Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Couriway was seventeen, he thought he knew everything.

There he was, starting a new life, far away from his home, his past. He was finally free. 

Yet the memories chased him. The memories of bandages and bruised knuckles, panhandling on the side of the road. 

Couriway had been through enough by seventeen, he’d decided. No longer was he going to suffer. He knew better. He knew better than letting people look down on him. He knew better than to trust royalty. 

They are good for nothing, he’d thought, packing his pitifully small number of possessions into a bag and escaping into the fields on the outskirts of the city he once called home. Royalty always turned a blind eye to suffering. The sick, the poor, the disabled. Even when they’re children. 

When Couriway was seventeen, he knew enough of royalty to decide he wanted nothing to do with them. Kings and queens, dukes and duchesses—the kinds of people who regarded scum on their boots with more respect than people like Couriway—he knew they were no good.

Now, at least Couriway knows enough to know that he knows nothing.

“You think you and I are at all similar, old man?” Couriway pulls at the collar of his rumpled old shirt. He can’t remember the last time he washed it.

“Son.” The King places a firm hand on Couriway’s shoulder.

Couriway tenses, unease sparking in his nerves. “Don’t call me that.”

“My apologies, lad.” The King chuckles heartily. “I never had a boy of my own. I suppose I got a little ahead of myself.”

“A little?” Couriway snaps. “I don’t care how much you beg me, I’m not joining your family of rich snobs.” Couriway gestures flippantly at the looming palace behind the King.

“Come now, lad, isn’t it a little rude to talk to your elders this way?”

“I don’t owe you shit.” Couriway crosses his arms, turning up his nose. “You’ve done nothing to earn my respect.”

“Ah, but the same is true of your disrespect, is it not?”

Couriway glares up at the King, studying his pale grey eyes. “I’m not going to be your Prince. All this sweet-talking isn’t going to work.”

The King’s eyes crease as he smiles, his forehead wrinkling. “I’m not trying to convince you.”

Couriway glances away. “Then what are you doing? Not that I care.”

“You’re too focused on your past for someone so young, lad.” The King says, seemingly ignoring Couriway’s question. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but haven’t you ever wanted to be more than the summation of your hardships?”

Couriway considers the King’s words. How is he supposed to forget about his past when it haunts him every day? 

Trying his best to look disinterested, Couriway glances back at the King. “What are you talking about?”

“Old folks like me don’t have much to think about but memories. The luxury of the future is something we can no longer afford.” The King leans on his cane as if to emphasize his age. “But you… how old are you, lad?”

A subtle smile traces Couriway’s lips. “Seventeen.”

“Glorious skies, I never thought I’d see someone so young claw their way through the Run.” The King chortles, his eyes sparkling. “You have great tenacity.”

Couriway frowns. He’s never heard that word, tenacity. But he’s smart and he knows everything so he doesn’t even think about asking the King. 

“Ah, what I mean to say is, how do I put this…” the King hums in thought for a moment. “You’re courageous. Quite the will of steel you have there. That’s rare these days. Don’t take it for granted.”

“Easy for you to say.” Couriway glares defiantly at the King through his scratched lenses. “Kids aren’t supposed to be courageous. We’re not supposed to be tools for war. Or— or weapons for you freaks to mold into whatever you want. You wanna praise my courage? You may as well praise the Universe for being merciful enough not to kill me.”

The King raises an eyebrow, his forehead wrinkling. He seems to be pondering Couriway’s words.

“Really,” Couriway continues, his breath hot on his tongue. “It’s not praise at all. It’s just something you say to broken people to make them think their pain is anything but exactly what it is! Sometimes, pain is just pain,” a gasp, “and you learn nothing from it and— and nobody gets any better or worse for it, it just happens and people tell you you’re so brave for pushing through but you can’t be brave because you never had a choice in the first place.” 

Tears are pricking at Couriway’s eyes now, but he doesn’t notice as words keep tumbling from his lips, doused in kerosene. “So what you actually are is a coward, because if you had the choice you wouldn’t have picked to be hurt, nobody would, but somehow it’s still ‘brave’ to pretend as if you had one and chose to be strong through it all.”

By the time Couriway is finished speaking, tears are flowing freely down his cheeks, his chest tense as he gasps for breath. He lifts his sleeve to wipe his face, turning to leave as his ears burn red. 

“Son, wait just a moment, will you?”

Couriway sniffles, daring to glance over his shoulder. The King has sunk to his knees in the grass, one hand gripping his cane, the other outstretched to Couriway. 

Couriway scrapes together his dignity. “What?”

“I think you're right,” the King says, his kind eyes trained on Couriway. “I apologize.”

Couriway’s cheeks flush. “Thanks. I guess.”

“I won’t ask what happened to you,” the King’s hand drops to his side. “When I said you are more than the hardships you’ve endured, that wasn’t a lie, son.”

Couriway turns back to the King, wringing his hands nervously. “I know.”

“The truth is, I haven’t been the greatest man in the past,” the King’s voice takes on a somber tone. “But it’s not too late for me to make,” the King lets out a quiet laugh that sounds more like a cough. “Ah, make things… better.”

Couriway watches the King’s bony fingers tremble around the grip of his cane. “It isn’t too late for me, is it?”

“Skies, no.” The King’s warm cadence returns. “Your story has barely begun.”

An old man lays dying in the washed-out backrooms of a castle.

With his last embers of strength, he calls for two subordinates.

“Hurry,” Couriway gasps through uneven gulps of air. “We don’t know how much time he has left.”

”I’m running as fast as I can,” Kayfour groans, barely keeping pace with his elder as the two race across the dirt paths of their kingdom. “It’s not my fault you have bigger lungs.”

“You made it here,” Couri fires back without missing a beat. “You should be as fast as I am.”

”I am,” Kayfour seethes, frowning. “We’re both Runners, right?”

Couriway skids to a stop in front of a looming structure, built from old brick and stone. Carved in calligraphic inscription above the wooden gates are the letters HBG.

“ I’ve never seen it up close before,” Kayfour mumurs between panting breaths. “It’s fuckin’ huge.”

”Watch your language, kid.” Couri elbows Kayfour in the side.

”You’re only two years older than me,” Kayfour retorts, frowning. “Besides, I made it through the Run when I was even younger than seventeen. And I’m taller than you.”

”Okay, so you ran through some trees at sixteen.” Couri rolls his eyes. “Big deal.”

”Shut up,” Kayfour says, snickering. “You know better than I do how hard it is to get through that bitch.”

”I do,” Couri admits, mirroring Kayfour’s smile.

When it comes time for Couriway and Kayfour to say goodbye to their old King, and their old lives, they are standing by the bedside of the man that took them in just months ago.

Couriway’s heart is pounding in his chest, his skin pale and clammy like he’s the one on his deathbed.

”Couri,” The King croaks, placing a golden pocket watch in the clammy palm of Couriway’s hand. “How the Skies have molded you into a fine young man.” The King coughs. “I want you to carry on my legacy.”

Couri’s chest tenses, not with sorrow, but with dread. He sighs.

”Yes, sir.” Are the only words Couriway can manage.

“Kayfour.” The King shifts his weary gaze to the younger of the two Runners. “You raced against the sun and stars when you were just a lad.” A wheezing cough interrupts the King’s words, and Kayfour bites their lip. Couriway wonders how Kayfour feels about all this. “That’s nothing to scoff at, young one. Those woods are even more treacherous these days than they used to be.”

The King’s eyes close. 

Couriway’s heartbeat picks up. He’s never seen someone die before; he doesn’t know what it looks like. 

Is that it? Is it over? 

Just like that?

Finally, the King hums, cracking his eyelids open to look at Kayfour. “Take care of Couri, will you?”

Kayfour nods slowly, and Couriway feels a pang of guilt in his chest.

I can take care of myself. 

”My prince.” The King’s sunken eyes twinkle as he takes Kayfour’s hand in his. “Can you do that for me?” 

”Of course, sir,” Kayfour breathes, their voice wavering.

Couri rips his gaze away, opting instead to study his new watch. He runs his thumb along the cracks in the glass protecting the face, its hands frozen in time at twelve o'clock.

“Kayfour, are you sure you’re, like, okay with this? This— This is a lot.” A crown rests in Couriway’s hands, his contact with the object kept minimal as if the gold is molten.

It could be, Couriway thinks, because of the oppressive early morning sun bearing down on HBG, Couriway—and his crown—being no exception.

Couri looks up, deciding he’s had enough of staring at his reflection, distorted and warped in the gold. He watches Kayfour, the way their hands fidget idly with their collar, their expression still so youthful. Couri hopes, naively, that it will stay this way.

Kayfour glances to the side, evading Couri’s intense gaze. “I guess.” His words are almost silent. He continues to fiddle with the buttons on his overcoat, his trembling hands doing nothing to help. Kayfour gives up on buttoning his jacket, hands falling to his sides. “I have no other choice, do I?”

“You’ve always had a choice, Kay,” Couriway says softly. “No matter what happens, you will always have a choice.”

Couri chews his lip, letting his focus wander to the chattering of residents in the square. The crowd buzzes with excitement, undoubtedly excited for the coronation ceremony. 

“Fruit, can you look at me for a second?” One voice stands out from the rest.  

Couri immediately identifies the voice as Tapl’s, one of the older and more formally-trained residents of HBG. He’s also one of the most friendly.

Tapl’s conversation partner, Fruitberries, lets out a lofty chuckle. “What are you doing?”

Fruitberries is decidedly less friendly, but he’s always had a soft spot for Tapl.

”Stay still,” Tapl replies, and Couriway glances over.

Tapl leans over Fruit’s shoulder, one hand placed on the wooden table beside him; the other hand holds a quill, resting on Fruit’s cheek.

“Harvey, for real.” Fruit bats Tapl’s hand away. “Quit it.”

“Fine,” Tapl groans, returning to his seat. “I’m done anyway.”

Fruit’s expression twists in confusion, then he grabs Tapl’s sword off the table and holds it up to his face, examining his reflection in the blade. He grins, huffing out a laugh. “Why did you draw a smile on my face?”

Tapl grins in response. “So we can match.” Tapl points to his cheek, where a similar tattoo resides. “See?”

”Cute,” Fruit deadpans, his eyes sweeping back to Tapl’s sword. Couriway can see the gears turning in his head before he reaches for his belt, setting the sword down in front of him.

Tapl raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t stop Fruit as he draws a dagger from his belt and begins to carve into the handle of Tapl’s sword.

“Okay, now what are you doing?” Tapl asks.

“You’ll see,” Fruit says out of the corner of his mouth, biting his lip as he concentrates. 

“There.” Fruit slides the sword back to Tapl. “Mine is better because you can’t wipe it off.”

Tapl frowns. “Maybe you can wipe it off now, but we will have matching tattoos one day. I don’t care if I have to hold you down, it’s happening.”

Fruit laughs, pretending to consider Tapl’s offer. “I’ll think about it.” 

Couri turns back to Kayfour, whose expression twists into a grimace. Couri knows they share the same thought—why didn’t the old King choose Fruitberries or Tapl?

Fruitberries is a resident held in high favor by the rest of HBG. He’s lived here longer than Couriway, and Tapl knows the most about the damn place. In Couri’s opinion, those two are more integral to HBG than anyone else. Both are pivotal in such a way that their disappearance would shake the kingdom at its foundation.

He means, sure, Fruit’s reckless and foolhardy, Tapl’s long retired from fighting and isn’t great at public speaking, but he’s, well, anyone’s better than Couri stepping up to the throne. 

Right?

“Hey.” Kayfour places a hand on Couri’s shoulder. Couri jumps as he’s torn away from his thoughts. “It’s okay to be afraid. You’re going to do great.”

”You don’t mean that.” Couri lets out a humorless laugh as he lifts a hand to brush a lock of hair away from his face. “You can be honest, dude. It’s— It’s okay. I won’t get mad.”

Kayfour is silent for a moment, seemingly deciding what to say next. “I mean it.”

Couri casts a bewildered look up at Kayfour. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that.

Kayfour mumbles something, reaching up and gingerly removing the crown from his head. “I don’t think I’m the best choice, either, but,” they trail off, fixing their gaze on the ground. “What matters is that the old man chose us, right? We have to respect that.”

Couri nods—he knows this; he’s painfully aware of this. After a moment of staring at his feet, Couriway meets Kayfour’s eyes, glimmering in the early afternoon sun.

Then, Couriway makes his first bad decision in a series of many to come—he places the crown on his head.

The castle door’s hinges squeak as the massive gate swings open; the announcement of someone’s arrival echoes in the empty corridor.

Couriway lifts his head, his sullen expression immediately replaced by a stoic one.

A king’s job is to be a symbol of strength, after all.

“Hey, Couri, can you spare a moment?”

”Fulham!” A grin slowly stretches across Couriway’s face as an old friend steps into the castle’s Great Hall.

The soles of Fulham’s boots click against the marbled floor as he draws closer. Eventually, he stops a few paces away from Couri and crouches on one knee, bowing his head. “Good day, your majesty.” 

“Shut up! How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” Couriway grimaces as he pulls his friend off the floor by his wrist.

The last time Couriway had seen Fulham was just over two years ago now, right after Couri’s coronation. They’d celebrated together. Fulham got blackout drunk, and Couri’s first task as a King was making sure Fulham got home safe.

Fulham is dressed in a dull grey coat paired with epaulets sporting large golden tassels over a deep indigo waistcoat. A bag tailored for holding scrolls hangs from his shoulder, piquing Couriway’s curiosity. 

Fulham peers at Couriway over square glasses. ”At least once more.” Fulham smirks as Couri recoils in mock disgust.

“Great skies, stop talking,” Couri demands as he presses his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose.

”As you wish.”

“Lewis, stop.” Couri subdues a chuckle. “ Please stop. Your stupid accent makes it worse.”

Fulham opens his mouth to speak, but Couri interrupts him with a pointed glare. “Say ‘as you wish’ one more time, and I’m throwing you in the gallows.”

Fulham chuckles, tilting his head to the side. “You don’t have the guts.”

”Care to find out?” Couri challenges—a complete bluff. 

Fulham shakes his head, though Couri gets the feeling Fulham saw through his facade. “Shelve that, I’ve got something I need to show you.”

Couri exhales a tense breath. He missed shooting the breeze with someone, as friends, not adversaries, business partners, or King to citizen. 

He missed this.

“Come sit down.” Couri gestures to a nearby table and chairs, tucked next to one of the grand windows. “Tell me how things have been.”

Fulham hesitantly takes a seat, shooting Couri an odd glance. “You don’t want to see what I have to show you?”

Couri shrugs, taking the seat opposite Fulham. “I mean, sure, but I want to catch up first.”

Fulham offers a lopsided smile, running a hand through his dark curls. “I was under the impression you were too busy for this sort of thing.”

Couriway frowns, pretending not to be hurt. “Lewis, I’d never be too busy. I will always make time for you.”

Fulham offers a dry chuckle. “Your guards don’t seem to share your sentiment.”

”Fein and Reign?” Couri asks, raising an eyebrow.

Fulham raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “Who else would be bickering with each other instead of doing their jobs?”

Couri places his elbows on the table, letting his chin rest in his hands. “They take their jobs very seriously.” 

Fulham snorts, adjusting his position in the chair. “That, or they like messing with me. Which one do you think it is?”

Couri casts a sideways glance at his friend. “No comment.”

”Anyway, I found something quite cool.” Fulham waves dismissively with one hand and reaches for his bag with the other.

Couri leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “I’m listening.”

”Take a look at this.” Fulham pulls a large scroll of parchment out of his bag and deposits it on the table with a sly sparkle in his eye. His eyes stay trained on Couri, gazing at him expectantly.

Couri reaches for the end of the scroll, unraveling it as he pulls his hand back.

Couriway’s breath catches in his throat as he flattens the parchment against the table with the palms of his hands.

Depicted on the large scrap of paper is a massive collection of purple-hued buildings, floating high over an endless void. Scrawled at the top of the scroll, reads “ The City at the End of the Game,” along with foreign characters Couri doesn’t recognize.

”You have to kill the dragon to get there,” Fulham places his index finger on a particularly large building, vaguely resembling the hull of a ship. “But it’s rumored that there’s a ton of gold, diamonds, and this one guy I spoke to told me there are dragon wings stored in the ships that can give anyone the ability to fly.”

Couri gasps softly. “Woah.”

”I reckon we could get worldwide recognition if we find these things. Imagine folks flocking from all over to meet the people who killed the dragon and learned to fly,” Fulham speaks quickly, emphasizing his words with a glance at Couri. “Don’t get me started on how rich we would be. You’d be a madman to pass this up.”

Couri’s gaze remains locked on a hastily drawn sketch of what looked like a pair of dragon wings. He swallows a lump in his throat, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, no way.”

“There’s one bit of an issue.” Fulham’s voice pitches. “I don’t know if any of us are strong enough to kill the Ender Dragon. I mean, it’s called that for a reason.” Fulham pushes his glasses further up his nose, leaning forward. “I spoke to someone who’s seen the dragon in person. He barely made it out alive. Dude wears a mask to cover his awful scars now.” 

Couri glances away, biting the inside of his cheek. 

“So far, no one has even done so much as destroyed a single crystal—Couri, are you listening to me?”

Couriway’s head swivels back to Fulham. “Oh, yeah, sorry.”

“So,” Fulham continues. “I’ve come to you. You’ve ought to know someone who’s up to it; you’ve got the best of the best here, haven’t you?”

Couri nods, his eyes once again trained on the drawing of wings. “There are only two people I know who could possibly be up to the challenge.”

Fulham hums to himself as he exits the castle, wondering who Couriway has in mind for the End expedition. 

As the gates close behind Fulham, Feinberg saunters over and locks them, studying Fulham with icy suspicion.

“We’ve only met a few times before, haven’t we?” Fulham says conversationally, because he gets the feeling Feinberg isn’t the type to start one. 

Feinberg returns to his post, leaning against the stone-brick wall. “Twice. Three if you count when I caught you hopping the fence.”

“You kept track,” Fulham says with an easy smile. “Impressive.”

Feinberg folds his arms. He doesn’t seem any more comfortable around Fulham than he was before. “It’s my job.”

Fulham takes a moment to survey Feinberg’s appearance. His uniform is standard—a violet overcoat, collared shirt and ascot. What’s more interesting is the colorful pair of glasses resting on his nose, and the golden ribbon tying his curly hair into a high ponytail. It looks exactly like the ribbon Couriway gave Fulham to decorate his bag. 

“Pardon my asking, but in all my travels I’ve never seen anyone with glasses like yours. Where’d you get them?”

Feinberg squints at Fulham, as if deciding whether Fulham is trustworthy enough to confide in. 

“They were a gift from the King,” Feinberg says slowly, his gaze never leaving Fulham. “Guy in town made them.”

Fulham nods. “And the ribbon?”

Feinberg visibly hesitates, opening his mouth to respond before closing it again, his hand reaching up to twirl the ribbon between his fingers. “Also a gift from the King. Why?”

Fulham smiles again, attempting to be as unthreatening as possible. “I’m an old friend of Couri’s. He’s careful about who he’s friends with, but you two seem close.”

Feinberg raises his eyebrows. He seems to be caught off guard. “You think so?”

“Looks like it.” Lewis gestures to the ribbon Feinberg is fidgeting with. “He gives you thoughtful gifts and you keep them with you. Pretty textbook if you ask me.”

“That’s what I keep trying to tell him,” a more excitable voice chimes in.

“Reign,” Feinberg hisses, shrinking.

“Reignex!” Lewis approaches Reign, pulling him in for a quick hug before drawing away, clapping him on the back. “Where have you been?”

Reign shrugs. “Weekly check-up with the doc.”

Fulham nods. “It’s good to see you.”

“Hope Fein wasn’t too mean to ya,” Reign says, grinning. “He’s not one for small talk.”

Feinberg lets out a short sigh, frowning.

“No, not at all.” Fulham turns back to Feinberg. “We were just talking about Couri.”

“Right.” Reign trots over to Feinberg, jostling his shoulder. “Fein loves to pretend like he and the King aren’t besties.”

Feinberg rolls his eyes, shrugging Reign off him. “And Reign loves to embarrass me.”

Reign giggles. “Is it working?”

Feinberg doesn’t respond. Smart move.

“This guy.” Reign sighs dramatically. “It’s so hard to tell what he’s thinking.”

“I’m thinking you should shut up and get back to your post before I get the King involved,” Feinberg mutters, glaring at Reign.

“There he goes again,” Reign says, returning to his side of the gate with a huff. “Always running to the King.”

“I’m being merciful,” Feinberg fires back without missing a beat. “If I did it myself you’d end up with nine fingers.”

“Ah, you’d never.” Reign crosses his arms. “You love me.”

“Right, well, I’ve got places to be, so I’ll leave you two to it.” Fulham offers a parting wave. “Have a good one.”

“Bye, mister Fulham,” Reign calls back. “Visit again soon.”

Chapter Text

The sound of hard soles colliding with tile rings in Tapl’s ears and he flinches, resisting the urge to glare lethally in the King’s direction.

”I want you two,” the King speaks in an upward inflection, almost nervously as if he was the one called to the castle on short notice. “The two most capable, um, hunters in HBG, to travel to the End.”

To his right, Tapl can hear his friend, Fruitberries, suck in a breath. Tapl knows, deep in his chest, that this won’t be easy.

The King pauses to glance at a man dressed in an indigo waistcoat, his dark curly hair concealing one of his eyes. Tapl, in turn, glances at Fruit, as if to say shut up.

“And kill the Ender Dragon,” the King finishes, his fingers laced together in a manner that proves his dangerous ignorance.

”Fuck,” Fruit curses under his breath, just loud enough for Tapl to hear.

“Alright,” Tapl speaks first, cooly. “If you insist.”

”Harvey,” Fruit says in a strained tone, barely-contained fire dancing in his eyes. “Are you sure?”

Tapl directs his attention to the King, who casually tosses his hair out of his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

The King grins at Tapl’s response. “Great!” He clasps his gloved hands together, then glances expectantly at Fruitberries.

”Whatever,” Fruit responds flatly. “If Harvey’s going, I’ll go too.”

Tapl swallows. Not good.

“Cool, awesome, then it’s settled.” The King waves a hand at Tapl and Fruitberries. “You two handle the fighting stuff, and I can send others to explore the End Cities.” He takes a breath. “Feinberg, maybe? No, I need him here…”

Tapl sighs, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment. 

Couriway is not that good at the whole “King” thing. 

He’s so young, only nineteen—seventeen when he inherited the throne. Though, it’s not like he had much of a choice, with the previous King dying so suddenly. Even Switch, HBG’s most gifted doctor, couldn’t figure out what killed the old King. Nobody saw it coming. Just months after Couriway arrived in town, he was thrown the reins of the kingdom and told ‘good luck.’  

Tapl doesn’t envy him.

Fruit clears his throat, shifting in place. “Is that all, sir?”

Sir? Tapl’s eyes snap open. He nearly chokes on his breath. Oh, Fruit’s pissed.

Tapl asks the Universe to protect Couriway and hopes that Fruit will take the brunt of his rage out on him instead of the eccentric King.

”What?” The King asks, lifting his head. “Oh, yeah, you guys can go.”

Fruit shuffles backward and bows his head. “Thank you.” Then, just as Tapl expected, Fruit snatches Tapl by the collar and drags him out of the castle.

Fruit practically throws Tapl against the courtyard fence when they exit the castle. “Care to explain to me what the fuck happened in there?”

Tapl shrugs, his knuckles massaging the back of his neck. “I can’t just say no.”

Fruit groans, low and seeped in frustration. “Of course you can, idiot! And—and, skies, dude, you should have.”

Tapl hardly flinches as his friend raises his voice. “Listen, Fruit, It wouldn’t be a good idea, alright? Refusing the King doesn’t sound great, does it? Do you want to get thrown in the dungeon?”

”So the better alternative would be disobeying the Universe?” Fruit shouts, throwing his hands to the side in exasperation. 

“Shh!” Tapl hisses, glancing over his shoulder. “The guards might hear you.”

 “Fine,” Fruit huffs. “You think disobeying your mom is a good idea?”

“The Universe is not my mom,” Tapl corrects, offended. “She’s barely a distant relative… or something.”

“So you’re okay with pissing the Universe off?” Fruit steps forward, an empty threat. “Do you even know what would happen? The world as we know it could cease to exist.”

Tapl is used to Fruit’s intimidation tactics. He rolls his eyes. “Or, hear me out, nothing would happen.”

”So what, dude?” Fruit snaps. “You gonna do it cause it’s fun? Cause you have to? No, you fuckin’ don’t! You don’t have to do shit.”

”Fruit,” Tapl places a hand on Fruit’s chest, nudging him away. “Chill.”

Fruit exhales a shaking breath, pressing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. “I just don’t get it, Harvey, why the fuck would you accept that?”

”I could have told you five minutes ago if you’d just listened to me!” Tapl barks without bite.

Fruit flushes, embarrassed. “Fair enough, I guess.”

Tapl giggles in response. “You guess.”

Fruit rolls his eyes, but says nothing.

Tapl's smile fades as he speaks. “If I were to refuse, I would have to explain why, and you know as well as I do that I can’t.”

Fruit nods, the fire in his eyes snuffed out—for now.

”You could make something up.” Fruit offers.

”I’m not very inclined to lie to the King.” Tapl retorts, crossing his arms over his chest.

Lingering sparks dance in Fruit’s eyes. ”I am.”

”Right, how silly of me.” Tapl chuckles dryly. “Why haven’t I thought of it before? I can have my bestie Fruit explain my situation for me. What a fantastic idea that definitely won’t turn into a bloodbath.”

Fruit doesn’t back down. “I could just make something super mundane up, something that wouldn’t raise any questions.”

”Like what?” Tapl fires back, his patience thinning. “You gonna tell him we’re against violence? You’re afraid of the dark? ‘Oh, sorry Couriway, I know you’re the ruler of this whole place but I’m gonna disobey you for no reason.’ It’s stupid.”

Fruit sighs, holding his hands up in defeat. “Okay, I see your point, but the other option is to—what, break a sacred oath with an omnipotent being? How is that any better?”

Tapl leans against the fence behind him. ”The Dragon has to die eventually. Circle of life. I doubt the Universe would mind. I hear She’s quite busy these days, She may not even notice.” A forced laugh, followed by silence.

“That’s a boldfaced lie and you know it.”

Tapl’s resolve falters, and dread begins to seep into his veins. “Right.” 

Tapl won’t be able to convince Fruit easily. 

There has to be some way…

Another beat of silence. The wind whistles through clusters of leaves high above.

”You could, just, I dunno, tell the truth?” Fruit tries, wincing as Tapl’s expression darkens in response.

”Oh yeah?” Tapl sneers. “I’m sure that’ll work. I’m sure they’ll be very kind and accepting of my witchcraft and heresy as others have so kindly put it.”

For some unfathomable reason, Fruit doubles down. “What can they do other than words?”

Heat flashes behind Tapl’s eyes. ”I don’t know!” Tapl’s chest rumbles, thunder reverberating in his throat. “I won’t worry about a mob of people coming to exorcise me in my sleep, or hack scientists trying to dissect me. That's great advice! What would I do without you?” 

“That’s not what I meant.” Fruit’s voice wavers, and Tapl almost feels a pang of guilt. “I-I mean, like, you don’t have to tell everyone. Only the King.”

Tapl scowls. “And trust a guy I barely know? Do you know what someone of his stature would do for this much power?”

Fruitberries lets out a deep sigh, running a hand through his sage-tinted hair. “Dude, you don’t even look that powerful, you’ll be fine.”

Tapl expression scrunches. “Have you seen it?”

”Seen what?” Fruit’s eyes shift from the ground to Tapl, wide and curious.

“The, uh—“ Tapl pauses, his eyebrows knitting together. How does he phrase this? “My, like, wings and stuff.”

Fruit’s words are quiet, almost timid. “Show me.” 

Tapl is silent for a moment, letting out a deep sigh as he steps into the lush forest surrounding the castle. “Promise you won’t be mean?”

Fruit brings a hand to his mouth; probably hiding a laugh, that idiot. “Promise.”

Cautiously, Tapl shrugs off his waistcoat, folding it over his arm.

Fruit lets out a breath, perhaps noticing the shaking of Tapl's hands. “It’s okay.”

It’s not.

Tapl forces a laugh. “I know.”

Tapl offers a nervous smile and he closes his eyes. He hasn’t done this in a while—so long that he isn’t certain he still has the power to summon his wings. Concentrating, Tapl calls to the Universe. 

Lady Universe, lend me your strength.

O⎓ ᓵ𝙹⚍∷ᓭᒷ, ᒲ|| ᓵ⍑╎ꖎ↸.

Fruit’s gasp tells Tapl all he needs to know. A pair of large, golden wings wrapped in vines unfold from behind Tapl’s shoulders, fluttering gently in the wind. Tapl’s wings aren’t like the ones from this world—they are made up of something that imitates rays of sunlight, arranged in a shape not unlike that of a butterfly’s wing. The amber jutting from Tapl’s shoulderblades is almost crystalline in nature, creating refracted flickers that appear to dance along the forest floor. Some mingle with Fruit’s hair, bestowing him a halo of light.

Tapl’s pseudo-wings expand multiple feet to his sides, taking up the entire clearing. A sheen of gold illuminates the underside of Tapl’s hair, as if the sun itself rests on his shoulders.

Fruit gapes at Tapl for a moment, repeatedly scanning him from head to toe. Tapl’s heartbeat picks up.

“Fruit?” Tapl chuckles nervously, gathering his hair to pull it back into a ponytail. 

“No, no.” Fruit steps forward, gently pulling Tapl’s hands from his hair. “Your hair’s cool.”

Tapl stares at Fruit’s hands around his wrists, offering a faint smile. “I’ve never shown anyone...” He pauses to glance down at himself. “This.”

“Why not?” Fruit pulls away, stepping back, and Tapl mourns the loss of warmth. 

“I don’t know.” Tapl’s cheeks burn. “I didn’t think anyone would want to see.”

Fruit scoffs, placing a firm hand on Tapl’s shoulder. “You’re kidding.” Tapl’s watches Fruit’s eyes trace the edge of his wing. “It’s so cool. You’re so cool.”

Tapl chuckles, shaking his head as his hair returns to normal. He pulls his waistcoat over his arms, his holographic wings flickering out. “Thanks, Fruit.” Tapl’s smile fades. “But I still can’t, um,” He clears his throat. “I still can’t tell the King. I don’t know how he’d react, and I can’t guarantee my safety… or his.”

Fruit runs a hand through his hair. “I understand.” 

Tapl swallows, bracing himself. “So, um, I think I’ve gotta do this alone.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, glancing away.

Fruit’s breath hitches. “Really? You aren’t going to let me come with you?”

A gap of silence grows between the two. 

Tapl sighs. “I can’t. I can’t risk losing you.”

Fruit stares at Tapl for a long time. “Okay.” He clasps his hands together. “Alright.”

The silence grows tense.

”Sorry.” Tapl mutters, his eyes fixed on the grass. “I know that isn’t what you wanted to hear.”

”You know how dangerous it is, right?” Fruit asks, despite knowing what Tapl’s answer will be.

Tapl nods, still refusing to meet Fruit’s gaze.

Fruit huffs. “You can’t. It’s too dangerous.” 

“You don’t understand,” Tapl speaks in a low voice, sinking beneath the fog. Before he stokes Fruit’s anger any more, he turns to leave. “I have to.”

“Wait, Harvey.” Fruit calls, grabbing the sleeve of Tapl’s shirt.

Tapl turns, his eyes meeting Fruit’s. He raises his eyebrows in silent inquisition.

What?

Fruit pulls Tapl in for a hug, catching Tapl by surprise. Tapl tenses as Fruit speaks, his words soft, breathy. “Stay safe.”

The words ring in Tapl’s ears, burning themselves into his mind. 

Stay safe.

“The End?” Feinberg mutters. “You’re sure?”

Couriway watches Feinberg’s eyes carefully. “I’m sure.”

Feinberg narrows his eyes to let Couriway know he can’t get anything past Feinberg. “Look, man, I’m not trying to be rude but you are beyond stupid.”

“I’m happy to have your support,” Couriway deadpans, leaning against the castle gates. The sun reflects in his eyes, his hair, and if he were wearing his crown he would look ethereal, cloaked in the gold of sunset.

Feinberg shakes his head with a dry chuckle. “You’re nuts. Do you need me to go over how dangerous the End is again?”

Couriway blinks. “Feinberg, I didn’t come here to ask permission. I came here for your help.”

Feinberg smirks, tilting his head. “My help?”

“Yes,” Couriway answers quietly, his authoritative tone dissolving. “I need you to stand behind me.”

“I always stand behind you.” Feinberg crouches so he’s at Couriway’s eye level. “You can’t see shit otherwise.”

“Fein.” Couriway tries to sound imposing, but a snicker escapes his lips. “You know what I mean.”

“Like I said.” Feinberg stands. “I’ll always support you. It’s my job.”

“I’m not asking you to support me as Captain.” Couriway’s eyes follow Feinberg’s as Feinberg stands. “I’m asking you to support me as a… friend.”

Feinberg chuckles, raising his hand to study his nails. “A friend.”

“Is that surprising to you?” Couriway sounds offended.

Feinberg shrugs. “A little.”

“Need I remind you…” Couriway holds up his arm, showing Feinberg the yellow-gold ribbon tied to his cuff link. “We were friends before we were colleagues.”

Feinberg swallows dryly. “I know.”

Couriway’s hand returns to his side. “I just need to know I have your trust.”

“It’s yours.” Feinberg nods shortly. “Any day of the week.”

Couriway glances away. “Good.”

“I gotta ask, though.” Feinberg glances at the sword hanging from Couriway’s hip. “Why those two?”

Couriway’s gaze remains trained on the grass. “You mean why did I send Tapl and Fruit?”

“Yeah,” Feinberg replies, watching Couriway twist his ribbon between his fingers. Feinberg gestures to the valley far below. “Why don’t you go? Or send me?”

Couriway lifts his head, blinking back over to Feinberg. “I have to run the Kingdom, and I need you here.”

Feinberg scoffs. “What do I do that those randoms can’t do? Or Cube. He’s a capable kid.”

Couriway sighs, tipping his head back so he’s looking at Feinberg through his glasses. “I said I need you here.”

“Yeah, but why?” Feinberg asks, searching Couriway’s face for any new information. “You said it yourself that my title is cosmetic. We don’t even have an infantry for me to be Captain of.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Couriway deflects easily. “All that matters is that I ordered you to stay here.”

Feinberg groans. “I could kill you and take the throne, you know. Then at least I wouldn’t be ordered around like a secretary.”

Couriway’s eyebrows shoot up, and he leans forward, leveling his gaze with Feinberg. “Why haven’t you?”

Feinberg shrugs. “I don’t kill.”

“Even if your life depended on it?”

Feinberg acts offended, stepping back. “Are you threatening me?”

Couriway laughs. “Of course not.” He places his hand on Feinberg’s right shoulder. “Skies, Fein, you always jump to the worst of conclusions.”

Feinberg rolls his eyes. “Jumping to conclusions is how I’ve stayed alive for twenty-two years.”

Couriway smirks, his hand returning to his side. “How is that?”

Feinberg shrugs. “Always prepare for the worst and you’ll never be caught off guard.”

“Isn’t that tiring?”

“Sometimes. But it’s worth it.”

Chapter Text

Couriway stands on the edge of a cliff, a withheld breath burning in his lungs. 

He spares a quick glance at the settlement below, before looking away as unease stirs in his stomach.

The wind is unruly today; it threatens to tear the crown from Couriway’s head as it tousles his hair.

Couri finally lets out the breath he was holding. The wind latches onto it eagerly and whisks it away into the stale air. 

His eyes trace over a group of gulls, squawking and soaring in tight formation. His eyes remain trained on the flock for a few minutes—or is it hours?

The wind howls louder in Couri’s ears, stinging his eyes and tugging on his clothes, beckoning.

Couriway sighs as he backs away from the edge of the cliff, burying his head in his hands for a moment. He slips his fingers under his glasses, massaging his brow. 

How long has it been? 

You have to listen to me, or we’ll both die. Run, and don’t you dare look back.

I can’t. 

Please, sire, trust me.

Promise me. Promise me you’ll be okay.

I promise.

Distant thunder crackles overhead; he would laugh at the timing of it weren’t for the restlessness sparking in his nerves.

Couri plants his foot firmly in the coarse dirt, kicking up dust that is soon carried away by the breeze. 

“Fuck this,” Couri mutters under the wind, gritting his teeth as tears prick at the corner of his eyes.

Couri gazes into the deep chasm below him; his chest tightens in apprehension. He’s never been afraid of heights.

He steps forward.

He sucks in a sharp breath, mumbles a swear or two, and throws himself off the edge of the cliff. 

For a moment, the world stops turning. 

For a few fleeting seconds, Couriway’s mind is at ease and his aching muscles relax. Air whistles past his ears as he plummets toward the ground, lifting his crown from his head and carrying it away into the clouds.

For a moment, Couriway is at peace. 

Then, as the ground rapidly approaches, reality snatches Couri by the throat.

Couri turns in the air, and unfurls his wings.

His massive wingspan quickly catches the air, yanking him upward with a sharp spike of agony in his shoulders.

“Ow! I forgot about that part.”

With a powerful stroke of his wings, Couriway soars high above the cliff he was once standing on, the slightest grin crossing his features.

He glances back to the tiny kingdom below him, growing smaller as he climbs the sky.

Couri howls in triumph, grinning. He swoops and dives among the gulls, giggling to himself as they squawk in surprise and scatter to get out of his way.

Couri scans the sky, marveling at how close everything is, as if the whole world is within his reach. Droplets from clouds cluster on the lenses of his glasses. He shakes his head in a futile attempt to clear his vision.

Couri’s feathers sway confidently in the wind, puffing up to catch as much updraft as possible. Ahead, Couri spots a flash of white lightning, illuminating the sunless sky.

Then, a clap of thunder follows. Couriway winces as his ears begin to ring, and he squeezes his eyes shut, his head spinning.

He pulls his wings in on themselves, halting midair as his senses return to him.

A beat of silence.

Thunder crackles again, though this time the sound is distant, as if it’s muffled through a wall.

Couriway’s eyes snap open, and he sits up in bed, clutching the blankets below him.

Sweat drenches his forehead, his chest heaving with lost breath.

Couriway rests his head against the bed’s headboard, letting out a shuddering sigh.

That dream again. It’s mocking him. 

Couriway rubs the sleep from his eyes absently, stifling a yawn.

He glances around his room with half-lidded eyes.

It’s blurry. 

Couri groans, blindly searching for his glasses with his hand. 

His fingers brush over cold metal and he gently picks up his glasses, pushing them onto his nose. 

Couri’s vision focuses, and his eyes navigate to a window on the far side of his room, stained with raindrops. Bolts of lightning split the dark clouds in two.

A dull ache throbs behind Couri’s eyes, and the King groans in harmony with the thunder.

His room matches the sky today, though that’s become a common occurrence lately. 

As Couri stares sightlessly through the windowpane, he notices the disappearance of lightning, despite the hairs on his arms standing rigid.

No thunder, either. The only sound Couri can hear is his own breathing and quickening heartbeat. The air hangs eerily silent.

Then, for a moment, Couri swears he hears music. Couri holds his breath, careful not to move or make a sound.

After a moment, the distant melody returns. There’s no mistaking it this time. Gentle, careful taps against the keys of a grand piano, reverberating throughout the expansive castle.

Couriway takes a seat on the edge of his bed, letting his eyes fall shut as he listens intently. It’s quite a distinctive melody.

Couri’s breathing steadies along with the tempo of the tune; his heart slows to a restful pace. Drowsiness washes over him, and he leans back on his elbows as he stretches his legs outward.

The King feels at peace for a moment. 

Twelve chimes of a copper bell remind Couriway that it’s noon, when the sun is typically highest in the sky.

”Shit,” Couri mutters under his breath as he scrambles to his feet, rushing to the coatrack in the corner of the room.

Couri pulls his coat on and hooks his cape around his shoulders. As he reaches for the doorknob, he’s overcome with the sensation that he’s forgetting something. He scans the room anxiously, searching for something he can’t quite place.

Couriway spots the golden crown left on his bedside table, and his breath hitches.

He rips his gaze away, deciding not to wear the crown.

Couri exhales as he exits his room and crosses the corridor, muttering to himself as he rushes down the stairs to remind the guards to switch stations. 

