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From the castle ramparts, Nom can see all of Blue Kingdom. It's one of his favorite places to be, where he can admire the grandeur of the rebuilt kingdom, and—especially lately—avoid being waylaid by anybody who wants to make it known just how upset they are with him.
Case in point: Mae, scurrying along the bridge away from the castle. She pauses, as if sensing his eyes on her, and turns to peer up at him. Nom raises a hand in wave. Even from this distance, he can see the way her face crumples as she turns and continues on her way without returning it.
He sighs, and pretends it doesn't hurt. "She'll come around eventually," he says, to no one.
"Mm, I'm not so sure about that," 4C says. He's perched on the crenellations, drumming his heels against the stone. Except he isn't, because he's not really here at all.
Nom should ignore him. Maybe he'd actually go away, if he ignores him. "Why not?" he asks instead, because he can't help himself. He exiled his best friend; he doesn't have it in him to do the same to his ghost.
"Well…" 4C drawls. "It's just that we were always really close, you know? I mean, I told her about the tunnels. I didn't even tell you about the tunnels. And you literally made her cry. Why should she forgive you?"
"She shouldn't," Nom says, and shrugs. "Maybe if she hates me, what happens next is easier."
"That's an excuse." 4C rises to his feet, balanced neatly on the stone. He walks along the wall, arms out and swinging his feet like a tightrope walker, to loom over Nom. "You say you want them to hate you because saying it's on purpose is easier than admitting you're just finally showing your true self, and no one can stand you."
Nom closes his eyes. His hands tighten their grip on the wall until the rough stone makes his palms bleed. "Why are you here, then?" he asks in a low voice. "You shouldn't even be here. You're not dead."
"That's a strange thing to say to someone whose head you caved in," 4C says scathingly. "Maybe I am. Maybe that's why nobody's seen me."
"No." Nom opens his eyes again to glare at the ghost. "You're out there. You're gone. Somewhere safe. That's the whole point."
4C snorts and looks away. "That's another excuse. You just want me gone so you don't have to hear how I hate you for what you've become, too."
"I miss you," Nom says. "I… I'm sorry it had to be this way."
"Tell it to the real me," 4C says. "I don't want to hear it." And then the ghost is gone, like it was never there in the first place—of course, because it never truly was—and Nom feels even more alone than before.
—
The ghost comes back, of course; Nom can't be rid of him. He's always hovering, always visible just out of the corner of his eye, even when he isn't making himself heard.
Sometimes, Nom just stares at him, greedy for this pale imitation of his best friend's company. He's doing it now, slumped over the meeting table, as he tears the piece of toast that was supposed to be his breakfast into smaller and smaller pieces. The ghost is sitting on the table, hood back and perfectly angled so Nom can see the scar on his head left by the morningstar. He can't take his eyes off it.
Graecie says his name three times before he notices. He comes to as if from a dream, like pulling his head out of water.
"Huh?" he says. "Sorry, Graecie, I… what did you say?"
Graecie frowns. She's staying out in the hallway, not crossing the invisible barrier of the threshold to join him in the meeting room. Her spear is planted on the floor between them.
"You finally did it," 4C says, ambling around her in a lazy circle. Nom tries not to track him with his eyes and fails. "How old is Graecie? And for the first time, you finally got her to hate someone. Good job, Nom!"
"I asked if you were okay, Nom," Graecie says. Her frustration is tempered with concern; or maybe that's just what he expects to see, from someone who's watched over him his whole life.
"Oh, that's a good one," 4C says. "Tell her, Nom, go on. Tell her how you're losing it."
"No," Nom says. He laughs, a thin, strained sound. "No, Graecie, I'm not okay. But it's… fine. I'm managing. You don't have to worry."
Graecie's carefully even expression flickers. "You should… you should find someone to talk to, if you need."
"Funny how she's not volunteering, though, huh?" 4C says, leaning up against the doorjamb, arms crossed casually over his chest.
Nom doesn't blame her. He wouldn't want to talk to him, either. "I'll talk to Scott later," he says, to give her an out. "Promise." He draws an X over his heart with a finger. Cross my heart. It's a farce; Graecie, more than anyone, knows his track record on promises.
She softens anyways. "That's good, Nom," she says, like he's eight years old again and she's teaching him to roll out the dough for a pie, because his parents aren't there to do it. "I'll… see you later, okay? We should run the dungeon."
"Yeah, sounds good," he says. The toast is nothing but crumbs, now, so he curls his hands into fists instead to keep from destroying something else. "Just let me know when."
"I will," Graecie says, and then she's gone, the light patter of her footsteps disappearing down the stairs.
