#Grief Grief Grief. Loneliness Loneliness Loneliness. Anger Anger Anger.

[hitoshitoshi]

The Incident That Somehow Made Sylus' Childhood Exponentially Worse

(or Sylus' Biggest Failure and Regret)

Summary: Why Sylus created his silly little mechanical crow, Mephisto. The who, what, where, when, why's and how's. A look into Sylus' Childhood. Tags: Canon Divergence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Loss, Animal Death, Grief, Trauma, Childhood Trauma, Timeskip, Ambition, Semi-obsession, Loneliness, Loyalty, Unconditional love, Bittersweet ending.

The stench of grime, sweat, and dispair was a familiar comfort when he compared it to the throbbing ache in his chest. Every ragged breath Sylus took scraped his raw throat as he looked left and right as tried to find cover in of N109's underbelly. Sylus huddled deeper into the into the shadowed alcove as he tucked the small and shivering crow closer to his chest, desperately trying to share his meager body heat. It wasn't supposed to be like this. A crow was supposed to be strong and resilient—not this... fragile thing that grew weaker by the day.

Sylus didn't know that to do, how to help. One day, the crow, his shadow, his best friend and parter, the only constant in Sylus' life, was soaring though the smog-choked sky; the next, the crow struggled to even lift his head.

Fear— cold and unfamiliar—had seeped into Sylus' young heart. He thought he'd felt fear before but this... no, this was true fear. It was a terrifying counterpoint to the anger and bitterness that he'd nurtured for so long. He scavaged for scraps, even resorting to begging—him, begging—for something, anything, that might ease his companion's pain.

But Mephisto, whose sleek feathers had now becomed dull and ruffled, only grew weaker. The once-vibrant eye that mirrored the fiery defiance in Sylus' own, had dimmed. Each shallow breath the crow took echoed in the hollow space that grew inside of Sylus—a void that threatened to consume him.

And then, there was stillness. A silence so profound that it screamed. Mephisto was gone. And Sylus was alone.

Guilt etched itself onto Sylus' soul. He hadn't understood what it meant, truly, until now. He hadn't known the fe frailty of life, of how there was a miniscule life between existing and fading away. He didn't have anyone that was close enough to call them friends or family—but he had the crow, but not anymore. That black creature who'd shown him loyalty in a world rife with betrayal was his friend, family—hell, he'd even call the crow his soulmate—Sylus couldn't save him, he didn't know how to. Sylus couldn't bring his crow back. The weight of his failure settled deep within his bones, a vow to never be that powerless, that ignorant, ever again.

Years passed, filled with the struggle for survival, with hardening resolve, the string of loss was a dull ache that never quite seemed to fade. Sylus would never ever be that helpless again.

One day, in a dusty, forgotten corner of a rundown library, Sylus stumbled upon a word that would set his plan into motion—his plan to build some sort of tribute of the crow— a reminder of his vow—to never be powerless and to never lose what he held dear ever again.

"Mephisto," It practically leaped off the tattered page. Sylus' fingers, calloused and scarred, traced the letters, echoing the way he used to stroke the crow's head. The definition below—"a devil.. to whom Faust... sells his soul for knowledge and power"— resondated to Sylus. Knowledge. Power. He could have both. H would become someone new, someone in control, untouchable by grief and regret.

Sylus hadn't ever named the crow because he knew that he would get attached to it, but alas—the crow, even nameless, had woven his way into Sylus' soul. So the least that Sylus could do for that soul that kept him going was to give him a name; Mephisto.

Sylus found an abandoned warehouse with broken windows and wals that were riddled with graffiti. But for Sylus, this place was a blank canvas. This was going to be his workshop. The air hung thick with the metallic tang of solder and the frustrated energy that pulsed off him in waves as he worked. He pushed himself to the very edge of his limits, each burn, each growl, fueled his determination to create Mephisto, down to the last detail.

