Chapter Text
He’s seized it.
He’s finally seized it—by Illumina, he’s seized it and he can’t help the breathless chuckle that escapes him. Of course he’s done it. Of course he’s accomplished it. What else would be the result, from a god like him?
Illumina can feel the pulse of the formerly wingless thing beat underneath his veins, a presence he is always privy to, now, after the relentless fighting. The web of power has caught the boy fallen into it; who can struggle and struggle but never escape because the string will always cling to him, always following as the duty of a follower. The price of wings, to faux ascension, to ask for a deal and ending up receiving nothing but the consequences in return, because who did he think he was? God? The apple was too tempting, indeed.
A foolish boy could not hope to strike an equal deal with a divine being such as he.
It is a fighter’s soul that beats in the crevices of his mind, distant but held close—a well, determined, loyal soul that is now monotone and loyal to none but him, now. The runes that had been casted now circles one horn, and the web is giddy to add him to the hive, to the beings who serve no purpose but the honor of receiving direct communication from a deity like Illumina.
He remembers the spike of horror that didn’t belong to him his shooting through his spine like a faint memory, remembers silently registering the agony—but not feeling any of it, because it was not his. Illumina had only cared in the way he would regard a phenomena with muted curiosity: mildly wondering if, now that Sword was comprehending the details, he regretted it. Illumina had wondered if Sword had held his hands in front of his face with a fierce, potent, fear—wondering what was happening—or if Sword had let his hands fall limp to his sides while he instinctively curled in on himself, knowing he could not stop it.
Illumina, in the end, hadn’t bothered to watch the transformation and only waited until the heart faintly beating in his palm was either fully connected, or… extinguished. But Sword did pull through, the fighter that he is, and he became another tally to mark Illumina’s delightful followers.
Nobody could touch him, with a Sword around. He could dispose of his follower at any minute without lifting a finger, and they could not do a thing to stop him, and they would know it . He hopes it hurts. He hopes they gnash their teeth so hard they crack with utter frustration. He’s practically invincible. It would take all Illumina has to stifle the laugh he feels coming as the winged thing’s heart beats in his palm, but he has no reason to hide his amusement.
He laughs. The follower’s heart beats in the palm of his hand; a vulnerable, defenseless thing.
He leaves the boy to his own devices. But not without a little gift.
“Leave Crossroads. Do not inform anyone; do not go to anyone you know.”
And his little Follower Sword did as demanded; left without a second thought. It was almost funny, how easily the words could leave Illumina’s mouth and how easily Sword, like any other devoted follower, would comply.
Venomshank would not know. Not yet. Illumina is waiting for the moment to unveil it, or until Venomshank realizes he hasn’t seen hair nor hide from his little Icarus.
His little Icarus, with melted wax that boils his back, his arms, his entire body as feathers itch to sprout from his arms, his face—magic that sears the boy’s back with a muted agony in an attempt to mold wings that were nothing but a pale imitation of Illumina’s. A faux angel—a disciple of God. Bloodied effort, bloodied agony, bloodied transformation; all the suffering to become feathered but, in the end, just a fake, an imitation.
Illumina sits idly in the heights, humming as he observes the red sky morphing, the clouds swirling and caving in on themselves. He would be lying if he claimed he isn’t excited to see how this situation plays out.
Rain batters the environment of which Sword has chosen to inhabit. He can call to his mind the image of where his follower sits beneath a fallen tree, the dripping of water onto feathers stained with the remnants of dried blood. The rain is raucous and unforgiving; his follower’s brow is furrowed and mouth pursed in some semblance of misery, his eyes half-lidded as he brings his knees close to his chest and leans against the bark of the tree.
Perhaps he desires something akin to warmth, to the knowledge that another person is there, and it’s why he leans into the tree. But Sword will not receive it, because although he is finally winged, he is chained further to the ground than he was wingless—chained to the words that spill like honeyed hemlock from Illumina’s lips.
The bark is surely rough and cold, and his follower’s bodily warmth must surely be depleting. The grass must be either damp or flooded, and Illumina wonders why he would rather sit in such a wretched place instead of setting out to find a cave of some sort. Perhaps it was the better option, though, because Illumina knows there’s no semblance of shelter for at least a while. He half-hopes with indifference that his follower doesn’t become ill.
There is no living creature in sight. No movement, no person, no mask, no animal, no crow. Sword is alone.
Sword is alone, but he further curls himself into the tree, his imitation wings tucked clumsily around him like any naive fledgeling who wouldn’t know how to handle them. Sword squeezes his eyes shut, as if he can force a memory of something before this, but the attempt appears fruitless. Instead of continuing his thoughts, Sword opts to bury his head into his arms instead. The boy’s shoulders shake—either wracked with shivers from the cold or something else, but it is so repressed Illumina can barely tell.
He cannot find it in himself to care. He has other orders to issue, after all. One follower can’t take up his whole time—the storm should last long enough so he doesn’t need to check on him.
He waves the image away from his vision, and the Hills’ red skies greet him once again.
“Spar with me. Don’t hold back.”
Metal clangs as their blades clash with a certain ferocity behind them in the forest’s clearing. Sword is all the fighter Illumina had thought he’d be. A little rash, but he knows how to handle himself. Of course, Illumina is not using all his strength, because surely it wasn’t necessary for such a miniscule thing. He was leaving Sword’s strength alone, anyway; wasn’t empowering or influencing him at all except for the order from before.
