Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Sapnap’s been following a trail of broken branches and pressed grass for close to an hour - he’s had to go slow, keep quiet so he doesn’t give himself away. He doesn’t think he’ll need the advantage, not really, but it helps to have and he isn’t arrogant enough to give it away for no reason. In the end, Sapnap is a hunter first and a knight second, and he slips into this role with an ease that echoes the child he once was. It’s almost enough to distract him from the lump in his throat when he remembers exactly who he learned alongside. Almost. He doesn’t think about that, cuts the thoughts off with brutal efficiency. He follows the trail.

When he finds them, it’s because he spots a familiar sky-blue cloak through the gaps of the trees dotting the end of the forest biome they’d been traversing for a few days now. Figures that George couldn’t just sit pretty for one more day without wandering off. Only a few miles away, a small plains biome opens up - he can see the next forest on the other side, but it’s a welcome change of scenery minus his kidnapped friend.

George’s cloak gave away where the little group had stopped, likely to figure out their next step. Rarely do these mercenary groups make it to this point, with George actually sitting between them on the ground, tied up with a thick rope wound around his arms and, - if Sapnap had to guess - his wrists, too. Sapnap counts four this time, two more than the last group and four less than the group before that. He thinks he’s figured the pattern out and this is too small a crew, too small for taking them in. It would be insulting if they’d sent only four random mercs out to beat him, but Sapnap is nearly a hundred percent sure that they were only meant to do reconnaissance and his fucking fool of a friend wandered right into their grasp by accident. He sees plenty of evidence that they’ve been camped out here a few days, perhaps hoping to cut the two of them off on this part of the path. Or maybe it’s just luck.

Either way, the terrain is in their favor. Sapnap can’t get close, not without giving himself away. They have to leave the plains eventually, though, and the capital is back the way they came. He’s better positioned here than he would be going in sword swinging. And maybe some time tied up will finally get it through George’s thick fucking head to stop wandering every time it’s his turn to keep watch. Sapnap will wait unless he has reason to move in.

He’s barely made himself comfortable when he suddenly has reason to move in, a reason in the form of his loud, spoiled best friend.

“This hurts!” George says primly, regal even after months of hard traveling and lean meals. He’s lost weight in the time since they ran, Sapnap notes with a frown. “At least loosen it! It’s not like I can go anywhere. It’s flat land, you lot would shoot me down immediately!”

“Shut up.” One of the mercs kicks dirt at him and George splutters when the dust and grass gets in his face, “Keep your mouth closed.”

“But you’ve got me tied so tight! What if I lose my hands!?”

“Keep talking and you’ll start losing teeth, princeling.” A second merc plants a foot on George’s back and shoves, pushing him down into the dirt and grass and bearing down, stepping on him even while George squawks and yells, “Now, you’re gonna tell us where your knight is. We don’t have time to wait around and we know he’s hiding somewhere.”

Sapnap fingers the bow he and George share, slowly pulling it from his back. He doesn’t have too many arrows - he usually leaves the shooting to George while he melees, so he’d left most of them along with the rest of their stuff in a hiding spot near their camp - but he has enough for now.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

The second merc leans forward, puts more pressure on George’s back. George lets out another pained yelp, wiggling around underfoot until the merc grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him up. He goes silent with a choked gasp.

“Then you’re an idiot,” The man spits, “You royals are all the same. Fucking arrogant little pricks, wandering around without your knight like you’re still at home. Thinking you’re better than us just because you’ve got a fool knight errant at your side.”

He lets go of George’s neck with a flick of a strong forearm, dropping him back to the ground carelessly. George coughs, dust in his eyes and nose and mouth, and it gives Sapnap a chance to move closer. He hovers in the treeline, waiting.

“You sound jealous,” George says, around a mouthful of soil. Sapnap sighs and pulls his bow back, notches an arrow. Takes careful aim. George and his smart mouth.

“Watch it, princeling,” The first merc, clearly the leader, sneers with a mouth full of brawl-broken teeth, “Job order didn’t say anything about keeping you intact. Could easily cut out your tongue and still get paid a pretty penny. Now,” He leans down, pulling George’s chin up so his gaze is forced upwards, “I’m only going to ask once more before we make it so you can’t answer. Where -”

Sapnap can’t see George’s face, but he hears the heinous loogie he must spit in the guy’s face because the merc rears back with a sound of rage and Sapnap looses his arrow while the man is still wiping his eyes.

There are few sounds as disgusting as the sound of someone hawking a loogie. One of those few sounds is that of a man choking on his own blood. As the arrow sinks into the merc’s neck, Sapnap cannot bring himself to care too deeply. He has more important things to worry about, namely the way the blood sprays over George’s face or the way that the rest of the mercs dissolve into chaos. It doesn’t take long for them to figure out where the arrow came from, but Sapnap is already dodging behind the next tree and then the next, using the high grass as cover to stay lost. He’s not the best archer, and his next two arrows miss before the third hits its mark just as one of the men not holding George comes close enough to enter melee range. The man goes down with an arrow through the eye and Sapnap steps over him as he draws Nightmare to meet the oncoming swordsman. He swings twice with brutal efficiency - once to knock the man’s sword out of his hand, the next to gut him. His opponent drops to the ground, gasping around the wound in his stomach. Sapnap steps over him.

The final merc, the one who had pressed his boot into George’s back, has drawn his sword and kicks George out of the way. He’s the biggest, the broadest, Sapnap assumes he is supposed to be the brawn of the group. When the man roars in anger, Sapnap concedes that he probably has quite the presence on a battlefield with a yell like that. But this isn’t a battlefield, it’s a graveside to a hole yet to be dug, and Sapnap doesn’t fear this random mercenary today.

He brings Nightmare to position.

“You were looking for me?” He says cheekily.

“You-!” The merc shouts, nearly incoherent in rage, and lunges toward him. Sapnap grins, vicious. He dodges the merc’s clumsy attack; anger is easy to take advantage of. Sapnap is angry, too, but he’s had months now to fine-tune it, shape it so it’s less a blunt weapon and more a finely crafted armor. This merc’s anger reeks of fear. Maybe it’s his demon blood, but Sapnap swears he can smell it. Sapnap sidesteps, slams Nightmare into the man’s back, and sends him sprawling over his now-dead companion. He doesn’t bother watching him fall.

“For fuck’s sake, George!” He kneels at George’s side, pulling him up from his sprawl, “You good?”

“Just peachy.” George gags, “There’s dirt in my teeth, Sapnap, it’s disgusting! Knife, please.”

Sapnap pulls a simple knife from his belt, tries to reach for George’s ropes only for George’s clever fingers to snatch the knife from him to do it himself. George tries to maneuver Sapnap’s knife in his hands to let himself free but Sapnap knows he’s only going to end up hurting himself.

“Just let me -” Sapnap starts to order as George glances up at him, but then George shrieks in alarm - “Sap! Behind you!” - and yanks Sapnap out of the way in time to avoid a sword through the back.

Sapnap jolts back to his feet and whirls around, only just bringing Nightmare up in time to block the next incoming swing of the iron sword. The blow is solid enough that momentum moves him back a step and he accidentally trips over George on the ground behind him. He hopes George doesn’t stab himself with the knife while Sapnap’s distracted (it’s happened before).

Nightmare and the merc’s sword grind as they slide against each other until they’re nearly crossed at the hilt, both Sapnap and the merc straining to keep their position.

