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Chapter Text

Grog’s reign as the undefeated champion of the Crucible was not an everlasting one and though he waved away any notions of it and grinned and laughed at those that tried to remind him of it, deep down Grog was painfully aware that it would only be a matter of time before some younger, stronger fighter would come along and remove the non-literal crown from the Goliath’s head.

That was fine. After the fall of Vecna, Grog had devoted some time to learning how to read and write and with that ability had come a slightly clearer understanding of how the world worked. Seasons came and seasons passed. Trees were cut down and new saplings were planted. A mighty stag could be slain by a wolf but his fawns would continue to run and jump. Things were replaced. It happened all the time.

And Grog didn’t like it. 

A younger Grog had once stated that he would have liked to live forever, charging from one bloody battle into another without fear of death, sustaining himself with victory and glory.

In many ways, he hadn’t changed all that much. He loved battle and he craved victory and his heart still desired to live a good long life. But things were different now.

When the dead body of Tiberius had been put to rest, Grog experienced a delayed reaction. Tiberius had been someone he had known and fought alongside. They had shared meals together and had slain many monsters side by side. It wasn’t until Tiberius’ statue had been erected and they had gone to pay their respects that Grog had a soul-crushing realisation. 

It was all well and good wishing for a never ending life... but what about those you care about?

Grog had thought back to when Percy had been killed by Ripley. In that moment, when Scanlan had no laugh in him, when Keyleth had openly wept over his body, when Vax’ildan had never looked so hollow and when Vex’ahlia had screamed through her heartbreak, Grog had felt a strange numbness. But it was when he saw Pike’s tear stained face, the shadows around her eyes, her voice struggling to sing for their fallen comrade that Grog had remembered Tiberius again and when Vex’ahlia had died... and he remembered Pike’s own death.

Then Scanlan had died. Then Vax’ildan was taken. 

“What do you fight for? Where do you find your strength?”

Earthbreaker Groon’s words had never left Grog’s mind since that day. He kept that with him always.

He found strength with his friends. With his family. With Vox Machina.

Things felt wrong when Vax left and with his departure came a new question that kept cropping up in Grog’s mind, one that he tried to hide from the others as best he could. 

“If my strength is found in Vox Machina, what happens to me when they are gone?”

Memories of Pike’s hair turning white, Scanlan lying bloodied and lifeless, Vex’s form quiet and unmoving, Percy finally wearing a truly peaceful expression, Vax walking away amidst feathers and snowdrops and the image of long-lived Keyleth waving farewell... Whether it occurred to Grog that he was unlikely to outlive most of the group or not wasn’t important. All that he could comprehend was the thought that one day, Vox Machina would be gone and thus his strength will also be no more.

No, his reign at the Crucible was not an everlasting one at all. 

“Not often that you’re heard to make no sound on the wake of another Crucible victory,” said Earthbreaker Groon one evening. He had waited for Grog’s arrival since hearing of his latest win, aged, wrinkled, and yet still powerfully strong. “Have you no cheer? No bellow or freshly poured ale?” 

“No,” Grog replied gruffly, choosing not to enter the sand pit where Groon always sat. This was Groon’s arena and the Goliath had enough respect for him to know when he was to keep his distance. “Didn’t put up me best fight. Not worth cheerin’ about.” 

“Indeed,” nodded Groon, keeping his back to him, “though your strength was there, your spirit was not. Why might this be?” 

“Jus’... I dunno. I guess I’ve ‘ad a lot on me mind these past years. Got new things t’ think about now I’m readin’ and all that,” said Grog by shrugging his shoulders. 

“What ‘things’ would distract you from the fight?” 

“Plenty of things.” Grog felt a twinge of remorse and... anger?

Groon rose from his cross-legged position and slowly turned to face the Champion of the Crucible as his thick arms rested, one over the other, strapped across his chest and beneath his long, silver white beard. Grog, stood on the edge of the pit, mimicked his stance. 

“Distracted though you are,” said Groon, “have you any idea on why you were summoned here?” 

“Another lesson?” replied Grog, almost hopefully. “Would you teach me to find me spirit again?”

Groon’s eyes briefly fell upon the Titanstone Knuckles, the legendary Vestige gloves that Grog had worn upon his fists for years, unworthy of any other living bearer. 

“I have nothing else to teach you, Grog,” he spoke and resumed eye contact with the wearer of the Vestige, “and I have no other words of wisdom to impart. Were things different, you may have earned a place in the temple of Kord.”

Grog felt his mouth smile as he shrugged and replied, 

“You know I’m not a temple person. Me place is out in the battlefield.” 

“Then go,” Earthbreaker Groon suddenly said, his voice deeper and more commanding. He stretched out his hand and pointed to the huge doors from which Grog had entered the room. “Go to the fields. Follow the sound of the distant storm until it meets you. Your presence has been requested.” 

“My present has what?” Grog said in surprise. 

“Leave, Grog!” Groon barked. “Leave and go to the fields beyond Vasselheim and find the storm! You have been summoned!”

Groon did not sit down again. He remained standing, pointing to the door, his gaze so strong it might push Grog away with force alone. So Grog turned and slowly walked back to the doors before pausing and peering over his broad shoulder. 

“Like, do I go on me own?” 

“Go to the storm, Grog!” 

“Right. Yep. Going now.”

The hunting grounds of the Slayer’s Take were unusually quiet so the rumble of thunder in the far distance wasn’t difficult to miss as Grog made his way out of Vasselheim and headed through the woods in the direction of the fields that stretched south. What was unusual was the distinct lack of clouds in the sky.

Grog was no expert on weather but he had spent enough time with Keyleth to get a basic grasp on how weather worked and usually with most forms, there were clouds involved. Right now, the sky remained blue although in the West it was beginning to look purple and pink from the descending sun.

The Goliath walked on and on, stopping to watch a squirrel in a tree and to frighten the life out of a badger that had wandered by. Eventually, though, he came to the edge of a meadow where things... looked different.

Where there had been no clouds, now the sky was darkened by a hue of greys and purples. The distant rumbles of thunder were now large, loud snarls which rang Grog’s ears while jagged forks of lightning cut apart the clouds and occasionally licked the ground as though provoking it. It was no normal storm and Grog didn’t need his intelligence of 6 to tell him that. Despite the wild ferocity, this was a controlled storm. There were no strikes against any of the trees and the only strikes against the rest of the countryside were against the rocks and previously scorched, cracked ground.

It was wild and angry and yet it was manageable and controlled... Just like Grog.

Fearing no harm would come to him, Grog tightened his shoulders and strode forward into the field, his eyes trying to track the flashes of lightning that raced above him. He could feel the electricity in the hairs of his beard and a delight came over him and an urge to run and, dare he say, frolic among the lightning. Or perhaps, to make it better, an army of big brutish monsters could come charging over the hill towards him, all teeth and bloody swords, and Grog could lift his axe to the storm, smash his knuckles together, and bellow louder than the thunder itself. He closed his eyes, grinning from ear to ear as he thought about it.

And when his eyes opened... Grog was not where he thought he was.

It was still the field, or at least he thought it was, but everything took the colour of the storm. Greys and silvers and purples. Lightning dancing and wheeled above, around and below. The thunder was not as loud. It had rescinded into a polite purr. 

And standing on the brow, before Grog, stood a mighty figure. Barrel chested and possessing arms that Grog would envy, with a beard that hung down past his furs and belts. In his hand he held a sword and his eyes, full of hot white electricity, were trained on him. 

Without thinking, as was Grog’s usual way, the Goliath leapt into a ready battle stance, his blood axe already in hand. He could feel power surging through him and he prepared to activate his Titanstone Knuckles if the situation needed to be escalated.

The great deity seemed to smile at this display but said nothing. 

“I was told to follow the storm!” Grog called out, his veins pumping adrenaline through his systems. “And I found you. Am I to assu-... presume? Assume? ... Are you the one wantin’ to see me? And will there be a battle?”

The giant man lifted up his sword and the lightning crackled around it with new vigour, excitement so palpable that Grog felt the buzz of it for himself. When the man spoke, his voice rivalled that of the storm itself and it could be felt deep in one’s chest. 

“Grog Strongjaw,” spoke the warrior, “of Vox Machina. Saviour of Exandria, Bearer of the Titanstone Knuckles and reigning Champion of the Crucible.” 

“...Yep. Boy that sure does sound like me,” Grog nodded, spell-bound. “Also Founder of the Greyskull Keep Embassy, the Grand Poobah de Doink of All This and That and the First Tour Captain of Whitestone.” 

“I am Kord, the Stormlord,” spoke the diety. 

