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2025-08-01
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2025-08-29
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we are not the same

Summary:

King Scott of Rivendell is interrupted from travel preparations and introduced to a deathly stranger wearing his own face. He brings the stranger along with him to his meeting in House Blossom in hopes of delivering the man a route home. Instead he earns himself a headache and a whole lot of questions.

--

3L! Scott appears in Rivendell and meets E1!Scott. They try and figure out how to get Scott home.

Notes:

Wrote this ages ago and just didn't publish it. Mostly because i didn't know how to end it. But its been sitting as a wip for too long and i got a plan for the second chapter finally so i figured I can safely throw this out to y'all. Have fun!

Any tag suggestions appreciated!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: In another life...

Chapter Text

The banging on his door was, quite frankly, annoying. King Smajor is a servant to his people through and through, however he has a meeting at House Blossom in a day's time and really needs to begin his journey if he wants to safely reach The Overgrown in the daylight he has left.

Still, his people above himself. He answers the door, coat left aside and dressed in far less than one should consider safe for the frosty weather. A rattled looking elf is standing on the other side, bundled up appropriately and eyes wide. Immediately the king steels himself, tensing his posture, his ears flicking in alert.

“Are you alright?” He asks hastily. The elf nods quickly.

“I am fine, your majesty. There is a-” They hesitate a moment, looking back behind them momentarily where Smajor cannot see. “A person , not Rivendellian. They were found in a snow drift and no one is sure what to do with them.”

Smajor’s expression shifts a moment, rapidly from alarm to curiosity, and pulls neutral again. He nods, opening his door wider to step out.

“Have them brought here, and send for healers and a messenger.” 

The next moments are that of alarm and tension as the elf runs off. Soon enough a small group of his citizens are approaching with a humanoid figure lying in their arms. He feels brief pride in his people for their kindness, clearly having forfeited a few of their spare blankets or coats to bundle the person up. 

Rivendell’s people are isolated, and so often thought cold to outsiders. Smajor knows better than anyone that is not the truth. His people are resilient and realistic in what they do. They are not a culture of frivolous overstepping that so many other nations seem to thrive on. They are practical and much of that practicality is spent on themselves. It would be rude to be disingenuous or careless with words as many outsiders are.  

He puts the thought aside, instead ushering his citizens inside where they lay the stranger along the couch of his sitting room. They are polite, keeping their attention on task even within their king's abode. Many of them leave briskly, returning home. Some stay, healers and servants of his majesty ready to do their jobs.

It's a few hours, ones where Smajor knows he will be making an unsavoury journey the next morning if he wants to be remotely on time to his meeting. He has a messenger write up his apologies to Lady Katherine, informing her politely of the emergency. Other servants rush to warm the stranger up, keeping watch for frostbite.

Smajor hears the commotion before he sees it. The stranger finally waking up, the king sees them clearly for the first time.

The stranger is sitting upright, pushing away violently from the healers only doing their job. He is panicked, that much is clear. Smajor manages to intervene only moments before the stranger nearly clocks one of his healers, a wall of ice sharply jutting up from the floor, separating the stranger on the couch from all those around. The only line of sight stays between the stranger and the king, and them alone.

“Leave us, if they refuse help then that is their choice.” Smajor commands carefully. His elves listen, curtly reserving themselves to step away and mind themselves until they are called on again. Then Smajor looks at the stranger, truly, for the first time.

Icy blue eyes flecked with gold meet sunken sea blue. Dark pin-pricked in their focus right back at the king. Very little has made the elvenking stumble. The world deserves nothing less than certainty and devotion from him, and so he chooses not to make hesitance known. But this stranger makes him falter.

Their eyes are shaped like his own, even with the shades so wildly different. Even as sunken and dark as they are there is the familiarity of a mirror. Their nose is the same, a reflection of the kings. There is something dark along the skin above their lip, dirty as if the stranger's nose had been bleeding. Or their face has been drug through dirt. Their lip is split and cracked, unused to the dry cold air- or maybe just damaged from the altercation that left their face so dirtied. Still the shape of his lips are the same as the kings, despite their cracks. Their faces are squared a way Smajor finds familiar. As if his own round cheeks had been stripped of their fullness. Like the first time he’d seen a mirror after being carried from the Mythland dungeons. It makes the king shiver.

“Who are you,” Smajor asks, as commanding as he can be with his own face staring back at him. It’s not quite right. The ears are not elven for one, not visible through their dirty and near matted hair, longer than the king's own in a way that suggests being unkempt, and not stylistic. They also have more of a tan than the king who so often hides from the sun to labour over his desk.

The stranger’s expression warps from standoffish glaring to confusion rapidly and openly. Not a hint of Rivendellian neutrality in sight. There was no question this person wasn’t of the mountains, but the readability of their expression, even as guarded as they are, make it clearer than ever.

Smajor takes a slight step forward in approach. The strangers eyes widen further, confusion forgotten as they scramble to kick off the various blankets weighing them down. They look up, trying to grab at anything and only coming back more alarmed with the walls of ice caging them on the couch. 

Smajor stops in his approach, watching with a cringing expression as pitifully human fingernails drive against his divine ice. He feels his gaze soften just slightly. He sighs, changing tactics.

“Do you know where you are?” He asks, this time not in Elvish but in Mangrovian in hopes a more common tongue may help. He turns out to be right as the stranger’s struggles pause.

“No,” The stranger's eyes steel against his own. “Why would I know that?” They snark defensively. 

“You are in Rivendell,” Smajor chooses tactfully to ignore the dopplegangers attitude. “My citizens found you in the snow and have brought you to me. I understand you are out of sorts, but I will ask you to think carefully about your treatment of people here. You owe them your life.”

The strangers' nose wrinkles, eyes squinting as they seem to study Smajor. He allows it, standing firm and staring the stranger down right back. Now that they have discarded the blankets, sitting properly on the couch with their feet planted, there is far more to the man's appearance that draws questions.

His outfit, while just as dirty as he is, is certainly foreign. The fabrics and cuts aren't anything Smajor can easily identify. A jacket of some sort of a tough looking blue material, their pants are the same. Odd, short, laced shoes, and a simple shirt with a colour pattern dyed with precision onto the cloth.

“What are you, another king?” The stranger huffs. “I don’t owe you or your citizens anything.” They bite out sharply, mockingly even. As if they don’t believe his status.

It's startling, to say the least. But Smajor keeps his composure, wings ruffling at his back as he meets the stranger glare. Something rotten spreading over his tongue at the blatant disrespect.

“You do not know who I am?” The stranger scoffs at the question. 

“No, which is actually super weird.” They push themself from the couch, stumbling just slightly as they approach Smajor. The king stands his ground, wings spreading warningly even as the stranger comes far into his personal space.

Smajor doesn’t do anything, his hands formal at his side, his magic ready if the stranger were to try anything. They are weak and weaponless, there is little to fear.

“I suggest being careful in the next thing you do.” Smajor’s expression cringes as his guest’s face comes close to his own, glaring hard as he meets Smajor’s gaze.

“Or you’ll what, kill me?” They roll their eyes, then lean back a bit, expression twisting into confusion. “What the- What does blue mean?”

“Excuse me?” What in the world is this stranger talking about?

“...I guess there's yellow in there. You're on yellow then? You can’t do anything to me.” The stranger ignores the king's question, stepping back again- still shaky on his feet.

“I’m red, you can’t do a thing to me yet,” They scoff a disinterested laugh. “You would need to die before you can even think of touching me.”

Smajor’s eyes widened at the threat, because what else could it be. Telling a king he must die. His pupils shrink scarily, his wings fanning out to make himself bigger as he puts as much intensity into his posture as he may.

“I am king of Rivendell, one of the richest and oldest of the twelve Empires. Champion of Aeor,” Smajor steps forward, the temperature dropping around him. The stranger stumbles back in surprise, eyes wide before shuttering back into a glare. “I will ask again that you think on your words before you speak them.” 

The stranger had tripped as he stumbled back and away from the king, falling hard into the floor. He stares up with wide blue eyes, breath caught in his throat . His arms don’t catch him as his back hits the floor, instead dirt stained and scarred arms throwing themselves up in protection. For the first time there is no snarky reply or commentary, only instinctual fear and defence.

Smajor doesn’t take pride in being a threat, being feared. That is never something he has wanted. That is something his brother, corrupted as he was, wanted. That is something leaders like Emperor Joey or Lord Sausage had succumbed to. But fear has never made Smajor powerful. Staring down at the ornery stranger he feels only shame that it had come to this. That he felt threatened enough to turn it around. 

