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nerdydaydreamer · 13 days ago

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Chapter 11: Of Dreams and Deliverance

MASTERLIST

Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.

Previous Chapter

~Nada’s Shadow~

The world outside their glass prison spun on, its progress marked only by the monotonous routine of their captors. The twice-daily changing of the guards became a silent clock, and the slow evolution of their uniforms and haircuts—from the sharp cuts of the early years to the looser styles of a new era—was the only calendar they had.

Look at that mustache, Nora thought one day, observing a new, younger guard. Must be at least the seventies now. Or eighties? Time gets a bit blurry.

It Is an unfortunate follicular choice, regardless of the decade, Morpheus replied, his mental voice dry as dust.

Alex rarely descended the stone steps anymore. The years had solidified his fear into a permanent, intractable policy. He was now utterly convinced that they would never agree to his terms, and his terror of what Morpheus would do if freed had paralyzed him completely. They heard second-hand, through the careless chatter of the guards, that he continued to live in seclusion in the house above, unnaturally long-lived due to his proximity to the cage. He was an old man now, confined to a wheelchair with a full-time nurse to see to his needs.

Meanwhile, within the sphere, Morpheus and Nora had grown closer than two beings could possibly be. Their lives, one mortal and paused, the other immortal and shackled, had intertwined completely. They could usually be found in one of two positions: her head resting on his lap as he sat watch, or his head resting on hers as he found a brief, dreamless respite. It was the only comfort they could offer, a small island of physical contact in an ocean of isolation.

At this point, Nora had shared every corner of her life with him, happy to have finally found someone who would not judge her solitary nature or her quiet ambitions. In turn, Morpheus had found in her an anchor, someone whose mortal perspective could help settle internal debates he’d harbored for eons.

I was too rigid with her. With Nada, he thought one afternoon, the memory of a past love rising unbidden, sharp and painful. She defied me, a mortal queen who loved me but would not be my bride. She feared what it meant to be my queen, to leave her people and her world. My pride… My pride demanded I make an example of her. I condemned her to Hell for ten thousand years for the crime of hurting me.

The confession hung In the space between them, heavy with millennia of regret.

You were hurt, Nora thought back gently, sensing the ancient, burning shame that fueled the memory. And you acted out of that hurt. It doesn’t mean it was right, but it doesn’t make you a monster. It makes you capable of making a mistake.

She let that thought settle before continuing, her own mind carefully untangling the threads of his pain. I think… I think the problem is that you see it as a king who was defied. But that isn’t the whole truth, is it? You're an Endless. You must feel things on a scale I can’t possibly imagine. Your love, your pride, your hurt… it must be like a star collapsing. Of course it’s destructive.

She shifted, arranging her thoughts with a clarity that came from years of listening. But she wasn’t just a subject who disobeyed. She was a woman who loved you but was afraid. She was afraid of your world, of your power, of what loving you would mean for her and her people. You saw her fear as a personal rejection of you, not as a rejection of a life she couldn’t possibly lead.

This was the heart of it, the thought she had been circling for a long time. You let your function as the King of Dreams override your role as the person who loved her. You judged her with the unbending law of your realm, not with the heart of a being in love. You punished her for being mortal, for having mortal fears.

Morpheus was utterly still, the steady rhythm of his breathing the only sign he was even present. No one had ever spoken to him—thought to him—like this. Not with condemnation or rivalry, but with incisive, compassionate logic.

You can’t undo the ten thousand years, Nora continued softly, her thought a gentle hand on a deep wound. The pain is real, for both of you. But ‘fixing it’ isn’t about rewriting the past. It’s about what you do when you are free. It's about understanding why you did it, so you don’t carry that same pride forward. When you are free, you can find her. Not as a king coming to collect what is his, or as a god offering a pardon. But as someone who made a terrible, terrible mistake and wants to atone. The first step isn’t freeing her from Hell. The first step is freeing yourself from the pride that put her there.

Her words were a key turning In a lock he had forgotten existed. For the first time, he felt the unbearable weight of his mistake not as a stain on his honor as a king, but as a profound, personal failing. A failure of love. A failure to see the person before him Instead of the subject at his feet. It was a truth so painful it made the glass cage feel insignificant, but it was also, strangely, a relief. It was a path forward. She had, in the space of a few thoughts, given him a map through the hell of his own making.

What if there was a nightmare that wasn’t scary, just… deeply sad? Nora thought one afternoon, watching a dust mote dance in a stray sunbeam. Like the feeling of having lost your keys, but for your whole life?

Morpheus considered this, his own mind turning the concept over. The Anxious Forgetfulness. It would reside in the halls of lost things. A useful, cautionary tale. I will create it when I am free.

His serious acceptance of her melancholy idea made her smile. Okay, new one, you ready? A bit less profound this time.

He gave a slow, Internal sigh of assent, which she had come to interpret as his full and undivided attention.

It’s a mild-mannered anxiety dream, she began. The dreamer is haunted by a goose.

There was a long pause.

Just a regular goose, Nora clarified. But it’s very polite. And it follows you everywhere, just out of your direct line of sight. It never attacks you, but every so often, it lets out a single, quiet honk. And that honk is filled with a specific, personal disappointment in a minor life choice you’ve just made.

He was quiet for so long she thought he might have dismissed it entirely. Then, his formal, serious thought returned to her.

The Goose of Underwhelming Life Choices.

Nora snorted with a silent laugh.

Its power would not be in terror, Morpheus continued, completely deadpan, but in the slow, inexorable erosion of self-confidence. The honk would have to be perfectly calibrated. Not aggressive, but filled with a sort of weary, paternalistic sorrow. A potent creation.

Nora lost it, her laughter echoing through their mental link. I love that you’re workshopping the emotional resonance of a judgmental goose, she thought, wiping away an imaginary tear. Never change.

It was moments like these, this effortless blend of the profound and the absurd, that had become the foundation of their life together. After decades locked away, what had grown between them was a deep, unspoken fondness. Morpheus still showed little emotion on his face, save for his eyes, but that no longer mattered. Their connection was deeper than that.

This was made all the more intense by the fact that Nora still lacked the ability to shield her more intimate thoughts. They would slip out, flashes of unguarded affection broadcast directly to him.

His hands are so elegant, she might think while watching him shift his position. The way he moves… it’s like watching a statue come to life.

Or, in a moment of quiet contentment listening to his thoughts on the nature of a forgotten star: I could listen to him think forever. It feels more like home than any place I’ve ever known.

Morpheus quickly learned to give no outward sign that he had heard these private declarations. He knew it would only mortify her and break the comfortable peace between them. But every time one slipped through, a rare, warm thing would unfurl deep within his chest. A smile that never reached his lips would bloom inwardly, and he couldn’t help the growth of his own attraction to her. Her compassion, her humor, and her unguarded heart were steadily chipping away at an eternity of solitude, fostering an affection in him that was as terrifying as it was welcome.

Next Chapter

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated! 🩷

#dream #morpheus #dream of the endless #the sandman #morpheus x reader #king of dreams

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physalian · 1 year ago

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Another 5 Character Types the World Needs More of (Part 3)

Part 1 Part 2

I did not expect these two posts to continue getting notes. So. Here’s some that didn’t make the cut and a few new ones.

1. Character who is immune to everyone else’s bullshit

This can either be funny or a breath of fresh air. I’m talking your drama cast of 15 all losing their minds over “he said/she said” and fixating on so many ridiculous and arbitrary problems… meanwhile Chuck over here is skinned with teflon and completely immune to tropes like manufactured miscommunication or drama, who’s juuust shy of being genre savvy to Get Shit Done like this is their second time around the block and they are not happy to be back.

The first one to pop into my head is Soundwave from TFP. He has no voice actor for 99% of the show and doesn’t have a face and is only the focus character for like, 2 episodes, but whenever he’s on screen you can just see “I’m surrounded by idiots” playing on repeat in his head. This con is brutally efficient, never messes up, and is never wrong and while everyone else is caught up on ladder-climbing and revenge quests, Soundwave is over here vibing and keeping the whole cause together.

2. The Femme Fatale, but a man

This is not sexy suave abusive asshole hero you’re supposed to root for, who’s a male power fantasy. This is literally the exact same trope, but a man. Meaning, he gets the same revealing uniform, the same “I’m letting you think you’re in charge but really I’m pulling all the strings”. Crucially, he’s straight, because most of them are gay-coded (because the man being in the submissive, ‘girly role’ is horrifying, he must be gay). This dude weaponizes toxic masculinity, making the villains extremely uncomfortable and throwing the villain’s own power fantasy back in their face.

This dude unabashedly flirts with his captors just to get in their heads, removes all concepts of personal space, and makes straight villains seriously question their sexuality. He has social engineering down to a science. I’m sure there’s one that exists, but every one I can think of is already queer-coded and that’s not good enough. So just. Black Widow. But a man.

3. Mary Sue/ Gary Stu who becomes the villain

Since these characters are the product of insecurity and lack of self-awareness… the example for this trope is Titan from Megamind. This character is absolutely the hero of their own story, practically perfect in every way. They think they’re the best at everything without trying, flawless in features and personality, and everybody loves them. And genuinely, they are just that good.

So good, that they live long enough to become the villain. Obviously people who write Mary Sues with full sincerity have no idea that anything’s wrong or problematic, but a genuine Mary Sue whose perfection is their greatest flaw without them even realizing it would be an interesting villain because I’m getting sick and tired of “sympathetic” villains who are really starting to feel like excuses for abusers to be abusive because they were smacked around as a kid.

4. Paragon who is wrong, but also right?

Apparently I’m in a Transformers mood today. There’s an episode where the Autobots’ medic/second in command does the whole “desperate scientist tests their invention on themselves with horrible results” trope and he gains the strength and speed he otherwise hasn’t had in like, eons, and starts kicking ass and taking names (and committing war crimes) to the point where his team is like “uh, buddy, slow down a bit, you’re starting to act like a Decepticon”.

