Chapter Text
Sollux hits the wall with a meaty thud, and you don’t even bother to suppress the surge of glee that washes over you. You learned a long time ago that life’s a beach, hot, dry, and hateful, and it’s about time that Four-Eyes learned it, too. Feferi glances back at him, then whirls on you, face set in a grimace of rage, terror and desperation (but mostly rage). She grips her Culling Fork and rushes at you.
You raise your wand hand, summoning the power of Hope through your vast knowledge of White Science and giving her one last chance to back off. Even as you scowl menacingly at her, part of you marvels at how easy it was. All this power had lain within your reach, and you had ignored it for the entire game to run around with a silly toy of a weapon. Earlier, the piss-blooded Mage had slapped you down like shark batting aside a minnow, and now you had returned the favor without even trying. Well, whatever. There’ll be plenty of time to ponder everything once you’ve teamed up with Jack.
Right now, though, you need to deal with your ex-moirail. Doesn’t look like she’s going to give you a choice but to make her pay for her treasonous crimes against her own nobility (and, of course, yours).
No.
It’s a small thing: the suggestion of the shadow of a whisper. In many worlds, you neither hear it nor heed it, but for our purposes, we will ignore those worlds for now. Even in this particular outlier on the bell curve of perceptiveness and suggestibility, you only barely catch it, and only at the last moment decide to pay it any mind. You twitch your wand slightly, adjusting your aim so that the bolt of power glances off of her Culling Fork, hurling her backwards to land by Sollux. She lands a little bit more gently than he did, but still lets out a yelp of pain as her head knocks heavily against a computer monitor. You watch her for a moment, but she looks dazed enough that you figure you can turn your back on her, at least for now.
You spin on your heels, only to find Kanaya staring at you with a mixture of shock and quickly-growing anger. Damn. She had been pretty tolerable, for a dust-scraping land dweller. Still, she might try to stop you. You can’t let her do that.
Let her go, Prince.
It comes again, more noticeable, now, but still quite quiet. You hesitate for a moment, then jab the wand in her direction threateningly. “Out a my wway, Kan. I don’t wwant to hurt you,” you snarl, as convincingly as you can manage.
She doesn’t move back, and her hand remains tightly curled around her lipstick. You’re halfway to blasting her and calling it done when you remember her mention of the Matriorb. You force yourself to relax a bit, gesture towards the Matriorb and say, “Look, Kan. You havve more important things to wworry about, right?” The moment she glances down, you blow a hole in the paneling a few inches away from the Matriorb, sending it tumbling away from her. She dives after it, and you take the opportunity to dart through the trasportalizer before anyone’s the wiser.
This way, sweet Prince. This way.
You run through the cavernous hallways of the Lab, not exactly sure where you’re going, but somehow certain that it’s extremely important that you get there. In the distance, you hear some yelling, which you seem to be heading towards. To your annoyance, it’s getting darker, as though someone had purposefully damaged the lighting, You raise your wand to provide a little bit of illumination as you skid around a corner and then dash down another hallway.
You see something arc through the air in the distance, hissing furiously. You dash closer and object’s movement stops suddenly, followed quickly by a dull snapping sound and a high-pitched shriek of pain. “Nothing left for you,” someone says, speaking very quietly then suddenly roaring at the top of their voice, “EXCEPT FOR MY MOTHERFUCKING MIRACLES!”
No, there is always Hope.
Without thinking, you lash out with your wand. Burning white light instantly fills the gap between you and your target, punching through its midsection. Indigo splatters across the floor and what you finally make out to be Nepeta, gripped tightly in one of ... it couldn’t be .... no, it is ... one of Gamzee’s hands. The Bard of Rage looks down at his chest in vague surprise for a moment, then tosses aside his former quarry and runs at you, terrifyingly fast despite the gaping wound.
You take a full half-second to aim and let loose with another blast. This one catches him right in the throat. That, he can’t ignore. He topples to the ground in two very differently sized pieces, the top one bouncing to a stop few feet away from you.
Well done, Prince.
