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thetomorrowshow · 11 months

Text

knowing what the cards were

hi besties enjoy (or scream at me)

cw: past major character death (and mourning thereof), violence, blood

There's a pond in Rivendell, down the face of the mountain a little ways, right in the thick of the pine trees that grow all the way down the side. It's far enough away from the main city (and any outlying buildings) that likely few have ever even seen the pond, a place too insignificant to be worthy of any sort of attention. Despite this, the pond and its surrounding trees have always been a beautiful, peaceful location. The pond has only ever had the clearest water, carried down through a small stream from the melting snow of the high peaks.

Now, in the dark of night, water skimmers skate along the surface; a couple of frogs sit on rocks at the edge. Otherwise, there's no sign of life. No fish, no creatures poking through the trees to find a drink here.

The pond is a small, unseen place of tranquility, particularly at this before-sunrise hour, when even the owls are sleeping in their nests. The night is still, the forest silent, and the pond a dark reflection of all the unheard and unseen.

And Scott, sneaking out of his bedroom window like a guilty teenager, goes to it.

He had discovered the pond in his youth, a quiet hideaway from his brother and his parents and all their politics. He hadn't gone there frequently, only when everything really became too much and he had to get out before he exploded.

The pond had always had a calming effect, apart from the real world, a tiny piece of grace and solitude.

He chooses it now as the place not for its seclusion, nor its beauty, but for its lack of living creatures.

He doesn't know what's going to happen when he uses the artifacts.

Again, Alinar had been frustratingly vague on how to use the artifacts. There'd been something about magic, and something else about learning how the artifacts interact with him, so Scott hopes that using them before facing Xornoth in battle will be all right. He doesn't really understand what it means when it talks about interacting with him, but a test run never hurt anyone.

He already sent Gem the instructions (recipe? Scott really doesn't know a lot about magical terms) for the crystal that they need to trap Xornoth. She and Katherine are going to be working together on that, as far as he knows. Lizzie and Joel are occupied with the war. Pix has been out of contact for weeks. Pearl is maintaining neutrality. Shelby hasn't responded lately.

So it's up to Scott to execute the rest of the plan, not sure who he can even turn to for support in this. After all, only the Champion of Aeor can unite and use the artifacts to trap Xornoth in the crystal.

Scott lands carefully on the mossy ground beside the pond, wings drawing up behind him. The moon has disappeared beyond the mountain, but the sun hasn't yet begun to rise. Perfect time for experimental magic.

Scott pulls his Cod-woven bag off his shoulder and sets it down on the moss, leaning it against a small boulder, then slips off his soft shoes and sets them neatly beside it.

He doesn't much care for the feeling of damp moss under his socked toes, but a glance at the grass to his left tells him that it would be infinitely worse (and far more wet) to stand there.

Should he even be wearing socks when he puts the boots on? Will that ruin the . . . magical connection, or something?

Scott strips off his socks and stuffs them in his shoes, just in case. Then he unlatches his bag and pulls out the boots, which he sets atop the small boulder.

They glow, he realizes, the runes casting a very dim blue light over the leather and stone beneath. Scott stares at the glow for a moment, surely only bright enough to discern due to the almost non-existent light cast by the stars above, then reaches into his bag again, where his fingers meet the chilled gold rods of the antlers.

He withdraws the crown as well, sets it on the boulder. It glows as well, just the slightest bit, the gold clear against the dark background.

That's got to mean something. Maybe all ancient, godly artifacts glow like that.

There's really nothing else to wait for. At any moment, a servant could come knocking on his bedroom door, summoning him for matters of war, only to find him missing.

He should pray. Right? He is trying to get Aeor's attention, after all.

Haltingly, Scott kneels in the grass, grimacing when he feels the knees of his black trousers instantly become soaked. He's not really any good at praying, but he can give it a shot.

"Um," Scott says awkwardly. What is it the priests always say? "O Aeor, God of us all and of those below, God of the mountains and . . . and of the snow, God of the day that conquers the night, God that now slumbers until the world is returned to thy light. Uh. . . ."

The introduction part feels clunky and must actually be more ornate than that, but Scott can't quite seem to bring it to his remembrance, even with however many years that he's been hearing it. It's good enough, though, and now he ought to continue—but the prayers differ after that, a thousand and two different ones for any situation. And Scott, after he recited the main forty for his religious tutoring, made no effort to keep them memorized nor learn any of the others.

"Aeor," he says after a few moments of deliberation, dropping all attempts at following a prayer, "if I truly am your chosen, consecrate these holy objects now in me. Show me . . . show me the way. Help—help me."

Did Alinar ever kneel alone in a forest, praying for any help that his god would give? Did Alinar ever feel entirely inadequate for the job that he was faced with, for the mantle of Aeor's Champion?

Years ago, reading Alinar's tales, Scott would've laughed at such a thought. Alinar had been foreordained, had perfectly completed every task set for him. Never was there any doubt that the task at hand was beyond his reach.

But now that Scott's in the hero's story, he can't help but hope it's normal to feel like an utter failure. Normal to be scared. Normal to feel totally, utterly lost.

Scott stands, brushes off his knees, and pulls a boot on.

It fits perfectly, of course, his foot sliding into place with ease. He laces it up as tight as he can, the boot going a bit higher than halfway up his calf. The other is no different, though his fingers fumble on the white leather of the laces and it takes him a moment to get it pulled as tight as he wants it.

Okay. He has the boots on.

Next step.

Scott straightens, and with mounting anticipation and shaking hands, he lifts the crown of antlers onto his head.

He waits.

He doesn't . . . he doesn't feel any different, so far. Maybe . . . holier, maybe?

He flexes his toes in the boots. They aren't stiff at all, the leather well taken care of but fairly worn-in.

He tilts his head from side to side. The crown feels almost weightless, impeccably well-balanced. It isn't in any danger of slipping, either, set firmly on his head, fitting as perfectly as the boots do.

Now. How is he meant to test these out?

Scott takes a tentative step forward.

There's a sudden, crinkling-crackling sound from his feet—Scott looks down—

The edge of the pond is frozen.

There's frost under his toes. The edge of the pond is frozen.

There's absolutely no way.

He takes another step—more crackling, the ice spreads another foot down the pond.

Carefully, Scott puts some of his weight on the ice.

It holds. More spreads, even.

He puts both feet standing on the now half-frozen pond.

It doesn't even crack.

Ice magic, then. The boots have some sort of ice enchantment, likely written into the runes. That—maybe he's meant to freeze Xornoth? Freeze him, so that he can't get away from the whole crystal ordeal. Or maybe use the ice to freeze him to the crystal?

And when thou hast the daemone at thy will, binde it to the cristyl.

That . . . that might be right. Right? It's probably more than normal ice, it's probably strange magical ice. Something that can bind.

Scott crosses to the middle of the pond. He's walking on water, practically. The pond is just freezing around him, making a large path for his next step before he's even raised his foot.

Jimmy would have found this so impressive. He would've stood on the shore and sputtered, mouth hanging open. Scott would've laughed, and held out his hand, and brought Jimmy out onto the ice to stand with him. And then, gazing at his perfect lover with his permanently-messy hair and his still-shocked expression, he would have kissed him.

And it's for Jimmy that Scott is going to end Xornoth.

He can't kill Xornoth, the book had told him that much. Their souls are connected, some sort of confusing reincarnation of spirits kind of thing that Scott doesn't really understand. He needs to bind him to the crystal in a ritual that he also doesn't understand, but if the boots have an ice enchantment to freeze Xornoth in place or attach him to the crystal, maybe the crown just gives him the magical authority to command Xornoth to go into the crystal? Or something like that?

Scott points at a sleepy-looking frog. "Don't move," he commands with all the power he can muster.

The frog doesn't move. But it probably wasn't planning on it, anyway.

And part of the intrinsic elvish magic that he already has is the strength of suggestion. If he tells someone not to move, really tells them, with power, chances are they won't move.

Will the crown just amplify that magic, then? Or will it make it literally impossible to break a command given, since the power comes from a god and not just a normal elf?

Well, at least he figured out what the boots do. He really ought to get back—he's already spent enough time away. A servant could have alerted the entire palace by now if they knocked to find him missing.

Scott heads back to shore and unlaces the boots, stepping out of them and into his own shoes (he doesn't bother with his socks right now, tucking them into his pocket). Then he puts the boots and the crown back in the bag, beside a small book that looks . . . unfamiliar.

When did he put a book in his bag? Especially one that looks so . . . ancient?

Frowning, Scott pulls it out and cracks it open.

The text isn't anything like what he's used to, blue lines thick and letters big, with no discernable spaces for words. It takes a moment of staring stupidly at the large letters before he has the sudden realization that this is a book in that form of Oceanic that he was meant to give Lizzie. He's already given her the book, but he remembers that it had a smaller book inside. It must've slipped out at some point.

He'll probably see her soon, right? War negotiations have constantly been taking him or one of his advisors to and fro, so surely there'll be someone to give it to her, if not him precisely.

So Scott puts it back in his bag amongst the artifacts and takes off, flying straight back to the palace and landing on his bedroom windowsill, crawling in.

Unnoticed, the touch of his fingers on the window frame leaves frost.

When Scott wakes up (blurry nightmares of chains and indistinct threats), he feels cold.

He must've left the window open. He's done that before, woken up to a little bit of snow on the windowsill after a late-night flight.

And his bed's been rather cold as of late, missing the heat of another body.

But when Scott opens his eyes, his favorite blue blanket is white.

He sits up, confused—and snow falls off of him in little showers, clumping onto his blanket in the creases.

Why is there—?

There's ice on his bedside table, just a thin layer of it. Snow on the bedknobs. Snow on the rug.

And the window is closed.

The low fire that's usually still a bed of hot coals in the mornings is emitting zero warmth, the coals black and cold. The lantern on his bedside table has gone out.

Scott throws his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the cascade of snow that falls to the floor. How did—what?

The boots.

Are they still active even when he isn't wearing them? But—had something changed when he put them on? Is there a way to turn them off?

Scott fumbles around his bedpost until he finds his bag hanging, from which he pulls out the boots and turns them over in his hands.

"Stop," he says, voice still heavy with sleep. "Just . . . don't."

Nothing changes. Did it work? Are the boots still freezing the room?

Nothing really looks like it's melting, but there isn't anything new in the room, either. Scott sets the boots aside (and they feel normal, they aren't covered in frost or anything) and stands up, stumping over to the fireplace on numb feet. He stokes the coals, trying to bring any bit of warmth back to the room, but there's absolutely nothing left to be brought back.

He doesn't keep a flint and steel in his room. Usually a servant cares for these kinds of things, but he doesn't want a servant in here to find his room frozen. How on Aeor's green earth would he explain that?

