war table: strangers in the mirror.

[propulsion]

WHO: Closed to the gang
WHAT: Delving into the temple of Dirthamen in search of artifacts, Riftwatch finds that the temple demands more than they seek. But what else is new?
WHEN: Cloudreach
WHERE: Arlathan Forest, within the temple of Dirthamen, Elven God of Secrets and Knowledge
NOTES: OOC post.

You stand before it, a glow emanating from its smooth surface, a perfectly round sphere whose warmth bathes your face and hands in light. Around you are veiled faces in hoods, heads bowed in reverence, and a murmur of chanting echoes, overlapping, like the clashing of tides. Your hovered hands drift apart in a slow and elegant motion, and you can only faintly see it, the lines of magic you draw between your fingers, like faint golden cobwebs of shivering power.

They tremble between your fingers, they shiver, and they bend towards the orb. You must master it so it does not, in its wisdom and hunger, take from you what you're not willing to give, but you are well trained, you are beyond compare, and you will give only what you will.

The chanting rises, and the orb pulses with light. You focus, and the magic drawn between your fingers pulls away from it, arcs around in loops. It feels akin to reining a wild horse or mastering the lines affixed to the sails of a ship in a storm or pulling taut a bowstring.

And your control slips. Or you set something free. Either way, your hands come down on the surface of the orb, and it burns you alive.

...

The fading impression of this memory glimmers in your mind.

And nothing else. Where are you? What are you doing? Why do you wield this blade in your hand, or lay here with your bare throat offered to another's? You don't so much awake; you become aware of yourself, cold and aching and tired, and as you try to assess the situation and evaluate the motivations of the weary, filthy strangers that surround you, you wait for context to return, but it never does. You reach backwards for memory, for anything, encountering only the image of the glowing orb before you, and the way it had burned you with the things it knows when you touch it.

But there are more pressing matters to resolve.

After the initial confusion and chaos, all that is left to do is assess the place you are in, and decide what next to do. To escape, perhaps, or, some niggling part of you wonders, find the location of the glowing orb, which you know, deep down, is somewhere in this place.

The Temple of Dirthamen

Not that you know its name.

This place feels like an underground palace, sunken deep inside the earth, grand chambers that connect to one another with various passageways, tunnels, and staircases. Light sources come from your flaming torches or travel-sized lanterns hanging off your belt, or the occasional luminescence from green-glowing runic engravings on tiled walls, or the faint glow of a green miasma that lingers in hallways and chambers. There are walls set with elaborate mosaics, and great statues depicting twin figures, one of them cloaked in shadow and the other more detailed, and creatures such as ravens, always a pair, or the arching legs of a giant spider.

As intentionally built as it is, it is also half-wild. There are chambers that seemed carved directly into rock, and floors of rough natural stone. It is not, however, all intentional. You will find the frames of stone archways set directly into rough rock, or stairwells that lead nowhere but directly into cave wall, as if the earth had grown around it.

Despite this oddity, it is a beautiful and grand place, but clearly one steeped in ancient neglect, with flooded chambers, moss-riddled stairwells, crumbled stone, and the smell of rot and dust.

Traversing this place, however, is a challenge in and of itself, hostile to the strangers that crawl through its catacombs. Not only will you find whole pathways blocked with crumbled stone, or rooms that require you to swim through them to get to the other side, or a strangely angled corridor that forces you to climb up its craggy surface, the building itself is intentionally guarded against intruders in a myriad of passive ways. Traps trigger when a previously unnoticed puzzle is left ignored or incomplete, or doors refuse to open without the presence of a key in spite of there being no discernible lock. Some of these you may be able to solve, some will force you to double back.

You are also not alone. Out the corner of your eye, the presence of spirits dart in and out of the catacombs, and occasionally, you hear the ominous chittering sound of many-legged beasts that put you to mind of all those giant spider statues.

Some places you may encounter in your blind journey forwards:

THE QUEEN'S LAIR: You don't know how it happened, but the ground gives beneath you and whoever you are with, sliding without dignity down the abruptly steep angle of not-quite-smooth-enough rock. You land with a violent tumble upon surprisingly soft, spongy ground—fungus, moss, mud, deep puddles. As you look around, you see the large stone chamber you are in is lit with a sort of ambient bioluminescence of green miasma, showing up the sight of thick patches of cobweb strung between pillars, statues, hanging from loops from the ceiling. You see bundles blanketed in web, tellingly humanoid in size and general shape and, thankfully, perfectly still. The smell of dust and old decay in the air makes you hopeful that perhaps this place is more tomb than nest, until you see the way the giant cobwebs around you begin to sway. Looking up, through the miasma, the shadowy shapes of dog-sized spiders begin to pluck their way down. And you think you see, far above, the unmoving shape of a truly colossal spider resting high above. At least, you hope it's unmoving. You have two choices: take your chance in trying to scramble back up the steep incline you fell down, despite slippery rock, or brave the chamber and try to make your way in deeper in search of the gated archway on the other side that you will only know is there when you find it. Or the secret third choice of being eaten by spiders.

