#retrowrimay

Prompts

Coffee Shop Au

Inexplicable Mpreg

Gratuitous Self-insert

Somehow, they all live together

5+1

Wingfic

Soulmate AU

Author/Character conversation mid-fic

Songfic

Only One Bed

Sex Pollen

Daemon fic

Arranged Marriage

De-Aging

Bizarre Crossover

Body-Swap

Hanahaki Disease

Fake Dating

Kidfic

20 Truths

Texting Fic

Characters React to Canon

High School/College AU

Vampire AU

Reverse Isekai

True Drabble

Poemfic

28- One Direction Are There

Regency/Court Drama

Missing Scene

The Next Generation

Alternate Prompts

This can be used to substitute for any of the above prompts for any reason, be that a squick or just a lack of inspiration.

Eternal Sunshine AU

Interview/Documentary format

Pirate AU

Rags To Riches

He's listened to his mom's bright and bushy-tailed gushing about Maekar all his life. The red lines around their wrists are always present, a reminder of their dumb bond. His father's embarrassingly whipped. Valarr has been making it his problem all damn summer when his showed up to lead straight to some pink-haired Tyrosh model. 

Aerion's wrist remains, as he suspects it always will, empty of a red string. Not everyone has a soulmate, apparently; that's the ironic part.

Leave it to the world to say love is out there and then follow it up with but not for you. Fuck soulmates and Valarr's girlfriend and Daeron's hopefully speeches about how his will appear someday. If it does, he'll be too drunk to notice it.

He's done with the whole thing. Done with thinking about it. Done with considering who in the world would suit him. 

Aerion is completely fed up until his hand reaches forward to press to the steering wheel of his car to see a thin red line with a dangling ethereal string that flows left.

And then all of his complaining vanishes like a puff of smoke, and he's driving. Following the string as he leaves the estate behind and hits the highway fast. He drives for hours. Two, five, eight. At hour fourteen he pulls into a hotel, passes out, and is back in the car again as soon as he's awake.

He crosses near the entire length of the country, through the flower fields of the Reach, across bridges and wetlands, and up into the North. Through the mountains, past dark pine forests until he can see the Wall itself. It's not as tall as it used to be, or so history says. 

Apparently it's half the height it once was, but it's tall enough he can see it clearly from miles away. Every once and awhile he finds himself checking the thread looped around his wrist, making certain he is heading in the right direction. 

He's a little worried as he drives that they're going to turn him away at the gates; Castle Black is not an area that Aerion is confident he will have jurisdiction over. Being a prince tends to get him into the door of most places, but the North has always been restrictive. They love their laws up here.

The roads narrow and signs appear for different turnoffs. The Wall is one of the biggest prison reformation systems they have in the country, and his car is hating the heavily salted roads and fluttering snow. The heat is blasting to keep the cold from creeping in, but even then he's aware that he's brought no coat. He's in a fucking silk t-shirt.

A shiver runs through him as he follows the thread through one of the exit turnoffs. It leads him to a gated checkpoint. There's an armed guard in a tiny building beside the fence, the barbed wire and chain link pulled shut. Is his soulmate a criminal? He doesn't much give a shit, but it'll make things difficult. 

Once someone is sent to the Wall, they aren't generally allowed to leave. He'll have to use every privilege to get them out. Gods forbid, he might have to ask his uncle for a favor.

He rolls his window down and immediately regrets it as he comes to a stop, shivering as the cold buffets his car. The guard clearly thinks he's nuts. "Orders and ID?" The guardsman asks.

Aerion shivers as he pulls out his wallet and shows his ID. "I'm Prince Aerion Targaryen." He says, "My presence is not expected, but I'll be heading inside regardless."

This was clearly not what the other man was expecting. He looks at the ID, then at Aerion, then at his every expensive car. "One moment, sir. Let me reach out to someone ... um, someone else."

Unwilling to freeze to death before he finds his other half, Aerion rolls up the window. Though he is irritated that he needs to wait at all. Being a prince should have at least gotten him through the first damn checkpoint.

It takes them ages before a different man is at his window, cleaner, more put together. Aerion rolls down the window halfway, heat cranked as high as it can go.

"Please pull through and park in one of the spaces with the yellow signs, Prince Aerion. Our warden will meet you there." He says, pointing north, as if he's not gone north enough.

He rolls up the window and heads through the gate as it's opened for him, parking in one of the spaces as directed, labeled visitor parking. Aerion glances in his back seat, looking for any sign of something to wear. The only thing in there, to his dismay, is one of Daeron's sweat-stained sweaters he's left on the floor.

"Son of a bitch." He mumbles to himself, looking down at his designer shirt and then back at the sweater—of course it has a wine stain. The cold shouldn't kill him; there will be heat inside. He forgoes the stained thing and chooses to shiver with his pride intact. 

He steps out into the freezing snow. Castle Black is half old stone and half concrete, changed and modernized over the years. New and old meet together as he walks toward a man moving fast in his direction. The Wall warden from the looks of his uniform, is finally someone worth talking to.

"Prince Aerion, we weren't expecting you." Aerion shivers, shoving his hands in his slacks' pockets as he heads for the door, eager to escape the wind. To his dismay, once they step inside, it isn't that much warmer, only less windy. He shivers so hard his teeth clack together.

"Yes, well, as you can see from my clothing, I wasn't expecting to make the trip." He says snappishly as they walk further into the building. It's a tad warmer away from the doors, but still, he cannot stop shivering. Aerion was not designed for such cold.

