#esmp fanfic

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober 21 - Secrets Revealed (alt prompt)

title: movies

fandom: empires smp

part of esh au :)

cw: discussion of past suicide attempts

~

Maybe Scott shouldn't have chosen Heathers.

But somehow, in his long life of being queer, Jimmy hadn't ever seen it.

"You're literally bisexual and you haven't seen it?" Scott had asked, astonished. At Jimmy's nod, he added, "It's the most bi movie ever. And I could sing the musical all day, too, but musicals based on movies are always better than the movies based on musicals—"

"What's so important about it?" Jimmy had interjected, one brow raised, and Scott couldn't help but feel a flurry of pride at how much Jimmy had opened up over the past months.

"You'll just have to watch it and see," Scott told him, so here they are, three days later, Scott on his end of the sofa and Jimmy on the other, a bowl of popcorn (that Jimmy rarely takes from) between them.

It's not a date, Scott reminds himself repeatedly. It's just a movie night between him and his ward. No, a movie night between him and his friend. Jimmy holds no romantic feelings for him. And he doesn't have any for Jimmy.

Lies.

But they're watching, volume lower than what Scott would normally watch a movie with (loud noises make Jimmy jump, and subtitles are readily available), and Jimmy seems to be enjoying it. He lets out a little laugh at all the right places, and rolls his eyes at the outdated references, and loosens up a bit as the movie goes on.

Until the one scene.

The part that Scott didn't even think about, more worried about the other dark tones of the movie.

Where Veronica fakes her own suicide.

Before Scott even registers that he got up, Jimmy is out of the room, in the kitchen, turning on the lights and starting the sink running.

Scott pauses the movie, something sinking in his stomach. "Jimmy?" he calls tentatively. "Are you all right?"

No response.

What was that about Jimmy being his ward?

It's getting easier and easier to forget that Jimmy isn't just his roommate, but someone he is charged by the state to take care of.

Scott uncurls his legs from the couch and gets up to head into the kitchen, letting his feet fall harder than normal to let Jimmy know that he's coming.

Jimmy's standing over the sink, scrubbing hard at a bowl, head down. After a quick, splashing rinse, he sets it in the dish drainer and reaches for a plate.

"Not that I mind that you're doing dishes," Scott says drily, "but why? What happened?"

Jimmy doesn't say anything, his scrubbing motions becoming jerkier.

"Was it the movie?" Scott tries. "I honestly didn't think—"

"Can you leave?" Jimmy asks suddenly, before cringing. "No, sorry, I didn't mean that, sorry."

The panicked apologies send Scott into caretaker mode, whether he likes it or not. "Are you having a flashback? It's okay, you're not there—"

"No, I'm—Scott, I'm fine," Jimmy insists, hunching further over the sink. "Please—please don't worry. You can—you can go finish the movie, okay? I'll just wash up here and go to bed early."

Scott almost agrees. He doesn't want to make Jimmy upset. He wants everything to be right for him.

And then he remembers that he isn't just Jimmy's friend. He's his caretaker, and he has to make sure that Jimmy is safe and mentally well.

"Okay," he says carefully. "But I'm scheduling you a therapy appointment for tomorrow."

"What? No, I'm already seeing Nora on Thursday—"

"The trigger was bad enough that you're having to clean to distract yourself," Scott points out. "I know what it looks like when you're trying to fight a flashback, Jimmy. If you really want me to leave, I will, as long as you go to therapy tomorrow. "

Jimmy doesn't answer for a long time, washing another bowl with even more aggressive scrubbing. He rinses it, sets it aside, and turns off the sink, squeezing out the dishrag.

"I tried to kill myself," he says bluntly, turning around and leaning on the counter. "While I was . . . there. I was gonna hang myself on my own leash, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"I—" Scott feels himself blanch, as hard as he tries to keep a straight face.

"And I tried to kill myself a bunch of times after you got me out, just so you know. If it wasn't for people messing around, I would've succeeded. Does that make you happy?"

"Jimmy—"

"Because it sure didn't make the crazy doctors happy!" Jimmy's crying, now, just a little bit, eyes wet and red, even as he laughs. "I have to be on drugs to be normal! Just because I was a stupid, suicidal pet!"

Jimmy isn't looking at him anymore. His eyes are fixed on a spot slightly to the left of Scott, as if looking him in the eyes will make all the precarious emotions spill over in a tidal wave.

"It was—what do you call it, premeditated?" Jimmy says. "I decided—when I woke up—I was gonna twist my leash around the doorknob of my cell and the hook, and I was gonna hang myself. But they took away the leash—and they strapped me to the hospital bed so I couldn't get any scalpels—and they drugged me up real bad—"

"Jimmy—"

"What kind of person needs drugs to not kill themself—?"

"Me," Scott says loudly, and Jimmy cuts off mid-sentence, eyes focusing on his face.

"What?"

Scott leans against the wall, crosses his arms. "Me," he says again. "I'm on antidepressants, too. When I was eighteen, I . . . made an attempt on my own life. Aeor saved me. I've been on medication and going to therapy ever since."

"I'm sorry," Jimmy mumbles after a pause, the frenetic energy seeming to drain out of him with the two words.

"It's okay," Scott says, and he feels like he's about to cry, like those few sentences have rubbed his soul raw, but he's going to stay strong for Jimmy. "It was a while ago, I don't mind talking about it. But I have depression, due to some . . . stuff, and I didn't see a future that I wanted to be a part of. So, I'm sorry that you went through that, Jimmy. But I don't want you to think that needing medication means you're somehow less of a person."

"Sorry," Jimmy says again. "I—I didn't know."

Scott shrugs. "You didn't. It's not really something that comes up naturally in conversation, you know. But medication isn't a bad thing, okay? If it helps you to survive . . . well, that's good."

Jimmy chews on his lip, turns his gaze to the tiled kitchen floor. "I'm just . . . I'm tired of being messed up in the head."

There's not really a cure for that, though.

As infuriating as it is, mental illness isn't like a cut to be stitched up and bandaged. It isn't a pulled muscle that can be healed with an ice pack and a little rest. Mental illness is a cancerous tumor writhing inside the brain, and the excising is painful and exhausting and almost certainly doesn't get all of it out.

"I know it's hard," says Scott. "I don't know how hard, but I know it is. And you've still made an incredible amount of progress."

Jimmy shrugs. "Maybe. I . . . I wish I didn't have to."

Scott doesn't know what to say.

So he just offers a sympathetic smile and waits.

It's cruel. It's cruel that Jimmy was ever pushed to such lengths, that he ever felt so hopeless.

Scott knows it's cruel.

He knows that it hurts to look back, to remember oneself in such a dark place, swallowed up in the pain.

At least he has a few years' difference. Jimmy's still at the place Scott was when he was nineteen.

What would Aeor do when nineteen-year-old Scott would lash out, angry and tired?

The answer comes quicker than Scott expects.

Aeor would send him to bed.

"Well, I'm ready to go to sleep," Scott says, not quite having to fake a yawn. “We can take care of these dishes tomorrow, yeah? Let’s take the rest of the evening off.”

“But—”

“Nah, leave ‘em.”

“The movie?”

Scott shrugs. “I’ve seen it before,” he says nonchalantly. “And we can watch something else next time. Maybe Lord of the Rings.”

Jimmy makes a face.

“Don’t tell me you don’t like them.”

“I—they’re just so long,” Jimmy protests. “I don’t have time for a three hour movie.”

“That’s not the important part, what matters is that they’re a classic.”

“They’re boring.” “Clearly, you haven’t been watching them right.”

“I’ll lock myself in my room again. Don’t think I won’t.”

“You would never.”

“I would! And I will!”

[ilexdiapason]

Scott and Xornoth know the differences between each other’s faces; the sharper line of Xornoth’s nose, the arch of Scott’s eyebrows. But the servants, apparently, do not - because Scott and Xornoth switched out their colour-coded blue and purple headdresses and ceremonial robes this morning, and it’s been an hour, and absolutely nobody has noticed.

The twin heirs of Rivendell spend the day pretending to be each other. It goes pretty much flawlessly, although not without a healthy dose of sibling bickering.

-

(yet another treat for 48 hour extreme timed challenge exchange! reblogs appreciated :D)

[azurecake16]

Happy summer of yuri! This is the second gift i wrote, this time from empires smp!

2325 words, this time featuring Gem at Pearl’s coronation and much world building!

This was written for @autumn-arts , as a part of @mcyt-summer-of-yuri !

[lady-astras]

In the Line of Work - Summer of Yuri

@autumn-arts @mcyt-summer-of-yuri

THE SUN BEAT down on Gem’s neck, as was usual on a summer afternoon. The mountains she lived among usually provided welcomed shade, but today, she was working atop the plateau. That meant no clouds and no shade except for a couple of trees - that she had to cut down anyway.

Gem wiped her brow and sighed, leaning against a tree trunk. It was hot. All that she had done today was place a couple of wood blocks as a foundation for her to-be wizard tower, plan out a winding mountain path, and procrastinate a lot. 

She’d already visited Fwhip, so it’d be awkward to visit him again. Her gaze drifted to the southeast. She could almost see the wheat fields that occupied the majority of the Gilded Helianthia and Mythland lands.

Surely, the sun would be affecting Pearl as it was affecting her. And she was sure to be toiling away in the blistering heat, tilling wheat fields and tending to crops and building and whatnot.

Sighing, Gem made her way down the rough mountain path to her house embedded in the rock. She shielded her eyes from the bright glare of the light off of the amethyst crystal roofs. Her wings, made from the same material, hung on a hook by the door. She picked them up and strapped them on, grabbing her rockets as well before taking a deep breath and heading outside to do the routine jump off of her balcony.

Right, before I forget… some crystals might be important for healing, she thought to herself, racing back inside and opening a chest of amethyst shards. Gem pulled out some crisp, unbroken ones, pocketing them before heading to the balcony again.

On her way there, she tried to stick as much as possible to the mountain shades, finally giving up when she reached the planes. There were the Grimlands - Gilded Helianthia would not be farther now. Spotting her brother Fwhip, she swooped low to breeze past at a dangerously close distance, laughing mischievously when he almost screamed in surprise.

“See you!!” She called back, firing a rocket to gain altitude before soaring over the foundations of his palace towards Pearl’s humble kingdom.

There - where a forest of oak and birch trees began. Within those trees would be a large clearing, and there would be Pearl. Sure enough, when Gem fired a rocket and propelled forward, the brushy tops of wheat stalks appeared past the green leaves. 

Pearl was leaning against her shovel, eyes facing the ground to avoid the piercing sun despite her wide straw hat - which had a couple holes in it. Gem landed on the nearby path silently, carefully trekking through the wheat plants to avoid trampling any of them. Pearl looked up wearily when her shadow crossed her face. A bright smile immediately adorned it, envying the star that so tormented them today.

“Gem! Hi! How’re you doing? Quite sunny today isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is, Pearl. Which is why you shouldn’t be out here working on your wheat fields.” Gem gestured to the expanses of dusty gold plants around them. “You are literally the number two wheat producer in the lands. Why do you need more?”

“C’mon Gemgem, it’s some friendly competition between neighbours! Sausage promised me a part of his unused land if I managed to produce more wheat than him! The offer’s too good to resist!” Gem raised her eyebrows.

“And? Pearly Pop, come on. You can always do it on a cloudier day or a cooler hour. Do you, by any chance, know what the phrase ‘take a break’ means?”

Pearl shook her head innocently, her eyes wide and mirthful. Gem groaned.

“Come inside, your wheat plants aren’t going to die if you abandon them for a couple of hours. Any sane person would wait until near sunset to do such strenuous labour.”

“Ay, but these plants ain’t gonna plant themselves are they now?”

“Your sense of logic is incredibly… what’s the word again?”

“Incredibly intelligent perhaps?”

“Most certainly that is not the word I am looking for. Come inside now and get some water, food, and rest.”

“Okay, who am I to argue with the great wizard Gem Tay?”

“Exactly. Now you’re getting it.” Gem took Pearl’s hand and led her along, her free hand taking Pearl’s shovel and carrying it. As they started walking, Gem noticed Pearl’s slow pace and masked limp. She whirled around once they were under the wooden awning’s shade.

“What happened to your leg?” She demanded. Pearl hesitated. Gem leaned the tool against the wall so she could cross her arms and tap her foot impatiently.

“Okay, fine. I got stabbed.”

“Oh Pearl! By?”

”I hit myself with my hoe. Don’t worry, it wasn’t that b…” Pearl trailed off, noting Gem’s furious expression.

”If you got hurt enough for you to limp like that it’s definitely bad. Come inside - I’m so glad I had the foresight to bring some crystals. You’re going to sit and rest for the rest of the day, and some cuddles wouldn’t hurt. It might help ease my anger, even.”

”What do you even have to be angry about?” Pearl complained, following Gem inside her house to her cooled bedroom. Gem sighed as the wind from her electric fan hit her sweaty face. Beside her, she could feel Pearl equally relaxing and enjoying the false breeze.

“Maybe you were right then, this is nice.” She admitted. Gem clapped her hands in triumph before extracting the violet crystals from a hidden pocket, and her grimoire from her bag. Pearl had chosen to wear pants for the occasion rather than her iconic green and gold dress.

