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fenrys-moonbae · 5 years

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A Bright Star in Centuries of Darkness--Chapter 1

Eleanor Ashryver, noble lady and Princess of Wendlyn, swore viciously as she looked over at Evalin and hissed "...Is he....singing?"

"I believe so, cousin." Evalin tried and failed to hide the smile spreading across her face, her eyes flicking over to the open window where a lovely tune waltzed, "it seems you've got yourself a tom cat yowling at your window."

Bloody gods.

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A take on the story of Aedion's mother and Gavriel's meeting, relationship and eventual parting. Pre-Throne of Glass but follows all established canon points. Rating due to future sex scenes and some coarse language.

Hi All! This is a little short side project I decided to work on since I recently re-read Kingdom of Ash. Not much information is given on Aedion's mother in the canon or on what her relationship with Evalin and Rhoe was so I took creative liberty and established one.

The waulking song used for this chapter is located here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NRcXCdwfM9k

Enjoy!

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Shafts of warm sunlight slipped through the high arches of the servants’ quarters of the palace in Varese as they worked, swathing the room in a buttery golden hue. The sparkling rays danced across the fibers of the wool as it thumped rhythmically across the table, setting the threads shimmering like emeralds.

Each press of the freshly dyed fabric against the wood thrummed through the sun-warmed hall as it was passed from hand to hand, tugging and stretching. Beautiful, lithe voices raised in unison in time with its cadence.

He mo leannan,

Hó mo leannan,

‘S e mo leannan a’ fear ùr—

An old fae ditty, reserved for waulking--- and one of Princess Eleanor Ashryver’s favorite tunes to sing during one of her most beloved pastimes. She’d routinely sneak away from palace duties to participate in it, spending her time singing and sitting thigh to thigh and elbow to elbow with the servants, her friends, kneading and stretching the bolt.

With a twist of her hands, she worked the fabric beneath her palms, feet tapping in time as her voice rose and fell along, her nail beds already saturated with deep emerald. The wool in her hands was freshly woven cashmere soaked in Terrasen green, crafted specifically for its future princess, Evalin Ashryver, soon to be Galathynius.

The lovely lady whose intellect and grace could crack even the hardest of foes, who was renowned for carrying a presence of wisdom and strength.

That was, if you didn’t know of the bashful creature she could become behind closed doors, the bright flush that overtook her pale skin when flustered or the rare but clever curses that could slip through her delicate lips when no one was listening.

It was those parts of her cousin that Eleanor knew and loved the best, the parts she knew that Evalin’s future husband would grow to love as well. That was, if they could get the blushing bride to walk down the aisle without her turning the shade of a tomato or spluttering like a broken spigot.

Fortunately, the event was still months off.

Enough time for dear Evalin to pull herself together enough that she might string coherent sentences together before being bound to her handsome and daring Prince Rhoe, heir of Terrasen’s great throne.

Eleanor couldn’t help but grin, the lovesick expression of her cousin’s fair face still dancing through her mind.

She’d never let Evalin hear the end of it.

Not that the young prince had responded much better according to the gossip that flitted through the palace in the wake of her return. Apparently, King Orlon had had a jolly time teasing the lovebirds throughout Evalin’s stay and had laughed quite loudly and openly at his brother’s attempt at courtship upon the princess’s departure.

Two birds of a feather then, destined to rule a bright and glorious kingdom.

She could not find room for more joy in her heart at the prospect.

Even if part of her panged at the emptiness that would follow her cousin’s nuptials and inevitable departure. While born a princess, Eleanor’s right was only in name, not poised to inherit any power or lands, and her future had always been somehow . . . flat and vague.

And without Evalin’s constant presence and companionship…

She gripped the fabric tightly as the next length was passed to her, her mind willing the worm of sorrow away.

Now wasn’t the time for such idle thoughts. Even if the prospect had chased sleep from her in the previous weeks, leaving her mind to wander in the darkness of her chambers.

Even if Evalin had looked prime to invite her to go with her, to whisk her off to Terrasen so that they would never be apart . . .

She banished the thought.

No, she could not go. Wendlyn was her home and where she would stay. Even if her dearest cousin was to set sail for foreign lands.

Close in age, she and Evalin had been hand in hand since they were children, nearly identical in appearance and thick as thieves and twice as mischievous.

The palace staff had bemoaned their more . . . adventurous endeavors. Even as encroaching adulthood had slowly stripped them of the freedom they’d relished in their youth, they’d still found ways to entertain themselves and stir up trouble in the way that only two young princesses might.