Smajor studies the scars, dirty along the strangers skin. He grimaces to realise there may be wounds still, small as they are, beneath the grime. All the ways in which the stranger has tensed up, locked down against the floorboards in their panic… Well they remind the king more of a caged animal than a person. Smajor  takes a step back, still standing tall over the other and taking a breath to himself as he debates his options. 

Careful, despite perhaps better judgement, Smajor takes pity, allowing the ice caging them in to draw back into his power. The stranger seems alarmed by this for a moment, startled as they look around for a source seemingly. Then taken aback by the room around them. Their gaze doesn’t completely leave Smajor, but it opens in a way it hasn't since they awoke.

“This is… your home?” They ask, voice small, not looking at the king. Their eyes flicker to him, their arms leave their head, pushing back achingly to set themself upright. Looking around the room but not making any bold movements.

“Yes, and if you are ready to be cooperative I can help you return home as well.”

Smajor studies the strangers reaction carefully. Watching something soft and unguarded pass their features before a darkness crosses their eyes. Their lips downturning and pressing together for a moment as they return their attention fully to the king.

“I’m not sure where it is. It’s probably not even safe anymore.” They frown, their brows pinching together. “I’m not- I don’t think-” They stammer briefly in thought, before reaching up to the couch armrest and painfully pulling themself upright. 

“There was no Rivendell faction within the borders, and we would have known if there was another person there.” They murmur absolutely nonsense to Smajor.

“Do you want to go home?” Smajor asks instead, more carefully. 

The stranger stays quite a long moment. Then they lean back into the edge of the couch behind them, taking weight off their hands to come wrap near their chest. Smajor doesn’t catch exactly what they are doing, too suddenly watching the way something within the stranger's hair suddenly moves.

Amidst the blue locks, as dirty and matted as they are, small seedlings seem to suddenly sprout. Rapidly the brightest, most gorgeous red poppies Smajor has ever seen bloom like a crown along the man's head. Smajor can only stare in bewilderment, even while his guest remains indifferent. 

Fae, he thinks presumptuously. They must be from The Overgrown. The power so comfortably reminiscent of Lady Katherine’s magic. Though the stranger seems far less deliberate about it. They finally look back up at Smajor, a soft hesitant look on their features.

“I would like to go home. If it is still there.” They say. “If The Red King and his army is gone.” They say even softer, not meant for anyone to hear. Underestimation of Elven senses.

“The Red King?” Smajor asks carefully, as the stranger gets to their feet. The title doesn’t sound at all familiar. “What empire do you refer to?”

The stranger scowls quickly, the flowers in their hair wilting suddenly and violently, but they do not fall. A crown of death and dread.

“No empire.” They state curtly, bewilderingly to Smajor. “He is a false king, with a few followers. He took my yellow and-” The stranger stops sharply, as if suddenly realising something.

Hurriedly they twist their arm around to their back. Smajor tenses ever briefly before watching with confusion as they begin hurriedly shrugging off their odd jacket. Stumbling and falling back onto their knees as they do so. Smajor can’t imagine why they would want that, they must still be cold- 

Smajor watches as the stranger turns their jacket around and their thoughts fall short. Across the back is a gash Smajor hadn’t noticed before, wide and drenched in dried blood. Smajor snaps his gaze towards the other's face, looking for explanation. But they only seem more confused and alarmed by the second.

They murmur something, and Smajor understands something must be done. So he puts his elven reservations aside, and moves to kneel beside the presumed fae.

“Is something the matter?” They shake their head, gaze snapping to meet the kings openly. The guarded nature and a paranoia of before gone in a sudden instant.

“Where am I?” Smajor's brow furrows, suddenly wondering if they have a concussion.

“Rivendell, I have told you this.”

“No, no- You said that before!” They resist. “You weren’t there, there isn’t any place called Rivendell.” They sound panicked, and Aeor knows Smajor doesn’t deal well with that.

“You are in Rivendell. It is in the snowy southern mountains of-”

“There aren't any mountains! Not like this! These places shouldn’t exist! You shouldn't exist! We already saw everything, we looked everywhere for more but there wasn’t. ”  They lean suddenly towards the king, an open pleading expression.

“What colour are my eyes?”

“Excuse me?”

“My eyes-” They snap hurriedly. “What colour are they? What life am I on?”

“What- Your eyes are blue. What do you mean-”

“You’re lying!” They scowl, dropping the jacket into their lap and reaching up towards their hair. They grasp tightly at the blooms still wilted and yank so violently Smajor fears for a moment they’ve pulled out some hair.

They seem only to become more frustrated as the petals in their grasp dissolve. Smajor watches in small horror as those left around their head wither at rapid speeds. This doesn’t seem to assure the stranger as they plant their face in their hands and scream frustration. 

Extremely hesitantly, Smajor reaches a hand to lay on the stranger's arm. They startle, bringing their hands away to peer up at Smajor scrutinising.

“What are you trying to do?” The king inquires as calmly as he can. If he can help, then he can de-escalate. The stranger stays silent, taking a long breath and turning back to look at their jacket. At the bloody gash ripped through the tough fabric. They pick it up with shaky hands, tilting it for Smajor to see.

“I remember dying. The Red King took my last life. Hunted me down with His Hand . I’m supposed to be dead.” Their voice grows quieter as they speak, at the same time Smajor brows furrow further.

“Well, you are very much alive, I can attest to that.” Smajor offers calmly. The other grimaces.

“I don’t know you. I don’t know where I am. This place doesn’t exist and neither do you,” They huff. “For all I know I am dead. Maybe that's what blue means, zero .”

Smajor takes a long drawn breath as he thinks over his options. He spots his clock over the stranger's head, and realises rapidly that he does not have time for this. His citizens come before himself. But this stranger is no citizen of his, and he has a meeting. 

“I am going to make you an offer.” Smajor begins slowly. Immediately the stranger cages up under his touch, looking at him with an intensity Smajor doesn’t feel the need to match.

“I must travel in several hours for a meeting in The Overgrown. If you come with me I can try and help you return home.”

The stranger peers at him again, and Smajor is beginning to understand this is simply a distrustful man, and it is not so personal as it feels.

“And if I don’t.”

“Then you will find your own way through or out of Rivendell, and where you end up is out of my hands.” The king says curtly. The stranger huffs, rolling their eyes lightly. They look back down at their jacket, before a hand reaches for their chest again, and this time Smajor sees it. A string reaching under their shirt. Drawn out it holds a ring made of stem and twine.

“Alright,” The stranger shrugs their jacket back on, looking up to meet the king's gaze. “I will go with you.”

“I’m not calling you king, so you better tell me your name.” They raise an eyebrow and offer their hand, a slight smile on their face. It clearly takes effort.

“You may call me, Smajor.” Smajor phrases carefully, curious if the stranger takes him to be a fool, or if he is truly bold enough to try and steal the king's name so plainly. Regardless, Smajor decides to take the wins he has gotten instead of arguing. “What shall I be calling you?”

Hearing “Scott,” leave the stranger's mouth is like electricity up Smajor’s spine. The alarm of hearing his own private name on another's tongue just as unnerving as the pinging realisation that who he had presumed to be fae had just passed over his own True Name. 

 

The next several hours pass oddly. Smajor ushered Scott towards the washroom and left him to clean up. He sets up two servants outside the door. Mostly because Scott is a loose canon and Smajor would like supervision on him, but also in case he needs anything. 

Smajor is both relieved and horrified by Scott's appearance once he’s escorted back rather uncomfortably to Smajor’s presence. Cleaned of grime and blood Scott looks much healthier. There are a few wounds to be wrapped but nothing terribly pertinent. His hair turns out to not be nearly as forgone a hope as Smajor thought, drawn neatly back into a short, low ponytail tied up with twine. The flowers once withered from his hair have bloomed again, a colourful array of tulips. Most curiously the man's ears are visible, poking through his hair. Small and sharp like Smajor expected (and Smajor has realised now that Scott is at least from somewhere that understands gendered language, far more than he expected of a fae).

Unfortunately, despite his lack of wings and smaller ears, now that the man is cleaned up his features only seem to resemble the king more. It begins to ring uncomfortably close to that of a changeling, but Scott insists he has never heard of Smajor. So really there is no reason to want to impersonate him, let alone imperfectly.

Smajor, Scott, and a small entourage set out from Rivendell in the early morning the following day. If they hurry, they should make it to House Blossom in time for the meeting. Scott has proven to be even more difficult, refusing a change of clothes and insisting on keeping the disgusting ones he already has. Smajor has, at the very least, convinced him of a coat. Not everyone has his frost immunity and considering how blue the man looked when he first was laid on the couch Scott is no different.

