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It's the same dark that breaks down stronger men than BigB. Ren calls it foul, monstrous. He says, there are witches in these woods, with a rhythm to it: there are Witches in these woods. He's a man for theatre; it can't be helped.
[34-across, Shakespearean regicide]
BigB's not scared of the dark, though. He's more scared of the witches. In any case, he didn't offer himself up for watch. He sees the forest through a pane-less window, one of those arched things which have names BigB hasn't cared to look up - maybe he should, to attune more to his current genre, but he's been preoccupied trying not to get killed - and that's enough for him. He can taste the narrative importance from his bed.
He's been here for eight months; eight months long enough that it almost feels like home. Any place he stays longer than a month-or-so starts feeling like home. He knows Grian, Pearl, and Jimmy have other commitments. Martyn doesn't, but Martyn clings more to others outside, at least compared to BigB.
He sits back in his bed. The room is still barebones. He feels a bit like he's waiting on an execution he doesn't know the date of: at any point, Ren calls war, and at any point, BigB's shot in the head with an arrow by Scott or Joel or someone-and-other, and at any point, it ends. He hasn't got any time to earn medals and decorate his vestments; anyway, that would just get him attention he doesn't need. BigB's comfortable with blending into the background.
[28-down, Face in the crowd?]
Cleo's carving of a squid sits on his desk, and Skizz tried to embroider a heart for all of them. He... picks up what people give him. Not anything more than that. It's not exactly a doctrine he follows. He just hasn't found any time. Downtime exists in a meaningless state, a world where the only coherence he can find is in Martyn. And Martyn's barely coherent, himself.
His time here's been pretty tranquil. Full of war, but it's never really not. He'll miss it, but only the same amount he'll miss everything else - it's going to end soon. BigB sees it in the other soldiers - the ones with names, and the ones without. They look antsy. Well, they're all preparing for war. But BigB can also see it in Martyn; preparing for war, yeah, but preparing for the end of the Story, too.
The moon's a waxing gibbous, so he can barely make out any stars. It hangs bright in the sky. The fog crests over pine trees and distant mountains, a clean sweep of darkness over the nearby area. BigB blows out his only candle and lets moonlight flood in, hitting the foot of his bed. He hasn't yet done anything but sit on it, not when the end is so near. He wouldn't like to miss it, if it comes earlier than he would expect. It's only nerves. But he's spent a while here.
Nothing is happening tonight, he knows. It's not for a week, at least. Nothing's been resolved yet, at least on his side of things, and while BigB has a sneaking suspicion he's going to end up an antagonist this Story, someone has to be watching them. Watching Martyn and Ren, anyway. They'll want to tie off any loose ends.
...This all is why when, two hours later, he's woken up to a scraping noise coming from his window, he is terribly surprised and otherwise disappointed in himself.
An assassin which happens to come through his room is his first guess. Weird, but not unprecedented. Oh, he'd rather not die. It's a finer game when it comes to having importance, balancing all your traits to come out the other side alive, but it's not exactly easy being unimportant, either. He's expendable. An assassin might just pick his window to enter through.
BigB grabs a knife underneath his pillow. Maybe they'll have a sermon for him, some kind of rousing speech will be made in his honor, it'll bolster the troops. They'll call for revenge. Was he quite important enough for them to call for revenge over him? He'd like to think so. Skizz did give him an embroidered heart.
It doesn't really matter, though. He'll die, he'll watch, he'll live, he'll come back. He does wonder what it'll be next time.
"Psst. Gosh. Wake up, won't you?"
A millisecond later, when he's peeked his eyes open and closed to see a silhouette through the window, he throws the knife in its direction.
"Shit!"
A millisecond after that, he realizes the voice is Grian.
BigB bolts up in bed. "Shit."
The good news is that Grian fell forward, not backward. The bad news is that Grian decided to wear no armor. The good news is that Bigb's aim is shit. The bad news is that Grian has a knife in his upper arm.
"Why are you here?" BigB whisper-shouts. He slides out of bed, takes Grian's cloak off - ignoring a pointed "buy me dinner first" - sits him down on the bed. "Ren's so gonna kill you. And then where are we gonna be?"
Grian hisses as he shifts his arm. As BigB's eyes adjust to the light, he notices small details about Grian - small details BigB doesn't tend to get the luxury for. It's a nice change of pace, to look at a person and see them like they're real. The edges of Grian's red tunic have a decorative sewing pattern in nice, gold thread, and his freckles stand out against near-sunburnt skin. He's spent a lot of time in the desert, BigB thinks.
"It's bold of you to assume I'm going to die. They quite... well, They like me."
[3-across: Divine plot device]
"You haven't answered my question," BigB says. He meanders back to the desk, making sure to not be so loud - there's a watchtower close enough to his room that the sound will carry out the window. There's a suture kit in there, along with some painkillers Martyn begged Them for, while Joel was still with Dogwarts. He'd fallen terribly ill on account of some kind of infection. The complaining wasn't enough for Martyn to stay genre accurate.
