[CR] Lament of the Folly
Feb. 1st, 2019 06:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Lament of the Folly
Universe: Critical Role, Campaign 2, Episode 30, Folly of the Brave
Characters: Fjord, The Mighty Nein
Notes: Canonical Character Death, Mostly Canon Compliant
Description: There are a lot of things Fjord wishes he’d said, and then, it’s too late.
He doesn’t tell Molly about the dreams.
He’s not even sure why since he tells Molly about all the other weird things with his falchion and the voice who speaks to him in the night. But not these dreams.
They frighten him. They are more like nightmares. They reek of disapproval, and there’s a sense of... evaluation in them. As if Fjord is being given choices, and he keeps picking the wrong ones. Disappointment swallows him. He wakes feeling as though he’s drowning, but without the salt water burning his throat.
He doesn’t know what they mean. He suspects, but he doesn’t know. His suspicions are terrifying enough.
He doesn’t know what compels him to walk away from the campfire tonight. It tastes like the nightmares, like an inner urging he can’t deny. He’s restless even with Jester and Yasha beside him. He wants to go back, but something stays his voice, his feet.
Fjord talks to them, words falling from his lips. Not even he’s sure what they mean. He’s longing and wistful, he’s hopeful and encouraged. Yasha is a stalwart, silent guardian. Jester looks at him with stars in her eyes, and a brightness he wishes he could echo.
He thinks to go back to his sleeping roll and the warmth of Molly inside it, less hidden now that the truth has out. Molly’s always so warm. It’s his Infernal nature, he says with a lash of his tail and a wink.
Molly makes for perfect snuggling.
Fjord almost, almost turns back. That sensation of choice, however, lingers. It makes him hesitate, makes him keep babbling, as if somewhere in the cavalcade of words, he’ll find the answers.
And then it’s too late.
Then it’s silence and manacles and a gag that tastes sour on his tongue. He struggles, because he can’t not, but there’s too many, and even Yasha’s going down. What chance does he have if even Yasha is down?
And that place inside of him, that wet and tangled and pulsing place full of power, it’s silent. He reaches for it, and there’s nothing there.
He doesn’t know what it means. He’s afraid to find out.
It doesn’t matter in the end. He gets shoved into the same five by five cell with his friends. Darkness encapsulates them. The carts start moving, the horses clop-clop-clopping, and he hopes that means they aren’t bothering with the others. He prays that means Beau and Caleb and Nott and… and Molly are okay.
Don’t come after us, Fjord thinks. They’re stronger than us.
But of course.
That’s exactly what they do.
He hears them.
He hears the ruckus, and Fjord catches eyes with Jester, who immediately starts shouting and kicking up a fuss. They know, without eyes, that it’s the Mighty Nein come for them. They can hear so much, can hear the familiar twang-thunk of Nott’s crossbow, the low mutters of Caleb’s arcane chanting, Beau’s sharp cries, and a less familiar grunt of an another individual.
Fjord picks out Molly’s voice in the chaos, the infernal snarling. He and Jester and Yasha, they strain against their bonds, try to stir from the languorous seep of whatever their captors keep pumping into them.
It’s not enough.
There’s chaos.
Then there’s silence.
The cart moves forward. Fjord doesn’t know what it means. Jester looks at him with worried eyes. Yasha’s back to unconscious, her head lolling. They’ve drugged her up twice as much, because she keeps fighting it off.
The cart rolls forward, rickety and noisy over snowy rock and uneven ground. Horses snuffle. Their captors are snarling at each other in low tones. The smell of blood is disgustingly thick. Someone, in another crate, starts to weep.
Jester sags, half-lying against Yasha, half-thrown over Fjord’s legs. Her head thunks against his thigh. Her eyes close.
Fjord waits a bit longer. He counts the seconds into minutes. They go by, one by one. The cart picks up speed, bouncing them around in their confinement.
Nothing gives chase.
Fjord closes his eyes, heart thumping in his chest. He falls asleep, and he doesn’t dream. He fears this might be punishment for some slight.
Fjord fears a lot of things.
~
He should have said something sooner.
