Chapter Text
They called the town Tragedy.
And perhaps they were right to. It was a solemn place, a small town started by testificates and expanded upon by players there in the middle of the desert. There wasn't much to it outside of the necessities. A few homes, some pubs, a bank and, of course, the Sheriff's office.
And it was cruel. Creatures which roamed the desert commonly wandered in, forcing the townsfolk to flee into the nearest buildings.
But it was home to all those who lived there.
To Grian, it was home.
He was a young man just cresting adulthood a few years back, small enough that it gave the others around town leverage over him. A smudged pair of glasses sat on his nose, obscured only by the mess of brownish hair he let fall over his face.
He wasn't much to the townsfolk other than a trickster who's yet to outgrow his ways. Clever, resourceful, sneaky, he could do much with his life should he only try, but there wasn't much a reason to. The bank was full of his parents' money, even though they'd died when he was somewhat young. With no need to work, he became infamous around town as a trickster. Someone whose teasings were sure to get him in serious trouble some day.
And someday soon.
The Outlaw came to Tragedy at dusk.
The desert air was unusually chill as Grian watched from the window of a local saloon, nursing a warm milk as he’s one to do on evenings like this.
The Outlaw wasn’t unheard of. He was a curious figure, one which rolled into town on a chair with wheels, a wide brimmed hat casting a shadow over his figure. He was an odd thing, coming from out of town and yet completely armorless, not even a shirt on his back to protect from the desert winds.
“He’s back,” Grian heard The Patron say, taking a long sip of his own milk as he watched from an adjacent window.
The Saloon Keeper scowled as he wiped down the bar. “Don’t mind him. Attention. That’s what he wants.”
“And it’s what he’ll get,” a voice grumbled.
Grian turned to consider the man behind him, back turned to Grian so he could see but the tail which hung beneath his cloak.
Types like him weren’t unheard of. Testificates, they tended to be unified in their existence, all relatively human looking with round ears and tan skin. But the Universe had birthed Players to be elements of creativity, and their forms tend to reflect that. They, truly, were creatures, and some took on the forms of mobs.
Like The Sheriff. He turned to consider the saloon’s doors, wolf ears twitching beneath his hat, and he gave a low grumble.
He knocked back his glass of milk before standing, The Deputy beside him as always, and shoved his way through the saloon doors.
And, with perhaps a rather poor choice, Grian followed.
He watched from a distance as the Sheriff approached the Outlaw, stopping him in his tracks.
The Outlaw was only called such for his unfamiliarity. He had, truly, never done anything to the town other than pedaling useless goods and being a general nuisance, but Tragedy didn’t tend to trust those from outside of it. It was anticipation that drove them all to sneer at the Outlaw. An expectation that he would some day do wrong.
And it fascinated Grian.
The Sheriff strode over to the Outlaw, badge glinting in the setting sunlight.
He gave the Outlaw a nod. The Outlaw gave him one back.
“Outlaw.”
“Sheriff,” the Outlaw said, voice sing-songy in a way that mismatched his demeanor. “Pleasant evening we’re having.”
“I told you to stay out of our town.”
“Oh, did you?” the Outlaw rubbed his chin, considering the town around him. “The days are so blurry here in the desert. Hard to remember what’s what. You understand, don’t you?”
The Deputy crossed his arms, staring down at the stranger. “Get out.”
“Oh, but, dear Deputy it’s getting dark and my home’s such a way’s away. I’d be dead before I got back. Can’t you spare a weary traveler a bed?”
“A bed for you to scam our Innkeeper out of?”
“Well, if I don’t have to pay–”
There was a creeper.
Grian saw it before the rest. It was a ways off, minding itself as it scattered across the empty street.
It was a twisted thing, as they tend to be, multiple legs skittering across the ground and a permanently etched scowl across its face.
Grian saw it, and a smile twisted his lips. Dexterous, he slipped past the porch of the saloon and out into the street, slinking away from the commotion and towards the creeper. He whistled, drawing its attention, and with fury in its eyes the creature approached.
