ikarosx

[ikarosx]

Ikaros held onto Abelas, the steady body and presence of his chaotic brother something that nearly filled the cavernous hole in the prince's chest. How often had he'd forgotten, how little he could remember, but he never truly let go of the feeling. He breathed in the scent of the woods, of the trees and the fey, it always clung to his brother like a second skin, no longer pushed away from his heart by the ring that was now gone from his hand.

"I missed you," he said after a moment, words quiet enough between them as he squeezed his eyes shut. He'd never be able to walk such a path laid out before him without Abelas. The path that he'd been forced upon as of late didn't bring him hope, knowing his brother was struggling with the weight of what had been on his hand. He pulled away after a moment, taking Abelas' wrist in his hand as he looked at the space the ring had taken up, "How? Are you well?"

Abelas was running before his erratic mind could catch up to him - hat flying off in the distance as Violet was jolted awake from beneath it and made to hang on for dear life. Tearing through the crowd of stinky people, he threw his body around his brother. He'd been prepared to go to the ends of the earth to find him, whatever it took - but Ikaros came back of his own accord.

"It's gone," Abelas said as he held up his hand, "brother-" a pair of earthy eyes, so damp that Abelas might drown, found his brother's. "lets go home." Elris would be waiting, the entirety of Avalon would, in fact, be waiting and the work was not yet finished - but they had time enough to celebrate.

Abelas threw his arms around Ikaros again, this time with a grip so tight he might just squeeze the life out of him.

[ikarosx]

Ikaros had listened to everything the dragon had said, every bit of information offered, every joke, every little hint about what Gwaern had been up to – it soothed the prince in a way that his manipulated soul needed. He drank it in, all of it, his hands steady on pink scales that were perhaps the biggest source of comfort the Elvhen needed. The return to Avalon had been loud – so much at once – it had been overwhelming. His rescuer, the dragon, hadn't been far off, and Ikaros found himself craving the steady presence. But as the world had quieted, after he'd done what he needed to – false smiles and the posture of a future king – he'd taken to the bench in the garden of Arvandoril that his grandmother had planted for her pegasus.

It was quiet, closed off on Ikaros' request, and saved for the dragon and prince who sat upon it now. Ikaros wasn't sure how long they sat, but Ikaros looked down at his hands, mismatched eyes fixed on the ground in front of him as he thought of all he saw. "There were moments I could remember. That I wasn't meant to be what they wanted me to. I saw so much, over and over again." Forced to speak it, say it so it could come to pass. Until he'd become himself again. "I'm not sure who or what answered, what broke me from it. Thank you for taking care of Gwaern. For talking with Saleba. I always have so much to lose, and so little power to protect it all."

Solon hadn't been sure that Ikaros had actually known that word - please - so they were a touch surprised, nodding solemnly after a moment. "As you wish," there was always time to talk about it, though Ikaros was not often known for much talking, and he'd let the Prince have his secrets, his traumas, to keep for himself; the dragon would not force him to talk of anything for he was certain it would not unlock even the mildest truth about the Kossith who were still such a mystery to the world. Fyren stepped several paces back, and where once the handsome elvhen was, there a pink dragon erupted in his place, grand wings and iridescent pink scales coming forth. Solon spoke, though the pink dragon loved to talk, he was with little words now - though Ikaros' ears may bleed on the journey to Avalon for there was no stopping the dragon from yapping once they took flight.

[ikarosx]

Mr. Carter y'all

[ikarosx]

"I thought dragons were fond of shiny things?"' Ikaros gave a small smile, one that finally reached his eyes. Looking at his arm, he shook his head, "It's fine. It didn't puncture anything," his voice was still quiet, rotted from the time on the ship. He gripped Fyren's forearm for stability, pulling himself up to stand with the dragon's help. "I can't wait. Not any longer. The Kossith are all dead, the ship exploded – if there are others, we have to help them. But I think most were able to protect themselves." He had to pull himself together, the idea of sitting around on the beach, with an attractive dragon, was doing little for his pride. "Please." Abelas needed him, Gwaern needed him, and Fyren – well, at least the other was here for him to lean against.

