CONTENT WARNING: discussion of past suicidal ideation, and historical / unhealthy attitudes towards it. Global crisis lines
Reynold
I return from helping Clem at the monastery. There's a few witches hiding out in there at the moment, but they seem glad that someone out there is dealing with them - and even more surprised that former witchfinders are stepping in and turning on their former allies.
Clem told me that she tried to get Thorne to see sense, for the sake of trying - but he isn't Julian and he isn't Juniper. He isn't misled like they were - he's the one doing the misleading. It seems she's losing her faith in Peterism, maybe even in religion in general. I just hope she doesn't lose any faith in herself in the process.
I realise that I have not been honest with Father about what happened at the cliff in Lunvik. I haven't wanted to tell him anything, but I feel I ought to be honest with him. With everything on my mind right now, it wouldn't hurt to offload at least a small part.
"He rejected her offer for peace."
"As expected," he replies, in a gruff tone. "But they can't pretend she didn't try."
"You know Thorne will pretend it never happened."
Father is about to walk into the kitchen when he turns back to me, concern across his face.
"You can't let all of this drag you down, son," he says, in a soft voice. "I know there's a lot happening, what with Áine on the warpath and your sister resisting the Jacobans, but you can't let it knock you back." He pats me on the shoulder with a smile, like I'm still a child. "We'll pull through. We always do-"
"I almost didn't!"
My words slip out of my mouth before my mind has a chance to revise them. I didn't mean to sound so abrasive. His eyebrows raise, and his smile quickly melts into a frown.
"What...what are you saying, son?"
A mess of emotions have tied themselves together inside of me, knotted into something that feels impossible to pull apart. Saying that, I can already feel some of the threads loosening a little. I don't want to do this at all, but I can't live with all of this. I can't live with the accusations against me about my own daughter, with Clem's life being on the line, or with Áine disregarding the goal she had for sixteen years... I need to let some of it go, or it'll drag me back down.
"Áine blamed me for Róisín's death. When I went to Lunvik to mourn her, I couldn't stop blaming myself...and I was about to throw myself off the cliff until the leader of the wolf pack stopped me."
There's a tense and chilling pause. Neither of us take our eyes off each other.
"What made you do such a thing, Reynold?"
His tone is colder than I would have expected it to be.
"Perseverance is a key tenet of Lunvinism, son. You've survived everything so far-"
"I haven't, though, have I? Did you forget?! I died! If Áine hadn't have removed the night-wraith, then-"
I manage to force a scream down into a grunt of annoyance. The familiar searing pain flares up in my skull, and strange blurred lights sparkle in my field of vision. For a moment, I thought I was about to give in to the wolf...
Áine. Everything comes back to Áine - of course it does. Áine blamed me for the death of my own daughter. Áine decided to put slaughter before protecting her own people even after I told her how it led to a good chunk of the Lunvinchenaîné getting wiped out.
Áine is the reason I almost died, but she's also the reason I didn't die. Áine is the reason I found a life outside of the monastery. Áine was the mother of our bright and beautiful daughter. Áine has completely changed my life in ways I never expected. Áine stayed with me even after I'd with-held my true self from her, even knowing I was a mooncaster... Half human, half monster, and she still stayed.
Alistair grabs my shoulders again, with more force this time, and I look back up at him. I can't tell if he's angry, or if this is his way to be supportive. Even when I was young, it was difficult to tell the two apart.
"You could have left everyone who loves you behind, Reynold! What about your sister? What about me? What about -"
He pauses. He grabs me and pulls me in close, putting his hand behind my back. At first, I panic - it's not like him to show this kind of affection. Never has been. For a moment, it feels like I'm a mere child again, desperate for my father to show me that he truly cared.
"I don't want to end up there again, Reynold," he says to me, his voice wavering and charged with held-back tears. "I don't want to think about losing either of you again." He takes his hands off my shoulders, and his eyes are red and glistening. "I'm sorry, Reynold. I'm...We've already lost so much, and not just as a family."
The two of us sit on the sofa, not talking to each other and barely looking at each other. I notice a new painting above the Lunvin statue, something that looks like Violeta's style - a pack of wolves warring with one another.
"I tried to talk Áine out of what she's doing. She didn't listen to me at all - of course she didn't."
"I don't believe what she's doing is entirely wrong, Reynold."
"No? Can you think of someone else who used his childrens' murder to excuse his own? In the beginning, Volpe said he was also doing it to protect people. It didn't end like that, though, did it?"
"What are you saying? Of course she won't become like that! The witches aren't going to survive if people don't fight back!"
"I'm not saying people shouldn't fight back. But look what happened to us, Father! The werewolves spent so much time fighting back that many of us were killed, and now look at us - we might be the only two left in the country. Maybe even in this corner of the Earth. Maybe even on this Earth at all."
Alistair gives me a narrow stare, and I almost expect a wolf's claws in my flesh.
