Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Yellow smudges under Seawatt's fingertips, too-bright and greasy to the touch. Still, he presses on, dandelion petal-dye rendered with tallow fat a poor substitute to a real oil pastel. In his hand, the charcoal stick is wielded like a weapon, and his drawings come alive on the pages of his sketchbook.

For years he'd kept it hidden away in a chest or tucked in an inner pocket, too precious to risk ruining. His father's portrait of him still splashes across the first page—a hastily drawn sketch of him as a child, laughing and carefree. On some pages his mother had drawn detailed renditions of herbs and flowers, scribbled notes in the margins describing their uses. He turns those pages gingerly, afraid of smudging the text and destroying one of the only things anchoring him to this world.

Recently though, Seawatt has taken to drawing.

It's an itch that blossoms at his fingertips, a long-repressed ache familiar to him. The last time he'd felt like this was a decade and a half ago, when he'd first received the sketchbook and spent the rest of the day giddily scribbling. Now, though, he grips the makeshift pencil, adding more definition to the lines of Evbo's bangs.

It's unfair that someone so irritating is a bright streak of color in this otherwise muted world. From the lines of his cheekbones and the smooth curve of his neck, to the jut of his jaw and the swoop of his hair; he was made to be drawn. He smudges a vibrant green onto his irises, cursing himself for the stains it'll no doubt leave on the pads of his fingers.

He chalks it up to habit. He'd always loved doing portraits, after all, and there's no one else to draw on this lost level. Evbo is just a convenient model, a perfect reference with how expressive and fluid his movements are. There's nothing else to it but that.

When the door opens, he's still drawing by firelight, flickering light casting shadows onto the pages. He snaps the book shut hastily with a thud.

“Back so soon?"

"Yeah, got the disk- why are your hands like that?”

Too late, he realizes his hands really are stained green and gold, the colors from his drawings seeping into his skin. He hides them behind his back hurriedly.

“Nothing." he replies. "Just…harvested some plants.”

“Oh, okay." Evbo wipes sweat from his brow, practically glowing with the radiant flush of exertion. His headband has slipped down his forehead, and he pushes it up again, shaking his bangs out of his eyes. Seawatt's hand twitches around the pencil.

The fire glimmers, sparks floating around his head like a ghostly crown. He's sitting down now, cross-legged across from him and telling him animatedly about the trial he'd completed today. In his dramatic tone, the story becomes an epic, a hero the likes of Odysseus traversing icy fields to retrieve a lost item for the good of the kingdom. Shadows dance across the shelter's walls, light awash over the gentle planes of his face.

Seawatt rolls his eyes at the bravado, but Evbo just laughs—a genuine, warm thing that settles in the gaping maw of his chest. His eyes crinkle when he smiles, and a dimple flashes at the corner of his mouth before disappearing, like the moon behind a cloud.

“I'm going to head to bed now," he says, heart doing 360°s in his chest. He must be coming down with something; he feels feverish and light-headed, though that could be from sitting next to the fire for so long.

"Yeah, me too.” Evbo pulls out his bedroll and shakes it out, patting the dust off. He yawns widely, jaw cracking. “Goodnight, Seawatt."

That night, he doesn't sleep at all.

—

A thudding headache makes itself known, bullying its way to the forefront of his skull. Seawatt groans and rubs at his temples, then remembers too late that he has dye on his fingertips still. He grits his teeth and slams his hands onto the desk in frustration.

Despite leaving to find the next disk, Evbo hasn't quite left his mind yet, it seems. He'd tried valiantly to sketch the things he remembers: the view from his childhood bedroom, a vase of sunflowers, sunlit plains and snowy fields. But inevitably his hands drift back to drawing the same person, a myriad of poses blooming across pages seemingly dedicated just to him.

If someone came across this book, they'd surely think the artist was a fanatic, one who bled obsession all over their work. On the left side a portrait takes up half the page: Evbo smiling sweetly, eyes closed in a moment of genuine mirth. He looks almost vulnerable, as if the artist had caught him with his guard down—a facade of forced cheerfulness cracking in places, like ice over a pond.

In the margins, small doodles and scribbled drawings fill the rest of the page. Here, there's a drawing of him doing a 360°, arms flailing as he sticks the landing; to its right, a side-profile of his face, illuminated by firelight. There's another of him tying his headband so the ends fall like ribbons over his shoulders, and one where he’s winking and sticking his tongue out, brazen.

On another page, he's filled it in with repeated sketches of details he just can't get right—the gloss of his eyes, the gentle swell of his lips, the way his sweater drapes over his frame. Seawatt thinks if he could look at him longer, memorize the way his features flow into each other, he might be able to get them right. But looking at Evbo is like staring down a solar eclipse, sunspots dancing in his vision when he stares for too long.

In his defense, if Evbo was better at parkour, then he wouldn't have to languish here for ages, alone with no one else to speak to. Staying cooped up here has surely wrought havoc to his rationale, and the frenzied sketches must be a last-ditch attempt to entertain himself. As much as he dislikes everything that he stands for, Seawatt has to admit that he's a compelling subject to draw, a protagonist pulled straight from the novels he'd devoured as a kid. Not a valiant knight or a shallow, ignorant prince, no—more like a storybook princess, one with lofty, foolish dreams of saving the world.

The torch splutters, throwing sparks that signify the end of its life. He blows it out, shutting the sketchbook with a sigh. Maybe by tomorrow, this odd compulsion will have run its course, and he'll be able to stop drawing him. At least he can rest easy knowing that nobody will ever find out about this. That the only one to lay eyes on his work will be him.

Seawatt goes to sleep without waiting up, out like a light before his head even touches the pillow.

But you know how their story goes.

Seawatt dies, as he always does, desperate and clawing at life. Young and bitter and clinging to the ruined hull of a sinking ship, because he's never seen a lifeboat before.

They hold an impromptu funeral after the defeat, one where only a few people attend, and mostly out of a newfound obligation to their new god. Then again, Evbo's only doing this because he doesn't want his ghost to come back and haunt him. As if laying a tortured soul to rest in a foreign layer, far away from where his parents died, would ever bring him peace.

Most people are shifting around, unsure how to act—few people have ever been to a funeral with a body before. Though Seawatt doesn't look awful; with his hands laid over his chest, he looks almost like he's only sleeping, far calmer in death than he ever was in life. The scowl ever-present on his face has faded from pale, pursed lips. Cheap flowers they'd picked up along the way are scattered over his body, covering the worst of the bloodstains.

When he reaches the casket to close the box, Evbo glances at him one last time, for old times' sake, for what it's worth. They're burying him with all his jewelry still on, glinting faintly against pallid skin. His hair's all messed up from hitting the ground, and it unsettles him, how different he is in death than life. The man he'd thought he'd known had always taken pride in his appearance.

But then again, death puts its claimed souls at the mercy of the living, and no one in life had cared enough to brush the knots out, to fix the rumpled clothes still soaked with drying blood. He supposes it can't be helped. Maybe that's all Seawatt deserves.

Evbo grabs the lid of the casket, arm tensing as he prepares to settle it over another skeleton of his past, and pauses when he notices a flash of color.

Intertwined over each other, Seawatt's fingertips are stained green and gold.

Before he even knows what he's doing, he's reaching for his interlocked hands in a daze, trying to get a better look at the color he'd spotted. The congregation is already milling about, freed from their obligations after the stilted speech their champion had given. He's seen those marks on his hands before, back on the fighter layer. Seawatt had given the excuse that he was cutting up plants, but it seems unlikely that such a stain would persist from then. It's possible that he'd gone foraging again, but…

Cold to the touch, his fingers are hard to pry apart, but once he does they fall limply open. The newly exposed shades of green and yellow spark an odd sense of recognition for some reason, but Evbo isn't really sure why. He'll have to do some digging if he wants to know, it seems.

Then again, why does it even matter? A feeling of discontent crawls up his spine, curling around his ear and hissing doubt into it. He doesn't feel sympathy for him, maybe just… pity? Anger? The fiery rage he'd felt at his second betrayal has simmered down into a roiling boil, tempered only by the knowledge that Seawatt will never be able to hurt him ever again.

(He wants to understand him.)

It's a little too late for that, the voice whispers, but he brushes it off and closes the casket, lid falling into place with a sense of finality. Perhaps the library will have some answers for him.

—

Instead of going to the library like he'd planned, his feet carry him by habit to the shelter they'd spent a little less than a week in. He sighs, but decides it can't hurt to look around for answers; the chests are sitting right where they'd left them, covered with a thin film of sandy dust. Even the remnants of their last fire are still intact.

Evbo scowls. He hates feeling like a pig fattened for slaughter, one who blindly ate its food without questioning the blade poised at its neck. The memories of the meals Seawatt had made are bitter like poison on his tongue—he doesn't think he can ever have rabbit stew again without thinking of him.

It must've been fun for him to toy with his emotions, so gratifying to make him feel like they could be anything but enemies. Even with his guard up, the hard shell of hatred raised protectively around his wounded heart, he’d managed to hit him right where it hurt most.

More than he hates Seawatt or the villain or life itself, Evbo hates himself for rolling over and exposing his soft underbelly to a man who had never, not once, thought of him as a friend.

The flutter of paper startles him out of his thoughts as a draft blows in through the gaping doorway. An old book sits on the bedside table, pages ruffled by the wind. As they flick past, Evbo spots a flash of green, and he zeroes in on it curiously. Could that be…?

He hurries over to it, expecting to see rows of parkour text detailing some sort of manifesto, or a how-to-guide on how to get revenge. Seeing the soppy swill that Seawatt wrote will no doubt make him feel better about himself.

Staring back at him is a drawing of a child.

Evbo reels back, confused. Was this someone else’s book? Surely it must be, because there's no way Seawatt didn't die a virgin-

The text at the bottom jumps out at him, written in a flowy version of parkour he struggles to read. To my dearest.

Looking closer, he starts to see striking similarities: violet eyes, dark hair, a golden necklace. The kid can't be more than six years old, soft in the cheeks and smiling widely the way children do without any inhibitions. The artist must have said something to make him laugh—he’s stretching out little hands, waving them at his-

His father.

Evbo finally recognizes the words signed at the bottom, a series of lilting jumps that end with a flourish. As if the writer had sent the pen dancing across the page to make the child watching over their shoulder laugh. Love, Dad.

He swallows hard, suddenly feeling like he's intruding. For all he knows, touching an object like this will bind Seawatt’s vengeful ghost to him for all eternity, and he's doomed himself to an immortal existence backseated by one insufferable heretic. The curiosity overtakes him though, and he flips the page, breath held.

Flowers and leafy plants fill the next two pages, and he exhales, a little disappointed. He's not sure what he was expecting, but an apothecary’s guide wasn't it. In the margins, scrawled notes creep up the page like vines. This writer dots their jumps with stars.

Seawatt had a fever today. I brewed him rosehip tea with honey, and he felt all better within the day.

We took Seawatt flower picking for the first time. The spring bloom is exceptionally lush this year. He came back with a fistful of sunflowers, smiling the widest we've ever seen him. Our son’s growing up to be a little botanist.

Today, we found out he's allergic to poppies. His eyes swelled and he broke out into hives, and we had to carry him all the way home. Luckily, the local doctor was able to help him. Remember: Never let him come into contact with them!

A cold shiver of discomfort makes its way down Evbo's spine. They'd buried Seawatt covered in poppies, the red flowers a perfect mask for the bloodstains that seeped into once-white robes.

It's not like they could've known.

Some part of him wants to shut the book and flee the house. Seawatt can just remain a footnote in this chapter of his life, instead of coming alive on these pages like the real person he was. Someone with desires and wants other than that of bringing down civilization. Who had people who loved him, once.

But a familiar green peeks through the pages, and the wretched curiousity that had lead him here in the first place burns hot in his chest. He cautiously flips the pages, old paper rustling beneath his fingers. The book flips open to its well-worn centerfold, as if its author had thumbed there a hundred times, and-

The face he's only seen in muddled reflections stares back at him—drawn over and over with assured pencil strokes, colored over with bright greens and golds that leap off the page. Every bit of the centerfold is covered in countless drawings of him, obviously drawn by an attentive artist who cared deeply for their work. God, is that really what I look like?

Somehow the artist has captured all the subtle nuances that make up the vast spectrum of human expression, the tremor of a bitten lip and the upturn of eyes in amusement. The way eyelashes catch the light. The gap between teeth, and the nervous habit of blinking twice between words. The miniscule details that make someone all the more mortal.

The only thing running through Evbo's mind is why, why, why? Why had Seawatt drawn him so many times? Was this some final act of mockery, to pick him apart and flay him alive on the examination table of his canvas? To know his enemy like the back of his hand, so that he could better manipulate him into doing his bidding? On the left page he's drawn him no less than twenty times—illustrations of him smiling, the bright veil of hope still pulled over his eyes.

He looks happy. Soft and kind, giving the viewer this little grin that says, I saved this just for you. As if they were in on a secret only the two of them knew, and the world could only hope to have a fraction of what they had. He doesn't think he's ever given Seawatt that kind of smile.

Touching his fingertips to the page, he traces the golden lines of his hair, meticulously drawn by a careful hand. The green of his irises shimmers faintly, iridescent from whatever pigment he'd used. The colors on Seawatt's hands, which he now knows to be his own. Do my eyes really shine like that?

“I don't understand you," he tells the empty room, though only the motes of dust floating in the air are there to answer him. "Why?”

With stained fingertips he reaches up to cup his own cheek, feeling the skin that now glitters unblemished with the grandeur of godhood—Seawatt had drawn all of his freckles and unflattering lines from sleep, the flush that creeps up his neck when embarrassed. His eyes, which now see the plausibility of everything, were drawn as ever-smiling, crinkling at the corners. And his shoulders, which flare out broadly with a deity's wings, had been depicted light and unburdened with the heavy weight of divinity.

In all of his flawed mortality, he had drawn him as if his humanity made him even more beautiful.

Evbo wonders what he might say if he could see him now.

But he has no way to know, because Seawatt is dead. And even if he wasn't, they would have nothing to say to each other except spat vitriol. 

He closes the book gingerly, cradling it to his chest as he prepares to return to his layer, biting back a laugh of sheer panic. Maybe someone wiser than him will know what to think about this. EMF- EMF always knows what to say. And if not, then they can laugh about Seawatt's obsession together, and he can put it away on some high shelf where he never has to think about it again.

