#THE FACT GON WOULD DO ANYTHING FOR KI EVEN BURN HIMSELF TO MAKE SURE HIS ANGEL IS OKAY AHHHHHH

[killuaisaprincess]

Angel Cakes

“Gon-!”

He feels lightheaded, his wing's light dimming, and he falls, squeaking, and Gon turns around and catches him.

“Killua!”

The ground feels burning beneath his feet, and Gon scoops him up before he can complain.

“You know, princess, if you wanted attention, all you had to do was ask.”

Killua humphs, sticking his nose up in the air, and he snuggles against Gon’s chest, resting his small fists there.

“You jerk! I was!”

[jasontoddiefor]

Title: walk the golden skies, rise above- Summary: In a world where Force-sensitive people have wings, Anakin Skywalker still burns. (But before that, he rises above them all.) AN: I finished my wingfic! Shout out to @shatouto, @khapikat22 and @kyber-erso for motivating me to finish this in a day instead of procrastinating :D I hope you like his! Also on AO3 for those who prefer to read there!

The first thing Qui-Gon Jinn noticed about the boy were his massive wings. He was young still, probably couldn’t even fly yet, but despite the complicated leather restraints on his back, there was no hiding the size of the black wings. Qui-Gon’s wings were on the larger side, as were those of his Padawan, but he was fairly sure that if the boy reached maturity, he’d surpass them both without trying.

Qui-Gon furthermore doubted that would be the case if the boy were to remain on Tatooine as a slave. He was small and underweight, his wings dragged through the ground behind him when he walked and many feathers were broken or missing. Regardless, Qui-Gon knew that Anakin Skywalker was meant to be a Jedi, the same way his mother should have been going by her wingspan. Her light brown feathers had been clipped, she likely wouldn’t ever be able to fly again. Those without the Force, whose wings were so small they could only ever dream of flying, could never understand what precious thing was stolen from those who could.

“You should be very proud of your son,” he told Shmi Skywalker. “He gives without any thought of reward.”

“Well, he knows nothing of greed,” Shmi replied. Her voice had a sharp edge, almost bitter.

Anakin had been born and raised a slave, he didn’t know anything about freedom or being greedy when he’d never been allowed to act on such thoughts. It was sad that such gentle behavior hadn’t been taught but forced upon him by circumstances.

“He has a good heart,” she continued, fiddling with the small white feather hanging from her necklace. In the sunlight, it almost flickered gold.

“He is strong in the Force.”

It was a miracle Anakin was still with his mother. While Jedi used wingspan as a rough determiner of Force-strengths, other cultures had different opinions on why every intelligent species grew wings. Everybody agreed though that those who stuck out of the masses were special.

“I’ve noticed, his wings are much darker than yours. Who was his father?”

Force strength was an inheritable trait. Certainly, if Shmi and his other parent were so strong, maybe that would explain Anakin’s exceptionality.

“There was no father,” Shmi said. “I carried him, I gave birth, I raised him, but I can’t explain what happened.”

The midichlorian count the test provided after only confirmed what Qui-Gon already knew. Anakin wasn’t just strong of the Force, he existed because of it. He was the Chosen One, destined to bring balance to the Force. That night, while he was sleeping in the Skywalker’s house, he dreamed of a man with black wings and woke up haunted by the feeling that a new era was upon them.

(Qui-Gon never lived long enough to know that Anakin’s wings were anything but black.)

X

Obi-Wan Kenobi was the one who cut through the leather cords restricting Anakin’s wings. He was also the first to see how truly massive the black feathers were. He was a little surprised to notice that in-between all the black another color, a lighter one, stood out when Qui-Gon had only described wings as dark as space. Trust his Master to make a mistake concerning precise details.

However, Obi-Wan was not the first to notice that Anakin Skywalker’s wings were not, in fact, even mainly black. He wasn’t even the second or third or fourth person. No, he was the tenth person to be informed of that and likely wouldn’t have even been number ten if his Padawan hadn’t had a panic attack in the Halls of Healing because too many Jedi were crowding around him. Another apprentice had come to pick Obi-Wan up, urging him to leave his final exam behind and come see to his Padawan immediately.

When Obi-Wan arrived in the Halls, he found Anakin sitting in the corner of a room, his wings curled around him so that you actually couldn’t see the little Padawan.

“What is going on here?” Obi-Wan asked and marched promptly through the Masters assembled in the room. Any other time he probably would have thrown a fuss at the utter disrespect he was showing Council members, but if Ki-Adi-Mundi decided that towering over his obviously overwhelmed Padawan, then Obi-Wan was going to tell him off.

He planted himself between Anakin and the other members, his arms crossed and his back turned to Anakin. Something touched his leg and he glanced down long enough to see black primary feathers brushing against him.

“Your Padawan was found ripping out his own feathers,” Vokara Che said seriously.

Obi-Wan slowly let out his breath and forced himself to not start cursing. He knew Anakin tended to do that. On Tatooine, it had been better to take out broken feathers than to attempt healing them and risk infection. He’d been shocked the first time he had caught Anakin doing it, but he thought Anakin had understood that it was unnecessary after their talk.

Obi-Wan decided to turn around to his Padawan and crouched down in front of him. He spread his own fiery red wings to give Anakin a sense of protection.

“Padawan,” he began to say. “Everything’s alright. You know you don’t have to take out your damaged feathers, we can heal them. And if we can’t, you certainly don’t have to deal with it on your own.”

“His feathers weren’t damaged,” Vokara said. “But their color-“

“Please don’t send me away!” Anakin suddenly blurted out. He opened up his wings, almost sending Obi-Wan toppling over, and threw himself at him. “Please, I promise I’ll behave. I just couldn’t get any japor oil and keep it hidden. I promise I’ll do better, please keep me-“

“Slow down Anakin,” Obi-Wan said. “And you’re my Padawan. You’re not going anywhere without me. Everything is alright.”

He tried to blend out all the Masters in the room with them. He gathered the Force around himself, grounded the two of them and calmed. He had to keep a cool head for Anakin. Obi-Wan could have his own private freak out when he was back in his own room away from too many Jedi who thought he shouldn't be teaching Anakin.

