cheeks affectionately. “And you also told me he said you weren’t his Trahearne, because of…”

Trahearne somewhat hates when she brings up Maguuma. Not just because it is still sore for him, and likely always will be, but because she regrets it just as much. Only seeing bits and pieces of the aftermath, never truly knowing the full scale of what Mordremoth did to their people. Just doing what she could to calm her brothers and sisters in the Ward who succumbed, and putting her all into helping them come to terms with it all.

He thinks that sometimes when she looks at him, she sees something she needs to fix. An obligation born from guilt. But he’s never asked her. Likely never will. He doesn’t want the answer.

Instead his hands raise to cover hers. “You’re supposing the rejection is bringing up old wounds?”

“We’ve all accepted who and what you are, but from the sounds of it, he’s struggling. It would hurt anyone, Brother.” She lets go of him to reach nearby for a pouch of some crushed plant or another. One of her simpler solutions to help with relaxation. “Mordremoth made us question ourselves, and this is like that, but he’s only questioning you.”

Trahearne takes the pouch wordlessly, burying his nose into it. It does help, even if only a little. A little is better than none. “What do you suppose I should do?”

“I’m going to give you the best advice that anyone rarely takes.” She begins wandering off to start attending to her ‘babies’ as she likes to call them—and Trahearne supposes he can’t really say that something like a jacaranda can’t be a child to a sylvari in some way—but still opts to send him a reassuring smile over her shoulder. “Talk to him, of course. Help him find out who you are.”

Find out who… he is?

He wants to ask more, would be content to keep talking with Narcisse long into the afternoon were she willing. But instead she shoos him out so she can give Mawthew his daily bath in privacy.

And he relents, partially because he doesn’t really want to watch her wash down a giant jungle wurm, but also because he doesn’t want to be more of a thorn in her side than he usually feels. But just as he’s about to cross the threshold of her little garden, he hears her call back to him one last time.

“You’re stronger than this, and always have been. I believe in you.”

He smiles to himself and continues on.

He looks up to the looming, graceful walls of the Bastion of the Natural, and supposes, instead, to spend his time trying to find someone that might need his help, or perhaps even just want his company. It’s how he ends up with Zizel, listening to the hylek complaining that certain people have been skipping out when they should be as diligently at work as him, and Trahearne can only chuckle at it.

“Are we out of guts again?” Zizel sighs, book propped open with one webbed hand while another stirs the—frankly rather foul looking, smelling, and presumably tasting—concoction.

“I’ll check if there’s more at the other side of the room,” Trahearne offers, already making his way there. There is nobody else working here, so he supposes—

“With how empty this place is, I should expect we haven’t ran out just yet.”

As he approaches the stacks of various containers, Trahearne balks at the stench. Yep, guts alright. “Got them…” He groans, hefting up a particularly foul-smelling one and hoping to Mother that none spills on him.

“Good, good! Now, time is of the essence, hurry back here.” Zizel doesn’t even look up at him, large eyes flitting between the book and the cauldron. “Oh, and if there are any more jars of bees across that way it would be lovely if you could pick one up for me, dear.”

“What… exactly are you making?” Trahearne asks, huffing as he almost drops the container of innards down with a noticeable thud by the hylek’s feet.

He thought he'd discovered some weird stuff as a sapling from researching and studying his necromancy, but Zizel has found new ways to disgust and intrigue him with what he can make out of the vilest of things.

“This should make those unsightly brutes turn on each other,” Zizel muses as he dips a finger into the liquid. He rubs it between his fingers and shakes his head. “More viscosity,” he murmurs to himself. “Chop chop with those bees, my boy.”

It’s always a touch strange when Zizel calls him names like that. Trahearne knows it’s just a manner of the man’s speech, but considering the unfortunately short lifespan of his kind, there is little chance that the hylek is older than him. Nonetheless, he does as requested and procures the bees. After all, he has led an army with soldiers who had lived more than twice his own years. Age, he learnt, has little to do with intellect, respect, or maturity.

The commander’s life was but a fraction of a fraction of his own, yet Trahearne had looked to him for guidance. Comfort. A way forward when skies seemed dark and his heart heavy with misdirection and woe.

A faint crackling sound cuts his reminiscing to a halt, looking over to where it comes from one of Zizel’s pockets. The hylek retrieves a small object from it and Trahearne is able to notice that is is one of their communication devices. He doesn’t have one personally, having no rank of high importance nor a place within the Rift Hunters. There is little urgent that needs to be communicated to someone of his position.

“Livsdottir?” Zizel continues to focus on his cauldron, but there is a sharpness in his eyes. Something Trahearne can understand well, when there is that itching under your skin warning you of an impending malice.

<Rift sighting in the Bastion of the Celestial.> The voice crackles over the device. <Several high kryptis have already passed through, I’m marking this as a top priority situation. We need as many as we can spare.>

Alertness strikes through Trahearne’s body. When Nourys and its infernal tentacles had invaded and tried to rip the World Spire apart, he was still confined to his room, having to rely on reports and imagination in the aftermath to understand what the Ward had been through. The mere mention of the kryptis returning is enough to put him on edge; he had never been up and close with their kind, never got to see their destruction with his own eyes.

And now was going to be his chance, for as much as he’d rather never come face to face with those demonic beings.

But Zizel is still focused on his work, not responding to the call despite the narrowing of his pupils. When Trahearne parts his lips to question his reason, he raises a webbed hand. “We have a task,” he says with his usual tone, calm and unbothered. As if the kryptis weren’t a threat to him but mere pests. And maybe they were—Trahearne had never seen him in action against them. “It’s all over your face, darling. That youthful, ferocious nature. You want a fight, and so do I—I’m still fuming about the last time they tried to cause havoc in our lovely little Bastion. But going out unprepared is signing up to be a sitting duck. You understand, yes?”

The sylvari can only stand there, fingers twitching by his sides before curling into fists. “You’re right. I just have the need to be there. To help.”

“Of course you do, noble thing you are.” And this time the hylek gives him a little smile. “It’s either funny, or touching, how many of Mabon’s lost, wayward souls he’s brought here are so much like him.”

He decides to stay silent. A part of him wonders how true it is, if he is really anything like Mabon at all.

“And besides,” Zizel continues, finally looking at him, “you’ve no weapon to speak of. To send you out there would be a waste of such gorgeous foliage.”

It’s true. Where once Caladbolg rested comfortably against his back, and even before that when his weapons were simple things, mere tools to get the job done, there was now nothing. He doesn’t want to say Isgarren hates him, for he has allowed Trahearne to live in the Tower alongside the Astral Ward in surprising comfort and ease, but the man has refused him a place by the sides of their fighters. He has not carried a weapon since Caladbolg cut into the vine that shattered it into pieces.

“Are you not going, then?” He changes the topic before he begins to let his thoughts lead to darker places.

“Why of course I am.” Zizel tosses his stirring spoon over to the sylvari. “But as I said, one must prepare themselves. Once we’ve bottled all these up, you’d best head back to the Tower while I rendezvous with the Hunters.”

Taking to his new task, Trahearne only nods. “Understood. I imagine Livsdottir has already sent word back, but I will see if we can spare more of the Ward to come assist.” He reaches up to catch one of the glass bottles as Zizel throws it from his position amongst several open crates.

“Good thinking, Sapling!” Zizel returns to him and they begin scooping the dubious liquid into several containers. Satisfied with his arsenal of dangerous, volatile concoctions, the hylek packs them into one of the emptied crates.

“I wish you luck out there,” Trahearne says to him. “When you’re done, let’s have a drink together.”

Zizel smirks at him, feet already half out the door. “As long as it’s none of that weak swill, wonderful idea.” And then he is gone.

Sighing, Trahearne turns his back on the door and starts his walk back to the portal, ignoring every instinct in his body telling him to chase after the hylek and assist him. Join the battle up above. But he can’t. It’s better to do what he can, and if that means just trying to find others to help, so be it. But as he approaches the portal, he is able to make out several figures stepping through—seems that job is already done, then.

“Trahearne!” Calls one of them, a golden-toned sylvari with eyes akin to the Jade Sea.

“Sunny! Have you come to assist the Bastion of the Celestial?” Trahearne asks, striding up to the group. Several of them give him a nod in greeting, but defer their words to the sylvari.

“Celestial? No, we’ve come to assist Knowledge. There is a greater need for the Ward there and in the Bastion of the Obscure.” They say with a confused look across their features. “Celestial still has most of our Hunters and spare combatants.”

“Knowledge? Obscure?” Trahearne is left as confused as his colleague. “I was just assisting Zizel, we heard from Livsdottir that only Celestial was in need of any aid.”

Sunny raises a hand up to their mouth, brow furrowed. “That’s strange. We’ve had sporadic reports the past twenty minutes or so of rift anomalies within the other Bastions.”

It is like the breath is torn from Trahearne’s lungs. “The communications must have malfunctioned… I left Zizel to attend Celestial on his own. If they’re attacking the other Bastions, he could very well be in danger! I must return.”

This time a norn speaks up, hefting a hammer over his shoulder. “If yer goin’ back there, we’re goin’ with ye.” He grins wide, fire dancing in his eyes. “He’s been a good friend to us, and by Bear’s arse will I let anythin’ happen to him.”

The golden sylvari chuckles. “Easy, Haukr. Nothing will happen to him as long as we’re here.” They turn to Trahearne again, but their brow is still drawn slightly together. “Although, Trahearne, you’ve nothing to fight with. I think you’d best return to the Tower for your own safety.”

He balls his hands into fists. Kryptis attacks have dated back for months now, and always, always he is shooed aside. Told to find cover or retreat. But he knows he can be useful. He can help, if only given the chance. And he wants to help more than anything.

Though he had always promised to keep out of the way, he finds that there is a breaking point to his patience.

“I have stayed my hand in respect for Isgarren’s choices, but I feel we can no longer afford that privilege.” It has been many years, but when his fingertips tingle and glow with a familiar green, he is pleased to find that that decades of practise do not fall away so easily.

“I do not need a weapon to fight.”

Their footsteps thunder alongside each other as they race through the halls of the Bastion of the Natural, a sylvan hound by Sunny’s side barking and growling frantically. “He can smell them,” the sylvari pants, trying to keep up, “always had a good nose for danger, especially ones from the Mists!”

“So there are those blighted little buggers in this Bastion too!” Another of their group calls out, anger palpable in their tone. “I do not spend my weeknights tending to chak for them to be possessed by kryptis!”

Their increasing proximity to the demons makes Trahearne feel sick. In a way it reminds him of the cold wash over his bark when the Risen would be nearby, yet more sinister. Nauseating. He looks down by his feet, where Bone Minions and his Flesh Golems keep in pace with him, and delves deeper inside himself to pull yet more from the ground beneath. There is no telling how many kryptis there will be.

They follow the hound as it dashes out before them, leading them down the pathways to the Greenhouse. Trahearne’s stomach drops, tries to hold down the bile pushing up his throat as they approach closer.

Narcisse.

She was by herself—

A scream tears into the sky, coming just further in the distance. The Veranda—

When they finally reach the source of the commotion, they are greeted with Narcisse, Zizel, and the smallest handful of Astral Ward all facing off against a dozen or so kryptis, with more spilling forth from the ominous, glowing rift. The nausea is all the worse up so close, Trahearne thinks, trying to fend it off the best he can. But it is like they crawl up and down his bark, slithering between his leaves and vines. Intrusive. Disgusting.

Still, however, he pushes forth with his allies, Haukr cutting a path through to the rest so they can form up. When they are finally together, Trahearne lets out a sigh of relief seeing that nobody has been injured.

“Oh, good,” Zizel grunts out as he uses a leg to impressively kick a kryptis away from himself, “Our backup includes Archivists.”

“You know I’m not one by choice!” Sunny yells back, already batting away another kryptis with their staff. “I wanted to join the Hunters, but no, says Isgarren, my talents would be wasted there!”

Trahearne agrees that the sight of a sylvari like them, covered in kryptis blood and gore, does much better suit the Rift Hunters than lugging around books all day.

The team groups up to face the rift, weapons brandished against the fiendish demons. But Narcisse takes herself away to stand behind and away from them, and Trahearne follows. They are too susceptible to stand on the frontlines with the others.

Narcisse wields her staff with skill and precision, casting spell after spell in fluid motion, grinning with pride as she holds their team up. “These demons think they can get one up on us? Hah!”

And beside her, Trahearne commands his minions, slipping back into himself all those years ago, alone in Orr with nothing by his side but them.

But it isn’t enough. Yes, he has his minions, but… his hands are empty, and it leaves him restless. All he has to rely on is the magic within him—and what led him here in the first place. What made him Marshal to begin with.

He tries to narrow things down. Why would the kryptis attack in such a strange pattern? First the Bastion of the Celestial, and then maybe fifteen minutes later or so, Balance and Strength. Not long after, there were the signals from Knowledge and Obscure. And finally, some time later, the rifts spawned in the Bastion of the Natural.

One of his bone minions succumbs to the kryptis attacks, but he is quick to replace it, mind whirring as he tries to figure out their plan.

He’d read the reports on Mosaic Wrath, so he knows that a simultaneous full-scale frontal assault on each Bastion had been an ultimate failure. So it must be some sort of new tactic—they are missing their main game piece, after all. So if the plan was just to attack and kill them en-masse, why would they not simply wipe out their people with a swarm attack, one Bastion at a time, and instead split their forces this way?

If he learned anything back in Orr, it was that losing even one faction was enough to snowball into pure disaster. Zhaitan learnt that the hard way at the hands of him and every soldier of the Pact.

But the thought throws him back into Orr in their less victorious moments also, witnessing for the first time just what the Risen could do. How smart they could be when they had seemed so mindless and simple to read. His face falls as it dawns on him. Of course… the Hunters and Ward would retaliate in their highest numbers to the first sign of threat if there was none other to divide them, leaving less and less to defend the closer the rifts got to…

“Zizel!” He cries out, doing his best to pull the form of another shambling horror from the ground beneath them. “It’s a trap, we need to go purely on the defensive, now!”

“A trap?” The hylek doesn’t turn to face him in any way, focusing instead on throwing some tonic or another to their small vanguard. “What have these unsightly blighters got planned?”

“The majority of our forces are fighting up north. They staggered their attacks to leave us with less people to defend this bastion, they’re aiming for the portal to the Tower!” He sics a Flesh Golem onto a small kryptis swiping at one of their asuran Hunters. “Our best option for survival is to just try and hold out until the others can arrive.”

His brother taught him that. Laranthir. He’d sought his counsel many a time during those months fighting Zhaitan and its minions, having never been a soldier himself. And in turn Laranthir had taught him of his experiences and of Vigil tactics. Over a drink he had regaled Trahearne with pride on how a unit of theirs had once saved a number of children from Lychcroft Mere by hankering down and staying put waiting for reinforcements. And despite injuries, everyone had survived to tell the tale.

‘Sometimes, Marshal, defense is the best offence.’

“The communications are still down, how are we going to let them know we need help?” Narcisse asks him, trying to keep her focus on the small number of their vanguard.

“…We don’t.” He admits. They don’t have flares, don’t have anything that they can use for a signal. There is only one option. “We have to trust in them. Communications failed after the attacks hit the Bastion of Knowledge, there is no possibility that they wouldn’t assume we were attacked as well.”

She spares him a glance for a moment, expression indiscernible. “Were you this bold as Pact Marshal too, Brother?”

“It wasn’t boldness, Narcisse.” He wears a serious expression, eyes as if they were lost in some distant memory. “I was only as strong as my allies.” He summons another Flesh Golem—wincing as he does so—and sets it forth. “And trust makes or breaks an army as much as a weapon does.”

Suddenly a yell comes from the vanguard ahead, and Trahearne turns himself away from his sister to see Sunny plunging a knife deep into Haukr’s shoulder, a wide grin on their face.

“Hehehe…” The sylvari cackles, escalating in pitch and volume into a horrendous cacophony. “The Midnight King will bathe in the blood… of all of Tyria!”

“Incapacitate them!” Trahearne yells without hesitation even as Haukr shoves them away at ease with one massive hand. “We do not kill our own!”

“Don’t ‘ave to tell me twice!” He growls, staring down at Sunny who only stares back with corruption glinting in their eyes and the dripping blade in their hand. “My little sun,” he hisses between grit teeth, “I love ye, so I hope ye understand…”

Sunny lunges at him, but it is already too late. Haukr raises his hammer high, catching the briefest glimpse of fear flicker across his friend’s face as they fight for control—before abruptly twirling the weapon deftly between his fingers as if it were a mere toothpick and slamming the shaft down against the sylvari’s head.

