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Quesadilla Islands' weather was always perfect, with its balmy breezes and golden sunshine that never tipped into heat. Yet Ash feels impossibly cold.
His daughter is dead.
His daughter is dead, and it's all his fault. The blame rests solely on his shoulders. The weight of it nearly suffocates him, and he lets out a choked gasp.
Ash blinks rapidly, desperately trying to dispel the tears welling up in his eyes. Each attempt only makes it worse. With a ragged breath, he squeezes his eyes shut, pressing them together as hard as he can.
Maybe if he tries hard enough, it'll ease the stifling guilt churning in his stomach. Just long enough to fall asleep. Just long enough to escape the haunting memories replaying incessantly in his mind.
It's a stupid thought. Still, he clings to it hard enough to get rope burn.
Sleep never comes. No matter how many times Ash tosses and turns in his little flower field. His Pondering Palace. It's funny—he hasn't been doing as much pondering as he's been sobbing. Grief pulls funny tricks like that.
His fingers scrape and dig into the gritty soot beneath him, the dark residue clinging stubbornly to his gloves as he struggles to push himself up. He probably looks like a mess right now. Not that he cares.
It was your fault, he thinks, and it twists in his chest like claws.
If he hadn't been so paranoid, she'd be alive. She'd be swimming oh so happily in that enclosure he'd built for her and her sister. An enclosure that sucked, now that he thinks about it.
Ash draws his knees to his chest. He tilts his head back, allowing his eyes to wander up to the moon shining overhead. Most of the islanders are sleeping right now, or they're out exploring, maybe even building. Productive things like that. And here he is, splayed out in an endless field of lilacs, their scent mingling with the damp earth.
He tries his hardest to get up, but the tight pain against his ribs anchors him in place. If he had been more careful, he could've stopped it. If he weren't so afraid of a government he knows next to nothing about, it wouldn't have happened.
If, if, if.
If nothing. She's already gone. No matter how many hypotheticals he thinks of, it won't bring her back from the dead. Sitting here sulking won't change anything, either.
He feels the resentment growing in his stomach. Then it evolves into steam in his chest, turning into hatred the moment it reaches his mind.
This is all the federation's fault. The same federation that gave the islanders before him children, only to cruelly snatch them away when they got too attached for their liking. The same federation that drove the islanders mad with paranoia, he saw the fear on their faces when that stupid bear, Cucurucho, or whatever its name is, came around.
It's starting to reach him, too.
Fuck it. If he can't move, he might as well get some weird unseen force to do it for him. Ash fumbles through his backpack, fingers brushing against the familiar texture of the waystone before he yanks it free. He feels it's charge as he pulls back. The world seems to blur around him, and then—
He's back at the factory. The lifeless, hollow factory that looms over the landscape like a vulture. The cold still doesn't let up.
Ash doesn't know where he intended to go. Anywhere where he'd be able to think clearly. Somewhere that demanded enough of his attention so that his thoughts didn't consume him.
A mirthless laugh escapes his lips. Just when he wants the cacophony of chatter and the rustling of bodies moving about, it's silent. It’s so quiet that he can almost hear the distant creak of machinery. His thoughts practically echo off the desolate brick walls.
One of his propaganda posters has been tainted with graffiti, peeling at the corners. He can't bring himself to care. It's still hard to breathe, but at least it's easier than it was back in the flower field. The bite of the wind drags up his spine, and Ash can't tell if it's real or another trick of his mind.
Ash clamps his jaw tight together as he walks along a stone path he doesn't remember leaving. It might've been Tubbo—most of the buildings in The Regime are the result of his work, yet he still operates under his thumb. He's got plenty of people working for him.
Yet, he couldn't feel any more powerless.
He's used to confronting his problems head-on, tearing through them with the blunt of his sword. It's how he dealt with most of them on Lifesteal, and it's how he plans to deal with a potential war with the North if the whole fiasco with that stupid fucking dog grows any bigger.
Only now is he met with a wall he can't take down. A problem that doesn't die, no matter how hard he swings his axe or swipes his sword. The federation doesn't look to be penetrable, unable to be hurt.
Ash isn't sure how to feel about being on the opposite end of that.
He keeps walking. He doesn't know where he's going. Somewhere loud, hopefully. Maybe he'll get stoned out of his mind at the Dutch Cafe, if those guys are awake. They're always fun to be around. Somewhat.
The guilt starts to churn in his stomach again. It burns at his throat so much that Ash nearly keels over to throw up. Still, he marches on.
Ash continues like that till he hears footsteps from somewhere around him. Instantly, he twists his neck around to look for its source. His vision is blurred from all that crying he'd been doing, but he still tries. He can't see. He still tries.
