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Death follows in the footsteps of the Copper King.
Pixlriffs is not a violent man- not really. The grass of Rivendell under his feet does not wither away to nothing. Disaster does not trail in his wake. Rarely, if ever, does the reclusive king of the desert deign to hurt anyone in a way that matters, especially if unprovoked.
He does not kill. He does not snuff out life by his own hand, intentionally or not. But death still follows.
The candle smoke of the Vigil clings to his sandy robes closely, the scent of earth and decay and reverence not overpowering, not all that can be sensed, but just enough. An ever present undercurrent, enough to remind Scott that this friendly, jovial, ever-so-slightly nervous man in his sandals and roughly smithed copper crown is the keeper of a task more ancient and more sacred that he will ever know.
Scott has not known many Vigilkeepers. Has spoken to even fewer. But they are a constant, just like the death of the fallen that they mourn.
What a weight, to feel the inevitable passing of all in your chest. What a task, to mark the slain with candles and lanterns and stare into the core of the Vigil and its omniscience and understand your own smallness so wholly. What an honour , to never let a departure go unseen.
Pix places a shulker with a hum under his breath. And yes, of course, trade is what they're here for. Scott needs copper and Pix needs wool and they are trading like friendly empires do when supplies are low and someone else has what you need and you swallow your pride that you really shouldn't have in the first place and you ask for help. Pix moves his wares into the box like it's second nature. Scott follows suit in a jerky imitation of normalcy.
The divine never fails to unsettle.
They are trading under the watch of Aeors statue and Pixl gives him an odd look when he pulls the copper into his robes without comment and Scott swears he can feel the gaze of his god on the back of his neck.
"Is everything alright, Smajor?" The king in front of him asks with that edge of laughter that never quite leaves his voice, as though the world is some joke no one but him is in on- and damn him, he means it. The concern is real. Pixlriffs is so rarely a liar, from what little Scott knows of him.
But comfort is hard to find as a near immortal facing down a man who has devoted all he is to the endless watch of the fallen. Pix looks at him and he can almost feel his own deaths flooding back in, can feel the march of time so keenly like an itch under his skin that he tries so hard to wile away with books and work and anything interesting he can find in the high mountains of Rivendell.
The Copper King reminds the ruler of Rivendell that for however long his elven lifespan, however many times Aeors Champion may be needed in the flow of time, however many lives he lives- he will always be mortal. There will always be a time for him to die.
And he will never quite be ready.
"Yes," He replies with a barely strained smile, "and thank you for the trade."
---
Scott Smajor is an odd case.
A ruler who doesn't much care for the politics of the rest of the world. The brother of a demon, and not a demon himself, however that works. His presence cannot be overstated, and yet people so rarely see the man.
Really, that doesn't matter much. They're here to trade. Pix knows commerce, and he does it well.
But it is hard not to have his mind whisked away to… well. Whatever power it is that lays over Rivendells monarch, it is thick and heady and woven from gold and time and eternity. It is warm and cold and shaped into the antlers of a timeless stag. It cannot die. It accepts death. It almost seems to challenge him.
When he looks at Scott- well. He sees a man with teal hair, pointed ears, a slightly prickly disposition, and a tendency to spend a little too much time on his own. He sees the leader of an empire he is not friends with, not allied against- simply neutral ground. He sees someone he might have rather a lot in common with, if he dug a little deeper.
But when he looks at Scott.
When he looks at Scott with the passively gifted sight of the Vigil, he sees a champion . He sees the concept of heroism incarnate standing before him with a crate of wool in hand. He sees someone ageless, touched by a presence as old as his sacred task, woven from holy light and need and the desire to protect at all costs. There is a burning, white hot, endless core to Rivendells king, to the hero created over and over again through space and time to help and heal, to his trade partner who will not stop looking at him as though he is a corpse or worse.
He places his goods in the shulker set between them. Scott does the same.
His hands are shaking.
It's second nature to ask if Scott's alright when he pulls back, pale skin even paler, no longer flushed from the (frankly, untenable, how do elves live like this) cold.
"Yes," Scott says, and he's lying through his teeth. "Thank you for the trade," Scott says, and he means it.
Pix nods. He has no reason to linger. Scott does not want him to linger. Every second spent on this mountain feels like inhaling liquid gold. The ruler before him is haloed by antlers, protective and broad and not truly there.
He has a city to return to. He has a use for this wool.
Pixl sets off down the mountain with a wave and a slightly feigned spring in his step. Whatever stag it is that guards the highest peaks of the world- guards Scott - he does not fear it. But he cannot know it. And that will have to be enough.