They collapse to the ground in an immobilised heap, kryptis leaping from their body to re-materialise. It hisses in anger and charges towards its host once more, but is met promptly in the face with the business end of the norn’s hammer instead. Scowling, Haukr leaps out from midst the others while someone tries to at least prop up their unconscious friend, smashing the offending demon into a smear against the beautiful white floor.

“Don’t break formation!” Zizel yells back at him, fiddling with the bottles in his hands. “Combatants to the front, support and… unconscious demon-infested to the back! Oh, what a time to not have the Wayfinder…”

Trahearne steps out to try and retrieve Sunny and pull them to—relative—safety, but a faint noise from behind catches his ears.

He turns his head to be greeted with a kryptis stirring from a rift that closes moments afterwards—clearly only sustainable for it and it alone to pass. The creature is several meters away yet it casts a looming shadow over them with its size—much larger than any of the others. And although no eyes are visible, Trahearne can feel its gaze upon him and Narcisse. He takes a step away from it, too drained to summon more minions and unable to divert the ones he already has lest he let Zizel and the others fall prey to the swarm of kryptis invaders.

Narcisse bumps her back against his, and her exhaustion is palpable through the way every word she says sounds like a breath fighting to escape. “I will not give in, but…I am reaching my limit.” She pants, yet still tries to summon more energy and healing magics for the waning team.

The massive kryptis hasn’t caught her attention—or any of the others, despite its gargantuan size. But they are facing away from it, busy caught up with the smaller ones, swarmed and outnumbered. A distraction. Another trap.

The creature raises an arm, thick as a battering ram with spikes jutting from between finely roped muscle. It begins to move, and suddenly the firstborn finds himself unfrozen. He turns to his sister, finds her still focused on the smaller ones. Still focused on their team.

The heavy sound of the beast’s movement thundering forward chills his sap. “Run!” He cries out.

She startles at the sudden noise. “Run? But why—” She turns her head, eyes widening as she captures sight of the giant kryptis rampaging towards them.

Trahearne tries to push her, but she is staring at the kryptis like a stunned deer, body like a block of ice. Immovable. She blinks again, once, twice, and then firmly shoves him instead. Caught off guard. he stumbles backward, tripping over himself and landing with his back slamming against the stone railing.

When he looks back up, it is with horror as he sees the kryptis’ monstrous arm collide with her, sending the sylvari flying—hitting one of the small trees with a sickening crunch before she falls motionless to the ground beneath.

“Sister!” He cries out, trying to pull himself to his feet. A shooting pain darts through his arm, and he lets out a hiss as he goes to brace it. Sprained. Maybe even broken. It hardly matters though, and he pushes on to rush towards where the kryptis had effectively launched Narcisse.

She is crumpled up against one of the trees, and at first glance completely unresponsive. He breathes out a curse to himself as he drops down to check on her, exhaling with pure relief as he can make out the faint rise and fall of her breathing. Trahearne reaches down to her, biting back a cry of pain as he tries to lift her from her prone position. The kryptis is approaching them once more, but he can’t just leave her here. His eyes scan the area around them, looking for something. A way out, some way to call for help, wishing that the Commander would suddenly just appear and do what he does best—

But then Zizel is dashing out from midst the the flock of small kryptis and their own vanguard, bracing himself in the path between the sylvari pair and the looming hulk of a demon. “Ooh, there is no fixing you. My eyes ache just looking at something so repulsive.”

“What are you doing?!” Trahearne calls out to him. He hardly doubts the hylek’s prowess, but he’s read reports on the Ward fighting kryptis of this stature before, and even with a prepared team the casualties were horrific.

Zizel is nimble as he dodges a swing from the kryptis’ massive arm, speedy and light where it is thick and sluggish. He tosses a concoction behind himself and lets out a small laugh of triumph as the goop catches on the demon’s legs, holding it in place for the moment. “Hoping you’ll take the hint and run, darling.”

“But my minions can’t sustain themselves without my presence!” Trahearne nonetheless hitches Narcisse onto his back, trying to manoeuvre the unconscious woman so she doesn’t fall. “There has to be something I can do.”

And although the small team they have is dwindling the kryptis numbers bit-by-bit, they too begin to succumb to possession. Yet despite it all, the ones still standing fight valiantly, incapacitating their ailing teammates. He would not rush off to leave them behind to die. It’s not who he is, and not who he wants to become.

He watches over them all, eyes drifting from Zizel, where he does his best to lead their grotesque leader far from the others, calling out to them to stay put, to those still fighting and holding the kryptis at bay from reaching him and Narcisse…

Then finally, his eyes trail to the stairs, the only way out of the courtyard. Maybe, just maybe, he could leave Narcisse amongst the plants in her garden, out of sight. Her plants could oversee her; he’s seen how protective they are of their mother. They’d never let a kryptis touch a leaf on her head if they had anything to say about it. He could return then, help the others.

As he sees the Ward fight, cry out in pain and steel themselves against their enemy, and Zizel doing his best to avoid each swing of their leader with his diminishing supply, he decides it’s his only shot.

His legs carry him fast as he sprints towards the steps, holding onto Narcisse the best he can with the pain spiking up his arm with each jolt of her against him. They approach closer, closer, and he thinks that maybe the plan has a shot of working—until something grabs at his ankles. His mind can only keep up fast enough to not try and turn as he falls, not wanting to crush Narcisse under his weight.

Dizziness runs through his head, searing in pain, as he raises it from the marbled flooring. As he looks over his shoulder, he can just barely make out a small kryptis clawing at his legs, creeping closer. He tries to turn over, careful to try and push Narcisse away in the process, and kicks at the creature. He is able to disengage it for the moment, but it only comes encroaching forward yet again. Of course that wasn’t going to be enough to kill it. A cuss slips past his lips—he is in too much pain to get back up and he cannot recall his minions to his side.

He is in the middle of listing off apologies in his mind—to Narcisse, Zizel, the Commander—when the kryptis before him explodes into a gory mess, sinew and blood spattering every which way.

“Mister Marshal!” A voice calls out for him, accompanying the skittering of tiny feet. And many other pairs along with it.

Trahearne looks up to see Gladium wiping off the gory remains from her staff, having launched herself from above to land directly on the kryptis. She nods at him and rushes off forward to assist the others.

He watches, letting out a shaky breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding, as the others pass him by with hurried steps on their way to join the fray. R’tchikk stops by his side while another quickly tends to Narcisse beside him.

“Oh, goodness!” the skritt offers her shoulder to help Trahearne prop himself up. “Gladium made us rush straight here when we secured the Bastion of Knowledge. Said she smelled more danger! Her wit never fails to amaze skritt!”

“She’s smart. Thank the Pale Mother.” He hisses, shifting to lean against the steps. He watches the charr out on the field, nimble and dangerous as ever. Watches Lyhr and Frode and Dagda charge in with their teams all working against the gargantuan threat, the smaller kryptis now reduced to nothing more than fleshy smears against the ground.

R’tchikk works to stabilising his arm, catching his eye. “Other healers busy. Busy or… gone.” She whispers in a low tone. “Any later, and everyone here might be gone too.”

Narcisse lets out a pained gasp in her unconscious state. And even despite her pain, he is honestly relieved. She is alive, and that is all he could ask for right now.

He lets an exhausted smile tug at his lips. “But you’ve saved us. All of you did.” As he lets his eyes fall shut, his body starts to relax. Though surrounded by sounds of carnage and embodiments of gore, he feels… oddly at peace.

Just a little bit glad that, for once, nobody had to play the hero.

It is hours later, when all injured have been recovered from the Bastions and seen to, that they could spare someone to focus on him. It was something he offered himself; seeing the way the kryptis had left other members of the Ward. Most of the kryptis-possessed were taken off-grounds to be thoroughly expunged of their corruption and were yet to come back to consciousness. And for those who weathered the mental assault but had suffered far more physically… for some, he couldn’t even bear to look at for more than a moment.

When the medic is finally done treating his arm, he looks down at the sling with a frown. “How long do you suppose I will need this?” He asks.

“Not very long. It was just a bad sprain, you’re lucky nothing broke—although the mild concussion and cracked ribs should be higher up in your list of priorities.” They tell him, helping him stand. “But it’s best to not use that arm for now—it’s still possible you could seriously damage it.”

“Thank you, I’ll make sure to take it easy.”

The medic nods and goes off to treat someone else with minimal injuries. Meanwhile, his eyes scan cross the infirmary, trying to spot a familiar pink—

“Trahearne!” Bingo.

He approaches where he spots Narcisse in a far corner, propped up in a cot with some sort of brace around her middle. He winces looking at it, but she just waves a hand. “It’s to make sure that my spine didn’t get too messed up from hitting that tree.” She speaks as if she hadn’t just narrowly avoided being paralysed entirely.

“Why did you push me? You could have died.” He asks, taking a seat by her cot.

“And so could you. It was just the first thing my mind went to.” She reaches a hand out to him, laying it against his knee. “I remember when I was a sapling,” she murmurs in a dreamy tone, “and Aife taught me how precious the little things are. That we should strive to do our best, for each other and ourselves.”

Her hand slides up to brush against his sling. “It’s part of why I’m a healer, you know. I want to do my best for us. And I guess that means taking a kryptis to the face sometimes.” She giggles just a little.

He raises his free hand, brushing back the leaves from Narcisse’s face, much like she would do for him, and sighs. “I should have warned you better.”

“And if you hadn’t warned me at all, I’d likely be dead by now.” She says, much more uplifting and positive despite the near-death experience. “For someone who has been out of action for most of a decade, you performed surprisingly well. Thank you, Trahearne.”

“I’m glad you think—”

A loud cough directly from behind startles him, jolting up in his chair. He lets out a small groan of pain as he turns his head, and can feel himself wilt somewhat at what he sees.

Galrath looking down at him with all of his repressed fury.

“A word.” Is all he says before walking out of the infirmary, not even turning his head back once.

Narcisse nods at her brother, looking finally worried—ironic that Galrath is more of a threat than a kryptis to her, he thinks. “You’d best go. Good luck, Trahearne.” She even sounds like it’s the last time she’ll ever see him again.

Trahearne gulps loudly, and excuses himself from her. He exits the infirmary to find Galrath standing by the railing, looking out across the sea of clouds beneath them.

“Sir—”

“Isgarren has never given you clearance to join in the Ward’s combative efforts.” The human interrupts him, not even turning to address him directly. “I trust you at least have a suitable excuse?”

Trahearne wipes away the sweat already forming on his brow. “I—yes. Communications had begun to fail, Natural was left sorely unprepared for an incursion of their own.” He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He has never been on Galrath’s bad side, only ever heard from other members of the Ward what it is like. He finds it unpleasant, to say the least. “Their aim was to disable the ward around the portal leading back to the Tower. If Natural had fallen, the line of defence between Amnytas and the Tower would be destroyed. I did what I felt I had to.”

“This is the second time you’ve stepped out of line with Isgarren in the past month.” Galrath says, finally turning to him and crossing his arms over his chest. He is scowling with such intensity that truly makes Trahearne understand why anyone else who’s ever upset him never did so again. “You know what happens to those who don’t stay in line.”

He’s heard, yes. Minimal punishment is a warning, then it is relocation to cleaning up dung for Forro’s animals, leading to a slope of progressively worse and unpleasant duties. And for those who crossed Isgarren one time too many, or were proven to be more of a purposeful liability for the Ward than a boon…

…Well, it is a frightful reminder of the things Isgarren has done to protect their secrets and Tyria as a whole.

“I do, sir.” Trahearne says with a dry throat. “I never intended any disrespect, but—”

“I should be writing up a real nasty report on you for the Curator,” the human cuts him off, scowl lightening up. “…But it is true that the Bastion of the Natural was grievously undermanned. Zizel was especially enthusiastic in pleading your case. You may have very well helped to save many valuable lives today, his included.”

The sylvari gulps down the lump forming in his throat. “It was just instinct, sir.”

“Well, I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Eight years you’ve been here, and you’ve never stepped out of line before.” Galrath sighs, rubbing his temple. “Go about your day. You are excused, and I have a seer to report to.”

Trahearne lets out a shaky breath, rubbing his sweaty palm against the skirt of his robes. “Thank you, truly. I’m grateful for your mercy.”

Business done, Galrath is already walking away from him. “Just don’t waste it.”

As he steps through the portal, leaving behind the heat of Lion’s Arch and letting the Wizard Tower’s cool breeze fan over him, Kaushue is somewhat surprised that nothing seems to have happened during his absence. Peitha has been remarkably quiet, and Isgarren had yet to send anyone after him to drag him kicking and screaming back to the Tower.

He is smiling to himself as he treks back to his room to unpack and spend the rest of the day relaxing—maybe he’ll visit Trahearne later and regale him with tales of his visit. He idly wonders if the man misses the mainland at all.

But while he’s passing the Mystic Forge, surrounded by the sounds of Ward chatter and daily activity, he is stopped by someone who he can’t recognise. A small asura with big, wide eyes and ragged ears.

“Wayfinder!” She points at him, and he only shrugs in response.

“I’m the Wayfinder.”

She makes a grand display of herself, chest puffed up and hands on her hips. “Isgarren is looking for you.” She says with a devilish grin. “He looked angry, veeeery angry indeed! ‘Bring me the Wayfinder, dead or alive!’”

“…Did he really say that?” Kaushue asks, wincing a bit. It all sounds too theatrical for a man as old and stuffy as Isgarren, but he doesn’t have much experience with seers. Maybe they’re just… like that.

“Okay, well, no. He might have just asked for anyone to point you towards his office when they saw you.” Her shoulders slump and a pout pulls across her face. “But he did look mad, though!”

Kaushue looks baffled. “…Well, then… thank you for letting me know?”

He then sidesteps around the… possibly crazy asura, backing away and toward the direction of where he—unfortunately—remembers Isgarren’s office to be. He feels like he should be more immediately worried that the seer is angry with him, but he is more blind-sighted than anything for it to truly sink in.

When the asura herself turn around, he can see the Bastion of Obscure’s banner drift from her back, and it all suddenly makes a lot of sense.

He absolutely does not like being stood outside Isgarren’s office again.

He reaches out for the handle, trying to ignore the tiny tremble of his hand, and takes it in a death-grip—the moment he opens the door just a crack, he is instantly compelled to slam it back shut again. As it would turn out, the embarrassment of throwing a hissy fit in front of an ancient, powerful being is a long-lasting effect. But he powers through and steps into the room, head held high.

He goes to open his mouth to announce his presence, but it instantly falls flat and comes out as a decidedly weak squeaking sound instead.

Because Isgarren positively glowering at him is one thing.

Logan standing by the seer’s side is another.

Chapter Text

Kaushue would really, really like to be able to convince himself that he has finally lost his mind. Perhaps even that he’s back in Gyala and everything that is happening is one long dying dream as the haze chokes the life out of him for good. He would like to believe that’s what is happening and that he must be hallucinating his friends in places they shouldn’t be. He would very much like to, but he’s pretty sure his mind cannot conjure up the sight of Isgarren looking down at him with all the quiet-yet-tumultuous rage of a millenia-lived Wizard.

He doesn’t even think the seer looked this mad back on the Spire, hissing at him for his naivete and attention-grabbing ways when there were heroes bigger and stronger than him left consigned to shadows and unknown history.

Logan stands on one side of Isgarren’s desk, looking irate and confused both. A quick glance—that turns to a double-take—shows Livia on the other side of said desk, looking far more uninterested in the situation than any of the men present. She offers a small wave and a ‘hello, Wayfinder’. Kaushue can only stare.

Until Isgarren draws his attention back with a surprisingly calm 'Wayfinder' himself. But despite the level tone, a whirling tempest of fury rests in the glowing ice blue of the seer’s eyes.

“C… Curator…” Kaushue squeaks out. Now is not the time for first name basis, he thinks. “I heard you were looking for me.”

“I was. Do you care to explain this?” Isgarren gestures an arm out towards Logan, who looks even more irritated at the seer’s dismissive nature toward him.

“He’s a friend of mine, the Pact Marshal—” Isgarren shakes his head in frustration almost the exact second Kaushue parts his lips to speak.

“That is not what I am asking. I want to know, Wayfinder, how this human just so happened to be spotted at the site of every rift incursion in Divinity’s Reach in the past several days?” Isgarren folds his arms over each other again. “Livia brought it to my attention, saying she was tipped off by a close associate.”

Kaushue gulps as his eyes drift toward her. Mulch. That’s right. He remembers her going very into detail on how much more she preferred the mainland, so if anyone were to be the Ward’s go-to on rifts in Kryta…

“…Coincidence?” He asks with a meek grin.

“Wayfinder.”

Okay. Scarier than demons. Actually, genuinely scarier than Cerus looming over him seconds from ripping him into compost.

