Chapter Text
It had been years since Grian last felt anything real.
Emotions had become ghosts inside him—faint, echoing things that brushed against his ribs but never stayed. The Watchers still sent people, calling them companions, friends,—but they always faded. Withered like flowers. Their smiles would linger for a time, then vanish, leaving only silence and guilt in his place.
No one ever stayed.
And yet, Grian still missed them. Every dawn, he would whisper the same wish to the empty air: a world where he could touch without killing, laugh without fear, live without destroying. A world where warmth didn’t mean death. A world where he could be human again.
Maybe one day, the universe would have mercy.
He didn’t notice the man behind him until instinct flared through his body. His wings spread wide, feathers trembling as he jumped back, eyes flashing.
“Oh! Didn’t mean to scare you there,” came the stranger’s voice—smooth, amused, and far too alive for this silent place. “You were talking to yourself, and I thought—well, maybe you needed help.”
Grian’s gaze snapped toward the stranger—an elf? A vex? His form was vaguely human but with a spark of something else. His appearance was… chaotic and full of scars. And shirtless. Who in the world wandered a forest half-naked like that?
“...Are there clothes you plan to put on anytime soon?” Grian said flatly.
The man laughed flustered, a sound so bright it hurt. “Oh, uh—yeah! Sorry about that, mister. It’s just so hot today, you know? I was exploring and got lost, and well, here I am! Terrible sense of direction.” He smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Name's Scar, by the way.” He extended a hand, all bright charm and reckless trust.
Grian stared at it. For one heartbeat—just one—he almost reached out. Almost.
But then memory rose, cold and cruel: the way skin turns to ash under his touch, the way their bodies explode, the way warmth drains away faster than breath.
He stepped back.
He wasn’t a monster, no matter what the Watchers whispered. A woman once told him that—someone kind, with brown hair and blue gentle eyes. He had long forgotten her name, but not the comfort of her voice.
So he turned away. Without a word, he walked deeper into the trees.
This man—this Scar—was probably another trick sent by the Watchers. Another test. Another person to lose. Grian couldn’t bear to hold another soul just to destroy it.
Scar blinked, his grin faltering. The stranger didn’t even offer his name. Still, something about him intrigued him. His colorful feathers yet loneliness in his eyes—pulled Scar forward.
“Hey—wait! Good sir, may I know your name?” Scar called after him, stumbling over his words. “Do you, uh, live here? Maybe you could help me out? I—I’m kinda lost.”
No answer. Only the quiet rustle of feathers trailing behind him like a shadow.
Scar frowned, watching the man’s retreating form. His hair, probably once blond, was dulled with dirt and tangled. His red sweater was ragged, his cape frayed. And his blackened fingertips. He looked like he hadn’t cared for himself in ages.
Well, that wouldn’t do.
Scar’s chest tightened.
Something inside him—a quiet, foolish instinct—told him not to give up.
Maybe this stranger didn’t want company. Maybe he was dangerous. But Scar had never been one to back down and run away.
He smiled, soft and stubborn.
If this man was dangerous, then maybe what he needed wasn’t fear—maybe he needed someone stubborn enough to stay. Someone to remind him what warmth felt like.
Even if it meant getting burned.
Scar’s expression hardened with determination. Maybe yes this man was strange, maybe a bit cold, but he looked lonely. And Scar was nothing if not persistent.
He just had to earn his trust. Maybe—just maybe—this could be the start of something good.
Scar didn’t know why he was following him.
Every instinct told him to turn back. The forest was dense and strange, its air thick with silence that pressed against his chest. The blond stranger hadn’t spoken a word since their first encounter, and yet—Scar couldn’t bring himself to leave.
There was something about the way the man moved—careful, debrirade? deli..cerate? deliberate!
Scar had met plenty of people before but this one… this one carried his loneliness like a second skin.
He followed at a respectful distance, the crunch of leaves beneath his boots loud in the quiet.
“You know,” Scar started, voice bright but hesitant, “if I’m trespassing or something, you can just say so. I promise I won't bite. You know, being a vex..”