“Ah, yeah well, I had it as either you or, like... Who’s the guy with the anvil, again?” 

Most got frustrated or irritated with Grog by this time so it came as a surprise to find another smile on the face of the one who had just declared himself, Kord, one of the chief gods of Exandria. 

“Do you still wish to fight me?” he asked and another bolt of lightning split the air apart with an ear shattering bang.

Grog blinked and scratched at his ear, one hand still wrapped around the handle of his axe. 

“Is that how this works?” Grog then asked, “‘Cause when I met Earthbreaker, he was all punchy-punch. Said he was teachin’ me a lesson or somethin’ but now I’ve not got anythin’ else to learn from him so I figure you’re goin’ to carry on, right? You wouldn’t mind me usin’ my Knuckles so I can get a bit closer to your size, would you?”

He wasn’t sure if it was a good sign or a bad sign that Kord lowered his sword. The smile was still present so that was something. 

“Why I called for you,” he said, “is not to fight. You have proven your bravery in walking out to me and you have not backed down even though a lesser being might have run. But this I would expect from a chosen.” 

Grog wasn’t sure how to answer that. He was both relieved and yet a bit disappointed that there would be no fight. 

“...Yeah I’m no lesser bean,” he finally said, his axe lowering now. “What were you sayin’ about a chosen somethin’ or other?”

Kord clapped his hands together and a shockwave of power coursed through the air, throwing Grog back to the ground and causing the storm to cease altogether. By the time Grog had picked himself up with the expression of an excited child on his face, Kord had knelt to the floor so that his beard brushed the colourless grass and his sword was stuck in the ground beside him. 

“Approach me.”

Grog took a moment to carefully assess the situation (something new he was trying out) and obeyed, slowly walking closer to the god. On instinct, he stopped a short distance away from him and knelt down too, mimicking the posture and planting his axe as Kord had planted his sword.

Kord looked him over and silence hung between them for a few minutes. 

“I watch every fight in the Braving Fields. Every challenge in the Crucible.” His lightning eyes flashed again. “I watch you. You show the qualities of a true follower.” 

“I just like to fight,” Grog shrugged. 

“And yet, today,” Kord then said, his voice strangely softer, “you had little joy in your victory and though Groon asked, you did not tell. I am not him. I know your troubles.” 

Grog turned his face away to the side, not ashamed or embarrassed, but feeling as though he were about to give in to his feelings in front of a deity that he knew more by reputation. 

“Just havin’ an off day,” he mumbled. If this guy really was a god, he would have heard him. 

“I have heard you at night,” spoke Kord, “when you pray.” 

“I don’t pray!” Grog cried, images of him having to dress up in religious robes and start singing hymns with Pike or Scanlan floating through his mind. “Pike prays and Scanlan prays and Vex prays and Vax doesn’t need to pray anymore but he did. I don’t pray. I can’t. I dunno how.” 

“You don’t pray in the traditional sense, no,” Kord nodded. “But you do speak your heart. When you think no-one can hear you, late at night, when everyone is asleep. You lie there and you talk. Then you asked for help. You asked for guidance. You asked for strength and courage. That is when I heard you for these are the qualities my followers celebrate and I could not help but listen to you as you worried and shed tears for the first time.” 

“That’s a lie. I didn’t do that!” Grog pouted and actually glared at the god.

“Perhaps I was mistaken then,” Kord chuckled, “but you did worry. You find your strength by protecting and fighting for the innocent, for your friends and your family. That is the most noble of strengths. It is why you are one of the strongest warriors alive.”

Grog immediately dropped his glare and now began to look delighted at this sudden praise. 

“So you worried for the future. About when a time may come where you are unable to protect them or when they are no more.” Kord lowered his head further. “And I heard.” 

Grog couldn’t very well deny it but the last thing he wanted to do was admit that Kord was right. 

“Why did I have to come here?” he therefore asked. “You said we weren’t gonna fight. Are we just talkin’?” 

“The reason I asked for you,” replied Kord, “was to tell you that you have nothing to fear. There may come a time when you are bested at the Crucible but there will never come a day where your strength will fail your family. Death will one day find you, it is true, but you will not die weak. You will die as strong as you were in life. I have promised you.” 

“You mean it?” Grog grinned. “Now I’m gonna hold you to that! I don’t wanna die in a stupid way, I wanna die beautifully. Like, just, raging, covered in blood and maybe fightin’ a dragon or another god or...” His voice trailed off and he realised that Kord’s eyes did not look as burningly bright anymore. It was almost as though he could almost make out the colour of his irises. “...Or maybe I can die with Vox Machina. Either in battle, like in a blaze of glory, spilling guts or just... Maybe just lying there. With Pike and Scanlan singin’ with Vex and Percy and Keyleth makin’ her fireflies and then Vax could come get us and we can all leave at the same time...”

Kord’s smile was no longer visible. He almost looked sad. 

“I cannot say how, when or where you might die, Grog,” he said. “But know this: When death comes and you are escorted by your friend, Vax’ildan, to the next plane, there will be another doorway for you to choose.” 

“Will that doorway let me be a werewolf?”  

“The doorway will lead to me.”

Grog stopped and his eyes widened further as he uttered the only eloquent thing he could think of in that moment: “You what?” 

“Whether you are aware or not,” explained Kord, slightly bemused at this, “you have been following my Commandments. Your glory on the battlefield does me proud and the greatness you achieve with Vox Machina is worth many riches. I have been watching you, Grog, ever since you stood in the way of your uncle and defended a helpless Gnome, a follower of Serenrae, though it cost you many pains. It proved your strength to be greater than all your Herd. The Herd... of Storms.” 

“...Totally made that connection,” Grog fibbed. “Totally just... I remembered that my Herd was called that and that you are, like, the boss of storms. I knew that. Probably before everyone else did. Probably.” 

“Through all your trials, I kept note of your victories and how you celebrated and of your defeats and how you learnt from them. Rather than abandon the chance of a rematch against Kern the Destroyer, you learnt and grew stronger and returned. I guided Earthbreaker Groon to the Crucible that day so he could make you see your true potential and discover the source of your power.”

Kord suddenly began to rise, getting to his feet as the storm became reinvigorated, and he took up his sword. 

“So I ask, Grog. Will you accept my blessing? When Pike finds herself at Sarenrae’s side, when Scanlan is called back to Ioun, when Vex’ahlia returns to the temple of Pelor... will you join me? Join me and ride the storms in search of new battles, in a place set aside for you and your family.” 

“Boy that does sound pretty good,” Grog whistled appreciatively. “So this is like a surprise adoption then, yeah?” 

“In some ways,” Kord told him, still failing to keep from being entertained at the Goliath he had grown very fond of over the years. “I have my children. One, a daughter, you ought to meet one day.” 

“Oh, I get it now,” sighed Grog and he looked crestfallen as he cleared his throat and mustered up his most intelligent sounding, if stilted, voice. “I am afraid I need to apologise because, uh, I am not actually available for getting me freak on with your daughter. I feel like I should have perhaps clari- claro- clarify...” 

Kord burst out laughter, a sound that resembled the thunder. 

“Grog, I invite you to be a warrior for me. Not a suitor for any of my other followers,” he said after he’d stopped. “You may leave and think on my offer. If you agree to it, your soul will come to me after your death and you will wait to be reunited with your family.” 

Grog got up and took up his axe, smiling at the Stormlord.  

“Seems to me like a fair offer,” he nodded.

In response, Kord lifted his sword to the storm and then slowly lowered it so that it was pointing at Grog, the lightning flashing around it. Wordlessly, Grog took his axe and he held it against the sword, keeping his eyes on Kord’s face as he did, so he wouldn’t miss the flash of pride that could be seen in Kord’s eyes.

“Go, Grog Strongjaw, Champion of Kord,” the god’s voice boomed over the storm. “Return and continue to fight, until you come to me.”

Grog roared back at Kord and swung his axe over his head in an impressive display of might. Then, as the storm began to fade and Grog’s vision went grey, sounds beginning to disappear, Grog felt as though he’d awoken from a long deep dream. He was still stood in the middle of the field but now colour had returned and the grass was green and the sky was blue and cloudless though various scars, devoid of plant matter, still dotted the landscape. A couple of magpies piped at him from where they were pecking in one of the scorch marks but other than that, Grog was alone.

“So you see,” Grog said, “your old uncle Grog never needs to worry about losing you guys and gettin’ weak. I’m going out as strong as I came in.” 

“You really met the Stormlord?” Vesper couldn’t help but ask, lowering her fork. “You’re not just pulling our legs, are you?” 

“No, no. I swear on me perfect beard,” said Grog, stroking his dark facial hair, “that I really did meet Kord and he was a total fan of me. You should ‘ave heard him. I was almost blushin’.”

Next to his older sister, one of the boys wiped his mouth with his napkin. 

“Then, are you going to accept Kord’s offer, Uncle?” he asked. “Will you belong to him now?” 

“Grog belongs to no-one.” Grog leant back in his chair, looking smug. “But he did ask nicely so I felt like I ‘ad to say yes. Gives me something to look forward to while I’m enjoyin’ myself alive and I get to serve him by winnin’ fights!” 

“Hard to imagine you praying though,” laughed Vesper, looking down the table to make sure her sister wasn’t forgetting to eat her vegetables. Grog didn’t care if the youngsters ate their healthy food or not so it was up to the older ones to make sure they weren’t getting away with skipping their greens just because their babysitter was more lenient. 

“Ah but I do pray,” Grog replied. “Just like yer aunt Pike and yer uncle Scanlan and yer mama. Kord and me have a special relationship though so, you know, it’s probably not fair to compare.” 

“What do you pray about then, uncle?”

Grog thought about the question and recalled what Kord had told him. 

“I ask him things,” he answered. 

“What do you ask?”

Grog reached out and picked up his tankard with a laugh. 

“I ask if there’s gonna be ale.”

Chapter Text

Most druids, it was said, were natural faithful followers of Melora, the originator and protector of the natural forces that druids so often called to their aid. She was worshipped by the people of the sea especially and was said to guide faithful sailors through wind, lightning and rain.

It was a great surprise, therefore, when people learned that the Ashari were not typical worshippers of Melora the Wildmother. While they appreciated and respected her role as the goddess of the wilderness, the Ashari of the four tribes were independent from her and preferred to show their gratitude more to the natural forces themselves, content to show favour on the growing plants, the animals and each of the elements that the four tribes watched over. 

It was not to say that all Ashari felt this way and there were a number of them that had taken the oath to give their faith to the Wildmother.

Keyleth, the leader of the Air Ashari tribe, made it known that she had no quarrel with Melora and even went as far as bearing the mighty Vestige that had been created by the Wildmother’s breath, known as the Spire of Conflux, wherever she went. She took no offence at those of her tribe that chose to follow the goddess but, when asked, Keyleth would smile and shake her head and say,

“No, I am faithless. I leave the Wildmother be as she does me in return. I have come to accept my place in this world and my place is in the wind, in the leaves and in the power of nature.” 

At least, that was what she said aloud. In her head, Keyleth was always wondering and doubting and fretting over her actions and what she was accomplishing, not truly knowing if she even had a place to begin with. Her father, Korrin, always let her know how proud he was of her and how deeply he loved her but still she worried that all her efforts may be for naught. She only took the mantle after her mother’s disappearance, after all.

How important was she really? 

Vox Machina, together, had saved the world and Keyleth had successfully become the Voice of the Tempest, one of the most powerful Arch-Druids alive but... did it mean anything? She had done all this for other people and had made many people happy...

She might have asked why it was that she feel incomplete but, in truth, she already knew the answer. She’d lost her mother and she had told herself that falling in love was meaningless and that it would only lead to more pain on top of that loss. She hadn’t even been able to listen to her own words of wisdom and now, here she was, suffering her losses.

Had it not been for her family, Vox Machina and her father, Keyleth feared what might have become of her.

Since Vax’ildan’s ‘death’, the others had been extra attentive to her. Scanlan and Grog always took her out for drinks and to make her laugh with their antics and songs. Pike was always available to offer a listening ear and many, many words of much needed comfort. She also couldn’t count the number of times she and Vex had clung to one another and wept many tears into Percy’s chest while he held them both, one under each arm. Poor Percy had found the arduous task of holding both their hearts together while they mourned the loss of a lover and a brother. 

Around that time, the thought of enduring all those years and outliving her family was something that Keyleth dreaded. She had sometimes found herself opening her mouth and almost telling her father, through tears, that she didn’t want this life. That she’d rather someone end her existence prematurely than live out the rest of her days alone. But she didn’t. She stood beneath the tree she had planted and found happiness in the raven that came to visit her everyday, in the memories she had made, in the nieces and nephews she received from Whitestone, in the hugs from her father, in the conversations with the Sun Tree, in the comfort she got from Kerrick in Westruun and from the adventures that she was still pulled away on by the rest of Vox Machina. 

As usual, her thoughts drifted away to her mother and she wondered what she would have said. How different things would have been... Well, to be honest, if her mother had still been here, Keyleth probably would have never known Vax’ildan so the ache in her heart would not be as excruciating.

It was very early in the morning when Keyleth made her way to the Raven Tree and sat beneath it to watch the sun rise, the Spire of Conflux resting in her lap and her antlers branching out against the trunk.

She had been worried of late. Grog had been caught looking sad, even after winning battles at the Crucible, but just recently he’d seemed happier and, according to Pike, had even started praying in secret to the Stormlord. It was enough to make anyone smile. At first, she thought Grog had been sad for the same reasons that the rest of Vox Machina was sad which was...

Tears threatened Keyleth’s eyes and she shook them away. No, she couldn’t start getting upset this early on in the day. If she gave in now, she’d remain like it all day.

Giving herself a moment to calm down, Keyleth closed her eyes and focused on breathing, waiting until the sting of her eyes began to subside. 

“Don’t deny yourself, Keyleth. It is good to grieve,” a voice, gentle and maternal, spoke softly in her ear.

Keyleth whipped her head round and stiffened when she discovered a tall, slender woman stood at her side. For a brief, heart stabbing moment, she thought it was her mother. But then she felt the power radiating off her and how the grass and trees around her arched and danced in time with her flowing chestnut hair. 

Keyleth got to her feet and gripped her staff, recognising that this was either a fey creature or... 

“My apologies, Voice of the Tempest,” said the woman, dipping her head, “I was unsure how to introduce myself. I am Melora, the Wildmother.”

Keyleth had hoped it was a fey creature. 

“The Melora?” she blinked, eyeing her staff nervously. “As in, a Prime god of Exandria?” 

“Yes,” nodded Melora, her hands gently held in front of her flowing dress of leaves and branches. “I hope you don’t mind, but I felt the need to speak with you and I knew not how to send my speakers from Vasselheim to you in a timely manner.” 

“Am I still in Zephra?” Keyleth asked, looking up at the Raven tree. 

“Yes, you are still in your homeland,” replied the Wildmother. “Of sorts. There is no-one around to witness us so we will not be disturbed.” 

Keyleth lifted her chin, not in an intimidating manner but rather to instil some kind of confidence in herself that, despite her years of governing her people, was still somewhat lacking in her heart. 

“Can I ask why?” she said. “You’ve never spoken to me before. Are you here for your Spire?” 

Melora glanced at the staff and smiled in recognition. 

“It may, in time, find a new bearer but, for now, it is safe in your hands. I am aware my worshippers from the Abundant Terrace have expressed interest in it but I would not worry. As for the notion that we have never spoken...” Melora politely chuckled, “...We do not need to have spoken to have a connection. I am aware that I have been the subject of many of your thoughts. I have not forgotten you, nor the time when you invoked my name in fighting Raishan, the ancient dragon cursed by a Druid of mine.” 

“Right,” Keyleth blushed, “I did do that. Didn’t think you were paying attention.” 

“We do pay attention, as gods. Especially if situations are directly related to us,” Melora said, gliding round to stand next to the Arch-Druid, admiring the view and smiling at the feeling of the wind blowing though her locks of hair. “We haven’t the ability to be as involved with mortals of the Material Plane anymore and we certainly are not able to talk to you as we once did. Not without sounding cryptic and vague.” 

“Then how is this possible?” asked Keyleth, frowning at, what looked like, an ordinary if naturally beautiful middle-aged woman. “If we can only communicate clearly by being in your own plane, how can I...” She stopped herself and took another look at her surroundings, at what she thought and had been told was her homeland, Zephra, high up in the mountains, close to the sky. She still felt the wind against her cheek and the rustle of the Raven tree’s leaves but now she began to realise that it didn’t feel right. She couldn’t connect with the natural forces as easily as she was known to do. It was like reaching out though honey or tar. 

“My plane bleeds out into your world from time to time though they can never touch,” Melora explained, sensing Keyleth’s realisation. “When I said we were in Zephra, I wasn’t lying to you. You are seeing it through a mirror from my home and my home is with the natural world. Creating these pockets is difficult for the gods so it is rare that it should happen. I have not had to do such a thing for many years.” 

“Then,” she heard Keyleth sigh, “I suppose my next question is the obvious one; why go through the effort to speak with me?”

The Wildmother turned her face, strands of her hair wrapping over her cheeks and under her chin, but not her deep, soul-searching eyes that remained connected with Keyleth’s and refused to let her go. 

“...It has been some time since Vax’ildan was called away to serve the Raven Queen.”

Keyleth’s throat tightened and she didn’t dare try and respond to such a statement. In front of Melora, Keyleth had to show herself strong and capable, especially when the goddess was holding her gaze with such strength and intensity. 

“Y-yes,” Keyleth breathed at last though her voice sounded hoarse. “Time is said to heal all wounds but that left a scar that I hadn’t anticipating hurting for so long.” 

Sympathy took over Melora’s expression. 

“Scars are what is left of something that should have been there and now isn’t,” she murmured. “You and Vax’ildan were two halves, balanced, and to lose one half is to leave the other incomplete.” 

Keyleth wiped at her eyes crossly. “I’m sure I can learn to love again. I have a thousand years ahead of me...” 

“I do not refer to love, Keyleth.” The Wildmother now took a step to stand in front of her. “I refer to balance. Nature is wild and free, yes, but it is always balanced. Land and sea. Predators and prey. Growth and erosion.” Her lips attempted a sad smile. “Life and death.”  

Gripping the Spire, Keyleth leant into it heavily and a rebellious tear escaped her eye, slowly crawling down her freckled cheek. She didn’t flinch away when Melora’s motherly hand reached out to carefully wipe it away. 

“He was a servant of the Raven Queen,” she heard Melora continue, “a representative of natural death. You are a representative of natural life. Take heart, Keyleth, because you and your lover achieved balance in this world.” 

“Balance hurts,” Keyleth said, finally finding the ability to tear her eyes away from Melora. 

The Wildmother looked away and sighed. “It does. It hurts me so I know it must hurt you.” 

“You?” 

“I am also subject to balance,” nodded Melora, smiling now. “The Lawbearer and I, for example, have our own difficulties to work through.” 

“Erathis?” Keyleth recognised with surprise. “You’re close with Erathis?” 

“Indeed. She of growing civilisation and lawful structures and myself of unkempt wilderness and natural unpredictability.” Melora chuckled. “You ought to know the ridiculousness of such a relationship. You and the Lord of Whitestone are close too, are you not?” 

“Percy’s my best friend,” smiled Keyleth as she thought of just how different they were and yet how much they cared about each other. But that then only brought Keyleth near to tears again and her vision swam as she mumbled, “Why do Humans have such short lifespans?” 

The Wildmother closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. As she exhaled, the wind grew warm and it brought comfort with it. 

“That I cannot say,” she answered, “but I know it is but one of the reasons you find that you are suffering feelings of grief recently. Loss follows you. Your mother, the Fire Ashari, Vax’ildan, your friends...” 

Keyleth had to bite her tongue to keep herself from saying that Melora wasn’t exactly cheering her up. 

“...but you are a saviour of the Material Plane, Voice of the Tempest,” the Wildmother suddenly said in a louder voice and she looked bigger and her hair tumbled around her more wildly as the wind blew stronger. “You have endured much, suffered plenty and have passed through fire. You are mighty. And for your services to Exandria, we strive to ensure that your sufferings do not go unrewarded.” 

“What does that mean?” Keyleth asked, not sure what to do in the face of such a wild woman. 

“It means,” Melora answered, “that should you choose to accept, your soul will not be another addition to the Astral Sea and neither will it wander without destination through the veins of the natural world. That, should you choose, you will join me in my plane of grasslands, forests, ice fields and volcanic seas and then you will swim the airways through the skies that you cherish, from one plane to another, in a world set aside for you and Vox Machina, a new home to rest for eternity.” 

“...Together?” Keyleth breathed, almost letting go of her staff. 

“We have not the heart to separate you,” Melora nodded.

“So...” Keyleth nearly stammered, “...no more goodbyes? No more loss?” Her head raced back to all the Fire Ashari that had perished thanks to Raishan. She thought of cooky old Tiberius, who had been her first travelling companion...

“No loss. Only gain.” Melora returned to the size she was before and came back to stand in front of Keyleth. “But only if you so desire. Only if you choose.” 

“Will I see my mother?”

Melora smiled warmly and knowingly replied, “You will have opportunity to see all that have died.”

Another gust of wind blew and this time, it felt as though Keyleth were being embraced. 

“I never thought I’d have a mother again,” she whispered, closing her eyes as the ethereal embrace held her protectively. When she opened her eyes, Melora had gone but her voice remained.

“The Wildmother I may be and my faithful ones I do embrace as my children, but you, Keyleth...” she said, “you are no child. Come to me as a friend. A guardian of nature. My fellow worker and companion. Keep the balance of life and death with your beloved when you are one day reunited with him. He waits for all Vox Machina to join him and he especially waits for you.”  

“How? Where?” Keyleth cried to the air. “Where do I-?” 

“If death does not take you before your time,” Melora’s voice told her as it steadily grew fainter, “then when you feel you are at the end of your days, wait for my message. I will show you my last and final seed. Go the tree in the Abundant Terrace in Vasselheim and Tree Stride to my last seed, in a place called the Barbed Fields. It will bring you to me and then to your family. In the meantime, continue on. Live for your people and for the world around you. Protect and guard them in life as you will in death.”

The embrace fell away from Keyleth and with a mighty gust of wind, she was back on her previous plane of existence, in Zephra, the home of her people, the Air Ashari.

Rrok Rrok

Above her head, peering down at her with a fond eye, an unusually large raven was watching her and croaking softly. Keyleth smiled and held out the Spire of Conflux so that the raven, with a flap of it’s wings, sailed down and perched on the end, tilting it’s head on one side as a fresh breeze caught Keyleth's red hair, twirling it beneath her antlers. 

“It’s nice to know that we never do things in vain,” she told it. “That we are compensated in some ways. It’s nice to live in hope.”

The raven croaked again, ruffling it’s throat feathers majestically. 

“Yeah, I know what you’d say,” Keyleth replied with a soft laugh. “You’d say ‘of course we’ve earned it’.” She gazed out at the view again. “We’ve earned it. All of us. Everyone deserves a reward. Well, there are exceptions of course but...”

She took a long steady breath and shook her clouds from her head, beaming up at the raven as she lifted her hand to provide it with a new perch which it eagerly accepted. It fluttered down and clung to her knuckles, croaking appreciatively. 

“Either I live out my thousand or so years and outlive Vox Machina or I die by falling off a cliff,” the Voice of the Tempest said with an air of positivity. “At least I don’t have to say goodbye. I can say ‘see you later’ instead.”

The raven gave another croak and Keyleth laughed properly for the first time. 

“Yeah, this time we really could be gods. How stupid is that?”

And after the raven took it’s leave and flew off into the sky, Keyleth turned and headed back into the village of the Air Ashari, still laughing, still faithless, but now having a new friend waiting to welcome her when she died.

Well, Melora would have to wait, of course.

After all, there would be someone special who would come to greet her first and he would have waited long enough.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, the gods argued. They glowered at one another and raised their voices and got terribly cross but rarely did something come of it and, usually, their arguments were trivial and no longer affected the Prime Material Plane as it might have once done before they were sealed beyond the Divine Gate.

But now came a reason to argue and negotiate with things that would directly decide the fate of a Human.

Such a negotiation eventually rested between Erathis the Lawbearer and Moradin the Allhammer. 

“A man of the city. A figurehead of progress and civilisation. A lord that governs law. A soul that I rightfully have first claim over.” So was the argument made by the Lawbearer. 

“A man of engineering. A founder of advanced mechanics and technology. A tinkerer that creates that which he designs. Such a soul would naturally be offered to me first.” Such was the argument of the Allhammer. 

So Erathis argued further, “One that values that which I value and follows my commandments as a leader and a dedicated purveyor of progress and development and cherishes the importance of a united community... You think I should have no say in his fate?”

Thus Moradin countered, “And as one that regularly obeys my own commandments and promotes the strength of family, the strength of endurance and willpower in the face of catastrophe and preaches the true importance of legacy, valuing that which I value... Do you believe I must pass him by?”

And so the arguments went on, continually, until the other gods tired of the quarrel and told them that either they learn to share a soul, which was so greedily sought after already, or they acknowledge that some mortal souls were never to belong to anyone. That some souls were to be left, unclaimed, for no god to have legal ownership over. 

“But they will not be parted from each other,” Sarenrae had said. “To do so would be to weaken them. With Pike I have been for many years, longer than any of you have been with any of them. So I have taken share of their experiences and trials and I have felt their joy and their love for one another. They will not be parted.” 

