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the many lives, Hopes, dreams and memories of Sasha Askangus

Summary:

sasha is ready to be alive again.

or

sasha gets sort of resurrected during the final battle. she sees the party again.

Notes:

hi guys, i wrote this for the one year anniversary of epilogue 3, i hope you guys like it!

as usual, english isn't my first language, so if you spot a mistake, feel free to let me know, i adore all kinds of comments!

enjoy!

Work Text:

You all stand together in silence, focused on the plane below. As your friends seemingly disappear, you are suddenly reminded of Mister Ceiling.

“It is time, Elpis. We are to leave any moment now.”

Yes. The time has come, my last wish will be granted.

“Thank you, Lady Hestia. I will honour you by honouring my family.”

You’ve learned how to speak like them, act like them. You are like them, you know that. The Lady Hestia smiles and nods. She closes her eyes and you follow suit.

Then there’s nothing for a split second.

 

When you awake, you see the last place you ever experienced the joy of living, and though it is no longer filled with children, you don’t have to pretend to feel their thoughts and spirits on the breeze.

You allow yourself one last glance at the house, before turning and setting off towards a more populated area.

You know your friends are alive, because if they weren’t, if they hadn’t won, you wouldn’t be here. You’re alive again and it fills you with both pain and pleasure.

(Somewhere you still hear your children cry at your bedside.)

When you reach a village, they believe you when you say you are the lady of the Mansion. They give you food and water, and you bless them in return.

Italy looks different than it used to.

After what seems like ages, you get to France, and you want to carve out your heart with your favourite dagger, but there is no use. You might be alive again, that doesn’t necessarily mean you can die.

You need do this, though. Need to hear the people talk about the disaster, the Change. When you do, you reach out your mind and soothe their worries, because it’s the least you can do for these poor people.

On a train (trains in France seem to be a recurring theme in two of your lives, the first and the last) you overhear some people talking about magic being gone. “There’s no hope for us anymore…” You sigh because you Know. There will always be Hope, little one. Always.

Time seems to go slower the closer you get to the station of Callais. You remember those streets, the rush of adrenaline from trying to win a bet that wasn’t even yours.

 You find an apartment there, in the streets of a city you would have never considered a home, ages ago, when you first left your prison. It’s cosy and warm and above ground and everything Other London was not, everything the Mansion was.

You don’t want to work as a mercenary anymore, not without your Rangers, your Group. Still, the bills must be paid and after a while you find a new routine.

Your French gets better every day, leading you to discover a hidden talent for languages. You learn Orcish, Dwarvish, Halfling and Goblin. Each new syllable feels like a gut punch, each word like a stab in the chest, each sentence like a fireball straight through the heart, but you owe this to your friends, your people.

Years pass and you learn to love another simple life, this time on your own, without anyone else to take care of. Suddenly you realise you never really learned about selfcare.

About five years after the Change (the newspapers call it that, only you and a few others know the change occurred years before, when a little seed was stolen), you buy passage on a ship bound for Dover. You buy it under the name of Sasha Askangus, a combination of both the lives you led.

Before you leave for England, you visit Paris, and you sit in front of the Arc D’Ordinateur in silence. You know someone is watching you, someone in golden armour as bright as the sun, but you can’t be bothered to turn around and check. Brock would be proud to know you lost some of your defensiveness. You Hope he’s happy, wherever he might be.

You’re on the sea again and you’re not drowning.

You’re still on the sea when you see a waistcoat that reminds you of a certain halfling. You smile a wistful smile.

You see the waistcoat again, and the boy belonging to it. He does vaguely look like Hamid, only less polished and more bookish.

(You won’t see them again, you tell yourself, knowing that if you start Hoping, you’ll never stop. Hope never dies when you’re around.)

You leave the boat together with the boy, practically in sync, and he starts walking and you can’t help it. Putting some of those old skills to good use, you follow him, sneakily, trying to stay unseen.

He stops and looks up at the sign above the door. He smiles. You stop and look up at the sign above the door. You, too, smile, just a touch sadder than him. Melancholic might be a better word.

The Soggy Admiral

He opens the door, spots you and holds it open for you. You curse the time that has passed for not allowing you to keep your sneaking skills. Still, you smile and walk about halfway trough the doorway, before he stops you.

You look in his eyes and you know. While he looks mostly the same, his eyes tell a different story, one you got to watch from afar. A story of bravery, power, growth and dragons.

(Loads and loads of dragons.)

You look in his eyes and you think he knows as well. Instead: “You’ve been following me since we left the ship, huh? Why?”

You keep staring, even if you hear someone move behind you. A rolling chair.

“Who are you?”, a gruff voice demands. Gods, you missed that voice.

You smile and you turn your head and you see him and Gods, you missed him.

He does recognize you. His eyes light up and you see him start to smile before his face falls. You Know he thinks you’re fake, he thinks you’re not you, and honestly, you can't blame him. If you had seen all that he has, you wouldn't trust yourself either.

“Sit.”

You do so and you see them all, the ones you know and the ones you don’t. The ones you only saw in death.

“Who are you?”

A different voice, Wilde. He sounds happier, more Hopeful. Maybe your letter managed to hit a nerve after all.

“Sasha R-…” You can’t say it, can’t form your uncle’s name with your lips, even after his death.

So you breathe in and you try again. “Sasha Askangus.” A combination of both the lives you led.

There’s looks from the people you don’t know but who certainly know you. Hamid (you Know it’s Hamid now, you can feel his Hope) gasps.

You want to hug him, but you know none of these people would react well to that. They have learned to be wary of strangers, especially strangers that seem to good to be true.

“Can I tell you my story?”

Azu nods, the woman next to her (Kiko, you Know it’s Kiko) does the same. Soon everyone has agreed.

And so you talk.

You speak of Rome, before Grizzop’s death and after. Before the fall and after.

You speak of the Mansion, of the kids, of Cicero.

(You pretend not to notice the unshed tears in Wilde’s eyes when you speak of his namesake, who isn’t really little anymore.)

You speak of dying. Not of going down in a fight, not of dying in fear and pain and anger and passion like you always thought you would, but of dying in your own house, in your own bed, with your own friends and family around. You speak of a peaceful passing.

Then you speak of the world after death. The faintest thought of joining Grizzop on his Hunt, before a stronger impulse pulled you towards the Gods.

You speak of how they accepted you, praised you and treated you like one of their own.

You speak of how you became one eventually, a Goddess.

You speak of your religion, of the dreams you sent to people, of the kindness and benevolence you showed to those who deserved it and those who didn’t alike.

You speak of the stabby Goddess you had wanted to be, but power can only be wielded by those who don’t want it (at least at first).

You speak of the Hope that courses through your veins, and you see him stare at you

You speak of the waiting, and then of the caring, bringing all the ones you knew the peace you could during their childhood.

And then you reach the point their lives intertwine with both of yours. You speak of a rich boy with a gambling addiction, an annoying but powerful warrior, of a sad man who believed in the wrong thing at the right time, of yourself. You speak of a hyperactive goblin, a woman with a heart of pinkish gold.

You speak of protection and you speak of grief.

You speak of Rome, and of after.

And finally, you speak of your one wish. To live again, when the Gods were to leave this world.

In the end, you get a hug. You don’t get just one, you get one from everyone around, but there’s only one that matters right now. You might have lived for centuries, but these arms are the only ones that mean home to you.

“Zolf.” It’s just a single word, more an exhale of breath, really. But you can feel his smile against your shoulder and you pull him closer.