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sapphicseasapphire · 2 days

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Living in a world as populated as it is by mortals, it is rare to come across a being who is not so. Rarer still is it to come across one who is both mortal and immortal- those who toe the line between Life and Death.

Reapers are abundant but undetected, doing their work for the spirits while hidden in a mortal body. They are bound to no Gods, serving only the lost souls of the land and answering only to the inevitability of Life and Death.

Hylian legends depict Death as a woman clothed in flowing white fabric, serene and tranquil, everlasting and inescapable. Some fear her, some hate her. Most bunch her up with the Goddesses.

She is not a Goddess.

She is… a promise.

And just as they’ve cast Death’s image onto a Goddess that doesn’t exist, they attribute Life’s gifts to Hylia, singing her praise. Hylia, the little sister of the Golden Three, tasked with protecting this world, is not Life.

Life has existed here for far longer than Hylia has. Some say that she was created with the breath of Farore, others speculate that she came before.

People think that Death exists in Life’s shadow, that they are entirely separate from one another. One brings joy, the other brings pain. This is, wholly and entirely, untrue.

For Life and Death wear matching white cloth, and they stand so closely together that they are indistinguishable from each other. One cannot exist without the other. They are… the same, in nature. They are patient. They take nothing more than what they are given; they give nothing more than what they take. It is balanced, in that way.

Everyone must face them, one way or another. Even Gods cannot deny the push and pull of Life and Death.

Although, there are occasions in which they can be swayed. In the case of a young boy who’d met his end during his quest, so beloved by the spirits, Death chose to wait. She did not claim his soul, not yet. She heeded the pleas of the spirits and allowed him to continue on- to finish what he had started. But this was not without a cost.

The boy- only twelve years old- was named Link, and he was not unique. Those who are favored by the spirits and succumb to illness or injury are often granted these second chances. They may never remember that they had died, but they are forever changed.

These people are known as Reapers. They recruited by Death to guide lost spirits to the afterlife. They have heartbeats, they breathe, they require sustenance. Reapers are mortal, normal people.

Until it becomes time to do the reaping, that is.

In order for a Reaper to find and guide spirits, they must use spirit magic. Spirit magic is as potent and variable as any other type of magic, except its power source is distinct: it is fueled by the power of an untethered soul. It comes naturally to Reapers, except in order to use it, they must free their soul.

Reapers have the ability to separate their souls from their bodies, becoming nothing more than a spirit. Once freed, they are immediately pulled to the nearest lost soul and it is their duty to aid them in their journey to the next life. The pull of a Poe is just as potent as the pull of a portal: demanding and unavoidable. Reapers feel it physically.

When their soul is outside of their body, a Reaper will appear comatose to the waking world. Unresponsive and unmoving, almost like they’re asleep. Their hearts still beat, their lungs still breathe. They still live but there’s nothing there. If their body is moved during this time, the Reaper will have a difficult time returning to it. Their survival will depend on whether or not they can find their body.

Link is one of many Reapers that serve under Death, and he is not unhappy. He sees the Threads of Fate that bind all things- the red ones of the living, the black ones of the dead, and the white ones of the immortal- and he takes pride in helping wayward Poes follow these threads home. He… has experience guiding souls, after all.

Link doesn’t remember when exactly he died, but he knows it had to have happened during his quest to rid the Demon King from Princess Zelda’s body. With her spirit by his side, he felt unstoppable. And his new job isn’t much different. He doesn’t feel sadness when he guides a Poe to their next adventure. No, he feels… at peace.

Death is extremely welcoming to him, for she knows that in time, he will return to her. Just as all things do. Link- our Spirit- admires Death. He serves under her but he is not opposed to it. He’s wholly dedicated to his job. He takes pride in it. It doesn’t interfere with his waking life too much and even as he cast on another adventure, it’s not too much to manage. Death treats him well, and he’d never denounce her.

