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The Drifter woke up in the middle of the night, and shockingly, not due to a night terror.
To be fair, Judgment was becoming easier to accept these days. Despite its hideous, monstrous form and guttural noises of vengeance, the Drifter no longer feared it with the knowledge that he could not truly outrun its clutches. When it appeared in front of him, he often surrendered to its wrath, hoping to be destroyed sooner so reality would fabricate in front of him again. So while the night terrors still triggered his fight-or-flight response, mentally, he came to the point where he accepted it as routine. Thus, even waking up in the middle of the night prompted him to quickly lay his head back down to regulate his breathing and doze off once more. Plus, with journeying across multiple universes and protecting numerous new adventurers who were just as adrift as he was, every day left him exhausted. He slept well.
So it was strange when he gently stirred awake while the sky was still dark, and even stranger when he felt a cold tension in his stomach that prevented him from falling back asleep.
He slowly sat up, looking around at the camp the group managed to set up in this new, more peaceful realm. His gaze lingered over the slumbering forms, both big and small. He watched Madeline snuggle up against the Knight, his small form buried in her arms as she hugged him close, and he felt an ease fall over him for a moment.
But it was short-lived, for he quickly realized something was amiss.
The Beheaded wasn’t here.
The Drifter felt awareness return to him with acuity. He stood up and quickly took his sword and gun with him as he hastily left the grounds, going a little down the nearest path that led away from the camp.
It didn’t take long. He journeyed down the sandy path and came across a small cave along a straying branch in the road. He stepped cautiously inside the doorway, looking up at the hole in the ceiling, moonlight streaming through it to cast the space within the dome in a gentle, cold haze.
The Drifter saw him sitting, criss-crossed on the carpet of soft grass at the entrance on the other end of this stone dome. His warm light contrasted sharply with the pale night.
The Beheaded didn’t turn to him. He was still. Silent.
The Drifter took a few more steps, coming to stand in the center of the cavern. The rustle of grass beneath his feet stirred up a slumbering life force within the place, and there was the softest sound of flutter as butterflies, bright blue under the evening sky, awakened from their crevices within the walls. The Drifter looked about as the butterflies danced around him, tiny ballerinas that seemed to be asking for his attention.
The Drifter’s gaze was fixed on the Beheaded, his eyes resting on the outline of his shoulders.
Why are you up? Is everything alright?
The Beheaded sighed, his form shuddering under the weight of his body.
“...Go back, Dreamer. Don’t worry. Just…need a minute. I’ll be back to watch over the others soon enough.”
The Drifter didn’t budge.
A few minutes passed. The Beheaded waited. But the Drifter was stubborn.
He learned it from the Beheaded, after all.
The Beheaded tapped his finger impatiently on his thigh for a moment before speaking up again.
“I said you can go. Geez, don’t trust me to return soon enough or something? I know better than to do that, Dreamer. Go back. I’ll be back before you even fully fall asleep.”
The Drifter knew the Beheaded wasn’t watching, but he shook his head anyway. Another moment passed. Finally, the Beheaded glanced back, and upon seeing the Drifter remaining amongst the butterflies, his flame flickered a bit more rapidly as he stood up, taking a step towards the Drifter.
“Look, it's fine! Really! I’m just-I’m just thinking, that’s all.”
The Drifter tilted his head to the side.
What were you thinking about?
The Beheaded’s golden star shifted unsteadily, his gaze going around to land on anything that wasn’t the Drifter. He wavered before explaining in a ramble that seemed to tumble from him.
“...It’s not much, trust me. Not like I think of anything important most of the time. I mean, fuck, I don’t tend to think at all. So thinking isn’t a good look for me. But yeah. Anyways, right. My thinking.”
He took a few steps forward, gesticulating in a way to try and appear lighthearted as he met the Drifter in the middle of the room, causing the blue butterflies to dart around his moving arms.
“So here’s the thing. Everyone has managed to keep certain mechanics from their worlds. Ways they operated within those worlds and those worlds alone. I mean, we got the redhead with her special jumping abilities. The little creature with his shadow abilities. You with that thing in your head. And me, with my immortality. And see, that’s the thing. I stayed immortal, even after I left my realm. So it got me thinking that maybe…just maybe, certain things from other realms keep their effectiveness across different universes, which THEN got me thinking that elements from me and my world might work across worlds and could work…well, could work for you.”
The Drifter’s brow furrowed, a tightness growing in his chest as he followed the Beheaded in this ramble.