Clutched tightly in his hands, the book flickers faintly with gold, light winking out like a dying star before he notices. 

Chapter Text

"To my dearest."

Try as he might not to look, Evbo is a weak, weak man.

Was it desecrating the dead to look through their personal affairs? Maybe. The dead have no mouths to complain, though.

The broken-in spine opens naturally to its centerfold again, but he hurriedly goes back to the first few pages, flipping backwards through the book. He spots recipes jotted in the margins, dog-eared corners that mark well-loved sections. Drawings of flora and fauna he's only read about in books appear before his eyes, etched in confident lines. The ribbon falls from its place when he turns the page, indigo silk creased from being folded. A little metal compass dangles from it, golden tines shaped like a star.

After his parents’ pages, the next section is written in a little kid’s scrawl, wobbly jumps denoting a childish hand. What he can parse is excited rambling spanning multiple pages, babbling on about childish whims. Two crayon stick-figures clasp a smaller one’s hands, swinging it between them so its feet lift off the ground.

Evbo swallows hard. Sitting alone in his mansion, he doesn't even remember what his original plan was. The fervent curiosity that drove him to the fighter layer had quickly been extinguished by the cold shock of discovering the truth. Despite solving the mystery of Seawatt’s stained hands, he feels no satisfaction in knowing their cause, only more confusion.

Maybe he'd hallucinated the whole thing. Evbo laughs aloud, faltering awkwardly when no one responds. The silence reminds him that he's hunched over his desk, poring needlessly over his enemy’s journal. No, that has to be it. The drawings of him must've been some narcissistic dream—EMF did say he's been getting a big head lately. Cautiously, he peeks at the centerfold again, squinting one eye shut in trepidation. 

His own face stares back, smiling up at him.

Evbo jumps back, biting back an undignified yelp and slamming the book closed. Nope. Not a dream.

He pushes the chair back and starts pacing his tiled floor, boots probably wearing dark scuffs into the nice marble. He does a few jumps to calm himself down, but it's not nearly enough. With a sigh, he plops back down into the seat, nervously tapping his foot. Conscious of his stalling, he draws in a deep lungful of air before opening the book again. It parts with ease, pages fluttering down on either side of its worn spine. A little smudged from constant friction, the sketched lines have a soft sheen to them. Evbo touches the page, the waxy medium of Seawatt's colors rubbing off onto his fingers. He pulls back, afraid to damage the delicate details anymore. 

There's no way to deny it any longer. Seawatt had drawn him, for some unknown reason he simply can't wrap his head around. Try as he might to wrack his brains for a suitable explanation, the only person who can answer to that is laying cold in his ill-fitting coffin, chainmail boots stained dark in his demise. 

Asking EMF what he thinks seems obvious in hindsight. Held hostage over the endless void, he's sure to hold even more hatred for him than Evbo does. He can already guess what he’ll say: that Seawatt had been hatching a Plan B, in case he'd found out his true intentions before retrieving the discs. Drawing their time together was a surefire way to capture information to better manipulate him with. 

Evbo smiles, tucking the book away carefully and getting to his feet. His best friend always knows exactly what to say.

—

“He liked you.”

“What?!" 

"I mean. Come on.” EMF tilts his head at him, as if he's stating the obvious. 

“What are you talking about, man?" Evbo laughs weakly. "We hated each other, remember?”

A disbelieving stare. EMF peers at him over the top of his reading glasses, eyebrows slightly raised. 

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?" 

"No- what? I just thought you'd say something like, oh, obviously he was trying to manipulate you.” He gestures at the page, the edge of hysteria rising in his voice. “Since he was, you know. Evil and all that." 

Pursing his lips, EMF looks off into the distance, tapping his pen against the table. "Evil is a strong word.”

“He held you hostage for days," Evbo cries. "He backstabbed me, twice! Not to mention the whole downfall of civilization thing-”

“He visited me, too." EMF says softly, cutting him off. "He was wrong, in a lot of ways, and he paid for that in the end. But I wouldn't say that it's as simple as black and white, good and evil.”

Mouth agape, Evbo stares. Open to its centerfold, the book’s pages rustle softly in the wind, flicking backward to its beginning. 

“He came to see me once," EMF reminisces, eyes unfocused, “and his hands were covered in blood. I screamed at him. Demanded to know what he'd done to you. How he could bear to do that to someone who had once believed the best of him." 

He leans in now, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. “You know what he said?”

Evbo shakes his head, afraid of the answer.

"He said you'd gotten hurt during one of the trials.” His tail lashes restlessly against the throne’s back. “You were stable, but had gotten sick after. He looked awful, all torn up with guilt.”

Opening his mouth to argue, Evbo promptly closes it when EMF flashes him a warning look. "Before you say it wasn't,” he continues, “He paced around for ages, mumbling to himself." 

He pushes his glasses back up, suddenly looking like he's aged ten years. A sigh rumbles from deep in his chest, and he slumps back against the throne.

“Then he asked me what kind of soup you might like."  

“Are you kidding me?" The words burst out before Evbo can stop himself. “Soup?”

“I know. It sounded so ridiculous that I just laughed at him—I mean, you don't even need to eat. But he was dead serious." 

“Well, what did you say?”

EMF spares him a cursory look, a faint smile curling at the corner of his lips. “Beef stew," he says. "I figured you would like it."  

And suddenly the memory of warmth blooms in Evbo’s mouth, replacing the bitter taste of betrayal that had been festering there—the sweetness of wild carrots, the tang of tomatoes still warm from the sun. Velvety chunks of slow-simmered beef, impossibly more tender than the raw meat he usually craved. A wooden spoon lifted to his lips, and a cool hand placed against his forehead.

He'd blocked it all out. The amethyst course and the searing pain it’d brought afterward, the fragments splintering throughout his body. He hadn’t been able to use his boots; they'd simply healed over the shards and left him doubled over on the ground, coughing up dark blood. Evbo barely remembers crawling to their shelter, collapsing on the doorstep as soon as he'd made it back.

A lingering fever had swept through him for days after, robbing him of his consciousness. Through a haze all he remembers is waking up thrashing, sheets soaked through with sweat. Cool fingertips brushing his forehead, and a wet towel laid over his eyes. He’d batted Seawatt’s hands away whenever they came near him, but he must've changed the towel anyway because it kept coming back blessedly cold.

When he slept he'd dream of crystalline voices, the memory of Seawatt’s true plans a constant drone at the back of his feverish mind. The sickness had ravaged his common sense; he’s sure he must've let it slip that he knew what he was up to. Evbo’s never been good at disguising his emotions, and delirium had made him a wounded animal. One that bared its teeth and bit, that cried out and cursed its captor for all it was worth.

But still, Seawatt had nursed him back to health anyway.

A year ago he’d laid ill and bedridden under his threadbare blanket, leather boots a poor insulation against the cold. Wracked with a high fever, he’d called out for the only person he remembered until his throat had swollen beyond words, and all he could do was whisper his name into the tear-soaked pillow. Until the stars came out to bear witness to his sorry state, then turned their luminescent backs on him as well. 

Then he'd found out the truth, and the foolish hope he'd held close to his chest had fizzled away and left only poison in its wake. He’d fallen to his knees and spat acid and bile onto the arena steps, and still struggled to his feet because he'd learned long ago that jumping meant surviving and staying down meant starving. 

