The Prince saves the Maw Walker in this one. Rated T for non-graphic death and violence, angst, and oblique sexual references (no smut). Read here on Ao3 for triggers and tags.
Takes place shortly after "Vices and Vows", before Denathrius' imprisonment.
Renathal cast a restless glance around his spartan Sinfall room, and - for the first time in his entire existence - wished vainly for a clock.
He had had one in Darkwall Tower: an ornately carved instrument positioned at the bottom of his winding staircase where its deep, ominous chime was at its most acoustically advantageous. And, really, such aesthetic was its predominant purpose, time in Revendreth being largely a social construct. But currently, Renathal was desperate to know exactly how many minutes past whatever hour it was so he could decide whether enough time had passed to be justifiably irritated.
The Maw Walker was late.
The candles Renathal lit earlier in the evening were almost melted down, the bottle of anima wine he had opened to breathe stood guiltily half-finished. He had polished his armor, twice, and rearranged everything on the oversized table-cum-desk. There was nothing left to do but pace the same stretch of stone floor, and seethe with thwarted desire.
The fallen Prince of Revendreth had magnanimously accepted his sex life came second to the salvation of the Shadowlands, and he was accustomed to excusing his lover’s last-minute absences with a patience a Paragon would envy. But, just this once, he bitterly wished the Maw Walker had declined whatever quest she had been offered.
Because this night was important. Renathal thought she had understood.
In less than twelve hours, they would launch their assault on Castle Nathria, a prospect of such dubious success it made even the unflappable Maw Walker apprehensive. At least, that was how Renathal had interpreted her odd reaction at the briefing earlier that day. Their hand-picked party of mortals had assembled to discuss the plan of attack, and the Prince had felt honour-bound to warn the unsuspecting beings of what awaited them within the castle: Denathrius' disciples, Lady Inerva, General Kaal and the Stone Legion, all undoubtably stood in their way. But no known Nathrian danger was more perilous than the Sire himself, and at the mention of what he could do to those with unconfessed sins, the Maw Walker's lavender face had turned a pale and sickly pink.
Unusual for her, but then, it would be an unusual fight. Death might make a bad habit of evading the Maw Walker, but Denathrius wielded destructions no mortal had ever faced. And even supposing the Maw Walker was impervious to them all, the Dark Prince did not possess her same inexplicable protection. Renathal was resigned to the very real possibility this night might be his last, and, if it was, his only request was that she be here to share it with him.
One of the candles gave a final, sputtering gasp and died, and with it Renathal's remaining hope the Maw Walker would deign to arrive. Obviously, she had prioritised some tangential assignment, despite the fact they might never have another night together. In a fit of wretched pique, he swiped the melted red stub from the table. It hit the floor with a gentle, unassuming thud, and shame crawled across Renathal's face.
He knew the Maw Walker better than that.
After the briefing, she had noted his uneasy tension and was at his side in a heartbeat, her hand on his arm and the look in her eye a wordless offer of assistance. He had whispered his request in her ear, his exact phrase eliciting a violet blush. And while she may not precisely have promised - something the Maw Walker was loathe to do - her assurance to attend him after some appointment with the Accuser carried all the same solemnity.
No, whatever circumstance was keeping her from him must be out of her control. Renathal’s agitated mind produced an unhelpful picture of the Maw Walker engulfed by enemies, in the Banewood or the Endmire or wherever the Accuser had sent her. So vivid was the vision, he half-turned to the door, some primal instinct urging him directionlessly forward, before better sense reminded him of his own long-standing assignment: staying in Sinfall, as far out of Denathrius' sight as relatively possible.
Renathal slumped against the table, drumming his fingers in petulant frustration; then, just as rapidly straightened, a willful belligerence assuming command.
Why should he not go find the Maw Walker himself? He faced the Master in hours either way. A bit of exercise before the assault would probably do him good considering how long it had been since he had seen any decent action. And the chance to play the Maw Walker's hero ... A vision of himself cutting an effortless path through her encircling enemies offered itself up for Renathal's approval. He imagined her impassive, lavender mask crumbling at the sight of his illustrious rescue, perhaps even her arms thrown about him, eager to express the depths of her gratitude...
Without a clock, Renathal could not be sure just how quickly he replaced his armor, but he was donning his coat and corking the wine before any other candles had time to die, and had just reached the door when a tentative knock echoed from its other side.
He paused, his hand on the knob.
It was not the Maw Walker; she never knocked. Which meant it was some messenger of fate here to disrupt his reckless plan. Steeling his resolve against whatever force sought to dissuade it, he flung open the door so violently the Venthyr on the other side cringed. He threw up his hands to shield his face, as if expecting the Dark Prince to hit him, and in spite of his obscured features, Renathal recognised the smaller Venthyr: the Accuser's recent apprentice ... what was his name?
"Gresit..." he ventured. The Venthyr slowly lowered his hands. Taking this as confirmation, Renathal pressed on hurriedly. "Do accept my apology, but I am afraid whatever this is will have to wait. I am needed urgently elsewhere."
Gresit's mouth opened and closed several times, but all that emerged were a few frightened squeaks. Seizing the lack of coherent protest as his opportunity to escape, Renathal skirted the stuttering Venthyr and strode purposefully down the dark hall. He made it four brisk, echoing steps before stopping abruptly short. It had belatedly occurred to him who assigned the Maw Walker her last known task.
"Unless," said Renathal, revolving slowly to face Gresit, and - in another unusual first for him - hoping desperately he was wrong. "This would not have anything to do with the Maw Walker, would it?"
Relief, presumably that he would not have to chase the Dark Prince down, warred with the fear firmly entrenched in Gresit's face. He nodded vigorously, and ominous foreboding rippled across Renathal's skin.
"What has happened?"
"She did WHAT?"
Renathal's eyes were wide and brimming with furious fire as they fought to accept the surreal tableau that met him in the Halls of Atonement: a shell-shocked Gresit, wringing his hands and staring at the ashen Accuser, whose quivering chin and small eyes looked terrifyingly close to tears, as she in turn gazed at the Maw Walker who was kneeling at the sanctuary’s altar, hands folded and head thrown back on her neck in unnatural, reverent rigour.
Only the Curator, absently patting the Accuser's arm, was her usual, half-dazed self.
