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deiaiko · 2 months

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#19.3 Unravel

It had been some time since Agni felt this nervous. Not even talking with Jinsung Ha recently had made him feel like this. He fiddled with the mask on his hand as he waited for Grace to come back. He had thought hard on how to deliver the news, but he knew that no matter how he phrased it, Grace would be upset. Velt nuzzled under his palm and Agni gave her a few pats, before deciding that she would be better inside her bowl in his lighthouse, just in case the shinsu acted up around Grace after he received the news.

Grace came back wearing the comfiest shirt and shorts Agni knew Grace liked to wear on lazy days. He joined him on the floor, and they ate dinner together. Agni always finished last, so while waiting for him to finish his meal, Grace told him about his day with Bam. Grace was intrigued by how much his way of thinking had changed, and how glad he was to be able to be by Bam's side when he was having a bad day. It reminded Agni of the hidden floor, when Grace faced his sworn enemy.

They left the used bowls on the coffee table and went to brush their teeth. Afterwards, they turned off the light and went upstairs to sit on their bed. Grace's curious gaze never left him, and Agni curled his feet nervously.

Grace was the one who broke the silence. "So…what is it?"

Agni's breath hitched. This was the part he dreaded most. "I talked with the crocodile earlier. Did you know that he could manipulate stone already?"

"Huh." Grace needed a few seconds to let the information sink in. "Didn't Rak learn it on the Hell train? How does he know it?"

"Turns out our crocodile also traveled back to the past like us. He found the young crocodile and taught him."

"What?!" Grace gasped, wide eyed. "That means our Rak is–!!"

"He's dead." Agni quickly snuffed out that hope. They had been in delusion for long enough; it was time that they faced the bitter truth. "He suffered a fatal injury from the explosion. He couldn't have lasted long without proper help." Agni omitted the actual cause for Rak's death, but still kept his words true. "I'm sorry."

"…Oh." Grace looked lost, just like Agni was. His lips parted a little, but they closed before any sound escaped.

Agni gently squeezed Grace's hand, encouraging and comforting as he let the silence stretch on, giving Grace some time to process the information.

"Agni…" Grace whispered, "do you think Hatz and Isu…?"

Agni bit his lip and avoided his gaze, as the nightmare of that day replayed in his mind. He witnessed Hatz get his arms ripped off when trying to protect him. He could still recall the clang of a sword hitting the floor, and Hatz's suppressed scream that gnawed deep at his guilt. He witnessed Isu get beheaded after being taken hostage, the memory of warm blood painting them both still vivid like it happened yesterday.

Agni refused to acknowledge their possible deaths, because it felt like a nightmare that one day he could hopefully wake up from. He avoided the topic when Grace brought it up, so he wouldn't have to say it aloud and make it real. He had been so hard on himself, because he couldn't get rid of the feeling that he had failed Grace and everyone else involved.

Agni knew this had to change if he wanted to live better, now that they had gotten a second chance. So he swallowed down the lump in his throat that had built up over the years and asked mostly to himself; "What are the odds of their survival?"

"There's always a chance–"

"Grace." Agni looked him straight in the eye. "They were already severely injured before the explosion hit."

Grace fell silent and went still.

Agni felt a pang of guilt upon witnessing Grace's reaction. "Sorry. I didn't mean to snap." Agni fiddled with his hands. He realized that he didn't know how much Grace knew of what happened. "My scar…do you know how I got it?"

"I…was told it was from the family heads' battle." Grace looked thoughtful. Agni knew he was trying to be careful with his words. "A stray attack?"

"It could have been worse." The memory of the scorching heat on his skin felt like it had only happened yesterday. He passed out right when he was about to heal Isu, and only found out later that he also lost sweetfish at that time. The days he spent recovering from the burn, to withstand the excruciating pain every second he was conscious, and finally coming to terms that it'd be a permanent scar, was one of the turning points that had changed him forever. Were Grace not there to care for him, he might have ended up destroying himself even more.

Agni hadn't realized he had his left hand clawing on his cheek until Grace pried his hand off and frowned, "You're doing it again."

"Maybe I should wear the mask…" Agni muttered to himself. After all, Grace gave it to him less so he could hide the scar but more to prevent him from unconsciously hurting himself. The only time he could safely take it off was when Grace was around.

Agni bit his lip nervously when Grace didn't reply. He no longer had the courage to look Grace in the eye that spoke so much concern, so he leaned close and rested his head on Grace's chest. "Rak, Isu, Hatz and Hwaryun were trying to get me out of that damned place. But we were caught while escaping, and…it was a bloodbath. I was…too occupied to react to the incoming heat. Rak shielded us from the explosion. And when I woke up…"

"They weren’t with you," Grace finished it for him after Agni trailed off a moment too long.

Agni nodded dazedly, "I've been telling myself that they're still alive, after a blow that could kill rankers. But…who am I kidding? I was lucky enough to survive with just this little–" Agni vaguely pointed to himself– "inconvenience."

Agni felt a hand gripping his arm, and he pulled away to see Grace looking at him with a pained expression. His eyes were glossy and his lips were pulled into a thin line. Trusting his instinct, Agni reached out to gently trace and cup Grace's cheek with his free hand.

"I'm sorry," Agni muttered. "I'm sorry, for not telling you sooner."

Agni silently witnessed tears that streamed down on his love's face. It was a bitter sight that Agni wished he'd never have to see again, that he had tried to avoid for so long by not telling him. He pulled Grace in and held him close to his chest, as if Agni was trying to gather his own crumbled heart back together.

Grace mumbled their late best friends' names as he held onto him tighter, shaking from each breath he took between sniffles.

Agni felt his own eyes sting with unshed tears. He remembered the years he spent climbing the tower together with his old team. Despite their banter being his source of headaches, Agni knew he too had come to acknowledge them as his cherished friends. Only when they were gone did Agni realize how much he'd miss having them around. Seeing the younger them didn't exactly close the gaping hole in his heart, but at least the emptiness was more filled.

Agni squeezed Grace tighter. "We have their younger selves with us now. We will protect them better this time."

Grace only nodded and sank further into his embrace. And Agni planted kisses on his hair, relishing the thought that after everything he had gone through, Grace was still a constant in his life. As long as he had him, everything would be okay.

When Grace started shaking again, Agni caressed his hair and hummed a comfort song they had known by heart. Still, it didn't make falling asleep any easier for Agni, especially not after admitting that his nightmare was very much real. However, as he had been through grief…this, too, would pass.

