Chapter Text
“Lomedy?”
All of his calls into the void, his voice bouncing around ice caves and stalactites, solemn silence pressing into his throat and ears is all worth it. Every flicker of embarrassment for calling out a name to empty blue nothingness, every moment that felt like vulnerability was shredding ridged claws into his gut was finally worth it, because he would do it all again and more for the figure wreathed in shining light, white glowing brightly, reflecting off of the slick ice walls until it looked like heaven itself was standing before him.
“Lomedy?” He breathes out, failing to crush the hope in his voice. There is a small, deep part of him that frowns at this, that scorns him for even caring, but he pushes it aside, stepping forwards.
The light fades and heaven is shown to be cruel and false and not here.
Because standing before him is not his best friend, light-of-his-life, kind and gentle Lomedy, but Flowtives.
Flame falters, his diamond boots scraping roughly against the blue ice below him. He digs his heel in as the surface threatens to disrupt his balance. He can't stop the stuttered inhale he gives, his mask broken.
Because what Flowtives is standing on– no, leaning, without an ounce of care and regret, is a grave.
Flame can't read the name lazily carved into the stone, but the sinking pit in his stomach, the roller coaster plummet of his heart to the bottom of his feet, tells him his body already knows what happened.
Flow moves slightly, reaching up a hand to cover a false yawn. He seems to take pleasure in the way Flame stands silent and still, ruler-straight and rigid, distraught curdling and festering as Flow bends down painfully slow, like he has all the time in the world, to throw a single orange and yellow flower on top of the grave. The petals are wilted, the flower giving up on life in the harsh cold that suddenly seems all the more biting and frigid.
Flame is brought back to the conversation he had with Skrilley on the way here, sliding on ice as they ran through the mist, how he had told to him something that had been hounding him ever since Lomedy began calling him a friend instead of just Flame, something he hadn't been able to tell Lomedy.
“I’m afraid sometimes that I'm a bad friend.”
It had felt like a confession, then, a deep bearing of the heart he didn't think he ever had it in him to give, but clearly Lomedy had an impact on him.
And he had. Sun-warmed days of picking carrots and tomatoes in the fields, fresh dirt under his nails and the cool bed of the creek. Laughing over pancakes and cookies, nudging shoulders and cracking jokes. Holding Lomedy's hands with the same hands he used to kill, to break, to destroy as he tried to swallow down the feelings that he was a monster, a creature made only to wield a sword and kneel at the feet of someone made to give orders.
A weapon shouldn't feel. A weapon shouldn't know care or love, because those things only lead to weakness.
Mane had told him that, one cold night where Flame had wanted to curl up beside him for warmth. He had taught Flame how to survive in a dog-eat-dog world, and while he hadn't forced Flame to be apathetic and indifferent, to shirk at gentle touches and be unaccustomed to giving affection because of cruelty, it had left Flame fumbling, spending long cold nights wondering what it would be like to be warm.
He still had nights like that, questioning why it felt so wrong to wrap his arms around someone in a hug. To not go into something expecting to be stabbed in the back. To show vulnerability and be met with unconditional, suffocating care.
What had been a confession had morphed into truth. By speaking it, Flame had made it into being.
He was a terrible, awful, horrible friend, and he would never be able to take back the years of Lomedy's life that he had selfishly hoarded to himself all because comfort, that blissfully almost domestic life had felt so good, so achingly good. He would never be able to apologize to his best friend because Lomedy was dead.
And it was all Flame's fault.
Ice cracks behind him as a heavy-footed person breaks their fall, straightening up with a hollow clanking of nether-forged metal.
Mistrul huffs through static, his voice pressed through a device until it unravels and becomes something emotionless, robotic and unfeeling. Flame doesn't quite know what he says, just that at some point, Flow is over by Mistrul, blocking the exit, and Flame is standing by the grave, fingers trailing over the rough edge of the stone.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, he repeats in his head like a mantra, feeling so lost and cold and alone. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, like the words he had spoken to Skrilley after watching their village burn down and not being able to do anything. I'm sorry, he repeats stupidly, a broken record, like it will do anything or make up for the lives he's hurt and broken and the blood he's shed because that's all he's good at.
Because words have never needed to come naturally to a killer. Because Lomedy had always been the one to soothe, to placate, to peacekeep when Flame fumbled or stuttered or said something wrong because he still wasn't used to having his autonomy, spent too many years like a dog obeying commands wordlessly.
