to err is to be human (1/?)
Title: to err is to be human
Summary: Canon compliant. The Creator could never abandon her children.
Word Count: 2693
Author: aureate_iva
Rating: T
Spoilers/warnings: Spoilers for the whole series and mentions of violence.
Character(s): Creator
The fire had taken more than his home.
Three survivors lingered where there should have been four. The house was no more than a wreckage, a pile of charred wood and broken memories, still smoldering from a fire that had long since been cast away. George Cypher could still see the walls he had built, solid and strong, the rooms and the furnishings, could hear the laughter and smell the soft scent of his wives perfume. But he knew that those things were long gone now. Never again would he see his wives face or listen to her laugh; and never would he have the two extra children they had always dreamed of having. Those dreams had aged, wrinkled, and died before their time. He knew he would have to find new ones, leave those husks behind, but not yet. The heat of the fire still scorched his cheek and the memories of his old life were more than ghosts; he could still see the house he had built, tall and strong among emerald grass, still brimming with the dreams he did not yet know how to let go of.
Richard fidgeted in his arms; Michael's grip on his hand tightened.
They were both so young, they should not have to see this, still George found it hard to tear his eyes away. But, looking down at Richard, seeing the childs gaze fixed on that smoldering ruin, and Michael, only four, wide eyed and staring, the man gently squeezed his eldest sons hand and led him away.
The spell was broken almost as soon as he turned his back and every step he took tore, piece by piece, the vision from his mind. No more was there the hope that Mary would step out of the ashes, dirty, but unhurt, laughing; no more was the house solid in his mind and no more was it possible to turn around and go back. He squeezed Michael's hand again, realised they were all still covered in ash from the fire, and felt loss fall over him like a dead weight. It almost made him stagger. But he kept walking.
The children needed him.
It was only then that he felt the tears on his cheeks and realised he was crying.
*
Later, when he had taken the children to their Aunts and left again, George wandered into the forest.
His sister had tried to make him stay; but grief had risen behind his eyes like a great shadow and she had stood aside. He had wanted to stay, pull his children close and never, ever let them go again, but he couldn't be strong for them. Not yet. And he could not let them see his pain; this uncontrolled swirl of grief that he was sure would never leave. The forest had always been peaceful, a sanctuary, and he would use it now. Use it so that he might gather the strength to go back and be what he needed to be for his boys.
The path he took was aimless.
He wandered, pace fast, the urgency one of needing to be somewhere but having no idea where that place was.
The night seeped through the trees, wind rustling the leaves, the chill a familiar essence of the dark. It had been light when the fire had started. Light when the blaze had splintered into a roar, smoke clogging his eyes and mouth and stinging his eyes, the dizzying sensations of burning and heat and hearing deaths footsteps clatter across a wooden floor...and Mary-
Oh Mary.
He hadn't been able to save her. Hadn't been-
Hadn't been the husband he'd promised, vowed, to be, and she had trusted him, loved him, and he had loved her. But it hadn't been enough; she had died anyway.
George stopped walking.
The boys. He had to get back to the boys.
But the trees in this area were an unfamiliar curve and he recognised nothing of where he was. The small glade was surrounded by trees, tall and ancient, and the moonlight shone arcs of glossy silver that spiraled through the air. It was eerie but peaceful. And it was only then that he noticed the cottage in the center of the clearing. Small, sturdy, it was a quaint building and there was a small garden with some vegetables growing around the front. He felt a urge to knock, perhaps the occupant would be able to direct him back to the village, and walked briskly over to the door. The wood was smooth under his hand.
A child cried from inside.
Moments later the door opened and a middle aged woman peered out at him, a bundle of blankets in her arms. Her hair was blonde and her eyes were a pale blue; fine wrinkles beginning to show around the edges. "Are you lost?"
George nodded. "I was wondering if you could direct me back to the village."
The woman arched an eyebrow skeptically, the move somehow matching that of George's own mother. "It's late. And you look like you could use some warm soup."