Sword attacks with a fierceness that surprises Illumina. The boy ducks underneath swings, retreats just out of Illumina’s range and then comes back with a lunge and an upward slash. He’s like a—a pest, an infuriating insect Illumina cannot pin down, with all his running, the repeat, the jabs—
When Illumina’s blade has to defend against the damned explosion—something probably taught to him by that damned Venomshank—surprise gives way to anger. Anger turns to fury. Fury turns to power, and Illumina is resolutely appalled at the realization he has to try when sparring with such a pathetic insect. Appalling old technique, appalling strength, appalling pest, appalling short blade as it almost catches Illumina in a lunge again —
For all the reputation Venomshank has, his son is truly atrocious. Illumina gave him wings. He could very well rip them out.
The next swing, Illumina’s blade blocks it directly with only one hand. With his other hand, he catches the formerly wingless thing’s wrist before it can evade him. He tightens his grip, brings his arm overhead, and slams the wingless thing into the ground with a bone-shattering strength. Dust clouds the air around them as dirt flies and Sword’s weapon thuds into the nearby grass. It’s too bad his words wouldn’t work in this scenario—his boy was already at his every beck and call, and there was nothing he could do to provoke any anguish. Not until later.
Illumina should not have to try.
“Get up.”
Sword does so. Mechanically, as if he is nothing but a puppet being pulled on strings, he pushes himself up with shaking arms, and raises himself onto his feet. Soil and bits of grass cling to his frame. Despite the blow, he stands resolute and firm, steady on his feet as he gets back into position. It makes Illumina even more enraged. He sheaths his sword.
The divine do not try .
Sword lunges and misses to a sidestep.
Illumina’s fist strikes his back with a brutal force and he thrives at the contact as the blow hits, and follows up with a strike aimed at the back of his head. Something caves beneath his fingers; he faintly remembers the metal embedded in Sword’s head. Throughout his swift motions, Sword hadn’t recovered. Not even a swing in retaliation. Maybe Illumina was too swift.
Atrocious.
His follower’s impact does not kick up dust, this time. Sword stumbles after the hits, his lunge’s initial speed faltering greatly as he falls to the ground, hitting it with a rather small thump . This time, he kept a grip on his weapon, at least.
Illumina observes him passively. Disappointing. However did Venomshank manage to teach such a weak thing if he couldn’t even handle a few hits?
He was mistaken, before; insects were more resilient than this disciple. He notes with a detached surprise that the metal on the boy’s head was dented where he struck. He waits a minute or so as Sword’s forearms shake with wavering strength when he tries to haul himself back up, and then quickly grows impatient. So slow. It’s unbecoming for one of his followers, but he’s thankful he’s not funneling a bit of his power into his connection with Sword at all right now; thankfully he understands that it’s not his energy that’s helping Sword to lose so badly.
“Get up.”
Sword does so, but it still takes far too long, and starts to raise his weapon again before Illumina holds up a hand. His disciple stops, and for one of the first times since Illumina has witnessed the boy devote his soul to him, he speaks. “Yes?”
“To the best of your ability,” Illumina starts coolly. Anger continues to boil underneath his skin, but it is much more subdued compared to before. He just hates trying, honestly. It’s a hassle. His sword is still sheathed after before, exactly where it should be when he’s sparring with such a minor thing. “I want you to land a hit on me.”
Sword nods.
Illumina makes a motion with his hand, and his disciple launches back into action. A slash that he avoids completely, tempted to cast a force to push it off course, but deeming it not necessary. A lunge he narrowly dodges. A beam he lets his weapon’s sheath absorb. All so miniscule things. And throughout it all, Illumina watches the ferocity return to Sword’s actions.
He deflects a beam that explodes a nearby plant instead, finally drawing his sword again. He’s satisfied.
When their swords eventually clash again, it is too easy to push back against the opposing force. Sword could never be as great as a deity. Pity. Illumina uses the extra force Sword exerts in retaliation against him. He suddenly withdraws his weapon, causing the boy to stumble; unlike last time, however, he does try to slash back. It’s amusing.
Illumina kicks him with a force he thinks is not quite that bad, yet Sword still skids into a tree, bark cracking underneath his figure. A faint pulse that signals his follower’s agony sounds at the back of his mind, but he brushes it off. He sighs. “I’ve seen enough.”
Sword stills.
He dismissively waves away his follower, his wing stretching after the exercise. Barely an exercise. Illumina casts one last glance at him, then begins to walk away.
It really was too bad Venomshank's Achilles wasn't all he lived up to be.
Illumina prefers his words, still. It is much more entertaining than the mechanical, blank, way of fighting his own follower. Breaking down things verbally often yielded a much better result than this. It was funny. This was just pathetic. Though, he supposes it’s always good to know he excels in combat just as much as words.
Some “Achilles.”
“Are you sure this was a wise decision?”
Illumina’s brow furrows as he half-pays attention to the conversation, rather occupied with inspecting his sword. The reflection is pristine as it emits its normal subdued glow, and he tilts the blade at a certain angle so he can see Ghostwalker in the background; the other deity’s hands presumably folded behind his back.