”Roll up your pant leg, I have to see the injury.” Gem instructed. Pearl did so, and Gem simultaneously gasped and sighed in frustration.

”That is definitely bad. Okay, to the bathroom, rinse that off without soap. Go.” Pearl got up and blundered her way to the bathroom. Gem heard the sounds of splashing water as she opened her spell book to the corresponding page—Moderate Cuts, Bruises, and Other Abrasions.

Pearl limped her way back into the bedroom and plopped down on her bed with a sigh. “You found anything that’ll work?”

“You want a potion or a spell?” Gem asked, scanning the page. “The potion’s gonna take like twelve or so hours to brew if we do everything right, but the spell will be pretty uncomfortable and maybe even painful.

“Uh… spell. I deal with discomfort all the time - I work in a wheat field half the day for goodness sake. I can deal with it. I’m a strong woman.”

“That you are, Pearlo.” Gem replied affectionately, handing her two decently sized crystals. “One in each hand.”

“This feels like an occult ritual.”

“I’m literally a wizard, trust the process.”

“I do, Gemgem. I trust you very much.”

“Good.” Gem poured a few drops of healing salve around the wound. Pearl flinched.

“Is it meant to sting like that?”

“It’s the amethyst. Now shut up, this is technically a new spell and I want to make sure I get the pronunciation right.” She took a deep breath. “Sana aptissime mediu.” Pearl shivered again.

“Why does that tickle?” She whined.

“It’s meant to - the crystals are empowering the spell so the salve works faster. At least I got the spell right! I’ve never used the medium spell before.”

“If there’s crystals in the salve then why do I have to hold these ones?” She waved her hands and consequently the amethyst in them.

“Those help channel the magic all throughout your body, healing any other minor injuries you might have. Which, I think you had a good amount because that took a lot more of my energy than the book said it would.”

“You trust that book more than me.”

“It’s never lied to me.” Gem jabbed with a small smile. Pearl gasped loudly enough to indicate that whatever she was about to say was teasing.

“I would never lie to you! How could you ever suggest I’d betray you like that! All I did was not tell you, it’s not like I explicitly said I didn’t get hurt.” Gem smiled.

“Okay, whatever reasoning makes you believe you upheld your morals.”

“HEY! You’re implying so many incorrect things about me right now. How dare you even think I have morals?

Gem sighed again. “What can I do to make up the apparent insult to your personality?”

Pearl’s face shifted from surprised to thoughtful, then smug.

“CUDDLES!”

“Hey, that’s my thing! Thief!” Gem protested, carefully setting down her magic supplies on the floor by Pearl’s bed.

“Nuh-uh!” Pearl retaliated, taking Gem’s hands as soon as they were free and pulling her closer, making sure not to disturb her leg and the magic that was still working with it.

“Fine. I wanted those anyways.” Gem conceded. Immediately, Pearl cheered and wrapped her arms around Gem joyfully. “Don’t tell me you’d rather be working out there than in here with me.”

“If  I’m gonna be overly warm anyways, I’d rather it be because of you than the sun.”

“If you’re so warm then take off the blanket. Or turn up the fan or something.

“It’s a comfortable kind of warmth. Hey, my leg doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Good. Now be quiet.” They stayed in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Pearl holding tightly onto Gem despite the awkward position. Gem sighed, resigned to the fact that she wasn’t getting out of this bear hug any time soon.

“Hey Gem?” Pearl asked, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Hmm?”

“Are you a witch? Because, Gem, I think you’re enchanting me to love you like this.”

Gem huffed. “Not quite a witch, but I’m a wizard, it’s essentially what I do. And I can assure you that I have no love enchantments cast on you.” Pearl hummed.

“I wouldn’t be mad if you did turn out to, you know.”

“For Aeor’s sake Pearl! I am not enchanting you! Also we’re literally just friends.”

“Suuure.” They fell back into silence.

“Hey Gem?”

“If this is another corny pickup line I will do things to you.”

“What kind of things?”

“You wanna know?”

“Eh… depends.”

“I will send you back out there in the heat and you will be working until sundown regardless of leg. Oh, and no more cuddles.”

“NO CUDDLES? So cruel. All I wanted to say was: I love you.”

“Oh, well, I love you too Pearl. You know, as a friend.”

I’m sorry I’ll post the Ao3 link later haha

[ty-bayonet-betteridge]

:D maybe smth about esmp1 lizzie?

(~200 words, post-rapture, bittersweet angst)

She doesn't remember where she came from. Somewhere by the ocean, she supposes, because other people she's spoken to in her travels have told her the thin, white dress she wears is traditional dress for a group of people who once lived near the water.

She doesn't remember where she's going. She's been headed east for a while, chasing the sunrise. She knows she's looking for someone, or maybe multiple someones, but she can't remember who.

She doesn't remember why, when she's served salmon at taverns, she tears into it with such ferocity.

She doesn't remember why she refuses to eat cod.

She doesn't remember where the ring on her finger came from, or the sapphire crown she had. She pawned the crown for traveling money, but... she can't bring herself to sell the ring.

She doesn't remember why, when she doodles in her notebook, she draws purple crystals and flowers and giant mushrooms and fields of wheat and axolotls.

She remembers what an axolotl is, but she doesn't remember why she knows about them. None of the other travelers she meets do.

She doesn't remember why red crystals and plants put her so on edge.

There are a lot of things she doesn't remember.

[inaris-mage-of-storms]

"You really don't have to stay," said Scott, letting Sausage take the empty teacup from him. "I mean, I'm grateful for your help. But I'm sure you have more important things to attend to. I can manage on my own." He nestled further into the blankets wrapped around him, comfortably tucked into the corner of the couch nearest the fireplace, and watched the snow through the window.

"Nonsense," said Sausage, gathering up the tea tray and carrying it to the kitchen. "You're the most important thing to attend to right now. Bubbles has everything handled back home," he assured him as he returned to the living room and sat in the armchair across from Scott.

Scott had to admit he was glad for Sausage's company, even as he alternated between coughing fits and dozing through parts of Sausage's story about Bruno and Pepe arguing over the best method of storing supplies for the tavern. The ache in Scott's throat began to intensify, and he was contemplating asking Sausage for more tea when a knock at the door interrupted Sausage instead.

"Sorry, no visitors today!" called Sausage as he stood to go see who it was. "I'm afraid he isn't feeling up to – oh! Jimmy, hi!"

"Hi Sausage," came Jimmy's voice from the entryway. "Sorry, I can go. I just wanted to see how he was doing, and bring him this."

"It's okay, Sausage," called Scott, and winced at how hoarse his voice sounded. "He can come in."

Sausage poked his head into the living room. "Are you sure?" Scott nodded, and Sausage directed Jimmy to the coat hook before he led Jimmy into the room and bowed to Scott dramatically. "A gift for you, my king!" he said cheerily.

Scott laughed, his eyes sweeping over Jimmy. The sheriff's hair was ruffled from his habit of running his fingers through it after removing his hat, and his cheeks were pink from the cold wind. "You brought me a pretty man? Sausage, you know me so well," he teased, knowing full well that Sausage was referring to the dish clutched in Jimmy's hands.

"What?" squawked Jimmy, the color in his cheeks deepening. "No! He means this!" He held up the container. "I, um. I heard you weren't feeling well, so I brought you some broth. I mean, you don't have to have it if you don't want. The kitchen looked like Sausage has you stocked up on food pretty well. It's probably not even that good, if I'm honest. Not sure I got it right. It's similar to something my granddad used to make for me whenever I was sick - "

"You're rambling," said Scott, cutting him off. Too tired to care about appearances, he made grabby hands in Jimmy's direction. "And I'm hungry. Gimme."

Even if he hadn't been hungry, the smile that crossed Jimmy's face alone was worth accepting the gift. Jimmy took the lid off and handed it over. "It should still be warm," he informed him, just as Scott registered the faint glow on the bottom of the bowl from the enchantments carved into it.

He murmured his thanks and took a sip before closing his eyes happily. His nose was too stuffy to appreciate the full range of everything that had gone into the broth, but what he could taste was delicious. And, Scott realized as he took another sip and mentally sorted out every herb he could pick up on, everything that had gone into it was deliberately chosen to ease one symptom or another of his flu.

It tasted, above anything else, like love. He looked up and gave Jimmy a soft smile. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," beamed Jimmy, seeming pleased that his gift had been received so well. "I hope you feel better soon. I'll get going so you can get some rest."

Sausage glanced at the disappointed expression on Scott's face and smiled mischievously. "Actually, Jimmy, do you have anything in particular you need to go take care of?" he asked. Jimmy shook his head no. "Excellent! Then would you mind sitting with him for a bit while I tidy up? I don't want him to have to yell across the house if he needs something."

"Yeah, I can do that," said Jimmy. "Or I can do the cleaning, if you want - "

"No no, have a seat!" said Sausage, and guided him to sit on the couch next to Scott. "Just keep him company!" Scott narrowed his eyes at Sausage, but he only grinned and left the room.

"Sorry about him," said Scott. "You don't really have to stay, if you don't want."

"No, I want to," said Jimmy. "So long as you don't mind."

"I don't mind," said Scott, and took another sip. They sat in silence while he finished his meal, listening to Sausage humming in the kitchen. When the bowl was empty Jimmy set it aside for him, and Scott leaned back against the cushions. His thoughts were beginning to feel hazy again, and he shivered and pulled the blankets tighter around him, closing his eyes.

He jumped a little when he felt a hand on his forehead. "Sorry," Jimmy apologized for startling him. "Gosh, you're burning up." Scott shivered again, and Jimmy frowned. "You ought to be in bed." He pulled the blankets away, and Scott whined at him. "Sorry, sweetheart," murmured Jimmy, scooping Scott into his arms and standing up. "Let's go get you tucked in."

Scott leaned against him, letting the sheriff carry him upstairs. Jimmy got him settled in bed, tucking the blankets around him and brushing a hand over his forehead. He turned to leave, but Scott grabbed the bottom of his vest. "Stay," he croaked. "Hold me."

He couldn't make out what the expression on Jimmy's face meant, but thought he might cry if Jimmy decided to walk away from him now. In his feverish state Scott didn't care about the maintaining the facade between them. He was cold, and achy, and all he wanted right now was to be safe and warm in Jimmy's arms again.

"Please?" he whispered.

Jimmy's face softened. "Okay. I'll stay." Scott breathed a sigh of relief, and Jimmy took off his boots and vest before crawling into the bed with him. He wrapped his arms around Scott and pulled him close, and Scott buried his face in the crook of Jimmy's neck and fell asleep before he could murmur his thanks.

When he next surfaced from his slumber, the room was dark and he could hear Sausage in the doorway. "I need to get back to Sanctuary," he was in the middle of whispering. "Are you sure you're okay to stay, or should I try to get hold of someone else?"

"It's okay," Jimmy whispered back. Scott closed his eyes again, not wanting to risk Jimmy deciding to let go. "I've got him."

He heard footsteps, and the clink of something being set on his dresser. "He needs another dose whenever he wakes up," whispered Sausage, and Scott wrinkled his nose at the thought of the potions Sausage had made him drink when he first arrived. "One of each, and probably again in the morning."

"Okay," acknowledged Jimmy. They said their goodbyes, and Scott dozed off again before Jimmy could realize he was awake.

The second time he awoke, Scott could feel Jimmy's steady breathing and chanced a look at him. Moonlight fell across the room, illuminating his sleeping face. His arms were still firmly around Scott, holding him close like a treasure to be protected. Scott rested a hand against Jimmy's chest, feeling his heartbeat. As they lay together in the dark, Scott could almost pretend this was normal for them, like it had been once before.

A cough wracked his body, breaking the spell and waking Jimmy, who rubbed soothing circles on his back until the fit passed. "I'll get you some water," he said when Scott was finally able to catch his breath, and let go. Scott missed the warmth immediately, feeling a chill he was certain had nothing to do with his illness as Jimmy got out of bed and poured a glass of water from the pitcher Sausage had left next to the potion bottles.

He sat up and accepted the water from Jimmy, sipping at it while Jimmy uncorked a potion bottle. "Do I have to?" he grumbled.

Jimmy smiled and measured out a spoonful of the shimmering liquid. "I'm afraid so," he said, and held out the spoon.

Scott swallowed the mouthful reluctantly, then did the same with the second potion, and took another drink of water as soon as he could. "Gross," he complained. "No matter how she brews it, no amount of melon can cover up nether wart."

"It's not that bad," said Jimmy, looking amused. "You just have sensitive taste buds, I think."

"And that's not usually a bad thing," said Scott. "It makes food more interesting. Even sick I can still name at least five different herbs you put in that broth."

Jimmy laughed. "You do have a very skilled mouth."

There was a beat of silence while they both processed his words. Scott's eyebrow rose and a slow smirk crossed his face, and Jimmy turned bright red. "No!" he squeaked. "That's not what I – I just meant, you can taste things others can't, and you always have some clever comment or snarky comeback at the ready, so I mean – I didn't mean to imply – Oh my god," he groaned, and buried his face in his hands.

