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Scar was dead. His body, burning in the lava below.
It was a shock,— Scar’s screams were an unholy mixture of desperation and hope— and yet, Grian wasn’t surprised. Scar lost so much today— sacrificed so much. What was one more life?
He wasn’t surprised, and yet— and yet—
It was a familiar instinct that pushed Grian to mine down; to hurry after Scar’s items. As long as they stayed, Scar’s body would continue to bubble in the lava. The longer they stayed, the stronger the scent of burnt flesh would become. If he could get to it faster, then they wouldn’t have to see it at all.
Scar’s corpse floated in the lava, a slow up-and-down bob as it was consumed. If Grian looked, he would see bones sticking out. If he looked, he would see the shocked face of his best friend. If he looked, he would be faced with a world where he could have saved Scar. A world where Scar could still smile and run around scamming people. A kinder world.
Grian didn’t look.
His hands shook as he stepped closer to the lava; as his hands dug into the small pile of items that survived.
Two contracts, his boots, and a sword. The bare essentials.
Scar would find a use for them, he was sure. He could sell water to a drowning man. Convince them they weren’t drowning— that he was their savior. Scar would be gone by the time they realized his lie.
Scar would be fine.
Scar would get someone to give him a life.
Scar didn’t need his protection anymore.
Once,— a lifetime ago— Scar did. He needed lava moats and walls of cacti. He needed daily reminders to keep his armor on. And, still,— despite all of Grian’s best efforts— they died.
His fists ached at the memory. Of the deep red spilling out from Scar’s skull. Of the sands atop Pizza’s grave being coated in his best friend’s blood.
Of Scar’s still body.
Once, atop sand. Now, dissolving in lava.
He stood, now, just a block above the lava. It almost looked harmless from a distance. The lava popped softly— alluringly. It whispered it’s fine, it’s fine— why don’t you come in? You can be with him again.
The temptation was… it was an alliance of green and red. It was a desert made of love. It was a desert they destroyed.
To outsiders, he didn’t have much of a reaction. He’d screamed, and now he was silent. That was the way it was with Grian. An explosion of sound, then the illusion of peace. Scar would have seen through it. Mumbo didn’t.
His eyes, yellow and dull. With shock, perhaps?
Grian had been just out of view— just out of sight— when Scar fell, screaming.
A lifetime ago, he was just within reach. He could have grabbed Scar and gone down with him. They could be together, two red lives. They could have caused chaos together. Maybe even been… happy together.
Grian gritted his teeth. His yellow eyes shut tight as he struggled to maintain his composure. He dug his nails into his palms.
Now, he couldn’t even watch as Scar hit red. The only thing the world allowed him— I’m fine, I’m fine. Look! Magic!— was a cruelty.
Grian smiled bitterly as he pocketed Scar’s items. It was easy to walk away— even easier to leave the area entirely.
Half-aware, Grian found himself standing outside the Southlands door. The pistons continued to move, constant as a heartbeat. Was this the last thing Scar heard?
The movement of a piston? The pop of lava?
Grian’s scream?
His mind was focused on an old memory— of sand and blood. Of mining into a ravine after Scar’s body. The desert wind couldn’t touch them there. Scar’s corpse laid there, akin to a puppet with cut strings. His legs were twisted; broken and bleeding, still.
Blood pooled around him, slipping into the cracks in his armor. His sword was coated in it. A mixture of laughter and sobs choked Grian. It was hard not to laugh. It was hard to restrain his devastation.
Scar would be back soon. He couldn’t let Scar see him like this. So broken up over a man he had no right caring for.
Despite his misgivings, tears ran down his face. Despite his struggle, Grian couldn’t hold back the sobs wracking his body. Despite everything, Scar was the one who held him as he cried.
Now, there was no one to hold him as he cried. No one to offer him poppies for his friendship. Grian’s hands were still at his side, when once they had clawed at the sandy walls of the ravine with a desperate plea. Please, please, please be alive.
The dark oak walls he’d built seemed overwhelming from afar. They were built just a block too high. They were too tight, too thin— too similar to a ravine. It even had Scar’s corpse in it.
If he said that to Mumbo, would he laugh? Or would he stare at him, perturbed and angry? Would he exile him once more?
Grian wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry.
Scar was dead, and Grian was to blame.
Scar was dead, and he came to get Grian’s help.
