Event Log: September, The End

[faileas]

Event Log: September, The End

I. The Final Journey Those who received certain strange marks a few weeks ago and may have noticed that they move and shift to point in one direction when outside the city will also notice something else, rising and vying for attention inside them — a pull, an urge, a desire to go. Go where? Follow the flower and find it. The urge is strong, a drive to find what's calling them. A drive, also, to tell others about it — specifically the Mirrorbound. There's something calling them all. They know this, even if they don't know how they know. This is their calling, all of them. Even the Coven gets involved, hearing from various sources what is happening with the Mirrorbound. They are excited, since the battle against the Cwyld has been going so well, and will support anyone who wants to go on an expedition or spread the news to make sure all Mirrorbound who are still around (and any old-newcomers) know what's going on. Whether they bring friends to go along with them or go alone, the urge will be insurmountable by the middle of the month. If they resist, they may even find themselves walking out of their own homes in their sleep in a stupor. Using the pull of whatever is calling them and the directional compass of the flower tattoo, anyone who wishes to can make their way deep into the forest. At this point, there are fewer dangers from the Cwyld, but wild animals still abound — more than before, in fact, animals making their homes once again in the restored nature. It's a few days' journey, farther out into the wilderness than the Cwyld has allowed them to go before, but eventually, they find it. In the midst of a wide, grassy clearing — the flower. It's beautiful, vibrant and bright and enormous, taking up most of the clearing. Its whisper is now one that all the Mirrorbound can hear inside their minds: "It is time. Time for you to be happy. Time for you to be free. Home is what your heart desires. Please... come home." Surrounding the clearing in a circle, dirty and worn with time, are odd structures that can at first be mistaken for large, flat stones. Upon closer inspection, one will notice they are, in fact, mirrors. Large, broken, jagged bits of glass where the frames have warped, rusted and encompassed by vines, their reflective properties long-since lost. But there is something about them, still. Once you notice they are mirrors, there's a certainty there's nothing else they could possibly be but that.

II. The Dragon and the Faerie Queen The flower's large, bright petals unfurl, its vines reaching gently for any Mirrorbound who approach. Perhaps someone is about to touch the flower, or the vines are about to touch them… And suddenly, a powerful gust of wind pushes all the Mirrorbound back. "Now hold on just a minute, my lovelies," booms a voice from above, friendly and melodious, androgynous in timbre. "You're lucky I made it back in time." A snow-white Dragon circles the clearing, as if looking for room to land. Slowly, they hover lower, shifting as they do into a more humanoid form with wings on their back as well as their ankles, and small horns almost hidden in their wild, windswept hair. "I am called Caragh," they announce. "Called down from the skies by my brother and sister. They say the earth and water are safe once more. For that, we thank you. But you are about to make a terrible mistake. Following your dreams without question can only lead to ruin." They gesture to the flower, their usually wide-eyed, open and pleasant features darkening into a frown. "We have searched far and wide for the Source of this Cwyld, and now that the tributaries have been stymied, it is clear where the infection stemmed from. Here, beneath your very feet, where the Fae Queen fell and bled, and where she fell into a long, long slumber. Here, her foreign magic seeped into the earth and tainted our waters as it pulled and pulled and fed on the energy of our continent while her brethren kept on taking, playing with the life force of our home until they used it up and fled far away from here. "Only she remains. I heard from my sister that you folk have arrived here without knowing why or how, that you suffer strange dreams. I have no certain answers for you, my friends, but I do have an inkling. Perhaps she, locked inside this prison of her own making and abandoned by her people, has summoned you here. Perhaps it was the world itself, finally recovered enough from their interference, trying to reach for help. I do not know. But these dreams you have seen have brought you here, have they not?" Caragh presses their hands to their chest, closing their eyes. A sparkling-white light begins to glow between their fingers. "You were summoned to this place, chosen by something none of us can understand. It is destiny, my little ones. You are the only ones who can prevent the poison from strangling our world once more. Destroy the Source, once and for all." Their hands begin to pull away, and with them, the light floats like bubbles and stars out of their chest, until they're holding out both hands cupped toward you. In the cradle of their palms are enough small, bright orbs for every Mirrorbound present to take one. "Take this. It is my magic in its purest form, so that you can mold and shape it. From here on out, I cannot go with you… but I can give you this." As each of the Mirrorbound take an orb from Caragh's hands, they will notice the soft light that always seems to surround them is fading, bit by bit. When all the orbs are gone, Caragh — who had until now been hovering about a foot above the grass on their little fluttering wings — slowly sinks onto the ground until they're kneeling in the dirt, supporting themselves on one hand. They smile up at you, warm but tired, an ashen pallor on their lips. "I've given you, quite literally, all that I can. Go in now, and do the same. Your sacrifice will free us all."

