All Things End [DUAL PK]

[Hom 1988]

 

https://youtu.be/AsDs6IqOc18?si=xEr6vaFA2drvF9AD 

 

Spoiler

This post ended up very long, so I’m gonna say everything I want to say out of character at the top instead of at the bottom. These two characters have been a massive part of Moth and I’s life for almost two years now, and it’s very bittersweet to let them go. I want to thank Moth for getting me onto this server, for writing Wilford’s character so beautifully, and for allowing me to write this post and give him the sendoff he deserves. There’s almost too much these two have been through to ever summarize in something of readable length, so I’ve chosen to write something focusing on what they mean to each other, and the best closure I felt like I could give to their story. I don’t expect everyone to read it, but I do hope those who do enjoy it.

 

If you have ever interacted with these two characters in any way, I want to thank you for adding to their story. Atticus is a character who is probably gonna stick with me as a writer for a very long time, and it wouldn’t have been that way if not for the amazing interactions he had throughout his life, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Thank you all :)

 

[OOC: This narrative post heavily features discussion of medical euthanasia and, technically, suicide. If either of these are sensitive topics for you, proceed with some caution!]

 

 

The canopy roof of Atticus’ bed had not miraculously changed into something interesting over the past thirty-four minutes, no matter how long he stared at it. Despite his near-constant willing for something intriguing to occur, the lacquered oak remains the same shade, its elegant carvings the same shape, its dullness impressively persistent. Trying to compel the ceiling through sheer force of mind was, truly, the least interesting of his activities lately. 

 

And yet this was the least painful position for him to exist in, laying with his head propped upon the pillows, so he endures it. There’s a book on his lap, only halfway read, but he had abandoned that effort with great resignation after his fingers had failed in spectacular fashion at grasping the corner of the next thin page, hands shaking and twitching too violently when he raised them to achieve much at all. 

 

He almost felt guilty for griping about boredom, even if he only did so internally. His family took pains to keep him company, Norellie having practically abandoned all else to stay by his side and tend to his episodes of health, something that always caused him a pang of guilt. A young woman like her should be out in the world, making her way, mingling with new people- Not confined to caring for her elderly grandfather, who’s independence failed him a bit more each and every day.

 

It was not her alone, of course. Wilford could not be broken from his bedside, accompanying Norellie in her caring of him, wiling away the hours with long conversations and turning the pages of his books so they could read together. He rarely left the house these days, and stayed within the bounds of their room almost as much as Atticus himself, though it was not illness or fragility that kept him there. Capric made time for him constantly, despite his newfound duties, bringing a stream of news from the outside to keep him from being isolated- Everything from the turning tides of international politics, to the simple gossip he overheard from Vallagne’s rooftops. Orion lingered in the home like a shadow, still unsure of his own presence, but never failing to fill the gaps when others could not, reminiscing with him upon times long past.

 

And yet, they couldn't all be with him constantly. He would not want them to be, feeling the sorrow and worry that sat behind their expressions at his bedside, something that however-unintentionally caused him to feel like a specter of woe. In the moments where he laid alone, he could not escape reality.

 

All the years he mulled over the eventuality of age, he never once considered the boredom. The bone-deep frustration of uselessness and inability, the shame that came with leaning on others for each small action. For some reason, he had always thought the dread would reach him first. Fear of leaving it all behind, fear that his soul may truly be barred from the Skies for all his fumblings in life, the horror and doubt that comes with all great unknowns. Atticus did not ever think that his greatest killer would be stagnation. 

 

He tilts his head to the side, slowly- As he does all things these days. Gently he turns his hand, observing how age has pockmarked it with darkened spots and inflated veins, deep wrinkles that crease with every shaking, twitching, uncontrolled movement of his fingertips. A body which is slowly less and less his own, with every month that passes by- More and more, it seems to adhere to its own whims. 

 

When he attempts to curl his fingers inwards, the command and the movement come with seconds of agonizing delay between them, each digit shaking and cramping with the effort. Eventually he resigns, dropping his aching wrist back down to his side. His gaze drifts back to the canopy, as his thoughts float elsewhere. If there was anywhere he spent most of his time these days, it was in his own head. That was the only place that did not take much effort on his part.

 

Each time he straightens himself enough to peer into the mirror, it’s hard not to see his mother. She too had grown her hair long in her final years, as he had. Long, and white, and always twisted into neat sections. When her hands became too sluggish to maintain it herself, it was Atticus who kept her hair from matting and tangling, working away the long hours in her darkened home with nimble fingers. He liked to get it done as fast as possible, after all. 

 

When he was paying her caretaker, or cleaning her home, or making sure her deliveries of food were coming on time, it was easy to avoid speaking with her directly. Counting coin or organizing boxes of old mementos meant he could turn his back, and focus his mind on simple logistics. 

 

In the afternoons he spent carefully re-twisting her hair, his mother’s words were unavoidable.

 

“I hate that woman, you know. She never gives me a moment’s peace.” The words are as clear as if she’d spoken them yesterday, the rasp of age peeling off of each word, like the years itself had scratched away at them akin to waves upon the rocks. Atticus’ hands, young and quick and only half as scarred, pause in their work. 

 

He frowns, then sighs. “She’s here to make sure you’re comfortable, mother. I know you may not get along, but you don’t have to- You just have to let her do her job.” 

 

Atticus can hear the scoff before it even escapes her lips, the bitter curl of the elderly woman’s mouth. “She follows me everywhere. In my kitchen, in my bedroom- Did no one ever teach her it’s rude to enter a woman’s home without permission? She doesn’t even ask before she steps through the door.” 

 

It’s the same conversation they’ve had a thousand times before. He’s unsure if she’s actually forgotten their previous talks, or if she simply finds a sort of joy in having someone else around to insult her hired caretaker to- It may be a piece of both, in all honesty. He resumes his work on her hair, twisting the stark-white curls into a neat section. 

 

The mage chooses to indulge her, each word a repeat of old arguments he never won. “It’s for your health, that’s all, really- If she waits for you to tell her when to come in, what could she do if you’d had a fall?”

 

This time it’s not a scoff, but a bark of a laugh that leaves her. He’s so startled by it, his fingers stiffen- Laughter, no matter how humorless, felt strange and alien in her voice. He could count the times he’d heard her laugh as a boy on one hand, and he wouldn’t even need to use his thumb. 

 

“How am I going to have a fall? Trapped in this chair, I can barely move my arms. I’d sooner waste away sitting right here than manage to fall.” To her credit, she clenches the arm of her wheelchair with more strength than she’d displayed in months, before her shaking fingers fail her once more. 

 

Atticus has to admit to himself, quietly, that she isn’t wrong. She could barely maneuver herself around the house, let alone out of her chair unassisted. It seemed that in her growing age, the hidden spite he had always felt within his mother had slowly become externalized, bitter words and cold remarks the only things she could lash out with as her body turned upon her. 

 

It didn’t take the march of years alone to turn her words against him. No, she had always been bitter. Bitter towards her station in life, bitter towards her surroundings, bitter towards her children for abandoning every expectation she lofted over their heads. But as Atticus glances about her home- Darkened, dusty, only maintained by the efforts of a lone nurse and the sparse visits of her son- This was a bitterness he could finally understand. The frustration of age.

 

“... That boy should just fire her already.” Before he can open his mouth, she’s speaking again- And her words cause his brow to furrow in confusion, his work pausing again as he watches her eyes narrow. “But I’m sure he feels better knowing he’s paying someone off to putter around after me. Doesn’t visit, just sends his money. We went wrong with him somewhere, Ben.” 

 

Atticus’ lips pressed together into a thin line, as she utters his father’s name. Quietly, he moves on to the next section of hair. It was pointless to try to drag her back to reality, when she drifted this far from it- She would argue him down until he felt the urge to tear his hair out. Don’t act a fool, Benedict. He can’t even say that it’s comfort which causes her to believe her husband is still with them, an aging mind reaching out in the dark for warmth. His father and mother were never warm to each other, in his memory. If they were, once, it was a very long time ago.

 

He’s not sure what compels him to speak- Perhaps it’s that thought. That somewhere, deep down, she still has some care for his father. The chance that, if she thinks the words are coming from his lips instead of her son’s, she might listen. 

 

“... Well, you knew what you- What we wanted him to be. You never knew much about who he really was,” He mutters, eyes still fixed upon his own hands, not quite looking her in the face.

 

“He’s… Changed. And all you see in him is what he isn’t. There’s-” Atticus presses his lips together again, before forcing the words out- “There’s even more that he still is. Maybe even if you- If we went wrong-  He still managed to find something for himself that’s right. Or at least, something that makes him happy. Just because it’s not what you expected, that doesn’t mean it isn’t still good, right?”