“Hm? What do you mean?” Illumina places his sword down, tucks it into his sheath.
“Him. Venomshank’s son.” Ghostwalker reminds him. Always so careful, so neutral—he supposes it’s expected of the Reaper. Everything would become the same, once you’ve seen so many people pass through. “You don’t think it will cause some kind of conflict?”
Illumina’s lips tug into a small frown. He turns his head towards his companion to properly address him. “Of course I do.” He narrows his eyes. “I merely saw a lost thing wandering around, and nudged it in the right direction. Nobody could offer him what I could; it was his choice, in the end. I had nothing to do with the final say. Is that so wrong?”
“Venomshank’s going to annihilate you once he finds out.” Ghostwalker does not answer his question. He knows better, has known Illumina’s holy words are so tainted with poison that—instead of becoming bitter and repulsive—they’ve malformed into a curse pure and alluring. The other deity crosses his arms. “If he gets out of hand, it’ll be the Black Death all over again. That’ll be a headache unless you two don’t get this under control. If Firebrand’s grandchildren are caught in the crossfire, he’ll have all of our heads—if plagues can even affect demi-deities, then Windforce will carve you two open, too.”
“Venomshank is nothing. I wouldn’t be surprised if Darkheart’s foolishness infected his extended family,” he spits. The other deities weren’t stronger than him. Venomshank may be furious, but fury would not win battles if Illumina could taunt it out of his opponent, if he could watch as anger clouds their judgement and they lose sight of him in a mirror maze; succumb to their damnation.
He doesn’t reply to Ghostwalker’s statement about Windforce and Firebrand at first, and instead casts a few runes onto his sword as he stands up. Illumina hums. “Windforce or Firebrand will stop Venomshank before he goes on a rampage, if they understand their kin’s lives are on the line. They know you and I won’t lift a finger.
“Someone was always going to come crawling back—the bunch of putrid worms that they are. It was inevitable.”
I always get my way.
Ghostwalker doesn’t move from where he continues to look blankly at Illumina. His lips are pursed in a thin line. For someone who can’t experience emotions properly, Death sure has an odd concern for events that could cause a catastrophe. Maybe because he’s the one who has to make sure they get across. Ghostwalker stares.
Illumina stares back, tilting his head subtly.
They are both unmoving. A silent wait for the other shoe to drop; if one would dare say something and if the other would dare do anything about it. They are companions. A rocky alliance, but one that Illumina has the utmost faith in that it is also steadfast. Ghostwalker is the only one he could rely on besides himself, and Ghostwalker would be the only one to ally with Illumina. They are two sides of a rusted coin—not quite the same, not quite the other half, but they stick together nonetheless.
“…See to it the others don’t come for your head.” Ghostwalker breaks the silence. Gold glows as his wings manifest in the air, swirling like mercury poured out of a vial, and he turns. “They’ll all be affected.”
“I will.” They would get mad, sure, but he always had the expert role of casting aside blame.
His own wing beats once, testing the motion, and he prepares for the journey down to check on his follower. Illumina has faith in his ability to twist situations with a mere flick of his hands, to spew poison in a single motion, to speak without opening his mouth. It’s amazing, how easily he performs. He spares one last moment to look at his only ally, the only one who’d place themselves beside him and vice versa, before he descends.
Death does not look back.
There is someone near his follower.
Illumina is subtly surprised at first. He is not afraid to approach them, but rather curious. He hasn’t seen how Sword behaves when he’s not around, and only remembers sometimes to check in to make sure he hasn’t come into contact with Sisyphus or anyone else.
He lingers at one of the higher branches. He knows Sword can sense him nearby, but he reaches through their connection and the seal tightens around Sword’s horn. The boy knows not to speak of him.
Sword is still sitting nearby the fallen tree, but this time he is occupied with watching a small stream run across the river rocks. His posture is similar as before: his legs tucked close to his chest with his arms wrapped around them, his head resting on his knees. He seems to have a forlorn look as he watches his reflection twist and turn in the water as the stream rushes. Illumina wonders what he thinks of his appearance now; what his father would think of him, if they missed him. He wonders if he regrets it.
The person he had detected near his follower is a mortal, thankfully. If it were Venomshank, Illumina wouldn’t even want to think of the results. They seem to be short, like all mortals, if not a bit shorter than his follower. Two of their limbs look to be mechanical, and they wear some kind of goggles—the purpose of which Illumina can’t deduce. Their horns are light blue, carved in a pattern that looks vaguely similar to something he’s seen before, something that prods at his memory, but he really can’t remember—and honestly couldn’t care. It wasn’t anything important.
He watches as they make their way closer to his disciple, wandering through marred trees and broken branches and—oh, Illumina realizes Sword must have caused that minor destruction before he settled down at the stream. Disappointing lack of control over his feelings. Illumina passively debates whether he should alert Sword of the person creeping up behind them, and decides against it.
When the blue person finally enters the area of the stream, the rustle of bushes sets Sword off. Illumina watches as his disciple stands up and launches a slash-beam at the bushes instinctively, which sends grass and dirt flying at the small explosion.
“Sword?” The person finally speaks, having jumped out of the way of the attack, and Illumina watches as Sword’s expression switches from aggravated to devastated . Oh. This must be someone important to him.
