#hi ! i hope this is alright | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

spacedace · 8 months ago

Text

Got inspired by the below tiktok and the idea of the Rogues killing the Joker in revenge for Jason instead of Bruce and had to write about it.

Here, have probably way too many words (with more to come most likely, this really won't leave me alone) of the Rogue's feelings about Jason's death at the Joker's hands and everything that followed.

(also I know the timeline is a bit screwy, shhh just go with it, we're going on vibes with this one lol)

Childhood was not held universally sacred in the dark streets of Gotham.

The city was hard and cruel and she didn’t care about the ages of those that were ground up and spit out in her oily black heart.

A kid could slit your throat as easy as a man grown in a place like their fine city, maybe easier even for those who still fell for the ideal of children being incapable of anything but innocence and sweetness. Children learned from the world around them though, they learned from the savagery that filled their world, the hard scrabble desperate attempts to survive. They learned what dark corners to avoid, which ones were safer to skitter down.

It didn’t mean there weren’t still some rules of decency to be honored though.

Most folks, even those in the circle of the Rogues, largely left kids out of the equation. Crossfire happened of course, hitting busy city centers always meant some kind of collateral. But there wasn’t much that they got out of purposefully hurting kids outside a black mark on their name in most levels of the grungy underbelly of the city and one hell of a big target on their back. Both from the Bat and those criminals in the dark with them that took offense to those kinds of things. They were crooks, but with few exceptions they weren’t complete monsters.

Robin had always held an interesting place in their grungy little ecosystem. Anything to do with the Bat was generally ruled as gloves-off, do what you do without hesitation. And Robin - both of ‘em - had no problem hitting hard and being ruthless. The first one in particular had a feral sort of rage to him that was a terrifying thing to be on the business end of.

But they were still kids.

Defending yourself from any kid swinging on you was fair game, a person had the right to defend themselves. Grabbing up Robin to hold hostage or bait Gotham’s local cryptid, that was all fine and dandy. You could even get away with roughing the kid up a little here and there, so long as you made sure not to go too far and always kept hits to where the kid’s armor was the thickest. No hard and fast written rules, mind, but general rules of thumbs. Lines indistinct due to the shaky ground a child dancing through the night as a vigilante left all of them on, but ones clear enough that you knew when you were at risk of going too far.

Besides, the Robins were good kids. Fucking feral little shits, of course, able to leave you bleeding just as easy from a kick as they were a sharp word. But good kids. Even most the Rogues in the Gallery liked em. It was hard not to be at least a little fond of a gutsy little punk like that.

Though they were all maybe a tad less nervous around Robin II than they were the original.

Robin I had a lot of anger burning in him, a lot of anger in him, but he was still a cheerful boy with a bright attitude that was refreshing in a world so bleak and dark as the one they all lived in. It was up in the air which was scarier about the kid: The smiled he gave when he was about to give a hands on demonstration about how much force a tiny ten year old could put into a kick when they had half a dozen spins shoved into a flip to wind up to 80 miles an hour, or the flash of his teeth when he was demonstrating the knife sharp brilliance of his belief that Batman was only as frightening as Robin was hopeful.

They weren’t sure if he realized that sometimes they felt a helluva lot more hope at the sight of the Bat when the little bird was putting the hurt on them, or if he’d simply folded that fact neatly into his core philosophy without issue.

Robin II on the other hand had this kind of quiet shyness to him - even as he was shouting the most inventive swears ever heard by human ear at someone while he kicked them in the balls hard enough to make ‘em see not just the face of their own god but a few dozen besides. He was just as unhinged as the Robin before him - seemed to be a requirement for the job really - but there was a distinct different in how the two birds flitted about the darkened skyline of the city. Where the first Robin’s smile was as much danger as it was dazzle, a fanged declaration of victory against the dark, Robin II’s was a sunny, stubborn declaration of perseverance. Kid was sassy and smart, and never - ever - flinched away from extending a hand to those he thought in need of it.

