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It’s better than he could’ve imagined.
The Crown fits him perfectly, its claws clinging to the curve of his skull as if it’s always belonged there. He can feel its power radiate through his body, spreading like ink in water from the backs of his eyes to the tips of his fingers - resplendent, infinite, beyond anything learned from his own meager studies. It shifts the very atoms of his body, changing what limbs he still has into something vast, amorphous, crackling with energy. His robe burns away into a mantle of pure azure flame, his ears stretch and sharpen into curved horns, and his prosthetics fall away into the abyss as even the need to stand is rendered irrelevant.
At last. After years of dead-end research and lonely travel. After every stinging burn and fractured bone from magic backfired. After all the fake smiles and fingers crossed and bodies piled high beneath his boots… At last, he takes on the visage of the god he was always meant to be.
Of course, he can’t resist a moment to gloat, to monologue at the group of slack-jawed idiots who’d procured his prize, reveling in their shock and disbelief at how skillfully he’d outplayed them. That birdbrain of a king gawks like a fool and lets his great hammer fall from shaking hands. The stoic knight at his side glares with a palpable fury, his fist clenched tight around the hilt of his four-pronged sword. The little spearwielder squeaks pathetically and stumbles over his own feet, his bandana falling askew over frightened eyes. And the smallest member of their merry crew, the child with pink overalls and red rain boots and stars in their wide blue eyes, the one he called friend… merely stares blankly back at him, like they’ve seen this happen before and are no longer surprised.
Whatever. It doesn’t bother him. He is above such things now, literally and metaphysically. He can shatter planets, collapse stars, tear open the fabric of space-time itself to mold to his liking if he so choses. Under the Crown, he (hurts) can do anything. Under the Crown, he is anything.
He heads for Popstar first. For old times’ sake.
He is amused when they catch up to him in the wormhole. He is frustrated when they shoot down his ship with the aid of that stubborn lizard. He is enraged when they actually begin to put up a fight in the flaming arena he traps them in.
Bothersome insects - how dare they! He’s earned this power, don’t they get it? He (it hurts) deserves this! He will not let the Crown slip through his fingers again. He will not lose to-
Spear points stab into him in flurries faster than the eye can track, piercing what little flesh he still has (though they ding harmlessly off the Crown). Hammer blows catch him in the jaw, rattling the teeth in his skull (though the Crown does not move an inch). Sword blades slash and slice through horn and hand and shapeless central mass, cutting open matter that swiftly stitches back together (though the Crown does not receive a scratch). Gathered masses of drop stars slam into him at high speeds, dazing him, leaving scorching pain across his fingers, his face, the gums around his gritted teeth (though the Crown remains unburnt, untouched, pristine).
No, no, no! This can’t be the end, it can’t (stars it hurts why does it)- After everything he’s done, everything he’s built, everything he’s destroyed to get here… to have it all brought down by a small, worthless, gullible, soft-spoken, kindhearted, heroic little-
His shield erupts into shards, cutting across the palms of his hands, the bridge of his nose, the Crown curled so tightly around his head (hurts it hurts so much stars why does it feel like it’s caving in why). Something sparkles in the swirling miasma of fire and stardust, crystal-clear and wet against his fingertips, his cheeks, the corners of his burning eyes. Is… someone crying? Is… is it him?
… Oh stars. Is this really it? When there’s still so much he… No. No, he can’t go yet. He doesn’t want to go. Not like this. Oh, Nova help him, not like this. Please, give him another chance. Please. Please!
He watches, perfectly still and terribly calm, as the sword - his guillotine - curves high, high, high into air, impossibly massive in those small hands, and then-
(no no no no no no no no no no wait please don’t)
His death is the (second) loudest sound in the universe, the scream of entropy itself. He is not in pain; he is pain - excruciating, burning, collapsing, dissolving, over and over in an endless array of blinding starbursts. Even then, locked in the most violent throes of agony he’s ever experienced, the last vestiges of himself still - still - reach out towards the hands that killed him, the hands that almost - almost - start to reach back…
(I’m sorry oh stars I’m sorry please it hurts it hurts so much please kirby help me help me help)
Then the jaws of the Void snap shut around his pathetic little soul, stretching into a wide, dripping grin as it whispers:
My turn.
---
Magolor gasps in the dark.
He can’t move, can’t see, his body seized with terror, his pulse a frenetic staccato in his ears… oh stars, is he still there? Still trapped in that empty oblivion, nothing but a flicker of light and pain watching his friends (his pawns) battle a force he could no longer (could never) control-
No. No, it’s fading. Slowly, mercifully, parting like rows of curtains, more distant with each breath he draws in. The dream - just a dream - gives way to lucidity, sensation, the dip of memory foam beneath his back, the wrinkle of soft sheets twisted into his fists. He lets them go, flexing the ache out of his stiff fingers, reaching up to rub his sweat-damp face (all real all solid not energy not void). As his eyes adjust, he sees a room he knows well - curved metal walls of white and sky-blue, veined with soft, shifting hues of light, filled with the musical beeping of electronics at work and the low, omnipresent thrum of the Lor Starcutter’s engines. He takes in the scents of the ship - copper wiring, dusty tomes, magic older than time itself - and lets them out in a breathless laugh.