THE RED REVELRY: You and your companions, such as they are, find yourselves at the entryway of a great chamber. The walls glow with a faint blue-green light, only barely illuminating the wide open space. The open tiled ground is littered in debris, some of it crumbled rock, and some of it, ancient shattered skeleton, scraps of cloth, the evidence of many corpses that have long since decomposed to nothing but dry bone, dull jewelry, and the rotted remains of their clothing. Unpleasant, but unless you wish to yet again double back, the only way forward is through, and you do see another archway towards the back. However, the moment you step into the room, your mind fogs over. The room fills with golden light, laughter, music, and a swirling crowd of elven folk. You are in the midst of a revelry, and your heart feels light and joyous. One offers you a goblet of wine, another bids you to dance with them, another offers to share from a platter of fruit. The room is also surrounded by tall men and women of more serious demeanor, dressed in rich ornamental armor, dark cloaks, armed with curved blades, and you barely notice the sound of metal on leather as they all at once draw them. You do notice, however, as the screams begin, as blood begins to spatter, as the ring of guards begin to systematically cut down each reveler in arms reach. Now would be a good time to remember that none of this is real, but as you can't quite shake the immersive experience of a panicked grip to your arm or the visceral sensation of wet arterial spray spattering against your armor, it might be best to run for the next door before you find out otherwise.

Optional dice roll: A d20 roll of 16 or higher has you break the illusion, safely restoring the chamber around you to the dark dusty tomb full of unmoving skeletons. A result between 10 and 15 means you are still immersed in the illusion but you have your wits, and, with focus, are able to move through the figures as though they aren't there, but may still struggle. A result between 5 and 9 means you are too immersed, and the crush of the crowd is preventing you from running, and if a guard with a blade strikes you, you will be injured. You may need help. A result between 1 and 4: oh my god all of this is real and you're going to die unless someone drags you out of here. Otherwise, choose your own result, no dice no masters.

THE PATH OF THE SIGHTLESS: The broad hallway you approach is tiled with jade, with an atmospheric light coming down from the tall arched ceiling. Up ahead, the road is strange. The tiles are grey stone and then foot-square tiles of dull gold or similar metal. Upon stepping into the corridor, you will find that your vision is gone, cloaking you in darkness. To anyone else, standing outside of the corridor, they can see within it and you perfectly fine. What's more, any step you take that is not on one of the shining tiles, comes with a consequence: a psychic kind of torment that feels like a swarm of ravens invading your mind. They tear and claw, a physical sort of headache-like pain that becomes quickly overwhelming and paralysing, leaving you cold and shaking. What's more, this assault has things to say. Although you do not remember anything of yourself, these ravens seem to know. However, if you make it back onto a shining tile, or are close enough to one of the ends of the corridor to leave it, the torment will stop.

The idea here is that those with you will need to verbally guide your way through the corridor. If you are subjected to punishment for mis-stepping, the 'ravens' that flood your mind will pluck and claw at all the insecurities and fears you would have had if you remembered them. This is one way to get information about yourself, but as delivered through the bitchiest and harshest of critics. Your character will not be able to withstand it for long but will have difficulty hearing or moving, so feel free to assume they need extra assistance or manage to help themselves.

In general, feel free to find the kind of obstacles you might anticipate, such as ancient elven magic hopscotch, doors that only open if you pierce your hand on the knife-like protrusion where a handle should be, rooms full of wisps that taunt and mislead, platforms that require Big Jumps to get across or else you'll find yourself wet or on fire, Veilfire puzzle with tiles that ripple and shift, and so on.

There are also places of respite, ancient prayer rooms or barracks-like quarters, where you may discover the rations you have on you and get to know people who do not know themselves.

Strangers in the Mirror

Here is what you must bear in mind.

MEMORIES OF THE LIVING: Although you have no recollection of yourselves, recollection is not forever withheld. At any time, your mind may jerk towards an impression of something, clear as day. You may whole heartedly believe that you are recalling something of your own past, or it may be so incorrect that you are certain that this memory doesn't belong to you. These flashes come in moments of quiet, in looking upon the face of an ancient statue, or catching your reflection in a shining surface of water or metal or polished tile, or seeing the light in another's eyes.

If you happen to meet the person for whom these memories belong, you will know like a hook in your heart that this memory belongs to them. There is no way for you to give it the way you got it, for only the gods can parcel out memory and knowledge without the tools of language and writing, and so what you choose to do is yours to decide.

MEMORIES OF THE DEAD: There will be moments, likewise, when the memory of those long gone from this place invades your mind. However, they are not for you to know. At any point, you will find that you lose time, that a great stretch of blankness takes hold of your mind, and you come back to your own forgetful self in some other place, perhaps with entirely new company, performing some task you did not mean to begin: sweeping the floor, or kneeling before an altar, or sitting at a table prepared to eat a meal that is not there, or even once again about to slit the throat of a willing supplicant.