When he’s reaping, he’s making a difference. He’s helping people. Is that not what a hero should strive for?

He’s… home.

Some notes!

• This kind of turned into a post about Reapers specifically and less about Spirit, but ehhh lore is lore

• Spirit and Wind are BEST BUDS. I’ve been referring to them as “the twins” in my head this whole time

• Spirit’s pupils glow when he is looking at the Threads of Fate. He can’t see them all the time, just when he really focuses on them, or else he’d be blinded by all the string everywhere!

• More on that- he doesn’t only see the threads that bind people to each other. He also sees the threads that bind people to objects. Everything has a memory, everything has a story.

• Something about Spirit’s presence is so inherently peaceful. He speaks quietly and clearly, he moves like a whisp, he smiles so gently. He can 100% be a little goblin in his own right, but he can be incredibly comforting when he wants to be.

• He cannot swim. Wind is APPALLED.

• He knows that Time is a God right away. His string is white. He doesn’t tell anyone, though, because it’s not his place. Everyone has their secrets, everyone should have the right to reveal themselves at their own pace.

• He and Wild sure do have a relationship. Yep. Just. The Reaper- the one who is tasked with guiding lost souls. And the literal spirit, actual ghost. Uh huh. They. Um. Yeah, they definitely have a dynamic. (This dynamic is the reason that I was convinced to add Spirit to my Cryptid Chain)

• A spirit is any soul without a body. A Poe specifically refers to a spirit that is lost. Hopeless. One who needs help. Wild is not a Poe. (Kind of)

• Spirit is like Time in the sense that he has not fully ascended, and won’t until his mortal lifespan is over. When he dies, he will continue to be a Reaper, but much more powerful as he will not be bound to a body. But that’s far, far off. He’s twelve, I won’t be cruel to him

• hehehehe

• He’s so incredibly good at playing the pan flute.

• Also this kid’s hilarious without even trying. (Spirit Tracks is the funniest Zelda game of all time)

• NERD. HE LOVES HIS TRAINS. HE IS IN PHYSICAL PAIN THAT NONE OF THE OTHER LINKS EVEN KNOW WHAT A TRAIN IS!!! SEND HELP!!! TELL HIM ABOUT YOUR FAVORITE TRAINS!!! HE MISSES HIS TRAIN!!!

• He has the unique ability to talk to Poes and Spirits directly, so he’s gonna be the best bet when it comes to translating for Wild. If Wild will let him come close, that is.

• “Don’t disturb me guys, I have some reaping to do,” he says, and then takes a nap. The others can’t tell.

• Or, mid battle, the decides they could really use a blast of spirit magic to aid them. So he just. Separates his soul from his body, as one does. Falls limply to the ground as the monsters they were fighting just suddenly all die. What just happened???

• Do monsters have souls? Do they become Poes? Thoughts that keep Spirit up at night.

#CAC origins #the legend of zelda #chain as cryptids au #cryptid lore #cryptid spirit #cac art #spirit tracks #loz spirit tracks #THE BOY #HE’S HERE #my art #links meet au #I know I’m not doing this justice but tumblr deleted my original draft #so definitely let me know if you have any questions haha #I’m so tired

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hazbinfallinginaspiral · 3 days

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Antique Beauty (Be A Doll Oneshot)

Not canon to the AU! Anyway.

CW: Manipulation, mind control, disassociation, loss of sense of self, delusions, lover obsession, mental breakdowns, Vox being Vox, AU typical events

I think that’s all. Let me know if I missed anything!

Summary: Vox finds an antique doll that is strikingly similar to you, so he buys it and gives it to you as a gift. You see this as an oddly touching gesture, and make it a point to keep the doll around or nearby at nearly all hours of the day, to show your appreciation. This new toy has an unforeseen impact, though. As time goes on, Vox continues to use the trigger phrase on you, and you begin to lose touch with reality. You see yourself as a literal doll, just like the one he got you, and you begin to act as such.

