moirine + allen // need
Who: Moirine & Allen
When: November 1st, sometime after this post.
Where: Moirine's rooms.
Ratings & Warnings: Rated B for Bawwwwww.
It was a kind of torture to hear about all the other ghosts that had appeared to their loved ones. Where was Allen? Who was he seeing before her? Or, Moirine clutched the pillow she slept with even tighter, was he somewhere he couldn't escape from? She cried into the pillow, the one that he'd used. Initiates had washed it several times since his death. Allen had never had a very pleasant smell. Still, she resented them for taking one more thing from her.
Moirine tried to keep her sobbing silent. One of her cancellari would probably come in to check on her if they thought she was in any pain. They were the last people she wanted to explain any of this to. She brought the pillow in even closer.
He'd watched her for nearly a day. He knew now, as he watched her cry, that his silence was not helping her recovery; it was worsening it. She expected him there. He'd overheard other conversations, Initiates whispering of ghosts reappearing over all of Tyrol. It was disappointing to Allen to hear that his return was just another consequence of Belief rather than a personal lesson from Cita. Still, he told himself. He might learn something, something that would help him pass his punishment. And if he could help Moirine...
He looked down at his hand and watched as it became visible. He glowed faintly, like moonlight, his skin and robes pale and colorless. He stood behind his sister, at the edge of the bed, and he reached out to touch a hand to her shoulder. His fingertips passed through her, but just the sight of his hand on her shoulder, the idea of him touching, comforting his sister, was enough. "Moirine," he said softly.
She jolted at the sound of his voice and turned over to look at him. The last time she'd doubted his presence, it'd been such a happy surprise to find him at her door, alive and well. Now... actually seeing him as just another ghost, she cried harder, but gave a small smile. As much as she resented him for leaving her, for wanting to die because of her, she was glad that she got to see him again in some capacity. "Allen," she murmured.
Getting to her feet, Moirine wiped at her eyes and stepped closer to him. She knew that they couldn't touch, she just wanted so badly to be near him. The sudden change in position made her head reel and her stomach lurch and she swooned a bit. "W-why did you-" Moirine closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths.
He frowned in concern, reaching out to steady her before the sweep of his hands through her arms reminded him of his new limitations. He drew them back with a flinch. She might not want to be touched, even if she couldn't feel it. Not by him.
"Are you ill?" he asked. His forehead was creased, and he bowed his head to catch her eyes. "I- I'm sorry if I frightened you. I did not-- I did not know if I should... show myself." He was stammering, for once nervous. He was never nervous in front of his sister, but now... He'd done so much to hurt her. His guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders, and pulled him down all the more with each tear he watched slip down her cheek, each tremble of her lips.
"Why did you wait so long to see me?" she finished her thought when she felt steadier on her feet. Moirine didn't know much about pregnancy (how could she?), but she knew that she wasn't eating enough for herself and the baby. She was weak nowadays, but she didn't want to arouse suspicions by suddenly gaining a huge appetite.
"You didn't frighten me." When she'd thought about seeing him again, she assumed she'd be angry. Thankful, but angry. All she felt now was love and pity. Putting a hand up next to his cheek, she frowned. It took her a moment to work up the courage to tell him and to stop crying so hard that she couldn't manage the words. "There's a baby," she whispered, "I'm keeping it."
A baby? Allen stared, his features going slack.
No, not a baby. Their baby. His thoughts seemed to wither up; he could only stare at Moirine, at his sister, then down to her belly. She wasn't showing, not yet. Of course not, he thought, dazed. A month. William had said only a month...
"You're sure?" he breathed, his voice unsteady. He'd never even considered-- A doctor, a healer, and he'd never considered the consequences for what they'd done. Not this consequence. And he'd left her alone. Allen couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes; his own were wide, fixed on a distant point past the bedsheets. Pregnant. Their child.
He looked horrified. Of course he does. She hadn't exactly been thrilled at the news, but secretly, she'd hoped Allen might be a little pleased. If he hadn't- if he had stayed, would he have been horrified then, too? Moirine sat on the edge of the bed, staring up at him. She'd stopped trying to dry her tears.
"I saw a midwife. She told me." Her hand went to her belly and she felt it tremble against her. "I'm going to make it look as though I've been killed. So they don't look for me."
Or- It was only because he was here that she considered it. Leaning forward, she asked softly, "Can ghosts touch one another?"
He struggled to process everything she'd said. A baby. Their baby. Faking--
At her last question, Allen looked up, startled. Could ghosts touch each other? Why did it matter? She wasn't a-- "No," he said quickly, firmly. "Moirine, no. I have only been here a day. Before that..." Allen shook his head. "You cannot touch in Hell, sister."
Faking her death. Cita help her, help both of them. His sister had proven herself far more capable of lying and manipulation than he was comfortable with, but he doubted she could pull off such a stunt. The Occia was watched day and night.
"You're sure you-- You could be rid of it," he suggested, unable to meet her eyes. A baby. They'd made a child. He felt sick, but without a real body, an outlet, it was only a trembling knot in his thoughts. His sister would bear his child. And he had left her. He knew what it was like for poor mothers without a husband to support them. He'd tended to them in the Grounds, or passed them, or consoled them when they lost their infants to the winters. Moirine could not suffer the same.