Use this mechanic to free up your character to pursue threads with others rather than only your home team. If you can also play out encountering someone in this fugue state or vice versa, in which they will be largely unresponsive, but seem to know their way around, completing their tasks, until they snap out of it.

And some general advice on your current affliction:

This is a fictional form of amnesia, so don't overthink it. Broadly, your character should instinctively know standard facts like what colour the sky is, even if they can't see any sky currently, or they may have an instinct towards certain skills they have practiced every day since childhood, like the yo-yo. However, knowledge of who they are, what their name is, where they've come from is completely lost on them.

More specific world facts like what the Chantry is, what a mage is, what a Ferelden is, you can be fast and loose with. If your character is deeply intimate with something like the Circle, they may roughly know of it in vague terms. Alternatively, if it's more fun if your mage doesn't even know that magic exists, then go with it.

Rifters from profoundly different worlds, like modern earth, can absolutely have a sense that they are in some kind of weird ancient world surrounded by old timey people. This is left to your discretion.

As far as what your character is like without their memories, again, this is up to you. They can be cluelessly the same, or exhibit hidden personality traits they ordinarily keep suppressed (or suppress ordinarily prominant instincts), or simply be fundamentally different without the burdens or highlights of their own lives to inform them. Are they friendlier? More vicious? Braver than usual? Less selfless, more? Whatever you like!

A Gift of Revelation

And then it ends.

Seemingly without ceremony, if you are far away from the thing that ends it. You feel a lurch and then it all comes flooding back: your name, your life, the mission, the people around you, the forward camp merely a few hours of travel outside the bounds of the temple you are in. You may be close enough to where you'd already started scouting before it all went foggy to make your way out easily, or you may be so immersed in the depths of the temple that your mission of trying to escape hasn't really changed, despite this context.

And yes, your sending crystal is still not working. Figures.

You still harbour the memories that you were given unbidden, even if they've lost their bright shine in the void, and you will still feel that sense of knowledge for whom they belong when you meet them next, if you are unable to work it out on your own.

Once out, the warmth of the Arlathan Forest greets you, and your crystal begins to flicker back to life once more. Truly, they don't pay you enough for this.

Comments

[notathreat]

"Awesome. And yeah. Y'know. More memories getting shoved into my head."

Ellie takes a deep, steadying breath and lets it out. "Still haven't figured out your name. But if I do I'll let you know."

She swallows, steadier.

"Okay. Put both feet where your right foot is. Then it's going to be one step forward."

[laruetheday]

"Maybe I don't have one."

It's supposed to be a joke, but it comes out sounding flat. If Ellie's getting more memories of her, but isn't telling her what she saw, that can't be good. At least when Clarisse was seeing shit, she felt comfortable giving Ellie a certain amount of information, telling her the things that weren't so bad. Ellie doesn't even seem willing to do that much.

Part of her wants to ask for details, but a bigger part of her isn't sure she wants to know what those details are.

She steps onto the next tile.

[notathreat]

Supposed to be a joke maybe, but given what just crashed through Ellie's skull, she winces. Girl.

"What if you just have a title?" she suggests. "Like a superhero with a secret identity?" While they're in the business of wild mass guessing about what kind of people they were.

"And one big step to the left- shit. Right."

[laruetheday]

She's gotten comfortable with the routine already, maybe too much, and she's already moving before Ellie corrects herself.

As soon as her feet touch the wrong tile, the pain hits. It seems to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once, birdlike claws raking over her head and behind her eyes, a screaming caw in her ears.

Clarisse claps both hands over her ears with a wince, but it doesn't stop the sound. It's inside her head.

"Ahh—fuck—"

She knows about you now, a voice says. Not Ellie's. This is something else entirely.

She knows all about how pathetic you are. How little he expects from you, and Clarisse can't say why that thought fills her with so much dread, but it does. Makes her feel shaky and sick and almost paralyzed, rooted to the spot.

[notathreat]

"Shit, no-"

Ellie gasps aloud, actually makes it one step forward and onto the tile before she remembers. It's there, raking at her. Her vision crackling, the claws and wings beating at her. Laughter.

You can't save her, you can't save anybody, all you ever do is get them killed, break their hearts, or abandon them when they need you-

Shaking, furious, Ellie wrenches herself back off the tiles, her voice exploding past the block in her throat. Painful.

"Don't listen to it!" Ellie shouts. "Hey! It stops if you get back on the path! One step to your right, c'mon, you've got this-"

I've got you, she almost says, but the sick guilt still clinging to her chokes it out.

[laruetheday]

It's hard to hear Ellie's voice above the screaming in her head. It's even harder to focus on what she's saying, but Clarisse tries. One step to your right, come on—

Same as she'd had to do with Ellie, Ellie talks her through it. It's instinctively uncomfortable for her, having to cling to someone else's voice like a lifeline, and later she'll wonder why that is, but right now she knows that she has no choice.