“If I may speak,” Logan says, deciding to rectify the conversation from completely passing over the fact he is very much there and present with them. “I don’t see why you’re angry at the Commander for me doing my duty towards my country.”

Kaushue bristles. Isgarren turns his head to look at Logan, eyes narrowed. “You were informed of confidential matters that are not to be brought up to those outside the Astral Ward. It is a serious violation of—”

“There are demons appearing in a city full of civilians.” Logan scowls at him, hands balled up by his sides. “If not me, someone else was going to notice them. It is my duty to Kryta, to Tyria, to protect it.”

“You did not need to be told the full extent of information on the kryptis.” Isgarren retorts.

Kaushue steps forward, sweat on his brow. “In our defence, he did. We were caught off-guard, I had to use the Heart to close the rift. I’m not Astral Ward, I can’t just weasel my way out of explaining how I knew exactly how to deal with a demon incursion to one of my closest companions.”

“And, I must admit…” Livia perks up from her side of the desk, finally deciding on giving her input to the catastrophe of the current conversation. “Thackeray has been of immense help. Following that nonsense in Amnytas, we’ve been stretched thin on all fronts. I could count the number of Hunters who could respond when I alerted them on both hands. Kryta certainly is safer from the kryptis with an extra blade at its behest.”

Isgarren’s brow twitches.

“Then what do you propose we do about the situation?” He asks with a deep, grumbling tone. No doubt he is currently not friends with anyone present.

She waves a hand at the seer. “My interests lie solely with Thackeray’s aid. The details? Not so much.”

“I cannot help but feel that recent selections for the title of ‘Wayfinder’ have been somewhat… lacking.” Isgarren huffs. “How I miss Aziure.”

Kaushue runs a hand through his leaves, pushing them out of his face. He isn’t entirely bereft of ideas, but he’s a touch unsure of how Isgarren would feel about them. One in particular has been kicking around in the back of his mind since that evening in Divinity’s Reach, spurred on by Logan’s surprising adaptability to battling kryptis.

Isgarren may be reluctant and awkward when it comes to outside help, but Kaushue knows the other Wizards are more open to such measures, need be it. He only need convince the seer.

“If I may, Curator?” Kaushue asks, approaching him with his back a bit straighter. Trying to muster some of that good old commander confidence that’s served him well thus far. “The problem extends far past just Logan and just Divinity’s Reach. Livia herself said that you barely have the numbers to deal with the incursions on the mainland. But my guild, Dragon’s Watch? Although we may be formally ‘disbanded’ due to there being, well, no more dragons to watch… It does mean I have on hand a group of contacts across major points of Tyria that are all exceptionally skilled combatants.”

“Are you seriously suggesting I consider employing your guild as rift hunters, Wayfinder?”

Bolstered, Kaushue grins, something glinting in his eye. “The answer comes from the Canthan mines, Isgarren.”

Logan looks at him with a quirk in his brow. He’s a smart man, leader of the Pact and all and a captain at heart. Likely, he’s already figured out the plan.

“You are surely aware of the kryptis wanderers. ‘Oni’ as they’re called in Cantha, and something I and several of my comrades encountered in very recent times.” He splays his hands out on Isgarren’s desk as he leans over it closer to the seer. “They know what an ‘oni’ is, but not a kryptis. Now, say I informed a few friends that there have been oni sightings much closer to home.”

“…Go on.” Isgarren says with surprising reception.

“We’ll have the famed Pact Marshal here assist Livia in Divinity’s Reach. Caithe, sylvari firstborn and the branded leader of the Crystal Bloom, guarding the Grove. Rytlock Brimstone, war legend and wielder of a weapon of the gods, stationed in the Black Citadel. Braham Eirsson, slayer of Jormag, and once-dragon-champion, on look out in Hoelbrak. And I believe once I bring it up to him, we will have Gorrik, a genius and leader who has faced the kryptis firsthand, on-deck in Rata Sum.”

Isgarren looks at him with anger ebbed and a strange twinkle in his eye that the commander’s never seen before.

“We have a plethora of the world’s heroes on hand. We need only utilise them.”

The sky outside bathes the office in deep, burning orange by the time they’ve come to a conclusive decision. One of Isgarren’s claws draws a circle on the map on his desk (procured by Livia after deciding that she wasn’t too interested in how other cities would be staging their defences).

“…allowing our hunters to remain out of major cities—“

“And thus escaping suspicion.” Kaushue finishes, dropping a wooden figurine onto somewhere in Lake Doric that he knows has suffered incursions.

“I’ll admit, it’s a solid plan.” Logan murmurs, eyes skimming back and forth across the scrawls and figures and highlights. “If I’m suspicious to your Astral Ward for appearing at incursion sites, then civilians would find your hunters extremely suspicious for appearing at them as well.” He flicks his gaze up to Isgarren for a moment. “The uniforms really stand out, you know, and humans love to gossip.”

“Duly noted.” Isgarren grumbles, but then his gaze turns downward and something flickers across his expression. “Using unaffiliated combatants already within the cities is a novel idea, and one I’m sure Mabon would have agreed with.”

“The Shining Blade, or even the Seraph can handle the incursions in Divinity’s Reach. It seems like those kryptis showing their face in Cantha might have given us the perfect cover story.” Livia says as she motions a finger towards the city on the map. “I’d say we’re rather lucky that the fodder Eparch keeps sending us aren’t the talkative type. Guess he’s saving the smarter grunts for something else.”

Logan nods. “None of the kryptis I’ve dealt with have spoken. Some uncomfortable groaning and squealing, but no words.”

Kaushue grins, because it is so good to feel on-level with Isgarren for once. Logan being by his side is only a boon, helping him formulate his plans and refining them with all of his honed military knowledge.

A teeny little part of him wonders what it would have been like to be a commander under his leadership.

“So we’re settled, I’ll return to the mainland and—“

“—Isgarren, I found this in Mabon’s room, what should I...”

All four eyes dart towards the door of the room, and downwards to where a certain little asura is standing. Zojja looks at them all with wide eyes, unblinking. “I—uh, I… I didn’t know you were… in a meeting.”

Her voice is as small as her, squeaky and breaking. Kaushue’s eyes flick between her and Logan, trying not to bring too much attention to it, but noting how she tries not to look in his direction, and how he looks like he just got punched in the gut.

“Zojja, so this is where…“ Logan begins to speak, but trails off, lips parted where words fail to come forth.

“Hi, Logan…” She mutters, eyes turned down towards the floor in discomfort.

“Uh, right, uh.” Kaushue coughs loudly, trying to take back the attention. “Isgarren, I think our plan is finalised. I’ll be returning to my room and tomorrow I’ll start putting things in motion.” He speaks in the most ‘commader-y’ tone he can muster, trying not to let the abject awkwardness around them hamper the fact that they are still very much having a serious discussion. “I recommend Logan stay for a few days to properly discuss details with Livia, and to get a broader grasp of the Astral Ward.”

“Very well, Wayfinder. I place my trust in you and your human associate. Do not make me regret this.” Isgarren says with a heavy air of finality. “Your actions carry unimaginable responsibility. Do not forget that.”

Kaushue nods and heads towards the door with the fastest pace he can muster without looking like he is straight-up fleeing. And then Logan’s hand is on his shoulder, the man following behind.

“I should stay with the commander. To make sure I don’t get into trouble.” Logan says to the seer, flimsiest excuse possible.

Zojja doesn’t look up at him even when he passes by her.

The door clicks shut behind them. It feels like freedom.

“Zojja?” Logan turns to him, something of an accusatory expression on his face.

Well, so much for freedom.

“Yes. Yes…” Kaushue sighs and leans a shoulder against the door. He is exhausted and really doesn’t want Logan’s judgement right now. “Look, it wasn’t my place to say. She… she chose not to contact anyone for a reason. If I told you, it wouldn’t have been right.”

Logan crosses his arms over his chest. He scowls, but when he looks back up to the commander to continue into a lecture, his eyes widen almost comically.

Kaushue looks over his shoulder, wondering if maybe his friend had caught sight of some strange Astral Ward contraption. And then he does his second double take of the day.

Trahearne stares at them. Logan stares back. Kaushue looks between both.

He’s really tired of being caught between rocks and hard places, and today feels like a landslide.

“Trahearne?” Logan’s voice is pitched up an octave or two. Kaushue doesn’t blame him. Poor guy’s brain must be absolutely fried after the sheer amount of everything he’s just been put through in the space of a few hours.

“I, um, Commander.” Trahearne blinks and shakes his head. “I bumped into Genkki, an asura from Obscure. She said you were summoned to Isgarren’s office. I wanted to come see what was happening.” A very, very uncomfortable and awkward chuckle escapes his throat. “I wasn’t expecting to see such a familiar face with you, however.”

And as if things simply couldn’t get worse for Kaushue, the door opens next to them.

Zojja steps out, looks up at all three and panic flashes through her eyes rapidly. Her eyes dart left and right trying to find somewhere to land, and eventually they do so in the general direction of Kaushue’s greaves.

They stand there in absolute silence.

Kaushue start to scratch at his ungloved forearm as the overwhelming heaviness in the air becomes too much. It’s all a bit too reminiscent of the last time he was stood in front of Isgarren’s office in the presence of things he’d much rather not acknowledge. It is deeply unappreciated. He tries to take his mind away from words said to Trahearne that he feels undoubtedly far more confused and less-certain of, and towards his still-in-their-original-form Tyrian friends.

But Logan is looking away, and now so is Zojja.

“I, um, need some time alone.” The asura says quietly, not even turning to look at any of them before walking away in the direction Mabon’s emptied chambers lay.

Kaushue wants to go after her. He knows that seeing Logan again must have brought up some complicated and unwanted feelings, but she was clear on so many things that he simply never noticed. Does she want him to follow? Does she really want to be alone? He wishes that he was Mabon, because Mabon would know what to do and say to clear the stormy clouds brewing in her tiny little heart, and Kaushue… doesn’t.

“Let us take this somewhere private.” Trahearne says, stepping away from the door and looking to him and Logan. The two begin to follow with a quick gesture. “Marshal Thackeray must have plenty of questions not appropriate for discussion in the hallway.”

Logan visibly cringes at his words. “No titles. Not that one, especially. Not from you.”

Trahearne takes them to his room, and Kaushue is just the teeniest bit shy because everything they’ve done so far has taken place in his own, so this is very much new territory. His eyes flit back and forth across the space, taking in the bookcases and diagrams and other confusing smart-people things. It makes something uncomfortable flutter around in his chest, because this is the closest he’s ever seen in regards to Trahearne having an actual place of his own and not just a stop-over or temporary lodging.

The other two don’t notice his distracted musings however, Trahearne offering Logan a drink and the man accepting with a bit too much eagerness. The human kicks back in a rather comfortable looking chair while Kaushue eventually decides to sit on a table.

He doesn’t want to get too comfortable, and the other option is sitting on Trahearne’s bed and he really doesn’t want to, uh, deal with that sort of thing right now.

“So… first things first.” Logan scratches at the back of his head for a moment, trying to find the right way to articulate… whatever it is he’s feeling. “Whew. I guess you really weren’t talking about Canach, huh, Commander?”

Kaushue flushes instantly. “N-no, I really wasn’t.”

Trahearne raises one brow, but says nothing, and Kaushue is rather glad because that’s not a conversation he wants to have with Logan present.

The human taps his chin with a finger. “So then, what… is he? A super-advanced golem? Magical construct?”

“I think you know what I am.” Trahearne says quietly, arms folded over his chest. “No different than what happened to you and Zojja.”

“…I was really hoping it’d be anything other than that, honestly.” Logan slumps into his chair, rubbing his face with both hands. He runs one through his hair and looks up at Trahearne with an unknown expression. “But you’re not like one of… them. So what’s going on there?”

“…You’re right. I’m not. If I’m honest, I don’t really understand why I turned out this way. I was just one of many.”

Trahearne pauses to think back to eight years ago. When he continues, it's to tell of the emptiness that permeated his mind when he left that pod and his body was layers of thick, impenetrable bark. And all he knew was to hunt and kill and convert. To follow the Father Dragon’s words to the letter and serve him. It was his purpose, what he was made for. Created as nothing more than a puppet, a soldier to take orders and follow them out.

But then Mordremoth died, and it was all so eerily empty inside his mind. No orders. No purpose. He and his identical kin wandered the jungle, seeking something new to fill that emptiness. Each and every one of them devoid of a reason to exist. And then they died too. Picked off by wildlife. Picked off by hylek and Exalted and Pact. All that remained was just him amongst the devastation of those who never gained a reason to go on. 

It began not long after. Memories began to bleed in through the haze. Faces. Names. Places. The salty, death-stained scent of Orr. The sound of Mother’s voice. The intricacies of the commander’s face. Malomedies reading a book to him when they were young. Him and Wynne as they prepared the marker for Riannoc’s grave. The weight of Caladbolg in his hands. Guiding young twin siblings, trying to help an unknown sylvari find his roots, staring deep into a mirror showing him the lands he’d raised himself in and feeling the cold dread that he never fully got used to all the while.

So he hid. Scared. Terrified. He hid where he could, because nothing made sense and he couldn’t understand what was happening. Thicker patches of bark began to peel away, muted and ragged browns fading to where verdant green would shine through. His form slowly changing to what he saw himself as in the flashes that would come to him so frequent and so alarmingly vivid. Sitting by a spring one day, thirsty and desperate, he looked in and saw one half of him a monster and the other a man. But not understanding which was meant to be him.
 
Mabon found him the next day, and the rest was history. Narcisse to tend to his corruption and help with the scars left on his mind. Mabon to guide and lead him when he would feel so lost and alone. R’tchikk and Glade to provide him the reprieve he needed from himself. And Isgarren… Isgarren would always look at him strangely. Questioning. It felt like judgement, and part of him wondered if he was too much an aberration even for the likes of Wizards and the Astral Ward.

In the present, he looks over to Kaushue, who looks as shocked by his tale as he felt living it. In his worst of moments, he had wished Mabon never found him in that jungle. Never took him back to the Tower. But in this moment? He is thankful for all of it.

“Logan and Zojja’s clones seemed… mindless, in a fashion.” Kaushue clears his throat, trying not to comment anything too personal. It’s not the time for that. “Imitations, even if…” He shuts his eyes and tries to blot out the screams of pain.

Logan sounds considerably less shaken. “And you’re more than that.”

Trahearne looks up at him, surprise flitting across his face.

“If you hadn’t said anything, I’d have thought this was… advanced necromancy, or something. Or something like one of Jennah’s fancier illusions.” The human looks him up and down, squinting. “You don’t seem any… different.”

“I appreciate it.” Trahearne mutters, discomfort resting upon his face. When he speaks again, it is with a quickened pace. “Well, you seem receptive to the whys and hows of my existing, so I feel it’s time we turn our attention to the other elephant in the room.”

Neither Logan nor Kaushue decide to linger on the topic.

“Zojja.” The commander mutters. He has to admit he’s been curious; they’ve hardly had the chance to speak since he came back from Febe, what with her focusing everything into mourning and recovering and preparing for…

It’s something he files away for the moment, doesn’t want to focus on how it upsets him.

But Trahearne and Logan were the last people to see her before everything went wrong in Maguuma, so he wants to know. Logan has never spoken of it, and it’s been gnawing at his mind to know what happened back there.

The aforementioned human leans back in his chair. “I was certainly surprised to see her. Not so much surprised to see her in this sort of place, though. It matches her, grand ambition and all. But it was rather disheartening that she didn’t even want to look at me, though.”

“I believe that’s more my fault, Logan.” Trahearne says with a shake of his head. “She arrived here only two years after I did, and we’ve spoken barely more than a few words to each other in all that time. She doesn’t want to talk to me, to be precise.”

Kaushue pushes himself off the edge of the table, startled. “What?” He can understand Zojja feeling uncomfortable around Logan after the way she refused to speak to him again before vanishing, but Trahearne? What would she have against him?

“So she was serious about what she said.” Logan mutters, shadows over his eyes.

Trahearne nods. “But I don’t blame her for it.”

Kaushue pushes between the two, looking between them. “Serious about what? What did she say?” He turns to Trahearne and looks up to him with a plea in his eyes. “I need to stop being kept in the dark here. What the hell happened in Maguuma between you three?”

Logan takes a deep sigh, running a hand through his hair again. “Alright, commander. I suppose there's no reason anymore not to tell.”

They should have stayed back. They could have stayed in Verdant Brink, and things would have gone fine. But that’s not who any of them were. Zojja mourned over the broken body of Mr. Sparkles, wiping her eyes dry before trying to return to the ever-strong girl she had always pretended to be. Trahearne had offered to let her stay behind, and Logan did too. But she wouldn’t have it.