Scar was dead; to Grian for the third time. In another world, it would have been the final time. His grave could be put to use. But… this world was kinder. Crueler. It gave more lives. It gave them more time. Its curses and blessings came hand in hand.
More friends and less allies. More enemies and less monopolies. More mountains and no deserts.
The path to Magical Mountain was easy— familiar. It would only take a short walk, and he would see Scar again. Would he be angry? Would he snap at Grian and demand he leave? Would Scar try to kill him?
Would Grian sit there and take it? Would he let Scar kill him? And… did he really want to join Scar? Did he want to give Scar’s life back?
No, he decided. No, no. That was Scar’s choice.
But… it wasn’t, was it? Grian and Joel were going to kill him if he didn’t. Without the anger and the desperation of being red, Grian regretted it. Scar would have given him the life without a threat, wouldn’t he? He would’ve made the same deal; the same contract.
Grian didn’t have to threaten Scar to get what he wanted. Not anymore.
The shame curled around his throat like an old friend. The same shame arose when he thought of Scar’s final words.
I’m sorry. It hurts— it hurts so much.
Grian could never escape this shame. Could never look at Scar and not find a hundred things he could have done better. Ways he could have helped Scar; made sure he never lost one life or another.
I could have saved him.
The thought tormented him.
Poppies grew in large patches around the path. It was too easy to pick them; too easy to make a bouquet of apologies.
There were no lilacs, but Grian hoped Scar would understand the gesture without them.
The snow atop Magical Mountain was mush in the daylight. Already half-melted, it was hard to keep his footing as he scaled the mountain. With one wrong step, he could fall all the way to the bottom. With one wrong step, he would be red again.
Would that be so bad?
It would be easier, for sure. Easier than returning to the Southlands— knowing how they’d fallen apart without him. Knowing how much he would sacrifice to keep Scar safe.
And— and, maybe, he would come back for one night. Maybe, he would smile and laugh with them again… one final time. Maybe, in the morning they would pass around lives.
And, maybe, Grian would run. He would take what he needed from them and leave. And… and, Scar would be yellow again.
And, for a brief moment in time, everything would be okay again.
(It wouldn’t last. These sorts of things never did.)
It was hard to breathe. Panic and terror and— oh, god what was he doing? These contracts were blackmail. He would use it against everyone who had signed. Against himself and Joel.
Wouldn’t it just be easier to burn them? Pretend it all got destroyed in the lava?
But… didn’t Scar deserve a fair chance? Didn’t he deserve to see the fruit of his labor? He’d given them souls, and—
He gritted his teeth. Grian was so close to something profound; to turning around and burning Scar’s things. To taking those final steps to reach the top of Magical Mountain.
There were two paths here, and— deep down— Grian knew there was only one option.
The wind whipped against his face, harsh and violent. His hands shook from the cold. His grip on the poppies slackened, but he held tight. When he and Joel had been up there before, he hadn’t noticed the chill.
Was it because he’d been red? So filled with rage he couldn’t feel it?
Could Scar still feel the cold?
Grian’s hands gently covered the petals of the poppies. If he pressed too hard, they would crumble and die. And— and, if they were dead, then there would be no poppies. There would be no can I still be your friend?
His apology was written out in shades of red. Scar would understand— Grian knew he would. He had to.
If he didn’t understand, then they would just be a yellow and a red life. Natural enemies. One of them would die.
But, if Scar could find it in himself, they could be allies. A secret alliance. Without Mumbo or Joel.
Just the two of them. As it was meant to be.
There were no deserts, no life debts, and no llamas to unite them here. That didn’t matter, anymore. Grian wanted to help his best friend.
Grian wanted to help the man he’d murdered.
(Once, twice, three times.)
He smiled bitterly.
There really is just one choice.
Filled with a new determination, Grian took a step. And another. And another. Until—
At the top of Magical Mountain, there was peace. The silence was deafening. Grian walked to the front of Scar’s hut but couldn’t see his friend inside.
He could be in the upper level. He could be hundreds of blocks away. He could have set a trap in the house to kill Grian.
But, Grian considered, he doesn’t have any of his things. And… sure, it wasn’t much of a comfort, but it was something.
Scar could make a fortune out of a penny. Grian knew he would do fine if he could just find him.
His steps were hesitant as he walked around the side of the wizard hut.
Grian wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he found Scar. Gray skin, maybe? That familiar laugh?
