Intervention (G)
Characters – Dungeonmaster, Sheila the Thief, Hank the Ranger
Prompt - #61 Feral
Word Count - 1005
Summary – After tragedy strikes, Dungeonmaster is left to face the consequences.
AN – Inspired by the end of the first chapter of the fic “Breaking the Ties that Bind” by Whiteveils.
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Intervention
He could not intervene.
As he waited, he had to repeat the words to himself over and over again: He could not intervene.
The rules of the Realm were immutable; had he not laid some of them down himself when he took this jaded and unwanted role? He was the Dungeonmaster, the Guide of heroes and the Protector of innocents and though he could hear their cries, and feel their pain, he could not help in the way they wanted him too. He must not help. He did not dare. Their world turned on their hope of getting home, but he lived for a greater purpose. In this Realm many lives were at stake, and no one person or group could come before his duty to the other, innocent lives that depended on him for protection.
The Children were needed, the Heroes the Realm so desperately needed. That was why they were there. That was something not even he could change, or release them from their destinies, any more than he could release himself from his own.
He felt he had to wait, to give them all time to mourn. Even from so far away he could feel the power of their grief ringing through the air. He couldn’t delay forever, and their pain could yet consume them.
He knew from the moment he stepped out of the shadows of the cliff that something was wrong. The anguish he’d sensed was much more powerful than he’d imagined. It enveloped the remaining children like a cocoon of ice.
They stared at him as if he was a stranger. For once, Dungeonmaster struggled to speak.
‘Greetings, my Young Ones.’
No one replied. He looked round at the children he thought he knew and knew he’d made a terrible mistake in waiting. He knew they would not understand, and he knew that they had no one to blame but him; they did his bidding and followed his advice. He had sent them here.
No one spoke, and he looked round at the remaining children. The days since the Barbarian’s death had changed them, they were children no more.
The Ranger was cold, perhaps broken by the failure of his leadership. He stood protectively in front of the Thief, glaring at their Guide, as if daring him to speak.
‘I am sorry for the death of the Barbarian,’ he said.
There was no answer. He had expected none. Not this time. It was colder than he’d thought it would be, and harder, too. But he continued, nevertheless, his hopelessness growing with every word.
‘I come with news of another portal.’
Still there was silence.
They did not understand.
He had the gift of foresight, it was true. He had foreseen this possibility, many times before they had circumvented destruction. He had done all he dared to help them and save them. This time, it was not enough.
He knew what they wanted, he even suspected they knew it was possible.
But there was iron resolve beneath the old, benevolent exterior. Time had made it so. He had done many things, he had tended the Realm; that was his only task and his first and foremost responsibility. No one group, or person, could break the rules. What was laid down centuries before could not be changed.
If he was to remain as Dungeonmaster, he had to play by the rules.
He could not intervene.
But then he looked her in the face. On it was engraved a loss so profound it seemed to have destroyed her. She was just a shell, hollow and empty all the way through, mimicking the movements of life. The Thief’s pain was reflected in the faces of the others. The looks from the Cavalier he was used to, but such hostility from the others was new.
The Thief moved first, draping her Cloak over the ground in front of him. Then, in deathly silence, the others followed her lead and handed the weapons back. Only the Ranger looked him in the eye, and then only for a second.
The words echoed through his mind: He could not intervene.
All of his pupils had failed. Somehow, he had failed them all, never able to save them, or save his Realm. He would have helped them, if they could accept it. They had to come to him, they had to ask.
Without him, they would run wild, causing pain and destruction in their wake where once they had brought salvation and release. He looked round the group, seeing their heads held low, and their spirit broken, and willed them to turn back from the path of despair.
The Thief had already started walking down the valley. Her grief would drive them all apart sooner or later. Even her affection for the Ranger wouldn’t survive, and she would use her grief as a cloak and wrap herself inside, forgetting all loyalties to others and her friends until the very end. By then it might be too late and all he had worked for would come crashing down as the Realm itself fell under the rule of Evil.
There would be no second chances, and no turning back once they had broken their allegiance. This would have to play out to the bitter end, and he would have to wait with only his gift of foresight as cold comfort. The road ahead of them was so hard, and so dangerous, and would destroy them all in one way or another. They did not know, and could not understand his purpose, or that he would watch them fall, and would weep with them in their pain.
Unaware of his sorrows, the other four Young Ones turned and walked away with no backward glances. Though it was the only recourse they had, he had hardly believed they would do it. But it was their choice.
He could not intervene.
Not even for them. Not even for her. He could only stand and watch them walk away.
He could not intervene.