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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 3 years

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Poisoned Veins

Prompts: Hi! Feel free to ignore this, but I'd love it if you could write some sort of Merlin (preferably Merthur) fanfic involving the serket sting and S3 E1/2? Maybe just after Merlin gets back, or after the battle, or something (not too long after the sting, is what I'm saying). Either good or bad Morgana, I don't mind. But lots of nice hurt/comfort with Merlin and Arthur, emphasis on the comfort (I love your fics, especially the relationship between Merlin and Arthur, so...) - anon

May I ask for a Merlin&Arthur fic? I love how you write them together! - anon

Thanks for the prompts babes!

Read on Ao3

Warnings: implied/referenced mind control

Pairings: merthur and mergana, but they can be platonic or romantic you decide

Word Count: 4108

Was it the stupidest thing he’s done all day? Probably not. The stupidest thing he’s done in the last hour?

Most definitely.

But as he stands here, in the vault, deep under stone and soldiers, he faces Morgana and closes his eyes.

Golden light. Then silence.

The pit of his stomach opens up, his power spilling and spilling into the air between them. It burns his eyes, even through his lids, the tips of his fingers tingling with the excess magic. It hurts. It’s the best he’s felt in ages.

He hears Morgana gasp in front of him.

He opens his eyes to see her, powerful in her armor, the staff in one hand, the sword in the other, tears like chainmail glittering on her face. Her mouth is open, torn between what must be fury and shock, as he holds the glow spinning in his hands.

“I understand,” he hears himself say from miles away, “and I’m sorry.”

Is it partly out of spite? To prove her wrong? Maybe. Is it partly because he desperately wants Kilgharrah to be wrong, that they’re not the same, but yes, yes they are? Maybe.

Is it mostly because he helped turn Morgana into this, helped forge the sword the Morgana has become in Morgause’s hand?

Merlin holds his magic there, bared for her to see, as her mouth snarls and spits at him.

The words flash across his vision even as she doesn’t speak them. How could he, he betrayed her, how dare he side with them, what kind of a monster must he be?

They emerge in a wordless yell as she lunges forward, intent on burying her sword into his chest until—

The force of the blast knocks them back, throwing them like rag dolls against unyielding stone. Merlin winces, his body protesting first from the force of the expended magic and then the sharp crack from the wall. He manages to wedge himself upright with his elbow, scanning furiously for the damage done to the rest of the vault.

Fissures run along the length of the ceiling, dust showering as the soldiers upstairs rush back and forth. Somewhere up there are the knights, Leon, Arthur, the others—he should get up, he should see what else he has to do, but—

He looks down, searching for Morgana.

He finds a limp body, a sword flung out of a hand, and a staff that hums with enough dark power to make his stomach churn.

Panic courses through his veins as he scrambles across the floor, palms digging roughly into jagged stone, knees and elbows catching on loose rock. He winces, stumbles, flails, keeps going. He’s already hurt Morgana once, he won’t dare leave her again.

“Morgana,” he mumbles, straining through the clouds of dust, “Morgana—can—can you hear me?”

She’s out cold, lying limply on the floor. He reaches out, grabbing at her chainmail, trying to roll her onto her back, see what the damage is, did she hit something and get knocked unconscious? No blood greets him as her head turns, he can’t feel anything broken, so then what—why—

Something under his hand burns.

He yanks his hand away to see a bracelet, the bracelet Morgause gave her, the bracelet that stayed on as the dead rose around them, flare, splutter, and die.

Morgause…

Morgana gasps awake.

“Easy,” Merlin says before she can sit up too quickly and hurt herself, “easy, easy, Morgana, please, it’s—it’s alright, I’m not going to hurt you—“

“Merlin—Merlin—“ her voice grows shriller in a panic— “Merlin, please you have to listen to me—“

“I’m not going to hurt you, you have to believe me—“

“Merlin, please—“

“It’s alright, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, I wanted to, just please listen to me, we have to stop this—“

“Merlin!”

The note of genuine hysteria gives him pause before he looks up and sees her face. Her face, not that horrible mask that’s been plastered to her since she returned, no, this is Morgana, shining back at him, tears still armor, as real as the hand fisted in his tunic to pull him closer, not push him away.

“…Morgana?”

“Merlin,” she says in a rush, “Merlin, we have to destroy the staff, Morgause is using it to channel my powers, she’s attacking the city, we need to—if we destroy the staff we may still win—“

“Morgana?” Merlin blinks, not wanting to believe it.

“Please, Merlin,” Morgana says, sitting up and taking his tunic in both hands now, “please, I know—I know I’ve been awful to you, I know this is my fault too, but you have to believe me, she’s more powerful than you know, we have to—“

“Are you hurt?” He looks her over, sees the bracelet still on her wrist. He reaches for it.

“What are you doing? We have to stop her!”

“The bracelet,” he says, “take your bracelet off.”

Morgana looks down. Her eyes widen when she sees the jewel in the middle burst open. “It’s—it’s broken…it’s broken…”

And the heart-wrenching look on her face as her mouth twists and she yanks it off is enough to convince Merlin.

“How do we destroy it?”

“I don’t know!” Morgana yanks him to his feet. ‘She said only the High Priestesses and their blood god had ever seen it.”

Merlin winces as the clattering above gets louder. He looks around to see more and more of the dead rising. “Well, we’ve got to try something!”

Morgana’s face twists further as she grips the staff. Her eyes begin to glow.

“Morgause is a High Priestess,” she growls, as the glow intensifies, “and I am her sister.”

She looks to Merlin.

“Help me.”

Merlin’s own magic starts to respond as the staff glows brighter, its own dark magic threatening to swallow the kingdom whole. Morgana’s magic reaches for him as they hold the staff together.

“On three,” she grits through a clenched jaw, “ready?”

Merlin nods, starting to pant with the effort of holding onto the staff. “One…”

“Two…”

“Three!”

The staff shatters.

They stand, frozen, made immobile by the magic surrounding them, as the dead start to fall back to the earth. Merlin’s eyes are fixed open, gazing at the remnants of the ancient tree, bound only by magic now dissipated. Across from him, Morgana’s gaze locks on his and they breathe.

“You have magic,” she whispers after an eternity of silence, “you…you’re like me.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, his hands still outstretched, “I’m sorry.”

A wounded noise escapes them both as they slump to the ground, exhausted by the weight of the magic in the room. All around them, skeletons fall, the castle settles, and the battle rages on. The faintest sound of swords manages to reach them, down here, buried under stone, but for now, they are alone.

Alone in a swirl of magic and the broken promises of destiny.

Merlin drags himself across the floor to curl protectively around Morgana’s shaking form. He can’t let her get hurt now. She’s just broken one of the most powerful enchantments he’s ever seen, let alone felt, there’s no way he’s letting anyone near her. Morgana stirs as he sets himself over her, reaching upwards to grab a fist of his tunic. She tugs him down into a hug, her arms going around him so tightly he winces, before wrapping his own around her.

They’re sorry. They’re so, so sorry.

“I haven’t felt anything in ages,” comes the hoarse whisper, “it felt—It felt as though she banished me behind a sheet of glass, even in my own body.”

“You did it,” he mumbles back, squeezing her tighter, “you broke the enchantment. You did it. She can’t control you anymore.”

“I’m still so angry.” Her chest hitches as she gasps. “I’m so—I’m so angry and I can’t—I can’t tell which anger is mine and which anger is hers.”

The stone echoes in silent judgment as her confession rings in the air around them.

“You don’t have to figure it out right now.” He tightens his grip. “We can just—rest. For a moment.”

“Yes, that sounds nice.” Her voice starts to lilt. “Just…a little…rest…right here.”

“The others can—they’ll be fine.”

“Yes, yes, quite.”

Merlin’s eyes start to droop as his body finally gets to sag in relief. He winces.

“Merlin?” Morgana stirs under him. “Are you—did I hurt you?”

He shakes his head. “No, no, I just…I think I need to sleep, now…”

Kilgharrah’s warning about the cure returns. It will work, but not quickly.

And he just burnt up a lot of his energy.

He curses softly under his breath and Morgana sits up quickly, pulling him against the wall as they lean together.

“Merlin, Merlin? Merlin, talk to me,” she says as she scrambles to make sure his tunic and neck kerchief aren’t making it hard for him to breathe, “stay—stay with me.”

“I’m—I’m sorry…”

“It’s alright, Merlin, I hurt you too, I’m not angry at you, just—well, alright,” she yields when he manages to give her a look, “maybe a little, but not like that, just—stay awake, what’s wrong?”

He swallows roughly. “The Serket sting,” he manages through a dry throat, “it—I’m still not strong enough to fully…fully heal yet. I think—I think I pushed too hard.”

“Oh, Merlin,” she says, the perfect balance between chiding and fond, “you always push yourself too hard.”

“Easy for you to say,” he mumbles back, “you’re…you’re as close to an overachiever as they come.”

“Am not!”

“Are too.”

Their laughs are too tired to be convincing, cut off by an awful churn in Merlin’s stomach. The familiar pain of the poison swirls at the base of his spine.

“Shh, shh,” Morgana says frantically, pressing a glowing hand to his stomach, “I can—I had Morgause teach me some healing, I can try to hold it at bay while we find Gaius—“

“I’ll be fine,” he says, feeling the familiar wash of magic through his veins, “I’ll be fine, you…you save your strength. We’ve got some explaining to do when this is all over.”

Indeed, above them, the sounds of battle are slowly quieting.

Morgana laughs shakily. “And you best believe you’re going to be right there with me,” she warns, “you’re not getting out of it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says as his eyes start to drift closed, “but you…you can’t burn yourself out either.”

“So let’s both stay awake,” she says firmly, her arms still wrapped around him, “we’ll…we can just rest, right here, and then…then we’ll tell them.”

“Stay with me, then,” Merlin mumbles, reaching to wrap his arms more tightly around her, “don’t try and run off as soon as I pass out.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

There they stay, Morgana’s nose pressed into the crook of Merlin’s neck, Merlin’s hand buried at the base of Morgana’s braid, curled up, safe and exhausted next to the shattered staff.

There Arthur finds them, tearing frantically through the citadel, shouting for Merlin, for Morgana, for anyone who’s seen them.

They look up when he comes in, fear giving way to relief as a jibe rises to the tip of his tongue. Something cheap about the two of them sneaking off, or feigned disgust or outrage at finding them in such a compromising position. But then he catches sight of their tear-stained faces and the carnage around them and they can see him putting the pieces together.

“Merlin,” he finally says after a long moment, “Morgana, you’re both—you’re both safe.”

“Arthur?” Morgana props herself up a little. “Arthur, are you—“

“I’m alright,” he says, “the battle’s over.”

“Arthur.” Merlin tries to sit up too but neither he nor Morgana can make it. “Arthur—“

“Oh, alright,” Arthur sighs like he’s also not desperate to pick his way through the rubble toward them, “I’m coming.”

Still, he can’t disguise the look of relief on his face as he sits next to them, Morgana immediately pulling herself up to throw an arm around his neck.

“Alright, alright,” he mumbles like he’s not the most relieved prince in the world, “I’m here, I’m alright. Are you safe?”

“I’m safe now,” she says, “we destroyed the staff, we stopped the magic.”

Arthur looks around. “So you did. Well done.”

One of Morgana’s hands is still clutching Merlin’s tunic, dragging him closer to Arthur as she hugs him. Arthur raises an eyebrow as he notes this, looking to Merlin to make a joke only for it to die as he takes in what Merlin can only assume is his pale, sweaty, exhausted face.

“Are you alright?” He reaches for Merlin’s arm. “Are you hurt?”

Merlin thinks about shaking his head.

“Destroying the staff wasn’t easy,” he decides after a moment, which is true, “the magic…took a lot out of us. Both of us.” Which is also true.

“Merlin got hurt with a poison,” Morgana adds, shooting him a look that only he can tell is guilty, “he’s fighting it off still.”

“I’ve gotten the cure,” Merlin says before Arthur can indignantly rush them both upstairs, “it’s just…taking a while.”

Arthur’s gaze softens and he tugs Merlin a little closer.

“Is that why you’re still here,” he asks the both of them, “is it just…taking a while?”

They nod.

“Then let’s get you somewhere safe,” he says, starting to stand, “the battle is over. The citadel is safe.”

Morgana’s eyes flick to Merlin’s.

“Cenred and Morgause,” Merlin says, “are they gone?”

“Fled, it looks like,” Arthur says as they stand, “probably back to their own kingdoms.”

Morgana’s shoulders slump. “Thank goodness.”

“I’ll check to see what the easiest way back is.” Arthur walks toward the door. “Just wait here a moment.”

As soon as he disappears, Morgana looks down. Merlin follows her gaze to see the bracelet there, at their feet. He squeezes Morgana’s hand.

“Áce wele!”

The bracelet explodes into shards of metal as Morgana spits the spell. Arthur returns to see them still standing there, clutching each other.

“Is a side effect of the spell that you can’t let go,” he jokes, coming back to lead them out of the vault, “or is it just you two?”

When neither of them responds, he ushers them to Gaius without further comment.

Merlin nods when Gaius gives him a strange look, motioning to wait until Arthur is outside, standing guard.

“I’m sorry,” both Morgana and Merlin say at the same time, before Morgana clears her throat, “I’m sorry, Gaius, for everything. I didn’t know—Morgause—the bracelet—I know that doesn’t make up for everything but—“

“It’s quite alright, Morgana,” Gaius says, “I am not blameless either. And I am sorry.”

She accepts it with a quick jerk of her head. “I’m still angry. But until I know which of the anger is mine and which is hers, I’m…I can’t…”

She rolls her shoulders back.

“You have nothing to fear from me.”

Gaius bows his head humbly. “And you shall find no more loyal a servant.”

Morgana glances to Merlin and mouths except for you.

Merlin blushes.

Gaius shoos him out to tend to the last of Morgana’s wounds and to make a potion to clear the last of the magic from her, leaving Merlin stumbling into the corridor and running straight into Arthur’s arms.

“There you are,” he says softly, helping Merlin stand, “has Gaius told you you’re alright?”

“He said there’s nothing else for me to do but rest,” Merlin manages, before remembering that he needs to tend to Arthur, “but I can—I’ll help you first.”

Arthur just hums and starts walking them back to his chambers. They pass others, tending to wounds, hugging their loved ones, until they push open the doors to Arthur’s rooms and Merlin’s shoulders slump. His fingers fumble a few too many times for it to be considered efficient, but before long Arthur is free of his armor and Merlin all but collapses onto the table, having struggled to hang the last of it up.

“Will there be anything else, sire?”

Please, no. Let me rest.

“Yes, actually, Merlin, come here.”

He winces, pulls himself together and turns, ready to answer whatever Arthur’s going to have him do next, only to frown. In the time it took him to get Arthur’s armor cleared away, Arthur’s filled a small basin with water and set it on a table next to the bed. He opens his mouth to ask what Arthur wants when Arthur beckons him closer.

“Arthur, what—“

“Sit, Merlin,” Arthur says in the soft voice from the vault, taking him gently by the arm and guiding him to the bed, “there. I’m going to clean you off.”

“What? I’m fine!”

“You’re not,” Arthur corrects, still speaking in the voice that is making it very hard for Merlin to stay awake, “now hush and raise your arms.”

“Why?”

“Your tunic is filthy.” Arthur gives the material a tug. “And I need to see where you’re hurt.”

“‘M not hurt.”

“Morgana said you were poisoned. That means you’re hurt. Where did they get you?”

“…back.”

“On your back? Alright. Let’s go ahead and get this off you…”

Arthur’s hands are steady as he guides the tunic up and over Merlin’s head, followed by a sharp inhale as he sees the bruises from the chains.

“…Merlin, this looks like you were tortured.” Merlin can’t do anything but blink up at him. “You said the poison was on your back?”

Merlin nods.

“Here, I’m going to lean you forward, you just lean against me, alright?”

Arthur’s hand cups Merlin’s head, pulling him forward until he rests against Arthur’s chest. He loses himself in the slow card of fingers through his hair as Arthur leans over him to check where the poison must’ve been. When he feels a warm hand run over the still-tender wound, he winces.

Arthur stills. “Here?”

Merlin nods. “Two—two—wait, how long has it been since I got back?”

Arthur is quiet for a moment. Then he pulls away, hushing the embarrassing noise of protest that comes from Merlin’s throat.

“I’m not going far, just right here.” He takes a cloth and dips it in the water. “Let me clean your face.”

A warm hand slots itself under Merlin’s chin and lifts. A moment later, there’s a cool cloth on his face, stroking along his cheeks, over his forehead. Arthur asks him to close his eyes and the cloth sweeps gently, so gently over his closed eyes, getting away the salt and the dirt and the last of the tears.

“Shh,” Arthur soothes when Merlin lets out a pained noise, “it’s alright. I’m not hurt, you’ll be alright, I’m right here.”

“‘Rthur—“

The cloth leaves, dropped back onto the table as Arthur cradles his head in his hands. “You’re exhausted, Merlin, but I need you to open your eyes for me.”

For Arthur. He can do it for Arthur.

Arthur smiles encouragingly as he meets his gaze, kneeling by the bed so Merlin won’t strain his neck. He ruffles Merlin’s hair.

“There you are,” he murmurs, “now show me where it hurts.”

“Hurts?”

“You don’t have a fever, I checked, but you’re still in pain. I need you to show me.”

“I, um…”

“Hey,” Arthur calls, standing again to tuck Merlin into his arms, “you don’t have to be embarrassed, not with me, I’m here to look after you, it’s alright.”

“It—the magic—it—from the—“ Merlin swallows— “the magic from the staff and the poison, it—it hurt.”

Arthur makes a sympathetic noise, reaching for the cloth again. “Took a lot out of you, hmm?”

Merlin nods miserably, only to yelp in surprise when Arthur tilts him back, held with one arm around his back and the other pressing the cool cloth just below his chest.

“I’ve got you,” he says quietly when Merlin lets out another confused noise, pressing the cloth into the hollow of his ribcage, “just lay back and trust me, alright?”

Arthur props himself up on the bed, Merlin almost dipped in his arms as he holds the cloth still. The cool water almost feels like it’s drawing some of the pain out of him, making him sag into Arthur’s arms.

“Shh, that’s it, just a little longer.” Arthur turns the cloth so the cool side stays against Merlin. “Does that feel good?”

Merlin nods. His head lolls against Arthur’s shoulder, his eyes threatening to close. They blink open once Arthur starts talking again.

“You were dying,” he says quietly, looking at Merlin, “when you were gone those two days, weren’t you?”

Merlin nods.

“Oh, Merlin, I’m sorry.” His thumb rubs a soothing circle into his side. “No one will touch you again, I won’t let them.”

Something in Arthur’s voice makes him want to melt, stay here, safe in the crook of Arthur’s arms, but he can’t. If Arthur notices the way he rouses himself again, he doesn’t comment. Instead, he just turns the cloth over again.

“Something happened down there,” he says softly, “between you and Morgana, didn’t it?”

Merlin tenses.

“Not like that, Merlin,” Arthur chuckles, “but something happened when you broke the staff, didn’t it?”

He nods hesitantly. Arthur rolls his eyes.

“I do pay attention. I know what Morgana’s like. You two were practically inseparable when I first arrived.” The arm holding Merlin gives him a little squeeze. “You don’t have to tell me what it is, just…tell me, will you two be alright?”

He nods again. He’s sure of that.

“Good,” Arthur murmurs, setting the cloth aside. Merlin tries to sit up only for Arthur’s arm to hold him steady. “No, no, you stay. Here…there you go.”

Merlin blinks, a little confused when Arthur lays him tenderly out onto the bed. He props himself up on his elbows as Arthur bustles to the wardrobe, fetching a nightshirt for Merlin and helping him into it.

“What—“

“You’re exhausted, Merlin,” he says like that explains everything, “stay here tonight. Sleep.”

“I can’t do that, you—ah!“

“Shh, shh, hey, easy,” Arthur soothes, wrapping his arms around Merlin as he doubles over, a hand pressed hard to his chest.

Merlin bites back a whimper as another bolt of pain shoots through his chest. Damn Serket poison. Dimly, he realizes Arthur’s right. There’s no way he’s going to be able to make it back to Gaius and explain what’s going on.

Then he realizes as he’s been dealing with this, Arthur’s moved him.

He’s tucked up under the prince’s blankets, a pillow under his head, his boots and rough trousers removed. Next to him, Arthur reaches out to cradle him against his chest, rubbing soothing circles into his back. He lets out another mewl as Arthur gentles away the pain in his shoulders. There’s a warm hand under his chin, guiding it up. Arthur tilts his head and chucks Merlin lightly.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

Oh.

Arthur’s worried.

“It hurts,” he manages, “it just—it hurts.”

Arthur makes a sympathetic noise, pulling him closer and tucking his head under his chin. He rolls them, Merlin on top, his knees coming up to bracket Merlin’s body as he strokes a warm hand up and down Merlin’s back.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, Merlin’s head safely in the crook of his neck, “it’s over now.”

“It’s over?”

“Yes, sweetheart, you’re safe. I’m right here.” Arthur cuddles him closer. “The battle is over. Camelot is safe. Morgana is safe. I’m safe.”

He cups the back of Merlin’s head and brings his mouth to his ear.

“You can rest now, sweetheart. Just go to sleep,” he whispers, “go on…”

Arthur is here. Arthur is solid and holds him firmly. Arthur is big and warm and soft and Merlin is so, so, tired.

Rest, young warlock, he thinks he hears as he drifts off, and well done.

#merthur #merlin #merlin bbc #bbc merlin #arthur pendragon #morgana pendragon #dragonbabbles #fic

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ufuckingpastry · 3 years

Text

Amongst Feathers and Emeralds

AO3 Link

Chapter 1

Content Warning: Trauma/Dealing with Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Hallucinations, Derealization, PTSD, Referenced Suicide Attempt, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm

This fic is based on the characters in the DreamSMP, not the content creators. Any views expressed in this fic are not a reflection of the content creators in any shape or form.

Note: I do use terms in this that are meant replace terms used in the Homestuck quadrant system with words that would fit in the Dream SMP universe. See the relationship note below.

Relationships:

Chapter 2: In the Place We Call Our Own

The ghost returned.

Technoblade saw it out of the corner of his eyes most days now. Wisping around like disturbed mist, just out of reach, just within sight. It left a permanent tension in his shoulders, a paranoid glance around every so often, and a hyperawareness that still left him jumping at the slightest unexpected touch. After the third time Technoblade jumped that morning, Phil grabbed his shoulder and turned him around purposely. Technoblade's eyes skittered away, unable to look at his friend's worried gaze.

"Techno," Phil started, his hand sliding down to hold his. "Are you okay? You've been… off ever since the incident." The incident. It's what Phil started to call his hallucination of Tommy. Phil avoided talking about it, like it was a curse. Like some terrible disease he wanted to let rot someone else's soul. Technoblade squeezed his hand and heaved out a sigh.

“I’m alright. I…” he trailed off, holding the words back on his tongue. He had promised not to keep things from Phil and he knew what keeping him out of the loop did to him. And yet… And yet he felt like he couldn’t. He couldn’t tell Phil why. He couldn’t tell him the things he saw. The things he saw in the waking world and in dreaming nightmares.

What could Phil even do to help? Phil slept with him most nights now, his feathers a comforting weight on his side. Even though he knew why Phil slept with him, why he followed him into every room he could, and waited outside the door of others. Phil didn’t trust him to be alone. Not anymore. Not after so many incidents where he put himself into harm’s way. He didn’t even seem to trust Ranboo to be the only person to stay with him. Phil trusted Ranboo, of course he did. But what if Ranboo couldn’t stop Technoblade? What if Technoblade was so blinded with his hurts and his anger at the thing that made him this way that he hurt Ranboo without remorse. What then?

So Technoblade kept silent. It pained him. It made his chest ache to do so, but he saw no other choice. And, eventually, Phil stopped asking. And that.

That hurt worse.

Days passed after the incident, but Technoblade didn’t have another hallucination like the Tommy incident. Perhaps it was because he threw himself into his work, into helping Phil with anything he needed. Technoblade wanted to prove to him, prove to Phil that he was okay. That he was getting better. Prove to Phil that he didn’t need to glance his way and worry himself sick. Because he knew that’s what Phil was doing. Even when he wasn’t looking, Technoblade still knew Phil worried. It wasn't something he could stop easily, no matter what he tried to do.

And then, eventually, he did start to feel… better. To a degree. He was doing better. He hadn’t had as many nightmares, hadn’t been caught with another hallucination, hadn’t had any problems that Phil could see. And slowly, Phil seemed to stop worrying so hard. Phil left him alone more often, let him out of his sight for longer and longer periods of time. Phil seemed to think he was getting better too. It was going to be okay.

It would be okay.

Even if Technoblade had to pretend that it was okay for Phil to stop looking at him like that, it would be

okay.

A few weeks later, and Technoblade was no longer sure it was going to be okay. It had been… rough. Somehow. Somehow he had fallen back into the mess of his mind. The ghost was back, even if he couldn’t see its form, he could feel its eyes watching him. He stuck closer to Phil, but he had been doing well. And Phil felt like he could trust him enough for the next step forward.