III. Heart in Paradise The flower unfurls long petals like a soft carpet beneath your feet. Step inside, hear its voice. It calls to you, a beautiful mirage in the desert, suddenly the only thing that seems real. Step inside, and face your dearest desires. Once inside the flower, characters have the option of finding themselves in an idealized version of their home — or Aefenglom, if they don’t want to leave. Everything is the way they would want it to be, down to the smallest detail. Everything went right in the end. Everyone is here, the people they love, those they miss (except even the people are in idealized forms, how the character views them with rose-colored glasses). Other characters can stumble into these idealized versions of your world, but everything will seem more suspicious or strange or ‘off’ to them. Not everyone is as susceptible to desire. For those characters who are able to discern something is wrong, they may need to convince any others they run into to leave these waking dreams of paradise. Because... Anyone who finds themselves caught in the 'dream' for an extended period of time will find their strength leaving them, will find it harder to move, will more and more just want to stay and sleep. It will eat away at their wills<, their thoughts. Physically, the Cwyldheart is sapping the life from the character caught in the dream of paradise, slowly winding them into a cocoon of their own until they’re fully drained. Help your fellows, find your strength. Remember the Dragon's boon, and you may have a chance to stop it before you fade away.

IV. Sacrifice In order to emerge from this final Cwyldheart, characters will need to cast aside the idealized version of home (or Aefenglom), and make a conscious choice to give up whatever it is about that fantasy that tempts them. At the heart of the flower, they’ll each need to sacrifice something personal — something from the heart, a piece of themselves just as Caragh has given them all pieces of their very life force. When the decision has been made to leave this realm and embrace their duties as guardians of Geardagas to see this final battle through, the Mirrorbound will find these glowing bits of magic transforming. The magic will form into the symbolic version of whatever they're giving up. It could be a connection to a loved one, or a dear memory. It could be a literal part of themselves or a physical item. It could be an ability or power. For some, it could even be a smaller version of their mirror, sacrificing their chance to go home entirely. Make the willing, conscious decision to sacrifice something dear to you, and you will feel the grip of corrupt, foreign magic surrounding you fading away, the dream's hold loosening. The magic of all these significant sacrifices being made, all for the sake of Geardagas, give you the strength to destroy the last Cwyldheart, and fully loosen the Cwyld’s hold on the world.

V. Rebirth You wake up on the cool, dewy grass. The flower is still there, the mirrors are still there — but everything is different now. The forest is lush and green; a stream runs through the clearing that wasn't there before, clear and sparkling, gently bubbling over shiny rocks. The flower glows with a soft, warm light that fills all those who look at it with calm. And the mirrors... They are clear now, bright and tall and beautiful. Each of them bears the symbol of your sacrifice in some form, an homage to what was lost and a reminder that it has anchored the magic of this world, restored it to what it should be. The mirrors seem to stand guard, and each of them catches the reflection of the golden-white light of the cleansed flower, casting it about the clearing in a diffuse glow that lasts day or night, no matter the weather. Something else has changed, too. Instead of one Dragon in the clearing, there are three. Aindrias, in his humanoid form, holds something in his arms: a tiny version of the large, white dragon they'd seen before. Caragh is no bigger than a puppy now, fur fluffy and soft, paws too big for their body and wings too small. They make a noise, a pleased sort of mewl, peeking up at the Mirrorbound from their brother's embrace. Creia, standing further back and still in Dragon form as she seems to prefer, is the one who speaks. "We thank thee all. You have reunited our family and restored clarity to the magic of Geardagas. For your sacrifices, we three will be sure to spread your good names far and wide, so that the rest of this world may know its saviors. Your sacrifice should never be forgotten." With this assurance, Creia and Aindrias will offer everyone a ride home on their backs (including Caragh, whose own sacrifice has left them in this tiny form). Upon their return to Aefenglom, Creia remains true to her word. Her voice booms over the city, announcing what has happened, and the Mirrorbound receive a hero's welcome.