"Renathal," she said mildly. "You’re yelling."
"This feels like an appropriate occasion!" continued Renathal at the exact same volume.
His eyes darted from one Harvester to the other, deciding who was most to blame. Really, it was the Maw Walker herself, but she was hardly worth shouting at when she so obviously could not hear him. What was she thinking attempting such a ritual without consulting him first? And tonight of all nights, when she should have been holed up in his room, making the most of their final hours together tangled in sheets and each other's limbs?
The pent-up frustration Renathal had fought down all evening finally burst through his dam of control. It demanded a victim, someone he could punish for ruining his carefully laid plans.
"You!" Renathal rounded first on the Accuser. "You, who have been the Harvester of Pride for centuries - you, who are the incessant chorus for taking only the most calculated and sensible of actions - how could you have allowed my - our - Revendreth's champion to do something so - " His hands clawed frantically at thin air as if he might rip from it some new and heinous word. "So bloody stupid?!”
The Accuser made a sound he had never heard from her, somewhere between a gasp and a sob. Instantly, the Curator's arm was around her, stroking her soulbind's hair.
"Now really, Renathal, that’s hardly fair," chided the Curator. "Harriett couldn't know this would happen. The Maw Walker said she simply had to atone for something before she could face Denathrius, and this is the standard ritual for atonement." She surveyed the Maw Walker's posture of unwilling penitence in polite half-interest. "I suppose since her soul is trapped within a mortal body, the ritual must be taking place inside of her instead."
The flame in Renathal's eyes as he stalked toward the two Harvesters was a mirror to the sanctuary’s menacing, crimson light.
"That supposition would have been infinitely more useful before you allowed a mortal to undergo a ritual meant for damned souls!"
"Well," the Curator shrugged. "She insisted."
Renathal's snarl made both females jump, and Gresit, in the pew behind them, hit the stone floor in a senseless faint.
"We did warn her there might be complications," the Curator hastened to add. "But Renathal, it's the Maw Walker! She doesn't exactly go by normal rules, does she? These things always seem to work out for her somehow."
As the Harvester of Dominion, Renathal's responsibilities often included the painful education of his fellow Venthyr, and he drew some small, savage pleasure from envisioning the lessons he dearly wished to impart on his criminally negligent "sisters". But the sight of Gresit's limp body reminded him of more pressing concerns. He made do with letting his heavy coat whip across their legs as he turned sharply, gliding to the altar and bending over the motionless Maw Walker.
Suffering was etched into each line of her lavender face, so intense it hurt Renathal to look at, though he had seen the same pain on countless souls before. He called her name; softly at first, then louder, then with all the power of dominion he could muster.
The Maw Walker did not so much as twitch. Every piece of her was preternaturally still, and worry usurped Renathal's anger.
"What can be done for her now?" he asked, gently lifting one of the Maw Walker's eyelids; the blue-white surface beneath was cloudy with vermillion mist.
"Renathal, you know how this ritual works," the Curator scolded. "It only ends when the soul feels remorse for their sins. It's different for everyone, but the Maw Walker's quite sedulous. I'm sure it won't take her more than a few years."
Next to her, the Accuser had already flinched and squeezed her eyes shut before Renathal slowly turned his terrible gaze on the pair of them.
"A few YEARS?" Strands of his long, white hair fluttered in the gale of his furious bellow. "We move on Denathrius in HOURS!" He straightened and flung his arms out wide as if invoking invisible horrors. "How do you think her fellow mortals - all here at her behest - will react when I announce their champion will not be showing up to the raid because she is trapped in her own mind grappling with some unknown sin for the foreseeable future?"
The sanctuary’s architecture was specifically designed for such impassioned sermons. It carried Renathal's rage to each high rafter and shrouded corner, where it lingered for long, incensed seconds before a whisper cut through the echoes.
"We ... might be able to help her."
The voice was so small and hesitant Renathal almost did not recognize it. By the time he had fixed his glare on the Accuser, she had taken a shaky, steadying breath and pressed on more confidently.
"Harvesters have the power to assist the penitent, to enter rituals alongside them.It is done on occasions when a soul becomes too lost, to guide them back to the purpose of the exercise, but ... to my knowledge, that is also a spell never performed on a mortal, and clearly complications are bound to arise."
Her small eyes flicked to the Curator, instinctually searching her soulbind for an answer; and the Curator, once the greatest archivist in reality, worried at one of her claw-like nails as she wracked her fractured memory.
"I suppose if her flesh is keeping this spell from manifesting properly, then ... anyone who attempted to enter it would be drawn inside her mind. And I can't see how they would get out again until the Maw Walker completes the ritual."
The two females exchanged a laden look, hidden meanings passing between them at which those outside their bond could only guess. At last, the Accuser nodded, and reluctantly stepped out from her Soulbind's comforting arm.
“I permitted the Maw Walker to attempt this, therefore it is my task to assist her," the Accuser said grimly, approaching the altar as if it were a gallows. "I cannot guarantee to free her in time for the assault on the castle, nor can I speak to the state her mind will be in when I am through. But I will do whatever it takes to get her out."
“No." The finality in Renathal's voice rang through the sanctuary like a deep bell. “I will do it.”
"What?" cried the Curator with a much more lively interest.
“You?" The Accuser stopped mid-stride, eyes narrowed in a semblance of their usual uncanny shrewdness. "The atonement of souls is not in the purview of the Harvester of Dominion. Have you ever performed this ritual before?”
Arching an eyebrow with expert precision, Renathal assumed his most regal and imperious stance.
"As the Prince of Revendreth, all duties of the realm are within my purview," he said coolly. "I had mastered the theory of this magic eons before your soul ever existed." And without waiting to address any further arguments, he settled himself on his knees in front of the Maw Walker as comfortably as the unforgiving stone allowed.
Renathal began carefully rolling back his sleeves, more to provide himself a few minutes of frantic recollection than because they would be in his way. Truthfully, he had next to no idea what he was doing. He had, of course, been theoretically instructed in Revendreth's proprietary rituals, but if he had ever performed this particular one himself it was too long ago to remember. At the moment, however,he considered this a wholly inconsequential detail. The atonement of souls might not technically be his purview, but the Maw Walker's well-being was.
A tentative hand on his shoulder distracted Renathal from his thoughts.
"Are you sure this is wise?" asked the Accuser quietly, kneeling next to him. "This is my area of expertise, and you-"
"You," interrupted Renathal tersely, "could not even dissuade the Maw Walker from undertaking a ritual not meant for her kind. I have absolutely no confidence in your ability to convince her to acknowledge some clearly complex sin."
The hand on his shoulder recoiled as if burned. Renathal finished securing his sleeves around the gold bands on his arms before the Accuser collected herself enough to speak again.
"Souls who struggle with this ritual usually have a preconceived notion of who they have wronged. It will be up to you to identify the sins she cannot see. The ritual only ends when she experiences remorse for these."
"I am aware of how this ritual works," Renathal snapped, barely listening, but the Accuser plowed on urgently.
“She will seek comfortable memories to hide in. Souls always do. But you should have the power to control the magic, to summon up the memories that contain failure and sin."
"As I said, I am aware."
"And Renathal - "
"WHAT?"
The Accuser sat back hard on her heels.
"I ... apologise," she said, her mouth twisting awkwardly around the unpleasant admission.
"Whatever for?" asked Renathal with merciless sarcasm. "You have managed to postpone our assault and, consequently, extend your leisure time with your own lover, and punish me for her sorry condition in one effortless blow. It is a plan even the oldest of Harvesters would envy. You should be suitably proud."
He spat the words like broken glass, and the Accuser bristled at the open attack.
"I begged the Maw Walker not to do this, but you know too well what she is like. She was adamant she could not face the Master with this sin still hanging over her. She feared to fail us. To fail you." Earnestness rattled the Accuser's vocal cords unnaturally. "I know the trial of watching the soul you ... love ... struggle against their own mind. I would not inflict it on even the vilest of souls. I did not intend to inflict it on you."
Renathal's eyes found his fellow Harvester's, and, for the first time in their existence together, understanding settled hesitantly between them.
"I am sorry, Prince Renathal," she said, pronouncing his title with solemnity. "I take full responsibility for this error in judgment. And will put it right if you permit me."
"No,” Renathal said again, but the flame in his eyes had dwindled to a gentler, amber smolder. “You cannot do this. The Maw Walker dislikes intrusions on her past at the best of times. I am the only one from whom she might possibly endure it, and the only one to whom she is likely to listen. You understand.”
It was a statement, not a question. And the Accuser, who trusted the care of the Curator to no one else, whose voice alone had the power to call her soulbind's mind back from madness, nodded. She clambered awkwardly to her feet and shuffled backwards to the Curator, who dislodged the Accuser's claw-like nails from the folds of her dress and squeezed her hand.
Renathal was aware of their eyes - curious and concerned - following him as he returned his attention to the Maw Walker, pressing his fingers gently to her temples. In spite of the potential risk, anticipation blossomed in Renathal's chest, igniting in his veins and infusing the anima now pooling obediently in his hands. The Maw Walker's past was an itch he had longed to scratch. The chance to do so was a more than suitable replacement for his evening's dashed plans.
Vermillion mist crept across his vision, the ritual wrapping lambent tendrils around them both. While Renathal's knees remained cramped and pressed to the stone, he felt his mind being tugged inexorably forward. He closed his eyes, surrendering himself to the enveloping magic ...
...and when he opened them again the world was an endless ocean of swirling red.
Though Renathal could not recall using this magic before, he knew in theory what should occur: the Maw Walker's memories paraded sedately past him while he watched, like an Ardenweald play. Instead, his disembodied consciousness was caught in a vermillion maelstrom; a thousand unfamiliar, insistent sensations bombarding him from every side. Flashes of colours, snatches of sounds, smells and impressions not his own. The flood of perception made Renathal dizzy as he floundered in their turbulent tide.
Someone was crying, loud and incessant; a sound that tugged at his very soul. No. Not his soul. The Maw Walker's. That was her soul's response to the sound. Figures solidified in the anima before him, like images in a red mirror: a Nightborne female, her breathing laboured, lay limply across a bed, offering a swathed bundle - the source of the crying - to another, smaller Nightborne girl. She accepted it awkwardly. Renathal could feel the slight weight as if he held it himself. It was a baby; a thing he knew only from pictures or the memories of Revendreth’s souls. But his attention was on the Nightborne girl who held it; her lavender skin ... her wide, blue-white eyes.
Then the moment was gone, the scene swept away in a wave of anima and replaced by another: the Nightborne girl with the eyes he recognised sparkling with mirth as she hoisted a smaller fair-haired child confidently onto her shoulders. The figures dissolved, the image reformed, and the two laughing girls ran flat out across a twilit street; again, and they slid wildly down a winding banister; again, and they lay on their backs, the older Nightborne's hands stretched above them, conjuring a gentle snow.
The younger girl's squeals of delight echoed in Renathal's - no, the Maw Walker's - mind. The sound had imprinted itself upon her; the other girl's happiness a memory that mattered.
Then it, too, was gone, swept away in the roiling ocean of picture and noise, and Renathal allowed himself to be swept along with it, watching in fascination what were clearly the formative moments of the Maw Walker's childhood.
Only, she and the other Nightborne were no longer children, and the scenes that flew past were of swimming, and dancing, and drinking something pétillant straight from a bottle. Twice, they rode past Renathal's vision on glowing, four-legged creatures, and once they leapt from a staggering rooftop, the Maw Walker magically slowing their fall. Wild, uninhibited laughter bubbled unbidden in Renathal's chest. The Maw Walker's laughter; the Maw Walker's happiness. He savored the delicious sensation for several, warm seconds, until the pelagic anima shifted yet again.
He knew this memory was different, more salient, from its pungent, briny odor. The smell evoked in the Maw Walker a calm and restful stillness, and Renathal, a guest in her mind, was similarly affected. He felt utterly at peace as he watched the two Nightborne lay side by side on the bottom of a narrow boat. The rhythmic lap of waves might have lulled Renathal to sleep, if their voices did not echo above it with oddly crystal clarity.
"Everything changes now, doesn't it?"
The words were laced with gentle dejection.
"Of course not."
Renathal recognised the Maw Walker's supreme assurance.