She steps to the right, and as soon as she has both feet on the correct tile, the pain in her head goes away. The voices go away. The shaking... does not immediately go away, but she's giving herself a pass.

"I'm good," she says, without really meaning it, but who fucking cares. She wants this to be over with, she wants to be out on the other side with her vision back and booking it the hell away from this corridor. "Keep going."

[notathreat]

"Okay." Ellie swallows hard, nodding even though Clarisse can't see it. The two of them catch their breaths. Ellie takes her at face value even if she knows they're both still shaken. Mistake made. Moving on.

"One more step to your right." This time, she is very careful. She will not fuck this up again. "Then one step forward. Good. Another diagonal. Forward and to your right- and put your foot down there."

[laruetheday]

Clarisse follows her voice. She's not moving slowly, but she's definitely leaving a little bit of a pause in between Ellie's directions and her movements now. Just in case.

"Am I close?"

She feels like she has to be close. Ellie's voice sounds a little closer now, unless she's only imagining that. (Possible.)

Summer's over, but the air's still warm enough that you have your shirt sleeves rolled up to your shoulders. You're sprawled in the grass next to the canoe lake, listening to the lapping waves and pretending to watch the naiads swim, which might make you a little bit of a creep (even if they enjoy being watched), but somehow feels better than what you're actually doing, which is staring at Silena's hands.

Her nails are pink, and sunlight glints off her rings, and her fingers move quick and confident, twining flower stems together. Not for the first time, you wonder how this makes any sense, the two of you sitting here like this. Not for the first time, you decide it doesn't actually matter.

The two of you are in the middle of a conversation about college, because Charlie is going to NYU and Silena is going to go with him but she sort of wants to see what else is out there, and maybe she'll go to Paris, and you snort because—those are the only two options? New York or fucking Paris? And she laughs and tips her head back and your eyes dart from her hands to her neck and back again.

You want her to stay in New York so you can still see each other. You want to stop thinking shitty thoughts about the way she always calls Beckendorf "Charlie". You want things to be uncomplicated and normal and easy, but it seems like they never are.

Still, you're happy. She is your best friend. You care about her in a way that you rarely let yourself care about anybody.

Silena slides the first flower bracelet over your wrist, without asking. Her fingertips brush over your pulse point, and you think you stop breathing. You're hypnotized by her, and it's such a cliché, and you have a boyfriend, but—

"There," she says, and you know that you would follow her anywhere. To college. To NYU. Even to fucking Paris.

[notathreat]

"Yeah-"

But Ellie's breath comes fast, suddenly, then blanks out for a moment, the silence that means something else has her attention, has her mind. The memory is warm, happy, edged bittersweet and she doesn't know why.

Familiar feelings of longing and care, and...

"Silena," Ellie says, suddenly. The name is soft on her tongue, a touch of the warmth carrying through from the memory. Maybe a little bit of something more. "Your best friend is -- is Silena."

It's too personal, it's too much, it feels invasive to say more.

"Hop straight toward me. It skips a tile."

[laruetheday]

Clarisse hops forward, pleased that she manages to land without triggering the fucked up birds again.

"Yeah? What is she like?"

Cool, though. A friend. A best friend? To be fair, she can't remember what having friends is even like, but that sounds good. A good thing after all this depressing shit. Rare, and special.

[notathreat]

"Really, really pretty."

Ellie laughs, and it's clear she thinks so too. "And nice. She makes flower chains. Wants to go to Paris."

Ellie runs her tongue along her lower lip.

"Let's get you out of here, okay? To see her."

One more breath.

"To the right, and forward."

cw death memshare time👎

[laruetheday]

"That's the plan," she mutters, and stretches a leg out. To the right and forward. Sort of a diagonal. She's trying to remember the path she directed Ellie to take, but also trying not to think too hard about it. She doesn't want to screw up again this close to the finish line, assuming that she's close.

She hopes she is.

Down here in the basement under the infirmary, there's nobody to see you cry, but despite the burning behind your eyes and the pounding throb on each side of your head, you can't do it. It feels like you've used up all your tears, hit some kind of limit, and now you might never manage it again.

Fine with you.

Bodies line the floor of this room, lying under bedsheets that serve as makeshift shrouds until the real ones can be prepared. Combat boots and sneakers poking out, pointed at the ceiling. There are fewer bodies than there were casualties.

Slowly, you pull back the sheet covering Silena's body. She's still wearing the blood-red armor, though it's splashed with acid. Still usable, maybe fixable entirely, but you could never wear it again. You need to burn it, get rid of it, never look at it or think of it again. It needs to be incinerated along with the busted shaft of your spear. Especially the boar's head helmet.

It's... unrecognizable, the metal warped and corroded and half melted. It took them forever just to figure out how to get it off her head. And her face... The thought keeps coming back, over and over again—her face. Her face. Her face.

