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“Here, sit down.”
“On the Vigil? Isn’t that some kind of blasphemy?”
“They’re your candles I’m moving, fWhip. I’m sure the Vigil can deal with it. But do keep in mind that if you blow out a single candle with those monstrosities of wings of yours I will have to kill you. Duty and all that.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m not a heathen. I can control myself for a little while.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“You know, if you keep nudging me like that then the candles will be more of a danger to my wings than I am to them. I’m not sure if these are fire-proof.”
“You really didn’t consider that? Doesn’t you forge run on lava?”
“Well I don’t exactly keep them on when I’m working. One too many levers accidentally flipped and one too many beakers knocked over. You know calcite floors do not react well to carbonic acid? I learnt that the hard way. Had to redecorate my whole workshop.”
“fWhip, we need to talk. Seriously.”
“About calcite? I appreciate your interest, but I’m not sure how well it would go with all the sandstone you have around here.”
“You’re avoiding the question. You know I mean the other night.”
“We really don’t need to talk about that.”
“You couldn’t breathe and your fingers were rubbed raw. It took three healing pots for your hands alone.”
“...Right.”
“Working yourself to death won’t help your people at all, you know?”
“Oh, and you know any better, considering you regularly disappear off the face of the earth for days at a time.”
“That may be, but I’m not the one who can’t hold a rocket properly because his hands are bandaged up from his own stupid mistakes.”
“You think I wanted to end up like this? You think I woke up one morning and thought, hey, how about this week I work myself to death and cause myself irreparable damage for fun?”
“It’s not exactly the first time you’ve tried, is it? Great fWhip, hero-count of the Grimlands, loyal until his death, ready to spill his own blood on his own soil for the betterment of his empire. You’re a martyr to the end and that’s not a compliment.
“Did you ever think I might get sick of taking care of you every time you do this? Maybe I’m fucking sick of seeing you with electrical burns halfway to your heart and blood all over your face. Maybe I’m sick of hearing ‘Don’t tell Gem’ every time I have to push you into bed like she’s some kind of angel who faints at the sight of your blood and I’m just here to do the dirty work for you so you can keep up appearances.”
“Do you ever think there’s something in that, Pix? That I’d let you see me the way I don’t give to my closest ally?”
“I shouldn’t have to! Your trust in me doesn’t make up for the fact that I have to see you at your lowest and know there’s nothing I can do to convince you to stop!”
“And what about me?! You’re kicking all of this shit back up in my face like I don’t have to hear your voice rough because you haven’t spoken in weeks, or that I don’t have to drag you back into the world when we realise you’ve been wandering the desert mindlessly for days! I’m the one who has to remind you to redress every cut you’ve inflicted on yourself because you wish you could die like the rest of us!”
“I don’t have to take this from you in my own empire. Come back when you have any sense at all.”
“If you take another step away, I swear on your stupid vigil you will never live to see another day. I will kill you where you stand, and maybe seeing your own blood on the ground will make you sober up.”
“You can’t.”
“Oh, the great immortal Pixlriffs can’t die? Have you really tested it?”
“I meant you can’t kill me. You could never live with my blood on your sword, no matter how impermanent. But the Vigil knows I’d let you try.”
“Oh and there you go again. ‘Just let me die, no one knows what it’s like to be me’ Would you just shut up? For once in your life? You’re not the only damn king here and you’re certainly not the only one with problems. Get over yourself.”
“Go on then. You’re so sick of me? Do it. That magic in your sword is just begging for me, isn’t it?”
“I will if you don’t stop complaining!”
“Do it! Kill me! I dare you!”
“... I can’t. You’re right.”
“I’m what? Say it again.”
“You were right. I can’t. You know that and you know why. I could never stand to see you die.”
“And I don’t want to see you die! This is what you’re doing to me! I’m just worried about you. Please!”
“Fuck off, Pix. If you were worried about me you wouldn’t be doing... this to yourself.”
“fWhip, wait!”