Scott laughed until he had to stop to cough again. "Maybe when I'm not sick I can show you what else I can do with it," he said hoarsely, unable to resist one final dig at the sheriff's blunder.

"You're awful," came Jimmy's muffled rebuttal. He ran his hands through his hair, face still a little pink, then took the water glass Scott handed him and set it back on the dresser. "Right. So." He rubbed the back of his neck. "You seem like you're feeling better. Would you be more comfortable if I slept in another room?"

Scott's smile disappeared, and he chewed on his lip before taking a deep breath. His head was clearer than it had been earlier, but he wanted to be selfish a little longer. "I'll leave it up to you," he said carefully. "But to be honest, I...I think I'll sleep better if you're here."

"Then I'll stay," said Jimmy, and Scott hoped he wasn't imagining the eagerness with which Jimmy answered. He got back in the bed, and pressed a shy kiss to Scott's forehead when Scott leaned into his embrace. "Get some more rest. I'm not going anywhere."

series masterpost

[mushrooms-soup]

i have somehow forgotten to ever post about my writing here, but the final chapter of “things that no one teaches you” is up! check it out if you’re a fan of scwhimmy, nonsexual intimacy, gratuitous snuggling and kissing, clear communication, guys who are creatures, or dorks being goofs!

[bullbonez]

Joel was bored. Just bored. His feuds had grown boring, and he could hardly remember what they started over anyways. Probably nothing important.

Scheming, he started a list. A prank? No, humans don't like those very much. A toy? No, this one would hate that. A build? Maybe, but he'd probably have to do some type of interior for it. An apology?, he thought, begrudgingly. Yes, humans love those.

Joel had never quite figured those out but he may as well try. He was better at giving nonverbal gifts than speaking.

So he set to work, brought his filled shulkers to spawn. Ten small terracotta platforms, close together to avoid falling, leading up to a slightly larger one should be enough. Not wanting to waste any quartz, he used terracotta and concrete(though might have also used this as a further extension of his peace offering).

The worst part was coming up with what to call the damned thing. The Lore-Law Building? That might make him look selfish, like he was putting himself above the law(though he was quite literally usually 9 feet above the law). The Law-Lore Building could work, but it might make him seem desperate. He settled on the latter, but saying it quickly in a hope nobody would notice.

[valoisfulcanellideux]

Fic: You Are Not Wrong Who Deemed That My Days Have Been a Dream

A follow-up to I Stand Amid the Roar.

He turned toward the portal, and froze. It had gone. More accurately, its frame still stood there, dark and shining. But the shimmering purple swirls that led back to the safety of home had gone. And he had no idea how to get them back again. Oh shit. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he heard another strange sound coming from his right, and as he slowly turned his head toward it - almost in dread - he realised it was actually a very familiar sound. Or would be, if you lived on a farm, because it was the sound of several loud and agitated pigs snorting and grunting. A great deal more ‘oh shit’ was running towards him… on their hind legs. Humanoid pigs, wearing brown leather armour and brandishing golden swords, their tusks sharp and pointed, their mouths gaping as they yelled in piglish… piglin… god, whatever that language was! Some of them - thankfully only bringing up the rear and not the vanguard - even had crossbows. The first of them crashed into him, sword swinging at him. It slammed into his raised shield, which cracked as he slashed out desperately in defence. Another followed, and another, forcing him on the backfoot, toward the cliff edge that teetered over the lava lake. A final one charged at him, and he rolled sideways, trying to come back up onto his feet again, but the first of them had anticipated his move and jumped on him. He wheezed, all the breath knocked out of his lungs by close to a couple of hundred pounds of angry pork.

Read it in full at the link above, or click here :)

[thetomorrowshow]

learn to play it right

Previous

Final installment of the trust au.

There will, at a later date, be short stories set in this universe.

~

“What is going on?” Jimmy whispers.

Scott peers down, down at the massive crowd of people gathering, at the long line twisting down the mountain side and into the city.

“I have no clue,” he whispers back.

There are—there have to be hundreds of elves down there, all dressed in black robes, waiting outside the church. And not just elves—others, fae, humans, royalty. Far too many for any normal event. Far too many.

What’s more, a large portion of those actually gaining entrance into the building below are royalty, many of which are elves, but just as many . . . aren’t.

Scott and Jimmy are lying on the roof of the Church of Aeor, early on this cold morning, where they’ve been waiting for two hours—they had arrived just before sunrise, Scott’s exhausted wings barely carrying them to the church’s rooftop. There, with the vantage point it posed and the relative cover from any onlookers, they’d heard and seen the arrival of hundreds of people—including Lizzie, surrounded by a guard of twenty soldiers.

Jimmy had almost gone to her right then. Scott had felt him tense, heard the slight intake of breath, had panicked at what might happen to them if Jimmy were to shout down at her. Scott had subtly readjusted his grip on Jimmy's upper arm, ready to pull him back if need be, his other hand in the air, ready to cover the man’s mouth if he decided to do something stupid.

Jimmy didn’t do anything, thank Aeor. He just gazed down at his sister, mouth moving silently.

Scott turned his eyes back to her as well, marching up the hill to the church. Lizzie looked . . . strong. Her chin was held high, her hair braided back perfectly, her jewelry shining in the weak morning sunlight. She wasn’t dressed in greys and blacks any longer, the mourning period for Jimmy long over, but where she usually wore pastel shades of pinks and purples, her current dress was a deep blue, pinned up again and again in graceful layers, a train spilling out behind her.

Her presence was a regal one, and every person already making their way up to the church had slowed and stopped and stepped aside, allowing her to pass.

She had come straight up to the church—and Ilphas, of all people, had greeted her outside—and they had ushered her in, while the main part of her guard was redirected.

Since Lizzie, they've seen Joel, Katherine, and Pix arrive and be granted entrance, along with various other figures of elvish royalty. Other elves—and guards of arriving rulers, such as fWhip right this moment and Scott’s blood positively boils at the sight of him—wait outside, silent, looking toward the church.

Then Gem arrives, and Scott’s heart collapses into relief that she’s actually still alive. By some miracle—dear Aeor, how had she survived?

Last time he’d seen her, she had been in a heap on the ground, hair white as snow. That sight has haunted his nightmares for weeks.

She’s here, though, hair as red as ever, face solemn as she enters the church, followed shortly by Shelby (who looks exhausted in her shabby clothes, head bowed) and Joey right beside her (Scott blinks back visions of Joey pulling on his wings to wake him up), adorned with far too much gold weaved into a headdress and around his neck, the most brightly dressed of anyone there.

In fact, all of those waiting outside the chapel are dressed in black.

Scott is starting to have a sinking feeling that he knows why everyone might be showing up to Rivendell’s church on an inconspicuous weekday morning.

Pearl arrives last of all the emperors, marching right on in, and Scott knows that there won’t be anything to see from out here.

Not that Rivendell isn’t an . . . interesting sight, at the moment.

The fog of the morning obscures the nearby mountain peaks, tinged red in a way that could be the rising sun (though Scott doubts it). The landscape and city aren’t dead, but . . . muted, almost, as if some of the color and life has been slowly drained. There’s no snow on the ground, and it is summer, but usually there’s a morning frost year-round. The earth seems cracked, dry, neglected.

And, of course, red—red tentacles, he supposes, thread through the city—still, perhaps, but Scott swears they shift when he looks away. One stretching from a normally-busy intersection, curled around a lamppost. Another that wraps all the way around the library, the stones buckling inward under its grip. The flowers of the royal gardens are overrun, large and small vines choking them out of the dirt. 

The touch of his brother is clear, but to Scott, the most significant change is the eerie feeling of stale death haunts the air. Death that clings to the back of his throat, to the pads of his fingers, to his cracked lips.

He hates this. This is his land, his country, his people, and Xornoth—

No. Anger will get him nowhere but dead, and he can’t die yet. They have a purpose, here.

To think. He was so worried about Jimmy blowing everything by calling out to Lizzie, while Scott just has to look at nothing in particular to be tempted to scream out a challenge to Xornoth while his lungs still have air.

“We have to get inside,” Scott mutters to Jimmy, shamefully caring more about removing himself from his once-beautiful Rivendell as it suddenly overwhelms him and less about saving Lizzie. “There’s a window in the rafters with a broken latch—or, there used to be. I don’t see why anyone would think to repair it. We can go around to it and swing in.”

“Why do you know that?”

Scott shrugs as well as he can, belly-down on the roof, eyes still fixed on Ilphas below as the elf greets guest after guest. “Good place to hide out from my brother, growing up.”

Forgetting his anger, it might be best for them to get inside a building, anyways—every time Scott sees one of those horrid red tentacles out of the corner of his eye, he thinks it’s Xornoth come to kill him once and for all. They’re terribly exposed in their current place, and it’s a miracle they’ve not been spotted yet (though they’d had a close call with Pix glancing heavenward as he entered).

So Jimmy follows closely (close enough to touch, of course) as he shuffles down the roof, to the back of the chapel, where luckily nobody has begun to congregate.

It isn’t as easy slipping in through the round window there as it used to be—it swings out, for one thing, which almost knocks Scott off his balance entirely as his arm swings out with it. When he flips himself around and starts to slide down the edge of the roof, his feet dangle in freefall for a second (his stomach flips, though Jimmy has a tight grip on his wrist) and the windowsill is just too thin for the thick winter boots he's been wearing, his feet scraping against it for unfound purchase. With only a moment of panic, though, he manages to get both heels hooked on the inside and pulls with all the leg strength he has, slipping away from Jimmy, his back falling with another swoop in his stomach.

It’s more the flapping of his wings that helps to pull him in than it is his quad muscles, but Scott somehow manages to shimmy into the window, barely keeping himself from falling flat on his face.

He makes far too much noise, stumbling over his own feet and almost hitting his head in the cramped attic space, but once he has something of a breath in his chest he scoots over to the side (there's really only five square feet of space in there, after all) to let Jimmy in.

Jimmy goes about it in a . . . creative way, meaning that Scott’s heart almost drops out of his chest when he sees Jimmy fall past the window.

“Jimmy—” he gasps, reaching out far too late (frost brushing against the rough wood wall), just as he notices the fingers curled around the ledge.

Jimmy heaves himself up on his upper arm strength alone, and Scott knew he was betrothed to a swimmer but holy—

Jimmy falls into the room on his hands and rolls, landing hard on his backside. The entire tiny room rattles; they both freeze.

“Hopefully nobody heard that,” Scott whispers, voice pitched high.

Jimmy nods, laces his fingers between Scott’s, and scrambles to his feet (though still bent over to accommodate the low ceiling). “Yeah. Where to?”

Scott pushes past him to the only door in the room, an old, roughly-hewn door that probably hasn’t been opened in decades, lifting it just slightly to avoid scraping it along the floor.

The sound of low murmuring reaches Scott’s ears, along with the gentle strains of harp music. He takes a deep breath, then looks out.

The door leads to a dark drop, though Scott knows that in the darkness is a corner of the chapel partially walled off to hide a ladder. If he sat down here, on the sheet of wood before the door, his feet would find the first rung of the ladder on the wall below. But if he instead slides to the left, tiptoes along the wall a bit, that sheet of wood leads to the beams of the open main rafters—an access path for fixing the light fixtures.

And that is where Scott goes, carefully stepping across the beams, wings flared to keep his balance.

Jimmy is right behind him, his hand now clutched tightly around the joint where Scott’s wing meets his shoulder blade, keeping up a steady stream of whispered curses as he steps behind him. “Scott—if I fall—”

“You’ll probably land on some duke, so don’t do that,” Scott advises, glancing down at the dizzying array below. Sure enough, that looks like the Duke of Evien right under where Jimmy would land.

It’s an absolute miracle that nobody is looking up to the dark rafters, because the church is packed with people. The chapel seats close to five hundred, Scott knows, massive as it is, and yet every pew is filled, people left standing, lining the walls, crowding the entrance.

Scott tears his eyes away and creeps along, careful to test every step before putting his full weight on it, until he reaches a sheet of wood a bit more like a platform than the walkway, where he can kneel and peer down below. Jimmy joins him, slides their hands together.

“What’s going on down there? Why is Lizzie here?”

Scott scans the room, trying to spot everyone. All of the emperors are seated near the front—Lizzie behind Shelby and Joey on the left side, fWhip and Gem on the right side beside Katherine and in front of Sausage—and seated at the very front is Joel, then a priest that Scott remembers kind of liking whenever he attended chapel, then two empty seats.

And before them is the altar. Atop the altar is an unwrinkled white linen, with a very familiar crown resting on it. Scott's own crown. The one that had been hand-crafted for him when neither of his parents recovered from their horrible illness.

It’s a rather beautiful crown, if he does say so himself. A golden base, threads of gold crawling up to support and wrap around several white crystals, clear gems woven into the gold. Scott’s always been impressed by the workmanship that must have gone into such delicate materials to make them into the sturdy thing, and it’s clearly been polished recently, as the crystals catch every ray of light and absolutely sparkle.

Ilphas is walking down the aisle, he notices, and they pause right beside the altar for the briefest of moments before turning out to the crowd.

