Chapter 1: Abandon All your Stupid Dreams
Chapter Text
Grian never knew life outside of the monastery. He hardly ever stopped to think about life outside of the tall, plum coloured brick walls. The Watcher Monastery was his home, his world, his universe. He had been a monk for as long as he could remember.
Every monks’ goal was to one day become a Watcher, one of the 12 commanders that could directly pass messages from Xelqua to the monks. One Watcher overlooked the runnings of each monastery,
It wasn’t unusual when a new year would begin that a plethora of young children would come to the monastery to gain Xelqua’s knowledge. Parents would often send their first born son to a Watcher Monastery to protect the rest of the family from harm. They would never see their families again but, who cared? They don't even remember them, and the monks had all the family they needed within the monastery, loving and caring, and of course, they had their Great Xelqua on their side too. The fact that they were protecting civilians from harm also brought a great peace of mind to the monks.
The monastery didn’t accept other visitations throughout the year. No monks could leave their sacred space, even growing their own food on long stretches of fields, still enclosed by the monastery walls.
One day, the Watcher of Grian’s monastery received a letter from a King, who lives thousands of miles away, governing a different state. His letter held a request that any monastery didn’t usually fulfil, but the situation the king had found himself in piqued the Watcher’s interest.
Dear Watcher of the Far-East Monastery,
I hope this letter finds you in good health, for I myself am at my wit’s end. My youngest son has been a disgrace to my family, and I cannot help but wonder if you could put him to good use in your monastery. I do know you mostly accept eldest sons to take the position of a monk in your monastery, but I hope that without putting him in that position, that you can find some work for him, and, for lack of a better phrase, whip him into shape.
Many thanks,
King Altos Vencox
The night before the king’s son was due to arrive, The Watcher appeared at the door of Grian’s dormitory, dressed in his usual long violet cloak just as everyone else did, with a hood so large it covered the top half of his face. Unlike the other monks, however, he exuded a sense of authority that was reflected in the golden accents that could be seen at the wrists of his sleeves, the hem of his cloak, and the rim of his hood. The other monks only sported silver linings on their cloaks, and the students wore copper linings.
The Watcher had never spoken to Grian ever. He was very young to be speaking to him, being only 20. Most monks have their first interaction with The Watcher in their early twenties. The only thing Grian knew was to never be the first to speak to him.
“Good evening, Grian. I’ve been watching you lately.”
Grian stood frozen, trying to control his breath as he stood, waiting for The Watcher to say something else. “As a Watcher should, your honour.”
He shuffled his feet, waiting for an answer. Did he say something wrong in front of The Watcher of his monastery? Would he be imprisoned, or worse, killed?
To Grian’s surprise, he saw a sliver of a smile curl up from The Watcher’s aged lips.
“I’ve become quite fond of you, you know. So I have come to you personally to request a favour.”
A favour. This was exciting. And The Watcher had said he had become fond of him. What could that mean for him? He was already a monk, on equal footing amongst the young twelve year olds that had graduated from their study to become a monk, and the elderly monks who secretly await the current Watcher’s death to take his place.
“The king’s son will be arriving tomorrow, and I hear he is a handful. I trust you can keep him in order?”
Grian nodded, sure of his abilities. “What would you like me to do with him?”
The Watcher tilted his head forward, and lowered his voice to have a hint of mischief within it. “He’ll be working all day on the fields. It’s a harder job than most think, and before you became a monk, you were the best farmboy out there.”
Grian chose to take the comment as a compliment. “Many thanks, Watcher. I shall do my best to oversee the King’s Son.”
Looking pleased with the result of his request, The Watcher nodded. “Good night, and also,” He pulled out a small piece of parchment with some writings. “We currently don’t have space for the son, so here are some arrangements for you and him.”
Grian took the parchment, and smiled. “Thank you, your honour. I will not disappoint."
Just like that, his interaction with The Watcher concluded, and Grian observed as he glided down the hallway to his own room in the temple.
Before going to bed, Grian knelt down in front of his personal shrine of Xelqua. There were no idols on the shrine, there never was on any shrine of Xelqua. They mostly consisted of purple eye imagery, representing how Xelqua is all knowing, and always watching. He had said his communal night prayers in the temple with the other monks earlier, but Grian liked to repeat a shortened version before saying his own.
Glorious Xelqua,
Keep a watchful eye on me as I embark on a new endeavour, paving a faithful pathway for King Vencox’s son. Protect our monastery and family from harm.
Evo.
—————————-
Early the next morning, too early for morning prayer, a bell rang out from the gates of the monastery.
Grian figured since it was his job to look after the King’s son, he would have to be the one to allow him into the monastery. He pulled on his cloak, ensuring it covered his face like The Watcher’s did, and grabbed the piece of parchment that was given to him the night before. When he left his dormitory, the other dorms in the building didn’t seem to have stirred with the ringing of the bell. In fact, it had been consistently ringing up until this point. As he wondered how the other monks hadn’t woken up with the sound, he could feel the start of a headache forming.
It was still dark out. There was a crispness in the mid-autumn morning air and Grian could feel a slippery dew beneath the soles of his boots on the tufts of grass dotted around the pathway. Soon enough, a layer of frost would be developing overnight and the monks would spend a sacred night in the temple knitting warm woollen head coverings traditional for a monk in winter.
He reached the gate, noticing a broad silhouette standing outside the gate. The guy looked eager, rocking back and forth as he rang the bell some more.
“Don’t worry, I’m coming, I’m coming. You’re going to wake up all the monks if you keep ringing the bell like that.”
The stranger stopped immediately. “Oh, sorry. I wasn’t sure if anyone would hear me and it’s cold out.”
Grian shook his head. “Don’t worry about that,” he muttered.
He sighed as he came closer to the gate, noticing his breath dance in the air before disappearing from the cold. “Before I let you in,” He began, reading off the parchment, "I must ask you a question to identify yourself.”
The other nodded along.
“What is the full name of your father?” He asked.
“King Altos Vencox-Goodtimes. But the public knows him as King Altos.”
“And what is your name?” Grian inquired.
“Scar.”
Grian nodded, and opened the gate. “Welcome, Scar,” He said, “To the Far-East Watcher Monastery.”
——————————-
The first thing the monk who greeted Scar did when he stepped within the walls of the monastery was bring him back into his dormitory.
“Woah, take me to dinner first,” Scar commented as he looked around the place in awe.
He noticed there were eyes everywhere. On the walls, within the intricate design of the big black gate that he walked through. He imagined the temple at the centre of the monastery would have even more eye symbols.
The dormitory was situated in a long hallway, with doors lining each side of the walls, each being an exact copy of the last one. When he entered the room, he noticed that it lacked anything. Just a rush mat on the stone ground with a small shrine dedicated to Xelqua, complete with typical eye symbolism. There was also a single oil lamp by the door that looked as if it hadn’t been touched in a while. He thought of his comfortable bedroom at home in the palace of his nation.
“You have pointed ears. You’re not fully human,” the monk stated.
Scar rolled his eyes. “What an astute observation.”
The monk furrowed his eyebrows at him. “What kind of hybrid are you?” It didn’t sound like a question, more of a demand.
“I’m Vex hybrid. Why? I don’t even know your name yet”
The other hesitated, and then lowered his tone to speak. “The Watcher—” He couldn’t quite find his words. “Xelqua’s Voice states that hybrids are evil. You shouldn’ t be here.” He waited for one moment, listening for activity in the other dorms. “My name is Grian, by the way.
Scar’s eyes widened. “Then, how did my father not know that you all hate us?”
The monk shook his head. “Most outsiders don’t know. But hybrids aren’t allowed in the monastery. If we— they’re found out, then they are punished.”
Fear started to ripple within Scar, his body beginning to tremble slightly. “Then, can I leave? I don’t want to get killed."
Grian shook his head. “No, because if you leave, then The Watcher will wonder where you are, and if I tell him you were a Hybrid he’ll ask for Xelqua to kill you. Painfully. So staying and wearing this—” he produced another cloak that was the same as what he was wearing, “—and cover your ears, then I’d suspect you’ll be alright.”
Scar nodded as he pulled the cloak over his head.
”It’s a good thing The Watcher requested for you to wear this. As funny as it would be, he doesn’t want you to stand out like a sore thumb.”
”I must thank him for his graciousness,” Scar said with a scoff.
Grian grimaced. “Hybrids are unnatural and are basically considered hellspawn in Xelqua’s eyes. Good thing you might be here short-term. You’re still getting initiated though.”
He checked the piece of parchment again, his eyes lighting up when he scanned it.
“Looks like the next thing on our list is to show you to morning prayer, which won’t be for another…” He checked his wall to see a clock that was, of course, shaped like an eye, “Two hours. It’s your lucky day, you get to go back to bed.”
He gestured to the rush mat on the floor of his room.
“Sorry, it must have been a long night for you. You can sleep in my bed, and I’ll just pray until everyone else wakes up.”
Scar raised an eyebrow at his decision. “Why can’t you sort out sleeping arrangements now?”
Grian looked lost in thought, like he wasn’t truly listening. “Hm? Oh I can’t do anything significant before the day begins. I must apologise to Xelqua through prayer and ask for forgiveness, since I had to let you in this morning. I wouldn’t want to make him more upset with me.”
How strict was this place? Grian had to apologise for letting him into the monastery before morning prayer?
He had a feeling he shouldn’t question it. This was their tradition, right? He didn’t want to disrespect the traditions of others. So, he decided to try to sleep, since he had spent the whole night travelling.
As he closed his eyes, he could hear Grian’s frantic whispers every few minutes before he drifted into a short, but well deserved sleep.
————————————
Scar woke up with a start. The first thing he noticed was that a bell was ringing out throughout the entire monastery.
The second thing he noticed was an aching pain in his back. He missed his bed back in his palace even more now, with pillows made of feathers and bedding as soft as a cloud.
“Rise and shine,” Grian greeted, but his face looked quite solemn. “Time for morning prayer.”
There was a bustle of monks coming out of their dormitories, making their way to the Watcher Temple. The sun was creeping out over the horizon, illuminating the monastery with the warm orange glow. The shiny trims on the monks’ cloak glinted in the light of the sun.
The temple was just as Scar had imagined; full of eye imagery. The irises had a strange rectangular design in the middle, the lines making it up being broken up. A lilac mist floated above every monks’ head, flashing in places like lightning in storm clouds. They emitted a sickly sweet smell that everyone else inhaled like it was refreshing. It burned in Scar’s lungs, and he failed at trying to stifle his coughs. Heads turned to look at him, and he knew under their hoods the monks were giving him dirty looks.
Other than that, however, not a word was exchanged between the monks. Scar contemplated if some had taken a vow of silence. He could only hear the clatter of footfall on the wooden floors of the temple as they made their way to the main room of the temple.
