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What a strange stab of fate it is, having it all come to an end so quietly, so suddenly.
There is nothing about it that satisfies.
They lay there together at the bottom of the ravine, wracked with pain and hatred and fear fear fear.
The General does not move, keeps his eyes shut tight against the world, against the heavy, snarling breath of the monster looming over his broken body. Is this it? Is this finally where it all ends?
The Nowhere King watches, unblinking as ever, some vile mixture of glee and terror churning in his belly at the sight of his other half so near to death. Naturally, he is hardly in better shape himself. He turns only when She arrives, exhausted and war-torn and long past her breaking point. The sad, festering remains of his heart still sing at the sight even though her harsh, rigid stance promises nothing but utterly-deserved contempt.
He bows his head to her--he always will. The General cracks open one eye, hisses in agony as he tries to lift himself up to face her too.
And he-- they --can see it, the hesitation in her eyes. The Nowhere King remembers it, feels a surge of bile and rot bubbling inside from sheer frustration. The General feels nothing but fear and a desperate, cloying hope as he looks at his once-wife.
She loves, she hates, and she still cannot bring herself to destroy them. It is far, far worse than a long-ago rejection ever would've been. Disdain is simple, a clean cut. This...this is a twisting screw, a messy tangle of barbed wire, wrapping tighter and tearing deeper with every passing second.
"You said you loved me," she says, a bitter and broken tremble to her words. "But the horse is right. This-"
She's spitting the words now, gesturing between the three of them, the carnage all around them, the tears in her eyes that finally spill over and down the tense lines of her face.
"-this isn't love."
There is silence for a moment. There is, after all, nothing to be said.
Nothing could fix this. Not now. There hasn't been for a long, long time.
"You made me what I am," she grits out, looking down at her hands before she clenches them. The key, held in one of them, glows as it extends into a spear. "You can't even begin to understand how much-"
She falters, clearly struggling for words. "The entire world, both of them, so many people-"
Silence again. Words cannot even describe the turmoil that twists inside them, fills the air--the same that nearly brought all existence to ruin.
"No more," she says. "No. More. But not like this."
Tears stream from her piercing eyes, still lovely as ever, still agonizing to behold. Her teeth are grit as she raises the key-staff and--
The two halves are lifted bodily, glowing red with a magic that burns as much as it bewilders them.
With a mighty swing, reality cracks open, a tear in the universe’s fabric where there should be none. Their eyes widen, long-ago, hated memories of an innocent rift worker resurfacing to think, "oh, that's really not supposed to happen."
Her palm pushes them away roughly, through the doorway that shouldn't be.
They fall.
Everything around them is nothing. Not dark, not light, pure nothing.
All the General can see is the Nowhere King sprawled in front of him, twitching and growling as it begins to rise again. He scrambles backwards as best he can, draws his weapon, staggers to his feet despite every atom of his body screaming at him not to.
The monster looks back with a glowing-green promise of pain. Desperate, the General looks wildly about for a door, for a key, for Her, anything--
“No,” he chokes, panic closing in on him. “No, no, what is this place-?!”
After a moment, an answer comes from the only place it possibly could.
“ANOTHER PRISON,” the Nowhere King says. “ANOTHER ETERNITY OF TORTURE, ALONE.”
And oh, the dread that fills his human heart is enough to start him trembling. He readies himself, stance wide, weapon raised, pain pushed to the back of his mind as his mortal foe writhes slowly closer.
“AT LEAST THIS TIME,” it retches, “ I CAN TORTURE YOU .”
They do what they’ve always done.
They fight.
Every blow against one is a blow to them both, every slash and stab and bruise mirrored on their bodies in a game of pure masochism.
It’s pointless. They both know it.
They fight anyways.
It feels like a very long time before they stop.
With no way to know for sure, all they can do is wonder. Has it been hours? Days? Years? Time is strange here. Neither of them grow hungry like they should. The General’s beard does not grow. Physically, they do not tire. Whatever wounds they inflict fade in time till there is nothing but a constant, steady hum of pain in the back of their minds. Bones mend, flesh regrows, but only so that they might be mutilated all over again.
The Nowhere King is used to it, the unending pain. The General is not.
He is the one who breaks first, predictably. There is nowhere to run now, after all. Nowhere to hide. No one to help him.
His mace hits the ground silently, followed by its owner’s body, crumpling and shaking in despair.
“Enough,” he gasps. “Enough. No more.”
And there is silence then, momentary peace.
…
The Nowhere King attempts to eat him.
It does not work.
(It is extremely unpleasant for them both.)
They fight again afterwards. Time passes, incalculable, hellish.
At last, they both tear each other to the point of exhaustion again. Slumped on the ground, miles or eons or some other vague form of measurement apart from each other, they stare in unflinching, unending hatred.
“I wish she’d done it,” the General says to no one in particular. Perhaps he's going crazy--it would be more surprising if he wasn’t, at this point. “I wished she’d killed us.”
Another moment’s silence. His human hand twitches for his weapon, ready for another trick.
“...A MERCY WE DO NOT DESERVE.”
The horrible voice booms from across the void, making the General scowl in disgust.
“Speak for yourself, freak.”
There is no response to that. Not for a long moment.
When he finally speaks again, it is not what the General expects to hear.
