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iwrestlenow · 3 years

Text

TITLE: Many More To Die (Chapter 14)

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: A gift from the past secures the future. Knowledge is our greatest defense.

Or, this time, Logan means it when he says he'll never let go.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), Moceit (Patton/Janus) and Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: graphic descriptions of violence and death related grossness (i.e., decomposition and fantasy derived nastiness)

There's an epilogue after this, so sorry it's kinda short--and I'm not kidding, guys, shippy bullshit to follow for the next 739 years.

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more…hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

1023, A.A.

Thomas felt a little bit like he was going insane.

Venturing through the deepest of the forgotten sewer tunnels beneath the palace, he shut his eyes and thought of Nico—his unruly curls, his too wide smile, his infectious laughter.

It wasn't his imagination—he heard it echo, somewhere worlds away, bright as the sun.

The grief knotted tight in his chest for an instant before it began to loosen again, bleeding comfort into the raw places in his heart.

They keep the Vigil. He reminded himself. Outlaw wouldn't lie to you.

Taking a deep breath, he quickened his pace.

Once he reached it—a break in the tunnel, where the unfinished pipe sharply cut off into stone and earth, Thomas knelt before the spot where he'd buried the parcel that Outlaw—Josiah Crofter—sent him.

A simple wooden box containing a vial of ashes and a single thread.

“You know what the Vigil is: our funeral rite, our means of keeping the dead alive in the worlds beyond. The Necromata got no souls, so memory's all we have. So we lay their body to rest, and the memories...trinkets, letters, clothing...we give to the funeral pyre. One that never ceases burning.”

Reaching into his belt, Thomas pulled out a dagger.

“When the fire dies, ashes are collected from the freshest embers and kept—and every year, they are added to a fresh pyre. Ashes are collected. The cycle repeats. The fire always burns...so long as the Necromata hold the flint and steel, the Vigil will continue.”

Gritting his teeth, Thomas lay the dagger against his palm, took a breath—and drew the blade against his skin with firm, even pressure.

“But the power of the Vigil is stronger than that. A secret, long kept by our people...that the Vigil don't just safeguard life after death.”

The skin yielded beneath the blade, weeping a garish line of crimson.

“It can safeguard life itself.”

Thomas bit his lip at the sting, but made a fist over the little mound of earth before him.

“The vial I gave you—the embers of your beloved's Vigil, a single thread from the handkerchief you gave me, stained with his blood. Buried 'neath your palace, you join us in the Vigil's keep...offer it blood and a blessing, and the Sacred Souls will let your beloved keep yours in turn.”

He watched his blood hit the dirt, little drops of red catching kernels of earth on their surface.

“The living remember the dead to keep them alive...so it goes when the dead remember the living.”

“For our sons, my love.” Thomas whispered. “For them, and them alone, keep my Vigil.”

The drops of blood sank into the earth so abruptly it startled him.

He heard his husband's laughter again—barely an echo, worlds away.

Even as his tears began to fall, Thomas felt himself smile.

********** 1033, A.A.

THOMAS.

It didn't feel like coming back to life—it felt like remembering.

The heartbeat that eluded his thoughts, the breath that danced on the edge of his consciousness, thoughts and reason and existence that lay just on the tip of his tongue.

A body to live, of course, how had he forgotten? Eyes to open...yes, certainly...

...well, that was a little bit harder. Something was wrong, terribly wrong...

That was when Thomas realized that his body hurt—everything hurt.

“...I may be mortal, but I am still a Weaver...with power over life and death.”

Somehow, over the sudden din, Thomas heard the choked sound of someone unable to breathe. It was a sound he vaguely recognized—a sound that chilled his blood, which already felt strange moving through his veins...chill, sluggish...

THOMAS.

...Nico?...

FOR OUR SON...KEEP THE VIGIL.

Thomas finally managed to open his eyes, head slowly rolling to the side.

The first thing he saw was the door of his bedchamber shattering. A hound swiftly followed, a massive creature with glowing blue eyes that made a beeline for one of the royal guard. Half paralyzed, half fascinated, he watched the animal's jaws close around the guard's throat and his head shake, tearing flesh...

