Archive of Our Own

The first time Scar meets Grian, he’s being cornered against the back of a perfume shop in the Sunflower District.

“Gentlemen,” he smiles, hands extending outwards. “Now, now, there’s no need for violence. If we could just—”

“I think there might be some need,” one of the devils in front of him snarls, stepping closer. He’s tall and lean, and Scar can see the glint of a rusted knife hidden in his sleeve. “Why don’t you give us back what you took and maybe, just maybe, we won’t report you to the Glim Macula.” 

Scar’s jaw tightens. The stolen glass jar is heavy in one of the many inner pockets of his coat. 

“There’s really no need for that,” he says, and the devils laugh. Scar’s hand twitches. The Macula can’t get involved—it was hard enough to get into Sapodilla. The devil in front of him grips his knife, teeth bared, and Scar reaches into one of his satchels and grips a handful of crushed red petals. And then—

His assailants fall to the floor on their knees. Scar watches, wide-eyed, as they start bleeding from the nose and mouth—except it’s not bleeding, because the blood looks like it’s being pulled, arching gracefully towards the floor. The devils choke on their own viscera, hands flailing and scratching at their throats.

Behind them steps forward a man. He’s wearing a red vest over white sleeves and a black skirt, and he looks small and nonthreatening. There’s a scarf wrapped around the lower portion of his face. Scar looks at the devils writhing on the ground and takes a step back, still clutching the flowers in his hand. 

“None of that,” the man says, voice ringing clear and sharp, and it stops Scar on his tracks. “It was hard enough to track you down. I don’t think you want to end up like this lot, do you?”

"No," Scar says, slowly. "I can't say I do." 

"Good." He steps across the bodies strewn on the ground and stands in front of Scar. "Now, I need the relic you stole from these guys." 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Scar says cheerfully, and the man raises an eyebrow. 

"Do you, now. Because they seemed pretty convinced." He takes another step forward. He's close enough that Scar could reach over and shoot him in the gut. "And so am I." 

Scar considers his options. He doesn’t fancy getting his insides pulled out through his mouth, and he needs to get out of here as fast as possible—they weren’t causing much ruckus, but Scar knows from personal experience that Blick has a nose for trouble.

"Okay," he shrugs, and flicks open his pocket. The liquid glows cyan blue under the sun, almost too bright to look at directly. He flips it towards the man, who stumbles trying to catch it. Scar smirks. 

"Kind of thought you'd put more of a fight," he says, squinting at Scar. He snorts. 

"This little trinket is not more valuable than my life.” Scar looks around him. They are, after all, in broad daylight, and the devils on the ground don’t seem to be moving. “Hey, we should get out of here.”

“Sorry?” The man tears his eyes from the shining bottle and blinks at Scar. 

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be found right by three disemboweled corpses.” 

“They’re not disemboweled,” the man says, looking almost offended. “They’re probably not even dead.”

“Probably?” Scar laughs. “You’re a fun one, aren’t you?”

The man frowns at him, like he’s trying to discern whether or not Scar is messing with him. Scar grins and offers out his hand.

“I’m Scar,” he says. The man squints, long eyelashes brushing over his skin, and clasps it in his.

“Grian,” he says. “I did just mug you.” He sounds a bit confused. Scar snorts and starts walking away, dragging Grian behind him, who gives a muffled shout of protest. Scar shushes him, looking around the corner to make sure no Macula are around. 

“All in the past,” he says, waving his hand. “I think the coast is clear.” Grian peeks over his shoulder. 

“I don’t see anyone,” he agrees. He steps forward and links his arm with Scar’s, pulling him forward. “Act natural. Also, it’s barely been five minutes.”

“Well, you seem like fun,” Scar says. “And I didn’t really need that, I just pocketed it. You seem more desperate.” Grian glares at him, but he doesn’t deny it. 

“So you just take things from important men for fun?” 

Scar smiles. “Oh, I take all kinds of things from all kinds of people.” Grian’s skirt brushes the fabric of his pants as it flares wide while they turn a corner. “Why were you so desperate for it?”

“I’m not desperate,” Grian snaps. His hand tightens on Scar’s arm. “But my employer has been looking for it for a long time.”

“Aah,” Scar nods. “Hired help, huh? Fancy.” Grian snorts.

“Not at all. My employer is—well, he’s my employer out of pure necessity. As soon as this contract is over, I’m leaving. Probably for the best not to show my face here for a while, in any case.” Scar hums in agreement.

It’s busy in Sapodilla today. The street markets crowd the streets, and there’s music playing somewhere, something light and beautiful.

“Where are you heading after this?” Scar asks. Grian gives him an odd glance.

“I’m not sure,” he shrugs. “Wherever Sangfielle takes me, I suppose. Maybe I’ll go visit Marrowcreek.”

