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Flame doesn't go back to the mega-base. He goes back to the house he shares with Lomedy, the one with the big garden in the front that Lomedy would force him to get up early to pick plants or sow seeds in. The one with the cows and the sheep and the chickens that they get fresh milk and wool and eggs from. The animals that help Lomedy bake whatever Flame wants to eat that day— chocolate cake or blueberry scones or apple fritters that Lomedy always shoos Flame away from as he tries to help. Lomedy knows Flame only offers so he can snag a handful of chocolate chips. Flame still manages to sneak some when Lomedy's back is turned.
Leaning on the counter, looking at the empty kitchen, light piercing through the ugly pink curtains that Lomedy had Flame hang up above the window above the sink, there is no smell of baked goods, no sound of Lomedy's laughter like cowbells ringing on distant hills. The house feels empty, the air stale without Ashen's barking and Lomedy going from counter to counter in a focused trance— a dance while cooking that is not completely unlike the dance Flame falls into when he's in a good fight.
Ashen has his head laid down on his paws by Flame's feet. Flame looks at the light like it will bring Lomedy to him— materialize him out of thin air with that sunlight smile and those golden eyes and all his stupid decisions and his stupid straw hat and the way he asks things from Flame that no one would ever. The way Flame complies, peacefully with very little protest, giving Lomedy hugs and goodnights and getting up at dawn to watch the sunlight while he pries round potatoes from the ground.
Flame can't bear to get up and draw back the curtains. Lomedy usually did that. He doesn't want to look at the garden, at the horse stalls, at the animal pens and the long stretching wheat field as golden as Lomedy's eyes. Doesn't want to look at Lomedy's garden of flowers he insisted on keeping alive even when the flowers possessed no value besides beauty. Lomedy had assured Flame that that was reason enough.
Flame can't bear to open them because it feels like accepting Lomedy is dead. He's not. He can't be.
Ashen is subdued, letting out a huff now and then as if he can sense the melancholy in the air, can sense the wrongness, the emptiness that Flame had promised himself long ago felt like home. It wasn't, and he had been a fool to allow himself to suffer in the silence when all he truly wanted was a friend.
Lomedy isn't dead. Skrilley has him, is coming back to them right now. Flame left a note at the Law built base to guide them here. He has a bundle of flowers lying on the counter. Flame blinks flour-covered memories out of his eyes, shoulders slumping as he looks at the colors— purple-blue aster, both yellow and white Chrysanthemums and lavender. Flame doesn't know if the bouquet looks good, just knows that he spent too long hunched over Lomedy's book of flowers and their symbolism and spent too long in the garden picking out the best ones and cutting them so that he wouldn't kill the plants. He hoped he did it right, but he knows that even if he didn't, Lomedy wouldn't get mad at him, would just softly sigh and tell him how to do it right the next time.
Flame chews on his lip as he rehearses the lines over and over again. He will apologize to Lomedy. He will ask for forgiveness, he will say how he plans to change and do better, and it will end with the flowers being given and a hug shared. He will take whatever comes, anger or sadness or whatever. He just wants Lomedy back. He wants to hold Lomedy's cold hands in his and warm them up in his own. He wants to cry and tell Lomedy that he missed him so much. That he's glad they're friends, would never have it any other way.
Fragger lies dormant at his hip. He never is far from it, not even when they're farming. It's an unfortunate habit that he's never quite been able to break, but the weight of sharp shimmery netherite is soothing to his paranoia.
He sighs again, adjusts his position from where he stands, arms folded on the counter, cool granite beneath his arms. Slides a gaze around the room. The fireplace with carved animal figurines. Some of them are truly awful, proportions all wrong from when Flame was practicing, attempting to use his hands for something other than training or killing. The hobby had been Lomedy's idea, of course, and it was Lomedy who had put even the failed ones up on the mantle like a mother pinning up a child's drawing on the fridge. Like they were the best present Lomedy had ever gotten. Or maybe it was just to torture Flame. Knowing Lomedy, it could be both. There's a smooth wooden clock on the mantle that ticks down softly, a noise Flame is so used too that it becomes comforting background.