“Once you’re dead,” the merc snarls, flecks of spittle landing on Sapnap’s face as he holds himself against all the weight, “I’m going to have fun making your princeling pay for what you did to my friends.”

“Dude,” Sapnap grunts as he spots George out of the corner of his eye, thankfully stab-wound free, glancing between the knife and the merc with a sort of how do I help look on his face, “your breath fucking stinks.”

He twists, the merc’s sword skating off Nightmare and into the air just to his left, and George tosses the knife at him right on cue. He catches it and plunges it directly into the man’s thigh in the same movement he takes to snatch it from the air, one fell swoop of sharp blade that slides through skin and muscle easy as pie. There’s a bellow of pain from above him, but it cuts off a second later. Nightmare slides even easier than the knife, buried up to the hilt in the merc’s chest in only a second. Blood drips down and over his hand. It’s warm, soaks into his shirt. Damn, he’ll have to scrub it out before it sets in. He’ll make George do it as penance.

The man slumps forward, all of his considerable weight on Sapnap.

With not insignificant effort, he pushes the man off him, Nightmare sliding out with a slick squelch that makes George go a little green. He ignores the final gurgling and mangled noises from the dying man and turns to George. For someone so recently in a hostage situation, he looks simply put out. There’s a frown on his face that shifts to something more childish and petulant as he holds out his bound wrists.

“What?” Sapnap asks, “Why are you looking at me like that? Worried I would just abandon your sorry ass?”

“Nah,” George says, “I knew you’d come.”

He says it simply, an indisputable fact, and they both know it’s true, even as the anger that he’d swallowed to make sure George was safe is starting to bubble and churn in his stomach.

“Good freakin’ thing I did,” He says, to the background sound of the merc’s last breaths behind him. He recovers his knife and saws until the rope falls away, helps George to his feet before can even open his mouth to whine. The helpless act was funnier when Sapnap wasn’t playing the knight in shining armor.

“The last time I got captured, at least they fed me,” George grumbles, rubbing at his sore wrists.

“These aren’t palace guards,” Sapnap replies, a flash fire flare of temper in his voice, “They were mercs. They don’t care about who you are. They’re only in it for the money, and they will hurt you to get it. You know that.”

“I’m fine, Sapnap,” George rolls his eyes but startles when Sapnap grabs his wrists. He manages to keep his grip gentle, turns George’s hands to check the rope burns and makes sure the skin isn’t broken or any damage has been done aside from some scrapes. George allows it, sporting a bemused expression.

“You might not have been,” Sapnap grits his teeth to restrain his annoyance, and he can’t help but shake George just a little when he’s done looking his wrists over, just to try and shake some damn sense into him, “I told you to stay at the campsite!”

“I’m an adult, I can take care of myself -”

“Says the man who just got himself fucking captured, again -”

“I knew you would find me!” George insists, and Sapnap resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in pained exasperation.

“What,” He says, his voice even by some miracle of restraint, “was so important that you decided to head out on your own when this entire country is tearing itself apart trying to find you? Without me?”

There’s a beat of silence; too silent. There should be a joke, an arm around his shoulders, or slung around George’s. Something to break the silence. Anything.

Instead, the woods stand silent and sentinel. George doesn’t answer, but he does glance away from Sapnap, and that alone is answer enough. Sapnap drops his friend’s wrists with a frustrated sigh. The anger in his chest fizzles out slowly, as he drags his hands down his face. He doesn’t look at George as he takes a deep breath to combat the hollowness at the core of his heart. It’s just another reminder that an integral part of their life is missing, is gone for good maybe, and that alone hurts more than George disregarding his safety on a lark.

He bends down and begins to clean Nightmare on the grassy bank. He still isn’t used to its weight; it was balanced for someone else entirely. Sapnap methodically wipes down the blade with a soldier’s training and all the care of grief. He’s glad George has turned to start picking through the mercs’ remaining supplies, else he might see the briefest hitch of Sapnap’s shoulders.

As he always does, he swallows down the moment. Refuses to feel it, even with this sword in his hand, maintained to a perfection that none of his other weapons are. When he slides it into place at his side, Sapnap feels somewhat better.

“Found anything good?” He asks, clearing his throat roughly.

George shrugs, “Some food, basic weapons we don’t need. Normal stuff.”

“Food’s always a plus,” Sapnap acknowledges, and winces at his own tone. He doesn’t like being angry at George, doesn’t enjoy being frustrated like a parent whose kid keeps wandering off. But gods damn it if that isn’t what it feels like most of the time. It’s hard, being terrified all the fucking time that George is going to be taken from him, too, at any moment. The man’s got the self-preservation skills of a particularly dense duck. “Grab it and let’s go. We shouldn’t hang about and wait for any more of these fuckers.”

George doesn’t answer him, but he does pick up a sack and start collecting the food from the furnace, gathering up the supplies that they can actually use, and tossing aside anything they can’t. Sapnap takes the chance to survey the plain. It’s not very big, more a field than a plain, with none of the naturally roaming herd animals about and little evidence of much else living in it. He doesn’t even spot any tracks, so either those mercs scared everything off when they set up camp a few days ago or this place acts as more of a scenic stop than any important part of the ecosystem. Either way, it’s useless to them. They’ll have to move on, hopefully find a river close by to wash off. His shirt is covered in blood and George will only allow the drying splatters all over his face to stand for so long before even he starts to complain about wanting a bath.

“Here.” George finds him kneeling by one of the bodies, checking it for hints of which faction sent them. When Sapnap looks up, he’s holding out four arrows, two of them bloody. Only one is beyond repair. He’ll ask George to fletch more from the supply of feathers and flint they’ve collected tonight while he’s setting up camp.

The arrows are a peace offering. Silently, Sapnap accepts them and stands up. He breaks the head off the broken arrow to reuse, discards the split body on the ground. George stands with the mostly full sack. They’re both bloody. Sapnap’s still coming down from the pool of fear-anger-adrenaline which has been fueling him for the last some-odd hour, and he’s beginning to feel the fatigue that comes on after every fight, lately. He used to feel like he could run for hours after every success, like each victory was enough to keep him functioning without food or sleep or water for at least a full day after. Now, each victory is hollow - just a part of the day, a part of survival.

Just another week or two. Just another week or two, and then maybe they’ll be able to settle down somewhere safe and Sapnap can just rest until he’s got his strength back, fatten himself and George up again with sleep and good food and security. He’ll come back, once he has George settled; he’s sworn to himself that he would return, but even a half-demon needs to recuperate before he can just dive right back into the thick of it.

Still, that’s a week. This is the third group of mercs they’ve run into in the last ten days. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a big deal if not for George’s sudden new lust for solo adventure. The last two weeks have been a steady hell of George taking every chance to skitter off somewhere while Sapnap’s back is turned. Sapnap goes to rub his face or pinch his nose, then realizes he has blood still caked onto his skin, under his nails, and crusting in the creases of his fingers. He just barely holds himself back from accidentally smearing it across his face.

“They’re getting desperate.” He decides. “They know we’re close to the border.”

He doesn’t mention how he’s getting more than a little desperate himself. Desperation breeds exhaustion, and right now he just wants to set up camp and get some gods damned rest even though he’s only been awake for less than two hours. His arms ache. Nightmare isn’t his, doesn’t appreciate being used by someone who isn’t its master, and it drags at his hip in punishment.

“Maybe we should leave the paths.” George digs around the sack, pulls out a perfectly ripe apple and hands it to Sapnap, “Be a little more discreet.”