He tells Beau it’s not her fault because he knows, deep down to the pit of his silent core, that it’s his. He should have been paying attention. He should have been listening. He should have fucking been there. It shouldn’t have been up to them.
He’s the leader, as Molly had told him time and time again.
It’s no one’s fault but his.
It weighs on him, heavier than anything else. The torture, the beatings, the mind games. Compared to the ache in his heart, he can’t say what’s worse.
It’s a dangerous life they lead. It’s a risk they knew they were taking.
Fjord’s not at all comforted.
He sits in Caleb’s protective tent, at the sleeping bodies sprawled around him – minus Beau of course – and the empty space beside him, where Molly should have been is painfully noticeable. He wants to sleep, can’t sleep, and wonders what will haunt his dreams when he closes his eyes.
Will he be judged and found wanting again? Will he find himself back in manacles and cage?
Will he dream of impossible things?
It’s no one’s fault.
It is entirely Fjord’s fault.
He draws up his knees, wraps his arms around them. He bows his head, and he closes his eyes. Lorenzo and the Iron Shepherds are done, but they’ve caused their damage.
They’ve left their mark.
~
He wishes he’d told Molly about his dreams.
He doesn’t know if it would have made a difference. It’s painful to think so. That Molly, with his tarot cards and his mysterious past and his belief in the unknown, could have read the truth in Fjord’s dreams, and been more cautious.
Fjord’s knees hurt.
It’s bitterly cold.
He wishes he’d spoken up. He wishes he’d said a lot of things. There are words, things you’re supposed to say, emotions you should never keep to yourself.
We live a dangerous life, Molly had said. We live a risky life. So live the best life you can, because you never know.
You never know.
Fjord’s head bows. His shoulders curve forward. He doesn’t know if he can bear this weight. The pit of sea and darkfire in his belly churns and thrashes like a typhoon.
If the worst were to happen, we live.
Fjord’s eyes are hot. He squeezes them shut, grateful at least for the privacy the others give him. Their gazes are knowing. Mercifully, they don’t comment or offer any sympathy, though he can feel Beau watching him, radiating guilt.
It’s none of their fault.
Get up, he hears Molly tell him, while the arms of his coat flap in a soft, bitter breeze, swirls of snow surrounding it, obscuring the bright colors.
He takes Molly’s scimitar, remembers a battle what feels like a lifetime ago, the look of outrage on Molly’s face as Fjord had blinked in and out of existence, and the glee when Molly had found the Summer’s Dance.
I’ve got you now, asshole, Molly had said, charming for him.
Fjord swallows.
Get up.
He listens. He stands. He feels the magic swirling around the sword. It’s the only thing he can keep with him forever.
They’ve been a week out since Molly died, but he’s still here, in this grave. He’s come back once before. Has he run out of luck? Does it take longer?
Fjord doesn’t know. It hurts too much to hope.
Everyone else says their goodbyes. Yasha’s hurts the most. Fjord watches her scream, and wants to echo it, but all his anger is bottled inside, beneath a cork ready to pop.
Lorenzo is dead, and there’s no one left to kill.
Yasha leaves.
For a moment, Fjord wants to do the same. But he still has a family here. He still has people he cares about. They need looking after, all of them do. He has to protect what’s left. He has to live.
He watches Caduceus do something to make moss and fungi grow over the mound of Molly’s grave, peppering the brown and white in faint bits of color. Fjord doesn’t know what it is, and he’s afraid to ask, afraid of what it means.
Fjord’s cold inside, colder than the winter’s air, the bite of random flecks of snow.
It’s hard, this giving a shit about people. It’s harder than Fjord remembers.
He turns away from the grave, pulls himself into Dancing Queen’s saddle. Beau rides up alongside, pats him on the shoulder, gives him a squeeze. Her eyes are dark, haunted, but behind them lurks triumph.
Molly’s gone, but they yet live.
“It’s still a victory,” she murmurs.
“Yeah,” Fjord says, and grips the reins. His breath puffs out in front of him in curls of grey. “Let’s go.”
He rides away.
He doesn’t look back.
We live.
Fjord has a promise to keep.