Over to the side, Lomedy's bookshelf. Falmer's almanacs, books about flowers and their meanings, books filled with sketches of plants and pressed flowers huddle side-by-side next to Lomedy's journals and all the other books he has— mostly farmer related books, who's surprised?
Across from the fireplace, currently empty of flames, is an old red couch. The cushions are soft and worn and the pillows have hand-stitched designs from Lomedy, ferns and flowers and rabbits. Flame doesn't like the look of the couch all that much, but it's much more comfortable than anything Flame had at his old base. Over there, on the wall are all his spare weapons, and here the kitchen, where they spend most of their time. Washing vegetables and enduring Lomedy's singing, flicking water at him from damp fingers.
Off in the hallway is Flame and Lomedy's room. Two beds pressed together and more bookshelves. They pushed them together when winter crept throuh the slats of their wooden house and never quite found the time to move them back. Lomedy liked Flame's warmth, and Flame liked the close presence of someone he could trust, someone to guard his back.
There's potted plants dotted all around the house, warm lamps that are lit more than the overhead lights. Living with Lomedy has always been domestic, in an oddly warm and peaceful way. It's a welcome change. He especially likes sitting on the porch with his best friend and watching the farm settle down for the night with a nice cup of tea. He likes apple cinnamon, Lomedy likes some kind of herbal rose tea. It's too leafy for Flame.
Flame shakes his head and kneels down to run a hand through Ashen's soft white fur.
"Hey buddy," he whispers, if not just to ward away the creeping silence. It's funny how unused to quiet he's gotten since he began to hang around Lomedy.
Ashen perks up a little bit, head raising, pressing into Flame's warm hand.
"Lomedy is taking his sweet time, huh?"
Ashen just pants, his tail thumps on the carpeted floor.
Just as Flame is about to move to a more comfortable position, there is a knock on the door. Ashen and Flame both pause, tilting their heads in sync. Flame's hand stills in Ashen's fur. That's not Lomedy's knock. Flame would know this. Lomedy always knocks to the tune of Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits. These three knocks have no personality— three firm, almost bored knocks, and than the creak of the porch as someone steps back onto the grass. Maybe Skrilley?
"Wait." Flame instructs Ashen, getting up, hand on the hilt of his sword. His hand finds the door, unlatches it, and pulls it just a crack open to peer through.
Standing on Flame's front lawn is none other than Flowtives.
Flame feels himself shift back into his instincts, the way he did in the ice caverns, head lowering, sword unsheathing, his feet taking a defensive stance. Flow just takes another step back and raises his hands. He has massive eyebags and looks like he hasn't slept in weeks, but Flame knows not to underestimate anyone, feels his skin heat up until the air shimmers on his skin, wavering with the intensity of the flames that coarse through his veins.
"Chill, bro, I didn't come to fight," Flow says, reaching up a hand to adjust the white bucket hat that sits on top of his head.
"You're lucky I didn't kill you on sight," Flame hisses, smoke curling up from between his fingertips, Fragger growing warmer in his hands as Flame's body temperature continues to raise.
"You wouldn't," Flow shrugs, a lazy motion of his shoulders, boredom drawn all over his face. That's the only expression he ever seems to wear besides the shock and horror that crossed his face when he learned Mistrul was dead. "Because you know I wouldn't leave the Mist, wouldn't go on a wild goose chase to find you unless there was a good reason."
Flame seethes silently because he knows Flow is right.
"Admit it, you're curious," Flow says in a sing-song tone, a tone that puts Flame at unease. The last time Flame had seen him, he had been pissed and scared, threatening vengeance. What could he have possibly done to make him so relaxed and confident— back to how he was when he had fought Flame with Mistrul?
"Stop wasting my time, bro, and just tell me."
