#stay tuned for the next chapter with more sibling shenanigans

[drkmgs]

Tyler's Sibling

Chapter 2

pairings: Wednesday Addams x Reader Galpin

Warning: injured arm, scar, pain, sibling issues...

Story type: series

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Remember this story? Yeah? It's been sitting in my drafts for months, and finally, I found a way to continue it. There are definitely more chapters to come, but I still have to empty my drafts...

Stay tuned!

Kissing your brother's crush wasn't on your bucket list and if he finds out about it, he will give you hell. It's not like he hated you already. It was shocking news when he showed up today for his shift at the Weathervane. As for your luck, today is also Outreach day which means you will have Nevermore students to help out there. You thought your day couldn't get worse, but it did. Xavier Thorpe is assigned to help you out. Great. Now you're stuck with two imbeciles who despise each other and have an oddly obsession with Wednesday.

You were at the counter but you could feel the tension between the two guys and you weren't in the mood to stop them from attacking each other. You have probably more problems to deal with than them. You hear the Weathervane's door open and Wednesday Addams enters.

Xavier: I thought you were supposed to be at Pilgrim World.

Wednesday: I deserted it while my sanity was still intact.

Xavier: Oh yeah? You want a coffee? It’s one of the many perks of this wonderful assignment.

He tried to be smug and leaned against the counter, but Wednesday brushed him off.

Wednesday: I'm actually here for Tyler.

Xavier: I told you he was bad news.

Wednesday: Twice. But who I speak to is my business.

He's mood shifted and was no longer leaning on the counter. It was hard not to laugh at Xavier, but you had to keep your cool. You weren't eavesdropping, they were just talking loud enough for you to hear.

Tyler: You rang? Want the usual?

Wednesday: and some help. You know the original pilgrim meeting house, the one from the 1600s? You know if it’s still around?

Tyler: What’s left is out in Cobham Woods, but it’s pretty much a ruin.

Wednesday: Show me.

Wednesday took a map out of her bag and lay it flat on the table next to them. Your brother hesitant pointed at the location, where the ruins might be.

Tyler: Uh…There, but, look, it’s kind of sketchy. Squatters and meth heads use that place as a crash pad. My dad has it cleared out every couple weeks. What’s this about?

Wednesday: Nothing.

Tyler: You’re becoming obsessed with this monster in the woods thing.

Wednesday: Would you rather I develop an obsession with horses and boy bands? Thank you for the help.

She was about to leave when your brother offered his assistance.

Tyler: Hey, listen, the ruins are kind of tricky to find. I could take you this afternoon. My shift ends at 2:00.

Seriously, you had enough of these shenanigans. You passed by them and clean some of the tables that were left unattended. You forgot about your scar and pulled up your sleeves to not get them dirty. Sure at this point, everyone's eyes were on you. Wednesday's eyebrows furrowed at the sight and were quick to stand beside you. You felt her cold hand against your wrist, just like your first encounter, but this time she didn't go into an epileptic state. However, she did stare at your scar and examined it. She's been so caught up with the investigation that she almost forgot the vision about you. She was snapped out of her thoughts when you pulled your arm away from her, pushed your sleeve back down, and continued to clean the rest of the table.

You ignored her, pushing the curiosity about the kiss back into your mind, and went to clean more tables. All three of them just followed your actions with their gaze and after a minute Wednesday was out of the caféhouse. You sighed heavily when you see her walk out from the Weathervane into the streets. You turn around to return the used coffee mug but was met with Xavier's face inches away from yours.

Y/N: The fuck, dude.

You lean back and looked at him with furrowed eyebrows. You don't know if he trying to send you something telepathically or is searching for something on your face. You slightly pushed him away, so you could pass by him, but what he said made you stop on your tracks.

Xavier: Wednesday hates physical touch. You're the first person I've ever seen Wednesday touched. What did you do? Did you get powers overnight or what?

You turned around and raised an eyebrow at him.

Y/N: Is this jealousy talking to me? Well, I am sorry that Ms. Wednesday Addams didn't pay attention to you and found my scar far ahead interesting than your lame-ass flirting. If I got powers overnight, you'll be the first one to know.

You left him with that and marched back behind the counter to get the cups cleaned. You were about to rinse them when your scar started to sting awfully painful. You dropped the cup which alerted Xavier who was still standing where you left him, that's when you realized your brother was nowhere to be seen. When did he sneak out? How did he sneak out? He's going to be in so much trouble, you thought, but that's for later on because you're almost on the ground hanging onto the sink to keep your composure, it didn't help with the pain dragging you down. You can see Xavier staring at you with worry and don't know what to do look.

Y/N: Help me sit on the ground, you imbecile!

You snapped at him for just standing there and not helping you to sit down, but you were glad to snap him out of his trance, and he gently helped you sit down on the ground. You cling onto your arm for dear life and prayed that the pain stops any minute now. Xavier can see your limped arm shaking and that you were in real pain.

Xavier: Shit. Don't you have any medication?

