#wizard101 fic

[oldestenemy]

“Graduation.” The wizard repeats the word blankly, staring at Headmaster Ambrose like he’s grown a second head. Honestly it would be less surprising if he had grown a second head.

“Yes, the faculty is all in agreement, you have more than surpassed the requi—”

“—Our graduation.” The wizard cuts over him, and now the effect is reversed, Merle Ambrose looks confused.

“I must ask that you hurry along to the cabinet of wonders,” He starts, as though they have not spoken at all. “Mr. Lincoln is waiting to prepare you for—”

“—No.” They cross their arms. They plant their feet. They stare their headmaster down with eyes that saw the fall of Azteca, the deaths of Malistaire and Morganthe. Warm brown flashing gold in a marriage of Myth and Astral magics. “It’s our graduation, right? Mine and all the other older students—all the others who have been here longer than I have.”

“Ah, I am afraid you misunderstand, their studies are—”

“—Are what, incomplete? What part of the requirements for graduation does not attending multiple years worth of classes fall under? Or is it that you only hand out diplomas to loyal war dogs?” The words tumble out before the wizard can stop them. And honestly? They cannot bring themself to regret it.

Silence.

Heavy and tense.

“I understand your nerves have been running high due to the ongoing disappearance of Mr. Grimwater,” Merle Ambrose sounds no different than he had before they spoke. He does not flinch. They wonder somewhere if he has trained the reactions out of himself. If he is concerned about pushing a student to anger, especially one like the wizard. Afraid of making another monster. He’s never reacted to their outbursts. Not the catatonia after Dragonspyre. Not the screaming after Azteca. Not the carefully constructed barbs they had flung at him after their final day on Khrysalis. “I shall consult with the rest of the faculty on the status of your classmates, and see what can be done.”

“I can do it.” They offer, perhaps too quickly. It’s habit. It’s safety. Send me on a quest. Get me out of this room. What can I do. How can I help. “I’m sorry.” The words are bitter and dark on their tongue. They don’t let it show.

“Very well. Consult with the other professors, and have them gather before Bartleby—I will meet them there.”

“Yes, sir.”

And they do.

One by one they make the rounds.

Dworgyn first as he’s furthest away.

Then working from Moolinda to the Elementals and eventually to Cyrus.

Everyone thus far has been in agreement.

Though they can still hear the curl of I would not expect you to advocate for Mr. Stormgate.

The wizard shakes their head, half a smile forming in spite of the barely contained fount of irritation still bubbling under the surface. The idea of graduating alone, of being even further removed from their peers-who-really-weren’t. No. No they wouldn’t go through with that.

When finally they make it back to Ambrose’s office, he is already gone.

But the office itself is packed.

“Wizard!” Penny, beaming and bright. “Have you heard the news? It seems it only just got passed around—”

“—Graduation.” They reply, happy for the fact that they do not have to be the one to break this. That nobody will have to know it was not supposed to be this way. “Through the wardrobe—cabinet—whatever.” They point to the Cabinet of Wonders in the corner, and watch as the Ravenwood upperclassmen—the Dragonspyre Academy Restoration Team—file their way through the doors.

“When you weren’t here, I was worried you’d been called away to some new problem.” Malorn says, watching with them as the others file through. “I wouldn’t put it past Headmaster Ambrose to think saving the world is more important than a silly little ceremony.”

“If that were the case, I might actually agree with him on something.”

“It’s weird,” It’s quiet, those words. “I’ve been teaching other students for—oh gods, how long has it even been now—years? I don’t know what my responsibilities are going to look like after—or—”

“—Malorn.” The wizard’s expression softens, “Breathe. I imagine you can discuss all that with Ambrose afterwards—or hey, don’t discuss it, go back to the Dragonspyre Academy and start planning a curriculum there.” It’s mostly a joke, maybe only half a joke with some of the talk the others have kept up lately. “If you really want to keep teaching.”

“Oh—Spiral no—I don’t think I could go straight into teaching anyone anything beyond—well—I dunno, Wraith I suppose now. I like teaching the younger kids, I like how excited they are to learn.” He pauses, looking back at the cabinet. “It’s not just that though, I don’t ever remember seeing a graduation happen here. I’ve lived in Wizard City my whole life—most of us have aside from Penny and Nolan—it’s just—weird.”

“First time for everything.” Is time the same in the Spiral? Has their body or their counterpart or whatever it is they can slip back into on the empty leeched out Earth graduated? Are they in college? Do they have a job?

Those thoughts make the wizard’s head ache, trying to think about Earth nowadays usually does.

“Yeah. Yeah…” Malorn says finally, giving them one last smile before stepping through.

And the wizard is alone in the Headmaster’s office.

Heart pounding for no good reason.

Who are you who are you who are you who are you.

It doesn’t matter.

Time is moving.

So are they.

~*~

The grounds of Ravenwood are bursting with guests and decoration. A small stage has been set up just before Bartleby, and one by one, by school, the students are called up.

Among the crowd of students there are hushed whispers.

Is that the Emperor of Mooshu?

What is the Headmistress from Pigswick doing here?

What’s with the bird?

The wizard genuinely tunes out a little, watches with ears ringing as their classmates walk across that little stage. Watches the Death students cross together, the void where Duncan should be heavy in the air. Like a poison. Like a fog.

They shake their head, look back into the crowd, faces from everywhere and nowhere. Zenzen catches their eye and if each of them looks away in the same moment? It is only because if they spend too long thinking about the other, the wall constructed against the grief of Azteca will crumble for them both.

They scan further, envoys from Celestia, Avalon, Zafaria—

—somewhere there is a little spark of hurt and worry for the absence of their comrades in arms on Khrysalis. But there is still so much to be done there in the name of keeping peace. Better Dyvim and Zaltanna stay where they are.

There is a set of eyes that amuses them in the fraught emotions of the rest.

Cuffed to not one but two—very disgruntled looking officers is Professor James Meowiarty.

Oh they would’ve loved to have been present for the conversation that happened at Scotland Yard to allow that.

Very suddenly they are the only one left.

It startles them, movements almost a stumble as they mount the steps up to the little stage.

Ambrose is talking, their ears are ringing again. Heroic spirit, shrewd mind, noble virtue—

They can barely hear him.

Even for you.

Even for you.

“My, my.” Professor Drake’s words break the sound of his brother’s reverberating in the Wizard’s skull. “Look at you, look how far you have come in all this time. You know well that I doubted the spark Headmaster Ambrose saw in you upon your arrival. That I did my best to dissuade you through hardship, impossibility, and playing to what I perceived as a lack of drive. I have never been more delighted to be proven wrong.”

Oh.

Oh.

They are going to cry when this is done.

They’re not going to do it here. In front of so many people. But alone, somewhere safe, this is going to hang in their chest while they heave.

“What you have done for Ravenwood, for the Spiral, and beyond that—for my family, cannot be overstated.” Cyrus Drake is smiling, it is barely there, it could be mistaken for neutrality or perhaps a smirk if they did not know those expressions so well. “You are a remarkable wizard, and one I am tremendously proud of. Keep your mind open to all the wonders that Myth has to offer, and you will never lack new avenues of discovery.”

They want to hold onto those words forever. Not yet acknowledging the other meaning within just saying them, that from this moment there is no longer the thread of Professor and Student tying them to Cyrus Drake. And that almost aches in its own way. A loss of something familiar.

The wizard hasn’t looked away from him by the time Ambrose is talking again. It’s so hard to hear anything. Ears ringing, wind blowing cold and frigid—

Wind blowing?

Had it been windy?

They raise a hand to hold the graduation cap to their head—

And that is when things all come crashing down.

Of course.

Again.