Masterlist

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#Whee we get to know some of their past. Specifically their turning point #I hope it flows nicely because i have rewritten this like 3 times now 😭😭😭 dialogues are just not my specialty #like how to make them reveal such information without making them come out of the blue #writing style aside. let's talk about why Agni behaves this way #I will save the details on the what and how for the prologue. but basically Agni had been through hell that he couldn't escape alone #Rak Hatz and Isu saved him (or attempted to). and Agni owed them for saving his life. thus the strong attachment that Khun doesn't have #also let me mention that Agni had trouble differentiating between hallucination and reality after the incident. So he was kind of in denial #maybe Agni had come to a conclusion that they might be dead months after that. but he was too afraid to admit it to Grace #because he thought it was partly his fault for being incompetent. and Grace would hate him for letting their friends die #not wanting to risk being left by Grace. he just put himself (and inevitably Grace too) in the illusion of truth #that there's still a chance their friends are still alive because they have no proof of their deaths #so when Agni was offered to go back to the past. he agreed to it. Already expecting that Rak Hatz Isu aren't the same ones that he looks fo #but it was as good as he could get to redeem himself. Plus they get to meet everyone else who they couldn't save #Anyway. I'm taking hiatus until April. In return I will answer if you have any questions whether it is written in the tags or sent via ask #see ya folks <3 we'll get more brothers and team bonding when I return #tower of god #tog #two sides of the same coin fic #my fic #my art #bam #25th bam #jue viole grace #khun #khun aguero agnis #khunbam #shibisu #ship leesoo #rak wraithraiser #hatz

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honeydots · 2 months

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i've been dipping my toes into experimenting with borders, lately 🌿

#pose from a 1958 walter wyles illustration!#xanlow #fe laslow #fe xander #fire emblem fates #fire emblem 14 #feif #fe14 #something nice and green as spring gets closer....#so some background on this is that it's actually fanart for a fic i havent written yet #its my idea for the outfits they'll be wearing. or at least something they own! i might end up changing laslow's shirt but idk its cute too #its for!!! my next longfic!!! which perhaps is ah bold of me when ive just put stigmata on a hiatus #but it isn't like ive been working on this instead of stigmata so!!!#i was juggling two ideas around for a while and i rly was going back and forth but ive 100% settled on this one now #the title is chapelle ardente and ive actually shared a brief wip of it in an ask game from a while back #but spoilers so that's all i'll say hehe!!!!#i hope i get a chance to share that fic w u guys cause im excited for it c: for now. um. enjoy the contextless fanart. dfjdksjf #dots draws

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raayllum · 8 months

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me, having to constantly remind myself that S5 / 5x08 isn't a culmination, but is just more set up:

#memes #mine #LIKE IT'S JUST SO MUCH WHAT I WANTED #THE WAY THERE'S MORE COMING IS JUST. INSANE #wishlist achieved #like at the very least rayla fighting a possessed callum next season is going to gut me #BUT THE FACT THERE'S GOING TO BE SO MUCH OTHER EMOTIONAL SYMBOLIC NARRATIVE PLOT SHIT #worked in?? END ME #rayllum #tag ramble #this might be the first night of the hiatus where i'm losing my mind tbh

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jjba-smash-or-pass · 1 month

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#SMASHHHHHH #also I just realized I might have to go on another hiatus soon #still not done with jojolion yet and we're already on the s names #sorry :/#sandman #steel ball run #jojo's bizarre adventure

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whumble-beeee · 1 month

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The Man in the Sweater Vest

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 7

Content: attempted noncon, threatened mouth whump, disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, scissors, tied up/handcuffs, noncon unshirtening, noncon touch, past captivity references, graphic threats, blood, crapton of whump. As a treat :)

* * * * * * * *

Excerpt from: The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for villains and bounty-hunters

[Inevitably, there will be disagreements on how you should treat your captured hero. One villain might want to just hold the hero hostage long enough to finish their dastardly plans. Another will want to break the hero’s will entirely! Or anything else in between!

But when working together with other villains, bounty hunters, henchmen, etc, it is crucial that everyone is on the same page about how your captured hero is to be treated, lest your hero end up with a few less limbs than you meant them too, or your months of breaking down the hero's fragile mind is undone by a single nice gesture.

Always communicate effectively, your hero will thank you for it (or curse the day you were born)!]

* * * * * * * *

Sweater-vest stumbled back, reeling from the punch and clutching his face before pulling his hands down and gawking at the blood staining his hands.

“STAY AWAY FROM ME!!” Stan screamed.

An intense elation washed through his chest despite the surprisingly sharp exploding pain that crackled up the very bones of his arm when he punched the man, and the now freshly ripped open scabs and bruises from where he’d forgotten to account for the handcuffs and yanked on them violently, streaming new ruby red over dried light brown that already carved down his arms;

Because he'd got him. He'd got him! Punched him, made him back off! Stan did that! He'd finally managed to actually do something about the atrocities being committed against him and it was so, so sweet.

Relatively short-lived, though.

Vaughn, the sweater vest man, started to giggle to himself as he wiped the blood streaming from his nose onto his sleeve. Elation gave way to tentative confusion. Then a sinister seed started to take root in Stan's gut, the roots already reaching out and tightening around his body.

“You-...” Vaughn giggled some more. “You– you think–?...”

He started fully laughing, speech overtaken by an apparent hilarity that Stan must’ve just been too shocked by the sudden mood change to understand. He was cackling. Then practically shrieking, crazy, loud, heaving laughs.

He must be crazy.

Insane.

Well and truly insane, the way he was shriek laughing into his shining red-stained hands.

His gaze snapped up to Stan, and Stan could practically hear the horror movie crackling effect with how fast it snapped up, crazy maniacal shudders still overtaking his body, piercing gaze turned wide, animalistic.

“You think you can HURT ME?! HURT ME?! AHAHAHAHA!!”

Suddenly Stan slammed into the wall, cuffed wrists pinned above his head, chest to chest with the crazy man and staring up into his crazy bloodshot eyes.

“You can't hurt me,” he growled into Stan’s ear through gritted teeth. ”I don't feel pain. I carved that weakness out a long time ago, my brain doesn’t register it anymore! And I did it so I could deal with horrible little brats like you–” he slammed Stan's wrists into the wall, “--however I see fit! So I could do whatever I wanted to them. So that even if they fight back, they always, always, always lose.”

He pulled back and leaned into Stan's face, staring the captive directly in his glaringly defiant, wide and shining eyes. Hot shaking breaths misted surprisingly minty breath onto Stan’s cheeks, nearly overpowered by the metallic tang of blood that still poured down his face.

“Always submit. Just like you're going to.”

Stan pulled down hard against Vaughn's grasp, struggling and wiggling and tugging and screaming and kicking and doing every single little thing he could to, if not escape, at least make this as difficult as possible.

“Get away from me!" He cried. "GET AWAY FROM ME, get OFF of me, I’m not gonna let you do this you sadist, you can’t do this to me!! LET GO–!”

A punch to the gut. Stan tried to double over and wheezed as much as he could with his arms pinned up, which delivered him right into another punch to the face.

Then something cool and sharp stabbed into the soft underside of his chin, straining his neck with how far his head pushed back into the wall.

“This is why I like to keep my victims gagged,” Vaughn gritted. “That bounty hunter of yours never does it, no matter how I tell him to. Always has to do stuff his own way, never listens. All he does is talk talk talk, always has a retort for everything. So defiant, and so is every single subject he brings in.”

A dull aching throb emanated from where Stan’s head pressed into the wall. Black spots dotted his vision.

“You–... y-you can't–”

The scissors pulled back and dove toward Stan's mouth, eliciting a loud cut-off scream of revolt as he cowered and squeezed his eyes shut from some vain, animalistic instinct to protect himself.

Then he pried open his eyes again, confused when no cutting metallic pain ripped through the fragile flesh of his face.

The handle of the scissors were fuzzy, too close for his eyes to focus.

They weren’t that far into his mouth.

Just enough that if Stan tried to close it, his teeth would clip on the tip of the metal blades instead.

The scissors lifted slowly, tapping on his top teeth, tilting his head up until he stared into Vaughn’s metallic blue eyes once more.

“I could always prep your throat with these if you like,” he drawled softly, letting go of Stan’s cuff chain and instead lightly grasping his thumb and forefinger under Stan’s chin, forcing his mouth open further. A small sob crackled out from Stan’s throat.

“It would be so easy… I could just–”

The scissors lurched further into Stan’s mouth, and Stan let out another involuntary squeak and an open-mouthed, unintelligible pleading of “no, no, no, no…” as tears started to sting at his eyes.