Couri stops in his tracks as a once quiet melody rings loudly in his ears, and he turns his head toward the source of the music. When he sees the Prince, Kayfour, he grins.

Kayfour lifts their head, just barely visible over the large piano. “Couri,” He speaks softly. “Good afternoon.”

”I didn’t know you could play the piano.” Couri draws closer as Kayfour glances back down at the keys, eyes fixed on his hands as they glide over the keyboard.

”There are lots of things you don’t know about me.” Kayfour says simply, looking up for a moment to turn the page of her sheet music.

“Oh.” Couriway responds eloquently, his eyes flicking away.

Kayfour closes their eyes, humming softly in tune with the song.

”Well,” Couriway mutters, sensing he’s made a mistake. “I’ve gotta get going.”

”See you,” Kayfour replies without opening their eyes.

Couri waves in response though he knows Kayfour can’t see him, something heavy settling in his gut as he turns to the gates of the castle.

Couriway approaches the gates’ lever, and the gates creak with strain for a few seconds before they swing open, giving way to an onslaught of rainwater.

The rain is sparse, only lightly dampening the King’s hair and dotting his lenses when he ventures outside. The gates slam closed behind him in a harsh farewell.

Couri is mindlessly listening to his boots squelch in the mud when a strange noise catches his attention. It’s almost like a whisper, or a muffled exhale.

Couriway turns his head in the direction of an unknown sound for the second time today, frowning. 

Reignex, a member of the Royal Guard as is evident by his indigo coat, leans against the wall of the gardening shed near the entrance to the courtyard. He flinches when he sees Couriway, running a hand through his dark hair, slick with rainwater.

Couriway approaches Reignex. ”Reign, what are you doing here, aren’t you supposed to be—“

“With Feinberg, at the entrance gates? Yes, I know.” Reign coughs, wincing. “But um, well, I can’t see Fein right now.”

Couri wipes the lenses of his glasses on his coat. “Why can’t you be at your post, Reign? What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?” His voice is stern, a stark contrast to the airy way he spoke to Kayfour just minutes earlier.

”No, no, only as sick as I always am,” Reign stammers hurriedly. “I just really can’t see Feinberg right now.”

Couri doesn’t buy it. Feinberg was always the better liar of the two. “Why is that?”

”Well, um, it’s nothing, really.” Reign stifles another cough as Couri crosses his arms. “Look, sir, I can’t actually tell you—“

“Reignex.” Couri tries his best to sound imposing. “Tell me what’s wrong right this instant; that is an order from your superior.”

”Shit,” Reign sighs, pushing the hairpin holding his thick fringe higher on his forehead. The pin is shaped like an F, painted in hues of pink and blue. 

Couri taps his foot expectantly, urging Reign to speak.

“Uh,” Reign begins. “You see, I’m kinda sick, well, sicker, but Feinberg’s been really worried about me lately. Today is particularly bad for me and I don’t want to worry him more, so… I’ve been avoiding him.” 

“Breathe, Reign.” Couri places a hand on Reign’s shoulder. “He’s worried because he wants to help you. You need to let him help you.”

“No,” Reign protests. “I’m just fine on my own. I don’t need his help, and I don’t want him to think I’m weak or some shit.”

”Reign.” Couriway softens his voice. “You’re not weak, and he won’t think less of you for being sick. It happens to everyone.”

Reign sighs, his features scrunching into a pained expression. “You don’t get it.”

Couri rolls his eyes. He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts. “Cube!”

Reign’s eyes widen. ”No, sir, Couri, please don’t do that, please—“

Reign’s pleas are cut off by Cube’s voice as he rounds the corner. “Yes, sir?”

Couri locks eyes with Reign. “Go get Feinberg for me, would you?”

”Yes, sir.” Cube nods, swiftly making his way across the courtyard, heading for the main palace entrance.

Reign groans, letting his head rest against the wall. “Fuck.”

It isn’t long before Cube returns with Feinberg on his heels. “Is that all, sir?”

”Yes,” Couri says. “Thank you, Cube. You can return to your station.”

Cube salutes in farewell, disappearing behind the castle wall.

”Couri, what did you want me here for—“ Feinberg cuts himself off as he spots Reign, gasping softly as he races to his friend. “Holy fuck, Reign, you look like shit.” Fein’s tone drips with concern as he wraps one arm around Reign’s shoulder in support.

”Hi,” Reign mutters shortly, refusing to meet Feinberg’s gaze.

”Dude, look at me.” Feinberg pivots to face Reign. “Why didn’t you tell me it was getting this bad?”

Reign coughs. “Didn’t want you to worry.”

Feinberg lifts his glasses to look Reign in the eyes. ”Shit, dude, I was worryin’ anyway. What kind of excuse is that?”

Reign glances away without another word.

”Ser Feinberg.” Couri clears his throat. “I want you to take Reign home.”

Feinberg turns his head in surprise, as if he forgot Couriway was there. “What?”

”Take Reign home.” Couri repeats. “Make sure he recovers.”

”Dude—“ Feinberg falters. “Sir, with all due respect and whatever, that will take a while, I can’t just—“

Couriway interrupts Feinberg with a sigh. “Take as much time as you need. The health and well-being of my citizens is my top priority. Especially the ones that work for me, remember?” Couriway gestures at the glasses holding Feinberg’s hair back.

Feinberg looks at Couriway with a barely subdued grin, his eyes shining. “Thank you.”

Reign stares into the flames of the crackling fireplace, sinking into his couch as he tries to stave off the endless shivers wracking his body.

“Reignex, I told you to come to me if anything got worse.”

Reign looks up, clearing his throat. “I tried, doc. The rain,” a cough, “made it worse.”

Switch leans against the doorway to the living room, looking like a disappointed parent. “Next time, send Feinberg to get me.”

Reign grins weakly. “I did.”

Switch sighs, joining Reign on the couch. “Before the King has to get involved.”

“That was not part of the plan,” Reign mutters, watching Switch’s remarkably steady hands check his pulse, then skate across his forehead.

Switch pulls a tiny notepad from his pocket and scribbles something down. “You feel hotter than normal.”

Reign shrugs, looking back at the fireplace. “I don’t feel hot at all.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Reign notices Switch staring at him.

“Any shivers? Sweating?”

As if on cue, Reign shivers. “Yes to both.”

“Those are…” Switch flips through his notes. “New symptoms, correct?”

Reign nods, his eyelids heavy. “Think so.”

Switch stands. “Get some rest. I need to speak to Feinberg.”

Reign is already succumbing to sleep when he hears the door close.

“Feinberg,” Switch calls, crossing the hallway and discovering Feinberg in the kitchen, his hands tangled together behind his neck, his forehead resting on the kitchen table.

“I’m listening,” says Feinberg’s muffled voice.

Switch approaches Feinberg carefully, trying to formulate his words. “Can I sit?

Feinberg doesn’t move. “Be my guest.”

Switch pulls a chair out, taking a seat next to Feinberg. Both he and Feinberg are silent for a few moments, before Switch decides to bite the bullet.

“I think…” Switch sighs quietly. “Reign has somehow contracted the same virus the King had. Um, the old King, not Couri.”

Feinberg’s head snaps up, making the connection lightning-quick. “Don’t fucking tell me.”

Switch studies Feinberg’s eyes. He’s a strong man, but even strong people have their weak points, and Switch fears that Reign is Feinberg’s.

“You never knew the previous King, Couriway’s predecessor, but I did.” Switch’s heart twists in his chest as he watches sparks of recognition flicker in Feinberg’s eyes. “He fell ill soon after Couri’s arrival here. I tried everything I could to cure him. Everything, but… Ultimately, I failed.” 

“And he died.” Feinberg finishes what Switch couldn’t say.

“Yes,” Switch says, finding nothing else to say.

Feinberg studies his hands. “You’re saying Reign’s dying, too?”

Switch notices a fairly fresh burn on the back of Feinberg’s right hand. He doesn’t dare ask about it. “His symptoms are identical in severity and progression.”

Feinberg looks up, his desolate gaze returning to Switch. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I need you to keep a very close eye on him. If anything, and I mean anything changes, call me immediately.” Switch stands, pushing his chair back under the table. “I can’t… I can’t control what you do, but Reign needs someone to watch him. Please, Feinberg. I’ll make sure no one else knows, just don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’ll watch him,” Feinberg says, tightening the ribbon tying his hair. “You can count on me.”

Switch nods, turning towards the door. “It’s been years since the King’s passing. We can find another way to cure Reign.”

Feinberg doesn’t respond as Switch leaves the kitchen. 

Switch finds the front door, listening to the remains of a distant thunderstorm. 

My Lady, please keep Reignex safe.

Chapter Text

The air is stale in Tapl’s home. 

Thunder rumbles in the distance as Tapl takes a seat on the floor by Fruit’s door. The floorboards aren’t particularly comfortable, but Tapl doesn’t feel like waiting in the kitchen.

Fruit’s still getting ready, holed up in his room. Tapl had knocked earlier, only to receive a playful “fuck off,” as the latch of the floor clicked shut. 

Tapl sighs. They’re burning daylight.

Fruitberries stares at himself in the mirror. 

His hair sticks up in all directions as he tugs his hand through a mess of sage green locks, groaning as his fingers entwine in another knot.

Absently, Fruit’s fingers skim the edge of his cheekbone, halting at his tear duct. 

Fruit gently rubs his thumb over the ink etched into his skin, fading from age.

A soft smile pulls at Fruit’s lips, not unlike the goofy face tattooed on his cheek. He stares at Tapl’s masterpiece for a moment, his chest swelling with fondness.

He can’t believe he agreed to that.

Fruit would never admit it, but his tattoo was more of a gift for Tapl than it was for him. He got it on his birthday, one hot summer day after months of begging from Tapl. 

Fruit allowed Tapl to draw the face exactly how he liked it, and sat down while Raddles traced over it with a needle before he could chicken out.

Raddles warned Fruit that it would hurt, but Fruit barely felt a thing. He’d been through much worse before and since then. 

When Rad was done, Tapl was the first to see Fruit’s new tattoo. Fruit still vividly remembers how his eyes lit up.

“Now we match,” He’d said, grinning from ear to ear.

Now, Fruit looks in the mirror and shakes his head, a smile still gracing his lips.

It’s stupid, really—the smiley face on Fruit’s cheek severely cramps his intimidation factor, but it means a lot to Tapl, and that’s all that matters to Fruit.

Still, it’s scary in its own way. Sometimes Fruit imagines a hypothetical foe staring directly into the dotted eyes inked into his skin before he brings his blade down on their head.

Most often, Fruit imagines Tapl leading a legion of soldiers into battle, silver armor gleaming under a relentless sun. Tapl glares at the enemy general, and while the enemy is distracted by the goofy tattoo beneath Tapl’s eye, Tapl slices the general’s neck, who falls to their knees as a chorus of cheers erupt from behind Tapl. 

Fruit manages to free his hand from his hair and decides to cut his losses. He’s a warrior, not a model. If Tapl makes fun of him, he’ll force Tapl to talk to the guards. According to Tapl, Feinberg “gives him the creeps.”

Tapl is stirred awake by the sound of a latch clicking, followed by a door swinging open.

Through the fog in his brain, Tapl can feel something jostling him, and he groans, blinking sleep from his eyes. “Took you long enough.” 

Fruitberries grins down at him. “Did you forget we were going to the Nether today?”

“I was about to ask you the same question.” Tapl gets to his feet. “I got so bored I fell asleep waiting for you.” 

Tapl staggers forward, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. He lets out a surprised gasp as he stumbles over his feet, losing his balance.

Fruit is quick to break his fall, catching Tapl’s arms from behind and steadying him. “You good, dude?”

“Yeah,” Tapl replies groggily. “My foot fell asleep.”

“Harvey, dude, you gotta be more careful. You’re gonna fuckin’ trip and die one day and I’ll be stuck all alone,” Fruit remarks, chuckling as he speaks.

Tapl scoffs as he pulls his boots on, wiggling his foot to test its blood flow. “Yeah, right. Never in a million years.”

“Whatever you say, Harvey.”

Tapl stops in the middle of his trek to the front door. “Why are you sayin’ my name like that?”

Fruit follows him. “Like what?”

“Like,” Tapl replies as he pushes the door open. “All mushy like that. Like I’m your favorite thing in the world.”

Fruit hums softly. “What if you are?”

Tapl sputters. “Huh?”

“Don’t act surprised,” Fruit scoffs. “You’re my best friend, dude.” He places a hand behind his head, grinning bashfully. “I wouldn’t trade you for the world.”

“I would trade you for one corn chip,” Tapl retorts without missing a beat, making his way onto the porch in two strides. 

“Hey!” Fruit hurries after Tapl.

Tapl turns, giggling behind a mischievous grin. “You know I love you,” he says, turning the hilt of the sword strapped to his back so Fruit’s carved signature is visible. 

“You liar!” Fruit shoves Tapl into the porch railing with a chuckle. “You said you got that buffed out.”

“I don’t recall saying that,” Tapl responds cooly, gesturing for Fruit to go down the stairs first.

“Fuck off!” Fruit elbows Tapl’s shoulder, causing him to stumble down the stairs and stagger in the mud, barely managing to regain his balance.

Tapl shrugs. “I deserved that.”

“Fuck you, I’m gonna make you talk to Feinberg to get the obsidian.” Fruit vaults over the railing and starts down the muddled path, jabbing his finger in Tapl’s direction.

“No, please!” Tapl chases after Fruit, latching onto his arm. “The guards are scary.”

Fruit raises an eyebrow, shaking Tapl off him. “You could kill them if you wanted.”

“You think I could kill Feinberg?” Tapl falls into step behind Fruit. “He’s got, like, two feet on me.”

Fruit laughs softly. “Fair point.”

As the pair approach Feinberg and Reignex’s cabin, Tapl presses himself to the wall, out of the line of sight of anyone inside. Fruit climbs the steps and gently raps his knuckles against the door, shaking his head at Tapl.

The door swings open and Fruit is greeted by a rather disheveled Feinberg; his hair sticks up in all directions, held back by the colorful sunglasses he normally wears on his nose. Sweat beads on his forehead, his tie draped around his neck, tucked under a wrinkled collar.

“What do you want?” Feinberg asks breathlessly, his chest heaving as he gathers his composure.

“Shit, is this not a good time, or?” Fruit trails off, fidgeting nervously. 

“Fuck.” Feinberg cards a hand through his wild hair, grimacing as he glances over his shoulder. “No, it’s just,” he pauses to collect another shuddering breath. “Reign’s sick, and I’ve been taking care of him.”

“You want some of my water? I got plenty.” Tapl offers, handing a glass bottle to Fruit from below the porch.

“Thank you, disembodied voice of Tapl, that’s very kind of you,” Feinberg says flippantly, taking the bottle from Fruit and uncorking it.

As Feinberg raises the bottle and downs it in one shot, Tapl scrambles up the stairs and peeks out from behind Fruit. “You’re welcome.”

Feinberg exhales as he swallows the last of the water. “What was it you wanted?”

“The obsidian,” Fruit responds, sparing a glance at Tapl. “Me and Harvey are going to the Nether.”

Feinberg falters, his expression darkening as he locks eyes with Fruit. “What?”

“Fruit and I are going to the nether.” Tapl repeats. “We need blaze rods.”

Feinberg nudges his glasses further up his forehead. He speaks in a low whisper, leaning closer to Fruit. “No one has gone to the Nether and made it back alive.”

Feinberg’s words sink heavily into the air, emanating waves of tension.

Fruit doesn’t buy it. One look and he can tell Tapl doesn’t either. “There’s a first time for everything.”

“We don’t really have any other choice, Cou— Um, the King ordered us to.” Tapl shrugs, raising a gloved hand.

Fruit watches as Feinberg’s eyes narrow in response to the King’s real name.

It is once again that Fruit is reminded just how long Tapl has lived here.

“If you’re sure, the obsidian is out back,” Feinberg says slowly. “Next to the buckets under the water pump. There’s a wheelbarrow back there, too, I think—I’m gonna be honest I’ve been inside for a long time.”

“I gotcha. Thanks.” Fruit says, tugging on Tapl’s sleeve as he offers a two-fingered salute to Feinberg. 

“Be careful,” Feinberg mutters as he pulls the door closed.

The latch clicks, and Tapl sighs in relief, catching up with Fruit as he circles around the back of the house. 

Fruit’s brow furrows as he walks.

Feinberg… he really cares about Reign.

Tapl gives an inquisitive hum. “Fruit,” He says slowly, drawing out Fruit’s name. “Whatcha making that face for?”

“Huh?” Fruit startles, almost tripping over his feet. “Oh, um.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I was thinkin’ about Reign.”

Tapl nods solemnly in response. “Reign’s tough, he’ll be okay.” 

“I know.” Fruitberries halts his stride with a short sigh. “But… he’s been sick for a long time.”

Tapl stops next to Fruit, his footsteps soft under the distant thunder. “Yeah.”

“Don’t you think that’s strange?”

“Chronic illnesses exist,” Tapl says, meeting Fruit’s eyes. “You’re thinking it’s something else?”

“Yup.” Fruit nods. “It doesn’t make sense for it to be some normal illness.”

“Lady Universe used to use disease to punish wrongdoers in the past.” Tapl continues walking, so Fruit shrugs, following him.

“I don’t think Reign has committed any atrocities,” Fruit points out, hopping over the gate to Feinberg’s small fenced-in backyard.

“Can’t you just respect the railings and stop jumping over them?” Tapl mutters, unlatching the gate and ducking under the small canopy behind Feinberg’s house.

“Why would I do that?” Fruit calls back, grinning. “Still, I think you’re on to something with the whole supernatural illness theory.” Fruit kneels to wrap his arms around a slab of obsidian. “Maybe,” he grunts, lifting the slab and dropping it into a nearby wheelbarrow. “Potions could help him.”

“We’re only going there for blaze rods.” Tapl responds shortly.

“We can make a few pit stops,” Fruit says breathlessly. He wipes his brow with the back of his hand and gestures to the black material behind him. “Can you help me or are you just going to stand there?”

“I will.” Tapl leans against the fence. “Im just worried about your sudden interest in drugs.”

Fruit narrows his eyes. “Harvey, they’re not drugs. Quit fucking with me.”

Tapl places a hand on his hip, indignant. “They are drugs.”

Fruit frowns. “RV, please.”

“Hey!” Tapl’s eyes flare with playful alarm. “You can’t just pander to me by shortening my name, that’s cheating.”

Fruit snickers, sensing an opportunity. “Vee.”

“Skies!” Tapl waves his hands in front of him defensively, flinching away. “Don’t call me that, it’s weird.”

“Only if you listen to me,” Fruit replies, quirking an eyebrow. “And help me get this obsidian in the wagon thingy.”

“Fine.” Tapl sighs dramatically. “It’s called a wheelbarrow.”

“No,” Fruit deadpans. “It’s a wagon thingy.”

“Yes, Sir Berries, my mistake.” Tapl rolls his eyes, joining Fruit by the pile of obsidian slabs, stacked neatly against the wall of the house. “Here, I’ll grab them from the pile and hand ‘em to you.”

“Thank you, Vee—“

“No!” Tapl shouts, shoving Fruit toward the wall opposite him.

Fruit didn’t even scrape the wall, but he freezes in place, staring at Tapl like an idiot.

For a second, In Tapl’s eyes, it almost looked like…

“Wait, Fruit are you okay?” Tapl stammers, his hands hovering over Fruit’s shoulders, wary of touching him.

“No, I’m fine.” Fruit dusts himself off. “It’s just... your eyes.”

“What about them?” Tapl asks nervously, shrinking away.

“This is going to sound insane, but I swear they, like, turned gold.” Fruit shakes his head in disbelief. 

“Oh.” Tapl relaxes. “Yeah, they do that sometimes.”

“What?” Fruit gapes. “How come I’ve never seen it before, then?”

“Same reason no one else has.” Tapl offers an uneasy smile, burying his hands in his pockets. 

Fruit’s heart twists in his chest. “You don’t trust me?” 

“No, no, it’s not that.” Tapl waves his hand dismissively. “I used to be able to control them. I guess it’s different now. Um, I dunno if that makes sense.”

“Aww,” Fruit grins teasingly. “So, you do trust me?”

Tapl squints at him. “Yeah, obviously.”

Fruit places a hand on Tapl’s shoulder. “That means a lot to me, Harvey.”

“Anyway.” Tapl quickly changes the subject, lifting a  large slab of obsidian off the ground. “Move, you’re in my way.”

Fruit huffs as he pivots to the side. “Dude, where are your manners?”

Tapl chuckles as he sets the obsidian in the wheelbarrow. “I dunno, where are yours?”

“Speak for yourself,” Fruit cackles, lifting another chunk of obsidian from Tapl’s hands. “You just shoved me into the wall!”

“Yeah, I did.” Tapl laughs as Fruit feigns hurt, and he holds his hands up in surrender. “Alright, I’m sorry, okay?”

Fruit turns away, barely subduing a giggle. “You don’t mean that.”

Tapl doesn’t take the bait. “Why are you throwing a temper tantrum?”

Fruit peeks over his shoulder, glaring at Tapl. “I’m not.”

Tapl fakes a yawn, stretching his arms out for dramatic effect. “Whatever.” He places his boot on the pile of blocks. “I’ll be over here, doing my job.”

“Wait, let me help you.” Fruit scurries over to Tapl’s side, taking the last of the obsidian from Tapl and depositing it in the wheelbarrow.

Tapl dusts his gloves off, smiling at his handiwork. “Look at that, we did it.”

Fruit lifts the handles of the wheelbarrow and pushes it forward, groaning with strain as it inches forward. “Skies, this shit is heavy.”

Tapl nudges Fruit with his elbow. “Let me have the other side of the handle.”

Fruit moves out of the way, allowing Tapl access to the wheelbarrow. “We push it together?”

Tapl nods, joining Fruit. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Fruit replies, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “We just need to get it over to that hill.” He gestures to a nearby outcropping of rock by the edge of the woods. 

“M’kay, let me get the gate for you.” He crosses Feinberg’s yard in one stride, unlatching the gate and pushing it all the way open.

“What a gentleman,” Fruit jabs as Tapl returns to his side. “Getting the door for me.”

Tapl bumps Fruit with his shoulder. “You’re lucky to have me.”

“Okay, now help me move this wagon thingy.”

“Wheelbarrow,” Tapl corrects as he pushes on the handle with all his might, wincing slightly.

With great effort, Fruit and Tapl manage to haul the wheelbarrow to the edge of the hillside.

“Watch it,” Fruit hisses. “You’re stepping on my feet.”

“Oops, sorry.” Tapl says softly, backing away from Fruit and the wheelbarrow.

Fruit sets the wheelbarrow down, leaning it against the wall. “Don’t worry about it.” His expression hardens as he glances at the cliffside. “The portal should be four wide and five tall, right?”

Tapl nods, lifting a stack of slabs from the wheelbarrow and carrying them to where Fruit is standing. “Here’s three,” he tells Fruit, his breath wheezing.

“Don’t over-exert yourself.” Fruit offers a wary glance as he takes the slabs from Tapl and sets them on the grass.

Tapl heaves another slab from the wheelbarrow and stacks it on the three Fruit placed. 

He exhales sharply, leaning against the cliff for support. “There’s one side.”

Fruit kneels on the ground, lining up three more slabs in the grass next to the first pillar. He stands, stretching. “I got the bottom.”

Fruit returns to the wheelbarrow, gesturing to where Tapl is standing. “I’ll give you five to stack over there.”

“M’kay.”

Piece by piece, the second half of the portal fits into place. 

Fruitberries stacks two blocks on top of the hill. “These two, we can kinda just—“ He grunts as he moves the blocks into place. “Stack ‘em up here, and that should work.”

“Cool,” Tapl breathes, stepping back to admire the portal. “I’ve never built one of these before.”

Fruit chuckles, jumping off the hill and landing unsteadily in the mud. “It’s kind of a mess, but it should work. Tapl?”

Tapl nods, drawing a small flint and steel striker from his pocket. He kneels by the makings of the portal, taking a deep breath, followed by a sharp exhale.

He presses the striker to the rock, and strikes the flint against the iron.

A small fire sparks in the frame of the portal, before a bright luminescence of purple burns Fruit’s eyes, and he yelps, flinching away.

“Holy shit.” In front of Fruit, Tapl gasps, chuckling in disbelief.

Tapl stumbles back over to his friend, his eyes wide as he joins Fruit in staring into the swirling portal, cloaking the forest in violet. Dim sparks dance around the frame of obsidian, flickering in the misty air.

Tapl is eerily silent. 

“So, we going in together or what?” Fruit asks, hoping to break Tapl out of whatever trance he’s in.

“Together,” Tapl breathes. “Of course.”

Fruitberries offers Tapl his hand, but he isn’t looking.

“Huh?” Tapl turns to Fruit. “You wanna hold hands?” 

Fruit laughs, shaking his head. “Way to ruin the moment.”

“I was just wondering why you want to hold my hand!” Tapl retorts, indignant.

“It’s for good luck,” Fruit tells him. “If your best friend won’t hold your hand when you take a life-threatening risk, is he even your best friend?”

Tapl smirks, his eyes sparkling. “Fine.” He takes Fruit’s hand. “Drama queen.”

“Okay, on three, alright?” Fruit asks, trying his darndest to keep his voice steady.

Tapl squeezes Fruit’s hand. “Okay.”

“One,” Fruit begins.

“Two.”

“Three.”

Chapter Text

Fruitberries has made the advancement: We Need to Go Deeper.

“Tapl?” Fruitberries calls, his voice rising in panic.

Fruit sucks in a sharp breath as a dizzying wave of heat washes over him. He blinks violet particles out of his vision, squinting.

The sheen of purple dissipates, and Fruit’s eyesight adjusts to the darkness of the Nether. 

Fruit’s breath catches as the balmy air singes his lungs. He coughs in an attempt to free his throat, but it only exacerbates the pain. Fruit struggles to keep his footing as another wave of fatigue washes over him.

Tapl has made the advancement: We Need to Go Deeper.

“Breathe slowly,” Tapl’s familiar cadence drones. “Gasping like a fish won’t do you any good.”

Fruit’s breath burns his mouth as he follows Tapl’s instructions, his heartbeat slowly dropping. He sighs in relief, stumbling backward to lean on the cool obsidian frame for support. “Skies, it’s hot.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Tapl mutters, voice muffled by his waistcoat as he pulls it over his head and stuffs it in his bag. “I shoulda taken my jacket off before we went through.” 

Now that he’s sure he and Tapl are both okay, Fruitberries takes a moment to scan his surroundings. His stomach churns as his eyes trace over waterfalls of lava stretching from lofty ceilings to craters in the ground. These vast lakes of lava are listed as the main reason travelers to the Nether don’t come back. 

A peculiar kind of crimson stone makes up most of the Nether’s terrain. Some cartographers nicknamed it “netherrack,” and the nickname stuck even centuries later. 

Precarious islands of netherrack dot the horizon. Fruit was aware of the Nether’s unforgiving landscape, but this is something else. 

A faraway cluster of netherrack crackles as it breaks off from the islands perched above the lava; Fruit swallows a lump in his throat as he watches the debris plummet to its demise.

Tapl places a hand on Fruit’s shoulder. “Fruit, look.”

Fruit pants, wiping sweat from his brow as he turns to Tapl. “Huh?”

“There’s a fortress.” Tapl points past a narrow bridge of netherrack. 

At first, Fruit can’t tell what he’s looking at, but he soon spots a few dark bricks peeking out from behind a short plateau. 

Tapl hums, squinting. “North, slightly northeast.”

Fruit turns to Tapl. “Uh, is that what we’re looking for?”

Tapl nods, brushing past Fruit and crossing the bridge. Each of his steps are more sure than the last, and it’s not long before he’s on the other side. He turns on his heel with a flourish, gesturing for Fruit to cross.

Fruit chuckles nervously, instinctively moving away from the edge of the cliff. “I dunno, that looks kind of dangerous. Maybe we should find another way acr—“

“What are you, a chicken?” Tapl calls from across the ravine. His voice echoes through the wasteland. “Come on, I could do it no problem!”

Fruit groans. He is no coward.

With a heavy sigh, Fruitberries shuffles to the cliff’s edge on unsteady legs. He approaches the tapered bridge, his eyes locked on his boots as he takes a tentative step forward. Followed by another, then another. Fruit’s clothes cling to his skin, damp with sweat. His hair sticks to his forehead in thick clumps.

“Come on, Fruit! We don’t have all day!” Tapl’s voice breaks Fruit’s focus, and he yelps as his footing threatens to falter. He staggers backward in order to keep his balance, his legs trembling beneath him.

“Shut up, I’m trying!” Fruit shouts, followed by a short snicker from Tapl.

“Sorry,” Tapl says, lying through his teeth.

“No, you’re not.” Fruit mutters bitterly as he starts across the pathway once more.

Tapl shuts his mouth upon hearing the wavering of Fruit’s voice. “Sorry,” He says again, more sincere this time.

Fruit flicks Tapl’s forehead as he reaches the end of the bridge, planting his feet firmly on the ground and exhaling dramatically. “Fuck off.”

“Ow!” Tapl presses a hand to his forehead, pouting.

Fruit glares daggers at Tapl as he strides past. “Come on.”

“I guess I deserved that,” Tapl admits, trailing behind Fruit. 

Fruit chuckles, turning to face Tapl as he walks. “You guess?”

“I guess.” Tapl repeats with a poorly stifled grin.

A flicker of orange catches Fruit’s eye and he gasps, shooting out an arm to halt Tapl behind him.

He draws his sword with trained haste, intercepting a stray fire charge with a powerful swing.

A dazzling array of sparks and flame explode around Fruit’s blade, littering the netherrack with crackling embers. Some manage to burn Fruit’s skin as the flames disperse into the air.

Fruit groans, wasting no time on stomping out the sparks under the soles of his boots.

A deafening cry sounds as Fruit turns back to Tapl. The shriek shakes the ground, causing nearby outcroppings of netherrack to crumble and break away from the mainlands; smoke fills the air as rubble sinks into lava.

“That’s a ghast,” Tapl yells over the squealing. “Run! Get in the fortress!” Tapl gestures toward the massive brick structure as he whips his head around, desperately trying to locate the creature.

“What the hell are you waiting for?” Tapl screams as Fruit stands still. “Go! Now!”

“Are you kidding?” Fruit replies, knocking an arrow and drawing the string of his bow back. “I’m the one with a ranged weapon!”

“It’s too dangerous to fight it!” Tapl slinks away, pressing his back to the walls of the fortress.

“I don’t even see it yet!” Fruit shouts in rebuttal, approaching the noise. “I can only hear its skies-forbidden screaming!”

“Something had to shoot that fireball at us!” Tapl calls back. “Where are you going?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Fruit nears the edge of the island, peering across the lava. “I’m gonna kill it!”

“Fruit!” Tapl cries. “That’s how you get yourself killed, you, you idiot!”

“Pulling out the real bad words, are we?” Fruit chuckles snidely, stopping in his tracks as he spots a flash of white beyond the island he just left.

“I see it,” He mutters, low and cautious.

“What?” Tapl hisses in a panic.

“I said…” Fruit‘s eyes narrow as he draws his bowstring back. “I see it.” He releases the string, holding his breath as the arrow careens across canyons of fire and brimstone. 

As if on cue, a louder, more shrill cry erupts from the ghast as Fruit’s arrow lands squarely between its eyes. Fruit grins as the ghast sinks into the bubbling lava just below the cliffside hosting the duo’s portal.

Tapl claps his hands over his ears as the ghast screeches in agony, its cries slowly becoming garbled and distorted as it sinks below the surface of the lake.

With a final, despairing gurgle, the wailing stops, and the air stands still again. The silence rings in Fruit’s ears as he fastens his bow to his back.

Tapl’s hands fall to his sides. He lets out a soft, trembling breath. “Nice shot.”

Fruit smirks, beaming with pride. “Wasn’t it?”

“I didn’t even see it until you shot it,” Tapl responds breathlessly, peeling himself from the wall and returning to Fruit. “That was insane.”

“I’m your knight in shining armor.” Fruit remarks, ducking under a brick archway that signifies the entrance to the Nether fortress.

A loud, almost robotic voice rings in Fruit’s ears. 

Fruitberries has made the advancement: A Terrible Fortress.

Tapl steps onto the brick flooring shortly after and the voice follows. 

Tapl has made the advancement: A Terrible Fortress.

“I haven’t heard that voice twice in one day in a long time,” Tapl mutters, following Fruit down the shadowy corridor.

Fruit nods in wordless agreement, his eyes fixed straight ahead as he walks.

Fruitberries gasps, his entire body jerking upward as he’s ripped from his slumber.

 

“Tapl has made the advancement: The End?”

 

Fruit’s heart plummets, his stomach beginning to churn. Sweat beads on his forehead as he scrambles to free himself from his covers.

 

He rushes to pull his boots on, a metallic tang filling his mouth as his teeth dig into his lip so hard they draw blood.

 

As Fruitberries places his hand on the door handle, his eyes catch a piece of orange fabric and they linger there, entranced by it.

 

It’s fine, he doesn’t need it. He’ll only waste time by fetching it and putting it on, he’ll come back with Tapl and everything will be okay, just hurry, please hurry—  

 

“Fruit?” Tapl’s voice stirs Fruit back to reality. “Are you okay? You’ve got this weird look on your face.”

Fruit shoves his hands in his pockets, glancing away. “Uh-huh, fine.”

Tapl raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

Fruit lets out a quiet breath. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

Tapl looks as if he has more to say, but he shakes his head, jabbing his sword in the direction of a staircase. “Cause, uh, the spawner’s right there.”

Fruit draws his weapon, his eyes sparkling. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s kill some blazes!” He races up the stairs, promptly regretting it as he nearly plunges headfirst into a deep chasm, complete with a vast expanse of lava bubbling ominously at the bottom.

Fruit gulps—the only thing separating him from a fiery demise is the thin platform of bricks under his feet.

”I was going to mention that to you first,” Tapl says nervously, climbing the stairs to join Fruit. “You don’t have to fight the blazes with me if you don’t want to.”

Fruit scoffs, offended. “I’m not afraid of a little lava.”

Tapl opens his mouth to speak, but quickly closes it again. “Alright.”

”Watch out!” Tapl shouts as he darts in front of Fruit. Fruit turns his head just in time to witness Tapl thrust his sword into the skull of a blaze with a grunt of effort.

The monster crumbles into fleeting embers, leaving behind remnants of its limbs, glittering ethereally against the dark bricks.

Tapl crouches, carefully scooping up the rods and tucking them into his belt.

The hair on the back of Fruit’s neck stands on end when a familiar monotone voice echoes in his skull. 

Tapl has made the advancement: Into Fire.

“I’ve never heard of that one,” Tapl murmurs, gently running his fingers over the glowing bundle of sticks.

”No one has gotten this far, I guess,” Fruit says. His senses are on high alert and each new sound sends a chill down his spine.

“Mmm, guess so,” Tapl responds, his eyes fixed on the metal cage in the middle of the small platform.

Fire erupts through the bars of the cage as another blaze appears, and Fruit yelps as he raises his arms to protect his face.

The blaze emits a low, almost grinding noise as it chases after Fruit, a fireball burning brighter in its chest.

Fruit reaches for his sword, but his hand misses his sheath, his fingers scraping against leather as he grasps at nothing.

Fruitberries stumbles backward in a panic, and his stomach lurches as he steps away only for his foot to be met with thin air.

The bricks crumble beneath Fruit’s weight, and Fruit cries out in shock as the platform breaks apart and begins to hurtle toward the expanse of lava below the fortress.

Fruit scrambles to grab hold of anything to keep his balance, but he has no luck as he locks eyes with Tapl for a final time. 

Here's the thing about dying: it’s not as poetic as it’s made out to be.

It's not dramatic and beautiful like it is in the movies, it’s not poignant and overflowing with dazzling imagery like it is in novels.

It's not a bittersweet way to put an end to an epic, it doesn’t teach anyone a lesson, and it doesn’t change your mind as your life flashes before your eyes.

Time doesn’t slow down, no one offers a regretful smile as life drains from their eyes.

No one whispers their final words in a field of flowers as their loved ones weep with final goodbyes.

No one swears to avenge your death and devotes their life to tying up your loose ends because you never got to. 

Nothing ends wrapped up in a neat little bow like fiction would have you believe.

One moment you’re alive; the next you’re not.

All of your memories, dreams, and ambitions die along with you.

That’s all there is to it.

Nevertheless, Fruit never expected it to end this way, accidentally stumbling into a pool of lava.

What a lame way to go.

Tapl doesn’t notice what’s happening at first.

He hears a blaze spawn and Fruit yell, but that’s nothing out of the ordinary. 

If Fruit can take down a ghast, he can handle a single blaze. 

It’s only when Tapl hears the rumble of bricks collapsing does he spare a glance at his friend—and by then it’s too late.

Tapl’s heart squeezes violently in his chest as he locks eyes with Fruit, the latter’s wide and watery, swimming with fear so alien to Fruitberries that Tapl hardly recognizes him.

Time slows to a stop.

The heat of the Nether fizzes away, Tapl’s nerves grow numb, and all he can see is Fruitberries, his best friend for over a decade, falling to his death. He doesn’t notice the blaze spawning next to him, and he doesn’t feel the burns on his skin as he’s attacked from all sides.

It must have only been a few seconds at most, but to Tapl it felt like a lifetime.

With his heart pounding in his chest and his blood rushing in his ears, Tapl lunges forward, gripping the intact portion of the fence, white-knuckled.

Then, as if without thinking, Tapl throws himself off the edge of the platform.

Fruitberries opens his eyes. Well, opening is a generous term. He can see a thin sliver of light between his eyelids. 

He wades through the fog in his brain, trying to make sense of his situation. 

Through the vague thrum of pain in his temples, Fruit can hear someone speaking to him. He can’t quite make out the words because his ears feel like they’re stuffed with cotton.

He pries his eyes open further, but nothing is in focus and he still can’t figure out where he is.

Is this what being dead is like? 

Wait. Is he dead?

Squinting, Fruit finally recognizes something—the striking amber eyes of his best friend.

”Harvey,” Fruit mutters blearily, sitting up with monumental effort. He rubs his temple with his right hand, groaning in pain.

Tapl’s saying something Fruit can’t understand. 

“Wha, hold on,” Fruit sputters, focusing.

”Fruit? Fruit, can you hear me?” Tapl’s voice sounds less distant, but it’s still faint.

”Yeah, I can,” Fruit says slowly, the syllables slurring together.

“Oh, thank Lady Universe,” Tapl breathes, his smile blurry.

Fruit yelps as Tapl leans forward and throws his arms around Fruit’s shoulders. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Slowly, Fruit raises his arms to embrace Tapl back, his brow creasing. “So I’m not dead?”

”No,” Tapl responds with a watery chuckle, pulling away as he hastily wipes his eyes with his sweater sleeve. “No, you're not. We’re in the Nether, remember? I took you back to the portal.”

”Oh. Cool.”

Memories return to Fruit in a sluggish parade. The ghast, the fortress, the blaze, the lava…

“Wait,” Fruit says. “How did I not die?”

For the first time, Fruit notices Tapl’s massive wingspan flickering behind him. The crystals of gold peeking over his shoulders are cracked and blackened.

Tapl recognizes Fruit’s expression, and he sighs deeply, his shoulders shaking as all traces of divinity disappear from his body. “I, uh, had to get a little risky to save you.”

”All that cause of me?” Fruit casts his gaze downward, chewing his lip. “I’m sorry.”

Tapl shakes his head, getting to his feet. “Don’t worry about it. I got the stupid blaze rods. If you’re good to walk, let’s get out of here.”

Fruit grasps Tapl’s hand, standing on shaky legs. “Okay.”

Chapter Text

Feinberg is a man of honor.

Really. He takes his job seriously, he’s punctual, and he would never, ever skip work to go train in the woods by himself.

Except for today.

If there’s one thing that takes precedence over Feinberg’s job, it’s his friends. 

It just so happens that approximately two hours ago, Feinberg’s closest friend, Reignex, begged Feinberg to take a break from his full-time job of working in the morning, and taking care of Reign in the evening.

Something about “you’re going to kill yourself if you keep this up,” kind of drivel that makes Reign sound so much like Couriway that Feinberg wonders if it was a coordinated effort. 

Nevertheless, what kind of man would Feinberg be if he were to refuse?

