Valiant: The Covenant Chronicles

[Covenant #34: The Ocean of Souls]

Log Date: [date/timestampcorrupted]

Data Sources: Jayta Jaskolka

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The Old City

Day 141

The Ocean is vast beyond compare.

That is not saying much in the Old City, which itself is vast in many respects that cannot be rivaled. I would say the Ocean is empty beyond compare, but the Old City is also empty in many respects. And yet there is something about the Ocean of Souls that sets the experience apart from the rest of the Old City; it is perhaps the uniformity of the terrain. Upon land, there could be forests and hills, mountains and valleys, towns and cities, deserts and plains; there was a certain character to the terrain, no matter where you went. Something might be hiding just over the next hill, or tucked away in the depths of a forest, or nestled into a valley between mountains.

But out here on the Ocean, there is only the vast, steel-blue expanse, for as far as the eye can see.

The sense of isolation out here is far different from the one had upon land. Because there is no obscuring terrain, nothing to block the line of sight, you will always see something sharing the same space as you from miles away. Which only makes the sense of isolation all the keener, because we never do — after the first three days upon the Ocean, most of the boats that had launched around the same time, and from the same harbor as us, had fanned out and disappeared from sight. We had been on the Ocean for almost two weeks now, and not once had we crossed paths with another vessel. Out here, on the vast, exposed surface of the Ocean, there was nowhere to hide from other travelers — but that meant little when there was no one and nothing to hide from.

And with our isolation all but assured, it left us with no one to worry about except ourselves.

I wasn’t too keen on this; I was already aware of the effect that prolonged isolation was having on me. Despite the danger that had come with crossing the wastes, and the general moroseness of the souls behind the wall, it had been a relief to see other people. To see that I wasn’t the only one miserable here, and generally disenchanted with the afterlife that we had been permitted. And when the Daughter was traveling with us, I’d been relieved to be in close proximity to someone else, even if that person never said a word and apparently lacked a soul and a personality. Leaving behind the souls in the ruins, and the Daughter, had left me a little depressed, and it was something I quickly realized after we had embarked onto the Ocean.

Compounding all this was the fact that this part of our journey was sorely lacking in stimulation. The hardest part was that we were constrained to the boat, which is decently sized for two people, but also wasn’t a floating palace by any stretch of the imagination. There is only so much space aboard — the living quarters belowdecks, and then the helm, sail, and deck up top. It is a simple, modern sailboat for moderate journeys, and while it might be a status symbol in any other context, for me it is a floating prison with a highly restricted amount of square footage. And beyond that prison, there was only a vast blue abyss, day after day, ever flat, ever blue. Even if I could escape, there would be nowhere for me to escape to.

Raikaron, to his credit, recognized the danger that this part of our journey posed, and did his best to keep me engaged and stimulated when he could afford the focus to do so. Conversation was his foremost tool; he would talk to me about anything and everything I wanted, whether it was deep or petty, from penance to pasta to politics. He showed me the functional basics of sailing, and how sail made use of wind to propel a vessel; enlisted my help in furling and unfurling the sails at the start and end of each shift, and in maintenance tasks that needed to be done around the ship.

During our rest shifts, he would offer things to do — play a game, read a book together, teach me how to play piano, even offering to share some of his memories of the places he’d been to and the things I’d seen. Whenever I could find it within myself to do so, I’d take him up on the offer. Other nights, I simply couldn’t bring myself to do so — not for exhaustion or dislike, but simply because I lacked interest or desire or motivation, and I simply wanted to go to sleep to escape the burden of this journey for a little while. I knew this was depression, and recognized it as such; I tried to fight it when I could, and other times I simply didn’t have the strength to.

Throughout it all, though, he is there. Patient even when I am listless; accommodating  in spite of my weakness. There are times when I feel ashamed I cannot do more, or that I do not have the endurance for the demands of this trip. But he does not judge me; he sits with me, and holds me when I am weak or simply cannot manage the willpower to keep grinding on through these dreary, endless days. He has been many things for me since I have known him; my tormenter and my teacher, my Lord and my lover. But here, in circumstances where I am struggling in ways I never realized I could struggle, he is something for me that is more important than all those other things.

He is my friend.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The Old City

Day 145

Unlike the rest of the Old City, there is weather on the Ocean of Souls. But weather out here is far more deadly, perhaps moreso than the Old Ones upon the land.

It is because of the waters on which we sail are the memories of the old souls of Aurescura. The memory rivers that run through the Old City eventually feed into the Ocean of Souls, and one of the first and only warnings we were given before embarking upon the Ocean was that we never touch the water. Touch the water, and you will immediately experience those liquid memories; you will fall in, drowning in an ocean of recollection from millions of people that have each lived millions of lives. You will drown, and then you will dissolve into the Ocean, your own memories joining the swirling infinitude. Until one day you are reborn as an Aurescuran, your soul marked and claimed by the Old City.

With this unpleasant fate in mind, I had taken great caution around the edges of the ship, respecting the railings and anything that looked like it was designed to keep me from going overboard. It generally seemed like it was safe aboard the ship so long as you were applying common sense, but that was when the Ocean was calm and placid.

And it was not always calm and placid.

As I mentioned before, the Ocean had weather, and with weather came changes. There would be some times when instead of a vast, flat stretch of water, it was instead a rolling seesaw of waves whipped up by long, steady winds. Depending on their size, Raikaron would sometimes send me belowdecks; he did not want to run the risk of me falling overboard in the event of a freak accident. He would guide the ship through the swells for however long it took them to subside, only letting me come back above deck once it was calm.

Still, the waves were nothing compared to the storms and the rain.

They did not happen often, but when they did, they were terrifying events. We learned, the first time it rained, that the memories of the dead were not limited to the water that was in the Ocean. I remember seeing the clouds, but neither I nor Raikaron thought much of them; it was only when the first droplet hit my skin, and I had a suddenly flash of a memory not mine, that I realized the risk of a rainstorm in the Old City. Raikaron had the same epiphany when a droplet struck him, and he immediately looked up, then locked eyes with me.

In that instant we understood the danger we were in.

“Get belowdecks, now!” he’d shouted with uncharacteristic force, and I had bolted from  my spot, lunging towards the hatch that led down into the depths of the ship. For those few breathless moments, everything around me felt amplified; I could hear the plipping of raindrops hitting the ocean, the harder smacks when they impacted the ship’s deck. Another raindrop hit the back of my neck, another memory flashing around me and almost causing me to trip, and as I was grabbing the hatch and pulling it open, another one landed in my hair, resulting in me slipping and stumbling down the first few steps within. Then a shadow fell over me, Raikaron blocking out the light as he descended into the stairwell with me, and pulled the hatch shut behind him, sealing and locking it.

In the hours to follow, we would wait for the rain to subside, discussing how this would change how we approached our journey. The idea of rain gear was raised, but Raikaron pointed out we’d need something more akin to hazmat suits — completely sealed, to prevent any liquid from getting in if it was raining. Since we had nothing to that effect, we settled on simply taking shelter belowdecks when it rained — something which we were hoping wouldn’t happen very often.