“But- but I couldn’t keep it hidden!” Anakin stuttered.

“Keep what hidden?” Obi-Wan asked carefully.

Anakin bit his lip, then he pushed his hands, curled to fists, into Obi-Wan’s and opened them, revealing soft and small feathers that likely would have grown into covert feathers, had Anakin not ripped them out. What shocked Obi-Wan the most about them though was not the dried blood clinging to them, but the brilliant golden shine.

“Are those yours?” Obi-Wan asked.

Anakin nodded. “Mom always made me drink japor oil so they wouldn’t grow in that color. If Masters knew I had big wings and golden ones, they’d have taken me away.”

Obi-Wan could see it in startling clarity. A small boy, much younger than Anakin was now, being ripped out of his mother’s arms so they could take his wings.

He felt like throwing up.

“They’re beautiful,” Obi-Wan told his Padawan earnestly. “You don’t have to hide them here, I promise.”

“Really?” Anakin’s eyes darted to the Jedi standing behind them.

“Yes.”

Anakin looked down at his hands, before he lifted his head once more, hesitant determination taking over. “You can keep those. They were the first to grow back.”

(On Tatooine, the only people you gave your feathers to were family members. Obi-Wan wouldn’t know this until Beru stood on his doorstep, Luke sleeping soundly in her arms, and quietly asked him to accept the fledgling feathers she handed him and to give Luke one of his in turn.)

X

It took almost two years until even the last of the black feathers was gone. Likely, it would have taken even longer if Anakin didn’t have a knack for getting injured and breaking off feathers that just happened to be the black ones. Anakin’s wings at thirteen were certainly a sight to behold. They seemed to reflect the light, their gold shining almost white in the illuminated meditation halls while they took on a fiery red color when Anakin was sun basking in the highest towers, the evening light hitting him just right. Even though Anakin was already a Padawan and had been for years, he still couldn’t fly. He never seemed to have enough space to unfold his wings completely before he crashed to the ground again.

“This is a terrible idea,” Aayla muttered.

She liked Anakin, he was fun and not so much of a stuck up as other Padawans his age. Besides, their Masters were befriended, though Aayla wasn’t so sure if her Master hadn’t just dragged Obi-Wan into his life and declared them friends. It certainly sounded like something he would do.

“But you can catch me, can’t you?” Anakin asked as he peeked over the railing of the highest tower.

The thing was, Aayla got it. She couldn’t recall much from her time before she’d been taken in by the Jedi. She’d been four already, on the older side of the scale when it came to younglings, but those four years hadn’t been enough for Aayla to keep all her memories. Still, she remembered the fear and pain from all those whose wings had been big enough that they might be able to fly whose wings had as a consequence, been clipped, forever denying them flight. Amongst slaves, being able to fly was the greatest ability.

Of course the inability to do so hurt Anakin.

“I’m sure it’ll work,” Anakin said, took a running leap and jumped off the tower.

Aayla followed him quickly, her own light blue wings flattering steadily as she watched Anakin trying to catch himself in the wind. For one very terrifying moment Aayla thought he wouldn’t make it, and then Anakin began to rise. The strokes of his wings were immediately powerful and likely just as exhausting, but he was flying.

Watching him soar in the sky told Aayla all she needed to know. Anakin had been born for this. She loathed to imagine what would have become of his wings if he hadn’t been brought to the temple, even if she had to suffer through a stern talking to after Anakin's first flight for letting a junior Padawan attempt such recklessness.

(It wasn’t the reason Aayla kept quiet about the clones whose wings started to grow larger than those of their brothers, but it was one of them. She helped them hide, she let them use bacta to heal the cuts they had to make.)

X

Out of all of Padmé’s handmaidens, Eirtaé was the one with the largest wings. They weren’t tall next to those of the Jedi, but they were the biggest Padmé had ever seen. Her own were small by comparison, could fit easily beneath the tunics they wore to hide them away entirely. Sabé’s wings on the other hand were the most similar to Padmé’s. They were bright red as well, though a shade darker. It was the reason she was Padmé’s main decoy. If kidnappers thought to check beyond facial recognitions, they’d find what they expected.

It certainly helped them when the Trade Federation staged their assault.

Padmé still remembered how fascinated she had been by the Jedi. Even when she had been sick with worry for her family and her planet, she had been curious about the Jedi.

Everybody whose wings were large enough to fly could be a Jedi, or so they said, but that knowledge hadn’t truly settled in until she’d seen Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi for the first time.

Now, looking at Anakin, all grown up and somehow still the kind boy she recalled, Padmé wasn’t sure if she had truly understood it back then when people spoke of Jedi and their unnaturally large wings.

“Ani?” Padmé asked, unable to hide her astonishment. “My goodness, you’ve grown. And your wings!”

For all that Anakin was obviously trying not to take up too much space, his treasure golden wings were already blocking off the area they were standing in. She wanted to ask him about their color change, whether that was a part of being a Jedi or something special and inherently Anakin Skywalker. He blushed and smiled sheepishly.

“So have you... grown more beautiful, I mean! And, eh, much shorter... for a Senator, I mean.”

He was fumbling through his words, but it was endearing nevertheless. Padmé still resented the fuss they were throwing about the attacks on her. She was not a helpless little girl. She had never been allowed to be such with the weight of millions of lives on her shoulders. But perhaps she could stand being protected by two Jedi if it were those two.

(In the future every time she looked at Anakin’s prosthesis, she’d hate herself a little. She knew Anakin picked up on it, but didn’t know how to hide or communicate that it wasn’t him she was uncomfortable with. Padmé simply blamed herself for his pain.)

X

Anakin’s mother had been a slave with a considerably large wingspan. She had been stolen away from her family when she was six. She had been too young to fly then, but when she’d been eleven, she had dared to stand on the rooftop of her Master’s house and wonder whether she would be able to fly if she just jumped and spread her wings. When her Master had spotted her, he had screeched and pulled her away from the edge. He and another group of men had pushed her to the ground and tore at her wings until a loud crack had resonated through the air. Shmi had been screaming, begging and crying then. She wouldn’t have jumped. She hadn’t known the first thing about flying and there was still a detonator in her body that would blow her up as soon as she went too far away.