“Do you really have to leave?” Technoblade asked as Philza opened the door. He looked back to Techno, the expression reading regret and worry. Technoblade wanted to bury himself in Phil’s arms, beg him to stay, plead that he never left for any reason. But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t do that to Phil. He was already grounded; Technoblade didn’t want to lock him in a cage too. Some of his feelings must have shown on his face because Phil stepped forward and pulled him up against his arms. Technoblade fell into his arms, embracing his best friend tightly. He could feel the brush of wings as they encircled them. There was safety in these wings; he knew that deep in his soul. Tension seeped out of his shoulders as Phil pressed his forehead to Technoblade’s. His voice was soft when he spoke again.

“I have to, mate. I won’t be gone for very long. It’ll take a few days, but I’ll try to come back sooner.” He squeezed Technoblade, inhaling a breath that felt far too shaky. They parted after a moment, both hesitant to let go first. Phil’s wings folded on his back, but his hand came up to cup Technoblade’s cheek. “I promise I’ll come back, Techno. I’ll always come back to you.” Technoblade leaned into the touch and sighed. He touched Phil’s arm, and closed his eyes, memorizing the feeling of his hand on his cheek. Phil breathed out and rubbed his thumb on his cheek.

When Philza left, Technoblade leaned back on his hooves and blinked away the wetness in his eyes. He was not going to cry less than a minute after Phil left. He had spent far too much time in the last month on crying, hidden, locked away where Phil couldn't, wouldn't see. Any more felt like overkill at this point. He lifted his lip up around one of his tusks, finding a point in middle distance to unfocus on. He should be better by now. It had been a month since he had been with the egg. A month! Phil said the corruption disappeared from his face a few days into his recovery, though he could still feel the scars where they burrowed into his flesh. He hadn’t been back to L’Manberg since. If they needed anything from there, Ranboo usually came back with it. Phil hadn’t left either, but now he needed to. He was moving more of his stuff over from one of his secret bases. For him to be gone for a few days meant the base must be far. Technoblade could handle a few days without Phil. Just a few days… alone…

That thought, imagining being alone for a few days, sent panic crawling up his spine. His mouth dried, his heart thrummed, and the scars in his face ached. His breath quickened and he could almost hear the voice in the back of his head, hear the egg’s whispers, praising him for returning back to it, and, and, and

Technoblade squeezed his fists together until they shook. He resolutely turned his back on the growing panic. He would… he would… Potions. They needed more potions. He could make more potions and it would be fine.

Technoblade poured over his books, collecting supplies and more stands and brewing them until his breathing slowed and the voices in his head were quiet enough he could pretend they didn’t exist. He put the potions away slowly, breathing in and out in time with his movements. Once they were put away, he settled down by the fireplace, focusing on keeping the fire alive. How was he going to survive a few days without Phil if the thought alone sent him into a panic? Technoblade dropped his head into his hands. Why wasn’t he better already? It had been a month! Why wasn’t he better!

He growled and pushed to his feet and began to pace to burn off the sudden burst of aggression. Brewing had taken most of the day and the night was creeping in. He was not afraid of the dark, nor of what spawned in the dark. But being alone in the dark, trying to sleep without the knowledge Phil was nearby…

Well. Technoblade breathed out as he slowed to a stop. It wouldn’t be the first time he went without sleep and, no matter how hard Phil tried to prevent it, it wouldn’t be the last. Steve growled softly, lifting his head to stare at the piglin. Technoblade stepped over and pressed his face into Steve’s fur, trying to block out the rest of the world.

It worked for a few hours, until a knock on the door startled him upright, his sword already drawn out of habit. He pushed the door slowly, weapon ready to defend, but he paused when there came a chirp. Technoblade lowered the sword with an exasperated sigh.

“Ranboo, you nearly scared me half to death. What are you doing out this late?” Technoblade asked, stepping back so Ranboo could walk in. Which. He did not do. “Uh? Ranboo?” Technoblade ducked into the doorframe, leaning out so he could get a better look at—oh.

Ranboo tilted his head at Technoblade, the unfocused and glazed over look giving away the enderwalk immediately. He chirped again, then set the grass block he’d been holding down in front of the door. Technoblade followed the motion with his eyes, then slowly brought them up to look at Ranboo some more. The kid was just standing there, smiling. It would’ve been creepy if Technoblade didn’t know him. Actually, scratch that. The enderwalk thing was creepy still, but…

“Maybe I should come with you. To make sure you don’t get into any trouble," Technoblade said carefully, measuring out his words so it didn't sound like he cared thaaaat much.

Ranboo vwooped and turned away. He walked down the steps as Technoblade hurried to grab some warmer layers to put on top of his armor. He chased Ranboo down, who was busy digging up another grass block. Technoblade fell into step with him, watching him as he walked. It was. Calming. Soothing to just be with someone. Phil and him would do that a lot, just exist with each other. Ranboo and him hadn’t ever just existed with each other, not like this. They didn’t stray too far from the house; just walked around the property. Technoblade eyed the mobs outside the fence and walked in a way that would protect Ranboo from any stray arrows. The kid wasn’t wearing any armor. Hell, he wasn’t even wearing the winter cloak he made for him.

Technoblade chewed his lip. He might just. Go back in and get it for him. But no, he didn’t know Ranboo’s house well enough to know where he would put it and he didn’t want to go rummaging around in his chests. He knew well enough how that felt. A memory came to him unbidden, of finding Tommy underneath his house, finding him stealing his golden apples and gold and-

Ranboo vwooped. The sound pulled Technoblade out of his thoughts. He turned to face the half-enderman. His eyes studied Ranboo as he studied him back. Whenever Ranboo did this… enderwalking thing… his eyes never stayed focused. There was a purple tint to his eyes. It made the red eye look even deeper, even darker, more like blood than rubies. On the other hand, the purple tint muddled the green. Turned it to dirt, to mud. It sent a twitch to Technoblade’s hand to wipe it clean, to bring his friend back to the emerald he was used to.

But now, almost as if Ranboo knew his thoughts, knew the dark places he lingered in, the line he toed between light and a dark, bottomless pit of his worst fears, the half-enderman stared at him. Locked eyes, even though Ranboo normally looked a little to the left of him. Technoblade felt pinned by the gaze, by the silent stare of his friend who was not quite there. The hint of purple still darkened his eyes.

Ranboo was the first to look away, not that Techno felt he could even try on his own. He set down the grass block he had been carrying. Technoblade hrmed at that. Hopefully, the snow would cover it soon. It was such a stark contrast to the rest of the property and he wondered if Ranboo had done it on purpose.

“Bruh,” he complained. “Think of my property value.” Ranboo only chirped in response. The piglin sighed and went to dig it back up, but Ranboo was walking away. Another grass block appeared in his hand. Technoblade would have thought by magic, if not for the convenient hole in the ground. “Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuh.” He hurried after Ranboo, falling into step with him. He could fix it tomorrow. Right now, keeping an eye on Ranboo was more important. Technoblade glanced up at the stars, huffing out a cold breath. He had never really looked at the stars before, not past when he was trying to find his way around. The living GPS, that was him. For sure.

But… after his time trapped underground…

“Did,” he started quietly, more thoughtful than actually asking a question. “Did you know the first time I saw the stars, I thought it was glowstone? I thought, if I could tower high enough, I’d be able to reach them? Touch them. Mine them out. Do you see that one? I wanted to take that one home with me. I even made a lantern for it.” Techno laughed quietly to himself. His gaze lowered to the snow with a sigh. “Phil taught me what they were. He laughed at me when I asked if he’d help me mine out the star. I cried for a week when he told me we’d never reach them. But he did make me this.” Technoblade showed Ranboo his hand, pointing out an old, worn ring. It was made of glowstone, of nether gold, and hardened with quartz. Ranboo tilted his head. It would have looked like he was listening, if Technoblade didn’t know better.

“He told me it was blessed by the stars. I was young then. Er, younger. I believed him. Of course, I did. He had never lied to me. What else was I going to do? I found out, later, that he had made up the story for me. To comfort me. I. I never blamed him for it. It was a comfort. It is a comfort. And, unlike the stars, it will never stop glowing.” Technoblade smiled fondly at the memory. Next to him, Ranboo chirred. It sounded almost like encouragement, to keep going. It felt easier to talk now. Perhaps it was because he knew Ranboo wouldn’t remember this in the morning. If that made him a bad person, for taking advantage of his friend in this way… Well, he had committed worse crimes.

And so, he told him. Finding the words was hard. It was infinitely hard. The burden he carried felt heavier by the minute, with every word he spoke into existence. Technoblade told Ranboo about when Bad and Antfrost trapped him with the egg. He told him about the way it wrapped its vines around his skull, around his throat. How it buried inside him and gripped his heart. He told him about the ghost he saw, the ghost he still saw everywhere. The ghost of the egg haunting him, beckoning him back, encouraging him to leave this place, his home, and return to it.

“And for what? Power?” He laughed bitterly, slapping a hand to his head. “What do I lack in power? Phil and I destroyed nations. We were young; we felt ageless! I mean, have you seen our sparring room? He and I have cracked enough scars in the world I’m surprised it’s still standing! I still have enough withers to wipe out everything! We blew up an entire country to bedrock! What power do I still lack!” His laughter faded, his smile morphing into a frown. Technoblade stared down at his hand. He closed it into a fist, opened it, and closed it, and opened it again. His hands were cold. His body, warm as it usually was, felt cold. He should go inside. He should go rest with Steve. Phil would worry if he stayed out so late.

Chilled hands rested on his and he startled to see Ranboo touching him. He looked up, checking his eyes. They were too far from the torchlight. Still within the fences, but the darkness made it hard to tell if he was still affected by the enderwalk. But Ranboo chirped, vwooping in Ender. Technoblade relaxed. He still hadn’t woken yet. He didn’t know if he could continue this conversation if Ranboo was awake. Ranboo squeezed his hands, a gentle rumble emanating from him. Speaking was still hard, but he tried.

“I don’t… I didn’t remember what happened, not exactly. I feel like…” He bit his lip and looked away. He hadn’t admitted this to anyone, not even to himself. But, with Ranboo here, with Ranboo listening (sort of), it felt easier to admit. Somehow. “I feel like I lost myself in there. Like, there’s still a piece of me that was eaten away and still lives in that pit. It feels like, sometimes. Sometimes I’ll close my eyes and I’ll be there. I’ll be back there. It,” his breath hitched and he squeezed Ranboo’s hands. He would not cry. He would not. He was supposed to be getting better. He was supposed to be better. “This, all of this. Being back home, being saved, it doesn’t, it—”

Technoblade cut himself off, worried now. Worried for the first time that if he spoke his thoughts, then he would speak it into existence. He worried that this reality, where Phil was real and here and not a ghost that would fade the second he touched him—that it would vanish. That it would all vanish and he would be back there. Back above the egg, back with it reaching into his skull until he wished for his death or joined them. Ranboo chirred, seeming to encourage him to speak again.

“It doesn’t feel real, Ranboo. I’m. I’m… afraid,” he whispered. “I’m afraid one day I’ll close my eyes and when I open them again, I’ll never have left. I’m. I’m so afraid, Ranboo.” Technoblade pressed his head onto Ranboo’s hands, his breath shaking with his fears. He felt raw, hollowed out. His vulnerabilities on display to someone he never thought he’d trust with this kind of information. Someone he wouldn’t, in normal circumstances. But it was fine. Ranboo wasn’t awake anyways. He wouldn’t—

“Techno,” came Ranboo’s whispered voice. Technoblade’s head snapped up, his fear plastered over his face. He couldn’t see… They were too far from the torchlight; he couldn’t see if Ranboo had woken, but—

“Techno,” Ranboo called again. His voice was gentle, sympathetic, understanding. “I know how you feel. At least, to an extent. I’ve had times where I didn’t feel real. Where I heard a voice in my head and it told me such terrible things. And I know it’s not the same as you, not quite. But, if you want it, I could try to help.”

“You’re… awake.”

“Yeah,” Ranboo said. His head tilted down, looking away at the admittance.

“How… how long? How much did you hear?”

“I woke up when you were talking about the stars?”

“Bruh. Why?”

“Because you need to talk about this stuff. I know it’s hard. I know it hurts. But, Techno. Techno, it’s not going to get better if you don’t talk about it. It won’t. Trust me.” Technoblade looked at him, tried to see through the dark. But even then, he felt… he felt like he could trust Ranboo. Ranboo, who had never truly done him any harm. Ranboo, who took the time to make and enchant a netherite pickaxe for him when he had lost his. Ranboo, who came with him on trips, joking around, there for him at his back. Ranboo, who had found him when he was going back to the egg, who had stood his ground to make sure he was safe, even at the risk of his own self.

“Techno, you also need to talk to Phil about this. He’s worried sick about you and… We didn’t know what happened to you either. You disappeared one day and he couldn’t reach you. And the next time we see you, it’s Dream bringing you back. You need to talk to Phil.”

“But, I… it’s…” he couldn’t bring himself to admit it again. Not when he knew Ranboo was awake. He dropped to the ground, his shoulders slumping forward. He was cold and exhausted and… He was so tired. He still felt raw and seen. It wasn’t doing anything good for his breath. He thought about telling Phil, opening up to him about this and not knowing how he would react. He could probably trust that Phil wouldn’t think any less of him for this, but what if he did? What if he did think of him as weak for not being okay? For having fallen so far with the egg’s vines buried so deep in him?

Ranboo followed him down, holding onto his hands. Then, with a gentle sigh, he removed his hands. Technoblade twitched, simultaneously wanting to chase after those hands or bury his hands in the snow until he stopped feeling anything. He didn’t suffer for long before Ranboo set a grass block in his lap. Silently, he took Technoblade’s hands and rested them on top of the grass, urging him to start touching it. Trusting him, he did. It… it felt nice. Tough and coarse, enough to survive the cold climate. It wasn’t enough to slow his breathing, but it. It was grounding. Sort of.

Then, Ranboo took his hands off the block and brought them to his cheeks. He chirped, urging him to touch his skin. Technoblade rubbed his thumb over the tear scars and he felt something in his chest break. It was dark, too dark without the torchlight. Tears dripped down Technoblade’s face as he felt the physical manifestation of the hurt Ranboo felt. He choked on a sob as Ranboo chirred encouragingly at him.

It felt like far too soon before Ranboo was encouraging him to his feet. They were both cold and exhausted and Ranboo promised he’d stay the night, to keep an eye on him. Technoblade laughed, both bitter and grateful of the parallel that he had followed Ranboo out into the night for the very same reason. They talked on the way in, talked as Techno tried to warm them both by making tea. Ranboo accepted a mug, but he didn’t drink, citing that it would burn him if he drank it.

“But thanks,” Ranboo said, wrapping his long fingers around the mug. “Speaking of… all of that, uh. Do you mind if I ask a question?”

“Shoot,” Technoblade said as he settled back against Steve. He had a blanket covering his lower body. He was focused on tracing the knitted symbol as Ranboo spoke.

“Do you have a… oh what’s the word, it’s, uh.” Ranboo frowned, then buzzed something in Ender. Technoblade recognized the word. He hunched his shoulders and looked away, his face heating up.

“The translation is ‘starfate’,” he started. “And, uh, Phil?”

“Okay, good." Ranboo rubbed his fingers on the mug, adjusting his grip. Suddenly, he jerked upright. "Oh, wait, did I cross a line with having you touch my face? That’s a thing for endermen starfates, but, uh. I don’t know how it works for piglin and I only meant to help you calm down. It’s not like I was flirting—”

“No, no, it’s. It’s alright Ranboo. I needed that and it helped. Thank you.” Technoblade breathed in. “Besides, it’s, we’re not… We’re not official yet.”

“You’re not… what.”

“He doesn’t know.”

“What.”

“I haven’t brought it up yet.”

“You haven’t brought up… Techno, I thought you two were! And you’re telling me you’re not? You act like it!”

“Well, you know, it’s not really a… thing for humans really.”

“Phil is the furthest thing from a human, besides the two of us. And half the server… But, seriously? How long has it been that you’ve felt like this? And not brought it up.”

“Uh…”

“Bruh.”

“A decade or so?”

“Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuuh.”

---

Talking with Ranboo helped. It was a strange thing to realize, but realize he did. Not with the dawning day, not with Ranboo’s cheerful smile and mischievous grins, and not even after the terrible nightmares that still plagued him in the darkness and the silence. Rather, Technoblade realized it when he was laying in bed, woken up before the sun peeked over the horizon. He realized it with a breath: an inhale and an exhale and suddenly, there it was. Talking about it helped more than he really understood.

Ranboo had offered to help him deal with the… Technoblade didn’t want to call it trauma, but… yeah. That thing with the egg and its effects after. Ranboo gave him a memory book, a journal of his own to record when the world grew fuzzy and the ghost reappeared at his side. The book was bound in textured leather, something he could run his fingers on and ground himself on. And it was strange. The first day he used it, he saw the ghost flickering in from behind his eyelids. He felt its touch on his arm, gentle, guiding, piercing, urging him to return. And he reached for the book with impossibly heavy arms and just… touched it.

Technoblade touched the book until the ghost shimmered away. He didn’t always write in the book, even though that was the original intention. Rather, he drew it in. Sometimes squiggles he would connect and fill in, sometimes lines so close together they made dark, noisy blocks across the page. And sometimes he did write. He wrote the things he saw, the things he continued to see. And, in a way that surprised him, it helped. At the thought of sharing these words with anyone, even with Phil, his hands shook and his heart twisted up in fear.

One day, while they were panting in the snow after a long sparring session, Technoblade brought up that fear. He didn’t admit it was a fear, but he could tell Ranboo understood.

“Yeah, I mean, that’s why I don’t let you guys read my memory books,” Ranboo had said, his gaze trained on the spaces between his fingers as he held them to the sky. “There’s… things in there I don’t want you to know about, things that make my hands shake at the thought of you or anyone reading them. Is it healthy? Heck if I know. Heck if I even care.”

Technoblade had snorted and they agreed. What was written in the memory books stayed in the memory books. And, if they wanted to share it, then that was fine too.

The third day Phil was gone, Technoblade took Ranboo out onto the tundra, tridents in hands and enderpearls aplenty. He showed Ranboo how to trident and pearl, something Phil showed him a long, long time ago. And it was fun! It was the first time Technoblade could remember smiling and laughing, especially whenever the enderman failed the launch and landed square on his ass. It was after a particularly hard landing that Ranboo straightened and tilted his head.

“What’s up?” Technoblade asked, holding out a hand.

“Uh, Tubbo’s calling me,” Ranboo said. He took the offered hand and stood up with Technoblade’s help. “One sec.” He stepped aside so he could talk to Tubbo in relative privacy. Technoblade stuck his trident into the snow and leaned on it, scanning the horizon. A figure in the distance caught his eye. He peered at it, tilted his head. It looked too far for him to really tell what it was. But then it twitched. And twitched again. And it turned its head.

Technoblade’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes wide as he started at the ghost. For that’s what it was: the Egg’s ghost. But this was different. This was real. It was not a wispy thing, like smoke and haze. It was a body. Twitching so loud in his ears he could hear the bones cracking and snapping. Heavy blobs of flesh fell apart, rivulets of blood dripping off the red flesh, and its body twisted and rippled like worms, like maggots feasting upon a corpse.

“Techno?” came Ranboo’s voice, a whisper in his ears, too far away, too distant, too much like smoke. The ghost twisted towards him, a shaking step forward, another stuttering, twitching, unnatural step forward. Then the ghost was bolting for him. It broke out into a run, faster than light, faster than sound, faster than he could pull his trident out of the ground and stab it in the—

Technoblade startled when hands touched his face. Cold, cool hands, rough and worn and scratched from landing in too many berry bushes touched his overheated cheeks, touched his shaking face, touched and turned his gaze from

from

From things not real.

Technoblade reached for his book and rubbed his hand on it, panting as he tried to ground himself. Ranboo’s voice came back to him, clear as day, checking over him.

“Techno, Techno, are you okay? You’re here, you’re real. Whatever you saw wasn’t real. You’re here, I promise.”

“I… I… Thank you. Thank you, I’m… I’m okay. I’m okay now.”

“Yeah? For real?”

“I think, yeah.”

“Let’s… let’s maybe get you home?”

Technoblade glanced behind Ranboo. He saw no trace of the ghost, no trace at all. He sighed a heavy breath of relief. He opened his mouth to agree when one of his ears twitched. There was the gentle ring, the laugh like chimes, the specific twang of Forkza.

Phil was home.

---

Philza returned home, grunting as he landed hard on the roof of his house. Each landing felt harder than the last. He breathed out, stretching out his legs. He glanced down at the floor, wondering if it was worth it to just drop down or use water to break his fall. It wasn’t too far down. He considered the floor for a moment before lifting his gaze to Technoblade’s house. He could hear the animals, hear Steve sleeping inside. But… there was no sound of Techno. Phil stood to his feet, ignoring the weakness in his knee. He slowed his breath, blocked out all sound except for any that would come from his friend. There was nothing.

Where? Where could he have gone? Was Ranboo home? He could ask him. Or, no, they could use their communicators. He went to activate his when a shape landed heavy on the roof next to him. Phil saw the black shape, purple particles drifting, a flash of eyes, and readied his sword to slay the enderman before it attacked—

“Phil! You’re home!” Ranboo’s voice cut through his panic and Phil froze. He exhaled out forcibly and lowered his sword. He studied Ranboo’s face, checking for signs of worry, of fear, and found none. Okay, he didn’t know Technoblade was gone. Fuck. Ranboo jumped to his feet, his grin falling away when he saw the look on Phil’s face. “Phil? Is everything okay? Did something happen?”

“Techno’s not home,” he said, sheathing his sword. He dropped to the stone bridge below, wincing at the sound as Ranboo followed suit. He glanced at the half-enderman again, and saw none of the worry and concern he expected. Rather, Ranboo wasn’t even looking at him. He tilted his head past Techno’s house, his gaze lifted to the sky. Phil tried again, putting more urgency into his voice. “Ranboo, Techno’s not home.”

“Sure looks like that.”

“Aren’t you worried?”

“Nope!”

“What? Why?”

Ranboo opened his mouth to speak, but then an even heavier thud landed below them. A cloud of snow poofed up with Technoblade’s less than graceful landing. He sighed at Ranboo.

“Ranboo, when I told you let’s head back, I didn’t mean for you to yeet yourself that far. Where the hell did you even land?”

“The roof!” Ranboo replied happily, pointing towards Phil’s roof.

“… Did you aim for the roof?”

“Uh… I aimed for the mountain actually.”

“Exactly.” Techno blinked, then turned to Phil, his face contorting into relief/worry that flattened into his regular blank stare. “Hey Phil,” he greeted, waving at his friend. Ranboo jumped over the railings and landed next to Techno, who then proceeded to talk more about his training. Phil straightened, looking over his friend. He looked… okay. He held his shoulders relaxed. He wasn’t constantly scanning the horizon. He didn’t have that lost look to his face, the worry and anxiety and the fear barely hidden below. He… didn’t look nervous and afraid, though the earlier worry that crossed his face made him take pause. Still, it was… it had been a long time since he had seen Techno smile that wide. Phil relaxed and leaned on the fence as he watched them talk. It was nice to see the two of them interacting. After a bit of watching, he patted the fence.

“Alright boys. I’m going to put my stuff away. Have fun.” He turned and walked into his house to start organizing all his new stuff. Technoblade watched him go, feeling something in his chest pulling at him to follow. A hand came down on his shoulder. He looked over to see Ranboo staring at him.

“Are you good? For real, I mean. Whatever that was, it… it didn’t look like you liked it?”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Was it the egg?” A nod in Ranboo’s direction confirmed the question. “Are you going to tell Phil?”

“I… maybe not yet. I know, I should. I just… can’t. Not yet. I will, but not yet.”

“Okay.” Ranboo scuffed the snow with his foot. “Are you going to at least talk to him about the starfate thing?”

“You’re not going to drop this if I say no, will you.”

“Remind me how long you’ve kept this a secret?”

“It’s not a secret!”

“Then talking about it should be no problem!”

Technoblade rumbled at him, frustrated to be outplayed like he was. Ranboo nudged the piglin towards Phil’s house. Technoblade huffed fondly and climbed the stairs to follow his friend inside. He opened the door and paused at the entrance. “Phil?” Technoblade stepped up close to Phil. The trip must have been a good one; Phil was smiling and his wings hung relaxed. Technoblade’s gaze traveled up the ruined wing and felt a pang in his heart. From his wings, his gaze made its way to Phil’s face, who had turned during Technoblade’s silence.

“Yeah, mate?” He must have seen some nameless emotion cross Technoblade’s face because he closed the chest slowly. “You alright there?” His hand came up, back on Technoblade’s cheek. He leaned into the touch with a sigh, grateful for that. After seeing the ghost so real like it had looked (he could still see the unnatural way it moved when he closed his eyes), this helped. Having Phil back helped in a way Ranboo could never help him. He and the enderman weren’t fated, not like he felt, no, knew he and Phil were. Technoblade just hoped he wasn’t about to ruin their friendship over his own feelings. He couldn’t stand it if that’s the direction this turned to. He exhaled and looked up to Phil, opening up his heart to his best friend.

“Have you ever heard the term ‘starfate’?”

“Uh, no. I don’t think I have. What is it?”

