Chapter Text
Scar had woken up with a headache, similar to the ones he got when he had just started elven magic training, when the magic would be all-to-much and knock him off his feet. Scar hated that entire experience with the passion of a thousand scars! He sat up, fixing his large silken robes, dusting himself off and putting on his slippers. He got up, giving Mumbo a good morning kiss on the forehead, like he always does.
"Good morning, sweet potato!" Scar flashed the vampire a bright and cheery smile.
Mumbo smiles back, a red tint to his pale face, "Thanks, Scar. You're always so joyful."
"Someone has to be!"
The two laugh a little to themselves, before Mumbo gently shakes his head.
"I'll go make breakfast before Grian wakes up. Would you be a dear and go check up on the garden?"
Scar nods, "Of course! Anything for my sweet potato!"
Mumbo giggles at the nickname, and Scar goes to his room to get changed. He slips into a white long-sleeve tee and a green gardener's apron, beige pants underneath. He gathers his stuff, grunting as he forces the large wooden doors of the greenhouse open, tying his hair up with a ribbon. Scar starts gathering the many plants he had grown over these thousands of years he and Mumbo had been living in this manor. It's funny, most guests stay till the day they croak, but not once has questioned their lack of aging. Scar had a feeling the avian would be the first to ask. He steps into the greenhouse, warm mist curling around his ankles like curious cats. The familiar scent of earth, mint, and flowering nightshade fills his lungs, grounding him. Morning sunlight filters through the high glass panes, illuminating the wild tangle of green life. Scar hums to himself as he begins his inspection, noting which herbs had sprouted new growth overnight and which vines were trying to strangle their neighbors again. He flicks a finger, a faint shimmer of greenish-white magic dancing through the air to coax a wilted bloom upright.
As he tends to a particularly finicky patch of bloodroot, a flicker of movement outside the greenhouse catches his attention. He pauses, squinting through the condensation-frosted glass. There, near the edge of the east hedgerow—Grian. The avian was wandering barefoot, his wings slightly flared for balance as he stepped over a mossy stone path. His head tilted this way and that, clearly lost in thought, or perhaps... watching something. Scar frowned. Grian had been staying with them for only a month now, and yet in that short time, he’d proven to be observant—dangerously so. His questions had been innocent enough at first, but last night’s dinner conversation had gotten far too close for comfort.
"How long did you say you'd lived here again?" Grian had asked, swirling his wine with that charming smile of his. "You and Mumbo seem... ageless."
Scar had laughed it off, claiming elven skincare and a good diet of fresh greens. But Grian didn’t buy it—not entirely. Scar could tell. And now he was out there snooping, before breakfast no less. That wasn’t just idle curiosity.
That was intent. Scar finished watering the crimson mushrooms and tossed his watering can into a crate with a clatter. He untied his apron, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped out into the morning air. The crisp breeze made his ears twitch.
Time to intercept.
He strolled casually toward Grian, putting on his usual disarming grin. “Morning, G-man! Out for a walk or just trying to catch the sunrise in your feathers?”
Grian turned, a little too quickly, “Oh! Hey, Scar. Yeah, just... you know, stretching the wings. Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
Scar folded his arms, still smiling. “It is. Though I’ve heard the east hedgerow isn’t much of a scenic route. Mostly old rocks and wild garlic.” His eyes narrowed, just a little. “Unless, of course, you were looking for something.”
Grian blinked, feigning confusion. “Looking for something? No, no. Just admiring the place. It’s... old, huh?”
Scar nodded, “Old as time itself.” Then added, with a faint chuckle, “And just as full of secrets.”
There was a beat of silence, the birds chirping just a bit too loudly. Grian tilted his head.
“You are hiding something, though, aren’t you?” he said softly. “You and Mumbo.”
Scar’s smile didn’t falter—but behind it, something ancient stirred. “Now, now,” he said, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves, “everyone has their little mysteries, don’t they?”
Grian didn’t respond. He just watched him, those sharp eyes full of quiet calculation.
"You really do like staring, huh?" Scar teases, "are all ex-watchers like you?"
Grian pauses, gaze falling off Scar for a second while he ponders the comment, "Maybe. I've never really met anyone like me."
