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thetomorrowshow · 10 months

Text

the night got deathly quiet

a secret side storyline is resolved in this update. Can anyone tell me what it is?

cw: violence, mild gore (lots of dead people), death

They hadn't expected the war so soon.

Jimmy had figured they at least had a couple of weeks. It wasn't exactly public knowledge that Scott would be touring Rivendell and therefore not available to make battle decisions, but Lizzie and Joel had both sent extra troops to strengthen Rivendell in case of an attack from fWhip.

And then the attack came from behind.

They hadn't received any reports that Mythland was even doing more than preparing armies, let alone mobilizing them. In order to surprise them, he must have moved fast.

And maybe, that's what Jimmy gets. After all, he's the one who decided to rebuild the Capitol right next to Mythland's border. Of course Sausage was going to attack, when Jimmy's certainly the weakest empire and the least likely to be prepared—and of course he managed to do it without alerting anyone, what with the Codlands right next door.

And when he does attack, it goes badly.

"Codfather, you’ve got to leave," insists Belgio, a senior member of the Cod Council. Two of his advisors had shown up at his door less than an hour ago, out of breath and terrified, to inform him of the coming armies. Emil had left almost immediately, still young enough to fight, but Belgio (old, his scales flaking in places) and remained, in some attempt to evacuate Jimmy.

Someone screams from far away, clear over the shouting of so many warriors—because all the normal noises of the city have gone silent, and even so far from the battle, in his small house at the dock, Jimmy can hear the war.

It calls to him, almost. The screams of his soldiers call for his help.

He isn't going to run from them.

"I can't," Jimmy says firmly, pulling tight the side buckles of his chestplate. "I swore an oath to protect this people—I carried them out of the clutches of the salmon, and—"

"And that is why you've got to be saved," Belgio says. "If you're to save us again, you have to make it out!"

"I can't let them die alone!"

Belgio falls silent, the rings of Jimmy's shout echoing in the small house, floating away like the dust that dances in the window's light.

Jimmy bites his lip, shifts his chestplate a bit.

"Can you get the buckle on the back?" he asks quietly. Wordlessly, Belgio moves behind him, tightens the strap and buckles it.

Jimmy lets his eyes flicker shut for a moment, almost in a wordless prayer. To whom, he doesn't know.

He just begs for the strength to defend those he loves.

"When I first saw you, I knew you were our leader," Belgio says after a moment, patting Jimmy's shoulders and snapping him out of his moment of piety. "We know that you've had lots of doubts over the years. Blood doesn't matter, Jimmy. You're our Codfather."

Jimmy nods, a lump in his throat. He doesn't know what he can even say, what he can do to make any of this situation better.

He's probably going to die, isn't he?

A year ago, he would have been more than happy to die for his country. A year ago, he would have marched out into battle without a care, only hoping to take down as many of Sausage's people as possible.

He wouldn't say he has more reason to live now. Sure, he has Scott. And Scott is . . . Scott is wonderful.

But he's always had his people.

The difference is that now, he knows the price of sacrifice. He knows that if this kingdom falls (if he leaves them without a leader), no Codlands will remain.

He has to go out. He has to try.

If he'd woken in Rivendell this morning, Scott would have stopped him from returning to the Codlands. And what good would that have done? Let it be conquered, let these people be utterly destroyed, and (being an imposter king) have no way to carry on their legacy?

At least if he dies here, he'll die a martyr.

Yet here he is, the noonday sunlight filtering in through his cabin's windows, dressing in the armor that has never seemed to fit quite right, and he wishes he were anywhere else.

He twists the ring on his left hand, once, twice, three times for good luck. He's probably not going to survive. Not a full-scale invasion. Unless he's taken prisoner, which he thinks would be unlikely—he still doesn't have the Codfather head, and his face is a little disfigured from the loss of his scales. As far as he knows, he isn't anyone recognizable. And even if someone does recognize him, the only reason he would be taken prisoner would be to gloat at Lizzie and Scott, or to torture him.

He doesn't plan on being taken prisoner.

With the addition of a wooden medallion that Belgio reverently lays around his neck (Jimmy lets him do so, shrugging away the guilt—if he remembers correctly, it signifies some prayer of strength, and he needs all the strength he can get), he's ready to leave.

He steps into the kitchen, checks his reflection in a pan hanging there. Awkward tan armor, his earfins swirling, his good old leather boots, the patchy scars on his face. Jimmy nods at himself, sweeps a hand through his perpetually messy hair.

This is it.

"I'll see you," he says to Belgio, who looks at him for a long moment before nodding, stepping out of the way of the door.

"At least think about escaping, all right?" he offers half-heartedly. Jimmy tries for a smile.

He's not going to do that.

He picks up the Codfather sword, leaning against the wall in its scabbard, and belts it onto his waist. He swallows back his anxiety, takes a deep breath, and pulls open the front door.

The dock is empty. A scrap of cloth blows through the street, the wind whistling just slightly in his ears.

And louder now, in the distance, Jimmy can hear the clashing of swords and the shouting of soldiers.

He hikes up his chestplate and starts running in that direction.

It doesn't take long at all to find the fight. He runs into some twenty of his soldiers soon enough, regrouping behind a cornerstore. The battle has already nearly reached the square beyond, and Jimmy can see more of his soldiers surging forward through the streets, weapons drawn and captains shouting.

