Chapter Text
The Divine Swords are meant to live forever.
Designed to do so in fact- something Venomshank has grown painfully aware of as he toils away in his room in Darkheart castle. The Divine Swords are not only meant to exist as a constant, but *built* to last through eons and eons of mortal cycles of growth and death, gods to rule and protect those lesser than thou.
So much for protection. So much for the mortals.
... That's the problem that's been straining Venomshank's heart so much lately, the issue of mortality. Because it has become an issue, facing a lifetime of outrunning death- not merely mourning the loss of whatever people may have appreciated his efforts and abilities before, but...
Sword.
His son.
He has a son. A mortal. Son.
This, obviously, cannot stand.
So what if this isn't exactly a project Darkheart knows about, it's not like she minds. She would have driven him away from Darkheart Castle in the first place if the space wasn't permitted to be used for these little experiments of his, harmless experiments at that! Really, she thrives on the potential chaos any failed batch brings- the real poisonous looks have been from Windforce, mumbling behind his back about all this wasted time on beings that don't seem to care about their position beneath them in the first place.
You'd think she would understand, given the state of her beloved son in that boiling hot prison down below...
Well, it's not Venomshank's business to push Windforce to care about people, now is it? Admittedly, he has been spending not quite as much time as he'd like actually talking to his beloved Sword, choosing instead to pour all his mind into the tomes hidden atop the higher floors of Darkheart Castle. Darkheart herself muttered about Ghostwalker leaving them in the most abandoned of all the crumbling hallways, lost to time and allowed to mold and rot. Ghostwalker has been impenetrable as always, but Venomshank couldn't help but notice how their stern gaze seemed pointed when he mentioned his current goal of study.
To create immortal life.
Not to manifest another son. He has one, a perfect specimen at that, and he will take absolutely no substitutions. But to create something immortal where once there was mortality, a physical means of ascension as easy as taking medication before bed.
A means, quite selfishly, to keep his family with him as long as possible. Which is another way of saying forever and ever.
...
He is fully aware of how this sounds. No hissed whispers behind his back or down and out confrontations were necessary to convince him that this endeavour is foolish if not crazy, but he's done worse before. Never has he felt more in his right mind about an action, never has his focus been clearer; and does it not seem like a net positive, to have less mortals in the Crossroads? To have equals, if not new leaders in a pantheon that has grown weary of each other's very presence?
(A part of him wonders if that could be why the other swords have taken on children and families of their own. Perhaps a means of continuing a legacy. Perhaps a mere chance at getting to become something new as gears cycle through inphernal form after inphernal form.)
Venomshank hasn't been able to convince any of the others to help him, anyways. Which is fine, it's not like he required their help with any of this. It would have been nice, maybe, to be able to feel like he was truly working with them on something again- but it's fine, really! No part of him is bitter at the fact that the rest of his brethren seem so painfully resistant to change their circumstances despite clear evidence that, prose aside, this godly ordeal isn't fucking WORKING anymore for ANY of them! Resistant to even accept that they might still just be people at the end of the day, more than scapegoats and gods, more than...
He's gotten ahead of himself. You'll have to forgive him, it's been a terribly long month of solitude in this lab- his point is. He's done.
---
Look, he knows what it looks like.
Before you say anything, Venomshank is begging you, YOU the reader, to know that he is NOT a 'mad scientist' like Illumina would call him to his face. He is a perfectly respectable researcher in his own right, and this is a well thought out experiment- mad scientist is for those mortals in the cold depths of Blackrock, building death machines at the same rate of a standard factory.
This is not mad science!
Normal scientists have big cauldrons all the time this is normal science! Normal, healthy science for the good of his people!
Besides, his normal science over here is completely safe, if the glove that he accidentally let drop in there is any sign. There's no obvious wear and tear, the composition itself seems perfectly intact- and if that weren't enough to ensure that the utilization of this substance is completely acceptable for inphernals, then...
Well.
He might've. Ah. Um.
Hemight'vedunkedhisswordintothecauldron BUT IT'S FINE! IT'S OKAY! He didn't get even a little bit sick or go slightly feral, he's okay! It honestly felt pleasantly warm to have his gear soaked with the stuff, like having lounged in a hot tub for a while...
The most strenuous part of the project was entirely the composition. Multiple books had to be cross referenced at once, such as that the long table in this room is still covered end to end in musty, yellowing pages. Contradictory information and scholarly arguments put to pen have dragged out this ordeal much longer than necessary, if you ask him- just a week alone to get all the ingredients necessary into one clean list! Then another to make it back down to the mortal world without being spotted too many times- crystalline structures in the depths of Blackrock, rare plant life caught in the jaws of Thieves Den, this and that and enough schematics surrounding their retrieval to make your head spin.
