Archive of Our Own

Have you ever understood what it feels like to lose something? Something important to you? Not that long-term disappointment, but that singular moment when you realize that it's really gone. That you might never see it again. And if you do, it won't be the same. There could be a scuff on it. Paint chipped. Broken. It's a mix of many emotions.

First is that second of processing that whatever you lost is truly gone, followed by the grief that you'll likely never see it again. And finally, the accusation at the back of your mind that someone stole it. And most times, you're wrong. Nobody stole from you at all. But on a few occasions… it was true. And phuck, did it HURT to be stolen from.

Every bit of this loss and accusation coursed through the once calm home.

Venomshank felt his throat was going to burst into flames from how sore it was. The acid that coated his insides burned and bubbled, scarring his trachea. It made him want to scream out yet again for him. The one he was searching for. His mentee, his son. His—

“SWORD?!” His voice echoed through the house yet again. He had called out more than ten times at this point, and checked the house top to bottom thrice. He needed his baby. His Sword.

Venomshank wasn't one to show such strong, raw emotions; however, he couldn't hold it back anymore. It had been seven hours now. Seven long, grueling hours. Zombie carcasses lay on the floor of the home, subject to Venomshank's earlier rage. As much as the thought haunted his mind, he knew what had happened. He had taken his son from right under his nose. HE had taken both nothing and everything from him. And for what? Had Illumina known that he had stolen his own nephew away? No. Even if he did know... would he care in the slightest? Likely not.

Why should the light deity feel anything but positive towards the incident? He had a new follower. A follower he could command to kill an army; a follower who would rush straight into battle without question; a follower who he could wipe off the face of the Inphernal with a wave of his hand. What was there for Illumina to knowingly lose? Nothing.

Venomshank wailed, dropping to his knees and punching a floor-bound zombie in its half-rotten face. If the man could cry, he would; however, the extreme acid burns on his face had rendered his tear ducts unfunctional, making sure to prevent a single tear from escaping his eyes. Sisyphus garbled from atop the doorframe, trying to make sense of what despair his owner was encountering.

Photos hung messily on the fridge had been scattered about the small home. A photo of Sword getting ready for his first phight laid on the counter. Sword winning his first phight had been left on the wooden living room floor. Sword, newly spawned, who had found Venomshank's old camera, taking a silly picture of himself. That one was crumpled up in Venomshank's grip. Too much for him to bear looking at. He felt he would be sick.

So. So. Violently. Sick.

What right did Illumina have to indoctrinate his child into his weird… cultist following?! What reason?! Had he even been given a choice?! Or had he just brainwashed his son without mercy or care? The thought caused the bile to rise in his throat. He knew what he would need to do if he wanted even the slightest chance of getting him back. He knew the risks. He could cause a war between himself and Illumina. Not a grudge or a mild disagreement. No. A war.

And yet, there was only one phrase looping in Venomshank's brain.

His rapier needed sharpening. He could wait. Not long. But he could wait. He would strike when Illumina was most vulnerable. But until then, he would be waiting in the wings.

“If it's to get my son back, it's worth any price...”

He glared down at the now lifeless zombie on the floor.

“...Even if it results in ichor and blood on my hands.”