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scribbling-dragon · 10 months ago

Text

a tree falls (and it is silent)

summary:

…She can still see the island above her. If she looks. It is fading, retreating back into the void, folding into another corner of reality. The island has shrunk to the same size as every other star around it, glimmering in the same taunting, teasing way. Just out of reach, but almost like she could reach out and snatch it up in her hands. She keeps her eyes fixed on it anyway, even as it shrinks to a pinprick of light – as though the moment she looks away she loses all hope of returning.

(ao3 link)

(4,638 words)

[AN: not really sure where this fic went, but it was fun to write! just a tiny little warning for slight body modification? not really sure how else to describe it. so yeah]

Lizzie falls.

And it is not a slow, gradual tilting backwards. It is not something that she can replay second by second in her mind’s eye, to watch where it was that she went wrong; where it was that she misstepped. She wishes it was, almost. That she could point at a singular moment in time and go, there, that is where everything went wrong.

But she can’t.

Instead, she felt something give way. Felt her feet slip beneath her as she stepped, and then stepped again. Out into the open air of the void. She had twisted, a mad scramble to save herself, maybe to drag Scott down with her. So that it would not be in vain.

She had caught fabric, for a singular, heart-stopping moment. Her nails had caught on Scott’s jacket, had ripped at the denim. She can still feel the sensation of it beneath her nails now.

And then Scott had jerked back as though burned, eyes wide as he tore himself free of her clutching, desperate grip. It had torn a few threads loose, threads that she still clutches to her chest now. It is a prize, a monument to her stupidity, the culmination of her stumbling steps that have led her unsteadily to this moment.

Every single moment here has left her lost and floundering. She had staggered upon landing and never regained her footing, even as those around her wobbled before balancing themselves again. They had charged forward and left her in the dust, clutching a few threads to her chest as though that undoes any of the mistakes she’s made.

…She can still see the island above her. If she looks.

It is fading, retreating back into the void, folding into another corner of reality. Maybe Scott is still staring over the edge at her, watching as she plunges into a certain doom. Or, more likely, he turned away the moment it was clear she would not be saving herself. He’s probably retelling the sorry, sordid tale right now, to an audience of sympathetic murmurs, ones that are only glad it is not them.

The island has shrunk to the same size as every other star around it, glimmering in the same taunting, teasing way. Just out of reach, but almost like she could reach out and snatch it up in her hands. She keeps her eyes fixed on it anyway, even as it shrinks to a pinprick of light – as though the moment she looks away she loses all hope of returning. As though she hasn’t already fallen into an inescapable pit.

She was condemned the moment she stepped into this void damned place.

She still keeps staring at their island, even as the other stars – other islands? – glimmer at cheerily at her, attempting to draw her gaze in their direction. She refuses staunchly, watching the island shrink and shrink and shrink. The moment she blinks, the moment her focus wavers even a tiny bit is the moment she passes the point of no return.

How many of those other stars are islands, the same as their own? How many have a dragon curled atop an obsidian pillar, awaiting its next victims?

Lizzie feels a strange tightness in her chest. A breathlessness borne of the lack of air in the void. And yet her chest continues to inflate and deflate, lungs working as they should. The back of her throat tickles, as though something has lodged itself there and is refusing to budge.

She should be long dead, she knows. The lack of air in the void is a swift killer, one that eases you into the darkness of sleep before it finishes you off. A merciful killer.

And yet there is no shadow around the edges of her vision. No darkness creeping over her eyes to obscure the island. To pull the wool over her eyes for the last few moments of her life.

She continues to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Breath after breath. Impossibility after impossibility.

It is nonsensical. And yet it continues. Just as she continues to watch the islands above her. Continues to watch her island.

There is a strange calm that surrounds her then, soothes over the aching edges of her mind that continues to worry at the issue of her continued survival. She breathes out, eyes fluttering shut slightly as that relaxation coaxes her eyes into slipping shut. Just a fraction.

It is enough for her to lose focus for that one key moment – the calm is rudely torn from her as she blinks, once, twice, thrice, no longer caring for not blinking as the fateful moment has already passed. Her island blends in amongst the other stars, indiscernible from everything else filling the void.

As she attempts to sit up, and then realises that she is able, the rushing sensation in her ears drops away. She no longer falls, no longer plummets into the open, yawning maw of the void – a seemingly endless depth that should have already closed its jaws around her.

Instead, she…drifts. Saunters vaguely downwards. Hangs on the precipice between something and nothing, teetering back and forth on that unknowable, invisible edge.

Something must push her beyond that edge, must nudge her that final inch over the line as the weightlessness returns for a long moment. It makes her stomach drop out of her body as she falls sharply downwards before…stopping.

She doesn’t slow. Not in the same way as before. This is a sudden, jerking halt, as though something had interrupted her fall.

Lizzie looks around, beyond confused. It was almost as though she had been caught, as though someone had stretched their arms out to stop any further descent, cradling her safely in their embrace.

The void spreads out wide around her, inky darkness reaching into every corner.

There is nothing to catch her out here, where nothingness is all that exists.

That, my dear, is where you are wrong.

She jolts at the sudden voice murmuring beside her ear, quiet as a whisper. She blinks furiously as she whips her head around, wariness swiftly transforming into fear as her surroundings remain featureless.

“Who’s there!” she yells, no longer caring that no true air fills her lungs, and yet she’s able to speak all the same. Able to draw breath from this thin, suffocating air. “Show yourself!”

There is a low chuckle, still quiet. Still barely above a whisper. It is the sound of stars shining high above. The sound of ants scuttling over the bark of a tree: there, but not audible. Something that should not be heard.

My dear, to show myself would be defeating the purpose of my existence, would it not?

“Oh yeah?” She stands, surprises herself a moment with the fact that she is able to stand, before promptly getting over it and continuing to question her sudden companion. “Why’s that? You some nasty creature come to kill me? One of those all-seeing fellas from up there?” She gestures in the vague direction of where she thinks she just fell from.

I am none of those things.

“Then what are you?” The quiet of this new voice lowers her voice. She feels self-conscious yelling while this- this thing speaks calmly, at a level barely above a whisper as though it does not care if it is heard or not.

I am nothingness.

“Well, obviously not.” She scoffs. “If you were nothingness then you wouldn’t be talking to me right now, would you?”

The voice remains silent for a moment after that. As though chewing over her words and carefully considering what she has just said. …And then it continues to remain silent. This silence is thick in the air, laying itself over her shoulders heavily.

She almost thinks that it has taken her advice, that, as a creature of nothingness, it has retreated into itself and becoming nothing at all.

“Wait!” She calls out into the void. Desperate for any response. “I’m…I'm sorry! I didn’t mean it! Please, come back!”

I was never gone.

“Kinda hard to tell that.” Her shoulders slump in relief. The sudden panic that came out of nowhere scared her – it had seized her by the throat, demanding that she call back her strange companion, that she not be alone again. “What with the whole nothingness shtick.”

It is not a shtick.

It sounds offended. Lizzie feels momentarily sheepish, before remembering that she doesn’t know who or what this is, and so she doesn’t owe it anything.

“Then what is it? Something you pull out for parties?”

You know not what you speak of.

“Then enlighten me, won’t you?”

How can I expect you to comprehend the vastness of my being? There’s a pause, and Lizzie almost thinks that the thing would have coughed awkwardly were it a human. No offence.

“Full offence taken.”

Ah, my apologies. It pauses again, and then: I…would something like this help?

“Something like what?” Lizzie raises her eyebrows, glancing around the empty space she’s currently stood in. And then…oh. Hm. She’s…well, she’s not sure how to feel about that, actually.

A crude, rather rickety table is less than a foot from her. The paint is patchy and not complete. It wasn’t one of her finest moments, but she had been in a hurry, had been too full of hopes and dreams, and the belief in her fellow players was far, far too high to care about something like the evenness of paint.