Ichor, black and nauseating, spurted from the guard's throat instead of blood.

On the animal's heels came...yes, that was a heart healer, picking through the splintered wood with a look of horror on his face. A mage came to his side, a prison mage from the look of his robes.

He heard swords clashing—a gleeful cry of triumph. Oh, Remus, his beloved slice of chaos personified...

If Remus could bellow like that, however, he could breathe.

Thomas's eyes finally found the middle of the room—a chair, Roman's body slumped in unconsciousness.

THOMAS.

“I know.” Thomas croaked, struggling to sit up. Every one of his joints felt stiff and brittle, his throat sandpaper rasping one face to another.

Still, he got to his feet. Still, he stumbled over to where Roman sat, reaching out a too thin, too gnarled hand to pat his cheek.

“Ro...Ro...Ro—damn it. Roman!”

Roman stirred, his eyes slowly blinking open with a moan.

“...not...Ro...Roman...”

“What? I don't understand...”

Roman's head lolled to one side, his features paling. Thomas followed his gaze...

He knew the soldier—Colonel Mori, the man he'd barred from that young necromancer's presence once he'd realized what had been done to the poor child.

A poor child sprawled on his back—and Thomas couldn't be sure how, but he knew, he felt it in that place within his chest that tingled when Remus learned a new way to blow something up. He knew it in that place behind his brain that lit up when Roman was about to burst into his chambers with some new poem or story.

The part of him branded father strained towards whatever it was within Roman that was branded son, and Thomas knew it was in the wrong body.

“Rest.” he reassured the boy in Roman's body, patting his shoulder. “I'll be back in a moment.”

Straightening, his limbs grew looser as anger swelled in his chest...no, rage.

Rage for the young life that had been stolen. Rage for his son, who lay dying on the ground—rage for a man that he hated for what he'd done to someone Thomas respected and trusted.

Rage, even, for his broken bedchamber door, and the bodies falling all around the room. Rage filled him, revitalized him, resurrected him from the last dying embers of the grave.

Walking up behind an unsuspecting Mori, Thomas reached out and, without a single shred of regret, grabbed the man from behind to pull him close.

“I should have let the executioner do this ten years ago.” he spat in Mori's ear before he gripped his chin in one hand, secured the other at the right angle, and wrenched with a cry of fury that only died when he heard the satisfying snap of bone and sinew.

He swore, as Mori fell, that he could hear another voice alongside his—no longer worlds away, but so close he could nearly smell the bright citrus of his favorite cologne.

“I'm sorry, my love—but today is not our day.” Thomas couldn't stop himself from whispering. “Wait for me?”

Nico's laughter rang right in his ear, clear and true, before it receded back into the worlds beyond the reach of the living once again.

Roman.

Remembering in the absence of two men's anger, Thomas fell to his knees. The body before him was too still, the eyes glassy and distant.

“Roman...Roman, please!...”

“Your Majesty.”

Thomas turned sharply. At some point, the din had died and silence fell heavy over the room. A young cadet knelt beside him, blood and ichor staining his clothing and his cheek. His eyes were wide and haunted.

“No.” Thomas breathed as the cadet looked to the body on the floor and reached out to gently close its eyes. “No, no no no...”

Arms wrapped around Thomas from behind. Tears dampened his neck—blindly, shaking, Thomas reached behind him to run soothing fingers through Remus's hair.

“Logan, he—he has a Claim.” Remus stammered through deep sobs. “He—he can't be dead. Not when Logan can't...when he can't...”

Thomas didn't understand, but as he glanced towards the chair where Roman's body had been slumped, he watched Roman stand slowly, shuffling towards them, and kneel carefully on the other side of Roman's corpse.

“The Claim is bound to flesh, and it suspends when the soul leaves the body.” the necromancer in Roman's body replied—Logan, his eyes cold and hard and nothing at all like his dear, passionate son.

