A baby chapter for Baby Sky! For this story, Baby Sky is about five. This is the only chapter from his pov, I think - it was easy enough to write, but the voice doesn't feel like mine (understandably). I drew a lot from the way my own 5yo thinks and acts.
I subscribe to the hc that Sky grew up alone, raised by everyone on Skyloft. It's why everyone seems to know him, and why he can sleep in literally anyone's bed in-game!
Chasing Down a Daydream ‐ Febuwhump 2026
Chapter 3 - Flying
Prev
Read on ao3
Link struggled as the wind smashed him against rock and stone, trying to protect his head and free his body from the tangly blanket at the same time. None of this was right!
He didn’t have his loftwing yet, but he’d just been practicing, getting ready for the day his beautiful bird would soar down from the heavens and connect with his soul. That's where he was, for sure!
But when he opened his eyes to strange air, and strange plants, and a strange person, then been picked up by the strange wind…even though the butterflies had been really cool, he was still really scared!
The rocks fell away beneath him, and Link held tighter to the strange blanket that behaved like wings. The wind tossed him around, caught him, let him fall only to sweep him up again, and Link started to have fun. It was like when Mister Gaepora would throw him and Zelda up into the air! Or when Mister Eagus would secretly take him out flying on his loftwing.
Thinking of Zelda made him sad. She would have loved this! He’d have to remember everything he could, and tell her aaaallll about it when he got back!
The wind took him into some dark clouds that felt cold and slimy on his face and fingers; butterflies struggled in his tummy and up into his mouth as he suddenly fell fast, dropping from the sky like a rock over the edge of Skyloft.
The green and brown ground rose to meet him and Link hid inside the blanket, wishing for the nice scarred butterfly man again. He fell into something soft but crunchy, and it hurt!
Something warm dripped down Link's face from his hair and he cried, scared and lost and alone.
A woman's voice yelled something he couldn’t hear over his cries, but when she unburied him from the soft yellow pokey stuff and smiled down at him, he stopped crying. She was so pretty! And then she picked him up and held him close, and even though Link didn’t know her he let her.
She felt warm, and she said things that made him feel better. Maybe sleepy.
Yeah, it had been a long day! A nap sounded really good, actually.
This is how I die, he thinks. He’s survived getting hit by a car and splashed with toxic chemicals. He’s survived the Russians, the Irish mob, crooked policemen, the Hand, Wilson Fisk. He’s been stabbed, slashed, beaten, poisoned, shot in the head. A building fell on him one time. And he’s survived all of it.
And now some low level drug dealer with a needle and a knife, who either had more experience than Matt would ever have suspected or was just lucky, has left him for dead in an alley.
It’s not just the stab wound (to the side, below his ribs and above his hip). He’s been stabbed before. It was what the dealer did next, with surprising speed and precision, while Matt had been on the ground trying to recover enough to stand and finish the fight. A needle to the neck, filled with some designer synthetic drug that’s popular right now. A drug that enhances every sense--a sweet and exciting high for the average user, no doubt.
For Matt, it’s hell. The world isn’t just on fire--he is.
He’s burning from the inside out and from the outside in. Every sound--he can hear every sound and he can’t shut them off, can’t focus. Everything is so damn loud and he’s not sure but he thinks his ears are bleeding. And the smells. There’s certainly a cacophony of smells in a Hell’s Kitchen alley, and all of them are filling his nose at once, drowning him, suffocating him. Every nerve is electric, tingling. He can feel his clothes against his skin, tight like a boa constrictor squeezing the life out of its prey, the fibers scratching at his very cells. The air touching his face is hot and heavy and merciless. Matt wonders vaguely if his flesh has been stripped away, leaving nothing but a bare skull beneath the mask.
He knows he has to get up and find help--from Claire, from Foggy, from Karen, anyone--but he can’t move. The sudden overstimulation assaulting him from every angle has left him paralyzed and in agony and he’s going to bleed to death and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.
Suddenly, there’s a sound very close to him, a shout that sets his head to pounding, and a quiet groan escapes from his lips, very much against his will.