Sword recoils from the person. His gear vanishes into his pocket space, and Illumina is frankly surprised at the way he scowls at them. Fear slowly seeps into his veins, and then he recognizes it. A brave face. Sword must not want them to get hurt—by Sword himself or by Illumina. Maybe he worries that if Illumina sees the person, if Illumina shows up, that he will harm whoever this is.
Not now. Not yet. He wants to wait.
“Get back, Rocket.” Sword’s voice is commanding, monotone as he grits his teeth. Illumina’s markings glow where they are traced upon the boy’s face. When the person—Rocket, apparently—does not move, Sword’s expression grows angrier—no, not angry. Desperate. “I am a follower of our powerful deity. I have no business with you—I’ve yet to succumb to my purpose—”
“Sword, what are you talking about?” Rocket reaches out, and Sword recoils further back, shaking his head.
He is like his father in that when exposed to power—or distress, maybe. Illumina just gave him power. Maybe he’s overwhelmed with it—that he seems to be erratic. He grits his teeth and scowls at the other person, his wings flared and feathers askew. Trying to make himself look bigger, look scary, look threatening, as if that would scare the other off. Sword’s eyes are narrowed, but they also hold a certain, primitive, potent distress that seems to be his last straw.
Illumina’s follower, so easily unwound by only the appearance of someone dear to him. It hasn’t even been that long since he’s left Crossroads.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Rocket starts, and Illumina notices the pang of self-loathing and fear that strikes through Sword only because of how strong it is. There’s his question answered. What he couldn’t fathom, however, was being made an angel and hating it? Wings were an ethereal thing; something generously gifted by him.
Illumina watches the way Sword slowly eases. His face is still contorted in desperation and his brow is still furrowed and his teeth are still grit, but he refuses to step back anymore and that is his first mistake. It allows Rocket to move towards him, muttering, “hey,” and the second Rocket’s hand touch his face, his bravado unravels like a spool of yarn.
Sword’s wings fall to his side limply, his feathers no longer puffed up and ruffled. His shoulder’s tension releases, his face relaxes, and his expression appears to Illumina as though he was tired. Exhausted, even. Illumina can hear the fear in his voice, can feel the subtle dread and the worry that Illumina would swoop in and put an end to this nonsense, as he tells Rocket, “Go.”
He hears through Sword’s head, through their connection, the words Rocket mutters as he cups Sword’s face gently, as if he is a fragile thing to be handled with care, and not the fighter Illumina had deemed him. “You’re okay. I’m okay.”
Sword’s shoulders shake again. Illumina has zero idea why—it’s not even cold and he hasn’t done anything besides wait out a storm, spar with him, and laze around. He shouldn’t be tired. It hasn’t been that long.
But Sword’s shoulders shake and the two demons clutch onto each other like it is the last day of their lives; like it has been decades through a drought and they have discovered the first hint of water—as if it is all they had, will have, and will ever have, but instead of letting go, they choose to cling to it foolishly.
Illumina hears through Sword’s mind because he cannot hear the whispers of Rocket all the way up here, “We’re okay.”
Sword was right to fear. His dread was persistent; his anxiety growing with every second he could sense Illumina next to them, hanging out above without doing anything. He was right to worry. Illumina would put an end to this nonsense.
But not now. Later.
Once they separated.
“Who are you?” Rocket demands, as he spots Illumina sitting idly on a branch.
Illumina’s wing is tucked carefully behind him to conceal it, and he inspects this boy, who had interacted with his disciple with such futile care. He does not reply right away. Replying would be generous, as the divine should not stoop to affiliating with mortals, but Illumina supposes this is a special case.
I am God, his mind chants in reply, You’ve met my attempt at Adam. Instead, he tilts his head in return and shoots back, “Who are you?”
“Okay, smart guy.” Rocket narrows his eyes in suspicion, his eyebrows drawn together. He's much more feisty than Illumina had expected him to be.
“I know who you are, Rocket.” He thrives on the shock that washes over Rocket’s face. He watches as it switches to paranoia and poorly-hidden panic. Looking angry didn’t keep from divulging anything. He regards the boy with an unimpressed look, although he is somewhat excited to finally put his skills to use again. Illumina does not smile, as much as he is tempted. “You know my name; I’m surprised you don’t know my appearance.”
“Who are you?” Rocket asks again, with more bite behind it. He stops in his tracks and faces Illumina with a resoluteness that shocks him. Bold. Perhaps it would’ve been easier to convince this boy to worship him, and then Sword would follow. What’s done is done, however, and Illumina’s choices are barely ever mistakes. What happens will happen, and it is all how it is supposed to be.
“God. Illumina. Whatever applies.” Illumina finds glee in the way Rocket’s eyes immediately widen in surprise, his jaw dropping open in the slightest. Exactly the reaction he should have; although he probably inferred from the wing, already. “How do you know Sword?”
Rocket initially opens his mouth, but then shuts it, jaw locked tersely. Illumina frowns. Why must everything be a fight? He hasn’t even done anything.
Rocket manages to force out, “My dad told me about you.”