The only thing Flame had perfected over the years is the art of slaughter, the art of strategy but only when it comes to the efficiency of tearing people apart limb from limb, staining the ground with wine red viscera and bone.
And now, world teetering, his own face reflected and reflected again back to him, his whole everything on the brink of collapse, he realizes that maybe he's taken Lomedy for granted.
He's snapped out of his thoughts when Skrilley grabs his arm and yells out something about explosives, and then the ground is gone and he's free-falling into darkness.
For a brief moment he hopes that he lands on one of those sharp stalagmites.
And then he snaps back to himself and breaks his fall with a windcharge.
He stands there for a moment, forcing down everything. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, still twists around in his gut even after he's pushed it down.
It used to be easier.
He's startled, startled, by Skrilley putting a hand on his shoulder flinching away with a short exhale.
Skrilley looks away and looks back at him, worrying his lip between his teeth. “Once Mistrul says someone is dead, they're dead.”
He says this quietly, white hair falling over his face, but the words shove their way into Flame’s ears, worming their way around his brain and digging sharp knives in his throat.
He breathes out shakily. “So Lomedy is dead”
Skrilley nods slowly, hesitantly even though it isn't a question. If either of them are about to say more, Mistrul zooms past them, just barely missing Skrilley’s head with a mace. They both break and run. Flame’s thoughts are all jumbled, making it more difficult to come up with a plan.
He needs to break his armor carefully, so he can replace it with his netherite. He needs Skrilley to run so he can live to see the edge of the mist. So he can keep his promise because he couldn't keep the promise he made to Lomedy.
“Skrill, leave!” He shouts, dodging a mace hit that lands too close to his foot. He back steps slightly to avoid a swipe from Flow’s sword.
“I-”
“Leave!” He puts weight into his words, lets them bite a little so that Skrilley knows how important this is that he gets out of here. Skrilley bites back a reply and turns heel, beginning the long climb up.
Lomedy did this for Flame once, when Flame was too focused on his title, too focused on his life to consider the consequences to Lomedy, to consider Lomedy anything more than a friend.
Mistrul leaves to go find Skrilley and Flame prays, for the first time in his life, he prays to something higher, if there is anything, that Skrilley can live this. He doesn't know why it means this much to him.
He finds fighting Flow on a giant sideways slice of ice, his feet slipping on the cold, taunts ringing in his ears, hot anger boiling in his chest. At his situation sure, but mostly at himself and his incompetence. He's missing hits he normally wouldn't be, bleeding from his nose where Flow had gotten a good hit with the hilt of his sword, following it up with another biting insult.
In and out. Flame breathes in the cold air, holds it in his lungs until it feels like it will crystallize and breathes it out in a cloud that dissipates. He is smoke. He's burning fire and heat, he's the strongest person on the server. With practiced fingers, he takes his emotions, his grief and hurt and molds it into anger, presses and pulls it until all his slashes are fueled with pure passion and hate.
Is it sloppy? Yeah. Mane and all the others he has trained under would scoff at this, but they would also scoff at the fact he had allowed himself to get here in the first place.
And since he can't just turn off his emotions, this is better than the all encompassing grief that threatens to take his legs out from under him.
He thinks that grief might hurt more than any sword. At least then, his skin is used to the sharpened blade, he has the scars to prove it.
He manages to meet back up with Skrilley at the top but is split up when both Flow and Mistrul appear as well. At this point Flame is tired, his heart beating frantically in his chest, every inhale more difficult than the next. He's scanning the area for Skrilley but cannot find him and isn't able to bring up his shield in time as Flow’s sword comes down. He blocks it with his arm instead, feels the bite of the blade in his flesh, the iron tang mirroring that in his mouth from where he bit the side of his cheek too hard.
He steps back and slips on his own blood as they push forward, and in the heat of the moment, as he pulls away from another deadly blow, he figures out in one horrific moment that his sword is no longer in his grasp, dropped somewhere in the fray.
The surprise is enough to draw words from his mouth, a shattered, “that's never happened before” that's only meant for his ears, but just his luck, Flow hears it, contempt curling over his face.
“Some combat master you are” he scoffs, a smile in his voice. The fight has paused, his words echoing in the tunnel to bounce back at him repeatedly, Flow’s voice distorting until it's just scorn and mocking all around him. Flame finds it hard to gasp for air, his breaths coming quick and stuttered, his heartbeat irregular and all too loud in his chest.
