#Lyrics are from Empires | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thetomorrowshow · 2 years ago

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to die in your sleep

hola folks and welcome back to the trust au. I have been grinding on trust au to post while on hiatus soo here u go enjoy (i'd like to apologize for the ending)

cw: violence, torture, blood, brief tooth-related gore

"Just tell us where he is," fWhip says, crouching down close to Scott's face.

His mouth tastes like blood. He can't feel his arms. He can't feel his wings. That can't mean anything good.

"Never," Scott manages. Blood drips down his chin.

He's shaking. He can't stop shaking.

He's going to die here, Scott realizes distantly. He's going to die, in this dark void of nothingness.

fWhip grabs his chin, forces him to look up. Unwillingly, Scott meets his eyes.

"We can keep you alive for as long as we need," fWhip murmurs. "And we can make it hurt. Give up the god."

If Scott had any more strength, he would laugh. "You don't . . . scare me."

fWhip clicks his tongue. "I don't have to scare you," he says simply, dropping Scott's chin and taking a step back. Almost absently, he wipes his hand on his trousers, leaving a smear of blood. "You've got a visitor. Maybe then you'll talk."

Oh no.

The void where they exist grows somehow darker, little specks of color filling it, as a maroon mist fills Scott's sharp vision—

And then he wakes up with a hoarse gasp, and immediately buries his face into Jimmy's chest.

Jimmy shifts, just slightly, to put an arm around Scott. "Hey," he mumbles, voice heavy with sleep. "Nightmare?"

Scott doesn't answer. He still feels half in that dream state, like at any moment he could be pulled back under and into whatever that was.

His wings twinge, spasm, as he can suddenly feel them—filled with pins and needles. He must've laid on them in his sleep.

"Mmf," Scott grunts into Jimmy's nightshirt. He stretches his wings out as far as he can bear, grimaces when they snap back into place, muscles too tight.

He tenses when he feels hands in his wings, but forces himself to relax. It's just Jimmy. Jimmy can touch his wings.

And he slowly relaxes more as Jimmy gently rubs his wings, massaging out the knots and tense places.

It feels so terribly nice. Scott just lets himself melt into the touch, his eyes slowly fluttering shut. His thoughts slow to molasses, lazily dripping from one side of his mind to the other.

"Is this good?" Jimmy whispers in the silence of the room. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Mhm." Scott really doesn't want to move off of Jimmy. He's comfortable.

And safe, for now.

The warmth and peacefulness that he'd been sinking into vanish, swallowed up in the sickening recollection of his dream.

He sighs, blinking his eyes back open so he can at least see Jimmy's arm. They never leave their rooms dark, a lantern left casting a low glow across the room, illuminating enough of his partner that Scott knows he isn't alone.

That hadn't been the usual nightmare. Usually, it's some twisted replay of his six days in captivity, or not being able to catch Jimmy in time and watching him disintegrate in the Void.

And while it was to an extent similar to the first brand, it had been so . . . vivid. His dreams tend to be blurry, confusing, cut through with terror that accentuates the shadowy shapes.

He'd seen fWhip so clearly. He'd almost seen Xornoth, uncommon for his dreams.

Usually, Scott would write it off as a one-off, strange but something that just happens sometimes.

But the dream feels familiar. So very, very familiar.

He thinks he dreamed something similar last night, but it's just out of the grasp of his conscious mind.

"You gonna go back to sleep?" whispers Jimmy, pulling him from his thoughts. "You've probably got another hour or two before sunrise."

Scott sighs. He's pretty much fully awake at this point, and there's always work to be done no matter what time of day or night it is.

They're headed into a full-blown war, after all. Skirmishes have already begun to break out along the borders. The real fight could start any day now. There's always someone awake in the war room, drafting new back-up plans for their back-up plans, or writing up training evaluations and strategies for the layman army.

So Scott could definitely get up out of his warm bed into the frigid night air of Rivendell, change into something proper, and head down there to stare at numbers of resources for the next several hours until breakfast.

Or he could stay here with his lover under the blankets for the rest of the time he's allotted himself to sleep, and either fall back asleep or have some much-needed recuperation time before heading to the war room with renewed vigor.

If Scott was any sort of king, he'd pick the first. His people come before his personal interest, which is precisely the reason why he and Jimmy are kind of no longer betrothed (a complicated situation in which they technically might still be betrothed, depending on whether or not the court deems the war enough of a state of emergency to eschew tradition). He needs to spend every moment possible doing what he can to protect the citizens under his care.

But Scott's never professed to be a particularly good king.

"Just want to stay here with you," he says quietly.

Jimmy chuckles, his hands going still in Scott's feathers.

"If your people knew we sleep in the same bed, they'd have a fit," he says absently.

Scott snorts. "Oh, the people absolutely know," he tells Jimmy. "It's the councils that we have to keep from knowing."

"How in the world would the people know anything?"

"The servant that does our laundry has got to notice that your blankets are never rearranged and my bed has two dips in it," Scott points out. "The one who cleans the room probably has seen that, more often than not, your clothing manages to find itself in my closet. Various messengers have absolutely guessed that you've just sprinted into the other room when they knock. And remember that time a cooking apprentice was bringing us a late dinner, and you were fast asleep on the bed while I worked?"

". . . What happens if they all know?"

