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definitelynotshouting · 3 months ago

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your half of the ransom

inspired by this post and scar's tweets about secret life :] i speedran this just in time for the first eps of the new season to drop!! as always likes and reblogs and especially comments in the tags are appreciated❤️ enjoy!!

Scar wakes to a field of sunflowers.

The sun itself is a swollen yolk bleeding gold at its edges when he blinks, cascading down from the horizon to melt over the earth with indiscriminate fervor. It dips the petals of each field-flower in honey, honing their silhouettes to supple knife-points— even the soil beneath him, packed firm from countless nights of sleep, has burnished to a fine, patinated bronze. In the amber of its rays stray pebbles transmute to pyrite, the subtle scrabble of roots to filigree, and caught in the open mouth of such gaudy resplendence, Scar digs an elbow into the dirt and hauls himself, reluctant, back to his own unsteady feet.

Even at full height the sunflowers still tower, blocking all signs of hearth and home. But the sun (popped, bleeding, all gored-out gold in the upturned belly of the sky) remains his guide— Scar picks his legs up in a faltering stumble to follow it before catching rough fingers against the stalk of a nearby sunflower. He flinches; this early, it's too easy to perceive each stalk as part of a swarm, a yellowed panoptic presence bearing down on the world-weary muscles of his shoulders.

Their seeds will need harvesting soon. Scar hums, a match-strike against unyielding silence, and casts his gaze back to the sun above to orient himself in the direction of his base.

Until they're ready, he has nowhere else to be.

Trader Scar's is too-empty for so comely a morning, a hollowed-out shell long rebuilt and bristling with more wares than he has those to sell them to. But it's a familiar charade— Scar slips into the back with a single sunflower clenched tight in his palm, bruising the petals and scratching against the insides of his fingers. He changes in rapid, efficient motions; last night's poncho is discarded over a nearby chest in exchange for a brighter one, yellow wool lovingly dyed; his hair is released from its tie, combed through, then braided again; the soft leather shoes he'd worn underneath the stars are left to clump by the doorway in favour of far-keener diamond. Worn in but undamaged, the crystal chimes without dents or scratches— there's nothing left to fight here, anymore.

When Scar steps back out to the front, a ghost is waiting patiently for him at the counter.

Or— the ghost of a ghost, if he's being generous. The outline of a shadow, the flicker of a distant mirage. "Oh," Scar says, and the word scrapes like rust from the well of his throat. He'd recognize those wings anywhere. "Well, hello there, Grian."

Grian's filmy outline says nothing. They never do, when the shades appear for a rare visit. The barrier between living and dead remains a clear divide, a gorge through which Scar cannot pass— all that's left between them now are the soft, faded echoes of what was, and what it could have been.

Still, in the year he's spent here, that's never deterred him from a potential sale. Scar props a hip up against the counter, eyeing the flickering shadow and mustering up his best imitation of an enthusiastic smile. "So what brings you out here to my neck of the woods? Looking for something to buy? Some fine goods to trade, perhaps? Man, I don't think I've seen you around in a dog's age. How about some catching up?"

The back of his neck prickles, electric; Grian's shade is a stygian blot in his vision, a fuzz of static that extends its presence from floor to ceiling. His ghost keeps his silence.

Scar tugs his smile wider, flashing two rows of bright, gleaming teeth in Grian's direction until the strain threatens to choke him. "No? Not even a little bone for ol' Scar? Well, tell you what, don't you go standing on su— se— oh, ceremony! Come in, come in! You make yourself at home, you know how I just love a visitor— how about I make us a drink to share and you tell me where in the world you've been, mister."

He doesn't bother waiting for a non-existent reply; instead, Scar swoops down to snag his fingers against the cupboard he'd installed within the counter months ago, fumbling with the latch before throwing its doors wide open with a gust of musty air. Inside, an eclectic mix of quite high-quality wares and some of Scar's own humble belongings tangle, speckled with cobwebs and the first faint stirrings of freshly disturbed dust.

Scar purses his lips, eyeing each item in turn. A nautilus shell here, a few scraps of wood there, some glass bottles, the handle of a ladle he'd cracked over six months back.... Squinting, he thrusts his hand deep into the mess, sweeping the items aside and shuffling new ones into view until— there!

Toward the back lies a dented iron kettle, brittle with disuse. Scar snaps forward, straining out his arm until the tips of two fingers meet the edge of its dusty wooden handle. With a grunt, he flicks it closer, wincing at the shrill scrape of iron on wood as it inches toward him.

SCAR.

It is not a voice. No mere voice can resonate a single word like that in his chest, trembling in his bones and drumming out from the chambers of his very heart. Like a ripple on the still surface of a lake, it rattles through him, scattering each thought to the far corners of his mind and stripping him raw, flaying open his ribs to splay beneath the scorching sun. The yelp that bubbles up to his lips flies past them unbidden, rocketing out with such force that he jolts, and rams his skull straight into the overhanging lip of the counter.

White-on-red sparks, a cherry-hot bolt of fire centered on his crown. "OW! Oh, oh my gosh, I-I— Grian?"

