Archive of Our Own ^beta

Blinding, searing pain, encompassing every single nerve ending as if he had been set on fire. Fuck, this was worse than that, worse than any pain he had experienced before, worse than any death Scar has had so far - worse than the torture that was the torment of “Win Secret Life.” He’d do anything to return that realm, cursing himself as he writhed around in agony. Why had he even tried to leave? At the time, anything seemed better than the haunting arena. Now he’d trade his next three lives at once to make his body stop feeling like it was splintering; falling apart right from his core to his surface. Clutching at himself was a fruitless endeavour, his fingers clinging at skin melting off of his soul which was peeling off of- 

Bright, fresh air snapped Scar out of a reverie of pain - almost as if a blessing given to him by the Gods, Scar was distractedly cast across a field of what felt like snow, each time the cold skimmed across his skin felt as if the ultimate panacea had washed over his very core. God, he could still barely open his eyes, even as he came to a stop buried deep in the snow, echoes of the pain radiating from an unknown pinpoint. God knows what was going on, Scar didn't even know what the snow was helping. It was as if he was punished by the universe for simply trying to escape the arena. But, alas, he did feel… Well, better was the wrong word, his body still seared when he breathed, but he wasn’t coming apart anymore. Nothing was trying to tug his core out from him, no force trying to turn him inside out… It was almost serene. Almost.

Finally opening his eyes with the support of the cold around him, Scar was first greeted by the shining of bright snow around him, then by the darkness of the night sky, completely starless, as if something had killed all the stars and scattered their bright dust upon the snow. Oddly enough though, Scar found himself drawn to the biggest full moon he had ever seen in his life, a profoundly unsettlingly sight that made his breathe heave. It looked concerningly close to the Earth. Scar groaned at that thought, the idea ringing more bells than he was realistically comfortable with, and shut his eyes again tightly. He needed to recuperate.

Grian wasn’t doing much. He hadn’t really been doing much since he lost secret life except waiting and spellwriting - he hadn’t even checked on Scar in a while, his crystal ball covered in a sheet he swore to remove every time he passed it.

His lone, dark tower he had taken residence in upon escaping the clutches of the Watchers was proving to be lonelier than usual. He hadn't even been able to leave the structure recently - not with the blizzard going on as it was, strong and cursed yet silent. It had been like this since Scar had won the last game, storming outside without reprieve, yet none of the snow had stuck. Well, Grian guesses it hadn't, because if so he wouldn't be able to look out of his windows. A solid layer of snow was expected around here, anyway.

Looking out of his ground floor windows, peering past his windowsill decor, Grian could just about make out the red of the poppies leading down the mountain. If the blizzard let up, he might even be able to see the lilac bushes. Although, those are actually pretty far away, and Grian could barely see them from his windows when the sky was clear. When he was desperate though, he made the journey and sat amongst them. He found it fun to watch as his mindscape of a realm twisted around him and made room for him to sit. On his worst days, it formed a full canopy. This place was mostly made of his subconscious magic, Grian had come to realise over his tenure here. It was also one of the places he could unfurl his wings without having to be careful of those around him - the air was thick with his power, especially in his tower where it seemed to concentrate luke invisible smog, so there was no displacement. No explosions.

Turning away from the window, Grian sighed as he caught sight of the entryway. With a huff and a roll if his eyes, he stormed over to his store cupboard. Sand. Again. As if ghosts were tracking in and out of his house at random, the floor in front of Grian's door would be tracked with sand.  It didn’t really make any sense, given how the only sand present was so far below the snow that it realistically could only be reached if you dug for it, but he knew its origins, just like how he knew where everything else came from. He can take a hint.

Grian propped open his heavy door, only slightly perturbed by the magical snow flying in. Whatever, it all disappeared before it hit the floor anyway. Grian didn't even get his broom on the floor properly before he was distracted again. A new welcome mat made Grian pause, stitching itself together underneath Grian’s talons. How odd. New additions to his tower and the area surrounding only really occurred during his return after every game, after new memories made, never during the long periods of the in-between times. He didn't even recognise this one, which was unusual in and of itself given how his brain had immediately placed every other object within the tower. Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, Grian glanced up, watching as some of the blackstone bricks of his entryway started shifting into something more along the lines of sandstone. Now, that was more familiar, yet still his brain didn't quite latch on, as if these manifestations weren't his own. Running his fingers along the bricks, feeling the smoother texture under his claws, Grian ran his tongue against his teeth. What on Earth was going on? Was somebody else here to shift the atmosphere?