The main room was a large, almond-shaped room. There was an altar at the top, with candles of all shapes and sizes, old and new, covering it. Dried wax sat hardened on the violet cloth that covered the table. The only empty space on the table had a black, rattan mat that Scar guessed was the place where offerings went. To the side of the table was a stone basin propped up on a pedestal.
Scar followed Grian as he sat down on one of many rows of rush mats, just like the one he saw in his dorm. He copied as he watched the other monks kneel and turn their hands in together to form an elliptical shape and close their eyes. Then, he felt something had been placed between his fingers.
He opened one eye to see a folded piece of parchment. He opened it up to see instructions for the morning prayer, telling him to repeat a certain piece of text in his head until the prayer hour was up.
The bells slowed to have a steadier pace, with a consistent drumming on the beat every few seconds. It was a repetitive but sprightly tune.
Over and over, Scar repeated the prayer in his head. By the time the prayer hour had finished, he had learned it by heart. He still tucked away the parchment into his sleeve as it had other vital prayers on it. A similar, urgent-sounding bell rang out as the monks finished praying.
He leaned over to Grian. “Is it time for breakfast now?”
He sighed and shook his head.
“Monks,” a voice began, coming from a figure standing at the altar. It echoed around the room. “We have a new monk with us. My friend, King Altos sent him. While older than most new men in our monastery, I still expect you all to treat our new monk with respect.”
This must be The Watcher, the head of the monastery. He dominated the room, looking stronger than the rather thin monks, including Grian, who surrounded him.
“That being said,” The Watcher continued, “We must initiate him. Reveal yourself, Son of Altos.”
Scar held his breath as he walked up to the altar. He expected for there to be all eyes on him, but to his surprise, all the other monks were fixated on The Watcher. It felt stranger for all the attention not to be on him.
By the time he reached the altar, another monk stood there, holding an iron tool with the eye symbol that Scar kept seeing everywhere at the end. It was smoking, like it had just been in a fire. The Watcher beckoned Scar to sit on a cushioned stool
“Roll up your left sleeve,” The Watcher ordered.
Scar did what he was told, preparing for the pain. They were going to brand his skin. He winced, but then looked at the crowd.
While everyone looked the same, Scar looked towards the spot where Grian was sitting. He was pretty sure it was him, since it was the only place with an empty spot.
He heard it before he felt it. The sizzling of his burning flesh made him gag. Then he felt the soaring pain.
He wanted to keel over and run away, but he couldn’t. Why couldn’t he? He couldn’t quite figure it out. Maybe it was some Watcher magic.
The monk that had been by The Watcher’s side was now wrapping Scar’s arm in a bandage. Feeling the bandage touch his burned skin was a pain worse than the iron on his skin.
“Welcome home, Scar,” The Watcher said, and then sent him back to his seat.
All monks left the temple in uniform. Scar wasn’t sure what to do, so he defaulted to following Grian.
“So, where to now?” He asked. “Breakfast.”
Grian rolled his eyes. At least, that’s what Scar thought he did. He couldn’t see half of his face “Not for a while yet. Here, we earn our food through work. In our, but especially your case, we will be watering the crops.”
How boring. But anything for food. Scar was starving.
“Sure, I guess,” he said. “Isn’t food fuel?”
By the time they reached the fields, the sun was already quite hot, too hot to be in a dark cloak.
They picked up a watering can each, along with a large group of young students and a couple other monks.
Grian explained that the crops had been planted in spring, and now it was their job to water them every day until they’d be ready to harvest in the early autumn.
Watering plants is much more arduous on a larger scale than most think, especially if you haven’t eaten or drank anything yet. Scar was starting to despise the crops, being jealous that they got water, and he barely knew when his next meal was going to be. When nobody was looking, Scar poured some water into the cup of his hand and drank like that just to keep himself from getting heatstroke beneath the burning sun.
After what seemed like a lifetime, Scar spoke through the dryness of his mouth.
“Grian,” Scar called tirelessly, “When are we getting food?”
Grian tensed. “You have absolutely no discipline. Didn’t anyone ever tell you with great work comes great rewards? We are going to feast after this.”
Scar sighed. “When are we getting this feast?”
Just then, a bell rang throughout the monastery.
“Right now!” Grian said.
The dining hall, or the refectory as Grian called it, was about the same size as the Great Sight, with long tables filled with plates full of food.
At least, that was how Scar imagined it.
He was correct about the layout, but the food…not so much.
Instead of “A feast” as Grian had described it, Scar sat down on a hard wooden bench to see a single plate and two cups of water.
The plate had a slice of bread, a single apple, and a handful of cashew nuts.
”Grian, you told me we were going to feast. This is hardly enough!”
Grian, who was politely placing one cashew in his mouth at a time, said,
“This is a feast.”
Scar tried to hold back his emotions, but failed miserably. “Back home, we have plates piled high with food! There’s enough to fill everyone’s stomach for a week!”
Grian’s mouth curled into a frown. “Then at home, you are all gluttonous.”
Scar didn’t have an answer for that. He decided if he ever got to go back home, he’d tell his father to donate food to all the poor children who lived on the streets. But not all the food. Not too much that some bread and a pitiful amount of fruits and nuts were all they ate in the morning.
He stuffed the bread in his mouth, chewing angrily. He savoured the taste, however, as he wasn’t quite sure when he’d get his next meal.
An idea struck him, and he decided to check his cloak for pockets, to no avail. He did remember that he had stuffed the parchment with prayers on it up his sleeve, and he wondered if he could do that with the apple.
The apple rolled out his sleeve. Another failure of a plan. But Scar always has a plan B.
He picked up the nuts on the plate, and rolled them into his boot. Yes, it was uncomfortable, but he would have to make do to keep himself going through the day.
Everyone said a prayer before leaving and left the refectory.
Grian led Scar to the back of the refectory to the kitchen door. They collected a crate of rotten fruit and vegetables.
“Why would they let this happen?” Scar said angrily. “We could have eaten these, you know!”
“Fruit rots before we get to eat it sometimes. We can put it to use to fertilise the farm.”
They spent the late morning scattering the rotten fruit on the soil, this time the work being more difficult for Scar, since he didn’t have any water source to secretly drink from. Sometimes, Scar would kneel down to feel the moist soil to cool the palms of his hands.
“So, Grian,” Scar began, trying to make conversation to distract himself. “How long have you been in this monastery?”
It took a couple seconds for Grian to answer. “For as long as I can remember. I studied here until I was 12 and then became a monk.”
Scar threw some more rotten fruit out. “Do you remember your parents?”
Grian shook his head. “Nope, but it brings me great peace of mind to know they are safe while I’m here.”
Scar couldn’t believe that. “How are you not angry with your parents for leaving you here?”
Grian stared at him, almost so intently to make Scar convinced that he was the crazy one. “They gave me great honour to protect our family. I’m so glad they put me here.”
These people couldn’t have been real. How were they not upset that they can’t see the world, and the only walls they’ve ever looked at were the walls of the monastery.
“But there is so much to see out there! Can’t you have a selfish thought and think of all the places you could visit like the ones in books?”
Grian looked at him, a flat, monotone expression on his face. “There are no books other than the ones that describe the history of our great Watchers and Xelqua.”
——————————————
After more tending to the fields, the monks had more prayers, another measly meal that consisted of a bowl of broth and milk, and then something else.
Teaching the students.
All of the older monks, according to Grian, took turns one day a week to teach a class of students about their religion.
“You’re saying we get to make lesson plans and teach kids? This might be the most fun I’ve had…ever since I got here!”
They were standing outside a row of classrooms holding 20 books called The History of the Watchful Eye.
Grian scoffed. “All you have to do is make sure they don’t run away from you while they read these.”
Boring.
“They read 3 chapters in the hour and a half they’re here and take a quiz about them.”
That grabbed Scar’s attention. Staring at kids scrawling on a piece of paper and then getting to grade it on intelligence sounded fun.
To his dismay, watching 20 kids read for an hour and a half and then get quizzes on it was not fun. All he did was stand at the side of the classroom that was almost completely made of wood, and listen to the pages of books turning and tapping of quills on the desks. He tried to ignore the growing pains at the soles of his feet, to no avail.
Finally, they got to grade the quizzes. Surprisingly, all of the students got anywhere between 90-100%.
“It’s good that they do so well, otherwise they’d be considered unworthy,” Grian said.
Scar was also told that the students would also not get their tests back, and that they would only know if they failed if they got punished. He didn’t know what these punishments were, and when he asked Grian, he said he didn’t even know.
Next on their list for the day was library study. It didn’t look too different from the classroom, just on a larger scale and with towering bookshelves stuffed with books.
“This is one of the monastery’s pride and joys!” Grian explained. “It holds books written about our faith, some dating back thousands of years!”
It was the first time Scar saw Grian so satisfied. He didn’t seem quite happy, just content. Maybe it was because he’s been severely malnourished his entire life.
Then again, what did he have to be happy about? He had no hobbies, instead he just did back breaking work every morning, and in between that he ate barely substantial meals and prayed. Surely he didn’t enjoy this? He’s been expressionless the entire day, showing no emotion. The library did seem the best thing to look forward to all day out of a bad bunch.
Scar needed to prove himself to get out of here, maybe write a letter to his father. He would have to beg.
Getting his hands on a piece of paper would be difficult.
After a while of restlessly trying to read a book, Scar slammed it shut.
“When is our next meal?” He asked, feeling nauseous from a lack of food.
“Don’t be an idiot, I know you slipped nuts into your boots,” Grian replied with a sigh.
“How did you—Hm!” He reached into his boot and stuffed a few cashews into his mouth.
They stayed in the library for three hours. Most of that time Scar spent watching the clock and listening to the sound of his stomach rumbling. Every once in a while he’d flick through pages of information he didn’t care about.
The bell rang out again, which was music to Scar’s ears.
“Time for prayer,” Grian told Scar.
This time, prayer was only a half hour long, to Scar’s pleasant surprise. And at the very end, they each received a handful of nuts! Scar ate them quickly to stifle his hunger. He was still disappointed with the lack of dinner.
“So, when do we wash ourselves?” He asked.
Grian sighed, tired from constant questioning. “On Saturday. We bathe every three days.”
They were in their dormitory, preparing for bed. Grian had just returned with a rush mat for Scar to sleep on.
“Don’t worry, soon enough you’ll get your own dorm,” Grian said. “You won’t be looking at me for too long.”
Scar nodded. The day had been strange, and he was worried he wouldn’t sleep the whole night on the rush mat. Thankfully, as soon as he put his head down, he fell into a fleeting, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 2: I Could Have Been Anyone, Anyone Else
Notes:
Happy Thursday!! This chapter might not be very well edited 🫠 so please lmk in the comments if I made any mistakes!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The next day came with Scar waking up before the monastery bell rang.