Home. Oh, thank Nova, he’s home. He’s safe. He’s alive.
(you shouldn’t be)
The relief dies in his throat, dropping cold and heavy into his chest like lead. Stars, not this again.
For a while, Magolor just lies there, lulled into a weary calm by the low ambience of the ship, the dream - the memory, let’s be honest - a vivid afterimage in the back of his mind. He studies it with a kind of detached curiosity, turning it over and over like a morbid puzzle cube, running a mental finger along its edges and marveling at just how clear it still is. The harsh bite of the Crown against his head, the stinging wounds left by the weapons of his former friends, the fury giving way to dread giving way to cold, helpless horror… He grimaces, rubbing his arms to suppress a sudden shiver. Stars, how many nights has he relived it now? A hundred? A thousand? And yet it’s lost none its vibrance to the ravages of time, poking up through years of cerebral sediment, refusing to stay buried, refusing to be forgotten.
(and what makes you think you deserve a mercy like that)
A lot of things, actually… though, voicing them for the sake of an intrusive rhetorical hardly seems worth the effort. Instead, Magolor drags a hand up over his scalp, calluses catching on the raised lines of scar tissue criss-crossing beneath his hair. He doesn’t need to imagine how pale they must look against his dark skin, practically a neon sign spelling out his greatest failure. He traces them with the familiarity of habit, the motions strangely comforting despite the skin itself having long gone numb. Slowly, the abstract patterns take shape, calling to mind glistening gold, leering cyan, the searing heat of unlimited power, a manus of talons that digs in harder and harder and harder until-
He jerks his hand away with a sharp inhale, gripping it tight in the other to keep it from shaking. He waits for his racing heart to settle, then pushes a sigh through his nose, his jaw clenched, his brows knitted in frustration. “For stars’ sake,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes and pinching the space between them.
You’d think he’d be over this by now. Moved on, found peace, or achieved some other greeting card sentimentality. After all, a lot’s happened since the biggest mistake of his life, the least of which being how he went through literal Void and back just to atone for said mistake. Even back then, at his absolute lowest and facing impossible odds, he’d refused to let the fear shackle him. No, he’d picked himself up - piece by starsdamn piece - with his own two hands until he was twice the wizard he once was. Until he could look the grotesque, gilded consequences of his greed straight in the eye and cleave them from reality, the tree and its Crown felled, his redemption earned at last. Seems a bit backwards, then, to be paralyzed by something as harmless as memory so long after the fact.
But that’s the thing about trees, isn’t it? No matter how carefully you cut them down, they always manage to leave behind a splinter or two, and always in the most inconvenient places.
(that could’ve so easily been you)
Heaving out another, heavier sigh, Magolor pushes himself to a sitting position, shoving the dream aside like an old rag. He starts to reach up to rub his head again, then thinks better of it, redirecting to scratch his chest instead as his mind and eyes start to wander. Distantly, he notes the empty space on the other side of the bed, the pillows in wrinkled disarray, the sheets kicked to the end in a bunched-up heap. Seems he’s not the only one with sleep troubles tonight.
He takes in the dimly-lit cabin around him, littered with the detritus of a distant traveller. Towers of old books sit tucked into nearly every corner, their pages ink-stained with annotations and dog-eared from countless rereads, covering everything from spaceship repair to marketing psychology to esoteric history of the most Ancient of civilizations. Through the doors of a deceptively small closet, he glimpses rows of identical hooded robes, the monotony of blue and gold broken up by the occasional costume, including a simple white-and-green one better suited to a merchant than a wizard. He picks out the smaller details as well - a mess of loose mechanical parts scattered across a nearby desk, a metal cylinder stuffed with blueprints for games, a wicker basket glimmering with gem apple cores, a jaunty bowtie and well-loved top hat hanging from hooks by the empty portal doorframe.
Stars. He’s been on quite the journey, hasn’t he? Certainly amassed a lot of souvenirs over the course of it - from the impressive to the innocuous, some on proud display, others hidden from prying eyes. All filled with history, his history, an eclectic collection of cobblestones holding the remnants of victories, failures, joys, regrets, and the countless mundane steps in-between. Who could’ve guessed this would be where that path would lead him - the captain of an Ancient ship, the owner of a beloved amusement park, one of the many brave heroes who’d faced down the manifestation of Void itself and saved the universe.
He can’t help but smirk at that last one. Him, the would-be conqueror of worlds, a hero.