Our discussion eventually petered off, and in the ensuing silence, we were left with only the drumming of the rain against the boat’s exterior. I didn’t think much of it, but I eventually noticed Raikaron seemed to be fascinated by it. When his fascination didn’t subside, I asked why it held his attention so strongly, and he explained that it’d been a long time since he’d listened to rain pattering against the exterior of a structure. It never rained in Sjelefengsel, he said — at least not in Hautaholvi. Regular rainstorms had been part of his childhood, and the sound of rain drumming on the exterior of a structure was comforting to him. It was the type of thing that had often lulled him to sleep as a child.

This little bit of information may not have seemed like much, but it was enough to give me an idea. Since the rain showed no sign of slacking, I asked him if he would like to take a nap while we waited it out, and though surprised, he agreed. We ended up curled up on the bed together, his head resting on my shoulder as we slowly dozed off to the staccato of the rain on the boat’s deck. Lying there with his soft breathing grazing over my collarbone, I felt better than I had in a while, and I realized that a little danger was good for us — it reminded us that life was a privilege, and gave us the contrast we needed to appreciate the safety we so often took for granted.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The Old City

Day 152

“Can you go grab my pocketwatch?”

It was a simple request, one I hadn’t given too much thought to. He would often give me these tasks; little things that would give me something to do so I didn’t get bored. This one, though, was a particular circuitous request, and I couldn’t help giving him a narrow-eyed look as he worked on unfurling and securing the sail. His only response was a knowing smile; we both knew what he was doing.

“It’ll be in the left inner pocket of my overcoat.” he says as I turn and start towards the hatch leading belowdecks. I just wave him off, already resigned to the meandering quest that he’d tasked me with.

Unlike our travels on land, we did not need to return to his tesseract every twelve hours, since the boat came equipped with living quarters and there were no living threats out here on the Ocean of Souls. We could instead choose to sleep belowdecks if we wanted, and if we elected to move some of our food supplies from the tesseract to the boat itself, it eliminated the need to return to the tesseract for meals. But we would still visit the tesseract from time to time, mostly in the interest of downtime or entertainment, or restocking the food we had aboard the boat.

And this, unfortunately, was not as simple as it seemed.

Since Raikaron’s tesseract was a floating structure, it was not tethered and anchored in any way to the surrounding environment. This was not an issue when the surrounding environment was stationary, such as it was on land; however, a boat on the Ocean was constantly in motion. We found, the first time we tried to set it up, that the tesseract would remain in place while the boat drifted away from it, which prompted Raikaron to very quickly recall it before it drifted beyond his reach. Belowdecks was not large enough to accommodate the tesseract in its fully expanded state, which left us something of a conundrum, since the vast majority of our food, supplies, and clothes were stored in the tesseract.

The fix we settled on was an unusual one — in order to access the tesseract, we had to do so in an environment which was both stationary and large enough to accommodate it. Nothing of that sort existed either on the Ocean or in the boat, but my hammerspace case, with its large interior structure and big open space within, fit the bill. Raikaron had his doubts; while we knew that we could open a hammerspace within another hammerspace, since that’s what we’d done in the mountains, he wasn’t sure about maintaining such an arrangement for extended periods of time. But my hammerspace case was its own little pocket dimension, and as such, the environment within it was ‘stationary’. It was unorthodox, certainly, but if the tesseract was deployed within my hammerspace case, then we would not drift away from it the way we would if it was deployed above the boat or the Ocean.

So we attempted this, and after finding that there were no negative effects after several hours, it was the state in which we’d left our hammerspaces ever since. The only downside was that visiting the tesseract required going belowdecks, into my hammerspace case, down the hall, down the elevator, into the main room, then onto one of the tesseract’s descended blocks and finally up into the tesseract itself. It was a bit of a long walk, going between the boat and the tesseract, something that Raikaron knew quite well when he asked me to grab his pocketwatch. His overcoat was in our room in the tesseract; going there and coming back would take me at least a few minutes.

Still, it was something to do, and a reason to go stretch my legs, so I went and did it. It was always good to have a reminder of how bright colors could be outside the Old City; the difference is noticeable and measurable as soon as I come down the stairs of my hammerspace case. The yellowed lights along the walls, with their filament bulbs, were a hue that I once considered annoying; but now the richness of their color was something I appreciated, knowing that such a rich hue could not be found anywhere in the Old City.

After making my way down to the main room and up into the tesseract, I take my time strolling across the floor to our room. Cinder is posted up on the island counter, and I run my hand over her back on my way past; she arches her spine, but otherwise doesn’t move from her spot, perhaps hoping I’ll come back to the kitchen and she can lurk for scraps. It’s something I haven’t entirely ruled out; since I’m already here, grabbing something to eat might save me another trip back later.

Within our room, it’s easy to track down Raikaron’s overcoat on the rack, and pull it down. As I do, I catch a faint whiff of his scent on it; I pause for a moment to bunch it up and press my face into it, breathing in the scent of spice and pumpkin and cider. Silly, perhaps, but I find it comforting; his smells, his clothes, his presence feels like home to me. Something and somewhere I can be safe and at ease.

After a moment of this, I open up the overcoat and start rooting through the pockets on the interior, feeling around for the cold metal of the pocketwatch. I soon realize I’m going through the wrong pocket; I had gone for the left pocket, but since the coat is facing me, my left is probably Raikaron’s right, since he’d likely been speaking from the perspective of someone wearing the coat. I start to pull my hand out, but my hand brushes against something soft and fluffy. Curious, I root around a bit more, grabbing the fluffy thing and pulling — and I find that I’m holding up a curious green fox plushie, with the ear tips and tailtip tinted golden. Much too large to fit within a pocket, but I realized that Raikaron’s pockets might also be hammerspaces, considering the things I’ve seen him pull out of them.

Lowering the coat, I hold the plushie up, staring at it. I had imagined that Raikaron would have many things in his pockets, but a plushie was not one of them; and I couldn’t quite parse the reason for why he would have something like this. Nor is a new plushie; it is not in bad condition, but you can tell it is old and worn, the colors faded and the fibers frayed a little at the edges. The phrase that springs to mind is well-loved — it has clearly had a long life, but it has been cherished, and maintained, and taken care of. Worn out, but still in good condition.

This is all that remains of the witch from Redleaf.

My heart stops, or skips a beat; whichever one it is, it’s a shock. I don’t hear the words; I don’t sense them. Instead, I feel them; I know them, as if the fabric of reality itself was being used to convey something to me. It’s a sensation at once familiar and terrifying, because I recognize it as the way that the Witchling and the Watchers communicate with other creatures. And yet this is different; there is something about this particular instance that feels… softer, more subtle. The Witchling warps reality around herself like a black hole, an incomprehensibly powerful force of nature that is brutal and unyielding. But this instance is different; it is more like a whisper, a murmur, a gentle swirl in the fabric of existence.

Still, it is startling enough that I drop both the coat and the plushie, taking a step back on impulse. In that single moment, everything has clicked into place. I remember the visit to the Mirage Mansion, the room full of plushies; Miqo’s remarks in the Neko Cafe, and the conversation with Anoroche along the beach. I know what lies at my feet.

She was once mortal, like you.

I feel like I shouldn’t be here. This feels sacred, feels private; I feel like I should avert my eyes, and hide my face. But it doesn’t matter, because in that moment, as I stare down at the plushie on the floor, everything about me falls away into nothing.

And I am just a witness.