"Hell?" Her reaction was flat. It was too horrifying to think that her brother, Cita's brother, was sentenced to burn. Moirine hadn't thought of the children he'd killed she'd been so overwhelmed by his sudden appearance. If their child was a girl with white hair, would a man like her brother come for it? She shook her head. "No, no, I'm not getting rid of the last piece of you," she whispered. She would have been yelling if she hadn't wanted to keep the cancellari away.
"We'll bring you back, we'll- I'll make them all Believe it. There has to be a way." Desperately, she wrung her hands together, still shaking her head.
"Have you lost your--" Allen swallowed what he'd been about to say and turned away, shaking his head as he began to pace. He held a fist to his lips. "No, Moirine. You will not." He turned his head to look back at her. "I wanted death," he said firmly, holding her stare. "I will not come back. You must accept that. This," he said, pointing to the floor, "Is why I did not show myself to you. This, this hope. I am dead, sister."
Grief had made her desperate, simple. Or perhaps it was the pregnancy; Allen wasn't sure. That she'd considered suicide and his resurrection in near the same breath frightened him. He looked away from her again. Cita, guide me, he prayed silently, his eyes falling shut. Please. I do not know what to do.
He was disappointed in her. He was always telling her she was perfect in the same breath that he lectured her like she was still a child. She was having a child alone, she would not be treated like one. "You did it because of me," she hissed, her tears angry ones now, "I won't leave you to Hell."
Moirine winced when 'dead' came out of his mouth. "All I ever wanted was to be with you," she mumbled, her fury draining away. "I stayed because of you. Because you- you-" Killed children. "Kept me here. I don't know what to do with myself now."
"You should not have come back!" Allen snapped, half-turning to glare at his sister. Pregnant. He had returned to the living long enough to learn-... He covered his face with his hands, torn between anguish and rage. Moirine would suffer horribly alone. Even if she loved the child, even if she was a good mother, there was no way she could provide for it. And he-- he'd never know his child, never watch it grow. "Cita forgive us," he breathed shakily, and when he dropped his hands there were tears in his eyes.
"I left because of me, not you. I loved you. But I did not deserve--..." Allen shook his head and walked to the window. Instinctively he tried to grip the stone, but his hands passed through it. He struck at it, furious, but his anger drained so quickly at the sight of the Citadel's other ruined halls that his shoulders slumped, and Allen bowed his head and wept. "I'm so sorry," he said wretchedly. "I never meant-- I loved you. I loved you."
"You should not have come back!"
She was finally shouting. Let the cancellari come, she'd shout at them, too. Why couldn't he see that this wasn't something she could simply get over in a month? He knew her better than anyone; how could he not have expected her to do foolish thing after foolish thing because he'd always been the one to keep her grounded? Moirine accepted her own selfishness. Allen needed to understand his.
A moment later, she realized what she'd just thought. Allen needed. Allen didn't need anything anymore. He was dead. When she saw him crying, her chest felt like it was caving in. There was no way to comfort him but through lies. She was through with lying to him.
Moirine followed him to the window. She stepped her feet on the same spot as Allen's and leaned forward to fit her hands into his. Closing her eyes, she tried to feel something, anything. There was nothing. "I love you," she said. He wouldn't be coming back. If this was the last time they'd see each other, she didn't want to fight anymore. "The midwife says it's too early to tell, but mentioned something about where I've gained weight. That means it'll be a boy."
He hadn't thought ghosts could cry. He had no real body, yet he could barely see through his tears, and his throat worked as he tried to form a response. "A son," he said finally. He looked down to see his sister's hand in his, her slim wrist and pink fingers so small in comparison to his long, thin hands. His were a faint outline, a soft glow. They were so close, he thought hollowly, but they couldn't touch. He would never feel her hand again.
"Where will you go?" His voice shook. Where did she have to go? His sister had no friends outside the Citadel; he'd seen to that himself. He'd thought, when he'd given himself up to Cita, that he knew the full extent of the pain he'd inflict on his sister. He realized now he'd had no idea. "They must not- they must not find out. Belief will twist the child before he's ever born. They cannot know you carry it."
Where would she go, beyond 'away'? She hadn't given it much thought. Moirine knew that she couldn't- wouldn't- rely on Mari. There would be no more favors. Rhys was such a good man, and voiceless. There had to be times when he needed help and no one to give it to him. Perhaps she'd speak to him. She could be useful instead of a total burden...
Her eyes searched the streets below as she thought. "I don't know," she murmured. "Some lords keep on maids who are with child." Thankful that it was hard to make out her brother's expression in the window's reflection, she wrapped her arms around herself. She could pretend they were his. "That way, I won't have to live in the Grounds."
In that moment, Moirine hated herself. She was feeling sorry about being forced to live in the Grounds. Allen would be going back to Hell... Unless the ghosts could stay.
"I'll protect him," she said. Perhaps she'd even be good at mothering. She'd finally have found something she was good at... So long as she had breath in her lungs, nothing bad would happen to Jude.
Maids. His Occia, his sister, on her hands and knees scrubbing. Allen had nothing but admiration for honest work, but, selfishly, he loathed to see his sister reduced to such a state. And even then, he wondered: was she even prepared to do that? The Occia did not have to clean. She didn't know how to do her own laundry, how to dust or sweep. Since she'd been a child Moirine had always had others to do those things for her. And every time she'd suggested learning some practical skill, Allen had quickly forbidden it. The Final Bride had no need, he'd said. Allen shut his eyes tightly.