"But you're not just my sister anymore," whined the other Nightborne, twisting fair hair around a finger. "You're the "matron of the house" now. You have duties. Responsibilities. You won't be able to truly enjoy anything or just ... be you ever again. It's such an unfair fate it makes me want to weep."
Sure enough, tears appeared fully formed on her eyelashes as though summoned there by magic. They made the Maw Walker sit up urgently.
"Please don't cry! I'm ascending, not dying. We'll still do everything we've always done."
"I know you. You won't have time. You'll work yourself constantly."
"I will make time," the Maw Walker said, craning her neck to press a cursory kiss to her sister's hair. "Your happiness is the most important responsibility I have. And you will always come first. I promise."
I promise...
The words were accompanied by a caustic, burning pain, as if they were being branded into the skin of Renathal's chest. No, he reminded himself; this was the Maw Walker's pain. The memory of those words caused her actual, physical suffering, and with a jolt to his consciousness, Renathal remembered the reason he was here.
The raid. The ritual. The Maw Walker trapped somewhere in her mind. How much time had he wasted indulging his incorrigible curiousity? The anima swirled again and another scene emerged, but Renathal refused to be distracted any longer. He asserted his power over the magic, wrestling the ritual under his control. The new figures faded, absorbed by the vermillion sea now waiting for a Harvester's command.
Renathal paused, trying to remember the Accuser's instructions from what seemed like years ago. What he needed were the memories of the Maw Walker's sins, the failures that plagued her conscience; if she was trapped, that would be where. He imposed his will on the ritual and summoned the relevant moments from its crimson depths.
The world was suddenly agnate shades of purple and blue. Renathal blinked rapidly, clearing the last of the red from his vision, but he already knew what he would find when his eyes adjusted to the silky twilight: the vast horizon of graceful, towering buildings that was Suramar City.
Renathal had seen an illusory version of the Maw Walker's home once before. In fact, as he surveyed his immediate surroundings, he wondered if this was the same courtyard she had shown him. There was the tastefully burbling fountain, the wide and winding staircase, the towering magenta topiaries that lined the lavishly glowing streets. The only difference was this courtyard teemed with people - Nightborne - every one of them dressed in a finery to make the Countess weep. They strolled the pristine marble in stately groups of twos and threes - some eating, most drinking, all speaking in carefully cultured tones; a murmuring sea of violet decadence.
Whirling around to inspect the rest of the courtyard, a splash of divergent colour caught Renathal's eye; the black of his own coat whipping about his legs. He looked down, surprised to find himself visible, and instinctively adjusted the coat to its proper, dramatic drape. He paused, then ran a curious hand along the thick material. It was solid, but no longer soft. He fiddled with one of his golden buttons, but it felt neither cool nor smooth. Apparently, the projection of his consciousness in the Maw Walker’s mind lacked tactile sensation.
"Interesting," Renathal said aloud, but none of the passing Nightborne reacted.
Of course, they could not hear him. They were figments of the Maw Walker’s memory, and he returned to searching the courtyard for their host.
Then a low, male voice behind him said in a whisper that echoed strangely, "You were late.”
To which another voice replied, “Can I be late to my own Ascendence? It can hardly start without me," and Renathal turned to locate the source of that all-too-familiar dry humour.
His open stare would certainly be considered uncouth by the Nightborne could they have seen it; similarly, the way he tripped on his boots in his haste to reach the two beings standing on the outskirts of the crowd. But shock outdrew embarrassment as he gaped at the elegant female, and the small, supercilious smile she gave her scowling male companion. He knew that smile. Intimately. He could have drawn its subtle curve from memory. But it was still long seconds before Renathal was absolutely sure this was the Maw Walker.
It was not merely the strands of sparkling jewels strung along the length of her ears, or the silver adorning her cheeks and chin, or the heavy diadem across her forehead. It was her eyes, glittering with an unfiltered joy that matched her skin's almost phosphorescent glow. A brilliant, buoyant life animated this Maw Walker that Renathal had never seen but now might never tear his gaze from.
The Nightborne beside her, however, found her ebullience much less captivating.
“I knew it. I knew you would not take this seriously.”
“I'm here, aren’t I? That is proof I am taking it seriously.”
"This is not a game!"
His outburst startled a group of Nightborne perambulating nearby. They nodded deeply at the Maw Walker, who inclined her head in return. Her male companion stretched a thin smile across his face and waited for them to pass before continuing sotte voce.
“You are the head of this house now. And we lead the other noble families. That makes you one of the most influential people in all the city!"
"Understood," said the Maw Walker, her tightly pursed lips the exact twin of the other Nightborne's.
"And is it also understood," he said. "That everyone is watching you? Looking to your direction as a social and political leader? You cannot underestimate the importance of this position. Your mother-"
"No one cares more about honouring mother's legacy than I." A warning vibrated dangerously in the Maw Walker's even tone. "I would not have given my oath at the ceremony if I did not intend to keep it. I will not disappoint Suramar. Or mother's memory. Now, if you will excuse me, I have guests to attend."
She turned on her heel and strode off, adjusting her diadem as she went, and Renathal followed on her heels like a devoted dredger. He noticed the precise measure to her steps, commanding attention without causing alarm; and the careless expectation in the flick of her bejeweled fingers that instantly summoned a servant with a glass; and the way she sipped from it while managing to maintain her perfect, poised smile...
No title had been mentioned, but Renathal did not need one. It was clear the Maw Walker held a position of power similar to his own.
Seeing her like this sparked a familiar, ravenous need in Renathal's core, to be replaced all too quickly by visceral disappointment when red mist began to blur her at the edges. The memory was dissolving, and he wondered frantically how to make it stay. He wanted more, wanted to memorise this vision of the Maw Walker at the height of her power. But a new scene was already taking shape around him: the Maw Walker, dressed less grandly but still possessed of her diadem, standing frozen in a circular, high-ceilinged room. And the stark difference in her face from - what was for him- mere seconds before, successfully distracted Renathal from his growing desire.
She was staring out a paneless window, clearly disturbed by what she saw, and, before he had even turned his head, Renathal knew what it must be. He could hear it. The eldritch shrieks, the terrified screams; the same as the illusion she had once shown him. And now he smelt the foul odour, like sulfur, polluting the crisp, twilit air. Sure enough, following the Maw Walker's gaze, he watched as the eerily green-tinged streets swarmed with demons of various incarnations: the Burning Legion had arrived in Suramar.