“Hey!” the voice says again, and it’s familiar, but Matt can’t place it. “C’mon, we have to move!”
A hand grabs his arm, sending pain lacing through the limb, and he lets out a scream. The hand quickly releases.
“Shit! What’s wrong with you?”
It’s hard to concentrate, hard to focus on any specific input when there’s so much stimulation assaulting every sense, but he manages to pull a name out of the flurry of thoughts.
“Frank?”
“Yeah it’s me. Keep it down, will ya? What the hell did that guy do to you?”
“Drugged,” Matt gasps, and the act of speaking is enough to start him groaning again as jolts of pain spike through his head and injured side.
Frank swears, and Matt’s pretty sure he’s crouched down now. “Look, Red, I can’t leave you here. You’re bleeding a lot, not to mention what someone else will do if they find you here. Can you stand?”
Matt tries to answer, tries to stand, anything, but his brain is at a disconnect with his body, and there’s a new sensation, one that’s not coming from everything happening around him. It’s in his head, filling him up with helium. He gasps before letting out a thin moan.
“Shit,” Frank says. “Shit. How much did he give you? Goddammit. Okay, sorry about this.”
Then there’s a blow to the side of his head and everything goes black.
xxx
He wakes up screaming. He thinks he might be on fire. He can’t smell smoke, but what other explanation is there? He’s burning. Or maybe it’s the world that’s burning. That would explain why it’s so fucking loud--sirens and car horns and screams and the roaring of his own blood in his ears. He thinks someone might be saying his name, too, but he can’t tell.
It feels like centuries pass this way. Or is it only seconds? He stops screaming, eventually, too exhausted to make a sound. He’s sure that any moment now, he’s going to die. But he doesn’t.
He sort of wishes that he would.
xxx
The first thing he notices when he comes back to himself is the splitting headache and the stabbing pain in his side. The next thing he notices is the fact that he’s wearing nothing but his boxer-briefs. There’s a brief panic as he realizes his face is showing and he’s got no idea where he is, but then a familiar gruff voice says, “Hey, you with me?”
Matt takes a few deep breaths to calm himself down, and then he nods. His mouth and throat are dry and he has to swallow twice before he’s able to speak. “Why am I half-naked?”
Matt sits up a little (ouch) as a glass of water is shoved into his hand. He doesn’t want to drink it at first--he’s starting to feel nauseated and is worried that anything he consumes will come back up instantly--but then he feels the cool liquid against his throat and that changes immediately. He starts to chug it, but a hand pulls the glass from his grip.
“Hey!” Frank snaps. “I said slow. Slow.”
Matt nods. “Slow. Got it.”
Frank hesitates a moment before handing the glass back to him. It takes all of Matt’s self control not to down the whole thing instantly. He can feel Frank watching him and does his best to ignore it.
“How’re you feeling?” Frank asks once Matt finishes the glass.
“Really, really shitty,” Matt says. He’s too tired to try and pretend he feels anything but, and he’s pretty sure Frank would just see through him anyway.
“Yeah, you’re gonna wanna take it easy for a few days. The stab wound wasn’t too deep but I think I gave you a concussion.” Before Matt can be angry about that, Frank adds, “It was the only way I could get you here. You were screaming like a fuckin’ banshee if I even touched you…You remember what happened?”
“Not really.”
“Prob’ly for the best…”
“What time is it?” Matt asks.
“Almost 3 am.”
“Shit,” Matt murmurs, pushing himself up on his elbows and biting back a cry as it exacerbates the pain in his head and side.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Gotta get home before sunrise. Black suit’s not as subtle in the daytime. Where’re my clothes?”
“Hey, hold on. Hold on, Red. You’ve still got time. You should rest a few hours, that shit’s probably still lingering your system. Have another glass of water and get a little sleep. I’ll wake you up when you need to go.”