They reach The Overgrown and Smajor can feel the notable difference in Scott’s demeanour. Where he has been fairly openly curious about the world leaving Rivendell, he has stayed guarded and alert. Even with Rivendellian soldiers protecting their travel, perhaps because of such. The only King Scott has mentioned supposedly killed him. Smajor isn’t quite sure how that works, he has to assume where Scott is from they have access to totems. Though he doesn’t look at all like he is from the Lost Empire, it would frankly explain a lot of his behaviour.

Regardless, the sight of flowers and beauty that House Blossom boasts seems to astound Scott, his gaze open and mouth agape as he takes it in. Smajor nearly trips as Scott pushes ahead of him in his haste to look around, tulips springing from beneath his step into the king's path.

Smajor bites his tongue from ridiculing the man. There is something so desperately not adding up about everything he has described, and Smajor cannot figure it out.

The elven king slows the party as they get into House Blossom, greeting the fae politely and his entourage ushering away with the group's luggage to their stay. Smajor has only an hour before the meeting. So he makes his way towards the room within the palace, Scott in tow. As ornery as he has been, Scott’s delighted affection for the bright and beautiful palace is nice to see. It reminds him of a child, seeing something so grand for the first time and unable to contain themselves.

Smajor reaches the meeting room where Lady Katherine is, thankfully early to set up. 

“Katherine!” Smajor smiles, as he approaches his friend. Katherine’s gaze looks up in surprise, a sharp grin spreading her features as she approaches.

“Smajor! Welcome! I was expecting you late, not early-” She stops short, peering around Smajor. Smajor follows her gaze to where Scott has stopped short in the doorway.

“Katherine, this is the issue I had informed you of via letter” He gestures. “ Scott , here is a far way from home it seems. I was hoping you could help me return him.”

Katherine’s eyes widen in understanding, he doesn’t miss the flare in her gaze as she catches the True Name. She turns to look at Scott, still stood standoffishly.

“Scott,” Smajor addresses with more emphasis. “This is Lady Katherine. She is a good friend of mine, and Protector of The Overgrown. If you would come in , we can hopefully discuss how to get you home before the others arrive.”

Scott's expression shifts, and he approaches quickly to close the door behind him. Smajor hates the idea that more people would put Scott on edge, but given their demeanour with the Rivendellian travelling party he already knows the answer.

Katherine ushers them to the table. Both her and Smajor are sitting in their typical seats. Scott sits across from Smajor, a seat normally taken by the High Wizard Gem, but she isn’t here at the moment to complain.

“You’re home is very pretty,” Scott compliments plainly, still clearly enamoured with the building despite his hesitance. 

“Oh, thank you! We all work hard to keep everything as beautiful as we can here!” Her laugh is like bell chimes on the wind, so normal to Smajor he only barely notices the way Scott reacts startled. Everything about him screams fae, but all of his behaviour feels so othered…

“I’m sure we can convince your Emperor to allow you to accompany them back to your home! Where exactly are you headed?” Katherine asks.

“We’re not sure,” Smajor cuts in, before Scotts says something out of line. “Scott has described very little to me of his home, but he doesn’t seem to recognize Rivendell as existing at all.”

“Oh, an extremely rural place then? You didn’t travel much before I suppose?” Katherine tilts her head, questioningly. Scott’s expression flickers.

“There was nowhere to travel. We mapped from wall to wall, there was nothing more to find.” Scott huffed.

“Wall to wall?” Katherine prods further. “Your nation has fortified borders?” She turns to look at Smajor again. “Mythland then? Or perhaps The Grimlands?”

“Are these more factions?” Scott cuts in again, visibly confused. His arms are crossed, fingernails picking at his jacket sleeve though his gaze hasn’t left the faerie. Katherine falters.

“You do not… You do not know of Mythland or The Grimlands?” Scott shakes his head.

“You mentioned factions,” Smajor says instead of letting them dwell. “What factions existed where you are from? We can reverse back from what you know instead.”

Scott stays quiet for a moment. When he speaks his voice is deliberate and soft.

“There were a few groups. The desert folk, the Crastle, Dogwarts, and-”  Scott stammers his words softly. “The valley-folk.” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t really matter, when I was killed there were only two real groups left. The Red King's army, and everyone else.”

Katherine makes sharp eye contact with Smajor, and he wishes he had answers for her but he knows about as much as she does. So he just shrugs, and makes clear this is not something he was willing to get into.

“Could you, maybe, describe your home? What it looked like? We might be able to place a landscape or flora?” Katherine tries again to ask. 

“The valley.” Scott says, with such surety it startles Smajor. “The flower valley, in the corner of the walls.”

“A flower valley?” Katherine's eyes widened. “I didn’t want to assume just because of how you look, but are you from here? The Overgrown then?”

 Smajor makes a face looking around briefly and huffing. “If I had ever seen a place like this I’d hope I wouldn’t forget it.”

“The Overgrown is more than just House Blossom,” She smiles, almost apologetically. “I hate to admit it, but plenty of folk are turned around and wind up lost in the fringes of the lands thanks to The Spring’s wild magic. I’d have assumed since you’re fair folk you may have been immune to such things, but if not then-”

“Fair folk?” Scott's lips twist in an exaggerated and frankly frustrated confusion. Katherine stops short of her explanation, delicate brows furrowing slightly. Her sharp smile straining.

“Yes? Are you not? I didn’t think anyone but the fae had ears so sharp?”

Scott blinks, uncrossing his arms and bringing a hand to his ear curiously, as if he himself had no idea his own makeup. 

“I’m not- I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is just how my ears look,” He huffs, letting his hand drop back to his lap.

“Oh- well- '' Katherine stammers. “Then my apologies, I suppose. Still if you're not fae then getting turned around by The Spring’s magic would be plausible! Perhaps closer to the borders of Gilded Helianthia-”

“Have you ever seen the walls?” Scott cuts her off, rudely. Smajor finds himself cringing at the audacity, only barely restrained from putting a hand to his face.

“Pardon me?”

“The walls. If you think I’m from your land, then surely you know what's in it.” Scott challenges, staring down The Springs Protector. “Have you seen blue translucent walls, separating what's inside from what is out. Is that in your- Overgrown. ” 

“Blue- what?” Katherine stammers. “No, I have never heard of such a thing. Blue walls-”

“Like a magic barrier?” Smajor cuts in, interest renewed. Scott's gaze cuts to his sharply. “The Crystal Cliffs has the most magic in its borders-”

“But The Crystal Cliffs are far too crowded. There wouldn’t be enough open space to fit something like that without notice. Not to mention that is even farther from the desert-” Katherine looks at Scott again. “You did mention a desert?”

“I-” Scott doesn’t get a word in before Smajor has begun speaking over him.

“If there was desert land then it has to border Pixandria. So north-western Mythland-”

“I still don’t know what Mythland is-” Scott growls.

“There may be desert-like lands on Mezalea’s borders. The Undergrove and Lost Empire are largely unaccounted for-”

“Enough!” Scott stands, throwing his chair back hard against the pristine floor. “You’re both speaking nonsense!”

Scott paces backwards, fuming. The crown of flowers around his head wilts and regrows in rapid succession, blooms are deep bloody roses laced with overwhelming briar. Smajor stands quickly, as does Katherine, eyes tracking the outsider.

“Scott, if you would remember my advisement-”

“I don’t care!” Scott barks angrily. Smajor's wings flare out in warning, enlarging his silhouette. Scott only scoffs. “Oh put your feathers away, you're not scary!”

“Scott, we are just trying to help. King Smajor has been very kind to bring you here-” Katherine tries to de-escalate to no avail.

“I don’t care! We’re getting nowhere! I don’t know you! I don’t know where I am! I just-” Scott huffs, bringing his hands to his head, uncaring for the way the briar thorns cut up his palms. He screams, something guttural in his throat- frustrated and afraid and confused all the same. Smajor might feel bad if the man wasn’t making such a scene in front of Katherine who is only here to help. Who owes him nothing.

“I’m done with kings and castles and factions- I just want to go home . I just want my-”

Scott stops so sharply his tantrum that Smajor double takes. Afraid for a moment a spell had been cast, or perhaps that Smajor himself had frozen the man in his panic. Scott’s head snaps upright, his body language rigid but his hands, cut as they are, fall away from his head. 

