SUMMARY: people say suffering is what it means to be a shroud. you could not think more different.
WARNINGS: mentions of blood & self mutilation.
COMMENTS: PHEW THIS ONE WAS A DOOZY!!! idia stop being my muse pls 🙏🙏 i keep writing 2k - 3k word fics in one sitting because of you
“Don’t you wish the world treated him better?”
You blink, entranced by the swirls of green. The voice beckons you closer.
How was that door open...? It should have been closed, right...?
“Don’t you wish you three could live up on the surface, like everyone else?”
More voices have joined.
“Don’t you want that for him and his brother?”
It sounds beautiful, like a symphony.
“This is what it means to be a Shroud.”
You step closer, muscles relaxing as you slip under their spell. The voices are right. They deserved better. They should have been able to live where they pleased, to escape this island and their fate.
The voices giggle—they know they’re right.
They’ve reached you.
Black consumes your vision, blocking out the glowing green. You shut your eyes. Your world grows darker. There's a seizing in your chest and a fluttering in your heart as something pours into your body, staining you.
“This is what it means to be a Shroud.”
“Set us free, and we’ll set all of you free.”
—
The hallways are blaring red, but all Idia sees is the floor swimming in his vision. Ortho is by his side as he punches access code after access code into the door panels, running like he’s never run before. He has a stitch in his side but he keeps going, your face flashing in his mind.
He lost Ortho once. He’s not losing someone again.
It’s like the stairs last forever, winding deeper and deeper into the Earth. Idia doesn’t stop running once, even though he feels like he’s going to fall over and throw up. He’s almost one-hundred percent certain Ortho has carried him at some point but his mind is too messy and his vision is too muddled to care.
Time seems to slow as he reaches the bottom. He raises his head as his ears ring, and the second he lays eyes on you it’s like his vision is clear again. Ink pours out of you and the black markings on your face are all too familiar. Blue fire spits out from behind you and your shrieks are heartbreaking, like you’re wailing for something you want so badly but could never have. Wings sprout from your back, broken and crooked, feathers twisted and clumped. Your hands are worn and bloody from stretching at the walls, and that’s when Idia realizes—
You want to be free.
Guilt crashes over him and it's a critical hit. Of course. He should have been sure this is what you wanted. He should have known you’d get sick of life here, even though you said you loved him time and time again, even though you held him on all those nights that he couldn’t sleep because the thoughts were too much, even though you bonded with Ortho and stepped back for him, letting him set boundaries even though that meant not doing things you wanted to do, like holding his hand or kissing his forehead or playing with his hair.
He should have known this wasn’t the life you wanted.
The ring on his finger feels like nothing more than a heavy stone now.
—
It took years for Idia to open up to you about his family situation. In fact, he seemed to be braced for the possibility that you’d leave him in a heartbeat after hearing it. Your heart ached for him when he explained his past and his inevitable future in a soft, low voice, rushing through the whole thing as if it was the scariest thing he’s ever done.
You placed your hand on his knee once he stopped, letting his words trail off into the night.
“I understand you.” you’d said, looking him straight in the eyes. They seemed to glow in the darkness of his room, flickering like a fire about to be put out.
Idia curled in on himself that night, dragging a clump of his hair over his shoulder and twisting it into knots. You’d reached over and gently grabbed his hands, stopping him from tangling his precious hair. You’d gently smoothed out the fiery strands before kneeling in front of him, looking up at him as if paying him reverence.
“I want to stay with you.” you’d said softly, cradling his shaking, fragile hands in yours.
In that moment, it felt like his very heart was beating between your intertwined hands.
Soft sniffles filled the room that night, and you kissed each tear away. More kept coming, more and more and more, his eyes blotchy and red as he tried to keep quiet. You kept quiet too, whispering how much you cared about him and how if he would let you, you’d stay with him forever because you loved him and he deserved someone by his side. You kissed each tear well into the night, fighting his overwhelming sorrow with your love.
—
Your memories are patchy. It’s like you don’t remember who you are, or where you are. In the dark expanse of your mind, you remember two things.