But he let him do it.

He even still held his arms up, because surely if he tried to fight back now, with the scissors in his mouth quite literally pinning him to the wall… He didn’t even want to think of the consequences.

“Careful, dropje. Wouldn’t want to cut yourself. Be quiet, be still, be good for me, right? You can be good for me? You can finally shut the hell up. No more fighting.”

He let go of Stan's chin and let his hands wander lower, caressing Stan’s sides, the curve of his waist, making his entire body tense and shudder. His breathing turning loud and shallow as he cringed away.

Vaughn just giggled.

“See? Isn’t this better? You’re not getting hurt, you’re doing what I say…” His fingers slipped under the waistband of Stan’s pants again. Slower this time. More deliberate.

It took all of Stan's willpower to not start hyperventilating at what he knew was about to happen. He knew. It was always this, wasn’t it?

Vaughn’s voice lowered as he leaned closer, pressing his body into Stan’s. He could feel the fibers of the stupid damn sweater vest against his stomach, deceptively soft, almost pleasant. The hard blade of the scissors tapped on the tip of his nose. “Because you physically have no other–”

BANG!!

Stan screamed.

Vaughn screamed.

The ghost of the gunshot echoed off the cinderblock walls.

Vaughn also nearly fell backward, pushing off of Stan just in time for Stan to fall to the floor in a duck-and-cover position and pray to whatever gods would listen that his last day on earth wouldn't have been spent dealing with two of the worst people he'd ever had the displeasure of being kidnapped by.

Wait, scratch that, his knee reminded him. He'd had worse.

His heart threatened to jump out of his chest completely, but he finally realized that in fact, he was still alive. So he opened his eyes to what he never thought to be one of the most beautiful sights in the world;

Deeby.

Gun pointed to the sky and streaming a light grey smoke into a small puff of explosion that hadn't had time yet to dissipate.

“What in the ever-loving SHIT are you doing?!” he shouted.

He was completely maskless, face now on full display, fiery eyes matching his equally fiery sneer. The sudden absence of the mask almost scared Stan more than the gunshot, the sight making his heart beat in his throat.

Then, for just a split second, Deeby's enraged eyes met Stan's stare. His eyes scanned down his body, looking him up and down, his face changing ever so slightly when his gaze caught in Stan’s chest. A slight crinkle of the eyebrows, a small tilt of the head. Then his eyes widened in some sort of realization, and Stan felt his heart turn to ice.

Recognition.

No.

He couldn't have realized who he was.

Just because of the binder?!

Stan choked on his own throat as the collar suddenly constricted once more and he was dragged violently forward to his knees.

“Your fucking dog punched me in the face!” Vaughn shouted, jangling Stan around enough that he had to grab the collar just to gain back his breath.

“Just because–!”

Vaughn jolted Stan's collar back hard and cut him off with a violent gag.

“I was disciplining him.” Vaughn narrowed his eyes at the mercenary. “Like we're supposed to.”

Deeby’s jaw set. And still, he managed to find a slight smug smile within his fury. “That why your face is gushing blood, then? Disciplined him too hard?”

Stan didn't even realize when they started, but tears were practically streaming down his cheeks now, chest heaving in panic. “Deeby, Deeby, he was gonna–”

“Shut up!”

A kick this time, straight to the back of his spine, and Stan's throat strained hard into the collar before breaking free of Vaughn's grasp and nearly face-planting into cold concrete. He scrambled to get up, but the same foot planted on his back and slammed his chest right back to the floor, grinding the heel of its shoe into the captive’s spine. Stan clutched at the ground, screams barely bit back by force of sheer willpower.

“Christ, man! Stop it, get off!” Deeby yelled with uncharacteristic urgency.

The force pinning him down suddenly released, followed by the scattered footfalls of someone catching themself from nearly falling over.

Stan just lay there limp. Heaving and shivering. He couldn't move. His limbs felt like heavyweights, the world tilted on it’s axis, and he was sure that if he lifted his head up, he would lose every last morsel of that protein bar he'd shoved down earlier.

But at least now no one was methodically turning him into a fine red mist anymore.

Deeby stood between the two of them like an impenetrable stone wall, hand resting on the unlatched holster of his gun and pointedly ignoring Vaughn’s stuttering disbelief as he patted at the pockets of his jacket, pulling various probably very sharp things out and shoving them into his pants pockets.

Protecting him.

“You– You just–...” Vaughn finally composed himself. “You pushed me off! You're saving him? He needs to be taught a lesson!”

Stan tried to push up despite the dizziness. “Only–... D-Deeby, he was trying–”

“Shut up, Stan, I know, let me handle it! Here.” Deeby slid his jacket off and dropped it practically on top of his captive’s head, never once letting his gaze slip from Vaughn. Stan shakily pulled the brown leather of the jacket over his shoulders before he had time to think better of it, doing his best to just enjoy the show and not think about the implications of what was currently happening.

“Because he wouldn't let you put your dick in him without a fight, right?” The bounty hunter said sarcastically. “Or– or– or because he wasn’t gonna let you mouth-gore him without complaint? Let you ‘teach him a lesson?’ Yeah, I am stopping you. Piece of shit.” The bounty hunter grabbed the scissors off the floor where they landed when Vaughn dropped them after the gunshot. Then he used them to point sharply at the door.

“Get out.”

Vaughn scoffed and melodramatically rolled his eyes.

“You got the message from Lana then? Is that why you're acting like such a belligerent wittle babeee?” Vaughn posited in his most obnoxious baby voice.

Deeby bristled. Stan could've sworn for a moment he could see the man shaking.

“Yes,” he said, slowly. “I talked to Lana. Your useless job is done. You can go back to being an even more useless sidepiece now.”

Vaughn’s shoulders tensed, and he laughed.

“Good! And I’ll make sure to tell Lana all about you taking the side of the disobedient dog of a test subject–”

“Yeah, go cry to your girlfriend about it, he's under my jurisdiction and I'm not gonna let you fuck that up because you feel the need to live out your perverse power fantasy with the helpless people you kidnap and torture. As if it isn’t torture enough to have to be in the same room with you at all.”

Vaughn clenched his fists at his side and forced on the worst imitation of a smile Stan had ever borne witness to.

“You better watch your tone, Deathberry,” he said, sickly sweet voice doing nothing to mask the hissing rage. “I could have you in the same spot as him in ten seconds. Don't ever–” he jabbed Deeby in the chest. “–forget that. You're only allowed to be out here roaming around with your fancy gun and your fancy cowboy boots because you're useful, otherwise you'd be locked up with the rest–”

Vaughn had just started to reach for the holster on Deeby's belt when, faster than Stan could perceive, a flurry of movement between the two men, a cry of surprised fear, the shuffling of feet and spinning of bodies and suddenly Vaughn was pinned back first to Deeby's chest, a wire that Deeby pulled from somewhere stretched taut between his fists and pressing a hard line directly under into the skin of Vaughn's throat.

Vaughn's hands quickly flew up to the wire to try and pull it off his throat, then just as quickly let go when he realized the wire would sooner cut through his hands before it would be pried off.

Stan couldn't help but stare.

“You're just about at the end of my rope, Verhulst,” Deeby growled, accent fully presiding now as he stepped backward and pulled Vaughn toward the door. “Don't you ever put your filthy hands on my gun.”

A slight rasp to Vaughn's voice was the only thing that denoted anything was amiss. “You sure this is about the gun, Deebs? Sure you're not taking your frustrations at Lana out on me?”