 

For a long moment, the room is filled with silence- Save for the ever-present tick-tick-tick of the grandfather clock in the corner, which seems to grow deafening in each gap between words. His mother's face is unreadable for agonizing seconds, still twisted into that terse frown. 

 

And then, she scoffs again. “Don’t stutter. And for the love of the Saints, fix your lapel and stop talking like a fool.”

 

The recollection is still sharp in his mind- Memory was something he had yet to lose, and he clung to even the bitter ones. The older he got, the more he couldn’t shake the thoughts of his mother’s last days. Having pushed away each member of her family, save for the son who felt obligated by blood to ensure her health, and sit through each insult she levied at him. 

 

She did waste away in that chair, despite his own best efforts. Old, and angry, and betrayed by her own form. Sitting in the dark, feeling as each function of her body shut down. First her movement, then her memory, then her voice. Something about that always disturbed him, despite the distance and resentment that colored his mother’s final interactions with him. Perhaps it was the lack of autonomy. The realization that one could, so thoroughly, be turned upon by their own body.

 

Atticus wrinkles his nose at the ceiling, as the thought crosses his mind. Autonomy has always been a strange paradox to consider. He was a man in full possession of his independence, and yet it felt like so much of his life had consisted of being bandied about by outer forces, reacting rather than acting, in service to a greater ideal. 

 

To say he regretted it would not be exactly correct, nor would it be to say that none of it was his choice. But so often, it felt as if his choices were overshadowed by his responsibilities. What was requested of him, what was needed from him, what he had to do over what he wanted to do. 

 

In truth, he had long been controlled by the forces of propriety, doubt, and duty. For the last few decades of his life, he had found true freedom at last when they lifted from his shoulders. The magician had to admit, this final draining of his independence felt like something of an insult to that freedom. Forced to lie motionless in his bed as his countrymen faced an uncertain future, feeling nothing but exhaustion, watching as each physical function begins to fail.

 

His brow furrows in frustration, and thought- Slowly, his mind begins to turn once more.

 

 

The whistling of the teapot breaks through the heavy silence of the kitchen like a knife, steam billowing into the air until an old, calloused hand reaches out to pull it from the fire and silence it. The noise feels intrusive somehow, despite how utterly insignificant it was. Any disturbance to the quiet that laid over the house seemed to him a disrespect to his own premature mourning.

 

That wasn’t to say things had been nothing but gloom the past few months. They still hosted visitors, Faeran calling loudly across the hallways, Atticus and Norellie happily chattering about research and the bookshop, Capric tutoring James in the living room and Oliver catching up with them all. They still ate dinner together, and when Atticus couldn’t find the strength to make it down the stairs, they would all crowd into the second-floor bedroom with their plates. It was almost, nearly, just the same as each year before.

 

But between the normality, the moments of joy and business as usual, there was an anxious silence that sat in every nook and cranny of the home. Wilford sensed it, whispering dread into the back of his mind, reaching with fingers like needles of ice whenever his husband fell a little too still in his sleep.

 

Or maybe it was only in his head. There were a good number of things that were, of course, only in Wilford’s head.

 

He knew how bad it was, though he held his tongue for the sake of the others. They were worried enough, dreading enough, without the details of how this illness would progress. In the earlier months he had committed himself fiercely to finding a cure, exchanging letters with physicians from lands near and far to attempt to curb the strange symptoms. The more he heard, the more that hope turned to denial, denial into dread, and the icy silence crept further over him. 

 

I’ve seen this before, one of them had said, with all the bluntness of a professional. There isn’t much to do. Parts of the person just start going wrong, legs and arms first. Eventually he’ll stop talking, and then he’ll stop breathing. Just make him comfortable.

 

Wilford’s life had been a long series of puzzles and problems, with solutions sometimes as complex as an equation, or as simple as a hammer. And when there was a problem in front of him, he solved it. That was how it had always been.

 

It was his father who had taught him that. There's a bitter taste that comes with acknowledging it, like apple seeds. But for everything that Liupold had done, he taught Wilford how to be a problem solver. 

 

“Nae. Ye figure et out, or ye stay right here.”

 

The young boy’s hands fumble around the grip of the crossbow, trying fruitlessly to hold it steady in arms that were already beginning to ache with the weight of the weapon. He felt his muscles burning- But dropping it would carry even greater consequences, he was certain. So he adjusts his grip, now balancing it more awkwardly than before in an attempt to ease the strain.

 

His aim, which had already been poor two hours ago, had only deteriorated as the weariness set in. He was now missing the targets his father assigned by wide arcs. When he quietly suggested trying again in the morning, the response was as expected.

 

Night had fallen in its completeness by this point. When he was younger than he is now, it would have been a comfort to him. The woods outside his family’s home had an almost mythic beauty to them in the dark, draped in deep blues, purples, and blacks, lit only by a sky filled with thousands upon thousands of stars, miles from the lanterns of any city. His elder sister would teach him how to catch the fireflies that danced over the pond like sparks of gold, and he would watch from the underbrush as families of deer and rabbits roamed past him, unnoticed in the peaceful blanket of night. That was, of course, when he was still too young to hold a blade.

 

Now, the woods were his training ground. The twelve-year-old only felt their bitter cold, the crunch of each patch of snow that still laid upon the ground- Every root that may mean failure if he lost his footing upon them, every patch of pure blackness where anything could hide. The shiver that runs through him does nothing to help the ache as he rests the stock of the crossbow against his shoulder, bringing the sights up to his eye level again. As he takes aim at the far-off target, his father continues to speak.

 

“When yer a man, out in the real world, nothin’ and no-one is gonna wait fer ye tae take yer goddamn time.” His voice is gruff, and rasped beyond what his years alone should provide. Wilford glances aside for a half-second to see his brow hard, and furrowed. 

 

“Ye dunnae realize how much I sacrificed just so I can teach ye how tae solve yer fuckin’ problems on yer own, instead o’ lettin’ ye get eaten alive like every other idjit out there.” Liupold’s words are spat, bitter, and shame floods the young boy’s mind and expression. He should know better than to ask stupid questions.

 

His gaze returns quickly down the sights of the crossbow, as if the target would get any clearer. It remains a blurry smudge on the clearing’s edge, a thumbprint-wipe of red in a sea of black, purple, blue. He squints in an attempt to bring it into focus, and hears a scoff. “The way yer goin’, yer gonna get walked over. A man who isn’t workin’ isn’t movin’.” 

 

Wilford feels the glare on him before he sees it, and his fingers squeeze tighter around the foregrip. One finger hovers over the trigger. “Right now, yer problem is that ye cannae fuckin’ aim for shite. An’ until ye fix it, yer nae fuckin’ movin’.”

 

The shadows over the forest grow deeper, as the moon passes behind a dense patch of trees. The cold seeping through his coat only deepens, stiffening his muscles and numbing his fingers. Wilford squints one eye half-shut, and breathes out. He fires.

 

He misses.

 

Back in the kitchen, Wilford grimaces into his reflection in the teacup. If there was one way his father’s influence still weighed on him, it was this; The paralysis that came with any problem he could not solve. If he couldn’t fix it, what was he doing? If he couldn’t solve it, who was he?

 

He wasn’t his father. That much, he felt he knew. 

 

All he ever saw of Liupold was his callousness, unfeeling save for bouts of anger and bitter disappointment, with little love for even his own blood. His son he saw some value in, as a weapon and an inheritor. His wife and daughters, he disregarded with cold neglect at best. A calculating man, who saw the world as measures of value and benefit, with a righteous wrath constantly misdirected. 

 

Wilford was not that. He could say it to himself in the mirror now, and after years of doubting, finally believe it. Maybe he wasn’t a good man, never fully- But he wasn’t his father.

 

There was nothing he did these days that wasn’t for his family, and that was how he defined the gap between himself and the man who raised him. He cared for them, his husband and his daughter, his brother and his grandchildren, more than Liupold ever once could have mustered. And yet, he was still the man his father created. A problem-solver with a pen or a hammer, showing his care through what he could fix. 

 

He couldn’t fix this. All his years of experience, all his study and training as a physician, and he was trapped doing nothing. Without any way to push forward, it was as if he was paralyzed in a state of limbo, watching the man he loves slowly slip away. Frozen, and useless.

 

Perhaps, in that small way, his father was right. It was the only concession he’d ever offer him.

 

 

Just as Atticus lets out a heavy sigh, as the sound of someone ascending the stairs outside breaks him from his reverie. He sits up against his headboard with some effort, watching as the door to his bedroom cracks slowly open. 

 

The man who enters steps carefully, seeking to avoid even the slightest creak of hinges or floorboards. He has that furrowed look on his face like he’s been thinking too hard the whole way up the stairwell, and was still far enough up in his own head to not entirely notice that Atticus was awake. This was a fair assumption, as his sleeping hours were becoming increasingly unordered and sporadic- Still, he steals the moment of distraction to look Wilford over, finding the small details of him more interesting to observe than those of the ceiling over him.