“Do you hear that-” Scott asks, softer than anything Smajor has heard from him. He turns towards the door, putting his back towards Katherine and allowing Smajor into only his peripherals. It's jarring how suddenly he seems to stop guarding himself.

Smajor and Katherine look at one another warily. The elvenking's long ears flick slightly as he listens, watching his peer tilt her own head in curiosity. He finds himself almost surprised when he does hear something. Vibrant chatter carried by the voices of The Ocean Queen, The Copper King, The Mezalean King, and The Codfather from down the corridor beyond the room's doors.

“Ah, The Codfather Alliance is here,” Smajor grimaces. “Thank you for your help Lady Katherine, I will escort Scott-”

Smajor finds himself coming up short as his attention is suddenly drawn by Scott stumbling. The king's brow furrows and he watches in his peripherals as Katherine reaches out from where she stands, equally baffled.

Neither has time to comprehend before Scott is sprinting across the room and throwing the doors to the meeting room open with surprising strength and a booming sound. The noise of voices draws silent and Smajor can see over Scott’s head The Codfather alliance as they stop their approach, looking up in alarm.

Smajor was really hoping a scene wouldn’t be made. He hisses some command to Scott, trying to reach for him but isn’t quite fast enough as the man staggers out into the corridor.

“Jimmy-?” The man breathes, tender and heartbroken in ways Smajor is astounded to hear. He looks up again, over the outsiders head, meeting the eyes of The Codfather’s mask and looking for answers or forgiveness for the embarrassment being wrought- he isn’t sure. What he finds is something far more startling.

A man with canary yellow wings, and feathered ears pushes his way from where he was hidden between the Codfathers' allies.

Everything in the corridor stands still for a moment, and no more as each group takes each other in, and more importantly, the strangers. 

“Scott?” The winged man speaks, light and hopeful and jarringly similar to The Codfathers own voice. “... Petal ?

The sheer affection in the nickname seems to be the final straw as Scott stumbles forward into a sprint. Smajor cannot see his face, but he watches as the man with canary wings matches his movement, a smile growing wide and warm across his features. Watches as the two meet and there is no hesitation as Scott full body throws himself at the stranger. As the man catches Scott and swings them in a circle, wings flaring out haphazardly for balance in ways Smajor finds reminiscent of children who have yet learned to fly.

The canary ( Jimmy? Is that what Scott had called him? ) laughs, bright and wet with something far more gut wrenching than his expression lets on. The briars and roses in Scott’s hair all fall away in a flurry of petals, replaced again by the bright heart red of gorgeous blooming poppies as Jimmy finally sets him down.

The two stumble, arms still wrapped around one another and pulling the other off balance but neither seems to care. Smajor averts his gaze suddenly as Scott grabs at Jimmy's face, pulling him hard into a kiss. As he looks away he is startled to find poppies blooming through any stray crack in the walls or floor, replacing any of the previous flora decorating House Blossom’s palace.

Smajor chances to look up again, to find that the two lovers had fallen into one another, kneeling on the floor and simply holding tight. Something cold swells in him to hear the muffled sound of sobs as Scott pushes his face into Jimmy's neck. Jimmy doesn’t seem to be faring much better, grip bruisingly tight around Scott as he holds him close. Still, despite the rapid flurry of feelings, the poppies throughout the corridor don't wilt or change.

Someone clears their throat, and Smajor looks up to find The Mezalean King still stood at the other end of the corridor with his allies, making a rather immature face in response to the ordeal before them… Not that Smajor can necessarily blame him. It was a wildly public display of affection. Though he does believe the Mezalean King is hypocritical in his reaction.

Katherine brushes past Smajor, side stepping carefully around the lovers in her approach towards the Codfathers Alliance.

“Ah, welcome! You all are here quite early as well! I am guessing it is for… similar reasons to King Smajor?” She smiles carefully, side eyeing Scott and Jimmy again. The two seem to have shut everyone else out, though they’ve thankfully stopped being quite so loud. Still holding tight, Smajor sees Jimmy looking with furrowed brows at Scott’s briar cut palms, Scott smiling softly and leaning into him, tears still freely flowing his face. They are speaking in hushed whispers, not so hushed that Smajor can’t hear. But frankly what they say makes about as much sense as everything else Scott has said, which is to say, none at all.

“uh, yeah- yeah!” The Codfather clears his throat, stepping forward to greet Katherine. “This guy was found in The Codland’s a couple days ago! He seemed pretty lost and the swamp isn’t that good for winged folk so I figured he could tag along to the meeting and we could help him get home?”

“If he’s from the same place as Scott-” Smajor doesn’t dare approach the couple, so he merely calls over the corridor, gesturing slightly at the duo. “- then I doubt he will be going home. We have been unable to identify any empire that fits the descriptions given.”

Scott looks up at the sound of his name, sharp and guarded like before, his fingers clutch bloody onto Jimmy's at the sudden attention. Jimmy blinks, following his gaze towards Smajor where the canary’s eyes widen.

“Oh that is- that is weird!” Jimmy laughs, a bit disjointedly in its wariness but kind all the same. He shuffles, moving to stand up with Scott in tow. “It's like a warped mirror of- Who are you?” 

Smajor raises an eyebrow, sighing dramatically. The Copper King, who in his silence Smajor had yet to notice, cuts in from across the way. 

“I can assure Jimmy means no offence. He seems to not recognize any of the emperors.” Smajor rolls his eyes.

“I’m well aware, Scott has the same issue.” He states plainly, ignoring whatever biting remark Scott mutters. 

“Oh, another king-” Jimmy says, though clearly more to himself than anyone present. He seems to awkwardly bite back on a discomforted laugh.

“How about we all return to the meeting room!” Katherine chirps, though it's hardly an offer. No one with reason refuses a suggestion from her ladyship. “We can further discuss Scott and Jimmy’s predicament at the table before others arrive.  Perhaps with more heads we can figure out a solution.”

Smajor agrees immediately, knowing better than to refuse. The Codfather Alliance follows similarly. He watches carefully as Scott frowns, holding close to Jimmy, but the feathered man smiles down at Scott. Something small and reassuring, and the two follow without retort.

Seated around the table, Smajor almost feels at ease, back in a place of familiarity and structure. That is interrupted by the bold way that instead of simply sitting next to one another Scott and Jimmy have clambered into the same chair. Scott guides Jimmy to sit pliantly and then plunking himself in the winged ones lap. 

Try as he might to avoid looking at them, they are directly across from him where Scott sat before. Smajor tries to keep a neutral expression, but if the way The Ocean Queen is chuckling and teasing is any indication, he is given away but the absolute heat of his face. PDA, ew.

“Alright, so- Short Smajor and bird Jimmy dopplegangers-” The Mezalean King begins, kicking his feet up on the table carelessly. “Where are you headed? Because we have a meeting to suffer through in like, 20 minutes, and it sounds like no one knows where you came from still?”

“Ah, yeah I already told you guys what I knew! But I think the world border has gotten bigger since I… died,” Jimmy chuckles awkwardly, eyes flickering about the table. Smajor had been keen to label him as the more clear headed of the foreign duo, but he might have to reconsider that. If the rigid posture, arms tight around Scott, and paranoid eyes are any suspicion. 

“We could just leave,” Scott murmurs, soft against Jimmy's skin. “I don’t need to go home. You’re back, you’re alive- We can start over somewhere else. Away from kings and fighting and people.”

Jimmy frowns, glancing nervously at the rulers surrounding them, his arms around Scott tighten slightly, protectively at the wayward looks sent their way. But he doesn’t rise to insults as his partner had. Earning yet another point in Smajor’s favour.

“You don’t mean that, Scott,.” he insists, wings coming up as if to shield them. “You were always the one trying to be friendly. I was the one who had a go of it with Dogwarts. You were always chatting with people, like Grian and Cleo-”

“And where did that land us?” Scott growls. Smajor sees the way Jimmy startles at the demeanour the elvenking himself has been so used to with Scott. It's odd, for as close as the two are Jimmy seems surprised Scott would say such a thing. 

“Scott-”

“Jimmy, I’m serious. Where did that get us? Maybe if we’d killed Ren right then and there we wouldn’t have had to team up with the desert folk,” Scotts spat, voice venomous. “We wouldn’t have been in that fight. They wouldn’t have killed you.”

Jimmy looks lost, meeting the intensity of Scott's eyes on him. He gapes a moment before his lips press into a tense frown.

“Martyn would have hunted us down.” Jimmy eventually says. “If we had killed his king.”