You shook your head, still clinging onto your arm, you almost banged your head against the wall, because of the pain. Then you both heard the door open and close.

:Mr. Thrope. Where's Tyler and Y/N?

You hear your father's voice and walk up to the counter. You were about to call him, but the pain beats you to it and you let out a painful groan. That's when you see him rushing past Xavier and sitting next to you. He pulled you in his arms and tried to console you.

Donovan: It's going to be alright. You're going to be fine. I have got you. Xavier, Where is Tyler for God's sake?!

Xavier was about to answer him. When your brother emerged from behind him with shock on his face. Xavier and Sheriff Galpin had their eyebrows furrowed at him. Sheriff Galpin was ready to curse the fuck out of him for leaving his sibling alone, but he felt you relaxed in his arms, and he knew you'll pass out for holding the pain for too long. Sheriff Galpin sighed.

Donovan: Tyler, you stay here until closing hours. I'm bringing Y/N home. Give me their coat.

Tyler passed him your coat. He put it over you to cover the unconscious you and carried you out of the caféhouse into his truck. This didn't go unnoticed by a Wednesday Addams, who was drenched in rain. She watched Sheriff Galpin drive away with furrowed eyebrows. As she enters the Weathervane, she finds Tyler and Xavier in a discussion.

Xavier: How can you not know what is happening to your sibling? Their arm was shaking uncontrollably and they passed out because of pain!

Tyler: Stop pestering me! I don't know what you're talking!

Wednesday: Y/N passed out? When was that?

Wednesday interjected their discussion. Xavier turned to her.

Xavier: You're drenched.

Wednesday: Answer my question.

Xavier: Uh like 10-15 minutes ago?

With that information, Wednesday left the Weathervane. She had a lot of questions in her mind and the only one who can answer them is you. The visions she had. You getting attacked by the same monster that saved her. You passed out while the monster showed up in front of her. Are you and this monster connected by any chance? She needs to know.

taglist:

@lukam8 @shygirl1925 @maria-403 @smromanoff

[chasingpj]

really excited for the twins to meet their mom, and Nico! Maybe later in the series you could do a filler chapter or an extra where they meet Magnus chase like in (slight spoilers) the ship of the dead where alex, Magnus, percy, and annabeth meet up? I hope to see a little more Thalia (bc i love her sm, and i know she was in like one scene), and more sibling interactions with her, Atticus, and Lou Ellen. I hope this helped even just a little bit xeni!!

ooo! yeah, i'm excited for them to meet their mom too even though it's gonna be a while until they do. i'm still debating on the circumstance of their first meeting actually but i have time to decide.

and ahh! i like that idea. Having them be involved in the other stories of thr riordanverse! i need to read the books though, so i'll try and speed up my very slow reading of the HOO series 😭

I'll try to insert more of thalia in these next couple of chapters since at the end of TTC she joins the hunters and we don't see her again for a while. and yes, you'll see plenty of shenanigans between lou, atticus and y/n soon! especially when i get to BOTL and TLO! they go on a super important quest together during BOTL so stay tuned!

[fistsoflightning]

14: hero’s journey

prompt: part || masterpost || other fills || ao3 mirror

word count: 4813 (i DONT want to talk about how long this is)

You are not simply a hero, but this is still your journey, and the parts of you are waiting along the way. All you have to do is take them.

DRK shenanigans, anyone? Note: distinctly not canon-DRK things ahead, hopefully still keeping the same emotional sort of weight? Also, second person POV! There’s no spoilers because this is just me going off on a tangent :P

Someone had noted—an age old teacher, perhaps, memories inlaid deep onto your crystal—that grief causes the greatest oddities to occur. Simulacrums formed of it weren’t so uncommon as one might be led to believe with a surplus of aether and enough love turned sour.

You just weren’t expecting to be one of them.

Like wildfires, you expect to fade back into the darkness of the abyss easily enough; the hands of such a young knight wouldn’t be able to bear being stained so pitch-black, you think, not when she glows with Halone’s blessing and something even more. Her hands leave freezer burns over the facets of your crystal, frosty fog forming as she keeps training, keeps hunting down more and more aevis until there’s nothing left. Even Ishgard’s worst blizzards fail to stand up against the winter storm of her fury.

Must be some sort of rebellion, violent and reckless as it is. You sit back (as much as a distant flame in the abyss can, anywho) and wait until the worst of her temper fizzles back into snowmelt—which, obviously, doesn’t happen like you assumed, otherwise you wouldn’t be here, now would you?

(When you hear the truth of it, crystal fed enough blood and aether to reach out further than just from the little knight’s pockets—when you hear betrayals and exiles and my brother is dead because of your Braves, Alphinaud, what more do you want from me, your realization shows itself in coldflare and dark light, wrapping itself as best it can around someone so blessed and “loved by the gods” as your ward.

Though you need her more than she needs you, it still doesn’t hurt, you think, to cover her armor in a veil of darkness, even when her shield sings of nevermelting ice and wraps light around her anyways.)

