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“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.” - Ernest Hemingway
The thing about the end of the world is that it’s a lot less climatic than Scanlan thought it’d be. That fact only becomes more apparent as he wanders the deserted halls of Whitestone castle in the very wee hours of the morning.
Kaylie had, of course, accompanied Scanlan to Whitestone without pause or question. While he’d been frozen after witnessing the Whispered One’s rise, she had been the one to snap him out of it with a hand on his shoulder and a look so severe that it felt like a physical blow.
“I have to go,” Scanlan had said, the words tumbling out without conscious thought. Then, realizing what that meant, “I’m sorry.”
And he wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but all she had done was nod and ask, “How’re we getting back?” with a fierce glint in her eye, and that had been that.
Between the two of them, it wasn’t a difficult task to slip into the castle, but it was a surprise to find Percy — and only Percy — about four glasses of wine deep in one of the less ostentatious sitting rooms.
And thus began the retelling of the last few weeks' events: how they’d managed to claw their way out of the ziggurat after it collapsed, Pike healing them to the best of her ability, finding the city largely abandoned of its citizens and the Children of Truth. Scanlan won’t forget the look on Percy’s face as he’d explained exactly how everything happened in Thar Amphala. Haunted, his own mind supplied.
It’s only now, after seeing Percy off to his bed and finding Vex and — oddly enough — Keyleth already asleep there, that he checks in on Kaylie. He’d ushered her off pretty quickly after finding Percy; his girl was stubborn, sure, but weary after days of nonstop travel.
There are plenty of guest rooms in Whitestone’s sprawling estate, but Scanlan finds her curled up in his own room. When he cracks the door open to peek inside, it looks like she’s already asleep — or at least pretending to be. It doesn’t surprise him, and his next breath comes a little easier because of it.
Dread has been clinging to his every waking moment since… since everything, and he takes a moment to center himself as he watches her. She’s safe, for now. They all are, at least temporarily. Still, he kind of wishes she hadn’t come with; he can’t guarantee anything, let alone her safety right now. This fear is persistent, grating, petrifying.
He can still picture Vax’s limp body falling from above, can hear Keyleth’s devastated wail, and it sends a chill straight through him, anguish welling up fast enough to make his breath catch. Bad dreams were never uncommon for him, but they’ve been startling him awake most nights now, always featuring the same images.
But his own fear has drawn tension between him and his daughter before and he knows Kaylie would’ve been beyond pissed if he tried to tell her to stay behind, to look out for herself, so he hadn’t tried.
Eventually, he finds it in himself to turn away. He’s checked in on her, she’s okay, and he’s still got the rest of his friends to track down.
It must be well past midnight, he notes as he peers out a passing window, with Catha having already reached its zenith in the sky. It brightens the courtyard, casting an eerie, silver glow over the foggy city below. Traveling from Marquet to Tal’Dorei took time, but even longer under the given circumstances. He and Kaylie already got back later than he really would’ve liked as it was, then adding the time it took to get from the tip of the continent to Whitestone…
Every moment of rest they had between ports and campsites, Scanlan tried to tell himself that nothing would happen to his friends while he was on his way to them, but it felt flimsy at best. Two and a half weeks is a long time for anyone, but especially for a group as danger-prone as them.
Even now, in Whitestone, there’s an itch under his skin that he knows will only be satisfied by seeing them — all of them.
Lost in his musings, he startles slightly and comes to an abrupt halt as he turns a corner and sees a hulking shape slumped against the wall. He blinks once as his eyes adjust to the familiar sight of Grog Strongjaw, looking rather uncomfortable where he’s sat on the ground. His voice sounds small even to his own ears as he calls out, “Grog?”
The Goliath in question looks up at the sound of his name, much more subdued than Scanlan thinks he’s ever seen him. His mouth parts in surprise before his head thunks back against the wall behind him. “When’d you get ‘ere?”
All business, then. Scanlan’s not entirely sure what he had expected from his return to Whitestone after so much time apart; after what he, and the rest of the realm, had witnessed.