The best part of that episode is where Ratchet (medic) completely unloads on Optimus about how he’s too soft, about how he’s had a million chances to end the war and murder Megatron (which is true) and yet Optimus lets the window pass again and again still hoping for Megatron’s redemption… while in the process, countless Autobots keep dying, collateral keeps happening, all because Optimus is stubborn and won’t just get it over with.

We know Ratchet is right, because throughout the next season, Optimus is a bit more… shall we say, ruthless, in trying to legitimately end the war, Megatron’s redemption be damned. But that episode ends with Ratchet nearly dying when trying to kill Megatron himself, and understanding that the Autobots are Autobots for a reason, because they’re “good,” and sinking to the enemy’s level won’t be a good foundation for a peaceful post-war survival of their species. Point being, sometimes being a Paragon is an incredibly selfish virtue.

5. Parents who know what’s up

So, while I am a firm supporter in the dead parent cliché because parents are super inconvenient sometimes, when it’s not that kind of story and the parents are a big part of the plot… while also being idiots (like Disney and Nickelodeon sitcoms circa 2008), just to make the kids sound smarter, it’s just been done to death. Everything you could think of, your parents probably did when they were your age so having competent parents in the plot as a well-meaning obstacle that continues to surprise the hero is pretty rare in stuff like YA. Usually it’s “I must lie to them to keep them safe” meanwhile Sally Jackson is over here murdering her husband with Medusa’s severed head.

They don’t have to join the hero team, but parents painted as bumbling idiots is a disservice to the mischievous teenagers they used to be. Or just the parent who really does know the kid better than they do, like when kids anxiously come out and the parent is like “honey I knew since you were 3 let’s go get ice cream”. I didn't watch Glee but that one dad who was like "son all you wanted was a pair of sensible shoes, I knew." So yeah. Smart parents. More please.

#writing advice #writing #writing resources #writing a book #writing tools #writing tips #writeblr #character development #character design #tropes #cliches

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shivunin · 6 months ago

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I LOVE PROMPT TIME

"Death, she is cunning and clever as hell." - for Maria

Thank you!! It took a bit for this idea to come together, but I am really pleased with it c: Also requested by @vanmarkham -- thank you, too!

Here is an AU with Maria as Death c:

The Last Gambit

(Fenris/Hawke | 2,063 Words | CW: nongraphic references to death)

Fenris first met Death in a dark alley somewhere in Lowtown.

He’d been hiding from his pursuers near the alienage. It had made sense, of course; he could not help but stand out, but at least anyone looking for an elf would have no shortage of false leads here. It was not forever; only long enough for him to recover and slaughter all who sought him before he decided what to do next. At least, that’s what he’d told himself when he’d finally made it to Kirkwall.

A fever had taken hold of him nearly a week ago, shaking him ceaselessly between its jaws, and that night—the night they first spoke—he hadn’t even the strength to make it back to the hovel he’d been hiding in. He’d collapsed here instead, in the rain and the muck. It was a shameful thing, and it made him angry. Surely there were better ends than this; surely he had not escaped his captors to find his death in a filthy alleyway, shaking with ague.

“Hello there,” Death said, standing abruptly before him.

Fenris had not heard her approach; he had not seen her coming. Perhaps the fever had stolen his senses from him. It was the only explanation that could justify missing something so obvious.

“Not much of a talker, I see,” she said, and crouched before him. She wore a cloak, thick red velvet, and the hood obscured all but her chin and mouth. “Most aren’t. Others talk too much—I was one of those.”

Fenris found his limbs curiously light, his head abruptly clear. He propped himself against the wall and looked at her, placid and waiting before him.

“I can see that,” he told her, and coughed more out of habit than because he needed to. For the first time in eons, his chest felt clear.

“Ah, he speaks,” she said. Her lips curled into a smile.

Fenris glanced at the hem of her cloak where it met the cobblestones. She had stopped beside a puddle, but it did not dampen the fabric.

“We’ve seen one another before,” she went on. “Perhaps you recall.”

“I do,” he said.

He’d tucked himself away in a corner of Darktown his first night, rightly guessing that few would bother him there after he’d knocked out one of the strongmen in the lower levels. Sometime after midnight, he’d felt a touch of—something, some otherworldly presence against his skin. He’d peered through the cracks in the wooden wall beside him and watched a red-cloaked figure take the hand of an old woman huddled against the far wall. After a moment, the woman had laughed, joy carving new wrinkles in her cheeks. Moments later, the woman in scarlet had vanished and the old woman had lain limp and unbreathing until someone came to search her pockets for loose coin.

The woman in the cloak had turned to look at him before she’d gone. Her hood had been down then, and her hair had shifted in the dim torchlight like living night. He had thought that she’d looked at him then, but it had been difficult to say. The next morning, he’d found someplace else to sleep.

“Will you kill me?” he asked her. She smiled and lifted a hand to tap her lower lip.

“I don’t know yet,” she said. “You’re on rather a razor’s edge, aren’t you? Balanced neatly between life and death.”

He watched her, trying to summon the will to fight back. For the first time in a very long time, it eluded him.

“People die all the time in Kirkwall,” she went on. “You’ve seen it. But I can’t make the effort for everyone. You have only seen me twice before tonight, haven’t you?”

No; Fenris was certain he’d only seen her once. He nodded stiffly anyway and watched her mouth curl into a smile.

“You’re rather a special case. Of course you are; just look at you. Handsomest fellow I’ve ever seen. You’re dying, of course, but you might not. We’ve time enough for a little chat, don’t you think? Maybe a game of cards to pass the time.”

Handsomest—what?

Fenris coughed and leaned back against the wall.

“Cards?” he asked. There was a trick to this. There was always a trick to such offers. If he listened closely enough, he would catch her in a lie.

“Wicked Grace,” she said, producing a deck from within her voluminous sleeve. “If you lose, you take my hand and leave this rather unfortunate alley behind.”

There—the trick. Take my hand, she said, as she’d taken the hand of the old woman in the tunnels.

“And if I win?”

There was a small table between them now. It stood only a foot off the ground, old and lopsided as it was. Old stains marred the surface, many of them criss-crossing circles. A crude drawing had been scratched into the corner nearest him.

“If you win, you’ll wake up right as rain, of course,” she said. When she shuffled, the cards cracked against each other. He could not say why, but the sound reminded him of logs crackling in a fire.

“And if I will not play?”

“Time will take its toll, I’m afraid,” she said, and her voice was not without compassion. “I can do nothing to save you.”

She dealt two hands, sliding both stacks to the center of the table one by one. When she’d finished, she rested her fingertips on the edge of the table and waited.

Lose and die. Refuse to play and die. Win and live. It was a deceptively simple game.

What choice did he have?

Fenris reached for one stack of cards and slid them across the table.

Fenris could not say how long the game went on. It felt like hours, though the rain never stopped falling and the sun never rose. Death was clever. If nothing else, he had to give her that. There was no gambit he made, no clever maneuvering of hands, that she did not counter at once. He might accuse her of hiding cards in her sleeves if she hadn’t rolled them up long ago.

Then again—she had produced the table from nothing. Surely if she wished for a card, she could simply do the same.

“Oh, I never cheat,” she told him pleasantly, tapping a stack of cards on the table and replacing them in the center.

“Did I say you do?” he asked, drawing a card and frowning down at his hand.

“No, but I’ve always been rather good at reading faces,” she laughed, “though I will admit that yours is harder to read than most.”

Fenris grimaced and selected a hand to discard. He’d nearly gathered the hand he would need to win; she had frustrated every attempt at an advantage, but if he was lucky…

“Cheating would defeat the purpose of the game,” she went on, drawing a card.

Her hands were brown and freckled, the nails neatly rounded and clean. Faded scars ran up the length of her forearm, rising and falling—a hundred small slashes, burn scars, and more. Fenris did not look at them. He focused on the cards in her hand, as fresh and crisp as if they’d been printed the moment before she used them.

One more card; one more card and he would…well. He would see another day. Perhaps that was enough. It was the farthest he’d seen ahead for years and years.

She dithered over her turn, humming and tapping the cards with her fingernails. Fenris held very still, frowning down at his hand as if dissatisfied with his options. After what felt like an eternity, she sighed and discarded one, folding her fan of cards back into a neat pile in her hands.

One more card. One card was all he needed. Fenris reached for it, breath catching in the back of his throat. His hand seemed to move slower than was possible, as if he stretched infinitely for the uppermost card in the deck. Then, all at once he held it in his hands.

The Angel of Death did not look as it usually did; this one wore a cloak of red, blood dripping from one hand and blue light emanating from the other. This mattered little to him. He only needed the card.

“Game,” he said, laying his hand on the uneven table.

Death’s mouth pursed into a small o, and for a long moment she did not speak.

“Well, it certainly isn’t something I see every day,” she said at last, folding her hand into one neat stack and resting it face-down on the table. “Congratulations, ser. You’ve beaten me. You shall live another day at least.”

All at once, the old heaviness returned to his limbs, as if his illness rushed to meet him. Death pulled one sleeve down, then the other. She smiled at him.

“You’ve been awfully pleasant company,” she said. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” he said. The urge to lie down again rose, ceaseless and inexorable. She patted his hand once, fingertips ice-cold against his fever-hot skin. He shuddered at the touch,

“Fair enough,” she told him, and rose, dusting some imaginary dust from her cloak. “Neither did I, I suppose. Turnabout’s fair play, after all.”

He ached, down to his bones. His hands fell away from the table and it vanished immediately, as if it had never been there at all. Death stood over him, still smiling her strange smile. She would vanish in a moment. Perhaps he would not see her again. He certainly hoped so.

“I’m Fenris,” he told her. His strength failed him and he slid down the wall, catching himself on an elbow before he landed in the same muck he’d fallen into before.

“A strong name,” she said, smiling. “Some once called me Hawke. You are welcome to do the same. Do feel better, Fenris. It was a pleasure to meet you. Forgive me if I tell you I hope it doesn’t happen twice.”