"You should not have come back," he said again, his voice soft this time, sad. "You could have been happy, out there. A new country, new people. You could've seen everything you wanted. You knew what I left for. Why follow?"
She dropped her arms and stepped back to look at him. This time, she did feel something, but it was only loneliness. "I thought that I could stop you," Moirine said, giving a small shrug. A shrug over one of her many failures, not his death. "But I wasn't in time. I wasn't even the first to find you. And once I'd come back, I couldn't run away again. Not without- without someone to run away with."
Crying once more, Moirine turned her back on him. She felt like a child. Perhaps she did deserve to be treated like one. "Please, let's talk about something nice. I've missed you so."
No, he thought, The first to find me was Eveline. He wondered if, in some strange way, Moirine had been jealous. He gave a soft nod at her request and motioned back to the bed. "Sit," he told her gently. A month pregnant. More than, if William's estimation had been from the date of his death. He wondered, distantly, when it was that they'd made the child. The first night, when he promised her he'd never leave her, or all the nights after when he'd swore the same? I have failed as your son, he'd told the man he thought to be Cita. It was still true. None had failed more than him.
"Tell me what you've done," he murmured. His jaw was tight again, his eyes downturned for fear that if he met his sister's stare, he'd lose his composure again. It could be like their old times together. Tell me what you've learned he'd always prompt his sister, back when she was one of six white-haired girls, then four, then two, and then after, as her priest kneeling before his Occia. How long would he remain on Earth? When would the Belief that let him see his sister one last time wear out?
Moirine did as she was told and sat on the edge of the bed, thankful to be off her feet. Perhaps, she thought as her head spun once more, she could start sneaking food. If she hoarded enough, she'd have time to find a position once she'd left. She had money, of course, but depending on where she ended up, she might not have it for long.
What had she been doing? She couldn't tell him most of it without upsetting him. "The king ordered a harvest festival. I got to go a few nights," she murmured, then added, "With cancellari. I saw a mummer's performance." Her voice was level as she said it, but her chest burned with anger. If she was found out as Cerys, what a sequel they'd have...
"We've been busy rebuilding. Everyone has tried so hard to move forward." Moirine paused. "Avith's even come back."
He followed her to the bed, though he remained standing, his outline flickering as he watched her. The Harvest Festival? It was a good distraction, he hoped. He tried to keep his attention focused, to listen to her words, but it was strange, like turning a key in a rusty lock. It'd seemed years that he'd spent in his own Hell, formless, watching. Now... it was almost like being alive again. All his old worries came back in a rush. Allen's eyes drifted to the window. He had not explained himself to William, had not been kind to Eveline. He regretted that now. At 'Avith' he looked back, eyebrows lifting.
"Did he." There were any number of things he regretted saying to the Cancellarius, but the man belonged in the Citadel no more than Allen's ghost. He had far too much sympathy for Others, and all because of one woman. Allen opened his mouth to say as much, then shut it. He had never done his sister any service by offering her his counsel. "I'm glad to hear everyone is... recovering," he said instead and forced a small smile. "I was... frightened to see the Citadel as it stands now. It's painful to see it so misshapen."
'Did he?' Moirine looked up, a puzzled frown on her face. How could Allen fault Avith for his lack of faith now? He'd been right. If the Other had never arrived, if she'd never dreamed of him, none of this would have happened. Still, they were pretending that everything was alright. "Yes. It's taken a lot of getting used to."
No one was used to it yet, she imagined, least of all her. The citadel was misshapen, full of holes. Moirine glanced away from Allen, an image of his body flashing in her memory. "Cornelius survived all the citadel's shifting," she said with a smile, her voice breaking. "That's one good thing."
There were a hundred things he could confess to him: a hundred lies she'd told, that she'd been the man who attacked him in the Grounds... What good would it do, though? "Do you think you'll be able to stay? Even if it's like this? Or... if you'll be able to come back?"
He could at least watch Jude that way.
Uneasy, Allen shook his head. "No. I was not-- I was not here, not until now. That I've come back with all the rest on Hallow's Eve..." He smiled weakly. "I do not think I will outlast the sunset, sister." If he could, would he want to? He wasn't sure. He deserved punishment, but watching his family live and grow without being able to touch them, to hold them... that would be a kind of Hell in itself. He swallowed and lowered his eyes. "I wish I could," he confessed quietly.
His son. What would Moirine tell him, when he grew? The truth? Or something much nicer? "When my punishment is finished, He has said He will welcome me into His halls," Allen murmured. "As his son. I hope to be able to watch you from there, sister." After a moment's silence, he forced a small, trembling smile. "And I am glad for your frog."
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Moirine glanced at the window. Sunset was soon. Her breath started coming faster, but she didn't protest. He'd simply tell her again that this was how it had to be. "You'll have to learn how to pass your punishment soon," she murmured, twiddling with the edge of his pillow. "So you can see Jude's birth."
She smiled, lips trembling, and wiped her eyes. "I don't want you to go." It hurt to speak.
Did she expect he would only suffer for nine months, after what he'd done? Allen kept silent. Let her keep her hopes; let her think that he was there when their son was born. "Jude," he repeated instead, smiling sadly. "You would name him that? It will fit him better than it fit me."