No one's quite sure what Grian’s goal was here. Rather it be a harmless prank or some attempt to free Tragedy from this Outlaw, none can say. Only that Grian, quick as he was, drew the creeper towards the Outlaw before fleeing himself.
The Sheriff and the Deputy saw it at once, eyes going wide as they backpedaled, both drawing their swords against the creature. But the creature's attention was on the Outlaw.
He hadn't a moment to react to even the sound of hissing. In an instant, the creeper ignited, and with a bang like thunder both it and the Outlaw were gone.
It's a dangerous world lived in. One with magic and monsters, demons and dragons, all which insist on bringing about the ends of the beings which live on these worlds. So, perhaps in fairness, the Universe gave each player a gift. Three hearts inscribed somewhere on their body. Three chances to make the most of one's existence without falling prey to the cruelties of fate.
They're precious things, someone's lives, not something to be gambled with or taken away. Not something to be toyed with.
And yet, Grian played.
His own hearts down his spine stung as he stared upon the crater left in town, the crater of his own creation. The Outlaw was there no more, and Grian knew in truth that he was back at worldspawn, one life fewer.
His stomach twisted with what he had done, the Sheriff and townsfolk simply staring at him.
It was the first blood spilled in Tragedy.
But it wouldn't be the last.
┈꒰ა ☼ ໒꒱┈
Grian had never traveled far outside of Tragedy. He'd never had much of a reason to. Everything he'd known and cared for was within this small town, and there was hardly a reason to escape it.
Still, he did. He wandered aimlessly in the desert for some hours, following nothing but rumors and whispers on the wind of where the Outlaw might be. There was a chance he wasn't there, what with some players choosing to start anew after a death, but Grian had to see. He needed to.
He found what he was looking for on the peak of a mountain made of sandstone, stretching high into the sky as if beckoning for the sun to scorch its surface. There, at the top, sat a castle of sorts constructed in the same tan pallet as the rest of the desert. There was a path leading upwards, sand pressed flat to make it more accessible, and despite himself Grian began to climb.
"Hello?" He called out as he reached the top, ducking his head as he considered his surroundings. The air around was hot and thick, but it was clearly the perfect climate for cacti to grow. They circled the perimeter like a natural wall, threatening any who stepped near.
"Hello?" He called out again. "Outlaw?"
"Well, hello there."
The pressure against his spine was cold and sharp, the unmistakable sensation of a sword being pressed against his life marks. Grian swallowed, going completely still as he heard wheels crunch sand behind him.
"Outlaw," Grian said, forcing his voice to remain calm as best it could.
"Trickster," the Outlaw supplied in return. "I know that face. But it's missing the grin that killed me. Nothing to smile about now?"
"I wanted to talk."
The Outlaw barked a laugh and Grian winced as he felt the blade press harder into spine. "Talk? Oh, sure, let's chat about how you took my life. How you killed me."
"I'm sorry."
"I don't doubt that! You have a death wish coming here."
"Please," Grian said. His voice was wavering now, fear creeping up his throat. "I want to make it up to you."
"How?"
And Grian, despite himself, despite everything, stepped forward and turned around.
He saw the Outlaw, then, for the first time. He had changed since Grian had seen him last, no longer hidden beneath a hat. Instead he was scarred, burned flesh seared up his side, chest, and face as a stark reminder of how he lost his first life.
Of how Grian cost him his first life.
There on his chest, plain to see, two hearts where there should be three.
Grian’s eyes trailed upwards from there, meeting the Outlaw’s eyes. They weren’t as cold as he’d have expected, curious moreso than bloodthirsty despite the man’s reputation.
And it was enough to reassure him that this was the proper choice.
He knelt to his knee and bowed his head, all too aware of the blade raised above him.
“Outlaw,” he said, eyes shut with his head towards the ground, “I am in your service until I lose my first life. This life is yours.”
Silence. Grian didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe where he was before the Outlaw. It would be easy, armorless and vulnerable as he was, to slay him then. It would be easy to take his life then and there. A life for a life. How fitting would that be?
Yet, Grian heard nothing but the quiet sheathing of a sword.