There were no footsteps on the stone, no swish of her cloak as she turned to go. She was one moment, and then she simply wasn’t again. Fenris slumped back against the stone, exhausted, and his eyes closed against his will.

Hawke, she’d said. He was certain he’d heard the name somewhere. Before he could catch the tail of the thought, his consciousness faded from him.

When Fenris woke, blinking in the watery dawn, the alleyway still dripped with rain and the muck still clung to his hair. Despite this, no cough rattled his throat. No fever clutched at his temples. He was, against all odds, well.

Fenris rose carefully, testing his limbs for residual weakness, but he found none. His eyes lifted to the brick across from him.

There, burned into the red brick, was the faintest outline of something. He peered through the dim light for several moments before he could make it out.

“A hawk. Of course,” he said aloud, then grimaced.

Whatever had happened to him, lying in this alley only invited attention he could do without. He would make his way back to his hovel and hide away today. Tomorrow, he would make better plans.

Absently, he rubbed his hand as he stood. He could have sworn that he felt the burn of her touch for a moment, but of course he could not.

Hawke. Death. Whatever she was, he too wished that they did not see each other twice.

Fenris hurried away down the alley, shoulders hunched against the rain. He did not see the woman standing plain before him, head angled as she watched him walk away. She held a deck of cards in her hands, absently running a fingernail along the edge. Tiny, almost imperceptible marks along the edge of each card caught against her fingers as she went.

Without looking, Hawke slid the Angel of Death from the deck, pinching it between her fingers as if any residual warmth might linger in the paper. It never did, of course. Death was a cold thing.

“Good luck,” she told Fenris, words carried away by the wind as soon as she spoke them. Without any further noise or a gesture, she too was gone.

Soon, all that remained was a slightly disturbed puddle of much and the hawk burned into the bricks of an alleyway few rarely noticed and most quickly forgot.

#fenhawke #maria hawke #ask response #prompt response #shivunin scrivening #i want to write so much more but this is already a lot lol #going to let the idea simmer a bit and then maybe expand this later c:#dragon age fic

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outofgloom · 2 years ago

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RUPTURE

After twelve days at sea, the others began to notice the change in the sky. Only slight at first, an odd roughening at the horizon, but steadily it got worse.

Kio on kio we sailed, and the clouds began to do strange things, move in strange ways. I could never describe it well. Behind the clouds, lines traced up through the gray-blue haze. Dark patches here and there, and before you knew it…it wasn’t a sky anymore. It was a barrier, a wall that went up, up, and never ended.

Some of the passengers quailed at the sight. Others stared transfixed. One of them–the scholar Eyrsuk–leapt overboard and tried to swim away. They fished him out of the water, and Shuldak, the ringleader of my captors, commanded him to be hung from a hook on the mast, "to let him dry off".

"There are no stars here," I remember Eyrsuk babbling...

The ship’s crew showed no great surprise, of course. They were Carekxans, not bound by the Edicts. They lived their lives on the wide and terrible sea, and most had probably set foot on those alien shores more than once, though they knew better than to speak of it openly. They saw the world for what it was and was not, and accepted this. I admired them, though they served my captors for now.

An eerie calm fell as we went on, and oars were produced to finish the journey. The shore grew closer; even with my failing eyesight I could see it now, rising in segmented pillars from the water, crusted with the residue of eons. I stood on the foredeck with the Caraga, the ship’s elder-captain, perhaps the closest thing to what I am, a Turaga of the Matoran. We were not alone, of course. Shuldak and his bruisers were ever-present, but he wisely gave the Caraga space.

"Where," the captain asked me in the characteristic flat tone. My memory was still clear, though my eyes were dim. I gestured north, along the shoreline. The groove there was well-camouflaged unless you knew to look for it. The Caraga nodded and made signs to the rowers.

"Very good, Turaga," Shuldak called from his place, lounging at the stern. "Your cooperation is noted."

Eyrsuk complained lamely from the mast. "We shouldn’t be here…" He kept his gaze stubbornly fixed upon the deck.

"You are very right," I said to him as I made my way down to midships. Shuldak grinned his wide Phynaran grin, and I saw that he had applied the red markings to his face; markings of the Pridak, which were now forbidden in his homeland.

Here though, on the margins of the world, he could show his true colors.

We made landfall an hour later, and my captors brought us ashore–myself and two Matoran they had taken hostage in order to compel me, a Ga-Matoran and a Ba-Matoran. They had been kept below for most of the trip, despite my protest. I did my best to minister to them while Shuldak spoke with the Caraga. The three Steltaxian bruisers stood over us, waiting obediently until their employer returned. In the end, Eyrsuk stayed on the ship with the crew; some excuse about amending his charts. Shuldak barked laughter and called him a coward and "no true Phynaran", but left him alone. Finally it was time.

The staircase was still there, carved out of the strange metalstone. It brought back many memories; how my brothers of Stone and Iron had marveled at it when we first came there, had tested their powers against it…

We began to climb, and I was reminded that the stairs were not made for beings like us. Each step was a bio deep and almost half a bio tall: a staircase for giants. My joints are not what they used to be, and so the Matoran were obliged to help me up each step. They were both trying to be very brave.

My mind wandered as we climbed, back before the journey, back to my hut in the lower district of Metru Prynak, when all this started.

The clamor of the Great Port was diminishing, and I was retiring for the night. The knock at the door startled me out of a doze, and the crack of the frame splintering inward brought me fully awake. A figure crammed itself arm, head, and shoulders into the room and laid hold of me. I burned through its wrist with my plasma-fire, and it dropped me roughly on the pavement. I prepared to flash-burn my attacker's eyes next, but then I saw the other bruisers, and the two Matoran they held, limbs stretched taut.

"No more violence, Turaga," a voice said. "I have a job for you."

Shuldak had not worn the red markings then.

"Job?" I rubbed my bruised chest. "I'm as old and broken-down a Turaga as you’ll find hereabouts. My job is to ministrate to the Matoran workers and to lead the Amaja on the odd months. I’m fit for no better duty these days." I coughed for emphasis.

"The service I require is navigational in nature. You were a seafarer once, a traveler to far shores, I believe. 'Toa Triox and his brothers', the story goes. I intend to retrace your steps."

I stared at the Phynaran, considered lunging at him, trying to weld his smug smile shut. Maybe I could've done it, got away...but the Matoran would surely not survive. My duty was to them. And anyways, I was weak...

"That journey cost me much, Phynaran," I said after a few moments. "It was the last journey I ever took."

"Not the last, no. You’ll make one more. With me. To the place where you and your brothers ended the Void Storm, all those millennia ago..."

Up we went, and the sloped staircase took us closer to the wall of the world. Shuldak was ahead with two of his guards, and the third Steltaxian brought up the rear. We kept a steady pace, but not too fast, which I was grateful for. Shuldak was a patient Phynaran and very methodical, I had found. Even so, I did not fully understand his plan yet.

When we came to the first landing, I began to understand more. The stairs ended in a wide platform carved into the slope. At the other end of the platform, the stairs continued.

In the center of the platform, there stood a Titan.

Solid as bedrock, clad in a mountain of gleaming gray armor. Two mighty hands rested atop the haft of an immense hammer. Blue eyes gazed upon us out of a strange mask.

I betrayed myself then, foolishly. I stepped forward and called out, "Axoss, it’s me, Triox! You must help me and these Matoran, as you helped me and my brothers before. We–"

A hand smothered me, and the Matoran cowered away from the bruiser as he lifted me into the air, covering my mouth. Strangely, the Titan did not move. I struggled feebly, got free for a moment:

"Axoss, quickly!"

"Hear me," said Shuldak, who I realized had advanced to stand before the figure. The two other guards stood with weapons ready, but the Titan wasn’t looking at them, nor at me. Shuldak was holding something: a round, flat stone.

"I bear this Tablet of Transit, of the Order of the Pridak," he said, speaking in a form of Archaic Matoric, "and I therefore have right of passage, both me and those accompanying me. Stand aside, warden, and let us pass."

No sooner were the words spoken, than the Titan was gone. Vanished into thin air. Shuldak turned to me and smiled very wide.

"Weren’t expecting that, were you, Turaga?" he said. My heart sank.

"How did you…"

"Recovery is my business," he replied. "Someone had to clean up all those wrecks from the Wars of Order, and wouldn’t you know, there’s a lot of treasure to be found. This though…" He turned the tablet over in his hands. "This is on an entirely different level of value."

"What do you intend to do with it?" I asked.

"That’s not important. What is important, however, is that trick you pulled. You didn’t mention a guardian."

A hand signal from the Phynaran, and the Ba-Matoran was lifted yelping into the air by one of the bruisers, arms stretched painfully tight.

"Any more information you’d like to divulge?"

I was beaten.

"The guardian…" I stammered. "The guardian watches over the Opening, high above. She met us when we first came, and aided us. You have everything now, I swear."

"Hm…" Shuldak rubbed his chin. The Ba-Matoran cried out again, and I heard one of his joints pop.

"On my title as a Turaga, I swear it!" I begged. "There is no more. Please, spare the Matoran."

Shuldak looked at me, then nodded to the bruiser. The Ba-Matoran dropped, and I stumbled over to him. His arm was injured, but nothing worse. I welded the elbow-joint back together with a blast of plasma. It would have to do.

"Turaga," Shuldak said, tapping his clawed foot, "if you betray me again, these two Matoran will be flung from the top of the slope. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good."

We continued up the staircase, one laborious step at a time. The minutes blurred into hours. At long last, the stairs leveled out into a flat mesa which stretched inward, under the curve of the wall. Here and there, the plain was dotted with strange pillar-shapes and great piles of rubble, broken off from the wall above in ages past.

Shuldak waited expectantly. I moved to the head of the group and began to pick my way over the uneven ground. The two Matoran moved with me, to keep me from stumbling. Over my shoulder, I called back:

"A walking stick would be most welcome."

"Your attendants will have to do, Turaga," Shuldak replied. "Last time I gave you your stick, you nearly burned a hole in one of my guards. I haven’t forgotten."

