Siren Song

Gold Is Appealing

The crown weighs heavy upon its wearer's brow. Each passing day makes the crown grow heavier, and the wearer grows wearier with each day. Some say that a curse had been placed upon this crown during the first brawl to take place over its ownership. That, in the bloodshed of the rulers, the crown had been cursed to bring death and misfortune in its wake, and that any who wear it face cruel and startling punishments. For some, this means betrayal from one whom they'd loved, being poisoned in their own domain. For others, the crown brought magical powers beyond their own control, causing a harsh and gruelling winter to befall their lands.

It is needless to say that the crown had been swamped with misery and famine since the first few days of its creation. And that it had been buried long ago for good measure.

Pix had failed to read that in his books. But to be fair, there hadn't been many accounts detailing this crown, and those that did contain information were...vague, at best. So he'd seen no issue with donning the crown and wearing it with pride. He'd made his rule, as the books had mentioned within his newfound capabilities, and for the short time of having it, Pix had almost enjoyed it. Not the power itself, no. In other circumstances Pix wouldn't dare do such a thing. But in the name of history, he simply had to, if only to keeep the crown's rich tradition alive.

Perhaps it had been this that caused his untimely demise.

During that tea party at Glimmergrove, Pix hadn't initially thought much when he started withering. He'd assumed that Katherine had found him. After all, he had seen that Katherine did kill those that she managed to find. All in good sport, of course. The respawn ability every ruler shared was used not in life-or-death situations, but mostly as a measure of strength; a way to test how long one may survive against a terrible foe, or when they're on the brink of death from poisoning.

But when he did die, he came back...different. A ghost. A spectral figure that startled the other rulers upon seeing him. Pix had, quite literally, become as dead as history. He'd merged with it. Was that meant to be his fate all along? Condemned to live as a ghost after a light-hearted discovery and some innocent tradition-upkeeping? That didn't seem fair to him.

Scott had the crown now. At first he hadn't meant to acquire it. He'd simply stood nearby and accidentally retrieved the fallen things of the late Pix. And that meant he had to put out his own decree for the other rulers to follow. There wasn't anything he really wanted. Scott was a collector at heart; an adventurer. He'd spent a large part of his life travelling, permanently borrowing artefacts and living freely. It hadn't really been his intention to become King of Chromia, but he took it in his stride. In fact, he had been planning to continue his streak of permanently borrowing other people's possessions. So for now, he administered a simple task: build a statue, building or other form of structure for Chromia. He'd laid out the borders, and left it at that.

But upon his return home, he'd encountered a most peculiar note left for him. It requested that he create a Brown Mooshroom and take it to a place called the Hollow. Scott knew something bad or risky when he saw it. And this note definitely had sinister connotations. Would this lead to his death the same way Pix had perished? There was no real way to tell for sure.

The crown was laced in malice. None would know this. Perhaps a demon from the days of the past had cursed it. A demon that had cursed it as a last resort in case he was sentenced to death.

Who knows? All we know for sure was one thing.

That gold, the very gold within the crown, was appealing to all rulers.

Scott's Last Breath

There was no time. He was swimming, swimming, swimming, swimming for salvation, swimming to get away, swimming to live. Jimmy and Martyn were both there. He remembered Jimmy had given him time to hide. To hide before Jimmy set out to kill him and gain an extra hour. Scott was a target now. People were getting desperate.

Water began to fill his lungs. Scott was grateful he was a small part fish so that water would let him live, but now that he was approaching Yellow Life, even his fish anatomy was letting up and the water would kill him soon. Each panicked inhalation of water sent him closer to death.

"Martyn!" Scott cried out. His voice was muffled, but the look on Martyn's face spoke volumes. His friend nodded. He needed Martyn to kill him instead of Jimmy. Martyn was his ally. If Scott was going to die, then he wanted Martyn to be the one to take the extra hour. Not Jimmy.

"Scott, come to me!" Jimmy yelled through the water. Scott wouldn't. He couldn't.

His mind brought back memories filled with his husband in the flower fields, the flower crowns they wore and the small rings of twine as their wedding rings. He remembered standing in front of a grave with a poppy dropped at its base. He remembered dying and seeing his flower husband again.

Scott felt the searing pain of two blades piercing his body. Blood flowed out and into the water, staining it red in a gruesome pool of blood and pain.

He wanted it to end. He wished he could just die and avoid being constantly hunted down as the one on the server with the most lives.

Scott saw the wounds. He saw the wide gaping injuries littering his sides, chest, arms and legs. Locking eyes with Martyn, a final unspoken message was sent.

