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frenchy-and-the-sea · 3 years

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Gift Fic - Of a Hand’s Span

It’s officially over two months past due, so idk if I can call this a birthday gift, but I bludgeoned my way through a serious case of writer’s block for the very lovely @thereluctantinquisitor anyway! I realized too late that this might read as a bit of a rehash of the birthday fic you wrote me Kay, and I don’t consider myself an expert enough on your delightful OCs to think it’s at all in character, but I hope you enjoy the effort all the same! Thank you for always being a voice of encouragement and an incredible friend!! <3

~ 2500 words, of the Stonebreaker variety

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When your year included a day spent swinging from the gallows, it seemed poor luck not to celebrate surviving it.

The realization found Sylda quietly, one scorching afternoon in the height of summer as she idled around the dingy inn room that she and Delver had spent too much of their dwindling coin on. They hadn’t had much choice in the matter; the little inn was about the only place a reasonable person could wait out the arrival of the caravans that ferried travelers through the heart of the wilds beyond the bustling little trade stop. So they had spent the last two days waiting, until the waiting turned to bickering, and the bickering to silence, and the silence to sudden, glaring memory.

Staring up at the pock-marked ceiling, Sylda checked the date against the calendar in her head, checked it a second time for good measure, then sighed and heaved herself up off of the groaning springs of the bed beneath her. Its complaints drew Delver’s attention from his third reread of the book that he was definitely not falling asleep to.

“Where are you going?” he asked hazily, on reflex. There was resistance in his voice already. Sylda shrugged.

“Out,” she said, just to annoy him. “Maybe down to the market. Maybe to a tavern with some better wine. Hey, if I’m bored enough, maybe I’ll find my way over to the Gilded Keys. That could be fun.”

“We need to be here when the caravan arrives,” Delver reminded her, blinking the mirage of the book’s pages from his eyes as she crossed to the door.

“Mhm.”

“And I’m not going to climb around the whole city looking for you.”

“Of course not. I’ll be back.”

“Sure.” Delver sighed, scrubbing half-heartedly at what Sylda assumed was the beginning of his latest headache. Then he straightened.

“Isn’t the Gilded Keys a brothel?”

Her answer was the door falling shut behind her.

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It was a productive afternoon, all things considered.

She spent nearly all of it loitering around the fringes of the market square, indulging in the long-neglected impulses of a thief gone nearly legitimate. A bakery lost some small, pocket-sized rolls fresh from the oven. A grocer misplaced a lump of cheap butter and a wide-mouthed jar of jam. A vintner got a very fine payout for a bottle of strawberry wine from the purse of a nervous gentleman up the road who had used braided cord for his purse strings instead of tarred rope. All in all, child's work, but clean work nonetheless. As the sun began to fall behind the edge of the horizon, Sylda wound her way as far from the center of town as she dared, and scaled the first roof that looked stable enough to hold her. It was nothing more than a low, flat plane of straw mats several blocks from the market, packed down and then gone over several times with pitch and bits of clay until it was as solid and sharp as unhewn granite. The family of three that lived beneath it wouldn't hear her footfalls on something that thick, even without all of the arguing they were doing.

She settled herself down on the corner that jutted out over a deserted alleyway, dangling her feet over the edge as she spread her spoils out beside her. The bread was still warm from its stay in the satchel she had tucked against her chest, just enough to melt the harder edge of the butter that she slathered on top. Cheap though it was, it was still deliciously salty, accenting the sweetness of the jam and the tart pop of wine. She indulged in three of the rolls, and half of the bottle of wine, before she let the tension roll slowly out of her shoulders.

Another year, then.

By every metric, that was something worthy of a toast. It meant that she hadn’t been too slow or too stupid, or at least that she had been good at cutting an escape when she was. It meant that she had cultivated enough luck and favor to be more of an asset than a menace. It meant that she had kept herself fed and safe and alive, and that she had done so, consistently, season after season, for the better part of two decades.