“It’s, um, it’s a term from piglin and… Ender too? It’s a—it’s,” Technoblade pressed his lips together, then spoke the word in piglin for Phil. His gaze focused on Phil’s heart emblem as he spoke. “It translates directly to ‘fated in the stars to be together’. It’s like—you know the word ‘soulmate’? It’s like that, but platonically. I—” Technoblade huffed out a breath. “I’m not explaining this well, am I?” Phil chuckled softly, his eyes closing in his amusement. He gazed back at Technoblade, happy and content.

“Alright,” he said as he leaned back against the chests. “So, what about it?”

“I…” Technoblade looked up, then away.

“Techno?” Phil started. He pushed up from the chest to cup Technoblade’s cheek again. “What’s going on?”

“Will you be my starfate?” he blurted out, then snapped his mouth shut so fast his teeth clicked together. Phil blinked and only stared at him. Immediately, Technoblade regretted asking. He should’ve kept quiet, kept his mouth shut. He had ruined their relationship now, ruined their friendship, ruined it all! Technoblade started to step back, unable to stop his mouth from running. “Never mind, I shouldn’t have brought it up, I—”

“Techno,” Phil said, closing the distance between them. His other hand came up to his face and his wings encircled them. “Shhh, it’s alright. Thank you for asking, but…” Phil trailed off. Technoblade gazed at him, waiting for his best friend to finish his thought. His heart thudded in his chest with his growing anxiety. “The way you’ve explained it, it sounds like we already were?”

Technoblade’s brain stopped. Completely. No longer working. All brain cells gone. Even the voices, noisy as they were, stuttered to a halt. And then, almost immediately after, the voices turned into a roar. Technoblade winced at the sound and tried to say something to Phil. Nothing came out of his mouth, no matter how hard he tried. But then, there was Phil, rubbing his thumb over his cheek and bringing their foreheads together.

"Shhh," he crooned, not talking to Technoblade, not really. Phil knew about the voices, knew how loud they could be. He kissed Technoblade's forehead, then dropped a hand to pat his shoulder. "All good?" He asked. The voices died down and Technoblade breathed a sigh of relief.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."

"Good, because, mate," Philza said as he started to move away. "I wasn't entirely honest to you about why I was going to be gone for so long. I was going to surprise you later, but maybe now is a good time." He pulled out a handcrafted wooden box and handed it to his friend--his starfate. Technoblade eyed the box and glanced at Phil before he popped it open. His breath caught in his throat.

Laid carefully on emerald silk was a single earring. The earring was almost entirely made from gold with small emeralds inlaid near the top. The gold flowed out into a single feather, ornately sculpted so that even the vanes could be seen. Technoblade traced the feather carefully with the tip of his finger. The earring hummed with magic, enchanted in a way that was familiar, but he couldn't place.

"Phil…" Technoblade breathed, dragging his gaze away from the earring to his starfate.

"They're not made from the friendship emeralds, don't worry. But," he smiled sheepishly. "That's where I got the idea from. I went to Foolish so he could help me get them right. We used my feathers for inspiration."

"Phil," Technoblade started again. He needed Phil to know what this meant, to him, to them, but Phil was still talking.

"Sorry there's only one. But," Phil turned and brushed a lock of his hair back, revealing the earring’s other part hooked in his ear. “I couldn’t help myself.”

Technoblade very carefully put the box aside and surged forward. He scooped Phil into his arms, careful of the wings, and buried his burning face into Phil's shoulder. He squeezed him tightly, resolutely not crying from the sudden emotion threatening to overwhelm him.

"Whoa, mate!" Phil laughed. It was an airy sound, one that reminded Technoblade of chimes tinkling in the wind. "You good?"

"Stop talking. Please, just stop," Technoblade muttered into his shoulder. It was easier to talk when he could pretend he was hidden. Talking was still very hard. "You don't-- you don't even-- you didn't even KNOW what starfate meant! And here you are giving a-- Philza!" Technoblade peeked out from Phil's shoulder to try to communicate with his eyes alone.

"Did I do something wrong?" Phil asked instead, as if there was a single thing in the universe he could do wrong. And at that, Technoblade released some of his tension with a laugh.

"No, of course not." He set Phil down so he could stand next to him against the chests. Phil's wing came up around them again and Technoblade relaxed further. He turned his gaze to the floor, talking with his hands when needed.

"There's gifts you give to your starfate, and then there are starfate gifts. It's--at least with piglins, it's customary that when your starfate gifts you gems or gold, you make that into a gift for your starfate and it means stuff. You make it with the intention they'll think of you when they see it, like--"

"Like designing it after one of my feathers?" Phil offered.

"Exactly. And that, that's significant. It means stuff."

"I wanted to give you something nice."

"Is that all?" Technoblade asked with a quirk of his lips. Phil gave it a moment before he ducked his head with a laugh.

"You caught me."

"Never put it past Philza Minecraft to make something just pretty and not practical!" Technoblade laughed with him. He then bumped hips with Phil and dropped his voice to a whisper. "So, what's on it?"

"Prot four and piercing if you need it. Just a little something so it doesn't break during battle," Phil said with a shrug, as if saying that alone wasn't anything special.

"You know me well," Technoblade said as he checked the feather again. In a pinch, he could use it to stab someone, but that would have to be some mighty big circumstances that Technoblade would even consider damaging his starfate's gift.

"So, you like it?" Phil asked as he sidled up closer with the lilting tone of voice one uses when showing off a build they worked hard on. Technoblade bumped their heads together and smiled.

"Do you really have to ask?"

"Yes."

Technoblade huffed and lifted up the earring so he could inspect it further. He could read the protection and piercing enchantments, could recognize those pitches humming this close. But… there was something else here. Some other enchantment that tugged at his memory. It must not be one he used frequently because he could not place it. Phil hadn't offered it up either. So, it either didn't matter or it was meant to be some grand surprise. Knowing Phil, it could be either. If it didn’t matter, then it didn’t matter. If it was going to be some grand surprise, well, Phil kept his secrets well. No amount of asking would give him the answers he sought if Phil wasn’t going to give them freely. So Technoblade held the earring up to Phil with a gentle smile.

“Help me put it on?”

---

It took some getting used to, having the earring in. That he only had the one made him feel unbalanced, out of sorts, like there was a heavy weight resting on him and he hadn’t learned yet how to compensate. And it made noises. Little chimes of sounds, little chimes like Philza’s laugh or his hums while he worked around the house or as he designed yet another build. Technoblade hovered over one of his sketches, a brow arching in a silent question at his frie-starfate.

“Just something I saw in a dream, mate. It’s gonna need soooooooo many sea lanterns.”

Technoblade hummed, content to sit down with his starfate and a warm cup of peppermint tea. Almost immediately, Phil’s hands ended up in his hair and started braiding as he described the build and his dream. Phil didn’t need him to do anything more than listen when he got like this. He only needed to be the wall to bounce ideas off, the ear to flick idly as Phil talked and talked and talked. The chimes in his ear matched the chimes pouring out of his friend’s mouth.

Speaking of dreams and the things found in them… Technoblade’s dreams were getting worse. He didn’t know how, or why, with how far from the egg he was. But after seeing that thing, his dreams now were nothing but blood and writhing bodies and dying, gasping breaths from sickened, punctured lungs. He couldn’t even tell if they were the bodies of his friends anymore. They closed around him like choking flames, so much so that he slept with the windows wide open nowadays. Phil had tried to sleep with him once, but he couldn’t stop shivering. He tried to close the windows once, but Technoblade had yelled so loud in protest that the angel flinched. Phil didn’t ask again, but he also stopped sleeping with him now. Technoblade’s heart ached at the knowledge, but…

Every time he thought to speak on the darkest points in his mind, his hands began to shake. His lungs closed on him, and he felt his heart beat so loud and so hard he was sure it would pound right through his sternum. Even now, with Phil’s hands working through another braid and his laughter about… something, somewhere, someone...

His hands were shaking as he pulled out his book, barely even aware of what he was doing. He just needed to touch, to ground himself. Just, a little something before—

"Hm?" Phil hummed interest above him. "What's that?"

Fuck. "Uhhhhhhh. A book."

"I can see that, mate. That new?"

"Ranboo gave it to me."

"Ranboo…" Phil's hands stilled in his hair. Technoblade couldn't see his friend's face, couldn't see his expression. Still, he could imagine it, imagine the frown creasing Phil's face as the gears turned in his head, connecting dots that shouldn't need connecting. Phil breathed in, breathing in that way he did when he was about to say something, but changed his mind at the last second. “Techno,” he started. “Did… Are you having memory problems?”

Oh.

Of course he would think it was the same as Ranboo’s books. Otherwise, why would he have been given one instead of making one himself? (It was because he still half-felt like he didn’t need the help. He never would have made one on his own if Ranboo hadn’t shoved the whole damn thing in his hands.) Technoblade tried to answer, but seeing as he was currently beating back the anxiety of spilling his wounds to Phil with nothing but the cowhide of a book, he was a little preoccupied. Phil didn’t wait long, didn’t wait his stuttering out before interrupting with his own shaking words.

“Because, Techno, I. I understand if you need time to process. I understand. I—” He cut himself off, his hands shaking in Technoblade’s hair. The piglin could feel his starfate tuck himself into his back. His feathers drooped around their bodies, shaking with the effort Phil spent to not sink into his flesh until they were of one body. It didn’t ease his anxiety, but the pain he was causing him smothered everything in its path.

“Tech, you—you promised. You promised this starfate thing wasn’t going to change anything. You promised! So, why? Why do you keep pushing me away? Why don’t you just tell me what’s wrong! It’s been two months! It’s been two months since I thought I finally lost my best friend…” Phil hiccupped and buried his face into his hair. “Don’t you leave. Don’t you fucking leave! Don’t you fucking go where I can’t follow! Mate, please…” His hands curled into fists. “Not again, Techno. Not again.” Technoblade stared off into middle distance. His heart ached. He felt stabbed, the knife buried deep in his chest. He felt like he was bleeding, maybe like he was dying.

“I don’t even know what happened to you,” Phil whispered into his hair like prayer. “I don’t even… Please, Techno. Talk to me,” he begged.

And now, Technoblade really did feel like he was dying.

He opened his mouth, the motion causing the earring to chime like a bell. Why did it feel so heavy? Why was this the burden that weighed him down? Why was this the thing that felt like the last straw to break his back? He tried to speak, but found that no sound came out. Instead, he lifted a hand back to Phil. He rested it on his arm, thumbing his friend’s pulse in his wrist. He didn’t turn. He didn’t want to see the pain he caused. And Phil wouldn’t want to be seen. He hadn’t tried to forced Technoblade to turn during his outburst. Both of them too stubborn, too exhausted to let the other see their vulnerabilities opened up like festering wounds. Even though they both desperately wanted to.

It was quiet in the house when Technoblade spoke. It was quiet when Phil’s hands went back to work on his braids. It was quiet, even though he could feel Phil’s hands shaking.

It was quiet between them, for the next few days. It was quiet and Technoblade could feel his heart breaking.

But he couldn’t tell him.

“Not tonight.”

---

Technoblade dragged the brush down Carl's flank one final time. Grooming the warhorse always took a while, but it was a task he greatly enjoyed. A very loud voice in his head was dumping praise on him for still taking care of Carl, even if maybe Technoblade had 'forgotten' to eat again today. He went to set down the brush when he felt a presence at his back. He whipped around, exchanging the brush for a sword, and stopped.

"Hello, Technoblade," the woman greeted, smiling warmly behind her hood. Technoblade did not recognize her, but he lowered his blade anyways. She did not look like she could harm him. She did not look like a threat at all, not when she was draped in a black cloak that just barely brushed over the snow. What he could see of her clothes, they seemed barely warm enough for the harsh cold climate. He couldn't even see a hint of armor under her clothes, yet she seemed unperturbed by the piglin who had threatened her with an enchanted netherite blade.

"Who are you?" He asked. Though lowered, he kept his grip on the sword, not trusting the stranger enough to sheath it.

"Not even a hello back!" She laughed. It sounded like chimes, like a church bell over a graveyard.

"Hello," he said. "Now who are you?"

"You don't recognize me?" She asked, removing her hood. Technoblade looked at her face, at the brown hair that cascaded down her shoulders, her smile warm and inviting and comforting. There was a hint of mischief, but not one that spelled threat. He shook his head. She didn't look too surprised. "No, of course you don't. You were fairly young the last time you saw me." She leaned on the fence, her smile warm, even as the shadows close to her grew. "I'm Philza's wife."

Technoblade narrowed his eyes until the information finished processing. When it did, he straightened and sheathed his sword.

"Ah," he said. Death's smile widened, showing her teeth. He glanced at Carl. The horse did not care that the literal embodiment of Death stood before them, though the horse did snicker when a few crows hopped forth. “What are you doing here?” he asked, reaching into a pocket for some birdseed. He tossed it at the crow and suddenly five of the void-covered creatures dove for the ground. He looked back at his guest. Death skirted around the fence, stepping close to the house and gazing up at the window. Her smile faded and she heaved a sigh before answering him.

“There’s some things I need to talk to Philza about.” Death’s gaze turned towards him, her smile now completely gone. “But I think you might need some talking too as well.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come here, Techno,” she said, offering her hand. Technoblade closed the fence gate behind him and took her hand with little hesitation. He had nothing to fear from her. The second his hand closed around hers, she tugged him into darkness. It was a familiar darkness. Old, timeless, unchanging. It was like Phil’s, the few times he let it seep past his wings. It was only in darkness like this that Technoblade allowed himself to feel vulnerable, to accept the harsh truths to himself, to accept the things he never wished to face. By the way she gripped his hand, Death knew this too. She tapped his hand with a finger. “I would recommend you don’t let go until I’m done with you.”

Death took him up to the house, towards Phil’s house, and they hovered up near one of the windows. Technoblade briefly worried that they would be seen, but even the crow that hopped on the window sill didn’t seem to notice them. Death would make herself known when she wished to be known. She pointed his attention to the window and he peered through it. Inside, Phil was at his table, the small one they'd share tea or meals over when Phil didn't want a hungry polar bear hovering near. He sat, his elbows braced on the wood, his wings encircling his form. Technoblade couldn't hear through the glass, but the way Phil's shoulders hitched and shuddered could mean only one thing: Phil was crying.

Technoblade stilled, even his breath catching in his lungs. Phil, alone and upset, crying so softly so that he wouldn't hear him and rush to his aid. He wanted to now, wanted to jump through the window and drag him into his arms, and bury away everything that ever dared to hurt him. But Death kept her vice-like grip on his hand. Unmovable. Unchangeable. Still, she tapped a finger on his hand. It was a gesture he associated with Phil when they held hands, but needed his attention. Technoblade dragged his gaze away from his starfate.

"You're lucky he loves you, Techno." Her own gaze flicked to his. "I refuse to take any more of the things he loves from him. What I receive, I'll take and keep, but only that. But you're hurting him. And I can't bear continuing to watch."

"I…” He started, then looked back at his friend. Phil’s shoulders hitched and Technoblade knew. He took care of Phil, preened him, made him meals, took care of the house when he felt too exhausted for it, and yet. He knew. He knew. “I didn’t mean to make him cry. I just… couldn’t.”

Death stared at him for a long moment. He turned his head away from her. His guilt felt like crows picking at carrion, tearing away his flesh until only bone remained. She then pressed her hand to the wall. The wood flickered like candlelight and she pulled them into the house. They made no sound, their presence not yet known by anyone but themselves. Death turned to him, her grip on his hand like, well, death.

"You are a smart man, Technoblade. Smart in battle, smart in choosing your friends and allies. You are not smart with,” she gestured at Phil. “This stuff. Talking. Dealing with your problems.” Technoblade remained quiet. What could he even say in his defense? He knew he was bad with it, he knew! So what purpose did he have in speaking it aloud. She huffed and dropped her free hand.

“Technoblade, I know what you’ve gone through. You’ve come close to me far too many times and every time I wonder if your body will finally give out from the stress. But you always jump back. You drag yourself out of hell, alive, but not whole.” Death opened her cloak. Inside, lights twinkled like stars. She plucked one out and held it up. In it, Technoblade saw Fundy and Quackity dragging him back from Phil, dragging him to his execution block. There was pain on his face, open and fearful, but not for him. Never for him. It was for Phil, for what they had done to him, for what pain they caused his starfate. She hid it back in her cloak before his death and resurrection played out. His shoulders hunched forward, his head tilted in the direction of his earring. Gods, why did it feel so heavy?

“Every near miss, every slip up, every time you drop your gaze in my direction, I receive little bits of you. I am no god of war, but I hope that when your first death comes to me, it is through fighting battles against physical foes. Not the wars you wage against yourself.” Death didn’t wait for him to argue, to protest. Instead, she poked his stomach. “When was the last time you ate, Techno?”

“… I forgot…” he said, his gaze dropping away from her.

“You did not.” Her free came back up and cupped his face. “Not eating, not sleeping, not taking care of yourself is a form of self-harm. You throw yourself into your work. You don’t want to think about what happened to you, I know. You don’t want to think about how it affects you. And you feel like you can’t tell your friends.” Death sighed and rubbed a thumb on his cheek. “I know Ranboo had to sneak it out of you. But you did tell him and, it helped, didn’t it?” Her hand moved with his cheek as he nodded. “See? You can admit these things to yourself.”

“…It hurts,” he admitted.

“I know. It always does.” Death’s hand dropped off his face as she turned her gaze to her beloved. “But hiding it, keeping it hidden inside yourself only hurts worse. And it won’t get better. You won’t get better the longer you keep it to yourself.”

“Then… what?”

“You need to talk to him. He can see that you’re hurting, that there is something that troubles you. And you know it too. He doesn’t know what happened. He’s told you, even though it hurt him as well. And still, you feel like you can’t,” her voice echoed, repeating his words from earlier. She even said it in his voice. He flinched at the sound, at the sound of his guilt.

“How?” Technoblade heard himself ask. He heard his own bitterness, his shame, his guilt, his anger to have been brought low by something as simple as an egg! “How do I even tell him? Where do I even begin?!” he asked, screamed, shouted. His voice wavered and his eyes felt wet. Death looked at him and beckoned for his attention.

“You can start at the beginning.” He looked up at her, the wetness in his eyes dripping with his fear. She continued speaking. “I saw you, trapped there, Technoblade. I did not see what you saw, but,” she sighed. Her gaze dropped to the floor and, for the first time that evening, Death looked old. She looked old in the way that Phil looked old sometimes. The slump of her shoulders, as if the weight of hundreds of years weighed heavy upon them. He wondered, then, between his own tears of grief, how much suffering she watched, how much suffering she bore, to watch the creations of life fade and wither before her.

“I didn’t see through your eyes, but I have seen it. You are not the first to be brought low by this kind of corruption.” Suddenly, her gaze grew hard, the line of her shoulders straightened with determination. “And I fear, if we are unable to find the way to stop it, you will not be the last. But I think now… now,” she said with force, with the iron strength of will. “Now, we must. Before… before this world fades like those before it. We must. We must find the way. You, all of you, must help. But you, the way you are now…” She trailed off, her gaze settling upon his face. Death reached up and wiped at his tears. “You must talk to him. If you want to heal, you must do this.” Technoblade hunched his shoulders and he felt her rise up so she could press her free hand to his cheek. He felt seen. She saw his tears, his hesitation, his fear of hurting, his fear of being hurt by the ones he loved so dearly.

“It hurts, I know, Techno,” she whispered. “But you are one of our strongest, oh Blood God. Deified by those who believe in you too.” It was then that she smiled warmly at him, squeezing her hand around his as if to reassure him. Then her hand slipped away. And Death released him from her grip.

The last thing Technoblade saw of Death was the crow on the window sill, looking at him in the eye as its feathers shimmered with void. It flew away as a heavy sob sounded behind him. Technoblade turned, the floorboards creaking under his weight and Phil stilled. He looked up, his tears streaking his face, his eyes red from crying for what must have been hours. The two stood there, looking at each other, staring at their own vulnerabilities, illuminated by the dim, flickering lantern light. Then Phil huffed out a bitter laugh and dropped his gaze to the table.

“Bruh, you should’ve knocked first,” he hiccupped. He covered his mouth with a hand, his wings trembling minutely with the repressed sorrow. And Technoblade knew. He knew. It would never be the right time. It would never feel like he wouldn’t be hurt by speaking. He knew.

He knew what he must do.

Technoblade strode over to him, crossed the house in a few strides, and pulled Phil into an embrace. The angel gasped in surprise, but Technoblade didn’t let him try to pull away. He squeezed him tight to his chest, his own tears now allowed to pour forth. He buried his face into his starfate’s neck, into his pulse, into the place he knew was his. And his voice broke when he spoke. It broke the quiet they had borne and it broke into a sob.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “I’m sorry for doing this to you. I’m sorry I hurt you, I—”

“I know, mate. It’s… it’s okay,” Phil said and it burned. Phil’s attempt to make it right, his attempt to fix what he didn’t know what broken, to avoid being broken himself again.

“No!” Technoblade hunched, pulled him in closer. He couldn’t let Phil take the blame, take his sorrow and hide away. He couldn’t, wouldn’t! “No, Phil, I’m sorry I made you cry. I.” He lifted his head up, staring into his friend’s shock and grief. And he said, for the first time in two months.

For the first time since Phil thought he had lost his friend forever.

Technoblade asked, “Can we talk?”

---

Philza leaned against Steve, a warm mug of peppermint tea steaming in his hands. Technoblade was… not sitting down. He was wandering the house, grabbing things to touch and a blanket to keep them warm, and stoking the fire. Phil wanted to poke him, urge him to sit down and talk, but… He didn’t want to pry.

That. That was a lie. He wanted to poke and pry and tear into Techno’s skull so he could finally learn what had fucked his friend to hell and back. The last two months, especially the last month, had been hell. Techno had snapped at him, brushed him off, pushed him away and Phil still had no idea what his friend, his starfate, had gone through. What kind of trauma had Technoblade carried that hurt him so badly?

He assumed he would find out. He was tired of waiting. He was exhausted. Every night for the last week he had cried. Waited for his friend to be out of earshot so he could sob from his frustration. So Phil was used to waiting. And he would wait some more. He would wait forever if he had to. He hoped he didn’t have to.

“Phil?” Techno started as he sat slowly onto the floor beside his oldest friend. “What… what do you know? About what happened?”

“Hardly anything at all. Puffy showed up one day, looking for you. I hadn’t seen you in three days, and, when Ranboo mentioned he saw you and Bad together, Puffy knew immediately that Bad had done something to you. We—Puffy and I—went looking for you. We didn’t find you, but we found Antfrost and Bad. We lost them because Sam told us that Dream had escaped. I came back home to Ranboo and we found Dream and you, crashed in the snow. Dream was… something. He didn’t get a chance to explain because I… we were too afraid of you dying.”

“And that’s all?”

“Yes.” Phil watched Techno curl around himself, a noise like a whine slipping out unwanted from his mouth. The angel reached forward, his hand twitching back as he hesitated. But, when Techno didn’t reject him, he leaned in. “May I?” he asked, reaching for Techno’s wild hair. His starfate nodded. They scooted around each other in the dim light. Phil’s hands buried into his friend’s hair, realizing only now that it was unkempt, knotted, and almost beginning to mat. It cracked something in his chest to realize how little his friend was taking care of himself.

And he felt it reflected in him with how little he had taken care of himself. He could feel Techno’s eyes on his wings, on the feathers longing to be straightened and preened. He missed his friend’s hands in his wings, but he was afraid that Techno would reject him again. That he would push him away again. So why did it matter if he took care of himself?

Why did it matter?

And, as he started working through Techno’s hair, as the piglin relaxed against his legs for the first time in weeks, he realized: this is why. This is why it mattered, to take care of yourself. Because it hurt the people around you to see you in such a state of disrepair. And them knowing they could help, if only they were given the chance for it. And, even if their help didn’t work at first, you could still talk to them, be open with them, be vulnerable to be hurt back, and they could still try.

This is why it mattered.

It took a long time to work through Technoblade’s hair. And Phil hadn’t really planned to do much of anything, but listen whenever Technoblade felt comfortable enough to speak. Because Phil could tell it was hard. If it wasn’t hard, he would have talked about it by now. Even things that were hard for him, he could talk about them. But knowing that he hadn’t? It meant that this was impossible for him, or it seemed that way. And the realization hurt Philza enough that his hands shook in Techno’s hair and he wanted to weep.

But Technoblade started talking. Slowly, at first. Reluctantly, almost. But he did and Phil listened.

And.

And it was horrifying.

Technoblade didn’t spare any details. Everything he said, everything he mentioned, he mentioned so Phil would understand. Because it was important. Because the details were important, at least to him. So they were important to Phil too. And, through it all, he listened. He listened to Technoblade describe Bad’s treachery. He listened to Technoblade describe his fall and his cage above the egg. He listened to Technoblade describe the visions he saw, the hallucinations, the nightmares, the things the egg offered him. All this pain for power that Technoblade didn’t even need. That Technoblade didn’t even want.

They had done their time with power, back with the empire. They had done their time, and the fact that every single person here felt like that’s all Technoblade wanted, that he wanted more power? Phil felt ill to his stomach. He felt enraged! He felt helpless to stop, to help, to do anything!

But Technoblade didn’t need him to do anything grand. He only needed Phil to listen.

And, for as long as Technoblade talked, Phil listened.

He listened until he was falling over Technoblade, nodding off to sleep and jerking away, just so he could listen.

“I think, we should take a break, tonight?” Technoblade offered. Phil fell over his shoulder and into his lap like a particularly feathery worm.

