A plan, a direction, a plan, a direction. I keep repeating it to myself, trying to urge myself to accept it as real. To believe that that’s all I need to go on. Instead, I keep picturing the battlefield, the aftermath of Teuila leaping towards an ice-dragon with a fully charged breath weapon. Massive spikes of ice grew behind her, facing away at an angle. It’s part of how Miza was able to save her, there was already an upward ramp for Teuila to lose momentum on, combined with Dippy and Scrap working to slow and halt her slide. Not that I was conscious for most of the back and forth.

The area had become a serene portrait of elemental disharmony. Columns and spires of stone met jags and spikes of ice. All situated atop a wet, stony floor, only visible beneath the flicker of lightning across the darkened, stormy skies. I’d hardly have been surprised if suddenly a river of lava decided to burst forth from one of the canyon walls, honestly, to complete the elemental picture. Or if the carriage had spontaneously burst into flame. Obviously, I’m glad it didn’t. Can I go back in time? Should I? What would I even say, to keep Teuila from making the fatal mistake? Where could I have been, that would have made a difference, without losing everyone to a massive gout of acid?

Hm, speaking of acid. I tilt my useless gaze upwards towards the ever-present clouds. Those are virtually living dragon’s breath. Somehow, in some fashion, they’re enchanted to remain aloft, and forever drizzle out just a hint of what they are. Did someone slay a black dragon, causing it to curse the skies with its dying breaths? Hey squirrel-brain. Hm? You’re distracting yourself. Ah. Right. True. Hard not to, when the alternative is reliving losing Teuila, again, like the day I acquired my time powers. Ironic, last time she was caught in a blast of lava, this time, a blast of ice. But there was no Luni secretly off somewhere diverting some new magical power to me this time. No revelation that broke me free from some constraints on my powers. I draw a shuddered breath and sigh sadly.

Tiago sits next to me, and though Keeley wears anger across her face, she stays silent. I can almost *feel* her fighting an internal battle. She hates me, because I made it, because I came back, because I’m reckless, just like her son was, but I returned and he didn’t. But I remind her of Jonesy, so the instinct to nurture, to protect me is there as well. She would literally rather die than see me risk myself or die. That’s why she snuck out of Autumn Brook, and charged the Felgre horde head on, and threw me out of the way, when I was concentrating on the elementals. She was prepared to meet her end, almost wanted it, compared to having to live through that grief again, watching her son die a reckless, adventurous death again, in her eyes. Despite me not being male in the slightest. I’m androgynous enough that people can project genders onto me, especially when other aspects of me carry strong reminders of various emotions for them.

I tilt my head to lean it against Tiago’s right bicep. There’s a fragility there. He’s elderly, but in fantastic health for his age. Even still, his overall frame beneath his robes is rather frail. He’s a slender individual. Tiago crosses his left arm in front of himself to stroke my head. The pats on my head are a sign of comfort, affection, care. The affection earns us a slight scowl from Keeley. It makes me look even more like a child in her eyes, like her child. I’m millions, maybe billions of years old, in non-linear time. The weight of my age sits heavily in the pit of my stomach. In all that time, I never grew wise enough to handle situations like this. I never overcame all of my traumas. Sure, one could say I technically didn’t experience all of that, so maybe I didn’t get the benefit of growth that the time should have afforded me. It doesn’t change the fact that I’ve experienced *more* than any other being alive. Even if it was the same thing, over and over and over, with minor tweaks, repeatedly, for eons.

What does that say about me? That I still come off as childlike? Is it my neutral outward appearance? I could use my changeling gift, or adopt one of my evolutionary stages, and present a taller, more gendered appearance. Is it because of my mannerisms? Is there something I do that’s strictly childlike? I can’t imagine seeking affection and comfort in the face of overwhelming pain and agony is a strictly childlike activity.

Perhaps I should work my way up to my third, maybe fourth evolutionary stage. The fourth one is outright monstrous, but technically I should have the mana available, back on Can’Z’aas, to tether that high. Or did that form completely, utterly, *die* when I channeled the mana of hundreds of mages? I remember it sloughing off, as if the previous stages of me were simply standing in its center. Technically, I have enough mana for five non-combat tethers, back on Can’Z’aas. I’d never thought to try, to push back into and above those forms. Especially not without Lu. Without My Anchor, I’m afraid I’d lose myself, forever. I’d lose myself to whatever monstrous nature lies hidden within those forms, the wrath that’s virtually palpable, or something.