"Usually, nothing," says Scott. "It would be bad if one of my advisors walked in on us sharing a bed. Until then, they'll just turn a deaf ear and act as if they haven't heard the gossip."

"Encouraging," Jimmy mutters.

A shiver runs down Scott's spine as Jimmy presses a soft kiss into his hair.

They've moved fast, for elves. Sure, they've technically already been betrothed, but it's not even been a month since the actual love confessions occurred. If it were any other situation, Scott likely would have chickened out by now, tried to shut Jimmy out of his life as a way of protecting himself.

But it's wartimes. It's wartimes, and Scott needs someone to lean on, someone who loves him too.

And, as his advisors keep reminding him, in the case of his untimely death, he needs someone to run the empire until an heir can be selected. Jimmy, at the moment, is that person.

Which is kind of awkward, seeing as Jimmy has a kingdom of his own. And Scott knows for a fact that he's third in line (after Lizzie) for the Cod Empire. That's the issue when royalty only engages with royalty—there aren't a lot of people with the right to rule.

Maybe Scott ought to look into adoption. He's probably never going to have a kid of his own. If he adopts two or three children, there'll be enough to get spread around to various parts of the empire, enough of a temporary back-up that if all the rulers die, there'll be someone to cover the necessary bases.

Of course, there is the fact that Scott doesn't really want to adopt a kid. And the fact that their claim to the throne might be disputed anyway, due to not having royal blood.

For being at the center of them, Scott hates politics.

For now he won't worry about it. If one of his advisors brings it up, then he can figure something out. At this point, as long as Xornoth or any of his minions don't get control of Rivendell, Scott doesn't care all that much about what happens.

He'd sacrifice any amount of history and tradition to save his people from a terrible fate, including the royal line.

Which is a sentiment he'd better not let any of his council members hear, because then Rivendell very well may become leaderless without the help of Xornoth.

Jimmy's hands start moving again, shifting to lay in between his wings, rubbing the muscles in his back there.

Scott melts a little further against Jimmy. That feels heavenly. It's the perfect amount of pressure to force him to relax, but not so much that he feels overwhelmed.

Elves aren't a people of touch. Scott probably hasn't been casually touched in years, if not decades, and he's slowly been building up a tolerance to it, because Jimmy is a very touchy person.

Now that they're 'official', Scott supposes, Jimmy hates being apart, clinging to him whenever they happen to be in the same room. Even in broad daylight, in front of people, Jimmy's arms always find their way around Scott's waist, or his head to his shoulder, or his fingers to intertwine with Scott's.

Jimmy seems especially inclined to give backrubs, whenever he sees Scott's shoulders tense. Scott, as good as they feel, flat-out refuses to allow this in public. He can't relax when there are people watching, and while he can still at least pretend to be regal with Jimmy clinging to him, he can't when Jimmy's massaging his shoulders.

It's okay here, though. In the quiet darkness of their—of Scott's room. Where if Scott gets overwhelmed, he can take time to recover without having to embarrass himself.

"How about you go back to sleep," Jimmy murmurs.

Scott feels that instinctive leap of fear at the suggestion, quickly quashed. It's been months since he was held captive. He doesn't need to be afraid of sleep anymore.

And he isn't. He truly thinks that he would be able to sleep alone.

And yet, despite the war beginning and both their kingdoms desperately needing them, Scott and Jimmy share a bed every night.

They trade off every couple of days—Scott gets any urgent work done here while Jimmy does remote work, then Scott packs up whatever papers he can take with him and spends several days in the Cod Empire. They always say something about maintaining the alliance by showing the trust that they have for the other empire, but in reality they just miss each other (and even if he can, Scott still doesn't like to sleep without Jimmy there).

That all changes today.

"When are you leaving?" Scott mumbles.

"After breakfast. Sure you can't come?"

That's the problem. Scott would absolutely love to fly out to the Cod Empire after breakfast, but today he's supposed to start a tour of the empire, of sorts. He and his party will be traveling as far as they can go in the morning, from the largest cities to the smallest hamlet, just to show support for the soldiers and to garner support in return. After all, a king who will stay in the house of the poorest farmer is one who the farmers will follow.

He sighs. "I can't. I'll message you, of course."

Jimmy hums, a somewhat disgruntled sound. "Well. If you can't sleep, I'll be there in an instant, okay? Or if you want anything. Let me know."

Scott knows he isn't going to do that. Not unless he gets out-of-control sleep-deprived. He isn't going to drag Jimmy away from his important work for any childish fear.

He nods, though. Better to reassure Jimmy now rather than argue about it.

Scott closes his eyes. He could sleep, probably. It's still peaceful in this early morning darkness, the calm before the storm.

Not if Jimmy doesn't fall back asleep, though. If Jimmy's going to stay up, then he is too. He wants all the time possible with his lover.

"Are you staying awake right now?" he asks, trying not to sound too bleary.

Jimmy's chest shifts against his cheek as he shrugs. "Probably not. I wasn't really asleep earlier, just dozing. I might doze a bit more if you sleep."

Scott frowns. "Why weren't you asleep?"

Again, Jimmy shrugs. "I . . . kinda get stuck in the dozing phase lately?" he says. "I'm fine, I just drift. And it's not every night, so I'm getting some rest and all."

"How long has that been going on?"

"I dunno, a couple of weeks?"

So, since the fall. Scott doesn't like that.