He has to have a flint and steel in his travel kit in the closet, right? Scott ducks into the closet, finds his travel kit thrown on the floor where he left it after the funeral. He picks it up, rummages through it for a moment. Sure enough, tucked into a part of the leather kit is a small flint and steel, right next to a small hunting knife and needle and thread. He pulls it out and heads back to the coals. He can do figure this out. No need to panic.

There's a little pile of logs by the fireplace, which he shakes the snow off of before tossing them in, hoping they aren't too damp or anything. That would be just his luck, the inability to light a fire in a frozen room.

Thankfully, they aren't too damp. It takes a couple of tries with his numb fingers to get the flint and steel to strike a spark, and another couple tries to get it to light, but it lights nonetheless.

Once the flame takes hold, the room immediately starts to feel a bit warmer, and Scott shudders as his fingers start to tingle with pins and needles. Right, that's taken care of. Maybe now he won't freeze to death.

And then he remembers that there's quite a bit of ice and snow in his room, which will all be melting shortly.

That might be even worse than all the ice, and it's with a panicked hurriedness that Scott starts scooping up the snow in his bare hands and running it to the window to toss it out. He gets a good bit of it (at some point he lifts his blanket off his bed and just shakes it out the window) out, but it's already starting to melt and he can barely feel his fingers and the rug squishes under his feet—

Knock-knock-knock.

Scott curses, wipes his hands off on his dressing robe, and has his hand on the doorknob before he realizes he isn't wearing his veil. He curses again, doubles back to his closet. He doesn't have time to pin the whole thing on, he doesn't have time for any of his—

Scott pulls a veil on over his head and doesn't even bother with any of the pins and ties. It's a long one, meant for trips out, but he just adusts it until his eyes are in the eye-slit and hopes that he doesn't have any hair sticking out.

Then he can get back to the door (he trips over the trailing veil, it wouldn't be long enough to trip over if he'd tied and pinned it properly) and crack it open, sticking his head out.

Surprisingly, he finds not a servant, but Galidre, a junior member of his council. Galidre bows, black robes sweeping the floor.

"Your majesty," they say, straightening. "A representative of the Undergrove is here to speak with you."

"Shubble?" Scott asks, a little bewildered. What does she need?

"Not—not the ruler herself, but an ambassador. I believe they are requesting sanctuary, Milord."

Sanctuary?

That doesn't make any sense. The Grimlands haven't really mobilized anything concrete yet, and as far as Scott was last aware, Mythland and the Lost Empire were both still attacking the Ocean Kingdom.

But Scott doesn't ask questions. He just withdraws and gets dressed (properly pinning his veil this time), then grabs all the towels from the washroom and lays them on his bedroom floor to try and soak up some of the water. Hopefully nobody comes in to clean his room or gather his laundry while he's out.

Last of all, he steps into his very normal boots, pulls on his black gloves, and sets his crown atop his veil.

Perfect. He looks the pinnacle of 'king-mourning-his-fiance', no doubt about it.

He misses Jimmy.

And just as Galidre had suggested, in the meeting with the representative of the Undergrove, Shubble's people are looking for sanctuary.

"There's so few of us, your majesty," the gnome implores, twisting his mushroom hat between his hands. "Less than eight thousand at our last count. We do not ask for you to provide for us, but if we could come to just the foothills of your lands, someplace safe for our children, we promise all able gnomes will serve in your armies."

That isn't asking much. It's asking far less than Scott would have asked, had the situation been reversed, and Scott's bruised heart aches at the humble plea. Can he even bear to turn them away?

"I will . . . I will discuss this matter with my council," Scott tells him, glancing between Galidre and Aphoras, the two advisors present. "I don't wish for any to be harmed while it is in my power to stop it."

If Shubble's worried, it means fWhip is getting ready to attack. Or maybe that Sausage and Joey are leaving their battle, hoping to strike Scott in his complacency. Something's happening soon, and the Undergrove cannot protect itself.

He doesn't want to uproot the gnomes from their new home. The gnomes had appeared in his childhood, three or four thousand of them moving from some unknown, conquered land to take up residence in their own small corner of the world. They've nurtured and cultivated that corner, built a city and begun farms and families, until it became what it is—a lovely little civilization beginning to thrive. To take that away from them would be cruel.

But he has to do it. To save them the destruction of their entire culture, he has to pull the gnomes away from everything they have.

He could make the decision here and now. His mind is already made up, he won't need to discuss this with his council.

But as the gnome hops down from his too-big chair, bowing deeply, Scott knows that there's another way.

He has to end the war.

Ending a war is easier said than done. For one, Scott still doesn't really know how to use the artifacts. The crown remains stubbornly unforthcoming with what its use might be, and the boots. . . . Well, the boots don't stop. The next morning when he wakes up, his room is frozen again—and the morning after that. Scott stops bothering to melt it and just pins a 'do not disturb' sign on the door, before moving to sleep in Jimmy's almost-untouched bedroom. That one freezes, too, as well as the sitting room, and Scott gives up on trying to stop the boots from freezing things and just piles blankets onto his bed and puts pans of hot coals in between the sheets for when he needs to sleep. Otherwise, he just stays out of his room and pretends like it isn't covered in ice.

(He doesn't notice, but frost spreads under his desk, and his untouched cups of tea ice over, and every tear he cries freezes on his face.)

(Others notice, though. Ilphas stares when a wave of Scott's hand sends a streak of frost along a wall; a servant cleans his office and is bewildered by the ice everywhere; the eldest of the palace begin whispering rumors of Aeor's Champion, remembering the old songs.)

For another, Scott doesn't really know how or where to meet Xornoth to defeat him. Does he just go outside? Call his brother's name? Hope the demon shows up, despite the wards around Rivendell preventing his entrance?

He really doesn't want to summon the demon. Somehow, that seems like a poor idea. Some part of Scott is certain that demons have the most power right as they've been summoned, and whether that's true or not Scott doesn't want to test. And he'd absolutely rather not have Xornoth in Rivendell.

The only thing he can think to do is meet Sausage's armies at . . . well, at the border of Mythland. It would be a bold show of support for the Ocean Kingdom—he would have either to march his army through Mezelea or sail across the ocean to reach Mythland. It should only be a move to make if he's certain that he's ready to fully enter the war, or if he's certain that Xornoth will be there.

And suddenly it doesn't really matter, because three days after the ambassador from the Undergrove arrives, he receives communication that fWhip has set out for Rivendell, thousands of soldiers at his command.

His hand is forced. Scott sends Gem a quick message, asking if she's been able to create the crystal. When she responds by gushing excitedly about the properties, he tells her to meet him at No Man's Pass, on the far East border of Rivendell.

It only takes two days to mobilize the advance party of his army, prepared as he has been to enter the war. He can but hope (and dread) that Xornoth will be there.

So Scott swallows down his anxieties about not being able to figure out the artifacts (and he really has tried, but he's only had them for a little over a week), swings the Codmade bag with both of them inside over his shoulder, and rides out to meet Xornoth.

With any luck, Aeor will guide.

It's a cold morning when Scott steps out of his tent, ready to treaty with fWhip.

Their armies had met the day prior, and both of their generals had agreed to a meeting between leaders to see if they couldn't come to an arrangement of some sort. So Scott steps out, dressed in his most moveable mourning clothes (a short veil tight enough to be almost a scarf around his face and head, a hood pulled over that, billowy black trousers and a belted tunic with an open-front surcoat) and the Boots of Alinar on his feet, the Crown of Alinar a conscious weight in the Codmade bag at his side.

And when he enters the treaty tent, set on a cliff overlooking a rushing river in the shadow of one of Rivendell's mountains, with Ilphas at his side and two guards behind him, there are more people in the tent than he expected.

fWhip he notices first, dressed in his usual black coat and scarf, standing between two guards of his own, elytra clicking idly. But next to him is Sausage (naturally Scott wants to kill him), and next to him is Joey.

Which is entirely unexpected, because as far as Scott is aware, neither of them brought their armies—or any sort of guard—with them. They must have flown over for this confrontation in particular, as if a war wasn't currently happening, as if their own soldiers aren't dying right now.

Scott can barely muster disgust past the fear (fear of what will happen, fear that it won't work, fear because these three men tortured him again and again and if all fails, he'll be at their mercy again).

Also present is Gem, wizard's staff in one hand, a leather bag swung over her shoulder, and Katherine, wings fluttering anxiously behind her.

"I'm here to keep the peace," Katherine says immediately. "I don't know why everyone else is here."

"I'm here because Scott asked me to be," Gem pipes up.

"I'm here to see my Xorny," Joey says obnoxiously.

It's less the idea of Joey dating a demon and more the idea of Joey dating his brother that makes Scott want to vomit. Out of all the men in the world, he picked Xornoth? And out of all the men in the world, Joey is his potential brother-in-law?

Sausage shrugs in a way that makes Scott want to kill him. "I just wanted to see it all go down!"

"Me too," a voice says behind Scott. Scott whips around—Joel's standing there, looking entirely unrepentant.

He was counting on the fact that there would be some factors within his control, such as who was present—he had only anticipated himself and fWhip and Xornoth.

"All right, this is far too many emperors in one tent," declares Scott. His feathers are standing on end, all of his nerves jangling. This isn't good. Something is going to go sour here. Especially adding Joel to the mix. Joel is hotheaded at the best of times—in the middle of a war, in a tent with the enemy? Scott doesn't trust him to keep cool.

Scott almost doesn't trust himself to keep cool.

"It's like a House Blossom meeting all over again," Sausage says, voice cheery in a way that makes Scott want to stab him through the heart.

"Hey, I'm just here—"

"This does concern me, after all, it's about—"

"Well if it concerns you, then it concerns—"

"—for everyone, so they—"

"—is that Lizzie said that—"

"My lords and ladies, your presence is acknowledged and appreciated," Ilphas steps forward, checking over their shoulder at Scott. Scott nods his go-ahead—he's never been so grateful to have political, stuffy advisors who know how to be polite.

"This is, however, a meeting between Lord Smajor and Count fWhip, and as such, no other rulers are permitted to be in the tent during the meeting."

"Aw, come on!" Sausage whines. If Scott could kill him without breaking a million laws right now. . . .

But they all clear out, even as Joel walks backward, glaring hard at fWhip.

And Scott is left alone with the man (and their combined guards and Ilphas).

fWhip nods toward the table and two chairs that have been set up in the middle of the tent, a clearly-just-unrolled red rug underneath them.

Scott waits. He doesn't plan on implying that he's at fWhip's command.

After a long moment, fWhip shrugs and sits.

It's the little things.

After waiting a sufficient amount of time to establish that he is the one running this conversation, thank you very much, Scott sits across from him.

He's about to speak. He's about to open his mouth and demand a conference with Xornoth. He's about to end this war.

But fWhip leans forward, a small smile playing on his lips.