Read the whole series here <3

#wizard101 fanfic #wizard101 #wizard101 fic #wizard101 fandom #wiz101 #wizard101 fanfiction #w101 #scion series is going great why do you ask #lark is still playing funky wizard game from their childhood #i have a writeblr for this but shh

[dyvimwhitehart]

fill this ghost town up with light

While her feet do itch to touch down in Tyrian Gorge, she pauses, watching him have the time he deserves with his restored home. or, The Wizard and Dyvim Whitehart visit the Silent Market for the first time since taking it back from the Umbra Legion. READ ON A03 FOR ADDITIONAL COMMENTS.

With the confirmation of just how far the Shadow Palace lies from Bastion, she shifts her eagerness around to equally shoulder its weight with that of reality. It’s simply not feasible to go haywire and burn a hole through Fort Rachias. If she wants a chance at challenging Morganthe face to face, she has to abide by the rules that were established long before she ever set foot in Khrysalis. 

The rules of the Umbra Legion. The rules of the Council of Light. The rules of a prophecy she had no hand in writing, but is tasked with fulfilling— with outrunning. 

Amber keeps her face steady in front of King Mourningsword. He is doing all he can with what he has, and she knows better than anyone that suddenly being thrust into an ongoing conflict like this after such dormancy is difficult. When he acknowledges how she’s practically chomping at the bit to reach the Shadow Queen, she wonders what aspect of her body betrayed her. 

It certainly wasn’t her expression. Maybe her hands, clenching and unclenching, gave away the emotions she’d rather not dwell on. Either way, he gives the plan dreamt up by the throne’s advisor and Zaltanna his royal approval so she can be on her way as soon as possible. 

In her haste, she’s nearly out the door before the king can call out for her to wait. Briefly embarrassed, she turns back around, lowering the hand intended for the door to her side. 

The king smiles amusedly. Then, he himself turns toward one of the other doors in the throne room as if said smile never occurred.

“You will have a companion on your journey, Spellbinder,” 

Amber’s gut reaction to that is a strong, negative one. So many years without a companion, and now they’re being thrust upon her. Hasn’t she proved she can handle herself? Isn’t that what the story wants from her? Even if they mean well, and she’s sure they do, they’ll just slow her down if they stick around. 

Or, they’ll get hurt, and there will be no one else left at the scene to blame but the all-powerful Spellbinder that should have done something more. The blood adjacent to her hands soaks the skin more thoroughly than the blood that actually stains them. 

As if the universe is playing some kind of cruel joke on her, a newly-revitalized Dyvim Whitehart steps through the door King Mourningsword is gesturing toward. 

And if the joke wasn’t already cruel enough, her first instinct is not to fold her hands and simply accept his presence— but to rush forward towards him, sighing in relief. 

(She doesn’t— but can you imagine?) 

“I told Dyvim Whitehart to rest, but he would not have it,” Mourningsword continues. His best knight moves to stand obediently at his side. “Take him to the Melanos Tower. From there, you can better plan your invasion of Fort Rachias.” 

Dyvim steps up, nodding to her. “I am eager to see this through, my friend.” 

Though the king is correct about him needing his rest, Amber can’t help but notice how much stronger his voice sounds. That deep, honeyed tone that was absent at the time of him drinking the antidote has returned in full-force. It invigorates her in a way she is not used to. With it, she could do something stupid— like charge aimlessly into battle— without a second thought. 

She attempts to say something intelligent, but all she can do at the moment is nod. A declaration of wanted independence is still occupying space on her tongue, and the last thing she wants is to turn him away out of habit. 

King Mourningsword does the hard part for them. With a shake of his hand, they’re ushered out the front door of the throne room. Immediately upon exiting, the warmth of the new Bastion hits them. Amber hears Dyvim sigh deeply beside her.

“Isn’t it brilliant? The sun in the sky?” 

Amber wipes a coat of dust from a previous battle off her wand. “I’m as glad to see you on your feet as I am the Burrowers reclaiming this area,” 

“I couldn’t bear to spend another second cooped up in the palace,” he exclaims, jumping further down the steps. “Not when all of this was waiting for me out here,”

It hits her then that Dyvim had no way of knowing that the next phase of the plan involved storming the Melanos Tower. Had he simply asked the king to send him back out somewhere, anywhere he could oppose the Shadow? Or had he requested to walk alongside her specifically? 

Pondering at such a frayed end in the fabric of her journey is useless in the grand scheme of things, though, so she waives it from her mind just as quickly as it appeared there and focuses on the knight’s excitement instead. 

“How much of it have you had the chance to see?” 

“I awoke again after drinking the antidote as the Apiary guard sought passage here from the base of the Moon Cliffs. It was as if my body sensed there was something I needed to see and forced me awake,” the gusto in his voice rises, and then falls. “Of course, I was ushered back inside again soon after that to rest . But the beauty of it all…” 

The wonder on his face encourages Amber to take another look around. Shockingly, she hasn’t made stopping and smelling the roses a priority in all of this. While her feet do itch to touch down in Tyrian Gorge, she pauses, watching him have the time he deserves with his restored home.

It’s important enough to stall the mission because it’s something she feels she hasn’t seen before. The dead worlds like Dragonspyre and Azteca will never have this chance. As Dyvim stops to inspect a bushel of orange flowers, she feels a brief reprieve in her chest— a small voice telling her she’s done a bit of good by Khrysalis. 

And then another, crying out that she has to save them this time. She has to . 

“These are aurantiacus blossoms,” he smiles, rooting around within them further. “We have them in the Last Wood. With all the fog the Umbra Legion brought, I never expected them to survive out here,” 

“They’re persistent,” Amber says. “Stubborn,” 

He stands. “Just like my people. Now what do you say we go find a way to challenge that Ghost Dog, eh? All that bedrest has made me eager to see battle,” 

As they continue to walk, it dawns on her. To make it to Tyrian Gorge, they’ll have to go through the market. He must know, right? That sorrow no longer has a shop there? The last thing she wants to do is ruin the surprise, if it is one. He’s been cooped up half-dead, after all. 

For a moment, Amber’s feet have wings. She picks up her pace and turns back to face him. 

“Before we battle, there’s something else you should see,” 

Dyvim raises an eyebrow. “By all means, then, Spellbinder— I’ll follow you,” 

The guards stationed by the tunnel greet them, both unable to hide their excitement at seeing Dyvim out and about behind their professionalism. Amber steadies her pace to walk beside him as they step briefly into the dark. 

Guiding them to the tunnel’s end is an even brighter sun than before. 

Like Bastion, the fog that once coated Silent Market has now lifted. Stations manned by Goliaths are now occupied by Burrowers who have torn down any garish Umbra Legion memorabilia. Their wispy flags of war have been replaced by lush green banners strewn from tree to tree. All around, flora and fauna she now recognizes from her time in the Last Wood springs up alongside vendor’s tents. 

A smattering of happy gasps and cheers emerge from those near the market’s entrance upon seeing them. While Amber eyes them, offering reserved nods in their direction, Dyvim takes in the sight of a flurry of butterflies weaving around his antlers. His gaze follows them as they flutter off toward a grand old tree shedding pink leaves. 

“By Bastion…” he exhales. 

The small crowd disperses to tend to their wares and shopping lists as Dyvim begins taking slow steps forward. 

“This can’t be the same place we tracked down Zaltanna’s note in, can it? The greenery, the butterflies… I can barely believe it,” 

“It’s very beautiful,” Amber offers, moving to follow him. 

They inspect the series of doors where they once convened upon finding Zaltanna’s (Cornelius, at the time) red sash. Such a quest feels like ages ago. Amber has lost track of time quicker here in Khrysalis than she has in other worlds. It’s a phenomenon she can’t quite explain. Still, its been weeks. Months, even. So much has been done with so much left to do. 

