Chapter Text
Grian was used to being out of his element. His mother was from the States, an avian. One known as a Carolina wren, soft and kind. She always cared about helping people out whenever she could (which wasn’t too often with her stout height). She’d only known the few places where her family lived and was so glad to move to England after she met Grian’s father. His father is a simple man, with a complicated heart. It is filled with rage and mischief. But he is an imp. His tail lashes wildly as he smiles (joy, anger, madness? No one knows) and his black horns are daunting.
Grian inherited the worst of both.
People would always guess he was five years younger. A babyish face and inability to reach cabinets without being on tip-toes does that. But at least his wren wings can carry him far and are a lovely chestnut.
Grian inherited horns, but his mother’s height stunted their growth. Now you can’t see them through his thick fluffy blonde hair. He feels glad he didn’t inherit the tail, as his eyes and smile show all too much. Something about his ear-piercing laugh and wide eyes scare people. It scares him too. A heart filled with rage and mischief.
He misses his mother. Her warm smile, strong hug, her strong but small physique, how she would always try and find tight places to play in with him, how she loved. Food, quality time, small kisses placed throughout the day. And yet the thing he remembers most is seeing her framed by the afternoon sun, tears streaming down her terrified face, leaving her preteen son and husband behind. He doesn’t blame her.
Violent hearts lead many places. Violence or maybe a way to heal. Grian tried healing, but violence took him back. So he used his long-dormant admin powers and created the biggest thing he could.
It wasn’t very big, obviously. But seven hundred by seven hundred makes hiding hard. And that is good for a violent heart. Grian went around to all of his friends from the many years of his life, some knowing his violence more than others, and pitched his idea. He noticed how they all grew weary as his wings started to flap and his eyes and smile grew bigger and bigger. Thirteen accepted.
Grian hated that he chose to live in the desert with Scar. It was too sunny, too hot, too big. And there was Scar himself. The man was too reckless, probably trying to scare Grian at every chance he had. Thank the heavens Grian made it so violent impulses are dulled until red. Scar would’ve been dead sessions ago.
Maybe.
Grian didn’t prune his wings to make it feel like he’s been running through brushes. He’d run through some, but nothing caught.
Scar came up to him one afternoon as he sat on the root of their tower. Grian looked up at him from his perch and only saw his head framed by the sun. Even still he saw Scar’s bright red eyes and deep scars in the shadow.
“Do you want me to preen those?” He asked in a soft voice, gently pointing to Grian’s wings.
“I—what?” Grian blinked and looked away. Maybe it’s the sun. He hoped it was just the sun.
“I mean…it’s not comfy right? A-and you must have so much discomfort wearing that stupid sweater.” Scar coughed, “not stupid. Sorry. It’s a nice sweater and all—”
“Shut up Scar. You’re acting like a real green-lifer now.” It was ironic as Grian sat there with his beating green heart. He owed his life to Scar, but his mother’s heart said it would last longer.
Scar paused but laughed, “Yeah. But do you want me to preen your wings?”
“Please leave,” He hissed and flapped his wings once. A stick poked another feather out of place, he let out a small yelp of pain. “I will hit you if you don’t.”
“Grian—” he reached out a hand.
“Stop.”
“Just tell me why.”
Grian turned with the coldest glare he could’ve mustered, “You remind me of my mother.” Scar retracted his gentle hand. Without a word, he left.
(The next day as Grian screamed and kicked at the sand, Scar grabbed him and forced him to sit.
Scar whispered kind words as he held the small man on the dusty earth. Grian tried to struggle at first as Scar plucked twigs and burrs from his wings. But as Scar straightened feathers, he stopped fighting.
Scar had gently put his arms around Grian at the end, setting his sharp chin on his shoulder, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For however your mom treated you.”
“I had a great mother.”
“Oh. Well.” Scar leaned away. “Sorry. I’m not good at…interpreting things.”
“She was great,” he admitted. “But I hurt her.”
“And you think you’re going to hurt me?”
“Yes.”
Scar put his arms back around Grian, “You can’t hurt me. My muscles are too big.”
Grian laughed and turned around, hugging Scar back, “Okay Scar.”
Grian let Scar preen his wings whenever after that.)
The moon sat low on the horizon that night. Grasshoppers chirped in the background as Scar and Grian sat in the remains of their cold home. Grian felt fine in his sweater, Scar shivered. He was told to put clothes on but refused with his usual silly smile.
