Chapter Text
As if things couldn’t be bad enough he’d gone and made them oh so very worse.
He hears the girl--Jack’s daughter, his own niece --walk away, and it’s only when the footsteps are completely mute does he hiss out a choked breath, knees hitting the ground as he hunches over. Black claws scratch at his upper arms, physical pain stabbing through to fight the familiarly twisting and stabbing sensation in the pit of his stomach.
He hadn’t thought much of those he’d lured into the Constant at first--as long as it kept Them at bay, to do what They asked of him, he’d bring in as many helpless people as They pleased. Anything to seem obedient, anything to keep the pain at bay. Higgsbury was easy, having been down that path before, but Wendy…
Even before this realization, back when he’d been watching them all from the Throne, there’d been things--little things, from how she’d rock on her heels to how she fiddled with blades of grass, and especially her interactions with her sister--that had reminded him of his own times with Jack. The same Jack whose daughter he’d brought here and he’d apparently lost one already, no doubt Jack was a wreck and he couldn’t even help him then and he’d had no idea he was an uncle and-
“God, what have I done…” The answers are numerous and suffocating. It was enough that Charlie had been accidental collateral… just when he thought he’d come to terms with it all, the twisting pain dulling to an occasional twinge, her sister has to come in and tear that wound wide open once more. And to think those were only the ones he knew before coming here.
God, this is all his fault…
What’s more, Winona has made her reasons for hating him (all of which are justified, he won’t deny it) loud and clear among the others. If any of them lacked reason to hate him before, they certainly don’t anymore. Hard to hate someone who would drag their own family here, after all.
And on top of all the other crimes he’d committed... Why stay around people that hate him? Do them all a favor instead.
=
She’s found that in a place as chaotic as this, order helps keep people sane. It doesn’t have to be too much order, but giving everyone a designated job to do each day, which is written in her planner, helps keep a sort of rhythm for everyone.
Therefore when Maxwell moves to take the razor from the communal chests near the fire-pit, Wickerbottom can’t help but raise an eyebrow. Generally Maxwell keeps to himself (much to her relief), giving him minimal reason to come to the main camp save for dropping off supplies. That aside, of all the tasks he’s been assigned (usually gathering wood, stones or digging up graves), shaving Beefalo isn’t one of them. So what does Mister ‘Clean-Shaven’ need a razor for?
“Ahem.” The magician flinches, but meets her eyes with an even (if not tired) expression. This close to him she can see his usual scowl is… tired? Dejected?
“Somethin’ the matter, Wickerbottom?” He’s trying to keep his tone flat, voice quiet, but she can hear the exhaustion in his voice as well; must have stayed up reading that… book of his again (though she hesitates to call it such, with the… energy around it, for lack of words).
“Actually yes. Quite a few ‘somethings’.” She puts down her book on Birds of North America in exchange for her planner, opening it to today. “Firstly you’re scheduled for mining more stone, mineral and metals; in fact, you were supposed to do that two weeks ago.”
“Haven’t felt up to that.” The answer makes her brows knit together and she frowns--both because of the interruption and the gall of him to just say he ‘hadn’t felt up to that’ when they were in a life or death situation, daily . ‘Haven’t felt up to that’ indeed.
“Secondly
, Higgsbury is supposed to shear the Beefalo, which thirdly is a
night activity
. So-”
“Has he yet?”
His question gives her pause, and she scans through her planner to find…
“Well… no, he hasn’t for a few days-” almost a week even, “-but we had that Hound attack and he and Winona have been working on her catapults after the last one got destroyed.”
“But how many days do we have till winter?”
The condescendingly raised eyebrow of his shows that he knows as well as she does how many days, and she closes her planner rather loudly (and carelessly, she can hear one of the pages fold wrong and it makes her cringe ).
“Eight days,” she answers flatly, opening the planner once more to smooth out the accidentally folded page. “Are you volunteering to shear them while collecting stone?”
“Not ‘while’ but can have enough wood to camp near those… things …” She hums lightly in amusement at the disgusted expression on his face before he continues. “Besides, there’s rocks in that field, yeah? Two birds with one stone.”
“Hm… I suppose s-” She’s cut off by the realization, her eyes meeting the magician’s smug pair. “You-!!”
“It’s funny and ya know it. Later pal!” He turns to leave her sputtering over the pun, but-
“Maxwell, wait.” He looks over his shoulder as she reopens her planner to write down Stones - Maxwell and add Wool next to it in parentheses.
“Hm?”
“A couple days ago, Wendy came back to the camp early in the morning.” She knows the magician loves to give himself an air of mystery and being unreadable, but the way he stiffens as she mentions it is hard to miss. “Her right knee was badly scraped--a shallow wound, but… would you know how she got that?”
“Well… yeah. Bandaged it myself,” he answers, and Wickerbottom had noticed it was bandaged; not very well mind you (no poultice, which would have protected the wound from further infection better than the makeshift grass bandage) but enough to protect it at a basic level.
“Would you know how it happened then?” There’s a pause, and the way his eyes shift away for the briefest of seconds tells her not to believe his answer.
“Spiders. She told me she’d been going after spiders with her sister.” His voice is calm and even, yet has a hint of please don’t ask along the edges; a near-identical answer to what Wendy had told the adults when questioned, save for claiming she’d bandaged the wound herself (though considering the others’ opinions, she can understand why Wendy didn’t mention the magician).
