Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ghostwalker does not feel, let alone the cold. The souls that manage to retain their personality often remark at the stark difference from their deathbed, even naming off the coldest regions they know, as if he would understand. ‘Blackrock’ was a frequent term, along with a string of irrelevant curses and information attached to the place, but he only does his job. He has time, after all, to read such information later.

Their descriptions, though, would seem to apply to his current situation as a certain demon washes ashore. An intimation he believes is concern stirs within, but Ghostwalker runs a basic scan as per protocol.

At first glance, it appeared as a lost demon, one whose life was cut short unexpectedly, perhaps from an ongoing war. There are traces of arrogance, of misplaced confidence, yet there are traces of diligence and of duty.

Ghostwalker watches the demon build himself up, looking around at the sand that tries to swallow him whole. A misplaced horror washes through the demon as he crawls back into the forgetting water, foolishly drowning himself in sea and sorrow.

Disappointing. He should know better by now. Regardless, the deity makes his way over, putting away his gear and wings.

“Welcome.” Ghostwalker reveals himself long before he stands in front of the demon.

He looks up at him with a gaze, and Ghostwalker receives a strange reminder of his first time here.

“Where… am I?” the demon asks.

“Someplace else,” reads off the deity. You’re dead usually caused them to panic, while no response would warrant mistrust, a thought that made his job more tedious than it needed to be. Since the soul emerged from the river of oblivion, it would not be ideal for someone like him to suddenly receive an overload of information.

The demon looks up distantly, lost in the only place of privacy in this domain. Ghostwalker recalls that this demon would ponder about the most benign topics when he served.

“…I’m dead, aren’t I?”

Hmm. Guess he miscalculated.

“Yes,” reveals Ghostwalker. There was no reason to hide anything. His ambition would have unearthed the information if he needed to.

“I see,” he only replies.

At this time, demons would usually go through their stages of death, or whatever they preferred to call it. Most start with denial, some with anger, and few bargain. The clever ones bargain, but the annoying ones often make the other deities bargain on their behalf.

This demon, though, would not need another deity to help; why would he? 

“Where am I supposed to go?”

His directness was uncharacteristic of him, but he chalks it off, not one to pass up the opportunity to do his job. “Follow me.”

The boat swings and sways, but not from its passengers. The sea seemed particularly upset today, likely from the imbalance in the regular realm with that war. Ghostwalker does not understand why the other gods decided to pick their sides and prolong it; they’re all ending up here anyway. The nerve that Darkheart had when they demanded to send back some demon as well was rather large.

His passenger watches the currents attempt to throw him overboard, attempting to exert its own will, but Ghostwalker cuts down such boldness. This was his domain.

They arrive at the location, at his table. Although its original purpose as a gathering spot remained, it was surrounded by an endless series of shelves, stocked with snippets of stories of each soul. Admittedly, he’s not sure when the structure first rose, but he has all the time in the Inpherno to find out.

“This is… familiar, somehow,” the demon admits.

“You may have experienced this in life.” He did not need to add uncertainty to his comment.

The demon hums in acknowledgment, scanning through the blocky bookshelves. Each book represented each soul; the shorter the spine, the shorter the life. The higher the quality, the more meaningful connections the person made while alive.

Despite this generalized system, finding specific people was still tedious, much more tedious than the other gods believed it to be, often leading him to raise his voice to tell them to get out and threaten the person in question if they wanted to make the process go faster.

“You won’t find your book there,” warns Ghostwalker. The demon looks at the deity, but looks back at the shelves. He hovers his hand over another story, and Ghostwalker tells him of his error once more.

“Why do I even need to read some book?”

“Were you not paying attention on the way here?”

The demon frowns and dramatically leans against the shelves, crushing them even. If it was any other demon, he would reprimand them for their reckless disregard for other demon’s lives. Darkheart certainly needed reminders every time they tried to visit.

But for this one? He doubts he would heed his warnings, with or without his memories.

Ghostwalker watches the demon fumble through the halls, taking the two of them along the intricate structures. 

A book glows as the demon passes it, alerting its owner. His hand predictably reaches out for it, but not quite grabbing it, as if mortal hesitance prevented him from doing so.