Grian steers away from the curved needle BigB picks out of the kit. "Get that away from me. I've got potions."
He does have potions. "How fancy," BigB comments, and Grian does a little bow, before promptly regretting it. The potions glint in the moonlight as Grian takes them out of the bag. Both his hands preoccupied with uncorking a bottle, he takes the hilt of his knife in the mouth and shoves it out with his teeth.
It clatters on the ground, metal ringing a tiny bit on the stone. "You are... weird for that, dude," he says.
"Excuse you, you stabbed me. And I came here just to see your lovely self, to answer your question," Grian replies, indignant. He chugs a regeneration potion.
BigB can't seem to wrap his mind around the assassin/stabbed assassin/not assassin/Grian/stabbed Grian/here Grian/Grian here to see me timeline to understand this last statement.
"Why?" he asks, blankly. It's sort of funny. In the way a lot of absurd things are funny.
Grian shuffles to put the empty bottle back in his back and gestures a hand out to BigB. "Have you got any matches?"
BigB blinks. "They're in the drawer."
"Go on, then," Grian says, unmoving. He waves his hand around a bit more. "I'm a stabbed man. Can't exactly move around."
Without taking his eyes off Grian, he grabs the handle of the drawer, scrapes it open, and plops a matchbox in Grian's open palm. "Thank you," Grian says, and he moves to light one, gently lowering the lit match to a candle on BigB's sidetable.
There is - a moment - between the candle being lit and the corner of the room being filled with the smallest explosion of light, where the lit match passed in front of Grian's face and BigB remembered that he hadn't seen Grian in eight months. He heard of... what he was doing. Everyone heard of Grian and Scar. But he never had the time to meet them face to face. His clearance didn't account for standoffs and negotiations. But Grian's had a life, and it's obvious.
Grian looks up. His face seems to soften when he meets eyes with BigB. "I shouldn't need a reason to talk to you. I haven't seen you in eight bloody months, BigB." As a side comment: "You've grown out your hair."
"It was only half me," BigB shrugs. His hair was long enough when he got here, but the braids were painstakingly done by him about two months ago. "I'm not actually sure if I should put the effort in taking down the braids, considering I'm probably gonna die in a week."
"Right," Grian winces.
BigB pauses. "Do you, like, still feel bad about that?"
He wrings his hands. "I'm the reason you've been here for eight months. I did also come here to apologize, even though I know you don't get it-"
"There's nothing to be upset about," BigB replies.
"You can't possibly believe that."
Both Grian and Martyn share this same sentiment; that there is someone to blame, and that someone is Grian. BigB's never gotten behind it, really. He has time to do the crossword, to say hi to his friends, and to live out a full life every other month. "Even if there was something to be upset about-"
"Which there is."
"-I totally threw a knife at you." He raises his hands in mock surrender. "And that's on me. We've gotta be even now."
Grian giggles incredulously. He makes sure to keep his voice down, the nice guy that he is. "That can't be right. You of all people- you should be the angriest."
They have, unfortunately, had this conversation before.
BigB has always replied with the same thing: "Maybe, but I like talking to you."
Grian's quiet.
It's just the two of them, sitting on an itchy, sky-blue blanket, woven with wool and deerhide string. Grian picks at the knots absentmindedly - BigB's own hands are scabbed over and scratched. They both got the habit from Pearl.
"I really am sorry," Grian says. He looks... thoughtful, though BigB can't imagine what there is to think about - and he rests his head on BigB's shoulder.
He knocks his knee against Grian's. The difference between them is clearer in the light; Grian gets details, BigB does not. He hasn't experienced the kind of minutiae afforded to someone of the importance Grian has.
"I believed you the first time you said it," BigB replies.
"You just have to understand. I'm- I'm so sorry. If I only say it to you. Especially you."
BigB snorts. "You make it sound like I hate it here."
"Don't you?"
"No?" he replies. Grian extricates himself from BigB and stares, curiously. Like he's trying to figure out some kind of puzzle. "Ignore what I just said. You make it sound like we're in hell."
"We are," Grian says, emphatically. At what must be BigB's unimpressed look, he continues, "We are! Pearl only loses her mind on a good day. Scott spends half his time Watched to a degree I hadn't thought possible, and Martyn seems a day away from killing me here, let alone in the real world, I- It's torture, it's what it has to be."
"And you make it sound like it's your fault."
Grian looks away. "It is," he says. "I'm sorry."
BigB, after a moment's hesitation, takes Grian face in his hand. "Please stop apologizing to me."
"We're talking about you now," Grian seems to decide. He puts his hand atop BigB's, but refuses to meet his eyes. "And we're both going to ignore all the conversation we had before this. Agh! I've been stabbed, oh no, oh wait, it's okay, I have potions, time to light a match so I can see in this bloody room that's dark as. Scene. Cut. Action. Go."
"I'm not doing anything interesting," BigB dismisses.
He curls his fingers around BigB's hand. "I have never, in my life, cared less about 'interesting'. Just talk to me."
