Chapter Text
The funeral is nice. Really nice. The coffin is a fancy mahogany, embedded with intricate engravings and the Byers family crest in the middle on the closed lid. Will looks at his feet, at his leather shoes and fancy outfit, feeling the weight of the solid gold crown atop his head.
He gave a speech. He gave a speech of someone else's words in front of a crowd of observers who carefully watch his every move. Who want to see the emotion and drama, who want to think they mean something. Will wasn't made for this, he knows he wasn't. He feels like a failure in every regard. He doesn’t remember what he said, he knows he should've, it was his father's funeral after all. He knows he didn’t cry, though. He knows his audience of hundreds probably expected him to start crying about his loyalty to his ever-so-amazing father, the king. But he would never give them that.
Because they didn’t know Lonnie. They knew the king, sure, noble and gracious and strong-willed and admirable. They knew one of his sons would fulfill the prophecy. But they didn’t know him. Not like Will did, at least. They don’t know the stinging feeling his rough hands left on Will’s face after a hard hit. They don’t know what his screams sounded like. They don’t know how terrifying it was to hear his footsteps, heavy and menacing, walking down the long stone corridor and spiral staircase leading up to Will’s third-floor bedroom. So, they don’t know why Will doesn’t cry. They don’t need to, anyway. It’s none of their business.
The carriage rattles and bumps as the Byers travel back home after the whole event. Will rests his head against the ordained carriage wall, looking contemplatively out of the window, staring at nothing in particular, splaying his hand out on the smooth brown leather of the seat under him.
His mother and older brother sit across from him. His mom cried at the funeral, but Jonathan didn’t. He’s not sure his mom’s sobs were real, though. They weren’t the same as the ones he’s heard before on the loudest nights. They were hollow. She's a good actor, a good queen, kind. She knows what the people want, and she gives it to them. Will knows she couldn't handle it if they were unhappy because of her; he doesn't blame her, either. And Will doesn’t know if he’s ever seen Jonathan cry. He might’ve, once, one night when Lonnie was particularly angry. But most of those nights are far from Will’s memory. Hidden away or only seen in parts, the rest of the memory replaced by the ceiling of his bedroom, yelling vaguely audible in the background, eventually silenced by a door slamming shut or loud footsteps trailing away. He has his mother to thank for that, for sheltering him from Lonnie at his angriest.
He never did care much about his father. He didn't even know all that much about him. He knows he was royal blood, sure. He knows that he yelled a lot. He knows that he hit a lot. He knows that he couldn't have cared less about Will. He's not the heir, nor a good diplomat, and he is yet to tap into the Triforce, so he is not of any use to him whatsoever. So Will doesn't know why he feels anything at all about it, really. Why he feels anything but relief bubbling inside him. Why he feels some odd, sad feeling, not true despair, of course, but something thicker. More tangible. Something that makes his brain ache and his heart feel light, drifting far away, shrinking in on itself.
But Lonnie Byers is dead, and the rest of the Byers must carry on. And that's fine by Will. The war is still waging on, he has bigger issues to worry about.
~~~
He wakes up the next morning in a frenzy– well, more like surrounded by a frenzy. His mother is organizing relentlessly, planning for a competition designed at hunting down the one who fulfills the prophecy. The destined hero of everything good. Will would never say it out loud, but he’s always thought the prophecy shit was dumb. It’s always made him feel too aware, too watched, knowing that he’s predestined for something he isn’t even sure he’s fit for.
He watches the men gather around the courtyard from his bedroom window, resting his head on his arms, crossed on the stone windowsill, cold from the slight October chill which lingers slightly on his hands and face, making him shiver. He sees many of the same type: large, bulky men carrying huge broadswords and longbows, creases and scars resting deep in their faces from years of battle and training and loss. He recognizes many of them as part of the royal guard as well, the same ones who stand strong at the castle gates or march through the village, flaunting their shiny armor like they’re the most important people in the world.
