#coy writes

Reality himself had been resting in his private chamber of late, recovering from a particularly strong incarnation event. Thanatos couldn't be with him; the diviner had said the fae prince needed to be able to sleep undisturbed. He knew his lord was predisposed to insomnia and didn't begrudge him the solitude, but had found himself becoming embarrassingly dependent on his lord's presence to find his own rest. The bed they shared, with the sheets that smelled of jasmine and sandalwood, had been of comfort.

Except, he realized, that despite the softness of the silk sheets proclaiming their high thread count, the smell that filled his nose wasn't jasmine at all, but rather frankincense and cinnamon. As much as it reminded him of home, Markos would never use a perfume so difficult to obtain in the fae courts except for on a special occasion. Did he think Than needed cheering up?

"Markos!" Thanatos called again, attempting to push himself up onto his elbows. He was beginning to wonder why he hadn't already been pulled out of bed and into the bath before breakfast. Markos was a man of routine, a trait Thanatos had appreciated since he was young, and to break sequence like this only boded ill.

"Oh, my apologies, dear prince. It was far from my intention to leave you unattended so long. How are you feeling?"

The voice was unfamiliar. Than finally forced his eyes open, and the face was unfamiliar as well. "W-Who— Who are—"

The person grinned. "Be at ease, dear prince. Your manservant has come to no harm, save for the distress I'm sure he's experiencing having lost you. You are safe." They reached out to cup his cheek with their hand, and he failed to muster the presence of mind to pull back. "You may call me Hypnos. Though, given your sleeping habits, that might be a better name for you! Perhaps we should trade, hmm?"

Thanatos didn't think the joke sounded as affectionate as it did when his lord made it. He squinted at this "Hypnos," scrutinizing their features. Rounded ears and pale skin like his own, and though they spoke Faera, the odd stress pattern and slurred consonants marked them out as a fellow Reachman. That would explain the perfume. "Where am I?" he asked flatly, acutely aware that "you are safe" almost certainly meant he was in danger.

Hypnos had the decency to look chagrined. "Ah. That, I cannot tell you. Still in the Wilds, to be sure, but beyond that, I'm afraid I must be vague. You'll forgive the secrecy, given the circumstance. You are watched over by several very powerful people."

"I can't imagine it was easy to acquire me, given such." Than was losing patience.

He smiled again. "Little that is worth doing is easy, dear prince. It will be worth every drop of blood, sweat, and tears shed by the end. Now. We must prepare you. Come along before she—"

"Before she what, dear Hypnos?" This new voice was a woman's, and as she passed the threshold of the room, Thanatos could see she was tall, and tanned, with a severe expression that reminded him of the diviner’s.

"Pandora..." Hypnos got to his feet quickly, looking as if he'd been caught with his hand in the candy dish.

"You weren't to allow him to speak. You know what he is. Your carelessness truly knows no bounds." Her hands on Thanatos's face were rougher than Hypnos', but not unkind, merely businesslike. He did pull back this time, and she frowned at him before turning back to her companion, hand on hip.

Hypnos scoffed — a gesture that seemed rather incongruous. "He is but a youth. There is no harm in it. We have been having a very pleasant conversation, have we not, dear prince?" Thanatos didn't think so, but he said nothing, and Hypnos continued seemingly unperturbed. "I'm sure you know how vital it is to avoid stressing him prematurely."

"It is not premature," Pandora replied. "Indeed, the time is at hand. Or would you take pleasure in at last meeting divine punishment at the hands of the demigod?"

The expression on Hypnos' face was momentarily rapturous, but he quickly shook away the euphoria and refocused. "My work is not yet finished, though such an event would truly be a fitting cadenza to a lifetime of service to the Divines…" Oh, all right. So he's insane, Thanatos thought. "Our dear prince has only just arrived, however, and I have yet to show him our hospitality."

"As regrettable as that is, our time is short. Forgive us, prince." Pandora addressed Thanatos, but her eyes never left her associate's. "Hypnos, either you prepare him now, or I will. If you disapprove of my methods, I suggest you do it yourself." She turned on her heel, chiton sweeping about her feet as she walked out.

Hypnos sat himself on the bed again. "You must excuse her. Her dedication to the cause makes her... efficient. She's correct, though. If we do not finish the work before the demigod recovers his strength, it will all be for naught. Come. Your manservant usually bathes you in the morning, does he not? I will do the honors."

"Please!" Strange hands pulling at his chiton drew the cry from him before he could think otherwise. Thanatos very much did not want anyone except for Markos and his lord bathing him, but Hypnos was surprisingly strong, and he found there was little he could do in protest that would do more than cause his captor to chuckle indulgently.

"Now, now, little prince. This is a holy place. I would not dare defile you. My intentions are pure, but I would not like unnecessary harm to come to you. I will leave your clothing for now, but there are other tasks we must complete. Understood?"

