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Pixl’s hands were sweating on the hilt of his sword as he lunged towards the dragon, her great wings blocking out the purple sky. There were still a few end crystals casting unearthly light across the stone, belatedly placed, but it was far too late- the dragon was panting, flight unsteady and claws clutching at the spire where she was perched.
“This is it,” he said to no one, and Joel, standing at his side and bringing his sword down on its scales again and again, flashed him a grim, savage smile, face splattered with purple blood.
Joey circled above them on his brightly-colored elytra and came plunging downwards, blade striking true and ending hilt-deep in her back, and the dragon screamed, patches of her scales flaking away at the rush of white light spreading from the injury. Somewhere nearby, Sausage screamed, triumphant and hysterical, but Pixl heard it for no more than moments before a heavy feeling of terror rose, slamming the breath from his lungs and making him waver where he stood.
Something was about to happen. He’d felt this before, in the brief shocked moments before incomprehensible tragedy, like stepping onto sand and finding it falling from beneath you.
They had made a mistake.
“Oh, no,” he said, indistinctly, ears ringing. “No-”
“What have you done,” Fwhip said, brimming with devastation.
Pixl’s vision was glitching, flashes of an all-too-familiar red, and he struggled to breathe, so overwhelmed by the feeling of wrongness that it was hard to tell where it ended and he began. The ground underneath him was sand, soft and sliding and unstable, and something flickered in his vision.
“Fwhip?” he asked, reaching out blindly. It was impossible to tell where he was, where anyone was, if he was even in the End at all anymore- vague images and colors kept passing through his vision, terrifying and incomprehensible. Beneath the horrified gasps and exclamations, he could hear static. “Fwhip, what’s happening?”
The glitching was getting worse, red crackling across his vision like bloody lightning, and he could see-
He could see the Vigil. It was translucent but somehow so real, realer than the world around him, but hazy like a heat mirage. It stood up from the spire, ring of candles mirroring the empty well, and the dying dragon looked almost tangled in the top.
Pixl could smell the desert wind, felt it tugging insistently at his hair, his robes, his elytra, and for a moment his vision went black, leaving only the vigil behind. It stood like a sentinel, or maybe a lighthouse, a guardian and a warning sign all at once.
“This is wrong,” he said, panicky and fast, unable to even hear his own voice over the ever-increasing static. “Something is very, very wrong.”
His vision sparked into red and black, the static was filling his skull with no space left for thought, and the ground disappeared from under his feet as he collapsed.
He woke up chest-deep in water to Lizzie, beside him with an arm looped under his, shouting, “Joey, what did you do?!”
“What just…” He blinked, sluggishly, and lifted his head. He couldn’t see straight, vision fuzzy and spotted with black. “What just happened?”
Lizzie shot him a concerned glance and readjusted her grip on his arm- now that he was coming back to his body, he could tell Joel was holding him on the other side, the two of them keeping him from pitching forwards.
She couldn’t say anything to him, though, because the argument was continuing- Joey was talking, and he tried to make out the words as he struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on Lizzie. She shifted to hold onto his waist once he was upright, and Joel gripped his other shoulder, not actively supporting him but ready to if he looked unsteady again.
The argument was hard to follow, words heard but barely understood, and all he could really focus on was the uncontrollable tremor in his hands, the anger and fear as palpable as a fist around his throat, making it hard to breathe.
The danger wasn’t over. The thing he’d felt hadn’t yet arrived. It had just begun.
He only realized that the demon had appeared when the shouts turned to gasps, and he looked up to one of the towers to see Xornoth smiling down at them in silence, purple-red light spilling like smoke from its mouth, crowned now with massive, arching black horns, almost connecting above its head.
He wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but it seemed to be staring at him, its unnatural grin fixed on its face. He stared back, and his hands were freezing from more than the water and the void.
Pixl’s vision flickered.
He wasn’t sure who first said it, but suddenly everyone was shouting out and he tugged weakly at Lizzie, dragging her towards the portal. After a moment’s frozen shock, she went, and he shoved her towards the well, ducking away from her hold so he could help Gem herd Joey back into the portal.