But eventually, it does; Lumelle—you find out her name from a man willing to jump in front of inquisitors and magical spears alike for his beloved friends—her enraged grief bubbles off into a quieter sort at the beginning of Ishgard’s new dawn, and you are left by her bedside when she falls into a sleep after destroying a wyrm with grief that, really, wasn’t all that different. (Besides the whole eternal lifespan and eyeballs of power, and the wyrm’s sibling being eaten by Lumelle’s ancestors thing. That had thrown you for a loop.)

And oh, you expect it to end there, your tale that of accompanying a girl who didn’t need you so much as she needed closure; fading after protecting someone so bright would be an honor.

...

(But there is no rest for the righteous, now is there?)

...

Your next chapter opens in the palms of someone already acquainted with bloody hands, and though the little time spent out of Lumelle’s hands has left you wanting for your senses yet again, it takes hardly any time to figure just what this one’s deal is. 

(Her hands shake whenever she sees her party’s astrologian—so small, her head is practically the size of your ward’s fist balled up—and the thought of Vylbrand sours every conversation like milk left to rot. Y’shtola utters the word crone and the spike of earthquake panic you both feel lets you understand the jumble of misremembered nightmares that still haunts the warrior so far north from the place.

When she almost drowns herself in the memories, asking the sea to take her back into her arms, you are the one screaming the entire time—not because she is taking you with her, no, but because you can feel the summer breeze and hear the quiet pond rushing about the housing district looking for her, and you do not know what you’ll do if her death reignites Lumelle’s tempered anger.

The scholar cries out her name just as she falls too deep; Syhrwyda, you remember—you’ll force her name onto this damned crystal if you have to—and the breath of relief you sigh when the white mage forces the ocean to spit her out is all but audible.)

You expect her to let the little supernova cut her down, cleanse burns with blood and old aches with a trip into the abyss, because if Lumelle’s aches were screaming freezer burns then the gentle warrior’s are a quiet erosion. Even dripping blood can wear down a mountain, with enough time, and with a Calamity come and passed, the proof burned onto her skin, it is more than enough to see this mighty willow fallen to the skies opening up and pouring a tsunami’s worth of suffering in retribution.

Both you and her close your eyes when the axe comes swinging down, kneeling on the ground in pain. You do not expect it to be swift or painless like the rumors say of guillotines and execution, but you hope it is anyways.

And yet, and yet, the blade does not come.

(Part of you wonders: would the girl shrouded in fallen moonlight have done the same thing, if she had seen what Syhrwyda had seen? Would she, knowing that the choice was submission or death, have still seen her friend and ally in the woman that burnt her childhood with naught but a single incantation?

It matters not. There is no turning back time, and she has decided to give her friend a boon.)

It is not metal that comes, but a flurry of stars calling a lost sailor home instead, so potent that her magic seeps into your crystal as she collapses against your ward’s shoulder, whispering I’m sorry, I can’t, I won’t like little wishes made upon falling stars. You don’t know if you imagined the croaked it isn’t your fault or if you simply missed the mumbled movements, but Syhrwyda’s aether settles in time with the stars bursting across her skin and you know that your time with her will come to an end soon.

When she sets your crystal by a small crystalline lamp, you hum in amusement, letting yourself slip down into the abyss once more as the watery blue light ripples off the bookshelves.

…

(Who are you?)

(No one of consequence.)

…

You find yourself more confused than before when the scholar picks up your small crystal, facets gleaming brighter than before but still dulled from decades of being frozen under Ishgard’s snows; nothing about him sings of the same pain like the last two. He pockets your crystal easily and you wonder just what use he’ll find from you if he has no abyss of his own to draw from, no font to gather his strength for him to find.

(You miss how quiet he is in the din of everyone and everything else, tuned up to near painful when you open your eyes again. You miss the words he reads, the spells he crafts, the spared glances to his usual tome. Nothing about the man betrays it; hardly anything he does seems to suggest even a hint of regret, grief long since frozen over and forgotten of a home he’d long lost.

This was never an easy road—traveling down into the abyss and to rise back up again—and you do not expect easy wards, but the scholar—)

Even deadly waters can be calm at the surface, deceiving depths holding something stronger, and when he rises to meet the Illuminati and the (not their) primal, you start to see the signs of something lurking in the water and strain to open your eyes, drained as you are so close to Alexander. 

(You should have noticed how he balked away from poisons, preferring to sit far away from the rogue; you should have felt the gentle ripple when Mide mentioned Alexander’s purpose and wondered more.

It is too late for regrets, but it is not too late to stop this man, whose hands are too gentle and weary, from falling further into something he did not truly want.)

Are you daft, you whisper, and it’s not the best thing you’ve ever come up with but it’s the first words you’ve truly spoken to be heard. Like the rest, you expect your words to fall on deaf ears—stubborn people, the ones that have found you—but this time the scholar stops. Lingers, the precipice of a typhoon brewing up from the bottom of his soul. Do you truly think this will work?