Evidently Jimmy has found a sore spot with Scott, though in Smajor’s fine opinion everything seems to be a sore spot for the man. The room is silent, and Smajor is doing his best despite the fact that there are a total of six other people in the room besides the couple to avert his gaze and give them privacy. He makes eye contact with The Copper King by chance, and he isn’t quite sure what he finds in the man's gaze. Contemplation of some kind, intrigue maybe? Hm. 

There are small murmurings Smajor doesn’t care to listen in on between The Codfather’s entourage. Instead he averts his gaze once more to find Katherine’s. Her ladyship is staring, biting the inside of her cheek with a slight pout as she thinks. Smajor doesn’t intervene, watching carefully as she stands, clearing her throat and clapping her hands together. Effectively silencing what remains of noise, all focus on her.

Jimmy and Scott tense in their chair. Their eyes dart to the faerie, united in wariness that is starting to leave something bitter tasting in Smajor’s mouth. It’s been annoying, of course, to deal with Scott up till now. But evidently something has gone clearly wrong for them.

“I’m afraid other emperors will be arriving soon, and as much as I would love to help you two I will not waste their time by moving the meeting.” She declares, as kindly as she can.  “There are numerous guest rooms within the palace. I can find two for you to stay in for the meeting duration, guarded of course, and we can pick up where we left later.”

The two lovers are still in their seat. Smajor doesn’t miss the way Jimmy looks to Scott, for direction no doubt. Scott’s gaze stays pointedly on Katherine.

“One room,” he says, carefully slipping off Jimmy’s lap. “No soldiers.”

“Oh!” Katherine’s brows furrow. “No! The Overgrown is safe! We don’t have soldiers. ” She waves the concern away with a flippant hand as Jimmy stands from the chair close behind Scott. “My guards are servants, don’t let the armour fool you.” She chuckles good naturedly.

Scott doesn’t seem any more pleased by this answer, given the way his expression darkens and the flowers atop his head wilt. But a subtle squeeze from Jimmy's hand to his own has him backing down before he says anything brash. 

Smajor abstains from comment or movement as Katherine ushers the duo to the doors. Watches the way both lovers' hands tighten to one another, knuckles white and tense as Katherine's noble guards in their (honestly purely aesthetical) purple armour begin to escort the duo away. At just the same moment Emperor Graceffa struts past into the room with all the self importance of a peacock, Queen Shrub closes behind with only a curious glance to the foreigners before she is being greeted warmly by Katherine.

Smajor settles more properly into his seat, carefully making sure his feathers aren't terribly ruffled, lest the Lost Emperor clock it. He makes passing eye contact with each member of the Codfathers alliance, a silent understanding that their strange guests' issues are far from over. But for now, they may focus on themselves, and their empires.

As the rest of the emperors filter in to varying degrees of readiness and attention, Smajor puts Scott and Jimmy out of mind, readying himself instead for a rather boring fruitless meeting, as they all are. Pleasantries, small insights, and continued trade. Unprepared for the plans being put together only corridors away, in one of House Blossom’s many classy guest rooms…

Chapter 2: Homeward Bound

Summary:

Scott and Jimmy reunite, break out of House Blossom, and have some long overdue conversations.

Notes:

Thank you to StormChaosFox for beta reading this <33 you've been a big help!

Also thanks to the anon who went out of their way to send me an ask on my tumblr about this fic you were so kind and genuinely motivated me alongside everyone who commented on the first chapter to get round to finishing this <33 I hope you enjoy it!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The guest room is gorgeous. It is the first thing Scott takes note of once the guards shut the door behind him. Pristinely painted walls, floral decor, and glass trinkets from edge to edge. Not a thing out of order, all delightfully placed. It looks like heaven, the kind of beauty Scott would only dream of living in. Right now though it feels imposing, like he doesn’t belong somewhere so clean. It leaves him on edge, and he knows being trapped so suddenly is taking its toll on his husband just as much. His canary’s feathers ruffle uncomfortably, wrapped protectively around Scott.

It’s haunting almost, to have him back. Yet so, so easy to fit next to him again. Scott had only lost him for a couple days, realistically. Not enough time to grieve in full, not with a war upon him and a king to take out his revenge on.

“Petal… what happened?”

Scott startles, looking suddenly up to Jimmy wide eyed. His canary’s eyes are soft, glassy with tears, but most importantly they are brown . Deep, nearly black in their wide richness. The colour is foreign. It scares him, just as much as it delights him. As much as he finds it beautiful. His pupils swollen with affection looking down at Scott but with far too much fear for Scott to behold.

“Oh, sunflower-” Scott turns his body to wholly face Jimmy, bringing his hands up to hold his face. Jimmy leans into his palms without the doubt to be flustered. Scott feels the small feathers over his cheeks as his husband pushes against his hands, desperate to be held.

“You’re alright, I’ve got you-” Scott assures, holding back his own tears as his legs grow shaky. They fall to the floor again, no one else to watch this time, and Scott gasps lightly at the return of Jimmy's arms firmly around him.

“You’re alright. No one will hurt you again, I’ve got you-” Scott murmurs as Jimmy curls further against him. He repeats, and repeats the sentiment. It would be careless if he didn’t mean it so fully every time. 

“What happened- I died. I thought I did, and everyone was gone. I was here,” Jimmy asks, hushed as though fearing eavesdroppers. Without any words exchanged they understood the flowery guards weren’t to be trusted.

No one could be trusted.

“You were shot,” Scott swallows thickly. “At the same time I had lost my green life, in the desert.”

Jimmy reels back suddenly as if struck, staring at Scott with a newfound horror Scott doesn’t quite understand.

“You died!?” The canary whisper-shouts, hand quick to cup Scott's cheek. His eyes dart across his body, what he can see, as if searching for the lasting damage. 

“I couldn’t protect you,” Scott breathes, gutted. He leans against Jimmy's hand still holding his cheek, though his palms shake and his face is one of horror. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry!?” Jimmy wants to scream, the way his voice pinches off his volume as he speaks makes that more than clear. 

They both send a wayward glance towards the closed door in unison, chest tight.

“I was hiding in the bunker like a coward ,” Jimmy nearly growls, only barely quieter than before.

“You were supposed to be safe in there-” It’s not an excuse, not the way Scott says it. Guilty and wet with regret. Jimmy’s second hand comes to hold Scott's face, as steadily as his shaking grip will allow.

“You died out there. I could have helped you and I was stuck with Scar hiding .”

“The bunker should have been more fortified. Why I let you anywhere near the fight was stupid. You should have been hidden more .”

“I should have been helping you!”

They both stop suddenly, holding their breath. The clinking of guards' armour just outside reminds them how loud their voices have raised. Scott feels the talons of Jimmy's fingers scratch his face slightly as they seize with panic, pulling Scott close and turning to shield him from the door. Scott wants to fight it, to leap over him and get Jimmy away from danger. He isn’t meant to be protected, he needs to be protecting- .

But Jimmy’s wings spread, covering the both of them in a feathery cocoon, and Scott gives in. He leans close, pressing his forehead to Jimmy’s with care.

Neither dare to breathe as they listen, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the door to be kicked down and all these pleasantries to be thrown away.

But nothing comes. There's a light chiming of bells from beyond, indistinguishable language muffled by the door as the guards seemingly exchange conversation. But none approach. The door stays unmoved.

Scott tenses again, his breath hitching slightly as Jimmy shifts. His wings come down, and he leans away. He takes a  breath as if relieved, but Scott doesn’t know what there is to be relieved about. Just because they haven’t turned on them now, doesn’t mean they won’t soon.

“We need to get out of here,” Scott whispers on hitched breath. Jimmy looks down at his husband again, brows furrowed

“We do?” Scott looks at the avian in utter disbelief. “I mean, I don’t like being monitored like this either. But The Codfather- the fish people and their friends, they said they would help us.”

“We don’t need their help,” Scott says rushedly, eyes flickering around the room. There's a tall stained glass window against a wall, technicoloured light streaming through. He wonders how hard it would be to break.

“They’ve been really good to me so far, Scott,” Jimmy frowns. “They helped me find you, after all,” he smiles lightly.

“They’ll turn on us eventually,” Scott snaps back, no smile in sight. Jimmy's frown deepens.. “We can’t trust anyone, Jimmy. They’ll just try and put us back. We’re- we’re outside the borders Jimmy! They’re trying to bring us back there.”

“They want to get us home-” Jimmy argues softly. “To the valley- our valley. Don’t you want to go home?”

“Jimmy-” Scott looks back to meet his husband's eyes. His expression softens, mournfully. “I am home. I have you back, that's all I need.”