Evbo's no fool. He knows Seawatt only saved him because he needed him for his plans, not out of the goodness of his heart. It would be an inconvenience if his pawn were to die and ruin the groundwork he'd been laying for half a decade. 

Yet despite illness and all-consuming pain blotting the memories from his brain, the reminder of that stew brings them all rushing back in torrents. His wings flare out behind him, nearly knocking over a lantern.

“Woah, woah," EMF says, raising his hands placatingly. "You good?”

“It doesn't excuse what he did.” Evbo’s heart thumps loudly, shame blushing the tips of his ears bright red. He tucks his wings back into place, feathers bristling.

“I'm not condoning his actions," he replies, slightly miffed. “Seawatt was a dick, yeah, but some part of him must've cared about you to draw you like that.”

“Like what?" 

Instead of answering, EMF points at the sketchbook, a look on his face that screams “Isn't it's obvious?”  

"Dude, you're gonna have to spell it out for me." 

EMF rests his chin on steepled hands as he formulates his next sentence, eyes roving over Evbo's face. Shifting around uncomfortably, Evbo fiddles with his sleeve.

"He drew you like the protagonist of the story," he finally says. “Basically, if he was a princess, you'd be his knight." 

Evbo groans. "Come on, quit joking around." 

“I'm serious. I can practically see the sparkles floating around your head in this.” EMF motions to the portrait that takes up half of the left page, radiant with firelight and drawn in excruciating detail. Seawatt had caught him mid-laugh, the lines around his eyes feathering out in mirth and the corners of his mouth crooked. 

He's seen storybook heroes illustrated in splendid colors on the covers of library books, boots shining with metallic foils. The tale of a boy born with a sword in his hand, sanguine blood spilled on a slew of sacrificial altars. Those heroes were true protagonists; they lived under a sun of their own making, not in the shadows of their forefathers. 

Looking down at the drawing of himself, all he sees is hollow cheekbones that never quite filled out right, the naive grin of prey caught in a hunter’s trap. He has no idea what EMF could possibly be seeing.

With a jolt, he realizes that he’s stayed quiet for too long, and hurries to fill the silence. "Well, I don't think it really looks like me. For one, I’m way better-looking."

EMF studies him for a long moment, tapping the end of his lapis fountain pen on the desk. Evbo feels rather vulnerable, scrutinized from every angle. Somehow he thinks the act isn't fooling his friend at all.

When he finally speaks, his tone isn't unkind, but it still feels like a punch in the gut. "Eh. I don't think so.”

“Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" 

EMF looks back down at the sketchbook, an unreadable expression on his face. "You look happier here.”

Before he can protest, the bell outside rings, signaling another citizen’s arrival to discuss their grievances with the champion. EMF gives him an apologetic look, but Evbo just claps him sympathetically on the shoulder, mouth twisting in a wry grin.

“Sorry-" 

“It's fine, no worries.” What Evbo had learned had only left him with more questions, but he's grateful for him taking time out of his busy schedule anyway. “See you at game night this weekend?"

EMF stares off into the distance, mentally calculating something under his breath before nodding hesitantly. “Yeah… yeah, I'll be there.”

“Awesome." Evbo scoops up the sketchbook and stands, smiling widely. He’d been this close to staging an intervention to pry him away from his work. The number of times he’s found him asleep at his desk, muttering worriedly in his sleep, is getting concerningly high. Too much dedication could be a bad thing—seriously, the man didn’t even accept offers of help most of the time.

“We'll talk more later. Promise," EMF calls after him. 

Evbo nods, raising his hand in a half-wave as he turns to leave. As soon as the heavy doors swing shut behind him, he slumps down against a nearby wall, the coolness of the tile a blessed anchor in the midst of his swirling thoughts. One of the ceiling lamps has burned out, flickering incessantly above him.

What was the plan again? He'd thought that laying Seawatt to rest would resolve the thick tension between them. One last send-off for the traitor who'd nearly brought civilization down, even though most had argued that he didn't deserve funeral rites. Perhaps then he’d stop appearing in his dreams, the lilting cadence of his voice haunting his nightmares. Yet all it had done was leave him with a million questions, the heavy feeling of guilt a tight vice around his heart.

Evbo rubs at his eyes, retinas burning from gazing up at the lights for so long. When he blinks, the afterimage of a dark figure flashes in his vision momentarily. He startles, blinking harder to clear his vision, and it disappears. Wobbling to unsteady feet, he stands and braces himself against the wall, fists raised defensively. His head swivels, turning left and right, but there's nothing there.

Embarrassed, he crosses his arms in front of himself, pretends he hadn't just been shadowboxing the air like a madman. He must be losing it, seeing things in even shadows now. What would someone think if they were to see him like this? The savior of civilization, driven to insanity by someone he'd long since defeated. Maybe that had been Seawatt's goal all along.

More than anything, he wants to reach past the gauzy veil of death and tear him from the afterlife he'd found refuge in. Shake him by the shoulders, ask him what his deal is. He’d always been a slippery bastard, but Evbo thinks he might be able to hold on to him this time. Plenty of people had successfully been pulled from the afterlife, after all. 

But revival is a two-way street, and Seawatt’s soul is nowhere to be found.

— 

Netherite scrapes roughly against quartz floor as he traipses out. In the early throes of evening, the streets are turning golden under the setting sun. Market sellers put away their wares, preparing to head home to their families, and children’s laughter rings through the air—he can't help but smile at the sound. Once, these layers had been near destitute, the threat of death weighing heavily on everyone’s mind. Now they flourish unbound by archaic rules, carved into a safe haven for their citizens. His labor is finally starting to bear fruit.

You should be proud, EMF says in his head, rational as ever. Have some confidence in yourself.

“I am,” he says aloud, lifting his head high.

The civilization he'd rebuilt with his own two hands is painted in his signature green. There's statues of him in the town squares, altars that teem with offerings to a newborn god. People look upon him in admiration now, not thinly veiled disgust. Of course he's proud of himself—he has every reason to be.

Then why, a familiar voice whispers, as bitter as he sounded in life, are you so hung up on this?

Evbo catches himself before he can reply, remembering abruptly where he is. The only reason he’s giving this a second thought is because he hates loose ends, and the mystery surrounding Seawatt’s sketchbook is a fraying thread he can’t help but pick at. 

His neck prickles in embarrassment, and he rubs at it harshly. Man, he must be losing it. He doesn’t need to prove himself to ghosts.

"Oh, it’s you!” a voice calls out behind him, sounding delighted. “Come to browse the market like everyone else?”

He turns to see an art vendor halfway through taking down her stall, paintings carefully settled back under protective cloth. A sundry of artworks covers the walls, forged in brilliant shades and glimmering faintly despite the dim lighting of dusk. It’s apparent from the expensive colors and high prices that this artist is rather successful; the quality of the work is outstanding, too. 

She dips her head briefly in reverence, and Evbo waves it off, embarrassed. “Nah, just heading home from meeting the champion.”

“You’re just the person I wanted to see. I was hoping you could take a look at my newest artwork…it does feature you, after all.”

“Sure, lay it on me.” Evbo perks up a bit, lapping up the attention. The artist grins and unveils one of her easels with barely contained excitement.

“It's a scene from one of your battles,” she explains, gesturing to it proudly. “When you defeated the villain and his vile lackey, and ascended to godhood."