“Please,” he said with a laugh. There was nothing funny, but Phil couldn’t deal with the sorrow and the horror and the dread without a few laughs forcing their way past his lungs. And Technoblade knew. He hooked his hands under Phil’s body and lifted him up. He started for his bedroom, but paused.

“Do… do you want to spend the night? We can… we can close the windows, if you want?”

And Phil

Phil sighed. He reached up to cup Technoblade’s face. His voice was unsteady, afraid, vulnerable, but he was trying, goddamn it!

“Please. We can crack them, if it gets too hot for you?”

Technoblade breathed in and nodded. He carried him up to the top floor. As he made ready for bed, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Phil leaned over, gazing at his friend. For the first time in a very long time, Technoblade looked truly speechless as he looked at his hair, at the braids Phil wove into them. He looked at the care Phil put into him and

and

Technoblade crumpled to the floor. Philza rushed to his side, only to hear him heave a heavy sob. To hide him, Philza let the void drift past his wings and into the room. Nothing would spawn in this darkness, the darkness they both found solace in. Technoblade would be safe.

And, that night, with the windows cracked open and the void whispering sweet lullabies to the two of them, Phil and Technoblade cried together.

The next morning was bright. The sun streaked in through the windows, warming the room and the people inside. Phil rolled over, snuggling into Techno’s side. A shiver ran down his spine as Techno ran his fingers through his feathers.

“Hi mate,” he greeted, holding the ‘a’ as a yawn interrupted his speech. Techno straightened a feather, and Phil let another shiver wrack through him.

“I missed this,” he whispered, as if the morning would break apart if he spoke any louder than that. Phil snuggled into his side more. “I missed you. I’m sorry for how I’ve treated you, Phil. I—”

“I know,” Phil replied. He rested his cheek on Techno’s side, his wing stretching lightly. He hadn’t preened in a long time, too worried for his friend’s wellbeing over his own. Techno hadn’t finished telling his story and… well…

“How about: we get out of bed and make breakfast and you finish telling me everything?” When Technoblade stiffened, he added, “You can preen me, if you want.” Techno’s breath hitched and his fingers already in his feathers buried deeper.

“I do want.”

They took their time getting out of bed and down the stairs. Technoblade cooked breakfast for them this time, though Phil helped him in chopping up vegetables and steeping some tea for them to share. Halfway through the preparation, Ranboo popped his head in.

“Hey—oh boy, that smells good. I wanted to check in?” the half-enderman explained. Phil greeted him, but grew worried as he made no real attempt to leave. He didn’t want Technoblade to feel pressured to talk with more people than he was comfortable with, plus he didn’t want to give Techno the chance to say “not today” again. But then, Technoblade surprised him.

“Hey Ranboo. Have you eaten this morning?” Techno asked over his shoulder. Ranboo was busy petting Steve, but his ear flicked at the question.

“Are you offering?”

“Yeah. Phil and I are talking about,” he paused, then waved his hand pointedly. “Things, if you want to listen too. If, Phil, you’re okay with that?” Phil blinked, shocked for just a second too long at Techno’s willingness to be open with Ranboo. Though, Ranboo had given him that book. Techno explained it briefly, that he was using the book to ground himself. Ranboo must know something, at least. Technoblade called his name and Phil realized belatedly he was staring at Techno and hadn’t answered the question.

“Yeah, I’m fine with it. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because I’m going to be preening you?”

Phil’s face flushed pink at the reminder. Ranboo glanced at his direction, then at Techno, then again at Phil as his blush deepened.

“Ohhhhhh, starfate thing?” Ranboo asked.

“Self-care wing thing,” Techno clarified as he stepped over with plates. “Phil gets blushy when I do it for him,” he said with a laugh. Phil felt like he could die on the spot.

“So should I not watch?” Ranboo asked. He had a plate in his hand and was currently eating some of the omelet Technoblade prepared.

“I could braid your hair,” Phil offered. Ranboo beamed at the prospect. Breakfast was amicable, the three of them laughing and joking with each other. It was warm. It was bright. It was a good precursor for the darkness Technoblade was about to drop on them.

Technoblade sat with Steve at his back and Phil to his front. Phil had a wing stretched out for him to preen. He was already making soft sounds as Technoblade started on straightening his feathers. It was embarrassing, but at least Ranboo seemed to be doing the same as Phil worked his hands into his hair. Techno started talking again after they all settled.

There were less horrifying details this time. Technoblade had moved from his time with the egg to the more recent times. And Phil found it strange how many things he had missed. He thought he was keeping a careful eye on his friend in his efforts to predict what things might trigger an episode. His view of the Tommy incident was helpful to understand. That he had noticed things that shouldn’t have been right, but those things were overruled with his emotions. Phil remembered that, remembered seeing his friend shout and threaten empty space. He could understand.

He was working through another braid when Technoblade got to what Phil missed while he was away. It hurt to know Techno had a panic attack right after he left. Though it did explain all the potions he came back to. As he continued talking (and Ranboo added in his own details from their chat), Phil felt sated, gentled. He felt like maybe he didn’t even need to hear the rest of it. Lunch was approaching and Phil had brought back a couple rare items he wanted to add to the salad. He wasn’t fully paying attention when something caught his ear.

Technoblade was talking about one of the last times he saw the egg’s ghost. He was in the middle of describing it when Phil’s hands stilled in Ranboo’s hair. A long, faded memory filtered into his head. A memory of standing tall above the people below him, his face hidden in the shadow of his hat and the shadows that wormed their way through the space around his wings. A chirp beneath his hands brought him, not back to the present, but alongside it.

“Mate,” he started, his voice wavering unbeknownst to him. “What did you say?”

And Techno’s voice, Techno’s words, fell alongside the words the villagers below him spoke. Word for almost exact word.

“It was red.”

It was red.

“And blood dripped off it in rivulets.”

And blood dripped off it in rivulets.

“And the body,”

And the body,

“Looked like maggots burrowing into flesh.”

Looked like maggots burrowing into flesh.

It was happening again.

It was getting bad again.

And if they couldn’t stop it, if they couldn’t find out why history was repeating, then…

then…

“All is already lost,” he remembers saying.

“Phil?”

Philza startled back into himself. Ranboo had turned around, confusion writing itself across his face. He could feel Techno at his back, a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Phil, are you okay?” Ranboo asked. Phil blinked and willed his fingers to move again, refocusing on the braid he had been working on.

“Yeah, just,” he bit off the rest of his words and turned half to Techno. “That sounds pretty horrifying, mate. Sorry you had to see that.”

Techno’s hand squeezed his shoulder, then went back to straightening his feathers. The rest of conversation was easier, now that Techno was coming to a close. Phil tried to pay attention to his friends, tried to pay attention to the conversation, tried so hard to not fall into the memories thought to be long forgotten boiling beneath the surface. Phil could feel them there. And, similar to Techno talking about his trauma, Phil sorely did not want to rediscover those memories.

The next evening started much the same. He and Techno planned a small evening together. Just them, some tea, and maybe more of Techno’s hands in his wings. A gentle shiver ran down his spine at the fantasy playing out in his head, a warm smile crossing his face. From behind him, he heard the door open and close. He smiled, his breath coming out in a small laugh as he turned.

“Techno, I wasn’t expecting you this ear—” Philza cut off at the sight of the figure before him. Death lifted her hood off her head and gazed at her angel.

“Hello again, my dearest angel,” she said gently. Philza immediately dropped to one knee, bowing his head before his lady. Her footsteps were soft, featherlight, and she rested her hand on his head. “Please, stand.” Philza stood for her, his wings folded tight to his back. It had been decades since he last saw her. The last time being when she brought Wilbur to him. He still remembered that, remembered telling Techno to stay in the house while he talked to her. She had still seen him. She laid her blessing upon him, promising him greatness should he seek out that greatness.

And now she was here, the deep void of her eyes pulling him in. Whatever she requested of him, he would do in a heartbeat. His soulmate, his love, his lady. He waited with baited breath for her orders. But she just gazed at him, then walked around his home. Her fingertips trailed over the chests, her gaze lifted up to see the image of Wilbur hanging above.

“You’ve made a home here, haven’t you? Good, I’m glad. It is good to have a place to return to after so many centuries of travel.” She paused and lowered her gaze, then turned towards him. “My dearest angel, there’s something we need to talk about.”

“Talk?” he asked, confused. He paused, trying to think of why his lady would need to talk to him. And, like all the things he was keeping quiet so he could think, he remembered Techno’s talk with him, the things he described. “There’s, there’s something I want to talk about too. But, is there something you need of me? You know I’d do anything for you,” he said, as if she needed the reminder. At his comment, she paused and lifted her gaze up to him.

“My angel, what… what do you mean?” Her expression transformed into a frown, into worry. He stepped forward, not caring if he was being bold. He hadn’t seen her in so long. His hand came up to her face and rubbed her cheek. Her own hand covered his, slipping her fingers in between his.

“Do you remember… that village that I… that I had to…?” he trailed off. Her gaze narrowed, her mouth parting as she thought.

“Which… which village, Phil?”

His hand twitched and he pressed his forehead against hers. He tried to will her to remember, to remember the one he remembered, and not the others. Not the hundreds of other villages. She touched his cheek with her free hand and he choked on his voice.

“It’s happening again. It’s happening again.” His eyes opened at the same time it clicked for her.

“Is that the thing we missed?” Death whispered to herself, her own eyes widening in realization. He couldn’t trust himself to speak, not on this, not again. So he hummed at her, a noise of question. She didn’t speak, didn’t share, and he didn’t pry. She would tell him if he needed to know. Her eyes closed and she breathed out slowly. A soft curse in a long-forgotten language slipped out of her mouth. They stood like that, existing in each other’s company, until Phil remembered that Death had come to talk to him.

“What did you want of me, my lady?” he asked quietly. She lifted her gaze and took a step back. He missed her touch immediately. When she met his eyes, he saw the tendrils of void slip out around her. He held his breath and waited.

“I need you to keep an eye out, my love. Someone is going to die soon. I don’t know when and I don’t know who. But if they die, then this world will change. And not for the better.” The darkness faded as she delivered her message, but…

“If you don’t know who, then why tell me? How can I stop it if I don’t know anything?”

“Because I’m not asking you to stop it. If you happen upon it, if I receive more information before, then yes, by all means stop it. But, for now, all I am asking of you is to keep an eye out. Perhaps their fate is set, perhaps it is already changed.”

“Is… it’s not Techno, is it?” Death remained silent in the face of Philza’s question. He reached for her, holding firm. “Is it? Is it Ranboo? I can’t—!” His hand squeezed hard on her shoulder in his desperation. She touched his chest, touched the emblem on his chest.

“I promised you before, my love. I will no longer take away the people you love. If they give themselves to me, I will, but I will not be selfish.” Her eyes darkened, the feathers of a million crows lifted behind her back as the void again slipped its tendrils into this world. “I promise this to you,” she spoke, her voice echoing. Her powers settled and her hand pressed warmth into his chest. His own hand covered hers, his other pulling her in close. She went, followed him into his embrace. When their lips met, he felt like he was sinking into the void at the end of time. His feathers wrapped around them, even though nothing would harm them if she wished it. Nothing upon this plane or the next would harm her angel. He was breathless when they parted. The darkness morphed around her and he held onto, reluctant to let her leave so soon.

“Please, stay,” he begged, even though he knew his begging would go unheeded. She touched his cheek.

“Soon, my love, I will. But there are things I must do first.” Her gaze unfocused for the briefest moment, before she continued. “XD has been searching for something. They believe we missed something. I do not know what they expect to find, but,” her mouth pressed into a thin line. “Perhaps your warning will aid us. And I want to find them. Warn them as I did for you.”

“We… what did we miss?” Phil asked. She looked at him, a strange expression on her face, an even stranger glint in her eyes. When she replied, her voice felt distant, as if she wasn’t really talking to him at all.

“What else came through that night—that night with that village—when we weren’t paying attention?” she whispered. Then the void wrapped around the Mother of Crows, Mother of the Void, Death, and she was gone once more from Philza’s arms. In the silence that followed, he touched the emblem on his chest and considered her words. He turned his head, looking out at the breaking day. Perhaps… perhaps it was time to visit Dream again.

#dream smp #dream smp fic #technoblade #philza #ranboo #amongst feathers and emeralds #dsmp #dsmp fic #emrails #let me know what you think about this fic #also this took forever to write #the whole fic is 26k+ words #this chapter being 14k of that

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keelywolfe · 4 years

Text

FIC: Dadster #2 (Rules for Dating My Sons)

Notes: Couldn't resist adding on to it a little for Father's day! Tossing in some spicyhoney for flavor, come on, like I can resist?

Tags: Pre-Spicyhoney, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Found Family

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Sequel to: Dadster

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Read it on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

"hey, pop, can you hand me the other spanner?"

Gaster looked up from the formula that was currently blurring before his eyes. There was an error in it somewhere and yet, the more he stared at the paper, the more the numbers floated in front of his vision defiantly.

A break was in order and this was a good excuse for one. He stood, pressing both hands into the cramped small of his back with a groan, then made his way to the other side of the lab. There was a hulking dropcloth-covered bulk in the furthest corner and around the backside, a skinny pair of legs poked out from under it. A tray was lying on the floor close by, tools lined up neatly, and Gaster crouched, considering them. A least three of them were spanners.

“Which one?” Gaster asked and when there wasn’t a reply, he sent two of his conjured hands beneath the…ah. The vehicle? He supposed that designation would do for now, deathtrap was likely closer, and he resigned himself to plenty of worries if and when Stretch got it working. He signed his question again beneath the troublesome thing and this time an answer floated out.

“three-eighths—” there was a loud clunking sound. “shit, no, seven-sixteenths.”

“Language,” Gaster said teasingly, even as he put the spanner into the grubby hand that appeared.

That hand vanished immediately, and scrabbling noises followed. “c’mon, pop, don’t you start. blue already has me by the balls, i don’t need you giving ‘em a squeeze.”

“I’ll thank you to spare me that mental imagery,” Gaster said dryly. But he didn’t bother to scold; Stretch was more engineer than scientist and there was a longstanding tradition of a certain amount of verbal vulgarity in that particular trade.

There was another clunking sound followed by an appropriately irritated curse. “sorry, sorry, this fu-friggin thing is stuck good.”

The loud bang of metal hitting metal was also traditional and Gaster shook his head. “Let me get you a lubricant, it may help.”

He ignored his son’s snicker, “sure, let’s lube it up, get it into a slippery situation, might be my saving grease.”

Gaster only shook his head, suppressing his own smile. To hear Stretch making puns and laughing warmed his soul, evaporating his frustrations over that silly equation. It didn’t seem that long ago that Stretch spoke only in biting sarcasm, mocking humor that never reached his eye lights. Little by little that tight shielding flaked away, cautiously revealing the gentle, vulnerable soul hidden beneath it and Gaster might tease, but he would never, ever do anything to take away Stretch’s little amusements.

Time and patience was all Gaster had on his side when it came to these boys, his boys. He should have been their father, wished fiercely that he could have been and spared them all the pain of their pasts. Lacking that, he’d do what he could and if a silly, vulgar pun helped, he’d listen to each and every one.

A light knock on the door halted him before he reached the cupboards. He paused, considering, then decided the lubricant could wait a moment.

"Come in," Gaster called. He already knew who it was, the only one of his boys who would ever knock.

Out of all of them, Edge was the one who resisted his overtures the most. Gaster didn't press, allowing him to find his own way and only hovered in the background, offering what meager encouragement that the thick armor of Edge’s pride would allow.

He stood in the doorway now, not quite passing the threshold. He couldn’t have been home for long, Edge’s sentry shift lasted well into the afternoon, but he’d taken the time to change out of his uniform and into a plain black t-shirt and jeans. Despite the more casual clothing, his speech was always formal, almost stilted, "Gaster, I was hoping to speak with you."

Edge was also the only one of the children who unironically called him by name. It was a step up, in a way. At least Edge stopped calling him 'sir'.

"Of course,” Gaster gestured to the chairs by the desk, settling into his own. “What can I do for you?"

Even sitting, Edge’s spine was ramrod straight and he folded his gloved hands into his lap as he said, bluntly. "It's about Stretch."

The silence from the far corner of the room was telling and Gaster very much hoped he wouldn't regret saying, "What about him?"

"It's just--" To Gaster’s astonishment, Edge faltered, looking down. There was none of his normal arrogant confidence on his twisting face and his hands knotted into his lap as he struggled for words. “He…that is…”

"Yes, I think you should ask him out," Gaster said baldly.

Bright crimson magic flooded Edge's face, settling high on his sharp cheekbones. When they’d first come to this world, Gaster had been privately worried for Edge and Red; their physiology was different than the other brothers and it was not an exaggeration to call their appearance fearsome. Never had he been more grateful for Asgore’s kindness than in those early days of their arrival when he not only agreed to allow Edge to join the guard, but introduced him personally around the Underground, particularly in Snowdin where Edge was stationed. As Gaster understood it, Edge was quite popular with the children there and protective as well.

The pride in his soul as he watched Edge slowly flourish was only diminished by one last concern and today it seemed to be coming to a head.

"I couldn’t,” Edge blurted. He did not fidget, but his crimson eye lights darted around. “I’ve always been grateful for your hospitality and—"

"You could," Gaster interrupted calmly. He left aside the comment about hospitality, pushed aside the faint frustration that came with it, "And I would approve. Stretch is a charming young man and handsome as well.”

One who did not lack for suitors and they both knew it. Stretch never lacked for company, although he’d never gone on more than one date with any of them. He still kept people outside of their family at arm’s length and was always clear about the casual nature of those relationships.

Gaster had his own suspicions on why that was.

"But I couldn’t,” Edge repeated doggedly, “it could ruin things for you, for all of us.” He looked up then, his eye lights imploring, “What if I ask and he turns me down, or if he didn't and things went terribly. It would change everything!”

"It could, that is true,” Gaster slouched back in his chair, lacing his hands over his middle, signing on with his conjured ones. “Life is change. My life changed when you and the others came here. Perhaps it will work out, perhaps it won't, but stagnation destroys growth. If you want to ask him out, then ask him, and if something comes of it, wonderful, and if it doesn’t, we’ll work past it.”

Edge nodded, swallowing hard. “Thank you, I appreciate your assurance. I didn’t want to presume.”

He stood abruptly and left without another word. Gaster idly wondered how much longer they’d all be waiting for him to ask. He hoped Edge at least waited until Sunday; that was his chosen day in the betting pool.

From the far corner of the room came words, no longer muffled by drop clothes and engines, "so do i really need to wait for him to ask or can i do it for him? ‘cause i've been waiting, he took forever to read the dating manual.”

Gaster looked over at his son, at his grease-covered clothes and the spanner in his filthy hand, the unrepentant grin on his dirty, delighted face.

"Stagnation is death, but patience is also a virtue," Gaster said dryly. "Wait for him, there’s time enough. And if you’re finished for today, I’ll thank you to clean up.”

"sir, yes, sir,” Stretch’s grin widened even as he turned back around, calling back slyly, “guess the lubricant will have to wait for another day.”

“Cheeky,” Gaster murmured, chuckling to himself and pulled his work back towards him. This time it took him less than a minute to find the error in the equation and he erased it, penciling in the correct number. Before he could finish, Stretch scooted around behind him and there was a light brush of teeth against the top of his skull.

“thanks, pop.” Soft, sincere words, and Gaster closed his sockets briefly, affection for this boy, for all his boys, swelling in his soul.

“You’re welcome. Now go get washed up for dinner.”

“uh huh, you better be heading up,” Stretch said, “blue’ll come drag you up if you don’t.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” Gaster assured him. He went back to work, absently hearing the door closing behind Stretch. He was almost finished and then he’d head upstairs, to what would surely be an interesting meal if nothing else, depending on who cooked today.

Either way, it would be a perfect dinner. So long as his boys were all there, it always was.

-finis-

#dadster #spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #art rec

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ajfanfic · 4 years

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TITLE: Be Careful

AUTHOR: AJfanfic

PROMPT DAY #1: Soulmates

SUMMARY: Soulmates share each other's pain, they share each other's wounds. Jaskier isn't entirely sure what his soulmate gets up to, but he knows he'd tear the world apart to protect his idiot who keeps getting mauled. Then Geralt returns from a fight with a cut that matches his and it all suddenly makes sense.

WORD COUNT: 1,268

BOOKS/NETFLIX/2002 SHOW/VIDEO GAME: Netflix Show

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Canon typical violence is referenced.

RATING: General

Read it below the cut, or on my AO3

Jaskier’s soulmate hadn’t gotten hurt in quite a while. Most people would be pleased by that. Jaskier knew better. His soulmate seemed to get antsy when his life wasn’t endangered frequently enough. After a dry spell, the injuries tended to be either much worse or much more plentiful. He was standing at the edge of a cave idly strumming his lute and wondering what the foolish man would get himself into this time. Maybe he’d go run into a haunted cave, like the other fool Jaskier had attached himself to had just done. To be fair, Geralt was more prepared than most to handle the wraith lurking there.

Maybe his soulmate was a witcher or something like it. It would make sense, with the amount of trouble he got into and his remarkable durability. Jaskier’s head snapped up from the chord progression he’d been toying with as a sharp flash of pain flared across his face. He whipped around, searching for some threat. The only sound was the muted clash of silver from inside the cave.

Think of the devil. Jaskier brushed his fingers across his cheek. They came back wet with blood. Not the worst he’d had by far, might even add to his dashing looks if it scarred. He wondered whether someone had thrown something at his soulmate, or if he’d been hit. Maybe he’d just tripped and had run into the corner of a table or something. Jaskier’s mind tended to go to violence first, and he felt he had enough evidence at this point to feel justified. One doesn’t exactly get bitten with the frequency his soulmate does without leading some sort of risk-prone life. Jaskier himself was quite risk-prone, and he’d been bitten no more than twice. Maybe three times, but he didn’t think jealous soon-to-be-exes counted.

His mystery man was often on his mind, but since he began traveling with Geralt, Jaskier had found his mind on him more and more often. The more he wandered, the more likely he was to run into him, but how would he know? It wasn’t like he was able to feel a bump or bruise, he’d have to get hurt enough to break skin in every village they stopped in and then compare wounds with every man around him. What if next time something took a bite of him, it was the last and they missed their chance? Both of them could end up bleeding out without ever meeting. Then Jaskier would be dead, likely by the side of the road, and he’d never know who he was. He hoped Geralt would at least bury him somewhere nice. And if he did find him, would he be able to settle down? Jaskier found the thought twisted his stomach. Him, keeping a little farm somewhere, singing locally. It just didn’t sit right. The thought of how Geralt would fare without him occurred and was quickly dismissed. He’d do just fine.

Geralt came out of the cave just then, as grumpy and dirty as usual, but not otherwise worse for wear. He pushed his hair back from his face. Fuck. A long, deep cut across his cheekbone. Unremarkable, except for its perfect mirror on Jaskier’s face. They stared at each other for a long moment.

“Fuck.” Jaskier pulled his dagger from his boot and dragged his sharply against his palm.

“Fuck.” Geralt held up his hand, bloody palm out like an offering, or as if warning off a wild animal.

“It’s you. We’re soulmates.”

Geralt dropped to his knees, and the poet would have laughed had his friend not looked so devastated.

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” The words sounded like they’d been dragged over broken glass, and Jaskier was shocked his own throat didn’t hurt. “I thought...I assumed I’d killed you long ago.”

Jaskier sighed, “No luck there, I’m afraid. I live. Badly, I know, but I live.” Geralt’s stricken face was becoming entirely too much to bear. He reached down and hauled him up. “It’s not your fault, Geralt. None of it was your fault.”

“How are you so forgiving?”

Jaskier shrugged. “I’m not. Not at all. Actually, I’m quite vicious and vindictive.”

“Vindictive I’ll believe.”

The poet pressed the flat of his palm to Geralt’s lower back. He felt it like a brand through his thin shirt. His strong, delicate fingers unerringly traced the line running straight across his spine, then the one crossing it, and another and another, until he’s traced each of the fifteen lash marks that left scars across Geralt’s back like he had done it a thousand times before. He takes his time, but Geralt couldn’t have moved even if he’d wanted to, frozen as surely as if by magic.

“I would wake up in the middle of the night, after it happened, shaking from dreams where I’d tear the whip from the hands of whoever hurt you and turn it on them until their spine showed through. And I never felt in the least sorry for it.”

Geralt couldn’t help but shiver and lean into his touch, even as he ground out, “You didn’t know me, then. You didn’t know what I am.”

“That’s true. I didn’t know who you were, beyond someone who spent a lot of time hurting.” Jaskier’s hands mapped out Geralt’s life in wounds across his skin: claw marks along the outside of his thigh, the matching lines a little further up he’d put there himself, a bite to his shoulder just shy of his throat, the line Renfri had left across his forearm. “Now I know you.” His hands came up to hold his face between them so that he wouldn’t look away. Geralt wouldn’t. He hadn’t been able to for a long time. “Even if you weren’t my soulmate, I’d dream about revenge on your behalf, because you are a good man. Because I love you, which has nothing to do with the fact that we share our pain.”

“Jaskier.”

“Yes?”

“Can I kiss you now?”

“Yes, please.”