He tried to refuse but she somehow hustled him into her home, even with a babe in her arms, and sat him down at her table. The room was small, cosy, but George shivered at the sight of the open fire. When a bowl of steaming soup was placed in front of him he, again, tried to refuse such hospitality. "I do not want to impose."
She simply smiled warmly. "Don't be silly. I don't get many visitors. And you don't look like you'll give me any trouble."
The child in her arms stirred again, gearing up for another long cry, but was immediately placated with soft reassurance. George tried for a smile and half a joke. "I'm sure your husband wouldn't allow anything like that."
The woman's face tightened, eyes hardening, and her reply was a whisper "My husband."
George realised he had made a mistake and, thinking of his own wife, his own Mary, he hurriedly apologised. "I'm sorry I-"
But she interrupted gently. "It's alright. He is lost to me now."
"My wife-" George stumbled over the words, halting, wanting her to understand. Wanted her to know she was not alone in losing someone. "She-"
"You lost her." the woman had sat down opposite him, eyes as sad as his were. "I can see your pain."
"Yes." his voice was suddenly choked. "She's gone."
The food looked wonderful, but the smell suddenly made him feel nauseous, and he put down his spoon gently. What was he doing here? Intruding in some strangers home when he should be at home, should be with his boys, should be mourning and mourning for her. Why did he feel so cold, empty, numb? He stood up abruptly, shoving the chair back unconsciously "I have to go. I'm sorry I-"
The woman nodded. George turned to leave. Then-
"It was a fire, wasn't it?"
He froze, tears burning his eyes.
"I can smell the ash." was the next, quiet admission.
He'd washed it off, had bathed and scrubbed his skin raw, but even he could still smell that lingering scent. Even after the blaze had burned away and the sky had darkened, that smell clung to him and refused to disperse. "Yes, it was a fire."
"You're in shock." the statement was firm and almost unnecessary.
"Of course I'm in shock. My wife. My Mary-" he turned back around to face the woman. He was suddenly angry, flashes of ash and flames searing his mind, the words coming fast and harsh. "I could not save her, I could not protect the person I love. The one I wanted to spend forever with. The fire, I do not know how it started, but it killed her. It burnt her and it burnt my house and it burnt away everything we had. I- I could hear her screaming and I couldn't do anything. I heard her die. I stood by and I watched and listened and let it happen because I couldn't do anything. I couldn't get to her. My Mary. It's my fault."
The tears fell faster than before, emotion flooding his senses in a cloying roar, the beginnings of hysterics building up in his throat. A hand on his arm guided him back to his seat and a cup of water was placed in front of him.
He did not know how long he cried.
The pain grew in his chest and he sobbed, tears streaming, every memory of Mary now torture to recall. All he knew, all he was aware of, was that it hurt. It hurt so much. And that was all there was. A great mass of pain and grief that stretched inside him until there was nothing else. It pushed past everything else, drew long sobs and sent him spiraling into incoherence. He was too far gone to care that he was crying in front of a stranger.
Eventually it stopped, the pain waned, and he could breathe again.
"You did not set that fire; you did everything that could have been done for your wife. Everything. And if you had dived into that blaze then you would have died too. You have children? Yes. What would they have done? Losing both of their parents? You are not to blame." the words were said just as harshly as his had been, her blue eyes hard.
The worst thing was he knew she was right. And it made him feel even more helpless.
"I know."
There was silence as he sipped his water.
Her eyes were dark and deep and sad when he looked back up.
"What happened to my husband is my fault. I set the fire so to speak. And I fully accept and shoulder the blame for what I did. But he was dangerous. My child, my children...he would hurt them. I had to protect them."
A feeling of dread curled in his stomach. "You killed him?"
"No," a sad smile. "nothing like that."
George believed her; believed the sad set of her eyes and the grim twist of her lips. "I'm sorry."
"I am sorry too. Still, these events are long since past, and I have learnt to live with my guilt. I have made peace with what I have done." the woman smiled, a small thing, but it brightened her face. "Now! I have forgotten to introduce myself. I am Greta."