So, here Feinberg is, alone in the woods, beating the shit out of monsters and practicing his swings. 

What he didn’t anticipate was being followed.

“Captain!”

Feinberg’s eyebrows raise. There’s only one person who calls him Captain around here.

Feinberg shakes his head, turning around to face Cube, the youngest member of the Royal Guard at seventeen. “Hey, kid,” Feinberg says, sheathing his sword. “You skipping work, too?”

Cube has always been the most ambitious of the Guard, surpassing even Feinberg at times. Feinberg doubts that Cube is skipping work, but ‘did Couri send you’ is a little rude, and Feinberg needs to set a good example.

“No,” Cube replies, grinning. “His Majesty asked me to find you.”

His Majesty. 

Feinberg bites back a laugh at the idea of Couriway being anything but a goofy short-stack, much less majestic, but Feinberg won’t break the illusion.

“He did, huh?” Feinberg smiles back, crossing his arms over his chest. “You know you don’t have to refer to us by our titles. We won’t get pissed at you.”

Cube shrugs. “If I don’t, who else will remind you of how important you are?”

Feinberg shakes his head. “We’re not any more important than you.”

“Really?” Cube’s tone is skeptical, and if Feinberg were any less prideful, maybe he’d admit it breaks his heart.

“You bet.” Feinberg’s voice softens, almost as naturally as he breathes. “You’re a part of HBG just like the rest of us.”

Cube’s dark eyes sparkle in the partially obscured sunlight. “Captain, can I ask you something?”

Cube’s insistence on calling Feinberg by his title is almost endearing. 

Two can play that game. “Go for it, Lieutenant.”

Cube reaches up to fidget with the goggles on his head. “Do you think I could be Captain one day? Like you?”

Feinberg kneels so that he’s at Cube’s eye level. “You’ve got what it takes. I’m sure of that.”

Cube grins, as bright as the sun. “You really think so?”

Feinberg stands, nodding. “I’ll put in a good word for you with my boss.”

Cube laughs. “You’ve gotta teach me all your fancy sword tricks, Captain.”

Feinberg gestures to the sheath at Cube’s hip. “We can start now,” and when Feinberg remembers they both have jobs to do, he adds, “if you want.”

Cube frowns. “But His Majesty, uh, Couriway sent me to bring you back.”

Feinberg rolls his eyes fondly. At times, Cube acts more duty-bound than Feinberg does. Briefly, Feinberg wonders if he’s rubbed off on the young soldier.

“Tell you what, kid.” Feinberg draws his sword. “If you win, I’ll go with you.”

Hesitantly, Cube draws his own weapon. “And if you win?”

Feinberg pretends to think. “I’ll teach you everything I know.”

“Okay,” Cube agrees, humoring Feinberg. “But I won’t go easy on you just ‘cause you’re my Captain.”

Feinberg raises his sword. “Good.”

Cube is the first to attack, aiming a swing at Feinberg’s right side. 

Feinberg pivots to the left, circling around Cube so his back is to Feinberg as he regains his footing.

Instead of launching a counterattack, Feinberg waits for Cube to right himself, impressed by how quickly Cube recovers from his stumble.

Having learned from his mistake, Cube watches Feinberg’s hands carefully, anticipating his next move. 

Rookie mistake. 

Feinberg takes full advantage of Cube’s divided attention, nimbly tossing his sword to his left hand and feigning right. 

Cube steps out of the way of Feinberg’s feint attack, but jumps as the blunt side of Feinberg’s sword meets the back of his neck. He freezes, his eyes first darting to where Feinberg should have been, on his left, then to his right, also empty.

“If this were a real fight,” Feinberg calls from behind Cube, his voice deceptively calm. “You would be dead.”

With practiced ease, Feinberg lifts his sword from Cube’s neck, leaving not so much as a scratch behind. “Don’t watch my hands, they’re not important. Watch my feet.” He turns to face Cube. “Close combat is all about footing. Lose your footing, and you lose your life. Simple as that.”

“I thought,” Cube pants through gritted teeth. “You weren’t going to tell me your secrets yet, Captain.”

“I won, didn’t I?” Feinberg transfers his sword back to his right hand, returning it to his hip.

Cube frowns, rubbing the back of his neck. “Already?”

“One move can turn the tides of a fight.” Feinberg gestures for Cube to raise his sword. “It’s best not to imitate me, I don’t have great form.”

Cube’s brow wrinkles in thought. “How come?”

“The way I bested you was transferring my weapon to my other hand.” Feinberg raises his left hand. “But that leaves my right side vulnerable, which is a risk you shouldn’t take in serious combat, especially if you don’t know your opponent.”

“So,” Cube says slowly, considering Feinberg’s words. “You knew I wouldn’t attack you from the right?”

Feinberg claps a hand on Cube’s shoulder. “Spot on, kid.”

“But… how?”

“Remember what I said earlier about footing?” Feinberg waits for Cube to nod. “After your first attack from the right, you kept your right foot planted, which is good, but when you turned, you crossed your left foot in front of your right.” 

Feinberg steps back, imitating Cube’s previous form. He plants his right foot behind him and his left foot in front. “You see how my legs are crossed? That’s what you want to avoid.”

Cube mirrors Feinberg’s stance. “Why? It feels fine to me.”

Feinberg uncrosses his legs and steps toward Cube’s right side. “Try to pivot right.”

Cube turns, left leg crossing over his right. His knees bump into each other and he yelps as he loses his balance. He would have toppled over and eaten dirt if Feinberg hadn’t leaned forward to catch his arm, steadying him.

“That was mean,” Cube grumbles, straightening. 

Feinberg chuckles, releasing Cube’s arm. “Failure is how you learn.”

After Cube brushes himself off, he lifts his head to meet Feinberg’s eyes. “You’re saying I was doomed from the start?”

Feinberg shakes his head with a laugh. “No, no, don’t get all defeatist on me, now.”

“But, Captain,” Cube groans, kicking the dirt. “How am I ever going to be as good as you when I keep making rookie mistakes like that?”

Feinberg raises an eyebrow, peering down at Cube. “You think the Universe woke up one morning and miraculously blessed me with the skills I have now?”

Cube scowls, his cheeks puffing. “You know what I mean.”

“Everyone starts somewhere,” Feinberg tells him. “Even me. What separates the good from the great is the willingness to push past one’s mistakes.”

Cube nods, renewed tenacity flashing in his eyes. “You’re so wise, Captain.”

Feinberg ruffles Cube’s hair. “I learned from the best.”

Cube bats Feinberg’s hand away with a huff. “Who was that?”

“Couriway,” Feinberg says, smirking only a little.

“Couriway?” Cube gapes. “For real?”

“For real.” Feinberg gestures upward, then toward the horizon. “On the skies and seas, I’d never lie.”

“So, who did King Couriway learn from?”

Feinberg retrieves his bag from where he’d stowed it in the branches of a nearby tree, slinging it over his shoulder. “Why don’t we go ask him?”

“Rad!” Tapl says cheerfully, skipping across the dock by the East Lake. “Hey, sorry I’m late. Fruit almost burned the house down trying to cook dinner.”

“Again?” Raddles grins, waving Tapl over. “Come sit down.”

The planks under Tapl’s boots creak as he takes a seat next to Rad, his eyes scanning the sky’s reflection in the subtle ripples of the lake. On a clear night like this, Tapl can almost see the face of the Universe, the stars freckling her cheeks. 

Tapl listens to the soft pitter-patter of raindrops, harmonizing with the calls of night owls and chirping crickets. 

“I got your letter.” Raddles directs Tapl’s attention back to her. “Clearly, that’s why I’m here.” She offers a soft chuckle, her fingers combing her hair absently. 

“Cool.” Tapl takes a deep breath. Best not to beat around the bush. “So… will you help me?”

Rad presses her lips together for a moment, thinking. “Yes, I think I can.”

Tapl grins. “I knew I could count on you.”

Rad mirrors Tapl’s smile. “You asked about regeneration?”

The wind tugs on Tapl’s hair as it whistles through the trees and stirs the stagnant flora to life. He shivers subtly. “Fruit did, but same difference. Potato, tomato.”

Rad’s laughter lightens the weight in Tapl’s chest. He feels calmer in her company.

“I got to work with some materials from the Nether in the past.” Rad sets her bag in her lap and leans back on her elbows. “Never got anywhere, though.”

Tapl tries to hide his disappointment. “Oh. I understand. I just, uh, really wanted to help F— uh, Fruit.”

“I’m not finished, silly.” Rad leans forward. “I found out what I was missing.”

“Really?” Hope surges in Tapl’s chest. If he can help cure Reign, maybe Lady Universe will go easier on him for breaking his cosmic vow.

Raddles nods. “The blaze rods,” she says, so quietly that her words are nearly swept away by the wind. “They were the missing piece.”

Tapl furrows his eyebrows in thought. “Into fire…”

“What?”

“Into fire,” Tapl repeats, sweeping his hand through the air for added effect. “That’s what I heard when I picked them up.”

“Into fire,” Rad echoes. “That seems familiar.”

Tapl blinks. “Huh?”

“Yes, I can’t quite place where I’ve heard it before, but I know I have.” Rad rummages through her bag for a moment before drawing a small book from one of its pockets. She flips through the pages before letting out a breath, her finger landing on a page. “Here.”

Tapl leans over to see what she’s pointing at. “That’s the advancements almanac.”

“Yes, sir,” Rad says without looking up. She retrieves a quill from her bag and starts scribbling something in the margin of a page. “It’s noticeably empty directly after the ‘ Terrible Fortress’ advancement—“ Rad pauses to fit in a breath. “Except for some versions of the almanac, where it lists both ‘Into Fire’ and ‘Local Brewery’ as advancements.”

“Local Brewery?” Tapl repeats.

“That version of the almanac is banned from libraries and schools almost everywhere.” Rad continues at an impossibly fast pace. “People think they’re hoaxes and disregard any evidence as anecdotal, but you know what I think?” 

Before Tapl can get a word in, Rad is talking again. 

“I think they’re real advancements.” Rad’s eyes sparkle in the dusk lighting. “And I think we can be the first to prove it.”

“Could Local Brewery mean potions?” Tapl wonders aloud, his eyes unfocused as he gazes into the dark water.

“Not could, ” Raddles corrects excitedly. “It totally does.”

“Nuh-uh. You’re messing with me.” Tapl scoffs in disbelief, though he doesn’t doubt Rad's claims. He just enjoys seeing Rad excited. 

Raddles shakes her head, grinning. “No, no! I made a stand that works. You’ve gotta see.”

”You made a potion?” Tapl asks, tapping the water’s surface with the toe of his boot.

”Not yet,” Rad admits, shifting to let her feet dangle off the edge of the dock. “I don’t have any ingredients. That’s why I asked you to meet me here.”

”You need something.” Tapl turns his head to make eye contact with Rad, gazing thoughtfully at her.

”Yes, that’s correct,” Rad replies sheepishly. “For regeneration, I believe it’s one of those red fungi things and a ghast tear.”

”The warts?” Tapl recalls aloud. “I picked some up, but I might have lost them saving Fruit.”

”Saving Fruit?” Raddles tilts her head to the side inquisitively.

Tapl chuckles nervously. Oops.

“Yeah,” Tapl stammers, trying to cover his mistake as smoothly as possible. “Fruit fell off the side of the fortress like an idiot and almost took a super-hot bath in the lava, but I f—“ Tapl pauses. “Uh, found a way to catch him in time.”

”I see.” Rad averts her gaze, gripping the side of the dock, and Tapl senses there’s something she wants to say. “I’m happy he’s safe.”

“Me too.” Tapl tips his head back, studying the stars. “I don’t know what I would do without him.” 

Raddles nods.

”Anyway,” Tapl continues, breaking the tense silence beginning to grow. “I might have some.” 

Tapl shrugs his bag off his shoulder and unclasps the buckle. He roots around in the bag for a moment, squinting at the darkness swallowing his hand. “I can’t see.”

”Hold on.” Rad leans over the edge of the dock. Tapl raises an eyebrow, watching. 

“Got it!” Rad turns back to Tapl, holding a small lantern. “I knew I stashed one here.”

Rad hands the lantern to Tapl. After staring at it dumbly for a moment, Tapl turns the knob, sparking the bulb to life. A hazy orange glow envelops the two runners, flickering sparsely. It reminds Tapl of a fireplace. 

“Thanks.” Tapl returns to his bag, holding the lantern close so he can see. 

”Mhm,” Rad hums absently, her eyes trained on Tapl, expectant.

Tapl spots what he’s looking for and scoops up the warts, pulling his hand from his bag. “I knew I should have put them in a sack or something.” 

Tapl opens his hand, presenting his findings to Raddles. Three tiny fungi lay gathered together in the middle of his palm, sporting a deep crimson hue.

Raddles beams, closing Tapl’s hand with her own and shaking it excitedly. “Those are exactly what I need!” She sighs airily. “Thank you so much. I’ll admit I was a little too scared to go to the Nether and fetch them myself.”

”Uh,” Tapl stammers, averting his gaze as Rad takes the warts. “Sure, no problem.”

”Well, c’mon! Let’s see if it works!” Rad urges, practically tugging Tapl along as she jumps from her seat on the dock and starts toward her cottage. “Oh, Harvey, I’m so excited!”

Tapl chuckles fondly as he pulls his bag back over his shoulder and trails behind Rad. “Okay, okay, wait up.”

”Maybe you should walk faster, mister King’s chosen one.” Raddles teases, and Tapl hesitates, tripping over himself.

Tapl’s heart beats in his ears as he recounts his promises to the Universe. His chest tenses, a mass of dread coiling ever tighter in his stomach.

”Tapl?” Rad calls after Tapl’s footfalls quiet.

Darn Runners and their acute senses.

Tapl grits his teeth, denying the tears that threaten to prick at his eyes. He adjusts his bag and starts forward again. “Yeah, I just, um, sorta forgot… about that.” His sword weighs heavier at his hip.

Rad scoffs flippantly, holding the door of her home open for him. “The king of this whole place told you to go kill the dragon—the dragon responsible for hundreds if not thousands of deaths—and you forgot about it?”

Tapl gathers his fingers into tense fists as he strides past Raddles into her foyer. “Yes,” He says lamely, studying his shoes.

Rad seems to sense Tapl’s discomfort. “Alright.”

“Um, follow me.” Rad changes the subject, shuffling into her living room. “I’ll show you the brewing stand.”

”Okay,” Tapl agrees, hesitantly following Rad down the hallway.

Raddles fiddles with her keyring, clumsily unlocking a door at the end of the hallway. “I’ve got this room locked, just in case.” She opens the door, allowing Tapl to enter.

As he steps into the dark room, Tapl can make out the murmurs of bubbling liquid. He gasps softly as he takes in the mountains of glass bottles strewn across tables and shelves. Various herbs and other ingredients are stored in cabinets and piled on the floor. Dozens of notes with recipes scribbled on them decorate the walls.

The room has no windows, which is quite the fire safety hazard in Tapl’s opinion. It doesn’t help that the room’s only lights are small, flickering candles placed everywhere from countertops to the arms of a desk chair in the corner.

By far the most bizarre thing about the room, though, is the slab of cobblestone in the center with what looks to be a blaze rod sticking out of it. Three glass bottles are arranged in a circle around the center of the stand. Inside, an unknown liquid bubbles, heated by the blaze rod.

”Welcome to my craft room.” Raddles gestures dramatically to the mess behind her as she nudges the door shut with her knee. “This is my life’s work.”

Tapl swallows a hard lump in his throat as the last sliver of light from the hallway vanishes behind the door. He pivots to the side awkwardly as Rad brushes past him. She mumbles something to herself as she places a wart in each of the glass bottles.

She scrutinizes the bottles for a moment, then her hand navigates to a switch on the side of the stand, and the rod in the middle of the stand flares up in a brilliant display of amber-orange, flickering as it heats the liquid in the bottles. Tapl flinches away as the warm hues sting his eyes, covering his face with his arm.

The once quiet bubbling intensifies, the sound filling the room as the stand gurgles to life.

As the last of the warts dissolve in the solution, a puff of steam escapes the neck of the bottles with a hiss. Rad steps back, grinning as the faint glow of orange reflects manically in her eyes.

“It worked,” She whispers, turning to look at Tapl. “We have our base solution.”

Tapl stands frozen in place, even more afraid of a spontaneous house fire. “Are you sure?”

”Positive,” Rad answers, turning to scribble something on a nearby scroll of parchment. “I’d bet my life on it.”

”Uh,” Tapl starts, unsure of what to think. “Cool? So, what now?”

“Now?” Rad grins, crossing her arms over her chest. “Now all we need is a ghast tear.”

Tapl sets his jaw, glancing away.

Feinberg had given Tapl a ghast tear earlier today. It currently burns a hole in his pocket. Tapl dared not ask where Feinberg got it from, but he has a few ideas, none of which being safe.

Which is probably why Feinberg gave the tear to Tapl, asking Tapl to keep his involvement a secret. If Reign found out Feinberg risked life and limb just to create an experimental treatment for Reign’s illness, Reign would not be happy. 

Keeping Feinberg out of it was the only way Reign allowed Rad to pursue this method of medicine. If Rad found out Tapl conspired with Feinberg to break her promise…

It’s a huge mess of deceit and lies. Normally Tapl would never involve himself in something like this, he’s not a great liar anyway, but he cares about Reign too much not to help, and he cares about Feinberg too much to rat him out. 

”So… do you have one?” Rad steps closer, and Tapl sighs.

“Yeah,” Tapl says before he can change his mind. “Fruit killed a ghast when we were in the Nether. Um, let me find it.”

Tapl doesn’t need to find it. He knows exactly where it is—in the same pocket of his bag as the spare patch Fruit had given him in case his clothes get ripped.

Tapl fishes a small, smoky white crystal from his bag, running his thumb over the smooth surface. Reluctantly, he hands it over to Rad, who studies it intently.

"It's cool to the touch,” Rad observes, turning the tear over in her hand. “Small, too. I've never seen one in person before.”

Tapl nods, watching Rad closely.

"Well," Rad says, cautiously placing the tear in one of the bottles. "Here goes nothing." Her hand navigates to the knob on the side of the stand once more, and it clicks as the stand hums in recognition.

The solution in the bottle begins to bubble again, and the two Runners hold their breath as the tear slowly melts into the liquid.

It was likely Tapl who noticed it first—a tiny fleck of bright magenta, swirling near the middle of the solution. He hisses a withheld breath through gritted teeth, catching Rad’s attention as the fleck consumes the solution.

”Shit,” Rad exclaims in a hushed whisper, a wide smile slowly stretching across her face.

Soon, a blinding luminescence of fuchsia overtakes the orange hues of the blaze rod, enveloping the entire room in a cloak of warm violet.

Rad’s eyes and hair shine a bright purple, reflecting the color of the potion and shrouding her in an aura of ethereality.

The sight comforts Tapl, emitting an air of familiarity.

As the bubbles die down, Rad cautiously approaches the stand, cupping her hands around the base of a bottle and lifting it from its stand.

A chill snakes down Tapl’s spine as a voice whispers in his ear.

Raddles has made the advancement: Local Brewery.

“Did you hear that, too, Tapl?” Rad breathes, grinning.

Tapl nods, too stunned to speak.

”We did it. It worked,” Raddles stammers incredulously, beaming at the iridescent liquid. She glances over at Tapl, wide-eyed. “Harvey, it worked! It’s real. Potions are real, and I’m holding one.” Rad’s words stumble into one another as she speaks hastily, turning the bottle in her palm. “Great Universe, this is the best day of my life.”

Tapl chuckles bemusedly. “Fruit’s gonna have an ‘I told you so’ moment when I tell him about this one.”

Rad giggles. “He was right! You should listen to him more often.”

“Yeah, right.” Tapl scoffs as he rolls his eyes. “That’ll just get me killed.”

It’s Rad’s turn to roll her eyes. “You don’t give him enough credit.”

”Whatever—“ Tapl starts to say, but Rad interrupts him.

”Oh, skies, wait! I totally forgot! Reignex! Tapl, let’s go, come on.” Before Tapl can react, Rad rushes out of the room and down the hallway, throwing open the door to her cabin and racing out to the street. 

Tapl chases after her, his muscles already groaning. “Slow down! Reign might be asleep, you know!”

“Who cares?” Rad calls back with a grin so wide Tapl can see it from across the street. “Sleep can wait!”

“For a sick man,” Tapl mutters under his breath, arms pumping at his sides, barely keeping pace with Rad. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Raddles vaults up the stairs and skids to a stop at the stoop of Feinberg’s cabin, wasting no time before she begins to bang on the door. “Feinberg!” She peeks through the keyhole. “You better be decent, because I’m coming in!”

Tapl sighs, though it’s more like a gasp as he finally catches up to Rad, trailing behind her as she throws the door to Feinberg’s house open and charges inside. 

Tapl staggers inside and nudges the door closed behind him, panting like a dog. “Rad,” he pauses to take in a gulp of air. “When did you get so fast?”

“Salted seas, Rad,” A rough voice calls from the dimly-lit hallway. “It’s three in the morning, you better have the fuckin’ secret to immortality or I’m kicking your ass.” Feinberg stumbles into the living room, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

It’s strange to see the Captain of the Royal Guard so… ordinary. Feinberg, as he stands before Tapl now, lacks his garish medallion-adorned overcoat, the sword at his hip a fraught absence. It’s almost enough for Tapl to forget how scary he is. 

”What’s got you so pissed?” Rad teases, hiding the potion bottle behind her back. “Did I wake Reign up?”

The end of Feinberg’s mouth crooks upward. “Yeah.”

Rad giggles. “So that’s why you’re so upset. Normally you love early morning chaos.”

”Shut up,” Fein growls, though he’s smirking. “What do you want?”

Tapl covers his face with his hands, shaking his head as he attempts to blend in with the wall. If this goes south, he wants no part in it.

Rad presses the potion bottle into Fein’s hands, bouncing on her heels as she does. “It’s regeneration,” she tells him with barely subdued excitement. “For Reign.”

”Wait,” Fein runs a hand through his unkempt hair, blinking a few times. “Like, that potion you were tryin’ to make? No shit?”

Tapl’s eye twitches. Surely it’s so dark that no one will notice.

”Yes.” Rad beams as Feinberg takes the bottle from her. “No shit.”

”Bro, I thought you were bullshitting me,” Feinberg says eloquently, swirling in the air the bottle and watching the liquid slosh inside.

”Nope,” Rad giggles. “It’s all thanks to Tapl over there. He made it possible.”

Darn it. 

”Harvey?” Fein mumbles. “When did you get here?”

”Hi,” Tapl says in his best impression of a calm voice, joining Rad in front of Feinberg. “I, uh, I got the ingredients, that's all.”

Feinberg squints at Tapl, considering Tapl’s words. After a terrifying moment of silence, he speaks. “Don’t you need to kill some scary monsters or to get the activator or whatever? Like that gray tentacle thing that looks like it crawled out of Dylan’s bathtub?”

Rad snorts, covering her mouth.

”A ghast. Yeah.” Tapl offers an uneasy smile.

”You killed one of those? That’s sick, dude. Congrats.” A yawn punctuates Fein’s words.

Tapl almost laughs. As if Feinberg found the tear on the street before he handed it over to Tapl.

It’s terrifying to think about Feinberg taking down a ghast by himself, much less retrieving its tear and getting it back safely, all without anyone noticing. Tapl’s stomach churns at the thought.

That, coupled with the effortless way Feinberg lies without so much as a stutter—it paints quite an imposing picture of the Captain. 

It makes sense. If Tapl has secrets, Feinberg does, too. Though Tapl gets the feeling that, despite Feinberg’s outward abrasiveness, he cares about everyone around him. He would never raise his sword to one of his own, of that Tapl is sure.

Maybe Feinberg would have been a better choice for this dragon-slaying nonsense.

”No, um, actually, Fruit did. Not me.” Tapl stammers, glancing away. “As much as I would like to take all the credit,” he tacks on for good measure.

”Makes sense.” Fein nods. “Fruit’s insane.”

Tapl chuckles softly. “I don’t disagree with you.”

Tapl’s palms are clammy under his gloves. He feels like he just tamed a ferocious beast.

”What’s goin’ on?” A voice calls from behind Feinberg. “Tapl? Rad?”

”Reign!” Fein grins as he turns to his friend. “Drink this.” Fein presents the glowing bottle to Reign, who cautiously takes it.

”Y’know, I trust you and all, man, but can I ask what this is first?” Gravel curls around Reign’s words as he blinks the sleep from his eyes.

“Regeneration potion,” Rad and Fein respond in unison.

Reign’s expression sobers, something not quite like fear flickering in his dark eyes. 

“Fein,” Reign hisses, shoving Feinberg’s shoulder. “Don’t tell me—“

“No, no,” Feinberg responds in a whisper. “I didn’t.” Feinberg gestures to Tapl, and Reign’s expression relaxes.

Tapl isn’t sure Feinberg knew how to speak quietly, but Tapl can’t make out the next few things he tells Reign. 

Reign reaches up and pushes Feinberg’s glasses onto his forehead. “Look at me,” he says, his voice frail. “You promised, remember?”

“I know.” After a moment of silent conversation with Reign, Feinberg turns back to Rad and Tapl. “If you don’t trust me, trust them.”

“I trust you,” Reign’s voice crackles when he raises it to Feinberg, who flinches, before slowly turning back to Reign.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Feinberg says curtly, before another eye-contact conversation occurs, and Reign lets out a breath, breaking his telepathic connection with Feinberg as he looks to Rad, then Tapl. 

”It’ll heal you.” Rad grins at Reign. “And you can go back to not doing your job, but at the castle gates this time.”

”I know,” Reign says, his dull gaze one again fixed on Feinberg.

Rad points at the potion in Reign’s hands. “Aren’t you going to drink it?” 

Reign stares intently at the bright magenta liquid, as if pondering something. “Alright. If I die, blame Feinberg.” With that, he uncorks the bottle and downs the entire potion in one shot.

”Why me?” Fein retorts in aversion, nervousness clouding his tone.

Reign stares sightlessly at the floor for a moment, before his knees buckle beneath him, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Shit, dude, are you okay?” Feinberg barely strains as he catches Reign by the arms, steadying him.

Tapl and Rad share nervous glances.

”What did you do to him?” Fein barks, his tone dripping with venom. “One of you better start talking or you’re both dead.”

So this is the day Tapl dies.

Lucky for Tapl, Rad speaks up, saving them both from an untimely demise. ”U-um, wait, h-hold on, we don’t know what it’s supposed to do, this could be, uh, not bad.” Rad flinches away, her eyes wide with fear.

Tapl’s chest tightens as he absently coils his hand around the hilt of his sword. He can take Feinberg in a fight, right?

”Oh, so it’s supposed to make him pass out?” Fein’s shouting now, yet his hold on Reign remains ever so gentle. 

“I don’t know!” Rad sputters, raising her hands in surrender. “Just give it a second, okay?”

Tapl’s eyes flick between Fein and Rad as an agonizing few seconds tick by.

Then, Reign stirs. All eyes are locked on him as he slowly lifts his head.

Feinberg is quick to break the uneasy silence. “Reign, hi, are you okay? Can you stand?”

Reign nods, and Feinberg slowly draws back, gritting his teeth, his lips twisted in a nervous scowl.

”Thanks,” Reign mumbles, grinning at Rad. “I owe you one.”

Feinberg lets out the breath he was holding, pressing a hand to his chest. “Skies above, you scared the shit out of me.”

“Eye for an eye,” Reign quips back.

”So, you feel any better?” Rad asks, the panic in her eyes dulling.

“Yeah.” Reign examines his hands. “I haven’t felt like this in years.”

A grin slowly spreads across Fein’s face, and he claps a hand on Reign’s back, beaming wider as Reign doesn’t stumble, standing still. “I knew you had it in you.”

Reign chuckles bashfully. “I didn’t do shit, you should be thanking Rad and Tapl right now.”

“Right.” Fein sheepishly faces Rad, bowing dramatically. “Thank you so much for your kindness here today, I will never forget it.”

Rad barks out a laugh. “Go get some rest, you dorks.”

Chapter Text

Moonlight cascades through clusters of leaves. The ground trembles with an ominous groan as monsters claw their way out of the ground.

Beyond the treacherous forests, HBG lays silent, absent of even a whisper.

Tapl’s hand hovers over the doorknob. He grips the hilt of his sword in the other.

He lets out a shiver of a sigh, closing his fingers around the handle.

“Tapl?” A groggy voice makes Tapl jump. “Where are you going?”

Slowly, Tapl retracts his hand, turning to face the hallway behind him. “Fruit, hey, I’m, uh… going to get some fresh air. Touch some grass.”

A nervous chuckle from Tapl interrupts Fruit’s tense silence. 

“Uh-huh.” Fruitberries crosses his arms over his chest, yawning. “That’s why you’re taking your sword with you? Gonna kill some dragons along the way?” As Fruit steps into the pale moonlight, Tapl notices that his hair is messier than usual, draping into a thick fringe that nearly covers his eyes, studying Tapl.

Tapl casts a glance to the side, frowning. “No.”

Fruit tilts his head back, lifting his gaze to the ceiling. “So you’re not going to sneak out and go to the End without me?”

“Uh,” Tapl stammers, pressing his back to the door. “N-no, I don’t even have all the eyes yet—“

“When will you?” A cheerless smile pulls at Fruit’s lips, his eyes askance as if he can’t bring himself to look at Tapl.

“I—“ Tapl starts, but finds nothing to say. “I don’t know.” He, too, refuses to look at his friend, gazing just past Fruitberries at the wall behind him.

“It’s gotta be some time,” Fruit manages stiffly. “I wanna know when.”

“Um.” Tapl chews his lip, his cheeks burning. “Soon, probably.”

“Soon,” Fruit repeats, frowning. After a brief interlude of signature Fruitberries silence, he speaks again. “It really is happening.”

Tapl places a hand behind his head, daring to cast Fruit a sideways glance. “Yeah.”

Fruit stares sightlessly at the floorboards, his lips a thin line.

Tapl laces his fingers together, his palms sweaty. Can Fruit stop being so stoic and quiet all the time? It’s seriously freaking Tapl out.

“Do you have to go alone?” Fruit asks so softly that Tapl almost can’t make out the words.

No, but…

“I don’t,” Tapl interrupts himself, taking in a sharp breath. “I don’t want you to see it.”

“See what?” Fruit asks, though it’s more of a demand than a question.

Tapl flinches, shrinking away. “Uh,” He stammers, pressing his palms together. “Well, um, I don’t know if the End will,” Tapl fumbles over his words, tapping his thumbs against one another. “Affect me, or something.”

A grimace of understanding crosses Fruit’s face, and Tapl’s heart squeezes in his chest. 

“Okay,” Fruit mutters defeatedly, turning away. “I get you.”

“Wait,” Tapl calls after Fruit, striding across the hallway and placing a hand on Fruit’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Me?” Fruit responds without turning around. “Uh, yeah. I’m fine.”

Fruit continues to leave, and Tapl’s hand slides off his shoulder. “Goodnight.”

Tapl watches as Fruit returns to his room, shuffling down the hallway. He gets to his door, his hand resting on the doorknob, hesitating. 

“You’re lying.” Tapl hears himself say. The words slip past his lips without a thought, and he blinks in surprise.

Fruit lets go of the doorknob, head swiveling.

“I mean, uh, wait—“

“So what if I am?” Fruit hisses through gritted teeth, his voice threatening to break. “It doesn’t matter.”

Tapl takes a step forward, then he pauses. “It does too. ‘Cause I care about you, Fruit. I want you to be okay.”

Fruit turns around, but his feet remain planted. “If you cared about me, you wouldn’t be going on a suicide mission by yourself.”

Tapl’s eyes widen. “What do you mean?”

Fruit scoffs. “You know what I mean.”

“I,” Tapl responds slowly, stalling for time. “I don’t know what will happen. I don't want to accidentally hurt you or something.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt!” Fruit’s volume takes a sharp turn upward as he steps toward Tapl, his arms shooting out to his sides. “The least I can do is be there to protect you!”

“Fruit, you have to trust me.” Tapl lets the hilt of his sword slip through his fingers, and it clatters to the floor. He cautiously approaches his friend, hand outstretched. “I can handle myself.”

Fruit grits his teeth, his hands gathered into tight fists. “And what if you can’t? Who will be there to catch you when you fall? The dragon certainly fuckin’ won’t!”

Tapl’s hand falls to his side. “She might.”

“Harvey!” Fruit barks, taking another accusatory step forward. “I’m not fuckin’ playing around!” He inhales sharply, hastily wiping his eyes with his arm. “Listen to me for once in your goddamn life!”

Tapl’s chest tenses. “I can catch myself.”

“No, you can’t!” Fruit’s screaming now, “If you go alone, you’ll die! I know you will!”

“Why do you think I can’t do it?” Tapl’s intonation climbs higher, his voice breaking. “Don’t you trust me?”

Fruit frowns, glancing away.

A few deathly quiet seconds pass.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you.” Fruit’s tone softens subtly. “I’m just worried—“

“Yeah? Well, it sure sounds like you don’t trust me.” Tapl retorts bitterly, heat flaring behind his eyes. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Fruit says, his expressuon alison scrunched like it hurts him.

Tapl throws his hands to his sides in exasperation. “What did you mean, then? Can’t I do one thing for you alone?”

“No one can kill a dragon by themselves!” Fruit cries, placing his hands on Tapl’s shoulders. “Not even you, Harvey!”

Tapl’s breath catches in his throat. He reaches up, grabbing Fruit’s wrists and pushing him away. “You don’t get it.”

“What don’t I get?” Fruit asks, failing to conceal his unease.

“I’m not the same as the rest of you.” Tapl chuckles sourly. He leans forward, inching closer to Fruit. “I’m a freak. I’m inhuman . If anyone has a chance at killing that dragon, it’s something of its own kind!”

A protector.

Tapl’s pupils disappear as he shouts, and Fruit finds himself gazing into familiar amber.

Tapl blinks, clearing the heat from his eyes as he looks away. “So, stop pretending that you and I are the same, because we’re not. I couldn’t be further from you.”

Tapl’s eyes wander back to Fruit.

“You’re not some thing,” Fruit whispers, meeting Tapl’s gaze. His eyes are misty, vulnerable.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Fruit speaks again, quieter. “You’re some one, and you’re everything to me.”

Tapl’s eyes trace down to Fruit’s hands, trembling at his sides. “Even you are scared of me,” Tapl spits, his lips curling into a joyless grimace. “You don’t even try to hide it.”

“I’m not scared of you,” Fruit says, crouching to retrieve Tapl’s discarded sword. He gently presses the hilt of the weapon into Tapl’s hands. 

Tapl watches, entranced as Fruit lifts a finger and traces the letters of his name along the blade. 

“I’m scared of losing you.” Tears prick in the corners of Fruit’s eyes as they flick up to meet Tapl’s. He smiles lopsidedly, tilting his head.

Tapl tears up in response. 

Universe protect this dork.

“I don’t care what you look like or what others think of you,” Fruit stumbles over his words, carding a hand through his hair. He takes in a breath before continuing. “I don’t care about your hair or your wings—even though they look super cool—or anything! I care about Harvey, my best friend. I care about you .”

Tapl’s grip tightens around the handle of his sword. Teardrops collect in the crevices of Fruit’s carved signature as they drip from Tapl’s cheeks. “S-sorry,” He sniffles, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

With his head bowed, Tapl puts his sword away, missing the sheath at first and nicking the side of his belt. “Darn it,” he mutters, earning a soft chuckle from Fruit.

“Hey, man, look at me.” Fruit nudges Tapl with his elbow.

Tapl slowly raises his head, failing miserably at hiding a sheepish smile. “Hi.”

Fruit places two hands on Tapl’s shoulders, his hold stronger this time. He peers at Tapl, resolve settling in his eyes. “Promise me you’re not going to go alone, alright? We can talk more later,” He yawns as if on cue. “‘Cause I'm super tired.”

“Okay.” Tapl nods. “I promise.”

Fruit lets his hands fall to his sides, turning away. “Okay, good. Goodnight, ‘Vee. Don’t stay up too late.”

“I won’t.” Tapl waves a lazy goodbye, reaching up to drag his fingers through his hair. 

Tapl’s shoulders slump when the door latch clicks, and he stumbles backward, letting his back slide along the wall until he crumples to the floor.

Tapl lets out an exasperated sigh, his chest shuddering as he pulls his knees forward, letting his head rest on his kneecaps.

Tapl lets his eyes fall closed for a moment, allowing the tension to dissolve from his brows.

As seconds pass into minutes, Tapl’s heart continues to beat loudly in his ears.

Tapl’s hands quake with restlessness, and he finds his right hand moving to a small pouch on his belt.

Slowly, almost agonizingly so, his fingers hook under the clasp of the pouch and push it open. He slides his hand into the bag, muttering to himself as his fingertips dance across small spheres, cool and somewhat slimy to the touch. 

“Two, five, eight, nine, eleven, twelve,” Tapl mutters under his breath, raising his head as he reaches the final eye. “Twelve.”

Twelve. He only needs one more.

One more until there’s nothing between him and the dragon, save for distance. 

Tapl rises from the floor on unsteady legs, glancing shamefully at the window carved into his front door.

Tapl bites the inside of his cheek. Why can't this be easy?

It’s the middle of the night, and everyone’s asleep. Tapl might never get a chance like this again. It would be foolish not to take it, right?

Tapl steps forward, his left hand gripping the hilt of his sword as he reaches for the doorknob with his right.

He grabs the handle, cautiously twists his wrist, and pushes the door open.

The brisk night air sends a shiver down Tapl’s spine as he steps out. Flinching as his porch groans under his feet, Tapl turns to gaze down the hallway one last time.

The hairs on the back of Tapl’s neck stand on high alert as he gently nudges the door closed, careful not to make a sound.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, letting out a weary sigh. As he listens to the chirping of crickets and quaint gurgling of the fountain in the square, he wanders to the edge of the path. 

He squints, glaring at the woods beyond the village. He sighs once more. To reach the dragon, he’ll have to cut through the Run.

The Run is the name given to the overgrown forest surrounding the kingdom of HBG. It consists of thick brush with no clear pathway, downed trees, poacher traps, and sinkholes threatening to cave under your feet at any moment.

On top of that, dense clusters of leaves block out the sun, giving monsters plenty of spots to hide.

To make matters even worse, Tapl will have to travel through the Run backward.

In the dead of night.

Tapl shudders, tugging his tattered cape around his shoulders.

“It’s okay,” Tapl chuckles nervously, turning away from the Run. “You used to guide people through there, and you both turned out okay. Skies, one of them is a prince. That’s a good sign. You have nothing to worry about.”

Tapl doesn’t sound very convincing. He would be a terrible motivational speaker.

A second shiver shakes Tapl’s core as a flicker of bright violet dances in the corner of his vision. Tapl draws his sword with trained haste, searching for the threat.

An enderman.

There’s no doubt about it.

Those things seem to get more powerful at night, or so their eerie purple aura suggests. Endermen are tall, lanky, and so dark that they’re impossible to spot without the particles that inexplicably follow them around.

As if on cue, the air in front of Tapl explodes into a cloud of blinding indigo sparks, and Tapl stumbles backward, raising his arm to cover his eyes.

When Tapl drops his arm, his eyes flick upward, and his blood runs cold.

Tapl finds himself staring directly into the beady purple eyes of an Enderman.

One more thing Tapl forgot to mention: Endermen hate eye contact.

Well.

That’s not good.

Tapl’s breath catches in his throat, and he swallows a cough. He knows he should look away, but he can’t. Something about the otherworldly appearance of the creature’s eyes keeps him entranced. In a quick change of plans, Tapl scrambles to adjust his hold on his sword but drops it instead. Like an idiot.

Yet, when Tapl braces for the monster to rip him apart, nothing happens. The shrieking cry of an aggrieved Enderman is absent from the still air.

Tapl crouches, retrieving his sword. Slowly, he straightens his back, daring to sneak a second peek at the creature.

The enderman stares passively at Tapl, offering a warbling noise in greeting.

“Woah,” Tapl whispers, meeting the monster’s eyes once more. “You like me?”

The enderman trills in response, turning and beginning to wander away.

Tapl sizes the creature up, his eyes tracing down its lanky limbs.

He’s never been this close to one before.

“Sorry, bud,” Tapl mutters, wrapping one arm around the Enderman and plunging his sword into its back in one swift motion.