One person does catch his eye, though; he’s not as tall, though still looming near six feet, and not nearly as bulky– Will might even go as far to describe him as gangly. He has long limbs and a mop of black hair reaching down to his shoulders, only wearing a dark blue tunic and some light leather armor, a stark contrast to the other men surrounding him. The weapons on his back consist of a simple sword, with no ordainment whatsoever on the hilt, and a small wooden bow, a few arrows in a roughly made leather canister attached to his side. He turns around, covering his eyes from the bright mid-morning sun with his pale, nimble hand, not nearly as scarred or callused as Will expected. Right away, Will can tell that he’s easily ten or fifteen years younger than the other men; he looks probably around Will’s age, sixteen or seventeen. But then, a small spark of recognition jolts him when he sees his face– dark brown eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a pale complexion, he registers quickly– and he knows immediately that this boy is not the one destined to seal the darkness. It has to be one of the men who looms large and has an air of arrogance, covered in rough scars and stories of past lives, not the lanky, self-absorbed idiot that is Michael Wheeler.
Their eyes lock for a moment, and Will can feel his heart rate increase tremendously out of embarrassment. He quickly ducks behind the window and sighs out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Suddenly, he hears a knock at the door. “Will? Are you in here?” It’s Lucas, his best friend since they were kids.
Will’s breath hitches, but he stands up and straightens out his formal attire anyway. “Yeah, you can come in!”
The door creaks open like it always does, its bronze hinges worn after decades of use. “Did you see how many people are out there? There’s at least sixty, I would say. And they’re all huge too!” He puffs out his chest and waves his arms for emphasis.
“Yeah, I saw ‘em.” His tone is much more disinterested than he intended, so he continues to try to cover it up. “I saw a boy out there who looks around our age.” He doesn’t know why that’s what he decides to say. He doesn’t want to talk about Michael, he wants to erase him from his memory like he has for the past five years.
Opposite of what he hoped for, Lucas looks immediately interested. “Oh? What’d he look like? Maybe I’ve seen him around?” He steps forward and looks out the open window.
“Long black hair, pale skin, skinniest in the whole crowd.” He scoffs out, disguising his disgust as laughter.
“Oh yeah, I think I see him. I think I have seen him before, I dunno…” Will silently thanks the Lord that Lucas doesn’t remember him. “Oh wait! That’s Mike, Mike Wheeler. His parents own a bakery in the city, it’s pretty popular too! Wait, haven’t you met him before? I feel like I introduced you two a while back.” Shit. “I dunno, I haven’t talked to him in a while, he looks way different.”
“Ah, yeah. That’s probably why I didn’t recognize him, then.” He brushes it off, though he knows he sounds suspicious. He’s a bad liar and he knows it. And Lucas knows him too well to let it go.
He glances at him with puzzlement. “Why are you acting so odd today, William.” Lucas uses his full name to fake interrogate him, a usual tactic.
He shrugs. “Am I really?” Suddenly, the perfect excuse hits him. “Well, my father just passed, so excuse me if I’m a bit airheaded, Sinclair.” It’s still lighthearted, and Lucas definitely knows that Will does not care in the slightest about his father’s untimely demise, but he hopes he’ll back off anyway.
Instead, Lucas once again squints suspiciously at him. “Well, I happen to know that you didn’t give a shit about your horrendous father, so please tell me what is actually happening” It’s a half-joke, and Will appreciates his friend’s concern, but this really isn’t something he desires to explain to him. There’s not a chance in hell that Will could ever explain this to anyone. And that includes himself.
Will sighs and shakes his head. “He was an arse, though he was still my blood. And the prophecy is quite the impediment, if you can’t tell.” He gestures vaguely to the hordes of men gathering in the courtyard just below them. He leans against the wall behind him, stone softened by a large red-and-gold banner, embellished with the Byers family crest, a variation on the Triforce, and the family motto: Antiquum Obtinens per Fortitudo et Lux, Possessing our Ancient Honor through Strength and Light. Sometimes it feels as though the banner is mocking him for his inability to fulfill the prophecy, obtain the power that his ancestors thought was so important to the family’s existence that it needed to be plastered on every wall on plaques and banners and family portraits.