A cake sits atop this table. It is far too big for one person alone, and the table almost seems to groan beneath its weight.

She blinks, and there is a chair right beside the table, turned towards her. This chair is a solid white, sturdily built. It is not something she created. There had been beds, instead. She had imagined a party, each of them with a slice of cake in their hands as they sat on beds. Maybe even crowded several people into one bunk as they laughed like they had the first time around, when everything was better.

She sits down in the chair.

The candle in the cake is lit, and the flame flickers for a moment before blowing out. There is no smoke.

Apologies, a flame does not last well in the Void.

“That’s…fine.”

Unbidden, tears rise to her eyes. They cling to her lashes and make her eyelids stick together slightly as she blinks. She refuses to let them fall, however, because crying in front of some horrifying (?) cosmic entity was not on her to-do list today, and she refuses to add it.

And she can’t stand the feeling of dried tears on her cheeks.

“Thank you.” She says, sat at this party for one. It feels a little miserable, that an entity describing itself as nothingness has thrown her a party. Miserable, but fitting. “I…appreciate it.”

Good. The voice is warm, though still quiet. Perhaps this is the loudest it can be – it is the Void itself after all, Lizzie realises.

Perhaps it was a little idiotic of her not to realise before that this entity beside her, all around her, which described itself as nothingness was the exact void she was currently sat in.

There is a knife for her to cut the cake with, sat next to her hand as though it has been there the entire time. She reaches for it, intent on tasting this cake created by nothingness. She wonders if it will have a flavour.

Well, hello there! Where the Void’s voice had been quiet, barely a whisper, this one is cacophonous, as though someone had yelled right beside her ear. She cannot help but wince at the sound, shrinking backwards.

She leans back so far that the chair topples back, disappearing beneath her back as she sprawls across the ground. When she looks up, her party for one has disappeared.

Really, you could not have found it in yourself to be a little calmer?

And why should I be? You’ve got a guest here, and you didn’t even consider telling me!

Have you considered that there was good reason for that? Look at what you’ve done to the poor dear – she’s startled so terribly that she fell from her chair.

Oh. Hm. Okay then, that’s my bad, I guess.

Silence reigns for a moment, and Lizzie takes the opportunity to push herself back into a sitting position, legs crossed and one elbow resting on her knee. These two arguing entities sounded as though they knew each other – who would have thought there was something so lively in a place of certain death?

Not her, certainly.

Oh, hey. I know this one! Those words are the only warning she gets before something heavy is pressing down upon her, looking over every inch of her being, examining her like a bug pinned beneath a magnifying glass.

‘That one’ as you insist on referring to her is going to collapse beneath the weight of your full attention if you are not careful enough. The Void warns, though its voice is quiet as ever. Lizzie worries, as she feels her skin begin to unravel around her, the layers being peeled back as this second entity looks deeper into her being, that it won’t have heard the quiet sound of the Void.

Then, a moment later, it recedes, and she feels as though she can breathe again.

You were actually a little disappointing, the second entity tells her. I expected something a little better from you – maybe a little more pizazz? Something better than slipping off the edge and into the tender, loving arms of our dear Void right here.

Excuse you? How can you already leap into belittling her, hm? Her death was something tragic, but she did all she could in life.

Still could’ve been better. Her head is beginning to ache at the volume of this entity’s voice. (Thoughts?) C’mon, I expected a little more entertainment from Them, didn’t you? The little things pride Themselves on Their games, and yet They can’t even get everyone to put on a show?

You have done well, the Void assures her. You did the best you could with the hand that was dealt to you – They pick rather obvious favourites. Its voice fills with disdain, disgust worming its way into its words.

Lizzie isn’t sure who They are, but the weight with which it is said, and the disgust with which it is uttered, gives her the idea that They are not someone to get along with. And also apparently someone that picks favourites, however They might do that.

Do you comfort yourself with lies? The second entity demands. Its presence grows heavier again, bearing down on her head and shoulders, almost beginning to crush her into the non-existent ground she sits on. How can you bear to turn and face yourself when you offer meagre comforts through falsehoods and honeyed words?

What has happened, happened. What is done, cannot be undone. As such, why bother over the trivialities of what could have been done better.

“I’m still here,” Lizzie says. Just because it’s almost like these two entities – apparently familiar enough with each other to immediately begin arguing – have forgotten that the subject of their conversation is sitting right there and that she can hear everything being said about her.

We know that. Did you think we forgot?

Somewhat, yes, she doesn’t say. Mainly because that entity has turned its attention towards her again and it feels like staring directly into the sun. She grimaces at the feeling, gritting her teeth until it turns its attention away from her again.

You were disappointing. Lacklustre.

“Gee, thanks.” She’s beginning to dislike this second entity – actually, she’s gone beyond disliking this entity. It is loud and rude, voice giving her a headache and making stars burst behind her eyes with every syllable it enunciates. She wishes it had some kind of physical form so she could grab onto it and strangle it. Her hands itch with the urge, and she curls them into fists; tight enough that there will be crescent-shaped indents if she looks.

Such words are unnecessary. Boundless you may be, but few can achieve the same as you.

I’m not asking for much – like I said, a little more pizazz. A little more something isn’t unreasonable to ask for. They're putting on a show for us, the least They can do is get Their actors performing well.

Not everyone can be outstanding. There is value in being average.

You are insufferable. You’d settle for nothing if you could! You’re such a bore – why must I be stuck with you? All of eternity, and nothing interesting within it!

You are able to watch anything you wish. You do not have to wait for company to return from its wandering journeys, nor watch the condemned fall to their deaths within you. I would say you have it rather well off.

Of course you would. You know nothing of the world.

How could I?

You know of the world. That attention swings back around onto Lizzie, burning intensity. She attempts to stare right back into it, frowning in the vague direction of this thing’s eyes. Would you say you did well? That you were satisfied with what you achieved in the pitiful time you had?

Its voice is mocking. Lizzie’s not stupid, this entity dislikes her for some reason – it has made that very clear since it arrived.

She remains silent. To prove it right is unthinkable; she doesn’t want to give it such satisfaction, not when it’s left her pissed off and angry. She almost wants to bite something. But to prove it wrong is equally impossible. To lie to a seemingly omnipotent entity would be like signing her own death warrant; and who even knows if she could return if killed by an entity like this.

She keeps her jaw locked; mouth shut.

See? The entity seems to take this as an agreement anyway. How can she be satisfied with the hand she was dealt?

Not everyone wants for the impossible.

Ah, but many do – few achieve it, sure, but there is that wishing. That wanting unique only to these creatures with a limited life. Tell me, don’t you want to see how good it could have been? How good you could have been? Its voice turns softer, though it remains loud enough that her ears ache, almost as though its pleading with her, asking her permission for something unknown.

“I…” she looks around, as though there’s someone else for her to look for, to look to. There is nothing but empty void. A chasm around her that only seems to open wider and wider with each passing second. “I guess?”

See? See! It crows, its presence growing overwhelming. Its as though her skin is melting, slowly turning malleable as clay as it slips free of its confines and away from her bones. The feeling is unsettling, not at all helped by the sensation of hands on her arms, pushing at her skin, as though remoulding her. Reshaping the clay of her being.

Those hands brush over her eyes, and the stars disappear.

She panics for a moment, unsure what to do with this sudden darkness – it had been dark before, yes, but there had been the small pinpricks of stars. The little glimmering, far-off sparks that promised some kind of life. She had almost been able to convince herself that if she reached far enough, reached for long enough, that she’d be able to drag herself back to where she should be – pull herself from the pits of the void she had somehow fallen into.

Those hands press into her eyes, deft fingers smoothing out around her eye sockets before forcing her eyes open again.