He is no mortal, though, and Ghostwalker is no idle watcher. It’s about time he partakes in the activities.

“Go on, then,” urges Ghostwalker, “follow the plan.”

The demon nods, catching his breath for some reason, and opens to a page.

The crow swipes at him, furious about nothing at all. “Who told you?”

He blocks the slash. “You did,” his ethereal voice comments, “don’t you remember our deal?”

“Was it Ghostwalker? Or was it some fool of yours? I swear if you dare touch another feather on my son—”

The demon shuts the book, the dull look in his eyes immediately changing to that illuminating glow. Confusion turns to anger, poorly concealed anger, and his body snaps towards the other deity.

“...Did you think this was funny?” 

“Welcome back,” he uninterestedly says.

He immediately tries to summon his blade to strike at him for the slight, unaware that his domain held different rules. The empty hand surprises him.

“Where’s my gear, Ghostwalker?”

“Somewhere in the fountain.” plainly replies Ghostwalker. He turns around, convinced that he will not attack him, and finds his prediction true. The demon was the one who proposed the alliance, after all.

His eyes trace his footwork. If Ghostwalker put more thought into the scene, he would identify it as tense.

“Why did you pretend to not know?”

He stops and turns around. A scoff is transmitted. 

“Well, why did you get yourself killed again, Illumina?”

Chapter Text

Zuka is a fighter. 

There’s a reason he’s known as Blackrock’s greatest soldier with the way he rushes into battle with his unit trailing behind, with the way he fires his gear and clears the way for the rest of the army, with the way he strikes confidence whenever he’s repositioned to a different regiment. He’s even caught the attention of the gods, even if it was merely Icedagger and his unhelpful conversations. 

He is loyal to Blackrock, and Blackrock is loyal to him. But right now, loyalty does not follow the isolated.

Zuka was informed of a situation occurring further down the line, closer to their city, so Zuka decided to switch stations to assist, serving as both the back up and morale booster. The crimson sight he sees after climbing over the hill, however, paralyzes him. 

Firebrand, one of the seven swords, he who lights the world ablaze, stands in the middle of a sea of dry grass, scorched grass from his own moves. No one else is around. From what he’s heard, the god excels in both close quarter combat and long distance sniping. His hands were rumored to be made of magma itself, and the columns of fire he summoned were equally as painful.

But what Zuka sees is a downed deity. He sees an ally to Playground, one that has been rather annoying to deal with for other units, one who is the enemy. Zuka shifts and summons his launcher, quietly locking his sight onto his head. His back was faced away, strangely enough, almost as if he were watching something in the distance.

Regardless, Zuka shoots, and his iconic firework of an explosion lights up the air. A roar cries out, covered by the smoking remains left behind by the implosion. Correction; the lack of remains. A charred outline was the only thing that suggested that grass was once something there. Surely his grenades were not that powerful enough to evaporate a demon, let alone a deity.

Zuka suddenly clutches at his chest as the air around him starts to burn. His skin was sweltering, and the headache that gripped his mind distracted him from the real issue on hand.

“Well. That was quite rude of you,” a voice declares.

Boots clink under the afternoon sky and Zuka snaps around, spotting Firebrand towering over, unscathed from his attack. Zuka begins shooting at him again, using the recoil to his advantage to put more distance between them, but Firebrand only grabs the approaching spark and burns it to ash before it could even explode. 

Zuka quickly checks his surroundings as he continues to fire away, and Firebrand swiftly deflects the projectiles as he continues to walk towards him. “This is who Darkheart tends to? Someone who attacks any moving thing he sees?”

His face slightly drops. Darkheart? Why was he mentioned? “What are you even talking about—“

The hands of a god points and pierces him. “My, so feisty as well. What do they even see in you? You wouldn’t survive a day here.”

Zuka feels the flames of another pillar rise and pushes himself back to dodge, disregarding the deity’s warning. It’s too late to disengage, anyway, Blackrock will kill him for abandoning his station without anything to show for it.

The column fades in front of his eyes, and Firebrand is nowhere to be seen. Only the wind and his breaths sang in the air.