It was the only thing Renathal knew capable of wringing true fear from the Maw Walker. Although, when she flinched, it was not in response to the horror outside.
"You can't!" Wet, noisy tears bookended the words, and the Maw Walker winced again. "You can't do this! You know what she did to Theryn. If you denounce her, it will be you next!"
The Maw Walker continued her terrible vigil, the fel-marred landscape apparently preferable to her sister's misery.
"That is the fate that awaits us all if we do not make a stand."
"But why must it be you?" her sister cried, her voice an unctuous whine. "Why can't the First Arcanist do this by herself? What can you do that she can't?"
"Our house has the most influence," the Maw Walker said quietly. "If we stand with her, so will the others. If we are missing, it is doubtful any will be willing to move against Elisande." She sighed - a heavy, burdened sound - and passed a hand over her eyes, hiding the distant nightmare. "For a rebellion to succeed, it needs a leader people can see, one they know and trust. That is the purpose of the noble houses in the first place. If we lose hope, so will they. If we lose the strength to carry on, we lose them. We ... I ... must set the example for others to follow."
"You can't ask them to follow you to death! Or exile, which amounts to the same!"
"I ask nothing. Thalyssra and I intend to show the people what Elisande is doing. And what we must do now if we want to save what's left of our home." She turned at last, facing her sister's tears head on, her mask as flat and cool as a polished blade. "And I will not ask you either. I know you are frightened, and ... you don't have to do this. But I do. It's part of my responsibility. It is ... what our mother would have done."
She reached out to pull her sister to her, but the fair-haired Nightborne crumpled dramatically to the floor. She wrapped her arms around the Maw Walker's legs, burying her face in the hem of her skirt. Though, Renathal noted she angled her mouth so the material would not muffle her noise.
"You promised!" she managed to choke between sobs. "You said - my happiness came first - that I came first - you - you can't leave me here alone - you can't! Please please please..."
The words petered into a pitiful wail. Renathal found the sound more annoying than tragic, though it tugged at his soul in a way he could not explain. He supposed that must be the effect her sister's hysterics had on the Maw Walker, whose careful mask cracked into jagged pieces as she, too, sank to her knees.
"Shhh, don't cry, please, don't cry! It's alright, everything will be alright." She gathered her sister in her arms, like a baby, cradling her tear-drenched face. "I'm here, I'm not leaving you. I'm not going anywhere. I ... I promised."
With those words, the searing pain returned. And though Renathal knew it was not his, it still made him shift in his armor uncomfortably, missing what the Maw Walker said next that summoned a servant from some hidden door. They bowed low, ignoring the intimate moment with professional practice, and awaited the Maw Walker's command.
"Please," she said, in a shaky facsimile of her steady confidence. "Please, send word to the First Arcanist that I - that I can't -"
She broke off, running a distracted hand through her hair.
"My Lady?" prompted the patient Nightborne.
"Tell her I cannot meet her today. Tell her I was needed elsewhere. And ... please tell her ... I am sorry."
The Maw Walker's face contorted desperately, keeping what might have been tears at bay, and Renathal thought it contained a more palpable suffering than her sister's continued sobs.
Was this the great sin that plagued her? For which atonement she had abandoned their evening plans? Renathal wrinkled his nose in distaste at the fast-dissolving scene. As far as he could see, the real sin was her sister's, for manipulating the Maw Walker out of her duty. And obviously the Maw Walker felt remorse, so why was the ritual dragging on? And where was the Maw Walker - his Maw Walker - in all this? He had yet to meet anything in her mind that was not memory. There had to be a projection of her own consciousness somewhere.
But when the next scene solidified it brought only more beings that paid Renathal no heed. The Maw Walker stood, arms wrapped around herself, slightly apart from a group of other Nightborne, none of whom Renathal recognised. They huddled in the shadow of a stately Suramarian mansion, and her eyes darted compulsively to each side as if she feared to be found here.
"If you are truly sorry, then help us now," said a thin, reedy voice. "It is not too late to redeem yourself to our people. We have secured assistance from Dalaran, and several heroes from Azeroth, but we need someone who can move inside the city unnoticed if our plans are to succeed."
The figure who spoke was the most emaciated Nightborne Renathal had yet seen. Perhaps female, but really too skeletal to determine; its hair wispy and colourless; face, flat and wasted away. On some eerie impulse, it began scratching violently at its forearm. One of the other Nightborne wrinkled her nose and averted her eyes. Renathal, watching curiously, wondered if this was the phenomenon the Maw Walker referred to as "withering".
"I want to help, Thalyssra, but ... I can only do so much." The Maw Walker's voice, low and strained, recaptured Renathal's attention. "I cannot do anything that might be traced back to me. I cannot put my sister in danger."
Another Nightborne female, with pale hair and vivid blue skin, scoffed. She crossed her arms and lowered her long, heavy eyebrows in disapproval.
"The fate of all in Suramar hangs in the balance, and you weigh them against your spoiled little sister."
"Some of us love our family, Ly'Leth," snapped the Maw Walker. "But that is a burden you have not yet carried."
The two females spent a tense moment glaring at each other before the withered one, Thalyssra, intervened.
"It is possible we can solve two problems at once." She gestured feebly at a fourth Nightborne, and Renathal noticed this one was gagged and encased in shimmering chains. "Anarys' absence will be remarked upon. She must make an appearance. And illusions always were your special gift..."
She addressed this last to the Maw Walker, whose nervous eyes lit up abruptly.
"Oh! You mean ... yes. I think I can manage something close..."
Her face reassumed the blank expression Renathal knew hid deep concentration, but as she passed a glowing hand across it, it was replaced by a different sort of mask. The Maw Walker had vanished, clothes and all. In her place stood a mirror image of the same white-haired Nightborne now squirming violently against her bonds and babbling around her gag.
"What do you think?" asked the deep voice of the Nightborne who had been the Maw Walker.
"Hmph." The one she called Ly'leth gave a begrudging sort of nod. "I doubt the guards will be fooled, but ... probably good enough to convince the main populace."
"Then we can count on you to aid the Nightfallen?" asked Thalyssra.
She eyed the Maw Walker in what Renathal thought must at one time have been a gaze as piercing as the Accuser's. The Maw Walker's enchanted face clenched its broad jaw. It swallowed, then nodded curtly.