The creature lets out an ear-piercing shriek of agony as its body crumbles into dust, leaving a small orb in its place, glimmering with blue and green hues.

At least it didn’t suffer for long.

Tapl steps back, setting his jaw. He brings his hand to his face, pressing a finger to his cheekbone.

He recoils, making a face. His skin is damp. Gross.

Wait.

Is he crying?

Tapl glares at his hand for a moment before hastily wiping it on his shirt. He shakes his head, bending down to retrieve the pearl nestled in the dirt.

That’s number thirteen.

“Thank you for your sacrifice.” Tapl salutes the remaining purple embers of the creature as they disappear into the night air.

Tapl turns, taking a moment to glance back at his cabin. He huffs from his nose and starts to return down the path.

The crickets fall eerily silent as the brush crumbles under Tapl’s boots. His mouth is dry as he returns to his home.

Tapl groans, taking a seat on his porch. He presses the palms of his hands to his eyelids, letting out a shaky breath.

Tapl’s mind snaps back to reality in the wake of a distant crash of thunder.

Right. He’s got a job to do.

With hands far shakier than he’d like to admit, Tapl fishes a blaze rod from his bag, breaking a small chunk off and squeezing it tightly in his fist, crushing the fragment into powder. 

Tapl drops the Enderman’s pearl onto the floorboards with one hand and hastily throws the powder onto it with the other.

The blaze powder crackles against the surface of the pearl like an egg on a skillet, emitting a bright luminescence of green. Tapl averts his eyes, flinching.

When Tapl’s gaze returns to the pearl, it has transformed into an opaque orb, resembling an olive-toned eye. Tiny flecks of the pearl remain on the surface.

An Eye of Ender. The last one Tapl needs.

Tapl grabs the eye, flipping his pocket knife open with his left hand. He slices the eye in half with careless haste, tossing one half to the side and returning his knife to his pocket. He rummages in his bag for a moment, eventually removing a compass and tossing it on the planks.

Tapl curses under his breath as a second compass clatters to the floor, its chain entangled with the first.

He shakes his head, steadying the first compass with one hand, and wedges the half-eye under the metal casing, letting it sit on the surface of the glass.

High-pitched hissing fills the air as the eye adheres to the surface of the compass. When it subsides, Tapl immediately swipes the compass from the porch, falling back on his heels as he stands.

Tapl watches intently as the eye’s pupil spins idly, finally stalling to point almost due south—favoring west just slightly.

Tapl smirks pridefully, flipping the cover of the compass closed and shoving it in his pocket. 

His attention falls back to the excess half of the eye near the spare compass, and his heart squeezes. Quickly, he crouches and combines the other half of the eye with the second compass. 

Tapl stands, drawing in a slow breath before unlatching the door to his cabin and stepping inside. He kicks the door closed behind him and marches into the kitchen, sliding the compass across the kitchen table. He stares wistfully at it for a moment before crossing the room in one stride and scanning the shelves.

Tapl grabs a stray napkin from the shelf and clumsily searches for a quill from his bag.

He scribbles a quick message and sets the napkin on the coffee table next to the compass. Then, as quickly as he entered, he leaves his cabin once more and swivels to face south—directly away from his home.

 

Fruit, sorry I had to break our promise. Please don’t come looking for me. I’ll be back soon.

 

  Tapl :L

Chapter Text

It starts with a single sentence. 

It’s deafening, and all of HBG flinches as it drones in their heads.  

Tapl has made the advancement: The End? 

Not long after;

Fruitberries has made the advancement: The End? 

“Fiddlesticks!”  

Tapl tumbles to the ground, coughing and gasping for air. Moments earlier, he narrowly avoided plummeting to the bottom of a ravine, at the consequence of tearing up his sleeves and arms. He props himself up on his elbows, wincing.

Tapl may be in deep trouble, but not deep enough to bring out the swear words. He’s saving those for the End.

The unearthly moan of a zombie shocks Tapl to his feet and he teeters unsteadily as he regains his balance.

Tapl steals a glance at his compass and gulps, swallowing his frustration. Ignoring his body’s screams of protest, he breaks into a jog, gradually speeding up into a full-fledged sprint.

Tapl’s lungs scream at him to slow down, but he can’t afford to lose time.

Trees obscure even the tiniest rays of moonlight. With nothing to light his path, Tapl has to rely on his instincts alone to navigate the dense forest.

“Agh!” Tapl yelps as he jumps backward just in time for the ground in front of him to collapse into a massive sinkhole. His stomach lurches as he stumbles backward, inches away from falling in.

Tapl recalls why he stopped guiding people through this place.

It’s a nightmare.  

This ring of trees makes the Nether look like a cakewalk. 

Gashes of all sizes litter Tapl’s arms and legs, the bitter tang of blood sits stagnant in his mouth, and the once thick soles of his boots feel paper-thin beneath his feet.

Not to mention every part of his body is on fire, burning with fatigue.

Every citizen of HBG has both mental and physical scars from this place.

If Tapl recalls correctly…

A monster attack heavily impaired the vision in Kayfour’s right eye. Rad still jumps at the sound of a bowstring drawing back; Feinberg fell into a sinkhole and permanently screwed up his left hand and shoulder. Dylan still has thorns stuck in his arms and won’t go anywhere near a cave, Reignex got poisoned by who-knows-what, Cube carries his sword and shield with him everywhere , and Couriway… Tapl doesn’t know Couriway that well, but he’s sure the guy’s got something.

The list goes on. 

HBG is always on high alert, prepared to fight for their lives at any given moment.

Perhaps the most egregious case is Fruitberries. Fruit carries a ranged and melee weapon at all times and suffers from frequent nightmares. He won’t talk to anyone about what happened, not even Tapl.

Tapl bites his lip.

His heart twists in his chest at the thought of Fruit.

Part of him wants to turn around. 

Tapl knows how protective Fruit gets. Tapl knows if anything happens to him, Fruit will never forgive himself.

Tapl grits his teeth. Nothing will happen to me. I can do this on my own. 

Even so, his legs gradually slow to a stop, and Tapl crouches in a clearing to catch his breath.

Turn around.

Should he?

Turn around.

He doesn’t know.

No, behind you. Turn around. 

An ear-piercing cry echoes through the clearing, and Tapl spins around, his eyes scanning the sky.

A pair of eerie green eyes catch Tapl’s attention, a stark contrast against the dark sky. Tapl can barely make out a pair of deep blue wings before another screech fills the air. 

“What? Phantoms?” Tapl cries, his voice wavering.

During Tapl’s short time working with the Guard, Feinberg had warned him about phantoms. Tapl isn’t sure if Feinberg’s encyclopedic knowledge on monsters is part of the Guard Captain’s job description, or if Feinberg is just a huge nerd. Either way, Tapl learned a lot from him.

Phantoms are wretched things. They love to prey on the vulnerable and sleepless. They’re called Insomniac Haunters in some places. Somehow, these vaguely bird-shaped creatures can smell the scent of fatigue and exhaustion. 

There’s only one reason for a phantom to show itself to Tapl.

“I haven’t slept since yesterday,” Tapl curses under his breath, narrowly avoiding the phantom’s gaping maw when it swoops at him. The phantom’s claw rakes through Tapl’s hair as it jerks upward, retreating.

“Agh—rude!” Tapl’s eyes stay trained on the phantom as he reaches behind his head. His fingers brush over the feathers of an arrow, and his stomach plummets.

“I forgot my stupid bow,” Tapl groans, keeping track of the phantom as it soars across the sky. 

Too bad Feinberg didn’t warn Tapl of his own incompetence.

Tapl lets out a sigh, drawing his sword with shaking hands. “If I die to a phantom, Fruit’s gonna bring me back to life and kill me again.”

The telltale sound of rattling bones steals Tapl’s attention away from the sky, and he turns in the direction of the noise, teeth bared. “Not right now, skeleton, please—“ 

“Huh?” 

There’s something strange about this skeleton. It sure is a skeleton, in all its bony glory, but it hasn’t drawn its bow.

According to Feinberg, ‘skeletons are very hostile and rarely yield to humans, or other monsters for that matter. If it can see you, it will shoot you. If you encounter one, remember one thing—you can’t run.’

This skeleton… isn’t attacking. 

The creature emerges from the trees, slow-paced and docile. The weapon that should be firing an endless barrage of arrows lays harmlessly on its side, resting on the skeleton’s forearms—er, fore bones.

Tapl stands frozen in place as the creature ambles closer, its bony jaw slightly ajar.

“H-hello?” Tapl stammers. “What’s up, buddy?” He allows his sword to slide back into his sheath and takes a small step forward. “Why aren’t you…”

The skeleton interrupts Tapl by bringing a frail hand upward, its bones cracking as it raises a finger to the sky. It rattles its jaw, presenting its bow with its other hand.

“Oh,” Tapl murmurs in a whisper. “For me?”

The skeleton’s jaw opens wider, imitating a smile. It nods, clattering its bones excitedly.

Tapl tentatively reaches forward, lifting the bow from the monster’s hands as if it could shatter at the slightest touch. “Thank you.” 

The skeleton nods once more, clacking its jaw together before turning and disappearing into the trees.

Tapl draws an arrow from his quiver and knocks it with practiced ease. He squints at the sky, searching the treetops.

A flicker of green catches Tapl’s eye. “Gotcha.”

Tapl releases the bowstring, his brow narrowing. The arrow whistles as it careens through the sky, connecting with the phantom’s underbelly in an instant.

The creature shrieks as it dissolves into smoke, leaving behind three bright green orbs of energy that fall to the ground.

The orbs of energy float closer to Tapl, and he crouches, reaching out his hand. His palm seems to absorb the energy, sending sparks dancing up his spine. He stands, feeling revitalized.

“Woah,” Tapl whispers, studying his hands. “That’s a lot of exp.” He straps his new bow to his back with a grunt of effort. “And this is an awesome bow. I think the skeletons are on to something.”

He’ll make a note to tell Feinberg about this later.

Tapl checks his compass, sparing a glance to the east. A few golden slivers of sunlight peek through the thick brush. 

“Aw, dang it,” Tapl grumbles, flipping his compass shut. “Fruit’s gonna wake up soon.”

Tapl can’t let anyone know he’s gone until he’s killed the dragon. That’s the deal he made with himself.

He’ll kill the dragon by himself or die trying.

He doesn’t want to die trying.

Tapl takes off in the direction the compass is pointing, wincing each time he steps on a particularly rough patch of gravel. With the small amount of sunlight cascading from the east, Tapl can see much better—dodging sinkholes will be no problem now.

He ducks under vines and jumps over the thick roots of trees, recognizing the outskirts of the Run as the trees begin to taper and the ground evens out.

Tapl lets out a deep sigh as he finally bursts through the last row of brush, stumbling into an expansive field of grass. Tapl can make out the silhouettes of cows and horses grazing in the distance. The dew from the grass soaks through the thin soles of his boots, and he shivers. 

A soft breeze from the west ruffles Tapl’s hair, helping to dry the sweat drenching his skin.

“That could have gone,” Tapl interrupts himself to take in a gasp of air. “So much better.”

Once he catches his breath, Tapl speaks again. “But I’m not dead. That’s all I can ask for, I guess.”

Tapl studies his compass, watching the pupil spin. He walks a few paces to the west and rechecks the compass.

“What?” Tapl mutters. “That’s not right.”

Tapl races back to the spot he was previously standing, his eyes locked on the pupil. As he moves, the pupil moves to point further west. 

“What?” Tapl jerks his head up to scan the horizon. “I’m basically on top of it.”

Tapl marches forward, climbing a hill to get a better vantage point.

As soon as Tapl can see over the hill’s crest, he gasps.

There it is, the largest entrance to a cave that Tapl has ever seen. It stretches a good twenty feet, mere inches from the base of the hill. One wrong step and Tapl will go sliding into the depths of the Nether. A few torches have been stuck in the ground outside the opening, but the wind has long since extinguished them.

Cautiously, Tapl slides down the side of the hill, planting his feet in the mud surrounding the cave. He crouches, peering into the cave’s mouth. Stealing a glance at his compass, Tapl confirms that the tunnels lead due south.

Tapl inhales, letting out a trembling sigh.

If this stronghold is anywhere, it’s in this cave.

Tapl yanks a branch out of the ground and swallows the lump in his throat.

After a quick prayer to the Universe, he ducks into the cave.

Tapl stumbles down a steep slope of gravel and nearly collapses on the slate floor of the cave. The air is thick with humidity, calming Tapl somewhat as it fills his lungs.

Tapl draws his flint and striker from his bag and lights the end of his newly acquired branch on fire, shivering as the torch warms his skin.

The cave is now aglow in soft orange, flickering along with the torch. 

Tapl listens to the quaint patter of runoff dripping from the ceiling as he journeys through the underground, wincing every so often when he steps on rubble.

Tapl is softly humming to himself when a new sound catches his attention. It’s a rattling noise, almost like a skeleton but not quite.

“Silverfish,” Tapl whispers, freezing in place. 

Silverfish—Feinberg never had a lot to say about these rather underwhelming creatures, but their presence confirms that the End portal is nearby. 

Every portal room hidden deep within an ancient stronghold boasts a small population of silverfish. They come from the walls, out of the ceiling, and between the cracks in the brick floor. Their continued presence is ‘inexplicable,’ Feinberg said. Strongholds are ecological wastelands—nothing should be able to survive down here.

Tapl takes off down the corridor in search of the noise. His footsteps echo in his ears as he turns the corner, skidding to a stop in front of a wall of stone bricks, covered in moss and dirt. A door made of thick metal blocks the passage through the wall.

Tapl runs his fingers along the bricks, stopping at a small raised part of the brick near the door. Bracing himself, Tapl presses his palm against the wall. 

A few agonizing seconds pass before a deafening thud nearly startles Tapl out of his skin.

“Wah!” Tapl yelps, yanking his hand back and jumping away. Tapl’s racing heart immediately calms when he realizes the door has opened.

“Lady Universe,” he grumbles, out of breath. “I thought that was a creeper or something.”

Does Tapl need to tell you what Feinberg had to say about creepers?

Shaking his head, Tapl steps through the narrow doorway and enters the stronghold.

Tapl has made the advancement: Eye Spy. 

The monotone voice startles Tapl for what feels like the billionth time that day. 

“Eye spy,” Tapl echoes the voice. “I guess this is it.”

The stronghold looks exactly how Tapl expected it to. The walls are dirty and cracked; vines and moss climb the bricks to the ceiling. Only a few stray torches further down the corridor and the one in Tapl’s hand keep the place from being completely enveloped in darkness.

Tapl cautiously wanders down the corridor, a withheld breath burning in his lungs. At the end of the corridor is a room with four branching hallways. 

Tapl consults his compass, exhaling sharply. The eye spins for a moment before moving to point toward the end of the west hallway.

“Okay,” Tapl murmurs. “I’m trusting you.”

Tapl peeks around the corner, peering into the west hallway. At the end of the hallway, Tapl can see a few iron bars sticking out of the bricks. A luminescence of bright orange peeks through the bars, far brighter than the glow a torch could produce.

Cautiously, Tapl takes a step forward. 

Then another.

Water drips from the ceiling.

Shielding his eyes from the bright light, Tapl side-steps around the iron bars and enters the portal room.

Only a few feet away, stands the portal frame. Underneath is a pool of lava, bubbling ominously.

Tapl steps onto the staircase in front of the portal. He yelps in surprise as part of the withered brick breaks off and plunges into the lava below, dissolving with a hiss.

Exhaling an uneasy sigh, Tapl kneels at the top of the staircase.

His eyes trace over each individual piece of the portal frame, counting them. 

There are twelve pieces in total, each with a small spherical indent in the middle.

With shaking hands, Tapl unhooks a small pouch from his belt. He reaches inside the bag and retrieves an Eye of Ender. He tilts his head, his lips curling into a small smile.

Tapl slowly slides off the staircase, planting his feet on the ground. Almost timidly, he circles around the back of the portal frame.

As Tapl places each eye in its place, he counts them. 

“One, two, three,” Tapl’s voice trembles as he reaches to the left side of the portal. “Four, five, six,” He reaches to the right. “Seven, eight, nine.”

Tapl climbs the staircase once more. 

He kneels, drawing the last three eyes from his bag.

“Ten, eleven, twelve.”

A deep rumbling noise resounds through the stronghold, echoing in Tapl’s ears and tugging the hairs on his arms. Tapl squeezes his eyes shut, flinching away from the portal.

The rumbling noise only lasts for a few seconds, but to Tapl it could have been hours.

Hesitantly, Tapl opens his eyes.

In place of the lava, a sheet of opaque black fills the portal frame, glittering like the night sky.

Tapl feels the nerves behind his eyes prickle, and he leans forward to be greeted by his reflection in the darkness. 

Two bright yellow irises stare back at him. 

Entranced, Tapl reaches for the portal, dipping his fingers in the abyss. His fingertips disappear beyond the barrier between worlds.

ㅓフ フリ.

Tapl takes a deep breath, exhales, and lets himself fall into the portal.

Fruitberries gasps, his entire body jerking upward as he’s ripped from his slumber.

Tapl has made the advancement: The End?

Fruit’s heart plummets and his stomach churns, sweat beading on his forehead as he scrambles to free himself from the covers.

He rushes to pull his boots on, and a metallic tang fills his mouth as his teeth dig into his lip so hard they draw blood.

As Fruitberries places his hand on the door handle, his eyes catch a piece of orange fabric, and they linger there, entranced by it.

Tapl?

Chapter Text

This story was never meant to be a tragedy. 

It didn’t start out that way, anyway.

No amount of flowery prose can soften the blow of the mistakes that led to this precipice of disaster. I won’t attempt to obscure what happened.

Not even I can hide from the truth.

I can only report it dutifully, as I swore to all those years ago.

It was never supposed to be this way. This isn’t what I wanted. 

I’m sorry.

I will fix this. I promise.

I’ll make things right. 

This isn’t the end.

Feinberg lays silently on top of his duvet, listening to the sounds of the wilderness beyond his window. His right arm is draped across his face, haphazardly shielding his eyes from the golden rays of the early morning.

His muddled thoughts are clear for a moment as Reign stirs, turning in his bed across the room. 

Feinberg sits up, propping himself on his elbows. He swipes an unruly strand of hair away from his eyes and squints, waiting for his vision to adjust to the dark.

His gaze focuses on his friend, sleeping soundly on the other side of the room. He breathes a short sigh.

Feinberg lets himself fall back against his pillow, subduing a yawn as he shifts his attention to the window next to his bed.

He saw Tapl pass by earlier—how long ago was it? It couldn’t have been more than two, maybe three hours.

He had this strange look on his face. 

When Tapl passed by, he looked dreadfully serious.

Feinberg bites the inside of his cheek, glancing away. 

That’s the part that worries Feinberg—Tapl never looks serious.

The dude always has some goofy grin or awkward grimace plastered on his face.

But that part isn’t what worries Feinberg the most. Rather, that Fruit wasn’t with him. 

Tapl was alone. 

Tapl was alone, heading toward the woods in the dead of night, looking like he was about to…

Well, he looked like he was about to do something really stupid.

Monumentally stupid. Like go kill the Ender Dragon.

Feinberg doesn’t want to admit that to himself.  

Feinberg doesn’t want to admit that Tapl was, one hundred percent, without a doubt, making the journey to the End. Alone.

Feinberg doesn’t want to admit to himself that he could have prevented what is about to happen. 

At least Feinberg warned Tapl about the dangers of the End, but his advice was far from comprehensive, and that knowledge alone won’t be close to enough to kill the Dragon.

It’s not that Feinberg thinks Tapl is fucked, but…

Someone has to go after him.

Feinberg doesn’t have time to mull it over any longer because the drone of a monotone voice confirms his worst fear.

Tapl has made the advancement: The End?

Across the room, Reign stirs, but Feinberg has already burst out the door and now he’s running across the square, his eyes locked on the windows of Fruit and Tapl’s shared cabin.

Thunder crackles in the distance. 

Fruitberries gasps, his entire body jerking upward as he is ripped from his slumber.

Tapl has made the advancement: The End?

Fruit’s heart plummets, his stomach churning like the brewing thunderstorm outside. Beads of sweat drip from his forehead as he scrambles to free himself from the covers. 

Before Fruit can think about what he’s doing, he pulls his boots on, teeth sunk deep into his bottom lip. 

As Fruitberries places his hand on the door handle, his eyes catch a piece of orange fabric, and they linger there, entranced by it.

Tapl? 

Fruit sets his jaw, snatching his bandana from its place draped over the back of a chair and fumbling through the motions of tying it around his neck.

Fruit bursts into the kitchen, scanning every inch of the room for signs of Tapl. His eyes halt on a napkin tucked halfway under a compass, strewn across the table as if someone had thrown them there in a hurry.

A shiver dances down Fruit’s spine as he approaches the table. Upon closer inspection of the napkin, he discovers a message scribbled in ink. 

His lips move minutely as he reads, mumbling the words to himself in a hoarse whisper.

 Fruit,

sorry I had to break our promise. Please don’t come looking for me. I’ll be back soon. Tapl.

Fruit gingerly lifts the compass off the table, flipping it open with his thumb after nearly dropping it.

“Holy shit,” Fruit whispers incredulously as he watches the pupil of an Eye of Ender spin in circles. “Holy shit.”

Fruit grits his teeth, slamming the compass shut and pulling its chain over his head. He looks down at the note. 

The signature even sports the stupid L-shaped smiley face next to Tapl’s name.

Absently, Fruit reaches up, running his fingers along his cheekbone.  

There’s no way anyone forged this note.

Tapl is in the End.

Fruit races out of the kitchen, making sure to grab his bow before he throws the door open.

“Agh!” Feinberg narrowly dodges a door to the forehead and stumbles backward, eyes wide and shining with purpose.

“Feinberg,” Fruit huffs, out of breath. “What are you doing here?”

Fruit shuts the door behind him and straps his bow to his back while Feinberg regains his balance.

“I saw Tapl go into the woods a little over an hour or so ago,” Feinberg stammers. “I didn’t see anyone with him, and just now I hear—“

“Yeah,” Fruit interrupts bitterly, running a hand through his hair. “I’m pretty sure we all did.” Fruit brushes past Feinberg and makes his way across the square, heading toward the woods.

“Wait!” Feinberg calls, trailing behind Fruit. “I want to go with you. I wanna make sure he’s safe.”

“We all do!” Fruit refuses to face Feinberg. “But it’s too dangerous for the both of us to go, and you know it.”

“Huh? Going alone is what’s dangerous—“

“A chain is only as strong as its weakest link,” Fruit snaps, abruptly turning on his heel to meet Feinberg’s eyes. “I don’t need you getting in my way.”

Feinberg’s expression darkens. “What was that?”

Fruit sighs shortly. “There’s a reason the King chose Tapl and me to kill the dragon, not you.” Fruit’s fingers tighten around the hilt of his sword. “Now get lost.”

Feinberg barks a humourless laugh. “I am just as capable as you are, hotshot.”

“Tell that to the left side of your body, hotshot.” Fruit sneers in response, spinning on his heel once more and continuing in the direction of the forest. 

Feinberg sets his jaw, gathering his hands into fists.

“I’ll say it one more time,” Fruit calls over his shoulder. “Don’t follow me.”

Thunder booms overhead; it’s much closer this time.

“Tapl was there for Reign.”

Fruit halts. “What?”

“Tapl was there to help my best friend,” Feinberg repeats, stubborn as a mule. He takes a step forward. “I want to be there to help yours.”

Fruit scowls. “Tapl did what he does best, risking his life to save Reignex.” Fruit turns to face Feinberg once again. “Nobody even asked him to. You saw Tapl running to his death, and you didn’t move a muscle.”

“Fruit, I…” Feinberg tugs a lock of hair from under his glasses, adjusting the bag on his shoulders. “I didn’t know.”

“Shut up!” Fruit’s frustration is close to bubbling over. “I don’t care what your excuse is. I don’t care what you have to say. Until I make sure Tapl’s okay… Until I bring him back here and you can look him in the eyes, keep his name out of your mouth.”

Feinberg flinches. If Fruit could feel anything right now, maybe his heart would twinge with guilt. “But, I thought Tapl—“

“I said to keep his name out of your mouth!” Fruit shouts, his hand flying to the scabbard at his hip.

In seconds, Fruit’s sword is pressed to Feinberg’s neck, poised to slit his throat.

Feinberg’s breath catches in his throat, his body stiffening. His eyes slowly wander up to meet Fruit’s.

Fruit’s grip on his sword slips. It seems impossible, but Feinberg looks afraid.

The blade wobbles as Fruit’s hand shakes, and he lowers his weapon with a deep sigh. 

Fruitberries turns, sheathing his sword. Feinberg doesn’t stop him as he disappears into the woods.

It isn’t long before it’s just Feinberg, alone with the gentle pitter-patter of rain.

Feinberg isn’t sure how long it takes, but eventually, the sky opens up. The clouds give way to a torrential downpour, pounding on Feinberg’s back as if boulders were raining from the heavens.

Feinberg’s hair sticks to his forehead; his soaked clothes tug against him, beckoning.

As the rain continues to fall, Feinberg does not move. He stands still, alone in the village square.

Feinberg used to love thunderstorms.

Tapl can feel thousands of eyes on him. The Universe breathes down his neck; cold fingers grip his shoulders, urging him forward.

Tapl inhales shallowly, letting out a breath just as faint. 

“The air is thinner in the End than up here.” Feinberg’s voice echoes in Tapl’s foggy mind. “It’s estimated that a good percentage of travelers never made it to the Dragon, instead asphyxiating in their own panic.”

Don’t panic.

Tapl’s fingers grip the cool stone below him, his eyes still squeezed shut. He takes a deep breath. Then another. 

Slowly, Tapl’s scattered thoughts align, his erratic heartbeat stumbling to a steadier pace.

Speaking of stumbling, Tapl manages to climb down from the pile of rock he was deposited on and plant his feet on the End Island’s surface.

Clouds of yellowish dust escape from under Tapl’s boots, dispersing into the air. 

As Tapl breathes, some of the dust sticks to his throat, and he makes a sound akin to a hacking cat, coughing up just a little of his lung to free his throat from dust purgatory. 

Feinberg was right when he said the End is a ‘perfectly crafted death trap,’ Tapl thinks, lifting his head to survey his surroundings. 

To put it simply: the End is a giant rock, though it’s much smaller than the Overworld. It’s made of dry, soft rock called endstone. 

Books described it as ‘a massive island composed of pale yellow stone, appearing almost ethereal against the void it floats in. Ten enormous obsidian towers stretch from the island's surface into the sky until the void swallows them.’

Tapl won’t bore you with the details, but the books are pretty spot-on. 

Tapl counts the obsidian towers, confirming there are ten. ‘Enormous’ wouldn’t be how Tapl would describe them, though. 

They’re more like… super gargantuan intimidating death pillars that would kill my entire bloodline if they fell on me, oh dear Lady Universe, please have mercy on my soul.

Anyway, it’s really boring. There are some Enderman milling about but they don’t seem to care about Tapl’s presence as he walks along the edge of the island. The most they do is warble in greeting and go back to wandering. 

The End is… not exactly a hot locale to vacation at. Maybe two out of five stars, maximum. 

Tapl is getting restless in the midst of all this quiet.  

The jokes Tapl comes up with to keep himself entertained are verging into increasingly mundane and unfunny territory, and he’d rather not lose his sense of humor when he’s going to need it if he wants to win Fruit back.

A deep roar pierces the air, and Tapl’s head jerks toward the sky, searching for the only creature that could be responsible.

The Ender Dragon is here somewhere, camouflaged by her shadowy habitat.

Tapl exhales shakily, letting out a dry chuckle. He almost can’t believe it, even with the very same power running through his veins of gold.

Tapl circles the side of an obsidian tower. Endstone dust clouds around him as he walks, and he coughs, fanning the dust away with his hand.

A gust of wind from behind Tapl nearly knocks him off his feet, and he yelps, ducking behind the pillar as clouds of dust rise from the ground.

Wait, wind?

‘The End only has one temperature, so wind is virtually nonexistent.’

Tapl’s hand rests at his hip, his fingers twitching around the hilt of his sword.

Cautiously, Tapl peeks around the side of the tower, squinting. “Miss Dragon? Is that you?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tapl catches a faint glow of violet beyond the golden smoke.

He can recognize it anywhere.

“I mean no harm,” Tapl calls as he approaches the looming silhouette hidden in a dust cloud, chuckling nervously. “I’m Tapl, son of the Universe.”

The Ender Dragon roars, flapping her wings and dispersing the dust.

Tapl raises his arms, shielding his eyes from the debris. He digs his heels into the ground, fighting to keep his balance. 

Tapl gasps, sheathing his sword.

There she is, in all her glory, the Ender Dragon. 

She’s a lot bigger than Tapl thought she would be. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

The Dragon’s wingspan alone spans the length of the massive gap between two obsidian towers. Tapl isn’t a math guy, but he estimates her wingspan is at least fifty feet across. 

The Dragon’s wings are iridescent splotches of magenta against the dark sky, flapping in complete sync with one another. Her eyes shine just as bright. Deep charcoal scales dot the rest of her body, a camouflage unique to the End.

The Dragon opens her mouth and a deep, guttural roar emerges from her throat. Tapl catches a glimpse of her teeth; sharp enough to shatter bone, he’s sure of it. her claws are just as menacing, curling from her toes.

“Nice manicure, Miss Dragon,” Tapl says conversationally. “Where’d you get them done?” 

Tapl’s eyes meet hers. The nerves behind his eyes fizzle with electricity.

She exudes power. More power than Tapl had ever imagined. 

Without taking his eyes off the Dragon, Tapl shrugs his waistcoat from his shoulders. Then, cautiously…

Lady Universe, lend me your strength.

In an instant, Tapl’s skin heats up, embers flickering near his fingertips. Gold reflects in the Dragon’s shiny scales, gradually getting brighter until Tapl has to squint to see through the rays of near-sunlight emitting from his back.

The Dragon lowers her head, clinging to the side of the island with her talons.  

Tapl’s eyes follow the dragon as she rests her head on the ground, a gesture of trust. 

Tapl swallows dryly, taking a timid step forward.

The Dragon blinks. In the split second Tapl is without her light, a chill unlike any other dances down his spine. His once-warm skin prickles as his hair stands on his arms, his body freezing from the inside out.

Tapl approaches her, a knight to her queen.

Her head alone is bigger than the cottages in Tapl’s kingdom.

Her eyes are taller than Tapl, and even more enchanting up close. Flecks of gold and magenta dance in her iris, modeled from the End itself. The same purple hues of the Nether portal, the same gold as the stone beneath Tapl’s feet, and the same magenta as the health She bestowed to Reign.

She is benevolent; a kind ruler.

Though Tapl vowed to protect her, here he stands, a traitor whose hands tremble around the hilt of his sword. 

Tapl is reminded of someone he met in passing, long ago. Someone much like him, yet so different. 

This person was blessed by Lady Universe, just like Tapl. 

Unlike Tapl, this stranger promised her to destroy, rather than protect. His bloodlust and hunger for disaster was insatiable, yet he fought valiantly against it.

When Tapl met him, the stranger vowed to take a page from Tapl’s book, to hold mercy within his heart as tightly as he once gripped his sword.

Tapl wonders if he, too, can disobey the Universe. Maybe he can forge his own path, just like Technoblade.

Deep in his treasonous heart, Tapl knows that the Universe is a delicate balancing act. The scales must be evened. Lose one destroyer, gain a protector. Lose one protector…

Gently, Tapl brings a hand to the Dragon’s snout and runs his fingertips across the bridge of her nose. Feeling the scales atop her smooth skin, Tapl understands the torment she holds inside.

Tapl presses his forehead to hers; his eyes fall shut.

A profound warmth blossoms in Tapl’s chest, spreading through his entire body. 

For a moment, Tapl is at peace. 

Then the warmth turns to sharp, frigid pain.

Tapl barely registers what’s happening as he collides with the ground, agony ripping his body in half. 

Jagged stones claw at every inch of his exposed skin as he tumbles across the rock.

When Tapl’s body finally rolls to a halt, he can barely think straight.

Tapl tries to sit up, but the sharp spike of agony in his chest begs him not to.

He gives in, letting his head fall against the Endstone. Far away, he feels something warm trickle down the side of his face.

In the distance, Tapl hears someone shouting.

Closer now, Tapl feels something shaking him. He pries his eyes open, but his vision refuses to focus.

Through the fog, Tapl can make out the color green. 

“Harvey,” Someone whispers, or maybe they shout it. “Please don’t be dead.”

Tapl faintly feels something squeeze between his head and the gravel.

“Fruit?” Tapl croaks through blood gurgling in his throat.

“Hi,” Fruit says, then his voice softens, and he murmurs something Tapl can’t make out. “It’s going to be okay, I promise.”

No, Tapl wishes he could say. No, it won’t.

Fruit’s eyes are wide, haunted. “Can you stand?”

Tapl tries to smile, shaking his head sluggishly. 

The sword, something urges him from the deepest corners of Tapl’s mind. Give him the sword.

Tapl can just barely feel the hilt of his sword under his numb fingertips. “You know,” He frees the sword from its sheath, clumsily pressing the weapon into Fruit’s palm. “I love you.”

“You liar,” Fruit whimpers, hot tears dripping from his chin and spilling onto Tapl’s cheeks. “You said you got that buffed out.”

Tapl remembers.

“I lied.” Tapl chokes out, as if his life depends on it. “I wouldn’t trade you…” He coughs. “For the world.” 

The world fades away. Tapl lets his eyes fall shut.

Maybe this is Tapl’s punishment for daring to defy Lady Universe. 

Part of him knew it was going to end this way.

He made his peace with it long ago.

Alas, it’s not much of a punishment for Tapl. He isn’t the one sentenced to live with the consequences.

Tapl’s only regret is sitting right in front of him, still refusing to let go.

Fruit refuses to shut up; even now, he’s still fighting, still begging Tapl to stay with him.

Tapl knows his best friend will always be like that, until it’s his turn to die.

It’s kind of annoying. 

Tapl tries to wrap his fingers around Fruit’s free hand, taking in a final breath to speak.

“Stay safe,” Tapl whispers, or at least he hopes it sounds something like that.

A serene drowsiness washes over Tapl; a nap sounds awfully nice right now.

Fruit’s voice quiets. 

Tapl has never felt this kind of silence.

At last, Tapl can sleep.

Tapl can let go, because he knows Fruit won’t let Tapl’s memory die along with him.

That’s the kind of person Fruit is.

That’s the kind of person Tapl’s best friend is.

Despite his aching lungs and bruised limbs, Fruit rushes through the halls of the stronghold. 

A faint glow catches his eye and he pivots on his heels in an instant, racing down yet another endless hallway. 

Fruit barely takes a look at the portal room before throwing himself into the End, and his stomach flips as he falls through the gap between worlds.

Once he’s through the portal, he hits the ground running, leaping off the obsidian platform and onto the golden, rugged terrain of the End island.

He whips his head from side to side, scanning the area for Tapl. 

Fruit allows himself a deep breath. No sign of the Dragon.

No sign of Tapl.

Fruit walks around the side of an obsidian pillar, towering over him and the island.

He stops.

For a moment, time stops, too.

Then, as quickly as he’d halted, Fruit breaks into a sprint; adrenaline pours into his veins by the truckload.

“Harvey!” Fruit screams, his voice raw.

There he is, Tapl, the soldier powerful enough to slay the Ender Dragon on his own, lying crumpled on the ground.

Fruit skids to a stop, his heart twisting in agony as he watches blood trickle down Tapl’s face and pool under his body.

His eerily, terrifyingly still body.

Sparks of white-hot panic electrify Fruit’s nerves. He falls to his knees, his legs giving out from beneath him.

This isn’t possible. This shouldn’t be happening.

What have I done?

“No,” Fruitberries heaves through lost breath, his body shuddering. “Tapl, please.” He gently curls his arm under the back of his friend’s neck, choking back a sob as his fingertips brush something warm and damp. “Please don’t be dead.”

Tapl shifts slightly, and his eyes move to meet Fruit’s. 

Sickly sweet hope bubbles in Fruit’s chest.

“Fruit,” Tapl murmurs, low and gravely. Flecks of gold still hang in the air around Tapl’s head, the ends of his hair glowing faintly. Tapl blinks, his amber eyes paling.

Maybe it’s not too late.

Tapl’s hair clings to his face, slick with blood. Fruit swallows the rising bile in the back of his throat. 

No, no, no.

“Hi,” Fruit strains a watery smile, drawing Tapl ever so closer to his body, hoping to restore Tapl’s warmth with his own. “It’s gonna be okay, I promise.”

Where does Fruit even start? In his haste, Fruit didn’t think to bring any first aid supplies. Briefly, Fruit remembers the bag slung around Feinberg’s shoulders. He remembers the purple seal on the front.

He remembers seeing the exact same bag in the infirmary. It must have belonged to Switch. 

Fuck.

“Can you stand?” Fruit’s eyes search for the source of Tapl’s injury, but the blood is too dark to see through. 

Tapl shakes his head, wincing as he does.

Fruit’s heart shatters.

Feebly, Tapl presses the hilt of his sword into Fruit’s hands. “You know,” He croaks, forcing a smile. “I love you.” The blood staining his teeth claws at Fruit’s chest.

No, no you need to keep it, Fruit wants to say. That’s yours.

Fruit’s gaze drifts to the sword. He runs his thumb over the carved letters of his name as tears seep into the cracks. A distant memory echoes in his mind. “You said you got that buffed out.”

“I lied,” Tapl murmurs, humoring Fruit even as he lay dying, letting his eyes fall shut. “I wouldn’t trade you for the world.”

Fruit’s fingers clench around the cloth of Tapl’s shirt, jostling his shoulder. “No, Tapl, please open your eyes.” The words tumble out of Fruit’s mouth, “You don’t deserve to die like this, not now or ever.”

“Tapl,” Fruit pleads desperately, his voice breaking. “Not like this, please. I can’t,” Fruit’s words shatter into sobs as he speaks, yet he can’t give way to silence. “I can’t lose you. Come on, man, please.”

Tapl’s eyes remain closed; his body still as stone.

“I was supposed to die first,” Fruit sobs, his throat burning. “Damn it, it was supposed to be me, Harvey! It can’t be you. It can’t… not now.”

Fruit’s arms quiver under Tapl’s weight, threatening to give out as if he were the one injured. “No.” Fruit jostles Tapl once more, brushing bloodstained hair from Tapl’s face. “Please wake up, I promise I’ll never call you any of those weird nicknames again, and I’ll talk to the guards anytime you want, and, and, I’ll do anything, just please stay with me, please.”

“Harvey, please.” Fruit’s words break apart as he latches onto his friend’s arm, burying his face in Tapl’s chest, listening for any traces of a heartbeat. “I can’t do this alone, I can’t…”

Fruit feels something squeeze his hand, and his head snaps upward, his eyes trained on Tapl’s.

“Harvey,” is all Fruit can say, reverently, as if there’s nothing left in the world but him and Tapl.

Tapl weakly tugs on Fruit’s arm. His words are soft, breathy. “Stay safe.”

The words ring in Fruit’s ears, burning themselves into his mind.

Stay safe. 

Then it’s over. Fruit watches, frozen to his spot as his best friend’s body dissolves into dull grey smoke.

Fruit clenches his fists; his fingers grasp at nothing.

Fruit thought he had considered every possible scenario.

Fruit thought he no longer feared death.

Fruit never considered that death wouldn’t be his own.

Fruit never expected he’d be the one left to pick up the pieces.

Chapter Text

Fruitberries screams. 

Fruitberries screams until his throat is raw and aching.

“Fuck you, Universe!” Fruit’s voice is too hoarse to speak louder than a whisper. “I’ll find you, and when I do, I’ll— I’ll kill you myself!

He screams until his voice gives out. He screams until his lungs burn with pleas for mercy and his body shudders in pain.

“He did nothing wrong,” Fruit rasps, staring blankly at the quickly-drying blood caking his hands. “Why’d you…” Fruit shivers, having lost the energy to sob. “Harvey, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, the syllables slurring together. “I’m so sorry.”

Tears drip down Fruit’s cheeks and trickle down his jaw. 

White-knuckled, his right hand remains coiled around the hilt of Tapl’s sword, the blade shaking in tandem with the rest of his body.

In a shuddering, stiff motion, Fruit releases his grip, allowing the sword to clatter onto the Endstone.

Go home, Fruit, Tapl says. There’s nothing left for you here.