Commotion bursts a street over from them. Grian twists around, standing on his tiptoes to look above the crowd, and then grimaces.

“We should hurry,” he says, and Scar watches as four members of the Glim Macula turn the corner, all of them wearing wicker baskets for heads and dressed in immaculate blue and white. 

“Oh, yikes,” Scar says, and laughs as Grian shushes him frantically.

“There!” One of the Glim Macula yells. He’s holding a flashlight on his shoulder, burning with a blue flame. Looking at it makes something buried deep in Scar shiver. Grian twitches next to him.

“Okay, come on,” Grian says, and breaks into a run holding Scar’s hand. 

“Where are we even going?” Scar pants as they rush through people and market stands. 

“I know a shortcut,” Grian says, and takes a sharp turn into an alleyway. “We can lose them.”

They make it out of Sapodilla ten hours later, the moon high in the sky. Grian has lost one of his earrings, and his skirt is torn. Scar’s coat is missing several of its pockets. They’re both filthy, tired and bloodied, but they are alive and free. 

They make their way silently through Scorpion Town, but no one pays them any mind here.

“I don’t think we’re going to be coming back here any time soon,” Scar whispers. Grian shrugs.

“I didn’t really mean for you to get implicated in all this,” he says, and Scar elbows him gently. 

“No, are you kidding? That was the most fun I’ve had in ages. Well, I could have done without the cops trying to kill us, but hey, I got a new friend out of it.” He smiles at Grian, who returns it hesitantly. 

They part ways quickly at the outskirts of town. Scar sees him disappear over the horizon as the suns start breaching the sky, a little melancholic. They probably won't cross paths again. That is the nature of these things, he thinks, and then he turns around and heads for Bell Metal Station.

The second time he meets Grian, he’s staying in Blackwick for the week. Scar is leaning against the wall of the Boundless Conclave, watching the bustle and buzzing of the town market, people coming and going, selling more or less illicit wares. Above him, the big fruits on the six redwoods are almost grown. Harvest will come soon. 

"What are you doing here?" 

Scar startles and pushes up the brim of his hat. In front of him stands Grian, arms crossed and brow furrowed. He's wearing a different vest, nicely embroidered, and his sleeves are rolled up in the heat. His hair is tied back with his scarf.

"Why, hello, Grian!" Scar smiles wide at him, and Grian scowls further. "Never thought I'd see you here." 

"That's what I should be saying to you." Grian looks at the building behind him and raises his eyebrows. "Didn't take you for a particularly religious man." 

"Well, that's silly," Scar laughs. "There's no such thing as that here. Gods live and breathe with us, you know." 

"Sure," Grian replies, wry smile on his face. 

"Why are you here, hm? Ooh, are you from Blackwick?" 

"No," Grian says, a distant look in his face. "Well—no, not really. I'm just here to pick up a friend." 

"Mysterious," Scar nods, and laughter bubbles out of Grian. It's a pretty sound. 

"It's really not," he says. "He's a very regular man." 

"Odd, if he lives here," Scar says. 

"Are you from Blackwick?" Grian raises an eyebrow. Scar waves a hand at him. 

"No, not at all. I'm from the Enschola Republica." 

"Of course you are," Grian murmurs, looking him up and down. 

"But I did live here for, like, a year! People are kind of standoffish, but the mines are amazing. Wait, maybe I know your friend!" 

"For my own sake, I hope you don't," Grian says, and Scar nudges him, laughing. 

"Grian!" A voice comes from the other side of the market. Scar watches, curious, as a devil makes his way towards them. 

He's tall and lanky, skin pale red with two horns sticking out of his head, and he's wearing a full suit; tie, cufflinks and all. His skin looks oddly waxy, Scar thinks. He must not get much sunlight. 

"Hey, Mumbo!" Grian brightens and smiles at him, pulling the man in for a hug. Mumbo folds into it awkwardly, like he isn't quite sure what to do with his arms. 

"You're all dressed up," Mumbo says, eyebrows raised. "What's the occasion?" Grian snorts. 

"Is our reunion not special enough to you? I haven't seen you in three months." 

"I know," Mumbo winces. There's an odd sound, Scar thinks, something like a low buzzing surrounding him. "It's been… a weird time." 

"I know," Grian sighs, and pats him in the arm. 

"Are you not gonna introduce me, G?" Scar tucks his head over Grian's shoulder and laughs as he whacks him on the chin.

"I would really rather not," Grian says, but then he sighs and gestures at Mumbo. "Scar, this is Mumbo, my best friend. Mumbo, this is Scar. He's—uh, a recent acquaintance." 

"Aw, Grian." Scar places a hand over his heart in mock hurt. "You wound me. Does all we've been through together mean nothing to you?" 