And laughter. There is laughter behind him.

“Greetings.” 

The world washes away in a sea of flames, and Zuka narrowly covers his face and slides back. The burns sting his arms, and he regrets not bringing his coat to take the blows instead.

Nevertheless, he gets up. Zuka is a fighter, and there is an enemy in his way.

Firebrand, standing tall and mighty, only laughs. “Your reputation precedes you, firework.”

He glares at the deity for the nickname. “My explosives are more than just pretty bombs—“

Zuka rolls out of another column of flame, scowling as his shades fall to the ground. He checks the location of the deity and notices that the god’s gaze does not reach him, blocked by the horn sprouting out of his eye. An idea forms in his head.

“Is it really?” the deity watches the smoke rise as if Zuka would appear behind the clouds, “all I see is someone shooting sparks at me.”

Zuka runs up from his blind spot and shoots at him. Without his shades he’s forced to use an arm to block out the ash, and once the smoke clears he finds a sword— Firebrand’s sword in between them. 

Firebrand is still unscathed; shirt, cuffs, handkerchief, boots, all unscathed. He straightens out his sleeves. “Do you even believe in Blackrock? The kingdom that mercilessly—”

Zuka tunes him out and grabs his shades. His world is cloaked in blue again, but the deity stands out in red despite that, mouthing away slanderous terms against his kingdom. “Come on, mortal, surely you aren’t a fool.”

They continue their winded dance in the foreign land. Fatigue falls over Zuka as the blue of the day is overtaken by the red of sunsets. Blades sizzle out bombs, while a powerful mortal contest with a fragile divine regardless.

He digs the end of his gear into the ground to slow down the recoil. Firebrand’s pillars, he realizes, always had an indicator, a warm star outlining the dirt, across the ground as if the deity was carving out and melting a piece of the earth to pose as a statue for his power.

Zuka catches his breath, but the deity wastes no time. “Final test,” Firebrand announces.

Before he gets the chance to ask what on Inpherno he’s talking about Zuka is thrown into the air, shooting far beyond safe fall damage levels. Ten studs, hundred studs, thousand studs, he is far beyond the threshold of survival. The wind on his face smacks his gear away while the chill forces him to push his bandanna up.

From up here, he can practically see the Inpherno in all its glory. Clouds decorate the surrounding mountains, and he thinks he can even see the stars. He sees the city Blackrock plans to scorch, he sees the smoldering remains of battles for studs of land, and he sees death itself.

“…just like your home, hmm?”

“Please let me sleep, Icedagger.” Zuka keeps his eyes trained at the ceiling, watching the gentle snowflakes fall around him from the divine’s presence.

The deity pouts and the icy wonderland dissipates. Snow litters the tiles as he crosses his arms, expressing, “You’re sooooo boring, Mr. B. Zuka… can’t you entertain us already?”

Zuka tilts his head and turns an eye to the god. “You’ll just have to stop being late to battle, then.”

“Booo…” A frown stamps his face. Icedagger leans back onto the icy air and surprisingly backs off, letting him rest.

Zuka was laying on the net, waiting for the next day to arrive. Blackrock planned on pushing forward first thing in the morning, meaning that the rest of his unit would be free until then. The deity’s presence only compounded to the cold the night brought, but he's long used to it by now. Not much matches with Blackrock’s capital, after all.

Along with the messengers from the capital, Icedagger tells him of what goes on, and for some reason, this privilege is solely for him, as far as he knows. He thought the god didn’t even exist, if he had to admit, and the only descriptors that he had heard attributed to the deity were timid and avoidant.

By chance, Zuka looks back at Icedagger, and a skeleton green outlines his— single?— wing. He’s turned away, grabbing at his arm with a glowing ring around his hand. Zuka blinks, but his wings return back to solid blue along with the god facing him again.

“What?” he asks, catching onto his staring.