Idia Shroud and Ortho Shroud.
Your throat feels heavy as your heart starts to palpate—what happened? Where is the green glow? Where are all the comforting voices that whispered your new future to you?
Where were the people you were fighting for?
“Vitals stable.” a faraway voice calls, a sharp clatter piercing through your quiet, inky haze, “Commencing full body scan for blot.”
Blot...
Your eyelids pry themselves open. All the energy has been sapped from your body, your limbs heavy and useless. The strings holding them up have been cut, and it's scary that you can’t remember how you were strung up in the first place.
“Mx, we ask that you please stay still.” the man above you is in a white coat, his hands holding a clipboard and a pen.
You nod passively. Something about him seems familiar enough.
His voice drones on statistics about your well being as your eyes slip shut again, and arms of sludge reach out from your mind and pull you back under the ink, into a deep sleep.
—
Idia is chewing on his fingernails again.
He wishes you were here to scold him for it and paint a new coat over them so he wouldn’t chew on them anymore, being too sentimental to mess up your hard work and too repulsed by the taste, even though he would only ever tell you the latter and—
You were still asleep.
Your vitals are stable, You are fine.
You are fine but there are still black scars all over your body.
Your vitals are stable but the marks will stay there forever.
You almost died and it’s his fault.
You want freedom and he took that away when he said “I do.”
He kissed you and he sucked the soul right out of your body, keeping it clutched in his hands because he’s selfish and stupid and why in the world did you even fall in love with him in the first place?
He has nothing to offer you.
Nothing but this.
Suffering and loneliness and contempt and headaches and cold nights and machines that fill your whole day, leaving no room for the whimsical leisure you enjoyed before. There are no more board games, no more trips to the school store, no more fresh air and nighttime walks, no more watching movies and eating gummy worms, no more talking to anyone who isn’t him.
The ring on his finger burns.
—
You don’t know how long it's been since you went to sleep.
You wake up to a room with dark walls and metallic shelves above your head. The bed (cot?) is firm underneath your body, which is adorned by a gray uniform. There’s a desk right across from you with a tablet and a chair. You can’t see anything it’s hooked up to. The one constant among all of these things seems to be the triangular details, criss-crossing and curving and connecting with each other.
They make your vision spin, so you look away.
You stay in bed.
For some reason your face and neck sting, as does your back. You trace the parts of your face that burn, finding that the areas are almost symmetrical on both sides.
What happened?
“...Idia?” you whisper, your left hand resting over your smoothly beating heart.
The door opens.
Your heart lurches into your throat when you see a dark uniform, fiery blue hair that swings well past his elbows, and eyes that are sunken in. His skin is as pale as ever, his lips chapped and bitten by worry, his nails stubbed and torn, but—
He came.
But it’s him.
He came when you called.
“...Idia—!” you gasp, choking on your words as you lurch forward and cough, black ink splattering all over your gray shirt.
“Easy!” he yelps, rushing to your side. You feel his cold hand press against your back and you lean into the touch, starved for it.
“What happened?” you ask between smaller coughs, following his hand and he lays you back down.
Idia bites his lip. He does not answer.
Instead, he turns his back to you and moves over to the desk grabbing the tablet. He still doesn’t look at you as he taps a few bottoms. He gnaws on his lower lip before twisting the chair to face you and sitting down.
“How much do you remember?” he counters your question with another question, eyes heavier than usual.
“I remember green.” you whisper, the intriguing whispers poking into the corners of your mind again, “I remember voices...they said sweet things to me.”
Idia winces as if that’s the last thing he wants to hear.
“You overblotted.” he says, so blunt it surprises both of you, “You went...deeper than you should have, and you overblotted.”
You touch your face. The burning sensation wiggles as if it’s been recognized, and is pleased. It’s like there's something under your skin, something alive and yearning,that was waiting for him to say it.
“Oh.” you whisper, and in turn, the voices begin to beckon you again.