This squadron has paused, their captain organizing them, when Jimmy runs up to them.

"Jimmy!" one of them gasps out, standing from where she's crouched behind the wall. "We thought you'd gone to safety! Why are you still here?"

"I won't abandon my people," Jimmy says, even as her face twists in distress.

"This isn't a fight, Codfather," she says urgently. "This is a massacre. We've sent as many children as we can to the Ocean, please join them and g—"

"I'm not running away." Jimmy pats her arm in what he hopes is a comforting manner, before turning to the captain of the group, identified by the blue ribbon tied hastily in their hair. "What's it like out there?"

"Mythland soldiers crawling all over the place," the Cod replies, giving him a quick salute. "They started with catapults, taking down the city walls. They've been moving in, forms of . . . thirty or forty, I'd say. Just one right after another. It's endless, sir."

"Any weaknesses?"

They shrug. "Their backs are unprotected," they suggest. "They're only in half-armor. But we haven't been able to get behind them."

They're wearing half-armor. Because of course, the Cod Empire isn't enough of a threat to bother with their backs.

It burns at Jimmy to know that they're right.

"Right. Well, we probably shouldn't sneak around behind them, we'd get surrounded," Jimmy says, turning the matter over in his mind. He thumbs the hilt of his sword consideringly. "Maybe a point formation? Break through their front line, then stab them in the back?"

"It could work," the captain concedes, glancing at a tall Cod, who shrugs hopelessly. "We'd need more numbers. Is there another group we can join up with?"

"I saw some running over there," a young Cod pipes up, pointing to the left of them, her too-big helmet slipping into her eyes. "Maybe twenty soldiers?"

"Forty isn't enough to wedge into Mythland's armies," another soldier says. "There's got to be thousands of them."

"If we can get a hundred, I'm willing to try," the captain says decisively. "There should be more on the east side, I heard from Mela that they're holding their own over there."

The east. That's the most populous part of the city. It would be best to head there anyway, make sure there aren't any more people who need to be evacuated.

"What do we know about the towns and provinces further inland?" Jimmy asks, suddenly struck by the question.

The captain shrugs. A soldier looks uncertainly at his feet.

Probably fallen or going to fall, then. There's rivers and canals running through most of the Codlands, so those could be a quick escape if the soldiers of Mythland aren't used to fighting fish hybrids. If someone could warn them. . . .

"You," Jimmy decides, pointing to the young girl. "Take the canals, go warn as many towns as you can that the war has begun. Get them out of there. Queen Lizzie or Lady Katherine will accept them as refugees, whichever empire is easier for them to get to. Got it?"

She nods, takes off at a sprint. Jimmy turns to the others, squares his shoulders.

He can do this. He managed about ten years of peace, which he thinks is pretty good for a war-ravaged kingdom. He can save it again now and lead it back into peace.

He doesn't know who he's trying to fool. He isn't even the righteous heir of this kingdom. Arguably, it's his rule that brought about this war with Mythland.

It was his rule, though, as illegitimate as it might have been. And he swore an oath when he took it upon himself to protect this people.

"To the east!" Jimmy declares, and takes off.

The east is chaos.

Yes, there are plenty of Cod defenders in the streets, but there are also hundreds Mythland attackers flooding the area. There's a house burning down (smoke is thick in the air, and those around are choking and tears stream from their eyes), a window being shattered, children screaming and running, someone is dying on his left and someone is killing on his right—

"Jimmy, behind you!"

Jimmy turns around, somehow has the ability to dodge a swing from an axe and draw his sword. He doesn't really know anything about facing off against an axe (his combat instructor had always told him to flee), so he just jogs half-backward, drawing the warrior in, until one of the soldiers in his group can stab the man in the back and take him down.

Then they keep moving, further into the battle, avoiding fights but gathering random Cod where they can, calling for soldiers as they go until they've collected a fairly large group. Probably a hundred, right? That looks like about a hundred.

"Form a wedge!" Jimmy shouts, for once glad of his naturally loud voice. The Cod soldiers obey, and they move down the large main street toward Mythland's advancing lines.

He can see the proper lines of soldiers, now, not just a mob of men in red with shining silver armor roaming the narrow Cod streets. It looks well-directed and terrifyingly intimidating, and surely far more impressive than his own small troupe must appear.

And it goes on forever. There's—the lines are endless, wave after wave of footmen rushing forward, killing Cod and barging into homes and destroying the town.

Jimmy stares for a moment, utterly overwhelmed.

His people are dying. They're being wiped out entirely, all at the will of a power-hungry king. Their culture had barely survived the centuries of subjectivity and war with the salmon. It won't survive this.

Jimmy shakes himself. It could survive this! He just has to . . . he has to save it.

"Wedge formation!" the captain from before shouts, then begins leading the pack, past individual battles and destruction and to the main lines.

It all gets blurry after that. Jimmy runs with them, storming toward the enemy, yelling instructions to his people, ignoring the way his voice shakes.

He fights. He raises his sword against people, stabs some in their unprotected backs, fights some head on. Face after face blends together as Jimmy almost mindlessly swings his sword (he's been training with it every week for the past ten years, and while he isn't perfect he's certainly a force to be reckoned with), one thought running through his brain on repeat: save them. Save them. Save them.

