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littlemisslol-fic · 3 years

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Summary: Two years after the events of Barviel Keep, Varian has tried to adapt to the expectations brought by being a King’s Ward, with mixed results. Haunted by ghosts, Varian is forced to face the demons he tried to leave behind in Bayangor when his abdication is forcibly stopped by a third party, out for revenge against the Bayan Royal bloodline. On the run, with few allies left to turn to, Varian finds himself chasing a ghost through a series of tests that only a true heir of Demanitus could ever hope to pass.But the shadows are ever present, looming and dark, and not everything is as simple as it might seem.

Notes: Big finale time! Part one of a two-part ending!

They’d taken the Der Sonne. Rapunzel scowled at the warship, the thing looming over the horizon. It made her sick to think of her father’s flagship, the crowning jewel of the Coronian navy, stolen and used by their enemies. She couldn’t keep the scowl off her face as she sailed the Oracle closer to the massive stern side of the ship; their little boat was dwarfed by the Der Sonne in a way that was almost comical.

The early hour ended up being their biggest advantage. Eugene had doused all the lights on board the second they’d taken sail, the Oracle becoming a smudge of ink against navy sky. It would be difficult to see them coming from the deck of the massive warship, made even worse by the storm beginning to brew above.

Rapunzel shuddered in the harsh wind, her short hair flying in the cold breeze. Eugene stood to her left, his face set in a grim mask as they got closer. Ruddiger was curled around his shoulders, the raccoon looking glum; without his human, the animal had quickly lost his spark.

The Der Sonne looked like a looming beast, ready to devour them if they got too close; Rapunzel scowled and turned the wheel gently, bringing them as close to the warship as they dared. The waves were rough. If they moored too close the Oracle would get slammed against the Der Sonne and surely torn to shreds.

“He’ll probably be in the brig,” Eugene murmured. “I can’t see them keeping him anywhere else, not if they want him to actually stay there.”

Rapunzel sighed, remembering Corona’s inability to keep Varian in a cell in their own dungeons, or the boy’s stories of escape attempts from Barviel Keep. As much as she didn’t like to think about it, Varian had proven hard to keep a hold of, no matter who was the one trying to keep him in.

“He’s got a knack for it,” she admitted. “But we’ll be there if he needs backup.”

Eugene looked troubled, looking up at the massive ship. They were in her shadow, covered by darkness. It made Rapunzel nervous, to be so out in the open with enemies so close. If she strained, she could hear Merrick and his men hooting and hollering on the deck high above.

“Do you think he’s okay?” she asked. She wasn’t sure if she was looking for an honest answer or pleasant placations; she wasn’t sure which would be better. Eugene didn’t seem to be in the mood to lie.

“When we find him,” he said, “We’ll have to be ready for the worst.”

“What do you mean?” Rapunzel asked. She felt a tendril of dread curl around her heart. What did he mean? That wasn’t what she needed to hear right now--

“I mean, we don’t know what state he’ll be in,” Eugene admitted. “Merrick needs him alive, sure, but we’ve seen what the guy can do. Just… be ready. It might not be pretty.”

“He’s going to be fine,” Rapunzel said firmly. “He just needs m— us. Needs us. We need to get him out of here.”

Eugene seemed to have caught her slip, his face souring slightly. “What he needs, is for us to trust him.”

“I do!”

“Do you?”

Rapunzel paused. Did she?

“Of course I do.” The fib tasted bitter. “I just want what’s best for him.”

“And if that’s what’s not what you think it is?”

Rapunzel blinked, confused. “Where is this coming from? Of course I know—”

“He still wants to leave, after this.” It felt like a punch to the gut, but Eugene didn’t seem to care. “And I think we should let him.”

“What? We can’t… he’ll get hurt, out there!”

“But it’s what he wants.”

“He doesn’t know what he wants.” Rapunzel’s grip on the steering wheel got tighter. “He’s emotional, right now, and he needs to be somewhere we can keep him safe.”

“Isn’t that what Gothel always told you?” Eugene’s face wasn’t angry, but for how much his words cut Rapunzel, he might as well have been. How could he say that? It was different; she wasn’t sure how, but it was. Eugene seemed to have seen something play across her face. He started to backtrack.

“Sunshine, you need to—”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Eugene blinked, taken aback. The guilty feeling nagging at Rapunzel’s thoughts only got worse when she saw his reaction, but she couldn’t help it. She needed Varian to be somewhere safe, somewhere she could keep an eye on him. It was rude of her to shut down Eugene like that, and she knew it, but she couldn’t deal with this right now. Not with the mounting danger.

“Rapunzel.” She turned to look at Eugene, who wouldn’t meet her eye. “Do you want him safe for him, or do you want him safe for you?”

The princess reeled, shaking her head. She opened her mouth to argue more, only for her husband to cut her off with a gentle movement.

“You need to trust him,” the man said. “Or at least give him more credit. Varian’s a smart kid, and he’s stronger than you think. We have to let him spread his wings eventually.”

With that, hopped down from the steering platform of the Oracle, not giving her time to reply. Rapunzel stewed as Eugene crept close to the gap between the ships, poking at a closed window on the side of the Der Sonne. He was talking nonsense; Eugene must have been chatting with Varian and swayed onto the teenager’s side. Varian could be very convincing, when he wanted to be, and obviously Eugene had been tricked into following the boy’s terrible idea. She sighed, pinching at her nose.

Eugene didn’t seem to pick up on his wife’s mood, working at the lock. Within seconds he had the porthole open, the small circle big enough for them to shimmy through. Eugene gently plucked Ruddiger from his shoulders, putting the critter down on a nearby crate.

“Best you stay here, bud,” he told the sleepy animal. “This is one adventure you might want to sit out.”

Ruddiger didn’t seem to want to argue, instead opting to roll over and curling up in a miserable ball of fur. Eugene frowned, giving the raccoon one more scratch behind the ears.

Rapunzel hopped down as well, not meeting her husband’s eye. Something in her felt defensive; she was right to want her brother safe, she didn’t understand why Eugene was suddenly against her on this. Varian was a given, he’d never been one to be ordered around, but she’d expected her husband to side with her. He wanted to protect Varian just as much as she did, she knew it, so why—

“We should get in there,” Eugene said, jabbing a thumb at the open window. “We don’t have much time before the sun comes up; they’ll see the Oracle.”

“Right.” Rapunzel smoothed out the folds of her dress. Priorities. “Right, of course.”

She braced herself on the porthole, stepping up and carefully maneuvering herself aboard the Der Sonne. The princess took a deep breath. They had to find Varian. She turned, helping Eugene through with a steady hand. Rapunzel tucked away the feelings of guilt, the creeping wrongness that had begun to take over her thoughts, and elected to ignore them.

They could deal with the rest later.

>>><<<

Varian found himself pacing. He felt like a caged animal, the iron bars of the brig taunting him. It was claustrophobic, the walls pressing in on him from all directions. He had to get out of the brig— had to track down that staff, had to get back to his friends, had to see if they were…

Well.

He had a hell of a to-do list, to say the least. Varian grit his teeth. One thing at a time. The Staff still had to be on board, there was no way that Merrick would let it out of his sight. Varian still wasn’t entirely sure what it did— but that didn’t really matter. If Merrick wanted it, was willing to go to such extremes to get it, then it stood to reason that the best thing to do would be to steal it back before the mage could do too much damage with it.

Varian couldn’t help but feel responsible. He was the idiot who’d been tricked, he was the one who’d been forced into opening the coffin with almost hilarious ease. It wasn’t entirely his fault— but he knew he was smarter than this. He’d been so caught up in the possibility of finding Aisha, of seeing her… he’d left any sense of logic behind. Eugene had seen it, so had Rapunzel. Varian hadn’t, and obviously that had gone fantastic for him.

Varian cast a wry glance over to the cell door, a bitter taste thick in his mouth at the sight of it. Step one was to get loose again; he’d blown his first shot, but Varian knew he was nothing if not a crafty little shit. He’d find a way out if he had to. Then the Staff. Then his family. Then, hopefully, a nap. He’d been awake since early yesterday morning, and it was certainly starting to wear at him. His everything was hurting by this point, from the top of his head down to his aching, bruised feet. The alchemist sighed, kicking idly at the floorboards under him.

“What to do,” he mumbled to himself. “C’mon genius, think.”

The darkness was starting to leak away, he could see through a window on the far side of the brig. He hadn’t noticed it before, it being so late that the porthole might as well have been another part of the wall— but in the early hour, he could see the beginnings of a dull grey sky. The sun would be up soon. Hopefully with more light to work with, he could figure something out.

Varian let himself pace again, the three-meter square cell not offering much else. He needed a plan. The Staff would be near wherever Merrick was; it would be tricky to grab it without getting spotted. He might have to make a detour, see if he can’t knock out one of the Bayans and steal their uniform to be able to move around the ship without drawing attention.

The boy looked down at himself, sighing. Quirin’s cloak was nearly in tatters, covered in cobwebs and dirt and dust. His formal clothes, long since rumpled and ruined in a way that would make Nigel pop a blood vessel, were almost grey instead of the blue they’d started as. Frederic and Arianna had only packed them one change of clothes each; Varian regretted swapping back to the formal wear on the Oracle the day before. He hadn’t expected to be grave robbing and getting kidnapped (again) or he would have worn something easier to run in.

Varian knew he stuck out like a sore thumb. If— when— he got out, he’d need to change. Which meant incapacitating a soldier or finding a spare uniform. He grimaced. That could be dealt with after he got out. He was thinking too far ahead.

The door at the end of the cell block started to rattle.

Varian nearly jumped out of his skin, the boy backing up and pressing his back against the wall. Gods did he wish for anything to defend himself with. A sword, a knife, hell, he’d even take a fire poker at this point. The wooden planks of the wall dug into his spine, pressing into his skin like a thousand descending hands. He shuddered, focusing as the door cracked open.

Lamplight streamed into the brig. Varian winced at the sudden change, pain spiking through his aching head; he threw a hand up to cover his eyes from the bright light. He slammed his eyes shut, trying to block it out and calm the pounding headache. Thus, the voice that rang through the brig took him by total surprise.

“Varian?”

“Rapunzel?!”

Blue eyes snapped open in shock, blinking away the spots and catching sight of a blur of purple standing at the end of the hall.

“Varian!” Rapunzel sprinted toward his cell, her hands wrapping around the iron bars in an almost manic frenzy. “Thank the Sun, are you okay?”

“Been better,” he said, truthfully. The bruise on his cheek stung something horrible, now that he was talking. Varian blinked as Eugene appeared behind the princess, lock pick already at the ready.

“Hey kid,” he greeted, “Good to see you.”

Varian huffed his way through a laugh, stepping back as Eugene cracked the door open. “I think that’s a new record,” the boy said, nodding toward the lock. “You’re getting too good at breaking out of jail cells.”

“Eh, I’m a man of many talents,” Eugene shrugged. When Varian stepped out of the cell, the man tilted his head and pointed to his cheek. “Ouch, goggles,” he said. “That’s a hell of a shiner.”

“A shin— Varian!” Rapunzel gasped as she saw what was probably a developing bruise. Varian winced when she grabbed at his face, forcing him to look to the side as she inspected the injury. It stung, her fingers poking and prodding. “What happened?” Her voice was hoarse, like she’d been yelling. It plucked at Varian's already frayed nerves, especially considering the situation they’d been separated in.

“I’m fine,” he said, firmly pushing at her hands until she let him go. He took a step back, nearly back into the cell in an attempt for space. “I’m fine,” he repeated when her face soured. “I’ve had worse. I pushed too far and Merrick—”

“He’s dead,” she spat, not waiting for him to even finish. The phrasing shocked Varian; he hadn’t thought she had it in her. He noticed how the grip on her frying pan was snow white. “He’s done enough damage for today. We need to get out of here, get you somewhere safe—”

Varian blinked, taken by surprise when she reached over and grabbed his wrist, starting to tug him behind her.

“Wait—” he started to say, only to lose his voice with a harder pull. “Wa—”

“Uh, sunshine,” Eugene’s voice was nearly lost behind them. “I think Varian’s trying to say something.”

“We’ll get back to the ship,” Rapunzel muttered, probably not even noticing she was speaking out loud. “We’ll sail back home if we have to, back to where it’s safe, we just have to get to the boat.”

“Rapunzel!” Varian snapped, yanking his hand from her grip. She whirled around, stunned. Her green eyes were blown wide, her mouth slightly open. Varian huffed, nervously smoothing out non-existent creases in his cloak. “I can’t go yet,” he admitted. He almost backed off when her face darkened. Almost.

“The Staff,” is all he said in explanation. “We can’t leave it here, not with Merrick. Whatever he wants it for, it can’t be good.”

Rapunzel looked like she was going to be sick. “Okay,” she nodded, a surprise. “But you go back to the Oracle, Eugene and I will get it.” There it was.

“Splitting up isn’t exactly a good idea,” Eugene cut in, bless his heart. “If all three of us are looking, we can find it faster.”

Rapunzel’s face seemed to twitch, but it was obvious she knew she wasn’t winning this. Her face flittered through multiple expressions—anger, sadness, frustration, until finally, resignation—but when neither Varian nor Eugene backed down she bit the inside of her cheek. She nodded, rough and jerky.

“We’ll be quick,” Varian tried to placate her, “Just a little detour.”

She sucked in a long breath through her nose. Varian winced, instinctively rubbing at his wrists. Gods his arm smarted, too, the stitches Eugene had made only days before had definitely torn a bit. Something in him demanded he keep his distance, trying for space even if she refused to give it. He wanted to wilt, to shrink away, and it took a very conscious effort to keep himself from fully retreating. Rapunzel shook her head at long last, letting the breath out as a long sigh.

“Just promise me you’ll stay close,” she finally sighed. Rapunzel turned to Eugene, overlooking Varian. “Where do we start?”

Eugene blinked, obviously befuddled. It was obvious that he had no idea, though it wasn’t like any of them really did.

“It’s got to be around here somewhere,” Varian said, his hands idly twisting together as he thought. “Wherever Merrick is, that’s where it would be.”

“We heard him,” Eugene cut in, “Outside. I think he was on the deck. I’m not sure if he’s still out there, not with the storm.”

“It’s still a good spot to check.” Varian nodded, gently worming past his sister and starting for the door. They had to be running out of time before Merrick sent someone to check on him. Varian’s cheek stung at the reminder. He heard gentle footfalls behind him. His friends, following closely. It was a balm to his anxious heart, having his family together again. Varian felt something almost like confidence at the sound. His friends were here, they could do this, together.

Hopefully.

>>><<<

The storm was getting worse.

The Der Sonne rocked back and forth in the pounding surf; if Varian didn’t have a stomach of steel from a lifetime of being his own crash test dummy, he’d certainly be sick. It was rhythmic, like a countdown. A stopwatch.

Tick, tick.

There was a thrumming energy in the ship. Eugene and Rapunzel hadn’t seemed to pick up on it, as they moved through the underbelly of the warship, but Varian could feel it. Like a fishhook in his stomach, it pulled at him impatiently, luring him toward whatever was on the other side. It was the same feeling he’d had when he’d held the Novis Staff, that connection. Varian had never been one for magic… but he was willing to bet that this was something more arcane in nature.

A crack of lightning lit up from outside; the row of portholes on the side of the hall they were sneaking through cast bright circles of white light across the corridor in front of them for only a second, before it was snuffed out. Almost immediately after, a crack of thunder rattled through the air. Varian felt it deep in his chest, the gunshot rumble echoing in his ear long after the noise had ended. The Der Sonne gave another sickening lurch— rougher now.

The storm was growing more violent.

Varian paused when they reached a final staircase. They needed to get up there, the tugging in his chest was only getting stronger the closer to the deck they got— but something in him hesitated. They hadn’t seen any of the Bayans, not a one since they left the brig. It felt too easy. Much too easy for one of their adventures, at least. The last time things had gone this well, Varian had ended up with a snake growing out of his head. Nah, this was suspicious.

And he wasn’t about to get caught in another blindside.

“Is this the only way to the deck?” he asked, looking at Eugene. If anyone was going to hopefully know the layout of a navy ship, it would be the captain of the guard. Eugene blinked, thinking, before nodding his head.

“It is,” he answered, “Unless you want to climb over the side.”

Bad idea. They’d probably get tossed into the sea. Varian winced at the thought, the sound of roaring waves unmissable outside, pounding surf and shrieking winds spelling certain death for anyone who was in the water.

“Alright,” he sighed. “I don’t suppose you guys managed to grab any alchemy supplies on the way in?”

Rapunzel shook her head. “We’ll just have to be sneaky,” she said, as if it were that simple.

Even Eugene winced, tapping his foot. “There can’t be too many left,” he mused. “I only counted ten on the deck when we were getting close, plus the twenty that—” he looked down, as if suddenly remembering that Varian was right in front of him. “That were in the tomb and didn’t do so well.”

Varian couldn’t help but feel a little shocked, extrapolating why Eugene had cut himself off. “So… only ten?” he asked, trying to smooth over the sudden awkward silence that had taken hold of Eugene’s tongue. The man nodded.

“Only ten. Plus metal-arm.”

Not great odds.

But they’d faced worse. Ten versus one wasn’t impossible, but it would definitely be a difficult morning to say the least. Their numbers were low—at least they had a shot.

Another crack of lightning illuminated the ship. The rolling thunder was louder still, enough that the glass inserts on the portholes began to rattle. Varian sucked in air through his teeth— they weren’t getting any younger, here, and they had to make a move. He moved up the first step, ready to just get this over with, when he was stopped by a hand that nearly dwarfed his own.

Eugene looked nervous, and rightly so. Varian tilted his head in silent question, arching a brow when the man tugged his knife and scabbard from his belt.

“Here,” he said, “Just in case.”

It was the same blade Varian had used to cut his hand to get into Geldam’s tomb. “Are you sure?” he asked, holding it gently. It was one of Edmund’s, he knew. It wasn’t something Eugene would just give away, let alone in a scenario where he might not get it back. Was he sure?

“Sure,” Eugene shrugged, like it didn’t mean anything. “Better safe than sorry.”

“Are you sure that’s—” Rapunzel started.

“Yep,” Eugene said, flatly. The princess pouted a little bit, obviously unhappy at being outvoted. Eugene didn’t seem to want to budge. At least someone was willing to let Varian take care of himself.

Varian decided to bite his tongue, opting instead to clip the knife’s cover to his own belt, letting it rest. It wouldn’t do much in a fight but having it still did wonders for soothing Varian’s frayed nerves. At least he could maybe stab someone before they all got murdered. The alchemist turned from his friends, continuing up the stairs and up to a massive door that stood at the very top.

With a deep breath he cracked it open, peering out onto the deck. He was immediately greeted with a face full of rain and seawater, forcing him to close his eyes with a splutter. Varian nearly let the door slam but caught it at the last second with frantic hands. He rubbed the water from his face, holding tight to the doorknob to keep the oak door from flying open in the harsh winds.

He took another, more cautious, look outside, grimacing at what he saw.

The Bayans had indeed congregated on the deck of the Der Sonne. Varian counted nine, though he knew number ten could be running around elsewhere. On the very end of the ship, near the bow, stood Merrick, his coat flaring out in the wind, an ink stain on grey canvas. Varian grimaced at the flash of silver in his hand.

Bingo.

“How’s it looking, goggles?” Eugene whispered, inching up behind Varian and peeking over his head. The teenager grimaced, looking back to his friends.

“Good news or bad news?” he asked them.

“Good news,” Rapunzel said, at the exact same time Eugene said, “Bad news.”

Varian snorted. “Good news is I found the Staff. Bad news is I also found Merrick.”

Both of them winced; Rapunzel looked like she’d eaten a lemon. Varian looked back to their enemy, watching as Merrick fiddled with the Staff. The mage seemed confused, a fact that was only highlighted when Merrick began to gently smack the Staff off the railing of the ship. Varian could hear the angry ting of silver on copper from their vantage point and winced.

“I don’t think he knows how to use it,” the boy mused. They might have a chance, after all.

“That’s good,” Eugene said, nodding.

“But it’s also only a matter of time before he figures it out.” Varian said, pointedly. Eugene paused.

“That’s bad.”

The boy nodded, wincing when Merrick threw the Staff in the air, flipping it and catching it with a flourish. The Bayans clapped, laughing. Varian rolled his eyes with a scoff. Drama queens, all of them. Almost bad as everyone back home.

Eugene was still looking over his shoulder, Rapunzel behind him. “Alright, what’s the plan?” he asked.

Varian bit the inside of his cheek. “Get the staff, and go home,” he said flatly. When both adults shot him a look, he pouted. “I’m making this up as I go along!”

Eugene sighed. “If the two of you can hold off the grunts, I can make a break for our friend over there. I’ll grab the stick, we jump off the back, and swim for the Oracle. Then, we get the hell out of dodge.”

Rapunzel and Varian both nodded in tandem. “Leave it to us,” she said. Varian could see she already had her pan out and ready. He tapped his fingers on the doorknob, looking around one final time. He didn’t see much in the way of weapons, but that didn’t make them any less of a threat.

The Der Sonne gave another sickening roll. None of the Bayans seemed to notice, too caught up in their leader’s little show to care. If there was a time to strike, it was—

“Now!” he yelled, throwing the door open and making a run for it. He heard Rapunzel and Eugene moving behind him, but his focus was entirely on the crew in front. Ten total, five for him and five for Rapunzel. All of them had jumped when he yelled, which was exactly the point; if they were surprised, they’d react slower.

Rapunzel let out a fierce cry, her pan swinging in a wide arc and slamming into the stomach of one of the soldiers. They went down with a grunt, wheezing as they clung to their abused torso. They didn’t move again, curling up on the deck. Varian winced, remembering a time he’d gotten the wrong end of that pan, but quickly added to his mental tally.

Nine to go.

Varian managed to weave around grasping hands, content to play bait. He was easily faster than them, his lack of armor and smaller size making it easy to avoid them as he danced away. The boy caught sight of Eugene trying to get to Merrick, but his way was blocked by two more soldiers. His sword flashed as the man parried their attacks, a streak of silver against the dark wood of the Der Sonne.

Rapunzel had taken care of three more, while they’d been busy, meaning—

Six left. They could do this.

Varian swerved away from another solider, a woman with dark red hair, and ducked down, sliding under her grabbing hands, and popping up behind her. With a cracking cry he turned, bringing up a foot and managing to kick her in the back, right in the center of the spine. She yelped, thrown off balance and toppling forward. She fell over a set of crates that had been on deck, her yelling cut short when her head slammed against one of the corners.

“Sorry!” Varian winced, “Sorry, sorry, sorry—”

Five.

He was startled by another shout, this one from Rapunzel. She was fighting against a larger man, the brute holding a massive hammer. She cried out as he swung at her. Varian saw red, his feet moving before he could even think; with a screech he ran clean across the deck, jumping onto the unaware man’s back and wrapping spindly arms around his neck.

“Varian!” Rapunzel shouted. He couldn’t really hear her, however, as the large man began to swing around, lifting tree trunk sized arms back to try and grab the boy latched onto him. Varian held tight, but gods he was going to be sick from the spinning— he dug his grip in harder, trying to choke the man unsuccessfully.