All he wanted to do was flip over and go back to sleep, but to his surprise, Grian was also awake.
“Morning,” he said groggily. Scar noticed he was wearing a different cloak, being completely white. It still covered the top half of his face.
Grian hoisted himself off of his mat and stood up.
“Is that a night cloak? Very fashionable,” Scar commented.
Grian shook his head. “Turn around, don’t look. I’m putting on my day cloak.”
Scar frowned. “Why don’t I get a night cloak?”
Grian gave him a sliver of a smile. “We’ll drop by the tailor’s today and pick up some for you.”
All the talk of cloaks reminded Scar of something he had been thinking about the day before.
“Grian, why can’t the monks see each other’s faces?” He asked, now sitting cross-legged on his rush mat.
It had been bothering him ever since he arrived at the monastery. Everyone, even the students, were wearing long cloaks with hoods covering their faces. It had been weighing on Scar ever since he arrived.
“The only eyes that should be seen in the monastery," Grian began, “Are the eyes of the Watcher Symbol. You can turn around now.”
Scar supposed that made sense. It still felt strange to him, how he’d be spending so much time with Grian and other monks, but he barely knew what they looked like. He could see their mouths and hands, but everything else was covered by their boots and cloaks.
Grian then knelt down onto the floor, and peeled back one of the floorboards.
“Roll up your sleeve,” he ordered. Scar did as he was told, assuming he intended the arm with the Watcher Symbol.
To Scar’s surprise, he revealed a large roll of gauze, thick in width, and a tub of some kind of cream.
He sat down beside him, and unwrapped the bandage on Scar’s arm.
“What are you—Ow!”
Before he had a chance to ask questions, Grian had started to slather some of the cream onto the branding. Pain ravaged through his arm, concentrating where the mark was. Scar grabbed the area in pain.
“Don’t touch it, you’re going to infect it!” Grian swatted his hand away, then methodically wrapped his arm in the gauze. “Stars, you’d think you had never injured yourself before. There you go.”
Scar shrugged at his comment. “I’ve been a spoiled prince all my life,” He grumbled , “According to my father.” He flexed his arm slightly, testing his range of motion. “This is really well dressed. Where did you learn to do that?”
Grian grimaced as he stood up. “I worked in the infirmary for a year here in the monastery, and I still remember how to care for the branding. I changed the children’s dressings every day that year until the scar healed.”
Scar smirked. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re hiding stuff in your floorboards, Grian.
Grian tensed at his statement. “I was just— I stole them. Last night. From the infirmary because I knew they wouldn’t remember to dress you. You’re so old getting branded.”
“Still not explaining the floorboard. And stealing in a sacred space? I’ve barely known you a day, but—“
The bell rang out through the monastery, signifying the start of morning prayer.
———————————
Later that day, just as Grian said they would, instead of the library, they made their way to the tailors’. It was a small shed in the far corner of the monastery, quite overgrown with foliage, almost making for an obstacle course as to not trip and fall into a bramble bush just to get inside.
“It gets worse every time I come here,” Grian muttered under his breath.
Just then, the voice of a businessman greeted them at the door.
“Welcome to Perfect Cloaking!” He said cheerily.
“It’s not even a clever sounding name,” Grian whispered to Scar.
The shed was a mess, made up of rotting floorboards and paintings of monks wearing the night and day cloaks hanging off the walls. There was a short countertop with a needle and thread sprawled across it, scissors left open wide like a crocodile taking a bite. Also, by the door stood a floor length mirror, which was angled to face a wooden crate that had been flipped upside down. A maroon curtain covered the back of the shed, where Scar assumed that was where the clothing was kept.
“My name is Mumbo,” The man said. “It’s not often I have clients…Oh, sit down, I’ll get some options for you.” He slipped behind the curtain to the back of the shed.
Why wasn’t he allowing them to look around? He didn’t even ask them their names! Scarn was confused at this monk’s customer service skills.
“Mumbo has about 4 options of clothing for us to choose from, so whenever someone comes by, he gets a bit nervous and just starts speeding up the process of getting clothes,” Grian said, like he was reading Scar’s mind.
“Why only four? That’s not very good business practice if you ask me. I am a professional at going to the tailor’s.” He thought back to all the times he was dragged to balls he didn’t want to go to, and how every time he’d have to get a new suit fitted, no matter how similar it was to the last.
“The day cloak, the night cloak, day boots, night slippers. The slippers are for showering mostly.”
Grian was right, Mumbo didn’t have a lot of choice. Poor guy, he had great potential.
The tailor suddenly reappeared from behind the curtains, holding two night cloaks and two day cloaks.
“We don’t have many sizes, but you should fit into one of these,” he said. “Do you need boots and slippers too? You can just let me know your—Oh I am so sorry! I didn’t even ask which one of you was getting fitted today!”
Scar raised his hand slightly. “It’s me! My name is Scar.”
Mumbo nodded, and handed him the clothes. “You can try them on in the back. There is a mirror in there. Come out whenever you’re ready, and we can fix up anything if needed.”
Agreeing, Scar ducked behind the curtain. There were rails full of cloaks, and shelves piled high with boots and slippers, some looking like they needed mending. As he took off his borrowed cloak, he stared at himself in the mirror, fluttering his grey wings. They hadn't exercised in over a day, and while that didn’t seem like much, Scar could feel them getting restless. He sighed, and slipped on the cloak.
It felt much better than the one Grian had lent him, which was very kind, but it was much too small. Whenever he lifted his arm slightly, the sleeves would ride up, and the hem barely came down three quarters of the way down his leg. He had to keep adjusting the hood too. This cloak fit him perfectly.
He stepped out from behind the curtain, Mumbo gesturing for him to stand on the crate in the middle of the floor. He noticed Grian trying to stifle his laughter as he twirled jokingly on the crate.
It made him smile to see Grian laugh. Scar had a feeling he wasn’t always feeling like this, even if he was laughing at him.
“That’s perfect,”. Mumbo said breathily. “I’ll send four more over to your room. You should have them in a couple months.”
Months? Why was it going to take that long?
Grian must have noticed the look on Scar’s face, because he said, “Yeah, it takes a while to get new cloaks. Especially how many you’re getting.”
Scar guessed that made sense. The cloaks were handmade, but he wasn’t sure if one cloak would tie him over.
“I’ll throw in one more,” Mumbo conceded, “And I’ll throw in a night cloak.”
He went into the back, and they waited a little while until he emerged with the cloaks piled up and presented with a red ribbon.
“Come back soon!” Mumbo said as he placed the clothes into Scar’s hands.
“We will— Wait! How am I supposed to pay you here?” Scar searched his pockets stupidly. He didn’t bring anything with him to the monastery except himself.
Mumbo shook his head. “I’m not quite sure what you mean, but you don’t have to give me anything in return. See you soon!”
It hit Scar suddenly that these were mandatory garments, and these monks had no source of income, or even concept of it.
“Okay, thank you!” Scar called back, a hint of confusion in his voice.
That night, before bed, Scar tried on the night cloak. It fit like a glove, but he figured it would anyway, since it used the same pattern as the day cloak. Its white silk fabric felt smooth against his skin and draped over his body perfectly. The only thing he noticed is that the silk creased more, which revealed the shape of his vex wings on his back more, but if he pressed his wings to his back, that gesture fixed the issue. Mostly. He decided that he might stop by to get some slippers some day too, if he found they were needed.
——————————-
The next day was Saturday. “Soul Saturday,” as Grian had called it. The day was normal at first, going out to the fields, eating a miserable meal twice a day, teaching some students about the History of Watchers, and praying three times communally a day. But Scar found out, on the last set of prayers of the day, why Saturdays were called “Soul Saturdays.”
“Today is the day of sacrifice,” Grian whispered on the way to the temple. “We have to give Xelqua a part of our soul every week to keep our relationship with him stronger than ever.”
What would this entail? Would Scar have to give Xelqua a lock of his hair or something?
After their nightly half hour of prayer, the monks all lined up at the back of the main room of the temple. Scar contemplated that maybe they were getting a special food or drink.
He was incredibly wrong.
Instead, he was handed a knife by a monk who he assumed performed the branding on him. The blade glinted at him, reflecting from the sun outside, blinding and taunting. It was a clean, innocent blade, perfectly sharpened and refined. The Watcher symbol was engraved on the dark wooden handle, and at the very bottom, he could see his name written
He looked at the other monks’ faces. None of them seemed fazed by the blade they were given. Even Grian didn’t seem confused. He had his eyes closed, and was probably praying.
The monks all walked up to the altar, where they lined up in front of the stone basin. Grian was ahead of Scar, and he didn’t say a word to him as the approached the top of the line.
Finally, Grian had reached the top. Scar watched apprehensively as Grian slowly rolled up his left sleeve, revealing a pale forearm covered in bandages he had never noticed before. He held his arm over the basin, which was splattered with a crimson fluid that told Scar all he needed to know.
The action was finished quicker than a hummingbird could flap its wings, and a wide gash now stretched across Grian’s arm, dripping into the basin to join the blood of many other monks. All Scar could see from Grian was a tensing with pain, but he held the back of his arm to the ceiling as he walked away.
It was now Scar’s turn. A pool of blood awaited him in the basin, fresh and haunting. He copied Grian’s actions, rolling up his left sleeve, and holding his knife with his other hand.
His hands trembled as he moved the blade closer to his left forearm. Closing his eyes, he wondered if his father knew how The Watchers operated would he ever been sent here. Bracing himself, he drew a long line down his wrist, making as shallow of a cut as possible.
“You need to go deeper,” a deep, grated voice said in his ear.
Scar looked up to see The Watcher. He didn’t reply. Instead, he winced as he swooped onto his wrist, slicing violently. A wave of dizziness fell over him as he heard the splatter of blood fall into the basin.
He walked away, not looking at the injuries he had inflicted upon himself. Leaving his knife in a wicker basket by the door with all the other knives, he saw Grian there, a harsh grimace on his face.
“I know it’s difficult, but it’s worth it to uphold our relationship with Xelqua.”
Scar held his tongue. Xelqua shouldn’t be worshipped like this if he required a blood sacrifice every day. He saw the bandages on Grian’s arm, it must be getting harder and harder to find an open spot that hadn’t been cut yet.
“Come on, let’s get to the infirmary.”
The monks in the infirmary, which was a slightly bigger and better kept shed like Mumbo’s, all seemed to be bandaging themselves up with gauze and cleaning their wounds.
Scar walked over to a counter, trying to balance any blood that was still pouring on his arm. The counter was full of supplies to clean their cuts. He first used a clean rag to wipe off any extra blood, and then went and wrapped some gauze around the injured area.
