the rule of beasts

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Grian knows exactly what Scar is offering when he tells him to slay him and take the enchanter. Scar’s life and soul rest in Grian’s hands to do with as he wills, and even as he knows it would hurt less he can’t let Scar die. He would rather turn Scar the way he was once, himself, turned. Through blood and pain and isolation, a fate he wouldn’t wish on his own worst enemy but god would he prefer to hurt Scar– to allow the man to hate him forever as he hates them– than to see the man come to real, permanent harm. Anything- even the bone-aching, stomach-twisting I am not Me-ness brought upon Grian by the change would be preferable.

“What- no!”

“For all you did to me to keep me alive this long,” Scar says, splayed on his back in that pond, staring up at Grian like he was the sun, “you may slay me and take the enchanter.” Grian’s wound pulses in agony, stings to high heaven in the hot water of the fucking pond even as the look in Scar’s eyes sends a shiver up his spine. He trusts him– not that Grian can comprehend why. At least he doesn’t see why Scar should trust him so completely. Something is wrong inside him, he knows, there’s no way he could deserve this.

“No, I can’t,” Grian tells him and it hurts to deny his red life, just formed and hungry for blood, “No, I literally can’t. I can’t do it.”

“Oh. Well then why don’t we both win? No one says we have to fight.” Oh. Grian could get behind that, really.

They could just… go home. Scar would make dinner, and Grian would sit up on the counter and pester him until he was asked nicely to move out of the way. He’d refuse to move until given a kiss, and Scar would oblige him with that dumb little smile he got sometimes. Dinner would be good– probably carrots or potatoes, since that’s what they farm, but maybe they’d steal some of the others’ cows and have steak. No one was around anymore to stop them.

K̸̹̂̏i̵̡̱̼̩̙̎̈́̈́l̷̮̻̤͉̓͗̈̊̉͝l̷̻̋̊͐̓͛̈͗̅ ̵̛̜̤͔̪̞͓̣̖́̄̕͠ͅͅḧ̸̝̗͚̓͝i̵̹̭͐m̴͕̼̫̬̓͆͘͘.̵̨̧̛̞͓̘̺͕̉̏͑̈̀̋̒̚ ̶̖̬̫̮̙̬͇̻͓͆̋̑͆͊̌̔̃͝Y̶̡̫̩͔̯̮͍̺͓̰̌́̍͐ͅo̶̡̯͐̐́̄̏͐̎̓͝͝ų̶͍͎͈̹̑̍̽̅͗͛̍̑̆͝ͅ ̶̡͙̥͆́̀̋̇̔͋̉̇̕̚k̵̡͖̣͈̣̱̤̞̑n̶̹͚̽ơ̶̡̛̞̩̯̻̗̣̪͛̎͑̿̈́̾̈́͘w̶͓̪̜̤͔͈͗͗̎̄̔͋́̕͜͜ ̶̢̙̜̜͕͕͉̼̣̃͛̔̓̐͒͘y̶̠͇̬̲̾͑̔̐͌̚̕͝ȯ̶̘͊̓̒̓̋̚̕͝͝ų̷̛̪̩͍̭͕̻̩̤̹͋̋̈̔̿̓͑̀͗ ̶͚̻̙͖͕̞̫̬̱̎̾͗̿̈́͋͌w̵̨̟̺͎̞̦̮̤̉̓͗͊̀̀͠͝a̵̹̤̬͈̭̠͖̝̘͉̰̎͋̒̓̽̂̈́̕ǹ̵̨̨̧̝̩̘̱͈̭͒ṭ̴̢̢̛̞͉̻̽̔̒̏͝ ̶̰̈́̾̈́̂̌̑͋͠ẗ̷̤͈́ó̷͖̞̱̑̓̋.̷̠̭͍̝͒̊̑̉͛͠

Grian swallows. “I think the ghosts want a fight.”

Scar’s face falls, and he blurts out. “No. No, don’t let them break up a friendship.” Why does his voice stutter on the word “friend’?

He sounds- desperate. Afraid for the first time since they arrived on this hellish death server and it pains Grian deep in his chest to say: “I don’t think we have a choice.”

