#blows a kiss at the people i've tagged. i hope yall enjoy

[serenescribe]

so this fic came about as a result of @llondonfog's absolutely heart-wrenching post about overblot!silver, along with @olivebranch311's addition about his phantom. originally i wasn't going to write this, but... olive managed to sway me :')

(there is a slight reference to @admiraltdevanto's latest fic as well, mainly about the nursery and what lilia nearly did. it was just such a good concept, i hope you don't mind me plucking that for this!)

Time passes strangely when it does not actually pass at all.

The skies outside his window are blotted dark with shadows, thick tendrils of thorns enclosing over the sky from afar. The sight never changes; it is an eternal darkness here in Diasomnia, here on Sage’s Island, and it shall remain that way for as long as Malleus, overblotted and deranged, wills it.

All Lilia does is lie on his bed, staring up at the ceiling of his canopy bed, limbs frail, powerless to do a single thing.

He had awoken from his dreams some time ago — the specifics of why, he does not know. All Lilia had done was jolt awake in a sudden frantic panic, chest heaving as he sat upright upon his bed, gloved hand clutching his chest as he struggled to get his breathing back under control. Memories of the dreams he’d gone through — lost in the throes of a younger time, when he had been running wild as the feared general of Briar Valley, weapon in hand and soldiers by his side — had flashed through his mind, reminding him with startling clarity of every wicked word he’d ever said to his son, Silver.

And it had been in that striking moment, bile rising in his throat as Lilia recalled the flashes of hurt and misery on Silver’s face, that Lilia noticed him.

Silver, standing in front of his door, head lowered, a blade resting in his hand.

Silver, who dripped with armoured ink, the Phantom of a dress curling over him, its sleeves wrapped around his steadfast shoulders, a puddle of blot forming around his heeled boots.

In an instant, Lilia was on his feet, boots slamming against the stone floor as he sprinted over to— to his son. Who was overblotting — a sight that made bile rise in his throat, fear striking through him like a thunderbolt. Lilia had wrapped his hands around his arms, trembling as his eyes flicked over Silver’s body — the smears of blot staining his cheeks, the ink that dripped from his gloved hands, sliding down the hilt of his sword. Elegant carvings were etched into his armour — dark as night, a stark contrast to the pearlescent sheen of his sweeping hair. “Silver,” Lilia whispered, voice cracking as his hands moved up, thumbing over his cold, cold cheeks. “Silver, you—”

But before he could finish, strong arms wrapped around his shoulders, beginning to push him back with such a delicate gentleness that it made his words die in his throat. Silver slowly pressed him backwards, one step at a time, flowing Phantom dancing behind him, its splotchy dress turning fully pink, until finally, the back of Lilia’s knees hit his bed, and he tumbled back onto the soft mattress.

Before Lilia could push himself back up, he felt a hand brush against his hair. “I cannot allow you to leave, Father,” Silver murmured, an echoing tinge to his words. It had been accompanied by the sound of fabric swishing, and a gurgling shriek. “The castle is not safe.”

“Let me help you,” Lilia begged, hands reaching up to curl around Silver’s wrist. Blot dribbled from his son’s touch, mixing with strands of Lilia’s hair, and Lilia knew that his own clothes must be stained with ink, but he didn't care. What possible effect could an overexposure of blot have on him anyways, with his magic dwindling?

But Silver had only shaken his head, the barest ghost of a smile gracing his ink-stained lips. “No,” he says firmly, though not unkindly. Rather, there is a reverence in his words, a lurking fire that makes Lilia’s breathing hitch from the force of it — an unfettered devotion. “You will stay here,” Silver states, no room for argument in his words — not even saying that Lilia must remain where he is, but that he will. “And if he appears, then…”

Silver pulled back, his grip on his sword resolute. Behind him, the Phantom thrashed violently, flickering between shades of bright pink and azure blue, twin blades of its own emerging from its sleeves. “If he dares to appear,” Silver hissed, “then I shall stop him. I will keep you safe.”

And sprawled out against the bed, staring up at the horrific scene before him with wide eyes, what was Lilia to do?

The Phantom lingers with Lilia at all times.

He has never heard of them doing such a thing. From all he has learnt in the past, Phantoms typically trail after their overblotter, the two of them intrinsically connected at the core. But Silver is different — as he always is, in a way. His Phantom is not the snapping, snarling, garishly violent creatures that other people’s have been. His is a tender, twirling dress, who hovers over his bed, fabric tinting pink whenever Lilia glances at it. Its sleeves flutter over him, stroking him gently. And, strangest of all, it stays with him during the few times when Silver must leave.

Here, in Malleus’ thorn-enclosed dome of magic, time does not pass. Here, Lilia has neither hunger nor thirst, the lack of sensation jarring whenever he thinks too hard about it.

