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His head hits the ground hard, sand clouding up as his wings flutter limply to the floor, and Grian–
Grian wakes up.
Two seconds after Grian falls to his death, he blinks his eyes back awake.
Wrinkling his nose, his eyes flutter open to the harsh sunlight that streams through the window. There’s the faint aftertaste of sand in his mouth and dried sweat on his skin.
But all he can think of is one thing.
I should be dead.
There’s the sound of wind and crackling lava outside, and shifting sands whisper beyond the creaking door of the sand castle. A door that shouldn’t still be there, because Grian had just taken it off to prevent traps.
Mere hours before he had died.
Because Grian was dead. He had to have died; he had felt his head hit the ground. His feathers had screamed through the air as he whirled and twisted, grasping futilely at empty space as the sands below grew larger and larger.
He had thrown himself off that desert cliff, on his red life, and he had died.
So why was he staring at the ceiling of the sand castle again?
He finally brings himself to swing his feet off the bed, planting them firmly on the sandstone as he gathers himself. He notes the lack of catcus scratches on his shins, the way they don’t ache with a bone-deep tiredness that had haunted him the day before.
He leaves the sandcastle through the back door– and isn’t that crazy, to see a back door that had been blown to smithereens just hours prior– and steps out into the desert.
The cactus ring is gone.
That’s the first thing he notices, above the clear skies and the clean sand. The cactus ring, where spines had buried themselves into the ground and blood had soaked the sand through, was missing entirely. Pizza’s grave lay untouched, atop a cliff with smooth sand.
There are no footprints to mark his fight, no path to where he had thrown himself off the peak for a final time.
There’s nothing.
Out past the hill, the desert looks the same. Not untouched, definitely not. But the lava pools and small fires that had characterized it before everything– before Joel had died and his wolves had taken residence near his body, before Scott, before Sc– everything, were still there.
Grian squeezes his eyes shut, blocking out the scorching sunlight. It had been hot the day before, if– Huh.
He needs to find someone.
He heads straight over to the Crastle this time, remembering his difficulty locating allies the previous day. As he crosses the moat and climbs the tight staircase, he finds Bdubs feverishly gathering bundles of arrows and placing them near the archer holes along the front-facing wall.
“Grian!” The man exclaims, whipping around to face him. Bdubs’ face is still bruised, and a nasty ring of purple surrounds his swollen eyelid. Grian winces in sympathy.
“You scared me!” The man continues indignantly, dumping his next bundle of arrows down and placing his hands on his hips. Grian just huffs out a laugh, eyes straying to the clear sky outside the thin windows.
“Bdubs,” he begins cautiously, a pit slowly forming in his stomach. “Didn’t you die yesterday?”
Bdubs stares back blankly, confusion evident in his face. “No? I’ve been red for a while. Cleo keeps complaining that I’m too accident-prone early on.”
“Huh,” Grian trails off, biting his lip. If Bdubs had died, Scar’s sword buried in his back, just a while prior… but Bdubs was right there in front of him.
He takes a breath, almost dreading the answer he’s about to receive. “Bdubs, who was the latest final death?”
Bdubs wrinkles his brow. “Uh, final death? Let’s see… Skizz, probably?”
Grian frowns, that heavy weight finally dropping in his stomach. If it wasn’t Cleo, then that would mean that nothing from the day prior had happened. Either he was hallucinating, or something was seriously wrong. “And you’re sure,” Grian says, voice low, “that nothing has happened? Scott hasn’t died yet?”
“I mean, no,” Bdubs frowns. “Don’t know exactly what you mean, but Scott’s on yellow?”
Voices echo outside, and Bdubs jumps, eyes darting back to the windows. “Blast! They’re here! You distracted me!”
“It’s just us!” Cleo’s voice calls back, and Bdubs frowns, sticking his head out the window. Grian follows suit with another, spotting Impulse, Cleo, and Scar standing outside of the Crastle’s moat. Scar is as gray as ever, iron chestplate dangling from his hand as he speaks casually to the other two, and Grian’s heart seizes, remembering the last time he had seen the man so unscathed.
