Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He’s seized it.

He’s finally seized it—by Illumina, he’s seized it and he can’t help the breathless chuckle that escapes him. Of course he’s done it. Of course he’s accomplished it. What else would be the result, from a god like him?

Illumina can feel the pulse of the formerly wingless thing beat underneath his veins, a presence he is always privy to, now, after the relentless fighting. The web of power has caught the boy fallen into it; who can struggle and struggle but never escape because the string will always cling to him, always following as the duty of a follower. The price of wings, to faux ascension, to ask for a deal and ending up receiving nothing but the consequences in return, because who did he think he was? God? The apple was too tempting, indeed.

A foolish boy could not hope to strike an equal deal with a divine being such as he.

It is a fighter’s soul that beats in the crevices of his mind, distant but held close—a well, determined, loyal soul that is now monotone and loyal to none but him, now. The runes that had been casted now circles one horn, and the web is giddy to add him to the hive, to the beings who serve no purpose but the honor of receiving direct communication from a deity like Illumina. 

He remembers the spike of horror that didn’t belong to him his shooting through his spine like a faint memory, remembers silently registering the agony—but not feeling any of it, because it was not his. Illumina had only cared in the way he would regard a phenomena with muted curiosity: mildly wondering if, now that Sword was comprehending the details, he regretted it. Illumina had wondered if Sword had held his hands in front of his face with a fierce, potent, fear—wondering what was happening—or if Sword had let his hands fall limp to his sides while he instinctively curled in on himself, knowing he could not stop it. 

Illumina, in the end, hadn’t bothered to watch the transformation and only waited until the heart faintly beating in his palm was either fully connected, or… extinguished. But Sword did pull through, the fighter that he is, and he became another tally to mark Illumina’s delightful followers. 

Nobody could touch him, with a Sword around. He could dispose of his follower at any minute without lifting a finger, and they could not do a thing to stop him, and they would know it . He hopes it hurts. He hopes they gnash their teeth so hard they crack with utter frustration. He’s practically invincible. It would take all Illumina has to stifle the laugh he feels coming as the winged thing’s heart beats in his palm, but he has no reason to hide his amusement.

He laughs. The follower’s heart beats in the palm of his hand; a vulnerable, defenseless thing.

He leaves the boy to his own devices. But not without a little gift.

“Leave Crossroads. Do not inform anyone; do not go to anyone you know.”

And his little Follower Sword did as demanded; left without a second thought. It was almost funny, how easily the words could leave Illumina’s mouth and how easily Sword, like any other devoted follower, would comply. 

Venomshank would not know. Not yet. Illumina is waiting for the moment to unveil it, or until Venomshank realizes he hasn’t seen hair nor hide from his little Icarus.

His little Icarus, with melted wax that boils his back, his arms, his entire body as feathers itch to sprout from his arms, his face—magic that sears the boy’s back with a muted agony in an attempt to mold wings that were nothing but a pale imitation of Illumina’s. A faux angel—a disciple of God. Bloodied effort, bloodied agony, bloodied transformation; all the suffering to become feathered but, in the end, just a fake, an imitation.

Illumina sits idly in the heights, humming as he observes the red sky morphing, the clouds swirling and caving in on themselves. He would be lying if he claimed he isn’t excited to see how this situation plays out. 

Rain batters the environment of which Sword has chosen to inhabit. He can call to his mind the image of where his follower sits beneath a fallen tree, the dripping of water onto feathers stained with the remnants of dried blood. The rain is raucous and unforgiving; his follower’s brow is furrowed and mouth pursed in some semblance of misery, his eyes half-lidded as he brings his knees close to his chest and leans against the bark of the tree. 

Perhaps he desires something akin to warmth, to the knowledge that another person is there, and it’s why he leans into the tree. But Sword will not receive it, because although he is finally winged, he is chained further to the ground than he was wingless—chained to the words that spill like honeyed hemlock from Illumina’s lips.

The bark is surely rough and cold, and his follower’s bodily warmth must surely be depleting. The grass must be either damp or flooded, and Illumina wonders why he would rather sit in such a wretched place instead of setting out to find a cave of some sort. Perhaps it was the better option, though, because Illumina knows there’s no semblance of shelter for at least a while. He half-hopes with indifference that his follower doesn’t become ill. 

There is no living creature in sight. No movement, no person, no mask, no animal, no crow. Sword is alone.

Sword is alone, but he further curls himself into the tree, his imitation wings tucked clumsily around him like any naive fledgeling who wouldn’t know how to handle them. Sword squeezes his eyes shut, as if he can force a memory of something before this, but the attempt appears fruitless. Instead of continuing his thoughts, Sword opts to bury his head into his arms instead. The boy’s shoulders shake—either wracked with shivers from the cold or something else, but it is so repressed Illumina can barely tell. 

He cannot find it in himself to care. He has other orders to issue, after all. One follower can’t take up his whole time—the storm should last long enough so he doesn’t need to check on him.

He waves the image away from his vision, and the Hills’ red skies greet him once again.

“Spar with me. Don’t hold back.”

Metal clangs as their blades clash with a certain ferocity behind them in the forest’s clearing. Sword is all the fighter Illumina had thought he’d be. A little rash, but he knows how to handle himself. Of course, Illumina is not using all his strength, because surely it wasn’t necessary for such a miniscule thing. He was leaving Sword’s strength alone, anyway; wasn’t empowering or influencing him at all except for the order from before.

Sword attacks with a fierceness that surprises Illumina. The boy ducks underneath swings, retreats just out of Illumina’s range and then comes back with a lunge and an upward slash. He’s like a—a pest, an infuriating insect Illumina cannot pin down, with all his running, the repeat, the jabs—

When Illumina’s blade has to defend against the damned explosion—something probably taught to him by that damned Venomshank—surprise gives way to anger. Anger turns to fury. Fury turns to power, and Illumina is resolutely appalled at the realization he has to try when sparring with such a pathetic insect. Appalling old technique, appalling strength, appalling pest, appalling short blade as it almost catches Illumina in a lunge again —

For all the reputation Venomshank has, his son is truly atrocious. Illumina gave him wings. He could very well rip them out. 

The next swing, Illumina’s blade blocks it directly with only one hand. With his other hand, he catches the formerly wingless thing’s wrist before it can evade him. He tightens his grip, brings his arm overhead, and slams the wingless thing into the ground with a bone-shattering strength. Dust clouds the air around them as dirt flies and Sword’s weapon thuds into the nearby grass. It’s too bad his words wouldn’t work in this scenario—his boy was already at his every beck and call, and there was nothing he could do to provoke any anguish. Not until later.

Illumina should not have to try.  

“Get up.”

Sword does so. Mechanically, as if he is nothing but a puppet being pulled on strings, he pushes himself up with shaking arms, and raises himself onto his feet. Soil and bits of grass cling to his frame. Despite the blow, he stands resolute and firm, steady on his feet as he gets back into position. It makes Illumina even more enraged. He sheaths his sword.

The divine do not try .

Sword lunges and misses to a sidestep. 

Illumina’s fist strikes his back with a brutal force and he thrives at the contact as the blow hits, and follows up with a strike aimed at the back of his head. Something caves beneath his fingers; he faintly remembers the metal embedded in Sword’s head. Throughout his swift motions, Sword hadn’t recovered. Not even a swing in retaliation. Maybe Illumina was too swift.

Atrocious.

His follower’s impact does not kick up dust, this time. Sword stumbles after the hits, his lunge’s initial speed faltering greatly as he falls to the ground, hitting it with a rather small thump . This time, he kept a grip on his weapon, at least.

Illumina observes him passively. Disappointing. However did Venomshank manage to teach such a weak thing if he couldn’t even handle a few hits?

He was mistaken, before; insects were more resilient than this disciple. He notes with a detached surprise that the metal on the boy’s head was dented where he struck. He waits a minute or so as Sword’s forearms shake with wavering strength when he tries to haul himself back up, and then quickly grows impatient. So slow. It’s unbecoming for one of his followers, but he’s thankful he’s not funneling a bit of his power into his connection with Sword at all right now; thankfully he understands that it’s not his energy that’s helping Sword to lose so badly.

“Get up.”

Sword does so, but it still takes far too long, and starts to raise his weapon again before Illumina holds up a hand. His disciple stops, and for one of the first times since Illumina has witnessed the boy devote his soul to him, he speaks. “Yes?”

“To the best of your ability,” Illumina starts coolly. Anger continues to boil underneath his skin, but it is much more subdued compared to before. He just hates trying, honestly. It’s a hassle. His sword is still sheathed after before, exactly where it should be when he’s sparring with such a minor thing. “I want you to land a hit on me.”

Sword nods. 

Illumina makes a motion with his hand, and his disciple launches back into action. A slash that he avoids completely, tempted to cast a force to push it off course, but deeming it not necessary. A lunge he narrowly dodges. A beam he lets his weapon’s sheath absorb. All so miniscule things. And throughout it all, Illumina watches the ferocity return to Sword’s actions.

He deflects a beam that explodes a nearby plant instead, finally drawing his sword again. He’s satisfied.

When their swords eventually clash again, it is too easy to push back against the opposing force. Sword could never be as great as a deity. Pity. Illumina uses the extra force Sword exerts in retaliation against him. He suddenly withdraws his weapon, causing the boy to stumble; unlike last time, however, he does try to slash back. It’s amusing.

Illumina kicks him with a force he thinks is not quite that bad, yet Sword still skids into a tree, bark cracking underneath his figure. A faint pulse that signals his follower’s agony sounds at the back of his mind, but he brushes it off. He sighs. “I’ve seen enough.”

Sword stills. 

He dismissively waves away his follower, his wing stretching after the exercise. Barely an exercise. Illumina casts one last glance at him, then begins to walk away.

It really was too bad Venomshank's Achilles wasn't all he lived up to be. 

Illumina prefers his words, still. It is much more entertaining than the mechanical, blank, way of fighting his own follower. Breaking down things verbally often yielded a much better result than this. It was funny. This was just pathetic. Though, he supposes it’s always good to know he excels in combat just as much as words. 

Some “Achilles.”

“Are you sure this was a wise decision?”

Illumina’s brow furrows as he half-pays attention to the conversation, rather occupied with inspecting his sword. The reflection is pristine as it emits its normal subdued glow, and he tilts the blade at a certain angle so he can see Ghostwalker in the background; the other deity’s hands presumably folded behind his back.

“Hm? What do you mean?” Illumina places his sword down, tucks it into his sheath.

“Him. Venomshank’s son.” Ghostwalker reminds him. Always so careful, so neutral—he supposes it’s expected of the Reaper. Everything would become the same, once you’ve seen so many people pass through. “You don’t think it will cause some kind of conflict?”

Illumina’s lips tug into a small frown. He turns his head towards his companion to properly address him. “Of course I do.” He narrows his eyes. “I merely saw a lost thing wandering around, and nudged it in the right direction. Nobody could offer him what I could; it was his choice, in the end. I had nothing to do with the final say. Is that so wrong?”

“Venomshank’s going to annihilate you once he finds out.” Ghostwalker does not answer his question. He knows better, has known Illumina’s holy words are so tainted with poison that—instead of becoming bitter and repulsive—they’ve malformed into a curse pure and alluring. The other deity crosses his arms. “If he gets out of hand, it’ll be the Black Death all over again. That’ll be a headache unless you two don’t get this under control. If Firebrand’s grandchildren are caught in the crossfire, he’ll have all of our heads—if plagues can even affect demi-deities, then Windforce will carve you two open, too.”

“Venomshank is nothing. I wouldn’t be surprised if Darkheart’s foolishness infected his extended family,” he spits. The other deities weren’t stronger than him. Venomshank may be furious, but fury would not win battles if Illumina could taunt it out of his opponent, if he could watch as anger clouds their judgement and they lose sight of him in a mirror maze; succumb to their damnation. 