“Tea?” Scar huddled by the furnace with the kettle and random dried grasses and flowers sat nearby. “I’ll add milk to it but don’t want to waste our sugar.”
“Sure.”
Scar grabbed a towel and poured two cups of steaming hot tea. Most of the cups were milk with minimal tea. He shuffled onto one of their high-top seats and placed the cups on the table.
“Thanks.” Grian took a sip. With all the milk, it wasn’t bad. He spilled some of the liquid onto his shaking hands and looked out the window.
Scar cradled his cup in his hands, “So. Uh. How much am I like your mom?”
“That’s a…strange question. Well…only mildly. You have similar love languages,” he wringed out his hands. “And you’re both happy and kind people. That’s…really it. It’s just that”—he laughed—“there’s not many people who are always kind and alway happy that I don’t find constantly annoying.”
“You yell at me all the time!” Scar gasped and laughed.
“Yeah, but…I don’t know it’s different. Like with Timmy, I’m really mad at how annoying he is. Strange positivity. But I’m just…I don't know. Different.” He shrugged and took another sip of the tea.
“What a sap,” Scar said, in a joking tone. Grian had huffed in response. In a flash, Scar downed the rest of his cup, childishly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand afterwards. “Things are coming to an end soon, for all of us. Jimmy died today. So many deaths in general. It was…nice.” Scar rubbed his chest, where the beating red heart laid. “What happened to Jimmy when he died?”
“Until there’s a winner, he’s a spectator. Floating around somewhere.” Grian waved his hands mindlessly in the air. He supposed Timmy was with his husband off in the valley. Maybe Scott had felt a cold presence by his bedside that night. Or were the ghosts nothing to players? Not even a cold breeze to remember them by? He sighed, “Why’d you ask about my mother?”
Scar seemed to draw himself back to attention before darting his gaze away. “Oh, just so things aren’t awkward! Heh…”
Grian gave him a deadpan look of some sort of disapproval.
“You know what?” Scar got off his seat and looked around at the gaping hole they had haphazardly covered with cobblestone. He built up to the ladder and climbed up to the untouched upper level, he dropped down and took some damage a minute later. “Come on,” he lightly took Grian’s cold hand and dragged him through the hole in the missing wall.
Scar weaved inside the cactus ring they’d made some time ago and let go of Grian’s hand. He stood at the edge, pulled his wings close and shoved his hands in his pockets. It was a lot colder out here, with even less blocking the harsh desert winds. The other man kept moving, going to the other side of the ring and setting down a jukebox.
He turned to Grian with a jubilant smile, before he gracefully put a disc into the jukebox. The slow and slightly ominous tune of Melohi played. “A dance, my darling?” Scar offered out his hand and took some steps forward.
Grian hesitated before he walked forward and took the man’s hand, “I can’t really dance.”
“I can teach you.” Scar gave a soft moonlit smile. With soft words, he got the two of them into a simple dance position and counted out a four beat, lining up with the beat of the song. Grian hummed along to the soothing song as the two of them did an awkward form of the box step in the desert. Scar was a good maybe two heads taller than Grian. He opted not to injure his neck and looked off to the side.
As the music faded out, so did their dancing. The disc popped out of the jukebox and Grian broke away, finally looking up at Scar.
“You can dance, Gri,” Scar gave a few small claps.
Grian rolled his eyes, “I think anyone can do that. It’s normal dancing that gets me.”
“I’ve got other discs, you can learn other dances!” Scars voice had been almost teasing as he took a few steps towards the tower.
“No, no. It’s late and we’re going to have a busy day tomorrow.” Grian shook his head and kicked the ground.
“No! C’mon…another dance? I’ve got one life left, G. And I wanna live it!”
He lifted his head and flared at Scar, “You’ll be sloppy tomorrow and die if you don’t sleep.”
“Since when do you care about self-preservation?”
“Since you became my problem.”
Scar stood still for a moment, one hand was still pointed towards the tower. He dropped it, “Alright then. Thank you for giving me one dance.”
“Mhm.”
“You talk about being a monster, with some violent heart. But you’re still a softie inside.” Scar smiled and took one of Grian’s hands. He gave a deep bow and planted a small kiss on his hand. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the wind bite!” Scar waved and walked off to…somewhere. His steps were rushed, like he had been running away from something.
Grian scaled the wall and slept on the tower’s roof.
The sun beats down brighter than ever before. There is no wind today, or at least not now.