"Strange... not even in their realm? Maybe you're one of a kind!" Scar's smile brightens.
Grian shrugs, "I saw a few smaller than the normal watchers. But they all had the usual cloaks on, so you can't really tell the difference."
Scar nods, a look of intrigue on his face, even if he really was just glad the conversation had shifted away from his immortality.
Grian walked a few paces forward, wings twitching idly as he nudged a stone aside with his foot. “Still,” he murmured, “you and Mumbo… there’s a weight to you. Like you’ve been holding your breath for centuries.”
Scar followed him, carefully matching his pace. “And what would you know about the weight of centuries, little bird?”
Grian smiled faintly. “More than I let on.”
His eyes narrowed slightly at the comment, then gestured toward the manor with a tilt of his head. “Come on, Mumbo will have breakfast ready by now. And if we’re lucky, he didn't burn the eggs.”
Grian hesitated, but nodded, falling into step beside Scar as they headed back up the mossy path. As they walked, Scar glanced sidelong at him. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I don’t mind that you’re curious. I was too, once. Curiosity’s what got me into magic, into this whole... mess. But I’d tread carefully, G. Some doors don’t like being opened. And some don’t like being closed again.”
Grian looked at him. “Are you warning me?”
Scar chuckled, warm and casual. “I’m inviting you to breakfast.”
But Grian heard the warning beneath it all the same.
And far behind them, hidden in the tall shadows of the east hedgerow, something watched. Something old. Something that remembered.
And it was ready to get Grian back.
Back inside the manor, the scent of honeyed toast and simmering herbs wafted down the long corridor as Scar and Grian stepped through the sun-dappled entryway. The warmth inside was a stark contrast to the sharp morning air, and Grian instinctively folded his wings close, feathers still damp from the mist outside.
Mumbo was in the kitchen, a soft hum on his lips and a smudge of flour on his cheek. He turned as they entered, brandishing a wooden spoon like a weapon of breakfast warfare.
“Well, look who finally decided to stop lurking in the shrubbery,” Mumbo teased, narrowing his eyes at Grian. “I thought I saw something either than Scar out there.”
“I was not lurking,” Grian replied with a smirk. “I was exploring. It’s a perfectly natural thing to do when you’re not bound by routine.”
Scar snorted and dropped into a high-backed chair at the long dining table. “Exploring, he says. Next time he’ll be halfway down the catacombs with a torch and a very poorly drawn map.”
“You have catacombs?” Grian perked up instantly.
Mumbo gave Scar a look. “Scar.”
Scar shrugged with an innocent smile. “Oops.”
“You’re not helping.”
“I never help.”
Mumbo sighed and turned back to the stove. “No catacombs. That’s final.”
Grian laughed and pulled out a chair across from Scar, wings fluttering once before settling behind him. “So… what is down there, then? You know, just out of curiosity.”
Scar grinned, biting into a slice of toast. “Oh, you know. The usual. Dust. Old books. Maybe a ghost or two. Or a sealed mirror that talks back if you say the right name.”
Grian gave him a long look. “You’re really bad at keeping secrets.”
Scar leaned forward, lowering his voice, though not quite enough to keep Mumbo from hearing. “I’m excellent at keeping secrets. I just enjoy dangling them in front of people like a fishing lure.”
Mumbo set down a tray of roasted tomatoes, soft cheese, and dark rye slices. “He gets this way whenever we have company. I think it’s the thrill of finally having someone to impress who hasn’t heard all the stories yet.”
“Oh, you think I’m trying to impress him?” Scar gasped dramatically, one hand to his chest. “Mumbo, darling. You wound me. I just like to entertain.”
“Well,” Grian said between bites, “you’re doing both.”
A comfortable silence settled as they ate, broken only by the crackling fireplace and the occasional clink of cutlery. But beneath the calm, something simmered—questions unasked, truths unshared.
Then, softly, Grian said, “If you really have been here for thousands of years… what are you waiting for?”
Scar paused, fork halfway to his mouth. Mumbo’s hand stilled over his teacup.
“What makes you think we’re waiting for anything?” Scar asked, his tone light but his eyes unreadable.
