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Silence blew in gently from the distance. The winds catching stray leaves and dandelion seeds, letting them push and pull before stranding them at the river’s bank. Water rushed beneath stone carefully carved, placed, held together by the very hands that now graced the walls of the King's bridge.
Bad leaned his hands back against the edges of the railing, sitting there, legs crossed, letting his foot swing in little tap tap taps against the wall, all in a soft reminder of his presence. In front of him, Foolish leaned forward against the railing with his chin resting upon his hands, standing still with his cape fluttering in the wind.
Bad watched Foolish’s mind disappear a little over the horizon, lost in a kind of genuine nostalgia. It didn’t bother him, this trust Foolish put in him, enough to let his guard down and wander.
Bad had been with Foolish through a few lifetimes now, their tales twisted, anchored to an infinite forever.
More often than not, a crown would rest upon his head as it did now. It looked rather heavy. Dark strands of hair curved away from the weight of the symbol, drifting a little in front of his eyes. If Bad wasn’t so comfortable on his perch, he would have maybe gone to brush them behind Foolish’s ear. And quite fortunately, he was a little too far away for that.
“Do you think we'll always be opposed?” Foolish’s quiet question parted the stilled air, simple and clean.
Bad shrugged, “Quite probably, yeah.”
Foolish hummed, eyes and mind still travelling distantly.
Faction colours branded each of their robes– the gold dripping from Foolish’s neck, hair and wrists, decorated appropriately as the King of yellow. Likewise, dark green lined Bad’s cloak and the bandanna tied around his neck.
Abruptly, Foolish spun around to face Bad, casually leaning back against the railing with arms crossed and a grin spread devilishly across his face. One could only study his eyes curiously.
“Look,” Foolish started, with a tone that told Bad he was going to disagree heavily with whatever Foolish had thought up, “you're on one life and so am I.”
Bad hummed in agreement.
“So… what if you and I both died together? We both reset and then level together.”
As he studied the excitement drenched in emerald eyes, Bad tossed a pearl in his hands, fidgeting as he did Foolish's words, lightly weighing his options. And it didn't take him too long.
“Mm-hmm yeah, I think I'll pass on that offer.”
Foolish flashed a disappointed look and Bad rolled his eyes, setting his gaze astray. He was asking for a game with too short of an adrenaline rush for its cost, even if the risk for these specific two was small to none.
Foolish lightly kicked a pebble under Bad's feet. “Oh come on Bad, live a little. Besides, what fun would you have without me around? I'll probably be gone sooner than later.”
And as the setting sun reflected blindingly against his crown, Bad thought it was interesting, the way they so naturally grew to adapt to their current realms.
There had been a harsher, more cutthroat life before. One where their clothes were scrappier, stained and splattered in blood. A world where hands tore at flesh and the sun rose in red and all that the earth offered was the cruel reminder of loss and the expense of love. And there, familial warmth had rendered their hearts aflame and had left it in nothing but ashes.
But here, days like this were common. The day dulled to a quiet evening, a pink hue settling the realm down into a pleasant and intimate setting. The others had dispersed and gone to their own tasks, some in early slumbers and others to their personal goals.
Here, Bad craved the flowing iron red where the rivers ran dry. And Bad never grieved.
He never grieved the lives that slipped past his fingertips, the ones lain bare at the point of his axe and aim of an arrow. It had all had come in due's time. He savoured the lingering bittersweet pressed into his tongue that satiated a sort of hunger in the stomach of his soul. He revelled in the knowing of the safe paths and necessities of Death.
Everything with breath in its lungs had to exhale eventually.
And yet, there, when standing in that bittersweet sight, he found himself hesitant. When golden ichor cascaded down the kingdom steps between his boots, and the thud of a lifeless body against the cold floor rung clear in his ears, the crown clattering to a stop besides his enemy's stilled head and the chasm that wept and wept and wept, emptying in pulsating agony till there was nothing of him left. He watched the king step one foot over the other through the door into death with welcome arms, leaving behind his sacrificial husk at the foot of the kingdom gates, now cold and quiet.
Foolish would return the same more or less.
Still, Foolish was right. The days that followed his death were incredibly boring.
In those following days, Death mourned.