“IT ISN’T LIKE I WANT THIS. I’M NOT TRYING TO SPARE YOU. IT…MAKES NO SENSE. WHY HAVEN’T WE DIED YET?”
The human laughs then, bitter and closer to tears than real amusement. He wonders the same thing, of course, though they both know the answer.
"Because somehow, somewhere, for some reason ? There's a part of us that still wants to live."
"WOULD THAT WE COULD TEAR OUT THAT PART TOO," the skull seethes, a well-aimed verbal arrow that strikes true. "THEN WE COULD KILL HIM."
They are fighting again. They always are, or at least, they are more often than they are not.
Sometimes, the General thinks that the moments of respite are worse. He hates the endless violence, misses dearly the comfort of the life he’d fought so hard for (and to think, war camps and sleeping on the cold ground and watching his people die is now his idea of comfort-) …and yet, the silence leaves him with nothing but his own thoughts.
He can’t stop thinking about Her. Alive, after all these years.
He can’t stop thinking about the look on her face, the way it felt to fall at her hands. There is nothing he fears more than death, than suffering, but he still somehow can’t bring himself to feel betrayed.
What terrible things time has twisted them into.
He can remember the Before so easily still, imagine the ghost of her fingertips on his face. Embraces and warmth and laughter, everything he’d ever dreamed about and more. It felt so beautiful to be loved, to be happy, to be someone he could face in the mirror every day and smile at.
A little over ten years--that’s all they had until…
Well. Until.
The General wipes quickly at the few tears in his eyes, turns his contemplative look back up to his monstrous other half.
Why couldn’t it have just stayed away? Accepted its place in the world as a beast? It, of all beings, knew perfectly well that it was a necessary sacrifice--a choice they’d made as one. How could he ever grow past that miserable old life without setting aside all that held him back? It understood that.
For all that they are, in a terrible sense, the same person, the General cannot fathom why the Nowhere King became what it is now. Why it knew reason and ignored it, destroying everything and accomplishing nothing. Insanity--that’s the only explanation he can think of.
Hatred hatred hatred is all he feels, amplified by the knowledge that the beast is finally, finally dragging him down with it.
"YOU'RE EVERY BIT AS MISBEGOTTEN AS I AM."
The Nowhere King whips his tail out of the way just in time to avoid a deep slash; the General’s sharp-tipped mace merely grazes oozing skin.
"I didn't commit genocide!” The man snarls back, effort straining his voice. “I didn't turn innocent people into monsters just to serve me!"
"NO. BUT HOW MANY SOLDIERS DID YOU SEND TO THEIR DEATHS? YOU COULD'VE KILLED ME MANY TIMES OVER, BUT NO. YOU WERE THE ONLY REASON THAT WAR WAS ENDLESS."
The monster pauses, the hollows of his eyes belying nothing.
"...BESIDES. THE FIRST PERSON WE MUTILATED--WE DID THAT TOGETHER. I WANTED TO UNDO IT. WE COULD'VE MADE IT RIGHT. BUT NO. YOU WERE UNFATHOMABLY SELFISH."
The General circles him at a distance, the tension tightening with every slow step he takes. Waiting, waiting… He can be patient for a moment, wait for the pathetic little human to attack.
He does, but in an unexpected way.
“You’re right. You made that decision right along with me! And you know what?” The General grins at him, cruel and mocking and oh, so very condescending. It makes him want to put his mace through his gut. “If our roles were switched? You would’ve done the same. No, you would’ve been worse.”
A growl starts somewhere in his throat, thick and dripping just like the rot that forms his boiling skin. He is a being beyond feeling--that much he knows, but somehow, this man still manages to be irritating enough to itch .
“The real difference between you and me?” He goes on. “I’m not an animal. No matter how bad things got, I’d never stoop as low as you have.”
Something about that string of words makes the Nowhere King’s restraint snap. He lunges forward, spreading his oozing flesh like wings, coiling around and over the puny, infuriating thing like a snake.
"YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THIS FEELS LIKE,” he hisses, “DON’T ACT LIKE YOU DO. I DIDN'T CREATE MINOTAURS BECAUSE I NEEDED THEM--I CREATED THEM SO THAT OTHERS WOULD KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE, BEING WRONG. IF I WAS FORCED TO LIVE WITH THAT PAIN, THEN WHY SHOULD I SUFFER IT ALONE?"
It’s a question he doesn’t want or need an answer to. He shoots his legs out in quick succession, watching as the General dodges and evades until there’s nowhere left to go. He pins the man down with far more force than necessary, enjoying the pain even though it crushes through his own chest too.
" This, " the General spits, literally. "This is exactly why I had to get rid of you. She could never love you. And you couldn’t love her right even if you tried."
The agony almost covers it up, the little stab to the sad, shriveled remains of his heart. As it is, the Nowhere King swallows it down, forces himself to revel in it.
“WELL,” he chuckles, low and loathsome and completely void of any actual amusement. “IT’S NOT LIKE IT MATTERS.”
He has the advantage--in most ways, now, but as a being without care, without shame for the evil of his own actions? Every argument of character is a guaranteed win for him.
Slowly, cruelly, he presses down harder.
After a while, their war tactics shift. They still fight physically, yes, but now there is another type of warfare on the table that’s far worse.