"Yes, yes…"

I picked out the trail slowly, working my way back through my recollections. My muscles complained, and I was out of breath, but I went on. I had to do it, for the Matoran, though I worried still that Shuldak would not release them once it was over. Ah, I was tired…

Why had she not helped us? Many millennia had passed, but surely she would still remember. All throughout our journey here, I had staked my hope on it, and now...

"Turaga? Turaga, are you alright?" The Ga-Matoran was shaking me, her voice a whisper. Some time had passed, and I had dozed on my feet. The Ba-Matoran stood just ahead, stock-still. It was dim here, and the wall was much closer now, looming over us oppressively. We had just rounded the edge of a great heap of stones, I saw, and…

And the Titan was there again, just as before. Motionless between two great pillars she stood, not a stone’s throw away. Her blue eyes shone in the gloom.

I glanced back. Shuldak and his guards were approaching, but they could not see the Titan yet. I chanced a hoarse whisper:

"Axoss, if you know me, then please…The Matoran and I are under duress. We are innocent. These others seek the Opening of their own accord. Test my words and know them to be true."

"Hush, Turaga!" the Ga-Matoran hissed. Impudent, but entirely deserved. Shuldak and his guards rounded the corner, and he fixed me with a quizzical look. I gestured ahead, and he saw the figure of the Titan. I waited to see what would happen…

Nothing happened. Shuldak stepped forward, drawing forth the tablet again, and spoke the same words. The Titan’s eyes burned in her face, and then she was gone again.

I cursed, inwardly, feeling fully betrayed by now. When my two brothers and I had come here long ago, stumbling beneath the raging wind of the Void Storm, we had encountered her–the Gray Titan Axoss–and she had been our guide. Through the terror of the hurricane, she had led us safely to our goal, to the source of the Storm. And afterward…when it was done…I–

"Well, Turaga," Shuldak said, interrupting my reverie, "that’s more like it. Although do I detect some disappointment in your face?"

"Not at all. I am here to cooperate."

"Much farther, is it?"

"Not far, no."

"That’s good! We have made good time–"

"Shuldak," I said hurriedly, "I must ask you something."

"Mm…I suppose I’m feeling generous. Ask, then."

"Why do you seek the Opening?"

Shuldak grinned slowly.

"Ah," he said, "the ‘Opening’. I heard you call it that. Such a Matoran turn of phrase. In the legends of my kind, it is called the Great Door."

"I have never heard such legends."

"Of course not. They are Phynaran, the secret seer-legends, from the time when our people ruled our lands and sought out every nook and cranny, before the time of the Oppressors." He spat out the last word.

My eyes widened. "You are a revolutionary, then?" I asked.

"Hah! Maybe…" A change came over him, and he began to pace, rubbing his clawed hands together. "I trust you know the history of the Barraki, Turaga?" he continued. "How the Lords of Order were raised up, and then how they betrayed Mata Nui and were destroyed for their arrogance?"

"It is no history to me, Shuldak," I replied. "I am as old as the Wars of Order are young. You must be fresher than I thought."

Shuldak’s eyes narrowed slightly and twitched. He continued:

"Well, that is only the simple Matoran version. Phynaran legends tell it different, and truer: How the Lord Pridak, our firstborn and the greatest of the Barraki, was elevated so far in his authority that he saw the shape of the world." Shuldak stopped pacing, and his voice fell almost to a whisper. "And in perceiving that shape," he continued, "Pridak saw also beyond the world, beyond the great barriers, and the knowledge he found there was so mighty, so terrible, that the Great Spirit himself trembled and was afraid. Then, Mata Nui’s goatdog Makuta, being jealous of Lord Pridak, rose up and slew him."

"Beyond the walls of the world…" I mused. "Shuldak, I assure you, that Opening will not grant you knowledge, and it will not bring back days of old. It is an endless maze of shadows, and…and the...and They–” My voice wavered, as it always did, and I shuddered, "They will not let you pass."

"I know of whom you speak," Shuldak said. "The Zyglak infest the walls of our world, gnawing at it, wallowing in their diseased flesh. But they are no Rahi. I know they listen to reason."

"You’ve had dealings with…with Them?" I blurted out.

"Hah! My business is recovery, as I said, and you will find that the deepest of seas are not uninhabited. How do you think I acquired this trinket?" He spun the Tablet of Transit on his finger. I had no reply.

"Well," he said, "I believe your question is answered. Now it’s time we made the last leg of our journey. Lead the way."

Through the dry ruins of stone, deeper into the dimness we trudged, and my hope was all but gone. Soon, we would reach our destination, and Shuldak would enact whatever insane plan he had in mind, and the Matoran and I would be of no more use. I was too weak and too old to do anything. My limbs ached, and the scars in the metal of my armor were starting to bother me again. Still, I led on, delaying the inevitable. The ground sloped upward slightly for a time, and then down in a wide scoop. There was the wall, as close as ever, with crags rising in layers up and over us, as if carved from stone with giant chisels.

And in that wall, there was an Opening.

Even at a distance, it could be seen now: a hole in the wall of the world. Perfectly round, boring straight back into darkness. I shivered with memories, memories of the last time I had stood there with my brothers, bowed against the terrible winds of the Void Storm which rushed endlessly into the hole, endlessly into nothing...

Behind us, back in the real world, the skies had been in turmoil. Hurricane had covered the Continent and threatened to drown the islands of the world as the atmosphere was torn and devoured by the Rupture that had been made somewhere beyond that dark portal. That was why we had been sent there, through roiling seas and sheets of lightning, sent to alien shores at the end of the world. Just us three, sent to find and seal the breach…

Shuldak wasted no time in closing the distance. He took the lead now, and his guards jogged us along with him, straight toward the Opening. My muscles burned, and my breath came in gasps. The Matoran did their best to help, but there was little to be done. Finally, Shuldak called a halt. The Opening was straight ahead, across an open area flanked by a few cracked pillars. There was no sign of life here. No sign of the Titan either. I was perplexed. What could have happened?

As we approached the Opening, my question was soon answered.

What from a distance had seemed to be just another broken pillar was actually the back of a gigantic chair, hewn from the gray metalstone, facing directly into the dark of the Opening. And on that chair there sat a figure. My spirit quailed, and the Matoran covered their faces in terror.

Skeletal. A mountain of rusted armor, scarred all over, and now crumbling into dust. The immense hammer rested upon emaciated knees, its surface blackened by corrosion; a disease that I recognized…

Shuldak beckoned to his guards, who took up positions on either side of the chair, then he stepped forward carefully, tablet held aloft.

"Warden!" he called out. "Can you hear me?"

Silence.

He repeated the litany in Archaic, as he had before. Nothing changed. He peered up into the gigantic face, nudged a gigantic foot. Then, all at once, Shuldak laughed.

"It seems fortune is with us, my friends! Time wears down all wards. Even here, at the end of the world."

"It seems you have achieved all you set out to do," I said, stepping closer.

"Indeed, and you have served your purpose admirably–"

"I have. And now, honorable Phynaran, of the same kind and core as the Pridak himself, I charge you to uphold your promise to me, to release these Matoran, lest wrath seek you out."

Shuldak blinked, surprised, I hoped, at the ancient invocation of his honor. I had lived among the Phynaran peoples long enough to know it.

"It is true that they will be of little use where we are going," he said after a moment. "They may return to the ship, if they can find the way."

Without a moment's pause, I turned to the Ga-Matoran and Ba-Matoran, placed my hands on their shoulders.

"You have done your duties well, and I thank you. Your valor is deserving of new names, and if I am ever again in Metru Prynak, I shall administer them myself. Until then, remember the path we have taken, and return to the sea."

"Turaga," the Ga-Matoran whispered. "Will you be alright?"

"I’m not sure," I replied. "But you must leave while you can. Go quickly. Do not stop."

They hesitated, glancing between me and the smiling Phynaran, then they turned and ran, disappearing up the path.

"Now, Turaga, I have another job for you."

Fear iced through me as I turned to the Phynaran.

"What more could you possibly require?"

"A guide. Of all creatures, it seems that you are the only one living who has walked upon the hallowed ground beyond the Great Door. You shall lead on as before."

"I can’t…I can’t go back in there."

"The Matoran are close still. My guards can bring them back if you continue to require motivation."

"No, Shuldak, I mean…you don’t know what’s in there. I’ve tried to tell you. If we go in, we won’t return. I barely escaped the...the Z-Zy..." I could not pronounce the name. "And that was only because…because…"

"Nonsense. We are well equipped for the journey, and as I said, I have certain experience with those that you so fear."

He turned away from me, away from the mummified body of the Titan, turned to the darkness of the Opening, and gestured for me to follow. Cold air washed over me as I took a halting step, knowing that I was going to my death. Shuldak took another step forward, then another, into the darkness…

Blue eyes opened in an ancient mask, and a voice rang out over the stones:

"Shol of Old Phynar, hear me," the voice said, and Shuldak whirled, eyes wide. The Titan had not moved. Only the eyes glowed dimly now.

"That name is no more," Shuldak hissed. The tablet was in his hand again. He waved it back and forth, trying to regain his composure. "Ahem, forgive me, warden. As you see, I bear this Tablet of Transit, of the Order of the Pridak–"

"I am bound to guard this gate," the voice boomed, "and to destroy any who cross its threshold, from within or without."

I saw Shuldak’s posture change. No longer magnanimous. "You are bound to follow the Edicts of Transit, from of old," he said. "By the Order of the Pridak, I–"

"I am a bearer of the Mask of Truth, Phynaran Shol. I test the truth of your words, and they are lacking."

Shuldak bared his teeth in an unpleasant smile.

"Why do you not recognize my claim?"

The Titan’s mask pulsed faintly. The tall blade affixed to the mask’s forehead hummed a high-pitched sound, dividing truth from falsehood. "I see your core, Phynaran, and through it. I see the world you have constructed to justify your belief. Old Phynar is no more, and the Pridakian Orders are dispelled. Your claim is null."

