Archive of Our Own ^beta

The kingdoms he’s visited tend to blend into each other, the same buildings over and over again, reaching into the sky as though they can ever hope to achieve the grandeur he’s reached. Reaching higher as though they can hope to scrape their fingers against the same ones he’s cradled close to his own chest.

Still, the people shove past him, barrelling down streets that are far too small for the crowds of people that swarm them, bustling and heady, vendors lining each side of the street, yelling and calling and offering their wares to each and every person that passes by them.

The pans of food smoke and sizzle as he slips past them, escaping the people that are trying to catch his attention, pulling his cloak further around himself as one vendor in particular tries to snatch at it, daring to attempt to lay his hands upon a god.

The streets are winding and uneven, several holes dug or cracked into the ground. Not that he trips on any of them, stepping over them gracefully and carefully, pulling his cloak upwards so it doesn't drag through the puddles that lie in the bottom of them.

This kingdom is one of the more colourful ones, bright and beautiful in a way he can appreciate, the buildings made of dark wood that contrasts wonderfully with the cheerful accents on it.

He shoves past a particular large cluster of people, sneering back at someone when they turn to spit a curse at him. He flicks a hand in their direction, lightning crackling between his fingers before he can even think about it, clenching his hand to extinguish them.

The person doesn't chase after him for the insult, leaving him to go on his merry way, further down the street. He’s here for one reason and one reason only: there’s rumours of an incredible blacksmith within the city, one that’s said to have been blessed by the gods with incredible skill for handling metal.

And he needs a new chisel, his old one lying at the bottom of a ravine, probably in several pieces and left to rust. He hasn't been able to do any projects without it, and he’s itching to carve something, none of the sketches he does are quite able to capture it in the same way.

He stumbles out of the main crowd, falling over his own feet as the sudden push and pull of the crowd falls away, leaving him unsure of his footing and glancing around to see it anyone else witnessed his fumble.

He straightens up, brushing his shoulders off, wings twitching a little beneath the cloak as he glances around once more before he forcefully stills them again. He’s heard a few choice things about this kingdom, and you can never be too careful when exploring such ones, even as an almighty god such as himself.

He’s not sure how mortals deal with it.

He continues down the street, taking longer moments to appreciate the architecture of the buildings he passes, eyeing up the techniques they use as he turns the idea of his own kingdom over in his head again. Everyone would worship him there, temples surrounding the empire and allowing the people to truly see his worth.

He grits his teeth and moves away from the building he’s been scrutinising. It had rather nice details along the fences, carved in a way he had never thought of before. Someone comes running past him, barging him in the shoulder as they sprint past.

He turns, a yell already making its way from his throat as the person continues to sprint away, something clutched in their hands as they laugh, blue hair bouncing as they turn and skid around the corner, disappearing back into the marketplace.

“Oh,” someone else screeches to a halt in front of him, “Dang it.” He turns back around, watching as the person that had spoken hunches over, hands on his knees as he breathes heavily. “Gimme a moment, sorry about this.” He laughs, and it’s rather high, almost nervous sounding.

He straightens up a moment later, sticking out his hand, a beaming smile already on his face. He takes the hand, looking over this person oddly. His mark of godhood may be faded and dull now, but it’s still rather prominent on the back of his hand.

The weird stranger in front of him takes one look at it, turning his hand over with a rather sharp gesture and staring at it for a moment. “Nice tattoo,” he says, grinning at him again. Seriously, is it all this person does? “Where’d you get it?”

“It’s not a tattoo.” He says, yanking his hand out of the stranger’s grip. “It’s a mark of godhood.”

“I thought they were all golden and colourful though.” The stranger frowns, “Like, a more radiant version of blessed marks.”

“Sometimes.” He says, and the stranger seems to register his annoyance, grin faltering for a moment, eyes darting over his face almost nervously.