“Trust me, if I was takin’ my frustrations at Lana out on you, bud, you'd be dead.”

Vaughn's eyes shot to Stan, and his smile broadened.

“Ohhhh, I see. So what then, you are falling for the captive? I'm sure Lana would love to hear about how you're going soft, how you miss her, and how spectacularly you're failing at finding someone better so you have to–”

A small gurk finding its way from Vaughn's throat as he was pulled to a sudden stop.

“You know what, maybe I am. And maybe you should use your mouth to do something not completely useless for once.” He spun the both of them around to face Stan again.

“Apologize to ‘im.”

What?

Vaughn stared at Stan, apparently more stunned by the notion of apologizing than the motion of having a garot wire to his throat. Stan… honestly had to agree.

“Come again?”

“Apologize to Stan. For tryin’ to rape him. It's the least you could do.”

“You want me to… apologize?? To the test subject? You really are losing it, Deathberry, let me go.”

The wire dug into his throat more. “Say sorry, doctor.”

Vaughn glared at Stan. Stan glared back as well as he could.

“I can't feel the pain of this, you know,” Vaughn's voice came, even raspier. “You're not doing anything.”

“You can still bleed out from a slit throat. Still drown to death in your own blood as it slowly fills your lungs,” Deeby dismissed lightly. “Still bleed out. Very quickly. I wonder what would happen if I hit your carotid–

“And I wonder how Lana would feel about you slitting her head scientist and boyfriend’s throat.”

“Probably call you a little bitch boy for invoking her name every time you need to defend yourself like a spoiled toddler ‘steada bein’ a man about it and defending yourself. Or maybe not. You’d never know, you’d be dead.”

“You wouldn't–”

Deeby twitched the wire across Vaughn's throat and a line of red bloomed across the light tan of his neck. Vaughn's face grew just a little bit paler. He brought his hands up to graze across the wire and felt the warm wetness smear across his fingertips.

“Apologize.” Deeby growled. “Now.”

Vaughn's eyes flitted back to Stan, fully appraising the wonderfully wide-eyed mess he'd had pinned against the wall only moments before.

He narrowed his eyes.

Took a deep breath.

Stared daggers directly into Stan's soul.

“Sorry.”

Oh you bastard.

“Go jump off a cliff!” Stan yelled, erratically reaching into the jacket pocket he'd seen Deeby pull the protein bar out of earlier and luckily finding many more, one of which was immediately thrown directly at Vaughn. He couldn't even attempt to dodge it, and it hit him directly in the chest.

The mercenary let out a singular loud laugh and spun Vaughn back around, letting the wire retract into what Stan now realized was a little housing box on his weird arm sleeve thing and shoving Vaughn at the door as hard as he could.

“Guess he doesn't forgive you. Better luck next time!” he laughed. Stan genuinely thought (and hoped) Sweater-vest would fall flat on his face, but he managed to grab the door and right himself before that happened. Shame.

“Now get out.” Deeby said.

Vaughn glared with a literal snarl, jaw half a second away from cracking in two. Right before he took a slow, deep breath and reset his features to a forced neutral. Then an easy smile. “As you wish, my liege.”

He bowed exaggeratedly low in a show of mock respect, retrieving his scissors from the ground in a surprisingly graceful sweeping motion as he went. Deeby just rolled his eyes.

“Oh, and Stanny?” He drawled, peeking back from the door as he left and pointing his scissors directly at Stan's face with a flourish. “I look forward to seeing you soon~.”

“Get outta here!” Deeby yelled with a threatening stomp toward the door, at the same time Stan stuttered out a very surprised and agitated “In hell!”

The door slammed shut.

Stan could swear he could still hear Vaughn's deranged laugh echoing through the room even as an eerie silence fell over them.

He was finally gone. Finally.

See you soon.

He didn't completely understand why his breath continued to quicken. He'd won that encounter, right? Or… well, Deeby had. But still.

I look forward to seeing you soon.

He felt dizzy. More than the concussion could have caused. This was different, made him feel like he was suffocating, even though Vaughn was no longer here to strain the collar against his throat. Yet he could still feel the knuckles digging into the back of his neck.

I look forward to seeing you soon. In hell.

* * * * * * * *

#whump #heroes and villains #whump writing #whumper #whumpee #hero whump #defiant whumpee #kidnapping whump #captivity whump #trans whumpee #disabled whumpee #(un)official guide #attempted noncon #noncon undressing #IT'S BACK BABYYYY #GAH I've been so excited to post this #I missed this so much #extra long and extra whumpy for all your waiting #whos idea was it to let me go on an accidental month long hiatus #WHO WAS IT #anyway I'm going into tech week irl for the musical i'm in #so I might not get to the next chapter next weekend #I'll definitely try to tho #I genuinely missed writing and posting this story too. I've got so much more of it to tell #anyway I hope you like this chapter it was a bitch to wring it out of me but I did it #and its glorious #Also vaughn is such a cringefail I love him so much #and we've got some secret hidden Deeby lore sprinkled in there!#making this like an easter egg hunt #did you find it?

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thetomorrowshow · 8 months

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time enough for counting

heyyyyyyy sorry

cw: jimmy is still dead, mourning/funeral stuff, loneliness, brief mentions of blood/being killed

I haeve left the artefaktes in the hands of the living gods. Taeke holde of them bothe and defeate Exor.

Scott rubs his eyes, sits back in his chair. He's read through the Alinar's cramped cursive instructions in the back of the book over and over again.

Because they are instructions, strangely enough. As far as Scott can tell, Alinar wrote his entire plan to defeat Conal in the back of this book, as frustratingly vague as it is.

Written several times throughout is 'mine apologies fore any person who is nowe fighting an daemone, as I have been vayge in my writing. I feare that this booke myte fall into the hands of the enemie, and fore this purpose mine detailes are sparse'.

The details are kind of sparse, but not as badly as he'd expected. For one thing, Alinar details exactly what kind of mountain he'd locked Conal in, specifying that it isn't the exact location that matters, it needs to be a strong holding place connected to Aeor's power. And there's an entire spell written for making a crystal that should be able to trap Exor's Champion. Not that Scott is capable of that kind of magic, but he could give it to Gem and she could probably create it.

The actually frustrating part is the artifacts. Alinar won't describe them, or where they are, or how to use them. He just cites the same 'taeke holde of them bothe and defeate Exor' whenever he mentions them, and twice he writes that he left them with 'living gods', whatever that means.

Scott's pretty sure he has one of the two artifacts already. He'd found the golden antler crown in that cave, and he knows it dates at least back to Alinar, if not before. The scholars that have examined it have declared it to be of magical properties, and he knows that it has a strong connection to one of the only living gods that he knows of.

So he has the antlers. But there is zero description of what the other artifact might be, or where it might be, or who it was given to.

And Scott has no clue where to start.

It's his most important work to focus on, but his councils never give him time to work on it. He is, after all, running a war right now.

The forces of Mythland have joined up with those of the Lost Empire to launch a targeted attack on the Ocean Kingdom. fWhip's still biding his time, sending out spies (which frequently get caught by Lizzie) and little armies to test the waters at various borders. Scott's work so far has mostly been in setting patrols for his own borders, and sending soldiers out to aid the Ocean Kingdom—not desperately needed, but a good show of their alliance. But having all those forces concentrated on the Ocean Kingdom? Giving the other empires plenty of time to prepare their defenses?

Why Xornoth wants to take down Lizzie is entirely beyond Scott.

