Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

. . .

The first time that Wels had a conscious thought, it was I’m so tired of eating dried beef and hardtack, and it startled him.

He had existed for a long time already at that point – had been made to be a helper to travelers on quests, had been given a backstory and a side quest that people could find out about if they asked the right questions – and he was good at doing what he was made for. He had gone on hundreds of missions with thousands of different players. He had sat at campfires for hundreds of thousands of nights keeping watch over Players who never thought of conversing with him outside of his standard dialogue. It had never bothered him before – after all, he hadn’t been made for thoughts and opinions.

So when one night he sat on a log by a fire, surrounded by Players eating fried steak and mushroom stew and sweet cakes bought from the village they had recently passed through, he was surprised to find himself longing to share their meal. None of them had offered him any, of course, because he wasn’t – wasn’t real. Wasn’t bothered by eating his own unchanging, boring rations for every meal, because he wasn’t made for thoughts and opinions and wants.

Wels wanted to try a sweet cake.

So he asked, and the startled Player handed one over before she could think better of it. Maybe she thought it would unlock some new dialogue, some secret quest, some rare armor or trinket that other Players never found.

It didn’t. Wels ate the cake and said thank you. The girl said you’re welcome, somewhat faint and bewildered, and then went back to ignoring Wels and whispering with the rest of her party.

It was delicious. The best thing Wels could remember eating.

They continued the quest. They fought orcs, and thieves, and dark sorcerers. The Players built trust with each other, and built trust with Wels. He helped them find maps and offered tips and became the favorite sparring partner of the group. The players laughed and sang songs and Wels listened with wonder and envy. They made camp together, and when somewhere down the line Wels asked to share their meals, the Players obliged.

Here, try this, it’s really good, the Player who had shared her sweet cake said, and handed him a chocolate. It was good, was sweet and crunchy. Wels hadn’t known he could cry. One of the other Players had offered him a handkerchief and slung an arm around him.

I don’t know what’s come over me, Wels had gasped out, I don’t know- what is this?

It’s tears, mate, the other Player had said, his voice sympathetic, it’s one of the ways people express emotion.

I didn’t know, Wels said, I’ve never- I’m sorry. The chocolate was so good. Thank you.

The Players had smiled, and assured him it was okay, that they were happy that he liked it, and then the cook had plated up a bowl of stew and warm bread for him and Wels had cried some more.

The bard caught him picking at their lute one day while the Players were away from camp and had left Wels behind to watch it. They were sneaky when they wanted to be; Wels hadn’t known they had returned and were watching him until he had made a particularly horrible sound on one of the strings and they laughed.

Oh, gods, I’m so sorry! Wels had scrambled to put the lute back in its case, hands burning with thievery and face with guilt.

The bard had tilted their head, expression amused.

Do you want to learn how to play? They had asked.

Wels opened his mouth to say no. He wasn’t built for thoughts and opinions and wants and needs. He wasn’t- wasn’t a person.

Yes, Wels confessed, I do want to learn.

The bard looked smug, like Wels had agreed to something much bigger than music lessons. There wasn’t anything malicious in the expression though. They almost looked . . . pleased. Wels liked to make people happy. It made him happy to make others happy.

Good, good. Well first off, are you left-handed or right-handed?

They kept adventuring together. It’s the longest Wels had stayed with any one group; usually, once the Players advanced enough in level, they left him behind. It’s not that he isn’t powerful, it’s just that Players get tired of lugging dead weight around that doesn’t offer good company and conversation.

(Not that any of them really ever tried to have a conversation with him in the past – they just assumed he wasn’t able to conversate because he wasn’t a Player. They were probably right, in the beginning, but Wels can now recognize that even in those early days he was lonely. He had always wanted friends.)

Wels learned to play the lute. He learned how to play the small set of drums that the group had, and how to use a variety of other small percussion instruments. Wels learned how to sing – he found he liked singing the best, because he could sing while he did pretty much anything. He didn’t have to worry about if his hands were occupied in order to sing.

So Wels practiced songs every chance he could get. He joined in with his comrades when they sung at taverns and wrote silly ballads with them around their campfire. Wels found a spark of inspiration in music, something that set his soul alight with creativity and possibility. Nothing seemed too far out of reach now, not with the discovery that he could make something beautiful from himself and give it to the world.

That was, of course, when things tried to fall apart.

They were supposed to go fight a dragon. The Players were as ready as Wels could make them, but even still – this was the part Wels always dreaded. He couldn’t interfere in this final battle, to help or to hinder – it wasn’t something he was made to be able to do. All he was made for was to help get the adventurers to this point and then to step aside and let them take the glory. Sometimes Wels got to stick around to see the battle. Sometimes he –

Well.

Sometimes it made people more motivated for the boss fight if they lost something helpful and useful right before it. Sometimes Wels was supposed to die to give the players ‘proper motivation’, if that’s what they needed. Something about inspiring a sense of duty and need to carry on for a friend. (Nevermind that most Players didn’t see him as anything more than a mildly useful piece of furniture). Regardless of the reasons, intended or true, the quests that ended in Wels’ death weren’t uncommon.

So Wels knew what was coming when Hels showed up.

The fiery black Pegasus that Hels swooped down from the sky on was magnificent, all ebony flanks and blue-flame mane and wings like razors. Wels met Hels’ sword with a parry of his own, and the fight began. Some of his party tried to stay to help; he waved them off, told them to carry on to the dragon and not waste their time and energy here. He could hold off his fated counterpart; this was his battle to fight, his mortal enemy to slay or be slain by.

His party members didn’t leave.

The archer nocked an arrow and sent it piercing through the dark Pegasus’s eye, and as Hels leapt from the back of his steed as it fell dead, the rest of the party descended on him in Wels’ place. Wels watched, stunned and confused, as the friends he had made over the past months beat back his impending death and sent the dark knight running to the hills. Hels would be back, that was for certain; even if he died, he would simply respawn back wherever he claimed home, and he would hunt down Wels again like their fate dictated he must.

Why did you stay? Wels asked.

The archer, looting the downed Pegasus for fletching feathers, looked up. Her brow wrinkled in confusion, like Wels hadn’t asked a simple question.

Because you’re our teammate? And we all stick together. We weren’t going to leave you in the lurch on the home stretch, yeah?

Uh, he said, um. Okay? That’s never- thank you. That’s never happened before.

The mage thumped him on the shoulder, something sad and pitying in his eyes.

Yeah. We’ve heard. That’s kinda shitty, right? To get left behind to die?

Wels swallowed, voice suddenly lost. He nodded. It was shitty to get left behind by people he’d helped so much. It always hurt, to be abandoned, even if he knew that’s just how the story had to go.

We can’t do anything about how you got treated in the past. But we can be here for you right now, can’t we? The Player who had shared her sweet cake with him all those months ago piped up.

Yeah! Besides, don’t you want to come fight the dragon with us? Another asked.

They were right. Wels did want to fight the dragon.

The battle was long and grueling. Their cleric and mage alternated healing spells and ranged attacks; the close combat fighters took whatever swings they could manage but often paid the price in singed armor and cracked bones. Wels did his best; he’d seen the fight from afar many a times, but he’d never slain a dragon before.

He held back, taking pot-shots where he could but content to let his friends take the glory, until a swipe of the dragon’s wings sent the bard tumbling across the field in a heap that did not rise again.

Wels had learned to know and recognize many emotions since that first aching want all those months ago. His heart had swelled with joy at jokes and music and conversation shared and given. He had ached with fear when enemies set upon them in the middle of the night and they had to fight blind to survive. His tears had burned his eyes with unquenchable grief when they lost a comrade, even knowing there was a high likelihood they would return, simply spawning in again somewhere else. (And the tears were for himself as well, knowing that even death would never free him from his lot in this life; he would never be more than what he was designed to be).

This, Wels had never known before.