Only the Raven Queen, silent in the presence of the other gods, felt the agitation of her companion spirit, Vax’ildan, as he also listened to these arguments and only the Raven Queen saw one of the pantheon leave without a word and only the Raven Queen saw her smile.

Vox Machina was sad and Percy knew it was because of him. Most of their problems were because of him. They’d had to suffer the hurt of not being with Tiberius when he died and they’d suffered the pain of losing Vax’ildan.

Percival coughed.

Now they’d have to say goodbye to him as well and it made them sad.

He’d always known he would be the next to die. If his shortened Human lifespan didn’t allow him to grow old and die or if the consequences of the accumulated stress of his youth didn’t shave off his years then the last curse left by Orthax would finish him. He was deteriorating faster than the average Human and while he was still able to run and fight with the rest of his family, there was an ache to his chest and in his lungs that he had never had before. 

And he was coughing again.

He knew it had to be Orthax. He’d catch wisps of tell-tale smoke drifting from his chest and out between his lips after a particular bad coughing spell and usually he’d only ever start smoking if his temper was exceptionally high or if he was especially wound up. Everyone knew that his spiritual scars had never healed and were just as apparent as the physical ones on his back and chest.

Another cough escaped him followed by a tired sigh as he rolled over onto his back, unable to work out if he was feeling too hot or too chilly that evening. Vex’ahlia’s hand fell from his bare torso but she barely stirred from her husband’s restless rolling though her sleeping face didn’t look peaceful. Percival felt that twinge of guilt again. She was exhausted, forever worrying about him.

His only comfort was that she would have Vox Machina with her when he died and she’d have their children there beside her, ready to support her. And, of course, Trinket would always be there too.

The old bear was snoring gently down on Vex’s side of the bed, his nose probably buried under his massive paws.

Percival shifted again and rolled over onto his side with his back to Vex, staring up through the bedroom window at the sky. The stars were out in their thousands and as the clouds passed, the larger silver moon, Catha, suddenly shone down on him, a few beams of light managed to weave around the curtains and shine directly onto his face.

He immediately thought of Vex walking through the garden in the sunlight. As a Champion of Pelor, Vex always shined extra brightly in the sun and Percy was constantly beguiled by how her dark hair caught the sun’s rays and how her skin looked the colour of honey and how her hazel green eyes turned gold. 

Vex’ahlia, in return, often remarked how beautiful and bewitching her husband was in the moonlight. According to her, Percy’s white hair held an ethereal shine of it’s own when in the light of the moon and his eyes, piercingly blue, almost glowed unnaturally within the shadowed circles around them. His pale skin looked like silk and one might mistake him for some haunting fey creature should he choose to wander about at night.

He wondered if he was glowing silver again right now. 

Out on one of the castle turrets, a crow let out a quiet caw.

The Castle crows, according to the people of Whitestone, were Lord Percival’s birds. They only ever roosted at the castle around his bedroom and were scarcely seen anywhere else except for the cemetery while the ravens, on the other hand, liked to frequent the town and preferred to roost on Lady Vex’ahlia’s house, near the shrine to the Raven Queen. 

The crow cawed again. He wasn’t sure why.

Drowsiness, however, was beginning to take him and, at long last, he drifted into sleep.

Caw! Caw!

Percy frowned and rubbed his eyes. The crows weren’t usually so noisy this late at night.

Caw!

He opened his eyes...

...and sat up once he realised that he was no longer in his room. His first instinct was to grab at his gun while he checked on his wife but both were missing and the only thing around him were trees, each one a deep dark navy with silver leaves that glittered in the light of the stars. From one of the branches, an owl stared down at him and hooted a welcome before silently lifting off and gliding in absolute silence out of sight.

Percy looked down at himself and noted that, yes, his skin did look even more milky pale when in moonlight. He was still only half clothed, bare from his waist up, sitting on a forest floor which was weighted by a faint fog that swirled around his ankles and wrists. Like smoke.

Slowly getting to his feet, Percy began looking all around the area, wondering if some troublesome fey creature was to blame or if this was nothing more than a frighteningly vivid dream. The crow that had cawed at him was hopping about on the ground a short distance away while many more crows all perched in the branches over his head.

Caw.

The crow flapped and found purchase on Percy’s shoulder, crooning softly and rubbing its beak against Percy’s silk skin before flying up into the tree to join it's family group, leaving it’s Human perch to rub at his shoulder where the bird’s claws had gripped him. Then, all as a flock, the crows dropped from the trees and flew off through the canopy, cawing loudly. With little protection and way of defence, Percy pondered on whether the decision to follow them was the wisest.

So of course he did follow them, eventually being lead to an enormous pond in the middle of a clearing. It reminded Percy of what Vex’ahlia had once described in her first vision from Pelor when she undertook the challenge of the Grey Hunt.

Except that wasn’t Pelor, there in the middle of the pond. 

She was a young woman with blue skin and flowing hair, as silvery white as his own, that draped down on either side of her like moon rays. She was so large that only her shoulders could be seen above the pond’s surface and where her eyes would be it was as though there were two shining moons, pale and round, one a little more pink, bathing the clearing in silver light. She paid no attention to the crows that flew off into the distance nor did she acknowledge the owl that hooted as it went gliding by. Her attention was on Percy, waiting for him, it seemed.

It didn’t take much brain power to recognised a goddess.

“...Aren’t we meant to be the ones to come to you?” Percy asked, dipping his head and really wishing that he had a shirt on. The Raven Queen had seen enough of his bare skin but that didn’t mean another goddess needed to as well. 

The blue skinned goddess smiled. “You never come to me. Is it so unusual for the gods to have lives and requests of our own? We are people too, you know.”

“I’m afraid I do know.” Percy looked back up and straightened his back, his dignity be damned. “So rather than send a message, you’ve brought me here. Is there a particular reason why?”

“You wouldn’t have come had I called you,” said the woman.

Percy risked a smile. “I may be without faith but I am not without respect. Am I needing to introduce myself?”

“Not at all, Percival. As for me, I am the Moonweaver, Sehanine.”  Her voice was like the feminine version of Pelor’s, echoing and reverberating in one’s ears, full of power and yet... sly and almost teasing. 

Percy had guessed but hadn’t wanted to believe it. He felt his mouth dry as he stiffly bowed. 

“...Then,” he swallowed, “I am at your service,”

“Do you mean that?”

Percy blinked. “What?”

“Do you really mean to offer your service to me?”

“I really meant it as a polite greeting.”

“A pity,” the Moonweaver lifted her arms out of the pond and folded them on the ground in front of her, gazing down at the little Human with a mischievous twinkle in her moon eyes. “It might have saved us a conversation.”

“And the nature of the conversation?”

“Well,” sighed the Moonweaver, “I would begin by offering my condolences. I understand that you are dying.”

Percy briefly closed his eyes. “A fate that has recently caught up with me, yes. But I have still a little time before then.”

“Yet it has weighed on your mind more heavily as of late.”

“Your Holiness,” Percy said in a louder voice, gripping his hands and trying to make eye contact with her, “ I mean no disrespect, but may I inquire why you have organised this meeting? I am of no religion and, quite frankly, I am in the habit of being rejected by gods. You and I have never spoken and have had no connection.” As far as eye contact with her went, he couldn’t do it and dropped his gaze soon after speaking.

“Indeed, you and I have never spoken and we have no reason to communicate. You possess no artefact of me and have barely even mentioned my name. I have no temple in your city and I am scarcely in your thoughts.” Sehanine leant forward and rested her head on her arms. “...Yet for many years, you have delighted me, Lord de Rolo. You delight very much.”

“A laughing stock of the gods,” chuckled Percy. “Now that is something that makes sense.”

“Laughing stock?” Sehanine mockingly gasped. “Certainly not. On the contrary, you have caused some dispute among us, troublesome man that you are.”

Another dark look appeared on Percy’s face and his smile fell away.

“I feared it was only a matter of time before the gods were forced to decide what became of me,” he murmured and turned his head. “So, which is it to be? The Hells or the Abyss? There are warrants for my soul in both.”

“Oh so many outcomes!” laughed the Moonweaver which took Percy by surprise. “The Hells, the Abyss, Erathis, Moradin... How is it that such a torn and damaged Human soul can be so greedily fought over by both gods and fiends?”

Percy furrowed his brow and turned back to her.

“You mean to say that this apparent dispute... That Erathis and Moradin have both expressed interest in my soul?” he asked incredulously. “Surely the only gods interested in that would be the Betrayer gods.” 

Gone was the merriment in Sehanine’s features. Her expression became hard and cold and her voice dropped into a deep growl.

“Do not make mention of them.”