As they had rowed in a boat together, before Scar’s skin had mottled with bruises from Grian’s own scarred hands. Before Scar had lain, half buried in the sifting sands, blood splattered across the ring, and Grian had left him behind.
They begin to talk, and then there’s a battle. Well, battle in the loosest sense of the word. Grian winces as Scar goes running after Ren and Etho, but he comes back in one piece, as he had the time before, and they leave together.
“Well, Grian,” Scar begins, and Grian glances over at him. The other man has his blood-red eyes fixed on the horizon, but when he turns to look at Grian, his usual half-smirk is resting comfortably on his face. “So. You lost your first life.”
Grian shrugs, thoughts racing. Scar, in all of his gray-skinned, red glory, is dangerous. Even if the light in his eyes is twinkling, it’s still a sparkling red. He could kill Grian on the spot. “I did.” He pulls out his knife, trying to keep his fingers from trembling on the handle. In the shiny reflection of the sharp metal, his own startlingly yellow eyes glare back.
Scar eyes the knife warily, taking a half step away as they continue to walk. The desert fades into view, cactus spines and golden sands glowing with the light of the lava pits that bubble nearby, and they’re far closer when Scar speaks again.
Grian suddenly realizes that this conversation hadn’t happened. Not last time, the first time he had run this day over. What had gone differently? He had met up with Scar earlier, this time, but–
“So, G,” Scar’s voice is less certain now, but he’s still putting it on. That half-teasing, optimistic lilt, as if what he’s saying has no real weight to it. It’s as fake as anything, and Grian has been around Scar long enough to know when he’s lying through his teeth. “I guess you’re going to leave now, yeah?”
That puts a pause to Grian’s train of thought, and he stops in his tracks, causing Scar to skid to a stop as well. They’re just on the edge of the desert, lush grass fading into a sandy bank, and Grian stares at Scar. It’s midday now, the sun beating down on them, and he looks so expectant. Like he’s expecting Grian to nod, gather his things, and leave Scar behind without a second thought.
“I mean,” Grian begins, halting. Oh. That’s what he didn’t do. “We’ve been together this entire time. I don’t see a reason to split up now.”
Scar’s face lights up, and he spins around, grinning madly. “Oh ho! Are you going to admit that my friendship points were helpful next? Are you? Are you?”
Grian stifles a laugh, following after Scar as he skips cheerfully through the wall of cacti. “I’m not going that far, buddy. Nice try, though.”
As they make it back to the sandcastle, gathering equipment, Grian takes a second to look at the building. Last time he had run through this day, it had been blown up sometime after they left, so he takes a moment to admire the dusty walls and the uneven windows.
As Scar leaves for the last time, calling out something about Recon with Bdubs and Catching up with allies, Grian shuts his chest and stares blankly at his bed. The red covers stare unassumingly back at him, and he shakes his head, trying in vain to refocus his thoughts.
He hasn’t even had the time to consider the possibilities of what’s happening right now.
To narrow it down, Grian thinks, sitting down heavily on the wooden chest behind him. I know for certain that I have lived this day before. Well, not for certain. Maybe it’s a dream, or some sort of premonition… but surely. I killed myself, and I watched everyone die.
He takes a breath, inhaling the dusty air, before he leans back on his palms, staring up at the dark red and tan ceiling tiles. Either I time-travelled, he thinks, or that was a dream. Or this is some sort of afterlife.
He hears Scar whistling as he rustles around outside, and Grian realizes that he hasn’t left for the Crastle yet. He sits up, listening absently to the noise of his teammate moving around outside, so boldly full of life, unlike his still form that had lain sprawled on the ground. That still did, behind Grian’s eyelids.
If this is truly time travel, or some odd chance to redo the final day of their lives, Grian decides, things are going to go differently this time.
Very differently.
Things end up going very similarly to the first time around.