She squints and winces, shutting her eyes again immediately.

Be more gentle.

I was plenty gentle, the voice scoffs. It’s her causing the issue now.

The bright light of before makes the inside of her eyelids a faint red. There is warmth here, where there had only been nothingness before – it hadn’t been cold, but the lack of warmth had made it seem so.

She tests it by only opening her eyes the tiniest bit, face wrinkled as she grows accustomed to the presence of light once more. It takes a few minutes before she can look around properly, blinking, then blinking again as she processes where she is.

She turns, and her pumpkin is there. It sits comfortably, nestled in the grass and…with a small house poking from the side?

Did you not wish for more allies?

She pauses, before shrugging. This feels like a weird dream, one that she is aware is a dream but is unable to wake from. Knowing you're in a dream means you should be able to control it, right? And yet, nothing she wills into existence appears, nothing changes to fit into her will.

You chased away a potential ally on day one, the entity sighs. There was little to be done from there; you placed your foot on the path of loneliness first.

“That house was only built for a task,” she defends. “And it was ugly.” It was a disgusting thing, something that blocked her from progressing further – from turning her house into a pumpkin. She couldn’t have continued living in a shack like that, even if it kept someone by her side for a little longer.

But…this house spoke of a compromise. Of a discussion and an allyship being struck up.

You got her hair wrong.

Huh, did I?

Those hands are resting against her again, burning her scalp as fingers drag through her hair, teasing out the strands.

Oh, I see what you mean. Hm.

Lizzie runs a hand through her hair. Tries to run a hand through her hair. She lifts her hair up, and it all comes with her hand. She pulls at it, and feels no tugging on her scalp, no individual hairs threatening to break away.

Instead, it’s like someone lay a cloth over her head and glued it down. There are no individual strands, only one thick layer. She freaks out a little at that. She’s like some- some doll with felt glued to its head. She tugs at this felt, maybe a little desperately, attempting to separate it into the fine strands of hair she’s used to.

Look what you’ve done now, you’ve freaked her out. The voice turns patronising. Chill for a second, alright, just…it’s been a minute since I made anything as complex as you. Just be glad I remembered the lungs this time!

That…is ominous. And not at all something she wants to think about.

I appreciate you remembering the lungs this time, the Void says. Listening to the previous one stutter and attempt to inhale was…unpleasant.

It was like someone was trying to force air into a block of wood! She hates this entity. Hates, hates, hates it. Even as it drags a hand through her hair she hates it, even as it falls over her shoulders in a cascade of fine strands, she hates it. Strands that are the same as her own hair, no longer a piece of felt stuck to her head.

Ah, you ruined the hands, too. The Void does not sound surprised, only mildly commenting on all the things this second entity has ruined about her. As though its watching some poorly-made film, commenting on all the shitty practical effects like it adds a certain charm to the movie.

Always a critic, the entity mutters. Why don't you try to make an entire person from scratch? See how well that goes for you.

We have already seen ‘how well’ that goes for me. I am still attempting to recover the pieces, though it will be a few centuries more before there are enough fragments for you to rebuild them.

You’re still working on that? I thought you gave up on that ages ago.

There are too many joints in her fingers. She bends one, and it curls up almost completely. Rolling into a spiral like a snail’s shell. One of the beings – she can’t tell which – tuts softly and uncurls her finger again, smoothing it out and removing the excess joints.

It’s a passion project. I work on it when I feel the urge.

Lizzie feels a wash of fear then. Something that had initially been small enough to ignore, and then forcefully locked away in her chest so she was no longer focusing on it – focusing on the entities in front of her, watching them, making sure that they aren’t casually discussing the best ways to destroy her.

Here, right here, right now, she feels that fear burst free. Like a burst blood vessel as it all pours free from where it had been blocked up. She’s drenched with this fear within moments, left shaking and shivering, too few joints in her hands; her fingers are short and her palms are long, and then her fingers are long and the palms short, as though the entity cannot figure out how to model them.

That feeling of clay is back. But this time there is no darkness, no kind hand covering her eyes to block her sight from the horror of watching her flesh begin to slip free from the bone. The horror of watching a hand-shaped ident press against her elbow, guiding her skin to remain there for a moment longer as it smooths over the mistakes that had been made seconds prior.

She attempts to stumble away, but the hands are all around her, pressing her skin back into place. Holding her together.

Ah, dear. I don't think this was the best idea.

Oh, really? You know, I thought the fast breathing and rabbiting heart was because she was enjoying this.

Don't take such a tone with me, this was your idea in the first place.

I just wanted to show her how much better she could be! Lizzie’s brain begins to fuzz over, words becoming distorted, no longer making sense to her addled mind. Her eyes slip shut all on their own, no longer staring so intently at the remoulding of her skin. If you hadn’t pointed out the inconsistencies then she wouldn’t have noticed! If anything, this is your fault.

Well, alright then. Piece her back together will you? She can rest a little while. With me.

Whatever you say.

The burning hands press close again, before retreating entirely. She doesn’t know what to think. Only that the cool hands that brush over her face are much gentler than the previous pair. They carry the gentle care of a mother, of a childhood friend reunited.

She sighs, and gives into the comfort. Everything burns, and she feels as though she’s been fighting an unknown assailant for hours. Her limbs ache, like her muscles have been twisted back and forth by an unruly hand.

Leave us in peace. I have practice putting people back together…this shouldn’t take too long.

You're going to irritate Them. You’ve interfered with Their games now.

I am certain They will learn how to cope with it. To welcome the Void into that place, They already knew what was being invited.

I'm not helping you when this turns around and bites you in the ass.

Don't be so crude.

Lizzie keeps her eyes shut. Doesn’t have much of a choice with the hand still covering them. Though, if she did choose to open her eyes and resist the calm, she could lay her eyes on the stars again.

Though…she still isn’t sure which star is her own. Which is the one she is meant to return to.

#juno.writes #secret life smp #slsmp #lizzie ldshadowlady #ldshadowlady #life series #trafficblr #traffic series #slsmp fic #slsmp lizzie #trafficfic

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ngalu · 11 months ago

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#@chouthechaoticraccoon #@princessofthesapphics #Fanart of a fanfic #A glimmer of light refusing to fade ao3 #Platonic Byclair #PLATONIC BYCLAIR!!!#will byers #lucas sinclair

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aglimmeroflightrefusingtofade · 3 months ago

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Not saying Glimmer Byler smokes, but. Uh. Wait until chapter 110 :3

I'm worse at what I do best

And for this gift I feel blessed

Our little group has always been

And always will until the end

#byler #mike wheeler #byler endgame #will byers #mike x will #stranger things #a glimmer of light refusing to fade ao3 #a glimmer of light refusing to fade

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aglimmeroflightrefusingtofade · 6 months ago

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☆ Will because WE NEED HAPPY WILL IN OUR LIVES!

WE DO! Buckle up!

When Will laughs really hard, his face turns red, and when he smiles super wide, he gets dimples. Mike loves both, and both end up with him grabbing Will's face and peppering it with kisses.

Will constantly wears a ton of bracelets - some gifts from Mike, others friendship bracelets, one's just rainbow - and he loves them all. He wears hairties on his left wrist, too, because he likes giving them away to his long-haired friends (and sister).

Will and Max are both disabled, and they hang out a lot. Their service dogs like to play with each other, and they frequently go to Will's favorite flower shop, their favorite coffee shop, the park, the mall, etc. Will tells Max what's going on around her (especially what stupid thing Mike's doing so she can properly make fun of him) and she holds his arm and lets him lead them around places, and she signs what she hears at Will when he takes out his hearing aids. She taught him to skateboard, and he learned a style of 3D painting so he could give her art. He also drew her D&D character in this style and made a Braille character sheet. (She cried.)