“I don’t know these forests well enough to leave the main path.” Sapnap hates to admit it but he doesn’t. There’s no point in lying; it’s just George. He knows much worse about Sapnap than that he isn’t brushed up on the geography of the eastern border of Kinoko. Sapnap should have bought a map the last time they were in a town, but it had seemed like a risk he wasn’t able to take at the time, finding a cartographer willing to sell.

“Maybe we can find a guide?” George offers the apple more emphatically and Sapnap reluctantly takes it. When he bites in, the flesh is crisp and sweet. He’s suddenly ravenous. He eats the apple, core and all, and licks the droplets of juice from his fingertips. When he looks up, there’s a thick slab of dried meat waiting. He eats that, too, while they finish picking over the camp. He doesn’t answer George’s question. He doesn’t have one. A guide would help, for sure, and George probably isn’t very familiar to the people in this region. It might be worth the risk.

“We’ll worry about it later.” Sapnap decides when the camp has been cleaned out and he’s piled all four bodies together just out of immediate sight, “For now, we backtrack to get our stuff and then cross the forest going east.”

“Still to Snowchester?”

“Still to Snowchester.” Sapnap confirms and takes the sack from George’s hands to sling it over his shoulder. George takes the bow and the rest of the arrows, thoughtlessly twirls one between long, thin fingers.

The walk back to their camp is quiet. It takes only half an hour, Sapnap more confident with his retreat than his approach, and they collect their things quickly, long used to the routine. The sack gets redistributed into the enderchest they switch off wearing on their backs like a pack. George tracks down the river not too far from camp where he’d caught the fish they’d eaten for dinner the night before and they take the chance to scrub off. By the time George is complaining about his fingers hurting as he scrubs a rough brush to get the blood out of his and Sapnap’s shirt both - his punishment for wandering off during watch - Sapnap’s calmed down. He finds a smile comes easier to his face while he listens to George complain. It reminds him of when they were kids, when he was barely a teen and George was the tallest of them due to the extra years he had on them, and his dad would catch them doing things they weren’t supposed to. Bad would never tell the Queen or the Prince Consort, but he would make all three of them do laundry until their hands were raw.

He cleans Nightmare properly while George takes care of their clothes, an oiled cloth and stone at his side to sharpen its edges. It pulses occasionally, the netherite prickling at his fingertips, tasting his identity. His own netherite sword, when he still had it, warmed in his palm when it recognized him. Nightmare stays cold, as if it’s never been touched by skin before. It comforts Sapnap somehow, how stubborn this fucking sword is. Three months and some odd weeks (one hundred and sixteen days to be exact) he’s been fighting with it nonstop and it still doesn’t recognize a new master. Sapnap knows that the day this sword warms in his hand, he’ll truly give up hope. But that day isn’t today, and probably won’t even be tomorrow, so he puts it out of his head.

One day at a time. Maybe two if he’s feeling frisky. Sapnap hasn’t felt frisky in a while.

“Come here,” Sapnap says, eventually putting Nightmare to the side and picking up one of the cleaner cloths to wring it out in the gently flowing water. George, in comparison to his earlier complaints, doesn’t say a word as Sapnap directs him to the bank of the river, gets him to sit down, and with a softness that surprises even himself, begins to clean the blood from George’s face. He startles at first, seemingly having forgotten that there’s a mix of blood and mud dried and caked on his skin.

“Thanks,” he says, a little hoarsely, when Sapnap dips the significantly dirtier cloth in the river.

“No problem,” Sapnap replies, and can almost imagine that George is thanking him for everything else too.

They redress eventually. Sapnap’s shirt dries supernaturally fast, lightly steaming when it touches his skin until the dampness has gone away. George isn’t so lucky. Sapnap doesn’t offer to help, because it’s just part of the punishment. Sapnap is petty, sue him. In the long run, George will forget his discomfort and do whatever he wants to do again, but at least Sapnap can have this tiny little revenge. George’s dirty looks mean he knows it, too, and that makes it all the sweeter.

They set out with the sun high. The field gets left behind within an hour. They keep off the path, but only just, Sapnap fearful of getting them lost and George of losing his footing if he doesn’t keep his eyes on the ground in front of him. They play the same games every day to pass the time and they got old within the first week but they do it every day anyway. George names something that starts with an A, and then Sapnap names something that starts with a B, and then George picks up. When they reach Z, they go backward. If one of them hesitated, which stopped happening around three months ago, he’s in charge of making dinner that night. When that gets boring, they make up songs together. Sapnap laughs so hard he cries at one point while George smugly recites a dirty tavern song as if making a royal proclamation. It’s fun, for as boring and tiring and frustrating it is. If he’s forced to trek the entire kingdom on the run, he’s glad he’s doing it with his best friend.

They stop when night is starting to set in, with maybe thirty minutes of light left. Sapnap has this camp thing down to a science by this point; they have their tent in the enderchest so he pulls it out and snaps the fasteners into place while George sets about lighting a fire and putting their torches in a wide semicircle to protect their campsite from mobs. They’ve got plenty of food from the mercs so they don’t need to go hunt, a boon in an unfamiliar and unsafe forest. Sapnap leaves George to set out the beds and pulls out three apples and three slabs of dried beef. He fills their three cups with water from his water skin and then sets the apples and meat by the fire to warm while they finish up securing their tent.

When they sit down, George stares at the third serving still sitting by the fire. Like every night, Sapnap is going to leave it right there. By morning, some scavenger will have taken off with it (or, maybe, somehow, by some stroke of luck, by some miracle, it would be -) and it will be gone. Part of Sapnap wants George to acknowledge it. Wants him to ask, wants him to get upset or angry or nod in understanding or demand that Sapnap just accept it like he has. Part of Sapnap begs every single night for George to acknowledge the extra rations. To open the door to questions.

The rest of Sapnap doesn’t want either of them to broach the topic. He’s tender, raw, there’s a pain in his chest that hurts too badly to even attempt to speak around it.

He eats his apple. George doesn’t say anything about the ration. George eats his apple, too.

“I’ll take first watch.” George offers when they’ve eaten and night has fallen. The distant groans of zombies, the skittering of spiders just outside of the lights is a familiar backdrop. It used to be that Sapnap couldn’t sleep, always terrified that he’d close his eyes and a mob would creep close enough to kill them while he rested. Now, he sleeps on a needle’s point, anyway. If anything crosses the perimeter of the camp, he’ll wake up. Anything except George, at least, who Sapnap’s sleeping mind is so used to that he could do a whole one-man act and Sapnap would snore right through it.

“I slept last night.” Sapnap denies, “You rest. You had a rough start to your day.”

“You did, too, Sap.” George frowns at him, “Sleep. You can’t call five hours every three days a good amount of rest.”

“I’m fine, really,”

“Sapnap.” George points firmly at their beds, “Sleep. I promise, I won’t wander off. I’ll stay right here. If you open your eyes, I’ll be the first thing you see.”

Sapnap hesitates. Usually, he’d fight it. Usually, he’d smack George’s hand down and bully George into laying down. But...

“Don’t run off again,” Sapnap says, but any bite in his voice is stifled by a yawn. He’s so fucking exhausted. Any response from George is missed entirely, as Sapnap drops his head onto the bed, sleep dragging him down between one breath and the next. He’s out like a light.