Almost, whispered the traitorous voice in her mind, quiet as a shadow. Almost, and almost not. A shame, to have nearly lost so much to the rope, and to have it mean so little…

She silenced the thought with another angry gulp of wine. She had survived. That was plenty. She didn't owe the world anything past that; she didn't owe anything to anyone.

And to yourself?

Sylda lowered her bottle as the flash of anger fizzled. Well, that was the question, wasn’t it? She had survived, and in surviving had been dragged away from everything that she had ever known. Every blessing and curse of street life, every familiar face that she had loved and never thought that she would miss; all of it had been swept away from her like so much road dust under her heels, carried off in one whirlwind of an afternoon. Now, instead, she had a messy inn room to look forward to one night, a frigid road camp the next. She had the company of a man who irritated her nine days out of ten, whose need for her mostly involved being a particularly interesting puzzle. Oh, Delver was fine as far as traveling companions went, but he had been clear about the purpose she served him, and vice versa. An even trade. That hardly made him something to be relied on.

When she thought about it, truly thought about it, her blessings fit almost entirely in the span of her hands - these clothes, this butter, a handful of rolls, a bottle of wine -

“There you are!”

And she nearly lost the bottle of wine over the edge of the roof. Heart in her throat, Sylda spun in her seat as Delver's head suddenly appeared over the edge of the wall beside her, his face twisted into a grimace of effort as he struggled up over the side. Habit alone roused her to her feet quickly enough to reach him at the edge of the roof, and haul him up by the crook of his elbow.

"What in the world are you doing here?" she asked, bewildered, as he staggered to his feet. Delver just snorted and knocked the topmost layer of grime from his cloak.

"I’m doing what I explicitly said I wasn't going to do,” he said dryly. “I'm climbing all over this dusty speck of a supply town looking for you. It's been hours, Sylda."

Defiance edged up through the cracks in her surprise. "I told you I was going out.”

"Sure. And then you went and stayed out until nearly sundown, when we were supposed to be back at the inn, waiting on the caravan -"

"Oh, the caravan isn't here yet." When Delver arched an eyebrow, Sylda shrugged. "What? I’m right, aren't I? If it had shown up already, I’d have seen it, or at least heard the ruckus from the market. You can spot them coming a full league away, and I’ve spent years running rooftops. I know what to keep an eye for.”

“Do you?” Irritation touched the edges of Delver’s tone. “Well, that’s a relief. Because you didn’t seem to ‘keep an eye’ on the shopkeepers that you spent all afternoon stealing from. If you had, maybe they wouldn’t have known exactly who I was talking about when I asked after you.”

He made a flourishing gesture to his purse, which jingled pitifully against his waist. Newly emptied, Sylda realized with a wince. She could just about picture the shape of the conversation that Delver had been subject to when the shopkeepers that she had swindled recognized her description. Maybe she hadn’t shaken nearly as much rust off as she had thought. She chanced a sheepish grin.

“In my defense, I wasn’t exactly intending to go back to them.”

Delver huffed. “No, I bet you weren’t.”

The brush of an insult there was almost enough to raise Sylda to an argument, but Delver’s attention had already shifted down to her meager pile of plunder, still lain out on the roof’s edge. He eyed the simple fare over for a moment, frowning, then turned to steal a glance up at her through the dirty fringe of his hair.

“Why?”

She could have lied. Could have pretended that she didn’t know what he was asking, could have pretended she was just sharpening her skills again, could have chalked it up to boredom, plain and simple. But a ghost possessed her instead, and she said, “It’s my birthday.”

It was almost worth the admittance to see Delver straighten so quickly. “What?”

“My birthday,” she said again, a little stronger. The words were out; no use fighting them now. “Rolls around about every year or so, you know? I figured it was worth doing...something, after making it through another one.” She made a pointed gesture near her neck and then shrugged like it didn’t wake the rotten seed of that particular memory. Delver just nodded, suddenly as stiff-necked as a new actor. He looked down at the spread of her spoils at their feet again, then out over the dusty rise of buildings spiraling out around them, frowning.