He isn't sure how long it is before he hears calls of retreat. The Cod numbers have dwindled around him, his soldiers collapsing one by one under the weight of just how many Mythlanders there are. And more are still coming—Jimmy looks up at some point and sees so many footmen, so many knights on horses, there's too many the world is going to end—

He falls back with everyone else, weaving into the smoky streets among fleeing and screaming people, shouting soldiers, a fry crying for its mother, all hazy and uncertain—

Then a shout rouses him from the depths of his mind.

"That's him! That's the Codfather!"

He whirls around, trying to spot anyone who might have—there. A smug-looking knight on horseback, pointing to him and shouting to his comrades, and now there are five or six or seven Mythland soldiers moving toward him.

Jimmy curses under his breath, wipes a trickle of sweat from below his ear.

He doesn't really want to die here, but maybe he can draw enough Mythlanders his way that he can distract them from his people.

It's not suicide. Maybe he can get to his cabin, grab his elytra off the hook by the door and get away—or jump into a canal and swim out.

A glance into the nearest canal tells him that others have tried the same thing. Bile rises to his throat; dead Cod are floating, belly-up, arrows piercing them all over, the canal running red with blood.

He hopes the young girl he sent made it out. He hopes she didn't have to swim by any bodies.

He fears that neither hope has any truth to it.

An arrow whistles past Jimmy's ear, and he takes that as his cue to start running.

Sausage's men must have a line of bowmen behind the main advances, and if one has shot for him, it must mean that the endless sea of red soldiers has an end, and behind that end is the archers. If Jimmy could gather another group, sneak in behind the lines, they could get the archers. Bows aren't really made for hand-to-hand contact, so they could probably just take them all out and stop any more airfire from hitting his soldiers.

But then that group would surely perish. Every one of those soldiers would be surrounded. Jimmy doesn't know if their wedge did any real damage—he couldn't tell from the thick of it—but they'd had a way out. Killing the archers would cost more than it would save.

And now he really has to get going, because there are more soldiers coming in droves and several of them are aiming for him.

He turns on his heel and sprints off, dodging the battle at every turn. There are still too many citizens among the fighting, why haven't they fled—there's an older gentleman that he shoves into a house, a child that he picks up with one arm and carries a short distance until he finds a fleeing man who can get her to safety.

He rounds a corner in a winding street (skipping over bodies all the way down, he knows he's headed toward more death) to find two Mythland soldiers fighting one Cod soldier, the Cod's energy clearly flagging. Jimmy leaps into the fight, stabbing one soldier through his unprotected side.

"Go!" he shouts to the Cod, and xe stumbles away, sword hanging loosely at their side.

Jimmy makes quick work of the other Mythlander, kicking her in the knees to get her down before knocking the hilt of his sword against her head. Then he continues down the street, covering his mouth as the stench of smoke grows stronger, until it opens up into a plaza—the plaza that Jimmy knows to be the center of the city.

The plaza is destroyed, entirely unrecognizable as what was surely once a pleasant hub of energy—there's people screaming everywhere, shattered pottery and trampled food and bodies on the ground, a dog barking, soldiers killing without consideration, market stalls burning and in disarray, horses rearing. . . .

There's so much, and Jimmy moves to go forward, eye catching on a Mythlander about to kill a defenseless Cod, when a hand catches his arm, pulling him back into the doorway of a shop.

"Codfather," this new soldier begs him, a Cod instantly recognizable as part of Jimmy's Rivendell guard, shouting to be heard above the turmoil. "Leave! Free us later, you can't save us now!"

Jimmy can't leave, though.

Not when his people are dying before his very eyes. Not when he can save at least one life.

He promised to be willing to die for these people. He has to keep that promise.

Anyone can lead a country—he's living proof. But not everyone will lay down their life for another, no matter their station. And the latter is the kind of Cod that Jimmy wants to be.

He claps the soldier on the shoulder. "You get out," he tells him. "Will you abandon your country in this time of need, or keep fighting to save those weaker than you?"

The soldier looks down at his feet, then back up, teary determination in his eyes, soot and dirt dulling his scales (as if the battle has drowned his light). "I fight with you," he says.

Jimmy grins. "Good. What's your name?"

"Micah."

"You've accompanied me to Rivendell before?"

Micah nods.

Jimmy squeezes his shoulder. "Well, Micah," he says, "maybe we'll both get to see those mountains again."

And with that, he hefts up his sword and charges into the fight.

He dispatches a Mythland soldier immediately, striking down a second one as soon as he gets near enough. Jimmy's blood is pounding in his ears, his heartrate elevated. He knows how to fight. Better than many rulers, probably, forced to fight since before he was even declared Codfather, and expected to defend if there was ever an attack.

He licks his lips, twists his sword around in his hand before plunging it into the back of another enemy. Maybe they can barricade off the plaza, only leave one street open so only one soldier can get in at a time? It wouldn't be permanent, but it might last long enough for them to hold their own until they had a chance to flee, or until some sort of back-up arrived.

There isn't back-up coming, though. Nobody knows this is happening. Nobody knows the Cod Empire is falling.

Jimmy fends off a spearman, knocking the spear out of their hands before slamming the flat of his blade into the side of their head. He's got this. He knows how to dance this dance, knows how to look for weak spots.

