An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The dead did not answer prayers.
Jayce had learned that lesson long before the gods had ever heard him.
Not once did Viktor, the mage, the scholar, the truest architect of the arcane that Jayce could comprehend, find a way to converse with him. Though, that would be difficult in his current state; ashes and dust,and a stray piece of cane that survived the explosion, buried six feet below Faerun’s grounds in a pauper’s grave.
He prayed.
And prayed.
And he prayed until his voice would fail him.
“I know not who listens,” He would mutter beneath course, baited breath, “I do not know whose domain I trespass. But if there remains any power, any power that values truth over pride…mercy over ambition….then hear me.”
His hazel eyes would look up to plead if he knew it would find him absolution, but he had come to find the action futile.
“I could not save him.”
A frequent admission.
“I cannot change that.”
