#coverednotes

[vaizgul]

[inkichor-vault]

Spark has been watching Jordan work for a few hours now. Well, Jordan hasn't quite been working, its more that he's staring intently at things and willing his eyes to focus "You should sleep," he tells him, realizing the younger man wouldn't stop until he collapsed. Wasn't that a fun thing to stay consistent? Jordan jumps, having forgotten his alter was the several hours ago, "the sun's still up. I'm fine" his reaction was... sluggish to say the least Spark sighs, preparing himself to physically drag the captain into a bed, but when he tugs on the younger man's collar jordan practically collapses into him "Okay," yawn "Maybe, maybe, I should sleep" He doesn't end up dragging him, so much as carrying him into a bed, but Jordan would never admit to that "Sleep, captain" "You know," he mumbles before spark leaves, "I think your ianite's told me the same thing"

[inkichor-vault]

Its traditional to seal a deal like this in blood. It only takes a drop, and that's usually all that the gods ask for, but the darkness didn't want to take it's chances

There was plenty of ichor in the potion, and if the captain wasn't already bleeding when he drank it, well, the darkness would make sure of it

[inkichor-vault]

Ichor burns mortals, it hurts nearly as much as a tumble through the void. It is particular hell few would put themselves through. Maybe that's why Dianite presented the goblet of his own blood to the man asking to be his champion. It was the god's final condition, to drink it

[inkichor-vault]

The first thing he noticed was the cold.

It seeped into his bones and curled harshly around his organs, burning every nerve in his body. It felt like the fire in his soul had been extinguished.

Next came the pain.

Between one moment and the next, his world became nothing but its searing touch. His thoughts were blinded by it; he could not remember anything but it. His nerves were being regrown in one second and burned in the next. It felt like his wings had been plucked clean, torn at the roots, and regrown in one second over and over again.

Then the void reared its head.

Its emptiness was more tangible than the pain. It felt like his heart had been torn out with the shards of his soul. The emptiness crawled like ants under his skin and he couldn’t tear them out. He called out and it drowned him.  

[inkichor-vault]

The thing about gods is that they always ended up treating mortals like play things, like characters in a story. It wasn't there fault of course, how could you well and truly care about moral life when you hold more than enough power to create it, when entire generations could live and die in what felt like a blink.

These gods, as you call them, are better at it than most. But they're also much more mortal than a god usually is, so much more grounded. The gods of these universes have learned to care, to grieve for the souls they control. You should consider yourself lucky for that, that you're the mortal son of a mortal goddess and not of some more detached god

[mianiterewrite]

Warped Facsimile

Hi Vav!! It would be best for both of us if you Did. Not. See. this. Love you!!! tw: death || words: 758

It was almost funny just how little he expected his death. By no means did Spark have Sight, but he had a knack for knowing when things were going to go wrong. He’d always expected to see his death coming, but it seemed fate wouldn’t give him the courtesy.

He didn’t feel the blade as it sunk into his side, but he felt the effects almost as sharply as the pain in his heart. The blade was tainted. He could feel its all too familiar poison seep through his veins as the pain brought him to his knees.

“What’s wrong Spark Plug?” She—it said, faux concern layering her voice. It was a perfect copy of his wife, from the tone of her voice to the faint golden flecks that shimmered on her skin. “Am I too much for you?” She punctuated her words with a slash to his shoulder and a pained groan slipped through his lips. Her smile turned into a sharp, cruel thing in response and he looked away. He couldn’t bear to have that be his last memory of his wife.

He was slipping. More and more of his vision gave way to black and he could feel his body struggle to keep him alive. Some part of him wanted to keep going, to spite this creature wearing his wife’s face—it couldn’t be his wife. It had to be the darkness, or, or—to live in the name of spite if nothing more. But the dim flame of anger in his heart was dimming, and the grief in heart wanted little more than to drag him into the dark. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, he was so, so tired and—

“Chin up, love.” The sword was cold under his chin, and his blood boiled where the poisoned tip dug into his throat. Ianite’s image swam before his eyes. “Wouldn’t want to miss the light drain from your eyes.”

Something in his chest cracked. He could feel tears streak down his face, hot on quickly cooling skin. But as life slipped through his fingers, he found that he didn’t really care.

————————————————

Cold. He was bone achingly cold. 

His skin felt like it was on fire. His veins felt like they were flowing with acid. Every breath he took felt like inhaling ice water—

We was breathing.

Spark woke. He was in his house, uninjured and unbruised. He was perfectly fine, with only the phantom aches caused by memory riddling his body. 

How was he alive? It was probably something he should be less despaired by, but all he could think about was the how. ‘why?’ some small part of him whispered, ‘why?’

There was a knock at his door. It was hurried and impatient and... and familiar somehow.

"Dad!" Martha shouted from the other side, joy vibrant in her voice, and tears loud in her voice’s wobble, "Dad! It's Mom, she's alive!" 

Spark’s stomach dropped. It felt like his world was dropping out from under him. After all that’s how his morning had started the day he’d died.

———————————————— 

Spark thinks a lot, as he’s forced to relive the worst day of his life over and over again.

Primarily about just what or who he pissed off to get this fate. If he could have done anything differently or if it was written into his life. If he would even do anything differently if given the chance. 

He thinks about Martha, Andor, his family. All the moments he missed, all the things he wanted to do. It’s like a dagger to the heart watching Martha embrace her, to see such unbridled joy in his daughter’s face for the first time in decades, only to know it would be shattered in the matter of hours. He can see Andor stutter with unfamiliar wings the more he looks for it. He can see the slight surprise in his eyes sometimes, like his nephew cant quiet believe he has wings again. He thinks about his wife, he thinks about her a lot more than he would like to admit. He thinks about the little things the thing claiming to be her did wrong, he nearly corrects her some days. He tries not to think about the thousand little things it gets right. 

“Why?” he asks once, twice, when he can’t help but ask. She only ever offers him a laugh and blade through the throat.

————————————————

“Give up,” something whispers in the dark, voice soft and oh so tempting, “Join me, admiral. I can make it all stop.”

[mianiterewrite]

some shippy art under the break >Ɛ: