He shouldn't have been the last dark green, it never should have been him. And yet, by his hand and the hand of others and the hand of Gods and the world and the self… he had gained the status. The last dark green of the pound, at first 1 of 6 that remained then 5… then 4…. And finally 3.

Him.

Luna.

Fusion.

And the news that came with the fear, left him scrambling like a newborn fawn, struggling to even hold itself upon its legs. His head cranes to see a sky that he knows he will never be able to see again, sat upon the firmness of a beast he had not tamed yet made his own all the same. Argos nipping at the heels for a king he could never be. He would never be.

He was untrustworthy despite his desperate pleas, his begging and near crying. Further proof that he would never be the king meant for the great title of trickster, descendant of Hermes, blessed him by the goddess of binding craft and war. He was a mere boy standing upon the bow of a ship he could never have gained his own.

But he was desperate and he cried like a dying horse, a rabbit caught tight in a trap, a cow… golden blood oozing to act as the crosshair of cruelty. He is whisked away in a boat, taken around back, past the raging waters and the beloved sheep of a blind shepherd and the man eating beasts tucked in a farm, past the floating home of a god and into a lair of eels and dogs and those as desperate as he is.

And he begs. He pleads that he, a coward, was tucked away in the halls of another kingdom with friend and future foe alike. That his company was that of a loyal unknown and a tardy lover and ghosts possessing ghosts, all twisted necks and spilt wine and cut short screams. He sees the doubt on their face, his company once included a gnashing beast afterall, who bound its own jaws for him and yet ran so eagerly at the scent of blood. A siren once bound to him by a promise from a life he can barely recall. And yet he begs.

The cost is one so simple and yet so … cruel. Forgiveness, trust bought through blood. And he is no king of Ithaca. He is barely a soldier.. he is the princess of a fallen kingdom, led stumbling on legs lame with crazed fear to beg for salvation for whoever remains. From a lover once scorned.

“Whats the cost.”

And isnt it so obvious. To believe him in his innocence.

“And whats the cost for you?’

He merely reached to undo the gleaning clasp of the golden emblem that holds his cape, then eases the greying chiton lower, barely getting the fabric to his elbow, the neckline bowing under his ribs and stomach, before a blade digs into his flesh. It is burning hot and leaves him screaming and crying, pleas for a swift death left for only the gods and his audience to hear.

He is no king, even as he wakes sharp in a bed he then gifts. He is no king as he allows his only stead, his only remaining joy to be used and slain in his freshly made allies efforts to save themselves. Ghosts cling heavy to his chiton, new features adjusting slowly as it all crumbles around him, broken necks and shattered legs, bodies blown to nothing and sliced down. And he stands having sacrificed himself for a group dwindling by each breath.

At first 1 of 6…. Then 5….. 4…. And now only 3.

Seb.

Paper.

-cry

"Yeah no. You took my flowers and ive given up enough already... I.."

His gaze flicks away, shame and upset burning over his face.

A flash of heat and the world shaking around him, the stench of blood and fire when he finally clawed his way to the surface. The body.. the scent of burning flesh- boiling blood! Bile rose in his throat, coughed and hacked up in the dug out corner as trembled wracked his body, tears and snot dribbling to join the nasty mix of acid and bread.

He panted harshly once he was done, wiping at his mouth as he sat back and forced the chest open again. His wedding rings, his diary, and two... flowers. Two flowers with such drastically different intentions. One given out of love and the other... why had *he* given him this? Why did he keep throwing flowers at him? Why...

He swallowed and carefully tore out a page from his diary, writing two tags before tying each to a flower. For the bush of flowers, warm in their intent ... a promise. For the single full flower, as pale as his own corpse before it disappeared... a possibility.

He set them both back once he finished, shakily closing the chest and standing to climb up the ladders, slipping back into his bed easily as the other BABs slept or pretended to sleep or whatever they were doing.

His arms and back ached. His heart ached.

"Seriously people?! Loaded questions!"

"I dont know! I guess fucking ... ... wefid or trizzin. It would definitely hurt like hell but it would spare my friends and loved ones. Id want it to be somewhere private too, where they wont have to see my body."

"Aria amd drens are fine, dont mind them too much."

"Sparrow is more of a hate thing, stirs the pot alot. I dont wanna say hate outright. Sparrow has good moments! Its just...yeah."