It was a swelling fury that built from deep in his belly, filling every nook and cranny inside him with the boiling heat of righteous rage. Something in his soul screamed JUSTICE, JUSTICE FOR THE WEAK, FOR THE FALLEN, FOR THOSE WHO CANNOT FIGHT FOR THEMSELVES and Wels could not help himself but answer. Wels thought, briefly, of Hels, and the molten fury that coursed through his veins and shone in the cracks of his skin and his eyes. He must be a mirror image of that now – he could see the light and shadows he cast around himself, white-hot fury made visible in white-gold glow. He hefted his sword – shining as well as his armor – and felt-

Something.

Something unfurled from his back, stretched wide and wide and wide on either side of him, and then he felt the powerful rush of air and brief vertigo as he beat his wings downward and flew. The dragon screeched and he answered in turn, a roar more beast than man. Then they were clashing and it was a glorious snarl of teeth and sword and claws and feathers and blood, armor and scales scraping and screeching, fire blazing and the crackle of lightning.

Then a body plummeted to the ground.

In the silence that followed, Wels’ comrades stood in awe and worry. They were battered and bruised but all intact – the mage cradled the bard to his chest, their breathing shallow but there – and they waited with bated breath for the dust to settle.

Descending from on high with white wings wreathed in golden light, Wels landed before them.

An angel . . . whispered the cleric, reverent.

The sweet cake Player snorted.

No, she said, affection clear in her voice, that’s just our Welsknight.

The silence broke, and Wels was swarmed by his party members in jubilation. He stumbled and dropped his sword, holy light dimming and wings vanishing back to wherever they had come from, but he could not stop the smile on his face or the sheer relief in his voice.

Are you guys alright? he asked. I don’t usually join in the fight but – I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. I had to help. I’m sorry if I took away your glory.

Are you kidding, Wels? That was amazing! The archer shouted in his face, shaking him. That was incredible, dude! Aaaaah!

Since when do you have WINGS! And what was with the light? You were GLOWING, dude! And you, like, tossed lightning around? What? That was so cool!

We have GOT to go flying together sometime, if I’d known you had wings-

Was that a secret ending we unlocked or something? Or is that like, new? Could you always do that?

Bro who cares, our Welsknight ROCKS and he’s BADASS and oh my GOD that was so cool!

This time the tears didn’t burn. This time the tears were shared with others, and they were happy tears, and they were assuaged with looting a dragon’s hoard and splurging on a feast in town and a party that lasted three days. This time the tears led to laughter, and song, and dance, and Wels being smothered in thankful hugs and kisses and affection. Wels had never been so happy in his entire life. This – whatever had been going on for the majority of the last year – this was good. Wels wasn’t sure what was happening, but he knew it was only going to lead to more. Wherever this path led, Wels wanted to see more of it.

So he did.

Many of his party members retired – headed off to settle down, or to find younger groups of Players to mentor on their own quest, or even to further lands and worlds for different adventures – but all of them promised to keep in touch. When they asked Wels what he planned to do with his life, he shrugged.

I don’t really know, he answered honestly, all I’ve ever known was this. What does a knight do, once he’s slain the dragon?

Whatever the hell he wants to do, the sweet cake Player smiled at him. It’s what you deserve, you hear me? Go live the life you want, Wels. And eat lots of good food, yeah?

She had pressed a kiss to his cheek before waving goodbye at him; her contact information sat snugly in a little communication device in his satchel alongside the information for the rest of his party. It wasn’t quite the same sort of thing Players had access to, not a real, true Communicator, but – it was a start. Wels could feel it, some intrinsic part of the universe that had never responded to him before; nothing close and familiar yet, nothing he could access and be a part of, but the potential was there.

Wels could be patient. He had time.

So he wandered again, and did what he did best – helped people.

The story of the heavenly knight saving his party from disaster spread. He gained a reputation – some fantastical hearsay, some based in truth – that only grew as more people sought him out for advice and assistance. It delighted Wels – he was never lonely anymore. So many people wanted to talk to him! Some of them were rude, of course, and those ones never stayed long once it became clear that he wasn’t just a mindless program anymore that they could bully for fun. But most people were curious, were kind. Most people sought him out as a curiosity and then, when they figured out he was so unique and individual – they stayed and found out more about Wels himself.

People liked his songs. He played the lute the bard had given to him and he sang the songs he had learned and written. He got invited to festivals, to music halls, to weddings.

People liked his fighting lessons. When he felt like it, he spent mornings teaching drills and combat and afternoons teaching strategy and discipline. It felt good, to be so sought-after and appreciated.

Wels liked getting to see more of the world and eating delicious things. People were kind, and generous, and eager to help him try new things. Everywhere he went it seemed like there was more to learn about and explore.

He fell in love with the architecture of the castles and cathedrals he explored, and made friends with an old builder. He spent half a year with the old man, learning how to cast iron and chisel stone and fire stained glass. He learned how to build and shape the earth into what he wanted to make of it.

The old builder introduced him to a weaver-woman. She taught Wels how to spin and card and knit and weave, how to gather fibers and dyes and turn them into fantastical fabrics. She taught him how to sew and mend and create. He clothed himself in his own creations, not just the same fabrics and designs he had been created with.

The weaver-woman introduced him to other craftsfolk: from a woodworker he learned how to carve and to make furniture and all manner of things. From a metalsmith and a jeweler, he learned to make beautiful treasures to wear and to display, from rings and crowns to silverware and decorations. From a cartographer he expanded his base knowledge of the craft; she showed him star charts and ocean maps and details of worlds foreign and fantastic. From a healer he learned magic; he had never thought it possible, but whatever strange awakening had happened during the dragon fight had opened him up to the secret workings of the universe.

From a librarian and book-binder he learned how to seek and preserve knowledge. Wels could read, of course, but he had never had the time and space and mind to simply sit and seek knowledge for the sake of it. He found he loved stories of adventure and romance, things where you knew everything was going to work out in the end and everyone was going to get what they wanted. He also learned so much more about the wider universe and all it held; details about Players and their lives and how their magics worked. He learned secrets about servers and admins and gods and devs, about the kind of people who had made and designed this world and himself.

He found a tome of lore on his world and its stories.

In it he read his own backstory – his story and Helsknight’s story, since they were interwoven. About how he was a chivalrous knight of Justice whose path bound him to be in service of others and the land he abided in. A path that always brought him to odds with Helsknight, his dark counterpart, an unscrupulous knight whose path bound him to seek his own freedom and wants above all else. He read about how they were made to be equals, twin stars in orbit to each other, destined to be each other’s downfall and to be locked in eternal combat. That they represented the two warring parts of the soul; freedom versus duty, the individual versus the collective, selfishness versus selflessness.

Wels sat with that information for a long time.

The librarian let him keep the tome. It does you more good to have it than to have it rotting on my shelf, the man had laughed when Wels tried to give it back, think of it that way. Besides, what do I need it for? I’ve got a hundred more copies where that came from. People don’t tend to hold on to the starter guide, right? After all, it’s all mostly stuff Players already know. But it never hurts to have one for . . . reference, hm? Especially if you’re unfamiliar with it, for one reason or another.

The man had winked at Wels, like they were sharing a secret.

Wels had given a shaky smile back. Wels knew that the librarian knew what he was; it wasn’t like he kept it a secret. Wasn’t like he really could keep it a secret – there was something distinctly different to Wels than to the Players, no matter that he was so different from the other NPCs wandering the world. Wels was comfortable in his status as something in-between. It still felt scary, though, to be acknowledged as something Other.

(Wels didn’t know if there were others like him in the world; he had never gotten a response from anyone else when he had tried. Maybe his code was just different; maybe they hadn’t been around for long enough; maybe there was something in Wels’ past that had sparked his personhood; whatever it was, Wels didn’t know the answer.)

