An Early Grave (Lucien)

 A/N: Happy spooky season and happy Halloween it's a two post in one day event for the occasion :)

The burial practices of the Dunmer have always fascinated me, as they do not bury their dead in the way we do in the west. Rather, they cremate their dead and keep the ashes in highly decorated ceremonial urns, or pits of ash and bone. “From the ash, and to the ash returned.” Valan once told me, as a way of summarizing. I didn’t think my own remains would end up the same way, or that I would take to such an early grave. My body was so broken burying it would take more time and money than cremation, and so now my ashes sit on a shelf in the sanctuary…most of them anyways, some had been returned to High Rock, and scattered into the Iliac Bay, one of the few places I had fond memories of from my childhood. In my current state I have found that more people than expected have too met an early demise, whether through battle, foul play, or simply natural causes. The spirits of Falkreath have many interesting stories to tell. While primarily Nordic, Breton, and Imperial there are a few Altmer spirits interred in the blood soaked ground. Within the confines of the graveyard there is also a tiny Dunmeri ancestral shrine, an almost lantern shaped stone structure no more than a foot tall encircled with a small pit of ash. Compared to the ancient gravestones that have fallen into disrepair and become covered with moss, the shrine is almost pristine. Late one night while the rest of the town sleeps, and the members of the Falkreath sanctuary either rest or plot their next moves, I wander through the graveyard, paying respects to the dead, and cleaning the graves if I can. Not many of the spirits of the dead buried here are out tonight, only a few walk the empty streets unseen by the guards on patrol. Many are old warriors who perished in one of the countless battles that took place in this otherwise sleepy town. The ghostly dog that guards the graveyard, who I have taken to calling Grim, helps with cleaning the headstones and tending to the graves as well as alerting should guards pass by. While the guards can see me due to my rather unique nature, they don’t seem to be overly surprised, and most ignore me. Either that, or they’re intimidated by the large black dog growling at them in the darkness, I don’t know, nor do I particularly care. As the night continues on Grim and I sit in the graveyard for a bit to rest when I notice a single figure come riding into town and as he passes I recognize it’s Everan. He must be passing through to Riverwood to meet with Delphine, the poor excuse for a Blades agent. I consider calling out to him but it is late and I do not want to startle him, he is likely tired, and so I let him pass without disturbance. Shortly after I sense something is off, I hear what sounds like humming, and Grim gets up from where he had been laying and starts trotting off in the direction of the small shrine. Scrambling to my feet I quickly follow the large dog until we come upon a strange sight. Sitting on the stones by the shrine looking in the direction of the inn is a young girl, who seems almost familiar, her face illuminated by the light of a lantern placed next to her. “Do I know you?” I ask the girl “You look familiar.” At that she turns to me and Grim, who goes up to her and puts his head in her lap, awaiting pets. “I don’t think so. What’s your name? And who is this?” She asks me while giving Grim a pat on the head. The ghostly dog wags his tail happily in response. “My name is Lucien LaChance, and this is Grim. He guards this graveyard, I just come visit every so often.” I explain and the girl seems to recognize my name “Oh, you know my brother!” Her brother? Who could be her brother? I hope I didn’t kill her brother…the issue with Mathieu and his mom was more than enough. “He’s staying at the inn he just got here, I like to see what he’s doing sometimes if there’s a shrine nearby, unless he summons for help.” Now who do I know that’s staying at the inn and is at least part Dunmer? Not Valan, his dad is the summoned spirit of choice, and he’s an only child. Teldryn as far as I know is still freezing in Raven Rock, and Qin is older than he is and still alive unless something terrible has happened since I last saw her, and Talvas has no siblings nor is he on the continent at the moment either. That only leaves Everan, ah that makes sense! “You’re Leah Thenath aren’t you?” Though it took me a while to figure out she seems happy that I was able to do so. Wow Everan was right, his sister did die very young…very very young. While she is still technically older than me, it seems she was no more than around six years old when she died, or as she corrects me later, was murdered. Her body was never recovered, and so due to her mixed ancestry she takes the form of a wandering ancestral spirit, preferring to follow her brother unseen except when necessary. “I don’t really talk to him, I don’t want him to feel bad.” Even after all these years Everan still blames himself, even though he too was a child. Now I think I understand why it is he and Issy get along so well, both carry the invisible weight of siblings, and friends, who took to an early grave. Little do they know, we form our own little community, one caught between the world of the living and the world of the dead. Gone, but not entirely, and certainly not forgotten.