***
a/n: This is not the end of the series, I promise. I can't leave my boys unhappy forever. :)
Universe: Critical Role, Campaign 2, Episode 30, Folly of the Brave
Characters: Fjord, The Mighty Nein
Notes: Canonical Character Death, Mostly Canon Compliant
Description: There are a lot of things Fjord wishes he’d said, and then, it’s too late.
He doesn’t tell Molly about the dreams.
He’s not even sure why since he tells Molly about all the other weird things with his falchion and the voice who speaks to him in the night. But not these dreams.
They frighten him. They are more like nightmares. They reek of disapproval, and there’s a sense of... evaluation in them. As if Fjord is being given choices, and he keeps picking the wrong ones. Disappointment swallows him. He wakes feeling as though he’s drowning, but without the salt water burning his throat.
He doesn’t know what they mean. He suspects, but he doesn’t know. His suspicions are terrifying enough.
He doesn’t know what compels him to walk away from the campfire tonight. It tastes like the nightmares, like an inner urging he can’t deny. He’s restless even with Jester and Yasha beside him. He wants to go back, but something stays his voice, his feet.
Fjord talks to them, words falling from his lips. Not even he’s sure what they mean. He’s longing and wistful, he’s hopeful and encouraged. Yasha is a stalwart, silent guardian. Jester looks at him with stars in her eyes, and a brightness he wishes he could echo.
He thinks to go back to his sleeping roll and the warmth of Molly inside it, less hidden now that the truth has out. Molly’s always so warm. It’s his Infernal nature, he says with a lash of his tail and a wink.
Molly makes for perfect snuggling.
Fjord almost, almost turns back. That sensation of choice, however, lingers. It makes him hesitate, makes him keep babbling, as if somewhere in the cavalcade of words, he’ll find the answers.
And then it’s too late.
Then it’s silence and manacles and a gag that tastes sour on his tongue. He struggles, because he can’t not, but there’s too many, and even Yasha’s going down. What chance does he have if even Yasha is down?
And that place inside of him, that wet and tangled and pulsing place full of power, it’s silent. He reaches for it, and there’s nothing there.
He doesn’t know what it means. He’s afraid to find out.
It doesn’t matter in the end. He gets shoved into the same five by five cell with his friends. Darkness encapsulates them. The carts start moving, the horses clop-clop-clopping, and he hopes that means they aren’t bothering with the others. He prays that means Beau and Caleb and Nott and… and Molly are okay.
Don’t come after us, Fjord thinks. They’re stronger than us.
But of course.
That’s exactly what they do.
He hears them.
He hears the ruckus, and Fjord catches eyes with Jester, who immediately starts shouting and kicking up a fuss. They know, without eyes, that it’s the Mighty Nein come for them. They can hear so much, can hear the familiar twang-thunk of Nott’s crossbow, the low mutters of Caleb’s arcane chanting, Beau’s sharp cries, and a less familiar grunt of an another individual.
Fjord picks out Molly’s voice in the chaos, the infernal snarling. He and Jester and Yasha, they strain against their bonds, try to stir from the languorous seep of whatever their captors keep pumping into them.
It’s not enough.
There’s chaos.
Then there’s silence.
The cart moves forward. Fjord doesn’t know what it means. Jester looks at him with worried eyes. Yasha’s back to unconscious, her head lolling. They’ve drugged her up twice as much, because she keeps fighting it off.
The cart rolls forward, rickety and noisy over snowy rock and uneven ground. Horses snuffle. Their captors are snarling at each other in low tones. The smell of blood is disgustingly thick. Someone, in another crate, starts to weep.
Jester sags, half-lying against Yasha, half-thrown over Fjord’s legs. Her head thunks against his thigh. Her eyes close.
Fjord waits a bit longer. He counts the seconds into minutes. They go by, one by one. The cart picks up speed, bouncing them around in their confinement.
Nothing gives chase.
Fjord closes his eyes, heart thumping in his chest. He falls asleep, and he doesn’t dream. He fears this might be punishment for some slight.
Fjord fears a lot of things.
He should have said something sooner.