(Wels hadn’t talked to Hels about it. Since that battle with the dragon, the man had been scarce. He had seen Hels lurking about, once or twice, but any time Wels tried to reach out or head towards him he vanished. No quests he went on took him down the story route that usually led to Hels; maybe that was the reason for Hels’ absence. Maybe it was something more, and Hels was like him, but unless he could actually confront him-

Well.

Wels didn’t have much reason to go hunt down his mortal enemy and ask him personal questions, did he?)

Wels continued to live his life peacefully like this for several years. It was nice.

Then everything went sideways in an instant. He was out on a quest with some younger Players he had taken under his wing; he did that now, just because he wanted to, not because he felt obligated to do so. It reminded him of the parts of his old life that he had liked. These Players were new to this world and its hardships and its culture. They came from a Peaceful world and were new to combat but not to exploration. It delighted Wels to have such eager students; most Players in this world were old hat at combat. It was refreshing to get to train true beginners.

Which is why, when a group of seasoned Players sprung a cruel trap on them to take advantage of their inexperience, Wels was furious.

He didn’t think twice; he let his righteous fury stream out of himself in a blaze of white-gold light and razor-sharp feathers, and he slew every offending Player where they stood. His students were badly battered but none had died; at least he could spare them that pain. They were shaken, though, and after Wels bandaged their wounds and assured them that most Players here weren’t like this, weren’t out for other Players’ blood, weren’t cruel and self-seeking – they still decided to leave.

You’re a good teacher, Wels, they said, but unprovoked PvP is too much – it’s not what we thought we were getting into, when we came here. Adventure, sure! And fighting – fighting isn’t bad. But we didn’t think this was a place for Players to fight and kill each other unprompted. That wasn’t even mentioned, when people talked about this place! And if that’s true, if there are other secrets hiding here – who’s to say they aren’t terrible as well?

Wels couldn’t argue with that. He had kept his secret from them, intentionally.

We’ll keep in touch though – here, give me your communicator, we’ll add our numbers and our public server addresses. If you ever decide to leave, hit us up, okay?

Wels saw them to the portal square of the capital city. Ostensibly it was to keep them safe, to make sure that no one else harmed them, but really it was because Wels was going to miss them. He wanted every last second he could spend with them; selfish, he knew, but people were selfish. Persons were selfish.

And Wels was a person.

He wasn’t sure when it had happened, when he had stopped defining himself by what he wasn’t made to be and made to have, but it had. He had stopped worrying, at some point, about whether he was allowed to do or say or think something, and had started just doing or saying or thinking it. He recognized the consequences of his actions, yes, but after years now of making his own choices and the world not swallowing him whole, Wels had learned to let his guard down.

Which was, of course, when the world decided to try and swallow him whole.

He had another year of peace before it all fell apart. He kept away from Players, mostly, went back to wandering and offering help where he could but not staying long. He caught more glimpses of Hels than he had in years – in places that Hels shouldn’t be, doing things that Hels shouldn’t be capable of. Hels, sitting with a cohort of rough-looking players and drinking and laughing. Hels, bartering with a baker over some sweet rolls and walking away triumphant with a whole bag, stuffing sweet rolls into his mouth as he pranced away. Hels, coaxing a kitten out of hiding and feeding it tiny strips of meat and then scooping it up to cuddle against his chestplate. All things Wels hadn’t known Hels was capable of. Softness and desire and joy, instead of anger and malice and pain.

(Because he and Wels had only ever interacted in the context of what they were made to be and designed to do. They had only ever followed the stories written for them; Wels had never gotten to interact with Hels as a person before. Their relationship was defined by other people’s expectations and by the inevitable hand of Fate.)

Watching Hels, it made a suspicion grow in his heart that he maybe wasn’t alone in his discovery of personhood. They never met up, though, and never talked about it, and the closest Wels got to being able to corner Hels and ask was when they both ended up in the same tavern with their respective traveling companions.

Wels had seen Hels before Hels had seen him. Wels excused himself from their table and stealthily made his way to the back corner where Hels was laughing with his own companions. Wels paused, hidden in the shadows, and listened in.

No, you idiots, if you had done that you would have died! Hels had laughed, nearly spilling his drink.

What, and you know so much better? A companion teased, her long hair tied back in braids, listing sideways nearly off the bench.

Hels rolled his eyes and tugged her back upright by her sleeve. The girl giggled, and Hels bonked her affectionately in the back of the head.

Yeah, dipshit, I do know better. I’ve got a few centuries of experience on you, sweetheart. I’ve done all the dumb shit there is to do, and THEN some, he said. So next time, when I tell you not to do something, you listen and don’t question me, okay? It turned out fine this time, but next time we might not be so lucky.

Aww, tough old Helsknight, he caaaaares about us! Another companion teased, clearly intoxicated and not at all scared of the dark knight breaking bread with them.

You wish! Hels barked, no real bite behind the words. You’re just a pain in the ass to replace is all. You’re worth more to me alive than dead.

Oh yeah, another companion said, nodding their head sagely, he cares.

Mm-hmm, mm-hmm, absolutely. That’s a terminal case of caring right there.

I don’t care! Hels had shouted, a blush rising high on his pale cheekbones.

Could have left us for dead multiple times.

Yeah, way back when we weren’t worth anything to you!

Could have gotten better comrades, some people with more experience, ones you didn’t have to teach.

But instead! The drunk girl whom Hels had saved from falling out of her seat grinned, poking Hels in the side until he squirmed, instead you rescued us at the get-go, and pretended to be so offended at our incompetence you just HAD to stick with us and make sure your efforts didn’t go to waste. Instead you’ve kept with us for half a year and taught us everything we need to know about adventuring and dungeon-crawling.

Admit it, Helsknight, someone else added, you love us.

Hels just grumbled, a good-natured thing that Wels had never heard before. It sent something ricocheting around inside Wels’ ribcage, some wild spark he couldn’t define. Hels’ face was more relaxed than Wels had ever seen it; no deep lines of rage, no molten hatred glowing beneath his skin, no disappointment in his eyes directed at Wels for just existing.

Wels had crept back to his own companions. He pretended not to notice, when Hels and his companions left, nor did he respond to the heated stare he could feel on the back of his head. He simply smiled and nodded and laughed with his new friends and ignored his arch enemy leaving without picking a fight.

Wels continued to wander.

More people were seeking him out now, the news of him killing a party of Player-killers building into his previous reputation. Welsknight, the Knight of Justice is what they were calling him. (Helsknight, the Knight of Vengeance is what they were calling his mirror image. Wels wondered what Hels had done to earn that title. He knew better than to believe the rumors wholesale.) It was odd, having such adoration directed at himself. He said thank you, when people heaped praises on him for his actions, and then tried to move the subject along to a different topic.

Others sought him out to test their mettle against him. Some new challenge the devs have cooked up! Some would say. Or a new boss to test our pvp skills against! Those he would sigh at, and set the rules of non-lethal engagement, and give a good fight to. Most battles he would win; sometimes the person was particularly skilled, and they would win. They always expected something of him – a trophy, XP, treasure, something along those lines. They were always confused and often angered when he would just shrug at them.

I’m not some new boss battle, Wels would answer, I’m just a person there are rumors about.

And then there were some like the people currently ambushing him.

These types were the friends of the Player-killers, the rough and seedy types who broke the rules of the world on the regular and hadn’t taken kindly to Wels’ unintentional white-knighting. They were the types who tracked him down in groups outside inns in the dark of the night, the type who followed him into the woods and laid in wait at his camps, the type who said things like let’s teach the NPC not to stray from his code, shall we? And plucky little thing thinks it’s a PERSON now, does it? And you’ve made our lives hell here, you know; the devs started looking into things more once they got some player complaints, and now there’s rules getting put in place and eyes everywhere and come BACK HERE you coward, if you’re going to be a nuisance be a PROPER ONE-

Now, though, he was in the capital city. It was late, later than he usually was up and awake, but he had escorted some travelers to the portals because they asked for protection. Wels didn’t want to add to the false rumors of his person, but he could never to say no to someone afraid.