Even if the folks he offered that hand to were in the middle of an attack on some fancy Gala or Wayne Enterprises or whatever target of the week it was. Even knowing the offered hand was likely to be slapped away and followed by a right hook. Kid still always tried.

They all knew why.

The Bat was big on offering chances, on rehabilitation rather than damnation. Some of Robin II being the way he was came from the broody cryptid he followed around. But Batman couldn’t claim to be the sole reason for Robin II being the way he was, couldn’t even pretend to be the cause of most of it. Nah, they knew why the little bird was the way he was.

That unmistakable thick accent. That frame that was always a little too thin even as he got older and stronger. That unshakable, headstrong spirit.

Robin II was an Alley Kid.

A true child of Gotham.

Her polluted waters in his veins. Her smoggy air in his lungs. Her shadows clinging to his edges less like a beast looking to swallow a small bird up and more like a protective mother hiding her hatchling. He understood the world most of them came from. The one they all lived in. Knew it in a way anyone who hadn’t been swallowed up by the dark never really could.

Everyone had their favorite, but even those that claimed the first Robin as theirs couldn’t deny that Robin II was someone to be respected. Nor could they deny a fondness for the chain smoking, classic lit referencing, perpetually baby-faced little shit. They’d all had knock out drag out fights with the kid and knew how fucking unhinged the puny motherfucker could be in a fight, but he always tempered it with offers of resources, of a listening ear, of understanding.

He visited them after they’d been arrested sometimes. In Arkham, or Blackgate or wherever else they’d been locked up in after being stopped by the Dynamic Duo. The little bird would make the rounds whenever he had a broken wing or was stuck waiting as the Bat interrogated someone else or for any other reason he wasn’t out flitting about the city skyline at night. He’d bring cookies or snacks and even cigarettes from his own secret stash on the rare occasion, mask unable to hide the furtive glances around to check for the living shadow that was the disapproving Bat.

The Rogues and their Goons always had a soft spot for the Robins. And Robin II made it especially easy to let fondness bleed out of them from time to time. He was a good kid.

But childhood was not held universally sacred in the dark streets of Gotham.

Bad things happened to good kids all the time.

And some of the monsters that lurked in the city’s darkest shadows took the black mark of a kid killer as a point of pride.

Robin II disappeared one day. Just after that piece of shit Garzonas took the fast way down from the top of a tall building. There were a lot of Rogues with doctoral degrees to their names but even those Goons that dropped out of school before they learned to spell their own names could do that math.

The big bad Bat had benched the boy after the fierce little bird had done what any decent member of the criminal underbelly would have. There were those that thought maybe it’d been an accident, that the kid was pulled off duty because of being too upset at unintentionally crossing the heavy line the Bat drew in the sand. Those voices were drowned out pretty quick though.

Sure, Robin II was all about second chances, of doing better, of redemption. But Garzonas had chances to spare and only ever spat in the face of those offering them. Doubled down on being a monster in a way very, very few of the Rogues Gallery would. The kid was a sweetheart, but he wasn’t no push over and there were some things so heinous that there was only one way of handling them. Crime Alley had its own kind of justice system, and when faced with a monster that was beyond even Batman’s jurisdiction, Robin II did what he always did: fell back on his roots.

Or so the rumors said, at least.

That was the thing about Gotham’s seedy underbelly. It was a grimy, wretched nest of vipers and cut-throats, but it was also worse than any beauty parlor when it came to gossip. No one actually knew anything other than that piece of shit motherfucker took a dive while Robin was chasing him and that he’d not been seen on the streets since. But most had a fondness for the kid, and a distaste for the kind of cruelty Garzonas reveled in and there was no proof that Robin hadn’t gone and done the world a favor by drop kicking that barbaric sack of shit off a roof. So as far as most in the Gallery were concerned, the little bird had stepped up and been a hero.