They know one another better than anyone else ever could, after all. They know just what to say to wound, deeply and crippling and lasting.
And they do not hesitate to do it.
This particular time, the Nowhere King waits till after a battle, till the General is panting for breath and especially vulnerable to such an attack.
"YOU THINK JUST BECAUSE YOUR ROT HAS A HUMAN FACE, THAT MAKES IT LESS EVIL. AT LEAST I DO NOT DECEIVE, GENERAL."
The man just scoffs, too out of breath for much else.
"AT LEAST WHEN I SMITE CHILDREN WHO STAND IN MY WAY, I LOOK THEM IN THE EYES WHILE DOING IT.”
The General freezes, the unwelcome memory instantly in his mind again. The Kid, face torn with pain and betrayal, mouth gasping for the breath he’d stolen from her.
He tries very hard not to think of it. But--
He doesn’t know if she survived or not.
And he may be close, but he is not a monster. He cares. He feels shame.
….once, Before, when things were good and dreaming didn't feel ridiculous...he'd hoped for children. And, though knowingly and maturely shut away, that desire could no more be snuffed out than any other part of himself.
He’d know. He'd tried.
Like any good leader, he genuinely cared for all his people, but… She was a good kid, strong, noble. Skilled in a way that was impressive in one sense, totally nightmarish in another. She was brave--far, far braver than he’d ever been, and…he regrets that she had to be.
He wishes more than anything that things could’ve been different.
The guilt turns his stomach.
…he does what he always does--strikes out at it, desperately thrashes in an attempt to subdue, to control, to escape. His mace crushes down with a force born of wretchedness, cracking one of the Nowhere King’s antlers away. It falls, melts into sludge, creeps back to its master like a leech.
The monster is unbothered.
“AT LEAST I GIVE THEM A CHANCE TO STRUGGLE.”
The General attacks again, over and over, thinking (or perhaps screaming) an endless litany of shut up shut up shut up shut UP--
“IT'S SWEETER THAT WAY, YOU KNOW."
"You're sick!" the General growls, feeling genuinely nauseated by then.
"AT LEAST I DON'T PRETEND MY VIOLENCE IS NECESSARY."
The General does not deny the accusation. He can't. Instead, he deflects.
"Then why do it at all?"
"BECAUSE I WANT TO."
"Sick. You sick, twisted nightmare. At least I'm not a total monster!"
"BETTER A MONSTER THAN A WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING."
He screams wordless rage, charges once more.
“SHE TRUSTED YOU. ADMIRED YOU. FELL FOR THE BEAUTIFUL LIE. AND YOU LEFT HER FOR DEAD.”
His mace slams against the Nowhere King’s face so hard, it knocks away the skeletal jaw completely.
Triumph . Not his, though.
The monster's laugh echoes, echoes, echoes.
The jaw grows back. Eventually.
Sometimes, the General just sits with his head in his arms, hiding like the coward he is. Crying, perhaps, feeling sorry for himself, definitely.
It’s pathetic. It galls.
“I’LL SHOW YOU PAIN,” the Nowhere King promises, fuming more intensely than ever before, insulted by the very presence of the man in front of him. “I’LL SHOW YOU LOSS. YOU CAN’T IGNORE ME NOW. YOU CAN’T RUN FROM ME. YOU CAN’T HIDE.”
The rage literally boils beneath his skin, his entire body seething and swelling as he tears and crushes and mocks. He has the stage entirely to himself, his voice all that remains in their terrible excuse of a world.
He is more powerful than he’s ever been before. He controls the General now. He has all the vengeance he's ever wanted.
…he’s never felt more empty.
Their war becomes predictable, dull. Even when it changes, it still settles into the same, rigid truths that both are already well freaking aware of.
They’ve said all that they possibly could. No matter how inventive their violence becomes, it all boils down to nothing but more pain.
They still do not stop.
It's one of those rare moments when it happens, one where he's managed to best his darker half and keep it down, at least for a time.
He's slashed the Nowhere King to bits, scattered its goopy body across the void around them. The fragments twitch and try to ooze back together, but every time they do, the General squeezes at the arm he broke during the struggle. It hasn't healed yet. It hasn't had the chance to.
All-consuming pain stabs through him every time he exacerbates the wound and, crucially, the mirrored reaction keeps the Nowhere King from doing anything but writhe and groan. It's like a pounding war drum in both their heads, endless and overwhelming.
The General grins, a bit unhinged, but he's allowed a bit of sadism isn't he? Finally, he's in control again.
Except …something happens. It happens.
He falters.
He's confused when he does, his vision gone suddenly watery, and he's (fittingly) reminded of the only time he's ever attacked his other half with intent to kill.
The tears are from pain, the pain he's causing himself. The realization is like a dislocated joint being snapped back in place.
The General lets go of his arm. The pain quiets, reduced to a whimper like that of a sobbing child, a cowering animal.
He blinks, breathing heavy.
"...what am I doing?"
The Nowhere King, its scattered bits still in the slow process of reforming, does not answer. Not that it would have one in the first place. The General knows exactly what to expect from it, but he? He’s better than this. He’s an adult , for pete’s sake, a rational being who survived more from cleverness than strength. The only one he has to be disappointed in is himself.
Reformed, panting and hacking weakly, the monster does not retaliate. Yet.