“Get off you little shit!” the man screamed, trying and failing to get a hold of Varian.

They flipped around once more before Rapunzel finally managed to get an in. With a great crack she brought her pan down on the man’s skull. Varian felt the way he shook on the impact, the man dropping to the deck. The alchemist only just managed to let go, letting the man fall. The boy huffed for breath, shaking out his aching arms. That had been… unorthodox, but effective. Interesting. He looked across the deck again, taking a head count.

Four left. He nearly laughed, relieved, but suddenly was confronted with a face full of angry princess.

“Varian, what are you doing?” Rapunzel demanded, “You could have been hurt— that was reckless!”

He felt a drop of anger at her tone. “I was saving you!” he snapped, “You could say thanks, you know?!”

She threw her hands up, frustrated, but before she could inevitably start to tear into him again there was a massive cracking noise of broken air. A shock wave pulsed across the deck of the ship, sending them all falling over. Varian landed roughly on the wooden slats, instinctively covering his head. He heard Rapunzel scream, and peeked over his arms to see her flip ass over teakettle across the polished surface. Anything not nailed down, people included, were tossed around like children’s toys, some of them nearly taking the plunge into the inky depths of the ocean below.

Varian winced, looking frantically toward the bow of the Der Sonne. Merrick stood there, openly laughing as he held the Novis Staff above his head. The crystal shone a bright orange, sending out rhythmic pulses of light into the sky above. The storm, violent before, picked up in intensity, rattling the very bones in Varian’s chest. He gripped onto the slick deck, trying to keep himself still as another pulse of energy flew from the staff. The wind tousled his hair, sending it into Varian’s face and slapping him with the rain. Varian winced, peering through the storm with watery eyes to catch sight of his enemy.

Merrick looked plenty pleased with himself, waving the Staff in triumph. “Uh oh,” he shouted over the wind, a fake whine in his voice. “Guess I was able to figure it out without you, huh?!”

Varian scowled. Enough was enough— he was putting a stop to this. He pushed himself to his feet, aching arms shaking under the effort; his left hand felt slick in his glove…. Ah. The stitches on his arm had given up the ghost at last. His sleeve was stained a bright red, the fresh blood mixing with rain and seawater. Quirin’s cloak was a mess, the red staining the fabric and turning ashy blue a deep maroon.

Varian tried to steady himself, only to be thrown to the side by a particularly rough wave hitting the Der Sonne at the side. He heard the others, Bayan and Coronian alike, scream as they were tossed. He hit the deck once more, pain from the jagged cut in his arm lacing up his nerves. Varian grunted, blinking away salt and sea; he focused on Merrick, who stood tall and proud at the bow of the ship as if he didn’t even notice the rolling waves.

There was a bright flash of light, flickering for just a second. Varian screamed as his eyes slammed shut, the intensity of the glow making his eyes burn. Immediately after was a massive boom of thunder, along with a cracking sound of snapping wood, like breaking bone. He blinked away the spots, catching the last vestiges of the mast bursting into a thousand pieces.

He yelped, rolling out of the way of a massive chunk of wood that fell to the deck. The others did the same, various screams filling the air as the mast of the Der Sonne exploded into flaming, pointy shrapnel. The lightning had been quick, like a burst of bright sunlight, but the thunder had nearly popped his ears. The rolling noise of it rang in Varian’s skull and made all other sound muffled.

The ship below them began to rumble. Varian could feel it with how his spine was pressed to the deck. His teeth chattered in his mouth, rattling in his skull; the mast of the Der Sonne had crumbled, spewing flaming shrapnel across the entire deck. The alchemist could see a massive, charred hole left in its wake, punching down to the very heart of the ship. The rumbling was getting worse, coming from where the mast had once stood. If Varian listened closely, he swore he could hear…

Water.

Lots of water, rushing into the belly of the ship.

Wonderful.

Varian pushed himself up again. It seemed he’d been forgotten, in the chaos. Eugene somehow still standing, was caught up in fighting the last of the Bayan forces. Rapunzel was getting to her feet behind Varian. The Der Sonne was properly on fire now, and from the sounds of it, flooding. The ship was certainly going down.

But Varian himself had a clear shot to Merrick.

And to the Staff.

He was moving before he could think, rolling to his feet and stumbling with the creaking of the floorboards. Varian grit his teeth. He could end this, he had to end this; he may have hated his family history, but that didn’t make burying his head in the sand an option. He’d unburied all of those festering emotions at long last, the ones he’d buried and left to rot at the behest of everyone around him— but enough was enough.

He was done running.

A thin hand caught his wrist before he could make a break for it, holding him back, like a shackle. He turned, blue eyes meeting devastated green. The world around them seemed to slow, everything pausing.

“Don’t,” Rapunzel pleaded with him. Her face was tear soaked and pale. “Please, let me protect you.”

Varian’s world narrowed down to where her hand was on his skin. He stared at her, silent. Unresisting.

Stagnant.

She was looking at him like he was a priceless vase about to topple. The widening eyes, the drawn face, the dawning horror of the incoming loss of something precious; all of it pointed to her inability to let him fall. Varian felt the world begin to spin again, the rain and wind fading into the forefront in the light of his sister’s desperation.

But something in him, the trauma, the fear, the anger, something… it refused to be shoved back down. Not for her. Not for anyone. The bandage had been ripped off. The wound was open, the cancer exposed. Whether she liked it or not, he was stepping toward somewhere she might not be able to follow. He caught her eye, twisted his hand… and finally, he was free.

Her eyes widened with dismay, her grip getting stronger for just a second more before he tore himself from it. Varian heard her scream for him, his wrist slipping from her grip with the aid of his own dripping blood. Rapunzel yelled for him again, her wailing voice lost to the wind as Varian turned and sprinted toward the bow, leaving her firmly behind.

Something in him hurt, hearing the pain in her voice… but he had to do this. Had to fix his mistakes, back in the tomb, had to fix the problems his bloodline had brought to those around him. This was a step, a crucial one, to finally moving on. At least, he hoped.

Merrick was still at the bow, swinging the Staff like one would a baseball bat. The mage was cackling, looking up to the brewing storm with glee. His back was turned— good.

Varian’s feet thudded against the slick surface of the deck, nearly slipping once or twice against the rain. His boots weren’t the greatest for this, curse every fancy tailor under the sun; but he quickly ran through the gaps between Eugene and the Bayans, leaving them all behind. The boy deftly vaulted over flaming wreckage, weaving through the destruction of the Der Sonne as if it were a walk in the fields of Old Corona.

“Kid?!” He heard Eugene shout, horror obvious in the man’s voice, but Varian didn’t dare stop. Not now, not while he was so close. Merrick loomed a mere few meters away, back still turned; the mage was confident in his victory. Idiot.

Varian prided himself on being a problem solver, a smart guy, if science could fix an issue, he would figure out how. He was a man of knowledge, of academics. Typically, all his problems could be solved with wit and enough creativity.

But sometimes all you needed was to tackle someone to the ground.

With a scream Varian threw himself at Merrick’s undefended back, launching himself with brutal precision at the other teenager. Merrick’s voice went shrill with shock as Varian slammed into him, sending both of them toppling to the ground. Varian landed with a grunt, catching himself with his hands and wincing at a fiery ache that ran up his arms from his wrist at the impact.

The Staff clattered to the deck, swirling away from both teenagers. Varian was on his feet first, scrambling for the Staff with all the grace of a fish on dry land. Merrick was up a second later, managing to shove Varian back down as he passed. Varian yelped when he fell, rolling with the shove and stumbling after Merrick with a scowl.

The mage shifted; Varian could see the start of a spacial jump happening—but when Merrick tried it, he only managed a few feet before popping back into reality with a crack.

“Godsdamned rain!” Merrick snarled, stumbling from the failed teleport, and running for the Staff on foot.

Rain. Water. A fitting weakness for a fire based mage.

Merrick reached the Staff first, scooping it up with a snarl. Varian was right behind him, grabbing at it as well. They pulled at it, neither willing to give ground, yanking it back and forth like toddlers over a toy.

“Let it go!” Merrick snapped, “It’s mine!”

“You stole it!” Varian’s voice was nearly carried away by the wind. “It’s too dangerous, we have to put it back!”

Merrick’s expression darkened, pulling the Staff toward himself roughly. “It’s mine!” he repeated, “My destiny, my revenge, mine!”

“Will you cut it out with the revenge shit!” Varian pulled the Staff back, ignoring how the silver seemed to buzz under his hands. “This is stupid! It’s all stupid! Can’t you see we have bigger problems right now?”

Merrick looked ready to kill, letting go with one hand to swipe at Varian. The boy ducked out the way, catching an opening. With the same movement he thrust out one of his feet, catching Merrick right in the knee with the heel of his foot. Even above the rain he could hear the crunch of an unhappy joint, a bloodthirsty grin appearing when Merrick yowled in pain.

The hands holding the Staff fell away, Varian nearly falling on his ass without the force to pull against. He rolled, a good few feet away from his downed enemy. The alchemist forced himself to breathe, clutching the Staff tightly to his chest. He felt like a child holding a toy, gasping for air and flat on his back. He’d had the wind firmly knocked out of him— the boy was stunned, lying on the deck like a freshly caught fish.

The silver hummed in Varian’s hands, that tugging feeling in his bones finally stopping now that he had it once again. The cold was even worse now, like holding ice against bare skin. A burning cold that turned his fingers numb; Varian winced as his grip tightened on it. He managed to roll onto his knees, coughing roughly from the harsh landing. “Bullshit,” he whined, “Absolute bullshit.” Merrick, nearby, was doing much of the same, the older teenager wheezing in the rain.

Varian stumbled to his feet once again, already sick of being knocked to the deck. The Novis Staff continued to send out energy, a rhythm of pure magic that shot through the air. It was like holding something alive, conscious. Like holding a beating heart in the palm of his hand.

Varian looked for his friends, catching sight of them through the smoking wreckage of the mast. The Der Sonne was listing now, slightly, but still listing. She had truly begun to sink; they had to get off the warship and onto the Oracle if they wanted any chance of getting to safety. He was cut off from them, the fire spreading across the deck and consuming the upper levels. Varian swallowed thickly, catching sight of his friends’ terrified faces.

“Varian!” Rapunzel called. Her voice was reedy, nearly swallowed by the sounds of crackling fire and rushing water below. Eugene was by her side, the man scanning for any way to get around the flames. There wasn’t one. Varian knew this. He’d looked. He saw the exact second Eugene realized this, the man’s face dawning in abject horror.

Something in Varian clicked.

“You’ve gotta go!” Varian called, shooing them away like it would do anything. “I’ll meet you there!”

“Not happening!” Eugene was the one to shake his head. “We’ll get you— shit, kid watch out!”

Varian twisted, ducking down and narrowly missing the slice of a sword over his head. He yelped, scrambling away as Merrick loomed over him. The man looked nearly demonic, hair astray with a wild look in his eye. A river of blood was falling from a cut on his cheek, ruby against the grey sky. He didn’t speak, swinging his sword down to try and slice at Varian again.

The boy twisted away, Quirin’s cloak flaring out behind him. He caught sight of his panicking friends through the wreckage, the two of them trying to find a weak point in the fire that didn’t exist. The Der Sonne was listing more now, nearly enough for Varian to start slipping. She was going to split in two at this rate, her weakened center surely pushed to the very limit. She was going down and would take them all with her.

Unless someone forced their hand.

“Go!” He shouted at them again, turning his back on his friends. He rushed at Merrick, reeling the staff back like one would a bat, but at the last second before impact he instead let himself jump down into a slide, the listing angle of the ship and the slick wood of the deck helping him to skid under his enemy’s sweeping sword. Merrick let out an indignant noise at being swerved again, but Varian wasn’t paying attention to that, instead opting to sprint for the weakened center of the ship.

The Staff hummed in his hands, a buzzing power that he could feel from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet. It wanted to detonate, like a chemical reaction in a stopped bottle. The pressure of magic was building, pushing at the edges of the corporeal world with the vigor of a caged animal. Aldred’s machine had felt the same.

He skid to a stop, a flurry of water kicking up under his boots. Rapunzel and Eugene were yelling for him, their voices loud in the background, but Varian paid them no notice. He had a plan. Not a good plan, mind you, but a plan. He held the Staff high above his head, waiting for a split second. His breath heaved, choking, cloying smoke filling his lungs.

He had a choice, here. Either his friends would wait for him to try and get across the flames, something they obviously didn’t have the time to do, or…

Varian could force their hand.

The Der Sonne was weakened already by the lightning strike, all it would take was one final push and she would crack in half like a Fabergé egg. And Varian had always been one to push things to their limits, hadn’t he?

Merrick stood across from him. The mage’s eyes widened at the sight of Varian holding the Staff high, obviously seeing what Varian intended to do. He was slowly inching forward, trying not to spook Varian into acting, but it was a lie and they both knew it. Merrick was very much a predator on the prowl, stalking someone he thought was weaker than him until he thought he could get the upper hand. It wouldn’t work.

Not this time.

“You won’t let this die?” Varian asked, something in him smug at the way Merrick’s toxic green eyes flicked between Varian and the staff, like he was holding a grenade with the pin out. The taste of Merrick’s fear was delicious, seeing how cautious his enemy was being. Good. That’ll teach him.

“You know that this goes beyond us,” Merrick tried to argue, still inching forward. Varian scoffed, raising the Staff above his head by another inch and grinning when the man in front of him flinched. “It’s bigger than us. The feud started ages ago; you think you can just stop it? After all the blood?”

“It might be,” Varian admitted. It was-- bigger than them, that is. Countless years of history, of pain and blood and suffering, all boiled down to the two last members of the families facing off on a sinking ship in the middle of the ocean. How poetic, that they would both go down, together. Varian was done living in denial. When he next spoke, it was with a strength he thought he’d lost, those days in Barviel Keep. Things may have started a millennia ago…

“But it ends with me.”

He brought the staff down onto the shattered remains of the Der Sonne. The crack it made of silver against wood echoed much louder than it should have, accompanied by yet another massive pulse of energy, stronger than any before. Varian’s ears rang with it, all noise fading out into a high-pitched squeal. The deck below him gave one more violent shake, a bright light flaring out from where the base of the Staff was embedded in the wood.

It was almost too bright, pure white lines reaching out like spider’s webs from where Varian stood. The alchemist shouted, the metal in his hands so cold it felt like the very air around him would freeze—

Then, with the groaning of an ancient beast, the Der Sonne shuddered one last time.

The light faded out, leaving a perfect slice straight through the deck of the ship. Varian watched in awe as the Der Sonne began to shift, cleanly sliced in half from top to bottom. The teenager stumbled back as the two sides began to separate, grinding against each other in a scream of shattering wood and cracked glass. The listing became extreme, so much so that Varian was forced to grab onto what was left of the mast— he caught sight of a few of the Bayans falling over the railing and plummeting into the raging waters below.

Eugene and Rapunzel were clinging to the railing on the higher side of their half, Eugene holding tight while shielding Rapunzel in his arms. They looked no worse for wear, but as the stern half of the ship fully separated from the bow he could see how they were being forced into moving. Good. Exactly as planned.

He ripped the Staff from where it had stabbed into the deck, lifting it up once more and turning to where Merrick was holding tightly to a rope. The bow half of the Der Sonne was nearly at a eighty-degree angle list, their half almost perfectly on her side. The railing… well, it was below them now, already long since sunken under the rough waves.

Their flaming piece of wreckage, for the Der Sonne had long since stopped being worthy of being called a ship, was going down, quicker than the stern half. Varian winced as his fingers began to ache, a swooping feeling developing in his stomach as the floor finally fell out from under him and the wreck turned completely on its side. Water rushed over the railing, the wreckage under him bobbing in the waves like a cork.

He… may not have thought this through.

But as he caught sight of Rapunzel and Eugene being forced to leave the deck, rushing for where they’d moored the Oracle, he felt a surge of relief. Surely they had some crackpot scheme at the ready, but they were safe; he’d finally made sure his family wouldn’t go down with him. His heart was beating fast, so loud in his ears he didn’t hear what they were shouting… but as they vanished around a corner, Varian breathed easy for the first time since he’d been brought aboard.

He clung to the last of the mast, managing to get his feet under him as he awkwardly climbed on top. It was parallel to the sea, one foothold now that the deck was nothing more than a slippery slope into the ocean beyond. Merrick, nearby, had dug his metal hand into the wood, holding himself high by one arm and holding tight. Varian was forced to back up as much as he could as the mage swiped at him, trying to snatch the Novis Staff.

Varian nearly dropped the stupid thing. Ironic, considering the hell it had caused. Merrick swiped again, this time managing to maneuver himself onto the little piece of mast. It was only two meters long, offering no distance for Varian to scuttle away or hide; but as he faced his enemy, someone who had once terrified him… he didn’t feel that fear. Instead, he could only feel… regret, maybe? That things had gotten so out of hand, that he’d been drawn back to the sordid family history he’d tried so hard to leave behind.

He was so tired.

There was another burst of lighting. Both teenagers yelped as it hit near the top of the bow, an explosion of light and sound that violently tore the worlds to shreds in mere milliseconds. Varian felt himself stumble, his feet unable to get purchase—

He toppled, dropping off the mast and falling the nearly twenty feet into the water.

Varian saw a flash of ink fall past him— Merrick, also dropping from the wreckage— and heard a splash. A split second later he felt a ruthless slam on his own back, the ice-cold water below feeling more like concrete with how hard he hit it. He instinctively opened his mouth to scream, coughing as saltwater rushed in instead of air. He was choking, drowning— he couldn’t tell what way was up, he was sinking— he tried to blink away the water, fruitlessly trying to force his hands into a paddle. The salt burned, his eyes, the cuts on his hands and arm, a burn that had somehow happened in the scramble. His skin felt like it was on fire, the sting worming in and sinking deep.

The Novis Staff was still in his locked in grip, his hands tensing in primal fear and unable to let go as he sluggishly kicked and flailed. There was debris everywhere, shadows that played across his blurry vision and made everything that much more disorienting. He felt something solid smack into his back— a board? A barrel? He couldn’t even tell— and screamed again, water rushing in to fill his aching lungs.

Varian’s vision began to go spotty. He began to feel a stabbing pain in his eyes and ears, pressure from his aching lungs demanding he do something, swim—

His limbs were almost lethargic. Like he was trying to swim through molasses. His chest convulsed, trying to force a breath; he inhaled more water, the salt of it clear on his tongue. He turned the direction he hoped was up, blearily reaching his hand toward the red orange of flames above. If… if he could just get to the surface…

Another convulsion had him breathing in more water. Spots filled his vision, the panic fully settled in. He was going to die here. He’d never get home. He was going to sink to the bottom of the ocean, just like his mother had. How poetic.

He tried one last kick, weak and ineffectual. He was sinking, limp hand still reaching for the sky. The light from the flames got dimmer as he got further away, unwillingly descending into the depths. His eyes burned, from the saltwater or from tears, he’d never truly know.

He’d never fix things with his sister.

Varian’s vision began to dim, then darken. He was paralyzed, unable to twitch so much as a finger. Maybe… maybe this was the end. He’d been looking for it, after all. And it was quiet, here. Dark. Almost peaceful. There were worse places to sleep. He blinked one last time, slow. His eyelids felt so heavy… He was so tired… Varian closed his eyes for a final time, and let the ocean claim him.

Maybe now, he would have his ending.

>>><<<

The first surprise was that Varian wasn’t dead.

Or, at least, he didn’t think he was dead. Not yet anyways. He could feel solid stone under his back, cold and unyielding. It leeched the warmth from his skin, but the chill was blissful on Varian’s pounding skull. He winced, trying to ignore the bright light coming from beyond his eyelids. Had he slept in again? Why hadn’t Rapunzel woken him up…?

He cracked an eye open. The room beyond was familiar. Not one he’d seen in nearly two years, but one he knew well from his nightmares. From the lofty, arching ceilings, to the solid marble floors, it was exactly as he’d last seen it, the day he’d help burn it to the ground.

The Hall of Portraits was as immaculate as ever, every golden frame polished to perfection and shining in the dim sunlight coming in from the domed skylight. Varian opened his eyes fully, wincing as he sat up. The headache disappeared as quickly as it had started, and the ache that had followed him for the past week was long gone. He felt like he’d slept a hundred years, groggy but rejuvenated all the same.

“Maybe I am dead,” he whispered to himself. The vague impressions of the last week filtered through his head, Pincosta, Ori, Geldam’s tomb. The sinking of the Der Sonne. His family, escaping at the last second. Varian, sinking. Oh, gods maybe he was actually dead. Just his luck to wind up back here for his eternal hell.

He stood, scanning the room. It had been years, but he still remembered the Hall like it was yesterday. Like he was still in that tower, hidden away like a precious artifact. Varian shuddered, looking for one of the exits, only to find that the walls had somehow extended to cover where the exits had been.

Oh, so he was definitely dead.

Varian scowled. Quick feet took him to one of the “new” walls, the alchemist rapping on it with a knuckle. It sounded solid, as did the rest of the paneling. The oak blended seamlessly. He sucked in a small breath through his nose, trying to keep himself from freaking out; the nerves were beginning to fray, the idea of being stuck in the Hall for longer than necessary striking him with dread.

The portraits were as unappealing as always, masterfully painted but with sneering, judgmental subjects who all leered at Varian from their place on canvas. He wandered, skimming over Geldam’s painting, then Kamron and Abelia’s, coming to a stop in front of Aisha’s.

She still looked every bit a warrior queen. She still held that stupid blue bundle, the representation of Varian that Aldred had committed to paint and canvas when the man had assumed him dead. He glared at it, this little piece of Aldred’s horrible obsession with bringing his son back to the Keep. It made him sick. Varian reached out, intending on ripping the stupid thing off the wall, when a voice stopped him.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

Varian grit his teeth, tensing up at the familiar voice.

“Father.” His voice was flat. Varian refused to turn around, a hand still outstretched toward Aisha’s painting.

“Oh, come now,” Aldred sounded like he was pouting. It made something angry boil in Varian’s stomach. “It’s only been a few years, right? Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten our lime together, my boy. I thought we had such fun.”

“I had fun tossing you off the tower, does that count?” Varian snarled, twisting and meeting his tormentor head on. Aldred seemed nonplussed, amused, even.

“I see that you’ve still got your mother’s fire,” he cooed. “Lovely. You’ll need it.”

Varian cringed as the man stepped closer, his body moving without thought. He backed as far away from father as he could, his heart beginning to pound in his chest. Too close, he thought frantically, too close, too close—

“I will not have my son be weak,” father declared. “You are the last of our line-- and you’re going to wake up.”

“W-wake up?” Varian cursed himself for tripping over the words. His whole body was shaking, small spasms that had his knees knocking and his chest shuddering. It was almost embarrassing, if he had the space to be embarrassed between the waves of terror. “What—”

“You’re drowning,” father said flatly. “Just like my wife did. Just like I thought you had. I refuse to let one of those freaks win against us— so you’re going to wake up, and you’re going to kill it.” Father’s face sunk into a scowl, leaning closer to the terrified boy in front of him. “You’re good at that, aren’t you? Certainly seem to be, from my perspective. I will admit I didn’t think you had the balls… but you proved me wrong in the end, didn’t you? I forgot something crucial.”

