Chapter Text
Logan first realises he doesn’t want to die at age eight.
A man kneels before him, palms kissing the marble floor. Logan isn’t sure what to do with himself, tugging at the hem of his tunic. Columns rise around them, water trickles peacefully. But even surrounded by beauty, the man captures his attention.
“Do you hate me?” Logan sinks down, tugging his knees to his chest.
The motion tugs at hardly healed skin, and he chokes down a sob.
“Why would I hate you?” The man rises, his head moving in a circle as he spoke, eyes never leaving Logan’s own.
“Because of what I am. What we’ve done to you.”
The man tilts his head an unnatural degree, and Logan inhales sharply.
“Of course not. It would be illogical to blame you for something you didn’t do.”
“So why am I here?”
“There will come a decision,” he says, in lieu of answer. “You’ll know when it’s there, for it will be the only other option.”
Logan’s hand settles over his heart, pounding. Fire emanates from the point of contact.
He tries not to think about fire.
“You will choose, then.”
“What if I do the wrong thing?” Logan asks, voice small in the grand temple.
The man intones, “You won’t.”
He breathes in heavily, shaking. The man grasps his chin, lifts his head up.
“You mustn’t.”
He lays prone on the forest floor, dry leaves and sticks digging into open wounds like daggers. His bones creak, blood seeping out of him as if it is paint, and the ground some sort of canvas. He tastes it, metallic under his tongue. It coats his teeth, taints every breath he dares to takes.
Around him, the battle rages on. Metal clashes, creatures howl and humans scream, all blending into a discordant harmony. In the chaos, he hears Virgil, specifically, speaking in a language he could never hope to replicate.
It’s interesting, he thinks, what the brain chooses to focus on when shutting down. If it wasn’t his brain, he would’ve liked to study the phenomenon further. But as it is, Virgil’s mystery language, the one in which he casts all spells, no matter how mundane, switches back to Common, and he finds he can’t understand that either.
He breathes in and out, trying to remember how to stand.
“Up,” the man instructs.
“I can’t.”
“Up.”
Logan screams. “I can’t!”
“You must.”
Behind him, fire roars.
Smoke sears his lungs. He can’t remember where the fire is coming from, but he thinks it burns near the treeline.
He’s dying. He knows that much.
Smoke sears his lungs, as he lays there, clutching his parents’ corpses. He isn’t sure how long he’s been here, tears flowing and evaporating into the flame. His legs burn, the fire creeps up his arms, his face.
He pries open his eyes, and the world around him is cerise and yellow. It dances across the rafters, finding its way down to him, licking his skin.
There’s not much time before everything is engulfed, including himself.
“Leave him to burn”, isn’t that what they said?
Weakly, he pulls at his parents, trying to drag them with him. But they weigh too much, bones snapping beneath waxen skin as he yanks. He’ll have to leave them here.
For a minute, he sits there watching, wanting to curl up between them again.
To join them in the afterlife, to become ash.
He's slowly dying, skin compressing, tightening as he suffocates. He can’t breath, smoke sears his lungs. The house is falling down, rafters crashing and sparks flying like shooting stars. There’s a groan from the walls. It won't be long now.
"I'm so sorry," he says, crawling away from them. “But I don’t want to die.”
The door seems an eternity away, an escape he'll never reach. His vision expands and contracts, time seems to slow. Finally, after hours worth of seconds, he pulls himself up. The knob burns him, and the smell of flesh fills his nostrils. But he hardly notices.
The outside air is cool on Logan’s burnt skin, and he is waiting.
“You will be of use to us yet.”
Somewhere nearby, there’s a sickening crunch of bone, and a scream. He thinks he recognises it, he thinks he should care.
If he’s being completely honest, he doesn’t.
He manages to loll his head sideways, approximating the point from which his body was ripped apart. Somewhere around his left shoulder, looping back down to his gut. The area itself is too red to make out details beyond a stained tunic and tarnished armour, and maybe that’s for the best.
All he can really see is blood.
It runs down his arm, congeals warm and sticky between his fingers, dripping onto the dirt. It’s iron and copper, so strong he can taste it. It wraps around his tongue, choking him.
The sounds of the battlefield fade away, colours blurring out of focus. His marble body aches, for an excruciating second, agony tearing through his muscles.
Blood fills his throat, heartbeat thrumming in his ears.
He almost wishes he was already dead.
And then it’s over.
There’s another scream. It sounds different from the first. He thinks that should mean more to him.
He hopes Patton can save whoever it is.
They fish him out of a river, after a job gone wrong. It’s mildly humiliating, he’s better than this. But nonetheless, they save him. He fully intends to leave by morning, he knows better than to get close to others.
But then, “We’re on an adventure. Would you like to come?” The one who spoke—Patton, if he remembers correctly—gently drapes a blanket over his shoulders, like that will stave off the cold.
He wants to scoff. They’re all the same age, not even adults. They aren’t “adventuring”, they’re being stupid. He refrains from saying this outloud. Patton has the demeanour of not even being able to stomach killing a fly, but his friend, dark eyes and a seemingly permanent scowl… Logan knows better.