Neither of them has a choice, and they both know it even as they both know how this ends.

They have to do it right, of course. Tossing their armor willy nilly here and there, like so much clothing torn off in the urgency before sex, they strip down to basics on the long trek to Pizza’s grave. It won’t serve any more purpose where they’re going that it would if they were going to fuck, in fairness. Though the fucking would probably be less awful. When they finally arrive and dump all their food and weapons out of their inventories before Grian places the ring of cactus. Scar sets the entrance on fire, and the fight begins.

Grian is crying when he wins the fight. Scar– stupid, sweet, sentimental Scar refused to hit him. Jumped into the cactus, even, trying to stay far enough back that Grian might think he was trying even as he wasn’t. It hurt him– he said so himself. And Grian did it anyway because he couldn’t stop himself, punching and kicking and clawing and pulling and punching and punching and punching. He’d said sorry, at least, but Scar apologized to him, too, so the knowledge doesn’t comfort him much. Scar goes down, and he goes down hard, and he doesn’t get back up.

Grian doesn’t stop, he doesn’t see or he doesn’t– he doesn’t know how, really. He realizes his– friend? Lover?-- his Scar is dead and he raises his neck to his teeth and bites hard enough to tear flesh. The familiar taste settles on his palate, soft and gentle like Scar always is. It tastes like pork, but it feels like love: like devotion, the ultimate giving of oneself. He tears into the throat like a man starved and, to be fair, he hasn’t eaten anything since he respawned. That’s not why he does it though, he doesn’t know why he does it, even as he moves on to the wrist, lifeless and still under his teeth.

He blinks awake to the reality of what he is doing even as he realizes he still can’t stop, he bites and tears and swallows without chewing and this is his Scar and he still can’ stop. Stomach churning, he keeps eating- chewing and tearing and devouring whole- until there is nothing left of his– of Scar.

Grian wrenches himself away from bones, cracked and dried of their marrow. He throws up. Head spinning, and sick to his stomach he stumbles toward the precipice of the cliff Scar died on. He glares at the sky, at the Watchers in their sick paradise, sitting back to enjoy the show.

ő̴̺̤̠͈̿́̿͐͑̃͑͂̄̉̕n̷̥̱̯̯̞̖͔͆̽͘ë̶̹̖͔̟̜͇́̈́̔͊̐̓ ̵̡̛͕̳͓̝͈̪͍̪̖̟͎̫̈̃̾͊̎̎͒̒̐̒̎̚͠m̸̟̘̩̦̦̝̏̒͑͂̑͌̒́́͋͝ő̶̬̎̑̒͋̽̈́̊̌̈́̌͑̉͋̕ŕ̴̨̥͕͎͇̪͎͚̐̓́́e̷̢̱͖̥͓̳̳͔͙͋̊̄͋͑͑͌̂͌͑̐̋͝͝ ̸͓͙͈̤̗͙̼̻̮̾̈́̊̓̾̿̿̔̑̃̀̈́̆̚͠l̴̨̼̥͓̬̬͔̓̆̇̑̀̊̄̐̚͝ͅi̴̤͙͔͓͓͙̙̲̲͍̣̱͐͒̿̈́̏̓̉̒̐͊̕͝f̸̨̨̗̯͍̟̓e̷̩͓̝̟͈̟̮̟̩̝͚̣͉̲͆͒͆̑͋̽̒̊ͅ ̷̡̨̛̮͈͇̤̜͓̯̮̟́͆̔̓̏̒̂͗̿̈́̌̑͘͜͜ṫ̴̢̛̜͖͇̯̙̖̠̭̞̫͈̟̬̑͋̌o̸̳̳͖̟̬̞̰͍͇̊̈̒̂̾̽̔̀̄̈́̕͠͝ ̵̥̖̲̼̰͍̖̞̩̤̜̱̻̱̊̌̓́̔̀́̈́̈́̍͆͘͠ͅģ̷̛̫̪͔̼̜̙̤́͗̋́̈́͘͝ơ̷̢̡̢̝̝̤̠̣̗̫͎̦̜̖̑̌̒̑̈̎͗͝

Grian jumps, and his items scatter across the desert to dissolve.