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deepspacenova · 3 months ago

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a soul cast in shadow

small moments with you that make Sylus realize that maybe the distance between his life with you in Philos and his life with you now aren't as far apart as they seem.

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➻➻ ABOUT | 2000 words. sylus x gn!reader.

➻➻ TAGS | light angst. banter. hurt/comfort. modern day. references to Sylus' myth.

NOTE: A small and self-indulgent little thing inspired by this ask. It's also Sylus Month™ and I'm finding that dragon!sylus is plaguing my mind a little more than usual.

Sylus had long since accepted his new reality. The absence of horns and tail, the vulnerability of his missing scales and wings, the dullness of human nails in the places his claws should’ve grown. Gone were the days of flight and fire and fight, towering over civilization and reveling in raw power in his truest form.

In their place stood the burden of fitting the jagged contours of a dragon’s heart and torn soul into a fragile layer of human flesh.

He’d gotten used to it over time, of course. The phantom traces of those limbs were like smoke after a fire, diluted by air and time until he could inhale with almost no trace of his past self tainting his breath.

And while he was now indistinguishable from mortals on the surface, could now walk among the sheep in their own clothing, there were a few moments when he couldn’t help but let the past waft through his senses — the clattering sound of bullet shells that reminded him of counting gold, the bitter scent of fear that tempted the predator inside to chase, the feeling of phantom heat curling in his lungs when emotions flared.

And then there was the sight of you.

The one who’d once been his treasure and his heart all at once.

With you the past was a wildfire, a smoke so all-consuming and dense in his lungs that it was almost impossible to concentrate on anything but the past.

On the way your eyes used to melt around him like sunshine, the way your hands used to gently lay flowers on his horns, the way your lips stamped kisses into his scales. It was bigger than him, this feeling. So tangible, that the thought of you not feeling it across lifetimes never even crossed his mind.

Maybe he’d been a fool to believe that what you had could transcend time. That what you shared could ever be forgotten.

But as he ducked his head into your bedroom and took it in for the first time, that foolishness seemed to dissipate before him.

There was a bookshelf by your bed, acting as more of a display stand for well-worn fantasy novels than book storage. Each cover was beautifully bound, embossed with horned beasts, wings spread in majestic flight.

Artwork adorned the wall around your desk, displaying dragons of all kinds — fire-breathing beasts, silhouettes flying serenely in the moonlight, oversized reptilian bodies curled protectively around sleeping maidens.

Small figurines of dragons crafted in ceramic, glass, and metal were scattered across surfaces like small sentinels guarding your domain.

You were surrounded by dragons.

“What are you staring at?” you asked, your voice cutting through his thoughts.

His eyes darted over to you, watching as you tucked your boots into your closet and hung your bag over your desk chair. Loose strands of hair framed your face, damp with the rain drops you got caught in a few minutes ago.

“Your obsession, kitten.” He gestured to a figurine of an onyx-scaled dragon by your door. “Don't you think it's a bit... pervasive?”

You grinned, making your over to him and adjusting it. “I'm not obsessed, I'm fascinated. Dragons are powerful and majestic and protective of what’s theirs. What’s not to like?”

Sylus’ exhale sounded more unsteady to his ears than he was comfortable with. He shook his head in response. “It’s just that most people would stop at a book or two. A statue. You, however…” He glanced around, eyebrows raised, “This is something else entirely.”

Tilting your head, you look up at him with a teasing glint in your eye. “Well that’s rich coming from a man who collects jewels and weapons and displays them in literally any free space he has.”

Sylus chooses to ignore that, cocking a brow in a wordless question instead.

You ran a hand along the spine of the onyx-scaled dragon between you. Sylus ignored the phantom shiver down his own spine as you continued, “It’s just… always been like this for me. I drew them all the time when I lived with Gran. I even had dreams about dragons. I couldn’t remember anything when I woke up, but it felt so… real when I was asleep.”

His mind raced with the impossibility of this. Of how, even without knowing, you’d still found a way to remember something about the connection you had with him. Still managed to find the piece of him he gave to you.

You’d surrounded yourself with a synthetic imitation of those memories and yet, you were entirely unaware that you were standing before the only dragon that you’d ever truly owned.

It was after a long mission that Sylus found himself tending to your wounds.

He knew it had been a good call to invite himself along when you’d mentioned it was on the outskirts of the N109 zone, no matter how many times you’d protested otherwise. Your missions were becoming more frequent, he’d noticed. The Wanderers more aggressive. Tonight had been no exception.

And while his wounds and scrapes had mostly healed themselves, yours were still bleeding by the time you both made it back to the safety of your flat.

Uninterested in craning his neck while he tended to you — or in verbally sparring with your protests — he closed his fingers over each side of your waist, lifted you onto the corner of the bathroom counter, and turned you to face the wall, opening the gash on the back of your shoulder to his view.

“Sit still,” he muttered, dabbing a wet cloth over the torn skin.