Percy found himself taking a wary step back. “...Sorry.”

For a moment, there was silence except for the distant hooting and screeching of owls, the cawing of a murder of crows and the squeaks of bats that darted after moths around the pond. Finally, however, the Moonweaver sighed.

“...Percival, you know who I am. You know what I represent, yes?”

Percy glanced up at the dark navy night sky and nodded in silence.

“Unlike the wretch, Vecna, I am a goddess of needed secrets. I am a lady of illusions. Of hidden lovers and of tricks and misdirection. Now, why do YOU think I am here.”

Of all of Vox Machina, Percy was, without doubt, the most uncomfortable when it came to the gods. He had received very little in the way of help and guidance from them in his youth and he found them too distant to bond with. He could feel his unease creep up over him.

“...I am hesitant to ask if you are here to applaud my similar lifestyle,” he replied.

At once, Sehanine’s face creased into pleasure and she lifted her chin and laughed. 

“That is why you delight me,” she said and fixed Percy with another mischievous look. “Such a secretive person and so sly and cunning. Perfectly content to sweet talk those of an evil nature to the extent that even an Ancient Chromatic Dragon once recognised a kinship with you.”

An immediate memory of Raishan’s cold, cunning face filled Percy’s memory and he shivered though there wasn’t a breeze present to chill him.

“I can’t recall how many times I’ve had to say this but, once again, I am not a good man,” he said with a serious face. “My life is spent in the search of repentance and absolution. Redemption is unlikely. I can only atone for my wrongdoings by making sure those that might follow after me do not make my mistakes.”

“The moon closest to the world,” said Sehanine, lifting a finger to point at one of her eyes, “Catha, my beautiful eye that watches you all so closely... even that has a secret side. My dark side, that nobody sees. You have one too. You are like my moon, Percival. Everyone sees your shining qualities thanks to the light of the sun but none are able to see within the shadow behind you. What a mystery.”

“I am grateful for the sun,” Percy felt himself smile.

“As am I,” Sehanine smiled with him. “And your Vex’ahlia, is grateful for you. Her moon.” She lifted her head as though something else had momentarily snatched her attention away. “...Pelor is proud of her.”

“As he should be.”

Back to Percy came the Moonweaver’s attention.

“And who is proud of you?” she asked. A beat of more silence occurred before she placed an elegant hand to her bare chest and tapped it, twice. 

“You?” Percy very nearly laughed. “So you have taken the effort of speaking to me to firstly offer your condolences and then to say that you are proud and delighted with me? I would enquire what it is that warrants it?”

“As I have said, you are aware of your own mortality,” said Sehanine as she resumed leaning her folded arms on the grass. “Your days are numbered and the number is low and your guilt at the thought of causing more pain to Vex’ahlia is overriding the fear of where it is you might be going once you die.”

“Vex’ahlia doesn’t deserve more pain,” Percy admitted. “Keyleth doesn’t. None of them do. They are too good and are all far better people than I am.”

“Their futures are safe. Their threads, according to the Raven Queen, have secured destinations within the protection of their guardian deities.”

Percy frowned in confusion. “They do? Even Grog and Keyleth?”

“Indeed. They have found approval with the gods.” The Moonweaver tilted her head. “You know of this, don’t you?”

“I’m aware Grog has been talking about Kord recently. And Keyleth looked happier when we saw her last...” Percy trailed off, trying to picture the likes of Grog and Keyleth as faithful servants of gods as the others were. It didn’t seem plausible but then a thought, a single, hopeful thought came to him. “... Will they see Vax’ildan again?”

The Moonweaver smiled and her smile was beautiful.

“...He waits so patiently,” she nodded.

In that moment, peace came over Percy. He felt as though some of his guilty wrong-doings had just lightened their emotional loads to think that his friends might find happy endings.

“That’s good,” he said in a soft voice, his eyes dropping to the ground as he sighed.

“And there,” Sehanine gently commented, her voice a whisper, “I see the darkness in your eyes. The shame. The doubt.” A large blue-skinned finger appeared in Percy’s vision which carefully tilted his head back up so she could gaze at his face. “ You believe you will not join them.”

As respectfully as he could, Percy pulled away from her.

“Either I am destined for eternal slavery and fiendish consumption or I might have scavenged enough mercy to be allowed to drift aimlessly through the void of the Astral Sea,” he told her. He quietened then as his brain, often referred to as one of the greatest minds of Tal’Dorei, mulled over the conversation. “...But you spoke of the Lawbearer and the Allhammer. Why?”

Sehanine shrugged.

“Erathis believes that you are of the same mind as she is, whereas Moradin is certain that you have his qualities more,” she told him. “The Lawbearer wants the Lord of Whitestone. The Allhammer wants the Sophist of Native Ingenuity. Neither seem to want your soul to be lost to the Abyss or the Nine Hells.”

The thought of even one god wanting to secure his soul boggled him.

“And why not let me drift?”

The Moonweaver leant forward again and said, “Because Vox Machina must stay together. We have promised.”

She giggled at Percy’s bewildered face.

“...That is why I am here,” she added with a smirk.

“You? What?” Percy shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

Sehanine, still looking pleased with herself, propped an elbow up on the bank to her right and leant on it, using her left hand to stir up the moths that flitted about her glowing body.

“Aren’t I the mischievous one. Erathis and Moradin will be so cross.”

“Why?” was all Percy could ask.

“I’ve already told you,” came the answer, “you fascinate and delight me. We share much in common. I am, what some might call, a dabbler in the art of trickery and I have always been a fan of your schemes. Like me, you appreciate the importance of keeping certain secrets. Your experience with deals means that you now look for loopholes in every contract so you can misdirect and outsmart your enemies. It is entertaining to watch. You play with minor illusions and excel when it comes to smoke and mirrors - especially smoke, hmm?”

She chuckled at Percy’s uncomfortable shifting on the grass. She pushed up off her elbow and leant down to him again, her finger returning to gently touch his arm as her expression and voice softened into a gentle murmur.

“But over these, your passion for love is what draws me to you most. The way you were always so quick to make things for Vex’ahlia, to equip her with weapons and titles, to put her on a pedestal and elevate her in front and above all those who dared to ever look down on her.” She smirked again. “And you eloped. I LOVE elopement.”

Once again, Percy moved away from her touch.

“I am no god-fearing man,” he said. “I may show the qualities you admire but I... You would be displeased with me. I do not pray and I am not in the habit of celebrating any of the gods’ holy days unless I am accompanying one of my friends.” Percy shook his head. “I relied on no-one but myself when I was younger and now I rely on those around me. While I am grateful for the help that the gods have given in the past, I find it difficult to believe that I can ever learn to rely on a god for myself. I’m sorry.”

Whether Percy was anticipating a goddess’ wrath or not, it was still to his surprise that the Moonweaver laughed and gazed at him in an even more adoring manner. 

“You’re a faithless man who can’t seem to decide if his opinion of himself elevates him above all others or if he loathes himself to such an extent that he practically begs to be sent into eternal torment,” she tittered. Then she let out a dramatic sigh, and turned her face away as if in disappointment. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps the gods DO think you too broken and unworthy to be of any use to us. Perhaps you would be more content to accept whatever dark fate awaits you at death.” 

Percy felt his hands shake, another symptom of his failing health, as he stood and, to his shame, found himself becoming upset.

A younger, more uncontrolled and untamed Percival would have cast the Moonweaver aside with an affirming agreement and claim that he had too much blood on his hands to have earned anything resembling a happy ending. Back then, his life had no worth and though he possessed far too much pride to stop himself from looking down on others, he was happy to have it cast away like a scrap of parchment. It was only thanks to Vox Machina that he had scolded himself and had wrestled with his conflicting feelings of self-worth so that, over the years, he learned to accept his failings and it was ONLY because of the love and compassion that had been shown from the likes of Vox Machina and his sister Cassandra that he’d learned humility and forgiveness. He wasn’t perfect and he still had room to improve, that much he knew, but he was trying. 

“...Can I ask you something?” Percy found himself asking.

The Moonweaver peered between the strands of white hair at him and hid her smile. 

“Others have done, Percival. I see no reason why you cannot.”

Percy felt a flutter in his chest and another painful cough took over him for a few seconds. The Moonweaver watched him and waited patiently. 

“Do you...” Percy panted once his breath was almost fully caught, “...Do you think that... That I am deserving of a peaceful afterlife?”

Closer came the Moonweaver’s face until she was hovering just above him, gazing down with her intense lunar eyes. Her lips were full and blue but they weren’t smiling. In fact, she looked the most solemn since their conversation started. 

