#every day mars gets just a little closer to strangling grave

[jemrising]

Practicing drawing these two idiots (said lovingly)

Grave desperately wants to make a bargain with Mars and be free of the bloodthirsty king, but Mars is really good at biding his time

[marmelade-sky]

u mentioned in smthn recently kevin "getting drunk with Neil and Jean on the anniversary of Riko’s death and collecting reasons why Riko deserved to die." which is just such a sick concept, could u write that scene??

Hello dear followers, readers and above all, lovely mutuals

I have gotten so many sweet anon messages from people asking if I was alright, and letting me know they support me and look forward to more writing. And all of those messages were so incredibly sweet and good for me and my mental state. It’s all a little hard rn, trying to be an actual adult, and so that was really… nice to hear. A big fat Thank you to everybody who messaged me. I hope we soon have wifi, and I can be online more again. Until then, please be patient with me. You can still send prompts ofc, but you might have to wait a little until I’m filling it. 

You guys keep me want to write, and just… thank you. This fandom is such a nice community.

alright, enough with the sappy shit, let’s get on with this. This contains Jerejean because i love them. Sorry not sorry. 

Not beta’d. Sorry :D 

It’s been a year, and they are drawn together like some kind of gravity is working its power on them. Some sick force, pulling them together by their bad memories, their trauma, their common denominator. 

Riko Moriyama.

He’s been under the earth for a whole year now, dead and probably rotting away in his grave. They have to remember it from time to time, that he’s gone.

Kevin, when his hand hurts when the weather changes, or when he looks at Wymack showing him thumbs up after a particularly good game and he feels like he’s dreaming.

Jean, when he traces the lines on his body, so many scars, all of them inflicted by Riko. The scars in his soul aren’t traceable, but he knows they’re there, too, when Jeremy hugs him and Jean tenses up for just a second before relaxing and remembering he is allowed to hug back, he is allowed to bury his nose in Jeremy’s hair and enjoy this for himself. 

Neil has to remember it when he looks at Andrew sometimes, and when he looks in the mirror and sees the marred skin of his cheek where the “4″ had been. 

It’s Renee who asks Jean to spend the weekend with them. Jean reluctantly agrees. Jeremy doesn’t try to talk him out of it at all, even though Jean had half expected him. Jean and Kevin haven’t talked since the day Jean left to join the Trojans. 

He’s nervous when he arrives at the airport. But Renee is there with her colorful hair and her sweet smile. And it’s alright.

“Kevin.”

“Jean.” 

They stand in the doorway awkwardly, facing each other. Kevin still looks the same. But at the same time, he doesn’t. His hair is growing longer. Back at the nest, this haircut would have been unacceptable. 

“You… had it covered up.”, Kevin says relucantly, pointing to his own cheek where the queen chess piece covers his number 2. Jean touches his own fingertips to his own tattoo. 

“Yeah.” 

Kevin avoids his gaze. “…good for you. I-… uh, I heard you’re getting on well with… with the Trojans, and… it’s… is it… are you…?” He looks up, and Jean wants to slap him suddenly.  

“No.”, he simply replies, answering Kevin’s unasked question. “…I’m not alright. But I’m better.” 

Kevin chews on his bottom lip and nods curtly. “…good.”, he eventually says. “Good.” 

Jean likes Neil, for some reason. He has more of a spine than Kevin, and he doesn’t ask Jean any nonsensical questions. 

Jean isn’t quite sure why Neil is dating Minyard now, but he seems happy with him. Jean sees him smile across the table at Andrew when they’re out for pizza in the evening. 

The Foxes seem to have grown closer. Everyone is invited for the dinner, and Jean notices that they seem… friendlier together. Maybe that’s why they’re a better team now. Not maybe, definitely. 

Jean texts Jeremy under the table. Renee sees and just smiles, patting his thigh. 

They get drunk. Of course they do. 

Kevin is still an alcoholic, Jean knows that much. Some bad habits don’t die. And tonight, on the anniversary of Riko’s death, Jean, too, needs a drink. Or several. 