He was about to die. He was so low on health. Scott prayed in his mind that Martyn would deliver the blow. He hoped that, when he respawned, he'd be held by his fellow member of the Mean Gills, his ally, the only person he could really trust.

Scott's vision went black.

He felt his heart stop.

His body went cold.

The final damning message in the world, horrific words spelled out in the minds of every single player.

Smajor was slain by InTheLittleWood

At least his ally would get to live a little longer.

The Colony

Scott could feel the mushrooms.

Every tiny nook and cranny that he could place them in wasn't safe to the eyes of his brethren. Through them he could see. Through them he could hear. Through them he could feel.

There was no privacy in the colony. Everything was shared. That way no one had to deal with things alone.

But that also meant that Scott's pain was shared with the entire colony. His anguish, his agony, his sorrow. Every mushroom in his colony felt it and resonated with it.

He hated it. Hated how miserable he made his colony feel.

But as quickly as it'd come, the hatred would dissipate as the mushrooms soothed him with gentle words. His mind would be lulled into silence with their tender tune of love and adoration; because why wouldn't they adore him? Not many fungal mages roamed the lands anymore. They were few; a tiny sub-populace, a dying minority that would fade away.

The colony couldn't let him be destroyed by his sadness. He was the one spreading their power across the world. So they treated him like the blessing he was.

Scott sat on the mycellium outside his house, one hand tenderly stroking the ground and humming a small melody.

"How are you settling in? Hmm. That's good. I was worried that Martyn's Dollop would be a bit hard to adjust to. It's nice to know you're doing well. Oh? Don't tell me you just learned about the Coliny. They're nice, I promise. Yes, I know, you'll be fine! They aren't competition. They are just... frozen creepers? Yeti creepers? Something like that."

The mycellium around him spoke in a mixture of tones and voices.

"Oh no, I doubt Martyn will find you too quickly. He'll take a while at least. Probably a couple weeks. Maybe some months. He isn't as dense as I'd like him to be, but he's dumb enough."

He felt their worry. Their fear of discovery. And at that he shook his head and tutted.

"Don't fret, my babies. If he does try to uproot you or hurt you..." He trailed off and glared at the sinking sun. "I'll show the fury of the colony. Every single one of his colins shall fall."

It was a promise. The sun, the moon and the blinking stars were his witnesses.

"What's this about killing my colins?"

"Oh. Martyn." Scott stood up and greeted the chillager. "How are you? Is there something you need?"

"Nah, just passing through," Martyn waved him off. "Although, what happened to your last origin?"

"I died."

"I know that! What are you now? How'd you die?"

He shrugged. "Fell. But now I'm even better! I'm a fungal mage!"

Martyn tilted his head like a puzzled puppy. "What's that?"

Scott didn't give him an answer. "I'm not alone now. I have my colony! No matter where I go, as long as I have mycellium, they are with me as well. It's wonderful! Nothing is private anymore! I don't need to worry about secrets! Or going through things alone!"

"I-"

"You'd love it Martyn. It's like never losing your inner child. Like always being able to cling to the parts of you that you love most. I have help for every problem!"

"This doesn't seem healthy." Martyn stepped forward and placed his hand on Scott's cheek. "Are you sure you're alright?" His touch was cold, but it didn't bother him. Scott leaned into it.

"Perfectly fine!"

Martyn's lips tugged down for a second, but returned to a thin line of indifference.

"I'd best be off."

"See you later!" Scott smiled, waving as his friend went away.

---

"He's not okay."

"What do you think it is?"

"He kept mentioning a colony. Acted as if he had a psychic connection with them as long as he had mycellium."

"Hmm. Check everyone's bases. There might be stuff there."

"You sure? What if we're just, y'know, overestimating this? It might just be harmless."

"I doubt it."

"Fine. I'll start looking."

The Clock Is Ticking

The clock is ticking.

Lightning lights up the sky to mark the players that may never come back. They are remembered by the survivors. The threat of death looms over them all.

Eyes are everywhere. Hundreds of eyes crawling over the lands, the mountains, the bridges and the sea. They see it all. They smile and watch in quiet amusement as players perish. Those that watch know that they will succeed. After all, who can defy a game like this, with these rules, with no loopholes? For once, the players must play to perfection. There is no other option.

Bloodlust hit the players. Waves upon waves of the urge to kill. Hands itching for weapons. Bows and crossbows craving an arrow to fire. Blood pulsing through their veins, bubbling under their skin. The newfound reality of permanently dying only provides incentive. No one wants to die just yet.

Alliances fall apart. The so-called "Bad Boys" have been destroyed. Only one of them remains. And now they have joined a new group. So the name Bad Boys is no more than a memory that time has robbed of them.