He tells Beau it’s not her fault because he knows, deep down to the pit of his silent core, that it’s his. He should have been paying attention. He should have been listening. He should have fucking been there. It shouldn’t have been up to them.
He’s the leader, as Molly had told him time and time again.
It’s no one’s fault but his.
It weighs on him, heavier than anything else. The torture, the beatings, the mind games. Compared to the ache in his heart, he can’t say what’s worse.
It’s a dangerous life they lead. It’s a risk they knew they were taking.
Fjord’s not at all comforted.
He sits in Caleb’s protective tent, at the sleeping bodies sprawled around him – minus Beau of course – and the empty space beside him, where Molly should have been is painfully noticeable. He wants to sleep, can’t sleep, and wonders what will haunt his dreams when he closes his eyes.
Will he be judged and found wanting again? Will he find himself back in manacles and cage?
Will he dream of impossible things?
It’s no one’s fault.
It is entirely Fjord’s fault.
He draws up his knees, wraps his arms around them. He bows his head, and he closes his eyes. Lorenzo and the Iron Shepherds are done, but they’ve caused their damage.
They’ve left their mark.
He wishes he’d told Molly about his dreams.
He doesn’t know if it would have made a difference. It’s painful to think so. That Molly, with his tarot cards and his mysterious past and his belief in the unknown, could have read the truth in Fjord’s dreams, and been more cautious.
Fjord’s knees hurt.
It’s bitterly cold.
He wishes he’d spoken up. He wishes he’d said a lot of things. There are words, things you’re supposed to say, emotions you should never keep to yourself.
We live a dangerous life, Molly had said. We live a risky life. So live the best life you can, because you never know.
You never know.
Fjord’s head bows. His shoulders curve forward. He doesn’t know if he can bear this weight. The pit of sea and darkfire in his belly churns and thrashes like a typhoon.
If the worst were to happen, we live.
Fjord’s eyes are hot. He squeezes them shut, grateful at least for the privacy the others give him. Their gazes are knowing. Mercifully, they don’t comment or offer any sympathy, though he can feel Beau watching him, radiating guilt.
It’s none of their fault.
Get up, he hears Molly tell him, while the arms of his coat flap in a soft, bitter breeze, swirls of snow surrounding it, obscuring the bright colors.
He takes Molly’s scimitar, remembers a battle what feels like a lifetime ago, the look of outrage on Molly’s face as Fjord had blinked in and out of existence, and the glee when Molly had found the Summer’s Dance.
I’ve got you now, asshole, Molly had said, charming for him.
Fjord swallows.
Get up.
He listens. He stands. He feels the magic swirling around the sword. It’s the only thing he can keep with him forever.
They’ve been a week out since Molly died, but he’s still here, in this grave. He’s come back once before. Has he run out of luck? Does it take longer?
Fjord doesn’t know. It hurts too much to hope.
Everyone else says their goodbyes. Yasha’s hurts the most. Fjord watches her scream, and wants to echo it, but all his anger is bottled inside, beneath a cork ready to pop.
Lorenzo is dead, and there’s no one left to kill.
Yasha leaves.
For a moment, Fjord wants to do the same. But he still has a family here. He still has people he cares about. They need looking after, all of them do. He has to protect what’s left. He has to live.
He watches Caduceus do something to make moss and fungi grow over the mound of Molly’s grave, peppering the brown and white in faint bits of color. Fjord doesn’t know what it is, and he’s afraid to ask, afraid of what it means.
Fjord’s cold inside, colder than the winter’s air, the bite of random flecks of snow.
It’s hard, this giving a shit about people. It’s harder than Fjord remembers.
He turns away from the grave, pulls himself into Dancing Queen’s saddle. Beau rides up alongside, pats him on the shoulder, gives him a squeeze. Her eyes are dark, haunted, but behind them lurks triumph.
Molly’s gone, but they yet live.
“It’s still a victory,” she murmurs.
“Yeah,” Fjord says, and grips the reins. His breath puffs out in front of him in curls of grey. “Let’s go.”
He rides away.
He doesn’t look back.
We live.
Fjord has a promise to keep.
a/n: This is not the end of the series, I promise. I can't leave my boys unhappy forever. :)