He would never see that person again. He would never meet the Scar who took off his armor in the heat. Scar had lived so long on his own, he didn’t need Grian’s reminders. The world taught him the lessons Grian struggled to make Scar remember.
The gray-skinned, happy man Grian knew was not there. Instead, the back of the hut had two things of note.
The obsidian box he and Joel had built. It was still there; still humming with redstone. Had Scar activated it? Had Scar thought about using it?
Did he wake up in the box, panicked and alone? Should Grian have run here? Messaged him with reassurances?
The box was empty.
And… the second thing of interest. A figure, hunched over the snow. The world seemed… duller the longer Grian stared at him. A chill set in under his skin, completely separate to the wind and the snow.
This was something soul-deep.
“Scar?” The word slipped out, barely louder than a whisper. It was an explosion of sound, destroying whatever peace Scar had cultivated. Scar’s neck cracked— disturbingly loud— as he turned to stare at Grian.
And, oh no.
On the left side, he was the same. He was a pale gray— the same pale gray from a lifetime ago. If he laughed— if he smiled— would Grian recognize him as the man who sold reputation points? As the man who held a bee on a leash?
Or, would he see the man who walked into lava, just out of sight? The man who rejected his offers of alliance over and over?
The air around Scar buzzed with energy. With a sort of… terror. Gray surrounded Scar’s skull. It was akin to a halo. A sign of divinity.
(Where were his wings?)
Grian stepped forward. His grip around the poppies slackened. They fell from his hand, red and stark against the snow. But, that didn’t matter. Some twisted metaphor didn’t matter, because—
Scar’s face was covered in burns. Overwhelming— swelling burns. Grian wanted to throw up. He’d seen Mumbo’s burns after Scar’s attack. He’d seen his own scar after his first death.
But this? This was debilitating.
It would be kinder to cut him down now than to let him live through this pain. His face would soften from a pained grimace into the gentle embrace of death. It would be kinder, he was sure.
Unfortunately, Grian had never claimed to be kind.
He half-stumbled, half-ran toward Scar. There was panic in his friend’s eyes, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop— not until he was right beside him. Until his legs sank into snow. Until he could see Scar’s injuries in horrifying detail.
His right eye was puffed up and closed. Grian resisted the urge to lift his hand to touch it. It would only make Scar shy away from him more.
Scar pushed his burnt hand deeper into the snow. His arms shook. He gritted his teeth.
“What are you doing here, Grian?”
There were a thousand answers he could give Scar. A hundred memories of sands and laughter. A dozen memories of devastation and blood. Six memories of their deaths.
There was only one answer Scar would accept.
Grian smiled, the same broken grin he’d given Scar, surrounded by a ring of cacti and ghosts. “Some of your stuff survived. Your boots, sword, and…” For a moment, he hesitated. For a moment, he remembered all the damage Scar was able to bring with only his words. He could burn the world down with these contracts.
And,— as red met yellow— Grian finally connected the dots. Everything about them— about himself… and his loyalties.
He didn’t care if Scar burnt the world to its roots… he just wanted to be by his side while he did it. He wanted to hold the flint and steel while Scar laughed.
“And, what?” Scar snapped. Anger and frustration soured his voice. Grian wanted to laugh— to joke with him. Like the old times.
But, he couldn’t. Not yet.
“Two contracts.”
Red eyes softened with relief. He lifted his burnt hand from the snow. It shook as he held it toward Grian. Grian’s hands were still as he passed the items. Scar tossed the sword and boots to the side almost immediately. They weren’t important to him, apparently.
Though… the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.
They were just items. Things he could remake. The contracts, however—
“I can use this.” His voice was filled with relief. Scar smiled, something soft. Something private. Something Grian wasn’t supposed to see.
In another world,— a better one— Scar would offer such smiles without hesitation. He would gleefully pull Grian close to whisper secrets or— in those final days before the attack on Dogwarts— to tell him to run. To leave, to live.
Grian adamantly refused.
Maybe, he should have run. Abandoned his best friend to fight a pointless war alone. Left Scar to die alone.
Then, their friendship wouldn’t be tainted by the memory of bloody fists. Of desperate pleas. Of ghosts and their demands.
It was no wonder Scar preferred flipping through the contracts to looking at him.
(Grian didn’t like to look at himself, either.)
Scar’s small smile turned into something larger, more concrete. A grin that met his eyes.