Never Argue With A Dark Guardian (Lucien)

A/N: this silly prompt has been sitting around forever so I finally decided to finish it, happy Halloween!

 Prompt: arguing

They say to never argue with a dark guardian, or any sort of undead, it won’t go anywhere. “Dennis, what are your thoughts on Breton cheese compared to Imperial cheese? Which is better?” I ask the dark guardian who stands lurking in his usual spot. While he lacks the ability to speak he is capable of conversing in his own way, usually through various noises and some gestures. I debate making him some sort of alternative communication system using pictures though I’m not sure he would be all that interested in using it. After asking if he likes Breton cheese or if he prefers Imperial cheese again I get a noise for the latter. “Really?! To think I overheard the guards the other day saying how they need to import some more things from Wayrest!” The skeleton makes a scoffing sound at the mention of the city of Wayrest, which I am inclined to agree with, in all honesty. “Alright then, which is a better city then, Wayrest or Daggerfall?” On that topic we agree that Daggerfall is the superior city, though not before arguing about which neighborhoods are the best. We spend the better part of an hour arguing about a variety of topics, mostly about cheese though as it's on the list of groceries I need to get. Eventually the time comes for me to get going into town to do the tasks written on my neglected to do list. “I’ll be back around five, do you want anything?” I ask Dennis while collecting my things and beginning to climb the ladder to the surface. Dennis makes three distinct noises that almost sound like words. “Okay okay, I’ll get apples, hay, and see if I can find some fish bones.” With my answer I get a happy sounding noise before the dark guardian wanders off out of sight into the rest of the fortress. Why he wants those things specifically is beyond me, unless he meant the apples and hay for Shadowmere and the fish bones for some other reason. Fish bones can be whittled into surprisingly useful things.

Reaching the top of the ladder I open the trap door to the surface and climb out into the fresh air. The sun is shining and it has since dried up from the rain storm we had the night before. Before heading into the city itself I stop and give Shadowmere her breakfast and refill her water before setting off. With the list of tasks securely in one of my many pockets and a batch of poisoned apples at hand I head for the sanctuary to drop them off and check in with the group there. I might even say hello to Frank, the dark guardian who guards the sanctuary. He was the first dark guardian I ever encountered, and previously did not have a name, though he has inhabited the sanctuary much longer than anyone currently there, not unlike Dennis and his companions at Fort Farragut. Frank unfortunately is not as talkative and while he acknowledges me usually does not engage in any sort of conversation. He is good to bounce ideas off of at least, a silent and non judgemental listener. Giving the city guards a quick nod in greeting as I pass through the gates they wish me a good morning. First I make a quick stop at the sanctuary beneath the abandoned house, saying good morning to those who are there and handing the batch of poisoned apples off to Issy who will need them for a contract she needs to complete. “Morning, Frank.” I say to the dark guardian in passing as I wander through the sanctuary and he seems to wave almost in reply. Setting the bag of apples on one of the tables I ask how everyone is today and the answer seems to be tired. That’s fair, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t tired too. “Why is it you talk to the guardian and give him a name?” Matthieu, a newer member asks with a mix of curiosity and judgment in his voice. I never know quite what to say to Matthieu considering when I was a child I killed his mother as part of one of my first contracts. “It humanizes them. They were living people at one point after all.” At that answer Matthieu furrows his brows in thought and eventually gets up, leaving the table most likely to go think more about the matter. With the apples handed over and everyone has been checked in with, I continue with the rest of my day, Issy following me out of the sanctuary before we part ways for the time being. My next stop is to visit some of the shops and cross off the rest of what is on my to do list.

Cheydinhal does have a nice market, and for a smaller city or large town is quite nice really. The diverse population makes it easy to find things not easily found in other parts of the country, specifically food. I stop for lunch and a cup of tea in between errands and run into one of the more notable residents, a famous painter, who had come in for lunch as well. His paintings are said to be magical due to a special brush he uses, Issy apparently had to rescue him from one of the inside of his own paintings at one point. Lucky for me he knows me well enough at this point to sit with me while we eat and converse. He doesn’t know what I do of course, but he knows me by sight from seeing me around the town for so many years. “Have you ever had an argument with a dark guardian?” I ask the painter who thinks the question is a joke and answers he has not. “It’s an interesting experience, they're not the most talkative you know. Everybody says ‘Oh never argue with a dark guardian you won’t get anywhere!’ but it is a surprisingly useful exercise regarding how to properly argue.” The painter makes a sound in between sipping his tea and makes a note of it for the next time he ever needs to summon something. With lunch finished we go our separate ways. I have a few more errands to do, and he has a painting to finish, but not before offering to pay for lunch and refusing to take no for an answer. My argument for paying for myself proved futile. It is nice at least to have some extra money for groceries. By the time dusk begins to fall all the things on my to do list are completed and I pass through the gates once more heading up the hill to go home.

