Chapter Text
Somewhere, in the pitch black, the clock ticks.
Its hands move with a finite sound, seemingly echoing in his ears. Tick. Tick. Tick. It is as loud as the beat of his heart in his chest, he can feel as every second goes by. He feels it reverberate through him, and he counts each second with accuracy, straining his hearing to listen for the outside.
Sounds of cheer and partying meet his ears, working past the wooden walls. He can picture it clearly, a gathering of men, dancing with drinks in their hands as they celebrate what they perceive to be some sort of win. Celebrations are loud as soldiers feast to their heart's content, letting their guards down within their own homes. He stands tall and firm, confident as his lips curl in a satisfied smirk. Good. If there is any nervousness that he feels, he does not show it. His face is calm and collected, not letting it fall for a second; even in the darkness.
Moving silently, he grabs a torch, setting it ablaze. Light bursts forth from his hand, a small flame flickering and dancing in the air. From his hand sits the first light of their victory, the path to it, and he will lead his men to it. His face is illuminated by the flashing flame, and the picture comes into full focus.
Captain Scar stands within a wooden sculpture, dressed in armor, wielding a bow in his hands. A shield is strapped to his arm, wearing the scratches of war. He looks at all of his men with stern green eyes, hardened by the experience of a warrior. He is surrounded by his soldiers, his comrades from Hermitopia. Together they all sit in a giant cat made of wood, a grand work from an excellent carpenter from home; a large wooden cat, sent to those of their enemy, Avalon. It was his idea, to send the wooden piece as a sign of defeat; and as expected, the soldiers of Avalon bought it eagerly, feeding their own egos.
Little did they know there’d be thirty hundred Hermits sitting inside said wooden sculpture, waiting to strike. The ‘gift’ was a perfect way to sneak past the castle’s defenses, which is exactly where they’ve ended up. It’s a less than honorable strategy, Scar is fully aware; planning a sneak attack while the enemy is unaware, unguarded. But it’s smart. After being struck down for years, honor means nothing in the face of ending this war, not anymore. It’s time to use their brains rather than just pure brawn, and Scar is perfect for the job.
With the small light provided from the flame, Scar eyes his men. The time is almost here; everything is going according to plan, but Scar isn’t going to let that go to his head.
He breathes in, beginning to speak, “Alright everyone, time to listen up–and closely. Tonight’s the night we make the Avalonians pay; this is our one chance you hear? We don’t get any do-overs if we mess this up.” He speaks in a quiet hush, feeling the eyes of thirty men on him.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The fire in his hand burns bright.
Humans by nature follow the man who shows his confidence, the man who enters a situation with a plan, a clear head. Scar wears his confidence like a mask, clear and obvious, and striking to anyone’s eye. He looks at his men with a spark in his eye, one of danger and self-assuredness.
“Do what I say, and we’ll all make it out of here alive.”
“Yes sir!”
“Allan will lead the group, Larry, flank the guards, Big Ben you’ll let the other troops in through the gates to take the city. Scara cover any ambush attacks that might hit us, and Hip, stay back or with someone else at all times,” Scar lists off order after order, confident and resolute in his words. “Lanbo secure Ari and protect her, Dwayne kill the brothers of the Logfellas and avenge your father.”
“Yes sir!”
Scar takes a sweep of his charge, nodding to himself. “This is the make or break moment, gentlemen. I suggest you all ask yourselves, who are you fighting for?”
It’s quite the easy answer for himself, as simple as two little names.
Grian. His son, Peder. Scar softens at the thought of his family, a deeply rooted yearning slamming right into him. It’s been seven years since he’s seen them, seven very long years of war and constant fighting. There hasn’t been a day that’s gone by where he hasn’t thought of them, wishing to be back home with his beloveds. His husband and son are his everything, his motivation, his will to keep fighting, to keep going. No matter how much time passes, their faces are still clear in his memories, his heart still reaches for them.
Even now, after spending years away from home, he still recalls the day he left with clarity.
(“Do you have to be leaving so early in the morning?” The sound of his husband’s groggy voice called from behind him, causing Scar to pause where he stood, turning around to face him. His heart swelled at the sight of his husband, seeing the man awake and up. He knew it was early, and Grian was far from a morning person.
“You didn’t have to get up to see me off, G,” he chuckled fondly, a smooth smile forming along his lips (he was so very grateful that he did). He set down the bag he had in his arms to approach his love. Grian looked like he was half awake, half a yawn slipping from him, golden hair a total mess from sleep. “Why don’t you go back to bed?”