Sylus poured over old sketches, their edges softened with time and tear stains that refused to fade. Hours bled into days spent hunched over curcuit boards, meticulously weaving together wires. The air buzzed, crackled, and popped—Sylus was desperate to bring those memories back to life.

The day Sylus had finally finished, exhaustion clung to him like second skin. His eyes were bloodshot and he had dark eyebags and dull skin. But when Mephisto 2.0 spread its wings, gears whirring, a triumphant grin split Sylus' face. He had done it. He'd brought him back.

But the triumph was short-lived. It looked like Mephisto. Sounded like Mephisto. Acted like mephisto But it wasn't him. This Mephisto was cold, made of metal and wire, lacking the spark, the warmth, the life that had animated his best friend. There would be no gentle weight settling on Sylus' shoulder, no soft caress of feathers against his cheek, no more sharing scavenged meals, no more sharing eachother's warmth on freezing nights, no more comforting caws lulling Sylus to sleep at night. This Mephisto was a hollow echo, a constant reminder of what he had lost—of what he could never bring back. And it was all his fault.

Sylus traced a finger along the smooth metal of the crow's wing, the chill seeping into his bones. A bitter truth settled in his gut, a painful lesson was learned—some wounds, even time couldn't heal. Some voids could never be filled. Mephisto 2.0, was going to be a reminder of his biggest failure and his biggest regret.

This was Sylus' burden to bear. His alone. The world would see a ruthless leader, a master strategist, wielding his mechanical crow to spy on his pray. They would see power and control over his dominion. But what the people in the N109 Zone would never see would be the constant ache in Sylus' chest, the phantom weight of feathers on his shoulders, the whispers of what could have been. Sylus would wear his mask well—Sylus was the leader of Onychinus, immune to all pain and grief. And loss.

A/N: Just something silly that I came up with at 3 A.M. Sylus and his most loyal companion. I like pain and suffering if you haven't already known that. Also this is the revised version of a post I deleted earlier because I wasn't satified with it. My inspo was book 6 of TWST.

If you like otome games, including Love and Deepspace, you should join Linkon Lounge! A discord server that's LGBTQ+ friendly (only serving those who are 18+) where we all can share our interests, talk to roleplaying bots (Caleb, Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, and Sylus), and have fun game, movie, and stream nights where we stream games and/or cards that we pulled that others want to see. It would be super fun to have you as a member of our server.

Click here to join Linkon Lounge!

Masterlist

[loveableghosts]

I'm thinking about those OC's I have & do nothing with because there's no way in hell I could put their worlds to justice.

[yashley]

It’s easier with people around you. To make you feel more like you.

[mdemn]

“you’re just a fucking pawn, vito. when are you going to see that?”

ask polly- heather havrilesky, mafia 2: definitive edition (hangar 13), between aging and old - jack gilbert, all our futures - jody chan, ruin and rising - leigh bardugo, grief lessons - anne carson, a coworker asks me if i am sad, still - brenna twohy, mafia 2: definitive edition (hangar 13), angels - willi carlisle

[trans-xianxian]

always thinking about wei wuxian imagining jiang cheng saying something that jiang cheng then actually says Word For Word MONTHS later. the jiang cheng that lives in wei wuxians mind is not just his own guilt with his brother's face, it is jiang cheng absolutely as he exists in the world, because that's how well wei wuxian knows him, and his guilt overlaps with jiang chengs anger in so many places

[conscious-love]

These pains you feel are messengers. Listen to them.

Rumi

[niriaveil]

hayley realizing that everyone from the original sr1 Normandy that's she's reunited with have grown with loss and grief as a constant companion on their shoulders.

