Those of us who understand these matters, however, recognize that the ancient story refers to three objects, or Hallows, which, if united, will make the possessor Master of Death: the elder wand, the resurrection stone, and the cloak of invisibility.
#omg#yes good#where is the fic (via v8roadworrier)
WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHERE’S THE FIC, THERE IS NO FI—
The part of the plan that kept tripping them up was how to get from the Vault to the Rig without being seen, but Miss Giddy simply looked at them sad and reached behind her blackboard. She pulled out a piece of grey cloth threadbared, it might have one day been a whole (once) but like everything else, the Wasteland wore it thin.
“How will that help?” Angharad asked.
Miss Giddy simply looked at them and turned it wrong way around and wrapped it around her arm.
And then her arm was gone like that Imperator’s arm.
“What!” Cheedo exclaimed.
“How?” Toasts asked.
But the Dag took one look and yelled, “Why? Why now? Why not before?”
“If I snuck you out of the Vault, what then? Will you manage to hide somehow in the Citadel when you’ve known nothing but the Vault? Will you survive in the Wastes without aid?” Miss Giddy plucked at the edges of the cloak and then grabbed on, and pulled. She pulled five times until she had five cloaks, even thinner, and white.
“These will last just long enough to get you on that Rig.” She said.
“And you?” Angharad asked, angry and determined and hands shaking as she took the fifth of cloak that was hers. That escape that should have been hers from the beginning, “Is there something else you’re hiding?”
“Yes,” Miss Giddy said, and brought out the rifle from the belly of the piano.
“No wonder that thing played sour,” Dag muttered.
*screeches loudly*
it’s just a stone like any other. there are countless hundreds of thousands of them lying in the sand, finding their way into boots, pinging off windshields.
this one turns up in his pocket and just. doesn’t leave. it’s always cool to the touch, sharp man-made edges catching against his fingers as if it wants to be held, gleams darkly in the sunlight when he does.
he turns it over in his hand, watching the colors shift under the surface like an oil-slick. once, twice, thrice.
“where are you?”
phantom voices have been his companions for- might be years, if time had any meaning out here- but they’re usually not so clear. so close.
“max, is that you?”
the rock slips from his grip when he see the girl, looking as she had right before her death, as if he might reach out and touch her. as if she might still have her whole life ahead of her.
“why did you let me die?”
the vision flickers and fades, the child’s face turning to a mask of rage and hurt and the rictus grin of a skull. he drives far and fast, hopes he can outrun the rest of the ghosts that are sure to follow
in his pocket the stone sits, heavy and cold, begging to be held.
“Furiosa,” her mother breathes and her lungs crackle with it, “come here.”
She didn’t want to because she’d known her mother strong and this is— her mother’s breath smelled as sour as the shoulder wound as sour as the green crawling across her mother’s skin as sour as the realization that these are her mother’s last moments and her mind blanked at thought and turned away, she wanted to turn away but she can’t—
Something is bumped against her hand and she looks down.
Wood, in her mother’s failing grip.
Whereever did her mother manage to keep this bit of wood, of all things?
Furiosa can’t identify the wood, nor the small piece of thread hanging from it that she can’t seem to remove when she tugs at it. The end of it is broken off, it’s maybe only a hands-width long, and she wondered how long it was before.
(It looked old.)
“Take this, my Furiosa,” her mother wheezed, “Take it from me and keep it safe, and it will bring you victory in the end.”
“But it did nothing for you.” Furiosa replied bitterly.
“Yes it did,” and there was a small smile, “You’re alive, aren’t you?”
Furiosa’s left arm throbbed, newly stumped, somehow healing, and she just about screamed with the realization that the sad little piece of wood healed her… but not her mother. That there might have been a choice.
“It takes awhile to full up nowadays,” Mary whispered, “but when it does, you’d be unstoppable.”
“Mother…”
“Take it.” Hide it, went unspoken. But Mary JoBassa took some last bit of reflex and jerked it out of the way, “But do me a favor, my Furiosa, end me before the sour hits my brain. Let me go out roaring.”
Furiosa looked to her mother’s neck, where the black and green crawled ever up, the flesh eating itself and rotting in place. And set her jaw, and nodded.
Mary JoBassa smiled, calm, as Furiosa stood up and went behind her and placed her neck in a chokehold, and Mary’s hands rose up to cup her elbow encouragingly (she breathed once, hard, at this last hug). Furiosa tightened the hold and twisted fast.
(snap)
Furiosa let the body fall and stumbled backwards until she somehow fell to her seat.
She stared.
Tried to control her breathing so it did not wobble. Tried to control her eyes so that she did not waste water.
When she was successful, she then crawled forward and grabbed that bit of wood.
(many thousand days later, she will place this piece of wood in the center shaft of her metal arm)
(and it was enough)
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