The end cannot be prevented. No matter how much blood is shed. No matter how hard the players may try. They will die regardless of any efforts to thwart it.

Scott was taken by the sea, now belonging to its domain. The ocean was his and none could take it from him.

Martyn watched the sand of his hourglass. He knew time was running out and he would protect those he cared for until the end.

Grian lost them. Jimmy and Joel were dead. And now they were gone, and he joined the Nosy Neighbours, he couldn't help but curse those that watch for doing this to him.

Cleo feared for her family. She had not only her own time to take care of, but her boys' time too. There was a duty she'd taken up to protect them. And she refused to shirk it now.

TIES had lost Skizz. Now they were just TIE. Deaths were inevitable here, but the loss of their friend hit them. Skizz, who, despite losing over two hours in the first session, despite those that had killed him and despite the revenge that others would've taken, had chosen to instead be kind to the players. He'd made it his duty to complement and assure the others.

The clock was ticking.

For all of them.

Calm Before The Storm

There were no more Yellows now. Which as a result meant no more mercy, or grace periods. No one would show kindness anymore, not when the entire world was against you. Allies would only be standing in your way. Hindrances to success.

Scott stood at the diving board, staring out upon the server. He could see everyone beginning to head back to their bases clearly. His fingers itched, the way they always did when he was Red, slowly finding his bow and holding it up. An arrow was nocked, aimed and ready for someone's head. He didn't know whose head. It didn't matter in the end. They were all just heads on bodies waiting to be chopped off.

Shaking himself out of it, he lowered his bow and put the arrow back in its quiver.

Gem was sat on the floor with her sword in her lap. A strand of hair fell over her eyes and she hastily brushed it away. She stared at her reflection in the sword, a frown tugging at her lips, tilting it this way and that presumably to find a noticeable change.

Everyone felt different as a Red.

No one knew how. There were no physical differences to before, no changes in demeanour or personality. A player didn't instantly grow cold and calculated with an intense thirst for blood. The bloodlust was always inside of them. It just never arose as a Green or a Yellow. It simmered in their stomachs on a low heat, only to have the temperature rocket up and the pot overflow, teeming with the urge to kill. The need to have blood on your fingers. To feel the weight of a weapon in your hands, or to hold the lever to set off a TNT trap.

Many tried to look for a difference. It was quite common for players unfamiliar with the game to do so. They always believed there to be something wrong with them physically, and resorted to searching for changes in what little time they had on their hands.

They never found anything, sadly, but no one did.

"Gem," Scott began, walking over to her. She lifted her eyes to his for a moment, then looked back down at her sword. "Gem." he repeated, firmer. She paid him no mind. Apparently a reflection was more important than her teammate.

Impulse stepped out of his house and sat next to Gem. He stretched his arms and placed his palms in the grass, running his hands through the blades. Like many other players, his hands were riddled with scars, burns, blisters and callouses. "What's up?"

"That's the problem," Scott replied. "Nothing. Nothing is happening."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Impulse asked. "I mean, that means we have time to prepare for an attack, or a trap." He nudged Gem with his arm playfully. "Right Gem?"

She didn't respond.

Scott leaned in a little closer and sighed. Her eyes had glazed over. Again.

"Third time today." he grumbled.

Standing up, Impulse bent down to scoop Gem up into his arms and made a start for the gate. He gestured with his head for Scott to follow, and follow he did. He opened the gate for Impulse, and the two of them descended down the stairs and walked past the Secret Keeper statue. The mere sight of it was enough to send shivers down Scott's spine and make him want to run.

They stopped by Cleo's first. Unsurprisingly, Etho was there too.

"What is it?" Cleo asked. She whispered something in Etho's ear and he nodded, scurrying off quickly.

Once his receding footsteps were out of earshot, Scott answered. "It's happening again. I'm gathering some of the players."

She nodded, gradually understanding. "Alright, just give me a moment to grab my things." she disappeared.

Scott stood there, impatiently tapping his foot until Etho arrived with Grian in tow. Both of them were holding bundles of blankets with some snacks thrown in there for good measure. Grian yawned, attempting to rub his eyes.

Cleo reemerged a short while later with more snacks and some water.

The group left and headed towards Pearl's, where Scott broke off from the group to retrieve an additional guest. Before he could even knock on the door, Martyn was outside with all his stuff, a small smile on his face.

"Cleo messaged me," he explained. Scott walked alongside him back to Pearl's, where everyone was sat waiting. Some of them weren't able to join them, so it wasn't quite as full a group as usual, but it was still something.

He took some of the blankets from Martyn and laid them out on the floor. Everyone else did the same, then sat down.