 “Dennis, I’m back and I got what you wanted!” I call from the top of the ladder and climb down, groceries in hand. I hear the sound of running feet that come skidding to a stop at the gate that separates my living space from the rest of the fort. Unpacking the bags I toss one of the fish bones to Dennis and it lands at his feet “as requested.” The skeleton picks up the bone and wanders off into the darkness, probably to go show his friends. Shadowmere had already gotten her hay and an apple or two, with the rest for me. While I work on making a simple dinner Dennis returns to his usual spot and makes a noise directed at me. “You can’t have my dinner.” I tell the skeleton who grunts again unhappily. “It will go right through you.” I reiterate pointing my wooden spoon in his general direction between stirs. We go back and forth while the dish cooks before he stomps off, unhappy he can’t have my stew made of leftover vegetables and some meat that needs to be eaten. “This is why they say never argue with a dark guardian!” I yell to Dennis, as I know he can still hear me even if he’s out of sight. At least the day is done, and I have my dinner. While dark guardians make for interesting companions, they can still get on one's nerves, even if arguing with them is a good exercise in logic.

The Midnight Diner (Issy)

Issy's birthday fic- late night diner adventures with Baurus, enjoy!

 By some unknown means we had forgotten to eat dinner at a reasonable hour, and by the time we remembered the clock was striking midnight. Looking around I realize there isn’t much to eat, and Luther has most likely gone to bed by now leaving the bar downstairs closed. “Well, Baurus, any ideas?” I ask the blade while we continue searching the room for anything remotely edible, the feeling of hunger growing by the minute now that it’s been realized. Baurus stops rifling through the container he’d been looking in and stands still for a minute seemingly thinking before his face changes and he throws up a hand, like a light had gone on in his head. “There’s a diner a few streets over that’s open all night.” I mean to ask him why he hadn’t remembered that before but then again for the amount of time I spend in the imperial city I hadn’t remembered either, and so I hold my tongue. Baurus adds he can’t remember the name of it but he knows where it is. With a plan in place we manage to quickly put on shoes and coats, and head off into the night.

The air is getting colder now with the changing of the seasons, something Baurus has never liked, and complains about as we walk. The district is almost eerily quiet with everyone asleep on this cloudy almost starless night. Luckily for Baurus the diner is not far and we reach it quickly, sitting down in one of the booths by the window. A waitress comes and gives us menus to look over, asking if we’d like coffee while we decide on what to order. Coffee, or any warm drink, sounds delightful on a night like this. With an order for two coffees, one black and one with cream and sugar, she leaves us to browse the menu. “I feel like you’d come here often, Baurus, with how frequently you seem to wind up in the city.” He shrugs, saying he used to come here more often while being a member of the emperor's guard and was living in the city itself. Now he really only comes to gather information to bring back to Jauffre. The conversation falters after that as we silently look over the menu deciding what to eat. I settle on pancakes, it’s been too long since I’ve had them and I’m rather tired of eating scrambled eggs.

The waitress returns the two cups of  coffee and awaits our orders, leaving with a paper to give the cook saying one order of pancakes and an omelet. While we wait and drink our coffees  I tell Baurus of my newfound borderline dislike for eggs and he shares he feels the same way about oatmeal. Both fine every now and again, tiring if you have them frequently because there’s no other options worth eating. The streets remain quiet in these early hours of the morning, only the guards patrol outside the window. Eventually the waitress returns with our food and the check to pay when we’re ready. With a brief midnight toast Baurus and I tap our mugs together before beginning to eat our meal that I’m not quite sure whether to classify as dinner or breakfast. It is a meal, and it is not a bad one at that. In the end, as Baurus and I sit with our unclassifiable meal of eggs and pancakes under the dim glow of the diner lights at a strange hour of the morning, I think that’s all that matters.

Like Any Other Day (Lucien)

A/N: See this video for the accompanying music.