I remember my first day in Newhome

I remember being scared and alone

I remember watching my world die

I remember being naked and huddling beneath my cloak

I remember hiding behind benches and dumpsters

I remember clinging to my mask because it was all I had left

I remember my reflection in an oily puddle

my skin smudged

my hair greasy

my nails dirty

my lips cracked and chapped

my arms and legs welted with fly bites and scabs

my eyes redrimmed from crying

to see how far I had fallen

Maugrimm, who once rode dragons and commanded all of Aurescura to defy armageddon

now a filthy beggar that hides behind rickety benches.

I remember my shame

I remember how I hunched and scurried

I remember how I hid my face when gazed upon

I remember being cornered by curious Islanders

I remember being encircled, questioned, prodded

I remember shrinking into myself and hiding my face

I remember wishing it would all go away

I remember you.

I remember you broke the circle

I remember you knelt by me

I remember you gave me this plush

To have and to hold and to keep me company

And it was a

little

thing, as such things go

but it meant everything to me

You smiled that day.

I remember you.

I remember Aura.

It is morning.

The little witch is downstairs, humming an ancient tune from another world and another time as she makes breakfast. Aura can hear it over the clinking and scraping of a pan, and the sizzling of bacon and scrambled eggs. It’s a song she’s heard the witch play before on her organ flute, when the evening darkens into shades of violet and sapphire.

Yawning, Aura stretches and slinks out of the little witch’s bed, padding out of the room and down the stairs. She pauses on the last two steps, lingering in the morning shadows, watching as the witch moves around the kitchenette in the potion shop, setting a plate of waffles down on the table with some syrup and a bowl of mixed berry sauce, alongside some fresh-cut fruit and whipped cream. Clearly it was going to be a good morning.

As Aura watches, though, the witch hits the somber notes of her song, and her hum falters as she dries her hands on a kitchen towel. It goes silent altogether as she laces her fingers together, and stares at the foggy light filtering in through the window beside the table. For a moment, the entire atmosphere of ease and relaxation wavers, as if the witch’s past was trying to loom up from the bygone eras to pull itself into the present moment, and cast its heavy and somber shadow across the morning that had started out so bright.

But just as it threatens to spill across the room, the witch takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders, as if bracing herself to hold the weight of an entire world again. She straightens up, determined to live in the present and not the past, and pulls a couple napkins out of the dispenser, setting them on the plates at the table. Turning about, she heads back to the stove to shuffle the eggs and bacon onto a plate and start cleaning the pan. As she does so, Aura silently slips down those last couple of steps, padding across the kitchenette until she can wrap her arms around the witch from behind. And though the witch stiffens for a split second, she relaxes when she realizes who it is, hands coming up to wrap around those arms and cling to them like the life preserver that keeps her head above the dark ocean within her and around her.

Clinging to the hope that even after living through the end of the world, there can still be happy endings.

But fast forward…

…to the part that matters.

I remember the end.

Where it all came crashing down

and our perfect little sunset

turned into a green mushroom cloud.

All the little moments — gone.

All the times I made you breakfast — gone.

All the times we curled up together and watched movies — gone.

All the times I would tell you stories about my beloved Aurescura — gone.

Gone with the wind

Gone in an instant

Gone with the Drive.

When it died, so did you

and when I found out

I fell

clinging

clawing

grasping

hanging

holding

to hope

the

whole

way

down

But it wasn’t enough.

You were my happy ending

but without you

it was just an ending

I remember being alone again

with the weight of a dead world on my shoulders

I remember falling into the Ocean

and sinking down, down, down

I remember closing my eyes

and living the death of my people once more

I remember reaching the bottom

where it was vast and dark and empty without light.

I remember being alone.

There was a part of me that stayed down there.

When I opened my eyes, I had nothing but my memories and my mask.

It is all I have left, for I have lost all else.

It is all I have left, for I have lost all else.

It is all I have left, for I have lost all else.

It is all I have left, for I have lost all else.

It is all I have left, for I have lost all else.

It is All I have, left, for I have lost. all else.

I am here, in our room. 

The world about me has returned again, and I am no longer lost in a memory.

But I cannot move.

I am overwrought, paralyzed by grief more colossal than anything I have ever felt in my life. A sense of loss that has punched a hole clean through me. And I know it is not my loss. I know it is not my own grief.

Yet it hurts all the same.

I can barely breathe, and as the tears trickle down my face, I sense movement around me. Vaguely, I am aware of someone picking up the coat, and with great caution, picking up the plush and slipping it back into the inner pocket. But I can’t look at them; I can only stand here staring off into eternity, reliving that memory in my mind again and again. The last memory of a deep and adoring love… and the grief of losing it.

It is only when my line of sight is broken that I can look up, and see Raikaron standing there before me. There is sympathy and pity in his eyes, and also regret. This was not what he had intended when he asked me to retrieve his pocketwatch; he had been careless, and this was the price to be paid for that carelessness.

“I’m sorry, Jayta.” he says softly. “I didn’t mean for you to carry this burden.”

“We were so happy.” I hear myself whisper. “Why did we have to lose her?”

His only answer is a melancholy sigh, and he steps forward, folding me into his arms and holding me close. And I slump against him, tears dripping down my cheeks, feeling hollowed out and empty. Grieving a love that wasn’t mine; mourning a partner I’d never known.

Discovering more about a little witch from Redleaf than I had any right or desire to know.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The Old City

Day 160

The days that follow are difficult ones.

I struggle to sleep. To remain focused. To be useful in any way, shape, or form. I am haunted by what I saw; but it was more than just seeing. I am haunted by what I experienced. By the memory that still lives inside me. When I have nothing else to keep me busy or distracted, my mind will stray to it, and I will live that love and loss all over again.

Even though I know the memory is not mine, separating myself from it is difficult. That is the problem with the plushie memories; you are not merely watching someone else’s recollection from a distance. You are experiencing them as if they were your own, as if you lived that moment, with all its emotions and consequences. You do not witness shame; you feel shame. You do not observe joy; you partake of joy. You feel the exact weight of that moment and memory; you know its ramifications and relevance. And when you experience all these things, it can be hard to remember that those weren’t actually your experiences, but someone else’s — you just happen to be reliving them in the most intimate way possible.

I do my best to try and separate myself from the memories I experienced, and remember that those weren’t my memories; they were someone else’s. And in the times when I am able to dissociate those memories and examine them at a distance, I have to contend with the fact that they are not just anyone’s memories. These are the memories of the woman that would become the Witchling; who would sacrifice everything to give our people a second chance. Too often, I feel like a heretic for having seen these memories; I feel like I am in possession of knowledge that no one should have or be privy to. These are sacred memories, intimate memories, memories that expose the soft, vulnerable past of what is now a force of nature.

Raikaron, for his part, does what he can to support me. He handles all the work, all the cooking, all the laundry, while I struggle with these revelations. Sometimes I will take the chores to have something to do, to distract myself and stop thinking for a while. He is there, ready and willing to listen at a moment’s notice, and eventually, I avail myself of his patience.

“Do you think we’ll ever have anything like that?” I ask him as we’re lying on the deck, side by side, leaned back against the slant of the topside cabin and staring out at the distant clouds.

He glances at me, then back out at the clouds. “No, I don’t believe we will.” he says after a moment. “A love that deep, that undying, is purchased with more trauma than I think either of us have at our disposal.”

