Chapter Text
“It’s quiet around here, you know?”
The hilltop sat still, its bands of grass dancing with the slight autumn breeze. Small dandelions and cornflowers peeked out from taller patches, a beautiful mixture of soft yellow and deep blue.
“I never told you this, but I always saw you heading up here after training. Now I see why.”
There was a crisp scent in the air, and Skizz breathes it in as though it was the last breath he’ll ever take. It’s ironic how, even though the trees and the plants are dying, this is the most he’s felt alive. Right here, at this moment.
It’s all the same irony with the grave marker that stood tall beside him, tied to it a black headband with a maple leaf etched into the middle.
“BigB’s gone too, but I’m sure you already knew that,” Skizz says. He tucks his knees closer to his chest, looking out to the horizon ahead of him, watching as the sun creeps up on a new morning. “It’s just me, Martyn, and Ren now.”
A pause. A beat of silence.
“You should be here, too.”
Skizz forces himself to glance over at the fresh dirt, laid over the body of someone who didn’t deserve to die. Of someone who had been killed for no real reason.
“I haven’t been back in those walls in days now. You know how it is, with RK’s frost and all.” An awkward chuckle. “You always made it seem like it wasn’t there, in your own weird, caring way.”
Maybe it was the odd, unknowing comfort that was brought by talking to the air as if Etho was still there, listening to him. Maybe it was the unexplainable warmth he felt around him as if Etho was still there, pulling him into a comforting embrace.
Maybe it was a delusion, maybe it was grief-stricken hysteria, but something told Skizz that, despite everything, Etho was there.
Skizz was never a crier — he never had been one for emotions. He had never been given the gift of understanding the small complexities that came with them. But, just this once, he lets himself go. Stifled, quiet sobs that had been repressed since the start of the war — since the first betrayal — finally were set free from their cages.
He could’ve been there for a minute, an hour — hell, even a day — losing himself. His sobs shift into sniffles, then into steadying breaths. The warmth that had been around him was gone now, lost to the world like a bottle in the ocean. Skizz can’t help but let out a quiet laugh, running the heel of his hand across his cheek.
He flinches at the buzz of his communicator, fumbling for it and seeing a message. The King himself. What has him all pissed off now?
Skizz rises to his feet, taking one last glance at the grave marker. He gives Etho a feign salute, a half smile tugging at his lips, though wobbly.
“I’ll see you on the other side, Ladders.”
♥♥♥
As quiet as Dogwarts may be, there was some solace in returning.
Skizz slips past the old living quarters left abandoned and frozen in time, ignoring the pang in his chest at the laughter he could still hear from it; there would be songs and stories told alongside it, like an orchestra of peacetime before a war.
And maybe, in another life, everyone was still there, happy and oblivious as can be to the world of death that entrapped them.
He shakes his head, resisting the shivers that claw at his spine, ducking into the basement where he had been summoned. Part of him knows what this is about, and part of him wishes he didn’t.
“The sole commander of an entire army and all he can do is shoot a bow,” Martyn’s voice rings out. He’s pressed against the wall, one arm wrapped in a shoddy sling and the other holding onto a half-empty glass of wine, some of the excess alcohol dripping from the lip of the cup.
The elf sits up from where he was leaning, setting the glass down and stepping over to Skizz, placing his good hand on his shoulder and giving a firm squeeze.
“If you fuck this up for any of us, His Highness will have your head put on a spike, right next to the one reserved for the demon,” Martyn hisses. He lets go of his shoulder, steps back and finds his fixed place next to Ren, who’s sat in a wooden chair that is far too small for a werewolf, especially one of his height.
For once, Skizz doesn’t feel sick from the lingering scent of alcohol.
“Our original plans have fallen through, lad,” Ren mutters, voice melting into the odd accent he always took on whenever he spoke. “We need you to find Impulse. He’s likely hiding in that Crastle of his.” He hisses the name like venom from a python, grabbing the half-empty whiskey glass and taking a swig.
Skizz knows where this is leading, yet he still feels his heart drop to his stomach like a stone into water. He shifts on his feet, trying to keep himself steady.
“Bring me that demon’s head, and I’ll ensure that you live to see the sun tomorrow.”