“About an hour ago. I saw the others, talked a lot with Percy. And I heard about…” his voice cracks, suddenly overcome with emotion the same way he has been the last several weeks, since what felt like the end of the world. But it comes in waves, so he clears his throat and says, "About Vax.”
Grog’s face screws up painfully, his own eyes shining in the low candlelight. “Yeah,” he grunts, and then nothing else. What else is there to say?
Scanlan tentatively steps forward into Grog’s space, assessing him. He looks… alright. No more banged up than he has in the past. It’s hard to imagine that everything Percy had told him was true, with the Goliath in front of him alive and well. He’d been dead a little over two weeks ago, apparently, and Scanlan hadn’t been there.
It’s sometimes easy to forget that Grog isn’t invincible, when he’s always the first to step up to an impossible task and the last standing to defend them when the chips are down. A nearly nine-foot tall war machine made of muscle and rage, taken down protecting his friends — exactly how Scanlan had morbidly imagined he’d go out.
“Percy told me everything,” he says finally. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Grog meets his eyes, looking not unlike a kicked puppy, and Scanlan feels a flash of panic jolt through him at how glassy they are right before he folds Scanlan into a hug.
Most probably wouldn’t think the words gentle and Grog Strongjaw could be synonymous but Scanlan would beg to differ. He could be gentle when the situation called for it: with the people he loves, and kids they meet on their adventures, and Wilhand’s locket, and the list could go on for miles.
Now’s no different. The Goliath shakes minutely and Scanlan feels the fabric near his shoulder grow damp as he cries. The grip Grog has on him is tight but not restrictive and Scanlan’s feet come off the ground a little as he’s tugged more firmly against his chest.
Scanlan’s not found himself in many situations where he was speechless. He prides himself on how a few flowery sentences might switch the tides in his favor, a song to heal or a word to hurt. But this is Grog, and he’s… not Pike. He doesn’t have the same kind of history with Grog she does to be able to provide the right words in this situation.
Instead, Scanlan does the only thing he knows to do and hugs him back just as fierce, a few tears of his own escaping.
It’s several minutes more before Grog collects himself enough to pull away, still sniffing and teary-eyed. “Are you okay?” Scanlan asks, feeling a little silly even as he says it — of course not, his own mind supplies. Are any of them?
Grog simply nods. Scanlan chooses to take his answer at face value. There will be time for a more thorough conversation later, he’ll make sure of it, but there’s still one more thing he has to do; one more person he hasn’t seen. His fingers itch, the question burning the tip of his tongue. Finally, the words bubble forth.
“Grog, where’s Pike?”
Grog’s shoulders slump, eyes averted. He looks like he’s suffering through some massive moral failure. He jabs his thumb behind him, towards a vaguely familiar closed door, saying, “She went in there a couple days ago. Can’t get her to come out.”
He glances at the door in question and it hits him suddenly — this is the shrine Percy had set up for Pike in one of the many vacant rooms in his ancestral home, after they’d taken Whitestone back from the Briarwoods. A thank you where words wouldn’t do justice. Scanlan’s stomach sinks like a stone in water even as he pushes the door open without a sound to peek into the room.
It’s mostly dark but as his eyes adjust, he can see a figure at the front of the room. Knelt before the shrine, a few candles illuminating what the moonlight peering in from the window doesn’t. It’s Pike; he knows it, almost intrinsically.
She looks impossibly fragile, he thinks as he enters and closes the door behind himself, drawn to her like a moth to a lantern. As he walks toward her, it almost seems like she’s glowing: white hair alight and windswept, armor still shining golden, and on the altar, her broken holy symbol sits, loosely attached to its chain. He hasn’t seen her with it since they battled Thordak in Emon and he had honestly thought she’d lost it in the fray.
Once he gets closer, he notices more: on the floor next to her are several plates. Little things like bread and jam, slices of fruit and cheese, all beginning to rot. Completely untouched, except a half empty glass of water. All likely from Grog.
