Chapter Text
They travel throughout the entire night, despite Scar’s weak suggestions that they stop and rest. He’s still strangely drained, and every step takes more energy than he’s willing to admit. Grian doesn’t stop moving, though. In fact, his pace only increases as the moon moves across the sky, glaring down at them like they’ve somehow wronged it.
At some point, Scar can’t keep up with the speed, even with his cane, and he can’t bring himself to keep moving. His vision is blurry with exhaustion, and his head feels like static, and his legs stop functioning, so he just…stops. He sits on the ground, breathing deeply to try to calm his racing heart, as Grian tries to convince him to keep moving—first through coaxing him, then with loud threats, then he just sits down beside Scar, clearly unhappy, but no longer shouting. His wings fold behind him in a ruffled heart.
Scar closes his eyes. He presses his palm flat against his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heart beneath it, too quick, but steadily slowing.
“I’ve been pushing you too hard,” Grian says out of nowhere, his voice sounding abnormally harsh in the silent night. Scar doesn’t flinch, but his eyes open, and he looks at the wielder beside him.
“I shouldn’t—do that.” Grian tips his head back and stares up, at the moon. “You don’t deserve that.” It’s not quite an apology, but it’s something close, and Scar takes it for everything it’s worth.
“It’s all right,” Scar reassures Grian quietly. “I understand why you do it.”
And he does. Grian doesn’t seem content with this answer, but he just nods, letting his eyes flicker shut.
“We can rest for one night,” Scar suggests, even knowing that it’s a futile effort. Grian doesn’t sleep. Scar isn’t even sure that the wielder can sleep. “It’s okay.”
For once, to Scar’s surprise, Grian doesn’t argue. He just nods exhaustedly and lets himself tip back, lying in the dirt as he looks up at the stars. His wings are trapped beneath him in a way that looks painful, but Grian doesn’t appear uncomfortable at all. “Yes,” he agrees softly. “It’s okay.”
Scar sleeps soundly, that night. It’s been a long time since he’s not woken up with the sense that the moon was watching him. He had forgotten how peaceful it was.
The next morning, any sense of ease from the night before has vanished, and Grian is just the same as he was before. Snappish, easily irritable, dragging Scar up and away from their impromptu campsite before the sun has begun to peek over the horizon.
“We’ve been here too long,” he tells Scar sharply when Scar dares to ask, eyes still hazy with sleep, why they’re in such a hurry. “We have to leave before they get the chance to find us.”
So they leave. Scar follows Grian through the trees, casting uneasy glances at the moon as it slowly dips out of sight, and only letting himself relax when the sun comes out, bathing the forest floor in dappled golden light. Grian walks steadily, never slowing, but he’s not moving nearly as quickly as the night before. Every once in a while, he casts a glance back at Scar, as if to make sure he’s still following.
Grian seems to know exactly where he’s going. Every once in a while, he’ll lift his eyes to the sky, then down to his compass, staring at each for just a moment before nodding and either continuing on or adjusting his direction. When Scar asks what he’s doing, Grian explains that he’s using the sun to determine the direction they’re walking in.
Still, Scar can’t help but feel as though Grian would be able to navigate his way through the forest even without the sun to guide his way. It’s more like the wielder is using it as a comfort, as reassurance that the moon cannot Watch him. Not right now.
They stop for lunch, eventually, when Scar’s stomach is roaring so loudly that it begins to irritate Grian and he finally breaks. He makes Scar sit down at the base of a thick tree as he darts past the tree trunks, and every time he comes back into view, he’s holding something different. Bright purple berries, then wild onions, then a plant that Scar doesn’t recognize. He finds a variety of nuts, cradled in his hands. At some point, he must discover a pond, because when he approaches Scar, he’s damp from head to toe, wings soaked and feathers dripping. He holds an entire fish in his arms, looking oddly proud of himself in a way that Scar hasn’t seen in him before.