If he were in better shape, he’d probably argue, or tell Frank to go fuck himself. But right now, another glass of water and a couple hours of sleep sound like heaven.
whumptober day.1 let’s hang out sometimes - waking up restained + alt.9 memory loss.
fandom: Star Wars/The Clone Wars
__
It was strange, his eyes hurted, he couldn’t move and his body felt dull while his body was hot all over...
No..no..no it wasn’t really happening, he was dreaming, right? He was still in battle..he was fine..
No, it had to be a nightmare...
Why were his eyes still closed? They felt heavy.
Why couldn’t he open them? Maybe he was just tired.
Was he sitting? It was too dark to tell.
Was it dark outside? Was he alone?
He didn’t know, he didn’t know anything. He tried to move his arms but couldn’t, they were restrained apparently and they were hurting.
Definitely not a nightmare...
Was he a prisoner?
Why didn’t he remember anything? How long was he there?
For a moment he thought..hoped that he was finally dying, because the prospect of being tortured wasn’t that great, even if he was sure he would never betray his brothers, he was too loyal but, deep down, was afraid that his mind wasn’t.
The scariest thing was that he didn’t remember how he got there, how he was captured or who had him there. Were the bounty hunters or the separatists he didn’t know, what he know was that he needed to be out of there.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Characters: Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne
Additional Tags: FebuWhump2021, Held at Gunpoint, Whump, Head Injury, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Hurt Dick Grayson
Summary:
The sound of a gun’s safety being removed was recognisable, even in the midst of a fist fight. Dick wouldn’t have given it much thought though, had it not been for the proximity. He trusted his own abilities to dodge bullets after all these years fighting alongside Batman. After all, when people are shooting at you on an almost nightly basis, you get quite a bit of practice at it.
When a stakeout with Batman goes wrong, Dick finds himself on the wrong end of the gun.
Despite Artemis' reassurance and suggestion, none of the Chain slept that night. She could tell the moment she arrived outside their suite of rooms and heard the anxious murmuring within. Sighing, she knocked firmly on their door. Hopefully the Hero of the Four Sword had enough time with his shadow to come up with a plan.
Even though she held the Triforce of Wisdom, she was at a loss.
-----
In Time's defense, he had tried to convince the Chain to get a few hours' rest. But between Warriors' anxious pacing, Wild's fretting over Four's gloom poisoning, Legend obsessively going over his items, and Twilight’s hovering, Sky may have been the only one to doze off.
They couldn’t help it. They all knew how much Four adored his Zelda. The fact that he, of all people, would attack any Zelda was impossible to comprehend.
When the knock sounded throughout their suite, every head turned toward the sound. When Time opened the door, revealing Artemis outside, everyone jumped up and strapped on the few effects they’d managed to remove.
“Is it time?” Warriors almost begged.
Artemis nodded. “We shall retrieve him at once. Captain Link, will you choose one of your brothers to come with us? I must request the rest of you gather in the main courtyard.”
Warriors turned pleading, haggard eyes onto Time. “Will you come?”
Time nodded firmly. “I will.”
Warriors' shoulders sank in relief, and they silently followed Artemis down to the dungeon.
The main door groaned on its hinges when Artemis pushed it open; Time heard the clank and rattle of chains from a handful of cells as prisoners stirred.
He didn’t care about the other prisoners. He snatched a torch from the wall and stalked down the corridor until a familiar quadricolored tunic caught his eye.
Four slept, head on his chest, breath whistling faintly. Limp in his chains, arms suspended away from his body, he looked so…small. Time's heart twisted uncomfortably in his chest. “Four?” he whispered.
The Smithy’s ears twitched. Eyelids fluttered. A grimace, a deeper breath that left as a keening whine.
Finally, his eyes opened. But they weren’t their usual comforting gray, or even the eerie crimson from the day before. Instead, each eye was a mix of two colors, split down the middle: red and purple in his left, blue and green in his right. “Time?” he breathed.
A clatter of footsteps sounded as Artemis and Warriors arrived at the cell. Four stood more erect when he saw the Princess. “Wars? Artemis, we’re so sorry! We didn’t…we’d never–”
Artemis held up her hand, gently cutting off his apology. “Do you know what you need to do?”