“Wh—”

“As much as you are Aisha’s child… you’re my son too.”

Varian was going to vomit. He cowered back, bringing his clenched fists up to his chest in an attempt to self-guard, shrinking back into the wooden paneling next to Aisha’s portrait. Father seemed to grow tired of Varian’s panic, shaking his head.

“You’ve got the fight in you, like it or not,” he ground out. “And I’m telling you to grow up, stop being a coward, and finish the job.”

“I—” Varian’s voice was choked; he could barely speak through the lump in his throat. “I won’t, it’s not—”

“Not what?” Father’s voice was dangerously low. “Not right? What wasn’t right was you letting them into the tomb and handing them our family’s prized possession.”

Tears bit at the corner of Varian’s eyes. He couldn’t break down, he couldn’t, but seeing the man in front of him, the subject of his nightmares for over two years— it was a cloying, terrifying thing. His chest hurt, from how much his breaths stuttered. The alchemist was truly worried he might faint.

“I-I’m sorry, father.” His voice was weak, almost a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Varian hated this; he hated that he could just be reverted back to the scared little waif that had been plucked from the ashes of Barviel Keep by father’s mere presence. It was like a switch had been flipped— Varian’s mind had immediately swapped back to the tactics that had kept the man’s bad temper at bay. The apologizing, the meekness, the way father spilled out from his tongue without thought. It was all things he’d had to work to break, after being brought home; it had been months before Varian was able to speak at a normal volume again, and even then he caught himself slipping if someone were cross with him.

He couldn’t go back. Not to that, not again. But here he was, trying to disappear into the wall once more. Varian hated himself for it. Hated father for reducing him to this again. Hated the cold tile under his bare feet, hated the wood paneled walls, hated the stupid domed windows.

He hated all of it.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it.” Father stepped back, giving Varian a little space to breathe. “You’re being a disappointment, letting those aberrations get to you like that. You are the last of our line, yet you’re still clinging to a princess’ skirts like a child.”

Varian bristled, but kept quiet. He the words were trying to push out of his chest, clawing at his tight throat and demanding to be said, but he just couldn’t, not in the face of father’s ire, not while he was angry. His self-preservation wouldn’t allow for it.

“I expected better, after what happened,” father’s face was sour. Blue eyes, mirrors of Varian’s own, flicked up and above the boy’s head, focusing on Aisha’s portrait. “I expected better,” he repeated, more wistfully.

Varian inched to the side, trying to worm out from between father and the wall. He felt constricted, claustrophobic; he felt like he was being boxed in with the walls slowly crushing inward. Father noticed the movement, leaning forward and grabbing the terrified boy’s chin, forcing eye contact between them.

“You’re going to wake up,” he ordered, “And you’re going to finish the job. Are we clear?”

Varian breathed deeply, closing his eyes. He clenched his fists, grit hit teeth.

And then, he spoke.

“I won’t.” His voice was strong, but there was no mistaking the shaking of his bottom lip. “I won’t do what you tell me, not anymore. I-I’m older now, and—”

“And what?” Father seemed amused, “Does being older suddenly make you unable to understand an order? You’re trying my patience.”

Varian almost shrank back when the grip on his chin got tighter. Almost. “It means I don’t have to listen to you,” he managed to get the words out through grit teeth. “It means you don’t have any more power over me; you’re dead.”

“And you’re dying,” Aldred shot back, “Or did we forget that little fact?”

Varian brought a hand up, wrenching father’s hand from his face and moving away. The man seemed almost shocked by the sudden outburst, eyes following as Varian stepped into the middle of the Hall. He ignored the feeling of hundreds of pairs of eyes on the back of his neck. He wasn’t backing down, not again. He’d stood up to Merrick, he’d stood up to Rapunzel.

He could stand up to a ghost, too.

“I hate you,” he said bluntly, and oh did it feel good to say. Father snorted, but Varian wasn’t stopping— now that the words had been let go, it was like unstopping a cork; his voice was flowing from him without much conscious thought.

“I hate you so much. I’ve hated you for two years, and I don’t think I’ll ever be finished. Y-you hurt my sister, you hurt Meave, you hurt me; and you…” he had to pause, to push back the salty tears in his eyes. “You killed my dad. You killed him, just because you wanted to.”

“I killed him because I was bringing you home.” Aldred’s voice was condescending. “Really, my son, only a few years away and you forget everything I tried to teach you.”

“Teach me?” Varian scoffed. “Teach me what? How to be the most hated king in the Seven Kingdoms? How to traumatize children—?”

“How to be strong.” Varian shrank back at the coolness in father’s tone. “I taught you how to take what was owed to you. Would you have rather grown up as a princess’ little pet?” The man scoffed. “Obviously you wanted to, seeing as that’s what you did as soon as there was no one to push you to be better.”

“Don’t talk about her like that.” Even if Varian had feared that very outcome, with Rapunzel’s protectiveness, it wasn’t the same when Aldred brought it up. “You don’t ever get to talk about her like that.”

Aldred’s face was stormy. Varian didn’t back down this time, even when the man loomed above him. It was like he was fifteen again, stuck under the thumb of a man who’d caused him nothing but misery— but unlike before, Varian met Aldred eye to eye. He didn’t cower. Not this time.

“You were destined for greatness,” Aldred said. “You were meant for so much more than this.”

Varian’s hackles raised at the reminder of what was supposed to be his name. His face twisted into something ugly, something angry. “I was born into love,” he shot back, unable to resist pointing out where his mother had truly denied Aldred any sort of connection to Varian as a child. The man hadn’t even known his name, until he’d stumbled upon the boy in Corona. It was salt in the wound, to be sure.

The insult hit, as it was supposed to. The man snarled, stalking forward and making a grab for the boy. Varian backed up, putting an arm up to try and push the man away. Aldred snatched his wrist, as he had so long ago— Varian pushed down the memory, the panic, the heart pounding surge of fear that sent his nerves screaming; the touch made his skin crawl, remembering how father had shaken him for speaking out of turn, had made him cry— and pulled the boy, his mirror, closer.

“Wake up,” Aldred pressed again. He tried to shake Varian, just like all that time ago. Varian squared his shoulders in retaliation, keeping himself exactly where he was. The man in front of him, the source of two years of night terrors, went oddly flat faced.

Varian was ready for the slap before it could hit.

He shifted, backing away. Aldred’s hand hung in the air, pausing when it missed the mark. Varian felt something smug rear up in the way the man’s tells had become obvious to him— the first point to defeating an enemy was to know it.

“No,” he said, voice flat. “I’m not done yet.”

Something caught his eye, in the back corner. A section of the wall, directly behind Aldred, had gone nearly black. Almost like… soot. Varian blinked, focusing on it for just a second, seeing how it got bigger. The ghost was unwinding.

Aldred himself looked… off. Now that Varian had gotten his proverbial feet underneath him, he could see the little details were different. The man’s face, though it was always thin and pointed, looked much more skeletal than before. One blue eye was darker than the other… the one Varian had carved out, himself. The edges of his salt and pepper hair were dark— almost singed. Hm.

“Do you want to go back upstairs?” Aldred asked him. The smell of smoke started to drift through the air. Varian’s fists curled at the threat— because it was very much at threat, just one he refused to let work on him again.

“I’d like to see you try,” the alchemist challenged. He wasn’t a scared little boy anymore— he wouldn’t be intimidated, or pushed down, not by anyone else. The black stain on the wall got bigger, smoking embers starting to pop up in the very center. The wallpaper began to curl from the heat, a few of the portraits getting singed on the side. Aldred’s eye was looking red and bloodshot. Things were beginning to crumble.

Good.

“I’ll drag you back to that room, if I have to,” the man threatened, the sudden spring of anger long since expected. Varian began to move, constantly evading the grabbing hands following him and keeping an eye on the wall. The flames had stirred to life, smoke and ash climbing through the air and spreading into the room. Varian winced at the sight of blood, ruby red against pale skin, began to leak from Aldred’s eye, looking almost like tears.

Despite the flames, Varian’s hands were… cold. Like ice.

The Novis Staff, it seemed, was still in play. Varian’s mind clicked— surely it had conjured this odd dream space. None of this was real. Father’s ghost may be here, may be lashing out as blood flooded from his now hollow eye socket, but—

“You don’t have any power, here,” Varian’s declaration was loud over the noise of flames. Aldred tried to interject, to wrest control back, but the boy wouldn’t have it. “You don’t.”

The fire had spread, encompassing them. Aldred whirled around, something like fear in his eye. Varian stood still, winding up in front of his mother’s portrait. The man was crumbling, his skin turning black and singed at the edges, the blood coming in rivulets. It was something to see, how quickly his abuser fell apart without the fear, the illusion of power, to prop him up.

“You’re still my son,” Aldred tried one last ditch attempt, stumbling forward as his body turned to ash. “You’re still my legacy.”

Varian was stoic when Aldred collapsed to the debris covered tiles. The man was nearly disintegrating, his ghostly form burning up just as his actual body had, in the fire that claimed Barviel Keep. The boy couldn’t find it within himself to feel anything other than a cold resignation— to watch as his nightmare finally crumbled away.

“I’m not your anything,” Varian said firmly. “Not your son, not your heir, not yours.”

He stepped back, uncaring when Aldred’s reaching hand fell to the ground and burst into a plume of dust and fire. The crackling heat around him, what should have felt like molten fire, was nothing more than a summer’s breeze on his skin. He looked down to the remains of his torment, and, at last, began to smile.

“Not anymore.”

Aldred let out one final, gasping snarl. It was pathetic, a wheezing noise from a dying memory; Varian watched as the man finally crumbled into ash. The room around him continued to burn, paintings crumbling into nothing but flaming wreckage, timbers falling from the ceiling, and yet… he didn’t feel scared. Not of the fire, not of the corpse in front of him, not of the memory of it.

Instead, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath.

Varian refused to open his eyes, listening as the noise of fire began to drain away. Soon there was nothing but silence left behind, echoing after the chaos of the banishing of Aldred’s ghost. He sucked in a deep, grounding breath through his nose, keeping his eyes closed for just a moment more. All he could hear was the beating of his heart, a steady, pulsing thing.

You’re alive, you’re okay. You faced him again, and you won.

It was a mantra, as the cold spread over his skin and a brief feeling of saltwater pressing on his chest faded in and out within seconds. The chill spread from his hand, stronger now, more stable. Varian kept his eyes closed until the sensations left. Instead, he stood as still as he could. Breathing. Listening. Grounded, and staring into the darkness behind his eyelids. The noises faded, as did the chill.

The smell of apples drifted across his nose; if he were more foolish, Varian would blame his dad’s cloak, still wrapped around his shoulders. Instead, he pinched his eyes a little more closed for a beat, preparing himself.

When he opened them again, he was somewhere new.

Somewhere he recognized.

The house in Old Corona, his childhood home, had been destroyed in the final battle against Zhan Tiri. Countless waves of black rocks had pockmarked the land, leaving countless villages in ruins. It had been part of the reason Varian had accepted the engineering position— and why Quirin had followed him in the new role.

Yet here he was, standing in the kitchen like he was three years old and waiting for his dad to return from the orchard, apples in hand so they could bake together. Varian turned, gently putting a hand on the weathered, old table. It was exactly as he remembered, the stains and burns from countless alchemy experiments gone wrong littered the surface. He could see a groove on the edge where Quirin had slipped with a knife while cutting vegetables when Varian had been around eight, even a few little nicks where Ruddiger had jumped up without fully retracting his claws first. It… it was home.

Varian blinked a few times, trying to shake himself from his stupor. The house was the same, just as the Hall of Portraits had been. Like a manifestation of his memories, brought to life. Father had infested one memory… but this one…

There was the familiar sound of the front door, opening and closing softly. Varian heard footsteps, heavy ones. He nearly burst into tears at the sound of them, as familiar to him as breathing. Someone, a man, was whistling, his deep voice echoing through the front hall as the person got closer to the kitchen. Varian couldn’t hold the tears back, suddenly feeling them flood from his eyes.

When Quirin turned the corner from the hall, standing in the doorway, Varian let out a loud sob. The man looked stunned, dropping the basket of apples he’d been holding. They rolled across the wooden floor, scattering around the kitchen without anyone to stop them. Varian and Quirin stared at one another, both of them at a loss for words for a fair half minute. Varian sniffled, biting at the inside of his cheek, and finally forcing his aching chest to say something.

“Hi daddy,” he said. His voice cracked, but he pressed onward. “I missed you.”

That seemed to break Quirin from his paralyzed state. The man rushed forward, reaching out to wrap his arms around Varian in a tight hug. Varian clung back, snorting when Quirin lifted him up and off the ground. His legs dangled, swaying as the man hugged him tightly. They stood like that for a long while, both of them unwilling to be the first to let go. Varian buried his face into the fur of his dad’s vest, inhaling the smell of apples and soaking his tears into the fabric.

After what felt like only seconds, Quirin finally put his son down. Varian stumbled a bit, wiping at his eyes. Quirin stopped him, cupping Varian’s cheek and wiping away the last of the tears with a large thumb. Varian sniffled pathetically, grabbing at the man’s hand like he would vanish again; his fingers were nearly white with how hard his grip was. Quirin didn’t notice, his eyes locked onto Varian’s face. The man looked shocked, nearly paralyzed.

There was a beat of silence, save for gentle birdsong outside the window. Neither of them seemed to know what to say—Varian’s thoughts were stumbling over each other in an attempt to be the first said, but it only made his silence stretch. Quirin’s shocked face sank into a warm smile, the man moving his thumb gently across his son’s face.

“You got taller,” Quirin said quietly, staring at Varian like the boy was about to vanish from sight the second he looked away.

Varian laughed wetly, trying to keep his hitching breaths from bubbling to the surface. “Yeah,” the boy choked out, “I, uh, I guess I did.”

He noticed how Quirin’s own eyes were shiny with tears. He didn’t comment on them. Instead he sank into his dad’s touch, the callouses in his hands familiar and comforting. Varian had never thought he’d get to see his father again, not even in a cosmic sense—but here he was, as strong and tangible as he’d been the last time Varian had seen him. All the quiet aches in Varian’s heart sprung to the surface, the misery and loneliness and loss that he’d suffered in the loss of his only parent, all of it rose up in one large wave, threatening to pull him under.

“You’re here so soon,” Quirin murmured. Oh, he probably thought…

“There was a— it’s like a magic, thing.” Varian’s words stumbled over themselves. “I’m okay. Or I think I am? I’m not really sure, there was a boat, I might be drowning. I don’t really know.”

Quirin let out a huffing laugh, reaching forward to hug Varian to him again. The boy went ecstatically, borderline throwing himself into his dad’s embrace. He’d missed this, so much; he hadn’t even known how much until he’d finally gotten his dad’s hugs again.

“I’m assuming the princess had something to do with it,” Varian could feel the way Quirin sighed, the crown of Varian’s head tucked under the man’s chin. It was strange; the last time they’d been together, he hadn’t been tall enough for that. Varian snorted, shaking his head.

“No, this one’s on me,” he admitted. “The Bayan royals had a… thing for weird magical stuff.”

Quirin’s body stiffened, hugging Varian to him a little tighter. “Aldred,” he whispered. Varian flinched, fingers curling tighter in his dad’s shirt. Quirin didn’t seem to register, muttering to himself. “He was going to take you away,” the man continued, “And— I tried, son. I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

Varian sniffed, allowing himself to back off from the hug so he could look his dad in the eye. Quirin looked haunted, like he’d aged a hundred years. The joy of seeing him slowly settled into something more bittersweet; knowing that their time had been cut so brutally short.

“You did your best,” Varian said. “He— he was a monster.”

“Did he hurt you?”

Varian couldn’t find it within himself to lie. “Yeah.”

Quirin’s face crumpled, the man closing his eyes and looking away. “I’m sorry, son,” he said again. Varian’s chest hurt, seeing his dad so devastated. “I should have been stronger.”

“It’s… in the past,” Varian said. It felt like more of a sweeping statement, after everything that had happened the last few weeks. Aldred, Barviel, all of it. In the light of newfound strength and determination— it all felt farther away. Put to rest, at long last. Like Varian could let it lie and be content. In the past, indeed.

Quirin cupped his cheek again. Varian leaned into it, blinking away tears again. “I missed you,” the boy murmured again.

“Are you… okay, now?” Quirin’s voice was as stoic as Varian remembered, but the teenager could hear the underlying concern. “I’ve been here for a while, I know that. Time’s passed. You grew up, and I wasn’t there for you. Someone’s taking care of you, right?”

“Arianna,” he started. “And Frederick. Rapunzel and Eugene. It was a month before they, uh, they found me. They brought me home.”

“A month,” Quirin’s voice cracked. “A month with that man—”

“He’s gone, now.” Varian cut him off, gently. “I, uh, I made sure of it. He’s gone.”

Quirin blinked, leaning back and looking Varian in the eye. “You…?”

“Yeah.”

“On purpose?”

“….Mostly?

Quirin surprised Varian by laughing, shaking his head. “I think you get that from your mother,” he said, still chuckling. “I certainly didn’t teach you that.”

Varian snorted through the quiet tears. “No,” he admitted, “No, you didn’t.”

Quirin tilted his head, putting both hands on his son’s shoulders. “You’ve grown up,” he said, wistfully. “How long has it been?”

“Two years,” Varian’s voice was quiet. “We buried you in the palace cemetery. I didn’t know where— or if Old Corona, would have been better, or even back in the Dark Kingdom—”

“Wherever you are,” Quirin said, “That’s where I’d want to be.”

Varian sniffled. He wiped at his eyes, trying to keep himself together. “I don’t know if I want to leave, again,” he admitted. “I… I should want to wake up, right? But… you’re here, and I’m so tired, dad.”

Quirin’s face pulled down into a frown, the man patting Varian’s shoulder. “I know,” he admitted. “It’s exhausting, out there. When your mother left, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. You were only a year old, you know, and she’d vanished in the middle of the night, just telling me to keep you safe.” He laughed, something a little more self-deprecating. “I couldn’t even do that, in the end.”

He met Varian’s wide-eyed gaze, the gravity of the situation obvious. “I know you’re tired,” he consoled. “I know. But that doesn’t mean giving up is the right answer. Even if it means saying goodbye again.”

Varian’s heart shattered at the last part. He knew his dad was making sense. “I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, the tears carving lines down the soot on his cheeks. “Not again.”

“You won’t,” Quirin said, his voice comforting. “You’ll go back, and the rest of our family will be there. You’ll grow old, and maybe find someone like I found your mother. But Varian,” he tipped the boy’s face up to look at him, smiling sadly. “You’ll live. And that’s what’s important. We’ll see each other again, once you’re done with living a long, happy life. Not a second sooner, you hear me?”

Varian bit his lip, sniffling. “I promise,” he tried to joke. It fell a little flat, but it helped to break a bit of the tension.

His hands started to feel cold. The Staff was calling him, back to the land of the living. It had done its job and done it well. Varian was running out of time. He felt a spark of panic—it’s so soon, not enough time, he had so much to tell his dad before--

“Dad,” he tried to start, only for Quirin to calmly stop him.

“I love you, son.” The man said, wrapping Varian up in one last hug. Around them, the kitchen slowly started to disappear, their time together slowly fading away. Varian threw his arms around his dad’s neck, clinging with all his might. Quirin squeezed him once more, making Varian’s aching ribcage creak. “I’m so proud of you,”

Varian could feel his dad’s grip fading, the pressure of those arms slipping away.

“I love you, too,” he sobbed, closing his eyes against the brightness. It was gentle, but too bright. Their surroundings quickly disappearing into the bright void beyond. “I love you, dad.”

The light pulsed once, then twice. Even behind his closed eyelids, Varian was nearly blinded by the brilliance of it. His body was cold again, not uncomfortably so, but the chill in his skin was noticeable. The feeling of Quirin around him vanished, the spell breaking. The boy could feel a solid weight in his hand; pressure all around him began to wash in. Water, surrounding him. Any second now he’d be kicked back into the land of the living.

Varian laid back into the feeling and allowed the light to wash over him. He had a promise to keep, and a family to find. The light consumed him, and Varian let himself be pulled into it, ready for the next step.

It was time to move on.

>>><<<

Varian woke up to nearly being impaled by debris. He nearly screamed in terror, only just keeping his wits about him. He put a hand over his mouth, keeping the air in. The Novis Staff was still in his hand, probably the only reason he was alive at all, but the wreck of the Der Sonne was sinking around him. Chunks of the ship littered the water, as did cargo, rigging, and other wreckage that threatened to ensnare anyone who got too close.

Varian started to kick his way to the surface, awkwardly moving around the sinking wreckage and trying to keep his distance. The grey sky above was light enough that Varian could tell which way was up— a small blessing, but one he wouldn’t take for granted.

As he kicked, however, he caught sight of a dark smudge in the water, something that wasn’t debris. This one was moving. A person, Varian’s thoughts screamed. He began to make his way toward them, pausing as he got close enough to see who it was.

Merrick, it seemed, had gotten tangled in the rigging of the Der Sonne somewhere on the way down. The older boy was struggling, kicking at the rope and sails in a futile attempt to escape. He was yanking at the ropes almost desperately, tugging on them without actual thought or reason. Varian slowed a bit, unsure— but inwardly groaned at his bleeding heart. He shouldn’t have to help; he wasn’t obligated to try. No one would blame Varian if he turned around and swam for the surface and left his enemy to his fate. No one, that is, except himself.

Varian rolled his eyes, reaching for his belt and pulling out Eugene’s knife with his free hand. He swam close, keeping his distance when Merrick caught sight of him and swiped his human hand at Varian. The boy shot him a look, backing off and trying to portray innocence. I’m trying to help, he thought grumpily, the least you could do is work with me, here.

Merrick’s metal arm lay awkwardly limp by his side. It was easy to see that something in the delicate machinery had broken, causing it to be nothing more than dead weight. It was also tangled in the rigging, though not as badly as Merrick’s legs were.

Varian swam closer, bringing the knife up and starting to methodically cut at the ropes tangling the other teen’s legs. They were tied to what looked to be part of a mast, the weight of it swiftly dragging down into the depths of the water. Varian’s lungs burned— they needed to get swimming for the surface soon if they wanted a shot at making it. He kept cutting, slowly but surely getting the mage free.

Merrick looked almost confused, holding still so that Varian could work on freeing him. There was only a few more ropes to go, almost there—

Varian let out a shocked burst of bubbles when there was a sudden pain in his arm. He caught a flash of silver to his left, a knife in his enemy’s hand. Oh, that asshole. Merrick’s face was a flurry of rage, swiping again at Varian with the blade, only to fail. The alchemist began to swim backward, out of reach, only for the man to snag him by the ankle.

There was a loud crack, audible even underwater, and with a sickening dropping feeling, the mast began to sink even faster. Whatever had been holding it afloat had broken, leaving the mast, and the two teenagers by extension, dropping down into the void below.