He doesn’t reply to Ghostwalker’s statement about Windforce and Firebrand at first, and instead casts a few runes onto his sword as he stands up. Illumina hums. “Windforce or Firebrand will stop Venomshank before he goes on a rampage, if they understand their kin’s lives are on the line. They know you and I won’t lift a finger.

“Someone was always going to come crawling back—the bunch of putrid worms that they are. It was inevitable.” 

I always get my way.

Ghostwalker doesn’t move from where he continues to look blankly at Illumina. His lips are pursed in a thin line. For someone who can’t experience emotions properly, Death sure has an odd concern for events that could cause a catastrophe. Maybe because he’s the one who has to make sure they get across. Ghostwalker stares.

Illumina stares back, tilting his head subtly.

They are both unmoving. A silent wait for the other shoe to drop; if one would dare say something and if the other would dare do anything about it. They are companions. A rocky alliance, but one that Illumina has the utmost faith in that it is also steadfast. Ghostwalker is the only one he could rely on besides himself, and Ghostwalker would be the only one to ally with Illumina. They are two sides of a rusted coin—not quite the same, not quite the other half, but they stick together nonetheless.

“…See to it the others don’t come for your head.” Ghostwalker breaks the silence. Gold glows as his wings manifest in the air, swirling like mercury poured out of a vial, and he turns. “They’ll all be affected.”

“I will.” They would get mad, sure, but he always had the expert role of casting aside blame.

His own wing beats once, testing the motion, and he prepares for the journey down to check on his follower. Illumina has faith in his ability to twist situations with a mere flick of his hands, to spew poison in a single motion, to speak without opening his mouth. It’s amazing, how easily he performs. He spares one last moment to look at his only ally, the only one who’d place themselves beside him and vice versa, before he descends.

Death does not look back. 

There is someone near his follower.

Illumina is subtly surprised at first. He is not afraid to approach them, but rather curious. He hasn’t seen how Sword behaves when he’s not around, and only remembers sometimes to check in to make sure he hasn’t come into contact with Sisyphus or anyone else.

He lingers at one of the higher branches. He knows Sword can sense him nearby, but he reaches through their connection and the seal tightens around Sword’s horn. The boy knows not to speak of him.

Sword is still sitting nearby the fallen tree, but this time he is occupied with watching a small stream run across the river rocks. His posture is similar as before: his legs tucked close to his chest with his arms wrapped around them, his head resting on his knees. He seems to have a forlorn look as he watches his reflection twist and turn in the water as the stream rushes. Illumina wonders what he thinks of his appearance now; what his father would think of him, if they missed him. He wonders if he regrets it.

The person he had detected near his follower is a mortal, thankfully. If it were Venomshank, Illumina wouldn’t even want to think of the results. They seem to be short, like all mortals, if not a bit shorter than his follower. Two of their limbs look to be mechanical, and they wear some kind of goggles—the purpose of which Illumina can’t deduce. Their horns are light blue, carved in a pattern that looks vaguely similar to something he’s seen before, something that prods at his memory, but he really can’t remember—and honestly couldn’t care. It wasn’t anything important.

He watches as they make their way closer to his disciple, wandering through marred trees and broken branches and—oh, Illumina realizes Sword must have caused that minor destruction before he settled down at the stream. Disappointing lack of control over his feelings. Illumina passively debates whether he should alert Sword of the person creeping up behind them, and decides against it. 

When the blue person finally enters the area of the stream, the rustle of bushes sets Sword off. Illumina watches as his disciple stands up and launches a slash-beam at the bushes instinctively, which sends grass and dirt flying at the small explosion.

“Sword?” The person finally speaks, having jumped out of the way of the attack, and Illumina watches as Sword’s expression switches from aggravated to devastated . Oh. This must be someone important to him.

Sword recoils from the person. His gear vanishes into his pocket space, and Illumina is frankly surprised at the way he scowls at them. Fear slowly seeps into his veins, and then he recognizes it. A brave face. Sword must not want them to get hurt—by Sword himself or by Illumina. Maybe he worries that if Illumina sees the person, if Illumina shows up, that he will harm whoever this is.

Not now. Not yet. He wants to wait.

“Get back, Rocket.” Sword’s voice is commanding, monotone as he grits his teeth. Illumina’s markings glow where they are traced upon the boy’s face. When the person—Rocket, apparently—does not move, Sword’s expression grows angrier—no, not angry. Desperate. “I am a follower of our powerful deity. I have no business with you—I’ve yet to succumb to my purpose—”

“Sword, what are you talking about?” Rocket reaches out, and Sword recoils further back, shaking his head.

He is like his father in that when exposed to power—or distress, maybe. Illumina just gave him power. Maybe he’s overwhelmed with it—that he seems to be erratic. He grits his teeth and scowls at the other person, his wings flared and feathers askew. Trying to make himself look bigger, look scary, look threatening, as if that would scare the other off. Sword’s eyes are narrowed, but they also hold a certain, primitive, potent distress that seems to be his last straw.

Illumina’s follower, so easily unwound by only the appearance of someone dear to him. It hasn’t even been that long since he’s left Crossroads.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Rocket starts, and Illumina notices the pang of self-loathing and fear that strikes through Sword only because of how strong it is. There’s his question answered. What he couldn’t fathom, however, was being made an angel and hating it? Wings were an ethereal thing; something generously gifted by him.

Illumina watches the way Sword slowly eases. His face is still contorted in desperation and his brow is still furrowed and his teeth are still grit, but he refuses to step back anymore and that is his first mistake. It allows Rocket to move towards him, muttering, “hey,” and the second Rocket’s hand touch his face, his bravado unravels like a spool of yarn.

Sword’s wings fall to his side limply, his feathers no longer puffed up and ruffled. His shoulder’s tension releases, his face relaxes, and his expression appears to Illumina as though he was tired. Exhausted, even. Illumina can hear the fear in his voice, can feel the subtle dread and the worry that Illumina would swoop in and put an end to this nonsense, as he tells Rocket, “Go.”

He hears through Sword’s head, through their connection, the words Rocket mutters as he cups Sword’s face gently, as if he is a fragile thing to be handled with care, and not the fighter Illumina had deemed him. “You’re okay. I’m okay.”

Sword’s shoulders shake again. Illumina has zero idea why—it’s not even cold and he hasn’t done anything besides wait out a storm, spar with him, and laze around. He shouldn’t be tired. It hasn’t been that long.

But Sword’s shoulders shake and the two demons clutch onto each other like it is the last day of their lives; like it has been decades through a drought and they have discovered the first hint of water—as if it is all they had, will have, and will ever have, but instead of letting go, they choose to cling to it foolishly.

Illumina hears through Sword’s mind because he cannot hear the whispers of Rocket all the way up here, “We’re okay.”

Sword was right to fear. His dread was persistent; his anxiety growing with every second he could sense Illumina next to them, hanging out above without doing anything. He was right to worry. Illumina would put an end to this nonsense. 

But not now. Later. 

Once they separated.

“Who are you?” Rocket demands, as he spots Illumina sitting idly on a branch.

Illumina’s wing is tucked carefully behind him to conceal it, and he inspects this boy, who had interacted with his disciple with such futile care. He does not reply right away. Replying would be generous, as the divine should not stoop to affiliating with mortals, but Illumina supposes this is a special case.

I am God, his mind chants in reply, You’ve met my attempt at Adam. Instead, he tilts his head in return and shoots back, “Who are you?”

“Okay, smart guy.” Rocket narrows his eyes in suspicion, his eyebrows drawn together. He's much more feisty than Illumina had expected him to be. 

“I know who you are, Rocket.” He thrives on the shock that washes over Rocket’s face. He watches as it switches to paranoia and poorly-hidden panic. Looking angry didn’t keep from divulging anything. He regards the boy with an unimpressed look, although he is somewhat excited to finally put his skills to use again. Illumina does not smile, as much as he is tempted. “You know my name; I’m surprised you don’t know my appearance.” 

“Who are you?” Rocket asks again, with more bite behind it. He stops in his tracks and faces Illumina with a resoluteness that shocks him. Bold. Perhaps it would’ve been easier to convince this boy to worship him, and then Sword would follow. What’s done is done, however, and Illumina’s choices are barely ever mistakes. What happens will happen, and it is all how it is supposed to be.

“God. Illumina. Whatever applies.” Illumina finds glee in the way Rocket’s eyes immediately widen in surprise, his jaw dropping open in the slightest. Exactly the reaction he should have; although he probably inferred from the wing, already. “How do you know Sword?”

Rocket initially opens his mouth, but then shuts it, jaw locked tersely. Illumina frowns. Why must everything be a fight? He hasn’t even done anything. 

Rocket manages to force out, “My dad told me about you.”

“Oh? Really? B… B. Zuka, if I recall correctly, right?” Illumina stretches his wing out idly. He barely remembered Zuka. Some hard-headed or explosive kind of mortal. He couldn’t remember every insignificant face he came across, but he hopes he at least has the right idea of which mortal he is. “Good things, I hope. You weren’t there last time I saw him. Maybe..? I can’t recall.”

Rocket keeps his mouth shut. Illumina huffs. 

He maneuvers his way off the branch, landing on the ground with barely any noise. He straightens his posture and keeps his wing half-open, folding his hands behind his back. When he looks at Rocket, the boy has his gear out and has scrambled a good distance away from him. Illumina registers how short mortals are, again, as he narrows his eyes at Rocket. “You’re from Playground, right?”

He is in Sword’s head. He can rummage around memories, remember his own of how the rumors of an ex-soldier who split off from his faction took in a kid who also left his faction. Illumina enjoyed this part of analyzing people. They’re so easy to read, if you watch for the correct things.

Rocket flinches as he steps closer. But the boy’s brow is furrowed, resolute and still holds a boldness that Illumina can commend as he drags his gaze over the boy. Prosthetic arm and leg. Must have been associated with a dangerous incident; probably traumatizing. His expression holds with a deep frown as if all the contempt can conceal the fear in his eyes as Illumina steps closer, inspecting him with a tilt of his head.

Those from Playground were also ruthless… more likely to stab you in the back the first chance they got. Must be where the brave face came from. Horns carved like Zuka’s, probably some kind of sweet admiration of his father, but they couldn’t be that natural shape. Bits and pieces of conversations either had or overheard by Sword interjects itself into Illumina’s thoughts as he files through his disciple’s head: Your arm—I blew it up completely!—Why don’t you ask your dad?—he thinks it’s stupid—doesn’t want me out here—that trick Zuka taught us—

“You admire your father very much, don’t you?” Illumina asks. 

A missile fires at him and he slashes it in half, frowning at the smoke as it curls around him. He starts to stride forward;  Rocket steps back. Illumina makes sure to keep his tone even—delicate, to hit harder. “Your horns are carved like his. You can’t carve them yourself, right? And can’t ask Dad, because he probably thinks it’s stupid, right? Carving your horns like him, really—but you strike me as a rebel. He just wants what’s best for you; don’t all fathers?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” And it is the only thing Rocket can say before Illumina takes that and runs with it. Replying gave him so much to work with. Just a few words to sentence them to damnation, nitpicking their reactions to properly assess what to expand on, what narrative to push.

He watches Rocket’s face carefully while he speaks, monitoring for any minute changes in his expressions. He presses down the smile that threatens to crawl its way onto his face. This was too good. “You’re right. So, then tell me, Rocket. I don’t have a good memory of mortals, so if you would give me the pleasure, when did he take you in? You’re obviously not his spawn.” 

Right where it hurts, he thinks, as Rocket’s face morphs into a pained one for a millisecond before it’s covered back up with that defensiveness. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes to retain his innocent tone; another dash of poison in the way he can subtly interject benevolence into his words and rip it all away. But Illumina keeps his tone level, and continues closing in on Rocket, anyways. “I was being genuine, though. It really is a bit obvious.