Will and Hopper get along great. They hang out regularly, Hopper attends the parent function thingamabobs, and they become close. They even come up with a scheme to sneak in a stray kitten and hide it from Joyce at one point - it lasts for less than an hour, but Joyce lets them keep the cat, so they're still happy. El names him Whiskers. Their real bonding moment came with music - Hopper was blasting Steely Dan, and Will came in and made him listen to Fleetwood Mqc, Queen, The Clash, and The Cure.

Mike joins a band, and he and Eddie cajole Will into learning an instrument. Will ends up trying bass and he fucking loves it. Eddie says he's a natural - it's in no small part because Will takes out his hearing aids when he's playing, and he just feels the vibrations of the notes and can tell what note it is just by vibration. He loves it, because music can sound weird through the hearing aid, and he's able to feel it playing bass. (He plays for Jonathan when he visits him at NYU.)

When the Party start 11th grade, they start school at a Montessori K-12 school, which they all do well in, especially Will. With a less structured school, minimal homework, disability aid, and shortened hours (8:30-3:00), he's able to get straight A's and pack his schedule, too. He has talk therapy on Tuesdays and Thursdays (3:15-4:30 PM) as well as physical therapy (5-5:30 PM), art club on Wednesdays (3-3:45 PM), science club on Mondays (3-4 PM), D&D on Saturdays, family pizza and movie nights every Friday, and volunteers at his synagogue on Sunday (a lot of the older ladies adore him). He works at a flowershop with El during the summers, and frequently goes to gay speakeasies and immerses himself in Deaf and LGBT+ culture (he starts to take out his hearing aids more the longer he spends with other Deaf people, as he learns sign language and starts to find his place without hearing) and makes a lot of gay friends.

Will gets a service dog. His name is Charlie, a rescued Burmese Mountain Dog, who adores Will. He takes a minute to warm up to the idea, but when he does, Will fucking loves that dog. I'm talking sneaks-him-extra-treats, that-dog-sleeps-in-Will's-bed-every-night, Mike's-cuddle-position-might-get-replaced loves. He's thrilled that Charlie gets to go with him everywhere after a bit, and with the dog around, Will's a much calmer, happier person.

Will becomes a lot less reserved as he gets more comfortable with himself, happily sassing people, flopping down in Mike and his friends' laps, signing more often, being less ashamed of his sexuality and scars and disability, becoming more comfortable with his body, wearing nice clothes, etc, etc, etc.

(Tried to think of enough to come to 11 😭 didn't work though)

#a glimmer of light refusing to fade #a glimmer of light refusing to fade ao3 #byler #stranger things #will byers #mike wheeler #byler fic

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v2aattemptsart · 4 months ago

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Some fanart for "A Glimmer of Light Refusing to Fade" by MagicSchoolbusDropouto8 on AO3 😋

(This was my favorite outfit Will wore that was described in the fic and I just RLY wanted to draw it. It just sounded so cozy)

#will byers #stranger things #stranger things fanart #a glimmer of light refusing to fade #my art

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silly-lil-scribbles · 10 months ago

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fuck you *purples your Will Byers*

here’s some fanart for @chouthechaoticraccoon ‘s stranger things fanfic A Glimmer of Light Refusing to Fade. It’s really good so you should check it out if you haven’t already (it’s on ao3). I hope the color theory is color theorying bc I don’t know what I’m doing and the background took like 2 hours

#fanart #lgbtq #will byers #a glimmer of light refusing to fade #gay #stranger things #art #pov you’re Mike Wheeler #i know what you are #scribbles draws a thing

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aglimmeroflightrefusingtofade · 10 months ago

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HUGSSSSS

#a glimmer of light refusing to fade #A Glimmer of Light Refusing to Fade ao3 #byler

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triforce-of-mischief · 2 years ago

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Memories and Nightmares

Summary: Legend has a phobia nightmare. Malon offers support and comfort.

Word count: 1980

Notes: Legend describes his nightmare with his little detail as possible, but he talks about events and uses words that may be triggering for trypanophobes.

AO3

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The nightmare didn’t let Legend leave easily. It was a multistep struggle, first to realize that he was stuck in a dream, then to claw his way out. Voices and images danced in his mind, attempting to play out further before he finally gained enough control to force his eyes open. He stared into the dark, more willing to gaze at pure blackness than the visions invented by his own mind.

Ever so slowly, the real world began to replace the realm of nightmares. The calls of imaginary enemies were drowned out by his own ragged breathing, and the soft snores of his brothers. Flashes of sterile light gave way to the sleeping form of Four, bundled right beside Legend.

The heroes had once again found themselves at Lon Lon Ranch, and the younger eight silently agreed to maintain the same sleeping spots as the first time they had visited. This meant that Four and Legend were back to back, which the smith was more than happy about. He was clingier than ever, and by the frequent amber glimmer of his eyes, Legend could guess who was responsible. The vet didn’t mind, though. Four was good at providing comfort without being overly affectionate, while Warriors preferred to keep his personal space altogether. Besides, all of Four would have Legend’s head if he dared to refuse Red’s care.

But right now, being surrounded by his brothers felt stifling. Legend couldn’t shake the memories of what had happened in his dream. Though the details were fading fast, he still remembered enough to know that he needed to be alone, and now. As quietly as he could, making sure to not disturb Four, Legend extricated himself from his blankets and slipped out of the guest room. Walking on half-asleep feet, he guided himself downstairs and to the living room.

He slowly sat on the couch, in the odd balance between wanting to sleep and gradually waking up. He stared at the far wall, feeling a bit dazed now. The remnants of his nightmare growled and hissed from where he had shoved them back, dangerously close to taking over again. He shook his head a bit clumsily, managing to stave off the images, but a phantom pain suddenly pierced his arm. He gasped, flinching away from empty air, defensively curling in on himself.

Go away, he told the lingering sensation. You’re not real.

Something touched his shoulder, and he instantly knew that it was very much real. He cried out and batted it away, his mind a few seconds late to determine what it was.

A cold metal gauntlet clamped around his arm. No- a gentle, warm hand hesitantly reaching out.

“Sorry, that was my fault. I shoulda warned you first.”

Legend had been so caught in his own mind, he hadn’t realized that Malon was downstairs too. He looked up at her, his tired brain taking a few extra seconds to recognize her concerned expression.

“Why aren’t you upstairs with the others?” she asked. “Too loud?”

He shook his head, not trusting his voice to be steady just yet.

She hummed in consideration. “Nightmare?”

He nodded, confirming with a raspy “Mhm.”

“Shoulda known when I saw that look in your eyes,” she sighed. “Link’s given me that exact same face over too many nights to count. Like a spooked horse, I always tell him.”

Legend huffed a little laugh at the thought.

Malon gave him a small smile. “I couldn’t sleep either. Mind if I stay up with you?”

“Y-yes please,” Legend whispered, his voice breaking a little in the way that voices tended to when still recovering from sleep. He winced, but Malon didn’t seem to care.

“I was about to go to the kitchen and fix something up. Do you want any?” she offered.

“Sure.”

“I’ll put some water on to boil, then I’ll be right back.”

Legend was alone for the next few minutes, and spent the time slowly waking up more. Details of the room gradually came into focus and the sounds of Malon quietly preparing things in the kitchen became clearer. The adrenaline from his nightmare exhausted itself, leaving him with tired fear and hazy memories. The imaginary pain in his arm turned to a familiar dull ache, so he gritted his teeth and drew in on himself in a pitiful self-hug. He stayed like that until Malon came back, finding himself unwilling to move even as she sat right beside him.

“Did you have a nightmare too?” he asked, mostly to break the silence that threatened to hang between them.

“Nothing of the sort. I just found myself unable to rest tonight.”

Legend sat quietly for a moment, full of curiosity but knowing that it would be rude to ask. Malon must have sensed it, though, and granted him an answer to his unspoken question.

