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foxgloveblue · 1 year

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pale in a liminal moon 🌙 chapter 20

Pairing: Grian/Scar

Tags: selkie AU, steampunk AU, enemies to lovers, slow burn

Summary: Scar has twenty-two minutes to find Grian.

Words: 4,768

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ao3 link || masterpost

The crowd felt alive.

The people themselves were obviously alive, but that wasn’t what he meant. The hundreds of guests milling about and chatting were each their own being – each an individual with their own life, own motivations for being there.

Normally, Scar reveled in these differences. It was almost like a game to him. With a few observations and careful words, could he dissect their life story? Could he connect with them, find a mutual understanding? Could he gain advantages, use their own nature against them?

Such thoughts, usually the crux of his galas, were now nonexistent. He couldn’t help but view each person as just another feature of the landscape – jewels, silks, bustles, tailcoats, all as uninteresting as an individual cobble of a road.

And yet that cobble was alive. Shifting, pressing, bumping. Talking to each other, talking to him. The party wasn’t even close to the height of revelry that Scar had seen before. People were still relatively sober. No untoward scandals had yet occurred. Nether, the dancing hadn’t even begun. And yet, the chatter of voices was somehow more deafening than Scar had ever heard before. Searching for Grian felt less like wandering through a crowded room and more like being swallowed whole.

It wasn’t just that people were in his way. Some were actively reaching for him – sometimes with words, sometimes even with their hands, grasping his shoulders, his arms. One even had the audacity to grasp his hand where he held his cane, as if physically trying to prevent him from walking away. He had wasted valuable moments wrenching free and barking out something quite curt, wishing he had the time to take an aside with his guards and have her escorted out.

Time. Time, time, time – that was really the crux of it. He had no time at all.

He checked his watch, something he had surely done more in the past precious few minutes more than the entire week beforehand. Only seventeen minutes left. Less when he considered that he had agreed to meet with Mumbo five minutes before his speech if he didn’t manage to find Grian himself.

The worst part, however, was the uncertainty. With every mask he glanced over, every turn of his eye, he worried that he had just… passed Grian over. It would be so easy, wouldn’t it? He had no idea what his mask was, and even if he did, the constant swell and shift of people made every glance fleeting.

And that wasn’t even considering the very real possibility that Grian wasn’t here at all. That he was hiding away in some other room, swimming in the garden pool, sequestered away with Jellie or Grumbot, waiting for this entire foolish affair to pass. Even though Scar would be shocked at Grian’s willingness to throw away his freedom, it wouldn’t… it wouldn’t be the first time that Grian surprised him.

Scar cursed under his breath. He was getting too lost in thought. He could talk it out with Grian after he found him.

There was a soft tug at his sleeve. Scar instinctively yanked his hand away, turning on his heel to chew out whoever had the gall to touch him this time.

He came to face a heavyset, dark-haired man, slightly shorter than himself. His mask was some kind of… blue imp? It was frustratingly familiar, but Scar couldn’t seem to place it.

“Sorry, sir, but I’m in a hurry.” Scar barked out, already pushing past the man.

This time, the man’s grip was more forceful. “Scar.”

Scar froze. Oh, shit.

He turned back, actually looking. “Cub?”

Cub let out a sigh, folding his arms. “I can’t believe you ‘sir’ed me.”

Scar scratched the back of his neck. “I… I didn’t recognize you.” It was more that he just couldn’t believe Cub had actually come. They hadn’t spoken since their little outing – Scar had figured his appearance at Joe and Cleo’s was, well… an excuse to talk to him.

“Clearly. I don’t think you’ve ever been so simultaneously respectful and rude.”

Scar laughed at that, some of the tension draining away. “Sorry, sorry. I honestly figured you weren’t coming.”

“I promised, didn’t I?”

“I… suppose you did.” Scar couldn’t help it – he checked his watch. Fifteen minutes. “Listen, Cub, I really am happy to see you; but I actually do have to go. We can catch up after my speech, I promise.”

“I actually have some rather urgent business with you.”

Scar blinked. “You… you do?”

“Yep. There’s someone I want you to talk to.”