“Did he take you in after you were so foolish you blew off your own limbs? Did you carve your horns to try and fit in with him—do you get annoyed when they outgrow that perfect shape, a sour reminder? 

“Let me guess, or—feel free to tell me off if I’m wrong, really—did you make him put up with this angry act when he took you in so graciously? It may have worked on those from Playground—get all mean and nasty to make them back off, I’m sure it worked. Or maybe you enjoyed stabbing people in the back yourself. You hide your horns from back then; is it not admiration that drives it, and shame, instead?”

“How the hell do you know—“ and Illumina is delighted. He continues to stride forward while Rocket keeps his distance and walks back; cat and mouse. Sword’s memories fuel him as he takes his victim along for the ride. Playground. Injury. Meeting a frowning boy with a scarred face and a missing arm and leg. 

“I don’t know, Rocket. I don’t know anything at all besides what I can see with my own eyes. It’s all obvious: Zuka takes in a seething, troubled kid from a faction and raises him. But what I don’t get is how you can be so rebellious. You got new limbs, a father, a life , and you still want more ?—“

“Shut up!”  Rocket doesn’t even bother to hide his panic at this point, his teeth now gritted as he stares down Illumina. The wateriness in his glare as it wavers along with his voice makes Illumina’s smile finally worm its way onto his face. The boy probably wonders how he knows so much, how he can pluck every insecurity from every reaction, from his appearance, from memories. He’s probably telling himself Illumina has some kind of strange power but no, this is skill. Rocket holds his gear out threateningly, but there’s further insecurity in his face as he repeats, “Shut up!” 

“Zuka’s right. Your horns are stupid, frankly. A crude imitation, like Sword’s wings. With how selfish you are, I’m not even sure if Zuka should have taken you in in the first—“

A missile fires. Illumina effortlessly deflects it with a flick of his weapon. “—place.” He grins wider as he walks closer—his figure making more distance than Rocker can scramble backwards as he tries to force back the panic; a common thing Illumina sees. “I’m not sure you deserved a second chance. And this is all from someone who can barely remember Zuka, let alone his strange charity case.

“What do you think, Rocket? Zuka should’ve left you where you stood. Did you really deserve to be saved?”

“Shut up.” Rocket shakes his head. Illumina’s struck one too many nerves. The boy shakes his head again, his boldness wavering as he’s closed in on—backed in against the forest—where there is so much room, but Illumina knows his gaze must feel like he’s affixed Rocket to the ground, right where he wants him.

“I’m a god , Rocket. I’m leagues stronger than you. I have been here for millennium. I could level mountains, but I only crack bone, now. We are not the same.” Illumina stops just in front of him, where Rocket stumbles against a root that pokes out of the ground. He waits for a minute, watches the panicked gaze set on him. He tilts his head again, innocently smiling. “Why ask me to shut up? You can leave if you don’t like what I’m saying. Or—correct me. I’d love to hear it, genuinely. I’ve only deduced from what I’ve seen.”

Like any animal forced into a corner, Rocket’s face contorts into fury, again, and Illumina cuts through the projectile, the metal of his sword singing with the impact, as the smoke billows around his figure. The pushback from the explosion is minimum—he tries to make it seem like the movement was as easy as breathing. 

He frowns. “It’s useless. You can’t do anything to me.” Another missile fired; deflected. “Zuka would’ve done better.”

“Shut up!” 

“Can you say anything other than those two words?” Illumina grumbles, and properly points his sword, casting a slash into a nearby tree, which splinters and falls with the force. The creak of it as it plunges to the forest floor seem to invoke some kind of panicked reaction from Rocket. “We are not the same.”

He sees Rocket’s will cracking, sees the way each of the words he’d said linger as the boy glares. His eyes are watery, still, and maybe Rocket had somewhat believed what Illumina had claimed before he’d even said it. Him saying it just set it in stone, just whittled down that cruel part of his mind that much more. 

It’s so amusing, the way they’d always stare blankly at him. How does he do that? How’d he figure it out? How, how, how , but Illumina is just too good. He is divination himself, and the ethereal should not dirty their hands. Why, when you could deal more damage with words?

Illumina sheathes his sword. With every movement of gracefulness, he waves a hand towards a clearing a small way away from the two, smiling. “You can leave, if you want. Nothing’s keeping you here. You chose to stay. You chose to listen, Rocket. You could’ve left at anytime, with my slow pace, and I would not have followed you.”

There’s a subtle threat in the way he says it; in everything he’s done and has been doing. His smile. Cornering a stressed animal, knowing it will try to bite but will be unable—will cease to try once it understands, will still hiss and claw but has an understanding that it is useless—that they can try and try and still cannot do anything. Preying on weaknesses easily identified, catalogued, and utilized. He gives the easy way out, because he’s the illusion of kindness, the very pinnacle of benevolence. The illusion of having a choice, of making Rocket believe he could have always left. 

It is a long wait, a long wait of letting the poison simmer in Rocket’s mind, in his faux sympathetic poise, in his smile—before Rocket’s gear disappears into his pocket space, and, like any animal vying for survival, he flees. Predictable.

Illumina will have to relocate his follower. It's been getting risky, lately.

Too many people poking in his business.

Venomshank found out, and as Venomshank oft does, he loses control. The fool.

He didn’t even get to relocate Sword by the time the news of a disaster reaches his ears. The other gods are late to the scene—for what reason, not even Illumina knows. Firebrand should be here, but perhaps such a recent event had not reached him. He wonders if Banhammer will get himself involved, and if he did, if Windforce would forcefully remove him from the situation. Thankfully, it’s somewhere in between Crossroads and Lost Temple.

Illumina boredly gazes at the deity reduced to a feral creature in front of him, his dear crow squawking in alarm as Venomshank launches at another civilian. This time was different, however, because as stupid as the deity was, he had foregone locking his mask this time. 

Mortals shriek and scream as Venomshank descends on them, zombies raising only moments after he sinks his fangs into flesh. They evacuate the area and run like ants, like insects if insects were more ruthless with less of a sense of self-preservation. They push and shove at each other as they attempt to get out of the town square, hubris and greed and self-interest as they sacrifice others to get out, which actually makes the number of people who are able to escape less. The few mortals with connections to each other are the runts of the group, those with generosity to offer a hand are instead tugged down themselves, and mortals are such animals . Though, Illumina supposes half of them have good enough of a head on their shoulders to be his followers, so there’s something salvageable in there.

He motions to one of his followers to go against Venomshank. His disciple puts up a good fight, but Venomshank is a deity, one whose strength is unparalleled except by those who were first in this world—especially in this infuriated state. It is of no surprise to Illumina that his follower manages one slash on Venomshank before he’s torn apart. Disappointing, but Illumina could only raise his followers to greatness—he could never make them as great as him, alas, if only that were possible.

“Sword?” He beckons the boy, and watches with amusement as his disciple walks up beside him. 

“Yes?” Sword seems to understand what will happen merely by looking into Illumina’s eyes, and his face twists up in utter despair before he pushes it down and has that neutral frown back. Illumina can sense his feelings of dread-panic-pain-frustration-loyalty fighting between him against Illumina’s utter power.

He squeezes the heart that beats in his palm, and the feelings cease. Good.

“Sword,” he repeats again, focuses his disciple’s attention on him. Illumina nods his head towards the mass of zombies now wandering around, where at the front Venomshank is continuing to claim stragglers of the mortal crowd trying to escape. “Kill him, would you?”

Having his orders received, Illumina can feel the vulnerability of the feelings trapped underneath runes and wax and pristine feathers. Fear-hurt-sorrow echoes through his mind as a memory that is not his, and it is so potent he actually flinches at the strength of it. Hearts, souls, relations; they’re such frail things. Even through all the feelings fighting for dominance, Illumina watches Sword’s wings spread, the fledgeling knowing how to at least clumsily use them, before his disciple takes off towards his father.

“I told you this would happen. They’ll be furious.”

Illumina shrugs off Ghostwalker’s statement, content to stand and watch where he is situated at the top of a nearby building. He stretches his arm languidly, regarding the scene of Sword tackling his father with a passive curiosity, like he’s watching an experiment unfold. “I know. But it wasn’t my fault, really. I can’t choose who worships me. Look, I’m even contributing to damage control.”

Ghostwalker knows he’s lying. He doesn’t bother to interject, like he always does.

They watch Venomshank claw at Sword in return, but most of the deities’ attacks are easily predicted by his son. His son, who blocks and lunges and slashes at his father as if he had no care in the world except for the orders he’d been given. Illumina could not begin to imagine the amount of despair Venomshank had gone through, finding out his son had sworn an allegiance that would consume everything he once was, that there was no way to take him back. Did he lose it immediately? Did it take a minute of spiraling to get where he is, now?

“What’d you do ?!” Someone’s blade cuts through the air so fast it’s a whistle, and Illumina’s sword is out of its sheath the second he registers the incoming attack. Metal hisses against each other.

He turns, regarding Darkheart with an unimpressed look. Their blades hold against each other with increasing pressure and Darkstalker’s skeletal wing flares with a fury he was sure only belonged to Venomshank. “Hm?”

“We’re not clarifying ourselves, Illumina. You know what we mean,” they speak with a hiss, as if every word is sharpened and torn out of their throat, meant to stab daggers into Illumina that he easily dismisses. Darkheart’s sword ducks, suddenly, slashing from a lower angle, like the always changing, slippery thing they are. Illumina dodges with a step back, and avoids their following barrage of jabs by deflection.

“I didn’t do anything. He’s not your son, why do you care, Darkheart?” Illumina smiles. Darkheart’s aloofness always irritated him. Such tricks, and for what? “I gave Icarus wings. Shouldn’t you two be happy?”

The reference to mythology only adds to Darkheart’s unusual fury, and there’s a tugging on Illumina’s soul before he holds his sword out to shield himself. “You should remember that doesn’t work on me. Of all the days you come to offer yourself as a measly sacrifice, couldn’t you have chosen a better day?”

“Funny,” Darkheart spits, and they manage a cut on Illumina’s hand. 

He frowns. Darkheart may be slippery, but Illumina is agile, fast. The ground is light where his feet barely graze it as he glides out of his opponent’s reach, his wing beating with half the gracefulness he would if he had both of them, but Illumina supposes he is already far more agile than the rest as easily as it comes. 

“Sword is gone. Venomshank is gone. He’ll be killed by Firebrand or Windforce or Sword any day now.” Illumina smiles as they’re stuck at a standstill again, only slightly annoyed at the fact this piteous battle isn’t over with already. “You can’t save either of them.”

“You think you’re untouchable, don’t you?” Darkheart questions, smiling, and Illumina can feel their power trying to drain him—they drain each other, however, so it is a pointless endeavor which is fueled by the often futile feeling of anger. “What happened to that other wing, Illumina?”

His frown becomes a scowl, and he goes on the offensive, launching himself at them and gnashing his teeth when his sword hits stone instead. “Quiet.”

“He is not Icarus, and you are not the sun.”

“I said quiet, worm.” Illumina’s movements become more forceful, more brutal as the sharp metal of his sword bears down on the other deity. He is not weak. He is the one who gifts his devotees their wings— he is the one who survived having his wing discarded cruelly— he is the one blessed with holy words and a halo to lure those worthy into his care— he is the one who graciously bestows power unto them like it’s his responsibility; as if it is his cross to bear when he could leave them hanging there. 

Illumina is divine. 

His feathers could be soaked with blood and they’d still end up pristine. He holds people in his palms and is honorable enough not to crush their frail hearts the second they are handed to him. He could get his hands dirty, because not even his followers can live up to the empyrean name they devote their entire being to. His follower’s bones crack to form spikes in their horns and their bodies are stuck in an agony as feathers that aren’t meant to be adorned on the figures of mortals grow there—but it is worth it, because it is all for Illumina.