"Kind of a shit place for a celebration, isn't it?" he asked after a moment. Sylda shrugged.

"I’ve had them in worse places," she said, with a twist of a smile. "And to be fair, it's still better than sitting in a tiny inn room listening to you snore your way through a book you hate."

Delver scowled. "I don't snore."

"No," said Sylda, full grinning now, "you thunder like a bear in heat, and that’s on your better nights. Really, I’m not surprised you don’t travel in the wilds much, since you’d be in very real danger of one of them trying to petition you for the night -”

She broke off just in time to duck out of the way of one of the bread rolls as it sailed past her head.

"I’m starting to regret coming to find you,” Delver snapped as she heaved herself upright, snickering.

“You didn’t have to,” she pointed out helpfully. "Actually, I’m surprised you found me at all. We're not exactly near the market, and your bad luck is legendary -”

Delver raised another roll.

“- which makes the fact that you did find me that much more impressive." She held up a hand in a half-hearted gesture for peace, and begrudgingly, Delver lowered his weapon.

“It wasn’t exactly hard,” he admitted after a moment, dropping the little hunk of bread back onto her spread cloth. “You said that you used to work on rooftops, back in Yelen. After the mess in the market, I figured the only place that you'd go is up.”

He looked away, back out over the rise and fall of the town’s silhouette around them, and a strange tightness suddenly coiled itself inside Sylda’s chest. Delver was right; it wasn’t a difficult assumption to make, that she would go scurrying back to the rooftops for her safety. But it still took knowing her. It took remembering. A Cipher’s long, long memory was a testament to the things they found important enough to keep. The notion that anything about her even approached that bar, even temporarily…

She suddenly found herself settling back onto the edge of the roof, gesturing Delver down beside her and holding the bottle of wine out towards him.

“You still had to find me,” she pointed out. “It’s not a big town, sure, but finding one rooftop in a thousand, well…”

She shrugged, leaning back on one hand. Some starved, wretched part of her knew exactly what she was doing. It was the child in her, reaching out with both hands, little fists grasping for another word, another reassurance, another little brush of that companionship. Anything to have more than just this bottle of wine. The shame of it burned like a wildfire in her chest, but if Delver noticed, he mercifully didn’t say so.

“I tried just taking the roofs myself,” he said instead, accepting the seat and her offered wine with a grunt. “Managed to get on top of one without falling flat on my ass in front of everyone. Almost celebrated. Then I had a knife at my back.” He sighed, and took a long pull of wine as Sylda stifled a startled laugh. “I don’t know why I expected most thieves to stay on the street after knowing you. The gentleman holding my spine hostage seemed to think I was part of another gang and had come to muscle in on his territory. Then he tried to rob me. Then I guess he realized I wasn’t even worth dulling his blade to cut my purse, so he told me to get back on the ground where I belonged. I've spent the last hour peeking up onto roofs at random and hoping no one tries to cut my fingers off.”

"We usually check for rings on them first," Sylda assured him with a grin, even as her child-soul latched its stubby fingers around the thought and reeled it close. For me, it crooned delightedly. For me, for me; all of it, done just for me! A fresh tongue of shame licked up her ribs, spitting like a new log on a fire, but she couldn’t seem to bring herself to push it away. She was so warm, suddenly, shame and all. Maybe it was just curiosity, or frustration, or the ill-used dregs of duty, but Delver had still come looking for her. She hadn't needed him to; they both knew how easily she could work a town, even a small one, when she was being careful. But he had come anyway.

Even a very useful tool didn't warrant that sort of attention.

Swallowing the knot building in her throat, Sylda forced a shrug that she hoped looked nonchalant.

