RP:What Was Left Behind (And What Was Carried Forward)

Part of the What You Leave Behind Arc

Summary: Kahran is dead. The Remnant War is ended. And Lionel, against all odds and through the will of his friends, has been given a new lease on life. As he and Penelope briefly discuss the present, they begin to ponder the future. After a year of planning and two years of execution, 'What You Leave Behind' comes to a melancholy end. Yet the true mastermind behind Kahran's rise watches from the void, where souls go to slumber. For Lionel, it is the beginning of a brand new book. For Esche, it is merely the next chapter in a conflict millennia in the making. For now, Lionel and his allies are free to breathe, and free to aid in resolving the many unrelated dangers of the world. But there shall come a day of reckoning. The arc is over; the saga will continue.

Book’s End; Book’s Beginning

Penelope :: Lionel O’Connor woke up on the field. The slow beating of the heart made the healer pull her crimson stained hand out of his chest. “He’s waking… He’s waking!” The woman would look at the sorceress in gratitude instead of that cold dead stare. Moss eyes stare down at the now lazily smiling warrior. A loud breath of relief exits as her head hunches over while bloody hands press against her knees. He was alive. Alive. From there, time was not wasted. Lanara had gently tugged Penelope to move so she can work her magic on Lionel. Across the field, Yerrel is riding horse back—a cart in back. His spirit had reconnected to his body and he had found the group of four immediately. No one knew this forest more than Yerrel. The horse comes to a halt and the elderly man jumps down. He brushes past Penelope who sits on the grass and remains in a daze. He is alive. Alive. Yerrel moves to Lionel and mumbles something to Lanara saying that he will ‘take over from here’. The witch agrees and lets Yerrel observe the warrior.

Penelope :: Yerrel’s elderly eyes skim over the opened chest. That wound was first priority. Yerrel observes the wound in great detail to get a sense on what needs to be done. “Don’t move, we have you now, son. I’m going to fix as much as I can.” The man kneels down and hovers a hand over Lionel’s chest. From there, a swirl of yellow light begins to expand from his wrinkled hands. The light moves within the man’s chest. The wisps begin to connect to the torn tissue and begins to weave the chest wound back together. The wisps glide back and forth like sewing thread and needle. The yellow light then disperses. What is left of Lionel’s wound is raw new flesh without skin. Almost like road-rash. The skin would have to renew, and for now patched up with medical gauze. “Miss Halifax will make sure your heart recovers with medicine. For now, let’s get you in a more stable environment,” the man looks suspiciously around the area as if something is bound to happen next if they remain out here. He does not understand the entirety of the situation. Flames. Dead corpses. The man then looks to Lanara, Rorin, and Penelope. “Let’s get him in the cart and back to the hut.”

Penelope stands up through chain of command. The woman is still in a blur with the trauma that had happened to the warrior. He is a patient, Penelope. Treat him like one. The woman moves with the rest of the group to try to get the battered man in the cart. Once that succeeds, they would move through the forest. Penelope sitting on the rim of the cart next to Lionel and Yerrel on horseback. Lanara and Rorin agree to trail behind and walk to the healer’s hut. At destination, Yerrel and the girl assist the man inside the warm, small shack. Automatically, they assist him to a cot. “Get him cleaned and stitched up, Penelope. I’m going to let Mr. Erickson know that we need medicine from your shop.” The herbalist nods at her elderly coach and then Yerrel disappears back out the door. The woman is automatically moving about the hut to find the supplies she needs for Lionel. She looks as if she is in pilot mode to tuck every feeling she had in. Her motions with her hands appear to be frantic, but her face appears expressionless.

Lionel hadn’t registered a thing that old Yerrel had said. He wasn’t conscious; he was dreaming. For once in his life, it was a happy dream. A dream with no strings attached. No pointed asterisks with tiny text at the bottom of the page. It was a dream that felt as real as dawn’s first light, a dream where the revenging prince could see the many faces of the lost -- the Catalians slain a decade past when Kahran destroyed his kingdom utterly. The faces coalesced and it occurred to the sleeping Lionel that they belonged to souls passing into the afterlife. Souls which had been trapped, teetering, desperately in need of justice. It was a green dream, a dream of only green, a happy dream. A dream of endings. It was what he left behind.

Lionel blinked twice and took a slow, steady breath. He thought he was dead. How else could have dreamed a happy ending? His whole body ached; it ached so terribly that he should have been incapable of thinking of anything but the pain. Instead, his smile deepened. He remembered everything until his heart stopped but he could feel his heart beating now. How was he alive? The answer, evidently, was a woman with frantic hands and an expressionless face moving to and fro inside the hut that Lionel had been brought to. “It’s over,” Lionel said. The words felt final. The words felt good.