Grief can be a funny thing. Some days it is overwhelming and hangs over one like a heavy wool blanket, seemingly inescapable. Other days it is more elusive, a hidden enemy waiting for a time to strike when least expected when one is going about their day. Today, while in some ways it feels like any other day, at times feels like someone put an anchor in my chest, weighing me down with an invisible mental weight. I don’t come to Cloud Ruler Temple very often, but for some reason I decided to pay a visit and quickly found it was a good thing I did. I don’t think Baurus has completely processed what happened to Martin, I don’t think anyone has, really. Does he admit it? Of course not, but assassins are trained to be perceptive, and I know the stubborn agent well enough to see through his mask of happiness. I’m dead, not stupid, after all. Seeing the temple for the first time without a certain former priest in it feels strange. I find Baurus standing silently staring at the door to the west wing bedroom where I had found him so many times before standing watch day and night. He may be the youngest member of the emperor's guard but he is without a doubt the most loyal of them all.

Finding Jauffre alone in the library nearly makes me cry, if I even can cry anymore. Issy is nowhere to be found, having gone almost completely off the grid since the official ending of the crisis. Last I checked she was doing some kind of pilgrimage for the strange prophet that showed up in Anvil who needed help. Jauffre gives me a silent nod of acknowledgment before going back to his writing. I think about asking him what it is he’s writing, but keep the question to myself- it’s most likely something I don’t want to hear. The other blades are sparse around the temple, a few I hear downstairs in the barracks, and there are the four stationed outside, but the rest seem to have been at least temporarily reassigned. It is like any other day in the fortress, and yet not. I’d brought my guitar along, having picked it up from my own fort of sorts when searching for signs of life from Issy and finding one of the many empty tables in the vast great hall begin to unpack it.

You would think a trained assassin would process grief quickly, though I suppose that’s why there’s a reason between cold-blooded killers and bloodthirsty murderers. I may be able to kill effectively, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have its own effects on me. Having tuned the guitar I begin to play a song I hadn’t heard in years, but for this time seems fitting. “Into a dream through thoughts, don't travel too far, you won’t find the truth anywhere.” First my thoughts go to Issy, seemingly lost in an eternal unending nightmare searching desperately for answers. “I am with you like any other day. Lonely in your world I will come to find a place.” Amidst the grief and loneliness we will reunite again, just like any other day. “Wounded love full of doubts. Thinly condensed heavy baggage in the chambers of the heart.” My thoughts then turn to Baurus, and the emotional toll of losing not one but two emperors under his personal protection. Was there anything he could have done in the end? No, initially there were too many mythic dawn agents and not enough of the guard to hold them off. With Martin he had even less of a choice, Martin being stubborn yet courageous up until the very end.

“A hungry crow comes back to the same place, knocking on your door again, as the day weighs on me.” I think of how empty the temple is, looking around, the only other sounds being the fire, the occasional cough, and the first birds of spring outside the large doors. “Come closer and let the sun rise together with you. Good night, the moon lights up. Let it love you endlessly.” My thoughts turn once again back to Baurus, and the many days of guarding day and night he did without a word of complaint, and watching the sunrise together on the rare visits I would make here while still alive. “Unavoidable rich imagination, empty days with no clear truth or meaning pulls a green stalk into the mouth, pulls another slice in time to heal. Come close…Come close…” Whether through delusion, imagination, prayer, or simply time I think we will learn to live with the grief, and to heal. Having finished, I get an idea and go to pay a visit to Martin's unofficial grave, placing a stone in memoriam next to the statue and talking ‘to him’ for a few minutes, though wherever he is I doubt he can hear me quietly talking to the piece of stone in the snow as twilight falls and darkness sets in. The grief is still there, but that strange and funny feeling will eventually fade and acceptance will take its place. Life will go on, like any other day.

31536000 Seconds

A/N: This is a vulnerable post and not something typically published. TW for mentions of violence and war. Comments are moderated and any hate or spam that violates Bloggers guidelines will be automatically deleted. Opinions as always are my own, based in material and primary sources, and lived experience. It has been 365 days too long. Bring them home, now. Count Avera Mengitsu and Hisham al-Sayed. Bring down the IRI and its proxies to create a better, safer, and more stable future for the peoples of SWANA and the world on the whole.

 

 Like many, I do not remember the person I was on October 6th of last year, nor would I recognize them if they stood before me today, and they would likely look at me as a stranger.

