Chapter Text
Pearl should never have taken stars in the first place.
And yet, she had. She had strung them up in her room, and oh, hadn’t they been lovely? Hanging up there, casting a comforting glow that made everything feel just a little less lonely?
That was how it started, she thinks. The way they had lessened the emptiness inside her. All Pearl had ever wanted was a friend. (She’d had one, once: bright orange hair and freckles and green eyes that squinted when she laughed.) But Pearl was alone, and the stars made her feel less alone, and she could only help but wonder if maybe more stars would continue to fill that hole. If they could replicate that feeling she had once had.
(She knew, deep down, they wouldn’t.)
And then he showed up. The Starkeeper. Scott. Because he had been watching her, and he had seen her taking his stars. Stealing, he called it—even though they were within easy reach of everyone—even though it would have been just as simple to pick a flower from the ground—even though she had never heard of a “star keeper” before he had showed up. Of all the stories she had been told as a child, none of them had ever warned against taking the stars.
Nevertheless, he radiated power, and you don’t ignore a being like that. He told her the stars weren’t hers for the taking, and warned that if she didn’t put them back, there would be consequences.
She wishes she had noticed him sooner—had been able to feel his presence, watching her. If she had, maybe she would’ve been able to prevent what happened next.
(She knew, deep down, she wouldn’t.)
Because… well, she did put them back. But then a few weeks went by, and the loneliness crept back in. So she took a few, here and there— not nearly as many, this time! And none from the same place. She had thought it would be fine. That she had been careful enough.
She had been wrong, of course.
Scott warned her. It was the last warning, he said.
She should’ve listened. She didn’t.
Because, here’s the thing about Pearl: she didn’t have anything else in her life. Not really. Oh, sure, she had a roof above her head, and a bed to sleep in, and a stove to keep warm by, and… well, that was pretty much it. Her house was sort of separated from the town, and she didn’t have any friends.
“We can’t be friends. Because I’ll live forever, and you won’t. Because I can never grow, and you can. You wouldn’t be able to live your life.”
“What, because you’d ‘hold me back,’ or something? I don’t care about any of that.”
“You would, though. Eventually you’d get tired of me, or jealous, or annoyed, or... you just—you have to trust me on this, Pearl.”
“And what if I don’t want to?”
“Then don’t. But I’m leaving, no matter what you say. I’m sorry.”
Not anymore, anyways.
The stars, at least, were something more than just things. They felt alive. They felt almost like they spoke to her, sometimes. And maybe that was crazy, but it was nice.
She should’ve listened, though. Because Scott took the stars, and put them up in the sky, out of reach of everyone—and the next time Pearl opened her eyes, she was in a story. A story about her, to be exact. A book that told in every detail how foolish she had been. A tale to warn children. And every time someone flipped through it, she had to experience it all over again.
Eventually, she grew tired of the story. It was boring. And shameful. And it hurt to relive over and over again. So she changed it. Suddenly, she was the hero. The Lightbringer, she called herself, and it was almost fun to see the man (god?) who had cursed her here be the bad guy. She was sharing the stars, saving them from the jar they were sealed away in, scattering them across the night sky for everyone to enjoy.
It was fun, while it lasted. But Scott found out, as he always did, and the next time her book was opened, she was the Light Thief.
Which was an awful name.
So she changed it again. Just a bit. Well, alright, more than a bit. But the main thing she kept was that she was the villain. Because that seemed to be Scott’s only problem with her changes; he left nearly everything else in. She supposed that was his way of making sure she learned her lesson. So she gave herself a fine cloak of red and a wolf for a companion and made up grand escapades and dastardly deeds.
As for the Scarlet Thief—well, Pearl couldn’t deny that it was certainly a fun character to play. She had never meant to be the villain, but villains are always the ones remembered, aren’t they?
Years went by. Pearl kept adding to the story. It was lonely in the book, and she had to do something to keep herself busy, as time passed and the world continued to move on without her. At some point, she lost track of it entirely. She wasn’t quite sure anymore how long it had been; and her book wasn’t opened quite as often as it used to be. Which was a shame, because she did love to see people read the story she had written. It brought her a strange sense of joy.
She often wondered how long it had been exactly. She supposed she was sort of an immortal at this point, wasn’t she? Doomed to spent eternity trapped in a story of her own writing?
How ironic.
She wondered if Gem was still out there, somewhere.
If she’d recognize the Scarlet Thief for what she truly was.
Probably not. After all, Pearl barely recognized herself those days. She certainly wasn’t the peasant who lived alone on the edge of a village all those centuries ago. She supposed her book was probably considered an antique at this point (which would, of course, explain the lack of readers in the last few decades or so).
One day, however, she found herself in the hands of an eccentric man who seemed to know, somehow, that she wasn’t just a book. She saw him watch her carefully every time they were in the same room, in a way that felt as if he knew that she was watching him, too.
She stayed with him for a long time. He didn’t try to sell her, even though she knew he was a salesman (a conman, really), or leave her on the side of the road, or anything like that. He talked to her, as if she was still a person. And she talked to him, in her own way.
Eventually, she realized that this presented an opportunity. One she’d be a fool to pass up.
Slowly, bit by bit, Pearl unraveled her story. And he read it, again and again, until one day, it was finally back to how it began. Back to that awful, shameful tale. But she found she didn’t care so much this time. Not when Scar’s brow creased as he read it, his eyes widening at the dawning realization that Pearl had not, nor had she ever been, the daring villain she had for so long claimed to be.
“Well,” he’d said to her, after he finished reading, “I suppose we should probably do something about this.”
Pearl had never agreed with anything more in her entire life.