The men hadn’t cared of course. They had broken her wings and watched in satisfaction as they healed wrongly.

She’d never be able to fly again. They had clipped her wings. Perhaps in Republic space, they’d be able to save them, but nobody would waste such expenses on a slave.

Years later when the Tuskens took her, Shmi was unable to fight them off or reach the skies for freedom. It should have been obvious to them from the angle her wings rested against her back that she might be a Skywalker but she’d never be able to walk the skies, and yet they hadn’t cared and violated her so cruelly for the second time in her life.

Her only relief before her death was seeing the golden color she had last laid her eyes upon almost two decades ago. Her son was free, wasn’t forced to bind or dye his wings.

(Shmi Skywalker didn’t die peacefully. Her body gave up on her after enduring weeks of torture. Hatred lingered in her bones. It was forged into the marrow of every slave, it gave them endurance beyond their nature, but even hatred ran out. In the end, the only kind thing she could feel was the love for her son.)

X

The first time Anakin saw Padmé’s wings were in that horrible arena on Geonosis. His mind was still full of grief for his mother, the fear for his Master and the horrible guilt eating away at him.

Padmé’s shirt tore, revealing red wings. They reminded Anakin of the robes she’d worn a decade ago when they recaptured Theed first, then of Obi-Wan’s wings second. But where Obi-Wan’s wings were the red of sunset, sunrise, and fires, Padmé’s carried victory, passion and love in its most extreme forms.

They were not enough to carry her as she fell out of the ship and Anakin was once more forced to watch, his heart screaming.

(Anakin knew most people were fascinated by his wings. He had never met or seen another sentient with the same coloring, but he decided then and there, in the aftermath of the beginning of the end, that red was his favorite color. He wouldn’t mind seeing it for the rest of his life.)

X

CT-7567, Captain Rex, hadn’t known what to expect of the Jedi that would lead him and his brothers. He had certainly heard several things from the other troops so far. They spoke of reckless warriors, flying through blaster fire without any regard for their own health, as long as they could make sure that the war ended a little sooner, that more sentients were saved.

Rex’s wings fit neatly beneath his armor.

He knew it wasn’t always the case.

There were brothers the Kaminoans decommissioned early on because their wings developed too fast, too large. Rex’s were standard, the same brown and white mustering, hardly noticeable when he forced them beneath his undersuit. Rex had never wanted bigger wings unlike some of his batchmates who had quietly exchanged thoughts about how neat it would be to fly. The advantaged they’d have in battle would be much larger.

Rex hadn’t seen the point right up until Commander Skywalker and yelled “Down!” and a huge shadow had settles over their heads. Rex and his brothers were pushed down by the massive weight of Skywalker’s wings.

The dust, dirt, and blood clinging to them didn’t do anything to diminish their shine and Rex found himself caught off-guard.

(He’d freeze a second time like this when yet another Commander Skywalker would push them down to the ground to save them.)

X

The war carried on. It took its toll. Suffering became apparent in every corner of the galaxy. People were tortured, cried out in pain and slowly but steadily suffocated on their own hopelessness.

Sidious hummed in content.

The miasma in the air, the taint as the Jedi would call it, was the finest treat. The dark side was growing stronger every day and soon victory would be his.

“You wanted to see me, Chancellor?”

Sidious smiled friendly as he took in the sight of his young apprentice. Anakin Skywalker was truly a gift of the Force. He was incredibly strong and would be Sidious’s greatest tool in the creation of his Empire.

The boy’s wings were a hindrance of course, but not one that couldn’t be dealt with as soon as he fell. Sidious had cut off his wings himself. His Master had been impressed, falsely assuming that Sidious had done so to please him. He had let Plagueis believe whatever he wanted. Sidious had merely taken his fate in his own hands. He wasn’t going to rely on another to complete the ritual that would truly open his mind to the dark side of the Force.

“Anakin, my dear boy,” Sidious said. “I am so glad to see you.”

(And Sidious would be celebrating when he came to mold Vader into his weapon. Kenobi had truly given him a gift, ruining his Padawan’s wings himself.)

X

The thing Ahsoka hated the most about being stuck on the Resolute was the lack of space. She had large wings and could only practice flying in the hangers. While the clones laughed and whistled when she did her spins, she knew she was actually disturbing them and interrupting their work. The non-clone officials on board certainly thought so. Ahsoka thought that if it were just Jedi and clones together, they wouldn’t have any problems, but as soon as the rest of the military or politicians got involved, the fun was over.

Ahsoka stretched her wings and winced when she hit the side of a cabinet with them. There was simply no space anywhere!

“Master,” Ahsoka complained on the training mats. “How do you do it?”

Anakin stopped carefully treading his hands through her feathers. “Do what?”

“Stand the space! The Temple is so much wider. I can’t wait to be back home. Or planetside, whatever comes first, I guess.”

Ahsoka craned her neck so she’d be able to look at her Master’s face. He was smiling only slightly. Far more prominent was his frown and the way his mech-hand twitched. The first time she had seen her Master look like that, they’d been on Tatooine.

“It’s just a matter of getting used to,” Anakin finally answered. “And to your luck, we already have a new mission taking us to a planet that is covered by cliffs and canyons.”

Forgotten about her Master’s behavior, Ahsoka fist-pumped the air. “Yes!”

The last time they had had the chance, she had gone cliff diving with her Master. It had been awesome, just like jumping from the Temple towers. Ahsoka couldn’t wait to do it again.

Then, suddenly, Ahsoka winced as Anakin tugged at one of the feathers she’s injured in the last fight. “Skyguy! That hurt!”

“Sorry,” Anakin apologized, and soothingly ran his hand over her back. “I don’t think this feather is salvageable.”

Ahsoka sighed. She’d already asked Kix if he could help her, but he had given her the same reply. She had hoped Anakin would be able to heal it.