Before Grian could even begin to debate the possibilities of that happening, there was a crack in the air, not too dissimilar to the sound of magical displacement, before searing pain burst from just above the centre of Grian's chest, the shock of it making him cry out and stumble back. His wings hit the wall behind him awkwardly as he slouched down, not even being able to touch where he felt like his insides were being ripped out from, because right where the pain was - he felt it, a clarity deep in his mind: an eye, opened. 

Grian choked on his breath at the realisation, tearing off his outermost robe; not even bothering to take off his undershirt and tearing the material enough so he could see it with his main eyes. Blinking in tandem with the two he currently had on his face, but red and bloodshot and teary. What the hell? Grian was awfully taken aback. This shouldn’t - his eyes shouldn’t even be here, he’d put a spell on himself to make sure he’d never see more than the ones on his face, as he always felt deeply uncomfortable whenever he saw more than the usual. Now was no exception, yet if Grian was going to be honest with himself this pain took precedence over him being disturbed at his own eyes. He hadn’t felt pain like this since - since - 

His mind flashes back to the final moments he spent within the arena of secret life. Scar's confused face, a hand on his chest, and pain. This was the same pain from when Grian seared one of his eyes onto Scar. It had been awful, the pain almost tearing him apart, but worth it. In the months that have passed since then Grian has had Scar with him, in a way. Even if he couldn’t look at Scar directly, it had been nice to use his glorified crystal ball to keep tabs. Especially on Scar's poppies and lilacs. Although, he was pretty sure he didn't even need to see the flowers to keep them alive anymore. Magic was weird.

However, giving away this part of him meant nothing if it had been forcefully given back. Swallowing a lump in his throat, Grian let his legs give out and he hit the floor, less from the pain and more from his sickening realisation.

Something seriously wrong must have happened for his eye to be back on his chest - something wrong with Scar - and now Grian couldn’t even check what.

Scar’s first realisation upon finally managing to sit up was that this snow seemed to go on forever in all directions, the rare icy cacti rising from the ground every so often along with frozen pools of obsidian. Although, when he squint his eyes, looking to the direction he had been thrown from he could just about see a thick forest. It looked like good cover from the cold, out of the snow - but a weird twist in his stomach made his body ache when thought about walking towards it, and despite the temptation Scar wasn’t about to disobey his gut. He turned away.

His second realisation comes as more of a gut punch. Drowsily putting weight on his arms to shift around to face away from the forest, the pain now having decreased to a dull constant ache thanks to the cold (Scar couldn't tell if the pain had decreased due to the soothing properties of the cold or because his body was just going numb. Scar was beginning to think the latter), Scar notices the flowers bordering his cloak look… Sad. Wilted.

They’re dying.

It upsets him more than he expects it to, given how before he had escaped the arena he really couldn’t have cared less about them. In fact, he felt a little antagonistic about it - all this deathless, lonely time was passing, and the flowers couldn’t even die? Has any time passed at all? Scar had torn himself up with that train of thought more times than he dared to admit, and at the time he was always so close to tearing them off, ripping them to shreds. Now, though, he felt particularly melancholy. He was in a strange place, nowhere like he’d ever seen before, and now the last thing connecting him to anything he knew (the last thing connecting him to Grian, to the desert) was dying. 

Nothing about his escape was ending up to be any better than his time in the arena.  

Picking off the worst of the flowers - the ones which had already browned, completely unrecognisable as flowers anymore - he dug a little trench out of the snow and sand and buried them. He didn’t even question the sand, really, just quickly moving away from the burial and making moves to stand. He felt a little pathetic for it all, but what was done was done. He's allowed to be emotional.

Standing, he gave another scan across the snowy fields, the terrain seemingly looking worse and worse the further he looked, dark storm clouds gathering on the horizon, surrounding an ambiguous but tall mount. A tugging on his chest, not too dissimilar to how his and Grian’s soulbound felt (Scar immediately cast that thought to the wind. No point in getting his hopes up) drew him to that very storm and, well, it looked like the only point of interest Scar could realistically reach. Scar must be in this particular place for a reason, right? Maybe... that was the reason. 

Glancing over his shoulder, Scar was aware of how much closer the forest was, and temptation gripped his heart, despite how wrong the idea of travelling there felt. Yet, he stayed in place, stricken by a familiar thought that really didn’t feel like his at all.