“Not completely,” he says, his voice a quiet rumble as his small carbuncle shimmers and shakes its way into existence; part of you wishes you were strong enough to do the same just so you could shake the fluff out of this man’s brain to where it belongs. “But it might, and even the smallest chance...”

What of your friends today?

You don’t know what you expected, really; the scholar clams up and so do you, a connection cleaved in two as he walks away from the hand of the giant primal, stone in hand, and you are too exhausted to try and pry his heart open wider. Convincing him to let it all spill forth is harder than convincing a rock to move on its own, so you don’t try.

This time, when you fall back asleep atop a book with a soft leather cover, you desperately hope this is the end of it.

…

(Did you know them, too? Did they lead you to me?)

(In a way, yes.)

(Then you can stay, for now. Just… keep quiet.)

…

And of course, it never is.

It’s hard to describe your next awakening as anything but a bolt of lightning straight to your center, with how much aether rushes through your crystal and into the abyss. Too fast, too quick, like a flame burning too hot too soon. From freezing to the fiery depths of hell, you think incredulously as you reach out, looking to just who might be so dangerously close to tipping too far.

You don’t expect to find the timid white mage staring down at your soul crystal, red eyes and all.

(In a way, perhaps you should have known it would happen; the man was too damned reserved, all flower petals and no bark, the look in his eyes when he saw someone injured too intense for simple worry. He hates bloodshed yet makes his career in it all the same, and you’ve been held by Lumelle so tightly that you felt his magic—summer’s night bottled into a cure, blooming flowers pressed over scars, and you think nothing could be kinder than the way he loves.

Shame that you forgot that sometimes kindness is forged in the abyss.)

You’re sure he doesn’t mean to keep your crystal at all—hells, he sets it at the bottom of his satchel before he goes running off to join the fray in the same place that nearly killed him, the damned martyr—but you get taken with him regardless, and you see just how badly he’s dealt with it all. You don’t retort as snarkily as you might have with Duscha; your current ward is like paper thin glass, and you worry that if you push him he might break into pieces so small not even the sun’s light could find him.

In fact, you’re not sure what will happen if you make yourself known at all. He doesn’t seem strong enough to handle the idea that his guilt is making a simulacrum manifest.

(If you truly wanted, you could make him a fine dark knight. Teach him how to take his love and turn it into strength and protection stronger than anything the realm’s elements might give him, no matter how loved he is by them. Stain this white mage in dark.

But you see his dreams, sometimes—you never had found your way into dreams before, but with someone practically bleeding their life aether onto you, a simulacrum fueled by memories and pain, it’s hard not to have new experiences—and his hands are always coated in blood. His own, someone else’s, his mother’s, his father’s…

You choose not to take him through the abyss. You don’t want to know if he’ll still be there when you walk out.)

Finding someone that might be able to help someone who very stubbornly doesn’t want help is… a lot harder than intended. There’s not too many people… happy, with your ward; not after Baelsar’s Wall, and the man that Lumelle sent flying. You faintly remember a name—Caelestis, or something—but you care little for details and more for solutions, so you keep peering outwards and looking as best you can without fully peering into their heads.

That is, until that someone comes running at the white mage like a teal tulip some sylph chucked at you with the force of a demon.

(He introduces himself to everyone as Haruki, but you can’t help but call him Ruki after one too many trips into A’dewah’s head—Dewah, he says, and you don’t know much about Seeker names but you know that it means more to your ward than it does to anyone else—and you think you can get him to help, even if A’dewah himself is trying to avoid him like the plague. 

Especially because he’s avoiding Haruki like he’ll die if he doesn’t.)

It takes a few minor illusions and a trip to the Steppe (you didn’t know how to do these before A’dewah, you think as you practically lead a trail of hints from the Enclave to the tree A’dewah’s stuck himself in) but Haruki’s always been smarter than he might look (you still can’t get over the peacock feather of a mess his hair is) and eventually, eventually, your plan comes to fruition.

You don’t try to listen when they talk, but the rush of relief in A’dewah’s aether and the slow transition of summer bottled up tight enough to crack glass to the light warmth of, say, a greenhouse in full bloom tells you all you need to know, anyways.

(Doma is freed, soon after, and the Warriors are called back home, to Ala Mhigo’s war, but you look one last time out to Doma and see the last moments of A’dewah’s goodbyes, and of course it’s Haruki he tells last. His eyes burn like a solar eclipse, and you think if it weren’t for his son—so small and brave, callouses already on his fingers—he’d come back with you.

You think it might be puppy love, somehow, but you take one last look at what you know and think that maybe he’s just tired of being left behind, of being the last one. Might be love, might be wanderlust.

It doesn’t matter. You still have to leave, even if it hurts.)

On the ship’s journey back through the Sirensong Sea, A’dewah finally acknowledges you, in a way.

“Thank you,” he murmurs to no one in particular as he ties up his hair tighter. His eyes aren’t reddened from crying anymore—just the unfortunate lot of his mother’s eyes being blood red by nature—and you think you can rest, now.