“Is it a pretty one?” Ahsoka asked.

“Yes.”

She looked up again at her Master and the three feathers he kept braided into his hair. One was Obi-Wan’s, the other belonged to Ahsoka and the third, a light brown one, she didn’t know. Anakin had never really told her why he did it, only muttered something about traditions from his homeworld. The precise reason didn't matter, Ahsoka decided, as long as she knew that it meant she was important to him.

“You can switch it out against my old one then,” she decided and watched happily as he did so.

(Later, she’d wish she had asked her Master what it really meant when your wings were restrained. Zygerria left its scars on them in more than one way. In the aftermath, Anakin ensured Ahsoka would have plenty of space to unfurl her wings, but she never forgot the feeling of the heavy leather cords covering her white wings. As Fulcrum, she didn't know whether that experience was a blessing or a curse.)

X

When Anakin killed Dooku, his wings felt like a dead weight right up until he was back in Padmé’s arms. He was exhausted and hurting, but with her as the center of his world, everything would be alright. With Dooku dead, it was only a question of time until the war was over. He’d resign from the Order and move to Naboo with Padmé where they’d raise their child together. Obi-Wan could visit them and maybe they could track down Ahsoka as well, wrangle her into the flying lessons their child would undoubtedly need.

“Oh?” Padmé asked playfully as they fell into their bed. “So sure our son is going to take after you?”

Anakin smiled and pulled the blanket over them both before covering them additionally with his feathers.

“Our daughter,” he said, his emphasis not going unnoticed, “will absolutely take after me.”

“Alright, alright.” Padmé laughed. “Let’s just hope they don’t decide to learn how to fly by jumping off a building.”

Anakin pulled a face. Retrospectively, perhaps Obi-Wan had been right to lecture him with an ashen face after Anakin’s brilliant – and successful! – attempt at learning how to fly by jumping off a tower. Imagining his own child pulling a stunt like that was terrifying. Ahsoka had already known how to fly when she’d been assigned to Anakin. He hadn’t had to worry about her.

“They won’t,” Anakin mumbled. “We’ll all be there.”

(Princess Leia of Alderaan had been ten when she decided she wanted to fly. She hadn’t cared about the fact that it was as good as a death sentence if an Imperial knew you had the ability. Dressed only in her nightgown, standing on the balcony of their vacation estate high up in the mountains, Leia took a leap of faith. Halfway across the galaxy, a boy threw himself off the cliffs in Beggar’s Canyon in the exact same moment and for the split of a second, they connected.)

X

It wasn’t an easy choice, it was no choice at all.

It was over a decade of careful grooming, a Sith Lord running his hands over golden feathers, pretending to help preen the spaces Anakin could never reach on his own. It were the lies, the distrust, the pain, all the mistakes, anger and frustration and a childhood bound in chains Anakin had never been able to break entirely.

He needed to save Padmé and his unborn child. He had to protect them from harm, his nightmares come alive, so he took his ‘saber and marched to the temple, his army at his back.

(Some of their shots hit his wings, but in the void darkness of the Force, Vader didn’t even register it. He didn’t think of the younglings that used to beg him for lessons or let out delighted shrieks when he submitted to their pleas and let them brush through his feathers and keep the ones that broke off or came loose. He didn’t think because he was drowning, choking on his own tears, hoping it would all be over soon.)

X

Vader could hardly fly on Mustafar. It gave Obi-Wan a considerable advantage, but he had trained Anakin to be able to handle any possible disadvantage. He tried not to linger on the thoughts of his former Padawan, the boy he had raised and adored, as he battled the Sith Lord in front of him. The ashes of the volcanic planet settled on their wings, dragging them down until Ana- not Anakin, his brother was dead, Sidious had ruined him, until Vader was lying on the ground, screaming. He was tearing at the remnants of their bond, sharp claws tried to cut into Obi-Wan’s mind.

He wanted to reach out. He wanted Anakin back.

“You were my brother Anakin! I loved you!”

And if he were a better Jedi, he wouldn’t have watched Vader’s torment but taken his blade and ended the Sith’s life.

(But he couldn’t. He had told Yoda that he wouldn’t be able to kill him and he couldn’t bear to linger as he watched the once so beautiful golden wings burn.)

X

In the aftermath, while Yoda told Bail what to expect when raising a Force-sensitive child and how to hide little Leia’s presence, Obi-Wan sat curled up in the corner of the space station, holding both children close his chest. It should be no surprise that they’d take after Anakin, and yet Obi-Wan had been shocked still when he’d seen the soft gold color of their wings. He knew they wouldn’t keep their color for long, likely never actually see it themselves.

Alderaan’s royalty ate white hibiscus flowers that dyed their wings the same color and Luke would be fed japor oil on Tatooine as Anakin had once been.

Nobody would ever know that these children had survived and lived. They would be safe.

(On his way to Tatooine, Obi-Wan took great care that nobody saw his own red feathers or Luke’s golden ones. It didn’t occur to him that he’d be better off tainting his wings as well until he actually arrived on the doorstep of the Lars homestead.)

X

When Vader woke up again for the first time, even Sidious was surprised at the level of pain, fury, rage and despair that was tearing at the Sith’s mind.

Traditionally, Vader’s wings would have to be cut down, but it would prove much more futile if that darkness engulfing Vader wasn’t allowed to lower.

“Put him under again,” Sidious ordered.

The Jedi were either already dead or dying. It was only a question of time and the dark side taught patience so very well. Sidious didn’t have to concern himself with his Empire for a moment, no, he could focus on his apprentice fully.

His wings weren’t entirely ruined. The bones still remained, as did some feathers.

“Keep the skeleton,” Sidious mused as he imagined what he wanted his Lord Vader to look like. “Encase them in metal. Give my apprentice wings befitting of his station.”

Skywalker was dead. There would be no more Jedi claiming the skies for themselves and putting their precious light above Sidious’s throne and Vader would spent his every second remembering it through pain.

X

Force-sensitive people didn’t just stop being born because the Empire willed it so, but more children died or lost their wings in infancy than ever before.