Don't.

Scar began moving towards the storm. He didn’t need to hear anything else.

Sitting cross legged in the centre of his observatory-cum-spell room, Grian tried to keep himself together as he reached tendrils of his power back into different worlds, into Scar's history. He could barely make heads or tails of every one he checked, his head too cloudy to be using his power like this. He knew if he continued he was going to hurt himself, badly, but he couldn’t make himself stop. He didn’t even clock how his other wings unfurled on his physical body, too distracted to even keep them in like he usually does, because Scar had disappeared into thin air. His crystal ball was now functionally useless without a tether to the outside world, and even if he wanted to use it a massive crack had manifested itself within the glass. There wasn’t even a trace of Scar within the world of the games, from what he could tell, even if his power was rudimentary and unrefined when he was distressed. Grian had been so careful to keep an eye on him, to try and make sure the other Watchers didn’t make it too bad - maybe even try work on a spell that would finally get past the barriers the Watchers had set up and kill him, let his soul rest until the next round - he had been so close too, parchments with disorganised runes scattered about his floor, kicked away, disorganized, when he rushed up here. But even under his watchful eye Scar had slipped through his fingers like sand, the only evidence of him ever existing held within the pain in his chest. Scar was always wandering off at the worst of times, yet Grian knew he was being selfish as he thought that. Scar's world didn't revolve around Grian.

Grian knew he could get rid of the physical hurt if he wanted to. Separate his mind from his body just enough that he didn’t feel the physical word. He couldn’t, though. It would feel like he would be erasing Scar from the universe. 

Coming back to himself for a moment's reprieve, bringing his powers back into himself slowly, Grian realised how vain and self centred he was being. Scar’s life was no longer in his hands, yet here Grian was inserting himself where he shouldn’t. Scar was more independent from Grian than he had ever been, now. Grian’s pretty sure he wouldn't want Grian looking for him, anyway. His back and shoulders ached from being so tense, and almost on instinct he wiggled his talons up and down, immediately feeling the tension drain. He took this as an opportunity to lean back, laying a little pathetically on the floor, ignoring the discomfort of all his wings sprawled beneath him. Scar had taught him that trick to relax. Swallowing back worry, he rubbed the skin around the eye on his chest. For the first time in a long while, Grian kind of just wanted to die. 

God, it would be embarrassing if Scar was in the void with everyone else and Grian was panicking for no reason. If for nobody but himself Grian let out a wet laugh at the idea, the sound emphasising the silence of his realm. Not even the storm could create noise to soothe him. He truly was alone.

He only really had one option left.

Four seconds in, hold for seven, and breathe out until you can’t anymore, Scar repeated to himself, a mantra that kept his feet moving, a slow march towards an unknown destination. The cold air burned his lungs, and his nose had long ago begun to run. Every other step was turning into a stumble, tripping over the snow which had completely soaked his boots and socks. His feet were so numb from the cold that Scar debated on the merits of just going barefoot, but the smarter part of him knew that would be worse. He could barely keep his stiff legs moving, and at this point his boots were proving to be massive supports for his weak ankles. Light snow had begun to fall from the sky, a blessing in the sense that it was seemingly the only evidence that he was anywhere closer to the storm than before - but a curse that made Scar's skin grow ever colder. The air was thick and heavy, almost electrostatic, and if Scar was any more coherent he’d be worried about the charge in the atmosphere shocking his fingers whenever he clutched harder onto his makeshift hood. 

Four seconds in, Scar shut his eyes, just for a moment, hold for four, which was quite unfortunate timing, and out until- OOF!

Scar was sent tumbling across the snow again, foot caught on something that definitely was not snow. His face slammed into the cold, reaction time dulled to a point where he couldn’t have even braced himself if he had seen it. Scar felt deathly - he was cold and wet all over, and really felt like letting himself rot and die face down in the snow. It was what he was trying to achieve a few months prior anyway.

Upon that thought, he was struck by a strange and foreign determination that didn’t particularly feel like his. He wasn’t too taken aback by it though - he’s felt like this before. Every single time he had tried to kill himself, he was rushed with something akin to adrenaline (or at least, that’s how he saw it. Knowing himself he was probably wrong) and this felt awfully similar in how out of place it was. Grian had mentioned something about there being a higher power, once long ago. Scar had never really believed it, not really, but he had certainly learnt to. A higher power that was sickeningly determined to keep him alive as torture seemed fitting for the situation he was in. Scar should have heeded Grian’s warnings.