"Well, all the same, I’m glad you didn’t get your fingers cut off. Or fall off a roof. Or get robbed a second time." Delver leveled a glare at her over the bottle of wine, which she returned with a thin smile. “What? I’m serious! It’s a dangerous task, running rooftops like this. I just mean that I’m glad you made it up in one piece, that's all. It would be a pretty terrible birthday present for you to go and die on me."

Delver snorted. "Yeah, happy birthday," he muttered. "Now you’re sitting on a rooftop in the middle of nowhere while I drink away all of the wine that you stole. I’m sure you’re thrilled.”

Sylda just laughed. She couldn’t quite bring herself to correct him.

#my writing #other people's ocs #stonebreaker #thereluctantinquisitor #original fiction #i'm convinced I ran away with the characterization on this #so you have my deep apologies for that #i still hope it brings you a little bit of joy though!!#you deserve all of that and more :D

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thesolitarystripe · 3 years

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Writing Prompt: Everyone else was grieving.

Everyone else was grieving, why couldn’t William?

The knight sat upon his bay stallion, armor covered in delicate water droplets and the streams they made as they struck his shoulders and slowly slid down the metal that was fastened to his limbs. Their king spared nothing when it came to planning out the funeral for his right hand; the pride and joy of Hilyon. William had always been second in command, always. There was never a moment he wished for more; no higher station or greater reputation could appease him more than serving his kingdom beside his dearest friend. Ellius Heron was a man of substance. Quiet when he entered a room but with an aura that garnered immediate attention and respect. As boys, they had grown up alongside one another. Both of their fathers had served within the knighthood before them and as they aged around talks of battle, clashing swords, and the principles of strong-willed men—it was only fitting that they too would join the ranks. Ellius stepped into the role as if it were prophecy, the boy exceled with ease, exuding virtue, honor, and compassion for his brethren; the love for his fellow man and passion for his homeland was unmatched. With his hair as dark as the feathers of a raven and eyes as emerald as the tops of the trees; he was a Hilyon man, with sun kissed skin and the blood of the sun king himself coursing through his veins.

William’s eyes were glazed over, unbothered by the rain that fell against them. Unblinking, he sat until the procession began. Nobles and peasants alike filled the road that led to the church in the center of town. The poor were dressed in cloth black robes, weeping as if they knew the knight intimately and held them close to their hearts. The upper class dabbed at their eyes as they scaled the stone steps to find their pews. William was brought from his reverie by a fellow knight who urged him forward with a nudge to the arm. A thump to his horse’s ribs and William began to follow behind the King’s transport, the final guest to arrive at the church. Even above the sound of hooves clapping against the cobblestone ground, he could hear the anguished cries of those who mourned as if they had lost the sun itself. Why was it that William could not muster any tears? It was his brother who had fallen. Not by blood but certainly in bond.

The small caravan reached the church and unloaded the Monarch and his family so that they might send their prayers to the God above for the salvation of Ellius’ soul. William stood in the large arching doorway of the church for some time, staring at the rows filled with people. Their heads were bowed down, foreheads touching the rim of their clasped hands as they prayed. Candles littered the space around them, dripping with wax and some already so low that their light threatened to extinguish as they burned until the last guest knelt. Finally, William found the strength to enter. First, he walked the long aisle to light his own candle. As he watched the wick burn before his eyes, he shut them a moment and desperately searched for the prayer within his heart but—all was silent. William found nothing within the beating organ that seemed now to only pump out of habit, instead of its zest for the day. William set the candle down without a thought to think and took a seat in the last row of the church.

There was a band of knights sitting on either side of the church, all of them with tight expressions as they held onto their stony countenances. Most were unable to stave off the tears that flowed silently down their weathered cheeks and fell below into their laps or upon their interlaced fingers. William looked at them, large brown eyes wide and curious, wondering if something had broken within him. It was not as if he never cried—in all honesty, William was born a sensitive man and wept often throughout his life. Perhaps all his tears spilled upon the battlefield were all that was left within him.