"I heard it wasn't exactly quick," he says lowly, and Scott has a moment of confusion—quick? what wasn't quick?—before fWhip continues.

"Not as long as Xornoth was gonna make it, of course," he says, eyes fixed on Scott (and goosebumps spontaneously appear all over Scott's body as he flashes back to those six days in captivity). "If Xornoth got your little fish boy, he was gonna make it long. I heard some of his plans—something about making you watch as he slowly skinned him—?"

Before he even knows what he's doing, Scott's on his feet, hand dragging fWhip up by his collar, pulling him halfway across the table as the man lets out a surprised, choked noise.

"Milord," says Ilphas sharply, tugging on the back of Scott's robe.

Scott shoves fWhip back in his chair (which rocks onto its back legs from the force), hands shaking—whole body shaking, trembling with something like the grief-stricken rage Lizzie had shown at Jimmy's funeral. He—just to casually—casually mention torturing his dead fiance and—and Scott knows he's doing it on purpose, he knows it's to get a rise out of him, and he finds that he just doesn't care.

fWhip's guards step forward, though, weapons raised, and with Ilphas firmly pushing down on his shoulders, Scott sits back down, his gloved hands balled into fists.

He isn't going to stand for this. He isn't going to let fWhip sit there and just speak such filth about his beloved.

But he can't do anything. Not yet.

It gives him a bit of satisfaction to see fWhip ruffled, collar upturned and hair out of place. But fWhip just fixes a stupidly smug look on his face and crosses his arms.

"Scott, we both know you can't threaten me anymore," he chuckles. "Not since I beat you, whipped you, branded you with my own signet . . . there's absolutely nothing about you that I find scary. You've literally begged me for mercy way too many times for that, my friend."

Scott forces himself to breathe deeply, let his fists relax, even as the faded whipping scars on his back twinge in memory. He has to—he has to get control of himself, he has to conduct this in a kingly manner. It doesn't matter that he was tortured by this man, it doesn't matter that his fiance died mere weeks ago (over a month ago, his mind supplies, it's been over a month and the world has somehow gone on), it doesn't matter that he's only a hundred and nine, for Aeor's sake, he is a king and he has to act like one.

"We are here—" he starts, but fWhip interrupts.

"Xornoth only wants one thing. Well," he laughs a little, "a couple of things. World domination is pretty high on his priority list. But he wants you to give up the god, Scott. He already knows you're Aeor's Champion or whatever that is, so you are his best chance at finding the other one. After all, you've got a very rare direct connection to a god yourself!"

That . . . that doesn't make any sense.

The other one? Aeor is the only god that Scott knows of that happens to be living (other than Exor, who Xornoth is already irrevocably bound to). Are there others alive? Others that he's somehow meant to know about?

It doesn't really matter, Scott supposes. He's here to end this war and that's allowed.

"That subject is not the purpose of this meeting," Scott says stiffly, ignoring the chill that runs down his spine at those words that he'd heard so many times in his nightmares. "The purpose—"

"Yeah, yeah, you want me to not bring the war to you or something, trying to convince me to leave your people alone," fWhip waves. "Your people mean nothing to me. I'll kill them if you make me, but if you don't want me to do that, I have a couple of terms. So—"

"That is not what I intended to discuss," Scott says icily, smoothing out a wrinkle in his tunic.

fWhip raises an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? Then what?"

Scott leans a bit closer, all of his instincts screaming for him to move further away. "I am here to demand a meeting with Xornoth," he says, forcing every ounce of cold anger that he feels into his words. "He has tormented these lands for long enough. My business is with him and him alone."

fWhip scoffs. "If you've got business with him, you've got it with me," he says. "So, go on. Say your piece."

You know what? Sure. Scott doesn't mind killing two of his tormentors in one go. First fWhip, then Xornoth. He can absolutely do that.

But Ilphas's hand falls on his shoulder, as if they know exactly what he's thinking of. It would be very, very bad politically to kill fWhip right here and now.

"You misunderstand me," Scott says, and his stomach flips because this is it, it's time to save the world and he doesn't know if he has the strength to do it, and he doesn't let his voice waver but he does let his breath catch— "I mean to kill him."

fWhip bursts out laughing. "Sorry—are you serious? You kill Xornoth? Like, I admire the initiative, but you're the weakest person I know! At least, the weakest living person."

Scott ignores the jab at Jimmy, as disgusting as it is. He just settles back in his chair, crosses his legs.

Eventually, fWhip stops laughing, and his cheerful demeanor drops into a glare alarmingly quickly, quickly enough that it unsettles Scott more than anything fWhip's said so far.

"Your funeral, Smajor," he says darkly. "It'll be nice to get you out of the way."

The lamp on the table goes out, bathing them in a cool dimness.

Scott's heart leaps into his throat.

He doesn't dare breathe in the sudden stillness.

The lamp flickers back to life, the once-yellow flame now a deep red.

The tent, which had been almost frigid for some reason, rapidly begins to heat to an unbearable temperature. Sweat breaks out on Scott's forehead, rolling down his back, dripping down his cheek. It's like he stepped into the Nether, hot enough that his head starts to feel dizzy and his stomach unsteady.

The table begins to rattle, quiet at first, then faster and faster and louder and louder. The ground begins to shake, actually, rumbling and trembling, and the tent walls are flapping in a sudden roaring wins and Scott knows he's coming he knows he's here—

The tent pulls free of the stakes and completely flies apart, the red light spilling outward over the darkening plain, much further than a lantern's light ought to go. Scott shoves back his chair and stands, surcoat whipping around him, searching the skies for any sign of his brother.

Scott's never really seen the demon up close. He's briefly seen him (outside of their youth) twice. Once was from a distance in the End, Xornoth standing atop a tower to watch the battle to save the dragon. The other time was just a brief encounter, Xornoth appearing behind him while visiting the Overgrown close to a year ago, seemingly to do nothing but spook him.

And now, as Xornoth appears before him, Scott loses sight of all his anger. He can't feel anything but cold fear.

Again, Scott's never really seen the demon up close. And as he stares now, feet rooted to the ground, he doesn't see a single sign of the brother he once knew.

Xornoth, like Scott, is dressed all in black, but where Scott's mourning clothing is carefully fashioned and clean, Xornoth's black robes are torn, his dark armor unshined and grimy. His feet are shod with armored boots, his hands with leather gloves, and upon his head is what could either be a literal pair of black antlers or the red-streaked crown of Exor's Champion, a crude mockery of the one hanging at Scott's side.

His face is distorted, blackened, eyes bulbous and entirely maroon, mouth far too large and cutting jaggedly into his cheeks. His ears are still somewhat elvish, poking through his straggly black hair (which had always been purple as a child), which trails down his shoulders and chest.

Whatever that demon is, Scott can barely picture his brother in its place.

Yet it is his brother, here and now, and Xornoth is standing atop a boulder on the edge of the cliff, dark veins of red spreading out from it through the earth, cracking apart stone and solid dirt. Soldiers and rulers that had been milling about leap back, weapons raised.

And echoing through Scott's head and bones and the stifling air around him is a voice that hasn't haunted him in decades.

"Well, brother," Xornoth says, their blackened lips stretching inhumanly, pointed teeth bared. "You think you can destroy me?"

Scott's really starting to think he can't. The very air is thick with the stench of brimstone, so much so that members of his army are doubled over coughing, and the wind is howling and the skies are dark and there's maroon smoke rising from the ground and Scott can't breathe, he's choking on his own air and he doesn't even know what he's supposed to do—

But he doesn't fall to his knees, even as Katherine does beside him. He doesn't cover his ears and squint his eyes shut, like Joel does.

Instead, he fumbles open his bag and pulls out the Crown of Antlers, which he trades out for the crown on his head.

And Xornoth's smile falters.

His gaze travels down, down to Scott's feet.

Scott taps a booted toe against the ground.

"That's right," Scott calls out, above the whistling of the furnace-like wind and the coughing of the soldiers. "I have the artifacts. I'm going to bind you and your master, never to return again."

Almost as if caused by his words, spoken with a conviction that he forces himself to feel, the wind changes directions. The sweat on Scott's back freezes. fWhip, mere steps away from Scott, coughs, his breath appearing before him in a puff of smoke.

"You don't know how to use those," Xornoth sneers, but despite the years it's been since they last spoke, despite how unrecognizable he truly is, Scott knows his brother. He knows that when his voice becomes harshest is at his moments of uncertainty, determined to command his way out of any problem.

That means he's scared. He knows what Scott can do to him.

(Even if Scott doesn't know it himself.)

"Gem," he calls over his shoulder, and within moments she's at his side. "I'll need you to hold the crystal while I bind him, all right?" he says, quieter.

She nods, reaches into her sleek leather satchel and pulls out a huge, clear crystal, bigger than Scott's own hand. It shimmers slightly, gold specks scattered throughout that somehow shine with the sun hidden by the dark grey skies. She hefts it up, mouth in a grim line.

Scott nods back to her, then takes a step forward, one arm up to shield his eyes as the wind and heat get stronger the nearer he gets to Xornoth. Another step. Another.

There's a crack in the air, deafeningly loud, and Scott only has a moment to register that Xornoth has vanished in a cloud of black smoke before a literal tentacle bursts out of the stoney ground right in front of him, sending chunks of rock flying, and wraps around Scott's middle.

It lifts him into the air, a sizzling sound and uncomfortable heat against his body and wings telling him that it's burning through his clothes and feathers, and Scott struggles against it to try and pull his wings free but it's holding tightly to him, raising him higher and higher into the air—

And then it stops.

Ice is gathering where Scott's fists have been beating against the tentacle, gathering and spreading down, and though it melts almost instantly it simply reforms, until the tentacle begins to slowly recede into the ground.

Scott stumbles out of its grasp and onto blessed solid ground (he loves being in the air but not like that), and Xornoth himself appears right in front of him.

The demon moves, arm reaching out, mouth stretching open, Scott's arms fly up to shield his face—

"Stop," Scott gasps blindly, putting as much compulsion as he can into the one word, even though he doesn't even know what he's commanding Xornoth to stop doing.

The wind calms to almost nothing. Ice crackles across the ground. The air becomes frigid, though the terrible smell still lingers.

Scott lets his arms lower from blocking his vision, terrified of what he might find. Dear Aeor, his legs are utterly trembling, but he doesn't have the time to collapse.

And he finds that Xornoth is standing motionless before him, face twisted in rage.

"Gem," Scott says, voice too loud for the sudden silence, heart pounding in his ears. "The crystal—Gem, now—"

Gem hurries forward, holds it out, and Scott musters everything he has in him and commands, making the words up as he goes, "Xornoth, Exor, and those demons within you, I bind you by the power of Aeor to this crystal, never to be free from it again."

He waits, breath tight in his chest.