Illumina spews poison as he parries and stabs and plunges his blade down but only hits concrete. Parasite. Sacrifice. Nothing but insects and rebels and false martyrs who believe they can topple what’s already strong. He embeds his knuckles into concrete, slams his heel into an abdomen, sees red as the dark crimson blood drips from the cut on his hand. 

Eventually, the building caves. Illumina can’t find it in himself to care about the dust that kicks up as he slashes through the air and destroys the whole thing. His body is alight with irritation as he witnesses Darkheart standing at the heart of the rubble. Explosions echo from somewhere else. Ghostwalker has relocated to another building’s rooftop, observing neutrally as he always does.

Illumina turns, and sees his follower Sword faltering against his father. There’s a faint ringing in Illumina’s head that he now fully comprehends as Sword’s weak feelings. Refusal, sorrow, frustration, battle between the heart and the head but it is not really a battle because his soul is devoted to Illumina, and Illumina alone. Sword’s heart is doomed, and nothing can change that, and that is why Venomshank is so outraged. His dear follower’s refusal to fight properly makes him sick.

A fighter was rid of their purpose if they could not fight. Sword was weak.

“Darkheart, why don’t you talk to Ghostwalker?” Illumina all but hisses, flaring his wing before he launches himself towards the battle his follower is currently fixed in. He does not know what Darkheart does after, and cannot care to when confronted with such a headache .

When he descends closer, he can see some kind of projectile hit Venomshank, wisps of smoke trailing in the air after the small explosion. Illumina then attributes the attack to Rocket, who is a good distance away from where the two are involved with each other, his eyes resolute as always. But even from this distance, the fear in his movements is obvious. A bird’s eye picks up the most minute of details—the way his hands shake, the persistent presence of terror underneath a determined face like a parasite you cannot tear out.

When he arrives at the scene, his Sword has a few scratches, nothing even major and Illumina suspects they both held back. What a pain. It was better to just admit he’d made a mistake in choosing such a weak thing.

He swoops down with all the gracefulness of a dove, but as if his feet are claws and his sword the sharp beak of a bird of prey, he slams the hilt of his weapon into Sword’s chest with all the force a god can muster. There’s a crack underneath the contact as he does so, and Sword barrels into the ground a good distance away, almost near Rocket. He’ll get back up as soon as Illumina would say the order. With such a minor injury, he’d be the same skill as he was holding back—it wasn’t much of a difference. Illumina just needs to deal with things himself, someti—

—something sinks into his shoulder, and with all the poise that comes with centuries of practicing, Illumina does not scream.

The impact of being tackled is much less jarring than the actual realization of the attack. Claws tear into his robe as he furiously grabs Venomshank’s head and throws him aside so hard the ground cracks.

 Venomshank is persistent, however, the mindless man, the thing bearing no better sense than his little minions; blood drips and bones crack as Venomshank launches at him again, a hand gripping the bone of his wing as the careless feathered limb was splayed out in front of him. Illumina does not scream. He is immortal. What have he to worry about a wound?

Illumina sinks his sword into Venomshank’s shoulder. The man is not deterred, as if he cannot feel pain anymore, and even as Illumina yanks his sword out, Venomshank’s hand manages to tear at his face, and he is outraged at the audacity. All these injuries, and Venomshank just wouldn’t quit .

Illumina raises his wing to try and help him put space between him and his opponent, but is reminded of the damage to it when pain strikes down the bone. The viscous red of blood clings to his feathers like it was always meant to, and, distracted by the pain, he is again victim to the crudeness of Venomshank’s strength when he plunges to the ground.

Gods could not die. Deities could not die. Illumina is immortal.

Black lingers at the edges of his vision, but he does not falter. He continues to fight the thing that has latched itself onto him. A pest, a parasite, an abhorred abomination that had only caught him off guard and does not let him recover for even a second. Pain, a foreign, faraway thing, explodes through his chest and he claws at Venomshank himself. But he is not a feral animal, he is not fighting for his survival, he is fighting to win—

Illumina is immortal.

His fingers are numb where they grip the handle of his sword and plunge it through the feral thing’s chest. A deity who does not present his wings might as well not have any wings at all. Wingless, crude, deplorable thing.

Illumina is immortal. 

His vision has faded but he can still piece together the outline through the void of his sight. He stabs aimlessly, relishing in the slight pressure still in his palms as his sword sinks into flesh, again and again and again and—

Illumina is immortal.

His head rings with the force of which thousands of feelings are flowing into his brain and all he wants is to curse them and shut them up. He gave them wings. He can tear them out. He can tear anyone’s wings out—they are not invulnerable, not like he is.

Illumina is immortal.

The pulse of heartbeats still echo in his palm. His palm, that is simply numb because of the force with which he was gripping his sword. There is chaos beyond him that rings in his ears with a cacophony someone like him is not deserving of. But it is slowly fading out, so that’s good. 

Illumina, draped in all his robes, in his wings, in all his power, is immortal. 

A heartbeat beats in his palm that he cannot feel anymore. It’s weak, weaker than his own heart that echoes in his ears. He squeezes his hand—or he thinks he does—and thrives at finally feeling something in this void, thrives at the feeling even though it’s a heart, a chest, bone caving beneath his fingers as he digs his claws into the heart. Strength spills like liquid gold into his veins as he saps it, because he is much more deserving of it than a mere follower—

Venomshank seems to pick up on what he’s doing, and the pain that shoots up his neck is a warm welcome back to the world. His hand is forcefully wrenched open, and the connected heartbeat still beats in his veins, weak and puny and pathetic—but the short strength is fading and he makes it count—digs his hands into the person he thinks lurches above him, but he hopes it hurts. He hopes it bleeds.

Illumina is immortal.

Nothing is seen, felt, or heard. He can’t breathe, chokes on nothing at all, but it is okay because he is immortal. 

What should a being like him have to worry about?  

Illumina is immortal.

Chapter Text

He wishes he did something different. 

It’s a strong feeling in this moment of clarity—the only thought that makes it through past the jumbles of instincts and the itching underneath his skin, tingling in the sharp edges of his teeth. The softness of feathers cannot soothe him with the growth of thorns: piercing his chest like a blade, trapping his mind like vines and squeezing the life out of his heart like—

Maybe if he weren’t so proud. Maybe if he weren’t so paranoid. Maybe if he were more careful. Maybe if he shut that door before it could even be opened. Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe maybe if he did something different did this did that why didn’t he do that where is—

But, alas, he does not notice in time to catch the snake and its treacherous body, robbed of arms for the sins it’s committed, he does not notice in time to slice its head off before it could sink its fangs into him. No, that snake had slithered, slithered, fluttered with white feathers to chant whispers and carve markings into the thing most precious to him.

His body aches. Venomshank is consumed by a hunger that rumbles deep in his bones, burrows deep beneath his skin and dies with the rot that has always been there.

Where is his son?

Sword has been gone more often that not, lately. But it is not his business what his son does with his spare time; Sword has a faction and friends and Phights. It is better that he is out thriving in the world, rather than rotting at home. Venomshank’s teachings were not merely for hypothetical purposes, after all.

What is his business is when he arrives home, there is a ruckus in the area behind the house, where they usually spar. He thinks nothing of it, only purses his lips and strides around the house rather than going into it, hoping to greet his son. Perhaps watch him train for a bit and see if Sword picks up on his presence. 

What he is greeted with instead is his son using a technique foreign to him. The breath rips away from his chest at the sight of wings embedded in his back, white feathers that glow slightly as he throws his weapon at the dummy set up in the field.

One, twice, thrice the sword beats, and Venomshank’s lungs are still deprived of air, chest struggling to take in a breath—because the concern of air was a measly, useless thing in comparison to his son having wings.

Sword is dazed and seemingly in a trance as he drops from the sky. His posture is rigid and utterly perfect, nothing like the raring-to-go way his Sword oft holds himself; those wings are clumsily lifted behind him at a rather awkward angle—he has not learned, how long has he had them, who—

Someone’s messed with his fledgling.

“Sword?” He calls, and witnesses the transformation of the foreign stance and perfect posture—the transformation of someone not his son, not his son, not his fledgling into his Sword again. The wings’ feathers spike up, ruffling as Sword stiffens at the sound of Venomshank’s voice.

Sword turns, facing him, and Venomshank’s heart very nearly stutters to a stop, because he catches the tail end of marks inscribed upon his son’s face fading away. “Oh! I—I didn’t know you were coming soon. I lost track of time.”

“You have wings.” It is stated plain and simply. Venomshank cannot tear his eyes away from those feathers—pearly white, ruffled, not like a crow’s but rather a dove’s, and there is only one person who has wings quite like those—

“Ah.” Sword seems to understand he is caught, as he glances to the things on his back. He turns his face back to Venomshank and bows his head, folding his arms in front of him. “I can—“

“What made you think it was a good idea?”

Sword ducks his head further. “I don’t know. I—felt like I was compel—“ he pauses, glances at Venomshank and then down at the ground. The buzzing in his brain is making it rather hard to hear. “I mean, I just thought I should… try it, or something. I don’t remember.”

Venomshank is appalled. What happened? What did that creature do? His fingers twitch with the instinct to lock his mask as thoughts start racing through his mind by the thousaands, but he pushes it down, down, down. He will deal with that later.

“It’s fine, though!” Sword rushes to say, but it is already done. The deal is already done; Sword does not know—he does not know, he doesn’t know, he should know, he does know, doesn’t he—

“How do you get them off?”

Sword ducks his head back down at the harsh tone. But the seriousness is needed, for Venomshank’s son to understand—for him to comprehend the graveness of this—he knows he sees he knows he knows his son should’ve known maybe he did know maybe—“I have to go back to make sure, but he said they should disappear—they’ll be gone when I wake up.”

Venomshank wants to ask, he, who is he, who dared to step up to you and offer you this curse behind my back, who dared, who, who, who, but he knows. He knows all too well. There is only one person with white feathers, with white wings, with knives hidden underneath holy words. Illumina may have very well won already—if he has even a hint of control, it will be easy to claim Sword in his entirety.

“Get inside the house,” Venomshank utters. His words are filled with a silent message: We will talk. Perhaps now, perhaps later, but we will talk about the shackles you’ve unknowingly planted onto your wrists. 

Sword does as he’s told, his head still bowed as he passed Venomshank. Sisyphus caws as he flutters over to him, flies through the door. He’d keep an eye on Sword.

The buzzing invades the space between his ears, and he fights to not let it envelop him.

With a flourish of black feathers, his wings manifest from where they have always been on his back—ones his son did not inherit. He grits his teeth and propels himself to the Heights.

(“Illumina!” he screams, the volume of his cry burning at his throat. It echoes off the mountains of the divine realm, bounces back and around and around and around—Illumina! Illumina! Illumina, Illumina, Illumina —

Oh, that disgusting dove. He’d tear him limb from limb, wing from wing. That pompous, self-assured scum. Who dare touch his child?

“Illumina is not here.”

  He spins to face Ghostwalker, jabs a finger at him. “Then where is he? I have no time for useless endeavors.”

“You do understand that I am quite busy, myself? I don’t engage in mortal follies unless prompted.” Ghostwalker’s furrowed brow makes Venomshank burn with fury. “Illumina has been quite flighty and quite busy as well. I’d suggest you seek him out elsewhere. I am not sure if he’d show up here.”

“You work with him, yes?” Venomshank grits his teeth. The offense against him is that of a high one; one that he was appalled that Illumina would even think of committing. Whatever pointless pettiness that overconfident cretin has should not involve his son. You never touch a deity’s children. The drama that had come anywhere close to that was the situation with Firebrand, and even then it was very specific circumstances that most of the deities were not privy to, nor did they care beyond offering condolences. 

“Yes, but—”

“Then tell him to never set foot in my territory ever again. I don’t want to see a single feather, a single sword, a single marking near my home. He will not come near me. He will not go anywhere near my son, his mortal friends, or interact with him in anyway. Do you understand?”