It’s dark. There are echoing screams in the distance, shouts of panic but they are stretched thin, twisted into unrecognizable shapes. His chest is burning, ribs clenching like a vice around his heart as his feet pound on familiar stone, down the hallways of his childhood. For all that he knows this place as well as he knows himself, he finds that he’s utterly lost.

The shouts get closer. Metal on stone slabs, broken vases and ripped tapestries trampled underfoot; a chase underway. Sapnap isn’t sure whether he is the hunter or the hunted. There’s a crash behind him. When he turns, a shadow stands shaking in the wake of a fallen suit of armor.

“They’ll,” the shadow says, features hidden by panic and shadow in the hallway; their voice trembles on the edge of tears, “They’ll kill me if they find me. I don’t wanna die, man, please. Please.”

Like a rehearsed script, Sapnap’s feet turn towards the shadow. A doorway appears on his left, a servant's path he only knows from his years exploring, and his mouth moves without conscious thought, “In here, quick, they won’t know to look in here.”

His sword is balanced in his grip, warm. The shadow stumbles forward; their clothes, that of an assistant or some kind of advisor are always the clearest in this dream, the blue tie loose and disheveled and brighter than anything around them. Ripped and ragged like a noose. He remembers the bruises, if not the face. The blood, if not the features. So much blood.

They always only just make it in time. Sapnap swings the door closed as the footsteps crescendo into a cacophony of metal and clanging and shouts. He can never tell if these knights were the ones that raised him or the ones trying to take the throne. Either way, his hand positions itself over the mouth of the shadow he saved. Against his chest, he can feel the graceless, frantic dash of a heart unused to combat. Smell the fear, so intense he thinks he'll never fully clear it from his senses. The shadow is crying, great shuddering, perfectly silent sobs. Blood seeps down Sapnap’s hand where he holds it over a panting mouth. He feels the edges of a wound with the tips of his fingers.

It’s here that the lines between his memory and fantasy begin to blur, colors dripping around him like a painting left out in the rain. It all begins to drip and melt together, the safety of the door eroding away second by second. Even with his hand over their mouth, the shadow begins to babble, “It’s too late, it’s too late, they saw me, I’m gonna die here, you let them kill me, oh fuck, it’s too late, it’s too late -”

“No,” Sapnap tries to say, “I saved you. I got you out, I saved you -” but no sound leaves his lips. Sapnap doesn’t even get a chance to tell them to be quiet, to try and push away the voiced fear that is all too close to reality; he is, was, will be, too late, always too late, and no amount of protests will make it otherwise.

The shadow’s voice is cut off as a sword slips through the door as if it isn’t there, and they barely make a sound as they crumple to the floor, the door fading away to nothing. It slid through that thin protection as easy as butter, and through the shadow even easier. Sapnap looks into a shocked, terrified, tear-and-blood-stained face and watches with horror as they melt into nothing. Somehow, though he doesn’t give the shadow his sword in this version, he is suddenly without his weapon anyway.

“You’ve already failed,” The faceless knight holding the sword growls, “You’ll never make it in time.”

Sapnap doesn’t bother with a response, just pushes past the threats made of running paint and dripping ink. He has to get to them. He can’t fail them. He can’t.

It beats desperate in his heart, that last broken promise, and he already knows he is too late.

He tries to run faster but it’s like trying to run through honey, through molasses, and he’s never going to get there in time.

The doors to the throne room take no effort at all to move under his hands, thin and indistinct. When they burst open, he sees the scene laid out before him. All that is clear is the same image that haunts the space behind his eyelids every single day, every single blink since this moment.

Sapnap is late, he’s always been too late, always will be, nothing but a failure to the two people who always mattered to him more than himself.

He tries to shout. But the honey, the molasses is up to his chest, his neck, pressing down and choking the voice from him even as he screams, helpless and desperate; GEORGE! GEORGE, PLEASE, WHERE IS HE, WHERE IS -

Sapnap bolts straight upright, familiar name tangled in his throat, hand already clenched tight in the air where he’d been reaching out in his dream. He drops it, finds Nightmare at his side, the grip chilled in his palm. Outside the tent, he hears a flock of birds startled by something, taking to the skies and heading off into the moonless night.

He’s panting, he realizes. Like he just ran a mile sprint or had been yelling for an hour straight. Maybe he had been. His hands shake as he pulls Nightmare closer to him, letting it sink deep into the earth, using it to ground himself. Sapnap remembers learning once that a brain can’t just make up faces, and so everyone in your dreams is someone you have already met. In the same way, Sapnap’s nightmares never tell him anything he doesn’t already know and this was no exception. He failed them, both of them, and all he’s left with is a best friend he can’t really talk to and a sword that isn’t his.

“It’s still a stupid fucking name,” He mutters, and his chest aches with the lack of answer. No, okay, pandas shot back his way.

Taking a few deep breaths, he finally lifts his head to look at George. He doesn’t know what he’ll say; his nightmares are routine at this point, but whether George has either noticed or is willing to broach the topic is a whole different question. He’s more likely to claim a migraine and let this conversation hang in the air between them for another three long months. Every aftermath of this dream ends the same way, with George’s “Drop it, Sap,” in the voice that neither of them ever argued with because it was used so rarely.

Sapnap blinks. Blinks again. His heart, so recently racing, jumps into action like an electric shock. His limbs move without thought, on his feet before he can even realize what he’s doing.

George is gone. Again.

“Fucking - George!” Sapnap hisses into the darkness of the forest, “George! Where the fuck are you?”

It's still night. He can hear mobs, some closer than others. The hisses of spiders and long, pained groans of zombies, the distant twang of skeletons fighting. There are creepers behind every tree, it feels like, and the darkness of the forest around them is impenetrable. Their torches barely bring light a foot out, their glow smothered quickly by the heavy shadow of ancient trees. Their fire is low, close to near embers. He'd guess it's gone unattended for at least an hour. George could be -

Panic bubbles in his chest, static threatening to send him running into the trees in a desperate search. He swallows it down, lets it turn into adrenaline, lets it fuel him. It works, to an extent. He can see a trail, footprints in the dew-fragile grass, George’s barely used sword gone from their supplies. He should go slow, careful. But all Sapnap can see is exactly what happened the last time he was too slow, too late. He hesitates but the fear wins out and he races into the trees.

He grabs a torch as he passes, not bothering to obfuscate their camp.

“George, you motherfucker,” He whispers into the woods, louder than it should be but at least quieter than the yell he wants to let out, “George!”

The trail goes further into the thickets, and Sapnap, already out of breath from his dream and steam curling from his arms, kneels for just a moment to check it. Only one set of footprints, no sign of a struggle or anyone other than his stupid, idiotic friend. Except…

Except that a footfall away, George’s diamond sword is lying abandoned amongst the moss and the leaves. Except that for all his foolishness, George should know better than to abandon his weapon, especially if he thought to pick it up in the first place. Except he might already be too late.

He stares at the sword for just a second, blood roaring in his ears as he tries to process, tries to think, tries to force his limbs to move so he can go, so he can do his gods damned job.

He can’t.

His heart is too loud, his breathing too shaky, and if he doesn’t move, he’s going to get his friend killed.

It can’t have been more than a few seconds, but time drags on for Sapnap until his breath catches and his feet move and -

Cold iron presses an icy kiss to his throat.

“Funny,” an unfamiliar voice says, “I’ve never caught a hunter off his guard like this. If you want my advice, man? You should take better care of your possessions or you end up losing them.”

