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“It’s time,” Scar said gravely, “for the test, Hand.”
The sun had just risen on the day after break, potato fields peaceful in the early morning light. Grian had woken up early and gone to get a head start on farming, but now Scar led him back underneath Logwarts.
“I have something for you,” his king said. He held out his hands obligingly, and Scar placed an enchanted diamond ax on them. He inspected it; all it had on it was unbreaking, but it had clearly been made with care. Elaborate designs similar to the ones on Scar’s crown decorated the blade, and there was a comfortable leather grip with the same pattern in embroidery. The most notable thing, however, were the words carved into the polished wooden handle: Red Summer.
Scar led him back outside, to a stone platform Grian had seen him building during break. “This,” he announced, “is the Blackheart Altar.”
Standing on the stone bricks, Grian felt… different. It was silent, like the world was holding its breath, waiting; like it knew history was about to be made.
“Your test is now.”
Grian had an awful feeling about this. “What would you have me do, my lord?”
“Kill me.” Scar said simply, kneeling down on the altar.
“I- what? Scar-”
“I’m asking you, Hand,” Scar cut him off, “to slice the head off your king.”
“I…” the ax shook in Grian’s hands. “I can’t.”
“You can,” he said, “I trust you. I wouldn’t ask this of anyone else.” Scar smiled up at him, and Grian’s heart caught in his throat. Even then, asking him to do a terrible thing, he was beautiful. The first wisps of sunlight seemed to dance in his yellow eyes, and his hair looked softer than ever. Grian wished he could run his fingers through that hair, look into those eyes and know they looked back the way he wanted them to.
He envied Martyn now, more than ever. Martyn, who could run his fingers through Ren’s hair and stare at his eyes all he wanted. Who could hold Ren’s hand when running errands, and not just when he was being handed a weapon.
“Please,” Scar said, interrupting his thoughts, “I trust you.”
“Okay,” he agreed. Grian could never say no to Scar.
Scar lowered his head, and Grian raised the Red Summer Ax. He swallowed the bile in his throat, shut his eyes tight, and swung down. He swung again and again, until he heard the thunk of Scar’s head hitting the stone.
After a few moments, he slowly peeled his eyes open. Scar was gone, but the altar was covered in blood. He sank to his knees, the weight of what he’d done like an arrow in his neck.
Footsteps sounded behind him, and he shakily rose to his feet and turned around. Scar stood by the Logwarts entrance, Red and grinning and beautiful.
He ran toward Grian, his smile somehow growing brighter. “You did it!” He picked him up and spun him around. “That was uh-mayzin’! Have you seen the chat? They’re in shambles!”
“Uh, not yet,” Grian managed to say. Scar’s grin was normally infectious, but Grian was a bit too preoccupied with the blood on his hands to join him in his delight.
Scar seemed to notice this, frowning. “Hey, you did great. Here, I just have one test for you, then we can wash up and have something to eat. A nap, too.”
“Another test?” he swallowed more of the acid in his mouth. “That wasn’t enough?”
“It was more than enough,” Scar said seriously, “but we need to do this too. I promise it’ll be quick.”
Grian could never say no to Scar.
The sweat on his palms made the ax slide down, so he gripped it tighter. “What do you need me to do?”
“Well, here I am, Red. No armor, no weapons. A couple swipes of the ax, and I’m out. An easy kill, and you’re one step closer to winning.” His eyes, now red, bored into Grian’s.
“You can only attack me if I attack you. So,” he stepped forward, his face inches from Grian’s. “If I punch you right now, will you fight back? Will you kill me when you get the chance?”
You could kiss him right now, his brain said. You could just lean forward and kiss him.
Shut up, he told his brain.
“No,” he said. “No, I wouldn’t- I couldn’t kill you.” Not unless you asked me to. I would do anything you asked of me.
“Let’s test that, shall we?” Scar’s eyes were gleaming in the lantern light, then he was stepping back, then he was swinging. The punch connected with his jaw, and he stumbled back, his ears ringing. He stood there for what felt like an eternity, his grip on the Red Summer Ax tightening, then he let go. It clattered to the stone of the altar, echoing in the quiet.
“I- I can’t,” he said. He was whispering, but it sounded like shouting in the hush that had fallen. “I can’t. I can’t kill you. You took me in, you gave me a home, you gave me purpose. I can’t.”
“That’s all I wanted to hear.” Scar smiled at him, sweet and genuine. It was different from his wide salesman grin, different from his dangerous smirk, real in a way he often wasn’t. Grian felt a small sort of pride, knowing that he was the only one who got to see that smile.
Scar picked up the ax and handed it to him. “I’m proud to call you my Hand, Gri. You’ve more than proven yourself.”
He took him by the hand. “Let’s head inside, yeah? I think we could both use some breakfast.”
Grian followed him underground. “Baked potatoes again, my liege?”
Scar threw his head back and laughed. Grian pretended, for a moment, that they were just two people going into their home. That they weren’t a king and his hand preparing for war, that they wouldn’t have to wake up in the morning to battle plans and weapon making. That they could eat dinner and go to bed content, with no need to watch their backs or sleep with one eye open.
He realized, then, that Scar was holding his hand.