 

The knight before him is all grey now, even his stubble peppered with white, smile lines and crow's feet marked deep into his skin. Though he stands as tall as ever, there’s a weariness of years that has seeped into his movements, the unforgiving aches and pains that only decades of battle could give. He can tell he hasn’t been sleeping well, with the dark circles that sit under his eyes. In his hands, he clutches a teacup and saucer carefully.

 

He’s never more beautiful than this- Never more perfect than in each new moment that passes.

 

As if to prove his point, a soft smile spreads across his husband's face the moment he notices Atticus is awake, deepening the crows feet at the corners of his eyes in a way Wilford himself has always disliked, but that Atticus finds endlessly charming. He musters the energy to sit up just slightly, clearing his throat before he can speak. “Is that for me?”

 

“Aye- Surprise fer ye,” Wilford nods, moving over to the bedside and sitting on the edge behind him, that small smile lingering. Even with the specter of grief behind his eyes- Or perhaps in front of him- The affection in his eyes is still wholly genuine. “They had some o’ that Eastern tea ye like at the market. Capric picked et up fer ye, when he went out earlier.”

 

The mage’s expression brightens visibly as Wilford offers the teacup out to him, and the familiar, floral scent graces his senses. Indeed, it was an old favorite he recognized- A gentle apricot blend he had begun to favor after discovering it on a diplomatic outing, and one which rarely made its way to Vallagne. 

 

“He’s far too kind, truly- And so are you,” He insists, gratitude and affection lacing his words. He cups his hands gently around the sides of the cup, attempting to draw it closer to him. 

 

Such a simple plan is interrupted when another violent tremor suddenly wracks its way up his arm, his hand going stiff and rigid, fingers trembling as his wrist jerks to the side. He only succeeds in bumping the side of the cup with his fingers and spilling a bit of the hot liquid on the back of his hand. Atticus winces and quickly withdraws, leaving the Highlander across from him looking far more worried than before. 

 

“It’s alright- It’s alright,” He quickly assures, his voice a rasp- “Just, ah- I’ll let it cool down a moment.” A smile is mustered, a too-quick attempt to brush the worry from his husband’s face- It doesn’t quite work. Wilford places the teacup back down on the side table and takes Atticus’ hand in his own instead, quickly pulling out a handkerchief to wipe away the spill. 

 

Atticus can’t help but sigh at this, leaning back into the headboard as he watches his own shaking, betraying fingers, expression falling back into a distant frown. His mother’s bitterness chews at the back of his mind, like a persistent termite. 

 

“Ye have that look on yer face again.” Atticus blinks as Wilford speaks, half-opening his mouth before the man continues- “Like you’ve been up in yer own head.” The Highlander glances up from his hand, folding the handkerchief back into his pocket and giving him a pointed, expectant look. 

 

Atticus glances off, before huffing. “... I was thinking about my mother.” Now it’s his turn to cut Wilford off before he can move to speak, knowing which conclusion he might leap to- “About how she passed.”

 

This causes his husband to quiet again, pressing his lips together in a moment of thought. “She went in her sleep, didn’ she? Ye told me et was pretty peaceful, considerin’ what she was like.”

 

There’s another long moment of quiet, where Atticus’ gaze shifts to their joined hands. He moves his thumb back and forth over Wilford’s knuckles, the scars and breaks and marks of age, every detail he had memorized. The movements are trembling, but he can still do this. He doesn’t look up as he speaks, as if finding the words easier this way. 

 

“... In a way. But- Not entirely. The weeks before she died, when I was with her-” A breath before he continues, words slow and deliberate, but insistent- “She was so angry. Not even at me, not like usual. She couldn’t even speak, she- She didn’t even know I was there half the time. But she was angry, because she was trapped there.” 

 

With what little strength he can muster, he squeezes Wilford’s hand. His expression contorts into a pained look as he forces each sentence forth clumsily, cut up into uneven pieces. “Trapped inside her body, that wasn’t… Her body, not anymore. She was alive long enough to feel it all shutting down on her, bit by bit, until she slipped away. She wasn’t in pain, but she was…”

 

He trails, as if unsure how to phrase what seemed even to him like mad ramblings- But Wilford, wonderful Wilford, knew exactly the words he needed before they even left him. His husband’s expression is tense, jaw set, as if some creeping dread were making its way back up his spine. “... it was still a sort o’ pain. A different kind o’ pain.” 

 

Atticus nods slowly, squeezing his hand again. He’s not sure if he ever really stopped, actually. A lot of movements these days just felt numb. When the quiet stretches for seconds longer, Wilford speaks again. “Why’s et on yer mind?” He knows, of course- He always knows. But he’s kind enough to ask anyway.

 

It still takes a long moment for him to answer, seconds that seem to move sluggishly, in time with the slowed turning of his mind. He could still string together words, but his mind seemed to take longer to answer difficult questions these days. That terrified him, more than anything else. More than death. 

 

It’s Wilford’s turn to squeeze his hand, and his eyes return to his husband’s face- What he sees tears at his very heart, fear in the eyes of the man he loves more than life. Fear of the unavoidable, the inevitable, and more than anything he wishes he could place that terror to rest. To defy nature itself and say no, there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be just fine, and so will you, and we’ll both stay happily like this forever, old and content. 

 

He wants to, but he cannot lie. To lie would be to do his love a grave disservice. So instead he exhales heavily, and speaks again. Slowly, and deliberately. “... Because I don’t want to go like that. I don’t want to die like that, Wil- I don’t want to waste.”

 

The words that come next from his husband are what he expected. “We don’t know yer dyin’, Atty.” The way he says them is measured, direct, but not insistent. It’s how he always sounds, Atticus has learned, when he’s telling a lie. Lying to him, just like how he does to everyone else, to protect him from the truth. He probably knows it won’t work, too. Atticus pushes on.

 

“You know that’s not true, Wil. I’ve been in bed for months, at this point- It’s not going to get any better.” At the same time, there’s something bitterly freeing about saying it aloud like that. A simple, blissful finality. It’s not going to get any better. As if he were releasing himself from the expectation of health, of the impossible hope that is continuing where he knows he cannot. 

 

The look on Wilford’s face removes any true relief from the admittance, however. There’s more pain in the old hunter’s eyes than he’s ever seen there before, and to see it is another knife to his chest. A slight shine over his dark irises betrays the welling of tears. He unclasps the man’s hand, instead raising his palm, shaking and unsteady, to rest against his cheek. When no words escape his husband in return, he continues on.

 

“You know that- I know you know that.” A strange sound escapes him, somewhere between a scoff of a laugh, and a half-sob. “You’re the smartest man I’ve ever met.”

 

Wilford turns his face into Atticus’ palm, as if with some last-ditch attempt to hide his emotion, and begins to cry.

 

It’s a quiet act, shoulders shaking, any sound of tears muffled behind lips sealed tightly together- It was how he had always cried. Atticus could count the number of times he’d seen it easily, so rare of a thing as it was. It didn’t come from a place of distrust, or callousness, at least not towards Atticus himself. Rather, it was from a place of unyielding strength, from a man who despised looking weak more than anything else. Who valued being seen as a shield, a wall, trustworthy and unbreaking. 

 

With what little strength remains in him, Atticus draws their foreheads to rest together, tears brimming in his own eyes as he presses them shut. A silent, wordless comfort. A silent, wordless grief.

 

Atticus knows he will leave him alone, and that knowledge alone hurts him more than anything else ever has. He grieves not for himself, but for the other half of his soul, the missing piece that he knows he will leave lost, and in pain. He grieves for the loneliness he has doomed him to. He grieves, and the guilt buries deeper.

 

Spoiler

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UOUXV6-_DyY 

 

They’ve been sitting in each other’s arms, and in complete silence, for several minutes now. The tears of resignation had come and gone, washing over both of them like a wave, painful then weary. Wilford had clutched at Atticus tighter than he knew he could, as if he could perhaps hold the man so close, it would be impossible for death to reach him. Despite himself, he had murmured pleas of stay with me, don’t go, stay with me here. 

 

He felt guilty in the aftermath, of asking something of Atticus he could not possibly achieve- He felt even more so for not finding a way to circumvent it. Some irrational part of him thought that, for Atticus, even nature should make an exception. Surely, he had done enough to deserve it. Surely, they both had. That they should sacrifice so much to be together, only to resign themselves to separation, felt to be a cruelty. A cruelty he already knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, he would reject.

 

It’s Atticus who speaks first, quietly, guiltily. He leans into Wilford’s side, his own gaze turned down, voice uneven. “I just… I want it to be my choice, Wil.” 

 

Wilford’s gaze turns to watch him speak, but his husband doesn’t yet meet his eyes. There’s almost a pleading quality to the words- Like he’s building up to a request. The wrinkles of his face deepen when he tenses his jaw, attention seemingly fixed on a coat button, as if he could pretend that was who he was addressing. Atticus had always struggled with asking for anything at all.