He glances down at his wrist; the red string is still there, still leading him. Aerion feels like whoever he is looking for must be in this building. That doesn't mean much. Prisoners don't stay in Castle Black, but the enlisted may. Those who choose to come to the Wall out of some wild sense of duty.

"To what do we owe the pleasure?" The warden asks, but Aerion can tell from his expression and tone it is not much of a pleasure at all and is in fact probably what he'd consider a big fucking inconvenience.

Aerion should have worn the wine-stained sweater; it's freezing in here. But then he's never been all that good with the cold.

"I'm looking for someone." Aerion explains and lifts his wrist in explanation. The warden takes one look at the red string and schools his entire face, but not fast enough that Aerion does not make out the fierce sudden irritation. 

"We've had people show up at our gates for that reason before." The warden says as they dip into his office. This room is thankfully warmer than the hall. There's a heater running in the corner, and he fights the urge to go stand in front of it.

"It won't take me long; I just need to find whoever it is, and I'll be on my way."

The warden blinks, and the smile he wears is the same one you give a very small, very stupid child. "Those promised to the Wall stay at the Wall ... your grace." 

Aerion doesn't give a single fuck about the northmen's rules regarding some giant ice sculpture. If his soulmate is here, then they are leaving with him. End of story.

"Well, I don't know who it is, do I?" He lifts his chin, sheer power of will repressing his teeth from chattering. "Could be someone not sworn to the Wall."

"Everyone here is sworn to the Wall, sir." The warden says, "Even I am sworn to the Wall."

Aerion can feel one of his eyes twitch as he sets the man with a long stare. "Well, it's a good thing you're not who I'm here for then, isn't it?" He drawls, "I will be following - "

The door opens. You step through; it takes him a moment to place the face. Eyes he recognizes, a dark wool coat with direwolf-shaped buttons. A Stark. 

His wrist feels like it's being tugged, and when he looks down at it, the thread runs all the way to your wrist. Tying the two of you together.

You look at him; he looks at you.

The two of you have met before at a few political functions. You're the heir to the Stark line, set to inherit the North. The Wall will be your lovely responsibility someday. 

You glance toward the warden and then toward Aerion. The silence in the room grows taut.

"You're in a t-shirt," You say at last, disapproval heavy in your tone before you proceed to strip off your coat and chuck it at him.

"I take it he's here for me, warden?" You ask. 

"That's right, Lord Stark. He was becoming insistent."

Aerion feels the coat beneath his hands, thick, body-warmed, and lined on the inside with fur. Far superior to his brother's wine-soaked sweater. He pulls it on without thought. As if it were natural, and only after he has gone through with the motion does he realize how strange a thing that is to do.

To put on your jacket, a man he barely knows, without consideration. And it seems that you might feel the same way because you look just as surprised to have thrown it at him in the first place. The two of you continue to stare at each other.

The warden shuffles awkwardly. "Would you like me to lend you the room, Lord Stark?"

"No need; I can handle this from here. Return to your post." You set Aerion with a look, and he's rising without thought, following without word. Like he understands you, like you somehow understand him. It is the strangest feeling in the world.

Once the two of you return to the hall, you set them toward the exit. Aerion follows wordlessly; finally warm enough, the shivering has ebbed. "Did you come straight here once it appeared?" You ask, looking down at your wrist. There was a sweater beneath your jacket, more black, the sleeves made of leather. Everything about you seems well put together. Neat, organized, free of wrinkles.

Aerion has always put stock in his own appearance. Looking the part, being seen as someone higher than mere mortals is important to him. He is the long lost Targaryen dynasty and the dragon bones that now sit in museums. 

People like to wear purple contacts, but his eyes are the real thing.

"I did," Aerion admits, shoving his hands into the pockets of your jacket without thinking. There's something inside the left one, and he twists it curiously in his hand to identify it. A Zippo lighter. 

You are as stoic as he remembers you to be. Reserved in that way of the Starks. A religious family steeped in tradition. Not that the Targaryens are dripping with their own traditions. They are royalty after all. 

The door opens, and this time he feels somewhat capable of handling it. Still, he shivers once more. 

"Button it." Stark says, "There's a hat in the inner pocket if you want it."

Aerion would normally refuse; a knit cap is going to do nothing for his hair, but as he gets blasted with a sudden rush of wind, he changes his mind and pulls the black beanie down onto his head, silver hair be damned. 

He does as he is bid and buttons it. You are not even bothered as you lead him in a new direction. "Where are we going?" He calls, walking quicker to keep up with your long strides through the packed snow.

You look over at him, and there is the barest hint of amusement in the corner of your mouth. The attraction is so immediate it startles him. His violet eyes get stuck on the shape of your mouth as you answer, watching your lips move, "Up."

Aerion looks toward the open-air elevator you are walking towards and groans. "Why?"

Your chuckle is genuine. "You can get in your car and go home, my prince. Don't let me keep you." The title sounds teasing, like you've figured out already what will draw a reaction from him. You pull one of the metal doors open and step inside. It feels like a challenge. 

Aerion never turns his back on a challenge. It is a matter of Targaryen pride. He steps stubbornly into the elevator cage, hunching into the collar of his borrowed coat as you slam the metal bar into place to keep the doors closed. 

You press a button to the side, and the whole thing creaks, metal on metal, before the advance begins.

"Did you drive all the way from the Stormlands?" You ask, taking a step back. Aerion follows and finds the wind is less sharp when near the back of the elevator, hidden in the ice-carved shaft.

Aerion nods.

