Chapter Text
Scott couldn’t sleep.
There was no real reason for it- the Crastle was peaceful, or as peaceful as it could be when the war had only paused for the night. Scar and Grian had fallen asleep quickly, and though Tango and Impulse had both been shifting for a long time they, too, had settled. Bdubs was on the top floor- he’d insisted on taking the watch, and no one had really felt like arguing with him.
There was no reason for him to be here, curled between two chests and turning his wedding ring over and over and over, instead of fast asleep in the corner he’d been pointed to. But he couldn’t sleep.
Jimmy was… gone.
Sweet, clumsy, foolish Jimmy, who had defied the Red Army just to see Scott safe, who had never really wanted to hurt or kill anyone. Beloved Jimmy who hadn’t deserved what he got.
His husband Jimmy. Gone. Really gone.
When Scott had first died, he’d been thrown utterly off balance by the sudden lack, the feeling of a third of his soul missing. Jimmy had described it, but he hadn’t been prepared for the feeling, and it’d left him gasping.
It was nothing, nothing, compared to the feeling of seeing Jimmy’s name on his communicator screen. Realizing he was dead, and then realizing that he was gone.
None of them had known before that their final deaths would leave bodies behind. Scott hadn’t known, until he’d arrived at the desert to see the Red Army walking away with Jimmy’s-
With Jimmy.
He hadn’t been able to do anything. He had no armor, no weapons, no shield. He’d only had a bunch of extra potions, and clearly he wasn’t much use with those either, considering he’d dropped the poison and left himself weak and nauseous until it wore off.
And then they were back into the war, stumbling through the forest, and there was no time to think between scavenging for armor and fighting with Martyn and struggling not to lose another life. Burning Etho’s castle had settled something dark and vindictive in his chest, a little bit, and so had Skizz’s death when it came.
But now, it was over for the night, and Scott was still restless. And so, so angry.
It wasn’t fair. Jimmy shouldn’t have been the first to die- it should have been Ren, who’d painted a target on his own back, or Scar, careless enough that he’d been the first to yellow and to red, running around with his llamas and his bees. It shouldn’t have been Jimmy.
Above him, he heard Bdubs sigh and start to pace, and he swallowed down the urge to scream.
Maybe it was unfair, to be so angry and so grief-stricken when Bdubs had lost just as much as he had, but- but at least he’d been there. Not able to help, maybe, but able to be there. He’d told them later, as he showed them the grave that he and Tango had dug, that left dirt still beneath their nails, about the free pass Skizz had offered. To collect her body, and bring it back to the Crastle.
It wasn’t an honor that Scott had been offered.
Even Skizz had gotten a burial, after he’d ripped two lives away. They’d brought his body out to the drawbridge and let the Red Army collect it, after a brief whispered discussion- Scott had almost wanted to keep it away from them purely out of rage, but the idea of leaving it somewhere in the Crastle to taunt them sounded worse. So back home he went.
And away from home Jimmy stayed.
Scott barely restrained himself from punching the chest beside him, tapping his fist against it instead, and pulled his wedding ring off to turn it over in his hands for a moment before he put it back on. Then, he pulled out his communicator.
You whispered to Renthedog: ren
Renthedog whispered to you: major?
You whispered to Renthedog: i want a truce
You whispered to Renthedog: just for an hour
Renthedog whispered to you: why?
You whispered to Renthedog: i want his body
There was a long minute of silence.
Renthedog whispered to you: Dogwarts’ gates are open to you
Scott was on his feet before he really knew what he was doing, turning back towards the stairs, and only hesitated for a moment.
It was probably a trap. It made sense, strategically speaking, for them to take the opportunity he’d just given them, use this as a chance to weaken their team just a bit more. There was no guarantee that he wouldn’t just be killed the minute he stepped inside the walls. If any of his allies knew what he’d be doing, they would probably ask what the hell he was thinking.