Eir was still out there, somewhere, and this time Zojja wasn’t going to let Destiny’s Edge stay broken. She was coming whether they liked it or not.

Logan was of the same mindset as Trahearne, focused on digging deeper into the jungle to find what survivors they could He too needed to find his friend. Caithe and Rytlock, wherever they were, would have done everything to save Eir. As would he.

So they set off, and it didn’t take long to find survivors. Or rather, survivor.

Laranthir had been relatively unscathed, but his voice was shaken as he explained how he just barely avoided falling to his death as so many of his team had. A lucky catch on the canopy, branches tugging on his armour to slow the fall. And when he reached the ground, his landing was cushioned by the broken bodies of soldiers he himself had trained.

Trahearne had sent him back on his way to the Silverwastes. Protest was met with harsh orders. A firm tone telling his brother to retreat and find aid. To send word to the commander, if he could. Even knowing his second-in-command’s preoccupations, he could trust that Kaushue would come through for them if he knew of the sheer catastrophe that had occurred.

And then the three of them went their own way, but the newly-turned mordrem guard were hot on their heels, stalking and hunting them like the jungle predators they had become. One look back as they were dragged kicking and screaming, tooth and nail, showed Laranthir watching them from atop a massive structure of carved rock.

They had to trust in him.

And as they were dragged further and day turned to night and wings flapped high in the canopy while sounds of bonfires and Pact screaming and gunfire could be heard from all across the jungle, they planned to themselves. They needed a way out.

Eventually they were brought to a clearing of sorts. A camp, filled with prisons and sobbing and the overwhelming stench of death. As the mordrem pushed and pulled and prodded with weapons of stone and ley-energy, they were forced past the cages. Like some sort of humiliation march in front of those unlucky enough to be captured.

When a shock of orange hair caught their eyes, Zojja began to kick up a fuss, calling out for her friend—and hearing Eir call back had been perhaps the only thing to prevent their spirits from crumbling entirely as they were hurried along further. Past the cages. Deeper into the thickets.

Days turned to weeks. Scenery from large, willowy canopies to a golden city surrounded by floating, masked creatures that their captors shuffled them further away from. But it was then that they found their opening as a stampede of pocket raptors and stoneheads stormed towards them, reducing the mordrem’s numbers in swift fashion.

They took their chance to run. Escape.

But they were lost, deep in a jungle with no sense of direction and no map to chart their way. They had to turn back for Eir. But they couldn’t retrace their steps; there was no doubt the mordrem guard had established patrol routes and would capture them again just as quickly.

So they tried to find their own way back.

And sometimes they would find those they could help. And many times, they did not.

They found a group so terrified of Trahearne’s mere presence as a sylvari that they ran, and when the three had found them once again, all that was left was the bloody aftermath. Logan and Zojja could both see how shaken Trahearne was. Confidence broken and will ragged. Another stain on his conscience, already blackened by the crash. But still, they pushed on. With heavy hearts, they pushed on.

They ended up further into the jungle after being steered off-course trying to avoid yet more mordrem guard and saurians. Lush grass and beautiful towering gold pillars left behind for twisted, tangling depths. And they would have turned back and left had the air not been suddenly pierced with screaming.

So they followed the sound. They couldn’t allow innocents to suffer.

And then they saw it, mordrem guard shepherding along a small group of Pact survivors. The argument came swiftly after. Tired and exhausted and frustrated, words traded over who should or should not intervene—and then the mordrem had swarmed them, leaving their prior prey behind. It was messy, it was violent, but in the end those innocent soldiers escaped. And as for the three of them? Prisoners once more. Logan cussed. Trahearne was silent. And Zojja…

Zojja snapped.

Logan had never seen such guilt on a person’s face as he had on Trahearne’s as Zojja blamed the sylvari for everything. The plan going wrong. The crash. The deaths. Not being able to save Eir. All of it.

“I know when she sees me, all she can think is how I ruined her life.” Trahearne interrupts. “That if I’d thought it through more clearly, if I hadn’t underestimated Mordremoth, if I’d just made us turn back…”

“She wouldn’t have been so broken, and you wouldn’t have died.” Kaushue’s voice is soft as he reaches out for Trahearne, hands gentle against his arms as he tries to offer comfort. “But how could you have known?”

It was something he stewed in anger on for a long time. When he had heard whispers and hushed chatter about how the Maguuma campaign had been Trahearne’s fault. How he was reckless. Some even supposed it had been deliberate, that Mordremoth had gotten into his mind and Trahearne had sent them all as lambs to the slaughter for the dragon.

And he couldn’t bear to listen to it. To listen to anyone who tried to posit that Trahearne was at fault for what happened to their Pact. Not when there was someone for him to direct his anger toward. Someone who already knew of Mordremoth and the sylvari and never let a word slip.

For a long time, every time he saw her, he stopped seeing Caithe as his sister and mentor, the firstborn who aided him in the earliest adventures of his life. He saw someone who kept to herself the truth, and in doing so, in keeping that truth from her brothers, from Trahearne, she condemned them all to Mordremoth’s clutches. All he saw was the reason his heart was broken yet again.

But he’d learnt a lot since then. When he’d fought Aerin in Dry Top all that time ago, it had scared Kaushue how the man hadn’t even seemed aware he was there. There was nothing that existed to Aerin beyond getting hold of Aurene’s egg, and whatever else Mordremoth had been whispering to him. He had been so lost, so much of himself whittled away because of that Dragon. And Scarlet much of the same. So much madness, so much pain and suffering, because Mordremoth replaced whoever they had been with his own twisted machinations.

And he came to accept that Caithe was no different. A victim as much as any of them, mind twisted and torn by forces beyond her control. He never wanted to ask her what exactly Mordremoth did or said to her, didn’t want to force her to relive that when even he would still have faint nightmares of the few moments those tendrils had dug too deep into his mind. Her sensitivities displayed themselves through the way she played with and raised Aurene, and the anger ebbed away. Sweeping away into pity and shame for his anger at what she had done. He could still be hurt in the outcome of it all… but he could not hate her.

He couldn’t blame her, even when she knew what they were. What Mordremoth was to them. How could anyone have blamed Trahearne when he never knew, could never have believed that they were born to be puppets to a great evil?

“I do not begrudge her her feelings, commander.” Trahearne reaches up to rest his uninjured hand atop Kaushue’s. “And I do not wish to overstep boundaries. I have always told myself that if she wishes to discuss Maguuma, I will be open for her. If she never wishes to see me again, I will do my best to avoid her out of courtesy.”

“And she chose the latter.” Sighs Logan. “I love her, but she has always been the kind of person to need someone to blame. But I get it, I’ve done my share of blaming someone for things they never did wrong either. I just wish she knew how much she’s hurting herself like this.”

“I think she knows.” Kaushue says softly. It isn’t his story to tell, but he figures Logan knows Zojja and her mindset much better than he ever has. “It’s not good for her, but it’s not like I’m one to talk about healthy coping mechanisms. Maybe it is just the only way she can handle what happened.”

“I don’t think any of us are ones to talk about healthy coping mechanisms.” Logan mutters.

He feels bad about it right away, but an undignified snort of laughter rips itself from Kaushue. Even with slapping a hand over his mouth, the sound leaks out. If he’s honest with himself, it’s probably the stress of the day getting to him, because it really wasn’t funny at all.

Logan starts to chuckle too. And then Trahearne.

The three of them laugh together under the weight of ample regrets. 

Logan leaves in the early hours of the evening. Although Trahearne insists the man can use his room during his stay in the Wizard’s Tower, Logan simply gives him a smirk and says something about wanting to explore one of Tyria’s greatest secrets now he has the chance.

Kaushue makes sure to warn him not to follow his nose.

Trahearne closes the door quietly behind Logan, leaving just him and Kaushue alone together. He looks back at the younger sylvari in silence for a few moments. Kaushue has relocated himself to the bed, using it as a seat and shooting him an awkward smile. “Uh, the table was kind of hurting my butt.”

Trahearne chuckles quietly, and then the room falls back into silence. They look at each other with a familiar fondness, a lack of discomfort hanging between them despite all of today’s heavy discussion. The only problem is that neither is entirely sure what to do next.

So he decides to voice something that had been poking at his mind for the past few hours. “By the way, Commander…” He looks a bit awkward as he speaks, “what Logan said earlier, about…”

The commander sighs quietly. He knew this was coming. “About Canach, right?”

Trahearne steps closer to him, trying to keep his gaze from looking anywhere else. “Yes. Look, Kaushue, it doesn’t bother me. Circumstances were… very much not normal. I’m just curious if you ever tried to find someone else.”

It certainly hurts to have Trahearne ask him, but there is no point in keeping it to himself. “I never planned to. Didn’t want to, actually.” He says, surprising himself at how steady his voice comes out. “After Tybalt, and then you… I didn’t think I could handle it if anything ever happened again like that. But…”

His mind swoops onwards, past Maguuma. For a moment he pictures himself in Caudecus’ room with Canach by his side, a comforting arm across his shoulder as he weeps over Demmi, another hole torn into the vibrant patchwork of his youth. Then he is in the desert, and while the erratic machinations of a rogue god weigh on his mind, the man’s lighthearted jests and sarcastic quips keep the mood from souring too strongly. But then Balthazar is dead, and Kralkatorrik is preparing to tear their whole world apart. So while they’re celebrating one threat gone and trying to pretend for just a few hours that their doom isn’t quite so impending, he drinks. And he drinks, and drinks, and drinks. And makes a fool of himself in front of everyone.

His friends never let him live it down afterwards.

“I suppose… I had some sort of crush.” He finally admits, scratching the back of his head. “I figured maybe I needed to be with someone not so… self sacrificing. But it didn’t work out, as you’ve probably guessed.”

Trahearne looks like he’s tossing between this or that, but then he finally opens his mouth. “May I ask why? If that’s not too intrusive, of course.”

“I can’t say everything, but…” He sighs again and smiles, something small and sheepish. “I needed things he didn’t feel he’d be able to provide. So, to answer your question… yes, it was a thing I considered, but I’ve just never had that connection again.”

“I see. I only wanted to know.” Trahearne’s fingers reach up to brush at the commander’s forehead, pushing back his already messy leaves. “You were always passionate, and you loved so deeply. I wouldn’t have wanted for you to give that up.”

Kaushue blushes faintly, leaning into the touch. He’s always been weak to a gentle hand through his leaves. “And what about you?” He asks, trying to divert his embarrassment. “Did you ever meet anyone here?”

Although he’s sure he already knows the answer.

Trahearne smiles at him, hand slipping from his hair to gently cup the smaller man’s cheek. “It was very different for me. The whole time I’ve lived here, I knew you were still out there, fighting every day.

“I promised myself to you for the rest of my life, and I wanted to honour that.”

 Words bolt through Kaushue, and it takes all his fortitude to keep them down. Words he can’t say. Can’t allow himself to say, for both of their sakes. But just hearing that, knowing Trahearne’s heart had reserved itself for him and him only, even when it was likely they would never have met again…

“You’re a good man, Trahearne.” He says instead, offering him the most genuine smile he can muster.

“I’m glad you think so.” His fingers slip from Kaushue’s cheek, and the pale sylvari makes the slightest hint of a whine at the loss. “Anyway, it’s getting late, and you have an early start tomorrow…”

“Actually, uh.” Kaushue’s fingers rise up to tangle in the soft cloth of Trahearne’s robes, holding tightly but not pulling either. “Can I… stay here tonight?”

“Kaushue…” Trahearne wants to say yes. Every little bit of him wants to say yes and lay down next to him and it’ll all be like how it used to be, but…

“Your arm is injured. Let me just look after you, just for a little bit.” Kaushue murmurs out a flimsy excuse, leaning forward to rest his head against Trahearne’s hip. “I’ll be leaving again in the morning, but I want more time with you first.”

And as he finds his fingers carding through the commander’s hair once more, Trahearne thinks so much for trying to be the rational and reasonable one of them. “This is a bad idea, you know.”

“I do know. “It’s a bit of a relief when Kaushue tilts his head up to look at him with a smile on his lips thankfully devoid of melancholy. “But I’ve gotten pretty far in life riding off of bad ideas.”

Trahearne sighs, taking a seat on the bed by the commander’s side. They lean into each other, bodies fit as snugly against each other as they always have. It’s so right, and yet…

“I…” The verdant sylvari’s voice is rough as he tries to get the words out. “I think we need to... put things into perspective. We cannot keep doing this—”

Kaushue’s voice is more of a plea than anything else. “After tonight.”

“After tonight.” Trahearne repeats in agreement. “This situation has been far harder for me than I’d expected. It’s so… easy to fall back into the mannerisms we shared once, but now…”

The commander hides his face against Trahearne’s shoulder. “It’s not the same. I know… I’m the one that said it, after all.”

“You need to know who I am. Not just who ‘Trahearne’ is, but everything I’ve become in all these years we’ve been apart.” He gestures to his room. There are so many things that reflect what Kaushue knew him to be; studious, and inquisitive.

But this Trahearne is free, in a way. He had only ever known a Trahearne that carried the weight and expectations of their race and family upon his shoulders. The weight of being a leader. The weight of his own existence. He’s never truly known a Trahearne that could live life as he wanted.

“I want to know you.” He whispers.

And then Trahearne’s body relaxes so suddenly; like he’d been tensing up every inch of himself in anticipation of… rejection? It stings—maybe he really hasn’t been as in-tune with Trahearne’s feelings as he’d thought.

“I want you to stay here tonight.” Trahearne says, voice so soft, so soothing. “And when you return, we’ll start trying to work things out.”

Kaushue sighs. “Alright. I can do that. I, uh, I really want to do that, even.”

And suddenly Trahearne is leaning, pulling Kaushue down onto the bed beside him. They both let out a laugh as their limbs are strewn in a disastrous mess across each other. “It was less chaotic in my mind.” Trahearne chuckles.

Kaushue pushes himself up to give Trahearne more space, head hitting the pillow on the other side of the bed. It’s a bit strange, because he’s always been… clingy, so to speak, when sharing a bed with someone else. Not just Trahearne, either. He’d clung tight to his sister as saplings. Awkwardly spooned Canach in their tents in the Crystal Desert (hey, he had no idea desert nights were so cold!). Hell, one time he remembers falling asleep with his head in Gorrik’s lap. It probably wasn’t appreciated on the asura’s part, but hey, he never complained.

It’s always been difficult to sleep with someone nearby without being in contact with them. So with Trahearne so close-by, he really wants to roll in closer and feel those arms around him—but he refrains with the willpower of a god. Or something stronger, because he’s kind of proven that gods aren’t as powerful as he’d imagined.

Trahearne looks across at him from his own pillow. Reaches a hand out to brush a leaf from falling into his eyes. He smiles gently at him and parts his lips.

“I won’t hold you.”

“You won’t hold me.”

“And I won’t kiss you.”

“And you won’t kiss me.”

“But I’ll be right here.”

“You’ll be right here.”

No more is said after that. No more needs to be said.

Trahearne slowly begins to shut his eyes, allowing himself the gradual fall into slumber’s embrace. And aided by the moonlight pouring through the nearby window, Kaushue watches him. Although Trahearne had never been ‘young’, so to speak, what with their nature as sylvari, Kaushue notes as he gazes softly at the way his features loosen and relax, that he looks so youthful in his rest. Lulled by little more than the rhythmic sound of Trahearne’s breathing, Kaushue’s own eyelids begin to feel heavy. But still, he fights it the whole way.

It’s been a long time since he’d rather be in reality than one of his dreams.

Chapter Text

After the somewhat chill temperature of the Wizard’s Tower, the air of Lion’s Arch makes him want to fall right back to sleep. Trahearne had already had to half-carry him to the portal with how groggy he’d been, and this most certainly is not helping.

In a feeble attempt to waken his brain for the day to come, he stretches tall and wide—in a way that Trahearne and his friends always noted as seeming very ‘cat-like’.

“Wayfinder.”

And then he leaps about three feet in the air, also very much ‘cat-like’. And now, also very much awake.

“P-Peitha?! What’s the matter? Is it Eparch? Do you need me?” He spins in-place, staring at the portal—or just a wall to anyone else passing by. He doesn’t want to be caught talking to himself, especially not when sometimes he still gets dirty looks just for being a sylvari. Mordremoth’s been dead for years, yet opinions could still be… volatile.

“Worry not, Wayfinder. The spider remains in his web, as do those within his nest. For now.” Her voice is like a breeze through his body, wrapping around him in a delicate embrace. “No, I was curious, rather. Your emotions, lately they have been… volatile. Erratic. One moment grief, the next bliss.”