You look at him in your sweater. He's still freezing, but you're relaxed. No sign of discomfort, not even red in the face. Strange northman. It is oddly comfortable despite the cold, being near you. Aerion has always struggled to fit in anywhere he goes.

He is aware enough that he is different than other people. Angrier, more volatile. Maekar has tried to correct it; give him avenues for that anger. Fencing, hunting, boxing. The list goes on, and he's good with his hands, good at drawing blood but not so good at making real friends. 

All his friends like him for is his wealth and privilege. You have both in your own way as a Stark. The divide is not so great; at least Aerion wants to think so. 

The elevator just keeps going, up and up until things grow small below. Castle Black shrinks by the second, cars turning into blobs of color. The silence does not feel stifling, and he finds no need to fill it, like he normally does. It is nothing but the clang of gears, pulleys, and chains. You stand beside him, each breath a puff in front of your face.

"Why are we going to the top?" Aerion asks, hells you're only a little over halfway there from the looks of it. 

"You drove what, twenty hours, following that string?" You say, eyes out toward the snow-covered trees. "That means you're here for me, and if you're here for me, I'm this Wall." 

You gesture with your hand toward the icy trough you travel up. "Understanding me means knowing what it looks like out there, beyond the Wall."

Aerion gets what you're trying to say; this is your version of his dragon skulls. A way of demonstrating what you stand for, and why not see it given he is already here? At least there's no need to convince you to break an oath. You're not promised to this freezing pit.

The elevator shrieks to a stop sharply; he feels the vibration of it run through him. Aerion tenses, paranoid for a split second that the chain will snap and he'll plummet all the way back down, but you open the door like there's nothing to fear and set out entirely unbothered.

There are a few people up here, but they don't pay you any mind; a few nod their heads. One greets you with a quick Lord Stark, they barely even look at Aerion. There's gravel spread across the ice in sheets of grey, and it crunches as the two of you make for the other side. It's thicker than he thought it would be, wide enough to drive two cars down side by side. 

You pause, outlooking the great untouched north beyond the Wall. Even now no attempts have been made to build civilization out this far. A few companies have attempted over the years to log it or search for ore or oil, but it never goes anywhere.

It's just trees as far as the eye can see. All whites and greens. The wind cuts like a knife. Without the coat he would be a complete mess. But there is something in the sight, the great untamed.

A wildness that he can see in you and your eyes as you stare out at the forest. Like calling to like. As if you were made for this place, to stand on this Wall. 

"Will you come to Summerhall?" Aerion asks, staring toward the ancient pines. So many stories have been told about this place, legends, fables, and forum bullshit.

"For a time." You agree. "Will you come to Winterfell?"

Aerion echoes your words back. "For a time."

He plays with the lid of the lighter in his pocket. 

"You smoke?" Aerion asks, feeling the metal against his thumb. It's got something carved into it. A cigarette at the edge of the world sounds kind of fitting. He wouldn't be adverse to the idea.

You smirk and hold out your hand, gesturing for him to hand the lighter over. Aerion slips the metal from his pocket and tosses it.

You catch it and, with a flick of your wrist, pop the lid and ignite the flame. Even in the heavy wind, it flickers there, orange and hot blue, revealing the dragon carved in the metal. 

Your grin is infectious, hopeful. It lights a Targaryen fire in his chest as you say, "Nah, guess I just saw you coming."

“🎵You? Tube?🎶” Rocky said, sounding horrified.

“No, no,” he rushed to correct and comfort his friend. “YouTube was just a–”

“WARNING.” the NannyBot interrupted loudly. “catastrophic blood loss detected, immediate assistance required.”

Ryland bumped into the wall, too stunned to catch himself properly. “But I'm fine?” He mumbled, rubbing at his head. His hand came away dry and clean.

“What wrong?” Rocky asked, coming closer to the wall.

“I don't–”

“Immediate assistance required.” NannyBot said. again. speaking over him. again. “Dr. Grace. Please assist–” it blanked out, going completely silent for a moment “– in the air lock.”

Goodness, is it hallucinating another person? That's not ideal, and why the airlock? He sighed to himself, pushing his way down to the air lock–

Oh.

Oh gosh…

A hand raised to his mouth. He felt sick.

There was a dead man in the airlock. Blood coated the walls, crawling along the glass in a way that almost seemed sentient. The man's blood soaked hair floated around his neck, one arm hung limply at his side, the other was missing.

There was no way he could survive losing that much blood, yet the man twitched.

Grace rushed, slamming at the panel to open the airlock. “Rocky!” He called, hooking his arms around the man's middle. He dragged the man further into the ship.

Rocky clambered down “🎶who that, question?🎵”

“I don't know,” Ryland said, strapping the man down into the one bed not on Rocky's side of the partition. “Does he have a heart beat?”

NannyBot's arms descended, beginning with wrapping the man’s arm and inserting a feeding tube. Rocky hunkered down, listening. Ryland chewed on his nails, feeling particularly useless.

“🎵Yes.🎵” Rocky said at last. Ryland let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “🎶Very fast, though.🎵”

“Ok,” Ryland sighed, “Ok.”

●•●□●•●

Simon opened his eyes. Not something he expected to do so soon. Or ever again, really.

“Eye movement detected.” A feminine voice said oddly. He let his eyes close again, he felt clean for the first time in days. He wasn't thirsty for the first time in weeks, he wasn't hungry for probably the first time ever.

Was he in heaven? Did he change his life around at the last second enough to go to heaven? Was this voice an angel? Is that why she sounded so odd? So inhuman?