"And how many times am I to rescue this jewel of Avalon?" Not that Solon minded; ever since joining the Warrior's Guild a near decade ago, he'd gotten pretty adept at playing hero to many mortals, though the elvhen prince was much preferred. The pink dragon was, unfortunately, not a mind reader but the prince had trusted him with his adolescent dragon and so Solon felt it wise to update Ikaros there initially. "Gwaern is actually with Abelas now; he returned to Avalon not long after your capture and vowed to try and kill the Arishok himself." Solon couldn't say that meant Abelas was well, but he could revere the ferocity Ikaros' brother had suddenly taken on when it came to getting the prince back.

"When your wound stills, we'll go," he was used to the elvhen in this close proximity, but he appreciated it now more than before, the relief of knowing the prince was alive -and relatively- well. Solon sat back, though his one hand still placed pressure on the wound; it'd been silly of him to not have come prepared with a medicine kit, but he and Talisa had been scouting for days since news of the wreckage hit Haven.

[ikarosx]

He held on to Tianyou for a moment, another smile gracing his exhausted features, "I would never leave you to deal with this life without me," a promise, one he'd whispered many times before, and that he'd fully believed. The prince leaned his weight onto Tianyou, if only because he was tired and couldn't be bothered to try and be as strong as he had to now that he was back in Avalon. Titania had held him for ages, her arms wrapped around him in an embrace that they didn't often share, and finally Ikaros felt like he could see the others that awaited him, his friend included. "Tell me what I missed. I haven't seen you in a while, so I want to hear it all."

closed starter for @ikarosx location: where's me dude note: uwu

It had felt like quite some time since he had seen Ikaros. To be honest, it seemed like his best friend was always missing in action. Definitely not of his own volition though. If Ikaros had been disappearing on purpose, then it wouldn't feel like someone was squeezing his heart in his chest every single time the prince was gone. To be honest, he wasn't even sure if the other was going to come back to him. First, he had thought he lost him in the eluvian. Then, he had thought he lost him with the Kossith. Every way he turned, it felt like they weren't supposed to be around each other. Or maybe the universe was just playing some sick joke on him. His father. Ikaros. Abelas after going through that damn eluvian. Riandur because...he was Riandur, legionnaire and attached to death like they were married. He didn't want to lose any of them. So, when he saw Ikaros, he couldn't do anything but wrap his arms around the other. His words came out whispered. "You can't keep doing this to me. I don't think my heart can take it." He was being dramatic, but it was the truth.

[ikarosx]

Of all the creatures to find him, perhaps it was best that it was a friend. The Elvhen wasn't one to lie around and wait to be rescued, but his energy had been spent on escaping, and now he was washed up on a shore with a familiar face. A handsome familiar face. This couldn't be worse for him, could it? He prayed to the gods to just let him die, but it appeared the gods ignored him or were busy because then Fyren was yapping along. In that damned voice of his. The Prince wasn't sure when his torture would end, but he drank the water and finally opened his mismatched gaze onto the dragon.

"I'm actually in great shape. Haven't you heard I'm the jewel of Avalon?" It was a joke, a great joke, but with that hint of truth that all Elvhen held onto. Still, he felt the warm hand on his face, and all he wanted was to return to Avalon, desperate for the familiarity of the Laurelin, and away from the hauntings of what the Kossith had done. His gaze flashed with worry for Gwaern, for the little dragon who'd probably been following Solon like a shadow. "Is he well? Abelas?" He reached out, putting his hand on the other's shoulder before he leaned his forehead against Fyren's, "Please. Can we go home."

Solon had been scouting for survivors alongside Talisa for hours; they'd taken to the sky the moment news of the wreckage had struck. Some had been lucky enough to drift towards Lysaran shores, others also possessed the ability to fly, but it was clear many would need assistance when it came to getting back to the proper source of land. There was also one in particular who hadn't shown up, one whose obsidian dragon was very keen on getting into trouble in his absence.