“Truthfully?” she replied in a hushed voice. “Anger is no excuse for selfishness or for violent murder and your thirst for revenge spawned one of the deadliest weapons this world will ever see.”

Percy felt a cold yet satisfying acceptance come upon him; this was what he deserved and he had known that for a very long time. 

“You are the Father of the Firearm,” she went on, “which means every death that comes at the end of a gun, throughout all the years of Exandria, you will indirectly be responsible for. And that will be a lot of blood on your Human hands. But...” Her fingertip came to rest against Percy’s chest so she could feel his heartbeat and the rattle of his lungs. She smiled. “...I have decided to take a chance on you, my fellow white-haired shadow walker, because you remind me of myself and because I DO think you deserving of a peaceful afterlife with your family, both the ones you have in life and the ones you’ve lost in death.” She chuckled at the Human’s amazed face. “I am also selfish and I like to gamble. I like to cheat and trick and misdirect and you are a much sought-after soul which only makes me more competitive. And if I must swindle a Shadow Demon from the Abyss in order to win, then I will accept that challenge.” Her eyes narrowed at him. “Are you willing to play the game?” 

“As what?” Percy practically laughed. “A competitor or a prize?” 

“Oh competitor first, Percival. You like competition as much as I do. Competitor in life and prize in death. Sound fair?”

Percy hadn’t moved away from her touch this time. 

“...This isn’t usually how the relationship between gods and mortals goes,” he said. 

“No,” agreed Sehanine, “but I have my followers. My sneaky little bastard children. Halflings, Humans, Elves, Half-Elves, a Tiefling or two...” She pulled her finger away. “You’ve never been one for gods and we both know this. Wouldn’t that be the most glorious trick, though? The man who adamantly swears allegiance to no deity and who possesses a soul desired by evil, is won by the Moonweaver.” 

“But you need me to agree.” 

“Mmm.” The Moonweaver rested her enormous head down to the ground, gazing at him with playful delight. “You’ve sold your soul twice now. Maybe you did so with the intention of cheating your way out of it. Bring me into the mix and let us really see some fun.” She lifted herself back up and her voice deepened. “You are a man who fears no god. Walk the moonlight as your wife walks the sunlight and play your red right hand.” 

Percy could feel another cough stirring but he swallowed and returned Sehanine’s gaze. 

“If you expect a religious man of me, it will be my pleasure to disappoint you,” he told her. “But if this is to be a business arrangement...” He smiled. “...I can do business.” 

“Insufferable, pretentious, conniving...” She laughed. “I believe we will become close allies. So be it, Lord Percival de Rolo the Third. Return to your city and your family and live out what remains of your days as the moon to Vex’ahlia’s sun, until the Companion of the Raven Queen comes for you. I will be waiting to receive you when the battle for your soul begins.” 

“And what becomes of me then?” 

“You mean once I’ve secured victory? That is up to you. Vox Machina will take on new roles together,” said the Moonweaver. “It is not for me to say.” 

Percy smirked. “So much for clockmaking.”

Sehanine grinned and held out her hand. Percy inhaled and reached out to grasp it, right as the crows came flying over, cawing louder and louder...

Caw! Caw-Caw! Caw!

Percy’s eyes opened just as the noisy crow darted by the window, flying away until it’s voice faded. Vex’ahlia sighed in her sleep and rolled over, automatically trying to find a husband to curl against. It took her hand only a few seconds to feel the scarred skin of Percy’s back and to then wrap itself around his chest, not realising that the heart that hammered away within was still beating rapidly. 

“Sorry, my dear,” Percy whispered, carefully untangling himself from her limbs. She moaned and wearily cracked open one eye. “I‘ll be right back. Go to sleep.”

Vex’s lids had already closed.

Trinket lifted his head to watch Percy pull on a night robe over his bare chest and settle his glasses on his face. He grunted questioningly. 

“Won’t be long, old boy,” Percy reassured him. “Stay with your mistress.”

Then he silently left, stealing through the bedroom door and walking briskly down the hallway, past the childrens’ bedrooms, towards the Library with his robe billowing out behind him in a very regal fashion.

In the past, Percy hadn’t any real reason to read the books about the gods of Exandria except for Pelor and Erathis, perhaps, but it wasn’t difficult to locate a book about the Moonweaver and read it by the light of a candle. Percy couldn’t help but smile a little upon seeing that Sehanine was supposedly a frequent visitor of the Feywild, a place that Percy had dreamt of visiting since he was a boy. He briefly thought of Garmelie and he wondered if he had ever had a chance to meet the Moonweaver... 

“And oh what a surprise. The Library,” a familiar voice sighed from the doorway.

Without looking up from the book, Percy’s smile widened. 

“Evening, Cass.” 

“For your consideration is likely to be morning soon.” Cassandra stifled a yawn and padded over, barefoot, wrapping her own gown around herself. “But I never liked going to bed unless my brothers and sisters were coming too. What’s inspired you to read at this time of the hour?” She came to stand at her brother’s side, looking over his shoulder and widening her eyes upon recognising the content. 

“The Moonweaver’s Commandments,” Percy read, his finger gently running over the ink. “Just looking for a flash of inspiration, that’s all.”

“You have another project planned already?” Cassandra asked, lifting her arm and running her fingers through Percy’s white hair. She felt a heavy lump in her heart as she felt him try and hide another cough, a sign that he wasn’t long for the world. “You’ve only recently finished building the greatest clock of Tal’Dorei. Not going to afford yourself a break?”

Percy closed his eyes and relaxed under his sister’s touch. 

“Do you know what the greatest clock is, really?” he murmured. 

“Not your clock tower?” 

“No,” Percy replied and lazily looked out the window, smiling as the silver light found him once more. “When it comes to keeping time, no clock is greater than the moon.”

Chapter Text

Sarenrae felt the warmth in the air, the sudden ripple that washed over her realm like a small wave, carrying a sense of safety and protection in it’s wake. She lifted her head and closed her eyes as another wave caught her flaming locks and caressed her dark skin. Far below, her pearls, the followers that had chosen to come to her for guidance, glittered and sparkled in anticipation. 

“I hear you, Dawnfather,” she called. “You have called and I have answered. What do you need of me?”

The gods did not need to be visually seen in order to be present and the Dawnfather’s warm invisible presence was as undeniable as his physical body. 

“Everlight. Dawnflower,” replied Pelor’s fatherly voice as he respectfully greeted her, “I give my apologies for entering your land without announcement. I come only to ask that you please allow us to assemble within your realm.”

Sarenrae lifted her face skywards and spread her enormous fiery wings out wide.

“Am I to therefore play host to my mighty brethren?” she smiled. “I of humble origins and little worship?” 

“We acknowledge that you have dwelt longer within the presence of Vox Machina,” Pelor’s voice told her, “and it is because of that that we respect your experience and your position.” A chuckle echoed around the area. “‘Humble origins’ and ‘little worship’ adorns you well, Everlight, for never have you looked mightier.” 

“You flatter me,” said Sarenrae. “Come. Bring those that accept the charge of a Hero’s Soul and we shall speak more.”

And so Pelor called across the plane from the Fields of Elysium and he summoned those that had claimed Vox Machina to join him on the Island of Renewell, Sarenrae’s realm. In physical form they manifested, one after the other, before Sarenrae and greeted her.

First, the Stormlord, his sword down. Second, the Matron of Death and, at her side, Vax’ildan to whom Sarenrae smiled warmly and embraced as though he were her kin. Third, the Wildmother, her arms open and welcome. Then, the Dawnfather, who took the Everlight in his arms and touched her head respectfully to reaffirm their bond. 

“The Knowing Mistress,” he told her, “is still to be kept hidden and kept safe, but will reach out to join us in spirit from where she rests.”

Finally, the Moonweaver came forward, stepping past the Dawnfather with a smile on her face and dipping her head by way of greeting. 

“It is no secret that we greatly wondered who would answer for the final soul,” Pelor had commented, eyes of bright sunlight falling on his counterpart who turned her moonlight back to him. 

“You surely did not doubt my ability, did you?” Sehanine grinned. “I have my ways, worrisome as some of you may find them. I only fear that the Lawbearer and the Allhammer will not take kindly to my trick.” She gazed in Melora’s direction. “Speak favourably of me when next you cross paths with the Lawbearer. Tell her I mean no insult.” 

Melora twitched her lips into a smirk but did not answer. 

“Were all your motives centred on playing tricks on them?” asked Kord. “Had you no other reason?” 

“But of course not!” Sehanine answered. “Though his soul be partially consumed and he will be forever connected in some way to the Abyss, I have grown fond of Percival and I deemed it proper that I take responsibility for him. He possesses too much healthy darkness in his heart to feel comfortable in the company of ‘good’ deities like many of you are.”