For someone who can supposedly not possess emotions nor process them properly, Ghostwalker surely has a convincing look of agitation. His nose wrinkles, and his brow furrows further. “I am not a messenger crow; do not treat me as such. If you have something to say to him, say it yourself.”

Venomshank bristles. He is about to open his mouth again, but Ghostwalker’s wings form, reflective, viscous gold that glows against the light from the Heights, and Death speaks. “...If I see him, I will attempt to pass on your message. I cannot promise it will be the same as what you have said, and I cannot guarantee he will follow through. I will excuse your distasteful manner in asking just this once. It would do you good to be more courteous next time.”

Venomshank’s hackles lower, and his shoulders relax from where they were hunched with rage. He sighs, brings his accusatory finger he had pointed back down. “Thank you, Ghostwalker.”

The other deity does not reply. He disappears, instead. Venomshank shakes out his wings and black feathers scatter from the action; his wings’ movements are clumsy from disuse, but the trip from the Heights goes smoothly.)

When he touches down upon the grass in front of his house, he assumes nothing is wrong. He attempts to check in through Sisyphus’ eyes—

A scream erupts from somewhere in the house, and his blood runs cold. 

He moves without thought, without prompting, because he is but a creature driven by instinct like all other creatures—his heart beats with a vengeance and his mind races, because if he is too late, he will never be able to reverse it. Powerful as he is, he is not powerful enough. Power is useless if it cannot save the most precious things. 

His footsteps are swift and reliable as they carry him to Sword’s room in but a flash of a moment, the door slamming as he stands there in the doorway.

His Achilles, his dear warrior, his dear fledgling, is curled over himself on his bed. Sword is still screaming; screaming like liquid fire is running through his veins instead of blood and it is burning him alive from the inside, and it tears Venomshank apart. It rips out every atom individually from whatever he is made of—flesh, feathers, ichor; yielding only to the Inpherno, torn apart with its dismissive hands whenever it so desires.  

Venomshank moves again before his mind can form a single coherent thought, acting only on primal instinct, and pulls his son into an embrace, takes Achilles into his arms and wraps his wings around them like he is a shield that can protect his youth from everything horrid.

But he cannot, if only. Sword is trembling with the agony that surely still seizes him, rendering him speechless except for silent sobs that wrack his frame. Venomshank clutches his son’s shirt, presses his nose to the top of his head and would hug him tighter to try and leech the pain from his son if he didn’t fear he’d cause further torment to Sword. Nevertheless, his hand cups the back of his son’s head and prays like a worshipper groveling at the foot of an altar; in hopes he can somehow extract the pain from his dearest and subject it onto himself—anything would be better.

His other hand grazes the sword seated at his hip, and the connection bleeds into his mind. Darkheart and him always needed a fast way to connect; it was one kindness the Inpherno offered them alongside their oath they didn’t quite comprehend the power of when they made it. To be able to talk without being in person but not quite—not exactly. To be able to expend an immense amount of energy just to signal something, anything, and they had agreed it would only be used in emergencies. The fledgling dying most definitely counts. His Sword is fading quickly, brittle half-divine bones that were surely about to snap underneath the force of whatever has possessed him— Illumina, that revolting creature. His fingers tremble violently with the utterly overwhelming force of the torrent of emotions sweeping him up as he projects whatever the feeling is—his message—into their bond.

Help. 

(Fear.)

Darkheart had brought Icedagger. The boy is upstairs, tending to Venomshank’s youth; who is temporarily resigned to sleep—courtesy of the ice deity. He is antsy leaving anyone alone with his son, agitated that Darkheart has even dragged him away to talk in the kitchen, where his fingers tremble from the guttural cacophony of instincts running wild in his mind. The alarms are blaring— his fledgling, his youth, his son, bite tear rip kill anyone in the way like a lamb to the slaughter, let their dead flesh rot —

“What happened?” His sworn brother asks, an uncharacteristic frown on their face. It is minor. It is all minor compared to the hurricane that threatens to drag Venomshank away in its severity. The line between whether or not to succumb to the itching beneath his skin is blurred, and it is entirely maddening, the way his mind runs in circles.

Venomshank does not care. He is acutely aware of the feeling of his fangs in his mouth, the sharpness of them, ready to sink into flesh or feathers. He replies, “Have you seen Illumina?”

Illumina. Illumina. Illumina. Feathers not like his own attached to his young. Doves. Screaming in agony, clutching onto and trying his best to take the pain as his own, as if the world would allow him —

“Ah,” Darkheart hums. They know. They know, and it makes Venomshank furious, the idle way they acknowledge his question but do not answer it. They are being complacent. “Is that why Sword was like that?”

“Why else?” He spits. There is no time. Sword’s in trouble, he’s probably up there right now, he needs to go back , he needs to lock his mask and get away, no he needs to stay— “Have you seen him or not?”

“We don’t know. Nobody’s seen him. He’s been rather quiet, lately. Ghostwalker is around; tight-lipped as always.”

Nonsense. Complete nonsense. Someone needs to go and get him, needs to bring him down from that high pedestal and paint it gold with ichor, someone needs to rip out that other wing so he cannot fly; it would be just, after all—

His sworn brother is staring at him. They have a blank look on their face, the frown from before still there. He knows what they are thinking. Venomshank stands up, and it takes all he possesses to not snap when their hand latches onto his wrist. 

“We don’t believe you’re in the best condition to go see him just yet,” Darkheart says, and his blood boils. They mean well, but— no, they are keeping him, they are distracting him, and something squeezes even more tightly around his heart—his hands are still trembling, and he hates how Darkheart’s eyes glance down to them, so he yanks them out of his brother’s grasp.

“I’m fine,” he says, and makes sure to put all the conviction he can into the statement so they’ll be swayed. It fails; they still stare at him, unamused.

(He doesn’t care as much as he thinks he should.)

“I’m fine,” he repeats, and curls his hands into fists if only to stop the trembling that seizes them. He digs his nails into his palms and the pain that blooms is a welcome reminder to come back to himself.

Darkheart sighs. “All right. We’ll go grab Icedagger. He’s quite concerned about you, you know. You’re a bit scary when you’re mad.”

It’s a single tease, but he does not rise to the bait. His feet are planted firmly onto the floor, and when Darkheart recognizes he is not in the mood, they stroll past him down the hall.

 It’s a distressing battle uphill, as he fights himself. His gaze sticks to Darkheart the entire time until it cannot follow them anymore, the deity having disappeared behind Sword’s door. Sword. Sword, Sword, Sword, the thing he had promised to protect, to teach him to protect himself, the thing he had watched over for mere years that passed by far too fast. 

He’s in trouble, Venomshank whispers. His mind whispers? He cannot tell his instincts from himself because they are one and the same; they are ingrained into him so deeply it cannot be separated nor eradicated, albeit sometimes he oh-so wishes they could. He’s in trouble. He’s in pain. You have to go get him, you have to get him before he’s dead, dead, dead with white feathers, dead with holy markings, dead with the bone of his horns cracked into unnatural spikes—

The endeavor to keep himself under control chokes him, brings his muscles taut, and he grounds himself only on the faint sounds of footsteps as Icedagger and Darkheart walk out of Sword’s room.

“Thanks, Icedagger. You’ve done us a real favor.” Darkheart’s hand is planted on the smaller deity’s back. They are smiling at Icedagger’s face of concern, little crystals glittering around him and his wings.

Icedagger’s eyes find Venomshank, and grow wide. The blue glitters like the ice around him, and momentarily Venomshank finds his mind halted to a stop; quiet as the surface of a lake in a time long suspended, quiet as the clear night sky and the faint breeze of a cool wind. He’s at peace, isn’t he? He’s—

—blinking out of the trance immediately, straightening himself with a start. Icedagger has turned his head and is muttering something to Darkheart where they still stand in the hall, his brow furrowed in concern and a little fear. Venomshank sees the way their conversation continues on like nothing happened—as well as how even Darkheart hadn’t picked up on the event, how they merely continue to guide Icedagger to the door with the hand on his back.

“Thank you,” Venomshank says, a little loudly, and it makes both of the deities halt in their movement.  He makes sure to bow his head a little, wanting to make the most of this fleeting moment of clarity, and continues, “Sincerely. I apologize for making you come all this way.”

Icedagger shakes his head. The mix of concern and fear is still underlying in his expression, but he gives Venomshank a smile.  “It’s no problem! I’m glad you’re okay. Feel free to call me back if anything happens, all right?” 

“Yes, yes,” Darkheart interjects. They playfully tug on the back of Icedagger’s hat and watch him fumble to yank it back on. They glance back to Venomshank, and, seeing he has mostly regained his senses, walks outside with Icedagger. The door shuts. He can hear faint sounds of talking. 

Darkheart will be back inside in but a moment, most likely to actually try to wring an answer out of him. But he doesn’t really feel like talking, because he can still feel his fangs in his mouth and it’s driving him a bit insane. 

His feet carry him without prompting, slowly this time since there is no emergency, though the instincts that hum at the edges of his mind try to convince him otherwise. He arrives at Sword’s door. 

Contrary to his previous opinion, Sword lies, unharmed and alive, on his bed. There is no blood. His son never bled, and if he did, Venomshank thinks he would’ve certainly not been able to handle it—he’s lucky that Darkheart had gotten here so quick and had fetched Icedagger. Through what means they had managed to find the elusive boy, Venomshank had no clue, but Icedagger managed to put Sword to sleep and numbed the pain, which had stemmed from his back. Sisyphus sits near the nightstand with beady eyes watching over Sword, but exits at Venomshank’s prompting. His second set of eyes waits by the front door instead, for Darkheart to come back.

He sits down on the edge of the bed where his son is curled up peacefully, still half hunched over from his earlier position when he was screaming—

Venomshank’s fingers feel more like claws but he casts away the thoughts of blood and memories of guttural screams; brushes his fingertips against Sword’s temple and feels the cool skin there. Sword’s hands were clammy, before, when Icedagger had first arrived. Sword’s chest slowly rises and falls as he breathes, calm and deep; his eyes are closed and his face is at ease. There is no sign of the agony his face had been stretched in before—not even Sword’s brow is furrowed like it often is whenever he sleeps. 

Darkheart peeks in, but Venomshank shakes his head. Not now, the action says. Later, Darkheart’s gesture replies.

 He sits there on the edge of the bed and watches the window and the languid way the moon glides through the night sky. He does not sleep.

Sword does not remember.

He does not recall the way he screamed, nor the chill that permeated the house as soon as Icedagger entered, nor the way Venomshank had held him close and whispered hurriedly, what’s wrong, what’s wrong, it’s gonna be okay, I’m here, Dad’s here, Sword, hey Sword, Achilles talk to me what’s wrong, what’s wrong what’swrongwhat’swrongwhat’s —

Sword does not recall, and Venomshank does not possess the stability to tell him. However, he rules the following:

One, Sword does not leave the house. Not to train. Not to go out. Not to follow Sisyphus or Venomshank. You cannot leave.

Two, anyone outside of Venomshank or Darkheart that enters must be immediately labeled a threat. Especially if it’s another deity.

Three, if anything unusual happens, tell Venomshank. Any dreams, or voices, or strange trances, Venomshank should be informed.

It has been three and a half weeks.

He has been texting and calling Rocket and whoever else he interacts with, has eaten dutifully, has slept without issue—Sisyphus makes sure, watches over him. His son grows antsy and restless, more irritated and quicker to snap, but he always apologizes. Sword does not understand the graveness of the subject, and Venomshank refuses to tell him. Any mention of Illumina may send Sword into any kind of spiral of pain. Or, maybe, he’ll go out and ask Illumina himself about why his father is keeping him on house arrest, and Venomshank cannot have that. 