VI. A New Door Opens There are changes in the Looking-Glass House. While the Mirrorbound were gone, say the Coven members who guard the little house, something very strange happened — a bright, golden-white light scattered all around it and inside, glowing out from the mirrors. Characters will find that now, they can see everyone else's mirrors just as well as their own. They can see the carvings on everyone else's mirror frames, the glass as bright and reflective as if they were all brand-new. That is... except for those characters who sacrificed their connection to their mirror at the final Cwyldheart. Those mirrors are simply gone, no matter how hard they search. (And if they wish to make the trek back to the forest, they may find their mirror there, but though it reflects the light and the trees, it will no longer reflect its owner.) A strong, nostalgic feeling sweeps over you as you look into your mirror. The reflection seems to beckon, and this time, it doesn't feel strange or off or wrong. This time, it feels like home. Go through if you wish. Bring a friend or loved one. You will find that any mirror now welcomes you, pulls you through as you desire and takes you where you wish to go. And for those who choose to leave, they will find that on the days they long to return to Geardagas and see Aefenglom once again, all they need to do is find a mirror. Look into it and reach out. The heart's desires will be reflected there. Travel where you wish.

This is Aefenglom's endgame event and grand finale! Thank you to everyone who played in this game; we hope you had a fun adventure and were able to enjoy playing your characters here. If you have any questions on this wrap-up event, please leave them here.

Some final notes:


Anyone who wishes to bring back a dropped character may still do so at this time. We'll keep an eye on comm requests for a few more weeks and let you back in, no app or anything needed.
Characters may travel through other mirrors now and visit other worlds! Even if they gave up their home mirror, they can still go somewhere else. They will also always receive a hero's welcome on Geardagas, so they are welcome to stay or return as they desire.
Feel free to keep making your own logs as a sandbox as long as you wish. The comm will no longer be monitored by the mods, but you all still have positing privileges, so anyone who wants to keep playing in the world is welcome to do so.

We hope you have enjoyed your time in Aefenglom throughout this absolutely crazy couple of years. Take care of yourselves. Farewell!

Comments

QUESTIONS

[moustre]

Iskandar | Fate/Zero | Witch

[towards_okeanos]

I. The Final Journey

Iskandar is pretty sure it's a trap. There was no instance when the mysterious dreams they had before have ever been completely benign. So he does not believe this strange voice promise. And yet he cannot resist. He knows his way around the Wilde. While it's not a truly safe journey. The wilderness remains what it was, a wilderness. Few twisted horrors lurk in the dark, and regular predators he can handle just fine. Doubly so, as he won't be going alone.

"That is an od sight if I've ever seen one"

He approaches the strange objects dotting the space around the flower.

"Are those ... mirrors?"

Honestly, they look more like gravestones to him.

III. Heart in Paradise

The light is too bright at first, so it is not the sights but the sounds that get to him first. Voices he hasn't hear for years now. Rustling of the sturdy fabric of his tent. Somewhere far, horses. The whisper of the wind-swept sand, ever shifting. But it's not his Reality Marble. Iskandar is sure of it. He would the mana leaving him to hold it in place. For all its detail, his created world always feels fragile too him. Like a shimmering mirage, destined to flash like a lightning, be witnessed but only for moments before it dissolves into nothingness once again. There's nothing fragile with this one. It feels real, solid, material, physical.

There's a nagging feeling in the back of is head that he meant to do something, to go somewhere, but te more he feels about it, the more it dissolves into grey fog. Too difficult to grasp. Iskandar leaves the tent. He's not a man to spend too much time on worry. It will all clear out eventually. What was he doing anyway?