"You're not fooling anybody," 4C says with a sniff. He isn't even looking at him, studying his own nails. "We all know you won't bother."
"Maybe I should," Nom says. "I can talk to Scott. He… he'll understand."
"But why bother? Talking won't fix what's wrong with you."
"Because I can't talk to you."
That gets his attention. 4C turns a withering look on him. "And whose fault is that?"
It always comes back to this, talking to the ghost. "I still miss you," he says, twisting his fingers together so he doesn't reach out for him. He hasn't quite hit that low, yet. "I wish you could be here."
The ghost scoffs, and then Nom is alone again, to brush the crumbs off the table and stand with a sigh. Might as well get ready to face the dungeon.
—
"I've been… seeing things," Nom confesses. "Well, one thing in particular, I guess."
That particular thing is perched on the windowsill behind Scott, glowering at Nom over his shoulder.
"Okay," Scott says, carefully, overflowing with concern. He always speaks very carefully to Nom, these days. "What… kinds of things? Like the Creaking King?"
"No." Nom shakes his head. If only it were that easy—the Creaking King, at least, he knows how to deal with. He laughs, short and awkward. "That would be easier to explain. No, I… I'm seeing 4C, actually."
Scott's eyes darken in dismay. 4C wiggles his fingers in a mean little wave over his shoulder.
"I see," Scott says. "Um—well, not that I don't believe you, of course, but are you sure you aren't just actually seeing 4C? He is pretty sneaky, to be fair."
Nom laughs again, barely more than an exhale. "I'm pretty sure," he says. "He's behind you right now."
Scott whips around to check over his shoulder. 4C puffs up his cheeks and sticks his tongue out at him, drawing a surprised laugh out of Nom. Scott glances around, unseeing, before slowly turning back to face him. "Okay," he says. "I see. Or, I guess, I don't see, so I… understand what you mean."
"I don't suppose there's any chance somebody cast a spell on me or something," Nom says, without much real hope.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" 4C says. "If this could be blamed on somebody besides yourself. It's never your fault, is it, Nom? It's always everybody else out to get you for no reason."
Nom twitches.
"… Nom?" Scott prompts him, which is how he realizes he's just missed whatever Scott said to him.
"Sorry," he says, running a harried hand through his hair. His knuckles bump up uncomfortably against the crown. "He's… talking to me."
Scott's expression clouds over with worry. "Nom, have you been sleeping?"
Nom shrugs. He's been trying, sure, but… it doesn't always come. Especially when he turns his head to see 4C laid out beside him, leaking blood and slime onto the pillow from his head wound.
Scott sighs. "Okay," he says. "I'll do some research, and make sure it isn't a spell, but… Nom, it makes sense that you're thinking about him. He was your friend." He reaches out to lay a hand on Nom's shoulder at the same time 4C says, "Was," and Nom tries not to flinch.
"I'll make something to help you sleep, okay?" Scott says. His voice is so gentle, like Nom is some fragile, breakable thing. Like he's not made of layers of lacquered steel and iron spikes. "If it's not a spell, that should help."
"Okay," Nom says, and he's so tired he forgets himself and leans into the hand on his shoulder. He can barely feel it through his armor. "Thank you, Scott."
"Of course." Scott smiles. "Let me know if there's anything else I can do to help, okay? I think we're all under enough stress already without adding ghosts to the mix."
"Heh." Nom offers his best attempt at a smile in return, and Scott is kind enough not to remark on its character. "I will. I promise."
When he's gone, 4C says, "Trying to get rid of me? You'd think once would be enough."
Nom closes his eyes and falls back against the wall with a thunk. "I can't live like this, man," he says, his voice breaking. "Isn't it bad enough that you're gone? Do you have to fucking haunt me, too? It's not fair, man. It's not fair."
"You know what wasn't fair?" 4C's voice, sharp with anger, is so close. If he were actually here, Nom would feel his breath on his face. "When you killed and exiled me. Over an accident. You ruined my old home. And now you've kicked me out of this one!"
"It's not that simple," Nom pleads, tangling his hands in his hair. "I wish you could come back. I really, really do. I miss you. But you can't, okay? You just can't. "
He opens his eyes, but the ghost is gone. It should be a relief. It hurts like something vital has been wrenched from his chest.
—
Scott does his best—and his teas and tinctures do help him get more sleep, at least—but the ghost stubbornly remains. Nom sheepishly admits it, because he promised not to lie to Scott, but waves off further offers of assistance. He knows, deep down, there's nothing Scott can do: this isn't some curse, some side effect of illness. This is just him. There's something wrong with him, too fundamental to be fixed.