It's actually been a minute since he spoke with Lizzie face-to-face—two weeks, to be precise.

Fourteen days since that meeting.

Fourteen days since Jimmy's death was confirmed.

Nine days since Scott released an official mourning statement, mostly written by somebody else who had no real idea of what he and Jimmy shared.

And three days since Ilphas gently suggested working with Lizzie to plan a memorial service for Jimmy.

The court, far too late, has ruled that he and Jimmy remained betrothed despite their eschewing of the betrothal law, due to the state of emergency. So added to his mourning robes is a veil, simpler than those he and Jimmy wore during the betrothal period, plain black cloth with a matching hood.

Mourning vestments are generally worn for a year when the death was of someone close, such as a parent or spouse. Or, in this case, fiance.

Scott's stuck in a mockery of the betrothal he hadn't been able to finish for an entire year.

And now he needs to plan a funeral for his love.

Before he can chicken out, Scott grabs his communicator from his new satchel that hangs off his chair.

The satchel was a gift from the Codlands and had arrived the same day the Cod Empire fell. It's hand-stitched, from what he can tell, with a design in blue of a leaping stag and a cod forming a circle on the side, the main bag a demure brown. He finds himself, sometimes, running his thumb along the stitches of the cod in a self-soothing motion. Since he received it, the bag has barely left his side.

It's a humble gift, one certainly not fit for a king. But Scott sees in it the hard work of someone, or several someones, who only wished to show their appreciation and acceptance to the fiance of their beloved Codfather.

Scott carries it as if it holds the same amount of worth as his crown, and his advisors know better than to say anything about it.

Have you any time for a visit to make memorial plans?

He sets his communicator down, flips to a new page in the ancient book. He has an Old Elvish to Elvish dictionary, but it takes forever to even parse through a paragraph of the original story. And this is less the classic tale of the Two Stags and more a history of Aeor, and while that's very helpful and educational, it's stupidly difficult to understand.

His communicator buzzes before Scott can even begin reading.

Tomorrow.

Right then.

Scott should probably inform his council.

Scott stops in the church on his way out of town—strange, for him, but he's trying to show his dedication to Aeor—and just wanders through the hall of paintings there: depictions of Aeor, and Alinar, and other heroes and times.

He halts, meandering, before a large portrait of Alinar that's never seemed to draw him in in the past. He remembers being a child, here in the hall on his way to his religious studies, walking far slower than necessary just to gaze at all the art but passing over this one with little consideration.

In the painting, Alinar sits on his throne, the whole hall laid out before him. His chin is held high, his robes lavish and deep blue, his crown of antlers shining gold. The hilt of a sword sticks out behind the back of the throne, a brown streak of paint against the beams of light filtering in through the grand windows behind Alinar.

Alinar himself is missing his left arm—a common depiction of the king, one that Scott read a scholarly debate about several years ago. The generally accepted theory is that it represents the distance and early death of his closest friend, a desert nomad tribe leader known to the elves as Lisdes—one of very few non-elves that has been granted a presence in the most glorious of heavens for his heroic works. Other theories include that it is a representation of the civil war fought under his reign—when Conal, his own twin brother, rebelled, it was like losing his arm; or that it is a representation of Alinar's control in many parts of the world, with one hand overseeing the elven colonies of the east (long gone) while the other rules from home.

There are many theories, but none have been found true, especially since the depiction isn't universal. Somewhere around fifty percent of the artists that have created a likeness of him do so without the arm, but the others include it. For all anyone knows, one artist forgot the arm and everyone else decided it was so meaningful that they needed to copy it.

The last one is unlikely. There's a folk tale of Alinar and Lisdes journeying together to a mountain of fire to retrieve his lost arm, so it probably had its beginnings in something other than a painting. Whatever it was, the truth has been lost to time.

In this painting, there is no one near Alinar. There are groups of people milling around in the hall below his gaze, but none of them interact with him, or even look to him.

Scott's always thought, looking at this, that Alinar was rather haughty.

Now, he sees him as lonely.

This portrait was painted only a couple of hundred years after his death, titled simply 'A King'. No embellishments of the ancient hero, none but those painted: the crescent moon halo hanging above his head, the jewels hanging from his robes, the carefully-detailed chain earring looping down around his long ear.

He's a king.

Nothing more, nothing less.

An elf with the role of leadership.

Adorned in gold and rich cloth, secluded above the other elves, looking down almost mournfully upon his people.

It's funny, Scott thinks, that he's never related to this painting. He'd always preferred the one two paintings down, of Alinar plunging a golden sword into a one-eyed monster, a pillar of light shining down on him from a moon above him.

That one seems to hold less wonder than it always did.

In that one, he can't help but see the pain in Alinar's determined eyes.

How much did he lose in his journey to become a hero?

His brother. Citizens of his kingdom. His best friend.

More, maybe, that was never written.

Never remembered.

Will Scott's losses be remembered?

Will Jimmy be more than a quick mark in the history books?

In the 109th year of his life, King Smajor was briefly engaged to the ruler of the Codlands. The ruler was killed in battle.

To an outsider's point of view, that is the maximum relevance that Jimmy has had on Scott's life.

Jimmy isn't some hero, as Lisdes was. He's just . . . just Jimmy. And his time here was short.

Far too short.

Maybe even insignificant. He established—what, ten years of peace in a country destroyed by war for hundreds of years prior? Only for it to be conquered again?

Who is going to remember the only person Scott truly loved?

Now, for the first time in a very long time, Scott sees just how far ahead the road stretches.

If they defeat Xornoth, he will have to survive hundreds of years without Jimmy. He will have to watch his beloved fade from the memory of mortals, as the world changes and he is alone.

Alinar is always alone in the paintings.

And then, after he dies, there will be nobody to anchor any part of Jimmy to this world.

No one lives forever, but even Jimmy's death will not last.

Scott turns away from the hall of paintings, adjusting the veil covering his face. He needs to plan a memorial worth a place in history.

He leaves Rivendell and sets out for the Ocean Kingdom, swallowing back the lump in his throat.

He can't help but think, in future paintings, he will always be portrayed alone.

Scott's shown to a meeting room when he arrives (after he's led to a set of rooms to change from his travel wear and throw some water on his face), and as he waits, examining the carvings on the table, he's reminded of another Ocean Kingdom meeting room, from months and worlds ago, when he had waited half-asleep to request an alliance.

He thinks, maybe, that he was in love with Jimmy, even back then. Back when he knew practically nothing about the man, some part of his soul deep within knew that they belonged together.

Which is a stupid and cheesy thought, as true as it may be. After all, he'd been so worried about Jimmy that he hadn't gotten much sleep in days. What kind of person does that without having feelings attached?

There were so many things to love about Jimmy, too. His sense of humor, the dimple in his cheek, his strong hugs, the kindness in his every action, his perpetually tangled hair, his loud laugh, the soft smiles he reserved for Scott, the feel of his lips. . . .

And he's gone.

And Scott knows that.

And now he has to live with it.

"Hey."

Scott looks up; Lizzie stands in the doorway, dressed in a simple grey dress that hangs off the shoulders. She gives him a small smile but makes no move to join him at the table.

Scott, of course, stands. He inclines his head in a bit of a bow, straightens his crown where it's set carefully over his hood.

"It's good to see you," he says, after what's probably been too long of a time. He waits for Lizzie to step within, but she still lingers.

"I wish they had been under happier circumstances," Lizzie says. "Apologies if I have to be pulled away, my armies are active at the moment."

"All going well?"