Nothing happens. Xornoth glances down, eyes catching on Scott's waist, and chuckles.

"I bind you!" Scott says again. This has to work. He has the crown, he has the boots, he has the crystal, this should be working—

He shoves all the imagined power he can through the air, as if to push Xornoth bodily into the crystal, this has to work he's getting desperate—

He's knocked backward with a sudden force, a blast of frost and ice coming from his own body, and Scott hits the ground and rolls through the dust, bumping his elbows and knees and hips, his veil getting caught under him and tearing down off his face.

He lays there for a moment—he can't afford a moment, but he can't breathe—and when he gets up, pushing himself up on his gloved hands, he sees—

Xornoth is frozen, a giant block of ice encasing him. The crystal is on the ground, twinkling under a blanket of frost.

And Gem is on the ground too, slumped as if dead, hair white as snow.

No—no—

"What'd you do to my sister!" fWhip shouts, rushing forward to Gem. He kneels down beside her, pulls her into his lap, starts shaking her.

Scott struggles to his knees, tugs off his torn gloves with shaking hands. He didn't—he didn't mean to hurt anyone, he didn't mean to hit Gem—he doesn't know what he's doing, he was just trying to fix everything but he doesn't know how and he doesn't know what to do—Aeor, please—

He stumbles up, the lace of one boot getting caught under his foot and coming entirely undone.

Ice is everywhere. Great chunks of it around the plateau, coating every bit of ground in a sheet, the one tree growing in the tough dirt entirely uprooted and frozen.

Those members of his and fWhip's armies that are closest to the treaty grounds are dusting frost from their uniforms, some of them picking themselves up from the ground where the force of the blast had knocked them.

He didn't know the boots could do this. He didn't want to do this. He didn't mean for this to happen, he didn't want this to happen—

"You—!"

And before Scott can even really process everything, fWhip is barreling into him, sending him right back to the ground with an "oof".

"I'm gonna—" fWhip starts, straddling Scott's stomach, eyes wild and face red with anger, but a CRACK! that shoots through the air gives him pause.

Everyone, slowly, trancelike, turns to where the frozen Xornoth remains, and the large crack that's splintering down the ice encasing him.

With strength that must come from Aeor himself, Scott shoves fWhip off (he ignores the way fWhip's jacket goes stiff with ice) and rolls to his feet, stumbling toward Xornoth, scooping up the crystal on his way.

And then he doesn't know what to do.

He holds up the crystal beside the frozen chunk of ice that holds Xornoth, willing it to do something, anything.

"I bind you," he chokes out, pressing the crystal through the crack and into Xormoth's chest. "Come on. . . . I bind you!"

The ice shatters from Xornoth with a wave of heat that blasts Scott back, knocking the crystal from his hand as he once again hits the ground hard on his back (all the breath is forced out of his lungs and it hurts) and slides a couple of feet, feathers turning the wrong way and getting torn out.

Scott scrambles to regain his bearings—he can't breathe and everything hurts—but before he can even get from more than a sitting position, a foul-smelling boot kicks him in the chin and his head snaps backward, sending him back down.

He opens watering eyes, blinking several times to clear their blurriness, arms splayed out at his sides. Xornoth stands over him, radiating heat, the dark clouds in the sky behind him seeming to swell.

"You think you can trap me in a little piece of glass?" Xornoth growls, and when Scott again tries to get up, pushing himself up with his arms against the gravelly ground, he again kicks him down, knocking his head against the stone.

No. No, he has to save them—he can hear people shouting, he can hear screams, he's Aeor's Champion, this isn't how the story is supposed to go—

Xornoth laughs, cruel and derisive, before bending down over Scott and gripping one gloved hand in the front of his tunic. He drags him up, up to standing, his tunic tearing just slightly.

Scott can barely even struggle. His body feels like jelly, wings hanging limply behind him, legs almost unable to support his own weight.

He tried. He tried so hard.

Xornoth's face is so close to his that Scott can smell his reeking breath, see how the points of his black teeth glisten with saliva, but he can't even find the strength to tip his head back, get away from him.

"Even your little fish boy fought harder than this," sneers Xornoth, only loud enough for Scott to hear, and Scott's heart breaks.

Jimmy.

He just wants Jimmy.

Somehow, if Jimmy had been here, it all would have been okay.

A tear slips down his bare face. Scott swallows back a sob, brings up his fumbling arms and weakly pushes at Xornoth's hand.

Ice spreads across his glove, and Xornoth hisses before throwing Scott down. He lands hard on his side, feels one of his ribs crack with a flash of white-hot pain, and he can't do anything but lie there and try to breath through it.

"I am Xornoth," the demon declares, voice echoing around the cliff, and the armies waiting on either side quiet, the only sound Xornoth's voice and the once-again rushing wind. "I am the ruler of this world. The so-called king of Rivendell tried to challenge me, and has failed. If any of you who followed him wish to feel my mercy, give up your arms now."

Scott knows his people. He knows that despite his youth, despite some unpopularity among older generations, his people care too much for him (for tradition, for his family) to renounce him.

And he can't let that happen. He's done for. He failed.

Rivendell needs to surrender.

Scott raises his head, just a little bit, some grit that had been stuck to his cheek falling to the stony ground, and looks around—there.

He catches Ilphas's eye—Ilphas, standing at the forefront of his army, their grey cloak slipping from their shoulder and hair out of place but their chin held high and stance dignified—and ignores the abject horror painting their face, then gives the tiniest, most minute nod.

They blink several times, and if Scott didn't know any better, he'd think they were crying. They nod in return, though, and turn away, calling instructions to surrender.

Xornoth nudges Scott with the toe of his boot. "This is your king," he spits. "And he is dead."

Before Scott can do anything, before he can so much as move, another maroon tentacle cracks out of the ground beside him, burning hot, and wraps around his legs.

It's all Scott can do not to scream—this tentacle is far hotter than the other, burning straight through his trousers to his skin, but before he can try to squirm away, it drags him up into the air upside-down and throws him.

Scott doesn't even have time to process the wind rushing through his ears before he slams into the ground, knocking his head against a rock in a way that makes his vision flash black and grainy and sends pain jolting through his entire head.

Xornoth stalks toward him, he sees, through blurry vision red with pain, he says something—something terrible and pulsing—Scott scrambles back, his palms bleeding against the rough texture of the cliff, he just has to survive he just has to survive—

Xornoth grabs him by the right wing, pulls him up as the delicate bone strains, Scott tries to even out his weight to his feet but he can't find his footing—

The bone in his wing snaps and Scott doesn't have the energy to scream, his breath releasing in a little gasp. No . . . no. . . .

He meets Xornoth's eyes, the world hazy.

There's no pity to be found in those dark pits. No mercy. Only satisfaction.

And Scott knows, right then and there, with a clarity that cuts through all the pain and haziness, that he's dying.

He failed.

He failed all of them.

And with a burst of hot power from Xornoth, Scott is once again flying through the air and then he's falling, down, down, the wind buffeting his back as he goes over the cliff, his right wing thrown uselessly this way and that as his left wing tries valiantly to save him but his weight is too much, and with a gross clunk and a white hot burst of pain, it slips out of the socket.

Before Scott can scream, before he can pray, before he can do anything but twist his body in the air to face nose down, he hits freezing water and blacks out.

The last thing he thinks, mind desperately spinning, is that at least he won't have to live so alone anymore.

His body aches, pulsing up and down, from the tips of his fingers to the ends of his toes, traveling up each limb and down each vein. Everything hurts, in ways that he can't quite understand.

The stag steps carefully through the forest, over gnarled tree roots and clumps of grass, each step rocking him from right to left.

Scott takes in a slow breath, body slumping further against the stag. The fingers of his right hand loosely grasp its hair, his left arm hanging at his side.

He just wants to fall asleep. He's so tired, and it all hurts so much that he can't even think. He just wants to sleep.

But he blinks slowly instead, watches as a squirrel skitters up the bark of a huge oak tree. A deer pokes its head out from behind a birch, its ears twitching curiously. Somewhere in the branches above, a chickadee sings its repeating song.

Scott lets his breath out in a long sigh. His body rolls with the slow trundle of the stag, jostling his various uncategorized wounds.

He swallows, throat dry.

Maybe he can sleep here. On the back of the stag. Let it carry him to wherever it intends to go.

He's so tired.

The ground below gets softer, bit by bit, the dirt becoming darker, the grass more frequent. The stag's hooves begin to leave impressions in the ground, the grass springing up after every step. A frog croaks from nearby, low and long. The leaves on the trees start hanging lower and lower, dripping down into puddles of murky water.

And then, the dirt now mud and squishing with every step, the stag stops.

Scott should see why it stopped. He should lift his pounding head, see what's before them, because surely if it's important enough to stop the stag he has to see what it is.

But he doesn't have the strength.

As his body is pushed, further and further—

After a long moment, the stag bends its neck, head dipping low in an arc, and Scott begins to slide forward, his fingers slipping from their limp grasp, his body leaving streaks of red in the brilliant white hair.

He slowly slides further, further, until he rolls between the stag's antlers, his tunic catching on a sharp antler and pulling a long tear down the side, before he slowly falls into a clear pool of water.

He sinks, red billowing up in the water around him—

Sinking, water filling his lungs, so much weighing him down and down—

Down and down, until his toes meet silty mud at the bottom.

He hangs there, in the water, letting it wash away his aches and pains and all the blood, and he sighs, bubbles spilling from his lips.

He's so tired.

A fish swims up to him—a cod—

Hands under his arms and pulling at his tunic, dragging him up onto a rocky shore scraping his back—

It noses at him, pokes him hard in the chest—

Pressing on his chest, harder and harder, again and again and it hurts—

And then swims up to between his eyes (it takes a moment to come back into focus) and stares at him, eyes large and somehow desperate.

And he sees, wavering in and out, desperate and beautiful brown eyes.

55 notes · View notes

thetomorrowshow · 1 year

Text

the gambler, he broke even

cw: major character death, grief, heavy amounts of grief, talk of death, references to dead bodies

"I don't want to," Scott says, turning back to his work.

Ilphas sighs. "My lord, I understand that this is a difficult moment for you. However—"

"Don't give me that 'difficult moment' bit," Scott says, a little more venom in his voice than intended. "We don't know that—"

"The facts of—"

"There aren't any facts, it's all speculation—"

"The facts of the matter are," Ilphas says over him, "that you need new mourning robes. Whether or not the Codfather has passed."

"But he has not passed," Scott insists. "If he had, our enemies would boast of the victory! I am certain that he—"

"My lord, the Ocean Queen requested the body this morning."

Scott's breath freezes in his lungs.

He can't make his voice work. He can't ask the questions that are suddenly barreling through his mind.

What does Lizzie know?

What did the enemy tell her?

Will he truly have to face the body of his betrothed?