"I see." Shuldak stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. "Forgive my impertinence, warden, but can you see me? Your eyes glow, but if I’m not mistaken, they are scarred behind your mask."

"I am a bearer of the Mask of Truth, and truth is sight."

"Well, my eyes tell a different story. You are old, warden, and much damaged, and there is rust upon your hammer. The Void Storm was not kind to you, it seems, just like your friend here." He gestured toward me. "Would you not rather rest and leave your burden aside, just this once?"

The mighty head moved slowly, creakingly. The Titan’s blind gaze settled upon Shuldak.

"As I said, I am bound."

"Very well."

The bruisers acted with surprising speed, hurling themselves forward at the stone chair, arrays of weapons sprouting from their arms. I fell back as a mighty sound echoed off the wall above, and the ground shook with the impact. Choking dust filled the air. Then, it was over. The dust settled, and the combatants stepped back.

The stone seat was pulverized into broken rubble. Empty. A moment of bewilderment passed…

And then the gigantic right fist that swung down from out of nowhere caved in the head of the first Steltaxian, and the backhand which followed sent the second bruiser flying away to smash through a stone pillar in the distance. The Titan Axoss was there–the Axoss I had known. Still as wizened as the apparition that had sat before us, but animated now by the same grim violence I had witnessed when she laid waste to the encroaching Zyglak all those years ago. She was still blind, but it didn’t seem to matter. Her mask glowed with a revealing light.

The third Steltaxian roared and sprang forward across the rubble, and her hammer split the air to–

–I was being dragged by the neck, claws dug into my shoulder, feet skipping helplessly across the ground as Shuldak hauled me away. I could not even cry out. We crossed the space toward the dark opening. It rose up and over us, and cool darkness fell on my face, and all the horrible memories broke loose once more…

The black maze was filled with an avalanche of sound. Wind tore at our bodies like the teeth of an animal. Desperately, my brothers and I had searched down the winding passageways and through empty vaulted corridors, harried always by the rage of the Void Storm…and the hateful eyes of those who had caused it.

Axoss was lost. She had been with us for most of the maze, but then They had finally caught up. Out of the dark They had sprung, and They hated her most of all.

"Flee!" she roared as the Zyglak overran her and blue lightning crackled from her fists and from the head of her hammer. We fled, turn after turn after turn in the mindless dark, until finally, we emerged into a great honeycombed place, vast beyond belief.

And we found it there–

Shuldak had me under his arm now. He was clattering down the passageway, and the light from the outside world was growing smaller. He was taking me back, back into the black maze. I would not go back. My arms hung limp at first, but not anymore. His knee swung past my hand, and when it returned for the next step, it met the plasma-torch of my outstretched fingers.

He screamed and dropped me to the ground, cursing and stumbling. He made as if to grab me again, but stopped as he looked back toward the opening of the tunnel.

"You’re a coward, Turaga," he hissed. "Too cowardly to face the knowledge behind the Great Door. Well, we shall see how I fare."

He kicked me hard, rolling me over with the force of it, and I was…I was…

They were pouring in from every opening, teeth gnashing, eyes blazing. Their touch was poison, disease. They had already touched me and Ahak, and I felt it in my armor.

I burned them. I seared them. I poured forth plasma-fire upon them in great waves, but the wind hindered me. Relentlessly it howled out of the darkness, into the darkness. The Rupture stood above us in the high wall like a great mouth, and the wind howled into it, devouring the life of the world. It had to be stopped.

Behind us, Thu had bound himself to the ground with iron chains, holding fast against the gale. His metal seemed the most effective in sealing the breach, and so we defended him while he worked. Ahak worked relentlessly to close off the honeycomb passages with stone, but there were so many, and I could see that he was flagging. They had touched him first, back in the passageway. His armor was already turning gray, flaking off, but he continued nevertheless. By this time, Thu had fashioned a metal lattice and was raising it up into the opening, buffeted by the wind.

"Almost done!" he called out.

A spear whizzed out of the darkness and buried itself in Ahak’s chest. I watched as the light in his eyes died, and his body was battered away into the Rupture.

Thu saw as well. His cry of grief was lost in the cacophony. An iron half-sphere formed around him as more spears descended, splitting the chains that tethered him down.

"Triox!" he called out as the hurricane wind picked him up and sucked him and the great spreading mass of protodermic iron into the breach. "Seal it!"

And I...I tried to...I fought and...I wanted to...

I did as he asked. I poured rays of plasmatic energy from every fingertip and joint, burning plasma-fire from my heartlight and mouth and from my eyes. To the limit, to the breaking point, until my mask melted away and my eyes were scorched black, and my armor fell in gouts of slag.

And the Rupture was welded shut, a great scar of white-hot metal.

Then I fell headlong in the sudden, deafening silence, and tears sizzled on the scorched metal of my face–

I awakened on my back, chest throbbing. I sat up and wheezed a bit, but found that nothing was broken. I was not in the tunnel anymore. I was at the entrance, just beyond the darkness. I backed up, feet scraping on the stone, and found that I was not alone.

Axoss sat cross-legged behind me, over me. Her eyes were closed, hammer laid across her knees. Despite her stillness, I detected the rise and fall of her breathing. The remains of her attackers were…here and there. I didn’t look too close.

"That is the second time you have retrieved me from that hole," I said at length. "Thank you."

She nodded. Moments passed.

"So, what now?" I said, settling myself on the stone beside her. "Shuldak is...he's still in there, right?"

"Yes, he is. Let us wait here for a time, and see what transpires."

"And the Matoran? Are they alright?"

"They are safe, back along the path. It is the truth."

"After everything that has happened in the past few days, waiting patiently here is not my first choice, but you are built for patience, aren't you?"

"Wait with me, please," Axoss said.

We waited together. Moments became minutes, and minutes piled into an hour, maybe more. Axoss meditated, and I half-dozed. It was perhaps the most rest I’d gotten since I had left Metru Prynak. All at once, Axoss broke the silence:

"When I found you the last time," she said slowly, deliberately, as if she had planned the words, "after the Void Storm had subsided and the Zyglak were fled, you asked me a question."

"Yes?" I cleared my throat groggily, rubbed my eyes.

"You could barely speak–your mouth and throat were burned from inside–but still you asked: 'Did I do right?'"

"I think I remember."

"I did not answer. I was dying of the flesh-eating plague, and the only thing in my mind was to remove from that dark place, to die in the open air. So I did not answer, nor care. Even after we emerged and you gave up your power in order to heal me, and became Turaga, still I did not care. There was no right or wrong. Only duty. You had fulfilled your duty."

"At the time, I did not see it that way," I replied. "My brothers were dead...are dead. Was that the fulfillment of their duty?"

"It was, and of your own."

"Well, I confess that I could never balance that equation. The Rupture was sealed, but the...but the Z-Zy--" I stammered, coughed. "but They remained. And my brothers were dead."

There was no reply.

I continued: "We were the only Toa left on the Continent, you know, when the Storm started. I don't think I ever told you...There were already few of us, at the time, and somehow no one foresaw the calamity. For many years I wondered why no one saw it, neither seer nor prophet..."

"The Rupture came from beyond the world, beyond our stars. It could not have been foreseen."

"That makes sense, I suppose. Still, it couldn't have happened at a worse time. If we'd had just one more Toa with us...maybe..."

"These thoughts serve no purpose, not for those who serve as the tools of Mata Nui. All that matters is what is."

"I'm not so sure about that. I think it matters to me--what might have been..."

The titan frowned slightly, and I smiled, having managed to break her usually solemn expression..

I continued: "When I healed you, Axoss, and gave up my power, I did not expect to survive. I was burned, inside and out. I could not see, nor breathe. I only knew that I was ending, and that I needed to leave something behind...something more. There was no clever strategy, no sense of duty in the act."

"Intended or not, that choice saved us both. The transformation revitalized you, and the healing power halted the progression of the plague that afflicted me."

"Well, 'revitalized' is a strong word. My scars can attest to that." I rubbed my sore limbs. "And it could not restore your sight."

"I serve the Mask of Truth. It provides all the sight I need. In the end, by fulfilling your duty, you enabled me to continue mine."

"Duty is not kind, Axoss. Not kind to us."

There was a long pause, and the mountain of armor shifted slightly. A long breath exhaled.

"No, it is not kind."

"So what do you say now, after all these years? Did I do right?"

Axoss did not answer. Footsteps sounded in the dark passage, far away. Their echoes were approaching, overlapping, and other noises followed. Clattering and scraping, the rasp of metal on stone, the murmur of distant voices.

Louder and louder it became, and I felt my muscles tightening with fear. Louder and louder, until all at once, Shuldak stumbled from the Opening and fell to the ground gasping.

His eyes raved in his skull. His mouth moved, but no sound came. His hands opened and closed on nothing–his tablet was gone. There were marks on his armor, from head to toe, and the red paint that had adorned his face was scratched and peeling. Peeled off, in some places, as if by many razors.

Axoss opened her blind eyes and inclined her face to the miserable Phynaran. After a few moments, Shuldak’s gaze met hers, and he grew unnaturally still.

"In an ancient time," she said at last, "I would not have hesitated to destroy you now, Shol of Old Phynar. Could not have hesitated. Such was the strength of the bond of my duty. But now, a change has come, and I may choose, at least, the method of judgment. Do you comprehend this, Phynaran?"

The eyes blinked, the mouth moved. Axoss saw the truth of it. The noises in the passage had continued as she spoke. There was a skittering sound in the dark. Many dragging limbs and spines. Something was crawling along the floor, on the walls, on the ceiling, all around.

Red eyes opened in the blackness, just beyond the reach of the light, a hundred of them at least. I shrank back as a familiar voice issued:

"Give him to us," it said in tones of hatred. "He is a child of the Pridak, that chosen one of Mata Nui, whom we curse. Pridak who slew many of our kind in elder days. This one is a bargainer, a dealmaker, a seeker of amnesty and allegiance in exchange for our knowledge of the beyond." A harsh croaking, which is Their laughter, followed this. "But we do not palter with such. We will rend this one and devour his core. Give him to us, warden."