“You were here, Tapl!” Fruit rasps, his lungs straining. “I was supposed to come home,” a gasp, “with you.”

Maybe if Fruit were of sound mind, he would question why Tapl is able to speak to him. As it stands, though, he’s in no condition to make rational decisions. 

Besides, Tapl was always talking about how different having the blessing of the Universe made him, compared to everybody else. 

The End is silent, absent of Enderman wails or whispers of the wind. It’s as if the Universe knew this would happen. Wanted it to.

If the Universe can hear him now, fuck you. 

“I can’t go home,” Fruit mutters, scooting backward and resting against an obsidian pillar. “Not without—“ his voice breaks. “Not without you.”

“I can’t go home,” Fruit continues to blabber. He has to fill the silence or it will swallow him whole. “Not to them, not to him.” Fruit takes a deep breath, carding a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “That place isn’t my home anymore.” Fruit rests his forehead against his knees. “You were my home, Harvey.”

Fruit inhales sharply, dust coating his throat. “They, they killed you. They killed you, and you want me to go back? I thought you were smarter than that.”

Where else will you go?

Fruit lifts his head, almost biting through his lip as his eyes skirt over bloodstained Endstone. “I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. I don’t know anything.”

My coat. Take my coat home, at least. Can you do that for me?

“You weren’t wearing it when you…” Fruit swallows, wincing as his throat burns. “Where is it?”

The pillar closest to the portal. It should be open now that the dragon is dead, near the middle of the island.

“Okay.” Fruit rises on unsteady legs, pressing a hand to the obsidian tower for support.

Gingerly, Fruitberries reaches down and grabs the handle of Tapl’s sword. He trudges away from the pillar, growing increasingly numb with each step he takes.

The silence ringing in Fruit’s ears is incessant. Fruit approaches the portal; the scraping of his shoes is the only sound to accompany him.

Fruit stops a distance away from the portal, glittering with the same ethereality as its Overworld counterpart. He searches the landscape with his eyes, tracing over every imperfection in the rock.

“I can’t find it,” Fruit whispers, almost timid. “Where exactly did you put it?”

Fruit listens to his voice echo through the empty void.

The silence begins to suffocate Fruit, and he lets out a ragged sigh. “Tapl?”

Fruit groans, weakly kicking at the Endstone underfoot. “This is stupid. I can’t believe I listened to some weird hallucination. Tapl’s dead; he can’t be—“

From the corner of his vision, a familiar shade of orange catches Fruit’s eye.

Fruit spins on his heel, snapping in the direction of the nearest obsidian tower. He tears across the Endstone, outrunning the dust that hangs in his wake. He skids to a stop, dropping to his knees before his legs have time to catch up. 

Fruit gathers Tapl’s waistcoat into his arms.

It’s still warm.

Before he can take a second breath, Fruit clutches the coat to his chest, burying his face in the fabric as fresh tears begin to leak from the corners of his eyes.

Fruit’s body shudders as it’s wracked with sobs. “Why,” He rasps, lifting his head and leaning against the obsidian pillar. “Why did you have to go? Why did you have to break your promise?”

Fruit wraps both his arms around Tapl’s coat, pulling his knees to his chest. “It would’ve been so much easier if we did it together. Maybe then I could’ve done something.”

Don’t blame yourself.

“How?” Fruit’s voice wavers. “It’s so empty without you.” He shakes his head, shivering. “It’s cold.”

You can wear my vest if you want.

Fruit's gaze slowly falls to the bundle of cloth in his arms. “I…” He sniffles, wiping his eyes with the back of his arm. “Okay.”

Fruit pulls Tapl’s vest over his head and guides his hands through the arm holes. Gently, he smooths out the wrinkles in the fabric and wipes away Endstone dust.

Fruit exhales a withheld breath and slumps against the tower behind him. His eyes flutter closed.

For a moment, everything is okay again.

For a moment, Fruit is sitting on his porch, Tapl by his side, complaining about the King’s new curfew.

For a fleeting, sickly sweet moment, Fruitberries is warm.

Then, gradually, that warmth cools to somber heartache, which soon hardens into a dense, furious resolve.

Grief begins to fan the flames of ferocity, igniting a blaze born from the ashes of Fruit’s heart.

Fruitberries gathers his fingers into tight fists; his fingernails dig into his palms as the inferno in his chest licks at his skin, burning too fiercely for Fruit to subdue.

“You know what, Harvey? You’re right,” Fruit mutters. “It’s not my fault. It’s the King’s fault. It’s Feinberg’s fault. It’s—It can’t be my fault.”

Fruit, no. Please, I don’t want this.

Fruit staggers to his feet, untucking his bandana from Tapl’s waistcoat. “If it weren’t for them, you would be here, standing between me and that portal, to keep me from doing this.” 

Fruit scoffs bitterly, staggering closer to the End portal. “But you’re not.”

Fruit places a firm hand on the edge of the bedrock portal frame, coils the other around Tapl’s sword, and vaults over the side, plunging himself into the abyss.

Fruit knows he’s in the Overworld when the bleeding silence of the End gives way to crackling thunder, and his breaths no longer sting his lungs.

Fruit opens his eyes, recognizing the bed he woke up in just hours ago. He knows it to be true, yet it feels lifetimes away.

Fruit runs a hand through his hair, threading his fingers between locks still damp from rain and sweat.

A few steps forward brings Fruit to the hallway of his cottage.

“Tapl, did you forget we were going to the Nether today?”

As tears burn at the sides of Fruit’s eyes, something in his chest snaps. He clutches Tapl’s sword tighter in his first and marches to his front door, throwing it open and rushing outside into the thunderstorm.

“Fein, did you hear?”

“Reign,” Feinberg mumbles as Reignex wraps an arm around his shoulder. “What’re you doin’ here?”

Reign snorts. “What are you doing standing in the middle of town during a storm?”

“I—“ Feinberg starts, and Reign’s expression dampens. “I’ve been waiting.”

Reign raises an eyebrow, tilting his head. His hair, now soaking wet, hangs in front of his eyes. “You can’t wait inside?”

“No,” Fein mutters, breathless. “Fruit went to find Tapl, but he told me not to follow him, so I’ve been watching the woods.”

“Wait,” Reign shakes his head, and Feinberg flinches as droplets of rainwater fling from Reign’s hair. “Tapl went to the End alone? Fruit wasn’t with him?”

“No,” Feinberg confirms, letting out a trembling sigh. “He wasn’t, and I don’t think Fruit knew he left either.”

“So Tapl left to go kill the Dragon by himself, and no one knew about it?”

Feinberg shivers, glancing away.

“Fein,” Reign drawls. “What did you do?”

Feinberg huffs, folding his arms. “Look, I couldn’t sleep, so I was watchin’ the window, and I saw Tapl pass by, so I thought maybe he could be doing something dangerous since he had this weird look on his face, and if anything happened to him, I know it’s my fault because I could have stopped—“

“Feinberg,” Reign interrupts, placing his hand on Fein’s shoulder. “Breathe.”

Feinberg inhales slowly, his eyes fixed on the ground. “Fruit was worried. He’s usually so calm, but earlier, he was snapping at me like I pissed in his cereal or something.”

“That’s weir—“

Danger.

“Reign!” Feinberg snatches Reign’s arm and yanks him backward, just in time for the blade of a silver broadsword to connect with Fein’s nose.

Shards of blue and pink glass scatter across the pavement.

Feinberg drops to his knees, letting out a shout of pain. He clutches his nose, blood gushing between his fingers and trickling down his face.

“Idiot,” a voice scoffs bitterly. “I knew you would throw yourself in front of him like that.”

“Fruit?” Fein sputters as blood drips from his lips, pooling in his mouth. “Wait, wait, where’s Tapl?”

Through the agony scrawled into his face, Feinberg lifts his head, meeting Fruit’s eyes.

In Fruit’s eyes burns a vengeance unlike anything Fein has ever seen, not even on the battlefield. Fruit stands offensively, his trembling hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword. His hair, dampened and thick with dirt and dust, hangs in front of his face, partly concealing his grim expression.

Feinberg shudders.

Fruit’s wearing Tapl’s coat.

“He’s dead, Feinberg.” Fruit declares with a humorless chuckle. “He’s fucking dead.”

In this moment, two things shatter.

“Dead?” Feinberg repeats as if he’d misheard. Shakily, he gets to his feet and adjusts his hold on his nose, giving way to another gush of blood. “Ah—” He winces. “Are you sure?”

Feinberg knows Fruit would never lie; not about this. Yet, he clings to the only shred of hope in his chest as if it were his lifeline.

“He died in my arms, Feinberg!” Fruit barks. “I’m fucking positive.”

For once, Feinberg is thankful for the rain as it camouflages the hot tears slipping from his eyes. “Fruit, I’m, skies above, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah?” Fruitberries grins sourly, his expression giving away nothing and everything all at once. His hands shake with sorrow and rage, his eyes bloodshot and shiny with tears.

Danger.

Fein’s heart jumps in his chest, and his hand flies to his scabbard. 

Fruitberries shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Well, I’m sorry too.”

Feinberg draws his sword just in time to parry an overhead swing from Fruit, their blades crossing with the awful shriek of metal on metal.

Thunder crackles in the distance. The two sounds almost harmonize with one another; one high, one low.

This is bad.

This is horrendously, monumentally bad. 

Fruitberries is already a formidable opponent. He’s the only person in all of HBG to have bested Feinberg in combat. It’s now, fueled by grief-induced rage and adrenaline, that Fruit is at his deadliest.

Now Feinberg has incurred his wrath.

Feinberg has to think of something quick, or Tapl won’t be today’s only casualty. 

“What the fuck?” Is all Fein can manage as he blocks another attack from Fruit. 

“It’s your fault!” Fruit screams over the howl of the wind, his eyes blazing. “It’s all your fault!”

Fruit attempts a strike once more, this time just barely nicking Feinberg’s coat as Feinberg staggers out of the way.

“Salted seas,” Feinberg curses, refusing to counterattack. “Fruit, what are you talking about?”

“If you had stopped him,” Fruit growls, lowering his sword so Feinberg can see his face, twisted in a harsh scowl. “He’d still be here.”

Feinberg’s heart writhes in his chest. He wants to slit Fruit’s throat for that remark, but he has a job to do. 

He needs to buy Reign enough time to get help. He grits his teeth. “So? If you’d stopped him, he’d still be here.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Fruit roars, slamming his sword against Feinberg’s. The blades grind against one another, each straining to best the other.

Feinberg’s arms shake beneath the force of Fruit’s swing. His muscles tense as he blinks, desperately trying to free his vision from an endless stream of rain, tears, and blood. 

He knows he can’t win. He just has to hold out long enough.

“Please,” Feinberg whispers, shivering. “He wouldn’t want this.”

Danger.

Feinberg flinches as another wave of rage flashes in Fruit’s eyes. Fein‘s arms concede against Fruit’s vigor, and he staggers backward.

Feinberg attempts to regain his footing, searching for friction to hold onto, but the rainwater has turned the plaza into a small pond. With nowhere dry to land, Feinberg’s boot slips, his balance toppling from beneath him.

The hilt of Feinberg’s sword slips from his grasp. The weapon flies from his hands, clattering across the concrete.

In a last ditch effort, Feinberg’s arms shoot out behind him as he hits the pavement, glass shards digging into his palms. “Fuck,” he curses, his shoulders shaking, barely able to hold him off the ground.

“I’ll—I’ll fucking kill you for what you did,” Fruit seethes through clenched teeth, taking a daunting step forward and bringing the tip of his sword to just under Feinberg’s chin. “I’ll kill every last one of you.”

Feinberg grits his teeth, wrapping one hand around his opposite wrist in a makeshift tourniquet, flinching as glass digs deeper into his skin. “Please,” he begs, breathless. “Don’t—ow, fucking shit—Fruit, please.”

Clemency isn’t something Feinberg deserves, but it’s what will keep Fruit from tearing through everyone else… through Couriway.

Right now, Feinberg is everyone’s last line of defense.

Fruit offers only a low chuckle. “I showed you enough mercy this morning.”

Feinberg winces, hissing a breath through his teeth as the point of Fruit’s sword digs into his chin. “Fruit,” he tries again, his voice cracking cleanly. “We can talk about this. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

“Regret?” Fruit repeats, tilting his head. A sinister smirk plays across his lips. “I’ll show you regret.”

Fruit withdraws his sword from under Feinberg’s chin, instead lifting it high in the air. “Say hi to Harvey for me.”

The last thing Fein sees before his eyes fall shut are the carved letters of Fruit’s name.

That’s Tapl’s—?

“Fruit,” A voice demands, accompanied by the tutting of Fein’s assailant. “Attacking a royal officer is a serious offense, you know this. Skies above, what’s gotten into you?”

“Cube,” Feinberg croaks, prying his eyes open. His gaze darts between an array of familiar faces. “Reign!”

“Captain,” is all Cube says, but Feinberg can hear the fear in his voice.

“It’s,” Feinberg huffs, his vision spotty and blurred. “It’s not safe here.”

Reign crouches next to Fein, concern painted across his face. “Are,” he pants, out of breath. “Are you okay?”

Fein strains to sit up, and Reign wraps an arm around his back for support. “Not in the slightest.” He manages a weak chuckle, grinning up at Reign. “But I’m not dead. Thanks.”

“Let go of me,” Fruitberries growls, struggling in Cube’s grip as Cube wrenches his arms behind his back.

Cube lets out a deep sigh, his eyes fixed on Fruit’s cheek. “You know I can’t do that. Fruit, I’m sorry, but I have to arrest you.”

“Wait,” A voice calls, and every head snaps in its direction. “Let him go.”

Only one man commands that much attention.

“But, sir—“

“Cube,” Couriway warns. “Let him go. That’s an order.”

Feinberg would argue if he thought it would do anything, but he knows that look in Couriway’s eyes. The look that says ‘nothing will stand in my way.’ 

The raindrops on the King’s glasses cloud his expression, but his pain is evident in his voice. Kayfour stands at Couri’s side, making no effort to hide their unease.

Cube releases Fruit’s wrists. 

Fruit jerks away from Cube, glaring daggers at him. Fruit swipes damp hair from his eyes, lifting his head.

Fruit’s eyes meet Couri’s.

“You piece of—“ Fruit lunges forward, reaching for the hem of Couri’s shirt. 

“Hey!” Reign and Cube shout in unison, flocking to Couri’s side and breaking the two apart. 

Feinberg jumps to his feet, taking hold of Fruit’s forearms as he backpedals. Despite the agony in his hands begging him not to, he firmly grasps Fruit’s arms and crosses them behind Fruit’s back. “Stand down,” He rasps through gritted teeth. 

“Captain,” Cube says hurriedly, his gaze fixed on Feinberg’s bloody hands. “You’re in no condition to restrain him, let me.”

Feinberg shakes his head, wincing. “You shouldn’t be here, kid.”

Kayfour staggers backward, his eyes wide with fear. “Fruit?”

Fruit’s eyes meet Kayfour’s, but only for a moment. 

Couriway can barely believe his eyes.

In front of him stands Fruitberries, dried blood caked on his hands, expression twisted with the most anger Couriway has seen from anyone, let alone HBG’s most laid-back citizen. On his shoulders is Tapl’s waistcoat, without a trace of blood on it. If Couriway didn’t know any better, he’d think Fruit was the man that died and came back to life just to haunt everyone else.

Then there’s Feinberg, Couriway’s best swordsman and Captain of the Royal Guard, reduced to a crumpled heap on the ground, fresh blood staining his hair and soaking into his uniform. The remains of his glasses, Couriway’s birthday gift to him, are scattered beneath him, some wedged in his palms.

Reignex, the man who showed up at Couriway’s doorstep, wheezing something about Fruit and Feinberg and ‘you need to get to the plaza now,’ is crouched next to Feinberg, trying desperately to keep the injured man conscious. 

Cube currently has a hold on Fruit, crossing his wrists behind his back, but Couriway knows Fruit is only allowing himself to be captured.

Couriway’s suspicion is confirmed when Fruit finds Couri’s gaze, the ashes of vengeance in his eyes igniting once again.

Fruitberries breaks free from Cube’s hold easily, lunging forward, hackles raised. “You piece of sh—“

“Hey!” Cube shouts, rushing after Fruit. Reignex springs to his feet, catching Fruit by the arm before he can reach Couri.

Feinberg stands, too, alarmingly steady on his feet for the injuries he sustained. To Couriway’s horror, Feinberg snatches both of Fruit’s arms, fresh blood layering on dry as he wrenches Fruit’s arms behind his back. “Stand down.” 

The pain in Feinberg’s voice is almost too much to bear over the pouring rain and the restless thrashing of grief in Couriway’s chest.

“Captain,” Cube speaks in a small voice, fearful but loud enough to be heard over the thunder. “You’re in no condition to restrain him, let me.”

Couriway shudders, tears pricking at his eyes. 

Cube has always looked up to Feinberg. It’s plain as day in the way he only refers to Feinberg as his title. 

Though Feinberg is much better at hiding it, Couriway knows that Feinberg cares deeply about Cube, too.

Feinberg’s brows crease in pain as he shakes his head. “You shouldn’t be here, kid.”

“Captain…” Cube whispers.

“Sir,” Reignex speaks in a hushed tone. “You should leave. We can handle this.”

“No.” Couri insists, approaching Fruit.

Fruit scowls, refusing to meet Couri’s gaze.

“I heard about Tapl.” Couriway’s voice wavers. “I’m so, so s—“

“Oh, you heard, did you?” Fruit spits, struggling against Fein’s restraint. “I wish I had that privilege.”

Couri opens his mouth to speak, but Fruit interrupts him, leaning forward as Feinberg curses, straining to subdue him.

“Captain,” Cube warns again.

“His blood stained my hands,” Fruit croaks, chuckling sourly. “I watched him die, Couri.”

Cold rainwater drips from Couri’s hair onto his cheek, then slithers down his face, inciting a shiver through the King’s spine.

“I watched the life drain from his eyes. I held him in my arms as his blood went cold!” Fruit lunges for the King, snapping backward as Reignex and Cube join Feinberg in apprehending him. “I wish I had the privilege of just hearing about it.”

Fruit’s gaze is cold as he finally meets Couri’s eyes. “I trusted you, once.” A single joyless chuckle. “Never again will I make that mistake.” Fruit’s volume creeps higher as he speaks.

“It’s no wonder everyone in this town fucking hates you. You’re worthless.” Fruit’s voice comes to a crescendo, shaking from rage ignited deep within his chest. “All you do is sit and look pretty in your castle far away from those who actually matter! When was the last time you did anything that the folks in this town liked?” 

“Are you proud of what you’ve done?” Fruit screams over a deafening clap of thunder. “Tapl’s fucking dead. He’s gone, and he’s never coming back, and it’s all your fault! His blood is on your hands!”

He pauses to collect a heaving breath.

Cube and Reignex exchange anxious glances. Feinberg looks like he’s about to pass out.

”Was he worth nothing to you?” Fruit’s voice breaks, choking back a watery sob. His resistance against Fein’s hold slackens. “Was his life so expendable that it was worth less than some shiny hunk of metal?”

Fruit lowers his head. ”He may have been a pawn to you, but he was everything to me.”

In this moment, Couriway has no words to say. He has no oxygen to breathe or thoughts to think. He can only stare back with glazed eyes as rain soaks his hair and seeps through his clothes, pulling at the weight in his chest.

A crowd had gathered, and the King had hardly noticed.

“Tapl?” Someone whispers. Their voice sounds like Dylan’s.

“He’s dead?” Says another, disbelieving.

“What’s going on?”

A chorus of concerned whispers echoes in Couri’s ears. He forces himself to raise his head, taking a glance at the scene before him.

Raddles stands with her arms crossed, lips pressed tightly together.

“Kayfour,” Couri hears Fulham say. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” Is Kayfour’s hushed response.

Couri swivels his head, surveying the plaza. 

By the looks of it, the whole town has crept out of their homes and made their way to the plaza. Most of them keep a safe distance, their fearful expressions varying in intensity.

All eyes are locked on Fruitberries.

“Stand down,” Couri whispers, quiet as the pitter-patter of raindrops.

Cube nods, drawing back.

Feinberg and Reignex glance at each other, then slowly pull away from Fruit.

Fruitberries’s legs go limp.

“Oh, shit—“ Feinberg mutters, rushing to catch Fruit as he falls to his knees.

Reign crouches next to Feinberg. “Is he okay?”

Fein raises his head, looking at Couri. “He’s out cold.”

“What do we do?” Kayfour whispers to Fulham.

“I don’t know,” Fulham replies from the corner of his mouth. “It’s up to Couri.”

“Sir, what do you want us to do?” Reign pulls Feinberg away, opting to support Fruitberries by himself.

Fruit must have had nothing left to give. He wore himself out until he couldn’t stand any longer.

All in Tapl’s name.

Couri blinks back tears, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Sir?” Reign urges.

“Take his weapons. Get him set up in the castle’s spare room. I want one of you on watch at all times.” Couriway straightens his posture. “Reign, you go to the infirmary. Take Feinberg with you. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.” the King’s guards affirm in unison, except for Feinberg, whose voice is curiously absent. 

When Couriway glances at him, Feinberg’s pale gaze is already locked on Couriway.

If Feinberg had the strength to speak, Couriway is sure he would have some choice words to say. 

Right now, the look in his eyes is enough. 

‘You fucked up, bad.’

Chapter Text

Cube volunteered to carry Fruitberries back to the castle.

The dust has far from settled, yet Cube lifts Fruitberries from the ground, careful as if Fruit were made of glass, and turns to leave. 

It doesn’t look hard for Cube, either, which leads Couriway to wonder just how much Feinberg has been training him lately.

Led by Couriway, Kayfour and the guards begin to climb the steep footpath to HBG’s tallest mountain. At the top stands a palace whose name has been long forgotten. Not even the old King knew of its history. 

As the rain subsides, dawn cracking in the distance, the disheveled group marches in silence, accompanied only by the rhythmic plodding of footsteps smothered in mud. 

The mud clutches their shoes, beckoning for a victim to succumb to its depths.

Couriway thinks that’s not a half-bad idea. As he stares at the ground, he finds himself longing for the earth to swallow him whole. Perhaps he could stand here for a while, fulfill the wish of the dirt beneath his feet, and sink.

Give in. Give up.

Haphazardly swiping damp hair away from his face, Couriway peers over his shoulder. Raindrops bespeckle his glasses, rendering them useless. He squints to focus his vision. His gaze eventually wanders to the unconscious man in Cube’s arms.

With one arm beneath Fruit’s neck and another hooked around his knees, Cube lags behind the rest of the group. His stride is methodical, each step taken with practiced vigilance to ensure he doesn’t slip on the flooded terrain.

The King’s eyes ricochet between the countless cuts and bruises dotting Fruit’s face.

Something shifts deep in his chest.

Couri turns back around, wincing as he swallows dryly.

In all Couri’s years of knowing the guy, Fruitberries never let himself get that bad.

“Tapl will kill me if I do any more training today,” Fruit would scoff with a roll of his eyes and a twinge of a smirk tugging at his lips.

Couriway squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head as if to expel the thoughts from his mind.

Wait, hold that thought.

A spark of alarm races down Couri’s spine, starting from his shoulder blades and ending in his fingertips; He hears it—the subtlest change in the footfalls to his left. Couriway whirls around, clasping a firm hand about Feinberg’s forearm as he stumbles forward, halting the boot that began to slip against the muck.

“What the fuck?” Feinberg stammers, dazed. “Thanks. That was insane.”

“I, uh,” Couriway flinches as the words scrape his throat. “I heard your shoe slip. I didn’t wanna grab your hand, so…”

“You don’t wanna hold my hand?” Feinberg forces a chuckle, feigning offense.

Couri cracks a small smile. “Your hands have glass in them, idiot.”

Feinberg flinches, as if remembering the pain he’s in. “Oh, yeah.”

“Don’t tell me you forgot.” Reignex sighs, wrapping one arm around Feinberg’s shoulder for support, or instead functioning as a crutch when Feinberg’s legs begin to give out.

“What can I say?” Feinberg slurs. “Ya can lead a horse to water, but ya can’t make ‘im drink.”

“Captain,” Cube mutters under his breath. It’s hard for Couriway to tell if Cube is annoyed or concerned.

Reign casts Couri a half-lidded glance. “He’s delirious.”

“Walk faster,” Couri instructs, his vision stalling on Cube and Fruitberries for a moment. “We’ve got a lot of first aid to do.”

Kayfour turns to look at Couri, but only for a second. “Yeah.”

“You can hold my hand, Fein,” Reign mutters quietly.

Feinberg gapes at him. “Oh, fuck yeah!” 

Cube kneels next to the cot set up against the wall of the castle’s spare room. First, he lowers Fruit’s back against the mattress; then, cautiously, he slides his hand out from under Fruit’s neck, allowing his head to rest against the pillow. 

Exhaling a bated breath, Cube gets to his feet. 

“That jacket is filthy,” Cube comments, gesturing to Tapl’s coat draped around Fruit's shoulders, and Couriway glances up at him. “We should wash it.” Cube reaches to pull the jacket away from Fruit.

“No!” Couri snatches Cube’s wrist, stopping him. Upon seeing Cube’s shocked expression, Couri falters, pulling away. “Let him keep it. I could only imagine the fallout if he woke up without it.”

“Right.” Cube nods, glancing away as if he can’t bear to look at Fruit for longer than necessary. “‘Course, sir.”

Couri’s heart sinks, his chest tensing.

“Am I dismissed, sir?” Cube asks, timid as a mouse. “I want to make sure the Captain is okay.”

“Not yet. I need to speak to Kayfour for a moment. Then I’ll be the first to watch him,” Couri gestures to Fruit. 

Cube presses his lips together, nodding. “Sure.”

Couri smiles sympathetically. “Feinberg will be just fine. He’s tough.”

“Couri?” Kayfour asks, previously silent as they stood  in the doorway. “What’s wrong?”

“The balcony,” is all Couri volunteers. “Follow me, please.”

In the time it took to look after Fruit, the thunderstorm subsided.

The wind, however, is still unruly, barreling in from the east and tapering only behind the mountain.

The King and his Prince stand on the castle’s balcony, a patterned array of windows as their backdrop. In front of them, across the castle’s courtyard, stood endless rows of trees; a forest of green. Their leaves rustle with each gust that surges past.

Wordlessly, Kayfour approaches the white-fenced railing, resting his arms against the wood. They gaze sightlessly at the woods on the horizon.

Couriway closes the glass-paned door behind him. He takes a resigned breath before speaking. “Do you agree with him?”

Kayfour turns, just slightly. “What?”

Couriway sighs. “What Fruit said earlier. During the storm.”

Realization crosses Kayfour’s face, and they glance away. 

“Mm,” Couri hums. “I thought so.”

“No,” Kayfour mutters. “That’s not what I meant.”

Couri turns, his gaze softening. A slight frown plays across his lips. “Don’t lie to me.” After swallowing a lump in his throat, the King speaks again, hoarsely. “Please.”

“I’m not lying.” Kayfour releases the railing, turning to face the castle, elbows propped against the banister. He tilts his head, his stare fixed on the sky.

Couri lets out a ragged sigh. “Please.”

“I meant what I said, Couri,” Kayfour says, a subtle twinge of bitterness to her cadence. “That you’d do great.”

Couri huffs, absently cleaning the lenses of his glasses on his coat.

Kayfour’s expression darkens. “I’m serious,” They insist, casting a half-lidded stare at Couri. “My opinion hasn’t changed.”

Couri rips his gaze from Kayfour. “Sure.”

“Why don’t you trust me?” Kayfour asks, allowing far too much venom to slip through the cracks.

Couri falters. “Excuse me?”

Kayfour glances away. “Forget it.”

“No, hold on.” Couri stammers. “I trust you.”

“It’s fine,” the Prince insists, turning away from Couri. 

“Kayfour,” Couri places a hand on the Prince’s shoulder, leaning forward. “I trust you, I swear.”

Couri bearly hears a measured sigh, followed by a shaky huff. “Weren’t you listening? I told you to forget it. Let’s go back to talking about you like we always do.”

“I…” Couri gingerly retracts his hand, swallowing. “I’m sorry.”

Kayfour hisses a breath through gritted teeth. “Oh? I’m sure you are.”

“Kay—“ 

“Because you’re always so great! You never do anything wrong! You’re perfect. You’re dignified. You’re, you’re so much better than me!” The Prince’s voice chokes to a halt, and he shrinks away, fists clenched around the sleeves of his coat.

“Kayfour,” Couri whispers, his composure threatening to shatter. “Not now, please.”

Kayfour whirls around, and Couri catches a glimpse of the tears streaming down their cheeks, glistening in the afternoon sun. “Not now?” Their voice rises with each word. “It’s never the right time to listen to me, is it?”

Couri sets his jaw, whimpering as Kayfour takes an accusatory step forward. 

Not now. Not now. For the love of the Universe, hold yourself together, Couriway.

“When will it be time for you to listen to me?” Kayfour cries, extending his arms to his sides in exasperation. 

Couri swallows the sob rising in his throat and opens his mouth to speak, but Kayfour interrupts him.

“You never have time for me. You’re always off doing Universe-knows-what, and you never tell me anything! I didn’t even know you sent Tapl to the End until Reignex told me he was dead!” Kayfour takes a breath. “I should have heard… I should have heard it from you.”

Couriway can feel his heart breaking, piece by piece. It takes every fiber of his being to keep his expression neutral.

“He was my friend, too!” Kayfour is nearly screaming now. 

Kayfour scowls at Couriway’s silence. “No, it’s just ‘I’m sorry Fruit, I’m so sorry,” they mock bitterly. “What about Feinberg? He almost died for you. Or Cube, a child that had to witness his mentor on the brink of death? Or me… No one thinks of me, not even you. I thought I still had you.”

I didn’t want you to worry, Couri intends to say, but the words catch in his throat. This was supposed to be my burden to carry, not yours.

“I love you like a brother, Couri.” Kayfour leans closer, hastily wiping their eyes with their sleeve. “I always have, but somehow you didn’t know I play the piano!”

Couri’s heart squeezes. He grits his teeth until his jaw is trembling, tight-lipped.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way. 

“Why do you think there was a giant fucking piano in the Great Hall, anyway, huh?” Kayfour shouts, his eyes blazing despite the tears that shimmer at the corners. “You think it’s just nice to look at?”

“No,” Couri manages, blinking back tears. 

“So what, then? Are you blind?”

Couri stares at Kayfour, unblinking.

A king doesn’t cry.

“All—fuck,” Kayfour’s voice crackles, and they draw a trembling breath, shaking their head. “All I wanted was your admiration. I just wanted you to be proud of me. Was that too much to ask?”

Couri’s head spins. “No,” he whispers, staring at the concrete beneath his feet. “It’s not.”

A king doesn’t cry.

When Couriway manages to bring his gaze back to Kayfour, the anger in their eyes had simmered down, leaving behind wisps of sorrow. 

“I learned the piano so we could play together, Couri. But when you became the stupid King, everything changed.” Kayfour’s eyes trace the points of Couriway’s crown. “You don’t play anymore. You didn’t have time. You didn’t have time for anything.”

Couriway glances at his hands. Perhaps, at one time, they held a soprano flute, imitating the melody of birdsong. 

“Say something other than recycled garbage,” Kayfour implores, her tone now more desolate than hostile. “Please?”

No. You know what will happen if you try. 

A sound severs the tension—three gentle raps against a glass door.

“Couri?” Fulham calls, cautiously pushing the door open. “You out here?”

Couri turns, facing the castle.

Kayfour also turns to look at Fulham, and Fulham halts, immediately backpedaling.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt—“

“It’s okay,” Kayfour interjects, stealing Couri’s attention. “I was about to leave anyway.”

Couri’s stare lingers on the Prince as he brushes past Fulham and climbs the marble stairs in the Great Hall. Only when Kayfour is out of sight does the King turn to Fulham.

“Sorry, I-I can’t talk right now,” Couri murmurs hastily, rushing past Fulham into the castle.

“Wait,” Fulham calls, waving a stack of bronzed parchment. “Do you know anyone named Nerdi?”

Couriway slams the gray-stained door behind him, gasping for lost breath as his back meets the splintering wood and his knees give out, surrendering him to the floor. 

Through a blurred film of tears, Couri’s gaze slowly rises from the floorboards to Fruitberries’s sleeping form. 

Cube is nowhere to be found. He must have gone to look after Feinberg.

Couri’s eyes trace over Fruit’s disheveled attire, halting on a patch near the right side of the coat Fruit is wearing. Crudely embroidered on the patch is a blocky version of the smile tattoo Fruit has etched into his left cheek. The fabric, dyed a pale green, matches the hue of Fruit’s hair impeccably.

Something roars deep inside Couri’s chest—perhaps something he had been holding back for a while—erupting into a frenzied inferno, rearing its ugly head with a mighty howl. The dam Couri had been trying so hard to sustain breaks open.

Couri let his forehead rest against his knees, placing his trembling arms atop his head. 

His fingertips meet the sharp peaks of his crown, and something behind Couri's eyes snaps. He firmly clasps his hand around the brim of his crown and hurls it across the room, flinching only slightly as it collides harshly against the brick wall. 

It’s all your fault.

“Fuck,” A sob bursts from Couri’s lungs, and he finds he’s lost the vitality to subdue it. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs absently as his body shudders under the weight of sorrow recently liberated. “Fruit, I’m—“ He sucks in a short gasp, just enough air to finish the words. “I’m so sorry.”

Look at what you’ve done.

“I didn’t want this,” his voice wades through his tears. “I didn’t want this. I didn't want this. I didn't—“

Is this what I wanted?

Couri squeezes his eyes shut, clinging to the hope that maybe, just maybe, this is all just some sick nightmare. That any minute now he’ll wake up, terrified, out of breath, and sweating, but okay.

“What the fuck,” A voice grumbles from above.

Couri’s head jerks upward, and his glistening eyes meet Fruit’s desolate ones. 

The King’s hope dissipates.

For every dead night, the sun shines high in the sky elsewhere. Your time will come, my son.

Chapter Text

“Geo.”

Geosquare’s eyes pry themselves open. Someone’s calling his name. 

The scene around him comes into focus. A flickering torchlight illuminates a familiar face. “Nerdi?” He mumbles, sleep clouding his tone. “It’s late. Has Lady Universe possessed you?”

“Geo,” Nerdi repeats in a low whisper. “Something’s wrong.”

“Get to the point,” Geo groans, sitting up. 

“It’s Tapl.”

“Where am I? What the fuck did you do?”

“Nothing,” Couri stammers, getting to his feet and hastily wiping his eyes.  “You passed out, I— uh, we didn't want to leave you alone.”

“Oh, how kind of you.” Fruit hops onto the floor, forcing a sardonic grin. “Do I,” He interrupts himself to yawn. “Get free breakfast, too?”

“Fruit,” Couri pleads through the ache in his throat as Fruitberries saunters closer. “Sit down. You need to rest.”

“Fuck off,” Fruit’s words slur together as he smooths the wrinkles in Tapl’s jacket. 

Fruit’s hand navigates to the sheath at his hip, only to find it empty. 

Fruit’s gaze darts to Couri, embers of fury beginning to flicker in his eyes.

“It’s—“ Couri clears his throat, sniffling. “It’s outside. Tapl’s sword is outside. On the wall beside the door.”

“What kind of king do you think you are?” Fruit taunts, the scornful flicker in his eye not entirely genuine. “Sniffling like a fuckin’ toddler throwing a temper tantrum.”

Couriway shuts his eyes, shaking his head. “Just go.”

“Hey. Hey! I’m talking to you, your highness.” Fruit cuts in, snapping his fingers. “Have you gone insane?”

“Get out of my castle,” Couriway responds, refusing to look up.

Fruit scoffs. “At least answer my question first.”

Couriway subdues a sigh. “What?”

“Where’s your crown? Did you finally come to your senses and resign? Took you long enough—“

“No,” Couri says shortly. Fruit’s eyes narrow, and Couri quickly averts his gaze. “Uh, it’s, well—“

“Can’t talk like an adult either, can you?” Fruit sneers, inching closer. “Cat got your tongue, little bird?”

Couri freezes; his blood runs cold.

“What?” He whispers, pressing his back to the door. His heartbeat echoes in his ears.

“Are you deaf as well?” Fruit groans, rolling his eyes. “I asked if you are capable of using your words or if you’re just going to to stand there like a fuckin’ kid caught stealing from the cookie jar.”

Couriway knows, in his soul, that this is all a performance. Fruit’s hostility is just theatrics, his words rehearsed.

Couriway waits patiently in the wings for a curtain call that may never come, unwilling to take the stage.

Tears begin to prick at the edges of Couri’s eyes. He envisions carving his tear ducts out of his head, blood running down his cheeks in place of sorrow.

Even for a man like Couriway, patience is finite, and his is dwindling fast.

“Get out,” Couriway snaps, extrinsically dark.

“Get out of my way,” Fruit counters, his venom dwarfing Couri’s.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Couriway steps to the side, watching Fruit from the corner of his eye.

“Skies, this town is a joke.” Fruit mumbles to himself.

As Couriway turns to watch Fruit leave, a thought strikes him. A thought with a fifty percent chance of getting him stabbed, albeit, but maybe…

“Wait,” Couri calls despite his reluctance, and Fruit halts.

“What?” Fruit spits, turning his head. In his eyes blazes a front of pure, unabated hatred. Though Couriway knows it’s not real, it still makes his throat prickle.

Dread seeps into Couri’s veins, yet he takes a measured breath. He rehearses his lines…

“We’re going to have,” Couri pauses to study Fruit’s expression. “A… service for Tapl tomorrow. I’ll be helping to build a memorial garden for him. If you’d like—“

Fruit interrupts Couriway with a wild cackle.

Turning on his heel, he stares at Couriway, a glint in his eyes that makes Couri’s stomach lurch. “Oh, so now you care? After all you’ve said and done, after a man bleeds out in my arms, now you start caring?” 

“Fruit,” Couriway tries. 

Shadow falls over Fruit’s eyes. His words chill to ice as he stalks forward. “You holding a petty little funeral for him would be a massive fuckin’ insult.”

“I’ve always cared,” Couriway replies, straightening his posture. “I know you can’t see that, but I—“

“Shut up!” Fruit barks, teeth bared. “You don’t get to murder a man and pretend like it was an accident, some type of good-natured mistake! You killed him, you knew he—“

Couriway flinches, bracing himself.

“Fuck,” Fruit grumbles under his breath. 

Couri blinks back over to Fruit, pretending not to notice the faint tremble beneath his voice.

Heartbeat stuttering, Couriway pretends not to think about the rising tension between him and Fruit, both fighting to hold it together in front of the other.

Couriway recalls last night, Feinberg’s glazed eyes, the blood spilled for the sake of petty revenge. 

Couriway should have been there to stop it. It should have been him facing the end of Fruit’s blade. It should have been him between Fruit and Feinberg. 

For Couriway, Feinberg has shed enough blood to last several lifetimes. 

If only either Fruit or Couriway were brave enough to be honest. Maybe things wouldn’t have fallen into such a state of disrepair.

It’s no wonder everyone in this town fucking hates you. You’re worthless.

All you do is sit and look pretty in your castle far away from those who actually matter. When was the last time you did anything the folks in this town liked?

Fruitberries, evidently, is a stronger man than Couriway, because after barely a second breath, Fruit continues, volume climbing. “You knew he wouldn’t survive. You knew he would die and you didn’t care! Keep his name out of your filthy fucking mouth, you don’t deserve to say it!”

Harden your heart.

Couri gathers himself together, carefully collecting his words. “You’re wrong.”

“Lady Universe,” Fruit swears in an expression Couriway recognizes from Tapl’s vocabulary. “You’re as awful a liar as you are a king.”

Fruitberries adjusts Tapl’s vest on his shoulders. “Your voice makes me want to puke. So save it.” He reaches for the handle of Tapl’s sword and retrieves it from the wall.

Couri grits his teeth, fighting back the tears that threaten to fall.

Kings don’t cry, Couriway.

Pull yourself together or you won’t like what happens next.

Fruit tuts, casting a final derisive glare at Couri before he disappears down the corridor, hands tucked in his pockets, Tapl’s sword dangling at his hip.

In an act of betrayal, tears squeeze through the cracks of Couriway’s eyes, screwed shut. He allows fatigue to wash over him and instead focuses on the dull sting in his palms as his fingernails dig into his skin.

