Chapter Text
“This is a really, really bad idea,” is the only thought in Scar’s head as he hefts his bow.
The screeches of furious avians and screams of frightened townsfolk cover the sound of his cane tap-tap-tapping against the flagstones as he runs through the street, glancing at the sky every so often to make sure he’s not being attacked. Luckily, the avians are all more focused on the vikings actually threatening them— the ones with cannons, harpoons, crossbows, maces, flails… you get the idea. A teenager with a cane and a flimsy bow isn’t really worth attacking.
Or so they think!
Because there’s more to Scar GoodTime Clocker than meets the eye! Or, more to his bow, at least. But he made the bow himself, so-
Aha! There’s a good spot! Scar hooks his bow under his arm and holds the cane in his teeth as he climbs the ladder. This building isn’t the tallest one around, but it’ll do the job— most importantly, there are no people up here.
Scar turns his face skywards as he pulls an arrow from his quiver and knocks his bow. He takes a deep breath as he scans for a target.
This is his chance, he knows. He only gets one shot, so he needs to make it good.
Then he sees it. A streak of bright red and green darting across the night sky, almost too fast to follow.
The parrot.
The avian that had terrorised their village for years, without anyone landing a hit on it. People say it drops projectiles that explode when they hit the ground— they’ve started calling them “bombs”. Scar’s seen the results of its attacks himself, but he’s never caught more than a glimpse of the avian. Now he’s got a front row seat, and… yeah. The stories… the stories might be under -exaggerating, actually, he thinks as something purple and faintly glowing falls from the parrot’s talons and onto the pier, instantly turning it to wood chips and sending up a fountain of sea foam.
Perfect.
Scar draws his bow. It gleams with violet light, and he feels it thrum with power, eager to loose an arrow and prove its worth. The earthy smell of the potion on the arrow fills his nose, and he knows that this is the one that finally works. He can barely hold back a breathy giggle as he steadies his aim. One shot.
If he can down the parrot, with this bow he made and enchanted himself, then no one will be able to call him weak again.
Time seems to slow as Scar focuses. There. Almost overhead, a blur of red, slowing almost imperceptibly as it prepares another bomb. His hands move in time with his thoughts, aiming, adjusting, and…
Now!
The arrow flies, leaving a white-hot trail like a tiny comet, except flying upwards through the sky. And it’s probably moving faster than a comet, Scar thinks proudly.
And, amazingly, somehow, it strikes true.
For the first time in his lifetime, the parrot falters. Scar swears he can hear it scream as it plummets, veering wildly as it tries to steer its descent. He thinks it lands somewhere in the forest. It didn’t look like a fatal injury, but it’s still an injury! He, Scar GoodTime Clocker, hit the parrot!!! Now he just needs to find where it landed-
All of a sudden, his thoughts are cut off by a loud caw, and he whirls to see a huge crow avian, talons outstretched, diving for his face.
He lets out a manly squeal and dives off the side of the building, barely remembering to grab his cane and sling his bow over his shoulder. He’d like to say he inspected the area for escape routes before climbing the building, but honestly it’s pure luck that he lands in that hay pile. He rolls instinctively as he lands, a habit he picked up from years of falling off of buildings. There’s a crack of splintering wood, and Scar prays it came from the building above and not the bow on his back.
A barrage of quills strikes the spot where he landed, quivering with the force behind them. The crow follows, landing on all fours with a thud and screeching, feathers bristling in preparation for another attack. Scar rolls and dives for his cane, which had landed just out of reach. Too slowly, he knows. Things are not going according to plan!! What’s the point of shooting down the parrot if he doesn’t survive long enough to take credit?!
As he braces to be hit and probably die, thinking about how embarrassing it’s gonna be when he explains all this in the afterlife, his thoughts are cut off by a familiar battle cry.
Oh no.
He opens his eyes to see the chieftain, Cleo the Undead, wrestling with the crow, clenching its body between her knees as it flails, trying in vain to get off the ground. Her battle axe drips with blood. She’s hacking at its wings, but can’t get a good hit in as it throws itself against the walls in an attempt to get rid of her. Finally, Cleo is thrown to the ground and the avian takes off hurriedly, wobbling in the air but not falling.
Then Cleo turns to Scar.