This soldier relies too heavily on his shield, blocking every one of Jimmy's hits with it rather than his sword. Jimmy goes for a wide cut on his unprotected side, takes him down, then spins to the side to dodge a swing from a man whose balance is off, feet too flat. He steps in past his range, shoulder-checks him to knock him back, then stabs him through the shoulder.

"The Codfather!" the next soldier greets him, smiling sharply. "I"ll be honored for killing you."

"Not if you're dead," Jimmy grunts, swinging his sword into the soldier's neck and partially decapitating him, his body collapsing instantly.

There's another one waiting behind, and Jimmy steps back to dodge a strike and something rolls under his feet—he slips back and trips, barely manages to catch his feet under him before he falls into the canal behind him. He glances down—just for a moment—and sees the arm of the Cod's body that he'd slipped on—

Then, with a burst of blinding pain, a sword drives its way around his chestplate and into his shoulder.

He gasps a little bit, the world slowing around him.

There's a sword in his body.

It cut through his flesh like a knife through butter, straight into that space between his shoulder and his chest, and there's metal separating tendons and flesh and he's going to die—

The sword is drawn out, and Jimmy stumbles forward with it, the shiiick of the sword being removed echoing in his ears.

He's—he's fine. It's not a fatal wound. It's just—just blood, soaking his tunic, sticking to his skin. He's bled before. It's not too serious to have it outside of his body.

"I got him!" a woman—the person who stabbed him—shouts. Jimmy glares at her, the world around him coming starkly (too starkly, everything just a little too bright) back into focus. Nobody who's smug about it is going to kill him.

He hefts his sword back up, ignoring the pain shooting out from his shoulder, ignoring the slight wooziness that tugs in the back of his mouth.

He swings at her, more precisely and accurately than he expected, cutting down into her shoulder and neck.

She collapses when he yanks his sword out of her collarbone, but her call had brought others. There are three more approaching, lifting their weapons.

Something that Jimmy would say is one of his worst qualities is his stubbornness. Lizzie has got on him time and time again for never backing down from a fight he can't win.

And this is one with no hope.

So Jimmy takes a deep breath and fights.

He takes down two of them before the third gets past his defenses, slashing a sword deep across his thigh.

His leg gives out, spurting blood everywhere, the cut burning somewhere beyond Jimmy's consciousness. He falls to his knees, stabs up under the chestplate of the soldier—and there are four more behind her.

His arm shakes as he stabs the knee of the first soldier, then hits them in the side when they twist downward. He adjusts his grip on the sweat-stained leather of his sword, adds his other (heavy, near-useless) hand to it.

He manages to kill the next soldier before he gets hit again—he dodges, bending to one side, but the sword swinging at his head manages to clip his earfin, neatly slicing off a piece of it that falls to the ground beside him. He aims up, stabs that man through the chin—

His back stiffens as cold metal shoves down in the back of his chestplate and pierces into his flesh, stabbing through his back—through—through—through his body and angling down, in his back and down, and Jimmy can't move, he's skewered on this sword, he chokes on nothing as his eyes go wide and it hurts—

Another shiiick with a tiny little squelch, and the sword is removed with a jerk that pulls a sound from Jimmy's lips that's something in between and grunt and a whimper.

The enemies around him (for they truly are surrounding him, at least five, hazy and out-of-focus) go still, their weapons lowering.

Jimmy's arms drop to his side. His grip on the sword loosens. Someone screams in the distance, distorted by his uneven ears.

No.

One of the Mythlanders—a man with a grey beard, his armor old and unpolished—kneels before Jimmy, puts his hands on either side of Jimmy's head.

There's something proud about the way he holds his chin, something . . . something different in his eyes. Jimmy doesn't know what. All Jimmy knows is that he suddenly feels cold.

"You fought admirably, son," he says, voice low and gravelly. "There are those of us in Mythland yet who respect a warrior, despite the actions of our king. Go into the next life without fear, for you will be honored."

Jimmy stares blankly at him. There's hot blood pooling in the back of his tunic, running in rivulets down his back. He can't move his left arm, blood caking under it. His thigh is wet with the stuff; blood trickles down the side of his neck.

He's so cold.

The man tips Jimmy's head forward, places a scratchy kiss on his forehead. "Rest easy," he murmurs, before standing, picking his sword back up and turning away into a blur of color.

Jimmy slumps forward against his will, slowly falling onto his stomach, cheek landing against the dusty cobblestone. He doesn't feel the way the fall jostles his wounds. He doesn't feel anything but cold.

The boots that stand in front of his eyes are new, splashed with blood on the toe.

"Finally," the person says distantly. "I've been chasing him for twenty minutes. Fought like a dog."

And then, with a noticeable plop on his back, he spits on Jimmy.

One of Jimmy's other worst qualities, in his opinion, is pride. And somehow, his pride is stronger than the cold darkness pulling at him.

And his sword is still in his hand.

Gathering every last ounce of strength that he has, Jimmy strikes out to the side, slashing through those new boots and cutting into the calf.

The man curses, leaps away. Jimmy can't help but smirk a little, lips feeling numb. His fingers lose grip of his sword, his vision blurs further.

"Why isn't he dead already—"

A boot slams into his head and the fuzziness goes black.

"Just roll them into the canal. We'll have the Cods fill it up with dirt."