As he wrapping the gauze, he picked up a regular blade that had been left on the counter to cut the gauze with. His hands trembled uncontrollably like they did before during the sacrifice as he picked it up. He took a deep breath, and then cut away the excess gauze.
He sat on the floor of the infirmary, holding his arm and staring into space, when Grian sat down beside him.
“That wasn’t too bad, was it?” He asked.
Scar stared at him blankly. “This place is creepy. I want to go home.”
It was juvenile to say, but it was true. Scar missed the luxury of the palace, which was now thousands of miles away across the sea. His father had enough of him, and shipped him off to be in this cult of a monastery.
Grian didn’t say anything. All he did was pat him on the shoulder, a poor, but still kind, attempt to comfort Scar.
———————————
That night was the first bath that the monks would take since Scar came to the monastery. Grian hoped the water would be warm, but it was always a gamble in the washrooms of the monastery.
It was always some poor group of young monks’ job to run a bath for each of the monks. Around ten or so monks used the same bathwater, so if one was in the latter half of that number, your bath would greet you with cold, dirty water, and they wouldn’t feel so clean. If one was the former, he was gifted a warm, comforting bath to end the night with.
The washrooms were quite clean, with stone tiles to make up the flooring and stone walls. The bath was a grey marble and a pile of towels were placed in the corner, along with a mirror.
As Grian undressed himself, he stared at himself in the mirror.
His torso was wrapped in a thick gauze, a common practice he did. Grian hated baths, because it meant looking at the disgrace that grew on his back.
Two wings, with plum coloured feathers, crooked from years of binding them to his back. They twitched at any slight touch, and were painful to move. He had two wings on the side of his head too, but they were always covered by the hood of his cloak, and were impossible to stunt their growth by binding.
From what he had learned during his schooldays at the monastery, Xelqua was portrayed as a Mulberry macaw. Grian wanted to believe he wasn’t a Mulberry Macaw Hybrid, but the books had told him they were the only birds with such striking purple feathers.
The Watcher hated any hybrids. Especially birds. Or anything with wings.
Imitations of Xelqua, Grian had been taught in school. He wished he could have cut them off, yielding himself wholly to his faith. If anyone ever found out, they would punish him greatly. He guessed it wouldn’t be a quick, merciful death. Instead, he predicted it would be some form of long-term torture.
He felt so fake in the eyes of The Watcher. He didn’t understand how he already didn’t know.
He had managed to keep it a secret for this long, somehow. When he first came to the monastery at the age of 5, he had to wash himself, and even back then wore a similar cloak to what he wore today.
In the eyes of his beloved religion, he was considered an impostor of God.
Notes:
Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed this week’s chapter. It was a little shorter then I would have liked but next week will be around the same length as last week’s!
Chapter Text
It had been almost a month since Scar had come to the monastery. Every morning, without fail, Grian changed the dressings on Scar’s branding. He still didn’t understand how he got the gauze and cream. The long days on the field were difficult, but the other half of the day changed often. Sometimes, the two of them were put on kitchen duty, where Scar stole food to satisfy the constant hunger he felt these days.
But, one day, Scar and Grian both woke up to the sound of bells, and Grian was in a strangely different mood.
He was quite cheery.
“Someone’s in a good mood!” Scar said as he listened to the far off humming of Grian as he got dressed. Every morning, it was the same routine. Grian changed the gauze on Scar’s arm, then got dressed while Scarfaced the other way, and then vice versa for Scar.
“Tonight is the Welcoming of Winter!” Grian said, an unfamiliar, but not unwelcome tone in his voice. “It’s quite fun, we all stay up and knit and crochet hats and scarves. There’s good food too!”
Scar knew at this point to never get his hopes up about the food in the monastery. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was just nuts and berries. God, I miss pork and cranberry sauce…” His mouth began to water at the thought.
Grian gave him a strange look. “You eat pork? I’ve heard of these meat eaters from the outside world.”
“Hey, don’t knock it till you try it.” However, Scar grimaced. No meat tonight. Or ever again.
The daily routine had changed. After prayer, Grian and Scar spent their time peeling potatoes in the back of the refectory, which Scar had seen from the outside many times during the autumn, but had never really paid much attention to. Like many areas of the monastery, it wasn’t very well kept, blue paint mimicking the potatoes being peeled in their hand, revealing a rotting wood beneath. The utensils were dull from overuse, and cobwebs clinged to each and every corner. The only thing in the room worth noting its quality was a painting of the Watcher Symbol in which to Scar, felt as if it was looming over then, ruining the crisp and bright atmosphere the new winter had brought upon them.
He tensed at the sight of his fingers, which were wrinkling from handling soggy potatoes.
“You know,” Grian began, a smirk beginning to form on his mouth. “Back in school, they used to call me the Perfect Peeler.”
Scar tried to stifle his laugh. “I’m sure you were wonderful at peeling!”
“Don’t use past tense when saying my title,” Grian insisted. “I’ve still got it!”
The room went silent after a shared laugh, with only the scraping of skin tearing through.
“Grian, do you remember life before the monastery?” Scarasked after a while, unable to bear the quiet.
Grian froze, his potato peeler stuck cutting through another slice of skin. “No.”
“Like, not at all? Not one bit? Don’t most young boys come to the monastery at four or five?”
Grian didn’t talk at all. He just continued to peel.
“I was sent here because I was an ill-fitted son for the heir.”
Peel.
“My father always wanted my older brother to be the heir to the throne, and I was really just a backup.”
Peel. Peel.
“I love my brother a lot though. He taught me pretty much everything I know. His name is Cub. I miss him a lot.”
Peel peel peel peel peel peel peel.
“I’m going to—“
“—I have a brother.”
He dropped the potato and peeler on the ground, and listened to them clatter like dissonance.
Scar looked at him, his eyes wide. “Why were you so scared to say that?”
“I just—“ He didn’t have it in him to meet his eyes. “I remember saying goodbye to him. Hugging his small, toddler body. I don’t remember anything else though!”
Scar tilted his head. “Not even his name?”
Grian stared at him, his face looking softer than usual.
“Jimmy.”
—————————————
Nightly prayer came, but it didn’t go. Nobody filed out of the hall back to their dormitories as usual. Instead, all the monks waited on their mats, kneeling for even longer upright. Scartried to ignore the growing ache in his lower body from holding that position.
He noticed something new emerging from the doors to the side of the altar. Three carts full of everything you could possibly need to practice the fibre arts; yarn, hooks, knitting needles, fabric, sewing needles, scissors, you name it, it was there.
Looking towards Grian, a smile was growing on his face. He had been looking forward to this for as long as he had known him.
It was always nice to hear Grian reminisce on past years of the Welcoming of Winter. It brought a light to his voice that Scardidn't hear often. He didn’t quite understand why he enjoyed the festival so much. How exciting could knitting and sewing be?
All the monks lined up to get their tools. It was easy to see if any of them had anything planned, they would meticulously choose a tasteful colour palette for their creation. Otherwise, the monks would just choose at random.
Scar was definitely part of the latter. He had witnessed and studied many art forms, but the fibre arts was something alien to him. With what was seemingly an infinite amount of choices, he chose two balls of yarn, one a lilac colour, one as red as a poppy, and picked up a hook which he thought he had seen Grian with earlier.
“You’re a crochet man I see!” A familiar voice said from behind the cart. It was Mumbo from the tailor shop.
Crochet. Scar thought he had heard Grian talk about that before.
“Yeah that’s right! I’m going to make some, uh, mittens! Yeah!”
Mumbo nodded. “Hey, you came by my shop! I’ll be working on your garments today!”
Scar waved him goodbye. On his way back, he realised the atmosphere was something he was much more used to. Laughter and nonsensical rang out throughout the hall and there was a significant lack of haunting hushed whispers.
Scar sat down beside Grian, who had an armful’s worth of yarn by his side, neatly placed in a row of lightest to darkest. His colours were dark, but contrasted well, and fit in with the theme of winter, ranging from deep blues to fiery reds.
“You crochet?”
“Sure I do!” Scar exclaimed as he sat down, resisting the urge to slump backward. “I’m going to make some…mittens!”
Grian nodded slowly, eyes wide, bemused at the statement. “Didn’t think the prince would know such a sacred and intimate art.”
The man started on his own project, fiddling with the yarn around the hook and his fingers in ways Scardid not think was possible.
He tried to copy to see what he was doing, but to no avail. He only managed endless amounts of halfhearted knots dotted throughout the yarn.
After a couple minutes, he heard a laugh from Grian beside him.
“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”
“Not a clue.”
He leaned over, gently taking the yarn off his hands.
“Look, you make a slipknot," He began, slowly making the movements Scar had tried to study before, “And you create what’s known as tension like this.” He winded the yarn around his fingers, which Scarnoticed were calloused from years of hard work.
“Just pull through the loops and, yeah! You try!”
Scar carefully winded the yarn around the fingers on his left hand, just as Grian did, and copied how Grian had held the hook.
“Like this?”
Grian nodded, a wide smile visible beneath the rim off his hood. “Just like that! Hey, why don’t you make a scarf like this?”
Throughout the night, Grian taught Scar how to do simple crochet stitches for his scarf. He was slow at first, but he eventually got the hang of it. Food was being served as the night went on, and while there wasn’t much choice, there was a noticeable upgrade in the quality.
Mashed potatoes, broccoli, carrots and peas lined each and every monks’ dish, and for the first time in weeks, Scar’s stomach felt full. The choice of dinner wouldn’t have been his first pick, but it tasted like a less protein-filled meal from childhood, homecooked from the palace kitchen.
Later into the night, the monks seemed to be dozing off on their mats, tired from staying up so late. Scar wanted to finish his scarf, but had only done a couple rows. He wanted to give it to Grian, for being probably the kindest monk he could have been put with ever since he arrived at the monastery. Losing control of his energy, he followed the other monks into a heavy slumber.
The next morning he managed to smuggle his project into the deep pockets of his cloak. He didn’t want Grian to see it, the present was going to be a surprise (even though he helped him make some of it). The monks cleaned up the hall, and it was back to normal, feeling much more like a sacred space.
—————————————-
Other days, they would do the monastery-wide laundry, which meant they got to spend three hours every night wringing out towels and cloaks until their hand bled.
“You monks are disgusting,” Scar commented, repulsed by the dirt that would float in the water. “You all stink, and could do with a daily bath. Every three days is rancid!”
Grian folded his arms, dropping the mud-covered towel he was holding. “I do my best! And Xelqua said that excessive showering was an indicator of greed.”
Every night, Scar without fail, would fall asleep to the sound of Grian praying under his breath at the shrine in his room. It was nice to fall asleep to noise, even if it was quiet. That’s not to say Scar didn't miss his comfy bed, and would probably trade anything to see it.