He was headed back to his inn when it happened; one moment, he was walking down a back street, debating taking a shortcut through the catacombs. The next, he was being dragged down into the depths by a heavy net and a band of thieves. Wels struggled, shouting; one of the thieves swung a heavy fist into his gut, knocking the wind out of him. They dragged him further and further underground. The smell of the damp and the decay of old bones was heavy here; Wels was disoriented and wasn’t sure if he could find his way back at this point.

They tossed him unceremoniously into a pit.

Which is where he is now. It reeks. He is still bound up in the net, still disoriented from the gut-punch and getting dragged around like a sack of flour, and now there is stinking, slimy fluids soaking into the rope and making it harder to grip and unwind them. The ground is soft and mushy and Wels really doesn’t want to think about whatever it is he is currently wallowing in. Whoever the thieves are, they don’t seem to be interested in taking anything off his person.

With a sick flip of his heart, Wels realizes they are more likely trapping him than looting him.

He stills and quiets; maybe if he can hear what they’re talking about, he can figure out the why of it all. Can figure out how to get out, and how not to get captured again.

“Damn, that was easier than I thought it would be!” one voice says.

“So much for the Knight of Justice,” another snorts. “I knew those rumors had to be bogus.”

“What do you expect? It’s just an NPC. Maybe someone’s been messing about with its code, making it act in unexpected ways, giving it different powers than what it’s supposed to have.”

“Or maybe it picked up a bug! God knows how old that coding is – I don’t think there’s been an update to the Welsknight programming in what – a few centuries? Most of the others aren’t even around anymore. It’s basically a relic storyline at this point. Could very well be the last one, other than that Helsknight that’s still kicking around.”

“Whatever it is, I don’t care. It’s not our problem. Once our employer gets here, this stupid thing–” here one of the thieves kicks some bones down on top of Wels, “will be out of our hands and out of this game for good. Once it’s not around to stir up more trouble, the devs will stop poking their noses into our business and go back to ignoring this world like before.”

None of this is sounding good. Wels rankles a bit at how dismissive of him they are – but it’s to be expected, really, since Players like this rarely treat him as anything more than a curiosity and never like a person. No, the real problem is whoever their employer is.

Someone wants him gone, and Wels needs to get out of here before they show up.

He’s still got his equipment – they must have been counting on the beating he took immobilizing him more than it did. That, and the fact that he can’t see for shit in this pit, and he’s covered in foul-smelling goo, and no one knows he’s down here. Wels grits his teeth. He’s gotten out of worse situations on his own before. And if all else fails, his spawn point is far, far away from here.

Wels pulls out a knife and starts sawing at the ropes.

. . .

Chapter Text

. . .

It’s a few miserable hours in the pit.

Wels cuts his way out of the ropes. He stays quiet, keeping out of the way of the occasional glass bottle or rock or other debris that gets tossed on top of him. Only once do they toss something damaging on him; a potion that burns like ice and makes his limbs seize up. Wels screams, hoarse and loud and strained, for the ten or so minutes it takes for the potion to wear off. He’s left humiliated with tears and snot streaming down his face and his throat sore and his breath only coming in pants. There’s laughter from up above, teasing and cruel. His joints ache, and the cold of the murk he is sitting in seeps into his bones.

Wels lets himself rest against the side of the pit; it’s a circular stone thing, roughly cobbled and slick with mildew. He could climb out if he desperately needed to, but he would need time and concentration. It’s a good fifteen feet up to the top. There’s no gaps or tunnels leading off it that he can see or feel. His only way out is up.

His time, it would seem, is also up.

There’s noises from up top – some murmuring at first, then the uneasy raising of voices, and then a shout that cuts off in a gurgle. There’s the clash and clatter of swords on stone and metal armor, and the staticky crackle of magic, and a bright flash. Then it goes quiet quiet.

Then the solid clanking of metal boots on stone, and the raspy whirring of a rope being tossed down to him.

Wels doesn’t question it; he wraps his hands around it and climbs.

A pair of hands hauls him the rest of the way out of the pit when he reaches the edge; they’re not particularly gentle with him, but neither do they toss him back down or punch him. He scrambles to his feet as quickly as he is able. Helpful or not, he doesn’t know whose hands those are, or if they have friends. They may have killed the thieves, but who’s to say that the enemy of his enemy is truly his friend?

Wels blinks. In the dim lighting of the catacombs, Helsknight stands before him, the bodies of the thieves dissolving behind him. The enemy of his enemy is, apparently, also his enemy.

“Wipe that idiotic look off your face, it doesn’t suit you,” Hels says.

Wels goes to reply, but then there are voices from further down the corridor, and the damning flicker of torchlight.

“Fuck, come on,” Hels hisses, grabbing Wels by the arm and yanking him along the corridor, “come on, you idiot, we need to go. One of those morons sent a distress message before I could kill them. They’ll be here any second, come on.”

Wels tries to shake loose, but Hels’ grip is like iron. He runs alongside him, dark and light mirror images of each other, terror quickening their steps as the sounds of a hunt strike up behind them.

“What are you talking about, you maniac?” Wels whispers back, the sheer panic in Hels’ normally stoic, snarky voice making him cautious. “Go where? Who’s after you? Why do you even – what is going on, Helsknight?”

“The devs of this godforsaken place! They’re after us, not just me. They mean to delete us, Welsknight,” Hels bites the name like a swear word, like Wels has made some social faux pas and mortally offended him, and it’s only then that Wels’ realizes that he hasn’t been in the habit of using Hels’ full name for . . . a few decades, at least. And Hels never calls him Welsknight anymore. Not in recent memories.

He always calls him Wels.

Huh.

Wels’ brow furrows. He thinks back as best he can on all their centuries of interactions. Usually, he tries his best not to think on those times; they weren’t exactly his fondest memories. But now – he thinks back on the banter, on the gleeful back-and-forth they always had. Even tinged with the threat of mutual destruction, it was . . . fun. Something like the hysteria that comes with adrenaline, the urge to laugh in the face of death. There was a comforting familiarity in Hels; Wels always knew where they stood with each other. It’s its own kind of safety, to know your destruction lies in the hands of another.

Wels is unsurprised to realize he’s missed Hels.

Hels is still tugging him down corridor after twisting corridor, trying to lose their tail in the endless maze of catacombs beneath the capital city. Wels didn’t know that Hels was so familiar with the place.

(Or maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s just desperate, and fleeing, and taking Wels with him, because it’s better to be lost together than lost alone, even with your mortal enemy.)

“Hels,” he corrects himself, a peace offering, “Hels. Why would they be after us? Why get rid of us now, after so long?”

“Because of that little stunt you pulled with the Player-Killers!” Hels snarls, voice rising sharply and then dropping back to a furious whisper. It gives Wels a bit of whiplash. “Because you had to go play the goddamn knight in shining armor and kill a bunch of Players, which you shouldn’t be capable of doing, and now they know that!”

“Oh,” Wels says, faint. He hadn’t thought – all he wanted to do was help. All he wanted to do was keep his Players safe. He just wanted to–

“We were safe, so long as they didn’t realize we’d broken our programming and started having thoughts and feelings. Gods, Wels, why do you always have to fuck everything up so badly?” Hels sighs.

Abruptly, Wels feels miserable. The sort of sinking, guilty misery that stuck in your bones and made them weigh three times their weight. It slows his steps, makes them drag in shame, and as soon as the dead weight that Hels is pulling along with himself increases, he spares a glance back at Wels. And blanches, like he realizes what he’s just said, and knows it was wrong, but that can’t be right because – because Hels has never pulled his punches, literally or figuratively. Hels has said much crueler things to Wels before.

All he did now was tell the truth.