So you do.

…

(Don’t you understand to call for help?)

(I can manage.)

(So sayeth the Weapon of Light.)

…

From one firebrand of a caster to another, you think as your crystal gets put into Valdis’ open palms—you learn her name early, this time, instead of just before the climax of the story—and though her aether is quiet you know well enough that it doesn’t mean there’s nothing hiding behind it.

(It’s the same sort of longing for something long past, you remember. Duscha’s aether had a similar balance to hers, even if Valdis is mostly umbral shade and hardly a hint of water among the flames she pulls into form. Where Duscha was restrained she is explosive, and you don’t need to look too hard to find the root of the issue.

The thing is: you’re too exhausted.)

You’re lucky she doesn’t fight closer to the front line, like Lumelle or Syhrwyda, because you can hardly summon a shadow at this point—perhaps you were played the fool by A’dewah’s tears into doing too much, not saving enough.

But then you look at Valdis and think she might be fine on her own, eyes still lit up and hopeful. Spitfire in her hair and embers in her eyes, already burning like a flame that knows how to rise from her ashes already.

There’s something to be said about youth, maybe, and you sigh as you close your eyes and hope to wake when she needs you.

(The thing is: she doesn’t need to.)

…

(... Hmph.)

(If you’re expecting an apology, you’re getting none from me.)

(I do not need—)

…

Your next venture leads you into the hands of someone so astrally aspected you don’t know if you can even summon the strength to peer outwards. Their aether and yours conflicts so greatly that it’s hard to tell if the abyss is flaring up or dying down, really, but you try regardless.

You will eternally be glad you do not have a face, because the pure shock when the face you see is one that was supposed to be long dead is not a face you’d ever like to see.

Lumelle had been your catalyst, and the little machinist before you the cause; you didn’t think he’d survived, somehow, even if you saw the monk that supposedly fell with him. He’s brighter than you’d thought he’d ever be, as close to the abyss as his sister was, and then you realize—

He truly doesn’t need you. His eyes still gleam on their own, not shrouded by something buried deep. If Duscha’s abyss was well hidden enough for you to mistake it, there can be no mistake here.

When he keeps your crystal close, anyways, you close your eyes again, thinking that perhaps this time you won’t be needed like before.

And for the most part; he doesn’t.

(There are times, surely, when a speck of darkness flickers into the light that fills his aether, but you hardly need to look at it to tell it’s over something silly. A flame that will flicker out soon enough. You don’t lift a finger over that.)

In a way, his hands are a restless reprieve. You cannot sleep, truly, because if you do you don’t want to know how much your crystal’s facets will fade, but there is nothing for you here, either.

So. You watch.

…

(But. Don’t you want?)

(I already want enough. I can get by.)

(Doesn’t mean you should.)

…

The rogue plucks your crystal from Elwin’s bag, a shadow in the night, and you hardly realize the change until you’re set by a pack of crystals. You nearly think to panic—what disaster do you have to reconcile now, tired as you are—but then the rogue whispers like he already knows.

(Maybe he does. Every rogue you’ve seen through other eyes has always been a bit sharper than they make themselves to be.)

“Take a breather,” he hums, flipping his daggers in the air and watching them glint in the dim moonlight. You think you might know his name, uttered once or twice in passing, but you’ve hardly begun to rest from your time in Elwin’s bright hands and aether that it’s slipped you by once or twice already. “Ye’ve helped us out. ‘S high time we pay back, hm?”

I do not do this for payment, you sigh, but his aether is the easiest of them all, really, more comfortable than even Valdis’ despite the light chill of it. He doesn’t respond, merely whistling as he walks along the metal pathway—Garlean territory, and he’s so calmly strolling through it?

You don’t choose to rest, even though you could, and keep an eye on the man anyways.

(It’s worth the trouble, you think when you shroud him in shadows, narrowly avoiding the gaze of some wisened soldier who knows the tricks of the trade. Even if nothing’s gained in return.)

…

(They’re...gone. They’re gone, gone, what do I do now—)

(Breathe. You’ll find them again. You always do.)

(But what if I can’t this time? What if I find them only to lose them?)

(You won’t.)

(How can you be sure?)

(Because you want to find them. I’m still here, aren’t I?)

…

There isn’t so much of a rest between leaving Tehra’ir’s palms and falling into the monk’s own, really; not when the rogue collapses alongside Valdis and the man with the eyepatch after some reverberating call that shook even you, incorporeal as you are. If you’d a physical form, the pain behind your eyes would be overwhelming; the sensation of being ripped from one’s body must be horrible, but even more so being torn from the very aether that keeps you.

Either way, the Elder Seedseer drops your crystal into their hands when she comes from the infirmary with a grim look on her face.There is something so familiar about this new bearer, aether so tempestuous and yet… calm. Leaving you contented and wanting all at once.

You don’t know what use you might be to them, either, but if you belonged in the hands of your past seven bearers then you are at home in theirs, lightning crackling from their skin to your crystal’s surface with great ease, for two non-metallic things.