Varian kicked at Merrick, trying to free himself. The mage had a deranged smile on his face— surely he knew that they both were going to drown, right?!— and tugged on Varian’s ankle harder. It seemed like, even after all this, the other refused to give up.

Problem for him, being that neither was Varian.

The younger boy aimed another kick, grimacing when he felt cartilage break under his heel. Merrick let out a stream of bubbles in lieu of a shout, his hand falling away. Varian flailed his legs with as much might has he had, kicking frantically for distance. He felt fingers graze his feet, only for them to latch onto the frayed edge of Quirin’s cloak. Varian nearly choked when it was yanked, pulling him down, down, down.

Varian panicked, flailing again at the rough treatment. He looked down, seeing the strong grip Merrick had on the cloak, and grimaced. The light from the surface was disappearing quickly, the mast more than heavy enough to drag them both down to the ocean floor. Varian grit his teeth, his grip tightening on Eugene’s knife.

With a calculated slice, he brought the blade down onto the edge of Quirin’s cloak. He felt a stab of guilt, as he cut nearly a fourth of the fabric away, severing the tie Merrick had on him. Varian kicked again, the last of the cloak tearing away and leaving Merrick with nothing but a handful of fabric. The alchemist managed to kick up, launching himself up and out of reach.

The mage below him tried to grab at the boy one last time, only to fail as Varian finally managed to slip out of his grasp. Merrick’s face switched from fury to a dawning horror so quickly it was almost comical. The mast was sinking faster now, air rising from it in a plume of bubbles. Varian was forced to look away from his enemy to avoid more debris as they too began to sink, dragged down by the larger pieces of the Der Sonnes sinking corpse.

Merrick was still trying to grab at him, even as he sank further down. Varian weaved awkwardly around a part of the Der Sonne’s bow as it passed, before watching with wide eyes as it caught up in the rigging attached to the mast, and therefore Merrick. The alchemist began to swim down again, trying to keep the other teenager in his sight, but with the combined weight of the mast and the new portion of the bow, the rigging and sail began to plummet through the water.

Within seconds. Merrick’s snarling face vanished into the darkness. Varian found himself stunned, floating in the depths as he watched the inky outline of the mast disappear. He held like that for as long as he could, waiting for… something. What, he wasn’t entirely sure. For Merrick to swim up? For another chance to try and help?

Whatever it was, it never came.

The fire in Varian’s lungs became too much to bear; he was forced to start kicking for the surface, frantically pumping his limbs, and pushing himself through the water. He was so close, just a second more—

His head burst through the water, a bare patch in the wreckage where the debris had already sank allowing space for him to hit blessed air. He flailed a bit, grabbing onto the first thing he could find and clinging tightly. A board, part of the outer hull, that could barely hold his weight. He clung to it anyways, holding close and allowing his aching body to rest.

Varian cast an exhausted gaze around the wreckage, forcing air into his aching lungs. The storm had calmed, the water gentle around him. Varian held tight to his salvation, his exhausted limbs nearly dropping now that he could finally stop fighting. With the Der Sonne’s wreckage starting to slip below the waves, everything had begun to calm. The alchemist settled, finally able to relax.

And then, for the first time in ages, he breathed.

#fic #tangled the series #tts #varian #set the kindling strike a match

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abizarreyodelingincident · 4 years

Text

Linked Universe: Our Nightly Confidant 1

Wind From Home

Twilight considers himself a simple man. A farmer at heart, even if he has the hands of a hero. He's grown in a small village, where everyone knows everything about everyone else. Community is a sense that's been cultivated in him as well as pumpkins on a sky island (whatever that saying means).

He loves his brothers and his sort of dad. This quest... he doesn't want to say it's a blessing. It isn't. The monsters threaten many. Their group hasn't always saved everyone. It's no blessing that hurts so many. But he can't help rejoice the opportunity to meet so many heroes. To find his place in the legacy of the Hero of Courage.

As a Hylian from a human village, he's never worried about his place, but he does find peace in belonging to a group with no such innate distance.

He's one of the oldests, weird as that is. Most of the group are like little siblings to him. Weird, insane and irreverent little shits that give him grey hair. No, he's not thinking exclusively about Wild (Wild's a special case). He's attuned to their moods.

Four asked if he had a special sense for this, the second time he'd done it. A 'special' sense, he had insisted in the middle of their training camp, meaning wolf senses. No. Twilight doesn't feel one side of him bleeds into the other. It's not like that.

It's not what makes his eyes trail after Wind today. His youngest brother (barely losing to Colin by a season) is currently laughing his ass off on a tree stump over Warriors tripping on Legend's items. It is denied, not very convincingly, that the items weren't left there on purpose. Little shits, he's telling you.

The truth is more down to earth, the way Twilight likes it. Dogs train themselves to recognize hylian expressions. They know what sadness and joy and anger look like all too well. They know when to cheer their big two-legged friends. And a wolf? Well, a wolf better learn fast the difference between a real smile and a fake if it doesn't want to end up stuck in a bear trap.

***

First watch is always a bit nerve wracking. Unlike second and third watch, Twilight can't just shift into wolf form to sniff out enemies and make sure the whole forest is secure. Links don't fall asleep easily. Legend wakes up at the slightest noise for the first two hours he looks asleep. Time might just stare at the sky the whole night, not getting a wink of sleep. Sometimes, Twilight himself just... can't stop thinking. Wondering where she is now. If she's alright. If Ordon's safe without him. Once in a while, he'll close his eyes and hear Lumi crying, and Uli's quiet steps to shush her.

The other half of the time, it's staying asleep that's the problem. The Goddesses know they all have plenty of material to fuel their nightmares (he's never forgetting Yeta's face, he's resigned to that).

When the moon's path has almost reached its zenith, Twilight hears the first few moans. His heart drops. He hoped. But he's not surprised. Sometimes, the heart can't take the weight of the mask people plaster on.

It starts small. It always does.

For a time, it's mostly sniffles and choked sobs. Then a small 'I'm sorry.' Twilight grimaces. None of them show their scar easily. The deep scars, at least. Wind wouldn't appreciate an audience. Unfortunately, Twilight can't exactly leave. The next best thing however is to try and cut it short.

So, decision made, he creeps around camp, places himself behind Wind and shakes his shoulder. (Carefully. The group collectively learned not to take sleeping Links lightly. At least, Sky had laughed out the black eye with grace.)

“Hey, Sailor,” he whispers, hoping none of the others react. “It's your turn.”

In truth, it's a touch early for that. But he knows he made the right call when Wind rubs his eyes and freezes at the wet feeling on his fingers. He'd been in the middle of turning around, but he immediately fakes a stumble and buries his face in his rolled up blankets instead. It's a good cover to wipe tears without being too obvious.

Twilight would be impressed if that didn't send pangs of worry through his chest. Oh, Wind...

“Mrm,” Wind mumbles. “One minute?”

“Sure, I gotta take a leak anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah, piss off.” Wind waves him off from under the blanket.

Twilight smiles to himself. He should ask Wind to direct a play next time they visit his Hyrule. Queen Zelda was always in need of entertainment for the stuffy dignitaries. Jackasses couldn't crack a smile if they were whipped.

That faint irritation pushes him toward the end of the camp line, out of the clearing. Once he's out of sight and hearing range, he grabs onto his cursed necklace and sneaks through the underbrush. His senses make navigating through the twigs and branches child's play, and the lack of any pig-like stench reassures him that there's no malice-infected monster around. In less than a minute, he has circled around the camp and positioned himself the near opposite of where his hylian form left through. Generally, people don't make the association if he leaves a few minutes tick by. Out of sight, out of mind.

It's a bit embarrassing how well that trick works.

Wind's head is turned in the direction he disappeared earlier. Skittish, like a rabbit looking out of its hole. Wind must be waiting for him to return from his manly business, which is a bit of a lost bet at the moment. Seconds tick with only the faint brushing of leaves on his fur and the nightly wind for company. Then, all at once, Wind stands up and stomps his way to the stump Twilight had been using for his turn at the watch.

“Damn it!” Wind curses under his breath. The tears are held at bay, barely. “There's no way he didn't see... calm down, calm down dammit, he's gonna come back soon!”

A small boot kicks off some dirt. Twilight flinches in his hiding spot. That's more anger than expected. He's not sure what to do with that. None of them like vulnerability. None of them are used to being allowed vulnerability. He's worked on Wild and Time for a while now, and he's making progress, even if it's only them opening up to him.

It's that same instinct that pushes him to walk through the bush and reveal himself. He's as non-threatening as a large wolf can be, but Wind still whirls around with his sword drawn. Recognition is a second slower.

“Wolfie!” Wind whisper-yells. “Bad dog! I almost skewered you!”

Twilight raises one eyebrow, unimpressed. He is most certainly not a bad dog, and he is quite experienced at dodging last second hits by flailing, surprised preys. Not that he even thought of Wind as prey, never, but Wind didn't have to imply he'd be that stupid.

“Oi, what are you looking at?” Wind grumbles, dropping back on his tree stump. “Stupid dog...”

Twilight fights the urge to growl. He's here to help, not pick a fight. Unfortunately, his struggle had been obvious, because Wind deflates and sheaths his sword.

“Sorry. It's just... I'd been doing so well so far,” he whispers. “Even if they're big mother cuccos about me sometimes, they still listened to me.”

Twilight feels his tail curl between his legs. He knows he's overprotective. He knows it's annoying Wind, but he can't help it when every other time they fight, he sees Colin rushing into the path of King Bulblin.

“Hey, hey, don't be sad.” Wind cajoles, patting his knee like an invitation.

Twilight's too happy to question the change. He plops his chin on Wind knees and looks up. Small, calloused hands run into his fur.

“Do you have family, Wolfie?”

… What? For a second, he slips out of grasp just to better stare at Wind. Then, he sniffs his breath for a second, and whilst there's a fair amount of onions there (dental hygiene, Sailor!), no traces of booze anywhere. So, he softly woofs, tilting his head to the side.

“Do you have a she-wolf and a litter of little pups that trip all over themselves? I bet you're a good dad, aren't you?”

Twilight can't help the shocked whine that burst out of his throat, nor the flattened ears on top of his head. Him? A dad? He was far too young for that! Being a brother to Wild alone was trouble enough as it was, fatherhood remained firmly beyond his grasp. Besides... it wasn't like he had someone with whom...

“Aww,” Wind cooed, scratching behind his ears, “I didn't want to scare you, Wolfie. I just thought you take good care of us, s'all. I bet you'll be a good dad someday.”

Flattered as he is, he can't help puff and huff into Wind's shirt. He's a noble beast, talked down to like a lap dog. At least, he successfully distracted Wind from what nightmare he had.

Together, they listened to the crackling embers, moving only when the flames needed another log or when a critter stumbled too close to camp (a very curious rat that scampered when it met Twilight's eyes).

“How much did he drink?” Wind mutters, a bit later. “Did he pass out with his breeches down?”

A low growl rumbles into his chest. The disadvantage of others not knowing he's Wolfie is hearing that kind of crap about himself. He's a misunderstood man condemned by the judgemental Links of the world.

“What? Don't like him? Twilight's okay. Most of the time. Like, he saw me cry. I know he did. He knows I know, but he still pretended not to... you know?”

Twilight's best deadpan glare expresses that yes, he knows. More importantly, he puts a paw on Wind's chest, making a small inquisitive noise. Why? Did he need to share it with a very innocent wolf that doesn't judge anyone and anything except Warriors' morning hair?

The fragile grin on Wind's face falters. His eyes dart around. “I... it's not like... You won't laugh, right?”

Twilight nods emphatically.

“It's nothing too bad. I just miss my sister and my grandma.”

Oh, Wind...

“... Please don't tell the others,” Wind said in a tiny voice. “They already have a hard enough time taking me seriously. I don't want them to think I'm being a baby who cries about his family.”

The confusion can't overtake the lance of shame and heartbreak that spears through Twilight's body. Had... had they pushed Wind into this? Made him think that because they hide their tears, they'd laugh at his?! Goddesses... Uli would smack him with her wooden spoon for making a mess like this.

Again.

He might have been a bit overbearing once his quest had ended. Colin had been happy about the attention... the first three days or so. Afterward... well... Uli and Rusl had taken him aside, put their feet down and helped him let go of his dead grip on his little brother's safety. And half the monsters he'd faced had nothing on the challenge of letting Colin make his own mistake. He thought he'd gotten better about this.

But he might have forgotten Wind was not nearly as tolerant or hesitant as Colin.

“I'm a Hero too. I'm strong. Why would I cry over nothing? My grandma and my sister are fine. I bet we'll be portaled in my Hyrule soon and I'll have worried for nothing and Twilight and Warriors will be right to treat me like a fragile little boy again.”

He's not. They all know he's not. He's just... the youngest. The most cheerful, most innocent, most... most well-adjusted of them all, and they want so badly for Wind to keep that. He's a wonderful young man. They're all so proud, so impressed with him.

He's gonna have a few conversations with Warriors and Time tomorrow. Goddesses!

“Hey, Wolfie... I know you don't like being around too long, but... Do you mind staying a bit?”

Twilight chuffs, stubbornly burying his face even deeper in his little brother's shoulder. As if someone would be able to pry him off Wind before morning.

***

“Do you ever feel a strange sadness as dusk falls?”

Wind looks up sharply, startled but unwilling to admit it. He'd been polishing that long view of his by himself. “What?” he says, and there's an implied 'the fuck?!' in there. Pirates...

Twilight brushes the grass and then sits on the hill, staring past the coast at the red sun. “My father told me that, the day before I left on my quest. Neither of us knew then I'd have a quest soon, of course. But it stuck with me.”

For a long time, Wind's expression shifted between fascination, embarrassment and a bit of confusion. Twilight really needed to teach him how to maintain a poker face before he played cards with Warriors again. Still, there's no rush.

For all that it tears him in half, dusk also has a way to sooth his old aches. It's a peaceful time. A moment when the day dies, when the living settle and close their doors.

“It's the horizon, for me,” Wind admits. “When I... the first time, I'd never ever left my island, and all of a sudden, I had to leave because that huge ass bird had kidnapped my sister. So I had to leave my home for the first time, and I was on Tetra's boat, staring at Outset Island shrinking and shrinking till it was gone. Even when I pulled out my sister's long view, all I could find was the waves of the Great Sea.”

“Ah, a boar and a bulblin got my brother, my childhood friend and a bunch of kids. Knocked me right out with a hit to the head.”

Wind pulled his lips together and narrowed his eyes. “Well... I didn't get hit or anything, but Tetra threw me out of a cannon so I could infiltrate the fortress. Hit my face pretty hard too. That counts?”

“It wasn't a competition!” Twilight laughs, ruffling Wind's hair. It causes a flinch, and that's the light-hearted mood gone. Great. Twilight breathes through his nose. “You know, sometimes, I really want to smack my dad upside the head.”

Wind blinks. “... Okay?”

“Every goshdarn time I see the sun set, I remember him and my mom and my brother and sister, and... home. Every sunset reminds me of home. Makes me miss it so bad. Now I can't help feel that strange sadness every time.”

Silence.

A snort.

“Goddesses damned!” Wind wheezes out through his laugh. “He...”

“Yup,” Twilight says, leaning his chin on his fist. “He didn't think that one through. Bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy, ain't it? So, I do want to make him think before he spouts philosophy at me.”

“Hey, hey, Twilight!” Wind says, impish, tugging on his sleeves. Then, the second he has Twilight's attention, he puts on the most serious face he ever wore. “Do you ever feel a strange sadness... as you put on your pants?”

“You little shit,” he says, brimming with affection.

Wind, not to be undone, jumps to his feet. “Do you ever feel a strange sadness... as you drink milk?”

“Oi,” Twilight stands after him, darting right after the brat.

“Not the strange sadness of being chased by a goatherd!”

Two minutes. Two minutes and six variations of the most profound saying his farmer dad told him. Butchered. Butchered like a lame goat in winter. Twilight is both furious and delighted and it might be why, when he does catch Wind, he unleashes the noogie from hell.

Wind's screams, so closely related to that of a dying piglet, are very satisfying. Worth the kicks to the ribs.

And when retribution is served, Twilight shifts the hold into a one-sided hug with the smooth grace of a man who regularly pretends not to be the wolf that is never seen with him. Wind freezes, realization sharp on his face when he notices the tears gathering in Twilight's eyes.

“But the first thing I'd do if I saw him tomorrow... is hug him. Tell him I'm glad he's okay and that I missed him. Then I'd smack him and run for the hills, because Rusl happens to be the only guy in my village that knows how to use a sword.”

After a whole body shudder, Wind gives up and buries himself in his big brother's shoulder.

#Linked Universe #Linkeduniverse #LU Twilight #LU Wind #Wolf Link

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astxlphe-fics · 4 years

Text

Snapshot.

Atsushi likes to draw in the park. He doesn’t realize how many times he’s drawn the handsome photographer until the man comes talking to him.

Kuniatsu / Artist Atsushi, Photographer Kunikida (also ft. bug lover kuni)

Word count : ~3K

Atsushi settles down on the grass, back against the tree, and crosses his legs. He sets his cardboard folder against his knees and opens his sketchbook.

It’s new, and empty, a gift from Kyouka for his birthday, along with the set of pencils he’s brought with him. He puts the metal box on the ground next to him, picks on and looks around.

It’s a sunny day, in April, so the weather is still somewhat cool and the park isn’t as packed as in the summer months. Atsushi takes in the tree line, in the high building behind it, the people walking, the guy sitting on a bench playing a video game, the blond man lying on his stomach, a camera in hand.

He starts to draw.

Broad strokes shape the trees, from gross shapes first until he moves on to smaller details, leaves and patches of grass and the shape of a man with a camera.

It takes over an hour for Atsushi to get to the point of drawing him, deciding last minute to add him to the scenery, and when he looks up to check if he has moved, he finds the man in the exact same position.

Utterly still, and a look of complete concentration on his face.

Atsushi draws him, smiling to himself, taking great care in the placement of his finger on the camera button, in the way his messy ponytail falls on his back, in the angle the sunlight makes his glasses glint.

About another hour later, about ten minutes after he changes page and takes on drawing a spider that crawled up his leg, the photographer sits and stretches, setting his camera around his neck. Then he walks to the man on the bench, who puts his video games in his trench coat.

They exchange a few words, and leave.

Atsushi tries to imagine what this man could possibly have photographed.

Bugs.

What Kunikida absolutely wants to photograph is close-ups of bugs.

It takes longer than he expects, but waiting is something he can do. His roommate is Dazai Osamu, so his patience is forged in fire, iron and exasperation.

The last bug close-up he takes is a caterpillar crawling its way to the nearest leaf, set right in front of his camera, and he has a pretty good shot of it eating.

When he is done, he sits back and stands, joining Dazai, who puts away his video game.

“Are you finished?” he asks, and Kunikida nods.

“I’m done.”

“Show me!” Dazai leans over to see the screen of his camera, almost knocking Kunikida off balance.

“Oi, be careful!” He huffs and turns the camera back on and opens the gallery, flipping through the different pictures he took during the last few hours.

There is, besides the caterpillar, a group of ants carrying bread crumb from where a family had picnicked for lunch. He shows him the ladybug as well, particularly proud of this one, as it's a picture of it as it takes off.

Several grasshoppers, a yellow butterfly and a bee.

Dazai looks over the pictures, and his nose wrinkles as he makes a face. “That’s gross, Kunikida, you could at least try to take pictures of more glamorous subjects.” He grins. “Like me.”

“Bugs are certainly glamorous,” Kunikida shoots back. “Unlike you, they’re an essential part of the ecosystem and are underappreciated. They need to be more recognized for the role they have in preserving our environment!”

Dazai sighs over-dramatically, draping himself on his shoulder. “Am I not an essential part of your ecosystem? Kunikida, you black-hearted man.” When Kunikida rolls his eyes, Dazai pulls himself straight again. “I’m only trying to help you. If the cute boy over there knew you took pictures of bugs—”

“The what now.”

“Don’t turn around,” Dazai orders, and Kunikida almost does as a reflex. Instead, he glances back to where Dazai is looking, to a (admittedly cute) white-haired young man sitting under the tree. “He’s been staring at you for an hour.”

“He’s drawing,” Kunikida hisses, starting to walk away. “This activity usually requires a lot of staring. He just happened to look in my general direction.”

Dazai doesn’t look convinced, but he shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says. “But you’re wrong. He was looking at your butt.”

“Dazai.”

The park is a good source of inspiration, Atsushi decides on the third day of drawing there. He changes his spot every time, looking for new sceneries and people to draw. There are a lot of critters he ends up doodling, from birds to bugs and a few squirrels.

He brings a hot drink with him today. The temperature has dropped during the night, and it’s pretty much cold, so there is no one in the park besides Atsushi himself — and the photographer.

Today he has a tripod and facing away from him, and it’s an angle Atsushi rarely draws anyone in, so he takes the opportunity to put it down on paper.

His friend is with him today too, and Atsushi plans to draw him as well, but he quickly forgets about him. He puts special attention in the angle of the photographer’s shoulders, well defined by the blue coat he’s wearing. It stops under his knees, mid-calf, and then Atsushi makes sure to draw the folds of the pants just right.

Once, the photographer makes a movement to turn away, seemingly in Atsushi’s direction. Atsushi ducks his head, pretending not to be watching.

Then he tries something new. He looks up, trying to guess what the man is seeing, what he is taking a picture of, and sketches it as well as he can. It’s not perfect, but it’s a fun game that he finds out he likes to play, for now.

Once he is done, he catches sight of a cat playing in the grass and changes his subject.

Maybe, he thinks, he should bring Byakko to the park with him, next time?

Kunikida comes back to the park often.

It’s not necessarily to take pictures of bugs, though he likes it, but he needs practice in taking pictures of larger sceneries and finding a focal point in it.

A subject, noticeable enough to draw the eye, placed in a way that makes it looks part of the larger picture rather that the focus of it.

He turns on his heels, and catches sight of the young man he has seen two days before — the one who, Dazai insisted, was looking at his butt. He’s sitting just on the line between shadows and sunlight, bent down, focused on his drawing, hair overshadowing his face.

His pen scratches at the paper, and he periodically looks up to the calico cat playing a few meters away.

When he does, the light hits his face just right.

Kunikida twists the head of his tripod and turns the camera in his direction, making sure to include the cat. The white-haired artist isn’t paying attention to him at all so, the next time he looks up at the animal, Kunikida snaps a quick picture.

He opens the picture folder and stares at it.

It’s perfect.

It’s not the only picture Kunikida takes of him.

“You’re turning into a stalker~" Dazai teases, poking his side, and Kunikida flushes.

“I’m not a stalker!”

“S—ure. It’s not your fault he is so photogenic, right?”

On the latest one, he is lying on the ground, legs swinging slowly as he draws a different cat. This one is black and white, and Kunikida saw it arrive with him. It’s probably his cat.

Over the next few days, it seems like every time Kunikida tries to take a good picture, this young artist is just there, in a corner, looking a natural part of the place. He zooms in on one of them as much as he possibly can before it turns blurry.

He is smiling here, wide enough to show some of his teeth, to make his eyes crinkle and shine.