"Glad we don't have to carry them all the way to the fields. The savages fought hard, I heard they're still loading the wagons with ours."

"Have you heard anything about Daniel?"

"No, haven't seen him. Whose squadron was he in?"

"Twenty-third, Hal's group. He's my wife's brother."

"You'll probably have to be the one to tell her, then. If he's dead."

"And his husband. They'll be heartbroken."

"Mm. Oh, urgh—their weird scale things always grossed me out."

"It's the ears for me. Every time I went to market there'd be one of them selling something stupid. My daughter thinks they're terrifying, would scream when we passed by."

"She's right. They're freaky-looking. I was glad to kill a few."

"Are you two working, or talking?"

"Milord!"

"Working, sire, our apologies."

"Your majesty, what brings you out here?"

"I received an urgent report from one of my captains. You haven't seen a Cod body—hehe, Coddy—with scars on his face? Blond hair, tall, lots of scars?"

"None that match that description yet, sire. If we see one—"

"No need, I'll search with you. Are we just rolling them into this river-thing?"

"Yes, milord. Allow us—"

"Oh—"

"There it goes!"

"Right, and now the next—"

"Oh! Is this the one you're looking for?"

". . . Well. Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. Scott wasn't here to save you this time, was he?"

"Is that. . . ?"

"Friends, this is—or, was—the Codfather."

"Looks like he put up quite the fight. There are so many bodies around him."

"He's drenched in blood. Must have been painful."

"It was supposed to be fWhip to kill him, I think. He always wanted to. He isn't going to be too happy about this, let me tell you!"

"Do you need the body?"

"And stink up my kingdom by bringing back a dead fish? Roll him into the river with the others. But give me a second with him, all right?"

"Yes, milord."

"Of course, your majesty."

"Honestly, Jimmy, I think this look is an improvement! You think Scott is into this, all this blood and guts? You never know, elves are a little freaky! . . . Well, I can't say I'll miss you. I loved messing with you, but I can find a new game. Look, if you get to heaven, tell 'em to let in your old pal Sausage! And if you end up in hell . . . tell 'em the same thing! Covering all my bases, you know? . . . I guess this is goodbye! See ya, Jimmy!"

"It's close enough to the canal, we won't even have to touch it, really."

"Just kick it in."

"You two take care of that! Oh, I can't wait to tell Scott. . . ."

"All right, I'll just—"

"And I'll—"

"There it goes! Which one next?"

"Let's keep going along this way, and when. . . ."

That night, the Cod Empire is deathly quiet.

Smoke hangs like a cloud over the Capital, some buildings still burning (pointless from the beginning, yet even after the battle had been won there were celebrating soldiers setting fire to cabins and shops, destruction just a mark of victory). Bodies line the streets, half the canals filled with the dead.

There are some still living. Soldiers who had surrendered, children and caretakers and disabled who weren't able to escape but were able to hide. They do not sleep, fearing what the morning will bring. Will King Sausage order their deaths? Will he move through their land to the ones beyond? Will he demand slavery of them, even the children?

A father bundles up his baby and waits for a change in guard at the docks, then slips into the water and swims away, heading for the Ocean Kingdom. Another Cod tries the same thing and is caught with an arrow in their throat.

Those who remain hide in their homes, curtains drawn, and hold each other, too fearful to try to contact friends and family to see if they still live. They daren't go outside, lest they join the bodies in the streets.

They all know that their Codfather has fallen. That news had been shouted through the town, on every gory street and dock, until all in the town silently despaired and knew that they were doomed.

Lord Sausage, King of Mythland, returns home and writes a gloating letter of conquest, which reaches all of the empires before the night ends. One day of battle, and the Codlands has been conquered. He doesn't write of the fate of the Codfather, relishing the opportunity to tell the Ocean Queen and Lord Smajor in person.

In the canals are hundreds of bodies. An older Mythland soldier on guard frowns as he stares down at the disturbing piles of dead, on top the pale body of a guard named Micah, and shakes his head in disgust.

In the canal near the center of town, under two other bodies, completely submerged in the dirty water, is the body of the Codfather. His hair floats in the water, his face almost unrecognizable, bloated in death, painted with blood and mud.

It's the dark of midnight, not even lit by the moon, only the dim stars twinkling down. The body of the Codfather rocks a little bit with the shift of the water, little ripples coming from seemingly nowhere, traveling down each canal.

Something rumbles, deep underground.

The water picks up, tiny ripples becoming actual waves, crashing against the land and shoving the bodies from side to side, piles spilling over and sending dead Cod flopping to the land—almost as if a storm is brewing, though the skies are clear as can be.

The Mythlanders on guard around the town laugh nervously, step away from the canals, as the bodies seem to thrash in the choppy water.

And in the canal near the center of town, the Codfather lies in the water.

His eyes flash open.

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inaris-mage-of-storms · 1 year

Text

(Content warning for swearing, blood, injury, and violence.)

Jimmy wasn't at the meeting.

Scott cast a worried glance around the gathered circle and up the road, hoping maybe he had just overlooked him, or that he was running late. Empty seats weren't unusual. The group meetings almost never had full attendance, especially these days. But Jimmy had never missed a single one since the very first time Pix had invited him, not without providing a solid reason in advance.

"Has anyone heard from the sheriff?" asked Scott. Head-shakes and dismissive shoulder shrugs were his only answer.

