Chapter Text
It is not exactly the most pleasant day.
Rain clouds have just left their city, moving with the winds, and it was ungodly hot for the first week of spring. Scar, who lived in a colder part of a country, was not used to his skin feeling like it was on fire - and so early! What an awful start of the day!
Scar, surely, will try to keep his mood positive, but hot weather made everyone around him even angrier than they usually are and he was getting yelled at a lot more than he was used to, and that, of course, has upset him quite a lot. Having to carry heavy buckets of water across half the city has not made it better; even when the water spilled at him, it felt more like it fell on hot coal, taken straight out of the campfire. Dissolved and turned into water-dust. Absolute evil.
And, lastly, the city itself was not filled with happy people and beautiful landscapes. The most boring place on the world, really. Grey walls, grey streets, grey stones and grey clothes; honestly, even people looked somehow-grey, always with apathetic or angry faces, filled with their own little problems that boiled out of them and splattered on everyone around, leaving burns on the heart from someone else's rage.
They tormented Scar; he was not used to their ignorance and blind anger. He grew in a very simple yet loving community, his village was more like one a self-supporting system that ran on people's actual care about eachother and their home. His little homeplace was filled with old traditions and myths that were lovingly passed from older heart to younger soul; they were woven into their life, into Scars life and without them he felt empty.
He missed spending time with elderly, sewing clothes with them that were later passed to younger kids or given to him; missed sitting near fisherman of the village, who loved him dearly because he, apparently, brought more fish to their nets by being all "goodey and nicey to that one fishargod in tha river!" who they all believed in; missed sitting near the fire every night, sharing a meal with every single person, singing with them and laughing like they were all friends...
They were, really. Town people were never like that - they would not consider him a friend unless he brings them all the money in the world. Scar was not even sure they knew the word friendship! Or what it meant... Living with them was suffocating, like gasping for air again and again, but you're being pushed into the water with every pathetic half-breath you take...
Even thoughts about his village has made him sad, and Scar hesitantly brushed them away, hiding them in his heart - for now. It was a little bit away for that, thought, because in his daydreaming he has completely lost his sence of orientation and that resulted in him crashing into a woman he has not noticed and who, apparently, was too busy to notice him.
They fell on the ground, both catching dissaproving stares from people who passed by; luckily, they haven't knocked down anyone else. Still, Scar was ready for his fair dose of angry shouting - again, he was quite used to this already - but the woman seemed... lost in her own worry. She was frantically searching for something on the ground... oh, well, maybe its a piece of paper Scar had under his leg?
He gave it to her as quickly as he could, hoping that maybe it will calm her down a little bit. He didn't like getting screamed at, and some people could do that for so long! Teaching him some quite exotic words in the process! Sometimes he zoned out in the middle of getting cursed and yelled at, too busy trying to catch all the weird new anger-words he hasn't heard before. Like that one time that merchant from the south country spilled an entire tide of the curses that Scar has not heard from anyone ever before. Sadly, upon seing Scars lost gaze, the merchant became even angrier... That usually happened to people. Scar with his tired face and voidly stare was quite a disappointed for anyone who wished to crush someone with an unstoppable wave of their righteous fury.
...Still. She was not screaming.
This caught Scar off guard. No, she was not screaming, she didn't even looked angry. Just took her piece of paper and nodded. Like it was nothing. Smiled even - but her smile looked tired; surprisingly for himself, Scar felt a pinch of worry for someone he didn't even knew.
He looked at her face. Bags under eyes, messy hair; somehow Scar couldn't actually say what color was it. Brown? Black? Grey? And her eyes were... Green? Turquoise? Or... Wait, no. No!
They were not one color. They... shined? Changed? He could swear that for a second they looked like sea and waves, like something alive. Wait, alive? Oh, that's bad. That is really bad. In his world only one thing could make your eyes change like that! And that was, well, simply just magic!