“Oh,” he flusters slightly, smile returning softly. “You’re all I need too. I just- you loved the valley. You had so many plans for it…”

“It’s not a good place anymore,” Scott whispers. “Before I… before I got here I boarded up your house and-” He hesitates, looking down and swallowing thick with mourning. “And I dug your grave.”

There's a long stretch of silence where Scott can’t bear to look up again. The hands Jimmy has on him tense all over again and Scott nearly flinches. 

“My what?” his breath catches, and Scott looks up again. Jimmy is wide-eyed, a deep etched horror settling grimly into his expression. It punches the breath from Scott’s lungs that he could be the cause of such a sight.

“Your- your grave.” Scott gulps again at the thought, his mouth suddenly dry. The memory is fuzzy. He could barely see a thing, through the night, rain, or tears he doesn’t remember. He didn’t bother with a shovel, scraping at the dirt with his hands till his fingers came back raw and red. It’s not as if he needed a big hole anyways, no body to bury. He only wanted to plant flowers for him.

“It was empty, but-” Why didn’t he get Jimmy's body? There wasn’t one, and that is wrong. Why hadn’t it felt wrong? 

Did Jimmy wake up here, in this world beyond the borders when he died? Was that why there was nothing to bury? No evidence except his absence to prove Scott had loved and lost.

Why hadn’t he questioned it before? Why hadn’t it felt wrong when he fell for the final time and there was nothing left of him? Why hadn’t waking up after dying felt like the perversion of life that it is? 

A dread old and cryptic seeps through Scott’s mind, shaking in his bones with an understanding he hadn’t known before. With a realisation at the edges of his mind and yet out of reach.

“Oh Scott-” Jimmy’s tone is short, clipped with grief and it forces Scott to refocus. If only long enough to see the deep brown of his eyes.

Deep brown. Not red as they had been for so long. Not yellow or green. Not even the blue he had begun to fear meant zero. Brown. 

Scott raises his hands to cradle Jimmy’s face, the man blinking down at him startled before settling into the touch. He feels stubble and baby feathers, winged ears flicking lightly.

Why hadn’t it felt so wrong before. What changed? Looking into brown eyes, as if they should have always been brown. As if the red he’d grown used to never suited him at all. 

“We can’t go back, even if I wanted to,” Scott murmurs finally, trying to swallow back the tears in his throat.

Jimmy nods slowly, lips pursed and eyes soft. His hands come up to take Scott’s in his own, pulling them from his cheeks and bringing rough knuckles to his lips. A dusting of blush spreading his cheeks for the gesture. Scott lets a waterlogged chuckle escape him in the quiet.

“Then we won’t go back,” he says, soft and relenting. Giving Scott what he wants. Believing him.

“We can’t stay either,” he says quickly, as if he’ll lose Jimmy again between words.

“Then we’ll leave,” Jimmy replies once more. Just as easy, just as determined.

Despite it all, there's a glimmer in his eye. Despite how deeply afraid and resentful Scott is, of the situation they’ve found themself in. Jimmy looks ready, eager to dive headfirst into whatever comes next.

That was always the problem wasn’t it? Jimmy was always restless, cowing to Scott’s concerns. Unable to stand knowing Scott was always so afraid of the home they’d built being taken away.

It’s what they fought on most. Jimmy’s yearning to prove himself, to prove Scott didn’t have to worry. That he was strong enough to protect them. A belief Scott couldn’t ever take to heart, not when every choice he let Jimmy make dragged them both deeper into war. Into grief and ruin.

Even now, looking at the spark in his eyes, Scott doesn’t know whether to snuff it out or kiss him senseless. He'd spent the last days of his life mad with grief, throwing his life away with reckless abandon. The same he’d always scolded his husband for. He’d missed that look, and all the same it only fills him with fear, for where it might lead them.

He almost wishes he could go back, go lock them both away in their homes and stay safe and hidden till the war was over. A more sensible part of him knows it was inevitable. That Jimmy would never have let him do that to them. 

Whether it was Scott’s softness or Jimmy’s resilience that killed them before, he has to believe it will be different now. They are not cornered any longer, they have a chance to truly be free as they never were.

Scott can stay worried. Jimmy can stay reckless. And maybe between them they’ll truly be able to protect one another, like they couldn’t before.

They’ll get out together this time. 

“Okay,” Scott smiles shakily. Leaning up and pulling Jimmy down just enough to kiss him. “Okay!”

They rise from the floor together, hand in hand. A plan formed between them they make quick work of cataloguing the room. Finding anything that could be useful.

Scott finds himself stripping the bed of one of its thinner blankets. Laying it out and helping his husband to collect what they need to lay inside.

Exploring the quarters more thoroughly is a mind boggling experience. A suite the size of one of their houses, and furnished far more. The palace is massive, if the quarters alone are meant to host a bedroom, a sitting room, and an adjoining washroom. It’s far too much, even more than the king surely had.

It only makes Scott’s stomach crawl, to realise how big the world suddenly is, outside of their prison.

There are pleasantries left out. They drink some of the water, though frustrated to find there are no bottles to steal away with, only the pitcher they can’t risk to carry whilst full. It’s easy otherwise to break the legs from a chair, fashioning a makeshift weapon for them each.  To empty the pitcher in the washroom and lay it upon their blanket. To fold a pillow and a second sheet within.

To wrap it all into a bindle, tied tight. Scott tests for weight, that he’ll be ready to carry this however far they must. Then moves to the door, pressing his ear to the wood. 

There’s murmurs of voices outside. Calm and conversational, likely guard set at post in the hall beyond. Scott grimaces, wracking his mind for a plan. If he can remember the route out of the palace well enough to risk rushing the two. If it would be worth it.

He turns back with his expression drawn thoughtfully, catching sight of Jimmy across the room fiddling with the windows. He’s managed to get it open, a light breeze dancing through the air.

“How does it look?” Scott whispers, moving back to his husband's side. Jimmy turns around, expression less confident than Scott would like. But clearly weighing his options.

“We’re on the second floor, and the palace itself is on a floating island, yeah?” he muses aloud. Scott nods along, understanding. “Whether we scale down the wall somehow, or we leave through the door, we’ll have to get off the island.”

“There’s at least two guards in the hall outside,” Scott murmurs. “They’re relaxed, we could probably rush them. But if we aren’t fast enough and we don’t remember our way out then it could turn sour.” 

Jimmy’s hand finds Scott’s squeezing lightly, reassuringly. Scott focuses enough from his nerves to squeeze back.

“The guard rotation on this side of the building seems sparse,” he offers with a small smile. “And once we get off the island the people in the towns we passed through were all very relaxed. We’ll be home free.”

Scott nods, turning his thoughts over methodically. Picking at the pieces of a plan and trying to fit them together. He steps past Jimmy to lean his head out the window, measuring the drop below.

It is quite a way. But the brickwork is detailed. Very elegant, but also leaving a few key footholes.

“I think I could scale down,” Scott hums, voice pinched with false confidence. “But I couldn’t take the pack with us.”

“I um,” Jimmy hesitates, drawing Scott's attention. Watching him as his wings flinch behind him, stretching, giving a slight flap. The feathers along his cheek bristle, flexing his ear wings curiously. “I could maybe… glide down?”

Scott blinks; the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. Jimmy, like the few other people they knew that looked like him, that had wings and feathers, had never been able to fly. None of them had, even when an instinct in them shoved them to try.

He’s been able to glide a little, not well or long. But enough to lessen a fall. Enough to land on his feet more often than not. 

“I could try to carry you with me, or at least I could take the bindle?” he offers, words more rushed as if afraid Scott will say no. As if he can already see the doubt and unease growing in Scott’s head.

Scott frowns, and he knows Jimmy isn’t pleased to see it. But it just isn’t. Jimmy’s wings aren't strong enough, they’re not even sure he can fly. None of them ever could.

Grian had grumbled about it to Jimmy once, when they thought Scott wasn’t listening. Had asked if Jimmy noticed that their feathers didn't look like any of the birds they watched or hunted. Theirs were proportionally shorter. Grian's had been all but mangled at the ends.

Jimmy had grown quiet before brushing the other off. Huffing and fluffing up about how ridiculous it was. They weren't birds, of course they didn't look the same. Jimmy and Grian didn’t even look the same!

Scott had never shared what he’d heard, not that he thinks it was meant to be a secret. But he had watched how the thought seemed to eat Jimmy for the day following. How he’d picked at his feathers. He’d asked Scott if he liked his wings, something he’d not done before or since.