Four blinked, shocked at the interruption. “Yes.”
“Are you ready?”
“We are.”
“Very well.” She pulled out a ring of keys, unlocking first his cell, then – carefully – his manacles.
Four groaned as his arms were released, falling bonelessly to his hands and knees. His arms trembled; in the flickering torchlight, his shadow appeared to hover worryingly behind him.
Warriors stepped forward, but Four glared up at him through his bangs. “Stop.”
Warriors stopped.
Four grimaced, but sat up straight. “Sorry. The Malice is contained, but until it is purged we’re not safe to touch.”
Artemis crouched nearby, heedless of her skirts dragging along the ground. “What do you need, Hero?”
“We need…” Four closed his eyes and held his head. His lips moved silently, like he was talking to himself, before he continued. “We need our sword…a strong magic circle…” his eyes opened and met Time's, “…and a whole lot of trust from the Chain.”
-----
This is crazy, it’ll never work, Blue whispered as Time led them out of the dungeon.
We’ve already discussed this, Vio whispered back. It has to.
After Shadow had finished his tale, Four spent another hour tracking down the dormant remnants of the Colors in his mind. It shouldn’t have been possible, his mind had been One since the end of his adventure, but with Shadow's return and the Malice infecting his body, his sense of self – of Oneness – had fractured.
Soon he’d gathered the warm hearth, the spring breeze, the steady ground and the gentle rain and coaxed them back to consciousness. They were still quiet, faded, an echo of the voices he once knew, but there all the same.
Vio's right, Green sighed. The pre-dawn light filtered softly through tall glass windows, warming Four's frigid skin. Unless we want to do Wild's quest all over again, this is the only way.
It’ll be nice to see each other again, Red breathed, glowing warmly in the back of his mind.
The Malice they held in a stranglehold hissed.
------
Twilight turned as Time, Warriors, Four, and Artemis entered the courtyard. Four and Artemis stayed back, discussing something in hushed voices, but Time strode forward with confidence, Wars trailing in his wake.
“How is he?” Twilight asked.
“Still corrupted, hurting, but they’re convinced they know how to fix it.”
“They?” Legend interrupted. “He’s never referred to himself as plural before.”
“I don’t think it’s permanent,” Time said. “It seems to me like it’s a result of whatever the corruption has done to him. Who has his sword?”
Legend raised a hand, then carefully pulled the unsheathed blade from his pouch. He held it like it was familiar to him.
“Does he need anythin’ from us?” Twilight asked.
“All he asked for was our trust.”
“That’s it?” Wind worried. “We can’t do anything else to help him?”
Warriors shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s it. He wouldn’t even let me touch him. No, whatever happens now is between him and Zelda.”
At that, the two in question approached solemnly. Four stopped nearby, but Artemis merely gave a small bow and moved on to the center of the courtyard, brows furrowed in concentration.
Twilight looked Four up and down. He looked tired. Sluggish. The dark circles under his eyes blended in with the shadows between each dull red vein across his face.
At least his eyes weren’t that bloody, glowing crimson anymore. Twilight much preferred the prism they now showed, even if it was still a little odd.
Four gave a wan smile and carefully took his sword from Legend. Once he had it settled comfortably in his palm he sighed deeply. “Let’s get this over with,” he mumbled, then looked down at his feet. “You ready?”
“Not really,” whispered a copy of Four's voice from somewhere near the ground.
Twilight thought nothing of the shadow that materialized from under Four. Midna had done the same all through his adventure.
SHING!
Twilight turned, startled, as Time, Warriors, Hyrule, Wild and Legend all pointed their swords at the shadow that now cowered behind Four. Sky and Wind stood nearby, wary, but not openly hostile.
Immediately, Four raised his own blade into a defensive guard. “No!” he barked. “Shadow is not an enemy, and we won’t let you hurt him!”
“But,” Warriors blustered, “it’s a Dark! Like the one we’ve been hunting!”