“To be honest, I was worried about you. You’ve had it pretty rough, huh?”

Legend was grateful that his blush was hidden behind his knees. “Yeah, but you don’t have to worry about me. I’m sure at least one of the others has it worse-”

“Now, don’t you start with that,” Malon tutted. “I swear, every one of y’all just like the rest. Right now, I’m here to talk to you. Got that?”

“Fine,” Legend sighed. “I’ve been having more nightmares recently. I think we both know why.”

“Have you talked to the others yet?”

It was a gentle, honest question, but Legend flinched as he remembered a reoccurring event from his nightmares.

His own friends turned against him and held him down-

“Not yet.”

She waited a beat before asking, “Do you want to talk to me about it? I won’t judge.”

He would probably regret this honesty by morning, but he found himself nodding as he tried to decide what to say. “Tonight I- they- um…”

Speaking it out loud would bring vivid memories back from their current haze. Gathering the courage to do so was tricky, and Malon understood immediately.

“Take your time, hon. I’ll check the kettle while you find your words, all right?”

He chose his words carefully, mentally sounding them out to determine what he could safely say without sending himself into a panicked spiral. He had to piece a story together too, before the memories of the nightmare scattered into pure nonsense. What could he explain to Malon, and what should he leave out?

By the time Malon returned, Legend had prepared a retelling that was coherent but not detailed enough to trigger himself. The phantom pain had faded enough that he was able to sit normally, releasing his arm from his own grip. Malon offered him a mug, keeping another for herself as she settled beside him again. She took a sip of her drink and Legend followed her lead.

The liquid was perfectly warm, creamy yet smooth, and tasted like sweet honey. It had an immediate soothing effect, and Legend set it aside after only a few sips. “Feels like I’ll fall asleep if I drink any more. What did you put in this?”

“Nothing special,” Malon laughed. “Just water, milk, and honey… and a little love.” She winked, making Legend smile.

The vet twisted his fingers, wishing that he had his rings or his bracelet or something to fidget with as he spoke. Taking them off to sleep did have its occasional downsides. He took a deep breath before saying, “I’m ready to talk about my dream now.”

Malon lowered her mug. “I’m listening.”

The sooner he said it, the sooner it would be out of his head.

“The other heroes were chasing me. I didn’t have any weapons or my Pegasus Boots and there was that weird nightmare feeling where it’s like you’re trying to run through water? It took a while but they eventually gained on me. Th-they were all holding syringes and Warriors was there and he- he looked like a soldier from my era. He grabbed me and I yelled at him to stop before they could do anything and-”

He just had to finish saying it and it’d be over.

“He forced me to hold a syringe and told me to do it myself. I just… froze. S-so Warriors held me in place as the others all came forward at once. Four laughed in my face, saying how stupid my fear is, and- and then- they-”

His throat tightened, choking his words and his breath. He brought his hands up to rub stinging eyes, finding that he was unable to keep his fingers steady. They were trembling.

He was shaking.

Din dang it.

“Come here, sweetie.” Malon held her arm out, and Legend didn’t need to be asked twice. She pulled him into a hug, her presence more than enough to block out the memories of harsh grips and cold metal. She held him tight, undeterred by his panicked shivering. “That sounds like a horrible dream, but you’re all right now. Nobody’s gonna force you to do anything you don’t want to. Our sleeping minds like to play tricks on us, but our worst nightmares are just that- figments of our imagination.”

Legend shuddered. “Dreams are more real than you think… not this one, though. Even if it felt real… it wasn’t.”

If he kept telling himself that, he had to believe it eventually. No matter how many nightmares he woke up from, he couldn’t escape the feeling of being trapped on that island. This was different, it had to be.

“That’s right. The other boys would never do that to you, I promise.”

“Can… can I stay down here for the rest of the night? I don’t know if I’m ready to see them again yet…”

“Of course, hon. I can stay with you too, if you’d like the company.”

Legend sighed, finally feeling a little bit at ease. “Yes, please.”

****

When morning came, Warriors was the first to venture downstairs. His tense posture and darting eyes betrayed that he was searching for something, and he visibly relaxed when he entered the living room.

Legend was still fast asleep, curled up in Malon’s arms. Two empty mugs on the side table and a blanket tucked around the vet indicated that though the situation had been unexpected, they had made the most of it.

Malon gave Warriors a tired smile and whispered, “Glad to see somebody up. Don’t suppose you can go drag my husband out of bed so the animals can be attended to?”

“A worthy challenge,” Warriors said with a smirk. His grin fell as he glanced at Legend, who whimpered and pressed closer to Malon. “Is… he okay?”

“He will be,” Malon said, rubbing Legend’s back until he was sufficiently soothed. “Be gentle with him today, captain. He’s had a rough night.”

“I’ll make sure not to tease him too much,” Warriors said, and laughed when Malon gave him a half-hearted glare. “I know my brother’s limits. Trust me, he’ll feel better if I don’t treat him like something delicate. If he needs to talk about it, he knows to come to me.”

Malon hummed in agreement, but Warriors had the feeling that she was keeping something from him. “As long as you know what’s best for him.”

A floorboard creaked above their heads and Warriors instinctively looked up. “The others will come down soon, I should probably-”

“Yes, go get Link,” Malon prompted, shooing him with a nod of her head. “I’ll wake this one up while you’re gone.”

Warriors gave her a little wave before turning and retracing his steps, this time headed to Malon and Time’s room. He heard Malon say something in a hushed voice and Legend grumble in response.

Warriors hoped that Legend wouldn’t hesitate to approach him when he was ready. Nightmares were yet another thing that they needed to address. Goddesses knew that Legend could use some well-deserved rest.

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu #linked universe legend #lu legend #linked universe malon #lu malon #linked universe warriors #lu warriors #fable writes #overcome

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separatist-apologist · 2 years ago

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The Wildest Winter

In the cracks of light, I looked for you

Summary: Viviane had not been Under the Mountain. As her childhood friend, Kallias had been protective of her to a fault over the years- had placed the sharp-minded female on border duty to avoid the scheming of his court. He didn't let her near Amarantha, either. Didn't let anyone get a whiff of what he felt for his white-haired friend, who had no clue- not one- that he had loved her his entire life.

Read More: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | AO3

[six months before the curse]

“Are you sure about this?” Viviane asked, eyeing the curved blade in her hand. Not with distaste for the crystalline steel glimmering beneath a full sun, but because it was inherently an unfair fight. She had to wonder if Nikolai, who had remained behind after Calanmai, was even aware of what she could do with carefully timed ice alongside a Winter Court blade.

Nikolai had stayed to help her train more sentries they hardly needed. Autumn wasn’t so desperate they’d stage an invasion, though Kallias was unnerved after the ice bridge had gone tattling to the High Lord, who of course had money for more soldiers. Nikolai was to oversee and Kira had been begrudgingly called back to court.

That, Viviane supposed, was for the best. Nikolai had come home that morning coated in blue, his eyes wild, his skin practically frosted over. Whatever had happened had unnerved him enough he refused to speak about it and Kira had sworn up and down nothing had happened.

Viviane wondered which was worse—they had sex and it was so good it freaked them out, or it was so bad they couldn’t make eye contact any longer.

That was how she felt with Einar. All that build up only to be fucked on his dining room table for the better part of two hours. She hadn’t dared tell Kallias the reason she couldn’t finish wasn’t because Einar was no good—he’d done his best with his lips and tongue and teeth—but because she couldn’t get her friend out of her mind. She’d tried. Viviane had taken control, had climbed into Einars lap, eyes locked on his.