"Maybe he finally realized he doesn't belong here." There was a cruel smirk on Sausage's lips, and Scott shuddered at the feeling of wrong wrong he's all wrong something isn't right this isn't him that crawled up his back every time he looked at Sausage lately.

Shelby's laugh was harsh. A tendril of sculk curled against her hair like the tail of a velvet ribbon. "Maybe we'll have a peaceful, quiet afternoon for once."

"It is nice not having to listen to him screaming baseless accusations and getting mad at every little joke," said Lizzie. "I'm surprised he showed up as long as he did, to be honest."

"He's still one of us," snapped Scott. "Regardless of whatever disputes - "

"Is he, though?" asked Fwhip, curling his tail thoughtfully. "Does he really belong in a gathering of kings and princesses and gods?"

"Do you?" spoke up False in a quiet voice, and Scott shot her a grateful look. "Do half of us fit into this little consortium, if that's the criteria?"

"The criteria is power," said Fwhip. "Leadership. Someone who's been trusted to look after the people who gather around them. Jimmy doesn't have leadership qualities, he has an inferiority complex and a child's temper!"

"He has been a little out of control lately," said Gem.

"All right, that's enough," said Pix, stepping forward and holding up a hand. "Whether or not Jimmy belongs here is not on the agenda for today. Has anyone heard from him recently?" No one answered, and Pix sighed. "Very well. Joel, Joey, Oli, and Katherine have all sent their apologies in advance for being unable to be here today. Now, the first order of business is…"

Scott barely listened as the meeting progressed. It took all of his self-control to stay in his seat, between his concern for Jimmy and his urge to get away from the creepy magic that emanated from Sausage and Shelby. Armor now, escape plan later, he reminded himself every time he caught himself eyeing the exits for too long. Focus. Don't show your vulnerability. That was an especially important reminder right now, he thought, given the way Sausage looked directly at him every time he teetered on the edge of bolting.

When the meeting concluded Fwhip stepped toward Scott, clearly intent on speaking with him. Scott met his eyes, then very deliberately turned his back on him and strode away. He checked the straps on his wings before unfurling them, and after a brief glance to check for any wear or damages he headed straight for Tumble Town.

Scott hadn't been to the mesa for some time, and while he had heard rumors of the dwindling population, he was unprepared for the sight that greeted him. Tumble Town was eerily quiet, and as Scott glided down from the sky he realized why: it was empty. Not a single building showed any signs of life. No one peered out any windows or walked the streets. Houses and storefronts were shuttered, and crop fields were overrun with weeds.

He landed next to the sheriff's office and had one foot on the porch when the sound of shattering glass from the saloon broke the silence. He jumped and spun around as the sound repeated, and as he hurried over he could see Jimmy through one of the broken windows. The empty bottle that had sailed through it lay broken on the ground, and a wooden chair followed, knocking more glass out of the frame and splintering when it landed.

Scott pushed open the swinging doors just as Jimmy turned and scowled at the tall liquor cabinet against the wall. The sheriff studied his reflection in the glass door, chest heaving, and for a moment Scott thought maybe Jimmy had calmed down. He opened his mouth to speak, but before Jimmy's name could cross his lips, Jimmy screamed in rage and sent his fist through the face that stared back at him.

Whiskey and blood dripped onto the floor, and Jimmy let his hand fall to his side, staring dumbly at the overturned bottles inside the wrecked cabinet. Scott stood frozen in place, taken aback by the outburst.

"Jimmy?" he called out hesitantly, unsure of what he should do.

"Hm? Oh, hello, Scott." Jimmy's voice was far too calm and steady. It frightened him. "If you've come for business, I'm afraid we won't be able to conduct any today. All of our resources are a little, er, behind on production." He laughed, as if at some private joke. "Unless you're here for terracotta. Take it, however much you need, from wherever you want. Might as well."

Scott stepped a little closer, keeping his movements slow and easy to read. "I came to see if you were okay. You weren't at the meeting today." He spoke softly, as if he were trying to approach a wounded animal. He was, he supposed. Jimmy made no indication he was aware of the lacerations on his hand and arm, but it had to be stinging.

Jimmy turned to look at him, and Scott paused his approach as something dark flickered across the sheriff's face. "The meeting?" He tilted his head. "Oh. Right. I won't be attending those anymore."

"Why not?" He had a small first-aid kit tucked in his bag somewhere, he was sure. He moved a hand down slowly, feeling around for it. Jimmy paid him no mind, his eyes still on Scott's face but not really looking at him.

"Don't have a reason to." If Scott were to only go by Jimmy's voice, he wouldn't have thought anything was wrong. It didn't match the disheveled sight before him. "It's a gathering of regional leaders. The only thing I have left to lead is sand and tumbleweed."

"You're still one of us," said Scott. "You're still our friend."

Jimmy laughed.

He threw his head back and laughed as if Scott had told him the funniest joke he'd heard in his life. He laughed until he had tears in his eyes, and he wiped them away with his uninjured hand. Scott's eyes traveled over Jimmy's chest. His shirt hung open, a different injury on display. The gash across his chest was mostly healed, but the edges were still red and angry. Scott's own anger stirred at the sight, and part of him wished he'd confronted Gem about it at the meeting.