Sapnap is moving before his assailant can say another word. He ignores the sting as the blade cuts shallowly into the skin of his neck, just pushes forward and down into a roll. He grabs George’s abandoned sword with his free hand on the spring back up, turning in a low circle and bringing the points of both blades up in a narrow arch.

It’s less than a second later that the stranger blinks back at him, eyes wide as the two swords cross at his throat. He drops his sword to the ground without being instructed. Specks of Sapnap’s bloodstain the trail that George left behind. He can feel it trickling down his neck, staining into his shirt. He won’t be bothered to wash it out a second time until at least a few days from now so that will be fun.

“Where is he?” Sapnap snarls, “Tell me where he is and I’ll make it quick.”

“Whoa, whoa, I come in peace!”

“You should have thought of that before you took him and nearly cut my throat -”

“First of all, you cut your own throat. Secondly, I didn’t take anyone, we found him -”

“We?”

The assailant’s Adam’s apple bobs dangerously close to the edge of the twin swords as he swallows. As close as he is now, Sapnap can make out his features even in the darkness of the forest; a face younger than he would have expected, beanie shoved over long black hair and a scar marring his right eye, turning one cloudy and blue. The scar drags down his cheek, almost bisecting his lip. He’s shorter than Sapnap by just a bit, broad but overall thin, wiry in a way that speaks to stealth rather than brute force. It’s probably why he approached Sapnap as he did, if he had any lick of sense about him. It’s what Sapnap would have done. It still doesn’t mean that he lets down his guard.

All of this hangs in the air for a moment as his assailant opens his mouth, ready to snap back or to explain or to try and bargain his way out of it. Before he speaks, though, his eyes flicker over Sapnap’s shoulder, and then his mouth drops open in fright. Sapnap really hates when that happens.

The man says something and points but all that Sapnap hears is a horribly recognizable hissing.

He doesn’t think. He drops Nightmare and the diamond sword and dives forward, tackling the man to the dense forest floor just as the hissing escalates, and then there is a small, contained boom behind them.

His heritage offers some protection from the blast - the heat of it, at least, absorbs into his skin with ease, but the force of it sends them both cartwheeling through the air. The stranger clings to him, shrieking.

Sapnap had dropped the torch. He’d dropped the torch and the light had grown too dim, and that explosion will only draw more of its ilk.

“Holy fucking prime.” The man says shakily from where Sapnap accidentally pinned him to the ground, “G-get off.”

“Sorry,” Sapnap says without thinking - he shouldn’t be fucking apologizing to someone who’s kidnapped his best friend, but he’s polite out of instinct - and sits up on his knees. He looks around in the dark of the forest. Nightmare pulses a dark purple, the gleam bouncing off the diamond sword not too far. Both swords had skittered across the leaves but, thankfully, hadn’t blown up.

A low chittering sound begins, familiar, as patches of lime green begin to rustle through the underbrush.

Sapnap stands quickly, legs a little wobbly. The man stands too, and suddenly Sapnap has an armful of human (presumably) as he stumbles. Sapnap’s lucky he has good balance, or they both would have gone back down.

“We have to run -” the man says, fingers closing on Sapnap’s sleeve, “C-creepers -”

“I need my sword.” Sapnap tries to pry his hands off, “Get off, I need to get my sword!”

“But -”

It’s Sapnap that sees it this time, the dreaded green trundling closer, the chittering turned hissing as the whole animal starts to pulse and glow.

“Fuck!” Sapnap curses, yanks the man closer, and takes off for Nightmare. The man shrieks again, goes from pulling at Sapnap to clinging to him. They manage to avoid most of the knockback from the exploding creeper, Sapnap scooping Nightmare up without pause as soon as it comes into reach. The man doesn’t let go of him, his fingers curling painfully into Sapnap’s arm.

“Get off me!” He seethes, trying to wriggle out from the man’s death grip, “Get - ugh -”

The man is too busy yelling, pulling himself and Sapnap backward rather than going on the attack, spouting off utter nonsense that is more than likely to draw even more attention to them.

“Fucking creepers, fuck, fucking hell, fucking fuck -”

“Get off, I can’t fight with you hanging on -”

Another creeper surprises him. This one is already pulsing when it creeps from the bush right next to them, thick black eyes staring straight into Sapnap’s just as it explodes. He barely has time to tuck his new screaming limpet against his chest to protect him from most of the heat as they’re sent rolling. His ears are ringing. The man’s still screaming.

“You have to let me go so I can fight!” He tries to reason, voice loud and angry. He thinks he hears more chittering coming closer - the zombies definitely sound like the noise has drawn them nearer. They’re about to be overwhelmed.

“If I let you go, you’ll kill me!” The man shakes his head and Sapnap should feel bad because he’s obviously terrified but also he’s holding on to Sapnap’s sword arm and he needs that arm.

“I’ll kill you if you don’t let go!”

“Just kill them first!”

Sapnap swears, low and dirty and filled with the worst things he can remember from the royal barracks, and swings Nightmare with his bad hand with all of the frustration and anxiety and anger he’s been holding on to for months now. All that matters is that it sinks into the strangely textured skin of a creeper as it comes closer and the creature hisses as it dissolves into smoke.

“I’m trying! Let go or you’ll kill us both, you fucking - fuck!” Sapnap staggers as the man only plasters himself to Sapnap’s back, holding on for dear life in the world’s most unstable piggyback ride. Another creeper trundles slowly towards them, chittering as it advances. Sapnap swings the sword, ignoring how the person on his back yelps when it passes far too close to his nose.

“Hey, watch it, I’ve already got a scar there!”

If he thought it would help, the words “Then get off my back, you dickhead!” would have already left his mouth. As it was, he is far too busy trying to push them both far enough away from the oncoming explosion.

A blast of dirt and leaves hits his face and they both go tumbling back down to the ground. His newest responsibility lets out a pained wheeze as Sapnap lands awkwardly on top of him again. If there wasn’t a wiggling, protesting probably-human underneath him, Sapnap would be able to turn around faster. He can already hear the approach of another mob, that same garbled hissing through his ringing ears. Only this time, he knows he isn’t going to get away.

Even through the static in his ears, he hears the notch and loose of an arrow as clear as a bell. A rush of steam erupts as the creeper fades away into nothing, leaving only a pile of gunpowder at their feet.

“Thank prime.” The man under him finally relaxes his grip and goes limp on the ground. Sapnap slowly opens his eyes and looks up.

George is pale, face pinched in the way it does when he gets one of his headaches, but his eyes are focused as he lowers the bow. Next to him, another unfamiliar figure stands. It takes a moment for Sapnap to focus on them and at first, he thinks it’s because of the proximity of the explosion, before he realizes that it’s because the stranger is wearing a frankly eye-watering mismatch of clothes, glowing in torchlight. Who the fuck are these people?

Reality slams back into him as he scrambles to his feet and over to George, ignoring the groan as he elbows the person below him again.

“Are you okay?” He demands, “Did they hurt you?”

“I’m fine, I’m good, I’m great -” George says, face clearing, “Look who needed saving this time, huh?”

Sapnap socks him in the shoulder.

“Ow!” George throws him a wounded look, “I just saved your stupid face, and this is the thanks I get?”

“It wouldn’t have needed saving if you stuck to the camp like you were supposed to!” Sapnap replies, smoke starting to curl from under his shoulders. He could cry from the frustration and the relief.

“Sap,” George frowns, but Sapnap has only just gotten started.