Everything is so jumbled. Without My Anchor, My Wings, or My Heart, I can’t keep a conclusion straight in my head without second guessing myself, or forgetting which conclusion I came to the next time the topic comes up. That’s as much of a liability as anything else right now. I’m going to drive myself bonkers if I try to think in any more circles. At least I have a plan, a goal. I can at some point soon, get up, and get back to it. How long? Probably after a nap.

I’m one of the lucky ones, despite it all. Tiktik’s got about a week at least before she even starts to show signs of recovery according to Tiago. That’s bad with a capital b. Internal bleeding, contusions on the lungs, and so on, are serious matters for anyone with normal physical biology. Digital beings like Teuila, or digital-critterkin-adjacent beings like myself, we can bounce back. As soon as the injury stops bleeding, or seals up, we just continue on. Injuries don’t really mess with our physiology, most times. I know Teuila blasted her legs to smithereens once, when our digital regeneration was a bit suppressed, after we’d purged the radiant energies from our bodies. That messed her up pretty bad, and I wasn’t far behind in the damage department. Plus, emotionally, we’d lost Lil. It was all around a rough time. Even still, most physical biological entities couldn’t recover to the point of even walking, let alone becoming stronger than ever, after having their leg bones basically atomized. One could be forgiven for taking a couple of months to recover from such injuries.

What about now? Teuila’s alive. She has to be. She hasn’t derezzed. She’s wearing Shellcracker’s Iceflame Spark, Icey. I theorized that if a magical elemental attack, of cold, fire, or lightning struck her, that Icey would absorb about half the damage, and use that energy to rejuvenate her from the other half of the damage she took, being pretty close to evening out to near invulnerability. A strong enough blast might instantly vaporize her, with the half of the damage that she took, but Teuila is *strong*. I try to lighten my mood by imagining Lin being upset, sparring Teuila some day in the distant future, realizing she’s essentially immune to lightning now. I smirk briefly as I think about it, trying not to let the longing seep in.

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Heaving a sigh, I address Tiago, “Tiago? You were right, about a lot of things. If you’re up for it, you, or George, or someone, I need you to follow me in my carriage, maybe a mile, maybe half a mile, maybe a few hundred yards back, with a lantern. I need you, and everyone else, to be able to signal me, if there’s trouble, so whoever’s driving my carriage needs to be able to signal me with the lantern, especially if they receive a signal from someone further back down the line.”

Tiago’s barely perceptible nod is answer enough for me. I continue, “I’m going to sleep in the carriage tonight, I need to drop off some gems with Harriet, or Elder, the kobold elder, either one. They’ll need to be distributed, maybe used as currency down the line when you’re rebuilding, when you finally get a chance to settle in. Or maybe they’ll just be rations for the kobolds. Who knows? I’ve almost got a new—. It doesn’t matter. I’ll work my hardest for everyone’s safety, and you know I have to do it quickly, but I’ll try to be cautious. I promise. I’ll try.”

Tiago responds, “That’s all I ask.”

I let myself fall back into a bit of an autopilot rut. I know I’m at least practicing runes, organizing things with Tiago, George, Berinon, Tim, Harriet, Elder, Dippy, Miza, and Scrap, but the words are so automatic, so cold and calculating that I don’t even bother experiencing myself saying them. I do the job, that’s it. Then I head to rest, in my tiny slice of safety, my little haven amongst this chaos, a weathered, beaten carriage, procured from the hoard of a klepto necromancer. I’d snort a laugh if I weren’t so shut down. I let myself sleep, getting much needed rest. In the morning, I’ll get up again, and I’ll move on, as best I’m able. People are counting on me, yet again, whether they know it or not. So, in the end, no matter how down I am, or how many times I am downed, I’ll get back up again.

All around me are mirrors, no, windows, looking out across unfamiliar scenes. The windows are framed by intricately carved adornments, and they’re somehow tall, grand in a vague sense. I’m in a long, black hallway, with no seeming top or bottom, beginning or end, but it’s peppered with unevenly placed windows on the right or left sides. The hallway is a unique, endless gallery of these windows that gaze out upon events. Many are incredibly similar. A smiling face a short distant beyond, calling out to the window, as if the window is looking out through someone else’s eyes. The face belongs to the same young woman, in so many of the frames.