By the time Grian returns from his search, they have something that could be considered an entire meal.
“Save some for later,” Grian advises with a mouth full of berries as Scar starts a fire, both to cook the fish and to make sure that Grian doesn’t get sick from being cold and damp. “I can’t promise I’ll be able to find this much, in the future.”
Scar doesn’t want to. He’s hungrier than he’s been in a long time, and the food is heavenly. But he forces himself to save as much food as possible, taking only what he needs, as he and Grian warm up near the fire.
Grian doesn’t even wait until his hair is dry before he stands up and continues walking, leaving Scar to follow close behind. The entire time, he refuses to let his guard down, always glancing around and trying to find whatever danger might be lurking amongst the trees, waiting for them. He doesn’t move his hand away from where his sword hangs at his waist. It’s terrifying, to know that such a powerful wielder is afraid, but it’s almost comforting. Scar isn’t a fighter, but from what he’s seen, Grian is.
It’s dusk, when Grian finally lets himself relax, and lowers his defenses. It’s dusk, when the dangers in the forest finally make themselves known.
The first sign of the danger is an arrow.
It whizzes right by Scar’s face, just barely skimming the tip of his nose and leaving a thin scratch across his skin that blooms immediately with crimson. He gasps and stumbles back, eyes searching wildly for the source, but the forest seems to be as empty as it has been the entire time.
Grian glances back over his shoulder. “Scar?”
Another arrow, this time aiming directly for Scar’s neck. He only just manages to dodge it, dropping to the ground and letting it soar above his head rather than puncturing his throat. It sticks in a tree with a harsh thunk, piercing the thick bark with an ease that makes Scar’s stomach turn.
Grian swears. His eyes flash a vibrant, dangerous purple, and his wings flare. “Scar, get to shelter,” he orders, already moving. His sword is in his hand, gleaming with a silver sheen, before Scar has a chance to process the fact that they’re under attack. “Now.”
Scar doesn’t move, at first. It’s like he’s frozen in place, like his muscles stopped functioning the instant the first arrow was released. Time stands still, and any thoughts are drowned out by the knowledge that someone shot an arrow at him. Someone is shooting at him.
“Scar!” Grian shouts, and Scar blinks back to reality, eyes wide and panicked. “Get to shelter!”
This time, Scar obeys. It’s not as easy as Grian makes it sound; he can’t tell where the arrows are coming from, and he doesn’t ever get the chance to stop and look in his haste to dodge. He twists out of the way of an arrow from one direction, then has to duck under one from the opposite direction, and how many attackers are there?
A root catches his foot, sending him stumbling, even with his cane to help him keep balance. He catches onto a tree for balance and cowers beside it, pressing himself up against the rough trunk as his entire body trembles with fear and adrenaline. He watches, terrified, as Grian avoids the arrows. It’s like some sort of twisted dance; Grian’s limbs contort as he jolts back from one arrow, then staggers away from another that narrowly misses his wing. Again and again, over and over, and Scar’s heart drops because the wielder must be growing tired, by now. He’s magical, but he’s still human.
Grian ducks under an arrow, then straightens up, already on the lookout for another. He doesn’t turn to look behind him.
An arrow is released. It whistles through the air, spiraling towards the back of Grian skull.
A scream sticks in Scar’s throat. “Gri—”
Grian turns, but he doesn’t look at the arrow. Instead, he makes eye contact with Scar. His face is gleaming with sweat, and he’s breathing heavily. He adjusts his grip on the sword at his side.
Scar’s breath catches as he stares back at the wielder.
Grian’s eyes have never glowed so bright.
One moment, the arrow is about to pierce flesh. The next, Grian is gone, and the arrow ends up harmlessly in the ground, just under a hundred feet away. Scar is left searching frantically for the wielder, head whipping wildly around the forest as, for a moment, the arrows cease.
