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The dragon was dead, and the world was too quiet.
Pixl hadn’t moved from where he knelt in hours; he was still wearing his armor, the plates digging uncomfortably into his skin, and despite the desert heat his clothes were still damp and clinging where they were pressed underneath his armor. His head was spinning and there was blood drying on his skin and his vision was spotty with how long he’d been staring at the lights and it was too quiet.
Even in the city, there was supposed to be the sound of animals, both domestic and wild; the soft sounds of vultures, the buzzing from the bees, the acrid calls of distant birds, a soft, inconsistent background noise that never quite ceased. Instead, it was silent, the animals having scattered to their dens.
Worse, he was supposed to be able to hear people, and instead-
Pixandria was never silent. Even at midday, when the citizens sheltered from the heat, or at night, there was a constant chatter of activity, a simple consequence of so many people close together. He should have been able to hear more than low, worried whispers, the barest hint of footsteps as someone darted back to their house to hide.
No one had approached him, since he’d returned. He had been left to his repentance in solitude.
His knees ached from so long spent kneeling on the path. The candle in front of him had been burning for a long, long time, leaving it just a stub of wax finally nearing its end, and the fact that he hadn’t moved could mean only one thing, only one message to every Pixandrian who saw him.
To burn a candle out to nothing meant that a life had been lost forever, given back to the world, or perhaps stolen from it. To bear witness to its burning, without rest or words, meant the blood was on his hands, the blade his, the blame his.
Finally, finally, the flame went out, the wick too small to sustain it any longer. Pixl blinked away the afterimage and stirred.
He almost fell as he stood, but he caught himself just in time, leaning on the edge of the Vigil for a moment before he straightened.
He couldn’t stay.
Not at the Vigil, certainly; and if he was unworthy of the Vigil then he was unworthy of Pixandria. He had no right to be here, standing in its holy light, casting his shadow across the ground, not when he had so thoroughly failed his duties in not even an hour.
He had failed as a leader, too prideful to admit he did not have the answers, too selfish to realize the consequences of what he was doing; he had failed as a guardian, too reckless to understand he was dooming his people. Worst of all, he had failed as lightning-chosen, Vigilkeeper, Pixandrian.
Witnessing a candle burning, as king, as copper-fingered savior, was the worst thing he had ever done, the gravest sin he’d ever committed.
Pixandria did not stir as he walked to the northernmost edge of the city, and kept walking. There was no one to watch as he fumbled for the straps of his armor, letting it fall clumsily into the sands as if it meant far less than it did.
He hesitated when he pulled his trident from his back, eyes tracing the engravings.
The Riptide trident, he would keep; it wasn’t something only the Copper King could carry, just a way for him to get around quicker, same as it was for the messengers. Rare, but not sacreligious.
The other one, though… that, only one who had been chosen by the storms could carry. The power to call upon their ancestors, use their strength as his strength, their courage as his courage- it was an honor, a privilege, an impossibly-heavy duty. It was as much a mark of the Copper King as the crown or the Vigil was.
But surely to be held in unworthy hands was better than to be left in the desert like forsaken bones.
He kept the trident in his hands as he walked, leaning on it for support. He felt both heavier and lighter without his armor, his body and his heart aching in equal measure.
He’d never been a man of omens, but he wished it would rain.
It was a long, quiet walk until he reached the village, and he almost collapsed with relief at the sight. It was- hopefully- a place to stay, just for a little while, while he got his head together and decided what to do.
The village, too, was deathly quiet, and the skinny cats that haunted its streets slunk out of sight, the dog sprawled across a doorstep growling when he got too close. He tightened his grip on the trident- mostly habit, really- and kept walking.
There were eyes in the windows, hard and cold, and dread was rising in his throat even before a young woman with a sword in her hand and copper braided across her brow.
“King,” she said, flatly.
“Captain,” he said, and bowed his head.
“We don’t want you here.”
“...I know,” he admitted. He’d known since he entered the village.