Than's breath came heavy, shuddering as he trembled. "Y-Yes, I... I understand. I'll follow you, so long as I may remain clothed." It was a meager concession, and one he held no delusion would last for long. This Hypnos would do what he liked to Thanatos, and there would be very little that could be done about it.

"Good. Come along. We shall have to begin with… that."

"That" turned out to involve a lengthy walk through the sinuous corridors of the stronghold, as Thanatos designated it in his mind. His daily routine with Reality involved very little of his own walking, the fae prince had a propensity for teleportation and for wanting to carry his trinket from place to place, and Than had been forbidden from strenuous exercise after the incident during which he had fainted at the gala. This left him truly winded after twenty minutes, something that, as he observed the now-grim expression on Hypnos' face, he couldn't help but conclude was intentional.

"Where... where are we…"  Thanatos panted, trying and failing not to wheeze too badly through the stitch in his side.

"Save your breath, dear prince. You'll need it." Hypnos led him into what he recognized as a fae ritual chamber, of the sort a diviner or alchemist would use for an undertaking they considered of grave importance. He sat him down in a stone chair, with his arms away from his sides and his head leaning back at an angle. Thanatos felt almost as exposed as if he had let the man undress him. The addition of the restraints didn't help very much, though they weren't tight, almost as if they were intended to protect him rather than to force him in place.

"What is done today is done in reverence to the Divines," Hypnos began, and Thanatos recognized the opening stanza to several ritual chants, "whose Names I call upon to cleanse this place of work such that the instruments produced may be of ritual purity. I, your servant, offer myself as an instrument of ablution, that this young man's flesh might be made pleasing through punishment and sanctified through suffering."

Thanatos didn't like the sound of this. As intrigued as his anthropologist's mind was with attempting to identify the particular cult that had penned these lines — if not a completely new one composed only of Hypnos and Pandora! — the pragmatic meaning was of serious concern. If the words "punishment" and "suffering" weren't alarming enough, what did Hypnos mean by "producing instruments of ritual purity"? What ritual was he attempting?

"H-Hypnos? I… I'm sure that whatever this is, I can help you, you don't need to—"

Hypnos pressed a runestone onto Thanatos's tongue, his voice stern. "Hush, dear prince." Raising an eyebrow as Than made an attempt to speak around the obstruction, he continued, "I mean it. You don't want this in your mouth." He produced a cosmetic brush, of the sort with which Thanatos was intimately familiar, having spent hours upon hours delicately adjusting his appearance in the mirror, highlighting one feature and minimizing another. On its tip, however, was not the deep red of the lip tint the human prince used to draw more attention to his eyes and make his skin look paler, but rather a sickly orange-brown. A chill ran through Thanatos as the cold liquid was brushed over his skin, smelling of iodine.

The soft whimper he emitted did nothing to pierce Hypnos' determination, and neither did the pleading expression in his wide, crimson eyes or the shuddering breaths he gasped through his nose. A new brush, dipped in white this time, left in its wake a numbing sensation that built until Than couldn't feel his lips, cheeks, or the tip of his tongue at all. He pressed his lips together all the same, believing Hypnos that he didn't want to swallow any of this substance if at all possible.

The cultist's expression settled into something close to serene as he continued to chant the words of the ritual, almost absentmindedly threading a needle onto a length of thin cord, likely catgut or sinew. "I offer you this humble soul, this innocent soul, already dedicated to your cause. I cast aside earthly titles, both mine and his, standing bare in the sight of the Divines with only our true names. I bind these holy words inside of this now-sacred vessel, that they may mature into—"

Thanatos screamed. He couldn't move his jaw, given that Hypnos had secured it to the chair with a leather strap, but that didn't stop his throat from tightening and his lungs from spasming in reaction to the agony erupting from the corner of his mouth. "Hush, hush, dear Andreas…" Hypnos murmured, and Thanatos only had a fraction of a second to recognize his given name before the pain spiked again. "Breathe deeply, let it wash through and out of you. I promise you, I will work quickly."

Than's only response was a sob. He couldn't even distract himself from what was happening, the only sensations to focus on other than the pressure-to-pain-to-pressure of the needle lashing his upper lip to his lower was the coolness of Hypnos' fingers on his neck and the pressure against his still-numbed cheeks, the tears slipping from his eyes into his ears and hair, the rumble of Hypnos's chest against the top of his head as the cultist continued to chant and pray. He wasn't like the others, he wasn't built or trained to endure anything like this. He was a sheltered, spoiled trophy prince and had spent his entire life with a host of people falling over themselves to make it better if he so much as sniffled. This was the terror of his nightmares, unwanted hands forcing themselves on him, callous to his cries. His only solace was that, true to Hypnos' word, he had not yet been undressed.