"Reynold, it's in our blood to do whatever it takes to protect people! Have you completely forgotten everything Lunvin has taught us?! Not to mention that you're saying all this to a veteran of the Bloodmoon!"
"Then you'll know exactly what I'm talking about, then."
He closes his lips tightly enough that he can't say whatever is on his mind.
"You can't escape violence, Reynold. None of us can. It's in our blood. You can't ignore the wolf. You can't pretend what you do as the wolf isn't you."
"When will people stop accusing me of that? I'm not saying we shouldn't go after the witchfinders, but she can't make the same mistake Gregorius did. What's the good in wiping everybody out when you've got no plans to teach your people how to defend themselves? How much of our own culture is lost to time because of that, on top of the witchfinders? Look - you remember all those years ago when you taught me how to use the lunar shield, don't you?"
"Of course I do."
"Then you know what I'm talking about. You did it because you wanted me to learn how to defend myself - because you knew there's not many of us left. Because you wanted to make up for past mistakes. That puts you a step ahead of someone like Gregorius."
I know he doesn't want to hear me bad-mouthing such a central figure to us, but I have to get him to see sense. He lets out a deep sigh and hangs his head.
"I've never known a life outside of violence as defence, son. Without us, many, many more would have died. But...I never stop thinking about the fact that I'm the only one left. Many witches were saved, but many of the vampires and werewolves weren't alive at the end of it to realise what we'd done. Oskar never knew a life outside of violence, either..." - his eyes sparkle with tears again - "and that's why he's no longer with us. He gave his life for the good of magic-folk and we're still in this mess. There isn't a day where that doesn't weigh down on me, son."
A cold sensation of guilt trickles down through my stomach, but before I can say anything else, there's a knock at the door... it's her. I let her in, and Father scowls at her.
"I owe you an apology."
Her voice is soft, airy and weak - none of her usual air of confidence and sureness. She gathers herself, shedding her hardy veneer almost entirely.
"I lost my way, Reynold. I was consumed by grief - I still am. I wouldn't listen to what anyone had to say about what I was doing. I criticised everyone who tried to assist me, I said terrible things to you and to Owen and... I'm sorry. I'm sorry I accused you of being responsible for Róisín's death. You were just trying to do what was best for her. It was James's fault - not yours, and not Lydia's." She takes a breath, and her voice trembles a little.
Why the sudden change of heart, I wonder? - but I don't bother to ask.
"I accused you of being responsible for Róisín's death, and in turn...I was almost responsible for yours."
Back at the cliff in Lunvik, I wonder if an apology may have even talked me out of what I was going to do, but here and now... it doesn't seem to affect me at all. The mess of my emotions don't change. Nothing eases. Being with Áine used to fill me with a kind of joy nobody could imagine, but even in the short time since we lost our daughter... it doesn't feel the same. Perhaps my mind has been trying to keep itself alive by severing any emotional connection to her specifically. Some days ago, I would have been looking into the eyes of my lifelong partner. I would have felt the unmistakable warmth of a loved one. Now, it is more as if I am admiring a marble statue - something to admire from afar, not to touch or cherish in any way. Those soulful and sunken eyes would have driven me to throw my arms around her, but I don't feel the urge to intervene in her misery at all.
"Your apology is accepted."
I don't have anything else to say. I have no desire to make her feel better about any of it, no desire to comfort her, no desire to be thankful. Nothing at all. I don't know if it's out of grief, exhaustion, or spite. Either way, I feel like the worst man in existence for it. She looks up, and then turns to my father.
"Alistair...would you mind if I went to look at Róisín's room?"
Áine
Reynold's lack of a reaction is as expected. He owed me nothing of the sort. I said something to him that I do not believe any apology can offset, and it has caused a kind of agony that will no doubt stay with him. I have no idea how I can make it up to him, not when I've taken so much away from him.
Reynold knocks the door and asks if it's okay to come in before burying his face in his hand and turning the doorhandle. Róisín's room is almost as I remember it. She even still has her childhood toys on display on her table, including the wolf that Oskar made for her. Her desk catches my eye as well as my heart - it's full of sketches and drawings. I didn't know she still liked to draw; at the settlement, we couldn't waste what little we had of paper - though Tsuna noted someone doodled wolves into some of our books.
This is something she has been quiet about in her teenage years. She must have drawn most of these from Alistair's books, perhaps even from the hazy memories of going to Lunvik as a child. I hope she didn't feel as if she was not good enough - these are incredible.
One of them appears to be a drawing of either Reynold or Alistair in their wolf forms. Judging by the shorter and slightly lighter fur, it appears to be of Reynold.
When she was eight, she drew a gryphon for Owen, thanking him for trying to save her grandfather. Here, it seemed she wanted to draw something else for him eight years later, a wonderful drawing with a daunting and powerful energy perfectly fitting for the man she had likely planned to give it to...