Spotting the prince, the pink dragon was relieved, landing on the shore before shifting to the elvhen form in the sake of it being easier to assess the other. "You're worse off than I thought you'd be," maybe a small part of Solon was teasing Ikaros and his ability of foresight, but nothing could have prepared those in the wreckage enough to avoid what they all had likely endured. "And you had promised Gwaern you'd be back soon - it seems even a noble elvhen prince can lie," Solon was rarely ever serious, though through his teasing, the dragon quietly assessed Ikaros, pulling out a ration of water and tipping it to Ikaros' lips.

Gentler now, he yapped along, applying pressure to the makeshift covering Ikaros had fastened to his arm, "Ikaros, wake." In Elvish this time, the pink dragon looked upon the other keenly, the hand which once tipped the canteen to Ikaros' lips, now cupping the side of Ikaros' face in his palm.

[ikarosx]

@abelasx Location: Outside Aventia

He'd been brought back towards Aventia, the dragon had known where his brother would be – and what had been spoken about to the queen. He knew the desperation well; would have done anything to find Abelas, ensure the other was okay. There had been so much missing time, with Abelas leaving the sanctuary, with the creatures missing the one that had been chosen to protect them.

Still, he'd found his bracelet, the one Abelas had carved into so many centuries prior – and felt the pull. He'd gotten rid of the prisoners clothing for some half decent armor, but he'd never been so tired in all his five hundred and something years. He was desperate to be home, to be pulled back into Avalon, to greet his mother, and finally see his brother, who'd returned to Avalon for Ikaros.

"Ir abelas, lethallin," he breathed, knowing the moment Abelas had heard him, and bracing himself for the impact of the other's presence in his arms.

[ikarosx]

@fyrenxsolon Location: he went from a sad little piece of driftwood to a little island

Ikaros had reached for Dior, the blademaster had done what he could – the bother of them had – as the shock of the blast had sent them careening into the ocean. The prince had tried to shield him, but in the end, the waves and the chaos from the explosion had sent them apart.

Recovery was going to be something else entirely, the elvhen coughing up water as he dragged himself onto the sand. He'd get out eventually, but for now, he focused on the piece of wood embedded in his arm. He yanked it out after a moment, using a piece of fabric to staunch the bleeding. It hadn't taken long for him to let the sun sink into his skin and warm him, the lull of his lost energy begging him for sleep until he heard the beat of wings. It took more energy than he expected to open his eyes, a flash of pink scales something he assumed to be either a vision or his own exhaustion playing a trick on him.

[ikarosx]

Ikaros gave a small nod, but a thank you was never necessary. Between the Elvhen, these were small acts of love, of friendship, and would continue to remain as such. The Prince was silent as Dior began to conjure weapons of all kinds, those who were now broken free of their a'dam, picking up ones from the gladiator.

He brandished dual daggers, watching Dior do what all blades did – dance. The other Elvhen cut down the Kossith, pinning it to the wall as the ship rocked. They would have their revenge.

–––––––

The riots quelled, the prisoners freed, and the Kossith were still running the show. The self-destruct mechanism was being looked at, but the entire situation was reminiscent of another prison. Ikaros had been quiet, his sight returned to him in the way it was meant to be used, but his mind was still weary. All the things pulled from him, his memories so shattered he'd had to piece them together and only vaguely remember who he'd been. The metallic taste of blood one that he held on to.

The steady presence of Dior was one that he held onto, glancing over his shoulder as he looked at the other, "Have you had your fill, my friend?"

His breath caught in his throat. He swayed, overwhelmed—not from weakness, but from the magic in his blood returned to him. He laughed, a sound thick with emotion, sharp with the edges of tears that didn’t quite fall.

“Ma serannas,” he breathed, voice quiet as his forehead pressed to Ikaros’s, eyes shut. Thank you.

When the prince stepped away, Dior didn’t hesitate. Short swords. Falchions. A war fan, twin daggers as sharp as truth. Each one slid across the floor with precision, reaching the hands of the newly freed.

At Ikaros’s warning, Dior looked up toward the staircase. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t brace. “Let them come,” he said.

And then, without fanfare, he turned toward the broken collar on the floor, the hated a’dam that had tried to silence him. With a single breath, he reshaped it—his shatterstar metal twisting it into a single greatblade taller than he was, jagged and brilliant.

The Kossith rounded the corner just in time to see it leave Dior’s hand. One breath later, the creature was dead—pinned to the ship’s wall by a blade that still trembled with force.