Dyvim stops suddenly, ears twitching upward. Amber steps around his tail as it stands straight out to move beside him. He begins taking slow steps toward the unoccupied homes that make up the edge of the market. 

“Are you alright?” she asks. 

“They’re gone,” he says after a moment. His tone is flat, which frustrates her a bit. Is this how people feel when speaking with her?

“Who’s gone?” 

“The statues. The Crystal Statues I showed you the last time we were here.” he turns his head to look at her. “Don’t you remember? They were the souls of Burrowers trapped when Bastion fell. The ones caught in the Shadow Queen’s dark magic. The ones forced to… stay here forever,” 

“I remember,” Amber murmurs. 

And she does. She steps forward off the grass and onto the stone that once housed the crystals. When in this spot before, staring at the masses of jagged purple rock, her Necromancy had allowed her to sense the spirits of those trapped inside. Their message had been too haunting to share with him at the time. 

Even to a soldier who has seen so much, their words were piercing. They hit her right where the wound of Azteca was fresh. Her composure falters for a moment as she shuts her eyes and presses her palm to the ground. 

She can’t feel them anymore. 

She thinks that’s a good sign, one that points to their spirits escaping, finally passing on. They were not at peace when forever-chained to the Silent Market. If anything, they gave it its namesake, one that no longer fits. And so, they had been liberated once Bastion was. 

She can’t feel them anymore, but she remembers the words they shared with her: We are the dreamers. Not dead yet far from alive. But days ago we loved, felt dawn, and saw sunset glow. 

The light peeking through the treetops warms the back of her hand. Carefully, Amber stands, staring down at the spot on the ground where nothing remains.

“Do you know what happened to them?” Dyvim asks. 

“I think their souls are at peace now. They were able to see Bastion restored, which must have set them free. They can rest. They can finally rest,” 

He nods, seemingly accepting that explanation. She doesn’t know how much weight those words would’ve carried had she not been the Spellbinder. It’s irrelevant, though, if it brings him some semblance of peace as well. 

Another moment of silence passes between them before Dyvim speaks again. When he does, that wry smile has found a way back onto his face. 

“I guess that means our next step is to finish what they started, yes?” 

The heaviness of the spot dissipates as they step away from it, moving further into the vibrant market. After ascending a flight of stairs, the heavily guarded grand door to the gorge becomes visible, as does a waterfall and several more vendor tents. 

Few patrons pay them any mind now. Amber can imagine they’re much more eager to shop again than they would be to stop and chat. Now that she thinks of it, though, she wouldn’t mind procuring a new ring or athame at random chance. Dyvim did mention Burrowers excelling in craftwork. 

“Once the challenge is issued to Ghost Dog, you should come back and take a moment to enjoy all this,” she tells him. 

“And you?” he counters.

“And me?” 

“Do you ever get to reap the rewards of your heroics, Spellbinder? Reach out your hand and feel it, all the sunlight there is to bask in,” 

“I’m sure the sun will beat down on me just as hard across the Starfall Sea,”

“But not in the same way as it does here,” 

A sea of pink blossoms rain down over them as they pass under another grand tree. This one takes root in one of the waterfall pools. Dyvim stops to dip his feet into the water, beckoning for her to join him. 

“You haven’t been encouraging me to rest like the king, you know,” he says. 

Amber dips down to cup some of the bright blue water in her palms. It washes away the dust caked on them, revealing a series of scars and practically changing the shade of her skin. 

“That would be hypocritical of me to do,” she says before splashing her face. “Like you said, I don’t reap my spoils,” 

“How strange it is that the sounds of battle are more relaxing to us than the flow of a stream,” 

Dyvim sinks down beside her, washing his own hands in the water. Amber quirks a brow up as she attempts to rub her cheek dry. 

“It’s not surprising if you think about all I… we’ve been through. Individually,” 

“I never said it was surprising. Just strange,” he stands up to catch a pink leaf before it goes spilling into the drink below. “I’ve never been able to fully enjoy the beauty of the Last Wood because of what its name implies. Last. Final. Close to extinction, needing protection. Every beautiful thing I see is a reminder of what could soon be lost,” 

Amber stays hunched over, hands hung in the water. “I’m not going to let that happen, Dyvim. I’m going to do everything I can to stop it from happening,” 

The peaceful smile on his face seems out of place to her. Every word he says is ripe with the horror of what could be, and yet here he is, playing with foliage like a child instead of a soldier. Just the thought of standing up straight exhausts her, let alone looking overjoyed about it. Now that she’s in this position, she may never be able to get out of it. 

Still, Dyvim just gazes warmly down at her. Only when he lowers himself to her level again does his strength become observable. It hides in the curve of his smile, behind the temporary happiness in his eyes. 

“Thank you for this , Spellbinder,” 

“For this?” 

“You have given me the chance to see the vibrant place my ancestors once called home. It’s a Bastion that, admittedly, some days I thought I’d never meet,” 

“It’s… I have so much more to do,” she says, turning her cheek. 

“We’ll do it together,” 

“Dyvim—” 

He laughs a bit before she can protest about prophecies and whatnot. “—as much of it as we can. Here, take these as a reminder. You’ll need them when you can’t remember what the world looks like beyond the bleakness of the gorge,” 

Amber glances upward, her face still temporarily muddled by some combination of sorrow, embarrassment, and fatigue. Dyvim’s arm is outstretched and his palm wide open. In his hand sits one of the many pink leaves and an orange aurantiacus blossom he must’ve plucked earlier. She eyes them before taking them, as if they’ll bite. Then, she inspects them gently with her own hands. 

“You said every beautiful thing you see is a reminder of what you could lose,” the orange petal melts slightly against a water droplet left on her palm. “Seeing Bastion like this doesn’t scare you?” 

When she looks up at him, he’s already looking at her. “Seeing this is a different kind of beauty. It’s the kind that fills me with hope instead of fear,” 

She holds his gaze then. Just for a second, though, before returning her attention to the gifts in her hand. 

“They’ll never survive,” If anything, they’re already dead, torn off from their stems. 

“They’re persistent,” Dyvim says. “And stubborn. Like someone else I know,” 

At that, Amber stands, and he stands with her. She takes a moment to slip the foliage in between the pages of her tightly packed spell deck. By the time this is all over, if they still have this gorgeous world to enjoy, they’ll be perfectly pressed. 

“You must be referring to yourself,” she manages a smile. Dyvim only shrugs, starting toward the grand door to the gorge. 

“Maybe. Or maybe that’s just something we all have in common,”

#wizard101 fic #wizard101 #dyvim whitehart #wizzy fandom #wizard101 fanfiction #dyvwiz #the premise for this one slaps hard ngl..... i love u sm khrysalis <3 #every few months i just pop out a dyvwiz fic like clockwork

[melveres]

dreaming in-between duels and sabotage

#chickenscratch #dyvim whitehart #dyvwiz #the young wizard #Galathea (Eurydice) #wizard101 #w101 #pictured this taking place sometime during the Kondha Desert part of the story #mainly bc of all the dyvim fics taking place there #deserts get freezing cold at night so u gotta keep warm bro #sleep in my arms bro it's totally platonic bro #one of these days i'll draw dyvims full armour. but that's not today #wizzy fandom #wizzy101

[astral-schools]

a brief respite, and an experiment

transcription below

D: "Wizard, are you alright?" A: "I'm okay. Just tired. The past few days have been a lot, you know?" D: "I understand."

D: "You have been in motion almost constantly. Living things need… rest. Hibernation? Sleep. And as far as I can recall, you have gotten very little in our time together."

A: "I've been busy! You needed help, and then the people here needed my help, then there was the whole thing with the Old One. I haven't had time to rest." D: "I see…"

D: "You are trying to do good, right? To help everyone? Yes, I cannot find fault in such a motivation. I still think you should take a moment to recover your strength. Something tells me you will need it."