"Very," she replies. "As it turns out, it's a little difficult to attack an underwater empire when you can't breathe underwater."

Scott chuckles politely. That makes sense.

They stand in silence for a few more moments before Lizzie sighs.

"Look, Scott," she says. "I don't really want to sit here and talk about my little brother's death. Can we walk?"

Scott hurries to obey, shoving his chair in and tripping over his own robe. Lizzie waits patiently by the door, begins walking as soon as he gets out of the room.

"Not to—not to bring the conversation down—" Scott says, lengthening his stride to keep up (for someone who's only five foot something, Lizzie moves fast), "but . . . isn't that what this meeting is about?"

"Hm?"

"You just said that you don't wish to talk about—about Jimmy," he says, willing his voice not to crack. "But—"

"Joel actually offered to take care of it," Lizzie says. She halts, turns to look out the large windows of the passageway they've been walking down.

Scott stops beside her. They're in an underwater portion of the palace, and out the window is the sea.

A school of fish swim by, right beside the window, beyond them the clear blues of a sun-filtered ocean. Scott watches the waves on the surface (they're only just below) lap back and forth, adding a gentle sway to the floating bits of seaweed and the little bubbles.

"Mezeleans do a three day mourning period," Lizzie says after a moment. "Joel felt bad. He wanted to do more. So he asked if he could plan the service, since he doesn't have a forty day mourning period like us."

Scott blinks. "Sorry, forty days?"

"Yes," says Lizzie. She turns to Scott. "Is yours different?"

Forty days doesn't feel near long enough. That means Lizzie has only—what, three more weeks of mourning? And then she has to go on with her life, as if Jimmy never existed?

"For a betrothed, the elven tradition is one year," Scott tells her, watching her face for a reaction.

Her eyebrows raise, her eyes flick over to his veil before turning back to the sea.

"The court made its decision, then."

Scott nods.

They stand there, silent, staring out the window.

"I can't even imagine a year," Lizzie says at the same time as Scott says, "Only forty days?"

Scott mutters an apology. Lizzie shrugs.

"It gives us enough time to remember the dead, then go on to celebrate their life," she says. "Not long enough that we dwell, but long enough that we honor them. The grief is too heavy to carry it for so long. How can you even survive a year of it?"

"We lead a long life," says Scott. "Most elves live to be a thousand years old. A year isn't so long a time in the grand turning of our lives—can we not give it up for our loved ones?"

That's what he's been taught, at least. Standing here at the beginning of it, a year feels like an awfully long period of time.

He can see the appeal of forty days, even if he can't even imagine it. And worse, Joel—three days. As much time as he spent sequestered in Gem's secret library. That was the entire length of Joel's mourning period.

And suddenly, Scott remembers something that he's been carrying around for the past two weeks.

"I have something for you," he says, reaching for his shoulder bag. Right, he'd left it in the set of rooms that he'd freshened up in— "I found it at Crystal Cliffs—"

"I have something for you, too," Lizzie interrupts. "I thought it looked kind of elvish, but I wasn't sure—"

"Can we stop by my rooms, and I can get it?"

Lizzie nods. "Yours is in the Grotto, we can go on the way—"

And with that, she's off at almost a run, back down the way they came.

Scott follows, robes billowing around him, each step a hard slap against the prismarine floor, as compared to Lizzie's almost silent feet. She stops at the set of guest rooms that Scott had been led to earlier, and he grabs his satchel off the hook just inside the door before she takes off again, to the end of the hall, and down down down a long spiral staircase.

Scott follows, legs beginning to burn. In Rivendell, he usually just glides down cliffs or long staircases. He isn't used to the tight spirals here, no room to spread his wings to their full length.

They go down at least five levels. Scott doesn't really like being underground—even Gem's hidden library had been a little too close for comfort—but he swallows back his discomfort and follows, as Lizzie leads him through a dimly lit hallway and then into a dark, smooth tunnel, walls a beautiful deep blue.

The tunnel's made of glass, he realizes about halfway down, after trying to figure out what material could have been used to create such a mesmerizing blue-ish darkness. It's glass, and through the other side is the depths of the ocean.

As impressive as it is, Scott's not sure he likes that. Water all around him, ready to flood in if the glass breaks under all the pressure? Doesn't really sound like his idea of fun. He can't exactly swim all that well—his feathers get waterlogged instantly and he tends to sink fairly quickly. He found that out when he was around sixty-five or seventy, and Xornoth tried to drown him. Good times.

But he follows Lizzie through the tunnel, trusting that she wouldn't take him down any path likely to break. And trusting a bit more, perhaps, in her ability to save him if he does end up drowning.

Then Scott steps into the room at the end of the tunnel, and feels his eyebrows practically hit his hairline.

This is beautiful.

A cave, small but open, lit by lanterns hanging from the craggly ceiling, lined with shelves and stools chiseled out of stone. The cave sparkles, as if the rock that forms it is actually crystal, or rather, that little specks of gold are woven in so well with the stone that the sparkle has become indiscernible from the rock.

The shelves carved into the rock hold all manners of preciosities, from ancient crowns to sparkling jewels to seemingly ordinary items that glow with a magical sheen. Fishnets hang from the cave wall, and from those fishnets hang exceedingly fine pieces of armor and clothing, some so bright they seem to be a patch of starlight, others made of materials that look like they oughtn't be clothes (is that a dress made of driftwood?). Scott sees a tiara made entirely out of sapphires wired together, a pair of gloves sewn of what appears to be a spider's string, a bundle of bejeweled fish hooks, and a clearly enchanted scepter made of glass all on the first shelf, but Lizzie bypasses all of these things without even a second glance and leads the way to the left side of the cave, where she draws back one of the nets.

She turns after a moment, raises an eyebrow to see Scott still standing in the entryway.

"Right, you've never been down here," she says after a moment of staring at each other. "Welcome to the Grotto, home of the Ocean Kingdom's treasures! Ignore them, though. This is for you, over here."

Scott's kind of afraid that he'll knock something over, considering the fragile items on the shelves and stone stools and the size of his wings. But he inches his way through anyhow, keeping an eye on his every side. His thumb runs along the stitches of the cod on his satchel as he steps sideways around a glowing red rock on a pedestal, each movement careful until he reaches Lizzie.

She's holding back the net on this part of the wall to reveal behind it a little alcove, which begs the question of other alcoves all through this room, hiding who knows what. Scott steps forward, peers within.

Inside this little stone alcove is a pair of soft, blue leather boots, tall and folded over on themselves, the laces a faded white. A script that he instantly recognizes as Old Elvish (a bit of a shock to find here, surrounded by so many unfamiliarities) is pressed into the leather, trailing around the foot and up the back of the boots.

They almost seem to glow.

Scott feels something heavy in his chest, as if his breath has weighed all the way down to his stomach.

They feel . . . powerful. Magical.

Gingerly, Scott picks them up (something ancient pulses out through his fingers as they wrap around the soft leather), turns them over to look at the soles. He's not sure what he expects to find—a label? A size?—but the sole is blank, just barely scuffed from wear.

They haven't been used much, then. Barely-worn.

These boots are the other artifact. Scott's sure of it.

He doesn't know how, or why, but he knows.

He's holding boots that Alinar himself wore. Alinar wore these to face off Exor's Champion.

Was Alinar afraid? Did he stand there, palms sweating, feet flexing in these very boots, just gathering the courage to attack?

Did he think he would survive? Did he doubt himself?

Thoughts that Scott's never had before just push into his mind. In the stories, Alinar is always calm in battle, assured in his power, wise in his rulings.