"Did—" he manages, before his voice gives out.

Ilphas, somehow, knows exactly what he's trying to ask. They shake their head just slightly. "No response yet. But sire, the Ocean Queen is already in mourning, despite your lack of conviction. You must think of how your people see you."

Scott honestly couldn't care less about how his people see him. He opens his mouth to say something of the sort, but Ilphas cuts him off.

"If you are not in mourning, they will believe that you care not for your own betrothed, sire. How do you think they will perceive your care for them?"

Ilphas is right, of course. They're rarely wrong.

It just already hurts so much. Scott doesn't want to acknowledge that Jimmy might be—that—

He can't think on it or he'll cry again, as he already did this morning.

And he knows that fitting for the dark robes will be even worse.

"Can I not just wear the clothing from my parents' death?" he asks, his voice thin and unfortunately pitiful.

Ilphas shakes their head. "The death of a betrothed is entirely different from the death of a parent," they say patiently. "The clothing will be different. Besides, I recall hearing that you . . . burned that set."

True. He forgot he did that.

He's not going to get out of this, is he? His advisors have been pushing for him to recognize Jimmy's . . . to recognize it for the past three days. He's thus far been able to redirect the conversation to more urgent matters, what with there being a war and whatnot, but Ilphas cornering him in his office wasn't a move he expected.

He doesn't have time to argue about this. He has a war to fight.

"Fine," he says after a moment. "When should I call for the tailor?"

"I, of course, know not your schedule," Ilphas says dryly. "But the tailor is already at the palace, waiting for you to see zem. Would you like to send a messenger with a time for today?"

He might as well, Scott thinks dully. After all, if Lizzie has requested a body, then she expects to meet with Mythland within the next week. He'll probably need to accompany her.

"Send a messenger, tell zem I'm available at any time," he waves off.

He thinks the conversation is over. It really ought to be, with the way he picks his pen back up and stares down at whatever this supply plan is that he's meant to be reviewing and signing off.

But Ilphas lingers, half-turned away. "I am . . . truly sorry, my lord. Your rule is too young for wars and pains such as these. If there is anything we might do to ease your burden. . . ."

"I'm not a charity case," Scott mutters. "I'm the king."

"With all due respect, you are a person," Ilphas says gently, "just as any other person. And you have lost more than many persons."

Scott doesn't respond, and after another moment, Ilphas bows and shows themself out.

They're right. Scott's the youngest ruler Rivendell has ever had, forced into the rule by the early deaths of his parents and the banishment of his brother. Their deaths, his frequent 'illnesses' and 'accidents' (read: assassination attempts by his brother) when younger, and now this war and its consequences.

He has to practice thinking it, at least.

Jimmy is—

Jimmy—

No. It—

He swallows back the lump in his throat, angrily dashing a hand across his face when a tear spills from his eye. He's fine. Everything is fine. He just has to get fitted for mourning robes for his fiance, is all. He's fine.

Who is he kidding?

Scott slumps over his desk, doing his very best not to cry all over these official papers. He's not the first person to lose someone. And he's not the first person to fight a war. He certainly isn't the first to do both at once. He's nothing special.

As much as he tells himself that, it doesn't make it hurt any less.

He allows himself a single, tearless sob before sitting back up, straightening the papers before him. He needs to sign off on this supply plan. He sequestered himself in his office to do precisely this and nothing else, because it was technically due before he returned from his tour of the country, and it's several days overdue now.

Unfortunately, the plan is about seventy pages long, and he's only halfway through, and he can't just skip to the end because there are random pages throughout that need his signature and seal.

So Scott turns the next page, even as his heart crumbles a tiny bit more.

Before he can finish, he's summoned away for fittings, and he leaves his office feeling much too young to be in such a position, and much too old to feel such sharp pain.

Two days later, Scott and Ilphas and his small guard sail (accompanied by Ocean Kingdom dolphins, for speed) to the Crystal Cliffs, to meet with King Sausage of Mythland.

The Crystal Cliffs had been the decided-upon meeting place by Lizzie and Sausage, after Gem had offered it up as a temporarily neutral ground. The meeting is officially occurring to discuss 'eventualites and possibilities for the future of the Codlands', but everyone knows that it's really just an inquiry after the fate of the Codfather.

Scott arrives at midday (he's greeted in the hall of the school of magic by Gem, who hugs him and whispers "you are so strong" in his ear) and barely has time to change into his newly-made mourning clothing (a soft, black robe with a high collar, puffy sleeves that gather at the wrists, a black leather waistcoat and a matching open-front surcoat—and there would usually be a veil, too, with his specific situation, but the court still hasn't ruled as to whether or not he and Jimmy were still betrothed) before he's whisked away to the meeting room.

Lizzie's already there, sitting at the head of the table, a green-skinned woman whom Scott assumes is one of her counselors sitting beside her. She holds her head high, face stern and hair pulled back in a tight bun under her coral crown, her dress made of layered shades of grey.

Scott nods to her, self-consciously adjusts his signet earring (all other jewelry having been discarded as part of his mourning vestments), and takes a seat at her open left hand (a chair made specifically for him, missing its back to make room for his wings), Ilphas sitting beside him.

Nobody speaks, even when Gem slides into the room alone and sits across from Ilphas. Scott stares straight down at the dark oak table to avoid looking in anyone's eyes. He doesn't want to see pity in Gem's eyes, nor see Jimmy in Lizzie's.

He swallows.

He wishes, harder than he's ever wished for anything, that he didn't have to be here.

And then the doors open, and two guards of the Crystal Cliffs escort King Sausage of Mythland (followed by two Mythland knights in full armor) into the room.

He's dressed in black and red, accents of gold thrown in here and here. His tunic is black, a gold belt cinching it around his waist, a red surcoat laced up over it. A red cape hangs from his shoulders, chunky pieces of gold clasping it around his chest. His crown, golden and polished, sits purposefully a little crooked on his greased-back hair.

Nobody rises to greet him. They sit and stare as the man nods to each of them, a lazy smile playing on his lips.

Scott has never wanted to kill anyone more.

And that's saying a lot, because he saw fWhip push Jimmy off the edge of the world, and he wanted to kill that man pretty badly then.

Scott forces his hand—resting flat on the table—to stay still. If his fist clenches, it'll only give Sausage the satisfaction of knowing that Scott is angry but can't do anything. He isn't going to give up that power.

Sausage takes his seat at the opposite end of the table from Lizzie, leaning back as if he owns the place. Gem rolls her eyes.

"How's it going, guys?" Sausage says cheerfully.

Scott could dive across the table and throttle him right now. He could stab him through his stupid red surcoat, knock the shining crown off his head, slit his throat and watch him choke on his own blood.

They're nice things to imagine. Scott rather thinks those images keep him calm better than any other self-discipline.

"Thank you for joining us, Sau—Lord Sausage," Gem says stiffly, turning to face the man. "I believe Aundrea of the Crystal Cliffs Academy will be taking notes on the meeting, is that acceptable for all involved?"

Lizzie nods primly. Scott purses his lips, gives a short nod. Sausage shoots a thumbs-up.

One of the Crystal Cliffs guards steps forward and takes a seat, setting down some paper and a pen in front of herself.

"All right," Gem says. "Present at this meeting is me, the Wizard Gem, and two knights-slash-students of the Crystal Cliffs Academy, Aundrea and Matteo; her majesty Queen Lizzie of the Ocean Kingdom and a member of her council, Kilisaltana; his majesty King Scott Smajor of Rivendell and a member of his council, Ilphas; and his majesty King Sausage of Mythland accompanied by two Mythland guards, Ephraim and Levi. Are all present ready to begin?"

More nods around the table.

Gem nods as well. "All right," she says again. "Remember that I am a neutral party in this discussion, and I am only here to mediate. Lizzie, if you—"

"We're meeting about the future of . . . the Codlands, right?" Sausage interrupts, leaning back in his chair.

"Yes," Lizzie says, speaking for the first time. Her voice is cold, controlled. "I am inquiring—"

"Right," says Sausage. "I figured. You want the Codlands, don't you? Since it's basically a part of the Ocean Kingdom, anyway?"

Scott stares at the fingers of his left hand, still relaxed on the table. The Codlands, of course, is not a part of the Ocean Kingdom. Sausage knows exactly what he's doing. It's petty and ultimately will achieve nothing to snub the Codlands, but such is politics.

Lizzie, of course, keeps her cool. "Oh, of course—as one from Mythland, I wouldn't expect you to know much of the developed lands beyond your borders. The Cod Empire is its own kingdom, ruled by the Codfather."

Scott's eyes flick up to watch Sausage. Sausage's lip curls just the slightest bit.

"I don't know about any Codfather right now," he says, tone airy. "It looks like I'm the one ruling the Cod Empire."

"It appears so," Lizzie says, with a brief inclination her head. "And what," she says carefully, face stoic, "has happened to the Codfather?"

Scott takes a slow, silent breath at the way his heart jumps. Here's the confirmation. This is the question that all his hopes and fears rest upon.

He doesn't want to hear the answer. He doesn't want to know, he doesn't want confirmation, he wants to live in this horrible purgatory forever where he never knows if Jimmy's alive but at least there's still a possibility that he isn't dead.

Sausage stares Lizzie in the eyes, gaze piercing and dark. "He's dead," he says simply, obviously forcing away a grin. "My armies killed him and vanquished his people."

Scott's stomach drops out of his body.

No.

No no no no no—

Lizzie clears her throat. "As his next of kin, I request the body of the Codfather."

Gem blinks.

Sausage gasps, then giggles. "Wait, you guys were related? That makes so much sense!"

Lizzie doesn't move. She waits, eyes hard, until Sausage gets over his surprise. Scott isn't really sure why he's surprised. He's fairly sure Jimmy mentioned their relationship at the wedding. Of course, it's just like Sausage to not listen.

Jimmy's never going to make a speech again.

No. This can't be true, this has to be one of those horrible nightmares—

"I don't have it," shrugs Sausage.

He doesn't have—he doesn't have the body? How can he not—

"I know for a fact that he's dead—saw the body myself—but we made a mass grave and threw all those Cod savages into it. If you want to go digging around until you find a maggoty Jimmy, be my guest!"

Scott's going to kill him he's going to vomit he's going to break down right here—

"Use his proper title," Lizzie snaps. "He is the Codfather, the ruler of the Cod Empire, and will be respected."

Sausage raises an eyebrow. "Right," he says, voice dripping with doubt. "We all know his claim to the throne was . . . less than legitimate. And I have the Codfather Head, so that makes me ruler, right?"

Nobody responds. Scott swallows, trying to calm his rebellious stomach, trying to hold back tears.

He flexes his fingers, just slightly, just enough that his hand doesn't curl into a fist and sock Sausage in the jaw.