Someone grabs him from behind and he nearly shouts in surprise, the sound only stifled by a cold hand over his mouth. “Shhh!” a voice hisses in his ear. He can hear the uneven pattern of labored breathing from behind him. “We’re getting out of here, but I can’t take us very far.”
Scar tries to say something in response, but his words are still muffled by the hand.
“Close your eyes,” the voice advises. “And get ready to run.”
Scar closes his eyes. The hands gripping onto him adjust so that they’re wrapped around his waist, and something feathery and soft curls around him in a tight cocoon.
The world twists sideways, and everything disappears save for a frigid wave washing through Scar’s bones. He can no longer feel the ground beneath him, or the stinging pain on the tip of his nose. The only things that exist are the hands that are wrapped around him, holding him tightly, keeping him from slipping into the wide expanse of icy void that is trying to drag him away.
For once, in comparison to the cold all around him, the hands feel warm.
As soon as the feeling appears, it’s gone, and Scar is left gasping, shivering, stumbling to his feet and blinking away the violet spots in his eyes. His stomach roils, and he gags, doubling over. His vision swims, and he can just make out Grian’s weak form in the dirt in front of him.
Get ready to run, he recalls the wielder’s words through his spinning mind, and he shoves the heels of his hands into his eyes forcefully enough to see stars. It takes a moment before he regains his bearings, and by the time he does, he can hear harsh shouting. If he squints and forces his eyes to focus, he can just make out two people darting through the forest towards them, one with fiery hair flickering with real flames on his head, and the other with messy white hair. They’re holding swords in their hands, and they each have a bow strapped to their backs.
Scar has to go.
But Grian is crumpled at his feet. Grian is trying to stand, and failing, the weight of his wings sending him toppling over. Grian’s eyes are dull enough that they’re almost entirely gray.
Scar grits his teeth. Somehow, Grian saved him. Somehow, Grian gave them just a few extra precious seconds. It’s only right that Scar return the favor by refusing to leave him behind.
He wraps his fingers around Grian’s arms and hoists the wielder to his feet, wedging his cane into Grian’s hand for him to use. Grian slumps against him, eyelids fluttering. “Come on,” Scar murmurs, somewhere between gentle and urgent. “Come on, G, we have to go.”
Grian shakes his head. “Go,” he rasps. “I can’t—keep up. Go, get out.” His voice is hoarse, and he’s blinking rapidly, as if he’s trying to stay awake.
“Absolutely not.” Scar starts to drag Grian along, forcing him to stumble forwards, wings dragging on the ground. “I’m not leaving you behind.” Together, they limp through the forest, with Grian barely able to stay upright and Scar refusing to let him go. The footsteps in the forest grow closer and closer, and the voices grow louder, and Scar knows that they’re being flanked by their attackers on both sides, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t.
One of them, the one with the flames for hair, shouts something to the other, who nods and draws his bow from his back. He nocks an arrow and pulls back the bowstring, leveling it directly at Scar’s skull, and Scar gasps.
Without warning, he drops to the ground, taking Grian with him. The arrow misses him by barely inches, and Grian groans at the impact, furrowing his eyebrows.
“Sorry,” Scar wheezes, and he hauls Grian up all over again. He’s getting tired—his limbs feel weak, and his head is spinning—but he grits his teeth and focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, Grian’s arm slung over his shoulder as the wielder sags.
He staggers, half blind with his blurry vision, through the trees. Keeping himself on his feet is challenging enough; keeping Grian up as well requires a Herculean effort that Scar isn’t sure he’ll be able to maintain for more than a few more minutes. He has to get them to shelter. It’s the only thing in his mind. Get to shelter.
“Hello!” a cheerful voice greets him, and Scar yelps. The suddenness of the sound sends him to his knees, and he chokes, gasping for air. Something cold and sharp presses against the base of his throat.
The one with the fiery hair is standing in front of him, head tilted as if he’s amused. He holds his bow with one hand. With the other, he holds the point of his sword to Scar’s neck.