Not Kal, not Kal, not Kal—

For all the good it did. In the end she’d faked it and gone crawling home like a miserable, terrible friend. Viviane still didn’t know what had possessed her that day. Maybe Calanmai merely heightened the tension growing between them, twisting it into lust. It had faded by morning—faded with each new carefully drawn sheet he’d made for her where he detailed how much it cost to treat the water each month. She’d fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder and woken alone in bed. Kallias had likely put her there before venturing into the city himself, because when Viviane woke, he smelled as though he’d been drenched in arousal not long before and his hair had been wrecked.

It didn’t inspire jealousy in her, at any rate, which made it easy to write the whole night off as a one off.

“Square up, Viv,” Nikolai ordered. She almost rolled her eyes at the command. They stood down in the valley in a makeshift training ring Kira had erected decades before. It would have been the perfect place for expanded barracks and an armory, had the High Lord ever allowed her such a thing. Perhaps Nikolai’s influence would change all that. It was the second to last missing puzzle to crafting her city as a major player. The very last was convincing both Kallias and the High Lord that the emissary from Hybern should be allowed to visit—to trade with them. Not just Hybern, of course. Autumn, Spring, and Summer, too. And with even a fraction of the High Lord’s court coming to live in Wegen, even if it was just to ski when the weather was mild, was enough.

Barracks first.

Nikolai pulled his icy blade from its sheath, the metal singing in the air. Viviane ignored that Einar had come to watch, his dark eyes blazing with curiosity. She also ignored that Kallias had said he’d come three days before and still hadn’t. All of those things were distractions.

She twisted her blade, offering a show of her teeth that wasn’t quite a smile. She waited for him to lunge before offering her own strike. Nikolai, she’d been told, had some magic of his own. Viviane wanted to find out just how much. And, perhaps, wanted to show off to the people she oversaw, if only a little.

It was a careful dance of her feet and body, of knowing how she moved against the wind and the squelching mud. Nikolai was a warrior, trained just as she had been, though not quite as quick on his feet.

Not as careful with his magic. He was the first to strike, panting as he sent a blast of skin shredding ice her way. Viviane barked out a laugh, dodging it easily.

And then rained a torrent upon him. Nikolai had to choose between defending his person with his blade and risk her icy wrath or block the ice and risk her blade. It was the oldest trick in Viviane’s book. She thought that because she used her magic so infrequently, and never at its full intensity, that people often forgot what hummed in her veins.

Forgot why a future High Lord courted her attention.

“Mother save me, Viv,” Nikolai panted. “Were you trying to kill me?”

Her victory was short-lived. As she walked to her friend, offering him a hand and noting where the blood staining his lips and cheeks, a new voice called through the mountain air.

“Now me.” Nikolai’s smirk told Viviane everything she needed to know. She turned, her eyes finding Kallias as he swung his powerful body over the fence with ease. Just to the left of him was Einar, watching her friend with guarded, almost distrustful eyes. She’d forgotten he’d only been interested in her when he learned Kallias was up at the palace.

It was a question for another day. Kallias had never once let her beat him and Viviane didn’t relish being beaten into the dirt in front of all the people she was supposed to oversee.

“Where’s your sword, Kal?” she taunted, annoyed when Nikolai handed his over before leaving them alone in the muddy pit.

“Miss me?” he asked, cocking his head to the side. The cold air ruffled at his white air, all but kissing his fair cheeks red.

“Were you gone?” she replied blithely, pretending to examine her blade.

He shook his head, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “I missed you.”

“Why wouldn’t you? I’m funny, I’m pretty, I’m smart…all the things you lack—”

His blade sang through the air before she could finish, crashing into hers with such force it made her bones vibrate. Gone was Kallias’s easy amusement–those eyes were practically granite against his glacial face. She had to remind herself that this was how he focused—this was how he’d always been in the ring.

Your enemies won’t smile when they kill you, Viv.

She smiled, noting how he stumbled ever so slightly—not enough to turn things in her favor but enough to remind her that Kallias was so easily distracted by someone acting in a way he didn’t expect.

She sent him that first blast of ice, catching him against the cheekbone. He snarled, flinging his own magic viciously back at her. He was so much stronger she couldn’t avoid it all—she felt the burning sting against her exposed neck. She smelled the salt of her blood in the air but didn’t dare touch it. Not when Kallias’s blade came singing towards her. Viviane slammed to the ground, her whole body squelching into the cold, muddy ground in an effort to block him.

It was easy to forget what Kallias was beneath his refined clothes and his fascination with numbers. He’d taught her to fight, afterall. His body was a weapon—he was an animal. He snapped his teeth against the cold, one of his thighs pressed between her legs as he bore his blade closer and closer to her wound.

Viviane took a risk, letting go of the hilt of her sword to press her frosted palm against his face. He roared against the pain, distracted just enough for her to plant her boot into his chest and push away. There was nothing fun about this fight anymore—it wasn’t quick like with Nikolai, nor was it particularly like a dance. It felt like a true battle where only one of them could walk away with their pride unwounded.

Kallias sent another vicious blast of ice and wind directly at her, one Viviane offered up in equal measure. He cut his face again, though not half as bad as his own shards, which sliced through her jacket, exposing her skin to salty mountain air.

She hissed, slammed right back to the ground as Kallias snarled in her face. His teeth were inches from her neck, his thigh wedged between her leg so hard she could feel the radiating heat. The only thing keeping him from pressing his body wholly against her was her blade between them.

Her arms shook from the effort.

“Surrender, Viv,” he whispered. “Let me clean up the blood.”

“You’re a bastard,” she replied. It didn’t matter. He wrenched her blade from his hand, tossing it to the ground and then pressed his own gently against her skin.

“An admirable effort,” he murmured, removing his blade and replacing it with his hand. All at once his body was off hers and Viviane couldn’t decide if she was angry or she was disappointed.

She took his hand, her body aching as she stood. No one made a sound—not Nikolai, who watched with eyes rounder than saucers.

And not Einar, who had gone ashen in the wake of their brutal showdown.

“What’s with them?” she whispered, letting Kallias brace her body against his own.

“They’ve never seen your kind of raw power,” he offered charitably. And maybe that was true. Maybe they hadn’t expected that kind of magic to blow out of her.

But privately, Viviane thought it was Kallias who had surprised them. She’d forgotten what he was like when he was unleashed—how uncomfortable the High Lord had once been of him and the magic glowing silver from his skin. No one had ever dared voice those concerns out loud, but Viviane understood them as she looked from the shocked faces of the warriors around them.

Kallias had all the markers of the next High Lord.

She reached between them for his arm. She didn’t want to think about how she’d lose him should that ever come to pass.

“Take me home,” she murmured, pressing her head into his shoulder.

He was just her friend—at least for now.

KALLIAS:

[five months before the curse]

“Kal–” Kallias cut off her breathless plea, his tongue delving back into her mouth. More, he needed more. He couldn’t stop the desperate glide of his hands over her naked form, mapping her skin beneath his palms. Beneath him, Viviane moaned, grasping at his hair so viciously she was in danger of pulling the strands out by the root. He didn’t care.

Still clad in his pants, he ground against her, desperate for relief. Kallias was drowning in the scent of her arousal, drinking it down while he tasted every inch of her mouth. Kallias needed to put his tongue between her legs, needed to know if all of her was sweet. She was warm here, open and inviting and he was so wrecked he couldn’t get his stupid body to catch up with his screaming brain.

He was running out of time. He couldn’t explain it. Something was ticking loudly in his head, some countdown to his doom he wanted to avoid. Wanted to ignore in favor of his female clawing at his back.

“Kal,” she panted, arching her neck so he could nip kisses down her skin. His fingers tugged and teased at her pebbled nipples, drawing more of her arousal into the air. Burying his face between her breasts, Kallias inhaled deeply. This was what he’d been missing. This was what he needed.