They end up on the court. Jean doesn’t really remember how. The ceiling spins above him as he stretches out on the polished wooden floor. He distantly remembers Minyard driving them here. But now they’re alone, Neil, Kevin and him. Why? Whose idea was that…? Jean can’t remember.

“He’s… he’s fucking dead…”, Kevin eventually says into the big silence of the court. 

“He deserved it.”, Neil adds, and there is no regret in his voice. He spits the words out with the honesty Jean admires about him. 

A strangled noise escapes Kevin. “Don’t…don’t say that.” 

Neil, who has been lying on his back as well, sits up and points at Kevin. “He fucking did deserve it. He broke your hand. He cut me up into pieces. He treated Jean like a dog.”

Jean doesn’t flinch. But something in his chest stirs. “…he was a bad person.” The words come out lazily and slowly. 

Neil grunts in agreement. 

They fall silent again.

After several minutes, right when Jean’s eyes threaten to fall close, Kevin speaks again. His voice is quiet, timid, almost. “…do you remember when he broke my nose?”, he asks, and it’s clear that it’s directed at Jean. 

Jean does remember. It was one of the rare occasions Riko had actually taken out his rage on Kevin instead of Jean. 

“…he slammed the butt of his racket into your face.”, Jean drawls with a low sigh. “…later that night, he let Jake fuck me.” Jean has never talked about that with Kevin. He is sure Kevin knew though, back then. 

There was another silence, until Neil says, “…we should make a list.” 

“What list?” Jean slowly rolls to his side. His stomach grumbles unhappily, filled with liquor. 

“Reasons why Riko deserved to die- stop choking, Kevin.” 

Kevin is coughing now, red in the face, pressing a hand to his sternum. When he speaks, his voice is an octave higher than usual. “Reasons…?” He is clearly scandalized. Old habits die hard. 

“Yes, let’s.”, Jean agrees after a moment. “Reason one, he fucked up Kevin Day.” 

Kevin glares at Jean. Jean doesn’t know how Kevin isn’t going cross eyed. He has half a bottle of vodka in his system, after all. 

“Reason two, the stupid fucking tattoos.”, Neil adds, and to his own surprise, Jean laughs. 

“Fuck yeah.” 

“Reason three.” Jean and Neil go quiet when Kevin speaks. “…he… he told me I was nothing without him, and he broke my hand.” 

“Reason four.”, Neil adds, “…he was an egocentric, manic and manipulative asshole.” 

Jean nodds strongly. “…yes.” 

Another silence settls over them. 

“…he forbade me to speak french. …that’s reason five.”, Jean adds after a moment. 

“You did, anyway.” Kevin is smiling down at his own hands when Jean looks over to him. 

“Yes.” 

“Reason six: he was bad with knives.” Neil runs a thumb over a scar right above his elbow. 

As Jean tries to think of another reason, something ridiculous comes to his mind, and he has to laugh again. It feels weird to laugh, especially about Riko, about this, but laughing makes the tight feeling in his chest losen up. “Reason seven should be the way he pronounced ‘court’. It always sounded like… card.” It’s lame, a lame reason, but he’s still laughing, and now, Neil is too. 

“It did. Caaaahrt.” 

Jean snorts because he is laughing so hard. “Fuck, yes.” 

Kevin isn’t laughing, but smiling. 

Neil’s and Jean’s laughter dies down after some time, and silence settles over the Foxhole court again. 

“…he’s really dead.”, Kevin says into it after several minutes. “He’s dead. Riko is dead.” 

Jean thinks Kevin sounds like he’s tasting every syllable of the sentence in his mouth.

[abunchadorks]

Chapter Four: Gard's Tomb

Part ten: Gard

It was mutually agreed that they ought to rest before doing anything at all, even trying to leave. In the real world it had only been a few minutes since they’d started down the steps at all, but they were all as tired as if it had been days. It was not a physical exhaustion, but an emotional one, born of the strain on the spirit that can only come with wrestling a very personal demon. Sigrid and Mya sat on the floor leaning back to back, Sigrid falling asleep in moments as Mya focused her breathing and went into the half-trance that elves call sleep. Elyserin and Phlirp played hand-slap, neither of them wanting to think too hard about anything, taking turns attempting to outwit the other and deliver a whack on the wrist. Manatar couldn’t sit still at all, and paced about the chamber like a large dog in a small kennel, only stopping when Phlirp snapped at him for letting his loincloth drag over their game. He stopped pacing then, but didn’t slow down; he got fifty-six pushups in before they made him stop that too.