“You're not from around here, are you?” This stranger asks far too many questions for his own good, it’s a good thing he doesn't particularly feel like being banned from another kingdom. Murder charges are not fun to deal with. “Your accent is all funny.”

“My accent is not funny.” He protests, frown deepening as the stranger laughs. “It’s not!”

“It is. Just a little bit.” The stranger holds his fingers just a tiny bit apart, eyes crinkling from amusement.

“It’s not.” He huffs, “You're testing my nerves, mortal. Don't you know it’s a bad idea to test the nerves of a god?”

“I've heard,” the stranger shrugs, “You're too funny not to make fun of, now, c’mon mysterious god, not even a name for me?” He grins again, wiggling his shoulders in a way that’s a little endearing. Like a dog wagging its tail.

“And how do I know you're not going to steal it?”

“Because I'm not a fae ,” the stranger laughs, “Fae aren't welcome in this kingdom, so I doubt I’d have made it this far if I was.” His laugh sounds a little more nervous, eyes darting around as he speaks. Fear of someone listening, then. Huh.

“Doesn't sound like many people are welcome here.” He comments, and the stranger laughs again, that same nervous laugh.

“Let’s not talk like that, huh? You might be a god but even gods can bleed, you know? Exercise a little caution.”

“I reckon I could take whatever royal guard this kingdom has,” he allows lightning to crackle between his fingers again, watching as the blue flashes in the eyes of the stranger as he stares at it, “Let me guess, they're wearing metal armour?”

“Yeah,” the stranger nods, entranced by the lightning and he sighs, clenching his hand shut again and shaking off the remaining sparks, “I can see why you exercise so little caution.”

He hums. “You don't happen to know of any blacksmiths in the area, do you?” The stranger nods, “I'm looking for one, I've heard someone here has been blessed by the gods with a hand for metalwork.”

“Oh!” The stranger brightens up again, fear abandoned to the wind as he begins to walk away, beckoning for him to follow, “Well isn't that convenient!” He laughs, at a joke only he is privy to.

“And how is that?”

“Well, you're looking at him!” The stranger turns around, dropping into a bow, hand extending behind him with a flourish. He continues to walk backwards, face upturned towards him with a smile. “Sausage, blacksmith apprentice, at your service.”

“You're an apprentice?” He pauses, cloak swirling around his ankles as he stops. Sausage stops too.

“Well of course, can't exactly take over the blacksmith when there’s still someone else there.” He tilts his head slightly to the side, eyes shining a bright silver in the light, “I am god blessed, I swear to you, can't you tell?”

He can't, but he hasn't been able to tell that sort of thing since- whatever. He shakes his head, and Sausage looks momentarily confused, but resumes his journey, skipping more than walking as they make their way down the winding streets.

The houses slowly become more and more rundown. They're still as colourful as before, just with less variation, less deep purple and magentas, and more yellows and greens decorating the slightly rundown buildings.

He begins to consider that Sausage is lying to him, and simply leading him to somewhere he can steal all of his valuables. Or scam him. Either seem like a viable option right now.

Instead, Sausage strides through an open doorway, announcing loudly to whoever’s inside that he’s home. Someone responds, a low, gruff voice that Sausage eagerly responds to. A moment later there’s someone else poking their head out the door, staring at him.

“What do you want?” He asks, shoving his goggles up onto his head, pinning back his grey hair.

“I'm looking for a chisel,” he says, which brings both Sausage and the new person to a pause, both of them staring at him.

“You've come to us, for a chisel .” The man shakes his head, muttering something in another language beneath his breath, turning to Sausage in disbelief. “A chisel .”

“I heard him, Eddie.” Sausage pats the man- Eddie, apparently on the shoulder, almost in sympathy.

“I just want a chisel!” His voice pitches higher, and both Sausage and Eddie turn to hush him, Sausage darting forward and grabbing his arm, pulling him into the building. He yanks his arm back and out of Sausage’s grip, rubbing where the other had grabbed him, a red mark beginning to form. “There’s no need to be so rude.” He snaps.

