Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Player woke up with an ache.

It wasn’t too painful—not as searing as the pain they felt from when they were attacked with SFOTH. But it was an ache that made their limbs feel heavy, leaving a numb tingling sensation in their head. They still felt exhausted despite knowing the fact that they slept for more than a simple 8-10 hours, judging by the fact that the sun outside their window showed the afternoon hour.

At the very least they didn’t wake up with terror gripping their heart from a nightmare. At the very least…

They only had vague recollections of the dream that they had from the night before. Forgotten faces of distant friends, blurred images of what they assumed to be their parents (have they already forgotten?), and the swing set tied to the tree (that they never deserved to sit on…)

They didn’t know why they couldn’t get a clear visage of the dream—or any dream for that matter, ever since they woke up after defeating the Ghostwalker’s trials. The nightmares and dreams felt fleeting. They could only vaguely remember that they used to have terrible night terrors before even touching the Ghostwalker.

The Player suspected that the Ghostwalker had something to do with their decreasing memories and the heavier sleep, but they…they couldn’t care less about it. At least they didn’t scream nor cry when they woke up like before.

They slowly got up from their bed in the hotel room (it wasn’t Terry’s this time) and groggily prepared for the day. First thing they wanted to do was check up on Shedletsky about whether he had found the Firebrand, but if the legendary man still hadn’t found leads on its whereabouts, The Player could just head to the Guru and train with Cruel King again if they had enough energy.

“Are you alright, friend…?”

The player gave Shedletsky a questioning look. The roblox developer frowned at the sight of The Player’s posture and the look in their eyes. Almost as if…

“You look…tired. Did you get enough rest?”

It wasn’t the exact words Shedletsky wanted to say, but he softened his words to not offend the player.

The player gave the developer a dismissive shrug. Shedletsky looked at them with concern, but decided to ignore what could be a touchy subject to answer The Player’s question from when they got there.

Shedletsky hadn’t found much of a lead to get The Firebrand sword. They both made small talk, before The Player bid adieu and left through the elevator.

Shedletsky could only observe the way The Player walked as if they were one sleepless night away from needing to drag their limbs. The look in their eyes…

The developer called up a certain penguin for a favor.

Terry could only grumble as he folded his arms together.

Sure, he and Shedletsky were cool buds, but that didn’t mean he should stay the night with the freeloader! Terry would usually feel annoyance at the memory of coming into his room to see that messy oaf sleeping in HIS bed, but...

Terry could see why Shedletsky wanted him to house The Player for the night.

From an outsider’s perspective, nothing should be wrong. The Player still spoke with a smile, effectively barreling through hostiles with quick hands holding their weapons. They aided people without a fuss—even gave Terry free cans of tuna, and yet.

The Player. Something—no, many things were missing about The Player. Where were their energetic movements? That annoying spark in their eyes? Why did it look like their limbs moved more…heavily? More rigid?

It was like an impostor had taken The Player’s place. Terry couldn’t help but notice it ever since The Player woke up from Ghostwalker.

So fine. Terry admitted defeat and let The Player sleep on a sofa-bed in his new apartment.

The penguin observed The Player’s slumber from his bed with brows furrowed like usual. But they were ever so slightly creased further, with the frown on his beak even more pronounced. Anyone who knew Terry would say the look in his eyes were of…

Terry eyed The Player’s chest. It was a few moments to long. Their chest…

He did not like what he was seeing. He needed to wake The Player up.

The Ghostwalker that sat next to the sofa-bed shone ominously.

The sounds of the world were muffled around The Player. One by one, their senses came back to them. First, the scratchiness of the sofa and the soft blanket that covered them. Next, the scent of coffee and the softener on the fabrics. Then, the blurry light that seeped in through their eyelids. And finally, the muffled sounds got louder.

“..ake..up…WAKE THE FUCK UP!”

Someone was roughly shaking their shoulders. It would shock another person awake, but The Player could only flutter their eyes open, unused to the fluorescent lights in the room after slumber. 

Why were there tears in Terry’s eyes? 

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO YOURSELF?!”

What? The Player gave a groggy look of confusion towards Terry. 

“HOW THE HELL DID YOU STOP BREATHING?!” Terry hopped off the sofa-bed then paced around the room out of frustration, “HOW ARE YOU STILL ALIVE?! I don’t KNOW what that damned wizard did to you but when I get my hands on him…”

Terry rambled on for too long. By the time he was about to give The Player a beating, somehow all of The Player’s valuables were gone…

…along with The Player themself. 

Terry felt his heart painfully pounding in his chest, flippers shaking as tears fell down his face. He was going to THROTTLE that freeloading OAF!