Kunikida spends several second looking at it, at every details of his face he can make out, committing them to memory. Then, he duplicates the pictures and crops it.

That’s a smile he wouldn’t mind seeing up close.

God, he’s starting to sound like Dazai.

Next to him, Dazai’s obnoxious laughter only gets louder, and Kunikida would strangle him with his bare hands if not for the attention it would draw.

“I should apologize to him,” he decides suddenly. Because taking secret pictures of a stranger isn’t simply weird, it can come off as downright creepy, and Kunikida is not a creep. Because he’s started to look for this young artist on shots he’s definitely not on, and to zoom in on his face, and this is getting out of hands.

“You can’t!” Dazai can barely contain his glee. “He’s napping!”

Indeed he is, and Kunikida gives up. He huffs and settles on the ground to take more pictures of bugs, stopping all movement to wait for one to approach him.

A few minutes later, he finds himself nose to nose with the young man’s cat, who bops its face on the camera lens.

Resigned, Kunikida adjusts the settings and presses the button. The cat’s nose looks enormous on the resulting picture, it’s curious eyes wide, its face magnified. One it's taken he sits up and shows it too the cat.

“There,” he says. "Are you happy?”

It stares at the picture of itself, rubs its head on Kunikida’s hand until he gives it a good scratch, and leaves.

The cold has passed now, as the end of April nears, and more and more people come to enjoy the sunshine and warmer weather. Atsushi sees families and several dog walkers.

He sets Byakko upon the grass. “Don’t go too far,” he tells the cat, who flicks her black-tipped tail at him before ignoring him.

The photographer is almost facing Atsushi today, so he has to be more discreet while drawing.

He focuses on his face, this time. On the line of his jaw, the curve of his nose, the shape of his eyes, and the way he frowns where he’s focused. He adds in as many details as he finds, and the more he draws the more his eyes are drawn to him.

By the time he is done Atsushi feels like he knows this face by heart.

The photographer’s expression changes as he takes different pictures of crowds while Atsushi records them in his sketchbook as fast as he possibly can, stomach fluttering as he discovers the range of emotions this man expresses.

It’s wonderful practice, especially when his tall friend annoys him until he turns to him.

“Stop it, Dazai,” Atsushi hears him snap when the friend in question purposely waves in front of the camera to wave at him. He supposes the picture is ruined, because the photographer emits a loud noise of frustration. “Dammit, it’s all blurry now! Stop that, you useless waste of bandages!”

The sound attracts Byakko’s attention, and she wanders away from Atsushi. She curiously paws towards the pair until Dazai notices her and bends down to pet her.

She rubs her head against the man’s hand, before messing around, coming close to knock the tripod over. The sight it almost as Atsushi on his feet, but before he can Dazai looks up. His eyes catch Atsushi and he smiles, wide, like a Cheshire cat.

Atsushi’s face burns. He has been caught staring. To make it worse, Dazai tugs on the photographer’s arm and points to the cat, then to Atsushi. The man picks up Byakko and walks over to Atsushi with decisive steps.

He's mad at him, he thinks as he tries to read his face. He’s going to yell at him for staring or for letting his cat mess around his equipment.

The photographer stops right in front of him, and Atsushi realizes his work is in plain sight. He slams his sketchbook close, hoping he hasn’t noticed it — and the handful of drawings of his face all over the page.

“Is this your cat?”

“I’m sorry,” Atsushi says, standing up to take her. “I’ll be more careful with her —”

“Please do,” the man answers, handing her to him. “What is she called?”

“Byakko.” He scratches at her ears and sighs. “I’m really sorry, I figured the park would be safer for her than letting her out in the streets.”

“No harm was done.” His face smooths over as he notices Atsushi’s distress, as if trying to reassure him. “She came over to me yesterday as well, and got her picture taken for her troubles.”

“Really? Thank you for not—you know—” He shrugs. “Uh, I’ve seen you around? Several times. I’m Atsushi.”

“Kunikida, it’s a pleasure.” His eyes fall on the discarded sketchbook. “I’ve seen you here as well, you seem to be a prolific artist.”

“I try!” He sends him a weak smile. “That’s how you progress, right?”

“Of course. Practice makes perfect— you must be skilled.”

“I can show you?” Atsushi offers, cheeks fading to a light pink. “If you want?”

Kunikida nods. “I can show you some of my work as well, if you’d like.” He gestures back at where his camera is still set. “I’m a photographer.”

Atsushi picks his sketchbook up again and flips it to the previous pages, trying to find one he likes enough to show off. He’s never liked showing his drawings to anyone, but Kunikida doesn’t seem the kind of man who would laugh at him, and something like excitation bubbles in Atsushi.

Until he realizes just how many times he has drawn Kunikida in the past few weeks.

“Uh—” The sketchbook snaps shut again, and he lets out a nervous laugh. “Would you look at the time! I should really head home!”

“What—”

It’s obvious, from Kunikida’s face, that he’s seen them. He glances from the sketchbook to Atsushi, who is currently stuffing his things in his bag as fast as he can.

“I can hear my mom calling me!”

It’s only after he offers to show Atsushi his work that Kunikida remembers just how many pictures of him are on his camera roll.

He is almost relieved when Atsushi runs away, because it would have been a lot to explain. He would probably think Kunikida is a creep.

“Or maybe not,�� Dazai tells him, thoughtful. “You say you saw that he’s been drawing you? So, I was right, he was looking at your butt.”

“Dazai, I’m sure he didn’t draw my butt.” He sets up his camera and looks around.

“Shame, it's very nice.”

After three days of going back to the usual park, Kunikida finally resigns to the fact that Atsushi isn’t showing up anymore. Since then, all his pictures have been bland — incomplete — so Dazai suggested moving location.

This new park is larger than the previous one and different enough to give him new material. The trees are denser and clear-cut paths run through it. A fountain stands in the center, the water flowing with a soothing noise.

Next to him, Dazai flops down on the grass, staring up at the sky and pulls out his earphones. Kunikida takes a picture, mentally labelling it as “Dazai being a lazy ass, as usual”.

It's only half-hearted, because Dazai doesn’t have to come with him on his photographing endeavors, and some days Kunikida wonders why he comes at all. Besides, saying he doesn’t enjoy Dazai’s company would be a blatant lie, they both know it.

Suddenly, Dazai rolls on his side and takes one of his earbuds out. “Your favourite subject is here,” he points out. “Looks like someone had the same idea!”

Following his fingers, Kunikida finds Atsushi sitting near the fountain, scribbling in his sketchbook. He almost has his back to him, so he can’t see his face.

“You should—”

Kunikida doesn’t hear the end of Dazai’s sentence. He grabs his camera and walks towards him until Byakko, sitting by him, raises her head in his direction.

She stands and meows, attracting Atsushi’s attention, and he turns around. His eyes go wide as he sees Kunikida, and he stammers out something that sounds like “hello”.

“I would like to take a picture of you, please,” Kunikida declares, and Atsushi’s face turns into a deep, concerning red.

“Uh?”

He raises his camera. “You also don’t have to be embarrassed about drawing me. People watching — and drawing — is a strong hobby that can only lead to great progress in your art.” He pauses. “There are also several pictures of you I took without your knowledge and consent, I’m sorry. In my defence, you are often the only person who doesn’t move around.”

Atsushi looks a lot less panicked now that he knows Kunikida doesn’t hold anything against him, and laughs. “I hope you know how weird this sounds.”

“I’m aware.” His strict composure softens, and he pushes his glasses back up his nose. “So, can I take a picture?”

“Sure.” He sets his sketchbook down. “How would you like it to be?”

“Just a portrait.” He crouches to be on the same level as Atsushi, who is still sitting, and smiles as the camera is pointed to him.

It’s the first picture he takes where Atsushi is looking right at the camera, smiling at him, and Kunikida’s heart jumps in his chest. He sits on the bench, right next to Atsushi, to show him.

The young man leans over until their shoulders touch and stares at his own face, not unlike his cat did just a few days ago.

His cheeks are still pink when he pulls on of his uneven strand of hair behind his ear. “Could I see the other ones?” He gulps, and seems to gather the courage to add something else, twisting his hands: “I mean, I could show you mine—” his graphite stained fingers tap his sketchbook as he speaks “—and you can show me yours. Over coffee? Maybe?”

Kunikida blinks in surprise, taken off guard, but he smiles. “I would like that.”

#bsd #kuniatsu #kunikida doppo #nakajima atsushi #bsd kunikida #bsd atsushi #writing

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theentiregdtime · 5 years

Note

If you are still taking fic requests, maybe some inebriated overly-cuddly CharMac? (Bonus points if it includes them trying to pick each other up amd falling into a giggling pile.)

“Uno!”

Charlie cackles triumphantly and waves a single card infront of Mac’s face, reveling in his victory.

“Wait… How do you only have one card?”

Granted, Mac is pretty slammed on tequila, but he reallydoesn’t think that’s right…

He glimpses down to the cards flayed out in his hand andsquints in careful contemplation at the cartoon goldfish on them.

“That’s the game, Mac!” is Charlie’s rebuttal. “You don’thave to be mad because I’m, like, way better than you, it’s okay to be aloser...”

Mac has at least three matches spread out in front of him onthe floor, and Charlie has none. In fact, it looks like he’s been stacking hiscards on top of each other for a while. How long have they been playing this? Howlong have they been on the floor of the office? What time is it?

“Dude, I… I think we’re playing Go Fish.”

Charlie raises a judgmental eyebrow. “Yeah, so are you gonnatake your turn or not, man?” He flops his last card back and forth. “’Cause I amabout to destroy you, and- and I think you’re just scared.”

“You’re supposed to have the most cards, Charlie.”Normally, Mac would argue with him, but he’s too drunk- they’re both toodrunk- to care. He snorts with laughter instead, tossing his cards onto thefloor. “You know what? Fine. You win.”

Charlie slams his last one down and throws his hands up, eithergiggling or hiccupping- Mac’s not sure- until he stops gloating and topplesbackwards onto the floor.

At first, Mac assumes he’s browning out, until he pats thefloor beside him and mumbles something incoherent. He takes it as an invitationand flops down beside Charlie like a drunken fish out of water.

Charlie points at the ceiling with a wobbly hand, as if it’staking all the strength left in his body to hold his noodle arm up without it collapsing.“Show me the pictures… like we used to do in your room.”

“It’s not a popcorn ceiling, Charlie.”

He seems confused by that, and Mac isn’t sure he has theenergy to explain to him that he doesn’t mean literal popcorn. Luckily, that’snot the response he gets.

“Well, then… use the stains.”

There are a surprising number of stains on the ceilingtiles. They should probably clean up there more often- well, Charlie should,that’s Charlie work for sure- but they have a habit of doing the bare minimumand hoping all the deep cleaning shit will work itself out when the placefinally burns down.

Mac gestures to a particularly nasty one in the corner thatsort of resembles the yuck puddle in the bathroom.

“What is that, dude?” he asks, more of an accusationthan a question.

Charlie clicks his tongue. “One of us has to dealwith the roaches, okay?”

The shudder that creeps up Mac’s spine and down hisshoulders is visceral. He’s surprised Charlie even bothers- he’s basicallynamed all the critters at he and Frank’s apartment. The way he lives is… Whatwas that word Dennis used? He can’t remember, but it’s gross, and that’sa good enough description.

“So, what is the stain?”

“Honey, dude, but that’s not-”

“Honey?”

“That’s what they say! You know, you catch more roaches withhoney-”

“None of what you’re saying is right!”

“Just- Just show me the pictures, Mac!”

Mac resigns himself with a long, dramatic sigh. His breathfeels syrupy and reeks of agave. He rolls his teeth over his bottom lip andswallows the rock of sea salt he finds there. Fighting with Charlie is usuallyuseless, and he’s too sloppy drunk to put up a fight, anyways.

He scoots closer, making sure his hand is in Charlie’sfield of vision, so he can see clearly as he traces an outline around the splotch.How much honey does it take to make a stain like that, anyways? Thatthing is a monster.

“Looks like a squid…” -he points to a smudge in the cornerof it- “holding a samurai sword.”

Charlie snickers to himself like it’s the funniest thing he’sever heard, shuffling and burying his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. “Hecould hold way more than one sword, though,” he remarks, but doesn’t disputethe idea otherwise.

They used to do this all the time, when they were kids. Forsome reason, Charlie always had trouble picking the images out of the ceilingpopcorn- it didn’t come naturally to him. They’d lay in Mac’s bed and he’d tellCharlie that looks like an alien eating a pineapple or that lookslike a cat on a sailboat and he’d have to take his word for it. To him, itwas all just white blobs, but he liked the stories Mac made up for him, anyways.

They stay like that, side by side on the floor, Mac paintingpictures on the ceiling by ghosting his finger over them, and Charlie chiming inhere and there to comment on his storytelling. It’s surprisingly disgusting upthere, and it’s probably even worse on the floor, but they’re both too plasteredto give a shit. When Mac comes up with a whole plot about a smear that looks like a skeleton being in love with the particularly feminine stainin the corner, but getting cucked by the squid because he has more skin,Charlie laughs so hard he snorts and falls into Mac’s shoulder. His breath islike the spit bucket at a wine tasting, but instead, it’s a nasty mix of cheapbeer, tequila, and Bloody Mary mixer. Mac doesn’t complain, though.

“What time you think it’s, man?” Charlie asks, and the wordsaren’t exactly right, but he gets the point across.

Mac lifts his arm in front of his face and stares at hiswrist. He’s not wearing a watch- he’s not sure he’s ever worn a watch,actually.

“Pro’lly late.” He hoists himself up and his stomach churnslike a washing machine full of tequila and salt and lime juice and corn chips. “Oof.”

Mac tugs at Charlie’s shoulder, but he doesn’t budge.

“C’mon, you should go home,” he insists, “or Frank’s gonnathink you’re dead and replace you with a Build-a-Bear or some weird shit.”

Charlie squints at him like he’s an offensively bright light.

“What’cha gonna do, drive me?” he chuckles. “Dennis tookyour car, like, hours ago.”

Oh, yeah… Mac was supposed to text him. He’s probably asleepby now. Whatever, it’s fine, he’ll figure it out. They just have to get off ofthe floor first.

He wraps his arms around Charlie’s shoulders and tries to lifthim to his feet, but his muscles feel like jelly and Charlie’s all slippery anduncontrollable like a feral cat.

“Come on, dude,” he groans. “Get up, bitch.”

Mac gets him a couple feet up, but he loses grip, andsomehow, they both end up rolling back down onto the floor together. His headslams onto Charlie’s chest and Charlie’s arm wraps around Mac’s neck and,before they know it, they’re both laughing so hard they can barely breathe.

“You’re not strong enough, dude,” Charlie teases, pattingMac’s deltoid. “S’all for show.”

“Hey, I could so lift you!” he retorts childishly. “I’mjust too tired right now! Also I’m, like, real drunk.”

“Sure, whatever yousay, Mac…”

The laughter diesdown and they make themselves comfortable, ignoring the cobwebs and the dustand the mysterious stickiness on the floor. It’s actually kind of cozy, onceyou get used to it. It’s cold and hard and smells like gym shoes, but overall…not bad, as far as beds go.

“This is fun,”Charlie mumbles, eyelids fluttering as he scoots into the curve of Mac’s arm. “Justyou an’ me.”

Mac realizes, yeah,it’s been a long time since they hung out- only the two of them. Sometimes Macforgets that, before all of this, before the twins and the bar and Frank- itwas just Mac and Charlie against the world. They’ll always have each other’sbacks, though, and they’ll always have their totally-not-white-trash fun- nomatter how much things change, no matter how old they get, no matter how theirlives end up. They get each other. They’re like family.

“Yeah, it is,” Macchuckles and thumps him on the shoulder. “Night, Charlie.”

Charlie’s alreadysnoring, and it isn’t long before Mac follows. His last thought, before hedrifts off to sleep (or possibly a drunken blackout), is that they definitely need to clean the ceiling in the morning.

#i'm not super happy with this but i hope you dig it!!#it's always sunny in philadelphia #it's always sunny #iasip #charlie kelly #mac mcdonald #charmac #fics #my writing #asks #anon

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mimiplaysgames · 5 years

Text

Strength to Protect the Things That Matter (Ch. 28)

Pairing: Terra/Aqua Rating: T Word Count: 11,864

Summary: Terra braves the Realm of Darkness to find her.

A/N: THERE ARE NO SPOILERS IN THIS CHAPTER - there can’t be. I’ve finalized the outline for this thing back in May, and it’s barely changed. I have gotten messages from readers worried that I wouldn’t get this fic done before the game releases, and while I appreciate so much the concern and enthusiasm, this is simply impossible. I’ve said it many times, but this fic has a sequel, and there is just no way for it to finish. It will just continue on being an AU (hopefully). That being said, I’ve had a lot of fun with different concepts of what Terra would see in the RoD, and I finally get to the reunion that I’ve been wanting to do for so long. I think of this as what Aqua truly deserves (or based from the trailers, an AU where Aqua meets Terra in the RoD, as opposed to Ansem SoD). I’ve been absolutely mortified, to the point that it has affected my mental health severely, from sharing this. But at least it’s here. This chapter makes references to The Black Cauldron (1985).

Reunion

He doesn’t know how he is still alive after drowning, but it’s a blessing. It means he’s finally close to her.

Though Aqua isn’t anywhere to be seen. His face half-submerged in murky water, on a sloped hill, Terra groggily opens his eyes. It appears to be night.

Then his eyes snap wide. He yells.

His shoulders are heavy and strained, his back writhing from the snaps of nerve shock. It is as if the burden of a body his same weight is rung on top of him, making it difficult to stand up.

But it’s his throat that hurts more, his blood pumping as though an invisible person has a hand gripped around it, squeezing to cut off all air, and strong enough to leave bruises. To breathe scratches him and swallowing burns, and with every effort to raise himself from the ground, the weight of it all gets worse. That familiar headache makes itself known, like his hair being ripped clean from its roots.

The Realm of Darkness must be giving Xehanort better hold, and he’s trying to wrestle control of the body back.

Terra summons his armor to cover him, enclosing him in a protective shell that stands between himself and the toxic atmosphere around him. But more importantly, it traps Xehanort within him. Most of the pain is alleviated immediately, gradually fading away as if falling asleep. The headache still lingers and it’s still uncomfortable when he swallows, but it’s manageable.

His ankles are deep into the water, his cape gently ghosting the surface. Behind him is a small town, with cobblestone streets, dimly lit lights, and architecture that begs to be inviting and warm, like an old-fashioned vacation resort.

Though it’s quiet. Ahead, the water is so dark it is black, and clean like waxed glass. This must be where he came from. The reflection of his armor is so crisp, it’s like looking in the mirror.

Deep in the water, a red lightning bolt strikes. The reflection turns its head and steps away.

Terra stumbles backward with a yelp, unsure what he’s been expecting. He knows the Realm is sentient, and he supposes mind games are a part of that. Anything can happen. Panting hard, he tells himself to get it together. No use letting everything scare him.

The town ahead is quaint enough – if it had people. He can imagine that it normally would have children running around, laughing. Bakers yelling about their goods. Mothers shopping through several stores. Men dragging their wares. People just trying to get to where they need to go. But Terra is completely alone.

Through a window, he sees drawings made by children lying across a coffee table in front of a television set, which is off. On the dinner table just beyond is half-finished food. But there is no one there to enjoy any of it. If he doesn’t know any better, it looks as though the family who used to live here had to abandon their home in the middle of a typical evening - when events turned into an unknown catastrophe, or it was their lives they’d had to give up if they chose to stay. And they never came back.

Not all of the houses are in good condition. Some of them have roofs ripped open, the pieces hovering above in the sky as if frozen in time. The stone streets are cracked, and several of the buildings lean into the water. Like the entire neighborhood is slowly sinking.

On second thought, the town is rising from the water, and he realizes why the architecture here is so familiar.

This is Traverse Town.

Or a part of it, creeping its way into the Realm of Darkness. There isn’t much time left for that world to continue standing. He must hurry.

The sound of his shoes against the stone is loud, each clank reverberating way too much. As though he’s begging to be found by predators. He almost wishes he can speak out loud just to have some other noise to diffuse his steps… but what if that makes them come faster? And still, some part of him needs to hear something. He hasn’t been here long and it’s already too quiet.

A radio sits on an open windowsill of a small house. The room behind it is dark, and all he can make out are the shadows of empty furniture. There is only a single light, deep in the very back of a hallway, and it’s too dim to really show him anything else. Some part of him is grateful that he can’t see much – lest there is someone sitting inside he doesn’t know about. If there are any people walking in the Realm of Darkness at all.

He flicks a switch to turn the radio on. No power.

He flicks it back off and walks away from it. Static. It comes so sharply that it nearly screams through the rustling of its commotion.

And it’s so loud. He scampers over to jerk the switch back and forth, but it won’t shut up.

Then he hears it, muffled and barely audible. “Terra.”

Her voice.

“Aqua!” He lifts the radio and talks right into the speaker. “Are you okay? Where are you?”

The static turns off.

He tries the switch again, but there is no response. No power.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Something is moving inside that house, like a person shifting on a couch.

Rocks roll down the corner of the street, where it turns around the block. A shadow creeps behind a lamp post until it disappears. Out of the corner of his peripheral vision, by a closed crate, something blinks. Yellow eyes stare at him through a second-floor window in the house adjacent to him.

He drops the radio and summons his Keyblade. Like trapping prey, the Heartless leech out from between the cobblestones, surrounding him.

These are stronger than the ones he’s faced in the outside world. Even if small and primitive, darkness here gives them a kick. His strikes don’t stun them as much, and every attack drains him. He only destroys half of them when the headache stings, but he continues – delivering throw downs, massive swings, bright shockwaves. Until it’s quiet again, though who knows when the next group will come, especially after all the noise he’s been making.

But he’s exhausted, leaning onto the Ends of the Earth for support. This isn’t normal. The use of his Keyblade shouldn’t feel like it’s trying to suck him dry of life. Maybe in this place, when Xehanort shares a space in his body, the light he uses depletes its ability to protect him.

Then he shouldn’t use darkness at all here, and should probably be more careful in choosing his battles from now on. After all, keeping his sanity is worth keeping control over his body. He swiftly follows the street until it abruptly ends, leading up a tall, grassy hill. It may be a leg-sore to climb all the way up, but the ocean on the other side is a no-go as well.

It’s a normal climb up, until the ground underneath his feet starts to crumble, collapsing under his weight. He sprints faster, sometimes stumbling onto his hands and knees with every shift under him. He reaches the top, the crumbling dirt pausing before it reaches the peak, as if it gives up on trying to kill him. Like a sore loser. Sentient and tricky, indeed.

Looking back, the way up is completely gone, a giant pit of nothing taking its place. The remnants of Traverse Town, floating in the air like a painting, now sit in between an endless hole and an infinite ocean on the other side.

That ocean is the entrance he took to get here. The message is loud and clear: the Realm is telling him there’s no way out.

“I’ll find another way back,” he says defiantly. He can’t let it get to him. He’s come too far.