“Oh? Really? B… B. Zuka, if I recall correctly, right?” Illumina stretches his wing out idly. He barely remembered Zuka. Some hard-headed or explosive kind of mortal. He couldn’t remember every insignificant face he came across, but he hopes he at least has the right idea of which mortal he is. “Good things, I hope. You weren’t there last time I saw him. Maybe..? I can’t recall.”
Rocket keeps his mouth shut. Illumina huffs.
He maneuvers his way off the branch, landing on the ground with barely any noise. He straightens his posture and keeps his wing half-open, folding his hands behind his back. When he looks at Rocket, the boy has his gear out and has scrambled a good distance away from him. Illumina registers how short mortals are, again, as he narrows his eyes at Rocket. “You’re from Playground, right?”
He is in Sword’s head. He can rummage around memories, remember his own of how the rumors of an ex-soldier who split off from his faction took in a kid who also left his faction. Illumina enjoyed this part of analyzing people. They’re so easy to read, if you watch for the correct things.
Rocket flinches as he steps closer. But the boy’s brow is furrowed, resolute and still holds a boldness that Illumina can commend as he drags his gaze over the boy. Prosthetic arm and leg. Must have been associated with a dangerous incident; probably traumatizing. His expression holds with a deep frown as if all the contempt can conceal the fear in his eyes as Illumina steps closer, inspecting him with a tilt of his head.
Those from Playground were also ruthless… more likely to stab you in the back the first chance they got. Must be where the brave face came from. Horns carved like Zuka’s, probably some kind of sweet admiration of his father, but they couldn’t be that natural shape. Bits and pieces of conversations either had or overheard by Sword interjects itself into Illumina’s thoughts as he files through his disciple’s head: Your arm—I blew it up completely!—Why don’t you ask your dad?—he thinks it’s stupid—doesn’t want me out here—that trick Zuka taught us—
“You admire your father very much, don’t you?” Illumina asks.
A missile fires at him and he slashes it in half, frowning at the smoke as it curls around him. He starts to stride forward; Rocket steps back. Illumina makes sure to keep his tone even—delicate, to hit harder. “Your horns are carved like his. You can’t carve them yourself, right? And can’t ask Dad, because he probably thinks it’s stupid, right? Carving your horns like him, really—but you strike me as a rebel. He just wants what’s best for you; don’t all fathers?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” And it is the only thing Rocket can say before Illumina takes that and runs with it. Replying gave him so much to work with. Just a few words to sentence them to damnation, nitpicking their reactions to properly assess what to expand on, what narrative to push.
He watches Rocket’s face carefully while he speaks, monitoring for any minute changes in his expressions. He presses down the smile that threatens to crawl its way onto his face. This was too good. “You’re right. So, then tell me, Rocket. I don’t have a good memory of mortals, so if you would give me the pleasure, when did he take you in? You’re obviously not his spawn.”
Right where it hurts, he thinks, as Rocket’s face morphs into a pained one for a millisecond before it’s covered back up with that defensiveness.
“Sorry,” he apologizes to retain his innocent tone; another dash of poison in the way he can subtly interject benevolence into his words and rip it all away. But Illumina keeps his tone level, and continues closing in on Rocket, anyways. “I was being genuine, though. It really is a bit obvious.
“Did he take you in after you were so foolish you blew off your own limbs? Did you carve your horns to try and fit in with him—do you get annoyed when they outgrow that perfect shape, a sour reminder?
“Let me guess, or—feel free to tell me off if I’m wrong, really—did you make him put up with this angry act when he took you in so graciously? It may have worked on those from Playground—get all mean and nasty to make them back off, I’m sure it worked. Or maybe you enjoyed stabbing people in the back yourself. You hide your horns from back then; is it not admiration that drives it, and shame, instead?”
“How the hell do you know—“ and Illumina is delighted. He continues to stride forward while Rocket keeps his distance and walks back; cat and mouse. Sword’s memories fuel him as he takes his victim along for the ride. Playground. Injury. Meeting a frowning boy with a scarred face and a missing arm and leg.
“I don’t know, Rocket. I don’t know anything at all besides what I can see with my own eyes. It’s all obvious: Zuka takes in a seething, troubled kid from a faction and raises him. But what I don’t get is how you can be so rebellious. You got new limbs, a father, a life , and you still want more ?—“
“Shut up!” Rocket doesn’t even bother to hide his panic at this point, his teeth now gritted as he stares down Illumina. The wateriness in his glare as it wavers along with his voice makes Illumina’s smile finally worm its way onto his face. The boy probably wonders how he knows so much, how he can pluck every insecurity from every reaction, from his appearance, from memories. He’s probably telling himself Illumina has some kind of strange power but no, this is skill. Rocket holds his gear out threateningly, but there’s further insecurity in his face as he repeats, “Shut up!”
“Zuka’s right. Your horns are stupid, frankly. A crude imitation, like Sword’s wings. With how selfish you are, I’m not even sure if Zuka should have taken you in in the first—“
A missile fires. Illumina effortlessly deflects it with a flick of his weapon. “—place.” He grins wider as he walks closer—his figure making more distance than Rocker can scramble backwards as he tries to force back the panic; a common thing Illumina sees. “I’m not sure you deserved a second chance. And this is all from someone who can barely remember Zuka, let alone his strange charity case.
“What do you think, Rocket? Zuka should’ve left you where you stood. Did you really deserve to be saved?”