D: "But I will not question your lack of sleeping."

(He leans back against the wall.) A: "Can I try something?" D: "Try what?"

A: "Trust me?" D: "I do."

D: "What-- What is--" A: "I'm hugging you." D: "…Oh."

A: "Wasn't entirely sure it would work. But I figured if the World Synth was making you real enough to be seen, and real enough to interact with things, maybe it'd make you real enough for this, too."

D: "A re-- reasonable assumption. This is nice. This is-- good." A: "I'm glad it's not too much."

D: "Oh, no, I am completely overwhelmed. But it is worth it."

#w101 #w101 fandom #wizard101 #wizard101 fandom #dasein #w101 oc #wizard101 oc #lemuria #wizsein #sal art #oc: aedan #this takes place liiiiike in the middle of the world synth dungeon btw #i have to do one big OC comic for every thing im interested in. its required #got REAL lazy w shading and stuff do not look too hard #nvm transcription in the og post its easier this way #oh hmmm i forgot to say it when i first posted this. fun fact this scene is from the big wizsein fic im sporadically working on

[nightside101]

In honor of the name and gender update finally going live - here’s the very first wizard I ever made (from February 2009!!) and some art I did of him! I love that I can say my first wizard and I both transitioned. Blessed update, thank you KI

#wizard101 #surge talks #my art #i’ll probably change the stitch eventually lol #i know this one is a little goofy. i like it though #this is also the wizard from my 'evan star comes back to ravenwood after 13 years' fic to anyone who saw that #evan star

[extravalgant]

'for the dead are changless' aka the wizdyv fluff i always promised but never followed up on. UNTIL NOW summary: He could still feel the ghostly imprints of your fingers on his skin, kissed by the warmth of your body. You were checking his pulse. You were checking his pulse. words: 2144 warnings: no warnings. free range wizdyv fluff babey. except maybe some ooc-ness. please mind that 🛐

read on a03

"What does shadow magic feel like?" 

You can tell Dyvim is curious—just by the way his voice tilts in a certain way. He's not afraid, no; just cautious of what is to come. You avoid his gaze anyways, swallowing down the hard lump of guilt that suddenly manifests in your throat.

You've been avoiding his gaze for days by this point. You think yourself clever, but you know Dyvim; you know that this is his way of getting you to open up. You two had not spoken about what had happened at the Queen's hive, of what you two had lost and subsequently regained, but the relief of his return is palpable in the air. 

He would be a fool not to have noticed the way your fingers curl underneath his jaw, light as the morning's dew, and press gently against the pulse along his neck. You do this when you think he's sleeping, but he's a light sleeper, now—awake even at the slightest snap of a branch, at the mere suggestion that something may be moving in the dark. 

The first time you had done it had been after his revival—when you had taken the first shift, when he slowly fell into a dreamless sleep. He didn't know what to expect, but the sensation of your hand had not been one of them. 

Your fingers were warm against the jugular of his throat, and something in his chest squeezed at the thought; of the implications your actions held. His pulse was warm and hearty, thrumming strongly against the pads of your fingertips, and after a few beats of silence, he felt your hand slide away. 

He could still feel the ghostly imprints of your fingers on his skin, kissed by the warmth of your body. You were checking his pulse. You were checking his pulse. 

The affection he had been careful to tuck underneath his armor, between the smooth, metal ridges, suddenly can't help but bloom without warning. 

"It's different from other magic,” you say, bringing Dyvim back to this moment in time. He hadn't even realized the two of you had fallen silent until you had spoken. Your voice was soft, as it always was with him, as you shuffle your spell cards. They make a soft, satisfying hiss as they slide against one another, glittering low in the light. It reflects off of your face, washing your plaintive expression in a wash of bright, warm gold. 

“In what way?” he asks, his eyes round with genuine interest. Magic was never his strong suit, and it seemed so… finicky at times. It was hard to rely on something that had the possibility of failing you in the most crucial of moments. 

“It's colder than light magic,” you said, tucking the cards back into your deck, before slotting it onto your side. You slot your fingers together, resting your elbows on your thighs, before leaning forward. 

Yes, your hands had felt cold, hadn't they? He could feel it the other night, when you had done your usual rounds. Watched him breathe long and slow, like he savored every breath. 

“It is?” He blinks. “I had no idea magic was warm.” 

“Not… necessarily,” you reply, and allow the tendrils of magic to dance across your skin. To the denizens of this world, magic was a wonder to behold; a weapon wielded against darkness. The responsibility you have is not lost on you. “Light magic doesn't feel like anything, its just… shadow magic that feels colder in comparison. It feels like… cracking an egg over your head.” 

Dyvim smiles, a laugh passing through his lips without a second thought. He didn't expect a metaphor like that, but it made it easier to imagine. 

“Does it?” He says, with a hint of a smile tracing the edges of his words. His eyes crinkle with amusement. “I don't believe you.” 

“We could always get an egg and find out,” you suggest with a tease, until the soft warmth of your conversations silts through the silence, and you go back to being you. Not ‘The Wizard’—but you. 

His spellbinder—the one with the sad eyes and the kind smile. Everything about you is so kind, he thinks. 

“I’ll take your word for it,” he muses gently, and the smiles he receives in reply is enough to make his heart squeeze in his chest. 

He watches the firelight dance across your face. It dips wonderfully into all your crevices—the softness of your cheeks, curving underneath your eyes, against the slope of your face. 

But in your eyes, something lingers. Something that’s been there long before Dyvim had shown up. He wasn’t one to pry—you two had not known each other for long, and he felt it would be rude to ask about things that weren’t his business. He understood it, in a way. He’d rather not linger on things that happened in the past, not when their future finally seemed so bright. 

And not when the reason for that brightness was sitting right next to him.

“I’m sorry.”

Crack. 

The flame splits the kindle once more. It sways and dances, making the shadows dance along the ground in a graceful dance. Dyvim blinks, surprised at the sudden apology. “Sorry? What for?” 

“I got you killed,” you reply, your voice raspy with raw emotion. Like the words were sandpaper, and you were dragging them out of your throat. 

Ah, his… death. It’s with a shameful flush that he realizes, that the wizard must have been worried about him. 

“I knew full well what I was getting into, spellbinder.” Dyvim soothes. “Rather—it’s me who should be apologizing to you. I hadn’t meant to worry you like that.”

You suck in a soft breath, and let it exhale slow and gently from your mouth. His words release the knot of tension that had been lingering in your chest, unraveling it into fine, thin strands. 

“You’re alive,” you whisper. You resist the urge to reach out, to grab his hand and intertwine it with yours. To feel the thrum of his pulse fluttering underneath your palm. “And that’s all that matters.” 

The smile comes to him easily—something he felt only you were capable of bringing out of him, in these times of war. 

The guilt lessens, but not by a whole lot. It was true that you had felt guilty for a long time after his death, unable to even listen to your superiors without a scathing retort ready at the handle. They deserved every bit of it, and thensome. 

Dyvim didn’t. Dyvim didn’t deserve anything that happened to him. 

“I-I’m sorry, too, for—” The words spill out of your mouth, clumsy and awkward. “—For learning shadow magic.” 

The words hang in the air, amidst the quiet ambience of their camp for the evening. It’s not the sort of thing Dyvim was expecting, leading him to blink slowly, silently, at the wizard.

He… doesn’t know how to respond to that, frankly. It’s true that the wizard’s spells look different, feel different, but he had never thought of it anything beyond that. The fact that they were apologizing meant that they felt they did something wrong. 

But, there it is—the shine of guilt, lingering in your eyes. Glossing over the whites of your eyes, making them shimmer like glass. Dyvim feels his shoulders sag, just slightly, as his voice softens—only for you. “Oh, spellbinder…” 

And you? You can’t take that. With only two words, he’s knocked down your walls completely. Your eyes burn, nose stinging, as you reach up to blink away the tears. 