“You already got tied up once today, and apparently you’re trying to get yourself killed, wandering off into the woods in the middle of the night! I’m supposed to protect you, but how can I do that if you keep putting yourself in danger?!”

“I was fine -”

“You might not have been!!” Sapnap takes a deep breath, curling his hands in and out of fists. Nightmare is cold in his palm, bringing him just enough clarity that he doesn’t start setting things on fire on accident like he did as a kid. “You could be dead, or taken prisoner, and I’d never have fucking known! Or worse, I could be dead and you’d be stuck out here on your own! Did you consider that? Did you even think that through, that you could get us both killed? I can’t lose you, too, George, I can’t fucking do it again -”

“I was trying to help!” George shouts back, throwing his hands up, “You think I don’t notice how tired you are? That you’ve been taking watch almost every single night because you can’t trust me to take care of us both? Believe it or not, I know it’s my fault that we have people after us, and I know it’s my fault that I’m not a fighter, and I know it’s my fault whenever they catch up to us because I’m not built for this like you are!”

George has always been an easy crier, Sapnap thinks. He cried at skinned knees and desserts skipped and unfair chore delegations. He’s always been an easy crier, too, but they usually steam off his cheeks before they have the chance to fall. As George wipes his eyes furiously on his sleeve, Sapnap feels the heat on his skin simmer and burn out, steam rising at the corners of his eyes for just a second until he’s calmed down. The two of them always had someone else wiping their faces before. But it’s just them, now, escalating and escalating stupid fights with no one to referee until they end up here, yelling at each other in front of two strangers by torchlight, surrounded by craters and darkness. Sapnap feels like he’s lost a limb and half his heart all at once, and he’s just...tired. He’s so tired.

“I thought I saw something in the woods,” George says when they’re both a little calmer, “And I was going to sort it out while you were asleep. You weren’t supposed to wake up before I got back.”

“Hey, Gogy, hey,” The childhood nickname slips out; he’s still angry, months of built-up tension isn’t going to be solved by some shouting and tears, but in the end, George is still his best friend. He’s still the only thing Sapnap has left. It only takes a moment’s deliberation to pull George into a hug, tucking his chin on top of George’s head, the same way they did as kids. They’re safe, they’re alive. That’s all that matters.

“Sorry,” George says, voice rough, “Sorry, Sapnap, I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“It’s okay,” Sapnap says, trying to force himself to believe it, “It’s alright. I’m sorry for shouting, just… Just don’t wander off like that again. Okay?”

“I’ll do my best,” George’s voice is muffled in Sapnap’s chest, but he at least looks sincere when he pulls away and meets Sapnap’s eyes. Sapnap hates that he doesn’t believe him.

There’s an awkward cough behind them. Sapnap’s assailant has been helped off the ground by the walking eyesore, resting an arm on their shoulder as they brush the dirt and remains of creepers from their clothes.

Sapnap has Nightmare and George has his bow and quiver of arrows, so Sapnap isn’t worried or intimidated. He is pissed, though, and he’s ready for answers.

“Before anyone does anything rash,” says the eyesore, “can we just talk?”

“About what?” Sapnap says through gritted teeth.

“About your apparent status as creeper-bait, fucking Prime, I’ve never seen so many in one place! What did you do, sign up for a creeper meet-up or something -”

“Q...”

"What, Karl!? Did you see all those!? Since when do creepers travel in fuckin’ pods!?"

"We just wanted to help George get back to camp." Karl, apparently, decides to ignore Q's grumbling and just talk to Sapnap, "He stumbled upon us when we were walking and we didn't wanna just leave him out here."

"He said you'd be cautious, but he didn't tell me you'd try to slit your own throat! Thanks for the warning, George."

"You what!?"

"Don't worry about it." Sapnap waves him off, "What were you two doing wandering in the forest at night? It's dangerous. That one can't even fight!"

"That's why I'm here." Karl pats his chest with an unassuming smile. "Now that you mention it, we probably should have sent me out to find you and kept Quackity with George, huh? Hindsight's twenty-twenty!"

Oh, he's a ditz. Sapnap doesn't lower his guard, but he does decide that it's safer for him and George to get far away from these fools before they end up getting killed. What the fuck kind of name is Quackity, anyway? Sapnap doesn't want to die, least of all to some idiot named Quackity.

"Okay." Sapnap decides. "Well, thanks for bringing him back. We're leaving now."

"We are?" George hooks his bow over his shoulder, "But -"

"We're leaving," Sapnap says in a tone he hopes brokers no arguments. It never works, but he always hopes.

"But it's dark and they only have one torch." George says reasonably, "They should come to camp with us."

Sapnap casts a suspicious look at the two strangers. Karl is watching them with wide eyes. He's taller than Quackity, his hair free and insanely fluffy and brown, eyes steel gray in the torchlight. There’s something in his eyes that makes Sapnap uncomfortable, like he’s under review. Quackity is rubbing his shoulders out, wincing. They look harmless. Sapnap doesn’t trust either of them as far as he can throw them (though he could probably throw both of them very far).

He yanks George close and lowers his voice.

"These are strangers and we have an entire country attempting to kill us."

“To be fair, they didn’t kill us when they could have?”

“That’s not a ringing endorsement!"

"Sapnap." George pats his shoulder, "They're coming to camp with us because we need their torch and they need a safe place to sleep for the night. It's a win-win."

"I don't like this."

"You have Nightmare." George motions, "We're perfectly safe."

Sapnap doesn't want to agree. He wants to stamp his feet into the ground and hold firm until these two freaks disappear back into the dark forest they came from. Instead, he begrudgingly nods. Those groans are getting ever-closer and there’s no telling how many other mobs are out and about, just watching them or close to stumbling upon them. It isn’t safe out here, and the longer they stand and talk, the more danger they’re in.

"Fine." He says loud enough for them to hear. "You can come to camp with us. But I want your weapons where I can see them and I'm taking the torch."

Karl and Quackity exchange a glance and then Quackity nods.

"Sounds fair, big man."

Karl offers the torch and Sapnap steps forward to grab it.

"Weapons." He says firmly and Quackity looks around to find his discarded sword.

"Well. I had one..." He says when he spots it. A creeper's explosion has destroyed it; the blade twisted from heat and cracked, the grip mostly gone.

"I've got these." Karl lifts up his shirt to show off a few small daggers at his hip, "Not really a bruiser, if you know what I mean."

"You two are walking at night in a forest with six daggers and a single iron sword?" Sapnap can't help but blink at them. They're crazy. They're absolutely crazy.

"Well. I mean," Quackity says defensively, "We didn't have any trouble until you two showed up. We’re wily."

Sapnap wants to snap something back but he holds it together and just starts walking instead. He doesn't care. Whatever.

They follow him, George at his side and the strangers at his back. He holds tight to Nightmare the whole way.

Camp is as he left it, except that the fire has burnt out to nothing but weak embers. He uses the torch to relight it, and George and Karl collect some firewood from around the edges of camp while Quackity and Sapnap silently stare each other down.

"Thanks for…" Quackity eventually fidgets, his fingers rolling paper and loose tobacco with practiced ease, drumming on his knees as he lights it on the embers of the fire, "Back there."

"No problem," Sapnap says instead of you almost killed us, fucker. Quackity must hear it anyway because he grins big and cheesy. It makes his eyes squint closed, the scar pulling a little. In the brighter light of camp, Sapnap can see it isn't truly old. It looks magically healed, which works faster but is rarely prettier. It's better to let things heal naturally when possible; magic does a rush job. This scar is thin but wicked, over the eye and down the cheek. It looks like a sword wound. It makes Sapnap suspicious, but he doesn't care to probe further. Instead, he rolls his eyes and goes back to tending the fire.