His chest rattles as he inhales. His eyes flit nervously from side to side, searching his surroundings, but there’s nothing there. Only choking silence and the weight of his thoughts.
Is he developing schizophrenia out of grief? Is that a thing? With all the stuff that happens on this forsaken island, you never know.
He wipes at his eyes with the back of his gloved hand. They're surely red by now.
"Ash?" a familiar voice calls out, and he straightens up so fast it's almost comedic. He's pretty sure the sound comes from ahead. So, he turns the other way. The Supreme Leader of the Regime isn't allowed to be perceived as weak. Ewron, especially, isn't allowed to perceive him as weak.
When he doesn't answer, he calls out again. "Ash," he repeats. More firm this time.
Ash doesn't want to reply because whatever Ewron's gonna tell him is probably about his son, and he's far from being in the mood to be led around the server like a dog. Even if he's loyal to him like one.
Plus, it'd only make him feel worse.
He can hear Ewron come up from behind him. Ash still doesn't turn to face him, keeping his head down.
Ewron taps his shoulder, and he bites down hard on his tongue, swallowing the rasp in his throat. “What?” he snaps, masking his frustration behind a voice that comes out frustratingly small. Weak.
Ewron pulls back like he’s been stung. “You good?” he asks with concern that Ash finds hard to bear.
Not really, Ash wants to reply. I'm far from 'good', and it’s funny how you can’t tell.
But Ewron can’t know he's not okay. What would he think of his loyal, faithful assassin if he saw him all broken? Ash can’t remember when he started caring about what Ewron—or anyone—thought of him.
So instead, he says, “Yeah.”
Ewron furrows his brow, creasing his forehead with disbelief. He thinks he's lying.
“What?” he mutters, barely audible. "What's wrong?"
The silence that follows makes Ash want to claw his way out of his own skin. It’s a different kind of stillness than the one at his Pondering Palace, just as suffocating, though.
Ewron stares at him sharply. "Nie przyszedłeś."
You didn't come, his translator reads. Come to what? Ash's been so, so caught up in enough shit already, and the last thing he needs is Ewron’s nagging about something he knows nothing about. His worries are heavy enough.
When Ash doesn't reply, Ewron scoffs bitterly. What the fuck does he have to be bitter about? He's dragged Ash across every nook and cranny of this damn island to look for the crook who stole from his son's grave; he made him look like an idiot.
He sighs through his nose in irritation. "Ash, you never came to our spot. I asked you to come, and you didn't." It's hard to pick up on with the wind blowing in his ears, but he sounds hurt. Ash winces in shame.
"I didn't mean to," he whispers, words frayed at the edges. It rests like ash on his tongue—he didn't mean to do a lot of things today.
Ewron's ears flatten against his head, accompanied by a squint. "I can't hear you."
The wind seems to blow impossibly harder. Doesn't he feel it? He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, "I said—I said I didn't mean to!"
His tail flicks in annoyance as he scrunches up his face. "Boże," he curses. "You don't have to yell, brother. I'm right here."
Ash presses his lips into a thin line. "Sorry."
Ewron gives a bare nod in acknowledgment. Ash feels like it would be better if he did nothing at all. "Are you, assassin?" He doesn't reply, but something warm blossoms in his chest at the nickname. "You didn't mean to, like how you didn't mean to forget where our meeting spot was?"
Again, he doesn't respond, because what is he even meant to say to that? Does Ewron want him to get down on his knees and apologize for not memorizing a random-ass spot in the middle of the ocean, coordinate by coordinate? Kiss him for emphasis?
Irritation flashes behind Ash's sinuses. He almost reaches up to pinch at the bridge of his nose, but stops himself before Ewron can notice. "It's—it's a literal random spot in the ocean. You're so—you're so, ugh. Whatever, dude. I have bigger issues to worry about."
Ewron goes taut, as if he's preparing for impact. "Like what?" he hisses. "What could be more important than your blade?"
Like the impending war with the North, he thinks. Or the Federation. Perhaps even his poor, poor, dead daughter—
Ash swallows the lump in his throat.
He'd say all those words to Ewron right now, though what good would it do? He's already had everything go wrong today. He doesn't need to dig any deeper of a hole.
But he's never had good impulse control.
"Everything," he bites, taking a step forward. Ewron looks away, like he doesn't care, although the tick of his jaw reveals how he really feels. Pain. Ash usually enjoys bringing pain to people, but he doesn't feel the familiar buzz under his skin. Only cold.
Ash's exhale is shaky with frustration. "I've gone through so much today. Sorry, I couldn't make it to your stupid meeting."
Ewron frowns. "So I mean nothing to you, then?"
If Ewron meant nothing to him, he wouldn't be standing on the vast soil of the Regime Peninsula.
If Ewron meant nothing to him, he wouldn’t allow him to carry Ash around the server, threatening anyone in sight, like a ferocious attack dog.