"Yes. I will help," the deep voice agreed.
"Better late than never, I suppose," muttered Ly'Leth.
The Maw Walker, letting her illusory visage fade, ignored this gibe. She was watching Thalyssra's overgrown nails gouge deep lines in her skin, and her face struggled to contain an expression Renathal did not recognise.
"First Arcanist," she said, her voice exceedingly tender, as if even a harsh noise might break her withered friend. "I am ... so sorry. For everything that has happened to you. It is - this is all my fault."
"No." Thalyssra shook her limp hair. "It is Elisande's."
Her words were lost in the wave of remorse that swept over Renathal's head. He shuddered; as if he, like the scene around him, were collapsing. It was the Maw Walker's emotion, he knew, but this was one with which he resonated. He had spent days as long as eons engulfed by similar regret in the Maw, watching his friends dragged away into Torghast, knowing their cruel fates were his doing.
The ache of that dread memory welled up within Renathal as the Maw Walker's dissolved. He fought it forcibly down, focusing on the shrouded, circular room solidifying in front of him. But neither darkness would relent; the room stayed hazy, and inexplicable horror overrode his self-control. He could see only vague outlines, but could hear and feel a harsh, laboured breathing. Then an anguished cry rent the darkness, and Renathal was consumed by pain.
Despair, the beast he had been evading since the Maw, unleashed its full, savage wrath on his soul. Its wretched teeth, its dolorous claws, ripped into his very being; an agony the Prince of Revendreth had never endured, a torture he had never dreamed.
He was on his knees. He had not felt them hit the ground. Splintered bits of marble and glass littered the floor underneath him, and beside him hunched a familiar silhouette, clutching a figure with fair hair, streaked red. The outborn colours gleamed harsh against the dark. In his pain-blind haze it took Renathal too long to recognise blood, and whose it was.
Another broken cry filled the wreckage of the room. Renathal felt it dragged through his raw and ruined throat, but he distantly identified the voice as the Maw Walker's. Part of him wanted to help her. Part of him wanted existence to end. This was grief; this was loss - emotions Renathal had never truly experienced. Now he had, he was desperate to escape them. Even his Maw-bound cage was preferable to this torment.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he frantically forced the ritual forward, to another moment, any other moment, as long as it was away from here. The magic obeyed. The memory dissolved. He was on his knees somewhere new; a larger, lighter room, full of armored beings of various races. A clearly different memory, and yet, the suffering had not abated. It clung to Renathal as he clambered to his feet, like a thirsting mite, sapping his strength and will.
His eyes instinctively sought the Maw Walker, and found her lurking toward the back of the other beings, all of whom were watching a human with a staff recite what might have been a battle-plan. The words were muffled - Renathal made out maybe one in three - as the Maw Walker's flat, lifeless eyes wandered blandly over the human. She blinked and looked away - the man's speech became a toneless drone - and Renathal winced and clutched his chest at another vengeful pang of soul-sucking grief.
It belonged to the Maw Walker, not him, but the misery of it weighed heavy in his every limb. How did she stand it? he marveled. Surely, no being could exist like this for long. Surcease must be in a memory nearby; and in desperation, Renathal urged the ritual on, to some moment free of the unbearable pain.
The anima swirled and reformed, and the despair Renathal unwillingly shared suddenly swelled into violent, burning elation. Grief transformed into fire; literal fire. The Maw Walker was engulfed in flames.
She threw her arms wide, and an explosion of fire surged forward, consuming everything - including the air - in its path. The light seared Renathal's - no, the Maw Walker's - eyes. And the lack of air mingled with exultant triumph erased all coherent thought for uncountable time. When Renathal at last disentangled his consciousness from the Maw Walker's frenzied impressions, he found her looming over another Nightborne splayed across the shining floor; whose elaborate, glowing headdress tumbled off and rolled away.
Other, oddly blurred, figures tiptoed cautiously toward the two Nightborne. The figures spoke, but by their muffled voices Renathal knew the Maw Walker did not hear. She stooped, and whispered where only the fallen Nightborne - and Renathal - could understand her words: "Tell my sister I will be there soon."
The Nightborne on the floor slowly tilted her head to find the Maw Walker.
"No ... you will not," Her voice was weak, but melodious, like a broken bell. She dragged limp fingers under the hem of the Maw Walker's robes, and Renathal felt the cool touch as if the skin they brushed was his. "Your timeline ... does not end."
The Maw Walker kicked out viciously, and the other Nightborne's hand fell limply to the floor. She stepped back, the heavy pounding of her heart the only thing Renathal could hear as several of the faceless figures ushered her away. The euphoria of victory was fading - Renathal could feel its ebb - and in its shadow was the familiar, hateful agony waiting patiently where it had been left. His chest convulsed as the Maw Walker stifled a hysterical cry. It was too much to bear, this endless suffering. It made even the Dark Prince want to run and hide.
She will hide in comfortable memories. Souls always do.
Words from what seemed a different age echoed up from the depths of Renathal's mind. The Accuser had told him from the start where the Maw Walker was likely to be, and in his anger toward her he had neglected to retain the information.
Gritting his teeth against the Maw Walker's distracting ache, Renathal, once more, harnessed the ritual's magic. This time, instead of searching for sin and suffering, he summoned her strongest memory of comfort and safety, and the ocean of anima swirled and transformed into a distinctly familiar light.
Dim, red, flickering candlelight. A light Renathal recognised. It threw the shadow of the over-sized table and high-backed chair across the stone wall and floor. He was in his own room in Sinfall, just as he had left it, however long ago.
"It was supposed to be messy, that's what the Plague Deviser prefers," said the Maw Walker.
Not quite as he had left it.
Renathal watched as the Maw Walker dabbed at her purple gown with a conjured cloth. It was stained with ... cream. He remembered this. The fateful Ember Court food fight. Renathal himself had not been spared. Which meant -
"All the same, a bit of warning beforehand would be appreciated," came a voice from the adjoining bedroom. "I was wearing my formal coat."
Renathal frowned, and tilted his head. Was that really what his voice sounded like?