You can feel it—his pulse, lingering with yours, as his hand circles your wrist; he gently tugs it downwards, and you let him, allowing him to see the fruits of your labor. Your lower lashline, dotted with tears, and quiet little sobs that break his heart. 

“I didn’t mean,” you gasp out, the words stilted and disjointed. “to disappoint you. To disappoint—everyone.” 

“Where did you get that idea?” Dyvim whispers back, running a thumb gently over the seam of your wrist, where your heartbeat flutters underneath his touch. 

“It’s forbidden,” you say, your voice gravely. The words grate in your throat, uncovering the shame and guilt you had been carrying all this time, on your own. “Shadow magic is forbidden, and it’s caused… so much grief and sorrow. To you, to—to everyone else—” 

“Spellbinder,” Dyvim says, softly, and your body shudders in response. How could he say your name with such softness? You were not soft at all. You were hard at the edges, tightly coiled and ready to spring at a moment’s notice. Ready to defend the spiral. 

He doesn’t say anything else, but allows you to cry if need be. Had this been several weeks ago, a part of you would have been mortified at the idea of crying so openly in front of another person. But weeks ago Dyvim wasn’t alive—he was still encased in amber by that point, lost to the world, and you had been forced to pick up the scattered pieces and run. 

“I’m not angry at you, spellbinder,” Dyvim says, the lilt of his tone warm and gentle, voice dipping down into a soothing hush. “And I do not blame you for learning shadow magic.” 

When he reaches out, this time, it’s to take your hands gently into his own. The contrast in temperatures surprises you, the warmth of his palms seeping into your skin. The shadow had taken that from you, as well—the warmth of your own body. 

"Morganthe has done a lot to hurt my people," He says, and his voice trembles with an anger, a despair, that you recognize. The unfairness of it all, the dawning realization that you lost; that for the moment, evil had triumphed over good. Dyvim’s voice softens as he brushes his thumbs over your knuckles. "But you… you have done nothing wrong."

I have, you think, almost helplessly. Dyvim looks at you like you’ve personally hung the stars—and for him, you might. 

"You have undone some of the hurt that has been inflicted upon us for centuries, and, for the first time, I feel… hopeful."

Dyvim looks into your eyes as he says this, eyes pooling with an adoration you hadn't seen in a long, long time. A small, bitter part of you says you don't deserve it. You swallow it down, letting it drop into your stomach like a stone.

"You make me feel hopeful, spellbinder."

Truly, you don’t know what to make of that. You’re no saint, you know this—but he’s so earnest, it’s hard to disagree with him. You open your mouth to reply, but when it’s clear that nothing is going to come out, you close it. You can feel his hands squeezing yours gently, as if saying, take your time.

So you cry. 

Your face warms as you cry, letting the thick globs of tears track down your face, sniffling with each sob that leaves your lips. You don’t remember the last time you’ve cried, but it had to have been a while ago, because you can’t stop. And when one of your hands pulls away from his, to reach up to wipe away the tears with the back of your hand, his arm reaches out to circle your shoulders, and tuck you against his armor. 

“You’re safe here, spellbinder,” he whispers. “Let it all out.” 

He tells you to mind all the cold, metal parts of his armor, but you don’t care. You tuck your face against his shoulder, and let the sobs shudder through your body. Your tears twinkle like stars as they quietly plop onto his armor, as his other hand dips up and down your back in a gentle, soothing motion. 

Frankly, it’s one of the best hugs you have ever received. It’s probably one of the only hugs you have ever received, since you had stepped foot in the spiral.

"I'm sorry you had to see me like this," your voice crackles, choking on the emotion lodged in your throat.. "I know how much everyone looks up to me. I don't want to seem weak…"

"Allowing yourself to be comforted is not weak, spellbinder." Dyvim chastises lightly, for your own good. "I feel honored you were even willing to divulge this side of vulnerability to me."

"You're special," you reply, not even attempting to hide your favoritism towards him. 

For some reason, this surprises him. “Am I?” He asks. “More special than anyone else?” 

You nod. “More special than anyone else.” 

You feel him tuck his cheek against the top of your head, and feel the soft inhale and exhale of his breath. 

“In all of the spiral?” He asks, his voice quieter. 

“In all of the spiral.” 

#val.fics #wizard101 #w101 #dyvim whitehart w101 #wizdyv #hello wizdyv'ers. i come with this #i really need to use my fic tag more because i could not figure out for the life of me how i formatted the other one #which by the way. i realized i didnt post the other wizbat one on a03 #hm... mayhaps that will change #anyways. i work a nine hour shift today #please god (raven) give me the strength #also this is unbeta'd so please mind the mistakes lolol

[dani-luminae]

WHY CAN'T WE PICK THESE LIL GUYS UP AND CUDDLE THEM

GAME U MAKE ME SAD

#that's it im gonna have a whole paragraph with val going 'iri why's there a sock animal? he's so lonely!!!!' in fic lol #wizard101 #wizard 101 #zafaria

[anxiously-sidequesting]

i have to physically restrain myself 💪🏾💪🏾💪🏾 from posting more about Grandfather Spider 😘✨🥰🥰🥰🤗🕷️💍🧎🏾

#i could be doing anything right now. i could apply for a job. learn how to drive. practice my critical thinking skills! but no! spiders here #have any of yall heard wizzycore's takes on spider and read their spider fics. its to die for im obsessed with it #(screatches the walls of my enclosure) the police put me in here for my own safety. let me out i want spider #hashtagbringspiderback #wizard101 #wiz101 #w101 #text posts

[dreaming-by-starlight]

fanfiction is so weird like I COULD be writing it about the blorbos from my current hyperfixation but no I've two WIPs current and one is for the 2008 childrens mmorpg that I never even played until after I started writing the fic and the other is for an anime I watched in my edgy teen phase when I was first getting into anime. I do also have another WIP but it's a long term project that isn't a fic, its an original story that I'm writing using my DnD OCs.

#like i could be writing #wenclair #but instead i'm writing for #Wizard101 #w101 #pirate101 #tokyo ghoul #granted the MCs for the tokyo ghoul fic were sorta inspired by wenclair #anime #wednesday #ao3 #archive of our own #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #OCs #dnd #dungeons and dragons #5e

[wizzycore]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Wizard101 (Video Game) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Lady Nightstar | Grandmother Raven/Old Cob | Grandfather Spider, Old Cob | Grandfather Spider &; Grim Brothers Characters: Old Cob | Grandfather Spider, Lady Nightstar | Grandmother Raven, The Bat (Wizard101), Rasputin | The Rat (Wizard101), The Scorpion (Wizard101), Morganthe (Wizard101), Other Character Tags to Be Added Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, (...kind of), dubious regard for plot lore timelines retcons etc, Parent-Child Relationship, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, <- light but existent- be safe, fanon & headcanon intersperced with canon details, no beta we die like malistaire, Prophetic Dreams, Shadow magic Summary:

He had given Raven his whole worlds-damned life.

Did that mean nothing to her?

- multipart series about spider's pov during/about the events of arc 3. with good luck, i will update weekly.

#wizard101 #w101 #wizard101 arc 3 #grandfather spider #old cob #grandmother raven #HI I WROTE A FIC AGAIN....... MAYBE ILL FINISH THIS ONE

[oldestenemy]

fuck it, meowiarty at wizard graduation

#wizard101 #wizard101 fanfiction #wizard101 fanfic #wizard101 fic #i am having an excellent time #lark is still playing funky wizard game from their childhood #scion series is going great why do you ask

[dyvimwhitehart]

all the skeletons you hide

A dark power doesn’t automatically mean a dark hand. He knew this long before meeting the Spellbinder, but seeing her wield the same magic as the Shadow Queen in such a noble way only cemented his beliefs further. or, The Wizard and Dyvim Whitehart find themselves at a dark kitchen table, unable to sleep the night before traveling to the Kondha Desert. READ ON A03 FOR ADDITIONAL COMMENTS.