 

“I want to die peacefully, and comfortably- While I can still move my limbs and speak my last words. I want to die how I want, where I want, and when I want. So many are not afforded that dignity-” He pauses, tone mixing somewhere between shame and determination- “I want to have it, before it is taken from me. And I want you all to remember me as a man in possession of his mind and agency, not one who hardly remembers where he is. Selfishly so, I suppose.”

 

Everything seemed sharper somehow, after all the tears had been shed, and yet more distant. The grief remained, but it was no longer more all-consuming than any other sensation. The calling of early spring birds, the faint breeze rustling the curtains, and all the more insignificant noises of nature had been strangely pulled into focus around him. As all terror and dread slowly quieted in his mind, something else came forth, and there was a strange lightness that broke through. It was like he had emerged from the haze of fear, into impossible clarity. 

 

The clarity of understanding, and relief, and acceptance. But not of a lonely life, no- Never of that. An acceptance of what he really wanted. What he had always, truly, intended.

 

“... I want tae go with ye.”

 

He could not solve this problem, this inevitability. And realizing that was at first a horrible, crushing, grief-ridden feeling. If he were any younger of a man, it might have stayed that way for God-knows how long. But like a crashing wave, the guilt struck him harshly, and then ebbed away. In its place was the freedom from a burden. He didn’t have to keep fighting, tooth and nail, against impossibilities. This was the final challenge, and it was out of his hands. All that's left was how he chose to rise and meet it. It felt like a weight being lifted from his shoulders.

 

He can feel Atticus’ shocked look upward before he sees it, slowly turning to meet his gaze- To see the confusion, and muted horror on his face, the tears dried on his cheeks. In stark contrast, Wilford returns a smile, so soft and assured of himself it almost feels as alien as it is honest. 

 

“What do you mean? I don’t think-”

 

“It means I want tae go with ye,” Wilford repeats, with that same confidence. Some part of him, a distant one, notes that he should probably be less certain of this. That there should be some fear, some nervousness, some trepidation. But why? For the first time in a long time, he was certain of what came next.

 

Atticus begins to stutter out some half-formed protest, and so the Highlander continues. “Ye dunnae want tae waste away. So I’ll help ye, like I know ye were gonnae ask me tae. I’ll help ye die peacefully.” 

 

A hint of guilt crosses Atticus’ face at that, but there’s no ire to the statement, or in Wilford’s expression. When Atticus asked for something, it was always sheepishly, as if embarrassed he could not perform even impossible tasks by himself. And when Atticus asks, Wilford always answers. It was how he had always been, and he was entirely content with it. That didn’t mean he couldn’t make his own requests.

 

“But when ye go, I’m goin’ with ye. At yer side.” Perhaps it’s the pure confidence, the calmness in his voice as he says it that seems to shake Atticus visibly, the elderly wizard’s mouth now left partly open in surprise, in worry- And yet, something more in his gaze. Something that Wilford, knowing him so well, had already had expected. A bit of relief. A bit of gratitude. Perhaps he had expected it, in a part of his mind just as buried away as the one in which Wilford knew he was always going to ask.

 

Still, he protests- Of course he does. “You can’t- Wil, you’re not dying,” He insists, voice cracking with both age and renewed grief.. The ‘not like I am’ goes unspoken, though still there. “You’re healthier than I am, you have more time- And the kids-” 

 

“-Are grown,” Wilford points out, cutting him off gently. He runs a hand back through his hair, white and slightly receding, before he sighs. “... They’re grown. An’ they’re fantastic, and we’ve taught them all we can. Both o’ us,” He points out, to which Atticus gives a small, reluctant nod. Wilford’s arm around his shoulders tugs him just a bit closer. 

 

“Sure, maybe I’ve got a few more years. An’ then the same thing happenin’ tae ye now will happen tae me. Or maybe I’ll get ill and wheeze myself tae death. An’ either way, I’ll have tae do et without ye.” For the first time since that clarity had taken him over, a note of pain enters Wilford’s expression as he grimaces. 

 

For decades, he’d assumed his death would come at the end of a sword. More than a few times he’d gotten dangerously close. He never thought he’d have to live long enough to contend with the idea of slowly wasting away, losing his facilities one-by-one, relying on the care of his grandchildren. It didn’t appeal to him any more than it did to Atticus. If nothing else, his pride certainly protested.

 

He looks back down at the aging wizard, and gives another small smile. Atticus’ expression is still wide-eyed as he listens, stuck in a state of muted shock. “... Maybe I’m selfish fer et. Might earn me a slap on the wrist once I’m up there, aye. But I dunnae want tae wait tae see ye in the Skies. I dunnae want tae die without ye.” With his free hand, he squeezes Atticus’ own. “I’ve done everythin’ I want tae on this earth. Seen what I wanted tae see, gotten older than I ever thought I’d get.” His words are more earnest, more honest than they might have ever been in his life. He’s certain of himself, completely, he knows that it shows in the look on his face.

 

There’s a long moment of quiet, after that. Atticus’ gaze has drifted down again, chewing at the inside of his cheek, as he always does when he’s thinking too hard. When he finally speaks, it’s nearly a whisper. He still seems caught between fear and gratitude, as his shaking hand wraps around Wilford’s in return. Maybe it’s the knowledge that he should be horrified- Contrasted with the relief of not having to venture into the dark alone. 

 

“... I can’t ask this of you,” He eventually musters. A quiet, half-hearted, last-ditch attempt.

 

The old warrior raises Atticus’ hand to his mouth, and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “You’re nae askin’. I’m happy, Atty. I’m satisfied. An’ I’m ready tae rest, with ye. I wouldnae want it any other way.”

 

The shine of tears gloss over Atticus’ dark eyes once more as Wilford speaks, and a sniffle escapes him- But something about it doesn’t feel like grief, this time. It feels like relief. He wipes at his face with his other hand, surprisingly quiet for a moment, gathering himself. Wilford finds himself holding his breath, ready for him to protest again.

 

And then, from behind his palm, a quiet laugh escapes. Atticus slowly nods, and drops his hand again. He’s smiling, almost incredulously, between the tears. “Okay. Okay. How do… How do we want to do this?”

 

 

They had packed as if they were going for a very strange picnic- A basket with, among other things, two glasses, and two syringes. Atticus couldn’t help a wry smile at the absurdity of it all as he watched Wilford close the lid, busied with the preparations for their journey. 

 

There was a sort of morbid bemusement that came with planning your own last moments, one which seemed to override any trepidation or doubt. Or perhaps he had simply moved past doubt, in his newfound certainty. Perhaps the only fear he had remaining was doing this alone.

 

He had been tasked with choosing a drink, though it wasn’t exactly a difficult choice. He turns back to the stock of their cellar, which had been an adventure to even get himself down to, and runs an unsteady hand over the labels until he locates the one he’s looking for. A very old, well-kept bottle of Silver Star Red-Eye. 

 

Atticus slides the bottle from the rack and into his hands, careful not to let his grip falter, before turning it over and brushing off the dust. It was a smooth, amber whiskey he had always been fond of, despite his usual affection for wine- And Wilford’s long-time favorite. He squeezes his hands slowly tight to make sure the bottle is secure, then holds it up so that the elderly warrior can see the label from where he stands on the other side of the storage cellar. The effort is rewarded with a small laugh in return. 

 

“Aye, o’ course- Our drink.” Wilford grins, smile lines creasing his face as he shrugs on his coat. He hooks the basket under his arm, and begins to cross the room.

 

The mage’s gaze returns to the bottle as he does, reminiscent, his thumb brushing over the label. Our drink. He was right, and it wasn’t just their mutual fondness for it which made it so. It was the memory attached to the bottle, and the hundreds more memories which came after.

 

The wind bangs against the window panes as the blizzard rages on outside, snow battering against the outside of the small cabin. It’s sturdily built, however, and the blazing fireplace that heats the bottom floor makes the dismal weather of the Ailmere almost ignorable. Whatever warmth the fire does not supply is made up for by the bottle of whiskey that sits open on the kitchen countertop, about a third of its contents already drained away over the past hour or so. Atticus is nursing his second glass- He hadn’t expected to like the drink quite so much, but it was smooth, and had an interesting note of sweetness that he enjoyed. Moreover, Wilford had mentioned it was his favorite, and that was more than enough to intrigue him.

 

The man in question stands across from him, on the other side of the small, cramped kitchen. He rests his elbow against the counter behind him, casually leaning, though there’s a nervousness about him that’s hard to deny. His eyes keep flicking to Atticus when he thinks he isn’t looking, in the lulls of conversation. Still- It’s comfortable, conversing away the hours with him like old times. Surprisingly so.