Someone…? Cub wouldn’t be so insistent about a business proposition – or so mysterious. The only explanation that Scar could think of was that Cub was, well… involved with someone.

It was almost enough to make Scar laugh, but he stopped himself. Not so long ago, he had trouble picturing himself with any romantic involvements. Was the idea of Cub finding someone really so strange?

Of course, that might not be it at all. It didn’t help that Cub was hard to read on the best of days, let alone when he was wearing a mask.

Regardless of what it was, Scar still had the same answer for him.

“Whoever they are, they’ll have to wait.”

“Scar…”

“I promise I’ll come talk to them later!” Scar called out, already rushing through the crowd.

Cub moved as if to stop him again, but this time Scar was too quick, managing to slip into the crowd. Even that was odd – Cub wasn’t one to push like that. Not him, anyway.

Scar shook his head. He couldn’t worry about it right now. Whatever was going on with Cub could wait – it had to wait.

As if summoned by that thought, he heard a voice call out – “Scar?”

He tried to duck away – just another person to avoid. “Hey! SCAR! Get your sorry butt over here!”

For the second time that night, he froze with sudden recognition. Whirling on his heel, he scanned the crowd for any sign of his friend.

His eyes landed on a rather short figure, clad in a lovely green velvet cloak that looked almost like moss, and a truly horrific mask. He grimaced as Bdubs approached.

“Did you have to wear that mask? Again?” he complained as soon as Bdubs was close enough to speak at a normal tone.

“I like the mask!” Bdubs huffed, adjusting it so he could peer up at Scar. If Scar were forced to describe it, he would say that it was similar to the prototypical comedy theater mask, except far more grotesque. It was made of solid brass, but the mask somehow looked alive. The smile was stretched to the limits of the face. Patina patterning the metal so that it ironically looked like there were tear tracks cutting across the mask’s visage. Worst of all, however, were the eyes – rather than a mirthful upturn, the eyes were just wide and staring, repulsive in its mismatch.

Scar hated it. He had always hated it, and Bdubs’ insistence on continuing to wear it had not lessened his hatred in the slightest.

He, however, currently had more important things to worry about.

“Have you seen Grian?” he asked, not quite managing to keep the desperation out of his voice.

Bdubs cocked his head. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

Scar’s heart soared. Unable to contain himself, he grasped Bdubs firmly by the shoulders, practically shaking him in his excitement. “Where? Where is he?”

“Jeez, Scar, chill out!” Bdubs huffed in annoyance. “Saw him by the wet bar, nursing a glass of… something. ‘S why I wanted to talk to you, actually. Looked pretty down.”

As soon as his good mood had come, it evaporated. Grian getting drunk easily was an endearing trait when they had been on vacation – now that Scar wanted to have an honest, very serious conversation with him, it was a recipe for disaster.

Not to mention the fact that Grian had to give a speech in front of hundreds and hundreds of people.

“I need to talk to him.”

“Uh, duh.” Bdubs laughed, though he didn’t sound very amused. “I was worried that you already had, and it had gone awfully.”

“No, no. I haven’t said anything to him. But I clearly need to.” Scar instinctively straightened his back, fiddling with his cravat. “What’s he wearing?”

“You don’t know?” Bdubs tsked. “Dark red cloak. Seal mask. I’d say he’s impossible to miss, but… well, he has a lot of competition.”

A seal. It seemed obvious, but Scar hadn’t wanted to assume. Grian so often surprised him. He had been ready for him to be wearing… a macaw mask or something, just to throw him off.

Though maybe it was comforting in some way – just for tonight, he could be a seal again.

He shook himself out of the thought. “Thank you, thank you so much.” He exclaimed, giving Bdubs a cursory handshake before pushing past him.

“You still owe me that paycheck!” Bdubs called after him, though he was quickly swallowed by the fray. Scar made a mental note to double what he had been planning on giving him.

The wet bar wasn’t too far from here. He checked his watch. Eleven minutes. Not enough time for a proper conversation, but certainly enough time to reassure him that he was ready to talk, to apologize, to make it right. Enough to soothe Scar’s frayed emotions.