They almost felt better when it was time to get back to the issue at hand. Almost.

The sarcophagous had nothing but Gard’s name carved into it. They checked it and the floor and the ceiling, then double-checked it for traps and anything else that might make things go poorly. There was magic on the coffin lid, but nothing nearly as complex as the fear vision. In fact, it was to change the nature of the stone itself.

“Yeah but change it to what? Acid?”

“I don’t know, you think I’ve memorized every spell ever written?”

“What about the bug, it’s probably got most of the way?” Elyserin pulled the black scorpion out of her shirt and held it to the coffin. It didn’t speak or move, but then, no scorpion does either if it can choose not to.

“Steve says it’s not dangerous.”

“Yeah well Steve is an otherworldly being in a form that can go without food or water for a year. Does danger really mean the same thing?”

“Oh for Cuthbert’s sake.” Mya put both hands directly on the coffin. Nothing happened. She removed her hands and snorted. “The bug is right. I really object to desecrating a grave, though. It’s super not allowed.”

“If you want to argue semantics, we’re un-desecrating it. Removing an evil object that causes plagues of fear for miles around is probably the best thing we can do for our dear departed Gard,” Phlirp said. Mya shrugged at that, but still stood with her back to them  as Sigrid and Manatar strained to move the coffin lid. The spell, it turned out, had to do with making the lid heavier. It seemed that Gard had had a sense of humor, as much as any paladain can be said to have; she required someone to be strong of muscle as well as spirit if they were to get anywhere.

The lid fell with a terrific crash that echoed in the small chamber, and then there was nothing between them and the object of their quest. The Artifact was clutched in between the dusty bones of Gard’s hands. It shone in the weak light, a pale porcelain buffed to a mirror finish, the same strange runes the only thing marring their reflections as they looked down on it. 

It wasn’t quite the same as in the arena. The thing held them with its own hypnotic power, but instead of being an all-consuming fascination, it was closer to the terror that freezes you to the spot and makes your blood stop moving. A sort of breeze came from the coffin, bringing with it wave after wave of fear so intense it felt nearly solid, like the breath of a rabid dog or the wind from a canyon too deep to see the bottom. It was every nightmare you’ve ever had, every helpless moment. It was a strangling darkness.

And then it was over, and Mya’s cloak covered it. “This feels awfully familiar, wouldn’t you say?” she snapped, as they recovered. Taking care not to touch the porcelain, she wrapped the cloak more tightly around the Artifact and tried to lift it out of the sarcophagus.

“Don’t,” came a voice from the corner of the room.

She was a tall woman, close-cropped hair and a face that one could describe as handsome, but not beautiful. Though the armor she wore had to weight a hundred pounds she wore it as though she didn’t notice that it did, which might have been because she was used to it, or because that was a problem only living people had. And she was certainly dead; they could see straight through her to the other side, and her feet did not quite touch the floor. Her attention was focused entirely on Mya, one hand resting on the hilt of a broadsword at her hip.

“I don’t know what you are doing or what you think you are doing, but you must cease immediately, priest. Although I followed Sarenrae in life, I respect Pharasma enough to give you this warning. There will not be a second.”

“We already know what this thing is,” Mya said, keeping her eye on the ghost. “We would not take such a great risk unless a greater one outweighed it. The power holding the evil on the other side of the gate the Artifact forms is weakening. If we can’t repair it, your sacrifice will have been in vain.”

Gard narrowed her eyes, suspicion flickering over her features. “You believe that. You really do,” she said. “Whoever has been lying to you has done it well.”

“Quin?” said Elyserin.

“I knew it!” Phlirp burst out. “That wizarding weasel!”

"This seems like a pretty straightforward solution," said Sigrid. "We leave the thing here, patch up the cracks on our way out, say we couldn't find it. Easy peasy lemon squeezy." Mya nodded to this and replaced the Artifact back in Gard's bones. But when she looked back at the ghost, it wasn't where they had left it.

