bury me six feet in snow

Takes place in the middle of the scene in Thunderhead where Goddard reveals that he is still kiCkiN' at conclave. This is very crack. And a fix-it fic. I hope you enjoy.

“I wish to nominate Honorable Scythe Robert Goddard for High Blade of MidMerica.”

Silence for a moment … then a few chuckles, but they weren’t derisive. They were nervous.

“Brahms,” said Xenocrates slowly, “in case you’ve forgotten, Scythe Goddard has been dead for over a year now.”

And then the heavy bronze doors of the conclave chamber slowly began to open.

Scythe Curie drew in a sharp breath, willing her heart rate to slow. This was ridiculous, clearly some sort of diversion tactic planned by the new order. To even react in the slightest was preposterous; her body was showing its age, another reminder she needed to turn a corner soon.

But then in strode the incinerated scythe, and Marie knew even the frailest of bodies wasn’t capable of a hallucination so horrible.

Rumors began to trickle through the room. Gasps. Whispers. Cheers. The man who could not be Scythe Goddard moved down the center aisle, gait looser than Marie remembered. The worries of becoming High Blade, of being placed in the position only because of her past actions, slipped suddenly into the furthest thing on Curie’s mind. This was impossible. She was supposed to be watching out for Scythe Nietzsche, and Nietzsche didn’t have the votes. This could not be.

And yet it was. They had entered the worst of all possible worlds.

Entering the chamber in Goddard’s wake was a familiar figure in bright green. Scythe Rand was alive, too? Eyes now looked to the open bronze doors, expecting that Scythes Chomsky and Volta might also return from the dead today, but that was not who next entered the chamber.

No, this was another figure. A figure even more impossible.

In the years before Curie was born, the world was chock-full of turmoil. Although the Thunderhead had revealed itself some time ago, humans were still clinging on to government and power. The scythedom, only in its founding years, was still mistrusted. And black market revivals for those who had been gleaned—a problem all but forgotten to history now—were all the rage.

It had been becoming a bigger and bigger issue, from what Marie knew; the Thunderhead believed it was under the scythedom’s jurisdiction to deal with, while the fledgling scythedom was relying on the Thunderhead to solve it. What was essentially breathing life back into the gleaned single-handedly rendered the entire scythedom useless. And though the Thunderhead was beginning to engineer safe space travel solutions, it needed a backup in case of failure.

So the first (and, to date, only) scythe-Thunderhead ambassador was chosen.

Marie had idolized Scythe Astley throughout her childhood. Apprenticed under Scythe Sappho herself, Astley—whose Patron Historic was a largely-forgotten mortal-age musician—was a man not only of the scythedom and the Thunderhead but of the people. And not in the phony, self-serving way of the current new order, but honestly, genuinely. After helping the Thunderhead and founding scythes engineer a solution to the black-market problem—which, once they’d found a means of communication, was relatively simple; the Thunderhead would shut down all operations and the scythedom glean anyone who dared involve themself—he stayed wildly well-known. The Thunderhead continued to speak to him and only him, and once he self-gleaned refused to choose another ambassador. The scythedom and the Thunderhead would remain separate entities, it declared, this time for good. Nobody could replace Astley, one of the few truly-beloved scythes.

Scythe Curie could remember the day he self-gleaned. It felt tragic, doubly so knowing now that the scythedom had so thoroughly shoved his memory under the rug. Prominent scythes didn’t want anyone new to know conversing with the Thunderhead was anything short of impossible, and somehow he had just been … forgotten.

But Marie remembered him. His love of ice cream. His iconic robe, fashioned to look as though it were a suit. His studded, intricately-designed dark leather dress shoes.

The same shoes that were tapping their way through the conclave chamber now.

It couldn’t be.

“Astley!” Marie breathed, words sticking in her throat. She saw Anastasia shoot her a confused glance, completely unaware as to the identity of this new key player. She’d never told her about Scythe Astley.

Around the room, similar gasps of shock were passing around. Many scythes, however, were like Anastasia; they ignored this new man and focused their attentions back on Goddard—who looked positively furious at being overshadowed. “What is this?” he shouted, a vein in his neck pulsing.

“I might ask you the same thing,” Scythe Astley responded smoothly. He reached his hand into a pocket and pulled out a large pin with his own face on it. Scythe Astley isn’t ghastly! it read in garishly cartoonish print.

And now Goddard’s face had truly paled. “Scythe Astley? But—but you self-gleaned, years ago!”

“Yeah, no I didn’t.” Astley smirked, drawing his fingers through his impeccably styled hair. “Anyway, you’re one to talk.”

The entire scythedom tittered. Xenocrates, having lost all semblance at control in the room, slowly backed away.

“Who’s this?” Anastasia hissed to Curie, and the Granddame of Death saw her moment.

“Everyone!” she shouted, voice commanding. “This man is Honorable Ambassador-Scythe Rick Astley, apprentice to founding scythe Sappho herself. Show him the respect he deserves.”

“Thank you, Scythe Curie,” Astley said, and Marie blushed as though she were a little girl again. He knew her name!

He stood tall, and the entire scythedom—even Goddard—found themselves bending to accommodate him. “It’s true. I, Scythe Rick Astley, did not truly self-glean. I meant it when I said I was never gonna give you up. No, I’ve simply been waiting for the perfect time to rejoin the scythedom—and that time has come today.”

Astley looked around the conclave chamber thoughtfully, before continuing on. “You see, I and I alone have access to the Thunderhead. I am the single exception to the schism between organizations. With me and the Thunderhead by your sides, I can solemnly swear we’re never gonna let you down.”

He smiled kindly, before giving a disapproving stink-eye. “The Thunderhead and I pronounce Robert Goddard illegible for the position of High Blade, so don’t even try it. We have some problems with that man.”

Scythe Goddard sank to his knees, distraught. “Scythe Astley? You don’t like me? What have I done?”

Astley ignored him, instead moving on to Curie herself. “Therefore, by process of elimination plus nobody cares about that other contestant, I hereby pronounce Honorable Scythe Marie Curie High Blade of MidMerica.”

Marie let in a shocked gasp, tears coming to her eyes. Rick Astley believed in her. “Is this true?”

“I don’t know what’s going on so I guess,” Xenocrates called from the back. “Ima go hop on over to Endura now anyway. I will live a happy and fulfilling life as Grandslayer and hopefully learn to become more than competent. Scythe Goddard will never come for a vacation.”

“Sounds good!” everyone called.

Rowan Damisch and Scythe Volta tiptoed in from the back. The mere presence of the near-god Astley had brought Volta back to life and caused Rowan to escape his bonds. Speaking of, he caught Anastasia’s eye and they started making out passionately. Scythe Curie decided to forgive him because if he was truly bad he too would have been smited by the wrath of Scythe Astley.

“Thank you, Rick,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

“Of course!” he cried, and then repeated, “I’m never gonna give you up!” There was cheering from the crowd, all divisions in the scythedom forgotten. Someone started singing his theme song, the popular mortal-age ditty of his Patron Historic. It was very catchy. He tapped his dress shoes some more.

All was good. At long last, Curie felt herself truly relax. The scythedom was in good hands.