“This is what it means to be a Shroud. Don’t you wish you three could live up on the surface, like everyone else? It’s not fair, is it? He deserves better. His brother deserves better. You all do. We can help you, we can make that happen, you just have to help us—”
“They were phantoms.” you breathe, tracing the lines on your face over and over and over and over and over—
You don't notice when he gets up and reaches for you. Idia grabs your hand when it looks like you’re pressing too hard, your nails digging into your skin. You stop immediately, looking up at him with glossy eyes and trembling lips.
“Idia...is this what it means to be a Shroud?” you ask, forming each word carefully.
The phantoms said as much.
But he says nothing.
“I don’t blame you if you decided this isn’t what you want, you know.” he says, tone flat and disinterested, like you’re someone he doesn’t even know.
“What do you mean?”
“Your phantom looked like it wanted to be free.” he says, tablet still in his hand.
He pulls up the footage of your rage and shows it to you—your crooked, clumped wings and your bloody, inky hands and your screams as you cry for freedom, freedom—
He misunderstands.
“Not for me!” you seize his wrist, squeezing it so hard you fear it’ll break but this important, “For you! Freedom for you! It’s always you and it always will be you! I wanted you to be free and Ortho to be free. I wanted all of us to be free—!”
You start coughing again, this time even harder. Ink splatters on your bed and this time Idia is on you, he’s truly with you, cradling you against his chest as the ink stains his uniform as well. It pours out of you like a dead, polluted river, and yet in a twisted way it’s a symbol of how much you care.
You vaguely feel his nose pressing against your head in the haze, whispering what sounds like swears and pleads but none of it reaches your ears over the sound of your coughing. By the time you’re done, both of you are thoroughly painted with the remnants of blot.
The voices are gone.
“I’m so glad you’re okay.” he whispers it into your head like it's a confession, meant for your ears and your ears only, “I thought you...wanted to leave here. Leave me.”
His arms are around you like a vice grip.
You’re grateful you’re alive to see him be selfish.
“Idia...my love.” you say, equally as soft, “How many times do I have to tell you that I want to be with you?”
“It’s hard to believe!” he protests, voice cracking.
He pulls away from you, just enough to look over your face. His eyes are watery and he’s so vulnerable—you really scared him. His thumb traces down the parts of your face that burned, the parts of your face you know will be scarred for life now.
“Good thing I’m still here then.” you smile weakly, cupping his face, “I’ll remind you every single day.”
His ring no longer burns.
His left hand rests over your left, and your rings clink together as they connect.
You’re okay. You still want him. You’re alive.
“You’re crazy.” Idia groans, stepping forward and falling into your arms, “You are absolutely crazy. Any normal person would be running for their life right now, calling me a freak and hyperventilating. A normal person would never want to come back—”
His slumps over you like a big cat, arms encircling you in warmth once again. It’s his way of hiding his expression when he’s getting a bit too into his feelings—you know this by now.
“Goodness. It’s a good thing I’m madly in love with you then.” you laugh, hands splayed out on his shoulder blades as he hugs you again, “You know what they say about love making you do crazy things.”
“Please don’t ever do that again—oh Great Seven.” he squeezes you even tighter and you let him, putty in his hands.
“I’m not planning on it. I promise.” you reassure him, “I don't want to leave you—”
“It’s not about leaving me, you could have died!” he protests, cradling the back of your head, “I’d be fine if you just left! If you were somewhere else...somewhere safe!”
“You would not be okay with that. Don’t pretend to be.” you chastise him quietly, and you know you’ve won when he goes quiet, “You want to keep me here, and you want me to stay. I want the same thing. You don’t have to pretend I’m a sacrifice that can be made. I didn’t fall in love with you because you’re noble or a goody-goody.”
He doesn’t say anything for a few moments. Then—
“I love you so much.” he mumbles.
It’s a rare confession, one that has never lost his sweetness even after years together.
Now this, this is what it means to be a Shroud.
It means staying with each other no matter what.
It couldn't be farther from loneliness.
“I love you too.” you murmur back, and his thumbs trace your blot scars as he presses a single, barely noticeable kiss to your forehead.
