Vesper finds him in the bakery. The walls are thin beams of only metal around him, but the ceiling hasn’t fallen- enchanted with heat protectant material. It mustn’t have caught, didn’t let the Hellfire fester. Because it’s a bakery.

Leon was a baker. Nora was a baker's daughter training to become a blacksmith. They were elves, masquerading as humans, and they trusted him enough with their own identity-

And, who is he, to survive this? A killer bathed in blood? A monster masquerading as a normal soldier? A player, blessed with undying by a god that doesn’t exist? An older brother, meant to take another fathers place at the head of a family? 

He sits beside the dead body of a friend. His baker's cap, normally covering his ears, is nowhere to be found, eyes closed and face for once loose without tension. It seems pointless to ask why.

He sighs, inhaling fire and smoke and death, and grabs Leon’s hand to pull him into a fireman's carry. Something falls out of it, though, and he picks it up. It’s a crumpled envelope, sealed with black wax- with magic. Elven magic. Not Leon’s, though. He knows that the elf didn’t have any magic that progressed far enough for a spell such as this. He wants to ask who Leon really is, why he’s hiding amongst humans, but it doesn’t matter much anyway. 

He turns the envelope over.

[

This letter has been addressed to User: RAINMAN (#00000).

The curse will not apply.

]

He breaks the seal with a shaking hand, tears dripping onto the envelope's fine paper, and grasps the letter inside as if it would crumple to ash underneath his touch.

 He unfolds it, furiously blinking away his blurry tears, and reads. 

-

Dear Rainman,

If you’re reading this, that means I’m dead. I’ve always been paranoid when it came to death, and I guess I was right in the end. For the record, you’ve left to go to your own world. I don’t know if you remember it, depending on when you’re reading this, but it’s after you made the promise. After Yir, and everything. I’m rambling. I’ll admit, it feels kind of awkward to write my own death note. I’m sure you’d understand.
The thing is, if you’re reading this, that means that Nora hasn’t come to maturity yet. There are a couple questions you probably have, if I really am dead. Me and Nora are both elves. Though, you might already know that by now. I’m sure she would’ve told you. We were… unofficially banned from the Elven city on Tartost because of Nora’s mother. She died far apart from the both of us, but the elven culture is different from humans. Or Erthans, for that matter. Family is a sign of status.
Which is part of the reason I am somewhat burdened to pass this on to you. I wish we had a more respectable family to welcome you into, Rainman. I consider you a brother of mine, and a dearest friend. I’m sure you don’t know exactly what I’m saying. Family is different, for elves. You’re stuck with them for a long time. What I’m trying to say is, well… no matter what happens, Rainman, no matter what you do- if you’d like to, of course, this is rather presumptuous of me- you are welcomed into the Orealia family. You’re one of us, now. If you’d like to be. That means that you can keep the Elven pass I own. It should be in the basement. Nora will be very happy to hear.
I think there are some things you also need to know. I am, of course, dead, but I hope you’ll appeal to my last wishes. I ask you to let Nora continue her blacksmithing, if possible. I see the spirit of the dwarven god when I look at her, Rainman. They will welcome her as one of their own, if you manage to take her to the Great Forges.
Another. I believe in your potential for strength, … my eyes are, … I don’t know how to phrase this in a way an Erthan would understand. I believe in your strength, I suppose? I know it to be there, simmering underneath your skin. I believe you were more than a simple soldier, as you would have me and Nora believe. Sometimes, in the way you move, I almost see the reflection of my father. I wish he could’ve met you. He died protecting the Royal Family. 

I’m sorry. I wanted this to be shorter than it is, but I just… I want you to be ready. Elves are, as you know, targeted often in many things. And Nora has a fighting spirit that I cannot control. If one of the people she knows were to become injured, she would not stop. I ask then, that you stop her for me. Whatever it takes. I believe we both have blood on our hands, and for her, we would further sully them. I don’t know why I’m trying so hard to sound poetic. If she gets in trouble, subdue it. The enemy. Whatever or whoever the enemy may be. 