Geralt was so painfully gentle. Jaskier bit his lip sharply, drawing blood from both of them. He pulled away, pressing their foreheads together.

“I haven’t broken yet. You don’t have to be careful with me.”

“Maybe I want to be careful.”

Jaskier stepped back and Geralt let him go. “Why?” He looked at him, standing there with his swords and his armor, their blood smeared across his face, and he was suddenly angry. “I’m not weak. I can keep up with you, I’ve managed so far.”

“When have I ever said you’re weak?” Geralt tilted his head at him, like Roach did sometimes, like Jaskier had seen children do when they’re scolded but don’t understand why. “Frustrating, certainly. You’re frustrating right now. But you’re as brave as you are foolish and I’m just glad that you are alive.”

His anger left him as quickly as it had come, leaving guilt to rush into its place. “You know, before you came out here, I was trying to not think about how meeting my soulmate would mean giving up traveling with you.”

Geralt closed the space between them and kissed him like he was trying to make up for years of pain, reassurance and a promise all wrapped up in one. Jaskier kissed him back, soothing his tongue against the drop of blood welling on his lower lip. His fingers grazed against Geralt’s stubble-rough cheek and he flinched as they brushed the edge of the gash.

“Can I clean that up?” Jaskier twined their fingers together, pulling him towards Roach. “You don’t need another scar.”

#2020 geraskier week #geraskier #jaskier #Geralt #The Witcher #witcher #fanfic #mine #soulmate au

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thewhumperinwhite · 4 years

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WKW: Magic Lessons Part Two

Previous: Teaser 1 / Teaser 2 / Presentable / The Lion’s Mane / To Bid You All Welcome: Part One / Part 2 / Part 3 / A Single Bed, A Door With No Lock / Sword Of My Fathers / Flashback: Little Bird, Part One / Little Bird Part Two / Stained Glass, Candles, Empty Stone / Magic Lessons: Part One / Magic Lessons: Interlude

Asher has a visitor.

TW for: underage whumpee; captivity; isolation; implied/referenced/threatened noncon; grooming; gaslighting and manipulation; Morden Crane’s Creepy Vibes

@faewhump @lollyxxxfem also hey if you wanna be tagged in wkw updates please send me a message specifically cause those are the easiest for me to keep track of <3

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If Asher had known to expect the fall of his father’s house, if he hadn’t believed the lies the nobles and staff had raised him on, that the castle was impenetrable, that the walls of Colomur were unbreachable, that the Lion of Colomur was unkillable and the Lady’s magic unbeatable—even if he had known to expect anything, he would not have expected his chief complaint in the first weeks after the end of the world to be boredom.

It’s far from his only complaint, of course. There’s no abundance of food and he’s not felt really full since—well, since even before the siege, so probably in months, now. And generally when he sees the armed Leisevan soldiers in their black armor patrolling the halls of his father’s house he has to sit down quickly because he is immediately shaking from—well, partly anger, and mostly fear.

And occasionally he thinks of his brother’s blank face as he kneels before the Winter King; occasionally he thinks of the clothes they have made his brother wear before the court and all the things they might mean, each one worse than the last, and of how even if there was anything he could do to stop it Andry would not let him because his brother is determined to die for him whether Asher wants him to or not.

But even so, Asher is allowed one hour a day to see his brother, generally under the sardonically watchful eye of the Winter King’s Wolf, upon whom all the hatred in Asher’s heart is currently focused; and the minute Andry is out of his sight Asher begins to feel as though perhaps the world outside the single room they keep him in no longer exists, and maybe never existed.

The room itself is small, equipped with a bed, a small couch, and a chamber pot and washtub. There are two black-armored guards posted at the door at all times, but either they have been instructed not to speak with him or they don’t care to.

They have left Asher his clothes, including the jacket he was wearing when the siege broke, which is emblazoned with his father’s crest embroidered boldly across the back.

For reasons he has had no opportunity or reason to verbalize, Asher has spent the past three days unpicking it with his teeth.

Asher has no reliable way of telling the time, so even though he ought to know better, he looks up with real hope when the door opens, thinking it must somehow be his allotted time with Andry again. Then he freezes, and presses the ruin he’s making of his father’s crest face down on the floor beside him, without really knowing why.

The Winter King is standing in the doorway, looking down at him with tolerant amusement.

Asher has not laid eyes on Morden Crane since he was seated beside him at the banquet, and that was—at least two sunsets ago now. And, crucially, in public. Long before he can identify what he’s feeling, the Winter King smirks down at him—Asher is sitting on the floor in front of the bed, unwashed and really only half decent, at least by his mother’s standards—and plucks the jacket, which Asher has now spent unbroken hours ruining, easily from Asher’s relaxing grip.

The Winter King examines the jacket, smirk widening; mercifully it is now between his face and Asher and Asher uses the opportunity to scramble up off the floor and onto the bed in order to scoot back away from the Winter King as quickly as possible.

“Goodness,” Morden Crane says. “It may not be an elegant crest, but I wouldn’t have thought it as hateful as all that.”

He lowers the jacket to raise his eyebrows at Asher, and Asher can see the center of the embroidered lion’s face torn to shreds. He did it himself, but seeing it in Crane’s hands makes him immediately sick.

“Feeling a bit restive, are we, Prince?”

Asher glares up at the Winter King. The man is, as always, tall and handsome and immaculately neat, every strand of his long black hair in place, expression lightly amused but mostly serene and unbothered. Asher lifts his chin, determined not to be afraid. “What are you doing here?”

Morden sets the jacket on the back of the couch, patting it with mocking gentleness. Then he spreads his hands and smiles at Asher, his face mild and open and dangerous.

“I’m here to see you, of course,” the Winter King says.

Asher stares at him, alarmed.

“It occurred to me that you’ve had little room to run since our families have come together. A growing boy needs space to move about, I imagine.” Morden’s black eyes glitter, as if at a private joke at Asher’s expense. “Perhaps you’d like to take a turn of the gardens with me, Prince.”

Asher’s heart hammers in his chest. The knowledge that it must be a trap does him no good, because he cannot imagine what such a trap’s object might be. Andry, he thinks desperately, would know, would see immediately what the Winter King is playing at, but Asher has never been clever like Andry is, and the longer Crane stands before him the more he is certain of nothing except that he is afraid.

He shakes his head, because his tongue is too thick in his mouth to speak well.

Morden Crane looks at Asher, apparently without anger, and sighs a little. “Prince,” he says, “really. It gives me no pleasure to be feared and hated by those with whom I have no quarrel. Politics may have started us off on the wrong foot, but it needn’t make us lifelong enemies.”

“You killed my father,” Asher says flatly.

Morden sighs, making a conceding gesture with his gloved hand. “A difficult start, I’ll grant. My Harpy is excitable; her orders were to take the Lion alive. In fairness, you must agree the Lion’s temper allowed for little diplomacy.”

It is, in a terrible way, true. Even if Crane hadn’t ordered Audoine killed, Asher knows his father too well to imagine him being taken alive; he’d have died first out of spite alone.

It also barely matters anymore. Asher is too sick with worry about the living to question the treatment of the dead.

Asher shifts forward, gripping the edge of the bed, and meets the Winter King’s black eyes, as fearlessly as he can manage.

“Crane,” he says, and doesn’t shrink back when Morden raises his eyebrows at the address. “Answer, and don’t lie to me.” Asher cannot spot a lie like Andry, but he thinks he will know this, to his bones. “Winter King. Have you touched my brother?”

Morden blinks, and then bursts out a laugh, apparently startled, as though at a ridiculous question. “Me?” he says. “Darling. No.”

Asher searches the Winter King’s face. Morden lets him look, with nothing more than amusement.

“Then I’ll go with you,” Asher says, and hopes the condition is clear in his voice.

If the Winter King wants to walk to gardens with him—for reasons Asher can’t fathom, but which he isn’t naïve enough to imagine he will like—Asher can give him that, at least for now. Andry may be determined to die for him, but two can play that game.

Asher braces himself for some overt humiliation—Andry is never permitted to walk the halls without being leashed like a dog—but Morden Crane only glides serenely over to the door, nods when the guards snap to attention, and raises his eyebrows back at Asher, beckoning when Asher doesn’t immediately follow.

Asher approaches cautiously, and Crane gestures him ahead, the motion slightly too grand to be anything but mocking. Asher stares at the guards—if they are laughing at least he will know better what he is being led to—but they must be trained specially to show nothing on their faces, and their black Leisevan uniforms still send a shiver down Asher’s spine—enough that he takes half a step closer to Crane before he realizes what he's doing, and would stumble into the Winter King if Crane didn’t obligingly drop a black-gloved hand onto his shoulder to steady him.

Asher goes rigid at the Winter King’s touch, all thoughts of self-sacrifice driven immediately from his head by skin-crawling panic.

Crane withdraws his hand easily, and even steps back to give Asher more space, and his burst of laughter is harsh enough that it might actually be sincere.

“Relax, Prince,” Crane says. “Gakne knows I’ve no interest in touching you either.”

Asher takes a breath to try to slow his hammering heartbeat, ashamed of his own lack of resolve, and squares his shoulders, stands tall like Andry used to stand in front of their father.

Crane watches him with open amusement, and then turns and sweeps down the hallway, not even turning to see if Asher will follow.

Not that Asher has any choice, with the two guards still standing at attention mere feet behind him. He scurries after the Winter King, and leash or no he feels like a dog at heel.

After days in one room, the sunlight nearly blinds him, and he is immediately shivering in his tatty undershirt, no longer used to the autumn breeze. Crane has led him out a side door into the courtyard, and watches him shake with the same amused smirk with which he seems to look at everything, and Asher only barely keeps from glaring at him.

Then the Winter King says, “Here, boy,” and reaches for the jeweled clasp at his throat, and before Asher can protest, Crane has swung his great black cloak around Asher’s shoulders; for a moment the warmth is such a relief that he almost pulls it closer.

He remembers Andry’s bared shoulders in front of his father’s court, the jeweled band around his throat, Andry’s bowed head and shaking hands.

Asher shrugs the cloak off, hard; the material is thick and costly and it smacks heavily into the dirt, raises a cloud of dust.

He can practically hear Andry’s horrified voice in his head and knows he should stop before he’s gone too far to come back, but he has never been as strong as Andry. Asher spits at the Winter King’s feet, instead.

Then he stares up at the Winter King, who has raised his perfect brows very high, and prays he doesn’t die looking frightened.

Then the Winter King smirks again, and opens his gloved hands in amused surrender. “You’re welcome to freeze, if you’d prefer,” he says, and stoops easily to retrieve his cloak, folding it over his arm, as if to show off how little the cold bothers him, and turns to lead Asher through the garden.

Asher feels tears prick at his eyes, though he doesn’t know why. When the Winter King begins to pick his way through the flower beds, he follows.

----

Riding high on the aftermath of one of Thorne’s “lessons,” it’s easy enough for Morden to be merciful. And as no one else is present in the homely little courtyard garden to witness the child’s outburst, it’s certainly no skin off Morden’s nose. Quite the opposite, really.

Still, it’s a delicate situation, maybe more than he anticipated. The younger Prince isn’t so much older than his Thorne was, when he first found him; yet apparently a few years can make a world of difference in the attitude of a teenage boy. And, of course, his work with Thorne had the advantage of novelty: no one had offered Thorne a soft word or a hot meal before Morden; the little Prince, in contrast, has clearly been spoiled, by his brother if not by the dead Lion. It’s an entirely different proposition, really.

Still, Morden thinks, basking in magic like a cat in the sun, he can afford to be patient. The little Prince is only a backup, and Morden has plenty of time.

#the winter king's ward #whump #original whump #fantasy whump #royalty whump #captivity #isolation #grooming tw #manipulation #faux affectionate villain

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fancoloredglasses · 4 years

Text

Dungeons & Dragons episode review Module 1-3: The Hall of Bones

(Thanks to Wise Moogle)

No, your eyes do not deceive you. This episode was written by none other than Paul Dini, the man behind Batman: the Animated Series, Superman: the Animated Series, and Justice League.

One quick note before we begin: In D&D, magic items fall into three categories. The first is one-and-done items. These are usually potions that imbue temporary effect to the drinker or scrolls with a spell imprinted upon them. The second are magic items that have a permanent effect imbued upon them, such as weapons, armor/clothing, or jewelry. The third is an item that has an “activated” effect that can only be used a certain number of times, and once these uses (or “charges”) are expended, the item is rendered permanently inert.

Where the PC are: Every PC is one point shy of 4rd level, except Bobby, who needs another 1400XP to reach 4th level (and likely will similarly come up short this adventure). I’m going to predict Presto and Eric will also not max out their XP.

Again, Watch Cartoons Online has your hookup

We open to the party in a swamp fleeing from what look like giant flying monkeys (the show calls them “Simian-Bats”, but I can’t find any record of them in the D&D Monster Manual, so I’m just gonna call them flying monkeys)

(Thanks to Jenny Saqua)

Now, I’m not certain why they’re running. I mean, they face down Venger on a weekly basis and have bested Tiamat twice (then again, they were also captured by giant snails so...)

Anyway, one managed to grab Uni, which causes Bobby to grow a spine and turn to face the flying monkeys. Bobby uses his club to fell a tree. The tree causes the flying monkey to dodge out of the way, dropping Uni. Fortunately, Bobby catches her (I guess Bobby has been working out, as a quick search lists the lightest horse at 6 months...I guessing she’s at least that old, at over 200 pounds!) I’ll award XP for that...damn, now I need to figure XP for a new monster! I quick look at the Monster Manual lists an ape as a monster. Cross-referencing the Dungeon Masters’ Guide (DMG) and adding in the fact it can fly...I’ll say a flying monkey is 300XP. That actually seems reasonable for PCs at level 3. Maybe the DM is finally starting to learn game balance?

Hank pulls out his bow to give Bobby cover, only his magic bolt fizzles before it reaches the...hmm, apparently a group of monkeys is called a troop, so I’m gonna say a group of flying monkeys is called a squadron. Bobby tries the tree trick again, but his club’s power similarly fizzles. Eric discovers his shield’s power is also having issues...do magic items have warranties? If so, I think these ones just expired!

The party flees into the fog, hiding underwater until the monkeys fly off. Hank figures their weapons’ failure was Venger’s doing (of course...it all comes back to the guy with the asymmetrical headgear) Then Dungeon Master shows up and explains that the magic in the weapons are losing their potency (THAT’S NOT HOW MAGIC ITEMS WORK! Did you not read my explanation earlier?) and must be recharged at a tomb known as the Hall of Bones (to which Eric moans that they’re going to a cemetery) on an altar called the Skull of Power (this has to be the creepiest module yet) Dungeon Master suggests they hire a guide and (as always) a cryptic clue “In darkness, look to the light”

The party walks to a nearby town, when Eric reminds the party they are broke, so he attempts to earn some by telling light bulb jokes (they don’t have light bulbs in a fantasy setting, dumbass!), and racist ones at that! Diana suggests Presto pull money from his hat (they one that’s fizzling? This should be good...) We’re treated to a rehash of the intro clips to Rocky & Bullwinkle...

youtube

(Thanks to Best One Liners)

Fortunately, they townsfolk think this is the funniest thing ever and shower Presto with coins.

Eric decides to find a guide at the seediest tavern this side of Mos Eisley, He immediately walks over to hire a bunch of Orcs, interrupting their meal, who decide they don’t like him (I’ll bet they have the death sentence in 12 systems kingdoms) and decide he’d make a good second course. Eric tries to bribe his way out, which attracts the rest of the...rougher patrons.

Hank winds up throwing a jingling sack at the crowd, causing a brawl as they all escape. Unfortunately, it contained nothing but bottlecaps (what is this, Fallout?), so the party is run out of town...or would be if they didn’t turn into a dead end alley! Fortunately, someone in a nearby building hides them...

(Thanks to imdb)

The woman leads them to a cave under the town. She then begins transforming into a monster and pushes them into a pit, where they land on a giant web. It is then that their “rescuer” reveals her true nature...

(thanks to notmejo)

...Lolth, Goddess Queen of the evil Drow Elves! At that point, Venger arrives to take the party’s magic items, (he does know they have some issues right now, right?) then leaves the party for Lolth to feast on.

Hank tells Uni to use her horn to snap the line Lolth is traveling down, which sends her plummeting, but she shoots a strand that snares Uni (who is fortunately still gummed to the web) and begins climbing up. At this time, the party manages to free themselves and rush to Uni’s aid. They manage to free Uni from Lolth’s line, sending her plummeting. A bit of research reveals that the party earned themselves 12,470XP.

The party finds their way out of the cavern to discover Venger once again fighting Tiamat. With the party’s items, Venger is unstoppable...or would be if they worked as advertised.

HANK: He’s using our weapons to fight Tiamat!

ERIC: Great! We could use a few less dragons!

SHEILA: But our weapons don’t work!

PRESTO: Great! Then we’ll have a few less Vengers!

When Venger realizes the items are on the fritz, he throws them away and flees, leaving them for the party to recover.

Later, the party encounters a Halfling (that’s a Hobbit with the Tolkien copyright infringement removed...yet Orcs are still a thing in D&D. Go figure) named Hector who offers to guide them to the Hall of Bones (*sniff sniff* anyone else smell a trap?) After much bitching, moaning, and Are-we-there-yeting from the party (mostly Eric), the party arrives...

(Thanks to pinterest)

...reminds me of Castle Greyskull...

(another from Pinterest)

Hector leads them to the Skull of Power to charge their weapons

(Thanks again to Jenny Saqua)

The party places their items in the skull, (as Hector grins wickedly behind them...yep, trap) fully charging them. Then Hector transforms into Venger! (I KNEW IT!) and demands the items.

A battle begins, with one of Venger’s magic bolts hitting the Skull of Power, causing it to glow. The heroes hide inside the skull (”In darkness, look to the light”...I guess the Skull is glowing...) as the spirits of the entombed heroes rise to defend the party against Venger.

The Skull teleports the party outside the Hall of Bones as the battle rages within, eventually becoming the magical equivalent of an atomic fireball! Unfortunately, Venger escaped. Since the spirits did all the heavy lifting, no XP award for the battle.

The party earned 12,770XP, or 2128 each (a MUCH more reasonable total for their level), which is enough to level up the party to level 4, but they have a ways to go to reach level 5

#d&d #animation #Fan Colored Glasses

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kellanswritingblog · 5 years

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Masquerade, a Zolf/Hamid fake dating AU

Chapter 5: The Onslaught

The ball is attacked, and the Rangers step up to take care of the threat.

Chapter 5 is below, or you can find it on AO3

Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3; Chapter 4

Their search revealed nothing of interest and all four were starting to wonder if there was a plot against the festivities at all. Regardless, they were still getting paid, so they stayed aware, just in case.

And so, as the day pressed along, Grizzop and Sasha disappeared back into the less-travelled passages to keep an eye on things and avoid socializing, while Zolf and Hamid headed into the ballroom with the rest of the guests, all dressed up and in need of a stronger drink than was available. Neither referenced what happened in their room and instead stood awkwardly off to the side, drinking wine in silence. Zolf opened his mouth to speak several times, but what could he possibly say?

Eventually, Zolf managed to quiet the thrumming of his heart and the spinning in his stomach and asked, “Hamid, would you like to dance?”

“Oh! I didn’t mean to imply that you had to,” Hamid insisted. “I just wanted it to be an option for you.”

“And I’m taking that option. If you want…”

Before Hamid could reply, a loud but muffled noise erupted from Zolf’s pocket. He removed the mobile stone so that he could hear Grizzop and Sasha properly.

“Bad news, bad news!” Grizzop exclaimed. “They teleported in! They’re magicky ones!”

“What direction?” Zolf asked hurriedly as Hamid huddled around him to join the conversation.

Grizzop’s response was cut off with a scream and the sounds of an explosion through the stone and directly into Zolf’s ears. A gigantic chunk of wall across the ballroom disappeared in a great BOOM and shockwaves threw many partygoers to the floor. A couple dozen individuals sauntered through the hole.

“I can cast fireball, but if Sasha and Grizzop are among them…” Hamid pondered as he picked himself up off the ground.

Zolf scanned his surroundings and noticed a shadowy figure, picked out only by the glint of a dagger, and a not-quite-so-shadowy figure, illuminated by burning arrows.

“Aim for the front!” Zolf commanded. “They’re at the back.”

Hamid said nothing but went still and pointed at the breach in the wall until a tiny beam of fire emerged from his finger. It then expanded into a great bursting ball of flame as it hit the intruders, and screams erupted from the attackers that went flying and were set alight.

Zolf charged towards the mass of intruders, pulling his glaive from the bag of holding at his hip, grateful that Hamid had designed their suits so that their armor would fit underneath them.

“Wait, Zolf!”

He turned back to face Hamid and wondered as to the hesitation. Hamid placed a hand on Zolf’s shoulder and a flow of magical energy spread across him, a shimmering yellow surrounding him for the briefest moment before fading into nothingness.

“It’ll make it harder for them to hurt you,” Hamid explained.

Zolf just nodded, then turned back to the mass of black-robed intruders, who were moving through the nobility and aristocracy with blades drawn and coated in the blood of those they’d already eliminated.

“Hey! Come pick on someone that’s willing to fight back, you cowards!” Zolf shouted across the space and raced toward them as fast as his legs would carry him, glaive outstretched. He sped into the mass of bombers and sliced through them as they surrounded him, spinning in dizzying patterns to keep them from getting too close and using their own weapons against him.

As one broke through the line, several bolts of magical force blasted into them and sent them falling backwards, away from Zolf. Across the space, Hamid was surrounded in colorful displays of magic, fire and energy mingling around him as his features grew more severe, his dragon heritage manifesting more and more with each cast.

With the help of Sasha’s daggers and Grizzop’s arrows, the main group of attackers was dispatched.

“I’m going after the leader!” Zolf said to the others before running after the one at the front of the mass that had seemed to be the mastermind. “Get the stragglers! Try to keep them alive if you can!”

Even though he was already gone, he could practically hear Sasha and Grizzop reply “No promises” as their blades sunk into another body.

Zolf chased the leader to the corner of the ballroom and into the entrance of a hallway that branched off when he was hit from the side.

“Zolf, no!”

The roof fell into the spot where Zolf had just been and pinned Hamid underneath several miscellaneous chunks of rubble. He’d dived at Zolf to save him from the leader’s magical cast, meant to trap him under the building’s broken remains, but got himself partially caught in the process.

“Hamid!” Zolf tossed his glaive to the side and hefted the heavier chunks of stone off of Hamid’s body.

He coughed and shuddered, not resisting as Zolf pulled him away from the collapse.

Zolf pressed his hands against Hamid’s chest and channeled all of the positive energy he could feel to heal him as best he could, even finding himself demanding Poseidon to help out, to repay all his years of faith and do something worthwhile for once, because if anyone was worthy, it was Hamid.

“Hamid, Hamid, please!”

Hamid’s eyes fluttered open and he feebly stared up at Zolf.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Zolf sighed. Then, with a disappointed and impressed smile, he added, “You just have to be the hero, don’t you?”

Hamid laughed, holding his stomach with the effort. “I’ve tried to be better about that. But I couldn’t let you…”

In the heat of the battle, with screams and cries around them, Zolf pressed his lips to Hamid’s forehead, a promise and thanks all in one.

“Stay put. And try to stay out of trouble.”

Again, Hamid chuckled and nodded. “Yeah, I don’t think I’m going anywhere right now. Go get them.”

Zolf stood, retrieved his glaive, cast another glance at Hamid – stable, but still injured – and sprinted to the other access corridor. Through their investigations, he’d memorized most of the passages in and out and through the palace and relied on that now as he figured that this hallway would soon intersect and combine with that which the leader had taken.

Even though they had a head start, Zolf was fueled by rage and soon enough caught up enough to see a black-robed figure at the far end of the passage.

“Stop right there!” Zolf cried, but neither of them slowed for a second.

He wasn’t fast enough to catch up to a human, no matter his leg-situation. In a last-ditch effort, Zolf threw his glaive with all his force at the back of the leader.

It lodged itself in their spine with a satisfying thud, and the mastermind fell to the ground with a scream. Zolf ran up to their side, removing the glaive by placing a foot on their back and pulling upwards on the weapon. With a simple cast of a spell, he knew they wouldn’t be dying on him, but they also weren’t going anywhere with a bloody hole that large in their back.

With a bit of rope from his pack, Zolf tied up the leader, and then sprinted back into the ballroom to take stock of the situation.

Grizzop was standing in the middle of the crowd of nobility, his high voice giving direction to all of the surviving partygoers, pointing them toward healers or away from it all if they had avoided the devastation. It was clear he had the situation in hand, standing atop a pile of gagged and restrained attackers to make sure he couldn’t be ignored.

Sasha, on the other hand, was kneeling in the corner, next to Hamid.

“Is he alright?” Zolf asked as his breath caught in his throat.

She nodded and Zolf visibly slumped with relief. “I gave him some potions, and one of the healer types here helped him out. He should be alright.”

“I’m fine,” Hamid insisted and stood of his own ability.

“Thank you,” Zolf said softly. “You probably saved my life.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sasha watched the confession with wide eyes and an awkward expression on her face before darting off and disappearing into the crowd.

Zolf quickly pulled Hamid into an embrace, squeezing him tighter than his condition merited.

“Stop risking your life like that,” he muttered into Hamid’s shoulder. “I’m grateful you saved me, but I’m not worth you sacrificing yourself.”