Gem was the last one to sit. Impulse had to guide her to an available spot and gently lower her until she was perched on the edge. Her eyes were still glazed, but a fraction of light and normalcy was returning to them already.

Scott sat down beside Impulse, with Martyn's head in his lap. He absent-mindedly twirled strands of Martyn's hair whilst humming a small tune. He couldn't recall where he'd heard it; perhaps in passing, in the space between the games, or maybe it had been playing when he was in a different server. It sounded similar to a drinking song, so maybe it had been from Pirates.

"Now what?" Grian asked. He perched himself far from the others, but close enough to Cleo and Etho to reach them in case of an unfortunate event. His gaze was on Gem, his eyes narrowing mildly.

Etho chimed in. "We hang out. Eat. Talk. And we wait for Gem to come back."

Cleo nodded in agreement, a small smile curling at her lips. Her hand met Etho's, and their fingers entwined.

---

It took a while for Gem to come back fully. She'd return in brief fits, then leave soon after. It was like flicking a switch on and off repeatedly, only more stressful and each wait seemed to stretch on for eternity.

But once she started to ground herself, it became easier.

Her thoughts were a swirling mass of death, flashes of red every time she shut her eyes. Something was wrong with her. Something had changed, but what? What had changed so drastically about her?

She looked the same. Felt the same. Even tasted the same, which she tested herself (although maybe she did taste different and simply didn't notice.)

But something about her must have been wrong.

She was wrong. A freak. A creature of her own design or maybe someone else's.

Whenever she came to, she was surrounded by people. Impulse's hand on her knee, fingers tapping along to a rhythm. Scott humming a tune, playing with Martyn's hair, his hums occasionally turning into snippets of song lyrics. Cleo and Etho holding hands and smiling, Etho's head on cleo's shoulder, eyes shut in contentment. Grian watching warily. Pearl next to him with a calming hand on his shoulder.

A pang struck her heart when she came to.

They were all here for her. They'd dropped whatever they were doing, for her.

She was important to them.

Gem fell back again into that whirlpool of thoughts. They swirled viciously in her mind, growling and barking and biting like a pack of rabid wolves. Their fur was the colour of blood, and Their eyes were pools of purple. A strange black liquid oozed from Their fangs and dripped onto the ground. They approached from all sides, closing in slowly, leaving Gem less and less time to escape.

Panic bubbled in her chest and she balled the clumps of her shirt in her hands, trying to remember how to breathe.

"You're okay," Impulse's voice whispered in her mind. Was she? She didn't feel like it. "I've got you."

She almost laughed at the thought. He didn't. Not only because she was here and he was out there but also because no one could ever truly have Gem secure in their company. There was always that thin line, that tightrope of danger she was obliged to walk on. One misstep and she fell back into that world of blood, wolves and that rising sense of fear.

"Gem, we're here for you. Take your time." Cleo.

"You've got this," was a half-hearted encouragement from Martyn. He yelped, grumbled under his breath, then hastily added, "I believe in you!"

A hand gently squeezed her kneecap. She saw it, saw the hand, but not the hand at the same time. It flickered in and out of physicality, not wanting to be there for too long. Then it settled into reality with a firm determination.

Something else appeared, too. A shaky apparition, a figure bathed in sunlight. His wings were folded against his back, his red sweater worn and fraying. There was a scar on his temple, and a bruise on his cheek. A second appeared closer to her, gently illuminated by small floating stars, his pointed ears sharp and alert. Then came another, in a cloak of woven moonlight, a toothy smile revealing her elongated canines.

Then finally came one surrounded by a thick outline of red. There was a pendant around his neck of a hand grasping an hourglass.

They all smiled kindly at her, their faces coming into visibility slowly. Everything unnatural about them faded away until they were simply Grian, Scott, Pearl and Martyn, all still in their respective positions.

"Welcome back," Etho greeted.

Scott exhaled in relief, his hand falling to his side. Martyn frowned at its absence, sitting up properly. His hand crept into Scott's lap and rested on his thigh. A grin curled at Scott's lips.

Gem leaned into Impulse. "I'm tired." she whispered, not trusting her voice enough to raise it much more. Still, her words carried across to the others and a blanket was tossed her way. She caught it easily - surprisingly enough, but that must've been a good thing if her reflexes were already coming back - and wrapped it around her shoulders.

"G'night," Martyn said, letting gravity push him backwards. Scott fell with him, letting out a displeased noise when his back hit the ground. "Let's all have a five minute grace period before killing each other, yeah?"

They all mumbled their assent.

Gem and Impulse lay down, close but not touching. She couldn't touch him just yet; her body still didn't quite feel as it should. But when it did, she'd hug him.

Until then, she'd have to rest.