(There is nothing I can do, the Seedseer murmurs and the sharp ache that immediately takes over the dull pain in their head echoes to you and oh, you understand more than ever now what you must help resolve, head spinning as the abyss flares and rages around you.)

You are there for everything after; when they flee to the Steppe, when they hole up in the empty house, when they take Ochir and fly across the mountains until Lunya calls them back home. Your crystal is usually hidden away in their pocket, safe in the leather pouch and buttoned into the cloth of their pants, and never once do you feel ignored, sitting in mutual silence. There’s nothing to be said, really, because their loss is just as much yours.

Both of you grin when you finally, finally make it past the gates into the First despite the horrid circumstances you have been brought to resolve, because it brings you both one step closer to finding them again.

(At first, you think they’ll be just fine without you, that you might be prudent to fall back dormant once more in face of the terribly draining light. At first, it seems like the others might just be a day’s journey away. The Exarch may be hiding things, but if the Scions are scattered then so too are the wayward Warriors; nothing so difficult as pulling souls back across the rift, yet.

Hah. When has anything ever been so simple?)

The journey is the hardest it’s been out of your eight travels, really; whether it be from the Light or from the constant confusion and grief that they struggle to pull from you do not know, and you keep your eyes open when they cannot—especially after Malikah’s Well.

(You are not the one fighting—never have been, even on that odd occasion that you’ve been able to force your way out of the abyss—but in Eulmore you see the flying eater’s wings seconds before they come crashing down on your bearer’s back with talons and when you reach out, for whatever banal reason, it is not darkness that springs forth.

At first, you think it a trick of the Light, because the last time you saw this shield it was back when you were still convinced you were ephemeral, but the next time you reach forth your ward’s wounds are healed in a burst of crystalline lilies.

You are not so stupid as to think this is your own strength, but they have not been with you for so long that you can’t tell what else it could be, what could be more than the others you have traveled with. 

Oh, how blind you were.)

Here, down in Amaurot, it’s harder than ever on them but the easiest it’s been for you, and when they start slipping you have to drag them back to their heels again, lest the Light breaks free and both of you end up dead. You don’t have anything else to give—you do not have Lumelle or Syhrwyda’s inhuman strength or the healer’s prowess of A’dewah or Duscha, too incorporeal to give support like Tehra’ir or Elwin and too loud to stay as quiet as Valdis—but you are there and that has to be enough.

(If Zaya themselves is not whole enough to be worthy in that Ascian’s eyes, then you will find the missing parts that make them whole and bring them home, because in your eyes there is nothing more than them and the little family you’ve somehow managed to pass through like a hand-me-down, and if you and the friends that remain are not enough to guide them through Hades’ abyss then one of them will be.

And the funny thing is; you do, because the missing parts of their soul were the storm in you.)

The final days of Amaurot are harrowing; you are there when Zaya nearly falls to a bird demon, of all things, and you are there when the tempest of aether above a simulacrum of Emet-Selch’s world nearly shatters you into a million stars. It is less you taking the reins and more you standing by their side, the shadow in the light of falling stars that pushes forward when they cannot.

You think Ryne and Y’shtola can see you, can see the glow of seven crystals at Zaya’s side, but it matters not when Emet-Selch still refuses to take reprieve of the abyss and see the merits of something different from what he knows; all that does is that you are by their side, a shade in a city of simulacrums.

(How funny is it, that in his grief Hades dipped into the abyss just as Zaya did in theirs?)

You don’t remember much of what happens afterwards. There is a blur of light, a man’s voice—seven voices you recognize as the abyss flares and takes you back, because there is no space left here for darkness, not now. You expect to die, somehow, because you’d been fighting for so long in a place that threatened to swallow you whole and keep you there even if you followed Zaya resolutely, Hades taking you in his grasp and shattering you just to prove that they are nothing.

There’s a moment of clarity—when dark overtakes light once more—and you take the chance to stretch yourself out, to cover as many people as you can tell are here because Hades’ claws glow with something terrible and you will not lose anyone now, not when you’ve found yourself in them. Even Urianger, even Alphinaud, even Thancred, who is yalms and yalms away from Zaya—all of them have become too precious to lose, too beloved to let be harmed, and if Hades’ form is large then you will become the event horizon that swallows him.

(If you disappear here, it will be worth it—you have served your purpose as a shield, gouged on aether and memories as you are, and if you can give them even a moment more the price of your existence, as much of a simulacrum as you were, it would have been worth the trouble. 

If Hades wins you don’t know what you’ll do.)

But he loses. He loses, and you go home as small of a flame as you were when your journeys began.

And when all is said and done, your crystal ends up on a necklace of thin chain and leather, held close to Zaya’s breast. Dark lightning crackles over the shining facets, finally polished to its prime like it was all those years ago when your last owner died; even then, you don’t know if you can ever come back again, really, exhausted and drained and frayed as you are.

It matters little, those ifs and maybes.