Sausage rolls his eyes, grin dropped completely. “We don't need another noise complaint, okay? I’d really like to not get evicted again, and neither would Eddie.” He gestures to the other, who’s returned to working on…whatever he was working on. It just looks like a glowing blob of metal at the moment. “People just don't seem to understand that banging metal into shape is hard work.”

“And I can pay you something good if you bang a chisel into shape for me.” He responds, already reaching for the bag he keeps his gold in. He pulls it out, jangling it in a  way he hopes is enticing.

“What are you even the god of?” Sausage looks and sounds unimpressed, shoving aside the bag of gold to stare at him instead. Odd, normally all mortals fell for that.

“None of your business.”

“I think it is, seeing as you are quite literally currently my business.”

“I don't want to talk about it.” He crosses his arms, gold digging awkwardly into his skin as he stands there, staring Sausage down.

“Just accept the goddamn commission Sausage,” Eddie grumbles, dunking the metal into water, steam hissing from the barrel he’s currently got his arm buried in, “If only to get him out of here.”

“It’s going to take a few days,” Sausage murmurs, “And I’d need time to draw up schematics for it, and then get you to approve of it before I can even start.”

“No need,” he fishes around in his pockets; honestly, whichever god is responsible for the creation of pockets is a godsend. “I've drawn some up myself already.” He presents Sausage with the only slightly crumpled schematics, the sole survivor of his last sketchbook, and watches as he smooths it out, looking over the diagram.

“You made these yourself?” Sausage sounds faintly impressed, turning the diagram around to face him. He’s already seen the design a million times, so he doesn't bother looking at it, pushing it down so he can look at Sausage instead.

“How long is it going to take you?”

“Well…” Sausage turns the schematics back around to himself, frowning as he looks at it. “I’d need to get the metal for it, you've been rather specific with it, and it’d take a few days to shape and cool.”

“No need,” he says, and Sausage rolls his eyes, “I already have the metal for you.”

“Do you want to make it as well?” Eddie asks, snorting at his own joke before turning his back on them again.

“I'm fine thanks.” He bites back.

“You are awfully prepared for this.” Sausage says, accepting the metal ingots when he hands them over, “And it’s still going to take a few days, you've taken the price down a bit by providing the metal you've requested, but it’ll still be,” he glances at the paper, “Thirty gold pieces.”

He sighs, but hands the nuggets over anyway, mourning the loss of several good gold blocks as he watches Sausage count them out. “Great!” Sausage grins at him again, almost bouncing back up, “I’ll have that ready for you in… four days, feel free to come back and check in for progress.”

He’s being guided out the open doorway before he can protest, Sausage’s hand warm on his back. He turns around to protest, but the other has already disappeared back into the shadows of the blacksmith, leaving him on a rapidly darkening street with no idea where the nearest inn is.

He hangs his head and tries not to scream.

On the second day he makes the trek from the inn he’s staying at. It’s a nice inn, expensive, as it’s closer to the centre of the kingdom. And he has to brave the crowds once more and hope they don't elbow him in the wing and break something.

He’s not sure how fragile his bones are anymore. Normally he’s near invincible, but he hasn't wanted to test how easily breakable they are now.

Still, he hovers awkwardly in the open doorway, wincing backwards with each loud clatter of the hammer on metal, his ears protesting at the loud noise. He knocks on the door, regretting it almost immediately as his knuckles ache with the consequence of knocking on solid stone.

It gets Sausage’s attention anyway, as he looks up from whatever he’s doing, eyes widening visibly behind his goggles, before he makes a wait gesture, returning to hammering what he assumes is his chisel. He waits, rather patiently if he does say so himself, standing not at all awkwardly in the door as Sausage finishes whatever he was doing and dunks the chisel in the barrel, steam rising around his face, hissing.

He emerges from the cloud a moment later, grinning and sweaty. He takes a half-step backwards, smiling at Sausage in return as he looks him over, eyes catching on the charred apron and gloves.