He remembers the day he learned that he was the prophecy holder instead of Jonathan, after his sixteenth birthday came and went without a sign of war nor Vecna’s return, nor a single trace of the one who seals the darkness. At first, they thought the prophecy might have been just speculation after all, but that was impossible; there was too much evidence, too many things left unexplained if the prophecy was false. So, they turned to an eleven-year-old Will, realizing that one who holds the Triforce of Wisdom isn’t the first son who they had trained and prepared to be the one who ends a centuries-long war that would fulfill the prophecy, but the second. The second son, the one Joyce had raised almost entirely on her own. The second son, the one she loved and cherished and spoiled in the ways she was never allowed to for the first. The second son, the one she fought back for when he was too gentle and soft to do it himself.
Jonathan doesn’t resent him for it, though; Will doesn’t know how. He wasted his childhood away for a prophecy that wasn’t his to complete. For something he can never reach, no matter how hard he trains, because it wasn’t written in his blood, not like it’s written in Will’s.
“The prophecy is stupid!” Lucas exclaims angrily. Will laughs. “Well, obviously. But it’s true. No matter how much of a pain it continues to be in my life, it’s true.”
Jonathan’s voice echoes up through the stone corridor. “Will, Lucas! It’s starting!” Will looks outside to see that most of the participants have trickled into lines for the archery competition.
Will and Lucas quickly glance at each other. “I’ll race you down there.” Lucas starts running first.
“Hey! That’s not fair!” Will hurriedly scrambles after him.
“Too bad!” Lucas’ voice echoes.
By the time makes it out to the courtyard, he’s thoroughly out of breath, but so is Lucas. It was nearly a tie, and Will knows he would’ve won if Lucas wasn’t a cheater.
Will’s eyes immediately gravitate to Michael. He looks different closer up. Will specifically notices the freckles scattered on his nose and forearms. He also sees that the leather he’s wearing is very tarnished, almost handmade-looking. They’re stupid observations, Will knows that he shouldn’t be paying this much attention to things like these, but he does anyway. Not on purpose, of course. He’s just a detail-oriented person.
Lucas’ voice cuts in from the chaos around them, the booming voices and laughter of the middle-aged knights who hope they’re destined for greatness exclusively for their large egos. “We should go say hello to Mike, wish him good luck!” Before he can object, Will is being dragged along straight towards his foe.
“Hi, Mike! Haven’t seen you in a while!” Lucas greets Michael. “This is Will, I’m pretty sure you’ve met before. Even if you haven't, I'm sure you recognize him.” He jokes. Will sees Michael’s face twist into an odd expression, confirming that Will’s potent loathing is mutual.
“Lucas! How’ve you been? You’re right, we haven’t talked in a while, I don’t really know what happened.” Michael completely ignores Will, and that’s fine by him.
“Yeah, I know. We’ve got to meet up sometime! What brings you here, anyway? You think you’re the one that seals the darkness?” He draws out the last part of the question sarcastically, like he thinks the concept is stupid. Will agrees, Michael could never be the other half of the prophecy.
“Nah, I don’t even know why I’m here, really.” He chuckles, cheeks turning slightly pink. “I’m a pretty good shot, I thought that maybe if I just showed off my skills I might be able to get in early with the Royal Guard. I don’t really love the idea of rotting away at my parents’ bakery my whole life.”
Lucas begins backing away from the line as someone calls out that the challenge is about to begin. “Guess we’ll see it on the playing field, yeah?”
Michael laughs and waves him goodbye. “Bet ya I won’t miss a shot!” He yells out. Cocky asshole, Will thinks, grimacing at his sheer lack of humility.
Instead of joining him in his detestation, Lucas responds, “You’re on!” He laughs and jogs away, Will storming off behind him. They sit in the first row of wooden seats and wait for a moment before the trials begin.
The commander in chief yells “Begin!” In his booming voice, prompting the men to shoot at the large targets about seventy meters in front of them. None of them get a bullseye; a few get close, but none manage to get the arrow perfectly in the center. The contestants cycle through, shooting three arrows each, and the closer Michael gets to the front of the line, the more stupid Will thinks this whole thing is. He knows it's important to find the missing swordsman, the third and final piece of the prophecy, but he thinks that if this whole prophecy is real in the first place, why won’t the swordsman just make his way to them? If it’s destined to play out anyway, why try to speed up the whole process by holding these stupid competitions? Isn’t that messing with the fates, or whatnot?