“What's two plus two?” She asked.

“Oh, shove it, NannyBot.” Another voice, this one masculine, said. Softer, he asked, “can you speak? I know those tubes can be rough.”

Tubes? Rough? Was he talking about the submarine?

“Hello?” The voice said as music began to gently play.

Oh, right. Simon should probably respond. “Hey.” He said, voice gravely and broken.

The music stopped. Simon opened his eyes again. The warm light was being partially blocked by… an angel?

Golden hair caught and scattered the light. Bright blue eyes looked down at him. Those eyes were worried, not scared or hungry, just concerned–for Simon.

“Hey,” the angel said, smiling– actually smiling at Simon. He could cry. oh, wait he was crying.

The angel startled, leaning away until he disappeared from sight. Simon tried to sit up, tried to follow– no, no please! Please don't leave me. I can't be alone, I can't! don't leave, “don't–” his throat burned, ached and screamed.

He didn't care. “Come back, please.” he sobbed, patheticly begging. It was hopeless, he knew he didn't deserve heaven.

He especially didn't deserve an angel, yet he came back. He pat at Simon's cheeks with something soft and warm, gently wiping his tears. “It's ok,” the angel said, so soft, so gentle, so very sweet. “I won't leave you.”

“Try not to move, or speak.” The angel said so kindly it was beginning to be hard to believe he was still talking to Simon. “You're on a lot of pain killers, so things probably don't make a lot of sense right now.”

Oh, yeah. Pain killers. Music gently played as he considered the ramifications of heaven having pain killers.

“No, of course I'm not on pain killers.” Huh? “That was a one time thing. Please drop it.” Maybe Simon's angel was crazy, wouldn't that be something?

•~☆×♡×☆~•

Ryland stood at (no longer) blood-covered-stranger's bed side. He should be waking up soon, and actually be cognizant this time. Ryland paced, wringing his hands.

“🎶scared of human, why, question?🎶” rocky asked from upstairs, Ryland asked him to be elsewhere when BloodBoy woke up. Aracniphobia was no joke and he probably couldn't take such a scare right now.

“I'm not.” Grace said, glancing back down at the only human he's seen in the last few months.

“🎵Leaking. Twisting. Heart go🎵” Rocky knocked on the wall, mimicking Ryland's heart racing.

Ryland was never good at talking to people, and if he made a bad first– second– wait if he remembers Ryland making him cry then he already made a bad first impression. “Eye movement detected.”

“🎵jumpy.🎵” Rocky teased. Ryland clutched at his shirt, he had maybe jumped, just a little.

“Hey.” Ryland said, horribly awkwardly.

BloodBoy blinked several times “you were real?” He asked, voice deep with sleep instead of drugs this time.

Oh. Oh gosh he remembered. Please, please let Ryland salvage this situation. “Ye-yep!” He cringed at the stutter, “how are you feeling?” He cringed more, the man had just lost an arm he is not feeling-

“Great,” he said, totally earnest. “I- uh.” He swallowed, looking away from Ryland and around the room instead. As his eyes fell on Rocky's partition he continued “I feel great.”

Ryland sighed in relief. He hadn't expected the sudden eye contact to startle him so much. “I'm glad.” He said, the man looked slightly startled at that, “sorry, my name is Doctor Ryland Grace,” he said, in the hopes the man would introduce himself.

Instead, the man blinked, slowly hulling himself up to a sitting position. “Doctor?” he asked, looking up at Ryland through his hair.

“Yeah, I have a doctorate in molecular biology.” The man, Ryland can not keep calling him BloodBoy looked less hostile and more confused. Before he could ask directly the man began mumbling.

“... you're human?” He asked quietly. Ryland nodded. “I'm alive, and you're human and–” his hand reached up to hover around his stump. “And it was real?”

Oh goodness the man looked near tears again. Ryland didn't know what to do, when the man was drugged simply being close was enough to comfort him. “I'm still here.” Ryland said suddenly.

The man tilted his head slightly to show he was listening. “I'm here, with you, we both are. We won't leave you.” He hoped it was comforting.

“Both?” The man was making eye contact again and golly! When did that get so weird?

“Oh, um.” He stalled, fidgeting again. “You aren't scared of spiders, are you?”

“Spiders?” Those dark eyes darted around in thought. “I donno.”

Ryland sighed, good enough. “Id like you to meet my friend.” He gestured to the tube. Rocky made a show of slowly peeking in. “This is Rocky.” on cue, he waved.

Dully the man waved back. “My name is Simon.”

They sat quite awkwardly for a moment, then rocky- the closest thing they had to an extrovert said “🎵have no word for human name. Give meaning?🎶”

“Oh,” Grace said, looking down at him, “God is listening? I think?” Simon flinched slightly, eyes drifting to the window.

“But you can pick a nickname!” He said, raising his hands, “Or rocky can give you a name and I'll just program it to say Simon. Whatever you want.”

Simon sighed slightly, “just pick something,” he said burying his face in his hands.

Ryland almost raised a hand to offer comfort, He never knew what to do with sad people. Most people don't like to be touched. So what should he do?

“That doesn't matter right now,” he said softly “are you hungry?”

Simon met his eyes then hesitantly nodded. Ryland looked away “Computer, food please.”

Rocky began to shift slightly, Ryland pat at the wall “you can go if you want, bud.”

“🎵No,🎵” Rocky said, “🎵I watch.🎵”

Ryland smiled, they had a conversation about different bonding activities between the two species. When he explained that humans actually eat together on purpose, Rocky was aghast. But then he offered to “engage in … human bonding ritual…” a few hours later.