Phrases are echoed from a hundred scenes at once, the phrases are always, “Come on Err!” or “My hero, always have been, always will be.” The cascades of, “Come on Err!”s wash over me, and somehow I feel elated. The twinge of self-consciousness that strikes me during the echoes of, “My hero, always have been, always will be,”s is familiar in a way, and even yet, my heart is warmed, despite feeling the intrusion of someone else’s guilt. The viewer doesn’t believe they’re a hero, and their emotions are muddled. Joy at praise from the speaker, guilt and self doubt, self-loathing at the idea of being considered a hero. Far behind me, shutters begin snapping the windows closed, blacking out the available views. More and more, faster and faster, the windows and their views are erased.

It seems such a waste, to lose the view of this embodiment of charm and sweetness. The woman calling back, from youth into adulthood always maintains an air of vigor, of playfulness. Her dark bob-with-bangs haircut frames her adorable face, accentuating her ever-so-slightly chubby features. Her eyes, full of both mirth and curiosity, sparkle with every ray of light that bounces upon them, they twinkle with a mischievous glint that hints at her always-playful nature. Her smile though, it’s her smile that’s a precious treasure, a gift that lights up her face with an air of warmth and delight. Her rosy cheeks are always filled with a subtle blush that adorns her visage with a touch of liveliness. Somehow they speak of her youth and exuberance, no matter the apparent years passing between windows.

One could be forgiven for staring at her lips, soft, supple, inviting. They form a perfect, heart-melting smile that describes the glee contained within, beneath her countenance, at her very core. Her very soul is evident, and in its entirety, it’s a spark of joy, of cheerfulness. It’s obvious at a glance, that she’s a beacon of positivity, and happiness, ever an optimist, a ray of sunshine on every cloudy day. Her very presence is like a soft, calming, cool breeze on a hot day. Her infectious laughter could bring smiles to faces, and tears to eyes as it echoes like a symphony of joy and elation. It fills the air with a brilliant melody, that lifts the spirits of all who hear it.

As I said, it would be a waste to lose these views, these scenes. And yet, lose them I do, as the windows snap shut, cutting off more and more scenes from view. I race towards the far end of the hallway, away from the snapping shutters, away from the ceaseless darkness, the loss of this radiant joy. Along the way, scenes begin to include another woman. One whose eyes are like emerald gemstones shimmering with an inner radiance. The joy painted across her face is more subtle, and in some ways, alluring, than the woman in the other visions. It’s a different kind of joy, a presence that begs, no, commands attention. Her sleek, slender, effeminate features are the most striking womanly charms, and her expression varies so much, with such subtlety. Thousands of images of this new woman, whispering comforts, shouting joys, squealing in elation. Her athletically toned body is always adorned in stylish, fashionable clothing that accentuates her figure, and the way she carries herself speaks to the fact that she knows it. She holds herself such that the viewer is acutely aware of every subtle, supple curve, the ripple of each of her muscles, her slender, yet taut, graceful neck, reminiscent of a swan's.

Yet even these windows snap shut, faster and faster, I can barely keep pace with the darkness that roils forth from behind me, shuttering all scenes, erasing them. Ahead, the two women are both in scenes, sometimes each a picture of pure joy, other times, a subtle competitiveness layered thick in the air for anyone observant enough to notice. In early images, there’s tension, a mild fear residing beneath the visages of either woman. Yet other times, much later, they eye each other with—.

I can’t be certain what I had been seeing near the end. I thought perhaps it could be desire, but I had such a short glimpse before the windows at the farthest edges of my vision shuttered, and left me in utter darkness. The darkness overtakes me, and for some reason, I’m not frightened. I’m not worried, or cold. I simply -am.- This, in and of itself, is comforting in a way. Where once I stood in a hallway of purest black, now I tumble, or perhaps float, in an absence of anything. Somehow, somehow I know. The darkness does this for my benefit. Despite the joy and beauty in so many of those windows, I’m denied access to them. I don’t know why, or how it could be true, but it is. This darkness is my ally. It’s secrets whispered in the dark to the one most beloved to you. It’s the calm, quiet, reflective times, when everything is at peace. It’s everything important, and yet nothing, all at once.