Zuka sits upright and rubs his eyes, in case his mind was playing tricks, but Icedagger remained, short, divine, and glorious as ever. He sighs, disregarding the apparition, and leans forward, deciding to ask a question. “How on Inpherno do you gods even fly? Is it a divinity exclusive or…”

Icedagger shrugs. “…I don’t really know how to explain it, you just sort of counter the gravity? You don’t really have wings so it might not work for you, but we—I just spread my wings out and…”

Zuka groans, the headache growing as the deity tries to explain the impossible. The noise scratches the insides of  his ear, while Icedagger shifts in his coat, continuing with his tirade.

“…and then there’s something about pushing ourselves back? And—“

“Okay, I get it, I’m not doing it.”

“You asked, mortal!”

“You don’t need to be so detailed with your explanation.”

The god frowns “…So picky. Whatever.” His wings blink in and out like that hallucination, and snow suspends itself in the air. “Spread out— it’s what the cape helps with—lessen the impact, counter the gravity. There.” 

Icedagger crosses his arms.“Happy?”

“I don’t see a scenario where I’d need to use this—“

The ceiling shatters. “Are you asking for a scenario?”

Zuka blinks, and he’s back in the sky. The ground crawls closer. A plan forms in his head.

He rolls towards his gear, gloves scraping the handle yet barely missing. Scowling, he takes the bandanna and ties a loop, throwing the hoop towards the handle and pulls it towards his sweaty, calloused, determined hands. Zuka breathes, spreading his arms out, and aims his gear down, ensuring the maximum amount of recoil.

Time slows down, but he didn’t care if it were from his brain comforting him in what he believed to be his final moments or if it were from more divine intervention. He’s tired of the people around him creditting his merits to pure luck; it was not pure luck to survive these wars.

Zuka is a fighter, and he is going to live.

Chapter Text

Travelling is great! He gets to take a break from the monotony of his boring job (no offense), he gets to satiate his hunger of exploring what Thieves Den has to offer, and he gets to do all of that with Vine! 

…Though, it would be better if he could ignore Slingshot’s absence: he would have loved the new cuisine ideas here.

The town he and Vine Staff were in was hosting a phestival, and it was one of the few places in Thieves Den that had lighter restrictions—as light as you could get under these times—than the rest of the region. As a part of an experiment by Mr. Darkage, Thieves Den was to close its borders indefinitely. For some reason. Something about focusing on themselves since they’re the richest yet still have problems that were solvable?

He’s not really sure actually, since the Knights are so secretive with everything, but he doesn’t think on it too much. There’s still a silver lining with these things as well! Since Sling’s not around to take care of the money, he and Vine decided to take time off for themselves, advertise the cafe here and there to replace the lack of Playground tourists; they’d usually host a booth for themselves at phestivals as well, but—well. Out of the three of them, Vine and him aren’t exactly the most responsible, as much as Vine says otherwise.

He wishes Sling could be here, but whatever. He’s better off staying safe with Skateboard, even if there's this war going on outside that’s nothing to be worried about. Yep. He’s not worried. 

Ever since the decree to lock down, there’s been so little news about the rest of the Inpherno. It already took ages to communicate with his Playgrounder friends, and this sure isn’t helping. It’s whatever, though. It’s just a few extra policies, like the fact that all intra-province travel must be reviewed and accepted by the Knights, no firework or firecracker shows are allowed in towns a certain distance from the border, no one is allowed in or out, more restrictions on trade and taxes to carry out those restrictions…

Okay, maybe he’s lying when he says the whole situation is whatever. Can you blame him? Slingshot was practically shut out, and he can’t do anything to see him or meet up that wouldn’t get him in trouble.

Shuriken doesn’t get it. Neither does Vine, who has been trying to take care of the both of them, even if he insists he doesn’t need it, even after multiple confrontations—not arguments, he’d like to clarify, he’s very mature. She does try to hide herself so that he can’t interrogate her; gardening, but that’s pretty normal; researching outside regions, which is not usual, usually it’s the other way around; looking for a position among the Knights, which is completely out of character. 

She uses it to explain her long disappearances lately, so he guesses it’s fine, but she's been so snappy because of it! Like right now, where they were buying some street food from this vendor, but the cashier was being rude to him for no reason. He didn’t even try to steal anything this time! In a switch of roles, however, Vine Staff was the one to argue over it, and Shuriken was the one who had to pull her away before a fight broke out.