“He wasn't supposed to come for me.” he continued, running a hand over Roman's hair, his voice too flat, too lifeless. “I warned him...”

Logan trailed off, his eyes widening. Something dangerously like hope sparked in Thomas's chest.

Before he could even draw breath, Logan slammed a fist into the corpse's chest.

********** Knowledge.

“Logan, what the fuck?”

Knowledge is how.

Logan planted his palm in the middle of Roman's chest.

He covered his hand with his other, firmly meshed his fingers.

It is our best weapon...and our best defense.

Throwing all his weight behind it, Logan drove his hands into Roman's breastbone, establishing a steady rhythm.

“Logan, you gotta stop...”

“Virgil, move.”

Remus's voice, deafening silence. Logan kept his gaze focused on his hands in Roman's chest, tried to keep his vision clear so he could do it right.

The way Roman taught him, as his brother taught him.

“Stop.”

Remus's voice. Logan stopped.

Roman's chest barely lifted, then sank.

“Go.”

Logan resumed the compressions. A rhythm, a count...

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Stop. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Stop.

The vital breath—a means to raise the dead without magic.

The cycle continued. Logan gave up his soul with every thrust of the heel of his hand, let it fly into the ether, let it burn to nothing and filled himself instead with Remus's brisk instruction, with the drumbeat of the pulse he desperately tried to tattoo into Roman's chest--

“Logan, stop!”

Logan stopped. Someone was coughing, spasming, rolling to the side...

With an animalistic wail of agony, Logan flung himself around Roman, and followed his soul out of his body.

********** When Roman came to, he was hacking, his lungs burning, his whole body feeling...

...he lost the feeling as dizziness overcame him, and he was suddenly holding Logan instead of being held, the smaller man wracked with wheezing, desperate gasps for air. Everything still felt chaotic, off-kilter...

Chaos. The Animator.

This time, when Roman gathered him close, Logan didn't rear back. He burrowed hard into Roman's chest, shaking like a leaf, and clung so hard to Roman's shoulders he was certain there would be half moons left behind of Logan's nails on skin. Holding him tight, Roman surveyed the rest of his father's bedchamber.

There were bodies everywhere, many of them untouched. There was some blood, but most of the black stuff that filled the air with the smell of rotting death had been spilled from bodies under the Animator's control that were so long dead that their blood had turned to sludge—and now that they were inanimate again, in varying stage of decomposition as they lay, mutilated.

The only people left standing were the victors.

Emile and Remy, wrapped around each other, Emile strangely calm while Remy's solid black eyes took it all in with an equally strange, haunted expression.

Virgil and Remus, side by side, kneeling there before him. Virgil was visibly swaying, but Remus looked perfectly serene—blood and ichor dotting his face, smearing his hands, a rock in the middle of the rapids.

Janus, standing in the middle of the room, equally stained by battle and yet no less resplendent for it. By his side, still in animal form was Patton, calmly licking the blood off one massive paw. Janus had his fingers barely stroking Patton's head, and the side of his face layered with scales was spattered heavily with that same combination of red blood and black rot.

As Janus met his gaze and smiled, Roman felt certain in that moment that Janus had surrendered to Patton the human portion of his dual drake's soul.

Then there was his father, just at his elbow—somehow beautifully, miraculously, alive and watching him with a watery smile. He still looked...well, terrible, features still too thin and leathery, his pallor still that of a corpse dessicated by magic, but his eyes were open and sparkling with real, vibrant life.

“Hold on,” Roman breathed as he smiled back at his father and pulled Logan impossibly closer, “don't let go.”

Logan laughed, then hiccuped, pressing his face to Roman's neck. For the first time in ten years, Roman felt himself draw a true breath: free, clear, and clean as Logan clung to him tight and meant the words as he said them.

“I never have. I never will.”

#necromancer au #sanders sides #fanfic #roman sanders #virgil sanders #remus sanders #janus sanders #thomas sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #logince #dukexiety #moceit #my name is liz and i swear to god i will fic again #this is all the artist's fault i'm just the hapless writer that stumbled across it

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