"You mean when I chased you down for stealing?" 

"I didn't steal it from you!" Scar crosses his arms. "Also, I thought we bonded there at the end. We escaped from the Glim Macula together!" 

Mumbo makes a sound, almost like he's choking on air. The buzzing gets louder for a second. 

"You got chased by the Glim Macula? Wait, when were you in Sapodilla? What did you even do?”  

Grian waves him off. 

"It was nothing," he says. "Barely a scuffle." 

"He pulled the entrails of three guys out of their mouths in the middle of the street in broad daylight," Scar tells Mumbo. Grian steps on his foot. "Ow!" 

"Grian," Mumbo starts, and Grian throws his hands up. 

"Oh, like you haven't done stupid things before." 

“Historically, no, not really,” he says, and Grian looks at him and snorts. Scar looks between the two of them, feeling like he’s missing out on the joke.

“Are you two traveling together?” 

Grian tilts his head in his direction.

“Yeah,” he says. “Mumbo’s looking for—he needs my help with something.”

“I’m looking for a book,” Mumbo tells him, and shrugs at Grian’s look. “You seem to like him well enough, he can’t be that untrustworthy.” 

Scar’s mouth breaks into a slow smile.

“Oh, Grian,” he starts, and Grian raises a hand.

“No,” he says. Scar laughs. 

“Okay, okay,” he says. “Do you two need any help?”

Grian looks at Mumbo again, who seems a bit awkward.

“I think we’ll be okay,” he says, and Scar raises an eyebrow.

“Two people isn’t a lot. What if you run into those mean skeletons from the lake?”

“I think we’ll be good on the skeletons,” Grian says. “Wait, you say that like you know them.” 

“They’re really weird,” Scar says. “And they yell a lot.” Grian squints at him, but he’s laughing a little. Scar smiles back, pleased.

“Actually,” Mumbo says, now looking thoughtful. “I think it’d be useful to have another person with us.” Grian startles and turns to look at him. Scar beams.

“I’ll be so useful,” he says. “You have no idea.”

"Okay," Scar pants, quickly rummaging through his pockets as he runs. "So when you said they were a little peeved with you, what you meant was—" 

"That they want to kill me, yeah." Grian flashes him a grin, wild and sharp. There's blood running down his face. On his other side, Mumbo is sprinting with mechanical motions, somehow not even breaking a sweat. 

They're eventually cornered into a cliff. Looking down, it stretches into a deep ravine, and Scar can't even see the bottom. 

"Okay," he breathes. "Give me a moment." 

Grian and Mumbo share a look as Scar kneels. 

"Oh, here it is," he says, pulling out a mess of bolts and gears. 

"What are you doing, exactly?" Mumbo sounds vaguely nervous. Scar doesn't pay him any mind. 

"You'll see in one second," he says, and then he spreads his hands with intent. The ink in his fingers seems to shift and move as he casts. 

The doorway is a shining oval, a flat doorframe suspended by nothing. Grian and Mumbo stare at it and Scar clicks his fingers. 

"Well, come on then, what are you waiting for? It'll work better if they don't see us go through." The sounds of their pursuers are getting louder and louder as they climb up the hill. 

Grian goes in first, shooting Scar a warning look. 

"If this is a trap, I will end you," he says. Scar grins at him. 

"Pinky promise?" Grian rolls his eyes and steps inside. That leaves Mumbo, nervously looking between the hill and the doorway and Scar. 

"I promise it's safe," Scar says. "Come on, with me." 

He takes Mumbo's hand in his and drags him inside. His skin is an odd papery texture, cold underneath Scar's fingers. 

Once the glow of the doorway has faded, Scar steps around in a circle, looking at the place they're in. 

It seems like some sort of cave, sanded down around the edges, with a tall ceiling and wet floors. If he strains, Scar can hear the lapping of ocean waves around them. In the center of the temple there's a giant statue of an octopus, tentacles twisting around itself. 

It's not very crowded, merely a dozen people milling about. Scar intercepts one of them and shoots them a wide smile. 

"Good evening," he says. 

"It's the morning," the person murmurs, not looking at him in the face. Scar isn't deterred. 

"Good morning, then! Could you tell me where we are?" 

This does seem to give them some pause, because they look up and squint at him, like they're sure Scar is playing some sort of prank on them. Scar keeps his expression friendly. 

"This is a temple to Sophion," they say, slowly. Scar nods and clicks his fingers. 

"Right, right, of course! Sophion, god of…?" 

This earns him a glare. "Goddess. Of voyages," they say. Scar nods. "And pain." And then they stomp away. 

"Thank you!" Scar yells after them. Then he turns to Grian and Mumbo, who are staring at him in quiet bafflement. "Well, settle in. We have an hour to kill." 