Onward he goes. A path of dirt and stone through tall trees that are sparse enough he can still see the sky. Who knew the Realm of Darkness has stars – slightly dimmer than usual, but odd. There are different night skies, as though they’ve been snipped off from whatever world they came from and were pieced together. The bushes he passes by don’t move, because there aren’t any critters to rustle through them. All the animal calls that are normally present in the woods are not to be heard here. No wind to bother the leaves. Some branches hang low enough to hit his pauldrons and his helmet, and this alone is the loudest thing he can hear for miles.

Clearings and valleys also have their limits. They taper off cliffs into a vast blankness, where artificial stars from who knows where will also hover. Sometimes, the ground is split in two, with a lower level of undiscovered territory and mounds of dirt floating in the air as if to stop themselves from getting lost in the void.

What is left in the Realm of Darkness are shards of a world.

And a bunny.

A white, glowing rabbit, waiting in the middle of the trail, its nose twitching.

“What are you doing here?” He crouches down, surprised to see that it doesn’t seem afraid of him. It is incredibly round and fluffy – incredibly adorable, so much so that it hurts to look at it. And it stays long enough for him to suspect that this can’t be a trick.

It shines with such a pure, white light, it is exactly like the dolphin that led him here in the first place. A light in the shadow. An alebrije. A spirit guide.

It’s when he realizes that he has imagined Aqua’s spirit guide as a rabbit before that his heart swells with excitement. “Take me to her.”

It runs and he follows, past stone benches and idyllic arches. There is an abandoned gazebo, with carvings in the wood that depict angels, flowers, and hearts. This area is romantic, the kind of trail that a couple would take to find a private, intimate getaway or to host a wedding. Flowers grow around the shrubbery here, but they disappear as soon as he comes near them. With sunlight, this place would be peaceful. But here, the false night sets this up like a haunted venue, its attractive and charming exterior just a lure for a trap. Enough to make him wonder if scorned lovers are waiting to abuse their revenge on unsuspecting passerby’s.

The rabbit is gone, but at least it led him far enough to suggest a direction for him to go.

He passes by another clearing. And then he sees her.

On a stone bench, right at the edge of a cliff. Cross-legged, with her palms to her knee, Aqua sits calmly as she surveys the ground. As if she has been waiting this entire time for him. Her blue hair is the same length it has always been, and she is so close he only has to take a few steps to touch her.

He doesn’t have the time to care much about how hard his heart is beating against his chest. “Aqua…”

Her gaze comes slowly, and her expression is as a blank as a doll’s. Not a care in her eyes. Something is wrong with her, and he nearly shouts in anger over the thought that the Realm of Darkness has harmed her.

He nears himself with an outstretched hand. “Aqua, I’m here. You’re safe.”

He’s within inches of her when she cranes her neck back to its limit, as if trying to see behind her. Her body follows the weight of her head, and she slips backward off the precipice.

Terra lunges forward to try to grab her, yelling out her name and his denials over such a grotesque sight. He misses. His reflex grabs the foot of the stone bench before falling off himself, and he watches her tumble against jagged rocks of the level below beneath, landing with a sickening crunch that sounds like crushed plastic, her limbs splattered and obviously broken.

She isn’t real. She’s just a mannequin.

He struggles to pull himself back up, rolling over to his stomach when he’s safe on solid ground. This isn’t real.

It is hot inside the armor, sweat dripping down his shoulders and his forehead. He hears that crunch over and over again in his mind, and it’s suffocating. He wails at the image of her throwing herself like that, and he flips his helmet off in an attempt to cool himself. But there is no breeze in the Realm of Darkness, so he sweats and heaves all the same.

“She wasn’t real. She wasn’t real,” he keeps saying, hoping that hearing it out loud will make it stick, that he just didn’t see her get crushed.

Maybe it isn’t a good idea to have his helmet off. His headache comes back and it pounds at his temples, hard enough for him to see lights. He opens the jar of Tifa’s thick brown potion, and swallows the rest of it until it is empty.

Soon enough, the headache melts away and he relaxes. He wiggles his helmet back on, the easing sensation of the potion traveling through his limbs as if being enclosed in the armor traps this symptom of relief and will continue to keep it that way. Terra studies the empty jar. She made this brew so compassionately and it has now outlived its usefulness. I should thank her when I get the chance, for letting me get this far.

The rabbit makes itself known after hopping out of some nearby bushes. It stands on its hind legs, surveying the area. The Realm may want to try to claim him for itself, but it’s as though the rabbit knows the only truth that exists here. Everything else is a distraction.

“Wait for me.” He stands up, shakes off the last image of the mannequin in his mind, and leaves the empty jar behind.

The rabbit fades in and out, only really appearing when Terra makes a misstep. It lets him guide himself otherwise, learning to trust his own heart to find her. And he walks, forgetting he is hungry and tired. Eventually, those feelings simply don’t exist anymore, and all that is left is just the need to go forward because there is nothing else to do. Thinking about it too much sends him into a state of worry.

It makes him regret not bringing Riku along with him.

What if he never eats again? How does he even begin to search a place this huge for her? What if the Realm shifts and changes their locations, making it so that they will never reunite?

Anytime he thinks he won’t find her, the rabbit will appear. As if to say, You already have.

It isn’t until he hears the splashing of water that he realizes he’s been walking for what seems like hours and he’s suddenly shin-deep in a swamp. He hasn’t been aware of where the domain has changed. It just does.

The trees here are so much more compact, roots stretching upward so it makes it hard to through them, with vines reaching into the murkiness, and plants so tall they make it hard to gauge how deep they run. The water is so dark there isn’t a way to see into it. Quite frankly, he’s lost.

“Now what do I do?” he asks out loud, hoping the rabbit hears him. He wades through the water, telling himself to calm down, using breathing exercises taught by his Master in an effort to ease his mind and listen to his heart on where to go next. The foliage is so thick, there’s isn’t a clear path he can take next.

The silence is maddening, and he aches just to have something, anything, to speak to him.

“I need to get out of here.” He probably shouldn’t be talking too much out loud, for fear of what will hear him, but it’s better than not hearing anything. It’s too quiet.

The Realm of Darkness decides to comply to his wishes, and a pig’s shriek vibrates and pounds across the entire area. From every direction, sounding as if it is dying from a brutal beat down, or a gas leak, or an electrocution – something that is letting it suffer as long as it can until it can go on no longer. It comes in waves, like the wind. The squeal will pass by him, until it comes back around. It’s so horrid, he attempts to cover his ears, but his helmet won’t mute the sound. He needs to save it from its misery. But with the way it travels, it’s more like a specter. And it can probably hurt him.

He spins and heads the direction he came from, but something grabs his ankle. And its force is strong. It pulls. He stumbles to his knees, nearly getting submerged.

With a yell, he summons his Keyblade and sends a blast of intense light toward the direction of whatever has hold of him. Let free, he scrambles to the edge of the bank, where he can at least stand on mud.

Searching the water for what grabbed him shows him nothing, until he notices a bright blue color rise to the surface. It is shaped like a star, and it glides there, as if beckoning him to grab it. Aqua’s very own Wayfinder.

He shivers. His first instinct is to dive headfirst to take it. It’s hers, and the Realm of Darkness cannot claim it. He stares at the floating Wayfinder, trying to give himself the best reason not to reach for it. Wondering if whatever that grabbed him is actually her, and if he has just seared her with his Keyblade. The image of raising his weapon against her fills his mind, and-

“It’s a trap,” he says out loud to the Realm, as if to declare he has it figured out.

In response, the swamp water bubbles, and the Wayfinder disappears, like a light being turned off. But what rises in its place are a pair of bright yellow eyes. And another pair just behind a plant. And another underneath the roots that stretch so far above the surface of the water, its tree knows it is toxic.

Terra finds himself surrounded by hundreds of pairs of eyes: shadows that surround him on tree branches, in between twisted trunks, coming out of the water and the mud, forcing their way through bushes, climbing down vines. There are so many of them, he’s certain they can easily force him down the water.

The Keyblade is a marvelous weapon, and when he conjured it for the very first time, he was a boy ready to face any danger that lay ahead of him. Believing he was invincible. But it comes with costs. With an entity like Xehanort still inhabiting his body, using the power of light through the Ends of the Earth is the equivalent of forcing himself to run for his life after having survived a multitude of whiplashes to his body. Tifa’s potion barely does much to keep it all at bay. It hurts. It’s tiring. The old man simply waits to take over, and the headache that comes only grows with every swing.

And these Heartless just won’t stop coming.

He scurries away from them, tripping over enlarged roots, squeezing his way through tight spaces in between trees, ripping away vines that get entangled onto his armor. He doesn’t know how many Heartless are chasing after him now.

The rabbit is on a branch high above the water, dashing across, telling him to change direction.

But once the spirit guide passes through an entanglement of bindweed, the Realm decides it has had enough. The trees expand and turn, enclosing the bunny within their grasp, until it is no longer seen. He uses his Keyblade to hack away, but to no avail. It’s gone.

He desperately crawls through the swamp until he leaves the muggy terrain behind. Until he reaches a vast, empty wasteland. Though this doesn’t stop them from stalking him. An army of Heartless creep out from the swamp, coming at him at full speed. He proceeds to run away from them and sees something worse: hundreds of towering Darkside Heartless, very aware of his sudden presence in the vicinity. The horizon beyond has a soft glow, and Terra can barely make out a castle in the near distance.

A Darkside moves to attack. Terra dodges. Out here in the open, he is completely bare.

He makes for the castle. Sprints. Pants. He tries to steady his labored breathing as he wills one leg to dash in front of the other, avoiding the large, black hands that try to grab him. The army of shadows behind him swarm the wasteland, keeping up to his pace. He pushes himself to run faster, his lungs ready to burst from the exertion it takes to propel beyond his top speed. The castle is near – it is completely foreboding and looks to be abandoned, sitting atop a dried moat. A wooden, chipped drawbridge is already down, so he makes for the inside – at least it’s good enough shelter to avoid the Darksides.

The bridge falls apart just as he enters the castle. He immediately collapses onto the floor, wheezing as hard as the pig he heard in the swamp. His whole body shakes from such adrenaline, and for a moment, he’s too weak to pick himself up.

He can at least roll over, surveying what is waiting for him on the other side of the dry moat. Nothing. The Heartless chasing him are gone, as if they were never there to begin with. Just a vast, empty space of dirt. But now, there is no bridge to allow him to go back. The moat is deep and steep enough that it’d be impossible to climb out of.

“Damn it,” he says, his breath too shaky. “I lost the rabbit.”

He allows himself to rest until his breathing starts to slow down. There is no way to go but through this castle. It is dim, and despite that there is no moon outside these walls, there is a faint light that seemingly comes from nowhere, just enough to see what is around him. The castle itself is old-fashioned, built out of stacking stones together, and it is in dire disrepair. Some of the walls have crumbled, and the stairs leading to the upper floors are now large dirt heaps. Tapestries and flags are shredded to pieces. It is just as lively as a tomb.

Eventually, he manages to stand, and casually walks through the hallways. Dust poofs upwards with every step he takes. A door slams.

He whips around, and sees a door sliding across a wall, as if it exists in a separate plain of time and space. It stops in front of him.

He’s exhausted, and despite that he doesn’t want to follow whatever guided tour the Realm has prepared for him, he’s desperate enough to play the game. Just to do something. Anything to keep him from getting bored.

He opens the door and it leads to a solid wall. The door then slams shut and slides away.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?”

Another door slams. Several move around – the ones in the upper floors where he cannot reach are just there to taunt him. The ones on the lower floor move so fast, there isn’t a point in bothering with them. So he ignores them, until he finds himself a stationary one that he is sure hasn’t moved anywhere.

It is locked. Then, as if to mock him, it slides away.

Walking through the castle is a trek of ignoring all of the closed doors, and he bides his time in exploring large passageways. Wagons, haystacks, wooden tables, ceramic mugs – all have been left behind by whoever used to run this place, all worn out and overused. He wonders if the castle was in this condition when it still existed in the Realm of Light.

But most places in the castle are out of bounds to him, either leading him to a door that leads nowhere, or a door that moves away when he gets too close. Essentially, the Realm makes itself clear – there is only one way to go, he just has to find it.

And he sees it – an open door, with a visible hallway beyond. Finally.

When he approaches it, it slams in his face. He opens it, and there is now a solid wall instead.

He normally would never describe being played around like this as heartbreaking. But now, the need to get out of this castle is the same as the need to eat in order to stall death.

He fights the desperation to beg the Realm to let him go.

“I need to stay strong,” he says to no one in particular. To himself. To the Realm.

How he wishes he could talk to somebody.

“I can’t give up. Maybe there is another passage somewhere that I haven’t seen yet.”

He walks down a hallway he’s sure he’s been through before. But where else can he go? Several steps in, the floor disintegrating beneath him. He lands on stone below with a thud, his armor the worst kind of cushion to break the fall.

But at least the soreness is more bearable than the headache. This lower level is darker, the hallway more narrow. On the one hand, it’s new so it’s at least something for him to do. On the other, what lies ahead of him now is a stairway that spirals downward, which isn’t the direction he hopes to go.

With no other choice, he climbs down, and they eventually open up to a large room – the first room in the castle he’s ever been able to enter. He cannot see enough to tell what is inside, but it looks terribly messy, the floor full of stacked objects. There is a throne on the opposite wall, and near it a massive, steel, heavy-looking black cauldron.

Upon closer inspection, there is a body sitting on the throne. A ferociously tall man, dressed in a red, hooded robe. At first, Terra thinks that he’s looking at decoration on the throne, fashioned to resemble antlers of a stag. Until he realizes that it isn’t the furniture with poor taste, but the man. The man has horns.

This isn’t a man. Terra takes a sharp inhale, a memory from years ago creeping into his conscience. As a boy, he used to be obsessed with reading books about all sorts of dark tales and magic. One in particular is the most famous failure for Keyblade Masters in all history: the fall of Prydain, a world that enveloped itself in darkness and has been banished from the Realm of Light for centuries.

This is the body of the Horned King, a skeletal being who is the reason for that fall. His undead army rose to take over the land, and there were so many deaths that the world had no way to survive on its own light. Terra has read enough of these books to know exactly how the Horned King was drawn, and his familiarity is unmistakable. The skin on his face is so thin that it sticks to every fold in his skull, is fingers scaly. He is a legendary fiend of darkness, recorded by Keyblade wielders who have been defeated in their attempt to save this place again and again. For too long, Prydain has been missing. Eraqus used it as an example in his lessons as the worst-case scenario to happen to a world when a Keybearer is unable to do his job.

To think that Terra has stumbled into such a domain is a danger that is technically undefined.

He immediately steps backward in an attempt to get out of the room. There is a crunch. The mess he has stepped on – no it isn’t a mess, it is a bone. A skeleton. The room is riddled with them.

The Horned King stirs in his chair, growling. The sockets of his skull slowly glow a bright red, as though he’s been asleep and has just been disturbed. And he unleashes a nasty snarl at the sight of Terra.

A puff of green smoke bursts from the black cauldron, almost as if on command. It spreads over the mass of skeletons like a noxious gas, and soon enough, they all twitch with sleeplessness. First Heartless, now the undead.

Terra summons his Keyblade and begins to chop away before the ones near him get a chance to stand straight. Damn the headache, damn the tiredness – he needs to survive. The Horned King bellows, and his skeleton army follow suit.

Their old weapons of war don’t cause much damage to his armor, but that isn’t the worst danger. What is most imperative for Terra to avoid is to be surrounded and be swallowed by them. With his Keyblade, he strikes the ground, shaking the walls so much that dirt drops from the ceiling. He strikes again, and stone collapses on top of a group nearby.

He makes for a different hallway, hoping to find an exit out of here. Away from the power of the cauldron, which has its mist covering the entire room by now. Away from the skeletons that are chasing after him, swinging their swords so lazily that they swipe at the walls. There is a door.

“Please let it lead somewhere.”

It does, to a hallway full of skeletons waiting on the other side for him, crawling over each other to get to him. None of their eyes glow like Heartless do. Perhaps it is the power of the cauldron that made them immune to being swallowed up by the Realm. Maybe it’s because they have already died and the Realm has no use for them.

Either way, Terra is now surrounded, the skeletons clawing at his helmet, pulling at his cape, dragging him down to the floor to subdue him. To drown him. To crush him.

A swing of his Keyblade onto the ground and it sends the ones closest to him flying. He moans in pain from the use of it, the helmet practically locking the agony inside.

“I can’t lose to Xehanort now,” he yells to himself.

More of them come. If light is too taxing in a world of darkness for him, then perhaps powers of nothingness will do.

In his mind, Terra wills the particles in the air to combust, exactly the way Xemnas does it. He allows himself to really feel how annoyed he is at his situation, until he’s ready.

“Get away from me!”

Several bombs of energy explode in the air, destroying some of the skeletons and sending others away. But his body also reacts to the bombs, and like catering to his need to keep a far distance from his enemies, Terra flies backwards – and stays afloat.

Xemnas’ telekinetic powers apparently also lend themselves to levitation. Except Terra cannot control it, and this is the worst timing to learn. He continues to float backward as if there isn’t any gravity to slow him down, hordes of skeletons committing themselves to a futile attempt to grab him from below.

“Wait, wait.” He flails his arms around, trying to grasp at anything that will stop his levitation, his fingers merely brushing on the wall. He digs his Keyblade into the stone, suspending him in midair so he can finally land on his feet, the creeping mist of the black cauldron disturbed by his landing.

There are still the skeletons to deal with.

And they are powered by the magic of the cauldron. Maybe if he disturbs it…

Using the explosive energy of nothingness, he casts aside all of these shells of former humans, trying to make his way to the cauldron. It’s easier than he anticipates, considering how light-weight they are and that their tattered armor cannot handle being attacked by Xemnas’ powers.

The Horned King roars when he nears, his army of undead suddenly skirmishing to ambush Terra. This at least tells him that he has the right idea.

“In your despair, as you face what ails you most, you will perish,” the Horned King says, his voice an echo.

Terra scoffs. “How dramatic.”

His Keyblade glows with a bright light, and he strikes the ground. Cracks form and make their way to the cauldron. Then he sends out one of Xemnas’ explosions to keep fiends off of him. He strikes the ground again to force cobblestone into stacks against the cauldron, the foundation underneath becoming unstable. Another one of Xemnas’ explosions for self-protection.

Summoning the energy he has left, his Keyblade glowing even brighter, he hurls a shockwave strong enough to topple the cauldron over, spilling its acidic contents all over the room. Fire that burns nothing but green swallow the area, escalating in height to such an extent that even the undead soldiers are unable to survive its flames.

The Horned King desperately barks in a language Terra doesn’t understand, but no matter. There is enough chaos to slip away. The King and his stupid army can continue to rot in this Realm. He stumbles out of the room, the flames burning brighter and threatening to take him with them. It emits a bright enough light to illuminate a new door further down, and at first he struggles with the handle in his panic. It opens. A staircase.

“Thank goodness,” he says painfully, clutching his side. Shutting the door behind him, he seals it with his Keyblade, despite how exhausted he is. The flight of stairs spirals upward, continuing on and on. It’s an incredibly high tower, but hey, at least he’s away from that horrid room.

At the top is a large room, with a tall mirror leaning against a wall covered in a tattered, taupe carp. Shelves of vials are on one side of it, and weapons are displayed on the wall on the other. Chests litter the space. There is a window with multiple diamond-shaped panes showing him the wasteland outside. There still aren’t any Heartless lurking about – at least not right now. A single forest grows behind the castle, though it’s too dark for him to see how far that stretches.

He sits on the floor, catching his breath. At least it’s quiet. And relatively safe.

Though he now has to find a way to escape this tower. He has to endure, to find her.

“Aqua,” he says groggily, “just hold out for me a little longer. I’m almost there.” He doesn’t know why he said that. He doesn’t actually know how much time he has in this place, and whether he’ll have enough of it to finally set her free.

Four taps on glass, like a knock on a door.

Immediately he looks toward the window, expecting to see a Heartless hovering outside. Nothing.

Four taps on glass. It’s coming from the mirror.

Whoever is behind it, or inside of it, wants his attention.

His throat grips. A part of him feels that he shouldn’t look, no matter what. His life is already enough at risk. And yet, he’s alone in this room, and as long as the mirror is there, it is an unknown danger, which is worse. It pains him to stand up, but he shuffles his feet enough to approach the mirror, his hand slowly reaching to grab the tarp.

He takes a breath while the fabric is gripped in between his fingers, stalling the exposure. Four taps on glass, this time louder.

He pulls it away. He had expected to see a Heartless, or maybe a twisted version of his own reflection that can act on its own. Maybe one of himself, with gold eyes and white hair.

But it is her.

Aqua’s face is deadpan through the mirror, her eyes as hollow and reflective as glass itself. “Did you come here to save me?” she asks as she steps through, like it is a doorway.

Her voice is robotic and sinister.

It sounds like her, yet it doesn’t. It mimics the same tenor, the same melody that he would hear out of the real Aqua. Which he hasn’t heard in years.

He knows she isn’t real. Yet hearing her voice nearly sends him to tears.

“Aqua,” he says immediately. “No, you aren’t- I can’t believe it-”

“What makes you think I want to be saved by you?” There is a Keyblade in her hand, but it’s warped, fizzling in and out of a black fog and he cannot recognize it.

“You aren’t real,” he summons his own, anticipating a fight.

And a terrible fight it is. The phantom clones herself, warping in and out just to tease him. To send him cheap attacks. To confuse him. He is suddenly surrounded by many Aqua’s, until there is only one. And then there are many again. She comes close to him, enough to nearly touch his visor with her lips. Enough for him to see his own reflection in her glass eyes. Then she disappears so another can hit him from behind.

Which is his greatest weakness – seeing her like this. It nearly makes him unable to swing his own weapon against her body. He keeps telling himself she is a fake, but it’s hard to believe. The phantom moves like Aqua. Dodges like Aqua. Casts spells like Aqua. How many years has he spent sparring with her, and let it be damned if this thing can read his memories so she knows exactly how to react to his movements.

“Don’t you think I deserve to be with someone better?” she asks before another attack. Her magical blows are so devastating, even when he blocks them, that he’d rather give up than to keep trying to survive them. He’s too tired.

And her voice hurts, too. She asks this question as if she knows how he truly feels, but is too afraid to say it himself. As if admitting it would mean absoluteness. Aqua does deserve to be with someone worthy of her. Yes. But if he agrees out loud, then that truth is bona fide.

“You aren’t real,” he says louder. He cannot get sad now. He cannot give up now. He raises to strike, and she blocks. For a ghost, she is incredibly strong.

She counters and hits him directly with an electrical force, as though harming him means nothing to her.

“I don’t want you,” she says, her voice keeping its steady directness while being disquieting all at the same time. As if what she is saying is a matter of fact.

He is on his knees. “I know already,” he says, upset enough to produce tears in his eyes. “Please, enough.”

She raises her mockery of a Keyblade. “In your despair, as you face what ails you most, you will perish,” she says. She swings with a dark force so massive, he is sent flying, crashing through the window.