“Respected guests,” they say, voice ringing through the vaulted ceiling of the chapel. Everyone immediately hushes, turning their eyes forward. “The service will begin with a traditional elvish hymn, written thousands of years ago. The lyrics are in the Old Elvish tongue, but they envision the glory of the afterlife that awaits . . . that awaits. It will be performed by Sarelir of Arde’s Line and Cacil of the Far Forests.”

They incline their head and step back down to sit beside the priest, who shifts slightly, as the harp once again strikes up and an elf stands from the front row, rolling their shoulders.

Scott is absolutely transfixed.

“What’s going on?” Jimmy whispers again. “What is this?”

It’s so surreal, Scott’s not even sure what to say.

“This—this is my funeral,” he finally manages. “We’re watching my funeral.”

-

“This is so odd,” Scott whispers, for what’s probably the seventh time.

“It’s not fair, is what it is,” Jimmy tells him. “Did I have a funeral?”

“Yes, of course,” Scott says absently, too focused on the priest’s readings in Old Elvish to even look at Jimmy. ‘It was a lovely service.”

“I wish I'd been there,” Jimmy grumbles. “Who spoke?”

“Joel gave the sermon, but . . . several people spoke. Er, Lizzie cried during her speech.”

“Wow. Was it sad—I mean, she cried, right—but like, sad, or a good sad?”

“Why are they doing this in Old Elvish?” Scott wonders aloud. “Usually, the priest wants people to understand the blessings. My funeral ought to be entirely in Common.”

As a testament to the lack of understanding, the mourners down below are beginning to look a bit bored. Lizzie is paying rapt (if somewhat vacant) attention, and Gem seems to have some sort of idea of what’s happening (as she’s taking notes), but Joel is fidgeting with the buttons on his purple coat, and Sausage is pelting little pieces of paper at fWhip’s back.

Even the native elves seem confused, disinterested. Some are frowning, focusing hard to understand (and those must be scholars, librarians, and priests, those who have studied the language for a considerable amount of time), but most are simply gazing forward with no sign on their faces that they are even listening.

His people. . . .

His people look unwell.

Their skin appears somewhat wax, though perhaps that’s just the low lighting and the black clothing—even so, many familiar faces are certainly thinner than Scott remembers, and their eyes are dull and redrimmed and scared, and Scott can’t stand to see them so.

But how on earth is he going to make this any better? How will he do anything but fail?

There’s a quiet noise from below, almost a snort, and Scott looks away from the elves to see Joey, head slumped back and eyes shut, mouth half-open in sleep.

“I wasn’t gonna say it, but this is kind of boring,” murmurs Jimmy. “My funeral wasn’t, right?”

“Jimmy, I honestly don’t remember much of what happened at your funeral right now.”

“I wish I could’ve seen it. Then I would be able to compare.”

The priest finishes up cyr sermon with a statement that Scott recognizes despite the language barrier, one that’s spoken at every kingly event he attends—“Blessed by Aeor may our king be.” Then ce sits, and after a moment, Joel gets up and stands behind the altar.

He takes a moment to look out over the massive congregation, the scribes waiting to write down every word he says, the fellow emperors before him.

Scott sees Joel’s shoulders raise in a deep breath, then he speaks.

“When I was asked to do this bit, I was . . . kind of intimidated,” Joel says, straightening his sash. “Jimmy’s was different—there weren’t very many traditions I had to know about, but it seemed like every day I’d get a message from Rivendell informing me of whatever other thing I would have to keep in mind. I’m honestly just glad that there isn't a body—I never quite figured out which shoulder I was supposed to pour oil on.”

A couple of chuckles, mostly from royals of other empires. Some of the elves shift uncomfortably; Scott can just barely see Ilphas from this angle, but he can practically hear the elf’s disappointed sigh at Joel’s flippancy with sacred customs.

“We do the whole mourning thing a bit differently in Mezelea,” Joel says. “I know when Jimmy died, Scott had his year-long bit, and Lizzie had forty days. Mezelea has three days—and only that much if you’re close to the person who passed.

“I took those three days. I may not have known Scott too terribly well, but we were friends, I guess. We were friends, and I know what he’d want me to do.”

Joel looks out over the crowd again, massive as it is, head turning left and right.

“I’m not going to say what Lizzie did at Jimmy’s memorial,” says Joel, voice hard. “But know that I mean it. And the emotions that Lizzie incited in your souls then ought to be roaring right now. Can you feel that? Can you—”

CRACK.

A red tentacle bursts through the floor, and before anyone can do anything, before anyone can draw breath to scream or even acknowledge its existence, it smacks into Joel with enough force to send him flying into the wall to his right, where he slumps and lays limp.

“No—!” Lizzie cries out, standing, but she doesn’t rush forward as with a flash of darkness—all the candles and torches go out, flickering back as red, darkness seems to sweep the room like the death outside, and Scott swallows against the ill, sticky feeling in the back of his throat—the demon himself appears, standing before the altar.

His life as the usurping ruler of Rivendell must be treating him well. Gone are the torn robes, the grimy grey armor—he wears clean armor, matte black in the near-darkness, his robes below grey, a black cape fixed around his shoulders.

His hair is still unbrushed, long and scraggly, and the crown—or, perhaps, a physical pair of antlers—is still on his head, red glistening from the tips. Scott can’t see his face, but he’s dreamed it so many times that he doesn’t need to.

He can picture the way those horrible, bulging maroon eyes rove amongst the crowd, the too-sharp too-big smile with too many teeth as he surveys his prisoners, his prey.

Scott shudders.

He’s been (almost) killed by Xornoth once already.

Can he stand a second time? Can he walk calmly toward that horrifying visage, give him the deranged joy of his brother going to him as sacrifice, a futile attempt to save his people?

The new lighting bathes the chapel in an eerie glow and mist rolls out from Xornoth, obscuring Scott’s vision even further. Gasps and screams from the sudden appearance go silent as everyone waits, dreadfully, for the demon to speak.

Xornoth takes a long, deep breath, an inhale through his nose as he tilts his head back, taking in all the mourners in black.

“There is such power here,” he says eventually, distorted voice bouncing around the high ceiling. Jimmy squeezes Scott’s hand, silent and radiating terror.

Has Jimmy ever seen the demon? A nasty sight for the first time.

Or does he just sense the end, as awful and impending as it is for Scott?

“Such power. Godly power. And many don’t even know it,” Xornoth says, each word deliberate and dripping. “Who knew that the gods still dwell on earth?”

He stares out at—at someone, but Scott can’t tell who.

What? Gods?

There’s Aeor, of course, but Aeor isn’t physically present. Nor is Exor, despite both gods’ champions being here.

Scott knows that other gods exist, but most others aren’t terribly bothered with the elves. Different cultures have different deities, and of those of the Thirty-Three, only the two brothers had ever been documented in contact with the elves.

“And I will soon be more powerful than them. But first . . . a little victory, a personal achievement for me. Elf?”

Xornoth looks behind himself, and Ilphas, slowly, rises.

“Declare me king with my brother’s crown.”

Oh, now that is going too far.

Scott can feel his blood positively boiling. Of course, Xornoth has to have this. Not only is that his crown, it’s also entirely against every burial tradition and even ancient law! It’s nothing but a way to gloat, a move of blatant disrespect and total power.

Nobody will stand against him, though. Nobody can. All they would be met with is death.

And yet, as Ilphas carefully picks up the crown, held in their right hand, they tuck their left hand into their robe.

Scott sees it before anyone else, he thinks. Xornoth takes a knee at the altar, head bowed, setting his dripping and blackened crown of Exor (so it is a crown, not antlers—though—are those bleeding holes in the top of his brother’s head?) on the white burial sheet. The demon doesn’t see a thing. Not the way that Ilphas draws near, nor the way they hold the crown far from Xornoth’s head. Not the flash of silver that Ilphas pulls from their robe and drives into Xornoth's back—

In a fluid move that sends his dark cape swirling around him, Xornoth rises and spins on his heel and grabs Ilphas by the throat, just as he had Scott so long ago.

The hundreds of people in the chapel cry out in a cacophony of sound—Scott can’t see them, Xornoth stands and lifts Ilphas, Ilphas’s shaking hands drop both the crown and the dagger as they futilely push against Xornoth—

The elf chokes, Xornoth’s grip so tight that Scott just knows his windpipe is being crushed—

Xornoth throws Ilphas to the ground with a solid thud and raises his right hand, turned out so the audience sees all that happens. They all fall silent, waiting, dreading.

A red mist—or a flame, maybe, some kind of magic that glows and burns Scott’s eyes like smoke—begins to form in Xornoth’s hand, swirling and intensifying.

“Let this,” he growls, “be the first example of the punishment that awaits insolence.”

He closes his hand, curling the magic into his fist, and points it down at Ilphas—Ilphas stirs slightly, but not enough to move, to dodge the blast about to come, and Scott isn’t going to let another person die while he stands by and watches—

He doesn’t think. Scott throws himself down from the rafter, falling, air rushing through his ears and the ground speeding closer as his aching wings flare out at the last second to catch him, landing one knee on the ground, one hand out to steady himself (ice spreads out across the floor in a crackling radius from his fist), in front of Xornoth.

Silence.

And then the chapel bursts into noise.

Scott straightens up, dusts off his hands, even as Xornoth stumbles back, face slack with shock, the magic vanishing from his hand.

He may be about to die, but Scott feels that he ought to be acknowledged in history books for that entrance.

He’s about to say something cool, like “miss me?” or “I’d like my crown back, thank you” when there’s a whoosh of air right beside him—

Followed by a thud and a loud crack!—

As Jimmy lands in a heap beside him, one leg bent in a way that it surely shouldn’t be capable of.

Scott stares. Xornoth stares. Ilphas stares.

Jimmy raises his head, grabs onto Scott’s rough tunic and drags himself up, hands clinging to him, careful not to put weight on his leg.

“Did you just break your leg?” Scott hisses.

Jimmy nods, face scrunched up in pain.

“Why?”

“It’ll heal,” Jimmy gasps. “Just—just give me a second.”

“Jimmy?” a familiar voice cries, and Scott glances out to see Lizzie, vaulting over the pew between her and the front of the room. “I—what—?”

“What the f—” Sausage’s quite reasonable question is cut off by fWhip’s exclamation of “How are you both alive?”

Lizzie doesn’t get close at all before Xornoth points at her; another horrid tentacle bursts through the ground in an explosion of stone and wraps around her legs, tearing her dress. It swings her through the air over their heads and slams her into a marble pillar near the back of the chapel, which cracks and crumbles onto her motionless body.

The church goes silent again, every person who just moments ago had been rushing to get out of their seat and to the door now frozen in place.

“So,” Xornoth sneers, squaring his shoulders. “Back from the dead? And your little fish boy, too. Was losing once not enough?”

Kind of his thoughts exactly, really. Glad they're on the same page.

What on earth does Aeor expect him to do?

Why is he back?

He has to say something. He has to look like he has some sort of plan, because literally every second of this mission has been last-second decisions with nothing concrete to follow and he hates that, he can’t give Xornoth a reason to gloat atop everything else.

But Scott doesn’t even have the chance to come up with a witty comeback before literally everything explodes.

There’s a ringing sound.

A piercing ringing, drowning out every sound that might be expected, and when Scott goes down, it’s almost . . . slow.

Slow . . . slow, as if by some consideration, the air has decided to thicken to the point of near-water, taking Scott down . . . down. . . .

Scott’s sent flying forward, something hard crashing into his back, holding to Jimmy for dear life as he probably shouts but can’t hear anything but the ringing. They both crash to the floor, Scott beside Jimmy, his eyes squinted shut, one arm pulled up to cover his head.

A hand grasps the back of his coat, pulling him back, dragging him away from Jimmy; an acrid smell washes over Scott and he knows who has him even if he can’t open his eyes for all the dust and grime in his vision—

And then something else knocks Xornoth aside, and Scott stumbles to the side and rubs at his eyes enough that he can squint and see that the entire left wall of the church has been blown off entirely, right behind where he had just been standing.

Rivendell outside, not long ago looking more muted than anything, is bathed in the same red dimness as the chapel. The clouds overhead are dark, darker than a normal raincloud, the ground absolutely writhing with dozens of those massive red tentacles.

His Rivendell, his beautiful Rivendell. . . .

Xornoth is on the ground in the settling dust and splinters of the destroyed marble and spruce wood of the walls, wrestling with—with Katherine, of all people. Jimmy’s still on the ground, covered in scrapes and dust but sitting up, pouring from his waterskin onto his leg, and there are other guests everywhere, panicking and pushing—and the ringing fades, just slightly, then more and more and they’re shouting and screaming and trying to make their way out.

Scott ignores them and stumbles outside through the very large new door, tripping over chunks of marble. The air inside the church is thick with dust, and if he can get out of there maybe he’ll be able to properly see what’s going on.

Once he steps outside, however, something in the air shimmers. Then wobbles.

Then, out of literal thin air, the Grimlands army begins to emerge (clearly identifiable by their strange boxy uniforms and leather helmets), marching through the gardens between the palace grounds and the rest of the kingdom and inexorably toward the church and the masses there.