Outside it's a maelstrom of activity but there, right in front of him, is a woman. Tall, slender, with long, dark hair. She's watching a young boy's attempts to get on a horse too large for him. What a child does in an army camp?

"Look who's finally up. You made the whole camp wait for you."

"Roxana" Iskandar starts. "Who is this child?"

She stands there, hands on her hips. Never as beautiful as when she's mad at him.

"Alexandros! I see I will need to have a word with your dear friend for letting you get this wasted! For you forget your own son! This is new low!"

Iskandar shakes his head. She's right. She must be... right?

"Yes, it's probably the wine."

His queen shakes her head with disbelief.

"I'm pretty sure it was already dawn when you finished yesterday. You must be more careful. There will be time for celebration but we're not there yet."

"There...where?"

"The coast, of course! Don't you remember?! It was your idea! Go, speak with Hephaistion! He should be able sober you up. The scouts returned not an hour ago. "

It is as if he never left. It is as if they never died. Deep down inside Iskandar knows with absolute certainty what coast she is talking about.

And yet a tiny, timid voice keeps telling him it all seems too good. That it all cannot be. That he had forgotten his purpose.

IV. Sacrifice

It pains him more to know this is all an illusion. A cruel trick performed on his mind by the foul and trecherous fairy queen. His whole being wants it to be true. He missed them all so terribly. But he also missed having his place, his goal, his direction clear before him. Iskandar only now realized that he, indeed, missed that too. He has chosen for himself yet another impossible goal only to make up for the one that he's lost.

In one moment of striking clarity it comes to him. This is what he can give up. This is what he can sacrifice.

So he does.

He gives up on his wish for the grail. No longer will he seek Okeanos, no longer will conquer new lands, no city will fall to the might of his army. But it is not only his impossible dream he relinquishes but a more general sense of direction, of known destination, impossible as it may be. To give up on this dream is to accept uncertainty. To accept that he must find another goal, another purpose, accept he might not succeed. That he'd no longer would simply fulfill his destiny, realize the duty and the privilege of a role he was born to. From now on his path will never be this certain.

V. Rebirth

Iskandar is a greedy and selfish man so words of the dragons bring him no solace. It is a painful awakening. More in the understanding that no matter how strong was his legend, there is no returning to the happiest days of his previous life. There is only this one.
And yet it is also hopeful, for he has lost much but gained a lot as well in this strange world with magic and monsters. A new life, new friends, new family. For here he does not walk alone. And that is, ultimately, what matters.

Wildcard

[because why not....]

viren | the dragon prince | dragon

[bloodwit]

i. heart in paradise

[ everything is perfect, but it's off. ]

[ viren is king, sitting atop his throne and surveying the people before him with a complacent, if detached, presence. gone are his draconic features; instead of horns atop his head rests a golden crown. any dissenters have been quieted, and the kingdom of katolis has been restored to proper order. a soft glow seems to envelope the spacious, well-lit room of the castle, a few individuals present shining brighter than others. even viren's eldest son is there, bowing his head respectfully, and his daughter peers at him with nothing but surefire admiration. the crowd otherwise mutters among themselves, quietly, and without any notes of discontent. ]

[ it's when another - one that he recognizes as someone who wouldn't dwell within the kingdom - catches his attention, that his expression shifts. he lifts his chin, drums his fingers against the arm of the throne, and his eyes flash. he doesn't move to greet, and instead a member of his council - consisting a number of individuals in long cloaks that stand at the sidelines - makes a declaration that viren might be approached, ]

[ "the king will hear you now." ]

ii. rebirth

[ the sacrifice, naturally, had been costly. it's not immediately evident what viren's sacrificed - and what's worse is that he can't be certain of the repercussions of it all. but it'd been a cost he'd willingly paid; he'd always known that there were few prices he wouldn't pay to achieve his goals, but coming to value geargadas as someplace important hadn't been apart of the plan. ]