(as if you weren’t scared out of your starsdamn mind the whole time)
(as if you weren’t doing it just to save your own skin)
(as if you wouldn’t have simply left them all to die to that great terminal monstrosity those senseless mages called a god as if as if as if)
He gives his head a sharp shake. Nope. One traumatic memory is enough for one night, thank you. Though, now that he thinks about it, even that more recent recollection has started to take on the haziness of age, the details wearing down to only the most impactful, the feelings more cottony than clear. The implication - that Magolor will forget fighting a deity long before he forgets becoming one himself - leaves a sour taste in his mouth.
He sighs, slumping forward, threading his hands together over the back of his neck. Stars, he hates this. He hates it. All these fragments, this guilt, lingering and clinging to him like stubborn wisps of spiderweb… He’s better than this, for Nova’s sake. He’s been better for a long, long time now. Can’t he just move on already? Can’t he rest? Can’t he go one starsdamn night without…
(welcome your new overlord)
“Stars, shut up already,” he mumbles bitterly to the empty room. Shoving the sheets away, he swings his stumps over the side of the bed, reaching for a pair of prosthetic legs resting against the nightstand. Fine, then. Brain wants run in stupid little circles all night? Then at least he can make it run productively.
He tugs his legs on with perhaps more force than necessary, checking the straps and adjusting as needed, the motions as grounding as they are intrinsic. He’s compiling a list of options in his head - check the hull for routine maintenance, tweak the sub-game rooms, finally get around to fixing that old pocket watch he took apart months ago - when something beeps at him from everywhere at once, a soft, almost musical chime that makes the veins of light in the walls brighten and dim. Ears perked, Magolor glances towards the featureless ceiling, pulling his mouth into a sheepish grin.
“Ah, sorry, Lor. Wasn’t aimed at you. Don’t mind me.”
The ship beeps again, her tone as light as before yet carrying the faintest (familiar) note of worry underneath. He laughs with a dismissive wave of his hand, a practiced gesture.
“I’m fine, don’t worry about it, haha. It’s just… you know. It’s one of those nights. I’ll be better once I get some coffee in me. No need to worry.”
A pensive hum fills the walls, barely detectable over the ever-present electronic ambience and, therefore, easy to ignore. Wordlessly, Magolor stands up and strolls over to the closet, leafing through a row of blue-and-gold robes and hoping she’ll take the hint. Much as the concern is… appreciated, he doesn’t really feel like getting a therapy session from his own ship tonight.
(she does that enough as it is)
As he plucks a robe from a hanger at random, the Lor finally speaks up, letting out two more beeps that lilt at the end in the unmistakeable form of a question, though not the one he is expecting. He blinks, glancing over his shoulder at the bed across the room, at the empty spot beside his own. You, too?
“Hm. Yeah, I figured…” He purses his lips, then turns his gaze up again, a brow quirked. “Not causing any problems, is he?”
Another series of beeps, followed by a faint, undulating whir that could almost be interpreted as a laugh. Magolor huffs, grinning despite himself.
“‘Not yet,’ huh? How reassuring.” He pauses, rubbing the cuff of one gear-patterned sleeve between his thumb and forefinger. “Is he, y’know… okay? Anything I should know about, or…?”
The ship is quiet, her lights dimming as if briefly stepping away to check. Magolor, meanwhile, slips the robe on over his pajamas, hoping it quells the sudden itch prickling beneath his skin.
It’s not like it’s a weird thing to ask. His roommate’s sleep problems predate his own by a long shot, some of which have nothing to do with trauma at all (lucky him). Checking on him is simply a matter of practicality, given he could be anywhere and doing anything on Magolor’s very precious, very breakable spaceship. Though, to ask after his wellbeing specifically, to care without being prompted… that, he imagines, is where the itch originates. Empathy is a skill, after all, rather than something you’re just born with, one that requires just as much patience and practice (and struggle) to hone as engineering or spellcraft - something that took Magolor a regrettably long time to learn. Stars, those early days in the Dream Kingdom had been like pulling teeth. You don’t realize how hard it is to simply smile when you’ve spent decades letting a mask do it for you. Even now, after years of wearing the suit of a changed man, it still doesn’t quite fit him right (and probably never will). He does wear it, though. He still tries, damn it, even when he has to force it. Because sometimes, like tonight, it almost feels… natural.
(like a script memorized to perfection)
(until even you start believing your own lies)
Soft beeps pull Magolor from his thoughts before he can retort. He listens, ears twitching, an unnoticed tension leaving his shoulders until, as the Lor finishes, he lets them relax with a small sigh.
“Ah. So, just the usual?” An affirmative hum. He nods. “That’s fine, then. As long as he’s occupied, I’m good with leaving him be. Let our favorite fool tucker himself out.” He casts a wry grin towards the ceiling. “Here’s hoping he doesn’t break anything before then, hm?”