In the heart of Pentagram City, amidst the hustle and bustle of the demon-filled streets, Vox found himself wandering through the labyrinthine aisles of an antique shop. His crimson eyes gleamed with interest as he perused the eclectic collection of curiosities, searching for the perfect gift for you, his significant other.

His gaze landed on a striking antique doll, its porcelain features delicately painted and its attire reminiscent of a bygone era. What caught Vox's attention, however, was the uncanny resemblance the doll bore to you. The same delicate features, the same captivating gaze—it was as if the doll had been crafted in your image.

While Vox usually hated anything that was too reminiscent of the past, he was willing to make an exception for you. He preferred change, and didn’t like to linger on the past nor anything made during the time, he’d rather focus on the present or the future. But, this doll was exactly like you, in practically every sense. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get his favorite doll a doll that looked exactly like them.

Without hesitation, Vox purchased the doll, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he imagined your reaction. With the doll cradled in his arms, Vox made his way back to the sleek confines of his penthouse apartment, anticipation bubbling within him like a dormant volcano awaiting eruption.

As he entered the opulent living space, Vox was greeted by the sight of you, engrossed in a book by the flickering light of a nearby candle. There were plenty of lights, windows, and far more reasonable ways to read, but for some reason, this is what you preferred. Vox vaguely rembered you mentioning your love of simpler things like candles, gardening, crafting, and writing poetry. He thought it was somewhat trivial, especially when it wasn’t even necessary. Why would you do something like grow your own flowers when you could just buy some? It made no sense to him. He thought the time could be better spent working or inventing or doing something to do with change. Your preference for this seemed too repetitive and stagnant for him, too quiet and simple. He didn’t like it, but he was willing to indulge you. You were his favorite doll, after all. Your eyes flicked up to glance at him, curiosity evident.

“Darling,” Vox purred, his tinged with excitement as it echoed through the spacious room, “I have a surprise for you.”

Your eyes brightened with even more curiosity as you regarded Vox with a quizzical expression. “A surprise?” You echoed, setting the book aside and rising to your feet to meet Vox’s gaze.

With a flourish, Vox presented the doll to you, a mischievous twinkle dancing in his eyes. “Ta-da! For you, my doll,” he declared, with a grin. He looked rather proud of himself.

Your breath caught in your throat as you beheld the doll, your eyes widening in astonishment. Its porcelain features bore a striking resemblance to your own, a doll that bore an uncanny resemblance to you? Anyone else would have been unsettled, but you weren’t. In fact, you were oddly touched by the gesture.

Its porcelain visage was strikingly similar to yours, from the gentle curve of the cheeks to the arch of the eyebrows. Dressed in a vintage gown of satin and lace, the doll exuded an aura of elegance and charm that seemed to captivate you. From the hair to the eyes to the soft curve of the lips, you were enchanted by it. You reached out a hand to touch its delicate cheek, a sense of wonder washing over you like a tidal wave.

“Oh, Vox,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, “it’s… it’s beautiful.”

Vox beamed with pride at your reaction, his chest swelling with a sense of satisfaction. “I’m glad you like it, doll,” he said softly.

You smiled and gave him a hug, then a kiss on the cheek. “I love it! I love you,” you said with a grin. You sat back down on the couch and went back to looking at the doll, still in awe.

As you continued to admire the doll, Vox couldn’t help but feel a surge of warmth wash over him. It was a small gesture, perhaps, but one that spoke volumes of his affection for you. Or, rather, what he thought to be affection. It was a twisted sort, really. He thought of you as his very own little doll, just like the one he’d just gifted you, except you were alive. He enjoyed playing with you, pulling your strings, puppeting you around… he loved you, yes, but in the same way a child loves their toys. He’d be careful to never let you break, though. He cared for you too much for that- he didn’t know what he’d do with himself if he lost his favorite little doll. As he watched you admire the antique doll he’d just gifted you, he knew he’d made the right choice. It was the perfect thing to placate you, keep you distracted and happy for the time being.