 

“In any case- Oh!” Atticus quickly breaks the moment of silence, drumming his hand against the counter, excitedly. “I nearly forgot to tell you- I'm meeting up with Artel soon, my teacher- He says I'm finally going to be able to cast!” His eyes alight with excitement, as he recalls the news.

 

Wilford immediately turns back towards him, a rare smile breaking out onto his face. There’s adoration that lives there, in his expression. “And ye doubted yerself so much. What did I tell ye?” He shakes his head slightly, with a raspy chuckle. “Yer so much more talented than ye give yerself credit fer. I wish ye could see yerself the way I see ye.” He says it so earnestly. For some reason, it’s not even hard to do so- Usually, honesty is a difficult bit of bile to force up for him. Perhaps it had something to do with that adoration.

 

And Atticus’ expression practically melts, that redness reaching his ears once more. The tapping stops as he brings his other hand to the glass again, suddenly fidgety- “Oh, really, it's- I mean, it’s the same amount of time everyone does it in, I suppose-” 

 

As he recovers from the flush, still stuttering, he rolls over Wilford’s words in his mind. It’s funny that he’d say that, when the man so often rejected his own improvements or talents. I’m just a blade, he would say, or- I’m not good for much other than this. It was painful to hear, after how much he’d changed, and how much they’d been through. The last few months had been hellish, and thrilling, and impossible to believe all at once. They’d both nearly died more times than he can count, and it had always been Wilford stepping in the way of the blade. Today was no exception.

 

It hurt, to love someone who saw themself as nothing more than a head to put beneath the axe. But if there was anyone Wilford would listen to, it was him.

 

Now with both hands free, and fueled by sudden confidence, he takes a step forward across the kitchen. It’s just enough that he has to tilt his head up to look Wilford in the eyes, with the look of a man on a mission upon his face. “You know, I often find myself thinking the same of you. Isn't that a coincidence?”

 

Wilford’s eyes are wide behind his glasses, now his turn to fumble at the slightest affection- They’re both so young, still. So unused to kind words, and kind gestures. He doesn’t quite lose that deer-in-headlights look, even as he rests his hand on Atticus’ arm, clumsily attempting to return the affection. “Aye?”

 

Atticus nods, placing his hand atop Wilford’s own in return. “Really, I mean it. You're so critical of yourself, Wil.” He pauses, expression softening. The almost-mage pushes as much genuineness into his words as he can muster, trying to communicate their truth. “You're the kindest person I've ever met, and somehow still think you're the cruelest. Clever, and brave- Braver than I can imagine being.” Then, the slightest hesitation. The liquor loosens his tongue, but not enough to prevent doubt. 

 

“What you did today- It scared me.” He averts his eyes briefly- Before looking up again. “But I know why you did it.”

 

“Because you're Wilford Reinhold- And you're incredibly, terribly brave.”

 

Wilford stares, hopelessly enamored and frozen, for a long moment. When he speaks again, it’s with hopeful eyes, and a breaking voice.

 

“Marry me.”

 

A lot of the aftermath is a blur- He knows he said yes many, many times, and held him, kissed him, then said yes a few more times for good measure. The bottle he cradled in his hands now was that same one. He’d insisted Wilford bring it with him when he moved to Petra, knowing that they’d like to look back on it someday. He was incredibly sentimental, as his husband often said, but also usually right about these things.

 

He carefully places the bottle in the basket, sighing in frustration as the tremors in his hand cause it to click against the glasses several times before settling. The exhaustion and unsteadiness from even this small journey down the stairs is starting to set in deeply, and he’d barely even carried his own weight. Atticus finds himself leaning against Wilford’s arm heavily, which shifts to support him. If he was already so dizzy with exhaustion now, he’ll despise whatever state he’s in at the day’s end.

 

And yet, it feels good. To wear himself down one last time, knowing it will be the last. He glances up at Wilford with a barest and painstaking crane of his neck, giving a small, lopsided smile as a thought occurs to him. One side of his mouth doesn’t rise as far as the other anymore. “You had no idea if we were ever going to be able to get married, when you asked me to marry you. Remember?”

 

The old knight raises an eyebrow at the statement, looking slightly surprised by it. Then, just as quickly, he cracks a grin back. “I didn’t need tae know that. I knew I wanted tae marry ye, and that’s all I needed.”

 

Something about the earnesty, the utter bold-facedness of it, makes a cracked and endeared laugh escape Atticus. He shakes his head just slightly, before the dizziness hits again, and he leans even more of his weight against Wilford’s side. He feels the elderly knight lowering him down until he can sit on the cellar stairs beside them, his damned legs no longer willing to hold him up. He had tested them too long, he supposes blearily, and now they extract their revenge.

 

“Things were… So very different back then,” He muses softly, rubbing at his face as his eyes chase blurry spots in his vision. Wilford’s face comes into focus eventually, a worried crinkle to his brow as he crouches in front of him. “If you- You know- If you told me then how things would wind up, I’d hardly have believed you.”

“I hope ye mean that in a good way,” Wilford jokes lightly, moving to sit on the floor below the stairs. The worry hasn’t faded entirely, but his expression softens.

 

A small chuckle escapes Atticus, lowering his hand from his face as he nods. “Of course- But it would be so strange to me, then. I mean, I always knew I’d wanted to do something that would… Last. Doesn’t everyone?” He pauses at the rhetorical, before continuing. “But I thought it would be- Hohkmat, perhaps. Or maybe, just maybe, I’d get lucky enough in my studies to create something that people would…” 

 

He trails off, taking a moment to gather his wandering, nostalgia-tinged thoughts. Faintly, he feels Wilford’s hand resting atop his own, thumb brushing over his knuckles. Always so patient, he was. 

 

“... I never hoped for any sort of greatness, and I- I still don’t. Great men die quite young, blessed as they are. And I wanted to live long, I-” Atticus pauses, a faint, wry smile crossing his face- “Well- You know all about that. I didn’t just want to leave a mark on the world, I wanted to… Last within it. Whatever that meant, whatever it cost. I still wasn’t sure how I would achieve it.”

 

Wilford is still staring at him, eyes soft, distant in memory, but understanding. He squeezes Atticus’ trembling hand lightly, and nods. It was a story he’d lived, a tale they’d traced back through many times before, and he already knew the next act. “Everythin’ changed, with Addie.”

 

“Everything,” Atticus repeats softly, emphatically. His words escape him slowly, doggedly dragging themselves from his throat, but he pushes forward. “Even after Catherine put her faith in us, I still wasn’t sure, but- For her-”

 

Another long pause, as another wave of memory washes over him like a warm haze. He remembers it more vividly than he remembers the past year alone, the feeling of holding his daughter for the first time. Still an infant, swaddled in blankets and left in their care, with no other home to take her. It was strange how quickly he knew he would give up everything for this new, squirming life. The mage knew it in a moment, without hesitation, and only a brief flicker of fear before he took the leap. 

 

He existed then as a man torn between two loyalties, walking a tightrope between passion and duty. And there, sudden as the sunrise, was his true calling. Not to state nor magic, but to this- To family. To his daughter, as she now and forever would be.

“I was so… Terrified of death, before we had her. And then I held her, and I knew I would be content if I were to die, and she were to still live. I could walk confidently, knowing everything else came second to her. And to you,” He adds, turning his gaze back to Wilford fully, expression soft and earnest. “My husband.”

 

Wilford’s expression is wavering, in the way it does when there’s some simmering emotion just below the surface that’s threatening to burst forth. His eyes shine for a moment, then he blinks rapidly, squeezing Atticus’ hand a second time. When he speaks, he has to clear his throat first. “I never thought I’d have a family like this. I was always thinkin’- The way I was raised- What if bein’ a father changed me? Made et all come back out? What if I did wrong by you?”

Atticus shakes his head, gently- And tries to ignore how the motion makes the room spin, his body continued to protest this prolonged period of consciousness. He beats it back, and pushes the words forth.. “Never. If anything I… I wasn’t always what you deserved. Not at first,” He admits, pausing to chew his lip before continuing. “I didn’t always know where my priorities should lie, and I- I made mistakes. But looking back I can say for certain that nothing I ever did was ever more important than you, or her- Or this family.”

 

A rasping cough escapes him afterwards, and he doubles over to muffle it in his elbow. Wilford’s hand quickly makes its way to his back, steadying him, and Atticus doesn’t need to look up to see the expression on his face. He lifts his head partly anyway, and musters a scratchy chuckle. “... I’m so proud of what we’re leaving behind. I’m so proud of all of them.”

 

As the exhaustion falls heavier over him once more, vision filling with spots and haze, he hears Wilford getting to his feet. His voice is slightly distant for a moment, as if reaching him through a tunnel. “Aye, so am I.” And then an arm reaching for him, allowing him to grasp on and be pulled to his feet, leaning his weight once more against that always-present support. One he had taken for granted far too many times.