Skizz gives a stiff nod, and a courtesy bow, and promptly leaves. He ducks away from Dogwarts in the blanket of the night, finding his old base at the top of its hill. He can’t help but smile slightly at the shoddy stone brick building, and he’s just as surprised to see it still standing, given what had been going on around it for weeks now.
He pries the iron door open, shuddering at the protesting creak it gives in place of its creator’s return.
“Yeah, me too,” Skizz mutters to nobody in particular, patting the rough wall with his hand. He stops short at the sight of a familiar photo — taken none other than by the Red King’s Hand himself. Skizz grabs it from its abandoned place on the shoddy desk he built, dusting it off with a flick of his hand.
It hits him then how young he had looked before. Oblivious to the world of death and blood around him. Carefree to the idea of ever turning into a red life — of feeling that bloodlust that poisoned so many minds. Happy as can be, with his arms around Impulse and Tango, who he had planned to never leave behind.
Sometimes the world feels the need to tear apart even those tied together by the universe, it seems.
Skizz grips the polaroid photo a bit tighter, watching blankly as the corners bent under his hold. He reaches for the other corner, and with a quick swipe—
RIIIIP!
♥♥♥
Holed up in a piss-poor escape tunnel with someone who wanted you dead as much as you wanted to die.
Impulse didn’t know what would happen in the coming days. He didn’t know who he would kill or who would kill him. He didn’t know who had a thirst for his blood or who he wanted to watch bleed out, watch as the earth drank their blood.
He didn’t know how he would die or how he would kill.
“This is getting irritating,” Bdubs grumbles. “We can’t sit here and rot.”
“This entire plan was your idea,” Impulse retorts. “Now you’ve changed your mind?”
“Well, do you want to sit here like hens in a chicken coop and wait until some foxes tear us a new one?”
A pause.
“Sorry. Too soon, I know,” Bdubs mutters. He rises to his feet, crouching slightly to keep himself from hitting his head against the roof of the tunnel. Impulse followed suit, following behind the glare and back to the surface. It felt exhilarating and damning to open the door — to see how the Crastle had been ransacked by desperate red lives looking for their last-ditch attempt to save themselves.
To earn salvation from gods who damned them from the beginning was a sinner’s foolish choice, and Impulse knew he would join the crowd who was desperate for forgiveness from the angels.
He kneels in front of one of the lesser-touched chests, grabbing out small portions of food that had been left behind. Despite the small portions of it, he still gives Bdubs half of it. If he could at least save someone, then he’ll save his day-one crew. Or what remained of it.
Impulse pushes through the broken door that hangs on by one hinge, checking behind him every so often to make sure that Bdubs was still with him.
“So, you guys aren’t dead, eh?”
Impulse whips his head around, tensing at the sight of Joel and his wolves. Somehow, in his odd, unknown ways, Joel made himself look more inhuman — more like a monster rather than a man. He holds a shoddy iron sword by its hilt in one hand, his other hand free, yet held at the ready to command his army of wolves, bloodied and battle-torn.
“Thought you died down in that little tunnel of yours,” Joel continues, “but I suppose stubborn mules don’t give up all that easily, do they?” He raises his hand slightly, warranting a series of growls and snarls from his wolves; some wolves started to bark and howl, as though they too had lost their humanity. Resorting to their instincts to survive. To kill. To bleed and to fight until they died.
In a way, Impulse could see himself in those wolves.
“It’s funny, you know? You could’ve stopped this, Impulse, but you just had to refuse my nice little offer.” Joel pointedly looks at Bdubs. “He’s going to betray you, and it’s not going to be pretty. You’ll be dead in the grass because of him, and then you’ll see what you could’ve had if you had just accepted my allyship.”
Impulse shifts, standing in front of Bdubs, unsheathing his sword.
“If he wanted me dead, he would’ve killed me days ago.”
Joel laughs.
“ Oh, you don’t know Bdubs at all, do you?”
Impulse stops. He turns to face Bdubs, for just a moment.
“You wouldn’t, would you?” Impulse mutters.
“You don’t actually believe him, do you?” Bdubs retorts, folding his arms over his chest. “Why would I kill the one person who’s keeping me alive right now? Especially after we lost Cleo, too!”
Joel rolls his eyes, letting out a sigh.
