#sildar hallwinter is barry’s go-to undercover name | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lichlover · 4 years

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Okay so this a balance headcanon, and it is technically one I saw in a text post somewhere on tumblr that has been lost to the scroll of my dashboard months and months ago, but. The concept that the reason Barry was on the starblaster in the first place... was because he was some kinda undercover death cultist trying to kickstart the apocalypse... but then it happened and he was like "wait shit this actually sucks" and then has to figure out what to do

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This was how it was written: Sildar Hallwinter would end the world.

Before his departure, they’d etched his name into the first of the sacred texts; his true name, five syllables destined to strike terror into the hearts of all living beings and their menial existences. It would all perish in the Apocalypse, of course. Everything would. But he and his fellows would ascend in death, as would every record that burned in the Great Blaze of the end times, and the universe would know their history. The true history. The history he would go down in as the Catalyst for the End of All Things, the Second Revelation, the Midnight Prophet for the Last Downfall of Mankind.

The gnome in front of him peered over the angular frames of his spectacles and said, “Barry Bluejeans?”

Sildar Hallwinter had also lost a bet.

But it was no matter, for there was no meager chronicle that would remember him as Barold J. Bluejeans, chief science officer of the IPRE Starblaster. He would be survived only by the destruction set to ravage their world in a matter of months, a Dawning so terrible that it would leave nothing of civilization in its wake. No one would know the name Barry Bluejeans. Everyone would know the name Sildar Hallwinter, and the thought made his stomach knot with such anticipation that he had to collect himself before he could respond.

“That’s me,” he said, and grinned a different man’s grin at the gnome—Captain Davenport of the IPRE, unknowing Chariot to the Catalyst for the End of All Things, the Second Revelation, the Midnight Prophet for the Last Downfall of Mankind. “Reporting for duty.”

Sildar was well accustomed to the dank, ash-streaked tunnels of the Fellowship’s headquarters beneath Ascendant’s Peak, but the IPRE headquarters were sleek and warm, drawing him in with rounded walls and high, arching ceilings. Everywhere he looked, another enormous set of windows opened to the landscape below, as of yet untouched by the Cataclysm Foretold. He wasn’t used to this much natural light, and he certainly wasn’t used to people smiling and waving as they passed. “Another poor soul for the Big One, Dav?” someone called, and the captain waved them off affably.

For an organization completely aware of the end times, and completely unaware of the fact that he, Sildar, would be responsible for their failure, they were all terribly… cheery.

“We’ve already gathered the other crew members,” said the captain, when they came to a halt in front of a nondescript door. “They’re just, uh, through here. We’ll start our first briefing in the next—next half hour, but for now, feel free to socialize. G-Get to know them. We’ll call you when we’re ready.”

“Thanks,” said Sildar, and the captain mumbled something under his breath. “Uh, what was that?”

“Oh,” said the captain. “Nothing.” He turned, and it was only then that Sildar’s brain registered the words; it had sounded almost like good luck.

No matter. Sildar opened the door.

“Incoming!”

Sildar yelped—actually yelped—and ducked aside just as a chair flew over his head and exploded against the wall. A shower of wooden fragments and very magical sparks hit the ground in front of him, and he sputtered, wordless, on the precipice of reaching for his own wand—was this an ambush? Had they discovered the truth of his presence already?

“Oh, shit,” somebody said, and a silhouette appeared through the smoke and magical residue. Sildar caught his breath. Perhaps he was dead, then; perhaps one of the wooden shards had caught him through the heart, and the Avatar of Renewal through Annihilation had come to meet him on the threshold of the afterlife. She looked like divinity, at any rate: tall and elegant, with waves of hair that glittered like finely spun gold and eyes that blazed with the last vestiges of power. Eyes that settled on him, and softened instantly. No, Sildar thought. She couldn’t possibly be the Avatar of Renewal, because she looked kind.

“Shit,” said the divine being again. Her ears twitched downward with concern—an elf, then. “Lucky break, babe. You okay?”

Sildar blinked, and found himself at a loss for words.