"George. George Cypher."
"Well then George, I am so very sorry for your loss, and I know there is nothing that can be done. And I know that these words sound so empty. But I am sorry all the same."
"The Creator can be cruel sometimes." George replied wryly.
"Yes," tears sparked in those blue eyes "She can be."
..."What's the child's name?" George asked quietly, sensing a subject change was needed.
A smile. "Henry." the boy gurgled happily at the sound of his name, fingers curling and uncurling. "His name is Henry."
"Will he be alright? Without a father?" George didn't know what made him ask (or maybe he did) but Greta only smiled.
"Your children will be fine, with you as their Dad."
"I need to get back to them."
Greta nodded and stood, walking him to the door. "What happened was not your fault. Never, ever forget that."
He nodded. "Thank you."
George left the cottage, walking forwards a few paces, before remembering that he had no idea how to get home. But suddenly the trees were familiar and he knew exactly where he was. George frowned and turned back to the cottage.
It was gone. And he would never find it again.
*
The Mother sighed from inside her house.
Grief blossomed in her chest, heavy and powerful, gripping her as she realised that she had lost another child. George should not take the blame, should not blame himself, because it was the Mothers fault. Every death was her fault. For the menace that she could not protect her children from. So many regrets, ages worth, the stink of thousands of years worth of decay.
She shhed Henry when he whimpered, rocking him, then set him down in his cradle.
As she watched him fall asleep, Greta hoped that her words of comfort had helped George, that he had begun to find peace. She knew that what she had done wasn't enough, could never be enough, but she was unable to act. She could do nothing but watch; wander the world reaching out to children she longed to save. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't, but it was all she could do. The power of Him was too great. It matched Hers. They balanced each other and while they were both the same strength free will still had a chance. And, yet, there were moments like these where she could make a difference. There were moments where she could help.
But the Keeper was always undoing her work. And there were always children she failed to save.
*
She felt the prophecy stirring before it became etched on that infamous wall.
The Mother had heard those words whispered in the back of her mind. And she had tried to stop it.
She was only part of the whole and she would never be the full Creator. But she was still Her. Was a part of Her. And she could not interfere. It was impossible for her to act, to stop, to fight, because the Keepers power negated hers. Here, on the earth She had Created, the actions of Her children were what changed the world. But she could help. So the cottage moved. Like her, it seemed to realise where it needed to go.
The Peoples Palace in D'Hara.
It was so seeped in the Keepers influence, so entangled in the web of the Underworld, that for a moment she thought it would kill her. But it did not. She waited, knowing that her child had been born only a short while ago, knowing that if she stayed he would find her. If she could avert the prophecy; then two brothers would never have to fight to the death. Lives would be saved. Her son would be saved. She would not let the Keeper have him.
But he did not come.
For years she waited, her cottage as close as the Keepers oppressive power would allow her, and for years he did not appear.
He was alive, in the Palace, growing and living and dreaming of the Underworld.
She did not give up. She waited and waited. The Mother willed him to come to her; even as the Keepers power grew darker, stronger, colder.
Then the day came when he killed Panis Rahl and the Keepers power in D'Hara grew to great for her to bare.
Still, she waited by her fire one last time. The day turned dark. And still she was alone.
Fury overtook her and she hurled her cup at a wall, smashed plates and tore apart anything she could get her hands on, blue eyes bright with fury. The Creator did not destroy. But she was only part of a God. Only when her cottage was a wreck, when her home was as shattered and wrecked as she felt, did Greta stop. She sat on the floor, drawing spirals aimlessly in a puddle of water, and cried. Not for the first time, she wished she could act, do something, but all she could be was a observer. The Mother wished she knew why she was in human form; why she was here. But there were many things that she did not know.
A human can not comprehend a God.
So the Creator had split herself.
The Mother knew what was coming. The Prophecy could not be averted. All she could do is go to those that needed her, those that she could reach, and shove back the tide of darkness. If only for a little while.
A Call tugged in the back of her mind, another of her children, and the Mother stood.