Everything that Wels has been too slow to put together starts falling into place; why the thieves were after him, why he was so interesting to all those players, why he couldn’t seem to get away from the rumors and the Players. Everything he’s done has been outside of his programming. Eating new food, learning new skills, making friends. All of that was dangerous enough, but then Wels had to go and do something as stupid as kill Players. Players, who could talk to the makers of their world. Players who could lodge complaints. Players who could do something like make an ultimatum – fix the glitch making their gameplay less fun, or face the consequences of player unrest.

A simple solution, really, when the general consensus was that he and Hels weren’t people.

The devs of their world had always been distant. They hadn’t cared, up until this point, that Wels had broken his programming. Not enough to do something about it. Wels had assumed their lack of interference was permission. Now it was starting to look a lot more like apathy.

“Wait, shit, that’s not what I – I didn’t mean it like that, you moron!”

“Yeah?” Wels asks, bitterness creeping into his voice, “how did you mean it, then?”

Hels pulls to a stop, then, quick and sudden. Wels is taken by surprise and clangs into the back of him, armor clattering against armor, and jolts back. Sturdy hands grip his shoulders before he can fall. He looks up and meets fiery red eyes.

“Look, Welsie, it’s not your fault. Or, well, it is, but you were just – just being yourself. Doing what they had programmed you to do originally, but under your own autonomy, and it’s not – not your fault, that it fucked everything up for us. They were bound to find out eventually. I’m more surprised I’m not the one who fucked it up, actually, given the shit I was pulling on the regular. But that’s not what I–”

Hels dips his head. Wels stares, heart in his throat, at the red plume on the back of Hels’ helmet.

Hels looks back up, and there’s something like regret in his eyes.

“I’m sorry for saying that. It’s not your fault we’re in this shitshow now. It’s the goddamn devs and their inability to consider that something other than a Player can be a person. We’re people, Welsie, but they don’t think we are, and they’re going to delete us because they think there’s an error in our programming, and I can’t just let them – I can’t. I’m the only person who gets to kill you. You’re the only person who gets to kill me. Like hell am I letting them take that away from us. So please, I am begging you, come with me. Don’t fight me on this. I’ll drag you kicking and screaming if I have to. This is a battle I have to win.”

If this had been even a year ago, Wels would have considered that Hels was lying. Would have thought this was another clever trick to get him to let his guard down so Hels could put a sword through his throat.

But the brief glimpses of Hels in the last year have solidified the niggling suspicions into an honest belief. Hels is as free from their original design as Wels is. He’s a person, just as surely as Wels is, and what he is standing here and begging of Wels, he is begging of his own volition and honesty.

(And Hels has never begged before. Not that Wels has seen or heard of, and certainly never of Wels. This is new, for Helsknight. Which means it is Hels who is begging, not Helsknight. And Wels wants to see where this leads.)

“Okay,” Wels says, “where are we going?”

The wash of relief in Hels’ eyes is almost as surprising as his next words.

“Wels,” he grins, “will you run away to the World Hub with me?”

. .

It is almost perilously simple to get through the portal to the World Hub.

They don’t bother with stealth; by the time they make it to the portals, the morning rush in and out of the world is happening. No one pays two errant knights any mind, especially ones gritty and grimy with catacomb dirt and sludge. Hels doesn’t let go of his hand; Wels is thankful for it. The one thing Wels has never even considered an option is leaving, even though he’s seen the portals countless times. He doesn’t even know if they can leave. If their code can survive the process, or if they’ll be torn apart by the firewall, or if the portal will even recognize them as traversable entities in the first place.

One way to find out, Wels thinks.

They step in together, alongside a crush of other people leaving, and Hels slips his hand up from Wels’ to loop it tightly around his waist. Wels throws his own arm around Hels’s shoulder, turning and gripping him to his chest for dear life. Hels’ breathing is ragged in Wels’ ear; it is the only thing that belies the sheer terror mirroring Wels’ own.

“Thank you for saving me,” Wels whispers, because he needs to say it, in case they don’t make it out of here alive.

“Tell me that when I’ve actually saved us,” Hels whispers back, locking his hands behind Wels’ back in the secure mimicry of a hug.

Wels wraps his own arms fully around Hels’ shoulders. The portal glows violet around them, and Wels closes his eyes as a wash of magic unstitches them from reality and existence with a lurch of their whole being.

. .

They stumble out of the portal into the World Hub.

It’s a crush of noise and people. Bright skylights arch overhead, levels of balconies rising around them on every side of the great atrium they’re spit out into. They lurch out of the way of people pushing past them, arms sliding away from each other and hands finding themselves again. Hels tugs Wels along, and he follows, marveling around at all the people and shops and bright screens and plants and-

Hels pulls them down a little side corridor. Up a back flight of stairs. Out a different door, down another few hallways, and then into a dim little shop filled with incense smoke and draped cloth and slow, distorted music. The shopkeep doesn’t bat an eye at them; she looks up over her newspaper, gives them a brief once-over, and then gestures them over to a pair of overstuffed cushions tucked behind a small woven screen. Wels is the one to tug Hels over to the cushions; he’s more used to accepting the kindness of strangers. Hels follows, and Wels feels a stab of relief at that.

Hels keeps holding his hand. It’s nice; grounding, and secure, and shaking just as much as his own is.

“You boys look like you’ve been through the ringer,” the shopkeeper says, voice tilted up at the end in a question. She sways over with a pot of tea balanced in one hand, the other swiping two mugs off a shelf overhead. “Anything I can help with?”

Wels opens his mouth. Hels gives his hand a vicious jerk, and when Wels looks over he gives an equally fierce shake of his head. Wels sighs.

“That depends,” Wels says, letting the caution in his tone be clear, squeezing Hels’ hand in reassurance, “on who it is that’s offering help?”

The woman grins, grey eyes glinting. Wels feels very suddenly in danger, and at the same moment the safest he has ever been. She pours tea for them both. The cups and pot sit, steaming and shimmering, in front of them. Wels smells mint and honey and something sharp and tangy wafting in the steam. The lady leans back, arms crossing and delight clear on her face.

“Ooo, a clever one! That’s always a refreshing change. You’re good to be wary; not everyone is kind and honest. You do well to keep the two of you safe by exercising caution.”

“So you’re saying we’re right not to trust you?” Hels pipes up, a challenge in his voice. He makes no move for the tea.

“I’m saying trust is a thing someone earns, not something you should give blindly. In this case, though, it’s more of an exchange of usefulness than trust. You two look in need of assistance, and I’m bored as hell. So-” she says, pulling up another cushion and magicking another mug out of thin air, “entertain me! Tell me a good story, mystery knights, and maybe I’ll see fit to play mentor for another set of heroes.”

Hels and Wels meet eyes. It’s always been easy to understand what goes on in the other’s mind in battle; they’ve always been on the same page, have always known how their story is supposed to go. Now, staring into Hels’ eyes, Wels finds that the same is still true even if the story and battle have changed. Hels doesn’t trust her, but he is intrigued. Wels is willing to find out what she can offer, but he’s too afraid to make the leap himself.

Hels takes a deep breath in. He breaks Wels’ gaze, and turns instead to the patient grey eyes watching them like an owl.

Hels smiles, all teeth. He reaches out, swipes one of the mugs up, and downs the whole scalding mess.

“Welsie here is a hero, but I sure as hell ain’t,” he says, unflinching from what must be a burned throat and mouth, and the woman laughs.

“Okay then,” she commands, “tell me your story. I’ve never mentored a self-proclaimed villain before.”

“First time for everything,” Hels replies, cheeky. There is still steam curling out of his mouth. Wels can’t stop staring.

“Indeed,” the lady says.

“Well,” Hels begins, “it all started with a story. A long, long time ago, in a kingdom far, far away, there were two knights . . .”

. .

