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Scott woke up gasping. He struggled under the blankets, grasping for nothing, searching blindly for something that wasn’t there.
He will save me, He thought hopefully, He’s here somewhere and he will save me. Save him from what, he did not know, but there was an underlying hope that was diminished with every passing second. Scott quieted, curling in on himself. The bed was empty, save for him.
The resounding explosion was deafening, muffled as he was pushed to the ground. Sand flew everywhere, collapsing under him and his enemies. Scott coughed, trying to get the sand out of his mouth. He looked around with one eye, for the other was temporarily blinded, and saw the mass amounts of damage. Behind him, the strain of a bowstring was the only thing clear enough to get through the ringing in his ears.
The sheet was cold on the other side, as was the pillow. Scott stared at it, waiting for waves of blonde hair to spread across them, for the soft snores to fill the air and rock him back to sleep. He waited. He closed his eyes, hard, and shook his head back and forth. He waited.
The wind whistled. Somewhere in the house, the foundation creaked. Hands gripped the sheets, rustling it together. The usual rhythmic breathing was absent.
Scott slipped out of bed, wiping the sleep from his eyes. There was no use trying to sleep now, with the sun barely peeking over the horizon. That would just be wasting time. He had a game to play, and a game he promised himself he would win.
His hands shook as he turned on the lantern in the kitchen, stopping for a second to watch the flame flit back and forth. It grew taller, then retreated back towards the wick. Scott could hear his footfalls as he walked away only in one ear, the other too damaged to do its job anymore.
Scott heaved himself around, holding a hand to his shoulder as feeling came back in his body enough to feel crimson blood, darker than any blood should be, slowly sliding down his arm. Martyn’s hands shook as he pointed the crossbow, but he had a dark look in his eye that didn’t convey a single feeling of remorse.
“Mar-tyn…” Scott coughed, choking on his words. His voice was dry. A firework was loaded in the bowstring, aimed at his chest. The king's right hand took another step towards him, at the edge of the sandy trench. They made eye contact for a split second, and Scott only thought of how his hair was just like J—
He didn’t hear the shot as it tore through his chest.
Breakfast was potato soup. He instinctively got out two bowls, putting one back. Two spoons, putting one back. One serving, reaching for the other bowl before remembering it wasn’t there. Scott sat at the table and looked at the seat across from him, engraved with the wings of various birds. He wasn’t the one who had done them.
Scott ate, slowly, taking his time to scrape every scoop out of the bowl he could. When he was done, he still felt empty, a gnawing void building in his stomach. He didn’t take another bowl, leaving it on the table.
Passing time was harder alone. He sharpened his sword and axe, polished the armor he had remaining, and he sang quietly to himself. The usual chatter was gone, leaving a suffocating silence. Scott tried to imagine slightly out of time, clunky notes next to his as he sang made up melodies. He choked on the lines that were too familiar, abruptly cutting off before beginning softly again. Tears graced the surface of the newly sharpened sword, sliding off like they had never even been there.
Scott screamed, a guttural sound from the bottom of his chest. It rubbed his throat raw, it exhausted the air in his lungs, and yet he took another breath to yell again.
He missed him.
Everywhere he went in their house, it was all dripping with his memory. He haunted the blankets in the bedroom, the bowls in the kitchen, every breath Scott took without him. There was still a dent in the mattress. There was still a second sword, a slightly messy hoe. A withering flower crown sat in the entryway, messily crafted from poppies.
He was everywhere, and he was gone forever, and Scott missed him with every muscle in his body. He missed him with every passing second, with every meal he ate and word he spoke.
Scott stopped screaming and hung his head.
It was quiet.
Silence.
A buzz from the watch on his wrist. Scott opened his eyes to a bedroom all too familiar. He sighed when he realized his first life was gone, but it didn't matter. He still had two left. The memory of pain echoed through his torso, an ache just under his muscles.
Scott lay there for a second, catching sight of the yellow crystals above his head. The battle should be over soon anyway, and he would just go retrieve his armor (if there was any left) and his husband.
Another buzz. This wasn’t a notification of his death, and he lazily raised the watch into his view, hoping it was one of the enemy's team.
His husband was dead.
Jimmy was dead.
His blood ran cold. It wasn’t right.
It was right.
He lay there, tears rolling down his cheeks, the silence settling in.
Scott fell asleep quietly.