“We’re not willing to go to the storm yet,” she said brusquely, knuckles whitening around the hilt of her sword. “There is wax on your hands, Copper King. You are a danger to us.”
“I understand,” he said, softly, and she stepped aside.
He could feel the eyes, watching as he left, burning worse than the midday sun, burning into his back as he went. The sensation didn’t fade long after he’d walked far from the village, the sun bleeding deep red across the sands.
He found a shallow cave when the winds began, lighting his way with a flickering torch and blocking off the entrance as soon as he had a few blocks. It wasn’t a moment too soon, and soon enough the winds were howling outside, dust lashing against the barrier, dry as ash.
Pixl fell asleep and dreamed of lightning.
When he woke up, it was to the pale, endless sky. The winds had quieted, and he could hear faint groans of monsters on the side that led deeper into the cave.
He needed to do something. He couldn’t hide in this cave forever, wasting away, a useless artifact of a once-glorious kingdom. The trident was humming almost imperceptibly in his hands, making his palms tingle where he held it, and it was a tether up his arms, a line dragging him ever forwards.
He was a man of copper and thunder, and inaction was never his forte. Wax-stained hands could still build, wax-stained hands could still help his people. With or without his station, his title, his kinghood, he could still be of use.
We’re not willing to go to the storm yet, the villager had said, and he wasn’t either- not without helping to fix what he’d broken.
But he couldn’t quite be the Copper King any longer.
One by one, he took off his crown, his bracers, the myriad bits of ornamentation that marked him as king. He couldn’t bring himself to leave them on the stone, and instead he tucked them into his bag, out of sight.
From there, he crept down further into the cave, footsteps as quiet as he could manage. He needed copper- for what, he couldn’t quite say, except that wearing none made him feel itchy and unsafe, too light without the subtle weight of it.
His own copper braids symbolized more than simply an anchor on his soul, which was why he couldn’t wear them now; still, the absolute lack of them was uncomfortable.
He took a few hits that he probably shouldn’t have, too used to having armor that left him near-untouchable, before he remembered how to use his shield, gritting his teeth as the arrows scratched the paint.
He moved back out of their view and scrambled for food, but he came up empty, but for a few scraps of zombie meat, putrid and nauseating.
He’d forgotten to bring food.
Of course he’d forgotten food, of course this was what he was reduced to- the once-great Copper King, eating rotten flesh in a cave like a dog so he wouldn’t bleed out. He tried not to think about it.
Still, it kept him on his feet, and he fought until the skeletons collapsed, bones shattering into no more than a fine powder as they hit the ground. A creeper hissed at him, half-lit gunpowder lighting a trail down its throat to its stomach, and he sheltered behind the shield as it exploded.
Coughing, he waved away the dust of rock and sandstone, brushing it from his hair, and refocused, only to notice-
Wait. Sandstone. He was too far underground for that- it only formed within a few meters of the surface, not in caves.
Curious now, he dug through the stone above it and went still.
There was a structure inside, clearly manmade, with the same kind of architecture as in Pixandria; honeycomb and dripstone, copper and sandstone. It’d been sheltered from the press of rock somehow, even as the world fell down around it, and looking at the copper altar in the middle, he thought he might know why.
Was his trident… humming?
He took it off his shoulder and sure enough, it was alive in his hands, purring with electricity in a way he’d never experienced before. There were tiny sparks leaving trails through the air when he moved it, leaving a light-shadowed trace of the prongs.
Unbidden, he sank to his knees.
There was a power here, drawing him forever inwards, towards the place where something altogether different from mist was spiraling down into the copper. He let it draw him forwards, setting the trident on the ground and holding a hand out over the altar.
He didn’t touch it, and the mist curled around his fingers, whispering in some quiet, unnatural way. It sounded like rain.
There was a shallow indentation in the altar, and he considered it for a moment. Clearly, it was missing something, some extra piece or sacrifice.