It would be a lie to say that the few Jedi that remained didn’t consider mutilating themselves for protection.

What use were wings if you could never fly again unless you wanted to risk your life?

And yet there were enough who treasured the gifts they had been given, always hoping and reaching for a future where the darkness would cease dragging them down.

X

When Obi-Wan decided to die for the galaxy’s future, his wings were as black as his Padawan’s once had been when he was young and Obi-Wan had hoped to never see the color again.

Luke and Leia looked like two halves of the same being, not just physically but also in the Force. Obi-Wan was relieved to see how strong they were, already connecting and reaching out despite being unaware of their relationship. Separating them when they were young had been the right decision. Vader would have found them too soon.

Now all Obi-Wan could do was focus on the opponent in front of him, let all hope escape.

He had been aware of Vader’s presence ever since he had stepped on this monstrosity of a weapon. It mirrored Vader’s appearance all too well. Obi-Wan had heard stories about Vader had made out of himself, but seeing it in person almost took him back to Mustafar and the smell of burning flesh.

Darth Vader’s wings were massive metallic blades, clicking eerily with his every move. It was impossible to ignore the whirling sound of the machinery that made them functional. Vader’s wings were terror, they looked like bones encased in durasteel coffins.

They were nothing like Anakin Skywalker’s.

The wingspan was the same, larger than anybody else’s, but that was where the similarities ended. These wings had never covered an entire squad of troopers to protect them from debris, they had never been touched by something that wasn’t blood and gore. They looked as unnatural as they felt.

They were what horrified Obi-Wan Kenobi the most about his former apprentice’s appearance. He used to be so proud of Anakin’s beautiful golden wings, had spent hours helping his young charge groom them until Anakin had fallen asleep, his much too large wings draped over Obi-Wan’s shoulders.

(This would haunt him past his own death until he could run his fingers through golden feathers again. He had stood aside as Anakin’s wings, his soul, had burned on the shores of Mustafar and he had turned away.)

X

Luke Skywalker stood out in every room he was in. It wasn’t just his ridiculously large wing size, he simply seemed to draw people in. Leia especially enjoyed being near him. He knew all about the rumors crawling around their bases about the two of them and had Leia not been raised a princess, she would have thrown at least one punch.

Spending time with Luke reminded Leia of all the times she had been able to spend lazy mornings with her family. It felt like coming home, a balm that calmed the phantom pains that had haunted her since her childhood.

She was the first to see that Luke’s black wings were as much of a lie as her white ones. Leia hadn’t had any of the white flower tea since her imprisonment on the Death Star and she wasn’t used to grooming her wings herself. She knew her wings looked terrible and she knew some of her original color, of which her parents had never informed her, was starting to come through in some cases. Leia kept her wings bound, protection against the Empire, so she hadn’t actually paid as much attention to it until she found Luke staring at a gold feather lying innocently on the floor.

“Is this your original color?” Leia asked him and picked the feather up.

Luke slowly nodded and opened up his wings. The newest feathers stood out against the dark black. They were the same gold as the one in Leia’s hands.

“Yes,” Luke answered. “But that feather isn’t mine.”

With gentle hands he helped her brush through her wings, get rid of all the old and broken feathers she had damaged and hadn’t thought to take care of because she was busy fighting a war.

(In the end, it was no surprise to learn they were siblings. The Alliance had been calling them their golden twins for years already by then as both had shed their old colors and stopped pretending they hadn’t been made for the skies.)

X

The memory of Bespin, of clinging to the pole while he was forced to listen to Vader’s wings clicking against the metal railings and horrible truth he revealed, would haunt Luke for years. He injured his left wing while escaping and lost his hand in a fight that never should have happened. Back on Tatooine, his family had always told him not to draw too much attention, that it was dangerous for him, but had gotten so used to flying while he was staying with the Alliance.

If he fell here, he wouldn’t be able to fly away.

He chose to do so anyway, all while begging Ben to tell him why had told him such cruel lies, wondering what kind of person could stand to watch another burn.

(He had hoped Leia would catch him, but he didn’t expect her to look like a vengeful goddess, the orange and red of the skies reflecting on her wings like blood.)

X

Darth Vader died the same way he was born, in agonizing pain. He broke out of the Emperor’s hold and Anakin Skywalker took the monster that had enslaved the whole galaxy and killed him with slow, aching breaths. Luke was grieving, trying to drag Anakin’s heavy body down to the ships.

“Luke, help me take this mask off,” Anakin rasped.

Luke’s wings flared up. He’d been informed of their golden color, the same as that of the princess. He hadn’t dared to entertain the thought that perhaps it was not just one child, too afraid of what that would mean for his actions.

“But you’ll die!”

Beneath his mask, Anakin smiled. He didn’t deserve his son who was so kind he could even cry for a broken man like him.

“Nothing can stop that now. Just for once… let me look on you with my own eyes.”

Luke hesitated for a moment, then he slowly pulled the mask of Anakin’s face. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but then he saw his son for the first time. He was beyond stunned how much he looked like Padmé. His wings behind him illuminated the darkness of the hall like the sun.

He was beautiful.

All Anakin had dreamed of and more. He was glad that this was the last thing Anakin got to see. Everything would be well, there would be peace.

(And when death came, Anakin didn’t resist and scream and beg. He smiled, threw himself into Obi-Wan’s arms, the wings on his back lifting him to the skies as he watched the light shine.)

X

The sun was high in the blue afternoon sky and the air was so thick with excitement, tension, cheer and joy that you could almost taste it on your tongue.

Excitedly, they were all standing at the platform on top of the temple. From up here, they could see the pilots getting their fighters, people going about their day and, most importantly, a rather large group of Knights and Padawans and family members standing below them, cheering.

“Alright, Initiates,” Jedi Master Ezra Bridger said. “Today’s the day. Are you ready?”

“Born ready!” A very bold Trandoshan youngling said while the Togruta boy next to her only eyes the edge of the platform with a vary look.