 

“Let's go, love- Ye can sleep on the way.”

 

 

It was late in the evening when they left, their exit simple and discreet. Despite the protests, and insistence about the impossibility of sleeping on Pumpkin’s back, Atticus had quickly dozed off after they had gotten astride the reptilian mount. The yisar seemed to step a bit more lightly out of mindfulness of his slumber, as they slipped between tree cover and short stretches of meadow. 

 

Wilford had always noticed she was an intelligent beast, especially when it came to the wellbeing of her master. Every time Atticus was near her these past months, he could almost trick himself into thinking the reptile looked worried, her movements slow and cautious in time with his own. Wilford gives her a light pat on the head as he steers her path north past the Aldtree. Maybe their ability to communicate was a bit more stunted, but he hopes to give the yisar at least a bit of reassurance. 

 

Over his years, and all his experiences, he’d grown a habitual distrust of most things Voidal from outside his family. But the lizard was alright.

 

His gaze turns upward as they pass by the towering walls of Vissingren, the repairs upon the castle still visible from the assault upon its walls years ago. The only regret he felt in leaving was that they were leaving now of all times, when the future of their countrymen was so uncertain. Even in his living memory, few other times had felt like such a knife-edge balance of safety and tension. Still, The sight of the blue-and-white flags of Theonus still flying high gave him some hope. They’d survive, like they always had, whatever comes next.

 

The warrior’s gaze softens as he pauses to look upon the towers, the past returning to him in waves. There were too many good days and laughter filled evenings with their brother-house to recount. Feasts, tales, and battles fought arm-in-arm. They were damn lucky to call the men and women of Theonus their family. Though, he’d be lying if he said it was difficult to pick a favorite moment, between all the memories. There was a single day he’d been gifted there which he treasured above all else.

 

After all, he’d gotten married in that keep.

 

“Friends, family! We are gathered here today to join these two in everlasting matrimony- Er, as a couple-” Corrects the flame-haired man atop the dias, catching himself on the technicality. Artel von Theonus had never officiated a thing in his life, but it seemed that certainly wasn’t going to stop him now. “Ich have known these two for many, many years, and am happy to be a part of their journey together.” The knight is grinning brightly and clearly making it up as he goes, taking pauses to think of what words to say next.

 

Wilford gives him an amused smile and a shake of his head, before turning back to the man in front of him, having barely been able to tear his eyes away for a split-second to listen to the speech. Atticus stands there, dressed in his finest, hands clasped in front of him and looking like he’s quite possibly about to implode from emotion. There are tears brimming in his eyes, smile so wide it might split his face. He still has fresh scarring on his left hand, which he hadn’t even made an attempt to hide, ridges of tissue crossing over where his wedding ring would soon sit. He looks completely, utterly beautiful.

 

The hunter can feel the mist of tears dusting over his own eyes, swallowing past a lump in his throat. He was certain he looked more elated now than any in the room had ever seen him, more proud, more eager than he ever had been in his life. This was a moment he thought they’d never get. At the very least, in the midst of a war, he hadn’t expected a packed house. And yet the makeshift benches set up in Vissingren’s grand hall were full, each and every one a face he knew. A friend, a brother, a sister, or a mentor. 

 

Shit, he couldn’t cry this early.

 

“Are there rings?” The ‘officiant’ asks the pair. “If so please exchange them und ihr vows now, starting with…” he takes a pause, digging in his pocket for a coin which he flips. It lands on tails. “Atticus!” 

 

Atticus takes a deep, steadying breath out as he’s called upon- It seems that he’s simply trying very, very hard to save the crying for at least until after he's done speaking. He blinks rapidly a few times to fend them off, before beginning. “You know, I- There were some days I feared we'd never get this far,” He admits, sounding a bit choked.  

 

“There was a time, years ago, where I thought our paths had divided for good. Where I thought I would never know you again.” There’s another brief pause, in which he reaches forward slowly, taking Wilford's hands in his own. It’s Wilford’s turn to blink a few times, to push away the mist a moment longer, his heart having made a comfortable home for itself somewhere in his throat.

 

“But the truth is, even then- I could never stop knowing you. I think that's a lot of what love, everlasting love is about, it's- Knowing, and being known. Letting another person understand you completely, even when it terrifies you.”

 

“I can't say I haven't spent most of my life as a cowardly man- But with you, I've found bravery, and- And I can't say I haven't spent most of my life before knowing you as a lonely man but with you, I've found family.” He glances out to the assembled, briefly- Eyes damp with unshed tears. Then, back to Wilford, as if he can't keep his eyes off him for long. “You understand me, better than anyone- You know me, more than I ever thought I could be known. It's a feeling I never want to let go of. I never want there to be a day where I don't wake up next to you.” He shuts his eyes for a moment, and takes a deep breath. 

 

“So I promise- I swear, I vow-” And he opens them again, determined- “That I will always stand by you. I will never let you falter in the dark, or fall astray- Or alone. I will weather every storm with you, so that every bright day shines out the clearer. I will love you for the rest of my life.” 

 

And then he lets out a choked laugh. “I don't think I've ever had much choice in the matter, really. I think… Some part of me loved you from the moment I saw you.”

 

And Wilford laughs too, when Atticus does. Tears sting his eyes, and he gives Atticus's hands a small squeeze, his chest warm and heart beating fast in his ears. They had agreed, both of them, to do this off the top of their heads. No scripts, no memorization. For days, he’d been terrified he would have no idea what to say, that he would stutter and fumble when the time came. Now, when he opens his mouth, it feels like the easiest words of his life.

 

“I… When I was young, I never thought that love was fer me. That I could be right fer et. With the teachin's, an' everyone around me, I was ready tae be alone. But then I found ye.” He pauses, taking a deep breath. 

 

“I  knew. Instantly, when I walked through those doors. How could some'n like this be wrong? And I've known every day since. Ye made me feel whole, when I felt in pieces. Ye made me feel brave, when I knew I was afraid. And ye gave me love when I thought I could never have et. Ye are the sun in the sky, my missin' piece, and the other half o' my soul. Atticus Abraham Reinhold, ye are everything tae me.”

 

“I meant what I said- When I told ye not all good things are meant tae last. But this is. We are. We have been through the hells and high waters together. We have seen et all- Side by side. And there is nowhere else I'd rather be, and naeun' else I'd rather share the rest o' my days with. Because I love you. Of all the things I don't know in this life, I know this tae be true. And I don't need the money, or the titles, or anythin', as long as yer here by my side. Et's all I could ask o' this life.”

 

“I promise- Promise- That nae matter what comes, nae matter what we face, we will do et together. Like we always have. Everyday from now on. I will never let there be darkness in yer light. I will never let yer path go astray.”

 

“I will be there, until Time takes me- And when he tries, I will fight even then.”

 

And I will fight even then. He still meant it, of course. He would not let time and age drag them apart, far too stubborn to allow one to exist without the other. They hadn’t been apart for almost a century. They wouldn’t stop now.

 

He glances over his shoulder towards Atticus, his sleeping face resting comfortably against his back, and something in his chest tightens. It wasn’t so vicious or violent of an end as he had imagined for himself- But what was this, if not resistance? Digging his heels into the dirt one final time, and refusing to be separated from him. Just as he vowed.

 

Maybe, just maybe, he could allow himself a peaceful rest. He hadn’t expected one, and sometimes he still thought he hadn’t earned one. 

 

But he would have one, all the same.

 

 

They ride until the rolling hills and meadows turn into tree-dotted, chilly highland fields, and then into deep, snow-dusted forest. It’s all in bits and pieces for Atticus, flashes of the changing environment around him during brief windows of wakefulness. 

 

Most of the trip feels like a hazy dream, the same haze most of his days passed him by in. Blurring colors, and lost pieces of time that float by him from a distance. Unlike the previous weeks, which felt like a series of slow, stagnant days all blended into one long stream of thought- This was a good dream. Vivid reminders of a life he had once lived, seeing all that these lands would offer him, a kaleidoscope of adventure and memory. Bright fields and rushing air, cobbled streets and rapid conversation, morning markets, kind strangers, foreign festivals, warm sunsets.

 

He doesn’t realize they’ve reached their destination until Wilford is gently nudging him awake. The world is still filtering in as a dream for a few long moments, flashes of cold, white, the crisp scent of frozen petrichor and pine, the warmth of the man he leans against. Then a more vivid picture begins to form, past the perpetual-bleariness of his eyes and mind. 

 

“Aye, love- We’re here.” He hears Wilford’s voice from above him, with that same gentleness reserved for only a few. He half-turns in the saddle to steady Atticus as the old wizard straightens up, taking in their surroundings.

 

Their steed had slowed in the ruins of what was once, almost a century ago, a town. 