Axoss reached down and took Shuldak in one great hand, lifting him bodily. She held him toward the darkness, and all his cunning was gone. She spoke:

"Your violence would fulfill my duty to the Great Spirit. Will you send him on the Red Journey for me, this day?"

A hiss and curses poured from the portal. Shuldak hung in the air, staring, mouth agape.

"Keep him then," the voice said at last. "We shall not partake in your duty, which is accursed. We see that your eyes are dim, warden, and your body grows ever frailer. What strength have you left in those limbs, after all these years?"

"Strength enough to slay another ten thousand of your kind, Zyglak, and to clean the rust from my hammer with your bones. I am bound to this duty for eternity. I do not waver."

"Neither we. Neither we…We gnaw at the world even now, though your Toa sealed the breach. One day we shall open it again, and then–"

Axoss laughed suddenly, a terrible peal of laughter, and a flash of white light issued from her mouth, blazed down the tunnel, and in the radiance I looked upon Them once more, and the air was filled with the cries of Their burning. They fled away, away into the dark…

When my sight returned to normal again, I realized that Shuldak was gone as well. His figure careened away across the flat, back toward the horizon.

Axoss had let him go.

======

The Amaja was in shadow by now. I stood creakily and retrieved the various stones. The Matoran were filtering out, some to their night-tasks in the city above, but most to rest. A few remained to speak with me.

"Your stories are strange, Turaga," the first said, a Fa-Matoran, "different from the legends of the other elders."

"I expect so. I’m afraid I am not a good teller of legends."

"No, no. We look forward to your tellings on the odd months."

"Turaga," another spoke up, this time a Ce-Matoran, "What became of the two Matoran, the Ga and the Ba? Were they accosted by the Phynaran as he fled?"

"They were returned safely to the ship, along with myself. The Phynaran…he did not fare quite as well."

"Is it true that the touch of Zyglak eats away at one’s armor and flesh?"

"It is true, and the Phynaran Shuldak would tell you so, if he could still speak."

"So he lived?"

"Yes, he lived, though the Carexkans boxed him up for the return journey. Axoss accompanied me back to the shore to make sure of it. The sailors seemed to understand what her presence meant. I believe it was not the first time they had encountered her, or one like her. Who can say?"

"And did she ever answer your question?" the Ce-Matoran asked.

"What question?"

"Whether you did right, long ago."

"Ah, no…No, she didn’t."

"Of course he did right," the Fa-Matoran piped up. "He saved the world from the Void Storm. The Fire Turaga told the legend last month. It's not a hard question."

"Well, maybe not for you," I said.

"Did she go back then, to continue her duty?" the Ce-Matoran continued.

"What do you think?"

"Well, I hope so, because the Zyglak frighten me. But at the same time, I think it's...it's a hard thing."

"How so?"

"To be bound to a duty like that, I mean. For all time. To never...to never be able to rest."

I realized that there were tears in my eyes. When had that happened...

"I think so too," I said. "But maybe one day...one day our tasks will all be done, and then we can rest."

The scars hurt, in my armor and flesh. My throat was raw from too much talking, and my eyes were tired from too much seeing.

"I've never thought about it. Do you really think so, Turaga?"

Duty is not kind, Axoss. Not kind to us.

"I hope so."

#bionicle #art #writing #fanfiction #outofgloom #works

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homestuck-fanauthor-coalition · 19 days ago

Text

Sleepover on Hellmurder Island

@shadow-wasser Callmesalticidae

Your name is Terezi Pyrope, named by a Lusus who died so many sweeps ago that it is practically beyond reckoning, and for a sign you still hold close. You are incredibly old, but you’ve done enough time travel over the eons that you’re not sure how old exactly. Old as balls.

Chapters: 5/6

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Archive Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: Gen

Fandom: Homestuck

Characters: Jade Harley, Terezi Pyrope, Sollux Captor, Rose Lalonde, Eridan Ampora, Feferi Peixes, John Egbert, Dave Strider, Becquerel (Homestuck)

Additional Tags: Picnics, Crushes, fluff with some plot, Godstuck, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, slumber party, lotus time capsule, multidimensional mathematics, Eldritch Horrors, Skinny Dipping, poorly-socialized Jade, gross teenage boys, little adult supervision, Sea Monsters, Mind Reading, Graphs, Treasure Hunt

#homestuck #homestuck fanfic #homestuck fic #jade harley #terezi pyrope #john egbert #rose lalonde #dave strider

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aventurineswife · 2 months ago

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So, a long time ago, when outlander reader absorbed power from ethereal moon (that they put limits on), it completely merged with them and became natural part of them, trying to remove it from them, would be like removing an arm or an eye. Only way to use their powers is to either somehow convince reader to share it... Or use reader themselves as living battery.

Reader had to deal with kidnapping before, even with already limited powers (especially when they are sealed now, making them even more limited) they could protect themselves, but if some cunning people managed to do so and tried to use reader as battery... I am sure protagonists won't be very happy and gladly dogpile them to half death.

Reader is going to be grateful to them, but even if they don't show it, they are going to be surprised that they wanted to save them for the sake of it, instead because they work together and still need each other for their goals.

Oh, the emotional complexity here is chef's kiss.

Reader, having merged with the Ethereal Moon, essentially becomes a living conduit of immense power—an unshakable bond that can't easily be severed. This "arm" or "eye" of theirs, a part of their very soul, has become the core of their existence. It's not just a source of power—it’s them, an extension of their being. If someone tried to extract it, to siphon that energy, it’d be like attempting to dismember them. The consequences would be catastrophic, both physically and psychologically.

So imagine the scene when Reader, already weakened from being sealed and rendered powerless, is kidnapped. Their captors—greedy, ambitious, or perhaps desperate—think they’ve finally found a way to harvest this power by using Reader as a living battery. They could hold Reader captive, probably locking them in some sort of high-tech energy-draining containment, hoping to extract even a fraction of the Ethereal Moon's power.

But here’s where things take a turn. The protagonists, especially those close to Reader, would absolutely lose it. Even if they’re unaware of the full depth of Reader's powers, they know one thing for sure: no one gets to use them like that. The sheer possessiveness, the protective instincts, and the bond formed through shared struggles would explode in an outpouring of fury.

They'd rush in, throwing everything they have at the captors, their intent clear—not just to save Reader, but to dismantle anyone who dares treat them as an object to be used. The sheer weight of their actions—rescuing Reader not out of calculated reasoning or need, but because they care—is going to hit the reader hard.

And then, there’s that moment when the dust settles. Reader, still processing the trauma of being treated as a power source, feels a strange, unspoken gratitude. They may not show it outright—they’ve been hurt too many times, built too many walls—but deep down, the realization that these people didn’t just want them alive for practical reasons, but for them as a person... that will shake them to their core.

Reader’s emotional defenses may be on high alert, but they’ll start questioning something they haven't in eons: What does it mean to be cared for, just for being who they are, rather than what they can give?

It’s a sharp contrast to their usual mindset—where they only trust people for pragmatic reasons or because of mutual benefit. But in this case, the protagonists fought to protect them because they matter, because they want them to be safe. That’ll be an unsettling revelation for Reader. They’re not used to being wanted for themselves.

It might take time for Reader to acknowledge that softening part of themselves, to even admit that they want to trust, to let people in. The protagonists' intervention—coming from a place of care, not necessity—would be the first real crack in their hardened walls, the beginning of a shift. Even if they don’t show it in the moment, that tiny seed of vulnerability has been planted. And perhaps, after the dust settles and they’re on the mend, Reader will come to realize that they might want something more than just the endless wandering through worlds... they might want a home in these people they’ve started to call family.

It’s a slow burn for sure, but that moment of quiet gratitude will resonate through their actions in the future, even if it's never spoken aloud.

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autisticsupervillain · 1 year ago

Text

It's Fictional Throwdown Friday!

This Week's Fighters...

Lapis Lazuli vs Sollux Captor!

Conditions:

No Restrictions.

Scenario:

At a diplomatic meeting between Era 3 Homeworld and Earth C, a comparison between troll blood castes and gem types escalates into a comparison between which is stronger, Lapis Lazulis or yellow blooded psionics. They elect to settle the debate with a sparing match between Lapis and Sollux.

Analysis: Lapis

For eons, long before the birth of humanity, the galaxy saw one and only one sentient race: the Gems of the Homeworld Empire, the loyal servants of the Great Diamond Authority.

Militaristic and imperialistic, the Gems conquered all that they saw for centuries, exterminating life uncontested for centuries until they found one planet: Earth. On this seemingly insignificant blue rock, they encountered two things they had never had to deal with before: sentient life forms and rebellious gems. Horrified by the revelation that they were destroying sentient life, Pink Diamond elected to stage a rebellion against herself under the persona of Rose Quartz, sparking a war that would cost countless lives.

One of the lives ruined in the wake of this catastrophe was that of one Lapis Lazuli, one of Homeworld's teraformers, who was attacked and "poofed" by the rebels in some unnamed skirmish. Captured by the empire and mistaken for a traitor, she was sealed inside a mirror and interrogated for information she didn't have until Homeworld was forced to retreat from Earth. She was then found by the Crystal Gems and, believed to be non sentient, kept and forgotten for decades. It wasn't until she was given to and released by the young Steven Universe that she would ever be freed from her prison.

She wasn't to happy with being held prisoner for centuries, first by her own Empire, then by the very rebels she was accused of being with in the first. Lapis wanted nothing more then to go back home, but as soon as she got the chance, Lapis was again taken prisoner. She had nowhere to go but Earth and Homeworld would keep trying to destroy that and her. It took... a long time before she could begin to think of the planet that took so much from her as a home.

While the road to recovery was long, Steven's forgiveness and compassion eventually allowed her to move past her trauma and integrate into human society, joining the Crystal Gems and becoming a protector of the Earth.