Sausage has conquered the Cod Empire. He is, technically, the ruler, as much as Scott hates to admit it.

"So," Gem says, after the silence grows too long. "Queen Lizzie, what is your suggested plan for the future of the Codlands?"

Lizzie steeples her fingers, leaning on the table. "My suggested plan," she says, voice once again calm and careful, "is the release of the Codlands into my stewardship, with the promise that those people will not take up arms against Mythland for the remainder of the war. In exchange, I will release those of Mythland that the Ocean Kingdom has claimed as captives."

Sausage clicks his tongue. "Hm. How about you surrender to the Great Ruler Xornoth, and then we'll give you minor reign over both the Ocean Kingdom and the Codlands, reporting directly to Xornoth?"

It's Lizzie's turn to raise a brow. "In your dreams, respectfully," she says, precisely and politely.

"In Scott's dreams, more like," mutters Sausage. Scott just swallows again, stares hard at a point above Lizzie's shoulder. He'd known that those had been more than dreams.

Xornoth has the power to invade his dreams, fight him without even crossing the border. How are they meant to win?

"Well, if you won't accept that, how about you give up all captives of Mythland, the Grimlands, and the Lost Empire?" suggests Sausage.

Lizzie frowns. "Neither Count fWhip nor Emperor Joey are present at this meeting, and I will not bargain with them."

Beside her, Kilisaltana nods approvingly. She leans over to Lizzie, whispers something in her ear.

"Lord Sausage of Mythland," Gem addresses, "are there any other conditions that you will accept under this compromise?"

"Nope!"

Kilisaltana leans back; Lizzie nods and shifts her attention back to Sausage. "A different compromise, then," she says. "Mythland maintains a presence in the Codlands, but the empire is technically under my government and the people of the Ocean Kingdom and of the Codlands may move freely between the two empires. Additionally, the return of my Mythland prisoners."

Sausage's lazy smile doesn't drop. "I don't think so," he says. "Y'know, I kinda like ruling those swamps! We're going to turn the people into respectable, educated folks—we don't need the Ocean messing that up. How about this, though—I'm in charge of the Cod Empire, but trades remain open between the Ocean Kingdom and the Codlands, and you return my loyal Mythlanders to me!"

Again, Lizzie confers with her advisor—and surprisingly, Ilphas pushes back their chair and quickly steps over to join the quick little council. Scott leans in as well.

"He needs the trades," Ilphas whispers. "Mythland alone cannot support a war-ravaged country."

Kilisaltana nods. "We can bargain him down to just the trades, then?"

"I believe so. Perhaps more."

"Counter-proposal," Lizzie declares to the table. "The trades remain open, and a prisoner exchange commences—you return to me my subjects, and I return yours. Would that be sufficient?"

Sausage's lips twist down a little, clearly displeased, but he actually pauses to think.

It's a good compromise, even if it's not what they want. It benefits the both of them, while opening up a route for escape for the Cod.

Sausage nods shortly. "I have the Codlands, you have trades, we both have our soldiers back. It sounds . . . acceptable."

"Perfect," Gem says, clapping her hands together. "For the remainder of the meeting, we will work out some of the simpler matters of the trade arrangement, then adjourn. We can hold more meetings over the next week to get the details down, and then commence the arrangement once that is complete. Is that possible for both involved parties?"

Both nod.

"Why is Scott here, then?" Sausage asks innocently. "Here to surrender?"

Scott doesn't allow his fingers to curl into a fist. He forces his hands and shoulders to stay as relaxed as possible.

Thankfully, Ilphas speaks up. "His majesty Lord Smajor has the right to assist the Ocean Queen in the rites and stewardship of the Codfather and his possessions, and as such is present."

Sausage rolls his eyes, looks to Scott.

When Scott speaks, his voice doesn't shake. He doesn't stumble over his words. He doesn't lose his composure.

"I am here, Lord Sausage, to confirm the fate of my betrothed," he says, colder than Rivendell on a winter morning. "The Empire of Rivendell declares its loyalty to the Ocean Kingdom and the Cod Empire—and their successive, rightful leaders, as Queen Lizzie is and Codfather Jimmy was—forever. And," he continues, and he has no idea where these words are coming from, from some power beyond him— "by burying the body of the Codfather in an unmarked grave, you are in violation of section 4 subsection D under the heading 'Respect' in the House Blossom Peace Accords, where it states that, dead or alive, in war or peace, the rulers of the twelve empires must be granted full respect. That is all I wish to say at this time."

Sausage harrumphs. Gem, not quite smiling, gives Scott a subtle thumbs-up.

"Thank you for your comments, Lord Smajor," she says. "And I will be following up on that law with Lady Katherine of House Blossom personally. Shall we move on?"

The meeting wraps up after nearly half an hour of Sausage arguing against every one of Lizzie's suggestions, with barely any progress made. But they both agree on a day for the meeting this week, and Sausage is escorted out by his two guards and Gem's two knights, waggling his fingers at them over his shoulder.

Gem gathers up the papers that Aundrea had left behind. Lizzie stares at the closed door.

Scott looks down at his relaxed hand, cold and pale on the table.

He's not sure if he's looking for comfort or to give it, but after a long moment of silence, he reaches forward and takes Lizzie's limp hand in his own.

He squeezes tightly, even as Lizzie doesn't move, trying to send every thought that he's thinking her way—an endless stream of I know I'm here it hurts I'm here please help we have to go on I know.

Lizzie sits motionless, expression stony, and as Scott watches, a single tear rolls down her cheek.

Jimmy's gone. He's really, truly, gone.

Buried indistinguishably among the bodies of his people, in one grave together.

And really, Scott thinks, while he would've wanted to honor his fiance, he thinks that Jimmy would prefer it like this. He'd never been one to raise himself above his people. He'd never seen his own worth as greater than anyone else's.

Scott wonders, suddenly, if Jimmy had any sort of funeral arrangements made. Surely the Cod Empire has traditions for their rulers, but was there anything specific that Jimmy wanted during the memorial service? A particular song sung, or speech given?

Where will such a service be held, in the middle of a war, when the land of the deceased has been conquered?

He's crying, Scott realizes vaguely, nose burning and face wet.

He just grips Lizzie's hand tighter and lets his heart shatter.

And Lizzie, after a moment, squeezes back.

"When are you leaving?"

Scott tugs at the itchy high collar of his mourning robe. "Tonight, if possible. Tomorrow morning if the seas are rough."

He doesn't mention why the seas might be rough. Gem, tactfully, doesn't either.

"Do you think you have time to check out something I found?" she asks, finishing up the braid in his hair before starting on another. "I was going to call Katherine down to look at it with me, but I could definitely use your help."

"Check out what?" Scott says suspiciously. He adjusts his position a bit, trying to keep his legs from falling asleep.

He and Gem are in her room, Gem on the bed, Scott kneeling on the floor beside her, while she braids his hair. Ilphas had initially refused to let Scott out of their sight, but it had only taken one glance at Scott's tired, teary eyes for them to sigh and nod.

"I found . . . a library," Gem says eventually, combing her fingers through his hair to pull out the braid she'd been working on, then starting anew. "Crystal Cliffs has always been a place of knowledge, you know? We collect history and magic from all over the world. And this library looks old. Like, centuries old. And you're looking for an old book, right? To defeat Xornoth?"

Scott nods, then freezes when it tugs on his braid. Gem tsks and starts over again.

"Yes," he says. "I've searched every library in Rivendell, however, and all of those would be about that same age. I can take a look before leaving, though, if you like."

Gem hums in affirmation. "We can go before supper. You can bring a guard if you need, it isn't a secret. Knowledge should never be a secret."

Some knowledge ought to be a secret, Scott thinks to himself, remembering the revelation he'd had while traveling.

He's Aeor's Champion, probably.

Best to not think about that when he knows Xornoth has direct access to his brain, is it?

So, something else. Something else to think about.

Right. There's really only one other thing to think about.

"Jimmy braided my hair, once," Scott says quietly.

Gem's hands stutter, but she doesn't say anything. She just keeps working, fingers gentle in his hair.

"It was when we were betrothed," Scott continues. "It had been a long day, and I told him I was tired, and he had me sit on the bed and he stood behind me and . . . he just braided. Really intricate braids, too. They were beautiful. I left them in for three days."

He kind of wants to cry.

"I didn't know he could braid," Gem murmurs.

Scott shrugs. "Me neither," he says. "He told me it was Cod tradition, and that there are people who actually work as just . . . braiders. There's different kinds of braids for different occasions. He said he only knew how to do a couple kinds. He was . . . he was embarrassed. Because—because he did birthday celebration braids in my hair."

He doesn't know why he's saying all this. A tear drips down his nose, and he leaves it there.

Gem giggles a little. "So you walked around for three days with the Cod equivalent of a birthday hat on your head?"

"Well, nobody saw it," Scott defends himself. "I was wearing my betrothal veil. But—" and now he's really starting to cry, chest shaking with the effort of repressing it— "but he said that he would learn the marriage braids. So that—so that when we got married, we—we wouldn't have to go to a—a braider. Because of—of the veils. So that no one—no one would see us before the wedding."

"Oh, Scott. . . ."

"Sorry," he manages, wiping a hand across his face. "I'm fine, I-I promise, it's only. . . ."

"It's hard," Gem says, tying off the braid. "It's okay. I can't even imagine what you're going through right now."

Scott takes in a shuddering breath, trying not to make any embarrassing sounds. "Do you—do you think," he asks after a moment, "do you think he's . . . in a better place? Do you think he's—he's h-happy?"

"I think so. I think he's right here watching over you, telling you that it'll be all right, that he'll see you again one day. What do you think?"

Scott sniffles. "I—I hope he's not hurting anymore. He was—he was always hurting. I hope—I hope his scars are gone, and, and his scales are back, and he's happy."

Gem cards her hands through his hair, soft and careful. "Me too," she says, her voice shaking just the slightest bit. "He deserves it."

Scott nods vigorously, the lump in his throat suddenly too large to speak. If anyone deserves it, Jimmy does.

He really hopes he's happy.

He just wishes that would be enough.

It's elvish belief that there are different levels of an afterlife, with the most restful and happiest being only open to elvish royalty and legendary heroes—the stars of whom make up the Crystal of Rivendell constellation in the skies.

Even if Jimmy is happy, Scott will never see him again. Not unless an exception is made, and one never has.

Jimmy wasn't a legendary hero.

He wasn't elvish royalty.

He was just Jimmy.

Scott lets himself cry, feeling as if his heart is being torn out of his chest, for several minutes there on the floor of Gem's bedroom. He lets it hurt. He lets it wash him away, lets himself sink into it, until nothing exists but the pain.

It's cathartic, or something like that. Jimmy deserves the tears.