The quiet endures until the fire is roaring again. George sits close to it while Sapnap goes around the edges of camp to double-check the torches marking their camp perimeter and checking their tent. Their beds are still intact, Sapnap’s blanket pooled on the ground where it had slipped off earlier. Karl and Quackity don’t wander around - Karl lays his cloak out on the ground and they both sit on it, Quackity plopping a small pack between them and pulling out field rations for them to both munch on. Sapnap watches Karl offer some to George, who shakes his head with a smile. Quackity taps his cigarette on the side of his leg, the ash scattering to the wind.

Sapnap is just beginning to think that this is the end of the nightmare, that they’ll all half-sleep around the fire until morning, and then the two will be off and he and George can be on their way, when George fucks it all up.

“So…where are you headed?”

“Oh, you know,” Karl says, shrugging, “Here and there. My job takes me all over.”

George visibly brightens at that and turns to Sapnap with the world’s biggest puppy eyes. Sapnap resolutely ignores him.

“And what is your job?” Sapnap asks because if George is going to open up conversation, he at least is going to get some information out of it.

“Librarian. I collect books, too.” Karl says, promptly “And I do a bit of this and that on the side.”

Sapnap waits for him to elaborate, but when there doesn’t seem to be anything forthcoming, he nods to Quackity.

“And him?”

“Library assistant,” Karl replies, even as Quackity splutters, stubbing his cigarette out on the dirt at his feet.

“I’m a lot more than that, I’m an entrepreneur-”

Karl rolls his eyes, but his tone is fond, “Keep telling yourself that, Quackity.”

Sapnap blinks at them both. “You mean to say,” He starts carefully, “That you came out into the wilds, a librarian and a freaking assistant -”

“Entrepreneur-”

“Whatever,” Sapnap waves past the interruption, “You came out here with your assistant? How in the name of Prime have you not been killed yet? You stack books for a living!”

“Fuckin’ beats me,” Quackity says, low, and Karl punches him lightly on the arm.

“I don’t just stack books! I’m a learned man, okay? A keeper of knowledge! I’ve got a pretty good map section back in my library and I know all sorts of things!” He says, and his eyes dart to Sapnap and then away again quickly as Sapnap visibly stiffens, “I know my way around, for instance.”

George grabs Sapnap’s arm. “Sapnap-”

“I already know what you’re going to ask and the answer is no, George.”

George pulls him close, talking in a loud voice that Sapnap is certain the others can hear anyway, “You were literally complaining yesterday about getting lost, this is perfect!”

“First of all, I was not lost. I said we couldn’t stray from the fucking path. Second of all, and more important, I think, is that we can’t trust them.”

“Oh yeah? Well, apparently we can’t trust our sense of direction to get us out of this country without running into every person under the gods damn sun, either, so we need -”

“Ahem,” Quackity clears his throat pointedly, before their bickering spirals into another argument, “Couldn’t help but overhear you’re also headed across the border, is that right?”

Sapnap glares at George, but this is a fight he can already feel himself losing. For being physically stronger than George, he sure ends up losing a lot of fucking fights.

“Yeah.” He acquiesces.

Karl makes a sympathetic noise, “Because of the political mess in the capital, right?”

“Yeah,” Sapnap says, because it’s as good an excuse as any.

“I know a lot of people trying to head out discreetly, same as you,” Karl says with sympathy, and Sapnap bristles.

“What do you mean discreetly? We’re not being discreet.”

“Okay,” Karl says, like he doesn’t believe him.

“We aren’t!”

“Uh, dude, you’re camping in the woods,” Karl says, marking them off on his fingers as he goes, “even though there’s a town like a stone’s throw off the path an hour back that way. You keep talking about being chased and lost your shit when you thought your friend got taken like being kidnapped is a normal occurrence, and you are, like, paranoid as fuck with us right now even though I’m a noodle man and Quackity here comes up to our collective knees.”

“Hey!” Quackity shoves him but Karl just locks his arms around Quackity in an oddly competent hold that keeps him pinned as he struggles and curses before eventually huffing and going still. He doesn’t break eye contact the whole time. Sapnap doesn’t like it.

“That’s…” Sapnap trails off, fingers reflexively tightening on Nightmare’s hilt. Fuck. Is it so obvious? He can feel the anxiety prickling at him. Do they look like fugitives? Run-aways? Is it obvious enough that people might report them? Sapnap thought they just looked like travelers. Is there more to this than he thought?

“You get pretty good at people-watching in my job,” Karl shrugs before his face softens and he lets Quackity go, “We’re not stupid. In fact, I think we could help each other.”

“And why in Prime's name should we trust you?” Sapnap snaps.

“Helping each other would be fuckin’ swell! I’d rather not die to more creepers now that my sword is basically useless.” Quackity says, finally going still in the prison Karl has made with his arms, “We can’t afford another iron sword and you clearly know your way around a weapon and George seems pretty good with a bow.”

George preens at the praise, but Sapnap just clenches his jaw. “Get to the point.”

“Alright, alright, chill out, man,” Quackity holds up his hands, “Look, you’re a fighter. I’m not and Karl is passable but not like...well, not like what you just did with the creepers back there. And we know our way around while you guys apparently don’t. And more specifically, we know how to get out of the country quietly. We can help you get to where we’re all going, and you can provide a bit of protection for us until then. You know, seeing as you were so concerned about us just wandering at night with minimal protection. Sounds like a win-win situation all around/to me.”

“We don’t have time to be dragging two more people along with us,” Sapnap replies, “The border to Snowchester is already weeks away, you two are just gonna slow us down. And if we’re attacked, I’ll have to protect you.”

“You won’t!” Quackity smacks Karl on the back hard enough to make him jerk forward, “Ol’ string-bean here packs a bigger punch than he looks! And I’m not as useless as you might think. We can take care of ourselves in a fair fight.”

“Nothing about this world is fair, least of all fights,” Sapnap says roughly and prods at the fire. The conversation dies out bitterly. He doesn’t want to think about it, but he can’t.

He scrubs his face.

“Aside from the fights,” Quackity eventually picks up the conversation again, the lull short but harsh enough to soften his voice for a time until he starts to pick up speed again, “If you really want to get out of here without much trouble, you’ve been going in the wrong direction.

“Why’s that?” George asks, leaning against Sapnap suddenly. It snaps Sapnap out of his daze, makes him look up to see Quackity watching them from across the flames.

“Snowchester is allied with Kinoko, they’d sooner give back fugitives than protect them.”

“No one said anything about fugitives,” Sapnap starts but Quackity holds up a hand.

“No offense. I just meant, you know, like refugees and shit. I heard George say something about people coming after you and you just mentioned getting into fights. But not fugitives, that’s fine, okay? Either way, the Queen doesn’t like a lot of people, doesn’t mean anything about you personally, man, come on. Anyways, the point is, if you really wanna get out of here and not worry about any big, bad mercenaries or knights or angry husbands or whoever the fuck may or may not be chasing you, the Badlands is probably a better option.”