“He,” Four spoke very clearly, in a voice that chilled Twilight to the bone, “is my shadow, not a Dark. Stow your blades.” His eyes softened. “Trust us, remember?”
Twilight sensed the reluctance in the rest of the Chain, but one by one, they sheathed their weapons. In return, Twilight saw the relief and relaxation come by degrees over Four and his shadow.
“Thank you,” Four breathed. “We’ll explain more about him once this is over, but for now, it’s time for one more of our secrets to be revealed.”
Twilight stayed back as Four took Shadow's hand in his own, walking to where Artemis had laid a gently glowing golden circle of goddess magic around the central courtyard. Twilight caught a grimace on Four's face before he thrust the Four Sword between two cobblestones.
Four and Shadow each placed their hands on its pommel and closed their eyes. The pre-dawn light shifted closer to full bloom, the sun just barely under the horizon.
A light flared from the center of the magic circle, and the world around Twilight twisted.
-----
Please work, Vio pleaded as they drew on the magic of the Four Sword.
The Malice inside their body hissed and writhed against the blooming light, digging its metaphorical claws in deep.
A twist.
A shift.
A realignment.
Vio opened his eyes and allowed the smallest of relieved smiles to touch his lips. Surrounding the Four Sword were the other Colors, and Shadow with them.
Red's eyes were huge and filled with tears. Vio stepped back and held up a hand, forestalling Red's incoming hug. “Remember the plan,” he said firmly. “We cannot touch until we are purged.”
Red hugged himself instead, his body clear of the gloom poisoning except for his right hand. “Right, right, sorry,” he whispered.
Vio looked critically around the circle. Red's right hand, Blue's left, Shadow's legs…
He turned to Green, who nodded and pulled down the collar of his tunic. Patchy red veins peeked out from his chest. Good.
No one's faces had any trace of the gloom, which meant that was where his portion had manifested. He could feel it, twining with his thoughts, trying to expand and corrupt him fully.
They wouldn’t give it the chance. “To your places,” he commanded.
Quickly, they oriented themselves within the circle – Vio, Blue, Green, Shadow, and Red – five points of a star with their Sword at the center.
They knelt in place, and Artemis began a prayer of balance, of harmony, just as they’d discussed with her upon leaving the dungeon. Her prayer served as a conduit for her magic, and a metronome to which the Colors and Shadow could work.
First, the elements.
Vio’s Earth. Blue’s Water. Green’s Air. Shadow’s Darkness. Red’s Fire.
And the Four Sword, their Light, in the center.
The runes of the circle lit with the sickening red of Wild's gloom, contained within the Heroes of the Four Sword, constrained by the magic into form made tangible. Vio grinned as he caught sight of Red and Blue's bare, clear hands. It was working.
Next, the character, the whole, what made Four Link. His truest self, the traits they held, the virtues each represented.
And the Four Sword, the symbol of their Heroism, in the center.
Vio watched as, slowly but surely, divine golden light forced the seething malice closer to the center, compacting its form, snapping up any attempts to writhe free. The Four Sword flared, eager to consume the impending darkness. At a motion from Green, they stood, following the light toward their sword.
Last, the characteristics and tasks they held for themselves.
Vio at the head, their Knowledge. Blue on the left, their Offense. Green near the middle, their Essence. Shadow beneath, their Reflection. Red on the right, their Defense.
And the Four Sword, their Unity, their purpose, their all, in the center.
Please, goddesses, purge our soul, reforge our bonds, let us be whole!
The malice shrieked. The dawn broke. Five hands landed on their sword, and light consumed them.
-----
Legend watched, eyes narrowed, as the five copies of the Smithy took up places inside the magic circle. He had no idea what their plan was, he’d never seen magic like this, but he hoped they knew what they were doing.
Seeing them corrupted was bringing back bad memories.
They knelt, Artemis began to pray, and – to Legend's magical senses – the circle exploded with colors.
Violet, blue, green, gray and red, streams of color swirled lazily from each figure inside the circle, spiraling inward toward the sword still lodged between the cobbles. Where the colors converged, a white light began to shine.