“Alright,” came that voice again, and unless Grian was mistaken it seemed to have lost some grit. Grian dared to glance upwards, to meet the gaze of the man seated before him, and to his surprise he found a smile. “It’s a deal.”
And so it was, a life for a life.
┈꒰ა ☼ ໒꒱┈
The Outlaw was a thing of legends.
Crooked and dastardly, he was a being which rode onto town on his wheeled contraption and took whatever it is he wanted with no concern for others. He was an enemy of Tragedy, a being which brought ruin and torture wherever he went.
And Grian was beginning to doubt that any of it was true.
He left early in the mornings, just enough so that the monsters were burning but not late enough that the townsfolk were awake. The Outlaw had given him what he could to make the trek, resulting in a sorry llama being ridden back and forth between the mountain and Tragedy, but it was better than walking so Grian took it.
He had expected deception within working with the Outlaw. For him to be made a traitor of Tragedy with no choice other than to spill the town’s secrets. But while the Outlaw certainly asked for information, it hardly seemed cruel. It was mostly… curious…
Grian learned quite a bit within the first few weeks spent with the Outlaw.
For one, the Outlaw truly craved riches more than anything else. Not in a way of greed like Grian had expected, though. In the way of necessity. He borrowed frequently from Grian, or sent Grian across the desert to another village to buy the essentials. Food. Clothing. His needs were truly the most basic of supplies.
Second, Grian learned that the Outlaw was truly just lonely.
Grian would approach from the mountain early in the day to see the Outlaw sitting there waiting for him. At first there was a solemnity to it. A silent watching, as if judging Grian for his constant choices to return. Then there was the start of a smile. Then a wave, followed by a sing-songy “hello there!”
It was almost disorienting the way the Outlaw’s demeanor changed. He charismatic chatter he’d often overheard within Tragedy proved to be genuine. He truly did just like to talk. It was almost annoying the way he would ramble on and on to Grian for hours. Almost.
At first Grian had assumed it was a manipulation tactic. That every rambling sentence about the mundane was meant to bore him or lure him into quiet resignation of obedience. But, no, Grian began to realize that he was truly just a lonely guy. Someone who, likely, hadn’t spoken to anyone else in some time.
Which lead to the third thing Grian had learned.
Grian wasn’t someone who made connections. His parents had died when he was just under adulthood, leaving him money and a house but nothing more. Tragedy knew him, sure, and the town cared for him just as it did all its townsfolk. But there wasn’t much in the way of connections there. It was a game of survival, and truly everyone was surviving.
But Grian began to spend his days with this man, and slowly he began to realize he cared.
It was subtle things, at first. The way he said hello. The particular smile in his eyes when he spoke about some book he had read recently. Grian began to look forward to these things, and though the trek across the desert and to the mountain was a dangerous one, he was pleased to make it.
But the care only grew until, one day, Grian had no choice but to acknowledge it.
Accidents happen, and with the Outlaw Grian had begun to think those accidents were perhaps more prone to certain people over others. He wasn’t a graceful man, even as fast as he was in his wheelchair, and was a poor fighter all the same. He branded a sword well, looking intimidating to any with a brain to think, but such intimidations tend not to work well on mindless monsters. Grian found himself defending the Outlaw from them enough times that it was a wonder he had only died for the first time at Grian’s hands.
It was a few months into Grian’s servitude with the Outlaw when the accident occurred. They were traveling alongside one another, Grian walking and the Outlaw in his chair, having just come back from a local village. It was a weekly trip for necessities, one they had made time and time again. They had walked past that same ravine over a dozen times. And yet that time…
The Outlaw had wheeled too close to the edge when the ground beneath him crumbled. He gave only a shout of alarm that had Grian dropping their goods and reaching to grab him, but it was too late.
Grian didn’t see him hit the bottom, but he’d heard it. The dull, lifeless thumb that came as he collapsed.
Like that, another life was gone.
Grian didn’t go home that night. He sat atop the mountain, pacing endlessly back and forth as he waited. The Outlaw had returned here after his last respawn, so surely, surely he would again.