Old Nan had still yet to forgive them for stealing Lord Edgar’s wig six summers before, their teenage curiosity getting the better of them. They’d merely wondered if the rumors of it being made of cat hair were true.

The rumors, much to her and Evalin’s eternal disappointment, had been false.

Lord Edgar’s fit of rage and spewing had not been, however, the lord having fled the castle in such a rage that he’d forgotten to dress himself properly and had loaded himself into his carriage in only his underthings.

He’d yet to visit the palace again much to her cousin, the crowned King Glaston’s, annoyance.

Eleanor had remained unruffled when confronted, justifying that the man was insufferable anyway, hardly fit for life as a human much less as a lord. Evalin, ever the pacifist, had supported her claim, albeit in far fewer, much less damning words.

They’d been sent to drudgery duty as punishment: Evalin to the kitchens and Eleanor to seamstresses, in hopes that separating the girls might dampen their exploits. Much to everyone’s disappointment, Eleanor had discovered a love of weaving and now made a habit of sneaking off to join the servants. Evalin, for her part, had taken an interest in the culture of the demi-fae staff she worked with, going so far as to visit a small demi-fae village called Mistward to better understand their plight.

The same place where Evalin returned from now, due back any moment.

Far too close to the border of Doranelle and that heinous Fae-Queen Maeve, Eleanor thought with irritation. Maeve’s unexpected fascination with Evalin had left everyone in the Ashryver estate unsettled, the ancient queen’s wickedness preceding her.

The sooner Evalin was home, the better.

Waving her hands, Eleanor flicked the excess bits of dye and diluted urine from her fingers before gripping the fabric taut again, brushing her leg against the woman next to her.

The tune they were singing came to a slow end, fading on both her tongue and those of the women around her. Shifting her gaze, her eyes landed on one of the younger servant girls at the end of the row who quickly selected another, slapping the fabric in time, and began to sing jovially, her broad smile contagious.

Eleanor almost snorted at the song the girl had selected, sung in the common tongue--a tale of a handsome fae lord who had come to town to woo the prettiest lady and sweep her away off to his fine kingdom.

Oh, he comes o’er hill and dale,

Sword strapped right,

Bonny and bright,

Come to bid his tale--

Gods help any woman foolish enough to run off with one of the fae males, she thought harshly, With their immortality and brute strength . . . even if they aren’t difficult on the eyes. Not that she and Evalin had taken a habit of watching the visiting emissaries ride in, speculating on what was beneath those fine tunics--

Even caught up in the song and her work Eleanor didn’t miss the servant’s door opening or the soft scrape of boots as Evalin peeked her head into the room, her turquoise eyes searching as she scanned the room.

Relief flooded her.

Home and safe.

Tossing up a hand she waved Evalin over, who must have just arrived as she was still clad in her traveling dress, a cloak wrapped about her slender shoulders.

Watching her cousin’s approach, Eleanor immediately noted that her normally slim, proud shoulders were tight and her lovely mouth seemed pinched, even as she smiled sincerely at her. Sensing something amiss, she rose from her seat, leaving her portion of the fabric on the table to be rapidly swept up by surrounding hands.

“Greetings, cousin,” Evalin chimed, reaching out delicate hands to wrap around Eleanor and pull her close, the smell of smoke and the forest wafting from her cloak, “I am so very glad to see you.”

“As am I.” Pushing away, Eleanor looked over Evalin once, furrowing her brow in concern, the formality, the tight posture-- “Eva, is everything all right?”

Evalin’s eyes flickered behind them toward the servents, her pink lips down turning slightly—no, it wasn’t—but this wasn’t the place to discuss it.

Eleanor was about to suggest they go somewhere to talk when Lucielle, an elderly servant whose hair had once been as fiery as her temper, sent a knowing look across the table at the two princesses.

“Your Majesties,” she chimed, slipping away from the waulking table and dipping into a slight curtsey, “if you wouldn’t mind, could you perhaps take the old dye out? It would save an old woman with terrible knees a trip up the stairs.”

“Of course, Lucielle,” relief flooded Evalin’s face, her shoulders loosening, “we’d be happy to help.”

“Oh good, good, such lovely, kind ladies both of you.” The woman waved a withered hand over her shoulder. “There’s only a few bowls that need to go. Pour them in the buckets and dump it off into the grass.”

“Yes, of course,” Eleanor murmured, watching Evalin with an eagle’s gaze, “we’ll go now.”