“Shut up.” Rocket shakes his head. Illumina’s struck one too many nerves. The boy shakes his head again, his boldness wavering as he’s closed in on—backed in against the forest—where there is so much room, but Illumina knows his gaze must feel like he’s affixed Rocket to the ground, right where he wants him.
“I’m a god , Rocket. I’m leagues stronger than you. I have been here for millennium. I could level mountains, but I only crack bone, now. We are not the same.” Illumina stops just in front of him, where Rocket stumbles against a root that pokes out of the ground. He waits for a minute, watches the panicked gaze set on him. He tilts his head again, innocently smiling. “Why ask me to shut up? You can leave if you don’t like what I’m saying. Or—correct me. I’d love to hear it, genuinely. I’ve only deduced from what I’ve seen.”
Like any animal forced into a corner, Rocket’s face contorts into fury, again, and Illumina cuts through the projectile, the metal of his sword singing with the impact, as the smoke billows around his figure. The pushback from the explosion is minimum—he tries to make it seem like the movement was as easy as breathing.
He frowns. “It’s useless. You can’t do anything to me.” Another missile fired; deflected. “Zuka would’ve done better.”
“Shut up!”
“Can you say anything other than those two words?” Illumina grumbles, and properly points his sword, casting a slash into a nearby tree, which splinters and falls with the force. The creak of it as it plunges to the forest floor seem to invoke some kind of panicked reaction from Rocket. “We are not the same.”
He sees Rocket’s will cracking, sees the way each of the words he’d said linger as the boy glares. His eyes are watery, still, and maybe Rocket had somewhat believed what Illumina had claimed before he’d even said it. Him saying it just set it in stone, just whittled down that cruel part of his mind that much more.
It’s so amusing, the way they’d always stare blankly at him. How does he do that? How’d he figure it out? How, how, how , but Illumina is just too good. He is divination himself, and the ethereal should not dirty their hands. Why, when you could deal more damage with words?
Illumina sheathes his sword. With every movement of gracefulness, he waves a hand towards a clearing a small way away from the two, smiling. “You can leave, if you want. Nothing’s keeping you here. You chose to stay. You chose to listen, Rocket. You could’ve left at anytime, with my slow pace, and I would not have followed you.”
There’s a subtle threat in the way he says it; in everything he’s done and has been doing. His smile. Cornering a stressed animal, knowing it will try to bite but will be unable—will cease to try once it understands, will still hiss and claw but has an understanding that it is useless—that they can try and try and still cannot do anything. Preying on weaknesses easily identified, catalogued, and utilized. He gives the easy way out, because he’s the illusion of kindness, the very pinnacle of benevolence. The illusion of having a choice, of making Rocket believe he could have always left.
It is a long wait, a long wait of letting the poison simmer in Rocket’s mind, in his faux sympathetic poise, in his smile—before Rocket’s gear disappears into his pocket space, and, like any animal vying for survival, he flees. Predictable.
Illumina will have to relocate his follower. It's been getting risky, lately.
Too many people poking in his business.
Venomshank found out, and as Venomshank oft does, he loses control. The fool.
He didn’t even get to relocate Sword by the time the news of a disaster reaches his ears. The other gods are late to the scene—for what reason, not even Illumina knows. Firebrand should be here, but perhaps such a recent event had not reached him. He wonders if Banhammer will get himself involved, and if he did, if Windforce would forcefully remove him from the situation. Thankfully, it’s somewhere in between Crossroads and Lost Temple.
Illumina boredly gazes at the deity reduced to a feral creature in front of him, his dear crow squawking in alarm as Venomshank launches at another civilian. This time was different, however, because as stupid as the deity was, he had foregone locking his mask this time.
Mortals shriek and scream as Venomshank descends on them, zombies raising only moments after he sinks his fangs into flesh. They evacuate the area and run like ants, like insects if insects were more ruthless with less of a sense of self-preservation. They push and shove at each other as they attempt to get out of the town square, hubris and greed and self-interest as they sacrifice others to get out, which actually makes the number of people who are able to escape less. The few mortals with connections to each other are the runts of the group, those with generosity to offer a hand are instead tugged down themselves, and mortals are such animals . Though, Illumina supposes half of them have good enough of a head on their shoulders to be his followers, so there’s something salvageable in there.
He motions to one of his followers to go against Venomshank. His disciple puts up a good fight, but Venomshank is a deity, one whose strength is unparalleled except by those who were first in this world—especially in this infuriated state. It is of no surprise to Illumina that his follower manages one slash on Venomshank before he’s torn apart. Disappointing, but Illumina could only raise his followers to greatness—he could never make them as great as him, alas, if only that were possible.
“Sword?” He beckons the boy, and watches with amusement as his disciple walks up beside him.
“Yes?” Sword seems to understand what will happen merely by looking into Illumina’s eyes, and his face twists up in utter despair before he pushes it down and has that neutral frown back. Illumina can sense his feelings of dread-panic-pain-frustration-loyalty fighting between him against Illumina’s utter power.
He squeezes the heart that beats in his palm, and the feelings cease. Good.
“Sword,” he repeats again, focuses his disciple’s attention on him. Illumina nods his head towards the mass of zombies now wandering around, where at the front Venomshank is continuing to claim stragglers of the mortal crowd trying to escape. “Kill him, would you?”