Hamid held him back and cried into his beard. “Of course you are.”

With a shuddering breath, Zolf sighed, and held Hamid a little bit tighter.

“We should probably see what we can do for the survivors,” Hamid muttered as they pulled away from each other hesitantly.

“You’re right. It looks like Grizzop has it all pretty well in hand, though.”

They both chuckled as Grizzop began berating a particularly portly nobleman who decided to try and usurp his authority. Hamid leaned against Zolf’s side and Zolf held him tightly for support, then they headed toward their colleague.

“Hamid, listen, I… I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Zolf could feel Hamid’s eyes beaming up at him, and he whispered, “I’m glad you’re okay too.”

#rqg #rusty quill gaming #rqgaming #zolf smith #hamid saleh haroun al tahan #zamid #riverbank #I'm actually pretty proud of this chapter #I don't write a lot of combat so

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the-marvel-imagines-blog · 5 years

Text

Madness | Chpt. 6

Requests are Open

Chapter Title: “Collateral Damage”

Pairing: Loki x Original Female Character

Word Count: 4,786

Warnings: hurt/no comfort, Angry!Eva, violence, Angry!Loki

Name Pronunciations: Hjalmar: “He-all-mar” | Aaldir: “All-deer” | Ephinea: “Eh-fin-ee-uh”

A/N: I want to take a moment to apologize for my absence. I’ve had some health problems recently, and within the last couple of weeks, I’ve lost entire days thanks to said problems. I’m finally feeling well enough again to post, but during my time being sick, I’ve managed to come up with quite a bit of content. Thank you so much for reading and enjoying what I’m writing. Even if not every chapter is you cup of tea, it means a lot to see that people are leaving likes, messaging me, reblogging, etc.! Please note that I have taken and will be taking a lot of creative liberties pertaining to these characters. This will be shown in excess during the upcoming chapters, so I just wanted to give a bit of a warning. There are some timeline changes, character changes, etc. Once again, thank you so much for reading. I love you all <3

Tagged: @teddyboobear @alledeglyfunny (anyone who wants to be tagged can message me and ask. It’s not a problem at all)

“Looks like you lost,” I dictated as I dragged him down the stairs to the dungeons. My entire body felt like it was on fire, but it didn’t stop the shiver from running down my spine at the thought of what he was capable of. Ezra showed us something none of us could’ve expected. He was skilled in ways that we were unprepared for, ways I didn’t even know could exist. I still trembled at the thought of my slain comrades-members of Odin’s kingsguard-rising and fighting against us. The more people of ours Ezra killed, the more people he had fighting for him. The battle was unfair and horrific, but we still won even after members of the kingsguard forced Odin away from the situation. Ezra had surrendered after we had gotten him onto his knees. My sword had been pressed against his throat, and all I needed to do was give it one swift motion to kill him. I couldn’t, though.

There was something that kept me from killing him, but I had no idea what it was. Maybe it was the familiarity in those green eyes or the endless knowledge he seemed to have about me. Still, my decision to keep him alive could be useful in the future of Asgard. He was another enemy who would be a prisoner in the dungeons, a man we could retrieve information from. He snickered at me, “you may have won, but what did it cost you?” he asked, glancing down at the wound on my abdomen.

I ignored his comment, feeling the pain radiating from the wound. During the battle, he had taken a swing at Ephinea, a blow I did my best to protect her from. I had pushed her back and tried to put as much distance between him and I as possible, but it wasn’t enough. My sword blocked his axe, and while I struggled to disarm him, I was unaware of the dagger he pulled out until he buried it in my abdomen. The dagger cut right through my training armor-which had not been suitable for battle-and pierced into my flesh. I had not yet seen it, but a piece of me was convinced it was nothing while the rational part of myself was sure it was something much more than I was prepared to deal with. If I could still walk, I was fine.

Behind Ezra and I were the remaining members of the kingsguard who did not sustain significant injuries as well along with Ephinea, Sif, and the warriors three. Thor had taken to the throne room with his father to discuss what would come next. Everyone in the dungeons was silent when they saw the crowd of warriors that it took to secure the newest prisoner. They watched us in a stunned silence, including Loki. I avoided all eye contact with the God of Mischief, still hurt by his actions an entire week ago. While I wished for an empty cell anywhere else in the dungeons, the only free one was directly across from Loki’s, which would undoubtedly cause me to worry much more than I should have. The cells were practically impenetrable, and even if Ezra managed to break free of his cell, there would be no real reason for him to go after Loki.

As we stood in front of his cell, he turned to face me as I spoke, “this is gonna be your new home. I don’t know where you came from or what you knew before this, but you won’t be going back there anytime soon. You said you haven’t seen a sunrise for more than 300 years?” I asked, and he nodded his head, a grin forming on his lips in anticipation for what I was about to say, “well, be prepared to wait another 300 because you aren’t getting out of here for a long time,” I growled, glaring up at him and his apathetic expression. It was as if he had no remorse at all for the lives he had taken, like the entire battle before this meant nothing to him. His reaction was sickening.

He cocked one of his thick eyebrows, “you have a fire within you that you try to ignore, pet, but you can’t hide it from me,” he replied before lunging forward and attacking my lips with his. It shocked me at first, but I leaned into it after a moment, realizing that I could use it to my advantage. Everyone around us who was there to ensure his safe transportation to his cell was left in shock, but they always knew that I had a plan. My lips molded together with his thick ones, and while I was disgusted to be kissing the man who just killed so many of my people, I knew that this was going to work out in my favor. While Ezra was distracted by the kiss, I eased one of my daggers from its sheath at my side and reached behind him before sinking it into his lower back.

He sucked in a sharp breath, disconnecting our lips. His face distorted in pain, and his chest rumbled as I pulled the dagger from his body, twisting it in the process. Once it was out, I dropped it on the ground behind him and reached into the small pouch on my belt to pull out one of the tracking devices I always carried with me. In one swift motion, I shoved two of my fingers into the wound to deposit the tracking device as deeply as possible. He grunted and twisted to break free of my grasp, but I would not release him. I released the tracking device once I was sure it was embedded deep enough that he could not feel it and dig it out on his own. When I finally removed my fingers, I rested my hand against his wound and focused all of my energy on transferring it over to myself. That was the one downfall of my healing power. I was unable to heal someone without transferring their wounds onto myself. While he was not worthy of my help, I couldn’t leave the wound open for fear that he would just pull the device out. Now, it he wanted to take it out, he would have to cut himself open and dig for it.

As the wound transferred to myself, I gritted my teeth, but nothing could compare to the wound on my abdomen. It was like if one had been stabbed by Surtur himself, a scraped knee could never compare to it, so the pain was far more tolerable. Once I finished healing his wound, I glared up at him, “you’re going to have a lot of time to think while you’re down here, and that’s all you get to do. If you move, I’ll know about it. If you speak, I’ll know about it. If you have any thoughts about breaking out of your cell, I will know about it. I didn’t kill you today because I believe in second chances. If you fail to cooperate or if you become a threat to anyone I know or love, I will not hesitate to kill you,” I growled at him.

He nodded his head, “my execution would be against the Allfather’s wishes. It’s a beautiful sentiment-it truly is-but...tell me, pet, how will you protect the two people you love most when one is here and one is on Midgard?” he asked, referencing her once more.

My eyes widened, and he smirked at the look of dread that was clear on my face. I saw my reflection in his eyes and saw a girl who had everything to lose, someone who had lost so much already. As my protective instincts kicked in, I grew furious that he even put their safety in question. I pulled my fist back and landed a hard punch against his cheek. When his head snapped to the side to accommodate the blow, I swiped his feet out from under him to bring him down to the ground. As he caught himself on his knees, I pulled out my other dagger and pressed it against his throat with one hand while I grabbed a fistful of his hair with the other. I squatted down to be at his level, “say it again,” I growled.

He smirked, “and what if I did? What if I threatened them again?” he asked, challenging me, “would you kill me, an unarmed man on his knees? Would you take my life the same way your enemies took your friends life on Vanaheim? You and I both know that you don’t have what it takes,” he hissed, bringing up Hjalmar. My chest tightened, “the only way to save the ones you love so dearly is to accept your destiny, to accept what you’re truly meant to be.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, “and what is that?”

“A god,” he answered with a smile as he leaned into my blade against his throat, “just like me.”

I shook my head, my entire body trembling as anger and rage built up in my chest, “I am nothing like you,” I growled, furious that he would even try to compare the two of us. He fought and killed so many of my people and raised them back to be monsters. What was it for? I only fought when it needed to be done. I didn’t seek out confrontation. I fought, and even killed, the few who put the lives of the many at stake, and it always sat with me. The eyes of my victims never left my mind, for I was aware that I had taken someone’s loved one away from them. Ezra showed in the short time I knew him that he was nothing like that. He killed without remorse, and I saw no conflict in his eyes once it was over. We were nothing alike.

He chuckled, “that’s where you’re wrong, pet. You and I are more alike than you know, and that’s how I know, without the shadow of a doubt, that you’ll lose both of them in time,” he said, and my heart felt like it would fall through the floor. How did he know all of my deepest and darkest fears? That was always the one thing that scared me the most: losing the ones I loved. Of course, it was the fear of so many people, but he was able to pull up the two people I cared for more than anything else and use their safety against me, “it’s in your nature. You’ll always lose,” he added.

My chest rose and fell as I struggled to find air. It felt like his threats were taking the air from my lungs, and I felt like I would suffocate. I saw how big a threat he was, but we managed to bring him down together. I didn’t want to imagine what Cul’s entire army could do. Everything had been thrown at us so quickly, as we had no knowledge of who Cul was or that Odin even had an older brother at all. Everything that happened that day just made me feel uncertain of everything. Still, I couldn’t show Ezra that, “and what about you? You’re the man who kneels before me with my dagger against his throat. You lost,” I hissed.

“You’ll need me soon enough,” he remarked, gesturing down to the stab wound on my abdomen that throbbed with a pain I never experienced before. The wound hurt badly enough that it felt like I would be sick from the pain. I had been stabbed before, and the wounds never felt quite like that. Perhaps, it had just been too long, and I forgot the sensation. I shook the thoughts from my mind and focused on him once more as he continued, “and the moment you come to me, begging for my help, is the moment when you’ll finally realize that you are the one who has lost,” he sneered, his eyes cutting right through me. It was like he could see every weakness and insecurity I had.

“If you or anyone else tries hurt the people I care for, you won’t be able to find shelter from the storm I unleash. You don’t want to make me an enemy,” I threatened him.

He shook his head as if he was disappointed in me, and I furrowed my eyebrows. When his eyes finally met mine once more, he snickered to himself, “you speak like a warrior, but there is no true weight in your words. I know-as well as you do-that you would never pose a threat to the one thing you believe in more than anything else: Life. That’s why I know you won’t kill me. I’m not afraid of you,” he stated, nonchalantly as he leaned into the blade, hard enough to draw blood.

I stood up, sheathing my dagger, before pulling him up onto his feet. He stood much taller than me, but I didn’t feel small in that moment. Even though I was insecure about what would come next, I couldn’t show my fears to the man who was threatening the lives of the people I loved. I needed to be strong, or he would take advantage of my weaknesses. I grabbed a fistfull of his hair and pulled his head down to mine, maintaining eye contact the entire time, “you aren’t afraid of me,” I hissed before leaning in to his ear, “but you should be,” I whispered the line I had been told only once before. It had shaken me to the very core when it was said to me, but I felt powerful now that I was on the other end. My voice was low enough so that only he could hear me, and once I finished, I pulled away from him and shoved him into his cell. Ephinea activated the cell wall before he was even able to regain his balance. I couldn’t help the smile as I watched him struggle to not fall onto his face, but the sharp pain in my abdomen cut that short.

Not wanting to waste anymore time on him, I turned to face the members of the Kingsguard. They were some of the most well-trained warriors Asgard had to offer, so much so that they were trusted with protecting the Allfather himself. The kingsguard lined the halls of the palace at all times of the day and night, and they stood guard over the dungeons as well. I picked up my blood-covered dagger that I had dropped on the floor moments prior and lowered it back into its sheath. I pointed over at Ezra but stayed focused on the warriors before me, “I want two guards posted outside his cell every second of every day. I never want him left unsupervised, and if he is, you’re going to wish that you experienced the Allfather’s wrath instead of mine,” I threatened, feeling my unchecked fury rising further and further in my chest. I surprised myself at the harsh tone of my voice, but I didn’t change it, “if he shows any signs of agitation, I want to know about it. If he takes one step out of line, I want to know about it. If he breathes offbeat, I want to know about it. I want every detail of his existence to be monitored while he’s down here. I want nothing to go unnoticed. If he speaks out of line, I want to know what he said and when he said it. Do you understand?”

I saw the startled expression on every face of the men before me. I had always been known for my calm and collected nature, and the only time I ever broke away from that was when I was in battle. Even then, I had never been so ruthless, especially never with them. They all nodded in agreement to my orders, but one of the guards stepped forward, his eyes just as confused as the rest, “I mean you no offense when I ask this, but...what would you do about it, my lady?”

As I brushed past all of them, needing to take my place with Thor and Odin to discuss our next moves, I answered his question, “I’ll kill him.”

Before I could make it very far at all, Ezra yelled after me, “good luck, pet. I take pity on you for what is about to come,” he shouted, that booming voice echoing throughout the silent dungeons. It was as if every prisoner stood completely still as I walked by-all but one. As I walked past Loki’s cell, I stared straight ahead, refusing to even look his way, still hurt by what transpired between us a week prior. It broke my heart to ignore him that way, but I had to focus on the safety of the Nine Realms. A piece of it was also to protect him. If there was a chance I could convince Ezra that I no longer cared for Loki, that Loki wasn’t a weakness of mine that he could exploit, I was going to take it. It was the best way to protect Loki at that point.

As I walked past his cell, he banged on the wall, yelling my name and trying to attract my attention, but I still didn’t give in. I blinked away the tears in my eyes, my heart shattering as I had to look the other way once more. I did that before, and I couldn’t believe I was doing it again. I was still hurt and angry at him for what he said when I visited him that night, but I could never stay mad at him for too long, not over trivial things like that. Even as I ascended the stairs, I could still hear his pained voice calling my name. My ears began ringing, and the world around me seemed unsteady. When I reached the last few stairs, the wound on my abdomen sent a piercing pain through my entire body, and I jolted forward to accommodate the sudden and intense pain. If Loki had seen me fall as I had in that moment, he would’ve laughed at me before falling down with me, not wanting me to feel isolation and embarrassment. I coughed, and the fleeting thoughts of my love were pushed to the side as I tasted the blood in my mouth. I swallowed it back just as the guards ran over to me to help me up, just like Loki would have done.

*Loki’s POV*

I felt the immeasurable pain that she was experiencing, and I couldn’t help but feel like there was something seriously wrong. That was one of the things that never stopped for me, no matter how deep my madness became. She was still there, an untouched and untainted beauty among the raging wildfire that was my mind. I could always feel her pain, her suffering, her joy, and her love. I could feel every emotion and every ounce of physical pain, which Thanos used to his advantage. While it killed me inside to know that she was hurting, it let me know that she was still alive, wherever she was. This sensation was something new, though. I could barely stand due to the pain in my abdomen. Even when she had transferred his wound onto herself, it couldn’t hold a candle to the pain I began experiencing no long before.

Everyone began filing out of the dungeons aside from the two guards Eva demanded always stand watch over the new prisoner. I had never seen Eva deal with anyone quite like that, but he must’ve made her feel something otherworldly to pull out that side of her. Watching it was exhilarating in a way that I never would’ve expected. I could feel the anger and pain coursing through her veins every moment she stood before him, but I could also feel her conflict. When he mentioned two people-one here and one on Midgard-I found myself trying to piece together who it could be. Perhaps he was speaking about Aaldir or Thor. I was certain she cared little for me after what I did the last time we saw each other. The unnamed person on Earth was what I tried to piece together first, though. Was it Tony Stark? I noticed that the two of them had quite the connection when I was around them on Midgard. What if it was the Soldier? The two of them shared similar beliefs, and he had protected her from near death quite a few times.

When another piercing pain erupted in my abdomen, I gritted my teeth and grunted, reaching for the tender spot. As I tried to breathe through the pain, I heard his laughter from the cell diagonal to mine, “you must be Loki!” he smiled, amused at my pain. I knew that madness well, well enough to know that it was not all his own. Someone had taken advantage of a weakness and used it against him. A small part of me felt empathy for him, but I couldn’t help but think of how he must’ve hurt Eva. As I glared up at him, he cocked his head to the side, “I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m a pretty big fan because of what you did on Midgard-you know, attempting to kill everyone who wouldn’t blindly follow your rule. I have to say that it was a bold move for the unloved son of a false king,” he barked before taking a deep breath and calming his nerves, “I’m Ezra Culson, the new bane of Eva’s existence. You’ve been replaced.”

“What did you do to her?” I yelled, anxious to know what had transpired to bring about a pain like this. Before Ezra pointed out the wound on her abdomen, it was barely noticeable, especially since she showed little signs of discomfort while she was in the dungeons. Still, shortly before she came down to the dungeons, I had felt the intense pain, and I knew she had been stabbed. This sensation, however, was so different than before. When we were on Midgard, I...she had been stabbed. That was nothing like this. I grunted as I stood up straight, trying to ignore the burning sensation.

Ezra shook his head, a hint of guilt in his eyes that didn’t seem completely genuine, “I didn’t come here to fight-not today, anyway-but when Odin refused to my terms and your brother refused my offer to take Eva off your hands, I had no choice. She got in the way,” he said, nonchalantly as he shrugged it off like it was nothing. Even the guards outside of his cell were disturbed. Everyone in Asgard knew Eva, and everyone knew that she was the embodiment of all that was good and light in this world. Ezra acted as if his action of attacking her was nothing serious, like attacking her wasn’t like he was attacking the very fabric of life itself. During my stunned silence, he continued to speak, “let’s just say that you’re not the only one who has it out for Odin.”

“I couldn’t care less about him. You hurt her!” I snapped, slamming my fist against the cell wall and startling the guards and the other prisoners within the dungeons. Ezra would have a hard time in the dungeons because no matter how much the other prisoners hated Odin and Asgard, they could not bring themselves to even speak unkindly of Eva. The longer the prisoners stayed in the dungeons, the more they grew accustomed to her singing, and because Eva showed the planet so much love and kindness, everyone who resided here could feel her energy coursing through them. Her connection to the world and life was incredible. As my chest tightened, I glared at him, “you hurt her, and I’m going to kill you for that,” I growled in a low voice.

He shrugged it off again, “collateral damage,” he remarked, “it’s nothing that can’t be undone. When she gives in and leaves with me, which she will, I’ll heal her, and we’ll be on our way.”

“She’s not going anywhere with you!” I yelled once more, realizing that he was doing exactly what he wanted to do, and I was allowing it to happen. He was crawling right under my skin, and I couldn’t stop it. It was like Thanos all over again. Ezra just knew my weakness, and he was going to exploit it. He would try to break me, but I wouldn’t lose Eva again, and that was what kept me from falling back into the comfort of my own darkness.

He chuckled, “I have a better claim to her even as an outsider, or did you forget?” he asked, and my eyes widened as it felt like my chest would completely cave in. He couldn’t have been referencing that moment, but it wouldn’t surprise me with all that he knew about Eva and myself. A part of me wished to know where he acquired this information, but the part that took hold of me in that moment was still the nervous and insecure man I was before I fell from the Bifrost, before I pushed Eva out of my life, before I realized that I would never truly be my father’s son. I could still remember Odin’s words as if our conversation was happening that very moment:

“A girl who could pass as a princess even without a prince would be better suited for Thor, and I will not entertain these childish games any longer!”

It was the first moment in my life that I felt utterly hopeless. All that I had done up until that moment seemed like it was in vain. I had loved Eva, and she loved me. When she forced me to relive that memory in the dream, I couldn’t help but associate it with the conversation that followed with my father. He had been the one to pull me from our beautiful moment, our last beautiful moment. Our conversation was meant to open the doors for millions of other beautiful moments, but he slammed those doors in my face, telling me that I would never be worthy enough for Eva, that she was being saved for Thor. It was the beginning of my downfall, and she was the one who was hurt most from it.

While my chest heaved, I imagined ripping his tongue from his throat. I imagined slitting his throat open while he spoke of how Eva was nothing more than “collateral damage.” I imagined his blood on my hands as I tore him apart for what he did to her and for what he tried to do to me. I knew that all he had to do was exploit my weakness, and he would be able to turn me against her. Something in me was broken, and he wanted to toy around with it, “speak one more word, and you’ll wish for death when you see what I do to you,” I threatened, narrowing my eyes at him and realizing just how familiar they looked, like I had seen them a thousand times before. Green...like the color of spring.

He chuckled, sitting on the floor and tucking his legs under himself. It seemed as if he would let my comment roll off his back, but that was the opposite of what he did. Instead, he brought up the one thing I cared about more than anything else. Eva. He grinned, madness in his eyes, “threaten me again, and you’ll wish for death when you see what I do to her.”

Without warning, my mind felt like it was being torn apart, like the broken edges were being chipped away at. As I fell to the floor in a massive pain radiating from the ghost wound on my abdomen and the sudden and intense pain in my own mind, I gritted my teeth and groaned loudly. I could remember her eyes that day, the day I hurt her more than I could ever forgive myself for. I had expected her to look at me like I was a monster, like I was her enemy. However, she didn’t. She spoke my name with fear in her eyes and sorrow in her voice. It was my first moment of clarity in so long, but it was also my greatest moment of weakness and tragedy because I hurt the one thing I wished to protect: my friend, my princess, my love.

My Eva.

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tanadidreamer · 5 years

Text

Mother Dear

Notes: Rhys and Kayla belong to the wonderful @outcastcommander. Warnings include blood and implied/referenced past child abuse.

Jax sighed as he slipped away from the camp and made his way towards the nearby river and huddled in his jacket a bit as he made his way, he just need time to think -- to be alone without the medics checking on him, or Jaster and Cedric questioning him, or Kayla.

“Finally!” Jax tensed as he heard the feminine voice speak, it carried a light Kuati accent and sounded almost bored. “I’ve been waiting to get you alone.”.

“What are you doing here, Vatari?” Jax snapped back as he turned to face the owner to find the woman leaning against a tree and actually smiling at him fondly which caused him to take a step back and go for one of the knives he had swiped from Tani.

“I’d watch the tone if I were you, I am still your mother.” Vatari warned darkly which caused her son to glare at her resentfully and backed up a couple steps to give him a bit of a chance. Jax knew he was outmatched if she choose to attack.

Vatari let out a hum as she pushed herself off the tree and walked over towards him. “Stay away from me.” Jax snapped as she grabbed his wrist and twisted it, causing him to drop the knife as she gently brushed her free fingers against the bandages. “Get away!”.

“Conrad wasn’t joking when he said Tor did a number on you.” Vatari remarked as she smiled at him. “Does it hurt?”.

He knew she was there, he had seen her there so she would know. “What do you want, Vatari?”.

“Can’t I check on my baby?”.

“Sure, Pre’s with Tor, isn’t he?” Jax snipped back as he shoved her hand away.

“Fine, my special one.” Vatari corrected with an eye roll.

Jax was about to answer when he heard a snarl from within the shadows of the trees and a pair of bright blue eyes shining from within which caused his mother to let out an annoyed sigh and turn her head slightly towards the new arrival.

“Kayla, dear, how many times must I tell you that nobody understands you when you snarl like that?” Vatari asked as she turned to look at Kayla and kept a firm grip on Jax’s wrist.

“Let him go, right now.” Kayla snarled in response which caused Vatari to look down at Jax who glared right back at her then at Kayla and shoved Jax towards Kayla. “Jax.”.

Without much encouragement or words, Jax bolted away from his mother to join Kayla and partially hide behind her. “You know, Kayla, it’s your fault this happened.” Vatari leaned forward a bit to give Kayla a unimpressed look. “You filled his heads up with such ridiculous ideas and lies, then you left him all alone. He ended up getting to bold with his father, thus he had to be punished.”.

“No, that was you and Vizsla!” Kayla snapped back as she glared the older woman who raised an eyebrow at her. “You call this ‘punishment’? This was torture! Jax is your son! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?!”.

“Why do you think I’m here?” Vatari asked as she moved towards the pair, which caused Kayla to shove Jax behind her completely. “Enough pretending to be a True, Jax. They’ll never accept you, it’s time to come home. Quit acting like a child.”.

“You never did love me, did you?” Jax asked as his voice cracked at the thought of going home, memories bubbling up from what his father had done. No! No! Not home! That was never home! Kayla’s home! Clan Rau is home! Not Clan Vizsla!

“Of course I lov ---” Vatari began to say.

“Stop lying! You want me to go back there! I don’t want to go back!” Jax snapped as he huddled against Kayla who snarled. He wasn’t going back there!

“He’s staying here with me. Death Watch is done turning us into monsters.” Kayla told her which was emphasised by a blaster bolt flying only centimeters from Vatari’s head.

“And you’ve overstayed your welcome, Lok.” Another voice spoke, this one carrying a cultured accent and far more commanding. “You know the rules about Rau wards.”.

Vatari rolled her eyes again. “Sarna, we both know you won’t hurt me. A little aruetii like you really shouldn’t play with blasters.” Vatari winced as the next shot came a little too close for comfort. “Now, now, is that any way to greet an old friend?”.