He falls from the tower, traveling miles as he speeds closer and closer to the ground. He tries to summon his latent powers of nothingness, trying to get them to halt his near-inevitable crushing fate. But nothing is slowing him down. “Stop, stop, STOP!”

Mere inches from the ground he finally halts, hovering above the ground in a suspended levitation. Learning this power is going to take some getting used to. Terra swings his arms around, but it only forces him to awkwardly spin in the air.

He lifts a finger into the air, as if to command. “Put me down, gently.”

The power simply drops him, and all of his muscles take the shock inside the hard shell of his armor as he hits the ground. It’s ridiculous how sore he is right now.

Groaning, he drags himself to sit on the precipice of a boulderstone. The amount of sweat is massive, the heat unbearable. He has come a long way, and it has been nothing but near-death experiences, frights, and doubts.

Doubts.

It’s not that he doesn’t know already that the Realm of Darkness will give him no comfort. But he silently begs for anything to relieve the heat. He pulls the helmet off, and – as to be expected - it doesn’t make him feel any better. There is no breeze to cool off the sweat, and no amount of oxygen to help him breathe any easier. If the Realm is playing with him this much, and has such power to control where he is heading, how is he ever going to get to her? What if the both of them wander around the Realm, traveling in opposite directions, where they never find each other, for the rest of time?

Does it mean that all of his attempts are futile?

Does it mean she truly doesn’t want him here?

In all honesty, Terra hopes that his wishes have a place in the light. That he can return to the Land of Departure, and share the thrones with those closest to him. That he can watch the light of the sun through the colors of the stained glass, and study them well enough to remember their patterns this time. To search for his own way to become Master. To watch Ventus rise to that status, and see him grow to be a man. To have Aqua share his bed. To wake up next to her every day, and hold her close to him. To be in awe of her presence and accomplishments. To be wanted and welcomed back into his family. To be home, where the sun is so bright, it illuminates everything in the academy.

The Horned King’s castle doesn’t stir, but merely stands tall as it probably has for hundreds of years now, looming over him. There is not a single star in the sky of this fallen world. Terra is completely alone in this wasteland, not a sound to be heard. Not a rock tumbling by. Not a leaf dancing in the wind.

But the rabbit is here. It pants heavily, as if it has been frightened out of its life. Its nose twitches, and its ears are pressed against its head. It hops closer and closer to Terra, as if to seek some comfort.

“I know,” he nods in agreement. “This place sucks.”

At least this is better than having only himself to talk to. Or that phantom.

“I can tell this place is trying to punish me, and I can’t say that I disagree with it,” he says. “I’ve become what I said I wouldn’t, and I can’t imagine that she’d ever accept me as I am. I wanted to be someone worth her attention. But to be the cause of her suffering…

“I know what I want isn’t important. What I need to do is to find her, but I haven’t-” He takes a deep breath, the headache getting worse. “I honestly don’t know to survive this. I don’t know how I could ever make it better for her, and that scares me. I don’t know if I’ll ever get another chance to prove myself, or be forgiven. I don’t know if I’ll be allowed to have a good life in the future. I wish this headache would go away, I would give anything-”

He holds his head, taking breaths until some pressure is relieved. But it lingers. Not that it compares to what Aqua has been through, considering the insanity he has just witnessed. Even if the powers that be decide that he will never have a decent future, she still needs help.

“I can only just stand up, carry on, and walk forward. Even when it’s hard, or when I think I can’t go on. If I just continue to do something about my situation, then something’s gotta give, right? Something has to happen?”

The rabbit slows down its own breathing, traveling in uneven circles, as if beckoning him to follow it.

“Maybe I’m just looking for hope where it doesn’t exist, but I needed to get that out of my chest. Thanks for listening to me,” he says with a small smile. He puts his helmet back on, and pushes off his hands to stand up. He is completely sore and tired, and every step he takes is a bit of struggle. His feet practically beg for him to rest.

This time, the rabbit waits for him to catch up to it, stopping every once in a while for him to approach. They go through the forest, which is the foggiest place he has beenin this Realm so far, but just as quiet as all the rest. The trees here are so tall, he can’t make out any branches. There are no roads or trails. Nothing to help him discern a sense of direction. Just thick trunks that sprawl out every which way. If he gets lost here, he can certainly walk a never-ending labyrinth.

It’s eerie almost, but he nearly makes the fog out to be a portal of its own, a system separate than the rest of the Realm, like a blanket that is covering him from the darkness. With the bunny staying so calm, Terra doesn’t get the sense that danger lurks here, even when he cannot see far ahead of him. With each step, he focuses on relaxing different parts of his body – his mind, his arms, his knees, his neck – as a way to build up the energy to continue forward. He’ll stay sharp once the rabbit gives him reason to.

As long as he keeps going, something’s gotta give, right? Even when he knows, deep down, how it will end?

It doesn’t take long until the forest opens up to a wheat field, tall grass stalks swaying in the wind.

Wind.

Yes, it exists here. It’s very gentle but it coaxes the wheat to respond. Stars shine up above. A great distance ahead of the fields are these menacing electrical towers, but neither of them are connected by any power lines. They are illuminated by moonlight.

Which is the first sign of natural light he has seen. When he looks downhill, far beyond the wheat, beyond a field of grass, beyond rock formations, is a small beach where the moon nearly sinks itself into the water. It’s quite a walk from where he is standing, but he can see nonetheless.

A trail lies ahead of him. And the rabbit is gone.

“Not again.” He jogs forward, bending over to see if he can spot it in between the stalks. “Come on, where are you?”

No sign of it. Terra’s jog hurries into a run, his armor clamoring from all of the movement but he doesn’t care who listens. He needs his guide. And truth be told, he just can’t stand to be alone anymore.

It isn’t until he nearly runs into something that he skids to a halt. And his breath stops. And his muscles tense up.

She has her Keyblade out, holding it ahead of her in a defensive stance. Her eyes are wide in shock, her hair short, her face still young even after all these years.

The Keyblade in hand is his Master’s Defender. Aqua waits for him to make the first move, her eyes narrowing in anticipation.

Aqua. Her eyes are expressive this time. He can see that she anticipates everything to be a trick, quickly trying to analyze when he’s going to snap at her. He can basically see the wheels in her mind turning.

“Aqua…”

She shudders as she blinks, as if she cannot believe what she is hearing. She only lowers the Master’s Keyblade by a small margin. “Terra?”

The phantom may be a good mimic in everything except the feeling. But this is her. He can drop to his knees and sob until he dies, but at least he can die knowing he has done something right. And despite it all, his heart pounds so heavy it will keep him alive through the release. It’s her.

“Aqua, it’s really me.” He dismisses his armor to show her. He doesn’t know how sorry or tired or in pain he looks. He doesn’t care. “I’m here.”

Her eyes flicker at the sight of him. They glass over with tears, but instead of letting them fall, she dismisses the Keyblade and bolts to him. To take his hand in both of hers, squeezing them until she’s satisfied that they’re real. Her fingers are cold.

Before he can say anything, she looks into his eyes and searches them. “It’s really you…” She closes the gap and throws herself around his shoulders, holding him so tightly as if letting any room to breathe in between them would mean he would just be wiped from existence and she’ll lose him again forever. Like he’ll burst as a figment of her imagination.

It’s the same for him, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her closer - because to let her go would be to let her slip through the ground and he’ll never see her again. To have her in his arms is to resurrect an old life: he’s been living a second one all this time – a lie, really - completely cut off from everything that gave him his identity. But now he’s home.

The exposed skin on her back is freezing cold, and he brushes his fingers against it to comfort her. Takes turns to wrap his arms to give her warmth. Runs his fingers through her hair and rests his mouth on the crown of her head. She smells like dust, not quite clean yet not dirty, either. As if time has stopped for her, too.

She digs her face into his neck, her tears falling down and spreading onto his shoulder. His strong Aqua, who hasn’t cried since her parents’ death, weeping into his shirt until it’s soaked. And he lets tears fall too, into her hair, because there isn’t a feeling like knowing he’s whole again.

“I’m-” This is the hardest part – to be bare. When he has been keeping something in, or lying about something else - now he has to expose himself. To finally say something that is as true as the softness of her body.

“I’m sorry it took so long to come see you,” he says, knowing it just isn’t enough after what she’s been through. Knowing how possible it is for her to reject it. “I don’t have an excuse. I should’ve done something sooner. I should’ve-” The phantom’s words pass through his mind. “Please don’t hate me.”

She brushes the hair strands at the back of his neck, her breath stabilizing. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispers into his ear, her voice breaking a bit. “It’s been so hard. I’ve missed you so much, Terra.”

Terra’s favorite stories growing up always have a hero taking off on an adventure, rescuing those who need help, defeating malicious entities that seek to wreak havoc. And yet none of those stories made him understand how much of a struggle it would take to endure such a feat. He’s lived his life not really knowing what made those heroes who they are. To hear her forgiveness is when it clicked. They are heroic because it justifies their existence, as much as hearing her relief justifies his own.

“I’ve missed you, too, you have no idea how badly.” Hearing this makes her stir, as if it means the world to her.

They rock back and forth in their embrace, neither making a move to separate from the other.

“I thought that no one wanted to come find me.” She sniffles.

His eyes snap open at such a strange statement. He has forgotten where they are, and how much danger they are still in. Surrounded by wheat stalks as tall as they are, with a faint moonlight meters away.

Terra finally lets go of the embrace and moves her to face him. “You don’t sound like yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, sounding incredibly tired like she’s on her last leg. She has one firm grip on his upper arm, as if terrified of letting go. “It’s this place-”

“It gets to you,” he nods, holding a hand to her face, wiping the tears falling out with his thumb. It’s strange seeing her cry.

The tears that keep flowing are stragglers, her eyes abused by such sadness. Her hair is slightly frizzy, the bags under her eyes sag too much, and her face is so relaxed he can tell she probably doesn’t know how to smile anymore. Not to mention that her skin is paler than he remembers it to be.

And he realizes they’ve been gazing at each other for some time without saying anything. He should really say something. Profound. Or honest. Something heartfelt as he continues to hold her face. Anything.

“You look terrible,” is what he settles on.

Her eyes flicker and blink for a moment, registering what he has just said. The edge of her mouth twitches, like it’s an alien movement. Her brows furrow in confusion, but then release into contentment. She chuckles, and it sounds worn out. Small at first, and she pauses. Then she giggles again, her hand reaching to hold his wrist.

“Terra,” she says in between tiny breaths, as if this is all too taxing of an activity. “I don’t remember the last time I laughed.”

If he can come face to face with Kingdom Hearts, to meet his mother for the first time, to see the Master again – he’ll tell them there is finally a good reason to keep him alive.

She smiles and it reaches her eyes. Leaning into his hand, holding it between her cheek and her own, she gives him a sympathetic shrug. “I’m sorry you’re now stuck with me in the darkness.”

“As if being stuck with you is such a bad thing,” he says through a scoff, and then regrets it. He shouldn’t make light of her suffering, and yet he can’t help but feel that it would have never been so difficult for her if he was here with her the entire time. “Either way, I opened a Door to Light here. I’m getting you out.”

The smile fell, and her eyes widen. It’s clear she doesn’t believe it at first, but she knows him well enough to understand that he’d never lie to her like this. He’s excited, grinning as he watches her contemplate his message.

It’s like giving someone a surprise gift, eagerly waiting to see their joy when they open it. He nods at her, nearly in laughter as she starts to smile. “It’s true,” he says. “You’re leaving this place.”

She leans toward him, placing a hand on his chest. “Now?”

“Yes.” It doesn’t matter how many times he’ll have to say it. He’ll say it as often as he needs, just to make sure she understands. Just to see the sparks of eagerness in her eyes.

“And we’ll find Ven?”

What is supposed to be a sharp inhale he manages to slow down so he doesn’t seem flustered. Xehanort is listening. But he can’t let her know yet that there is danger. Not now. He holds her by the biceps, and reassures her in a way so he can change the subject. “Definitely. We’ll all be together again soon. But first we have to get you out of here. We can talk about everything later.”

She clasps his palm with hers, and squeezes tightly. The look on her face is indescribable, like someone who has been on the execution block has just been told that her future is guaranteed safe. “Lead the way.”

So they jog together, hand in hand, like they used to do as children. Every excursion through the mountains, the caves they explored, the creeks they discovered - they were always to be conjoined through their hands. This habit hasn’t faded in the years they have grown together, and while they are old enough that they don’t have to follow such a strict buddy system anymore, the hands will still come together in the most uncertain moments: when they get lost; when visibility is poor; when they are scared; when it rains hard; when they are traversing dangerous terrain – very much like the Realm of Darkness, when being separated could mean a permanent eternity apart.

“Do you know how we’ll get out?” she asks.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to trace my steps back…” The Realm might as well have changed the layout by now, hoping to keep them in. “But I have friends waiting for us. We’ll be okay. I’m thinking I’ll just conjure a door from within, out of the darkness around us. It’s how I got in, anyway.”

She barely pauses before replying. “I have a friend waiting for me at the beach. I told him I wouldn’t take long in my routine walk.”

Terra chuckles to himself. Making friends in the Realm of Darkness. Of course, that’s so Aqua. “We’ll bring him with us. Don’t worry.”

They head downhill, through the shorter wheat stalks until they reach grassy foothills that level off as the beach gets closer.

Aqua grips his hand and keeps herself still, nearly yanking him backwards. “Terra, wait.”

The caution in her voice is loud. But there is nothing around them. “What is it?”

A rumble, which is soft at first but creeps ever closer with a sickening speed that makes his hair stand on edge. The ground shakes like it wants to throw them off their feet. Through it bursts a pillar of Heartless, squirming all over each other and spiraling as if to act as one tremendous force. The darkness emanating from them is massive, and without his armor, Terra feels the nausea overpowering him. This tower can’t be an easy one to defeat. He wraps his arms around her, for protection.

“Aqua,” he warns, hinting that the best course of action is to run.

“We have to.” She pushes through his elbow, summoning their Master’s Keyblade and beginning a sprint, ready to attack. Determined. Quick to react. Aqua. She reacts to this thing with evades that come so easily to her, she must have been fighting it for quite some time now.

Which means that running away won’t do a damn thing for them.

The tower has a sickening exertion to its attacks, easily breaking through his reflecting barriers. Since it keeps itself suspended in the air, his grounded techniques aren’t much use.

But she’s spectacular. Like a swan flying through the air, summoning trails of ice to skid and keep up pace with the enemy. She has built herself to be a Master in ways he has never expected, with choreographies that resonate with resistance and endurance. She dances with the light that shines through the Keyblade, building power until she and the area around her is bathed in it, with a force so blinding, and yet so beautiful, it keeps the tower at bay.

Sometimes.

As mesmerizing as she is, she shouldn’t be fighting this alone anymore.

He scurries to place himself under the Heartless tide, lifting his free hand up into the air, and focuses on the air pressure in between. Making all those particles combust exactly the way Xemnas would do it. With every explosion that comes, let there be another, until they swallow each other… until the tide has to pass through massive destruction when it travels, because it’s too late for it to turn around and avoid it anymore. With her in the air, she skids across ice suspended in the air and attacks with shockwaves from above – the two best friends squeezing this monstrosity right between their blows.

It retaliates – against her. She falls to the ground and rolls, and he stops his work immediately. Sliding over to her, he anticipates the tide as it turns and lunges toward them, which will probably take them both in one clean sweep.

He raises his palms from the ground up, summoning a barrier of nothingness as it stands tall and erect, and holds it as the tide crashes into it. Electricity separates some of the Heartless from one another, but it’s a terrible wall to keep up. The tide itself is too heavy and it nearly breaks it. He feels her hands on his biceps, leaning into him, as if to help him keep it up. He focuses on spreading those electric waves, to keep hurting this menace.

It backs off, and he can relax – for now at least. It circles back for another go around, and the thought of it even coming after her – that’s it.

He commands his Keyblade to warp and expand, setting itself as a canon that he props onto his shoulder. It will take all the energy he has in him, and he’ll probably won’t be able to walk anymore in this state when Xehanort wants to break free so badly, but it will do. For her.

The canon conjures a piercing, fiery light within, and with a yell, he exerts all of it into the tide, effectively breaking it apart and scaring it away, leaving the seldom welcomed stillness of quiet. He collapses onto his hands, his headache threatening to split his skull into two, as he whispers to himself that he’ll be okay. The pain will go away. He just needs time. Keep awake. For her.

Aqua crouches next to him, holds him by the forearm and gives his palm a gentle squeeze.

“That was impressive,” she says. He tries to retort that he’s learned new things along the way, but his heaving is still too much. “You okay?” She touches his face and he leans into her hand, nearly kissing it but stopping himself short, rolling his lips inward as he tries to practice self-control.

He takes several breaths until they slow down, and she patiently waits for him. She seems calm, collecting herself so quickly after such an intense fight. To think she has been doing this for twelve years and he can barely manage one night. That he succumbs to weakness in this place so easily.

“You’ve always been stronger than me,” he says with a chuckle that hurts. Not from the soreness, but from admitting how much better she is than him at everything.

“Terra, please,” she scoffs, massaging his forearm. Her voice is tired. “When we would arm wrestle, I always had to use two hands.”

“You even pushed with the weight of your entire body. You’d still lose.” He smirks, and she grins back. How grateful he is that they can talk as if time hasn’t passed for them, teasing each other like the Mark of Mastery Exam has never happened.

He should really summon his armor right now, with such a massive headache looming over him. But her touch – he can’t pull himself away from it. As if the grace of her fingers is the mark of light, melting away his concerns and dulling the pain throbbing in his scalp. He leans forward close to her, nearly touching her forehead with his. Even when it’s this dark, looking at her is the most calming feeling he could ever experience. She’s brighter than the moon. At least to him.

“There’s so much I want to tell you,” he says, wondering if desperation is making him choose this moment to confess. “We have to talk. About what happened. About us…” With that last one, his voice hitches. It’s terrifying, more so than the Heartless tide, to talk about where the two of them stand. “About the Master.”

She flinches at the mention of Eraqus, closing her eyes and taking a breath to calm herself. “I know. We have a lot to catch up on. But… I want to do it with a clean mind. Away from the darkness, you know? I just don’t want to spend another minute here. Please…”

That last word comes out as a whisper, her eyes pleading. She grips his arm tighter, and he realizes that she needs constant reassurance, as if she still has a hard time believing she’ll ever leave this rotten place.

He bites his lip, wanting to kick himself for being so selfish. “Of course, your freedom comes first.”

A relief passes over her as though she’s been anticipating bad news and has been given mercy instead. She throws his arm around her shoulders, having him use her as support in order to stand up.

“You’re going to love Traverse Town,” he says, noticing as they walk together that she again has a small smile to face, her cheeks plumping. He rests his head on hers, and she gives him a gentle nudge.

“Where?”

“I came from there. It’s a beautiful city, the kind you’d want to take a vacation in. The cuisine is delicious, and they have these colored lights that shine every night…” It’s perfect. When she’s free, she’ll eat. And sleep, most importantly. And by those beautiful lights that switch between color and white, he’ll give her gifts. Or if not, just laughs. Then he’ll tell her how he feels, and hope for the best.

The sand makes it harder to take steps, but she keeps a solid support for him. The waves here are gentle and unimposing. He can’t believe there is anything that is this placid in this Realm, but it sounds relaxing. The moon hovers just above the horizon, nearly swallowed by the water. It is so bright, it might as well be its own door to the other side. Funny, two days ago he stood on a beach in Destiny Islands, wishing that he could take Aqua to see the ocean. They might as well be gazing upon opposites ends of the same body of water.

She leaves him to sit on a boulder, but their need to touch each other lingers so much that they only let go when both of their arms are outstretched, her fingers gliding off of his. A man a short distance away in a black cloak sits, watching the waves dance. She tells him that it’s time to go – they can finally be free. Her friend is here. They’re going to be okay.

She keeps taking desperate glances back toward Terra, as if he’ll disappear in between. And yet, a small smile never leaves her face.

From the sound of the man’s voice, he is older, and he begs to be allowed a wee bit of time to stand up. For the sake of his back, he’s been sitting here for far too long. He leans on her for support until he’s on both of his feet, and then turns to face Terra.

“That man,” he says, his deep voice getting slightly louder, as if to caution her of an enemy. “We mustn’t go with him.”

That voice. A blonde beard. Terra shivers, and the muscles through his arms tense.

Ansem.

He doesn’t know why he knows that name, and he’s too scared to try to understand.

Aqua tries to reason with him, tries to say that this is a friend who has grown up with her since childhood – but Terra wonders if she’s fooling herself just as much. Maybe the headache that keeps coming back will always be inevitable, and he’s just delaying what will happen. Witlessly.

“A clever trick to play on a vulnerable girl, Xehanort,” Ansem spits, holding her arm as if to try to keep her at bay.

“I’m not Xehanort,” Terra mumbles loudly, his tongue unable to produce sharp enough sounds to articulate clear words. And it terrifies him even more. The headache roars and massaging his temples doesn’t work. His ears whistle so intensely, he’s afraid he’ll go deaf.

Aqua shoves the old man’s grip off of her, scampering towards her friend. “Terra, tell me how I can help you.” She holds onto his arms, trying to get him to sit straight.

He grabs onto her arms. Too tightly, maybe, making her jump. “I’ve left the door open for you,” he manages to say, praying that she can understand him. “Don’t give up. Keep going. We’ll be together-”

He yells from the pain, the headache spreading to his neck. The whistling stops, and all is silent. Eerily silent. He cannot hear his own breathing. Or the waves. Or her. He attempts to make sounds, feeling the vibration in his vocal chords, but he doesn’t know if he’s actually saying any words. Until the vibration ceases, and all commands to speak stop working.

She looks terrified. Brave Aqua, her eyes wide and her lips pursed, shaking her head as if denying what she is seeing. He wants to tell her that he’s scared, too. That she isn’t alone.

He digs into his pocket to pull out his orange Wayfinder, and presses it into her palm until she grabs hold of it.

He has to tell her. Somehow. He interlaces his fingers with hers in her other hand, holding it upward in between the two of them. Coaxing her to come a little closer. He cups her cheek, leaning forward to kiss her on the forehead. And he stays, letting his lips feel her skin, breathing in her hair, relaxing as much as possible as he savors this moment for as long as it can last.

Until he cannot smell or feel the sensation in his lips or fingers anymore. He opens his eyes. At least he can still see.

The pain, it has also completely subsided, his whole body going numb. No more headache. No more soreness. She gazes into him, moving her mouth to say something but he can’t hear what.

He doesn’t like the look she is giving him, and he can’t apologize or ease her worries. He searches the beach, looking for any sign of hope. Any sign of light.

And there, he sees it. A bird with a short beak, waddling on the rocky shore, though its reflection can’t be found in the water. It shines a soft, white light, just like the rabbit. Its feathers ruffle, a crown briefly standing up before it shakes itself calm.

A cockatoo.

Ven, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be asleep.

Sleep.

It sounds so welcoming right now, to let the exhaustion take over and he can then heal. Not that he has a choice in the matter. It will take him over, letting him drift into ecstasy, the best slumber he’ll have all week. The last image he sees is the cockatoo flapping its wings. He falls, unable to feel himself hitting the ground. Just a never-ending drop, and it’s blissful.