Of course Scott told him he loved him, loved them. They are soft, and protective. He loves Jimmy, and he loves every part of him. 

He was never sure his adoration was good enough though. Not against the seed Grian had planted.

Scott wants to say no. Not a chance, he loves Jimmy but he doesn't trust his strength to get them down. But the anticipatory disappointment in his lover's expression wounds him. After a lifetime they spent with Scott needing control, and Jimmy fighting to prove himself as free in their cryptic prison…

“Alright,” he finds himself saying, watching Jimmy’s expression light up with surprise. “How about you take the bag? It will leave my hands free to scale down.”

Jimmy nods immediately, grinning determined and moving to take the bag from Scott. They ready themselves, hearts racing, as they watch for a gap in the guard.

It doesn’t take long before the sparse watchmen are switched. None the wiser to Scott above them beginning his descent.

Legs swing through the windowsill, manoeuvring to find footholds as he keeps himself as silent as possible. His heart races in his ears and he forces himself not to focus on the armoured below. Not when his footing slips momentarily and he knows he has to work on getting down before he worries about any watchers.

It’s as he sees the ground close, enough so that he could risk a jump, that he looks upwards again. His husband watching wide-eyed overhead, looking out for him. His eyes glance to the side, towards the guards who thankfully haven't bothered to look up. So used to whatever peace is kept in this odd place.

Scott grips the wall harder, unsure if he should drop, where the collision and line of sight would surely do him in. Luckily, his husband is a step ahead.

Jimmy gestures to wait, a plea in his eye as he ducks back into the room. When he returns to the window he leans out, a glass in hand as he winds up his arm. And Scott would pray if only he knew what gods would listen.

The glass shatters in the grass a distance away. Scott hears it loud as day, ear twitching to follow the surprise of the guard as he moves further away. Scott takes his chance.

He pushes off the wall, rolling to break his fall in the grass and covering his already poor clothes in grass stains.

Scott looks up for Jimmy, only to find a hand on his own pulling him across the island. His feet under him stumble before finding a run, keeping pace as Jimmy sprints with him.

It’s near the edge of the island that Scott realises a problem. This is not the side of the palace with the path down. 

Below them, feeling a world away, is a town of bright colours and plentiful flora. People going about their days with a lively forest bordering them in.

Somewhere behind them Scott hears a shout. Whipping around to realise the guard has spotted them. Their weapons are not drawn, but they approach fast, waving and calling for them. As if they could be persuaded to come peacefully, quietly.

Scott’s grip on Jimmy tightens, breath catching as he looks away, pulling to try and get them to move. To find the path down and fast.

He doesn’t get that chance. Not when Jimmy lets go of his hand, pushing their makeshift bag into his arms. Scott holds it without thought, looking frantically back to his husband. To ask what he’s doing, to demand they run.

Arms sweep under his legs, a huff and an apology swallow Scott’s demands as he is scooped into Jimmy’s arms.

Golden wings flair behind them. A determined albeit nervous expression paints his lover's face. And Scott gets no further warning before Jimmy makes a running jump off of the island.

Scott can’t scream, voice all caught in his throat as he clings to Jimmy. Body shaking unable to look away from the ground coming closer and closer. Far too fast, though he realises not nearly as fast as if they were to free fall.

They’re gliding. Badly and with far more gravity than Scott would ever like. But they are still gliding. Their fall lightened.

They hit the ground at the forest's edge of the town with no grace. Jimmy tripping and throwing them both through dirt and grass. Sprawling out, scraped and surely bruised. But Scott can’t help the light that fills his heart, the breath in his lungs.

“Oh my gods-” Jimmy pushes upright, and Scott finds himself joining him with a hand pulling him up. “Are you alright?”

Scott wants to be furious, that Jimmy would take a risk like that. But Scott can’t bring himself to care. Looking up at the island above and the guards at its edge. Looking between themselves before one runs out of sight. 

He pulls Jimmy into a tight hug, a manic laugh ripping from his throat before he lets go. Jimmy, frazzled in front of him, can only blink, frowning lightly.

“We have to go,” Scott manages to find words. Jimmy looks as if he might argue for a moment before voices behind them make them aware of townfolks. Looking up one of the guards behind to fly down, winged much like Lady Katherine was.

Jimmy takes his hand, and Scott pulls the bag over his shoulder. They sprint without looking back into the bramble of the wilds. Into the woods to weave and lose any pursuers.

Scott has no idea how much time passes. Adrenaline blurring the edges of his vision as he pushes onward, pulling Jimmy along while he looks behind them harrowed. It could be only minutes, it could be hours.

Legs kicking through bushes, ducking under leafs and narrowing avoiding stray branches which threaten to clothesline them in their haste. 

Despite the hand gripping like a vice into Scott’s palm something dreadful stirs. As if Jimmy isn’t there at all.

As if the thundering footfalls in time with his, so close, are not a friend but a foe. Memories of taunting jeers thrown through the dark woods, mocking and threatening as the King and his hand close in.

A wrong turn, a stumble. He’s covered in scrapes, blood and dirt coating his hair and clothes. He can’t even scream as pain erupts between his shoulder blades. An arrow burrowing deep through his jacket and into his chest.

Scott gasps, tears in his eyes as an overwhelming feeling if having failed consumes him. His knees buckle, vision blurring and he feels a weight leave him as he falls amongst the tall grass.

He can’t stop himself from curling up, clutching at his chest as his breath heaves. He’s dying, choking on his own blood. Anger and frustration consume him, as heavily as his grief had. To be beaten by these tyrants. To have Martyn be the one to take him out.

Is this how Jimmy felt? The red curse feels like it's eating Scott alive, he’s only had hours with it. How did Jimmy live like this? How much self control did he really have, when Scott so frequently thought him careless and instigative. How much had he held back if this was what he felt? 

How hadn’t Scott woken up on any night with his lover's hands squeezing at his throat. How had Jimmy had any softness left in him to hold Scott gently, to simmer and fold when Scott demanded they keep themselves away from the fight.

Tears burn in his eyes as much as the blood in his mouth as he grapples with these feelings, with these realisations. The grief unfolding to know he had failed his husband. Failed to understand him. Failed to keep him safe. And now failed to avenge him.

He will die without ceremony, without burial, with no one left to care. Hunted like a mutt through the thin woods with no allies to come to his aid. Left to rot where The Red King and his army leave him.

“Scott!? Scott what’s wrong!?” A voice cuts through the panic, and Scott sobs. Blinking his eyes against the dark forest.

Except it's not dark, not like it was. Afternoon sun filtering through colourful leaves and flowers. The canopy above him looks like a dream, surreal in its colour and vibrancy. In the life it exudes.

Jimmy is crouched over him, half blocking his view. Scott can’t care at all, not when the vision of his lover is there, within reach. He feels himself smiling, shaky and warbled. He reaches out a hand, yearning to hold him one last time. To apologize for his many failures.

His hand meets Jimmy’s jaw, cradling his cheek. Warm skin with light stubble and baby feathers.

Jimmy is warm. Scott is warm.

They’re alive. 

Realisation comes back to Scott a little faster. Jimmy's eyes, brown eyes , boring into him with a frantic worry. The belongings stolen from the strange floating palace lay in the brush at their side.

Scott tense as he sits up, looking around as if seeing the forest for the first time. It looks nothing like the one he ran through. Night lighting and dark deciduous trees.

These woods are far more interesting. Bright and colourful, unlike anything he’d ever seen. All the flora seem to follow the colours of flowers, bright and bold spread through every piece of the plane.

He listens, ears twitching slightly. Hearing running water nearby. Birds on high. Rustling leaves.

He doesn’t hear any footfalls. No pursuers. 

They aren’t being hunted.

“We got away?” he asks, barely above a whisper. Jimmy’s expression seems to pinch lightly before nodding, smiling lightly.

“Yeah, we lost them a bit ago I think,” he confirms verbally, taking Scott’s hand in his own. Bringing the scarred knuckles to his lips reverently. 

Scott doesn’t dare ask how long they’ve been running. He can’t imagine it. He doesn’t know what to feel, to think.

“There’s running water nearby,” Scott finds himself finally saying, unable to look at Jimmy as his mind comes back to him. Pushing out of the grass and dragging the bindle up with him. He hears a noise in Jimmy’s throat, one he’s come to recognize as confusion. But he does little more than sputter as he follows Scott.

The brook, as they come to find, is fairly close by. Scott moves on autopilot, suggesting settling here for some rest before pushing onward. Jimmy doesn’t argue.