"Where are we?" Mumbo steps around in a circle and then bends to touch the saltwater lapping at the rock floor. His joints make an odd tearing noise as he does. 

"Uh, somewhere in Sangfielle?" Scar says. Grian gives him an incredulous look. “I don’t really pick the place, it’s sort of… random.”

“Okay,” Grian says, pushing his hair back. “Well, at least we’ve lost them. Wait, couldn’t you have done this when the Glim Macula were chasing us?”

“Yeah, technically,” Scar says. Grian gives him an incredulous look. “You seemed to have it under control.” Scar grins at him. “No, the actual reason is that the doorway will spit us back out in the same place we went in, so we would still have been in Sapodilla. It was more of a last resort thing. I didn’t think you would appreciate being stuck a thousand miles away.” 

“You were right in that,” Grian murmurs, turning around to look at the statue. There’s small flowers placed at its base, water lilies and hawthorns, and Mumbo is crouched next to them, brushing a finger over a petal. There’s a bee circling the stem. 

“Aw, look at that little guy! They really make their way anywhere, huh?” Mumbo gives him a startled look and laughs awkwardly, and Grian seems to be biting back a smile.

They’re right at the border of Aldomina when Scar sees Grian’s true form for the first time. 

He can see the Ringed City of Concentus in the distance as he stumbles his way over the empty train tracks, Grian and Mumbo at his heels. 

Behind them, the angel screeches. The world around them shifts as it gets closer, trees turning white then red then yellow, the ground seeping ichor and interstitial fluid. Eyes blossom on the rails as they run over them, wide and seeing. Scar’s head pounds from the ringing of bells and the grinding of teeth. 

“Can you do your thing,” Mumbo yells, but it comes off as a whisper, distant and viscous through the changed air. “Your doorway?”

“Too slow,” Scar pants. “If we stop moving—”

“It eats us, yeah,” Grian says. The skin in his hands is blistering, bubbling red and shiny. Scar watches as he bites his lip and nods to himself, once. “Okay, at my signal, look away.” And then he stops in his tracks and turns.

“What?” Scar falters. Mumbo, next to him, keeps his head down, but Scar’s eyes turn almost without his permission. 

Grian stands facing the angel, head tilted up, arms extended. And then something happens—his body glows and starts to shift. It doesn’t look like a transformation, exactly, more like the shedding of skin as something that doesn’t look humanoid stretches out a multitude of wings, floating up into the air. A thousand eyes open on their surface, glowing violet. Scar finds himself stuck in place, and the only reason he moves is because Mumbo links their elbows together and starts dragging him forward. 

“It stuns people, his true form,” Mumbo explains in a low voice as he runs, stumbling and uncoordinated. “Hopefully it’s enough to give us some distance.”

It is not. 

The angel, a terrible amalgam of bone and metal, limbs protruding in impossible ways, freezes for a split-second, the sound of tearing meat and soft chimes fading, before it seems to snap into attention again. Mumbo swears under his breath. 

“I was really banking on that working,” screams the roiling shape of feathers and pupils that is Grian, and then he throws himself against the angel.

The world warps as they collide, and for a moment it looks like the sparks will catch the angel on fire. 

Then it grips Grian, glowing form shimmering and twisting as it smashes him against the rails. Scar screams.

And he starts rummaging through his pockets. He knows it’s here, somewhere—Mumbo gives him a bewildered look as he stops running. 

“Trust me on this,” Scar tells him, and drops to his knees in the middle of the tracks.

The rusted metal isn’t the best surface for chalk, but it will have to do. Scar bites his lip as he traces the first line, slow and deliberate. He thinks of loud whistles, the hissing and screeching of brakes. 

Next to him, Mumbo makes a soft sound.

“Scar, are you—”

“If you have any other ideas,” Scar mumbles, tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth, “I would love to hear them.”

Mumbo is silent. A few meters away, Grian and the angel roll around, flashes of light and a sound like screaming gristle. 

“There,” Scar breathes, and traces the last line, a slanted diagonal. The Shape stares up at him, a little wonky and smudged, but there. Scar presses the tips of his fingers to it and prays, quiet and certain.

The whistle breaks the oppressive noise around them. Scar stumbles upright with Mumbo’s help and watches, exhilarated, as a train starts making its way past the horizon. 

“Grian! Get off that thing and step off the tracks!” He yells as he drags Mumbo to the side, and Grian’s form seems to ondulate, eyes closing and reappearing in different spots. He hopes that's affirmative. 

The train rams into the angel at high speed and it shrieks, bone splintering and meat grinding under the wheels. Scar grins, elated.

“Come on!” He yells at the other two, and takes a running start. “Before it gets too far!”