“And so, I figured ‘well, I’m strangely immortal, and that’s a weird thing, even for my world, but I got it, which means something made me this way,’ so if I could just find the thing that made me that way, I could get it-just yoink it from where it came from-and find a way back to you so you can take it and you would be cured. Boom! No worries about dying anymore! And hey, maybe cycling through life for infinity is a lot, which is a little fair, I guess, even if that is a wuss way to view it. But there is the Collector, whom I managed to figure out before getting thrown out of my world, is working on a super-ultra-mega-amazing cure, and so if you want just a cure to die at a normie-ass old age after wrinkling like a raisin, I can grab that and just give you a shot of it and you’ll be good for life. It’s even in a syringe, just like the medicine you carry! Just, y’know, like WAY bigger! You gotta practically hoist it on your back, all hunched over and shit, so it may be a pain to get that across worlds, but eh, I’m sure-”
The Drifter grasped the Beheaded’s arm, squeezing him to stop him from speaking for a moment. The Beheaded halted, finally managing to glance at him. The Drifter felt his expression melting in an emotion so overwhelming, he couldn’t even manage to name it. The heat of overflowing, undying affection in his blood mixed with the ice-cold grief in his heaving lungs, making it feel as if his body was starting to burn within. He stared at the Beheaded, trying to communicate through his eyes once more.
…Are you really that determined to try and save me from my fate?
The Beheaded wavered, silent for a moment. His flame slowed before flickering erratically again, his body tensing under the Drifter’s touch.
“...Don’t look at me like that. I told you, I’m just thinking. There has to be some good thing to come out of this whole world-hopping hoo-rah-rah. Don’t you think?”
My good thing is you.
The Drifter tried to communicate that through another squeeze and a tender gaze, but the Beheaded seemed not to notice. A moment of silence passed before the Drifter slowly shook his head.
No. That won’t work, my light.
The Beheaded’s golden star narrowed.
“...What do you mean ‘no?’”
The Drifter thought for a moment before removing his hand from the Beheaded’s arm, using his hands to mimic a clock. Once he made the gesture, he shook his head again.
There’s not enough time. By the time you go back to your world, I’m not even sure I’ll have enough left in me to fulfill my mission.
The Beheaded looked down at the Drifter’s hands. Then back at his face. A moment of silence passed before the Beheaded shook his head.
“No. What? No. No, I mean-okay, okay, so we are working with a shorter time limit. Okay! Okay. We can make it work. I mean, we gotta think through things and get on this plan fast, but maybe we can also have luck be in our favor! I mean, the portals have been having us hop all over the place, so maybe we’ll accidentally stop by my world before we even finish setting everything right. It might be our next stop!”
The Drifter shook his head, his heart dropping as he watched the Beheaded’s desperation grow.
My light. Please. No.
“So I mean, fuck, if we are working with less time, we just gotta keep moving faster than we are, but that should be no problem. Well, unless the others drag their stupid feet, but I bet I could throw two of them over my shoulders if they are sleepy. But fuck, I should go get the others and-”
No. My light.
“-tell them plans have changed and we gotta hurry the fuck up-”
My light.
“-because we gotta pick up the pace if-”
MY LIGHT.
The Drifter moved forward, gripping both of the Beheaded’s shoulders, shaking him lightly to stop him from his panicked rambling. The Beheaded stopped, his chest heaving as he stared into the Drifter’s wide eyes, watching as the Drifter shook his head slowly once more.
My light. No. Don’t do that to them. We wouldn’t…I wouldn’t make it even if we hurried.
The Beheaded stared at him, silent.
You…you have to accept it.
The Beheaded jerked away, removing himself from the Drifter’s grasp. His flame brightened a bit, a burst of warmth blooming from him in anger.
“Don’t look at me like that! Stop…Stop looking at me like you’ve given up! Don’t you know me at all?!”
The Drifter let out a shaky breath, trying to approach the Beheaded again, but he stepped back, gesturing in sharp, blunt movements.
“I’m stubborn, Dreamer. I don’t give a shit about anything! And I’m selfish! I don’t give a damn about what others want. I get what I want! And I want this! I want you to live! And if I want you to live, I’ll make sure you live no matter what because I don’t have to obey or accept anything, not even the will of the world! I get what I want, do you hear me?”
The Drifter shook his head, taking a step back as dread seeped into his chest like a night chill. The Beheaded stepped forward, anger blazing.
“What is wrong with you?! Why have you given up?? I haven’t given up!! Why have you just surrendered to this like it's the only ending?! It’s not, and I know you know this!! So fight with me, goddamn it!!”
The Drifter, trembling, wavered before shaking his head.
I can’t.
The Beheaded wouldn’t take it.
“Dreamer, I will NOT let you DIE! ”
He gestured with a swipe of his hand in a sharp movement, striking a blue butterfly before it could dodge his attack. The Beheaded and the Drifter looked at the butterfly as it fell to the ground, the spared butterfly brethren moving away from the two in the motion of a dispersing cloud, as if afraid of being hit the same way.