The next day, they were in the library, and Scar was doing his nightly routine of pretending to read the book Grian had given him. Thinking of home, he leaned over to him;
“Hey, Grian, do you think if I ask The Watcher to write a letter, would he allow me to?”
Grian’s eyes widened. “Talk to The Watcher? He is a respected, revered man who doesn’t have time to listen to the likes of us!”
Scar gave him an odd look. “Unlike you, I actually have a family.” He remembered what Grian had said to him the morning of the Welcoming of Winter. That I miss. So, how can I send a letter to my brother?”
Grian stared at him, like he was an alien who had been sent from space. “You can’t. This is your home now. Why would you want to contact your family? I don’t ask to contact mine!”
“Because I love my family. I care about them! Unlike you, I’ve experienced love!”
He bit back his tongue. This was why his father sent him away.
Grian didn’t seem to have an answer for his statement. “I— I have! I love the monastery!”
By now, all the monks in the room had turned their heads to look at the fight going on. Although Scar couldn’t see any of their eyes, he didn’t have to. Not to read the expressions on each of their faces, shocked and possibly embarrassed for them.
A confused, frustrated expression grew across Scar’s face. “The monastery is the only thing you’ve ever known. Now, do you know where I can find something to write on?”
Grian faltered, untensing in his chair, no arguments left in him. “I don’t know, maybe try the scriptorium or whatever. But if you truly had faith, you wouldn’t be doing this.”
Scar didn't reply.
With the slightest inkling of a clue on how to get parchment to send a letter home, Scar first had to figure out what a scriptorium was, which he found out from a kind, older monk the next morning after prayer. A scriptorium was a building in the west of the monastery where monks known as scribes wrote manuscripts about Xelqua and the Watchers. They used a fancy paper called vellum, made from calfskin, to illuminate beautiful retellings of the story of The Watchers and the founding of the story of faith. Scar figured they would have other paper too— he didn’t need it to be overly sturdy or expensive. He just needed it to work.
The seeds of a plan began to grow in his mind. After education the next day, as usual, the monks went out to read in the library. Normally Scar would have just chatted to Grian the entire time, but he had other plans.
Instead, he went to the scriptorium, where he met a strangely familiar monk by the door.
“Do you have authorization to enter?” He interrogated abrasively.
Scar reeled back. “No, no! I was just wondering if you had any paper going spare in these quarters!” He tilted his head inquisitively. “Do you?”
The other monk let out an exasperated sigh. “Why?”
Scar put up his hands innocently. “All I want to do is write a poem about our wonderful Xelqua!”
The action made his arm with the branding ache in pain. Grian hadn’t changed the dressing in the past couple days, and the soreness was getting worse by the day. He quickly clutched it with his right hand, and winced in pain.
“You’ve only been here a few weeks. How much—“
“—Excuse me? I’ve been here for years! So can I have the paper and maybe an inkpot and quill? Just to borrow?”
Reluctantly, the monk gave him the pen, a peakcock feather, long, shiny and elegant, along with a half empty black ink pot.
“Come back to me with the poem. Maybe we could write it into one of the manuscripts that the scribes are working on.” He wore a sickly sweet smile that made Scarfeel nauseous.
“Thank you!” Scar returned the smile, his eyes wide and he abruptly snatched the paper off of him.
That night, by the light of the oil lamp, he began to write his letter.
Dear Father,
I cannot fathom how uncomfortable this place is. Please, I won’t act up anymore. I’ll be the picture perfect son, just like Cub. Speaking of which, how is he? I miss him a lot. Tell him I say “Hi.”
I’m writing this as I sit on my bed, which is a rush mat. If you or Cub die prematurely, there won’t be any hope for me to take over because my back will be broken.
Just please mercy on me,
Scar.
———————————
It was long after nightly prayer the next day, long after Grian had gone to bed. But for the first time, he couldn’t fall asleep. He hadn’t said a word to Scars ince their fight. Stars, he had barely seen him since. He didn’t want to say anything. He didn’t have words to say, except words of prayer. Earlier in his sleepless rest, he heard Scar leave, creeping out the doorway. Grian found himself tossing and turning on his mat even more. He wanted to wonder where he had gone, but the night before he caught him writing on a piece of spare paper by the light of their oil lamp. The only conclusion he could come to was that he had gone out to send it.
Grian wasn’t sure how Scar would go about that, but he did know that outside the monastery, the world was cruel. That’s why families needed their sons to live in the monasteries, right? To protect themselves. A vital sacrifice to allow a comfortable life for them.
Scar wanting to contact the outside had felt like betrayal.
The Watcher allows an outsider into their hermit lifestyle and then he just goes and throws it all away?
He thought of the approval and pride The Watcher would shower in him if he asked to speak with him.
But that would never happen.
He couldn’t tell a soul.
Everybody deserves a second chance, right?
Where had he gotten that phrase from?
After what felt like a lifetime, the door of his room creaked open, spilling in light from a familiar oil lamp. Grian wanted to pretend to be asleep, but his curiosity got the best of him.
He waited until he could hear Scar lower himself to stretch out on his mat.
“What was it like,” he asked, his deadpan voice croaking from lack of use. “You know, outside the monastery?”
Scar let out a long sigh as he sat down on his mat, not bothering to change out of the strange assortment of clothes he was wearing. “Refreshing.”
Grian sat upright, and leaned against the wall. “Was it… dangerous?”
Like in the books?
“No. I mean, civilization does have its dangers, but the riskiest part was trying not to get caught by the, uh…”
“I know you hate The Watcher and the monks. I’m coming to terms with it. Just say it.”
Scar shook his head, denying Grian’s statement. “I don’t hate— I— I don’t hate you.”
Why?
“How can you not hate me? You clearly hate my religion.”
Scar furrowed his eyebrows. “I never wanted to come to the monastery, Grian. But if I had to have someone guide me around the place ten thousand times, I think I’d choose you every time.”
Grian scoffed. “I think that would get a bit boring after a while.”
Scar returned with a laugh. “I’d rather that than get caught being a hybrid.”
A wave of tiredness came over the two of them, and before they knew it, the bell for morning prayer rang out again.
————————————
“Watcher.”
“Martyn.”
Meanwhile in the Temple, a private room housed The Watcher, located behind the altar. The room was exquisitely crafted, and arguably the most comfortable in the entire monastery. A large, elegant bed with a large wardrobe, private shrine and desk, along with a private bathroom.
“That monk— The new one—“
“Scar?”
“Yes. He asked for some paper from the scribes. I asked him why, but he just said he wanted to work on a poem about Xelqua, but he barely knows anything about him, he’s only been here a few weeks…”
“How can you be sure that he was the right monk? I wouldn’t want any of my followers to be wrongly accused.”
Martyn tensed, trying to find his words. “He was clutching the side of his arm, where his recent branding would be. No-one above the age of six in the monastery would be feeling pain there. It had to be him.”
The Watcher turned away from him, choosing to look out to a private garden, of which none of the flowers were blooming. In fact, the flowers never bloomed, even in the spring.
“Is that your only evidence that the monk was him?” He inquired, his tone far-off, like he wasn’t truly interested in the conversation.
“No. I did not.” He hung his head shamefully, like a baby bird failing to fly.
The Watcher walked towards Martyn, the sound of his footfall echoing within the deafening silence of the room.
“I should have you brutally killed for your incompetence.” He raised a hand to the back of his head, pulling down the hood of his cloak, revealing a mop of blonde hair kept off his face with a headband. His mouth and eyes were wide with fear, his whole body as still as a statue.
Instead of having him rot in a dungeon far below the temple, The Watcher slipped his other hand into his pocket, unsheathing a knife with Martyn’s name engraved in the handle.
“I’m sure your little keepsake will cover this up.” He drew a line with the tip of the blade slowly across his forehead, keeping his head tilted up towards him with the scruff of his cloak.
“Next time, it will be your neck.”
Notes:
I very nearly delayed this chapter to tomorrow. For all I know it is tomorrow where you live!
It’s actually like nearly 12am when I’m posting this so uhm Happy Friday??
Anyway this made me realise if anybody wants updates on the writing, my tumblr is here-ish!
Anyway yeah! That’s it. Have a good week!
Chapter 4: You Owe Me Ears for Dropping Eaves
Notes:
Sorry this chapter is a day late, I couldn’t sacrifice my night last night for it. It only been loosely proofread. Anyway, exciting news in the end notes!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Earlier that night, Scar had snuck out of the monastery. He tried his best to avoid any other monks, which he found easy enough since he was making his escape before dawn, when the others woke up. His freedom would be fleeting, however. If the Watcher realized he was gone he’d be dead before he knew it.
He would need to have easy access to his wings, so he found the outfit he had worn while travelling to the monastery in Mumbo’s Tailor shop. He was kind enough to give it to him, claiming it was for a project he was working on. The t-shirt he had worn wouldn’t really stand the cold, so it would just have to be used to get over the walls of the monastery.
The monastery was not located in a town. As soon as he exited (by flying over the walls using his vex wings) he was greeted with rolling fields of green, which were vaguely familiar from when he came to the monastery. He could recall a town nearby, a small fishing village he had passed through on his journey.
It was a refreshing feeling to have the ability to stretch his wings for the first time in over a month. Sure, he tried to give them a stretch when he was showering, but there was nothing like going outside before dawn and letting the cold, crisp air surround and almost seemed to fuel his wings. Vexes were used to the low temperatures.
Now for the long walk to town. He could have just flown, but he didn’t want to risk drawing any more attention to himself than he already has. It was nice to take in the landscape though. The monks were missing the view of vast stretches of land.
Off in the distance, barely visible upon the horizon, Scar could see the light from the town.
It took him 30 minutes walking as fast as he could, but he made it. The town seemed to glitter in dewdrops and was illuminated by lanterns that made each and every colourful building feel connected. He could hear the crashing waves on the coastline. The place would look beautiful at sunset, but his goal was to find a public post box.
After a few minutes of wandering around, Scar noticed an auburn-haired woman at a bright-red postbox, with a satchel slung around her shoulders. She was rifling through the bag to find a key, which she used to unlock the postbox. A pile of letters spilled out.
“Excuse me,” Scar said. “Are you the mailman?”
“Mailwoman,” She corrected, straightening the newsboy hat upon her head. “That’s right.”
She paused when she turned to look at Scar. “That outfit…”
Scar shrugged. “Oh this? Yeah, this is what the monks wear at that monastery nearby. I’m sending a letter home.”
The woman tilted her head to the side. “Really? I thought the monks weren’t allowed to leave, since they can’t receive any letters. There’s this one guy who keeps trying to contact someone in the monastery. I’ve had a backlog of his letters for years. It feels wrong to get rid of them honestly.”
She picked up a letter from the pile that had come out of the postbox. “Looks like he hasn’t given up yet.”