He glanced to the window after his sister did. Sunset was an estimation only; he had no idea how long he'd linger on Earth. Whatever the length, he was grateful he had the chance. Thank you, father, he thought, eyes briefly lifting upwards before he looked back to his sister and her tears. "I don't either." Gingerly, he knelt in front of her. "Do you remember what I wrote to you?"
'No, it won't,' she nearly said, but just nodded. With her luck, though, the midwife's hunch would be wrong and she'd have a girl. A girl would be much harder to hide... No use in worrying about it now.
"Of course I do." She'd read it at least a hundred times, after all, usually hidden away in her bathroom to keep anyone from asking about what she guarded so carefully. It was one thing she could say of the cancellari: they respected that her ledger was to be read by her and her alone.
"I meant every word of it." Allen looked up at her, studying her face, ingraining it in his memory. It was a much better goodbye than the last he'd given, even if he couldn't touch her, couldn't hold her. "Do not linger on me," he said gently, holding her stare. "I am gone. You cannot fight that. For everything I've done to you, I'm sorry." He hesitated, then forced a small smile. "You are far stronger and cleverer than you give yourself credit for, sister. Be strong for the child, and for yourself. Find something or someone that makes you happy."
He considered the idea of Moirine with another man, then quickly rejected it. It was something his sister needed, he knew that, but he was nowhere near impartial enough, even in death, to accept it. Still, it would happen eventually. He could only hope they were good to her. After a moment, he frowned. "I spoke to William and Eveline before I came to you. I did not know you'd returned. William--... He did not believe what I'd confessed to him. Eveline asked for the truth of the Other's pronouncements, and I told it to her. When she told me you'd returned, I lied; I told her that everything was true, save that we'd slept together. I told her I loved you and you refused me. She swore not to speak of seeing me to anyone, but..." Allen's forehead furrowed, concern in his eyes. "Be very careful, Moirine. I did not intend to put you in greater danger. The sooner you leave..." His eyes drifted to her belly, then back to her face. She was beautiful even when she cried, he thought distantly. What a blessing; he made her cry so often. "The safer you both will be."
She wanted to protest, to say that you could only love one person like this in your life. That's what all the stories taught her. There'd be no one else like Allen and, frankly, she was exhausted by the thought of trying to love someone else. But he was already guilty of so much; she didn't want to add to his weighty conscience. "I promise," she said. One last lie couldn't hurt.
Nodding, she put a hand to her stomach. Everyone in the Citadel knew that the Other's words had been true, they simply wanted to pretend that everything was slowly returning to the way it was before he'd arrived. The entire city was probably trying to do the same. If she stayed... would they hide her away when she started to show? Would they take the baby from her, or worse, make her lose it before it could be born, then go back to pretending? When had everything at the Citadel become about pretending?
"I'm leaving once the cancellari are appointed. They'll oversee the Citadel much better than I ever could." Reaching out her hand, she put it inside Allen's and quirked her lips. "You don't need to worry about me, Allen. You've taken such good care of me, but... you don't need to worry anymore."
Allen's lips parted; he stared at his sister in surprise. It was so startlingly unlike Moirine to insist she didn't need him. He felt a pang of regret, wistfulness, but it was true. She no longer needed him. She hadn't needed him for a long time, but they'd both been too stubborn to let go of one another. Too stubborn, too lonely. Even his madness hadn't driven her away. Now, dead and detached from his former self, he could see how frightful he'd been to some of his mentors, his former brothers and sisters. How easily he'd twisted the Cancellari into his enemies. Allen curled his hand around hers, watching his palm cover hers, merge with it. He imagined he could almost feel it, a pulse of warmth, but it was gone just as quickly.
He looked up again and smiled. It was genuine, relaxed, grateful; a smile as he'd never really given one in life. "I'm glad. I'm so proud of you, Moirine."
For once, she didn't talk herself out of his compliment. She closed her eyes and tried to remember it perfectly. Even if she was telling him not to worry for many reasons, not all of them good, not all of them honest, she would be one last thing he had to account for. Moirine only wished that she could say the same of him, that she was proud. She was proud of his faith and his goodness, but... all those children...
Quietly, she laughed, a bit embarrassed by how wet it was through her tears. She probably looked awful. "I still want you to stay with me as long as you can. As your Occia, I command it."
If only she could command him to stay forever.
"Of course." Allen smiled warmly. "My Lady."
Sunset came and went. He listened to Moirine as she spoke, offered his advice when he felt himself impartial enough, stayed silent when he didn't. The more he watched her, listened to her, the more aware he was that this was fleeting. It was a brief respite from his punishment, a glimpse of a sad reality he was no longer a part of. He didn't allow his thoughts to drift to what ifs, to thoughts of a home far from Balfour, of holding his son, of watching him grow. He couldn't comfort Moirine if he, himself, was distraught. He would never see those things. It was better to accept that than dwell.
He was listening to another new story when he heard the first booming bell from the clocktower and felt a strange tug, a pull at his center. Allen looked down at his hands; his fingertips were fading, his form flickering. "Moirine," he interrupted urgently. It was his time. He was leaving.
'No.'
Her mouth hung open slightly as she saw him leave her, leave her a second time. After all the talking, the rare, quiet laughs, she'd forgotten that he'd be taken away soon. The only thing Moirine could do was watch, heartbroken and lead-tongued. When he was just an outline, she hurried out with, "Remember, you only have seven months to pass penance. I love you."
Allen was gone before the last word was said. She hoped that somehow he still heard it. "Goodbye."