Jimmy's peals of laughter died down into chuckles. "What a sweet thing to say," he said when he calmed down. "And what a load of shit." He stepped forward, glass crunching under his boots. His smile was terse and venomous, and if it were anyone else approaching him like that Scott might have turned and fled. Jimmy came to a stop in front of him and leaned in. There were bags under his eyes and dirt smeared across his cheek. The hair under his hat was limp and oily. Scott wondered how long it had been since he'd slept.

"Why are you really here, Scott?" The calm, almost cheerful tone he'd been speaking in finally slipped into something bitter and full of grief. "I don't have anything left to take. All the jokes have already been made a hundred times over. What more could you possibly do?"

Scott could feel his heart crumbling at the pain that radiated off Jimmy in waves. He wanted to pull him close and bundle him away from the world and everything in it that had ever hurt him. He wanted to whisper reassurances in his ear that everything would be all right. He wanted to kneel before him and beg forgiveness for his own part in Jimmy's heartache. He wanted -

It took an explosion to shatter the tension between them. The building shuddered, and Scott stumbled into Jimmy as dust rained down on them from the rafters. A second explosion sounded, and Jimmy wrapped his arms around Scott instinctively, pulling him close and covering his head.

"Oh sheriff!" Fwhip's voice was far too cheerful as it rang out across Tumble Town. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

Jimmy snarled in anger and shoved Scott away from him, stomping out of the saloon. Scott followed on his heels. "Fwhip, what the fuck!" screamed Jimmy. "What is the meaning of this?!"

"There you are! Thought I'd have to do this one next to get your attention." Fwhip grinned down at them from the roof of the jail and waved a stick of dynamite at them. Lizzie sat next to him, her hand on top of one of the bundles of TNT that surrounded them. Smoke rose lazily from the remains of the bank.

Jimmy's eyes snapped from the dynamite in Fwhip's hand to the office door below, fear flickering across his features. "Norman's not in there," Scott murmured to him, and glanced behind him to confirm the glow he thought he'd seen a moment earlier. "He's in the bushes behind us."

Jimmy relaxed ever so slightly at the reassurance and glared up at Fwhip. "Well, you've got it," he spat. "What do you want?"

Fwhip hummed and tapped his chin. "You know, I didn't actually think that far ahead!" He threw the dynamite from one hand to the other before setting it aside and leaning forward to look at them better. "I assumed you'd be hiding somewhere with your tail tucked, and we'd level this place and go home."

"I'm just here for a little fun, myself," said Lizzie. "We have so much extra gunpowder lying around, and an unpopulated area is the perfect place to do a little product testing."

"It really is," agreed Fwhip. "Hi Scott! You're on the wrong side of the street, buddy. Come over here where it's safe."

"I'm exactly where I want to be," said Scott, peering up at them and using one hand to shield his eyes from the hot sun. "Why don't you go do your product testing elsewhere?"

Fwhip clicked his tongue. "I was afraid you might say that." He jumped down and sauntered over to them, and Scott stepped forward to put himself between Fwhip and Jimmy. Lizzie watched them closely, running her fingers over a flint and steel.

"I mean it when I say you're on the wrong side," continued Fwhip. "Something's coming, something big. You can feel it too, right?" He was still smiling, but Scott could see the fear and uncertainty in his eyes. "Whatever is coming for us, allies are going to be important. Friends are going to be important."

"I know," said Scott. "And we've been friends for a long time, haven't we?" Fwhip's smile softened at Scott's words, then vanished as Scott stepped away from him to stand firmly at Jimmy's side. "But I meant it too. I'm exactly where I want to be."

Fwhip laughed, dumbfounded. "You're a fool. I never took you for a fool before, Scott." He narrowed his eyes at Jimmy. "And all over this sorry excuse for a man. Amazing."

It was Jimmy's turn to step forward, placing himself in front of Scott even though he had no reason to believe Fwhip would ever hurt Scott. "Go home, Fwhip," he said tiredly. "I'm not a threat to you anymore. Just leave."

"Funny, saying you're not a threat when you've got a hand on your sword," said Fwhip, eyes moving to where Jimmy's hand clenched the hilt.

"I don't want to fight you," said Jimmy. "But I will, if that's what it takes to make you leave Tumble Town alone."

Fwhip laughed and moved back over to the jail, catching his mace as Lizzie tossed it down to him. "You wanna dance, little man?" he taunted, twirling the weapon with ease before gripping it firmly. "Let's go, then!"

Jimmy drew his sword and launched himself at Fwhip, but his movements were slower and clumsier than usual and the goblin sidestepped him easily. Jimmy cried out and dropped to his knees as the mace slammed into the back of his leg, and Scott winced at the blood and bruising visible through the fresh rips in Jimmy's jeans. Jimmy gritted his teeth and forced himself up, barely avoiding a blow to the shoulder, and whirled around to slash at Fwhip in return. His blade clashed against the head of the mace, sending a shower of sparks into the sand.

Scott caught a glimpse of movement near the ground. Norman slunk from bush to bush, and the glow that only Scott could see increased in intensity at the same time as some of the smaller wounds on Jimmy began closing up. But even with his deputy's help, Jimmy's strength was fading against the ferocity of his opponent, and new wounds were being inflicted faster than Norman could heal them.

"Norman!" yelled Scott in desperation. "Go get someone! Pix, maybe, I don't know!"