The envelope was in perfect condition, folded together and sealed with a drop of candle wax. On the front, it said;
To my Dear Brother Grian
“Oh! I can give this letter to him!” Scar exclaimed. “Can I? Please?”
The woman nodded. “Sure. But let me know if this “Grian character” reads it. He needs to see the other ones.”
“Of course I will! What’s your name, so I can find you again?”
The woman smiled. “Gem.”
On a brisk walk back to the monastery, Scar contemplated on when it was best to give Grian the letter. Maybe it was best to just hide it somewhere?
In the end, he decided to hide it in the floorboard in which the gauze was kept in. He wouldn’t have to have to directly initialise the conversation about it then.
——————————-
That, a day seemingly like any other, Grian and Scar woke up to the familiar sound of bells ringing throughout the building. As usual, Grian went to change the gauze on Scar’s healing branding, lifting up the floorboard to get the supplies.
But instead of just the usual gauze roll and creams, a letter was tucked into the corner.
“Where did this— Who put this—“ He couldn’t quite believe what he was looking at.
Scar had gone to clean up in the washroom before prayer. All Grian could do was stand there, waiting for him to return.
“Did you put this here?” He interrogated, tensed and eyebrows furrowed.
“The letter? Oh, yeah, there was a lovely mailwoman I met last night. She said she has a collection of letters addressed to the monastery. They were all from the same person who had the same name as your brother, so I just assumed…”
Grian’s facial features softened slightly. “Yeah.”
He paused. “Is this your idea of a sick joke?” He hissed suddenly, waving in the air.
“I— No!” Scar exclaimed, waving his hands in defence. “I would never joke about something so serious!”
Grian wasn’t supposed to have any contact with family members. No monks were. If he saw any other monk violate this rule, he’d have told the Watcher’s right hand man as soon as he could. Then, he might have been given a chance at becoming a Watcher someday, or at the very least, an assistant.
However, it was his brother he was supposed to be contacting. The only face he had ever truly known. The only memory he had outside the monastery.
How could he sleep at night knowing he was making desperate attempts at contacting him?
….
“Okay.”
Taking in a deep breath, Grian uncrumpled the letter. Two feathers, one bright as the sun, one the colour of treebark, fell out of the envelope. He tried to preserve the scrawling handwriting that accompanied an assortment of different sized inkblots all over the letter. It was barely legible, but he managed to make it out.
My Dear Brother Grian,
These letters never reach you. I’m not sure why I still try. I just do it so I don’t forget how to write. We’re struggling together, Pearl and I. I’m struggling to keep our stomachs full and pockets lined these days.
If this letter reaches you by some miracle, please give me a sign that you’re out there. You’re our last hope.
Jimmy
The letter wasn’t warm, long or welcoming. It wasn’t angry, it wasn’t sad. It was desperate, and were counting on him, even though they had never met. They didn’t seem to have much faith in him.
This letter wasn’t really giving him the peace of mind he was promised in exchange for his family being safe. They were poor and starving, according to his brother’s letter.
“I really cannot believe I am about to say this,” Grian began as he stuffed the letter in his pocket, “But I need to write a letter.”
“Good thing I’ve got spare paper,” Scar says with a grin.
——————————————-
Later on in the morning, the two were working the fields on the farm. The soil had become rock solid with a layer of ice that Grian had been complaining about since winter began. Prying out old weeds growing through the cracks of the barren wasteland that used to be a field would give friction burn to anybody not wearing gloves.
“So, Grian,” Scar said, “How are you going to uh…write your letter?”
Grian could tell he was rippling with excitement.
“I’m not sure yet,” he replied. “Keep your voice down, we could get killed for this.”
Scar gave him a strange look. “Why aren’t we allowed to send letters home?”
All Grian did was shrug. “It breaks the bond we’ve devoted our lives to strengthen with The Watchers and Xelqua. Our silence is our families’ protection.” He couldn't quite look Scar in the eye.
“What proof do you have that it’s working?”
Proof? There is so much…
“Whenever a bird comes to the monastery, it’s a sign from Xelqua that our families are okay. That this will all be worth it in the end.”
Scar looked at him intently. “When was the last time you saw a bird?”
Must have been, a month? No, a year or… five.
“I’ll ask Xelqua to send me another sign. And I’ll apologise…” He thought of the letter in his pocket.
“I should send another letter home too. Just so my point really gets across.”
The day came and went, and Grian and Scar are sat in their room, writing their letters. One is apologetic and concerned. The other is sarcastic but pleading.
“How’s your letter?” Scar asked. “Am I allowed to read it?”
“Maybe,” Grian replied. “If you let me have some of the nuts you keep in your boots.”
Scar’s eyes widened, but he reached into his boots anyway. “Get your own midnight snack next time!”
Grian shook his head. “Nah, I respect my religion.”
“You’re literally writing a letter to your brother. Contacting family is like, number one offence, from what I’ve heard,” Scar said
That was true.
“Special circumstances” Grian muttered.
He finished his letter, making sure it was neat and easy to read. Something told him his brother wasn’t the best at reading or writing.
Dear Jimmy,
Where do I even start? I received your last letter, thanks to a good friend of mine. We’re both writing letters home right now, actually. I’ll have to beg Xelqua for forgiveness. How’s mother? I hope she’s taken care of you well. I don’t remember her very well, but I remember you. I’m glad your feathers have grown in. The way I remember you, you barely had any. Those days seem so far away now.
Lately, I've been selfishly wishing I could fly home to you.
Your Brother Grian.
“So, can I read it?” Scar asked again.
“Never,” Grian replied. “This one’s private.”
Later that night, when Scar was fast asleep, Grian plucked one of his own loose feathers and placed it in the envelope.
—————————-
“Scar, how are we going to get over the walls?” Grian asked Scar the next night. He had the two letters in his pocket. They were incredibly precious to him.
The letter from his brother was the first thing he owned in a long time that truly felt unique to him. It was one of his first ever personal belongings. Especially the feathers. He wasn’t too sure who the brown one belonged to, but he still felt very attached to it. He had a vague recollection that his mother had feathers similar. It was either her, or the “Pearl” his brother had mentioned in his letter.
He and Scar were out in the monastery gardens in the middle of the night, looking to send their letters. Grian knew he had gotten over them before.
“Sure, we’ll fly over them!” Scar said, like it was obvious.
“Uh, what?”
Does he know he’s a—
“Don’t worry, I’ll carry you!” Scar said, the hint of a smirk on his face. “I’m pretty strong, you know.”
“Absolutely not, Scar.”
“Oh, come on!”
Grian looked at the wall again. It would be impossible to climb, it being made of smooth grey concrete. They must have been about ten metres high, too.
He thought for a moment if it was possible to fly over them. In a perfect world, where he could display his wings proudly. He assumed his brother could.
The world is perfect.
He’s living in a world where Xelqua exists.
Then why is his family struggling so much?
Grian took the letter out of his pocket. “Look, how about you go over and send the letters for the both of us?”
Scar grimaced. “Fine. It would be more fun if you were there with me. Get to see the outside, you know?”
Grian smiled back at him. “Not happening today!”
He watched as he took off the top half of his cloak to get his wings out. He wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath. He expected a shirt. Scar told him he wore a shirt last time, so why wasn’t he wearing one this time.
Grian noticed a viscous collection of scars across Scar’s torso, but he didn’t have the heart to ask him about them.
“Bye-bye, bird brain!” Scar exclaimed as he flew over the walls.
Bird brain…?
“G—good luck!” Grian called back.
Coincidence?
He had been so careful.
With one hundred things to think about, Grian stumbled back into his dormitory, collapsing onto his mat.
I hope my family is okay.
Scar better not get himself killed.
The Watcher would know sooner or later.
I miss my brother.
Who on earth is Pearl?
I hope Scar gets back soon.
I should be repenting right now!
Grian woke up from his slumber to a knock on his door.
“Scar, the door is open” he mumbled.
The knock was too harsh to be Scar. No monks ever came to his room before the bells.
Grian stood up, straightening out his night cloak, and tried to settle his frantically beating heart.
“Is everything okay?” he asked as he opened the door.
“Careful now,” A voice came from the monk in front of him. It was familiar, but Grian couldn’t quite place it. “I could have been The Watcher.”
“You’re his assistant?”
He nodded. “Call me Martyn. Now, can you explain these?”
Notes:
Thank you for reading!
Anyway, I said this last week, but if you’re wondering why a chapter is late or anything, click here! for my tumblr for writing updates and extras about this fic!
Also exciting news, another chapter will release this Sunday or Monday! (Hopefully Sunday)
Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I’m trying to get as much done before school starts next Thursday as updates might be slower. This year is pretty chill for me so we should be okay.
Hoping to finish by late September- Early October!!
Chapter 5: When my Walls Start Burning Down, Down, Down
Notes:
Warnings for this chapter:
Graphic descriptions of blood andsacrifices that are done similarly to self harm
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Oh stars.
The letter. The one his brother sent him. And the feathers.
“Please, it’s not what it looks like!”
Martyn shook his head. “Don’t deny it. I also saw Scar and you at the wall. These—” He waved the letter and feathers “—slipped out of your pocket when you handed another letter to Scar. Presumably your own?”
Every decision Grian had made since Scar came to the monastery was recalled with regret. Everything he had ever worked for in the monastery was coming crashing down.
It wasn’t Scar’s fault. True, he was an outsider. Yes, he didn’t belong in the monastery.
But it wasn’t his fault he was here.
Grian still wasn’t quite sure why Scar was here. Surely, Xelqua had this planned. Surely, everything would work out in the end?
But because of his— his lack of faith— and Grian’s own incompetence, he was a dead man.
What would they do to him?
There were rumours of a cellar. Stories of screams from far below the monastery, rippling, travelling through the ground like an earthquake, nauseating the monks like a warning. Their gutters and gulps bounced off buildings in the dead of night, invading the safety of the dreamworld.
The thought of becoming just another rumour made Grian’s stomach turn.
Grian only ever had one goal in his life, and that was to become The Watcher’s Assistant. Martyn’s role in the monastery was one only every monk could dream of.
Even better than that would be the role of The Watcher.
To be able to speak directly to Xelqua, and hear his voice was a dream only twelve monks worldwide achieved.
Grian would have to throw away those slim opportunities for Scar.
“I won’t have you turned into the Watcher just yet, Grian,” Martyn said, seemingly offering some kind of mercy. “We could just point all the blame at Scar.”
“Your name doesn’t even have to be mentioned.”
Everything could just go back to normal. He would still have a chance at his dreams.
Did he want it to go back to normal?
“Can I have until the end of winter to decide? I mean, I could honestly just take this letter and burn it on your oil lamp. Then you’d have no proof of anything!”
Martyn seemed to be in deep thought. “And how would that benefit me?”