The lady tells them to call her Minerva. They tell her to call them Wels and Hels. She asks them if they have any plans for where they’re going. They don’t, other than away and on and somewhere they can’t catch us. She tells them that there aren’t warrants out for them, not yet, but that the devs who made and run their world are the cruel and apathetic and vindictive kind. They will come after them. And there may be many Players and devs and admins who would keep them safe, but there are just as many who would turn them over for a bounty or a favor.

You can stay here and rest for the night, she says. Let me do some planning. I’ll wake you in the morning.

Hels is the one to say yes; he was the one who told their story, the one who chose what to share and what not to share. Wels is surprised that Hels knew so much of what he’d been up to the past few years. Hels hadn’t elaborated on how he got his information, but Wels can ask him later, when they are alone. For now, they follow Minerva to the back of the shop and into the little apartment above it.

The tea was good and settling, but it also took the edge off the adrenaline and is allowing the shock to start settling in. It’s in a daze more than anything else that Wels observes the little living space.

It's not much, but it’s home for now, she shrugs. Here, you two take the bedroom. There’s a shower through here, and I’ll find you a less conspicuous change of clothes. Disguises should be our first course of action; they’ll be looking for you as you are now.

They take turns slipping out of their armor and through the shower; Hels lets Wels go first and doesn’t taunt him about the sobs Wels is sure he can hear through the door. Then Hels slips past him, and when he emerges in plain clothes and with red-rimmed eyes a half hour later Wels is struck with the thought that this is the first time he has ever seen Hels without his armor.

He looks . . . like just another person.

Hels catches him staring and makes a questioning noise. Wels averts his gaze and scooches back on the bed, making room for Hels. Hels sits cross-legged across from him. When Wels still won’t look at him, Hels reaches out and takes his hands. His bare hands are warm, and scarred, and his palms and fingers are calloused. Wels looks up at him, red-rimmed eyes wide.

“Hey,” Hels starts, voice rough, “I’m gonna ask you something, and I need you to answer honestly.”

Wels clears his throat. His own voice is raspy, from the incense and the crying.

“I’ll . . . do my best. What is your question, Hels?”

Hels stares at him a moment, searching. Wels isn’t sure what he finds; whatever it is, it makes Hels steel his resolve and say:

“If they capture us, I want you to kill me. Can you do that for me, Wels?”

The jolt of fear and screaming anger nearly knocks Wels off the bed at how it makes him recoil in surprise. It’s only Hels’ steady hands in his own that keep him put.

“What the fuck?” he asks, mind reeling.

“I said-”

“No, I heard what you said! I’m just . . . processing. What the hell, Hels?” Wels asks. He realizes his grip on Hels’ hands must be painful; he doesn’t let go, or relent.

“It’s a simple favor,” Hels states. “You’re the only one who gets to kill me. The only one I’ll suffer the indignity of being killed by.”

“Hels,” Wels says.

“I asked you a question, Welsie, and you said you’d give me an honest answer. So?”

Wels breathes in deeply. Lets it out, lets it carry the burning fury at the thought of someone else killing Hels leave him. Lets the fear of being caught, being separated, having that option taken away leave him as well. Searches his heart for the truth. If they die now, it’s forever. There’s no respawn to anchor them back to a world, no permanence in their data to hold them together if they fall. It’s either live, or go unto oblivion.

In the end it is an easy choice.

“Yes, Hels. If they capture us, and there’s no other options, I’ll kill you. But only! Only, if you promise to kill me as well,” Wels says.

Hels grins, and it’s relieved and happy. Wels feels a bit sick. Hels shouldn’t be happy about Wels agreeing to kill him, but he understands it. Wels is maybe the only person who can understand it.

“Sure thing, Welsie. No one else gets to kill you except me. If we go, we go down together, capiche?”

“It’s a promise, then,” Wels agrees. “Together, or not at all.”

(They tuck their armor into their inventories before they sleep, along with the potions and food and maps that Minerva gave them before shooing them away. Hels slipped soap and some rags and a bucket into his inventory from the bathroom, and Wels slipped matches and candles and a blanket into his inventory from the bedroom. There wasn’t room for feeling guilty; Minerva wouldn’t hold precautions against them, and they needed to be ready in case she turned on them and they had to bolt. They whispered escape plans to each other before sleep, just to make sure they were on the same page.)

(Hels tries to sleep as far away from Wels as he can on the bed. He lasts all of five minutes until Wels makes a startled little noise of distress, and then he’s lifting the blanket to scooch closer and Wels is reaching out desperately and they collide in a messy tangle of limbs. Hels tucks Wels’ head to his chest, where he can feel his breaths puff out against his skin and know that Wels is alive. No one gets to kill you except me, he thinks fiercely, no one. I’ll burn the world to keep you safe.)

(Wels doesn’t sleep until Hels’ breathing evens out. He listens to the sound of Hels’ pulse and counts heartbeats instead of sleep. I’m the only one who gets to make that beating stop, Wels tells himself, like reassurance, when his stops, mine does too.)

(Neither of them are awake to see Minerva creak the door open and check on them with a smile. She shuts the door. These two will be interesting, she thinks, a worthy story to be told.)

. . .

Chapter Text

. . .

Minerva sets them up with communicators. Real, actual, Player communicators.

“I don’t know if those will even work for us,” Wels tells her.

It’s tempting, though. Wels had felt it before, some stirring in his code, not the actuality but the potential of a greater connection, a greater purpose. Minerva presses the communicator into his hand and curls his fingers around it.

“One way to find out, yes?” she counters.

“Where the hell did you even get them?” Hels asks, suspicious, squinting at the innocuous little box of glass and wires and code. “I was under the impression these were basically tied into a Player’s code. Like, soul-bound or some shit. Improvable but non-transferrable.”

Minerva laughs; it’s not a particularly kind laugh. Hels squints at her, then his eyes widen, and Wels has to try very hard not to toss away the probably-a-trophy-of-murder gift he has been given.

She walks them through the setup and how to add numbers and addresses. How to set world coordinates and send messages. How to use the search functions on hub worlds to see the news feeds and access the web. How to pull up their own statistics and data and look at their own Code. Most importantly, how to manage the privacy settings of their communicators and ensure their status was set as unfindable, their data encrypted, and any attempts to circumvent their security set to ping them immediately.  

“There’s a lot more that these can do, but that’s the bare bones of it,” Minerva says. “I’ll leave the tinkering about to you on your own time. This will do to get you by.”

Hels is turning his comm over and over in his hands, like he can’t believe it’s real. Wels knows it’s real. He had felt it, when he typed in the name Welsknight Gaming to confirm the ‘Player name’: the tethering of some intrinsic part of himself to the greater universe, the fulfilment of that desired potential. The comm was only the conduit, the path through which Wels reached out to the Universe, and through which the Universe reached back.

And the Universe said-

“Now that that’s set,” Hels asks, still looking down at his comm and the name Helsknight Gaming shining at him from the screen, “what’s next? We’ve got disguises-” he gestures up and down at the sweeping robes each of them is wearing, “we’ve got comms-” a gesture with the little soul-bound electronic device, “and we’ve got nowhere to go.”

“You have many places to go,” Minerva says. “You just need to figure out how to make your way to all of them.”

Hels rolls his eyes. Taps impatiently and dismissively on his comm, even as he clutches it to his chest.

“Okay, yes, proverbs and such, but what’s the actual goddamn plan?”

“I’ve got some contacts outside of our world,” Wels says slowly. Minerva smiles at him, grey eyes benevolent, and nods for him to go on. Hels turns and stares. “Friends who would see us as people, who would offer protection. We could go to any of them?”

He is ignoring Hels’ staring. He can’t figure out what it means, and Wels is not going to let Hels’ potential judgement ruin the high he’s feeling from being confirmed as a Player.

“That’s a good start,” she says. “If you’ve got addresses and numbers, that’s even better. But I can work with just names.”