He finds Sword outside, one day when he comes back from a talk with the other deities. Nobody’s seen Illumina, except for one or two who had passing conversations. He’s in a hurry, they said, but Venomshank knows better. Sword is training, like before. There are no wings on his back, but Venomshank is still astounded that he's outside. His son throws his sword and it beats once, twice, thrice, before an explosion’s force rips through the field—

(—His posture is rigid and utterly perfect, nothing like the raring-to-go way his Sword oft holds himself; those wings are clumsily lifted behind him at a rather awkward angle—he has not learned, how long has he had them, who—)

“Sword!” He yells, strides across the field towards his son, who falters when he catches wind of Venomshank’s voice. His face is full of guilt.

“Yeah..?”

“What did I tell you?” Venomshank hisses, plants his hand onto Sword’s back and ushers him through the back door of the house. His eyes scrape over the expanse of the area around their home, and catches sight of nothing. There is a prickling upon his neck, however, and he is all the more enthusiastic to finally get inside. He shuts the door behind them a bit too harshly, and it makes Sword flinch.

“Dad, it’s not a big de—”

“I said you are to stay inside this house, Sword. You are not take a single step out that door.” Venomshank’s voice struggles to stay level with the pure panic coursing through his veins and thrumming underneath his skin giddily, waiting for the chance to seize its moment—to seize his mind. Perhaps he is a bit too worked up, but the memory of Sword’s agony is a fresh memory still, yet to smooth over with years, and sometimes when it grows too quiet he swears he hears it. “I explicitly told you how important this was, and you went and blatantly disrespected it.”

His son is bewildered at the proclamation, the repeating of Rule One. Bewilderment turns to familiar confusion, pondering as to all the reasons why Venomshank keeps him here, confusion turns to frustration, and frustration turns to anger. Anger, built on the bricks of frustration and being kept out of the loop and distance from his father, who seizes up whenever he has to touch Sword, when he is reminded of his son screaming like he is being murdered like an unwilling lamb on the altar, and then subsequently reminded this Sword does not remember that moment. It is like a faraway dream.

“You do not go out there. I am emphasizing the possibility that you could be seriously hurt, Sword. I’m serious.” At his silence, Venomshank takes a sharp breath through his nose; exhales it through his gritted teeth. “Do you understand? 

Sword is not usually angry. Usually, he would nod. He would apologize, and then Venomshank would apologize for his agitation, and then they would sit and play one of the games Sword had stacked one of the cabinets with. But this time is peculiar. This time, Sword narrows his eyes, blowing air out of his nose. 

“Yeah, I understand,” Sword huffs out, bristling with anger as he storms off to his room and shuts the door. 

Venomshank allows that anger. He leaves Sword to simmer by himself, wanders aimlessly throughout the rest of the house like a ghost, feeling strangely distant, and picks up a book he’s read a hundred times over before. 

The rest of that night, Sword does not speak to him. The end of that week, Sword does not apologize. His anger is left to boil by itself, and it does run out, but in its place roots contempt. It is in the way Sword sneaks glances at him, the words he says behind his door on a call with Rocket he thinks Venomshank cannot hear, and it is in the way Sword mimics his previous wandering, haunts the house like a miserable spirit and begins to take even the most dusty books from the highest parts of the bookshelf in the living room. The next excursion Venomshank goes out on, he brings back a few books he thinks Sword would like.

His son warms back up to him, but there’s some tension that still lingers like smoke in the air, making them wrinkle their noses and cough. But nobody says anything about it; they simply choke on dull, fleeting interactions.

A week into the second month, Sword grows sick of it.

Venomshank discovers a white feather used as a bookmark in between one of the pages of the books Sword has been reading, and goes statue-still. He picks it up carefully, as if it were just a hallucination and it would crumble to dust as soon as he blinked, but he blinks and it is still there. He is not imagining it.

“Sword?” he calls, and there is no response. His blood is frigid ice, boiling water, suspended between the two as he stands there. His pulse races near his wrist, his heart pounds loudly, invades his ears with the beats like rising drums so much so he cannot hear anything else. He is stuck as the pin waits to drop, can hear the thunder of a storm that has been looming over him, but he, so foolish and full of hubris, assumed it would dispel before it reached him. The moment of silence stretches on for an eternally aching time, because goosebumps crawl along the surface of his skin because he can see the flash of lightning just before it strikes, can hear the thunder just before it hits—

Sword is yelling at Sisyphus. 

He walks, eyes distant and hands faint. What is going on? Where are his feet taking him? It is surreal, the way the words Sword is yelling floats through one ear and out the other, mindless jargon that cannot overtake the buzzing that makes his eyes stare far beyond his son. He distantly remembers standing in this doorway just a short while ago, remembers that screaming, remembers watching Sword read his books when he was little and deciphering the words with such an efficiency it was pride that choked him then, not worry, like now. 

“Sword.” It is more of a statement than a question. It is more of a command than a call. It is too faint, too indifferent, too blank to be a greeting. Venomshank does not know where he lies, nor what he hoped to sound like. He is still wishing this is a nightmare. The feather is clutched between his fingers, thin, and he can feel the divine aura that is there. Faint, but there. Is it really there, though? Has he gotten too paranoid? Should he check the windowsills for feathers just like it, should he check the doors over again; should he ask Sword, even though his son tells him nothing anymore, tells him it’s fine when Venomshank inquires as to why he keeps glancing over his shoulder —

The feather snaps in his grasp. The aura dissipates, and he is not really sure if it was there at all because the buzzing and the pounding of blood in his ears is far too distracting. Sword has been talking, pacing back and forth in his room, waving with wild gestures and a furrowed brow.

“ — I don’t want your stupid bird watching me. If you’re not gonna let me leave, at least let me have some peace—“

“Don’t speak to me that way.” Venomshank narrows his eyes. Heat boils underneath his skin at the thought of Illumina getting his hands on him for even a second, because with the golden moment of even a second, he could twist with clawed hands into an irreversible moment. “This is for your own good.”

Sword has always been a nice, but determined kind of boy. He’s solid in his opinions, not so much that he may not be swayed; but sometimes he is as stubborn as an ox, kicking his feet and sending dust flying up in frustration. He gets frustrated, yes, because it’s a valid emotion that everyone gets. He’s been scared. Venomshank hates to see him like that, and he will put an end to it with this.

Sword bites back, “What good? What good is this doing me, Dad? You’re not telling me why I’m staying here or what the hell is going on! You’re isolating me!”

“I’m protecting you.”

“Yeah, big difference,” Sword mutters, his eyes downcast with a furrowed brow and locked jaw. He stays like that for a minute, silently boiling, and Venomshank thinks it is done. His feathers unruffle, begin to settle back down, and he turns on his heel—there is an itch beneath his skin, a buzzing from the heightened emotions like a cup waiting to be filled, like a creature in the shadows waiting to inch closer. He thinks it is done; the outburst is over with.

“Would Illumina do this?”

Venomshank is rendered speechless. Sword nods, juts his head out challengingly, his fists curled like he is raring for a fight. Sword is a warrior, and he rises to the challenge, and he is mad but he is never angry. He is never resenting. But this Sword is, this Sword scowls, this Sword coats his blade with poison and sneaks it into his words as he continues, “I know. I know you’re suspicious of him. Darkheart told me. Why? What’s so bad you’ve got me kept in here? You never tell me anything! If Illumina’s really that bad, then why’s he a deity? Why does he have followers?”

Venomshank tries to open his mouth but Sword cuts him off. “You don’t look at me. You’re acting strange; you’ve been acting strange and you won’t tell me. It’s pathetic—you’re not the same! You act like I’m glass—like nothing bad has ever happened to me, like nothing bad will ever happen to me. I bet I’d be better off with Illumina.”

“Is that how this is going to be, Sword? Achilles? You want to shoot yourself in the foot?” Venomshank finally comes back to himself, and he cannot help the anger that drives the way he curls his lips into a snarl that he is sure can be noticed even while his face is hidden beneath the mask. He swivels his gaze to stare down his son. He shakes his head; once, twice, thrice—“Once he gets a hold of you, Sword, he won’t let you slip from his fingers. He will control your every move, your every step, your every feeling— he will dig his claws into your heart until it is made of stone, Achilles—he will sap your strength and tell you he will return it tenfold, but he will sign you into a pact you cannot repudiate. He hates disorderly things and you—“ Venomshank almost scoffs and has to stifle disbelieving laughter, because it’d be filled with far too much fear for a deity like him to have, especially in front of his son, “you are a wild spirit. Have you seen his followers? You want your horns to splinter open? You want wings that are not meant to be there sprout from your back?”

“How is keeping me here any different?”

“It’s—” He seethes, tries to reign in his panic that comes out as anger, attempts to still the trembling in his hands but it is futile—“He knows you are my Achilles’ heel, Sword. You are the one flaw that can be exploited. I can’t—I can’t let anything happen to you.”

Sword stares him down, and when Venomshank can perceive the slight bob in his son’s throat, lips pursed into a thin line, he knows he has said something wrong. His face is wavering, his previously hardened eyes wavering like a droplet of water about to fall apart, teetering over the edge of a precipice—

“Is that all I am? A flaw? A weakness?”

“Sword.” He should know Venomshank doesn’t mean it like that. Illumina could creep into his head at any second, could project himself into dreams and whisper contrived words that float like a melody into Sword’s unsuspecting ears. His sworn brother bore the brunt of Illumina’s deeds, and he would not idly allow it to happen to his son. “You are young. I’ve lived for many millennia, and with that, I can inform you without a doubt that this will not lead to anything good.”

“Maybe I don’t need this. I don’t need Sisyphus. I don’t need you.” Sword’s gaze hardens, and if the shock Venomshank feels had more quickly manifested into anger, perhaps his feathers would’ve been ruffled, but they were carefully flat and carefully still as he stared without seeing. Surely he couldn’t mean that. There was something foreign in the way Sword glares at him—a gaze so filled with icy contempt he has zero recollection of anytime Sword has ever looked like that. 

Sword has never looked at anyone like that.

His son shoves past him, and he still cannot believe it.

“Sword,” he calls, and when his son does not answer he storms down the hallway after him, where Sword is heading to the door and is about to put his hand on the handle. Venomshank calls again, “Sword! Sword, you will not—“

“I will not what?” Sword asks. It is venomous, a snake rearing its head back to show its fangs, but the rattle of its tail did not make a sound before, did not alert him. “I will not leave? I will not yell? I will not go find Darkheart because he can help me with something you can’t? I will not ask someone else why the hell I’m not allowed to go out because you won’t answer me?I will not go find Illumina because at least he won’t lock me up in my own house? I will not go see my friends because you can’t hover by my side? Inphinity forbid I toss or turn in my sleep and you believe I’m possessed?”

“You will—“

“I will go, and rid you of that god-awful flaw!” If Venomshank could feel anything besides the tightness in his jaw, perhaps he would’ve noticed how foreign Sword’s tone seems. His son continues, “You won’t have to worry about me anymore. I’m doing you a favor, aren’t I?”

No. No, that would not be a favor, Venomshank’s mind chants, but his tongue is lead and cannot be lifted. It is far too heavy and far too clumsy for him to say the right words, to make it come out in the right tone. Someone else would do this much better. Someone else would be leagues better, would know exactly what to say. He is stubborn like an ox and cold as a snake. He is not fit for this. 

(Perhaps if Venomshank were more careful in his actions, he would’ve noticed the way Sword’s horns had grown slightly more. Perhaps if he wasn’t as fussed with making sure Illumina couldn’t get into the house, he would’ve noticed Sword’s sour mood. Perhaps he would’ve noticed Sword had seldom touched his phone, even though the screen often displayed banner messages from his friends. 

Perhaps he would’ve noticed the snake that had slithered its way into his home through the cover of night and glittering stars, the snake that sunk its teeth into the tension.)