William’s eyes came to a swift close as the memories of that day flashed across his mind. It was a day he prayed to forget, a battle he wished had never come to pass. A small band of the Hilyon knights had traversed the land between Hilyon and a neighboring city, a smaller kingdom, whose allegiance was new; they had gone to lend their aide since their numbers were greater and their knights more thoroughly trained. It was on their journey home that a swift messenger on the back of a lame pony, panting and waving a piece of rolled up parchment. The message was placed into Ellius’ hand. No time was spent in explaining its contents before Ellius kicked his horse into a gallop and his men followed without question, in his stead. Their sister city, Lystra was under siege. William could see the panic within his friend’s eyes as his great black warhorse thundered forward.

Lystra, the white city, had become an ally after Hilyon’s princess married and became its Queen. Queen Lily had grown up alongside Ellius, they were practically siblings despite their different fathers. The story of what happened when they arrived was long, but William recalled it well, every detail, every breath.

“One. Last. Push.”

“Together.”

The smell of blood hung in the air, that metallic scent that stung the nostrils and brought to the forefront of the mind just how many lives were lost. The sky was thick with clouds, so dark it appeared as if plumes of smoke hovered against the usually blue expanse. It had rained. Mud covered the bodies of the dead, strewn across the once shimmering meadow. Instead of wildflowers, the wind kicked up lifeless wisps of hair of the fallen whose blank eyes stared skyward and yet saw nothing. The war had waged for several days. Lystra, the white city, once stood proud and gleaming under the summer sun; while the kingdom had not been breached, it seemed a dark and desolate place as if grieving the life lost upon its shores. The knighthood of Hilyon had arrived as quickly as news had reached them that their sister city was ambushed by the savages of the North. The barbaric people had no known home, they were nomadic and roamed the more desolate edges of the earth but had been seen more and more frequently, roaming through ruled over land. They fought without morals and killed any in sight.

Ellius Heron, led his men without hesitation to protect their ally; to protect its Queen. A small battalion of men still lived, they laid upon their bellies in the mud, plotting a final assault against the barbarian clan whose numbers also dwindled. In the early eve of the morning, Ellius and William pressed their heads in close and vowed, one last time, together. The men clasped hands but for a moment before Ellius stood, ready to give away their position. William, Ellius’ friend from babe to man watched as time seemed to slow around them; the rest of their men followed their leader and began to sprout up from the ground, weapons in hand. Ellius unsheathed his sword, hopped a craggy rock and lunged into the makeshift camp where a band of thirty foes slept—he went straight for the head of the serpent, the leader.

With a savage roar, the brutish man rose from the light slumber he had dared to take, a mace already within his marred palm. The inferiors began to stir as the yelling woke them, but they found themselves swallowed by the ambushing knights, cloaked in their deep Hilyon burgundy colors as they swarmed. Ellius brought his sword down upon the leader whose name he did not know; and never planned to. The raven-haired knight’s weapon cut through the air only to meet the girth of the mace’s handle, narrowly missing his enemy’s fingers. The savage pushed back with the force of a giant, sending Ellius staggering back in an effort to find solid ground. The terrain was slick and worn from their days of trials; no longer did the grass stand tall and proud, no more were the flowers beaming—it had all gone to ruin. Ellius parried a wild throw of the mace; these men were strong and agile but lacked formal training, he would outsmart his foe to his last dying breath.

The clang of metal echoed into the warm air, flying high above the scene as the wind carried the news of their battle to the gods. Ellius fervently prayed to Helios, god of the sun and their reigning god of worship in Hilyon that he would find mercy upon him and his men. There had been too many hearts stilled already.