You aren't wearing armor. You haven't been, for the entire battle. There isn't a scratch on you. Not a single fucking mark.

Gently, you undo the straps of the breastplate. You let your fingers brush over the bare, cool skin of her collarbone. Unreal, somehow. It is the last time you'll touch her.

You hear yourself make a noise, then, a sort of choking cry, and you decide then and there that you will never, ever let yourself love somebody this much again.

[notathreat]

"Almost," Ellie says encouragingly, and it has the tone of something that was meant to be the start of a sentence instead of a complete one.

But she trails off into that alarming silence again, and then, slowly -- her voice comes back in soft, gasping breaths. It's shallow, hurting.

When Ellie does come back it feels like she's screaming herself awake, a hoarse choking noise as she leans over and tries very hard not to be sick. There's a cold sweat all over her body, her legs shaky.

She reaches up to wipe her eyes, finds her face wet.

"... oh fuck," she whispers under her breath, her voice breaking. Clarisse is close enough to hear.

[laruetheday]

Ellie goes quiet again, and after a minute, Clarisse hears her breathing change as she comes out of it. She's getting used to the random pauses at this point, but she wishes she could see.

It would be a lot easier to gauge what's happening if she could just see.

Ellie's whispered curse is close enough for her to hear. Clarisse feels herself go stiff, suspicious, nervous. It sounds like she's crying.

"... what?" Her voice is hesitant.

[notathreat]

Ellie drags in air again, rubbing her hand down her face. Clarisse's question is heartbreaking, and she doesn't know how to answer. Does she tell her, upset her? Does she keep it to herself, and then if they ever get out of this, she can be upset at her for keeping it from her?

Ellie's stomach twists.

"Bad memory." True. "I'll be okay." Dubious.

One more breath.

"You're almost here, though. Just one hop forward, then to your left, and forward again."

[laruetheday]

Frowning, Clarisse gives her arms a nervous little shake and nods. She has no choice but to trust what Ellie's telling her, and the thought pulls at her, makes her anxious—but Ellie hasn't let her down yet.

She hops forward, then to the left. One more step forward now. She exhales slowly, not sure what to expect once she takes it.

In the end it's sorta anticlimactic. She hops forward and in less than a second, her vision is back and that feeling of disorientation is gone, and she's just standing on the other side of the corridor. Next to Ellie.

"Fuck yeah," she yells, and before she can think about it too hard she holds up a hand for Ellie to high five. They fucking did that! Even though both of them were getting bombarded with fucked up memories and attacked by invisible birds!

cw: death, torture, death of a pregnant person

[notathreat]

Relief breaks obviously across Ellie's face as Clarisse's eyes focus on her again. She smiles too, though not quite so wide, and immediately puts her hand up for the highfive.

"Fuck yeah," she returns, warming to it.

And when she looks up their eyes meet again. Ellie's are a soft greenish-hazel-grey, and they throw back Clarisse's reflection. One more memory.

Dina's curled up on her side, sweaty, pale, her expression pinched, hurting. Sick. She's asleep, but suffering even then.

Ellie reaches out and with gentle fingers, sifts her hair back from her face. They're far from home, vulnerable. And Dina won't make it through this without help. She needs care, she needs a doctor. Ellie's purpose is red and tangled with shadows, something she's not thinking directly about. It's something more important to her than her own life.

But it's not more important to her than Dina's life.

Ellie painfully gets to a sitting position. She's cleaned and doctored and bandaged, but her body's a massive bruise. She's been fighting. She's been wounded. She keeps the mirror behind her; she still can't look at herself.

Dina reaches for the warmth Ellie's body left behind on the makeshift bed, and Ellie's eyes linger on her outstretched, empty hand, reaching for her even in sleep, and makes herself get up. Makes herself slowly, painfully put on her weapon-laden pack.

The theater is indistinct in the memories, dilapidated around them as the rest of Seattle is, and Ellie makes her way through the dressing rooms, the prop rooms, to backstage and then out from behind the curtain. Standing by the stage are two men both looking over a map, discussing a route to take from Seattle back to Jackson.

They're dressed similarly; leather jackets, guns, backpacks. One of them is around Joel's age and bears some family resemblance to him, though his hair is a sandy color and pulled back into a ponytail. He has the same accent, that Texas twang.

The other man is approximately Ellie's age, maybe a touch older. He's tall, with broad shoulders and straight, somewhat shaggy black hair. Asian features, a deep gentle voice that can be low and serious and calm, and sounds the exact same when he's messing with her. Ellie knows the both of them.

Tommy, Joel's little brother, good as family.

Jesse. Ellie's best friend, first friend in Jackson.

They beckon her over to look at the map, and Ellie crouches down, forearms on her thighs, fiddling with her fingers. They talk to her about the route, and she doesn't remember what they were saying. She wasn't paying much attention.

"Hey," Tommy says softly, and Ellie looks up at him, focuses. "They got what they deserved."