His own symptoms have been improving—he only gets the occasional dizzy spell, and the scabs on his knuckles have become red marks. Jimmy's are healing slower, though, bumpy scars where his scales had been and enough dizziness that Scott catches him leaning against him or the wall once or twice a day. "You should report it as a symptom. It's not for any mental or emotional reason, is it?"

"I don't think so?" Jimmy says. "I just kind of . . . drift. I feel like there's something I'm trying to reach, but I can't get it while I'm awake or asleep, you know? Something missing. Does that make sense?"

It doesn't, really, but Scott nods. Weird sleep is weird sleep, and Scott knows that it can affect someone in a weirdly specific way so much that they need a weirdly specific solution. And sometimes that weirdly specific solution leads to getting engaged to your crush.

Honestly, if it weren't for all the Xornoth-fWhip-war stuff, Scott would kind of be living his best life.

Knock-knock-knock.

Scott groans.

So his time with Jimmy is going to be interrupted, is it?

He reluctantly shifts off of his partner, allowing Jimmy to slip out of bed and tiptoe across the room, through the open door and into their connected sitting room. Scott waits an extra couple of seconds, giving Jimmy time to get into his own bedroom. Then he gets up, reluctantly relinquishing his warm blankets, and crosses the freezing wooden floor of his room.

Scott pulls open the door right before the servant knocks again, cir hand raised and ready.

"Oh! Milord," ce says, taking a hurried step back. "General Maldrion has requested your presence. Would you like me to tell xem you are on your way?"

Scott barely holds himself back from rubbing his forehead. What on earth could be so urgent that the general needs him at whatever time in the morning it is?

"Yes, I'll be with xem as soon as I can," Scott tells cir. "Thank you for letting me know."

Ce bows, and Scott absolutely catches cir eyes looking around him, stealing a glance of the room behind.

Scott rolls his eyes before shutting the door. They're not going to be that careless.

"I have to head down to the war room," he tells Jimmy when the man pokes his head back into the room. "Feel like coming with?"

"May as well," Jimmy says, moving past Scott to the closet. "I love learning about your top secret war plans."

"It's likely another border disturbance," Scott waves. "You can just sit there and look pretty."

"Sit there and sleep, more likely," says Jimmy, pulling one of Scott's tunics over his head.

Scott sighs and pulls it right back off of him. "You can't wear my clothing to a meeting with members of my inner circle," he says firmly when Jimmy gives him a confused look. "Go put your own clothes on."

Scott's right about the meeting, and there's nothing he can really do but agree with the general's recommendations to strengthen the border patrol. Then he has to see Jimmy off, escorting him down to the pier. Jimmy would normally just strap on his elytra and fly out, but with the tightened security of the current times, he's got to be accompanied by a couple of guards, and since only the royals have elytra, they have to take the day's trip back overseas. At some point, Scott assumes that dolphins from the Ocean Kingdom will join them to speed up the journey.

Jimmy leaves reluctantly, giving Scott a chaste kiss (Scott's knees feel a little shaky despite the closed lips) before heading out with a wave.

And then Scott barely has any time to finish packing before he has to head out as well, his clothes bundled up into two cases and thrown onto the wagon.

His escort is made up of six soldiers (he'd managed to argue it down from twelve, as long as he accepts local guard details in each place he stops), two servants, and far too many beasts of burden. The trip is going to be an estimated maximum of three weeks, from what he recalls, and while he understands logically that they need enough food for nine people to last a week at a time (with money allotted for restocking), it still feels to him like three wagons is excessive, plus a fourth for clothing.

But Scott's been traveling as a royal for his entire life, and he knows it isn't worth it to try to pare down their supplies any more. It's good to be prepared, after all.

They set out at noon, Scott riding a stag, the other elves surrounding him on horseback. He imagines they cut a rather imposing group, hopefully enough to dissuade any attackers. He feels a bit like a sore thumb, though, their little party trundling slowly down the mountain, vulnerable to attack. It's a demon after them, unbound by laws and capable of wearing away at their magically-reinforced borders. Maybe he ought to have accepted the twelve guards.

It's not like Scott can go back now, so he scratches around Loth's antlers when he gets anxious, and just hopes that his guards have some sort of idea of what they're doing.

When Scott was very young, the few times he'd been on a road trip he had absolutely loved it. His wings hadn't fully finished growing until he was close to fifty, so although his father took care of most royal trips by flying there alone, occasionally the whim to bring his firstborn along would strike and they would journey there together, in a guard such as this. He'd coveted the time with his distant father, and the rare treks across the country became one of his favorite activities. There had been an older guard that would talk to him, who would point out various plants and explain their properties, likely more to keep him occupied than out of any fondness.

Now, like so long ago, as they spend hours on the road, Scott finds himself examining the plant growth, naming them in his head, seeing the occasional landmark that he remembers from his younger years. It helps pass the hours, helps keep his mind off the danger and off of Jimmy.

Although, thinking about Jimmy is a fairly good distraction as well. At some points, when his mind wanders, he finds himself grinning stupidly as he replays conversations with his lover.

That first day, they stop to rest at a small town called Gladieron at the base of the mountain where the City of Rivendell is built, after six or seven hours of riding, and Scott is thoroughly exhausted. He hasn't ridden anywhere in quite a while, and his whole spine feels jolted all the way up. He just wants to lie down and stretch and sleep for two days straight.