Pulses of acidic, malicious crimson, interspersed with the deepest black, suddenly surged from each Color and Shadow, reaching back toward the Heroes, the edge of the circle, held back only by the goddess' light and Will.
They took on form, like gibdos, like the gloom hands, but renewed and strengthening bursts of color from the Heroes pushed them back. The golden light of the circle and the white light building inside the Four Sword flared, simultaneously pushing and pulling the Malice toward the sword.
Green made a motion, and five figures stood, pacing slowly toward the center. Their light grew brighter still, and the embodiment of the malice that had corrupted them shriveled, shrieked, then disappeared with a flash as Four's component parts and his shadow placed their hands on his sword.
The light that blossomed from within the circle rivaled the breaking dawn for radiance, enough that Legend had to cover his eyes from the glow.
When he could see again, only two people stood inside the circle: Four, back in his multi-colored tunic, and Shadow, the hood of his dark tunic swaying in an unseen breeze.
The sense of wrongness that had surrounded Four since he pulled on Legend's mirror shield the day before had finally dissipated. Legend sighed in relief.
He'd actually done it.
-----
Shadow peeled one eye open, surprised at the intensity of the sunlight beating down on the courtyard. He’d been so engrossed in the ritual Link had suggested, he didn’t even realize it had risen.
Well, that answered one of his questions. This creature of darkness could, indeed, survive in the light. And he owed it all to the hero in front of him.
Without Link and his rainbow of colors, they’d still be corrupted. Shadow searched inside, savoring the pure, natural shadow magic that came as easy as breathing. No need to practice, or gather more, or hunt, like he’d had to with the gloom's power.
He opened both eyes and looked toward his Rainbow. Warm gray eyes, clear and untainted, looked back.
Link's brow suddenly furrowed. “Shadow, what happened to your face? I thought it was just the malice but…”
Confused, Shadow reached up. Thin, jagged scars radiated from the bridge of his nose outward, around his nose and across both cheeks. They connected to each other in geometric patterns, almost like… “Mirror shards…” he whispered.
“What?”
“Cracks in a mirror,” Shadow said more clearly, “like from when I…
“Destroyed the Dark Mirror,” he and Link spoke together. They spent a moment, just processing, before a thought from earlier distracted Shadow.
“Red never got his hug, did he?”
Link blinked, the warm gray tilting toward amber. “Huh. No, he didn’t.”
Shadow smirked. “Well, better get to it, Rainbow. I’ve had the worst two weeks of my lives; I could really use one.”
His Rainbow laughed, pulled his sword from the dirt, and raised it toward the sky. Sunlight refracted off the blade, then Shadow found himself at the center of a group hug.
“Thank you!” Red grinned.
Shadow sighed, leaning more fully into the embrace.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 9/31
Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Sheev Palpatine & Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Anakin Skywalker & Ahsoka Tano, Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker, Anakin Skywalker & Tru Veld
Characters: Anakin Skywalker, Darth Maul, Sheev Palpatine | Darth Sidious, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Ahsoka Tano, Tru Veld
Additional Tags: Whumptober 2021, Hurt Anakin Skywalker, Torture, Palpatine Adopts Anakin, Child Abuse, How Anakin Got His Scar, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Padawan Anakin Skywalker, Sick Anakin Skywalker
Summary:
and so is blood.
Short story collection for Whumptober 2021. Focused mostly on Anakin. Ranging from the pre-prequel time to the prequels and the clone wars time.
[alt.9: self-sacrifice- The droid army is pushing forward and they are losing the battle, Anakin plays his last move.]
War, Anakin had discovered, was like chess. Sometimes you would need to accept losses to gain victory.
The droid army had pushed them deep into the inner city. Half-destroyed buildings, marked by the war, towered over them.
They have come to the ending of the game. They were checkmate.
Nile levels her gun at the three strange men. Electric brilliance from above threatens to blind her, but she glares at the silhouettes through the brightness and the storm, and her voice is as hard as stone.