Time passed. Not a lot. But enough. The Bat disappeared too, popping up on an entire other continent in a way that was awfully tempting. Even with other Masks playing baby sitter while the local cryptid was away. Rogues were scrambling to set plans in motion, Goons getting hired en masse, weapons and weird chemicals getting delivered to shady places across Gotham by the truck-full. The criminal underbelly was abuzz with the same excited energy of children the day before a big birthday party.

And then the news came in.

There were people in the dark who made their living finding things out. Knowing things that no one else did or could. Some even specialized, keeping tabs on Batman and Robin better than anyone else in the business were able. And when the information they found wasn’t anything handy to have tucked into a back pocket or a secret they were paid extremely well to keep? They held on to with the same tenacity a sieve clung to water.

Robin II had run off across the globe and ended up in Ethiopia. Something to do with a doctor doing aid work, the same something that had the Bat end up there was the assumption. Kid ran off to handle things himself or was sent on a separate path on purpose for some plan or other the Bat had cooked up on his hunt.

Whatever the reason, the kid crossed paths with the Clown.

Alone.

Childhood was not held universally sacred in the dark streets of Gotham. The city was hard and cruel and she didn’t care about the ages of those that were ground up and spit out in her oily black heart. But Robin II was hers, the child of her heart, an exception to the rule. And besides, most folks - even those in the Rogues Gallery - largely left the purposeful harm of kids out of the equation.

The Joker wasn’t most folks.

And the little bird was a long way away from the protective shadows of his mother city.

The Rogues and their Goons always had a soft spot for the Robins. And Robin II made it especially easy to let fondness bleed out of them from time to time. He was a good kid.

When the news broke, it broke most of them right along with it.

Plans stalled. Schemes ended. Gotham, for an unnervingly quiet stretch of time that neither its civilians or the world at large understood, went still. Crime continued, of course, but the big names weren’t seen. It was only right, by the standards of those that lived their lives in the dark, that they hold off and give the man that fought them all so relentlessly over the past years the time he needed to focus on hunting down the monster that killed his son. He didn’t need the distraction, and they all owed it to Robin II not to interfere while the Bat at last put a final end to the Clown.

And the hellish cryptid would need his full focus on this one. The Joker wasn’t one to take lightly at the best of times, but he’d set himself up neatly in the middle of a nasty bear trap. Ugly and complicated in the way everything with the Clown was. Interference from the CIA, from the UN, from Superman.

Shit went down. People heard about the Bat and the Clown throwing down in a helicopter plummeting from the sky in one hell of a water landing. Big Blue fished Batman out of the drink before he could drown but there’d been no sign of the Joker.

But the Bat would find him.

They all knew the relentless bastard would find him. It was just a matter of time. With the hellish drive of a demon straight from Gotham’s darkest shadows, the Bat would track the grinning, child killing ghoul down and make right the terrible wrong the evil motherfucker had done. Batman would hunt him to the ends of the earth and enact the justice he held up so fiercely. Robin II would have the vengeance the kid so rightly deserved.

It was just a matter of time. So they waited. And waited.

Days.

Weeks.

Months.

The Clown still lived.

The world, impossibly, began to move on. The Bat returned to his lurking in the night, picking off gangs and petty crooks and no-name gangsters as if nothing had happened at all. More vicious, more savage, but failing to turn that rise in brutality into the killing blow against the one figure that so rightly deserved it.

No one knew what was happening. There were rumors and theories, as there always were in the underground. Some thought that it wasn’t the Bat at all back in Gotham but someone else pretending for awhile, looking after his neglected city while he continued his pursuit of the Joker. Other held that it was the Bat but the whole thing was a ploy to draw the Clown out into the open. A pretense at not caring meant to get under the Clown’s skin, make the asshole mad enough to get stupid and sloppy and reveal himself.

