Chapter Text
The sunflower fields were growing larger.
Scar had watched their progress over the last few weeks. He hadn’t bothered with them at first, but then found himself planting, slowly and then almost obsessively, spreading a few seeds every single day. They grew quickly, fueled by the sun and rain, until they stretched out in every direction around Trader Scar’s. They were shooting up through the pre-established paths and empty grass alike.
The only exception was the path to the Secret Keeper. Scar wasn’t sure he ever completely built a path to that cursed statue, but there was one, weaving its way through the sunflowers. Scar traversed it now, brushing his hands along the stalks of the flowers, steps slow and leaden.
“Wonder if they’ll talk to me today.” He said aloud. The shadows to his left, hidden partially in the sea of yellow, brown, and green, didn’t respond. They never did. He wasn’t sure why he talked to them anymore. He’d done so out of fear, in the start. It wasn’t every day you started to see ghosts. The fear had turned to desperation, and now… now he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was to remind himself that he still had a voice.
Grian , he thought, touching the center of some of the newer flowers that had grown. Every joint in his body ached. They probably sensed the rain, which loomed overhead in ominous grey clouds, blocking out the sun. The air was eerily still. Tango. Bdubs, Skizz, Cleo, Gem.
Pearl .
He couldn’t believe that he’d missed her death. The last chance to see a friend, the last chance to hear another voice, gone because he’d been distracted by a stupid zombie. That had been it. For weeks, he’d thought about that final fight. The last reminder of home.
Scar tried not to give into the anguished voice that screamed he should have let himself die at her hand. Then she’d be trapped here, and he wished this on nobody.
The statue of the Secret Keeper had fallen a little into disrepair over the weeks. Its stone had started to crumble, while creeping foliage like lichen and moss had started to spread. A nest had been made between the curve of its hood and blank, stone face. Scar was pretty sure it had eggs inside, given how he saw one bird flying too and fro quite frequently, and spotted the head of another now and again. He wondered when they’d hatch.
It was his daily ritual, to come and stand before this statue, place his hand on the button, and push. Sometimes just once, sometimes mindlessly over and over, until his hands ached and sores formed and his fingers bled. Always to get the same flashing message in his brain.
Win Secret Life
Win Secret Life
Win Secret Life
Win Secret Life
Scar put his hand on the button. His hands were calloused from all the gardening he’d done, but his right was even more so because of the button. They lined up like puzzle pieces, waiting for him to begin the ritual again.
But Scar… couldn’t do it.
He didn’t understand it at first. He stared down at his hand, deeply tanned from days in the sun, scars etched across the back. The fingers shook, ever so slightly. He willed it to push, and a well opened behind his ribs when it didn’t.
Go on , he thought, at first calmly but then again, closer to a silent scream. Go ON. Push the button. See what happens. Maybe it will be different today. Maybe they’ll let you go.
But his hand didn’t move, and the well under his ribs grew deeper, cracking fissures and deep, aching voids. The shaking spread.
Please , he pleaded with himself, breaths coming quicker, heartbeat starting to hurt. The shadows had gathered behind him; he could feel them watching, waiting. Please. Push the button . Push the button .
His fingers trembled violently. He wanted to squeeze them into a fist, pound his hand down, wait for the message to spread behind his eyes… but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Scar wasn’t sure how long he stood staring at that button, shaking, breathing heavily. Eventually he tore his hand away and buried it in the folds of his robe, throat dry and eyes burning. This… this was fine. This was completely fine. So what if he couldn’t push the button today? Mental fatigue… it was bound to happen eventually.
He could come back, after he’d taken some time to calm down. He would try again.
Still breathing heavily, Scar glanced over his shoulder at the shadow figures, swallowing bile at their blank expressions. Despite the only true features being their eyes… Scar felt like he was being judged, just a little.
“I’ll come back.” He rasped, as if defending himself. “I just… need to think about some things. The button isn’t going anywhere. It can wait.”
The shadows drifted along behind him as he walked back to Trader Scar’s, and surrounded his bed while he slept that night.
A couple days later, Scar started planting sunflowers.
Not like how he was before, in the sprawling fields. These were planted carefully in pots, with names inscribed on the clay, and baby flowers transplanted carefully from the grassy soil into their new resting places. He wasn’t sure why. Scar wasn’t sure why he did much of anything anymore, only that no matter how hard he tried, he still couldn’t bring himself to go back and press the button.
It was fine. He just needed some time, then he’d try again. Perhaps the statue itself needed time. Maybe his imprisonment was all a massive mistake, a flaw in game mechanics, and after a few months more Grian would fix it and Scar could go home-
The shadows watched him from the fields every day as he watered the flowers. They were all arranged carefully by the porch, facing the sun like they always did. Scar’s heart ached with each name, but he also trailed his fingers over them for hours each day, reverently.