Grian fixed him with a firm stare, one that probably would have had more of an effect if he were more awake. At best, it looked like he had an itch on his nose, with the way his face scrunched. “Don’t try and act all tough with me now,” Grian huffed as Scar walked toward him. “I know you’d be grumpy with Cub and Mumbo if you didn’t get a proper goodbye.”
“Am I that obvious?” Scar smiled sheepishly, slinging his arms around Grian’s waist. He pulled him in close, green eyes soft and bursting with affection. He tried to memorize as much of Grian as he could while he still had the chance.
Humming, Grian reached up to cup Scar’s face in his hands, wearing a smile that curled with fondness at the edges. “Maybe just to me–you’ve got everyone else fooled somehow,” he decided with a hint of cheekiness in his voice.
Scar laughed in response, leaning in. He brushed their lips together in a light kiss, “You always know how to strengthen my ego, lovebird.”
“Well someone needs to keep you grounded.” Grian grinned innocently at him, and Scar’s smile widened so much he could feel his cheeks ache.
“I love you,” Scar whispered, pressing their lips together once more. It was firm, still gentle but slow. Neither of them were in a hurry to pull away, wanting to savor it for as long as they could. Scar loved kissing Grian, it was sweet but firm and stubborn, somehow so perfectly Grian that he could do it forever. Grian’s lips were warm and loving, and Scar soaked it up eagerly, brushing some of his hair behind his ear.
When they pulled apart, Grian pressed their foreheads together, brown eyes growing dark and clouded. He didn’t move, and Scar didn’t want to rush him, didn’t want to leave their little bubble of domesticity. He didn’t want to go away to fight for who knew how long–even if it were his duty as king.
“You better come back to us alive, Scar,” Grian eventually softly muttered, lightly bumping their heads.
Hearing the underlying worry, Scar tried to lighten the mood, tried to ease his husband’s concerns while he still could. So he smiled, all bright and soft. “Psh, look at who you’re talking to, G! Of course I’d–”
“I want a promise, Scar.” Grian’s voice was firm as he cut him off, and only very faintly could Scar hear the tremble in it. His eyes narrowed, not in the mood for jokes. “Swear it.”
Scar faltered slightly, breath leaving his lungs in a weak exhale. He pulled back, movements slow and hesitant. He lifted a hand up to brush Grian’s bangs back with a soft touch, setting his lips against his forehead. “I swear I’ll come back,” he promised. “I don’t care how long it takes me–I will come back to you.”
Grian opened his mouth to respond when a soft cry interrupted him, causing the two to pull apart. Scar turned to look to the side, hearing a little angry puff from a certain little baby of his.
With a soft chuckle, Scar walked over to where his son lay, brown eyes wide open. “Hi Pitta baby,” he cooed at the infant, reaching down to scoop him up into his arms. “Did you want to get in on the promise your dad and I made?”
The infant only blinked up at him as he extended his arms up toward his father. He gurgled in answer, making Scar chuckle.
“Oh yes, terribly sorry for excluding you.” Gingerly, he pressed a kiss to Pitta’s head, holding him close. He let it linger for a moment or two, feeling a deep sense of longing. Oh how he didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay with his husband and son, but duty called. They had a war to end. “I promise I’ll come back home to you too,” he mumbled. “I have to teach you how to fight; we can’t trust your dad to do it.” Scar grinned as he added in a conspiratorial whisper, “He likes to fight dirty with sneaky tricks.”
“I heard that!” Grian huffed at him.
Scar could only laugh, his heart already feeling the ache for home.)
He still remembers how golden Grian’s hair was in the morning light, and the way his eyes were a soft honey brown. Even when half asleep the man was fierce, fiery, and so touchingly beautiful. Though the warmth of his lips against Scar’s may be gone, he’ll never forget the feeling of contentment that surrounded him each time they embraced. Never could Scar forget the feeling of home.
That ache for it remains heavy in his chest as he counts the years he’s been away, as he wonders what their life has looked like with Scar’s absence.
After tonight, he won’t have to wonder for much longer.
He inhales, taking in the air around him. He gives his crew one last look before he gives the command. Grian and Peder’s faces flash in his mind, and he bolsters his resolve. He’s going to keep his promise to them.
The torch in his hand extinguishes. Darkness floods them.
There’s a breath in.
A breath out.
“Attack!”