Slowly, he comes to a stop next to her. Pike doesn’t open her eyes, doesn’t unclasp her hands, doesn’t acknowledge that he’s there at all. Scanlan kneels next to her quietly, allows his breathing to match pace with hers. Even and deep, like she could just be asleep, but he knows from the dark circles under her eyes that she hasn’t rested properly in days.
“I heard what happened,” Scanlan begins, then falters, unsure of what else to say. There’s too much, and he missed it all. I know you betrayed us. I saw what happened with Vax. The others miss you. I miss you.
As usual, Pike takes the burden away from him without hesitation.
“It’s my fault, Scanlan,” she says, voice low and wobbling. He watches as her eyes flutter open, one hand rising up to her chest to clasp at the empty place where her symbol of the Everlight should be. Her lip trembles, curling disdainfully. Even now, distraught and grief stricken, the light of the moons glinting on stubbornly unshed tears, she is beautiful.
Scanlan’s hands clench into fists where they rest on his thighs, taking a moment to think. He’s never seen her like this before, and he feels the familiar urge to reach out and hold her hand or wipe the tears from her eyes. Old habits die hard and this is the closest they’ve been since the night he had given her Mythcarver.
Gods. What a fucking mess.
“Maybe not… all your fault,” he begins with a shrug. He’s lied to a lot of people over the span of his life without flinching, but he can’t look at her when he says this. Won’t. “I mean, technically Delilah-”
“Scanlan,” she interrupts in a rush of air. It’s nearly silent, but he’s spent several years familiarizing himself with her so it's impossible to miss. His teeth click uncomfortably as he shuts his mouth.
He chances a look at her: head bowed, eyes closed again, as if deep in prayer. He’s seen her do this many times and it still feels like sacrilege to see her in such a vulnerable position. She’s motherfucking Pike Trickfoot; she never bends, never wavers, never stumbles on her holy path.
Except she did, and it cost them.
There’s part of him that’s still in complete disbelief that what Percy told him was true, a righteous sort of anger at no one individual in particular: Vax, for being so brave and stupid; Pike, for being the cause of all this; the Whispered One most of all, for thinking he could hurt and manipulate his friends without consequence.
But there isn’t a way to change the past. Pike did betray them. Vax is dead now. They lost.
“He needed my blood,” she mutters, a deep, angry furrow in her brow. “And I just gave it to him. Why would I do that?”
Scanlan doesn’t know, and he almost says as much. It’s in such contrast with whom he knows Pike to be, but he attempts to put himself in her position; imagines if it had been Kaylie instead of Grog, if a manipulator had used carefully chosen words and the promise of life everlasting, a world without pain where his loved ones could live safely.
Pike doesn’t wait for him to say anything. Her next words are soft but bitter. “I betrayed you all.”
He takes a deep breath, anger and love and grief all mixed up in his chest with nowhere to go. “Yeah, you did,” Scanlan acknowledges. He can feel her eyes upon him now and he meets her watery gaze with his own resolve. “So what’re you going to do about it?”
Pike’s hand twitches towards his but she doesn’t fully commit. He flips one hand palm up, a simple offering, and his chest warms with the light of a thousand suns when her lips tick upward. The hint of a smile. He can work with that.
Finally, her hand slips into his. It’s cool and a little clammy, which is unusual for her, but the calluses and scars from years of hard labor and handling weapons are still there like a map he can use his fingers to trace.
There are still things to address — important things, like what the hells they’re supposed to do next without Vax, with everyone grieving as hard as they are, without the support of Tal’Dorei now that they’ve seen the protectors of the realm bend the knee just to save one of their own and fail. They haven’t even had a funeral yet.
Instead, he uses his free hand to tap a finger on her pauldron. “Have you been wearing this the whole time you’ve been here?”
Pike hesitates for half a moment before nodding. Her armor is loud, heavy, and cumbersome. It’s been the butt of many jokes, but it’s also saved her life on more than one occasion. If Grog’s to be believed, it’s been at least a few days since she’s been out of it, if not longer. Now, Scanlan can’t help but notice the curve of her back, her shoulders drooping under the weight. She bears it like she deserves the pressure of it.
“Let me help you with it.”