The Maw Walker dropped onto the red velvet chaise. She giggled, very quietly, not intending for him to hear. Renathal felt his own lips curl, the weight on his chest easing considerably. Grief still lingered, but it was a dull, distant ache; buried beneath other, altogether more pleasant and ... interesting sensations. He watched the Maw Walker's gaze flick to the half-open bedroom door, leaning forward in her seat as if trying to catch a glimpse of -
"I thought the Accuser might come find you. When it was obvious the ritual wasn't working."
Renathal spun, his coat whipping across the face of the Maw Walker seated on the floor. She merely blinked at the assault. Perhaps she could not feel it. Or, thought a disoriented Renathal, observing the lines of lavender misery etched across her face, perhaps, she did not care.
"Well," he said, after a brief, fortifying breath. "You may recall we had an engagement this evening, and you were quite appallingly late."
He bared his fangs, intending a winsome smile. But either he did not quite manage it, or the Maw Walker was too weary to appreciate charm.
"I'm sorry," she said. The words rolled hopelessly off her lips as if they had lost all meaning. "I really thought I could do this in time. I thought ... I ..."
"You thought you could accomplish in a few hours what it takes other souls centuries to learn?" asked Renathal, easing himself decorously to the ground in front of her.
The Maw Walker shrugged. She flicked her eyes to his.
"I'm usually a very quick student."
She made an odd noise, the mad specter of a laugh, that had little in common with the sound now coming from the Maw Walker on the chaise.
"Really, your Highness, you'd think after eons you would know how to clean your own armor." The half-hearted scolding was ruined by her small, irrepressible smile as she heaved herself up with excessive drama and strolled to the bedroom door. The Renathal from the memory stood there, his face all humble apology as he explained, "Well, usually there are dredgers for this sort of task."
"Shall I confess something wicked?" said Renathal conspiratorially, speaking over his counterpart in an attempt to cheer his more dismal Maw Walker. "I am quite capable of attending to my own armor. To be frank, I could have done a better job of it myself - it was obvious you knew little of plate, but ... " His smug expression was identical to the one he wore in the memory, as the Maw Walker ran her cloth over the sticky stains decorating his back. "I was rather hoping you do would that."
"I know," said the Maw Walker tonelessly. At his raised eyebrow, she amended, "I mean, I knew later. After we were -" She let a vague hand gesture describe their current, intimate relationship. "I didn't know now. Then. Here. I mean - ugh." She let her head drop into her hands.
Nearby, the memory Renathal had discovered a crumb he could draw from the Maw Walker's hair. Remembering the thrill of that minute touch, Renathal reached out and ran his fingers through the same waterfall of dark hair in front of him. It had no feel. Of course. Neither did his own projection of consciousness. For a moment, he had forgotten where they were.
"Why did you not confide in me?" Renathal asked, more seriously. "Had you shared your concerns about facing Denathrius, I could have told you this ritual would not work properly on your kind."
"Why," replied the Maw Walker's muffled voice from behind her hands and hair, "did I not tell you how I failed my city? My people? How I abandoned my friends for family, and yet still managed to fail them as well?" She parted her fingers just enough to reveal sardonic eyes. "Have a guess."
Renathal's lips twitched, exposing his fangs.
"I would think myself uniquely placed to understand such a position."
"How? Our positions are not the same at all." The Maw Walker lifted her head, dislodging Renathal's hand. "You've made mistakes, yes, but not wrong choices. You haven't neglected your duty to your realm, or abandoned your friends, or failed your people."
"Only because I had you."
She stared. A few paces away, the memory Maw Walker turned to hide a violet blush as Renathal licked a lingering spot of cream off his finger. From the floor, Renathal remembered feeling surprised at his own playful daring. It was the Maw Walker's influence. She brought out the braver, better parts of him.
"Were it not for you, I would still be imprisoned in the Maw, my friends tortured for my carelessness," he went on. "And had you not stayed and guided my hand, this rebellion would have been destroyed long ago. Every wrong choice I might well have made, you have been here to correct. Your mistakes are no greater than mine. And if there was a sin in them, it has long since been paid. You felt remorse in time to correct your errors in judgment, and you have spent your existence since saving every world you can. What more atonement could even Revendreth ask of you?"
The question hovered in the air like a hungry dredbat. It should have been rhetorical, only ... they were still here. The ritual had not ended. What was it waiting for? Renathal wondered. What sin was still held against her?
A gasp from the memory Maw Walker startled both beings on the ground.
"You did not!"
"I assure you, I did," said the memory Renathal, with punishable pride. "My aim is quite accurate, even when the projectile is teacake."
"Oh, I can't believe I missed that. How did the Accuser retaliate?"
In the memory, both Renathal and the Maw Walker dropped carelessly onto the chaise, caught in the thrill of the story and their bodies' close proximity. Entirely unaware of the other Maw Walker watching wistfully from the ground.
"I used to think," she mused, almost to herself. "If I could just save enough people, that would make up for everything. That one day I would have done enough right, I could stop feeling guilty for what I've done wrong, but ... I can't. I can't make up for it. It doesn't matter how many people, how many worlds I save. I didn't save -" The Maw Walker's throat convulsed. She closed her eyes against a spasm of pain Renathal vividly remembered but, thankfully, no longer experienced. She finished roughly, "I didn't save the one person I promised."
There was silence, except for the conversation on the chaise: Renathal regaling the Maw Walker with the history of his tumultuous relationship with the Accuser.
"She was always of the opinion I take too many liberties with my position. That I indulge too much in frivolities, refuse to take my responsibilities seriously."
The Renathal on the chaise clicked his tongue in mock-chagrin, as the Renathal on the ground suddenly remembered the other advice the Accuser had given him: Souls who struggle with this ritual usually have a preconceived notion of who they have wronged. He sat up straighter, fingers absently stroking the textureless hair on his chin. He eyed the Maw Walker, then wet his lips, wording his question with careful tact.
"Do you think ... your sister would condemn you to Revendreth?"
"What?"
The Maw Walker's face was entirely blank. Another might wonder if she was listening, but Renathal knew her better.
"Would your sister demand your eternal suffering as penance for failing to protect her once?"
The Maw Walker's mouth opened, then closed. Her flat expression did not flicker, but Renathal knew she was thinking furiously. He kept his own face scrubbed carefully clean of excitement. For every second she could find no argument, his confidence in his new theory grew. Still, it would take all his skill in rhetoric to convince the Maw Walker her preconceived notion was wrong.