Dyvim wakes up with his hand instinctively placed on the hilt of his sword.

Immediately, he looks for a Goliath. An Apiary guard. A mantis wielding her scythe. Any kind of bug to accompany the chittering in his ear, but there’s nothing. The room is empty, save for him and the bed in which he lays. A moment passes before he begins fiercely rubbing at his eyes to come back to the present. 

That damned chittering is still there. 

Dyvim pulls himself from bed, moving slowly across the floor to what he assumes is a window. There is a sliver of dark orange light peeking from behind a curtain. Carefully, he lifts it— anticipating the worst. What he’s met with is a limited view of two mantises battling a block or two away under the dim sky. 

It hits him then, all at once: he and the Spellbinder are in the city of Sardonyx. 

Under the request of both Zaltanna and Ezekiel the Lucent, Zarozinia the Deathsong had arranged for them to stay in an unoccupied home (its owners having all moved to the Hive) for the night to conserve energy before breaching the Kondha Desert at sunrise. 

The chittering is a result of the city’s now-uncovered Fifth Column members clashing with those loyal to the Umbra Legion. Such battles would not have been possible without the Spellbinder’s good work. Dyvim drops the curtain, briefly wondering if she’s succeeded so far in sleeping through the night. He can’t think of anyone who deserves a quick rest more. 

But, if he had to pick a runner up for that position, he’d pick himself. 

“By Mourningsword,” he murmurs. “Pull yourself together,” 

Before waking, he’d been trapped in that tomb again, only this time he was wide awake. As his fists pounded against the amber that encased him, the bees taunted him from above, their eyes beadier and crueler than he remembered. They were joined then by the Broodmother, who uttered no words and opted instead to scream at a pitch so loud he thought he might go deaf. Her warped voice grew more and more hysteric the harder he worked to free himself. 

And then he was running down the Moon Cliffs at full speed. His armor, however, was so heavy he began to sag to the ground. One limb at a time, Dyvim fell to the dirt, his head the last thing to remain unbowed before dropping into the sand. He continued to try and scramble despite this, all-too aware of the sound of a Goliath gnashing its pincers in the distance, ready to tear him apart in the name of the Shadow Queen. In the distance, the Eclipse Tower began to crumble into the lake. 

But soon he came to in a cell. All around him, the Broken Tower shook with what he could only justify as some kind of earthquake. Roze the Mousehunter, by name, paid no attention to him this time. This blossomed not hope, but deep confusion within him. As he stepped to the edge of his prison, fingers wrapping around the bars, he saw her far across the room moving at an absolutely erratic pace. Once his ears caught up with the rest of his body, he heard it: the unmistakable sound of a Burrower wailing for help, accompanied by the repeated strike of a scythe. 

Finally, when he thought he could go back no further in his journey, he was a statue. He stood still in the Silent Market, accompanied only by the others who had been turned to stone. Who had failed to escape when the Shadow Queen’s dark magic swept over their land. His ancestors were safe, but they would bear no heroic descendant. And the more he attempted to move, to scream— the quieter things became. 

Awake now, he takes special care to listen to his breathing. 

Though he is proud to be the sworn sword of the king sent across the sea, Dyvim can’t help but wonder if simply being in Sardonyx had triggered such horrific scenes. Then again, this isn’t an uncommon occurrence. It's just one he’d rather have an explanation for. That makes it easier to press on. 

He remembers then, a hand to his chest to feel his heartbeat, that he’d purposefully fallen asleep with his armor on. Call it a force of habit from the nights he and the Spellbinder would spend camping in caves and at the bases of trees. Though he is fortified, he lacks comfort, and one glance in the direction of his bed confirms to him that he won’t be falling back under anytime soon. 

His nose twitches. His stomach growls. He wonders if those traitorous mantises left any food behind. 

With his sword still at the ready, Dyvim gingerly opens the door to the common area, anticipating an equally quiet scene. What he finds is a candle on the kitchen table, still burning. Curious, he approaches it. A sheet of paper is illuminated by the light. Before he can make out the symbols scrawled upon it, he hears a soft, yet concerned voice. 

“Dyvim?” 

He looks up to see the Spellbinder’s silhouette approaching. The closer she gets, the easier it is to make out her face. Her dark brows are knit in what could be interpreted as frustration, maybe even anger— but Dyvim knows her well enough to see the worry in her eyes. To avoid intruding, he takes a step back from her work. 

“Forgive me. I thought you may be asleep,” 

“And I thought the same of you,” she says simply. 

“Then it appears we both thought wrong. I think that makes us even, don’t you?” 

He thinks he sees the flicker of a smile ghost across her face as she takes her seat. 

“May I sit?” 

“Of course,” 

A sense of relief floods him as he pulls another chair out. Not that she has the authority to send him back to bed, but he’d be disappointed if she didn’t want his company. And that disappointment alone would’ve at least been enough to send him to the other end of the room. 

They sit in silence for a moment. He watches intently as she waves a hand, causing a pen to rise into the air. She continues her notetaking in this hands-off way, a small section of brunette hair cascading from the braid she hasn’t bothered to fix in hours. It frames the one side of her face sweetly, accentuated by the candlelight. 

Its been a long road to this point. Dyvim admitted to himself ages ago that he felt some kind of yearning when he saw her. Those feelings have little place in their current set of affairs, however. It would be deeply unfair of him to unload that on her when her plate is so unimaginably full already. 

Still, in moments like this, his courtly nature almost falters. They’re hidden away from the world they have to save. If not for the sparring on their doorstep, maybe it could all melt away in the depth of her eyes. 

“What are you sketching?” he asks, a selfish attempt to hear her voice, to delve into her thoughts. 

Her gaze reaches him for a moment before returning to her work. “It's not so much sketching as it is… studying.” 

“Ah, well then, may I ask what you’re studying?” 

She hesitates, the pen hovering in midair for a moment. 

“Shadow magic,” 

Amber doesn’t so much as slide the paper toward him as she does move her arm in a way that he can see it if he wants to. With the added context, he recognizes the Shadow symbol immediately, accompanied by what he thinks is the symbol for Necromancy. He’s seen her draw and cast it many times before. 

She seems like she’s waiting for him to say something, like she’s holding her breath. Dyvim keeps from pouring over the paper and gives a nod. 

“Its been some time now since you captured the Eclipse Tower. How are you feeling?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, I’m not a spellbinder myself. Maybe I’m just making an assumption here, but I’d imagine wielding such powerful magic has somewhat of a physical and mental impact. Especially…” 

“Dark magic?” 

He blinks, not wanting to imply anything. There simply isn't any other way to put it. But a dark power doesn’t automatically mean a dark hand. He knew this long before meeting the Spellbinder, but seeing her wield the same magic as the Shadow Queen in such a noble way only cemented his beliefs further. One of his ears twitches, and he shakes his head. 

“I didn’t mean—” 

“It is dark magic, you’re correct. That’s why it’s important for me to seek to understand it further.” 

There’s an unspoken end to her words that hang heavy in the air. Something akin to… so I don’t end up corrupt and vile like Morganthe . It occurs to him then that he may have a deeper faith in her than she has in herself. Dyvim sits up a little taller, each second they spend together making his role in all this clearer. He’s always been there to stand beside her, even when he didn’t think she needed him. Now it’s becoming apparent that she does. Not because she’s weak, but because she’s a tad too strong. 

His eyes are still heavy, but he fears another chapter of the nightmare: venturing to the end of this world just to lose her to the destruction of them all. 