“Yeah.” I say softly. “I’m not sure I’d want a love like that if I was only going to lose it in the end.”

His lips twitch. “To spend thousands of cycles, millions of reincarnations, trying to serve and save your people, to break free of the cycle. And when you finally do… when you escape… you finally find love, a happy ending for yourself… only to lose it.” He falls quiet for a moment. “It’s cruel, even by the standards of an unfair universe.”

“I’m not sure I would’ve been able to keep going.”

“There are few souls that would’ve been able to. The only individuals I know that would have that kind of resolve — they are all hypernaturals.”

“That’s bitter, if anything. To have the strength of a god, and all you get to spend it on is enduring the suffering inflicted on you by other gods, and an unfair universe. This is why Aurescurans don’t worship gods.”

“Not all hypernaturals are bad. But your antipathy towards them has reasonable foundations, given the experience of your people.”

We fall silent for a spell, each lost within our own heavy thoughts. After a time, Raikaron speaks up again.

“You do know I love you, right?” he says. “Our love, it may not be like theirs. But I do love you.”

I look at him, then nod. “Yeah. I know. I love you too.” A moment of quiet as I gather my thoughts. “I just… after seeing how they loved each other, Maugrimm and Aura… I remember that, I look at that, and I feel…”

“Inadequate?”

I see the look in his eyes, and I know he feels it too. “Yeah. You think to yourself, you… wonder. You wonder why you can’t feel that way, can’t feel as deeply as they did. That level of dedication, of devotion, of adoration. It makes you wonder if you’re doing love right. If there’s something wrong with you.”

“I know it.” he agrees, fingers fidgeting idly. “And I tell myself that I’ll get there one day. I’ll get to that level of love and dedication. I just need time.” He offers a hand out to me, glancing my way. “And in the meantime, this love enough. It will grow and mature. It just needs time.”

I reach out, taking his hand and lacing my fingers through his. “Yeah. Yeah, that feels better. That feels… right. It’s not that our love isn’t as good as theirs. It just hasn’t had time to grow into everything it could be yet.” I say, finding myself comforted by that. “We just need time.”

“All good things in time.” he agrees, returning his attention to the sky. I do the same, then tilt my head when I notice a far-off speck of darkness, moving against the backdrop of clouds.

“What is that?” I ask, pointing it out with my free hand.

He turns his head in that direction, and it takes him a moment to pin down what I’m seeing. “Oh. It’s a dragon. Old Aurescura used to have them, during the years of the Cycle. Once the Cycle was broken, they did not make it to New Aurescura when it was established. I believe the Witchling kept them here in the Old City, to help with the Duty.”

“Wait, Aurescuran dragons are real? They actually existed?” I say, surprised by that.

“Of course they did. Don’t you remember the memory?” Raikaron reminds me. “In it, Maugrimm specifically stated that she once rode dragons and commanded the entirety of Aurescura in defying the Cycle.”

“Oh… that’s right.” I think, with how much focus the memory had on love and loss, I had mentally glossed over what the other parts of it had hinted at or alluded to. “What do dragons do here in the Old City? Help keep the Old Ones in check?”

“That, and ferrying exceptional souls across the Old City.” he explains. “The heroes of your people, those who have lived exceptionally valorous or virtuous lives, who have done great good in the time they have been allotted — they are given express transport over the Ocean of Souls, forgoing the journey that other souls have to make upon the waters. Individuals which are allotted this privilege are surpassingly rare.”

I puff a breath. “I don’t imagine I’ll be getting that reception when I finally die.”

“It seems unlikely, yes.” he agrees, rubbing his thumb over the back of my hand. “But you never know. You might have a long life ahead of you, and no one can really say for sure what the future holds. The journey you’ve had doesn’t always define the journey to come.”

It’s tempting to want to argue that. After all, I am a contract demon, serving a demon Lord; by most appearances, it would appear that the trajectory of my life is pretty clear at this point. And yet I don’t argue it, because part of me wants to believe Raikaron. Because I want to believe that who I am, and what I’ve been up to this point, won’t define what I’ll be for the rest of my life. I want to believe that I could choose to be something else, if I ever got the chance to be something other than what I am now.

I want to believe that even for someone that’s fallen as far as I have, there’s a chance I could change, make amends, and be worthy enough to fly with dragons one day.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The Old City

Day 166

Over the days, I slowly recover from having seen the Witchling’s memories.

Though they remain with me, they no longer haunt me as badly, and I find myself able to sleep without constantly thinking about them. Despite the doubts and trauma they had burdened me with, I found myself refreshed, in a way. Having something to struggle with, to struggle against, had given me a renewed sense of purpose. Depression no longer threatened to claim me every day, though I’m sure if we remained here long enough, it would begin creeping in again.

Still, even though my dreams were no longer haunted by the Witchling’s memories, they were still haunted by something else. I wake up one morning from a particularly vivid and unsettling one, and after some time to process it and reckon with what it might mean, I get dressed, and go in search of Raikaron. It seems like he’s already up for the day, and when I come out onto the ship’s deck, he’s in the middle of unfurling and setting the sails for the day.

“Morning.” he calls down to me. “Sleep well last night?”

“Not really.” I say, fidgeting a bit. “I had a vivid dream last night. More like a nightmare, honestly.”

“Yeah? What was it about?” he asks as he makes his way around the mast.

“About that storm we’ve been keeping an eye on for the past few days.” I say, glancing out the the dark wall of storm clouds in the distance. With the shape, vastness, and the fact that we can feel its winds even this far out from it, we’d both theorized that were were looking at the side of a hurricane. We’d been using its winds to make some remarkable progress over the last few days, but it had been getting bigger and bigger, as if the cost of catching a ride on its winds is that it was pulling us in as it lumbered past us. “We got caught on the edge, and it pulled us in. Tried to get out, but it was no use, and we… capsized. And when I woke up, my, uh… manacle marks were glowing.” I say, rubbing my thumb over one of the black marks on my wrist.

That grabs Raikaron’s attention; he stops securing the sail, looking at me. “Your manacles were active when you woke up from this dream?” he repeats.

I nod.

“Hmm.” he says, looking towards the dark wall of storm clouds in the distance. “And Mek gave you the premonition chainlink before we left, correct?”

“He did, yeah.”

He’s quiet for a moment as he sizes up the hurricane in the distance, and the cloud formations in the skies overhead and roundabouts. “In this dream, do you remember if we did anything specific that led to the outcome you saw? Was there anything that was said that stood out to you?”

I blink a little at that. “You did, actually. Said something. That we could use the wind on the outer bands of the hurricane to slingshot ourselves past it, and get further along. And it got us pretty far, but when we tried to break from it, we weren’t able to, and it pulled us further and further in.”

“Never thought I’d see the day when I’d let impatience impact my risk management.” he murmurs, starting to furl the sail up again. “Let’s batten down the hatches for a couple days and see if that hurricane will be so kind as to pass us by. I believe we’re far out enough that we’ll get some light rain and wind from the outermost bands, but so long as the sail’s furled up, the wind shouldn’t be able to drag us too far.”

“So you think that was actually a premonition?” I say, watching as he starts to tie down the sail again.