"Okay," the General says, feeling strangely nervous about going so far off-script. "Okay. This is--this is pointless, right?"
Green eyes glare at him.
"Are we really just going to sit around torturing each other for eternity?"
"YES‐?" The Nowhere King answers, startled, as if it's the stupidest question in the world.
"But why-"
"BECAUSE THAT'S THE EXISTENCE YOU DOOMED ME TO!" it roars. Clearly, a sore spot has been hit. "AND I AM DRAGGING EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE I CAN DOWN WITH ME. AND EVEN IF THERE IS ONLY ONE BEING I CAN REACH NOW, AT LEAST IT'S YOU, THE ONE WHO DESERVES IT MOST, THE ONE WHO RAN FROM ME ALL THOSE YEARS."
"Yeah?" The General says, unimpressed. He's heard this monologue before. Many times. "And then what?"
"I MAKE YOU SUFFER UNTIL YOU'RE JUST LIKE ME. THEN, I DO IT MORE, UNTIL WE DIE, UNTIL THE UNIVERSE ENDS--WHICHEVER HAPPENS FIRST."
"That's stupid."
The Nowhere King rears back a little, as if the simple words were a physical strike.
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard!" The General's tone grows harsher, beyond frustrated. "You-- You absolute toddler! Everything you’ve done--it’s just the world’s most pathetic, destructive tantrum, isn’t it?!"
A blink of an eye later, the Nowhere King's skull looms close to bellow, "STUPID? CHILDISH? I'LL TELL YOU WHAT'S STUPID--YOU PRETENDING TO BE SURPRISED AT ALL THIS! NOW THAT I’VE FINALLY CAUGHT YOU, YOU REALLY THINK YOU CAN PRETEND YOUR WAY OUT OF THE CONSEQUENCES? HOW'S THAT FOR CHILDISH?"
And…the General needs a moment to think up a good comeback, but he doesn't get the chance.
"HOW CAN YOU EXPECT ME TO BE ANYTHING OTHER THAN WHAT I AM: PURE, WRETCHED PAIN?!"
"That's not true!" He snaps, still very much feeling like he's trapped with the most useless, lethal baby in either world and in between. "You used to be normal! You used to be fine! You did this to yourself, but--you could go back, couldn't you? You could-"
Then, laughter. It bubbles up sharply and haltingly at first, pure incredulous sputtering that turns into a cruel, echoing cackle.
"SO NOW YOU WANT TO UNDO IT. NOW YOU WANT TO MAKE PEACE."
Heat rises to the General's face from sheer humiliation, not that he should care what this thing thinks-- It's wrong anyways. It's twisting the truth, just another form of warfare, and he refuses to let it harm him.
"IT'S TOO LATE, COWARD," the monster says, finally reformed enough to loom over him once more. "IT'S BEEN TOO LATE FOR A VERY, VERY LONG TIME."
And with that, an oozing tendril lashes out and around the man's ankle, pulling him right back into another battle.
After all, their war will never change.
Never.
…
The Nowhere King thought that it all ended with him. He was the inevitability, the death, the last thing to happen before life was snuffed out forevermore.
He is disturbed by a new thought, a feeling that creeps ever closer--he is changing. Something is different. Something else lies between him and the end, and though there is no part of him that would ever admit it, he is frightened.
He thought he could go on forever like this, fighting, suffering, destroying. Just like the in-between, except instead of a mind-numbing nothingness, a festering suspension of waiting, there is someone else here to inflict his pain on.
Not a houseguest either, not a meal or a toy. An enemy. A threat.
There is no rest with the General here.
But he doesn't need rest, right? He shouldn't.
Why then does he grow tired like this, restlessly pacing around their barless cage? Why does he stop? Why doesn't he constantly tear at the wretched half-soul there with him?
He grows more weary with each empty moment that passes--not in a physical sense either. He is losing interest.
And what a terrifying thought that is.
No. He can't let it happen.
He turns, ready to charge. The General just…looks up, stares emptily. He makes no attempt to move, let alone prepare himself. He knows how this goes. They both do.
The Nowhere King snarls, knowing he should do it anyways.
Instead, he hesitates
And hesitates.
And, once the urge recedes, he turns to continue pacing.
They both feel it, the exact same dull pain in their chest, numbness everywhere else.
They despair.
The ceasefire, if one can even call it that, is characterized by long, dragging spells of stillness, jarring against the constant chaos and pain of before.
They sit, stand, lay limply in the void. They wait for nothing, haunted by their own thoughts.
The General misses his home. His wife. His people. His life.
But the more he reflects on such things, the more he comes to realize that he never deserved them in the first place. The place he carved out for himself was stolen, built upon deceit, and he can no longer run from the knowledge that his wrongdoing tainted everything around him.
However happy the memories are, he now finds that they are always, always lined with shame.
He used to dream, he remembers, dream of a cold, claustrophobic cell and desperate tears and rage and betrayal and numbness too much for anyone to bear. He would wake up in a cold sweat, the panic purely his own, and She would hold him and ask what was wrong and he'd lie lie lie to her.
Consciously, he learned to tune all that out, came to believe his own lie. Nothing was wrong. Go back to sleep, my love, don't worry.
But the aches still echoed in his chest, ringing in his ears throughout those beautiful ten years of otherwise undisturbed life.