But then again, none of them had to watch the Red Army walk away with their husband’s body, so he wouldn’t expect them to understand.
Scott didn’t bother gathering his weapons before he left. If it was a trap, it’d be stupid to lose them.
Instead, he crept downstairs, past Impulse and Tango, past Scar and Grian, over the hastily-patched hole at the doorway, and out the door.
Dogwarts wasn’t far away, and there was shouting from the walls as soon as he was seen, quickly aborted once he came in earshot. There was the creak of bowstrings, but he didn’t bother looking, just met Ren at the open gates.
“Lower your weapons,” Ren snapped, voice leaving no room for argument, and when both of them did Scott was grateful for the first time that they’d chosen to bow to a false king. “Major.”
“Where is he?”
The others, who had been whispering in the back, went dead silent. Ren looked at him with something heavy and not quite remorseful, like a cousin to regret.
“Follow me,” Ren said, and Scott did.
He trailed him blindly through the fields until finally he was standing in front of a plain door, which he tilted his head towards.
“He’s in there.”
Scott didn’t respond, just stepped forwards. He hesitated for a moment, hand on the doorknob, before he pushed it open, and behind him he could hear Ren murmur something quiet to the others.
And there was Jimmy, before him, looking as beautiful and as young as the day they’d met.
Scott knelt beside him, trembling, and touched his cheek with his fingertips. He almost recoiled at how cold he was, but he collected himself, and brushed Jimmy’s hair out of his eyes as gently as he could.
He looked peaceful, somehow, his expression soft and relaxed. Like he was only sleeping, like he’d wake up at Scott’s touch and smile when he saw his face, and Scott would scold him for going and dying on him again and Jimmy would apologize for letting Scott die even though he didn’t need to apologize, the noble idiot, and Scott would cling to him because god, Jimmy, I thought I’d lost you.
But he wasn’t sleeping. And he had lost him.
There was a bandage around Jimmy’s throat where the arrow must have struck, and Scott worried at the edges of it, feeling the rough texture under his fingertips.
Who had done it? Ren? Martyn? Skizz, even? Was it the same person who’d washed the sand from his hair and the blood from his face? The same person who’d laid him out here with such care and gentleness, like he was resting?
Scott leaned over and touched his forehead to Jimmy’s, just for a moment, then pressed his face against his chest, fingers trembling where they clutched at his jacket.
“I’m sorry, Jimmy,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I left you there alone.”
Had he been scared? He must have been. Jimmy had been terrified once he got to red, even if he tried not to be, even if he didn’t show it when Scott was forever calling after him.
He’d been an awful red, really. He wasn’t like Scar who’d been delighted that he was terrifying, or Skizz with his bloodlust, or Ren who’d wanted to be dangerous. He was just… Jimmy, the same Jimmy he’d always been, kind and nervous and a little overenthusiastic, who’d been so reluctant to hurt anyone. Who was so scared, of the Red Army, of losing Scott, of dying.
He hadn’t deserved this.
And he hadn’t deserved to die without Scott there to tell him it’d be alright.
Scott stayed there for a long time, head pressed against his husband’s unmoving chest, and he didn’t cry even though he wanted to. Eventually, though, he had to sit up, and he traced a finger along the cuff of Jimmy’s jacket.
Scott used to steal it, sometimes, when things were easier, and tease Jimmy about it as he pouted. Somehow, it hadn’t been destroyed yet- there were a few tears, some burns where Jimmy had gotten too close to fire, but nothing unsalvageable.
What’s mine is yours, Scott had used to tease him, when he protested the theft, and they had both known already that Jimmy didn’t really mind but he’d still grinned when Scott had said it, and conceded.
What’s mine is yours, Scott thought now, bitterly, and carefully pulled the jacket off. The weight didn’t feel right on his shoulders, but it was comforting.
Jimmy’s ring glinted faintly in the low light, the twin to his own, and Scott took that as well, holding it carefully in his hand. He rose to his feet and went to the door.