That's never happened before. Because Flame is good at what he does. He's a good fighter. He doesn't put himself into situations where the enemy can knock his blade out of his hands. His grip is firm and steady, he punishes anyone who tries to take his weapons and makes them regret it.
He's good at this, pink-stained teeth from blood in his mouth, his body a force of nature, a deadly dancer. He's good at this because he built himself up from the ground, knelt at the feet of kings, bit back protests as he was ordered around. He's good at this because of Mane’s teachings, because the first thing Mane told him was to never let go of your weapon.
He remembers the day vividly, his surroundings dropping away in a blur, his gaze honing in on the shuddering ground in front of him.
He's young, standing in front of Mane, a wooden sword in his hand.
“Never let go of your weapon,” Mane had said, young as well, but someone Flame had viewed as strong and capable and steady. The lion hybrid watches Flame as he swings his sword around, testing the feel of it in his hands.
“Your blade protects you, it's a part of you. You lose your weapon in battle and you lose your life afterwards.” Mane looks at him, stern, because he had to be in order to protect Flame. He gestures for Flame to get into the starting stance and they duel.
Mane knocks the sword out of Flame’s hands with a twist of his hilt on Flame's. It lands on the grass with a thump. Mane points his wooden sword at Flame, pokes him in the stomach with it where last night's bruises from training are still dark and ugly.
“Dead,” he says simply, and he looked old and tired standing there in the green grass, like the entire weight of the world was on his shoulders. Flame had always tried to not be that weight, but he supposed that merely by living, by being Mane's brother he had contributed heavily to the stress that lined Mane's face, to the worry he tried so hard to hide. “Don't get yourself into a situation where you don't have it.”
And Flame had nodded and taken it to heart. He hadn't dropped a sword since unless it was to protect someone. He had never dropped it from sheer incompetence.
But now he was standing there, backup sword heavy on his hip staring at his shaky hands like they had betrayed him, a voice in his head telling him that he's not enough, that he's not a combat master, that all of his training and netherite will never cover up the fact that he's always been pathetic and weak.
He chokes down a sob, his throat burning. His blindfold is growing wet with hot, angry tears. He's mad at himself, frustrated in his constant string of failures. He was doing so well, but the moment he finally starts feeling confident in himself, everything gets ripped away.
And this time there's no Lomedy to help him pick up the pieces.
“Flame, do something!” Skrilley shouts as Flame fumbles for his backup blade, pulling it out with a weak shink from its sheath.
Mistrul is cackling off to the side as Flow steps forwards. Flame steps back, despite himself, feeling less like a predator and more like prey.
“I don't want it” Flow says, because he knows that this is more painful. “You can take it back.” He kicks the sword back to Flame, lets it skitter on the ground with a painful drag of metal on ice, and Flame hesitates picking it up. It is painful. Humiliation courses through his spine hot and heavy, makes his face burn with shame as he reaches down and picks up the handle of the blade that's never failed him.
“Flame!” Skrilley says, his voice cracking with stress. “Please, do something!”
“I–” he pauses, the revelation bitter on his tongue. Dread coils itself around his neck with a python grip. He feels like a kid again, wondering if he’ll ever be strong enough to guarantee that he will live another day when Mane is no longer there to help. “I can't.” It feels like damnation, the words cracking in his mouth as he finally comes to the realization that he's facing a fight he can't win.
Weak. Useless. Helpless.
When Mistrul and Flow come back toward him, footsteps pounding on the floor, he tucks tail and runs. He isn't proud of it, of course he isn't, but there really isn't anything he can do. And while his familiar netherite presses against his skin, while his armored boots slam into the floor, his sword hitting his hip periodically from where it is sheathed, all the while the voices taunt him, press against every ounce of skin until he wants to rake his fingernails across his body. Anything, anything, to get rid of them. They build to a howl, like the wind outside throwing snowflakes into the absence of light, crowding into the cave until they threaten to drown him in a sea of self-hatred and helplessness. And all the while, he hears his darkest fears echoed in the patronizing voices of the two men behind him and it is all too much, all too much that it makes him stumble as he and Skrilley break out into the cold air, breaths clouding in the biting chill. Skrilley catches his arm and pulls him back up mid-stride, but even his constant presence can't force the demons haunting Flame to go. There was only one person who could do that. One person whose laughter sounded like the bells on the distant cows, like wind through sweet-green grass, like windchimes and calm.
And once again, Flame finds himself wishing Lomedy was still alive.
But he isn't.
And it's all Flame's fault.