“Etho! I got ‘em!” he calls to his partner, the other one who attacked them. Scar gags on the fear that clogs his chest and his lungs. Grian is slumped on the ground. Grian is unconscious at his side. Scar is alone, now.
“Really?” The one with white hair—Etho—jogs over to his partner, returning his bow and his arrows to the quiver on his back. He doesn’t let himself remain weaponless, though; in one fluid movement, he draws his sword and digs the point into the ground, leaning against it casually. Scar can sense the threat in the gesture. “Good job.”
“Thank you,” the first one responds proudly. The flames flicker on his head with pleasure, and he grins even as Scar tries not to breathe, lest he endanger his life even more. “Look at this. Nowhere to go.”
“Just like I taught you.”
“Just like you taught me,” he agrees with Etho. He nudges Scar’s knee with the toe of her boot, and Scar flinches back. “Oh, look, he’s scared!”
“He should be.” Etho runs a finger over the edge of his blade, and Scar swallows. It looks…sharp. “Both of them should be, really, but the other one’s not really in a state to be thinking about that. Is it—” He cuts off.
The first one hums. “Wielder’s fatigue. Won’t be up for a while.”
“That’s what I thought.” He pokes Grian’s arm with the tip of his sword, and Scar has to bite down on his tongue enough to taste blood to stop himself from reacting. He barely knows Grian. He certainly doesn’t trust him. And yet, something changed the instant Grian sacrificed himself to try to save Scar.
All of a sudden, Scar can’t just give up on Grian.
Scar manages a smile and looks up at his two attackers. “Well, hello, there.” His mouth tastes bitter. Sour. He tries not to look at the limp form beside him. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to let us go?”
Etho sighs. “Oh, look—he speaks.”
His partner lifts his eyebrows. He leans in, head cocked as if he’s heard something interesting, sword still pressed against Scar’s skin. His eyes, same as his hair, flicker with flames that seem to be ignited in his irises, and Scar is suddenly painfully aware of his pointed teeth and his twitching fingers and—
Well. That’s certainly not ideal.
The wielder with the blazing eyes smiles. “So,” he starts. “You were saying?”
Scar can’t breathe. He’s gotten used to Grian’s presence, to Grian’s magic. He’s finally stopped flinching when he meets Grian’s violet eyes, when they flash brighter than is natural every time Scar starts to say his name. But this—this new magic, this wielder with the eyes that burn through Scar’s skull—this wielder’s presence feels suffocating.
He chokes, as if on smoke and ashes. “Can you—you can just let us go, right?” It’s wishful thinking. He knows it is. But it still hurts when Etho scoffs, and shakes his head.
“That’s not going to happen,” he informs Scar bluntly. “Someone’s paying quite a bit for us to take you and your friend, here, to them.”
“A dangerous someone,” his wielder partner adds. “Someone we shouldn’t disappoint.”
Etho clicks his tongue. “Best to avoid getting on the Watchers’ bad side,” he agrees, and Scar’s body freezes. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s so far out of his depth, here—if he’s not careful, he’ll drown.
He wishes that Grian was awake. He wishes that Grian could help him.
Scar lifts his hands, as if in surrender. “We can talk about this,” he tries. “Look, I don’t even know who the Watchers are, but—”
The wielder cuts him off. “Sorry, how do you have that on your face, but you don’t know who the Watchers are?”
Scar grins at her weakly. “Talent?” His adrenaline is the only thing keeping him awake and aware, keeping his heart beating quickly and his eyes wildly searching for an escape that doesn’t appear to exist. “We’re just trying to—we’re all scared, right? You’re scared of the Watchers, I’m scared of the Watchers…so why don’t we help each other out?”
Etho hums suspiciously. “How so?”
Scar hasn’t gotten this far in his plan. “Well, if you let us go, then we can help you make sure that the Watchers can’t find you. Gri—” He stumbles over the name. “Ah, my friend and I, here. We’ve both had quite a bit of practice in escaping from them.”
