Chapter Text
Here's the thing: Skull deMort died, and he did so alone.
He'd been perched in a rock, in a deserted island bathed by the ancient waves of the Atlantic Ocean, dressed in his thick, padded biking suit, his ever-present helment sat beside him as he watched the sky with sad eyes, an image of silence and stillness. Of grief. Some could even say he'd been waiting, if there'd been anyone to witness it, although what for, they could've only wondered.
It was no secret by then, that the Millefiore Famiglia had been hunting them, that they'd created radiation that targeted the wielders of the Tri-ni-Sette specifically, and that the Arcobaleno, the Il Prescelti Sette, they who endured the most weight from their burdens, were also the first to fall to its effects.
It was ironic, the stuntman known as Skull mused, that the thing that was killing him and his would also kill the man that so zealously searched for their destruction, that had created the poison now suffused into their very beings, eating away at their flames faster than they could regenerate them, even with more that four decades acclimating to the greedy, eldritch Pacifier fastened around their necks.
At least, the agonising, constant push and pull on his Flames was familiar.
Practically everyone in the Mafia thought he'd been the first to die to Byarkuran's schemes.
This was a lie.
The first to die [to choke in his breath and fall] had been Verde.
Fon had quickly followed.
And with the Sky Arcobaleno, the Heiress of the Giglio Nero Famiglia, Aria's Child, firmly in the hands of their enemies, Colonnello, Lal and Senpai guarded by the Vongola Famiglia and Viper hidden amongst the Varia, Skull held no illusions as to whom would be targeted next. Had expected it, actually. Could already feel their flames approaching, his propagated Flame Sensitivity catching on to their confidence, their glee. Had been able to hear the whispers in the winds for hours, whispers that had turned to murmurs, that had turned to screeching, and howling, and s c r e a m i n g, in indignation and rage and fury.
A storm was brewing.
But that was alright.
He was a Cloud, after all, no matter how twisted and frayed and banked his flames were, these days. He hadn't changed, hadn't let himself change for nearly half a century out of spite for his kith, for their treatment of him, for their thoughtless cruelty and mindless violence.
Skull hadn't let the Mafia change him.
But then, he wasn't really Skull, was he?
Skull was a farce, a character made to play a role, a façade he'd kept playing for forty years and change with no respite, unhesistantly, ceaselessly, because these people that The Man In The Iron Hat had dumped him with, that had been meant to be his family and support, had never wanted him. Had never even made an effort to know him, to look beneath the surface and to the roiling dephts of his being, to learn of him, his likes and dislikes, dreams and fears, to know his strenghts and weaknessess, to help him grow and let him help them grow.
The Abyss had looked into them, and they hadn't even realized it.
Fon came the closest. Fon, that was as kind as growing up an assassin in the Triads allowed, that had taught him meditation and quietly told him about Flames and their Attributes. Fon that had, unknowingly, inadvertly, taught the stuntman about inmensely familiar concepts in wildly unfamiliar terms. And it was because of Fon that the stuntman had stilled, had stopped running when he'd felt it, one of the three bonds that teethered him, fragile and tenuous as they were, breaking. Unexpectedly. Violently. [At least it was quick]
In that moment, Skull stopped running.
He froze, walking down the frozen shores of the seas bathing the northern edges of Mother Russia, and stared east not as a child trapped in a situation he could never quite grasp, an innocent dragged to a world of casual violence and murder, but as a predator, a primal being of shadow and death, of murder.
Skull stood, so very still and quiet, his blood all but thruming beneath his skin with the need to ripshredtear while his soul howled, grief thick as sludge crawling like maggots, pushed by rage and fury that were like hunger, his very being starved for the need for revenge even as icy wind cut at his exposed skin, a constant pain that numbed all others.
[Nothing in this world could ever heal the pain of a bond torn asunder].
It was then, looking at the southeast like a bird of prey would stare at a particularly juicy mouse that the young man turned, and guided by an internal compass that had yet to fail him, walked with purposeful steps to the closest town to his location and, from there, made his way across the North Sea to his homeland and just-stopped.
He lay his vows in the seas, sang his farewells to the winds and infused his will in the land itself, and stopped running, patient, unmoving.
Waiting.
Waiting as the enemy set the ambush around him. Waiting as they readied themselves, arrogant and confident in their victory, because he was the Weakest Arcobaleno, right? Nothing but an witless civilian that had been unlucky enough to be dragged into the Mafia, as easy as prey ever got. Unlike Verde, with his security measures bordering on the overly-paranoid, even by Mafia Standards, and numerous hideouts all across the world, and Fon with his mastery of over a hundred Martial Art Styles and the might of the Triads at his beck and call. [Not that it had helped either of them any].