That the man simply had given up was beyond comprehension. Beyond what any upstanding Rogue could accept. So it simply couldn’t be true. There was a trick being played. Some brilliant game of 4D chess that none of them had been able to parse out. It’d be revealed in time, and they see the brilliant trap that had been set. The Clown would be lured out, the Bat would put him down for good, and then they’d all at last raise a glass to the little bird that had been shot down far too soon and smoke shitty cigarettes and quote literary masters and mourn the loss one of Gotham’s own true children.

They just had to play along. Stumbling forward back into their usual habits, pretending that it was a choice and not the world just forcibly dragging them along. It’d make sense, eventually. The Bat had a plan. Robin II wasn’t forgotten, his killer not left free to roam and ravage unpunished for what he’d done.

And then one day there was a new bird flitting across the rooftops.

Chasing the Bat’s looming frame like a reverse shadow. Bright flashes of color in contrast to the bleak darkness of Gotham’s grimy nights. Small and thin and young.

Not the first Robin. With his showman bright grin and bloody rage and unwavering belief in the terrifying power of hope. Not the brilliant, vicious little boy that they’d seen grow over the years into the fierce and fearless Nightwing.

Not Robin II either.

Not Gotham’s soft hearted little bruiser with his unshakable belief that people could be better if given the chance, shinning so bright in the dark as he held out a hand that even the Rogues had no choice but to believe right along with him sometimes. Not the tough little songbird they’d never get to see grow up. Unavenged and unhonored. Put in a box and buried in the ground with a name none of them would ever know carved into a stone they’d never be able to visit.

No.

It was a new Robin.

A new child with the R emblazoned upon his chest.

Sharp and quick and young in the way the birds always were when they started flying at the Bat’s side. Every inch of the boy’s tiny frame a tragedy and an insult. One very, very few of Gotham’s vicious underbelly were willing to tolerate.

Childhood was not held universally sacred in the dark streets of Gotham, but there was a damn big difference between holding something sacred and not giving a damn about it at all. There were rules unspoken but understood, a way things were done. Nothing so solid or concrete as a code of conduct, more a collection of time honored traditions. Blood for blood was among the oldest and truest, and the more precious the person taken the more vital and vicious payment was to be made in kind.

The Clown had killed Robin II.

Beaten the kid half to death and then finished the job with a bomb.

Everyone knew he’d done it laughing all the way.

The Bat should have done the same in kind. Done worse. It was justice, it was what was right. You kill a kid you’re marked forever. You kill one so well liked and kill ‘em like that and you’re destined for a cruel and cold death. The Bat had first dibs. It was his kid. It was his right to put an end to that awful laughter and let his son have peace at last.

But he never did.

Nightwing had. For a bit. For a moment.

Robin I, who half the time had scared them all more than the Bat ever could. Dazzling and dizzying and dangerous. Gave back the pain and hurt the Clown had forced upon him with clenched fists and bone shattering hits. They were glad for him, that he was able to beat the monster who had taken his little brother from him to death, that he was able to have such justice.

And then the Bat stepped in.

Revived the fucking Clown.

A slap in the face. The snapping crack of a spine beneath one straw too many. The final, unforgivable insult the man had dared visit upon not just the child taken from him but the entirety of Gotham.

The Rogues and their Goons always had a soft spot for the Robins. Respected their ferocity, admired their moxie, marveled at their ability to keep shining in the dark like they did. Robin II made it especially easy to let fondness bleed out of the city’s dirty criminal underbelly from time to time.

He was a good kid.

He deserved better.

Better than the silence and peace he should be granted in death to be marred by the mad cackles of his killer still running around alive and unpunished. Better than his father giving up, returning to the same old routine as if nothing had happened at all. Better than the Bat snatching up a new bird less than a year later.

Gotham and her Rogues had given the Bat time enough to do what needed to be done.

It was their turn.