“I’m planting these for you, you know.” Scar said mildly one morning. It was cloudy, the air damp and scented with oncoming rain, and the sky an ominous grey. A soft wind blew steadily through his hair, with the promise to pick up speed and strength as the rain drew near.
The shadow people were so close today, draped over his porch and settled in the grass around him. Their empty eyes stared, but he didn’t know if they really saw him. “Named them and everything.” Scar went on, bitterness creeping into his voice. “The least you could do is thank me.”
Nothing. But darkness shifted and Scar’s stomach dropped, and one of the shadow figures moved to sit directly in front of him. Inky shapes flexed behind it, a mockery of the glorious appendages of another person, another friend, and Scar inhaled shakily.
“Please.” Scar whispered. He couldn’t bear to look at those eyes, and yet he hungered to see another’s face. “Please talk to me. I talk to you all the time. You owe me.”
Hours he’d spent talking to empty, silent air. Hours upon hours upon hours, until his throat was raw and his words cracked and hissed. Speaking because it had been so long since he’d heard another voice, a friendly call, a laugh, a song. His voice hardly sounded like his own anymore, even the one inside his head was all wrong. And the others… staring at the names chiseled into the clay pots, Scar liked to imaging he could hear them, all their little nuances and quirks. But what if it was a false memory? It had been so long… what if those voices weren’t even theirs, anymore?
Scar forced himself up, and the shadow was still there. Staring at him. Silent. Watchful. No expression, no emotion, vile. Scar would have sobbed in relief to see rage, or disgust, or fear. Even if he was yelled at, that would have been another voice.
“It’s not fair.” Scar whimpered. “Please, just… just talk to me. You can yell, you can say I’m reckless. I won’t complain. Please, G, talk, say something …” His words trailed off in the face of impassivity. The shadow didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t blink. Because… because it probably wasn’t real. Scar was probably losing his mind. He shuddered, looking around at the shadows, at the hints of traits and characteristics of people he’d lost. Distorted and twisted and wrong , because they weren’t real, they were all figments, fragments of his brain, slowly cracking under pressure.
The only real things that remained were their names, etched onto clay, and the flowers he’d bestowed upon them. Like they’d somehow keep him company and make up for what he’d lost.
Abruptly, Scar felt angry. It wasn’t fair that he was left with these… these things instead of his friends. These weren’t them, these sunny little plants with their stupid yellow petals and their uptilted faces. A poor, no, a pitiful substitute, and waves of shame swept over him when he realized he’d tried to replace all of his loved ones with damn flowers .
His hands reached out for one of the pots, fingers twitching, and in a fitful movement he reached for the nearest green stem and ripped it out of its soil, throwing the flower as far away from him as he could stand. Then, the dam broke, and Scar’s whole body was violently twisting, reaching, pulling, tearing-
The flowers dropped around him like corpses, piling up along the dirt path and settling at his feet. The shadows watched, unmoved and still. Eyes boring into his soul. They didn’t blink when Scar’s frantic breathing turned to ragged gasps, when his hands began to shake, when the sky finally began to rumble and the rain finally started to fall.
But after a few seconds of white-hot madness, Scar stopped, recovering some sense of clarity. He stared down at the broken stems and fragile, torn petals. Dead, beautiful bodies.
The panic struck deep, more potent and dangerous than even the anger, and it suddenly struck Scar that he may as well have killed his friends. Because these flowers were all that he had left of them, they held their names, and he’d just- just killed them-
And even mere moments ago, Scar would have told himself to stop fretting and to calm down, because these flowers were just flowers regardless of whose name they carried. But that was no longer the case. Because it had finally sunk in: this was it. He was alone. He was alone, and he would always be alone, and his friends were never coming back.
Scar’s hands came up to claw at the sides of his face, gripping his hair, and a harsh sob tumbled from his lips. The rain poured even harder, soaking the dirt around the flower bodies like blood. Scar gathered them all into his arms, unable to stop the cries of agony and sheer loneliness from spilling out of him. These flowers were all he had left, and they were gone, they were gone , there was nothing left, nothing but him and the sky and the fields and the shadowy figures that haunted him.
They were with him now, staring, no expressions of sympathy or compassion or even disgust to be found. Scar tried to ignore them, gripping the flowers tighter, the world spinning as he sobbed and sobbed and lost his breath and ended up curled up on his side, soaking in the mud and rain and sheer pooling sadness. The rain tumbled down all around him, seeping into his open, gasping mouth, and mixing with his tears.
The button wasn’t changing its answer, because Scar was trapped here forever. The shadows wouldn’t talk to him, because they weren’t real. The flowers were the only living thing for him to cling to, to keep him company, because his friends were gone. He was alone.
And nobody was coming to find him.