[azukilynn]

as yet untitled

~

we were supposed to grow old together

had become content

in our rhythms and routines

laughed easily

read each other's thoughts

knew each other's songs

danced

slowly

in the kitchen

while dinner was cooking

~

god, how i miss you

~

until you came along

i never wanted to grow old

~

now that you have gone

i can't imagine ever wanting that again

always the rebel

i chafe against the constraints of my own survival

~

there are times i wish for nothing more than to be weak

vulnerable

seen

heard

understood

~

i wish for the release of utter collapse

falling

being caught

~

but i hang midair

lost

and lost

and lost

~

we were supposed to grow old

together

we were supposed to keep growing through life

~

there are times i wish for nothing more than to be known by another person

~

even as i grow

into this single self

~

azuki lynn

[windor-truffle]

*chants in increasing volume* ghost AU ghost AU GHOST AU GHOST AU

[lesbianpegbar]

i’m like if a girl just couldn’t do it anymore

[transmascsteveharrington]

No, I am not writing a lonely avatar steve fic I am not okay I totally am not

[meteoriteskies]

My anger turned to grief, my grief turned to loneliness, and my loneliness turned to sadness. I can only hope it turns into anger once more.

[hotniatheron]

Grief is and always will be the number one most interesting emotion to explore in writing and on film. It is so specific and so personal but so relatable and mutable. You can grieve different things and still share the act of grieving.

[suedeandsunshade]

The Note I Leave Behind Would Go A Lil’ Something Like This!

Each person, at night, must confront themselves in the mirror each and every time they rip off their face. My face…shit , you’d have to peal off each and every single layer like sticky notes. What I got to say probably would fit on a sticky note. A simple proverb: VAYA CON DIOS! (An explanation point proves it wasn’t all too bad!) Writing is the reflection. The Warmth of Being Known The…

[shiroi---kumo]

What's the best part of your life, Sinfonia?

⋯✧・♪♫♪・✧⋯ He doesn't know if he should speak to this stranger but they feel different than most people in this damnedable world. Still that doesn't give him any reason to hand them out personal information and he already finds it highly concerning that they have his name of all things. He gave him pause to hear it. It made him stop, turn his head and hope.

He thought that emotion died in his chest ages ago but hearing it - hearing it made him hope that maybe it was - him ... or her... or both of them. He'd take either or. He'd take anyone at this point. He's so sick of being alone. He hasn't seen another Misterican in ... twelve years and he doesn't know how much longer he can keep doing this.

Maybe it had been foolish. Maybe it wasn't the only choice. He was ready to fade that day. He was ready to throw his life away if it mean that Sielu and Sydän could get away from the monster that attacked them. He was ready to fade for them just so they could keep on living. So they could find their prince. So they could find Pilvi.

He needed his binds more than his good-for-nothing uncle anyway.

Sielu and Sydän would do more good for Pilvi just by existing next to him than he could ever dream to do so. He let his brother die - he let Usva fade and there wasn't a god damn thing he could have done about it because he sat there frozen like a coward when it happened. He let him - it doesn't matter what he let him do or what his intentions were when he told Sielu and Sydän to run.

None of it matters anymore.

No one knew he would live. No one knew that the fates would spare his wretched soul from their final rest within the heavens. Apparently they weren't done toying with him yet because now he has this stranger who already knows too much asking questions. Visions of blue eyes and a bright smile and a voice whining that if he does not get snuggles this very instant he will simply fade away flood his mind. He can hear him in his mind. He can see him in his mind. Blue eyes, green horns and blue locks flooding over his shoulders like ocean waves.

He'd give anything to be able to wrap him in his arms one last time. He'd give anything to be able to see him before he fades away. He can't keep this up forever and it's already been more than a decade. He doesn't know how much is even left in his tank to give. So his lips hang into a deep frown as he locks eyes with the traveler and half growls at them.

"It doesn't matter anymore. I gave it up."

Like hell he'll give anyone here his bond's name. He'll take that with him to his grave. He doesn't even know if his Love Song is still alive....

[stigmasochist]

couldn't finish suzume it was too intense for me wtf is going on in here [points at my head]