The only thing he can do is drift in and out of rest, his son’s Phantom always watching over him regardless of whether Silver is there with it. At times, when Lilia is drifting off to sleep, he stirs at the sound of a keening wail, eyes fluttering open the tiniest bit to see drifting sleeves covering a crest-shaped face as the Phantom sobs, so unlike the centuries’ worth of hostile Phantoms recorded in history books.

The sight of its face never fails to make Lilia’s heart skip a beat either, the symbol familiar to him. The royal crest of his former enemies from centuries ago — a lingering proof of a heritage Silver cannot deny.

The Phantom weeps and wails whenever it thinks Lilia isn’t listening, isn’t awake. The sound always tears at his heart; this creature is a part of Silver, stoic and resolute, locked into his role as a guard by the one-track mind nature of his overblot.

So what does it mean then, to listen to its harrowing cries?

With little else to do, Lilia thinks.

He thinks about the dreams he experienced, the ones Malleus so graciously gifted to him. His mood sours whenever he remembers them, lips pressing thin at the hazy memories of Malleus whisking everyone to sleep with an utterance of his unique magic, plunging them all under his spell. Lilia had done and said so many things that he now regrets, looking back in hindsight; he had not recognised Silver under the thick of the magic, treating him with a callous cruelty he laments to the very core of his soul.

The way he’d rejected the prospect of ever having a child, a family. The way he’d repeatedly told Silver to call him anything other than Father. The way he’d revealed the truth he never wanted Silver to ever know — that of his heritage, of the absolute hatred Lilia had felt towards him far, far in the past, loathing the child and all that it stood for.

He feels sick again.

The thing is. The thing is. Back then, when he’d broken into the nursery and held the screaming child by its neck, about to kill it, Lilia hadn’t known just what it would grow to mean to him someday. There is a distinct difference between the child of the Knight of Dawn, and Silver, his son, in his mind, even if they are ultimately one and the same.

He regrets it so badly, all of it, all of what he did in his dreams. Because even though his precise memories are foggy, Lilia is certain that his little show in the nursery had been the tipping point for Silver, the exact moment where Malleus came for him again and whisked him away, swallowing him into the darkness that trailed them all throughout their dreams.

If Lilia had not done what he did, real or not, Silver would not have overblotted.

But whenever he tries to breach the subject, tries to bring it up when Silver stands by his door, Phantom lurking at his side, he gets shut down. Lilia slings his legs over the side of his bed, and says, “Silver. About what happened in my dream—” before Silver’s head snaps up, and he immediately interrupts him.

“It is of no concern to me,” Silver always says. “It does not matter. It’s unimportant.” All the different variations of the same phrase: Silver does not care about what happened, dismissing it easily and leaving Lilia to stew in a steaming heap of his own miserable guilt.

And when Lilia tries to press even further, Silver leaves his post. He strides over, resolute and steadfast as always, as a prim and proper knight should be. And then, standing in front of Lilia, he rests his hand gently on his shoulder, shushing Lilia with the tiny gesture. “Please do not concern yourself with it, Father,” Silver always says, so kind, so gentle, even in his dire state. “It does not bother me anymore.”

It’s that last word that lingers with Lilia. Anymore. That there was a point of time where it meant something awful to Silver, except now, that feeling is buried, and the both of them are worse off for it.

Lilia still desires to speak with Silver about his dream, a thousand questions lingering on his tongue.

But Silver always dismisses him. He tells him it is insignificant. He coaxes him to rest. He promises to protect him from Malleus.

It only ever makes Lilia feel worse, in the end.

“I-I should be the one protecting you, Silver! You— You should not be doing this, you should not be overblotting for my sake!” Frenetic words that burst forth from his lips cut through the air. Lilia feels his grip on the side of his bed curl tighter, fingers trembling as he clutches the sheets hard. How long has it been? Time doesn’t move, never moves; there is no concrete answer, except that it feels like an eternity and beyond.

And Lilia is sick of it. He’s sick of seeing his son dressed as a knight, of the disgusting mounds of cloying blot forming the plates of his void-dark armour. He’s sick of waking again and again and again, and always glancing over to the door to see him still there, unmoving, always remaining in the same place, his Phantom swishing around his motionless body.

Silver tilts his head the slightest bit at that, glowing eyes peering over at Lilia, the barest glint sparking within those dull pupils. “No, Father,” he utters, voice calm — and Lilia hates it, hates the lack of emotion, the way his ability to read Silver has suddenly, abruptly, been cut off. “It is my duty to protect you from him—”

“NO, IT’S NOT!”

The scream erupts through the air, bouncing off the walls, circling around the room. Lilia shakes his head, over and over and over again. He stumbles off the bed, staggers his way over to Silver, the tornado of chaotic emotions tearing through him from the inside-out finally reaching its peak. Gloved hands clasp around Silver’s shoulders, causing the knight to still in his movements from where he was beginning to move, automatically heading to push Lilia back towards the bed.