#batman #batman au #batman rogues #batman rouges gallery #dc penguin #dick grayson #jason todd #jason todd robin #dick grayson robin #bruce wayne #the joker #tim drake #dc robin #gotham city #open season au #i don't go in for Jason being the 'angry' robin or the 'violent' robin #he was the lil chainsmoking ball of sunshin robin that made sure to do his homework first before going out to fight crime #dick was the scariest robin because he was BOTH incredibly violent & full of rage AND a ball of sunshine & unrelenting hope #Jason was a Gotham kid (an Alley Kid) and I think a lot of the rogues would have respected that #dick got his respect by teaching them how many of their bones a tiny 9 year old could break in a single kick #feel like there's a scene in the extended au in which Tim gets kidnapped but instead of being held for ransom or threatened #it's just the Rogues aggressively mother-henning him and trying to make sure he's alright #Dick gets a call from Harley later that the newest Robin is fine he and Riddler are coming up with deadly traps together #No she doesn't see anything wrong with that - it's just some enrichment activities for them - why do you ask?

533 notes · View notes

skyward-floored · 11 days ago

Text

Whumptober Day 24 - Equipment failure

I give Four (especially Vio) a Bad Time!!

I'm so behind on these, but I’m determined to finish, so don't be worried about that. I WILL get these done, even if it takes until thanksgiving 😤

...hopefully it won’t though.

Warnings: mental anguish/issues (magically induced), brief injury

Ao3 link

————————————————————

Four knew swords.

Strong swords, weak swords, big and small, light and heavy, he knew them all. Four wasn’t a master at blacksmithing like his grandpa yet, but his knowledge was pretty good, he thought. Especially when it came to his own sword.

The Four Sword had been a beauty from day one, even before it had been the Four Sword. After three adventures with the blade, ones where he'd helped forge the sword itself, and make it more powerful, Four knew every single inch of it. He could tell when the balance was off, knew the moment it needed to be sharpened. Saw every fleck of dirt, and cleaned ever speck of blood from the metal, rubbing it down and polishing it bright.

Four knew his sword more than he felt like he knew himself sometimes.

Which was why when Vio desperately raised his sword to block a swing from a spiked ball, he more felt the sword crack rather than heard it.

Pain hit like a bolt of lightning to his heart, and Vio gasped, dropping to a knee. He saw the others stumble in his periphery, Blue missing a swing, Red crying out, Green clutching at his chest.

“What was that?!” Blue yelled, but Vio couldn’t reply, out of breath from the sear of pain and trying to keep himself alive in the meantime.

The knight with the ball and chain continued to advance on him, and Vio struggled backwards, nearly screaming as what felt like jagged cracks shifted around in his chest. The knight seemed to smirk at him, and Vio hissed in pain. The weapon must have been enchanted, no regular weapon would be able to crack the four sword, even only a fourth of it.

Infected. Must be.

Vio grunted as his hand slipped, scraping his palm as he tried to back away. He knew he needed to assess the damage to himself and his sword, figure out what to do about it and keep his weapon safe in the meantime, but also his sword was the only weapon he had right now.

He’d lost his shield. The knight kept getting closer.

And his sword had a crack that spiderwebbed right down the middle of the blade.

“Vio!” Red called in a panic, watching as the spiky ball nearly crushed him again. “Hold on, we’re coming!”

Red was stuck battling his own enemies, as was everyone, but Green managed to make it over to where Vio was struggling, throwing his shield out to block a vicious swing.

“The sword...” Green said, sucking in a breath, staring at Vio’s blade. “Vio...”

“I know,” Vio forced out through the pain squeezing his chest. “We can f-figure it out later, we have to—”

The spiked ball slammed against Green’s shield, and he grunted, feet skidding through the dirt as he nearly fell on top of Vio.

“Where is everyone?” Vio bit out, and Green looked out at the battle, then back at the monster they were fighting.

“They’re all upstream, by that big collapsed tower,” Red shouted, having heard the question. “Too far for help!”

“We don’t need it!” Blue growled, slamming his hammer into a stalfos and shattering it to pieces. “We’re almost done with these goons.”

“Not the knight though!” Green said through gritted teeth, and Vio ducked under a swing, his fingers shaking where they clutched his sword. “Vio’s sword is cracked! Would one of you get over h— whoa!”