“Mm. Very well. I thank you for looking after her,” she admits, “but little tip: putting a poultice on after using the salve will help keep contaminants out of the wound better than grass bandages.”
“Didn’t have the supplies for those, but I’ll keep it in mind,” and with a shrug he’s gone, razor in hand. Wickerbottom sits back down to continue reading her book and the daily order resumes.
=
It’s midday by the time Wendy and the others return; while Wigfrid and Wilson start bickering about how to divide the meat--because “A warriör needs tö feast upön the flesh öf her felled föes!” does not agree with “We all need to eat some of the meat Wigfrid, you can’t hog it all!”--she and Abigail walk towards Maxwell’s camp. Hopefully, enough time has passed that the two of them can talk with him, properly confront what they had learned-
Except the camp is empty.
Maybe… he went out to get supplies? Abby suggests; Wendy can tell she’s trying to sound casual, but there’s a hint of worry in her sibling’s voice. I mean, Wilson and Miss Winona were complaining about needing rocks… maybe one of the others saw him.
And so they head back to the main camp. Not many of the others are there right now: Wigfrid and Wilson are still arguing about how to divide the meat, WX is sorting chests, and near them, Miss Wickerbottom is teaching the new Merm-child (Worm? Wyrm? Wart? Well, Wart was close) something in a book.
Considering two of them are busy, and the automaton has always been rude to Abby (though she’s always been quick to wreak revenge upon their bees), that leaves but one option.
As she walks towards the two, the fish girl (Wurt!) looks up and notices them first. The scaled face breaks out into a grin, waving at the two.
“Hello sad girl! Hello Abby-gill!” Wendy nods her greetings to the smiling Merm girl as Wickerbottom looks up. “Want to read story with us, florp?”
“Thank you Wurt,”-no negative reaction, so that was the right name… “-but no, I was wondering if either of you have seen Mister Maxwell.”
“This morning, yes,” Wickerbottom answers, showing Wurt a picture in the book she’s holding (something about birds, judging by the cover). “Told him to replenish our stone supply and to shear the Beefalo. He should be back with those supplies in the morning, dear.”
“INVALID.”
Both girls jump at the sudden interruption, turning to stare at the robot.
“Invalid… why?” Wendy asks cautiously; she’s holding Abby’s flower in her hands, just in case she has to call back the ghost currently squinting dangerously at the mechanical being.
“THE FRAIL HUMAN WAS LAST SIGHTED IN OPPOSITE DIRECTION OF BOTH RESOURCES,” WX-78 drones, tossing a broken kazoo over their shoulder. “HAIRY MEAT CREATURES AND STONE STRUCTURES ARE EAST. THE FRAIL HUMAN WAS LAST VIEWED WESTWARD.”
“West?” Wickerbottom repeats skeptically. “That’s odd, there’s nothing there but frog ponds. Why would he take the razor there?”
Take the WHAT?!
Merm, human and artificial being all start a bit at Abigail’s outburst (well, screaming to them) as a cold weight settles in Wendy’s stomach. Memories start to resurface, barely days after Abigail’s passing, seeing her father in the bathroom just… staring at the razor in his hand, moments before noticing Wendy was there.
“If the world had a single neck...”
She’s running before she even realizes it, doesn’t register that someone is running after her. Not until she trips over something, sending her sprawling on the ground.
“Wendy, careful!” Wickerbottom helps her stand before the librarian looks at the object that tripped her, a dark blue backpack with a silver buckle. “Maxwell’s bag--he’s bound to be close dear-”
But she isn’t listening, can’t listen, because there’s a figure several feet away, right in front of one of the ponds, and she bolts toward him.
His back is to her, but the closer she gets the brighter the light reflects off the flint, almost grinning at her tauntingly.
You love the idea of death so much, don’t you? Why try to prevent it? Everyone will die, after all, why should his loss hold any significance to you?
She can’t tell whether she or her sister screams out.
=
He’s thought of doing it before, even testing how much pressure one would need for this, but apparently thinking about offing oneself is apparently very different from actually doing it. So when he first heads here to the ponds, so sure of what he’s about to do that he drops his bag on the way, he thinks it’ll be quick, efficient and done with before he has time to think about it.
So he’s more than a bit angry at himself when he realizes hours have passed and he’s staring at the murky waters in front of him, his still alive reflection almost taunting him.
“Fuck’s sake, how hard can this be?!” The open razor is brought up with one hand, the other yanking down the collar of his shirt, cold stone pressed against pale skin as he takes a breath-
- both girls are staring at him, in shock and disbelief at what they have just learned, the dead one gaping at him as she hovers next to her twin, bright blue eyes locked with his and--
“DAMMIT!” His eyes shut as he pulls the razor down again; there’s the sting of it grazing his skin, but not enough to actually hurt and muffle the real pain.
Focus. Breathe. One swift motion is all it will take and everyone will be better off once he gets this over with.
He presses the razor into the side of his neck again, ignoring the twinge of pain as it presses into the small cut from earlier.
Eyes shut, a deep breath is taken, and…
“STOP!”
A jolt, blood, then blinding pain.