 

Not a large town by any means, as even in the prime of its life it could only boast a handful of snow-damp wooden cabins, a meager chapel, and a single store. Whether age or war had been the hand that finally claimed it, the elements had retaken too much to say. The houses had been reduced to the stone of their foundations and a scarce few rotting poles, decades of harsh winters making it hard to tell there had ever been anything there at all. 

 

The ruins sit on a hill that slopes sharply upward, with the crumbling stone of what was once a chapel placed highest above them. The forest is thinner here, though the slim, bare-branched trees of darkened pine grow only denser as the hills roll on. In the early spring evening, the ground remained peppered with patches of snow and ice which periodically gave way to a layer of decaying vegetation, leaves and grass slowly transforming into a new layer of soil for the oncoming growth. Whatever time it was, the sky was still dark- Though some hint of light dared to begin cresting over the hill to the east.

 

Atticus’ eyes soften as they rest upon the chapel, though it could hardly be recognized as such now. For a final time, as Wilford spurs their steed forward towards it, he lapses into memory. A far-off memory, hazy and warm, like a fraying old blanket.

 

 

There’s a young man, sitting in the rickety old pew furthest from the dias. He has his head low and his hands clasped, brown curls brushing the back of his neck, gold-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. Any prayer had stopped several long minutes ago, but he had not moved from his place in the empty chapel. Empty, save for one other. 

 

A hand rests against the side of the pew, rousing him from his thoughts- Judging by the furrow of his brow and the downturn of his expression as he lowers his hands, they had been rather consuming ones. The tell-tales of youth still clings to the edges of his face, despite the sharpness of his jaw and the scars on his hands. He couldn’t be older than twenty-one. 

 

His expression softens slightly when he glances upward, if only in surprise. 

 

The smile Atticus gives him is soft, welcoming, as if trying to soothe his startled reaction. Usually he would be nervous about introducing himself to someone out of the blue like this, but something about the man gives him a burst of rare confidence. Perhaps it was merely their closeness in age. “I’m sorry- I hope I didn’t interrupt you. May I sit?”

 

“Uh-” The young man seems to fumble in his words for a moment, tongue falling lame for a moment before he regains himself, and scoots along the pew slightly to make room. “Aye- Sure.” He clears his throat, pushing his glasses back up his nose to fix their crookedness.

 

He sits beside the stranger, folding his hands in his lap and peering at the man with a look of intrigue. Stifling his fears of social misconduct for another moment, Atticus lets his curiosity speak. “You’ll have to forgive me, really. We just- Ah- We don’t get many new faces around here, as I’m sure you might be able to guess.” 

 

A nervous half-laugh, then. “It’s a long way from anywhere. Might I ask what brings you into town?”

 

The young man scratches at the side of his jaw, brushing a thin layer of stubble. He seems to regain himself now, though takes a moment to answer, words chosen carefully as his eyes flick towards the stained glass window behind the dias. “Just... lookin’ fer somethin’.

 

“Guidance?” Atticus queries gently, following his gaze for a moment before returning his eyes to the man. In response to that, the Highlander lets out a small scoff.

 

“Would be helpful, aye.” The first ghost of a smile crosses his face, though it’s wry, and almost humorless. Then his eyes return to Atticus, and he pauses again, as if suddenly considering his words more carefully once more. 

 

“But nae. Somethin’ a li’l easier tae find than that.” He tilts his head aside briefly, and adds- “If my luck holds out.”

 

A slightly amused smile dances on Atticus’ lips, as he relaxes a bit more into the conversation. “Does it usually?”

 

“Nae.” The young man answers quickly and definitely- But he lets out an actually humored snort as he does, shaking his head with a barely-wider smile. 

 

And Atticus laughs in turn, which he didn’t expect to. It’s a sound that bursts forth almost involuntarily, leaving him feeling slightly embarrassed, and oddly warm. He rubs at the side of his neck for a brief moment, before quickly sticking out a hand in Wilford’s direction, palm splayed for a shake. 

 

“Well- Maybe I can be of some help, with whatever it is you’re looking for. My name is Atticus,” He introduces, a tinge of sheepishness still coloring his expression.

 

The young man pauses for a moment, seeming taken aback by the offer. He tilts an eyebrow, Atticus’ hand left hanging for a few moments before he finally grasps it in turn, giving a shake. “Wilford,” He responds simply. 

 

As he says it, there’s something in his expression that’s difficult to read. A slight smile tugs at the corner of his mouth once more, and he seems almost surprised by its presence.

 

Atop the hill, Pumpkin had curled up to rest by an old, gnarled oak. The yisar tucks her head down, wraps her tail around herself, and lets out a long, almost wistful-sounding sigh through her snout. 

 

Atticus rests his back against the same tree, running his hand over the scales of his companion- Though his gaze is distracted. He’s turned over his shoulder to watch as a sparrow crafts her nest in a nook created by the chapel’s weathered old stones, atop one of the taller walls that still stood, however precariously. His mind drifts into another haze of loosely connected thought.

 

She uses scraps of rotting wood from what was maybe-once pews to warm her speckled eggs, which occasionally wobble with the signs of budding new life. The snow drips down from the barren trees overhead, and feeds the slow decay of its own leaves below. Light creeps onto his face, as the dawn begins to threaten the blanket of night. The town is all at once, rotting and alive. So is the ground beneath them. So are they. 

 

Soon, it will all be color and life. The rot and damp of late winter will give way to lush growth, vines and plant life overtaking the stone foundations. The eggs will crack and burst, as blind and featherless new creatures claw their way into the light, unknowing that they will one day fly. From the east the sun will burst over the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant shades. 

 

They will not be there to see it, for he and his beloved will step into a new world of warmth, and light, and the embrace of their Creator. They will see a spring that is all their own.

 

Or perhaps not. Perhaps they will be barred from the Skies, as was foretold- Perhaps they are to face punishment, as they were promised. For some reason, at the end of it all, it is not such a fearful thought. Even then, neither of them will not be alone.

 

Slowly, Atticus turns his head back around to face the horizon. The ground slopes down before them, giving a grand view of the forest sprawling out for miles, before it rises once more and vanishes into the rocky slopes and peaks of the mountains. Through the dips in the range, the first cracks of dawn begin to appear, green and blue with the slightest brush of yellow. 

 

Wilford sits with one knee to his chest, the other stretched out in front of him as he faces the sunrise, framed by the dim light. The glass of whiskey he’d been slowly savoring for the better part of a half-hour now lies empty, sitting in the grass behind him. He’s fiddling with a syringe, filled halfway with some clear, almost water-like liquid. When he finally looks up from it, he doesn’t turn to the view. Instead, his gaze comes to rest upon Atticus.

 

Despite the age that marks them, his eyes are unmistakably soft. 

 

“Ye look like ye want tae say somethin’, love.” He taps the syringe lightly to prepare it, motions slow, but confident.

 

Atticus feels a smile grow on his face despite the tiredness of his body, which at this point has crescendoed to make all other motion nearly impossible. He brushes his hand back across his yisar’s head one last time, before letting out a hum. “I was just thinking-” He trails for a moment, attempting to place his whirling thoughts into a simple set of words. 

 

The Highlander waits, patiently, as he moves to sit beside Atticus against the old oak- He rests the syringe in his lap, where it waits like an old promise, and smiles gently at him. The fondness in his eyes alone seems to carry such safety, such warmth, like a comforter wrapped around his shoulders. An immediate sense of security and contentedness that came with merely being near him. He reaches for Atticus’ hand, and clasps their fingers tightly together.

 

And finally, the words come to him. Atticus turns his head slowly to face his husband, mustering what little strength remains to squeeze his hand assuringly. “... It’s all been rather beautiful, hasn’t it?”

 

Wilford leans down slowly, resting his cheek against the top of Atticus’ head as he pulls the man gently to rest against his side. He turns to press a kiss against his hair, expression obscured from sight, and speaks quietly. Earnestly.

 

“... Aye. Et has been.”

 

 

By the time the sun crests over the mountaintops, flooding the Northern hills with a cascade of light, Atticus and Wilford Reinhold lie cold in each other’s arms. 

 

And they are happy.

 

Art Credit: Clairepngart, GalacticJonah

 

Art Credit: Clairepngart 

 

Art Credit: Zaggoesdev, Iskander

 

Art Credit: Suitedeath

 

Art Credit: BasilTheBunnyArt

 

Photo Credit: Lapidary 

 

 

Spoiler

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=agPV1ZvtLHI 

 

[mothsthetic 2250]

A vow made, a vow kept. Wilford remains by his husband's side in eternity, as he always said he would.

[Cheese 8899]

Juniper's hands trembled as her eyes scanned the letter. She read the words over and over; maybe if she read it enough times, the ink would say something else. But it didn't. Atticus and Wilford were dead, and despite how many times she had wished for such, the reality of the situation induced a deep, unsettling nausea.