Simon fell asleep a few minutes after he ate. “🎵Sleep I watch,🎵” Rocky said, going to his usual right above the bed spot “🎶grace, question.🎵”

“What's up, buddy?”

“🎶Where Grace sleep? Only one bed.🎶”

“Huh, hadn't thought it yet.”

“🎵I did.🎵”

●•●□●•●

When Simon woke up it was to Rocky's incredibly rocky underside. “OH, fuck!” He rolled to the side, tried to catch himself with his missing arm and his face met the floor. He rolled, sliding himself along the floor.

“Whoa, whoa!” grace said as Simon bumped into his legs, “what happened?”

“🎶Rocky do nothing then human get scared!🎵” Rocky said, tapping against the glass walls.

“Calm down.” Grace said. “Are you alright?” This was directed at Simon, “anything hurt?”

“No,” Simon said, sitting up propping himself up to sit properly. “’m fine.”

“You're bleeding.” Grace said. The all to fimilar scent of blood was pressent, Simon forgot it wasn't normal.

He reached up to prod at his nose, his fingers came away red. “It's fine, im fine.”

“No,” grace said, stepping closer he pulled a tissue from his pocket, “here, let me.” He knelt close.

Fingers found their way into his hair, tilting his face up. The paper was soft when grace dabbed it around Simon's mouth. The pure white paper came away stained.

Grace suddenly blinked, “sorry,” he said, standing quickly. “Lets show you around the ship, yeah?” He asked, looking away.

Simon nodded and was about to try to get up when a hand was presented to him. Not a fist nor an accusing finger. He didn't know what to do with that “Hm?”

Grace glanced down, making a grabbing motion, behind him Rocky made an exaggerated motion of grabbing his own hands. Simon put his hand into the offered one. Grace lifted him to his feet then his grip loosened.

Simon tightened his grip to compensate. If grace wanted to hold hands, Simon would hold his hand. He let their hands hang loosely between them. “so, um. What now?”

●•●□●•●

When Grace yawned for the second time in a row and the conversation died, Rocky said very happily from his tubes “🎶Grace: stupid, tired. Go sleep, I watch.🎵”

Grace stretched with a yawn. “Sure, alright.”

Simon looked up from the projection on the walls. Grace went towards what simon had been assuming was med Bay instead of towards a room, not that he had seen his room on the tour. But he had to have a room, right?

When grace didn't come back, Simon said softly. “Hey, rocky?”

“🎵Yes?🎵” Rocky said, appearing in his tube. He looked nervous, tilting back-and-forth ever so slightly.

“Why didn't Grace go to his room?” He asked, trying to keep it down.

“🎵He did.🎵”

“No, I mean, why didn't he go to his bedroom?”

“🎵He did, grace share bed with new human.🎶”

Simon shifted uncomfortably “there's only one bed?”

“🎶Yes, grace said grace share.🎶” rocky shifted again.

“And he's alright with that?”

Now rocky was tapping on the wall. “Grace ask stupid question repeatedly when tired. You tired? You sleep? I watch.”

“No, I'm not–”

“Then stop distracting. Grace sleeps, I have to watch.” and then he was gone.

Ok, that's alright. Simon thought to himself. They can just take shifts.

●•●□●•●

That lasted somehow less than one day when Simon woke to grace dozing on the floor beside him and rocky above them. He managed to hold in his shout this time. It was, however, quite a near thing.

Rocky waved, he was fiddling with some sort of something dull green and shiny. Simon waved back then asked, as quiet as his sleepy voice could be, “why is he on the floor?”

“Try sleep in science room, Rocky can't watch you both if in different rooms.” He completed three of the tiny things he was working on and linked them together in the time it took him to say that. Then he paused to look at Simon. “I make him sleep down here. He no want share bed. Rocky not know why.”

“Because on earth, it's considered rude to saddle up to someone who's asleep.” Grace said from the floor. “especially if you don't know them too well.”

Simon shrugged, “I would have been fine with it.” Rocky made an ‘I told you so’ gesture. “also, I'm not from earth. How old do I look?”

Grace looked up at him, “you're not from earth?” Simon shook his head. “Where are you from?”

Simon folded in on himself a little bit. He knew this wouldn't last very long. Yet it was still painful to have to admit “Eden.”

he braced himself for the question. For the accusations, the discovery of what happened at filament station.

Nothing happened.

He opened his eyes.

Grace looked confused, “I'm sorry, I don't know where–or what– that is. Was it an offshoot of project hail mary?”

It was Simon's turn to be confused. “Project hail Mary? Was that a response to the quiet rapture?”

They were done taking turns, and now they were both confused. “No, it was the Petrova Task force? the Earth, trying to save the stars.”

“‘Trying to save'” Simon mumbled under his breath. “So they knew what was coming?”

“Yeah, we knew about the Petrova line, and we knew about the astrophage. But that shouldn't have actually killed anyone yet.” Softer he said, “Right?”

“astrophage?” Simon asked, “what's that?”

“The star eaters.” At Simon's panicked expression he added, “wait, wait, wait, let's slow down.” He said, hands in front of him.

“I think that something odd has happened here. Let's start at the beginning.”

The conversation took the rest of the cycle. By the end of it Simon just wanted to go back to bed.