Evbo's no stranger to worship. Not after the raucous celebrations and throngs of fawning admirers, the marble and blackstone statues that had sprung up in town squares. They'd written storybooks about him, begged him to pose for portraits hung up for posterity. In everyone’s eyes he was a god that had risen from the ashes of a collapsing civilization, emerging victorious in the wake of a glorious battle. The rabble of society, clawing his way up the ranks to reign supreme. He'd eaten it up at first. Leaned heavy into veneration’s side like a starved dog, hungry for the respect he'd never been shown before. 

But standing under the dark canopy of an artist’s tent, gazing at the embellished rendition of his feats, he's never felt more like a fraud. 

The centerpiece of the painting, he's cast in gleaming white, vast wings eclipsing the sun as he leaps forward in battle. A streak of glowing ink anoints his temple, forming a halo around his head. Embossed gold foil adorns his hair, catching the light, and his eyes glitter green with emerald dust. He looks every bit like the storybook heroes he'd read about, the personification of valor. 

“It's beautiful," Evbo says. He feels nauseous.

The artist beams and begins to ramble on about the various intricacies of her work. She'd sourced the finest ingredients, because there hadn't been a god to worship in ages, and she just knew she had to go all out for this occasion. Unlike the rest of the scene, he’d been rendered in full color, paralleling the vibrance of divinity with the darkness of evil, and… he stops listening. 

He’d been flesh and blood when he'd fought the villain, not an infallible god with nothing to lose. Hell, he isn't even the one who defeated Seawatt. That hadn't stopped people from rewriting history, though. Fabricated falsehoods made for a better story than the truth.

Leaning closer, Evbo looks closer at his face, dull and ashen, mouth twisted. Locked in combat, Seawatt glares back at him, sunken eyes black with rage. Sallow skin stretches tight over jutting cheekbones, his face hollow in the way dead things tend to be. He looks one foot into the void already. 

“His eyes were purple,” he blurts out.

Her smile freezes. "What?”

It's not just his eye color that’s wrong. There's something off about his expression, too: lips curled in a sneer and gaze hard, he’s a shallow caricature of himself. 

Seawatt had looked at him in many ways: angry, prideful. Now that he looks back on it, the signs had all been there—he must’ve been stupid not to notice. The swell of a puffed chest, a clenched jaw and ground teeth. The twitch of an eye whenever Evbo had talked about the advancements they’d made in civilization. He'd hidden it well, sheathing his true nature like a knife until the bitter end. 

But despite it all, he'd never looked cruel.

“No, never mind." Evbo flashes the dumbfounded painter a grin and a weak thumbs-up. “It looks great." 

He keeps moving.

— 

Even with the protection of divinity draped over him like a warm coat, the house is freezing. Evbo lights the fireplace with a flick of his hand, collapsing on his bed with a heaving sigh. When he’d created his mansion, with its grand rooms and lofty ceilings, he hadn’t taken into account how hard it would be to heat it all. Besides, having a house with ten extra rooms wasn’t particularly useful when you could count your close friends on one hand.

A tight band of stress constricts his temples, making his head throb harshly. Evbo groans and peels off his headband, tossing it at a coat rack and missing completely. He digs the balls of his hands into his eye sockets, trying unsuccessfully to relieve the pressure building up in his skull. There’s nothing he wants more than to curl up in bed and knock out, but the pain is all he can think about. 

Sluggishly, he starts pulling his hoodie over his head, but stops short when something falls from it with a soft thud. He bends down to see the sketchbook face-down on the floor; heart in his mouth, he flips it over gingerly to assess the damage. It’s perfectly fine, but he can't help but take notice of the newly revealed drawing. 

Headache forgotten, Evbo sets the book on his desk and peers closely at it. Unlike the density of the other sketches, this one is singled out on a fresh page. The strands of his hair clump together, damp with sweat, and his cheeks are shaded dark with the suggestion of a fever. Lying motionless in bed, he looks miserable; even the green of his eyes is dimmer. The blankets are cast off, kicked somewhere onto the floor. This must be from the time he'd fallen ill, barely able to move or feed himself. 

So much for drawing him like the protagonist. Seawatt sure had a thing for capturing him in all of his worst moments. Reconnaissance to figure out his weaknesses, no doubt.

Wrinkling his nose in annoyance, Evbo skims the rest of the book. While previous pages had overflowed with drawings, they’d become sparser past the centerfold. Each spread dedicates itself to a new scene, the colors becoming more and more vibrant as he flips through. Despite the makeshift nature of Seawatt’s art supplies, he'd somehow managed to capture his eyes better than emerald dust ever could.

On a better day he’d think more about the implications of that, but fatigue bears down heavily on his shoulders. Evbo rubs at the sore muscles between his neck and wings, sighing. He leaves the sketchbook on his desk, bookmark tucked back into place for tomorrow. For now, he has to catch up on a week’s worth of interrupted shut-eye.

Sleep shifts around him, pulling fast over his troubled mind. The ceiling swims hazily above, going in and out of focus. His throat burns. Evbo fumbles blindly for the water bottle he keeps at his bedside; his hand swipes through thin air instead. He blinks blearily, squinting at his surroundings. Run-down sandstone walls greet him, spilling dust that congregates in the scant torchlight. 

He hasn't dreamed about the fighter layer since the day he left it. Why now, of all times? Evbo huffs a short breath, chest tight. The blankets suffocate him. He tries to kick them off, but they tangle around his waist. His limbs feel heavy as molten iron. 

With monumental effort he manages to strip the blanket from his torso—it's too thick, a scratchy wool that chafes at the skin. The covers are too hot and yet not enough at all, and he shivers uncontrollably, exposed to the cold air. Belatedly, he realizes that his hoodie is missing; he nearly panics before seeing it hung up across the room, tattered. 

Unable to move, he tries to call out for help. All that comes out is a faint warble, his tongue refusing his bidding. Evbo sucks in a deep breath, struggling to sit up against the headboard. Frightfully dizzy, he closes his eyes and wills the room to stop spinning. He places a hand against his neck, finding it unbearably hot to the touch. 

Fever addles his mind, makes him helpless as a child. Cough syrup, rosehip tea with honey. A mother’s voice, warm with affection. Plant names he can’t pronounce, and a journal entry dotted with penciled stars.  

Why is he thinking about that now? 

Evbo opens sand-gritty eyelids, peers into the darkness beyond the bed. His breath quickens, lungs aching something fierce. He puts his head between his knees, clamping it there in an attempt to ground himself. Illness has made the earth fall out from underneath his feet, and all he can do is remember that he’ll surely wake up from this nightmare soon. No one’s coming to help him, not in this hidden alcove of the fighter layer. 

Ah, he’s wrong. There's still one person left to hear him here.

A name flocks to his tongue like a violet bird, crawls its way up his throat where he had swallowed it down in shame long ago. The memory unearths itself from its grave, shambling toward him in a shower of red petals. He doesn’t fight it. 

“Seawatt,” he manages to get out, voice straining in his throat. “Help me.” 

The wind must be stinging his eyes, even in this dream. 

When Evbo raises his head again, he notices the bowl of soup sitting on the nightstand, spires of steam rising from it. With fleeting strength he cups it in his hands, grateful for the warmth that soothes the chill in his bones. He stops shivering and breathes in its scent, letting it wash over him. The hand-whittled wooden spoon is a comforting weight between his fingers.

