#(what they didn't account for is that upon reanimation Dark would break out and find Chosen in about 10 minutes flat)

[skala]

Sometimes a question isn't asked to elicit a response. Sometimes a question simply demands itself. It imposes itself upon the scene like an obligation, weighs down the air, rustles the silence like a page of a script—

"What did they do to you?"

—and tears it apart, forcing itself to be spoken regardless of any particular desire to hear its answer.

Regardless, of whether one Dark Lord couldn't just look from the deep gashes etched across the prone figure before him to the cord tied tight around their neck and make an inference.

He took a half-step forward, from the doorframe into the harsh light of the cell. The figure recoiled a little. When they raised their head from the ground their expression appeared momentarily apprehensive, though it clouded at the sight of him. What did those [redacted] misbegotten sons of [redacted]s DO to you?

Only before he could speak again there was a movement, a painful struggle of limbs weighed down as if exhaustion lay upon them heavier than iron—yet when they gained their footing they lurched, reaching out, reaching for, and in that instant the questions ceased to matter. The broken glass and the walls around them ceased to matter; the urgency of escape, like the sounds of battle somewhere above them faded to background noise, as distant as the past. Here, at this time, they were The Dark Lord and The Chosen One—just them, each holding to the other as if nothing had changed and nothing else mattered except you, you're here, you're alive.

The Dark Lord was alive. He could feel his heartbeat where Chosen's head was resting against his sternum, the pulse of his code steadier than it had any right to be. He could hear Chosen's voice, a whisper like a caesura between wracked breaths; he could feel his throat constrict as he tried and failed to respond.

He could hear Chosen's voice. He couldn't remember it ever sounding like this, but some things didn't change.

"Dark?"

Dark. That's right, he remembered, that's the way it was. Dark, plain and simple. It was Chosen who'd started calling him that, wasn't it? Before he'd called him Chosen. Dark, as though he wasn't some lord of darkness but the darkness itself, because—what was it he’d said? Because darkness could be whatever it wanted?

(Not that he could remember exactly what his past self had wanted. There were details missing, in murky pools of memory he wasn’t especially keen on stirring right now… but he knew he'd never wanted to be a lord. He just wanted to be—)

"Dark," Chosen repeated, his voice returning with a suddenness that caught at something in Dark's chest. It drew him higher, reigniting a few sparks of the long-dormant flame therein.

Chosen's embrace loosened by degrees. "You can't—be here, you're not—"

He abruptly stiffened, pulled back to search Dark's eyes with a kind of tempered mistrust. And Dark remembered they'd been enemies too. He'd seen that expression once before.

But before Chosen could say anything else Dark reached up, caught the rope around Chosen's neck with one fist and lit his palm on fire.

"I am. Believe it." Dark let the smoldering rope fall to his feet and stepped over it, meeting Chosen’s stare. "And none of that 'I must be dreaming' crap, not from you."

Chosen rubbed at his neck. "…No. I know I'm awake."

"Good. I've been asleep for the past three years, so I’m certain. I'm here," Dark grinned. He looked around. "And now, Chosen... you're gonna tell me where the hell 'here' is."

#ava #animator vs animation #ava the box #ava fanfic #just a short one - still gotta decide where I want to take this concept #(context: rocket org found Dark's body post-showdown and kept him in stasis in the hopes of using him against the animator once revived) #(what they didn't account for is that upon reanimation Dark would break out and find Chosen in about 10 minutes flat)