He lets out a little snort. Volatile. That’s one way of putting it.

“Yeah, it’s been… It’s been something, for sure.” He wonders a little whether kryptis have their own romantic dilemmas or not. Would Peitha even understand his situation if he explained it? “A bit of, ah, confusion, so to speak, in my love life.”

“Troubles with a mate, Wayfinder?” Her tone is as blunt and inquisitive as ever. “A commonality between our peoples, it would seem.”

He barely hides his surprise. “Kryptis fall in love too?”

“Why would you suppose creatures that frequently indulge on emotion do not?” Thankfully, she seems unoffended by the question. Then her voice drops lower, quieter. “Even Cerus, the brute that he was, found love with another. The only one of us three to do so.”

Kaushue blinks. The thought of Cerus, the hulking great abomination that hunted him like game and tortured Isgarren with glee, being genuinely in love with someone… well, it’s a little hard to process. If not entirely impossible. “The three of you, you mean you and your brothers, right?” he asks instead.

“Yes. Cerus was always so taken by his own emotions, but Deimos had eyes for little other than what Eparch expected of him. And as for myself… I have no interest in such things, not while my people are treated as little more than cattle.” An unfamiliar melancholy touches her voice as she continues. “I imagine that many kryptis are too afraid to love under Eparch’s rule.”

From what precious little he actually knows of Eparch and Nayos, it is safe to assume that living under someone who could devour you at a moment’s fancy would put off feelings of affection and kinship. “I suppose all the more reason for me to assist.”

“So, would you indulge me in your woes, Wayfinder?” She asks, swooping the topic back around. “I am curious to know what sort of creature captivates you.”

He’s a touch embarrassed. Because he’s always been very open with his feelings, starting from his ignorance that he shouldn’t fall in love outside of the sylvari (not that it would have stopped him regardless), to simply finding no better moments in life than when he and Trahearne were together. But people could see those things for themselves. Trying to explain them, however… it’s a very different story.

“He’s my, uh, he is… was? My husband. Mate, I mean.” Words fumble as he tries to figure out just what Trahearne is supposed to be to him. Are they still technically married? What is the correct protocol for being… un-widowed? He shakes his head, trying to get back on-topic. “He, uh, he died. A long time ago. But he’s also still alive. The Wizards have been taking care of him. You’re probably starting to see where the jumble of emotions is coming from.”

He laughs but it does little to abate the discomfort laying in his gut.

“I will admit some confusion, but such questions can wait for another time. He makes you… so blissful. And then your despair is like such a dark, bitter wine.” She makes a strange noise, and he figures it must be her feeding on him. Huh. Despite all her subtle comments—and the fact she is a kryptis—he’d never really given too much thought on being her personal lunchbox. Well, as long as she isn’t as ravenous as her brothers or her king, it should be fine. For now.

“He does. He makes me happier than anything.” Trahearne waking him up in the morning, gently laughing when Kaushue protested. Like old times. Simpler times. “But, y’know, I can’t… not be upset, either.” How long they’ve been separated. Trying to come to terms with it. Unsure if he’ll really be able to accept this ‘new’ Trahearne in the long run…

“Do you still love him, Wayfinder?”

He pauses, allowing the waft of salty ocean air to whip past him. Grounding him in the moment. Taking in a deep gulp of breath, trying to calm himself, he looks up to the blue sky above.

“I really wish I knew how to answer that.”

After an hour or two waiting in the Black Citadel for his friend to finally have a moment of freedom, his entire meeting with Rytlock is boiled down to a very desperate and eager sounding ‘I’ll do it’ the moment the plan is presented.

But the Commander scarcely has a moment before Crecia makes her presence apparent to them both, chastising the charr for abandoning her in the midst of a political debate of some sort. Lots of fangs. Lots of pointing. Lots of Rytlock wincing and looking like a kicked puppy (a kicked cat?)

Kaushue’s exit is swift. As much as he loves Rytlock as a friend, he does not love him enough to subject himself to him and Crecia squabbling where everyone can see them.

There are other places to be, after all.

It feels good to take a deep lungful of the sharp, even slightly painful Shiverpeaks air. The Tower may be a bit on the chilly side, as high up as it is, but there is nothing to Kaushue quite like filling his lungs with snowflakes.

He adjusts the scarf around his neck, letting it blanket his bared shoulders just a little bit more, and looks up to the towering wood gate before him.

It’s been a really long time, hasn’t it?

The guards give him a quick look over as he passes through, and then recognition lights up their faces. They both smile to him as they let him pass them by. He returns the gesture before allowing himself to dash up the earth and wooden slats, nostalgia filling his chest as the village comes into full view.

Norn seated around bonfires, music and booming voices filling the air, children playing with wolf pups amongst the snow. Oh, it’s a very pleasant sight, for sure. His eyes scan the area, picking through crowds of unfamiliar faces until…

“Braham!” Kaushue kicks up snow aplenty as he rushes toward his friend, seated around one of the fires with a few others and roasting some manner of meat atop it. Dolyak, judging by the smell.

“There he is!” Braham lifts himself off his seat, grin wide and eyes practically sparkling as he catches sight of the commander. And the very moment said commander is close enough, Braham picks him up as easily as a piece of cloth and gives him a crushing squeeze.

“Don’t mind him, he’s already had a few.” One of the others guffaws over the sounds of Kaushue choking.

“Y-yes, it’s good to see you too!” Kaushue pushes at Braham’s chest until the man finally relents and puts him back in his rightful place on the ground. He takes a few deep—totally not gasping—breaths and offers his friend as wide a grin as Braham’s own. “And it’s good to see things are going well here, by the looks of things.”

An older man with a full beard and face heavy with wrinkles toasts his mug towards the commander with an appreciative hoot. “Yer damn right it is! Cragstead’s never been better, even before all that Molten Alliance shite.”

Kaushue himself can’t say. He’d never seen the place before he stormed in here with Braham, both saplings in their own way, to mop up charr and dredge alike. But knowing what he does, he’s inclined to believe it. It certainly looks more like a tiny slice of Hoelbrak itself than last time he saw it. Cosy and welcoming. But maybe this is just how it always was before, made all the better with the taste of proper freedom in the air.

Braham smacks the commander square on the back and the force makes Kaushue momentarily thankful he doesn’t have bones. “Should’ve brought you back here for a pint or two before all this. The stead wouldn’t be standing without you after all!”

Kaushue laughs and tries not to remind Braham about the more volatile years of their relationship where going to Cragstead for a friendly visit was very much a no-go.

“So, how’s it been for you? Been a good while since it’s been just me and you, after all.” He says, trying to urge Braham away from the rowdy, jovial norn for a bit of privacy.

And luckily for him, Braham clocks on despite the drink. The two begin a walk, leaving mismatched tracks in the snow as they approach where the dirt paths have been made clearer and more refined over the years. Kaushue looks up with a smile at the smaller buildings, newer homes for newer villagers, more pens for animals, and vibrant lights to illuminate the darker corners.

“It really has come far.” Braham says, satisfaction clear. “And y’know, I like to think that, uh, I’m finally there too, y’know?”

"You think you've come far?" Kaushue's voice is assuring. He still sees the kid Braham was when they first met, but he also sees the man he's grown into. He doesn't doubt Braham at all; he just wants to hear Braham say it himself. 

They pause in front of the beautifully well-maintained statues of Wolf. Braham looks up, and he smiles in such a relaxed way. Something a bit foreign, but suiting him all the same.

“…Yeah. I think I have.”

They stand there in silence for a time as sounds of children running and playing serves as a backdrop to excited hollers and whoops being shared between those around the fires. It’s a welcoming reminder of things, after Amnytas and the Ward and the Wizards. Their peoples with their vibrant lives and things that might be so small, so insignificant in the wake of all he’s learned. But he cannot imagine life without them.

He really wishes Isgarren could understand.

“Anyway!” Braham exclaims suddenly, smacking his hands together. “You didn’t come here just to catch up, so what’s going on?”

Kaushue laughs a bit tiredly. “How could you tell?”

“You get quiet and weird when you’re thinking about stuff.”

The sylvari rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly. He’d never really thought it was that obvious. “Well, if you’re picking up on cues like that, it’s definitely a sign you’ve grown.”

He deserves the gentle bop on the head Braham gives him. “Hey now, I’m not that dumb.”

Kaushue lets out a happy breath. “You’re not dumb at all.” And then he inhales the same breath, deep, steady. “But, yes, why I’m here… I need you to do something for me. Something for Hoelbrak.”

Braham turns to face him, arms folded over each other and one brow raised. “It better not be about some secret elder dragon.”

The commander snorts. “No, no, not at all. Look, you know what happened to me in Cantha not long ago. I think everyone in the guild does, to… painfully embarrassing detail.”

“About your mental breakdown? I was only surprised it took that long,” Braham supplies helpfully.

“I… yes. About my… mental breakdown.” That is easier to explain than ‘demons were tugging painful memories out because they were delicious’, and he supposes also very true anyway. “Anyway, the oni, the creature that was stalking us in the mines… they’ve started showing up here, too. At first it was out in the wilderness, but they’ve even begun appearing in cities. I need you to help me, to cover Hoelbrak.”

Braham blinks. Once. Twice. “You want me to… help you beat up oni?”

“Look, I know it’s a huge ask, but a lot of innocent people could be at risk—“

“No, no, I’m not complaining. In fact, after what you did to Kralk, you owe me this. The chance to punch oni, demons or whatever they are, to death? Hells yeah!”

Kaushue pauses, and then laughter bursts out of him. “Pale Mother, teaches me to doubt you for even a second.”

“I mean, it sounds awesome, and… well, the healer I’ve been seeing for the, uh…” He gestures towards his head. “Trauma and stuff? Said it’d be good to keep up a physical outlet. Can’t think of a better outlet than crushing demons.”

“I’ll have to agree there.” He’s not about to pretend that curbstomping Eparch’s grunts after what he saw in Amnytas isn’t exceptionally cathartic. “I’d, uh, recommend you maybe bring a few people along with you, at the very least—“

“He’s already got ‘em!”

Kaushue and Braham both turn—definitely, absolutely not jumping in the slightest, no siree—to see the others who’d been sat around the fire stomp up towards them, eagerness and thrill burning in their eyes.

“Were you eavesdrop—“

“If anyone is joinin’ Braham in beatin’ demons black and blue, it’s gonna be us!”

Tension leaves Kaushue's shoulders. The group of norn surround Braham, poking and pushing at him with wide-set grins and playful banter in their voices. And after a few puzzled moments, Braham laughs back, joining in with equal energy.

The Commander smiles. There really was no reason to worry—not about demons and definitely not about Braham.

He decides to stop over in Gendarran, stopping just far enough past Lionbridge that he doesn’t have to see the Cornucopian Fields or that tower in the distance and have his brain constantly supplying him reminders of ‘the last time you were here you got kidnapped by a giant demon’. It’s not like the swamp is particularly a better view, but he’ll take the unpleasant smell and ugly sight in the distance over unpleasant Cerus-related thoughts any day.

He looks down to the lush grass beneath his feet, hears the trickle of water and the sounds of deer frolicking and eating from the very same grass. Just a moment of calm before he whips out the comms device—trying to ignore the intrusive thought of ‘what if Isgarren has somehow infiltrated the line and will be able to hear anything I have to say’—and finds Gorrik’s name.

The call immediately starts with the sound of Ivan’s cat screeching and Gorrik dropping something in the background. He winces, holding the comms device at arm’s length until the cacophony comes to an end.

“Sorry about that, Commander!” Gorrik’s voice pipes up over the line, “we were about to have a genocide on our hands.”

“You started—“

“I did not!”

Kaushue sighs and decides to take a seat on a heap of rocks by the roadside. Maybe it’d have been a better idea to find a town or stopover before trying to contact them… but then he looks over to his skyscale basking in the warm sunlight, massive butterfly-like wings extending high into the sky as she flexes them, and thinks the poor thing probably deserved a lie down anyway.

“There are oni in Tyria, by the way.” He decides to cut through the yelling and arguing on the other end of the line—and then it goes completely silent. Somehow even the cat had stopped shrieking. Impressive.

“Oni?! Are you sure, Commander? We’ve never heard of oni outside of Cantha before! Maybe they’re flesh reavers?” Kaushue can hear the way Gorrik keeps smacking his hands down on the table. Or at least, what he hopes is a table. “If it’s oni then it could be they have migration patterns! How do you think they’ll fare outside of Cantha, oh I’m so—“

“Gorrik.”

“Right, right. Sorry, Commander.”

Kaushue leans back a bit, looks over to see Shimmer sniffing innocently at a young doe. The poor thing quakes a little in fear but doesn’t flee—boy, he knows that feeling.

“Like I said, we’ve got oni appearances in Tyria. As far as I know it’s mostly been outside the major cities, but settlements have been getting targeted. Divinity’s Reach has been dealing with them for the past we—“

“Oh, those!”

Kaushe’s non-existent heart skips a very uncomfortable beat. “…Those?”

“Jory told me that were some strange sightings in the city. She hasn’t seen them herself, but some people are supposedly whispering that they might be Margonites, and I—“

Kaushue pinches the bridge of his nose. Oh, now wouldn’t that just be a wild, godsdammned ride? Just the thought sparks the onset of a headache. He’s definitely going to have to inform Isgarren because they cannot have people sparking up rumours like that and causing panic and becoming even more delectable to a rather different set of demons.

“I’ve fought a few myself. Definitely not Margonites, but definitely oni. And you were there, you knew what it was like to deal with them. That’s why I need you.”

“Need me?” Gorrik sounds oddly surprised.

“Yeah. Look, you know better than any of us the kind of disaster we’ll have on our hands if what happened in that mine ends up happening all over Tyria.” Kaushue leans forward again, head down. “I’m working on getting everyone to keep watch on their own cities, and I need you to look after Rata Sum. I know you’re busy right now, but… I feel the most comfortable leaving it in your hands, y’know?”

“Hmm… I suppose it would be harder to use our ‘happy thoughts’ method if it was a whole city under panic. Statistics do show that it—”

“And you could show off to Taimi about it.” Kaushue cuts him off with a grin.

There is a clattering sound on the other end. “D-do you really think so? Well, it sounds like a good moment to research them anyway. I never got much of a chance to in the Delve. I’ll be there in a jiffy! Well, not so much a jiffy, because it would take between a few million to even possibly a trillion jiffies or more for me to actually get there, but—“

“Gorrik, I get it.”

“Yes, okay, sorry. You know, I might bring Rama with me. He can help me capture one, perhaps! For study.”

“Gorrik, I really don’t think—“

But it’s already too late. His asuran friend launches into a far-too-complicated tirade for him to understand, and by the sounds of the complaining in the background he’s brought the topic over to Ivan. Kaushue looks at his comms device with a slightly pained smile.

“Was nice catching up, Gor’.” He hopes that Gorrik at least manages to hear him before he cuts the connection.

Kicking a stray rock away as he stands, he stretches his arms high into the sky. Shimmer tilts her head at him, snorting out a hot puff of air. 

“That’s sorted. I think.” He says, approaching the skyscale and giving her a well-deserved scratch under her chin. “All that’s left now is to head home.”

Shimmer flutters her wings excitedly. She always did have a fondness for the Grove.

Scents of rosemary and tulips grace his senses as he passes through the entrance of Dreamer’s Terrace. It’s comforting and all at once he feels like a new bloom again, back when Kahedins had led him through it, telling him in his jovial, soft way ‘now it is your home too, sapling’.

M.O.X. greets him enthusiastically as he passes by, and he is about to turn and give an equally enthusiastic welcome when a sudden chorus of meows approach.

He gets to turn his head just a fraction before an orange ball of fur launches itself into his arms and starts licking at his face.

“Leo!” He gives the feline a squish—not too hard, mind you—and laughs as other tiny feet scamper around him, one climbing his leg (dragging out a few pained hisses) before curling up around his neck. “Seems Harley and Maddy missed me too. Daddy missed you too, babies. Yes I did, yes I—“

A cough drags his gaze upwards to see Caithe and Aife appearing from behind the arch of a door on the other side of the room.

“O-oh, uh… I…”

“Don’t say anything. Save your dignity.” Caithe says with a pitying glance as she strides over to him.

“Whatever little left I might have,” Kaushue murmurs as he—reluctantly—sets the felines back on the floor. “It’s good to see you again. The both of you, by the way.”

Aife chuckles quietly. “It’s nice of you to think of me, but we all know who you’re here for.” She smirks and elbows him gently. “If you ever get the chance, bring me with you on your next adventure too, okay?”

“Aren’t you usually away here, there, or elsewhere, Aife?” He asks, tilting his head. While he knew most of the firstborn remained in the Grove, she and Dagonet were alike in wanting to explore and represent their people.

