Grace [AU, Story]
(( Sometimes, I like to write AU stories because I can and because bawwww is fun to write and because I like to drink your tears in my coffee ))
Grace
Finally alone.
Senkha has been waiting for what may have been weeks for this. May have been. Since they told her of Oliver’s death (like she didn’t already know) time has become meaningless. She doesn’t bother to check the date because why does it matter anymore? It doesn’t. Time is just a mortal construct anyway and you can fuck with it in the Caverns of Time, go and see Stratholme the day it was burnt to the ground, watch him fall to his knees laughing and crying and going mad...
Stop it. Senkha’s fingernails dig into her head as if to claw away the memory. It will make her cry if she thinks about it, and she’s sick of crying. So sick of crying. If she ever stops crying after this, she’ll never cry again, that’s how annoying crying is. It chokes you and drowns you and no one ever knows what to say or do, and you can’t speak to say “just leave me alone.”
But now she is alone, and this feels better than it should. Nialos has been the one staying with her, somehow understanding that he’s the only one she wants. She hopes he doesn’t take offense that right now, she’s only sleeping in his arms because they’re so cold. She can’t sleep otherwise. It’s too warm; she’s used to sleeping with someone who steals the warmth from the air and keeps her cool.
Nialos had to go and feed his blade; Senkha finally managed to convince him to go by mumbling that she didn’t want to lose him as well, and he made her promise before he left that she wouldn’t do anything stupid before he came back, like kill herself or run down to the still-fresh grave and try some half-assed necromancy. “After what he did, he’s at peace,” her father told her in as gentle a harsh tone as he could manage. “Let him have his rest.”
Even so. Her first instinct once he is out of earshot is to run to the kitchen and jerk open the knife drawer. They took her daggers away when the news first came because they all know her too well. The knives, though, those are still there. If she had poison, she’d use that instead, make everything painless and clean. She doesn’t want Nialos to have to clean up the mess, and he will, if she follows through. She goes so far as to press the knife’s edge against the thin skin of her wrist before remembering why she thought everyone’s concern about her potential suicide was silly.
Oliver died by channeling the Light again, one last time, to save his son’s life. Only Oliver and Chadley had been in that battlefield, and Chadley was gravely wounded. He couldn’t heal himself. Senkha remembered Oliver’s last words in her mind: “Ah’m sorry. Ah love you.” And then she remembered pain so incredible that she thought she’d died too.
It was noble. It was stupidly noble. And yet no one, not even the most hateful of clergy, could argue that this one act had redeemed the soul of this Scourge-made monster. Not a single person denied that the Light had cleansed Oliver’s misfortune and gained him paradise. His soul was no longer damned. The last traces of his sin were washed clean. He would not be in hell, he would never taste pain again.
And, Senkha knows, suicide is a mortal sin, alongside necromancy. She puts the knife back in the drawer and closes it, affixes a lock to the outside. She’ll give Nialos the key when he returns, just in case she stops thinking for longer next time. Suicide is a mortal sin. If she ever wants to see Oliver again, she must continue living.
But what hope is there, really? He was so noble, so giving. She was his only selfishness. He probably could have simply said “please” and the pearly gates of paradise would have opened for him. And Senkha is none of these things, not noble, not giving, not unselfish. She thinks her soul must have been damned years before she met Oliver, probably around the time she gave in to the rush of the kill, around the time she learned to enjoy the dance. Dabbling with necromancy hasn’t helped either, she’s sure. Even if it’s sinning nobly, it’s still sinning. She’d have to make a sacrifice like Oliver’s to be cleansed, she’s certain, but it probably wouldn’t count. She wouldn’t be sacrificing herself for noble reasons. She’d be sacrificing herself so that she could be with him.
Now the knife is gone, but Senkha is still in the kitchen. She’s fallen to her knees and she’s screaming. “PLEASE!” she prays (simultaneously hoping no one can hear her). “PLEASE! Kill me now! Kill me! Let me be with him!”
Of course, the Light won’t do that. Why would it? It exists to heal, to bring justice, to mend brokenness. Not to give in to the despairing wails of a woman incapable of life without unlife.
But what can she do but beg and scream? It won’t bring him back. Nothing will bring him back. And she can’t go to him. She may never go to him. She may not be killing herself, but this knowledge is killing her.
Stehl would know. Miles would know. But she doesn’t want them to see her so raw like this. She doesn’t even want Nialos to see her like this. They’re already hiding the scissors; if they see her like this, she’ll be institutionalized and chained, she’s sure of it, and then what? She can’t stand to be chained unless it’s by Oliver.
It’s all she can do. Senkha retreats into her mind. Here, Oliver still exists. in those last moments, she stole from his mind an Imprint. It’s a small, condensed version of him, but it’s all she has. She will stay here, in the prison of her own making, until the Imprint fades. In the months that follow, she will try for nobility and something that resembles true altruism, though it’s all in the hopes of seeing him again. When she draws her last breath, it will be a prayer, just one word, “Please,” and the hope for grace. But now, grace is far away and she can only find comfort in the shadow of a memory.