Nothing.
Not even a glance.
The stranger walked ahead, eyes focused, wings slightly drawn in—as though afraid to take up too much space. The silence between them wasn’t hostile, just… heavy. Like grief that had learned how to breathe.
Scar sighed softly, rubbing at his neck. “Alright, fine. You don’t talk much. That’s cool. I can talk enough for both of us.”
The stranger stopped walking.
For a moment, Scar thought he’d finally gotten a reaction—but when the man turned his head slightly, it was only to say, voice quiet and rough from disuse, “You shouldn’t be here.”
Scar blinked. “What?”
“This place. It’s not kind to mortals.”
Scar chuckled, trying to keep the mood light. “Good thing I’m not exactly mortal, huh?”
Grian’s gaze flicked toward him then—just for a heartbeat. His eyes were tired, yet a purple tint glowed faintly.
Scar felt his breath stopped.
And then the man turned away again, wings brushing past the trees as if dismissing the conversation entirely.
Scar exhaled, shaking his head with a grin. “You’re really trying to make me leave, huh?”
No answer.
Still, Scar followed.
The forest darkened around them, shadows bleeding into violet dusk. The stranger finally stopped near a shallow pond, kneeling to fill a small flask with water.
Scar crouched a few feet away, resting his chin on his hand. “You live here all by yourself?”
“Yeah.”
The word fell like a stone into the pond, heavy and final.
Scar studied him for a long moment before speaking again, softer this time. “That sounds lonely.”
The stranger froze. The flask trembled slightly in his hand.
Lonely.
The word echoed through him, unfamiliar and cruel. He wanted to say no, to insist he didn’t feel such mortal things anymore. But the truth pressed behind his ribs like a trapped bird—fluttering, desperate.
He swallowed hard. “…It’s safer this way.”
“For who?”
The stranger’s eyes lifted to meet his—and for a second, he held his breath.
Scar wasn’t sure what he saw there. Pain, maybe. Guilt. A thousand unspoken apologies. But beneath it all, there was something human, something yearning.
And Scar, foolish as always, smiled through the ache in his chest.
“Well, you’re stuck with me for now, mister.” he said lightly. “At least until I figure out how to get out of here.”
The avian’s wings shifted, feathers rustling faintly. “You’ll regret that.”
“I regret a lot of things,” Scar replied, his grin softening into something almost tender. “But I don’t think you’ll be one of them.”
The air between them was still.
The stranger was taken back and didn’t know what to say.
He turned away, muttering something under his breath about “idiotic and stubborn vexes.”
Somewhere deep within him—beneath the curse, beneath the numbness—something small and fragile stirred.
A spark. A warmth he hadn’t felt in so long it almost hurt.
He didn’t dare name it yet.
But Scar, oblivious and grinning at the edge of the pond, was unknowingly feeding it.
And Grian hated him a little for it.
Scar followed him all day. From collecting plants to following him to his cabin. This guy was nuts to follow a stranger in the middle of nowhere.
Then night came, settled gently over the forest.
A thousand stars spilled across the sky. The air was cool and damp, laced with the scent of moss and rain. Scar had managed to build a small fire after much effort—though “small” was generous. It crackled weakly, barely enough to push back the dark.
Still, it was light. And the light was good.
He figured that the stranger wouldn't let him go inside his house so he had to find some warmth throughout the night and maybe a shelter.
Scar sat beside the flames, humming tunelessly as he poked at them with a stick. Across from him, Grian sat in the shadows, wings half-furled, eyes fixed on the fire like it was something foreign.
They had been quiet for a long time. Neither of them seemed to mind.
Scar spoke first, voice soft. “You know, for a cursed forest, this place isn’t half bad. Feels… peaceful.”
“It’s not,” Grian replied quietly.
Scar smiled faintly. “Right, right. Dangerous forest, mysterious stranger, all that. But nothing beats sleeping in a hot desert.”