 

She tugged at the edges of the paper, but she couldn't quite will herself to tear it entirely. So instead, with rare tears that burned in her eyes, Juniper tore through her own house in search for pen and parchment. She would not let herself cry; not for the Reinholds. But ironically, she could not let them go yet either. 

 

One more time, She thought to herself as she furiously scribbled a note. That thought was perhaps the only cohesive string of words within the internal screaming that stormed her head, Please.

One more time is all I need.

Spoiler

Atticus and Reinhold were incredible characters, and I loved interacting with them over their lives!! Love you both sm, thank you for letting me part of their stories <3

 

[DahStalker 3692]

Within the folly of Norns did that Mihyaari idle, now with those she had deemed her kin. Once did she find herself in the hearth of Atticus, unkempt hair revived into proper locs by gentle hand. At times Houri still pondered on the condition of that man, and what destiny brought him in life. Though never dare she seek him out again from whence they last parted - on a bitter note. . . .

 

Though, once in a rarity that woman found herself pinching the end of tautly woven tresses, recalling that joyous Petran noble in a more positive light. A short encounter with a lasting impact.

[ChainedDragons 1374]

When Hart heard the news, the knight hung his head somberly. The only solace he found in the passing of the two men was knowing they were together as they were in life.

[Petsch2k 1851]

Spoiler

A great read +1

 

[JudgeTrudy 610]

Somewhere far in the Petran countryside, news of the departed slowly but surely reached the bedside of an ailing Theodore Elwood. The old man shed his share of tears for such old companions and mentors. And, after some time in quiet reflection, Theodore stood from his bed, and made the decision to return to Vallagne within the month. "I am going." he told his caregiver sternly as he began to pack a bag. "These men were some of my greatest idols. I shall honor them properly."

 

Spoiler

It is very late and I regret not having more of a drive to write a proper IRP response to this. But I am so happy to have gotten to know Atticus and Wilford over the past year. I'll always have fond memories of them in the Garmont around when I first joined. Something about them together felt like a continual budding hope for different kinds of roleplay than I'd experienced so far. I'm sad to see them gone, but I am so happy to have been around for so much of their story while it was happening.

 

[Destructokeith 1142]

Atop the bell tower stood the Knight, his cape of blue, white and gold blows in the gentle winds as he watches the slow movement of the creature.

He remains silent, his green eyes following the beast and its riders as they pass the towering keep he called home.

 

He knew the shapes. He knew what it meant.

"Rest well, mein kin"
Was All Artair said.


Elsewhere....


A Booming voice rings out from behind the gathered figures that stand to meet the twin souls as they arrive in the skies
 

"GET OUT OF MEIN WAY!"

Demands The Flamebringer as he shoves his way through the crowd, slamming into the pair and clasping them tight before patting each with his left hand.
"Come now mein Brothers! du must tell mich what ich have missed!"
Spoke Artel, a beaming smile across his face as after so many years, they had come to join him.
 

[Mescaffier 6197]

John, no longer in his social years, had heard murmurs of their passing as he made his monthly trip outside the house. Wherever that house was, now. The winged man recalled meeting the two long ago when Rhys still lived, and occasionally spoke with them - he knew they were close with Orion. Orion. Oh, dear. He promptly rushed home and swept the void-sick man into a hug, muttering under his breath, "I'm so sorry."

@Lapidary

[Amesti 247]

After the many people the pair surely had to greet on their arrival to the skies, there waited a familiar young face. Still she had the dark brown hair dyed to look like her dad's and those wild gold eyes, just as lively as before she had died. Initially, she stared at them with what seemed like forced indifference but then a smile tugged at the woman's lips. She tsked a little at them and shook her head. "Yer both all grey! Took yer sweet time gettin 'ere, hmm? Bring et in!" Chimed the long lost voice of an eternal trouble maker. Alvena's arms opened to her uncles for perhaps the first hug she'd had in decades.

[StingyParrot 1612]

 

Capric felt, rather than heard, the silence of the house, coupled with a sort of longing emptiness. An instrument missing its strings, perhaps. Hollow steps sound as he ascends the staircase to the second floor, and the bedroom door’s creak feels muffled. Of course - the sheets were folded, pillows plumped and rearranged, no longer bearing the slight weight of the bed’s former occupant.

 

The basement was still. Capric felt as if he were running along behind someone, wind already split from their passage. A bottle was missing from the dusty rack, one he’d questioned Wilford about some time ago. What’s this? He’d signed, receiving a small smile in answer. “Et’s for old times.” 

 

The guards at the gate claimed not to have seen anyone pass, and Capric didn’t pry. He knew what tracks to look for somewhere north of Vallagne, and found them after an hour of searching. From there, he followed the prints with a heavy step - feeling like he knew why Atticus would have wanted to make this journey. And who else to accompany him? 

 

He’d always been curiously unaffected by the cold - during his coming-of-age hunt in the Ailmere, Capric had barely felt its bite. Now, chilly gusts swept by unnoticed, causing his braid to flick about, sometimes twining itself around the hilt of his longsword. Claw-marked paw prints formed a long, long line both behind and before Capric, and when they faded - perhaps due to snow - Capric simply followed the wind, which nudged him towards the next set of tracks before returning to its natural course. 

 

Eventually, Capric came upon an old town. Well, the ruins of one. A sparrow eyes him suspiciously from her nook in the chapel, huddled over a clutch of eggs. Then he hears a snuffling behind him, and turns to see the Yisar he’d been tracking, her eyes liquid, almost doe-like. Pumpkin turns, padding away from the space, and he follows beside her, a hand on her neck, as she leads them to an old, gnarled oak, where his grandfathers sit in repose.

 

It was all very neat. The syringes sit beside the basket, the few remnants of clear liquid glittering like beads of diamond in the midday light. Two glasses, with a hint of amber whiskey at the bottom of each, and a bottle of Silver Star Red-Eye remaining in the open basket. He was hesitant to move anything - the last few things his grandfathers had touched felt rooted to the ground, strangely solid. Capric only had to glimpse the smiles on their faces to know that this had been their own exit. Their own death, on their own terms. They had left happy, and that helped him to bridge the terrible, yawning chasm that threatened to split him from the inside. 

 

Pumpkin was happy to take her master’s still form on her back - and that of his husband - and Capric left the place bare save for two glasses and a fresh, if very dusty bottle of amber whiskey he’d found while poking around the town’s cellars. And a basket, of course. The original he’d taken with him, a small amount of liquid still sitting in the bottom. Perhaps enough for one last glass. Capric journeyed back to Petra in solemn silence, his mind racing with snatches of laughter and fireside conversations, of hunting trips and social events he’d mostly avoided. And as night fell over the Riverlands, the Third Count of House Reinhold returned with the bodies of his predecessors.

 

[sam33497 7360]

The undead creature Lanre Cerusil found a missive detailing their passing.

 

For a few moments, he stood motionless. Wind whistled through his ears, loud and oppressive, as if seeking out those thoughts in his head, long unsaid and rendered pointless by dulled form and the passage of time.

 

"Tch." he scoffed, incinerating the missive with far more fire than was necessary.

 

Spoiler

Was fun rping with you guys :^)

 

[Keening 1264]

Lothric ascended the steps to his home at a slow pace. His sabatons felt impossibly heavy with every pace upwards until he stood level with the entryway.

 

By the time he stood inside, his gauntlets came undone and rattled as they were placed onto a nearby table. He knew what was soon to follow - that they were coming, even if he couldn't discern why just yet.

 

A pair of pale hands rubbed uneasily at his eyes, wiping them dry. Rarely did he weep for anyone but kin.

 

Their encounters had always been terribly brief, but it was the least he could do for such a good man and incredible craftsman.

[JadeStryuu 534]

**On the porch of her new home, Valerie was sitting in a rocking chair, alone, her thoughts and private life had been filled with silence for decades. Sometimes she saw the spirits of those who had died for her, or she herself had killed. The wind blew lightly in the porch, now old but in good health for her age, she was smoking enjoying a day's work. The sound of quick footsteps had interrupted that silence, a worker of Eight Coin Guild had run from the capital bringing bad news. Sweating and out of breath, she stopped in front of Valerie....

 

"Madame, i got news from the capital...Ser Atticus is dead"

 

Valerie's face whitened, Atticus had helped his family so much, and his sister...she hadn't seen him in a while, and remorse took over her thoughts. Only word of sadness came out of the elder Auclair's mouth...followed by a tear-scarred face.

 

"There are those who go, and there are those who come and those who stay...certainly everyone will miss him."

Edited April 30, 2025 by JadeStryuu

[xo31 4013]

Arthur scanned the missive that passed over his desk. Now, there was two humans whom he thought died far too soon. 

 

A sigh. The note that he'd recieved was put away with the other, and he gave a sniffle. 

 

"The only Hohkmatii I respect. Rest well, young wizard."

 

And a glowing tear dripped onto his desk - wherever it was.