Kayfour trudges into his bedroom, his frigid hands trembling. A weak kick closes the door behind him.

Today has monumentally sucked. 

Rigidly, Kayfour unfastens the buttons on their coat and shrugs it free from their shoulders. They fold the garment over their arm and trudge to the closet on the far side of the room.

First, Kayfour is awoken by screaming only to find out Tapl died in the end and Feinberg is well on his way to meeting the same fate at the hands of Fruitberries.

Then, when Kayfour finally got to the scene, she stood there like an idiot doing absolutely nothing to help, just watching as Feinberg, Cube, and Reignex put their lives between Couriway and Fruitberries. 

With a shuddering sigh, Kayfour hangs his coat with the rest of his clothes and closes the closet door. 

Finally, Kayfour turns to her bed, and her eyes wander to the foggy window nearby.

Kayfour watches runoff drip from the roof and slither across the window. 

If only… 

Ah, well, it isn’t worth dwelling on what could have been. The only way out of this mess is forward.

The sound of a door creaking on its hinges startles Kayfour from his thoughts, and he whirls around. 

“Couri?” They ask, then their heart shatters.

Couri gasps for breath as if it had been ripped from his lungs, his eyes red and glistening.

He’s crying. 

Kayfour’s jaw drops open. 

There’s no mistaking it—that’s Couriway, Kayfour’s Couriway, with tears streaming down his face.

That’s not where the heartache ends, much to Kayfour’s horror. In Couri’s eyes burns a kind of pain Kayfour hoped they would never bear witness.

Kayfour recognizes this pain, like gazing into a shattered mirror—the kind of pain hidden beneath the surface, neglected for ages until it bubbles over and drowns any unfortunate souls caught in its wake, wrenching their heads underwater and turning a blind eye to their cries for mercy.

The kind of pain that only occurs once in a lifetime, if you’re lucky.

This isn’t possible, Kayfour thinks numbly, stunned into silence.

Without saying a word, Couri crosses the room and throws his arms around Kayfour, clinging to them as if he’s scared to let go.

“I’m sorry,” Couriway croaks in a voice that makes Kayfour’s heartbeat stutter. Couriway rests his head on their shoulder. “I’m sorry, I thought I didn’t, but…” Couri interrupts himself to inhale a shaky breath.

Couri’s next words send a shudder down Kayfour’s spine. 

“I need you, Kayfour.”

Kayfour stands awkwardly, desperate to look away, yet he can’t tear his eyes from Couri.

“I thought you didn’t care,” Kayfour breathes, slowly returning Couri’s embrace.

“How?” Couri chokes out, his voice muffled by Kayfour’s shoulder.

Kayfour chews his lip, his expression scrunching as the bitter tang of iron grazes his tongue.

It’s a long story. One that Kayfour doesn’t have time to tell. “I don’t know.”

Kayfour takes a breath, reticent as they try to ignore the damp fabric pressed to their right shoulder.

For a moment, the wind outside dissipates, leaving Kayfour uneasy in its absence. 

“I think… I'm the one who needs to be sorry.” The words tumble from Kayfour’s mouth, unfamiliar, yet right somehow.

“No.” Couri lifts his head, tears pooling in the rims of his glasses. “Don’t apologize.”

Kayfour sets his jaw, swallowing.

“I didn’t want you to, uh…” Couri glances away, interrupting himself with a nervous chuckle. “See any of that.”

“Couri,” Kayfour speaks softly, pity wrapping its cold fingers around their heart. “Why not?”

Couri lets out a raspy sigh. “I thought what you… What everyone needed was a strong, fearless leader, you know?” Couri pulls away, absently wiping his glasses on his coat, and Kayfour finds themselves yearning for his return.

“Uh,” Couri clears his throat. “But, I’m not cut out for that. I spent so long lying to myself, to you, to everyone, that I started to believe I was someone I wasn’t.”

Kayfour opens his mouth to speak, but the words die in his throat.

Couri sniffles, forcing a watery smile. “I guess Fruit was right.”

A dull ache thrums in Kayfour’s lungs. “What? No, he wasn’t—“

”You don’t mean that,” Couri laughs dryly, lifting a hand to brush hair from his face. “You can be honest. I won’t get mad.”

For a moment, the world around Kayfour crumbles to ash, and he finds himself two years younger. Not yet a Prince, he stands in a bustling plaza, gazing intently at his brother, not yet a King.

Kayfour recognizes the day their life changed irreparably—the day they narrowed their vision to scrutinize Couriway, and no longer saw him.

For two years, Kayfour’s crown blinded them, shielding their eyes from Couriway’s true feelings, the tenderness of his soul and the scars hidden deep beneath his skin. For two years, Couriway fought an invisible battle against himself, to bury his humanity, and today, he won.

For two years, the person who called themselves Couriway’s brother was unable to see through the facade.

Kayfour shakes their head, willing the memory away. Their hands begin to tremble, curling into tight fists.

“No,” Kayfour rasps, the words grating his throat. “You’re so strong, Couri.”

Timidly, Kayfour approaches Couriway, taking his hand. 

Kayfour lowers their head, a somber smile stretching across their lips. “But not in the way you think you are.”

“What?”

“You weren’t lying to anyone,” Kayfour forces herself to say, her shame too great to meet Couri’s eyes. “Do you not remember this morning? Fruit was ready to kill a man and you stepped in, stayed calm, and kept anyone from getting hurt.” 

Kayfour closes Couri’s hand around hers, her heart skipping a torturous beat when Couri squeezes Kayfour’s fingers in response. “I’d bet Feinberg was spouting nonsense that pissed Fruit off, and the rest of us were terrified, frozen to the ground, but you?”

Couri sighs. “Kay—“

“I’m not finished.” Kayfour frowns at their hands. “Fuck, man, you held it together when I was layin’ into you like a madman. How fucking dare you—or anyone else—say you’re not a good king. You’re fucking amazing.”

Kayfour hears Couri hiss a breath through gritted teeth, and his hand trembles in Kayfour’s grip.

An interlude of silence dumps adrenaline into Kayfour’s veins, their heartbeat quickening steadily in their chest. They brace themselves, screwing their eyes shut.

“I killed Harvey,” Couri says. “And I almost killed Fein, too.”

“No,” Kayfour stammers in a whisper, shaking his head. “No—“

“Kayfour,” Couri demands. Kayfour shivers in response. “Didn’t you hear what Fruit was saying? I killed Tapl. I sent him to the End, and he died there. He died because of me. I spoke to Fruit a few minutes ago and he—fuck, Kayfour, Fruit wouldn’t say Harvey’s damn name.” Couri stutters to a halt. “That’s all,” a breath, “my fault.”

Kayfour huffs, meeting Couri’s gaze despite the tears obscuring their vision. “No. It’s not. I know you, Couri, you would sooner take a bullet than let Tapl die. Do you hear yourself? It was a mistake. You loved Tapl, too. There’s no disputing that.”

Kayfour studies the hatred in Couri’s eyes, not directed at her. “As for Feinberg… I doubt he blames you.”

Couriway frowns. “He should.” 

Kayfour laughs quietly. “He’d sooner die for good. Feinberg knows you didn’t mean any harm.” 

Couri’s intense glare softens. He sighs, resigned. “I wish Fruit believed that.”

“He knows,” Kayfour says thoughtfully. “He just needs time to come around.”

Hope flickers in Couriway’s eyes. “You think so?”

“Dude.” Kayfour gathers his courage. “I spoke to Fulham, and he explained to me why you sent Tapl to the End, and, trust me, if you got to those End Cities, you would have been doing Tapl such a huge favor. I’m positive Fruit knows that, too.”

Couriway’s eyebrows knit together, an apprehensive grimace crossing his face. “What?”

Kayfour shifts in place, letting go of Couri’s hands to place theirs in their pockets. “Couri, I have something I need to confess to you. But you can’t tell anyone.”

Reignex drags Feinberg to the infirmary, gasping for breath as he dumps Feinberg onto the cot in the corner. “Fuck, you’re heavy.”

With great effort, Feinberg lifts his head, rewarding Reign with a dopey grin. “Thank you.”

Reign huffs bemusedly, rolling his eyes. “Shut up.” 

“Reignex.” Switch waves, peeking over the marble countertop on the opposite side of the room. He fails to hide his shock when he spots Feinberg. “Captain…”

Reignex casts Switch a look, and Switch’s expression neutralizes. “King Couriway alerted me of your arrival.”

“Yo, how’d he get here so fast?” Feinberg mutters, his attempt to sit up resulting in his body crumpling into the corner, accompanied by a quiet “fuck.”

Switch’s shoulders relax slightly. Reignex can’t help the fond twitch that pulls at his lips. There’s a special quality about Feinberg that gives him the innate ability to ease tension even in the direst of situations. 

“You can move a lot faster when you’re not hauling your dumbass friend on your back like a sack of potatoes because he pissed off the dude with two swords and a vengeance,” Reign quips, taking a seat on the cot next to Feinberg.

Feinberg frowns, still shockingly lucid. “I saved you. And I didn’t piss him off. He woulda,” a cough, “he would have killed anybody he saw. I just… got unlucky.”

Switch approaches Feinberg, a damp cloth in hand. “May I?” He gestures to Feinberg’s bloody nose. 

“Enough with the pity,” Feinberg grumbles. “I’m injured. It looks gnarly, blah, blah, I don’t care. You’re the doctor.”

Switch smirks, shaking his head. “Heard, Captain.”

Feinberg doesn’t react as Switch meticulously cleans the wound stretching across Feinberg’s nose, save for a brow crinkle every now and then. Once all the blood is cleaned up, Switch lets out a low whistle. 

“That is a deep cut.” Switch tosses the rag in the trash. “You are going to need stitches, my friend.”

Feinberg shrugs. “Doesn’t surprise me. It bled like a motherfucker.”

“I’m sorry, but I need to do this as quickly as possible to minimize damage,” Switch says, pulling a pair of gloves on. “This is… going to hurt.”

Feinberg closes his eyes. “Can’t hurt worse than getting your face sliced open.”

As Switch sews Feinberg’s cut, Feinberg shows no signs of discomfort. Reignex wonders just how much Feinberg has been through to be used to this kind of pain.

“All done,” Switch says, putting his supplies away. “Try not to touch it as it heals.”

Feinberg looks amused. “You think this is my first time getting my face cut open?”

Switch laughs, fetching something from below the medicine counter. “Am I supposed to answer honestly?”

“Yeah,” Feinberg replies, raising a bloodied hand. “Shit, I forgot. Don’t—uh—don’t worry about that.”

“Well,” Switch glances over the counter, from Feinberg’s outstretched hand to his eyes. “I’d say no, this isn’t your first head wound.”

Reign smirks, subduing a laugh.

Feinberg glares at his hand. “Insult to injury.”

Switch stands, placing a roll of bandages on the counter in front of him. “Dare I ask what happened to your hand?”

“Hands, plural.” Feinberg raises his other hand. “I got in a fight with a chandelier. What do you think happened, Switch?”

“I can guess,” Switch says with a slight chuckle. “But I always want to be sure when it comes to patient care.”

“It’s traumatic to recall, but it went something like this,” Feinberg drawls. “The sharp end of Tapl’s sword kissed me on the nose, but my glasses were in the way and the sword did not like that, so it smashed them to pieces.”

Reign sighs. “Feinberg, be serious.”

“I am.” Feinberg feigns hurt. “As a heart attack, Reign, which I almost had out there saving your ass from being next in line.”

Reign rolls his eyes. 

“Anyway, the pieces of my glasses went every-fucking-where,” Feinberg gestures dramatically with his left hand, wincing as he is once again reminded of the injuries he’d sustained. “I slipped in the rainwater and uh, you can fill in the rest.” 

“I see.” Switch peers at Feinberg over his glasses, tossing a roll of bandages to Reign. “I’ll need to remove the glass first.”

Reign grins. “This will be no match for my combat first-aid training.”

“Pfft,” Fein scoffs, tilting his head back to rest against the wall. “I can do that shit myself. I’m not a fuckin’ baby.”

“You could,” Reign says softly. “But right now both your hands have glass in them so you need to let me do it. Give me your hand.”

“In marriage?” Feinberg snickers, his idiotic grin returning.

“Sure,” Reign sighs, “Just give me.”

“Fine.” Satisfied with Reign’s answer, Fein presents his shard-ridden left hand. “Just make it quick. I want to take a nap.”

Reign nods, wrapping some bandages around his wrist. “I will.”

“Be careful with that one,” Switch says, “It’s—“

“His left hand,” Reign finishes. “Yeah, I know.”

“Mhm,” Switch takes a step back, gesturing for Reign to go ahead. 

Giving his best effort to steady his trembling hand, Reign gently rests his thumb against the side of a glass fragment, applying the slightest amount of pressure to Feinberg’s palm. With his opposite hand, he firmly grips the shard, tugging it free from Fein’s hand.

Again, Feinberg barely flinches, but Reignex knows how badly it must hurt.

Is there anything that Feinberg can’t handle?

Reign takes a seat next to Feinberg. “There’s only a few more, okay?”

“Yup,” Feinberg responds with a yawn, resting his head on Reign’s shoulder.

Carefully, Reign removes the last shard from Feinberg’s left hand, lifting his head as he feels Feinberg flinch in his grasp. “Your left hand’s all done. We just gotta do your right and get you patched up, okay?”

Feinberg nods sleepily, his eyes fluttering closed. He pulls his knees to his chest and leans against Reign, sighing softly.

“Here, let me.” Switch takes the bandages from Reign. “Seems to me like he needs you more as a pillow, and less of a nurse.”

Reign chuckles, careful not to move too much. “Fair enough.”

Fruitberries peeks around the corner, squinting through his fatigue into the Infirmary. 

His eyes wander to the two guards leaning against one another, Reign grinning at Feinberg like they’re in their own world.

Why are you sayin’ my name like that?

 

Like what?

 

All mushy like that. Like I’m your favorite thing in the world.

 

Well, you are.

 

Fruit had a best friend, once.

A long time ago.

Feinberg let him die.

Fruit should have killed Feinberg when he had the chance.

Fruit grits his teeth, coiling a hand around the hilt of Tapl’s sword.

No. He should have killed Reign.

Fruit should force Feinberg to watch, helpless as the life drains from Reign’s eyes, the blood on his hands a stain that can never be scrubbed off.

Oh, how fervently Fruit hungers for justice—the sick glee he felt imagining sweet karma, at Feinberg suffering the way he did.

A sharp pain prickles in Fruit’s stomach.

He scowls; It seems he hungers for multiple things.

Fruit’s hands begin to tremble, or maybe they have been this whole time. Fruit’s muscles scream in protest as he moves to press his back against the wall. 

Fruit curses under his breath as nausea seeps into his temples; the world around him unfocuses. 

He slides down the hinge of the open door, slowly crouching until he’s kneeling, his head resting against the wall.

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Shut up,” Fruit growls. “Leave me alone.”

“You look ill,” Couriway says, peering down at Fruit, and Fruit curses himself for how small he feels in Couriway’s presence. “The least I can do is offer you a meal, maybe some tea—“

“I told you to shut up and leave me alone!” Fruit springs to his feet, skillfully drawing his sword despite the exhaustion ravaging his body. The tip of Tapl’s sword lightly grazes Couri’s chest, trembling in tandem with Fruit’s hand.

Couriway nods, seemingly more composed than earlier. He takes a step backward, raising his hands in surrender. “Alright. If you change your mind, I can have someone bring food to your home.”

Fruit’s brows furrow.

Why is the royal asshole being so nice?

What’s he trying to pull?

“Don’t,” Fruit starts, interrupting himself as Couriway flinches in response. “Even think about going anywhere near my house.” 

Fruit stumbles backward, feeling suddenly lightheaded. With an unsteady hand, Fruit returns Tapl’s sword to its scabbard.

He glares at Couri, a blurry figure in the center of his vision. He blinks, but nothing happens. 

Fruit blinks again. No dice.

Averting his eyes, Fruit swallows, his throat dry and sore. His legs struggle to support his weight, shaking feverishly despite Fruit fighting to keep them still.

Fruit sinks to the floor, his hands entangling themselves in his hair as he screws his eyes shut in an attempt to quell his rising migraine. 

Couri says something, but the fog renders it incoherent.

Someone’s touching him. He tries to swat them away, but his muscles refuse to move. 

No.

No, Fruit refuses to be vulnerable in front of anyone, much less him.

He can’t take it. He has to get out of here, he just has to—

Fruit. 

“Tapl,” Fruit startles.

Tapl’s saying something; he can’t understand it.

Fruit draws his eyebrows together, focusing. 

Fruit? Fruit, can you hear me?

”Yes, I can. Hi,” Fruit says almost inaudibly, the syllables slurring together.

You’ll be okay. I’m right here.

“No,” Fruit says, fighting back distant tears. “No, no you’re not.”

Fruit, look at me.

With great effort, Fruit pries his eyes open, lifting his head.

The fog dissipates slightly, and Fruit can make out the telltale amber eyes of his best friend.

Tapl’s arms are bare, littered with scars long since healed.

“Your jacket,” Fruit whispers, as if he had to rip the words from his aching lungs.

“It’s yours now, dummy,” Tapl says, and Fruit can hear his smile, so subtle, sickly-sweet, heart-wrenching. “So I’ll always be with you. Take good care of it.”

So I can stay with you forever. 

Tapl’s ghostly silhouette begins to flicker, like the end of a withered film strip.

“No, wait—“ Fruit says hoarsely, willing his muscles to move, but his body won’t budge.

“Fruit? Fruit, are you okay?”

Fruit’s eyes snap open; his head jerks upward, the world lurching with it. “Huh?”

“You fainted,” Cube says, dark eyes boring into Fruit’s soul. “You look horrible.”

“Thanks,” Fruit mutters bitterly, pulling Tapl’s jacket further onto his shoulders. Wincing, he stands, discovering that the sharp spikes of agony in his head had spread to the rest of his body. The pain in his legs is so great they almost feel numb, and, if he’s honest, Fruit prefers it.

“Wait, don’t leave,” Cube pleads with a shocking amount of desperation. “Please eat something at least.”

Fruit doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns away and trudges across the empty corridor. Cube doesn’t follow him.

Fruit’s stomach growls with all the force of an enraged lion, and he resists the urge to lie down on the cold, tantalizing tile until he wastes away to nothing.

Maybe that’s what he deserves.

Eventually, Fruit crosses the Great Hall and reaches giant wooden doors sporting handles just as large. With one arm pressing against his waist, Fruit grasps the handle of the door and strains to pull the gate open, the only feeling left in his arms begging him for mercy.

Suddenly, the gate swings open despite Fruit’s weakness, and he stumbles backward, startled. 

“Sorry! Did I scare you?” Fulham’s voice invades Fruit’s ears, making him flinch. “The, uh… The gates have a manual crank you can use to open them. I figured you hadn’t seen it, so—“

“Thanks,” Fruit replies shortly, cutting Fulham off. Without a second look, Fruit crosses through the gates, idling in front of them until he hears the doors settle into place behind him.

The late afternoon sun, slowly disappearing below the horizon, warms Fruit’s skin as he wanders through the North courtyard, calming the icy sting in his nerves.

His mind is blank as he descends the mountain and returns home.

Absently, Fruit fumbles his keys from his pocket and unlocks the door to his cottage. He steps inside, slowly shutting the door behind him. He ambles into the kitchen, sighing deeply.

He throws his keys onto the table, then pauses. A napkin, faded text hastily scrawled into the material, catches his eye. 

Fruit, I’m sorry I had to break our promise. Please don’t come after me. I’ll be back soon.

 

 -Tapl

Without warning, all of the emotions Fruit thought he’d buried come flooding back out of him. Whether from fatigue or sorrow, Fruit’s knees give out, and he collapses onto the floor, the planks beneath him groaning.

Hot tears spill endlessly from Fruit's eyes, even as he screws them shut so tight he feels he might pass out. His breaths, already uneven to start with, break into brief gasps, his chest shuddering from the stress in his lungs. Despite that, the majority of the pain in his chest isn’t physical—nothing that could be remedied with a little bed rest.

Tapl is gone.

Tapl is gone and he’s never coming back. There’s nothing left to do. There’s nothing left to say.

For the first time in what feels like eternity, Fruit’s house is quiet. Void of laughter, complaints about the messy kitchen, playful taunts from across the hall, or questions concerning the whereabouts of coats.

Fruitberries is alone.

Fruit resists the urge to scream, and everything somehow hurts worse than it did in the End, a drop of rain in the eye of a hurricane. Any threads of stability Fruit had left tear apart, his mind blazing through a wildfire of emotions, each of them more agonizing than the last.

Something in him forces Fruit to stand, legs trembling beneath him, his fingers gripping the handle of Tapl’s sword, white-knuckled.

He can’t see through his tears, but he doesn’t have to. 

Where he’s going, he doesn’t need to. 

The sunlight has nearly faded from the room, cloaking everything in a dull, gray aura. Lifeless and empty.

Perfect.

Fruit draws Tapl’s sword, grinning wildly at the keenly-sharpened blade. He turns it over in his palms, his smile faltering for only a moment as he reads the name engraved in the hilt. He recalls carving those letters into the handle himself, lifetimes ago.

He bursts out of the kitchen, throwing his front door wide open, barely flinching as it collides with the house’s siding. Not bothering to close it behind him, Fruit takes off across the grass, ignoring the complaints of his exhausted nerves. 

Fruit skids to a stop at the edge of the Run, lungs heaving to recover lost breath. Peering into the darkness of the Run at its most dangerous, a sick glee bubbles in his chest.

He takes a step forward.

“What are you doing?”

Fruit whirls around, jabbing his sword in the direction of the voice, eyes narrowed. “Kayfour,” He growls. “Why are you in the valley?”

“I had a hunch you were doing something stupid,” Kayfour responds with a roll of their eyes, crossing their arms over their chest like a frustrated parent. “Care to explain to me what in the skies above you think you’re doing?”

“No,” Fruit says shortly, his voice far too broken to conceal. 

“Can I take a guess?” Without waiting for a response, Kayfour gestures at the forest behind Fruit. “You were gonna run recklessly into the woods, maybe try to kill a few monsters, then eventually get your ass handed to you and die face-down in the mud, either from exhaustion or an arrow to the chest, possibly both.”

Fruit’s outstretched arm trembles. “No.”

Kayfour shakes his head. “You can't lie to me. You’re almost worse than Harvey.”

Fruit blinks, letting out a short scoff. “You were close enough to him that he’d consider lying to you?”

Kayfour nods, lifting a hand and pushing the tip of

Fruit’s sword down. “Mhm. We were quite close before the inauguration.”

Fruit scowls. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Well,” Kayfour hums, stepping closer. “So you know I miss him a lot, too.”

Filtering through clouds far above, the pale moonlight highlights the exhaustion etched on Fruit’s face. Dark wrinkles gather beneath his eyes, sunken in and half-lidded. Tear streaks not yet dried highlight Fruit’s hollow cheekbones. Various scrapes and bruises criss-cross his skin, neglected.

Kayfour’s chest tightens, dread coiling around his heart. 

You don’t deserve this.

Fruit swallows roughly, shaking his head with a grimace. “You didn’t know him like I did.”

“True,” Kayfour says. “But I know more than you think.”

Fruit chuckles, a trace of a smile flitting across his lips. “Really?”

Kayfour mirrors his smile. “Quiz me.”

“Okay,” Fruit stares at the grass, scraping his shoe against the dirt as he thinks. “Do you know any of his secrets?”

Kayfour shoves his hands in his pockets.

He considers lying, but only for a second.

“Yes,” They reply quietly, searching Fruit’s face for a reaction.

Fruit smirks, crossing his arms. “You do? Tell me about one of them.”

“I can’t,” Kayfour sneers, though without malice. “They’re secrets for a reason.”

“Please.” Fruit rolls his eyes, and Kayfour detects a trace of fear within them.

“Uh…” Kayfour narrows their eyebrows. “Well, he told me one when he was helping me get out of those woods right behind you. Do you know that one?”

“No,” Fruit responds slowly, confusion settling on his face. “He didn’t say anything about when he used to be a guide. I figured it was traumatic for him so I never brought it up.”

Kayfour scoffs, smirking. “I guess you could say that.”

“Well, now I’m curious.” Fruit leans forward, and Kayfour backs up, averting his eyes.

“I can’t tell you,” Kayfour responds, raising their hands in surrender. “He and I are taking that one to the grave.”

The tiny flicker of light in Fruit’s eyes snuffs out, his eyelids drooping. He lifts an arm, wiping his face with his sleeve, sniffling. “Why’d you have to say that?” Fruit laments with uncharacteristic despair, his voice crackling. “Is that why you’re here? To play with my feelings? Rub salt in the wound, make me suffer?” A resigned anger drips from his words, like cooled magma, once hot and ferocious, now stagnant.

Kayfour’s heart plummets. “Oh, shit, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, fuck, I’m sorry—“

Fruit sighs defeatedly. “Just leave me alone.” He brushes past Kayfour and begins to walk home. “I won’t do anything stupid. I’m… I’m just going to go to bed.”

“Okay,” Kayfour whispers, tears gathering in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” He adds, even though Fruit is out of earshot.

Couriway sits cross-legged on the tiled floor of the kitchen, gazing into the brick oven with a fixed stare. He watches the flames crackle below the iron pan placed atop the grate stretching across the middle. The fire reflects in his glasses.

“Uh, Couri,” Fulham says, approaching him. “What are you doing?”

“Making meatloaf,” The King replies without looking up. 

“Why? You don’t usually eat at this hour.”

“Not for me,” Couri says, standing up. “For Fruit.”

“Doesn’t he hate you?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Couri carefully removes the pan from the oven, placing the dish on the marble countertop. “But he’s definitely not going to cook for himself, and I want him to eat. So I’m gonna bring it to him.”

Fulham raises an eyebrow, letting out an amused huff. “You’re going to try to reason with Fruit even though he’s threatened to kill you and your guards?”

“No,” Couri chuckles, a sly glint in his eye as he turns to Fulham. “I don’t know what will happen, but he likely won’t speak to me. No reasoning required.”

Fulham shakes his head, echoing Couri’s chuckle. “You are something else.”

Couriway frowns, picking up the pan and playfully pushing Fulham out of the way. “Maybe I am, what’s it to you?” He crosses the kitchen and kicks open the door to the hallway. “At least Fruit or the raccoons will have some dinner.”

“Wait,” Fulham calls, following Couri. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

Couriway raises an eyebrow, turning. “What question?”

“Have you heard of someone named Nerdi?”

Couriway shakes his head, humming. “Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

Fulham frowns. “That’s strange.”

“Strange?”

“Yes,” Fulham says. “I was looking through the archives for the past week or so, and I came across a note sealed with the official HBG seal, signed by someone called Prince Nerdi.”

“Prince Nerdi?” Couriway echoes, leaning against the doorframe. “The old man never said anything about a prince by that name.” He pushes his glasses up. “The official seal, huh? So it must be legitimate.”

“Yes, but that note is the only thing in the entire archive that mentioned anyone by that name.” Fulham replies, folding his arms across his chest. “It’s as if their records were intentionally purged from history, and this note was left behind by accident.”

“That’s odd,” Couriway says. “Why would the old man do that?”

“I don’t know.” Fulham shakes his head. “A forgotten prince? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Could it be the same reason there’s no record of HBG’s true name?”

Fulham glances at Couriway, holding his stare for a moment. “I think you’re onto something.”

Couriway notices the dish in his hands and his posture straightens. “Right, the food’s gonna get cold.” He pulls away from the doorway and exits the kitchen. “I’ll be back soon.”

“See you,” Fulham calls after him.

Fruitberries barely makes it through the doorway before his legs fold beneath him, and he slumps against the foyer wall, letting out a labored breath.

He shivers, presses his knees to his chest and pulls his hands into the sleeves of Tapl's jacket, desperate for any flicker of warmth. 

Despite wearing a turtleneck shirt, scarf, and jacket, Fruitberries is still cold.

The tears don’t fall anymore. Fruit may have exhausted all of the water left in his body, or perhaps he’s too numb to feel them any longer.

Though the prickling soreness of his dry throat is a dead giveaway.

Three firm knocks against Fruit’s front door jostle him from his thoughts, and he scrambles backward, his hand flying to his mouth. He watches the door like a cornered animal, eyes wide.

“Fruit?” Couriway’s muffled voice calls. “I know you said you didn’t want me here, but, um, I made you some food. It’s meatloaf. Not sure how good it is, but it’s something, right?”

Fruit grits his teeth, his stomach growling at the mention of food. Still, he remains silent.

“Uh, I’m not gonna make you,” Couriway stammers, forcing a dry chuckle. “But if you want it, I’d eat it soon, because it’s getting cold out.”

Fruit hears the dish clunk against the rickety planks of his porch.

“I’ll leave it here,” Couriway’s voice sounds further away now. “And I’m walking away, okay? I just wanted to make sure you’ve got something to eat. That’s all, okay, I’ll leave.”

Fruit’s tense muscles relax slightly as he listens to the sound of retreating footsteps.

Then, the silence returns.

Stupid king, Fruit thinks. He probably poisoned the damn thing. Take me out, too, why don’t you?

There’s no way Fruit’s going to eat that garbage.

Scooting to one side of the hall, Fruit crumples against the wall, letting his head rest on the brick. 

Never before has he felt so weak.

Before, he always had Tapl to pick him up when he fell. 

Now, he has no one.

His eyes fall shut.

Beneath the silence, a voice whispers to him. 

Tapl would want you to eat.

Fruit pries his eyes open, sparing a squinted glance at the door.

Tapl was always nagging Fruit to take care of himself. 

Was.

Now Tapl’s gone. 

What’s the point of it anymore?

Still, Fruit sits up, wincing as a sharp pain sparks in his nerves. Cautiously, he crawls to the door. He sits in the doorway, panting as his lungs begin to ache once again. He reaches for the handle, and pushes the door open.

A rather large pan sits on his porch, neatly wrapped in a towel. With trembling hands, Fruit leans forward and picks the dish up, straining as he turns around and sets it inside. 

With his left hand, Fruit pulls the door closed behind him. With his right, he unwraps the pan and carefully removes the glass lid, setting it aside. 

It’s meatloaf. 

It’s not impressive, but it smells fucking delicious. And god does it make Fruit’s mouth water.

A fork sticks out of the meatloaf, carefully angled to fit in the dish.

Fruit hums. 

He sure put a lot of thought into this.

Slowly, Fruit scoops some meatloaf onto his fork, and holds it up, examining it. 

Fuck it.

If it’s poisoned, well, call it a Shakespearean tragedy. Fruit’s too hungry to care. 

He takes a bite. 

The flavor’s not extraordinary, but to Fruit, it’s a world-class delicacy.

A small, content smile graces Fruit’s lips, and for the first time in several lifetimes, warmth blossoms in his chest.

Chapter Text

For a relatively long time, Couriway bore two twin scars, nearly identical in their crude shape, on either side of his face.

He’d been asked about them only once.

He was a visitor from a nearby land, likely came for the inauguration. He was an excitable young man, with two-toned hair strikingly similar to Kayfour’s but mirrored. 

He was a merchant, silver-tongued, trying to sell something. Couriway can hardly remember now.

The way he’d spoken to Couriway stuck with the King for years.

“Those scars,” He’d murmured, tone hushed as if sharing a secret. “How did you get them?”

Couriway didn’t answer for a long time.

“It’s a long story,” He’d said finally, tight-lipped, and the young man nodded as if he understood the words Couriway didn’t say.

That’s the last time Couri spoke about his scars.

“Fein.”

Feinberg blinks his eyes open, finding himself staring at a familiar ceiling.

How many times has Feinberg woken up in the infirmary? He lost count a long time ago. 

Maybe Switch remembers. 

As Feinberg sits up, pressing a bandaged hand to his forehead, he’s vaguely aware of someone speaking to him. 

“Hold— give me a second, please,” Feinberg grumbles, finding it hard to form words around his aching skull.

Feinberg closes his eyes, doing a quick wellness check. It doesn’t take long for him to surmise he is not well. 

There’s the headache he mentioned, the cuts on his palms and fingers, the sword wound on his nose, the pain in his spine… Skies, is there a part of Feinberg that doesn’t hurt? 

Cracking his eyes open, memories of last night burst their way through Feinberg’s carefully crafted mental barrier, causing a new wave of fatigue to wash over him. 

Staring blankly at the dried bloodstains creeping down his shirt, Feinberg tallies the carnage in his head.

Tapl is dead.

Fruit is insane.

Everyone else is terrified, and Feinberg almost died.

Part of Feinberg wishes he’d died, because then he wouldn’t have to deal with this clusterfuck of an aftermath. But that’s only a small part of him.

Couriway is notably absent from Feinberg’s memory, except for a brief flicker at the end of the night, where Feinberg can barely recall locking eyes with Couriway.

Focusing, Feinberg can see Couriway’s expression in his mind’s eye, and now he wishes he hadn’t. 

It was the most fear Feinberg had ever seen from Couriway, surpassing even the skeleton incident from Feinberg’s first month in HBG. 

So many things swirled in Couriway’s eyes in those fleeting moments—dread, uncertainty, sorrow, guilt—all dark as the sky behind him. 

Feinberg wonders what he must have looked like to Couriway. Half-dead and half-conscious, Feinberg may not have looked like anything at all. 

Feinberg remembers what he was thinking. I’ve done my job, now you do yours. Fix this.

“Feinberg,” someone practically sings Feinberg’s name and Feinberg stifles a yelp.

“Reign, someone else better be dead or I’m going to kill you for ruining my nap.”

Reign frowns, placing a hand on his hip. “Okay, drama queen, you want me to get you some tea, too? What about a book? Can you even read without your glasses?”

“They’re not prescrip—“ Feinberg shakes his head, wincing. “What are you doing here, anyway?” Feinberg instinctively reaches to push his glasses back, before awkwardly letting his hand fall back into his lap. “I thought you went home.”

“Not without you, silly,” Reign punches Feinberg’s shoulder, a lot gentler than he usually is. “They’re holding a memorial service for Tapl in a few hours. I didn’t want to let you miss it when the rest of us will have to stand out there baking in the sun.”

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Feinberg raises his eyebrows, once again forgetting about the wound on his nose as pain prickles beneath his skin.

For an impossibly brief second, Reign’s eyes flicker down to Feinberg’s nose before returning to his eyes. “You’re telling me you want to miss Tapl’s funeral?”

“No,” Feinberg groans as he stands, shoving Reign off him when Reign tries to help. 

“Rude,” Reign huffs, crossing his arms.

Feinberg stretches his arms, shuffling to the infirmary’s entrance. “How many times have I told you I can do shit on my own?” 

“A lot,” Reign says, following Feinberg out into the hallway. “And every time I tell you it’s easier with help.”

Candlelight flickers across the page, dancing around words that begin to blur together. 

Couriway squints at the journal spread before him, covering a large portion of the desk in his study.

He mutters under his breath as his eyes scan the page. 

“At this time, I am not aware of any potions capable of necromancy, and I have little reason to believe in the possibility of one.”

He flips to another page. 

“Very few have documented the Ender Dragon, but we, as dedicated researchers, have condemned every tale as mere legend on account of the End Portal’s nature. There is no way to leave the End without slaying the beast—Additionally, no one has managed to kill it yet. Every adventurer leaves, never to return.”

Couriway blinks. “Huh? But Fruit came back just fine. Does that mean the dragon’s dead? No, there’s no way I wouldn’t know about it. I don’t understand why killing the dragon wouldn’t be an advancement.”

Couriway sluggishly lifts his head, tearing his eyes from the worn journal. 

If the dragon has never been killed before, how would people know anything about the End? 

Is it fiction? Folktale?

Couri’s throat prickles. 

There’s only one man that knows for certain.

“Couri, what are you doing in there? It’s late.” Kayfour interrupts Couri’s train of thought, and Couri startles, slamming the book shut with a huff.

“There’s got to be another way to open the portal,” Couriway says, standing. He trudges to the door, throwing it open to meet a somewhat disheveled Kayfour.

“What are you on about?” Kayfour asks, yawning. Their black-and-white hair sticks up in all directions, curling upward in place of the crown the Prince typically wears.

“Think about it,” Couri steps backward as Kayfour shuffles into the room, eventually settling on a velvet-lined couch near the door. “How would we know all this stuff about the End if no one has come back alive?” Then, hastily, Couri adds, “until now.”

“I dunno, Couri,” Kayfour groans, stretching his arms above his head. “Does it matter?”

Does it matter?

Of course, it matters. It could be the key to everything. It could be the key to—

“What if we could bring Tapl back to life?”

Kayfour blinks, their eyebrows raised. Couri stares back at them, his expression fervent.

“You’re serious?” Kayfour chuckles incredulously, placing their arms behind their head as they lean back, sinking into the couch. “Couri, I know the first stage of grief is denial, but this is outrageous.”

“Kayfour,” Couriway warns, glaring at the Prince over the rims of his glasses. 

“Don’t ‘Kayfour’ me,” Kayfour responds, stifling a yawn. “You need to go to bed; you’ve gone mad.”

Couriway huffs, pulling the chair away from his desk and straddling it. “I’m telling you, there’s so much we don’t know about the End dimension or the Nether for that matter. Not even expert historians understand what’s out there; there could be something hiding right beneath our noses—“

“Couri.” it’s Kayfour’s turn to flash a glare of vexation. “Stop it. You’re just setting yourself up for more heartbreak.” Kayfour stands, crossing the room in one stride and lingering in the doorway. “Tapl’s dead. You’ve gotta accept that.”

“No,” Couri responds, and Kayfour turns, bewilderment crossing her face. “I won’t.”

“Couri,” Kayfour groans with thinly veiled frustration. “You’re being an idiot. We don’t live in some fantasy world, and, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, people don’t come back from the dead.”

“Not yet,” Couri says, grabbing a journal from the teetering stack of books on his desk. He hurriedly flips through the pages, then stops on one. “But if there’s any way to do it, Tapl would be the prime subject. Have you heard of End crystals?” He looks up, his eyes sparkling with tenacity.

Kayfour humors him. “Yes, they’re potent explosives, occurring naturally only in the End. I’ve been to my science lessons, Couri. Where are you going with this?”

“I don’t know,” Couriway admits, his stare lingering on the page, a crudely illustrated End crystal scrawled across it. “But some sources say they have the power to heal the Ender dragon. If they can heal the dragon, why can't they heal people?”

“Well, they clearly didn’t,” Kayfour crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “‘Cause, you know, Tapl’s dead and Fruit was injured.”

“With no outside influence, maybe not, but with some elbow grease—“

“Your Majesty Couriway, ruler of HBG,” Kayfour interrupts him. “I humbly request you shut the fuck up and go to bed.”

Your majesty. The title makes Couriway sick to his stomach.

“I don’t like when you call me that,” Couri says, tossing the book aside.

“It’s the only way to get you to listen to me,” Kayfour says with ambiguous emotion flickering in her eyes. 

Couriway chuckles, but a subtle ache begins to rise in his chest.

Six chimes of a copper bell indicate that it’s dawn; the sun is rising soon. 

“Skies,” Couriway curses under his breath, stumbling to his feet. “I have to, uh,” He bristles past Kayfour. “I have work to do.”

“Couri,” Kayfour calls, trotting behind him. “You haven’t slept since yesterday.”

“I know,” Couri says quietly, in a tone that tells Kayfour he isn’t going to budge. “I’ll sleep. Eventually.”

Kayfour groans, but their footsteps halt as they watch Couri rush down the stairs and across the Great Hall. They pretend not to notice the way his pace slows near the grand piano, his eyes lingering there for a moment before he continues through the gates.

Oh, Couri.

You care far too much to be a ruler.

But you’re all we’ve got. 

Kayfour trusts him. He’ll fix this.

He has to.

The last wisps of wind from yesterday’s storm tousle Kayfour’s hair as the Prince crosses HBG’s square. 

Kayfour absently fiddles with their tie, their legs stiff as they reach the small garden to the west of the residential area.

Carefully hand-stitched on his golden tie, the HBG kingdom’s crest displays his royal status to the town.

What a big deal it must be for both the King, Prince, and the Royal Guard to be here, huh?

Kayfour offers a distracted wave to Reignex and Feinberg, smiling uneasily.

Kayfour’s eyes land on Couriway.

Despite the exhaustion present on his face, Couriway is stunning.

The clothes Couri’s wearing—Kayfour’s seen them only once before.

