Archive of Our Own ^beta

Cassandra stares at her vomit.

She doesn’t really know why; she just sits and stares and waits and stares and sits and waits. The silence is suffocating and if she had anything left, she thinks it would join the pile of bile already staining the carpet. There’s porcelain too, cracked and as broken as she feels. It’s scattered across the floor. The tea she had been enjoying left a bitter taste on her tongue, what had spilt from the cup was already seeping into the fabric below her feet. She could feel her stomach twisting into knots, flipping over again and again and again.

Delilah should be dead.

The thought alone makes her stomach cramp up, a lightning of pain worming its way up her throat. She manages out a strangled cry as her head rests in her shaking hands. Cold sweat trickles down the side of her face, her dress scratches at the nape of her neck.

Delilah Briarwood is alive.

She doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t think there is anything she can do. Not her, helpless Cassandra that needed saving in the first place. The girl that allowed herself to get moulded and manipulated into a toy- a pawn, to be used in some great evil plan. So instead, here she is, wallowing in self pity, her eyes peaking through her fingers, still staring at the pile of vomit on her floor.

Abruptly, she stands.

She needs to find Percival.

He had come and told her about the news in the first place. He said it was better that he tells her the news, rather than anyone else and for that, there is a small slither of appreciation. She hadn’t taken in much from his visit. Didn’t notice his expressions, like she usually did. His face was a blurred haze, his voice barely a whisper. She had then begged him to sort this out once and for all and he had met her pleas with a steadfast promise. Then he had respected her need for privacy and so, she’s now sat alone, swallowed by the silence.

She knows if she sits here any longer, she’ll break into too many pieces.

What she needs is to speak with him, to just look at his face rather than her own thrown up insides. Just to be able to see someone else who truly understands her, to be grounded just enough that her wobbly breaths don’t tear her lungs apart.

She strides down the corridors, posture gone, and her shoes discarded. Her quite footsteps approach his room, and she almost tells herself to turn back, retreat into the perfect sanctuary she can build where she’s all porcelain smiles and dainty laughs.

What if Vex was in there too? It wouldn’t be abnormal for her to be there. Perhaps Keyleth, the two were always very close as well. It wouldn’t be abnormal for him to speak to either of them right now. Or what if he was somewhere else completely? He could’ve easily hauled himself elsewhere, busying himself until he passes out at a work desk. It takes one to know one. She knows all too well what it’s like to distract yourself until the lull of sleep sneaks up on you.

Before her mind can settle on an option, the world chooses one for her. The door swings open and Percival is stood there, his face unreadable and hair unruly as if his hand had run through it again and again and again. Knowing him, that’s probably exactly what happened.

“Ah- Cassandra,” he straightens himself up and she can’t help but hate him for doing so. There was simply no need to hide anything between the two of them. Definitely not right now. “I wasn’t- wasn’t expecting you.”

She surveys him for a moment, watching closely to see if she can catch just a glimpse of him. Of her brother. Instead, she just sees Percival of Whitestone. A man who has had to keep it all together just as much as she has. Who is so used to building up an appearance to not show weakness. She wonders where the brave and loyal man of this city ends, and her brother begins.

“Can we talk,” is all she can manage. She despises the shake in her voice.

He nods, curt, and steps to the side allowing her into his room. It’s immaculate, bedsheets pristine and nothing out of place. She lowers herself onto the end of his bed, as he shuts the door with a soft click and moves across the room to sit on a chair at his desk. It’s the only thing in here that looks even remotely moved and used. With papers strewn across the polished oak, the faintest of ink splotches staining it. Small scrap metal pieces are dotted around the edges, pushed out of the way to make room for quills and paper and books. Knowing him, he has a use for them and is saving each individual piece for when he has time to create his next invention.

Cassandra stares at her brother.

She notices him now, in clear detail sat under the oil lamp. The light of the flame flickers across his face gently, it gives her a false sense of security. Makes her think that he actually looks warm and alive. In an instant, the feelings gone. She notices how tired he looks, the grey circles under his eyes are stark against his pale skin. She can see his veins more clearly than she ever could, they twist up his neck in a way that looks like hands grabbing a throat. It makes her own throat tighten with distaste.

Percy intakes a breath, it’s sharp and apparent, “are you quite alright?”

That’s when she bursts into tears.

It couldn’t last any longer, the appearances. Holding your head so high up, shoulders back and spine straight. She slumps over into her own crossed arms, weeping.