It started innocently enough, with Vox using his hypnotic abilities on you during mundane tasks. "Be a doll," he would murmur softly, his voice a seductive whisper that sent shivers down your spine. And with each command, your movements became more fluid, more doll-like, as if you were a marionette dancing to Vox's tune. You’d seek solace in the antique doll he’d gifted you, a reminder that he wasn’t all that cruel, but a doll couldn’t fix everything.

As days turned into weeks and weeks into months, you found yourself ensnared in a web of Vox's making, each passing moment pulling them deeper into the labyrinth of his desires.

You’d be reading with Vox in his study, surrounded by shelves full of books. Quietly reading, happy and content. Vox would lean back in his seat, a smirk on his face. “Be a doll and get me that book on the top shelf,” he’d say, smug. Your eyes would glaze over as you rose from your seat, moving with a sort of fluid grace as you wordlessly get the book and give it to Vox. He’d smile and give you a kiss. “You truly are an obedient little doll.”

It didn’t matter where you were.

It could be late at night, both of you in Vox’s bedroom, Vox in bed and you only just walking in. “Be a doll and come here,” he’d say with a predatory smile and low but commanding voice. You’d falter for a moment then obey, crossing the room to stand in front of him. He’d point to the floor and you’d sink to your knees, at his feet, staring up at him helplessly. “Such a good little doll, always eager to please,” he’d say, running his fingers through your hair.

It could easily happen in public, too.

You’d be attending a lavish gala, Vox standing out in his striking tailored suit, you at his side, fidgeting nervously. He’d lean in close and whisper in your ear, “Be a doll and smile for our guests, won’t you?” And your lips would twitch into a forced smile, your expression wooden and devoid of any true emotion as you plaster on a facade of cheerfulness. “That’s it, doll. Show everyone how much of a nice, obedient little thing you are for me,” he’d say, tightening his grip on your arm. “Show them you belong to me.”

The doll couldn’t stop Vox, but it provided a source of comfort. It was a reminder of how nice he could be.

Your fondness for the doll only seemed to grow. You began to carry it with you wherever you went, treating it as if it were a cherished companion. Vox would watch with amusement as you start to dress in clothes similar to those worn by the doll, your wardrobe gradually transforming to match its vintage style.

You’d stand before the mirror in your bedroom, clad in a delicate lace dress that hugged your figure. You’d tilt your head to the side, studying your reflection with an unnerving intensity. Slowly, you!d raise their hand to your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw with delicate fingertips.

Vox would enter the room, his eyes alight with anticipation as he would observe your movements. "Ah, my doll, you look positively radiant," he’d murmur, his voice smooth as velvet. "Such a beautiful little thing."

You’d turn to him, a serene smile gracing your lips, pleased with yourself for earning his praise. It was usually few and far between. "Thank you, Vox," you’d reply softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I feel... different, somehow. Like I'm not quite myself anymore."

Vox would step closer, his hand reaching out to caress your cheek. "That's because you're becoming exactly what you were always meant to be," he’d say, his tone almost reverent. "My perfect little doll."

To Vox's delight, your behavior also began to shift. You moved with a grace and poise reminiscent of the doll, your expressions serene and tranquil. It was as if you had become entranced by the doll's presence, adopting its mannerisms and demeanor as your own. Little did he know, it was because as days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, you found yourself slipping further and further into a hazy fog of compliance and confusion. Vox's relentless use of the trigger phrase had begun to take its toll, eroding away at your sense of self with each passing command.

In moments of quiet solitude, you found yourself seeking solace in the antique doll that Vox had gifted you. You would sit for hours, cradling the doll in your arms, its porcelain features a stark reflection of your own. With trembling fingers, you would brush the doll's hair and dress it in delicate finery, whispering words of comfort and affection as if it were a living being. Tonight was one of those nights.

