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Scar is a monster, to some. They remember 3rd Life, red eyes and sharp teeth and a core that dripped with bloodthirst. They see him now, with his charming smile full of lies and honeyed words hiding a cutting tongue, and are afraid.
Scar is ridiculous, to others. They remember a llama named Pizza, and a wall of cactus that harmed him more than others, remembered papers and names on a wall and a sidekick that was more dangerous than he was. They see him now, with purple robes and crystals and ridiculous deals, and are amused.
They ask him, sometimes. Ask him because they think he knows Scar best, after all that time spent on the top of a mountain of sand, after dying together. They ask him if Scar was really as terrifying as he seemed, if he was truly that stupid.
Grian does not answer. He does not tell them that he does not know Scar any better than they do, does not know what to make of him, never did.
All he knows is that Scar has just died in front of him, turned red, had fallen once again, and just like before, he had done nothing. Not nothing, he thinks. He had warned him (“Scar, watch out—” “Scar, NO!”). Had warned him, and Scar had not heeded. (He never did.)
Grian wonders, as he collects what is left of the man’s items, if Scar had purposely turned red to wreak revenge on B.E.S.T, or if he had simply forgotten, fallen, like a fool. (Dangerous, or ridiculous?)
His contract did not survive, and Grian is relieved, but a part of him knows that a paper burned does not mean a bond broken. (Scar’s life, a part of his soul, rests in his heart, and he can hear it screaming).
He goes back to return Scar’s items. Of course he does. He sees the worried glances of his alliance, (are they really an alliance anymore, after he had left and they had shattered, and traps had been set in their own homes? were they really anything?) he knows that they wonder what will become of him now that the deal that he had struck for a life now belonged to a red.
Grian does not know what Scar will do with the new deal, does not know if he will kill him, since Grian can no longer attack him, or simply put him on another animal and take him up another mountain. (A monster, or a lonely man?)
The trek up Magical Mountain is long and steep, and Grian wonders why Scar would even want to live up here. He’s surprised Scar hasn’t fallen off yet. Or perhaps that’s why he chose to build his home here, so others would stumble and fall to their deaths.
Scar’s house sits on the very peak of the cliff, in the shape of a wizard hat, and Grian can’t help but smile at the sheer Scar-ness of it all. Walking carefully along the edge, he tries the door. It swings open. The room is cold and dark. The lanterns have not been lit. There is no one here. Then Grian remembers that there is an upper floor.
He climbs up the ladder, awkwardly trying to balance Scar’s items and not slip off the rungs. He pulls himself up onto the spruce floor, eyes straining to see in the room that isn’t lit by anything other than the enchanting table, until he spots a dark, slumped figure in the corner. Scar.
“Scar?”
He doesn’t turn around. “How did you get in here?” Scar mutters, and Grian almost wants to laugh at the grumble in his voice.
“Door wasn’t locked.”
“Dammit,” Scar complains. “I really need to figure out how to redstone that.”
Snorting, Grian deposits Scar’s items into a chest near the wall, and takes a step toward Scar, hesitant. “Are you—alright?” he asks, softly, not sure why he asked. (That’s a lie—he knows exactly why, and so does Scar.)
Scar finally turns around, and his red eyes aren’t what make Grian stumble backward, but the combination of sadness and anger he sees in them. He does not know whether to be afraid or pity him. (Scar is dangerous. Scar is harmless.)
Scar has switched his purple robe for a black one, and there is a veil covering his face, and Grian is both terrified and amused. (He does not know Scar any better than anyone else.)
“Why are you here, Grian?” Scar asks, and his voice is tired and threatening.
Grian gestured at the chest. “Returning your stuff.”
Scar opens the chest, flicks through what is left of his items. He looks up at Grian. “Your contract isn’t here.” It is not a question.
Grian nods. “It was burned in the lava. But that doesn’t annul it, does it?”
Scar smiles bitterly. “Do you want it to?”
Scar is dangerous. Scar is helpless.
They stare at each other for a moment, in the near darkness. Scar’s face is illuminated by the glow from the enchanting table, and for a moment, his eyes and scars seem softer.
Grian swallows. “I don’t know what I want.”
It is not a yes, but it is answer enough.
Scar stands up, and Grian flinches. He had forgotten how tall Scar was, and how broad, and the red eyes do nothing to help. But something in the slump in his shoulders and his forlorn expression reminds Grian more of an abandoned dog than a snarling wolf, and he does not step backwards.
Scar is now directly in front of him, and Grian has to crane his neck to look up at him properly. There is hardly any distance between them, and Grian’s heart is racing. Out of fear, he tells himself.
And then Scar’s hands are around him—crushing him—no, hugging him, he realizes, and Scar’s face is buried in Grian’s shoulder, and he is sobbing quietly, and soon Grian is joining him, and somehow they’re a heap on the ground now, gripping onto each other for dear life, foreheads touching, and they are smiling and sobbing. There is no one in the world except for them, and Grian does not know the last time he has felt this happy and this chest-crushingly in pain.
They stay like that for a while, tangled on the floor, and then the sun is rising over the mountain, and the light bursts through the window, painting Scar in full light, and Grian can see his blood red eyes clearer than ever, and he knows Scar can see the yellow in his, and they stare at each other, knowing that Grian is responsible for what happened to Scar, that Grian is responsible for this entire terrible game that they can never stay away from.
Scar stands, helping Grian up. They stand in silence, neither knowing what to do. Finally, Grian clears his throat, stepping backward. “I should… probably go,” he said awkwardly, and Scar nods, turning to stare out the window. “Okay,” he says, softly.
Grian turns, climbing down the ladder, and stops at the door. “Goodbye, Scar,” he calls. Silence.
He sighs, and is about to leave, when he hears, softly, from above, “Goodbye, Grian.”
There is a sense of finality to it, and when Grian steps out into the day, the sunlight is cold and biting.