They set open the bindle and catalogue their belongings. Jimmy leaves for a bit, staying within shouting range, as much as the nerves of separating shakes them both. He returns with the pitcher they’d taken, thankfully unbroken from their many tumbles, filled with berries.

Scott finds fallen branches and sticks, putting together a makeshift lean-to against a nearby tree before laying out their blankets. He then sits by the brooke, watching the small fish which dart by. Too small to be appetising, and so he leaves the chair leg spear aside. 

Jimmy returns and they eat quietly. Scott manages a warmed smile at Jimmy’s excitement, showing off his foraging find. Scott is more happy to kiss him, to lean against him and be assured they’re safe. They’re together.

They settle, and for the first time in a long time Scott almost feels at peace. Laid with his husband, hidden by the woods. It feels as close to home as he could have dreamed off since their deaths.

The thought strikes a dread in his chest, light and brief. But he remembers it, holding onto it. Mulling his thought over, lip between his teeth before Jimmy’s lips press gently against his hair. 

“What’s up?” he asks, concerned enough for Scott to know he’s been caught. Light enough to know he could brush it off, if he wanted to.

He isn’t sure what he wants. So he just speaks, staring up into his husband's eyes.

“What was it like for you?” Scott murmurs, with a weighted tone. “To die?”

Jimmy blinks down at him, frowning now. He doesn't flinch as Scott thought he might. He shows no fear or unease, only a sadness Scott wishes he hadn’t put there.

“It all happened so quickly,” he sighs, frown broadening. “ I kind of remember the impact. Not so much the pain. I think I died before it could register through the adrenaline. Then I woke up in the Codlands.”

Scott thinks it's a miracle that Jimmy felt so little. He counts it as a small blessing. For he had heard Scar shriek, and turned to watch Jimmy choke on the blood in his mouth. Arrow through his throat before he turned into wisps.

He himself was struck down the moment he turned. His husband's death burned into his mind as he awoke with yellow eyes. Rushing across the valley towards a bed Jimmy wouldn’t wake up in. No trace of him left for Scott to hold onto.

“What happened to you?” Jimmy returns the question, startling Scott from his spiral. There's a hesitance in his eyes, staring through to Scott’s soul. As if unsure if he should ask. But there's determination all the same.

Scott watched Jimmy die three times over. Jimmy hadn’t seen Scott die once.

He had been there for every one of Jimmy’s respawns, waking up in his home. He had watched him die and every time rushed home to hold him, to be assured he would really be there. Until he wasn’t.

Scott had no one. Only a losing battle and careless allies. He awoke alone to an empty home, and mourned as long as he could before red hate took his heart and yearned for vengeance.

If he were in Jimmy’s shoes, wouldn’t he want to know too? How could Scott deprive him of anything he asked, now that he’s here again?

“I was a hypocrite,” he laughs mirthlessly, leaning against Jimmy as if he could soak in his warmth. “For all my nagging at you for being reckless, I went from green to red nearly as fast as Scar did…”

Jimmy sucks a horrified breath through his lungs. Scott’s head against his chest savours the feeling that Jimmy is here breathing next to him at all.

It might be an exaggeration, Scar had become red so fast he’s not sure anyone could drop faster. But the days following Jimmy’s death had been a blur, regardless of his status. He died for the first time that Jimmy died his last.

He might not have dropped to red immediately, but he felt he was on zero since his husband was taken. He may as well have died for good in the desert that day too.

“I don’t remember who killed me, in the desert. I died twice in the sand,” he murmurs  half heartedly. Jimmy’s arms around him tighten. “The king himself killed me for good, in the woods.”

“Oh Scott, ” Jimmy’s voice sounds pained, pulling Scott close in his arms. As if they might melt into each other. 

Wouldn’t that be nice, to never be parted again.

“It all happened very fast to me,” he says, voice deceptively even. “I just couldn’t help but throw myself back at the fight. I wasn’t thinking very straight after you died…”

Scott lifts his gaze if only to stare at his husband. His lover. His Jimmy. Alive and holding him. Here and now, reunited. 

He looks heartbroken, and Scott can’t help but think that it’s barely a fraction of the grief Scott had experienced. 

“I don’t know how you did it, being red for so long,” he whispers, a wet chuckle in his throat. Jimmy blinks down, brows furrowing.

“Didn’t have much of a choice, did I?” Jimmy smiles uneasily. “Needed to stick around and keep you safe…”

“I thought you were just reckless,” Scott laughs without humour. “But I was only red for a few hours, and it was consuming. ”

Scott shudders, the memories passing through him, cold and rattling.

“Yeah it's… it was pretty bad,” Jimmy hums. “I don’t think I realised how bad it was until I woke up here and it was gone.”

“The constant blood rushing in your ears,” Scott whispers further. “Violent for the world at large. Running to fights I knew I would lose… How could you even stand to be alive?”

Jimmy frowns, leaning back enough to brush a hand through Scott’s bangs before cupping his cheek. 

“I don’t understand,” Scott hiccups, the grief folding over in his chest as he stares at his wonderful perfect husband. Who he never understood. Who he so desperately needs to live. “How didn’t you just snap and kill me in my sleep?” he laughs, watching Jimmy’s brows raise. “How did you listen to me at all?!”

Jimmy’s hand holding him is shaken, nervous. Scott is making him nervous. But he doesn't pull away. He instead doubles down, bringing his other hand to hold Scott's face. Thumbing at tears as he frowns at Scott, almost mournfully.

As if he’s lost something. As if he’s lost Scott at all.

“Because I love you,” he says, as if he needs to convince Scott. As if that is all the answer he needs. “Even when we fought, or when the curse felt too much. I love you so much . I didn’t want to hurt you, I only ever wanted to protect you.”

Jimmy’s voice wavers as he speaks, tears in his own eyes falling. It only spurs Scott to sobs. He lunges to pull Jimmy close, to bury his face in his chest. Warbled I love you ’s mingle with apologies as they hold one another. Jimmy’s arms coming down over Scott’s back, his wings cocooning them, as if to hide them.

“It was hard,” Jimmy whispers. “But I was red for weeks. Scar talked about it sort of the same way, when we chatted. You learn to live with it…” His face presses against Scott’s hair, breathing him in.

Scott can’t help but think he must smell awful, of blood and dirt. But Jimmy doesn’t seem to care, drinking him in. 

“You only had hours to grapple with it all,” Jimmy murmurs, aching. “I can imagine what that hell would have been for you.”

“I’m sorry. I should have been better,” Scott swallows back tears. “I should have understood more. I should have protected you. I should have avenged you- ”

“I should have protected you ,” Jimmy huffs hotly, insistently. “I should have listened, and kept away from the fight. I shouldn’t have died and left you all alone.”

Apologies come easy. So many regrets between them, unable to step back. But Scott can’t imagine ever blaming Jimmy for his grief. And Jimmy cannot hate Scott for not understanding. 

It’s healing, to lay together by the brook and sleep. Tucked under stolen blankets and wrapped in each other's arms. To feel like there is a new life ahead of them, clean from the slate of before. Of blue borders and false kings. Of second and third changes and a bloodlust no one should have to know.

They will awaken a couple hours later, when the afternoon is near its end. They will gather their meager belongings and continue their trek through the wilds. Until trees grow sparse and golden sun breaks through pastel leaves.

Fields of rolling hills overlooking a distant coast. The view of farmland in the distance, and an even further kingdom on the horizon.

Scott will take Jimmy’s hand, and pray they never be parted. They will rebuild a home, at the edge of the woods, far from prying eyes. Close enough to venture out and acquaint themselves with those living rural domesticity they’d yearned for. 

They can build a life here, free of tyranny for as long as possible. With the hope they need to rebuild. 

Hand in hand, they rebuild a future together. Uninterrupted this time by war or grief. They set to work.

Notes:

That's a wrap folks!! This was such a difficult chapter to write since i think it departs from the prompt the fic was working with. Initially I was going to have a 3rd chapter that entailed emperors hunting them down and disturbing their domestic life again and then the emperors realising they're not a threat and leaving the husbands to their peace. But I couldn't get a good enough excuse for them to bother with these two random civilians in the worldbuilding I've laid out. There's no reason to really be that invested in these two from an emperors pov.

if anyone wants to take the prompt and write anything for it by all means feel free!! but this was where I most comfortably was able to end it. I hope you enjoyed!

Notes:

Hope you enjoyed!

Can we all tell that I was really into those fics where dsmp!Tommy found a way to OSMP when I was in that fandom? because i adore crossover fics where someone meets their alternative universe self and i never saw anything with esmp and life series despite how crazy the potential is.