Chapter Text
August 14, 2025
Knell /nel/
the sound of a bell, especially when rung solemnly for a death or a funeral.
The moon was high in the sky by the time Kifo made it to the graveyard. Truly, he didn't mean to end up here again, but after the fourth or fifth time, it became a habit of sorts—his constant in a world of change. Or, lack of change now.
Standing at the grave, he sighed with the weight of his thoughts as his mind unwillingly began to reflect.
Since defeating the Netherbrain, his journey—their journey—has ended. He can’t say he was surprised by the fact everyone split off. There wasn’t a world-ending threat keeping them together, or a strange artefact keeping them from turning into mind flayers. They were finally, truly, free. While some were still burdened by their own problems, they weren’t tied together by the strings of fate anymore. And for some reason, Kifo hated that.
His mind wandered further as he started to reminisce.
In the beginning, he was just their guide, their scout, their ranger from the woods. One who promised them safe passage until the grove and no further. But he quickly became.. More. Their band of misfortunes scrappily threaded together by fate snagged him by the corner and dragged him along, and with it, he became a piece of their story. There were highs, lows, and moments in between, each filled with emotions he never thought he’d ever enjoy again. But they showed him what it meant to live alongside people again. His decades of voluntary exile made it difficult to communicate, but apparently, that’s what made him so endearing. His blunt honesty, his weak attempts at sarcasm, and his dry woodland jokes that nobody understood all became the parts of him that his companions seemed to enjoy. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t been able to let them go. His selfish desire to be needed made it difficult.
His hand brushed the grass in front of the grave. Astarion Ancunin. 450DR — the other side was left blank.
Kifo remembers the night he watched as Astarion carved a new life into his grave, a moment that held more symbolism than any rite or ritual he’s ever experienced. They weren’t anything to each other, really; he just... happened to be around when Astarion did it. His thumb brushed against the cold stone. The tombstone is old, rough, and hasn’t been truly cared for in years, probably. But he knew bearing witness to Astarion’s rebirth was solidifying in its own right. Or, he at least assumes Astarion found it solidifying in some way.
Gods know where Astarion is now. Kifo lost contact when he returned to the forest, closer to the city this time. After all, there’s plenty of monsters surrounding the gate that the flaming fist refuses to deal with. Monsters Kifo hunted out of respect for what he used to be. Monsters Kifo hunted as the wolf, to sate its hunger.
Kifo doesn’t understand why Astarion’s grave has become his constant. Astarion’s far from dead (technically), and he’s probably moved far from here to explore his freedom more intimately. As Kifo sits there, paying respects to the vampire despite his living status, he ponders his reasons for lingering. Maybe it’s because he’s been so caught up in the past lately, always thinking about the ones he traveled with, never about himself or what he plans to do. Maybe he wants a quiet place, and this graveyard just happens to be far enough away that the stray sounds of the city don’t reach his oversensitive ears. Maybe he simply.. Misses him—them. All of them, really.
He stands from where he was once kneeling, his hand almost reluctant to leave Astarion’s tombstone. Before he even turns to walk back and simmer with his thoughts, he’s interrupted by the sound of a familiar voice—every word resonating like a knell, signaling the approach of someone he’s long since buried.