“Do you have a piece of string,” he rasped, and was surprised by the wretchedness of his own voice.
Ren frowned. “What for?”
Resisting the urge to hold it to his chest protectively, Scott opened his hand and displayed the ring.
Ren looked at it for a long moment, expression unreadable behind his glasses. Then, he reached up and unclasped something from his own neck- a simple black chain. He held it out. Scott took it.
He threaded the chain through Jimmy’s ring and put it on, and the ring rested against his heart, cold against his skin.
“I’m taking him home,” he said.
Ren glanced up at the moon above their heads. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“I’m not waiting,” Scott snapped. “I am going to take my husband home, Ren.”
“If you won’t wait, let someone come with you,” Ren suggested, voice maddeningly level. “You can’t carry him and defend yourself from mobs at the same time.”
“I don’t want your help,” Scott snarled. He was near-frantic and he knew it, but he felt crushed, terrified, for no reason at all. More than that, he felt furious, the pressure in his chest from seeing Jimmy’s body rising and burning into something ugly.
Ren inclined his head. “Be that as it may, if you try to leave now, alone, you will not make it home.”
Scott bit down on something cutting. Because- he was right, even if he didn’t want to admit it. If he tried to take Jimmy home alone, with no way of defending himself, he’d be killed by mobs before he made it, and Jimmy’s body would lie in the woods somewhere.
“If you would like, Martyn can go,” Ren offered. “Both of you are yellow. You can’t harm each other.”
“You say that like the rules still apply,” Scott said flatly.
“It’s more of a guarantee than you’d have with me or Etho.”
Scott looked up at Martyn, whose expression was carefully neutral, and for a moment he hated him so fiercely that he wanted to rip him to pieces with his bare hands.
But he had to get Jimmy home.
“Fine,” he said, and turned back.
Jimmy’s body was easy to carry, and he tried not to think about the weight of his head against Scott’s shoulder as he walked to the gates.
“For what it’s worth,” Ren called after him. “If that’s anything at all. I’m sorry things turned out this way.”
“I don’t care,” Scott said, and left.
He didn’t pay attention to Martyn’s footsteps following him out, or the soft sounds of bowstrings that preceded a mob dissolving. Jimmy was heavy and utterly still in his arms, and the feeling of his hair against his cheek was near-overwhelming.
There was a whizz of an arrow, and Marytn stepped into view, scarlet shield held up in front of Scott. The arrow hit with a thunk, and Scott noticed idly that it would have gone through his shoulder if Martyn hadn’t stopped it.
He didn’t bother to thank him.
There was a creeper hiss, and the sound of Martyn’s sword, and ridiculously Scott thought of Martyn’s creeper pranks from when everything started, before the Red Army rose and the lines of war were drawn and friendship became a luxury. Jimmy had been so startled by it, and they’d laughed at him together, and there had been no discussion of sides or betrayals or sacrifices. Everything had been so much brighter, then.
When had they fallen apart? Surely there had to have been a point where everything changed- was it when Jimmy burned the banner? When Ren went red on purpose? Earlier than that?
He couldn’t remember how they got here- how the three of them ended up like this, one dead, the second with his blood on his hands, the third ready to burn the world to ashes. At the beginning, they’d all been green, and Scott’s biggest worry had been making the valley cute, and it had all been fine, really.
Now Scott and Martyn were yellow. And Jimmy was gone.
The wall- the second wall, since Joel had burned the first to nothing- rose before them, and Scott stopped at the entrance.
“You can’t come in,” he said.
“Fair enough.”
Scott walked inside, and had to swallow a sudden rush of tears at the sight of the valley.
Nothing had changed. Nothing at all.
And of course it hadn’t- they were tucked away from the fighting, not like Dogwarts or the Crastle or the desert, and no one had any reason to come here since Scott and Jimmy had left before… everything.