When: November 1st, sometime after this post.
Where: Moirine's rooms.
Ratings & Warnings: Rated B for Bawwwwww.
It was a kind of torture to hear about all the other ghosts that had appeared to their loved ones. Where was Allen? Who was he seeing before her? Or, Moirine clutched the pillow she slept with even tighter, was he somewhere he couldn't escape from? She cried into the pillow, the one that he'd used. Initiates had washed it several times since his death. Allen had never had a very pleasant smell. Still, she resented them for taking one more thing from her.
Moirine tried to keep her sobbing silent. One of her cancellari would probably come in to check on her if they thought she was in any pain. They were the last people she wanted to explain any of this to. She brought the pillow in even closer.
He'd watched her for nearly a day. He knew now, as he watched her cry, that his silence was not helping her recovery; it was worsening it. She expected him there. He'd overheard other conversations, Initiates whispering of ghosts reappearing over all of Tyrol. It was disappointing to Allen to hear that his return was just another consequence of Belief rather than a personal lesson from Cita. Still, he told himself. He might learn something, something that would help him pass his punishment. And if he could help Moirine...
He looked down at his hand and watched as it became visible. He glowed faintly, like moonlight, his skin and robes pale and colorless. He stood behind his sister, at the edge of the bed, and he reached out to touch a hand to her shoulder. His fingertips passed through her, but just the sight of his hand on her shoulder, the idea of him touching, comforting his sister, was enough. "Moirine," he said softly.
She jolted at the sound of his voice and turned over to look at him. The last time she'd doubted his presence, it'd been such a happy surprise to find him at her door, alive and well. Now... actually seeing him as just another ghost, she cried harder, but gave a small smile. As much as she resented him for leaving her, for wanting to die because of her, she was glad that she got to see him again in some capacity. "Allen," she murmured.
Getting to her feet, Moirine wiped at her eyes and stepped closer to him. She knew that they couldn't touch, she just wanted so badly to be near him. The sudden change in position made her head reel and her stomach lurch and she swooned a bit. "W-why did you-" Moirine closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths.
He frowned in concern, reaching out to steady her before the sweep of his hands through her arms reminded him of his new limitations. He drew them back with a flinch. She might not want to be touched, even if she couldn't feel it. Not by him.
"Are you ill?" he asked. His forehead was creased, and he bowed his head to catch her eyes. "I- I'm sorry if I frightened you. I did not-- I did not know if I should... show myself." He was stammering, for once nervous. He was never nervous in front of his sister, but now... He'd done so much to hurt her. His guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders, and pulled him down all the more with each tear he watched slip down her cheek, each tremble of her lips.
"Why did you wait so long to see me?" she finished her thought when she felt steadier on her feet. Moirine didn't know much about pregnancy (how could she?), but she knew that she wasn't eating enough for herself and the baby. She was weak nowadays, but she didn't want to arouse suspicions by suddenly gaining a huge appetite.
"You didn't frighten me." When she'd thought about seeing him again, she assumed she'd be angry. Thankful, but angry. All she felt now was love and pity. Putting a hand up next to his cheek, she frowned. It took her a moment to work up the courage to tell him and to stop crying so hard that she couldn't manage the words. "There's a baby," she whispered, "I'm keeping it."
A baby? Allen stared, his features going slack.
No, not a baby. Their baby. His thoughts seemed to wither up; he could only stare at Moirine, at his sister, then down to her belly. She wasn't showing, not yet. Of course not, he thought, dazed. A month. William had said only a month...
"You're sure?" he breathed, his voice unsteady. He'd never even considered-- A doctor, a healer, and he'd never considered the consequences for what they'd done. Not this consequence. And he'd left her alone. Allen couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes; his own were wide, fixed on a distant point past the bedsheets. Pregnant. Their child.
He looked horrified. Of course he does. She hadn't exactly been thrilled at the news, but secretly, she'd hoped Allen might be a little pleased. If he hadn't- if he had stayed, would he have been horrified then, too? Moirine sat on the edge of the bed, staring up at him. She'd stopped trying to dry her tears.
"I saw a midwife. She told me." Her hand went to her belly and she felt it tremble against her. "I'm going to make it look as though I've been killed. So they don't look for me."
Or- It was only because he was here that she considered it. Leaning forward, she asked softly, "Can ghosts touch one another?"
He struggled to process everything she'd said. A baby. Their baby. Faking--
At her last question, Allen looked up, startled. Could ghosts touch each other? Why did it matter? She wasn't a-- "No," he said quickly, firmly. "Moirine, no. I have only been here a day. Before that..." Allen shook his head. "You cannot touch in Hell, sister."
Faking her death. Cita help her, help both of them. His sister had proven herself far more capable of lying and manipulation than he was comfortable with, but he doubted she could pull off such a stunt. The Occia was watched day and night.
"You're sure you-- You could be rid of it," he suggested, unable to meet her eyes. A baby. They'd made a child. He felt sick, but without a real body, an outlet, it was only a trembling knot in his thoughts. His sister would bear his child. And he had left her. He knew what it was like for poor mothers without a husband to support them. He'd tended to them in the Grounds, or passed them, or consoled them when they lost their infants to the winters. Moirine could not suffer the same.