The tall walls of the wooden cat topple down, revealing the scene before them. Tables are laid out, full of food and drinks. Torch lamps stand to provide light to the area, adding a soft glow to the faces of drunken or passed out soldiers. Before the walls fell down, it had been a time of celebration, excitement at the thought of a victory Avalon believed they had achieved. Within seconds, the celebration in the air dies, being squeezed out as the balloon pops!
All it takes is a single second, one breath, and all hell breaks out.
Scar takes a moment to mourn the loss of the Wooden Jellie, as he’s silently dubbed her. She served her purpose well. He flicks his attention back to the falling walls, hearing the outcries of both ally and foe alike as his men charge the plaza of the castle. Naturally Scar joins them, not leaving the others to fight in this battle alone. He isn’t that kind of king, or man.
It’s hard to hear much over the yells hitting Scar’s ears, his own mixing in with the others as he too rushes to join the fray, feet leaving the wooden platform. Together, they charge in, ambushing the party. “Men!” a commander from the other side shouts as Hermits rush them, drunken soldiers stumbling to their feet as they hurry to grab their weapons and arm themselves. Some have shields, using them to block any attacks from Scar’s men; they aren’t fast enough, reflexes slowed thanks to the alcohol in their systems.
Off in the distance, Scar hears the telltale sound of a gate lifting, the metal groaning with protest as it moves. He looks in the direction of the gate, grinning as he sees the rest of his men storm the castle, joining the fight.
It doesn’t take very long for things to devolve into total chaos, a flurry of fire and clashing swords.
Scar keeps his distance as he fires arrow after arrow from his bow, eyes sharp and narrowed as he stares down the enemy.
The battle is tense, with those of Avalon who had been caught off guard desperately trying to fend back the Hermits attacks. Their strike back is brutal and animalistic as they scramble for whatever they can to defend their home. But it’s no use, Scar has his men trained well–he’s done everything he can to make sure that no one dies.
Soldiers swing their swords and shields left and right in their charged battles, outcries echoing in the air. Arrows fly from either side, the shouts and commands of generals flying alongside them. Scar watches it all happen around him, finding himself disappointed with the enemy’s reaction. For a kingdom as mighty as Avalon, their hasty defense is just pitiful.
Setting an arrow in his hand, Scar adds his own shots to the barrage coming from overhead. He fights alongside his men, switching between using his bow and knocking enemies back with his shield. He, like those beside him, devolve to nothing more than instruments of war, adding to the river of blood with each wound they inflict. Every drip on the ground causes the sea to grow higher and higher, losing them all in it. None of them see it, the way they stain themselves red with battle.
The string of Scar’s bow is taut against his fingers as he releases another arrow on the enemy, watching as the body in front of him falls to the ground, lifeless. He glances over at one of the walls of the castle, one single goal in mind; cut off the head of the snake. After this, everything will be done. They can go home.
Using the chaos to cover himself, he heads right for the wall of the battlements. If anyone is going to be dealing with the prince, it’s going to be Scar. He keeps his bow in a tight grip in his hand, attentive to the battles happening around him.
Unfortunately, the fight doesn’t grant him as much cover as he’d like, with three Avalonian soldiers spotting him, running in to attack with determined cries. Scar’s responding movements are as fluid as water as he reaches for his arrows, knocking three of them on his bow. He pulls the string back as three shadows enshroud him, arms with swords raised in the air.
“Nice try.” Scar smirks at them before releasing his hold on the string, arrows soaring through the air. Each one finds its target, hitting all three men and downing them. They fall around Scar’s feet, dead. He hardly spares them a glance as he continues on.
The wall isn’t that far from him, and Scar is careful to avoid any more interruptions on his way there. Adrenaline rushes through him, loud in his ears. Every beat of his heart is in time with a step forward, driving Scar to move. He ignores the burning in his chest, not stopping for a single second.
It is only when he reaches the wall that he allows himself to still, tilting his head up. Scar pants as he works to catch his breath, straining his ears to listen for everything around him. He’s tense, uneasy with his back toward the fighting behind him; anyone could sneak up on him if he leaves himself open for too long. Shaking the thoughts away, he returns his focus to the tall wall in front of him.
“That’s gonna be a big boy to climb,” he huffs out, staring at it. Scar doesn’t have much of a choice to find a different way to get up, though. There isn’t time to look for another entrance in, let alone time to deviate from the plan. This wall is his only way up to the prince, to the end of this war.