For a moment he thought Norman was going to ignore him, but when Jimmy moved out of his range again the cat let out a worried yowl before turning and darting away from the fight. Norman was fast, but Scott knew he wouldn't be back with anyone in time to stop the fight before it turned deadly. What he would need Pix's help for was the aftermath. Stopping the fight was up to him.

When Fwhip and Jimmy broke apart again, Scott drew his own sword and darted between them just in time to deflect Fwhip's swing to the side. He gritted his teeth, feeling the impact travel through the blade and up his arm. "That's enough!"

Fwhip's eyes widened and he took a step back, lowering his weapon. "Scott, what are you doing?" he cried out. "I could have hurt you!"

Scott pointed his sword directly at Fwhip. Behind him, Jimmy gasped for air. The smell of blood overwhelmed the smell of hot sand and gunpowder that permeated the town, and Scott resisted the urge to turn and tend to Jimmy's wounds right then and there. Fwhip stared at him from the other end of his blade.

Scott took a deep breath and fixed Fwhip with a steady gaze. "All alliances, treaties, trade deals, and other agreements between Chromia and Gobland are canceled effective immediately," he said sharply. "Likewise for Animalia."

"You're making a mistake, Scott," called Lizzie.

"You're not – you're not serious, are you?" said Fwhip. "Tell me you're joking." Scott didn't move, and Fwhip laughed in disbelief. "Scott, I'm your friend. Your oldest friend. Your first alliance."

"You are," said Scott softly. "And I've been grateful for your companionship, Fwhip. You've been a brother to me for many years."

"Then stop this nonsense," Fwhip pleaded, pinning his ears back. He let his mace drop to the ground and put his hands up in surrender. "Look, I'm done. I've made my point. Why don't you come to Gobland and we can talk about this?"

Scott looked at him sadly, but his mind was made up, and he continued his official declaration. "Sheriff Jimmy of Tumble Town is under my personal protection as the King of Chromia," he said. "From this moment on, any further hostilities against him, his citizens, or his territory will be taken as an act of war against Chromia."

"Don't," said Fwhip. "Please. Don't choose him over me."

Scott pressed the tip of his sword against Fwhip's throat. "Any hostility against Jimmy will be taken as an act of war against me," he repeated. "And Chromia will respond accordingly."

Fwhip's shoulders sagged, and Scott lowered his sword. "Has it really come to this?" asked Fwhip.

"It has," said Scott. "And I'm sorry it has. But you've made your choice, and I've made mine."

"So you have," said Fwhip quietly. "Goodbye, Scott."

Scott watched Fwhip and Lizzie depart, then sheathed his sword and turned to see Jimmy leaning heavily against the nearest fence, face pale and eyes unfocused. Scott sucked in a sharp breath at the injuries that littered his body. His first-aid kit would be useless. He was going to need proper supplies, and potions, and -

"You shouldn't have done that," said Jimmy unsteadily.

Scott furrowed his brow. "Of course I should have," he said. "I think he might have really killed you if I didn't step in." Oh gods. Fwhip might have actually killed him, he realized, a cold shiver running down his spine at the thought. All it would have taken was one missed parry, one inopportune blow to Jimmy's head or torso, and he could have been -

"Yeah. Might have." Jimmy shrugged, then winced at the movement. "Doesn't matter. I meant your alliance. You just burned two bridges for nothing."

"I didn't burn them for nothing," said Scott. "I burned them for you."

Jimmy managed a broken smile. "Yeah. Like I said. For nothing." He looked at the empty houses around them. "Don't you see? It's all gone. Everything is gone. All the people I swore to protect have either moved on or been buried under the damned clay." He kicked the toe of his boot against a swath of exposed terracotta. The movement threw him off balance, and he gripped the fence until his knuckles turned white. "I failed, Scott. I failed!" There were no tears in his eyes, but the haunted and hollow look he gave Scott was far worse. "I failed," he repeated dully. "I'm alone."

Scott stepped toward him and carefully, cautiously, cradled Jimmy's face in his hands. "You aren't alone," he said firmly, and swiped his thumb over a drop of blood on Jimmy's cheek. He meant to wipe it away, but it only smeared. "I'm right here, Jimmy. And I will die before I ever walk away from you again."

Jimmy stared at him with wide eyes, processing his words. "You know, I almost think you might mean that," he said slowly.

"I do," said Scott. "I've never meant anything more in my life. You are not alone."

"Oh," was all Jimmy managed to say. He pulled away from Scott's hold, lifting a hand to run it through his hair, then stopped and stared at the lacerations that had re-opened during the fight as if only just realizing he was injured at all. "Huh." He looked down at himself. "That's...quite a lot of blood, actually," he said weakly. "Scott, can you do me a favor?"

"Anything," said Scott.

Jimmy ran his fingers over his swollen arm and winced. "Can you feed Norman tonight? He gets rather upset if he has to fend for himself too many days in a row, and I have a feeling I'm going to be out of commission for a while."

Scott almost laughed at the absurdity of Norman's dinner being Jimmy's biggest concern at the moment. "Sure. I'll make sure he's taken care of."

Jimmy smiled. "Great. Appreciate it." His knees buckled and his eyes fluttered shut, and he crumpled forward into Scott's arms as he passed out.

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