Aife’s smile drops just the slightest, gaze turning downward. “Not for a few years now, young one. As the surviving eldest of the firstborn, I feel the need to stay and watch over matters in the Grove.”

“Ah…” His cheer dilutes as the words sink in. He had always been too inwardly focused, aching away over what Trahearne’s loss did to him that he never really stopped to consider what it meant for the other firstborn.

“But! That’s why you should take me, next time.” She says, grinning playfully again. “I know Caithe is your favourite, but spare a thought for your other big sisters too sometime.”

Before he is given chance to respond, Aife excuses herself elsewhere, leaving him alone with Caithe and the swarm of cats.

“Seems she’s taking well to things, at least,” he mutters as he turns back to his branded sibling. 

“She’s always been good at adapting. Moreso than most of us, I’d wager.” She says, crossing her arms over her chest. “But, onto you. Your mail sounded urgent.”

“Ah, yes. I’ve asked around Astorea and nobody has heard or seen anything in the Grove yet, but I have intel confirming oni sightings in Tyria.” He takes a seat nearby while Caithe remains standing. “I know you’re hungering for something new to do during Aurene’s absence. Can I rely on you to take care of things here in case things get rough?”

“While it is true that I feel somewhat… purposeless without Aurene, I am not entirely without my own preoccupations, you know.” She then lets out a sigh. “But the Wardens only have experience with courtiers, krait, and hylek. They will need guidance if they are to handle oni, if everything I heard back in Cantha was to be believed.”

“It definitely is to be believed.” He groans. “Trust me.”

“Alright, I will take care of things here for you. But first, I need you to answer something for me.”

His brow raises. “Shoot away.”

“What are you not telling me?” Caithe asks, hands on hips and eyes narrowed.

Of course trying to bullshit Caithe wasn’t going to be easy. If anything, what exactly was he expecting when it came to trying to bluff her of all people? “W-what do you mean?”

“Cherry blossoms. White. The scent flows from your leaves, every one.“

He pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out quite possibly the loudest sigh ever uttered by a living being. “You know, it’s been so long that I haven’t been around other syl…” The words die abruptly in his throat. Caithe’s crystalline foliage carry the scent of pink carnations, as they have ever since the day Aurene hatched, but…

He shakes his head and forces the corners of his mouth to comply with a smile. “Sorry, uh, distracted and all. Been a while since I’ve been around you or Canach, after all..”

Her eyes narrow again, but she does not comment on his falter. “Quite true. And now, the scent you carry is one all too familiar. It was my own for longer than you have even been alive. And that is why I’m not keen on letting you go without an answer.”

 Kaushue’s shoulders drop and gives up regardless. “Fine. Yeah. Yeah, I’m not being fully honest. I’m not telling you everything, but I can’t, and I know that you know the gravity of something if I can’t even tell the guild about it. If I can’t tell you.”

After a pause, Caithe’s shoulders slump and she lets out a deep sigh. “I suppose after all you have done for us, all you have forgiven me for, I have no reason to suspect your intent.” She reaches out to rest a hand on her young brother’s shoulder. “I just hope you are making the right choice.”

“I know I don’t make them a lot, but I think I am.” He reaches up to place his hand over hers—letting his mind wander to what Mother’s reaction must have been when she first saw Caithe again after her branding. He’ll have to ask about that when the world isn’t two steps away from doom and destruction again.

“I hate to cut this short but, uh, I’ve got a very busy foreseeable future, and I wanted to stop by and pick up Caladbolg.”

“Oh.” She takes a step away from him. “I’m sure you won’t mind, but when you didn’t return after a few weeks, we moved Caladbolg into the Omphalos Chamber for Mother to keep watch over. Some of the firstborn felt a touch uneasy leaving such an important relic of our history alone in your room.”

“Was it Kahedins?”

Caithe pauses. “Yes.”

“That’s fine. Thank you for taking care of it while I was gone.” He reaches up to try and pat his leaves down a touch, trying to look at least a bit presentable if he is to see his mother again. “I’ll be off, then. Before it gets too late.”

She allows her lips to quirk into a smile. “And I suppose I’ll continue to take care of your fleet of felines between fighting your… ‘oni’, was it?”

Kaushue's gaze trails after the bright, celestial twinkle of Simon as he approaches Caithe, meowing. Probably hungry, but he really wasn’t ever too sure what that cat even liked to eat to begin with. “Oni, demons, creatures of unfathomable horror, yeah.”

Caithe bends down to pick up the cat, cradling him like a human baby against her chest. “And, yes, Commander. I’m sure Caladbolg would rather see you sooner or later, it’s seemed… restless, lately.”

A brow raises. Caladbolg has always been a bit ‘emotionally talkative’, so to speak, but that was usually between the two of them. It’s the first he’s heard of it communicating to someone else. “Restless?”

“Yes. It’s odd, but I’m sure it’s just worried from being separated from you for so long.”

“I suppose. I hadn’t expected to be gone for more than a day or two, after all.” He feels a bit guilty; Caladbolg had been a steadfast companion for years. Leaving it behind in the Grove had been a first. “I’ll make sure to make it up to it, somehow.”

Caithe smirks wryly at him before turning away to tend to the felines gathering around her ankles. “Don’t keep it waiting.”

 He takes the long way up the layers of the Grove. Just a few extra minutes to take things in, see the sights he’s barely let himself absorb in a while. It’s nice. His home, all beautiful and vibrant, almost untouched by the horrors of the years past.

He sighs and takes in a deep breath of the clear, fresh air. The scent of blooming tulips and roses drift across the breeze. Wonderful.

He passes under a more out-of-the-way area, enjoying the faint shade from the thick branches and leaves overhead. A quiet rustling drags his gaze upwards, eyes narrowing as he can just barely make out… something.

“What the—“

“Lightbringer Kaushue.”

A figure drops down before him, a vague shimmering outline and little more. Were he not already adequately acquainted with such magic, it’s very likely he’d never have noticed. It matters little, nonetheless, when the veil drops to reveal a tall woman with vibrant blue bark and deep navy thorned curls curving around one cheek.

“I have been looking for you. For a…” she grimaces, “very long time.”

He winces, because nobody calls him by that title other than his Whispers companions. It’s always Commander this, Commander that. Wayfinder this, Wayfinder that, now too. But Lightbringer? That’s Whispers, and if another agent has been looking for him, that means he’s in trouble.

“And what would be the reason behind that, agent…”

She blinks once. Slowly. “Lucilaeh. We’ve worked together before.”

He looks at her with his brow scrunched together, eyes squinted,

“I’m a Pact member.”

Then it hits him. Of course, he recognises her now. Just a matter of names and faces slipping when he’s had to memorise more things in the past few years than most people even come to face with in their entire lives.

“That’s right. Agent Lucilaeh!” He makes a flippant gesture with his hand, offering her an amicable smile. “So, uh, what’s up? What do you need me for? ” 

“Riel has been curious concerning your absence.” Lucilaeh says, drawing closer to him, voice hushed even though they are suitably alone. “Your sudden, untraceable disappearance is quite the concern to the Whispers. Where could you have gone that even our most talented agents could not find you?”

Though a touch intimidating and the thought of Whispers out looking for him makes him definitely nervous, there is a slip of intrigue in her tone. Almost wonder. He cocks a brow.

“I’m afraid I’m at no liberty to divulge that.” He answers, because what else can he do? He can’t keep telling people about kryptis and Astral Ward. “And besides, can’t the saviour of the world have some time to himself? What if I was just off taking a vacation in the fractals?”

She tilts her head, brow furrowing. “I’ve already checked the Consortium’s asura gate access records. You haven’t been to the fractals in weeks.”

He blinks. “Aren’t… aren’t those confidential?”

“Confidentiality is a suggestion, not a rule. For the most part.” She says nonchalantly with a small shrug.

“…Regardless.” He says, crossing his arms. “Some things are best kept secret even from Riel, even if just for a while.”

 Clearly not willing to accept such a flimsy non-answer, Lucilaeh goes to open her mouth again, but he raises a hand to stop her.

“Now, I’m very sorry, but if you would excuse me I have to meet with our mother. It wouldn’t do to keep her waiting.”

As he begins his trek to the upper layer, Lucilaeh watches his retreat with eyes narrowed and a frown on her lips.

“Hmm.”

The Omphalos chamber is exactly how he remembers it from when he was there last, to be knighted and carry on the legacy of his fallen brothers. Although, he cannot help but notice it is perhaps a bit healthier. The claw marks left by the Shadow of the Dragon still mar areas of the walls, but have begun to fade over the years. Sunlight still filters through the leaves overhead, the warmth bolstering his mood.

And there, she waits for him.

“Mother?” he asks as he approaches the alcove where her avatar had always remained. It would just be the two of them this time, her attendants having graciously allowed them a moment alone.

“My child.” As he comes close, one of her hands reaches out to stroke Kaushue’s cheek. “I have not seen you in so long. Your absence has been keenly felt here.”

“I’m sorry, Mother. Every time I thought there was a moment to slow down, I had to get going again.” He frowns for just the slightest moment as her hand retreats.

She smiles at him with a slight nod. “As is the way for many of my sons and daughters. Your heroism fills me with pride.”

“I’m glad.” He lets out a soft sigh. “And again, I cannot stay long. I wish I could, but time is hardly a luxury I have. Caithe says you have been taking care of Caladbolg in my absence, I wish to retrieve it.”

“Of course, my son.” The Avatar turns in a graceful movement and begins running her hands over what appears to be nothing but empty space in the back of her small alcove before Caladbolg seems to appear as if from nowhere. 

When she turns back and sees the confused tilt of her child’s head, she smiles once more. “I had hidden it well to protect it. Caladbolg has had an unfortunate history, as you well know.”

As he feels the familiar weight of the blade across both hands, a warm tingle runs through him; the sword clearly pleased to be back in his companionship. “I’ll make sure not to leave it behind again,” he says as much to the sword itself as to his mother.

He straps it to his thigh carefully, the weight feeling like a missing part of himself being reclaimed. The smile it brings to his face drops however as he looks back up to the Avatar, a discomfort rumbling in the pit of his gut as he does so.

“Mother? What’s the matter?” He asks. While it is far from the first time he has sensed anxiety or unease from her, he is confused as to what could have triggered it, and so suddenly. 

With her head down, her voice is soft. “My child. Before you leave, I have something I must ask of you.”

“Of me, Mother?” He takes a step closer to her. “What is it?”

She turns her head to-and-fro, even though any who could listen in on their conversation have long since retired. “…My dear blossom, when my son Riannoc had passed from this world it was as if part of my heart was torn away.”

She rests a hand upon her own bough, looking wistfully into the massive, sprawling leaves overhead. “While I do not feel it with all of my children, every loss of my first twelve have left a yet widening chasm in my heart. Riannoc, Wynne, Trahearne. Even Faolain, as wicked as she had become.”

Kaushue swallows. “I’m sorry, Mother, but what does this have to do with me?”

Her eyes turn back to gaze upon him. The son that had set out and promised to right what was wrong and save Tyria. The son that lived and returned to tell his tale. The son that had saved her in her most vulnerable of moments.

“I see all the Dream shares with me, my child, and your moments are so vivid, so abundant.” So many memories, experiences, the pain, the joy, the wonder, all transmitted back not just to her, but to all sylvari who chanced upon them. “I have seen a dark, twisted land through your eyes. Beasts beyond our realm. A city high above our skies. Ancient beings long since thought extinct.”

Sweat pinpricks across his bark. Nayos. The Wizard’s Tower. So wrapped up in all of it that he didn’t stop to try and rein it all in. To spare the saplings terrifying, looming thoughts of a world beyond theirs. A slip-up in the steadily growing list of so many, many things he has tried to suppress for the sake of younger sylvari.

“But those things, they do not compare to the hope I have seen.” Her gaze softens, a hand clutched against her chest. “Trahearne was my first child. A paragon of the sylvari, and my most cherished. When his life ended, scores of pain were etched upon my already wounded mind. And yet, a flicker blossomed deep within the Dream. The tiniest of hopes sprung to life, but much like when Riannoc passed, I could not understand it.”

Dizziness spirals inside Kaushue’s mind. His heart races. Pulse set ablaze.

“My child, why is it that I look into the Dream and see him still by your side?”

It’s a little unsettling how much the Wizard’s Tower is starting to feel like a second home to him. Or primary home, rather, with the reminder of how little he has seen of the Grove itself in the past few years. At least the place is bright and beautiful, to help stave off a bit of the discomfort.

As he trudges back to Isgarren’s office to relay the plan’s success and inform him of the growing suspicions amongst Tyrians, he takes pause as he sees the door open in the distance.

Even in the shadows cast by the midday sun over the hallway, Kaushue can see the expression on Trahearne's face. It reminds him of standing beside Trahearne in the Orrian tombs, struggling to calm him as despair swept across his face over their failure. His failure.

Never once, in the direst or tensest of moments after then, had Kaushue ever seen that look return to Trahearne's face. And yet, there it was now.

But Trahearne does not notice him and turns away, walking down the hallway with a step all too hasty. Like he was wanting to put as much distance between him and that accursed door as possible.

As he watches the man disappear into the distance, Kaushue’s mind weighs with the words of Caithe and the Pale Tree both.

“Trahearne… just what are you?”

Chapter Text

He’s a bit surprised at how long it’s taken for everything to really catch up to him. Like, yeah, he had his whole week of isolation to mood and brood over the emotional and mental upheaval of his entire life… but damn, he was sure that the constant drama and back-and-forth between the Tower and Tyria would have hit him faster.

That’s how he’s ended up spending an entire day and a half completely unconscious and dead to the world.

Peeling his face from the pillow is a gargantuan task. And the moment of his success is dampened when it’s like an entire pile of bricks drops onto his head from above. He is hungry. Really hungry. Stiff, and positively aching from head-to-toe.

And worst of all, super guilty because he didn’t even check in with Trahearne once before passing out.

When he deems himself capable of waking up, he rolls out of bed more than anything else. At least the floor makes a better wake-up call than laying amongst the comfiest sheets ever and repeating ‘five more minutes’ ad-nauseam in his mind. He stands, brushes off any possible dust from himself, and decides that first-things-first, he really needs to find who or whatever it is that does the laundry for the Astral Ward.

Isgarren is likely going to kill him for tracking in mud and who knows what else into this very immaculately pristine room with its immaculately pristine sheets and white marble flooring.

…He should probably be more concerned with how many times ‘Isgarren is going to kill me’ has popped into his head the past few weeks.

But actually, before the first-things-first, he should probably do something about the hunger growling away in his stomach before it threatens to devour him first. What was that human phrase again, being hungry enough to eat centaurs, or something.

He sluggishly pulls himself yawning to the desk by his door, double-checking that Caladbolg is still resting safe and comfortable hidden amongst his things. He doesn’t want one of those nosier Ward members trying to steal and archive it. Smiling, he runs a hand affectionately down the hilt, and feels it almost purr contently in return. “Good sword.” He chuckles to himself.

As he situates the blade comfortably once more, he notices a large canteen and a conspicuous wrapped pile sitting near the edge of his desk. A canteen and pile that definitely weren’t there when he passed out. He reaches out to the pile, taking hold of a very neatly folded piece of paper resting upon it. Brow raised, he unfolds it.

‘Dear Kaushue

I came to check in on you after I heard of your return, but your state of unconsciousness was impenetrable, to say the least. With R’tchikk’s guidance, I have left a small array of non-perishable foodstuffs by this letter for you to have when you return to us. No doubt you will be famished after your venture.

And speaking of such, I trust your trip to the mainland went well. You always did have a talent with words; after all, it was your words at Claw Island that gave me the confidence I needed to pursue my Hunt to the end. With such expertise, I no doubt imagine your successes with others were as easily won. Ah, but I should stop myself there, lest I get caught in the drift of memories and begin rambling.

When you do wake, please take the time to find me. I caught word of a Ward member procuring a shipment from the Eldvin Monastery and have set aside a bottle or two for you. I do believe we owe each other a drink, after all.

Yours sincerely, Trahearne’

“Only Trahearne would sign a letter to his own husband with ‘yours sincerely’,” Kaushue mutters to himself with a dopey grin. Some things stay the same, after all.

He puts the letter back down, deciding to look through the things Trahearne had left him—his stomach growling in utmost agreement of ‘eat it, eat it all, now.’  A varied assortments of nuts—notably cashews, making that dopey grin even worse because of course Trahearne would remember exactly the kind of things he liked to eat—packets of crackers, and probably more jerky than he’d ever be likely to eat in a week.

The growls become overwhelming.