Waiting, to turn the tables on them. [The fools hadn't even stopped to think why they hadn't caught him, who had no resources, no hideout, no backup and no help, first]
He was in his homeland, after all.
The rumbling of the storms, crashes of the waves and whispers of the land of his birth giving him strenght, empowering him in a way mankind had forgotten how to archieve, the Seal he'd taken so much time and effort to weave into his skin dissolving, bit by painful bit.
And yet, he endured. [Pain was so familiar to him now]
For Fon.
Because as thin and threadbare and utterly fragile as it had been, the Storm had been his, he had lain his claim, and they'd taken him away. As they would take Viper, despite the Varia. As they would take Senpai, no matter how much the Young Vongola had tried.
It would not be borne. [He wouldn't have bothered, otherwise. People born in this time weren't worth it, no Song in their Blood , no Challenge]
It wasn't until he felt it, the Invaders setting foot into his Home, his Refuge, his Territory, that he called the Geas set into the very stones under his feet, drenched in the blood, the Dying Will, of hundreds, thousands, millions through centuries and millenia of War and Death, his own amongst their numbers, along with their Belief [such a strong and carelessly dismissed force, Belief, when it was capable of powering the Will of thousands] and felt the land answer.
He took off his gloves, his boots, his suit. The frayed muscle shit hidden underneath following, neatly folded over them all. His helmet, bearing the image of his lost little friend carefully set over the carefuly lain pile of clothes. And he rose, slow and predatory and a more hilarious sight than he deserved to be, the man trapped in the mien of a toddler stalking through earth and stone, prowling, hidden and ready, slipping into his mother tongue with thoughtless ease, his words reververating like thunder in the storm yet to break overhead.
“Oh, Blessed Isle of the Sky, Listen to This, My Song Unsung!" he declared, one more voice in the wind " I Am He Who Wanders Eternally. I Am He Who Seeks Endlessly! I Am He, Whom Death Forwent. He, Whom Time Forgot! I Am The Sadow.” a breath taken, a prayer given, a hope unspoken, a wish untold “My Enemies Stand Before Me. Let Their Blood Drench your Shores! Their Screams Echo in the Wind! War Is at Your Door, Your King Calls! Wake!”
The World itself stilled.
As if holding its collective breath, everything came to a halt save the advancing, unrelenting form of the toddler hidden by the ferns, the silence of the moment tasting of the calm before the storm, a weight falling heavily upon the shoulders of everyone present with no explanation or warning, stealing their breath and making them falter in their steps, in their approach, silencing taunts and turning glee into sudden, inexplicable terror.
The ships unable to advance or retreat, battered by the waves from all sides, as if the currents had twisted on themselves, confused and panicked. The 'copters losing the wind beneath their helix, falling downdowndown into the depths, crashing quietly with explosions void of noise and fire, as if the air had been sucked away and only the Void remained. The land troops stumbling and falling over themselves from sudden tremors, the volcanic rock shifting and turning like quicksand under their feet.
The Cloud had but a moment to feel the confusion, the panic seeping through the flames in his range.
And then-
The earth parted.
The sea churned.
The sky fell.
Even as he left the suit that had keept the radiaton in check, that had kept him in check, behind him, like a tombstone upon a hill, even as he felt his flames wrench in agony at the sudden, undeniable something gnawing at the edges of his very soul when he forced them upwards, between the cracks and broken places of his being, even as they grew with fury and rage and euphory at the newly recovered freedom after so long trapped beneath his skin, the man known for the last forty three years as Skull prowled forward, tall and proud, knowing in his very bones that the bloodbath, for he would deliver nothing less that pure, merciless carnage as it hadn't been seen in centuries, would be brushed off as bad luck, as a series of unfortunate events, a sudden storm, a magnetic pull, several malfunctions, an accident, and caring naught for it.
He would bleed them, either way.
They would bleed, like they'd made Fon bleed.
Like they would make Viper bleed.
Like they would make Reborn-
And Skull? Skull let himself fade, let this being who was himself but not, that had been at the forefront for so, very long, return to the crevices and shadows from whence it came, let his self, the original, the true, [the forgone] be restored and returned to the fore.