‘Let mine be the last if it should see my men and my sister safe.’ The prayer was whispered into the breeze with hopes it would be heeded. Ellius focused not on the deep, vigorous war cries of his allies but only on the way his foe moved and clumsily danced about; he only needed to be one step ahead. The knight fought, blow for blow, hands vibrating with each impact and becoming increasingly more and more numb as the reverberations shook his bones. Sweat dripped down his brow, mingling with the blood stained upon his tanned skin; his own blood and the life essence of his men. Emerald, green eyes filled with the fire of Helios himself blazed as he struck his foe, finally. Ellius cried out, watching as his blade sunk deep into the barbarian’s left shoulder, the hot scent of blood filling his senses once more. The weapon was pulled out harshly along with an agonizing cry, but the brute did not back down. Ellius’ sword was raised again, primed to strike but so was the mace that sought to crush him. Time slowed again as Ellius felt his armor seized at his neck by hulking hands; his foe held him but could not restrain the sword that began its descent, falling from the sky as it wedged its sharp blade within the barbarian’s neck. Ellius remembered the wild look upon his enemy’s face, the realization of what happened, the acceptance of life’s end, the light slowly fading from his eyes but—not before he would try to take Ellius with him. The Hilyon knight caught sight of the mace as it rose above both their heads, he looked away but a moment as if to make moves to dodge it but instead, as his green eyes met the murky ground, he felt a hot sting at the back of his head. Before a cry could be let out, his body fell limp and the world was black.

William, from afar watched as his friend was bludgeoned. The spiked weapon sunk into the back of Ellius’ skull and the second in command could do nothing to stop the heart wrenching scream that ripped from within his lungs and filled the battlefield.

“Brother!” He reached out an arm, his own foe falling to his knees as his death rattle gurgled from his lips. William could not stave off the tears that fell but threw himself over bodies and went to meet his companion, his best friend. The burly knight saw that life had left the barbarian leader after they had both fallen. The mace had rolled away, covered in the sticky crimson liquid that sustained the life within Ellius Heron. William clutched his friend to his chest, somewhere between sobbing and yelling as he ordered what men still stood to help collect their leader. To bring him within the gates of Lystra. The last few barbarians fell. The battle was won but at what cost?

Ellius clung to life by a single thread. William watched as the knight’s chest heaved and fell rapidly, blood seeping into the fabric of his breeches and coating his gloved hands. Before his men could make move to send for help, William watched Ellius’ last breath before all became still. William clutched him to his chest, begging Helios for more time, to take him, to—make it stop. His head fell against Ellius’, blood smearing across their skin as he rocked his friend and cried for him to open his eyes.

“Please.”

William stood when prodded. With his mind replaying the recent past, he was not present for the short ride to the burial site; he did not notice the smaller, more intimate crowd that formed and stared down into the grave dug out for the knight. It was only when the first shovel of dirt was thrown inside and it thudded upon the earth, it began to cover the shrouded body of his friend, that he looked down. William had not visited Ellius after his death. There was no desire within him to view the knight. He wished to remember him as he was. Beaming beneath the sunlight, riding proudly upon his horse with a body as strong as the walls that protected their home. William saw him now, the outline of his body that was draped respectfully in a white cloth.

“Ellius,” the name slipped from his mouth as another shovel of dirt was laid. “No,” he bowed his head and ran his hand through thick, curly locks of brown hair.

“William?” A voice beside him spoke softly but he did not care to see who it was that addressed him.

Grief had found him. It curled its deathly fingers around his neck and squeezed the air from his throat. The knight felt the sting of hot tears forming behind his eyes. Another toss of dirt thumped. Desperate to escape his reality, the truth that his closest friend was being swallowed by the Earth he placed his hands at the neckline of his armor, pulling at it in hopes that air might be able to find his lungs. William tried desperately not to look at the hole that was slowly being filled in front of him but his eyes disobeyed and saw the mud fall upon Ellius’ head where it laid.