Or, for the most part. In what seems like no time at all, Joel’s blood splatters across the burning sands of the desert, and his many dogs settle around his remaining items, whining in grief. Grian swallows the brief nausea that comes with his déjà vu, preparing himself for what comes next. Scott dies, and then Martyn and Ren die, and suddenly he’s back where his nightmares truly begin.
Standing on a cliff, staring at Bdubs and Scar.
Heart pounding.
He can see Scar begin to consider the no-kill pass route, and he’s already reaching his fingers for it.
Still too slow. Bdubs snatches it, laughing in hysterical relief, and Grian dies, this time without even running. Scar’s axe sinks into him, and he wakes back up on the worn bed of his safe, respawnable house.
Ready.
He takes his time walking back, staring blankly into the clear air. Just faintly, he can see the wisps of ghost that float around. Watching. Waiting.
His communicator buzzes, and those little words he had just missed last time appear on his screen.
<GoodTimeWithScar> i have a plan
Grian stares at it. The glowing white letters are stark against the darkness of the rapidly approaching night. The sun is setting on the final day of this life, and Grian knows, deep down, this will be his only second chance.
He creeps up behind the hill where he had died, noting that his own blood is still strewn across the grass. Bdubs and Scar are talking quietly, but Grian’s communicator vibrates once again.
<GoodTimeWithScar> i’ll push bdubs off
Grian glances up. The two can’t see him from where he’s standing in the shade of a tree, and Bdubs' back is facing him. Scar’s eyes flicker downward, and Grian realizes that he’s making eye contact with him, red eyes glowing in the darkness.
Grian holds up his hand, trying to ignore the ceaseless trembling in his fingers.
Three, he motions, taking a steadying breath.
Two.
One.
Scar lunges forward, planting his palms on Bdubs’ shoulders and shoving him backward. Bdubs yelps, arms flailing, but he hits the ground hard right next to Grian.
Grian doesn’t hesitate. He sinks his axe into the man’s chest.
And then there were two.
This time around, Grian doesn’t immediately lunge for Scar. He doesn’t even raise his weapon. Scar stands on the hill still, silhouetted by the moon, the night sky framed behind him. He looks dangerous. Grian knows that he, lurking in the shadows, must not look any different.
The ghosts are already whispering, louder and louder.
“They crave blood,” Scar says quietly.
Grian nods once, mouth twisting into a grimace. “They don’t need it.”
Scar hops down from the hill, careless, and Grian winces as he watches him land harshly on his ankles. Scar doesn’t even flinch. “You know, of all people, you’re the last person I expected to say that. That’s a Scott line, for sure.”
Grian shrugs. “Maybe, I’ve just had enough blood.”
“Grian,” Scar sighs. “It’s alright. For all you have done for me, you may slay me–”
“I don’t want the stupid enchanter,” Grian snaps, interrupting him. His stomach is churning at hearing the lines repeated. “Can’t we just… consider this a double victory?”
Scar twists the paper in his hands. It’s the no-kill pass, crinkled and torn. “Is that… allowed?” He pauses before pulling a boat from his inventory. “At the very least, we should go say goodbye to Pizza.”
So Grian finds himself on their sandy mountain, overlooking shifting sands for a final time. Scar turns to him, gray skin alight with the glow of the torches, and shifts nervously. “Are you sure we don’t have to… listen to them?”
Grian knows what he means. The ghosts have grown louder, more insistent. The ache for bloodshed is singing in his veins, longing for his hands to stray to his weapon, for his weapon to sink into flesh.
“Do you want to?” Grian asks after a moment, and Scar sighs, long and deep.
“No.”
“A double victory,” Grian decides, eyes straying to a faint warming of orange on the horizon. The sun is about to rise once again. “I’m sure… we can both take the win.” His heart is thrumming nervously, and the memory of cacti buried in the sand haunts his gaze. He keeps watch carefully on the sky.
Scar nods, shoulders relaxing for the last time. “For what it’s worth,” he begins, and something feels so final about his words. “It was nice playing with you, G.”
Grian allows a smile to grow on his face. He has won, this time.
They have both won. Finally.
“Good game, Scar.”
FIN