[ they have yet to make the journey back to the city, with some mirrorbound in the midst of climbing atop the dragons' proffered backs. viren has half a mind to fly himself, rather than rely on these dragons. his demeanor, typically haughty and overbearing, seems ... quieter, somehow. withdrawn. he makes eye contact with another of the mirrorbound, allows his gaze to remain, before looking elsewhere.

ignoring the shuffle of those about him, he speaks in a lowered voice, ]


Was it worth it for you?

iii. a new door opens

[ goodness. is this what a happy ending is meant to look like?

the only thing that draws him to another mirror would be curiosity; the idea of a new life would be appealing, in a way, if this weren't already a tried and tired feat to viren. he's perhaps in better spirits than he's been in sometime within aefenglom. he steps closer to one of the mirrors, raising a hand as if he's to touch its surface. even if he's already made up his mind, he stops short, glancing at whoever might be nearest and likewise of a similar mentality.

he raises an eyebrow, and somewhat dryly, ]

I'm... not certain what awaits us.

[ that might just be apart of the appeal of it, however. ]

iv. wildcard

( ooc: feel free to do your own thing or contact me to plot further, thank you! )

iv. Sacrifice

[rollfordiplomacy]

[Everett knew with the mission at hand that he needed to be alongside Viren and Myr. It always felt like the three could face anything together. Now that they've all reunited to do this final task, it feels bittersweet to say the least. It's not easy to consider the most idyllic version of this world, only to dash it away.

A sacrifice that will save what is real. That's what matters most. The three make it to the heart of the flower- or rather, trio of flowers. One for each to give up what they must. Everett looks on a long moment, before his gaze turns to his beloved friends and bonded.]

Now... who goes first? Shall we roll dice for it-?

L Lawliet | Death Note | OTA

[hearthebell]

III. Heart in Paradise

[The chamber air is frigid and thin. Outside, the wind whistles and jabs at rocky ledges, but it’s dead still and stagnant in here, contained resolutely by thick stone walls. No exit is apparent. If you’re starting to feel claustrophobic and panicked, as though you’ve been buried alive, it might not be far from the truth.

At least it’s not dark. A large scrying basin sits in the middle of the floor, casting a rippling glow to chase away some of the deeper shadows, and maybe you see yourself in its surface. You’re going about your life blithely and happily, surrounded by friends and family from Aefenglom and home alike. Mundane scenes and gentle ones are interspersed occasionally by moments of great joy: a success, a victory, a wedding, a birth. The basin shows such total warmth and connection that you’d be forgiven for wanting to get lost in it for a minute, or an hour, or many hours. You might wish this beautiful life was real, and maybe here, it is real. It’s easy to sink into it and forget the numbing cold of this tomb.

Gradually, you might realize that you’re not alone. The light cast by the glimmering basin catches brilliant, yellow metal all around the chamber that’s not alive, and liquid dark that is, set in a pale face you may know. L Lawliet has a good view of the scrying basin but seems lethargic and sleepy as he watches, weighed down by so many golden bangles and chains over gorgeously embroidered wool clothes that he seems unable to even raise his arms in his curled position sitting against a nearby curve of the chamber’s wall.

Nearby, but not close, is a propped-up body that appears to be Light Yagami’s. He’s attired similarly in embroidered wool and gold, with many small and gleaming statuettes surrounding him with their faces turned and centering his form. His head is bowed over knees drawn close to his chest, one side of his hair matted with dried blood. It’s impossible to tell, at a glance, whether he’s unconscious or dead.

However long you watched some lovely version of your life in the basin, you recall that neither of these men featured in the idyllic world inside of it, and judging by the way your presence pulls L somewhat out of his dreamy languor, you’re just as out of place in this chamber.

However you’re regarding him, it’s spoiling the peace and beauty he’s watching from a distance in his scrying basin. When he speaks, there’s an edge of dismay to his words.]

You don’t belong here.

[Look at you. You're not wearing wool or gold. You weren't chosen, then brought here, then sealed up with stone. The promises and possibility in the scrying basin must be preferable, to the point where he almost seems to want to keep watching it rather than looking directly at you when he speaks.]