There were a lot of myths and talks about magic creatures. Some would say that they hunted humans for sport, some would sing about fighting monsters "uglier than darkness itself, spitting poison and hellfire". Inquisition, walking through cities, would always make sure to remind everyone that creatures are evil, privileged with their magic and ability to never age, that they should all be destroyed and that they, the Inquisitors, were doing the best job at fighting the dangerous bloodthirsty monstrosities and protecting the kind people of all land.
But the woman in front of him did not look like an evil monster. More like a wary cat. His ocean stranger, how Scar called her in his head, has not missed his curious gaze, and seems like it worried her a lot. She tried to hide her face under the cloak, but realized quickly that it did no help. Sighing, she pulled a money bag out, cleverly hiding it from people around and just showing a glimpse of gold to Scar, like playing with him, hoping to catch him like fish gets caught with a shiny bait.
"How much?" - she whispers; her gaze strict and somehow even more tired than before. Like it was not the first time for her. Or, maybe, she didn't expect cooperation from him.
Oh, silly you, ocean-stranger! He gets up and extends a hand, offering her help, which she hesitantly takes. Pulling up his best smile, Scar drags her behind him, talking about the most stupid things in the world and ignoring her previous question. Honestly, he can't even understand half the words he is saying.
Honestly... he can't even understand why she follows him.
They stop near the old well, the one that no one cares about because there is no water left; but Scar loves this place - it's his corner of piece, an almost-locked part of the city with one small entrance squeezed inbetween nearly ancient, half-broken houses that belong to no one but wind and dust. Here Scar remembers that he spilled all the water and forgot the buckets and they will get stolen and he will be yelled at... but he didn't care. Not now. Now he just wanted to...
Wanted to what? Near him was the ocean-stranger with her sharp eyes and hand dancing somewhere near belt; she probably had a weapon there. She was dangerous. Still, he wanted something from her. What exactly?
"If you don't want money for your silence, then what do you want?" - she asked, now very clearly holding a small knife. A clear message - you trapped yourself somewhere where it's very easy to kill you without witnesses. Why wasn't he scared? What was so different about her that he didn't want to run away?
Scar knew the answer; it was not written in words, but rather as a desire of the heart that he felt in a way that no word could ever explain. She was his dream. Or, rather, she lived his dream. She was magical, and from a very young age Scar was drawn to magic, catching every legend ever told to him with a curiousity of someone who's life depended on it.
He was a dreamcatcher, a hunter of stories about all of not-normal, strange and magical. He wanted to be a part of it so desperately, wanted his own legend, his own glorious tale - and now, when he lived nearly four years in a suffocating city that hated all of magic no matter what it was... it just felt like that one breath he needed so desperatly. A chance he can't miss.
He was so, so tired of not being able to breathe. He would take any chance to run away. If its a magical chance? Even better! He can finally be someone! He can find his story!
So, Scar starts just like any story does. He introduces his character - but, surprisingly, not himself.
"Have you ever heard of Codfather?" - he breathes out excitedly; and, seeing her eyes widening, answered the question to himself silently.
She, indeed, heard.
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She, indeed, heard - because how can she not know her brother?
Why? Why him? Has she outed herself? This stranger knows her? But the Inquisition is not even supposed to know her name! Is he a spy? Did the ocean people rat her out as a revenge for leaving them?
But it seemed like the stranger did not care about her. Or her knife. He was more invested into his own story - and, focusing on his talks, Lizzie could suddenly understand why was Jimmies name known to him. Jimmy always loved his little villages near the rivers he claimed, never listening to anyone's... strict advises about why shouldn't he communicate with humans. Idiot! And where is he know? Trapped somewhere in a city more boring than anything Lizzie has ever seen. And she has seen countless of royal meetings! Listened to advisors talking dirt about eachother! For hours each cycle! Or day, if it's how earth walkers called it.
Jimmy was somewhere here, and Lizzie was doing nothing but listen to one of his favourite village people talk about how he spent years sitting near river and dreaming about meeting a mythical figure, the Codfather! When did he even became a myth? He isn't that old! Spend a hundred years living near humans and throwing fish to them and they will think you're a god or something...