“Bloody whore,” Eleanor swore as she slammed the buckets of dye and urine down on the battlement, her regal face set in a cool rage. If she ever got her hands on that dark queen--“How dare she address you like that?” “Language, Elle,” Evalin reprimanded, sending a long glance at the guards at the edge of the battlements. Their attention was averted from the princesses as they had been trained, but they still had ears. “And . . . it is what it is. She would listen to none of my pleading.” “Of course not,” Eleanor quipped, her sweet voice harsh as she threw one of the buckets they had carried up the stairs over the battlement walls and onto the grass below, splashing the ground with green dye and the urine used to set it. “How dare anyone call out the illustrious Maeve on her brutal rule.” Evalin had recapped the hardships the demi-fae faced, the scorn they received from both the humans and the fae. A people caught between two races with no home of their own--many of whom spent their lives trying to win the favor of the fae queen only to live their days out in poverty in the small rural villages between the human and fae lands.

“It would be a blessing on this kingdom and the next if she’d rutting keel over,” Evalin paled at the insinuation, even as Eleanor hissed in fury, “Gods above know that royal bit—” “Eleanor,” Evalin warned again, ever the water to Eleanor’s fire, “Ears, cousin. Ears.” “Piss on them,” she shot back, her vision nearly red as she thought on the fae queen. “If she’s so offended by my words then Maeve can come here and address it with me, but Gods know she won’t leave that stone throne or the harem of pretty warriors she collects.”

Evalin cringed as the words flowed past Eleanor’s lips.

But what reaction had she expected when recounting such news? Not only was Evalin the crown princess of Wendlyn and Eleanor’s greatest friend, she carried the bloodline of Mab, which entitled her to more respect that Maeve had ever given.

And going so far as to bargain with Evalin about her firstborn in exchange for the demi-fae’s rights--

“You shouldn’t be going back to Mistward, Eva.” She shook her head, the gall of the queen to try and barter with Evalin’s future child . . . “Stay as far away from the woman as you can.” “They are my friends, Elle,” Evalin murmured, running a hand through her golden locks as she glanced towards the mountains and the village that dwelled deep within, as though she could see all the way to that fortress, “and no one else will stand for them.” “And of your own safety?” She knew Maeve wouldn’t be so foolish as to attack a crown princess, but using magic to coerce-- “That has to be taken into account too.”

“I know, Elle,” she placed a hand on her stomach, as though her thoughts drifted to the life that would one day grow there, to the life that Maeve had so casually predicted. “I know.”

“Foul demon woman,” Eleanor grumbled as she lifted third bucket of dye to dump over the battlements edge, perhaps it was best her cousin was going to Terrasen, if for no other reason to be away from gods damned Maeve, “I hope I never see the likes of her.” “Me either, Elle.” Evalin shook her head, her honey-colored locks catching the light of the fading afternoon sun, before smiling up at Eleanor, finally, a true smile. “Though I am glad to see you. I’ve missed you in our weeks apart.” “Me too Eva, the castle has been too quiet without you.” A laugh. “I thought you’d quiet enjoy your time alone without me tailing after you.” “Well, a bit,” Eleanor conceded, smiling mischievously, “though with word of you and Prince Rhoe’s engagement I haven’t been able to be away from even the mention of you.” A delicate blush rushed up the princess’s cheeks as she averted her gaze from Eleanor.

Better, Eleanor thought as she watched her cousin nervously run her fingers over her cloak, her mind no doubt lost to the prince who awaited her across the sea.

“Let’s celebrate your return tonight and stay together, like we did as children.” Something sparked to life in Evalin’s eyes at that, at the long conversation they would have through the night, the mischief they might get into.

“Yes, let’s.” She rose from where she leaned against the stone and watched Eleanor, her eyes finally full of the mirth and warmth Eleanor was accustomed to.

She mulled on the thoughts of Maeve, of the idle threats she’d made to her dear cousin as she walked over and picked up the final bucket of waste, testing its weight in her hand. “Do you know what I say, Eva?” she inquired, swinging the bucket and sending its contents sloshing all over the stone as she stomped towards the edge of the battlements, the image of the dark-haired queen sharpening in her mind.

Evalin turned her attention back to Eleanor, her mouth opening as though to speak, her hand lifting as though to stop her. “Elle, wait—" She lifted the bucket above her head and smiled ferally. “Piss on Maeve.”

Ignoring her cousin’s warning, she slung the contents of the bucket over the wall with a flick of her arms, willing somewhere, somehow that damned queen also had a bucket of green dye and piss being dumped on her.

A loud splash sounded as the liquid splattered down the stone, followed almost immediately by a soft grunt of surprise.

She froze.