Grian screams at him, back in his human form, and Mumbo makes a garbled sound from behind him as Scar reaches for the door of the first carriage. He stumbles and almost falls, twisting his ankle, but he makes it. The train rumbles under his feet.

“Come on!” He repeats, waving at Grian and Mumbo, who are staring at him wide-eyed, almost in fear. “It’s the only way to outrun it!”

Because the angel isn’t dead—Scar isn’t sure what it would take to kill one. It’s slowly unfurling itself from the jumble of limbs and iron it has folded itself into.

Mumbo starts running before Grian. He’s not quite graceful, but there is something about the way he moves. Oddly coordinated, like he’s following a song and dance only he can hear. He makes it onto the train with only a bit of sliding. 

And then Grian. Scar gestures at him urgently, and he finally starts moving, a grimace fixed on his face. Scar leans forward, holding onto the train by the bar on the side, Mumbo hovering behind him, and reaches out. Grian’s hand is bloody and slippery as he grasps it, the boils having split and burst, but Scar keeps hold.

“Are you okay?” His hands flutter over Grian. He’s bleeding in places he wasn’t before, and he’s limping. But he’s here, and he’s whole. Grian waves him off, dazedly looking at the train.

“Can we please talk inside,” Mumbo says, clutching at the rail with white knuckles. “I feel like I’m about to be whisked away by the air.” 

“You’re light enough for it,” Grian mumbles, but he looks reticent. Scar opens the door to the compartment and offers him a hand. After a long beat, Grian takes it.

It’s not the weirdest train Scar’s been in. 

They step inside a narrow corridor, wooden floors and magenta walls. Peering through the windows Scar doesn’t see the outside, but instead an odd nebulous infinite mirror, like the train hallway is reflecting into itself over and over again. 

Grian drags the two of them over to a compartment and they sprawl on top of the seats, carpeted with moth-eaten velvet. 

“Fuck,” Grian mumbles, and when Scar looks over he’s pressing his hands to the window, leaving behind bloody fingerprints.

“Oh, I can help with that,” he says. Grian gives him a tense glance as Scar extends his hands and waits. Then, slowly, he places his own on top of Scar’s. Scar looks at them and hisses. “Jeez, G.” 

The blisters have all boiled over, leaving Grian’s skin bloodied and raw. He winces as Scar presses on his wrists, looking at the wounds carefully.

“Well, it wasn’t my fault that thing was chasing us, was it?” Grian snaps, but Scar thinks he looks more stressed and afraid than angry. “Ow, Scar! Are you just going to sit around and look at these, or can you actually help?”

Scar shushes him softly. He cradles Grian’s hands on his own, the spiderweb ink trailing up his hands shifting and moving as he traces a thumb over the arch of Grian’s hand, gentle. The wounds are stitched together with barely a thought, leaving behind smooth, unblemished skin. Grian blinks down at it and flexes his fingers, slowly.

“Huh,” he says. “You are a box of surprises, aren’t you.” Scar beams at him and taps his leg.

“I can fix this as well.” Grian nods mutely and Scar kneels before him, cradling his knee in his hand and placing a hand on his waist. Grian is a little pink in the face as Scar gets up after he’s done. “Oh, Mumbo, did you get hurt too?”

Mumbo glances at him from where he’s leaning against the window. He looks about to fall asleep, gaze distant. 

“No, I’m okay,” he says, and Scar frowns at the clear bite mark on his side. Even his suit is ripped.

“Are you sure?” He points. Mumbo blinks down at it and lazily pushes his ratty suit jacket aside.

Scar was right, he did get hurt. What he didn’t account for is the fact that his skin—is it skin?—is being mended shut by a swarm of bees, dancing in and out of the wound. There’s no blood or flesh, and it looks almost like torn beeswax. Scar squints. 

“Well, that explains the buzzing,” he says, and Grian puts his hands on his face as Mumbo snorts.

“I told you he wasn’t playing dumb,” Mumbo tells him, and Grian groans.

“No, apparently he’s actually stupid, which I’d wager is worse.”

“I—now hold on,” Scar says, still looking at Mumbo in fascination. “How was I supposed to know? You didn’t say anything!”

“What, you didn’t wonder what all the buzzing was?” Grian is looking at him with his hand resting on his palm, radiating exasperation, but there’s a small smile in the corner of his mouth.

“I mean, you just turned into a million eyes with feathers,” Scar points. “I’m not questioning it if someone buzzes.” Grian snorts. “That was very cool, you know. Really badass.” Grian smiles wider.

“Thanks,” he says. “You’re really bad at following instructions, by the way. It was a miracle that Mumbo could drag you away, with how bony he is.” Mumbo makes a protesting sound. “You can’t argue with me, you’re quite literally made out of wax and honeycomb.”