"...and, here!! Look! I made this for him. I love making things for people, but no one here needs it, they are all into gold and silver and all those clothes that cost more than I do, probably..."
He gives her a toy. A pendant? Little wooden fish, made by rough hands of a human with a silly smile and green eyes that look like a forest. That's how Jimmy always talked about him. And always said that his singing is terrible, but he sings with his whole heart...
Lizzie sighs. Yes, she remembered all - or, well, most of her brothers talking. She knew that one specific human. He was Jimmy's favourite... Kid who would always sing without ever sounding right but with so much love that it made his songs priceless. Kid who would talk to the river spirit without even knowing if he is there or not. Kid who would throw handmade wooden gifts into the river - and Jimmy would hang them around his old creaking house and wear on his clothes and give them names like they were important.
And now he was giving one to Lizzie - and Lizzie, desperately missing her lost dumbass brother, took it and wore it on her neck, absent-mindedly touching carefully engraved scales.
Was she crazy or did it feel a little bit warmer than it should?
Human was probably expecting something from her. And Lizzie really did not like the idea of him helping her, but... he knew the city. And her brother must be here somewhere. And, and, didn't that one friend of hers warn her to trust strangers specifically today?
Let's hope Martyns intuition will not fail her like it haven't failed anyone before...
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He wants to be helpful! He really does! Why wouldn't she let him help more?
They've searched for her brothers name in the prison books. Which, on its own, was very illegal, especially if you count breaking into the prison (funny, who would do that, usually it's the other way) and hiding from guards and... well, it was quite an eventful day. And evening, because they spent a huge amount of time being lost in corridors and then trying to remember the corridors and then getting lost again...
At some point ocean-Lizzie got angry and started pulling colored little stones out of her bag. Her hair suspiciously shined pink when she did that. Scar has never seen anything like that. Was she also an ocean stone? Created from a colorful pink coral reef? Lizzie just laughed at that and winked with her always-changing eyes. Fascinating...
They have only left the prison after remembering the ways in and out and hiding their secret hole in the wall that they've actually came through hours ago. And that's when Scar got exited! He can help her with her... whatever her mission is! Saving some Jimmy guy she found in a book! But no, she is against that. All his dreams are broken! All his hopes are shattered!
He tries everything, begging her to take him as a help-hand for almost an hour, but nothing helps. She just smiles and promises that she will definitely find him again and he can help her next time and many things, many promises that hold no truth in them because her eyes don't lie, they are sharp and not-trusting and, sure, Scar can't blame her for that.
So she leaves. Dissapears into the forest, leaving Scar with thoughts and thoughts and more and more... He knows that he can't just pretend that nothing happened. He will always know that he had a chance! He was so close to his dream! And he didn't, and he stayed in a place that was slowly killing him and his soul and his heart and everything that made him Scar. He would stop being him and become one more grey face. It will happen.
Unless - unless! he does something that will cut this life for him. Or cut him away from this life. Words. Semantics! He must go, he must run, he must do something! Something!..
The prison is old; it is almost in ruins, the floor cracks with every step and the walls collaps slowly with every passed year; it feels like a dead place, breathes heavy air from it's dark tunnels. Scar doesn't understand why it is still being used and tries to not think about it. Just the numbers, just the numbers...
His cell number was twenty-five. Walking through the labyrinth of halls and walls, Scar whispered this number again and again, engraving it into his memory. It tried to run away, slip from his grip, but he held firmly. Twenty five! Twenty five! Twenty... Wait, did he took a wrong turn? No, no, he didn't, here is a colored stone. And more, and more - how many stones a woman needs in her bag? Wait, what was the number again?
The labyrinth ends. He is near cell doors; stands there and just looks into the endless dark corridor with countless sets of metal bars, some of them glittering with unnatural light - those were magic-repelling bars for creatures, the ones that drowned them from all of their magic and then sparkled from a stolen force.