Taking this opportunity provided to him as it came, Scar managed to roll himself over, flailing a little in an attempt to dislodge his foot from the… thing. Sitting up on his elbows, Scar could finally make it out. A stick.

Well, that was underselling it. It was the same stick Scar had found and used for himself in last life, and it actually came in handy after the aches and pains of respawning. Long and sturdy, it was almost as tall as he was, with branches intertwining in such a way that gave itself natural handholds in convenient places. In any other scenario, Scar would be much more celebratory, but right now all he can manage is a hum and a smile.

Leaning down over his own legs to pick it up, giving his back an uncomfortable stretch in the process, Scar ran his hands against the bark. It was just as fresh as the day he found it. Humming again, Scar shuts his eyes for a moment. It’s a real shame it’s missing all its danglies, he thinks of the personal touches he gave his staff during his wizard era. They were my favourite, especially when they jangled in the wind. What did Grian call it again? A windcharm? Charge? Chime?

Scar never really got to think about it too hard, because before he could finish his thought, quiet, ephemeral chimes rang out, each one echoing the last in a soothingly discordant tune. Scar, furrowing his brow, opened his eyes to glance up the staff to see… his charms. Not a singular one was missing. Rolling his lower lip in-between his teeth, Scar couldn’t even try and fathom how fucking bizarre that was. He is absolutely, one-hundred-percent sure that those weren’t there when he picked up his staff. In fact, where did the staff even come from? He hadn’t seen it for years, and Scar’s pretty sure objects aren’t supposed to travel across dimensions by themselves. Suddenly, a thought ran through Scar’s mind that made his stomach sink. Was this even real? Gods, what if Scar hadn’t escaped at all. What if he was still stuck there, in that stupid fucking trading shop, sleeping off the pain from his ankles? Shaking, Scar gripped onto his stick, the bark digging into his palms.

This is Real. It has to be. 

Scar sighed, relaxing a bit, wiggling his numbing toes in his boots for good measure. Unfortunately enough as it was to think, Scar knew the pain made it real. The ache in his bones solidified his existence in a world which he couldn’t tell was trying to kill him or trying to aid him. Probably a mix of both.

Looking over his shoulder, hope blossomed in Scar’s chest when he realised that he could see he was closer. The texture of the clouds was clearer, and what he assumed his destination was presented as a dark silhouette if a tower sitting in what looked to be the very centre of the storm. The view struck a cord within Scar's heart. Familiar.

Well. Scar had come this far already.

(In for four) He pushed himself up again, slowly so as to not trigger his aching joints, and set off. (hold for seven) Not for the first time today, Scar yearned for Grian to be by his side again. He’d appreciate the company. ( and breathe out until you can't anymore.)

Discomfort ruffled Grian’s wings, each feather pointing on end, stiff. This spell, the only one he had kept to communicate with the two beings that called themselves the Watchers, was his least favourite to cast. It drained him terribly, and forced him out of his illusion spells, and was absurdly difficult to pull off. Even with his main eyes closed and consciousness in a different dimension, he could still See himself - a mangled caricature of a human being, sat cross legged in the center of his casting circle - a distracting sight for his concentration. Whatever. He can have this monologue later, he needs to concentrate on searching right now.

Looking into the metaphorical mass of what Grian considers to be the Void’s version of the outer edges of the universe was arduous to say the least. Even with his Vision, he could barely make his way through with Sight, so having to balance between sending out magic pulses instead of looking to find the Watchers and keeping himself in this plane of reality was really his only option, even if he could barely manage it without splitting himself in half.

Even as he concentrated, Grian had to acknowledge how absurd he was acting. Spending all this time and energy for a man who had long since stopped caring about him was desperate, to say the least. Not that it wasn’t Grian’s fault, he acknowledges that much. If he was a lesser being, he might have blamed his emotional ignorance on him still not being used to his new position as something worse than human, but that would be a lie. He, for one, had acclimated to his brain and body very quickly with the aid of a few spells, and for that he was proud. Just a little. But he still had a brain between his ears. Nothing was stopping him from acting as he should, or treating Scar with dignity, or even just apologising. He was just flawed. Flawed in such a human way that no magic can fix.