“No way,” Scott tries to say around the dust choking his throat, the words escaping as more of a cough.

He turns back around, ready to warn everyone to flee—

The guests, just moments ago a mass of chaos, are slowly forming rows behind him, each with a weapon drawn—lots of daggers, of course, but some short swords, some spears, some maces.

Where—what?

How? Why?

The mourners—all these people here to mourn Scott, not just those that were permitted into the chapel, but the hundreds outside as well—have somehow become a small army.

And Joel comes limping through the center of the crowd (they shuffle aside, clearly looking to him for guidance), covered in the dust of the rubble, a bit of blood trickling down his temple.

“Glad to see everyone’s here and ready to fight,” Joel shouts, heading up toward Scott. “We’ll be joined by more as soon as they notice.”

He turns, claps Scott on the shoulder, then points to the approaching Grimlands soldiers. “Fight!”

Their little band, so far no larger than the force of rebels that Jimmy had been leading across the prairie (so many less than the Grimlands, surely), breaks forward at a run, some yelling, some brandishing their weapons. In the middle of it, Scott and Joel stand (and Scott instinctively takes a couple of steps back, fully aware that he has zero control over his curse right now).

Joel looks exhausted—Scott had seen how hard Xornoth threw him into the wall, so he’s honestly surprised that the man is even walking. And not only walking, but apparently leading an army?

“I don't know how you’re alive,” Joel says, grinning, “but it’s good to have you, for however long it’ll be.”

Scott’s imagined this moment several times in the past weeks—reuniting with friends who thought him dead would be inconceivably emotional, perhaps even distressing (as it was with him and Jimmy). But instead of all the planned phrases he came up with for Joel, all he can manage is,

“Why does everyone have weapons?”

Joel chuckles. “We got them to everyone who needed one before the service.”

“You handed out daggers as party favors for my funeral?”

“We’re trying to take back Rivendell, we had to do something! We didn't really expect you and Xornoth to show up, honestly. Can you still do that ice thing?”

“I can’t control it without Jimmy,” says Scott, and as if to punctuate his statement, several icicles shoot up from the earth.

If Joel is confused by his mention of Jimmy, he doesn’t show it. “You don’t need to control it, you just need to not hit our people.”

Joel runs off before Scott can say that part of having a lack of control means that he can’t exactly avoid hitting their people.

There’s people running, yelling, fighting. Xornoth and Jimmy (and so many others) are somewhere in the rubble of the half-destroyed church behind him. Red tentacles are bursting out of the ground all around, lifting up their ragtag bunch of fighters. fWhip’s army is approaching, growing larger and closer by the minute.

And Scott’s here in the midst of it.

He flexes his fingers and runs, ice spreading from every pounding footstep.

-

Jimmy watches, biting his lip, as his leg mends, the bone tingling and straightening. The pain dissipates bit-by-bit, and though it isn’t fully done, Jimmy stands, shaking it out.

Joel’s on the ground, by the wall that collapsed, and Jimmy stumbles over to him. Miraculously, none of the wall fell onto him, but he’s still unconscious, blood dripping down his cheek.

Jimmy pours some water from the skin on his belt onto his fingers, lightly touches his head. Joel stirs, starts to sit up, starts to rub his eyes, as if he had never been more than stunned.

As much as Jimmy longs to stop and hug him, or talk to him, he moves on, over to the altar, beside which Katherine lies in a heap, alone on the floor, blood seeping out under her.

Where’d the demon go? Not his problem. He needs to help these people, then probably—Lizzie? Find her among the rubble? Go after Scott?

Jimmy kneels and places both hands on Katherine’s shoulders, holds her for a moment, letting the tingling feeling leave his fingers and enter her.

After a moment, Katherine moves a little, mumbles something, and Jimmy heads to the next person, just beyond Katherine.

Scott’s advisor, Ilphas, is sitting against the back wall of the chapel, massaging their throat. They look at Jimmy with something like wonder in their eyes as Jimmy kneels down before them and places a gentle hand on their throat.

Ilphas flinches back at the touch, but the appearing bruise recedes under Jimmy’s fingers, and when he draws back, they prod at their throat, apparently amazed.

“You . . . you are a god,” breathes Ilphas.

“Cod, actually,” Jimmy corrects, then heads to the other side of the room, toward a woman cradling her arm.

“Jimmy!”

Jimmy whirls to the side as someone grabs his elbow—Pix, smiling, eyes shining. He’s covered in dust, like everyone else, but he seems almost . . . happy.

“It’s time,” Pix says. He nods once, pats Jimmy’s shoulder.

“Sorry, time for what?”

“The sword.”

Right. Right! Pix had given him the sword, ancient and covered in runes, with the strict instructions to give it up when the time came. Jimmy’s been waiting, assuming that he would instinctively know the time, but apparently it’s . . . now.

He reaches over his shoulder, grasps the hilt, but Pix shakes his head.

“Not to me,” he says. “Scott. Give Scott the sword. Hurry.”

Oh. He can do that.

Which way did Scott go?

-

Lizzie is dying.

She knows she’s dying, because her vision keeps going grainy around the edges, and she can’t feel her legs, and a huge chunk of marble has pierced her stomach, blood seeping out all around it.

There’s something that she has to do, then.

She promised herself over a month ago that if she was ever dying, she would do it.

So Lizzie reaches with numb, trembling fingers into her satchel, past the cold hilt of a dagger and landing on the squishy-yet-solid mass that had been left in the pouch with the mysterious book.

-

Scott pushes a piece of hair behind his ear, rolls up his sleeves for the third time. He’s just narrowly dodged away from a soldier viciously slashing about with his sword, hidden briefly behind a tree that he had once read a history book under.

He’s in the midst of the battle, and he really doesn’t have any sort of control over all of the snow and ice, and he hadn’t carried any other weapon, so he's been trying to avoid just about everyone—

“Scott!”

He whips around—

Gem.

He’d seen her face back then, stone-like and motionless, her hair white, her body slumped in a way that clearly communicated she wouldn’t be getting up again any time soon.

He was certain he’d killed her when she wouldn’t respond to fWhip’s shaking.

But now, she’s alive. She’s alive and moving and breathing—and she’s hurrying toward him across the battlefield that used to be a very lovely park, her bag outstretched.

“You’re going to get him now, aren’t you?” she asks breathlessly, shoving her bag into Scott’s chest. It ices over as he accepts it.

“The crystal’s in there, and one of the boots—we couldn’t find the other,” she tells him with a grimace. “We’re really doing it this time, right?”

Scott just stares at her, his arms burning where her fingers had brushed them.

She’s okay.

He’s spent so many nights remembering that final moment, when the ice exploded out of him and she collapsed, when he barely had a moment to mourn before he was gone, too.

She’s here now, and there’s a bruise on her temple and her red hair is coming out its braid, and her face is smudged with dust, and she’s grinning and so very alive.

It feels good to know that he didn’t kill one of his friends.

Scott opens the bag, and sure enough, the crystal is sparkling within, a familiar, hated boot squished in next to it.

“Well?”

Scott looks back up at Gem, at the hope shining in her eyes, at the smile that he never thought he’d see again.

Does he tell her that he’s dying?

That she’ll have to go through it again in a matter of hours, at most?

Does he prepare her in some small way, or give her a couple of moments of freedom from the grief?

Scott doesn’t have time to make a decision, however, because something to the left crashes.

They both turn, toward the church, not too far away but far enough—

It happens as if in slow motion, crashing through the rubble and still-standing bricks, straightening to full height as stone cascades off it and any people nearby flee.

There’s a monster bursting through the remains of the collapsed wall.

A monster.

Hasn’t enough happened?

The monster is blue, and scaly, and twelve feet tall at least, with long pink hair that tangles down its shoulders and covers its face. It stumbles out of the church, stretches a little, and immediately grabs a Mythland soldier with both claws and chucks him as far as it can.

“What in the world—?” Gem gasps, running toward the monster.

As fun as it sounds to run directly toward the killer lizard thing, Scott decides to turn the other way, looping Gem’s bag over his other shoulder so it doesn't bang against his satchel. The monster, luckily, keeps heading down the path, towards the city itself and not toward his palace, which overlooks the entire city from its place beyond the church.

Scott heads that way, scaling the ivy trellises on the low wall between the gardens and his palace grounds, where already the battle has spread. There’s soldiers and Rivendellian rebels fighting right and left, and horrible black-and-red flags (hung in the place of Scott’s typical blue and gold) have been torn down and trampled, like rags under the feet of the battle.

Scott dodges through the fight—he isn’t sure where he’s trying to get to, just somewhere away, somewhere he can maybe pray for the strength to face his death with dignity—

There’s a storm coming. A snowstorm, judging by the dropping temperature and the little flurries that fall before Scott’s eyes. The land round about is growing even darker, the clouds above looming more and more threateningly.

Scott shoves past a falling soldier, stumbles over an uneven chunk of frozen ground, straightens and continues—

A flash of lightning, followed by a rumble of thunder—

He’s there.

Oh, no.

Xornoth is right there, up ahead maybe . . . maybe forty meters, waiting.

Staring at Scott.

His eyes are maroon pits of nothing, his skin grey and distorted. His blackened lips are stretched into a smile, his long, matted hair falling down around his shoulders. Again on his head is that horrid, dripping crown of antlers, in such opposition to the golden antlers in Scott’s satchel.

He is doom, he is death, and Scott can taste it on the frosty air.

This is the end.

Scott retrieves Aeor’s crown from the Codmade satchel at his side, sets it carefully on his head. Lightning flashes again—Xornoth is closer, red mist rolling out around his feet, spreading across the grounds.

The fighting gradually comes to a standstill—some unspoken beckon brings all eyes toward them, shifting in their formations until there's a good crowd of onlookers surrounding them, watching. Waiting.

Scott doesn’t have a weapon. With Jimmy’s hand in his, he hasn’t needed one—he’s been one.

But Jimmy isn’t here.

And Scott is going to die.

At least Jimmy won't have to see it.

He squares his shoulders, fumbles in Gem’s bag for a moment, extracting the crystal, cool and heavy in the palm of his hand. He lets her satchel fall, ignoring the boot within.

Xornoth actually laughs, the sound barely carrying to Scott over the growing wind.

“You’re going to try that again?” he calls, slowly striding toward Scott, each step deliberate, more mist clouding out with every thud of his clunky boots against the ground. “It failed, brother. Why would it work now?”

Exactly Scott’s question. But he doesn't really have a choice, at this point. It’s not like he can run from the demon.

The wind whistles in Scott’s ears, almost like the ringing of the earlier explosion.

This is it.

Xornoth draws his sword with a shiiing—black, and, like his crown, dripping. He didn’t have a sword before, back on the windswept plateau, did he?

Scott swallows back the cold fear in his throat at being run through with that sword, darkness spilling into his insides, but he puts up one hand, ready to send a burst of ice or something—

People are screaming, yelling over the wind—

There isn’t any ice—

Scott’s hair is whipped into his eyes by the wind and he can’t see much but he sees Xornoth come forward, sword ready to strike—

He can’t move, his feet are literally frozen to the ground—

He squints his eyes shut, dear Aeor please—

Something warm collides with Scott, holding him in a suddenly-warm (warm, home, his Jimmy) hug and he hears a sound kind of like a squnch followed by a gasp in his ear.

The wind dies—not calm, not dwindling, but sharply, leaving silence and the sound of Scott’s heaving breaths and thudding heart.

He opens his eyes to golden, too-long hair, and he feels just barely like he has a tenuous hold on his curse.

He feels warm.

Scott leans back just the slightest bit. Jimmy’s right here, and maybe it’s selfish, but he just wants to see his beloved once more before he dies.

Jimmy’s pale lips tremble as he gives Scott a small smile.

Blood drips from the corner of his mouth.

Jimmy is holding him, and Scott looks past his shoulder to Xornoth right there, holding. . . .

The sword in Xornoth’s hands is buried in Jimmy’s back, and Scott looks down—the point of it is sticking out of Jimmy’s gut, shining with blood. His tunic is rapidly becoming soaked with blood, and Scott realizes that Jimmy is less hugging him and more collapsing onto him.

He’s going to throw up.

He’s going to sob.

Jimmy is dying right in front of him, and Scott can do nothing but hold him.

Xornoth catches Scott’s eye, smirks, and twists the sword.

Jimmy grunts, eyes fluttering closed.

Horror wells up in Scott—horror and anger, cold and terrible, and the snow begins to fall properly as lightning flashes against the dark clouds.

His betrothed is dying in his arms—Jimmy threw himself in the way of the sword to save Scott and now he’s dying, he’s dying again, Jimmy is dying in his arms—

“Scott,” Jimmy breathes, trembling against him. “Scott . . . the sword. . . .”

“I know,” Scott says, frantic, not sure where to put his hands or what to do because everything sounds like it’s coming from underwater and he feels sick, he doesn’t know how to help, “it’s okay, I’ll get the sword out, you’ll be okay—”

“No,” Jimmy interrupts, the sharp nails of his left hand digging weakly into Scott’s shoulder. “Take the . . . the Rune Sword, Scott. . . . It’s time. . . .”