And in the case both of us die in some unforeseeable baking accident… I’ll admit the prospect scares me even through humor… I hope you carry our legacy on. Be the person you want to be, and we will follow. In the Elven religion, it is believed from the arms of our God, we see all, as all is seen from the branches of great trees, and the animals of the forest. We will follow you. You are one of us, Rainman. Even if you don’t decide to take our name, and all that comes with it.
For burial- bury me in the fields, I think. Underneath the great oak tree that Yir and the players he paid couldn’t cut down with any ax- the one beyond that big stone. Elves are buried with a thing they cherish… to keep them company on the way over. We no longer have a family grave of any significance, but elves are buried together. You can bury me with the locket I wear around my neck. I need nothing more. 

Thank you for being a dear friend and brother to me, Rainman. I hope you know that I trusted, cherished and thoroughly cared for you. And, if that your blessing were to ever slip, we would do stop at nothing to avenge your memory. Perhaps that is my way of asking for vengeance, if I am murdered. It is very common amongst elves. It’s hard to live so long without accumulating life enemies. 

Nora has her own letter. It will be in the basement as well… though if something were to happen … tell her that I will carry her in my arms to the Skyland myself and that I am the luckiest father in the world to be born such a child. Thank you, Rainman. I believe it is well time I stop crying over the pages and let the ink dry.

Goodbye, Rainman. Thank you for everything. 

Afternote: I trust you and Nora both with the recipe, since both of you have gaps in knowledge the other will fill. 

-

Vesper clutches Leon’s hand in his own, holds it to his chest, and screams. It’s only anger. Only, it’s all he’s ever known. 

(It’s time to let go.)

He keeps a firm grasp, hangs his head over the body.

(He doesn’t.) 

–

He finishes their graves by sunset. It’s a beautiful one, the sunset- sky even more red with the aftertaste of smoke, and the tree leaves sway in the wind. He puts Leon in first, moving him to the left of the hole and securing the locket aforementioned firmly over his chest. 

Nora joins him silently. He intertwines their hands, lays her sword in her other hand, crossing it over her chest. 

He reads the letter again. Makes sure he hasn’t missed anything, that he’s treating them right in death. It says nothing more than it did the fifth time, but he double checks, and concludes that it’s over. It’s over. Now, he just has to fill in the graves. 

He grabs the shovel he borrowed from the rest of the buriers. They told him how many had died. What exactly had happened. A mage, a Sword Saint, and a girl who fought for the memory of her father. It’s all word of mouth, but it makes sense, fills in the gaps. 

He tightens his grip on the shovel. 

He covers their faces with dirt, and keeps filling. 

It doesn’t take long to finish. He pats the dirt down, and sits against the firm oak tree, leaning his head against the bark. 

He feels that anger rise again. Righteous, ugly, rageful. He knows it well enough, that it should have its own name- it’s own character in the chapters of everything he is.

He keeps the nameless being to his throat, though. Let's it scald against his windpipes. Chokes down on it, swallows all his inhuman rage. 

He left god a long time ago, even if his grandfather was a believer. He wants to scream to the sky anyway. Wants to demand why every time he makes peace, everything goes wrong.

The leaves sway. His notifications chime. He ignores them, and touches his forehead to the warm ground. 

His rage is too unholy to touch their graves, but it has always come from his heart.

 He forces all that he knows of sadness to the front, to the connection of his brain to the earth. Fakes tears because they had only ever come in anger.

They chime again- the notifications- and he flickers his eyes over with a long breath. 

[

You have gained the optional Title: (Elven Family- Orealia) 

Will you accept? 

]

He puts his head back against the ground, tries to swallow the weight lodged in his throat. It’s still the same when he opens his eyes. It’s always been the same.

Why won’t this rage leave him alone? He’s tired, aching, older, now. Not the scared kid, or the one on the playground, watching. 

He needs to let it go.  

“Yes.” 

He lets the name burn against the back of his eyelids, and logs out.