It felt stupid to wait around. Grian’s services weren’t needed. It was a situation the Outlaw had fallen into out of his own lack of carefulness. What did it concern Grian?
But he couldn’t leave. He needed to stay, needed to be around in time for the Outlaw to return.
And return he did.
It was dawn by the time Grian heard wheels crunching sand. He hadn’t slept the night before, worry too great to dare rest, and he had mistaken the sound for something of sleep deprived hallucinations. But, no, it was there.
Grian burst from the door to the mountain’s home to see the Outlaw wheeling his way up the mountain, head hung low in focus.
Grian didn’t wait for him to get to the top. He rushed downwards, meeting the Outlaw halfway and all but throwing himself into him. He forced himself to stop there before the Outlaw. To clear his throat. Calm himself.
But before he could say a word, the Outlaw was looking up at him.
There was something in his arms. Flowers, Grian realized, which the Outlaw handed over with shaky hands. There were tears in his eyes, a vulnerability to him that Grian had never seen. It stole his voice. All he could do was stare at the man sat before him.
“Can we still be friends?”
And Grian, despite himself, burst into laughter. “What?”
“I can’t be alone,” the Outlaw said, “Not again. The world’s been brighter since you’ve been by my side. I can’t–I can’t lose that. Please. Stay. I need you.”
And Grian… he didn’t know what to say.
He swallowed, stared down at the flowers, then back to the Outlaw, and as bizarre as the situation was, it was also endearing. It made his heart ache, and all he could do was reach out and take the flowers from the Outlaw.
Lilacs and poppies…
Stay.
And Grian couldn’t stand it any longer. He threw himself forward and into the Outlaw’s lap, wrapping his arms around him tightly. The Outlaw embraced him back, pressing his face into his shoulder, and the two sat there for a long moment, simply holding each other, pleased to be back.
When Grian finally pulled away there were tears in his eyes as well. He sniffed and wiped them away before leaning back to look at the Outlaw’s chest.
One heart.
One life.
Gently, as if scared to chase it away, Grian reached forward and brushed his fingers against the lone heart. It made the Outlaw hold his breath, perhaps scared himself. But the heart stayed.
“Don’t ever do that again,” Grian said, voice halfway between a laugh.
And the Outlaw smiled.
┈꒰ა ☼ ໒꒱┈
It was a long time before Grian returned to Tragedy after that.
His parent’s home sat abandoned, left alone with a town that Grian was slowly coming to scorn. Some part of him cared for it, but a larger part cared for the Outlaw it had condemned. Torn between his home and the Outlaw, Grian had chosen the Outlaw.
And he wasn’t sure why.
It wasn’t clear to him what he felt for the Outlaw, but he knew it was affection. Care. A want to protect him, to keep this last life safe.
It was contested only by a desire to make this life one worth living.
So he devised a plan.
He returned to Tragedy a month after the Outlaw’s death much to the whispers and rumors of the townsfolk. A hush had fallen over the town when he’d entered in, those which once greeted him gone silent. It made his skin crawl, wondering if this is how the Outlaw had felt everytime he’d entered into town.
His questions were answered halfway towards his destination when a pair of figures stepped into his path.
“Trickster.”
The Sheriff stood before him with the Deputy at his side. They stood tall, taller than he, the Sheriff with a sword and the Deputy with an axe by his side.
Grian gave pause when he saw them. “Gentlemen.”
“Some nerve showing your face back in this town,” the Sheriff said.
Grian frowned, considering the town around him. “I’m not welcome in my home?”
“Not since joining with the Outlaw you aren’t.”
“Oh,” Grian tossed his hand in the air, “I mean, that’s nothing. Doesn’t make me less a member of this town.”
He moved to step forward only to freeze, watching the Sheriff’s hand go for the sword at his side. Grian swallowed, looking between it and the Sheriff.
And any doubt he’d had about this whole ordeal left him.
"You're not welcome here," the Deputy said, a smile of sorts on his lips that Grian desperately wanted to smack off. "You chose the Outlaw. Go rot in that decision."