That scent: he'd recognize it anywhere. A week’s worth of shared meals, a broken-down shelter to come home to. Some days he'd limped back to their hideout, healed-over skin still aching from phantom wounds. Seawatt had always had a bowl and a bad excuse waiting for him, even near the end.

You can feel hungry even if you don't need to eat. He'd averted his gaze, rubbing at his neck. Can't have you getting distracted and fucking up a course. Just take it.

Evbo scrapes the bottom of the bowl, scooping the ingredients from where they’d settled—he can’t help but choke out a laugh when he sees them. He lifts the spoon to his lips, hand shaking so badly he nearly spills it down his shirt. The beef stew tastes just the way he remembers.

— 

When he comes to, light is already streaming through the blinds. The morning sun greets him with enthusiasm, and Evbo shields his eyes with a groan. Still groggy, he stumbles out of bed to close the shutters. 

Another dream, and a nightmare at that. He hasn't had a restorative night of sleep in what feels like months. Evbo clenches his fist, upset. Why couldn't becoming god have given him cooler abilities, like not needing to sleep, instead of aesthetic ones that served no useful function? He can't even fly with his undersized wings, and the halo is little more than a glorified nightlight.

To be fair, he probably wouldn't have minded if his sleep wasn't being haunted by a vengeful spirit, hell-bent on causing him problems even after his unceremonious death. Your character arc is over, man. Let it go.

Maybe it's because he's just woken up, but Evbo doesn't really feel like being benevolent right now. He glares at the sketchbook, sitting innocently on his desk. It might be petty to pick a fight with an inanimate object, but it's not like he can take it out on its owner.

“You made your choice," he mutters, “Why do you have to keep coming back around to spite me?" 

Predictably, it doesn't answer. Maybe he really had been cursed the first time he'd touched it, doomed to suffer from bad sleep for the rest of his existence. Evbo refuses to accept that; he’d still be stuck eating raw fish if he’d just given up the first time he'd fallen. He crosses the room to pick it up, beginning to leaf through it again in search of an answer. 

Nothing seems out of the ordinary at first. Recipes, lyrics, scribbled-out sketches; Seawatt had had the bad habit of crossing out unfinished drawings. He doesn’t know what he expects to find: a ritualistic guide on resurrecting the dead? A how-to-guide on haunting your enemy? Either way, he has to reach the end eventually, so he can put this unwilling ghost to bed once and for all.

Evbo flips the page, and then there is nothing left: just blank white paper, fluttering under his fingertips. The rest of the book is empty, a story that ended before its resolution. 

Surely that can't be it. He turns back a page, disbelieving. All that's there is a drawing of himself, sitting by the fire with his knees drawn to his chest. Despite the formidable gleam of a champion’s boots, he looks almost vulnerable, crumpled up like that. He's looking off into the distance, wide eyes focused on something just out-of-frame. 

No, not something—someone. He’d told Seawatt a joke he can’t remember now, some terrible pun. Back before Evbo had known the truth, and they’d simply eyed each other warily over a lit campfire, passing pieces of bread.

To his surprise, his lips had curled in amusement, a genuine grin giving way to a badly-suppressed snort. He hadn’t known Seawatt was even capable of making an expression other than a glower. It had flitted over his face like a ray of unexpected sun, disappearing back behind clouds as quickly as it had come. Happiness had looked good on him, brief as it had been. 

When he tries to picture what he’d looked like, Evbo finds that he can’t remember. Each individual feature remains clear in his head, but when he tries to put them together they collapse under the weight of new memories. Gold jewelry on pallid skin and blood-rimmed nails, blackened eyes and bared teeth. The Seawatt in his head exists in an embellished coffin, surrounded by paintings of his betrayal. There’s no untarnished record left behind of his appearance. 

...Ha. Sleep deprivation must really be making him desperate if he’s seriously considering drawing Seawatt right now. 

But if there's one thing Evbo hates, it's fake memories. The idea of his mind being muddled by misconceptions is chilling. Besides, this whole thing has made him awfully curious, and he can't exactly interrogate Seawatt about his motives, so stepping into his boots is the only way forward. And he's missed the raw authenticity of art—no shortcuts or snapped fingers, just his own two hands bringing a vision to life. 

Even so, it's been a long time since he'd properly drawn something, and never before with proper equipment. He'd made do with sharpened chicken bones, the walls of his first home a canvas for his crude etchings. In a layer where possessing anything was punishable, he'd only had his art to call his own: flowers and terrain blocks, portraits of fallen friends that remained long after they were gone. The amateurish doodling had been a bright spot in the dull monotony of noob life, but he'd forgotten all about it when he'd become a pro. 

Paper rustles under his fingers, temptingly unmarked. Evbo conjures up a pen, but hesitates as he grips the barrel. Though no one will see them but him, there's something in him that balks at the thought of filling an obviously treasured possession with indelible, half-baked drawings. He searches for a pencil instead, scrabbling around in his messy desk drawer. Hand trembling, he manages to draw a simple oval before the pencil nearly slips from his grasp. Sweaty from nerves, he wipes his slick palm on his jeans before continuing on.

The first rendition of Seawatt’s head is distressingly… oblong, so Evbo erases it into oblivion. The next one, and the one after that, are all wrong; his face had been sharper, skin stretching tight over jutting cheekbones, a jawline made prominent by surviving on the barren fighter layer. A downturned mouth, easily mistaken as a pout if you didn’t know his resting face, and dark waves of hair falling over strong eyebrows. The point of the pencil snaps from excessive pressure, and Evbo sharpens it carefully as he stares at his work. 

If anyone asked, he’d blame it on the unfamiliar medium, but in truth the drawing looks pretty awful. With all of its angular lines and delicate details, Seawatt’s face is harder to capture than he'd thought it would be. Such a pretty face was wasted on that asshole, but- no. Evbo regrets it as soon as the thought registers in his mind, biting his tongue to sober up. 

Truthfully, he misses the simplicity of scratching sketches into stone, unforgiving as it had been. Somehow things were easier when you weren’t capable of erasing your mistakes or second-guessing yourself into stopping. He chews on the end of the eraser absentmindedly, staring down at Seawatt’s miserably unrefined side-profile. 

Damn. He definitely needs more practice. 

Time slips like fine sand through Evbo’s fingers, gone before he knows it. Moonlight drapes its silken cloak over the horizon, and the stars have long since made their debut on the black stage of the night sky. The paper is near translucent with how much he’s worn it down, eraser shavings collecting in his lap. At long last, a semi-recognizable face has taken shape on the page. He’d pored over the drawings of himself to see how Seawatt had shaded, thin lines hatched together to form an interplay of shadow and light. A smudged darkness on his cheeks suggests a lively flush—one he'd watched drain from his face a month ago, but here on the page he looks hale and hearty. 

Did he have a mole near the left corner of his mouth, or the right? Was the bridge of his nose sloping, or curved? Evbo sighs, setting the pencil down for the first time in hours. Maybe he's gotten a little too into it after all. Then again, he'd always had a habit of getting lost in new hobbies, and art is no exception.