●•●□●•●

Simon woke up, it was his third ‘day’ on the Hail Mary and waking up to a rock ‘spider’ was still very odd. “Good morning, Rocky.” He said, instead of ‘holy shit get out of my room’

It wasn't his room, anyway. It was Ryland's. He just happened to be nice enough to let Simon sleep there. In his bed. The only bed.

He startled when Rocky said good morning and went up the tube. “Um, food please” The ceiling arms deployed, saying something about days and meals. Simon reached up, letting the packet fall into his hand. He ripped the plastic with his teeth.

Rocky made himself scarce whenever Simon ate, so he made sure to do so first thing every day. Even if the thought of eating three whole times a day felt excessive and rich. He was pretty sure no one got three whole meals a day anymore.

Water is recyclable, food? Not so much. After he finished his meal (that even included meat!) he made his way to what was once a ladder.

The angels–that's what he liked to call rocky and grace. He can't call them ‘the other humans’ as Rocky wasn't human. ‘The others’ wasn't right either because that implied he was just as good and important as they were. And ‘the boys’ was just weird.

Anyway, the angels had replaced the ladder (unusable with only one hand and increased gravity) with a rope (tiny chain, actually) and pulley system.

He sat on the xenonite seat and began to hull himself up. Ryland was hunched in his desk chair, beside him was a white board covered in numbers 1,500 was repeated a lot, underlined in some areas, angrily crossed out in others. A few times ‘1,400?’ Or ‘1,000..?’ popped up.

“Hey.” he greeted, Ryland jumped and then muttered something. Rocky sang something in response and Ryland rolled his eyes.

Ryland was carefully pretending the white board didn't exist. “What's up, man?” He asked, aiming (and missing) casual.

“What’s that?” Simon asked, not one to beat around the bush.

“What's what?” Ryland really was a terrible actor.

“1,500. What does that mean?” Ryland shrunk away, nervous.

Ryland shrunk, “the absolute minimum daily intake of calories before suffering malnutrition.”

In the middle was an underlined “2 mouths=2 months.” Each equation led to it. “We have two months before we starve?” He asked.

Ryland nodded. “I've been experimenting with growing something from the meal packets, but they're all so processed. It just isn't possible.”

“How long until we get where you're going?” Simon asked. If the second mouth is the problem then maybe–

“I’m still your Zelda.”

He stands like a fool in the palms of the Goddess Hylia, hesitating. The sun shines bright and happily in the clear sky above. Good and blue, as it should be. A gentle breeze breathes life through the woods, ruffling through the leaves in a familiar cocophony. It springs the tiny birds into action, who scatter about, singing their songs. The very same sun that lights up the sky warms the stone of the statue below him. It warms his own skin in kind.

The great statue of the Goddess has fallen, and along with it, a blanket of peace. The Triforce has been wished upon, and the Demon King is slain. All of his fighting is over, his journey finally coming to an end. Any minute now, Fi had told him, Zelda will awaken from her thousand year crystallized slumber.

He should feel relief.

“I’m still your Zelda.”

But all he can feel is dread.

The breeze touches his skin, playfully nudging him forward. It brushes through his hair and rustles the feathers at his back. It feels like an old friend and it feels like a slap to the face. He shifts his weight, moving closer to the edge of Hylia’s mighty hand. He remembers, not long ago, a laughing someone behind him, pushing, pushing, pushing.

He was not afraid to fall.

He has never been afraid to fall.

No, the stagger in his heart, the lead in his stomach- it is all to do with that very same someone, to whom he had made a promise. Before she had sealed herself away, she had made one request of him. Of her Link.

“I’m still your Zelda.”

After all that she had been through. After her perilous journey across this wide land called the Surface, after being captured and hunted by the greatest evil that he’s ever known, after bearing the weight of enlightenment on her shoulders, she had trusted him with this one thing: when this is all over… wake me up…

A request that sounded almost loving on her lips, spoken to a boy that no longer exists.

He wheezes, and the sound comes out like a tired Loftwing’s cry. The song of the forest fades away, the birds and the rustling leaves becoming lost to the sound of his own heart in his ears, racing, racing, racing. He falls to his knees, feeling his wings bend to accommodate the motion. Precious feathers snap as he goes down, and he only properly folds his wings after he’s already curled himself around his legs.

“I’m still your Zelda.”

But he is not her Link.

He- this imposter that stole away the boy she used to know- has come in his place. He has the same memories, albeit twisted and confused, but he can never be that person again. He never was that person at all. The moment that Link entered the Goddess’s final trail, he dug his own grave. And now, he- this jumbled up mess of a creature- is all that is left.

He reaches over his shoulder, feeling the smooth crimson feathers. They are as familiar to him as the hair on his head or the teeth behind his lips. And yet, they feel foreign. As foreign as the fingers on his hands or lashes over his eyes. He is entirely new, made up of so many pieces, and even he doesn’t know how to fit it all together.

The Goddess smiles down on him, her stone face betraying nothing but tranquility. Is this what she intended for him? To forge him into something greater, a spirit mighty enough to wield the strength of the Triforce. And then what?

Will Zelda even recognize him?

He takes a shaky breath, running his fingers over his wing, as if petting himself. It’s the same method that one might take to soothe a Loftwing in distress. And there he sits, staring at the ground below, his legs dangling off of Hylia’s hand. Some logical part of himself tells him that he must get up. He must be there when she emerges from her crystalline prison.

Summon a shred of courage, it says.

You’re going to be late, it says.

And he takes a deep breath, and he falls.