Time was a loose concept for Cruel King in Nirvana.

Granted, they were dead, and should have been a simple soul that stayed in the afterlife. Cruel King would have been fine with that.

But he couldn’t say that he didn’t appreciate The Player’s presence within the endless pink and white fog.

The Player was an interesting character to him. Once an enemy that threatened the future of his kingdom, now taken under his wing. Perhaps things would have been different if he had actually listened to The Player’s plea for him to stop, to hand over the Ice Dagger. But Cruel King had already accepted that the whispers of the cold weapon had driven him too far to be saved. 

At the very least, he could make a redemption by aiding the only other constant presence within the realm. A presence that he could not say he wasn’t so fond of. 

But slowly, The Player changed. The Player did look at Cruel King with a pitiful expression when they first met, and yet they had that relentless spark in their eyes. Even once the two met again after The Player witnessed the unfortunate fate of Brad Thaniel, the life in their eyes still persisted. But then the Player acquired the Ghostwalker, one that Cruel King thought was impossible to simply hold. The Player achieved something impossible. 

But also may have lost something important along the way. 

Cruel King did not know what The Player lost. The Player was thrown into the past, and yet they still had that pep in their step and the determined look in their steadfast orbs. Their smile had always persisted, whether they were sad or hopeful. 

One by one, each of these traits slowly became…dulled. Tamed. Like a fire that was slowly dying. The former King couldn’t help but be worried.

His worried look persisted as The Player arrived once again.

The Player…they looked dead on their feet. The King may had frowned too much, because The Player’s posture immediately straightened as they smiled.

That smile still looked too empty to belong.

The Player asked for another sparring session. Usually, The King would gladly oblige to give them more motivation, but even The Guru looked from behind The Player with concern.

Cruel King paused for a few moments, an unreadable expression on his face the same as ever. But his mind was racing with worry. 

He shook his head, then agreed to spar with The Player.

“Shall we begin?”

Although Cruel was in the King’s name, he never truly abide by that title. He noticed that the sparring partner’s stance was heavier–more than the usual during the last couple of visits. The King merely agreed to fight to observe The Player’s state and determine the best decision as they went.

Great strategists don’t just plan ahead, but adjust on the beat of a feather. He wasn’t a King for nothing.

The King finally made his decision after The Player failed to dodge the past few attacks. After a few well-placed hits and making the room much colder, The Player’s movements became more sluggish just as The King predicted.

He made his next move, and The Player closed their eyes as The King closed in on them…

…then found themself covered by a thick, fur coat. 

The Player barely noticed that Nirvana was cold, but once they did, the coat felt like heaven. Suddenly, they were too groggy to move. The coat’s scent of mint and pine trees was strong. 

They barely noticed that their weapons and armor were slowly disarmed, left with the pajamas that they wore underneath. Firm pressure was placed around The Player, like a warm embrace. They could not see beyond the reds and whites of the fur cape. It oddly reminded them of the night.

Soon, they fell to slumber.

The King took a look at The Player after a couple of minutes, ever so slightly moving the cape that he covered them with. The Player…didn’t exactly look they were at peace, nor in pain. But The King let The Player slumber with the promise that he’d wake them up after a couple of hours of rest. He sat on the floor with them in his arms, their head cradled on the nook of his elbow as they’re laid across his lap.

The King hadn’t done this in a while. He distantly thought that he would be embarrassed about this, but he oddly did not mind. He wasn’t always cruel. He was once benevolent and caring. The King who cares, although now stripped of monarchy, was still one that cared. He knew that it would be a matter of time before he started becoming soft for The Player as well.

He still stayed at the front of his throne after a couple of moments. It was a good thing The King was dead, beause he would have felt his legs dying from the way he sat. He merely observed The Player after a couple of moments.

Then he noticed it. No air came out of The Player’s nose as they slumbered. 

He quickly checked the pulse of The Player with a gentle hand against a pressure point of their neck. The King’s heart dropped to his stomach.

After checking again wiith his ears against The Player’s chest, he had confirmed his fear (it may have been the worst fear so far). The Player should have respawned, but here they were, limp against his hold despite looking like they’re still asleep. 

The King immediately tried to look for any way to help his only friend in Nirvana. He looked through The Player’s bag, and found their flip phone. 

Although he was old-fashioned, Shedletsky taught him how to use it before when they were still allies. He looked through The Player’s phone that oddly did not have a passcode, and found several missed calls and messages from both Shedletsky and someone named Terry.

There was no signal in Nirvana, so it was obvious that the messages were received before The Player went to where The King was. He looked at the messages, and found both answers and even more questions. 