Setting aside some of the meat and moving the crackers away, he notices something the pile of food had been resting upon the entire time.

‘Tyrian Sign Language - For Beginners’

His heart squeezes in his chest.

It’s nice to get a chance to take in the sight of the Bastions without kryptis lurking every which way trying to hijack his brain or murder him. The architecture matches much of what he’s seen in the Tower itself, but it makes the sight no less breathtaking.

It makes him somewhat lightheaded, looking up and seeing the Bastions all floating high overhead on their islands. He isn’t really sure how they all stay floating up there, but after everything he has seen and heard, floating buildings is probably fairly standard for Wizard magic.

And hey, he’s popped his head into the Fractals enough times and seen enough manners of weird, floating Asura stuff to learn not to question this sort of thing.

Nonetheless, he turns his head this way and that, searching for the familiar flap of iridescent pink wings, but finds nothing. With a sigh, he takes a deep breath before letting out a high pitched whistle.

And then come the rustling of those very wings. He smiles.

Shimmer lands by his feet, snorting and fluttering joyfully.

“Did you like your little vacation with Forro?” He asks, scritching under her chin. He takes the faint flame she blows into his face as a yes.

“C’mon girl, I want to have a proper look around this place.”

He hops off her back on the top of the Bastion of the Obscure. And to announce that she’s back to vacation-mode, she leaps into the pool, soaking a nearby Astral Ward member who turns slowly to stare at Kaushue. The entire front of their fur has changed from an earthy yellow-brown to a light pinkish colour where the water had hit them.

“Yikes. Sorry.” He says, hands up in defence. “It was all her, I swear.”

The poor, soaked person merely shakes their head and turns away, water dripping from the rim of their hat. A glance back at Shimmer practically frolicking through the pool shows that her scales have turned a more violet hue, far from the delicate pinks and blues she was before.

“I… You know what, I probably shouldn’t question it,” he sighs, “I’ll be back in a bit.” He waves the skyscale off, heading toward whichever way would get him down to the main area of the Bastion. Approaching one of the ledges and peering over, he sees just how far it is from the roof to the main halls. He is about to reach for his glider when he spots a movement out the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he sees a human looking at him, grimacing as their gaze goes between him and the ledge.

Okay. No gliding. Definitely no gliding. He recognises the look in their eyes as ‘you really, really don’t want to try that’. He is not eager to find out what ‘surprises’ this particular Bastion has hidden. Knowing his luck, he’d glide directly into a rift or something and end up in the Realm of Torment, or something.

And he supposes it’d probably be better to explore the area on foot to begin with regardless. Admittedly he’s still not entirely sure of the area, and that’s less-so from it being new and foreign to him, but rather from all of the weird occurrences that keep popping up.

He’s still trying to wrap his head around how he mined ore from a tree, after all.

As he passes through, he spots Rhianwyn lecturing a human covered head-to-toe in some curious green slime. He just barely overhears ‘be glad this doesn’t eat flesh like the last one’ and winces. She notices him out the corner of her eye and throws him a small wave. He returns it in kind, and keeps on going.

He doesn't want to get any kind of slime on himself, flesh-eating or otherwise.

The breeze outside is nice, and he walks with a brisk pace alongside the pathways by the edge of the Bastion, temptation to look down proving to be too strong. He doesn’t like it, he surmises, after realising that he can’t see the ground. Or the ocean.

He is drawn out of his newly developing fear of heights when he hears a loud clatter up ahead. Looking over, he sees a rather small form collapsed on the ground with a series of boxes strewn around her. And atop her.

“Hey, you okay?” He gets a good look at the asura as he approaches, noting the recognisable banner upon her back. He lifts one of the boxes off her with ease, allowing her to sit back up.

She grimaces, rubbing at her forehead. “Only a mild cranial bump. I’ll survive,” she mutters, picking up the offending object that tripped her before climbing back to her feet and brushing the dirt from her robes. Suitably satisfied with her attire, she reaches up towards Kaushue for the box. “Now, Wayfinder, I appreciate your assistance but I and these boxes have very interesting places to be.”

“Sure you don’t want a hand?” He asks, handing it over anyway and wondering what the faint sound of scraping and clinking from inside could be. “I don’t really have anywhere else to be.”

“Hmm. I do suppose it would be faster and less of a detriment to my survival were you to carry the larger of these containers.” As if to prove her point, the asura hitches the box in her arms up, completely obscuring her field of view. “I likely would have already fallen into Isgarren’s little safety net had I not already immaculately mapped the layout of every bastion in my mind.”

Kaushue kneels to pick up the other boxes, letting out a small chuckle. “And that’s how I found you face down on the ground?”

“Other members of the Astral Ward should know better than to leave things laying around!” she huffs indignantly. 

“It’s just a rock.”

She gasps. “Just a rock, he says! I will have you know, Wayfinder, that this particular rock is one of our oldest samples of mineral from the Desolation before Abaddon turned most of it into that repulsive disaster.”

He pulls a face. Whoever’s dropped that is likely going to get an earful when she finds out who they are. “Anyway, uh, where is this headed to?”

Already she marches ahead, pace surprisingly speedy for someone so small. “To the Bastion of Strength, my good Wayfinder.”

He's surprised by the presence of a rather familiar face when the two of them arrive at their destination, one of the outer areas under the sun, spacious and free of interference from the Bastion's usual activities. Trahearne's sitting cross-legged on the floor, next to a bright yellow sylvari in the same position. Leaning on a pillar near them is a norn that Kaushue thinks would make Braham look short if they stood side by side.

Which would make Kaushue very, very short in comparison to either.

“Commander. What a pleasant surprise.” Trahearne smiles at him as Kaushue sets the boxes down near the three, his asuran associate placing her singular one atop them all.

“Certainly. Wasn’t expecting to find you out here,” Kaushue smiles back as he drops to the floor by his side. The ground before them is covered in a pile of notebooks, each one covered with scrawls and doodles and lengthy, lengthy paragraphs. No doubt which ones Trahearne filled in.

Trahearne leans over to inspect the boxes briefly. “Seems like you got roped into our little project,” he says with a small chuckle. “We’re working on the preliminary stages of crafting a memorial statue for Mabon. We’d requested a number of things from his quarters to aid us in writing the plaque, but I can’t say I would have expected you to deliver them.”

The other sylvari pipes up, brow raised. “So, we got the Wayfinder helping us out, huh?” They squint their eyes at him for a moment before turning back to their notebooks. “Thought you’d be taller.”

“Everyone thinks that.” Kaushue sighs. “But yes, I am the Wayfinder, and I guess I am helping now. Uh, would you mind if I ask who you are?”

“I’m Sunny, an archivist for the Astral Ward. Currently being babysat by this lout here on Narcisse’s orders.” The sylvari tosses a thumb over their shoulder at the burly norn behind them.

“Uh… babysat?”

“I got possessed couple’a weeks back when the kryptis staged another assault. Trahearne here commanded us like a proper leader, probably the only reason any of us made it out there alive.” Sunny chews the end of their pencil, still staring down at the notebooks. “When ‘Cisse said she wanted someone attending to me on account of ‘sylvari fragility’, Haukr positively jumped at the chance.”

Despite the rather surly-seeming demeanour of the lemon-yellow sylvari, their words carry an odd soft of fondness, too.

But moreso than the conflicting words and tone, a rather different part of their speech catches the commander’s attention. “What do you mean by ‘sylvari fragility’?”

And that’s what it takes to get them to look up at him again, catching his gaze. “Us sylvari, especially those who got screwed up by Mordremoth, are more vulnerable to kryptis possession than anyone else. As if one puppetmaster wasn’t enough, right? I got hit real bad. Honestly, good thing Mabon was keeping Trahearne away from the whole thing when the invasion first happened; lucky bastard didn’t have a single demon to worry about.”

Kaushue looks over at Trahearne, holding his papers in his hands just a little too tight. Jaw clenched just a touch too hard.

Just as he starts to reach out, the firstborn suddenly speaks.

“Quite lucky. Yes.”

“—But just my luck right? Get possessed by Mordremoth. Get possessed by kryptis. Now my care products keep vanishing. Yesterday it was my leaf shears. I’m starting to think there's a ghost in my room, which would be fantastic, because Isgarren specifically set up anti-ghost wards all over the Wizard's Tower. But no, of course it would be me that gets haunted by ghosts! Of course! All this because I didn’t listen to the pooch sooner.”

Brow drawn together, Kaushue looks back over at Sunny who seems to have immersed themself—somewhat angrily—in some long-past memory.

“Pooch?” Kaushue asks, eyes glancing over to Trahearne to see the tension in his shoulders relax.

Regardless, he isn’t given much time to think about it as his fellow sylvari starts gesturing somewhere towards the Bastion of… Natural, he wants to say.

“Forro’s babysitting him right now, but yeah, my pooch. Came from the same pod—don’t ask—and he’s never liked being in the Grove. Kept trying to pull me here or there. Always thought he had some higher calling, I did. A hound with a Wyld Hunt, wouldn’t that be hilarious.” Their gaze drops toward the ground, eyes darkening a shade. “We were too close to the jungle, back when Mordremoth awoke. Little fella stayed by me even when I turned. Then Mabon was there, patrolling the area in the weeks after, and…”

“You don’t have to tell ‘em the whole thing right away, Little Sun.” Haukr’s voice comes from above them all.

“No, no. It’s fine, just…” They take a deep inhale. “Miss the mulch out of that man.”

“It must have been a while before Mabon found me,” Trahearne interjects, looking up from his papers at last. “He brought a lot of our people out of that jungle. The ones that survived the transformation, that is.”

“Hah, you say that like I wasn’t still a great hulking Mordrem when he threw me over his shoulder and brought me here.” Sunny points at him, a grin overtaking their face as the memory plays in their mind. “Pooch went after him, barking and growling. Brought him to me, and the rest is history.”

“I don’t think Isgarren ever forgave him bringing ye back in that right state.” Haukr groans before turning his gaze towards Kaushue. “Y’see, I was the only one both free and strong enough to subdue ‘em while we worked on de-Mordrem-ifyin’ ‘em. Been by my side ever since.”

“Oh s-shut up!” Sunny barks suddenly, swatting a hand in his direction. “It was an overwhelming situation, and you…”

“It’s enough, no need t’ embarrass yersel’ further.”

Kaushue’s lips quirk into a smile. “And how did you come to be part of the Astral Ward, uh… sorry, I didn’t quite catch your name.” He asks, looking up at the towering norn.

“The name’s Haukr, I‘m a foot soldier here. No real story here, wee’un. Wanted to make somethin’ o’ meself, but never knew what. Spent a bit o’ time with a Ward member out in the wild, got recommended to the ol’ man, and now I’m ‘ere.”

Kaushue chuckles. “Well, I can think of worse places to end up.” He reaches a hand out toward Haukr for a handshake.

The norn grins toothily as he accepts, shaking Kaushue’s hand. And arm. And most of his body, actually. “And you, you’re Trahearne’s wee commander we’ve heard so much about!”

“I guess ‘wee’ is the apt word there,” Kaushue murmurs, offering a sheepish grin. ”So, you’ve heard a lot about me, huh?” He wonders just how much Trahearne has been telling others. His glow climbs up his face, burning as he imagines the man giving an impassioned, bombastic speech about him.

“No need to blush, Commander,” Trahearne says quietly, directing a small grin his way, “I promise you it’s nothing like you imagine.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say calling him your ‘brightest petal of a rose’ is nothing like he is imagining, judging how brightly he glows.” Pipes up a third, neglected voice—very much reminding Kaushue of how he got here to begin with.

And then it’s Trahearne’s turn to glow, grimacing as he turns where he’s sat to point a finger at their asuran company. “Genkki! I would at least advise you to introduce yourself to the commander before you go making me look like a complete fool in front of him.”

“Oh yes, how silly of me! I did forget to introduce myself to the Wayfinder all of twice now, quite disgraceful behaviour if I do say so myself.” The asura spins on her heel, doing a grand motion with her arms to indicate herself. “Obscurist Genkki, fearless delver into the most befuddling of the Astral Ward’s relics and curiosities!”

“And how many times must I tell you ‘Obscurist’ is not a title?” Sunny sighs, shaking their head. “You’re a resea—“

“And must I remind you that the suffix ‘ist’ is for denoting someone who practises within a certain field or topic? I work with the obscure, hence, Obscurist!”

“You will never convince—“

Haukr lets out a booming groan. “Alright, kids, that’s ‘nuff. I can’t take another of Genkki’s yabbering lectures about why ‘er weird words should be added to our dictionaries.” He then raises a thick finger to prod at Sunny’s pitch-black leaves. “And you should know not to press the issue. Let ‘er call ‘erself that if she wants.”

Kaushue stands there blinking, somewhat befuddled. He looks over at Trahearne, who is trying to stifle laughter at the sight before him. The elder sylvari waves his hand at him, as if to say ‘usual business’.

“Hmph! Well, I do hope my delivery of your requested artefacts and belongings will serve you well, then!” She crosses her arms over each other and puffs out her chest. “Finding anything of substance on Mabon is as tricky as it ever was. We really are our own historians on him.”

Trahearne reaches out for one of the stone slabs within the larger box, brow quirking. “This was amongst his things? It’s Orrian script.”

Kaushue shuffles over closer to him, overlooking the sheet of stone with a surprised look. “Why would he have anything Orrian? Did mursaat particularly care about Orr? Or, well, did Mabon specifically have any interest?”

The others all stretch over to try and gaze at the slate too, each with a different look of intrigue, perplexity or surprise.

“Far as I’m aware, no,” Sunny says. “The odd thing here or there from the history books, but from what I understand Orr was mostly a human-Charr pissing contest arena.”

Kaushue catches Trahearne’s grimace before the man is able to hide it.

“It says… sorry, a moment. It has been some time since I’ve translated from Orrian,” Trahearne says instead. He reaches out towards one of Sunny’s notebooks, taking hold of a spare pencil and hatching out familiar shapes onto the paper in Orrian and Krytan script both. “It…” Trahearne frowns, tapping the pencil against his mouth, “It says nothing new, ultimately. Mostly just a historical account of Legavo while it was being kept by King Reza. Interesting that Mabon would keep something like this in his chambers.”

“Maybe he just liked the way it looks.” Genkki supplies with a shrug.

Sunny rolls their eyes. “We weren’t privy to every detail and interest of his, Genkki. Perhaps he was interested in Orr. He was a Wizard after all, history is kind of a big thing for Wizards.”

Kaushue’s eyes narrow as he brushes the carved indentations on the slate. “Or maybe because it vaguely had to do with the seers.”

Trahearne looks over to him, curiosity glinting in his eye. “Oh?”

“I never really got to know him, but Mabon seemed interested in Isgarren’s people.” Fingers slide further down, caressing each character. “He was curious about how much could have changed, if the war had gone differently.”

Sunny leans in close to him, wide green eyes captivated on his. “How do you know this? Mabon hadn’t told us anything like that.”

Kaushue leans back, hands up defensively. “I, uh…”

His mind works overtime trying to find a way to explain it that doesn’t amount to ‘I kind of saw not-ghosts from Mabon’s past’. He can still feel it in some way; the chill breeze that curled past him as he wandered Frostgorge and Gendarran, his mind filling with echoes of times long past, times long before his existence.

The answers he gleaned. The questions he had. 

“Isgarren talked to me privately,” he ends up saying instead. “Said that as Wayfinder I was entitled to knowledge others weren’t.”

“What?!” Genkki pouts. “I knew it was a mistake to stop pushing him to make me his next Wayfinder!”

Sunny turns to her “You? A Wayfinder? Don’t make me laugh, Gen—“

Then both the sylvari and the asura find themselves several feet off the ground, picked up like newborn kittens in the hands of Haukr. “What did I say?!”

Kaushue sighs, thankful for the distraction. He’s not really ready to discuss those experiences, even if they were relatively ‘tame’ for private things he was never supposed to see. They were still Mabon’s personal memories, it would feel… wrong to share them so freely.

‘She wants you to pick it up, Wayfinder. It wants you.’

He blinks away the spectres of Mabon and Isgarren, both so different, and finds Trahearne looking over at him with concern. Albeit a bit forced, Kaushue smiles for him.

He wonders just what it is Mabon wants him to know.

***

Sunny looks up from their scrawling, brow furrowed. “Kaushue, I mean, uh, Wayfinder—“

The commander rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Look, it’s fine, really. Kaushue’s fine. Not everyone needs to call me by some kind of title.”

“Just Trahea—OW!”

Haukr slowly removes his boot from Sunny’s side with a shake of his head.

Kaushue catches the faint glow on Trahearne’s face out of the corner of his eye. “No, even Trahearne calls me by my name. Sometimes.” He grins. “But yes, what is it?”