Evalin cringed, even as she couldn’t help the amusement that darted across her face. “You threw it over the wrong side, cousin.” Embarrassment flooded Eleanor as she realized in her fury she’d thrown the waste not onto the grass but onto the street below the battlement, the one that led to the palace gates. Right atop some poor fool strolling up the path at the wrong moment. Blinking in shock, she braved a look down the side of the battlements to see a tall figure below, soaked in the urine and dye she’d tossed over the side, his fine grey cloak stained a blotchy green. He was armed to the teeth, daggers and swords adorning his body, an intricate bow strapped across his back along with a large pack. Someone who had been on the road for a long time. With growing horror, she watched as he pulled his hood free with predatory ease, revealing pointed ears and long blonde locks that were now also tinged green and most certainly smelled like urine.

He turned his head upwards to see where his unexpected shower had come from—

Beautiful, was the only thought that flitted through Eleanor’s mind as she took him in, devastatingly beautiful and undoubtedly fae.

Eleanor couldn’t bring herself to move, the breath rushing out of her as she took in his features, the tawny eyes, the broad shoulders and shapely throat encrusted with black markings—

And hanging loosely atop his tunic was a silver medallion now also dripping in murky green, a medallion in the shape of an owl that indicated the ruling house of Doranelle-- Evalin was now next to her, a hand covering her mouth as she muttered, her eyes wide.

“‘Oh, piss on Maeve indeed.” A hole opened up beneath Eleanor as she blinked, breaking eye contact with the fae male before quickly stumbling away from the battlement’s edge, her bucket tumbling to the ground in front of her.

She’d gotten her wish, no doubt. She’d just soaked one of Maeve’s soldiers in dye and urine.

She slid down the battlement wall and placed her head in her hands, ignoring the stifled chuckles that quickly turned into full belly laughs from Evalin.

Couldn’t she keep her damned mouth shut?

Evalin wasn’t certain Eleanor’s face would ever return to its natural shade as they wound down the staircase back to the bottom floor of the palace. No, she assumed she’d probably stay tinged pink until the darkness claimed her.

She’d tried to warn her that she was dumping the bucket off the wrong side of the wall.

And, as was Eleanor’s style, the rancid mixture had splashed all over one of Doranelle’s soldiers, no doubt from Maeve’s personal guard.

Her stomach had dropped at the sight of him, an uneasiness settling over her with his sudden appearance.

Eleanor had merely muttered “Traitorous Gods” before swiping up the bucket and rushing down the stairs, her skirt swishing as she took them two at a time.

No doubt her brother Glaston would be less than pleased with their cousins’ actions. He’d grown cold since their father’s death and his ascension to the throne--the young man she’d loved so fiercely as a child was now a shell of who he’d once been.

His coldness tended to manifest as criticisms of herself and Eleanor. Mostly wild, free Eleanor. He was going to be furious.

Not that anything could be done to right it now.

“Majesties, there you are,” an old woman crowed as she rounded the corner of the hallway and spotted the two Ashryver princesses making their way down the hallway, “Your presence is requested at dinner tonight, and seeing as you’ve been on the road all day, Evalin,” a look towards her dusty cloak and scuffed, muddy boots,” you need to bathe and change.”

Old Nan was as stalwart and round as she’d ever been, her harsh eyes buried beneath bushy brows as she looked over both girls with that assessing gaze. Evalin instinctively straightened her spine, correcting her posture.

Eleanor beside her made no attempts to remedy hers.

Evalin had to resist the urge to reach out and nudge her, a gentle reminder to keep them both out of trouble--

The old woman stopped her approach suddenly, tentatively sniffing the air before gasping, “Is that . . . urine?”

Evalin tried to keep her face neutral as she heard her cousin clear her throat, smoothly slipping into a protected position behind her, letting her take the brunt of their nursemaid’s fury. “Nan, please—” Evalin began, trying to placate the old woman before her temper flared, knowing it would likely be unfruitful-

“Eleanor!” A reprimand, sharp and unforgiving. “I’ve told you before, princesses do not waulk fabric. Lucielle will be hearing of this. I’ve told her again and again to not let you sully your hands with the piss of servants.” “And I order you to leave her out of it.” Eleanor snarled from her position behind Evalin, still cleverly hidden as she peeked up over her cousin��s shoulders and narrowed her brows, “Princesses may do as they like, need I remind you.”

An argument as old as the castle itself, one Eleanor and old Nan had had from the time Eleanor had been able to muster the word “no”.

Evalin could already feel the headache creeping in.

She desperately needed to bathe, to sort through her thoughts concerning the conversation she and her aunt had a week before, when, over tea, she’d nonchalantly inquired after the prospect of her and her betrothed’s future heir, violet eyes smoldering as she’d carefully gauged Evalin’s reaction.