... The last ingredient did make him hesitate, admittedly. Divine ichor. It makes sense to Venomshank that to create immortality, some part of an immortal body should be provided as sacrifice, but...
There's still lingering doubts that he was the correct candidate for this. If his bite already has the potent venom within it to bring the dead back to horrendous life, that can't make him the right vessel for something meant to give life as warmth and eternity, yes?
Then again. Maybe undead necromancy is a key part of this process. The up-in-the-air nature of this experiment has made his heart ache with worry the longer he lets it quite literally simmer in the cast iron pot in front of him, not to mention how awful it makes all of Darkheart castle smell.
He owes her a huge favour, whether or not this works out...
But. The longer he sits and stews (hah, he laughs to himself out of exhaustion, stews like the stew I'm making. Potion stew,) over if this will do what his research has promised it's capable of manifesting, the higher the chance of him merely throwing the whole mess away out of fear. He must commit to this challenge, he must strive for perfection.
Besides, If it truly is his blood which has poisoned the mixture. Sword is his son, his lineage- doesn't that account for anything?
---
Sword's been whisked away to Darkheart Castle during a few fights here and there, but he's never actually walked its halls. His steel boots seem to actively seek out every crevice and uneven tile to trip over as he climbs up and up, nose scrunched at the smell of... whatever his guardian's cooking up this time. He had talked a great deal about it, something about personal... improvement? Or was it ascension?
Something didn't sound right to him about this either way.
Could it have been something he'd done recently? His dear mentor has never been difficult to read, but Sword's uneasy with all the secrecy he's been employing by dragging him up to Darkheart. Sneaking around all the other swords as they're whisked away to somewhere far more distant. Likely to watch over one of the Phighting matches that've been starting up again- there's a Phestival in about a week here after all, and he really should be practicing instead of stumbling over crumbling steps, ears ringing with the sound of ancient clockwork...
But Venomshank needs him.
Needs him. Since when has Venomshank NEEDED him? Another thing to worry about, another reason for the edges of his cape to be worn thin by nervous fidgeting. He knows he's capable of quite a lot in service of friends and family, but surely a god has no real need for someone like him?
He'll... he's going to work this out. Just have to talk to his dad, get whatever he could be in trouble for out of the way, then race back to Rocket's place so the two of them can get ready to sweep the competition and oh dear god what IS that smell?
Sword's unable to cover his mouth in time before he coughs loudly, making Venomshank jolt from his position by the bubbling cauldron. The noise flusters Sisyphus in his cage nearby, flapping his wings with a trumpeting squawk before fleeing the room through an open window.
"Ah, Sword. You're not a moment too late." Cool and collected as always despite his moment of weakness, Venomshank sweeps over with a warm embrace, feathers puffed in a loving coo as he pulls Sword into a hug. "The journey here wasn't too treacherous, was it?"
"Mmm, not really... Aunt Darkheart said she'd get me back home once she's done messing with people down there too. Said there's a couple matches that she especially wants to impact, see how they adjust- if you ask me, she just wants to see Skateboard fall on his face after everyone takes a hit to speed again."
Venomshank chuckles, shaking his head. "I really ought to get her to knock it off one of these days…"
"Not sure that's even possible, Dad- but hey, um. What's that supposed to-"
"Ah, YES!" He steps back out of the hug, excitedly trotting back over to his broiling experiment before officially presenting it to Sword with a flourish. "BEHOLD!"
“...”
Sword blinks. There's a long, long minute before he realizes that he's supposed to do something supportive here, and he gives Venomshank a nervous sort of grin back. "I'm beholding it! Not sure what I'm supposed to be beholding, but it's, uhhhh."
"Gorgeous, isn't it?"
"... Can I be honest?"
"Of course you can be honest my apprentice, what kind of mentor would I be if my own student could not be h-"
"It looks like a really gross stew."
"IT IS NO SUCH THING!" Venomshank scoffs, standing defensively in front of his gross looking stew. "Sword, my dearest, this is the fruit of my labours! This is what I have spent so long crafting, unable to contact you for the longest time as I poured myself into my work!"
Sword giggles at the familiar dramatics of his father, but it's no help in fully shaking the nerves from his system. "I- I mean I believe you when you say it took ages! I'm impressed, I'll clap and everything, but it still looks super gross-"
"Sometimes fruits can be gross. Now look here-" Sword trips as Venomshank swiftly leads him over. A small mask is handed to him in case he cannot fully stand the smell, which he eagerly slips over his nose before anything else. "I will admit, I've been playing my reaction up a fair amount for you, but I do mean it sincerely when I say this has been a very arduous task, making this brew. Sword, do you have any idea what this could be for?"