First and foremost, Lapis is a Gem and thus possesses a physiology entirely unique from that of a human. Firstly, her body isn't organic. It's made of hard light, and can thus be shapeshifted according to her desires, so long as she has enough energy for it. As a result, she does not age, doesn't need sleep, food, or drink, and will live forever. Similarly, if her body is every damaged or destroyed, she can simply recreate a new one. The only known way to kill her in combat is destroying her gemstone. But, it should be noted that gems can still be incapacitated by destroying their bodies, as repairing their physical form takes time and can take anywhere from a few minutes to several weeks depending on how long the gem takes to redesign their body. Furthermore, this process leaves the gem vulnerable to bubbling, a process where the gemstone is bubbled by another Gem, thus sealing away their consciousness.

Thankfully, Lapis has a whole host of abilities to prevent this from happening. Being designed for terraforming, Lapis has access to incredibly powerful hydrokinetic abilities. She can create wings to fly, can create chains to bind her opponents, even dragging them to the bottom the ocean, and can even create exact duplicates of her opponents made of water. She has also shown a limited degree of ice manipulation by freezing her water. Her whole job is to terraform entire planets to suit the conquering Gems's needs, by obliterating them with their own oceans. Her control is so great, that she was able to beat two other Lapis Lazuli's simultaneously and stole the entire planet's ocean overnight.

That much water moving that fast would generate kinetic energy equivalent to 35 petatons of TNT.

Source:

Even without using the entire ocean as a weapon, Lapis is remarkably powerful. She can easily send Jasper flying with one watery punch and can create duplicates equal to Garnet while not paying her any real attention. This means that she's easily a match for even the toughest of Gems even at a minimum level of effort. Garnet by herself was capable of effortlessly punching mountains in half, turning sand into glass while playing volleyball, and cracking an escape pod in half, which landed with a kinetic energy equivalent to 142 kilotons of TNT and was fine.

Source:

However, while Lapis is incredibly powerful... her body itself clearly isn't. She can endure the vacuum of space just fine, yes, but even common Rubies can do that. Given that Lapis was one-shot by Bismuth, it's quiet clear to me that she isn't as tough as her waterbending is.

Luckily, she should be fast enough to dodge any oncoming damage. She was able to fly from the edge of the Milky Way and back in the span of four months, requiring her to fly 93,414x faster than light.

Source:

This took place after the episode that explained that Gems physically cannot travel faster than light due to being made of it. Either light speed is much faster in the Universe-verse or writers cannot do math.

Overall, Lapis is clearly one of the most powerful of the Crystal Gems, bringing literally world shaking power to any match she enters, overwhelming all but the most powerful instantly.

Analysis: Sollux

Doom. The Aspect of dispair. Those bound by Doom are fates chosen sufferers, predestined for a life of pain and misery. And there is no better example of that in all of Paradox Space than Sollux Captor.

Born on the alien hell world of Alternia, Sollux was born as a Gold Blood. The third lowest caste in Troll society. Thanks to his status, he was not only relentlessly persecuted, but he was predestined to serve as a living battery for the Empire's warships, guaranteeing a short life of pain and misery once he left the planet. Even on the planet, his life wasn't much better. Largely because a nearby highblood and local 8itch mind controlled him into killing his own girlfriend.

So yeah, as you can see, if you're bound to the Aspect of Doom, then life is just going to shit over you right from minute one. While all your friends are bound to primordial concepts that grant them cool superpowers, you're bound to a concept that forces you to hear the voices of those who are soon to die. Well, okay, I say that, but it's not all bad for poor Sollux. For one thing, being a SBURB Player does give him a few handy perks, like a video game style hammerspace inventory called a Specibus, or a leveling up system called an Echeladder, which goes up continuously as you do random things, ensuring that you're always getting stronger.

Not like Sollux needs much help with that. He's easily the most powerful psionic on the planet, arguably the strongest in history. As a direct descendant (or clone. Kinda. It's complicated.) of the Psiioniic, Sollux has inherited all his absurd abilities and psionic powers. This includes telekinesis powerful enough to lift buildings and eye lasers big enough to vaporize skyscrapers.

Sollux's telekinesis is so powerful, it can overpower and redirect meteors summoned by the Reckoning, including those the size of Australia. That's a feat that requires at least 3 exatons of tnt. And that's on top of it's utterly ridiculous range, allowing Sollux to grab and throw meteors from the other side of the universe or blow up a laptop that was in a different timeline entirely.

Source:

But, as with all things Doom bound or SBURB related, it came at a price. Since Sollux was a SBURB Player, he was inevitably going to witness the end of his race, as it's the job of him and the rest of his friends to create the next universe while their old one dies. Furthermore, he didn't even get to live in our universe, because someone from the universe he and his friends just created traveled back in time to kill all of his friends. The pressure of having to hide from this god-like entity shattered his already fragile friend group, causing Sollux's rival, Eridan, to go on a killing spree. This resulted in Eridan vaporizing Sollux's eyes and killing his new girlfriend... right before Sollux gets dropped down a flight of stairs for unrelated reasons. And not long after that, Sollux half dies from the exertion of pushing his spaceship across the Outer Ring at faster than light speeds, moving at 1,041,320.39 the speed of light.

Ironically, the narration here describes him as supposedly moving at "near lightspeed" and there was a whole spiel from Jade about faster than light travel supposedly being impossible. Yet another case of "writers cannot do math".

Source:

Man, Sollux is just the Spider-Man of the Homestuck universe. He certainly has about as many dead girlfriends. That isn't even counting the time he got forcibly fused with the person who killed his girlfriend (not Vriska, the other one). Yeah, needless to say, when your life sucks as much as Sollux's does, you become something of a grumpy dick. He's relentlessly cynical and pessimistic asshole, which is certainly not helped by his bipolar mood swings and short temper.

Despite this though, Sollux's luck did eventually begin to turn around. He's far and away the most competent hacker in Paradox Space, capable of hacking into a video game that alters the fabric of reality. Eventually, his first girlfriend came back to life as an immortal time goddess and they hooked up again, a little while after Sollux discovered he is now half-ghost. This means, not only does he not age anymore, but he's only half blind now, with only his living half being bound to his pre-existing injuries. So, not only is Sollux Spider-Man, he's also Danny Phantom.

So, no matter how badly life kicks him, Sollux is always going to rain down hell on whoever and whatever crosses his path.

Throwdown Theme:

youtube

Throwdown Breakdown:

I feel like this match up is fairly decisive.

For as much raw power as both of them wield, Sollux takes the edge in the standard stat trifecta. His 3 exaton feat would translate to 3,000 petatons against Lapis's maximum output of 35 petatons, a whooping 85x strength gap in his favor. Meanwhile, in speed, Lapis can move thousands of times faster than light, while Sollux can move millions of times faster. (93,414c vs 1,041,320c, an 11x difference).

However, there is something of an argument to be made here. Both franchises do try to have a rule that faster than light speed is impossible, so wouldn't the gap be closer if we took that at its word?

Well, no. While Lapis would have scaling that borders in lightspeed even without her own feats, Sollux would explicitly be an exception to the light speed rule. His very own Ancestor, whom he inherits his powers from and is technically a genetic copy of, was described as being so powerful that he broke the lightspeed rule, being capable of crossing thousands of light years in mere hours. So it'd be even worse for Lapis if I didn't ignore the light speed rule. If anything, this gives Lapis something of an edge. While Sollux is decently faster, it's only while pushing himself to the brink that he sizably outpaces her.

Though, in Lapis's defense, she has several abilities that Sollux does not. Water chains to restrain him, water clones to wear him down, ice to freeze him solid. The problem with landing those win conditions is power. Lapis could drown Sollux or chuck him into space, as he needs air to breath while Lapis does not, but she'd struggle to do that when he can very easily blast the water away. Lapis has never made a water clone strong enough to match someone like Sollux, so she likely wouldn't be able to here, and if she did, she'd have to use up all her available water to maintain it, as the strength of her attacks relies on how much water she has access to.

I do believe it is hypothetically possible for Lapis to match Sollux if she had access to more water, as her strongest feat is something she did while highly injured, but that's highly circumstantial. If the entirety of Earth's oceans don't give her enough water to match Sollux head on, how likely is it that they'll fight on a planet that would?

Ultimately, that plays into Lapis's greatest issue here. Her powers are all external. She relies on a planet having a lot of water for her to weaponize, while Sollux's power is all his own. We know for a fact Sollux can survive his own power because he fires it out of his face and doesn't obliterate himself. We know for a fact that Lapis can't because Bismuth dropped her in one punch. When Sollux realizes that Lapis relies entirely on the ocean, he can just... throw the ocean into space. That's it. Fight's over.

Both of these characters lack a sizable amount of combat experience compared to their peers. While they're both capable of fighting people their own size, they do strongly rely on being absurdly more powerful than everything in most circumstances. It just so happens that Sollux is the much stronger one here.

This Throwdown's Winner is...

Sollux Captor!

#fictional throwdown fridays #homestuck #steven universe #sollux captor #lapis lazuli #Youtube

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luminashdawnwing · 1 year ago

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Gnothi Sauton (Part I)

Author's note: this began as the day 7 prompt for the February DWC, but rapidly spiraled out of control and became a full conclusion series. This first part is fairly long, but has breaks!

There was little Theras enjoyed more than taking a quiet opportunity to fill the pages of his sketchbook. Since he had come to the Dream, the empty pages in his current volume had dwindled to nearly nothing. One of those final blank spaces was being filled, charcoal sweeping across the page, a delicate scratching sound lost almost entirely to the rustling of leaves in the canopy above. The way the light danced between those leaves, the way it dappled the soft grass, it was a perfect subject.

Footsteps approaching from the direction of the camp at Amirdrassil’s base broke the silence.

“Theras Dawnwing.”

The woman’s voice was unfamiliar, and he had heard none like it before. It echoed, as if spoken from down an empty hall, yet was sharp enough to command immediate attention.