Scar sucks in a breath, slinging his bow over his back. He flexes his hands in front of him as he eyes the bits of brick that jut out. They’ll make good bits to grab onto in order to lift himself. He glances behind him at his men putting their lives on the line in order to fight, to win. He turns back to face the wall. “Well, no time like the present.”
He grabs hold of the bricks, pulling himself up as he begins his climb. His body feels so tense, nerves on fire as he slowly climbs the wall. He’s leaving himself wide open like this; one arrow shot at him and he’s done for, even with his armor on. But that’s a chance he’s willing to take, so long as he keeps moving. His arms shake with strain, exertion eating at him with each inch he pulls himself up.
Grunting, Scar maintains a steady upheaval as he scales the wall, getting closer and closer to the top.
He maintains a steady upheaval as he reaches the upper half of the wall, managing to pull himself up. His fingers dig uncomfortably into the grooves of stone under them, and he knows his hands will be sore for a little while after everything is said and done. He grabs the rail of stone right at the top, huffing a breath as he lifts his chest, swinging a leg over the edge. “Almost… there…” he mutters through gritted teeth with a strained noise.
The sounds of arrows whizzing through the air greet his ears, and one after one, five arrows lodge into the wall right by Scar’s leg. The captain yelps in return, his grip loosening and going unsteady. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Scar exclaims uneasily, letting go. He falls backward, thankfully landing on top of the wall rather than falling down. He takes a second, groaning as he stares up at the sky.
“That was close…” Scar breathes out, lungs burning as his chest quickly moves up and down. He’d probably have stayed there for a minute longer or so, had it not been for his bow uncomfortably digging into his back. He grunts as he sits up, grabbing his weapon and taking hold of it once again.
Scar takes stock of his new surroundings, eyes looking around. The place he’s found himself in is nothing special, no more than a walkway by what’s supposed to be a guard tower. Around him, the stone it’s made of is rough from time but still sturdy, dirt stuck in the grooves. Down the path there’s a wooden door that leads further inside the castle, and that very door will lead him right to the prince.
He hears the sounds of men fighting below, attention being caught by it. Unable to help himself, Scar turns back to the railing where he leans over, peering over the edge. Just under his feet lies the thick of the battle, where everyone–both friend and foe–is fighting for their lives, for a cause they believe in. Some part of Scar feels pride upon seeing how determined his men are to win, how they’re giving it their all. Yet there’s another part of Scar that wishes this war never happened in the first place, that they were never driven to this point.
Grian and Peder come to mind once more, as they always do. His heart squeezes in his chest at the thought of them. Truthfully, Scar never wanted to fight in this war. He’s a confident warrior, a brilliant strategist, but Scar has never been much of a fighter. He’d much rather fight with his brains rather than his brawn. As king his options are rather limited, and rather does he truly have a choice in the matter. All this bloodshed and death, he can’t help but wonder how much of it is worth it.
He wants to protect his kingdom, his home, of course he does. But to go this far…
There’s movement from the corner of his eye that Scar sees, coming right at him before he can get his shield up. He spots the glint of a blade, heart leaping to his throat as he catches it too late. Am I going to die?
He feels the attack, he feels the blade cut his skin as he falls back. Scar lands roughly on the ground as he cries out with pain. However, when he opens his eyes, forcing himself to quickly recover to defend, he doesn’t see anyone there. Pausing, Scar looks around the battlement with confusion; he’s completely alone.
Glancing down at himself, Scar finds that he’s completely unharmed. His brows knit together as he pats his chest, pulling his hand back to look at his palm. There isn’t any blood. Growing more perplexed, Scar pushes himself, looking around in case his mysterious attacker plans on striking again. “Who… was that?” He brings his shield close to himself.
“That, was a vision.”
Jolting at the voice, Scar pivots on his heel to face them. Sitting in the sky is a figure, one outlined by the clouds. Their hair is long and curling, the swirls of cloud imitating the wavy strands, the faintest hint of orange reflecting from the flame’s light. Around their head sits some sort of crown, hair tangled within it. Even with the clouds outlining them, Scar can make out the piercing green eyes staring at him. Lightning crackles in the sky, and it doesn’t take him very long to figure out who it is that’s appeared before him.
His eyes widen at the sight of the god, breath catching in his throat. “Zeus?” he breathes out.
Zeus, Father of the Gods, looks at him with a pleased smirk. “Hello, King of Hermitopia,” she greets. “What you just saw was a vision of the future, one that will come to pass if you don’t deal with it right now.”
Scar stands up straighter before her, eyes narrowing in focus. “How?” he asks without missing a beat. “You can lay it on me, I’m ready.”