He regrets nothing more than the way it ended, the way she looked at him like something monstrous.
"How could you-"
"How dare you-"
"You said you loved me-"
Ironically enough, he only hears his other half now that it is deathly silent.
Perhaps it isn’t so senseless after all. That justifies nothing, of course, but…the General still holds the heavy realization that he was wrong about something.
He was wrong about himself, in that one way.
…it’s a terrifying thought. He’s the adult, after all--the serious one, the good one. Everything he did, he did for the sake of becoming the man he is now. All he dreamed of, all he fought for, all he believed in…
THE BEAUTIFUL LIE, it called him.
It’s a terrifying thought.
It might be right.
“I’m sorry.”
The Nowhere King blinks--or at least, he would if he had eyelids. As it is, the light in his eyes flickers briefly from utter bewilderment.
“...WHAT?”
“I’m sorry,” the General says more loudly, calling from across the typical, vast space they’ve put between themselves. “For…everything I did, before you-- You know.”
The only thought his mind can muster is “uh.” Hardly becoming of the embodiment of hatred and death.
“I shouldn’t’ve hurt you. Shouldn’t’ve tried to kill you. It…”
There’s a long pause, a clear sense that his other half is struggling for words.
“...it doesn’t excuse anything you did. But… Look, I get it now, okay? If I hadn’t done that, we wouldn’t be here right now. So. I’m sorry.”
There’s an even longer pause after that, the words spinning in the air around them like a whirlwind. The monster can barely grab hold of them, make some sense of them.
Once he does, it ignites something deep inside of him. It ignites something that is most definitely not what the General was hoping for.
In his own whirlwind, one of rage rage RAGE, the Nowhere King shoots into the air and hurtles towards his mortal enemy, blind and deaf save for a song of “KILL, KILL, TEAR HIM APART--”
It’s easily the closest they’ve come to dying. Even closer than falling down the ravine.
But they survive it.
For better or worse, they survive.
So. Apologizing did not cut it.
The General feels foolish for trying--half because he knows the monster can’t be reasoned with, and half because he shouldn’t have to be trying in the first place. Of the two of them, the Nowhere King has far, far more to answer for. Even if the General was the catalyst (an admission that still sits sour in his stomach), he will not take responsibility for all that his stupid, immature, heartless other half has committed.
They settle back into a pattern: fighting, collapsing, going numb. Over and over again.
The fact remains: nothing is going to change unless he does something.
He just…needs to figure out how.
“She’s the one who set you free, isn’t she?”
The Nowhere King is getting annoyed with this, the inexplicable attempts at some sort of civil conversation. It’s moronic that the General thinks it will work, for one. For another, it always comes as a jarring, out-of-nowhere shock that he has yet to grow numb to.
Especially this time. Especially when it brings up thoughts of Her.
“...YES,” he says, slowly, suspiciously. And, if he’s honest, with no small amount of smugness.
SHE LOVED ME TOO, he thinks to himself. SHE STOPPED LOVING YOU ONCE SHE SAW WHAT YOU DID TO ME.
He remembers still--he always will--the day she came for him. The sound of her voice, furious, demanding that the guards let her see the truth being hidden from her in her own castle. The shock in her eyes when she found him, the tears when she realized, the pain-grief- rage as understanding fit together in her mind.
SHE WAS GENTLE WITH ME. SHE COULDN’T BRING HERSELF TO HURT ME.
SHE DIDN’T HESITATE TO HURT YOU.
In some way, the General must know what he’s thinking; the look in his gaze goes hard, jealous. This is a sore subject for the man and the pain it brings is delightful.
…it’s a sore subject for both of them, though.
However satisfying it is to have won over his other half in some small way, the fact remains that he will never have what the General did. He will never know what it was like to love without fear or shame, to hold her hand, to kiss her awake in the morning and treasure her above all else.
The General stole all that for himself.
That makes it all the more surprising when he goes on.
“You should’ve seen her tear into me after she realized what happened. What I did.”
The Nowhere King lifts his head and watches him intently. Anxiously.
“That’s the day she ended things between us. And…I deserved it.”
The General’s laugh is pained, joyless, but in an entirely different way than what the monster is used to hearing.
“Worst day of my life. Most terrifying thing that ever happened to me. Even compared to this.”
At first, the Nowhere King wants to scoff at that, but…he knows his other half is speaking the truth. He understands it. In an odd way, he feels a twinge of humiliation, shame, regret on his behalf.
The man looks up and makes eye contact, still smiling in pain. Pain, but…not suffering.
“She was always too smart for us, wasn’t she?”
Every inch of the Nowhere King’s body puffs up, bristles, shrinks away. He shrinks into himself and, notably, does not grow back.
“STOP TALKING .”
The General merely holds his hands up, a silent “okay okay, chill out.”
He’s never been more threatening.
The Nowhere King still starts fights on occasion, but he’s the only one who initiates them anymore. The General engages as little as possible, acting as if he’s suddenly above the violence and pain.
So naturally, the monster inflicts as much misery on the man as possible, once he gets him pinned down.
Still. He doesn’t get the response he wants, not like before. The accusation of “just a toddler throwing a tantrum” starts to ring true, which is really just embarrassing.
He doesn’t know what’s happening, can’t control it. It’s worse--much MUCH worse--than even the numbness was.