I didn’t get to tell her how I felt about her. That’s fine. I’ll do it when I wake up.

A/N: NO IT ISN’T OVER. I’ll say it one more time, but there is a sequel to this. It wasn’t planned that way at the beginning. But after so many internal debates with myself over the summer, I’ve decided that it was just so much more organized to split my story in two. This was always the halfway point. The next chapter literally picks up where this leaves off.

That being said, I want to thank my readers from the bottom of my heart. It’s such a strange thing - even though the story isn’t over, I am burying my baby under this title, which has stuck with me for almost a year now. It is like creating a void, and I hope that the sequel can fill it. For all those readers, who have been with me since the beginning, who have discovered this somewhere along the middle of its journey, and who have just joined on the adventure - but especially to those who have stuck it out to the end, THANK YOU SO MUCH. Your support has kept this girl alive. Literally.

As for the sequel, I’ll see if I can salvage what I can from KH3 to adapt to it. “A Powerful Enough Dream” will simply be a very divergent AU. I’m sure some of you are wondering what that would even look like, especially since I maintain the position that I wish Aqua fell to darkness out of her own volition. I posted a preview called “Sonne” on AO3 exclusively to show what that looks like!! (I’m sorry I won’t post links directly to this, I’m scared that Tumblr is going to hide my post). If people are receptive enough to “Sonne,” then I’ll consider continuing this story.

For those of who are disappointed that Terra hasn’t met Dark Aqua (which I have warned that I wasn’t going to go there with this story), I have written a new fic called “The Ocean On His Shoulders” that honors that. <3

#terraqua #terra #aqua #kingdom hearts fanfiction #kh fanfic #omg #i've taken so many all nighters now #i just need sleep #let me sleep in peace please #my fic

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elexuscal · 6 years

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Fanfic: Guidance

Summary: Sometimes a person can become so lost, they don't even realize they've gone astray. Thankfully, Steven finds someone who's walked this path before. Fandoms: Steven Universe and Legend of Korra Warning for discussion of depression and suicidal tendencies Ao3 link As a birthday present for the awesome @swordtheguy!!

Guidance

The world around Steven is beautiful.

It’s a forest, bigger than any he’s ever seen, with trees that would tower even over Alexandrite. The sun that filters through its canopy is a vivid, shimmering green and gold. There are other lights, too-- fluttering things, birds and dragonflies and winged rabbits. The air is cool, but pleasantly so, like the first days of spring, and rich with the smells of bark, soil, and something almost electric.

Steven’s pretty sure he’s dreaming. After all, he’s never seen anything like this before, on Earth or off of it.

Thing is, he doesn’t usually realize he’s dreaming when it’s a regular dream. Which means this probably isn’t one.

“Hello?” Steven calls out to the world at large. The flittering critters react like a stone thrown into water, radiating away from him. “I’m really sorry for wandering into your head! I didn’t mean to!”

Nobody answers.

With nothing else to do, Steven sets off exploring. Walking along the mossy forest floor, occasionally trying to reach out to one of magical dream animals, but they all flinch away from him. He sighs, and tries calling out names for whose dream this could be. “Dad? Amethyst? Lapis?” Then, a little hopefully, “Connie?"

No answer.

“Fine,” Steven sighs. He flops down on a massive most pillow on the root of an absolutely massive tree.

Now what? he wonders.

He could wake up. Probably best. He’s learned the dangers of wandering in a sub-conscious where he’s not wanted.

But the thought of lying in his dark room, sleepless, is incredibly unappealing. Keeping his eyes shut tight, pretending he can’t hear the Gems creeping around, watching him. Wondering why everyone’s so freaked out, when he’s home and he’s safe. Worrying about the Lars, the one who actually deserves it.

Something flickers in the corner of his eye.

Steven turns. It’s a little plant-flowery-vine thing, pale translucent white, it’s little frond wiggling.

“Oh, hello!” Steven says.

It seems to hear him. At least, it wiggles a little more, stretching towards him.

“I’m Steven,” Steven says, ever polite. “I don’t suppose you know where I am, huh?” If it does, it can’t say, which is maybe to be expected of a plant. Still, he’s not giving up yet. “I was kinda hoping this is the mind of my friend, Connie. She kinda ran off earlier, and…”

The plant seems to look at him expectantly, which is impressive for something without eyes.

“She’s being… frustrating,” Steven confesses. “And I don’t know why! I was gone doing something dangerous, but it was something to save her. And when I came back, she was mad at me! It makes no sense! Doesn’t she get I was protect everyone? Her, my friends, the whole planet... “

The plant reaches out, closer to him, and Steven knows it can understand him.

“She said Stevonnie coulda defeated Aquamarine. But that’s stupid. Alexandrite couldn’t defeat Aquamarine! And she’s the size of godzilla! So if we’d tried, no way we coulda won. We just would have gotten carried off into space, and now we’d be trapped in a zoo. I couldn’t risk everyone. I couldn’t risk her."

The plant stretches, a leafy tendril coming to lay on Steven’s hand. It’s cool. Comforting.

It wants him to keep explaining.

“And I mean-- all the Diamonds really want is Rose Quartz. And who can blame them? She’s a killer. Or maybe she is… I wonder if Zircon is right? That someone else shattered Pink Diamond, and covered it up?” Steven sighs again. The plant squeezes his hand in response. “But then… why does everyone think my Mom did it? Did she lie to them? It wouldn’t be the first time…”

Suddenly, all those thoughts-- those thoughts he hasn’t had the time to look at, the one’s he’s actively been avoiding-- come spilling out of his mouth. Steven lets them. The plant won’t get angry at him, or start crying, or tell him he was irresponsible, or run away. The pant will listen. The plant will understand.

Korra is sharing tea with Fire Lord Izumi and about ten of the highest ranking noble families in the Fire Nation, when a transparent woman appears in the middle of the table to tell Korra that she needs to come quickly.

The nobles erupt into a mixture of surprised expressions, scandalized gasped, annoyed frowns and curious questions.

Korra herself remains completely calm. She’d gotten pretty used to Jinora and other air-benders with spiritual projection.

She catches Izumi’s eye. The Fire Lord nods. m“Do what you must. I am sure we can carry on without you.”

Within five minutes, Korra’s in a nice, quiet, private chamber, eyes crossed, breathing deep, letting her spirit float out of her body and into a whole other world entirely.

What she finds there: vines.

Lots and lots of vines.

“So I’m guessing this is the problem?” Korra asks.

Jinora nods. “Furry-Foot said that it started showing up… well, spirit time doesn’t always correspond perfectly to our world’s, but a few days, at least. It’s spreading fast, snaring everything it touches. Won’t be long until it reaches the Northern Spirit Portal.”

Korra nearly swears. But keeping a positive outlook is important in the Spirit World, so she doesn’t.

She does wish this had happened at basically any other time. When she was at home in Republic City, or visiting family, either in the North or South Pole. But no. It had to have hit while she was in the middle of a tour of the Fire Nation. While she’s gotten better at this spirity stuff, she still would have preferred to actually walk into the Spirit World in her real body. She always feels so… naked, without her bending.

Whatever. No use grousing.

Jinora wants to come, but her form is flickering at the edges. Apparently she was at this for hours, not wanting to interrupt Korra. It’s late in Republic City. She needs her rest. After a little resistance, Jinora’s form vanishes, and Korra heads off alone.

She has to weave and duck her wave through the waves of spirits rushing from the ever encroaching vines-- until, suddenly, she doesn’t have to at all. They’ve all fled, or have become trapped.

Korra makes sure to float a good few feet above the surface.

She stares down at the vines. It doesn’t look like a dark spirit, all roiling blacks and purples, like oil on water. These vines are bright. Shimmering pinks, with sparks of yellow and blue just beneath the surface.

More to the point; they don’t feel like a dark spirit. Those are all-- rage and impotence and frustration and righteous fury turned sour. This-- well, Korra’s not great at sensing emotions, and she’s not going to say there’s no anger there. But more… sadness, maybe… And something almost earnest.

Korra shakes her head.

“Hello,” she says. “I’m the Avatar!. I’m here to talk to you about all the, well, attacking.”

An almost invisible ripple seems to pass through the vines as its attention shifts to her. One of its might tendrils raises up, reaching towards her.

“Woah woah woah!” Korra flings herself back; not sure if this thing can trap her in the Spirit World, but she’s not gonna risk it. “Look, I don’t want to hurt you. But you’re hurting a lot of other people. Can you tell me why? Maybe we can figure something out.”

Curiousity. Confusion. Those are the feelings Korra’s sensing from it.

“Did something upset you? Or hurt you? If something did, I’ll try my best to fix it. But right now, you’re hurting others, and I can’t allow that.”

The plant doesn’t answer.

Because, obviously, it’s a plant. But this is the Spirit World. You never know. Korra really wishes this was one of the spirits which can talk, since it’s a lot harder to do peace negotiations with something with no words or expressions.

The vines ripple and pulse, a pattern moving deeper into the core of its roiling tangle. Korra squares her shoulders, and follows it.

“This better not be a trap,” she mutters.

The vines’ lights glitter in a way that feels like it should be reassuring. Somehow it does little to reassure her.

The lights begin to accelerate, and Korra moves faster in response-- faster and faster. She feels like she’s being pulled-- not by the vines themselves, but by the instinct inside of her, Raava’s light recognising this is where she needs to go.

Around her is a forest, or what used to be one. Now every single inch of it is covered in vines, so thick she can’t make out anything beneath it. Looming in front of her is what must be the core. It reminds her of the great Banyan tree in the swamp, or a distorted reflection of it. A a core of vines, the heart from which this all radiates out.

Korra’s drawn towards it.

Instead of planting painfully straight into it, she flies through, insubstantial. Finds herself in a small chamber. A cocoon, almost.

There’s someone inside. A human face, thick vines from the neck down.

“Hi,” the person-- a boy-- says. At least, he looks and sounds like a boy, although it’s not helpful to assume that kind of thing with spirits. “Were you trying to talk to me?”

“Yes,” says Korra.

“Oh, okay! Sorry, I couldn’t hear you very well.” He peers at her curiously. “Is this your dream?”

“My… dream?”

The boy nods. “Yeah, when this kind of stuff happens, it’s usually because I’m in someone’s dream, and you’re the first person to come and talk to me. Except, when I do end up in someone’s head, it’s always someone I’ve at least heard of before…”

Korra crosses her arms. “This isn’t a dream. This is real. You’re in the spirit world.”

“Spirit world? What’s that?”

“It’s the… world for spirits,” Korra says, unbalanced.

“Wow,” the boy says, eyes going very wide. “Spirts, like ghosts? I didn’t know those were really real.”

The surprise in his voice is so genuine that it makes Korra take a second look at him. “Are you… human?”

“Sorta. I’m half-human.”

“Half human,” Korra echoes.

“How about you?” he asks, looking her up and down. “Are you human?”

“Sorta,” Korra repeats, unable to resist herself. “Half too, I guess. Half-human, half-spirit. I’m the Avatar.”

The pronouncement had earned Korra many responses over the years, from surprise, respect, annoyance and scorn. This boy just smiles and says, “Nice to meet you! I’m Steven.”

“Well, Steven,” Korra says, after a pause. “Are you part-spirit, like me?”

(Maybe it’s possible, after all. Korra’s not sure how, but if Raava managed to fuse with Wan, and again with her, why couldn’t some other spirit figure out some way with another human?)

“No, no. I’m half Gem.”

“Half… gem?” Korra’s mind filled with images of the many jewelry shops she’d visited with Asami. “Like, jade or diamond or something?”

This was probably the wrong thing to say, because Steven grimaced and shook his head vigorously. “No no no no. My Mom was a Rose Quartz.”

“Right,” said Korra, carefully not asking how someone’s mother could be a hunk of pink rock. “Well, I guess it doesn’t really matter what you are. What matters is right now, you’re hurting a lot of people.”

“What?”

“You’re hurting a lot of people,” Korra repeats. “And you have to stop.”

He shakes his head, looking genuinely surprised and panicked. “No, no-- I wouldn’t. How?”

“Those vines,” Korra says, pointing at them and then spreading her hands to encompass the whole plant cocoon around them. “They’ve been spreading out, catching spirits and dragging them dow-”

“What? Where did-- how--” He looks down and his eyes widened. “Where did these come from?” He begins to struggle and struggle. “I can’t get out!”

“I-- know. Well, not exactly.” He bites his lip, still squirming and struggling. “I… I knew the plant was there. I was talking to it. But… it looked different. It was all white and translucent… and then it touched me… And…” He blinks. “I don’t know. Everything’s hazy, until you showed up.”

Korra hums in the back of her throat. Maybe this Steven isn’t the cause of monster-vines after all, but just another victim. Maybe even the very first.

She wills herself to become more solid, more tangible. Gravity pulls her down. The plant-floor beneath her was firm, but slightly springy, like a dojo mat. “I’m gonna try and get you out,” Korra tells Seven. Wrapping two, strong hands the vines where the boy’s shoulders should be, she pulls.

Nothing happens.

She pulls and pulls and pulls, with all of her (quite substantial) strength, and those vines do not budge.

“It’s no use,” Steven says.

“Don’t give up so easily.” Korra pats the vague area of his shoulder. If there’s something she’s learned about spirits, sometimes you need to be indirect about these things. “I’ll figure something out.

“It’s okay,” Steven says. “Don’t worry. It’s not a big deal.”

Korra’s first instinct to point out yes, it is a big deal, and just barrel through to her next idea. This she pauses, and looks the kid over. “What do you mean? You can’t stay here. You must have friends and family to get back to, right?”

“Well… yeah… But don’t worry. They’re all angry at me anyway…. I just put them in danger. They’re better off without me.”

Korra’s frown deepens.

The vines used to be white, but they became pink. That seems important somehow. In the spirit world, a person’s emotions affects the world around them.

She sits down and crosses her legs, like she’s going to meditate, and asks, “Steven, when you were talking to the plant, what exactly did you tell it?"

Steven finds that explaining things to Korra is a lot harder than explaining things to the plant.

That’s her name. Korra, not ‘Avatar’. That part is a title, it turns out. It’s apparently kind of a big deal, where she comes from. There’s only ever one Avatar at a time, and it’s their job to help keep the peace and make sure everyone is protected and happy.

That’s part of the reason explaining things is so hard. The world Korra comes from is really, really different from his. Everything sounds super old fashioned, and there’s no TV or internet or video games. Also, a whole bunch of humans have super powers, and use it to fight and build stuff and heal people. Also, as far as Korra knows, there’s no such thing as Gems. When Steven explains about them, she says it sounds like something out of the “pulp science books” her wife likes.

But that’s only part of the difficulty. Most of it is because… well, the plant just sat there and listened. But Korra can talk, and Korra has things to say.

“So let me get this straight,” Korra says, fixing him her two piercing blue eyes. “You turned yourself in to these space empresses for your Mom’s crimes, and only escaped by a pure miracle?”

“Uh, basically.”

She throws up her hands. “Well, of course everyone is upset with you!”

“Well, they shouldn’t be.” Steven would have crossed her arms, except he couldn’t actually feel or move them anymore.

“Kid,” Korra says, her voice soft. “How would you feel, if one of them had gone and done that in your place?”

Well-- well. That-- he’d have been scared, of course, but the Gems and Connie have all gone and done scary things for him before. Lots and lots of times. But they’ve come back, safe and sound each and every time, and there’s no use worrying about what might have happened. You just smile and put that behind you and move on.

“I’d be happy they’re back,” Steven says, as firmly as possible.

Korra’s expression is skeptical.

Steven huffs and looks away. “You just don’t get it. No one does.”

“But I do. I really, really do.”

Steven hesitates, and glances back at the woman. When he does, her eyes are solemn, distant.

“It happened… oh, ten years ago now? Twelve?” Korra shakes her head, mouth briefly twisting in wry amusement. It fades quickly. “There was group going around; called themselves the Red Lotus. They believed in… well, a lot of things. Some of it was maybe even good. But their methods…” A heavy sigh. “They kidnapped a group of civilians, and threatened to murder them if I didn’t give myself up.”

As much as he can, Steven leans forward. “What… what did you do?”

“A few of my friends thought we could take them. Get to the civilians before they were killed. I didn’t want to take that chance.”

“So… you turned yourself in?”

“I turned myself in.”

The story which followed is horrifying and breathtaking. The battle sounds… brutal, with lava and explosions and flying, and it would have been really cool if people hadn’t died.

But even with poison in her veins, Korra had fought back, and she had one, and clearly everything had turned out just fine.

“So you did the same thing I did,” says Steven.

“Yeah, I did. But here’s the thing… As soon as I woke up, and realized what was going on, I did everything I could to escape.”

“So did I!” exclaims Steven.

“Because of your friend. Lairs, was it?”

“Lars,” he corrects.

“Right. Lars.” Korra nods. “As soon as you realized he was with you, you escaped to make sure he escaped. But the way you were talking…. Steven, when you turned yourself in, did you really plan on fighting back?”

The memories flood him, too strong to ignore; the fear kicking in his chest, the seething anger at himself, the desperation, the determination, the wish wish wish that this could all just go away…

… and despite everything, the paradoxical relief somewhere in the back of his brain, that at least this would be over, at least he wouldn’t have to worry any more, at least…

No. He hadn’t been expecting to ever come home.

Steven doesn’t say it aloud, but it must show on his face. Korra’s expression shifts into-- something. Not a frown, not a smile. She stands.

“You did the same thing as me,” says Korra, “and that’s why I’m so concerned.

“Because after that battle… I was really messed up. Both in the body and the head. I was weak, I could barely walk-- and I hated myself for it. I kept hearing things about what was going on in the world, about what the Red Lotus had done… People were dying, and I was stuck in a bed. I was so, so tired. Of everything. Sometimes I thought… I’d be easier to just… let go. Let another Avatar takeover. A better one.”

Steven wants to say something, but he has no idea what, and there’s no breath left in his lungs.

“It took a couple of years, but with a lot of hard work, my body got better. This--” she tapped her head-- “Not so much. I was sure I was… missing something. So I went looking for it.

“But… I didn’t tell anyone where I was going. I just lied to them, took a boat, and…. Well, I told myself it was for the best. I was getting better. And if they knew what I was up to, then they’d just worry. That was the last thing I wanted. They’d already done so much for me, and I was just dragging them down. They were better off this way.

Steven doesn’t want to listen to this. He wants to close his eyes and put his hands over his ears and block it all off. Or run off. But he can’t do either. He’s just stuck here, listening.

“Here’s the thing,” says Korra. “I wasn’t actually getting any better. I was just-- wallowing. Being angry and sad, and in a weird, terrible way, kinda enjoying it.”

None of these words seem to fit the strong, confident woman standing in front of him. Steven manages to say, “How did you…?"

“I managed to find… well, let’s call her an old friend. She knocked some sense into me. Literally.” Korra laughs. “Then some other friends found me, needing my help. After three years, I finally went home. And let me tell you: my friends were pissed.

“And I can’t blame them! I’d blocked them out of my life and lied to them! It wasn’t fair to them… and it wasn’t fair to me. And they knew that. They were all worried, and one of the ways that came out was anger.”

Steven licks his lip. “So you’re saying…. You think that I’m…"

“Yeah. Look at this.” Korra lays her hands on the thick, pink vines enveloping his body. “In the spirit world, a person’s emotions affect the spirits around them. Anger and sadness can turn spirits dark. Make them attack others.

“From what you’ve told me today, Steven, you seem very caring. You want to protect and help others. You’re sad and angry-- but that sadness and anger is aimed inward, at yourself.

“But that can still hurt ones around you, even if you don’t mean for it or even notice. The vines are lashing out at others the same way. But they’re also hurting you.” She tapped his chest. “What happens if they grow over your mouth, or nose?”

“I…”

Steven wants to argue back. Tell her she’s probably misunderstood. That it’s okay, it’s fine.

But he has to admit, it’s not normal be trapped inside a mass of magical vines.

He stares down at the shimmering, swirling pinks of the plants around him. “Did I really do this to you?”

He thinks he feels a yes, rustling through the plant’s mind.

Steven sags. There are people out there, being hurt, and it’s all his fault.

Just like it was his fault that Aquamarine came for his friends. His fault that Lars is trapped in a Homeworld kindergarten. His fault that he left his family crying in the ocean. His fault that Connie doesn’t even want to talk to him.

The vines creep further up his neck.

“Steven, no.”

Korra’s voice voice is urgent and firm, and close enough that Steven can feel the heat of her breath on his face.

“Are thoughts like that helping anybody?” she asks.

“I-- I guess not,” says Steven.

He’s done things like this before. When Garnet first told him about Future Vision, when he fell off the Sky Arena with Connie.

Connie. She’s always been there, to help him through, when he’s sad or angry or afraid.

And he’d just told her… It was all fine. He hadn’t really tried to-- ask why she was upset. He’s just thought she was being weird and told her to be happy.

She’d never do that to him.

He feels terrible, and for a moment, he wants nothing more than to just curl up in a ball here.

But that won’t actually help her.

Suddenly, he can breath easier. The vines have retreated, and a pressure he hadn’t even

Noticed vanishes from around his chest.

“There you go,” says Korra, warm and encouraging.

She stays with him and talks with him, to help shrink away the rest of the vines. Giving him gentle reminders about how it’s okay, it’s alright, he can do this. Asking him questions about his life. What does he like to do with his spare time? What’s his favourite things about the Gems and his Dad and his friends? What kind of stuff is he looking forward to?

The vines get smaller and smaller and smaller. The pinks and yellows and blues fade and fade and fade.

He’s not sure how long it takes, but eventually he’s left standing where be began. On that patch of moss underneath a giant tree, with that tiny white flower at his feet.

Those flying creatures-- spirits, he knows now-- are getting back up. Stretching their legs and wings and other appendages, fluttering off as quickly as they can. Steven watches them go through slightly watery eyes.

A warm hand presses down on his head.

Steven looks up at Korra. “Sorry,” he says. To her, to the plant, to the whole spirit world around him.

Korra smiles, and nods.

“Now,” she says, straightening a little, “Let’s see if I can get you home.” “That’s alright. I think I can manage that part myself, now.” Already he can feel it-- a sort of tug, a sense of the world fading, as his real body begins to wake up.

But first…

He throws himself forward, and wraps Avatar Korra’s legs in a hug. The fur of her clothes is soft and comforting.

“Thanks,” he mumbles into her stomach.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, leaning down and hugging him back. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I’ll try,” Steven says, and he’s left of the image of her warm, smiling face.

And then he’s in bed, eyes closed, wrapped in a soft duvet. He can heard people moving around downstairs-- clicks and clangs accompanied by sharp whispers, suggesting the Gems are trying to make him breakfast without disturbing him. The thought makes him smile a little.

His stomach growls. He would really appreciate having breakfast, and then going back to bed for an actual, proper sleep.

But he can’t, not yet.

Eyes opening, he reaches out for his phone, resting on his bedside table. He finds the right number near the very top. He types,

Hey Connie I’m sorry Can we talk?

#steven universe #su #lok #korra #fanfic

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