The look Pike sends him is doubtful, like she’s waiting for him to spew a dirty joke. He sort of thinks he might deserve that considering the nature of their relationship up until Kaylie entered the picture. He’d said all sorts of horrible, crass things to her. Other things, too, like drunken love confessions and melodic ballads about the color of her eyes. How he could be the one to take care of her if she’d let him — not in so many words, or maybe just vulgar ones, to protect his own heart from her inevitable rejection.
There’s a part of him that will always love Pike Trickfoot, but even he can read a room.
“I just want to help,” he implores quietly, a little more desperate than he’d like. Finally, her expression softens, eyes bright. Scanlan’s always felt like she could see straight through all his bullshit and bravado and now’s no different.
“Okay,” she whispers. He almost doubts that he heard her, something hopeful lifting in his chest for the first time in days.
“Okay?”
Pike doesn’t usually wear her emotions on her sleeve for just anyone to see, so she must mean it if the look of utter faith in her eyes and determined nod suggests anything. If she’s ready to accept help — from Scanlan Shorthalt, of all fucking people; he’ll truly never understand what the hells he did to deserve her trust — he won’t deny her that.
He helps her to her feet in a gesture that is likely unnecessary, but feels right once he hears her soft, pained grunt. She wobbles, only a little, and Scanlan keeps one hand at the small of her back to gently steady her while the other stays clutched in her hand. He smooths his thumb over her scarred knuckles.
It’s a somewhat slow procession out of the room, but Grog is right there when they open the door. His eyes become huge with surprise as he sees them standing in the threshold, and then he’s moving.
For a guy so big, he moves in near silence to envelop them both in his arms. Pike huffs something out that could be a weak attempt at a laugh, patting the top of his head. “Hey, buddies,” she croaks.
Grog pulls away, eyes intent as they sweep over her. “You okay, Pikey?” He asks, foregoing any greetings. Pike’s face does something complicated, which Scanlan thinks is fair, considering.
When a beat of silence passes and she doesn’t say anything, Scanlan steps in. “We’re getting there, big guy,” he says, feeling Pike squeeze his hand: three gentle pulses.
He squeezes back and hopes to the Gods he’s right.
Pike’s bedroom in Whitestone is both extremely large and comically bare. Percy had insisted he could get them both more appropriately sized furniture, but Scanlan hadn’t cared and Pike refused, claiming it wasn’t necessary. Neither figured they’d be staying long enough for it to really matter.
With Grog down in the kitchen fetching something for Pike to eat, Scanlan feels the enormity of the task before him. Pike is… not well. He’d known that the moment he’d found her kneeling before the Everlight shrine, but the wash of pale moonlight over her skin had tinged everything sort of grey. It takes a moment to light enough candles to fully see around her room but she still looks wannish once he does, even in the warm glow. It’s disconcerting.
Scanlan lights one last candle and starts a fire in the hearth, hoping to abate the nip in the air. Distantly, he hears Pike gingerly getting up on the bed, getting herself comfortable. This, he decides, is better than the blank, glazed look in her eyes he noticed earlier as he’d been leading her back to the bedrooms. He thinks he could’ve led her anywhere then and she would’ve followed, and that sends a chill straight through him.
Shaking the thought away, he sets his sights on searching through the dresser for some extra clothes — something loose, flowy; nothing that could rub against any of Pike’s hurts. He doesn’t think she stays in Whitestone often, but the bureau is filled with clothes. Silk, satin, cashmere; the luxury stuff that nobles wear, that Scanlan is sure he’d find in his own room here. Vex and Percy are thoughtful like that.
At last, he finds what he’s looking for: a pale blue nightgown, flowing but without frills. It’s velvety between his fingers, but not in a well-made kind of way, more like it’s probably well-worn. This must be something of Pike’s — something real and not gifted. He makes a self-satisfied Mhmm! kind of noise that would usually get some sort of reaction out of her, but there’s only silence from behind him. He turns to face her.
It might be mean to think but she looks a bit haggard like this: hunched and dirty, that same bone-weary, unseeing gaze returning as she stares off into the distance. Guilt gnaws at him as he approaches her with the nightgown he found.