Jennsen Rahl needed her.
Summary: Canon compliant. The Creator could never abandon her children.
Word Count: 2693
Author: aureate_iva
Rating: T
Spoilers/warnings: Spoilers for the whole series and mentions of violence.
Character(s): Creator
The fire had taken more than his home.
Three survivors lingered where there should have been four. The house was no more than a wreckage, a pile of charred wood and broken memories, still smoldering from a fire that had long since been cast away. George Cypher could still see the walls he had built, solid and strong, the rooms and the furnishings, could hear the laughter and smell the soft scent of his wives perfume. But he knew that those things were long gone now. Never again would he see his wives face or listen to her laugh; and never would he have the two extra children they had always dreamed of having. Those dreams had aged, wrinkled, and died before their time. He knew he would have to find new ones, leave those husks behind, but not yet. The heat of the fire still scorched his cheek and the memories of his old life were more than ghosts; he could still see the house he had built, tall and strong among emerald grass, still brimming with the dreams he did not yet know how to let go of.
Richard fidgeted in his arms; Michael's grip on his hand tightened.
They were both so young, they should not have to see this, still George found it hard to tear his eyes away. But, looking down at Richard, seeing the childs gaze fixed on that smoldering ruin, and Michael, only four, wide eyed and staring, the man gently squeezed his eldest sons hand and led him away.
The spell was broken almost as soon as he turned his back and every step he took tore, piece by piece, the vision from his mind. No more was there the hope that Mary would step out of the ashes, dirty, but unhurt, laughing; no more was the house solid in his mind and no more was it possible to turn around and go back. He squeezed Michael's hand again, realised they were all still covered in ash from the fire, and felt loss fall over him like a dead weight. It almost made him stagger. But he kept walking.
The children needed him.
It was only then that he felt the tears on his cheeks and realised he was crying.
*
Later, when he had taken the children to their Aunts and left again, George wandered into the forest.
His sister had tried to make him stay; but grief had risen behind his eyes like a great shadow and she had stood aside. He had wanted to stay, pull his children close and never, ever let them go again, but he couldn't be strong for them. Not yet. And he could not let them see his pain; this uncontrolled swirl of grief that he was sure would never leave. The forest had always been peaceful, a sanctuary, and he would use it now. Use it so that he might gather the strength to go back and be what he needed to be for his boys.
The path he took was aimless.
He wandered, pace fast, the urgency one of needing to be somewhere but having no idea where that place was.
The night seeped through the trees, wind rustling the leaves, the chill a familiar essence of the dark. It had been light when the fire had started. Light when the blaze had splintered into a roar, smoke clogging his eyes and mouth and stinging his eyes, the dizzying sensations of burning and heat and hearing deaths footsteps clatter across a wooden floor...and Mary-
Oh Mary.
He hadn't been able to save her. Hadn't been-
Hadn't been the husband he'd promised, vowed, to be, and she had trusted him, loved him, and he had loved her. But it hadn't been enough; she had died anyway.
George stopped walking.
The boys. He had to get back to the boys.
But the trees in this area were an unfamiliar curve and he recognised nothing of where he was. The small glade was surrounded by trees, tall and ancient, and the moonlight shone arcs of glossy silver that spiraled through the air. It was eerie but peaceful. And it was only then that he noticed the cottage in the center of the clearing. Small, sturdy, it was a quaint building and there was a small garden with some vegetables growing around the front. He felt a urge to knock, perhaps the occupant would be able to direct him back to the village, and walked briskly over to the door. The wood was smooth under his hand.
A child cried from inside.
Moments later the door opened and a middle aged woman peered out at him, a bundle of blankets in her arms. Her hair was blonde and her eyes were a pale blue; fine wrinkles beginning to show around the edges. "Are you lost?"
George nodded. "I was wondering if you could direct me back to the village."
The woman arched an eyebrow skeptically, the move somehow matching that of George's own mother. "It's late. And you look like you could use some warm soup."
