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“So if we approach the monument from here–” Pix’s finger trails across the map spread out on the table in his house, then stops. fWhip looks where he’s pointing. It’s not an ideal approach in his book, but Pix is a smart guy. He gives Pix a moment to think. Then another. Then another and this is starting to feel kinda weird now.
Then Pix stands up, rolling his shoulders back as he does. His expression is solemn, no traces of his usual quiet mirth. “Pardon me,” he says. “I have– I have a duty I must attend to.”
His eyes flick between fWhip and the door and fWhip has never been, like, the most emotionally intelligent person, but he’s not the least either and he figures he wouldn’t like leaving a guy who was an enemy up until very recently alone and unsupervised in his house either.
“Can I tag along?” he offers.
Pix smiles just fast enough for fWhip to catch. “If you like,” he says. “And if the family allows it, of course.”
Okay, now fWhip is curious . He doesn’t make the trip up to Pixandria often given that their two empires are further apart than anyone else in the world, but every so often, he catches kind of a weird vibe from Pix. When the dragon had died, especially. Pix had been horrified even while the rest of the Codvengers had celebrated. Even before Sausage and Joey had celebrated. And now, with nothing to jog a memory of something he should have done before, Pix once again seems to know something that no one has told him about.
So fWhip watches as Pix dons his royal crown and takes his trident in hand and walks out into the city. They’ve been plotting deep into the night. The streets are lit only by the paper lanterns drifting overhead and the stars whirling in the cloudless sky. They cast vibrant, multicolored shadows that dance on the ground, clustering together as they near the Vigil. The Vigil itself is bathed in light. As they pass by, Pix pauses for a moment and bows perfunctorily towards it. fWhip just walks on. He’s never liked getting too close to the thing.
As they walk up the silent paths towards the Anthill, fWhip notices that Pix is favoring one leg, leaning on the trident as he walks. It’s subtle, hardly there. fWhip doubts he would have noticed it if he hadn’t been looking specifically for Pix’s strangeness.
Pix steps into a small water pond at the base of the Anthill and points to a balcony about halfway up the side of the massive mound. “That’s where we’re headed. You can come up, but stay outside while I talk to the family.”
There are walkways connecting all the balconies, but neither Pix nor fWhip are in the mood to walk much more. Pix tridents up and fWhip just uses a rocket. With all the power behind it, he has to circle the small balcony to bleed enough speed to safely land, so by the time he’s done, Pix is already inside.
The acacia door leads into a small apartment. A family of villagers are crowded together around a bed, except for a child of maybe five or six years old who plays on the floor. A white haired matron clings to Pix’s forearm and speaks to him. Her voice is shaking and she’s clearly been crying.
Pix pats her arm gently, then speaks in rapid Pixandrian to a woman who looks about the right age to be the matron’s daughter. She considers for a few moments and then nods. Pix looks over his shoulder to fWhip. “You can come in.”
The second fWhip puts his hand on the doorknob, everyone turns to stare at him like he just kicked a puppy or something. There’s a flash of pure rage in Pix’s eyes.
fWhip pulls his hand back. “Can I come in or not?” he asks nervously.
Pix stares at him for a moment. The matron says something to him with a wet laugh as she wipes her eyes. Her tone is soft and affectionate, but still firm. Pix relaxes.
“Not through this door,” Pix explains with a sheepish smile. “I thought that was clear.” There’s just a slight hint of accusation in his tone that makes fWhip blush.
“There was absolutely nothing whatsoever to indicate that,” fWhip points out.
The matron asks a question and Pix replies offhandedly. Then she frowns up at Pix.
“Gífade Meseliavé talyar,” she chides. Oh! fWhip understands a bit of that one! He hasn’t completely forgotten those Pixandrian lessons he had as a child! Something to do with Mezalea? And then one of the weird forms of ‘to be’? He thinks?
Pix replies to the matron apologetically, then addresses fWhip again. “Sorry. I’ll have someone bring you around.” He scans over the family and gestures to the child. “Fatsi’mlexa sol taga?” fWhip knows that one too. ‘What’s your name?’ It would be pretty embarrassing if he hadn’t known that one.