Couriway is dressed in a black buttoned coat with golden epaulets and foreign honorific medals fastened to his left breast pocket. Around his neck he’d tied a violet ascot, clasped by a jewel of the same hue. A similar violet sash is wrapped around his waist, secured by a golden button with the kingdom’s crest embroidered on the surface.

“Couri,” Kayfour calls to Couriway as they hurriedly approach him. “Your cape,” they whisper. “You’re not wearing it?”

Couriway avoids Kayfour’s eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

“No,” Kayfour says, turning to force Couri to meet their gaze. “What about what you said yesterday?”

Couri turns away, insistent. “I’ll be fine.”

“Couri,” Kayfour draws out the word, concern bubbling in their chest. “Please.”

“Kayfour,” Couriway snaps, a slight snarl to his tone. “I said I’ll be fine.”

“No.” Kayfour shakes their head. “You’re in no condition to do this. You can’t.”

“I can,” Couri replies through gritted teeth, stare fixed on the ground. “And I will.”

A stray breeze sends a shiver snaking down Kayfour’s spine.

Kayfour swallows. “Okay.”

Kayfour’s gaze slowly drifts to the ground, following Couri’s eyes.

A lone gravestone rests in the shadow of a leaning oak tree. Sunlight filters through its leaves and reflects off the gravestone’s pristine surface. The gravestone stands proudly upright amidst the crowd’s sunken expressions and hunched shoulders.

Tapl’s name is etched into the stone in exquisitely carved lettering.

“Thank Fyroah for that,” Couriway mutters. “Kid worked all night. He’s got a bright future ahead of him.”

Kayfour blinks, their heart shuddering in their chest. They raise their head to search Couri’s eyes. “You didn’t have to,” They whisper, glancing at the array of onlookers. “Not today.”

Couriway sighs, turning away from Tapl’s gravestone to look at Kayfour. A dull, sullen glimmer shines in his eyes. “I promised.”

Couriway turns to examine the rest of the garden. 

A sizable crowd has gathered in the time he was lost in his head.

Pull yourself together, Couri curses inwardly, sliding a hand under his glasses to massage the fatigue from his eyes.

It’s no wonder everyone in this town fucking hates you. You’re worthless.

All you do is sit and look pretty in your castle far away from those who actually matter! When was the last time you did anything that the folks in this town liked?

Couriway turns to his guards, stationed near the garden’s gate. One guard catches his attention, leaning unsteadily against the wrought-iron fence.

“Captain Feinberg,” Couriway says, casting a glare at Fein’s bandaged hands as he approaches the line of guards leaning against the garden’s fence. “Go home. You’re still injured.”

“Love to,” Feinberg smiles lopesidely, the gruesome wound etched into his face subduing his grin. “But,” He nods at the gravestone Kayfour is studying, wincing. “I’ve got a debt to pay.”

“I’ve tried to convince him,” Reign says, bumping his shoulder against Feinberg’s affectionately. “But you know him.”

Couriway frowns. Guilt weighs heavy on his shoulders. “I understand.”

“Woah, the king and the prince are here? That’s nuts. This guy must’ve been really important.”

Couriway turns to meet the gaze of the young man pushing the garden’s gate open, the King’s features twisting further.

“Ant,” Couriway mutters. “You’re late.”

Smallant chuckles nervously. “Sorry, uh, your highness, sir.”

“What the fuck, man?” Feinberg mutters under his breath.

“You are so lucky Fruit’s not here,” Cube mutters under his breath, crossing his arms. “Right, Captain?”

Various murmurs of disdain arise from the crowd of citizens, seated in rows of iron-framed chairs.

Ant sheepishly joins the crowd, taking a seat near the back of the garden. 

Couriway inhales deeply, letting out a sigh. He lets his eyes flutter closed, but only for a moment.

Distant birdsong meets his ears, soothing his aching nerves as a gust of wind gently ruffles his hair. Couri tries not to think about the crown pinning it down. 

Couriway clears his throat, opening his eyes. “Is everyone here?”

“Yes, sir, I believe so.” Reignex says, whispering something indistinct to Feinberg, the latter leaning against Reign for support.

Feinberg places a hand on Cube’s shoulder. “You good, kid?”

Cube nods in response.

“Good,” Couriway says slowly. Even now, he can’t figure out what Feinberg is thinking. He hopes Feinberg doesn’t blame himself too much, but knowing Fein, he’s already punished himself more than Fruit ever could.

Interlocking his fingers, Couriway scans the crowd. 

A flicker of familiar green catches his eye.

For a moment, Couriway gazes into the dark, furious eyes of a man who lost everything, and he smiles.

Somehow, Fruitberries finds himself standing just outside the West Garden, Tapl’s waistcoat swaddling his shoulders as if to shield him from the elements, despite the absence of clouds in the sky.

It was curiosity, he tells himself, that led him here. It wasn’t the ache deep in his soul that demands he holds on to any traces left of his best friend.

Fruitberries wanders to Tapl’s memorial by pure chance, or perhaps boredom.

He leans against the trunk of a large tree, his eyes half-lidded as he watches the residents of HBG fidget nervously in their seats. The last attendee arrives, says something Fruit can’t discern, and sits down near the back of the garden.

Reluctantly, Fruit brings his heavy gaze to the King. 

To his surprise, Couriway is staring back at him.

When he stares into the King’s eyes with the most malice and hatred he can muster in one expression, Fruitberries is returned a soft gaze and warm reverence.

Couriway smiles at him to acknowledge his presence but glances away, giving no indication he knows Fruit has come.

Not a soul dares to regard Fruit’s attendance—if they notice at all—but Couriway is not afraid.

Even so, Couriway doesn’t speak to Fruit, as if he knows Fruit can’t muster the courage.

The King hasn’t said a word, yet Fruit is left feeling more infuriated than any precedent.

Couriway vexes Fruitberries. Fruit would kill to know what he’s thinking. Why is he being so kind, so patient, even after Fruit lethally injured his beloved Captain? How far does Fruit have to go…

Fruit is roughly thrown back into reality, his heart skipping a beat as Tapl’s name is spoken. Tears spring to the corners of his eyes and he shakes his head, cursing under his breath.

What a shit idea, Fruitberries thinks as he turns and breaks into a sprint, escaping the garden in seconds. Going anywhere near that bastard.

All Couriway does is bring Fruit pain. Why should Fruit waste his energy trying to figure the guy out? He doesn’t deserve Fruit’s mercy. 

He rushes past his cottage; something about it repels him.

After a sharp turn, Fruit bursts through the doors of HBG’s tavern, chest heaving as he regains his breath, one hand pressed against the wall.

The inside of the tavern smells strongly of old liquor and smoke. The dust in the air is so thick Fruit finds himself choking, fanning the dust away with his hand as he ventures into the tavern. The few dining chairs that survived the test of time are scattered across an array of decaying floorboards which arch upward at odd angles, revealing the mud beneath them. 

Fruit gives one of the old chairs a kick as he walks by, watching with little interest as the legs scrape away the dust layering the floor, revealing the shiny lacquer underneath.

On Fruit’s left is a bar, boasting a level of neglect similar to if not worse than the rest of the venue. The shelves behind the bar are the proud home to a few half-full bottles of liquor. Fruit wonders how long they’ve been there and whether he could get away with emptying them all before someone figures out where he’s gone.

After another lazy sweep of the room with his eyes, Fruit spots a pair of windows on the far side of the tavern. Facing the west end of the Kingdom, the windows showcase the sinking sun. Long ago, Fruit once watched the sun creep below the horizon in a dazzling array of warm hues, the laughter of friends loud in his ears.

Now, the sky is barren. Grey clouds hang low amidst the mountains in the aftermath of yesterday’s storm.

Fruit crosses the room and pulls a barstool from under the bar, flinching as it squeaks against the floor.

Sighing, he collapses onto the barstool, crumpling against the bar in front of him. He rests his elbows on the surface, burying his face in his arms.

He shouldn’t have come here.

Fruitberries recalls countless evenings spent in this tavern, telling jokes and swapping stories. It was right here at this bar that Fruit and Tapl made a drunken bet that resulted in the tattoo on Fruit’s cheek.

Fruit doesn’t notice the hot tears running down his cheeks until he spots his reflection in the shiny surface of the bar, his reddened, puffy eyes looking dreadfully pitiful.

Fruit squeezes his eyes shut.

Kayfour didn’t listen to Couri’s speech. They spent the short ceremony studying Tapl’s gravestone, tracing over the letters carved into its surface, as if Kayfour recited his name enough, Tapl would come back to life.

Kayfour is jolted back to his senses when a chorus of gasps rises from the seated crowd. 

Instinctively, Kayfour whips their head in Couri’s direction, and their blood runs cold. They rush across the garden, clutching the King’s shoulders as he crumples to the ground.

“Couri?” Kayfour asks, not bothering to conceal the rising panic in their voice. “Can you hear me?”

Couriway’s eyes remain shut.

Damn it. Kayfour knew this would happen.

Kayfour’s breaths quicken as he kneels in the grass, wrapping his right arm around Couri’s back. He notices movement out of the corner of his eye, and his heart jumps into his throat.

“No!” Kayfour shouts, halting the approaching guards in their tracks. “Don’t touch him.”

Then, after inhaling a shuddering breath, Kayfour adds a soft “Please.”

The guards share concerned glances, but they heed Kayfour’s request, backing off and beginning to dismiss attendants.

“Couri,” Kayfour whispers, blinking back tears.

Couri’s eyes flutter open, and his body jolts upward as he comes to, instinctively pulling away from Kayfour’s hold. 

“Kayfour,” he startles, blinking rapidly at the Prince. “Wha—did they—don’t tell me,”

“No.” Kayfour shakes their head, running their hand along Couri’s back. “No, it’s just me.”

Couri visibly relaxes, taking in a labored breath. “Thank you.”

Kayfour sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I told you not to, Couri. I told you not to do any of this. Look at where it got you.”

Couri swipes his hair from his eyes, adjusting his glasses. He manages a distant “I know,” before staggering to his feet, gently pushing Kayfour away.

Kayfour stands, brushing the clumps of dirt and grass off his knees and shins. A sob builds in their throat, but they swallow it. “Couri.”

“I know, I know, I’m really stupid, no need to t—“

“No,” Kayfour interjects, throwing her arms around Couri’s neck. “Listen, I…” Kayfour takes a deep breath. “I really care about you, man. Please take care of yourself.”

Kayfour can feel Couri tense beneath her as he sighs. “I have more important things to do.”

“No, you don’t,” Kayfour warns, pulling away. “Nothing is more important than your health.”

Couri chuckles, dry and hollow. “If it were two days ago, maybe you’d have a point.”

Fruitberries is startled awake by the creaking of the tavern door—had he fallen asleep? 

As the overhead lanterns flicker to life, Fruit groggily raises his head, blinking at two figures frozen in the open doorway.

“Oh, shit, sorry, I didn’t know you were in here,” Feinberg stammers, inching closer to Reignex.

“Since when do you two come to this place?”

“We can leave you alone, uh, if you want,” Reign refuses to look at Fruit, exchanging anxious glances with Feinberg.

Fruit chuckles dryly, cracking a small smile. “You scared of me or something?”

“No,” Reignex starts.

“A little,” Feinberg admits, returning Fruit’s smile with an added cunning flair.

Fruit’s gaze traces along the gruesome cut dividing Feinberg’s face, and his throat dries. “I would be, too.”

Feinberg glances at his hands, hastily shoving them in his pockets.

Despite Feinberg’s attempt to hide them, Fruit notices the bandages wrapped around Feinberg’s palms. He screws his brows together for only a moment before the pieces click in his brain.

Abruptly, Fruit notices the absence of Feinberg’s glasses. It must have been the shards. 

Examining Feinberg’s injuries in plain lighting, Fruit witnesses how much carnage he’d caused on full display, including the newfound distance in Feinberg’s eyes.

A heavy feeling of dread accumulates in Fruit’s chest, but he says nothing. He can’t muster the courage.

“Okay, well, good talk. Sorry to bother you, we’ll be leaving now.” Reign nudges Feinberg with his shoulder, signaling Fein to move, but he doesn’t. “Fein,” Reign hisses harshly. “Come on.”

Fruit lowers his head with a bitter scoff. “Yeah, let’s leave the guy who just lost his best friend to wallow in his misery alone.”

A step forward. “Can you blame me for being reluctant to join the man who tried to kill me?”

Fruit looks up, gazing intensely at Feinberg. “Can you blame me for trying to kill you?”

“Uh,” Feinberg averts his eyes, rocking backward on his heels. “Pretty sure I can.”

“That was a joke,” Fruit says, accompanied by a soft chuckle that seems to ease Fein’s nerves. 

“Do you,” Reignex pauses, watching Feinberg closely. “Do you want us to come in?”

Fruit gestures lazily at the open seats next to him. “Sure.”

Wordlessly, Feinberg shuffles forward and takes the seat furthest from Fruit. Reign slides onto the stool next to him, one seat away from Fruit.

Fruitberries allows his eyes to fall closed, leaning against the bar. He hums softly, an alien feeling of comfort washing over him in the presence of the two guards. 

He feels almost… safe.

“I’m sorry,” Feinberg is the first to break the silence, avoiding Fruit’s eyes when he pries them open.

Fruit lifts his head. “No, don’t do that.”

Feinberg raises his eyebrows, his stitched wound stretching. “Do what?”

Fruit winces inwardly. “Apologize. I… I made a lot of mistakes last night. Ones I should be in jail for.”

Feinberg lets out a shaky sigh, nodding.

“It’s okay,” Feinberg raises a bandaged hand and traces along the cut arching over his nose. “It was my own fault.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Reign bumps his shoulder against Feinberg again, glaring at him. “Don’t say that.”

“Reign’s right,” Fruit forces the words from his mouth, fighting back tears as he stares down the bar in front of him. “I’m the only one to blame for that. I was being stupid. I wasn’t thinking.”

Fein’s expression softens. “I get it, man. It’s understandable. I know you’re just—“

“Fein,” Reign warns, glancing nervously at Fruit.

“Grieving?” Fruit turns his head slightly, glancing sideways at Reign. “Yeah. I know.”

It’s strange, how Reignex acts more afraid of Fruit than Feinberg does, though it should be the opposite. Perhaps Feinberg isn’t afraid, not because Fruit tried to kill him, but because Fruit failed to kill him.

It’s true that Fruit’s own mercy kept Feinberg alive. Something within Fruit kept him from bringing his blade down. Maybe Feinberg knows this.

But why wouldn’t Reign?

“Yeah,” Feinberg replies, placing his elbows on the bar. He attempts to rest his chin on his palms before wincing and jerking away. “You miss him a lot, right?”

Fruit huffs, shaking his head. “Like nothing else.”

“I can understand.” Feinberg spins on the stool to face Fruit, peering past Reign. “What you did last night.”

Reign flinches, covering his face with his hands. 

“You understand,” Fruit offers a hollow chuckle. “Even though you have every reason not to.”

Feinberg nods, not breaking eye contact. “I’ve met many killers. You aren’t one of them.”

Fruit stares at Feinberg. The distance in his eyes that Fruit observed earlier is nowhere to be found. 

“Is that why you put yourself between me and him?” Fruit gestures to Reign.

Feinberg shakes his head, cracking a small smile. “No. I did that because if I didn’t, I would never forgive myself.”

“I’ll admit,” Fruit says, resting his chin in his hand. “I underestimated you, Captain.”

Feinberg lets out a quiet laugh. “What changed your mind?”

Fruit shrugs. “You did something I couldn’t.”

Feinberg stares at Fruit for a moment. “What is that?”

“You protected him,” Fruit says, cutting a glance to Reign.

Recognition flashes in Feinberg’s eyes almost instantly, his quick wit surprising Fruit once again. 

“You didn’t fail him.” Feinberg stands, passing behind Reign and plopping himself in the seat next to Fruit. “It’s not your fault.”

Fruit chuckles dryly. “Since when are you so perceptive?”

Feinberg shrugs. “It’s part of the job.”

Fruit watches Feinberg’s hands tremble as he sets them arop the bar. He decides not to press the matter as a blanket of silence descends on the tavern.

“It’s like a bad dream.” Fruit breaks the silence, unaware of his words until after they’re out of his mouth. “I’m… I’m, like, expecting to wake up and Harvey,” a gulp, “he’s still here, and… and everything’s okay again.” 

“Yeah.” Is all Feinberg has to say.

Reignex stays quiet.

Fruit sniffles, cursing under his breath as tears slip past his eyelids and trickle from his chin, forming puddles on the surface of the bar. “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life,” he rasps, voice raw with emotion. “I’d cut off my fuckin’ arm to see him again.”

“I’d sell my soul to the Wither,” Reign pipes up.

“That doesn’t mean much.” Fruit turns to look at Reign, a subtle smile tracing his lips. “I’d trade you for one corn chip.”

“Oh, fuck off, Fruitberries!” Reign stands, leaning over to elbow Fruit’s shoulder.

Fruit laughs, clutching his shoulder. “Ow!”

“Hey, it’s okay if you wanna use me as a punching bag,” Feinberg remarks, reaching across the bar and taking a glass bottle from the shelf. “Just do me a favor and warn me next time.”

“Nah.” Fruit shakes his head. “If anyone I’d be using that damn King as a combat dummy. It’s a miracle I haven’t slit his throat yet.”

“I mean,” Fein says steadily, uncorking the bottle. “He’s not a bad guy. I’m sure he had a good reason.”

Fruit jerks his head in Feinberg’s direction and Fein flinches, shrinking away. “Oh, I’m sure there’s a good reason t o murder someone!” Fruit snarls, leaning close to Feinberg’s face. “I should just forgive him already, shouldn’t I? Why waste the damn time?”

“Great skies, Fruit, that is not what I meant,” Feinberg responds, leaning back. “I meant, uh, that he didn’t want what happened to, you know, happen.”

Fruit recalls the King’s warm smile, and rage begins to build in his chest. “Sure,” he mutters, curling his hands into fists. “But it’s still his fault.” Fruit squeezes his eyelids shut, attempting to quell the anger pricking at the corners of his eyes. He takes a shaky breath. “He’s the only reason Tapl’s dead.”

“I’d call it a group effort at this point,” Feinberg mutters under his breath. 

“Maybe, but don’t you think it’s unfair to blame him for what happened?” Reignex leans back, staring at the ceiling. “I think he meant well.”

“Are you fucking stupid?” Fruit snaps, his volume peaking as his fists crash into the bar. 

Feinberg nearly jumps out of his seat, the bottle in his hand slamming against the bar as he chokes, coughing roughly.

Reign turns his head, meeting Fruit’s furious glare. “Watch it.”

“If he meant well why would the bastard send us to that death trap?” Fruit rolls his eyes as Feinberg collects himself, wheezing.

“I’m just sayin,” Reign responds, softer this time. “Cut the guy some slack. Chances are he’s just as depressed as you are. Did you see him at the, uh, event earlier? Dude straight up passed out for a couple seconds. I don’t think he slept last night.”

Cube, let him go. That’s an order.

Fruit. Sit down, you need to rest.

You look ill. The least I can do is offer you a meal, maybe some tea.

I know you said you didn’t want me here, but, um, I made you some food.

And I’m walking away, okay? I just wanted to make sure you’ve got something to eat.

“Shut up,” Fruit growls, his voice shaking with fury. “No one is as hurt as I am. Especially not him.”

Fruit stands abruptly, the stool beneath him clattering to the ground.

He marches out of the tavern, not bothering to say goodbye to the two guards. 

Numbly, Fruit trudges home. 

Fruit’s eyes narrow.

Another dish sits on his porch. 

Fruit whips his head from side to side, but no one seems to be around. Cautiously, he reaches down and picks up the container, squinting at it. Warmth seeps from the dish into Fruit’s palms. He shivers, gritting his teeth. 

He reads the note attached aloud, in barely a whisper. “To Fruit. Thank you for attending today’s event. I hope it brought you some peace. I made you some chicken. From Couriway.”

Fruit doesn’t notice the hot tears slipping past his eyes until he watches note’s ink bleed, the words blurring together.

Over the following months, Couriway falls into routine.

In the mornings, he is early to rise. He greets the guards as they arrive for work and reminds them of their positions. He closely monitors Feinberg and Reignex’s health, consulting with Switch every so often to make sure they attend their checkups. 

In the afternoons, Couriway prepares a meal for Fruit, climbing down the mountain to hand-deliver it, occasionally humming a tune. Only after he returned from the valley does he cook supper for himself.

In the evenings, Couriway returns to Fruit’s home to retrieve the empty dish. 

Couriway spends the rest of his time locked in the archives, scouring the pages of every journal, letter, or almanac he can get his hands on. Wrinkles etch into his face as he dedicates endless nights to studying yellowed pages, his brows knit tightly together. Dark circles begin to gather under his eyes, feeding on the King’s exhaustion. Often, Couriway works until his eyes refuse to stay open, and he collapses against his desk, unable to stay awake any longer.

When he finally sleeps, it is restless. Couriway dreams of the hollow look in Fruitberries’s eyes—the very gaze engraved into the King’s soul. His mind recreates Tapl’s final moments, each iteration more haunting than the last.

As the air grows colder, so too does the dread in Couriway’s veins.

With each passing day, Couriway’s patience dwindles, overcome with the desire to make things right.

Nonetheless, Couriway buries the feeling deep in his chest and vows to forget.

There is nothing he can do, after all. 

Until one cloudy autumn day. 

“Hey, Harvey.” Fruitberries stands over Tapl’s gravestone. “Sorry it took me so long to come visit.”

Fruit crouches, placing a hand on top of the gravestone. He studies the lettering carved into its surface. “Fancy digs you got here.”

Fruit was never into praying—he wasn’t convinced the almighty Universe would spare a thought for a mere mortal like him.

Tapl was always trying to get him to do it. Just to let Her know you’re there, he would say.

Well, Universe. You win. Fruit has nothing left to lose.

Fruit brings his other hand to the top of Tapl’s gravestone, lacing his fingers together, and he prays. He only has one thing to say.

Out of all the people more deserving, why did it have to be Tapl?

“I can’t find him,” Feinberg huffs, out of breath as he approaches Couri from across the castle yard. Reign follows close behind, shaking his head. 

Couri exhales forcefully, watching his breath rise upward in a puff of stream. A thin layer of fog clouds his glasses. “You checked everywhere?”

“Yes, we did,” Fein says, a slight shiver to his words. “Reign even broke into his house.”

“I did not!” Reign fires back, elbowing Feinberg. “I forced a window open, ‘sall.”

Fein snickers, but his smile falls as he turns back to Couri. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where he could have run off to.”

“There’s no way he left HBG.” Reign folds his arms across his chest. “All his shit’s still here. Tapl’s too. You think he would take some of Tapl’s stuff if he were leaving for good.”

Couri blinks. “Right. Of course. I-I’ll be back, don’t burn the place down.”

Reign and Feinberg share confused glances as Couri turns and rushes to the path leading down the mountain.

Couri throws the gate to the West Garden open, hastily wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. 

The knot of dread in the King’s chest slowly unravels as he spots the missing Fruitberries, leaning against Tapl’s tombstone, fast asleep.

Fruit’s knees are pulled to his chest, Tapl’s jacket hanging lazily over his shoulders, protecting him from the chill of the wind. Tapl’s sword had been propped against the tombstone, the blade embedded in the dirt.

Couriway considers leaving.

He buries the thought.

“Hey.” Couri says softly.

Fruit stirs, groaning as he opens his eyes. Upon seeing Couriway, he immediately adopts a fierce expression, his hand flying to the hilt of Tapl’s sword.

“You,” Fruit grumbles in a low voice. “You have some nerve coming here.”

Couri avoids Fruit’s gaze. “I was worried about you.”

Fruit bares his teeth, sliding his arms into the sleeves of Tapl’s jacket as he stands. “Get out.”

Couri shakes his head, a subtle signal he won’t be leaving. “You haven’t been eating.”

“Why are you so worried about it?” Fruit takes an accusatory step forward. “Why are you insistent on pretending to care about me? Everywhere I go, you don’t leave me alone.”

“Not pretending.” Couriway’s words are quiet. “I care about you. That’s it.”

“Shut up,” Fruit spits, pulling Tapl’s sword from the dirt. “You don’t get to care about me. If you cared about me, you wouldn’t have murdered my best friend for some hunks of gold!”

“Gold?” Couriway places a hand on his hip. “It was never about the gold.” Couriway strains to level his voice, struggling to keep his frustration from seeping through. 

“Bullshit.” Fruit’s expression refuses to falter as he takes a careful step back, his face scrunched in a vengeful glare, hazel eyes flickering with fury.

“You think I care about being rich?” Couri takes a measured breath. “I didn’t even want to be king of this place.”

Couriway stares at the grass beneath his feet, bracing himself.

Out of his peripheral vision, Couri sees Fruit take a small step back, careful to avoid the tombstone behind him. “I don’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth. Don’t give a shit, either.”

“I didn’t…” Couri interrupts himself to take a breath of frigid air. “I didn’t do it for myself.”

Fruit lets out a hiss through clenched teeth, and Couriway flinches.

“After all this time.” Fruit jabs his sword in Couri’s direction. “You still don’t fucking understand, do you?”

Couri’s gaze flickers between Fruit’s hand and his eyes. He swallows the lump in his throat. “I understand just fine.”

Fruit’s rolls back on his heels, poised to attack. He barks out a low chuckle. “Is that right? That’s ballsy coming from you.”

“Yes.” Couri pauses. When he speaks again, his voice strains more than before. “I did it because I—“ Couri flinches again as Fruit’s fingers twitch around the hilt of Tapl’s sword. “I did it because I cared about Tapl. I still do.”

Couri narrowly avoids a slash to his throat, Fruit’s blade whizzing past his ears as Couri stumbles backward, pressing his back to the fence.

“Why don’t you fight back?” Fruit yells as the wind begins to pick up, howling against his sword slicing it in two. “You think you’re too good to fight me? Is that it?”

Couri shrinks further against the steel bars behind him; the hair on the back of his neck bristles.

Fruit’s brow furrows. A familiar fury flashes in his eyes, tangled sage green hair obstructing his expression. Tapl’s jacket clings to his shoulders, thrashing against the wind. He holds his sword offensively. 

The scene before Couriway is a near perfect mirror of the day Tapl died.

Fruit’s still carrying that weight.

Are you proud of what you’ve done? Tapl’s fucking dead. He’s gone, and he’s never coming back, and it’s all your fault! His blood is on your hands!

Couriway chews his lip. “I’m not proud.”

Fruit’s expression twitches, his sword’s hilt slipping from his fingers just slightly. “What?”

“That night, you asked me if I was proud of what I caused.” The words grate against Couri’s throat, but they’re necessary words to say, painful or not. “I’m not . I’d do anything to undo everything that’s happened.”

“Shut up already!” Fruit screams, his voice raw against the wind. He raises his sword high above his head, sauntering closer to Couri. “You—you’re still here. Why are you still here?”

Panic rises in Couri’s chest, but his limbs refuse to move. Even as his heartbeat thrums in his ears, he can’t manage to tear his gaze from Fruit’s wild eyes, frozen like prey under the claws of a predator.

Fruit frowns. “You won’t fight back? Fine. Guess it’s time to finish what I started.”

Couri manages to catch a glimpse of the sour grin spreading across Fruit’s face before a flash of blurred silver fills his vision.

Without thinking, Couriway’s hand flies to the scabbard at his hip.

When Couri’s brain catches up to his body, his blade is slamming against Fruit’s with a terrible shriek. His arms straining to match Fruit’s force, Couriway stares up at Fruit’s fierce expression with wide eyes.

So this is what Feinberg felt.

Fruit lets out a frenzied cackle. “You…” Slowly, he lowers his sword. “You—I threatened your life and you’re—you’re still not fighting back. Why?”

“You won’t even take a swing at me.” Fruit steps back, sword hanging lazily at his side. He cards his free hand through his knotted mass of sage hair. “After all this time.”

Couri breathes a quiet sigh of relief, cautiously sheathing his sword. “I never wanted to hurt you, Fruit. I never will.”

Fruit’s grin vanishes. “You’re not making any sense.” He shakes his head, raising a hand to swipe sweat-drenched hair from his forehead. “You’re perfectly fine sending me and—and Tapl to our deaths. But now you suddenly change your mind?”

Couriway allows his tense shoulders to relax, fighting a shiver. “I didn’t want him to die. I didn’t think he would.” Couri approaches Fruit, who backs away. “I thought he would be fine because—“

“Because what?” Fruit snaps, a subtle twinge of anxiety flaring in his eyes. 

Couri’s throat prickles, his chest tense. “It’s nothing. I didn’t—“

In one swift motion, Fruit lunges for Couri, pressing the dull side of his sword to Couri’s neck as the King clings to the fence behind him for balance. “Hurry up and spit it out or you’re dead, your majesty.”

Don’t call me that, is what Couri wants to say, but he must remain diplomatic.

Instead, he takes a shuddering breath. 

“The Universe. He has the blessing of the Universe.” Couri’s eyes screw shut and he shrinks away, bracing himself.

To Couri’s surprise, the weight of Fruit’s blade lifts from his neck without leaving a single scratch. He blinks in surprise.

“What?” Fruit speaks quietly, as if he’ll shatter at a volume any higher. 

“I read about it once, and when I saw his wings—or I think that’s what I saw, I knew.” Couriway admits, refusing to look at Fruit. “It was a long time ago. I didn’t get a great look… I could be wrong.”

Silent tears trickle down Fruit’s cheeks. “If you knew… Why’d you do it? Why’d you send him to kill the dragon?”

“I didn’t know…” Couriway gulps. “I didn’t know what the Universe was going to do to him.”

“It wasn’t her.” Fruit lifts his head. “Whatever killed him, it wasn’t her. His injuries… She couldn’t have…” Fruit trails off. 

“But… What I do know is why he was afraid.” 

Fruit scowls, fury returning to his eyes. “This shit again? I said I don’t care.”

“I keep trying to tell you,” Couri manages, his clammy palms finally letting go of the fence behind him.

“Right,” Fruit says bitterly. “You’re an expert on the shit he went through, all the hatred he faced, the people who called him an abomination—“

“Will you shut up for one second?” The words erupt from Couri’s mouth before he can stop them. “Please?”

Fruit blinks, slowly shifting his weight and shuffling backward, his jaw set tightly.

“And… just watch.”

Couri lets out an unsteady sigh, his hands shaking as he unclasps the buttons of his coat and shrugs off his cape.

The wind stings Couri’s skin; his undershirt clings to his shoulders as he rolls them once, then twice.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Couriway spreads his wings.

Couri’s muscles strain to lift large, golden wings from his back, slowly stretching them outward until they’re fully unfurled. Bright amber feathers flutter gently along with the breeze, reflecting the late afternoon sun.

Small feathers poke out from Couri’s forearms, ruffled and unkempt.

The handle of Fruit’s sword slips from his fingers, landing in the grass with a dull thunk.

“Shit,” Fruit whispers, barely audible over the wind.

It feels great to stretch out his wings after so much time, but Couriway can’t enjoy the feeling. Not yet.

“When I heard about the elytra in the End Cities, I thought, maybe,” Couri says, his eyes still shut. “Tapl could do what I couldn’t. I thought…” Couri collects himself, prying his eyes open. “If everyone had wings, he wouldn’t have to hide. We wouldn’t have to hide.”

“You..“ Fruit’s eyes are wide and watery with tears. “You’re like him.”

Couri takes a small step closer to Fruit, then hesitates as Fruit opens his mouth to speak.

“Can,” Fruit says softly. “Can I, uh?” He gestures lamely at Couri’s wings.

Couriway offers a gentle smile, nodding.

Fruit raises a timid hand, gently running his fingers along an amber feather. “You are like him,” He sputters in disbelief, letting his hand fall to his side. “This gold…”

“I’m sorry,” Couriway whispers, unsure if Fruit can hear him. “I’m—“ Couri swallows a cough as his voice begins to break. “I’m so sorry.”

Couri’s heart jumps to his throat as Fruit throws his arms around Couri’s shoulders, embedding his fingers in the soft feathers of the King’s wings. 

Cautiously, Couriway returns Fruit’s embrace, curling his wings around Fruit’s back to form a feathery shelter.

And Couriway understands the words Fruit doesn’t say.

Chapter Text

Blood drips from Fruitberries’s fingertips, caked in layers of golden dust. His hands shake as they bury themselves in the fabric of Tapl’s jacket. 

Even with the numbness in Fruit’s fingers, he can feel the warmth rapidly draining from the cloth. 

“Tapl,” he finds himself whispering, almost desperately. Though Fruit knows he’s alone in the End, he can’t stop the words tumbling past his lips. 

Fruit’s vision splits in two, and he can almost feel rough, gloved fingers squeeze his palm. He clutches the jacket tighter in his fist to let the phantom touch know it’s not welcome. 

Though Fruit would prefer the eerie silence of the End, his heartbeat pounds against his eardrums and his ragged breaths become all too loud, thundering in his chest.

Just as Fruit’s lungs threaten to burst, his eyelids fly open. His eyes dart across his darkness-shrouded room as he tears his mind from the nightmare. 

Fruit’s blankets cling to his skin, slick with sweat. The walls close around him as he pulls his knees to his chest. His breaths refuse to slow, and he presses his forehead to his kneecaps, swearing.

“Fuck,” Fruit manages to rasp. An image of Tapl’s face, bruised and obscured by dark hair soaked in blood, flashes in his mind; he can barely feel phantom fingertips squeezing his right hand. “Fuck,” He swears again, his voice crackling. “Go away.”

“Help,” Fruit whispers to no one. “Please.” 

A midnight breeze cascades from the open window, cooling Fruit’s skin and calming his aching lungs for a split second. 

The pitched cry of a bird invades Fruit’s skull as if it were perched on his shoulder, screeching into his ear. 

Fruit’s eyes dart to the windowsill, landing on a small, round bird with pale yellow feathers shining beneath the moonlight. The bird watches Fruit intently.

Is that—

A goldfinch?

“Couri,” Fruit gasps, barely audible through the blood rushing in his ears. He raises a trembling hand behind his head and pushes his thumb through the knot of his bandana. He pulls the scarf from his shoulders and tosses it onto the windowsill. 

To Fruit’s surprise, the mass of fabric unceremoniously dropped at its feet does not provoke the bird. Instead, the goldfinch collects the corner of Fruit’s bandana in its beak and hops out of the window, fluttering away into the dusk. 

Couriway blinks. The words scrawled across the page beneath him begin to blur together; he sighs, relaxing his shoulders and relieving the built-up tension in his back. He places his elbow on the desk, pressing his knuckle to his eyelid in an attempt to massage his fatigue away. 

Couriway’s incessant headache has only gotten worse in recent weeks. Late nights stretched into early mornings as he slowly made his way through every book in the castle’s archive. Far more often than Couriway would like to admit, thoughts of Fruit would cross his mind, and his hands would curl into fists; his wings would flatten against his shoulder blades, and the knot of dread in his stomach grew ever larger. 

Couriway can't afford to sleep. His fatigue has long since turned to near debilitating nausea. Days blend together as Couriway struggles to remember the last time he felt the warmth of sunlight on his skin.

He’s locked in a losing battle against his own mind, beaten and bruised with his back against the wall. 

A gentle rap from behind Couriway stirs him from his thoughts, and he tentatively closes the book in front of him. 

“Come in,” he says, the crackle in his voice startling him. 

Couri listens to the birdsong outside of his window—wasn’t sunset a few minutes ago? 

When no one comes in, Couri groans, gingerly rising from his seat at his desk and turning to the door. 

The birds outside continue to sing their ballad, welcoming the rising sun. 

Couri reaches for the door handle, but he retracts his hand as if an invisible force snatches his wrist and jerks his hand away. 

Then, Couri hears it again.

Chirp!

Piercing the air, is a chirp that sounds too hurried, too frenzied and far too loud to blend in with the others. 

Couri turns to the window on the opposite wall, failing to subdue the dread gathering in his chest.

A tiny goldfinch perches atop his windowsill, an orange cloth bunched in its beak. It flaps its wings as it spots Couri, pecking the glass with a muffled tweet. 

“Hold on, little dude,” Couri says softly, his voice croaking. “Let me open the window.”

With great effort, Couri grips the frame of the window and heaves it upward, making way for the early morning breeze. 

Before Couri can pull the window all the way open, the goldfinch hops inside, fluttering to Couri’s shoulder and dropping its accessory in his hands.

Couri staggers backward, a wave of fatigue washing over him as his muscles scream at him.

Cautiously, Couri unfolds the heap of fabric in his hands. 

“Thank you—“

Couriway’s blood runs cold.

This shade of orange… 

This is Fruit’s bandana.

“Fruit,” Couriway says to the bird now perched on his forearm. “What happened to him?”

The bird stares at Couriway blankly. This does nothing to calm Couriway’s racing heartbeat, but it does suggest Fruit isn’t in grave danger. Couri’s goldfinches have alerted him to threats before, and they were usually frantic. This little bird seems rather unbothered. 

“Uh.” Couriway leans down, letting the bird hop from his arm to the windowsill. “Thank you. I’ll take it from here.”

As soon as the bird’s talons meet the windowsill, Couriway turns, throws his door open and crosses the Great Hall in record time. 

He doesn’t bother to use the crank for the main doors, kicking them nearly off their hinges as he races out of the castle.

Couri’s lungs burn as they struggle to keep up with his legs; does he run down there? 

Couri’s mind swims, trying to grasp at any sort of coherent thought as his heart races faster with each second.

Couriway shakes his head and ducks behind the west wall of the castle, shrugging his coat from his shoulders and tossing it into the grass. 

He takes an uneven breath and, with great effort, lifts his wings from his back. 

With one mighty flap, Couri launches himself into the air, rising higher with each stroke of his powerful wingspan until the castle shrinks below him and he finds himself mingling with the clouds.

The gentle hands of the wind tousle Couri’s hair; the absence of his crown doesn’t cross his mind. 

Couri blinks as his glasses begin to collect tiny droplets of water from the clouds. His eyes drift to the buildings far below him, and his breath catches in his throat.

Couri turns in the air, and tucks his wings against his back, his breaths quickening as he picks up speed. 

As Couriway is about to nosedive directly into a tree, he unfurls his wings once more, slowly descending to the forest floor and wincing as his wings catch the wisps of a petering breeze. 

The moment his feet meet the ground, Couriway is sprinting in the direction of Fruit’s house. 

Fruit startles as a voice breaks through the deafening silence. 

“Fruit?” Couriway calls. “You in there?”

Fruit nearly jumps out of his skin, covering his mouth to prevent a yelp from escaping his lips. Electricity crackles in his veins as he tries to piece together an explanation.

Fruit opens his mouth to speak, but the words die in his throat. 

Why can’t he say anything?

The bed beneath Fruit turns to rough endstone, and the walls of his room disappear, giving way to an endless void. Fruit tries to cry out, but dust coats his throat, silencing him. Fruit screws his eyes shut, but the scene is still there, taunting him. His lungs burn as they shudder, struggling to take in air, but it’s not enough.

A high-pitched ringing echoes in Fruit’s ears; beneath it, he can distantly hear Tapl’s voice, repeating his name. 

“Fruit?” He calls.

Get away from me. You’re not real. You’re not him, you'll never be him, he's dead. He’s dead and it’s all my fault.

“Fruit,” he says, softer this time. “I promise I’m real, please open your eyes.”

Despite something in the back of his mind screaming in protest, Fruit lifts his head, his watery eyes focusing on a blurry figure standing before him. 

“You with me?” 

It’s dark, but Fruit can make out the early rays of sunlight reflecting in round lenses. 

Couri? How’d he get so close?

“What,” Fruit wheezes, scooting backward. “What are you—huh?” He shakes his head. “No,” he stammers. “You—you can’t be here.”

“Fruit, breathe.” Couriway says softly.

Fruit shakes his head, his eyes wide. “No,” He whispers, his breathing labored. “I can’t—you can’t—I can’t do this. I can’t—“ Fruit presses his back against his headboard, tense fists gripping the blankets below him. 

Couri steps closer, extending his hand. “Fruit, it’s just me.”

Fruit’s heart jumps into his throat, his rapid heartbeat choking him.

No, no, no. Get away.

“Don’t come any closer!” Fruit barks, his voice close to breaking. “I’ll— I’ll kill you.” Short, unsteady gasps punctuate his words as his chest heaves. “I-I swear, I’ll do it.”

No witnesses.