[faithlikeaseed]

[Myr had escaped from one of these visions before. He knows it, like he knows the exact places where the contours of this perfect, gentle life in Aefenglom break down. Like: He's got his eyes back, and Vandelin's confessed the Maker again, and Viren's prickly insecurity has turned into a contented kingly magnanimity. And, somehow, the flock of little blond children he calls his own have sharp ears like his, even though their other parents must be human in all the ways that count for elven heredity.

He knows this, he's seen it all before, and somehow the parts that were pure temptation the first time itch at him the second in all their wrongness. I don't really want this, he thinks to himself more than once, even as he finds himself once more acting out scenes of contented domesticity and pulse-quickening heroism by turns. Maker and Lady, I don't want this!

It isn't his. Everything that had ever been truly his, he knows now, had not come to him with such grace; everything worth anything in his life was won through effort, if not pain and tears and blood. There is none of that in this perfect world; there is no friction, no threat of failure--nothing, really, to strive against and use as grist in his co-creation of his life. This is not his life--this is an echo of the Golden City the spirits once fruitlessly inhabited; these phantom children he's raising like the banners that flew on their own, these words of love and praise to his dear ones like the echo of a song he had no hand in writing.

It isn't his, and the longer he dwells on that, the more he realizes there's a conspicuous absence from this repeated vision:

L isn't anywhere to be found.

That horrible realization twists in his chest and his gut and sends ice water down his spine; it makes him clutch at their Bond for reassurance that the flower's magic hadn't snapped it or sucked it away. (Or--far worse--devoured L while Myr was lost in cloudy-headed fantasizing.) Finding it still there is only slim reassurance; it is muted and drugged in a way he's all-too-familiar, in a way they can't afford in this terrible last act of the war with the Cwyld.

He abruptly stands right in the middle of a picnic being thrown in his honor, taking his staff down off his back and fishing Caragh's marble from his pocket. The dozens of guests laugh and clap, expecting a speech and sensing none of his urgency, because this place is perfect and whatever Myr does is perfect and appropriate and--

"Enough!" he yells, slashing the staff through the air in the first gesture of a counterspell for the world around him. "I--have--had--enough! Andraste, Redeeming Lady, by Your wisdom and mercy let this warped illusion be undone!"

The scene freezes and spalls like struck ice. A piece of the horizon falls and shatters on the ground like glass, revealing a colder glow than the sunset painted on its surface. Myr blinks, once, at the effect, before starting toward the aperture.

And: "You don't belong here," L says, somewhere, distantly.]

Like the Void I don't!

[Myr calls back, shouldering through the hole in the sky and right up and out through L's scrying basin.

It's disorienting to go from horizontal to vertical so abruptly and Myr nearly trips over the lip of the scrying basin, only a knight-enchanter's reflexes saving him and landing him in a--damp, dripping, freezing--three-point crouch at its edge. The look he turns on his Witch--and the body at his Witch's side--is more than a little wild.]

What, [panting, shivering,] in the Maker's sacred and neverending Name is going on here.

[He's only captured the vaguest adrenal impression of his surroundings but it's enough to have him very on-edge.]

[hearthebell]

[L's large, dark eyes seem only able to focus on a middle distance, even as his brow knits in distress and confusion at Myr's presence. A boundary has been crossed that wasn't allowed; his peace and paradise have been torn and interrupted. The drugged haze he's in only makes it more upsetting, a warm and fuzzy mist with the sudden introduction of jarring, sick dissonance.

He moves as though to rise, perhaps shove Myr back into the beautiful glowing dream he's conjured, but the gold is heavy. His thin limbs, starved down to nearly bone over the indeterminate time he's been here, are pinned and grounded. Moving is a nearly impossible task, and this isn't jewelry. It's a collection of weights and binding chains, meant to keep him immobile just in case his willpower flags and a desire to live overwhelms a desire to be a sacrifice to some heathen god.

He breathes heavy, unsteadily. Blinks, to ensure he's seeing the correct dimension.]

I'm glad to see you, just. Not like this, you know?

[Halting laughter. A joke. It's a tomb, doesn't he know?]

Your life was so nice. Your children were nice; I liked your picnic. Didn't you...? You didn't like it? So much that you had to spoil it? It was for you...