Wels transfers over all the data he can from his old comm to the new one. For the sake of safety redundancy, Wels makes Hels add the contacts to his communicator as well. Hels, shockingly, has a few contacts of his own, and when Wels asks for their information as well, Hels obliges. He grumbles the whole time but is surprisingly accommodating; Wels expected him to get snarky and mean again with a bit of sleep and food under their belts. When Wels invades his space to help him type out the information quicker, Hels lets him, and then he doesn’t protest when Wels just . . . stays.

Wels is pressed to him ankle to thigh to shoulder. When Wels starts anxiously tapping his foot, Hels hooks his foot around Wels’ ankle and traps Wels’ foot between his own feet to hold it still. He doesn’t even stutter or pause in transferring the data to do it, or make any acknowledgement of his actions. Wels doesn’t try to get his foot back.

(Wels thinks it might be the shock of it all wearing off that has him trying to climb inside his counterpart’s skin. He’s not quite sure what it could be otherwise. Wels just knows that being close is better than being far, and Wels doesn’t care if that makes him weak or clingy or a liability. So long as Hels will put up with him, Wels will stay.)

Minerva pulls out a crystal ball. Hels snorts.

“What, are you some sort of oracle?” Hels taunts.

Minerva stares at him, face flat and emotionless, until Hels apparently remembers the whole ‘probably permanently murdered Players to get them comms’ thing and starts sweating and shrinking in his seat. Which is an impressive feat, considering Wels has never seen Hels cowed by anyone. The smile that starts at the corners of Minerva’s mouth and slowly creeps up the far reaches of her face probably helps with the intimidation factor. There are too many teeth in her smile, or not enough, or just – something. Something that makes Wels squirm and not want that smile directed at him.

“This is a map of the hub worlds and all currently listed public servers. And a few private ones whose locations are publicly accessible.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Hels squeaks out, shrinking behind Wels and making a valiant effort to climb inside his skin to escape.

(Wels doesn’t know what to make of the feeling of relief, at that. That Hels isn’t just allowing Wels close, he’s reciprocating. He files that thought away for later contemplation.)

Minerva finally takes pity on him after a long few seconds and stops pinning him with her stare. Instead, she taps a few fingertips along the surface of the crystal ball. The darkened room grows darker, and then projected all around them are-

“Holy shit, is that space?” Hels gasps.

Wels is inclined to agree with that sentiment. All around them are tiny glowing constellations of light, spinning lazily through the air in relation to each other. Some have tiny strands of golden light connecting them. Some have many strands of light connecting them, bundled thick like cords. Others float untethered, dense and silver-shiny. Some are faded and dim, and some glow with the intensity of the sun.

“Close,” Minerva says. “These are, as I said, all the known public worlds in the universe. Some of which are traversable through physical space – that is, you could commandeer a ship of the stars and sail there through the void. Mostly, though, they exist in metaphysical relationship to each other. You have to access them through portals, either directly world-to-world, or more likely through hub worlds.”

“Like the one we’re in now?” Wels asks, leaning forward to prod at one of the bright orbs hanging directly in front of him.

“Exactly,” she says. “We’re here at what is considered the World Core Hub; all worlds and portals eventually lead here. There are many Server Hubs and hub worlds, but this is the center of . . . everything, pretty much. Not everything is directly connected here, but you can always find your way here if you keep going. All roads lead to Rome, as the old saying goes.”

She reaches forward and taps the same bright spot that Wels had touched; it glows brighter, then drops to a muted blue hue. Minerva strums along the strands of golden light reaching out from it, and the muted blue travels down each strand and touches the worlds they connect to. Each one shifts to a warm green tone. Hels unlatches himself from Wels, reaches out and pokes at one of them.

“I take it these are all our options?” he says, red eyes expectant and reflective in the dimmed light of the room.

“Precisely. Well. The ones from here, at least. And if I may see one of your comms-” she holds out a hand; Wels places his comm in her palm. “It’s a simple matter of elimination. If there’s an option on one of these worlds, you can take it and know it to be the path of least resistance. If not, we simply find another route to someone who can offer you aid.”

Minerva shows them how to use the crystal ball; it’s fairly intuitive, once you get the hang of it, a dance like something between making music and sword fighting. It reminds Wels a bit of the puzzles he helped his Players solve in dungeons; something that required time and effort to solve, but once you got the understanding of the thing it was really quite simple.

He glances over and catches sight of Hels – illuminated by soft light and framed in softer darkness, eyes lit up with wonder and reflecting the Universe. He’s spinning through the simulated cosmos, plucking at connections and skimming the strands to their source, and then he laughs and – somehow it feels like it’s plucked at strings in Wels’ heart. Like he’s suddenly become illuminated from within like the worlds Hels is caressing.

It's thrilling, and terrifying, and confusing. Wels tears his eyes away and goes back to his own investigations.

(He doesn’t see that a moment after he turns away, Hels catches sight of him and freezes. He doesn’t see the wonder change to want, change to regret and fury and despair, and then be wiped away into the indifferent, unaffected mask Hels tries to always wear. If Wels had seen it, maybe he could have made sense of what was happening in his own heart.

But he didn’t, so he won’t work out what’s happening for a long time yet.)

(Minerva sees both of these things.)

There are three direct options available from the World Hub.

Two are acquaintances that Wels made; one was a companion of Hels’, from the time that he spent not antagonizing Wels. Wels is . . . mildly surprised to hear Hels call her a friend. Not wholly, because he remembers the tavern and the affection all those young travelers directed at Hels, at how he didn’t rebuff them, and instead offered affection in turn. It’s not hard for Hels to convince him that that world should be the first destination they head towards.

Minerva gives them the crystal ball.

“I can always acquire another,” she laughs, gently pushing it back into Wels’ hands despite his protests. “Besides, what sort of mentor would I be if I sent you off without proper directions?”

Wels bows, deeply and sincerely. He tugs Hels down with him, who grumbles but follows his lead. When they stand, Minerva’s grey eyes are sparkling with laughter. She tells them her doors are always open for them, wherever they might need them.

“I know we have . . . basically nothing to our names, nothing to offer as repayment for your kindness and your help, but if there’s anything we could offer-” Wels says, before Minerva cuts him off.

“You’ll have to come back someday and tell me your stories again,” she says. “I’ll take that as payment enough. The both of you. Together,” she adds, with a weird sort of emphasis which – combined with eyeing Hels with a small grin, probably means she expects him to be the problem child on this.

Which is likely, if Wels is being honest. Hels never makes anything easy; he’s a fighter at heart.

“Sure,” Hels shrugs. He crosses a fist across his chest and taps it twice over his heart. “Knight’s honor.”

Or Wels doesn’t know him at all apparently, and everything he knows is a lie.

“Yeah! Yeah, what he – yes,” Wels stammers, scrambling to follow suit, the two taps feeling clumsy and rushed, “on my honor as a Knight, we shall return. Together.”

Minerva stares at him. Hels is also staring at him, but Wels is ignoring him and focusing firmly on Minerva. Who maybe looks like she wants to laugh at him and is trying very hard not to. He’s sweating a bit under the weight of the stares, but he holds firm and resolute and ignores how embarrassed and off-kilter he feels. His inner turmoil is firmly inner. He is not blushing, thank you very much.

Minerva blinks.

“Okay, yeah, sure. I accept your vows. Go forth and don’t die,” she says. Then, as she turns away, she mutters a quiet: “oh this is going to be fun, isn’t it?” that Wels doesn’t think they were meant to hear.

Hels reaches over and tugs the end of Wels’ braid where it hangs over his shoulder.

“Are you alright?” Hels asks with a frown. “That was . . . weird. Even for you.”

Wels brushes him away, deflecting him physically and verbally. Hels bats back at him, and they scuffle briefly before Wels exclaims:

“Yes, I’m fine, Hels. Just – nervous.”

Hels stops batting at him, which Wels should be relieved at and for some reason isn’t. His skin is burning where Hels touched him. He’s not thinking about it, thank you.

“About?”

