Work Text:
fWhip wakes up and knows he’s dreaming. He knows because Pix is sat in front of him, smiling softly, and his face is clean of blood, purple or red. The world around them is fuzzy but fWhip knows they’re sat on the divan Pix has tucked in the corner of his house, and he shifts his foot just to hear the familiar scratch of the sandstone floor.
He’s been searching the desert for weeks and not seen a trace of copper, and the sight of dream-Pix’s face is doing something uncomfortable to his stomach.
In the dream, Pix is still, reading from a novel fWhip thinks came from his own library, and he’s reminded of the years they spent like this, summers in the Grimlands and winters in Pixandria, migrating between libraries and market stalls as the birds did. The light filtering in is a beautiful orange-pink and all fWhip wants to do is tug the book out of dream-Pix’s hands and pull him outside to watch the desert sunset.
He twists his foot again. Pix is ordinary meticulous about keeping loose sand out, but fWhip finds himself drawing patterns in the piles collecting beside the divan cushions. There’s something wrong about that, but the whole thing is vague and thoughts slip from his head like blue ice. He pushes the sand further. The solid sandstone floor falls apart further beneath his boots, and before he can react, he’s scratched it into sand and he’s falling. He falls into his tower lab and the cobbled floor is still covered with his blood, soaking wet even though he hasn’t been in here in days, too busy getting sand in his throat and his eyes. His alliance portrait of Sausage is a portrait of the Phantom, the desert of Pixandria rendered in strokes of oil around him, and the brushstrokes of the dunes are moving under a silent, intangible wind. fWhip falls again, but this time upwards, and he’s staring into the portrait’s eyes. The Phantom looks back at him. It lifts its hand as he does, but its hand is dripping with ice water and his own glove is as dry as his mouth when he recognises the desperate look on the Phantom’s face.
He only meant to cover his face for Pix’s sake, but now Pixandria expects things of him. And even though he knows he’s dreaming, he’s overwhelmed with the feeling of helplessness and he starts sobbing.
He’s crying for the Pixandrians he hasn’t been able to help. He’s crying for his own people he’s left behind.
He’s crying for Pix, who is still lost and alone in the desert and he’s crying for every minute that passes when his chances of finding him dwindle ever further. He falls to his knees and he’s back beside Pix on the divan, his tears wetting the sandstone floor. His head falls into Pix’s lap and Pix puts a hand in his hair and now he’s bawling because he misses him so fucking much and he’s so far away and no one knows if he’s even alive and the desert is too fucking big and-
He wakes up for real this time. His pillow is damp.
The sky is dark.
Lightning flashes. Thunder rumbles, seconds later than normal.
The storm is upon him but he can’t feel the rain. He sees it splash against the sand. It forms puddles instead of draining away. He looks away, afraid of what the reflection will show him.
He’s not looking, and then the puddle is in front of him. Lightning flashes. Thunder. The dragon with tears of blood blinks back at him from the water’s surface. It looks pointedly over his shoulder at the clouds. He turns to see. Lightning flashes. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. Thunder rumbles. The storm isn’t six miles away. It can’t be. It’s above him. His hands are clawed. He’s crying wet, hot blood. It doesn’t hurt but there is a great ache in his chest, like a sword has knocked the breath from him. He is wearing a necklace of arrows, heads buried in his neck. Lighting flashes. Thunder rumbles, seconds too late. He jumps and is unsurprised by the wings on his back that lift him into the solid clouds. He pants against the arrows in his throat. It is the worst kind of pain and he cries out, calling for someone. There’s no answer.
It’s fWhip he’s calling, he realises. fWhip doesn’t answer. He cries harder. Louder. He thinks the blood has matted his hair but he can’t check. There’s sand burning in his throat and his lungs are raw. In front of him, the Vigil rises up, like an oasis. He gasps. Relief. Safety. But it’s obsidian, not familiar, pale sandstone, and he’s falling at its base, falling to all four of his knees. His crown, the one he thought he dropped in the desert days ago, falls from his head. The copper burns like corruption. He jerks back from it. The ache in his chest doubles. He feels like he’s on fire. His candles have all gone out. fWhip still hasn’t heard him, and he’s going to bleed out before anyone finds him. The sand is red and the world is empty. He screams louder, hoarser. The thunder drowns him out and the rain washes his life away.
He wakes up slowly. His lantern has gone out and the cave is dark, and the only sound as he brushes loose sand from his hair is his laboured breathing and the soft breeze brushing over the dunes gathered on the sandstone above his head.