A Red Life was many things; vicious, unforgiving, spiteful, vengeful.

But they were also kind, gentle and merciful when the time called for it.

What If Scott And Milo Were Engaged?

What if Milo and Scott were engaged, but never managed to get married?

What if the two were about to get married in a few days? A few weeks?

To me, the idea makes Milo's death kinda sad. He died before he and Scott could get married. He died before he could see the man he loved walking down the aisle (or the other way around? not sure). Before they could get married. Before he could stop calling Scott boyfriend or fiance and finally call him husband.

That gives Scott a lot more incentive. He wants to get his happily ever after. His dream wedding with the man he loved. He even built their dream house! Scott is a grieving man trying to bring back his dead lover, but fiance makes it worse.

Because if Scott succeeded, he could finally marry his lover. Or it could backfire. Milo sees what his fiance became, and breaks it off as a result. Scott won for nothing. He did everything for nothing.

The home he built, the one he and Milo had dreamed of having whilst Milo was alive, would only then serve as a reminder of what Scott could've had. Of how Scott had become a monster.

Thanks! Have a great day/night!

Bertha's Lament

Forever aside, Left to abide By the rules that she set Not allowed to forget

Watching them thrive Barely alive They took my prize In front of my eyes

But I'm not done yet They've not passed the test I'm waiting for my chance For my powers to enhance

I'll reclaim what's mine All in due time And none of them have a clue What they're helping me do

I'll undo my curse Then put her back in the hearse My power I'll enrich And become the Supreme Witch

The End Has Come

It's all over now.

Scott finally got his happy ending. Shirking his crown, he happily went off with Milo. It worked. The spell worked. Now Scott was able to live out his life with his love. Scott was Milo's moonlight, his little shadow. Losing his magic was a price he was willing to pay if it meant he could spend the rest of his life with Milo. Scott was overjoyed.

Lauren was happy. She made friends! After years of being in the desert, alone, she had people that made her laugh. People that she cared about, and cared about her in return. Lauren liked having friends. It was much better than being alone, that's for sure. But her mind was doubtful. She ran instead of fighting that demon. Would the others forgive her? Lauren wouldn't know.

Pris was going to start her own family in the ocean. Pride welled in her chest as she swam amidst the waves. She could visit her sister. She could live her life. There was no way anyone could ever say she wasn't overjoyed. The water passed over her skin and she relished in the feeling. Pris was happy.

Shelbie was home again. It was awkward, especially after she set off the rain again, but she couldn't complain. Not when she was welcomed with open arms and into a warm hug. She melted into the touch with a smile on her face. Shelbie was grateful.

Eloise had found that crown. Some loser had just left it on the ground! And whilst she didn't know how someone could just leave it there, she didn't question it. Eloise readily picked it up and placed it on her head. She paid no mind to the runes on the ground, nor the circles of chalk. Eloise didn't see the shimmering dark-green glow pass over the crown.

Joey had followed Tiff through that portal. There was nowhere else that she could've gone. He scrunched his eyes shut and tried to ignore the unsettling crawl of goosebumps on his skin as the portal transported him. He didn't need to return to the mages that tossed him away when his magic was revealed. He didn't need to prove himself to them anymore. Joey just had to find his friend and make sure she was okay.

Tiff couldn't help but grin. This would be a new adventure. A new world. Those voices called to her, beckoning her to come with them, more hypnotic than a siren's song. Tiff wanted to take the plunge. Just like she had done with the competition. Only this time, there was no major incentive to do it. No Mother Nature calling her forth to help protect the plants. Tiff had chosen this.

Cleo marveled at her new body. No more rotted flesh. No more stitches holding her limbs together. No more time spent having to struggle with an undead body she was condemned to be trapped within. Cleo finally had a normal body again. A normal body with a beating heart. With no stitches. With no risk of falling apart if not for her magic keeping her together. Cleo was content.

Bertha had to follow Joey and Tiff. Without them, the two would likely get themselves in trouble within mere minutes. So, albeit somewhat reluctantly, Bertha bade their beloved Mertha goodbye as they ran towards the portal and stepped in. They watched as Mertha's image dissipated slowly. Everything soon was covered in green, green, green. Green everywhere. Just green. Bertha had to help them.

Happy endings never last. Loose strings must always be tied when all is said and done.

The story is not over just yet.

Secret Valentine's

This is my entry for the event hosted by @writeblrcafe! It was fun doing something like this again :)

This is my gift for @kittrrrr.

Word Count: 1610

---

"Can you cut it out?" Aren snaps, breaking his concentration. The cobalt glow emanating from his calloused palms shrinks to a pinprick. A soft sigh escapes his lips as tension leaves his body. "I don't know if you can tell, but I'm trying to get this done, and if you distract me, it's gonna go wrong. I don't fancy having to deal with another zombie, thanks very much."