Flow reaches into his inventory, fingers grasping around something invisible for a moment until he throws it down. The object lands in the grass, shimmery yellow in the light. A golden pickaxe. Flame's stomach does a flip before he forces himself to be reasonable, forces himself to calm down and logic through this. Practically everyone knew that Lomedy carried around a golden pickaxe. It could be made pretty easily.
"This doesn't prove anything," Flame says, forcing his heart to stop its frantic beat in his chest, forcing himself to remain impassive. "You think a golden pickaxe is going to tell me that Lomedy is dead?" He lets out a derisive laugh that perhaps doesn't fall as confident as he wishes it to.
Flow shrugs. "How 'bout this?"
A mace drops with a heavy thunk next to the pickaxe, grass flattening under its weight. Flame can see from his porch where he stands currently, the name carved into the handle. Incinerator. The name he gave Lomedy's mace.
Flow sees the exact moment it hits Flame, mouth curling up into a sharp smile as Flame is transported back, back to the ice cave and reflections upon reflections of his failures in the cold, slick walls. The hasty grave apathetically erected in the back, a singular yellow-orange flower thrown and onto the surface and stomped on as Flame pauses.
"What-" he pushes out through unresponsive tongue and teeth. He feels like he's just swallowed ashes, stares dumbly at the mace that he had once held and had once given back to Lomedy as an apology because Flame didn't like change all that much but he would change for Lomedy. He would change for his best friend.
"He slipped out in the ice caves," Flow shrugged, toeing the mace with a boot. His voice was disinterested, like they were discussing the weather, and not the death of someone who meant so much to Flame. But Flame supposed that for both of them, death meant very little when you were a killer.
Meant very little until now.
"But after you killed Mistrul-" Flow pauses to glare at Flame, "I hunted him down in the ice spikes." Flame's hand tightens on his sword. "He was looking for an exit you know. He was looking for you."
"Shut up," Flame grits his teeth, the words slipping out too quietly that Flow can pretend he never heard them.
"You want to know what's funny? The last words to leave his lips as I pulled my sword from his chest were your name! He said—"
Flow is cut off with Flame's sword to his throat, Flame breathing harshly.
"Shut up." Smoke leaves Flame's mouth as Flow winces from the heat radiating off him, at the blade leaving faint red on his throat. "I should— I should kill you."
"What would poor little Lomedy think about that?" Flow grins, angling his head slightly away from the blade, from the smoke exiting Flame's mouth.
"You don't know a thing about Lomedy," Flame spits.
Flow's foot has been shifting ever so slowly throughout their tense conversation, finding Lomedy's pickaxe and giving it a kick. Now knowing that it truly was Lomedy's, Flame releases Flow and lunges to keep the pickaxe close, finds himself kneeling between both of the tools on the ground, Flow standing above him, rubbing his neck.
Flow looks like he wants to comment on the desperation, on the patheticness of Flame's position, on how Flame hadn't given second thought to the action, how Flame had chosen softness over violence but he wisely doesn't say anything. Maybe it's because he knows that Flame is volatile. Maybe it's because he knows a bit of loss too. It doesn't really matter to Flame, they are not brothers in their grief.
"You can keep the mace." Flow shrugs. "I should burn it in front of your face, but I can't find the energy to."
Flame's eyes narrow although Flow can't see it through the blindfold. He just waits for Flow to continue, an unfamiliar and unwelcome tiredness in his bones that started the moment he realized with a start that Lomedy was never going to come back. That they were never going to pick strawberries with each other or dig up worms to go fishing. That Flame would have to take care of the animals alone on a farm that felt small when Lomedy was around but now felt all the more bigger in his absence.
And Lomedy had died alone, searching for Flame, Flame's name on the tip of his tongue even as he bled vibrant crimson onto the pale snow. As he looked up into an apathetic face, as he died for Flame's crimes. As he died for being Flame's friend. Poor, innocent Lomedy. Stupid, stupid Flame.
He thinks about Lomedy gasping for breath, breathing mist into the chilly air, the only sound the howling wind. Lomedy never really liked winter. They killed all his plants, took the warmth he craved out of his bones, left him clinging to Flame. Now Lomedy's body was stuck in perpetual, lonely winter.