Scott’s eyes catch on the hilt of that sword that Jimmy always wears on his back, that he doesn’t unbuckle even to sleep, the one with the sparkling runes carved into the leather grip.

Xornoth notices it, too. His face goes slack with shock—and maybe a little fear—

In one fluid motion, Scott reaches around Jimmy and withdraws the sword from its sheath with a rring!

The effect is immediate.

Deep inside, the broken parts slide together perfectly with a satisfying click. A tingling spreads down Scott’s limbs, the ice around his ankles melting instantly.

His chest feels like it’s going to burst with something close to elation. Everything feels so—so right, so whole.

He feels like he can take in a full breath without fear that his soul will crack apart.

He feels like there’s a little warmth in his bones—not that the frost is melting, but that it’s a proper part of him.

He’d described it, once, as a door. A door that he had to push against with all his might to keep it shut, and he only had the strength to do so when with Jimmy.

That wasn’t quite right.

It isn’t a door. It’s a piece to a puzzle that has finally been recovered, set in place in the center of his chest.

He feels like everything is right.

He feels powerful.

Snow whirls around him, and he raises the rune sword.

Xornoth tugs his own sword out of Jimmy (who slides to the ground and lays there, crumpled) and raises it, more in a fighting stance than an execution this time.

Scott moves more on instinct than anything else—and not his own. The instinct of someone from long ago, someone who once wielded this very blade against Exor’s Champion.

He parries Conal’s—Xornoth’s attack, swinging the sword like he was born for it. He was trained with a sword, wasn’t he? Long ago—years—centuries—

He steps into Xornoth's space, keeps walking him back—Xornoth is definitely concerned, now, and it’s as if power is literally radiating down his entire body from the crown of antlers. This feels right, this is perfect, his every vein and nerve are singing in perfect harmony—

Alinar attacks relentlessly, frost curling down the sword, illuminating sparkling runes on the blade. The ground beneath them has become ice, and the demon slips with every shuffling step back and he was made for this. He swings and blocks and steps like it’s all a great dance choreographed by the gods, perfectly in time with his God on High, and the music within him swells as he spins Conal around, steps too close to him, and pushes him to the ground, kicking out his knee.

“Please,” Conal-Exor-Xornoth gasps from the ground, his sword fallen to the side, “please . . . Aeor, have mercy. . . .”

“This is mercy,” Alinar-Aeor-Scott says, and he drops the crystal onto the demon’s shoulder before plunging the sword through it, dropping to his own knees to drive it as far as possible.

The crystal ripples as the sword passes through like water, and straight into the demon’s shoulder—

Scott screams, it burns, his arm—

Conal screeches as well, writhes on the ground where the sword has him pinned, red mist is bursting out of him and slowly being absorbed by the crystal and it hurts, it’s as if a sword has cleaved through his own shoulder but Alinar holds on, he has to save his people—

And then it’s over.

The crystal lands on empty, frozen ground, now purely red.

The demon is gone.

It hurts too much to keep going.

Scott had fallen to his knees to push the sword into Xornoth, and now he falls the rest of the way.

He slumps to the ground, sword under him, and knows no more.

-

It nudges at his cheek, hairy and soft, and Scott’s eyelids flutter as his vision blurs and clears, barely focusing on the stag’s noble muzzle.

Scott lets out a breath, short and shallow. His whole body aches, from the tip of his forehead down to his toes, and he cannot even find the strength to raise his head, see his injuries.

For a moment, it seems that blood streams down from between the stag’s antlers, as it so often has.

He’s lying on the forest floor, spongy mud and soft grass under him.

It gives him a moment of vertigo—usually he looks down on the ground, no?

Then the stag speaks, its white eyes fixed on him. It doesn’t move its mouth, just stares at him as Scott hears its words echo through his head.

“Ni’iun ñe ndie Ndíoxī xi’iun, se’eii. A va’a?”

Scott’s mouth whispers the response.

“Va’a vá.”

The stag huffs, nudges again at his cheek.

“Kunda’avi iniyuu yo’o, se’eii. Kundi yu’u nu takundi’i ña’a, ra kuvi kī’viun ñe ndiviyuu xi’i kūsūnku.”

His eyes roll, just slightly, as the stag blurs in his vision.

“Va’á và,” his lips breathe. “Tixa’viniu.”

“Kūsūn, se’eii.”

-

Scott’s eyelids are almost too heavy to open.

His body aches, somewhere not quite beyond the realm of consciousness. It feels. . . .

He isn’t awake. Not really. Just drifting toward wakefulness, the pain more present with every passing moment.

There are strange, oddly-shaped words on the tip of his tongue.

The way his body is laid is beginning to be uncomfortable. He shifts a little to see if it’s a better position, and it is for a moment before becoming exponentially worse, so he shifts back to how he’d been.

Where is he?

(A forest floor?)

His first thought is Jimmy’s little tent out in the woods, but whatever he’s lying on is far more comfortable than Jimmy’s worn bedroll. And his second thought is the Rivendell infirmary, but he banishes that thought from his mind as soon as it appears. There’s no way that would be possible.

Maybe it’s just a really soft patch of ground?

Scott forces his eyes open, blinks a couple of times to adjust. It’s very . . . white, he supposes. Very clean.

Very familiar.

This . . .this is the Rivendell infirmary, isn’t it?

He tilts his head up as much as he can, looks around himself.

It’s rather dark. Only one lamp is burning on a bedside table across the room, all the curtains drawn.

And beside him, snoring in a chair, is Pix.

Of all people, Pix isn’t really the one that he expected to see here. He didn’t really expect to see anyone. Usually when he wakes up in the infirmary, he’s all alone.

Why is he in Rivendell?

It takes a moment of retracing his steps—traveling to the Ocean Kingdom, getting sidetracked, taking all night to fly to Rivendell, crashing his own funeral—to get mentally caught up.

He remembers being . . . more. More than himself. Those moments are odd in his memory, as if in slow-motion, and he doesn’t quite feel connected to them.

Did he . . . did he defeat Xornoth?

No.

Against all odds, did he do it?

Did Jimmy die?

“Pix,” Scott croaks, swallowing. His throat is so dry. “Pix.”

Pix starts, sits up properly. “What? What is it?”

He blinks several times, pushes his shaggy hair out of his face (his crown is nowhere in sight) and scans the room until his eyes fall on Scott.

“Oh,” Pix says, eyes widening with clear surprise. “You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

Scott’s really not sure how he’s feeling. He feels sleepy, for the most part. Sore. Like his limbs are weighed down. “I don’t know. Jimmy? Is . . . is Jimmy okay?”

Pix smiles, just the slightest bit, absolutely still surprised. “Of course. Yes, he’s doing all right. Still healing, I believe—it takes more than a day to recover from a mortal wound, after all. Now, how are you? How is your arm?”

Jimmy’s all right.

Jimmy survived.

They both survived and Xornoth—

“Xornoth—?”

“Defeated.”

“And everyone else?”

Pix chuckles. “Everyone is fine, Scott. Well, Lizzie’s a little . . . different. But there were surprisingly few casualties from the battle, and Rivendell has been reclaimed—I believe Joel tried to claim it for his own, actually, so you may need to be reinstated relatively soon—but you needn’t worry about anything while you recover.”

While he recovers?

Recovers from what?

Why is he in the infirmary? Scott doesn’t remember getting injured. The last part he remembers is—well. . . .

He was different, wasn’t he?

It hurts his head to think about. It’s odd to try and place himself in those final moments, a sword that both was and wasn’t his dancing in his hands, the absolute rightness of the union within him, the fear on his foil’s face.

“How is your arm?” Pix asks again, and Scott looks down at himself.

Lying atop the grey blanket that covers his body, his arms look normal. They don’t feel out of the ordinary. He flexes the fingers of his right hand, then—

Pain shoots down his left arm as he tries to move it, and Scott can’t quite bite back a groan. Now that he’s aware of it, his arm just aches—his shoulder seems to pulse with angry heat, and it’s suddenly all he can do to not just lie his head back on the pillow and cry.

Dear Aeor, it hurts.

He doesn’t remember injuring his shoulder. He doesn’t remember getting hurt at all, but with his battle with Xornoth being so . . . odd (he remembers not being himself, thinking thoughts that didn’t belong to him) so it could have happened, he supposes?

There’s no wrappings on his arm, though. He's still wearing that old tunic that used to belong to Jimmy, and the tan sleeve of his long-sleeved undershirt hasn’t been cut away or rolled up. Nothing seems out of the ordinary.

“What happened to my arm?” Scott asks, doing his best not to panic, when a fresh wave of pain has mostly passed and he can speak without gritting his teeth.

Pix’s eyes are sad, old, and he takes a moment for a deep sigh. “You’re so young, Scott. Alinar was over six hundred when he defeated Conal. You’re just over a hundred.”

A strange statement to make, but not untrue. Scott waits as Pix seems to collect himself, resists the urge to demand more answers. Pix will tell in his own time.

“The sword that belongs to you,” Pix says after a long moment, “is a sword that was crafted by the God of Death for Aeor himself. He used the sword to bind Exor to the Void in the End, and when Conal found Exor and brought part of him back to this world, Alinar wielded the sword to bind him to a crystal. As you did with Xornoth this morning.”

Silence.

What?

“This is all—much information,” Scott says, head spinning a bit—Aeor? The God of Death?—as he tries to figure out what exactly Pix is and isn’t saying. Why does Pix even know these things? “But what does that have to do with my arm?”

“That sword,” continues Pix, “is a binding sword. The runes that adorn it are the magic of the God of Death—it imprints itself on one’s very soul. It bound your magic to you, instead of letting it run wild. And it now has bound Xornoth to the crystal that Gem created.”

Pix sighs, scrubs at his bearded cheek. “The sword could have been more precise, of course. But when two persons already are bound to one another, what the sword does to one will affect the other. And you and your brother have been bound together since before your birth.”

“I—how? Because we’re twins? Or—”

“I don’t wish to worry you with prophecies and the like,” Pix interrupts (which, for the record, sounds like an excuse to Scott). “But know that many have spoken of you, surrounded by the living gods as you are. And since both you and Xornoth have pieces of Alinar and Conal, and Aeor and Exor . . . even without the prophecies, you have been bound.”

That doesn’t make sense. Bindings? Gods?

Does it?

What sort of prophecies is Pix talking about?

“We’re really just lucky Jimmy never accidentally stabbed himself,” Pix mutters. “That would have been bad for you.”

“Sorry?” Pix waves him off. “Oh, nothing. We can discuss it more at another time. Just know that you and Xornoth are bound, and the sword is also binding, and in using the sword to pin Xornoth to the crystal you’ve also pinned your own arm."

He’s what?

“Does my arm still work?” he asks, trying to move his fingers again. His index finger just barely twitches.

“Not well, certainly. And it will hurt for the rest of your days. As far as I’m aware, and not due to his lack of trying, Alinar never discovered a way to regain the use of his own arm without freeing the demon.”

Right.

Um, that’s. . . .

That’s fine. That is absolutely fine. So his arm will always hurt. For the rest of his life, he’s essentially going to be one-handed.

He can process that later.

He’s curious. Terribly, terribly curious. How on earth does Pix know all this? Why has he chosen to tell Scott now, after everything, instead of saving him some time and giving him the answers before any of this happened?

Those questions pale in comparison to his most important concern, of course.

“But Jimmy—”

“Is going to be fine,” Pix finishes, smiling again. “He’ll probably be in to see you in the morning. Now, would you be all right alone? I have some other business to attend to.”

-

It’s maybe two hours later that the infirmary door creaks open again and Scott hurriedly wipes his eyes with his one working arm. He’s a king, and kings don’t cry when something bad happens. And in all honesty, something good happened. Something very good happened. He’s selfish to think of himself in this time.

“Scott.”

Scott’s head shoots up at that achingly beloved voice. “Jimmy,” he whispers desperately.

Jimmy’s standing there, in the doorway to the infirmary.

He’s a little green around the gills, and his green tunic is torn and stained coppery around his stomach, and the shadows under his eyes are deep and waxy, but he’s alive. He’s alive and right there and they made it.

It only takes a moment of staring at each other before Jimmy hurries over to his side (his stride is stilted somewhat, one arm clutched around his stomach) and kisses him.

It’s quick, and not at all deep, and just once Scott wishes they could have a kiss that isn’t urgent and aggressive with the thrill of survival, but it’s Jimmy and it’s kissing, so he supposes he doesn’t mind it too much.

Jimmy only breaks the kiss to pull Scott into a hug, and he smells like river and earth and is very damp, but Scott just hugs him back with his one arm and tries not to cry into his shoulder.

Jimmy’s alive.

They’re both alive, and Xornoth is defeated, and they can finally just be happy.

They made it.

“I can't stay,” Jimmy says, voice muffled against Scott’s shoulder. “Lizzie and I are going to go reclaim the Codlands.”

Scott gives a wet little chuckle. “By yourselves?”

“Honestly, we probably could,” Jimmy laughs. “Have you seen Lizzie yet? She’s massive.”

“Sorry, what?”