None of the shades haunting him and this server have spoken. They've never spoken. They've never— so why now, when he's made his peace with that—

Scar wets his lips, tongue dry as desert bone, and drags the kettle out of the cupboard with one quick yank. Clutching it to his chest, he rises back up on shaky feet, holding it up as if to ward off an incoming attack. Some shield; its hollow interior reverberates with a screech when he raps his knuckles against it. "Now— now hang on, mister, you can't just— you— oh my gosh, I-I think you just made my heart stop there for a second." A bracing breath. Two. "Y-You can't just shock a man in his own home like that! You...."

Scar trails off. The misty impression hovering on the other side of the counter remains impassive, impersonal— this is not the Grian he knows.

The Grian he knew.

Deep within the static writhe of his shade, the after-image burn of greyed-out eyes begin to squirm to the surface. Scar flicks his gaze back to the kettle with instinctive, long-honed deference, staring hard into the distorted lines of his own reflection.

YOU WON. Once again the words rip something vital in him, boil up through his veins to tear themselves, wet and coppery, on the limp meat of his tongue. Scar risks a peek up, lump hanging heavy in his throat; each syllable comes out as a squeak, threatening to crack the smooth silver of his voice.

"I— yep, I sure did! I sure did, and— thank you very much, for noticing! I, uh, I still don't know how I did that, what with— oh, you know how it is, with, with the, uh, the— friends situation, how that all panned out. Y'know, actually, I wonder if that's wh—"

The eyes blink at him, asynchronous and blank. Hollow. In the heartbeat it takes for them to train back on his own, a soul-wrenching wave of gooseflesh ripples up over Scar's arms.

He whirls himself away so fast his vision spins. "So, uh— tea! You like tea, right Grian?" Without ceremony Scar scrambles to the other side of the room, forcing the counter still between them, every nerve in his body winding tighter, tighter, kinetic energy in a bottle. "How about, um, a—" he rifles through a new cabinet, clumsy with frenzy— "oh, shoot, now where did I put that— I've got some, uh, some dandelion root! Hand roasted by yours truly, of course. Not that anyone else could do it now, but— oh, oh, and look at the lavender, now that's just delicious, you've gotta try it, G, I know you'll just absolutely love it."

Silence. Scar's hand pauses, braced tight on the handle of the cabinet.

"Grian," he says, slow, quiet. Lets the words drift up, shining soap bubbles, to pop against the ceiling. "Why— what are you doing here?"

To his credit, Grian is direct. IT'S TIME.

Without permission, Scar's fingers tighten around the handle of the cabinet. "It's— what? Wait, wait—" He blinks. Does not turn around. "Time for what?"

Silence.

Scar licks his lips, worrying at the split still stinging at the right hand corner. "Time for what, Grian?"

The distinct pall of burning ozone scalds through the air. Tentatively, Scar shoots a glance back down into the kettle, peering at the distinct smudge still smearing the wall behind him. No eyes in its reflection; some of the tension riding in his shoulders loosens, slackens his tendons and begins to uncurl his fingers from the cabinet knob.

Without warning, a wash of ice wisps forward to numb the small of his back. COME HOME, Grian says simply. The words echo in the gap beneath his sternum, drag themselves up each vertebrae in his spine, and Scar freezes stiff, solid.

"This is home," Scar says, blank.

NO.

Some hot ember, banked countless months ago, sparks back to life in the pit of his stomach. "It is," he says, more firmly this time. "It's— that's it. You said it yourself: I won. And I did it fair and square, I'll say. I followed every rule, every task to the— to the nth degree, and... and now I, um." He falters. Grits his teeth until the molars ache. "I get to live with it."

But a sudden chill that has nothing to do with the shade behind him abruptly slips beneath his skin. Hesitantly, still clutching the kettle in one hand like a lifeline, Scar says belatedly: "... Right?"

Despite the sun nearing midday, the temperature around him plummets. NOT ANYMORE.

"Oh," Scar says. The metal surface of the kettles creaks as his second hand joins the first, digging nails into rust and grime. "I— again?"

YES.

"... And what if I don't want to do it again."

He does not phrase it as a question. They both know his answer.

Scar sucks in a sharp shock of air anyway, rattling the kettle against his chest and daubing a blotch of dust over the soft wool of his poncho. "Is—" he bites his lip— "will everyone... be there?"

YES.

Ah. Scar's eyes slip shut of their own accord; behind them, dozens of veins brim over, webs of blood welling up and spilling to slake a thirst so abyssal it could drink and drink for years without satiation.

"... Will you be there?"

For one long, nightmare-eternity, Grian does not reply. Then, a knife between his ribs: YES.

With slow, halting steps, Scar turns. "Okay," he breathes, and drags a hand over his eyes to cloak them both in darkness, and sags back until his skull knocks against the cabinet door with a dull, tender thunk. Each exhale emerges as a series of shaky puffs, damming up his lungs and swallowing all the air in his esophagus. Scar shudders, scrapes his bitten-down nails against iron, and breathes with the roiling of his gut. "... Okay."

When he opens his eyes again, Grian's ghost has vanished.

The spot it occupied is still frigid when he waves a trembling hand through it; Scar inhales, exhales, inhales again. Rinse and repeat, the perfect cycle, the mantra against extraneous thought. Then, solemn and deliberate, he holds the kettle out in front of him, trailing one wandering finger over its dents and bruises, tracing the paths between the known and the new.

"Guess I'll see you there," he tells it, and lifts its grubby handle up in absent toast.

High above, the bleeding sun strikes noon at last. Scar does not harvest the sunflowers.