I originally planned to make an edit of Freyja as Kyuubey because of become meguca and save the universe/become álfar and save the dream realm, but with my laptop being locked up in the moving van for several days I ended up making this kinda less silly thing instead. Lots of spoilers for book 4 and for Madoka; it’ll probably be hard to understand unless you know both. Enjoy.
This was Freyja’s wish: that there be no escape from the nightmare. No escape from the scourge of battle, the screeches of the dying.
And in those very screams, Lycoris was hard at work.
She could have cursed Freyja for this. The ljósálfar and dökkálfar had all night to flutter around and deliver their dreams, no matter how far apart their targets. But Lycoris, as the Final Dream, had to work quickly and constantly; battles as bloody as this would nearly overwhelm her.
It wasn’t this bad at first. When the fighting began, she just had to follow the Askran army around the front lines. Freyja preferred to attack them on all sides, however, and once the war broke into several skirmishes, Lycoris had to constantly keep track of what new territory the fighting had claimed. All this for a couple of soldiers who might not even die in the end...
Perhaps Lycoris should be thankful for the work. Her life as an álfar was an easy existence; working as a messenger of death just made these colorless days less boring. There was nothing else for her to care about in this world, after all. She found Freyr’s jovial demeanor and concern for mortals meaningless at best and annoying at worst, while Freyja’s doting attention always seemed more creepy than comforting. And as for the mortals? The countless dying dreams Lycoris had to create proved to her that any treasures in the mortal world only brought you pain when they disappeared.
Before she realized it, Lycoris had followed the footsteps of the war back into Dökkálfheimr. She sighed in relief. The scent of nightmares that pervaded the air here would carry many final dreams as well and make her work much easier. If only the bloodshed weren’t so intense...
She tirelessly raised her flowery tome again. From its magic grew vision, after vision, after vision; some a comfort, and some a curse. Here a soldier died in honor, dreaming of the legacy he would leave. There one died in a cloud of worry, as images of a girl back home haunted him. Lycoris had to stifle a cold laugh as she spelled this one from her dream nectar.
Rage at the enemy. Regret for a mistake. Hope that one’s sacrifice was not in vain. Hidden memories of being left in a well. After countless wars, none of these ideas were unfamiliar to Lycoris. She could even piece together each emotion at a millisecond’s notice when necessary.
And then she saw Plumeria’s dying body.
Immersed in her dream-making, Lycoris had lost track of the war itself. It seemed that Plumeria had been the center of a fight, and while she had been defeated, life hadn’t quite let go of her yet. Her draining face was stricken with horror. Lycoris slowly realized the dream playing through her thoughts — the dream Lycoris had put together mindlessly moments ago — was the memories of a mortal child.
And as the creator, Lycoris knew the rest of the dream: after those memories played through her mind, Plumeria would Freyja’s gentle hands saving her. But she would only dream of this for a short moment. Soon, the shame of having failed the one person who cared for her would kill her.
“Help...”
So Plumeria was once mortal, and turned into an álfar by Freyja...
“Please...”
Pushing past her shock, Lycoris tried to piece her scrambled thoughts back together to form a more comforting dream for Plumeria. That’s right, Plumeria must have already known Lycoris could control her pain in this moment.
“...Nec...tar...”
Oh, of course! The dream nectar they both carried as álfar nourished them, and could heal their wounds. Surely the lewd dream wouldn’t treat death as such an inescapable thing, and wanted Lycoris to help her cling to life a little longer. So she started pouring some nectar from her own flower tome — then realized it would be less wasteful to use Plumeria’s.
The nectar started working immediately, cleaning spilled blood and stitching muscle back together.
“Were they...kinder...in your world...?”
“My world?”
“Weren’t you...from a different...the rest of us...”
The nectar was not fast enough. With a small cry, Plumeria’s body rolled over, reopening many of the wounds and knocking the scent of her dream nectar into the air. Lycoris coughed and stepped back.
With the defeat of an important leader, both the nightmares and mortals began to retreat, which meant Lycoris’ job here was over. So she could deal with the strange image in her mind in peace. Was this a dream Plumeria accidentally gave her?
For a second, Lycoris saw herself lying next to a girl of the same age, pink hair tied up in ribbons. Their fingers were intertwined and their eyes were locked.
This moment, and nothing more.
There was something about that face — that pink-haired girl — Lycoris couldn’t help but sit down and weep. This person...had she been important to Lycoris? That must have been it...
Because Lycoris realized something else as well. Every time someone died, the dream given to them was not created out of thin air: it was actually a dying dream of the girl with pink hair. In fact, improbable as it seemed, it felt like each of the hundred dreams aligned with one of Lycoris’ own memories; like each one was a different time she watched this girl die.
“Lycoris, my sweet...”
Hissing, Lycoris leapt out of reach of those gentle hands of Freyja’s.
“I had no idea you cared so much about Plumeria. So we really do mean something to you...”
“Plumeria can go rot and burst at the bottom of a river, so can you.”
“Oh my, you were always so polite, I’m surprised — ah, I understand, you must have learned of your mortal life.”
“I don’t know a thing about it, I didn’t even know I was mortal.”
“They used magic to turn your soul into that stone on your bracelet. And look at it, they tainted it so much it’s as ugly as a curse.”
“...”
“There’s no reason to have any longing for that existence. They intended to turn you into a monster, a killing machine with no other purpose than to spread despair. There would have been no sympathy for you in that life.”
Lycoris looked at the jewel on her wrist. It had always fascinated her: in what seemed like a purple diamond shell, a dark inky liquid sloshed around that reflected interesting colored patterns here and there. She had assumed it was like a tome, something that stored her power to create final dreams. But if those dreams came from her own memories, and this gem was really her soul...
“You’re wrong, because there was that girl...”
“Which one? Madoka? She left you. I offered her the nectar, but she refused and went back to become a monster. For some useless ideal, I suppose.”
Lycoris stared at her wrist. She could barely move as she watched the black liquid fill the gem.
Then her wrist was suddenly grabbed.
Her eyes fluttered open as she watched the darkness drain from her soul. Suddenly her gaze was locked with a pair of eyes slightly hidden under pink bangs.
“Madoka??”
“I lied, I had one grief seed left.”
“!!”
“Please...save me from being stupid...and getting tricked...”
...
So that last fever dream must have been the beginnings of her mind as a witch. So as a witch, she would have relived Madoka’s death millions of times, just to deliver the same pain to someone else.
Her grip on her shield tightened as she turned time back once again.
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