Grian’s concentration warbled as he felt something far away emerge, and he had to take a few moments to recoup. Given he was projecting into the void, he couldn’t actually tell what had entered the periphery of his physical body, and much to his discomfort he couldn’t tell if the… being, Grian supposes, was right inside his house or fifty miles away. Okay. God. Grian swallowed, letting out one last pulse before giving up. The Watchers obviously weren’t here, and Grian wasn’t about to push himself towards physical death to find them. He’d just… have to try something different. 

(He says this, but Grian knows there isn’t anything else he can do.)

Grian snorted to himself as he came out of his spell, careful not to enter back too fast lest his physical body implode. Slumping on the floor, limbs exerted and limp from the overuse of magic, Grian stared at the eyes looking straight back at him on his palm. 

Maybe the Watchers are looking for Scar, too. 

Wouldn’t that be funny. 

He doesn't smile.

When Scar had belatedly realised every single flower previously attached to his clothes had died and had been left crumpled in the snow, himself being too distracted by the pain of walking and breathing to even notice at the time, part of him (the same part that just felt empty at the loss) felt he was just left stripped bare and naked, ready to just be flayed by a knife that perpetually stayed just out of his eyeline. This was, of course, very melodramatic, but there was no rationalising in Scar's mind right now. Not when he could barely remain upright, even with his staff. He couldn't even turn around to survey what he had lost - the blizzard had grown so thick and wild that Scar was pretty sure that if he stopped he wouldn't get back up. For real this time- no second, third, forth, thousandth wind was getting him moving again.

Yet, even if it took a solid few minutes for his brain to even realise what he was walking through, Scar was awed all the same. It took Scar almost falling over again, something that might have actually killed him that time (wrong), to get him to finally pay attention to his surroundings.Tugging on the branch capturing his foot, Scar whacked at the flower bush that grew in clumps of frozen twine and wood, knocking the heads of flowers to wilt sadly onto the steady level of snow. His frustration and upset was pierced by a distinct sense of longing as he looked at the frozen lilac head. It looked a lot more delicate sat by itself, not even hanging onto its branch Scar had carelessly whacked it off of. God, he should have been paying much more attention. He couldn't even ungrip his hands from his staff from the cold, fingers going grey and blue and stiff. God knows what was going on with his feet right now either, and Scar kind of yearned for death if not just for the fact he didn't want to deal with the fact his feet were probably rotting away in his shoes, and he didn't want to deal with it.

Looking up, eyes bleary, Scar felt his chest stutter as he cast his eyes upon a complete field of wild lilac bushes. He could barely make out the snow from underneath the shrubbery, and despite the blizzard the plants seemed to remain untouched. Through the brain fog, even Scar manages to realise how strange this is. The weather isn't right for growth - and if they were planted here later they would've died so, so quickly.

Scar would know. He’d tried transferring the lilacs he had brought Grian into the ground near their tower on the mountain, but they had wilted and died near immediately. Grian had been soft enough at the time to help revive them, and Scar vividly remembers watching how Grian carried them back inside with gentle hands, letting the vase full of water do its work. Thinking back on it now, none of what Grian did there was natural. With an almost morbid sense of curiosity, Scar looks back on that moment now and wonders why Grian had even bothered. They were just flowers, to him. Nothing important.

…The poppies had stuck, though. Especially after the gunpowder, they seemed to flourish in the wholly inappropriate weather. Despite the melancholy tone of the memory, Scar smiles fondly as he remembers the well-worn path he and grian had carved down the mountain, all the way down to the crater, where they’d sit for hours amongst the flowers. Scar doesn't remember what they used to talk about now, or if they even spoke at all, but he remembers the compression of the red petals as they'd stood up, rough palms against his as they helped each other climb out of the unnecessarily steep walls, and how often they'd push each other back down the hole for a laugh. How often Grian would sneeze from the pollen.

Scar's knees buckle, and he leans further on his staff, dependent on it to not keel over. He squeezes his eyes shut, ignoring the warm tears that cut through the cold on his face until his legs can start shuffling forwards again, the determination in his chest (belonging to another version of him that died long ago) pulling stronger now. He cannot see it, but his destination is close. It feels familiar, somehow. 

Scar rids that thought from his mind. How absurd.

The path he walks along is worn, forging in front of him as he walks, as if been tread across one thousand times by the same two people. The snow is lighter, more compact, more sandy. Scar doesn't notice, his eyes long since shut as he relies on long old muscle memory to carry him along a path he’ll only forget when he's dead.

Grian's muscles are still weak, but he's managed to pull himself up to the large, open window of his observatory. Here, he can see further than he could from the ground floor, which still isn't very far because of the storm, but at least now he can make out the shrubbery of the lilacs.