Leaning forward until his unbalanced top half topples right out from between Hylia’s fingers, he spins in the air as a familiar feeling takes hold of his entire body. All at once, the cacophony of Faron Woods comes back to him. The wind in the trees, the birds singing in their branches. The sunlight catches the brilliant reds of his feathers, air rushing past his face as he rights himself, spreading his mighty wings.

He catches that air at just the right angle, shifting his weight to pull him to the left and back up again. It takes no effort at all to flap his wings and circle the statue. It’s second nature. It’s… a part of him. The racing of blood in his veins, pumping with every mighty wingbeat. The rush of wind past him as he picks up speed and altitude. He can’t deny it: this is who he is.

It’s who he always has been.

“I’m still your Zelda.”

And he is not Link.

“I’m still your Zelda.”

And he has never been Link.

“I’m still your Zelda.”

And he weaves through the mist of the clouds in the sky, letting Hylia’s blessed rays of sun reach him. This is what she made him for- this is what she wanted him to be.

He shrieks a proud call into the sky, pushing himself ever higher. The Sealed Temple is small below him, and he can see where the earth is stained where a great evil had been destroyed, creating a perfect circle of darkness. It is over. It is done, and this is what the Goddess intended. This is what Zelda needed.

What now?

Now, he gets to live.

Link’s bird-shaped soulmark appeared at the top of his left arm when he was four. The day should have been a celebration.

Most people’s soulmarks were grey before they found their soulmate. They darkened the closer you were to them. People who had found their soulmates were marked in ink-black. Sometimes Link would see them in town — matching roses on wrists above intertwined hands, the lizard peeking out from behind the innkeepers ear a copy of the one covering her husband’s knuckles.

Not everyone pursued their soulmate, though. Uncle had been ecstatic for his soulmate, Ayrin, when she married her childhood best friend when Link had been five. It was, admittedly, a rather boring wedding to Link (he hadn’t known either of the brides), but it was nice seeing Uncle so happy for his friend.

Link’s own soulmark was blinding white. It matched the icy snow that covered the ground during the long, cold winters and stood in stark contrast to his skin in the summer when he got tanned from helping Uncle with the orchard.

Uncle tried to tell him that his soulmark just meant he was destined to travel, but Link worried. How was he supposed to find someone who could live anywhere in the world but Hyrule?

---

When the Triforce sent Link to Holodrum, he was suddenly filled with hope. Finally, he was far enough from where he’d grown up in central Hyrule that he should see some darkening in his mark that he could follow. He glanced constantly at his arm as he travelled with Din, as he visited Subrosia, as he moved on to Labrynna to save Nayru. His hope dwindled as his soulmark stayed the same pale shade it had been his whole life.

When he got home to Hyrule, two more quests completed, he was filled with determination. There were only two more countries that bordered Hyrule.

He packed his bags and visited Calatia, but the mark stayed the same. He moved on.

One country to go, now. Surely — surely — his soulmate must be in Hytopia.

---

Link booked a ship along the North Sea back to Hyrule, a fourth quest under his belt. He’d given up. Either his soulmate lived in a country that didn’t border Hyrule — and Link would have no hope finding them if that were true; he’d already travelled far more than most people did in their entire life — or his soulmate was dead — his soulmark wasn’t the usual shade for a dead soulmate, but he’d only ever seen soulmarks for people who’d met their soulmate before they’d died. He wasn’t sure which outcome was worse, if it was better for there to be no chance of him finding them or just so small of a chance that it was functionally the same.

At least if they were dead, they wouldn’t be feeling the same about him. He hoped they weren’t looking (lie, deep inside he still begged to be found).

The ship was fine, sort of fun even. The captain was an older man who reminded him of Uncle. He claimed his true love was the sea, and even showed off his soulmark — three wavy lines. Link noticed that the edges of the mark were lighter than the middle — the sign of someone whose soulmate had died. He didn’t ask.

The rest of the crew were also more than happy to take Link under their wings and show him the ropes, both metaphorically and literally. Within a few days, he was clambering about the rigging with the best of them.

And then the storm hit.

The captain tried to keep Link inside and out of the rain, but it quickly became obvious that they needed his help. He scampered his way up to the crow’s nest to switch out with the lookout (his favourite job to do), who’d already been up there for 6 hours before the storm started and whose voice was starting to go out. Link shielded his eyes as best he could and started to call out to the captain.

---

The thing about lightning is that it likes to take the easiest path to the ground, and air is one of the hardest things for it to move through. Therefore, it likes to strike whatever is closest, which is almost always also whatever is tallest.

Link, standing at the top of a very tall mast in the middle of an open ocean, made a very good target.

It burned. Bright, hot, fiery pain filled him. The whole world was lit up white-gold. His chest stuttered. He couldn’t breathe.

He was gone before he hit the water.

---

Koholint was a strange place. Link loved it.

Somehow, they didn’t have soulmarks and soulmates. They hadn’t even heard of them. Link hadn’t known that was possible. The fact that his soulmark was so pale wasn’t weird to them; at least, not any weirder than him having one at all.

Importantly, Koholint also had Marin, which was the best part of the island. If Link could have picked his soulmate, she was who he’d have picked. Considering he’d given up on ever finding his soulmate, he basically could.

Link pulled his sleeve over his soulmark and decided to ignore it. Fated soulmate or not, he’d already found someone to spend his life with.

---

When Link got home, he spent a while crying and even longer just drifting uselessly in his own head. It took him a week to pull himself out of bed.

He finally worked up the energy to go shopping in the village — he couldn’t keep relying on gifts of pre-cooked meals from his neighbors. He was getting changed when he saw it.