The one thing he can't get right are his eyes. He's tried drawing them over and over, but can't capture the brilliance of them in monochrome—a deep violet so arresting that even amethyst was no match for them. Though Evbo had hated the way Seawatt looked at him with undisguised arrogance, he has to reluctantly admit that he'd gotten lost in his gaze more than once. Could you really blame him, though? The evening sky he’d always dreamt of seeing, and even the indigo-feathered birds that darted through it, all paled in comparison to their color. 

Evbo taps the end of the pencil against the page, pondering. Sure, he can just conjure up any shade he wants, but Seawatt hadn't been able to, not with that mortal body of his. 

The dye recipe he'd found on one of the pages suggests that he'd painstakingly harvested the plants himself. Green had come from cacti, carefully shucked of their spines; gold from the sun-wilted blossoms of dandelions, ground to a fine powder. He runs his finger down the list of colors, searching for something he'll know when he sees it. 

Purple: cornflowers + poppies = violet, cornflowers + roses = plum, lapis + poppies = mauve…

Under this, the guide continues on about where to find ingredients, and Evbo frowns. Cornflowers are easy enough to find, scattered among fields sticky-sweet with late summer. He remembers stumbling across some the other day, blue-eyed blooms winking throughout newly sown grass. Poppies, on the other hand, are a spring flower, and must be long gone by now. It's been a week since he last saw them, and even the latest stragglers must have gone to seed by now. 

It would be easy as a snap of the fingers to conjure up some more, just the briefest of thoughts. Evbo considers it, but waves the thought away—he's sick of shortcuts. He pictures stained hands, toughened by the rough work of foraging, fingertips that had remained green and gold even in death. 

His eyelids droop, weighed down by fatigue. Yawning, he puts his head down on the desk, telling himself he'll only rest for a few minutes. 

But sleep has not been kind to him, and when he opens his eyes again it's nearly morning. Cheek smashed against the table and knees drawn to his chest, he's got a crick in his neck from sleeping in his chair. Despite this, Evbo sits up with a start as he remembers something. Hazy visions swirl in his head, remnants from his forgotten dream. 

There's one place left where poppies are still blooming, secluded from the world. But even if he can find them, he isn't sure if he can do Seawatt’s eyes justice, because the last time he'd seen them they'd been closed. 

Still, he shrugs on his sweater, and slips out the door into the early morning.

— 

Bees have returned in droves to buzz over now-lush flower fields, and Evbo finds he likes watching them work. Maybe this god business has given him a kinship for other winged creatures after all… or maybe he just likes the mead their honey is made into. A fat bumblebee bumps into his hand, and he giggles as it floats away.

Pocketful of cornflowers stashed away, he makes his way to the cemetery. With its stately stone walls and flowering apple trees, it’s a quiet haven tucked at the back of town. People who'd chosen to remain dead are immortalized on symbolic headstones, and there's a little monument up front for the fighter layer’s inhabitants. EMF’s idea, really, but he'd been happy to work with him to create this place.

The coffin sticks out like a sore thumb, despite its location hidden near the back. Patterned with intricate details, its gilded lid gleams in the morning sun. Evbo hadn't intended to make it look so elaborate, but well- he'd never made one before, and might've gone a bit overboard. Hell, he’d never even seen a body before then.

Who could've known that a race would rend a soul right out of its vessel? Instead of fading into the afterlife, Seawatt had simply fallen to the ground, a puppet with its strings cut. The anger he'd felt then had quickly turned into horror, but he hadn't had time to dwell on that then. Later he'd brought him back, the cold shell of his body that had once slept beside him.

Now Evbo stands in front of his burial plot, looking down at it. Unlike other headstones, his is strewn with fallen leaves, unkept. Those with family and friends had seen their graves lovingly tended to, but Seawatt is as alone in death as he was in life.

When they'd buried him, Evbo had guessed this might be the case—after all, who would want to visit a traitor? He, too, had never thought he'd come back here, so he'd blessed his funeral flowers with eternal life as a final send-off. Others had loved ones to visit and refresh them, but Seawatt’s parents had died before their beloved son. 

“Hope you don't mind," he tells him, “that I'm taking some of these back." 

Evbo stoops to pick some of the poppies by the coffin, red-headed flowers waving gaily in the wind. He winces as he remembers the journal entry, written in a mother's loving hand.

Sorry for the flowers, he doesn't say.

Clutching a handful of poppies, he sits down on the grass in front of Seawatt, wind rustling soft through his hair. A dove is cooing somewhere, perched on the stone wall behind him.

“Why’d you do it, man?" 

He isn't sure what he's even asking—of vengeance? Of betrayal, of lies and deceit?

"The book,” he says, voice petering off into a whisper, "and the…”

Was any of the kindness you showed me real?

Evbo stands, brushing grass from his jeans. The dove goes silent abruptly, frightened off by his sudden movements. It flies off in a flash of white feathers, and he watches it go until it disappears over the horizon. 

Dewdrops bead on his skin, the flowers still wet from early morning. Plucked in their prime, they shimmer crimson-red like blood in his hands. Some have gone to seed already, and new sprouts are bound to emerge soon. Left untended, the headstone will surely be lost in a thicket of poppies someday, and no one will remember who lays here. 

The trees bow amongst themselves as he departs, willow boughs whispering in the wind when he pushes the gate open. Evbo's footsteps ring out loudly in the quiet cemetery, and he cringes at the sound, walking as softly as he can. Hopefully its occupants will forgive him for disturbing their peace.

— 

"Ahh, not again-" 

Evbo curses as the powder scatters across his desk for the third time. The dye had been messier than he'd thought it would be, transferred into a little tin sitting beside him. Following the sketchbook’s guide, the cornflowers had been easy enough to grind into an indigo blue. Poppies, though, had been a nightmare to process into red with their annoying little seeds and whatnot.

Together, though, the two colors had turned into a fluorescent stain, a bright violet that threatens to tint everything he loves for all eternity. He'd even had to take his hoodie and headband off! It seems Seawatt is determined to cause problems for him, even after his death.

Not for the first time, Evbo regrets his curiosity. Unfortunately, he's already come too far to give up when the going gets hard, and that means pressing on even when dye spills all over his workspace.

Resisting the urge to gnaw on his pencil in frustration, he redraws Seawatt's left eye again, unsatisfied with how it looks. The upturned little flick of his makeup (kohl, was it?) and the long, curved eyelashes that graced them, the angular shape of them that softened slightly when he smiled. The painters had gotten them all wrong, but it wasn't his place to say anything to them but lukewarm encouragement.

Yes, this is what he'd looked like. Evbo turns his head this way and that, examining the drawing. With no picture to reference, he'd had to rely on his own memories. Still, it had turned out better than he'd expected, despite spending a full day's worth of free time relearning how to draw hands. Truthfully, he'd missed doing things like this. When civilization expanded, he'd become drowned in responsibilities. The last three days are the most fun he's had in ages.

Stained with purple, his fingertips gleam under the lantern light where he presses them to paper; the pads of them dark with dye. It's getting under his nails, but Evbo finds he can't even be upset, marveling at the bright color as he blends it further in. He'd used beeswax instead of tallow, and it fills his room with the sweet scent of honeyed candles. 

When he removes his fingers, the imprint of them remains: rosettes and whorls, stamped onto Seawatt’s irises like an insignia. Evbo rubs at them futilely, eventually giving up when they don't budge at all. How Seawatt had gotten his colors so smooth and undisturbed is beyond him.