“Stop!” He took a step toward the grave but felt two sets of hands grab both of his arms. Rooted in place, he struggled to free himself as his tears flowed freely and without shame. “I told you to take me!” He cursed at the sky as his brethren pulled him back from the front of the onlookers, in hopes of quelling the scene that began to form. William fought, ripped an arm forward and stretched it out towards Ellius who was now covered in full. “Please,” he sobbed once, just as he had that day upon the battlefield. William sunk to his knees, armored plates grinding against each other and shrieking as he crumpled to the ground. Weathered hands gripped the grass beneath his palms as he struggled to breathe, to see, to hear.

The guests looked away from William as the two knights knelt at his side, one hand upon his back as the opposite hand wiped at tears as they watched their new first in command fall apart.

Agonizing cries were cut through by the last few words said as The Pride of Hilyon was laid to rest. Now that his feelings had begun to flow, William could not control his sobs as they shook his bones.

Why had he ever wished he too could grieve like the rest?

#creativewriting #writing #writingprompts #me writing #thesolitarystripe #medieval fantasy #fantasy #author #authortok

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queenies-writing · 5 years

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So This Is It

(Song is So This Is It by: Straind)

Warning: Dark themed, bit of danti ship(is that a warning)

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So this is it

I say goodbye

To this chapter of my ever-changing life

And there's mistakes

The path is long

And I'm sure I'll answer for them when I'm gone

He knew his time was coming, he had always knew it would be sometime soon. It started off with small changes. The fans had started to forget him after he had gave up being the villain, they started to push him out of their mind til he became nothing but what he was before, a simple idea. The first change was his glitching. It became less and less, the blood from his cut on his neck also started to lessen.

As he lived day to day with the others, he kept what was happening to himself. He didn't want to worry them, so when he started to feel different he remained quiet. They never noticed how he started to distance himself from the others, watching as they grew in popularity, watching as his power dwindled to the point he could hardly glitch away.

The small changes progress where he increasingly notice the change in heart he has had. His temper had all but disappeared, if something hurt him he barely felt it and his memories seem to have started to disappear. He almost forgot who Chase´s kids were when they had come to visit. He slowly had forgotten how to function, only able to go to the bathroom when he forced himself out of his room that he had locked himself in to hide his pain from the others.

When the others started to notice he put on a front, telling them that he was a bit sick and isn't himself. They had bought it for a while, til a week past and he never left his room, only coming out to do the bare necessities when it was needed. But then it was as if he all but stopped coming out of his room.

So when the day comes in

The sun won't touch my face

Tell the ones who cared enough

That I finally left this place

It became harder to get up in the morning, harder to open his eyes feeling as if they were weighed down. Breathing was a labored effort that tired him out more than moving, it became a chore and his movements were even more so.

Chase had once tried to talk to him, but when he had knocked and asked for him to let him in so they could talk, he got no answer. On the inside, Anti was shaking in fear. He didn't know who the person was beyond the door. What remained of his glitching started to pick up as his fear increased his breathing to the point of hyperventilation.

Chase gave up after waiting outside for quite some time, lingering before he gave a sigh and left the door. Often everyone made their way to the door to try and get the entity out, but to no avail would he step outside the door or answer them as they repeatedly knocked.

He didn't know where he was, so he tried to escape out the window failing because his limb would no longer respond to him. As time went on Anti slipped into a state of helplessness, at night he would try to peek out his window into the sky, wishing for it all to end. He wished for the pain and suffering to go. His thoughts floated away as his eyes closed and he slipped into a silence filled sleep.

So when the day comes in

The sun won't touch my face

Tell the ones who cared enough

That I finally left this place

The day came, when he felt it. In panic he glitched to the floor trying to reach the door, trying to call out for anyone to hear him. His memories had came back in a flood, reminding him of who he was and who loved him, but his mouth would not move and his hands would not respond as he lied face up and staring at the ceiling.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breath in --stutter-- breathe out.