The person that existed before the fear set in is gone. The one who existed before the fire and the death, before the dehumanization to extents that have not been seen in decades. Before trusted friends went silent for a time, if not disappearing all together, and colleagues formerly grounded in reality and evidence began shouting claims debunked ages ago as if they were true and discovered yesterday. Before the faces of the 251 forever embedded in my mind began to appear plastered to walls and street lights, and before those who refuse to acknowledge their existence began to tear them down. In all my years in the fields of history and archeology I have never witnessed such extreme examples of logical fallacies from those dedicated to the discovery, understanding, and preservation of evidence, material or otherwise. There are many who I cannot look at in the same way, who I can no longer trust to reveal certain information to, and the faces of the beautiful six who were so close to freedom when they met their ends in those dark tunnels appear whenever I close my eyes.

 That Black Saturday is something that I will never forget as long as I live. October, once a happy month is now stained eternally with sorrow. The images, the videos, and the terrified phone calls still are as clear as they first were one year ago. 365 days have passed. 8760 hours, 525600 minutes, 31536000 seconds, and yet here we are…still waiting for the 101 to come home, 4 of which have families who have been waiting a decade for their return. 31536000 seconds of telling the world the trauma is real and that empathy can exist for all, not just some. 31536000 seconds of hearing yells for a ceasefire and calls for more violence in the same breath, along with repeated slogans and chants by those who repeat blindly, not truly understanding what is being said. 31536000 seconds of hearing libel and violence be advocated for by the uneducated, though their hearts may be in the right place. 31536000 seconds of watching chaos unfold in one of the most difficult settings of urban warfare since the Battles of Shanghai, Stalingrad, Mariupol, and Mosul, and the grief that comes with it for all. 

31536000 seconds strategizing about how to get aid to those in need without it being hijacked and stolen away to overflowing storage areas, only for it to later be sold at ridiculous prices, to those who need it most. 31536000 seconds of watching the north burn and turn to a desolate empty land while rockets rain down on villages still sparsely populated containing those that much of the world are unfamiliar with. 31536000 seconds of hearing the world remain silent, except to place blame when retaliation occurs while the people directly affected celebrate the demise of the quickly crumbling proxies and chance to start anew. 

31536000 seconds and counting past the point of no return.

I do not remember who I was on October 6th, there is only the before, and the after.

The Paper Menagerie (Lukas)

Prompt: The paper menagerie. The last prompt of Short Story September! Then tomorrow we begin spooky season! (and inktober over on Instagram!)

One of the lesser discussed parts of being a librarian is figuring out what to do with the worn out books. I know of different things that different other librarians I know do with them. Some take the old pages and use them for scrap paper, some find the old books useful with pressing flowers or other materials that require a weight, some tear out pages to use in journaling practices, others remove the worn out pages and rebind the cover. One person I know takes the pages and glues them together before painting along the edges if the cover is still intact to create a piece of art. That is, of course, if such books cannot be restored- a labor intensive and often expensive practice. There are only a few such books in the library's collection that have been restored in such ways. They remain locked away from the public, for use only by academics and archivists under my supervision, which is more often than not just me looking over their shoulder or standing in the corner observing. In the back storage rooms in the basement of the library I spend the evening taking inventory and assessing the status of many of the books that have been temporarily taken out of rotation. My colleagues have gone home except for a few who finish their cataloging upstairs and coordinate with the cleaning staff to ensure they don’t lock me in the building when they finish. I wouldn’t be overly upset if that occurred, though. I like spending time among this paper menagerie with all the different things to read and learn about. As I work I find a number of books are worn through to the point of nearly falling apart whether that be due to age or the fact an overzealous toddler has cracked the spine and in some cases taken a bite out of a page or two. By the time I take a short break to get up and stretch I’ve made five distinct piles: one for books that are cleared to return to circulation as they were season, and their time has now come; one for books that need professional restoration before they return to the archives, many of which are new acquisitions for the library; one for books to be rebound, as they are otherwise in good condition; one for books to be used as scrap paper or paper weights, they have served their purpose as reading material but are still useful; and last but not least one for books that have to be recycled in a special repository due to their contents, I make a note to bring them with me when I head home for the night. With everything sorted and labeled correctly for whoever comes in first in the morning I clean up the mess of torn paper and disintegrating pages I had made in the process of my sorting. With that done I gather the pile of special books and say goodnight to the cleaning lady, who seems surprised, but not overly surprised, to see me emerge from the basement at not quite two in the morning. I take the books home with me for the night as it’s too late to do anything with them now and write a note to drop them where they need to go in the morning on my way to work. Morning comes far too considering the time I’d gone to bed but I manage to drag myself out of bed and downstairs nonetheless before stumbling out the door with my pile of books still half asleep. Stopping by the repository on my way I place each book carefully in the storeroom, while old these books are still special in one way or another, and should be treated as such. The overseer of the storeroom thanks me for dropping them by and wishes me a good morning leading to a brief chat after which I find myself leaving with a cup of coffee. That is exactly what I needed on a morning like this, I am not looking forward to what the day entails- whoever thought to assign me to the children's library after a night spent in that stuffy paper menagerie with little sleep did not think that decision though. Finishing the coffee I take a deep breath and steel myself for what the day will bring, so long as nobody tries to bite me this time all will be fine…I hope.