“Let’s just get this shitshow over with. Dogs!” The command is harsh, a familiar tone that brought Impulse back to before all of this. Back when he was a commander; he was a soldier; he was a friend; he was an ally; he wasn’t a traitor.
Impulse is in Dogwarts. It’s spring, soft and colourful — untouched by the frost of the Red King. There’s laughter coming from inside the main building, and Impulse moves to look inside, eyes narrowing as he studies the figures.
Etho looks happy, red and grey eyes crinkled with his smile line. He’s sitting next to Ren, and there’s an empty chair next to him, with Impulse’s old cloak rested over the head of it.
Oh.
Oh.
Impulse feels his heart drop to his stomach — a stone falling to the bottom of a lake, made of realisation and hurt. He feels it sink further down at the sound of Etho’s laugh, his voice, his smile. Every second he spends there feels like an arrow to the back, a flaming sword to the chest.
There’s a distant voice, and for a moment Impulse thinks he hears his name. He ignores it.
It’s persistent,
It’s loud,
It aches for his attention—
“—pulse!”
Impulse blinks, his mind hazy as he stumbles back slightly, dropping his sword on instinct. He shakes off the dizziness he feels, focusing his vision on the source.
He snaps right back to reality when Bdubs screams.
Joel is laughing— no, cackling — at the sight in front of him; Bdubs, bloodied and torn to shreds by rabid wolves. He’s trembling and clutching at a particular spot on his upper arm that doesn’t seem to stop flowing with blood. He tries to scramble to his feet, kicking away one of the wolves that try to attack his ankle.
Bdubs screws his eyes shut, expecting the worst, bracing his good arm in front of his face.
Nothing.
He slowly opens his eyes, tear trails drying on his cheeks as he looks up, seeing Impulse looming over the body of the wolf, bloodied sword in hand. Joel starts to protest, stopping short. He calls his wolves back, scurrying away from the two of them.
Impulse takes a breath, dropping his sword and looking back at Bdubs. He kneels, silently gesturing to his arm. Bdubs offers it, wincing as Impulse starts to wrap a crimson cloth around the wound to stop the bleeding.
It is an uneasy silence surrounding them, sour tension radiating from Impulse in waves. Bdubs clears his throat to break the silence.
“You froze up back there, are you okay?”
Impulse glances up, eyes flickering an unnatural yellow.
“I’ll live,” Impulse mumbles.
“I know that, but- do you feel okay?”
“Why do you care all of a sudden? Did you call me a ‘damn demon’ just two days ago?” Impulse snaps.
Bdubs opens his mouth to protest.
“No, no. You don’t get to act innocent here, Bdubs. I’m sick of being seen as some kind of villain. I’m trying to survive for someone who meant the world to me. If that makes me a villain, then so fucking be it.”
Impulse rises to his feet, being kind enough to help Bdubs up. He grabs his sword and shakes off the excess blood before placing it back in its scabbard on his hip.
“I don’t think you’re a villain.”
Impulse stops in his tracks.
“You’re living for someone. That’s pretty damn brave and if I’m being honest, better than me. I’m not living for anyone but myself now.”
Bdubs watches as Impulse turns slightly to face him, eyes softening from their blazing rage from before. He takes a breath.
“If it comes down to it, Bdubs,” Impulse starts, now fully facing him. He offers his hand to him.
“You can kill me. And win. If not for me, then for someone else. For yourself, even.”
Bdubs worries his lip, letting out a shaky laugh before grabbing Impulse’s hand, and yanking him into a hug.
“You’re an idiot, you know that?”
Impulse smiles, his voice wobbling.
“Yeah. Suppose I am, huh?”
♥♥♥
The walls of Dogwarts.
Unguarded.
Unprotected.
Left to be attacked like a sitting duck.
Scar shifts from one foot to the next, leaning against his cane and studying the cobblestone walls, eyes narrowed. Ever since the chaos that had taken Tango out, Dogwarts had been eerily quiet. Only more when they lost their only other commander just last week.
Scar grins. It’s too easy. Some wouldn’t call this a war at all; some would say that this was a game of cat and mouse, and Scar and Grian were the cats who had cornered the mice. Trapped them in their claws and awaited their fall.