“Good afternoon.” He greets, raising his eyes back to Sausage’s face. He curses his current form for making him shorter than the other, resenting the fact that he has to look up to meet his eyes.

“Heya!” Sausage claps him on the shoulder, “Come to check up on your chisel?”

“Yes,” he nods, allowing himself to be pulled into the blacksmith again, only slightly surprised by Sausage’s strong grip this time.

“I’m almost finished with the main part of the chisel, just needs a little bit of refining and then I can get started on the handle for it. Any preference for the wood?” Sausage asks, and he looks at him, “You didn't specify which one you want, and we have quite the range of woods here, I chop it myself.” He sounds quite proud of himself for that.

He resumes looking over the chisel piece, finding it already done beautifully, better than he actually expected it to be done, despite the claims at being a god blessed. Many claimed they had been blessed by the gods that wandered their lands, but few claims were actually true, and it’s not as though he could actually tell at the moment.

“Do you have any spruce?” He asks, “I know it’s a wood that grows in a colder climate, but it’s the one that I had with my last chisel.”

“I’m pretty sure we do,” Sausage disappears behind a counter, the sound of barrels being opened, then closed again echoing from behind it. He waits, again, rather patiently, only slightly fiddling with his hands before realising what he’s doing and tucking them into his pockets. Out of sight, out of mind, or whatever.

“Aha!” Sausage straightens up, a nice, firm branch of spruce in his grip. He lays it out on the counter and he steps forward to inspect it. “This up to your standards, oh mysterious god?”

“Hm?” He looks up at that.

“You didn't give me a name yesterday.” Sausage leans on the counter, until they're almost at the same height, Sausage only an inch or so below him. He doesn't feel as offended as he normally would at such open mocking.

“Joel.” He says, not bothering to extend his hand as they've already done that part of meeting each other. “God.”

“Nice, can I know what you're the god of now?”

“No.”

“Worth a try.” Sausage grins, and he shrugs in response.

“It was a nice try, but it didn't work incredibly well.” He turns to leave, a thanks already forming on his tongue as he brushes through the doorway.

“Wait!” Sausage is suddenly behind him, and he turns, wings trying to flare out at being startled. He presses them flat again, managing to give Sausage one of his best unimpressed looks. Sausage wilts slightly, which means it worked.

“Yes?”

“Uh, do you want to go out for drinks together?” Sausage asks, which is not at all what he was expecting.

“What?”

“Drinks?” Sausage looks confused, “You know, alcohol.”

“I know what drinks are,” he waves Sausage off, “Why are you asking me to go out for drinks?”

“Because you're interesting?” Sausage tilts his head to the side, only looking more confused, “And I want to know more about this mysterious god that is apparently content with being shorter than me and currently not going to the god that blessed me for this chisel rather than seeking out a mortal to do the job for me.”

“You're less expensive.”

“I reckon that’s a lie, but I’ll buy it anyway.” Sausage grins, “So? Drinks?”

He stares at him. “Do you know any good places?”

“Do I know any good places,” Sausage cuts himself off with a scoff, “Who do you take me for?”

“Someone that barely looks like he can legally drink.” Sausage laughs at that, pulling him off the entrance to the blacksmith, beginning their adventure down the street.

“Trust me, I know all the good places.”

He doesn't remember the good places. At least not in incredible detail, waking up instead with a headache so painful that he thinks he sees stars, vision blacking out when he tries to sit up. He groans, and someone else groans in response, which might be the quickest way he’s ever sobered up, eyes flying open and finding someone else splayed out on the floor of his inn room, face down and barely moving.

“Hello?”

A muffled groan is his only response, and he leans further over the edge of his bed, balancing himself with his wings as he stares down at the person he’s slowly realising is Sausage.