“You are still a student, yes? Back in your home world?” 

“I am,” she begins writing again. “But not a classic one. My studies are more… field work based. I’m rarely ever in a classroom. Hence, well, my being here now.” 

“Are your teachers reasonably lenient with you? Considering all the world-saving,” he attempts to joke. 

“Well, my Necromancy professor usually can’t keep track of the days of the week, let alone my work. And there’s one who is on the Council of Light that guides me, so I suppose she reports back to the rest,” Before he can respond, she speaks again, causing his ears to jump. “They don’t offer Shadowmancy at Ravenwood,” 

“Because it’s a dark magic?” 

She wiggles her fingers in his direction, causing the pen to spike up and down. “It’s entirely forbidden,” 

“So what shall they do when you are set to return to them?” 

“You say that so optimistically,” 

“I am optimistic,” 

Amber shrugs. “I guess I would have a bone to pick with them if they refused to let me graduate after all I’ve done. But I don’t seek their approval, necessarily. I just seek… whatever I have to do to stop the Song of Creation from being sung. And if that means becoming a Shadowmancer…” 

She has little choice now, it appears. Actually, it sounds like she’s always had little choice. This Council of Light she speaks of does most of her decision making. In a way, she is their sworn sword. Perhaps it’s an honor for her like it is for him under King Pyat. But when he speaks of the king, he never sounds so exhausted. 

“So how does it feel? You never answered me,” He pushes the envelope only because she’s been more open tonight so far than ever. Dyvim blames it on the combination of fatigue, duty, and candlelight. 

“You’re asking me a lot of questions tonight,” 

The knight in him wants to step back, to bid her goodnight alongside an apology. But the heart in him… 

“Would you rather I not?” 

“Why are you interested? If you aren’t a spellbinder yourself,” the word rolls off her tongue almost teasingly. Perhaps he’s taking this more seriously than she is. 

“Because you are my… companion. And I, yours. And if this weighs heavily upon you, I wish to help you carry the burden. It’s no secret to me how those who occupy this land view the Shadow. It’s unfair of them to view you similarly when you are only here to help,”

It’s not until he finishes rambling that he sees the small smirk across her face. She brushes that loose section of hair back behind her ear before returning to her work. He doesn’t dare to wonder if the warmth across her cheeks is simply heat from the fire, or… 

“It makes me dizzy when I use it. Or when I’m struck by it. Like I’ve got a cloudy head, or I’m about to pass out…” she begins tracing the Shadow symbol again upon her paper. “The better I get at it, the less it impacts me. But it does feel heavier than my Death magic. My trip through the Eclipse Tower wasn’t exactly relaxing. Sofia Darkside is an exceptional, but brutal teacher,” 

His skin itches, still touched somewhat by the tomb the bees had placed him in— the coffin he’d been cheering her on from, whether she knew it then or not. 

“You have an exceptional gift,” Dyvim continues to speak before she can accuse him of buttering her up extra. “All heroes are powerful, but not all of them are smart. That’s what sets you apart. Your desire to understand and respect your magic,” 

“I’ve been trusted with it. It’s only my responsibility to do so,” 

A task many have failed, he thinks. His desire to bring up the Shadow Queen again, however, is nonexistent. 

Apparently tired of having the heat on her, Amber sets her pen down completely and turns to face him. “What about you?” 

“What about me are you asking?” 

“You know what’s keeping me awake. It’s only fair that you tell me why you’re up. If we’re to stay even, that is.”

Dyvim shakes his head, scooting his chair back slightly. “Ah, well, before you captivated me, I was looking for a midnight snack,” 

Her eyes widen, giving him the impression that he may have stood up a bit too hastily. He glances from side to side before realizing his sword is still in his hand. As if she can’t see it, he sets it down on the table and turns to head for the other end of the kitchen. 

“I suppose those mantises wouldn’t have good enough taste to keep some aged cheese around, eh?” 

The Burrower knight opens a cabinet, nose twitching wildly, searching for a scent. The Spellbinder continues watching him from her seat with no intention of moving. 

“Dyvim,” 

“I suppose we could try our luck with the market in the morning, stock up on food for the desert. It would be horrible to end up with only the meat-eaters’ menu available.” 

“Dyvim, I get them too,” 

He stalls then before an open drawer. Her eyes bore into his back, rendering his armor useless. Slowly, he turns to face her, ears drooping and eyes soft. She’s similarly vulnerable, a state normally so difficult to unearth. 

“You do?” 

Amber laughs, though there’s no real amusement in it. “I do. It would be concerning if I didn’t when you consider… what I’ve seen. What I’ve done,” 

Dyvim wonders how many people would guess that about her. A Death wizard’s heart being set to race in the dark doesn’t sound right. And she’s so composed, so straight-faced and unafraid. He’s not unwise enough to fall into such a trap, but can see many interpreting her as above such a thing. But she suffers those nightmares face-to-face so they won’t have to, those endless people she’s saved. 

Like her, he suffers for generations of people he will never meet. The long dead, the never born, the gone too soon— any and all of the Burrower ghost statues that give the Silent Market its name. The misery of his people compounds on his brain and, on occasions like this, keep him up at night. 

“I didn’t mean for you to hear,” his tail falls between his legs. 

“And I didn’t mean to dance around it. But I sleep with my wand on me. In times like this, it’s hard to tell what’s real and what isn’t,” 

“Until you wake up,” he glances at her face, at each feature in the dim light. “And even then, it takes a moment.” 

The Spellbinder nods. Her eyes are weighed down by hours of rest she hasn’t gotten. Whether she even tried to sleep or not is a mystery to him, but he approaches the table again, hand nearing the base of the candle. 

“Can I help you, Spellbinder? In any way? Perhaps if I keep watch, like before,” 

“You mean sit out here?” 

“Wherever you need me. At the table, the foot of your bed…” 

She stands, looking around the room before wordlessly crossing it. Dyvim watches her take a seat on a couch beside another window bleeding dark orange light from the Sardonyx sky. 

“Or we could both sit here. And I’ll… try to close my eyes,” 

Dyvim picks his sword up and joins her. At first, he takes the far side, but as Amber settles her legs on the latter end, he scoots closer so she’ll have a place to rest her head. She accepts his shoulder despite the armor covering it. He’s stoic to start, but upon growing accustomed to her weight, exhales and sinks further into the plush of the cushions himself. 

They don’t speak beyond that. There isn’t much to say, or much they feel they can do without inviting complication. Instead, she does just as she said she would, shutting her eyes and focusing on leveling out her breathing. 

Like this, she looks cherubic. She looks the antithesis of what the public would assume an apprentice of dark magic to be. She looks so tired, so young. 

And Dyvim supposes he is the same, though he stays up the rest of the night, hand ghosting her forearm though his sword sits beside him.

#wizard101 #wizard101 fic #dyvim whitehart #wizzy fandom #wizard101 fanfiction #just realized i never posted this here.... lol

[short-circuit-the-great]

You know I was intending for this one to be its own thing, but I think Zan and Orion should meet.

#shadow and light #fic writing #pirate101 oc #wizard101 oc

[astral-schools]

“Wizard,” Dasein began, prompting Aedan to look up from the book in his hands.

In all honesty, he hadn’t been paying much attention to the words on the page before him-- more getting lost in the feeling of Dasein’s hands running through his hair, the soft rumbling from his chest. (He swore up and down it wasn’t a purr, but Aedan swore just as vehemently that he’d heard the very same noise from Copy Qhat before. Perhaps a habit picked up from borrowing her form?) “I have been thinking lately.”

“Alright. About what?”

“About the concept of soulmates.” Aedan set his book aside. This seemed like the sort of thing that would require his full attention. “I know it is not a notion with any basis in reality, that is, there are no predetermined connections between people which dictate their compatibility. But, in a greater sense. More general. The idea of a bond between two people which is more significant than what they share with others, unique in its depth.”