Like a frightened animal, he paces around at a safe distance and tries to wrap his head around it.
The General does odd things to entertain himself, humming old songs, sparring with imaginary foes, twisting short braids in his beard that look utterly stupid. Anything to keep himself apart from his festering other half. Anything to pass the time as he waits.
The Nowhere King watches, listens, unwillingly reminded of old songs and naivety and how it felt to accidentally inhale the powdered sugar on a beignet. He tries to block out the noise but can’t.
He grows smaller, smaller, smaller.
The Nowhere King snarls and gurgles and oozes, unapologetically bestial as it tears at its own leg with its teeth. There’s only four of them now. All the black rot surrounding him has lessened further, revealing stained bone beneath, and on that? Occasional patches of sinew, of skin, even of dark-gray fur begin to grow, rotting in reverse.
It is gruesome, terrible to behold. The General has to wonder what it means. However much he resents his other half, the thought that it is changing...well. It’s nothing like what he’d expected, but it grants him a small, cautious sort of hope just the same.
“...what’re you doing?” he says, trying to get a better look. “Let me see.”
The Nowhere King merely growls in warning, turns further away. When the General approaches anyways, he barely avoids a swift, crushing bite to the leg.
“GAH-! What is wrong with you?!”
There is a muffled, mumbled answer that he almost doesn’t catch.
”...HURTS.”
The General straightens, taken aback by the admission.
“Well,” he says, meaning it softly. Or. More softly than before, anyways. “If you’d just let it heal, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much.”
With a defiant snarl, the monster jerks up, maintains total eye contact as he bites the healing flesh and tears it away completely.
They both howl in agony.
Given that he’s had literally nothing to work with, the General is quite proud of himself when he manages to make something. The wooden handle of his mace, once painstakingly hollowed out with a dagger, makes for a decent recorder-type thing. It sounds pretty off, but, well, at this point he’ll take any form of entertainment.
The Nowhere King, still at a healthy distance, keeps stealing glances. The General can tell it’s--can tell he’s curious, and it’s almost comical watching him try and pretend otherwise.
For a moment the man feels tempted to stand up and show him, extend another olive branch, but no. He needs a break.
He plays a few experimental notes. Very much imperfect, but he’s still pleased.
“GHHH,” the Nowhere King grumbles, lashing his tail back and forth in agitation. “WHAT’RE YOU DOING.”
The General sighs, really not in the mood. “What’s it look like?”
“IT’S OUT OF TUNE.”
“It’s all I’ve got.”
“IT’S ANNOYING. ”
“Well, maybe if you started growing antlers again, I could make one that doesn’t suck. But until then…”
The Nowhere King looks taken aback at first. Then, it settles back on the ground with another grumble.
“...I’LL KILL YOU.”
“No,” the man says, almost cheerfully. “You won’t.”
Time passes. The monster continues to grow smaller.
The beast writhes in constant discomfort but, perhaps admirably, does not claw at its healing flesh.
The General, without much better to do, tries to keep him distracted. Hopefully, they’ll both get some dang respite once the lengthy, painful process is completed. He’s long since lost count of how many times he’s hoped and failed--it’s not as if he can trust the beast to be patient or have sense.
…but it’s not as if he has anything better to do either.
“What do you miss most about it?”
The still-skeletal head lifts slightly to look at him.
“The world,” he clarifies. “Either one. Both. Being alive.”
The last part is an afterthought, but accurate enough, he figures. What they’re doing right now can’t really be called living, can it?
He doesn’t really expect the Nowhere King to answer. But he does.
“...FOOD,” comes the voice, wavering in and out of that otherworldly timbre like it can’t quite decide how it wants to sound. “TASTE. BASIL. ”
And…that’s even more unexpected. The General can’t help a tired laugh, leaning his head back against nothing as he thinks aloud.
“You remember the caprese paninis from that one food cart? The one we’d get lunch from sometimes. I think they baked their own bread.”
“...YES.”
And it’s stupid. But it’s not like there’s anyone around to judge--no one whose opinion the General cares about, anyways.
“And the tomato-- So fresh I swear, you could still taste the sunlight on the skin.”
“...yes,” the Nowhere King says again, quiet and wistful and--and so very, very familiar, in a way that makes both their hearts seize.
He clears his throat quickly, perhaps overcompensating with the sneering disdain in his tone when he adds, “MEDIOCRE MOZZARELLA, THOUGH.”
The General makes a well, can’t argue that sort of face. No such thing as a perfect sandwich, he supposes.
It’s a stupid conversation.
It’s the most hope-inspiring thing to happen to them yet.
“Stop, stop!” the General yells, forcibly restraining the skull from biting at its body. Its long, oozing black tail is almost entirely gone now, the monster grown far smaller, more fleshy. And he understands, on some level, the fear that must come with that.
Even so. He has the upper hand and he is not kind about it. He is not gentle. When the Nowhere King bites down on his arm, hard enough to crack bone, the General hisses his pain but does not relent.
It snarls mindlessly, thrashes, tries desperately to destroy itself and send them both back to square one. Again.
He won’t let it.
“ENOUGH!” it roars. It begs. “DON’T WANT THIS-- DON’T WANT TO GO BACK.”
“Too bad! ” the General spits.
They struggle for hours, for seconds--it doesn’t really matter which.