Grian smiled. “If you had ever studied Xelqua and The Watchers, you would know they like to take their time. Fully flesh out a plan and give them time to reflect before making any big decisions. Check to see if you won’t…end up getting punished yourself maybe?”
His heart was beating so loud, he feared Martyn could hear it during that speech of his. He had made his best attempt at exuding confidence, and all he could do was pray it worked.
He was using his religion to manipulate someone. That wasn’t like him. At all.
“Fine. You get until the end of December. But I have my eye on you.”
Phew.
Grian watched as Martyn walked away, letter and feathers still in his hand. As much as he wanted to keep them, he couldn’t look like he cared about his family. Martyn knew too much, and he wanted to keep his knowledge to an absolute minimum.
After another hour of tossing and turning in bed, the door to the dorm opened again.
This time, it was Scar. Him being alive and greeting Grian with that contagious smile put his mind at ease.
“Did anyone hurt you?” Grian asked as he walked in the door.
“Not a scratch on me! You, however, look like you don’t know what sleep is.”
Grian laughed. “You can’t even see my eyes!”
The other sighed, collapsing onto the mat beside Grian. “I want to see them someday. Promise you’ll show me?”
The idea of Grian taking off his hood in front of Scar felt like a line he couldn’t cross. The eyes of the monastery were so incredibly sacred, showing what was considered “the windows to the soul” to another was like treason to his faith. He’d never be forgiven by Xelqua.
“Scar, I’ve accepted that someday, you’re going to leave my life. You’ll go home to the palace somewhere across the sea and I’ll stay here. This is where I’m meant to be. So, there’s really no reason for me to show you my face.”
He could feel the disappointment coming from Scar.
“There’s definitely no convincing you to come with me, is there? But you’ll miss me, won’t you?”
As much as Grian didn’t want to admit it, he would miss Scar.
“Yeah. I really would.”
————————————
Later that day, the two were working the fields again, a day like any other. It was getting harder and harder to dig into the soil, and the slowly freezing fields felt just like another clock ticking until Grian had to make his decision.The sun was just about creeping over the horizon, making their jobs significantly easier to do.
“You know, I met Gem again,” Scar said. “The mailwoman. She was so happy to hear you were writing back to your brother.”
Grian smiled. “It would be nice to meet her someday.”
As of late, he’d been having these aimless daydreams. But he belonged at the monastery. It was his universe. The only thing he’d ever known.
He didn’t actually want to leave though. He was just wondering what it would be like.
“Scar, can I ask you a favour?”
“Sure, go on.”
He hesitated, before asking;
“Can you bring me a book?”
Scar gave him the type of look that said I have no idea what you are on about.
“What kind of books…?”
Grian took a deep breath.
“Not the books that we have here in the library. Books about people. With stories, and hope, and heartbreak…”
Scar suddenly wore a huge smile on his face. “I’ll get you some of those, don’t worry.”
Just then, another monk by the name of Ren came up to them. Grian had seen him around, knowing him from his unusual long, dark-brown hair that cascaded over his shoulders from beneath his hood. It was just a couple inches short of his hips. Normally, the monks hid their hair and cut it every once in a while to keep it tame.
Were they allowed to show their hair?
“Good morning, gentlemen!” He said cheerily. “I’ve come to bring you some news.”
It wasn’t often monks got news. If they did receive news, it would usually be a routine change, in which they would all be called into a room together and their schedules would be discussed.
“First of all, the juniors have had their schedules changed, and there’s been a mistake. We have nobody to take care of the horses in the mornings. Except we do! It’ll be you two.”
That was strange.
“What happened to Bdubs?” Grian asked.
Bdubs was another known monk that hung around the monastery. He was renowned for having a scarily wide smile, and being an expert on all things equestrian.
“There’s always two monks that help him out in the mornings. Don’t worry, it's just until December ends. You start tomorrow.”
The idea of cleaning horse manure all morning did not please Grian, and by the look on his face, Scar also did not want to work in the stables.
“It won’t be too bad guys. Oh and second of all, I have news for you.” He pointed at Scar.
“Me?” Scar asked, looking around in shock.
“Yes, you’re going to be getting your own room from now on! If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you.”
Scar in his own room?
“Oh, no he still—”
If he told Ren what he still needed him for, he’d know that Grian had been stealing gauze.
They would know he’s a hybrid.
“—Sorry. Yeah, go on.”
Scar not sharing a room with Grian would be… an adjustment. He wouldn’t be too far away, but still…
He waited until Ren and Scar disappeared into the dormitories. No thoughts went through his brain. All he could do was just…
Wait.
Just as he was taught.
Wait.
“Is there work going on over here?”
Grian snapped out of his trance.
It was just Scar. He had snuck up behind him.
“I thought you left me,” he said to him. His cheeks were suspiciously wet.
Scar laughed. “Me? Leave you? Of course not. I’m just down the hall! Turns out some monk died and I have their room now!”
But it wouldn’t be the same.
“How will I change your gauze every morning?” Grian asked, trying to steady his voice.
He received a smirk in return. “I’ve learned how to do it myself by now. You’ll just have to teach me your mysterious stealth skills to get the gauze.”
“Everything could go back to normal”
Shrugging smugly, Grian replied, “All I do is slip into the infirmary when I’m nearby. No big deal!”
That night, the two were getting ready for bed. Scar had rolled up his mat to bring to his own room, and was getting some gauze from under the floorboard.
“That’s another thing you’ll have to teach me. How you lifted up the floorboard” Scar commented.
“Some of my tricks need to stay my own!” Grian said with a smile.
—————————————
Normally, Grian’s breathing followed Scar’s. Having an empty space on the floor beside him felt wrong.
Normally, Grian didn’t spend much time reflecting on his breathing pattern. It just felt natural to listen to Scar’s.
He wondered if, a couple doors down, Scar was thinking the same thing.
Was this the start of a new normal?
Normal was a funny word.
Before Scar ever came to the monastery, everything was normal. The monastery had been all he’d ever known. It was still all he’d ever known.
But not for Scar.
Every second spent in the monastery for Scar wasn’t normal. His normal consisted of being pampered to oblivion in a large castle. Not this hermit, enclosed lifestyle.
He missed it a lot. Grian could only dream of why. His dreams did provide an answer to him, as much as he didn’t want to admit it.
Across the hall, a couple doors down, was a struggling Scar.
He had stuff to hide, and he needed to hide it quick. While he hadn’t any idea if the rooms were ever checked, he for sure didn’t want to find out if they were the hard way.
This night, he was partaking in the fun evening activity that consisted of figuring out how to lift up the floorboards of his new room.
He had so much to hide— Gauze, his crochet from The Welcoming of Winter, his clothes from when he first came, his pen and paper, midnight snacks—he wasn’t sure if he would fit it all into one floorboard!
His fingertips were starting to hurt from his failing attempts. He shook out his hands to try to get rid of the pain. Turns out using brute force does not solve every problem.
“Come on, how would Grian do it?” He always had another perspective to look at things with.
Scar looked at his pen. It was a quill, with a pristine white feather, and was slim enough to slide under the floorboard. It was also tough enough to not break under the floorboard.
He slid it under, and slowly dragged it through the floorboard, loosening it on each side. It was easy then to lift it off, revealing a handy little compartment just like Grian’s which was perfect for hiding his belongings.
Proud of himself, Scar rolled back out his mat to get ready to sleep. He threw on his night cloak and left his boots neatly by the door. In Grian’s dormitory, he left his clothes all over the floor and his boots were simply just strewn across the room. He closed his eyes as he settled down to sleep, imagining himself winning a hypothetical Cleanest Room Competition. He had no doubt he would win with ease.
It was oddly quiet in the room. It took Scar a while to figure out what was missing. He was used to hearing the quiet whispers of prayer from Grian as they fell asleep. In a strange way, it was comforting.
Knowing he had a friend to rely on here was comforting.
The room felt colder too. Sure, with every day that went by the windows frosted over slightly more, but that wasn’t the problem.
The dormitory was small, anyone would think the absence of a person’s body heat wouldn’t make a difference. But Scar had hardly ever been alone in the monastery. He wasn’t used to how cold being lonely was.
Awaking to the grating sound of the bell, overpowering waves of nausea struck him.
—————————————
That morning, Grian and Scar stood in an empty stable built with splintering wood that had definitely seen better days. They had waded through the thick layer of hay that lay on the floor of the stable while they waited for Bdubs to arrive.
“Welcome to the Stables!” Bdubs greeted them as he came through the door. “It’ nice to have some helpers that are older. The juniors are fine, but they're just a bit…”
”I get what you mean,” Grian said. “So, what do we have to do?”
Bdubs threw a few paint buckets and some paint brushes onto some dry hay. He seemed to have just pulled it out of nowhere.
“Look at this place. It’s nowhere near where it was in its prime a few years ago. The paint is peeling.” Bdubs whispered that last sentence like it was a secret to take to the grave. “So, for the next or so, you two will be painting this place!”
“And what will you be doing?” Scar asked, arms folded.
He was still trying to suppress his extreme nausea. Trying not to throw up in a place filled with horse poop was unsurprisingly difficult.
“I’m going to be taking care of the horses! Making sure they’re not lonely. Xelqua did give me the gift of being the horse-whisperer.”
Just then, a horse from the stable next door poked its head in. She was perfectly white, with a luscious mane on her head.
“That’s right, I’ll be taking care of you and everyone. Good girl.” Bdubs rubbed the snout of the horse. “So that’s pretty much it. I would tell you it doesn’t have to be a masterpiece, but I have quite the affinity for art. So do better than your very best, please!”
Sure, Scar thought. No pressure…
He enjoyed art too. Back in the castle, he loved to pick up a paintbrush. He paint anything— landscapes, people, animals, anything at all.
Their choice of colours was limited, but it wasn’t impossible to make them look nice.
Grian stood looking at the line of stables from afar. “Since the stables are south facing,” he thought aloud, “Why don’t we paint the facade blue to make it seem less hot from the sun?”
Scar nodded, wincing again from nausea. “And we could do a gradient going upwards to give it more interest.”
His castle back home used a gradient to lead the eye upwards, making it seem bigger than it actually was.
Painting the stables was a nice activity for Scar. It was close to home, and he got to spend time with one of best friends. His only friend in the monastery, really.
The monk’s funeral was held the next day.
It wasn’t elaborate or flashy. Nobody spoke about the monk himself. It was held in the corner of the monastery at dusk, where a violet fire roared. They threw his body into the fire, still wearing his cloak and boots. Scar recalled Grian once telling him they were completely fire proof, because the symbol of the Watcher must never burn.
The monks bowed their heads and whispered sorrowful prayer. Scar pretended to do so too, mouthing random words to make it seem like he was praying. Nobody had welcomed anyone into the ceremony, or even made any sort of announcement. Nobody seemed to even be sad in any way. Everybody just seemed…worried.