And as lines, thick and glowing with a malicious red light, lit right under his iconic make-up teardrop, under the two bandages on his face, curling around his neck and left arm and ribs to slip under thick, tight pants to curl around his thigh, burning like hot coals, yet inmensely satisfying either way. Even as he grew, slowly and undeniably, his truly monstruous Will, usually held in check, eating away at the Curse with the help of the Geas. Eroding it away so he may be freed from his form confined, the Curse falling like the weight of the Sky upon Atlas' back, trying to bank his very Will as he did, the mitigating effects gone, now more violent and desperate than it had ever been.
He called his Flames, the power of his soul, despite the pain, despite the agony, despite everything, and let them curl just over the surface of his skin before pulling them out and shaping them with a practiced twist of his Will into a wicked, long spear seeped in blood and flooding their surroundings in unchecked bloodthirst that hadn't been felt for centuries.
His bloodlust, made physical.
He ignored the feel of the make-up on his face peeling, the now-lavender glow of the thick lines upon his skin, of his leather trousers fraying under the power he'd unleashed, and concentrated on the signatures, of the positions and locations and numbers of the people so foolish as to try and set foot on his Isle with no leave or invitation. These people that served the man that had caused the fall of one he called his. The ignorant mortals that had hunted and harried the Carcassa to the ground in search of him, ignorant of what they were provoking.
The idiots that had infringed upon his land, killed one of his people and caused distress upon those that had sworn their fealty to him, and him alone.
The Ancient Law of Three For Three called for retribution.
And, oh, but he could already taste it, their pain and fear on his tongue like water on the throat of a man dying of thirst. [He would enjoy this]
There were many, he noted as he reached the edge of the cliff, eyes sharp and glowing brighter still than the Seal, now unmade, marring his pale flesh. His hand clenched and unclenched on his spear, the familiar ridges calming and spurning his hunger for d e s p a i r by turns, violently purple flames licking at his shoulders and hips as his lips twitched, the snarl reververating in his mind like a mad beast roaring for freedom turning into a mockery of itself, wanting to change his neutral mien into a shy, gentle turn of the lips that looked positively beatific on his admiteddly pretty face. And all the more chilling for it.
If the Millefiore Agents had been able to see him, a part of him noted vaguely, apathy taking root as rage tried to overwhelm him, they would have likened him to a portent of death.
Unfortunate, then, that they were too busy panicking over the sudden, unexpected shift of circumstances to take note of the lonely figure stood above their heads.
Some might have even survived.
Still, there were many more than he would have expected Byakuran to send to deal with the Ignorant Weakling, the Civilian Lackey. Then again, he was still a Cloud, independently of his Reputation. Someone up the chain of command must have thought it better to overwhelm him with numbers, just in case.
Or Skull had already shown himself a Monster in a Parallel reality, and Byakuran wanted to take no chances.
No matter.
The more, the merrier. [Definitely going to enjoy this]
And, for the first time in time uncounted, Scáthach the Black, King of the Isle of Skye, Warrior-King, Sorcerer of Shadows, The Rune Knight, He Who Achieved Immortalily Through Will Alone, smiled.
True and unfettered and completely, utterly terrifying in its gentleness and innocence as only a challenge on his skills and mettle could earn, bleeding bloodlust as virulently as the spear at his side even as his fae features remained gentle, almost coy.
[Once, long ago, a lazyass, laid-back fool of a savage had called him pretty, had called him cute. It was only with a spear in hand and a challenge in the horizon, that he'd called him beautiful]
And with one last, stray thought going to the other Arcobaleno, that would be picked out one by one until none remained, to the Young Vongola, kind and generous and gone far too soon from this world, to his Famiglia, grieving and lost and in the verge of collapse, to the Carcassa, that had taken him in when he'd been left confused and floundering, reeling from a Curse unlike any he'd seen, dealt or experienced before, that had laughed and cried and raged by his side for so many years, had followed him in his stupid stunts and meaningless endeavours with mischievous smiles in their faces and eyes as warm as the Sun he'd once held close to his chest, he stepped forward, vowing never to retreat, never to give in, not even when his flames sputtered to nothing and his soul left to the Otherlands. To take all comers and laugh, laugh, laugh in the face of death, despair and whatever horrors awaited.
The man known as Skull, the ancient being known as Scáthach, closed his eyes and tilted his face towards the sky, taking a breath, long and deep, and slowly blinked his eyes open, watching the colors overhead twist and change as the sun set beneath the waves, the screech of the wind and roar of the seas resounding like a call to arms to his senses.
His time was ticking.
And he would make each second count.
Still.
One last beat, one last prayer, one last whisper of a name nearly forgotten by the annals of time, the parting strings of a song of farewell, before his eyes snapped open, his smile gentled, his posture loosened.
And he raged.