“Eyri!” the child declares proudly. Eyri’s father whispers something to them quickly and Eyri adds “Lenva shót!” ‘My king.’
Pix laughs and speaks to Eyri with a smile, gesturing at fWhip at one point. Eyri’s eyes go wide and they hide behind their father, only one eye peeking out. fWhip waves to them and they shyly wave back. Pix talks to them some more in the same tone that fWhip takes with the children of his village when he’s entrusting them with Very Important Solemn Duties like eating their vegetables or moving their toys off the railroad tracks for the fifth time this week. Clearly, it works just as well as when fWhip does it, because Eyri runs out the door and grabs fWhip’s hand.
“Ualon feakkar?” they ask Pix, bright eyed and excited, quickly tacking on another “lenva shót”.
fWhip tries to remember his conjugation tables as Pix shakes his head with another laugh.
“Ualon feas?” the kid tries. The whole family is laughing now, but whatever the kid wants, they aren’t gonna get.
“Faxilk vaoskonnú tsaxad,” Pix replies in a way that makes it clear the conversation is over. fWhip is pretty sure that means ‘when you’re older’. Half remembered lessons aside, the tone is pretty unmistakable. “Úxósu.”
“Keep an eye on them,” Pix warns fWhip. “They think jumping down into the water pool is a splendid idea.”
Ah. That explains it. “So did I, at that age,” fWhip replies with a laugh of his own. “And it only took breaking my ankles three times before I finally landed it!”
Whatever fear or shyness Eyri had before is quickly gone as they drag fWhip by the hand down the walkways. They chatter in Pixandrian for a little bit, but trail off with a huff when they realize that fWhip has no idea what they’re saying. They stop in front of the main gate of the Anthill and point at the top of the gate.
“Tokar,” they say sternly. When fWhip doesn’t respond, they repeat “tokar.”
“Tokar,” fWhip parrots.
They nod, apparently satisfied, then pull him through the narrow hallways within. fWhip understands the place’s name a lot better now. It looks like an anthill from the outside, but from the inside it’s tight and cramped and fWhip feels a lot like an ant scurrying around in its tunnels.
Before long, the pair of them are at another door. Eyri points above the door and repeats “Tokar.”
“Tokar,” fWhip repeats.
Eyri pushes the door open and fWhip lets them be the one to pull him through. No one bats an eye at his arrival this time.
Though when he sees the bed, he understands why they’re a bit distracted. There’s an old man lying there, his breathing shallow and face pale. He looks peaceful in his sleep, but…
The Copper King isn’t just a king to his people, fWhip remembers from his clearly inadequate cultural lessons. He’s also a religious figure. The word ‘lenva’ isn’t used for rulers of other lands. It’s used in the same contexts as ‘king’ or ‘majesty’, but its meaning overlaps with words like ‘high priest’ and ‘saint’ too. And the religion of the Pixandrian people is closely tied to the Vigil and the act of watching over and guiding the dead and dying.
The old man is wrapped in a beautifully embroidered blanket. Most of the embroidery is done in normal thread, but a small patch of Pixandrian writing is outlined in copper wire that glints in the candlelight. The way the light changes is almost the only way to tell that the old man’s chest is still moving. A tall, unlit candle rests on the bedside table by the man’s head.
Pix sits on a chair by the bed now. His trident is gone, probably tucked back into his inventory. He really must have just been using it as a walking stick then. He places one hand on the old man’s body and the other over his eyes, then starts to speak softly. There’s a rhythm to it that doesn’t match his natural cadence. fWhip doesn’t listen very closely. He’s never been very comfortable with religious stuff. If this ritual helps the family move on, then that’s fine. He doesn’t need to know any more than that.
Pix’s left hand, the one on the man’s chest, starts to move upwards. Despite himself, fWhip manages to pick up one word just from how often it’s repeated. Sharrai. Sand. fWhip’s mouth is dry. It doesn’t come as excruciatingly quickly as it does in the heat of the day, but the thirst is starting to claw at his throat. Around him, the rest of the family is moving. Covering their faces with strips of cloth. The woman who gave fWhip permission to enter rushes to a chest and starts rifling through it quickly, digging through scraps of fabric and gesturing in fWhip’s direction.
fWhip pulls his own scarf up to cover his nose and mouth and the woman relaxes when she sees him do it. Normally, the way the scarf traps moisture would make it irritating and uncomfortable pretty quickly. That’s why he never bothers with it for redstone work. But in the desert, that moisture gets wicked away a lot faster. It’s not that unpleasant to have something keeping it in.