Having his orders received, Illumina can feel the vulnerability of the feelings trapped underneath runes and wax and pristine feathers. Fear-hurt-sorrow echoes through his mind as a memory that is not his, and it is so potent he actually flinches at the strength of it. Hearts, souls, relations; they’re such frail things. Even through all the feelings fighting for dominance, Illumina watches Sword’s wings spread, the fledgeling knowing how to at least clumsily use them, before his disciple takes off towards his father.
“I told you this would happen. They’ll be furious.”
Illumina shrugs off Ghostwalker’s statement, content to stand and watch where he is situated at the top of a nearby building. He stretches his arm languidly, regarding the scene of Sword tackling his father with a passive curiosity, like he’s watching an experiment unfold. “I know. But it wasn’t my fault, really. I can’t choose who worships me. Look, I’m even contributing to damage control.”
Ghostwalker knows he’s lying. He doesn’t bother to interject, like he always does.
They watch Venomshank claw at Sword in return, but most of the deities’ attacks are easily predicted by his son. His son, who blocks and lunges and slashes at his father as if he had no care in the world except for the orders he’d been given. Illumina could not begin to imagine the amount of despair Venomshank had gone through, finding out his son had sworn an allegiance that would consume everything he once was, that there was no way to take him back. Did he lose it immediately? Did it take a minute of spiraling to get where he is, now?
“What’d you do ?!” Someone’s blade cuts through the air so fast it’s a whistle, and Illumina’s sword is out of its sheath the second he registers the incoming attack. Metal hisses against each other.
He turns, regarding Darkheart with an unimpressed look. Their blades hold against each other with increasing pressure and Darkheart’s skeletal wing flares with a fury he was sure only belonged to Venomshank. “Hm?”
“We’re not clarifying ourselves, Illumina. You know what we mean,” they speak with a hiss, as if every word is sharpened and torn out of their throat, meant to stab daggers into Illumina that he easily dismisses. Darkheart’s sword ducks, suddenly, slashing from a lower angle, like the always changing, slippery thing they are. Illumina dodges with a step back, and avoids their following barrage of jabs by deflection.
“I didn’t do anything. He’s not your son, why do you care, Darkheart?” Illumina smiles. Darkheart’s aloofness always irritated him. Such tricks, and for what? “I gave Icarus wings. Shouldn’t you two be happy?”
The reference to mythology only adds to Darkheart’s unusual fury, and there’s a tugging on Illumina’s soul before he holds his sword out to shield himself. “You should remember that doesn’t work on me. Of all the days you come to offer yourself as a measly sacrifice, couldn’t you have chosen a better day?”
“Funny,” Darkheart spits, and they manage a cut on Illumina’s hand.
He frowns. Darkheart may be slippery, but Illumina is agile, fast. The ground is light where his feet barely graze it as he glides out of his opponent’s reach, his wing beating with half the gracefulness he would if he had both of them, but Illumina supposes he is already far more agile than the rest as easily as it comes.
“Sword is gone. Venomshank is gone. He’ll be killed by Firebrand or Windforce or Sword any day now.” Illumina smiles as they’re stuck at a standstill again, only slightly annoyed at the fact this piteous battle isn’t over with already. “You can’t save either of them.”
“You think you’re untouchable, don’t you?” Darkheart questions, smiling, and Illumina can feel their power trying to drain him—they drain each other, however, so it is a pointless endeavor which is fueled by the often futile feeling of anger. “What happened to that other wing, Illumina?”
His frown becomes a scowl, and he goes on the offensive, launching himself at them and gnashing his teeth when his sword hits stone instead. “Quiet.”
“He is not Icarus, and you are not the sun.”
“I said quiet, worm.” Illumina’s movements become more forceful, more brutal as the sharp metal of his sword bears down on the other deity. He is not weak. He is the one who gifts his devotees their wings— he is the one who survived having his wing discarded cruelly— he is the one blessed with holy words and a halo to lure those worthy into his care— he is the one who graciously bestows power unto them like it’s his responsibility; as if it is his cross to bear when he could leave them hanging there.
Illumina is divine.
His feathers could be soaked with blood and they’d still end up pristine. He holds people in his palms and is honorable enough not to crush their frail hearts the second they are handed to him. He could get his hands dirty, because not even his followers can live up to the empyrean name they devote their entire being to. His follower’s bones crack to form spikes in their horns and their bodies are stuck in an agony as feathers that aren’t meant to be adorned on the figures of mortals grow there—but it is worth it, because it is all for Illumina.
Illumina spews poison as he parries and stabs and plunges his blade down but only hits concrete. Parasite. Sacrifice. Nothing but insects and rebels and false martyrs who believe they can topple what’s already strong. He embeds his knuckles into concrete, slams his heel into an abdomen, sees red as the dark crimson blood drips from the cut on his hand.
Eventually, the building caves. Illumina can’t find it in himself to care about the dust that kicks up as he slashes through the air and destroys the whole thing. His body is alight with irritation as he witnesses Darkheart standing at the heart of the rubble. Explosions echo from somewhere else. Ghostwalker has relocated to another building’s rooftop, observing neutrally as he always does.