Tilting his head up, he could see the dark wood of the wet bar, art nouveau frame curving as it grew into the wall. He was so close, surely only seconds away from seeing Grian –

His sightline was suddenly cut off by a tall, long-haired man, standing resolutely between him and the wet bar. He was about to ask – not so politely – for the man to move when a second figure stepped in front of him as well.

The appearance of this second figure was so surprising that for a moment, the words died in his throat. She was a short woman, dark brown hair tied up in a fashionable, elaborate hairdo that even had fresh-cut flowers tucked into the whorls and braids. There were even real flowers on her dress, pinned between bunches of pale pink silk.

Her dress was much wider and more elaborate than most of his guests – a sure sign that she wasn’t from Cambria, where the dresses had been getting sleeker and more modest. Vindouxian, no doubt, which spelled trouble.

That little revelation was far from the most notable thing, however. Scar’s skin crawled as his eyes were naturally drawn to her mask. In a horrific contrast to the rest of her outfit, her mask was a snarling monster, too-many teeth bared in a gut-churning grin, features somewhere between human and… not.

Its horns, however, were decorated in green ribbon and pretty flowers. That was a nice touch.

“Mr. Scar,” the woman said in a heavy Vindouxian accent, confirming Scar’s suspicions. “May I have a moment of your precious time?”

If only she knew how precious that time was. Scar had to resist the urge to check his watch again.

Instead he bowed slightly. “May I speak to the madame after my speech? I have some urgent business to attend to.”

“Ah, but Mr. Scar, I’m afraid I insist. It is the contents of this speech that concern me – no, concern all of Vindoux.”

Scar’s heart sank. “Are you the wife of the diplomat?” Truth be told, he was a little surprised. The diplomat was a rude and cantankerous man. Despite his prestige and power, Scar had difficulty imagining any woman actually settling down with him, but if anyone were to… this woman certainly exuded some powerful air of control.

She cocked her head. “The monsieur is unfortunately feeling rather unwell tonight, so I came in his stead. I am his eventual successor – I’m rather surprised that you haven’t heard of me. The lady diplomat of Vindoux is quite the cause for chatter in this country.”

Scar was very grateful that his mask was full-faced – his cheeks were definitely burning. He had always thought of himself as rather progressive, but he supposed old biases died hard.

He bowed again, ducking his chin. “Forgive my rude assumption, madame .”

She tittered, producing a fan from… somewhere, fluttering the delicate, lacy contraption in front of her face. “You’re forgiven. Not everyone reacts as gracefully as you.”

She then turned, glancing back at the man who Scar now presumed to be her bodyguard. “ Ma chérie , leave us for a moment – I wish to speak with him alone.”

He hesitated. “But madame… ”

Oh. Not ‘he’ at all. At this point, Scar felt about ready to crawl into a hole. At least this time he hadn’t managed to put his foot in his mouth.

Though honestly, he could be forgiven for his assumption. She was certainly dressed like a man. Her long, blonde hair was tucked back in a no-nonsense bun, more suited for a working woman than a fancy party. More damning was, of course, her suit. The only times he had seen women wearing pants were the few militaries that allowed female soldiers, and even then, they usually had long coats that looked almost like a pseudo-dress.

Even her mask was, well, masculine. It was clearly a bald eagle, each feather meticulously sculpted as if to be as sharp and off-putting as possible, beak gleaming gold in the light; though Scar supposed it didn’t hold a candle to her companion’s mask in terms of fear factor.

“I insist,” the diplomat said, snapping Scar out of his momentary distraction. “I want to have an honest conversation. No intimidation.”

She lovingly ribbed her companion, who still seemed hesitant. Nevertheless, after a moment, the tall woman bowed. “Of course, madame. I will be waiting for you.”

With that proclamation, she disappeared into the crowd, melting away as easily as a shadow.

“Now then.” The diplomat said, snapping her fan closed. “To business. What was this I heard about your Solvan fiancé?”

“Husband.” Scar automatically corrected, then flinched. Void, his husband. The man he very desperately needed to talk to; the task he was rapidly running out of time for.

She made a noise. “Husband, then. Mr. Scar, do I need to remind you of your neutrality agreement?”