He does learn, though, how to cope. For all the ghost's barbed words and pointed jabs and appeals to his guilt, it will not suffer an apology.
"I miss you," Nom says, when 4C sits on his farkle table and reminisces about hell. He's gone between one dice roll and the next.
"I'm sorry," he says, when he passes Owain's room in the barracks and 4C makes a comment about just how many sins Owain is paying for on his behalf, and he's gone in the length of a stride.
It becomes a litany, when the guilt and grief get too much: I'm sorry. I miss you. I wish you were here. Leave me alone.
He stops caring who hears him. He's the Mad King, anyways. Let them worry he's finally lost it. Maybe, if they think he can't protect them, they'll prepare to protect themselves. Whatever works.
—
"Where the fuck did you all come from, man?" Nom demands, slamming his morningstar into the ground and knocking back the horde of zombies swarming him. He grunts as an arrow finds its way in between a gap in his armor. Stupid skellies.
"Did somebody break every torch in the kingdom, what is going on?" His morningstar punches through the chest of a zombie with a wet, awful thud. Another arrow grazes his ear, inches from disaster, and he grinds his teeth in frustration. He's going to light up these woods himself, or at least complain so loudly that someone else decides to do it.
He raises his shield and barrels through the horde of zombies to get to the skeleton getting on his nerves. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies blue, up in a tree.
"Really, 4C?" he demands, as he turns the skeleton into dust. "Fine! I'm sorry! I miss you! Now is not the time!"
"What?!"
Nom whips around to see a zombie collapse, and 4C stand up, yanking his sword out of its back, and realizes in rapidly dawning horror that he's made a mistake.
4C looks different. The first thing he notices is that his cloak is gone: its absence hits Nom like a mace to the gut. He looks tired, his clothes dirty and worse for wear. He's found a pair of goggles somewhere. His chest rises and falls with short, shocked breaths. He is definitely, absolutely not a ghost or a hallucination.
"It's really you," Nom breathes.
"What do you mean, it's really me?" 4C demands, then, "Nom, look out!" He springs up into the air. One foot lands on Nom's shoulder for just a moment, then pushes off, and he drops down on top of the zombie coming up behind Nom, slamming his sword home in its spine.
Nom snaps out of his reverie and hefts his morningstar. Between the two of them, falling back easily into the long habit of seamless teamwork, the horde is mowed down, leaving nothing but piles of rotten flesh and a silence that quickly becomes charged.
"You shouldn't be here," Nom says, at the same time as 4C says, "What do you mean, you're sorry?"
They stop and stare at each other. Nom can't stop looking, greedily drinking in the sight of his best friend, living and breathing in front of him. 4C eyes him with a wariness that hurts like a knife to the heart but not more than the knowledge that he's earned it.
"Your cloak," Nom finally says. "It's gone."
"Yeah, well," 4C says, hunching his shoulders. "It's like you said. I shouldn't be wearing it."
Nom swallows around the lump in his throat. It's a painful twofold reminder of what he's lost. "You can't be here," he says tightly. "You gotta go, man."
"What?" 4C asks sharply, straightening up like a jolt of electricity shot through him. "You can't just say that. You can't tell me you miss me and then say I have to go. That's a crazy thing to say. What's wrong with you?"
Nom laughs, too loud, a short, sharp bark of noise. It's amazing—barely a minute back in his company, and he can hardly believe he ever could have mistaken the pale imitation haunting him for the real man. Despite everything, under all the twisted, complicated hurt emotions, 4C's presence is a balm to his aching soul. He doesn't want to give it up. But he has to. "A lot, 4C. A lot. But that doesn't change anything."
"I think it does," he says, stubborn as ever. Nom can tell, from the way he's standing, angled half away like he's ready to run at any moment, but jaw set in determination, that 4C is nervous. He's afraid to be here, talking to him, but too damned dogged to go without an answer. It hurts. This is what he wanted. But it hurts. "What do you mean, you're sorry?"
"Hell, man, what do you think it means?" Nom throws his hands up in frustration. "Don't get me wrong, I'm still furious with you. What you did—everything you did, the stealing, the secrets, the lying—I'm so angry at you. Still. And I probably will be for a while! But that doesn't mean…" He scrubs a hand over his face, half expecting 4C to be gone by the time he lowers it, like maybe this has been some new cruel trick of his subconscious. No such luck. 4C is still standing there, still demanding an explanation. Still deserving one. "That doesn't mean I don't regret what I did to you. It haunts me. It's going to keep haunting me, for the rest of my life."
"Not enough to take it back," 4C says. His voice is low with hurt and, worse, resignation. "You still don't want to protect me. I get it."
