Chapter Text
There’s a secret about Wemmbu that nobody besides Egg knows.
That feels cool to say. Like he’s in on some sort of secret, a hidden side of his closest friend that he can gatekeep from the rest of the world, his own treasure buried deep in his mind. Or heart.
It’s that he really likes it when Egg does his hair for him.
Well. Egg will admit now that the secret doesn’t seem so impressive anymore after he verbalises it.
But— still. It’s something special, a small miracle shared between the two of them. Lazy afternoons or rushed mornings, Egg perched on the edge of his bed or a seat while Wemmbu sits criss-cross applesauce on the floor, pale fingers tracing lines and braids through the plum–purple locks. A ribbon to tie it all back here, golden cuffs—almost definitely stolen from Flame—there, a flower tucked behind his ear if Egg really wants to spice it up. The best days will see intricate braids that dance in the wind; the worst, a hasty bun tied back with a rubber band taken from the neck of a bag of bread.
This morning was, surprisingly, better than usual. For one, neither of them had any major plans for the day, so Egg was allowed to take his time with it. For another, Wemmbu seemed to be in a good mood, judging from how he didn’t fidget at all and sat uncharacteristically still.
And so, they start off their impromptu fishing trip with Wemmbu’s hair in a tidy, delicate, fishtail braid, tied off with a blue ribbon at the bottom. To stay on theme. Wemmbu rolled his eyes when he saw himself in the mirror, but the way his hands fiddled with the layers, carefully testing and feeling their strength, told Egg everything he needed to know. He likes it— obviously.
“We’re here for books, okay?” Wemmbu says, as they walk down the gravel path. “Books. Enchanted books. Throw any fish back into the ocean.”
“What if I’m hungry, dude,” Egg considers. He’s mostly joking.
Wemmbu shrugs. “You do what you gotta, man. But, seriously, not too much fish— the last time we did this, we were eating salmon for weeks ‘cause you didn’t throw any of your catches back.”
“The last time we did this, I caught triple the number of books than you did!” He says indignantly.
“Which is why you also ate triple the amount of fish,” Wemmbu grins.
Before Egg can reply, an arrow whistles through the air, and lands deep in his shoulder.
He yells, and he isn’t so prideful that he can’t admit it’s pretty high–pitched. Sue him, an arrow through an unarmoured shoulder hurts.
“What the fuck?” Wemmbu hisses. He darts in front of him, shield raised with his left hand and mace in the other, ready to go. When no more arrows come, he glances back at Egg, eyes zeroing in on the patch of red already seeping into his wing.
“Get somewhere safe,” he whispers.
Egg nods. Wemmbu sprints away.
He ducks behind a nearby tree as Wemmbu fights. It’s annoying as hell, but Egg is almost jaded by how often these ambushes happen, so it isn’t much of a surprise anymore.
It’s not like either of them can do anything about it. Wemmbu can’t change the fact that everyone on the server seems to have this innate and uncontrollable desire to fight him and—almost always—die trying. Egg can’t change the fact that he is the world’s most injurable target.
So he sits behind his tree and waits. Gritting his teeth, he wraps his fingers around the shaft of the arrow and pulls lightly. The arrow refuses to budge from where it’s embedded in him. Barbed too, then. Judging by how his head is beginning to swim, it’s probably poisoned, too, which is just infinitely worse.
Carefully, Egg peeks around the tree, just to check on how Wemmbu’s doing. He winces; it isn’t looking too good. Not by any fault of his, but more that they just really hadn’t expected something like this. He watches as Wemmbu flicks a fishing rod at one of the many ambushers, only for an actual fishing line to come out instead of the usual stab shot. Wemmbu curses loudly, throws the fishing line to the side, and continues his mace assault.
His angle from where he’s sitting, leaning around the tree is doing weird, weird things to his head, though. It’s begun to pound in earnest, sending bolts of nausea and vertigo through his brain at the slightest movements.
Oh, right, the poison. Huh, he’d forgotten about that. Probably not a good sign, if he’s being honest.
To the dulcet tones of Wemmbu taunting the various bandits, who are in turn screaming bloody murder back at him, Egg carefully begins pulling out the arrow. Arrows are somewhat similar to bandaids in that it’s best to rip them out immediately, but before that, you need to test whether it’s got a barbed tip or not.
In the case of a barbed tip, the thing will refuse to budge; if it’s normal, it’ll slide out fractionally easier. In both cases, it will hurt.
The arrow in Egg’s shoulder obstinately refuses to come out. He sighs.
Now, the second best thing to do would be to let it stay in until a second person can help deal with it. Especially given the fact that it's located in the top of his arm of all places, with the minimal vision he actually has on the wound, the angle is much too awkward to ensure he wouldn’t make any debilitating mistakes.