Without warning, Kayla marched forward and slugged Vatari straight in the face which caused the very audible crack of her nose being broken and for Vatari to stumble back. “Y’ ‘tle b’tch!” Vatari snarled as he moved to tackle Kayla and ignoring the blood.

“Rhys! Make yourself useful!” Sarna snapped as she moved to pull Jax away from the conflict and shoved him towards Rhys before turning her attention back the two other women.

Kayla dodged away from Vatari and stuck her foot out to trip the older assassin who fell against the tree. “You’re one to talk! I know you stood by and watched!” Kayla said as she aimed a kick at Vatari.

“Kayla, back off. Right now.” Sarna ordered as she leveled her blaster on Vatari while Kayla complied reluctantly . “As for you, go back to your precious master and tell him that if he so much as even blink in the direction of any ex-Death Watch warriors, he’ll have all of Clan Rau on him faster than a pack of dire cats on a dying prey.”.

“L’k ‘ll ‘o ‘at.” Vatari snapped back as she stood to stalk towards Sarna who scowled and held her ground, and glared at Vatari. “‘Ave no ‘dea why Conrad sw’ped ‘ou! A w’ak l’ttle pr’in’c’ss!”.

Jax tensed as he saw the look on Kayla’s face, he knew that look and winced as his mother screamed out in pain as Kayla bolted forward and tackled Vatari, biting down hard in a weak point on Vatari’s shoulder, between the armor plates that were there.

Jax felt Rhys tense a bit behind him and sensed both the shock and horror that came from the big idiot. “That’s why you don’t threaten what Kayla considers hers.” Jax said weakly as he watched the scene before them in shock, trying to block out Vatari’s pain.

“I will not repeat myself nor will I show the same tolerance as my husband. Leave.” Sarna ordered again as she kept her composure while Kayla stood and glared down at the assassin while wiping at her mouth. “Or I will let Kayla do as she wishes to you.”.

“F’ne, ‘ou c’n k’p h’m.” Vatari bit out as as she stood and glared at the pair before hateful blue eyes settled on him, Jax felt tears brim his good eye as his mother stared at him for a moment before her attention drifted back to the two women. “K’p ‘em o’tta Dea’ Watch buss’ness.”.

“Tick, tock.” Sarna stated coldly and gestured towards the injured shoulder, and slipped into a very mocking tone . “You may want to get that checked out, dear. I’ve heard Cathars have a rather nasty bite to them. It would be very unfortunate if you’re left partially paralyzed in that arm.”.”.

Vatari scowled as she backed up into the darkness.

Rhys watched as Kayla slowly turned her attention to the pair of shocked teens which sent a chill up Rhys’s spine as her feline eyes narrowed on Jax. “What did I tell you about wandering off, Jax?” Kayla demanded as she walked over to the poor kid, which caused him to stare at her. “Well?”.

“I’m sorry.” Jax muttered as he looked down and kicked the ground. “I...I j-just wanted time to think. Too much noise.”.

“Then you could’ve asked me or found Myles.” Kayla said as Jax hiccuped which caused Kayla’s glare to soften a bit as then walked over and slipped her hand under Jax’s chin, and tilted his head up to look at her

Hey, none that now. You’re safe, vod’ika.”.

“M-Mama, she……”.

“That bitch lost the right to be your mother after she stood by the first time.” Kayla corrected sternly as she brushed some of the tears away. “Next time, just come find me instead of wandering off, okay? You trust me don’t you?”.

Jax gave an eager nod before he hugged her, catching Kayla off guard which caused her to pet his hair affectionately. “W-What did I do wrong, Kayla?” Jax cried when caused Kayla to sigh and hug her adopted brother a bit more tightly.

“Nothing.” Rhys found himself saying before Kayla could say anything while he had recalled when they had found the kid and his behavior afterwards. He might’ve been Tor Vizsla’s son, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a victim too, everybody had known the story of Mandalore the Forsaken and it was sickening to know Vizsla had tried to turn his own kid into some dar’jetii.

Kayla eyed him warily as she let Jax go and stood back to her full height and gently pushed Jax behind her.

Sarna scowled at where Lok had disappeared before turning her attention to the teens. “We’re going back to the camp now, before that tramp comes back with reinforcements.” Sarna said as she slipped her blaster back into her holster and joined the group. “Kayla, take the lead.”.

Kayla nod slightly as she pushed past Rhys with Jax following behind like a little kitten while Rhys fell in step next to the Clan Rau matriarch. “I can’t believe Kayla actually bit Lok.” Rhys remarked in slight horror over the shared com system with Sarna.

“Considering her upbringing and what her Near-Human nature is, I’m surprised she didn’t do it sooner.” Sarna respond as they watched Kayla turn slightly to check on her shadow. “Cathar are naturally protective of their clans, Rhys, even more so with cubs. Not all of Death Watch are psychotic dar’manda, some are victims just like we are.”.

“I should really apologize, shouldn’t I?”.

“You should.” Sarna stated thoughtfully as she tapped the side of helmet. “And I need to speak to Myles when we get back.”.

Rhys reached forward on instinct as Jax to grab the kid’s collar when Jax tripped on something and pulled him back to his balance. “Watch your feet, Jax.” Rhys warned.

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks, farmboy.” Jax snipped back then paused as Kayla snickered.

Oh, so the kid did have an attitude then!

#my writing #fanfic #my ocs #friend's ocs #Vatari is insane #Kayla is protective #Don't mess with Kayla #Jax needs a hug #angst #the warnings are there #vatari lok #rhys fett #kayla tenau #sarna rau #jax vizsla

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squirenonny · 6 years

Text

Child of the Night Sky

Ships: Established Shallura and Klance, vaguely implied Hunay Rating: G Warnings: Implied/Referenced Character Death

After a mysterious signal leads the paladins to an uninhabited moon, an intruder appears in the Black Lion's hangar.

Oddly, Black doesn't seem to mind.

[Read it on AO3!]

Commission fic for @confused-bird as part of their next gen AU. Find out more about the AU and the characters here!

Shiro stood on a barren ridge overlooking a sprawling valley dotted here and there with scraggly brown plants. The landscape had the feel of an old western, painted in sepia tones, the thin air tinged yellow near the horizon. The castle-ship sat a little over a mile behind him, gleaming silver spires unnaturally crisp against the backdrop.

“Where exactly did this signal come from?” Shiro asked, reaching out to steady Lance as a section of loose gravel crumbled underfoot. The weak sunlight reflected off his visor, which was sealed against the moon’s oxygen-poor atmosphere.

The clatter of keys echoed in Shiro’s ear. “Ten feet, maybe?” Pidge said. “Seriously, you guys are right on top of it.”

“Yeah...” Lance exchanged looks with Shiro, then spread his arms to encompass the barren valley. Nothing larger than coral-like plants lived on this moon; even the air remained stagnant around them. “I think there might be something wrong with your scanners, Pidge. There’s nothing here.”

“I’ll run the scan again, but I’m telling you, you’re there.”

“Nothing personal, Pidge,” Shiro said, placing a hand on Lance’s shoulder to quiet him. “We just want to be sure.”

They grunted, then fell silent as they worked. It was pure chance Green’s scanners had picked up the signal in the first place. A single burst of Quintessence, too weak to reach beyond the edge of the solar system and so quick the castle’s main scanners had flagged it as unremarkable.

“Don’t let your guard down,” Keith said, his voice clipped. “This could still be a trap.” Shiro didn’t have a visual on the bridge, where Keith, Pidge, and Coran were gathered to help direct Shiro and Lance, but he imagined Keith was wearing a hole in the floor pacing behind Pidge’s station. He’d wanted to bring the lions on this expedition, but Lance had draped himself over Keith’s shoulder and whispered something that made Keith flush and grudgingly agree to hold off on the heavy firepower, though he’d promised to come get them in Red the second things got sketchy.

Pidge’s frantic typing slowed. “You know we don’t actually know Lotor’s involved, right?”

Keith snorted. “Better to assume the worst,” he said. “Hunk, Allura, you still there?”

“Hear you loud and clear, buddy,” Hunk said. “Allura’s schmoozing up to the locals, but we’re two minutes from Yellow if you need us.”

“Good.”

Shiro’s eyes went to the dusty red crescent that dominated the sky. Hunk and Allura had remained on Dovrura while the others took the castle-ship to the larger of the two moons to investigate the anomaly. Allura had been concerned for their safety, but she trusted her team. She trusted Shiro. So as much as he wanted to ask her how the talks were going, he forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

“We don’t know what this is,” he said evenly. “That's why we're here. And we are being careful, I promise.”

Lance grinned in the direction of the castle-ship, as though Keith could see him out the window. “You heard the man, samurai. We’ll be fine—unless Lotor’s found a way to weaponize pebbles.”

Keith was quiet for a long moment, then laughed softly. “Fine,” he said. “But you owe me a massage when you get back.”

Shiro forced a smile for Lance, who remained at the alert, his bayard tapping against his thigh. The fact they’d encountered nothing overtly hostile on the trek out here wasn’t as reassuring as it should have been, when the anomaly looked so much like the dimensional rift the team had encountered while Shiro was gone and the energy signature of Lotor’s ship.

“Okay,” Pidge said after a time. “I double-checked the scans, and I was right. You’re standing literally on top of the origin point.”

Lance met Shiro’s eyes, then glanced pointedly at the dusty rock underfoot. “Secret bunker?”

“The castle’s not detecting any sizeable cavities in the area,” Coran said, “But if it’s small enough we might not be able to pick it up at this range.”

“Right,” said Pidge. “Shiro?”

“Way ahead of you.” Shiro took out the portable scanner Pidge had given him and set it on the ground. Three small legs immediately extended from the base and dug into the ground to stabilize the device. But five minutes later when the device finished its scans, it showed nothing new.

Pidge sighed. “Well, I guess that’s it, then. Lotor didn’t build anything here.”

“I still don’t like this,” Keith said.

Shiro smiled. “Noted. We’ll keep an eye on the scanners just in case the anomaly crops up again, all right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Good.” Shiro clapped Lance on the shoulder as the younger man dismissed his bayard. “In that case, we’re gonna head back. See you soon.”

The rough terrain made for slow going, but Shiro and Lance made it back to the castle without incident. Keith and Pidge were waiting in the entrance hall when they arrived, Pidge seated on the staircase with their computer, Keith pacing nearby. He stopped when he caught sight of Lance and made a beeline for him, tension melting away.

“So. Back to Dovrura?” Lance asked, lacing his fingers with Keith's.

Shiro nodded. “I’ve left Allura at the mercy of politicians for long enough, I think.”

Pidge snorted, not looking up from their work. “Please. She’s got the entire planet rallying behind Voltron by now, just watch.”

“Yeah...” Shiro bit down on a smile, ignoring the look Keith and Lance shared. As though they had room to talk, when it had taken less than fifteen seconds for Lance to coax Keith into leaning back against him—Keith’s arms crossed over his chest, one of Lance’s draped over Keith’s shoulder. Shiro met them pointed look for pointed look, then connected to the bridge comms. “Whenever you’re ready, Coran.”

“Roger that! Just another tick and--”

An insistent chime interrupted Coran, and Shiro tensed. Not for the alarm itself, but for the rumble that started in his feet, raced up his spine, and settled in beside his heart. The others didn’t hear it—but they wouldn’t have, any more than he would have heard the call of the other lions.

“What was that?” Pidge asked.

Shiro was off running before Coran had a chance to check what had triggered the alarm. Keith straightened, Lance called Shiro's name, and Pidge yelped, fumbling their laptop as they surged to their feet. Shiro didn’t slow for any of it, just raced for the elevator.

“There’s an intruder!” Coran cried. “Down in the Black Lion’s--”

Shiro silenced his comms with a thought as the elevator door slid open. The lights were at half power, but they flickered on at his arrival, illuminating Black, who crouched in her usual spot at the center of the hangar, her voice vibrating in the air in a mix of confusion and wariness. Her chin rested on the ground, and a figure stood before her, hand on her nose.

Another light turned on, hitting the stranger like a spotlight. They gave a start, snatching their hand back from the Black Lion’s nose, and spun to face Shiro. They wore an opaque mask that reminded Shiro vaguely of the Blades’ suits: it was molded to the stranger’s head, with a luminous slit at the level of the eyes and a slight bulge over the mouth that might have been an oxygen mask or voice modulator of some sort. The rest of their attire was similarly matched black, white, and gray armor; slim-fitting and flexible like Allura’s battle suit.

The stranger’s hand dropped to their hip, and Shiro moved on instinct, hand coming alight. He charged toward the intruder, low to the ground, as he’d learned to do in the Arena. Assume the enemy is stronger than they appear. Make them fight for every hit. Most importantly, strike hard and fast. The longer a fight went on, the more chances you had to die.

The stranger froze, just for an instant, as Shiro approached. It was impossible to gauge emotion with that mask of theirs, but their hand lifted away from their hip and their spine went stiff, as though they hadn’t expected a fight.

The moment passed, and the intruder dodged back, footwork light and quick as they led Shiro around the hangar, slapping his arm aside with a palm to the inside of his elbow when his strikes got too close. They were obviously used to close-quarters, and they showed a wariness for his arm that suggested they’d seen it in action—or at least heard tales of what it could do.

Yet for all their skill, the intruder made no move to strike back at Shiro. They made a sound once, like they wanted to say something, but the word stalled in their throat, and they had to retreat as Shiro came in for another pass.

Black rumbled a warning, and Shiro shot a glance her way. The intruder had come here for her, a fact that would have been concerning in its own right even without the fact that Black had dropped her shields. She hadn’t opened up, but would that have lasted? Could this person have hacked the lion somehow, implanted a line of code that made Black think of them as a friend?

Shiro shifted, careful to keep himself between the intruder and the Black Lion as they danced across the hangar floor.

“Wait!” the intruder said, holding up their hands as a space opened between them. “Please—I don’t want to fight you.”

“I’m sure you don’t.” Shiro feinted to the left, then spun around, reaching out with his cybernetic hand for a nob near the jaw of the stranger’s mask. Shiro’s touch melted the electronics inside the control node, causing the mask to flicker and vanish. The intruder gasped, eyes going wide, and stumbled backward, reaching up with one hand to check the controls. They snatched their hand back at once, wincing as sparks snapped at their fingertips.

Shiro himself stood frozen, searching the stranger’s face. For the space of one heartbeat, he thought he recognized them—their short, dark hair with pale bangs; the piercing eyes; the stark red line across the bridge of their nose that curled up toward the outer corners of their eyes.

They were… human?

No.

Shiro stopped breathing.

With a roar, Allura was there, her staff flashing in the hangar lights as she swung. It cracked against the intruder’s head. Shiro cried out in horror, lifting one hand toward them, but he was too late, and the intruder dropped to the floor.

Allura barely spared them a second glance before she crossed to Shiro, grabbing his chin and forcing him to meet her eyes.

“Shiro,” she said. “Shiro. Are you all right?”

Shiro blinked, his gaze drifting back to the fallen form behind Allura. “Fine,” he said. “Are they okay?”

Allura frowned at him, then at the intruder. Hunk had knelt beside them—Shiro hadn’t even noticed the Yellow Lion’s arrival in the commotion.

“Holy--” Hunk clapped a hand to his mouth. “Guys.” He squeaked as the elevator door opened. Keith charged out ahead of the others, sword in hand.

“Shiro! Are you okay? What happened?”

“Guys,” Hunk repeated, breathless.

“Fine,” Shiro said. “What is it, Hunk?” Shiro paused long enough to kiss Allura’s cheek, meeting her eyes and willing her to see that he was okay, then hurried over to Hunk and the stranger. One look at the crumpled form, and at Hunk’s pale face, told him he been right.

Hunk reached out as though to touch the stranger’s red facial markings—not just under their eyes, but a small vertical band on their lower lip, as well—but hesitated at the last minute as Coran joined them, his usual calm disrupted at the sight of the stranger.

“Quiznak!”

Allura turned, grip on her staff tightening as she did so. “What?” she demanded. “What’s wrong?”

“Not… wrong, exactly,” Hunk said slowly, staring at Coran like he expected the man to shatter at any moment. “It’s just… They’re Altean.”

What followed was ten minutes of chaos. Everyone crowded around the intruder, exclaiming with varying degrees of shock, suspicion, and excitement as Coran numbly confirmed Hunk’s assessment. The stranger’s ears were a bit shorter than Allura’s or Coran’s, their facial markings not quite so brightly colored—but the scanner in the med bay confirmed their Altean heritage.

Allura had insisted on restraints, though she’d seemed to be fighting herself on the matter, and Coran had put the stranger into a cryopod to clear up a minor concussion. That left them twenty dobashes to figure out how to approach the situation—and to theorize about their presence on the castle.

“Well, obviously they’re the source of that weird reading earlier,” Pidge said, pulling up the data from the med scan on their laptop. They’d all relocated to the rec room, though so far only Pidge, Hunk, and Lance had taken advantage of the couch. The others stood or paced the room, tension thick in the air.

Hunk leaned over Pidge’s shoulder, frowning. “I’m not seeing anything like the anomaly here.”

Pidge pursed their lips. “I know. Maybe they have some kind of magic. You know, like Haggar’s?”

“Yeah, or they could be working for Lotor,” Keith said. “I don’t trust them.”

“The first surviving Altean we’ve seen?” Allura asked. She had one arm wrapped around her midsection, the other hand hovering near her mouth so she could worry a hangnail. Shiro edged closer to her, placing his hand in the small of her back. She smiled weakly at him. “I suppose it’s possible, but… Lotor’s father destroyed our entire people. Why would they work for him?”

“They may not have a choice,” Keith said.

“I suppose...”

Lance kicked his feet up onto Hunk’s lap, crossing his arms behind his head. “Maybe they’re from the Mirror Universe.”

“Mirror Universe?” Shiro arched an eyebrow. “The other reality?”

Allura shivered, her eyes fluttering closed. “I hope not.”

“I doubt anyone could have made it over here without Voltron, anyway,” Pidge said.

Hunk glanced toward Coran, who stood at a computer terminal along the wall, monitoring the intruder’s status remotely. He seemed not to notice the conversation going on around him.

“I don’t know you guys,” Hunk said, tearing his eyes away from Coran. “You’re all assuming they’re an enemy. But Black was cool with them, right? Maybe we should give them a chance.”

There was muttered dissent at that, but Lance looked thoughtful and Shiro couldn’t help but think about Black’s distress when the stranger had gone down. It had been her prodding more than anything that got the intruder to the med bay for a scan.

Coran’s computer beeped, and the others immediately turned toward him, the same silent question etched into every face.

“They’re coming out of it.” Coran switched off the computer and turned, pasting on a smile. “If it’s all right with you, Princess, I’d like to speak with them first. Alone.”

Keith looked like he was going to argue, but a glare from Lance stopped him. Allura nodded, albeit reluctantly. “Alright, but if they try anything, we’re handing them over to the Blade.”

Keith nodded once, satisfied, and Coran’s smile turned strained. But he acquiesced and left without another word. Allura put up a feed from the med bay on one wall, and Shiro rubbed her back as Coran appeared there, catching the intruder as they fell from the pod.

“Easy now,” he said, steadying them with a hand under their elbow. The stranger reached for their head, but the handcuffs pulled tight. They froze, eyes flying open.

Allura stiffened.

“I don’t think they’re dangerous,” Shiro told her in a low voice. “They weren’t trying to hurt me earlier when we fought.”

Allura pursed her lips, still staring at the video feed, where the intruder had finally lifted their head, staring at Coran in shock.

“I’m terribly sorry for all this,” Coran said, guiding the stranger toward a seat against the wall. He crouched down like they were a frightened child rather than a grown adult. “I’m afraid you gave us a bit of a fright back there. We’ve got a number of enemies who would have reason to infiltrate this ship.”

The intruder dropped their eyes to their wrists, tugging half-heartedly at the restraints. “Believe me, I know.” They smiled wryly as Coran’s brow pinched in confusion, then leaned back in their chair until they were practically lounging. “So what do I need to do to convince you I’m a friend?”

“You could start with a name,” Coran said.

The smile twitched wider, and the stranger’s eyes drifted skyward. “My name? Aeron í Allura Altea.”

Allura jerked away from the screen so violently Shiro had to take her by the arm before she tripped over the step behind her. She’d gone ashen, her eyes wide with shock that quickly turned to outrage. She turned on her heel, wrenched out of Shiro’s grasp, and stalked toward the door.

“Allura…?” Lance asked, sitting upright on the couch as she passed. He shot a look at Keith, who in turn looked at Shiro, who frowned and followed after Allura, the other paladins falling into step behind him. A hundred questions crowded his mind, and he didn’t dare ask a single one as Allura jabbed the button for the elevator.

You trust this person, Shiro thought in the direction of his lion. Don’t you?

The Black Lion didn’t answer.

Aeron í Allura Altea.

The name echoed in Allura’s ears with each step, a mockery of all logic, a slap in the face for someone who had lost her entire people. They finally discovered the existence of another Altean and this was how they presented themself? With taunts and brazen lies? Claiming a name they could not possibly hold?

The elevator ride down two floors to the med bay was interminable, not least of all for the anxious silence of her friends. Allura crossed her arms and leaned away from Shiro’s tentative touch, and when the door slid open, she stormed out of the elevator, down the corridor, and into the med bay. Coran still knelt before “Aeron,” one hand on their arm in a paternal gesture that stoked Allura’s ire.

Aeron looked up, eyes darting to Shiro before returning to Allura and locking there. They began to rise, mouth open to spew further lies, but Allura jabbed a finger in their direction.

“You,” she said sharply, “are not Aeron í Allura Altea.”

Aeron’s gaping mouth snapped shut, and something flashed behind their eyes. “I am, though.”

“Impossible.” Allura crossed her arms. “Where did you come from?”

“The Castle of Lions.”

Allura’s shoulders hitched toward her shoulders, a shout building in her throat. Coran smoothly inserted himself between Aeron and Allura, his eyes sharp with suspicion though he maintained the same warm demeanor he’d had since Aeron awoke. “Funny,” he said lightly. “I haven’t seen you around before.”

“Well, no. I haven’t been born yet.”

Shouts of surprise and incredulous questions burst out of the gathered paladins, but Allura hardly heard. She took a single step backward, head spinning. Time travel. Time travel? It made no sense—and yet that name. Aeron í Allura Altea.

Aeron, child of Allura of Altea.

Her child.

“Impossible.”

Her voice was barely a whisper, indistinguishable in the roar of voices, but Aeron looked at her and smiled as though they’d heard. A moment later, they huffed at the continuing furor and raised their hands. “One at a time. One at a time!” The room slowly quieted, and Aeron settled back in their seat. “Thank you. Now, who wants to start?”

Pidge leaned forward, eyes shining, but Keith was faster.

“Do you really expect us to trust you?” he demanded. The lights on the thigh of his armor were glowing, an unspoken warning that he was ready to summon his bayard—and from Aeron’s grim expression, they knew it.

“It’s the truth.”

Keith’s face darkened. “You really expect us to believe you’re—what? A time traveler? Seriously? Lotor probably sent you to steal the lions.”

“Which is why I’m here,” they said dryly. “Lionless.”

“I never said you were a good thief.”

Aeron rolled their eyes. “There’s no need to be rude, Uncle Keith.”

Keith choked on air, his eyes going wide as Aeron grinned—a brief moment of devious glee, quickly smothered. It reminded Allura all too much of herself. Of having to grow up too quickly, of snatching joy when it came, of constant awareness of the face she presented to the world.

“No.” Allura shoved aside the questions and formless desires creeping into her mind and forced herself to think rationally. “Time travel isn’t possible.” She hesitated in the face of Aeron’s fathomless stare and glanced to Pidge and Hunk. “Is it?”

Pidge spread their hands helplessly. “You tell me. Our scientists theorized that it's possible with wormholes—we just can't create a stable one. Or travel through without getting ripped apart.”

Hunk nodded thoughtfully, tapping his chin. “Yeah, but you’ve obviously got that figured out. We use wormholes like, every day. And space-time is pretty flexible, guys. If we can travel across the universe in two seconds, there’s no theoretical reason you couldn’t also travel back in time.”

“Except for the issue of temporal navigation,” Coran said. He paused, smoothing his mustache. “Or vortex monsters.”

Lance’s eyebrows shot up. “Vortex monsters?”

“Urban legends,” Aeron said. “Early Altean experiments with time travel were universal failures. Nothing ever got to the point in time it was supposed to reach, regardless of which direction it was traveling. Some people said there were creatures that hunted the timestream and ate anything that ventured outside the normal current.” They lifted one shoulder. “But I made it, so I’m betting it was more an issue of the proto-time-travelers missing their marks by a few light years. Or a few millennia.”

“Right.” Shiro held up one hand and shook his head. “Sorry. Even assuming time travel is theoretically possible, what proof is there that you traveled back—how long?”

Aeron scanned the room, their gaze resting on Shiro for only a fraction of an instant before it continued on to Pidge and Hunk. “Judging by how young you all look? I’d say about thirty years.”

“Uh-huh,” Keith said. “Sure.”

Lance planted his palm on the side of Keith’s face and pushed him out of the way so he could sidle up to Aeron, flashing a smile. “So what’s future me like? Dashing? Famous? How big’s my fan club?”