If Ewron truly meant absolutely nothing to him, he wouldn’t have let him prove his devotion on that boat all those nights ago.
He wouldn't have wasted his time, is what he's trying to say. Time that could've been spent gathering resources for machinery, time that could've been spent working on XP farms with Haiper, time that could've been spent on anything but fraternizing with someone who's not even a part of his empire.
"No," he says, hoarse. "You're—you're my blade. We're gonna kill the server together, or something."
"Or something," he repeats, incredulous. "Right, we're gonna take over the world, kill everybody, but you don't trust me. How can we do that if you don't trust me?"
Ash trusts him. Ash is certain he feels more than trust for him, too. The thought of admitting it, that he feels, makes him want to leap from the towering roof of The North's mansion. It'd be easier than allowing himself to be vulnerable—it'd be easier than allowing himself to be weak.
Ewron's a fucking idiot for thinking otherwise, for thinking Ash could somehow not trust him. Not feel anything for him. Fuck, he feels so much in every way he shouldn't. He thinks he could fill another Library of Alexandria with all the feelings he has for him.
That one would burn down, too.
Maybe by Ash's own hand.
Ironically, he scolds Tubbo for caring too much about Foolish, for being too soft, when he's sure he's got it worse. Oh, so, so much worse.
"I wouldn't be doing what I'm doing what I'm doing if I didn't trust you. Just wait."
It feels a little unfair that Ewron confided in him after the loss of his son, but Ash won't return the favor. He supposes it's a bad habit of his. To take, take, and take, and never give back. That's what he did that night on the boat, and that's what he's doing now.
The hurt look in Ewron's eyes doesn't fade, only growing twice as much. His lips curl back into a snarl. "Then what are you doing? What's wrong with you?" His ears pin against his head, and Ash swears his tail puffs up.
Ash's breath hitches, like he's been punched in the stomach.
He raises his arms in the air. "Tell me what's wrong with you, Ash. Tell me what's so important that your blade comes second to it."
His nails dig into the side of the sides of his slacks. The wind blows so hard he's sure he's fallen over by now, but his feet stay on the ground, somehow.
Ewron opens his mouth to demand something of him again, but before he can, Ash yells, "My daughter is dead! Is that what you wanted to know? Goddamn!"
Ash is about to tell him that he was going to tell him about her death, eventually. Her death, and the fact that he had a daughter. Two, actually. Had.
The hurt look in his eyes shifts at that, but Ash doesn't know what. He doesn't like not knowing things. Keeping secrets is a right only he gets to hold, no one else.
It's not as cold anymore. The wind lets up, if only by a bit.
Ash is certain it's because of the soft look in Ewron's eyes. Of course, he won't acknowledge it. Not now.
"You could've told me," he mutters after a moment. "I would've known. Understood."
The asphyxiating breeze fully stops, then. Now that Ash can think properly—to an extent, at least—it's a rational thought. He should've told him. Ash should've told Ewron about a lot of things, but he's not ready.
Finally, he looks back at him. "I didn't even know you had a daughter."
It cuts through him like shrapnel. Still, he retorts, "I didn't know you had a son."
Ewron chuckles, dry and humorless. "Touché," he mumbles. His accent makes it come out wrong, sounding more like too-sheh than anything. "When did she—"
"She died a couple of hours ago. It was my fault," he finishes curtly. It's bitter, like alcohol in his mouth. "You don't have to search for a culprit."
"I was going to talk to you about that when I came here, you know?"
Ash's eyes widen, and Ewron looks away, out of shame, embarrassment, or guilt. Maybe a mix of all three. He was led around the entirety of Quesedilla Island for nothing, basically. He wants to make a big fuss out of it, call Ewron an idiot, a liar, but he doesn't have the energy.
It's surely past midnight by now, and Ash hasn't slept a wink. He's too scared. Too afraid to be met with the memory of him stepping into that foundry, too afraid to hear that haunting explosion again, to hear those footsteps.
Ashswag, dictative Supreme Leader of The Regime, is afraid.
He exhales shakily. Angrily. At himself.
He shouldn't be afraid of anything when he has the best enchants on his armor, his axe. When he has an entire empire at his whim. Ash's jaw clenches tight.
"I won't be afraid anymore."
Ewron tilts his head in confusion. "Czym?" What?
"I was afraid," he states, like it's any type of clarification. It makes sense to him. That's all that matters.
"Of what?" he asks.
"I killed her. I killed her because I was afraid," he explains flatly. "I heard about the Federation. I saw what they did to the eggs." He reaches out for Ewron's hands, lacing their fingers together, and his breath hitches. A twinge of warmth sparks within him at the feeling.
He continues, and Ewron stares at him like he's hanging onto every word. "I was afraid, and I went to check on them, and I killed them."