"Hell?" Her reaction was flat. It was too horrifying to think that her brother, Cita's brother, was sentenced to burn. Moirine hadn't thought of the children he'd killed she'd been so overwhelmed by his sudden appearance. If their child was a girl with white hair, would a man like her brother come for it? She shook her head. "No, no, I'm not getting rid of the last piece of you," she whispered. She would have been yelling if she hadn't wanted to keep the cancellari away.
"We'll bring you back, we'll- I'll make them all Believe it. There has to be a way." Desperately, she wrung her hands together, still shaking her head.
"Have you lost your--" Allen swallowed what he'd been about to say and turned away, shaking his head as he began to pace. He held a fist to his lips. "No, Moirine. You will not." He turned his head to look back at her. "I wanted death," he said firmly, holding her stare. "I will not come back. You must accept that. This," he said, pointing to the floor, "Is why I did not show myself to you. This, this hope. I am dead, sister."
Grief had made her desperate, simple. Or perhaps it was the pregnancy; Allen wasn't sure. That she'd considered suicide and his resurrection in near the same breath frightened him. He looked away from her again. Cita, guide me, he prayed silently, his eyes falling shut. Please. I do not know what to do.
He was disappointed in her. He was always telling her she was perfect in the same breath that he lectured her like she was still a child. She was having a child alone, she would not be treated like one. "You did it because of me," she hissed, her tears angry ones now, "I won't leave you to Hell."
Moirine winced when 'dead' came out of his mouth. "All I ever wanted was to be with you," she mumbled, her fury draining away. "I stayed because of you. Because you- you-" Killed children. "Kept me here. I don't know what to do with myself now."
"You should not have come back!" Allen snapped, half-turning to glare at his sister. Pregnant. He had returned to the living long enough to learn-... He covered his face with his hands, torn between anguish and rage. Moirine would suffer horribly alone. Even if she loved the child, even if she was a good mother, there was no way she could provide for it. And he-- he'd never know his child, never watch it grow. "Cita forgive us," he breathed shakily, and when he dropped his hands there were tears in his eyes.
"I left because of me, not you. I loved you. But I did not deserve--..." Allen shook his head and walked to the window. Instinctively he tried to grip the stone, but his hands passed through it. He struck at it, furious, but his anger drained so quickly at the sight of the Citadel's other ruined halls that his shoulders slumped, and Allen bowed his head and wept. "I'm so sorry," he said wretchedly. "I never meant-- I loved you. I loved you."
"You should not have come back!"
She was finally shouting. Let the cancellari come, she'd shout at them, too. Why couldn't he see that this wasn't something she could simply get over in a month? He knew her better than anyone; how could he not have expected her to do foolish thing after foolish thing because he'd always been the one to keep her grounded? Moirine accepted her own selfishness. Allen needed to understand his.
A moment later, she realized what she'd just thought. Allen needed. Allen didn't need anything anymore. He was dead. When she saw him crying, her chest felt like it was caving in. There was no way to comfort him but through lies. She was through with lying to him.
Moirine followed him to the window. She stepped her feet on the same spot as Allen's and leaned forward to fit her hands into his. Closing her eyes, she tried to feel something, anything. There was nothing. "I love you," she said. He wouldn't be coming back. If this was the last time they'd see each other, she didn't want to fight anymore. "The midwife says it's too early to tell, but mentioned something about where I've gained weight. That means it'll be a boy."
He hadn't thought ghosts could cry. He had no real body, yet he could barely see through his tears, and his throat worked as he tried to form a response. "A son," he said finally. He looked down to see his sister's hand in his, her slim wrist and pink fingers so small in comparison to his long, thin hands. His were a faint outline, a soft glow. They were so close, he thought hollowly, but they couldn't touch. He would never feel her hand again.
"Where will you go?" His voice shook. Where did she have to go? His sister had no friends outside the Citadel; he'd seen to that himself. He'd thought, when he'd given himself up to Cita, that he knew the full extent of the pain he'd inflict on his sister. He realized now he'd had no idea. "They must not- they must not find out. Belief will twist the child before he's ever born. They cannot know you carry it."
Where would she go, beyond 'away'? She hadn't given it much thought. Moirine knew that she couldn't- wouldn't- rely on Mari. There would be no more favors. Rhys was such a good man, and voiceless. There had to be times when he needed help and no one to give it to him. Perhaps she'd speak to him. She could be useful instead of a total burden...
Her eyes searched the streets below as she thought. "I don't know," she murmured. "Some lords keep on maids who are with child." Thankful that it was hard to make out her brother's expression in the window's reflection, she wrapped her arms around herself. She could pretend they were his. "That way, I won't have to live in the Grounds."
In that moment, Moirine hated herself. She was feeling sorry about being forced to live in the Grounds. Allen would be going back to Hell... Unless the ghosts could stay.
"I'll protect him," she said. Perhaps she'd even be good at mothering. She'd finally have found something she was good at... So long as she had breath in her lungs, nothing bad would happen to Jude.
Maids. His Occia, his sister, on her hands and knees scrubbing. Allen had nothing but admiration for honest work, but, selfishly, he loathed to see his sister reduced to such a state. And even then, he wondered: was she even prepared to do that? The Occia did not have to clean. She didn't know how to do her own laundry, how to dust or sweep. Since she'd been a child Moirine had always had others to do those things for her. And every time she'd suggested learning some practical skill, Allen had quickly forbidden it. The Final Bride had no need, he'd said. Allen shut his eyes tightly.