Black tears welled up in his eyes. He remembered the good times and the bad. He remembers trying to kill his family, trying to take over the channel, hurting poor Jj the man far to forgiving than the entity liked, he remembered the countless times he tried to hurt Jack and the others, he remembered the pain he caused to Chase when he kidnapped the fathers kids.

Breathe in --stutter-- breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

But he also remembered the good times, he remembered coming to them when he had realized his mistakes. He remembered being received with what started off as cold looks that had turned into warm embraces. Anti remembered when he had woken up one morning to make dinner for the others, offering the pancakes he had made and the coffee he had made for the doc he knew loved it.

Glimpses of mending the relations of his brothers flashed through his mind, tears cascading down his cheek rapidly as the memories continued. Black stained the carpet where he lied, his tears causing stains to appear on his cheeks and the floor.

¨Hey Anti, can I talk to you?¨ Chase asked, sitting next to the glitch who was resting on the roof as he watched the sunset.

¨Sure.”Anti replied, sitting up so he could look at the father. He noticed the sort of far off look in his gaze, tilting his head when he never said something for a long moment, ¨Chase?¨

¨O-oh right, sorry. I was wondering, why did you change? What made you see us differently?¨ Lifting his head he finally spoke to Anti, voice soft and arms coming up to move hair out of his face.

Taken aback, Anti stared for a moment. He gathered his thoughts, looking back at the sunset as it slipped beneath the horizon. ¨I guess, I grew a conscious? Y-you know I was dating Dark right?¨ Chase nods. ¨Okay, well I saw the relationship he had with the other Ipliers. As time went by he started to mend things because- because he was being forgotten. His fan base had started to push him back to the idea he was originally created from.¨

Sniffing, Anti hid the escaping tear wiping it away as he told Chase of how Dark had faded in his arms, essentially dying. Slowly the father had slipped an arm around the sobbing glitch, whose head had rested in his hands. The others, hearing the crying had trickled out and joined them. Chase all gave them a look and they sat down surrounding Anti in a hug. --

Breathe. Breathe… breathe..

Fear. Is what he felt when he could feel himself slipping. As the previous memory had dispersed the pain had ebbed away, he was able to move again. But he made no sound. He made no other movements, opting to just stare at the ceiling. Slowly his eyes closed, imagining a better place where Dark was waiting for him.

That's been so cold

Look at my face

All the stories it will tell I can't erase

The road is long

Just one more song

A little something to remind you when I'm gone

When I'm gone

In… out… breathe.. breathe!

¨Did it hurt?¨ Anti asked, as he sat next to the other demon.

¨No, it didn´t. It was like falling to sleep, only you don´t wake up this time.¨He replied, ¨It felt like coming home..¨

He envisioned dark with open arms, the smile he only saw when he and Dark alone adorned his face. And as he took his first steps towards his lover, he faded.

The glitching stopped, his chest stopped rising and falling with his breathing, his heart had slowly stopped beating. His last tears fell to the floor, making no noise as his body faded as outside the sunset.

So this is it

I say goodbye

To this chapter of my ever-changing life

And there's mistakes

The path was long

And I'm sure I'll answer for them when I'm gone

When I'm gone

A week later, the others had busted through the door of his room to find nothing but the curtains floating in the wind through the window. On the floor were two stains of black from tears. They all looked to one another and knew instantly what had happened. Chase was the first to break down, the others looking at the spot with sorrow.

Jj pat the fathers back, holding him close as tears escaped his eyes as well. As they stared on in silence, they heard a voice echo through the room. It was so soft they had almost missed it.

¨Goodbye.¨

Watching in a almost faded realm, Anti frowns down at them before looking up at Dark. “Do I have to leave them?”

“Yes, it is our time to go. Now lets go home.” Dark replies, holding out a hand to the glitching man.

“Home.” With a smile the two entities take each others hand, fading away as the stars entered the sky.

#antisepticeye #antisepticeye imagines #au #darkiplier #darkiplier imagines #dark #danti #egos #jse #jacksepticeye

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