When he fell into the well, he landed with a heavy thump on one of the paths and crumpled to his knees, granite digging into his palms. He was soaking wet still, but that wouldn’t be the case for long in the midday sun.
He took shuddering, heaving breaths for a while, the world spinning around him. His surroundings, this city that he himself had built, felt crushing, with its narrow alleys and flat walls.
“Sir?” someone asked. “Lord Pixl?”
He startled at a hand on his shoulder and blinked uncomprehendingly up at the person beside him- one of the messengers, by the trident slung over their shoulder, and one he recognized though he couldn’t seem to remember their name.
“Sir?” they asked again and knelt, red braid sliding forwards over their shoulder as they leaned towards him. He waved off their hands and forced himself to his feet, painful and slow. The ground pitched and rolled beneath him like the deck of a ship, though there was no body of water large enough to permit one around for miles upon miles, and the messenger’s concerned expression was fuzzy and indistinct.
“I’m fine,” he rasped.
“Your majesty,” the messenger said, reaching a hesitant hand out to touch his arm despite the water. “I- are you sure?”
“Yes,” he said, and lifted his head, though even that minute adjustment made his head scream. The crown of copper on his head felt like it was burning somehow, though he knew it wasn’t, and he took it off, fingers shaking so hard he was almost afraid he would drop it.
“I’m sure you have duties,” he said when they didn’t leave, each word feeling like a monumental effort. They stared at him, mouth opening and closing like they weren’t sure what to say.
“Sir, are you…” They took a quick breath. “Pixl. Are you okay?”
He breathed. Straightened out his sodden sleeves, set the too-heavy crown back on his head, ignored the hazy, feverish pain that seemed to fill every fragment of space in his skull.
“Yes,” he said again. “I’m fine. Thank you for your concern. You’re free to continue what you were doing.”
“...yes, sir,” they said unwillingly, and walked away. For a moment, he watched them go, then gathered himself together.
There was no one else to see him- it was practically midday, hot enough that all of Pixandria’s citizens would be inside if at all possible- even the messenger had probably just been hurrying between buildings, and wouldn’t have lingered if he hadn’t collapsed.
He leaned against the wall, pressing his head to the sandstone; it was cooler, on this side where the sun hadn’t been hitting directly, and it was a relief, taking away a bit of the dizziness.
Pixl could tell he had a fever- he just couldn’t think straight enough to do anything about it, too overcome by the headache. His vision kept flashing red and black with the aftereffects of what he’d seen, and his hearing was still glitchy and inconsistent.
Eventually, he dragged himself upright, though he kept a hand on the wall to make sure his balance didn’t fail. He needed to do… something. Just make a decision, maybe.
People had died, in that fight- in the dungeon preceding it, too, he couldn’t quite remember but he knew that Jimmy had died at least once. The dragon fight had been a mess and he knew the Vigil needed to be updated. It was his duty, the reason he had built Pixandria in the first place, when a gentler vision had come to him and he’d seen it reaching hungrily towards the sky.
He hadn’t seen this.
He needed to update the Vigil but he was too disoriented to remember how many candles it was owed, his hands too shaky to light them, and when he thought about it nausea rose in his throat, glitches overtaking his vision again.
Pixl turned away from where he could see the Vigil peeking out from behind the buildings and stumbled down the street, towards the kingdom’s edges. Once he passed the last row of houses, he fumbled for the straps of his armor.
That armor marked him as a leader, a guardian, the one who had built this city from nothing and the one who would guide it into the future with steady hands. It was an honor, a blessing, the physical representation of his people’s trust.
He hadn’t seen what was coming early enough to avoid putting his people in danger. He could still see the traces of black-purple blood crusted beneath his nails, evidence of his foolishness, evidence of the creature he had helped to let loose.
If he would do something like that, despite all the warning signs… he wasn’t worthy of it. Pixandria’s survival wasn’t dependent on him; either his citizens were capable enough to live without him, or Xornoth would raze the kingdom to the sands and whether or not he remained would mean nothing. He wouldn’t be missed.