The young ranger clapped his notebook shut, the snap of the newcomer’s voice flooding his mind with ice, as if thrown abruptly into a winter pond. He turned his head to see who had spoken with such intent, smoothing a lock of scarlet hair from his face.

Her voice had been something new and unfamiliar, and so she proved to be as well. A head taller than any elf he had seen, her cold eyes bored into Theras, brilliant blue set against sandy skin, hair so brilliant blonde that the light filtering between the leaves made it shine like the sun.

Her garb, too, was strange, a gown, shimmering bronze and accented with swooping silver details, tapering into curls that called to mind nothing more than claws, sweeping out behind her.

Shaking off his stupor, Theras stood and turned to face the newcomer. The moment of shock ended, he met her gaze – with some difficulty, for the force of those eyes seemed to turn his away. Reptilian pupils met elven glow.

Before the young man could speak, the dragon continued, “It is high time we met, young Dawnwing. Proper introductions must come later, though. Listen well: I am a colleague of your father’s, and I am afraid to say that he needs your aid.”

** ** **

“Why do you spare me? Why will you not just let me die?!” The imprisoned doppelgänger shouted at his captor. The words were not empty, Luminash felt. This man truly felt he had nothing left.

“Because you and I are the same,” Luminash replied, idle steps taking him around the edge of the hollow in which he had been ambushed. The movement helped distract him from the strain of maintaining his spell. How long could this last before he had no choice but to give his other self his wish?

“We share a name, we share parents, we share…nothing, not any longer,” the other replied, the fiery light of his eyes hidden still under their lids.

“We share more than you think. Since Eon’s Fringe, I – we – have seen so many glimpses of our own possible lives. Surely you know there is a way back from even this, yes? I can–”

“Offer me help?” The fallen magister finished his counterpart’s thought, “No. Everything you possess that gives you meaning, I have lost. This is the…” A pregnant pause, “It must be the only way.”

Luminash had begun to recognize the signs of doubt in this one. From the first moment of his attack, there had been something eating away at the other, as surely as the shadowflame ate away at his spirit.

“But you don’t believe that, not anymore. What has your Infinite promised you?” The magister continued his circuit, body tense with exertion at holding the weave of his spell for so long.

The scarred elf’s eyes shot open, “You saw.”

“I did. As I am sure you saw me with the Bronze. I know you are having second thoughts.” The other opened his cracked lips to respond, but Luminash continued, “I had second thoughts, too, when approached by the Timewalkers, when they tried to sell me on their mission. For so long, I – we – viewed them as untouchable keepers of some fabricated ‘true timeline.’ I do not know still if I believe strictly in such a timeline, but for those of us who have honed the skill to see possibilities, should we not use those skills to better the world we live in?”

Silence, while the suspended elf waited to see if his captor would continue. Then, “That is what I aim to do. Caeridormi gave me the chance to take my family back. That would better my world, correct the mistakes of the past. It would make…” A sizzling, as tears welled and broke loose, the heat of his skin drying them as they came, “Theras would brighten my world’s future.”

“But he would not be yours. You must have asked yourself what Theras himself would think.” Luminash watched the contortion of his doppelgänger’s face. Of course he had, and oh, how it pained him, “You do not need to do this. There are Infinite dragons who have seen that their path leads only to destruction. If you are set on fixing the mistakes of the past, you need not work against me. I can help you.”

“And why would you do this? I…” He choked, a sob welling in his throat. He should have been filled with rage, this infuriatingly perfect mirror of himself deigning to offer him aid, talking down to him…and yet, he was not. Only a deep gulf remained in his heart, fire swallowed up by the dark.

“Because you and I are the same,” the magister repeated, “How easily I could have been you, how easily you could have been me. A moment’s difference, that is all. I do not bear you any ill will. We both know it is easier to roll over and die than to accept the pain life has given us. Our eyes – both of us – saw the Scourge ravage our home. We both saw our Prince betray our people. The rug has been pulled out from beneath us again and again, and yet we remained. You have that strength now, too.”

Strength. What a word it was. A luxury. The spell was draining more and more from him, and he felt it with every passing moment, every word from his lips. The other, he saw, had wriggled his fingers, had taken a deeper breath. The bonds were growing lax.

What would happen, should words fail? Time grew short.

** ** **

“He is not here,” Theras stated matter-of-factly, letting his grip on his spear loosen. Caeridormi – she had introduced herself by name as she had led the ranger to their destination, a root-bound grotto uncomfortably close to the Primalist front.

His father, the dragon had related, came upon a disturbance in the flow of time near the Primalists, and had reason to believe the Infinites intended to meddle in the fate of Amirdrassil, a final gambit after their failed assault on the Temporal Conflux. He had rushed off, as he was wont to do, and sent word back to Caeridormi to get help.

“Then we have little time,” the dragon replied as she strode into the grotto, footsteps leaving imprints in the soft, damp soil, “If he fell into the timeways…”

Something was certainly not right here. She had made it sound as if other Timewalkers would be there already, yet there was no sign.

“And the others?”

She only shook her head, “They must have slipped away with him. A moment.” She strode further into the hollow, shining and shimmering with her otherworldly glow even in the low light.

The ranger took in his surroundings as his companion did, though he only had his mortal senses while her hands swirled with brazen sand, scrying for further disturbances no doubt. In the otherwise silent space, it sounded like a gentle breeze over dunes.

He tightened his grip on his spear again and began to edge towards the entrance while the dragon focused elsewhere. He could not place why his skin crawled and the hair of his neck stood on end, but…

No footprints. There were no other footprints here but their own.

He raised his spear, pointing directly at Caeridormi.

“Where is my father?” Theras asked, his voice wavering slightly. It sounded, to his ears, to have come from somewhere far away.

Caeridormi turned, the magic swirling around her hands dispersed, tiny motes of bronze light fluttering down to the ground, the rustling of sandy winds dying too, leaving only an oppressive quiet, the quiet of the moment before a hawk seized its prey and bore it writhing away in its talons.

In that silence, her form shimmered, golden bronze and sandy tan shifting, as if a trick of the light, replaced with deep blue-black and ashen white. Infinite.

“Oh, now you’ve gone and made this difficult on yourself.”

** ** **

“Let me send you home. Whatever the Infinites have promised is not worth whatever they will take in return,” Luminash said through gritted teeth. The strain was so much he could scarcely bear it. The threads felt drawn so tight around his fingers that he was surprised to see them pink and healthy rather than purple and swelling with blood.

“Caeridormi will send me and Theras back when my task is done,” the other Luminash replied, “I do not need your help! If you will not simply end me, then at least let me be in silence!”

The frustration was new, the magister noted. A good sign? Or a sign, at least.

“Very well, then,” he concluded, “Luminash.”

There it was: the shock, at being addressed by name, at hearing his own name fall from his own lips. Of being seen.

Then, something tore, a shudder jolting through the threads of magic flowing around him. He did not know where it had come from, or what it had been, but the threads slipped, just for a moment, and the captive fell to earth, along with the exhausted magister.

** ** **

Caeridormi’s stride was swift, with scarcely a breath passing between her truth being revealed and her ashen hands wrapped around Theras’ throat. The young elf was lifted off the ground, a slight squelching sound as his boots pulled from the muddy floor of the grotto, and his hands grasped at the dragon’s clawed gauntlets, a desperate scrabble to be free, to breathe.

Her other hand rose, a new swirl of brazen sand appearing as she traced a circle in the air. There was a rending, a palpable tear in the Arcane, as a portal began to form, a murky opening in midair, obscured by swirling sand around its surface, like trying to look through clouded glass. Even without his father’s gift for magic, Theras could feel the power Caeridormi wielded in his bones.

“This could have been much easier on you, little Dawnwing, if you’d just followed my lead. Now we risk the Bronze flight crashing down on our heads, and for what? So you could play detective? Well, congratulations,” the dragon sneered. Even in her position of power, Theras noted as he continued – in vain – to struggle, breath coming more and more shallowly through her grip, she was agitated.

“Why…me…” the ranger managed to rasp. It was risky, but if he could buy time, perhaps he could think of something.

She bent her arm, pulling him closer, her eyes locked to his, those of a predator toying with prey, “Insurance, simply put. It is not about you, child, but what you represent to certain others. To me, a pretty little tool to keep my timeline moving along as it ought.”

“What…others…do…” he choked on his words, sputtering out. It was easier to breathe in this position, but he could see darkness out of the corners of his eyes.

She only smiled in response, “Rest, Theras. Everything is about to change.”

** ** **

Luminash’s ears rang as he blinked the haze away from his eyes. How had he held on as long as he had? A few feet in front of him, his other self sat looking just as stunned as he must have.

“You…felt it too,” the doppelgänger stated flatly. Not a question, but certainty. We are the same. There was greater truth to that than simply a shared history, it seemed.

“I did,” Luminash answered, words carried by a sharp exhalation. His whole body was shaking from the exertion of his spell, and he could scarcely lift his hands from the grass beneath him. Why had his flame-scarred copy not moved against him?

The other’s face betrayed little, but his brows furrowed.

“What is it?” Luminash ventured.

“That is… The same feeling I had when Caeridormi brought me here.” The fallen magister looked to be a thousand miles away, mind racing behind burning eyes. Was that a look of hurt? Betrayal?

“What are we to make of it, then?” Luminash finally managed to push himself to his feet, though his legs still wobbled as he stood.

The other was silent, staring, unfocused. When he did speak, gone was any trace of choking back sobs, or any shakiness from tears; only a dazed sort of certainty remained, “She is taking Theras.” He met the standing magister’s eyes, “To ensure my…good behavior.” He grimaced, then, a face that Lumiansh knew well how to make himself, “If I do not kill you, she will take Theras from both of us. I will lose him again if I do not act.” The grimace gave way to a look of pleading, the look of a man utterly broken, a man for whom hopelessness had eclipsed all else. He must act, but could not. The magister’s breath caught in his chest. After a moment of hesitation, he extended a hand to the scarred elf at his feet, “Then let us act.”

#luminashdawnwing #story

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