“Alrighty,” he says, watching her focus up, body jerking like she’s physically snapping back into herself. He offers the gown to her. “Up you get.”
Mindlessly, she slides off the bed and begins working on the clasps of the breastplate first. Her usually nimble fingers tremble minutely and Scanlan is reaching out before he can stop himself.
“C’mon, just…” they both pause as he bats her hands away. When she doesn’t stop him, hands falling to her sides, he steps a little closer and murmurs, “Let me.”
It’s oddly intimate, sharing a space like this as his own hands deftly begin taking her armor apart, piece by painstaking piece. They’ve all seen each other in various states of undress before — it comes with the territory of their line of work — but Scanlan can admit, at least to himself, this isn’t how he’d imagined undressing Pike for the first time.
Scanlan is no saint: he’s slept around with a lot of people, basically anyone that would say yes, so he’s got plenty of material to work with. He’s not proud of it, but he’s definitely thought about what sex with Pike would be like. Not in a creepy way, just as a matter of curiosity. Then, as he realized his feelings for her went deeper than baseline attraction, it only got more complicated.
But now, even as he begins helping her slip out of the Plate, soothing small hurts where her armor sat too long, combing through her hair with his fingers, feeling her relax under his touch, he can’t say sex is the last thing on his mind but the urge to just… help her is a much stronger call. She’s his friend, first and foremost — everything else comes second to that.
They work together efficiently, in a way only years of fighting and laughing and drinking together can make two people, and it takes very little time to rid her of her armor. He sets it aside; she’s particular about certain things, and the maintenance and care for her belongings is one of them, so he will let her once she’s ready.
As he turns back to face her, Pike seems to hesitate now that she’s in her underthings, and Scanlan can take a cue. He clears his throat, eyes skipping over the scars that pockmark her body, some he recognizes and others he doesn’t. His heart aches even as he averts his gaze.
“Um, I’m gonna make sure Grog hasn’t burned the kitchen down,” he murmurs, retreating towards the door. She doesn’t stop him, but it does take all his willpower to keep going when he looks into her face and sees her glassy eyes, something hurt flashing behind them. “Just finish cleaning up, I’ll be right back. I promise.”
Then he slips out the door. It closes softly behind him, heavy and wooden as it is, and he doesn’t allow himself a moment to linger. He needs to go find Grog, he reminds himself. The very same Grog who just died; who Pike decided to doom the world for, for the chance that it might bring him back.
Scanlan breathes deep and walks.
Pike’s in bed when Scanlan returns with Grog in tow. He’s carrying a plate of food, laden with slices of fruit, toast, and preserves while Scanlan carries a glass of water. It’s not much, but it should be easy on the stomach and it’s what was on hand.
She looks a little more like herself than when he left, but there’s a kind of exhaustion in her face that he’s intimately familiar with, the kind that creeps up until it knocks you flat. She offers them a small smile when Scanlan knocks on the slightly ajar door and announces, “Room service.”
She wiggles around for a moment until she’s sitting more upright, expression open and relaxed, her hair falling loosely around her shoulders. With the gown and the soft candlelight casting flickering shadows, he thinks — not for the first time — she looks like an angel.
But these thoughts are unhelpful, so he pushes them aside as they enter her room.
Grog sits on the ground next to the bed, leaning in close as he passes the plate of food up to her. Pike gives him a small smile, patting his hand in thanks. Words aren’t needed now, between the two of them.
After a brief moment of silence where Scanlan stays rooted to his spot in the doorway, unsure of where he’s supposed to fit here, Pike’s eyes find his and he cannot resist the allure of her. He hoists himself onto the bed, placing the glass of water aside, deliberately keeping a safe distance between them as he leans against the headboard.
He feels stiff and awkward as he adjusts. He hasn’t changed clothes since he arrived; he hasn’t even had time to unpack. It doesn’t matter, not really, with the key to the château stowed away in Kaylie’s bag, but it’s odd to be so clothed in bed.