The spiked ball slammed into Green’s shield, launching him away from where he was protecting Vio. He yelped as he went flying into the nearby stream, and Vio stared up at the knight, breath rasping as he tried to scrabble backwards.

His back hit a large piece of ruin, and Vio clutched his sword as the knight swung his chain back, preparing to launch the ball forward. Blue and Red both shouted his name, and Vio swallowed, then watched as if in slow motion as the ball and chain swung forward.

But the same time, he gathered his meager strength and lunged forward, a yell escaping him as he plunged his sword into a gap in the trooper’s armor.

The ball and chain trooper howled, stumbling backwards, but Vio held on despite the cracks shifting around in his chest, blood roaring in his ears. Vio worked on logic, but despite his brain screaming at him to let go, he kept his sword buried to the hilt, his vision sparking, body cracking.

The trooper finally fell to its knees, dark blood pooling, and Vio felt another sudden crack, one that made his vision split into jagged shards.

Pain slammed into him and Vio screamed, something deep inside him cracking, unsettled, unraveling and deeply, deeply wrong—

The trooper fell, someone screamed his name, Vio’s hand clutched the blade as a blinding flash of color lit up the clearing and then

gl i t

c h

...

(...)

Twilight climbed over a fallen pillar, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he looked around. Everyone was busy patching themselves up from the battle, but Twilight hadn’t seen Four come back yet.

He’d seen him split from the main group to go chase off some skeletons, but Twilight had thought he was right over here. Four would know better than to go too far, but he didn't seem to be here anywhere. Where could he have gone?

Twilight scanned the small clearing next to the stream, stepping around ruins and monster parts and blood. He was beginning to get downright concerned when his eyes finally caught on something that wasn’t stone or blood, and he gasped.

Four was curled up in the fetal position on the ground, his breath coming out in short gasps. His hands were clutched in his hair and there was a small puddle of vomit beside his head, and Twilight scrambled over the ruins and to his side, already scanning for injuries.

“Four, Four what happened?” Twilight breathed, brushing Four’s hair away from his face. He’d expected blood, but all he saw were Four’s eyes, rolled back in his head so far he could barely see the irises.

Twilight frowned and carefully tilted Four’s head up, then sucked in a sharp breath.

There was a jagged line running down Four’s face, purple and oddly shiny. It cut across his face like a scar, and different ideas of what had happened began whirling through Twilight’s mind, each more terrifying then the next.

He hesitated, then lightly touched the line with the pad of his thumb.

Four keened in distress, startling Twilight as he jerked away from him, and his eyes rolled around unsettlingly, limbs twitching. Twilight froze, and suddenly realized Four’s tunic was missing a square, the place where the purple should be oddly tarnished.

“What the...” he whispered, brushing a hand over it as Four stilled.

Four whimpered, and Twilight glanced to the side and saw Four’s sword sitting nearby. He leaned over and picked it up, and frowned. The blade was lacking the shine it usually held, strangely dull, something about the color just... off.

And he knew Four had split before running off.

“Link? Can you hear me?” Twilight tried again, carefully pulling Four up into his arms. Four just curled up tighter, mumbling something under his breath so rapidly that Twilight had no clue what it was. It grew in volume though, and Twilight listened in dismay as Four’s voice rose.

“Don’t know what— why can I hear— stop panicking, it’s not— why are we—”

Four’s disjointed sentence broke into another keen, and he curled into a ball, pressing his head to his knees.

“Fix it fix it— can’t! He’s missing— head hurts— Green what’s—”

Four wailed, then went limp so abruptly Twilight jumped, and he hurriedly checked to make sure he was still breathing. Four’s heartbeat was fast, but it was there, and Twilight ran a hand along his cheek where the line wasn’t.

What had happened?

A different groan came from nearby, and Twilight’s head shot up, his ears pricking. He leaned his head around the piece of ruin that was next to Four, his hand hovering near his weapon, then stared.