Once that entire incident finished up and they took their leave, her demeanor suddenly changes back into a worrywart, asking a million questions and checking if he was okay. He assures her that he’s fine, but Vine keeps pestering him all the way up to a nearby trail.

It’s meant to be a nice trail, a high yet level path tracing around here while offering a view of the town below. The flowers around here were in season as well—a reason they wanted to visit when they did—and he really tried to take in the peace. A certain sister, however, was yapping all the way up here, and it really starts to get on his nerves, and as the city breaks free upon the horizon finally Shuriken yells, “Are you okay?”

“What?”

“Don’t think I can’t tell what my spawn sibling is feeling!” he exclaims, pointing the half-eaten skewer towards her. “Why are you always so worried all the time now? We’re out travelling, we can relax!”

The fact stuns her, and Vine switches her expression again to a glare. She frowns, withdrawing her worries and speed-walking ahead from the question like a thief leaving a store with goods.

Baffled, Shuriken dashes up to her to catch up. “Hey, I’m not done! You can’t get out of this talk with another excuse, there’s no Knights out here to drag you away to some training or whatever, and we’re going to have to talk about this one way or another—“

Vine Staff stops in her tracks. Shuriken slams into her. “Ouh—Hey, what’s wrong—“

“Why aren’t you worried?” Vine Staff snaps. “Huh? Why are we pretending everything is okay? Why does everyone think it’s okay to watch as people die in some stupid conflict out there—better yet, cover it up? Why aren’t you worried about Sling and whether or not he’s okay?”

Shuriken flinches. It’s the first she’s snapped in years. The grass under their feet pierce through the silence as the cool breeze of the night passes through, while the leaves around them seem to shake at the impact.

He looks at his sister, his voice softening. “…He’s okay, Vine, he’s just—“

“You don't know that,” she cuts through like a blade through bamboo.

“I…do, though?”

“Oh yeah?” she tilts her head. “Tell me then. Tell your sister what on Inpherno Sling is up to right now in this very moment.”

His eye twitches. She cannot be serious. “Well now that’s just unfair! Why don’t you have some faith in him?”

“Why do you have faith in him?”

Shuriken shakes his head back, confused. “Who is ‘him’ supposed to—Wait, no, let me guess…Skateboard?”

“No, Mr. Darkage, ruler of the cliffs that cut these land in half, he who spars with the divine on the regular, the rising spring of justice for Thieves Den.” She raises a hand up, imitating that proud, sacred hand gesture associated with the ruler and their Knights.

“…?”

“—Yes I'm talking about Skateboard! Do you know how much trouble those two get into and what I have to heal after their—” she winces, “had to heal, after their shenanigans?”

Shuriken scoffs. “As if we don't get into the same amount, if not more. Besides, you can’t say that Skateboard has zero sense of responsibility; he runs one of those top gangs back in Playground, doesn’t he?”

“He’s also the reason Sling’s dead, but sure, I’m the irrational one—“

“Wait, what do you mean the reason he’s dead?”

Vine Staff glances over. “Isn’t it obvious? They went to Blackrock, a war—um, a fight—“

“We all know there’s a war going on outside sis, you don’t have to hide it—“

“—breaks out between Playground and Blackrock, and now they mysteriously haven't returned in years?”

“…Wait, what was that about Blackrock?” Now he didn't know Sling went all the way over there. “No, wait, what are you saying?”

“Did Slingshot not tell you?”

“No, he told me they just went travelling, but—“ Oh, that would explain why he was with Skate. But— “Wait. Are you saying Skateboard got Sling in trouble in Blackrock?”

“I'm not saying it’s impossible. You’ve heard of the rumors of, well, whatever we could hear before the borders closed, and there’s nothing—“

“Sis.”

She turns her head, surprised at the cut off. “What?”

“Are you saying Skateboard caused that war and killed Slingshot?”