He pokes him, lurching backwards as Sausage flails, sitting up and watching Sausage try and do the same. He groans again, almost falling straight back onto the floor, but he just barely manages to catch himself with his hands. Shame, it would have been funny if he did that.

“You good?” He asks, watching as Sausage slowly blinks his eyes open, squinting at him.

“No?” Sausage blinks again, “Do you have wings?” He asks, eyes widening.

He snaps his wings close to his back, leaning back with a laugh. “Wings?” He laughs again, “What makes you say that?”

“The wings you have on your back?” Sausage stands, stumbling slightly as he straightens up, still squinting at him. His headache has miraculously disappeared, adrenaline beginning to hum in his veins as he leans back a little further, still dressed in his clothes from yesterday. Which means he can cross…anything else off the list of potential ventures last night.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Calm down, Joel, gosh.” Sausage laughs, “I'm not gonna kill you or anything.”

“Fool me with the way you're looming over me right now.” He laughs as well, looking away, leaning back a little further as Sausage continues to loom. He sits down a moment later, rather abruptly, jostling the whole bed.

“Sorry.” He apologises, which he ignores. “Ugh,” Sausage cradles his head in his hands, which makes him rather glad for his headache disappearing, “My head is killing me, do you even remember anything?”

“Bits and pieces,” he shrugs, “Not much. You weren't kidding when you said you knew the good places.”

“Course I wasn't!” Sausage laughs, “Though I'm not sure where we are now.”

“My current room,” he spreads his hands out, “Welcome to my godly pantheon.”

“It’s a lot less grand than what I thought you’d settle for,” Sausage says, getting up and beginning to poke around the room. He almost tells him to stop, but finds he doesn't have the energy to do so, flopping backwards on the bed and ignoring the way it traps his wings beneath himself and how he’s definitely going to have to move in a minute unless he wants a cramp in his wing.

He hears Sausage stifle a laugh, and he sits up on his elbows to watch him poking around on the little desk in the corner, raising a hand to cover his mouth, turning to look at him. “Have you seen this?” He holds his sketchbook up, open to a specific page that’s covered in sketches and unreadable notes.

“No.” He leans forward, holding a hand out for the sketchbook, “Gimme.” Sausage hands it over without complaint, still grinning at him as he looks over the page. He recognises his own handwriting easily enough, notes pointing to the small statue of what looks like a young child, probably about five or six, stubby wings protruding from his back, similar to his own.

Someone else’s handwriting decorates the page, scribbled in the spaces between his own. It’s just barely readable, mostly chicken scratch he has to squint at and turn his head to read.

“Oh come on,” Sausage complains, “My writing isn't that bad.”

“Uh, yeah it is.” He puts the sketchbook at an arm’s length as though that’s going to help him read it any better. “It looks like a chicken got a hold of a pencil and tried to write with it.”

“I take offence at that.”

“You were meant to.” His own writing states that the statue’s name is Hermes. Weird name for a statue, he’s sure it’s a mortal name of some kind. He’s heard it somewhere before, at least. “Seems like we drunkenly sketched out my first project with your chisel.”

“You're actually going to make it?” Sausage asks, laughing slightly.

“Might as well.” He shrugs, “I try not to think of my drunken incidents as mistakes.”

“How many times have you told yourself that?” Sausage asks with a grin.

“Far too many to count.” He responds, with a matching grin of his own. Sausage is weird, definitely, way too confident around a god for a mortal, but it’s refreshing the way he speaks to him, not constantly praising him for simply existing.

The praise is nice and all, but it makes it rather hard to have a serious conversation with anyone.

“Guess I better get around to finishing that chisel then.”

It’s ready five days later rather than four, Sausage having to take a day off for a migraine. It’s a lie that Eddie doesn't seem to buy, as he scrutinises him when he comes in to collect his chisel and hand over the remaining payment to them.

“Where are you off to next?” Sausage asks, pulling his attention away from Eddie and his glare. His wings are safely tucked beneath his cloak again, and neither of them have brought it up, meaning Sausage either forgot (unlikely) or he has more tact than he thought he did.