Dior exhaled. “Can you see a way off this ship?”

[ikarosx]

“I have seen all endings. I walk backward through my own ruin.”

The last of the dream shatters like glass against the sea of stars, you awaken in the brig once more, the dream gone and the surface of the boat nothing but a distant memory. The hum of machinery, now quite familiar, hums around you. Your body feels foreign, as though borrowed and stitched back together after weeks of abuse. 

It’s faint, but clear enough as your eyes adjust in the dark. A butterfly beats its wings above you in a smooth, rhythmic pulse like the beating of a war drum muffled in velvet. One wing shines gold, bright as the Laurelin and you remember your brother’s voice once more: so long as one leaf remains, the Laurelin lives. The other wing is woven in both shadows and a faint, flickering flame. There are runes spiralling along its body, too small to make out, but they burn faintly gold and coal-black all at once. 

Another flutter, then the butterfly seems to bend in the air, twisting upon itself as it transforms into a rune that takes shape in the length of three beats of the butterfly’s wings. The rune appears as a cracked ouroboros, coiled in a jagged spiral, its tail severed rather than swallowed. The serpent devours a shadow of itself, an echo caught in perpetual collapse while at the center floats a cracked hourglass, its sands suspended mid-spill, falling both up and down: lesser runes twist around the serpents body in ever-changing alignments, never repeating, never resolving. 

It lingers, then sinks into your chest as you come back into yourself. 

The a’dam is still present, a chain felt only in memory. But you feel the break - like waking from a lie whispered too many times. You are yourself again, but not unchanged; the a’dam no longer controls you, does not pain you, cannot affect you.

OOC Info:

The butterfly and subsequent rune represent the shape and appearance of your character’s soul, by altering it - even slightly - the a’dam’s control was broken. 

Do not post this prompt until 11am EST on Friday May 2nd. However, you’re welcome to post starters as a reaction to it now - feel free to attack the Kossith, break out your fellow rahaat, and start a riot. The control room, the engine room, and the boiler rooms are presently off-limits until after 11am EST on May 2nd. 

[ikarosx]

Ikaros gave her a small smile, though it didn't reach his eyes like he wanted it to. He would stay strong for the Elvhen, but others wouldn't know who he was. And when the Kossith activated the bracer, when the suldam pulled on his ability, he wasn't sure how long he'd last. His hand took Nyla's, giving it a gentle squeeze before he released her. "Endure, Nyla." They were more spiritual than other Elvhen, ones connected to the mystic of Avalon than the physical abilities of others. "And when this is done, we're supposed to have a date."

Ikaros was going to be there king one day, he needed to make it to the other side of this so he could lead. “No… not yet.” But it was all a matter of time really. None of them would come out of here unscathed. “You need to come out on the other side of this, your our future so please keep you head down for that.” Nyla would try and help him where she could, if it came down to it she would go back to the wheel so he could be the kind he’s meant to be.

[ikarosx]

Dior's familiar features were both a relief and a sorrow. Sorrow that he had been caught up in this such as the prince had, but there would be time for apologies later. He had a duty to get the other Elvhen out – he would not falter now. "Later," he promised, moving forward now as he watched Dior reach out for the blade.

The a'dam around the other's neck fell alongside Ikaros', Dior's magic and will restored. "Telanadas, Dior." Nothing is inevitable. Ikaros put his hand on the other's neck, touching their foreheads for a brief moment in a small act of comfort. Releasing the other, he held the bloodied dagger in his hand, "We free as many as we can, and spare no mercy." Ikaros' tone was final, the prince held little regret in his mind. He knew Dior would feel the same.

"Bring your magic forth. You'll arm them." With one slam of the dagger, the lock broke on another cage, the person within standing as they were freed from their a'dam. "Watch the staircase. Another Kossith is on its way."

Dior limped into the corridor’s low light, one hand braced against the wall like it might steady the quake in his ribs. He moved like something once carved from marble and now cracked, but unbowed—blood drying along his temple, a fresh split blooming red at his brow. His breath hitched with every step, pain etched deep into his bones by Shaekir’s precision. They hadn’t killed him yet, of course. He was a trophy. Lysara’s most famous gladiator. One of Avalon's prodigal sons. Too valuable to break, so they bent him instead.