“No archers are hiding around here,” Grian’s voice rings out, his hand settling on Scar’s shoulder. “We could walk right in if we wanted to. We could take on all three of them, you know. We have the firepower.” Grian pointedly looks at the TNT sticks strapped around his chest, ready to be placed in any nook and cranny that he could wedge them into, just to create a second massacre of Dogwarts.
This time, no respawn could save them.
“Let’s wait just a little longer. I have a feeling that we’re not alone out here yet.”
As if right on cue, an arrow grazes Scar’s head, landing with a sharp thud in the tree behind him. He whips his head to Dogwarts, seeing a figure now standing. A dim blue glow reflects from their bow, and just by standing at the forest’s edge, Scar can tell who it is. What it is.
“Damn it, I thought Skizz had died!” Grian curses. He tugs at Scar’s arm, pulling him away from the forest’s edge and down the hill. A fatal mistake.
Skizz’s voice is distant, yet his footsteps are quick to approach, boots clicking against the rough cobblestone wall as he aims his next arrow right between Scar’s eyes, skidding to a stop and holding his position.
“Step another foot forward and I’ll put this arrow between your eyes!” Skizz shouts.
Scar raises his hands, stepping a foot back and looking at Grian to do the same.
“Skizz, my friend, we’ve come in peace!” Scar speaks, his voice smooth. Almost condescending. “Now, lower that weapon of yours, and let’s talk, hm?”
“Not a goddamn chance. Do you two have any idea what you’ve cost us? Who we’ve lost because of you?” Skizz starts.
“Etho’s death was none of our doing,” Grian snaps. “You and I are both well aware as to who did that, yet you can’t find it in your heart to blame him, can you? You can’t see him as a monster, because you know that Etho wouldn’t see him as one for taking his life.”
Skizz’s aim falters at Grian’s words.
Perfect. He’s weakening. I’m getting to him.
“Get out of Dogwarts grounds,” Skizz warns, his voice lowered, “if you know what’s good for you.”
Right as Scar starts to back away, knowing and recognising that this plan wouldn’t work, Grian moved forward.
“You’ll have to chase us out of here. We’re not cowards.”
It becomes a blur from there, Skizz keeping his eyes focused on the enemies ahead of him. He holds steady, firing and firing arrows until his arm was strained; he didn’t stop there, working to kill until his arms were numb and his hands were cramped.
For Etho. This is for Etho. And Tango, and BigB— for all of them. I’m fighting because they can’t anymore. I’m fighting in their names and their names alone.
I’m fighting to win for them.
He lands a few arrows on Scar’s shoulders, in Grian’s back. It’s not enough. Skizz hops down from the walls, landing on his feet and unsheathing his sword; it’s a rare occurrence for him to fight melee, but he had to. He had to fight because deep down, he knew he wouldn’t get another chance to prove to those he lost that he was strong, and would continue to be for them.
He had to prove it and now.
Each hit feels exhilarating, reminding him of hundreds of things at once.
One hit. He’s in the training grounds, sparring with Etho and celebrating his recent victory.
Two hits. He’s sitting under a nearby tree with Tango, laughing at a joke that he made, despite how stupid it was.
Three hits. He’s walking around the grounds of Dogwarts with BigB, talking about their plans for what they might do after the war. BigB mentions building a cottage somewhere and asks Skizz to join him. Skizz agreed.
Four hits.
♥♥♥
Soldiers fell and got back up again.
They fought until they were battered and bloodied, and even then they continued to push. They defended and they sought after protecting those they loved.
Yet, some couldn’t get back up. Some fell in the heat of a battle with an arrow in the heart. Some cried out in pain as a sword found its home in their abdomen. Some sacrificed themselves to protect someone else from a trap they didn’t see.
And some died in front of the graves of those they loved, yet they couldn’t save.
♥♥♥
The forest felt dead.
Maybe it was the sinking feeling in Impulse’s stomach, but he knew that somewhere, something was missing from the forest now.
Someone, he should say.
Impulse silently prays it’s not true.
The forest’s edge is dotted with the start of the desert, mixing with the grass and the cacti. It, too, felt dead. He made a careful entrance through the cacti, helping Bdubs get through in the process and apologising when a prick from one of the cacti catches Bdubs’ hand.
