"For all that you did to keep me alive, you may slay me and take the enchanter."
Grian flinches, a full-bodied gasp wrenched from his throat. His sword, gleaming and dripping with Bdubs' blood, stills. Crimson drops stain the waters below.
"No," He says, so soft that Scar almost misses it. "No, I can't. I literally can't."
Why not? Scar tries for a smile, "Sure you can."
The sword lowers further. "No, no I can'tâ"
"You just stab right here," Scar points. Water splashes a little as he shuffles forward on his knees, angling the sword towardâ
The blade is wrenched away from him. "Scar!"
Grian stares down at him in horror, eyes wide with unshed tears. His wings, vivid and colorful like a parrot's, are spread like he wants to flee.
Somehow, that thoughtâ the thought of Grian running from him rather than towards himâ scares him more than dying by Grian's hand. Blade. Whatever he wants, really.
"Gri," Scar whispers. "C'mon. I betrayed you, remember?" This should be easy.
Grian opens his mouth, closes it.
"I want a fair fight," Grian says, something desperate settling in dark eyes. "No swords, no armor, just fists."
Scar stares up at him for a few moments, just drinking in the sight. Light catches in sandy strands like a halo, and for a few moments, Scar feels like a believerâ knelt in front of a pulpit, a worshipper in the face of the divine.
Eventually, Scar finds his voice.
"But of course," He says, taking Grian's hand in his own. "I'm sure Pizza would love to watch."
Grian relaxes, laughing a little in response.
Scar doesn't really know what they talked about on the way back. He's pretty sure Grian doesn't either.
(Surrounded by cacti, Scar misses. And misses. And misses.)
(Call me selfish, Scar thinks, pain blooming into spots in his vision. The wind has been knocked clean from his lungs. But I'd die for this view all over again.)
(Above him, Grian weeps, his head crowned by the desert sun.)