“I mean, I would have missed out on seeing you if I had looked away,” Scar says. “All in all worth some temporary paralysis.” Grian shakes his head, ears red. Mumbo sighs, a whispered oh my God to the side. 

“I would not have taken you to be so acquainted with the Shape,” Mumbo says, giving him a long look. Scar shrugs. 

“It can be useful,” is all he says. Grian recoils, his easy smile disappearing.

“It’s dangerous.”

“You didn’t have to get on,” Scar tells him. Grian bares his teeth and looks to the side.

“It is sort of fascinating,” Mumbo says, voice low, as he stares out of the window at the cascade of mirrored images. A bee stumbles out of his sleeve and bumps into the glass. Grian shakes his head at him.

“Is it going to let us off?” He asks the question in hushed tones, like he’s afraid the train will hear him. In his defense, it probably will.

“Oh, for sure,” Scar says. Grian raises his eyebrows at him, incredulous. “Is that what you’re so stressed about?” 

“Is that—yes, Scar!” Grian gestures around. “We could very well get stuck in here for—I don’t know—two decades! Until we die!” 

Scar places a hand on Grian’s arm gently. 

“We won’t,” he says. “You need to have some faith.” Grian scoffs, but he relaxes a bit under Scar’s touch. 

“You’re not a Shape Knight,” he says, looking Scar up and down. Scar laughs, throwing his head back.

“Oh, no! Absolutely not. I don’t have the conviction for it.” Grian hmms, still looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

“I don’t know how you even got into Sapodilla,” he murmurs.

“I’m very good at lying, Grian,” Scar tells him, leaning forward. Grian purses his lips. “And I’m not the sort of person they usually have trouble with, anyway. Not outwardly.”

“You know it, though,” Mumbo says. One of his bees has perched on top of Grian’s wrist, and he doesn’t move to dislodge it. “The train, that is. You know it.”

Scar looks at him. Something swirls at the bottom of Mumbo’s eyes. His pupils aren’t quite circular, Scar thinks. They look almost geometric in shape.

He shrugs again. Mumbo doesn’t insist. 

The train allows them to get off in Blackwick. It doesn’t dawdle, and a shrill whistle blows through the town as the three of them jump onto the platform barely seconds before it departs again. Scar watches it go with a half-smile on his face and an odd sort of melancholy in his heart.

“I was right, in the end,” he tells Grian some minutes later as they drag themselves over to Mumbo’s tiny flat. Grian elbows him, but he does nod reluctantly.

“You were,” he says. “Don’t get used to it.”

Mumbo says goodbye to them in Blackwick.

“I found the book I wanted,” he says. “And I need to—I want to study it. I think—some stillness will do me well.”

“Nothing’s ever still in Sangfielle,” Scar says from where he’s sitting at Mumbo’s table, emptying out his pockets. There’s rocks, bolts, petals, crushed herbs and splinters of rosewood. A pink marble rolls to the edge of the table and Grian catches it as Scar squints down at an old set of magnifying glasses.

“Yeah, Mumbo,” Grian wheedles. “Especially with the new station here. There’s going to be all sorts of people coming around. The town will change.”

“I know,” Mumbo frowns. “But I still want—I don’t know. Some quiet.” Grian nods and reaches over to pat his hand.

“I know. We’ll see you soon enough.”

“Oh, yeah,” Scar says, starting to stuff his pockets again. “We’ll come and tell you about all the cool stuff you’re missing out on.”

“Why are you even taking all that stuff out of your pockets if you’re just going to put it back in again without any rhyme or reason?” Grian flicks a pomegranate seed in his direction.

“I am not putting it in the same pockets, I will have you know. I keep a very particular organizational system for my coat.”

“Sure you do,” Grian snorts. “Is it shoving it on the first open pocket you can find?”

“I think you two will be okay without me,” Mumbo says to the empty air, and Scar and Grian laugh.

They’re deep below in the insides of a cave-turned-bunker when Scar starts hearing the howling.

“Oh, not this again,” he says under his breath, and Grian turns around to look at him.

“You good?” He’s kneeling next to a pile of abandoned cartridges, sorting them out and pocketing the ones still full of bullets. There’s a lantern next to him illuminating his face with a dull glow, and Scar is holding a torch, but everything else is caked in darkness, cloying and murky. Scar turns around in a slow circle, trying to make shapes out of the shadows. “Scar?”

Scar shushes him. His heart is beating hummingbird-quick in his throat, and the howling screeches loud in his head. 

“Do you hear that?” He whispers. Grian tilts his head and gets up. 

“I don’t hear anything,” he says, coming to stand next to Scar. He places a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay? You look—” Terrified, he doesn’t say, but he doesn’t have to. Scar feels it. 

“You need to get out of here,” he says, and Grian scoffs. 