He tried to refuse but she somehow hustled him into her home, even with a babe in her arms, and sat him down at her table. The room was small, cosy, but George shivered at the sight of the open fire. When a bowl of steaming soup was placed in front of him he, again, tried to refuse such hospitality. "I do not want to impose."
She simply smiled warmly. "Don't be silly. I don't get many visitors. And you don't look like you'll give me any trouble."
The child in her arms stirred again, gearing up for another long cry, but was immediately placated with soft reassurance. George tried for a smile and half a joke. "I'm sure your husband wouldn't allow anything like that."
The woman's face tightened, eyes hardening, and her reply was a whisper "My husband."
George realised he had made a mistake and, thinking of his own wife, his own Mary, he hurriedly apologised. "I'm sorry I-"
But she interrupted gently. "It's alright. He is lost to me now."
"My wife-" George stumbled over the words, halting, wanting her to understand. Wanted her to know she was not alone in losing someone. "She-"
"You lost her." the woman had sat down opposite him, eyes as sad as his were. "I can see your pain."
"Yes." his voice was suddenly choked. "She's gone."
The food looked wonderful, but the smell suddenly made him feel nauseous, and he put down his spoon gently. What was he doing here? Intruding in some strangers home when he should be at home, should be with his boys, should be mourning and mourning for her. Why did he feel so cold, empty, numb? He stood up abruptly, shoving the chair back unconsciously "I have to go. I'm sorry I-"
The woman nodded. George turned to leave. Then-
"It was a fire, wasn't it?"
He froze, tears burning his eyes.
"I can smell the ash." was the next, quiet admission.
He'd washed it off, had bathed and scrubbed his skin raw, but even he could still smell that lingering scent. Even after the blaze had burned away and the sky had darkened, that smell clung to him and refused to disperse. "Yes, it was a fire."
"You're in shock." the statement was firm and almost unnecessary.
"Of course I'm in shock. My wife. My Mary-" he turned back around to face the woman. He was suddenly angry, flashes of ash and flames searing his mind, the words coming fast and harsh. "I could not save her, I could not protect the person I love. The one I wanted to spend forever with. The fire, I do not know how it started, but it killed her. It burnt her and it burnt my house and it burnt away everything we had. I- I could hear her screaming and I couldn't do anything. I heard her die. I stood by and I watched and listened and let it happen because I couldn't do anything. I couldn't get to her. My Mary. It's my fault."
The tears fell faster than before, emotion flooding his senses in a cloying roar, the beginnings of hysterics building up in his throat. A hand on his arm guided him back to his seat and a cup of water was placed in front of him.
He did not know how long he cried.
The pain grew in his chest and he sobbed, tears streaming, every memory of Mary now torture to recall. All he knew, all he was aware of, was that it hurt. It hurt so much. And that was all there was. A great mass of pain and grief that stretched inside him until there was nothing else. It pushed past everything else, drew long sobs and sent him spiraling into incoherence. He was too far gone to care that he was crying in front of a stranger.
Eventually it stopped, the pain waned, and he could breathe again.
"You did not set that fire; you did everything that could have been done for your wife. Everything. And if you had dived into that blaze then you would have died too. You have children? Yes. What would they have done? Losing both of their parents? You are not to blame." the words were said just as harshly as his had been, her blue eyes hard.
The worst thing was he knew she was right. And it made him feel even more helpless.
"I know."
There was silence as he sipped his water.
Her eyes were dark and deep and sad when he looked back up.
"What happened to my husband is my fault. I set the fire so to speak. And I fully accept and shoulder the blame for what I did. But he was dangerous. My child, my children...he would hurt them. I had to protect them."
A feeling of dread curled in his stomach. "You killed him?"
"No," a sad smile. "nothing like that."
George believed her; believed the sad set of her eyes and the grim twist of her lips. "I'm sorry."
"I am sorry too. Still, these events are long since past, and I have learnt to live with my guilt. I have made peace with what I have done." the woman smiled, a small thing, but it brightened her face. "Now! I have forgotten to introduce myself. I am Greta."
"George. George Cypher."