[And sunny, and warm, and so far from this forsaken place.]

I wanted to see what would happen. I didn't think...

[He shakes his head, dumbfounded, like someone who didn't see a twist coming in their favorite show.]

[faithlikeaseed]

[It is only after a minute or so of staring at L and listening to his Witch's drawn-out answer that Myr realizes his hand is aching begins he's white-knuckling his staff fit to shatter his own joints.

He sets the weapon down on the floor, carefully, without averting his eyes from his beloved's face. From his beloved's person, and the thick woolen shroud, and the chains and skeleton-thin limbs they bind.

He has no idea what the fuck is going on here but it looks enough like a Nevarran tomb and Nevarran funerary rites that he has a guess it is something awful and necromantic and somehow, somehow, L's self-circumscribed vision of the only paradise he could have.]

You weren't there, [he says, low and quiet.] You weren't there, and it handed everything to me that I thought I ever wanted, and it wasn't right, L. It wasn't right.

[There is not an ounce of blame in him for L wanting to watch that, for L sitting by thinking that Myr was happy in a world that wasn't for him. He knows well by now how hard the detective struggles with what is loving, and what is kind, and tries his damnedest to express it in the very best ways he can.]

I hadn't earned it and there was nothing there for me to build. It wasn't mine, and this, [he gestures around them, suddenly, sharply,] this isn't yours. You don't deserve an end like this, amatus.

[hearthebell]

[As Myr moves, L is aware, but it's delayed, as though everything is constantly just a few seconds behind before it registers. The staff, set upon the ground, implies that it could be seen as a threat... but what matters here, what can hurt him here, when this is a final destination for him, as valid alive as Light Yagami is beside him, slumped with his hair darkened with blood?

He makes a low, frustrated sound in the back of his throat. Before Myr came, he was carrying on quite a lively conversation with the maybe-corpse. How many times had he done that before, in Aefenglom, with an illusion? Easy enough to make the brain believe in moving pictures, when it's just a piece of meat, electrified, elucidating signals and input.]

It was for you...

[Quiet, pleading. It could have felt like his, in time, that tone says.]

If you want to build something... that can be managed, surely. A bridge with your name on it, a tower? A castle?

[Even softer, more insistently]

You can have anything here, and I won't be slighted or jealous. I promise. Tell me what I can give you to make it feel like it's yours?

[faithlikeaseed]

You.

[That is Myr's answer, insistent as daybreak.]

You can give me you, without illusions, outside of this place. It doesn't need to be perfect; I don't want it perfect.

I want you there.

[And then he shudders, all over, because he's soaked through by the water of the scrying basin and it's cold enough in the cave to put frost on his wet robes. Myr has always been a creature of desert heat, always regarded Aefenglom's wet winter with faint dread--and now that the initial heat of adrenaline is worn off, he's begun to feel how chill a death is stalking L.

He lifts his hands for a moment, like he'd tuck them in his armpits to keep warm, then forces them back down to his side, in fists. Now's not a moment to even give the appearance of folding up and hiding from his Bonded.]

I want, [he's interrupted by a shiver,] to build a life. Not anything made of s-stones.

[hearthebell]

[L listens, squinting as though what he's hearing is coming through muddled by wind or rain, or a language barrier that preserves tone but not intact meaning. The tone is one he strains toward, at least; it's such a comforting spot of warmth in this freezing cold chamber that's turned his lips blue, that's... also, somehow, affecting Myr. His Bonded has brought dismay and dissonance into L's etherized, hellish "paradise", and for a few moments, the glaze drops away from his eyes. It's lucidity, waking him up to the inherent horror and wrongness of this situation. No one in their right mind would agree to this; for a few moments, he's in his right mind. He strains against the weight pinning him, trying to stand.

He makes it about halfway up before sinking back, exhausted. The glaze is reinstated.]

Past the statues...

[He turns his face toward Light's slumped form, surrounded by small staring, emotionless statuettes.]

There are some wool blankets. Offerings... If you want to be here, for any amount of time...

[Because of course, he'll be on his way soon]

...you should stay warm.