"Who—what? Who's 'they'?" he questions, but Ash doesn't acknowledge it.
"I won't be afraid anymore. I'm going to kill them all, I'm going to kill them all. I'm going to grab that white thing by the neck, and squeeze it till it can't breathe anymore." Ash doesn't know if he's shaking. It feels like it.
Ewron squeezes their hands together. "I don't—I don't know who the fuck you're talking about, but I'll do it. I want to do it with you. Ash, I wanna kill with you."
It's the most delightful string of words he's ever heard. Music to his ears. A gorgeous melody.
His ribcage trembles; he might be losing the last bit of his sanity. Probably the lack of sleep catching up to him. It doesn't matter. As long as Ewron is here. "We need to kill them, we need to kill them all."
He's about to spit out more crazed ramblings, all of which involve the word 'kill', but he stops mid-sentence as he feels the tip of Ewron's ear feather his chin. His tail snakes around his ankle, then his hand comes up to rub soothingly at his neck.
Ewron is scenting him again. Ash can't really find it in himself to make a jab at it, the adrenaline going as fast as it came. Great. Now he'll smell like bamboo for a good twenty-four hours.
After getting his fix, he pulls away. Ewron gazes up at him, eyes wide with a tinge of pity. Ash doesn't need anyone's pity.
"Your eyes are red," he comments, and Ash raises a brow. "Wyglądasz na zmęczonego." You look tired.
Ash drags his fingers under his eyes, feeling the remnants of tears he’s shed earlier mixed with fatigue. "I mean, yeah. I was crying earlier. Haven't slept either."
Ewron looks up at the sky, like he's thinking. "Do you wanna sleep with me?" When he notices Ash's pressed lips, he quickly clarifies, pink in the face, "Not like that. Like—bro, don't be weird."
Then, he lets out a short, breathless laugh. It's the lightest he's felt all day. "What?"
Eventually, he gives up on trying to articulate his words properly, settling for, "Just get in the boat."
With an exaggerated groan, Ash crosses his arms, leaning against the cool brick wall beside him. "I don't want to go to a meeting right now," he protests. The cold is still there, but not nearly as sharp as before. Almost like a fall breeze.
Ewron rolls his eyes. He walks over to his boat tied around a pier, climbs in, and invitingly taps on the wooden gunwale. "It's not a meeting. I've been tired too, you know? You're not the only one grieving today."
It's meant to be a joke, but it lands with a dull thud in Ash’s chest. He trudges towards the boat and grumbles as he climbs in, much to Ewron's dismay. He slows down just to spite him.
As they drift farther from shore, the horizon begins to shrink and blur in the distance. There's wind out in the ocean, too, but it's not as rough as it was back at the factory. Ewron likes to say the air gets heavier on the Regime Peninsula. Maybe it's that.
Ash doesn't know why they have to meet up in the middle of the ocean every time. Everyone knows they're allies. They couldn't make it any less obvious, really. He's beginning to think that Ewron just likes being one-on-one with him.
"Are we going to your place, or something?" he asks.
Ewron shakes his head firmly. “We’re going to our meeting spot.”
Confused, he questions, "I thought you said we weren't gonna have a meeting?"
“We aren’t,” Ewron reassures him. “We’re just going there.”
Ash drags his hand over his face. This kid is so fucking confusing sometimes, he really doesn't know what he's waffling about a good ninety percent of the time, but it's whatever. He just wants to sleep.
Finally, the boat comes to a stop. Ash feels like he might be getting seasick. "Is this a good spot for the night?”
"Why are you asking like we're camping? It’s the middle of the ocean, Ewron. I’ll wake up drowning if I fall asleep."
Ewron whips his head over his shoulder to glare at him. "Wyrzucę cię za burtę, jeśli nie przestaniesz narzekać." I'll throw you overboard if you don't stop complaining. Whatever.
The boat is rather cramped, and Ash isn't sure how either of them is supposed to sleep comfortably like this. He voices just as much. All Ewron does is roll his eyes, like it's not an extremely valid concern.
With a resigned sigh, Ash shifts uncomfortably against the edge of the boat. Ewron enthusiastically climbs atop him. His tail rests on his lap like a blanket, or maybe he's so exhausted his brain will take anything it's given.
Ash lets his fingers drag down Ewron's forearm, and he squeezes his wrist. The stars above them look rather pretty—it's a shame Ewron can't see them with his face nuzzled into his neck.
It feels rather domestic. Ash doesn't know what to make of that.
He might ignore it for now. Push down the feeling and banish it to the chains that are the back of his mind, just like the feelings before it.
Yeah, he thinks, pressing his cheek into the tufts of Ewron's hair. Who's snoring, by the way. Sounds like a good plan.