Penelope hears him speak. The frantic hands stop piling stuff into her arms. Moss eyes flicker out the window and she looks at the light from dawn creeping in. The healer turns around at the foggy man. “It’s over,” and the easing of her tone floods the room, “You’re alive, Sir O’Connor.” She shuffles across the room to his bedside and sets the medical pile on a tray beside her chair. “You saved them all, and you get to live to tell the tale,” she actually manages a smile at this point through the horror of his death. The woman then tugs at his shirt on his healing flesh wound. Her smile goes flat. He would bare the scar of the day his heart stopped. Her hand reaches to a container where she unscrews the lid. The woman runs her fingers through the yellow jelly-like salve. “To numb the pain, and well, hopefully help the wound heal.” Gently she would brush the raw flesh on his chest. She knows the touch might hurt like hell, though he seemed to be in shock from it all with the smile on his face. Her hand reaches out to snatch a large gauze pad to rest on the wound. The salve makes the pad easy to stick and she secures the pad by stretching out medical tape to strap the soft fabric down.

Lionel || The touch did indeed hurt like hell… and Lionel indeed remained in shock with a smile. At last, the smile faded, and the Catalian’s countenance took on greater seriousness. “We saved them together,” he gently corrected Penelope. “Halycanos is dead,” was added grimly. “I know that none can truly understand what it felt like to have shared one’s life with something so ancient, so alien. So angry. But ever since a confused young teenager first lifted a certain fiery sword, Halycanos has been with me, aiding me, saving me. He did more for our realm than anyone will ever know.” Lionel paused. “I’m terribly thirsty.”

Penelope is listening to the foreign language from the man and she continues to address different cuts that need tending to. “I know it is hard losing something that is so… familiar to you. It’s like a piece of you goes away,” she pours a cleansing alcohol solution on a piece of cotton before dabbing the ball on his smaller gashes. “Sorry, I know this stings,” she says for a side note. As he mentions his thirst, she realizes she feels the exact same way. Her supplies are put down on the tray as she moves to the corner of the room where Yerrel always places the water pitcher and glasses. The woman grabs two glasses and pours the water before bringing it back to the warrior. “You learn to live with the quiet. You live a new life,” she then extends the glass to the man before she hastily gulps down her own glass. She then sits back next to him and continues the poking and prodding process.

Lionel drank deeply of the water and thought it was the most refreshing glass of ambrosia his lips had ever tasted. “The quiet,” he repeated. Now that was foreign language. “Tell me… Penelope. How did you save me? I wasn’t just certain of my pending death -- I felt it. I know I was dead. Forgive me, but I worry this is some trick. It doesn’t seem like a trick. Everything seems real. But so did my dream…” Doubtless, some of what the man was saying would be lost on the healer. But it was clear that he had questions. Yet in his eyes there was a constant, sincere gratitude. It was almost as if his eyes already knew this was no illusion but his mind needed affirmation. Lionel’s was a mind that had never known peace -- never known the quiet of which Penelope Halifax had spoken. It sounded like a lovely, lovely thing. He wanted it to be as real as the water.

Penelope ’s body temperature begins to cool down as the hydration sets in. The girl reaches out to assist Lionel if he needs help with the glass. Her mind was not all the way straight. Her muscles ached, she was covered in dry sweat, dirt, and blood. Once he is finished, she continues pressing the drenched cotton ball on his wounds. As the questions depart from him, her eyes continue to purposefully focus on the wounds at hand. Silence overcomes them for a beat or two and her moss eyes finally find his. She massaged his heart for countless minutes. Her face appears distant as she reflects on his lifeless body. The cleansing of his bloodied wounds slows down a pace. “I couldn’t save you,” she says grimly with regret. At this point she places her tools on the tray again. “Rorin got to you first and he tried reviving you with a spell. I tried massaging your heart to stabilize you—nothing worked.” She turns to the tray to idly grab her stitch kit. The woman needed a moment to breathe at the thought. Her chest felt tighter. “The sorceress,” she shifts back to him again. “She gave us a choice. She wanted to ruin you. I didn’t choose either of them until you were you. She saved you.”