However— it’s poisoned. As previously established, many times over. His eyelids are heavy. He could eat a golden apple, but it won’t do anything to flush the toxins out, and will only give the poison more time to circulate through his bloodstream.
He peeks out from behind the tree one more time. Wemmbu’s looking fine, of course— no way could a few measly bandits defeat him. Though, there do seem to be a lot more of them than the normal amount, so he probably can’t come to Egg until that’s sorted out.
Which leaves him with the third—and most annoying—course of action.
Gingerly, Egg reaches up to the wooden shaft. It’s thin inside his clammy hand, a single long piece of wood. He’s lucky, he reminds himself, that it didn’t land somewhere vital.
“Run!” One of the chungies is yelling. Wemmbu laughs, unrestrained, before yet another mace strike rings out through the field.
In the far past, some centuries ago, there was a civilisation that wore silk undershirts beneath their armour so that any arrows that pierced through would be surrounded by the silk. That way, the projectile could be removed without any nerve damage. He needs to start moving like that.
In the present, however, he’s painstakingly pushing the arrowhead into his own shoulder. And it fucking hurts. Really bad. There’s blood leaking everywhere, onto the tips of his hair and spilling onto his wings. He feels lightheaded.
The arrow finally pierces through, the tip of it hanging out from the back of his suit jacket like some sort of tumour. Yet, it’s still not over.
Using his own sword, Egg slices through the shaft, letting the arrowhead fall into the dirt beside him. Snapping it by hand would make it too rough, and the only thing worse than a poisoned, barbed arrow wound is the same wound with random wooden splinters floating around it; golden apples and healing potions can do a lot, but nothing besides hours of manual work can physically remove foreign objects.
Egg wrenches open his eyes. When did they even slide shut in the first place? No matter. Wrapping his hands around the shaft once more, he pulls the arrow, now tipless, back out. Rip the bandaid, he tells himself.
“Bro, what are you doing?” Wemmbu’s voice says.
“Oh, hey,” Egg looks up at him. The sun is way too bright, so he has to squint.
“Yeah, hey. As I said, what are you doing?”
Egg shows him the bisected arrow. “It was poisoned. I don’t wanna have another healing arc, dude, I would’ve had to spend weeks recovering if I let it stay in me for too long.”
Wemmbu squats down next to him to inspect the broken projectile. “Huh. Barbed, too. Those guys sucked.”
“They did,” Egg agrees absently. “You got them all?”
“Of course,” he says, almost indignantly. “But— look, they fucked my shit up.”
Wemmbu tilts around, showing Egg the back of his head. The neat braid has fallen apart almost completely, tufts of it hanging out of the ribbon, which in turn is now singed at the edges and spotted with red. He lost a few hairpins, too, though they might just be buried under the blood–matted mess of red/black/purple on his head.
“I mean, I’d do it again, but…” Egg gestures to the hole in his shoulder. “Even with the gap, it’s gotta take a few hours for it to go back to functioning.”
“Who asked you to braid it again? I’ll do it myself,” Wemmbu says, before glancing back. “Uh. You gotta instruct me, though.”
Egg pauses for dramatic effect. “So… you won’t do it by yourself.”
“Semantics,” Wemmbu says, though he’s grinning.
“Mm, sure, dude. Okay, I’ll be your almighty mentor,” he snickers. “It’s no sweat for a genius like me, really.”
“Mentor me then, mister Eggchan,” Wemmbu says, adopting a false reverent tone. “What I gotta do to be like you?”
Egg considers it for a second, scratching his chin. “Well— step one, wash that shit out in the river.”
“Oh, come on,” he complains. “You know how long all this takes to dry.”
“Don’t question the goat, bro,” Egg tells him.
“Sir, yes sir,” he says reluctantly.
The strangest thing is, though, that as he’s pointing Wemmbu along every step of this impromptu hair salon crash course, the dull throb in his shoulder begins to fade like it was never there to begin with.
And here’s where part two of the secret comes into play. Wemmbu likes getting his hair done, that is true. But, simultaneously, Egg also really likes doing Wemmbu’s hair. Even if he’s just acting as a third hand at the moment— still.
His own little secret. Well, Wemmbu probably knows it, just as he knows Wemmbu’s, but that’s a given.
He realises, much too late, what the style Wemmbu’s been trying—and failing—to braid into his hair actually is, right after he finally manages to complete it.
“Seriously?” Egg asks.
Wemmbu shrugs. “You do your dumbass puns, I do mine.”
Purple locks now styled in an arrowhead braid, he stands up and offers his hand to Egg.
“Are we gonna go fishing now, bro?” he asks, smirking.
Egg sighs, but takes the hand regardless. It only hurts a little when he does.