“Yeah, right.” He takes Scar’s hand and squeezes it. On the other hand he’s already holding his blade. Scar breathes out. “I’m not going anywhere. Come on, tell me what’s wrong.”

The howling has turned into growling. Scar pulls out one of his pistols and cocks the hammer. 

“There’s this—nightmare,” he whispers. “It’s in my head, but sometimes it appears here, too. It’s trying to get me, but I don’t—if you get in the way—”

Grian snorts. Scar turns to look at him.

“Come on,” he says. “It can’t be that bad.”

The Ravening Beast melts off of the shadows onto the northern wall of the bunker. It looks exactly the same as Scar remembers, not-quite-fur black as obsidian, dripping with ichor, fractal teeth bared in a snarl. 

Scar shoots first. His hand doesn’t shake, but the shot glances off of it, resonating in the empty room. The Ravening Beast snaps its maw in his direction.

It is so fast, is the thing. It doesn’t move like a dog would, or even a wolf; instead it skitters around almost like a spider, circling them and lashing out with its blackstone claws. 

“Can we kill it?” Grian asks, calculating gaze fixed on it. He doesn’t look scared at all, and Scar has never been more grateful for his steadiness. 

“We can, but it'll come back.” Grian holds his blade higher and shrugs. 

“Then we’ll keep killing it,” he says. “I’m not letting some mind-dog take you away from me.”

Then he pounces, light on his feet. His skirt moves around him like flowing water. The Ravening Beast howls and screeches as the knife finds purchase below its jaw, tearing its neck open. It’s not blood that drips onto the floor but tar, sticky and pungent. The Beast snarls and snaps its jaw at Grian, catching his arm as he retreats.

Grian yells and drops his blade, swearing as he clutches his arm. It’s not terrible—Grian has had much, much worse. It still lights up a part of Scar’s brain that makes him rabid with anger.

“That’s how it is, huh,” he says. “Come on, then.”

And he turns and starts running. 

He can feel the Beast snapping at his heels, and he hears Grian yelling behind him. Scar bares his teeth in a smile, the adrenaline of the chase buzzing through him. 

His destination is not far. At the deepest part of the bunker there is a portion that stops being dug-out dirt and razorwire and instead turns into a wide cavern, lit up with shimmering crystals. Water drips from them and forms a small lake, alien-looking and mercurial. Scar wades in as fast as he can until the water comes up to his shin, and then he turns around and lunges at the same time the Beast does.

They roll into the water ungracefully, tangled together in a violent embrace. The Ravening Beast tears at his chest as he struggles, until he manages to grip the fur on the back of its head. He crushes the water lilies held in his other hand and casts.

The Beast shakes and contorts under his grasp. It’s not made for panting, but it certainly tries, heaving unnaturally as its lungs fill with salt water. It tries to slash at Scar’s side as it chokes, but Scar keeps his grip steady even as the needle fur of the Beast bloodies his hands, spiderweb ink running into his bloodstream. 

Grian finds him like that, kneeling in the water as the Ravening Beast sinks to the bottom, unmoving. 

“Scar!” He splashes into the lake, blood dripping on the water and mixing with the Beast’s tar and ichor. Grian tugs him into a desperate hug, and Scar clutches him back, smearing blood all over his vest. “Don’t ever do that again, are you crazy?” 

“You have such little faith in me, G,” Scar grins, and Grian grabs his face and kisses him, the taste of blood and ozone in his mouth. “Oh,” he breathes. Grian snorts and Scar kisses him back, trailing his hands over his cheekbones and licking into his mouth until Grian makes a pained noise against him. “Oh, shit, your arm.” 

“No, it’s fine, come back here,” Grian whines, but Scar is already getting up and dragging them out of the water with one last glance at the Ravening Beast

He sits Grian down on top of a box-sized crystal and kneels at his feet, ignoring the tugging at his side. Grian lets him remove his vest and roll up his shirtsleeve without protest, one hand tangled on Scar’s hair like an anchor. He says nothing as Scar cradles his arm in his hands, holy, and presses a kiss to a spot right above his elbow, the spiderweb ink in his fingers shifting and weaving.

“You have blood all over your mouth now,” Grian murmurs, dragging his thumb over Scar’s lips. It comes away red. Scar kisses his finger, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and relief. 

“Kiss it off?” He leans his head on Grian’s knee, closing his eyes as Grian brushes the back of his neck gently.

“That’s gross,” Grian laughs, but he still leans down and kisses him, slow and deep. 

It’s Sangfielle, of course. There is one thing Scar knows is true about the bloodfields, and it’s that they’re always changing, shifting from one form to the next and to previous ones, uncaring and unmoved by the people who live in it. 