The people of Gladieron welcome them with open arms, and Scott doesn't have to do much but hold polite conversation with the mayor over dinner before being led to a room in the mayor's house and being able to sink into an old, creaky mattress.

Despite being alone, no Jimmy there to ensure his safety, Scott's tired enough from the travels of the day that he falls asleep instantly.

He's again at fWhip's mercy, the man tossing aside a whip that shines with red.

Scott shivers, the cool air of the darkness against his open wounds biting.

"I told you we could make it hurt," fWhip says, slightly out of breath. "That was just a taste. Want more of it?"

Scott can't help it; he shakes his head. His entire body stings inside and out, and he vaguely wonders what kind of enchantment the whip must have had to affect him in such a way.

"Of course you don't! So all you have to tell me is this: where is the god?"

He can't give that up. He can't. No matter how badly it hurts.

Scott bites his lip, winces when he finds it already bitten through. That's right. He was trying not to scream, and it had been the only way to keep his mouth closed.

fWhip lets out a disappointed sigh. He crouches down in front of Scott, places a soft and patronizing hand on his shoulder.

Scott can vividly see every line of color in his irises, every blemish on his nose, every hair in the stubble on his cheeks. Whatever these words are, they're important.

And then Scott jolts awake in bed, a rooster crowing somewhere outside.

For a moment, lying there on his stomach in the darkness, Scott can still feel the tearing pain of a whip on his back. It's a clear feeling, a memory acrid in the back of his mouth. The first and only time he'd been whipped had been months ago in Sausage's dungeon, alone and sleep-deprived and barely conscious of his feathers being torn from his wings, yet he feels it as if it had been yesterday.

That was bad. That was terrifying.

fWhip had whipped him bloody and Scott hadn't been able to do anything about it, every ounce of pain sharply present in his sleeping mind.

He's breathing too fast, Scott realizes, when the cold air scrapes down his throat. He swallows, pulls the surprisingly soft blanket around himself.

He misses Jimmy. Usually, he can find instant peace after a nightmare by just rolling over, his lover there beside him with open arms.

And it had been another strange nightmare. One that felt far too real for having never happened.

It wasn't real, was it? There's no way it was real. fWhip isn't actually here to torture him.

Scott, daringly, glances around the room quickly before squeezing his eyes shut again. He isn't afraid. It's not like fWhip's going to be creeping out from under his bed.

Scott steals another glance at the floor beside him just to make sure.

Something was wrong with that dream. Something was off, wasn't it?

There's just no way. He doesn't just have nightmares like that, especially one so similar to the one of the night before.

Scott doesn't know how to explain it, but that wasn't normal. He doesn't have to be a genius to know that repeated vivid dreams of being tortured aren't normal.

What is he supposed to do?

What can he even do?

In all honesty, Scott can do nothing except hope that they pass, he supposes. And hope that he can sleep through them. It would be just like him to retraumatize himself right after he finally is able to sleep by himself.

He doesn't go back to sleep now, even though he probably has the time. Scott stays there, under the covers, until the room begins to properly lighten.

Then he gets up, dresses in something a little fancier than his travel clothes (he's here for another day to conduct military inspections), and dabs a bit of foundation under his eyes in the small mirror.

Time to be a king, he supposes, and he does his best to leave the fear and nightmares behind him.

Finally, he lets out a short scream.

"There we are," Sausage encourages. He pets Scott's hair in an almost fond way. "Knew you could do it!"

Now that the dam's broken, Scott can't hold back a whimper, distorted by the way his mouth is being held open by one of Sausage's metal instruments.

Sausage holds up his pliers, a bloody tooth clenched in them. "For every minute you don't talk, I take another tooth! Sound fair?"

He waits for an answer that Scott can't give before laughing to himself.

"Just scream if you want to talk, okay? Then you tell us where the god is, and everything will stop."

Then the pliers are in his mouth again, and Scott's hyperventilating, he's choking on his own spit, it hurts it hurts it hurts—

The tooth is pulled free with a crescendo of pain, and again Scott screams, and Sausage pauses with a question in his eyes before shrugging.

"That probably wasn't a signal to stop, huh," he says cheerfully, before going in again.

And again, Scott wakes up, heart pounding and jaw aching.

He's going to throw up. All over the forest floor beside him. And that'll bring running the guard on watch, and then Scott will have to be all embarrassed about everything.

He's not going to throw up, then. That would be awful.

But the feeling of losing his molars is so vividly painful and nauseating. He can still taste the blood pooling in the back of his mouth, and he has to poke around with his tongue to make sure that all his teeth are there.

That was a bad one.

Scott's been on the road for a week, and every night he's exhausted enough that he falls asleep almost as soon as he lays down. And every night, he has dreams of the same theme. He would message Jimmy if he thought it was anything he could help with, but Scott had been having these nightmares before Jimmy had even left. There's nothing anyone can do.

And Scott has a feeling, somewhere in the back of his mind, that if he can figure out why he's having them, he'll be able to stop them.

In every dream, he's in the Void—he'd figured that out after the fifth one. The swallowing blackness with tiny specks of floating color ought to have helped him catch on earlier, but it had usually escaped his notice what with the torture and everything.

Whoever it is tormenting him—either fWhip, Sausage, or Joey, with sometimes a guest appearance from Xornoth right before he wakes—is always asking for the same thing.