(But he didn’t. And he couldn’t change it. And he couldn’t go back and change the foreign sort of emotion that had bloomed in his chest, sharp as shattered glass and broken ribs that puncture his lungs—a very peculiar, foreign, feeling that dragged his heart down with barbed wire and stung his eyes.)

No, no, no, no, no, his mind chants, his vision wavering in and out of focus as he stares at his son. The buzzing in between his ears does not let him form a full thought, and it makes him frustrated, so he grits his teeth so tightly his jaw aches. He does not know what he is doing, what he should say, what he will do, but he is doubtful it will come out the way he wants. And he is correct.

Out of hurt, out of pity, out of fear-panic-anger-love-defense- please-don’t-go-please-be-safe-I’m sorry , he steels himself like a monolith against the cruel winds that carry poison from his son’s mouth and utters, “Go, then.”

And go Sword does. 

The house is wrecked a few hours after Sword leaves. Regret burns in his throat like bile, like the ringing of church bells that ring and ring and ring and echo in his mind—

Sisyphus flies to the corners of the Inpherno, searching and searching and searching for a speck in the stars, a twig caught in a flame, a crow without a lookout away from the flock. 

“What did you tell Sword?”

“Hm?” Darkheart hums, lifting their head up from their fishing line. It’s infuriating. “What?”

“About Illumina. What did you tell him?”

“We did not tell him anything.” Lies. Lies, lies, lies.

“Do not lie to me.” His voice is harsh. His own sworn brother. His own brother would lie to him. The thought is revolting.

“Venomshank. We’ve been minding our business. Sword hasn’t come to us about Illumina. When he was younger, however, he asked us about another mortal. He has asked, recently, about Illumina, like you say. However, we have not said a word.”

“Sure.” Venomshank cannot tolerate this a moment longer. He stands abruptly, flares out his wings, and leaves. Anger pulses through his veins, like the liquid fire that had coursed through Sword’s a few months ago. 

His own brother lies to him. Now what?

He’ll strangle Illumina, that’s what.

(Rocket finds the paper when he sneaks into the house. Maybe it was unwise of him, to slink around through a deity’s house—especially one that was as on edge and antsy as Venomshank, lately. He’s been more restrictive of him seeing Sword—anyone seeing Sword, actually, as the other demon had texted him. He thought it was strange.

Sword had gone radio silent, however. He didn’t answer texts or calls, and after a little while the calls immediately declined instead of ringing. Rocket had a bad feeling lingering in his chest, like the rumble of darkened clouds about to strike. He needed to know whether Sword was okay, and—well, this is where it went. Sweat drips down his neck as he remembers he hadn’t told Zuka where he’d gone—nobody, in fact, too caught up in his rashness. So, if something were indeed to happen…

Rocket would be, in short, entirely screwed.

Sisyphus had flown off into the distance earlier as he camped out a considerable area away from the house. All the lights were off. It was odd. And a little creepy, if Rocket is honest. If something did happen to Sword, then Venomshank would probably go on a rampage. Or not. Rocket doesn’t know his dad all that well; rarely sees him. But he needs to know Sword is okay, so he prepares his excuse if he’s caught and treads his way quietly over to the steps.

The door is left open, and that uneasy feeling grows larger. Sword’s father was always careful.

The house is wrecked. Furniture is upturned, and there are feathers scattered all over the floor. Some inky black, some glowing so white Rocket cannot look at it for long. What the hell? The bookshelf Rocket’s seen in Sword’s living room is thrown to the floor—he swears he can hear Sisyphus cawing incessantly from somewhere else in the house. He knows Venomshank and that bird have some creepy connection, like they share a mind, so he doesn’t go out to find it.

The dread in his chest grows ever heavier as he finally reaches Sword’s room. His eyes snag on something on a desk in the corner of the room—a book, but one of the pages is longer than the rest and looks oddly colored; yellowish compared to the rest, with crumpled edges. It seems untouched from the rest of the destruction around the house, the white feathers scattered across the room’s floor but none quite up on the desk. 

When Rocket approaches closer, opens the book and tries to tug at the longer page, he realizes it’s not a page, but a paper. There’s a paper wedged in there. When he tugs harder, he rips it—and then resorts to opening the book and manually flipping past a couple pages. 

He squints at it. A crude drawing of Crossroads is in the middle, while the symbols of the factions are similarly drawn in their respective places. A large, obvious ‘X’ is drawn in a place between Crossroads, Thieves’ Den, and Lost Temple.

Rocket knows that place; he and Sword went there sometimes when they wanted to spar and be able to go all out—Rocket with his missiles, Sword with his exploding weapon—and it’s rather strange that this was sitting here in the open. In plain sight. The rest of the house looks like it was ransacked, and Sword’s room was mostly untouched.

Sisyphus is cawing like it’s rattling at the bars of its cage, like it can’t bear to be inside there anymore—like it knows what Rocket’s doing, and shrieks and shrieks and shrieks—for some reason, the cries make Rocket feel sick.

The bird is still cawing as he leaves; sets out to find the place Sword might’ve gone.)

Sword is in the doorway.

Venomshank is curled up in the living room, and he is directly parallel to the back door, which Sword is standing in. His horns are spiked and markings glow on his face; markings that should not be there, spikes that hurt and cracked and splintered. The most obvious of his traits are the wings that are spread behind him, however. White feathers arranged in a beautiful image of an imitation of a fallen angel, ones that never scatter or ruffle because Sword is sapped of all his anger, all his fire, all his feeling. 

“He gave me a purpose.”

No, no, no, he enslaved you. He enslaved you to follow a flag you should’ve never followed, one that will end in flames and blood and trembling hands that cannot ever lay the blade to rest.

“It’s not too late to come back. You can come back.” Please come back. Please come back with bright, soulful eyes and not blank ones, please come back able to lay your sword down because a child like you should not have to raise it, just yet. Please come back as Sword. Not Illumina. Not Illumina’s Sword, not Illumina’s warrior, not my warrior, not my Sword, because you belong alongside the winds, with spirits as wild as yours or perhaps silent in contrast, if you’d like. 

Please come back as Sword. 

Water drips onto his finger, and he watches as the droplet glides carefully across his hand and onto the floor, where it soaks into the rug. The corner of the fallen bookshelf digs into his back and it is uncomfortable, but he leans into it as if it can give him warmth, as if the sharpness of it can make up for the absence of his son. 

“I’m not coming back, you know. I’m never coming back.” Sword’s voice is hollow. It is him but it is not him, and Venomshank watches him stand still in the doorway, face blank. “I’ve yet to succumb to my fate.”

Venomshank would succumb to his own fate, soon. He knows it in the voices he hears throughout the house even though it is empty, in the incessant cawing of Sisyphus stuck in his cage, in the way he can no longer stop his hands from trembling when he thinks about the possibility that Sword may really be gone and never come back—and when confronted with this, he knows the clock is ticking.

“I didn’t mean it, you know,” he whispers to the Sword that stands in the doorway, the Sword that has his blade pointed at Venomshank. “I didn’t mean you were my flaw, Achilles.”

I mean you were far too important to me. You are far too precious. You should not be resigned to this fate. I meant I care far too much, and he wanted to take that, wanted to throw a match into it and watch it burn; and he did.

“Yes, you did. You meant it. Why else would you have said that?” Sword’s weapon disappears into his pocket space. Those eyes hold a void Venomshank is not capable of looking into, lest his instincts wrench control from his grasp and he attacks the one thing he’s sworn to protect. The thing he has already failed to protect.

He blinks, stares at the floor. His mask is gone, he realizes, because the water coming from his eyes would not be able to drip onto his hands, otherwise. He should put it back on, before his body moves without a mind instructing it and does something he will regret.

When Venomshank looks up, Sword is gone. The door is not open. There is no sign Sword was even there at all, and he cannot help but smile. How amusing. Gone like the wind, like a free spirit, like the wild thing Sword is.

Oh, he wants to apologize, but the buzzing is growing louder, and he is afraid he cannot stop it.

(The phone rings. Zuka places it down with a steeled face, lips pulled into a thin, neutral line.

“Nothing.”

Rocket sits up from where he was sunk into the cushions of the couch, his fingers twitching anxiously. The paper is crinkled in his hands, a blanket thrown across his shoulders. He had been oddly silent the first few hours he’d come back, before he was seized by an urgency to get through to Sword’s father. “Nothing? Really?”

“Nobody’s there.” )

His son is gone.

He had released Sisyphus from his cage, and the bird had found him; tracked him and spooked the follower so bad he fled into a nearby town, and Venomshank—oh, Venomshank had followed. The buzzing, the humming, the itching beneath his skin won, consumed him whole and moves his body like he is but a puppet on a stage, watching through the lens of a body that has turned into a weapon, watches hands that held open books and carefully flipped the pages devolve into nothing but claws that tear into bodies like paper. Blood is caked underneath his nails, splatters onto his arms, drips past the corner of his lip, but it is a fickle thing.

Sword is gone. Gone like the wind, gone like Achilles, but worse; gone like the fire that is snuffed out at the end of the night, the embers crushed underneath Illumina’s foot. He is gone, and there is nothing Venomshank can do to bring him back and it is a fate worse than death that Venomshank could not protect his son from.

These creatures, these insects that run around, are all at fault. They are all guilty. He was—so, so close to them, and nobody noticed. Nobody noticed the boy in the forest. Nobody thought to check. It serves them right, for him to tear through their mortal flesh like they are but animals and he the hunter—because that is all they are. They are lowly mortals, lowly little insects that take and take and take and give nothing in return—little leeches, and they got that sinful trait from that feathered abomination in his own ranks.

His teeth sink into one body. Another. Another, another, another, and it is not enough. The plague wants ro be spread, it needs to be spread—they all need to know his pain because if he does not express it, it is not real and these insects will go on living like the world is not forever changed—

They are lowly, lowly creatures. His son was an angel among them. These filthy, ungrateful creatures all took his son, they flew off with him, they let this happen because he was right there and just out of reach, concealed by a curtain that nobody bothered peeking behind. They are hostile, puny creatures that shrieks when he barrels after them because they are all a part of it. His fangs itched to be sunk into skin, and sunk into skin they did.

White feathers stop in front of him. This was the executioner. This was the thing that took his son. 

He is stunned for but a moment, bloodied hands twitching, before its weapon—not a sword, not Sword, not his son, not his Achilles who was ripped away from the nest, not his boy—so he kills it. He slaughters it, he tears it open and tries to find the remains of his son because they must be hidden inside—the white feathers had something to do with him, the white feathers took him away—

Screams echo in his ears, the cries of prey, of insects, and like bugs, he does not care when he crushes them beneath his palm. His minions surround him, rotting from the inside out, with the venom from his fangs coursing through them, sustaining their puny bodies as they attack their fellow creatures, bring retribution onto those who deserve it—it is music to his ears as he does what he has always been meant to do, been meant to spread.

Another feathered creature appeared before him, before his bloodied form, and catches his attention with a flash of light.

Their weapon glints in the sunlight. A sword. A pitiful, cruel, mockery of a blade, of… something. Something important to him, that tugs at his heartstrings, but the tug only makes him angry—frustrated at not remembering because he was only meant to infect, to inflict blights, to destroy—he was not meant to be filled with this feeling that drags him down. Anguish is anger, anguish is fuel, anguish is too lowly of a word to describe the thing that flows through him at the sight of the sword. Achilles. This is but a mockery of his Achilles, his Achilles who disappeared from home without a word, his son who leaves the burning taste of regret bubbling deep in his throat like acid.