Reynold doesn't say a word, trying to hold back tears. I keep thinking about how I will tell Róisín how lovely her artwork is when I see her again... only I won't. Images flash in my mind, switching between her golden hair and beautiful smile to the charred husk tied to the stake.
"You were all right. You, Owen, Violeta ... I lost sight of my goal entirely. I thought I was getting justice for our daughter, and everyone else's daughters...but I can't do that if we don't have a place to call our own. I can't do that if we don't have a place to teach the others."
"Which we do," Reynold replies, his voice struggling. "We have Glimmerbrook. You have the school that you built."
"I fear that if I return to Glimmerbrook, the witchfinders will follow."
"They will end up back in Glimmerbrook anyway at this point, Áine. But the difference between the Glimmerbrook witches and the Finchwick witches is the Glimmerbrook ones are more ready to defend themselves and everybody else."
"Would you be okay if I took some of these drawings back with me to Glimmerbrook?"
"Of course. I'd like to keep the werewolf one. I'll see if I can get the gryphon one over to Owen."
I heave myself off the chair, and Reynold and I gaze into each other's bloodshot eyes. There's nothing behind them other than crushing bereavement.
"Reynold, you're going to think I'm a lunatic for this, but one of the stories in my mother's grimoire - I believe it may be a spell -one hidden from me until I was old enough to understand how it worked. I believe it is a spell that paves the way to other worlds."
Reynold slightly raises an eyebrow, but doesn't otherwise respond.
"I don't want to build upon anything important in Glimmerbrook. It is a place of magic, and I know that the aos Sí are there. So my only option is to build it where I will not be encroaching on anything I shouldn't be - somewhere outside of our known world. We both know such worlds exist, but now it's just figuring out how to open a path to them."
Back when I first considered this possibility, I had forgotten entirely that I have already visited a world outside of our own - a memory my mind tried to cast a fog over for my own good. When Reynold almost died, and I had to enter that strange plane to save him...
"We've both been in strange enough situations to question the possibility of such a thing, Áine. There's every chance you might be right - and we at least know it's possible. I just hope it's possible without having to end up half-dead. Either way, I know you can do whatever you put your mind to. If you do figure out that it's possible, you have my support in whichever way you need it."
"Thank you, Reynold."
I take the drawings and go to head out, having to make it to Glimmerbrook before the witchfinders begin skulking around. Violeta and Maddie are hopefully out this evening.
"Áine - before you go..."
"I'm sorry, Reynold. Perhaps, once this is all over...everything will be stable again. Perhaps things will be back to normal for the pair of us."
"There's no point worrying about 'perhaps'," he replies, with a cold dullness to his voice. "What will happen will happen- and we'll work with what we're dealt."
"Don't you feel as if we've been dealt enough?"
"Everyone has, Áine. Everyone has lost something to all this. We lost our daughter. Violeta lost her son. I nearly lost my sister. Eli nearly lost his brother. Gideon could have lost his son to the witchfinders' brainwashing. Kat had to flee her home twice. Owen lost the profession he devoted his entire life to. They're all still fighting in whatever way they can. We can't break under the pressure no matter how tempting it seems. People rely on us. We have to stay afloat for their sake."
* * *
"Katlego is not here today - she has other duties to attend to. I would tell you what they were, but they are too bizarre for me to properly recount to you all.
I am Tsuna. Most of you probably know of me. However, there is one aspect of me many of you do not know - one I want to share with you as a deterrent."
"I know that some of you desire revenge for what happened to Áine's daughter, and for the deaths of many others. What many of you are unaware of is that deaths upon a battlefield are much more brutal than you already know. Many who die in such a violent matter will find themselve unable to rest - and rites are rarely read to those who die in battle. Your soul will wander endlessly, searching for a kind of revenge you will never be able to fulfill.
Five-hundred years ago, I was murdered by Henfordian witchfinders in Yukimatsu. However, I did not quite die - I persisted. My vengeance kept me alive to some extent. I made it my vow to slaughter every witchfinder in order to finally pass on. Alas, I am still here, still fighting, and yet I have not found peace. The witchfinders who killed me are long dead, and so the chances of me ever truly resting are near to none."
"Wait - five-hundred years?!"
"Indeed."
"That sounds like torture."
"Please, do not get involved in this conflict directly. Let those of us who know how to fight deal with it. I have nothing to lose. All of you have your lives and your futures - that which Áine, Katlego, Owen and I are working to preserve."
"Katlego will be away for a day or two. She is seeking the assistance of Isidora Viridis to help us in case the witchfinders come to us."
"Isidora? Goodness, what's she going to do? Drive the witchfinders away with her insanity? Set 'the fairies' on them?"
"Believe me, Jan, I'm as surprised as you are - but we need all the allies we can get. Isidora and Katlego are both Mischief casters; another one added to our ranks would be useful, at least."