Flame's hands curl around the pickaxe. Flow is still standing there and Flame hates him, hates him and will forever hate him. Will likely one day hunt him down and kill him, but not now. Now is reserved solely for Lomedy, because Flame hadn't given his friend enough time when he was alive.
Flow shoves his hands in his pockets, looks around the farm. "Well," he says. "We're even. You killed my friend, I killed yours."
"Fuck you," Flame says, spite curling through his words, making them sharp.
Flow just lets out a breath of air from his nose that counts as a laugh and retreats back down the hill. Flame watches him until he disappears. Only when the white, hateful blob has vanished from view does Flame tear off his blindfold and hold the pickaxe close to his chest.
I'm sorry, Lomedy. I'm so, so sorry.
Grief is worse when he has nothing to worry about— no fight with Mistrul and Flow to help take his mind off the pain of losing someone. The loss is as fresh as it was at the stone grave, the silence pressing, reminding him of the constant presence at his side that is no longer constant, a body in the cold. Cold.
Flame curls up in the grass around the pickaxe, around the mace, traces the grooves and battle-scars, the places where the metal chipped from mining or from all the adventures where Lomedy carried it around just because he could. Flame lays there for a long time until Ashen comes out to look for him, presses his cold nose to Flame's shoulder, whimpers, and then curls up right next to his owner.
Flame lies there quietly, grass tickling the side of his face. He doesn't know the first of dealing with grief, just knows the guilt curdling in his chest, greeting him like an old friend. Never again will they bake together or wake up side by side or watch the sunset or garden or play fetch with Ashen or spar or argue or lay there side by side with nothing to do. They will never play in the creek and Flame will never love again like how he loved Lomedy. The perfect teammate, the person who had stayed when no one else had bothered, who had pushed Flame to be better. Who had forced him to change how he thought about the world, about his self-worth, about his loneliness. Who had accepted Flame's apology.
Flame feels empty without him, like a fire without oxygen or a flame at the last bit of the candle wick. He doesn't know how he'll get by without Lomedy as a guide, as a friend. His best friend who made him aware of the fact that the future didn't need to just be all fights, that he could love and enjoy the peacefulness of the mornings and have a home to go back to and a listening ear.
He doesn't know if he can go back to being alone. But, all the same, he knows that another person like Lomedy doesn't exist, and it makes it all the more worse.
Eventually, when Flame's body gets sore from laying in one position from too long, when his duties as a farmer catch up to him, Flame will have to get up. He will bury the mace at a grae he makes in Lomedy's flower field, a grave that is too empty, and he will spend every morning there, kneeling down, trying to learn how to grieve and come to terms with grief. He will plod through the days, golden pickaxe hanging in line with Fragger on his belt, and he will sleep with the pickaxe held in his hands. He will cook, and sometimes he will cook for two before remembering that he's the only person in the house. He will sow the seeds and pick the vegetables and make bouquets for Lomedy's grave. Evening comes, and he will sit by the grave and talk about his day and reminisce on their friendship and wish that Lomedy was there.
At some point, he will dig that grave, will lean on the shovel and look into the hole and have to take a break because of the thoughts and tears. He will lay that mace in, he will cover it up and he will place the bouquet he made to welcome back Lomedy on top. He will apologize profusely.
He thinks he will spend the rest of his life apologizing to Lomedy.
But that's all later, for a future Flame who just tries to take another step forwards, even when everyday feels like Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders.
For now, Flame lays there, his side growing numb. He stares at the light of the setting sun glinting off the gold of the pickaxe edge, and he closes his eyes as if when he opens them it will all be a dream.
The sun sets, as it always does, gentle and doting and warm orange. It promises acceptance, but not now, not soon— far and tentative and through many struggles. Right now, it gives space to grieve, to figure out how to live again.
Later Flame will be able to watch the sunset without hurting. But not now.
Now, Flame curls up closer to himself, almost protectively, and he cries.