Scott laid Jimmy on the grass as gently as he could and turned slowly, trying to find the right place for a grave. When he turned back towards the wall, he frowned.
Martyn hadn’t left- was sitting on top of the wall, bow in hand and shield in easy reach, occasionally sending an arrow out into the forest beyond the walls. He seemed to be… watching Scott, out of the corner of his eye.
He turned when he realized Scott was looking, and for a moment their eyes met, yellow to yellow, and neither of them spoke.
There wasn’t any reason for Martyn to be there, really. Scott had thoroughly spawnproofed the entire area, enough that he wasn’t in danger from mobs- even if he had been, Martyn had only been sent to make sure he got home safely, not protect him once he was there. It made more sense for him to leave, turn his back the minute Scott had made it inside the walls.
And it made more sense for Scott to want him to. To scream at him, threaten him, shoot him because really it didn’t matter that they were both yellow. To be angry and vengeful and not be able to look him in the eye without wanting to rip his throat out with his teeth.
You killed my husband, Scott thought, and it was just… tired.
He turned away.
It was almost painful to leave Jimmy in the grass, even for just a moment, but he slipped inside his house just briefly to collect stone and a worn iron shovel before he returned to Jimmy’s side.
There was a hill overlooking the valley that Jimmy had always liked- Scott had found him there so many times, sprawled out in the grass and flowers, almost glowing in the sunlight. Once, on an evening lit by the setting sun, Scott had seen him and thought foolishly of angels, with the way Jimmy’s hair formed a halo around his face, lashes shining golden when he blinked up at Scott, and he’d let himself be pulled down beside him and tangled their fingers together, and he’d thought this, this, this is all I want, this entire server can go to hell and I’ll stay here forever.
And then war had broken out, and they hadn’t had the time for things like that anymore, and now Scott was carrying his husband up to dig his grave.
The shovel broke partway through the digging, so Scott just threw the pieces aside and kept going with his hands, and his arms were sore and his hands were aching and there was dirt beneath his nails and his breath was coming ragged and gasping but there was a grave in front of him.
He considered, for a moment, picking flowers for Jimmy to hold, but all the flowers in the valley still wouldn’t be enough. So he didn’t.
Scott reached out to lift him again, but his hands left smudges of dirt on his cheeks and there was nowhere to wipe his hands, so he stumbled back down the hill to the lake, blinking what could have been sweat and could have been tears out of his eyes.
He tripped when he was almost at the bottom, vision too blurry to navigate safely, and fell the rest of the way, landing hard in the grass. There was the clanking of armor as Martyn moved, but he stilled again when Scott shifted, rolling onto his back and covering his face with his hands.
For a while, he just stayed there, breathing.
Eventually, he dragged himself to his feet, and knelt by the lake, dipping his hands in. Most of the dirt scrubbed off easily, but there was still bits of stubborn mud beneath his nails, impossible to get out.
When his hands were mostly clean, he headed back up to the grave and wiped the dirt from Jimmy’s face before, carefully, he lowered his body into the grave.
He looked smaller, lying there.
Scott closed his eyes and shoved the first heap of dirt back into the grave.
He tried not to think about it, tried not to register the sound it made as it fell, and carefully he shoved pile after pile of dirt into the grave.
Partway through, he made the mistake of looking down, and the sight of Jimmy’s face half-covered in dirt made him choke, a panicky feeling clawing up his throat and making his head spin.
He’s not going to be able to breathe, Scott thought hysterically.
By the time he could bring himself to keep going, there were tears on his cheeks, and his hands were shaking so badly he could barely shove the dirt in. The air smelled earthy and sickly-sweet from the flowers, and mobs groaned from beyond the walls, though Martyn continued shooting them intermittently.
Finally the grave was filled, and Jimmy was buried, and Scott collapsed against the disturbed dirt, gasping for air.
Half-blind with tears, he pulled himself up and stumbled over to a red tulip, waving cheerfully in the wind, and, as gently as he knew how, dug it from the ground.