“Was wondering if you wanted to input anything on the memorial. Sure it wasn’t for long, but you knew Mabon too.” They idly tap their pencil against the notebook. “I think people would like to have a word from our newest Wayfinder.” 

“Oh, uh.” Kaushue thinks back over his brief time with Mabon. From the first moment he’d laid eyes upon that golden mask and his instincts screamed at him to run until Frode had assured him he was no threat—to Mabon explaining to him the situation he’d gotten himself caught up in, unveiling secret upon secret that had been locked away all these years. But when he thinks of Mabon, right now in this moment, he can only think of one thing.

“I would say… well, it’s really obvious, but that guy loved you all so much. The Ward, the other Wizards…” He can still hear the hurt sound of Mabon’s voice in the face of Lyhr’s accusations. The struggle and pain as he fought with all he could to try and banish the multitudes of kryptis trying to invade his friend’s mind. Determined never to give up, no matter what it took. “I know that I didn’t get to know him like you did, but…”

He helped me forgive myself.

A new story. It... won't be the same without him.

He... saved me.

“He would have given himself for any one of you, I think.” And as he finishes speaking, he has to truly force the words out. His smile remains, but underneath it his own words burn in his mind. Trahearne’s eyes feel like they are boring into him, seeking something that Kaushue is doing his utmost to keep under wraps for just a little longer.

“Sorry, uh.” He stands up quickly, trying to brush off his stumble with a laugh as he reaches out for the closest wall to prop himself up. “I’m not really that good with just sitting around. Need to get some activity in there!”

“Commander—“

“I’m just gonna take a walk around the Bastion. No worries, just gotta give my legs a bit of action.” Kaushue grins even as the pounding in his head grows steadily. “See you folks in a bit.”

He’s fully aware that his stride as he walks away from them is far too brisk, far too telling that he’s not just off on a walk to stretch his legs, but he can’t control it. As soon as he’s sure he’s far away enough from the four, he finds himself staggering into a wall, back pressed up against it as he feels himself fighting for air.

His eyes burn and he finds himself flooded with frustration. It is entirely unfair to have an episode like this while Trahearne is right there, sitting by his side. It’s not like all the times before. It’s not like when he was in Jahai and Taimi was directing him to that tablet. When he picked it up and discovered what it meant and it was like something reaching down into his chest to rip open the barely-mending scars. Excusing himself off the comms so he could sit there and let it wash over him for a while. The tiniest thing, setting off all of the unhappiness in his mind because all he could think of was Trahearne. How he wished he was there. Wished he could have seen it.

But this was Trahearne, sitting right by him. Talking with him. Laughing with him. And still, just the thought of Mabon had tipped off the very same thing in his mind that kept wearing itself down again and again.

It had gone from the visage of Mabon the last time he’d seen him, so powerful, so hopeful, so exhausted, and it slithered downwards into the twisted roots and arching caveways from years ago. Pact members huddled together, just barely freed from a fate considerably worse than death. The thought of Trahearne, so close to safety, that if Kaushue had only been there sooner… if only Trahearne hadn’t been so damn noble…

Barely even aware that he’d slumped down all the way to the ground, he lets out a shaky gasp, curling in on himself. Hands in his leaves as his face presses into his knees. 

Valiant. Champion of Orr. Dragon slayer. Destroyer of cults. Dragon Champion. Saviour of Tyria.

Brought down by a few measly memories.

He doesn’t know how long he lets himself sit there, but when he finally unfurls himself and looks up at the sky it seems no different. Just a little while, he guesses, watching as clouds pass across the blue expanse in a crawl.

It’s probably why nobody came looking for him, and for that he’s grateful. He doesn’t want to explain it to anyone. Not the Astral Ward. Not the Wizards. Especially not Trahearne.

With shaky legs, he pulls himself back up, but he’s still not ready to go back. Not just yet. Even with the worst of his episode past him, it still roils uncomfortably in his gut, letting him know that the slightest thing will set it off all over again. A rather unfortunate, familiar feeling.

So he sets off, wandering. It’s what he’s good at, usually—probably why Frode bestowed ‘Wayfinder’ upon him to begin with—but right now, he really doesn’t feel suited for it. All he knows is to keep himself moving. Keep his legs paced, his mind busy, anything at all.

Anything to stay the waves of his upset from licking at his heels and threatening to overwhelm him once more.

He’s aimless as he walks, but in an attempt to alleviate his mood, he focuses on the fact that at least he’s aimless in a new place instead of wandering around the Grove for the hundredth time trying to pretend he still has some kind of goal to aim for. It does rather put it all into perspective, Kaushue muses as he looks up at the tall, marble walls and the clear blue sky surrounding them.

Maybe it really was time to stop expecting excitement and adventure to fall into his lap like it always had before. He’d spent enough time milling around anticipating when the next big thing would happen, holing himself up and wishing for something to come and distract him from everything and wondering when Tyria would next need him… but Tyria was a whole lot bigger than he’d thought.

He wonders if he’d ever have gotten involved with the Astral Ward if he hadn’t been so bored out of his mind, so aimless and despairing as to desperately seek out even the slightest hint of danger.

He imagines it. A lifetime where he would be ignorant of Wizards, of Kryptis, and all these secrets hanging over their heads for thousands of years.

Ignorant of Trahearne.

He rests his clenched hand over his mouth. Is that what he would want, had he the choice in hindsight?

His mind fills with the sight of Trahearne, sitting around with Sunny and Haukr, bantering with Genkki. Kaushue knows full well that Trahearne had never been shy about making new friends, quite the opposite, really; it was always him introducing Kaushue to this person or that. It only makes sense that he would have found new people to be happy around and share his endless camaraderie amongst the Astral Ward.

But it makes something churn uneasily in his gut. Jealousy? Envy? None of the words that dart through his mind feel right, but… he’s not sure how he would explain it otherwise.

It just reminds him how much of an outsider he is to Trahearne’s life now.

Even as his walk had done him much good, had tempered the aggressive flow of his emotions where he could not control them, he finds it still tugging at him, ever so faintly. His thoughts of Trahearne are no longer mired in such pain that it makes Kaushue want to claw at himself in desperation to be rid of them, but still he clings faintly to the upset of how far he is from reach.

His shoulders slump. He thinks no manner of talk with Serimon could clear his heart and mind from the whirlwind it has become.

He looks up again, realising that he’d managed to walk absentmindedly all the way to the Spellcrafting Workshop. He pauses, footsteps hesitant. Since Mabon’s passing, he had only ever stepped foot in the room a handful of times, each one at Galrath’s request. It just… didn’t feel right. The back of his mind would swim with the memory of his hammer crushing that foul kryptis to paste, taking Mabon with it swiftly after.

But the memory tugs on him like a leash, and him an unwilling dog—and despite his best effort, it wins out. Before he even realises it, he finds himself standing once more at the very same spot.

The area is bereft of its usual tables and equipment, evoking the scene of Mabon’s passing all too vividly. Kaushue takes a quick, sharp inhale and steadies himself against the complicated mess that stirs in his chest.

“You just had to die before you could guide me too, didn’t you?” Kaushue chuckles joylessly, pushing his leaves back.

“Commander? Is that you?”

He startles. His head turns, trying to find the source of the voice. When he fully turns around to the beautiful alcove in the back of the room, a familiar figure is stood there, arms full of flowers, looking somewhat bewildered by his presence.

“Zojja. Sorry, I…didn’t see you there.” He approaches, careful to pace his steps—not too fast, not too slow. “I was passing by and just…”

“It’s fine. Here, why don’t you help me with these?” She holds her arms up, offering some of the flowers to him. “I’m fixing up Mabon’s memorial.”

Taking the blooms in hand, he looks between them and his asuran friend. “Me? Are you sure?”

“He really liked you, you know,” says Zojja as she kneels, setting the blooms in patterns around a small stone slab inscribed only with Mabon’s name. “He was excited to finally bring you here. There were so many things he wanted to talk to you about.”

Kaushue kneels by her, eyes flicking back and forth to make sure he was matching her design choices as closely as possible. “I liked him too. Just wish there’d been more time. Less world-ending threats.”

They work in silence after that, arranging blossoms and petals around the slab until they form a gentle frame cushioning the harsh stone. Simple, but nonetheless something both present knew Mabon would have appreciated.

“I saw the others were making their own memorial.” Zojja breaks their comfortable silence, sitting back and gazing at the one beneath them.

“Yeah, uh…” Kaushue scratches the back of his neck. “Maybe it’s a bit grand, but it’s what the Ward seemed to agree on. I was with some of them just now, they were digging through the things they were allowed from his room, trying to—“

“I saw Trahearne was with them.”

“…Yeah.”

“Look, Commander, I don’t… I don’t hate Trahearne.” Her fingers flex and twitch against the fragile stalks in her hands. They snap as easy as ice over a lake. “Or maybe I do. I can’t look at him without… without feeling sick. I know it’s not his fault, but—“

“Blaming him is easier. I understand.”

“I’m sorry, Commander—“

He reaches a hand out to rest over where hers have clasped together all-too-tightly, his thumb brushing against her glove in small gentle circles.

“You have nothing to apologise for. I think I can vouch for just how hard it is to control how you feel. That jungle ruined both of our lives, and…” A bitter cold flicks through him, the uncomfortable memories he'd been fighting rising to the front once more despite his efforts. “Looking at whoever you think feels the best to blame and going ‘it’s all your fault’ is… so much simpler.”

“You’ve really changed, you know.” Zojja says quietly. “Can’t imagine you fresh off the tree being able to say something like that.”

“That’s what killing six elder dragons and a god will do to you.” Kaushue can’t help but let out a laugh, soft and breathy. “…You know, I’ve never told anyone this, not even my sister, but… I think you’ll get it. All the way up until Balthazar sent me to the Domain of the Lost, I was… always just putting it all into holding on, y’know?”

She looks up at him silently, encouraging him to continue.

“The years after Maguuma ruined me. I couldn’t bear staying in the Pact after what had happened. And for months, every time I looked at Caithe all I could think of was how… how I resented her. Braham despised me. I watched Demmi die. People wouldn’t trust me like they used to before Mordremoth. It was like my entire life had been ripped apart.” He takes a deep breath, surprised at how easily the words come flowing once he’s begun. Like a dam breaking in his mind. And then he’s looking up and out the alcove. A bright, sunny day hangs in the sky above them and it reminds him of her. “Aurene was the one thing that kept me together—she needed me to be her guide. I hinged my entire reason to keep going on being a good father to her and doing right by her. On loving her.”

His gaze is brought back down abruptly when he feels a weight against his arm. Zojja leans against him, head resting against his bark.

“I’m sorry” is all she says.

“Hey, now. I’m not looking for sympathy, or trying to play ‘who had it worse’. I only want you to know that I, I get it. It's not the same pain, but I get it. It hurt so much that I could barely stand it, and then Aurene hatched from her egg, and… little by little, it became manageable. She gave me purpose to find my own purpose again.”

“She was your Mabon.”

He laughs again. “She sure was. With her, I started putting little pieces of my life back together. But the pain never went away, not really, I mean, I… losing Trahearne the way I did…” He pauses to take a deep breath. “Maybe that pain won’t ever go away.”

He pulls his hand away, reaching down for the blossoms with the snapped stalks. Glancing over to catch Zojja’s eye, he lays the few out across the stone slab, framing the indents of Mabon’s name.

“What I’m trying to say is, it’s gonna be rough for a long time, and that’s… that’s okay. So don’t apologise for it hurting you. As long as you’re still putting those little pieces together, even just a bit at a time, then you’ve gotta accept that’s how you feel for now.”

She looks up at him, away from the broken flowers, with a frown on her face. “Is that really okay?”

“Well, I can’t say it thrills me to know you hate the love of my life… but if you tried to force yourself, you’d just end up hating him more.” Against his better judgement, he pushes her goggles back to ruffle her hairless head. “You’ve worked through a lot, y’know? I believe you can do this too. Don’t sell yourself short… even if you are.”

“You sure know how to kill a mood, you know that?”

“Learned it from Canach.”

She laughs too. At first just soft, quiet, but then she lets herself go, and Kaushue can’t even remember the last time he heard Zojja laugh. If he ever had. An abundance of teasing smiles, snappy wit with a sneaky grin, but he can’t remember a laugh. At least not one like this.

“Mabon would have loved you,” she says as she comes down from her amusement-induced high. “I’m sure you would have had the greatest time exchanging overdramatic pep talks about hope and the future.”

“Now who’s the moodkiller?” Kaushue teases back, prodding her. But he’s happy. The lingering tension that had been between them seems fully dissipated, a weight off his shoulders he hadn't realised was there. “Anyway, it’s been great to catch up, and we definitely have to do it again sometime soon while I’m not up to my eyes in travel, but I have to get back to the others, lest they send a search and rescue party for me. I… wouldn’t put it past Trahearne to assume I’d fallen off the Bastion, or something.”

“Yeah. We have a lot of stories to share, don’t we?” Her smile is less weary, her eyes brighter. “And—oh, uh, I’m planning on meeting with Logan. Properly. After everything we’ve been through, it feels like I can’t keep things from him anymore. Or more like, I shouldn’t.”

“And you’re sure about this?”

She takes in a deep inhale, giving herself pause for a moment. “Yeah. I’ve had a bit of time to think about it and, regardless of what I wanted myself to think, he cares about me.”

Kaushue’s smile turns downward just a little. “He loves you.”

“I… know. Kinda. And since he knows about all this,” she gestures around them, “I think it’s only fair he knows about what I've been up to all these years. About... me maybe becoming a wizard.”

The silence between them holds for a moment, and then Kaushue reaches out to rest a hand on her shoulder the best he can manage when they’re so tiny. “Zojja, I’m so proud of you.”

She leans into the touch. “I’m proud of you too, Commander.”

His steps back towards the others feel light—so, so much lighter. Surprised at just how much his conversation with Zojja had stayed his turmoil, he supposes it’s always easier to put things into perspective when you’re doing it for someone else.

And while the embarrassment of his outburst still hangs uncomfortably in his stomach, at least he’d kept this one private. Nobody has to know.

When he rounds the corner and finds the four locked in some manner of debate—Genkki gesturing wildly at Sunny who is trying to use Trahearne as a meatshield, and Haukr simply sighing and placing his head in his hands—he pauses just to watch.

He can see Trahearne laughing, smiling and fully absorbed in their antics… but he can't feel it. Neither that once-cozy warmth nor the biting cold of emotion rolls off Trahearne, not at all like the Trahearne he knew.

***

“Well, Mother, you see, I… he…”

Her eyes look to him with a hope that he just can’t bring himself to shatter. She has done so much for him. For all of them. He cannot bring himself to break her heart once more.

“Trahearne is… alive.” He says cautiously. “But it is not really him, either. This Trahearne, he did not… wake from a pod by your roots…”

“But from a pod deep in the jungle…” She finishes for him softly. Her legs give way, her form crumpling to her knees, dress fanned around her. “Oh, I had wondered, all these years…”

“He has his memories, he… he remembers me. Remembers you and the other Firstborn.” Kaushue approaches her, steps careful and steady. He is wary of causing her further distress or harm.

“Oh, my son, I never wanted to fully believe it, to foolishly hold hope that somehow he was still out there, somewhere far from me.” Her gaze lingers downward, not looking up to Kaushue. “Yet, it was as though there was but a faint lifeline, just barely holding on to me. I could not let it go. Let him go. Not him. And then the visions of your travels…”

Kaushue crouches down, a hand reaching for hers to gently stroke across it. “Even if he is just… a clone, he is still out there. But Mother, I have to ask you…”

“Anything, my child.”

“If you can still feel him all the way through the Dream… why can I no longer hear him? He is so silent even when he stands right beside me. Why can I no longer feel what he feels?”

***

He sighs to himself. Mother had no answer for him, and quickly fell lethargic afterward. He supposes the excitement of their conversation had worn her out—she always seemed so tired lately, from what Caithe had told him. It was only right to depart and let her rest. Let her mull over the existence of Trahearne as much as Kaushue himself does.

Haukr’s bellowing yell as he—again—picks up the offending duo like scruffed kittens pulls him back out of his thoughts. An involuntary smile pulls at his lips at the display—Genkki and Sunny both pouting like children rather than esteemed members of Tyria’s most secretive organisation.

Trahearne shoots the norn a smile, then shakes his head and returns to writing something in his notepads. It is strange, how at home he seems in such an unusual place, but… Kaushue supposes it truly does fit him.

He takes a step out from behind the corner, catching the look in Trahearne’s eyes as his gaze turns up at the sound.

Maybe it really is time to stop expecting everything to just fall into his lap.