If there was an artifact, it’d surely have been lost to time; he’d have to hope it was a sacrifice.
Most of the time, Pixandrian shrines to the ancestors required something of value- food, usually, that which nourished. He didn’t have much, and even then he wasn’t sure if this would be the same, but he set the last of his scraps of rotten flesh on the altar anyway. There was no reaction, and he took it back.
Not food, then, or at least not food that he could acquire. Something valuable, then.
He pulled out his pickaxe- it was probably the most valuable thing he owned, the only netherite he’d brought. Still, the altar didn’t respond when he set it down, and he couldn’t help but be faintly grateful.
It was clearly a Pixandrian design; would it take copper? He didn’t have much, but he’d collected some raw copper, hoping that he could at least braid the traditional anchors for one too many times dead, mark himself as Pixandrian rather than a wanderer with no homeland to speak of. If the shrine required it, though, he was ready to give it up.
That didn’t gain a reaction either, and he frowned, getting to his feet to go see if there was an artifact somewhere that he’d missed. Most of the time, the ancestors required one of the things he’d already tried, not like Mythland sacrifices of blood or the cod in Jimmy’s lands.
There was nothing that he could find, just sand and dust and the candles- in his own color, he noted with a bit of wry amusement- and he returned to the shrine to kneel.
He set his hands on his thighs, bowed his head, and closed his eyes.
Some Pixandrians, he knew, prayed to the ghost of Pixandria for mercy or gentle death; he’d never been one of them, and the Copper Kings of old would find him whether he asked or not, an endless line of his king and their king and their king and their king stretching back to the birth of the Vigil, all of them now lightning and long-faded candlesmoke. Still, he knew the theory.
“Please,” he murmured, breath barely enough to stir the dust. “I want to serve you but I don’t know what you need- I want to help but I don’t know what to do.”
Tell me what to do.
There was a tugging in his fingertips, and he wasn’t sure if it was real but he followed it, opening his inventory and pulling out something small and smooth.
He opened his eyes to find a totem in his hands, and he blinked. Of course. This wasn’t like the shrines of modern Pixandria- this shrine wanted life.
He let his hand open, the totem falling onto the altar, and then his vision went white as agony shot up his arm.
For a moment, he thought he’d done something wrong, angered the very spirits he was trying to appease, as lightning crashed loud enough to make his head spin and for a moment everything, everything, everything was pain- but eventually it cleared, and he was gasping, clutching his hand to his chest.
There was a burn like a fractal etched into his skin, beginning at his fingertips and reaching up underneath his singed sleeve, aching and tingling all the way up to his shoulder and back. It looked… not wrong, but odd somehow, like it was…
It was the color of copper. When he touched it, the texture was different from his skin, metallic and smooth.
There was another title for Pixandrian kings, he remembered dizzily- the copper-fingered king, with protection built into their very body, and though it was mostly symbolic the lines weren’t going away.
Somewhere above the surface, thunder grumbled.
The following night found him sitting around the village fire, warm despite the chill for once, with a bowl in his hands.
It was more than he’d had in days- the villagers had let him stay after he’d driven off the monsters wandering the streets, though there were still suspicious murmurs from the plain fact that he was unfamiliar. He was content to sit quietly while they talked- he had a fire and food and a glove to hide the copper scarring, and that was all he needed.
“So, stranger,” someone said to him suddenly, and he looked up. “Where are you from?”
“The city,” he said, and took another sip of the soup. There was a soft round of interested noises.
The person who’d spoken before leaned forwards, bracing their elbows on their knees and watching his face. Absently, Pixl noticed the pattern of copper braids in their hair- a soldier, then, probably the protector of this village, though the regional differences meant they weren’t quite the same braids as would be seen on a city soldier.
“You’re from the city? Maybe you can clear up some rumors, then,” they said. “Is it true the king’s missing?”
Pixl traced a fingertip around the rim of the bowl. “I’ve been gone a long time. I’m not exactly… up to date.”