Illumina turns, and sees his follower Sword faltering against his father. There’s a faint ringing in Illumina’s head that he now fully comprehends as Sword’s weak feelings. Refusal, sorrow, frustration, battle between the heart and the head but it is not really a battle because his soul is devoted to Illumina, and Illumina alone. Sword’s heart is doomed, and nothing can change that, and that is why Venomshank is so outraged. His dear follower’s refusal to fight properly makes him sick.
A fighter was rid of their purpose if they could not fight. Sword was weak.
“Darkheart, why don’t you talk to Ghostwalker?” Illumina all but hisses, flaring his wing before he launches himself towards the battle his follower is currently fixed in. He does not know what Darkheart does after, and cannot care to when confronted with such a headache .
When he descends closer, he can see some kind of projectile hit Venomshank, wisps of smoke trailing in the air after the small explosion. Illumina then attributes the attack to Rocket, who is a good distance away from where the two are involved with each other, his eyes resolute as always. But even from this distance, the fear in his movements is obvious. A bird’s eye picks up the most minute of details—the way his hands shake, the persistent presence of terror underneath a determined face like a parasite you cannot tear out.
When he arrives at the scene, his Sword has a few scratches, nothing even major and Illumina suspects they both held back. What a pain. It was better to just admit he’d made a mistake in choosing such a weak thing.
He swoops down with all the gracefulness of a dove, but as if his feet are claws and his sword the sharp beak of a bird of prey, he slams the hilt of his weapon into Sword’s chest with all the force a god can muster. There’s a crack underneath the contact as he does so, and Sword barrels into the ground a good distance away, almost near Rocket. He’ll get back up as soon as Illumina would say the order. With such a minor injury, he’d be the same skill as he was holding back—it wasn’t much of a difference. Illumina just needs to deal with things himself, someti—
—something sinks into his shoulder, and with all the poise that comes with centuries of practicing, Illumina does not scream.
The impact of being tackled is much less jarring than the actual realization of the attack. Claws tear into his robe as he furiously grabs Venomshank’s head and throws him aside so hard the ground cracks.
Venomshank is persistent, however, the mindless man, the thing bearing no better sense than his little minions; blood drips and bones crack as Venomshank launches at him again, a hand gripping the bone of his wing as the careless feathered limb was splayed out in front of him. Illumina does not scream. He is immortal. What have he to worry about a wound?
Illumina sinks his sword into Venomshank’s shoulder. The man is not deterred, as if he cannot feel pain anymore, and even as Illumina yanks his sword out, Venomshank’s hand manages to tear at his face, and he is outraged at the audacity. All these injuries, and Venomshank just wouldn’t quit .
Illumina raises his wing to try and help him put space between him and his opponent, but is reminded of the damage to it when pain strikes down the bone. The viscous red of blood clings to his feathers like it was always meant to, and, distracted by the pain, he is again victim to the crudeness of Venomshank’s strength when he plunges to the ground.
Gods could not die. Deities could not die. Illumina is immortal.
Black lingers at the edges of his vision, but he does not falter. He continues to fight the thing that has latched itself onto him. A pest, a parasite, an abhorred abomination that had only caught him off guard and does not let him recover for even a second. Pain, a foreign, faraway thing, explodes through his chest and he claws at Venomshank himself. But he is not a feral animal, he is not fighting for his survival, he is fighting to win—
Illumina is immortal.
His fingers are numb where they grip the handle of his sword and plunge it through the feral thing’s chest. A deity who does not present his wings might as well not have any wings at all. Wingless, crude, deplorable thing.
Illumina is immortal.
His vision has faded but he can still piece together the outline through the void of his sight. He stabs aimlessly, relishing in the slight pressure still in his palms as his sword sinks into flesh, again and again and again and—
Illumina is immortal.
His head rings with the force of which thousands of feelings are flowing into his brain and all he wants is to curse them and shut them up. He gave them wings. He can tear them out. He can tear anyone’s wings out—they are not invulnerable, not like he is.
Illumina is immortal.
The pulse of heartbeats still echo in his palm. His palm, that is simply numb because of the force with which he was gripping his sword. There is chaos beyond him that rings in his ears with a cacophony someone like him is not deserving of. But it is slowly fading out, so that’s good.
Illumina, draped in all his robes, in his wings, in all his power, is immortal.
A heartbeat beats in his palm that he cannot feel anymore. It’s weak, weaker than his own heart that echoes in his ears. He squeezes his hand—or he thinks he does—and thrives at finally feeling something in this void, thrives at the feeling even though it’s a heart, a chest, bone caving beneath his fingers as he digs his claws into the heart. Strength spills like liquid gold into his veins as he saps it, because he is much more deserving of it than a mere follower—
Venomshank seems to pick up on what he’s doing, and the pain that shoots up his neck is a warm welcome back to the world. His hand is forcefully wrenched open, and the connected heartbeat still beats in his veins, weak and puny and pathetic—but the short strength is fading and he makes it count—digs his hands into the person he thinks lurches above him, but he hopes it hurts. He hopes it bleeds.
Illumina is immortal.
Nothing is seen, felt, or heard. He can’t breathe, chokes on nothing at all, but it is okay because he is immortal.
What should a being like him have to worry about?
Illumina is immortal.