Deep in Grian’s chest, a red heart beats with every inch of its pitiful life. It screams for blood, for more revenge. He killed Bdubs, one of the two betrayers. Something in him couldn’t kill Scar there. So far from home. The whispers of his mother’s heart.
Grian doesn’t know what’s deep in Scar’s chest. His red and angry heat is there, but less. Scar was never violent by nature, just a scheming little pest. Who could dance. And warm a raging heart.
The ghosts scream their whispers in the air. Red hearts remain in their empty bodies.
Framed in the afternoon sun, Scar stands tall. Grian can see the red heart in there. The stance, how ready he is to fight. But neither of them want to. The jukebox is still in the corner.
“Do you want music to accompany us?” Scar shouts over the ghosts.
“Let’s get this over with!” Grian growls and raises his fists. He knows how to use them better than any sword. They are tough from building, like Scar’s, but also from constantly hitting walls.
Scar looks defeated but raises his fists. The ghosts count in a wild fashion, never in sync. Grian lunges forward with a howl and lands the first punch.
It’s almost unfair, really. Grian is more nimble, using his wings for balance and short figure to dodge Scar. The other is almost robotic, swinging with obvious movements.
Between falling into the cactus and Grian’s hits, Scar lands on the ground in the next minute. Ghosts shout their approval.
Howling screams from inside calms in Grian, the red heart subsiding a little. There is more to hunt. Animals still roam this land. Your life still beats on. Grian falls to his knees next to Scar’s body. He is still wearing a smile, somehow.
The ghosts are either silent or gone.
Grian is defeated, hollow. Neither heart speaks up. He takes off his sweater and rips it up with teeth and claw-like nails. He stands, scraps of yarn in his hands and walks to the edge of the cliff. He throws the fabric to the wind and turns around.
If the ghosts are there, they should be looking at him.
“Thank you for such a great game everyone!” He calls to nothing and tips back. There is a rush of wind—
As a kid, he once made a bet with his friends that he could run backwards the longest. He did beat them. We won. But as he realized this, he tripped over his feet and fell hard on the ground.
The playground was made of wood chips. Grian was sure he was dead for a moment, laying there. Then he sat up and shook it off, not even a concussion.
—then nothing. Grian opens his eyes to a blindly white void. He slowly sits up and notices a heart sitting in front of him. Human. Red and pulsating. Grian touches his fingers to his neck and finds no pulse. He looks at his shirt to find a heart-shaped cavity in his chest. He laughs as he watches his lungs expand before deflating.
Grian takes the heart in his hands and holds it up to the white expanse. In one second on impulse he squishes it in his hands as blood runs down his hands and arms. In the next, he clutches the broken thing close to him and weeps.
Voices from all the people Grian cared about laugh around him. They are unified, one amalgamation of hate. It laughs:
“Carolina wren, Carolina wren, where is thy lover now?
‘My lover is dead,’ said the Carolina wren.”
It laughs in his face. Slowy, the forms of people appear as shafts of shadow. Martyn, Timmy, Cleo, BigB, Lizzie, Mumbo…so many others. They surround Grian, looking like some things many people would say were ‘dark but holy spirits’. But they are damnations of hell, laughing away in Grian’s face as he sobs over his broken heart.
“Oh, little boy,” a piercing and echoing voice of Scar breaks through the laughter. “Why do you do this to yourself?”
“I haven't done anything!”
“You've lost yourself to hatred. But also love. Without your mother’s heart, you wouldn't be crying right now. You can’t deny love, Carolina wren. Don't you know how your family loves?”
“It doesn't.”
“No!” The echo of Scar screams. “The wrens love with song, defending each other, food. It is the imps who love through hate. Teasing, punches. But you, you don't love. Because you’ve lost yourself to your father.”
“I was always my father’s son! Only these wings separated us! I was dealt a certain genetic hand and I had to live with it. I hate it but this is how it goes .”
“The past you did not live in does not define you!” The echo holds his arms out wide and the laughter stops. Only the slow drip of blood fills the silence. “Your friends show you love. Foods given to you just out of kindness, songs sung together late at night, killing enemies for each other, staying by another’s side if they need it. It is you who is hate! Yelling at them, shoving them so they’ll pay attention. But your mother’s heart is in there.” The echo jabs at the ruins of the organ. “Somewhere.”
Grian looks at the broken heart and squeezes his eyes shut. No. He will not accept this. It hurts too much. More tears escape his eyes as the ghosts whisper in discontempt.