(“No matter where you go,” the gunbreaker says, and you can feel Zaya’s soul warm, cracked as it is—or maybe that’s yours, feeling a bit like your own promises are being voiced through his. Ardbert, the bloke, smiles from behind you, and the little part of you that knows exactly how you and he are similar grins wildly. “I will be there, guarding your back.”)

When they need you next to pull them from the blackest of nights, you’ll be there to see the beautiful dawn they bring in return. There is nowhere else for you to go.

…

(I’ll have to leave soon. Heroes don’t stay, you know.)

(Well, you do.)

…

From the depths of the crystal, a quiet light shimmers brightly, and you are reminded of home...

Action learned: The Brightest Dawn.

[coaxionunlimited]

RvB Fic Recs - AO3 Edition

This is going to be a highly eclectic and very personal list of fics that I liked during my recent RvB fic binge. Most of them are going to be a little obscure, but there’s no hard and fast theme.

AI: The logistics of sharing your head with an untested computer program that feels things have always fascinated me. These are fics about getting comfy-cozy with the stranger in your head. Spartan-B240 by eggstasy: Tuckington Halo 5 AU where Tucker is the voice in Wash’s head. I really love the build of Tucker and Wash’s relationship here, how they’re both trying hard to help each other, how Tucker makes Wash feel like a real person, how Wash is really and obviously gone on him. And also this approach to the logistical difficulties of falling in love with an AI program. The sequel is incomplete, but worth a read, especially for the Church+Caboose friendship in the first and last chapters.

Proper expression of emotion in bra-ket notation by thought: York and Delta are picking a lock, and hey, did anyone do research on how to stay within the safe limits of your AI’s capabilities? No? Oh well.

2-1 by QueSeraAwesome: In which Delta definitely does not have feelings OR insecurities about his relationships with York, and someone should probably be keeping an eye on Sigma.

Prepared by Blueberryshortcake: Delta invades York’s dreams. Short - but worth it for protective (and subtextually anxious) Delta.

South & Theta by madelinescribbles: Did someone say South redemption arc? Well, even if that someone wasn’t you, you have to admit you’re curious about what would happen if South and Theta talked to each other. Or dealt with their grief over North’s death together. Same difference. Incomplete, but that’s never stopped me.

Tuckington Borderlands AUs where Tucker is a Siren (don’t worry you don’t really have to know anything about Borderlands to enjoy these): … okay look, I realize that this is a very specific category name but in my defense [AIRPLANE TAKES OFF, OBSCURING THE REST OF THE SENTENCE]. Nothing Good by BoxOnTheNile: In which Tucker also has issues! There’s not enough fics about Tucker being just as banged up as Wash on the inside, and you know you’ve been looking for it. I really love Tucker’s other friendships in this fic, the sense that he’s really built a life for himself, and the slow give and take of trust between him and Wash really butters my biscuits. There’s another oneshot in this series, and the last chapter of BoxOnTheNile’s RVB Trans Week compilation (Be Someone (That Makes You Happy)) is also in this 'verse.

No Hero to Call Home by bismuthBallistics: In which Tucker is a mechanic and his favorite person in the world is the guy who comes in every three months to get a tune up on his prosthetic leg. Too bad Wash didn’t get that memo. Read this for some Really Excellent Tucker pining, and also for Tucker really caring about Wash and trying to take care of him, and also for Wash cooking for Tucker, and also the way they resolve Tucker getting frustrated with Wash’s general inability to friend really rings true, and also - look, I could keep going for a while here. Read this fic. 

Locus Angst and Rehabilitation: Think Wash angst, except clearly superior because there’s more Red Team.  I’ll Tell You My Sins and You Can Sharpen Your Knife by illumynare: Incomplete, but all three of four chapters are full of that Good Shit. Did you want Locus being unable to cope with basic kindness? Did you want pining for friendship? Did you want to be really, cripplingly sad about Locus? This is the fic for you.

Vanished Marvels by BoxOnTheNile: Oneshot, Simmons and Grif take care of an assassin. Some comfort for all the hurt you got from reading that last fic :D. Comes as part of a series, with an incomplete Locus/Grif/Simmons sequel and a Tuckington prequel, in case you needed some more ex-supersoldier h/c.

Green is Definitely a Shade of Red by Prim_The_Amazing: Does anyone else think it’s really unfair that Blue team gets all the ex-supersoldiers? If you do, this is your fic. In which Locus is totally, absolutely, and definitely not enjoying getting adopted by the Reds. Honestly. Contains 200% more shenanigans than your average Locus fic.

Series Recs: Because not every fic is standalone.  Blood Gulch Freelancers by eggstasty: What if the Blood Gulch Crew were a part of Project Freelancer? Read it for good mom Carolina, Caboose’s tragic backstory, and Allison being alive, which makes everything much less fucked up. … As long as you don’t look too hard, that is.