“If you wake up with your manacle marks glowing, then something’s certainly afoot.” he says. “I’d rather err on the side of caution. We may lose two or three days, but I’d rather delay our destination than take the risk of not reaching it at all.”

While it makes sense, I don’t like the idea of extending our time here. We’ve already spent so long here, and I don’t want to spend a single day more than I have to. Still, if the alternative is not escaping at all, I’ll accept a delay in the interest of safety. “So we’ll just be drifting for a couple days?”

“A couple days or more. We’ll still be in motion; the wind coming off the hurricane will still push us along, just not as efficiently when the sail is down.” he says as he finishes tying it down, and pulling the knot tight. “Once the hurricane’s safely past, we can resume actively sailing. In the meantime, you and I can take a load off and relax.”

I wrinkle my nose at that. “The last thing I need is more time on my hands to do a whole load of nothing.”

“Let’s do something together, then. Yoga, or perhaps martial arts. I could teach you the basics of Jai Te, and perhaps relearn some of it myself. It’s been quite a while since I’ve had a reason or excuse to use it.” he suggests.

What I really want is people, and social interaction. Some variety, some engagement with a wider community, some involvement in a wider society. I know that’s what I’m really starved for, and I think he knows it as well. I also know his suggestions for activities are meant to distract from that, to give me something to do so I don’t think myself into a depression again. He’s trying his best to help make this easier for me, in the only ways that he knows how. The only ways that are available to us right now.

And I could complain about it, but I’ve already done plenty of complaining on this journey. Instead of complaining, I wanted to take charge. To take control, instead of letting my ennui be in control of me.

“Alright.” I say, nodding and hitching my hands on my hips. “Let’s do that. Teach me Jai Te. And let’s keep doing the piano lessons you were giving me. I want to learn to play something fun.”

He smiles at that, stepping away from the mast and leaning down to kiss my forehead.

“Gladly.”

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The Old City

Day 169

It is raining.

We are lying on the bed belowdecks, listening to the rain drum against the exterior of the boat. For two days, it has rained; a slow, steady drizzle from the outer bands of the hurricane. The moment it started, we took refuge belowdecks, and have remained down here ever since, sometimes spending time in our hammerspaces on activities to keep us busy, and occasionally returning to the belowdecks to check and make sure everything is in good order. We can do as we like at our leisure, and sometimes we simply like to lie together like this, listening to the lulling static of the rain. Drifting in and out of sleep, lingering in the cozy twilight of consciousness.

Raikaron is sprawled on the bed, with his head and neck comfortably supported by a couple of pillows, while I am snuggled up to him, using his shoulder and chest as a pillow. He has one arm around me, tracing slow, lazy patterns on my arm; dull grey light filters in through the slat windows on either side of the belowdecks quarters, though it’s not enough to fully light the quarters. Everything is steeped in shadows, with touches of grey light, with the shadows of raindrops speckled across the places where the light lands. It lends everything a timeless sensation, neither day nor night, but somewhere eternally frozen in between.

A mechanical click draws my attention, and I shift my head a little to see that Raikaron has use his free hand to pull out his pocketwatch and pop the cover, staring at the spinning arms behind the glass face. The watch face appears to be another layer of glass, and behind the six arms are what appear to be crystal counters and gears, letting out little sparks of light as they steadily tick along. This is the first time I’ve actually gotten a good look at Raikaron’s pocketwatch; although I’ve always known it was important to him, it’s something that I’ve rarely seen, and that he’s almost never spoken about.

“Checking what day it is?” I murmur.

“Day one sixty-nine. Fourteen hours, twenty-eight minutes, nineteen seconds.” he answers equally softly. “It can be tempting to check it obsessively. I try to only check it when I need to.”

“Understandable.” I say, still watching the six arms spin about, some of them in countervailing directions. “I guess it’s magical or something? I mean, it’s obviously not normal… and when most people want to check the time, they just look at their phones.”

“It is a… tool or artifact, yes. Useful for more than just keeping time.” he says, holding it over so I can take it and look at it. “I built it myself, in the tradition of my ancestors. It is not a requirement by any means, but one of the many rites of growth for a Syntaritov is to build your own pocketwatch. Often it houses a portion of your power, or acts as a focal point, of fulfills some other function. Or many functions.”

I run my thumbs over the bezel rimming the edge, feeling how finely the metal and the casement is etched. “You said it was a rite of growth; it is always a pocketwatch, or can it be something else? Like a wrist-worn watch, or a compass?”

“Well, I suppose nothing is preventing one from constructing a different form, but for Syntaritovs, this particular rite is always a pocketwatch. Not all Syntaritovs choose to do it; it is a very intensive project that requires extraordinary precision and complex enchantment, and that isn’t everyone’s cup of coffee.” he explains. “In truth, sometimes the project is entirely symbolic; many Syntaritovs have constructed an arcane pocketwatch simply to prove that they have the skill to do so, and they almost never use any of the functions which they have endowed it with.”

“So it’s like a vanity project? It symbolizes a person’s skill or mastery?” I ask, tilting it a little to try to get a different angle on crystal gears beneath the watch face.

“Well, skill or mastery, incidentally, I suppose. But that’s not the primary symbolism that is intended.” he says. “It is a reminder of the story of our first ancestors, Kastril and Solebarr. A lesson, I suppose you could say, about dedication, and sacrifice, and effort.”

“So there’s a story behind this?” I say, setting the pocketwatch down on his chest as I trace the chain attached to it.

“There is.” he says, picking it up and looking it over. “A long time ago in another galaxy called the Milky Way, on a planet called Earth, there was a place called the Island. Upon this Island, a scientist, who was obsessed with the unfairness of the universe, created a machine that did terrible, improbable things to the fabric of reality upon this Island. That machine was called the Drive, and it soon grew beyond his control. It became his undoing, and the government quarantined the Island, and started sending people to the Island to destroy the Drive.”

“Was that scientist one of your ancestors?” I ask.

“Oh, no.” Raikaron chuckles. “No, though I commend his capacity for creating a problematic object. No, my ancestors — Solebarr and Kastril — were among those who were sent to destroy the Drive. Though they were not sent willingly. The Island became known as a terrible place that would kill you or change you, again and again and again, and once you were there, you never left — at least the mortals never did. The unfortunate and less desirable within society were conscripted to the task of destroying the Drive, flown out to the Island, and pushed off the plane with little more than a ‘good luck’.”

I just stare at him. “Are… are you being serious?”

“Quite.”

“That’s insane!”

“Very. But at any rate, that is how Kastril and Solebarr ended up on the Island; that is how they met, and where their story began. And there are many stories of their courtship from their time upon the Island, but one relating to the pocketwatch comes several years down the line, after they had been bonded and were thinking about starting a family. They obviously did not want to do that on the Island, which was a warzone populated by the Drive’s monsters and other conscripts that lost their minds after too many years on the Island. But Kastril was unable to leave the Island. During her time there, the Drive had changed her, as it had changed many of the conscripts, and suffused them with the same probability-altering energy which it generated and used to sustain itself. It lent them unique powers and privileges, but the tradeoff was that they could not survive without this energy. Effectively, Kastril was unable to leave the Island.”

“What about Solebarr, though?” I ask. “Wouldn’t he have the same problem? Or was he not there for as long as Kastril was?”