“I've heard stories about a new continent, one that’s recently been discovered. Or rediscovered, one of the two. I've been thinking of starting my own kingdom.”

“Your own kingdom?” Sausage asks, a laugh in his voice.

“Or an empire, I always thought empire sounded more fancy.”

“So you're heading there next? Settling down?”

“Yeah,” he nods, taking the chisel and tucking it away in his cloak, “West. A new continent awaits, with new adventures.” He deepens his voice slightly, and Sausage laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Good luck on your ventures, perhaps we shall meet paths again.” He bows to him, reminiscent of their first encounter, and he’s struck by the urge to reciprocate it, lowering himself slightly, though not as low as Sausage, having to physically remind himself to not stretch his wings out with the motion.

“Perhaps we shall. I wish good fortune upon you until then.” He knows they will likely never meet again, his own lifetime expanding so far beyond Sausage’s that his will be over in the blink of an eye.

Stratos is a nice empire, one of the first on the continent, springing up before Dawn and Animalia can, overtaking the Goblands in gold momentarily until they regain their title and begin hoarding their gol, hiding it away in the depths of their caverns.

He doesn't understand how they can stand to live so walled in, his wings twitching slightly at the thought, shifting back and forth from where they're draped behind him. He adjusts them back to their previous resting spot, leaning forward and sticking his tongue out in concentration as he chips away at the face of Hermes.

It’s the last details that he’s putting on now, but he keeps the sketchbook set beside him, open to the page where his and Sausage’s notes overlap, messy in the way only drunken writing can be.

It’s still amusing to him, even a few years later, and he sometimes stops to wonder how the other man is getting along. He was sure he would have forgotten him by now, if it wasn't for the reminder carved into the handle of his chisel. He still doesn't quite understand the bravery of that mortal.

He has a collection of letters in a chest somewhere, each signed by the same person in that same horrendous handwriting. Apparently it wasn't even the drunkenness that made it that bad, his handwriting is just like that.

He feels a pulse of power from the fountain as he leans back from the statue, admiring the work he’s put into it. He stands, stepping around it slowly and eyeing all of the details that have come together so beautifully over the last few months.

He’s sure he could have done it quicker if he was able to dedicate his time to it in the same way he could before the start of Stratos, when the villagers in the town below didn't demand his attention at every turn. He’s subject to their every whim, even against his wishes as they yell up to his islands with their woes.

He brushes a hand over the carefully sculpted hair of Hermes, bringing his hand to rest atop it as he closes his eyes, focusing on his centre. Just a little bit of magic, something to just give it a little boost and finish off the last details.

He may hate his title as a god, but it brings many perks with it. He allows the energy to hum at his fingertips, restored to him when he managed to set up a Heart of his own. A beginning of a pantheon, if you will.

The fountain decides to give him a little rush of power then, and more of his magic spills over into the statue than he intended to. Where he was only going to give a drop, a mere taste of his power to smooth out the rough edges of the statue, so to speak, he now dumps an entire bucketful onto the statue, taking a hurried step back almost immediately afterwards.

He watches, staring at it as the statue glows a faint gold around the edges, pulsing with his magic. He watches, partially horrified and partially intrigued as the statue begins to breathe , fingers twitching as it turns its head towards him, eyes blinking once, then twice, as dust falls off the child, revealing blonde hair and bright purple eyes.

Whoops.

He hits his axe into a tree again with a satisfying thunk, grumbling under his breath about the stupid villagers and how they don't actually do what they're meant to. Like get him resources when he asks them to. And they ask him for payment ? As though simply living in his shadow isn't payment enough.

He also hopes Hermes hasn't knocked anything over again. He didn't like looking around for whatever Hermes had done when he refused to talk, standing in silence and looking incredibly guilty but refusing to tell him what’s wrong and letting him find it himself.