But now that Scott is almost literally in his shoes, he can't help but wonder if Alinar ever felt the doubts he's feeling. If Alinar felt the pain of his losses so profoundly that he wasn't sure he could go on. If Alinar was scared his plans wouldn't work and he would lose the war, lose everything. If Alinar ever was tired of the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.

"They felt powerful," Lizzie says. Scott starts—he had forgotten she was there.

She's right. They are powerful, even if he doesn't understand how yet.

"I think," he says, putting his thoughts behind him, "that these are very important."

He doesn't say anything else about them. He doesn't say that he thinks they might end the war. He doesn't say that he thinks this is it, he thinks he has both the artifacts now and that means it's time to take down Xornoth.

Instead, he asks, still somewhat in awe, "Where did you find them?"

Lizzie shrugs. "Well, you know the Mezelean mourning period?" she says. "Three days of total isolation. We thought it was best, since I am the queen consort of Mezelea, that I participate in it as well. So those three days I spent down here, cataloguing the treasures. I don't know what many of them are, after all. I found those right there in the wall. When I tried to touch them, they . . . they burned me."

Scott looks at the boots in his hands, then back at Lizzie. "And you didn't warn me?" he says incredulously.

Lizzie seems unrepentant. "I figured you knew what you were doing."

"What I'm hearing is that you were going to let me get burned."

"That doesn't matter. So—what do they mean?"

They could mean everything.

Scott just shrugs, though, and shifts them to one arm so he can reach into his satchel with the other.

From his satchel, he pulls the ancient book he'd found, with the unfamiliar writings and the little bag hanging from the spine.

(Unnoticed, the smaller book that was tucked inside slips from between the pages of the book, falling deeper into Scott's shoulder bag.)

"Gem found a secret library," he explains, handing Lizzie the book. "We thought this looked kind of Oceanic. Can you read it?"

Lizzie takes it from his hands carefully, studies the cover.

She goes entirely still.

"What is it?" Scott prods.

She doesn't respond. She doesn't even seem to hear him, eyes scanning the cover of the book. Trance-like, she reaches for the little drawstring bag, squeezes it gently in her palm.

Before Scott can repeat his question, Lizzie turns to the stool beside her, sweeps off the glowing wooden staff resting there without a second thought. Scott hops back as the staff clatters against the stone ground, shooting sparks from both ends.

She lays the book on the stool, but doesn't flip it open. Instead, she picks up the pouch, hanging by the cord, and pulls it open. She peers inside, then tips the pouch over onto the stool.

"What is that?"

"I . . . have no idea," Lizzie says.

The 'that' in question is some kind of ball, a little wobbly like jelly, blue and flecked with gold and green. It's not quite round, parts of it sprouting with something like seaweed, little leaves poking out in a couple of different places.

It looks gross, if Scott's being honest with himself. He can just imagine the way it feels, squishy and weirdly sticky but not and—urgh, he never wants to touch it ever. It definitely is the kind of thing that would make all of his hairs stand on end and shivers run up his spine. He wants to gag just thinking about it.

"I wonder how long that's been in there," Lizzie whispers, sounding almost awestruck.

"Well, Gem's library hasn't been touched in hundreds of years, probably," Scott says. "So a while."

"Do you think it's crunchy?"

"Why would it be crunchy?"

"Parts of it look like seaglass." Lizzie, daringly, pokes the ball. It jiggles.

"Why would you touch it?" hisses Scott, just barely suppressing his gag reflex. "Great, now you probably have diseases."

"Say I were to take a bite out of it."

"Do not take a bite out of it."

"I'm not going to! But say I were. Would it be slimy, or chewy? Or crunchy."

"It doesn't matter, because you aren't going to eat it."

"Don't tell me what to do, Smajor."

"Oh, for Aeor's—" Scott cuts off the curse with a little sound—not a scream, or a screech, nothing undignified like that would ever leave his mouth—of fright as the staff on the floor shoots out sparks again, almost seeming to aim for him.

"Your god is mad at you for invoking his name to stop me from eating the thing," Lizzie says somberly. "He wants me to eat the thing."

Scott puts his hands in the air, still holding the boots. He shouldn't try to argue, it'll only make her more set in her ways. "Look, when you die after eating it—because that thing absolutely will kill you, look at it—tell Jimmy that I tried to stop you, and you made the choice yourself."

Lizzie lets out a snort of laughter, something that both relieves Scott (it was an okay joke to make, they're both starting to heal) and scares him (he just mentioned Jimmy and he isn't crying, he made a joke about his dead fiance, it should hurt more than it does).

"Of course. Any other messages to pass along before I experience this delightful new fruit?"

So, so many things. He oughtn't take this seriously, really—they're just kidding around, Lizzie isn't actually going to eat that thing.

"Just tell him I love him," he says, going for a light tone. It falls flat, sad, and Lizzie just looks awkwardly at her feet.

"If I could've changed anything, I would have," she says after a moment. "That warning message you sent? Hours after I got it, we received word from the Cod Empire that the attack had begun. I can't help but feel . . . maybe I should've gone to check on him. Called him to the Ocean for some reason. But . . . . maybe that wouldn't have really made anything better, would it?"

Scott opens his mouth to protest—Jimmy being alive would make things quite a bit better, in his opinion—but Lizzie continues.

"You haven't been there, Scott," she says mournfully. "The Codlands. It's . . . it's bad. And whether Jimmy was there or not, they would've been conquered. At least, with Jimmy's death, they feel like they have a purpose to keep fighting. Keep going. They think if they annoy Sausage badly enough, he'll just give up on them. If Jimmy was here right now, I don't think they'd have the motivation. So if anything good comes of Jimmy's death . . . I hope it's that."

Possibly the most bleak and depressing thing Scott's ever heard Lizzie say, and it absolutely makes him want to cry.

He's not going to cry, though. Despite the fact that Lizzie said the words Jimmy's death twice just then, and said that maybe good would come of it, Scott isn't going to cry.

Instead, he hefts the boots in his arms, and Lizzie, still looking away, picks up the book again and loops the cord hanging from the spine around her fingers.

"You have the boots," she says, voice a bit thick. "I have the book. Sounds like a deal. Want to shake on it?"

Scott does his best to smile. "Of course," he says, shifting the boots more to his left arm and extending his right.

Lizzie's hand meets his, cool and soft, his thumb brushing against a scale on her knuckle.

Maybe it's his imagination, but as his hand grips hers, something sparks up his arm.

Something electric courses up through his veins, up his arm and through his shoulder into his throat and down to his toes, and Scott doesn't move, frozen by the feeling, but Lizzie's hand jerks a little and he looks up to see her wide-eyed, a frown creasing her brow.

They stand there, hand in hand, unmoving.

All is silent.

"That felt important," Lizzie says in a hushed tone.

"That was some sort of deal with destiny," Scott agrees, looking down at the boots in his grasp, the book in Lizzie's.

These are both something very, very crucial.

And now to get to work.

He isn't able to get straight to work, though, only managing to find two books on artifacts and their qualities before he receives a summons to Jimmy's memorial service.

It's held at the Overgrown, and Scott arrives in his best mourning vestments, the Cod-made bag on his shoulder. Ilphas accompanies him, along with three guards.

Lizzie is seated beside him, at the front, hair braided behind her and dress long and layered, gently melding from light grey at the top to black at the hem. Joel sits behind the pulpit, anxiously shuffling papers for the eulogy, dressed normally but for the black sash across his purple coat. Katherine is across the aisle, her normal lavender dress replaced by a blue floral-patterned one, flowers weaved into her hair.