It is said that the chieftain of the Traffic Isles has a glare that can melt steel. That anyone brave or foolish enough to launch an attack against them quails before their ship reaches the dock, then grovels for forgiveness without her even having to raise her axe. Normally, Scar would call those stories exaggerated (privately of course: in public he makes sure to fuel the rumours as much as possible), but right now he almost believes them.
“Heyyy… mum.”
***
“I’m telling you, I hit it! I saw it go down!”
Cleo slams the door behind them, not looking nearly as impressed as Scar had been hoping. She barely spoke a word as she dragged him home, face unmoving and stony the whole way. Scar had been speaking enough for both of them, trying desperately to explain what he’d done and how she should be proud of him, really, because he downed the parrot in one shot! But she didn’t even look at him.
She turns to him now, finally, in the privacy of their own home. And when they see his face, their fury softens slightly, bordering on something even worse and all too familiar: pity.
“Scar GoodTime Clocker,” she says, in that angry, disappointed ‘I-know-you’re-lying-to-me’ voice of hers. “I know you didn’t shoot down the parrot.”
“But I did!” Scar protests, knowing it’s pointless. “I’m not lying this time! I shot it with my bow, that I made myself, might I add!” He pulls out his bow, which falls apart in his hands. Oh, right. “Aww, man. Ok, so it broke when I jumped off the building, but I swear it was working so well!! I enchanted it, and it was all glowy and purple, and…”
His voice trails off when he looks into his mother’s face, still showing that infuriating mix of anger and pity and disappointment they use so often when talking to him. Except it’s so much more painful now, because this time he actually did something right!
She takes a deep breath. “Scar...” Scar tenses, readying himself for a reprimand. “I know you just want to protect the village from avians, like me and your brother…”
Here it comes…
“…so I’ve asked Ren to let you into his lessons.”
…huh?
“Huh?” Scar says aloud.
The stern mask falls from his mother’s face, and they grin. “You’re welcome! I won’t say it didn’t take some convincing, but let’s just say Ren owes me a few favours. You’ll be joining Bdubs’ class in a few days.”
“I’m gonna join my little brother’s class.” Scar repeats, baffled. “So I can learn how to kill avians.”
Cleo’s face turns stern again. “Yes, you are. And you’re not going to argue about it, because if you do, I might decide that sneaking out to try and kill the parrot earns you two weeks of cleaning out the cow pens. Is that understood?”
Scar deflates, argument dying in his throat. “Alright, mum.”
He turns to slink away to his room to sulk, when Cleo puts out an arm to stop him.
“And, Scar,” Scar turns to look at her, seeing that the anger and pity are finally gone from her expression, and what’s left is a loving and slightly guilty smile. “You know I love you, right? I know you’ll never be as good as your brother, and I don’t expect you to be, but I know you can be better than you are now. You’ve got so much potential, and I just don’t want to see you waste it. So go out there, and prove everyone else wrong! Show us all that you don’t need working legs to be a good avian slayer!”
Scar tries to smile back, but he knows it comes out strained. He nods, then turns swiftly and hobbles up to his room, all the more conscious of how much he’s leaning on his cane.
The door shuts behind him, and he breathes a sigh of relief. He lets himself fall forwards onto his bed, burying his face in the pillow.
“you’ll never be as good as your brother, but I know you can be better ”
Can he? His brother is two years younger than him, and he’s a prodigy! Thirteen years old and he’s already felled multiple avians! And Scar? Scar can’t even walk properly. He’s the chieftain’s oldest son and he can’t even fight! He’s heard the rumours. People are saying that his mother is going to name Bdubs as the heir instead of Scar— and honestly he wouldn’t blame her! Being a chieftain is all about intimidation, and fighting, and responsibility, and honestly he doesn’t think he’d be able to handle it, cane or no cane!
He just wishes Cleo could love him for who he is, not who they think he could become.
Scar isn’t a fighter. Not because he can’t fight, as his mother seems to think, but because he doesn’t want to. He can do magic, for Watcher’s sake! He can make potions and enchant weapons, and the potions and enchantments are even starting to work now! But of course, Cleo never believes him, and she probably wouldn’t care even if she did: if he’s not killing an avian, they don’t want to hear about it.
There’s only one thing Scar can think to do to earn his mother’s respect.
He needs to kill the parrot.