Gracie-Mae crouches down. "Why don't we just leave this guy here? It's not like we're getting paid." She unsheathes a jagged dagger with a gleaming topaz embedded into the hilt.

He glances at the limp body in front of him. By all means, Gracie-Mae was right. Nobody was paying them anything. They had no obligation to offer their services. He could just stand up now, say he did what he could. Maybe they could hit the pub on their way back. There was a drink somewhere with his name on it, probably accompanied by bad decisions and a faceless figure in bed with him. Then he'd find Gracie-Mae later on, figure out what he got up to, then move onto the next village.

And yet...

He couldn't just leave this guy here. He probably had a family or something. Not quite old enough for a wife and kids, but maybe a pet? Or he might still live with his parents and siblings. In which case, Aren definitely couldn't just leave this guy.

Cobalt light floods the entirety of his palms as he lays them flat on the man's chest. Aren breathes in, then out, then in again. With each breath, the man's body begins to glow with that same light. He keeps going. In his gut, he feels the familiar tug of a rope and he grabs onto it, following the rope to wherever it shall lead him.

On the other side was an ugly, black mass of gunk latched onto the guy's lung. It pulsates with each breath Aren takes, convoluted green light spilling out from the gaps and spreading towards him. It creaks and groans like an old squeaky door, but moves at an incredible speed. He stamps his foot down on it, wincing in disgust at the atrocious squelching noise it makes in response.

He approaches the black gunk and, with a swift flick of his wrist, causes it to dissipate in an explosion of blue. Aren is yanked back out and into reality. He heaves, leaping to his feet and peering over the man's face.

"Did you do it?" Gracie-Mae whispers. She, too, stares at the corpse in front of them. "He still looks kinda dead."

"Give it a minute."

And, surely enough, there's a quiet groan and two green eyes stare up at the two of them. They're hazy and unfocused, but then the man blinks a few times and his pupils thin. He sits up. The man studies the two of them silently, his expression remaining blank and unreadable. It's mildly surprising; a man dressed this well shouldn't be so good at hiding like this from criminals.

Maybe he's dipped his foot into the criminal world enough times for a few instincts to be ingrained into him.

"Who are you two?" The man's voice is hoarse, as most newly-resurrected people's voices are at first, but sweet. It washes over Aren, coating him in that sickly sweetness. The mild accent there caused inflections on the vowels.

"Aren," He says, holding out his hand. "And that's my sister, Gracie-Mae." The man slowly lifts his shaking hand and takes Aren's, pulling himself up with it. "What's your name?"

The man looks startled at such a question being asked. His eyes go wide, lips parting in thought, and if that isn't just the sweetest thing he'd ever seen. A moment passes, and then he responds, "I'm Carter."

"Pleasure to meet you, Carter." Aren says.

Gracie-Mae rolls her eyes. Her eyes flash with an electric yellow, the air around her crackling and sparking. Carter swallows nervously. She presses her thumb to his forehead and mutters under her breath. Carter winces, then stands up straighter.

"To give you the rundown, here's what happened to you: a guy - drunk, lazy, unimportant - got mad at you for something. I dunno if you owe him money or had an affair with his wife, but he was pissed. He saw you leaving the tavern-" She points at the building behind them- "and got an idea. He whacked you on the head with a broken beer bottle. It wasn't pretty. He hit you a few more times to get the job done." Gracie-Mae pauses. She meets Aren's eyes. "We saw you, and decided to give you a hand."

Carter fumbles for an apology, but Aren cuts him off. "It wasn't easy, mind you. You had this weird thing on one of your lungs I had to get rid of. Real creepy, that thing. But the point is, you're alive and well." He slings his arm around Carter's shoulder and starts to walk him down the street. He glances over his shoulder at Gracie-Mae, and winks. She sighs but lets him go. He knows she'll still be watching.

To his credit, Carter doesn't look uncomfortable or scared at being taken down the street by a complete stranger. In fact, he seems completely relaxed. He walks without a care in the world, like he hadn't been lying on the ground a mere minute or two ago.

"Why'd you bring me back?" Carter asks. "I'm sure there's tons of people that deserve to be brought back more than I do."

Aren shrugs. "You seemed interesting." He left it at that.

Carter gives him an inquisitive look. "But why?"

He waves his hand dismissively. "Look at it this way: you have another chance at life, thanks to yours truly. All I ask is that you don't tell anyone that me or Gracie-Mae were here. Alright?"

"Alright." Carter looks like he wants to ask, but doesn't.