Next to her, she can feel Percy’s weight on the bed. She can’t feel him though, and she imagines that if she had the energy to look up right now, she would be met with hesitant body language. They’ve never really been a family of affectional touch. Not even before- when life was easier- before every single bad thing happened to them. She doesn’t know what she would do if she felt him in this moment. Maybe the touch alone would burn through her skin and leave her as a pile of ash.

But she can still feel his presence next to her. And, just for the moment, that is enough. To know he is sat next to her, that he won’t leave until she requests it.

She chokes on her own sobs. There’s a dampness on her dress sleeve and an ache in her face that she knows no amount of cold water would fix. She let’s it out. Each cry flowing out of her, it sends tremors through her bones. Her chest heaves, her lungs feel heavy, like stones knocking against her rib cage. She sits and shakes, coughs out pitiful sounds that she never would’ve dreamt of ever letting out. Never in the presence of someone else.

But there is someone else. Slowly- so, so, slowly- she lifts her head up. When her cries have morphed into sniffles, and she thinks she can actually take a breath without hiccupping on the air. Her eyes adjust to the soft light and behind her glossy gaze does she finally meet Percival’s.

He doesn’t look like a leader, in this moment. He no longer looks like the young man devoted to Whitestone.

No, he looks like her brother.

And he looks so, so, very human.

His shoulders are slouched, a tension unbearably knotted beneath his skin. His lips are pressed thinly into a trembling line. However, what she notices the most, is his eyes. They glisten wetly, the blue-grey covered by an unfamiliar sheen. They look tired. His whole body looks tired. She thinks, briefly, that maybe she should leave him and let him rest.

Yet her hand reaches up to his cheek. It hovers for a moment, unsure on if she should continue. When he leans his head sideways slightly, she knows it’s okay to do so. Her fingers brush away the faint tear tracks. She never once heard him cry but that was perhaps because her own heartbeat was drumming in her ears. Her thumb slides over his skin, gentle, and she feels what was once pure and soft is now calloused, scarred with fights and stained beyond repair.

“You’re crying,” she points out and she knows her voice cracks and she knows what she said was obvious but neither of them decided to mention any of that.

Instead, Percy let’s out a broken laugh, “well, so are you.”

She mimics his laugh, it feels scratchy against her throat, “we really are pathetic, aren’t we?”

“I wouldn’t say pathetic- that is certainly a harsh word to use. But I agree with your sentiment, we really are something.”

“I-” she takes in a shuddering breath, blinks slowly and recentres herself, “I need you to kill her, Percy. You must.”

“I will, I promise,” he says, just like he had earlier. Cassandra wants to believe the promise, she really does. However, Delilah should’ve been dead- had already died, yet she apparently still roamed these lands. Apparently, she lives and breathes and is very much still flesh and blood and bones.

“Sorry.” She apologises, “I’m sorry I’m like this.”

“Don’t be, she has done terrible things- she treated you horrifically. I say this is a reasonable response.” Percy takes a break, there’s hesitance written in his eyes, but he continues regardless, “Cass- I’ve said it before but I’m so sorry for leaving you in Whitestone back then. If I had known-”

“Don’t you dare,” she cuts in abruptly, “don’t apologise for that. You thought I was dead; you did what you had to in order to survive.”

“But if I had just taken a moment and gone back for you then maybe none of that would’ve-”

“If you had gone back for me, you would’ve died. Or worse, been captured again. Your freedom is the reason we are here right now. It is the reason we can be siblings again, we can run Whitestone again.”

“It is also the reason Delilah is still alive,” he adds quietly.

Cassandra sighs, “she will be dead soon, I trust you guys. You will be able to kill her.”

Percy nods. “Just like we killed Anna, Delilah will perish and then we will finally be free from all of this.”

In this moment, she is again reminded that Ripley is dead. She heard the story, how Vox Machina took her down, made it as agonising as possible. Yet a part of her hates the thought, as it is simply overtaken by the image of Percy. His cold, pale body. Still and unmoving. How her world seemed to freeze in that moment, taking a picture of her brother’s corpse and etching into her brain. The bitter stench of copper, bullet holes tearing into his once white shirt, now a murky crimson. How she watched, helplessly, as the ritual happened and how she almost vomited and passed out when he finally took a gasping breath.

“Cass?” Percy calls out to her. She blinks. She had accidentally let her thoughts wander.

“Just thinking, is all.” She smiles sadly and Percy seems to understand. He offers her his hand and she gladly takes it. She feels the scars across the back of his palm, taut and rigid. Then there’s her own rough fingernails, the cuticles ripped away, leaving jagged skin.

“We will kill her, I promise.” He gives her hand a single squeeze and she finds herself giving one back.

This time, Delilah better stay dead.