Vio lay motionless on the ground a few feet away.

Twilight looked rapidly between the two Fours, brain going a mile a minute as he tried to quickly process the sight, then cautiously scooted over and touched Vio’s shoulder.

“Hey, Vio,” he said, still holding the other Four tight. “Vio, wake up bud.”

The violet fourth of the smithy groaned, then twitched as his eyelids flickered.

“Vio, what happened? Why aren’t you... in Four? How is this possible?” Twilight asked worriedly once he looked at him, eyes exhausted. “Are you hurt?”

Vio’s breath hitched.

“The sword...” Vio rasped, ignoring Twilight’s questions. His hand shakily reached through the grass. “Ran...cher, get Le...”

His breath caught, and Vio’s hand clutched weakly at the handle of something hidden by the grass. Twilight reached forward to look at it, and sucked in a sharp breath at the cracked blade of Vio’s sword. It looked like it was barely holding together. He ran a finger over the purplish lines spiderwebbed across the metal, and Vio jerked like he'd been struck, a rattling gasp escaping him.

Twilight quickly drew back, and looked at Four and Vio, then between the two swords.

Four was only three. He’d merged without Vio somehow, and the cracks had something to do with it.

Twilight blinked hard, and swallowed, running a hand over Vio's head. How this was even possible was beyond him, but Four was in trouble. He didn’t have to know magic to see that.

"Twi," Vio rasped again, and Twilight immediately focused his attention back on him. "Le...gend. Sword. Know... fix."

"You need your sword fixed? That'll fix things?" Twilight asked, and Vio confirmed it with a pained mumble. "...Legend can fix it?"

"No... j-just..." Vio rasped, then coughed, his free hand clutching at the grass. "He knows... tell... him..."

Vio trailed off with an agonized wheeze, and Twilight gently took his hand. There must be some way Legend could fix the Four Sword, or at least something here that could do it for him? This was Legend's era after all.

Maybe he knew a way to help.

Four (or should Twilight call him Three?) suddenly jerked in his arms, and Twilight yelped, quickly stopping him from falling to the ground. Four froze again, twitching oddly, eyes still rolling around, and Twilight wondered with a brief spurt of panic whether he was having some kind of seizure.

Four stilled again after a moment though, and Twilight breathed out, holding him tight, but careful to avoid the purple scar along his face.

"Okay. Okay I'll tell him. We'll fix you up, I promise," Twilight reassured.

Vio gave a pained nod, and Twilight carefully set down Four, reassuring the violet smithy he'd be right back.

Then he ran off back towards the others, fear speeding his steps.

(...)

“...take it to... trust them to fix...”

“...sure? If... this wrong...”

“...only choice. He...”

...

“Okay.”

Something touched him.

Vio stiffened, then gasped as arms carefully pulled around him, lifting him up. The broken pieces in his chest shifted around, and he choked back a cry, trying to stay still so they’d settle.

He felt shattered, cracked into pieces that would never be fixed. Something inside of him was broken, something that shouldn’t have been able to break, and it felt like it would never be fixed.

Was this how Shadow felt?

“We got you Vio, we’re fixing this,” a voice assured somewhere above him, and he tried to listen. “Legend knows a blacksmith, one who once worked on the Master Sword. He’ll be able to help.”

“O...kay,” Vio managed to croak out, and whoever had picked him up set his head on their shoulder.

Vio let out a quiet hiss of pain as the cracked pieces shifted again, and he flinched as someone else rested a hand on his head, saying something he couldn’t make out. But he was also relieved.

They’d figured out what he meant. They were bringing him to a blacksmith.

Vio’s breath hitched as whoever was holding him began to move, and his consciousness sank back under a sea of broken glass.

(...)

Vio woke up to a splitting pain in his head, like Blue had somehow smacked him with his hammer, and he cried out, trying to get away from the pain.

"Oh no— hold him!" someone cried out.