Two Ghosts In An Alleyway (Lucien)

Prompt: the alleyway

A/N: Ben and Lucien being friends and Ben being the ancestral spirit to respond to Valan most of the time (and proceeding to defeat any enemies when needed) are two thoughts that live in my head rent free along with Valan being the second generation of Velothi men to be an absolute menace to Eno while also being one of his favorites. 

 Late one night while the rest of the world sleeps I find myself sitting atop one of the roofs overlooking a small alleyway in Balmora. The flat rooftops allow for a quiet place to sit and watch the clouds overhead as the rest of the city sleeps. Valan had needed to stop on his way to Sadrith Mora and by coincidence ran into Issy and myself, along with Juliette. The two of them needed to find some remnants of Caius Cosades’ work as spymaster here that Valan was unable to locate, and return them to the archives of The Blades. I had tagged along as I need to find the time to meet with Eno Hlaalu about an exception to the no contracts in Morrowind rule that the Dark Brotherhood has long abided by so as not to anger the Morag Tong.

As I sit on the rooftop, stars slowly moving overhead I feel a peculiar sensation, one of the many I’ve begun to have since death, and undeath. Turning my head to the left in the direction of the sensation, that feels as if there is someone there I find that in fact there is- the spirit of a Dunmer man, dressed in what seems like a less formal version of more traditional robes that Eno tends to wear sits beside me on the roof. His legs dangling casually just as I had been doing moments before. He looks familiar almost, though I can’t place where I know him from. He looks about thirty, with hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and while he seems to acknowledge my presence the man more or less ignores me, looking at the alley and then up at the stars.

“Do I know you?” I ask the spirit. “No.” The man says, continuing to look up at the sky. “No, I’ve been dead since long before you were ever born. Before you were even a twinkle in your mothers eye.” I go to ask another question but before I can the man adds “But you know my son.” The realization hits me as the man turns and looks at me “My name is Benjamin Wei Velothi, but you can just call me Ben.” he tells me, offering a hand. “Lucien LaChance.” I respond, shaking his hand and he laughs slightly “I know.” How does he know?! “There are many observations one can make in death, you’ll learn in time.” Getting cryptic advice from a ghost wasn’t on my to do list for tonight, but as we talk more I find myself somewhat enjoying it. I’m still getting used to this new form.

“Are you like me? Can you do this all the time?” I find myself asking out of curiosity, though it might not be the most polite question. “No. You are a spectre, tied to the Void after death, but otherwise free to roam. I am what we call in Morrowind an ancestral spirit, or an ancestor ghost. Tied to the land and the family. I have the capacity to materialize myself in short bursts should a member of the family be in Morrowind, or anywhere if they summon an ancestral ghost for protection. Other than that I spend my time like the other ancestors; guarding the family shrine, watching over the still living family, and protecting the land as a whole.” Ben explains with a hint of sadness in his voice. Our deaths, while both premature, were very different. Mine being the result of betrayal by others, his however was the result of betrayal by his own body.

 “Every now and then when I can, I like to check on Valan, make sure he’s okay, even if he can’t see me most of the time.” I go to make a comment that I don’t think Valan is ever really able to see him due to his blindness, but keep it to myself, it’s not the right time for a remark like that. Ben continues talking, telling stories of time’s he’s checked in on Valan when he hadn’t been paying attention just to make sure he was alright and see how he’d grown up. A fathers love, enduring even in death. Valan, along with Issy and Juliette sleep soundly in one of the little houses below us, completely unaware of our conversation. Ben tells me a bit about his days working with Eno Hlaalu before leaning back and looking back up at the dark sky with a sigh, it seems his time in this form is almost up, and that makes me strangely sad. “I always did love looking up at the stars.” The spirit says softly with a smile, almost to himself before slowly fading away. Leaving me alone on the roof above the alleyway, looking at the dark sky. A lonely spectre in a land of shadows and spirits. Goodnight moon, goodnight trees, goodnight ghosts that only I can see.