The crown was the first thing he removed, letting it fall in the sands. Perhaps someone would find it and see it for the message it was. It was far enough from the city that no one could follow- the winds would sweep away his trail before anyone noticed his absence.
He unbuckled his armor with numb fingers as he walked, letting each piece fall with a dead thump into the sand. The last thing to go was his shield, the pattern scratched and stained, and when it thudded to the ground he had to stop and stare at it for a moment.
The wind picked up, making him cough and squint at the sand it carried, and left a faint dusting of it across the brightly-painted surface. Some small part of him ached to wipe it off again, but he ignored it.
Soon enough it would be swallowed by the unforgiving desert, just like everything else.
He kept walking.
His path was wobbly and inconsistent- his vision kept fading, and he’d jerk back to awareness at a missed step or awkward stumble when his stomach swooped. Still, he thought he was heading mostly north, and soon enough he had confirmation- a small village came into view.
He’d stayed there before, and his fever was getting to be too much to handle- he could barely see, let alone think straight. Hopefully, he could find someplace to sleep until the worst of the heat was over, at least.
When he arrived, though, uneasy faces watched him from the windows, and there were indistinct whispers surrounding him, judgemental and worried.
One of the villagers approached him, the only one not to draw away. When he walked towards them, they shook their head and made stopping motions with their hands.
“...what?” he asked, completely lost.
They shook their head again, more emphatically, and he tried to blink away the blurriness of his vision.
“Please,” he managed. “I need-”
There was a quiet cry from somewhere in the village, and an adult grabbed at the hand of a child, pulling them back to be concealed behind their parent’s skirts.
Away from him.
“Oh,” he thought he said. “Okay.”
They knew. Of course they knew. The dragon’s death would have sent ripples across every world, every empire.
Pixl wanted to cry.
He didn’t- no sense in wasting water. Instead, he turned and walked away, deeper into the desert.
The sun was going down, turning scarlet against the sands. He kept walking.
The moon was rising, burning silver, the desert night making his still-too-cold hands even colder. He kept walking.
By the time the sun was rising again, gold like candlelight, lantern light, Vigil light, he could hardly put one foot in front of the other. Exhaustion was dragging him downwards, making his feet slip in the sand, and he could tell he was dangerously dehydrated, after so much time in the unforgiving desert.
His fever hadn’t improved, either; neither had the aftershocks of the vision, and every so often he would see the Vigil, the Vigil, always the Vigil, lightning and red sparks and crushing darkness.
It wasn’t really a surprise when he collapsed, barely feeling the impact. He rolled onto his back so that his face wasn’t crushed into the sand and blinked back exhausted tears.
There was nothing to be done now except for stare up at the circling vultures, waiting for him to die.
Pixl drifted in and out of consciousness, not quite tracking the sun as it crept higher, and listened to the dry rushing of the wind across the sand. It brought some of the grains scattering across his face, and he blinked them away but couldn’t summon the energy to raise his hand and brush them away, even as it started to itch.
He was startled from one of his bouts of sleep by a voice in the distance, words he couldn’t make out but a voice that was familiar. He tried to listen for it again, through the static.
“Pixl!”
He blinked, unable to lift his head to check if it was a hallucination. It was easy to guess, anyway- there was next to no chance he’d be found.
The call came again, closer this time, he thought. “Pixl! Where are you?”
He licked his lips, though they were no less dry afterwards, and tried to shout back. All that he managed was a hoarse, nearly-silent rasp.
“Pixl?” the voice asked again, and he closed his eyes against the sunlight.
It would be so nice if it was real.
A shadow fell across him, and he wanted to see what it was but he couldn’t quite find the willpower to open his eyes.
“Oh my god,” the voice whispered, and it was even more familiar, enough that he thought he should know who it belonged to. “Oh, no- Pixl? Can you hear me?”
He tried to respond, but the sound slurred and tripped on its way out of his throat. It was good enough for the voice, though, because they said, “Good, good, okay-”
Knees hit the sand, and hands flitted across his chest, landed on his forehead for a moment before they pulled away with a hiss. Something clinked.
“Can you open your eyes for me, please?”
Somehow, he did. Above him, Lizzie smiled, brow creased with worry.