“All of it? Literally everything we’re about to go do? This is untread territory,” Wels says. As he continues speaking, he realizes it’s less of a deflection and more just plain truth. “We have people after us who mean to kill us. We’ve got friends, possibly, out in the wider universe, who would help us, but there’s still so much that could go wrong before we reach them. And – what are we supposed to do? Keep running forever?”

“If we need to, yeah,” Hels says with a frown, but Wels can see that Hels doesn’t like it even as he says it. Wels watches him change tactics. “But I’m confident there’s a place out there where we can be safe. Not every world can be as shitty and corrupt as ours was.”

Wels reaches over and knocks three times on the wooden table.

Hels gives him his best ‘are you serious?’ look.

Wels laughs, bright and hysterical. It’s half relief and half fear, somewhat a tangle of giddy nerves about the unknown and just how little he is prepared for, but mostly –

“Life is already so gosh dang weird, I guess this might as well happen,” he says with a helpless shrug.

Hels rolls his eyes, then grins at him, all teeth and squinted red eyes. Wels’ heart thumps in his chest, and he grins back, wild and bright.

“I think that’s probably just the shock wearing off, but whatever gets you to follow me, I’m happy with.”

. . .

Minerva escorts them to the portal. They’re swathed in their new robes, the three of them a matching set. No one spares them a glance; possibly because no one is really looking for them yet, but possibly because they’re looking for two knights in armor and not three apparent acolytes clad in draping fabric.

It gives Wels a chance to take in the Hub in better detail.

It’s . . . spacious. Sprawling might be a better word, but for all that there is so much here it avoids being cramped. The halls and portals and streets seem endless, trailing off further and further in different directions until Wels loses sight of their ends. And the buildings! The shops! The towering structures that he can only guess at the purpose of! Or – he reads as many names as he can. Some are in Universal galactic, some in languages other than that but which he is familiar with, and many more are in languages he cannot even begin to comprehend.

They skirt briskly around the outside of a massive Hub square. There are people of every size, shape, and species bustling about on business. The building at its center is a monolith of gold and glass, looming and impressive. Wels spies the name ‘World Core Hub Administration Headquarters’ in imposing black lettering above the doorway. Ah, okay. That’s great, and not terrifying at all.

He squeezes Hels’ hand tighter.

Not far from there, down what must have once been a main street, there is a darkened portal. The ground around it is cracked and crumbling, the broken stone bannisters on the floors lining it shot through with moss and mildew. Most of the portals here are empty. Some look broken like the ground. Many look like they were simply disconnected and never turned back on. No one strolls casually down this street; a few poke their heads down it to observe, but most people hurry past.

The darkened portal is still active.

Not in the familiar purple or blue, or even in the less-common gold or white, but in the inky black nothingness of the void itself. It is an emptiness like the space between stars. Withered black thorns had grown up and died around it, dead and dried rose heads hanging like a tarnished crown from it and nearly obscuring the writing carved into it. They don’t get close enough to be able to read it, and Wels doesn’t mind that. Something about it – underlying the very real creep factor – strikes Wels as something fundamentally broken.

(Wels has already grappled with the fact that he himself is likely a fundamentally broken piece of the Universe. He doesn’t want to get caught up in anyone else’s mess.)

They keep going.

Past loading docks and medical clinics and shopping malls. Past dozens and hundreds of portals spitting strangers out or taking them in. Past portals three stories tall and twice as wide, off into a tamer, more run-down section of the Hub. The portals are older and more worn, and somehow wilder too. Less – manufactured, more organic. Minerva leads them unerringly to the one they’re looking for.

“This is your stop,” Minerva murmurs. “Remember where it is.”

Wels means to say thanks. He means to tell her that her kindness is appreciated, that it’s more than she needed to do, that he means to keep his promises. But his throat won’t open and let sound out, so he instead throws his arms around her shoulders in a hug. She reciprocates, and Wels has the briefest sensation of being cradled by the Universe herself.

(Hels stays back. He doesn’t hug her, and he doesn’t comment on Wels wiping his eyes and composing himself after they break apart.)

Wels looks back at Minerva when they step into the portal. Hels is holding his hand again, palm bare and sweaty and grip firm. It feels like fire. Minerva looks cool and disinterested, but the corner of her mouth crooks up slightly at him. She mouths something; Wels loses the sound of it in the rushing cacophony of the portal spiriting them away. For the briefest moment, right before he loses sight of her, he thinks he catches sight of wings.

Portal travel is just as disorienting as the first time.

Hels pulls him upright when they make it through. The town is average size; no huge castles or multi-story buildings, just some shops and houses and fields, the buildings all rounded and clay-built. Some of the tech from the Hub is present – there’s some hovercraft puttering around, and what looks like a communications tower rises from the distance with a blinking red light atop it. But the tech also looks . . . less shiny that most of the things in the Hub. Older, worn down, well-loved and meticulously maintained.

They wander down the street and towards the edge of town. The sun is hot, here; not far from the village, a desert stretches out towards the horizon. Hels pulls out his communicator and sends a message. There is a well just past the last house, on the edge of the road before it heads off into the sand. They sit and wait by it; Wels pulls a bucket of water up and they take turns drinking.

Hels’ communicator pings. Wels leans over his shoulder to read, and Hels lets him.

Holys hit, is tha tyuou? the message reads.

Hels snorts and types back.

I see your spelling is as atrocious as always.

Eyeah, th’s you. Where u at??? I’llf inf you

Entry portal town. Are you close by, or should we find somewhere to stay for the night?

The communicator doesn’t ping for a long while; they sit, and wait, and try to hide from the sun. Wels is just about to suggest they go find better shelter than the little patch of shade cast by the roof over the well when there is a shout from the road. They turn and look – barreling down the road from the desert is someone seated atop a large bird. As they get closer, the figure stands in the stirrups, raising their arms and shouting again.

“HELSKNIGHT!” the person shouts, and now that they’re close enough Wels can see that it’s the girl with the braids that he saw in the tavern with Hels.

She’s dressed for the desert – similarly to how they are, actually, in flowing robes and wide hats. A rifle is strapped across her back and Wels can see the packs attached to the saddle of the great long-legged bird she’s riding on. As her steed comes to a stop in front of them, she throws herself out of the saddle and down to the ground. She beams at Hels, only sparing a glance over at Wels and raising an eyebrow before turning back to her friend.

“Hey stranger,” she says, dark eyes full of mischief.

“Hey trouble,” Hels teases back, and Wels can clearly hear the fondness in Hels’ voice. It’s slightly off-putting; he’s only heard that much clear affection from Hels once, and it wasn’t directed at him. It was directed at this girl and the others in that tavern. It makes that strange feeling from that night ricochet around his chest again.

“Finally decided to spread your wings and leave that shitty old place behind?” she teases.

“Something like that,” Hels shrugs.

The girl steps up into Hels’ space and he – lets her. Wels’ heart thumps, with unease or alarm or – something. She reaches up towards Hels and there’s something intense about her even though she’s smiling and Wels is half a second from leaping between them and then –

Hels leans down and kisses her.

Oh.

Oh.

Well, that’s . . . interesting. And fine. Wels thought they were just friends but the . . . kissing and such says otherwise. It’s not a long kiss, but to Wels it seems like it goes on for hours while his brain short-circuits and recontextualizes. The girl steps back, and she’s grinning, and so is Hels, and Wels feels like his stomach is eating itself. He thinks maybe breakfast didn’t agree with him, because what else could it be?

Her eyes flick over to Wels. There must be something on his face – maybe his expression is doing something funny? – because her eyes widen briefly before settling back down. Her smile only widens.

“Are you boys up for a bit of a hike?” she says, playful. “It’s not too far, but there’s a lot of sand.”

Hels looks over at him. Wels gives a helpless shrug.

“If we get eaten by quicksand, I’m blaming you,” Hels tells her, and the girl just laughs and leads them away.

. . .