“This is an age-old tradition,” Ezra continues as he slowly walked backwards. “My Master taught me how to fly like this and the Masters Skywalker and Organa learned how to fly the exact same way.”

The younglings looked at the other two Masters that had accompanied them to the very top, seeking their agreement. Leia stepped away from the back and walked to the front to her brother, letting her wings brush over the heads of the assembled children, causing them to giggle.

“We did learn that way,” Leia said, smiling in amusement. “Only we didn’t have anyone to catch us at the bottom should it go wrong.”

The group looked at the Jedi Master with big eyes. They couldn’t imagine making this jump without anybody ensuring them they’d be saved and would be caught before they hit the ground.

“Don’t worry,” Luke said as he stepped off the platform. “We won’t let you fall.”

(And no child of this new age did.)

[decembercamiecherries]

Chapter 2 title:  Everyone talks now but no one is right

Chapter 2 word count: 3245

Summary:

Killua sculpts lightning in the palm of his hand, between deft fingers and with eyes that glitter in the glow of its spark.

Chapter 2 is up! You get to meet Killua and learn who his goldy parent is...I hope you all approve ^^ Here's the pjo tag if you want to see other stuff about this fic (asks, quotes, etc). Swim is a great song to listen to while reading this by the way!

@softkillua is my beta and a GREAT beta at that, so big thank you to him as always for proofreading <3 And thank you dear reader for being so interested in this fic!!! I was really touched by all the comments, reblogs, likes, etc that the first chapter received, it all means more to me than you know ^^ 

Gon only knows a handful of facts about the boy no one talks about.

One: Killua- whose name Gon learns from one of the nymphs because no one else will say  anything - is the most evasive person Gon’s ever met. (Besides his father, that is.) Gon spends hours trying to chase after him class, after practice, after meals. He turns up empty-handed every time.

Two: Killua has silver-white hair but blends into crowds and shadows like he wants to disappear and never be found again.

Three: Killua has eyes bluer than the sea on a clear day, brighter than the stars in the night sky. They’re angled and sharp and prettier than anything Gon’s ever seen before.

And four-

Killua really, really, really likes chocolate. He once ate a whole chocolate-fudge cake by himself after dinner and Gon hasn’t witnessed anything quite as impressive as that since.

Capture-the-flag is one of the best parts about being at Camp-Half Blood. Chasing after other demigods, fighting hand-to-hand combat, developing strategies and testing skills- what could be better?

“-and Gon, you’re with Killua on offense.”

Especially when the person you’re paired with is the same person you’ve been chasing after for weeks, now.

Gon beams at Killua, too excited and overjoyed to hold back. Killua just frowns at Gon like Gon is a puzzle he’s not sure he wants to solve yet.

“What’re you smiling at?” he asks and Gon’s heart leaps at the melodic lilt of Killua’s voice.

“I’m smiling at you!” Gon answers honestly and is rewarded with the sight of rosy pink cheeks.

Killua turns away with a tch. “Well, cut it out. It’s creepy.”

“Why? Smiling isn’t creepy, it’s nice. It means I’m happy to be with you.”

Killua sputters at that, grips the straps on his armor tighter. “Wh-what?! What are you even- you can’t just go around saying stuff like that, we don’t even know each other!”

“What’s your name?” Gon asks even though he already knows.

Blue eyes blink. “K-Killua…”

“And I’m Gon! Gon Freecss.”

“Okay? So?”

“So! We’re not strangers anymore!”

Killua stares at him for a full minute before bursting out into hysterical laughter.

“You’re something else, Gon!” he gasps when he’s finally calmed down enough to get a proper sentence out.

Gon decides to take that as a good sign.

Gon and Killua steal and return with the other team’s flag without so much as breaking a sweat.

Gon’s unbreakable will and Killua’s lightning-quick speed proves to be a recipe for success and no one who faces them is left standing. And if Gon ‘accidentally’ ends up flooding the forest, preventing someone from taking a cheap shot at Killua’s unguarded back in the process…well, it doesn’t really matter as long as they won the game, right?

There’s a party to celebrate after, with food and candles and fireworks and cheers, but it’s Killua’s dazzling grin that steals Gon’s breath right out of his lungs.

“You’re really good at fighting, you know!” Gon tells him later, pleasantly warm with a full belly and buzzing, tingling skin. They’re laying side-by-side in the grass staring up at the Milky Way stretched out in the sky above them.

Killua snorts. “Thanks. You too.”

There’s a few endless seconds of silence. Gon can hear the waves crashing against the shore, the crickets off in the forest, his own blood roaring in his ears.

He likes Camp Half-Blood a lot. He likes talking with Kurapika and Leorio, he likes learning about the gods and how to put on armor and even how to properly use a sword.

But tonight, fighting with Killua by his side with their movements so easy and fluid that it felt like they’d known each other their entire lives-

It’s the first time Gon’s really felt like he belongs.

Gon sits up and Killua glances at him.

“What’s up?” he asks, leaning up on his elbows. There’s a few blades of grass interwoven in white curls and his pale skin glows in the dim light from the moon.

“Would you be my friend, Killua?” Gon asks bluntly and Killua’s face turns scarlet.

“Y-You can’t just ask something like that, stupid!”

“Is that a no?”

Killua’s skin grows even darker. “I-I never said that.”

Gon perks up. “So, it’s a yes?”

Killua flops back on the grass with a groan, throws an arm over his eyes as if trying to hide himself from Gon’s gaze.

“Sure,” he finally grumbles. “If you’re so insistent about it, I guess we can be friends.”

“Really?!” Gon’s heart is soaring and falling at the same time, and Gon doesn’t really get what that means but it doesn’t seem all that important right now. Not when he can see a small smile tugging at Killua’s lips, the pink flush of his cheeks.

“Yeah. Really.”

Killua squawks when Gon throws himself on top of him, and they roll down the hill together in a whirlwind of dirt and emerald blades of grass and humid air and silver hair and blue eyes-

When they finally roll to a stop, both are laughing too hard to speak.

“Zeus,” Killua tells him the next morning over orange juice and chocolate-chip pancakes. “He’s my father, technically. No one believes that, though.”