"... It's, um..." Sword's brow furrows as he thinks especially hard, trying to appease Venomshank. Or at least make him happy. "It's... a poison? Poisonous somethin' or other?"
Ah, damn, that's the opposite effect, Sword can feel his frown from the other side of the mask already. "I... see why that would be your assumption, my dearest Sword. But I assure you, this concoction is designed to be of no harm to anyone. It's- it's a gift, truly, my gift to you in a sense, I..."
He sighs, moving to hold both of Sword's hands tightly once he sees the clear look of confusion on his son's face.
"How long has it been now, that you have lived under my care?"
"It's... well. All my life, sir."
Venomshank huffs, amused. "Now what's all this about 'sir'? I thought we were long past formalities."
"I dunno! I'm just trying to, I mean. Are you mad at me? Is this something bad? Because you've been real secretive about this, and I don't ever want to make you upset, but if I-"
"NO! No, oh goodness no this is not a place of anger, this is celebration! Why, 24 years I have seen you grow into an incredibly accomplished phighter, capable of things that only the best of the mortals down there could dream of- there is not a word to describe my amazement and pride. So... I am not using words. I am creating for you instead."
"I understand if it is not appealing to you, the visual that you have stumbled upon. But I believe that you are ready now, to receive what I have spent this arduously long month preparing for you, only you. This..." Venomshank makes a grand, sweeping gesture to his creation as it bubbles. "Is Ambrosia."
Sword's eyes go wide. Even with the mask, he feels the mixture's dull smell shift into something more intriguing, rather than simply disgusting.
"Assumedly, the beings that made the rest of my brothers and sisters bathed our gear in a substance much like this. From what I have studied, it is this very concoction that has provided us with eternal life, power unspeakable as those who are truly meant to be gods..." As Venomshank slips away from him and tucks his hands behind his back, dutifully pacing around his laboratory while his explanation prattles on, Sword lingers by the cauldron edge. Odd colours swirl and dance on the surface of this Ambrosia, sickeningly saturated like spilled oil on water. Swords forbid his dad makes him drink this, he doesn't think he'd be able to stomach this even if Venomshank told him it tastes like candy, but there's something hypnotizing in the way it seems to breathe in its containment. The smell, the heat of the mixture pulls him closer, tempting him to move a little further, put his hand to the liquid's surface, a little further than that come onnnnnn-
There's a bright clink, as Venomshank gently taps his hand back.
"Sword, were you listening to my explanation? Or were you just contemplating how much it might hurt your skin to dunk yourself in the mixture?"
"O-oh, no, I was just- um-"
Oh, how Venomshank laughs, echoing a delighted mad cackle through the massive geared core of Darkheart Castle while he playfully ruffles his son's hair. "So much panic, still! Did I not mention to you that this is meant to be my gift, for your progress and eagerness to learn under my care? No, it is not meant to be exposed to your skin. Instead, if you would be so kind..."
Venomshank extends his hand, motioning Sword to move closer. "May I please see your gear, my son?"
Ah, damn. Sword glances between Venomshank and the Ambrosia a couple times, a small noise whistling out the back of his throat as his nerves seize his movements. This does sound appealing, he can't imagine why anyone wouldn't want to be something like his dad! Well, besides the general dislike of the inphernal populus, the responsibility that comes with such a power, the implications that it would have on-
He's overthinking this, come on! This is a gift, Venomshank told him that he made this for him, even if he didn't want to accept it- and he does, this would make him SO COOL!- it seems terribly rude to just completely push away a personal gift like this one, right? So what if this unnerving mixture doesn't resemble what Ambrosia should look like, what does Sword know about being a god anyways, what does he want to know, he could know, this is his chance to-
Before he can spiral any further, he shoves his gear into Venomshank's hands with as wide and comforting a smile as he can manage. His father nods at this unspoken acceptance of his gift, gingerly slipping his gloved fingers down the edge of the blade to the handle before pressing himself against the cauldron edge, Sword's gear held ceremoniously over the heat of the Ambrosia.
"Now, my dearest son. This should not hurt, but if it does..."
"Aw, come on. You think I can't handle a little bit of heat? I get into WAY more trouble than this, I'll be fine!" Sword beams at him, energy enough to power a city... to Venomshank, at least.
"If you're sure, then..."
Venomshank is right, at least. Sword's gear does not burn when it breaches the thick surface of the Ambrosia, and neither does Sword himself. There is a feeling of... not burning. Prickling? A Prickling along his skin and through his bones, making him shiver as he stumbles back. Before Venomshank can make a noise of protest, he quickly raises a hand up to wave off his concern- it's just a little bit of dizziness, he can stand it! He's fine! He's good.