"Well then George, I am so very sorry for your loss, and I know there is nothing that can be done. And I know that these words sound so empty. But I am sorry all the same."
"The Creator can be cruel sometimes." George replied wryly.
"Yes," tears sparked in those blue eyes "She can be."
..."What's the child's name?" George asked quietly, sensing a subject change was needed.
A smile. "Henry." the boy gurgled happily at the sound of his name, fingers curling and uncurling. "His name is Henry."
"Will he be alright? Without a father?" George didn't know what made him ask (or maybe he did) but Greta only smiled.
"Your children will be fine, with you as their Dad."
"I need to get back to them."
Greta nodded and stood, walking him to the door. "What happened was not your fault. Never, ever forget that."
He nodded. "Thank you."
George left the cottage, walking forwards a few paces, before remembering that he had no idea how to get home. But suddenly the trees were familiar and he knew exactly where he was. George frowned and turned back to the cottage.
It was gone. And he would never find it again.
*
The Mother sighed from inside her house.
Grief blossomed in her chest, heavy and powerful, gripping her as she realised that she had lost another child. George should not take the blame, should not blame himself, because it was the Mothers fault. Every death was her fault. For the menace that she could not protect her children from. So many regrets, ages worth, the stink of thousands of years worth of decay.
She shhed Henry when he whimpered, rocking him, then set him down in his cradle.
As she watched him fall asleep, Greta hoped that her words of comfort had helped George, that he had begun to find peace. She knew that what she had done wasn't enough, could never be enough, but she was unable to act. She could do nothing but watch; wander the world reaching out to children she longed to save. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't, but it was all she could do. The power of Him was too great. It matched Hers. They balanced each other and while they were both the same strength free will still had a chance. And, yet, there were moments like these where she could make a difference. There were moments where she could help.
But the Keeper was always undoing her work. And there were always children she failed to save.
*
She felt the prophecy stirring before it became etched on that infamous wall.
The Mother had heard those words whispered in the back of her mind. And she had tried to stop it.
She was only part of the whole and she would never be the full Creator. But she was still Her. Was a part of Her. And she could not interfere. It was impossible for her to act, to stop, to fight, because the Keepers power negated hers. Here, on the earth She had Created, the actions of Her children were what changed the world. But she could help. So the cottage moved. Like her, it seemed to realise where it needed to go.
The Peoples Palace in D'Hara.
It was so seeped in the Keepers influence, so entangled in the web of the Underworld, that for a moment she thought it would kill her. But it did not. She waited, knowing that her child had been born only a short while ago, knowing that if she stayed he would find her. If she could avert the prophecy; then two brothers would never have to fight to the death. Lives would be saved. Her son would be saved. She would not let the Keeper have him.
But he did not come.
For years she waited, her cottage as close as the Keepers oppressive power would allow her, and for years he did not appear.
He was alive, in the Palace, growing and living and dreaming of the Underworld.
She did not give up. She waited and waited. The Mother willed him to come to her; even as the Keepers power grew darker, stronger, colder.
Then the day came when he killed Panis Rahl and the Keepers power in D'Hara grew to great for her to bare.
Still, she waited by her fire one last time. The day turned dark. And still she was alone.
Fury overtook her and she hurled her cup at a wall, smashed plates and tore apart anything she could get her hands on, blue eyes bright with fury. The Creator did not destroy. But she was only part of a God. Only when her cottage was a wreck, when her home was as shattered and wrecked as she felt, did Greta stop. She sat on the floor, drawing spirals aimlessly in a puddle of water, and cried. Not for the first time, she wished she could act, do something, but all she could be was a observer. The Mother wished she knew why she was in human form; why she was here. But there were many things that she did not know.
A human can not comprehend a God.
So the Creator had split herself.
The Mother knew what was coming. The Prophecy could not be averted. All she could do is go to those that needed her, those that she could reach, and shove back the tide of darkness. If only for a little while.
A Call tugged in the back of her mind, another of her children, and the Mother stood.
Jennsen Rahl needed her.