He mourned the slow loss of a friend, an agonising farewell in which Death turned a blind eye. In grief.
Bad found that the mornings were tedious, waking up to another member of yellow interrogating him— in which he would deny their insane allegations and instead explaining the truth, of course, one laced with his rumours and half-lies.
In the afternoons he could throw himself into building, which was much easier without his usual distractions around. But that too was tedious, blocks and blocks of deepslate piling into walls and roofs and floors.
And yet, as night snuck in and the world became quiet, Bad lay atop the cathedral's blue-green roof where below, the subtle whispers of souls stirred in blue lanterns that gently lit the area in a tinted hum. He let their passing words occupy his mind just a little as he watched the stars and the night trickle on.
Days went by. In the mornings, the sun rose in all her golden, purple glory right above the castle, the glow and the ethereal in her majesty warming the earth instantaneously. Alike, the moon set beyond the cathedral, more quietly than her lover but all the same in her beauty, star chimes and moon song enchanting the world in glitter and glamour. And so, too, the nights went by.
Though, those lanterns do rumour that a certain horned and hooded figure paced about in their hallowed halls, whispering of gold and green.
“He wonders if he will be back soon,” one says.
“Who?” others chime.
“Life,” the soul replies.
But it all came down to a patience game, Bad knew. And he was good at it.
To him, time simply passed. Bad had witnessed the poets of old sing of the blessings of immortality and long life— the forever learning and defeating Death himself, yet countless conceited men have died in its quest. Though more recently, it seemed that people were more interested in the curses of immortality— the loss of those loved and the eventual apathy of all.
The truth of the matter was, it never really mattered to him at all.
He breathed the breath that filled his lungs, rested his eyes when they were weary, consumed all and anything the earth offered, and chased the hunt triggered. In his time, some had called him impulsive. Bad always liked to consider himself more indulgent.
He had never shied away from death. When he first encountered it, Bad realised it carried the same scent as himself. It was abrupt and sickly, a gut hollow and fingers ridden with a millennia of coils of rot, lost and simply forgotten. Within, he recognised himself and embraced it with the understanding of its necessity.
Yet in that darkness, he saw another on the other side. A blinding source of light, pouring out in bubbles of laughter, a comforting warmth that surrounded gold-protective and green-living.
And in this presence, Bad realised he never knew that Life sounded so sweet.
“Oh, who do we have here?”
He had a soft sideways smile and, behind it, sharp teeth flashing. Emerald green eyes regarded him with an edge of dangerous playfulness. He had a sort of confidence and lax tenor that underlined the way he held himself with arms crossed and head cocked in a manner Bad recognised. An immortal of old.
“Well, that depends on why you're asking,” Bad felt himself grin. He had a little time to play a few games.
“I see, you're one of those people,” the other matched his grin, “one of those crafty types, aren't ya?”
Bad bowed his head slightly tilted with one hand placed behind his back and one above his heart, holding their eye contact. It was a bit dramatic, he admits, but he enjoyed this little play of theirs,“The best of the best, one might say.”
The names had come later, a few encounters after their first.
“What do they call you?” the other asked, looking beyond with arms stretched out behind him as he sat, one knee to his chest and a gentle sense of sincerity in his question. It was foreign.
Beyond them lay a small field of grass and gently budding flowers. The breeze drifted on with a hint of warmth rooted in new growth. Spring was coming.
“A lot of different things,” Bad began, peering between his fingers at the sky, hand outstretched above his face as he lay in the grass, “but a lot of them simply call me Bad.”
“Bad, huh?” he nodded, “suits you, I guess.”
“Oh, and what is that supposed to mean?” Bad sat up to turn towards him quickly. “You don't even know me,” he huffed.
“You know, they call me Foolish,” Foolish said, completely ignoring his comment and turned to face Bad. And there it was again, that small flicker of sincerity.
In that moment, Bad couldn't help but laugh. It peeled out of him, harsh and in a way that hurt his stomach. Maybe it was the building awkward air between them, but Foolish's unamused expression only fuelled his laughter.
Bad wiped the tears from his eyes, “Ok wow, now that suits you.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Foolish rolled his eyes dramatically, “I think it only makes it easier for me to prove them wrong.”