"Where's the god?" Joey asks petulantly.

"C'mon, Scott, you know you want to tell us where the god is!" Sausage says.

"Just tell us where the god is," fWhip says lowly, dangerously. "Then we can stop."

And suddenly, right there wrapped in his bedroll, a realization hits him.

These aren't just dreams. This is magic.

They're too clear. He sees everything as if it's actually happening, he feels every moment of pain.

Xornoth wants something from him.

Xornoth wants to know where Aeor is.

Which is all well and good, but how on earth does he expect Scott to know?

Scott has, technically, communed with Aeor. Not much—just enough to ask for (and receive) a strengthening of the empire's crops, and to receive His crown of legend.

And, yeah. Scott can see how someone might interpret that as being highly favored of the god. And he is favored, but not enough to know where Aeor is, or engage with Him face to face. That would require more strength or faith than Scott has. He doesn't have any need for that, either. It's not like he's Aeor's champion, after all.

Unless. . . .

Wait a second.

Scott has received the crown of legend, the first ruler of Rivendell to be gifted as such. In fact, he doesn't think any other ruler short of Alinar has been quite so favored.

Xornoth is clearly Exor's champion; the fight in the End and the release of Xornoth's power through the death of the dragon had proven that. If Exor's champion is here right now, then Aeor's champion is sure to either already be here or is about to appear.

And Scott, lucky him, is the only current direct descendant of the royal line—and, as already mentioned, highly favored unto Aeor.

Oh no.

Scott is Aeor's champion.

He sits up abruptly, kicking away the blankets that are tangled around his legs. No. No, he isn't—he isn't worthy of this, he isn't ready for this, he can't have that kind of power—

"Milord?"

Scott starts, whips around. One of the guards is standing there, her bow held loosely at her side. She nods sharply when his eyes meet hers.

"Is everything all right?" she asks. "Do you require my assistance with anything?"

Scott stares at her for a long moment before his brain processes exactly what she had asked.

"Um, thank you, Calidil, no," he says, rubbing a hand down his cheek. His jaw still hurts. He hates when nightmares linger, leaving physical sensations. He can only hope Calidil doesn't notice the way he gingerly holds his mouth, nor the way his wings twitch anxiously behind him.

His father had told him time and time again that the natural respondency of wings were a royal's greatest foil, and he ought to get in the habit of ensuring that his never gave away his thoughts or feelings.

Unfortunately, while he once was quite good at that, in recent months he's found his skill at controlling his wings to be lacking.

"Does your sleep disturb you, sire?" she asks, a frown crossing her face. "Not that it is my place, but I have noticed that you sleep restlessly and wake early. Might I suggest a tea that my mother used to make, an infusion of woodlace bark and calming plants?"

Scott is shaking his head almost before she finishes speaking. He still doesn't do well with food and drink prepared by others, especially if, in instances such as this, he isn't familiar with how the ingredients will affect him. "Thank you, but I will be all right," he tells her. Then, to change the subject (and distract himself, he can't be Aeor's champion that's too much), "Do you happen to know when we plan to continue?"

Four days later, after Scott wakes up crying from the pain of needles being slowly pushed under his fingernails, he takes Calidil up on her offer of tea.

He hadn't wanted to, but it's gotten to the point where he can't think about sleeping without panicking, can't get in bed without his heart leaping into his throat. He can't bother Jimmy about it, and he definitely needs rest for this journey, so the next best option is to force himself to sleep.

He watches her prepare the concoction that she calls tea, asks about the properties of every ingredient, then drinks it slowly and reluctantly before bed, stomach already jumping and throat barely able to choke it down. It doesn't really taste all that good, either, kind of flowery and too-sweet with a bitter aftertaste. He forces it down still, then changes into sleep clothes.

His bed for tonight is on the floor of the main room of a farmhouse (the elderly couple running the farm had tried to make him take the bed, but he'd refused), and he tries to get comfortable while waiting for it to kick—

Whoa.

He feels . . . so sleepy.

He just wants to close his eyes.

He doesn't like the feeling, Scott decides blearily. It feels too much like being drugged. Too much like leaving himself open for attacks.

But he doesn't get to think about it any more than that, because only moments later, he's opening his eyes in the Void.

His body is trembling. His knees smart from supporting him on whatever hard, invisible surface he kneels on. His wings are bound together painfully.

And Scott, for the first time, is aware that he's dreaming while he's dreaming.

And just a moment later he's screaming, his side exploding into searing pain.

It takes him a moment to register fWhip stepping in front of him, one hand twirling a—a red-hot branding iron, in the shape of the Grimlands' signet.

Belatedly, Scott smells something like cooking meat.

If this wasn't a dream, he might throw up.

But it is a dream, he reminds himself firmly. Does dream logic still apply?

His thoughts are cut off by a gloved hand gripping his hair and forcing his sagging body to straighten up. Scott cries out, briefly, before biting his tongue.

"The god, Smajor," fWhip says, and he sounds annoyed. "Tell us, and it'll stop. All we want is the god."

Dear Aeor, they're persistent. No wonder fWhip is annoyed, if they've been giving Scott the same brand of nightmare for days, just waiting for his subconscious mind to give up this information—information that, mind you, he doesn't have.

