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It happened so fast. It happened too fast.
Scar is no stranger to being hurt—be it by enemy or by friend, by nature or by blade, he is accustomed to the pain that dances alongside death and has the marks to prove that he has managed through them all.
He is used to pain, but that does not stop it from burning.
It’s like he’s staring at the pond in front of him, trying to decipher his next course of action in one moment, and then, in the next, there’s blood filling his lungs and a sword through his chest, and Grian’s voice is ringing through his ears like it always seems to be when he meets these untimely ends.
He supposes he should have learned to expect this by now, but he doesn’t want his heart to harden because of it—he would rather experience every gut-twisting betrayal at full force than stop loving because of them, and he knows this because he knows that when he returns from the clutches of Death, they will be laughing together and hugging each other and Grian will be apologising, like he always does, and Scar will forgive him, as his heart will have it. He tried spite for a moment in the last game and found it bitter on his tongue. It was fun at the time, but it left a disgusting aftertaste when he fell to the ground in a forest and died and had to watch Grian cry and beg him for forgiveness. It was the most profusely he had ever apologised for anything, Scar thinks, and the death wasn’t even purposeful. Scar doesn’t enjoy considering exactly what that might mean.
The sword in his chest is starting to actually hurt, now—the white-hot feeling that smothers the initial wound is wearing off and turning into a burn, only made worse by Grian yanking the sword out of his chest and leaving a very clean hole straight through his torso. He turns around and he’s sure that he stops, and yet his environment continues to run carousels around him as he tries to focus on the beige and red and diamond blue blur sitting in front of him.
Grian is laughing, he thinks, and apologising. He brings a hand up to the wound and is sure that his face does not look as jovial as he wants it to. He doesn’t even know what happened. He can’t even remember if he was talking to Grian prior to this, or if he even knew he was there—he’s in front of him now, saying words, and Scar is responding without even knowing what he’s responding with.
“Again, Grian?” he hears himself say, and he sounds so tired it shocks him. Surely, he doesn’t feel that tired. The blood rushing in his ears is very loud, and he’s rather sure he couldn’t fall asleep in a situation like this.
“I’m sorry, Scar,” Grian says, grinning all the while. Scar distantly notes that he isn’t sorry at all. He’s not sure if this is one of the betrayals that he will ever actually apologise for, because it isn’t a betrayal to him. They weren’t teamed for this season, unless you count the delightful few days when Scar was lugging Grian’s unconscious body around, pretending like his feet were bare and digging into sand instead of uncomfortable leather, leading the poor thing on his llama between the cactus and over chasms—cactus or trees, he can’t really remember. One or the other. “I had to do it,” Grian continues, and Scar almost rolls his eyes and feels dizzy just from the effort of thinking such a thing.
He doesn’t know if he responds to that, but he feels a cold hand land on his shoulder and start to push him down. With just the slightest bit of pressure, Scar’s knees buckle and he collides with the grass, muddying his fancy outfit as he falls to the edge of the pond. The impact alone is enough to jostle his brain back into motion and, just for a moment, the world stops spinning.
He looks down at the blood blossoming from the hole in his shirt and outwards, a poppy trying to put him to sleep as darkness creeps into the edges of his vision. He raises his head with much effort and looks Grian in the eyes. The man is still grinning, but something in his smile falters when Scar does not reciprocate it.
He attempts to remedy this—he raises the corners of his mouth like you’re supposed to when you smile, but something outside of his control makes his lips wobble and tug downward as the heat in his chest reaches his eyes and spills down his ash-caked cheeks.
He laughs, he thinks, but he isn’t smiling. His head falls forward, gaze drawn back to the pulsing hole in his chest, and his shoulders shake. His hands shake. He’s trembling, but he couldn’t possibly fathom why. Why. “Why do you do this every time?”
Grian stares at him, smile wiped clean off of his face—that wasn’t Scar’s intention at all, but at least it keeps his focus on Scar’s question. His voice is thick as he replies, “What?”
“Why…? Every time…?”
The question cuts itself off at odd points, Scar’s throat closing around the air that he wheezes to drag in, every breath sending another stab through him as his lungs slowly fill with fluid. Grian looks floored, rooted to the spot, his diamond sword hung loosely in his dominant hand as Scar’s blood slides and drips off of it, killing the grass underneath. “I don’t—I don’t know what you’re—”
Scar coughs, and he is sure that it is one of the most blinding pains he has ever felt in his life. Every forceful breath outward drags against the flesh inside of him, rattling his bones in such a way that they feel like they are scraping against each other in the centre of his chest. “G,” he forces out, the haze starting to cloud his vision. “It’s okay.”
Grian doesn’t move an inch. His mouth stays shut, but Scar can hear him loud in his ears, every word he’s ever said to him, every term of endearment and insult laced with fond exasperation, every annoyed quip or excited scream, Scar can hear all of it from him and the tears that slip down his face do so for a reason that is crystal clear.
Scar leans his head back. The world is kicking back into gear, starting to spin around him, the sky as its ever-moving vertex, so he closes his eyes and mumbles something that makes Grian’s wings bristle.
“What?” he questions, taking a step back. Of course, he takes a step back. Away. Grips his sword harder, and though Scar cannot see it, his hand is shaking.
“I forgive you,” Scar repeats, and he can hear Grian’s feathers suddenly puff up in response. “Like I always do. It’s okay, G. We all make mistakes.”
Scar knows he heard him apologise, the sound echoing in his mind. He supposes now is as best of a time as any—he twists his body and ignores the screaming, burning, hellfire pain that tears through him with an angry fervour in favour of lying down in the grass.
“What are you doing,” Grian says, voice not rising for a question. He takes a step forward, then another. Closer. “Scar, what are you doing?”
“Dying,” he says simply. “I’ll be…” He swallows thickly, keeping his eyes closed. “I’ll be okay. Don’t…don’t worry about me.”
“Wait—” Grian starts to rummage through his bag before pulling up his inventory and searching for something or another. Everything is very foggy. “Wait, wait, Scar, not yet—what do you mean by every time?” He lets out a strangled laugh as a piece of bread materialises in his hands. “I didn’t permanently kill you in Last Life, Scar, what do you mean. Scar.”
Scar is barely breathing. Grian drops to the ground next to him, ruining the knees of his pants, and tries to press the piece of bread into Scar’s mouth—Scar raises his hand to stop him, and Grian squeezes the bread piece so hard it becomes much denser than it should be.
“G…” Scar starts.
“Scar, I said not yet,” Grian insists, searching again through his inventory for something that could help. “You—we need to talk. You need to explain yourself, you can’t just go around saying nonsense and expect me to—Scar. Scar.”
Grian is met with silence. He shakes Scar’s shoulder roughly, and the man flutters his eyes open for just a moment. He lets his hand fall onto Grian’s forearm.
“G,” he repeats. “I forgive you already.”
“No— no, Scar, no, just—”
Grian makes a noise of frustration as Scar’s eyes slip shut again. “Scar, you need to stay here. Just—explain what you mean. Before we forget on Hermitcraft, just tell me. Scar!”
Scar doesn’t open his eyes this time. He suddenly holds Grian’s arm very, very tightly, as if trying to comfort him but not being able to regulate the pressure, and then it goes completely slack.
Grian doesn’t know whether what he feels is regret, but he does feel ill. He lifts his hand up and there is somehow blood already dried into the creases of his palms and caked under his fingernails. He realises with a bit of a shock that this is a new entry in a long list of times that he has looked down to see Scar’s blood on his hands.
He washes it away in the pond, then rolls Scar’s corpse in after it, and tries very hard not to think about either.