The presence he had sensed earlier was still approaching, Grian knew that, but at this point he was very sure it couldn't be a threat. It didn't take long to walk the periphery of his domain, and someone who was taking this long must be weak. Not like Grian can say much - he can barely raise his arms above his head.

Gradually, he watched as the snow churned itself with the sand down the hill, the path twisting down awkwardly through the natural valleys amongst the flowers. Weird. Grian had almost forgotten about his mindscape retexturing itself, almost as if someone else was… here…

Slowly, ever so slowly, a silhouette draped in purple shuffled into Grian's eyeline. Worn and weathered, Grian could tell they'd been walking for a while, even if their gait was closely familiar. A stagger that pierced Grian's heart and brain with the same, awful thought.

That can't be Scar… Can it?

Grian doesn't have to wait long before he can finally feel the person's aura to its finest detail, and his heart stops beating in his chest.

He leaps out of his window, trinkets clattering to the floor in his scramble, not caring for the snow dragging him down. His wings clash with each other, he's not used to using them all at once - he's not sure he's ever actually tried flying with all six of them before - and he falls like a lead balloon, crashing into powdery snow and sand that billows out around him. He lands on everything awkwardly, and he feels and arm break and restitch itself together in the same second. Gravity drags him down the mountain ungraciously as he scrambles for grip, using this momentum to carry his desperate sprint down the hill. He's treading on flowers he reveres, tripping as snow rewrites itself into sand despite the weather, but not even fucking God could stop him as Grian barrels into Scar's chest, clutching him with desperate talons that tear through his clothes and skin and Grian knows Scar never liked it when he got too grabby but he's just so desperate to be close, to feel Scar tangibly infront of him that he can't stop himself. Grian partly rationalises it by acknowledging that, without his grip and bodyweight as counterbalance, Scar would have collapsed backwards at their collision.

Either way, Scar doesn't seem to mind. There's a thud next to him, something Grian distantly recognises as Scar’s staff, before hands wrap around his back, threading between the spaces of his wings to cling onto his bare skin. Grian doesn't even comment on how cold Scars hands are, Grian can't really comment on anything, because he can't even open his mouth, he can't even breathe properly-

“Grian, ” Scar whispers, throat croaky, blood spilling from his lips as he speaks, and he's choking on his own spit and blood in Grian's arms as if his insides are mashed and bloodied and- “G- Grian-”

Scar murmuring his name like a twisted prayer snaps Grian back into his own body, and he shakily uses one of his bare palms to wipe the blood from Scar's jaw, wiping it on his own undershirt. His nose is bleeding, running down his Cupid's bow and into his mouth, and Grian pulls his sleeve over his hand to wipe the blood there, too. His heart aches, and he desperately wants for Scar to stop bleeding so… with a little Intention, he does. He doesn't even feel magic drain from him at the small spell - his entire will so tightly interwoven within his realm that it seems to do the work for him. He wants to lean in, clean the blood from Scar's lips with his tongue, and Grian hates himself for it. He hates how he wants and he hates how he's the one who made it so they can't be close.

Leaning back, if only slightly, resting his shaking, messy palm against Scar’s blood smeared face, Grian tries not to act taken aback when he notices his scars, how within the cracks of Scar’s skin life essence that leaks purple bioluminescence which Grian could reach into and grab. Something is desperately wrong, something much beyond Grian's understanding, and is discomforting to witness Scar's soul at such a raw level. Running a thumb along the scar crossing Scar's adam’s apple, unwilling to let him go, Grian can feel the palpable emotion through his cells. Something clicks, then. This is how the other Watchers feed. Grian's mind goes hazy, for just a second, as he realises there's an easier method to feed rather than trying to consume morsels upon immediate death like he does, but he shakes the thought. Cracking people open at the seems just to feed is excessive, and Grian almost believes himself when he thinks it.

“Aren't you a sight - a sight for sore eyes?” Scar is the first to speak, stuttering and half mumbling with a cracking voice as he grips onto Grian for dear life. Grian blinks once, then twice, clocking how many eyes are scattered across his own face and neck. Is Scar making fun of me? His heart drops into his stomach: he feels ill to have been seen so vulnerably, especially by Scar, and Grian's already hiding his face with the wings bordering his face. He wishes he hadn't removed his outer robes, now. He can't hide the eyes on his neck, and he can't close them at will. Not in the state he's in now. “N - No, Grian, show me, look at me, please.”