“He was there for longer, actually. He arrived in one of the earlier waves of conscripts that were dumped on the Island, and Kastril arrived in one of the later batches.” Raikaron explains. “But Solebarr was a creature of the Dreaming; the Drive could not change or corrupt him as easily as it would mortals. And Kastril was mortal, human, until the Drive turned her into something more.”

“So how did they escape the Island?”

“Well, Solebarr, being a creature of the Dreaming, could leave whenever he wanted to simply by returning to the Dreaming. He chose to stay because it was interesting, and stayed for many years simply on account of that fact. Kastril, on the other hand, did not enjoy the same mobility, because the energy which kept her alive was tied to the Drive, and the Drive was trapped on the Island. So Solebarr, both wanting and needing to give his wife the same freedom that he enjoyed, set about the matter of rectifying this. He did this by destroying the Drive, again and again and again. Dozens, hundreds of times.”

I furrow my brow. “Wait, he destroyed the Drive hundreds of times? I thought there was only one Drive? Or were there more?”

“No, you’re right. There was just one Drive.” he says, tapping his pocketwatch, which sends out a line of light that branches and divides, arrows of sickly green light curling and winding into the air. “That was the pernicious thing about the Drive. With its reality-altering powers, its probability manipulation, every time you destroyed it, seven or eight different versions of it would manifest across the Island, and then all but one of them would decay. It would reset itself, show up in a different location, and continue corrupting reality. Kill it as many times as you wanted — it would always reset itself and come back.”

“Well, if it always came back, could cheat death, what was the point of trying to destroy it in the first place?” I demand, thoroughly confused now.

“Some might argue there was no point — you couldn’t kill it, so why try? And that’s the opinion many of the Islanders developed after their first few times trying to kill the thing.” Raikaron agrees. “But for Solebarr, this wasn’t just a pointless exercise in trying to kill the thing that was keeping his wife alive. Every time he destroyed the Drive, he came back with a small chunk of the version he destroyed — a piece of metal, a screw, a spring, a gear, that carried the residual probability energy that his wife needed in order to live.”

I perk up a little. “And he did this hundreds of times, so he had hundreds of those pieces?”

Raikaron smiles. “I think you know where I’m going with this.”

“And he used those pieces to build a pocketwatch.” I guess.

“Precisely. He melted down the pieces, recast many of them into the gears, pins, and springs that he needed to create a pocketwatch much like this one.” he says, lifting the pocketwatch resting on his chest. “And because those components were forged from shards of the Drive, that pocketwatch became a mini-Drive that Kastril could carry with her, and that would generate its own little field of probability energy that could keep her alive. That was his gift to his wife — freedom from the Island, purchased through the grueling process of destroying a demigod hundreds of times, and forging a key for her shackes from the shards of its many corpses. That is what the pocketwatch symbolizes for Syntaritovs — the lesson of determination, and hard work, and above all, the measure of what we will do for those we love.”

I reach up, grazing a finger against the pocketwatch as he holds it up. “He must’ve loved her a lot.”

“He did. And he does. It is the kind of dedication that I hope to live up to.” he says, closing the cover on the pocketwatch until it clicks shut. “That is why, even if you do not see me use its arcane functions very often, I still carry it with me almost everywhere. It is a symbol of my ancestors, and reminder that you have to work hard for the things you want. For the things that are important to you.”

I’m quiet for a bit, soaking that in. “Wait, and this was the same Kastril that we saw at the Mirage Mansion? The one with the blue feathers in her hair?”

“The very same.”

I can’t help but marvel at that. “And he did all that for her… I suppose it makes a lot more sense why they’ve been married for a billion years.” Something else occurs to me, and I ask: “Is that why she seems a little… odd? With the, y’know. Pickle and peanut butter sandwiches, and pulling knives out of toasters? Is that because of the mini-Drive and the probability field?”

He bites his lip thoughtfully. “I don’t actually know. My understanding is that she’s long since transcended the need for the mini-Drive and the probability energy, though she still carries it with her as a memento of her husband. Her strangeness is simply part of who she is, as least as far as I’m aware. But with the Island being part of her formative experience, it may be a contributing factor in her eccentricity.”

“Yeah, that would make sense.” I agree quietly. “She’s no longer human, is she? You said she was human when she came to the Island, but the Drive turned her into something else, and if she’s been alive this long…”

“Correct. Quite inhuman, even if she may retain the semblance of one, like I do.” he confirms. “Past a certain age, humanity simply becomes a… uniform of sorts, something that you wear in public to be polite to those around you.”

“Like clothes.”

“Like clothes, yes.” He sounds faintly amused by that.

I slowly start to settle again, laying my head back on his chest as he lays the pocketwatch to the side. “Do you ever find yourself wishing you could have a love like that? Someone that would kill a demigod hundreds of times just to forge the key to your freedom?”

“Is that something you desire?” he asks, gently combing his fingers through my hair.

“I wouldn’t ever want to be in a situation where that was needed. But if I was, that’s the kind of love I’d want.”

“I think we all would want that kind of love and dedication.” he opines. “Many of us, we crave the privilege of being part of something more. Whether it is a group or a relationship. Many of us want to be valued, and what validates your sense of worth more than someone killing god over and over and over again for your sake? For the vast many of us, we will never find ourselves in that situation. But if by some chance, our lot was unfortunate as Kastril’s and Solebarr’s was, then I imagine nearly all of us would wish for a companion that would fight for us as hard as Solebarr fought for Kastril.”

I trace my fingers over his chest, a lazy, rhythmic motion in much the same manner that he’s stroking my hair. “Perhaps one day we’ll have a love like that.” I murmur, almost to myself.

I can feel him shift a little. “To be perfectly clear, I do not have the same capacity for demigod slaying that Solebarr does. He was over six hundred thousand years old at the time of that story, while I am just a little north of three thousand.”

I raise my head at that. “He was six hundred thousand years old?! How old was Kastril?”

“Mid-twenties, I believe? I am not entirely sure.” he says, allowing a moment for that to sink in before following up with a cheeky “Really puts our age gap into perspective, doesn’t it?”

I chuckle after a second, dropping my head to his chest again. “That’s so messed up… I’d almost say Solebarr was robbing the cradle, but with those numbers, it’s more like Kastril was robbing the grave.”

“Haha! That’s a good one. Oh, you are clever; I’ll have to mention that to Miqo next time I see her. I’m sure she’ll get a laugh out of that…”

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The Old City

Day 174

Under the shroud of night, we arrive at last to the end.

After the hurricane had passed us by, we resumed sailing again, continuing on our way once the rain had cleared. At first, the journey was no different than before, and deep inside, I harbored the dread that we might again spend a month meandering across the featureless Ocean, with little to do and little sign that we were making progress. But my fear of monotony was soon allayed.

On the second day after we resumed sailing, we noticed something unusual. The sunless sky, that grey eternity, was starting to darken by degrees imperceptible to the movement of minutes and hours. Over the course of a day, it was noticeable; and the further we went, the darker it got. When I asked Raikaron about it, he explained that it was a sign we were approaching the Weir of the Witchling at the end of the Old City, and that our destination was within reach. A matter of weeks, or perhaps even days now.