The time they spent apart was far greater than the ones they spent together, but every time they met, it was easy to fall into their usual banter, as if they had shared a friendship their whole lives. Still, as opposed in Death and Life, they played their games, drawing each other closer and closer to their blades, a chase of thrill and adrenaline to death.
There were two moments in the past that they spent a significant portion of time together and over those years, the more Bad got to know Foolish, he realised that the shine in him was really one full of mischief, a resolve to push limits, and blinding curiosity.
During those years, death did occur. A few times the other’s blood laid bare on the other’s hands, sickly yet sweet. It was Life stripping its breath away from Death’s lungs, or it was Death plummeting Life into that pitch darkness only Death himself would find comforting. It was poetic really, the hunt within the cycle of living.
Though, for these two immortals, death never lasted. It did take time, the regeneration of muscle and intestines, of memory and blood. Still, both Bad and Foolish would return, more or less the same as they had always been, endlessly.
This realm was their third significant meeting, Foolish deeming himself King of the Fools and Bad following suit to oppose him.
Now, in the waiting and waiting and waiting, the slow dwindling of the King's presence in the realm only made Bad lonelier. Evenings settled without the occasional, “Bad, where are you?” at the feet of his cathedral and days simply passed without the long nothing-of-substance chats while completing mindless tasks together.
It was a shame Bad didn't dream. Foolish would've been in them.
On the ninth morning after Foolish's death, Bad woke up and began his work on his cathedral. It was a few days now since Bad decided that he would simply wait by not waiting at all. He would give up for the while and that would make that wait easier. And it had been easier, moving on (for a bit) without the loneliness plaguing him. Bad hummed a little tune as he planned out the next section of the cathedral wall.
Yet, when Bad heard a tiny ting! behind him, he curiously turned around to face the castle. Hope stirred in his chest in a way he had tried to ignore every day before. However, he couldn't shake it that the air shimmered and the sun shone with an absolute brilliance that, to him, only ever indicated one thing.
He ran to his chests, dropping all the stray blocks with heavy humphs and letting the lid drop loudly behind him. Bad found that his aim was a little shaky as he loaded up an enderic arrow on his bow, aiming high towards the castle steps.
Bad teleported a little further off than he would've liked, right before the King's bridge, and he ran this same path he has grown so positively attached to, memorised and walked along so familiarly.
He ran through the door and along the castle walls, the atmosphere warm and inviting, awakened and anew in the presence of Life.
In the distance, he heard Ros' excited voice pacing, “Oh, I'm so glad you are back! I honestly might cry!”
And Bad stopped, heart beating wildly from his rushed way to the castle. He evened his breath, listening a few step's distance away from Foolish's closed bedroom doors.
“No, please! This is good, this is a happy day. Hopefully it can stay happy…”
Oh, there was that voice. The void Bad had unknowingly carved out in his chest to hold all that warmth, the mischief and their years of the chase, the game in thrill and messy impulses matched together in a twisted harmony— all that filled in by the simple presence of him. Bad felt himself grinning wildly.
Foolish had laid a welcoming carpet for him. He stepped forward (and cleared his throat a little to rid the giddy).
“Yeah, hopefully,” sarcastic, calm, and some would say a little offhandedly.
“MOTHERFUCKER!” the voice beyond screamed out, and Bad chose to ignore it.
“Hello? Hi~” he sung as he heard Foolish mumbling small apologies into his hand and Bad approached the door as Ros opened them, letting him in.
Every time, it was in the way that he stood in front of his greatest enemy, his polar opposite, his other half, his complete, and he was just sitting there with an absolutely loathing expression as he looked towards him, adorned in those kingly robes as Bad rested one hand upon the hilt of his sword. It was Foolish's scowl, the grin and flash of sharp teeth, the danger drenching his green eyes. This was where Bad felt himself addicted.
Plastered upon Bad's lips was the shape of Foolish’s name— Bad’s anchor, his hand, his history. The home he always found his way back to.
And this, he knows, this game they’ve played and forever play— this was what kept them truly tethered to the earth they stood upon.
“What are you doing here?”
And all that Bad could do in response was giggle, bow with his head slightly angled, one hand placed behind his back and one above his heart, and looking right into Foolish's eyes with a smile hooked in a way that almost hurt, and reply, “My King.”