The player’s body was dead during their slumber, and yet they still woke up…?

It wasn’t hard for the former monarch to guess the cause of it. He heard of the legends of the Ghostwalker. He looked at the sheathed Ghostwalker on the ground, and immediately formed a conclusion as he saw the subtle glow and shades of the sword. 

One could not acquire all three swords and come out unscathed. The King and Brad Thaniel suffered with simply one in each of their grasps. The Player constantly used three. 

Something in The King’s heart ached as he wiped the tears forming in his eyes away, one arm still holding The Player against his chest.

Why couldn’t they come out unscathed? Why did the sword wielders have to suffer?

In that moment, The King cradled The Player in his arms, gripping them tight. He was sorry for his kingdom, for his knights, and now for his Player.

The King would explain to The Player about his conclusions once they woke up. But before then, he shall protect and care for The Player in Nirvana, the only witnesses to these vulnerable emotions being The Guru and The King. The King knew that The Guru would not say anything. The Player would stay none-the-wiser. 

The King could only hope The Player would recover once all the swords were retrieved. Hope.

Hope was a silly thing to cling to, but The King’s grip was tight on the concept nonetheless. It was the only thing that kept them all going, after all.

Chapter Text

Their limbs were heavy. Thoughts scattered across like stars, bits and pieces, disjointed and spread apart. Something felt foreign, yet oh so similar.

What was it that made everything feel foreign? And what was that familiarity in the midst of it?

The Player slowly rose into consciousness, but they still lay limp wherever they were, as their head still felt fuzzy. It honestly felt like they were cocooned—trapped in something firm yet gentle.

That something felt soft, like fur. Warm, inviting, like the heat from a thick blanket in the middle of a cold, rainy afternoon.

The familiar scent of spearmint, cedar, and bitter almond permeated their nose. It wasn’t invasive, though.

Something in their chest begged them not to leave, the thought of leaving the comfort feeling like an aching wound that only started to heal. And yet. And yet...

They knew they had to leave it. Something was amiss.

They should probably open their eyes--

“Child?” A deep, monotone voice softly spoke to them like a caretaker to a doe, “Are you awake?”

Their eyes shot open to the white furry edges of the cape, and a high quality canvas-textured vest. Their head was cushioned with the same cape and someone’s warm arm.

They looked up to see The King staring down at them. Eyebrows furrowed upwards, face seemingly expressionless—but their time with The King made them see the slightest downturn to his lips. Bruise-like rims were under his eyes.

Was...was he crying?

“Do you need time, dear child?”

The Player’s breath hitched as they remembered something important. They were supposed to be awake. Run errands. Check if Shedletsky had any idea where The Firebrand was.

But they couldn’t afford to be rude to The King by being erratic while wrapped in his cape and arms. So all they did for now was to shake their head sideways.

The King took that as a cue to gently sit The Player up from the position where they lied. The cape fell around them, and The Player found themself mortified at what they were wearing.

They were in their pajamas. Where the hell was the armor?

They were about to scramble to find it before The King gently grasped their arm.

“I’ll give you your things in a bit, but I need to talk to you first.”

Oh no. Oh dear god. What did they fuck up, now?

“Please,” The King gently pleaded, “do not attempt to run—I already told The Guru to ensure that you get the help needed from your friends before you woke up.”

...What?

The King looked at them with further concern, as if trying to search for something in their expression. He seemed to have realized something before he sighed.

“Did you...know? About what you...go through, while you are asleep?”

The Player shook their head. Although Terry basically screamed that they stopped breathing in their sleep, they had assumed that it was just for a moment before they woke up. Maybe they just missed their pulse--

“Your heart.” The King’s voice spoke with determination, yet seemed strained as he continued. “It stopped beating. Completely. For hours, until just recently.”

The Player’s blood ran colder than the King’s frost. Numbness tingled from their fingertips to limbs, until it became static in their head.

They were brought back to reality with a hand on their wrist, two fingers pressing on their pulse. The King’s hand was cold, and yet held the warmth of a steady presence.

“Did you only find out last night?” The King asked, “Were you panicking? Why did you go to me to train, instead?”

They thought they had done something wrong. They thought they had disappointed people again. They thought they would be forgotten.

They needed to get one thing right, and it was fulfilling The King’s routine.

They probably disappointed him by passing out.

“Do not worry about the training, young one.” The King urged them like he could hear their worst thoughts, “This isn’t just about duty. It’s about care. Right now, you need it.”

Care...?

“I can not help you as someone who can not exist in the physical realm. But there are people there who can find ways to stop your heart from--... to keep your heart from stopping.”

