You're writing a letter in the dead of night. Everyone sleeps but you, you burn the midnight oil. You clean your guns several times over, pace barefoot on the cold floor, until finally you turn the lamp oil up and grab the best parchment you can find, a quill, and a bottle of dark ink.
So you're writing a letter.
It begins:
My friends,
I have just taken an audience with the Raven Queen, who has snuffed any hope of my redemption, for which I am truly grateful. With new clarity, I can finally see my life as a series of compounding poor choices. There was nothing I could have done to save my family, yet I still sold my soul in search of vengeance.
You stroke the quill through some ink, your little finger trembling. She says to you that you were always broken, that you don't need to seek that redemption you once begged on your knees for. It's over. It's done.
You still feel the blood, taste it in your mouth.
Later, I allowed Ripley to leave, knowing full well she was a greater threat to the world than the Briarwoods would ever be. I traded the world’s safety for the belief that I could murder my way to peace, that if I could be a greater horror, it would bring my family back. Once this lie was shattered, I scrambled to find a solution, to make a deal, to undo my mistakes and balance the scales. I now understand that there are no scales. There is no redemption, and no ledger that judges me good or evil. I am free to simply be myself and live with the terrible mistakes I’ve made.
She freed you, The Raven Queen. So she lives in your backyard now, on a small plot of land. She lives there so that maybe, a piece of whatever Vax traded away will be tethered down to you. To your home that he helped to saved.
Tomorrow, I start upon a new path beyond the gods and demons who have tormented me, and it’s your friendship that makes this possible. Though a shadow lingers, the need for vengeance is gone. I will try and do my best for you all. I will strive to buy the future more time free of my legacy. I will stand against the children of my madness in hope, rather than in anger. And if you are reading this, then my travels on this path have come to an end.
You think about Whitestone in all of its glory, how Cassandra will sit at the helm of it, lonely and young, and how you will no doubt leave her. You are not meant for this world, you've decided it. All you've done is brought it pain and while you won't seek out death... you won't fear it. Not anymore. This time... it's all on your terms. Your vision begins to blur.
Scanlan, thank you for destroying my gun. Do not let the weight of life’s consequences crush your bravado. It is your greatest weapon.
Grog, remember that your compassion has brought you this far, not just strength. For the record, I would have wiped the floor with you that time.
In goes the quill, out come the words:
Vax, you often remind me of myself, and yes, I know that that is a bit of an insult. Stop indulging your desire to sacrifice and try being the man that these two women seem to think you are. They may actually need you one day.
Vex, you often remind me of myself, and that is the highest of compliments. I hope you free yourself of whatever voices haunt you. Also, since I’m gone, you’re the clever one now.
You chuckle to yourself. Painfully. Your twins, a pair of bright, shining stars in the darkest of skies. Both so different and yet such a matching pair.
Keyleth, don’t let the world break you. Learn to forgive it for not living up to your standards. We promise to try harder.
Pike, it is wonderful to have you home. You bring everyone closer to their best selves, and I can only imagine what a burden that must be. Allow yourself some vice and failure. They’ll still love you just the same.
Quietly, you stare at the last bit of space your letter has left. A closure. Your hand shakes.
As to what must be done, I’d be content to be left in a ditch, my weapons and notes burnt and broken. But I imagine that would upset Cass. If you can, take me home. If you can’t, I understand. She knows where to find the rest of my instructions. Times being what they are, burn my work or bring it home in the hopes of aiding in the defense of Whitestone. I leave this judgment in your capable hands. Please find Ripley before she does too many terrible things and erase my legacy wherever you find it. That silence would be the greatest eulogy I could ever hope for.
With eternal gratitude, Percival of Vox Machina
You fold the letter, place it inside one of the waterproofed pockets of your coat. You let that letter sit. And sit.
And sit.
And sit.
One day, maybe, someone will open it when you are rightfully dead and gone. You know that day will come soon, so long as Dr. Ripley lives.
context, he's learning, is a big thing here. fragments of people's memories shown in crystal clear clarity without anything to help you place them or understand them. like a picture looked at from different angles -- from one angle it a scene could look irredeemable, and another gentler, just with a few details in different places.
so.
what's to take away from all this. does context change anything about a man writing a death letter and talking about all the terrible things he's done? maybe? ]
... It sounds like there's one hell of a story behind all that.
[ and maybe percy would tell him. share something, or enlighten him. but the bubble is not forgiving (Start - 5:36). ]
[ the bubble is not forgiving, and as percy witnesses this very... very poignant death, he finds his brows drawing tightly as he sees. he's not surprised that so many are around him, he's got an odd magnetism to him, a strange gravitation that's almost undeniable to at least hover within.
he blinks slowly as the color twists gently through the bubble. ]
It's a story about forgiveness. I think.
[ he offers him a quiet smile. ]
And you... that wasn't what I expected at all. I. Death is strange, isn't it...
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Uhhhh.
If it is I'm writing a strongly worded letter to management about it. There's cosy and then there's this.
1/2
of course when it doesn't, he huffs. ]
Well... nothing in this place a bit of color can't fix...
[ and as he gently applies a bit of pink to the bubble— ]
2/2, cw: ideations of death/talk of death
cw: death
context, he's learning, is a big thing here. fragments of people's memories shown in crystal clear clarity without anything to help you place them or understand them. like a picture looked at from different angles -- from one angle it a scene could look irredeemable, and another gentler, just with a few details in different places.
so.
what's to take away from all this. does context change anything about a man writing a death letter and talking about all the terrible things he's done? maybe? ]
... It sounds like there's one hell of a story behind all that.
[ and maybe percy would tell him. share something, or enlighten him. but the bubble is not forgiving (Start - 5:36). ]
no subject
he blinks slowly as the color twists gently through the bubble. ]
It's a story about forgiveness. I think.
[ he offers him a quiet smile. ]
And you... that wasn't what I expected at all. I. Death is strange, isn't it...
no subject
[ because he can’t tell if percy is asking for forgiveness, or trying to forgive himself. that’s … not an emotional he’s unfamiliar with. ]
… Mm. Well. People don’t usually expect corpses to be wandering around making conversation due to a bunch of loopholes.