Jimmy finally pulls away, eases himself into the chair that Pix had vacated with a bit of a grimace. “Yeah. Apparently she ate this weird, squishy ball thing that she found in an old book? And—”

“No,” Scott groans. She didn’t. “I literally told her—”

“—and it turned her into this huge blue sea monster. So she’s giving me a ride to the Codlands, and we’re going to kick Mythland out once and for all!”

Scott does recall seeing a monster break out of the church during the battle, before choosing to go a different direction. And that was Lizzie? “Is—is she going to turn back?” he asks incredulously.

Jimmy shrugs. “We’ll see. She and I . . . we have a lot to talk about. And Pix said something . . . odd.”

“Did he imply that you’re a figure of legend that had been prophecied about?” asks Scott drily.

Jimmy nods.

“Well, that makes two of us.”

Jimmy grins, looks down at the floor.

It’s quiet for a moment. A comfortable quiet, not strained or awkward or anything of the sort.

Scott takes a moment just to stare at him—at Jimmy’s straw-colored hair, the glimmering scales pushing through the scar tissue on his face, the sharp cut-off of one of his ears, the delicate spindles of the other.

In the low light of the moon’s glow, he’s gorgeous. He’s always gorgeous, of course, but something about the way the light cast from the window falls over his lover’s brow leaves Scott in awe.

Jimmy is beautiful.

Scott’s sorry there was ever a time he hadn’t noticed.

“I’m sorry,” Jimmy says eventually, just as Scott’s mind has turned back to pondering his arm.

“What?”

“For—for everything. For the whole—” Jimmy waves his arms. “You know.”

Slowly, Scott shakes his head.

“Lizzie told me—well, she said it was really hard. And I know it was, but I kind of figured that—well, I’m not that important. I didn’t think anyone would be very sad about my death after a week or so had gone by.”

Jimmy shifts, one hand on the back of his neck; something in Scott’s stomach squirms uncomfortably, something that he’s been resolutely pushing down since that hug that broke his curse.

“And Lizzie—Lizzie didn’t like that. She said that I don’t know what you all felt and went through, and I don't get to decide what you feel. She’s kind of mad at me, now. And I didn’t really understand why you were upset with me at the camp, but I think I’m starting to get it now. So, I’m sorry.”

It does still hurt. Scott can’t just forget crying himself to sleep almost every night. He can’t forget looking at himself in that black veil every morning, his eyes red and heart broken.

But Jimmy’s here.

“I’m not sure I really get it, either,” Scott confesses. He doesn’t, kind of. He had been so terrible with Jimmy, and for what? For being alive? “But . . . she’s right. I—I lost you, Jimmy. I thought I would never see you again. It . . . it was difficult to leave that grief, I think. It was difficult to have it all built up inside, then have the reason taken away. You’re left with all sorts of awful feelings and . . . and no reason to have them. Does that make sense?”

Jimmy doesn’t respond.

But after a moment, he reaches out and takes Scott’s good hand in his, thumb tracing over the back of Scott’s hand.

His stomach flips, just like every time.

“You don’t have to hold my hand everywhere anymore,” Scott says, more for a lack of anything to say than to try and push Jimmy away. “Something about the sword being magic and fixing it, I’m not really sure. But I can control it now.”

Jimmy frowns. “Wait a second—the sword?”

At Scott’s nod, he continues, “Does that mean that it was the sword all along? Because I, like, always had it with me?”

Wait.

Does that actually make some sort of sense?

Scott had thought it was the power of Jimmy’s love, overcoming even the most stubborn of curses, but maybe Jimmy was just a conductor of sorts for the sword, giving Scott a temporary binding whenever they touched.

Scott’s head hurts. They’ve won, yes (and how wonderful it is to think those words), but each of his current issues feel beyond comprehension. His whole body kind of aches with the need to sleep, the need to process everything that’s happened, the need to just take a break.

“What time is it?” he asks idly. Jimmy shrugs.

“Past midnight. I’ve been asleep for a while, so I’m not really sure.”

So has he.

Well, he’s spent enough time resting. He needs to get up, organize his country, help the injured, properly send fWhip’s army packing.

Jimmy tries to push him back down when he sits up, but Scott swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands, his left arm hanging limply (and hurting quite a lot) at his side.

That's going to take some getting used to.

Dear Aeor, he desperately wants to lie back down and rest until the end of time (or, at least, until Jimmy returns from the Codlands). He doesn’t give in to the longing, though, just squints his eyes shut for a very long time and eventually takes a step.

He really doesn’t want to sleep, anyways. Memories (bad, sharp, unforgiving) push from the sterilized scent of the infirmary, and now that he’s stood he just wants to leave.

He doesn’t want nightmares.

“A king never rests,” he says when Jimmy tries to convince him to lie down. “There’s a lot of work to do.”

“Let Pix and Katherine handle it, okay? Sleep—”

“But you’re going to be—”

“Lizzie and I will be fine, you can—”

“I don’t want to sleep without you,” Scott manages (which was absolutely not what he meant to say), and Jimmy goes a little pink in the cheeks.

“And I need to explain some things, and organize, and . . . there’s business that requires me. Just as there’s business that requires you.”

Jimmy shakes his head, gives him a gorgeous little smile. “Right. Just don’t overdo it, okay? I’ve got to go, but I love you.”

Jimmy leaves with another soft kiss—and Jimmy’s alive, Scott thought he’d gotten over the novelty of it weeks ago, but Jimmy’s alive and they’re back in Rivendell and they have their whole future ahead of them—

And then he leaves the palace as well, stepping outside to look over the kingdom, once again rightfully his.

Even in the dim light of the night, Scott can see the destruction. The very walls of the palace has been pulled down, rubble all over the grounds. The gardens are wartorn, the grass stained red with blood or demolished tentacles, and there are people here and there, cleaning or carrying away bodies. The full moon shines upon the destroyed church down the hill, illuminating its crumbled walls in a holy glow.

Scott limps down the stairs, down, down to the palace grounds—he picks through patches of destroyed grass, abandoned weapons and armor, exhausted people helping others. He walks down the lawn, down to that spot where the grass is so beaten down that it forms a clear circle where soldiers had paused to watch, all eyes turned toward where the final battle had taken place.

And in the grass near the center of the circle, he finds a cloudy red crystal, the size of his palm.

Scott picks it up, weighs it in his right hand.

Then he puts it in his pocket.

~

The language used to represent the language of the gods is Mixteco.

[translation:

“You have the power of god with you, my son. How do you feel?”

“Bad.”

“You are my beloved, child. Follow me in all things, and you will enter into my rest.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Rest, my child.”

End translation.]

[ilexdiapason]

Twenty years ago, an attack on the royal palace in Gilded Helianthia left its rulers dead and the country in turmoil. Little Princesa Perla was never seen again, feared to have been lost to the fire like her parents. Today, her former ward Lieutenant M.J. Sausage is the only person left who believes she must still be alive out there somewhere, posting a reward to the tune of fifty thousand gold for the one who can bring her home to him. Oli Sound is a conman and a crook - he's always looking for the next windfall to keep him fed and sheltered just a few weeks longer, and he doesn't care who he has to lie to to do it. Pearl Moon, orphan and cleaning lady, feels a similar desperation. When their paths cross in the ruins of the abandoned palace, together they hatch a plan that might just get them out of poverty for good. All Pearl has to do is convince the old guard, without believing it herself, that she's the lost princess he's looking for. It's gonna be a difficult journey, and a hell of a lie - but Oli reckons he'll take the bait for long enough that they can split the money and run. After all, she happens to look just like her!

In other words: my @mcytblraufest Summer 2023 project is complete!

Thank you so much to @baddishbeans for your help as beta reader, and look out for @adrawingghost and @yawningawning's art for the fic when those come out with the relevant chapters later in the week! I hope you guys enjoy :D

[azurecake16]

Its finaly here!

Nature wives statment fic, inspired by @sixteenth-days !

[sharpilu]

THE FIC

[aristetua]

[inaris-mage-of-storms]

(Content warning for swearing, blood, injury, and violence.)

Jimmy wasn't at the meeting.

Scott cast a worried glance around the gathered circle and up the road, hoping maybe he had just overlooked him, or that he was running late. Empty seats weren't unusual. The group meetings almost never had full attendance, especially these days. But Jimmy had never missed a single one since the very first time Pix had invited him, not without providing a solid reason in advance.

"Has anyone heard from the sheriff?" asked Scott. Head-shakes and dismissive shoulder shrugs were his only answer.

"Maybe he finally realized he doesn't belong here." There was a cruel smirk on Sausage's lips, and Scott shuddered at the feeling of wrong wrong he's all wrong something isn't right this isn't him that crawled up his back every time he looked at Sausage lately.

Shelby's laugh was harsh. A tendril of sculk curled against her hair like the tail of a velvet ribbon. "Maybe we'll have a peaceful, quiet afternoon for once."

"It is nice not having to listen to him screaming baseless accusations and getting mad at every little joke," said Lizzie. "I'm surprised he showed up as long as he did, to be honest."

"He's still one of us," snapped Scott. "Regardless of whatever disputes - "

"Is he, though?" asked Fwhip, curling his tail thoughtfully. "Does he really belong in a gathering of kings and princesses and gods?"

"Do you?" spoke up False in a quiet voice, and Scott shot her a grateful look. "Do half of us fit into this little consortium, if that's the criteria?"

"The criteria is power," said Fwhip. "Leadership. Someone who's been trusted to look after the people who gather around them. Jimmy doesn't have leadership qualities, he has an inferiority complex and a child's temper!"

"He has been a little out of control lately," said Gem.

"All right, that's enough," said Pix, stepping forward and holding up a hand. "Whether or not Jimmy belongs here is not on the agenda for today. Has anyone heard from him recently?" No one answered, and Pix sighed. "Very well. Joel, Joey, Oli, and Katherine have all sent their apologies in advance for being unable to be here today. Now, the first order of business is…"

Scott barely listened as the meeting progressed. It took all of his self-control to stay in his seat, between his concern for Jimmy and his urge to get away from the creepy magic that emanated from Sausage and Shelby. Armor now, escape plan later, he reminded himself every time he caught himself eyeing the exits for too long. Focus. Don't show your vulnerability. That was an especially important reminder right now, he thought, given the way Sausage looked directly at him every time he teetered on the edge of bolting.

When the meeting concluded Fwhip stepped toward Scott, clearly intent on speaking with him. Scott met his eyes, then very deliberately turned his back on him and strode away. He checked the straps on his wings before unfurling them, and after a brief glance to check for any wear or damages he headed straight for Tumble Town.

Scott hadn't been to the mesa for some time, and while he had heard rumors of the dwindling population, he was unprepared for the sight that greeted him. Tumble Town was eerily quiet, and as Scott glided down from the sky he realized why: it was empty. Not a single building showed any signs of life. No one peered out any windows or walked the streets. Houses and storefronts were shuttered, and crop fields were overrun with weeds.

He landed next to the sheriff's office and had one foot on the porch when the sound of shattering glass from the saloon broke the silence. He jumped and spun around as the sound repeated, and as he hurried over he could see Jimmy through one of the broken windows. The empty bottle that had sailed through it lay broken on the ground, and a wooden chair followed, knocking more glass out of the frame and splintering when it landed.

Scott pushed open the swinging doors just as Jimmy turned and scowled at the tall liquor cabinet against the wall. The sheriff studied his reflection in the glass door, chest heaving, and for a moment Scott thought maybe Jimmy had calmed down. He opened his mouth to speak, but before Jimmy's name could cross his lips, Jimmy screamed in rage and sent his fist through the face that stared back at him.

Whiskey and blood dripped onto the floor, and Jimmy let his hand fall to his side, staring dumbly at the overturned bottles inside the wrecked cabinet. Scott stood frozen in place, taken aback by the outburst.

"Jimmy?" he called out hesitantly, unsure of what he should do.

"Hm? Oh, hello, Scott." Jimmy's voice was far too calm and steady. It frightened him. "If you've come for business, I'm afraid we won't be able to conduct any today. All of our resources are a little, er, behind on production." He laughed, as if at some private joke. "Unless you're here for terracotta. Take it, however much you need, from wherever you want. Might as well."

Scott stepped a little closer, keeping his movements slow and easy to read. "I came to see if you were okay. You weren't at the meeting today." He spoke softly, as if he were trying to approach a wounded animal. He was, he supposed. Jimmy made no indication he was aware of the lacerations on his hand and arm, but it had to be stinging.

Jimmy turned to look at him, and Scott paused his approach as something dark flickered across the sheriff's face. "The meeting?" He tilted his head. "Oh. Right. I won't be attending those anymore."

"Why not?" He had a small first-aid kit tucked in his bag somewhere, he was sure. He moved a hand down slowly, feeling around for it. Jimmy paid him no mind, his eyes still on Scott's face but not really looking at him.

"Don't have a reason to." If Scott were to only go by Jimmy's voice, he wouldn't have thought anything was wrong. It didn't match the disheveled sight before him. "It's a gathering of regional leaders. The only thing I have left to lead is sand and tumbleweed."

"You're still one of us," said Scott. "You're still our friend."

Jimmy laughed.