They want Aeor. How is Scott supposed to know where a literal god is? Especially one he's never seen, or technically even spoken to.

In an unexpected move, fWhip jabs the iron hard into Scott's stomach.

Scott gasps, the breath punched out of him, then holds back a scream as fWhip holds it there. He can hear his own flesh sizzling, can feel the awful, sickening pain that pulses out from his stomach—he tries, he tries to get away from it by instinct more than anything, but as far back as his back can bow fWhip can reach farther.

He's actually shaking with the effort of not screaming, involuntary little whimpers escaping his throat, and finally fWhip sighs and slowly pulls it away, taking some of Scott's skin with it, he's sure.

Scott's body holds its position for a moment more, then sags in relief, twitching against his will with every wave of pain that hits.

He can't do this. He's going to die if he doesn't give up the information.

It's just a dream, he reminds himself. It's just a dream. He can just—he can just wake up, right?

How does he normally wake up?

He doesn't think he's ever lucid-dreamed before, he doesn't know how to force himself out of the dream, he's hyperventilating and his mind is full of so much pain—

"Scott."

He looks up; fWhip is still standing before him, arms crossed.

"Remember how bad it was?" fWhip asks, one eyebrow raised, seemingly unimpressed. "When we had you for six days? Remember how much it hurt, how much it still hurts? That's never going to end, Scott."

He's right. It's always going to be so difficult to sleep without Jimmy, he's always going to have scars, the memories will always be raw and painful and jarring.

fWhip crouches down in front of him, the leather of his boots squeaking. Idly, he twirls the metal rod around in his hands.

"And you know what we're gonna do to that god?" he says softly, staring directly into Scott's eyes. "We're gonna make it even worse for him. The god will feel more pain than you can imagine."

Can gods feel pain? fWhip seems pretty confident about it.

"But he's a pretty slippery one. So if you tell us, right now, how to get to him, we'll make everything quick and painless for him and leave you alone as much as possible," fWhip promises. "So we're gonna give you two more times to try and answer, all right?"

He's stuck. Wake up, he silently shouts. Wake up wake up wake up!

But he remains stubbornly there, fWhip staring at him.

They want—they want Aeor. He doesn't know where Aeor is. They want him to tell them, somehow, where Aeor is.

Scott lets his eyes fall from fWhip's, down to the Void below.

It looks just like the Void had, those weeks ago when he chose to risk everything for Jimmy. It had hardly been a choice, really. Jimmy is his everything.

It had been terrifying to fall. To tuck his wings close to his body and dive, praying with every fiber of his being that he would reach Jimmy before he lost him forever.

And almost as if it's that easy, Scott careens forward and is falling again, just like he had back then, but his wings are bound to his back and his body is spasming in pain and he can't save himself—

There's something white twinkling below, growing larger and larger and—

Scott's sitting on the back of a sparkling white stag, the breath knocked out of him with the sudden landing.

The stag's head turns to look at him, blinking slowly. There's something wise in its eyes, something older than Scott has ever seen.

Well. He's found Aeor.

Scott slumps against the neck of the stag, utterly spent.

It's just a dream, and yet Scott doesn't think he could move a muscle with the pain that courses through him. His fingers (hadn't his hands been bound above his head?) grip loosely at the stag's silky hair as the beast begins to walk, slowly and gracefully as a wooded area slowly comes into view around them.

There's a bird singing somewhere, and Scott sees, sometimes, face turned outward with his cheek pressed against the stag, a deer poking curiously through the brush or a rabbit hopping through the long, dewy grass.

This would be nice if he didn't hurt so bad.

The stag doesn't speak (it is a stag, after all—but Scott kind of expects it to open its mouth and start spewing godly wisdom anyways), just carries him through the forest, hooves making light crunching sounds against the forest floor.

And then a new sound hits his ears—the sound of water.

The trees grow more sparse, the brush grows taller, thick with vines, and a bullfrog is making its loud, croaky call somewhere in the distance. The ground becomes softer, more marshy, until it begins to give way to pools of water. Then the stag stops. It huffs, paws at the ground.

Scott needs to look, doesn't he? He needs to lift his heavy head and see for what reason it is that the stag has stopped.

But he's so tired. He doesn't want to raise his head, pounding as it is. He wants to go to sleep. He wants to close his eyes and drift off, let his pain be swallowed up by the darkness.

An odd thought for a dreamer.

Is this even a dream anymore?

Without warning, Scott's stomach drops as he starts sliding forward.

The stag has bent its neck down, lower and lower, and Scott's weak fingers can't hold on tight enough to do anything but slide, right off the stag's neck between the antlers and gently, gracefully, into water.

Scott sinks into it, clouds of red billowing around him and bubbles streaming from his mouth in the clear water as he falls deeper, until his toes hit silty mud beneath him. It isn't too deep—he's sure that if he just pushed up a bit, his head would break the surface—but he doesn't fight it. He just rests there, under the water, and sighs.

It's cool, and fresh, and every little ebb of a current relaxes his muscles further and brings relief to his multitude of pains. His wings come loose, bonds floating away, and instead of being full of waterlogged, heavy feathers, they feel weightless.

Scott blinks down at himself, and feels nothing more than slight shock as the blistering burns on his body slowly fade away, angry red bubbles softening into unblemished skin.

That's quite nice. He wishes that would happen while awake, too.