The Queen of Puppets chases them through the Hibiscus District and then some more, until they reach the start of the beach. Next to him, Grian is clutching the egg sac close to his body as he runs. One of his eyes is gone, wicker poking out of the socket, and he’s limping. Scar isn’t doing much better.

“There’s only so much you can run,” Mabriella’s voice echoes behind him. Her tone is friendly and upbeat, and she approaches Scar from the left, riding outfit shining gold under the moonlight. She lifts her hunting rifle. “And I can outlast both of you.”

She shoots, once, and it grazes Scar in the shoulder. He grits his teeth. Behind him, Grian growls. 

“Why don’t you give me that precious thing you’re holding,” she says—except it’s not her, but another puppet made of wicker and hair, walking towards them from the right. She's wearing a silver dress. They’re surrounded. “You don’t know how to use it.”

“Funny coming from you,” Grian hisses, and then he’s shoving the egg sac towards Scar, who grips it with fumbling fingers. Grian slings his knife towards Mabriella, and it sinks in the thread of her neck. She rolls her shoulders as the hair shifts and ondulates, covering the blade like she’s swallowing it inside her. “Shit.”

She shoots again, and this time the shot buries itself on Scar’s thigh. It’s not a bullet, he quickly realizes. Instead, thin wicker ropes spread from his leg to wrap themselves around his wrists, his ankles. One of them twists up to his neck. 

Scar crushes the bottle of tar he kept from the Ravening Beast, to no avail. He’s standing next to the ocean, but it feels like his mind is cracking and reforming in fractal patterns, incapable of pulling the salt water towards him. The Shape is jumbled as he tries to conjure it in his mind. He has nothing left in him.

“Come, now,” Mabriella says, voice indulgent like she’s speaking to a child. 

Grian turns to look at him with a wide eye, the moon illuminating his face. Even like this he’s beautiful, face bloodied and teeth bared, wild. His expression softens as he looks at Scar and an odd sort of melancholy settles over his features. He leans down to kiss him, once, even as the thread climbs its way up Scar’s mouth.

“My heart is with you,” he murmurs against his mouth as he presses his scarf to Scar’s hand. “Eyes down.”

Scar obeys out of pure habit, his heart in his throat. He still can see out of the corner of his eyes the shimmer of Grian’s true form, the heartsblood shining out of his skin as he turns into a roiling mass of eyes and wings. Mabriella laughs, the sound dry like a match. 

“Now this I like,” she says. One of the puppets lunges for Grian, hair curling itself into a thin, deadly point. And then—something new happens.

The ground seems to shake. Scar looks up as the glow coming from Grian’s form wavers and flickers. There’s a humming in the air that Scar can feel in his teeth, even as the wicker reaches inside his throat. 

Grian warps and unearths himself into something else. 

He’s not glowing anymore. Instead he’s a black shape, unable to conform to any form, roiling and spreading over Scar and Mabriella’s puppets, shading the night sky and turning it into a gaping maw. The whole beach goes dim, no moonglow or stars above them. A million eyes open in their place, unblinking. 

Mabriella falters. In a split-second the sand is rising above her, seawater pouring like a thunderstorm around her and holding her down as she struggles. Her hair can’t do anything as she’s buried down, threads passing ineffectively through water and sand. The other puppet crumples to the ground and Scar is able to tear the hair from his mouth.

“I think she’s still alive,” he says, voice hoarse. “The real her.” The void that is Grian crackles, something wrathful and omnipresent. I have her, Scar translates, and he grins upwards. “That’s a really cool trick.” He wipes some blood from his mouth. “Really badass.” Something in his chest twists, the inevitability of it clear in his mind, but his heart refuses. “You can change back, right?” His voice is small, lost in the ruinous storm Grian has become, but he knows it is heard anyway. There’s no response except for the soft lapping of the sea at his feet. 

Grian’s scarf is soft and tattered in his hands. Scar clutches at it, and at the egg sac he’s still holding.

“What do I even do with this?” He yells up. In the distance, he can hear commotion in the rest of Sapodilla, rumbling and screaming. Here, it’s quiet. “This is not—you were meant to stay with me!”  

The ocean waves keep softly crashing across the shore. He can’t make out Grian anymore; instead it’s like his presence has spread over all of Sapodilla, melting into the city itself. 

Scar chokes on a sob. There’s nothing he can do; he can’t mend Grian back into shape with his hands. The spiderweb ink roils and webs across his knuckles, restless. 

Behind him, Sapodilla ebbs and shifts. Scar watches as the beach sand advances, eating the tall, pristine buildings of the Hibiscus District, leaving dunes behind. Soon, all of Sapodilla will be consumed into a wide desert, and Scar finds that he can’t bring it in himself to care.

The wind pushes grains of sand into his hair, and it almost feels like a caress.