Pix’s face is bare. His lips are dry and chapped as they shape the air into words. His left hand traces circles around the dying man’s chest. They must have gotten here just in time for whatever last rites Pix is doing though. His breathing is getting slower and shallower. At least it doesn’t seem to bother him all that much. His last, shuddering exhale seems calm. Relaxing, almost. Like a man releasing every last burden that tethered him to the earth.
The candle is lit now. fWhip isn’t sure when that happened. But the matron, still veiled, takes it from its stand and cradles the flame with one hand. Pix pulls the blanket up to cover the face of the body, then cradles the whole thing close to his chest. He stands, swaying slightly, and fWhip reaches out a hand to steady him.
“Sat xetlénnat,” he murmurs, then translates, although fWhip does know this one. “Thank you.”
They leave by the same door Pix entered through, fWhip still keeping one hand under Pix’s elbow. Just in case. Pix seems steadier on his feet, but the limp is still there and bodies aren’t exactly light. This one seems heavier than it should be.
For some reason, fWhip’s eyes land on a trail of sand that spills out of the cloth bundled body. He shouldn’t be so surprised. This is a desert. Sand gets everywhere. It should be no surprise then, either, that sand shakes itself free from Pix’s clothes too. fWhip fights down a cough. He’s already an intruder in the family funeral here. He doesn’t need to draw too much attention to himself. So he helps Pix down to the Vigil in silence.
In the light of the Vigil, Pix’s face is painted hundreds of different colors. They shimmer and glow across his weathered skin as the wind rustles the dangling edge of the blanket sagging in his arms.
“You can go back to my base now, if you’d like,” Pix says, his eyes still fixed on the lanterns. He seems not entirely there. fWhip finds himself more than willing to be entirely not there.
He leaves, just slow enough that he’s not running, and retreats to the safety of the base. This time he notes the copper talisman above Pix’s door. Come to think of it, there’s copper over the gate of the Anthill and there was a copper disc above the door that fWhip was allowed to enter through. That must be what the tokar is. fWhip has vague memories of learning Pixandrian etiquette, but unfortunately for right now, he has much clearer memories of learning creeper spawning mechanics and spending all his time in the rest of his classes doodling farm designs.
Part of him is desperately curious to watch the rest of the funeral, but he has a feeling like it’s profoundly not his business. And for once in his life, he actually wants to listen to that feeling! Gem will be proud of him! Besides, he has a heist to plan. Gem will probably be less proud of him for that, which is why he needs to balance it out.
He goes back to the map, finds the spot he thought Pix had been marking. If he assumes Pix had just gotten distracted mid-motion and continues it up the coastline… Yeah, that’s making a lot more sense now. He marks down those coordinates for future reference, but he can’t do much more until Pix gets back.
And, speak of the devil. Or demon. Whichever. Pix limps inside, brushing sand from his coat as he does. He removes his circlet and runs a hand through his hair.
“You doin’ okay, bud?” fWhip asks, gesturing at Pix’s leg. “I kinda need you to be fighting fit to pull off this heist.”
Pix sits down on his bed and stretches out his right arm. It’s his right leg that’s bothering him too. “It’s just an old injury acting up,” he explains.
“That doesn’t sound a lot like a yes.”
Pix lets out a sharp breath and rolls his shoulder. He grimaces. “Can I tell you a s– Well, I suppose it’s not really a secret , but something, ah, peculiar?”
“I like peculiar things,” fWhip offers, trying not to sound too eager.
“Do you know the word xúgotor by any chance?”
“Nope.” fWhip leans up against the wall, resting one boot on it. It’s the sort of posture that’s a nice mix of casual and not so curious as to scare off his new… friend? Ally? Friend. He’s feeling optimistic. Or stubborn. Whichever.