She did not. It was one of the reasons he so very desperately needed to give a speech.

At the beginning of ConCorp’s involvement in the war, Scar had signed an agreement to sell weapons to both sides of the conflict, with no exclusivity promises – other than, of course, the exclusivity that came with selling to the highest bidder. It was an arrangement that often benefitted Vindoux. It was simply a wealthier country.

No doubt she was scared to lose that edge.

“ Madame, all of this will be addressed in my speech. If you are really so worried about it, then let me assure you right now, my marriage was purely for love. There is no business about it.”

“You say that, but how can you promise it?” There was an inescapable edge to her voice, a driving, demanding force. “Even if it was truly for love and love only, can you really say that your husband’s country means nothing to you?”

“It doesn’t.” Scar said flatly, then froze.

His vision had melted away. No longer was he gazing down at the cross diplomat of Vindoux. Instead, he saw beauty.

A stark, craggy mountain range, dusted in snow. A thick forest in autumn, red and gold leaves turning the light rich and otherworldly. An entire ocean turned to ice, each crack an opportunity for fishing, for living . Solhav.

But the vision didn’t end there. A cold north gave way to a mellow south. Grand moors, dotted with flowers and cut open by trenches of white chalk. Beaches not so dissimilar from the one below Scar’s manor, water pale but holding secrets of great beauty. Cambria.

He even saw rows of vineyards and orchards, felt the wonderful crush of sweet juice in his mouth as he swiped plums off of trees. Vindoux.

And just as he had that thought –

The orchards were on fire. Acres of trees, turned to jagged black skeletons, fingers reaching desperately for a reprieve that would not come. The ruins of buildings, of entire towns – hundreds of years extinguished in the matter of seconds. The cold water of a ocean, far from here, littered with the ruins of boats and bodies, the desperation with which his lover clung onto life –

Scar gasped, shaking his head as the visions faded away. What… what had just happened?

More memories. There was no other explanation – he had experienced another foray into Grian’s mind. But why? What triggered it? It felt almost like karmic retribution, a rebuttal to his callousness.

But even still, why Vindoux? He had no idea Grian had even been there. Surely if he was being punished for not caring for Solhav, he wouldn’t be shown its enemy.

“Mr. Scar?” the diplomat called uncertainly, snapping him out of his haze. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, sorry, just – just got lost in thought.” He took a grounding breath, rubbing his finger over the smooth metal of his pocket watch. He could worry about… whatever that was some other time.

“Look, madame, the neutrality agreement is already in ink. I can’t give much stronger of a promise than being legally bound to follow my word, and certainly not at a party. All I can offer you is this; I have no plans to go back on my agreement, and if you’re still not satisfied, you can take it up with ConCorp’s lawyers. They’ll tell you the same thing.”

She hummed, clearly not thrilled by his answer – and yet she didn’t press further.

“Now, I really must take my leave. Perhaps I will see madame and her chérie later tonight over hors d'oeuvres ?”

She opened her fan with another clat – this time, the flutters had a distinctly embarrassed edge to them. “Perhaps. Though don’t think you’re off the hook yet.”

“Noted.” Scar said, bowing his head.

As he straightened, finally walking past her and towards his destination, his mind couldn’t help but wander back to his vision. Had he been reaching out inadvertently? Or maybe it had been Grian, opening himself up for the first time in days.

That was almost certainly just wishful thinking; the bond had been horribly still for days. Cut off from each other, from themselves. Not surprising, but… it still felt terrible.

It should’ve just been a return to normal – after all, Scar had lived the first thirty-two years of his life without experiencing anything like it. And yet… that bond, that connection between them, was so sweet, so unforgettable, that its absence was all the more torturous.

If Grian had opened himself up, even just a little… maybe there was still hope.

Scar checked his pocket watch, cursing under his breath. Four minutes. Not enough time for a conversation. Nether, it probably wasn’t even enough time to get to the stage – as the hour drew nearer, the excitement was palpable, making it even more difficult to get through the crowd.

But even just seeing him beforehand, reassuring him that he wanted to reach out, to make some amends…

Scar stopped.