When she’d presented the idea that, should she bring her heir to Maeve for training, she’d gladly grant the demi-fae access to Doranelle and rights to all its splendors, as Evalin had been tirelessly working to achieve over the previous years.

The conversation had left her feeling oily, eager to depart Doranelle and return to Wendlyn where she might confide in someone she trusted, in Eleanor, what had been asked of her, in private and without the watchful eyes of her family or the fae.

And now with one of her soldiers arriving here at the palace within an hour of her return home—who was now covered in dye and refuse thanks to Eleanor’s careful hand—there was much for her think on.

“Nan,” Evalin interrupted the argument beginning to build around her, reaching a soft hand out for her nursemaid, “I would very much like to bathe and have Eleanor help me dress if you’d be willing.” Nan’s dark eyes narrowed with simmering fury but she nodded anyway, sidestepping the young princesses and allowing them to pass.

“Be quick Majesty,” she called after, wiping her hands in the apron at her waist, “we’ve a guest tonight.”

“Wonderful,” Eleanor muttered under her breath, only hissing slightly as Evalin surreptitiously stepped on her toe, silencing her. Evalin had assumed as much, knowing precisely who their guest would be. She’d known it from the moment she had noted the tell-tale grey clothing of the warrior from earlier, the fine weapons strapped across him.

He wasn’t an ordinary foot soldier, but one of Maeve’s bloodsworn. The medallion was only a courteous marker for anyone who did not know of them. But any who did . . . it was not hard to identify them, lethal and vicious in the way they moved, their ancient presences near palpable.

Sent, no doubt, at the behest of her aunt.

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youtuberswithalex · 6 years

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Virgil Sanders and the Big, Bad Dream

Summary: Virgil wakes up in the middle of the night from a terrible nightmare, only to discover that he’s regressed again. Luckily for him, his dad will always be there. [Sequel to A Little Anxious]

Note: Heyo, it’s my 3,000th post on this blog! I wanted to do something special, and I know a lot of people really enjoyed ALA and were really excited for the next one, so I sat down and finally finished writing this today. Hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 3,361

Pairings: Platonic Moxiety

Warnings: Deceit, nightmares, manipulation, drowning, crying, self hate, parental panic

Writing Masterpost -- Ko-Fi

Virgil was alone.

His eyes snapped open to a solid pitch black darkness surrounding him. There was no light, no sound, no air, no air, he couldn’t breathe, he was going to die—

A footstep behind him. He whirled around.

“Who’s there?!”

A breeze brushed the back of his neck; his head snapped around in every direction, but there was nothing to be seen. He swallowed thickly.

“Hello…?”

“Oh, Anxiety…”

A glint of yellow flashed in the corner of his eye. Before he had the chance to look, something snatched his wrist. Virgil let out a yell as he was yanked back.

“Stop!”

Chilling laughter echoed as a cold, slimy… something slithered around his waist and constricted. A wheeze ripped out of him.

“How naive you were to think I’d ever let you go,” the voice sung. “To think you were ever worth something…”

He opened his mouth to retort, but it filled with water before any noise could come out. It trickled down his throat, into his lungs, choking him, drowning him—

“Those monstrous sides really have you wrapped around their fingers. Corrupting you into believing those lies… Oh, it just breaks my heart to see you turning into them.”

The glint of yellow reappeared, just a few feet in front of him this time. Virgil squirmed, trying to get out of the grip of whatever was holding him there, but it only tightened and choked him further. Bile rose in his throat.

Scales came into view, and then a face that grinned and sent shivers down at him. A hand came down to cup his cheek; it was bigger than his whole head.

“I always thought you had potential, Anxiety,” Deceit hissed. “I knew the others were always far too gone to save, but you were different. You were so much better than them. Always doing what you must to save Thomas, while they sat around and villainized us. Animals, really!”

He pulled his hand away and shook his head, shutting his eyes. Virgil swallowed thickly and looked down.

“Look at you now, though. You’ve turned into just as big a monster as they are. There’s no saving you now. You’re nothing but a villain, no matter which way you look at it. You’ve hurt them in the past, and you’re hurting us now.”

Virgil sucked in a shaking breath before a gloved hand snatched his chin and forced him to look into Deceit’s piercing eyes. His other hand lifted to hover by his face.

“You’ve trusted them far more than they deserve,” he growled. “I wanted to help you. You were family, after all. But this, Virgil?”

He shuddered.

“This will be your downfall.”

Deceit snapped, and fall he did.

Down,

Down…

Shuddering gasp ripping through his lungs, Virgil’s eyes snapped open; he moved to sit up, but his arms were entangled, the monster still had him it wasn’t a dream— until he wrangled himself to freedom and whirled around to sit on his knees. The blankets tumbled off of his shoulders as he panted, and the breeze from the air conditioning chilled goosebumps into his arms.