Then he saw it—the Kossith’s corpse sprawled in the corridor, and the figure above it. Elegant. Lethal. Familiar.

When the prince asked his question, Dior didn’t hesitate.

"Of course I do,” he said, voice hoarse but smug. “But I can whisper it in your ear if you want me to prove it.”

His eyes dropped to the dagger in Ikaros’s hand. Without asking, Dior reached for it, brushing two fingers along the blade. His breath caught—not from pain, but from absence.

It felt foreign.

Wrong.

Blades had never felt wrong in his hands.

“So,” he said, eyes meeting the heir prince, “what’s the plan, your royal highness?”

[ikarosx]

"Torsten." Ikaros repeated the name, a small mercy, perhaps. How long had it been since some of them had heard it said back to them? To hold respect was to say the name out loud, remembered, not forgotten. He let the a'dam fall off his neck, the fabric from his eyes resting on top of it. The dagger in his hand was Kossith-made, but it would work the same. All creatures bled, and he would ensure it was so.

"I am Ikaros, of Avalon." He held the dagger out towards Torsten, looking over the now freed Kingsguard. He seemed to be in decent shape, as well as they all could be. "This will have to do for now. The Kossith by the door has an axe. When we finish with him, you will have your sword." The shadows was where he thrived, and the Kingsguard could fight, "We should open the rest of the cells. The more who know their names, the more we have to stand with us. Come." He was used to being bossy, moving past Torsten with a nod. Another Kossith remained at the far end, on guard for the stairs that led up.

Torsten's hand moved to his throat as he felt Ikaros' blade move across the neck of his sul'dam - cutting to the bone. With a few, fleeting moments, he could taste the Kossith's ichor as it spilled across the tarmac of his tongue. Then the a'dam released its hold as the metal seemed to recede into the collar and Torsten could breathe without the oppressive weight of the Kossith's compulsion at his back.

Ikaros raised his Kossathi dagger at Torsten but the collar fell between them, clinking against the ground a few times before the circlet ringed the metal beneath them and fell flat.

"Torsten." He started, "Son of Ragnvald, Sivhild, and Gunnar. Kingsguard." His fists tightened reflexively because somewhere in this hold Afshin, Ormir, and Freydis were still being kept prisoner. In natural fashion, the blademaster's brow deepened impossibly further, something deeper than anger or rage bristling like a second skin. "I'll need a sword."

[ikarosx]

open starter location: dreadnought notes: uwu first 3 pls

It's like the first breath of spring, following from branch to branch within Avalon. Mythal's Glade and the first frost, or the garden in Arvandoril and the roses that would bloom. Or the apple tree where his grandmother's pegasus would sit, a stark shadow in the bright light.

Perhaps that was the best example for the Prince, as he stood against a wall. His eyes were covered, but his mind was finally awake. Had been for hours as he waited for his chance. The a'dam sits heavy on his chest, heavy only from the lack of awareness that he'd been forced away from for weeks. The visions sit with him, they will never leave. A mind is a powerful thing when returned, and Ikaros hears the name they'd associated with the oracle. Some broken word, seer-unmade, but he was more than just his visions. He was the heir of Avalon, and the a'dam would do nothing, now.

Weightless, he never needed his sight to see. Moving in the shadows was his specialty, and without his daggers, he would improvise. The large Kossith in front of him was not silent as he moved, and Ikaros moved in a swift movement, his eyes free and his hand upon the dagger in the creature's belt. In fluid grace, the dagger met the hollow of the Kossith's throat, between the gap in the armor as the horned creature went down.

Ikaros stood, bloodied dagger in hand, the a'dam sparking lifeless upon his chest. Another figure had come, but the light step of a rahaat told him all he needed to know. "Do you know your name?" Ikaros turned, the dagger in his hand as he considered the soul in front of him. Death would be a kindness, but he would give them a chance. They had a rebellion to begin.