There weren’t many people at the wet bar. A couple sitting at the edge, chatting away. A man already slumped over, head in hands. The bartender, cleaning a glass.

None of them wore a red cloak. None of them were Grian.

Scar’s heart plummeted.

He made his way to the bar as if in a dream, not even feeling the plush velvet beneath him as he sat at one of the stools. He just stared, unseeing, at the dark whorls of the wooden bar.

He had been too late. And now it was all for nothing.

He wouldn’t be able to save his reputation – not without Grian. The rumors would just continue, compounding into greater, more lascivious lies.

And yet… Scar couldn’t manage to muster up any kind of feelings about that other than a dull apathy. The worry that had been haunting him for weeks – no. Had been haunting him for years.

He tried to really picture it, picture the consequences. Scandal, dissolution of ConCorp, going completely broke, losing everything. It all barely registered.

All he cared about was Grian.

“Mr. Scar?” Oh. The bartender.

He managed to drag his gaze up. The bartender had his head cocked as he gazed down at Scar, concerned expression plain behind his small blue half-mask.

Right. He knew this bartender, didn’t he? He had certainly been hiring the same person for every gala – much easier that way.

“Keralis.” he finally managed to reply, digging the name out of the recesses of his mind after an awkward few seconds.

“My, my.” Keralis clicked his tongue. “You are the second-saddest fishie I’ve seen tonight.”

“Axolo’ls aren’ fish.” A voice beside him slurred. Startled, Scar turned towards its source, and was even more surprised to see that he now recognized the man as Xisuma.

He was wearing a startlingly pink suit, complete with a strange mask that appeared to have some kind of… fronds sticking out of the side. Scar supposed that he was supposed to be an ‘axolo’l’, though he had no idea what that was.

It certainly didn’t help that Xisuma’s natural north Cambrian accent was out in full force, making him even harder to understand. He usually repressed it for fear of looking uncultured, but Scar supposed being drunk unlocked all sorts of things.

��Orcas aren’t fish either.” Scar ran his finger morosely over the fine wooden grain of the bar. “They’re not even whales. Isn’t that funny? They’re called ‘killer whales’, but scientists say they’re dolphins. Guess ‘killer dolphin’ doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

Keralis put his hands on his hips. “Well, aren’t you just a pair of smarty-pants. Fine then. You’re the saddest killer dolphin I’ve seen tonight.”

Scar managed to laugh at that.

“M’kay. So, what’ll it be?”

Scar sighed. What he needed was to bite the bullet, get up off this bar stool, and go give his speech. Instead, he just said “Whiskey neat. Whatever you have is fine.”

Keralis laughed. “My my, Mr. Scar. It’s like you’ve forgotten that you have the entire world at your fingertips.”

Xisuma cocked his head. “Don’ listen to him. He jus’ wants to make a frui’y cocktail.”

“Oh, hush up, Shashwammy.” Keralis tutted. Nevertheless, within a moment, Keralis had poured a plain glass of whiskey, sliding it to Scar with a flourish.

Scar reached behind his head, undoing the ribbons that held his mask in place. After a moment, it fell away from his face, and Scar placed it in his lap. The orca stared back at him, teeth still gleaming.

Scar brought the whiskey up to his lips, and despite it undoubtedly being a rather fine liquor, he could barely taste it. Just felt the fire going down.

“Mm. Very sad indeed.” Keralis said thoughtfully. “What has you so down, Mr. Scar?”

Scar swirled the contents of his glass. “Have you seen Grian? Wearing a seal mask, red cloak?”

Keralis cocked his head. “Sure. Was here just a few minutes ago. Went off with a woman.”

Oh.

A woman. Scar shouldn’t be surprised – they weren’t even in a relationship, let alone an exclusive one. It was completely within Grian’s right to enjoy some company at a party.

Didn’t make him feel any better about it.

Scar hadn’t realized it was possible to feel worse than he had, but tonight was apparently a time of new lows.

“Who is he, anyway?” Keralis asked, genuine curiosity in his tone. “Talked to me in Solvan. Interesting fella.”

“He’s my husband.” Scar said mournfully, staring at his drink.