"I think not," said Renathal delicately when the Maw Walker remained silent. "Your sister feared for your unhappy fate, both when you ascended to your position and when you intended to rebel. I doubt very much whether she would be pleased to see you punish yourself for the rest of your existence on her account." He paused, letting the Maw Walker absorb his premise and inference, before assailing her with his conclusion. "It seems clear to me that you alone continue to hold your misdeeds against you. Forcing guilt and suffering on yourself for sins of which you have already atoned. You feel remorse - I have witnessed firsthand - for your actions against everyone except yourself. I believe once you feel genuine remorse for these, the ritual will end."
The Maw Walker on the floor blinked.
The Maw Walker on the chaise laughed.
"You said that to her? I can't imagine she took that well."
But the Maw Walker wasn't listening to her memory counterpart. She was shaking her head slowly at Renathal as if he were a young, misguided soul she hated to disillusion.
"Renathal that's ... that's madness. I cannot feel remorse for my suffering. I don't deserve remorse, I deserve the suffering. Even if no one else does hold my sins against me, I must hold them, I must ... punish myself until they're paid for. Until I have atoned! I must -"
But whatever else the Maw Walker was sure she must do died on her tongue as she caught sight of Renathal's face.
"You think to lecture me on the intricacies of sin and atonement? On what constitutes the deserved and undeserved suffering of souls?" His voice was a lethal hush. "Maw Walker. You forget your place."
The incandescent red fire brimming in Renathal's eyes was most unlike the amber smolder of desire the Renathal on the chaise possessed as he growled, "Oh, I assure you, I am quite redoubtable when the situation requires it." To which the Maw Walker, her own eyes dark, replied, "I might enjoy seeing that one day."
But there was no flirtatious raillery from the Maw Walker on the floor. She was staring at the Dark Prince in front of her like she had never seen him before. The colour drained from her face as Renathal rose, summoning swirling, red magic about him, and with an imperious wave of his hand banished the happy memory back to the vermillion sea. He would permit her no more safety or comfort, no more distractions from the ritual's demands.
"Rise," he ordered the Maw Walker, pronouncing her name like he owned it. And the mortal before him was helpless to do anything but obey.
Even on her feet, mired in red nothingness, she had to crane her neck to keep her eyes on Renathal's formidable face. Her lips parted, not in desire, but in primal trepidation and awe. A small part of Renathal worried what consequences this power play would have on their relationship, should his plan succeed. But it did not matter. The Maw Walker needed saving. And this enemy could not be defeated by her lover or her friend.
"As the Harvester of Dominion and the Prince of Revendreth," pronounced Renathal, his voice saturated in unbroachable sovereignty. " I accuse you of the sin of inaction and the sin of unrepentance. Not for your deeds of old, long paid for by your voluntary acts of service, but for the cruel suffering you continue to inflict baselessly upon yourself. Repent," he commanded, and the anima around them echoed the word like a liturgy. "Feel remorse for this crime against your own person, and your sins are forgiven. Your atonement, complete."
Time passed. It was as impossible to count as it had been back in Renathal's rooms. The Maw Walker's face was painted in pale fear and wonder, and Renathal found he gleaned less from the emotions than her usual, familiar blankness.
Then, she lurched forward and flung her arms around his neck, clinging to him like an anchor without which she would drown. Renathal felt her solid form against him, but there was no sensation to it. No softness in her robes, no warmth in her hands, no weight of her body on his, until ...
...until there was. The sudden, unexpected force of her knocked Renathal backwards, off his feet, onto the ground. His head hit unforgiving stone. And when the dim red stars had cleared from his vision, he was staring up into the high rafters of the Halls of Atonement. Not exactly, he reflected amid the flurry of concerned voices and helpful hands, what he'd envisioned in his earlier fantasy of a gratefully rescued Maw Walker. But, as he wrapped his arms around the body collapsed atop him - familiarly, beautifully soft and warm once more - and the Maw Walker tucked herself as close as she could against him in spite his armor and whispered, "Thank you," against his throat, he thought this moment might be better than any he'd planned.
There was certainly no denying to himself the pleasant change the night had wrought in his mood. Through the next hour's chaos of curious questions, brisk instructions, and last-minute preparations, Renathal was considerably more confident about the impending assault than he had been pacing alone in his rooms. All his tense nerves had dissolved like a memory in the ritual magic, and as he stood on the empty Bridge of Paramountcy, his gaze on Nathria, he felt no dread. The experience, while harrowing, had reminded Renathal why this fight was necessary; why Revendreth must be wrested from the Master and returned to its noble purpose.
Sparkling, purple light blinked into existence at the end of the bridge, and Renathal regarded it appraisingly. Was he imagining it, or were the Maw Walker's steps faster, freer, lighter, as if she had shed some long-carried burden? His lips curled in custodial satisfaction. The other realms of the Shadowlands, the mortals of Azeroth, they could think whatever they liked about Revendreth, but this - the salvation of suffering souls - was what it meant to be Venthyr.
"The courtyard is secure," the Maw Walker informed him, and was there a shade more cautious respect in her usual supreme assurance? "Everyone is ready and awaiting your command, your Highness."
Renathal arched an eyebrow, but did not answer. He stepped back from the parapet, stopping when he was sure he was hidden from sight of the courtyard, and beckoned the Maw Walker to him. She edged dutifully nearer, pausing just outside his easy reach.
"We'll be late after all if we don't hurry."
"Can I be late to my own raid?" he asked wryly. "It can hardly start without me."
The Maw Walker blinked. Little spots of violet appeared on her high cheekbones, accompanied by a small, self-conscious smile. She tried to hide both behind a hand, but Renathal's arm shot out and snatched it, drawing her to him and stifling her gasp with a kiss little concerned by anything so arbitrary as time. All the Maw Walker's remaining reserve vanished as she followed the intimate instruction of his lips, obeyed the demands of his tongue and teeth; and when Renathal had deemed the moment complete, it was she who chased his mouth for more.
"Come," he ordered brightly, wrapping them both in wending shadows. "We face the unending, undefeatable, undefiable darkness ... together."
Read Part 22: Dances with Venthyr | Visit the Masterpost