There's a horrible half-breath there, a whisper of images that Ellie tries not to look directly at. A spill of photographs, six faces, men and women. For each face, a death. Tortured by Tommy for information. Found skewered with arrows. Ellie stabbing someone in the throat from behind. Ellie beating a young woman to death in a spore-filled basement, every blow slow and deliberate, I can make it so much worse, until she marked a place on the map in her own blood. Gave up her friend just to get Ellie to end it. Seawater and blood, a gunshot, Ellie's knife in the side of a young woman's throat to get her off her, she would've let them go if they'd just talked- until the shot man on the ground drowns in his own blood under the press of Ellie's gun in his throat. Until Ellie realizes that the young woman's thick coat had been covering a round, round belly, and Ellie had fallen to the floor in the blood and the seawater, trying not to vomit, shaking, a horrific scream in her ears.

They were all there. They were all there in the room at the bottom of the stairs, the floor covered in Joel's blood, ringing with Joel's screams, Ellie's screams.

They got what they deserved.

There's a steely cold in Ellie's veins, her stomach twisting over itself, a sickness that's deep in her veins. Anger and despair and grief. They got what they deserved, but it feels like it's all been for nothing.

There had been one more person in the room. One more person, still alive.

"But she gets to live."

It sits on her tongue, the image. A tall, muscular woman standing over Joel's broken, bleeding, tortured corpse. The twisted remains of a nine-iron clutched in her hands. A blonde braid falling down her back.

"Yeah," Tommy whispers, all the air escaping his lungs. He has scars on his face, his head, from where they hit him. From where they had to knock him out to keep him from interfering. He'd been there too, in that room. Unconscious.

Jesse! They're in here!

Tommy looks at Ellie now, all that same despair, all that same grief and hurt written across his face.

"Is that okay?"

And Ellie thinks of the girl she just left, sleeping in the back of the theater, hurting with every breath. The living, not the dead. She drops her gaze from Tommy's face, looks down at where she's tearing open her nail beds.

"It has to be," she says, quiet and catching and so empty. Silence falls, heavy and hurting, and Tommy reaches for levity, how he's not looking forward to going through Idaho again. Jesse picks up the thread, teasing him about his wife, and how mad she's going to be, and Ellie finds a place to sit, legs dangling over the side of the stage.

Tommy leaves to go to the lobby, to look through their things, and it leaves Ellie and Jesse alone, with him eyeing her in that steady way he does, the way that makes her feel too seen. Too vulnerable.

He's a good man. A kind person. An good person, who always tries to do the right thing, who always wants everyone home safe. He looks after her even in her recklessness. He follows her despite her distance. He always follows her.

"How you doing?" he asks, his voice soft, as he addresses his folded hands, elbows on the stage.

"Fine," Ellie answers, because she can't say anything else, and she can feel his eyes on her, piercing and dark and knowing.

"Ellie," he says in that soft tone he uses when he knows she's full of shit.

"Fine," Ellie repeats. Because it has to be true- and it comes out mean. She sighs, slowly. Looks down at her lap.

"Thanks for coming back for me."

"My friends' problems are my problems." He says it quiet but firm, the same way he always has, no matter how many times Ellie pushes him away, no matter how many times she tries to handle things by herself. My friends' problems are my problems.

Ellie huffs aloud, aching, unable to take the care for what it is. She's too raw, hurting too much. "You're such a sap."

"All right, how about, uh..." Jesse twiddles his thumbs, his face softening, and the edge of his mouth cracks into a very tired smile. "My friends can't get out of their own damn way?"

Ellie feels a twitch at the edge of her lips, something that tries to become a smile, despite herself. She nods, turning to look down at her lap.

"That's better."

The moment shatters at the sound of a crash from the lobby, a cry and grunt of pain from Tommy, and adrenaline floods Ellie's veins.

"Shit-"

Jesse's there, instantly. Together they race up the aisle to the lobby, bursting through the door without thinking. Jesse is a half a second faster, pushing through his side of the door.

A bullet catches him right in the face.

Ellie hits the floor behind the concierge desk, and he crumples next to her, boneless, dark eyes staring, a hole through his cheekbone. Blood pools around his skull.

Dead. He's dead.

"Jesse-"

Ellie's voice is breathless, breaking with disbelief, with hot terror and panic and grief.

"Stand up!" A woman's voice, tight with rage, snaps across Ellie's consciousness. "Hands in the air or I shoot this one too."

"Don't you do it, Ellie- get out of here-" Tommy.

"Stand up! Now!"

It's her. It's her. It's the woman with the braid, the one who killed Joel, and she's got a gun to Tommy's head.

"Don't you fucking dare-" Tommy gets out before the woman kicks him heavily, and he folds with a hurt sound.

"Shut the fuck up-" she growls at him, then yells at Ellie, who bolts up before she can think, hands up.

"Stop- stop-"

They stare at each other, the two of them. The woman with the braid, Abby. Ellie can't breathe. She can't breathe.