Wait.

He wasn’t wearing his jacket.

But no, that couldn’t be right, he slept in it every night, he hardly ever took it off unless Patton made him to put it in the wash, why would it be—

Dread pooled into his stomach. He looked down.

Virgil was kneeling on it. But it was nearly twice his size, and his hands were tiny.

His vision blurred.

Patton was fully aware that Logan would be incredibly disappointed in him right now.

As the Parks and Rec theme softly sounded again, his eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. 3:27 am: two and a half hours before Logan would be up, three and a half before Roman, and anywhere from three to five hours before Virgil, depending on how much his anxiety would allow him to sleep tonight. Patton himself wouldn’t be up until well after 10, so he could probably avoid Logan’s scolding glare, but he knew from experience that he couldn’t dodge it if he was still awake when Logan got up.

There was still plenty of time, though. Time enough to watch just a couple more episodes.

He yawned and settled in closer to the big Snorlax plush in his arms. It was getting towards the time that Patton should be setting his glasses to the side in case he fell asleep mid-episode, but he felt no motivation towards doing so. They pressed against his face and skewed thanks to Snorlax; normally, he’d ajust to fix it, but he simply let it happen this time.

His tired mind focused in and out on the episode, eyes fluttering open and shut.

…Something was wrong.

Patton blinked blearily and lifted his head at the twist of his gut, one of the legs of his glasses falling over his ear and down his face. A frown etched onto his face as he tried to decipher the cause.

When they had been kids, Patton used to get these feelings all the time for the smallest of reasons. Someone needed help getting a cup down from the cupboard, or with homework, or had gotten into a fight with another Side and they’d hurt each other’s feelings. There wasn’t much he could do most of the time, since he was just as small and immature as they were, but he’d always done what he could to fix the problems at hand. The older he got, the better he became at handling them, but the others had grown up and more independent too, of course, so he was needed less and less often as time wore on.

Gut Dad Instincts now were a rare occurrence, sure, but when he did get them, they were often emergencies. Roman coming back from a quest with an injury he couldn’t fix on his own, Logan stressing himself with work to the point where he’d collapse with a high fever that would last for days… When someone needed help but didn’t know how to or was too stubborn to ask for it, there was always a small, sharp twist in Patton’s gut alerting him, and he was on his own to figure out who it was from and how he could help.

When he got one this late—err, early –Patton could only fear a big, big emergency, one that would have surely woken him up even if he had been asleep. Worry swirled thickly around the Dad Instinct feeling.

Patton shot up and paused the video, listening closely. Surely, there had to be footsteps, or a door opening, or something that could alert him to who was in trouble. Something like—

Like the sound of crying a wall away.

He cursed under his breath as he scrambled out of bed and towards the nearest pair of pants lying on the floor. No one in the Mindscape cried without good reason except for Patton. If someone was crying, something was very wrong. He started preparing himself for the worst, for a medical emergency, or a friend of Thomas’s in trouble, or maybe even dead—

As soon as he threw his sweatpants on, Patton threw himself through his door and into the hall. He strained his ears to find the source of the noise.

Virgil.

Oh, god, no.

He sprinted.

Skidding to a stop outside of his door, he grabbed the handle and listened closely one more time. Maybe he was just hearing things, or maybe he was awake and watching something where a character was crying…

No. No, the sound wasn’t coming from any speakers, but Patton realized with a start that it didn’t sound like it was Virgil crying. There was something familiar about it, though, something that was just on the edge of Patton’s mind that he couldn’t quite bring to the forefront.

Quietly, he risked a gentle knock.

“Kiddo?” he called, trying to keep his voice down. “Virge, are you doing alright?”

He heard a sob, followed by the shuffling of fabric.

“Daddy?” a voice whimpered.

Patton’s eyes widened, a flash of a terrified toddler diving into his arms a few weeks ago running through his memory.

“Virgil, I’m coming in.”

He’d hardly finished the sentence before he pushed the door open.

There was no denying the crippling wave of relief that washed over him when he saw no injuries on the anxious trait, but it was very quickly snuffed out when the toddler-sized Virgil let out a shuddering sob and attempted to worm his way out of the blankets to get to Patton. The Father Figure Figment rushed over and untangled him, wrapping him up in his arms as he sat down on the bed.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispered. “What happened?”