“There is alwways hope,” you repeat quietly. These aren’t your thoughts, but they seem very ... right.
Yes, there is always hope. You’re very sure of that. You glance towards the crumpled heap of Nepeta some distance away and feel a flash of surprisingly genuine pity. You wonder for a moment if the foreign thoughts will drive you on, immediately, or if they’ll give you a chance to do something for her.
Go ahead, Prince. Give her some Hope, but do so quickly.
You vaguely realize that the foreign thoughts (might as well be honest and call them “voices,” really) are no longer coming from one source, but a chorus of several. Raising your wand high, you glance around for something to help her with. Your gaze quickly comes to rest on the cracked pair of sunglasses lying next to a body which you take care not to examine too closely. You check them over, then, upon confirming that they still work, hand them to her.
“There. Use those to contact Kar. Tell him that you just saww me and I tried to hurt you, but that I ran awway. He’ll come runnin’,” you say quickly, the words fitting together in your mind even as you babble them out.
“But that’s not what-”
You cut her off. “Just do it, Nep. He’ll believe you, and he’ll come.” You hesitate for a moment, then pull your trump card. “You knoww that, deep dowwn, he cares about all a us, probably too much for a good leader. He cares about you, and he’ll help you.” You hate yourself for pulling on her strings so bluntly and clumsily, and the expression on her face only adds to your shame.
She seems about to argue, but instead says, simply, “You’re bleeding.” You glance down at yourself in confusion, then pat your face gingerly. Your hand comes away with a few small streaks of magenta on it. You glance over towards a wall section, bringing your wand closer to illuminate your reflection in the polished metal. A thin line of your noble blood trickles from your nose and the corners of each eye, tracing a series of purple tracks down your face.
Oddly, this doesn’t worry you in the slightest. Or perhaps you are simply not being allowed to feel concern about it, just like you can’t muster any discomfort about the foreign thoughts invading your mind, right now.
You take a second glance at the metal and notice that, behind the yellow of your eyes, there is a faint white glow, almost lost in the burning light emitted from the tip of your wand.
To no one in particular, you ask, “WWhat’s happinin’?”
You cannot hope to hold us all for long, Prince. We/you must simply hope that we can do something in our short time together.
The voices have grown from a chorus to a full-blown choir, now. You ponder why you used those particular plural nouns came to mind, and then you know why. “But I killed you,” you mumble dumbly, “all a you.” Nepeta stares up at you in fascinated silence, then calls after you uncertainly as you first walk, then run away from her huddled form.
You/we never killed any of us/you. We/you allowed you/us to gather us/you into yourself/ourself.
You run and run, finding your way through the twisting labyrinth of the Lab as though it were your own hive of ten sweeps. Before you realize where you’re going, you find yourself facing a door.
And now, Prince, you must make your choice.Reality crashes down on you like a tidal wave. Your head hurts beyond imagining, your legs ache from minutes of sprinting at top speed, your eyes burn and itch with a vengeance. Life is pain and everything hurts.
You may return to your former allies, bereft of our power, and hope for clemency for your crimes. Or you may face the demon above Skaia and hope that your power will be enough.
“WWhat glubbin’ kind a choice is that?” you whine, clutching your head. “Either I go back and get killed for bein’ stupid, or I go forwward and get killed for bein’ stupid.”
It is a Prince’s choice: to live and die ignobly in exile and humiliation, or to die gloriously defending a dream he will never achieve.
You stare at the door for a moment, and the faces of your former teammates flashes in front of your eyes: Karkat, berating you; Sollux, casually turning you away; Feferi, snarling in rage over your treatment of the piss-blooded peasant; Kanaya, quietly mocking you behind a façade of politeness. Why should you risk yourself for them?
And yet, what reason do you have to go back? To try and negotiate with an insane, abdicated Empress and a grey-garbed asshole? Glub that.
You reach out for the door and, hand shaking, pull it open. Everything turns white, and you are gone.
---
With a shout, They rise up, brighter than the sun and more fierce. Already, the Demon is before Them, summoning the Green Miles to destroy Them and Their wards. But They are Hope-Of-War, both Battle-Lord and Battle-Host, and with a wave of Their hand and the wrath of ten thousand angels, They turn aside the assault.