His soulmark, still painfully pale against his skin.

He hated it.

He couldn’t have the person he was fated to love. He couldn’t have the person he’d chosen to love. Was he just destined to be alone for the rest of his life?

In a fit of anger, he covered the soulmark and promised himself to never look at it again. It had only ever brought him heartache.

---

When the strange purple man asked to move in, Link honestly couldn’t care less. He could already tell that this was shaping up to be yet another quest. The bracelet was, admittedly a bit weird, but, well, a gift was a gift, and Link could sense the magic sitting dormant inside of it even if he couldn’t tell what it did just yet.

He was off to save the kingdom. Again. And the princess. Again. The machinations of odd people in bunny costumes weren’t of great importance right now.

---

On second thought, Link took it back. He hated Ravio.

The stupid merchant’s stupid bird stole his items every time he passed out, and they were so expensive. He had to re-rent them often enough that it was hard to save up to buy them.

Link was seriously thinking of kicking him out of his house if he didn’t start paying rent soon.

He ignored how nice it was having someone to come home to, and the fact that Sheerow always made sure that he was somewhere safe before stealing his stuff. He didn’t appreciate either of those things. Not at all.

---

Link awoke to a burning pain in his left shoulder. Someone, or perhaps multiple someones, were talking above him, he wasn’t sure.

The glass rim of a bottle was pressed against his lips. He tried to squirm away, but his limbs didn’t seem to be working. He was forced to drink. The liquid in the bottle tasted like a health potion. The pain died down a bit, and sound cleared slightly.

Ravio was the one speaking, words going even faster than his usual frantic chatter. His accent was thicker than usual, too, adding a rolling lilt to his words, which were interspersed with Sheerow's answering worried tweets. Since when could he understand Sheerow’s tone?

Also, more importantly, how had he gotten here? The last thing he remembered was going through a dungeon, getting stabbed through the shoulder, and then nothing. How had he ended up at his own house?

“Wha’ ‘appen?” Link slurred.

Sheerow chirped like she’d been startled. Ravio made a similar high-pitched noise. “Oh, don’t talk just yet, Mr. Hero. You’re very injured. Yes, yes. Very injured. There’s way too much blood. You’re safe, by the way. Safe at home. But very injured. Don’t move.”

Ravio was rambling. Link had noticed that he did that when he got nervous or scared. He must have been either very nervous or very scared to ramble this much, though. That matched how much his body was shaking against Link’s side.

Despite his fearful shivers, Ravio’s final words were followed with him beginning to stitch up the hole in Link’s shoulder with surprisingly-steady hands. Link did his best to listen and not flinch.

He distracted himself by slurring out more questions. “How?”

“You appear to have been stabbed, Mr. Hero. Very badly, too.”

Link grunted to interrupt him. “How here?”

Ravio went quiet for a minute, though his hands continued his work. When he finally did speak, it was quiet. “Sheerow brought you here. You were… It was bad, Mr. Hero. I was worried you wouldn’t make it.”

Ice trickled down Link’s spine. Sure, he faced danger regularly, and lethal situations were par for the course of being a hero, but it was still scary to think that he might’ve died if it weren’t for Ravio and his stupid bird. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten close — he was pretty sure that, if it weren’t for the Wind Fish’s involvement, he would’ve died during his return to Hyrule — but he usually had some sort of back-up, some potions or fairies or something.

This time, he’d had nothing. He’d promised himself to stock back up on fairies after that dungeon. He’d used his last two health potions earlier in the dungeon. He’d been surrounded by blood-thirsty monsters, with no way out but a tiny little bird.

Link was quiet as Ravio finished stitching his shoulder and bandaged it up. Ravio was also quiet, which was even worse than his usual annoying — comforting — rambling chatter. When Ravio was done, he helped Link sit up. Sheerow landed on top of his head and started preening his hair. Normally he’d be inclined to bat her off, but, considering he’d just had his life saved by the tiny bird, he let her stay for now.

Ravio studied Link. Link ignored him and studied his shoulder. The stitched were hidden under clean white bandages, but the bandages were tied competently and Link was pretty sure that Ravio knew what he was doing, for some reason.

Then Link noticed something. His left shoulder had been injured — the same one that his soulmark was on. Ravio had removed the covering he’d placed over it at some point before stitching him up. Link quickly looked away, dread filling him. The bandages wouldn’t cover the soulmark, and he didn’t want to see its icy-white reminder that he’d never be loved.

As he looked away, though, his eyes caught on something. No, it couldn’t be. Surely not, right? Slowly, hesitantly, he looked back at his arm.

The bird that had decorated his upper arm his whole life was pitch black.

Link stared at it in shock. He’d given up hope of it ever darkening even a smidge, of it ever becoming even a light grey, and here it was, dark as could be.

He quickly ran over a list of every new person in his life that could be his soulmate. There were a good few, as was common when he started a new quest. Still, the most important new person in his life was…

…Was Ravio. Ravio, who he’d started to suspect, based on his accent matching the locals, might be from Lorule.

Ravio being in a whole different dimension would definitely explain why his soulmark had registered him as being so far away.

Link’s head snapped up to stare at Ravio. Ravio squeaked. Sheerow, dislodged by Link’s quick movement, glid from Link’s head to Ravio’s hands, and he pulled her into his chest. Link blinked at the sight of the bird.

He looked back at his soulmark.

He looked back at Sheerow.

Had he had Ravio’s stupid bird plastered on his arm his whole life?!

He had, hadn’t he!

He couldn’t believe it.