Hypnos had also been truthful when he'd promised to work quickly. Than had barely become accustomed to the cyclical pain of the punctures when the fresh misery of the cord pulling taut took over his senses. Another wail pulled itself from him, and Hypnos ran gentle fingers through his hair in an attempt to soothe. "Easy, now. It is finished." Through his tears, Than saw the end of the cord that Hypnos was tying off glow gold. "May the blessings of the Divines bind themselves to your flesh and soul." The cultist let out a deep sigh, as if channeling the ritual had drained him. "Now, the bath. You'll want one now, I'll wager."

Despite himself, he really did. His skin was clammy with sweat and tears, and the blood and saliva running down his chin onto his throat and chest couldn't be ignored either. He didn't feel pure. He felt awful. A soft whimper turned itself into a sob while clawing its way out of his chest. Hypnos simply scooped him up into his arms and made his way back to the main part of the complex.

The bath smelled like frankincense and myrrh. The familiarity would have been soothing, but there was little that could console Thanatos at this point. The numbing was wearing off, and his mouth was on fire. He continued to cry while Hypnos delicately removed his chiton and underthings, tracing undiscernible patterns onto his arms and legs as he did so. "You will feel better once you are clean," said Hypnos, and Than moaned in disagreement. Nothing could make this better.

To his horror, once the warm, fragrant water enveloped him, Thanatos indeed found his traitorous muscles relaxing, his eyes fluttering again. After twenty years of near-instantly falling asleep in the bath, he supposed it was unfair to expect his body to behave any differently, but even the panic that lanced through him at the idea of being insensible, naked, alone with this man couldn't keep his consciousness afloat.

"That's it, dear Andreas," said Hypnos, rubbing soothing circles into Thanatos's back as he went limp. "Rest now. You need not endure this for long."

Thanatos didn't like the sound of that, either.

The yellow light from the refrigerator bathed his face, and he squinted at the contents while his pupils contracted painfully. He was hungry, couldn't eat while he was being stared at. Knowing his father, he'd assume Than didn't eat at all, but the food would disappear from the kitchen, so he knew his mother could tell. It was pointless to hope she'd be less worried about him. She seemed to think he'd fall apart at any moment. Maybe he would. Damn, there was no chorizo in here…

He sniffed at the milk, mostly out of habit, before taking a sip. Valentina would hate— Nope. He shook his head violently as if that could destroy the thought before it destroyed him. Deep breaths, Thanatos. When he'd steadied himself, he balanced the glass bottle on his bad arm, using the good one to continue to root around in the fridge, shoving aside tomatoes and eggs at the same time as thoughts of Laredo. Ooh, feta. Don't mind if I do… It would go great with this lentil soup. He stacked them both between his arm and his body, the movements practiced over a decade.

He froze suddenly, sensing movement out of the corner of his eye, but relaxed again when he realized the source: his hair was getting almost down to his shoulders now. He'd have never been allowed to grow it this long if he'd done officer training like his father wanted. (His hands would still be intact if he'd done officer training like his father wanted.) Maybe he wouldn't cut it just yet. Didn't exactly trust himself with scissors right now. A knife was right out, so no point in the celery. There would be some in the lentils, probably.

Another movement, with accompanying sound this time. His head snapped to the side immediately, assessing the threat, but only found his mother in her nightgown, coming down the stairs with a gasp. Had he woken her when he came out of his room? He couldn't have. His steps were soundless. She certainly didn't look like she'd been expecting him.

"φάντασμα!" She covered her eyes with her hands and drew back into the stairwell.

"Mama?" he called, in confusion, before realizing how his odd movements and posture combined with his pale complexion and the hair over his eyes must have frightened her. He quickly set the food down on the table and tucked his hair behind his ears. "I'm not a ghost, Mama. It's me," he continued, in Greek, coming to kneel in front of her and making sure his hands were out of sight.

She slowly took her hands away from her face. "Driakes?" He nodded, and she cupped his cheeks in her palms. "Oh, my little boy…" She pulled him to her chest and squeezed him tight, and something broke inside of him. He hadn't thought his insides had anything left to break.

"Are you hungry, mωρό μου? Let me cook for you—"

He tugged her arm gently to keep her from moving. "I'm fine, mανούλα. I was just going to eat the lentils—"

She gasped, and they both looked down at where his skin met hers. He immediately shoved his hands in his pockets. The hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall was all that could be heard for a long moment. Then, Than's mother gathered herself, pressing her hands together with a steadying breath. "Come, sit. I will cook, before you fade away into nothing."

It’s over Scar. She's dead.

Standing in the ravine, Scar stared blankly at the stone ahead of him as those ghostly words echoed in his mind.

It was over.

He’d won.

Despite everything, he’d won.