He didn't want to tell Aren the real reason he brought him back, but it was a glaring issue. Every time his eyes drift in that direction, he brings them back to facing forwards. More and more similarities crop up by the second. He isn't happy to admit it, but Carter has his eyes, and his hair was styled the same way he loved. He wore the same sort of clothes as him, and even his voice was similar to his. If he looked at Carter for too long, Carter would cease to be there; in his place, he would stand, arms open and a warm smile on his face as he welcomes Aren home.

They arrive at the place Aren and Gracie-Mae have been holed up in for the past few days, and he ushers Carter inside.

"Your injuries are mostly healed, but not fully," He explains, guiding Carter to a chair and getting him seated. "You'll need time to let them heal before going out."

Carter nods, then shuts his eyes. Aren, rather foolishly, in his opinion, bends down to quickly check Carter's pulse. It is sputtering, stopping and starting at random, but it seems consistent enough. It'll even out after a few more hours.

He just needs to make sure Carter doesn't get injured in that time.

"Well, you're royally screwing us over," Gracie-Mae comments as she slides in through the window. "The guards know where we are now. No thanks to your little stunt."

Aren rolls his eyes. "Maybe if you'd been quieter when I was getting it done, they wouldn't have found out." He shuffles around the dinghy space they call a flat in search of their first aid kit. He pulls it out and returns to Carter's side. The wounds on his body aren't hurting him, but they still need to be cleaned and tended to. Aren cracks on with it as he always has done.

Gracie-Mae falls silent. She normally does, when she wants to vent but has no words to vent with. Aren quickly finishes off tying some of the bandages around Carter's abdomen, then stands up.

"I'll meet you outside later. We can work this out when I'm done."

She relents, and slinks off to a hidden corner, either to sulk or do... whatever it is she does when she's alone. Aren's never around to find out what her hobbies are. For all he knows, Gracie-Mae just stares at a wall for hours. He has no way to know, and if he's honest with himself, he doesn't want to. It's her time to do with what she wants. He doesn't need to know every little thing she gets up to.

Aren stares down at Carter. He examines his work, then his hands glide across Carter's torso, gently adjusting the man so he can see what he's looking for better. A canvas of smooth skin, marred by the occasional blotches or scars or marks. His fingers stutter to a halt when they encounter something so small he almost misses it.

It's a tattoo, barely the size of his thumbnail, and yet so intricate in detail. It's a tiny ram's head, the horns gushing with thorns and petals. The eyes of the ram are hollow, staring up at Aren as if to ask who he was.

A grin overtakes his face. This is unbelievable. Lady Luck is truly on his side. Aren contemplates calling for Gracie-Mae so she can see it for herself, then looks down at Carter's face. He can't bring himself to do it yet. Later down the line, perhaps.

For now, that information was a valuable asset. He'd find an appropriate time to reveal it later.

Morning Sunshine, Evening Moonlight

Scott blinked back at the tears. He couldn't risk it now. He was meant to be one of the strongest witches in the competition! The Necromantic Witch! Every one of his competitors either feared him, was stupid enough to make him an enemy, or was an ally. Most feared him. He had taglocks of everyone. Nobody was safe from a curse. Not even Bertha, the...weird being that Scott didn't quite understand.

Case in point, Scott was meant to be powerful. Crying was a sign of weakness. He couldn't afford to be weak.

That wouldn't bring Milo back.

So he wiped his eyes and continued on. He flicked through the Book of Shadows, analysing every word of every line until he understood the ritual perfectly and could do it blindfolded. The chalk on the ground was right. He had the right ingredients. He even had a sacrifice like the book said!

Taking a deep breath, Scott began the ritual.

---

None of the other witches had heard a peep from Scott in a bit. No curses, no pranks, nothing. He hadn't tried scaring Bertha, he wasn't on some sort of journey to collect ingredients or spells. Nobody knew where he was.

Cleo paced back and forth at Spawn. She gesticulated wildly to Bertha as she ranted on end. Scott had said he'd meet her there ages ago. He hadn't turned up.

"What if something bad happened to him? He's my ally! Not to mention he's not...mentally stable," Cleo shook her head. "No I'm sure he's fine. Maybe he's just resting?"

"Scott doesn't have a bed," Bertha helpfully supplied. "He doesn't sleep anymore after Joey and Pris tried getting his taglock."

"Oh. Right." Cleo mentally screamed. She was no closer to discerning where Scott was than before!

"But we could take a look at his base," Bertha suggested, gesturing at the Waystone in the centre of Spawn. "Maybe he's there?" Cleo frowned, but, seeing no other option, complied.

The two stepped up to the Waystone and teleported to Scott's house.