In the end, they both are breathing harshly, no words shared between them. Even when the resistance has ended, the General keeps a fast hold. They sit there like that for hours, for years, the elk’s head tucked on the man’s lap in a weird pantomime of an embrace.
It works. They stay where they are, barely clutching to their twisted idea of “progress.”
The eyes growing back is the worst part. The General rips at his clothes to make a blindfold, to protect the sensitive, agonizing process.
…to make sure he doesn’t have to watch it.
It’s not as terrible as it could’ve been.
The General plays the recorder for himself, really. The clumsy obnoxiousness of “Hot Cross Buns” and “Merrily We Roll Along” is repetitive, but gives way to something actually palatable in time.
With all the time in existence to spare, he’s able to trial-and-error his way through tunes of the old days. Lullabies--normal ones, not about dying at the hooves of a monster-- An entire hootenanny worth of songs--anything he can remember. He even manages to push aside the cringe-factor of “the rift worker’s work is ne-ver done…”
He makes up his own songs too. Happy ones, angry ones. War ballads. Loving serenades. Mournful dirges.
The Nowhere King rests his head and closes his newborn eyes and listens.
They don’t know enough about biology to explain it, not that what’s happening to them is anything close to explainable by science.
But.
He heals faster, the more they have music, the more they talk about stupid stuff.
“Do you remember,” is the best phrase of all, for some reason. Of course they both remember. Up until the split, they have the exact same memories, and they certainly don’t let themselves talk about what happened after.
They’ll have to, eventually. They know.
But for now, the music and remembering is enough.
The General wishes he had some basil. Maybe that too would speed things along.
“Do you remember singing?”
Of course he does. Even as the Nowhere King, even when all his songs were haunting taunts of terror, he never really stopped singing. He couldn’t. He tried.
It strikes him then, a realization that there’s another core part of him that survived everything somehow. A piece to sit with the one that still, for some reason, wants to live.
He…doesn’t know how to feel about it, now.
It’s awkward at first, in spite of everything. But, as with everything else, time washes the reservations away.
They perform every old song they can remember and then make up a million more. It’s like the old days, a centaur singing to himself as he works and dreams and lives.
Their hearts ache--a strange, sweet sort of pain. Pain, but not suffering.
They can’t decide if it’s better or worse than the torture. This, whatever’s happening to them, is the opposite of numbness.
At a certain point, the Elk stops changing. It comes as a surprise--an unpleasant, worrying one, if the General is honest. Though clearly flesh-and-blood again, the guy still looks as if he’s been chewed and spat out by a beartaur. His coat is patchy and matted, his face gaunt and perpetually haunted-looking.
The man has to wonder what’s going on inside that head. If there’s any chance of this falling to pieces again the moment the Elk gets upset.
He really, really hates the uncertainty, but he begrudgingly and quietly carries the burden anyways. They’ll just…have to wait and see.
Elk. Is he allowed to call himself that, now? Or perhaps choose another name for himself?
There was another, once. Long ago. Before. But it seems best to leave it buried, now that they are the way they are.
He certainly can’t go by “Nowhere King” anymore. He…doesn’t want to. He’s changed now, better.
…he thinks. He hopes. He wonders.
Because the one thing he does know is that he’s not the elk he was before, outwardly or inwardly.
He brings it up with his unfortunate companion--something he immediately comes to regret. The General starts listing off name suggestions, each worse than the last.
“Clark.”
“No.”
“Damien.”
“No.”
“Everywhere Plebeian?”
“N-- What?”
“You know, opposite of Nowhere King.”
The elk scoffs, not dignifying a joke that bad with a response.
Elk it is, then.
He's glad, in a way, that he doesn't have to sleep. The more he lets his rotted heart heal, the more crushing his guilt becomes, the weight of two entire worlds dragging him deep into an ocean of regret. It's bad enough trying to keep from succumbing while awake, every monstrous memory burned behind his eyelids--he can't imagine what horrors his dreams would conjure up.
The Elk still doesn't want to die. But he knows he doesn't deserve to live.
He wavers back and forth, slipping in and out of his inner darkness, confused and frightened and utterly uncertain what to do about it. Sometimes he relapses, rotting away again until the General snaps him out of it.
...there is one thing the Elk loathes more than death: the thought of admitting that without his human half there, he would likely be lost.
They talk more frequently now, and less about stupid things. They debate whether their void is part of the In-between, reminisce about old coworkers and friends, speculate about the future of human-centaur politics.
They even speak about the war, but only in quiet, vague terms, barely hinting at the maelstrom of guilt and trauma that haunts them both.
Things get uncomfortable at times, bleed into arguments. But generally, they still tread carefully around each other.
One day, the General opens a new door. He’s in one of his moods, but this time…he shares it.
“I still think about that Kid,” he hisses, an admission that the Elk is surprised by. He taunted the man over it countless times, and…feels bad about it now.
He doesn’t particularly like the General, begrudging truce or not. Certainly feels no pity for his cruel, cowardly actions, though it’s not as if the Elk has room to criticize.
But still. It’s plain enough that he’s not the only one who’s changed. He's still the General, but only in the same way the Elk is still the Nowhere King. And...perhaps he's being hypocritical, holding that against him. Perhaps he ought to give the man another chance too, and nuts to the idea of "deservedness."