Five Reds and a Baby by a_taller_tale: Sarge ordered a baby from a catalogue, and it turns out to be a clone of Grif, and - look, it makes sense in context. 100% pure Grimmons, Red Team, and baby fluff. 

flying and burning by tumbleoutyourhair: Mostly tuckington oneshots, with a couple of grimmons ones. Contains a lot of That Good Wash Angst, especially thirteen and fourteen.

Zombie Immunity AU by HappyFunBallXD: Grif has an immunity to zombies and a plan - too bad life is getting in between him and Alaska. The main fic in the series is unfinished, but there’s plenty of Blood Gulch Crew zombie shenanigans and grimmons to go around.

Coffee Shop AU by mumblybee: Look, I got into the fandom in 2014, I have a horrible, horrible weakness for sad yorkalina. This is a modern au, featuring coffee and being a sad millennial.

Did someone say dorkalina? An OTP? In this economy? It’s more likely than you’d think. Satellite Mind by eponymous_rose: The Director didn’t consider the impact of AI on his Agent’s sex lives. At least, we hope he didn’t. York and Delta negotiate boundaries, Carolina helps. NSFW.

We Were Up All Night Talking Trash And Wasting Time by thought: Project Freelancer is falling apart, Carolina and York have sex about it. Delta helps. Sad and poetic, my favorite kind of fanfiction.

Opacity by bismuthBallistics, red_as_ever: Urban fantasy, plotty. York goes blind, Carolina helps. Delta is alternately a solution and an obstacle, and no one escapes a clash between the fae courts unscathed.

Carolina Genfics: Because Agent Carolina, man. Wash and Locus aren’t the only supersoldier assholes who need a redemption arc. Banana Bread Bonding by Aryashi: Agent Carolina tries to get Grif to teach her how to relax. Hilarity ensues. If that doesn’t make you want to read it, consider that it’s tagged “Co-Authored By Carolina's Ability to stalk people until she gets what she wants”.

Kiss My Bright Red Ass, Sir by Hinn_Raven: In which Carolina was Sarge’s daughter the entire time. Much more serious than it sounds and a fair bit sad - but if you’ve ever thought to yourself “man, I wish Carolina had a better family situation” this is the fic for you.

A Field Guide to Haircare in Wartime by saltsanford: In which the Reds get Carolina some self-care and forgiveness. If you liked Vanished Marvels from the Locus section, you’ll like this.

Regret the Poor Children (Raindrop Remix) by PlayerProphet: In which Carolina gets a jumpstart on her redemption arc, and Wash gets help a little earlier. If you wanted Freelancer to end a little better, read this fic. It’s not a happy fic, but you get the sense that things are going uphill from here.

This Man Looked Exactly Like Natalie Portman When He Was 13 by eggstasy: THE Carolina & Caboose fic. This one’s got it all, folks! Carolina trying to change for the better, Carolina & Epsilon bromance, backwardses and forwardses and all the complications that come with finding yourself in the middle of a redeption arc, and finally, a happy ending. 

Time Travel and De-Aging: I’ll admit, I haven’t read extensively in this genre in RvB, but here are some of my favorites. put your curse in reverse by Sroloc_Elbisivni: PFL-era Carolina gets de-aged. Hilarity(?) ensues. Read for Freelancer team as family, really awkward dramatic irony (toddler Carolina calls Tex momma, for a start), and all your Maine and Wash being good with children needs.

Asphodel Meadows by Hinn_Raven: Tex lives! She also travels forward in time to the Chorus era, and fixes things, because she’s a badass like that. Read this for massive Tex bromance feels, and because you wanted Tex to live.

Hit and Run by creatrixanimi, RiaTheDreamer: Not technically time travel or de-aging, but teenaged Grif siblings in Project Freelancer really feels like it fits here. Contains parental unit 479er, Freelancer babysitting shenanigans, and North stealing children. Because you know he would. Incomplete.

(Change the Past, Choose the Future by Zoomda and The Red and Blue Home for Lost Fat Kids by ShadyJane both fit in this category, the former being Wash and Carolina time-travel fix it and the latter being de-aged Captain Grif, but since I haven’t finished either (and neither are finished), I can’t exactly write up a rec. Still, here they are, for the adventurous or desperate among you.)

Misc: Fics that don’t fit into the other categories. Outpost #1 Apartments by nan00k: Not your momma’s superhero au! Church escapes his dad/the Director’s highly unethical superhero program, and moves into Blood Gulch apartment complex. Mostly gen, focuses on Church recovering from all the crap he endured. Read this one for the plot, for the gentle build of some serious tension, and for some good Church friendships. Part of an incomplete series, the Carolina entry is next and is both complete and definitely worth a look.

Simmons Slipped Up So Hard He Needs Life-Alert by Lieutenant_Kader: Grimmons fluff! Grif sets up a movie date for Simmons, and it’s real cute. Contains twice your recommended daily dose of Star Wars and Tucker being a good bro.

Don’t Cross the (Time) Streams by Hinn_Raven: The Freelancers crash land in Blood Gulch. Chaos and confusion ensues. Watching the professional supersoldiers be out of their depth around the worst soldiers in the galaxy is completely hilarious.