“Oh… I’m sorry, Mr. Scar.” Keralis replied, sounding genuinely remorseful.

“‘S okay.” Scar managed. “Our relationship is complicated. I was just… I don’t know. I was hoping to talk to him.”

“Well, you still can.” Keralis encouraged. “He almost certainly hasn’t gone far.”

“No point. Had to talk to him before my speech in…” Scar pulled out his watch. “Two minutes ago.”

“Mr. Scar!” Keralis admonished. “You need to get going! There are journalists who are waiting for you!”

Scar groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “I know. Believe me, I know.”

“Stage fright?”

Scar managed a derisive snort. “Hardly. I’ve faced those vultures many, many times before. I just… I can’t bring myself to care.”

A sudden banging noise startled him, and he whipped around to face the source. Xisuma had slammed his pint glass against the table, some of the ale inside sloshing onto the surface of the bar table.

“Sashwammy…” Keralis started, a clear tone of warning in his voice.

Xisuma ignored him. “Mr. Scar… how can you say tha’?”

Scar blinked in shock. Was Xisuma… angry? Was he getting angry? At him?

When Scar didn’t respond, X just barreled on. “How could you say that? After all of this – after all of the last minu’e changes, the nether you put me an’ my team through, the funding you pulled – how could you say you don’t care?”

Scar just blinked stupidly. He had never seen Xisuma like this. He had seen him drunk before, certainly. Nether, X seemed to get drunk at most HEP galas. Something about being glad it was finally over. But this… this was something else entirely. Some facet of his personality that Scar had seemingly dragged into the light.

“Are all the things they say true?” there was an edge of desperation to his words now. “That you founded HEP as a vani’y project? That you only care about your reputation? What’s the truth, Scar? What is it?”

“I…” Scar started. He swallowed thickly. “I… I did care. I do care. About HEP, I mean. The environment. All of it. I just… I lost focus of what was really important.”

“If you care, then go up there!” Xisuma swung his arms wildly. “Go beg from donations from your rich friends. Do wha’ good you can.”

Scar ducked his head. He really had screwed X over – taking over what should be his ball, forcing donations to go towards his selfish project rather than raising any money for actual conservation.

It was too late to change any of that now. But it wasn’t too late for the truth.

“It… it doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… the donations don’t matter. This whole ball – no. The project itself. It doesn’t matter. Not the way you want it to. The marine research facility, when completed and utilized as planned, would have… maybe twenty percent of its operations dedicated to discovery and conservation. The rest would go towards weapon development.”

Xisuma was silent for a moment. “Why… why are you telling me this?”

Scar shrugged, shaking his head. “You asked for the truth. Maybe I wanted to try telling it for once.”

There was a long beat of silence. Xisuma took a deep, deep swig of his ale. “You’re no’ gonna have me killed or somethin’, right?”

“I’ll be honest, X, I have bigger fish to fry.”

“Not a fish.” Keralis corrected, startling Scar – he had somehow forgotten the man was even there.

He was once again surprised, this time by Xisuma bursting into too-loud laughter. Harsh cackles that shook his entire frame, which rapidly dissolved into awful sobs.

“Oh, Sashwammy…” Keralis sighed, leaning over to pat the man on the shoulder, who was inconsolably wailing into his mug.

Void. He must’ve lost his edge – giving concessions to diplomats, working up previously loyal employees to the point of tears, not even managing to gain an audience with his own damn husband.

At this point, Scar wanted nothing more than to crawl back to his room and sleep the rest of the night off.

But he had made promises, hadn’t he? Promises to the diplomat – void, he hadn’t even caught her name – promises to his friends, promises to himself.

He knocked back the rest of his whiskey, nearly choking on the fiery liquid as it ran down his throat. The clink of his glass felt like a death knell.

He went to put his mask back on, but something stopped him. Instead, he just placed it on the bar’s surface, the empty eyes of the orca staring back at him.

He was out of time. Had been out of time for a while. Whether he liked it or not, the only way out was through.

#scarian #hermitshipping #hermitshipblr #hermitcraft fanfic #pialm #my art #my writing

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