“I’d prefer to not have to escape from them,” the wielder tells him dryly. “You can do better than that.”
For a moment, Scar thinks of Grian. Scar thinks of his icy stubbornness, his stony resolve in the face of problems. He remembers how Grian reacted when Scar tried to leave. He remembers Grian’s level head under pressure, as they were getting attacked, and he closes his eyes.
Scar breathes. He channels every bit of Grian’s coolness as he can.
“All right,” he agrees, and at the change in his tone, he can feel the wielder’s grip on the sword shift where the blade is still pressed against Scar’s throat. “How about this? If you hand us over to the Watchers, we tell them that you were considering betraying them. How do you think they’d respond to that?” He tips his head to the side, carefully not letting the blade bite into his skin any more than it has, pretending to think. “I don’t think they’d be happy.”
Etho tenses. The wielder grits his teeth and presses the sword further into Scar’s neck, and he has to hide a wince at the sting. “It’s a lie,” Etho says, but his voice is tight. “They would know it’s a lie.”
“Would they? From what I’ve heard, they’re all-Seeing, not all-knowing.” Scar tries for a cocky grin. He’s not entirely sure that it works—especially when he feels nauseous at threatening these people like this, even if they’re threatening him in return. They’re just trying to get by, like everyone else, and this feels wrong, but he doesn’t drop the act. “Do you want to take that risk?”
They still don’t respond, so Scar adds one last thing to seal the deal. “I can tell them how to find you, too.” And they both freeze.
The wielder’s hand is trembling where it holds his sword. Etho’s exhales. “It’s up to you, Tango,” he whispers to his partner, who nods. “I trust your judgement.”
The wielder—Tango—looks between Scar and Etho, conflicted. “Do we—” he stops, tries again. “Do we want to take that risk?”
Etho purses his lips. He casts a dubious look over to Scar. He doesn’t speak.
Tango sets his jaw. “Right. Etho, it’s not worth it. We can get money, elsewhere.”
“They won’t be happy with us,” Etho warns. “We’ll have to go into hiding.”
“We can go back to the hut,” Tango reasons, and now they’re completely ignoring Scar, as if he’s not even there. “Bdubs would let us stay for a bit, right?”
Etho snorts. “Bdubs would let us stay forever, if we told him I was going to be there.”
“True,” Tango agrees. “He’s like that when it comes to you. Or we could go back home, for a while. They’d let us stay. Either way….” Then he fixes a sharp glare on Scar. “Fine, then. Go. But as far as I’m concerned, we never saw you, and you never saw us. Are we clear?”
“We’re clear,” Scar gasps, and he scrambles to his feet. “Thank you. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank us.” Etho’s voice is tight, and low. “It’s not going to matter, in the end. All you’ve done is bought yourself some time.”
“And put us in danger,” Tango adds. He scowls at Scar. “I hope you’re happy.”
Scar doesn’t grace that with a response. He just hooks his arms under Grian’s legs and around his back and straightens, now holding Grian tightly to his chest. “Thank you,” he breathes one last time. “I’ll—I’ll see you around, I suppose.”
“Hope not,” Tango mutters, and with that, he grabs Etho by the arm and tugs him away. Scar doesn’t watch them go. He just grits his teeth and turns in the other direction, picking up his cane as best he can while holding Grian.
One step at a time. One foot over the other. Scar walks for as long as he can, holding Grian in his arms, before his knees suddenly give out beneath him and he collapses, using the last of his energy to stop Grian from hitting the ground too harshly.
He rolls onto his back and stares at the sky, breathing heavily, world spinning around him. He doesn’t sleep—he doesn’t think he could if he tried, with the adrenaline coursing through his veins—but he doesn’t move, either. He just lies on the ground, Grian’s unconscious form beside him, and finally lets the tears stream down the sides of his face.