Grian didn’t blink. “People like you don’t just exist without purpose. Not for that long. You’re either guarding something… or hiding from something.”
A sharp wind howled suddenly against the windowpanes, rattling the ancient glass. The fire popped, a plume of sparks spiraling up the chimney. The manor seemed to listen, holding its breath.
Mumbo stood, collecting plates. “You think too much, Grian.”
“And you don’t think enough,” Grian said quietly.
Scar chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright. No more heavy talk. At least not before I’ve had my second cup of tea.”
But even as he laughed, something itched at the back of his mind.
Because Grian was right.
They were waiting. Waiting for old friends to finally come home.
Scar excused himself shortly after breakfast, citing a need to check on the nightshade blossoms again—though in truth, his mind was racing. The manor’s long halls felt colder than usual as he walked them alone, his slippers making soft shuff sounds against the ancient stone. He could still feel Grian’s eyes on him, that unnerving sense that the avian wasn’t just seeing him, but peering past him—into things long buried. People like you don’t just exist without purpose...
He reached the back staircase, behind a faded tapestry depicting a stag crowned with ivy, and placed his hand against the wood-paneled wall. A faint shimmer passed under his palm—recognition. The wall sighed, then slid open, revealing a narrow passage lit by enchanted moss and threads of luminescent fungi.
He stepped inside and let the wall close behind him.
Meanwhile, Grian lingered at the table, his plate pushed aside. Mumbo had returned to the kitchen, busying himself with the dishes—though he’d fallen unusually quiet.
“You’re upset,” Grian said without looking up.
“No,” Mumbo replied, a little too quickly. Then, quieter: “Not upset. Just… concerned.”
Grian tilted his head. “About me?”
Mumbo turned, drying his hands with a soft cloth. “Scar likes you. That matters more than you know.”
Grian studied him carefully. “But you don’t trust me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
There was a long pause.
“I know how this looks,” Mumbo said finally, stepping closer. “The manor. The secrecy. The way we avoid questions like we’re allergic to them. But it’s not because we want to lie. It’s because... some answers come with consequences.”
“Like immortality?”
Mumbo’s eyes met his—steady, sharp, and far older than they should have been. “No. Like responsibility.”
Before Grian could ask what that meant, the fireplace gave a sudden, violent crack. Embers spilled out like blood, and the flames flared green for a heartbeat before settling.
Both of them went still.
“That’s a ward trigger,” Mumbo said, voice low and urgent. “Something’s wrong.”
In the hidden stairwell, Scar descended quickly, magic sparking faintly at his fingertips to light the way. At the bottom, he stepped into the true heart of the manor: the Hall of Roots.
A great underground chamber, hollowed out and grown rather than built. The tree in its center rose all the way up into the manor itself, though no guest had ever realized it. Its bark was silvery black, veins of green magic pulsing faintly through it like lifeblood. This tree was the manor—or perhaps, the manor was merely its skin.
Scar approached, placing a hand on the tree’s trunk. The pulse beneath his palm was erratic.
“You’re waking too early,” he whispered. “We’re not ready. Pearl and Impulse aren't back.”
The air behind him shifted—and then a voice, soft and cold as frost.
“Maybe they're not coming."
Scar turned slowly, his jaw tightening.
A figure stepped from the shadows. Tall, robed in layers of midnight blue and starlight. No face—only a smooth mask of obsidian glass. A Watcher.
“Still hiding your face, I see,” Scar said, his voice carefully calm.
“I’m not here for theatrics,” the Watcher replied. “The Avian has disrupted the equilibrium. He remembers.”
“Remembers what?”
The Watcher tilted its head. “Enough. And he is not the only one. The seal is weakening. The balance must be restored. You know what that means.”
Scar’s hands clenched into fists. “You’ll not touch him.”
“You forget your vows.”
“I broke them.”
The Watcher stepped closer, the tree’s glow dimming in its presence.
“Then perhaps you’ve forgotten what happens when balance is broken.”
And as Scar stood before the ancient tree, defiant and furious, a pulse of green light surged from its core—rising through the manor like a heartbeat.
"Scar." The watchers voice got almost insanely colder, "Give us him, or we take Mumbo."