Scar sounds desperate, needy, and it makes Grian's heart ache. He rubs the thumb previously on Scar's neck across his cheek. “I'm still looking,” He comforts, wings sheltering them from the snow still falling. “I can still See.”

“Let me see,” Scar asks, no less desperate but more steady, as if he's gaining his voice back. Grian wants to say no. Scar wets his lips and takes a shaky breath. “G, please.”

…Grian hesitates and unfurls his wings. Scar visibly relaxes under his gaze, swaying as he stands. Grian hardens his grip. Consciously, he thinks to himself, who am I to deny the dead their last wish? but immediately recoils at how mean it is. He's just afraid. Grian's always afraid. Regret pierces his very core when it finally settles that Scar isn't going to recoil away from him. In fact, the man pulls Grian closer, cradling him with rough hands in a gentle grip that does nothing to support either of them. Grian can feel his own knees buckle, especially as Scar leans his weight onto him, and it's all Grian can do to guide them onto the ground, softened by the snow and sand. It's a sick echo of their first embrace, all spit and blood and tears. His arms make an attempt to heave Scar up again, but he can barely lift them above his shoulders, nevermind carry Scar up the mountain through his doorway. Distantly, he realises he never really got to clear the sand. His door is still propped open, too. Knowing this makes it worse.

He tries not to, desperately holding it in for as long as his can, but Grian can't help it as he weeps: he can't even gather the strength to drag Scar inside, out of the cold, can't even give him the decency to die comfortably. When has he ever? He heaves, clutching on harder to Scar's biceps. Scar has his head awkwardly resting on the crook of Grian's neck and shoulder, and jerkily moves to look at Grian's face. Grian isn't looking at him, but he Sees the question before Scar can even ask.

“I’m sorry, Scar,” Grian croaks, sounding swollen and snotty, face unnaturally dry and eyes staring unblinkingly into the distance, avoidant. There's an unsteady hand on the back of his head, combing through his hair, and Grian resists the urge to tear it away in petulance. I don't deserve to be treated like this. “I'm so sorry.”

There's a sigh, not made from frustration but rather amused contentment. Grian would rather the former. He knows how to handle Scar's anger, not his kindness. Unintentionally, the sound makes him cry harder. Like this, his Eyes don't produce tears: their only purpose being to see all. Watchers aren't supposed to be as human as Grian is, after all - so why would they be built in with tear ducts? Either way, Grian's mouth feels dry and sticky and his face is hot and flushed, the phantom taste of salt on his tongue. Scar's hand rounds from his hair to his cheek, careful not to touch any of his eyes. It's a level of care Grian wouldn't expect from the man he had beaten to death one series and betrayed in the other. 

“Sweetheart,” Scar starts, and Grian is almost proud of himself when he manages to not make any noise. It's humiliating, but his heavy breathing borders on audible sobs. “There isn't anything to be sorry about, anymore.”

“Don't be stupid, Scar,” Grain spits, more venom in his voice than originally intended, even if it's wet with tears that don't exist, and he already regrets his tone, even if Scar doesn't flinch this time. “There’s always been something to be sorry about.”

It's vague, but Grian's always been flighty about them, and he's really trying to be forthcoming right now, he really is, but he clams up again and all he wants to do is run and hide, but Scar's dependant on him to keep upright and Grian cares too much to leave him in the snow. Especially knowing he wouldn't even die. Not with the curse he has now.

“I forgive you, then.” Scar says, as if it's the easiest thing in the world. It's the clearest his voice has been yet, ringing loud and clear against the weathering storm battering Grian's wings. Grian's growing even more exhausted than he was before, but he doesn't mention it. Instead, he hauls Scar closer to him, and it's an awkward position with scar now draped half across his lap, but they're chest to chest now and Grian can feel Scars heart beneath his skin beating slower than it should.

Right. Scar's dying.

Or, he should be. Grian doesn't know what the Watchers have done specifically, but now Scar's in his hands he's sure he could undo whatever curse they placed upon him. He's been practicing, after all.

Tracing his hand along Scar's back, the last dregs of his magic interwoven with the magic around them being put into the invisible rune Grian is dragging along Scar's aura, Grian again mourns the fact that they can't be inside to do this, their circumstances giving them another fuck you in the face of death, again. Grian can't bear the silence, either.