“Oh, Grian.” Both his hands lifted to grip Grian’s shoulders. His touch was gentle— but his skin. His skin burned. It tore into his shoulder like a knife. It cut and tore without remorse. It was a harsh chill. A burning fire. Scar’s touch was frostbite, in every way imaginable.
He nearly recoiled from the harsh chill that settled into his skin. Grian wanted to— desperately. To shy away from a touch that blessed and broke him all at once. But then, he would have to see that realization cross Scar’s face.
See the burns twist as he frowned. Hear his quiet, worried voice.
Grian couldn’t do it. He’d killed him once, and now… now, he couldn’t do anything to Scar. It was debilitating. It was freeing.
Scar’s hand rose to touch his cheek. His cheek felt like ash under Scar’s touch. Despite the pain,— or maybe because of it— Grian leaned into his touch.
From this close, Grian could see the faint spots of yellow in Scar’s eyes. He wasn’t fully turned yet— wasn’t fully enthralled in the bloodlust and the killing. Not like Joel had been. Not like Grian was.
(Scar’s eyes had never fully turned red. It was Grian who gave in first. It was Grian who threw the first punch.)
“Why did you come here, Grian?” Scar’s wine red eyes stared into his own, an overwhelming intensity in them. He wondered what Scar was looking for… and what he would find. “Did you come to see my grand undoing?” Scar growled out the words. “My damnation?”
“No.” His voice was soft, barely louder than the wind. And, yet, he knew Scar was listening. And, yet, Grian knew he would hear every word he spoke. “Never.”
They were silent for a long moment. The wind whipped their hair against their face. Neither moved to fix it. The chill spread from his cheek to his nose. Grian idly wondered if the chill would ever leave him. If it would sit between his skin and bones, as a reminder of what he’d lost. Of red eyes. Of a desert, lost to time.
Scar blinked, slow and purposeful. He smiled. Grian’s lips moved to mimic the action.
(A part of him felt like a mimicry of Scar. Like he was always following in footsteps just slightly too big for his feet.)
“Alright.” The warmth faded from Scar’s eyes. The kindness, the happiness— it was gone, replaced with the cold calculation of a red desperate to survive. Of a man who’d sacrificed all his lives, only to be abandoned by the alliances he’d formed. “Alright, Grian. I… I trust you. We were friends, once. We can be that again.”
“We could?”
“We could,” his voice was warm and kind, a stark difference to his frostbitten eyes. To his touch, frozen and fiery. “It’s your choice, Grian. We could be Monopoly Mountain, again. A yellow and a red.”
And… he was reminded of a familiar idea. It was cruel— it would be so easy.
“I could get you a life.” Scar’s eyes lit up with curiosity. Within the second, they faded back to Scar’s familiar, numb neutrality. With each passing word it grew harder to find the specks of yellow in his friend’s eyes. “The Southlands have this… tradition. Every morning we pass around a life to test if we’ll betray each other and run off with the life. No one has so far.”
The lie slipped from his tongue far too easily for comfort. He hadn’t meant to lie— it was just easier to hide Jimmy’s exile. For now.
He would tell Scar when he came back with the life.
Scar’s thumb dragged across his skin, lingering on the curve of his jaw. His eyes narrowed. “You killed me, once. You stole a life from me. You threatened to murder me until I was at red. How could I possibly trust your word alone?”
Grian frowned. What? One moment Scar was waxing poetry about how much he trusted him and the next he was asking for more proof he could be trusted?
What did he want from him? Did he want Grian to grab a sword and cut his heart out of his own chest?
There was so little to work with. There was so little good left in him. There was only Scar and his memories of their time together.
Of a llama, killed too soon.
Grian smiled and hoped. If he hadn’t already experienced damnation, he may have prayed. “Trust in Pizza’s memory. I’ll be back with a life, Scar. I promise.”
Scar winced, pulling his hand away from Grian’s jaw. The mountain's cold air felt like a gust of heat against his cheek. Grian smiled, and Scar glanced away from him. Toward the sky behind him. Toward the Southlands.
The dismissal was clear.
Grian stood up to clear his mind; to head back to the base. To the place he’d once called home.
Scar cleared his throat behind him. He looked horrific with the burns across his face. Scar smiled grimly.
“Your book burned, Grian.” His eyes spoke a thousand unutterable words.
You made this choice.
There’s no contract bonding us.
“I know.” Grian’s voice was quiet. “I’ve always known.”
Scar was silent as he left.