Lionel knew the identity of the ‘sorceress’ immediately. Mulgrew. Of course she would show up when all was said and done. Yet she couldn’t help them kill Kahran? ‘No,’ Lionel realized. She had helped. She had sent Rorin. For all Lionel knew, she had sent Lanara as well. In any case, she was a trickster, a deceiver… and today, a lifesaver. But only after a fashion. “In that case,” he said slowly, “I would argue that you were the one who truly saved me.” A beat. “I would,” he reiterated, “if you weren’t the best damn arguer in Lithrydel.” Lionel’s smile returned. “Thank you, Penelope. The words sound hollow as I say them, but I’m not sure what else can be said. I’m going to make sure your hut is never again wanting for stock. I know some people, you know.” An understatement? Probably. But Lionel didn’t seem to think so. To him, what mattered was that the people he cared for had what they needed and were free to strive toward what they wanted. Yet it wasn’t until this very stitch in time that he began to realize that the same rules now applied to him. He was free. “I think I need to sleep,” he said with reluctance. “I think you do, too.” Less reluctance that time. “And I think, when we wake up, I’m going to tell you what I’d like to do with the rest of my life.”

Penelope stared at him with those doe-eyes. “I don’t think I deserve all the credit. Lanara sure has a backbone herself,” she says sheepishly and then her smile begins to grow. “You would be doing Yerrel and I a favor. Thank you, Lionel,” and she recovers grace. “I think you need to sleep, as well. I’ll have Mr. Erickson come in and finish your stitching. He has to bring over your medicine anyway. Your heart appeared to have some damage. We need to make it stronger again.” The smile on the herbalist’s face falls away and sincerity glazes over her visage. “I hope you do, so I’ll see you when we wake.” The girl leans forward and grasps the warrior’s hand. “And Lionel,” pause. “I would save you all over again,” she gives his hand a squeeze before she stands up slowly. Her whole body ached. The freckled woman then walks to the door, looks back, smiles and then disappears into the morning light.

The Man Who Sold the World

The void between worlds was an emerald-shaded vortex filled with nothing but lost souls, damned souls, dead souls, and the last two Ishaarite elves in the universe. “You gambled and lost,” Mulgrew said. Her tone was crisp and cool. She had brought her white hair up in buns, revealing her distinctly Ishaarite elven ears -- the same as Esche’s. Her companion shrugged, feigning disinterest, but Mulgrew knew better. “Don’t bother saying it,” the woman carried on. “You had always intended for Kahran to die once he had outlived his usefulness. Yet he hadn’t, had he? You needed more, didn’t you? I can see it in your ancient eyes. Not enough souls.”

The faces of the lost and damned and dead flung past the two elves by the thousands. Faces of the innocents, slaughtered by Kahran’s forces. Faces of soldiers on both sides of the war. Faces of the troops of Larket and Frostmaw, who had died before Kahran had ever revealed himself to Lithrydel; they had perished without purpose, wholly unaware that their lives had ended as partial prelude to the shape of things to come. And there were the many faces of the lost -- the Catalians slain a decade past when Kahran destroyed the kingdom utterly. Those faces, more than any, appeared peaceful. The face of Kahran himself almost flew past Esche, but he caught it and ripped it from the death strand that was all that remained of the dark lord’s soul. Kahran’s face, in full scarred and boiled horror, stared blankly at the elf. Lionel and Halycanos had killed the evil man utterly; there was only a whisper of sentience left for the afterlife, and all it knew was fear. Esche placed an open palm on the face’s forehead and watched indifferently as it crumbled into dust; the dust, in turn, crumbled into absolute nothingness. “No,” Esche conceded. “Not enough souls.”

“You didn’t expect their realm to prove so capable. Perhaps you should not have played the benefactor.”

“And what exactly is the role that you are playing, Mulgrew?” Esche snapped. He approached her in wrath. Her response was to move not a centimeter. He couldn’t kill her, just as surely as she could not kill him. The both of them were functionally dead, holding firmly to the land of the living by the thread of an Ishaarite spirit. Ishaarite spirits, like the one who had just perished. Like Halycanos. Esche gave up when Mulgrew’s only answer to his inquiry was a grin. He sighed and looked back at the vortex of souls. “There were four,” he said with forced calmness.

“And now there are three,” Mulgrew agreed. “Your spirit. My spirit. And the third, which is safe beside that very interesting rogue-like gentleman with a fondness for the better sort of spirits.” The old woman chuckled. “But Halycanos was always something of a pest, though, wasn’t he? Your lot had to tranquil him to keep him from harming himself and others. How much was left of the poor thing in the millennia before his reawakening? Before his peculiar attachment to the prince?”

“Do not disparage the dead.” Esche’s voice was firm.

An hour passed, perhaps longer. The stream of souls headed off into the finality of peace and purpose at last subsided. Mulgrew was the first to speak.

“Now what will you do?”

Esche stepped inside the vortex, vanishing from the void between worlds. “Nothing has changed,” the elf spoke from afar. “The directive remains. Ishaara will be reborn. And her rebirth shall be paid for in full by the blood of every savage Lithrydelian on earth.”