[ikarosx]

MATTHEW DADDARIO

[ikarosx]

A trembling beneath your skin awakens you in the dark of the night, though when you open your eyes you do not see the interior of the Kossith ship. You pause, for a moment, and try to consider how much time has passed? Days? Weeks? They say you lasted longer than most, but broke, you did. Instead of the brig, you see a sky without stars churning above you like a wounded beast; threads of molten gold tear across it, tangled and sickened. Your body feels heavier, rougher and when you move you hear the faintest crackle of stone upon stone. 

You’re reminded of an old story, of a man whose family’s destiny was doomed and written across the stars. So afraid of the future was he that he aimed to steal the night sky itself: different have different variation of the God in the tale: Nótt, Nyx, Nox, Varda - but the root was always the same - someone wished to change a fate written in the stars, so they enlisted the aid of a God.  

When you awoke, a butterfly perched itself on your chest, resting against the collar of your a’dam. Its wings, inscribed with tiny runes, each pulse faintly. Somehow, without really knowing, you can see how it’s anchored to you, how this frail and fractured creature represents the shape of your soul. Its wings beat once, twice, then begin to ascend as the boat of the vessel blooms simultaneously around you into a ruined landscape. Thrones made of thorns, rivers of ash, statues weeping molten tears. Ahead of you a path splits three ways, each swallowed in mist.

"What Was Lost."

You step through a forest of petrified trees, their bark cracked and bleeding golden sap. Beneath your feet, runes writhe - ancient, primordial symbols, older than Avalon, older than the stars. The butterfly remains on your chest, its wings bright, but quivering. At the heart of the forest stands a figure: Titania, Queen of Avalon. She extends her hand - and you see that it is pierced through with nails of blackened gold.

Behind her, the trees shape themselves into the sigil of your House, but twisted, the roots choking the crown. Titania’s mouth moves, but no words come - only a sound like the flutter of a thousand broken wings. 

In her hand, Titania offers you something clutched in her bleeding hand: a mirror, fractured into seven shards. 

What do you do?

The air feels dead. His heart is heavy, his mind is fractured. To know the weight of the future had always been a burden, one he'd learned from a young age. Pushed for the power to see what would come next. Odin gave an eye for it, and the story of the man who wished to steal the stars. These stories are not new, they are not groundbreaking – greed drives every story, eveery bit of the future. And each vision that Ikaros gave, it felt like giving a piece of himself back to the weave.

How far down had he gone? This path, twisted and looming – like the life had been drained from it long ago. Every vision had a color, each one that he had known. Ikaros remembered green; the feeling of being lighthearted, the color of nature – of relief. White was peace, all consuming – but this melancholy of blue that he choked on, time and time again, like an ocean drowning his sorrows.

The a'dam sits heavy on his chest, body struggling to fight in a way that his mind could not. Torn in so many directions, the prince of Avalon was taught to bow to no one.

"Ir sa tel'nal." I am empty, full of nothing. He breathes the words at the sight of Titania, voice broken and raspy from disuse. He hadn't seen anything but his visions in so long, it made him want to fall apart.

The vision of his mother fills him with a sense of dread, piece by piece he tries to understand – why is she here? The sul'dam would take her, too. The Arishok would have his kill and his home – Avalon, so old and twisted – Abelas had said as long as the tree stood, there would be hope.

Abelas.

'Time was once a blessing, but long journeys are made longer when alone within. Take spirit from long ago, but do not dwell in lands no longer yours.’

Endure.

Ikaros' feet feel heavy, the fog of the dream fighting him as he lifts his hand to meet Titania's. He feels the blood in his mouth, the taste of remembrance. What he could do when he had his moments of reality, when the sul'dam allowed him to remember – he held onto those fleeting feelings.

There are no words spoken; his soul aches. It aches until he remembers what it's like to burn. Red. Anger. Blue. Melancholy. Choking.

The pieces cut his fingers, but he takes the mirror. Jagged edges; which way do they go? He tries to piece them together, forge the mirror, make it whole once more. Bleeding, endless ichor – again and again. Jagged edges to make a mirror whole, seven pieces, to gaze within and see a man he hardly recognizes.

"The Crown and the Storm."