“And how did you end up here?” Pidge added. “Does someone really invent time travel in the next thirty years?”

Aeron averted their eyes and scratched the back of their neck. “I don’t actually know how I got here. But I have pictures from my time if you...” They trailed off, glancing down at the plain white medsuit they wore. “Correction: I have pictures in my armor… Where is my armor?”

Coran retrieved the armor from a storage compartment, ignoring Keith’s protests. Aeron took the breastplate and fished out what looked like a white echo cube. A flick of the finger brought up a digital menu, and a holographic image appeared in the air above Aeron’s hands. For a moment, Allura thought it was an image of her mother—tall, stately, a glimmer of a smile hinting at political savvy.

A chill raced down Allura’s back as she realized it wasn’t her mother. It was Allura, aged by several decades, with lines at the corners of her eyes and strain weighing down her shoulders.

“Ohmygosh!” Pidge lunged forward, stars in their eyes. “Is that derived from the holoprojector on the bridge?”

“Augmented with Olkari tech?” Aeron asked. “Yeah. Pretty neat, huh?”

“The colors are so crisp!” Pidge bounced on their toes as Aeron twirled the cube between their fingers. The image of Allura flickered, replaced by one of a young girl, dark-haired and gap-toothed. She was sprawled across the Red Lion’s paw, beaming at the camera. Then she was gone, and the older Allura was back, this time with a young Altean man—her son?

Allura closed her eyes, seeking calm. “You could have faked those,” she said. “You could have--”

She broke off as Lance gasped. Allura opened her eyes and found herself looking at a wedding photo. Oh, the details were off, but she could still see the Altean traditions at the heart of it: the colored motes of light that gave the scene a soft aura, the clusters of crystals dotting the rafters of the old atrium at the heart of the castle.

“Is that…?” Hunk glanced from the smiling couple, dressed in dark suits of an unfamiliar cut, fingers interlaced and matching smiles on their faces, to Keith and Lance.

Lance’s hands covered his mouth, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, and he reached out blindly for Keith, who looked shell-shocked, his eyes riveted to what very much looked like a picture of their wedding day.

Keith licked his lips, tearing his eyes away from the holo with obvious effort. “Allura’s right. These prove nothing.”

“Okay.” Aeron tapped the holocube, and the image vanished. They tilted their head to the side, eyes sliding almost—but not quite—to Shiro. “There’s one more thing I can show you.”

“And what’s that?”

“The black bayard.” Aeron held out their hand, and a bayard appeared. The paladins stiffened, Keith automatically summoning his own bayard. Shiro held out his hand, pressing it against Keith’s chest.

After a moment’s pause, Shiro stepped forward, held out his hand, and summoned his bayard. “Pidge, can you tell if that’s the genuine article?”

“Sure,” they said. “Just give me a few minutes.”

Aeron’s bayard was real.

Shiro had to hear it twice—from both Pidge and Coran—before he could wrap his head around it. The bayards were ancient, complex devices inexorably linked to the lions. The thought of there being two black bayards was incomprehensible, and that along with Black’s reaction to Aeron cinched it. Aeron was, impossibly, telling the truth.

Hunk was the last to cling to his skepticism, rambling on about how someone might create a forgery that could fool all their resident tech wizards. He mentioned Quintessence modulation and pocket dimensions, but Shiro hardly heard him. Nor, it seemed, did Keith, who stormed forward and snatched Aeron’s bayard out of Pidge’s hands. A familiar sword appeared in a flash of light, indistinguishable from his usual weapon. Keith’s scowl deepened.

“It’s real,” Aeron said, sounding bored. They looked vaguely irritated by the debates, but had been remarkably patient, all things considered. They glanced now at Keith, gauging his reaction. “I promise, I’m not lying to you.”

“You’re from the future,” Shiro said, numb.

Aeron glanced at him, then quickly away. “Yes.”

“And Allura is…?”

“My mother? Yep.”

Shiro’s eyes lingered on Aeron’s facial markings, and the scar across his own nose prickled. “And...” Shiro cleared his throat as every eye in the room turned his way. Every eye, that was, but Aeron’s. “What about your father?”

Aeron stiffened, a scowl darkening their face. “I’ve probably said enough already. Spoilers, right? Don’t want to screw up the timeline.”

The flat dismissal felt like a slap to the face, and Shiro was too stunned to do anything but nod and say, “Sure.”

Was he… not Aeron’s father? He and Allura hadn’t talked much about the future, but the thought that they might not be together—might not even be on good terms—hurt more than Shiro would have thought possible.

Shiro didn’t have long to consider the possibility. As Coran removed Aeron’s restraints, Allura turned and stalked from the room. Aeron watched her go.

“You know...” Hunk pushed his fingertips together as he edged forward with Pidge. “I know we said no spoilers and all, but tech is an exception, right?”

“Yeah,” said Pidge. “We have to figure out how you got here if we’re going to send you home.”

Aeron blinked several times, then chuckled, but Shiro didn’t stay to hear their reply. Instead, he followed after Allura, following the soft, quick beat of her footsteps, which led him to the elevator. He caught the door as it began to close.

“Are you okay?” he asked, joining Allura inside.

She smiled, but it was strained. “I’m fine, Shiro,” she said, leaning into him. “It’s just a lot to take in.”

“I know.” Shiro wrapped his arms around Allura, a lump rising in his throat. “I know. But, hey! Looks like your kid ends up becoming the black paladin. That’s something to be proud of, right?”

Allura pulled back, a solemn expression on her face. Her kid. Not theirs. At least Shiro wasn't the only one upset by that. “Shiro…”

“This doesn’t change anything,” he said, stealing a kiss. “I’m here to stay. I promise.”

“So… exactly how many pictures can you fit on that cube thingy of yours?”

Lance tried not to fidget as Aeron looked at him, one eyebrow arched in near perfect imitation of Shiro’s Dad Face. Lance hadn’t yet pinned down what the deal was between them—Aeron had made a conspicuous effort not to be left alone in a room with Shiro, but still watched him across the room when the whole team was gathered together. Maybe Shiro wasn’t their dad, maybe, but Lance was positive Aeron had known him growing up.

So what had happened?

“Are you asking me because you’ve suddenly developed an interest in tech,” Aeron asked, “or because you want to know more about the future?”

Lance’s eyes widened. “What? Me? Pssh. I don’t care about the future.”

“Uh-huh…” Aeron glanced around the room, which was empty except for the two of them. Coran, Pidge, and Hunk were all busy working out theories for how to get Aeron home, Shiro and Allura were on the bridge, and Keith had spent most of the last two days on the training deck—for no particular reason, of course. Definitely not because he was freaked out by the wedding photo.

Wedding photo! Lance couldn’t believe it. He and Keith were married! At least… he thought they were. He was pretty sure, and as giddy as that made him, he couldn’t tell what Keith was feeling. He’d been trying to figure out how to broach the subject with Keith, but when he came up blank, he’d decided to go fishing for more information.

“Sorry.” Lance rubbed the back of his head. “I shouldn’t have--”

“Okay,” Aeron said.

Lance blinked. “What?”

“Okay. Just—don’t tell my mother.”

Lance snapped his mouth shut and nodded hastily, leaning forward. “My lips are sealed! You-- What--?”

Before Lance could formulate a question, Aeron had pulled out their projection cube. A hologram appeared in the air between the two of them. Lance and Keith, now middle-aged, smiled at the camera. Each had an arm around the woman in braids between them, who flashed a charming smile at the camera as she fired off finger guns. Lance held a much younger child on his hip, though she seemed to be trying her hardest to wriggle away. Her dark hair was escaping her pigtails, and she was missing a tooth.

“That’s Rose,” Aeron said, pointing to the woman in the center. “She’s a few years older than me, tough as nails. My brother’s only a year older than her, and he took it on himself to try to reign her in.” A smile tugged at Aeron’s lips, and they bit down on it. “Can’t say I made his life any easier, to be honest. At least I knew better than to try to imitate daddy before I had any training.”

“Oh, no.”

“Yeah… I’m pretty sure she would have taken the Trials at age six if Uncle Keith let her. Anyway, she’s my red paladin. Sometimes I want to strangle her, but I don’t know what I’d do without her.” Aeron flipped their hand, then pointed to the girl hanging off Lance in the picture. “This little cutie is Claudia. Now, look. We've all played The Floor is Lava, but Claudia raised it to an art form. Not sure how much longer she can persuade people to let her climb all over them, though.”

Lance laughed, tears gathering in the corner of his eyes. He had a family. He had a husband and two beautiful daughters, and there they all were, smiling so bright their joy was infectious. “Hey, Aeron? Am I… Am I good dad?”

Aeron’s smile softened, and they flipped over to a different picture, one that showed Keith holding a tiny bundle. He seemed awestruck, handling the baby like she was made of glass, while Lance kissed the side of his head.

“You’re a great dad,” Aeron said. “Both of you. There’s been fights, sure. Lots of big personalities in your family, and Rose was the definition of a rebellious teen. But at the end of the day, Rose and Claudia both know you love them. Rose still calls home every day, you know. Don’t tell her I told you, but I think she’s a little homesick.”

Lance’s vision blurred, and he blinked furiously, trying to memorize the image of him and Keith with their daughter. “Thank you,” he whispered, smiling at Aeron. “Really.”

They switched off the projector, nodding. “It’s family,” they said, as though that explained everything. Lance frowned, but Aeron only shook their head and stared down at the cube in their palm, blinking back tears.

Things were awkward between Allura and Aeron for the first few days. Aeron spent most of their time with Coran—and often Hunk and Pidge—trying to work out the mechanics of time travel. Allura had hung around the fringes of these conversations enough to have heard all the theories: mineral deposits on Dovrura’s moon, Quintessence flows in the system, odd energy signals coming off the sun. The castle in Aeron’s time had been nowhere near Dovrura, so it was likely they’d been pulled to this system by the castle-ship itself.

The intervening days had done wonders for the awkwardness Allura had first felt around Aeron. It was still surreal, of course. Even when she was able to forget, for a moment, that they were a time traveler—and her child—they were still the first Altean she’d seen from this universe other than Coran and Haggar, and she found herself tearing up at the oddest moments.

Aeron was considerate, though, and they avoided talking about the future. They talked instead about Aeron, about Allura and Coran, about Altea of old. Aeron had grown up on stories of their people’s planet, and they were hungry for more, and Allura found it liberating to talk to someone who felt that same intangible connection to the past.

By the end of the first week, Aeron had settled into the castle routine. They theorized with Coran and Pidge and Hunk, they talked with Allura about the past, they snuck off with Lance—and both got cagey when asked what it was they did when they barricaded themselves in the rec room. Even Keith began to warm to the new arrival, though it was usually Lance who enticed him to be social. The mice found Aeron to be a particularly comfortable perch, and Allura was saddened, if not surprised, to realize Aeron had never met these mice—or if they had, they’d been too young to remember.

The only one Aeron hadn’t connected with was Shiro.

He poked his head into the bridge now, hesitating for a moment when he caught sight of Aeron. Pain flickered across his face, but he covered it up as Aeron turned toward him. Allura’s heart ached. Shiro didn’t want to push Aeron, and Allura understood that, but she’d seen the way Aeron looked at him when his back was turned. They’d all seen those looks. Even now, the quiet conversation between Hunk, Pidge, and Coran petered out as Aeron caught sight of Shiro and stiffened. They gaze dropped to the floor, and Shiro shied away.

“Sorry for interrupting,” he said, forcing levity. “I was looking for Allura.”

Aeron stood, rubbing the back of their neck. “That’s fine. I should probably go.”

“You don’t have to--” Shiro began, but Aeron waved him off.

“I’m meeting Lance soon anyway. It’s fine.”

Shiro watched them go, and Allura felt another pang. She stood, approaching Shiro and wrapping an arm around his waist. “You should talk to them.”

He frowned at her. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Hunk piped up from the other side of the room. Pidge eeped and ducked their head when Shiro and Allura turned. They clearly didn’t want to seem like they’d been eavesdropping. Hunk was less bashful. “Have you seen the way they look at you, dude? I don’t know what’s going on there, but they want to talk to you.”

“Who wants to talk to who now?” Lance asked, strolling in with Keith.

“Aeron wants to talk to Shiro,” Hunk said.

“Oh.” Lance chuckled. “Well, yeah. Is there such a thing as dad-pining? Cause holy quiznak, it’s worse than when you were trying to work up the courage to ask Allura out. Ow.” Lance’s smile vanished as Keith smacked the back of his head.

Shiro crossed his arms. “You’re imagining things,” he said flatly. “And what are you doing here, anyway? Aeron just left to look for you.”

“Me?” Lance asked.

Keith frowned. “I’m pretty sure they were heading for the training deck, actually.”

Shiro pursed his lips.

“Go,” Allura said, giving him a gentle nudge.

Shiro opened his mouth, then hesitated. “I don’t know...”

“Go. Trust me. You both need this.”

Shiro stared at her for a long moment, then sighed. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll give it a try.”

Shiro found Aeron on the training deck, sparring with a gladiator. Watching them fight was mesmerizing. Their grace and power reminded him of Allura, though at the moment Aeron was fighting unarmed. Shiro hadn’t yet seen the form the bayard took for them; he didn’t think anyone had. Aeron preferred to train in private.

When they executed a flawless takedown, stealing the gladiator's sword and running it through—the exact move Shiro had taught himself in the Arena—Shiro understood the wish for privacy.

“Not bad,” he said, entering the room as the castle reclaimed the damaged gladiator. Aeron stiffened, spinning around with a guarded look on their face. Shiro held up his hands. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to surprise you.”

Aeron turned away, wiping sweat from their brow. “It’s fine,” they said. “Someone looking for me?”

“Just me.” Shiro hesitated just inside the door, searching for tact. But he’d been tactful for the last week, always giving Aeron an out, always deferring to whatever wall it was dividing them. Suddenly Shiro found he just wanted answers. “Am I your father, Aeron?”

Aeron lifted their head, eyes wide and wild. “Are you…?” They licked their lips. “I told you, I shouldn’t say too much about the future.”

A flare of anger tightened Shiro’s jaw, and he forced himself to breathe through it. “Please, Aeron. I’m just trying to figure out what I did to make you hate me.”

That, finally, got a reaction out of them. They stared at him, lips parted, and pain crept into their expression. “You didn’t do anything.”

Shiro closed his eyes. “Clearly I did. I… I don’t know what. If I—if I left you and your mother, if I let the team down, if...” If the things I did in the Arena finally caught up to me, Shiro thought. “I don’t want to believe I would do that to you—to anyone. So, please, if Allura married someone else, it’s fine. I just need to know.”

Aeron was still staring at him, their lips pressed together so the stripe of red across their bottom lip stood out. “No,” they said. “She—you are my dad.”

Relief loosed the vice around Shiro’s heart, but cold dread flooded in soon after. “Then...”

“I’m sorry.” Aeron breathed out a ragged breath and made a break for the door, head ducked so Shiro couldn’t read their expression. “I can’t.”

“Wait!” Shiro lunged after them as they fled, catching their arm. “I don't understand, Aeron! If I'm supposed to be your father, why are you avoiding me?”

They whirled, and Shiro was stunned into silence by the tears tracing paths down their cheeks. “Because you died!”

“What?”

Aeron pulled out of Shiro’s grip, wrapping their arms around their midsection. “You died,” they repeated, softer now. Their breath hitched, and they swiped at their eyes. “The last time I saw you, you were dying in my arms, and there was nothing I could do to save you.”

Shiro’s mouth ran dry. He stumbled forward, off-kilter, and reached for Aeron before he had time to think that they might not want his comfort. The instant his hand came down on their shoulder, though, they fell into his arms and clung to him like—well, like he was all they had left of their father.

“I’m sorry, Aeron,” Shiro whispered, pulling them closer. He felt their knees give out and lowered them both to the floor, never giving up his hold on them. On his child. The child he’d left fatherless.

The knowledge left a sour taste on his tongue, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask for more details. A morbid part of him wanted to know everything—when it had happened, how, whether his death had meant anything. There was a thought of changing things, but it faded quickly into the rush of emotion. Who was to say the future could be changed?

So he said nothing, just held his child as they cried and told them everything was going to be okay.

Aeron breathed in the crisp, recycled air of the Black Lion’s cockpit. Her steady presence settled into a familiar place in their mind, and for a moment they could almost forget she wasn’t quite the Black they knew. Thirty years wasn’t much to a Voltron Lion, but the death of a pilot—the death of Aeron’s father, who had been so closely bonded to Black that his death had left deep scars—was not something that could be ignored.

Eight years had not dulled the ache of loss.

That day was burned into their memory. A diplomatic mission, one of the first Aeron had been allowed to participate in… Even now, they didn’t know what had gone wrong, whether deception on the part of the locals or a Galra plot. They just remembered the explosion. Coran had been caught up in the blast, and Aeron’s father had gone in to save him. Aeron followed, and only narrowly avoided being caught in the building’s collapse.

Funny, how being back here with Shiro could make them feel like a child again.

But he’d been there, as earnest as ever, every line of his body speaking to concern for their happiness, every word dripping with a desire to make things right. Aeron’s father had poured everything he had into his family.

They'd almost forgotten how much they'd missed him.

They felt lighter now that they'd told him, though slightly embarrassed by their breakdown.

Black rumbled reassurance, and Aeron smiled. It had been Shiro’s idea to take Black out for a spin, and Aeron had been afraid Black would refuse, as she’d refused to open for Aeron when they first arrived in this time. But she’d welcomed them, and the flight had loosened knots Aeron hadn’t even realized they’d been carrying. Their father was dead, and they dared not hope that would change, but if nothing else, they had at least found closure.

An alarm startled Aeron out of their thoughts. They spun the Black Lion around, scanning the stars, and spotted spotted it at the edge of the system: a Galra fleet. Heart pounding, they hailed the castle.

“Paladins, to your lions! Galra fleet incoming!”

It wasn’t until Keith jumped on the comms with a curse that Aeron remembered they weren’t in their own time. For a moment, they panicked. They’d never been into battle without Rose at their side, without their brother back on the castle-ship to provide support. They couldn’t—they couldn’t do this.

“Shiro.” Aeron faltered, bit their lip. “Dad. I’m going to hold them off until the others are out here, then I’ll trade places with you and you can--”

“No.”

Aeron hesitated. “What?”

“No,” Shiro repeated. “You’re already out there, and you’re just as much the black paladin as I am. You can do this, Aeron. I trust you.”

Mingled pride and grief stirred in Aeron’s chest, but they nodded, pulling out Black’s wing-blades as the Galra fleet formed up and headed toward Dovrura. Ships burned around them, and Black roared in Aeron’s head as they held the line. In moments, the Red Lion was there, arriving in a swirl of flame. The castle��s lasers joined the fray with pinpoint accuracy, knocking down ship after ship as the other paladins fell into formation.

Rose and Myhrin weren’t here. The rest of Aeron’s team wasn’t here. But their parents were, and these people were--or would be--Aeron's family. When they needed someone to take a shot, Lance was there; when they asked for scans of the battle cruiser, Pidge had them ready before the words were fully out of Aeron’s mouth. They flew in tandem with Keith, and Hunk caught a shot from their blind spot.

They cleared out the fleet quickly, Allura called out a warning as the battle cruiser began to charge its cannon, the barrel aimed directly at Dovrura.

“We can’t let them get that shot off,” Aeron called. “Everyone together now—form Voltron!”

They didn’t expect it to work. There were always hiccups when you added someone new to the formation. It took time, and it took a willingness to be open with each other—something Aeron just couldn’t bring themself to do, not when they knew so much about these people’s future.

But in a way, there was nothing new about this. Aeron knew Keith and Hunk and Lance and Pidge. They knew a version of them, anyway. And the other paladins knew Aeron’s parents. There were thirty years between them—but what was thirty years to Voltron?

The bond took root, and Aeron directed them toward the battle cruiser.

“Keith! Form sword!”

Power surged as the sword materialized. Hunk and Lance pivoted, and Keith sliced through the barrel of the ion cannon. Pidge latched onto the cruiser as Voltron drifted past, and they pivoted again, Keith reversing and bringing the sword up from below.

It sliced cleanly through the cruiser, leaving two halves drifting, the shredded shields flickering once, twice, before the power failed entirely.

Stillness returned to the system, and Aeron breathed a sigh of relief.

“That was some fine flying, everyone,” Shiro said warmly. “Good work. And Aeron—thank you. You’re team’s lucky to have you.”

By the following morning, they had the solution they'd been hunting for. However Aeron had ended up in the past, it had left an impression. A path they ought to be able to follow home. All they had to do was reopen the portal. To that end, Coran and Hunk had adapted the teludav technology, and Pidge had programmed it based on the energy spike from Aeron’s arrival.

“It’s going to take a lot of Quintessence to power this thing,” Pidge warned. The team had gathered at the point where Aeron had appeared, helmets sealed against the thin atmosphere. Aeron glanced at Allura.

“Well, what do you say, Mom? Together?”

Allura nodded and they stepped up to the device Hunk and Coran had built. It didn’t look like much; just a small silver cube with a single pedestal rising from the top. Allura laid one hand atop the pedestal, Aeron placed their hand over hers, and they both channeled their Quintessence into the device.

A ripple appeared in the air, then split into a milky blue portal tall enough to walk through.

“I guess this is it, then,” Aeron said, turning back to the paladins. Hunk sniffled, then surged forward, lifting Aeron off their feet. They wheezed, smiling despite themself. “Oh, come on, Uncle Hunk. I’m gonna be born in about seven years. That’s not so long.”

Hunk laughed, and as he pulled back, Pidge took his place. Keith and Lance were next, and Aeron pressed a small disk into Lance’s hand as they broke apart. Lance frowned, looking down at the device, and Aeron winked.

“A little memento,” they whispered, too quiet for even Keith to hear. “For when you’re homesick for something that hasn’t happened yet.”

Lance’s lip trembled, and he squeezed Aeron tight enough to force the air from their lungs. “Thank you.”

Aeron smiled, squeezing Lance back. By the time they parted, Coran was there, his smile sorrowful. Aeron’s breath quickened, and now the tears came. They remembered Coran as a pillar of their childhood, as good as a grandfather to all the paladins’ kids—right up until the day he died.

This version was virtually unchanged from the man Aeron had known. Not so many wrinkles, perhaps, and not yet any gray in his hair, but the same kind smile. The same ready hugs and gentle prodding that made Aeron spill everything.

He alone of anyone in this time had heard the full story of his death, and Shiro’s. Aeron hadn’t meant to say anything, and even now they told themself it wouldn’t change anything. But maybe…

Maybe.

Aeron clung to Coran, burying their face in the curve of his neck. “I’m going to miss you,” they whispered.

Coran sighed. “As will I. But we’ll see each other again, Aeron.”

“I hope so.”

Then all that remained was saying goodbye to their parents. Allura and Shiro stood together, radiant with pride and affection, and Aeron felt their tears spill over. Aeron focused on breathing and surged forward to hug them. Blinking against the tears, Aeron folded Shiro’s fingers over another projection disk, this one containing a picture of Aeron with their parents and brother.

“Don’t forget to have me, okay? And Myhrin, too.”

Allura laughed, then held out a necklace. Aeron recognized it as belonging to their grandmother; their mother wore it nearly every day. Their eyes widened. “I can’t--”

“Take it,” Allura said. “I want you to have a piece of me, whatever else happens.”

Aeron said nothing, just nodded, clutching the necklace to their chest, and stepped backward toward the portal. They got one last look at the team, happy and whole and hopeful, before they stepped out of time.

The castle was just the same as Aeron remembered it, albeit quieter. Med kits in every room—added after Rose’s... eventful childhood. Old finger paintings permanently emblazoned on the walls. The familiar sigh of the ventilation system, and the hum of Quintessence running through the conduits.

Aeron stepped out of the portal into the Black Lion’s hangar, unchanged down to the jacket Aeron had left draped over a chair. They went looking for their team, a corner of their mind irrationally convinced they’d come back ten thousand years too late, and everyone they’d know was long dead.

Voices in the distance led them to the rec room, where they found a crowd. Not just the other paladins, but many of their parents as well. Keith and Lance had claimed a corner of the couch; Hunk and Shay and the Holts were huddled by the wall, talking in low tones.

But it was Rose, pacing by the door and chewing on a fingernail, who noticed Aeron first. She stopped, mouth dropping open.

Then she shrieked, loud enough to shatter glass, and sprinted toward Aeron. “You big, stupid jerk!” she cried, slamming into them and spinning around. “Do you have any idea how worried we were?” Rose pulled back, punching Aeron in the shoulder. “You’re not allowed to do that again.”

Aeron chuckled, rubbing their arm. “Sorry,” they said, beaming as everyone else streamed forward to join in on the group hug. “I’m home now, though.”

A hand settled between Aeron’s shoulder blades, warm and heavy, and they began to turn, only to freeze when a familiar voice said, “You’re right.”

Aeron forgot how to breathe. It was only then that they spotted Coran across the room, smiling into his hand. There was gray in his hair, more than Aeron remembered, but his eyes sparkled mischievously as he came forward and put an arm around Allura’s shoulders.

Aeron turned.

“Dad?”

Their voice came out small, tears streaming down their face, but their father only smiled, pulling them against him. “Welcome home, kiddo.”

#voltron #vld #shallura #klance #next gen au #time travel au

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