The ship buzzes with more of that gentle almost-laughter, knowing as well as he does what a slim possibility that is. Interesting how little he actually dreads the idea these days, how he almost seems to look forward to it, the possibility of a little chaos in his otherwise mundane night. But he’ll cross that bridge if-slash-when he gets there. For now, he has more productive distractions awaiting him.
Winding a sash around his waist, Magolor wraps himself more snuggly into the robe, tugging the hood over his head to hide his diadem of scars. He briefly considers his gloves and scarf as well, but figures they’ll just get in the way of whatever work he settles on. He’s not one to believe in the false protection of a security blanket (hasn’t for a very long time), but even one extra layer is a welcome comfort.
As he heads for the empty doorframe, conjuring a swirling white portal inside with a flick of the wrist, the Lor beeps another query at him, more curious than worried this time, though the latter is far from absent. He pauses to listen.
“Hm? Oh, uh, no, not tonight. Just the workshop most likely. Maybe the archive. Whatever’ll keep the hands busy.” He smiles at the ceiling and places a reassuring hand on the wall. “I’ll try not to distract you from all your calculations and permutations and whatnot.”
Her response is perfectly deadpan, each beep dripping with as much sarcasm as a voiceless a.i. can muster, before it breaks into that droning laughter once more. Magolor can’t help but snicker back, watching her lights trace around his fingers like tiny iridescent fish. Then he catches her whirring again, that same pensive tone from before, trembling faintly in the metal under his hand, through the carpet under his prosthetics. Try as he might, he can’t quite ignore it this time. Or the unspoken message it carries.
(are you sure you’re okay)
“I’m fine, Lor, really!” Magolor lies. “Seriously, you don’t have to worry so much. It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before. I’ll be okay, I promise. And, hey, if I need anything, I’ll let you know. Okay?”
She is silent for a long moment, her lights motionless around his hand, pulsing in contemplation. Magolor, who would very much like this conversation to be over now, decides to play his last card. Leaning forward, he touches his forehead to the cool metal wall, feeling the subtle, heartbeat-steady vibrations of machinery inside. Immediately, her lights brighten, and she hums again, a lighter sound that rumbles in his back-most teeth, maternal and fond and maybe a little resigned. It’s embarrassing enough to make his throat constrict, his tongue suddenly heavy with a thousand words too raw and vulnerable to even think of saying out loud. Things like I’m sorry and thank you and I still can’t believe you came back. All things she’s heard a million times at this point. All things he’ll probably never be able to say enough.
Stars, just knowing she still cares after everything he put her through, that she’s still willing to speak to him, to listen, to laugh…
(she never laughed before the crown)
(she barely spoke to you at all)
(stars even the jester got more out of her than you ever did)
Magolor feels his smile fade as he slowly draws back, his forehead cold where it peels away from the wall. Around him, the lights dim one last time as the Lor’s presence recedes back into the ship proper, her gentle hum soon lost in the white noise that follows. He is, for the moment, left alone.
He catches himself reaching for his scars again, halting halfway and glaring at the offending hand as if it should know better. He should know better, he… He sighs, letting his weary gaze linger on the callused pads of his palm and fingers, charting the more mundane scars that litter them. A nick from a boxcutter. A burn from a hot welder. A smooth spot from one of his first disastrous attempts at using magic. More history, more cobblestones, more splinters - right there in his own skin.
With a thought, he lets sparks gather around the tips of his fingers, watching with dull fascination as they dance and fluoresce in shades of mauve and violet, light and dark. The air smells sharp, fatal, like the moment before lightning strikes. He imagines this hand aimed at the sky, at his foes, at the hull of the Lor Starcutter herself, staining it in those same shades of cruel violet, demanding that she fight, that she buy him time, that she destroy anything that gets in his way, even as she struggles so hard not to-
Magolor sucks in a breath through gritted teeth, his nails digging into the meat of his palm just hard enough to sting, to yank him firmly back into the present, the magic dispelled. Shakily, he unclenches his fist, staring at the angry red crescents that linger in his skin. Four little smiles, blind to his pain, bereft of mercy.
(it’s a miracle any of them ever forgave you)
(then again)
(how can you be certain they really did)
Jaw taut, he shakes the ache out of his hand and bunches his sleeve into his palm, hiding the marks both new and old. He ought to head out now. Get started on all those projects, distractions, whatever. He gives his room one final glance over his shoulder, lingering on his disheveled bed, the empty space beside his. Tempted, as he often is these days, to climb back in and just… stay there.
(heavy is the head that wears the)
“Shut up,” he mumbles, too quiet for even the Lor’s sensors to pick up, slipping through the portal before the thought can resolve itself. Maybe it’s childish, snapping back at nothing, but at least it’s better than letting it win.