“Leave it to you to fuckin’ scare the shit outta the newcomer!” A voice like hers rose through the smoke, and as it cleared, Sildar made out four other bodies, all draped in the ostentatious red of the IPRE and squinting into the gloom. The one who had spoken, another willowy elf with even longer golden locks, lifted a hand in the air and snapped his fingers, and all the smoke dissipated at once. “You had to launch it at the fuckin’ wall, Mags!”

His companion, a human who stood taller than everyone else in the room and looked battle-scarred to the bone despite his youth, gestured indignantly at the aftermath. “But did you see how fucking awesome that was? And that was a whole science experiment! Setup—uh, hypothesis, trials, conclusion?”

“Which is?” The elf unspooled two letters into a long, drawn-out drawl.

“That this room was totally used for magic shit! And now we can do whatever we want in here!”

“Um,” came another voice from the window, and Sildar looked over to see a dark young woman with a head of platinum-bright hair, gazing nervously at the set of admittedly impressive scorch marks over his head. “I think if anything, that proves we shouldn’t do what we want in here.”

��Agree to disagree,” said “Mags,” with undue confidence.

“That’s—but that’s not what science is—”

The final figure in the room, a portly dwarf with flowers woven into his beard, shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Look at the impression you just made,” he said. “Going around, trying to kill people you just met—what kind of monsters do something like that?”

The divine being made a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh and pushed a few loose strands of hair off her face. “You must be the chief science officer,” she said, and stuck out a hand. “Sorry for the accidental attempted murder. I’m Lup.”

Lup.

“I’m,” said Sildar. “Uh.”

This time she really did laugh—a lyrical, full-bodied sound that he felt deep in his chest. “Tell me we didn’t just knock your name outta your head.”

“Oh, no, it’s, uh—” Lup. She looked at him with a smile so resplendent he had to catch his breath all over again. What did she know of Sildar Hallwinter, the Catalyst for the End of All Things, the Second Revelation, the Midnight Prophet for the Last Downfall of Mankind? What did she know of anything beyond all the light she cast in every direction?

“I’m, uh, Barry,” he said. “Barry J. Bluejeans.”

Here are some things Sildar Hallwinter learns about Barry J. Bluejeans:

He has a penchant for getting into character. Maybe that’s more Sildar than Barry, but there’s something so intoxicating about the drama of it all, especially when no one else knows he’s playing a role. Barry is a bit of a thespian, if he does say so himself.

That said, he’s sort of awkward. More of Sildar’s influence. When you’ve spent your whole life preparing to fulfill your divine purpose in the End of All Things, it’s a little hard to adjust to things like game night and brunch.

He’s smart. Really smart. The Fellowship hadn’t really encouraged science—everything else came second to the teachings of the Apocalypse—but not only is Barry-slash-Sildar naturally inclined for it, he actually enjoys it.

He can’t swim. Sildar can, and rather enjoys it, but it’s a little bit of flavor text he can’t resist.

He’s not half bad at making friends.

The crew of the Starblaster were, of course, a means to an end, and he would develop no meaningful relationship with any of them beyond what was necessary to keep up appearances. That was his mandate, at least. But it was hard. Much harder than he’d expected, really. And despite himself, he—Barry—found it all to easy to laugh at the dwarf Merle’s gods-awful jokes and stay up late to hear Captain Davenport recount tales of grandeur. He let himself be roped into more magic-powered “experiments” (in the loosest sense of the word) with the human fighter, Magnus, who actually seemed to enjoy death-defying stunts with the zeal of someone from the Fellowship. He got to know the soft-spoken but brilliant archivist, Lucretia, and her remarkably meticulous transcriptions. On one particularly reckless night, he joined the long-haired elf Taako on a quest to fill a particularly uppity supervisor’s pockets full of pudding.

And as the Appointed Hour approached, Barry found himself spending late nights in the IPRE labs with Lup, testing and recording speculations on arcane theory and downing enough coffee to drive them to hysterics by dawn. They were all a little nervous, a little sad, a little desperate to sort their affairs before takeoff, but Lup tackled new problems with the kind of determination that demanded solutions. She was the most ingenious person Barry had ever met. And when she sat back from an arcane reaction gone wrong, her hairline blackened with soot and grinning like a caffeine-tripped maniac, he thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

This was how it was until the Apocalypse arrived.