The worst part is that Quackity isn’t entirely wrong. The Badlands are far more lawless than either Kinoko or Snowchester. It would be easier for George to slip under the radar. Just another human in a land of demons and mob-blooded citizens. On the one hand, there are reasons he didn’t head to his homeland in the first place. On the other, he’s grown up a lot since he was a little half-demon kid hanging onto his dad’s tail as he breezed through the streets, arms full of political negotiations. He’s got a strong sword and good head on his shoulders and it’s a clearer head than those first dizzying weeks on the run with George. It certainly hadn’t been an option back during those weeks; he hadn’t been back outside of being George’s guard and companion in over a decade, and the few places one could cross into a country so naturally protected were heavily guarded and controlled. Without exposing himself and George, it had seemed impossible. He could have got them through - the Badlands are no true allies of Kinoko, after all - but then his parents might have been in trouble. But if they had a guide who said they knew a back way into the country...

Maybe the Badlands aren't entirely a bad idea. If anything, his father could get his packages to them easier, even if the price involved Sapnap needing to be a lot more cautious about his identity than he would in Snowchester.

“It’s a month’s travel away from here!” Sapnap protests, anyway.

George pipes up, “And isn’t it surrounded by a crazy forest or something like that? I’m pretty sure most humans that have ever gone there have, like, died.”

George knows that isn’t true. George has been to the Badlands. It makes Sapnap feel safer, that George isn’t laying it all out, that he’s playing a bit of a fool. These last few months, his friend has been fading from the man leaning against Sapnap now, like their loss has drained him, changed him. George is bright and sharp and kind and wicked intelligent. He could run circles around Sapnap if he wanted to when they were younger, but lately, it’s felt almost like George is just...existing. Having lost all that he has, Sapnap understands why. He wishes George would talk to him, open up, just let him ask - but he doesn’t, and Sapnap can’t bring himself to push. Now, hearing him engaging with other people, talking, questioning, putting to use some of that political training they’ve been filling his head with since he was born - it’s almost enough to make Sapnap smile.

Karl pipes up, shaking his head, “Not true. Well, the Crimson Forest is a bit of a nightmare, but you can get through easier than you might think. It’s three weeks if you’re quiet, and two if you know what you’re doing.” He grins, mischievous and eyes glinting in the firelight.

Quackity swings an arm around his companion's shoulders.

“And we know what we’re doing.”

“Rich coming from the two people with no sword and a couple toothpicks between them,” Sapnap mutters.

“The pen is mightier than the sword, dude,” Karl says, brightly, “And in a pinch, I’ve got a couple of hardbacks in my bag.”

Sapnap drops his head into his hands and groans.

“What do you get out of this?” George asks and it’s said with a tone learned from trade meetings and lessons that Sapnap wasn’t allowed to attend.

“Like I said,” Karl says, patting his bag, which makes a heavy thunk, and Sapnap reconsiders the faceplant. A hit with that to the head would be lethal. “I’m a collector. Rare books, stories people have forgotten. That kind of stuff goes for a lot of money, in the right circles. The Badlands has a dealer that I’ve been dying to get to, and if I can avoid getting robbed and left for dead in the meantime, that would be fantastic.”

“So if I pay you in protection,” Sapnap says, slow, every word already feeling dirty in his mouth for even considering it, “You’ll get us into the Badlands safely and… inconspicuously?”

“I mean, a bit of monetary payment wouldn’t go amiss -” Quackity starts, but he stops when Karl elbows him good-naturedly.

“Get us there alive, and we’ll see,” George says, as if this was already a done deal, as if it was already decided.

“George,” Sapnap hisses, pulling George back by the arm.

“He’s right, Sapnap,” George says, much quieter than before, “I’ve met Snowchester’s queen, you know I have; she’s more likely to send us right back to the capital the moment she figures out who I am.”

“We’ll keep you hidden, safe -”

“You know that can’t last forever, Sapnap,” George says softly, “You know me. I couldn’t stay and sit pretty and useless in the castle to save my life, it wouldn’t be any different in a safe house. I get antsy. At least in the Badlands people are less likely to know who I am. Your dad would be able to help us easier than if we were in Snowchester. It was the best option at the time, but if they really know a way to get us into the Badlands without going through any of the border guards, then the Badlands are better.”

“We can’t,” Sapnap says, throwing a glance at the two strangers over his shoulder, “We can’t trust them, George.”

“We don’t have to trust them,” George replies, “We just have to get over the border, and we’ll be away from it all. The hunters, the guards, fucking Schlatt, all of it. Mistrust them all you want, but right now they’re looking like the best chance we have to get away from here for good.”

Sapnap considers it for a long, long moment. His gut is telling him no. It’s telling him that they’re meant to be three, not two, not four. It’s telling him that these two people are only going to bring them trouble, Quackity with his silver tongue and Karl with his piercing eyes, both of which make him uncomfortable and on edge. He wants to go to Snowchester and find a far-off little village and set up a nice house and let George have the simple life he’s begged for since he was old enough to realize who and what he was. He wants to get George settled in that far-off, safe little space and then come back and raze that castle to the ground with his bare hands, and all the fucking people in it who caused this, take that throne apart piece by piece. He wants - he wants to see his parents again, and his best friends together again.

But that's what Sapnap wants, not what he has, and Sapnap has rarely ever gotten what he wants, even before all this.

“Fine,” he says, and then, louder so that their new travelling companions can hear, “Fine, you’re hired.”

“Hell yes,” Quackity says, fist-pumping, while Karl’s smile gets even wider.

“Thanks, man,” he says, “I mean it. I don’t know what Quackity would have done if you hadn’t been there.”

“You too,” Sapnap says, begrudgingly, “For helping George when he was being an idiot.”

“Hey!” George squawks, settling back down by the fire, “I was not!”

“Were too,” Sapnap says, just because he can, and because he knows it’s late enough for George that it will stay lighthearted.

Karl and Quackity have finished their food and Quackity is yawning. He looks tired, keeps closing his eyes in blinks that drag on longer and longer. Karl looks as fresh as a daisy, but Sapnap can spot the strain in the corners of his eyes.

"You three can sleep." He heaves himself up off the ground, letting George flounder without his support, and sits on their enderchest. He pulls Nightmare into his lap, takes out the cloth he uses to clean her. He won’t sharpen the blade again, but running a cloth over its body until it shines has brought him the only peace he’s known in months, and he desperately needs it.

"Sapnap," George attempts, but Sapnap just shakes his head. He won't be able to rest even if he tries. The soreness from all the tumbles is starting to set in. He's gonna be hurting come morning and it's better if he eases into it rather than if he just wakes up in the midst of the ache.

"...I'll stay up, too." Karl settles across the fire, looking unsure of his welcome despite the relative victory he's achieved since they met.

"Sleep." Sapnap says pointedly. "You saved George. You've earned a night of rest, at least."

It takes very little insistence, in the end. They’re all exhausted, just as he is, but much less stubborn about it. George drapes Sapnap’s discarded cloak around Sapnap’s shoulders with a “Stay warm, at least, idiot.” before he passes out in his bed. Quackity and Karl share Sapnap's, curling up close under Karl's heinously patterned cloak. Quackity completely disappears under it. All that sticks out of Karl is his hair.

Sapnap hears them whispering, hears a high-pitched giggle abruptly cut off, and watches the cloak shift and shudder as they get comfortable before it goes still. Moments later, gentle snoring and deep breathing are the only sounds filling the camp.

Sapnap heaves a great sigh, leans back, and looks up at the sky.

"Life would be much easier for me if you were here," he says into the air and watches the smoke of the fire disappear into the night.