“Why?” Gon asks, curious.

Killua shrugs and pours another gallon of syrup onto his plate. “Dunno. Ask them.”

Gon looks over his shoulder to see Kurpaika and Leorio watching them with nearly identical frowns. When they notice him watching, Leorio jerks his head, as if urging Gon to come join them at their table.

But Gon doesn’t want to. He wants to stay here, with Killua. So he just smiles at his friends and turns around to face forward again. He cups his chin in his hand as he watches Killua take a huge bite of syrup-drenched pancakes, and thinks.

Zeus. He was the king of gods, from what Gon could remember of his lessons on Ancient Greek. Gon hears Zeus and thinks of cotton-candy clouds and biting winds. He thinks of lightning crackling through the sky, leaving the sharp smell of ozone lingering in the air.

Killua must be really powerful. Maybe even more powerful than Gon, who could control waves with a flick of his wrist and make it boil and burn under his rolling fury. The sea would crumble to Gon’s will at the slightest sign, but Killua’s reign is the sky over their heads.

Gon asks Killua, “Does that mean you have powers, too?”

Killua’s voice is muffled by his breakfast when he answers, “’Course. I ceen do loah’s ‘f stuff.”

Gon leans forward on their table, drawn to the fascinating enigma sitting across from him. “Can you show me?”

Killua looks up at him sharply. His eyes gleam dangerously and Gon’s heart starts to race with anticipation.

“Only if you show me what you can do,” Killua says and Gon grins.

He shoves his pinky in front of Killua’s nose and almost laughs at the startled expression on his friend’s face.

“I pinky promise!”

Killua sculpts lightning in the palm of his hand, between deft fingers and with eyes that glitter in the glow of its spark.

“It’s blue,” is the first thing Gon says and Killua sputters out a laugh that sounds like bells.

“Yeah, it is. I’m not sure why, exactly but-”

Killua slaps his hands together, throws his arms open wide, and arcs of lightning soar through the air. Gon scrambles to his feet with gasp because that’s amazing and incredible and how is Killua doing that-

“- I don’t think the color matters much when I can do stuff like this,” he finishes, tossing a grin Gon’s way.

Gon is breathless in awe, stunned at the show of raw power before him, slack-jawed in a way he’s starting to realize only Killua can make him. Spasms of light flicker across white curls and dyes porcelain skin the perfect shade of sky blue, and Gon can’t stop himself from blurting out, “Killua, you’re amazing!”

Killua’s eyes fly open wide. There’s a crackling, fizzing sound and a flash to match-

Gon’s mouth falls open again. “Ki-Killua, your hair!”

Killua’s hands jump upwards to touch static spikes of silver. He freezes, gaze hardening when he turns to look at Gon with cold fury.

Gon yelps and scrambles away as fast as his legs can carry him. He can barely make out the words in Killua’s shriek of rage as he chases Gon the entire five minutes to the beach-

But Gon’s laughing too hard to hear anything except the pounding of his heart and Killua’s footsteps at his heels.

“Hey, Killua. Can you fly?”

“Nope.”

“Eh? Really?”

“Mhm.”

“Why not?”

“Jeez, Gon, I don’t know! I don’t get to decide which of Zeus’ abilities are passed down through the genepool, okay? Can you- I dunno, turn into a mermaid?”

“No…”

“There you go.”

“But I can talk to fish!”

“Hah. Figures.”

“What? Killua, why’d you laugh?”

“Huh? Oh, it’s just...I always knew you were crazy for a reason.”

“Hey!”

“What’re you doing?” Killua asks.

Gon glances over at his friend sitting on the shore. Killua’s legs are pulled up to his chest, pale toes buried in sun-kissed sand. A thick textbook lays forgotten at his side.

Gon’s secretly glad; Killua had been trying to reteach him yesterday’s ancient greek history lesson, but he hadn’t been paying much attention. He knew Killua had noticed, and that was probably why he gave up altogether.

Killua is patient with Gon. But even he has his limits.

Gon turns back to the water lapping around his knees and chirps, “I’m collecting sea shells!”

“What for? I would think you have plenty of sea shells back at your home. ‘S not like Long Island has super rare shells or anything.”

“Mmm, maybe. But these aren’t for me! They’re for my aunt.”

Gon smiles when he spots the pools of fish swimming towards him through the waves. He dips his hand into the chilling water and one of the larger fish drops something into his hand.

Standing up straight, Gon holds the shell to the light of the setting sun and feels a thrill in his stomach. The shell isn’t a shell at all. It’s sea-glass, which is even better because Aunt Mito loves sea-glass! They have a whole mason jar filled with it sitting on their kitchen table. The one in Gon’s hand is a clear blue, like the sky, like the sea, like the exact shade of Killua’s eyes.

Gon looks up to see Killua watching him with interest.

“Had you never been to the beach before coming here, Killua?” he asks with honest curiosity.

Killua shakes his head. “Nope. My family lived inland on a mountain and I wasn’t allowed to leave the estate.” He props his chin on his knees. “Defenseless demigods are easy meals for monsters, you know? My parents weren’t about to let me become dinner.”

Gon knows, but he doesn’t. Shortly before he left, Aunt Mito had warned him about the monsters that would attack him on his journey to Camp Half-Blood. She told him that Whale Island had a protective barrier that had kept him safe all these years, but he would be on his own until he reached the Camp.

Killua must have been in a similar situation.

Gon bends to clean the sea-glass in the ocean water and points out, “You did leave, though.”

“Eventually, yeah. And I’m glad I did.”

“It didn’t make you sad? Leaving your family, I mean.”

Killua snorts. “No. I wanted to leave. There’s nothing here on earth or Mount Olympus that could persuade me to go back to that house.”

Killua is different kind of camper than Gon is because Killua a full-time resident of Camp-Half Blood. He won’t pack his things after the summer like Gon will. Gon’s only spending the summers here to practice fighting and grow strong enough to find his dad, but Killua doesn’t have a plan like that. Killua is plenty strong enough already to face the world and he still doesn’t leave. He talks about his childhood but not of a home and the strange, dark look that appears in Killua’s eyes makes Gon wonder just what was in Killua’s past.