Grian's jaw set, clenching his teeth as he forced himself to calm. He shrugged, hands in his pockets as he began to backpedal. "Sure. I'd keep an eye on that bank, though, if I were you."
He watched the exchange of glances between the two, something unspoken as they seemed to consider what may as well have been a threat. Eventually, the Sheriff gave a gruff "stay with him," to the Deputy before heading off towards the bank.
It wasn't what Grian had intended.
The plan had been simple. TNT bought from a far off village laid in a minecart, so that when the door to the bank's vault opened it would ignite. It was meant to create chaos and an opening. Nothing more.
Instead, Grian found more blood staining his fingers.
The ground shook with the explosion, loud enough that even Grian faltered. The Deputy went running at once towards the bank, Grian a few paces behind.
When they entered, it was in ruins, the interior charred and decimated by an explosion.
And there was tragedy.
Three deaths. Three lives taken by an explosion far bigger than Grian had intended. He could only stare straightforward at the remnants of his plan.
The Banker.
The Patron.
The Sheriff.
Gone.
The Deputy removed his hat and turned to look at Grian with wide, disbelieving eyes.
"What did you do?"
And Grian?
Grian stepped forward through the rubble. No one made a move to stop him. They let him walk forward, grab a bag of diamonds and emeralds from the vault, and leave without saying a word.
Death wasn't unfamiliar to Grian. And killing? Killing was becoming a close friend.
He was silent when he returned to the Outlaw, unresponsive to the Outlaw's inquiries as to where he's been.
He simply dropped the bag, stared at the Outlaw for a moment, and then retreated to his bed upstairs.
Quiet. Solemn.
And undeniably aware of what he had started.
┈꒰ა ☼ ໒꒱┈
They came with roaring thunder.
It had been weeks since Grian had last stepped foot in Tragedy. The deaths on his hands had left him solemn, quiet, inconsolable even by the Outlaw. After a few days, though, he began to speak. He told the Outlaw what had gone down in Tragedy. The death he had faced. And the Outlaw merely chuckled grimly.
“You’re making quite a name for us.”
“I know,” Grian said, mouth dry as he stared off into the distance where Tragedy stood. “Maybe they deserved it. They’ve been cruel.”
“And so have we,” the Outlaw said. “I don’t think it’s that simple, unfortunately.”
Grian sighed, tucking his head against the Outlaw’s shoulder and simply sitting there, enjoying the pleasant company that was born from this misfortune.
Grian knew that Tragedy wouldn’t forget, though.
He kept up with the town through rumors from another village. All three casualties had returned, neither on their last life. And they were furious. An attack was planned, led by the Sheriff and his Deputy. They would be coming for Grian and the Outlaw, looking to make even what was done.
Grian feared for his life, but he was terrified for the Outlaw’s. Such a fragile thing it was to be on hardcore, threatening a permanent death with every misstep. Grian couldn’t let him die.
So, instead, they prepared.
And in time, they came with roaring thunder.
Grian watched solemnly from the top of the mountain as dust clouded in the distance. It was undeniable what he saw. Riders on horseback raced towards their mountain, fury in their strides.
“Stay here,” Grian said to the Outlaw who only frowned.
“I won’t let you go out there alone.”
“And I won’t let you risk your last life.” Grian reached up to press a hand to the Outlaw’s face, rough as it was with stubble he hadn’t yet shaved. Grian smiled, head tilted as he considered his Outlaw. “Stay.”
The Outlaw took Grian’s wrist and moved it towards his lips, kissing his palm gently. “Be careful.”
“I will.”
Grian met the mob at the base of the mountain, considering them. There were at least a dozen of them, all on horseback and sporting iron swords and bows.
They had come for blood.
Grian kept his own sword sheathed by his side, the blade heavy in its hilt as a stark reminder of what may have to be.
Still, he nodded to the Sheriff who led the pack, the Deputy readied with a bow beside him.
“Sheriff. Deputy.”
“Trickster,” the Sheriff said in response. “Thought you’d flee.”