The Raven Prince looked to his Queen and she nodded back to him. 

“My companion is of the same opinion,” she murmured, her voice quiet as it always was when in the company of the Prime gods. “And I agree. He will be more comfortable under your guardianship where he can watch over his family and stay close to his beloved.” 

“For the reason I was forced to leave him,” spoke the voice of the Knowing Mistress, “is the very one that he will be suited to you. Secrets have no place in my order, but in yours they thrive.”

Sehanine looked back to Pelor and took great delight in the way he bowed his head in compliance with the decision. 

“Then we are in agreement?” Sarenrae asked, looking around at her audience. “Long I have dwelt within the heart of Pike and many prayers have been given on behalf of Vox Machina. I have seen and felt each of their trials and each of their troubles and every sacrifice made on behalf of Exandria and even...” She looked fondly toward Vax’ildan. “...on behalf of us. It is only because of Pike’s efforts and the support of her true family that I am strong enough to stand before you and because of this the reward from me must be great. Should there be any doubts of our intended promise, now be the time to voice them.”

Vax’ildan looked round at each of the gods, refraining from establishing direct eye contact, and waited as silently as his patroness.

His heart ached to be with his family. He thrived in the company of his Queen and in the embrace of his birth mother but more and more had his thoughts and attention turned toward the Material Plane to where his beloved walked beautiful and confident among the wilderness, a leader to be proud of and to where his other self was loved and respected, surrounded by family. He missed the songs and wit of the bard, the endearing charm of the barbarian and the caring understanding of the cleric and he watched them continue delighting and entertaining the people with their banter and joy and wisdom. He felt sorrow when he saw his brother, coughing in secret, slowly dying but forever creating beautiful toys and trinkets for his children. He did not want to fetch him so soon.

A cold yet comforting hand found perch on his shoulder and Vax’ildan turned to look up into the face of the Raven Queen who smiled sadly at him. 

“I fear,” then said the Raven Queen, “that some resentment still quietly lingers for me. Yet there is no hate. They have all accepted the terms of the agreement that was decided upon by us.” Her head came back up towards the gods. “I stand by the Everlight’s mind and I too wish to reward them. While I was not with them so long as she, I also have experience of their bond.” 

“So we stand united,” said Ioun from her Library. “Though all that must be decided on now is what service they will serve in our company. To live on the other side of the Divine Gate, a mortal must be rendered a soul or a spirit. Like the Matron of Death’s companion. What would you appoint them spirits of?” 

“These are heroes,” said Melora. “They may provide for other heroes as spiritual guides so, in a way, they can continue to protect Exandria through the ones that will replace them. I do not feel as though all of Vox Machina are ready to abandon their adventuring ways.” 

“I agree,” nodded Pelor. “Let them stay true to themselves throughout their service. Everlight?” He turned to Sarenrae. “What would you offer to your chosen Hero Soul?”

“To me,” said Sarenrae, in answer to this, “Pike will become like a sister and I will name her the Little Phoenix. She will continue to help others through her kindness and understanding and become the Spirit of Redemption. Heroes will call upon her when their morals are in doubt.”

Next, Pelor looked to the Raven Queen and said, “Need I ask of your intentions, Matron?” 

“I know what it is to be lonely,” the Raven Queen replied, “and it is for that reason that I have cherished my companion. Vax’ildan will continue to bring solace to those awaiting death as the Raven Prince, being a companion to them, and he will be the Spirit of Compassion, there to reward heroes who give of their lives on behalf of the innocent and to console the ones whose threads yet remain.”

Vax’ildan could feel the eyes of the gods on him, some gazes that he’d felt on him before and some gazes that were wholly new. He straightened his back and lifted his chin, as he had once done in Syngorn when the eyes of the Elves were to ever turn his way. Now though he felt no judgement, only admiration, and the course of new purpose began to flow through him as he ascended before them into his new place as the Spirit of Compassion. In time, Heroes would call to him in grief, some needing peace and some needing comfort and he would answer their calls on behalf of his Queen, the Matron of Death.

The voice of Ioun spoke once more and a smile could be heard on her voice, “Twice now have new appointments been granted on members of Vox Machina and to both has the form of a bird been given. It is fitting. For long have birds been called our messengers and heralds as these heroes will be to us. Thus, I will name Scanlan, my chosen, the Merry Songbird. He will continue to tell stories and impart the lessons learned from former tales and legends as the Spirit of Inspiration. Heroes will call for him when their fires of heroism are in need of reinvigoration and when their motivation is lacking.”

Sarenrae found a smile gracing her own face as she thought of the Gnome Bard and of his prayers to her over the years. He was one who she could say loved Pike as much as she did and who received that love in return. He had been the subject of many conversations that had occurred between Sarenrae and Ioun. 

“As for Lady Vex’ahlia,” suddenly said Pelor and his rumbling voice owned the attention of everyone stood before him. Vax’ildan’s chest warmed slightly at the mention of his twin’s name. “She has been many things. To some a sister...” Pelor’s burning face was almost too much to gaze at for long but the Raven Prince held it as it passed over him. “...To some a lover...” He trailed it by Sehanine. “...To many, a role model. Needless to say, she is a Lady and a Lady she shall remain. With her bear companion, my Champion will be the Golden Jay, ever watchful, ever perceptive, as she guards my forests as the Spirit of Recognition. Heroes come from many backgrounds, from the richest palace to the poorest hole in the ground, but all are equal when they call for her whenever they are in need of aid and provisions. None go hungry and none go cold. All are provided for in equal measure.” 

“Fitting. The impartial Sun shines on both the king and on the slave,” Kord said in acknowledgment and it was now his turn to face the audience. “So too will the Storm. My warrior will come to be known as the Painted Eagle, though an Ox may be more accurate. He will be the Spirit of Determination and Heroes will call on him in the midst of battle when they feel their strength waning and their power dwindle in the face of mighty opposition, imbuing warriors with indomitable wills and relentless endurance.”

Melora stepped forward. 

“Strength is good, yes, but it means nothing if a hero doubts their ability,” she said. “Keyleth has agreed to be my friend. Not a follower. But in my company, she shall be known as the Roc Maiden and as master of the elements, she will be the Spirit of Dedication. Heroes will call to her when their confidence is lacking and when the time has come for them to pass through fire.”

The Raven Prince once again felt a swell of emotion stir in his heart.

“Well, it seems to me that future heroes of Exandria will have all they need to protect the land,” said Sehanine. She walked forward and turned to face each of them in turn. “Provisions from the Golden Jay, strength from the Painted Eagle, motivation from the Merry Songbird, solace from the Raven Prince, confidence from the Roc Maiden, guidance from the Little Phoenix... What else is there to give them? What other emotional or physical support do they need? Morals, endurance, love... These are all that has been given to them now through your chosen ones.” She closed her eyes and her smile faded. “Ah, but I know. We have given much to allow heroes to save others but what is there to save the heroes? We have seen it happen before and it will happen again; dark forces continually seek the light. Evil will be drawn to heroes, in the hopes of leading them astray. Deals will be made and the good will be preyed upon. My chosen has experience. Percival might find contentment in watching the moons keep time but when he joins me as he will do soon, he will become the Spirit of Salvation. When Heroes are tempted by demons, coerced by devils, sweet-talked by fiends and those alike, they will call for him for rescue and evil will run when the White Crow flies.” 

For a few seconds, there was a respectful silence as each deity weighed the responsibility of their promise of the futures they were prepared to offer to Vox Machina. 

“So be it,” Sarenrae spoke and the other gods agreed.

They retreated back to their own lands and they waited.

The Raven Prince continued serving his Queen until the day came when, with a heavy heart, he found himself standing over the body of Percival de Rolo III, watching the rest of his family grieve. Beside him stood the White Crow, ready to be escorted to the Moonweaver. 

In time, Vox Machina were reunited and they lived in their own world, a plane where they could take care of the souls of their loved ones and carry out their duties together. They oversaw the hunters at the Slayer’s Take and the adventurers belonging to the Darington Brigade, even as members came and went. 

New heroes emerged on Exandria and they travelled and did great deeds just as heroes before them had and Vox Machina were proud. Heroes that explored the world and heroes that stayed at home to look after their land - all were watched by Vox Machina. 

Whenever a hero needed them, they were there to put their experience to good use, flying to give aid when it was needed and ensuring that their memory was never forgotten. 

They stayed together, as the gods had promised. Always adventuring, always wandering, always laughing, arguing and playing pranks on one another, always reminiscing and always singing. There was always singing with Vox Machina. 

Unless they hear the call of ‘jenga’...