A fish—a cod, it looks like—swims up to him, noses at his arms.

It's as if Jimmy is sending a little friend to check up on him in his sleep. That's nice.

Then the cod pokes, urgently, in the middle of his chest.

And Scott wakes up.

His eyes open slowly, reluctantly, as if the water is still dragging him down, pulling on his very bones to try and keep him under the spell of sleep.

Every part of his body feels heavy. His eyelids feel heavy. Every movement is an effort.

He's never taking a sleeping draught again.

Light filters in through the uncovered windows, leaving patches of gold on the rough wooden floor. Scott forces himself to push up into a kneel, relinquishing his nest of blankets on the floor, his back popping and wings shuddering.

That was . . . that was an experience.

He doesn't even know what part of the dream to think about. The healing pool of water in the swampy area, the shining stag, falling through the Void, fWhip burning him—

Scott tugs up his nightshirt, fingers clumsy and sleepy. No brand on his stomach—he twists around—no brand on his side. Not that he's ever woken up with any marks from a nightmare, but this one had felt so real. He'd been so conscious of everything that happened, conscious enough to think about the implications of the dream while it was happening.

Xornoth is looking for Aeor. fWhip told Scott that he would have two more tries to give up Aeor's location, or else they would subject the god to even worse torture than what Scott's gone through.

Two more tries. Two more nights of torment, and then they stop playing games.

The war is about to begin, isn't it?

Now this puts Scott up to a test of his leadership: does he continue on with the tour, spend the last week or so traveling until they circle back around to the City of Rivendell?

Or does he call for an emergency return, go back to the palace now in case of the beginning of the war?

Nobody will blame him if he sticks to the original plan. There's no way for him to know, logically, that the real fight is about to begin.

And if he returns now to prep for an emergency and nothing happens then he'll look like a fool, a scared king who can barely stand to be away from his safe castle walls for more than a week.

But can he continue on in this way, when he knows he ought to be at home, gathering the armies?

He has his communicator. It's not like he's totally cut off from everyone while out here—in fact, whenever he can get a connection, he messages his advisors and asks for updates.

And this is still important work, after all. It needs done just as desperately as anything else.

For the empire, and for his allies, it would be best to finish the journey, Scott decides. It was planned as a show of support for the country, and it wouldn't do to flee before the farther reaches of the country have been visited. They're expecting a good portion of their army to come from one of the cities near the border, which is where they'll be stopping next. To have such a place feel snubbed by their own king could very well be disastrous.

So on this day, Scott ignores the looming sense of doom and prepares for travel.

Such is the life of a king.

That night, Joey slams Scott's head against the invisible floor and kicks his teeth in.

The night after that, Sausage pulls his primary feathers out one by one.

And on the third night, fWhip is there again, arms crossed.

"Well, Scott, you had your chances," he says lightly. "But because I'm a nice guy, I'll give you one more. Where is the god?"

And, just like every night before, Scott can't give that up. Even if he knew the answer, he wouldn't.

He shakes his head, sending his blood-soaked hair flopping into his eyes.

He doesn't even know what injuries he has tonight. A cut on his head, at least, judging by the heat pulsing out from his temple. He's shirtless tonight, more drops of blood rolling down his bruised and battered chest.

fWhip clicks his tongue. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised," he says. "Impressed, but not surprised. I gotta respect you, Scott. You're a strong guy."

Scott's laugh turns into a cough when he feels a sharp pain in his side. Broken rib, feels like. "I'm not strong," he manages eventually, voice a dull rasp. "Just . . . stupid."

fWhip laughs. "You're right," he says, almost fondly. "I don't know any other idiot who would go through all this to protect one person. Well," he adds, "I know one other idiot, I guess."

fWhip checks his watch. "You know what? It's about time to go track down a god," he says, giving Scott a cheeky wave. "Hope you don't mind. I'll be honest, I really won't miss our little nightly reunions—as fun as it is to make you scream, it's kind of exhausting being here every night."

"Tell me about it," Scott whispers.

And then he's awake.

That one hadn't been so bad, all things considered—but Scott's heart is still pounding like he just ran a mile. He hates those dreams, hates being stuck in whatever invisible chains they have, forced to feel pain at their will.

They're humiliating, too. A replay of all he'd gone through at the hands of those three just months ago, all packaged up into perfect bite-sized sessions. Scott just knows he looks paler than ever as the mortification washes over him anew. He's been screaming in the hands of his tormentors every night—he isn't a king, he isn't anything to them, just something to torture.

His mind feels pushed to its last fraying wire. Every day has been full of traveling or speeches or military inspections, and every night filled with torture and threats. He can't do it anymore. He just can't do it.

If his predictions are correct, then he won't have another one of those dreams. Not in the foreseeable future, at least.

But if he's wrong . . . it may be better to simply never sleep again.

Scott groans, pushing his fingers into his eyes. He really doesn't want to go through the whole not-sleeping thing again. It took weeks to get to a point where he could even think about sleeping without Jimmy there. He wants to actually get rest at some point in his life.

Maybe Jimmy can help him with these nightmares, too.

Or maybe Scott just really misses Jimmy. Maybe he just wants to spend time with his lover, and his idea that Jimmy might help with these nightmares is wishful thinking inspired by a lovesick heart.