Grian shrugged. “Not really my style. What are you doing here?”
“What do you think?” The Sheriff sneered. “We’ve come to bring an end to the tyranny of you and the red menace. This ends today.”
“You’d kill a person of Tragedy?”
“You killed three of Tragedy,” the Deputy spit, lip curled in fury. “You don’t get a say on whose blood is spilled next.”
“You’d know a thing or two about spilled blood, wouldn’t you?”
“Enough,” the Sheriff barked, loud enough that Grian froze. The Sheriff unmounted his horse, dropping to the sand with grace. He sheathed his sword as he approached Grian, eyes hidden beneath the shade of his hat.
He spit at the ground at Grian’s feet before pulling up his sleeve. There, on his forearm, sat his lives, only two left where there was once three.
“You took from me what you should never take from a man,” the Sheriff growled. “So why not return the favor?”
Grian backpedaled, prepared for a sword to swing at him, only one never came. Instead the Sheriff leapt at him, grabbing Grian in an embrace and pulling him close. Grian thrashed, desperate to escape, but it was too late.
By the time he heard the bow snap, it was too late.
He didn’t see the arrow that went through him. He heard it, heard it break through the Sheriff’s own chest and into Grian’s. And he felt it, blinding and hot and burning his insides and out like TNT had been ignited inside of him. There was a distant scream–his own or the Outlaw’s–before his vision went black.
Grian fell, and the world ceased to be.
┈꒰ა ☼ ໒꒱┈
Word spread quickly of the deaths surrounding Tragedy.
To local villagers, the Sheriff became a legend, excited murmurs rippling through communities that spoke of the Sheriff who took one of his own lives to kill the ally of the red menace.
To Grian, it was a nightmare.
He was thankful, when he returned from worldspawn, to see the mountain untouched. When he'd awoken after his death, fear tainted his tongue, thought of the Outlaw dead without Grian there to protect him. But he returned, and the Outlaw was okay.
Shaken, fearful, but okay.
Grian stared at his reflection in the mirror, looking at the two hearts left on his bare back. A life lost, two more left.
And he considered, for a moment, his situation. He had sworn the Outlaw his first life. Now that it was gone, he could leave should he wish. Flee this mountain and Tragedy all the same, never to be seen again.
But he couldn't.
Tragedy would be back. He wouldn't leave his Outlaw. Not now.
They stayed low for a while, stocking up on goods and defenses for a war that never came. And they stayed together. Nights spent wrapped in each other's arms, hardly able to relax lest the sound of hooves returned.
And yet it didn't.
Weeks passed by, and they never quite lost their worries, always prepared for battle that was sure to come.
But when it didn't come to them, Grian became antsy.
"We could end this," he hissed one morning, rolling an arrow between his fingertips. It was the same one that had killed him and the Sheriff, fetched by the Outlaw after the army had retreated.
The Outlaw chuckled, clearly following where Grian's mind went. "With what army? They have numbers on us."
"Unless we take an honorable approach."
"Grian..."
Grian turned to face the Outlaw, noticing at once the solemn look in his eyes. Grian dropped the arrow, turning his full attention towards the Outlaw instead. He took his hands in his own, squeezing them ever so gently. Reassuring. Kind.
"It doesn't have to be this way," Grian said. "We don't have to live in fear."
"It's all I know."
Grian smiled, reaching up to brush a strand of hair out from the Outlaw's eye. "It doesn't have to be. Not with us. Not for you."
And, with one life left, the Outlaw agreed.
Were it up to Grian, he'd be on his own heading into Tragedy. It'd be him, alone, bow slung over his back and arrows in his quiver.
But after Grian's recent death, the Outlaw insisted.
They needed to do this together.
Whisper's fell over the town as the two entered Tragedy. And it was odd to find a home scorning you. To find your fellow townsfolk at your despise.
Still, though, Grian walked forward with his chin held high, the Outlaw wheeling along beside him.
"Oh Sheriff!" The Outlaw sang out as they arrived at the Sheriff's station. "Come out come out wherever you are!"