There isn't much to say. It's all a misdirection. Everything is used as an opportunity to steer the conversation away from a vulnerability that's overstayed its welcome, and when it comes to Grian, his definition of overstayed happens to be a couple minutes. BigB doesn't mind, though. He only tends to observe.
"You made us run out of green dye," BigB mentions. Grian hums, lies his head back on BigB's shoulder. "With the desert borders closing and the cactus trade slowing down, we haven't been able to get any. Martyn and I spent a while... maybe, like, three weeks ago, mashing together dust made from lapis and daffodils to color match. It was kind of brutal. I still have - look!" he pulls a pant leg up, shows Grian light splatters of blue and yellow dye across the hem. Grian huffs. "I can't get it out! I guess Martyn didn't make me do it, but I wanted to help. I don't do a whole lot around here, to be honest."
"Because They don't let you," Grian mutters.
"Hey," BigB says. "Don't put that tactical decision on Them. It's all me. I don't really want to have any responsibility, anyway. Martyn seems stressed out. Ren died, even though he's better now."
"Define better."
He shrugs. "His head is still attached to his body. It's an improvement."
Grian hums. "I guess I can't really judge him. Scar's just as bad - always cutting deals, making sacrifices, getting attention. Wrangling his Story into one with a morally good narrative wasn't pleasant. And I can't judge you either, for sticking to the background. The stakes are too high to want anything, anymore."
"But you're still in the spotlight," BigB says. "I hear about you from Martyn all the time. You did the, uh, there was an explosion by the city gates from a caravan - that was you, right?"
"I-" for a moment, Grian looks caught off guard. He settles after a second. "That was a mistake. I think, I... well, it was fun. I don't know if you understand; I've been messing up this whole time, B. I didn't mean for it to get this crazy, I just hung around with Scar, forgot where I was. I forgot who was Watching."
He gives Grian a disapproving face. "You don't need to justify it to me."
"I don't think you like anything I say," Grian pouts.
"I don't get anything you say," BigB replies. Every word he's about to say is true: "I don't get how you hate yourself."
"I don't hate myself," he protests.
[9-down: Opening ploy]
BigB spends little time with Grian. Each interaction feels like a chess match - BigB with a full board, Grian with one queen. He gets away anyhow. "You feel a lot for me." Grian sputters. "Actually, you feel a lot for everyone. Every time you're angry, you're angry for someone else. You're sad for someone else. It's like you won't let yourself act on any of your own opinions."
He opens and closes his mouth. "I don't do that."
BigB shrugs. "I mean, okay? It's not like you have to change it. It's just a thing you do."
Up, down, up, down, Grian's leg bounces. The worn edge of his bag gets more frayed by the second. "I... Gods, you need to stop reading me. I don't. Oh, I don't know. I'm so sorry. Don't you know that?"
"You might've mentioned it," he says.
"Shut up," Grian laughs, before sobering. "It wasn't meant to be- like this. This long. This many."
"It's not your fault," he implores. He's starting to feel like a broken record with his pleas.
"You don't know what happened," Grian says. "You weren't there."
Here it is.
Years ago, they were all split up. A them, the Evolutionists. They were at the end of their journey, under the guise of a "new era". They lined up, neatly, at the portal, just like They wanted, went in two-by-two, let stars come up to their noses and the void brush their knees. Hands were gently ripped out of others' grasps.
And then they finished the Story. The End. Fin. No Grian. He's gone: forever. You're gone: forever, good job.
Them, a no-longer defined them, had a day before They - defined Them, capitalized, you know, Them - got bored. Grian was a necessity. Even if he didn't accept the job. The script spiraled out into nothing. Cameras dissolved into nothing: Martyn tried to keep their divinity. But it just didn't take.
So it ended. Alone. Until: When it was them again. The first chapter ended, Martyn marched up to Grian and, unbound by script but pushed forward in any case, said: what happened?
Grian, free will withstanding, said nothing.
So - no. BigB doesn't know what happened. Nobody does. And BigB wasn't there. Nobody was.
"If it's your fault," for the second time this conversation, "I don't care."
Two seconds pass, where BigB doesn't know what Grian's thinking. "You must be crazy," he says. "I must be crazier."
"I wouldn't go that far," BigB replies.
He laughs, bright and honest. It's a wheezy thing; he's trying to be quiet. He slides his hand in front of his mouth to prevent more noise from leaking out - it's not that funny. But it's still - kind of - pretty.
Each part of Grian is a uniquely crafted element that serves a larger whole - and BigB can't help but feel makeshift. Slotting himself next to Grian finds two genres sitting side by side - not diametrically opposed, but certainly a stark difference, BigB's not meant to have this much time with him.
Grian looks, says: "No, I'm crazier. I have to be. For making you endure me."
Among rancid screaming, an oh, he doesn't get it, the subsequent why won't he get it, Bigb thinks: Vice versa.
What BigB does -
What he does next -
Well -
In the following moment -
Oh, hell. It's private.
[2-down: X]
You'll extrapolate, won't you?