Virgil clung to Patton as tightly as his tiny arms would allow him, and a string of garbled attempted words tumbled out. There wasn’t much Patton could understand, but he heard the words “dream” and “Deceit” in the same breath, and he silently pieced it together. He held Virgil a little bit closer as anger bubbled up over the Dad Instincts.

“Shh, kiddo. You’re safe. D’s not going to get you here,” he said.

Letting out a loud sob, Virgil buried his face in Patton’s night shirt and shook his head.

Patton pressed a gentle kiss into Virgil’s hair and began to rock them back and forth. His heart twisted knowing this was all he could do until Virgil could calm down enough to talk it out.

Down the hall, a door opened, and set of footsteps hurried towards them. Roman appeared in the doorway a beat later; one hand gripped his sword while the other rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He still wore his red flannel pajamas and fluffy slippers, and if the situation hadn’t have been so heartbreaking, Patton would have laughed.

“What’s happening?” Roman mumbled.

Patton frowned, looking back down at the child in his arms. “He had a really scary nightmare,” he explained. “One bad enough to make him regress again.”

Roman’s eyes widened in understanding; as his free hand fell back to his side, he glanced around the room. “Is being in here going to make things worse?”

“Oh, gracious, you’re right…”

Patton peeled Virgil back just enough to peer under his eyes and check the eye shadow; sure enough, it was blacker than a witch’s cat and thick enough to rival a raccoon. The tears running down his cheeks soaked it up and left big, blotchy spots on Patton’s shirt, but they didn’t wash any of the eye shadow away.

With a grimace, Patton pulled him back against him and shifted so his head was on his shoulder and his arms tight around his neck. He carefully got to his feet and glanced at the jacket still lying on the sheets.

He turned to Roman. “Would you be willing to grab that? I’m going to bring him to my room.”

“Of course.”

The two quietly slipped around each other, and Patton steadily made his way down the hall, doing what he could to calm Virgil and keep his own emotions in check. His door was, thankfully, still wide open; he easily headed in and settled back onto the bed, pulling up his legs to sit cross-legged on top of the comforter and lowering Virgil to rest in his lap. Roman stepped in right behind them and carefully handed the jacket to Patton.

“Thank you, Roman,” Patton said. “Go back to bed. I can handle this from here.”

“Are you sure? I don’t—I don’t want to—”

Roman turned his face away, trying his hardest to stifle a yawn; when he turned back, Patton smiled softly and shook his head.

“It’s okay. Get some sleep.”

Nodding in defeat, Roman headed back to the door and gripped the knob, pulling it almost closed. “Thank you, Patton. Wake me up if you need anything.”

“That’s my line.”

Roman let out a soft laugh; the smile fell as he looked down to the toddler in Patton’s lap. “Virgil?” he gently offered. “I hope you feel better, young prince. You’re safe with Daddy now.”

Virgil sniffled and clung closer to Patton. The adults shot each other sympathetic glances before Roman bid the two good night and shut the door.

As soon as they were alone, Patton pulled Virgil away long enough to wrap him in his jacket and swipe the current tears away with the pad of his thumb. For the first time since he’d been found, Virgil made eye contact with him.

“I-I’m sorry,” he choked out.

Patton felt his heart shatter. He quickly shook his head, brushing the hair out of Virgil’s face.

“Oh, Virgil,” he sighed. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

Pulling his arms out, Virgil shook his head and wiped his eyes. He leaned away from Patton’s touch. “I woke you up! I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry!”

Patton let out a short laugh. “You didn’t wake me up, kiddo. I hadn’t gone to bed yet. Even if I had, I wouldn’t have been upset about waking up when you needed someone!”

Virgil sniffled, hesitantly peering up at him. “You wouldn’t…?”

“Never in a million years.” Patton slowly lifted his hand to boop Virgil on the nose. “You’re more important than a little sleep, Virgil.”

There was a beat of silence. Virgil stared down at Patton’s hand, to the dark splotches on his shirt, and then up to the gentle smile being offered to him.

His lower lip trembled, and he curled in further on himself. Tears spilled down his cheeks again as he squeezed his eyes shut. He let out a whimper and dove back into Patton’s arms.

“I-I-I’m n-not!” he sobbed. “I sh-shouldn’t be! I’m sorry!”

Patton hushed him and pulled him close, gently rocking them again. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re okay.”

Virgil began to tremble against his chest. “I don’t want to be bad…!”

“You’re not bad, Virgil.”

“I was mean to you and Ro and Lo!”

“But you know better than that now, and I’m so proud of you for growing so much.”

Patton pressed another kiss into Virgil’s hair and began to rub his hand up and down his back, all while Virgil shuddered and snuggled closer into him.

“Why-y?” Virgil whimpered.