There was silence for a moment, long enough that Grian wondered if they weren't here. But soon the doors swang open, and out came the Sheriff and his Deputy.
The Sheriff's dress had changed. The usual armor and cover he wore were gone, replaced with a red cloak and a white shirt rolled up to his elbow. It was short enough that Grian could see the hardcore mark now on his forearm.
A match to the Outlaw's.
The Deputy stood by his side, eyes narrowed as he considered their guests.
"Well well well," the Sheriff said. He stepped off the porch and into the dirt road, a smirk curling on his lips. "I was wondering when you'd show. Didn't think it'd be quite so plainly, though. No bombs to hide, Trickster?"
Grian's hands curled around his bow, jaw set.
Luckily, the Outlaw continued on. "Oh, we couldn't be bothered with all of that. We came to settle this like men."
The Sheriff's smile faded. "And how's that?"
"With a dual," Grian said. "Hardcore for hardcore, hand for hand. This ends here."
The Sheriff's ear twitched, hand moving towards his hardcore life on his arm. He hummed, considering it a moment.
"Someone walks away from this dead," the Sheriff said. "You understand that, right? No matter the outcome, there's a death without respawn."
"Understood," the Outlaw said. "Shouldn't be a worry to you, though, should it? Because you're not going to lose."
It was a taunt, clear as day, but the Sheriff, proud thing, took the bait. He sneered, looking at the Deputy suddenly. "Get my bow."
"Sir, I'm not sure that's the best--"
"Now, Deputy."
And, loyal as can be, the Deputy obliged.
The sun was creeping higher in the sky by the time they took their places at the heart of Tragedy. They stood face to face, staring at each other, the Sheriff to the Outlaw, the Deputy to Grian.
Another--the Saloon Keeper--stood alongside them as well, watching over the proceeding dual.
"On my word," the Keeper said, "Turn your back to your partner. Ten paces forward, then again on my word fire. Understood?"
Grian was shaking.
He had never been much of an archer, far more proficient in close combat weaponry, but here he was. The sun was nearing its peak now. There was no means of undoing what had been done.
There was already blood on his hands.
What's more?
He nodded to the Keeper who smiled, showing a missing tooth.
"On my mark."
Grian turned his back to the Deputy.
Scar turned his back to the Sheriff.
"One, two, three...."
Grian stepped with each count, the Outlaw in sync beside him. They moved in coordination of one another. A dance. A waltz.
"...four, five, six..."
The sun was beating down overhead, blistering Grian's head in a way he'd never felt before. It felt close, unbelievably close, and he couldn't escape it.
"...seven, eight, nine..."
Time felt eternal, heart echoing thumps in his ears, every breath between a count lasting an eternity.
"...ten. Fire."
Grian spun around, and time froze.
The Keeper had a bow.
He saw it all in an instant, the world crashing down around him, overwhelming, foreboding, and his stomach dropped. He let lose his bow before he had a moment to think, the arrow frozen in front of him on its way to the Deputy. It hovered there, as did the Outlaw's, fired just moments before their enemies had gotten a chance.
But it didn't matter.
The Keeper had a bow.
He had a bow, and it was aimed directly at the Outlaw, arrow set loose even before the word had left his mouth.
Dishonorable, dirty, Grian was furious, prepared to summon his sword and kill the Keeper himself, but he was as frozen there as the arrows were, preserved in time and space.
You will not survive this.
The voice which came was sickly sweet, melting over Grian as a symphony of chimes might. He felt relaxed and anxious at once, searching for the source.
There was none.
But glorious you will be.
Time snapped back, arrows firing off in every direction.
The Sheriff and the Deputy's both went far, careening off course as Grian and the Outlaw's hit their marks.
But the Keeper's did as well.
He didn't have time to see the body of the Sheriff slump to the ground, dead for good. No, his eyes were on the Keeper, furious and prepared to charge. Grian summoned his sword, shouting as he ran towards the Keeper.
The Keeper was prepared.
Another arrow was let loose, and Grian felt it pierce through his chest.
And there, again, Grian fell.