"What are we adventuring for?"
“I don’t know,” Patton admits, like it’s a secret. “I’m searching for my home, Virgil over there wants —at this Virgil interjects “Shut up”, and Patton smiles, like it’s endearing—“and you?"
Logan considers this, for a moment. He doesn’t think he’s been asked this before.
“Peace,” he finally says, with the slightest of smiles.
“Peace,” Patton repeats. “It sounds nice.”
Virgil nods, slightly.
Despite his better judgement, Logan amends his plans. He’ll stay a little while longer.
Above them, the stars glimmer.
He imagines the twinkling is laughter, them watching these three children bonding over some shared ideal. Logan wonders how that feels, to stand above everything, yet be so privy to the private moments. Is it maddening, or is it…
Peace.
Even here, he still can’t help but crave it.
Maybe Janus will arrange him a nice funeral. He hadn’t come along, today, quoting exhaustion. Which means, consequently, he might be the only one to survive. It’s irrationally funny, every single member of their party dying except for Janus.
Not that Janus is incapable, far from it.
But still…
He would’ve given the rest of them a better chance.
It’s sometime after Janus, but before the twins, that he realises he’s fallen ever-so-slightly in love. At least, he thinks that’s what this is. Admittedly, the guild never put much stock into helping their members identify emotions.
But by all accounts, it feels like love.
At least, some childish version of it.
It’s overwhelming, sometimes, to be in the same room as Patton. It feels like incriminating evidence, like Patton somehow knows, and is simply bidding his time.
And yes, it’s absurd, but so is being ever-so-slightly in love with your friend.
He wishes, briefly, that he was too far gone for self loathing. But evidently, his own hatred for himself will last him through the bitter end.
If he could change the past, he would’ve checked the treeline closer, noticed that the trees were several shades off of brown, that the bark had distorted itself into a smile. But he didn’t, assuming they were safe enough. As if they were invincible, his little party.
It’s funny how that always seems to happen. He lets himself get up in the whirlpool of grandeur, but then forgets to swim out. Forget that he’s cursed. And the worst part is, he’d always been there to throw the others a metaphorical life saver, and they him, when it got bad enough. When it felt like they were being entirely reckless. But obviously that isn’t going to happen this time.
He coughs, and more blood leaks out, like it’s not only air his body is trying to expel. He’s alone, dying on a forest floor, weeks away from home.
For the first time in years, he isn’t sure what to do.
He’s let his friends down, again.
Sometimes it feels it’s all he’s good for.
Logan rarely knows what to do with Roman and Remus. The two appeared together, as if apparitions, and never left. Despite his best attempts, he has consistently failed at growing close to either.
Well, Remus seems to like fucking with him.
But he doesn’t know what makes either tick. Why they do what they do, what it is about them that entices him.
Even so, here is what he does know:
Remus either sleeps for less than an hour or a full day, no inbetween.
Roman is grandiose when teasing, deadly serious when he’s scared, and otherwise quiet.
Remus acts out purposefully. There’s a level of genuinity to it, but it’s played-up so he’s not forgotten.
Roman doesn’t believe in promises.
He could hear something coming, snapping branches and heavy footfalls. For a second, he lets himself hope it’s a teammate. (He lets himself hope it’s Patton). But truly, it doesn’t matter. He’s dying, maybe already dead. It’s over. Everything.
All of it.
Finally over.
One of the creatures looms over him, strands of saliva breaking across his face. If his mind would stop disconnecting for just a second he could identify it. Determine its weaknesses, a spell to use.
But as fate would have it, he only drifts further away.
He waits for it to bite off his head, but it never comes, even as blood splatters across his face, joining his own. He opened his eyes slightly, senses fading. Patton stands there, sword in hand, creature now headless. With the evening sun haloing him, it suddenly makes perfect sense that Patton is a cleric.
The moment only lasts that long, and then Patton is kneeling down beside him, sword now discarded.
He can hear Patton grunting with the strain of lifting the creature now pinning him down. He wants to tell Patton that it doesn’t matter. It’s okay to leave him, to let him die. But before he can figure out how to get his voice working, the impulse vanishes. There’s a chill as soon as the creature’s gone, soothing on his inflamed skin.
Patton brushes his hair out of his face, pushes down his collar to check for a pulse. The motions are both familiar and so utterly alien that he’s unsure how to feel.
“Can you hear me?” Patton asks softly, placing a hand over his heart.
He nods, to the best of his ability.
“Good,” he mutters. “Good.”
He recognises the fake calm, the mask Patton wears when he thinks someone is truly in danger of dying. He’s heard it used on Janus, both the twins, and he’s sure there was a time Virgil heard it as well. But now he’s joined that count.
Patton’s hands rove his numb body, divine, golden light illuminating the cracks that he hid to be human. He wants to tell Patton to stop, the illusion of him only lasts if he’s viewed at large as whole, but his voice still doesn’t work.