The sky continued darkening as we sailed on through the following days, to the point that we could see stars above, and the Ocean around us both reflected their light, and the darkness they were seated in. There was a stillness on the waters that indicated a great calm; where before, wind would brush the surface of the Ocean and leave it broken up by ripples, now there was no wind, and the only thing to break the surface of the lake was the passage of our boat, carving a silent V through the still, glassy waters.

Without wind, one would assume a sailboat would not be going much of anywhere; but ours did, quietly cruising on through the night. Raikaron was unable to offer an explanation for why that was; his best guess was that we had crossed some unseen boundary that filtered out the unworthy, possibly through the hurricane we had seen earlier. Whatever the case, he left the sail up even though there was no wind, trusting that the boat would carry us where we needed to go.

And it did.

We arrived to the end faster than I expected, and without as much warning as I thought we’d have. Perhaps it was because of the darkness which had taken over, but we only saw the wall when we were a few miles out from it. Just like the wall guarding the shore of the Old City, this wall stretched for miles and miles in both directions, vast beyond comprehension — and it wasn’t long before I realized that it wasn’t a wall. It was rim of a colossal dam that helped contain the Ocean of Souls, and kept from spilling out into… into what, exactly?

“What’s beyond the Weir?” Raikaron had replied when I asked him. “Nothing, really. The book does not say much about it, other than the fact that there is nothing beyond the Weir. I believe it is just empty space, and the boundary of that empty space may act as a window into the mortal plane, which is why you see stars up there in the sky and beyond the Weir.”

Armed with that knowledge, I set aside my curiosity about what lay beyond, and focused instead on the Weir itself. It wasn’t until we got closer that you could really grasp the scale of it, and the magnitude of what it did, holding back an entire ocean of memories. It was a silent, imposing superstructure, unpopulated as far as I could tell, with the only variation in its design being a massive fortress built atop it. And even the fortress seemed uninhabited once we got close enough to see it in detail; there was no one to stand guard at the walls, no one waiting by its gates. The architecture was brutish and geometric; no fancy crenellation or spires or carved facades. Just a black monolith hunched atop the dam, watching over the Ocean with a cold austerity.

At the foot of the dam, just below the portion that the fortress was built upon, there were piers — obviously intended for the few that made it across the Ocean of Souls intact. It was one of these piers that we pulled up to and disembarked onto; during the approach to the Weir, Raikaron had tasked me with preparing for our departure, so everything that we had brought onto the ship, I collected and transported back into our hammerspaces. Once that was done, he collapsed his hammerspace so he could carry it in his pocket once more, and I closed mine up and brought it topside. We would leave the ship just as empty as it was when we came aboard — I even tidied up the belowdecks quarters a little, if only out of a fleeting sense of sentimentality.

As we step off the ship and onto the pier, I notice that Raikaron isn’t bothering to moor the ship to the pier, instead heading straight for the set of stairs carved into the face of the dam. “Aren’t you going to tie it down? So it doesn’t float off?” I ask, following him.

He pauses, looking around at the sailboat. “No need. It’s served its purpose, and our exit is up there, not down here.” Simple, efficient, straight to the point. “There are none here that will be crossing back over. Once we are gone, it will likely drift back out to the Ocean. Perhaps it will sink, or maybe it will make it all the way across for another soul to use it. But there is no point in us mooring it — neither us, nor anyone else on this side of the Ocean, will be using it.”

He continues towards the stairs with that, and I give a last look back at the boat that carried us for so long. I feel a bit wistful, leaving it there and knowing we’ll never return to it, but that is the way of things. That part of our journey is over, and soon, the rest of it will be as well.

Ascending the stairs of the Weir is a simple and straightforward affair, one that leaves me out of breath by the time I get to the top. The weeks we spent on the boat, with limited room to roam and not much in the way of exercise, left me a little unprepared for handling over a hundred stairs. I have to brace myself on my knees and catch my breath when I get to the top, and Raikaron patiently waits for me as I do so. Once I’ve composed myself, I stand up straight again, and see that the gates of the fortress lie across the dam from us, and they’re wide open, offering a view into the expansive courtyard beyond.

“That’s it? We just… walk right in?” I say, glancing at him.

“You were expecting something more. Some guardian, or a test of character.” he says, turning and heading for the open gates. “There are no more obstacles. The Old City, and the Ocean of Souls, are the filter. Only those that deserve to be here, or need to be here, will make it to the Weir. There’s no need for guards and tests of character when the unworthy have already been sifted out.”

“It’s so… quiet.” I say, following after him. Reluctant to state the obvious, and yet I can’t ignore it. I think some part of me was expecting more pomp and circumstance after everything we’ve suffered through.

“It is, yes.” he agrees. “It’s a solemn place. Sacred and eternal, reverent and somber. This is where worthy souls decide whether they would like to return to the mortal plane, and live another life, or if they are ready to let go, and evanesce back into the aether of the universe. And so the quiet is in keeping with the gravity of the decisions that are made here. There are no distractions, nothing to divert the mind from the purpose of this place.”

“Will we see anyone else while we’re here?” I ask as we pass through the gates and into the courtyard.

“I don’t find it likely. There are few that reach this place, and I doubt there are any that linger.” he answers, keeping his voice down. “People are not meant to stay here. I have a feeling they are permitted to remain just long enough to make their decision, and then they move on.”

“And do you think…”

“The Witchling? No, she’s not here. I would sense it if she was.”

“How can you tell?” I ask, glancing at the lines carved into the ground beneath our feet. The courtyard seems like it’s dominated by a massive seal, filled with smaller cogtooth circles, like the gears of a watch — all interlocked together, and each containing their own seals, runes, or glyphs. I don’t recognize many of characters, and I have a feeling that it’s old magic — older than the stuff that the witch coven and my brother practiced.

“Her presence alone warps reality. I can sense no warping here — only solemnity. She is likely elsewhere, tending to some other matter that requires her attention.” he explains, tucking his hands in his coat pockets. “We merely need to deliver the memory to her throne, and once that is done, we can take our leave by way of the pier on the other side of the fortress.”

That draws my attention to the building before us. Like the walls, it is carved of black rock, and it does not resemble a proud, majestic castle — instead it is thick, broad, blocky, with an imperial strength and a no-frills design. A long flight of broad stairs are carved into its slanted front, leading up to a series of darkened arches that delve deeper into the fortress.

“Let’s do it, then.” I say quietly. “I’m ready to get out of here.”

We finish crossing the courtyard and embark up the stairs with that, ascending the fortress to the waiting arches. There is a hallway within that we follow deeper into the building, bereft of torches; but there are grooves carved into the walls in winding, flowing patterns, and a green light flows through these, keeping pace with us as we go. It isn’t long before we arrived into a throne room — not an exceptionally large one, but both walls are lined with stained-glass windows. As we cross the throne room, I notice that the windows are not static — the stained glass shifts like oil on water, the colored panes sliding around to form slow-moving images and scenes, some of which I recognize. One of them is of Raikaron and myself, detailing our journey across the Old City; another one shows the sealing of the Divine Beast at the end of every Cycle. Yet another one shows worlds beyond number on the mortal plane, and another one details a green fox Halfie dancing with a little witch in a potion shop on a misty morning.