He threw his head back and laughed as if Scott had told him the funniest joke he'd heard in his life. He laughed until he had tears in his eyes, and he wiped them away with his uninjured hand. Scott's eyes traveled over Jimmy's chest. His shirt hung open, a different injury on display. The gash across his chest was mostly healed, but the edges were still red and angry. Scott's own anger stirred at the sight, and part of him wished he'd confronted Gem about it at the meeting.

Jimmy's peals of laughter died down into chuckles. "What a sweet thing to say," he said when he calmed down. "And what a load of shit." He stepped forward, glass crunching under his boots. His smile was terse and venomous, and if it were anyone else approaching him like that Scott might have turned and fled. Jimmy came to a stop in front of him and leaned in. There were bags under his eyes and dirt smeared across his cheek. The hair under his hat was limp and oily. Scott wondered how long it had been since he'd slept.

"Why are you really here, Scott?" The calm, almost cheerful tone he'd been speaking in finally slipped into something bitter and full of grief. "I don't have anything left to take. All the jokes have already been made a hundred times over. What more could you possibly do?"

Scott could feel his heart crumbling at the pain that radiated off Jimmy in waves. He wanted to pull him close and bundle him away from the world and everything in it that had ever hurt him. He wanted to whisper reassurances in his ear that everything would be all right. He wanted to kneel before him and beg forgiveness for his own part in Jimmy's heartache. He wanted -

It took an explosion to shatter the tension between them. The building shuddered, and Scott stumbled into Jimmy as dust rained down on them from the rafters. A second explosion sounded, and Jimmy wrapped his arms around Scott instinctively, pulling him close and covering his head.

"Oh sheriff!" Fwhip's voice was far too cheerful as it rang out across Tumble Town. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

Jimmy snarled in anger and shoved Scott away from him, stomping out of the saloon. Scott followed on his heels. "Fwhip, what the fuck!" screamed Jimmy. "What is the meaning of this?!"

"There you are! Thought I'd have to do this one next to get your attention." Fwhip grinned down at them from the roof of the jail and waved a stick of dynamite at them. Lizzie sat next to him, her hand on top of one of the bundles of TNT that surrounded them. Smoke rose lazily from the remains of the bank.

Jimmy's eyes snapped from the dynamite in Fwhip's hand to the office door below, fear flickering across his features. "Norman's not in there," Scott murmured to him, and glanced behind him to confirm the glow he thought he'd seen a moment earlier. "He's in the bushes behind us."

Jimmy relaxed ever so slightly at the reassurance and glared up at Fwhip. "Well, you've got it," he spat. "What do you want?"

Fwhip hummed and tapped his chin. "You know, I didn't actually think that far ahead!" He threw the dynamite from one hand to the other before setting it aside and leaning forward to look at them better. "I assumed you'd be hiding somewhere with your tail tucked, and we'd level this place and go home."

"I'm just here for a little fun, myself," said Lizzie. "We have so much extra gunpowder lying around, and an unpopulated area is the perfect place to do a little product testing."

"It really is," agreed Fwhip. "Hi Scott! You're on the wrong side of the street, buddy. Come over here where it's safe."

"I'm exactly where I want to be," said Scott, peering up at them and using one hand to shield his eyes from the hot sun. "Why don't you go do your product testing elsewhere?"

Fwhip clicked his tongue. "I was afraid you might say that." He jumped down and sauntered over to them, and Scott stepped forward to put himself between Fwhip and Jimmy. Lizzie watched them closely, running her fingers over a flint and steel.

"I mean it when I say you're on the wrong side," continued Fwhip. "Something's coming, something big. You can feel it too, right?" He was still smiling, but Scott could see the fear and uncertainty in his eyes. "Whatever is coming for us, allies are going to be important. Friends are going to be important."

"I know," said Scott. "And we've been friends for a long time, haven't we?" Fwhip's smile softened at Scott's words, then vanished as Scott stepped away from him to stand firmly at Jimmy's side. "But I meant it too. I'm exactly where I want to be."

Fwhip laughed, dumbfounded. "You're a fool. I never took you for a fool before, Scott." He narrowed his eyes at Jimmy. "And all over this sorry excuse for a man. Amazing."

It was Jimmy's turn to step forward, placing himself in front of Scott even though he had no reason to believe Fwhip would ever hurt Scott. "Go home, Fwhip," he said tiredly. "I'm not a threat to you anymore. Just leave."

"Funny, saying you're not a threat when you've got a hand on your sword," said Fwhip, eyes moving to where Jimmy's hand clenched the hilt.

"I don't want to fight you," said Jimmy. "But I will, if that's what it takes to make you leave Tumble Town alone."

Fwhip laughed and moved back over to the jail, catching his mace as Lizzie tossed it down to him. "You wanna dance, little man?" he taunted, twirling the weapon with ease before gripping it firmly. "Let's go, then!"

Jimmy drew his sword and launched himself at Fwhip, but his movements were slower and clumsier than usual and the goblin sidestepped him easily. Jimmy cried out and dropped to his knees as the mace slammed into the back of his leg, and Scott winced at the blood and bruising visible through the fresh rips in Jimmy's jeans. Jimmy gritted his teeth and forced himself up, barely avoiding a blow to the shoulder, and whirled around to slash at Fwhip in return. His blade clashed against the head of the mace, sending a shower of sparks into the sand.

Scott caught a glimpse of movement near the ground. Norman slunk from bush to bush, and the glow that only Scott could see increased in intensity at the same time as some of the smaller wounds on Jimmy began closing up. But even with his deputy's help, Jimmy's strength was fading against the ferocity of his opponent, and new wounds were being inflicted faster than Norman could heal them.

"Norman!" yelled Scott in desperation. "Go get someone! Pix, maybe, I don't know!"

For a moment he thought Norman was going to ignore him, but when Jimmy moved out of his range again the cat let out a worried yowl before turning and darting away from the fight. Norman was fast, but Scott knew he wouldn't be back with anyone in time to stop the fight before it turned deadly. What he would need Pix's help for was the aftermath. Stopping the fight was up to him.

When Fwhip and Jimmy broke apart again, Scott drew his own sword and darted between them just in time to deflect Fwhip's swing to the side. He gritted his teeth, feeling the impact travel through the blade and up his arm. "That's enough!"

Fwhip's eyes widened and he took a step back, lowering his weapon. "Scott, what are you doing?" he cried out. "I could have hurt you!"

Scott pointed his sword directly at Fwhip. Behind him, Jimmy gasped for air. The smell of blood overwhelmed the smell of hot sand and gunpowder that permeated the town, and Scott resisted the urge to turn and tend to Jimmy's wounds right then and there. Fwhip stared at him from the other end of his blade.

Scott took a deep breath and fixed Fwhip with a steady gaze. "All alliances, treaties, trade deals, and other agreements between Chromia and Gobland are canceled effective immediately," he said sharply. "Likewise for Animalia."

"You're making a mistake, Scott," called Lizzie.

"You're not – you're not serious, are you?" said Fwhip. "Tell me you're joking." Scott didn't move, and Fwhip laughed in disbelief. "Scott, I'm your friend. Your oldest friend. Your first alliance."

"You are," said Scott softly. "And I've been grateful for your companionship, Fwhip. You've been a brother to me for many years."

"Then stop this nonsense," Fwhip pleaded, pinning his ears back. He let his mace drop to the ground and put his hands up in surrender. "Look, I'm done. I've made my point. Why don't you come to Gobland and we can talk about this?"

Scott looked at him sadly, but his mind was made up, and he continued his official declaration. "Sheriff Jimmy of Tumble Town is under my personal protection as the King of Chromia," he said. "From this moment on, any further hostilities against him, his citizens, or his territory will be taken as an act of war against Chromia."

"Don't," said Fwhip. "Please. Don't choose him over me."

Scott pressed the tip of his sword against Fwhip's throat. "Any hostility against Jimmy will be taken as an act of war against me," he repeated. "And Chromia will respond accordingly."

Fwhip's shoulders sagged, and Scott lowered his sword. "Has it really come to this?" asked Fwhip.

"It has," said Scott. "And I'm sorry it has. But you've made your choice, and I've made mine."

"So you have," said Fwhip quietly. "Goodbye, Scott."

Scott watched Fwhip and Lizzie depart, then sheathed his sword and turned to see Jimmy leaning heavily against the nearest fence, face pale and eyes unfocused. Scott sucked in a sharp breath at the injuries that littered his body. His first-aid kit would be useless. He was going to need proper supplies, and potions, and -

"You shouldn't have done that," said Jimmy unsteadily.

Scott furrowed his brow. "Of course I should have," he said. "I think he might have really killed you if I didn't step in." Oh gods. Fwhip might have actually killed him, he realized, a cold shiver running down his spine at the thought. All it would have taken was one missed parry, one inopportune blow to Jimmy's head or torso, and he could have been -

"Yeah. Might have." Jimmy shrugged, then winced at the movement. "Doesn't matter. I meant your alliance. You just burned two bridges for nothing."

"I didn't burn them for nothing," said Scott. "I burned them for you."

Jimmy managed a broken smile. "Yeah. Like I said. For nothing." He looked at the empty houses around them. "Don't you see? It's all gone. Everything is gone. All the people I swore to protect have either moved on or been buried under the damned clay." He kicked the toe of his boot against a swath of exposed terracotta. The movement threw him off balance, and he gripped the fence until his knuckles turned white. "I failed, Scott. I failed!" There were no tears in his eyes, but the haunted and hollow look he gave Scott was far worse. "I failed," he repeated dully. "I'm alone."

Scott stepped toward him and carefully, cautiously, cradled Jimmy's face in his hands. "You aren't alone," he said firmly, and swiped his thumb over a drop of blood on Jimmy's cheek. He meant to wipe it away, but it only smeared. "I'm right here, Jimmy. And I will die before I ever walk away from you again."

Jimmy stared at him with wide eyes, processing his words. "You know, I almost think you might mean that," he said slowly.

"I do," said Scott. "I've never meant anything more in my life. You are not alone."

"Oh," was all Jimmy managed to say. He pulled away from Scott's hold, lifting a hand to run it through his hair, then stopped and stared at the lacerations that had re-opened during the fight as if only just realizing he was injured at all. "Huh." He looked down at himself. "That's...quite a lot of blood, actually," he said weakly. "Scott, can you do me a favor?"

"Anything," said Scott.

Jimmy ran his fingers over his swollen arm and winced. "Can you feed Norman tonight? He gets rather upset if he has to fend for himself too many days in a row, and I have a feeling I'm going to be out of commission for a while."

Scott almost laughed at the absurdity of Norman's dinner being Jimmy's biggest concern at the moment. "Sure. I'll make sure he's taken care of."

Jimmy smiled. "Great. Appreciate it." His knees buckled and his eyes fluttered shut, and he crumpled forward into Scott's arms as he passed out.

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[ty-bayonet-betteridge]

here, you can have it.

more appreciation to rare/not that popular pairs!

and um.. i'd be happy if you write something tumble town inspired with western duo (scar and jim, can be scaridarity i dont mind) or marshmallow duo (jim and zed, can be zedlidarity), thank you 👉🏼👈🏼

(~400 words. western duo (scar and jimmy,) intended as pre-relationship but could be read as firmly platonic. guns fired but not at a living thing. western au.)

The sun glinted across the sandy streets of Tumble Town. The Sheriff stared at his mark, finger itching against the trigger of his revolver, adjusting the brim of his hat to block out the harsh glare. The desert winds kicked up the dust, a dry omen of death to come.

The Sheriff unloaded into his quarry, six shots that exploded through the air.

The dust cleared, and the Sheriff took in the sight of his quarry. The straw and paper target, a hundred paces down the way, was in... better shape than he hoped. Only four bullets had struck it, with two apparently going wide and striking the sand. One bullet only clipped the very edge of the target, two landed in the outermost ring, and one hit the intermediate ring. Not a single bullet came anywhere close to the bullseye.

"Oh, you've gotta be jokin'," the Sheriff said.

The Sheriff's companion - a man with dark brown hair, scars across his face, cactus-green eyes, and a hat that rivaled the Sheriff's own who'd rolled into town only a week or two ago - gave his signature wry grin. "I thought you were supposed to be good at shootin', Sheriff."

"Alright, look, Scars," the Sheriff said. "The sun was in my eyes, you got it?"

The man - Scars, Tumble Town called him, for he'd never offered another name - just took the flask away from his hip and swigged whatever liquor it was he kept inside, never letting that stupid smile leave his face.

"I'd like to see you do better, big man," the Sheriff challenged.

"Oh, sure." Scars returned the flash to his left hip and calmly pulled his own iron from the holster on the right. He popped the barrel out, hummed to himself as he inspected it, and easily loaded six shots into it.

He raised the revolver, gripped calmly in both hands. He stared down the barrel for a moment, then - just after exhaling - let all six shots fly in rapid succession.

Five struck the bullseye, nearly in the exact same spot. One struck just shy of it.

"Hm." Scars regarded the target. "Well, I could've done better, but I've also had a drink or two, so not bad all things considered, huh?"

The Sheriff just stood there, mouth agape.

Scars smiled as he holstered his revolver. "You know, Jim, if you want any tips, I'm happy to-"

"Oh, shut your mouth," the Sheriff snapped.