It was… perhaps not strictly true, counting by the simple number of days. Still, it felt far, far longer than it had been.
And he didn’t particularly want to say that he was the missing king.
“I heard he sat vigil before he left,” someone volunteered.
“Doesn’t he always-”
“Sat vigil,” the speaker corrected, clearly exasperated. “Like, there’s wax on his hands, sat vigil.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from everyone there. Pixl kept his head down.
“For who?” someone asked.
The speaker shrugged. “Dunno. Bet it’s connected to whatever happened, though.”
“You think he was to blame, Seila?” the soldier asked.
Seila huffed. “Why would I know? I just know that something changes, and then people are saying the king sat vigil and vanished. Do you have a better explanation?”
“...no,” the soldier admitted. “If it’s true, where do you think he’s gone?”
“I hope he’s gone somewhere to fix it,” a new voice said, loud and sharp, toying with the brim of the battered farmer’s hat in their hands. “Something’s wrong, you know it is. The animals know it too. If he did this and he’s not even gonna help-”
“We don’t know if he did anything,” Seila interrupted. “It’s just rumors.”
“He’s a good king,” someone else said. “If the ancestors chose him- we have to believe he’s worthy of it.”
“He left us leaderless,” the farmer pointed out. “There is no line of succession- the next king hasn’t been chosen.”
“Oh, come on,” Seila protested. “Give him a little benefit of the doubt.”
“Something is wrong,” the farmer said again. “Seila, if nothing changes we won’t survive this, you know we won’t. And I’ve heard the capital’s worse.”
“Hey, stranger,” the soldier said, looking to Pixl again. “What do you think?”
Pixl took a deep breath, tapping his spoon idly against the side of the bowl. “I think…”
What did he think? What should he have done?
“I think it is his fault,” he said. “And I think the king should have protected us, and he didn’t.”
Seila started to speak, then stopped, looking at him with an unreadable expression. He didn’t meet their eyes.
“He should have done better,” he murmured.
For a moment, it was silent.
“I think he did his best,” Seila said, slowly. “I think… if he came back, I’d forgive him.”
Pixl set down his bowl. Suddenly, he felt sick.
“I wouldn’t,” he said, and stood.
No one stopped him as he walked away, and he found himself almost at the edge of the village. He was still within the light, not yet in danger from any mobs, and he sat, taking his glove off so he could trace patterns in the sand.
There was a crunching of sand, and he jolted, reaching for his sword. Seila raised their hands in a pacifying motion, and he stared at them for a minute.
“Sorry to startle you,” they said.
He let the sword drop, and they sat nearby, digging idly in the sand. It was quiet for a while, and he didn’t try to break it.
“Are you planning on staying?”
It took him a moment to get his voice working, but eventually he managed to rasp, “Only for the night.”
“You can stay longer, if you want,” they said. “If you need.”
“I think I ought to go soon,” he said. “There’s things I need to do.”
Their gaze flickered to his hand, and he swallowed, trying not to shift uncomfortably at the way they were studying the copper scarring on his skin.
“Alright,” they said. “Well. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“...Thank you,” he said.
“Is that really what you think of the king?” Seila asked.
“Yes,” he admitted. “Is that what you think of the king?”
They hummed, and laid back against the sand, raising a hand to trace out patterns in the stars idly. “Well, yeah. The rains came last night, and if the rains are still coming… then it’s gonna be alright, I think.”
He took a breath.
“Oh,” he said.
They got up, brushing sand off of their clothes and out of their hair, and offered a little wave before they left, sand crunching beneath their boots. Pixl remained where he was, trying not to pick absently at the copper in his hand.
They weren’t wrong. The rains had come, and though they’d come from his own actions… they wouldn’t have if the ancestors had forsaken him.
It was hardly proof. But it was at least something.
After all, he’d burned a candle and sat vigil and that wasn’t forgiveness, it didn’t guarantee forgiveness, but it wasn’t condemnation.
Pixl stayed there until the desert went quiet.