“You shouldn’t have to do this for me,” Lilia whispers, and oh, he feels something wet sliding down his cheeks. His emotions have finally collapsed, it seems. He tilts his head forward, forehead coming to rest against the cool, blot-slick armour of Silver’s torso. “You… you’re my son. You shouldn’t have to guard me like this. I can take care of myself, Silver.”

Silence.

“Please,” Lilia breathes. “Please let me help you.” He cannot stand this anymore, cooped up in this room, awake from Malleus’ throes of unending dreams purely because of his son. Lilia is only spared from going back under because it is Silver who stands in Malleus’ way, barring him from returning and weaving the threads of dreams to cloak Lilia with once more.

And for a while, there is nothing. Nothing except for the soft sound of Silver’s breathing. Lilia can feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest, faint behind the thick metal of his ink-formed chestplate — he clings to it like a lifeline, proof that he is still alive, even with the way the blot has infested him, wrapping thin tendrils of darkness around his son’s mind.

Cool hands come to press against his chest, pushing him backwards the slightest bit. Lilia stumbles, only to be cushioned by light fabric. Twisting his head around, he spies the Phantom behind him, pink and flowing, its ghostly sleeves curling around Lilia’s shoulders, tangling around his neck in a knot.

“Silver,” Lilia whispers. “Silver, please.”

Silver only smiles. “You’ve taken such good care of me all my life, Father. You’ve protected me, even though you did not need to.” And oh, Lilia feels his heart fracture at that, splintering into tiny shards; it is the closest Silver, overblotted as he is, has ever gotten to acknowledging Lilia’s wretched dreams of his war-torn past, of the revelations in the nursery. Reaching for his hands, Silver guides him back to his prison of a bed with tiny hands, the Phantom pulling him along with its entangled sleeves trapping him in place.

“Just let me protect you now,” Silver murmurs, as the Phantom pulls away, still hovering over Lilia’s curled form, little keening cries spilling from the cracks in its crest-shaped head. “Just let me repay you for everything you’ve ever done.”

Lilia raises his head. His eyes flit to Silver, who leans down at his side, still so tranquil, as though he truly is at peace with the idea of serving Lilia like this — a shift in their dynamic that chills his blood. His eyes flit to the Phantom, at his other side, still burbling little noises, dress pink as a rose, basking in his presence.

His eyes flick to the opening before him, the gap between the two of them — the straight path ahead of him to the unguarded door.

And before he can even stop to think, Lilia is off.

In a flash, he’s sprinting over to the bedroom door. His gloved hand wrenches the doorknob, twisting it and flinging the door wide open with a loud SLAM! Lilia sucks in a breath, hand brushing against the jamb of the door before he rushes out into the dark hallway, thick, twisting throngs of thorns creeping all over the walls, eerie in the dim glow of green-lit scones.

“MALLEUS!” Lilia screams, lungs aching as he calls for the perpetrator of this entire bloody mess, and the one person Silver is guarding him from. His lips wrench into a snarl as he moves forward, steps hurried, trying to put a distance between him and his son; Lilia’s heart throbs in agony at the thought of abandoning him, of upsetting him, but he cannot stand to look upon Silver, loyal and devoted to the point of blindness, any longer.

He stumbles over thick vines, trips over slumbering bodies sprawled out all over the floor. Lilia grits his teeth, readying another screech for the blasted fae prince to appear, when strong arms seize him from behind. In an instant, Lilia is kicking, thrusting frantically, but it is to no avail. He hears the Phantom shrieking, can see droplets of blot fly through the air, can hear a frenzied swishing of fabric.

“Please,” he begs Silver as he feels himself getting dragged backwards, back to his room. “Please, Silver, you have to let me go. Let me talk to Malleus, let me handle this.”

But Silver does not budge, never budges, pulling him back through the open door and back to that forsaken bed. The Phantom shuts the door as Silver presses him against the mattress, face consumed by worry as his hands brush all over Lilia’s body, checking for any injuries with a featherlight touch. “You will stay,” Silver insists again, words that Lilia has heard so many times that he has long since lost count. “I can protect you here. I will protect you here, from him. So… please, Father. Please don’t go.”

Silver’s voice warbles with the plea, a vulnerability exposed in those shaking words. His hands grip Lilia tightly, as though terrified to let go.

And what can Lilia do but lie there, squeezing his eyes shut so he no longer has to see the absolute agony and betrayal swirling about in those auroral eyes, once beautiful but now so dull?

It’s awful. It’s loving. It’s a sickening caricature of devotion. Silver’s mind remains fully focused on one thing, and one thing only—

And Lilia hates it, all of it.