He’d never felt so wild in his life. He was unrestrained for perhaps the first time in his life and it was all Viviane’s fault. He pushed apart her legs roughly, taking a moment to admire the splayed out form of her on his silken silver sheet.

“You’re perfect,” he breathed, lifting her leg to press feather soft kisses up her thigh. She squirmed, eyes locked on his face. She wanted to watch? Kallias held her gaze, lowering his face until he could kiss the pale, pink lips of her cunt. Viviane exhaled, whimpering for more.

It was a dream, he thought. She was a dream, spread open for him to taste. He went to take that first hot taste of her, to slick his tongue over her clit—-

A banging on Kallias’s bedroom door dragged him from an all too familiar dream. He’d never gotten that far before. Usually Kallias woke just as he was about to remove her clothing. To find his head between her parted thighs was a new, almost exciting development, at least where his imagination was concerned. Nothing had changed between him and Viviane. As far as he knew, she was still seeing the disappointing male in Wegen and he was…well, Kallias was doing the world's shittiest job courting her. Unless, of course, utterly obliterating her with his magic counted as some romantic overture.

He very much doubted it. Viviane might have forgiven him for it, but the people of Wegen certainly hadn’t. They’d watched him with narrow-eyed suspicion the following day, as if he might turn her to a block of ice if she displeased him. As if Viviane wasn’t capable of removing his balls should he ever deserve it.

That vicious knock forced Kallias to snarl. Night still poured through his half open drapes and his cock was throbbing with need. “What?” “Get up,” Kira’s voice whispered from behind the door. “Right now, get up.” He shoved the blanket off his naked body and stuffed himself in the first pair of pants he could find, artfully arranging himself so it wasn’t entirely obvious he had an erection. Kallias pulled open the door, shrugging a shirt over his head.

Kira looked scared. Wide-eyed in the flickering hall light, she lunged for his wrist and began dragging him down the hall. Kallias was barefoot, though so was she, a robe hanging off her small frame.

“What is happening?” he hissed, running a hand through his messy hair in an attempt to keep it from falling into his eyes.

“Gunnar,” she whispered. “Oh Gods, Kal….he…”

A mournful wail interrupted what Kira had been about to say. He knew that voice.

“Gunnar?”

“Killed his wife,” Kira managed, practically shaking as she led him towards the throne room. “She wanted to leave him, too. And I guess…”

Kallias’s steps slowed as he imagined it. Wanting someone so badly you would have done anything to possess them, only to realize they didn’t want you back. The females at court had been lobbying hard, but Gunnar’s wife had been against them.

“What changed?”

Kira shrugged. “Special treatment for her, hell for everyone else? I’m sorry,” Kira added softly. “I shouldn’t…he killed her.”

Kallias started to ask Kira how she could possibly know that, but the scent of blood flooded his senses. He understood why when he came into the vividly bright throne room, joining the other courtiers flooding in to witness the spectacle.

The High Lord stared at his son with lifeless eyes while his son clutched at his wife's bloodless body, kneeling half naked in her blood. It was the gravest offense in their court—to take a life, especially one as defenseless as Gunnar’s wife had been.

All Kallias could see was Viviane laying there, her silver hair stained red as her blood cooled beneath Gunnar’s naked knees. She would have wanted the same—maybe not to leave him, given how dutiful Viviane could be, but the autonomy to be more than just the High Lord’s wife. She would have been vivacious and, when angry, vicious.

She would have died, too. Kallias put his hand over his chest, unable to get the image out of his mind. He might have winnowed straight to her had the High Lord not taken a step towards his hunched over son.

Everyone fell silent. Even Kallias didn’t believe the High Lord would kill his own son, law or not. Gunnar made no move to defend himself and Kallias wondered if he even realized what his father meant to do until it was too late. Gunnar twisted, eyes wide as he took a gasping breath of frigid air.

Kallia couldn’t watch this. He turned, pulling his arm from Kira’s grasp. He didn’t need to be present to hear that frigid death rattle or to know the High Lord had turned his son's lungs to ice. It was the end of a dynasty as old as their territory, ruined over one spoiled male too unused to being told no.

Kallias flexed his fingers as warmth twanged through his body. He stumbled, almost crashing into a wall in an attempt to steady himself. His palm caught against the smooth surface, steadied by Kira who had followed him out.

“Kal—”

“Don’t,” he rasped, hating himself for the first time in his life. The High Lord would realize, would know the truth of the matter soon enough. His son might have inherited had he been a better father. And now a new line would rise through Winter, assuming Kallias lived long enough to see the High Lord fade.

“Kallias—!”

A woman's high pitched scream forced a groan out of Kallias, his knees buckling beneath the weight of a vicious, violent cascade of magic. His palms stung, bracing his weight against the smooth floor while raw, unstemmed magic raced through his veins unrestrained. He looked over his shoulder to Kira, who knelt beside him. Her face was etched with her terror, the screaming in the throne room just behind him ringing in his ears.

“What did he do?” Kallias managed, bowing his head against the onslaught.

“Could you survive the loss of your own child?” Kira whispered. The scent of warm blood filled the air, driving out all other thoughts. Had the High Lord truly chosen to kill himself rather than live with his grief? Kallias forced himself to stand, his legs shaking. Kira helped, bracing him against her body while he got his runaway heart under control.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Kallias whispered, flexing his fingers.

How would he ever explain this? To the court, his people…to Viviane?

“Go,” Kira told him. “The longer you make them wonder, the longer they have to plot against you. Shore up your power now.”

He had only a second to make a decision. It should have been Nikolai, he lamented. Kira ought to have remained with Viviane.

“Get your sword,” he ordered. Kira’s eyes widened, and yet she nodded, racing down the hall. He had moments to get himself together, to step into that blood-soaked throne room and pretend this was normal–that he was normal. Kallias flexed his fingers, reveling in the feel of his magic, of the newness thrumming beneath his skin.

He took a step, swearing the world around him seemed to tremble. The screaming stopped and, with a breath, Kallias stepped into the room. The sight laid before him threatened to turn his stomach. Gunnar knelt before the corpse of his once beautiful wife, a block of frigid, blue ice. Beside him, the High Lord lay in his own rapidly cooling blood, his heart half torn from his body. It was all so gruesome, so unnecessary. Kallias knew that even if he lived for a century more, he’d never forget the sight. Not of the court that now belonged to him, all staring with wide, mistrusting eyes.

Kira skidded into the room, flanked by several sentries. She still wore her blue night dress, comical against the vicious look on her face.

“Kneel,” Kallias ordered, watching those sentries from across the room. He needed their support if he didn’t want to die in the next few days. The transition between one family to the next was rocky—or, so he’d been told. Winter had always avoided those kinds of shifting power plays. His eyes drifted back to the High Lord, who loved his son so much he couldn’t tell him no. Would have seen all of Winter crumble beneath one spoiled lordling's whim then govern as he should.

It was a reminder for Kallias, who turned his back to the kneeling nobility, of what he stood to lose. How things could go wrong so quickly—how he might lose focus if he wasn’t careful.

It felt strange, ascending the white cut dais to the glittering blue and amethyst throne. Kallias seated himself atop it, sweeping his eyes over the room.

High Lord.

He’d never wanted it.

#daddy winter #kallias #viviane #kallias x viviane #this is me trying to fix my mistake with canon #i thought kallias was crowned HL UTM #but hes not #i forgot that tidbit so i apologize

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ghirahimbo · 3 years ago

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beginnings

a non-specific take on how the Link and Ghirahim master/sword AU might come about. I probably won't post this one to ao3 yet in case I decide to use it in a story someday, but I liked it enough to put it here, at least :)

In the Sealed Grounds where the demon hordes had trampled the earth so recently in their violent rampage, the transition to silence was complete. The whistling chirp of birds, the buzz of insects… even the wind through the trees had gone deathly still, all caught up in breathless waiting. Only the pool of inky darkness at the center of Demise's broken prison seemed to breathe, pulsing slowly in and out with uneasy life. Small though it was compared to the spiraling pit containing it, the darkness pulled at the cloud-covered twilight as if its strength alone might dim it. Consume it.

