[b]BY THE GRACE OF THE FIRE AND THE FLAMES

[ uses the same song i use for frenchie and bast for muffheart and bast and starts crying ]

In the middle of the night, he could feel them.

It washed over him slowly, the subtle draw cutting through the fog that he had been existing in for days; through all the noise of everyone else's emotions and auras and feelings, through his own turmoil, through everything — there was suddenly just them, the unmistakeable call of someone who needed him. Who needed Grimm. He followed the siren song on autopilot, accepting almost subconsciously that he knew who he would find waiting for him on the other end, that he knew that something was wrong but that it was right, too. This was not the call of someone on the brink of tragedy, waiting for release; this was the call of someone on the brink of peace. They needed him. He was standing in the way of that peace, and the eerie calm that settled over him was a reflection of the peace he was meant to be delivering, the need that he was meant to fulfill.

The bengal moved through the basement silently, fur dark with that faint black glow that radiated from him as he moved with sure, careful steps. He might have felt at odds with the complete stillness of the night, no one else stirring, if not for the innate knowledge that it was as it should be. They deserved as much: the serenity and privacy of a quiet night, the ability to find their peace without interruption. Fate could be a cruel goddess, but there were times when she was just, and this was the justice they had earned; this was the sort of justice that tempted him, sometimes, to believe in the possibility of happy endings.

It wasn't a far walk, but by the time he reached them he felt that peace overtaking him more fully; this close he can sense that this is something deeper, something more final, and while something in him is screaming in resistance his brain has accepted what his heart doesn't want to — it has understood why he was brought here, why now, and it has understood that he is still necessary, that this is necessary. He is merely the host, filling the gaps, molding himself into the tool to greater serenity, and they need him now. It gives him the strength to push past his reservations, the faint urge to try to stop it, to keep going until he's at their room and he has a moment to just breathe out very slowly.

He still remembers the first time he met them, and it is almost funny to consider that they joined apart when they seem to be permanently together in his mind. There had been a sense of peace with each of them (even if their "names" seemed wrong to him), and it was almost ironic how it had been just him to greet both of them on the border: now here he was again, alone in the night, to bid them farewell. He felt oddly as if Fate had brought them to him intentionally, a chapter in his life to show him that it was okay to care and okay to forgive — but no, that was too limiting. In reality he was a chapter in their lives, someone who had been changed by their presence and better for it; to reduce them to a facet of his own was wrong and twisted, didn't do justice to the centuries they'd spent together touching the lives of those around them. He was simply one of the many, and he could only count it as an honor he didn't deserve.

He didn't knock. Somehow he didn't think that he had to, somehow he knew that they could sense him just as readily as he sensed them — they were live wires, pulling one another closer to the inevitable crescendo, and as he pushed the door open it felt like he was entering the gates of a liminal space. Nothing quite felt real, and maybe that was host rising in him, or maybe there was a part of him that was still holding onto the denial, unable to fully commit to the calm acceptance that had overtaken him. He felt weightless as he took a step into the quiet room, the words light on his tongue as he breathed, [b]"Mom— Maman—"

[B]ASTRAL SERAPH — THE ASCENDANTS — [color=#e2e2e2]TAGS — [color=#e2e2e2]MOODBOARD — [color=#e2e2e2]PLAYLIST

SUITEHEART

THE ASCENDANTS

SEARCHING FOR PEACE

The matters of life and death were so skewed in Suiteheart's mind. She was the woman who had lived countless lives, totaling one thousand years. Margaery had stood at her side all those times, all those years, through hardship and good times. Margaery, her sweet, amazing Margaery, had stood with Suite each time.

Oh, gods above, how this time would be different.

The former Admiral's face was cool, calm, yet emotions danced just underneath the porcelain surface. Despite feeling - no, knowing, that this her true time (her last time), something terrified her. So many individuals were keeping her rooted. She had Hazel and Bastille. Cooper, Roy, and Warringkingdoms. She had her many children. She had countless friends. Their visages flashed forward, in her mind's eye. For a moment, she held her breath, too scared to take another. This decision was final. After this, there was no going back.

More than anything in the world, she was frightened of what this would do to Bast. What she and her wife were asking of the boy was momentous. He would perhaps carry the weight of this decision with him for the remainder of his life. Baby blue eyes clouded momentarily, but the gentle touch of Margaery brought her out of her worried head space.

Her gaze shifted from the photographs that lined the walls of their room to the album Margaery was flipping through. Pangs of intense emotion filtered through her system. Everything was finally closing in and becoming a reality. Suiteheart had always been an undying light in the sense of her soul, but now? Now, her inner torch was flickering, and something about that jarred her. The white feline released the breath she had been holding and allowed her wife's emotions to overtake her own.

"Mom— Maman—"

Cerulean eyes lifted immediately, landing on Bastille's familiar form. Tears pricked her eyes. Mother. He had called her mother. Everything inside of her felt as though it were ripping apart, and it took every ounce of her strength to hold herself together. A single tear slowly rolled down her cheek as a smile waltzed across her lips. "Mon fils. Mon petit cœur." My son. My little heart. Her voice broke as she spoke.

The ivory feline was quiet as Margaery began to speak. Her wife got straight to the point, but Suite could feel Margaery's desire to hold these last few moments out as long as they were all able. She felt Margaery gently press into her side again, and Suite took a shuddered breath.