As Patton works, he makes eye contact with Roman, and then Remus. Their eyes widen upon seeing him. He thinks they just noticed him. He thinks the dismissal hurts.
He thinks he can’t hear his heartbeat anymore.
Logan is no stranger to secrets.
But typically, they’re secrets that only he is aware of. This time, he has an accomplice. He can’t tell if that makes it easier to hide things, or more likely that they’ll find their way to surface.
“They’re sending me out.” Janus says, quietly.
Logan’s head whips up, hands fisting in the coarse material of their blankets.
“What?” he responds. “Where? Why?”
“Neverwinter.”
His lips quiver, Janus looks anywhere but him.
“But that’s so far.” It’s barely a whisper, air heavy with unspoken implications. “When do you leave?”
Janus sighs, laying his head on Logan’s shoulder.
“Tonight.” His voice cracks.
“I never thought—it was never supposed to be you.” Logan amends. He forces himself not to cry, he is not the one being sent out. If Janus can stay strong, so can he. It was never supposed to be you. His own words echo in his head as Janus scoffs.
“Yes, it was.”
And it’s true. It was always meant to be Janus.
Ever since they got here, they were assigned their roles. Logan, uniquely positioned within the guild, would grow to be great, a celebrity thief. Janus, of course, would die. Either in the mines, or as expendable fodder at the first available opportunity. There was no glory in a death like that, and maybe that’s the point. People like Logan are raised to be good, and people like Janus are raised to die.
But for a moment, it had seemed, after Logan welcomed Janus into that privilege, that maybe there could be more.
It was over a decade before he met Janus again.
“Fuck,” Patton yells, and he thinks—illogically—that he’s never heard Patton curse before. He doesn’t need to ask what’s wrong. He knows the spell isn’t taking, will never take. There’s a level a human can withstand, and he has long since passed it.
In a nightmare, he lets himself have everything he’s ever wanted.
Janus comes to a stop next to Patton, and he could laugh, watching the normally self-assured man hover uselessly.
“No,” Janus breathes out, something close to horror in his eyes.
Patton responds, “Yes.” Like it hurts him to say.
“Would you die for me?”
It’s a strange question, especially from Virgil, who tends to be so level headed. Everyone else, he could find some form of justification for, but despite their years together, Virgil remains a mystery to him.
“Pardon?” Logan asks, just to verify he heard correctly.
“Would you die for me? Or any of us, for that matter.” Virgil repeats, slower this time.
Logan doesn’t hesitate in his answer, “Of course.”
“Then why do you always let somebody else take the fall?” Virgil doesn’t wait for an answer, eyes glittering. “You say you care for us, but how do you show it? By refusing to take a single hit for anyone.”
This is clearly something festering, like a rotted out wound. It’ll take time to fully remove the doubt Virgil holds, but he can start.
“If it came down to it, I would die for any of you.”
Virgil rolls his eyes. “Right.”
He’s never been as good at lying as Janus.
“Where are the others?”
A haunted look settles on Janus’ face.
“They’re all gone. It’s just us.” With those words, he realises how silent it’s all gotten. No more can he hear Roman’s dramatic declarations, Remus’ maniacal laughter, Virgil’s unidentifiable language.
He watches Patton go through all five stages of grief in a second. He doesn’t want to be another friend to bury.
Why is Janus here?
He stayed behind.
“I missed you,” he admits, words burning like poison on his tongue.
“I didn’t miss you,” Janus replies, and he knows it to be truth.
And then he remembers, like a sledgehammer to the brain, that Remus is a dick. That there had been a five minute long ballad titled “The Sleepy Snake”. That Virgil had begged—half joking—to not be left alone with their quote unquote “resident asshole”.
That he himself had begrudgingly requested Janus’ presence.
At least they’ll have each other, once he’s slipped away.
No sooner does the thought settle then it all goes wrong once more.
Right before him, there’s the thud of an arrow hitting. And then another. One rips through a throat, the other goes straight to a heart.
In succession, like the crown of a king, Janus and Patton fall.
He stands before a court of powerful men and women, and briefly thinks himself to be a god.
“Do you confess to your sins?” the man on the largest throne asks, and Logan nods.
“I do.”
“Do you accept the punishment this council has determined?” the woman to his left asks, tucking a curl behind her ear absentmindedly.
“I do not.”
The room is engulfed by flame.
Nobody dies. He will not sit by and let everyone else die.
“I am not a benevolent man.” Logan stands beneath the stars, his mentor grasping onto his shoulders. The remains of the dilapidated temple are scattered under their feet, cutting up their soles.
He’s older, now. A few years from the guild, several from the fire.
“You asked me once why you were here.”
Logan nods.
He laughs. “So tell me.”
“I don’t want to die.”
Logan first realises he doesn’t want to die at age eight.
It takes much longer for him to realise he can do something about it.
In the end, he was right. The decision is easy. No moral dilemma, no pondering alternative routes. It all comes down to a single choice, and one he makes readily.
Goodbye.
With a deep sigh that echoed throughout his oesophagus, banging against his now-still heart, Logan speaks.
“Gilgeam.”