He does miss Jimmy. He hadn't thought, just a year ago, that he would ever be so attached to any one person. He had friends—Gem and Katherine, certainly, were friends, right? Maybe more like allies—but no one close to him. Especially not Jimmy.

He'd hated Jimmy. He'd teased him and pushed his buttons and laughed when fWhip and Sausage and Joey would 'joke' about beating him up.

And now, he intends to marry the man. Now, he has friends like Lizzie and Joel, who joke with him, and sit around in pajamas in Jimmy's living room and gossip, and message him to check up on him and are always happy to see him.

And right now, they all might be marching out to fight the first battle.

Scott wants Jimmy here, right now, in front of him. He needs to know he's safe.

They're leaving the city of Milerienira later today to begin the journey back to the City of Rivendell, with plans to stop at five more towns for the night on the way. So about a week before they return?

A lot of things could happen in a week. His communicator likely won't have service for most, if not all of the rest of the journey.

Scott leans out of bed to his satchel on the floor, pulls out his communicator. He can just message Jimmy right now and warn him that he thinks something bad will happen.

The last message in their messaging history is from Jimmy, a quick miss you that he'd sent two days prior. Scott can't help the goofy smile that spreads across his face as he looks at it.

But he has something important to say, so he thinks for a moment before typing up a message. He stops halfway through explaining that he thinks the war is about to start and erases it. He doesn't want to seem paranoid. He considers the screen for a few more minutes before finally typing up a shorter, more vague message.

I have a bad feeling. Stay safe.

He copies the message and sends it to Lizzie, trusting that she'll pass it on to all their allies.

Then he pulls up the direct message to his main council.

He needs to sound more divine-kingly than 'I have a bad feeling', especially as he may or may not be Aeor's Champion (a revelation he's been firmly ignoring all journey).

I fear that darkness approaches, he writes. Is the empire prepared to defend herself?

A little pretentious, but just the kind of thing his advisors expect of him.

And though it's not even anywhere near time to rise, Scott gets up and changes out his night clothes for white leggings and a long, embroidered blue tunic, belted at his waist, slipping on his travel boots last of all.

Then he goes out among the few early-waking people, talking with those he serves, and ignores the way his communicator seems to burn in his pocket.

No news reaches him through the rest of the journey, and the nightmares cease. Scott's so exhausted from the daily journeying and lack of good rest for weeks that he doesn't even have the energy to freak out about sleeping, and he's also tired enough that he doesn't even dream.

He tries to put his friends out of his mind. Even if the war has begun, it could take any number of days for it to get bad—and maybe it's a terrible thought, but the emperors aren't likely to get hurt. For the most part, they won't be allowed to be out in the midst of the fighting. They'll be fine.

Jimmy will be fine.

He finishes the tour with a town near the base of the mountain on the other side from where they'd come out, and then they start the two-day trek back up to the capital.

Their spirits are high, surprisingly—perhaps they had noticed Scott's anxiety, but one of the guards starts up an old drinking song and everybody joins in, and when that one ends they pick up another, and so on and so forth. When they can't remember any more tunes, Eitvi—a guard with a renowned talent for storytelling, one of the servants whispers to Scott—picks up a story that goes on for more than an hour. Trading of stories follows amongst the troupe, and though Scott doesn't give one himself, he's content enough to listen, fingers gently combing any knots out of Loth's hair.

The second day begins with stories that transition into an encore round of songs, all the way up until they reach the City of Rivendell, when they fall silent one by one, a clear longing for home in the lines of their faces.

Scott waves to his people, gathered in the cobbled streets, as he rides by, up the winding paths to his palace. He's exhausted, he's worn this tunic three times since it was last washed, and he hasn't bathed in two days, but he does his best to hold his head high and smile like a king successful.

Until he reaches the palace.

One of his younger council members is waiting at the stables, almost appearing out of breath. Strange, but Scott gives them a nod as he dismounts, holding back a groan at the feeling of solid ground again.

It isn't customary for council members to meet him outside the palace after a trip. He's meant to have at least a moment to freshen up in his rooms before being pulled away into a meeting, and in times before the upcoming war, he was usually given a day to rest without interruption.

This

"Galidre," he greets, passing off Loth to a stablehand and hobbling out of the dark stables to stand beside his advisor, legs reluctant to straighten after so long riding. "What news?"

"Did the messenger reach you?"

That's never good.

"No, we didn't see a messenger," Scott replies. Galidre looks back and forth, something close to grief on their face.

Scott's stomach clenches. Has the war really started, as he'd hoped it wouldn't? As he'd known it was going to?

"The armies of Mythland have begun the war," Galidre says, and Scott's breath vanishes from his chest. Mythland? But they'd all assumed fWhip would start the war, had concentrated the main part of their plans on the Grimlands. How could—?

Jimmy—

Before he can even speak, Galidre makes his worst fears come true.

"The Cod Empire has fallen," they say dreadfully, hands twitching at their side.

No.

"The Codfather—" Scott starts, desperately, Jimmy must be with Lizzie, he must've fled—

Galidre shakes their head. "No word," they say. "Likely—likely dead or captive."

Scott knows, in his heart, that Jimmy wouldn't be taken captive.

They want him dead.

If Jimmy hasn't managed to escape by some means, he's . . . he's. . . .

He would've made contact if he had escaped. Right?

But they haven't received word—

Scott fumbles for it, in his satchel, his communicator—he needs to know—