Aedan turned around to wrap his arms around Dasein’s midsection, chin resting on his chest. “Have you just been thinking about the concept in general? Or is there something specific?”

“Well,” and Dasein sounded flustered, of all things, “I suppose I’ve been thinking about it in the context of you and I.”

And now Aedan was the flustered one. “Ah. I see.” 

“I don’t mean to presume anything,” Dasein said, awkwardly, like they weren’t sprawled out on the futon in Aedan’s apartment, legs tangled together and close enough that Aedan could hear his own heartbeat echoed through Dasein’s form. 

(The great part about the Arcanum being not-really-a-place meant that Dasein could visit without being beholden to the same restrictions about his ability to travel past Novus’s borders, but likewise without sacrificing any of his physicality. Aedan would never get enough of being able to hug him whenever he wanted, no matter how much time passed.)

“It’s not as though there’s anyone else I’d consider for it,” Aedan’s tone was bemused as he pushed himself up onto his hands to trail kisses up the curve of Dasein’s cheek. Dasein leaned into the contact immediately. (Perhaps he would have a hard time getting enough of it, too.) “Putting names to things isn’t something I often consider necessary. But, if it would make you happy to consider us such... Then I can say with certainty that if soulmates do exist in any measurable capacity, that if there is a part of my heart which belongs to anyone but me, then it lies with you.” 

“Oh,” Dasein mumbled. He freed his hands from the tangle of Aedan’s hair to instead wrap them around his shoulders, hefting him up enough that he could bury his face in the crook of Aedan’s neck. “I will never be able to clearly state how much I care about you.”

“I love you, too,” Aedan replied easily. “Was that all you wanted to ask about?”

“...Perhaps.”

“But, perhaps not?”

Dasein leaned back, and Aedan shuffled upright, still half-splayed over Dasein but no longer pinned on his front so ingloriously. 

“Tell me; have you ever heard of a concept known as the multiverse theory? The Old One was quite fond of it.” When Aedan only gave a confused shake of his head, Dasein continued; “the theory states that there are a theoretically infinite number of possible universes out there. Timelines parallel to our own, identical except for certain branching paths based on varied decisions across each different reality. That for every choice which can be made, there is another universe to coincide with the outcome of it. Then new choices are made from that initial one, and each of those choices creates a universe with each diverging conclusion, and so on. Into infinity.”

“I... get it,” Aedan said. Then paused. “Mostly.”

“I understand this is quite an unwieldy concept. Don’t worry. All you need to retain for the purpose of my question is that there are infinite universes out there which are built from the choices we make, and all other possible choices we could have made.” He looked down at Aedan. “My question is; do you think we’re soulmates in every universe?” 

Aedan hummed.

“I don’t know,” he said, softly, not wanting to interrupt the apartment’s peaceful ambiance. “I would like to think so, at least. Nothing is ever certain. Futures twist and change, and things are bound to be different in a world where we’d made different choices. I can’t make any promises. But, I also can’t imagine a life without you in it.”

Gently, he reached up to tangle one hand in Dasein’s tendrils, and they immediately curled around his fingers in return. One came to rest on his pulse point. (That small proof of Aedan’s continued existence was very dear to him, wasn’t it?)

“I think,” he continued, “that we must be soulmates in every universe where we are us. That I would not be who I am without you.”

“And I can say with absolute surety that I would not be anything resembling myself without your presence in my life,” Dasein agreed. “Unequivocally. Unquestionably. Had you not shown reality to me as you did, I would have no notion of existence. Not only would I not be me, I would not be. I would not know there was anything I could be. You are the reason I am here. You are-- my definition.”

Some part of Aedan thought they should maybe make it clear that they were separate people. That they each had their own fulfilling lives, and that their senses of self weren’t necessarily intrinsically tied to one another.

But at the same time, another (much louder) part of him asked; why bother? Who did they need to defend themselves to, here in the privacy of their own home? What notion of propriety did they need to conform to? They were a contradiction of the very idea of something, and an intersection point of two Magics which were, by their very nature, unable to coexist. Neither of them fit their bounds. Neither of them made sense, to any reasonable point of view. Why should they try to follow rules about something as paltry as their relationship status when they’d already broken so many rules regarding the laws of magic and nature?

So yes, they were separate people, but also they weren’t, and it was fine. 

“In every universe where I am me,” Aedan said, definitively, “you are there.”

“And I would not be me in any universe without you.” Dasein concluded. He nodded assuredly. “I am far from an expert on the subject, but that does sound like soulmates to me.”

Aedan laughed, and leaned forward to kiss him again. “I suppose it does.”

#w101 #w101 fandom #wizard101 #wizard101 fandom #dasein #w101 oc #wizard101 oc #wizsein #oc: aedan #sal art #this is frommmm like a month ago? and i never posted it anywhere outside the server #it wasnt enough for me to put on ao3 and i dont usually post fic on tumblr #but one (1) person said they wanted me to put it up so here it is #with accompanying art bc i cant just post words </3 gotta have images #art which features my dasein.... design. which i will post here At Some Point

[roseaphile]

me, happily writing a fic where Duncan Grimwater and the Wizard™ bond and have fun after he decides to leave the Cabal: wow I'm having so much fun writing this fic :)

so glad that KI established Duncan won't be seen anymore in the main story since he himself stated "When you beat me back at Malistaire's house, it pretty much ruined my chances of joining the Cabal..." citation wiki.wizard101central.com/wiki/Quest:The_Cabal%27s_Code :)))))).

won't have to worry about my fic clashing with the main sto-

Duncan, apparently and somehow, in Wallaru (I HAVE NOT FUCKING PLAYED THE NEW WORLD):

#yknow maybe ill make a fic with abby k doodle....not like KI is gonna use her anytime soon #this shouldnt matter but i need to adhere to the media's narrative you don't understand guys #wizard101 #w101 #wiz101 #wallaru #wallaru spoilers #wizard101 spoilers #i hope i tagged the spoilers correctly

[jrmaxwell]

Hi, I'm still on my Wizard101 kick --

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Cecilia can't help the subtle sneer when she sees her new roommate. The girl is possessed with an old-money sort of beauty, her cheekbones high, her hair glinting with emerald sheen. Her posture is trained, unnatural, too straight, too proper, and on her plush lips is that subtle grin of false politeness all rich folk seem to have. She reminds Cecilia of the high society dogs back on Marleybone, the ones who would call the police on her. Or worse, the ones who pitied her, throwing her food off their plates like she was a rat begging for scraps. Immediately Cecilia wants to hate her, but her eyes. Her eyes remind her of stars. She grips the hand of her guardian, suddenly made nervous. Wary. Arthur Wethersfield gives her a reassuring grin and grips her hand back. He doesn't say anything as she cowers behind him. 'Hello there, sorry to barge in. I'm Arthur Wethersfield,' he introduces himself to Old-Money, 'I was just bringing my charge to her new dorm room. I'm guessing you must be her roommate.'

'Must be,' Old-Money says. There's something almost warm about her voice, the hint of an accent Cecilia can't quite place. Rougher around the edges than posh Marleybonian, and casual enough that it has her questioning her initial idea about the girl coming from wealth. Arthur nudges Cecilia forward. 'Come on, dear. Introduce yourself,' he encourages gently. Cecilia hesitates, glancing at her roommate. The girl smiles sweetly, patiently. "...Lia..." "Hello, Lia," the girl says, "I'm Max. Max Sorrowseer, Conjuror to be."

#Wizard101 #W101 #Wiz101 #art #fan art #oc #fanfic #fic #writing #snippet #drabble #ocs #sketch #w101 fic #w101 art