As the world outside grows quiet, you sat alone in the dimly lit room, cradling the antique doll in your arms. You stroked its porcelain face with gentle fingers, your touch reverent and tender.

"I wish I could be like you," you whisper, your voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. "So serene, so perfect. No worries, no fears. Just... blissful ignorance."

Vox enters the room, his eyes dark and hungry as he surveys the scene before him. "You already are like her," he says, his voice almost soft. Almost caring. Almost. "You're my little doll, and nothing could ever change that."

You look up at him, your eyes wide and unblinking, like those of a porcelain doll. "I know, Vox," you reply, your voice hollow and empty. "I belong to you. I’m yours.”

The doll provided more comfort than Vox did.

Sometimes you would even find yourself engaging in childlike play, pretending that the doll could feel and respond to your touch. You would make it laugh and smile, pouring all of your pent-up longing and loneliness into the tiny figure in your hands, hoping against hope that somehow, some way, the doll would bring you the comfort and companionship you so desperately craved.

Alone in your room, you’d sit on the edge of your bed, a sense of unease gnawing at your insides. You’d clutch the antique doll tightly to your chest, seeking solace in its familiar presence. But no matter how hard you’d try, you couldn’t shake the feeling of emptiness that lingers within you.

Vox's voice echoed in your mind, his command to "be a doll" ringing like a relentless refrain. With each passing day, it became harder to distinguish between reality and illusion, between your own thoughts and Vox's whispered commands.

Tears would stream down your cheeks as you’d clutch the doll tighter, your chest constricted with a suffocating sense of dread. "I can't do this anymore," you’d whisper to yourself, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your own heart.

In a moment of desperation, you’d hurl the doll across the room, watching as it crashes against the wall with a hollow thud. But instead of feeling relief, you’d be overcome with a profound sense of loss, as if a part of yourself had been torn away.

The line between reality and fantasy began to blur for you. You would catch glimpses of yourself in the mirror and see not a person staring back at you, but a doll with glassy eyes and porcelain skin. You would hear Vox's voice echoing in your mind, commanding you to "be a doll" and obey without question.

Alone in your room, you’d sit huddled in the corner, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you’d clutch your head in agony. Images flash before your eyes, fragmented memories twisted and distorted by Vox's relentless influence.

"I can't escape," you’d whisper to yourself, your voice a desperate plea for salvation. But no matter how hard you’d try, you couldn’t break free from the chains that bound you to Vox's will.

In a moment of ‘clarity’, you’d reach out for the antique doll, your fingers trembling as you trace its delicate features. "Help me," you’d whisper, your voice barely audible over the roar of your own despair.

But the doll would remain silent, its glass eyes staring back at you emptily. Offering no comfort. You’d be left alone with the realization that you were stuck in this endless nightmare of your own making, with no escape.

With each passing day, you felt yourself slipping further away from who you once were, lost in a sea of Vox's control and manipulation. And as you gazed into the unblinking eyes of the antique doll, you couldn't help but wonder if you were truly any different. Perhaps, in the end, you were nothing more than Vox's plaything, a doll to be toyed with at his whim.

As time passed, your sense of self seemed to fade away completely, replaced by a serene acceptance of your role as Vox's little doll. You no longer spoke or acted like your former self, your personality and individuality erased by the allure of being a perfect little doll.

No longer did you question Vox's orders or assert your own desires. Instead, you moved through your days with the mechanical precision of a well-oiled machine, your actions dictated by Vox's whims and desires. It was as if you were merely a puppet, dancing on strings pulled by Vox's invisible hand.

And as he watched you, now little more than a porcelain doll come to life, Vox knew that he had finally achieved the ultimate conquest—possession of you, in your entirety.

For Vox, it was a dream come true. With your transformation complete, he felt a sense of absolute control and dominance unlike anything he had experienced before. You had become his perfect, obedient doll, ready to fulfill his every desire without question or hesitation.

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