Your mother fades, then a few paces bring you to stand before a sea of black water, frozen in time. Above, a shattered moon bleeds rivers of crimson light into the water below. A ruined citadel floats at the center of the sea. It looks like the castle where you were raised, your home, or something that once was. From the citadel’s highest tower, a second butterfly flutters toward you - this one twisted, thorny, armored in black crystal.

It circles you, whispering promises of power, survival, dominion as the butterfly on your chest shudders at its presence.

In your hand, a crown of thorns appears, heavy and wet with blood. 

What do you do?

The mirror and his mother fade, his hands no longer covered in cuts and blood, they're just his. He'd been so many people, so many consciousnesses that had pervaded his own. Vision after vision. The death of those who would never see it come. The pain of loss, the glory of a victory. The vanquishment of a threat.

Ikaros burning, too close to the light. Melted wings and broken promises, like the mirror that melted with the vision. A sea of black water, the air stale. No longer dead, but in stasis.

He remembers his own downfall. A blighted hand, reaching forward. Suffocating.

Time would never cease, but it often felt elastic. His visions made it as such, and the broken creature that remained looks at the ruined citadel, Arvandoril. The home of the people of the stars. Once so brilliant and bright, floating amongst the vast sea. Deep and full of despair, how could he fix such a thing?

He couldn't. He had failed. The reminder burns bright, his eyes he wishes to tear from his skull. But still, he'd see. Blinded for so long, it had done nothing but make his oracular ability stronger.

Broken, Sahlkareth.

The butterfly that floats towards him reminds him of what he'd done, what he'd become. Nail after nail in an obsidian coffin, would he ever remember the lives he'd help take? Ikaros had always had a healthy dose of avoidance to humans within Taravell. Avalon was always his main consideration.

He reaches forward, the thorns digging into his palms. He is the heir. He is the crowned. The next king – he would have that power. Ikaros' hands shake, his fingers curl around the crown to dig it further into his palm.

He thinks to place it on his head, to pull it down, down – until he could bleed as much as he wants to.

But he doesn't.

Someone is screaming.

The butterfly on his chest had shuddered, the obsidian one gone from his sight.

He was screaming. His hands, bloodied once more, both wrapped around the crown that breaks as he finally tears it apart.

Mythal'enaste.

"The Last Thread."

You walk along a crumbling bridge suspended over a void of stars and below, shadows twist and rise - broken echoes of yourself, of the futures you could have lived. The bridge groans under your feet, each step fracturing it further. Ahead, at the bridge’s end, stands Yhane - cloaked and veiled - holding a leash woven from rune-threads and he holds out his hand to you.

Between you and him, a final butterfly - massive, ancient, wings black as obsidian - blocks the way. It perches on the bridge’s edge, its wings torn but still alight with runes you do not yet understand.

What do you do?

The vision fades, but the pain always remains.

Hate is loud. Fear is loud, but it is only the desperation of a few who shouted, wanting to be heard.

He wants to hear her voice again, Titania reminding him what it meant to be a king.

You might not ever be able to change those few minds, but so long as you remember you're not alone, you will overcome.

Ikaros stands now, his vision returned to him, and he knows who this person is who waits for him at the bridge's end. Yhane, holding the leash to his end.

Sahlkareth wishes to take a step forward, and he does – a few that lead him forward, to stare at the butterfly. These runes had appeared on each pathway, leading him forward and speaking to him in a language he had yet to understand.

His mind aches. To force the butterfly to move, to let it all end in a way that he had seen. He was not the man in the story; he did not wish to steal the stars, and bend it to his will. The prince had never used his ability in such a way. The Kossith had pulled forth something that had remained within him, protected and pushed away – but perhaps he was the man he wished to change the endings he'd seen. The pattern wrote itself in many ways, many versions.

While the colors he knew and felt, the way he'd drown on melancholy blue, or sit in the electric yellow of finally feeling something for himself – they were dulled, but present.

He feels as if he'd be sick. Was this another vision pulled by the same creature that stands at the bridge's end? The veiled demon that had shattered his soul, these echoes of himself playing around him.

"Ir tel'him." I am me.

The butterfly fills him with a sense of dread, and Ikaros turns his mismatched gaze down onto the one that had settled on his chest. So delicate, some fractured part of him that carried the light.