"You should not have come back," he said again, his voice soft this time, sad. "You could have been happy, out there. A new country, new people. You could've seen everything you wanted. You knew what I left for. Why follow?"
She dropped her arms and stepped back to look at him. This time, she did feel something, but it was only loneliness. "I thought that I could stop you," Moirine said, giving a small shrug. A shrug over one of her many failures, not his death. "But I wasn't in time. I wasn't even the first to find you. And once I'd come back, I couldn't run away again. Not without- without someone to run away with."
Crying once more, Moirine turned her back on him. She felt like a child. Perhaps she did deserve to be treated like one. "Please, let's talk about something nice. I've missed you so."
No, he thought, The first to find me was Eveline. He wondered if, in some strange way, Moirine had been jealous. He gave a soft nod at her request and motioned back to the bed. "Sit," he told her gently. A month pregnant. More than, if William's estimation had been from the date of his death. He wondered, distantly, when it was that they'd made the child. The first night, when he promised her he'd never leave her, or all the nights after when he'd swore the same? I have failed as your son, he'd told the man he thought to be Cita. It was still true. None had failed more than him.
"Tell me what you've done," he murmured. His jaw was tight again, his eyes downturned for fear that if he met his sister's stare, he'd lose his composure again. It could be like their old times together. Tell me what you've learned he'd always prompt his sister, back when she was one of six white-haired girls, then four, then two, and then after, as her priest kneeling before his Occia. How long would he remain on Earth? When would the Belief that let him see his sister one last time wear out?
Moirine did as she was told and sat on the edge of the bed, thankful to be off her feet. Perhaps, she thought as her head spun once more, she could start sneaking food. If she hoarded enough, she'd have time to find a position once she'd left. She had money, of course, but depending on where she ended up, she might not have it for long.
What had she been doing? She couldn't tell him most of it without upsetting him. "The king ordered a harvest festival. I got to go a few nights," she murmured, then added, "With cancellari. I saw a mummer's performance." Her voice was level as she said it, but her chest burned with anger. If she was found out as Cerys, what a sequel they'd have...
"We've been busy rebuilding. Everyone has tried so hard to move forward." Moirine paused. "Avith's even come back."
He followed her to the bed, though he remained standing, his outline flickering as he watched her. The Harvest Festival? It was a good distraction, he hoped. He tried to keep his attention focused, to listen to her words, but it was strange, like turning a key in a rusty lock. It'd seemed years that he'd spent in his own Hell, formless, watching. Now... it was almost like being alive again. All his old worries came back in a rush. Allen's eyes drifted to the window. He had not explained himself to William, had not been kind to Eveline. He regretted that now. At 'Avith' he looked back, eyebrows lifting.
"Did he." There were any number of things he regretted saying to the Cancellarius, but the man belonged in the Citadel no more than Allen's ghost. He had far too much sympathy for Others, and all because of one woman. Allen opened his mouth to say as much, then shut it. He had never done his sister any service by offering her his counsel. "I'm glad to hear everyone is... recovering," he said instead and forced a small smile. "I was... frightened to see the Citadel as it stands now. It's painful to see it so misshapen."
'Did he?' Moirine looked up, a puzzled frown on her face. How could Allen fault Avith for his lack of faith now? He'd been right. If the Other had never arrived, if she'd never dreamed of him, none of this would have happened. Still, they were pretending that everything was alright. "Yes. It's taken a lot of getting used to."
No one was used to it yet, she imagined, least of all her. The citadel was misshapen, full of holes. Moirine glanced away from Allen, an image of his body flashing in her memory. "Cornelius survived all the citadel's shifting," she said with a smile, her voice breaking. "That's one good thing."
There were a hundred things he could confess to him: a hundred lies she'd told, that she'd been the man who attacked him in the Grounds... What good would it do, though? "Do you think you'll be able to stay? Even if it's like this? Or... if you'll be able to come back?"
He could at least watch Jude that way.
Uneasy, Allen shook his head. "No. I was not-- I was not here, not until now. That I've come back with all the rest on Hallow's Eve..." He smiled weakly. "I do not think I will outlast the sunset, sister." If he could, would he want to? He wasn't sure. He deserved punishment, but watching his family live and grow without being able to touch them, to hold them... that would be a kind of Hell in itself. He swallowed and lowered his eyes. "I wish I could," he confessed quietly.
His son. What would Moirine tell him, when he grew? The truth? Or something much nicer? "When my punishment is finished, He has said He will welcome me into His halls," Allen murmured. "As his son. I hope to be able to watch you from there, sister." After a moment's silence, he forced a small, trembling smile. "And I am glad for your frog."
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Moirine glanced at the window. Sunset was soon. Her breath started coming faster, but she didn't protest. He'd simply tell her again that this was how it had to be. "You'll have to learn how to pass your punishment soon," she murmured, twiddling with the edge of his pillow. "So you can see Jude's birth."
She smiled, lips trembling, and wiped her eyes. "I don't want you to go." It hurt to speak.
Did she expect he would only suffer for nine months, after what he'd done? Allen kept silent. Let her keep her hopes; let her think that he was there when their son was born. "Jude," he repeated instead, smiling sadly. "You would name him that? It will fit him better than it fit me."