Scar watched the poor monk’s body burn to ash as his clothes folded in on themselves. It felt like a cruel way to die a final death, watching the fire roar around him. He had heard from Ren that the man had died in the infirmary in his sleep, so at least he took a peaceful route.
Scar himself always considered himself to have no faith. Sure, there was a grain of truth in all deities, but none were as powerful as they claimed to be. He had known plenty of people who had never worshipped anything in their life, and still seemed to be living it to the fullest.
It almost seemed like deities held people back from living their life to the fullest.
Watching the monk burn made Scar think, however. What came after death? Did we all just reincarnate? Is it just an endless sleep? Do we become something entirely?
After a few hours, all the monks went to bed. Scar couldn’t find Grian in the crowd.
Throughout the days, they didn’t get the chance to talk too much. They only really used to properly chat before bed and when they woke up, as well as when they were on the fields.
Nonetheless, there was one positive factor to being in separate rooms was that during the night, Scar got the opportunity to work on Grian’s scarf—when he wasn’t too tired, of course. Sure it was made with clumsy stitches, but it was his first ever crochet project that he had ever worked on. He had only learned a few weeks earlier.
However, the silence in his room seemed to grow at night. It was getting drafty with the cold, and he wondered if he could steal a blanket from somewhere.
In Grian’s room, he was getting lonelier by the day too.
Everything had mostly gone back to normal. Most thoughts of his were kept to himself, as they usually were, but what wasn’t normal, sometimes he’d think;
I’ll have to tell Scar that later.
It was always either a fun fact that he learned while reading in the library, or a joke he had to tell. That was another thing. Jokes. Of course, he had always known what a joke was, but they were not often told within the walls of the monastery. The word was mostly used to describe shock when something bad happened. The Watcher would say “Is this some kind of joke?”
That was the type of things monks would hear on occasion around the monastery. It was a reminder to keep their heads down and shut up. The importance of following the rules around the monastery prevented their deaths, or even worse.
It was all worth it though. To keep their families safe and secure.
Although with the influence of Scar, Grian had been breaking many more rules around the place, he wasn’t glad he was gone. It felt like he had been put in a puzzle that had always been missing one piece, and he had only noticed now.
Then again, he had always been breaking rules. Grian himself was a broken rule.
He sat cross-legged on the mat in his room, staring at a flickering oil lamp that had taken up the spot that Scar once filled. How long had he been staring at it, Grian honestly didn’t know. Finally, he snapped out of it when he heard a soft knock on his door.
“Scar?” He whispered as he got up from where he was sitting. “Oh, hello Mumbo.”
Mumbo stood before him at the door, holding a package in his arms.
“Evening, Grian. Is Scar not here?”
Grian laughed. It wasn’t because what Mumbo had was funny, it was just… coincidental.
“Is…he not here?” Mumbo asked.
Shaking his head, Grian replied “No, he’s moved rooms. I’ll give him his clothes though. Thanks, Mumbo.”
He waved goodbye before he made his way down the hall to Scar’s room. They hadn’t spoken much in the past couple days, not out of intention, just simply a lack of time.
He slowly raised his hand to the door, knocking on it softly.
“Yeah?” A muffled voice from Scar could be heard. He opened the door, and strangely held onto the doorframe for balance. “Oh, Grian! It’s uh… been a while.”
“Are you okay?” Grian asked. Scar was also clutching his forehead under his hood.
“Yeah!” Scar reassured, a bit too quickly. “I just— I just have a cold. Winter, am I right?”
His gaze landed on Grian’s exposed hands. He shrunk backwards, tightening his grip on the cloaks in his hand.
Scar straightened up, giving a forced grin. “So, what has happened for you to end up in my humble abode?”
Grian smiled back, even though he knew Scar was displaying a weak facade. “Mumbo had a delivery for you, but he didn’t update your dorm number.”
He handed the cloaks to Scar, who seemed to be quite happy.
“Wow, I kind of forgot about these! Thank you” He took the cloaks off him, and snapped his fingers, like he just remembered something. “I’ve been working on something for you, too!”
He went back into his room and lifted up one of the floorboards. Grian smiled to himself. He wasn’t sure how he did it, but it was nice to know he had probably inspired him.
“Remember the Welcoming of Winter? Well…” He revealed a crocheted scarf, which Grian recognised from when he had taught Scar how to crochet. It was blood-red with dark brown edges, and Grian noticed the improvement in Scar’s stitches as he created it. It would be a wonderful, practical, and rather fashionable accessory for winter.
“I don’t remember the last time somebody made something for me,” Grian whispered.
Has anyone ever made anything for him? Grian couldn’t quite remember. But now, he had something that belonged to him and him only.
“Think of it as an early, or extremely late, birthday gift!” Scar exclaimed proudly.
Grian would think about what a birthday was later. But he wanted to give Scar something of his own creation too.
“Thank you so much. Give me two minutes…” He darted back to his dorm to find the mittens he had made during the Welcoming of Winter.
As he was getting ready to go back to Scar, Martyn walked by Grian’s room. He turned to look at him, scowled, and walked away, his heavy footing echoing through the corridor.
“Here you go,” Grian said when he returned. “A gift from me to you.”
Although Grian couldn’t see his eyes, he guessed Scar’s had lit up when he saw the pair of mittens in his hands. The mittens were a forest green with a similar brown trim to the scarf.
“Hey, our gifts compliment each other! Red and green are complementary colours!” Scar remarked.
“Yeah” Grian echoed. “Complimentary…”
He looked away for a moment.
“I uhm…miss sharing a room with you” He said.
Scar smiled sadly. “I miss sharing a room with you too. But we need to figure out how we’ll talk more often, because I’m really lonely these days.”
Grian felt Scar’s arms wrap around him, squeezing him into a tight embrace.
“Honestly, these past few days have been the worst ones ever since I got here,” Scar said.
“I agree.”
————————-
Over the next few days, Scar’s illness got worse.
The development of the stables was significantly slower because of how dizzy he felt. He had to sit down every five minutes to stop himself from fainting, or worse.
At the weekly sacrifice on Saturday, he held himself back with every cut made on everybody’s skin.
Eventually, he was at the top of the line, staring down into the stone basin. The sight of the pool of blood was too much for him to handle.
But it would mean life or death if he let himself go.
He brought his blade to an empty spot on his wrist, hands shaking with fear and thirst. With each week, it was getting harder to find an empty spot on his wrist to let blood out of.
Suddenly, it was too much.
In an attempt to save himself, he threw his blade as soon as he was finished into the basket, the sound of it clattering against the others echoing around the temple. Completely ignoring the monk holding the bandages at the door of the temple, he made a desperate beeline for the washrooms.
Grian, who was behind Scar, quickly finished up his own sacrifice, and immediately knew something was wrong.
He raced to his dormitory, bursting through the doors of the temple to see Scar staggering along the pathways as fast as he could, a fierce, violent blood spewing from his mouth.
“What’s wrong, Scar? Talk to me!”
Through his distressed gutters and gulps, he wheezed, “Just…one drop. Not of…my own.”
Yet he still lurched forward, collapsing onto the ground. Grian dragged him into the washrooms, propped him up against the back wall by the sinks, and pulled back the hood of his cloak to feel his forehead.
Scar was absurdly hot, a vicious fever bubbling over at its peak. He was pale, no longer sporting his sunkissed tan, and his veins were strangely visible, so much so they contrasted the dullness of his grey skin.
His eyes opened, widened with delirium. He gasped for air, and reached for the sink, another round of blood dripped from his mouth.
“Scar, what’s wrong? I’m the only one in the monastery you can tell without you getting killed.”
Scar’s eyebrows knitted together, as if he was trying to concentrate on just keeping upright. He grimaced, some blood still in his mouth dripping down his chin.
“Grian, I’m so sorry” He croaked in reply. “I’m just a bit…bloodthirsty.”
Notes:
Okayy, putting that mutual pining tag to use a little bit!
But I have an unfortunate announcement about the next few updates.
I’m going back to school like a lot of us. So chaoter updates may be inconsistent, because I tend to write for hours in little bursts. Luckily, this year is pretty chill for me , so hopefully updates will still be weekly with an exception here or there.
Chapter count may increase, but I’m not sure yet. Depends on how long the next few are.
Next Thursday’s update definitely won’t be releasing, since I’ve been working extra hard to get two updates out in the span of 4 days. So next update is expected to be Thursday the 4th of September. And with a bit of luck, updates will go back to being weekly. Hope this chapter ties you over for now!
Remember to follow my tumblr!! I’ll be posting concert art for this fic as well as writing updates if you’d like to check it out!!
You can find it here!
Yasha_smh on Chapter 1 Sat 02 Aug 2025 01:08AM UTC
Comment Actions
moonsbig on Chapter 1 Sat 02 Aug 2025 06:24AM UTC
Comment Actions
CDbobwi on Chapter 1 Sat 02 Aug 2025 08:02PM UTC
Comment Actions
Clover (moonsbig) on Chapter 1 Sun 03 Aug 2025 07:24AM UTC
Comment Actions
Pardes on Chapter 1 Sun 03 Aug 2025 01:06PM UTC
Comment Actions
Clover (moonsbig) on Chapter 1 Sun 03 Aug 2025 04:36PM UTC
Comment Actions
blockking701 on Chapter 2 Fri 08 Aug 2025 01:53AM UTC
Comment Actions
Clover (moonsbig) on Chapter 2 Fri 08 Aug 2025 05:54AM UTC
Comment Actions
Pardes on Chapter 2 Thu 14 Aug 2025 10:02PM UTC
Comment Actions
Clover (moonsbig) on Chapter 2 Thu 14 Aug 2025 10:14PM UTC
Comment Actions
Pardes on Chapter 2 Mon 08 Sep 2025 10:40PM UTC
Comment Actions
blockking701 on Chapter 3 Fri 15 Aug 2025 05:11AM UTC
Comment Actions
Clover (moonsbig) on Chapter 3 Tue 26 Aug 2025 06:36PM UTC
Comment Actions
CDbobwi on Chapter 4 Sat 23 Aug 2025 02:56AM UTC
Last Edited Sat 23 Aug 2025 02:56AM UTC
Comment Actions
Clover (moonsbig) on Chapter 4 Sat 23 Aug 2025 08:50AM UTC
Comment Actions
LoverOfDolphins on Chapter 5 Tue 26 Aug 2025 05:33AM UTC
Comment Actions
Cinnamon_rolls_yummy on Chapter 5 Tue 26 Aug 2025 04:26PM UTC
Comment Actions
Clover (moonsbig) on Chapter 5 Tue 26 Aug 2025 06:34PM UTC
Comment Actions