┈꒰ა ☼ ໒꒱┈
There was one heart left on his back.
Grian didn't need to see it. He could feel it, hot and burning like the sun had before. He made his way back towards the mountain with it weighing on him, a heavy reminder of the game he now played.
He didn't bother stopping by Tragedy. He didn't want to see the Keeper that had ruined him nor the crumpled body of a Sheriff who wouldn't respawn.
No, he simply made his way home.
His head was hung low as he made his way up the mountain, every step seering through his body. But he made it.
There, at its peak, was the Outlaw.
Grian cried out when he saw him, laying amongst the cacti with an arrow stuck from his shoulder. The Keeper had missed his heart, thankfully, but his shirt was soaked red with blood all the same.
Grian ran towards him, dropping to his knees and taking the Outlaw by the hands.
The Outlaw was staring up, eyes on the sun overhead. Grian didn't think he'd noticed he'd arrived. At least, not until the Outlaw chuckled.
"Trickster..."
"Outlaw," Grian sobbed, sound pathetic and ripped from deep within his chest. "Hold on, I can get to the local village. They have a cleric. Maybe some potions--"
His voice trailed off as the Outlaw's eyes left the sun, landing instead on Grian. He smiled, blood pooling at the corner of his lip.
"Hi."
Grian swallowed, hands shaking as he gripped the Outlaw tighter. "Hi."
"Do me a favor?" The Outlaw said, and Grian nodded furiously.
"Anything."
"Don't let them have been the one to kill me."
His eyes drifted upwards again, finding the sun above.
"What--no. No, no, Outlaw, I--I won't."
The Outlaw was quiet, eyes half-lidded, staring and smiling.
His breath was growing more shallow by the minute, chest struggling to keep up with the rise and fall.
And Grian could only stare. To stare at the man on the ground before him, at the man he's come to love and adore.
"Please," Grian sobbed, curling himself over the Outlaw's body. He didn't care that blood stained his front. He wanted to be near him, with him, for ever and an eternity. "Please..."
The Outlaw reached out ever so slowly, each movement seeming to weigh on him. Grian watched as he guided his hand down to the sword at his side.
And the Outlaw smiled. "It's okay."
Shaking, Grian pulled the sword, tears blurring his vision. With two hands he held it a top the Outlaw, frozen there, considering.
The Outlaw, for all he could, looked like he was staring at an angel. Still he smiled, adoring and trusting.
"My Trickster."
Grian swallowed.
"My Outlaw."
The sword went through easy, striking the Outlaw through the chest and hitting the sand below. There was a flash of appreciation, lasting adoration, before there was nothing in the Outlaw's eyes. He stared up at the sky above, eyes locked on the sun, forever open and unblinking.
And Grian sobbed. He doubled over the Outlaw's body, chest heaving through strangled cries. The final heart on the Outlaw's chest faded, and Grian knew he was gone.
He couldn't. He couldn't do this, not now, not alone. The final heart on his own back stung and Grian wanted it gone more than anything.
He stood, legs shaking, and stumbled towards the edge of the cliff.
It was a long way's down. Far enough to do the job, Grian was certain.
Without a moment's hesitation, he threw himself off the cliff.
His back stung on the way down, his final hardcore mark seering across his skin, and Grian cried out as the pain only grew, brighter and hotter and making black tinge his vision.
And from that hardcore mark Grian was born anew.
Wings burst from his back, six of them as blinding white as the sun above. They beat instinctively, catching Grian before he had the chance to hit the ground.
We're sorry.
That voice again. Grian looked upwards, seeking the source only to see you.
Eyes and Eyes and Eyes stared down at him, watching from above. They blanketed the sky, turning blue to purple, leaving only a space for the sun above.
Grian made to speak, but found he couldn't. He could only stare. Stare and wonder.
The Universe has other plans for you, you said. We need you.
Grian's eyes found the ground, longing for the pain that would come should he hit it. There were still tears drying on his cheeks, stark reminders of what he'd just done.
But he also looked upwards. Upwards towards you. Upwards towards the sun.
And, decision made, Grian ascended.