Seawatt’s eyes glimmer violet with amusement, head tilted back as he looks up from the page. Resplendent in his white garb, he stretches out a ringed hand, beckoning the viewer to come closer—to tell them a story, some fable of creation. Once Evbo had been the one caught in his thrall, wide-eyed with wonder while he’d spun fanciful stories: endless expanses of water, flickering colors that filled the glacial sky, towering spires of earth that reached past the clouds. 

It sure is a shame; now the tales he’d told remain only in Evbo’s memory, put away on a high shelf to collect dust. One day their bound covers will fall apart, moth-eaten and time-worn, and they too will be lost to time. 

Before he can dwell on them any longer, a loud knock sounds at his door. Evbo startles. He hadn't been expecting anyone, especially at this hour. And he hadn't heard any prayers beforehand.

“Evbo," comes a frantic voice, “Please hurry." 

At the sound of Ally’s panicked voice, Evbo blinks downstairs in a hurry, nearly tripping in his haste to open the door. Ally lets out a sigh of relief when he sees him, hair disheveled and clothes unkempt.

“EMF passed out," he blurts. "Knocked his head on the way down, so he's kind of bleeding a little bit- uh, nothing the champion boots couldn't fix, but he won't wake up-”

"What? Passed out?" 

They'd been worried about this happening all along, but EMF had just brushed it off with a wry smile. Someone needs to get the work done, he'd said, and pressed on, refusing offers of help half the time. 

“Let’s go," Evbo says, grabbing Ally’s hand as they prepare to blink to EMF. His best friend is stubborn, determined, and above all things self-sacrificing. He'll work himself into the ground if he doesn't talk some sense into him, but first he needs to nurse him back to health. And take over the throne while he's gone, and attend to his god duties still… his head swims with the amount of work he has lined up for him. 

"Woah, what the- what’s that?” 

Evbo looks down, realizing in horror that he'd forgotten to wash his hands before coming downstairs. Purple fingerprints encircle Ally’s wrist, smudging onto his skin; the dye has transferred its pattern onto him.

Hastily, he wipes his dirty fingers on his jeans, stammering out an excuse. "I was uh, painting?” 

Ally nods, too caught up in concern to question him further. As the world blurs around them, Evbo’s last thoughts are a guilty vow to make things right, but those too fade into obscurity as they blink away.

There is light when Seawatt opens his eyes.

He'd always thought that limbo would be empty, but not like this: a stark white glare that burns the retinas and makes him tear up, endless space stretching out before him as far as he can see. 

Seawatt pinches his arm hard, winces at the weak pain that radiates from it—the last thing he remembers is falling, sand coming up to cradle his head. The homeland he'd loved so much had become his final resting place, and the man he'd betrayed had watched it all happen.

He presses fingers to his neck and finds a slow pulse, faint enough that it flutters in and out; he's not dreaming, but he doesn't seem to be alive, either. There's no sun in this place, yet he doesn't feel cold at all.

Perhaps this afterlife had been created just to torture him. It was what fate would decree for a traitor, surely. He'd known all along that death would not be kind to him, so he'd fought as hard as he could to stay alive. Though in the end, all of it had been for naught.

His voice echoes when he shouts as loud he can, ringing out in the ensuing silence. Seawatt drags his feet along pure white, trying to leave a mark of some sort, but the floor remains stubbornly unchanged. When he turns to look in all directions, there is no horizon to be seen, and even his own body casts no shadow to follow.

What now? Is he doomed to remain here for all eternity, trapped in an endless void? A cruelty, even by fate’s standards. He supposes trying to bring about the end of times will do that to someone.

When Seawatt moves to sit down and regain his bearings, the compass dangles freely from his neck. He catches it neatly in one hand, holding it up so he can examine it. His father’s gift to him glitters gold in this sunless space, illuminated by the sterile white light of the afterlife. Seawatt runs his thumb over the clasp, over the engraving that remains clear even after a decade’s worth of wear and tear:

To my dearest,

So you may always find your way home.

For the first time in a long, long while, Seawatt lets himself cry.

— 

When the tears have all but dried on his cheeks, he turns over the compass, unlatching the lid so he can read its bearings. The arrow points surely forward, still straight and true as it had always been. 

He laughs—for what in this lifeless world could it still be pointing to? The home he had once cherished is little more than crumbling walls. He, too, is a shade wandering this white desert in search of an oasis, even when nothing remains. 

But Seawatt has nothing left to lose, so he stumbles forward on shaking legs, making his way into the unknown.

Without the sun to reference, he has no idea how much time is passing. He doesn't know how long he's walked, only that the soles of his feet ache. Normally he'd have grown thirsty by now, but his body seems to want for little anymore. This white space must be driving him mad, for even the backs of his hands blur before him, the outlines of them ill-defined. But the arrow is starting to flicker wildly back and forth, so he's sure he must be close by now.

Sure enough, the hunched forms of sandstone buildings rise in the distance; the first thing he's seen since he woke up. Seawatt breaks into a run, chainmail boots digging roughly into his skin as he does—though, he really couldn't care less. He's home.

Up front, his house is just the same as the last time he'd seen it, run-down and enveloped in dust. The wilted stems of daisies peek out from his mother’s flowerbox, and a thick bramble of dead roses crowds the dirty window. 

Seawatt pauses in front of the broken door, hand poised to knock. He could let himself in, the door had never been locked. The little boy in him trembles with hope, still waiting for his parents to answer the door, to wrap him in their arms and tell him they'd missed him. 

Would it be too much to hope they'd gone to the same place he had? His sins far outnumbered theirs, but perhaps fate had taken pity on them for the way they'd all died, caught between a war of power and petty disagreements.

His hand falters before the door, falling to his side. No, he knew where they'd gone, and it was a place he could not follow; the crimes he'd committed had excluded his soul from becoming a star in the night sky.

And here in this starless world, the bright souls of his parents are nowhere to be seen. He truly has no one left.

Ah, he's hearing things now. The fates have conspired to whisper together, to spite him in this accursed mockery of an afterlife. He balls his fist, digging his nails harshly into his palm. 

No, wait—someone’s really calling his name.

“Seawatt," comes the faint voice, barely audible through the window. "Help me.”

Weak heart thudding in his chest, Seawatt places his hand on the doorknob. It must be a trick of sound, a cruel joke played on him by fate. What else could explain hearing that voice in this place?

The window is still thick with grime, the way it had been when he'd sheltered there not so long ago; he wipes the glass clean with his sleeve and tries to peer through it. A decade’s worth of dust comes free from the windowpane, and he reels back in disgust before catching sight of his reflection.

Seawatt looks at himself, at the man where the boy had been. His father's eyes stare back, veiled with exhaustion, and the curve of his mother's lips turns downward, as if pouting. He leans forward until his forehead nearly touches the grimy glass, and frowns. Had his eyes always looked like that—rippled with swirls, striated like the surface of the sea? Blinking hard to clear his vision, he checks again, but they remain the same.

Before he can contemplate any further, Evbo calls out to him again, voice strained around his name as he trails off into wracking coughs. Then the coughs fade away too, and all that is left is silence.

Breath held, he listens intently through the window, but Evbo doesn't say anything else. His body must be too weak to continue.

Screw it, Seawatt decides, and opens the door to go to him.