[There is, in fact, a pile of folded blankets, with treasures and talismans tucked in the folds. A statuette of a strange, skeletal winged monster. A golden apple, a crucifix. There's a leather flask too, half-full of something thick and viscous.]

[faithlikeaseed]

[Hope wells in Myr's breast as L's reason surfaces, brief and sharp and bright; he takes a step forward, hand and Bond outstretched to help his Witch in the struggle to stand.

Then the lucidity slips away like a drowner's fingers from the hand of a rescuer. Hope quails in that moment, shaken--but not extinguished, because they have been through this before. The storybook ending would have L finding his strength in the substance of Myr's impassioned plea and shaking off his chains, but theirs has not been a storybook Bond from the start. It has always been the way, whatever the stakes, that their first attempts often fail; that progress must be won through repeat trials and determination and effort rather than simply happening as if by authorial fiat.

I want to build a life. Well, Shivana, here's another chance to get your hands dirty.

He looks past the statues--and Light's maybe-corpse--to the pile of offerings. It would be lying to say he's beyond the prospect of warmth tempting him; it would be more comfortable and saner to have this argument if he weren't in the process of freezing to death, himself. But,]

I'm already s-soaked through, [he observes, softly.] That's not going to save me and I'm n-not l,l,leaving without you.

[Ergo: He isn't leaving, if L doesn't.

Even having said, he moves from his spot to inspect the pile of offerings. The first of the talismans falls loose of the blankets with a quiet metallic tnk on the cave floor; he scoops it up with shaking hands to peer at it.]

I told you once, amatus, that I c-c-could not bear the thought of you dying alone. Being s-sacrificed to him, [he gestures with the statue, to Light and his emotionless coterie of worshippers (or so they might look, to a different eye),] doesn't c-count as company.

[hearthebell]

[When things are difficult, they rarely go well the first time. Shielded and sheltered from many environments he was likely to fail in, L has always found his relationship with Myr to be a challenge as aching as it is rewarding. Myr wants so badly for him to grow in himself and be better than he is; sometimes he manages some glimmer of progress, but more often, isn't he really a Bond with more pain and darkness than the other witch deserves?

He wants to stare back into the basin at the idealized life again. Its cool-toned glow is silver and blue on the cavern walls, shimmering an invitation, but Myr isn't there, Myr is--

Shivering. Cold? In danger, here, with me?

Is it because Myr is with him, or because this place is just inherently, insidiously dangerous? L struggles to discern the two as he shifts sideways, overbalancing with some effort. His trappings are weighted and designed to not only keep him from standing, but to keep him at rest for peaceful posterity propped against the stone at his curved back. He presses a palm against the chilled, dusty ground, half-raising himself and glancing in bewilderment over his shoulder at a seated silhouette outlined in chalk. It's breaking a rule to move away from it, he knows, but he attempts it anyway at a dragging, slow crawl. There's a compelling urgency cutting through the hazy distance clouding his mind, because...

Shivering, cold, in danger. Here, with me.]

Of course you're cold... you weren't prepared.

[Like him, and Light. He has no recollection of it, but full knowledge that it must have happened. Someone bathed and dressed and ornamented them before letting them drink from the flask that killed fear and pain.

He uses his elbow to drag himself forward on the rough floor, the gold scraping as he does. Every inch away from the chalk outline is increasingly tedious and difficult. He's breathless but he doesn't shiver like Myr does; the flask killed the cold for him, too.]

I'm so happy to see you...

[And he is, truly.]

...but of course you're leaving. You can't stay.

[You weren't prepared. In Myr's hand, the golden statuette's eyes seem to gleam a brighter yellow.]

I love you, so... you can't stay. We're going to get you warm, and then far away from here. Let me do that for you, please.

[He's sure that he can, even if this is as far as he could make it, the best he could do for someone who deserves so much more.

His hand brushes against one of the statuettes surrounding Light's motionless form. It tips over. The others turn, silent but for the grinding dirt beneath them, to seemingly stare at him. It's so much effort just to prop his weight up with his arms, but he thinks that if he collapses in this particular place, at the feet of his Bonded enemy and his disciples, he may not rise again.]