“Where - are we, G?” Scar asks, as if sensing Grian's discomfort, quiet against his skin. The warmth of Scar's breath tickles, and it's a comfort he hates himself for denying the both of them. “It's like… It looks like monopoly mountain.”

“That's because it is,” Grian admits, feeling raw at the confession. He's surprised at himself with how ready he is to say it. “It's always been like this, with a few minor changes here and there.”

“Changes?”

“It's… our tower. It's got spikes. Like our cake from when - we were soulmates.” There's sand in the doorway from the ghosts of our pasts, plans laid for unfinished traps meant for the long dead, pictures of all the animals we've ever owned together, the beds we've shared and will share, meals in the cupboard that we never got to eat even though we'd both say we would-

“Our cake? I thought it was - just your,” Scar has to pause for breath. There's blood bubbling in his throat that he manages to swallow. “Just your build.”

“It was always ours. It’s always all been ours,” Grian has to pause his spell to recollect himself. “I was silly saying it wasn't.”

Scar hums. He's satisfied at Grian’s answer, smiling against him, pleased - and Grian supposes that's all he can give Scar, now.

The ebb back into silence that makes Grian uncomfortable. He wonders if Scar can’t hear the wind of the storm too, or if he's the only one who's so isolated. Grian fills the air with idle murmurings.

“I was searching for you, you know,” He whispers, quiet but very sure Scar will hear him. “You can be very slippery when you want to be.”

“You've - you've been looking for me?” Scar rasps, hands wrapped around Grian's waist tightening somewhat before relaxing again. Grian can See the fatigue within his entire frame, especially on his face which had found itself once again buried in the crook of his neck.

“Don't sound so surprised,” Grian chastises, and he's trying to be playful but the words choke in his throat and make his hands shake. Concentrate. Scar makes no comment, but Grian feels his arms twitch as if aiming to squeeze tightly around him. It's a sick relief to realise the reason he doesn't is because he physically can't move, not because he doesn't want to. Quieter, aiming for something more steady than before, Grian continues: “Of course I was looking for you, Scar. I don't - I don't know what I'd do if you disappeared for good.”

Grian feels a little hypocritical saying this as he traces the final touches of his spell onto Scar, knowing it will rid him from this realm, but at least it'll send Scar to the place in-between, rather than to nowhere at all. Rather than here. He can hear Scar's breathing becoming more laboured as time passes, losing so much energy from nothing at all.

"Grian I'm not - not cold anymore... Do I have hypothermia? Am I going to die from the cold?" He's barely holding it together as he speaks, his weight in Grian's lap is heavier by the second, but he manages to laugh as if he's being funny. Grian huffs along with him, if not just to make him feel better. Grian's honestly not sure if Scar's gone numb from the cold or because Grian had the Intention for Scar to be comfortable. Grian's hand hovers over his spell, hesitant. 

"No, Scar. Not from the cold." Grian's response is as light as he can make it, but his voice remains thick. Scar laughs again anyway, digging his brow bone into Grian's skin.

“You're going to kill me, aren't you, Grian?” 

Grian stops breathing, and he feels his heart stop in his chest. Every eye darts to Scar's form; the storm around him growing quiet in comparison to the rushing in his ears. He swallows the lump in his throat so he can speak: “Only if you want me to.”

There's a pause before Scar speaks. “It's been - so miserable, G,” Scar cracks, breaking into something desperately disconsolate. “It's been so long, and I haven't been able to kill myself. This isn't supposed to be how this game works, is it? I've done it so many times before, Grian, but every time my bones broke it just left me lying there, I can't - do this anymore.”

“I know,” Grian interrupts, turning his face so it's buried in Scar's hair. He grieves every time he had turned away from his Vision with Scar. He should've been there more. Even if Scar wouldn't have known it, at least he could've said he tried. “I'm sorry I couldn't do anything before.”

“Then help me now.” Scar's voice is barely above a whisper. “...I'm sorry you have to do this again.”

“Don't apologise, Scar,” Grian pets his hair with his hand, finally letting Scar's full body weight push into him without support. There's not much difference, really, with how weak Grian is himself. “There is never anything for you to be sorry about. Not with me.”

Scar doesn't say anything else, but his weakening grip strengthens for just a moment. A thank you.

In a few moments, Grian will be holding onto Scar's carcass just as he did Before - Grian will have slain Scar once again. But, with Scar's hands loosely cradling him as they are now, Grian can't hold it against himself. Not if Scar doesn't.

Not this time.