Couriway shuffles backward, an unreadable flicker dancing in his eyes for a moment; Fruit’s heart thrums painfully in response.

No weaknesses.

“Further.”

Couriway obeys, retreating to the doorway on the other side of the room. 

Fruit’s watery eyes remain locked on Couri as the distance becomes less suffocating.

Couriway opens his mouth to speak, triggering a spike of alarm in Fruit’s chest.

“No, no, no talking,” Fruit stammers almost unintelligibly. “Needa minute.”

Couriway gazes back at Fruit passively. After a few seconds of Fruit struggling for air, he speaks. “Just one deep breath. Can you do that?”

Slowly, Fruit draws a labored breath that dissolves into a trembling sigh. He slumps against his pillow as the tension dissolves in his still-shivering body. Adrenaline begins to drain from his blood.

“Are…” Couri swallows, glancing away. “Are you okay?”

Fruit finds it hard to speak after bearing his bleeding soul in front of Couriway just moments earlier. Still, he has to say something. He needs an explanation, truthful or otherwise.

“Me?” Fruit rasps, lifting Tapl’s jacket from the floor and haphazardly draping it across his shoulders. “Oh, yeah, just fine. It was, um, just a nightmare, ‘sall.”

“Fruit,” Couriway says, taking the orange from his pocket and offering it to Fruit. “Tell me the truth.”

Fruit’s stomach churns as he reaches to retrieve his bandana. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Couriway nods. “That’s fine.”

Fruit’s head turns to his window, the warm hues of the rising sun a fleeting comfort. “How did you get here so fast?”

Couriway offers a sheepish shrug, folding his wings flush against his back. 

Fruit’s gaze returns to Couri, and his expression twists, realization dawning his features. “Where’s your… You flew here, didn’t you?”

Couriway places a hand behind his head. “I didn’t know how much time I had.”

Somehow, Fruit’s predicament has gone from bad to worse. “Lady Universe. Did—Did anyone see you?” 

“No, Fruit. No one saw. I promise.” Couriway cuts off Fruit’s rising panic.

“This is awful,” Fruit whispers, entangling an unsteady hand in his hair. “This isn’t good at all. I’m such an idiot.” He buries his face in his hands, his words becoming muffled. “I’m so stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” Couriway says, cautiously taking a seat at the edge of Fruit’s bed. He looks up for confirmation before speaking again. “It— It was a calculated risk. I wouldn’t have done it if I was in any danger of getting caught.” Couriway’s feathers flutter behind him. “It was about time I stretched these things out anyway.”

After a moment of silence accompanied only by faint birdsong, Fruit offers a subdued chuckle, lifting his head. “Alright, I trust you.”

“Oh,” Couriway says, lacing his fingers together with a nervous glance at his feet. “Well, I’m glad.”

“C’mon, you don’t have to be all weird about it.” Fruit sits up, then squints at Couriway.

In the dim light of the rising sun, Fruit can see Couriway’s face in much greater detail. His eyes are sunken in and tired, dark bags drooping from beneath. His usual tenacious spark is snuffed out, leaving his gaze hollow.

“What are you doing?” Couri asks, strung tight as a clothesline.

“You look like shit,” Fruit decides, tossing his hair from his eyes. 

“Excuse me?”

“I couldn’t tell before ‘cause it was so dark,” Fruit interrupts himself with a yawn. “But now I’m looking at you, and I’m thinkin’ this is the first time you’ve seen the sun in weeks.” Fruit gestures at the open window, and Couri turns to look at it, flinching as the light stings his eyes.

“Case in point,” Fruit mumbles, fiddling with the collar of Tapl’s waistcoat. “Why are you acting like Dracula on drugs?”

Couri offers a defeated chuckle. “I’ve… been working.”

Now Couriway has caught Fruit’s attention.

“Oh yeah?” Fruit leans forward, the slightest smirk tugging at his lips. “On what?”

“I think it would be better if I were to show you,” Couri replies, the sparkle in his eyes returning for a split second. “But, uh, I might need to borrow a coat,” He admits as his feathers bristle.

“No,” Geosquare declares through gritted teeth. “It’s too dangerous.”

The nearby candlelight flickers in the lenses of Nerdi’s glasses. “Come on, Geo.”

Geo’s stern expression falters only momentarily. “No sense in confirming what we already know.”

Nerdi frowns, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the thing, though, Geo, we don’t know.” 

Geo steps closer to Nerdi as Nerdi flinches. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“No,” Nerdi stammers, raising his hands in surrender. “I just think if there’s any chance he’s alive, then we should—”

“Tapl’s dead, Nerdi.” Geo’s hands coil into fists at his sides, twitching almost imperceptibly. “So just—just drop it, please.” 

Nerdi’s gaze settles on the open door behind Geo, the stars a glimmering backdrop.

“Geo,” Nerdi’s eyes flick up to meet Geo’s, the latter’s eyes gentle, yet dark with withheld thunderstorms. “We need him.” Nerdi places a hand on his hip, drawing closer to Geosquare. “We left him alone in HBG, we should at least, I don’t know, make sure he’s okay.” Nerdi tilts his head to the side, sliding a hand behind his neck. “It’s the least we can do.”

“We didn’t leave him,” Geo says, crossing his arms. “You left him.”

Nerdi’s expression darkens behind his glasses. “Don’t do this.” 

“Your insane schemes are how we wound up here in the first place.” Geo frowns, gesturing at the decaying wooden siding lining the walls of their tiny cabin. “You think two wrongs make a right? You wanna go back and see your dear old grandpa for a nice family reunion? Did you forget what he did to you?”

“I didn’t forget!” Nerdi barks, shaking his head and taking a shuddering breath before speaking again. “I remember all too well, Geo. You know this.”

“Well, from the way you were talking I’d think you hit your head and forgot everything HBG put us through.” Geo snarls, turning his back to Nerdi. “You want to go back there? Don’t make me laugh.”

“It’s a necessary risk,” Nerdi says stiffly, taking a timid step in Geo’s direction. 

Geo’s shoulders tense. “Just like taking those books from the archive was, huh? Was that a necessary risk, too?”

“Yes, it was worth—“

Geo whirls around, teeth bared. “Worth what? What was it worth, Nerdi? Our friends? Our home? Was some bogus conspiracy theory worth getting dragged from our homes kicking and screaming?”

Geo glares downward, his posture tense as he towers over Nerdi. “This is exactly what I was talking about, you’re so—you’re so reckless. You’re the reason I’m not—” Geo turns on his heel, avoiding Nerdi’s eyes. “I wish I never met you. Maybe if I hadn’t met you, Tapl would still be alive.”

“Maybe if you’d listened to me and gone with Tapl he’d still be alive!” 

Realizing what he’d said, Nerdi clasps a hand over his mouth, wide eyes fixed on Geo’s back. 

A beat of silence stretches into a measure.

“Woah, woah woah. Hold it,” Fireworks calls as he climbs the ladder to the trio’s shared treehouse, hoisting himself through the doorway. He falters momentarily upon seeing Geo’s expression. “Just what have you two been doing while I was gone?”

“Marcus,” Nerdi says, letting his hand drop to his side and finally tearing his eyes from Geo. “We were— I’m sorry,”

“You were fighting, yes?” Fireworks tilts his head, his stern expression implying he already knows the answer. 

Nerdi nods, avoiding looking at the others. 

“How many times have I told you guys about this?” Fireworks gestures at Geosquare. “You. Geo. I know you have something to say. Say it.”

Geo expression scrunches into something unreadable, but he turns around, facing Nerdi as Fireworks navigates to the side between the two.

“You’re right,” Geo says, strained as if the words burn his tongue. “We need to find out what happened to Tapl,” he pauses to blink back the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “One way or another.”

Fireworks glances at Nerdi. “And you?” 

“You’re right too,” Nerdi admits, shrugging his shoulders. “I should have been more careful.” Nerdi only waits a second before continuing. “But I know better now. I’m not a kid anymore. This time will be different, I swear it. I just— I can’t do it without you.”

Geosquare’s expression softens. “What’s the plan, kid? Lead the way.”

“Fein,” Raddles gently kicks the door to her lab closed. “You’re back already?”

Feinberg lifts a shaking arm to wipe his brow, running his fingers through his dark hair, clumped together with sweat. “Yeah,” he huffs. “It’s so fuckin’ hot in there.”

Rad raises an eyebrow as she exits the hallway to meet Feinberg in her living room. “It’s only as hot as it’s always been.”

“Yeah, I know, but I— It's harder now, okay?” 

“Fein,” Rad sizes him up, her eyes flicking from his greased hair to his boots caked in scarlet dust. “If you needed a break to heal, you could have just told me.”

Rad hadn’t thought it possible, but Feinberg’s face reddens further. “No,” he stammers. “It’s not that.”

Rad tilts her head, shifting her weight and crossing her arms. “So, what is it?”

Feinberg exhales, his breath trembling subtly. “It’s my glasses. I can’t see without them.”

“I thought your douchey sunglasses weren’t prescription?”

“They aren’t,” Feinberg retorts stiffly. “The King— er, Couri got them to keep the sweat out of my eyes. My morning post is at the east entrance, so the sun is always right on top of me.”

“Oh.” Rad nods. “So we buy you new ones. Case closed! Where’d he get them?” Rad takes hold of Fein’s wrist and pulls him toward the door. 

“Rad, wait!” Fein yelps, wriggling free of Rad’s grasp. “We can’t do that.”

“Why not?” 

“They were custom-made.” Fein sighs. “I— I don’t think I can afford to have them replaced.”

“Nonsense! We’ll just ask Couri to help us.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Fein reels, staggering backward. “We can’t just go begging the King for money!” Rad shoots Fein a look, and Fein places a sheepish hand behind his neck. “He’s got a lot of things on his plate, you know?” 

“Yeah,” Rad drawls, her brows knit together. “Do you know who made them?”

“Fyroah did, but he’s just a kid. I don’t wanna make him—“

“He’ll understand,” Rad decides, practically throwing her front door open and marching outside. “I’m going to go talk to him.”

“Rad,” Fein groans, trailing behind Raddles as she crosses the square. “I wanna get these advancements as much as the next guy, but I don’t wanna go askin’ for too much from people. Everyone’s having a hard time right now, and I don’t want more trouble.”

“You worry too much.” Rad flashes her cheshire grin. “I’m sure Fyroah will be happy to help.”

“If you say so,” Fein says quietly, gently rapping his knuckles against the plated door of the blacksmith. 

“Door’s open,” calls a voice from inside. 

Rad nudges the door open, gesturing for Feinberg to go in first. 

A boy, not much older than sixteen, sits reclined in a wooden chair, his feet propped against the counter in front of him. Pale green eyes peek out from beneath a mass of fiery orange hair, unlikely to have seen a comb in days. 

“Feinberg!” He casts a toothy grin in Fein’s direction. His gaze flicks to Raddles. “Rad, too, oh wow. What brings our stately Captain and lovely Miss Raddles to my humble establishment?”

“Fyroah.” Rad mirrors Fyroah’s smile. “We’ve come to ask you for a favor, isn’t that right, Fein?”

“Yeah,” Fein agrees, absently fiddling with his shirt collar. “We, uh, came to ask you about my old sunglasses.”

“Ah.” Fyroah nods, uncrossing his legs and planting his feet on the floor. “That was really brutal, when they got broken. Fuckin’ sick to watch, though, I gotta say. Fruit’s good with that sword. Cut you square in the middle of your face, it was really something.” Fyroah slams his palm against the desk for effect. “And you, Fein—I didn’t know you could fight like that! You have to teach me sometime.”

Feinberg chuckles awkwardly. “Couri didn’t hire me just ‘cause I’m cute.”

Raddles casts a sideways glance at Feinberg, one eyebrow raised. “Right,” she draws out the word. “Anyway, we came to ask you if you could replace Fein’s glasses, because I’m sure you are aware of the tragic circumstances that put the original pair out of commission. Clearly, out of his control.”

Fyroah cracks a smile, drumming his fingers against the counter. “You make a compelling argument, miss Raddles.” Fyroah turns to Fein, gesturing at him dramatically. “What say you, Captain Feinberg of the Royal Guard?”  

“My glasses and I have something in common.” Fein humors Fyroah’s theatrics, punctuating his words with a heavy sigh. “We’re both broke.”

Rad stifles a snort, clasping a hand over her mouth. 

Fyroah snickers, satisfied with Fein’s response. “I see.” He laces his fingers together, his elbows propped against the desk. “Tell you what, just for you, my friend, I’ll cut you a deal.” Fyroah’s emerald-green eyes sparkle with a subtle flair of mischief. 

Fein smirks. “You’re on.”

A scream pierces the air. It shakes Tapl to his very core, gripping his shoulders and jerking him to a stop, his boots skidding in the mud.

In a split second, Tapl’s chasing down the source of various frantic calls for help, his own sorry physique cast to the back of his mind. 

A glimmer of white— no, silver, catches Tapl’s eye, and something primal roars in his chest. He bursts through the gap between two trees, his eyes immediately meeting those of a teenager, two-toned black and white hair clinging to their skin, slick with sweat and alarmingly crimson blood. Shards of dull silver litter the ground beneath them. 

The teenager clutches their right eye, blood seeping between their fingers. Tapl’s gaze darts to the jagged segment of wire coiled around the teen’s leg, its iron barbs having ripped through cloth and dug into skin. “Help,” they rasp, a foreign twang to their voice that Tapl can’t place. “I can’t see.”

Tapl kneels next to the teenager, carefully freeing their leg from the wire as they wince in response, hissing in pain.  

“You need help getting out of here?” Tapl asks. “I’ve removed the, uh, wire from your leg. These traps are not to be underestimated. There’s something in these woods that really doesn’t want you to be here.” 

“No,” The teenager stammers, grasping at the branches of the tree behind them as they stagger to their feet. “I’m— ow, fuck —okay.”

“Are you sure?” Tapl reaches for the teenager’s right hand.

“Get away from me!” The teen snaps, attempting to flee and immediately collapsing against the tree as they shift their weight to their injured leg.

Tapl instinctively jumps to support the teen, wrapping one arm around their shoulder. 

To Tapl’s surprise, the teenager doesn’t jerk away. Instead, they press their other hand to their right eye, subduing a sob as tears begin to trickle down their cheeks, mixing with the blood staining their face. Their body trembles beneath Tapl’s hold. 

“I can help you,” Tapl whispers. “I just need to see your eye.” 

“I-I can’t,” the teenager mumbles between gasps. “I’m sorry.”

“You can trust me,” Tapl’s gaze gravitates to the shards of silver embedded in the dirt. “Look at me— what’s your name?” 

“Kayfour,” Kayfour’s voice crackles, their good eye meeting Tapl’s. “What’s yours?”

“My name’s Tapl.” A familiar warmth prickles behind Tapl’s eyes, and a soft hue of gold reflects in Kayfour’s shiny cheeks.

Kayfour’s expression contorts into one of shock, their lips parting as they struggle to find a response. 

“I had a hunch,” Tapl blinks; the amber glow flickers out. “That you are like me.”

Cautiously, Kayfour lifts their hands from their right eye, revealing a gash carved into their cheekbone, just below their eye. The skin beneath their eye is unlike the rest of their face, shining a striking silver color, chipped from the injury as if it weren’t skin at all. Blood drips from the gash, though at a much slower pace than the rest of the cuts littering their face. 

“Iron?” Tapl asks, his voice a hushed whisper. 

Kayfour nods, so subtly Tapl isn’t sure if he imagined it. 

Chapter Text

I see the player you mean.

Yes. Take care. It has reached a higher level now. It can read our thoughts.

I like this player. It played well. It did not give up.

It is reading our thoughts as though they were words on a screen.

That is how it chooses to imagine many things, when it is deep in the dream of a game.

They used to hear voices. Before players could read. Back in the days when those who did not play called the players witches, and warlocks. And players dreamed they flew through the air, on sticks powered by demons.

What did this player dream?

Fruit stands. “Here, take mine.”

Couriway blinks.

Fruit doesn’t seem to notice Couri’s stunned expression; instead, he shrugs Tapl’s jacket from his shoulders and drapes it neatly over his arm. “Tapl didn’t have… physical wings to hide, but it looks like it’ll be big enough on you.”

Couriway blinks again, reliving the memory of an orange jacket slung over Fruit’s shoulder.

Screams echo in his skull. Rain drenches his hair. 

Blood splatters on the pavement.

“Are you good?” Fruit asks, squinting at Couriway.

“Oh, yeah,” Couri responds, setting his jaw. “Just didn’t expect that.”

Fruit snorts. “What, you think I can’t get rid of this thing?”

“No,” Couriway starts to protest.

“Oh, poor Fruit, can’t bear to let go of his dead friend’s jacket,” Fruit grins, watching Couri’s face scrunch up. “Is that what you think?”

“Listen, man,” Couri says, cutting himself off as Fruit shoves Tapl’s jacket into his arms. 

“Just put the damn coat on,” Fruit brushes past Couriway. “Don’t worry, I washed it.”

Couriway does as he’s told; the waistcoat fits snugly around his wings, without much bunching in the back, unlike his uniform. 

“It just feels weird,” Couriway says, earning a soft chuckle from Fruit as the duo exit Fruit’s cottage. 

“Why, ‘cause you killed him?”

Couriway freezes. “What?”

Fruit grins, clapping Couri on the shoulder. “I’m just fucking with you.”

The dull flicker of sorrow in Fruit’s eye is unmistakable, as is the dread in Couriway’s chest.

Kayfour’s hands glide gently across the keys of a grand piano. She pays no attention to the notes resonating in the empty hall, instead focusing on the air rhythmically entering her lungs; the faded sunlight caressing her skin. 

Kayfour’s gaze remains trained on the castle’s gates across the hall, left half open. She hasn’t bothered to close them.

Earlier, Kayfour wondered, for a fleeting second, where Couriway had gone before they took their place at the piano.

As far as Kayfour is aware, Couri hasn’t been outside in weeks. He’s near constantly shut away in his study, working tirelessly on something that is, evidently, more important than Kayfour. 

For a moment, Kayfour’s mind wanders to Tapl.

His mind wanders to orange-gold eyes, brimming with warmth. It wanders to soft, carefree laughter and hardened resolve beneath gentleness.

Kayfour recalls the same hardened gaze, accompanied by the rumbling of thunder and shattered glass, by blood washed away by rainwater. Kayfour recalls it reflecting in dark eyes, masking something much deeper, messier; Harder to push away.

He’s seen it somewhere else, too.

The creaking of the castle gates stirs Kayfour from their thoughts. 

Kayfour stands. “Couri.”

Couriway shuffles into the Great Hall, wearing—hold on.

Is that Tapl’s jacket?  

Fruitberries follows Couriway into the hall, looking awfully underdressed without the orange waistcoat he’s been wearing for what feels like years.

Couriway allows Tapl’s jacket to slip from his arms and hands it to Fruit, who throws it over his shoulder. 

The gates squeak closed. 

Kayfour’s eyes trace over the golden feathers peeking out from behind Couri’s shoulders.

“You,” Kayfour rasps, as if out of breath. “You showed him?”

Couri nods. 

A million emotions rush through Kayfour’s head. They can’t seem to settle on one. “How— why?”

Couri opens his mouth to speak, but Fruit interrupts him. “He had to. I was going to kill him if he didn’t.”

Kayfour knows this to be a lie, but Fruit may genuinely believe it. “What do you mean?”

“I showed him my wings, Kayfour, because he deserved to know the truth.” Couri says, so softly Kayfour almost can’t hear him.

Kayfour can’t hide their scowl as their stomach churns with dread. “And, what? No one else does?”

“No.” Couri approaches Kayfour, placing a hand on the piano. “That is privileged information.”

Something in Kayfour breaks open.

“Bullshit,”  Kayfour mutters.

“What?”

“Bullshit,” Kayfour snaps, slamming the piano’s lid shut, causing Couri to jump. “Tapl deserved to know, too. You didn’t tell him, did you? Why’d you tell him—“ Kayfour gestures rigidly to Fruit. “—After everything he’s done?”

Fruit huffs from behind Couri, but says nothing. Kayfour is thankful for that, at least.

“Kayfour, please,” Couri says, and he sounds sincere, but Kayfour can’t find forgiveness within himself just yet. “That’s in the past, okay? We’re trying to move forward.”

“We?” Kayfour spits. “So, what, you two are best friends now?”

“No.” Couri takes hold of Kayfour’s wrist, placing his other hand on her palm. “You and me. Remember?”

Kayfour’s eyes focus on her hand, then drift upward to meet Couri’s gaze.

Couri smiles, squeezing Kayfour’s hand. His eyes sparkle in the cracking dawn. “I need you.” 

Kayfour nods, swallowing thickly.

“Fruit’s just on the same page now.” Couri lets go of Kayfour’s hand to gesture at Fruitberries, who has joined the two at the piano. “That’s it. Kayfour, I’m not replacing you.”

“Sorry,” Kayfour says, looking away. “I haven’t seen you for days, and then you come in with him, and your wings, I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”

“Who else knows?” Fruit drawls, his voice rough.

Fruitberries isn’t as unaffected by Kayfour’s words as she once thought. Guilt wraps its ice-cold fingers around Kayfour’s heart. She struggles to pry its grip away.

“Just you two,” Couri answers, glancing between Kayfour and Fruit. “As far as I know.”

Fruit nods, crossing his arms over his chest. “So, that thing you were going to show me?”

“Oh, yeah.” Couri replies, crossing the Great Hall and stopping at the base of a large staircase. “Follow me. Kayfour, you come too.”

Couriway opens the door to his study, gesturing for Fruit and Kayfour to enter. Couri is the last to go in, plucking a spare white uniform top from the rack on the wall as he closes the door behind him.

Couriway forgot how much of a dump this place is.

Papers and various other items are strewn everywhere. A lofty stack of books sits on his desk, with even more piled on the couch by his window, left ajar.

Couri flattens his wings against his back and shrugs his coat on, chuckling abashedly at Kayfour and Fruit’s stunned expressions. “I have been researching The End,” he declares, as if that explains the bomb that went off in the room. “I looked through pretty much every book in the archive.”

Kayfour’s expression twists. “Is this about that shit I told you to drop forever ago?”

Couri presses his lips together, traces of guilt flickering in his gut.

Kayfour groans, hissing at Couri in a whisper. “You are insane. You can’t possibly be thinking about telling Fruit you’re trying to r—“

“Find someone!” Couri interjects.”I am trying to find someone. Um, a lot of the books about the End had pages missing or torn out, so I figured it must be connected to the missing person wiped from the archives, so here I am! With absolutely zero luck so far.”

“Missing person?” Fruit’s tone remains neutral, unreadable. 

Couriway can’t tell if Fruit caught his lie or not.

Willing his doubt away, Couriway leans against his desk chair. “Yeah. Someone called Prince Nerdi.”

“Nerdi,” Kayfour repeats under their breath, staring at the carpet.

Couri raises an eyebrow. “You know them?”

“I don’t know, but that name… it sounds familiar.” Kayfour looks up, meeting Couri‘s eyes. “How did you find out about them?”

The door bursts open, nearly flying off its hinges. 

“Skies above,” Couri yelps, almost knocking his chair over as he whirls to face the door.

In the doorway, Fulham stands doubled over as he gasps for breath.

Couriway exhales. It’s just Lewis. Crisis averted.

Fulham lifts his head, his strained expression relaxing when he spots Fruit. “Fruit, there you are! I thought—“ he pauses to gulp air.

“Slow down.” Couri approaches Fulham and guides him to the couch. “What happened?”

After Fruit clumsily shoves some books aside, which land on the floor with a thunk, Fulham sits down.

Couriway flinches; Fruit’s lucky he’s the guest of honor, or else he would be getting a lecture worthy of Couriway’s missing crown.

“Look,” Fulham rasps, waving a piece of paper in Couri’s face. “I found it nailed to Fruit’s door. I haven’t the faintest idea what it says, but I couldn’t find him, so I thought, maybe, I don’t know.”

Scrawled on the page are strange characters that Couri doesn’t understand, but vaguely recognizes. “This is the same language on the scroll you showed me.”

Kayfour leans over Couri's shoulder, their breath hitching. 

Kayfour knows something, and judging by the way she glances at Couri, Kayfour is aware of Couri’s realization.

“I,” Kayfour says slowly, looking away. “I can read it.”

All eyes burn into Kayfour. She seems to ponder something before speaking. “It’s galactic. Tapl taught me.” 

When Kayfour speaks, it sounds like she’s gritting her teeth. Couriway doesn’t blame her.

From behind Couriway, Fruit chokes on a startled grunt, but he says nothing.

“What does it say?” Fulham asks.

“Um,” Kayfour mumbles, stiltedly taking the paper from Couriway. 

After a moment of tense silence , Kayfour begins to read the note aloud. 

“Tapl,

 

If you get this, please come to our meeting spot ASAP. 

We are worried. 

If you can’t find it, try a bird’s eye view.

 

Your friends, 

Geo, Nerdi, and Marcus.”

Fruit chuckles dryly. “That’s convenient.”

When Fruit laughs, Couriway gets the uncanny feeling there’s something afoot. Fruit knows something, and he’s choosing not to say it, but why?

“No kidding.” Fulham gapes at Kayfour. “How long have you been keeping that secret?”

Kayfour hands the paper back to Couri, her gaze fixed somewhere on the wall.

Couriway elects to ignore Kayfour’s odd behavior. “Nerdi,” he says. “Spelled with an I?”

“Yeah,” Kayfour whispers.

“Some coincidence.” Couri shakes his head incredulously, folding the note and slipping it in his pocket.

“Unless it’s not,” Kayfour says, finally tearing his eyes from the wall. 

There it is.

Couriway frowns. “What do you mean?”

“A long time ago,” Kayfour begins, their fingers tapping nervously against the side of the couch. “Tapl… He talked about some old friends of his that made sacrifices—“ Kayfour enunciates the word with air quotes, “—for him. He, well, he was never very specific. Kept a lot of things vague, but maybe these, um, sacrifices are the reason this Nerdi person and the others are close to HBG but aren’t citizens.”

Couriway glances at the faces in the room, each in varying states of unease. 

“Well?” Couri breaks the tense silence. “We have to go find them.”

“Skies, no,” Kayfour retorts. “Are you out of your mind? I, for one, am never going anywhere near those woods again.”

Couri turns to Fulham, who grimaces sheepishly. 

Good grief.

Fulham nods in Kayfour’s direction. “I’m with her.”

“I’ll go with you,” Fruit pipes up from behind Couri, his hoarse voice driving needles into Couri’s heart.

“Really?” Couri turns to Fruit, his callous expression softening. “You don’t have to.”

“I said I’ll go,” Fruit repeats, burying his hands in the pockets of Tapl’s jacket. “The Run is easy street compared to the Nether.”

“Kayfour, Fulham, can you give us a minute?” Couri gestures to the pair behind him, but doesn’t turn around.

“Mhm,” Kayfour hums, disappearing into the hallway. 

Fulham nods, standing. “Sure.”

Fruit strides across the room, the floorboards beneath the carpet squeaking as he carefully avoids the clutter on the floor. He settles into the chair next to Couriway’s desk, gazing at Couri lazily, but expectantly.

Couriway awkwardly nudges the door closed, scanning the mess in his study.

“Are you okay?” He asks, hesitant.

Fruit shrugs, an expert deflection. “Are you?”

Couriway isn’t sure how to answer that.

“You have something on your mind,” Fruit states, as if it's an undeniable truth. “Tell me.”

“It’s just one thing.” Couriway lets the words tumble from his mouth in a tentative leap of faith before he can stop it. 

“What’s that?” Fruit asks, a low, calm simmer to his voice.

Couriway braces himself. “You’re not afraid of me.”

Fruit snorts from across the room, absently fidgeting with the pages of a book. “You’re not scared of me. That’s the real mystery.”

“What?”

Fruit places the book on the desk in front of him. He tucks a wisp of hair behind his ear as he tilts his head to stare at the ceiling. “Y’know, I think I know what your deal is.”

The tight fists at Couriway’s sides loosen. He meets Fruit’s eyes, which are now focused on him. “Enlighten me.”

Fruitberries clears his throat, his gaze drifting to the floor. “You weren’t scared of me. I was trying to, I guess, prove that it’s correct to be scared of me or something, I dunno—“

“I told you, Fruit, I don’t think of you like that.” Couriway says. “I know you didn’t want to hurt me.”

“Yeah.” Fruit nods. “But you were scared.”

“Which begs the question.” Fruitberries stands, smoothing the wrinkles in Tapl’s jacket. “What were you scared of?” 

Fruit towers over Couriway, but the King faces him unintimidated, head tilted inquisitively to the side. 

“I think it’s got something to do with why you don’t wear that crown anymore.” Fruit gestures vaguely to Couri. 

Couriway doesn’t have to run an unsteady hand through his hair to know where his crown isn’t, but he does it anyway. 

“You wanna know what I think?” Fruit sounds almost bored, his eyes half-lidded as they lay fixed on something just past Couri.

“I think,” Fruit repeats. “You’re scared of yourself, Couriway.”

The howls of the wind outside are all that keeps silence from suffocating Couriway.

“We should go,” Couri says. “The sun will set soon.”

Couriway stares into the depths of the Run, Fruitberries sprawled on the grass by his side. 

Couri recounts the words of the note in his head one more time.

Meeting spot… We’re worried… Bird’s eye view, bird’s eye view, bird’s—

“Bird’s eye view.” Couri blurts.

Fruit lifts his head, staring at Couriway. “Huh?”

“Tapl can fly, right?” Couri explains, tripping over his words. “Bird’s eye view. They’re telling him to fly over the woods.”

“What good does that do us?” Fruit groans as he stands, brushing the grass from his pants. “We can’t— Oh.”

Before Fruit has time to blink, Couri throws his jacket on the ground for the second time that day, grabs Fruit by the arms and rockets them both into the sky.

Fruitberries subdues a yelp, scrabbling at Couriway’s arms as the ground disappears below him. “Warn me next time!” He shouts over the wind whistling in his ears.

Fruit bats his fluttering hair away from his face, craning his neck to study Couriway’s concentrated expression. 

When it comes to Fruit, Couriway doesn’t hesitate. He just does.

Whatever the cost.

“You,” Couri draws Fruit closer to his chest, adjusting his hold. “You’re kind of heavy.”

Fruit’s stomach jumps as he’s jostled in Couriway’s arms. “Gee, thanks.”

“Fruit, look.” Couri points at something near the ground. Fruit’s eyes follow where he’s pointing, settling on a patch of trees far below. As Fruit stomach continues to churn, he spots a few rows of wooden shingles, barely lighter than the branches obscuring them.

Couriway hovers in place for a moment; Fruit listens to the rhythmic flapping of Couri’s wings as he bobs in the air, much like the rocking of a boat. It would almost be soothing if they weren’t hundreds of feet in the air.

“What are we waiting for?” Fruit asks. 

Couriway looks down at Fruit. “I dunno—it’s weird. This could be a trap or something.”

Fruit shakes his head, chuckling. “If anything goes wrong, we can fly away.”

“Dude,” Couriway retorts. “Easy for you to say, you’re not the one who has to carry you.”

Fruit quirks an eyebrow, signaling Couri to watch his mouth. “Aren’t you curious, though?”

Without another word, Couri folds his wings and plummets toward the ground. 

“Sweet Lady Universe,” Fruit yelps, squeezing his eyes shut. “Can you stop doing that?”

“It’s easier if I don’t warn you.” Couriway lands on the forest floor with barely a wobble. He sets Fruit on the ground, who has forgotten how to use his legs.

Fruit staggers forward, scrabbling fingers clinging to Couri to regain his balance. “Sorry,” he mutters, hastily letting go and backing away.

Couriway, evidently, is preoccupied, his eyes locked on something near the skyline.

Again, Fruit follows Couriway’s gaze.

About forty feet above the ground, sits a small wooden cabin nestled in the treetops. It’s nothing too fancy, just oak siding and a few small windows. Fruit squints to get a better look; a rather rickety looking ladder leads to a door that doesn’t quite fit in the doorway. One of its hinges is missing.

Couri lets out a sharp exhale, and Fruit’s head jerks in his direction. 

“Here goes nothing,” Couri mutters. He places his hands on one of the bottom rungs of the ladder and begins to climb. 

Hesitantly, Fruit follows, leaving a few rungs of distance between him and Couri.

Couri climbs onto a small ledge just outside the door, and turns around to clasp his hand around Fruit’s, hoisting Fruit onto the ledge beside him.

“Thanks,” Fruit whispers, acutely aware of muffled noises coming from inside the cabin.

“You wanna do the honors or should I?” Couriway asks, peering at Fruit over his glasses.

Fruit rolls his eyes, then raps his knuckles against the door.

The shuffling inside gets louder, approaching the door. 

Fruit listens with bated breath as a latch clicks, then a knob turns. 

The door squeaks open.

A young man, taller than Couri but shorter than Fruit, dressed in a cloak dyed a deep violet, stands in the doorway. A tuft of almost-white hair peeks out from under his hood. Wide eyes behind rounded lenses scan Fruit first, then Couri.

Something about this guy captivates Fruit; he’s not sure what.

Fruit tries to speak, but finds no words.

Luckily, Couriway does.

“Nerdi?”

“Yeah,” the man in the doorway—Nerdi—replies slowly. “Who are you?”

Couri doesn’t answer. Instead, he grins, turning to Fruit. “Who needs a compass when you’re Couriway?”

“Chill,” Fruit says under his breath, a subtle hint to his unease.

Nerdi glances between Fruit and Couri. “Couriway,” he says thoughtfully. “You’re the new King?”

Fruit snickers. He likes this guy. “Weird, right?”

“Dude.” Couri’s feathers bristle behind him. “I’m never flying you anywhere again.”

“Hold up,” Nerdi sputters, grinning. “He carried you?”

“My wings did most of the work,” Couri admits, before Fruit can say anything else to embarrass him.

“Wings?” Nerdi gawks, his grin widening. “I can’t believe Gran— uh, you guys have a King with wings?”

Fruit watches Couri’s expression carefully, marveling at how it gives nothing away.

“Yeah.” Is all Couri offers in response. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Nerdi stammers, and his bubbly excitement reminds Fruit of Tapl. “So, what, are you guys cool with that now? Is— Is Tapl okay? Can he fly, too?”

Fruit’s heart squeezes. The knife twists.

Fruit flinches, absently reaching up to wrap his fingers around his scarf, his knuckles quickly turning white.

Couri’s stone-faced facade falters.

“Um…” Couri’s voice crackles. He doesn’t bother to clear his throat. “That’s actually what we’re here to talk about.”

Nerdi’s grin fades into a somber smile, as if he’d already known. “Yeah,” he says, stepping away from the door. “Come in.”

The inside of the cabin is just as dilapidated as the outside. The decaying floorboards creak as Fruit saunters inside. Couriway glances at him warily. Fruit returns a shrug, turning back to the cramped room.

The room sports little furniture—only a few chairs, a table near the center of the room, and three piles of blankets that must be makeshift sleeping quarters. The cabin’s walls appear to bend slightly inward at first, but after Fruit blinks the effect dissipates. That, coupled with the scattered candles offering the only source of light makes the secluded cabin and its occupants appear dreamlike, a mirage in the vast desert.

A deep sense of sorrow spills into Fruit’s chest. He tries to will it away, but something tells him it will persist as long as he remains inside.

Fruit nearly fails to notice the two men seated near the far corner of the cabin, shrouded in almost complete darkness. One of them is sitting on the floor absorbed in a book, sporting deep black hair that obscures his face and a frayed gray sweater. Next to him, another man sits in a chair. The man looks up, waving. Lavender curls frame his face, half of which is covered by a yellow scarf, but Fruit can tell he’s smiling.

“Hi.” Couri stands awkwardly in the doorway. “I’m Couriway. The, uh, the King of HBG.”

“I’m Fruit.” Fruit offers a lethargic wave.

“Oh, you’re Fruit? Short for Fruitberries?” Nerdi walks backward into the cabin, allowing Fruit and Couri more space. “Tapl talked about you sometimes. Well, a lot, actually. I never got the chance to meet you.”

“Weird.” Fruit frowns, pulling the door closed, making sure to leave it unlatched, just in case. “He never talked about you.”

Nerdi bows. “I’m Nerdi, though, I guess you know that already.” He chuckles nervously. “I’m part Shulker and Prince of the End Cities. I made the map that friend of yours has.”

The man with the book glances up for a split second. “Geo, short for Geosquare,” and after the man sitting next to him elbows him, “Enderman.”

“Endermite.” The scarved man waves again. “Oh, but my name is Marcus, sometimes my friends call me Fireworks.”

“So,” Couriway leans against the table while Fruit stays near the door, scanning each of them. “You’re all…”

“Hyrbrids?” Nerdi finishes. “Yeah. We’re all from the End. That’s why we are known as the Princes of the End. Designated by the Universe to protect the Ender Dragon.”

“Designated by the Universe?” Fruit echoes, gazing sightlessly at the floor. “Tapl mentioned something like that once.”

“Yep,” Nerdi adds. “He’s… different, but still blessed by Her Majesty. Without him, we are incomplete.”

“He was the most important of us all.” Fireworks says, voice wavering.

“That part I understand,” Fruit comments, his hands finding their way to his pockets.

When Fruit looks up, Nerdi is staring at him. 

“So,” Nerdi fiddles with his collar. “What brings you here?”

“We got your note,” Couriway answers after Fruit says nothing. “We thought you could help us. There’s still a lot we don’t know.”

Fruit hums lowly in agreement. “If you really are so powerful, helping us find out HBG’s secrets shouldn’t be that hard.”

“The blessing of the Universe isn't something to be trifled with.” Geosquare stands, flipping the pages of his book. “In the wrong hands, it can burn civilizations to the ground.” Snapping his book shut, he levels his gaze with Couriway. “Why should we help you, one chosen by the traitor King?”

“Traitor?” Couriway whispers.

Fruit scowls, stepping forward to square up with Geo.

Couriway blinks and places a steadying hand on Fruit’s shoulder. “We have the same goal,” he says, his gaze drifting from the book in Geo’s hands to his dark eyes. “We want to find out what happened to Tapl.”

Geosquare’s eyes narrow. “We know what happened to him.”

Couriway glances at Fruit, watching the crinkle in his brow tense. “Firsthand?”

Geo’s glare falters. He sizes Fruitberries up, his stare lingering on the sword at Fruit’s hip, the gold laced in the blade peeking above its scabbard. “He knows? He’s who Harvey left us for?”

“You sure have a lot to say for some nerd without a weapon.” Fruit shrugs Couri’s hand off his shoulder, gripping the hilt of Tapl’s sword. 

Geosquare blinks over to Couriway, his eyebrows raised. 

“Hey, over here,” Fruit snarls at Geo, stepping in front of Couriway. “I was talking to you, smart guy.”

Geosquare’s lip quirks downward. “I know. I was hoping you’d take the hint.” 

Geo glares at Fruit, his eyes flashing bright purple. It lasts for only a second, but Couriway manages to catch its reflection in his glasses. 

Suddenly, Fruit lets out a strained gasp and staggers backward, bumping into Couriway and almost knocking them both over.

“Fruit?” Couriway catches Fruit by the arm, circling around to stand between Fruit and Geosquare. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“You…” Fruit looks up, but he doesn't meet Couri’s eyes. Instead, his gaze is trained just over Couri’s head. “How… what did you just do?”

Geosquare hums. “Huh. So he did give you his power.”

“His power?” Fruit stammers in a whisper. 

Geo nods, unfazed by Fruit’s panicked tone. “What did She say to you?”

“She…” Fruit mutters under his breath, looking back at the floor. “She said…”

“Geo, that’s enough!” Nerdi strides over to where Geosquare stands over Couriway and Fruit. “Can’t you see it’s too much for him? Don't you know we’re on the same side?”

Geosquare crosses his arms over his book, his fingers drumming its spine. “I had to be sure.”

Nerdi’s shoulders slump. “You’re unbelievable.”

Couri turns to Nerdi, then to Geosquare, glaring. “Start talking. Now. What did you just do to Fruit?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Geo answers coolly. “She did.”

Couri’s head is starting to spin, but Fruit doesn’t look hurt, just dazed. “She?”

“Lady Universe,” Nerdi explains with a pointed sigh. “What Geo means to say is that the Universe spoke to Fruit just now. The Universe can communicate with those She blesses.”

Geo rolls his eyes, but he nods in agreement.

Couriway frowns. “I'm not an idiot.”