“You just need to make sure that you accept it. You. Are. Cared. For. Do you understand?”

The Player sat up stiffly, shoulders tense from the authoritative tone. But they understood The King, and so they slowly nodded with hesitance.

“Good.”

The King hugged them, arms wrapped around their upper back as their head sat on top of his shoulders. The scent of spearmint and bitter almonds soothing them like medicine. Their spine stiffened, not from discomfort, but from the sheer suddenness and lack of expectation of the gesture.

“Do not hesitate to reach me again. I will comfort you and keep you safe should you be in this realm once more.”

And so the King gives them their armor and bag back. The King looked at the Ghoswalker lodged inside out of disdain. Fury, mayhaps. Like he had a vendetta that was too strong to be played as a joke.

He looked at the Player with a strap of the bag in his hand. Expression serious and determined.

“Do not let the swords claim you, as they have claimed me.”

He handed them the bag before bidding farewell, once their armor had been put.

________________

They felt themselves being brought back to the physical realm with the help of The Guru. Their pajamas pressed against their skin, the scent of incense burning from the sticks atop of burners on a carpet. The air was comfortably warm. But then they registered that along with those usual sensations were a large hand and a penguin’s fin holding them---gripping them---firmly. Steady and determined.

The Player wanted to feign spiritual detachment---delay the realization of whoever else was in the room with them that they had returned to their physical body. Maybe they could astral project and run away if they tried hard enough---

“We’ve finally returned to the physical realm, young one.” The Guru announced like a poorly timed alarm, “But I sense that something troubles your soul.”

“Oh, they’re in trouble, alright!” Terry’s voice cheered with a dangerous edge---sounded like a smile that came out of gritted teeth, “Did you enjoy that rest, pal?”

The Player felt their own blood drain from their face, spine stiffening once again as they tried to think of an escape plan. But the strong, calloused hand on their shoulder made them stay in place.

“Don’t scare them off, now, Terry...” said a confusingly familiar voice, “otherwise they’ll abscond, and we won’t be able to find a solution!”

What was Shedletsky doing outside of the HQ? Wasn’t he injured?

Player felt guilt crawl up from their stomach to their chest---aching and heavy, like it was replacing their insides. He must have went through a lot of trouble to reach them.

So The Player spoke.

“I’m...I’m sorry---”

“Don’t.” Shedletsky spoke firmly, yet his voice threatened to tremble, “Don’t apologize.”

The Player felt their heart drop. Did they fuck up---

“This is my fault. An oversight. Miscalculation.”

“A severe miscalculation,” Terry commented with conviction and barely disguised anger, “you sent this KID, and now they DIE every sleep?!”

“Calm yourselves down, now,” The Guru butted in with no tension from the absurdity, “the bickering does not ease---only stress. The young one seems to be taking too much of it.”

Silence settled within the room, with only the sound of crackling lantern flames steadily sounding through it. The Player didn’t even notice that their own heart was beating this hard---this painfully.

They tried to keep their eyes closed. But then they felt wet streaks drag down their face, and they scrambled to hide it with a panicked hitch.

Before they knew it, apologies spilled from their lips.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’msorryI’msorry---”

Shedletsky simply held them with a hand. Rubbing circles on the back of their shoulder. He knew it wouldn’t solve anything. But he hoped it helped even just the slightest bit.

Shedletsky never felt so...useless. Powerless.

He’s supposed to be an admin. And here he was, letting a kid do his job and pay the most severe price.

What was he thinking? Letting a mortal youth handle the swords?

He knew exactly what he was thinking. It was the prophecy. One that he couldn’t stop himself---one that was necessary to complete.

Despite the inevitability, he hunched himself inwards as guilt steeped and coiled within. Terry’s glare towards the admin could kill any mortal, but it was the sobs of the youngest in the room that deepened the metaphorical sword into his heart.

Before Shedletsky could stop himself, before he could restrain himself to stay professional, he held Player in his arms. Hugged them from behind as he crouched down, like he was shielding them---even if he couldn’t shield them from the consequences.

The admin smelled of leftover dust from concrete, copper, rubbing alcohol, and healing herbs. His arms were rough and scarred, his stubble could be felt on their head as he leaned against them---like a protective hold. The soft warmth of his shirt covering his chest broke the Player’s resolve even further.

Shedletsky owed them that, at least. If not the world, then at least a hug, even if it went against protocol.

Terry could only hold the Player’s wrist tighter. He planned to grab water and food to give to The Player for nourishment as he wanted to scold them further, but for now, he might as well be gentle. He hated how worry wormed into his heart and mind. He found the entire situation so...stupid. Not tragic.

Terry refused to make this a tragedy.