Barry woke the morning of with a planet-shattering hangover.

He crawled to the mirror and squinted blearily into the glass; thanks to the IPRE’s constant offerings of complimentary coffee and cake and Taako’s singlehanded banquets, he’d put on weight over the last several months, and he’d started to love the gentle resilience his body had gained. Sildar was clean-shaven and angular, but Barry was soft and stubbly. A few nights before, Lup’s gaze had caught on his chin, and she’d told him how nice he looked with a five o’clock shadow.

He’d thought she was joking, but that was just how she was—kind.

He went to his closet and started to mull over which shirt to wear.

The day was dark and still, the sky an unbroken slate grey, and it was just what the sacred texts had imagined: not a living thing stirred for miles beyond the horizon. Even the grass beneath Barry’s feet, as he followed Davenport to the Starblaster’s gangway, had turned an off-color, metallic shade. They said their goodbyes to the Institute, and to the enormous crowd at starboard, and in the eerie light they all looked like corpses risen from the grave. There was something hanging over their heads that felt nothing like the terrible glory the Fellowship had promised; instead it was unsettled, and sickly, and wrong.

Barry swallowed the knot gathering rapidly in his throat and followed his crew up the gangway. There was but one thing left for him to do now—him, Sildar Hallwinter, the Catalyst for the End of All Things, the Second Revelation, the Midnight Prophet for the Last Downfall of Mankind. And then the Hour would be upon them at last.

He left the others on the bridge and walked to the Bond Engine.

The explosives tucked inside his robe were light, and branded with the sigil of the Fellowship, although no one would be able to tell in the ensuing destruction. It was certain to be localized, of course; they were meant to damage the engine and nothing more. He could never deprive himself—or anyone else, for that matter—the opportunity to witness the Terror as it began its First Assault on the world of the living. No one knew quite what it would look like, or how it would feel, but the Fellowship had promised a beautiful ascendancy for all its members. And now Sildar would seal his fate. He would seal everyone’s fate.

“Barold!”

Sildar fumbled an explosive, and it was almost the last thing he ever did. He whirled around, and there was Taako, waving him over from the bottom of the staircase. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing,” said Barry, faintly. “Why?”

“Cap’n’port wants everybody on the bridge for the launch.” He flapped his arm at the bridge, looming above them against a wall of indiscernible storm clouds. “C’mon!”

“Uh,” Barry said. Suddenly the explosives weighed too heavily in his robe. “In a sec!”

“He means now, Barry! This storm ain’t lookin’ too good!”

No, no, no. Not yet.

But I don’t want—

What does it matter what you want?

Sildar Hallwinter gripped the hem of his pocket.

And Barry Bluejeans whispered a disarming spell, followed by a shrinking charm. Three marbles branded with the sigil of the High Fellowship of the Great Prophecy for the First Revelation rattled in his pocket as he jogged toward Taako and the bridge.

They escaped by the skin of their teeth. Sildar Hallwinter watched his world consumed by a force so uncaring, so unfeeling, that it couldn’t possibly be the Herald of Rebirth for All Things. He watched it rip everything apart—the IPRE headquarters where he’d met his crew, the ice cream parlor he’d braved with Magnus and Lucretia, the farmer’s market where Taako had taught him the difference between parsley and basil, the enormous lake Davenport had taken them sailing on for a weekend, the small garden Merle had kept just outside their dorms.

The horizon, where he’d watched the sun set with Lup.

In the space between planes, Sildar Hallwinter was unmade. And when the threads of his body settled back into place, he caught his breath and thought, Never again.

This was how it was written: Barry J. Bluejeans would save the world.

#mirandatam #ask #the adventure zone #taz balance #ipre #barry bluejeans #fic #mine #GUESS WHO TRIPPED AND WROTE 2.2K #THANKS FOR THIS TRULY INCREDIBLE PROMPT

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