He launches at them without a care, and his teeth latch onto the metal of that mockery of a blade. He bites harder, and any weapon should break. It should break, but it doesn’t, so he claws—

No, no, no, no, no. Sword? This is not Sword, but this is, this is Sword, with his weapon and the feathers and the spikes—the spikes, no that is not his son, that is an illusion his mind made up to torment him in the dark of night—but it is Sword, it is his son—

Confusion is not a feeling for him. He shrieks in frustration, lashes out as if he can dispel the feeling if he draws enough blood and covers himself in it—if he spreads this feeling across the lands, beyond graveyard soil, beyond rotting skin and muscle, beyond the acid that sizzles and burns to the center of the Inpherno and—

Go, then. Go, then. Go, go, go, do not leave me, do not go outside, what did I say, go then, I didn't mean it I didn’t mean it I—

 —soulless, white eyes stare at him, but they flicker, the feathered creature’s actions falter and it is his chance, his jaw opens and snaps—

Dad? I will not what? Your stupid bird, I will go, I will go, I will go, and I will rid you of that god-awful flaw, I understand, I will rid you of that—

—onto metal again. It does not crack underneath the pressure of his fangs, but it is no matter. The creature will not last long, anyways, because they are but a mortal tainted by a power that is not truly theirs, and their heart is trapped in thorns that tighten with every movement from that abonimation of a deity.

This is not his son. His son is at home, standing in the doorway. His son is at home, curled in his bed— screaming, screaming, screaming in agony— reading one of the books he’s read many times over but loves to reread. His son is in the backyard, slashing at the dummy and turning to Venomshank with a smile, panting from their spar. His son is at home, holding Sisyphus carefully perched on his arm with a gaze of wonder, and his son is not feathered and doomed and dead.

That feathered disgrace of a deity finally descends.

Illumina’s hand slams into the winged creature, the disciple, the enemy, and the crack of something that shatters beneath his fingers makes something in Venomshank snap because—that is his son, his son with his horns that have turned lilac and sprout spikes that should not be there, that is his son that does not make a noise as Illumina deals the blow, that is his son and not his son and where is his son how dare Illumina—

He bares his teeth at the filthy, feathered creature; the one who caused all this, the one who’s offended him and crossed the line once and for all. Venomshank is reduced to a creature that bites, that claws, that tears and rips and shreds if only to bring back the thing that is most precious to him—to deal a thousandth of the harm that has been afflicted upon his son—

Fury is a bad taste in his mouth. It burns, its scratches at his insides, screeching like Sisyphus trapped in his cage and he would kill that fury, too, in the only way it is able to be.

Something drives itself into his shoulder when his claws seize those feathers, squeeze so hard that the fury in him shrieks in satisfaction, chants for more, for more wings for crack and more ichor to drip, because it is time for retribution. For cracking the bone, for binding his son to a fate worse than death, for getting near his son in the first place, Venomshank will slaughter him like the lamb on the altar—the altar he would’ve offered himself on if only it would’ve brought Sword back, if only it could stop the events waiting to happen, the lightning waiting to strike.

His teeth crunch down on feathers, and the buzzing that has turns into shrieks cheer, ask for more, more, more—

He rakes his claws across whatever he can—watches divine blood stain his fingers over crimson, watches the ichor fade and mix into crimson that paints those white feathers red. His world spins and his vision goes out for a split second—dots dance across his sight and the echo of ground cracking underneath his skull reverberates throughout his mind. The shrieks continue, however, because they are not sated, he is not sated because retribution has yet to come—

Illumina is brought to the ground again, they both crash into the dry rock beneath them and the dust flies up does not make Venomshank cough. The deity is victim to slash after slash, scratch after scratch, but he can never bite—hands push away his head and nails rake upon his own face. Something pierces his chest, and he falters if only for a second, before his movements become frantic—clawing and stabbing and raking in tenfold, but the sword cuts into him again and again and again—

No matter. The dove would be dead, soon enough. 

Illumina is faltering, he is weaning, the pathetic thing. The deity’s hand quits its assault on Venomshank’s face, tightens in the corner of Venomshank’s vision. There is wisps of energy inside of it, leeching off his followers’ strength and taking it for himself—he cannot fathom the audacity of this creature, this filthy, fallen creature, to dare to squeeze the life out of—of who? Someone. Someone he loves. That precious, fragile thing that he’s sworn to protect— how dare he. The audacity of this lowly creature, to dare dig its fingers into the soft, vulnerable surface of the heart, dare to make it bleed and tear it apart knowing that preciousness is protected by him—knowing it is not as strong, knowing it does not have as much ichor dripping from its veins. But this creature still steals it away anyways, uses it for itself, takes and takes and takes—

Get your filthy hands off him, Venomshank thinks with a frightening clarity, and flames at the edges of his mind burn it up, fan the fire just to hear it roar with the fury that makes his teeth gnash and crack under the pressure like a mountain underneath his foot, like a blade snapping against the force of a blow—

That creature squeezes its hand harder. As if Venomshank’s the one who’s having his life sapped away—he can feel it, the pull, the siphoning of energy and fury is too insufficient of a word for what has consumed him and courses a despicable sickness through his veins, into traitorous hands and traitorous fangs and the metal of a sword he has taught—he roars. The action tears at his throat, burns him from the inside, but it is not enough to convey his agony and fury at watching this feathered creature steal a precious thing’s strength for his own.

Release your grip. Let him go. Let him go, let him go let him go let  him go—he is not yours, you disgusting creature, he is not yours he is—

Teeth sink deep into dirtied, bloody flesh like a snake’s fangs, poison overpouring to counteract the strength the filthy creature is sapping from his Icarus, his Achilles, his—

Where is his son? Where is he? Is he buried beneath the divine flesh of the creature in front of him, who dare to deprive the strength from his poor precious thing that had cracked underneath its force already, a sickening fracture of bone? His son. Where’s his son? Icarus, Achilles, Icarus, Achilles—where was he? Where was—

Something gold and bloody drips down his chin when he yanks his head back. It ripped something from the creature. No matter. It’s just flesh. If he digs deep enough, he’ll find his son— get your hands off him get your filthy talons out of his heart, let him go let him go —he’ll end it. His fangs are a knife he slices into pristine feathers, ripping the dove’s throat out so that corrupt creature can speak no more words of ichor, of hubris, of a holy blight that infects everything it touches— his son his son his son who is his son where is he where where where —

Black lingers at the edges of his visions, but it is just his second pair of eyes, isn’t it? It’s a crow’s feathers drifting around his vision, looking strangely like ink dropped into a page, spreading, bleeding into his sight like parchment—where is Sisyphus? Where his second pair of eyes, flying around? Did he destroy himself, too— feathers flying, ichor dripping from traitorous claws, a cawed shriek, because this too-big feeling to be reduced to fury will consume all that he is, and all that has caused this, all that has harmed him —

Where is Sisyphus? Is he pushing the boulder that crushes his shoulders with the weight of making sure Icarus lives, of making sure he does not burn into wax and blood and ichor that plunges into freezing water like a stone? Is Achilles fighting fruitlessly against a fate still, only to be brought down by the one thing he dismissed in favor of his fury, of avenging his dearest; his weakest link, his one, overarching flaw he couldn’t rip out of his treacherous body?

He’s torn the throat of the dove out, but an ache echoes in the cavern of his chest, forcing him to be strangely present in his own body. Metal meets claw where he reaches down to see what that peculiar feeling is, and the surface of that divine blade the dove wielded is cold against his fingers.

It does not matter. He has slaughtered the dove, raised it to the heavens as an offering and said, here. I’ve given you this, isn’t it enough? Isn’t it enough to let my son go, isn’t it enough that his chest has splintered like glass and his heart has been wrung of strength like a tree stripped of all its fruit, all its wood, all its leaves, with nothing more to give?

The heavens whisper to him, no, and the hole in his chest grows ever bigger.

His anger is not sated, but he feels weak. His claws, that continue to dig in hopes of ripping out this creature’s heart in exchange for leeching off his precious one’s, are faint. His head is dizzy. His fangs are stained with venom; a poison so potent it stains the dirt beneath it. 

Claws that dig. Teeth that slice. A blade still in his abdomen. Shaky, furious fingers that suddenly embed themselves in his eyes as a last resort—using the strength sapped from the creature dearest to him. There is a prolonged scream from the creature beneath him, so full of fury and rage, like him, like him who is so furious that this dove is indeed still alive, and it deserves the rage, for once. The mighty fall. He is acutely aware of the pain erupting from his right eye, but it is no matter. He will dig beneath this dove’s tainted feathers and tainted words until it has paid the price for daring to challenge him.

Those black feathers cloud the entire right of his vision like a flock and drift over the edges of his left, like netting cast over fish in a barrel, with nowhere else to go and nowhere to escape. His son—where is his son? His son was promised beneath this flesh, beneath this ichor and stained feathers and crimson blood tainted by the air, but where is he?

Achilles. Icarus. No, no, no, that’s not right—the rage returns in frustration, teeth cracking beneath such violent pressure as they gnash. A guttural shriek reaches his ears, ringing, ringing, ringing with such an animosity he cannot recognize the thing it came from. Himself? Perhaps. Dirt parts around his claws as he digs them into the ground and feels for the graveyard soil that was once there, but alas, he feels nothing but the ichor caked deep beneath his nails. A hole’s in his chest as he yanks himself up—he reaches his hands to inspect, and the cold metal of the divine sword is no longer there. In its place, however, roots a faint feeling that makes him want to squeeze his eyes shut and makes his body tremble precariously. Pain, perhaps. He cannot feel pain. Pain is a distant thing, and it hurts much more than a mere blade to the chest.

Gold mixes with crimson in an utterly corporeal sight, a sight that is growing hazy and dim thanks to Sisyphus and his feathers. Sisyphus? Where is Sisyphus? Where is his son?

A sudden wave of clarity strikes him when his world is upended like a root, yanked up and over his head as it spins. He is pulled back into his body, but he cannot see. There’s an emptiness in the right side of his face where the gashes from Illumina lay, where Illumina’s fingers dug into, and he cannot see. He cannot see. He cannot feel anything but the hole in his chest and his face and his wings that cannot conceal themselves anymore, that lay limply beside him. 

His son. Where’s his son?

Sisyphus? No, no, not Sisyphus. His Achilles. His Icarus. His Atlas. No, no, no, that wasn’t right? Where’s his son? Where, where, where—has his heart already caved? Did the dove really succeed in tearing it out and taking it for himself? Did his son’s body already break and crack underneath the weight of the world, his shoulders trembling like Atlas? Like Sisyphus, like Venomshank, who tried so hard to prevent the unpreventable?

Where is his son? Where is—not Achilles, not Icarus, not Atlas, who, who who—

(Sword?)

No, no, no, that’s not right, that’s not right—

He cannot feel his fangs nor his claws nor his voice. The dove is dead, felled. The sword is not in his abdomen anymore, no longer pierces black feathers that drip with animalistic venom, and the cracked ground yearns to claim him again, to kill him, sew his wounds with sharp rocks and hands smeared crimson with blood, gold with heavenly ichor—and spit him back out. 

His son must be okay. He must. Where is he? Is he hurt? Is he bleeding? Is he cracked like glass shattered against a table with shards spilling across the ground, wine seeping into a carpet that will turn into a stain; a stain that he could scratch and wash and scrub but he’d only make it worse and worse and worse and worse and—

His son is okay. (It is the only consolation he can provide himself, as his mind stirs itself into a more subdued frenzy, with feathers covering his vision and plugged into his ears, with his fingers and talons numb and with his wings mangled.) 

His son is okay. His son must be okay. His son will be okay.

(Illumina’s hand slams into the winged creature, the disciple, the enemy, and the crack of something that shatters beneath his fingers makes something in Venomshank snap.)

He cannot feel. He cannot breathe. He cannot see. Feathers, feathers, feathers is all he is, the inky black having seeped into his being through his vision first. They must be feathers. There is no other explanation. They must be his son’s. His son, coming to put him to rest. His son, his son, his son. His dear, precious son. 

Venomshank lies with his only eye open, unseeing, unmoving, un-being. 

Where is his son?