He's really good.
Sword feels. Good.
Electric, in a word. Every inch of him buzzing, nearly boiling with potential the longer the metal of his gear sits in that beautiful substance. Sword has half a mind to wipe his lips, worried that he may be drooling in front of his father as he soaks in this sickly sweet sensation-
"Sword?"
Is it over already? He blinks a couple times, giving himself a once over before Venomshank rushes forwards and does it for him. "For a moment there, I had worried you lost consciousness. You can hear me clearly, that's good- no sign of accelerated or unusual growths that I can see-"
"Venomshank?"
"Your outfit hasn't changed either, or your demeanour- oh damnit, did I leave my journal on the table there, I really should be writing a comparison between our reactions down, You don't think you could spare a moment to do a small mental assessment for me as well, do you?"
"Venomshank, I-"
"I mean you MUST be busy, what with the Phestival starting up and all, oooooo wait wait if you're going to train with that Rocket of yours you could ask him to take notes on your performance, perhaps! Zuka may be better actually, he has a better head on his shoulders, n, not that Rocket is not also perfectly capable, I just-"
"Dad, I'm fine."
... He chokes a little, as Sword snorts out a laugh. "Just zoned out for a bit, man. That's all! If I can be real with you, I feel better than ever! Not... that much different though, all things considered-" Sword breaks into a more obvious laugh this time, watching Venomshank visibly deflate. "What's that look for, huh?"
"I... I'm not sure, I just. Suppose. I had hoped there would be a grand shift in you. Something to, to announce your status as a proper member of my pantheon, not just..."
"Hey, you never know! Maybe I'll get like... a moment about it, yeah? Like, like I'll do something really fucking sick during the Phestival, sweep a whole round and then there'll be a massive beam of light that'll shine down and announce I'm an entire GOD!" Sword scoffs at how his dad rolls his eyes. "It could happen! You never know! Besides, look. I know you're worried about me-"
"It's not worry, you have grown strong enough to not necessarily need my-"
"I KNOW. You're worried about me." He pats his shoulder with a warm sigh. "But I trust you, dad. And hand over my heart, I swear you'll be the first to know if I... *I dunno.* Grow any wings? Get like... an aura? Godly aura? Do you have an aura?"
"... I wouldn't describe my presence as an aura."
"Nah, you totally have an aura. You walk into a room and people just know you're there, that counts as an aura- my point is. You'll know, yeah? First thing, promise!" He watches his face eagerly, waiting for Venomshank's shoulders to untense...
There it is. His dad's managed to let this go for the time being. "... You. Truly swear that you'll let me know if anything goes awry?"
"Make that if a little heavier in your sentence there, old man- nothing's gonna happen! I feel right as rain, and I'm about to head back down to kick some ass, right on schedule! And for the record, if you're wondering..."
Sword breaks into a sprint, barreling into Venomshank in order to lift him into a hug.
"This is the best gift EVER."
... Ah.
So the experiment was a complete success.
Venomshank supposes he can permit Sword to be free of his worries for the moment, then. With a firm pat on the shoulder to let Sword know he can be put down now, thank you very much- Venomshank dutifully tidies himself, straightening out his coat and recentering his mask.
"Well then. As long as you are fit for phighting, you may phight to your heart's content. Go forth with my blessing, and win swiftly. And," He interrupts Sword mid salute. "... And if you see Darkheart. Do let her know that I will work something out regarding the smell, yes?"
"Pfft, sure I will. Give Sisyphus a treat for me, okay?"
Venomshank doesn't need to verbally respond for Sword to know that the crow will most certainly get her fair share of treats today. Indeed, Sword is already racing back down the steps of Darkheart Castle, this new simmering vibrancy racing underneath his skin pushing him faster as he skips back down to the Crossroads. What Venomshank will do with the rest of this Ambrosia, he's not quite sure... perhaps his next assignment will be to find a suitable container for this muck, yes? That, or come up with a creative excuse to the rest of the pantheon as to why something like this would be made in the first place...
Perhaps it could be used as a recreational comfort, for those that are already godly.
But that's something that can be dealt with once his brethren return. Indeed, he's spent all day worrying about this exact moment- Venomshank feels exhausted. Perhaps he can just... let it go for the moment, yes?
After all, Sword knows his own form best. If he says that he's okay, Venomshank will just have to trust him on that. Besides, whatever side effects may arise, it's nothing that a divine entity like himself cannot handle or fix!
...
Right. Nothing he will not be able to fix. He will rest now, view the tournament live in a week's time, and move onto the next little project in all due course. Everything is as it should be.