His voice had been silent for so long, only echoing all what he'd seen. Any opinion forced from him by the sul'dam. Who was me?

IkarosSahlkarethIkarosSahlkarethIkarosSahlkarethIkarosSahlkareth–

He takes a step backwards, and another, away from the sight before him.

The stars were gone, stolen from the endless void around him. What god would aid him now? Who would intervene? Tempt the Norns, the Moirai, the Gulses – all versions of fate and death and vision. Ikaros had been in his head for so long, it was hard to discern reality from his visions – was this just another of Yhane's tricks? What torment would await him?

He held on to the semblance of who he used to be, backwards, off the bridge, lest he throw himself into the void below.

Ir tel'him.

[ikarosx]

The dreams are no longer your own. Your waking visions have returned, but they are not your own. This was the end that you foresaw, your own destruction and the end of your agency. You see things - yes - but only what he lets you see. Where once the threads of fate wound themselves into truth, now they are tangled into madness. Visions of war, of fire, of your family broken and screaming, haunt your mind - but it’s with clarity that the path is laid ahead. You foresee a storm, so the sul’dam avoids it, you foresee resistance, so the sul’dam cut down the rebels, you foresee the Arishok cutting your mother’s throat - and the Kossith drive ahead. You are commanded to speak them aloud, and each time you do, another nail is slammed into your coffin. The sul’dam keeps your eyes covered, though you are not blind - your Sight is made stronger in darkness. Sometimes he lets you remember who you are  - Prince, Crowned, Chosen - but only just before you are made to kneel. And when you do, it is not for Avalon, but for Sahlkareth - his prize, his puppet prophet. Sahlkareth, the Kossith have renamed you. Seer-Unmade. You have been assigned to the Heart of Veil, run by the sul’dam Yhane. A heart forged to weaponize silence, sorrow, and shadows. He is one who dresses in veils, hiding his face and his missing horns and demands obedience through manipulation, memory, and shame. 

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The visions were always mixed with colors. Colors that the Prince had associated emotions with, feelings, experiences – all as they threaded into a vision of the future for whomever was asking. It was always an ask, someone always sought him for an answer to what they desired.

His mother taught him how to ground himself. To take a breath, remind himself that he wasn't these whom he saw in his visions. Those feelings, those colors – red for anger, purple for despair – all sorts of things that pulled at Ikaros' mind and sent him into a hollow darkness that he would pull himself from – they were manipulated into his gift. The Prince had five centuries to attempt to perfect his feelings, what he knew to be reality, and it seemed to unravel within moments.

He remembers the feeling of watching his people get chained, fighting until he couldn't anymore – until the threat of those around him became enough to lower his weapons. The dash of Saleba as she escaped, all these moments in time that felt like a fever dream.

Until he barely remembered them at all.

He was the crowned heir, one that did not bow to those who demanded it. But when his eyes were covered, when the madness began – that lesson on how to ground himself became mixed with the emotions themselves.

Ikaros witnesses the death of those he knows. The blood that pours from Titania's throat, the storms that shock a body from bone to soul – and the sul'dam demands more.

With every vision, another part chips away. One more falls into the abyss of feelings that these visions consume. He is a Kossith, driving a spear into a mother and her children. He is another rahaat who mounts a head on the dreadnought. He is the Crowned Prince, on his knees with nothing but darkness to remind him.

Never ending puzzle pieces that float by. A memory, like the roots of a tree, tangled beneath the black feeling of dread that haunts his every moment.

Who was he?

Sahlkareth.

There was always power in knowing what came ahead, empty promises and avenues of the future that could come to pass. How long had he fought? He can't remember. Did he fight? Perhaps, Ikaros had fought until his ability had fought back. Forced to see the future, speak them aloud as he ensures they come to pass.

No longer a master of the shadows, he's a subject of the darkness.

In those moments, brief ones, where he knows he is Ikaros–

You were named after my grandmother, Ikaria–

An owlbear, two small dragons wrestling for a treat–

A brother, nameless, with a laugh–

A flash of pink scales and a smile–

The purr of a Cat-Sith–

And when Sahlkareth kneels, he recognizes the metallic taste of blood fill his mouth. A taste of the future.