Scar shivers. Inquisition talked about this weird metal proudly, telling everyone sweet stories about how they were bravely hunting creatures and putting them into a prison of their own stolen magic. To Scar it felt... wrong, deeply uncanny. Something about those bars scared him. And they were not even ment for him, yet still this sparkling undertone made him feel uneasy.
Twenty something. He needed a twenty-something... Darkness, surely, scared him a lot, if he was still standing and not searching for a twenty-something cell! How did he forget a number? What a loss! Okay, Scar, pull yourself together. First we take a light - yes, this torch will work... Then we walk. Step one, step two, step six, step thirteen-seventeen-twenty five... Wait! Twenty five, yes, he need a cell with number twenty five!
He doesn't walk anymore - he runs, smiling like crazy. Here are cells twenty and more! And here is the twenty five! Greenish glow on a magic-repelling metal, but that's not a problem - who needs magic if you have keys?
One perk of living in a relativly small city for four years is that you know everyone and what their locks are. The guard that spent nights here loved alcohol and was very kind to everyone who brought him this wonderful brew. So kind that he spent a good hour telling Scar old war stories - each one weirder than the other - and then very, very kindly fell asleep. Leaving his keys way too close to Scars grabby hands...
Keys fell from his hands, and Scar lovingly pulled out a southern angry-word from his wonderful curse vocabulary. Feeling very proud of himself for remembering such beautiful words, he grabbed the keys again, with shaking hands opening the lock in front of him and looking inside.
He brings the torch with him, fighting the darkness of a cell - and the person inside of it looks up; his eyes catch the light of the fire, and at first Scar think that it's just the light reflecting off and glittering...
But then they change color. And suddenly, his voice humms one single word into the silence of the prison.
And it is his name.
"Scar?" - his voice creaks, sounding like old wood cracking; or, maybe, like fire hissing... it is a weak sound, but the word is clear.
"How do you know my name?" - Scar wants to ask, but doesn't; instead he looks, really looks at the person in the cell, trying to see if maybe they know eachother.
Messy dark blond hair, dirty and tangled; old green-ish clothes and fishnet on the belt; some piece of cloth near it - dark with the stars on it, does it mean anything? It looks to pretty to just be random.
And trinkets all over his clothes; are those... what? They look like wood, maybe in a form of some animal? Fish? That's silly, who would wear wooden fish on their-
Scar freezes.
He made wooden fish. All his childhood he would sit near the river and make little wooden fish toys with dull knife, still cutting his fingers sometimes, still having million little scar from that knife all over his hands.
Still sitting near the river though. Still making wooden fish, even if they went nowhere, dissapeared in the water. Still singing his songs into the wild stream; waves took his words away, carrying his song to someone who knew who he is, who remembered his name, who carried his gifts.
Through years and years, through imprisonment and jail time.
"...Cod...father?"
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Jimmy wasn't exactly a happy person. He carried a lot of hurt on his heart, a lot of guilt; he carried loss in his soul that dragged him down to the ground, making him numb, making his life miserable.
But there were good things in his life still. His group - his family! - would visit him; his animals were lovely and brought him joy from day to day; the world itself seemed to be loving to him, saving him again and again from inquisitions wrath.
But, still, he had grief written all over his soul; he had embroidery of pain on his very living, the red-like-blood tread stitched into his existence; and the hurt felt like him, and he felt like hurt; there was no escaping it.
But, but, he made a promise. He promised him to live. He promised to try.
And he had something keeping him awake, still awake, pulling him out the darkness.
It started with the song. Kids voice, broken words; he was not the best at singing, surely, but his songs were full of true feeling, and Jimmy loved them. He knew who was singing, he knew the face and the name - Scar, really? Who names a kid like that?
And he had something from him. Kid made wooden fish and threw it into the water; his hand were small and soft, and his gift were rough, had sharp corners and broken patterns; but those little gifts alone carried so much love in them that Jimmy cound not see their imperfections but only saw the beauty of a simple souls doing.
One little caring boy brought him more hope than anything in the world.
And seeing him with the torch in the darkness-painted halls of death-breathing prison was just like hearing his song for the first time but again.