After a moment’s hesitation, he kneels down next to the curled-up body of his other half, close enough to just barely share a bit of warmth.
“I think she lived,” he says quietly.
The man just glances at him from the corner of his eye, untouched by the odd, awkward attempt at comfort.
“I ran her through with a sword-”
Annoyed, the Elk cuts him off.
“There were like, a hundred magic-users on the battlefield, plus your medics. And besides…”
The pause is intentional, a way to test the waters. Sure enough, the man lifts his head a bit, still glaring but now with a twinge of uncertainty. Listening.
“...her horse loved her. A lot. I think her chances were pretty good, actually.”
“Wow. Haven’t heard you be overly-optimistic in a long time. How would you know?”
The jab stirs up even more irritation, to the point that a deeper defensiveness starts to rear its head. A ripple of darkness runs through him, shadows his expression. He can’t see it himself, but his eyes flicker poison-green and make the man go still, hand flinching for a weapon that's no longer there.
The Elk shuts his eyes, breathes until it passes.
“I met her…” he says, glad to get back on topic. “Or, well, part of me did. The rest of me tried to kill her.”
“The Kid-?”
“No. Horse. She…” he hesitates; it feels suddenly foolish, making assumptions off of nothing but vibes and, yes, a strangely-stubborn sense of optimism.
Yet another part of himself that somehow, somehow survived.
“...she was interesting. Strong. A good person. I think her Rider was in good hands.”
“Hooves.”
Yeesh, he somehow forgot how condescendingly obnoxious his other half could be. Still, the annoyance this time is innocent enough. The Elk just sighs, stands up again to stretch his legs.
The Man stays where he is, watching, thoughts spinning in his mind. The Elk would know that look anywhere.
He wonders if he made a difference, just now. If he did, then that makes this the first time in decades he’s helped someone instead of hurting them, unless you counted Horse. And, of all people, it’s this guy.
…he’s going to be petty and count Horse as the first.
Just sits a bit easier that way.
And, for once, time blurs around them in a way that isn’t psychologically tortuous. They sing, they bicker, they remember.
They don’t talk constantly anymore, only when they feel like it. A lot of the time, they just sit in the quiet, slowly learning to be comfortable.
“For the last time, cereal is not a soup; what’s wrong with you-?”
“It’s solid bits floating around in broth! Soup!”
“Milk isn’t a broth!”
“Plenty of soups have a milk or cream base-”
“You eat cereal cold, y’know, the opposite temperature you eat soup at-”
“Uh, gazpacho?”
The Elk falters.
The Man grins, spreads his hands in hasty, unearned triumph and says, “Aaaand checkmate.”
“I refuse to believe we were ever the same person,” the Elk says, shaking his head even as the rest of him trembles with repressed laughter. He knows the Man is just talking food heresy to get under his skin, but it’s entertaining for them both, so--
They both go still as stone when, out of nowhere, there’s light.
A dot of glowing red, floating in space off to their side. It spreads into a vertical line, a seam in reality that then tears open to--
They stare; after years upon years of nothingness, the sight of somethingness is enough to have their jaws dropping. Sparing only a quick glance for each other, they get up and approach, cautious, uncertain.
Their hearts beat as one, quick and nervous.
There’s no telling who’s responsible for this, but…do they dare to hope?
They get close enough for a better look and--no.
On the other side of the tear is a strange creature, like a centaur but...not. Like a human but...also not. Nothing like a minotaur though, thank goose. The Elk and the Man tilt their heads in an uncanny sort of unison.
Though clearly confused at first, the newcomer clears their throat and recovers.
"O great and terrible Noplace King!"
Well. That’s…new. They knew a long time must’ve passed, but…
"Long have I studied legend and lore, years I have traveled and searched! And now, finally, I have found the key to your cage!"
Looking, they both see the key in the stranger's hand, looking quite worse for wear. A long time is right.
"I free you, unleash you, so that you may reign your terror on my enemies! So that you-- So that--"
They almost have to admire the guy’s gumption. But no. Without a word, they approach the door and walk through and squint in the bright moonlight. Hoo. If that hurts, they can’t imagine how much the sun is gonna suck.
...they're both excited.
"I'll take that," the Man quips, plucking the key from the sputtering vengeance-seeker as they walk calmly past. A feeble attempt at stopping them is made, but one glowing-green stare from Elk is enough to put a stop to that.
They walk, quiet, dazed.
They do not stop walking until they reach a cliff, crumbling stone overlooking a lush valley beneath. Neither of them recognize it; neither have the slightest idea where they are.
It’s…beautiful. They breathe the air and feel the grass around their ankles and swallow back the tears and it is beautiful.
The Man rests a hand on the Elk's back. It’s a soft gesture, uncertain even after all those years of warring and reconciliation, but sincere nonetheless. And it's nice too, having his lone pair of weary legs supported by the stronger half beside him.
"Well," the Elk says, sounding dream-like and choked still. "What now?"
The Man looks until he spies a town. He smiles, gives his friend a brisk, teasing pat.
"First thing first, we get you something to eat."
The Elk's ears twitch, eyes dilating, and the Man laughs.
"Something with basil.”
And it is all uncertain, undeserved, but still beautiful. They start out towards the road, side by side, leaving three sets of footprints behind.