But it doesn’t feel like the time to talk about that right now. Not with the sun’s rays warming his skin and the salty breeze rustling his tank top. Gon looks over at Killua again and fights down a smile; his friend’s white locks puff out at all the wrong angles and his normally pale cheeks are bright pink from facing the sun all day.

“This one’s for you, Killua!” Gon decides abruptly and shoves the sea-glass towards Killua’s direction.

Killua jumps upwards at that, rushing to meet Gon where the waves break at the shore. Gon drops the sea glass into Killua’s sand-covered palm and Killua runs the tips of his fingers over the smoothed edges with something close to wonder. Warmth fills Gon’s chest and this time he doesn’t stop the smile that breaks across his face.

“Why are you giving this to me?” Killua asks after a heartbeat. “Aren’t you collecting these for your aunt?”

“I am! But I want to give this one to you especially. The color matches your eyes, Killua.”

Killua’s face turns as redder than the sunset in the sky above them.

The beads on each camper’s necklace represent every year they’ve been at Camp-Half Blood.

Killua has four beads with four painted images on them: one with a stairs, a second with two cooking knives, a third with a tower, a fourth with the number ninety-nine…

“What’s the fifth bead going to be?”

Killua rolls his eyes to the back of his head. He’s exasperated, but answers Gon anyway,  “I don’t know. We get the bead at the end of the summer feast.”

“The day before we leave to go home,” Gon says, stomach sinking.

“No,” Killua says and his face is blank. “The day before you go home. I am home, Gon.”

Gon looks down at Killua’s necklace in his hands and blinks rapidly when the beads start to blur. His throat is tight and it takes him a few seconds before he’s able to breathe properly.

“How many of these do you want?” he finally manages to ask and Killua’s head snaps up to stare at him.

“What?”

“These beads.” Gon lifts the necklace into the air. “How many do you want? You say this is your home, but there has to be something else you’re waiting for. Otherwise you would’ve left a long time ago.”

Killua’s eyes are huge. Gon can see his own face reflected in them but the only other thing he can see is a mix of surprise-uncertainty-fear-

“LUNCH TIME!”

They both jolt at the announcement over the speakers. By the time Gon turns back to Killua, his friend is standing up, shoving his hands into his pockets. His face is tilted up towards the bright sun, making it hard for Gon to see the expression there.

“Time to eat,” Killua says and starts walking towards the dining hall. Gon watches him leave the amphitheater as something heavy settles in his stomach.

Days turn into weeks and the weeks blend into months, and Gon spends nearly all of his time with Killua.

The campers still avoid Killua, so they avoid Gon, too. Kurapika and Leorio still find time to talk to him though and Gon is grateful for that, but he finds he doesn’t really mind the isolation.

Camp was pretty boring without Killua, anyway. Now that he and Gon are actually friends, summer here is finally fun. Gon can’t remember ever laughing as much as he does in the moments he spends with the lightning-boy who is quickly becoming the closest and best friend Gon’s ever had.

Killua is special. He’s sarcastic and fascinating and daring. He has moonbeams in his hair and mysteries in the dark shadows of his eyes.

And Gon doesn’t mind staying by Killua’s side until he learns them all.

“Why?” Kurapika repeats one afternoon when it’s just him and Gon in the strawberry field. Leorio is away, helping to treat some teens who just returned from a quest with a couple other children of Hermes’, and Killua was called to the Big House for a meeting with Mister Wing. Kurapika is the only person Gon can see for rows and rows of red-dotted plants.

“Yeah. Why don’t you like Killua?”

Kurapika frowns at the name. “I don’t dislike him, Gon. I don’t know him well enough to form that opinion.”

“Then, why do you shun him like everyone else?” Gon asks, voice a bit harder this time.

He doesn’t like it, the idea of people creating a false image of Killua in their heads when they’ve never even talked to him before. Killua is a good person in every way that a person could be good- he draws constellations in the sky for Gon when he’s too tired to pick them out for himself, pulls Gon to the infirmary after he’s been too stubborn to give up in practice fights, smiles at Gon whenever Gon beams at him.

Gon likes Killua’s smiles. They’re rare and small, but all the most beautiful things in nature are.

Kurapika sighs and drops a few more berries into their basket. “You weren’t here when Killua first arrived, Gon. He stumbled into Camp in the middle of the worst thunderstorm we’d seen in years, covered in cuts and bruises. He could barely stand straight.”

Gon’s heart plummets to the ground. He pictures Killua’s ivory skin stained in shining red and his eloquent hands trembling, and Gon’s stomach rolls.

He swallows down the lump in his throat and forces himself to ask, “What happened?”

“Monsters, of course. Killua was only ten years old when he made it to the Camp’s borders. One can only imagine the horrors he faced.”

Gon frowns. He’d been much older than Killua when he made the trek here. He’d been luckier too, by the sounds of it. But- “That still doesn’t explain why you avoid him.”

Kurapika sighs heavily. “When Killua arrived, people rushed to help him despite the storm. The second someone tried touched him, lightning came down from the sky and struck them where they stood.”

Gon’s body goes cold.

Kurapika looks at him with charcoal eyes and says, “The person who touched Killua died, but Killua did not.  Ever since he’s come here, at least one camper dies per year.”

Gon swallows thickly. “That doesn’t mean-”

Kurapika cuts him off, “Monsters broke through Camp borders a few years ago; they seriously injured several campers, even killing one. Killua was in the area where the monsters entered Camp. There were scorch marks along the border, but not on a single monster. The year after, Killua was practicing his tracking skills with two other campers when they stumbled across a poisonous snake. All three were bitten. Only Killua survived.”

Kurapika lifts his gaze towards the sky. His expression is unreadable as he says-

“That is why people think he’s the son of Hades; he has not died, despite the multiple attempts fate has tried to steal his life away, and some here think he never will. It’s a curse to become close to him, Gon. His bad luck will kill you if you are not careful enough.”