It was simple, with the dirt still so disturbed, to plant it over the grave. When it was done, Scott sat back and scrubbed his hands over his face, even though it smeared mud across his cheeks more than it got rid of the tears.
“I’m sorry, Jimmy,” he choked out, and bent forwards, until his forehead was nearly touching the ground.
He stayed like that for a long time. Eventually, though, he pulled himself to his feet and made his way down into the valley again.
Jimmy’s house was quiet and empty, and the sight of it made Scott feel a little bit sick as he hesitated, scuffing his feet over the grass and considering the door. Eventually, though, he took a deep breath and opened the door.
The house was nothing remarkable, really. It was forever messy, which was so Jimmy that it hurt, but not really very lived in- usually, they both migrated to Scott’s house, and as a result neither of them spent much time in Jimmy’s.
Scott jumped through the false painting and looked down at the half-eaten cake left on the ground, and managed to crack a smile.
He’d made it mostly on a whim, something harmless to tease Jimmy with, maybe get him to roll his eyes at him the way he did when he was exasperated but so, so fond. And it had worked- Jimmy had been so worried, and pouted when Scott explained, and then they’d sat in this little room and ate cake together.
It wasn’t a very good cake. Not terrible, but the texture was somehow off, and the frosting was far too sweet, almost enough to be sickening. But they’d both eaten it anyway, and Jimmy had gotten white smudged across his cheek and laughed with Scott when he pointed it out, and they’d lingered far longer than they needed to.
It wasn’t a good cake, but it was… it was the last time he’d gotten to see Jimmy smile like that.
Robotically, Scott turned away, walked out of the room and out of the house.
It didn’t take long to board up Jimmy’s door, sloppy but enough to keep anyone from entering, and when he was done he stood in the middle of the valley, staring into the water. His reflection stared back, and it wasn’t anyone he recognized.
Grief was constricting his throat, compressing his lungs, and the emptiness of the valley was a twisted mirror of the clawing emptiness that had chased him since he first saw the message, and rage was burning slow and heavy in the pit of his stomach but Skizz was dead and there was nothing left to avenge, he had so much love and nowhere to put it down.
Scott crumpled to his knees and screamed.
The sound echoed off the walls, and ragged sobs tore their way from his throat, shattering and impossibly heavy. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop shaking, just wrapped his arms around himself in a mockery of comfort and cried.
He was alone. The valley was empty and Jimmy was dead and there was nothing left. His chest was caving in and a third of his soul was gone but so was half of his heart and there was nothing left.
There was nothing left.
An arrow flew past him, and he jerked to look just in time to see a spider dissolve into white smoke, mere feet from him. When he looked, Martyn was lowering his bow, and there was something twisted and sad in his expression, and Scott wanted to hate him.
You killed my husband. You killed my husband and you just saved my life.
Scott folded in on himself, pressed his forehead to the ground like a prayer for something that would never return, tore the grass to shreds and choked on his own despair. There was a feeling in his stomach like he’d swallowed the void, like he was being taken apart from the inside out, and he wondered if this is what it felt like beneath bedrock, if this is what falling out of the world felt like, some invisible force taking you apart so you’d hang there dying forever.
He curled on his side in the grass, somehow both numb and agonized, and stared blankly out over the water. Lying like this, he could just see Martyn on the wall, some kind of silent sentinel. His shield was just barely visible, and the flash of brilliant red made Scott want to rip his guts out but then he rose and took out his bow and a skeleton toppled into a pile of bones before it could even take a shot over the walls.
Maybe it should have felt wrong, having a breakdown in front of a man whose head he’d wanted on a pike, whose throat he’d tear out at the slightest opportunity, but the valley was too big and too silent and Scott was dissolving but the sound of another person on the wall kept him from drifting away entirely.
Neither of them spoke. Scott cried, and Martyn defended him, and Jimmy’s grave watched over them both.
Eventually, the sun rose.