Pike takes one look at him, at the space between them, then reaches a hand out to tug him closer by the sleeve of his shirt. It’s not firm like he’s used to from her: in battle, when a rough yank is what’s needed to get them out of immediate danger, or a playful pull when they’re both too tipsy to think about implications. Even those times when Scanlan would wake up in a stranger’s bed, he’d think about her flushed cheeks and that radiant smile and her hand curled around the crook of his elbow to keep him in her proximity, and not the gentle push and pull from his lover the night prior.
This tug is like a question and a plea, wrapped so sweetly together. And who is Scanlan not to answer her call?
It feels natural to furl her into his side as he scoots to be closer. In turn, Pike tucks herself into him in an action that surprises as much as it pleases him, her head resting on his shoulder like it’s too heavy to hold up on her own. It would be so easy to tenderly card his fingers through her hair, trace the soft lines of her face, watch the tension drain from her with his help. There’s a part of him that aches to know her in that way — to be known by her — so deeply that it hurts, but even he knows there are still boundaries between them, bed-sharing aside.
He and Grog make light conversation over her head: the last leg of his tour, how Kaylie’s doing, the people he’s met and places he’s visited. Grog tells him about some of his and Pike’s exploits from the last year, all while Scanlan tries to bury his own guilt for not being there for his friends, for Pike, while they were left so bereft.
It’s not easy, what with the knowledge of Vax’s death and the weight of the world hanging over their heads like an anvil about to drop, but they need this semblance of normalcy.
Pike doesn't contribute to their conversation, just listens and nibbles on the food they brought her. Grog keeps sending him looks, eyes huge and concerned. Scanlan tries not to let it show but he’s worried, too. It’s not normal for her to be this quiet, especially when it’s just the three of them.
But, Scanlan reminds himself, there’s nothing normal about the situation they’re in now. She’s hurt, has been hurting for longer than Scanlan can truly pinpoint; she’s entitled to a little peace.
Eventually, Pike pushes the plate away and the conversation tapers off. The sound of the fire crackling in the hearth mingles with their breath. If he closes his eyes, it almost feels like old times: before the titles and the money and the end-of-the-world levels of danger. Just all of them together, surrounding a campfire, settling in for the night.
But it’s so far from then that it seems like a different lifetime. Not the same Scanlan with a daughter or dead friends and allies. Pike tucks her head snugly into the crook of his neck and shoulder with a heavy sigh and he adjusts to accommodate. Another moment passes, and then Pike’s flat voice cuts into the silence. “Well. I didn’t save the world.”
He closes his eyes against the shame that suddenly rises in his chest. Scanlan remembers giving her Mythcarver — couldn’t forget how she allowed him to cradle her face in the palms of his hands like that would be enough to make her understand how much he cherished her, kissing her brow so reverently; trying to imbue her with his affection. “Pike Trickfoot,” he stated simply, “the badass who’s gonna save the world.”
At the time, it had felt like the right thing to say. It was supposed to bolster her, remind her of how he saw her. Only now does he see just how wrong he’d been to place that kind of pressure on her already overburdened shoulders.
“Pikey…” Grog’s murmur trails off, clearly uncertain of what to say but wanting to comfort her all the same. He reaches out to clasp tightly to Pike’s hand and Scanlan sees her expression twist into one of sorrow again. She looks older, suddenly. Just about as old as he feels.
“I’m so sorry,” Pike whispers brokenly. A few tears escape her eyes as she says it, but she seems tired enough that it likely won’t amount to the body shaking sobs she’s likely already cried.
I never want to hear those words come out of your mouth again, he thinks a bit nonsensically. It’s a stupid, fleeting thought. If he knows the woman at his side at all, she’ll be trying to make amends for her actions for the rest of her life. Instead, he presses a kiss to her temple, watching as Grog gingerly wipes the tears from her eyes with massive, calloused fingers. “I know,” Scanlan responds in an equally soft tone.
They settle that way, curled around each other, even as the moons begin their descent and the sky lightens. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen next, who else they could lose or how all of this will play out, but they can take a day before they have to fix the mess they made. That, at least, Scanlan can make sure of.