"Toss your weapon."

Everything in Ellie resists, tells her no. She's just killed Jesse. She's got Tommy. Dina's in the back, she's sick, she's vulnerable, she's pregnant-

"Toss your weapon!" Abby yells at her, and Ellie does, nearly dropping it in her haste, a small, terrified curse in the back of her throat. Tommy moans in despair from the ground.

Ellie has to stall her. She has to fucking think of something. She can't let them die too. She can't let Abby kill them too.

"I know why you killed Joel." It rushes out of her, and she can hear the tears. "He did what he did to save me. There is no cure because of me, I am the one that you want-" her voice breaks, and just like then, she begs. "Just let him go."

Abby looks -- bewildered, despite the murderous rage. When she speaks it's quiet, shaking.

"You killed my friends," she says softly. "We let you both live..." slowly, she takes the gun off Tommy, and puts it on Ellie, her finger tight on the trigger.

"... and you wasted it."

[laruetheday]

Ellie has pretty eyes.

It's all Clarisse has time to think before she's transported to another time and place, flashing back to people and places that aren't hers but now feel like it.

Dina, Tommy. Jesse. The hole in his cheek, the way the light went out of his eyes in just a fraction of a second, too fast to even comprehend. His soul, his humanity, there one second and then gone like it had never existed.

And the woman with the gun. Clarisse recognizes her. Abby. She's seen her before, here in the temple, they ran into each other and spoke for a while. Clarisse hadn't known her real name then, but she does now.

The color and the smile both drain from Clarisse's face. Her eyes are wide and horrified and they stay that way even as she takes a step back, away from Ellie—almost back onto the corridor, but she corrects at the last second and shifts to one side instead.

She's standing here with someone who'd torture people to get what she wants. Who's willing to kill anybody, even a pregnant woman, as long as it gets her closer to the person she's really aiming for. And that person is in this fucking maze somewhere. Maybe close by.

And if Clarisse is still hanging around with Ellie and everybody gets their own memories back somehow? Or even just enough of them? What would that mean?

She's not exactly scared of Ellie, even now. Ellie is smaller than she is, and Clarisse has a sword and two knives and nothing to lose. Even her feelings of disgust are all twisted into something that feels like sympathy, or even love, because Ellie's memory feels like Clarisse's lived experience, in a fucked up way. Even though she knows it isn't, that it's just a trick of this place.

Feelings are hard to fight.

But she doesn't want to be involved in this.

Clarisse swallows hard, visibly struggling to stay calm, to figure out a next step.

"Okay," she says. "Okay. Thanks. I'm going to go."

[notathreat]

Ellie isn't stupid. But even if she were, the sudden slack look in the girl's face, the way her eyes glaze over, and the horror she comes back with...

Even if she were stupid, she'd understand what happened.

Ellie's stomach drops like a rock, even before Clarisse steps back to put space between them, even before she makes her excuses and quickly leaves. She tries to open her mouth, but the words won't come because she doesn't know what she saw.

She doesn't even know whether what she saw is defensible.

All she knows, as she stares after Clarisse's quick retreat, is that this feels familiar. For the life of her she can't remember why.


---


Arlathan fades behind them and the rest of Riftwatch. A victory, if one that immediately rings hollow. Some of them are happy to have their memories back. A lot of them are traumatized anew.

Some people go to talk to each other to talk out what things they've seen, but the way back is far more quiet than the way in. Once she realizes that Clarisse is still avoiding her, Ellie tries to be a mature goddamn adult and wait it out.

While she has no idea which of the impressive list of horrors that Ellie's committed that Clarisse saw, and thinking about it for too long just threatens to plunge her headlong off a cliff. Was it some of them? All of them? Which would be worse, really? Ellie doesn't want to think about it. Instead she tries very hard not to think at all.

It's natural that anyone would want some time to work out their feelings after something like that, she tries to tell herself. If she pushes her before she's ready the whole thing could blow up on the both of them.

But as the days pass, the anxiety sinks in.

The first day back at the Gallows is torture. Most everyone just seems to want to sleep, and Ellie knows that if she stays here and watches Clarisse avoid her all day she'll just fucking lose it. Do something pathetic and stupid and corner her or something. So she hitches a ride on the ferry to Kirkwall and spends the entirety of their first day back in the city furiously mucking out the entire stables in the old Qunari compound. Whether it's needed or not -- and at least one poor stablehand tries to point it out and gets snapped at for his trouble.

So it comes to pass that when Ellie catches the ferry back when she finally can't justify any more work on the stables, there's straw in her hair, mud on her boots, blisters starting on her hands despite all her callouses, and she smells like horse.

Completely the way she wants to appear when it turns out that the only other passenger on the ferry at this hour is Clarisse. Because of course it is.

The silence on the way back is fucking deafening, the both of them avoiding each others' looks, then tension ratcheting higher until it's it's an airless scream and Ellie's gone from depressed to anxious to goddamn furious and finally terrified, and back again.