Grian said nothing. He only glanced toward Scar—just a flicker of a look, brief as the passing of a thought. The man’s face was lit by the fire, all warmth and life and foolish optimism. Grian didn’t understand how someone could glow like that without burning out.
He looked away.
“Do you ever stop talking?” he murmured.
Scar laughed. “Not if I can help it. Someone’s gotta fill the silence.”
“The silence doesn’t need filling.”
“Maybe not for you.”
That made Grian pause.
Scar’s tone wasn’t sharp—just simple, honest. He said it with the same easy rhythm he said everything else, but the words hung heavier in the air than either of them expected.
For a while, the only sound was the faint crackle of the fire. Grian’s wings shifted, the feathers catching stray sparks of orange light.
“Do you always follow people who clearly don’t want company?” he asked.
“Only the interesting ones,” Scar replied without missing a beat.
Grian let out a quiet breath, halfway between a sigh and something almost like amusement. Almost.
“Interesting isn’t the word I’d use.”
"Then what word would you use?”
Grian hesitated. He didn’t know. Dangerous? Cursed? Empty? None of them felt right, not tonight.
He stared at the fire a moment longer before speaking again, so softly that Scar nearly missed it.
“I’m not someone you should be near.”
Scar tilted his head. “Why’s that?”
Grian’s wings folded closer around him, like a shield. “Because people who get close to me… die.”
The words fell like ash.
Scar blinked, trying to gauge if it was a joke. But the look on the stranger’s face—distant, hollow, stripped bare of pretense—told him otherwise.
After a moment, Scar asked quietly, “Is that… a metaphor?”
Grian almost smiled, but there was no joy in it. “No.”
He looked down at his blackened hands, trembling faintly in the dim light. “The Watchers cursed me,” he said at last, voice low and tired. “Anyone who touches me dies. Instantly. Doesn’t matter who they are.”
Scar’s breath hitched.
“That’s…” he started, but stopped himself, unsure what word could possibly fit. Terrible? Unfair? Impossible?
He settled on the only thing that felt true. “That sounds lonely.”
Grian’s eyes flicked up, something unreadable flickering behind them. “It is.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The fire crackled softly, the stars above them unmoving and cold.
Scar wanted to reach out—to offer something, anything—but his hands stayed firmly in his lap. The weight of what Grian said pressed down like fog.
Finally, he smiled, small and sad. “Well… good thing I’m terrible at following directions.”
Grian’s lips parted, a protest on his tongue, but the words never came.
Scar leaned back, looking up at the sky. “I’m still lost anyway. Might as well have good company while I’m at it.”
Grian stared at him for a long time. The firelight painted Scar in gold and amber, too bright for the dark world Grian lived in.
“…You’re a fool,” he murmured.
Scar grinned. “Probably.”
Grian looked away again, but this time, the silence didn’t feel quite as heavy.
“Now that I think about it, you never told me your name, mister!” Scar perked up.
Grian stared at the man for a long time.
“It's best if you don't know.” Grian said as he looked at the fire.
Scar frowned and opened his mouth but no words came out. His gaze followed what the stranger was looking at.
Fire was a strange thing.
Scar had always thought of it as beautiful — the way it danced when the wind touched it, how it flickered like it was alive. It could take the dullest night and make it glow, chase away the dark with just a spark. He liked watching it, the rhythm of its movements, the colors shifting from gold to red to white.
But the more he stared, the more he remembered what it really was.
Fire wasn't just warm — it consumed.
It devoured everything it touched, turning it to ash, leaving nothing but memory and smoke behind.
Still, Scar couldn’t look away.
He didn’t know why, but when he looked at the man, he thought of it. Maybe it was the way the flame shines in his hair like gold dust.
Maybe it was something deeper — the quiet heat of someone trying so hard not to feel.
Grian was a fire that knew he was burning, keeping everyone away.
And Scar, foolish as he was, couldn’t look away.
He wondered what would the man feel like to hold warmth, just once — even if it meant being burned to ash after.
Because wasn’t that what people did with fire?
They reached for it anyway.