Zeus lifts a brow, “I don’t think you are.”
A thin trail of smoke from the clouds drifts through the air, appearing more like mist. Wafting, the mist creates a trail, one that leads Scar right toward the door he saw earlier. Not hesitating, he steadies his shield and bow, straightens the helmet on his head, and follows it. Opening the door, he walks through, footsteps echoing loudly in the hall. The air is cold and stilted around him, working up his nerves. His muscles feel tense, taut with every step he takes.
“It’s a mission, an enemy who won’t run away from you.” Zeus’ voice follows him as he walks through the halls of the castle.
“Who is it?” Scar asks, glancing off to the side.
“Someone’s son,” the god answers him, humming quietly. “He’s unlike anyone you’ve ever faced before.”
Scar huffs a breath, the sound laced with confidence. He isn’t worried, no matter how strong this enemy may be. He’s been able to handle anything that’s come his way, this time will be no different. “Say no more, dear Zeus! I’m fully prepared for any challenge!”
Zeus chuckles with an amused sound, and Scar can picture her clearly shaking their head at him. “I disagree.”
The mist brings Scar right to the door somewhere in the hall, illuminated only by the fires outside. He doesn’t spare the windows a glance, maintaining his focus on purely what lies in front of him. With the presence of Zeus behind him, Scar swings the door open, bow in hand and an arrow against the string. “Prepare to meet your–” He stands in the doorway, being greeted by a large room. “...maker?”
It’s empty.
Scar lowers his bow as his face scrunches up. Taking a look around, there’s no one else inside, not even a guard. Wary, he cautiously enters further, adrenaline rushing through him like a wild, uncontrollable river. Lips tilting in a low frown, Scar pauses in the middle of the room. “Soooo, where’s this ‘great enemy’ you were talking about?” he questions. “Not to doubt your divine knowledge or anything.”
He hears a snort, “Right in front of you.”
Pointing his attention to whatever is in front of him, Scar finally sees it. Before him is a crib, a blanket loosely laying over it, bits of the material hanging off the side. His breath freezes cold in his chest, lungs turning to ice. “No.” He shakes his head, steps shaking as he approaches it.
Inside the crib rests a sleeping infant, some of the blanket wrapped in his chubby little fist. His hair is growing in, a dark brown as the strands curl around his ears. “It’s… just a baby. What sort of threat can a little thing like him be to me?” He looks peaceful, completely oblivious to the chaos unfurling outside of his home. He has no idea how drastically his life is changing, and Scar’s world tilts.
“This is the son of Avalon’s prince Xisuma,” Zeus explains, her voice coming from somewhere over his shoulder. “If you don’t end his life now, he will be consumed with rage as he grows up, until he comes to take vengeance.”
Scar feels sick as he stumbles away from the crib. “No, no there has to be some other way!” he exclaims, yelling at the open air. “I-I could bring him back to Hermitopia, I could raise him!”
“He will destroy your house and throne,” the god points out.
The captain wildly shakes his head, a lump forming in his throat. “Okay, o-okay then we could send him far away from here!” he proposes next, grasping for something, anything that doesn’t involve ending this small child’s life. He’s done plenty of things that he isn’t proud of, made numerous difficult choices that he wished he’d never have to make. But this? This baby hasn’t done anything, he’s innocent.
“He will find you, King of Hermitopia. You will not be able to outrun him.”
“Then I’ll make sure he never discovers his past!”
“The gods will make it known to him.” Zeus’ voice carries no pity for him as she speaks, once more countering him. She is detached, matter of fact. “You have no other choice but to slay him if you want to protect your husband and son--it is the will of the gods.”
Scar’s grip on his bow loosens until the weapon drops to the ground with a clatter. His knees feel weak, unsteady. He thinks of Grian, and he thinks of his son. Nausea rolls over him in one big wave, throat dry and aching as he stares at this infant. “Please,” he begs, voice cracking as he pleads with the god. “I can’t, I–”
A current picks up in the air, causing the edges of Scar’s hair to blow with the breeze. Something changes in the atmosphere as lightning crackles somewhere in the distance. “The blood that stains your hands will never wash away,” Zeus’ voice echoes as it begins to fade. “All you can do is choose whose.”
He’s left alone, the god’s presence disappearing. Scar is alone to stare at the infant, horror seeping into his gut as he weighs his options. Even though his voice won’t reach Zeus, or Grian, or his men, Scar still releases a weak breath.
“Please… don’t make me do this.”