“There you are,” she said. “Hey, Pix.”
“Lizzzz…” The sound trailed off, and he groaned. “What…”
“The vultures brought me,” she said, brushing hair off his burning forehead. “You’ll be alright, yeah?”
“Mm,” he said, indistinctly, and she lifted his head to rest it on her knees, tipping his head enough that she could hold a bottle to his lips.
“Slowly,” she ordered, and he obeyed. Gradually, they worked their way through the bottle and then another, a little bit of food, and potions once he had something in his stomach- healing, regen, strength. With their aid and Lizzie’s, he managed to sit up.
“What on earth happened?” she asked.
“I couldn’t stay in Pixandria,” he admitted. “I didn’t… know where to go.”
“You could have come to me.”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
She sighed, and took his hands in hers, noting the way they were still shaking.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
He tried to speak, but she squeezed his hands, leaning forwards enough that he was forced to look at her.
“No,” she said firmly. “I know what you can do, and it doesn’t matter. We all played a part.”
“Something’s coming,” he rasped. “And I don’t know what it is or how to stop it.”
“Then we’ll figure it out.”
He slumped against her shoulder, head pounding, utterly exhausted even with the strength potion still humming in his bloodstream. She patted his hair.
“We were worried about you, you know,” she said. “In case you felt like going back to this the minute I let you out of my sight.”
He shook his head, too tired to speak, and she got to her feet, pulling him up beside her.
“Can you walk?” she asked, typing on her communicator with her free hand. He shook his head, and if he’d been more aware he probably would have been ashamed at his lack of self-sufficiency but as it was, he just let himself be carried and held on as tightly as he could manage.
The world faded into blackness again, but this time he wasn’t worried.
Pixl woke up in a bed he didn’t recognize.
He wasn’t in so much pain- the headache was still there, but it was quieter, and distant. He hadn’t noticed the pain in his entire body before, but he noticed it was gone, and the fuzziness wasn’t exhaustion or incoherency but the feeling of being on just a few too many potions.
He startled at a knock on the door, and looked up as Lizzie came in. She brightened when she saw him awake, hurrying to sit in the chair by his bed and setting her bag on the floor.
“Good, you’re awake,” she said. “We were getting worried, but my doctors figured you needed the rest.”
“Thank you,” he said, for lack of anything else to say.
She smiled for a moment before it dropped. “Do you remember what happened?”
“Most of it, I think,” he said, scratching at a thin spot on the blanket. “How did you find me?”
“I started getting swarmed by vultures,” she said. “Which seemed fairly urgent, so I went to Pixandra, spoke to a messenger of yours who was worried. Once I figured out which direction you were headed in I flew that way, and called the others to search basically everywhere else in case I was wrong.”
“Oh,” he said.
“I meant it when I said they were worried,” she added, softer. “Everyone- except for Sausage and Joey, but they’re… well, not really themselves- came to help.”
“Sorry for the trouble,” he said, forcing a laugh. “If I’d known what an inconvenience-”
“-you still would have done it,” she interrupted. “You just would have covered your tracks better. Don’t, Pixl.”
He said nothing. His hands were trembling where they rested on the blanket, and he clenched them into fists, tight enough to hurt.
There was still blood under his fingernails.
“I brought this,” Lizzie added, and he looked up in time to see her pull something from the bag- his crown, clean and shining.
“Lizzie,” he said.
“Shut up and put the crown on, Copper King.”
“Lizzie,” he repeated, unable to articulate the feeling that was sharp in his throat. “I-”
She held it out, and he took it, but his hands were still shaking too violently to control and it slipped out of his hands, landing on the blanket.
Lizzie didn’t say anything, didn’t look disappointed. Instead, she just picked up the crown and set it gently on his head.
“We’ll deal with it,” she said. “All of us.”
“Okay,” he said. “I- okay.”
Lizzie opened her arms, and he leaned to meet her, burying his face in her shoulder. She cupped the back of his head with one warm hand, and her hair tickled his cheek.
He was so, so tired.
“It’s not your fault,” she said again, and Pixl made a small noise of distress. “It’s not, Pix.”
He closed his eyes and cried.