Arms grabbed Vio and he gasped, trying to stay still, but unable to stop himself from flinching violently as the pain hit again, an earth-shattering noise accompanying it.

“He’s connected to it, this must be agonizing—”

“At least the rest of him isn’t reacting—”

“Vio? Vio relax, I know it hurts,” a closer voice spoke up, and a hand rested over his. “He’s working on the sword right now, but it won’t be too long.”

Vio dragged in a raspy breath, and clenched his teeth to stop another scream as the noise slammed into him again. Right. The sword. He could handle this. It was being fixed. It hurt, but it would be a good hurt in the end. He knew what you had to do to forge a sword.

Unfortunately knowing that and living through it were two very different things.

Another hit shook through him, and Vio curled around one of the arms keeping him from thrashing, trying to take slow, steady breaths. If he weren’t in so much pain, he’d be rather interested at the physical effects currently hitting him like a hinox. He’d worked on the Four Sword before and never experienced anything like this.

Probably because this time it was actually broken, his mind whispered, and he whimpered as the sword was struck again.

A hand brushed over his head in steady motions, wiping sweat off his forehead, and smoothing wild hair. Vio tried to focus on that, not the regular pound of pain and sound that slammed into him like a physical weight.

“Hold on Link,” someone said quietly, and Vio lost himself in the steady hits of pain as the blacksmith fixed the blade tied to his very existence.

(...)

Four woke up.

He blinked slowly, a gentle light falling over his face as he tried to figure out where he was and what had happened.

A splitting headache throbbed through him, and he raised a shaking hand to his forehead, wincing as he rubbed the space between his eyes. He felt like he’d been through an avalanche or something, what had happened?

Also... hadn’t he been split before?

“Four!”

Someone took his hand, and Four squinted up at the group of blurry figures that had suddenly appeared around him. Their faces slowly swam into view, revealing themselves as the other heroes, and he saw expressions of worry and expectancy all around.

“How are you feeling, Four?” someone asked. Time, maybe.

“Drained,” he answered honestly, voice a hollow rasp. He closed his eyes, then reopened them, staring up at the others. “There was something...”

Four trailed off, and then a brief memory flickered through his mind, one split and jumbled and chock full of pain and cracks.

“My sword,” he said suddenly, and tried to sit up, arms shaking. At least three people tried to push him back down, voices overlapping with worries and admonitions, making Four’s headache worsen. “My sword,” he repeated urgently, sitting up anyway. His memories were a disaster at the moment, but he remembered feeling the crack in his chest, panic and terror and pain accompanying it.

“Here, here I’ve got it,” someone spoke up, and Four watched Legend push his way past the others, something held gently in his hands.

The Four Sword.

Whole and complete.

Four reached out with a shaking hand, and Legend gently handed it over, his face exhausted, but pleased.

“We fixed Vio’s sword up as well as we could, used the finest ore we had,” Legend explained as Four ran a hand over the blade. “I oversaw it myself. We did as much as we could with what we had, if there’s anything wrong with it it’s my fault.”

“The moment we handed it back to Vio you reformed,” Twilight said next, his hand on Four’s arm. “And you’ve been out ever since. We... weren’t sure it worked.”

“It did,” Four said softly, clutching the sword to his chest. He could tell there’d been work done on it, but the magic inside was stable and clear, four tendrils weaved intricately together working in harmony again.

It was fixed. It was whole.

Legend had sat down on the bed next to him, and Four leaned against his arm, overwhelmed with relief.

“Thank you,” he whispered, blinking back the sting in his eyes.

Legend nodded with a little smile, and Four held his sword tight as the others gathered around him, relieved and glad he was okay.

#linkeduniverse #linked universe #lu four #lu colors #lu vio #lu twilight #fic #whumptober #whumptober 2024 #no.24 #equipment failure #writing from the floor #this didn’t turn out exactly the way I wanted it to but that’s ok #at least it’s done #I hope Vio turned out alright I’ve never written from his exact perspective before

78 notes · View notes