Chapter Text
I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell: I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.
— Song of Achilles, Madeline Miller
//
Scott runs through the forest on pure instinct and adrenaline. Twigs snap underneath the soles of his years old shoes, splinters in his ankles, and branches obscure his view. The moon hangs high, providing enough light for Scott to see the path beneath him and not much else.
An arrow whizzes past him, and Scott ducks just in time. He grimaces, quickening his already unbearable pace—Ren’s bow is a bitch, and he’ll likely die from just one hit. Behind him, he can hear Ren and Martyn’s feet hit the ground in a steady rhythm. Both of them are still on full health, and he’s limping along on only a few hearts.
Martyn catches up first, breathing hard. His yellow eyes shine in the dark, a beacon for mobs. He had sworn six years ago not to kill anyone until he was on red and didn’t have a choice. Unlike so many others, he had kept to that promise. “I never wanted Jimmy to die,” he says, his voice low. Probably so Ren won’t hear. “I’m sorry, Scott.”
Scott laughs incredulity. How could Martyn ask for forgiveness, after all he did? They spent years being amicable before circumstance split them apart, and even then, they held respect for each other. Scott had thought they were friends, at some point. “You let Skizz kill him,” he says plainly, calmly, before he stops running.
He’s tired of playing this game. He’s spent a year without his husband, and that’s long enough.
Grabbing his almost broken diamond sword from his inventory, Scott whirls around on his heel and lurches forwards. For a moment, the battle’s in his favour—Martyn and Ren aren’t expecting a fight, and Scott’s running on a surplus of adrenaline—but it doesn’t last long. Scott’s good, but he’s not Dreamslayer level good. He knocks the sword out of Martyn’s hand, but only a few seconds later, Ren’s sword presses against Scott’s neck.
Scott laughs again, choking on blood. Ever since Scar died for the first time, Scott knew that he’d have the same fate. He just didn’t expect it to be like this: alone, in a forest, with people he would’ve called friends and who helped someone kill his husband.
“Mercy,” Scott drawls, mocking. His slips his eyes closed. Scott’s stomach churns, and in his gut, otherworldy power simmers, just waiting to be released. He’s felt it before, but he refused to use it, for fear of hurting other people or the world itself. Now, he lets the power flow through his veins lazily, just waiting to be called.
Scott smiles. He won’t let Ren and Martyn get the satisfaction of getting a kill.
Pushing the sword further to his neck, Ren says, “Major—”
But before Ren can finish his thought, Scott snaps his eyes open. He smiles sharply, before he grabs Ren’s sword by the blade and pulls it towards himself, hands stained with purple blood. If he’s going to die, it won’t be by Ren’s hand; it’ll be by his own. Scott’s power crackles for a moment, before it expands in a burst of energy that shoves Ren and Martyn back as Scott thrusts the blade into his own neck and shuts his eyes closed.
Then, in that horrible, wrenching second afterwards, Scott feels himself lift off the ground. His skin prickles with heat, and light creeps in at the sides of his vision. The power surges, flows, surrounds, expands—
And then Scott falls. He falls and collapses in a lifeless corpse, a shell of who he used to be. When he hits the ground, he explodes in an release of power, forming a crater almost thirty blocks wide and just as deep.
<Smajor1995> was blown up by <Smajor1995> using <R̷̘͓͋̅̃͆̈́͊̌̾̔̌Ḙ̵̢̡̛̩͉̲̜͖̦̰̉̑̾̑̉͘D̴̨̜̰̟͉͍͈̎̏Ą̶̢̞̺̱͕̳͎̳͎̽C̴̡̳̣͚̈T̸̗͎̗͇͕̈́̆̑͛͋̓̇̂̓͠E̶̡̼̱̠̔̓͊̂̈̐̐̕͝Ḑ̷̊>
//
Two weeks later, snow falls lightly upon the empire of Rivendell. A white blanket covers the cyan roofs and lulls all its inhabitants to sleep. Chimney smoke fills the air, as elves tend to their fires with long and skinny hands, but the castle remains still. Nobody moves to tend to a fire or close the open windows.
After all, it has its own protections.
In the Royal wing, a gasp breaks the quiet stillness of the night as the emperor struggles to sit up in his bed. He shudders his way through his next, shallow breaths. He twists his hands in his sheets, bringing his knees up so he can bury his face in them, before he unfurls and reaches for his bedside lantern.
With a practiced efficiency, he uses the key twined around his neck to open his bedside drawer. There’s various items within that drawer, including valuables such as his communicator and crown, but instead, he pulls out the seemingly plain book and quill.
Balancing the book on his knees and steading his shaking hands, he begins to write.
//
#3 (8 days after the last one)
Different setting. I was in a cave, in an undisclosed—not the desert anymore. I was with another man, but his face was obscured. I talked and I moved around, but I wasn’t in control of myself. It was like I was watching something that had already happened before, a play from the perspective of someone involved.
Here’s a transcript of the conversation; I can’t make sense of it.
MAN: Oh, wait, I’ve got something for you too. [Throws a flower at me.] There you go. There you go!
ME: [Twirling the flower between my hands, like a lovestruck human girl.] Aww. That was cute.
HIM: I confessed my love.
ME: We’re married now.
HIM: For the poppies, I mean. For the poppies.
ME: Nope. For me.
Even though I was teasing him and obviously with a friend, I felt cold. Like hands were propelling me somewhere, though I didn’t move at all. Maybe hostile’s the right word. I don’t know. I can’t remember anymore.