Chapter Text
Scott’s spent more time this past week blessing gravestones and attending funerals than he ever would’ve wanted to over the entire course of his life. He finds himself going through the motions of it, sometimes, drifting from one grave to the next as he absentmindedly recites the rites he’d learned just eight days ago.
Jimmy went home with his men, a harrowing day-long journey through the former fae realm – the Cod have taken to calling it the Nether – surrounded by their former enemies, who similarly returned home to bury their dead. Scott had watched them go from the gates, half leaning on Impulse and with the antlers still clutched in his hands.
He hasn’t seen much of Impulse this past week. They’d buried someone Scott thinks was Impulse’s cousin, but his guard has otherwise been busy flitting about the city, helping the rebuilding efforts where he can. It makes sense to Scott that Impulse would bury himself in work in turn; he’s lost family, and-
He’d sent Etho to the Crystal Cliffs, which has absolutely nothing to do with Cleo taking Scar straight there upon his return from Keralis’.
So, it leaves Scott here, bent over a rough draft for a speech he’d hoped to never give, while two silver antlers stare down at him from his desk. He’s rewritten it often enough now that the sun has set, paving the way for the moon to illuminate Scott’s room from behind him. It catches in the silver of the antlers in a way that makes Scott pause. He stares at it for a moment. Then, he covers the antlers with a blanket.
Better not to take chances.
When he sits back down, his notes are crossed-out and smudged enough that he doesn’t think he could make them out even if he weren’t tired. Briefly, he considers making himself some tea, but a knock on the door interrupts him before he can even reach for his kettle.
“Come in!” he calls.
The door opens just a crack, the moonlight illuminating the guard outside his rooms. Next to her is one of the infirmary nurses.
“He’s asking for you,” the nurse says, voice hushed as if not to wake Scott, “his fever’s spiking again.”
“How bad is it?” Scott asks. The fear on the nurse’s face serves as his answer. He pulls on a housecoat.
When they get to the infirmary, the two other night nurses are huddled on the ground outside the door, whispering under their breaths as they share a pot of tea between them. One of them has a bandage on his wrist. It looks fresh.
They look up when they hear Scott and the other nurse approaching. He can see them start to get up, but he motions for them to stay seated. Instead. He crouches down next to them.
“What happened to your wrist?” Scott asks, nodding at the nurse.
“He, uh- He thinks we’re keeping you hostage.”
Scott nods, straightening back up. He steps around the nurses and puts his hand on the doorknob. Briefly, he hesitates. Then, he steps into the infirmary.
The door shuts behind him with a thud that echoes through the room. The soldiers that had gotten injured in the fighting have all either been discharged or moved to more long-term arrangements in hospitals around Rivendell. This, of course, is not the case for-
“Skizz,” Scott says, soft as it catches in the air. He’s sat in a corner, face flushed as he stares into space. His right hand is clawing at where his left arm used to be, as if scratching the air there would magically bring it back.
When Scott’s voice registers in his ears, he shoots up faster than Scott can blink, crossing the room to sweep him up into a one-armed embrace. Scott only barely manages to stay standing as Skizz tries to swing him around, knocking their foreheads together a bit harder than comfortable.
“You’re alive!” Skizz rasps.
“So are you,” Scott says, pulling back just enough to be able to look at Skizz properly. His pupils are blown, greasy hair sticking to his forehead as his fever sweats out all the fluid the nurses had painstakingly managed to get into him.
“Where-“ Skizz hesitates as he says it, eyes flitting away from Scott to scan the room, “Where are we?”
“We’re at home, Skizz. We won. It’s okay,” Scott winds his arms around Skizz’s shoulders, burying his face in Skizz’s chest.
“Xor- You- you killed him, didn’t you?” Skizz sounds defeated as he asks it.
“Yeah,” Scott whispers, “I did.”
When all the fallen are buried, one final grave is dug. It will contain an empty casket, a pair of silver antlers set atop it as it goes into the ground. The Imperial family plot overlooks the whole of Rivendell. Xornoth, instead, will be buried in the Major plot, a little ways outside of the city.
It’s been a very long time since the Major family and the Imperial family became one, and not many Elves have been buried in the family plot since, but well over a decade ago – hidden under blankets against the cold and cruelty of the night – Scott and Xornoth had agreed to be buried in the old plot, as close to Alinar as they could be.
Now, Scott wonders if Alinar’s golden antlers lay in the mulch that had once been their wearer, buried in the remains of the last hero of Rivendell. He wonders if Xornoth’s antlers will ever rot.
He stands in the House of Aeor, avoiding the stained-glass eyes of a god whose blood still stains his hands. In the dead of night, the moonlight will trick his eyes into seeing it sometimes – that sheen of red flaking off his outstretched hands as he reaches his brother far too late. Instead, he stares straight ahead.
Only three people sit in the pews. Skizz is flanked by Impulse and Tango, held up by strong hands and stronger shoulders. Last time they’d all been here in these clothes, Scott had buried his parents.
For a moment, he misses his mother. He thinks, maybe, he just misses having a mother. He wishes Cleo were here, silent at his side in a way she only ever was in official settings. He wishes, even, that Jimmy were stood behind him, uncomplicated in a way only problems can be.
He wishes, for a brief and traitorous second, that Skizz would take his hands between his own and kiss him awake, away from this nightmare he’s found himself in.
Above all, he misses his brother, though he supposes he’s been doing that for eight years now.
The people of Rivendell flow through the House, paying their respects to the hunks of silver in the casket. They’re wearing white, Scott notices. No adornments, no colours of rebellion, just the pure white that’s common for funerals. He’s not seen the people of Rivendell in much else lately. Still, it surprises him.
They’d worn colourful kerchiefs to his parents’ funeral, he remembers – they’d shown up adorned in flowers and reds and greens and all other colours that are missing from the Major family crest.
The last of them filter out while Scott is still staring straight ahead. His feet are together, wrists crossed loosely behind his back, ever the picture of composure his mother had trained him to be. He lingers for a moment too long, if the way Tango approaches him is anything to go by.
“Your Highness,” Tango whispers, “they’re gone. We should join the procession.”
“They wore white,” Scott replies, echoing through the empty hall of his faith, “why did they wear white, the reason they lost-“
Tango raises a hand, interrupting Scott in a move that would’ve gotten him killed in the late Empress’ court.
“They didn’t wear white for Xornoth, Major. They wore it for you.”
And outside, far enough downstream that nobody quite remembers where the water comes from, lies a land only found by those who wander aimlessly. An elf washes up on a jungle shore, unsure if the water they are found in has ever been anything more than a river.