He sighs and sinks deeper into his seat when he sees that Michael is next in line. He’s wearing a stupidly aloof expression, making Will angrier than ever. Why doesn’t he care about this? If he truly is the swordsman as he so selfishly assumes, why is he so vain, so childish, so uncaring? He isn’t virtuous as the ancients once described, he’s a heinously indifferent idiot. Which is why Will is absolutely certain that he is not bound to him by fate.
The men finish their final round, once again failing to do anything majorly spectacular. Some get bullseyes, though they’re the men who have been training their entire lives and already serve in the Royal Guard. As far as Will can tell, this trial will be yet another failure.
The next round of men step up, including Michael. He looks confident with a bow in his hand, his face remaining laughably serious. The commander once again yells for them to raise their bows into firing position.
“Begin!” Michael draws his hand back and fires. The arrow flies quickly across the 70-meter field, then hits.
It’s a bullseye. Will scoffs and chalks it up to dumb luck.
The men bring up their second arrows and fire. Once again, Michael somehow manages to shoot the arrow straight into the red center of the target, knocking the first arrow into the grass. Will leans forward slightly and huffs out a breath out of something akin to frustration.
The third and final arrows fly, and Michael once again manages to get it straight to the center. Will can’t believe it.
He managed to get every shot. He thinks, bewildered. He managed to do better than men twice his age, men who’ve been in the army since they were teenagers.
And, even more, when he glances back to Michael to revel in his hatred just a bit more, instead, he finds their eyes locked together. He feels a spark ignite in his chest, a strange, unfamiliar feeling, so different from the loathing currently looming within his heart, covering its atrium with a dark, thick ooze. No, this is new. This is warm, not necessarily a good warmth, but a new one. Like the feeling of a fuse lighting with a match.
The feeling of a prophecy finally beginning to unfold.
For the first time, a foreign thought grazes his mind. He is the one who seals the darkness.
~~~
“There’s no way!” He yells for a fifth or sixth time now to an agitated Lucas. “He can’t be! H-he’s- he’s-”
Lucas sighs. “He’s what, Will? An idiot? A heathen? A mouth-breather? You’ve gone through all of those, like, fifty times now. I just don’t get why you hate the guy so much.”
Will grumbles, “I dunno, I just really don’t feel like being bound to a- a dull-minded imbecile like him for the rest of my life!”
“Oooh, dull-minded imbecile, that’s a new one.” Lucas scoffs sarcastically and rolls his eyes. “Look, we don’t even know if it’s him yet! Your mom still set up two more trials, right? Just ‘cause he’s a good shot doesn’t mean he’s actually the swordsman. Plus, I always imagined him being… I dunno, bulkier? More suave? Generally cooler? I also owe him money now, so I guess I hate him too.”
Will plops down on his bed and furrows his eyebrows. “Yeah, I guess that’s true… he doesn’t really look like the fated-to-save-the-world-type.”
Will knows he’s coping. He felt it in that moment, the spark he felt ignite a prophecy foretold for centuries before he came into existence. The spark that set in stone the end of it all. He knows that Mike is the swordsman now. That in a week’s time, he’ll have pulled the fated sword out of its centuries-long resting place and it will accept him as its handler, and he will feel the fate of the world in his hands for the first time, the same feeling Will has whenever he’s reminded of the prophecy yet fulfilled. He knows that his mother and brother will bow, so he will too. He knows he’ll see the light leave Mike’s eyes when he realizes that he can’t escape this fate. And he knows that he’ll deeply, unadulteratedly despise it, him, looking in his eyes and seeing his own pain reflected in full, knowing that he’s finally understood by a traitor, an uncaring, idiotic traitor.
He looks out of the window again, this time watching the sun set over the crowd of men leaving the courtyard. He finds Michael in the crowd, his eyes immediately gravitating toward him in a way he hates. He looks lost, alone, quiet. Will might almost feel bad for him if it weren't for his scorching hatred. At least he knows that won't go away once he gets announced as the other half of the prophecy. The loathing will still run deep and consistent, and he will survive.