“I’m fine,” you insisted, hissing at the scrape of contact.

“You’re still bleeding, sweetie,” he shot back, unimpressed but unsurprised. “That’s the opposite of fine.”

You grumbled something under your breath but let him work. He couldn’t help but study the way your muscles flexed under your skin, a tapestry of tendons and sinew that weaved together to move you through the world delicately, gracefully.

A complete contrast to the way Sylus moved through the world. He plowed through it, direct and forceful, conquering anything that didn’t move out of his way in time.

You were flesh and bone, more fragile than most, yet full of fire. Sylus was a creature of violence, fierce and unyielding. And yet here, with you, he was something pliant, something… softer.

With you he felt a need to shield, to hold close, to be the one to move you out of the way. And with every pass of his fingers, he realized he would conquer the world itself if it meant preserving you from harm.

It wasn’t until he reached into your cabinet for the bandages that he saw it. An inked dragon flying across the middle of your back, tucked under the sheet of your hair and normally hidden beneath your clothes.

His hand, which had paused mid-air, tightened around the bandages he held as he took it in.

Its wings were extended, its tail coiling down the knobs of your spine. The details were intricate, painstakingly precise, as if the artist had been given detailed instructions on the way you wanted to memorialize this particular beast.

But it was the shape, the tilt of the horns and the familiar pattern of the scales that zapped a bolt of something through him. Something sharp and aching. Something like… homesickness.

Noticing his lack of movement, you craned your neck and teased, “Everything okay back there?”

Sylus forced his limbs to move again. Though he swore he could feel blood surging through his veins slightly quicker than it had a moment ago, within one blink, his expression returned to its usual casual stoicism.

“Just admiring the view, kitten,” he drawled. He leaned in, so close that his nose nearly brushed against yours, your breath warm against his lips. The slight lowering of your lids told him he’d succeeded — you’d forgotten his brief hesitation.

“Now, sit still,” he murmured, nudging your chin with his finger until you faced the wall again. “And don’t make me say it a third time.”

The sight of the tattoo had struck him harder than he expected, a visceral reminder of the past you had shared. You had no memory of it, of him, but some part of your soul had clung to the essence of that lifetime. This tattoo was proof.

As he resumed tending to your wound, you remained still, breathing even despite the sting of antiseptic in the air. All the while the dragon on your skin seemed to watch him, its eyes eerily alive in the dim light.

“Nice ink,” he said casually, finally breaking the silence.

You smiled faintly. “He’s beautiful isn’t he? I got it done a few years ago. Remember those dreams? This dragon was always there like I’d… seen him before? Figured if he wasn’t going to stop haunting me, I might as well keep him close.”

Sylus swallowed down the words forming in his mouth and made his focus narrow to the simple ministrations of tending to you. Wiping away the last of the antiseptic. Gently pinching the torn flesh together, securing it with a butterfly bandage. Placing a bigger bandage over your shoulder blade. Savoring your breath hitching when his fingers grazed the sensitive skin of your side.

He could say nothing—what would be the point? It wasn’t his place to force memories upon you that you no longer held. Telling you the truth would only confuse you, or worse, push you away. And after all this time, after everything, losing you again was not something he was willing to risk.

So he simply said, “It suits you.”

You huffed a surprised laugh. “It does?”

He’d already come close once when he’d first found you again. Before he realized that not only did you not remember him, you didn’t remember yourself.

“Hm.” A small twitch of his lips. “You’ve got a lot in common. Stubborn. Dangerous. A tendency to leave a trail of destruction in your wake…”

“Oh, please,” you scoffed. “If anything, I clean up your destruction.”

He’d searched for you across lifetimes, certain that when he found you, you would look at him and know. That something in your mind would stir, that your heart would recognize his, that the piece of his soul within yours would call out to you.

But when your eyes first met his in this lifetime, there had been no flicker of recognition, no echo of the bond that had once tethered you together. You didn’t look at him like his sorceress, not even like his archnemesis. You’d glowered at him, angry and disgusted, like every other human that had ever set eyes upon him.

You turned to face him when you no longer felt his touch on your shoulder, giving him an unguarded, eye-level view of the happiness that conjured your smile. “So if I’m the dragon.” You nudged his knee with yours. “What does that make you?”

It had been a cruelty he hadn’t been prepared for. To find you again, only to realize you had been wiped clean of everything you once were. The memories, the love, the weight of all that you had been to each other — gone.

But after all this time, after finding you only to realize the past was his burden to remember, he knew some things were better left unspoken.

Some part of you had brought the dragon back, only in your mind, on the surface of your skin. And if that was all he could have, he won’t risk losing it.

“Maybe we’re both dragons,” he mused, hiking your shirtsleeve back over your shoulder. Tucking away your source of pain. Tucking away his. “Maybe we’re meant to be stubborn and dangerous together.” He wrapped an arm around you, laying his palm over the resting place of the ink-born dragon. “And the things we thought we destroyed just cleared the way for a kingdom of our own.”

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