A breathy laugh escaped him. It didn't feel like a win. Nothing about this did. It felt hollow and empty, meaningless.

A win was supposed to be a grand show to the world that you can make it to the end, a final showing that it can be done despite everything. One last stand against the world. That's what a win was meant to be.

But this wasn't any of that, not when Scar was stuck frozen in place, the faint rhythmic sound of liquid dripping off the rocks somewhere behind him being the only thing he could hear once the blood rushing to his ears subsided. How was any of this meant to feel like a win, like the grand finale to something that had been the last few months of his life when it was the furthest thing from grand? When he felt the furthest thing from victorious? How was he even meant to feel victorious or grand in a situation like this? He'd spent the whole season alone just trying to make friends, only for him to win by shooting the closest person he has to one of those.

Alone…

He never liked being alone.

How did he win while he was alone?

How did the guy with no friends win?

He laughed to himself, bow still held in one hand, and using the other to push his hair back. A pained smile was painted across his face as he laughed, asking himself how? How did he win? How did he make it this far all alone? How did he manage to tell himself that just one more day, one more day and it would be worth it enough times to where he won? It didn't make sense. Not to him at least.

No matter how long he stood there wondering to himself, there was still one thing that was left to be done. Hit the button.

He had succeeded his task after all, right? Scar had won, despite how meaningless this victory truly was.

All he had to do was hit the button and it would all be over. It would finally end. He could go back to Hermitcraft, his home, his friends. He finally wouldn't be alone anymore.

It didn't quite feel like his own movements when he started to climb out of the ravine, disconnected from everything going on. He desperately ignored the hazy sight of a red shawl to the side of his vision, feeling sick if he put any thought into what he knew was laying under it.

He didn't feel nearly as sick passing by a similar black shawl on the ground up on the surface, orange hair catching his eye for a split second as he slowly made his way across the blood stained grass and battle worn landscape of the world. And, shortly after, he reached the statue that stood in the centre of it all.

The Secret Keeper.

The being that doomed him from the very start. Quietly, he wondered to himself, was it proud? Proud that it's favourite player to mess with - proud that the one it moulded into the unwilling villain - had won? Was it proud of everything it had done, all the pain and suffering it caused? Or did it even think at all. Maybe it was just a simple stone statue, designed to have no will or intention, to have the sole purpose of handing out tasks at random, and Scar was just losing it from being alone for so long. He’d likely never get an answer.

It didn't matter though. Not when he was about to leave, not when he was about to finally be free from this hell he was stuck in, not when he was going to finally be able to see his friends again.

Letting out a shaky breath, Scar reached down and pressed the button.

…

A faint click echoed around the area, and then nothing. Nothing happened. It was just silence. No gust of wind to whisk him away back home, no welcoming voices of the hermits congratulating him on his win as they fade into view. No anything. Just silence. Painfully loud silence. Nothing changed. He was still there. Alone.

“Uhm… haha real- real funny there guys,” Scar chuckled awkwardly, his voice filled with unease. Why was he still here? That should’ve worked. Staring up at the Secret Keeper, he waited for a moment to see if it would react at all.

Nothing.

With a level of anxiety he hadn’t felt before, the button was pressed again, and again nothing happened. The world continued to stand still around him.

The feeling of unease began to grow in Scar’s gut, mixing with fear and making him feel sick all over again. “Aha, ok now thats-” The button was pressed again. Nothing. “-that’s enough this isn’t-” Again. Nothing. “-this isn’t funny anymore- oh god no please.”

Scar’s chest tightened the more he pressed on the button, becoming more and more desperate every press. “No no please just- please just take me home please I can’t do this anymore please.”

Tears began to swell in his eyes, panic truly setting in as he pleaded for an escape. Why wasn’t it working- why wasn’t it doing anything?! Was it broken now that the game was over? Was that why he was stuck- why he couldn’t get this stupid button to work?!

Falling to his knees beside the button, his head hit against the corner of the pedestal it was on. Pain slashed across his forehead at the impact, and he could feel the sickeningly familiar warmth of blood begin to well from the cut.

“PLEASE GOD JUST LET ME GO HOME!” he screamed, hitting the button again and again, his hand becoming sore and bruised the more time went on. The more he begged and pleaded and cried for whatever stupid entity was in control of this game to just let him go.

All he wanted was to go home, to see Jellie, to see his friends, to not be alone anymore. He’d been alone for too long, wasn’t that enough?

Loud cries and desperate pleas slowly turned into quiet sobs, and he brought his hand away from the button, resting them both on the edge of the pedestal beside his head.

“Please…” he sobbed, blood running down into his eyes and mixing with his tears. “Please just let me go.” a moment passed for him to catch his breath. Then, quietly: “I can’t do this anymore, please…”

His pleas went unheard. He was alone.

Alone…