"You did amazing, earlier," Gem tells him when his sobs devolve into hiccups, when he starts to pull himself back, his head barely above the sea of pain again. "During the meeting. If I know Sausage, he was hoping for a big reaction. You and Lizzie were incredible in there."

Scott manages a wet chuckle. "I just imagined killing him," he admits. "It helped quite a bit."

"Oh, I used to do that all time in Wither Rose Alliance meetings. Super therapeutic."

Scott wipes his eyes on the stiff fabric of his sleeve cuff. He's not done crying, by any means. He probably could cry all day and not run out of tears.

But he has responsibilities to take care of.

"So," he says, after a profoundly teary sigh, pulling himself up to sit beside Gem on the bed. "Where's this library?"

They meet Katherine there, an hour later, halfway up one of the cliffs that the empire is built around. She squeals when she sees Scott, gives him a hug.

Scott has never hugged Katherine before in his life. He'd laid down the ground rule early on that he wasn't okay with hugs, and she'd accepted that immediately (unlike Gem, who had never seemed to learn).

But he's gotten more accustomed to physical touch over the past months, and he barely even freezes up before returning the hug, squeezing her tightly.

"I didn't think you'd still be here!" Katherine says excitedly when she pulls back. "Is Lizzie still here?"

"No, she left already," Gem cuts in. "Scott's leaving after supper, I just wanted him to see the library."

"Oh, right," Katherine says. "Scott, I've been looking through all of the libraries in my empire, and I haven't found anything."

"That's all right," Scott tells her. He'd asked her, months ago now (as well as every other empire he was allied with), to search for anything that could destroy the demon. "I haven't found anything, either."

"Well I found this library!" Gem says proudly. "I've already started looking through it, but I felt like three heads would be better than one."

And with that, Gem goes behind a boulder. "This way!" they hear her call faintly.

Scott looks at Katherine, then the two guards who had accompanied them, then back at Katherine. She shrugs, gossamer wings fluttering behind her.

Nothing left to do but go in, Scott supposes. He moves past Katherine, ready to squish through the tiny entrance that Gem had gone through, but Katherine catches his shoulder.

"I'm really sorry, Scott," she says, and to his surprise, there are already tears gathering in her violet eyes. "We weren't very close, but I was one of Jimmy's first allies. Do you know when the funeral will be?"

Scott bites his lip and shakes his head. "There's . . . there isn't a body," he says after a moment. "So Lizzie may put it off for some time. Thank you."

Before she can say anything else, Scott turns away and starts moving through the strict passage between the boulder and the cliff face.

It's tight, and his feathers get pushed all the wrong ways, but Scott scrapes through, heaving and pushing against the boulder until he finally manages to come out the other side.

On the other side is a dark tunnel through the cliff, a little patch of light visible at the end.

Scott reaches out blindly for a wall, fingers landing on roughly-hewn stone.

He follows it along, twenty, thirty, forty strides, as the light looms larger and larger, and then he's stepping through the other end of the tunnel—

Whoa.

This—this is a library.

This is an old library.

It's a dimly-lit, dusty, high-ceilinged area, shelves going up twice as tall as Scott, books crammed into every space available. He maneuvers his way between stacks of books and curling parchment paper, through a tiny footpath that leads deeper into the library.

It gets more claustrophobic the deeper he goes, wings held tightly to his back to avoid accidentally knocking something over, like one of the lamps hanging from the sides of the bookshelves. That would be bad. Or one of the precarious piles of books next to the lamps. That would possibly be worse.

He passes by hundreds of books, the titles on the spines in languages that he doesn't speak and several he doesn't recognize, and the titles he can read are old and rubbed-off—Great Tales of Haddenbur, one reads, yet on another he can only make out F l di a r or el.

He can't figure out a system. One book looks like a collection of adventures, and the next one like a cookbook. It's not alphabetical, either—he sees a Z title right next to a D, next to an H.

It's confusing, and strikingly mazelike, and Scott mentally marks a couple of notable-looking books (overly large, or brightly colored, or hanging dangerously off of the shelf) as landmarks, a way to get back to the entrance.

He finds Gem fairly deep in, between two rows of shelves that form a little alcove against a wall. She's flipping through a book, and when she sees Scott, she holds it out.

"Can you read this?"

Scott inches sideways past a stack of parchment rolls and straightens out in the alcove, gingerly taking the book from her.

It's a form of elvish, but not exactly like Rivendell's. The words on this page make some sort of sense if he stares at them long enough—that one surely says 'herb' and the one beside it looks kind of like 'medicine', so maybe some kind of healer's guide—but the characters aren't quite right. To his surprise, it's recognizable as Old Elvish.

He's run into a couple of books like this in his searches, most of which are sorted into their own sections, with Old Elvish scholars from the university available upon appointment to read them aloud to library patrons when necessary.

He'd gone through every Old Elvish book that he could find in the City, having the titles and chapter headings read to him, and occasionally passages. None of them had proved fruitful, despite them being the most likely place to find any instructions on how to defeat Exor and his champion. The older the book, the better the chances.

Scott wishes he'd paid more attention in his youth. He had taken Old Elvish classes as part of his childhood tutoring, but he hardly remembers any of it.

He knows enough to slowly decipher titles, though—enough to, at least, know whether or not it would be relevant to his search—and with time he could sort through all of these books and decide which ones might be useful.

And he wants to, as well.

Something feels different, here.

"Do all of them look like this?" he asks, flipping open the book.

"Look like what?" asks Katherine, coming up behind him.

"All the ones in this section," Gem answers. "It's some kind of elvish, I can't read it."

"It's Old Elvish," murmurs Scott, closing the book and tucking it under his arm. "I can kind of read it. I'll need time."

Gem grimaces. "You have to get back to Rivendell. Maybe—"

"I can stay three days," Scott decides on the spot. "I think . . . I have a good feeling about this."

He can't describe it further than that. He just feels . . . a pull to these books, a spiritual connection that he can't explain. There's something here that he needs to find, something too important to hand off to someone else.

Aeor wants him here.

"That's—that's great!" says Gem. "Should we go get supper, then, and start on it tomorrow? Do you need to call your council?"

He doesn't want to leave. Not with this pulling at his soul. Not with this invisible string tying him to something here.

But he does need to call his council, quickly tell them his visit has extended, and then hang up before they can complain. And he's pretty sure his communicator doesn't have any connection out here.

"Supper, then return tonight," Scott says decisively. "Can we do that?"

So, that evening, after messaging his council to tell them of the extension and then turning off his communicator before getting a response, Scott and Gem and Katherine head up to the secret library to begin the search, accompanied by four guards assigned to sit in the dark passage and wait.

Scott quickly sequesters himself in the Old Elvish section (or, the section that seems to be majorly Old Elvish, with random other books thrown in where there's extra space), handing a book in Old Elvish each to the girls so they can search the rest of the library for matching letters.

Then begins the long and laborious task of reading what he can of the titles and chapter headings of every single book in the section, in addition to the occasional one that Gem or Katherine carries over.

It's exhausting, and his eyes burn, and he feels too warm in all these layers, but he leafs through page after page and forces himself to focus.

Scott makes it through maybe twenty useless books that evening before the other two drag him away from his work to go to bed.

He does kind of need it. Maybe he can attack the books with a renewed vigor in the morning.

He hadn't brought a change of clothes, so Scott wears his travel clothes to bed that night and puts his mourning things back on when the dawning sun wakes him, too bright in his still-burning eyes.

He eats breakfast alone, Gem and Katherine in some official meeting that hadn't pertained to him. They join him when it's time to head to the library, bright and early, both hopeful and smiling beside Scott's dark presence.

It feels strange.

It feels sad.

Scott spends hours alone that day, skimming through books upon books upon books, interrupted every once in a while by Katherine having him get up and walk around for a minute, or Gem telling him it's time to go eat. The three of them usually fly down for meals, leaving the library guard to change out while they eat. Then they fly back up, eliminating the fifty or sixty minutes it would take to climb back up. They don't have much time, after all. Every minute saved is priceless.

And those priceless minutes find Scott sitting on the hard stone floor, staring at books about every possible subject except the one that he so desperately needs.

And his soul still itches. There's something here. Buried among these thousands of books is something useful.

So he keeps looking.

It's getting to be late that evening when Scott, setting a book into his pile of discards (there's only two books that he's set aside to take home, neither of which look very promising), stands to get the next book and pulls a tome off the shelf that doesn't look at all right.

It's old, certainly. Scott's no scholar, but he'd probably date it back around a thousand years. It isn't bound with leather, but with something grey and oil-stained, the pages stiff and a pale green. The writing on one of those old pages (so old that Scott has to take extra care so as not to break the page, as brittle as it is) is blue, hard to see.

And Scott doesn't recognize the letters at all.

"Hey, Gem?" he calls (his voice breaks a little on her name, but he swallows and pushes through), after staring blankly at it for several moments. "Can you come look at this?"

He hears shuffling of piles and a book fall over, which means she's on her way. Scott closes the book, turns it over in his hands.

No title on the cover—he's found that only about fifty percent of the books he looks at have anything on the cover. Unlike anything he's seen so far, though, hanging from the spine by a cord is a drawstring pouch about the size of Scott's palm, made of the same material as the book.

"What do you need?"

He looks up, sees Gem smiling tiredly, Katherine standing behind her. He hands her the book.

"Do you know these letters?"

Gem opens it up, frowns. Looks closer. Turns the book upside down.

Scott waits patiently.

"It kind of looks . . . Oceanic," she says after a minute. "Just from how big it is, and how strong the lines are. And this kind of looks like glow squid ink, and maybe a seal cover. Should we give it to—oh!"

As she turns it back upright, a thin book falls out of the back and tumbles to the floor. Scott picks it up, carefully flips it open—yep, same make and script, but clearly a different author, and maybe a bit more recent.

"Right," Gem says, and Scott realizes she's peering down at the smaller book as well. "Should we give these to Lizzie?"

Scott puts them both in his satchel with a nod, then goes to grab the next book—but Gem catches him by the arm.

"Let's go to bed, how about," she suggests. "You have two more days to find it. Maybe it would be best to come back in the morning with a fresh, well-rested mind."

She's probably right.

Scott just feels that if he doesn't totally exhaust himself, he'll lie up all night, trying hard not to think about why his bed feels so lonely.

But he packs up the two Old Elvish books he'd found, and then puts away his discard pile (after marking with a slip of paper stuffed between books where in the shelves he'd left off). Then he follows the other two out, taking a moment to stretch his stiff wings before taking flight and returning to his suite of rooms.

And just as he assumed he would, he lies awake in bed for hours, until he finally cries himself to sleep.

As it turns out, he doesn't have two more days.

His council contacts Gem, and tells her in no uncertain terms that Scott had better be on a ship to return the next morning or they'll crown a new king.

Scott's pretty sure they can't do that, but it's best to play it safe.