My attention returns forward when Raikaron reaches the foot of the terraced dais where the throne rests. The throne itself is an angular, geometric affair, clearly not made for comfort, but for providing an imperial backdrop for the one who sits in it. It’s like an encapsulation of the Witchling and the power she wields — eldritch and regal, vast and pitiless, cold and cosmic in her oversight. Raikaron starts up the terraced dais towards the throne, and after a moment of hesitation, I follow him.

Arriving to the throne, he pulls a pair of white silk gloves from his pocket, and tugs them on; reaching into his coat, he carefully extracts the viridian fox plushie that we had retrieved from the Mirage Mansion. He looks it over, and though it is only a plush, I can tell in the way he holds it that it has an immense weight — not a physical weight, but a sentimental weight. The weight of memories and feelings and connections; the weight of love and grief, all bound up in its weary stitches. Saturated with pain, and all the joy that came with it; the final fragments of the witch once known as Maugrimm.

The last remnants of goddess’s humanity — a sacred, precious thing.

Stepping forward, Raikaron kneels before the throne and places the plushie on it. Not in the center, but tucked into the corner in a sitting position. He carefully arranges it, so that it is placed with love and care, the paws resting in the lap and the head tilted up enough that it can see the rest of the throne room, as if it was waiting for a certain witch to come pick it up and hug it close.

And once it’s been placed, he stands up and takes a step back. I feel a deep, aching pang in my chest, looking at it; all alone in this quiet, dim room, so small and lonesome, like a tiny little candle in the dark. The piece of the Witchling that had made her human — the part of her that hoped and believed in happy endings.

It’s not until I feel Raikaron’s thumb against my cheek, brushing away a tear, that I look away from the throne. I want so badly for her to have gotten her happy ending, because that is the same thing I would’ve wanted for myself. And I have a feeling that if the Witchling could have a happy ending, then the rest of us could as well — we wouldn’t have to linger in this half-lit hell, atoning for the sins of the millions of lives we were forced to live.

“One day, all the debts shall be paid.” His voice is soft and assuring. “Every soul will be made free, and the Old City will be empty. It will take millions, perhaps billions of years. But one day, far from now, the last of Aurescura’s old souls will find peace, and your people will be free from their interminable atonement.”

He places an arm around me, and together, we walk back down the terraced dais in silence. Turning at the bottom, I can see a doorway has opened up in the wall behind the throne, down in the left corner — leading out to what I assume is the rear of the fortress. We head towards it without further ado, leaving behind the throne room, and our completed task.

Outside, we find ourselves on a simple shelf in the shape of a half circle, hanging above what appears to be an immense and starry abyss. To either side, we can see the dam that curves away for miles and miles; every now and then, a gleam of light will gather at one of many sluice gates lining the dam. After a few moments of coalescing, it will launch out into the abyss on a long, straight line — another soul, being sent back to the mortal plane to be reborn.

At the center of the shelf, a long, simple pier without a rail extends into the dark some distance. What grabs our attention, though, is a single soul sitting on the shelf just beside it, their legs hanging out over the abyss as they stare out into the starry void. I look to Raikaron to see if he was expecting this, but he’s already heading in that direction, pulling his gloves off as he goes.

When we arrive, the soul glances back at us. “Oh. Hi. Don’t mind me; you can use the pier if you like. It’s going to be a bit before I take the long walk.”

“You’ve made your choice, then?” Raikaron asks, folding his gloves and tucking them back in his coat.

“I have. I think I’ve done enough. Seen enough.” the soul says, glancing back out into the starry void. They don’t seem to have a distinct appearance — it keeps shifting and morphing, as if it was cycling through all the lives this one soul has ever lived. “I just wanted to go back over some of my favorite memories before I evanesce.”

“Understandable.” Raikaron says, raising his gaze to the pinpricked dark. “You are at peace, then?”

“I am.” the soul nods. “Took a while to get there. Didn’t think I ever would. But I got there. I could go again, if I wanted to, and I might learn some new things. Have some experiences I haven’t had before. But I think most of it, I’ve experienced already. There’s only so many lives you can live before you start repeating some of the things you’ve done before.” There’s a moment where they pause, and then: “Did you know I was a full-time accountant in at least seventeen of my lives? I suppose I must’ve had a thing for numbers.”

“So it seems.” Raikaron says, clasping his wrists behind his back. “For what it’s worth, it’s an honor to have met you before you evanesced. I hope your dissolution brings you the closure you desire.”

“Oh, it will.” the soul says, kicking its legs back and forth. “Everything that has a beginning has an end. I think I’m finally ready for mine.”

Raikaron doesn’t say anything to that. There is a look on his face that I can’t quite read; bitterness, concession, maybe melancholy acceptance. After a moment, he turns to the pier, then looks back at me and offers his hand. I glance at the soul, but can’t think of a good way to broach the question that’s on my mind. It seems happy and at peace, and I don’t want to disrupt that, but…

“Did you ever do things you regretted?” I ask suddenly. “Things you weren’t proud of?”

The soul glances back after me, then smiles kindly after a moment. “You’ll be able to make up for them. Usually it’s not easy. And it takes time. But if you want to, you can atone for your sins. And it’s never too late to start, no matter what you’ve done.”

I nod. “Thanks.” Reaching out, I take Raikaron’s hand, and let him lead me down the pier. We leave the soul behind, kicking its legs back and forth on the edge of eternity.

Traveling down the length of the pier in silence, it takes us about a minute to reach the end. Though it’s hard to pick out, I eventually realize there’s a large shard of black glass hovering just past the end of the pier, almost invisible against the backdrop of the void. It’s obviously our way out, but Raikaron doesn’t step forward just yet, and I glance at him.

“It’s strange.” he says quietly, staring at the shard of black glass. “I’ve been looking forward to this moment for almost half a year now, yet now that I’m here, there’s some part of me that hesitates to leave. It’s not so much that I want to remain here, so much as I know what I’m going back to. The responsibilities that await me and the person I’ll have to be.” He pauses for a moment. “I… enjoyed just being myself. With you, and no one else to answer to.”

I squeeze his hand. “You can always be yourself with me, my Lo…” I stop, then amend my words. “You can always be yourself with me, Raikaron.”

He glances at me when I say his name, then squeezes my hand in return. “Thank you, Jayta.” After another deep breath to brace himself, he steps forward into the black glass, and I step forward with him.

Everything is dark for a moment.

And then we are standing in the great room of the House of Regret, as if we had never left. Outside it is dark, with the yellow lights of Hautaholvi gleaming in the night, and the red stars of Sjelefengsel’s portals gleaming faintly in the sky above. Sitting in one of the armchairs is Danya, who has her spectacles on as she leafs through reports on a tablet. Upon perceiving us over the rims of her spectacles, she sets aside her tablet and takes her spectacles off, quickly standing and straightening her suit. “My Lord. A little forewarning of your return would be greatly apprecia—”

“Danya!” I lunge away from Raikaron, winding through the chairs and couches so I can hug her. “I missed you!”

Danya doesn’t say anything at first, apparently shocked into silence. After a moment, she gingerly places her arms around me as well, patting my back. “I missed you too, Jayta. It’s good to have you back, you and Lord Syntaritov both.”

I don’t let go of her, simply holding on as I hear the harpies upstairs screech and wake up, starting to scramble out of their beds and flocking down the stairs. It’s ungodly chaos at this time of night, but I don’t care.

That’s what makes it home.