As they disembark, Ellie looks at Clarisse's back, and impulse finally wins. She catches up to her, reaches out to scoop up her hand in hers -- mostly to physically hold her there, and squeezes hard.

"Clarisse."

[laruetheday]

At first, when Ellie doesn't seek her out, it's a relief.

Clarisse tells herself she needs this time. Time to think, time to figure out her feelings about everything she's seen. Time to come to terms with the fact that Ellie obviously saw things about her, too.

But as days pass and they don't talk, it becomes a hellish new normal for her. Her thoughts aren't any more collected, and in fact they seem to get less coherent as the hours tick by. She feels sick to her stomach, a low level dread that follows her back to the Gallows and then into Kirkwall, where she spends the evening wandering and sipping cheap ale and trying to figure out what to do.

Of course Ellie's on the ferry on the way back. Of course they're the only ones, this late. Clarisse averts her eyes and pretends not to see it. Coward, she tells herself the entire way, leaning over the railing and closing her eyes against the salt spray on her face. Fucking coward.

Of course Ellie grabs her hand once they've disembarked. Ellie would; Ellie is usually the one who wants to talk, if things get hard. She's not like Clarisse is. Not willing to just... walk away.

Even as unsurprising as it is when Ellie takes her hand, Clarisse still jumps half out of her skin when it happens.

"Ellie! Fuck," she gasps, shoulders slumping. She doesn't pull her hand out of Ellie's grip, but she doesn't squeeze tight like she would've done before Arlathan, either.

[notathreat]

"Sorry."

Ellie does squeeze tightly. Because before this moment, she had no idea what she wants to say, and still doesn't. It didn't just magically fucking appear now that she's here. It's frustrating, terrifying, and her heart's sinking like a rock as the seconds fill in.

"This is so fucking stupid," she says suddenly. "It's you. Why can't I talk to you?"

[laruetheday]

If it'd been any other time, they'd both be laughing over how dumb she must have looked jumping like that. Instead Clarisse feels rooted to the spot, heavy and sad, unsure what to do, much less what to say.

She sucks her bottom lip.

"Sorry," is what she settles on, even though she hates saying it. She is sorry, though. In a way.

"I needed..." 'A few days' would sound hollow, considering it's been a few days already and she still has no idea of what to say. "Time. I guess. To think."

[notathreat]

"Yeah, I know." It's soft. She does know. She needed it, too.

It's just... a lot. For the both of them, but mostly for Clarisse. They both know it, and it hangs heavy between them, aching.

She wants to ask if she needs more, but she knows even as it presses on her tongue that that's the easy out. Wait, put off talking about the hard stuff, the nasty stuff.

"Come with me?" she says instead, and after she gets Clarisse's assent, she brings her back to her room. It's cold and quiet but it feels safer, somehow. Ellie lets go of her hand to light the lamp, then heads over to close the window, which she left just barely cracked open for the air.

She grips the windowsill, rocks back on the balls of her feet, fidgeting.

"Whatever you saw in there," she says running her tongue along her bottom lip. "I promise I didn't want to keep it from you. And if you saw just- parts of it, and you questions about the rest, I'll tell you anything you want to know."

[laruetheday]

Clarisse shrugs off her coat and sinks into Ellie's desk chair. She leans back in a way that's deceptively casual; she's almost as familiar with the trappings of Ellie's room by now as she is with her own, but she's made a deliberate choice to take the chair instead of the bed, which would've been her usual spot.

She props her chin in one palm and watches Ellie at the window.

She wonders if it's driving her crazy that she doesn't know what Clarisse saw, the way it's driving Clarisse crazy that she doesn't know what Ellie did.

"I know you didn't. You tried to tell me."

About killing people, at least. Or hurting them. She can't say that Ellie didn't offer that information willingly. She did, and Clarisse just shrugged and said she didn't care. She still doesn't, mostly.

The other thing, though? That seems deliberate, to her. That Ellie brought up a kid's name and just happened not to say oh, and by the way, that kid is basically mine.

[notathreat]

Neither of them take the bed.

Ellie chews on the inside of her cheek, turns around and makes herself look at her. She has her answer already, in some sense. You have a little boy. JJ.

Have, not had. She'd seen something about him, but not how she left.

And that's not even getting into the fact that Ellie saw so much of Ares.

And that's been on her mind lately. A lot. Clarisse's sheer terror, and how he so obviously threatened to hurt her. And Silena...

God. Silena.

Clarisse reassures her, but it's a lot less reassurance than Ellie would've hoped. She nods, fidgets with her fingers.

"I should've tried harder." It's not a bid for sympathy, just a statement. She should have tried harder. She knew this could happen. That memories have a way of ending up where you don't intend to put them in Thedas. It's not the first time she's seen something that belonged to someone else.

"I should've told you about Abby. And Joel. And what he did." It threatens to close her throat, but she pushes on. "... and about Dina and JJ."