He glanced to the window after his sister did. Sunset was an estimation only; he had no idea how long he'd linger on Earth. Whatever the length, he was grateful he had the chance. Thank you, father, he thought, eyes briefly lifting upwards before he looked back to his sister and her tears. "I don't either." Gingerly, he knelt in front of her. "Do you remember what I wrote to you?"
'No, it won't,' she nearly said, but just nodded. With her luck, though, the midwife's hunch would be wrong and she'd have a girl. A girl would be much harder to hide... No use in worrying about it now.
"Of course I do." She'd read it at least a hundred times, after all, usually hidden away in her bathroom to keep anyone from asking about what she guarded so carefully. It was one thing she could say of the cancellari: they respected that her ledger was to be read by her and her alone.
"I meant every word of it." Allen looked up at her, studying her face, ingraining it in his memory. It was a much better goodbye than the last he'd given, even if he couldn't touch her, couldn't hold her. "Do not linger on me," he said gently, holding her stare. "I am gone. You cannot fight that. For everything I've done to you, I'm sorry." He hesitated, then forced a small smile. "You are far stronger and cleverer than you give yourself credit for, sister. Be strong for the child, and for yourself. Find something or someone that makes you happy."
He considered the idea of Moirine with another man, then quickly rejected it. It was something his sister needed, he knew that, but he was nowhere near impartial enough, even in death, to accept it. Still, it would happen eventually. He could only hope they were good to her. After a moment, he frowned. "I spoke to William and Eveline before I came to you. I did not know you'd returned. William--... He did not believe what I'd confessed to him. Eveline asked for the truth of the Other's pronouncements, and I told it to her. When she told me you'd returned, I lied; I told her that everything was true, save that we'd slept together. I told her I loved you and you refused me. She swore not to speak of seeing me to anyone, but..." Allen's forehead furrowed, concern in his eyes. "Be very careful, Moirine. I did not intend to put you in greater danger. The sooner you leave..." His eyes drifted to her belly, then back to her face. She was beautiful even when she cried, he thought distantly. What a blessing; he made her cry so often. "The safer you both will be."
She wanted to protest, to say that you could only love one person like this in your life. That's what all the stories taught her. There'd be no one else like Allen and, frankly, she was exhausted by the thought of trying to love someone else. But he was already guilty of so much; she didn't want to add to his weighty conscience. "I promise," she said. One last lie couldn't hurt.
Nodding, she put a hand to her stomach. Everyone in the Citadel knew that the Other's words had been true, they simply wanted to pretend that everything was slowly returning to the way it was before he'd arrived. The entire city was probably trying to do the same. If she stayed... would they hide her away when she started to show? Would they take the baby from her, or worse, make her lose it before it could be born, then go back to pretending? When had everything at the Citadel become about pretending?
"I'm leaving once the cancellari are appointed. They'll oversee the Citadel much better than I ever could." Reaching out her hand, she put it inside Allen's and quirked her lips. "You don't need to worry about me, Allen. You've taken such good care of me, but... you don't need to worry anymore."
Allen's lips parted; he stared at his sister in surprise. It was so startlingly unlike Moirine to insist she didn't need him. He felt a pang of regret, wistfulness, but it was true. She no longer needed him. She hadn't needed him for a long time, but they'd both been too stubborn to let go of one another. Too stubborn, too lonely. Even his madness hadn't driven her away. Now, dead and detached from his former self, he could see how frightful he'd been to some of his mentors, his former brothers and sisters. How easily he'd twisted the Cancellari into his enemies. Allen curled his hand around hers, watching his palm cover hers, merge with it. He imagined he could almost feel it, a pulse of warmth, but it was gone just as quickly.
He looked up again and smiled. It was genuine, relaxed, grateful; a smile as he'd never really given one in life. "I'm glad. I'm so proud of you, Moirine."
For once, she didn't talk herself out of his compliment. She closed her eyes and tried to remember it perfectly. Even if she was telling him not to worry for many reasons, not all of them good, not all of them honest, she would be one last thing he had to account for. Moirine only wished that she could say the same of him, that she was proud. She was proud of his faith and his goodness, but... all those children...
Quietly, she laughed, a bit embarrassed by how wet it was through her tears. She probably looked awful. "I still want you to stay with me as long as you can. As your Occia, I command it."
If only she could command him to stay forever.
"Of course." Allen smiled warmly. "My Lady."
Sunset came and went. He listened to Moirine as she spoke, offered his advice when he felt himself impartial enough, stayed silent when he didn't. The more he watched her, listened to her, the more aware he was that this was fleeting. It was a brief respite from his punishment, a glimpse of a sad reality he was no longer a part of. He didn't allow his thoughts to drift to what ifs, to thoughts of a home far from Balfour, of holding his son, of watching him grow. He couldn't comfort Moirine if he, himself, was distraught. He would never see those things. It was better to accept that than dwell.
He was listening to another new story when he heard the first booming bell from the clocktower and felt a strange tug, a pull at his center. Allen looked down at his hands; his fingertips were fading, his form flickering. "Moirine," he interrupted urgently. It was his time. He was leaving.
'No.'
Her mouth hung open slightly as she saw him leave her, leave her a second time. After all the talking, the rare, quiet laughs, she'd forgotten that he'd be taken away soon. The only thing Moirine could do was watch, heartbroken and lead-tongued. When he was just an outline, she hurried out with, "Remember, you only have seven months to pass penance. I love you."
Allen was gone before the last word was said. She hoped that somehow he still heard it. "Goodbye."