“Not caused, he’s not that stupid, but—“

Shuriken can’t help but snort, interrupting the weight she was carrying. “My gods, I can’t believe you thought Sling’s dead, oh my gods that’s so funny—“

She looks baffled at his laughs, exasperated even. “There's nothing funny about this! Slingshot could be dead for all we know, murdered and abandoned in some foreign region, and we aren’t even able to respect his passing—“

“Slingshot is alive,” Shuriken states.

“…What?”

“Yeah! I wouldn’t lie about this, Vine. I managed to get some contacts out of here—don't tell your Knights, they’ll definitely cut off our comms that way—“

“Why would I tell the—wait no you’ve been what—“

“—but they've said Sling is safe with his gang. Well, as safe as you could be in whatever a war is. He can't quite come home since those Blackrockians keep patrolling their borders, but he’s alive and well. Sling’s even got himself a role as one of his advisors! Or, something along those lines.” Shuriken leans closer to her in a whispering motion as if it wasn’t just them out there. “Personally, I think it’s just him bluffing, but it’s definitely him.”

Vine Staff breathes. She’s quiet, for a while, as she processes his info. A light breeze filters through the trail like the aftermath of a turbulent cyclone. The dust of a dull tea subsides, and a full brew leaves her to her thoughts.

Meanwhile, Shuriken finishes his skewer, which by now was freezing because of the nighttime drop, but he doesn’t complain about it too much. Still eating, he laughs out, “So you really didn’t know he was alive or not—“

“Shut up, please.”

He shuts up, opting to swallow the last of the treat.

She begins to take a step along the trail, as they originally were. Flowers sprout as she crouches along the side of the path, looking dramatically off into the distance as her staff summons to do something—he doesn't really know to be honest, he doesn’t know how her gear works. Gardeners, he thinks. 

Once Shuriken catches up, Vine Staff stands up and turns to him, lifting her gear. “…You—“

“Is this the part where you yell at me—“

“—are a moron.” She points it in his face.

“There it is…” he crosses his arms, if not to make some small distance away.

The flower still covers his vision, glowing and dimming, but Vine Staff slowly drops the act. “But—thank you for telling me this. Years late, but thank you. I guess. Sure.” Vine Staff sighs, turning around to sit and monologue to herself. “I’ve been worrying about nothing this whole time. Yep. That sounds about right..”

“If it makes you feel better, I didn’t find out about this for years until one of his friends managed to sneak over and let me know.”

“That definitely makes me feel better.”

“Whoops…Wait, is that why you’ve been trying to become a Knight? To get information on the outside legally?”

“I don't want to talk anymore.” She casts her gaze back. Shuriken gets the message. 

Vine buries her face in her hand, starting off into the town below. Shuriken slowly walks forward and takes a seat next to her, watching the dancing lights brighten and dim. “…Well, there's another hour until the night market closes for today. Wanna check out some more before they close up for today?”

Vine Staff blinks. A million things must have run through her mind at that moment, but Shuriken places his hands on her shoulders, bringing her out of those tempting thoughts. She opens her mouth to say something—

An explosion rings through the fields. 

They look over, distraction immediately capturing their attention. Shuriken watches as red slowly consumes the plaza below. “That’s…“

“—no firecracker.”

The two out of three siblings turn to each other. 

Shuriken grabs her sleeve. “We should—“

“—check it out,” Vine completes.

Shuriken snaps his head over. “…I was going to say leave, why would you want to head straight into danger—”

“To see if anyone needs help, obviously,” she reasons, as if they share the same exact thoughts. 

“Wow,” Shuriken only replies, “how noble. Is this what all Knights are like?” she pauses at the comment, but he waves her off, saying, “Fine, let’s go. There might be some more stuff that might catch my eye anyway.”

Vine Staff sees through the excuse. “You don't have to follow me, you know.”

“I’d be a terrible brother if I didn’t help you,” he admits.

“You don’t have to worry about stuff like that, Shuri, I don’t care. Even if it annoys me to no end, you can be whatever brother you want to be or think you need to be; I will love you no matter what.”

Shuriken takes the stun this time. Grass parts under her feet as she quickly moves past him, a grin shaping her face. “Come on Shuri. Are you really gonna let the healer be the one to outpace you?”

She’s free of any worry. Shuriken follows her lead. “…Oh you’re so on—“