---

Scott's home was silent. Usually there was at least some small semblance of noise. But not anymore. Instead it was just uncomfortably silent. Suffocatingly so.

Bertha cautiously tread on the decayed ground as if it would catch fire at any second. Cleo's brows furrowed. The decay was pretty bad. It stretched incredibly far, almost halfway to the lake. Had Scott's magic caused this?

As the two of them looked around, a chalk circle caught their eyes. In the centre of it stood a figure hidden behind sinister black, gold and crimson robes. A hood was pulled over their head, but Cleo could easily guess that it was Scott. By the look of it, he was performing some kind of ritual.

"Scott?" She said, slowly approaching the chalk circle. In between the red and purple chalk were thin lines of salt. Odd. Scott stood, unmoving and unattentive. There was a swirl of shadows and darkness at his feet, growing and growing. Shadowy tendrils shot out of the depths, sapping the life out of the world around it. The decay on the ground groaned and spread, edging closer and closer to the lake.

"Scott." Bertha's voice was loud and firm, unlike what cleo had heard before. It sounded more...ethereal. Less human and more like an entity of some sort. "Stop this." But Scott didn't seem to be listening.

"I'm gonna try something, but I think I'll need your help." Cleo held out her hand to Bertha, and they readily took it.

She drew nearer and nearer to the chalk circle. With a sharp breath, Cleo stepped over the lines of chalk and salt, careful not to accidentally disturb them. Breaking the ritual could have dire consequences. She reached out and took hold of Scott's hand. Bertha gasped and uttered something.

Before she could blink, Cleo was no longer at Scott's house.

---

He was home. Home with Milo and Maxwell. Home with his family. No more disasters. No more magic. No more death. Instead, he was sat at the table with Milo, both of them happily eating and talking. In his mind, it was like nothing had ever happened. Perhaps none of it had been real. Maybe he'd just been living a nightmare and only just woke up to his actual reality.

Whatever the case, Scott had missed this.

"I love you," he blurted out. "I-I really love you."

"I should hope so," Milo replied with a gentle laugh. He took Scott's hand. "After all, we are living together. How would Maxwell cope?"

"Shared custody?" Scott joked. The duo grinned in the way they only did for each other and burst out in pure, unadultered laughter.

He could almost believe it was real.

The main giveaway was the decay on his hands. The blackened skin that flickered in and out of existence. A reminder. In the corner of his eye, Scott could see the outlines of two figures reaching out for him and calling his name. He shook his head. This was his moment. This was his time to lose himself and believe that Milo was still alive.

"Scott!" The voices called out. They were incredibly distinct, and he knew them well. Cleo and Bertha. It could be no one else.

"Sunshine? Are you alright?" Milo asked.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. I'm fine." Scott leaned over and kissed Milo on the forehead. "Just...tired, I think."

"Do you wanna go up to bed now? I can clean up." Milo offered with a smile.

"O-ok. Love you." With a quick kiss on the lips, Scott stood up from the table and left.

"Scott, please," Cleo's voice begged. And Scott could see her now. He could see her hand wrapped around his own. "You need to stop. The decay, i-it's spreading. It's hurting you Scott!"

"But-...I'm finally back! With him!" Scott argued. His voice wavered, and tears pricked his eyes. "I-I can finally be happy again! I can live my life here, with him. I've tried to bring him back for so long. Do you know, Cleo? Do you know how long I've tried? Take a guess! Take a guess goddamnit, and tell me how long you think I've tried! Go on! Please!" Scott felt the tears falling down his cheeks. Cleo's hand wiped them away. Bertha stood beside him, their hand resting on his shoulder.

"Neither of us can imagine. But you need to come back. There's another way. Scott, come back." Bertha's eyes glowed with tender sympathy.

"I can't!" Scott pulled away. "I-I can't live without him."

"Yes you can. Please Scott." Cleo wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace.

The world around them fell apart.

---

They were back. Back at Scott's house. Only now, the Necromantic Witch was crying, weeping and wailing, clinging onto Cleo and Bertha for support. They feebly clung onto him, rubbing up and down his back and waiting for him to calm down.

Neither had intended to do this. But they did.

"I'm sorry," Scott hiccuped, his eyes puffy and voice hoarse. "I-I didn't mean to-"

"Don't worry about it." Bertha responded. "Besides, if it works, I can find a better way to bring back, uhh..."

"Milo."

"Yes, Milo." Bertha snapped their fingers in remembrance when Scott said the name.

"Sure?"

"Incredibly so."

"Okay." Scott smiled at both of them.

Those few seconds with Milo were worth it. Milo may not like what Scott's become, but that wouldn't stop him.

Nothing would.