Monopoly Mountain had never looked more ominous. Well, it never had, but right now, it felt like the tower above was looking down on them both, awaiting their arrival like a displeased king.
Impulse keeps his guard up, glancing behind him once in a while to make sure that Bdubs was still with him. The last thing he wanted was for this to be a trap, and the very last thing he wanted was for that trap to kill Bdubs. The only person he had left to protect.
“Well, hello there!”
Scar beams from the loyalty board, left abandoned by its creator. There’s something unnatural about his polite smile, as though it’s inhuman. Monstrous.
“What is this about, Scar?” Bdubs is quick to the point.
“Well, I’m glad you asked, Bdubs!” Scar hums. He reaches into his satchel, stopping when he notices Impulse grab for the hilt of his sword.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Impulse,” Scar warns, his voice quiet, yet his smile was audible in its tone. “Not if you want to live.”
As if.
Impulse lowers his hand, but keeps his guard up. Whatever Scar was planning, the growing pit in his stomach seemed to grow more, as if consuming his very soul.
The vex makes a pleased hum as he grabs out something golden, etched with a sharp, stark ‘I’ on the back of it.
How did he get that?
Bdubs is silent, yet Impulse knows that he recognises it as well as he does. The glare steps forward a bit, watching as the clock swings aimlessly from Scar’s middle and index finger, held by a durable iron chain.
“Bdubs, for your loyalty, I ask of you one thing,” Scar begins. He uses his other hand, pointing at Impulse.
“Kill Impulse, and the clock is yours.”
Impulse feels his heart drop. He steps back slightly, a chuckle escaping him instinctively.
“Hey, Bdubs? Day one crew, remember?” Impulse recalls. He watches in horror as Bdubs’s hands reach for the clock, Scar placing it in his bandaged palms. The glare slowly turns, clicking the clock to one of the belt loops of his ripped jeans.
Impulse swallows.
“Bdubs?”
“He gave me a clock, Impulse.”
Impulse unsheathes his sword, watching as Bdubs is handed an iron blade from Scar. His eyes blaze the unfamiliar yellow again, stepping back as Bdubs started charging at him.
“You traitor! ” Impulse roars, blocking Bdubs’ blade with his. “I protected you for days on end, and this is how you repay me? By murdering me? ”
It’s one lunge,
It’s a dance orchestrated by the universe in her ruthless musical prowess,
Then a block,
It’s a ballad of a destined death between two beautiful, broken souls,
Lunge. Block.
It’s a waltz of two souls, born from the same dying star, whose bloods run with the stardust of its predecessor,
Dodge, hit. Hit, pivot.
It’s the final act in a tragedy play.
What feels like a sledgehammer shatters through Impulse’s abdomen, knocking the wind out of his lungs as he was pushed into the hot, burning sand. His chest heaves for air that it cannot reach, and his hand shakily settles on the wound in his stomach, removing it and staring in slight horror at the blood.
It felt odd. He was hot and cold all at once, sweat matting his brow and blood dribbling down his chin and to his jawline, falling into the grains of sand beneath his head. There was shouting, something he could barely make out as celebrating. He can’t speak, his attempts met with choking on his blood.
There were many ways to die in this world. Cold and alone; surrounded by allies that had sworn their lives to you at the beginning; in the heat of a battle; in a beautiful blaze of glory.
Impulse wasn’t privy to the aching embrace of death, her arms cold around his weakening body. She whispers his name, beckons him to join her. He wants to fight it. He needs to show Etho that he’s strong, that he’s brave. Just like Etho was, even in his last moments.
“Impulse, hey,” Etho says with a smile. He leans over, his hand extended to Impulse. “Come on. Aren’t you coming with? Skizz is waiting for us.”
Impulse smiles. He takes his hand.
♥♥♥
“Bravery comes in a lot of forms,” Etho says. Impulse looks up, meeting his eyes.
“Sometimes, it’s protecting those you love. Sometimes, it’s helping an injured animal escape a storm,
Sometimes, it’s standing up for yourself. Sometimes, it’s laughing when the world doesn’t want to.
And sometimes,” Etho smiles at him.
“Sometimes, it’s accepting that you don’t have to be brave.”