Pix chews on his lip as he stares off into space. “Storm stone would be the literal translation,” he offers. “That ringing any bells?”
“Still no. Sorry. Haven’t brushed up on my Pixandrian in a while.”
Pix smiles ruefully. “I suspect your Pixandrian is at least better than my Grimlandic, if that makes you feel any better. But either way, this’ll probably be easier just to show you.” He rolls his shoulder again, both backwards and forwards, and tilts from side to side. “Yeah, I’ll definitely need a hand with this. I’d normally ask Joel to do it, but I’m not exactly sure where he stands right now given the whole–”
“The whole demon thing?”
“Yeah. That.” He pulls off his coat and shirt and sits cross legged on the bed, presenting his back to fWhip. fWhip would call it a show of trust if not for the netherite sword resting across Pix’s knees.
“No offense,” Pix says, gesturing to the sword in question. “We’ve just, ah, had our differences. And fairly recently too.”
“No, I get it, I get it,” fWhip says. “What do you need me to do?”
Pix’s skin looks aged and weathered, almost craggy, but it doesn’t bear any scars at all. Nothing that looks like the kind of old injury to leave lasting effects, at least not where fWhip can see. He grabs a stylus from the map table and uses it to point to a spot on his back just below his right shoulder blade next to his spine.
“Put your hand there and press slowly.”
“Should I take my gloves off or…?”
“I don’t care either way. It might be a bit sharp, though.”
fWhip considers that for a moment. On the one hand, sharp things are generally dangerous. On the other hand, not knowing if something inside your body (probably inside your body? He’s still not sure) is sharp or not is weird. He should investigate this carefully. But investigation requires the use of one’s senses. The knowledge that something is sharp is useful!
He takes off his gloves.
Pix’s skin is warm under his bare palm. The texture of it is… strange. fWhip presses slowly and the skin yields against his. It pushes away from him more and more and more and it’s not until it starts closing back over fWhip’s hand that he realizes that he’s pressing into sand .
“Relax,” Pix says. “Just go slowly.”
If fWhip uses too much force, the sand doesn’t shift out of the way in time and it certainly feels like he’s got his hand stuck into a human body. But if he’s slow and gentle, he sure can push the sand aside. Millimeter by millimeter, he pushes his hand deeper inside Pix’s back. It feels just like sticking his hand in a dune. It’s almost pleasant, despite how freaky the whole situation is.
And then he feels it. Whatever it is, it’s not that sharp. But it’s tough and unyielding and not where a bone should be. Not that fWhip has encountered any bones where they should be yet.
“I think I found something?” he offers, his voice higher than he wants it to be.
“Mm. Good. You can just grab it and pull it out. Slowly though! Slowly.”
fWhip isn’t sure how long it takes him to close his fingers around the thing inside Pix. It’s harder than just pushing in though. Even the slightest bit of extra pressure and it stops feeling like sand. It feels… wetter. He tries not to think too hard about that. After long enough that his hand is shaking from the strain, he finally manages to get his fingers fully closed around it. It’s small enough to fit in the palm of his hand.
“You holding up okay?” he asks Pix, who hasn’t made a noise besides the occasional grunt of pain when fWhip moves too fast.
“Yeah, I’m alright,” Pix says, voice strained. “Just a bit hard to talk is all.”
That would make sense with fWhip so near his lungs. Probably.
A few minutes later, hand shaking, fWhip finally manages to get the thing free from Pix’s body.
“Lemme see it?” Pix prompts, turning around and shrugging his shirt back on.
fWhip opens his hand. It’s a small stone, about the length of his little finger, covered in blood and sand. The surface is cracked and craggly.
“That’s odd.” Pix plucks it up and washes it clean in a bowl of water by the table. The sand settles to the bottom of the bowl.
“What is?” fWhip asks. He’s hard pressed to narrow down anything about this situation that isn’t odd.
“It doesn’t bleed when Joel does it.”
“Hey, Pix?”
“Hm?”
“What, like–” fWhip gestures vaguely in Pix’s general direction, “ are you?”
Pix smiles. “Human, of course. What else would I be?”