Grace
Finally alone.
Senkha has been waiting for what may have been weeks for this. May have been. Since they told her of Oliver’s death (like she didn’t already know) time has become meaningless. She doesn’t bother to check the date because why does it matter anymore? It doesn’t. Time is just a mortal construct anyway and you can fuck with it in the Caverns of Time, go and see Stratholme the day it was burnt to the ground, watch him fall to his knees laughing and crying and going mad...
Stop it. Senkha’s fingernails dig into her head as if to claw away the memory. It will make her cry if she thinks about it, and she’s sick of crying. So sick of crying. If she ever stops crying after this, she’ll never cry again, that’s how annoying crying is. It chokes you and drowns you and no one ever knows what to say or do, and you can’t speak to say “just leave me alone.”
But now she is alone, and this feels better than it should. Nialos has been the one staying with her, somehow understanding that he’s the only one she wants. She hopes he doesn’t take offense that right now, she’s only sleeping in his arms because they’re so cold. She can’t sleep otherwise. It’s too warm; she’s used to sleeping with someone who steals the warmth from the air and keeps her cool.
Nialos had to go and feed his blade; Senkha finally managed to convince him to go by mumbling that she didn’t want to lose him as well, and he made her promise before he left that she wouldn’t do anything stupid before he came back, like kill herself or run down to the still-fresh grave and try some half-assed necromancy. “After what he did, he’s at peace,” her father told her in as gentle a harsh tone as he could manage. “Let him have his rest.”
Even so. Her first instinct once he is out of earshot is to run to the kitchen and jerk open the knife drawer. They took her daggers away when the news first came because they all know her too well. The knives, though, those are still there. If she had poison, she’d use that instead, make everything painless and clean. She doesn’t want Nialos to have to clean up the mess, and he will, if she follows through. She goes so far as to press the knife’s edge against the thin skin of her wrist before remembering why she thought everyone’s concern about her potential suicide was silly.
Oliver died by channeling the Light again, one last time, to save his son’s life. Only Oliver and Chadley had been in that battlefield, and Chadley was gravely wounded. He couldn’t heal himself. Senkha remembered Oliver’s last words in her mind: “Ah’m sorry. Ah love you.” And then she remembered pain so incredible that she thought she’d died too.
It was noble. It was stupidly noble. And yet no one, not even the most hateful of clergy, could argue that this one act had redeemed the soul of this Scourge-made monster. Not a single person denied that the Light had cleansed Oliver’s misfortune and gained him paradise. His soul was no longer damned. The last traces of his sin were washed clean. He would not be in hell, he would never taste pain again.
And, Senkha knows, suicide is a mortal sin, alongside necromancy. She puts the knife back in the drawer and closes it, affixes a lock to the outside. She’ll give Nialos the key when he returns, just in case she stops thinking for longer next time. Suicide is a mortal sin. If she ever wants to see Oliver again, she must continue living.
But what hope is there, really? He was so noble, so giving. She was his only selfishness. He probably could have simply said “please” and the pearly gates of paradise would have opened for him. And Senkha is none of these things, not noble, not giving, not unselfish. She thinks her soul must have been damned years before she met Oliver, probably around the time she gave in to the rush of the kill, around the time she learned to enjoy the dance. Dabbling with necromancy hasn’t helped either, she’s sure. Even if it’s sinning nobly, it’s still sinning. She’d have to make a sacrifice like Oliver’s to be cleansed, she’s certain, but it probably wouldn’t count. She wouldn’t be sacrificing herself for noble reasons. She’d be sacrificing herself so that she could be with him.
Now the knife is gone, but Senkha is still in the kitchen. She’s fallen to her knees and she’s screaming. “PLEASE!” she prays (simultaneously hoping no one can hear her). “PLEASE! Kill me now! Kill me! Let me be with him!”
Of course, the Light won’t do that. Why would it? It exists to heal, to bring justice, to mend brokenness. Not to give in to the despairing wails of a woman incapable of life without unlife.
But what can she do but beg and scream? It won’t bring him back. Nothing will bring him back. And she can’t go to him. She may never go to him. She may not be killing herself, but this knowledge is killing her.
Stehl would know. Miles would know. But she doesn’t want them to see her so raw like this. She doesn’t even want Nialos to see her like this. They’re already hiding the scissors; if they see her like this, she’ll be institutionalized and chained, she’s sure of it, and then what? She can’t stand to be chained unless it’s by Oliver.
It’s all she can do. Senkha retreats into her mind. Here, Oliver still exists. in those last moments, she stole from his mind an Imprint. It’s a small, condensed version of him, but it’s all she has. She will stay here, in the prison of her own making, until the Imprint fades. In the months that follow, she will try for nobility and something that resembles true altruism, though it’s all in the hopes of seeing him again. When she draws her last breath, it will be a prayer, just one word, “Please,” and the hope for grace. But now, grace is far away and she can only find comfort in the shadow of a memory.