"Merci, Bast. Merci. Si tu savais combien je t'aime..." Suiteheart added, voice faltering towards the end. She hated goodbyes, and this was a massive one. Though she had only known him for a relatively short time, she had come to love him as a son. Bastille was part of their little family, and she loved him so deeply and so widely that it hurt her. "Je suis tellement désolé. J'aurais pu faire mieux."

She inhaled deeply through her nose and exhaled from parted lips. The older feline tried to steady herself. She needed to be strong for him. She smiled warmly at him, at her son. "Vous me rendez fier." She closed her eyes slowly and then opened them again. "You've always made me proud of you. You're so good, Bast. Please don't ever forget that."

His breath left him in a soft exhale as he simply looked at them for a moment, the full force of their auras so telling up-close, no longer filtering through grubby basement walls. He had greeted them before he could even truly get his bearings for what he might find; he knew, deep down, that he would find them waiting here peacefully, expectant, just as he always found his clients, but there had been a tiny shred of doubt, as if he might show up to find them already gone. He had lost Margy once that way already, and he wasn't prepared to losing anyone else without saying goodbye, without saying everything that he needed to say. Things had been too brief with Starry, and nonexistent with so many others: Berry, Dawn, Indi. As much as he felt a gentle sort of dread at having to say goodbye, he could be happy that he was given the chance to.

The Latin was soft, lilting in his ears; it made his throat tighten slightly to think that there was ever a time where he might have resenting hearing it from her lips. He took another shaky breath and reminded himself to stay calm as she continued speaking, only nodding once in confirmation that he knew, he did; even as she said it he could feel that cool clarity blanketing him once more, tightening up his composure. They were more than just his mothers, here: they were his clients, they were lost souls who needed something, who needed him, Grimm. He couldn't fail them, even if he wanted to.

He should have been ready for the French as well, but somehow it still took him off guard, the sudden fresh flush of reminder of Frenchpaw. His stare was open and exposed as he looked to Suite for a moment, as he looked at her and realized that he couldn't feel the welled up frustration or resentment— not when she was reaching back, bringing him back in at the end of it all. Forgiveness was a hard lesson for him, and always had been, but she was extending that to him now and it... broke something in him, a little bit, broke through the blank canvas of the host and spoke to the boy inside.

It was worse, somehow, hearing Hazel's name, but he swallowed the faint swell of emotion and simply exhaled once more, voice slightly raspy as he said a little shakily, [b]"Your souls are heavy. I don't... I don't want to lose you, but— I get it. You've reached the end of your stories." He swallowed, felt briefly at a loss, unable to find words in the response to such blatant love. The notion that someone else could care for him so much stilled his tongue, made him struggle to remember that he had a greater purpose here than simply saying goodbye. He was... overwhelmed, momentarily, by the intensity of what they could force him to feel, and it was in that moment as he looked at both of them silently that he realized he wasn't alone in the feeling.

Pollutedsoul had never truly known what it meant to feel at home in a family. Zaniel had forced his way into acceptance in the Bellators, had been desperate enough to fill a role and find his place, but Pollie could never achieve even that pseudo-familial bond. For him there was only the continuous urge to follow his cousin around or chase after uninterested siblings or trail his busy mother through camp; for him there was the itch under his skin, the unrelenting drive for family that was never quite explained until in the darkness he found his memories of Isaac restored — until the madness took him, the deranged need for his family to love him had sank in. It was that need that fueled so much of his anger at Suite, at Margy, at everyone.

But this was love. This was acceptance. This was a family that he — that Bast had pushed away and brought back in again and again. This was mother looking at him and loving him despite it all, despite turning him away, and he was... he was lost in it, for several moments unable to discern for himself who he was. He felt the rush of bitterness and sorrow and the withered memories of the past and he felt it all release, gradually; his eyes were a mismatched green and blue as he said, soft, "I... you've always accepted me. I didn't think you could love me, and you did." It didn't matter who felt it, who spoke; in the end Bastille was still Pollie just as much as Pollie was Bastille, and the words rang true as he breathed, "Thank you."

When he blinked, that pale blue was back, and he felt... lighter, more centered, the cloudiness of his mingled thoughts clearing in the slightest. It didn't make finding his words any easier, and he stalled for a moment, swallowing tightly. "I love you too. I know I could have been better, but I will be. I promise. I will be better for you, because I couldn't be before, and I'll—" a shaky exhale "—I'll... For Hazel, and the kids, and all of them. You don't have to worry about them." He smiled, faintly, weakly; he had no idea how he could offer this, something he was so uncertain of, but he had to try. They wouldn't want to go knowing they were leaving everyone without some promise.

He closed his eyes, then, struggling to choke back the pain as he felt that soft draw pulling on him. Margy had said he knew, and he did, he did; he could feel it, feel the whisper of Grimm coming to the surface, the host rising. "Your stories will be carried through generations," he said, quiet, "They will be immortalized in your stead, so that you can rest without the burden of carrying them any longer. You won't... you won't be forgotten. Even when I cannot be here to remember you, there will always be another host keeping everything that you are alive."

His voice faltered him again, then, and he breathed out once more as he opened his eyes again, pale green shining briefly before his irises melted back to blue. He looked at them and held fast to the memory, the realization that these were his last moments to see them, and asked shakily, "Are you... are you ready?"

[B]ASTRAL SERAPH — THE ASCENDANTS — [color=#e2e2e2]TAGS — [color=#e2e2e2]MOODBOARD — [color=#e2e2e2]PLAYLIST