So he puts on his mourning robes again (they smell fresh and are folded when he picks them up, which means that Gem had found a way to have his laundry done overnight, which might just be the kindest thing ever and no Scott isn't crying—) and skips breakfast to go to the library early, Katherine and Gem reluctantly grabbing food for the road.

He's been working all day—he also skipped lunch to keep it going, brain absolutely melting as he stares at another page of a language he doesn't really understand—when he hears his name in the girls' quiet conversation that's become background noise.

He freezes, cross-legged on the floor with a book in his lap, and strains his sensitive ears to listen.

"—is he doing?" Katherine's saying.

Gem sighs. "He's not doing great," she says. "I don't think I've ever seen Scott cry, you know?"

"Me neither. That just sounds . . . wrong."

"Mhm. He didn't cry at all for that . . . that stupid meeting, though. He and Lizzie both. They just sat there, all . . . cold, and imposing. Have you ever seen Lizzie angry?"

"I don't—wait, yes, at the End. She was scary."

A little chuckle from Gem. "Yep. She was like that—worse, maybe. But after Sausage left, she and Scott just kind of . . . held hands and cried. It was bad."

"Wait, so what's this about there not being a body? Scott said something about it, about how the funeral might be delayed?"

"Yeah, because Sausage is an idiot," Gem says heatedly, then quieter, "I don't know why he did it—he should be smarter than that—but he just—he just threw Jimmy's body in a mass grave. Like he wasn't even an emperor. Like he wasn't anything."

"Wait, that violates the House Blossom Accords," Katherine says instantly. "Under 'Respect', section—"

"Yep, Scott brought that up. But Sausage was just—ugh, he was being so weird and racist! He basically said because the Cod people are 'savages' and 'uneducated', they didn't deserve better than a mass grave."

"Gross. Jimmy's been—or, Jimmy was a ruler almost as long as he's been one, he should know that they're not any different from other people."

"Right? Sausage never used to act like that. I don't know what happened to him." She huffs, and Scott hears a book get set down. "Anyway, I'm not going to ask Lizzie or Scott to dig through a literal pile of bodies to find Jimmy, you know? Especially since it's been at least a week, and bodies start to decay pretty quickly. . . ."

"Totally. It's going to be hard without a body, though."

"That's what I was thinking. I think—not that Scott has to move on right away or anything, but I think it'll be really tough to do it without a body to bury."

"He needs that closure."

"Mm."

They fall silent, and Scott looks down at the book again to see a tear fall on the decrepit page. He whispers a curse, presses his cuff to the splash of water.

He would feel offended that they were talking about him behind his back, but he mostly feels embarrassed. And sad.

They're right. Scott hadn't even thought about it, but he thinks that if he had Jimmy's body, he wouldn't feel quite so large a hole in his heart. At least then he could say goodbye. At least then, he could maybe fix his hair so it isn't sticking up like it always is, grip his lifeless fingers one last time—

Scott swallows back the sob, letting out a little shuddering gasp in its place. He can't—he can't cry here, when Katherine and Gem are right over there and he has very limited time to find a very important book—

"Let's give him some space," he hears one of the girls whisper, then some shuffling and shifting of papers and footsteps.

"Scott, we're going to go get some fresh air," Gem calls from somewhere. "You should take a break at some point, okay?"

Scott doesn't respond, and after a moment, he hears their footsteps recede down the passageway.

He closes the book and sets it in the discard pile (it had been about grammar or something, probably something he needs but not at all what he's looking for), then clears a space on the floor and just lies there on his side, wings pulled tight against his body. He doesn't want to accidentally knock over any books or damage them by leaning on them or something, and he feels so tired, and he just wants to lay there and cry, and he doesn't have time for any of this—

A sob tears from his throat, and Scott covers his face with his hands, trying to stifle the sounds.

He shouldn't be this emotional, especially not in public. If he lets himself break down every time someone so much as mentions Jimmy, he'll be nothing but a weak wreck who isn't worthy of his rule.

And maybe it's a sign of his weakness that Scott lets himself cry a minute longer.

And maybe it's a sign of his unworthiness when he almost immediately slips into sleep.

Blood drips down his fingers and onto the shining white coat of the stag that he loosely clutches to. The stag walks on, carefully stepping around knobby tree roots and over lumps in the earth that might make the journey even more painful for his many wounds.

Scott's entire body hurts, pulsing from head to toe. He can feel a missing tooth, a broken rib. His left arm hangs uselessly to the side. His right arm is covered in blood.

The stag walks, undeterred, even as Scott's head slumps against its neck, even as his body becomes more like deadweight than anything else.

It's peaceful in his pain. Grass is pressed down into the ground with every footstep the stag takes, springing up behind it. There's the light tune of a chickadee singing somewhere in the woods, the rustling of a small animal in some brush they pass.

It's gentle, almost, and Scott sighs and just exists at the most basic level possible.

The ground becomes softer, the stag's hooves leaving imprints in the earth. Then there's a puddle of water, here and there, then mud squishing underneath each step. A bullfrog croaks off to the left, singing to the gentle song of flowing water and dripdrops from leaves.

And then the stag stops.

Scott really ought to look up, see why it's stopped. What it's trying to show him. But his head is too heavy, his body too pained.

He can't even begin to muster the strength.

The stag, then, tips its head down—down, down, until Scott's hand slips free of its tenuous grasp and his bleeding body starts to slide. He tumbles slowly, between the antlers, and falls, almost silently, into a dark pool of water.

Red billows up in clouds around him as Scott falls deeper, the cool water washing away so many aches and injuries. It feels nice, clean despite the murkiness. It's healing, and relaxing, and he can just release any breath in his chest and let the water take him.

He sinks in slow-motion, allowing the pond to carry him deeper, until his toes hit the sandy bottom and he hangs there, almost suspended.

Something swims up to him—a cod, he realizes after a moment. It pokes playfully at his nose, then swims above his head.

Scott's eyes follow it, then turn past it as he can see, standing on the distant surface of the pool, the white stag.

As soon as Scott is looking, the stag prances across the water, and he watches even as his eyes grow heavy and begin to close.

Still it prances, a tiny beast traveling across the inside of his eyelids—and when he opens his eyes, across an old, stone floor, up a pile of books and across a shelf, cantering along until it stops beside an unassuming brown leather-bound book.

It looks at the book, then back at Scott.

CRASH!

Scott starts awake, sitting up, frantically reaching out to catch whatever had fallen.

"Sorry!" Katherine whisper-shouts. "I knocked over some books, sorry. You can go back to sleep."

Scott rubs his eyes, blinking around at the dimly-lit library, Katherine and Gem standing frozen a couple of feet away from him.

"How long was I asleep?" he mumbles, pulling his knees up to his chest.

Gem exchanges a look with Katherine before shrugging. "Maybe twenty minutes? We were going to give you twenty more before waking you up, sorry."

"No, no—I need to be up," he says. "You should've woken me."

Another look exchanged. "Look, Scott," Katherine says gently, "we think you should maybe take a break? We could go eat something, come back for a few more hours before setting the library aside? Gem can keep looking, and you can come back in a couple of weeks—"

Scott stops paying attention, remembering the stag . . . across the floor, up the stack of books over there, across the shelf. . . .

Scott stands, trips over a book he'd left on the floor, catches his balance against a bookshelf before Katherine can rush forward.

"Scott, you need to rest," says Gem firmly. "I'll find an Old Elvish translation dictionary or something and go through these myself, okay? I want you to go home and take care of yourself."

Scott continues to ignore her, pushing past both of the girls, shifting aside a stack of books to find the shelf that he'd seen in his dream—

There's the book. Exactly as it appeared in his dream.

Scott grabs it, tugs it off the shelf, even as Katherine and Gem both voice their protests.

On the leather cover is a simple, golden stag.

Scott flips it open, barely registering as the other two fall silent. The title page is instantly familiar, one of few that Scott has actually seen in Old Elvish before.

The Tale of the Two Stags.

He pages through it quickly—it's long, far longer than the story usually is, and it's been annotated. There are handwritten notes in the margins, in a form of Elvish more recent than everything else here, close enough to the current form that Scott can mostly read it.

The mountaine in the este?, one note reads, underlining a sentence. How did Conal finte it? Will the same mountaine suffise?

These are notes from Alinar himself, Scott realizes, as he reads a few more, sudden chills encompassing his entire body.

Alinar held this book.

Alinar wrote in this book.

He flips to the final pages, those that would be blank, to find that they are covered with precise notes written by Alinar. He catches the word daemone several times, something about a cristyl, what appears to be some kind of a plan, complete with a diagram. . . .

"This is it," he says quietly. He looks up; Katherine and Gem are staring at him, mouths slightly ajar. He snaps the book shut, holds it up. "This is the book."

He knows it, too. Not just because Alinar had handwritten notes in it, not just because he was led to it. But he feels that pull, that spiritual connection. It's strong, unfathomably strong, binding him to this book in his hands.

"Scott, how . . . how did you know where that was?" Gem asks slowly.

"It was behind other books," adds Katherine. "In a section that you haven't even started on."

Scott shrugs. He really isn't sure how to answer without telling them that he thinks he might be Aeor's Champion, which isn't exactly something that he wants to be advertised. What if word got around, and then he utterly lost against Xornoth? He doesn't want to give false hope.

And maybe, perhaps more relevantly, saying it out loud comes with more revelations that he doesn't want to face.

"I had a good feeling, I suppose," he says.

Gem gives him a dubious look. "That's not a 'good feeling'," she says. "That's magic. Is that what elves' magic is like? Really good intuition? I've been trying to get an elven teacher for the Academy so that I can learn more about—"

"It's not really something we can teach, or learn," Scott interrupts. Maybe best to let her believe that it had been his inherent magic (which really isn't that impressive, seeing as all it really is is the ability to make some powerful suggestions or commands, and their promises are a bit more binding than others, the magic diluted as the generations pass from Alinar's rule, the last generation of great favor in Aeor's eyes) that led him to the book.

"Oh, so it's more instinctive! So is it a conscious—"

"Gem, how about we go eat now, and you can quiz me all about fae magic when you take me back to the Overgrown," Katherine suggests. "That way, Scott can get home before his advisors send assassins after us."

Right, he does need to get back home.

"And maybe he can get a change of clothes," adds Katherine.

Scott's stomach drops a little bit. There'll be another set of mourning clothes waiting for him, more likely than not.

And then there'll be other, harder things. He'll have to release some sort of statement of mourning, and if the court decides that he and Jimmy were still betrothed, he may have to declare a day of mourning for the entire country. He'll have to work with Lizzie to pull together some sort of memorial service, if possible. He'll have to sit through all sorts of official people giving their condolences. He'll have to run a war.

Maybe, if he asks nicely, Gem will let him stay a little longer.

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