Gard did at the chamber entrance, sword drawn. "Your intentions are noble, so I will give you what mercy there might be allowed. A quick death, and the memory of each of you held in me forever with honor. But I cannot allow you to leave this place and risk you telling what you know. The mission must not fail, and I will not fail it." With that she lunged at Elyserin, who was nearest. The witch hissed in pain and jerked back, a red outline of the ghost's handprint standing out livid on one cheek like a burn. She staggered a little, steadying herself on the stone coffin with one hand. With the other, she flicked a gesture at Gard, and a buzz of hex thrummed through the air.

Manatar swung his own sword at Gard, but it was met by the ghostly blade, blue sparks bursting to life as surely as if it were made of real steel. Both of them roared and clashed again.

It was different than the other fights they'd had. It wasn't so much that they couldn't hit her, it was that when they did manage to get a hit in, it felt wrong, unclean, like hitting a work of art or a friend. But they had all agreed a long time ago: we choose life.

Mya had brought Gard to one knee with a well-aimed rebuke of undeath. The ghost leaned heavily on her sword with the point in the ground, apparently beaten. There was still fire in her eyes as she snarled, "I will not fail!"

In the space between one instant and the next, she was gone. Manatar's sword clanged against the stone floor right where her neck would have been, but recovered himself with a line of cursing.

"Where did she go?" Phlirp cried, not allowing her guard to drop just yet. "This isn't over, I know it."

Elyserin stood watching her casting hand as it flexed open and shut. She gave it a little shake and said to Phlirp, "Yes. It is."

She pointed at Manatar, and he crumpled to the ground in that same magical slumber they had come to know so well.

"Elyserin? What--"

"No. Not at the moment. Stop there," she said, this to Mya who had opened her mouth. Gard in Elyserin's body snatched up the knife at her belt and held the tip of it against her own throat. "Not a word. I said I would not fail and I meant it. If that means you killing each other as I take you over by one, that's what it must be."

"Yeah, we're not going to do that," Phlirp snapped. "Put down the knife."

"You won't kill her. I've seen what you all mean to each other." She dug the point of it into the soft skin of Elyserin's pale throat, and a bright drop of blood appeared. Phlirp stopped. Gard glanced at Sigrid with Elyserin's eyes. "You. Hold the gnome." Sigrid hesitated, and the knife dug a little deeper. 

A column of steel suddenly and silently burst from Elyserin's chest. The knife fell to the floor, and she fell after it, blood pooling fast under her as she lay facedown on the stone. Mya stood above her, face tear-streaked and hands shaking as she drew out the sword.

"Forgive me," she whispered. On the other side of the chamber, Manatar was getting to his feet, face dark.

"Did you just kill my wife?" he rumbled. In response, Elyserin gave a wet cough. Mya dropped the sword and flung herself over the sylph's body, eyes held tightly shut, praying hard. Lily scent filled the tomb, and the pool of blood halted its progress. Elyserin sighed, and Mya gasped out, "Rope, now."

"You stabbed her in the back!"

"There's no time! Rope!"

Rope was produced, and the possessed witch tied fast just as her eyes went from groggy to clear.

"That was a stupid idea," Phlirp said as they gathered around their friend. "You couldn't have known she'd survive long enough to do this."

"Yes, I did," Mya said. She brought up the sword to show them. It was the same sword she had pulled from the treasure trove in Seaside, the one that had been so baffling in the nature of what it was cursed with. She pointed to a series of scratches they had all thought was just damage from age. "See here? I figured out what it says. It's an old Tengu word for mercy. This sword will never kill anyone. It can come close though."

"Too close," said Manatar. Mya didn't say anything to that, but nodded grimly.

"How sure are we Gard won't just jump out of Elyserin's body into one of us next?"

"Very sure. She only got in because of that touch earlier. Now is a good time to ask questions."

"Hear that, ghostie?" Phlirp said, kicking Elyserin's boot. "Tell us a story."

Gard spat the last of the blood out of her mouth. "Fine. Maybe if you know what's at stake, you'll understand. Then maybe I won't have to kill you all."