Patton tightened his grip. “Because I love you, Virgil! A good dad’s love for his kids is always unconditional. And I always will, no matter how bad or how mean you’ve ever been or ever get. Okay? I love you, Virgil. That won’t ever change.”

They stayed like this for a long while, until all of the tears had been shed and the cries had grown silent. Though Virgil still trembled in his arms, Patton let out a soft sigh of relief that the worst was over. Carefully, he moved to rest his cheek on the top of Virgil’s head.

“Hey, sweetheart?” he muttered. “I think some sleep would really do you some good. How about we go back to bed?”

Virgil let out a weak whimper, followed by a sniffle. He was quiet for a beat.

“…Can I stay with you tonight?”

It took everything Patton had in him to not break down in tears himself at the fear lacing Virgil’s tone. His eyes squeezed shut as he nodded slowly.

“Absolutely, honey. You can come any time, big or small, okay?” he said.

Virgil nodded and gripped Patton tighter.

When it became clear that Virgil wasn’t letting go any time soon, Patton carefully maneuvered them until his head rested on his shoulder before he stood and headed to the light switch. Virgil let out a cry when the room darkened; Patton was quick to plug in the fairy lights that lined his ceiling.

They made a quick stop at Patton’s desk to drop off his glasses and get Virgil a drink of water from one of the many, many cups that lined the edges, and then the two carefully settled under the blankets. Virgil fell asleep laying on Patton’s chest almost instantly, lulled away by the steady heartbeat and calm breathing.

Patton, however, took a little while longer, mind racing with thoughts of what sort of things Virgil might have dreamt about earlier and what might have caused those fears to begin with. Heartbreak and anger swirled viciously in his gut; it took all he had to keep his heart from racing in his chest. There was nothing more that he wanted to do right now than go and confront Deceit and the other Dark Sides head-on, but the child in his arms kept him from moving. Instead, Patton pressed a feather-soft kiss into Virgil’s hair and silently vowed once again to give him as much love as it could possibly take to make up for the years of it he’d lost.

A few silent tears escaped before he controlled himself, and then he, too, was fast asleep.

Logan was far from happy the next morning when he stepped out of his room and saw a little light shining from behind Patton’s door.

Letting out a huff, he smoothed out his still damp hair and adjusted his tie, preparing himself for the confrontation he was about to engage in. Honestly, he’d stressed to Patton time and time again the importance of a healthy sleeping schedule, and here he was, awake at six in the morning again, all for some silly television show that any of them could watch at any time! Knowing Patton, it wasn’t even an educational program, and that only fired Logan up even further.

He briskly walked over and let himself in, aware that Patton would simply pretend to be asleep if he knew Logan was coming to lecture him.

“Patton, I—”

He froze.

There was no sign of any sort of program on at all; in fact, the light didn’t even appear to be coming from the top light, as it normally was when Patton stayed up all night watching television. A quick glance around the room confirmed his hypothesis—the television was off, the laptop was closed and resting on the edge of his bed (much to Logan’s worry), and the only source of light was coming from the fairy lights that were rarely on.

Logan was about to question this when he heard a loud snore from Patton, drawing his attention to the bed. His frustration melted away when he realized that there lie all the explanation he needed.

Patton lay under the blankets, propped up just a bit by the many, many pillows at the top of his bed, and head resting on a large Pokemon stuffed animal. His mouth was parted just enough for any snoring to rumble the room with each breath that he took. It was common knowledge that Patton snored—he was the father, after all –but it was very rare for it to ever be this loud.

However, a small figure lay on his chest, most likely applying the weight needed to increase the volume. The mass of purple and black fabric didn’t stir despite the constant movement; in fact, it seemed to be quite relaxed where it was. Soft breathing from it filled the gap in between the rumbling snores.

A tiny hand loosely gripped Patton’s night shirt, and Patton’s arm was carefully wrapped around the figure. As Logan inched closer, he noted dried tear tracks on both of their faces. Remnants of waterlogged eye shadow lingered in varying spots across the two.

From the data he’d gathered, Logan could only assume this: some sort of emotional event had taken place in the night, causing a fear of being alone, crying, exhaustion, and Virgil’s age regression.

As much as he wished to wake them and ask for more information, Logan took another look at Virgil’s sleeping form and sighed. The toddler looked just as exhausted as he did when he was an adult, even when resting.

With a shake of the head, Logan snuck back into the hall and shut the door as quietly as it would allow him to.

His questions could wait.

#thomas sanders #sanders sides #moxiety #platonic moxiety #virgil sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #sanders sides fic #sanders sides fanfiction #alex writes #a little anxious #deceit #ts deceit

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