Shelby takes her seat behind Scott, a handkerchief clutched in her hand, dressed in a brown three-piece suit. Gem sits beside her, squeezing Scott's shoulder briefly, wearing her normal but in black.

Pearl finds a place behind Katherine, wearing a sunny yellow shirt under a grey dress, her sunflower crown sparkling on her head. The place beside her, reserved for Pix, remains empty.

The next three rows seat their various guards and advisors, one row left open for the three leaders that had to be invited, but know better than to show up. Scott won't hesitate to kill a man at his fiance's funeral, and he imagines that there would be a bit of a line behind him to pummel the dead bodies.

And behind them, the chapel is full of various minor royals that had been able to make the trip. Scott recognizes several elves, a Mezelean duke, and a representative from the Grimlands who seems very uncomfortable beside the fae that he's seated between.

There are also, to his surprise, near the back of the seats, a handful of Cod people, their finest clothes shabby and their heads bowed.

Scott turns back around in his seat when he catches Ilphas glaring at him. It isn't proper to be peering over his shoulder at all those who file in. He's a king, his job is to look kingly.

So he stares, blankly (hoping he looks at least somewhat enigmatic), at the pulpit.

And the service . . . the service is nice. Joel gives a nice eulogy, and Katherine says a couple of words, and about halfway through the service, the group of Cod refugees perform a traditional Cod song of farewell, which absolutely brings tears to Scott's eyes.

But it doesn't really feel like Jimmy. Jimmy was awkward, and hotheaded, and loud, and funny, and full of so much love. And even though Joel calls him an idiot three separate times during the eulogy, Scott just feels like the whole ceremony is too stiff and polite for it to be right.

And then Lizzie stands up, and makes her way to the pulpit for her closing remarks.

She gazes out among the people, chin held high and eyes solemn. When she speaks, her voice carries all the way to the back of the airy chapel.

"I knew the Codfather better than anyone," she starts, regal and measured. "I knew his character, his dreams, all his likes and his dislikes—or, most of them. Some of them I had no interest in knowing, but I'm sure Lord Smajor can tell you all about them."

A light chuckle ripples through the crowd. Scott feels his cheeks go just a tad bit paler. Lizzie catches his eye to give him a bit of a smile before turning back out to the congregation.

"I knew Jimmy," she continues. "And I know that my brother would never run from a fight. He was brave, and stubborn, and maybe a little stupid—which I can say, because he was my little brother. It was that bravery, that stubbornness—that loyalty that he had, that kept him from backing down. Even at his last moment."

She pauses, eyes on the back of the crowd. "Jimmy fought until the very end," she says, the words strong. "Even as the sword of a Mythland soldier drove past his armor, he fought. Even as his lifeblood spilled from him, he fought. Even as he fell to his knees, he fought."

Her voice is shaking suddenly, not with grief, not with anxiety, but with anger—hot, radiating anger. And Scott's face is wet, the veil sticking to his cheeks, a lump in his throat that he keeps trying to swallow away; he'd made it this far without crying but he hadn't heard those details and he can't control the tears.

Where did Lizzie get details about Jimmy's death?

"My brother fought for your freedom, and died for your freedom," declares Lizzie fiercely, tears sparkling in her eyes. "I would therefore urge you to defend your people, your country, and fight back against the evil of this demon! Don't let Jimmy's death be in vain. His people are currently in the captivity of Mythland, subjected to poverty and brutality, and if there is anything that we can do to keep the memory of the Codfather alive it is fight. Fight for their freedom, for your freedom, and for the eternal freedom of all who have already lost their lives in this war. Fight for Jimmy."

And on that dramatic note, she steps away and sits down. Scott can feel (not quite hear, more the sight of her shoulders shaking in his peripheral) her breathing heavily beside him, somehow managing to sound angry without even making a noise.

Silence.

Not a member of the crowd so much as coughs.

After a long moment, Joel stands again, steps up to the podium.

Scott expects him to be anxious, awkward. He can't well look around behind him, but he can imagine that quite a few of both Katherine's and Pearl's people would be unhappy with that speech, as both empires have currently declared neutrality in the conflict. He expects Joel to make some sort of vague statement about how everyone is doing their part, and maybe remark on how bold Lizzie's words had been with a nervous little laugh.

Joel doesn't do that, though. Joel levels his steely gaze at the crowd and says, words precise and cut-off, "Thank you for your words, your majesty. I'm sure that we will all find them enlightening and instructive."

Joel's mad, then. Scott's seen Joel's performance anger, his blustering and shouting and shaking of his head. He's never seen this frigidity, so perfectly the opposite of Lizzie just moments ago.

He's a little bit glad he turned down Joel's invitation to speak. He doesn't know how he would have competed with the two of them.

"Thank you to all who attended, especially those refugees from the Codlands. Our hearts and swords are with you in this time of loss."

Joel takes another moment just to look out over everyone, face stony, eyes cold. He nods sharply.

"Have a good evening."

Nobody moves. Scott resists the very strong urge to glance around.

Then Joel steps away, and Katherine stands up, and there's the great bustle of everyone else standing and whispering and gathering their things.

Scott doesn't get up. Instead, knowing that he's being watched, he turns toward Lizzie and shakes her hand with a small nod.

"How do you know what you said?" he mutters to her.

Lizzie smiles in return, brushing a pink strand of hair that's pulled loose from her braid behind her ear. "Everarda, a Cod refugee in the Ocean Kingdom," she says in a similar tone. "She witnessed it. She only managed to escape last week."

Of course people witnessed Jimmy's death. He doesn't know why he subconsciously assumed that no one had.

Scott can't even imagine watching his fiance die like that. He can't even imagine Jimmy on his knees, pain in every line of his face, soaked in blood, yet still swinging his sword at anyone who comes near, desperate to defend his people even until he eventually collapses.

He can't imagine the hoarse cries tearing from his throat as he's stabbed, the shuddering of his shoulders as he strains to lift his sword, the clanking of his armor as he falls to his knees, the tears in his eyes as he watches his people fall around him.

And Scott definitely can't imagine that maybe, in those last moments, he'd turned his eyes upward and begged for Scott, searching the skies for his first and final hope.

"Scott," Lizzie murmurs, a note of warning in her voice.

Scott blinks, and a tear falls from his lashes. Not good. He's meant to be stoic and unfeeling and respectable, and this is the second time he's cried in public in the past hour. In the past ten minutes, even.

People are watching. Ilphas is probably going to kill him. Kings aren't supposed to cry, they aren't supposed to actually have feelings.

Hopefully it isn't too noticeable. He has his veil, after all, but his eyes do get uncommonly red when he cries. Anyone could easily see the way his eyes scrunch as he wills himself not to cry, the tears, the splotchy redness, the way his shoulders tremble just the slightest bit.

"Have you heard from Pix lately?" Lizzie says suddenly, staring past Scott to Pix's empty seat. "He was one of Jimmy's closest friends. He should have been here."

Scott doesn't know. He hasn't seen Pix since the End.

He doesn't think about it for long.

He sits there, and thinks about nothing, particularly not Jimmy, until it's time for him to leave.

And when he gets home, he dives right back into his books.

Two days later finds him alone, in his study, head achy from crying, angry at the fruitless searches and his own inaction.

And Scott's done waiting. He's done researching, done preparing. Lizzie's speech hit a chord near his heart.

If the fight won't come to him, he'll bring the fight to Xornoth.

Scott reaches into his satchel, hanging from his chair, and grabs the boots.

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