The Drifter gazed at the Beheaded, who fixed his gaze on the butterfly. A shaky exhale left him as he kneeled by it. The Drifter watched him, startled as he watched the Beheaded shakily reach out to the butterfly, hesitant to touch it again.
“...Fuck. Shit, I didn’t mean to…no. No, no, no.”
The butterfly weakly tried to lift its wings, twitching as it managed one wing beat, then two.
“No, please. You…you’re fine. You don’t have to die.”
The butterfly shuddered.
“...Right?”
The butterfly’s wings fell to the ground with a sigh, and the butterfly stopped moving. Lying on the grass in a sorrowful display of serenity, it died.
The Beheaded remained kneeling by it, silent. The Drifter gazed at the Beheaded, noticing how his shoulders and back muscles rose and fell with unsteady breathing. His heart ached and his chest tightened as he quietly stepped towards the Beheaded’s shaking form.
This wasn’t about the butterfly.
He gently kneeled behind the Beheaded and leaned forward, his arms moving to hug him from behind, nuzzling his face into the crook of his shoulder. He felt the Beheaded shudder under the touch.
“...Let me go.”
The Drifter shook his head.
No.
The Beheaded spoke again, his voice breaking in the middle.
“...I’m fine, Dreamer. It’s just a fucking bug. Let me go.”
The Drifter shook his head again, tightening his hold on the Beheaded.
NO.
The Beheaded breathed heavily in unspoken agony for a lingering moment.
“...You stubborn bastard.”
The Drifter let out a huff - a soft laugh amid the somber night air. He could hear the gratitude in the Beheaded’s chiding.
Hypocrite. I learned it from you.
The Drifter stayed close as silence fell over them, the butterflies returning to circle around them in a strange, ritualistic dance, as if honoring the sorrowful peace that had descended upon them. The Beheaded’s breathing slowly began to even out, slowing at a pace that allowed his chest to rise and fall like a gentle ocean tide. The Drifter breathed with him, holding him as he let his touch be a reminder that he was still alive.
He was still here. And the Beheaded was here with him.
The Beheaded’s continual determination baffled the Drifter, leaving him winded. He never imagined that someone else would want him to live so much, much less to the point where it was viewed as a selfish want rather than a selfless act. It was not pity that the Beheaded gave him. It was unfettered desire. He wanted the Drifter to live. And he would miss the Drifter when he died - so much that the mere thought of life without him was something he wanted to prevent at all costs. That thought left the Drifter’s mouth dry, a lump forming in his throat.
I’ll be missed. And I’ll be remembered once I’m gone.
The Drifter could not remember the last time he cried. It was often not safe enough to cry, whether it be due to the dangers of the environment or the danger of time.
Yet, the Drifter felt himself shudder as his breathing shook, tears quietly staining the fabric of the Beheaded’s scarf as he tried to hide his face further into the Beheaded’s shoulder. He tried to remain quiet, but he felt the Beheaded lean back a bit more into the touch, his hands moving to cover the Drifter’s, the warmth of his palms seeping into the Drifter’s skin. The Drifter cried for a while, but eventually, his breathing evened out, tears drying as he finally calmed down.
It was nice to have the safety to grieve.
Slowly, the Beheaded moved away, prompting the Drifter to let go. The Drifter’s eyes fluttered open (though he had no recollection of shutting them) to see the Beheaded standing up, extending a hand to help him up. Once the Drifter stood up, the Beheaded reached out to cradle his face, haphazardly drying the tear streaks with his thumbs.
“...You okay, Dreamer?”
The Drifter nodded, nuzzling into the touch.
I am, thanks to you.
“Good. We should probably head back. I need to guard those motherfuckers, and you need to sleep.”
The Drifter nodded, but lingered for a moment. As the Beheaded let go of his face, he reached out to grab the scarf of the Beheaded with one hand. Lowering his face covering with the other, the Drifter pulled the Beheaded in and gave him a sign of affection. Or perhaps he stole it for himself.
He was selfish for the Beheaded, too, after all.
His face merged with the fire, and it felt warm as it washed over his face. The light pressed against his features, gentle and soothing. He melted into the sensation, and he prayed for a moment that the final moments of death might be as kind as this in experience.
Secretly, though, he knew only the Beheaded’s fire could provide such a wondrous experience.
When he pulled away, the Beheaded gazed at him for a while, the flame burning with a bright, warm hue. There was a moment of silence before the Beheaded chuckled softly.
“You sap. Alright, Dreamer, no number of tricks will stop me from dragging your ass back to camp.”
With that, the Beheaded grabbed the Drifter’s hand, and the Drifter smiled as he walked out of the dome with the Beheaded, the butterflies parting ways to give them a final farewell.
The Drifter was not unlike the butterfly. He would die, that much was true.
But he still had a butterfly’s worth of time to stay with his light.