At last, the dark pool recoiled in agitation, and from its churning depths emerged a boy in a green knight’s tunic that had certainly known more pristine days. Bloodied and bruised, yet swaying triumphantly as if standing itself was a triumph, Link stumbled out of the pit’s embrace, adjusting his wet hat to fit more firmly over the mess of hair still dripping from his watery battlefield. The sky above seemed to captivate him, and he craned his head back to stare at the darkened clouds, half in wonder, half in disbelief. Then the hilt of his sword flashed, and a shimmering blue woman emerged to float in front of him.

“Master,” she said, catching his attention. “With the defeat of the demon king Demise, there is a 95% chance that your friend Zelda has already regained consciousness.” Her voice softened almost imperceptibly. “I believe I can say with 100% certainty that she would like to know you are well.”

Link stared at her for another moment, scrubbing a hand over his mouth.

“Of course,” he murmured, and for the first time, he grinned. “Let’s go.”

Strengthened by his anticipation, Link broke into a limping run, eager to put the forsaken pit behind him—but before he could take more than a few steps, a new voice froze him in his tracks.

“Wait.”

Heart sinking like a rock, Link whirled around, one hand hovering warily over the hilt of his sword as a new figure emerged from the retreating darkness. Ghirahim’s skin glimmered like polished obsidian in the fading light, smooth and unmarred except for where fiery cracks split his chest, and a glowing diamond at its center pulsed an erratic, angry red. Cradled against his shattered core was an enormous black sword, its sharp edge not even scratching the skin where it rested against Ghirahim’s hardened arms.

Milky white eyes met tired blue in a silent clash, as if neither had the strength necessary to put words to their feud. Then, without warning, Ghirahim hefted his sword, driving it point first into the softened earth and falling to one knee before it.

“Take it.”

Link blinked, and took a wary step back.

“…What?”

“Take it.” Despite his clear exhaustion, Ghirahim’s voice had that same teasing bite to it as always, coupled now with impatience as he gestured towards the sword. “You defeated my old master Demise, which means his sword is yours to claim. Take it.”

Link stared at him, dumbfounded, and a slow smile curved across Ghirahim’s thin dark lips.

“Let me put it this way,” he said pleasantly. “This sword belongs to you whether you wish it so or not, but things will go much more… smoothly… if you take it now.”

Link shook his head as if to dismiss the notion, fixing Ghirahim with a glare.

“I already have a sword,” he said coldly, starting to turn aside, but this time a light chime from Fi made him stop.

“Master Link,” she said, her cool voice strangely gentle. “I’m afraid that I was not created to remain by your side forever. The demon king’s remaining essence is now sealed within my sword, to be carefully guarded until it is eradicated. The time of our parting will be soon.” She hesitated, and added, “Very soon.”

The first drops of rain began to fall, scattered and sparse. Link stared at Fi incredulously.

“You’re not saying I should trust him,” he said, not really a question, and Fi shook her head.

“Such judgments are not mine to make. I can only report that I sense no immediate intent to do harm from Lord Ghirahim, though whether he hopes to deceive you is less clear. Any further statements would be mere conjecture on my part.”

“Would you mind conjecting then?” Link asked, pursing his lips. After a moment, Fi nodded.

“Master Link…” Her words came with slow reluctance now. “Despite the foreordination of our partnership, I was still given the privilege of choosing you as my master. If what Ghirahim says is true and his sword has passed ownership from the demon king to you, I must surmise that he was not granted that same privilege of choosing Demise.”

“If what he says is true,” Link repeated, sparing another glare for the still-kneeling demon lord. Ghirahim had so far watched their exchange in enigmatic silence, not quite smiling, though he half raised an eyebrow at Link’s scowl. The steadily increasing rain slithered unnoticed in rivulets down his face, striking against his arms with short, metallic plinks.

“I stated that I could not discern whether he hopes to deceive you in some way, and this is true. However…” She paused in consideration. “I do sense a newfound connection between you and that sword, as well as between you and Lord Ghirahim himself. My opinion is that he is telling the truth, in this regard, at least.”

Link stared at her in dismay, and Ghirahim laughed softly.

“Your robotic guide is right, I’m afraid," he murmured. "I’ll have you know that you were not my first choice either, but I think we both know better than most how little control we have over the whims of destiny. Never in this sword’s history has it passed to a human, but it appears our thread of fate has some twists that even I could not predict.”

“There is no thread—“ Link started to say hotly, but let it go with a sigh. Even he could see how pointless finishing that sentence would be. “I suppose you come with the sword, then?”

“I am the sword,” Ghirahim said, his pale eyes glittering. Link paused only a second before nodding. After bearing Fi for so long, he understood how that worked, at least.

“If…” Link took a deep breath, glancing again at Fi. “If I take you with me… what’s to stop you from trying to kill me still?”

“I am physically incapable now of even harming you,” he said, and Link’s eyebrows shot up. A possibility much easier to disprove than prove, but…

“What about Zelda?” he demanded, and Ghirahim’s grin widened.

“On your orders, I would go so far as to guard her from harm, and catch her each time she stumbles,” he said smoothly. Link’s face darkened.

“What about—“

“Master, must we really go through every order that I will or will not obey?” Ghirahim cut him off irritably. “I will obey them all, insofar as I am able. Was it not the same with…?”

He gestured vaguely towards Fi, who looked at him.

“Fi is the designation I was given,” she said, prompting a tight grin.

“Wonderful! I didn’t need or desire to know that.”

“Wait,” Link interjected, his mind spinning slightly. “...You called me master.”

“Is he this slow all the time?” Ghirahim asked Fi incredulously. “How do you put up with it?”

Link let the insult slide, still reeling as he tried to gather his thoughts. Would Ghirahim really debase himself so far just for a chance at revenge? There were other, easier ways to go about it if that was his aim, ways involving less personal humiliation. Fi thought he was telling the truth—about some things, at least—which maybe meant…

“What am I supposed to do with that sword, anyway?” Link said abruptly. “It’s too big for me to even…”

The protest died in Link’s throat as for the first time he really looked at the sword, and licked his lips. Without his noticing, the sword had shrunk in size, though it managed to appear no less menacing despite that. If Link were to hold up his Master Sword in comparison, he doubted that there would be a hair’s difference in length.

“I told you,” Ghirahim said, and Link had to fight down a shiver that he told himself was from the rain. “My sword belongs to you now, Link. Take it.”

Once more he looked at Fi, silently questioning, but if she had an opinion on the matter her blank face gave no voice to it.

“Zelda is waiting for you,” was all she said… and somehow, that was enough.

“Fine,” Link sighed reluctantly. He didn't want to find out at that moment how Ghirahim might try to force him if he refused, and Fi was right. It was time to go. “I accept your sword.”

Trudging forward, Link grabbed it by the hilt, thinking that if worse came to worst, he could still throw it off a cliff somewhere—and felt a terribly familiar warmth surge through his palms as he pulled it free, traveling up his arms to settle somewhere in his chest. A tightness fell from Ghirahim’s face that Link hadn’t noticed until that moment, and he bowed his head forward, pressing a hand delicately against his mangled chest.

“The bonding process is now complete, master,” he said, and despite the formality of his words he had a mocking twist to his lips. “Link… my master.”

Thunder boomed overhead as lightning forked viciously across the sky, the rain falling down in sheets. Link, staring at his own black sword, noticed none of it.

#ghirahim #skyward sword #my writing #master/sword au #skyward sword spoilers #lol in case anyone is avoiding those

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