He’s told Hermes several times that he doesn't care if he breaks something, and he really does mean it, but the young god refuses to say anything every time he does something by accident.

He thinks the only accident that Hermes was proud of was when he managed to get into the shipment from Chromia and dye his hair purple . The ruler of Chromia had simply laughed at him when he flew over in a panic, blue hair flipping in a way that’s almost familiar, but he can't quite recall where the familiarity is from.

The tree finally topples with one last hit of his axe, crashing to the forest floor loudly. He steps towards it, pausing when something rustles in the bush behind him. He adjusts his grip on his axe, stiffening as he turns around and preparing to sink the axe head into the wandering’s zombie’s head.

Something stumbles out, but it looks significantly less green than a zombie as it looks up, though no less bloody. He gasps, dropping his axe as they meet eyes, uncaring of where it lands.

Sausage stares back at him, clothes bloody and torn, chest heaving for breath. One eye is squinted shut, blood leaking from an unknown gash on his face.

“Sausage?” He can't help the surprise that leaks into his voice, looking the other over in disbelief.

“ Joel ?” Sausage sounds equally surprised, though also relieved as he stumbles forward, limping heavily. He lurches, and he steps forward to steady him, pushing his shoulders back and making sure he doesn't just collapse.

“What happened to you?” He asks before he can help himself, looking his friend over and taking in the various injuries that seem to be afflicting him.

Sausage’s face crumples at his question, and he instantly feels guilty, pulling Sausage towards him for a hug. He hasn't hugged anyone outside of Hermes in decades, and it’s a little awkward, especially with the growing wet patch on his shoulder and the way Sausage seems to be shaking apart in his arms.

“They,” Sausage draws in a shuddering breath, “They took Eddie. I think they killed him.” Another sob crawls up his throat, shaking him. He breathes out, staring over Sausage’s shoulder and into the rest of the forest.

“Gods above Sausage.” He manages, “I'm so sorry.”

“I didn't know what to do,” Sausage says, voice shaking, “They were going to kill me next, and so I just- got on the next boat and left! Like a coward, and I left Eddie to die because I came looking for you.”

“If they were going to kill you too, then you did the right thing.” He says, hoping that it comes across as soothing rather than condescending, “I'm sure Eddie would have rathered you alive than both of you dead.” He didn't know Eddie all that well, so he actually has no clue what he would have rathered.

“That doesn't mean it was right .”

“But it means that you're still alive,” he leans back, carefully extracting himself from the hug but also making sure he doesn't immediately collapse, “I'm assuming this is why your letters stopped?”

“I'm sorry,” Sausage apologises, tears bubbling in the corners of his eyes again, “I haven't stopped in months, I've been running because they sent people after me and I haven't been able to sleep, or- or eat in peace, without worrying for my life in ages.” A tear trails down his cheek, “I’m so tired , Joel.”

“It’s fine.” He rubs a hand up and down Sausage’s arm, “What did you do to get that treatment though?”

“Eddie wasn't…human. And someone found out and told the King for a substantial reward. And I got lumped in with him for hiding a non-human.” He’s crying again, shaking, chest heaving for breath as he stifles sobs.

“I promise they can't get you here.” He says, “Stratos is the safest empire here, unless you can fly there’s no getting up there.”

“You actually made it?” Sausage wipes at his eyes, chest still hitching every now and again with sobs, blood still trailing down the side of his face. He’s sure the wound is going to scar.

“Of course!” He begins guiding Sausage away from the felled tree. He doesn't particularly care about it anymore, Sausage becoming his first priority. “I'm nothing if not a man of my word.”

“Oh wow.” Sausage stares at the islands as they come into view, just beyond the tree line. They cut a pretty impressive line on the horizon, honestly.

“Yeah,” he grins, “Just wait until you meet Hermes.”

“You made him?” Sausage turns to him, a grin on his face, “You actually made him?”

“I did a little more than that,” he admits. “I…might have brought him to life?”

“ What ?”