They surge forward, the roar of Their battle hymn drowning out the whispered songs of the Gods of the Furthest Ring and shaking distant Skaia to its core.
A Seer ceases her investigations, dropping to her knees and pressing her hands over her hears in a futile attempt to keep the shattering melody out of her head. She does not even notice the streaks of teal dribbling down her cheeks as she curls into a ball and raises her own voice against it, to no avail. It’s so, so loud, and she cannot bear it.
The Demon darts away on his ebony wings, vanishing into the Green Sun’s embrace for a moment and then reappearing behind Them. He drives his sword through Their chest, only to find a single angel impaled on its point, thrashing weakly. Furious at this trick, he tears the creature to pieces with his teeth, splashing himself with its silvery-white blood.
A Knight feels an odd tug of arcane sympathy as he tends to the injured Rogue and attempts to clean up the casualties from his ally’s betrayal. Never one for introspection, he quickly lets it slip away.
As the Demon vents his rage, They summon Their own fire, becoming Hope-In-Seeking, piercing and unescapable. The Demon raises his guard, and the Green Sun and Silver Dawn clash for a moment, illuminating even the darkest reaches of the Incipisphere with blinding green and white.
A Thief, perched on the edge of an abyss, suddenly twinges with loss, as though she had missed a great prize without even knowing its existence. She hesitates in her communication, before the worried queries of an Heir drags her back to reality.
The Demon tumbles, stunned at the true power of the challenge offered by his opponent. However, he quickly recovers and charges Them again. Faster than thought, They become Hope-In-Waiting, hidden and unassailable, and vanish.
A Sylph feels the world twist ever-so-slightly in the distance, and braces herself for death. When it does not come, she relaxes and hurries after the Knight, helping him with his burden.
Confused, the Demon whirls and twists, searching for his foe and his prey. When he fails to locate Them by eye or ear or nose, he turns back to the hateful grey lump floating below him and raises his ringed hand to wipe it from existence. A fierce blow catches him from behind, and he whirls towards its source. They stand before him as Hope Ascendant, unafraid and too brilliant for even him to behold.
A Witch watches over her lover, cradling his bloodied head in her lap. In a moment, his eyes flicker open, revealing empty, sightless sockets. Below her, the Mage laughs gently to himself, knowing that the Doom is lifted, and that he is now free of his enemy.
Blindly, the Demon strikes at Them, howling in triumph as he feels his sword strike home. No angelic facsimile comes to take Their place, this time. Instead, They wrap Their arms around him tightly, and become Hope-In-Despair, desperate and burning-hot. The Demon’s cry turns from victory to agony as his fur burns and his skin peels. He thrashes as meat fries and fat bubbles and tries to reach out for the Green Sun’s power to escape, but it does not come.
In the end, only ashes remain, a pointless memorial floating, unnoticed, in the darkness of the doomed Incipisphere.
And yet, Hope springs eternal.
---
Who are you?
I am no one.
What is your name?
I have no name, no symbol.
What color do you bleed?
I have no blood, no ancestor.
What do you have?
Nothing. Peace.
You have Hope.
I do not want it. Take it from me.
We cannot, Prince. That is your burden to bear.
---
Your eyes snap open, only for you to squeeze them shut again as light sears them agonizingly. “He’s awake!” chirps a voice that, while familiar, you cannot quite place.
“About goddam time, too. I still can’t believe that he pulled it off.”
“Nithe going, you thtupid bathtard.” Something nudges your sharply in the side and you groan, trying to roll away from it until a jolt of pain arrests you. “Why didn’t you jutht tell uth your planth in the firtht plathe?”
You mumble incoherently (attempting something along the lines of “What?” and failing miserably), and slowly prize your eyes open, squinting against the burning light. You stare at the flock of faces floating above you. Eventually, once you work out the position of your teeth and tongue, you ask the single question that lurks in your skull.
“I ... I’m sorry. Do I know you?”