I do, I do, I do, but he can't say that, or all is lost. "Why are you even still here?" Nom bursts out instead. "Why didn't you just go, man?"
"Go where, Nom?" 4C snaps back. "I can't go back to the swamp. Not without my cloak, they… they'll know they can't trust me anymore."
"Anywhere," Nom says, gesturing helplessly. "Go anywhere that's not here! Somewhere there isn't war about to break out! That's the whole point, you—" He snaps his jaw shut, realizing he's said too much, but he can see the way 4C zeroes in on him that he's too late.
"What do you mean?" he asks, slow and serious. "Nom, what do you mean, that's the whole point?"
"Forget I said anything," Nom says, knowing it's useless.
"No. Nuh-uh. No way. You owe me this. Okay?" 4C's voice goes tight, high and demanding. "After everything we've been through together—you can at least give me a straight answer."
Nom's heart sinks. He can see the path in front of him, leading straight to disaster. Tell 4C the truth, and undermine everything he's trying to do. But he's so tired of lying. And he misses his friend. "I'm trying to protect you," he says, his voice strained.
4C stares at him. "That's insane."
"4C—"
"That's crazy. There is no way. There's no way—"
"4C, war is coming!" Nom snaps, bulldozing over him. "Okay? It's happening. And soon. And everyone in both kingdoms is in danger. I'm doing everything I can to make sure the people I care about will be safe. And okay, maybe when I first—sent you away, it was because I was angry. But then I thought about it. And if you're gone, if you're far away from here, you won't die. All right? Simple as that. Even if I never see you again. Even if you hate me forever, you'll be alive. And I need you to stay alive. I've lost so much, 4C. I can't lose you, too." By the end he's begging, abandoning any sense of ego or control over the situation and just begging his friend to please, please just give him this.
4C keeps staring at him in mute disbelief. His fingers clench rythmically around the grip of his sword. "You want me," he finally says, slowly, "to just walk away, while everyone else—people I care about, too—get hurt instead—"
"They won't be!" Nom bursts out. "I promise you, I am doing everything I can to—I found a way. Okay? I found a way, where nobody else has to risk their lives. Nobody else has to get hurt. But only if you don't interfere. That's why I need you to go."
4C frowns. "But why would I need to go, but everyone else—" Nom can see the moment he realizes, and everything is ruined. "Nobody else. Nobody else but who, Nom?"
"4C—"
"Nobody else but you? Is that what you mean?" 4C's free hand comes up to tangle in his hair. "God, you—this is exactly what I was afraid of! This is why I didn't tell you! Everything is always about you, it's always a personal attack, and the only way you can fix it is by doing something stupid and reckless, is that it?" He glares at Nom, his fear forgotten in his frustration. "You know what your problem is, Nom? You always think you know what's best for everyone. But you don't even know what's best for yourself."
Nom sets his jaw. This is why he can't have 4C here. Forget the necromancer, forget Frogue: his own best friend is the biggest threat to his plans. "Don't come back to Blue Kingdom, 4C," he says, low and dangerous. He hefts his morningstar over his shoulder and turns to go.
"Hey!" 4C snaps. "No way, you don't get to just—to just say all that, and then just walk away like nothing's changed!"
Nom stops. "Nothing has changed," he says. "I still care about you. War is still coming. I still need to stop it, and I still need you not to get in my way. Everything is still exactly the same as it was yesterday." Except now I might have to do something drastic to stop you. Please, please don't make me.
"Nom," 4C pleads. "Don't do this. Whatever you have planned—let me help you. Don't just leave me here! You say you still care about me, but you're abandoning me, again? That's not care."
His hands clench around the handle of the morningstar. "Let me make something very clear," he says. "I will hate myself for the rest of my life for what I did to you. But I would hate myself even more if the people I love—including you—got hurt because of me. So I can't have you interfering in my plans. If I see you in Blue Kingdom—if I see you anywhere—I will do it again. A hundred times. As many times as it takes until you get the message, and just go."
He doesn't look over his shoulder so he doesn't have to see the betrayal he knows is on 4C's face. The fear. All that confidence, that faith—I was never afraid of you—he knows that's gone, now. He killed it when he killed his best friend.
"Please," he whispers, his voice hoarse with feeling. "Just go."
"This isn't over," 4C finally says, and the soft rustling of boots in the grass signals his departure.
Nom closes his eyes and waits for the grief to overtake him, but finds that all he can feel is a profound emptiness. Emptiness and dread.
He walks home, and he waits for the ghost to appear again, to point out all the ways he's gone wrong, all the reasons he deserves what's coming to him.
It never reappears.
He's more alone than ever.