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Las Nevadas’ successor never learned how to cry.
He knew he couldn’t. Slimes were not capable of tears. They didn’t have tear ducts. Still, he had seen countless creatures cry before. Their faces became wet, not just out of sadness, but anger and joy, too. Slime had always wanted to cry. It seemed so undeniably human in nature. No one would accuse him of being a slime when he could make his face leak.
Quackity would never teach him how to cry now.
Of course, Quackity from Las Nevadas seldom cried. His face only leaked when he thought Slime wasn’t in the room.
The assistant is falling. He doesn’t know how, but he is. It’s a simple fact, like humans having meat and bones. Both things he lacks.
After the lava burned into his skin, all he could feel was fire. It didn’t feel good. He was reminded of the distant kin creatures of slimes, magma cubes. They could survive in lava just fine. Slime couldn’t.
He didn’t expect death to feel familiar. But it was.
His goo is too warm. Not as warm as it was in his final moments, but warm enough to be uncomfortable.
It could have been hours until he stopped falling. He opened his sets of eyes to find a blurry figure in front of him. Vaguely, he wondered if Quackity had joined him, growing uncharacteristically nauseated by the thought.
I won’t let you turn to dust, Quackity from Las Nevadas!
When his vision cleared, he could see it was not his friend. The figure was taller than him, with a mien of iridescent power. He looked like Slme’s human disguise, except for his pointed ears, strange purple markings, antlers, and his clothes. He looked almost regal. The figure knelt a few paces away from Slime, his expression sorrowful.
“I’m sorry,” Slimecicle said.
His name entered Slime’s mind like a rodent set free from a trap. His voice was filled with centuries of living and death, clear and demanding attention. But, at this moment, it was soft. Melancholic.
Slime stared at the god. “Are you me?” he asks.
A ghost of a smile plays on the god of the harvest’s face. “In a sense. You are my champion. I am your lost memories. We are one in soul if not body.”
“Oh,” Slime exhaled. He gazed at his fingers. They were pure green slime, tinged with burning lava. He looked back at the enchanter. “I’m dead.”
It wasn’t a question. Slimecicle nodded mournfully.
“Have we died before?”
The god sighed. “Of course. It is not foreign.” He held out his arms. “Come here, champion.”
Slime slid guiltily to his predecessor. Slimecicle’s arms wrapped around the mob, enveloping him in a human hug. Slime could feel the Council member crying. He distantly wished he could do the same.
Slime’s grip tightened. “I miss Quackity.”
“He won’t forget you. He cares about you more than he ever knew.” The god paused. “When I lost a brother, I forgot myself trying to get him back.”
Poppies. A kind face. A sword. Rain. The name in his dreams that he could never reach. “Grizzly,” Slime whispered.
A small gasp escapes Slimecicle. He laughs dryly. “Only in death could his name be recalled. How poetic.” A pause. “He, too, died in fire.”
“You miss the rest of the Council, too.”
Bizly and Condi. In Death Herself’s name, how could he forget?
“Yes.” Slimecicle said it like it was an undeniable fact of the universe itself.
As silence passed, three other sets of arms wrapped around Slime. One was pulsing with purple (or gold..?) arcane energy, the other was cold beyond life, and the final was wet and strong. Slime felt comforted, if only for a moment.
Slimecicle’s form changes. Slime stares at him. The god is now mortal. His look is disheveled, his clothes torn and dirty. His eyes are duller, the inhuman glint dulled. The mortal Charlie smirks, though his expression is anything but happy. “You’ve done a lot. Be proud of yourself.”
Slime buried his head in Charlie’s chest. “I’ll try.”
The creature doesn’t have to look up to know his god form is back.
It could have been minutes. It could have been weeks. There was no conceivable way to tell.
A tug pulls at Slime’s consciousness. The good of bounty taps him. “Alright, time to try again.”
Slime stares. “Aren’t we dead?”
Slimecicle smiles warmly. “We’ve been dead before, remember? We know how to come back.”
Slime nods slowly. “Okay. I’ll try”
And suddenly, he feels.
His real hand twitches. It messily reaches for the closest thing to it, a quill. The motion comes easily, putting the ink to the page. He can’t move anything else, but this is a start.
He doesn’t know if his words are clear. But one letter comes to his mind, then the other.
Las Nevadas.
Lost.
Listen.
Love.
…
Legacy.
And he writes.
And he comes back.