#uhh idk

Here’s the thing. Scar felt… weird. And not like illness or a restless mind. He built, he built a lot, but something inside him was swirling and bubbling constantly. It was weird.

Here’s the thing. Scar wasn’t a killer. He really wasn’t. More of the practical joke and overall silliness type. He had his newest bit, the “Hawkeye!” bit where he tried to hit hermits with his bow when flying past. It was fun, harmless. Okay, maybe Pearl had died but she hadn’t been wearing any armor! Hardly his fault!

Here’s the thing. Scar needed to kill. He couldn’t hold a bow without aiming it at someone. He itched for a battle axe like Impulse’s. How many of his fellow hermits had he killed so far this season? Pearl’s death to his bow had been sweeter then any cookie. He’d smiled and talked his way into killing Joe where he stood, and the trophy of Joe’s head hung over his bed for at least a month.

If it wasn’t so deep and all-encompassing, maybe he could laugh it off. Death could be brushed off here; they’d all killed each other so many times throughout the years. But this was a deep itching, where he kept finding himself with bow in his hands, pointed straight at someone else. And it disturbed him.

He ended up in front of Cleo’s snake, in a weird turn of events. He hated that damn snake. But, of all the people he knew, Cleo knew death on a personal level. They’d played on the same field twice now, and if anyone knew about something like this, it would be her.

Cleo walked out on the serpent’s tongue and looked down at him.

“You said it was urgent. It better well be, Scar. I’m busy.”

“Oh, can we please just take a walk? That snake, it…” Scar shivered, maybe a little dramatically. Cleo rolled her eyes, but hopped down and they strode very slowly together along the riverside.

“What’s this about, Scar? You aren’t usually one to be serious.” Cleo looked at him curiously.

“Cleo, I don’t quite know how to do this with any real eloquence, so I guess I’ll just say it.” Scar paused, tucking some of his long hair behind his ear. “I want to kill.”

Cleo didn’t roll her eyes, to his surprise. She just nodded and gave him a grim look. “I know.”

“You know?” Scar whispered. “How?”

“Oh Scar, you are many wonderful things, but subtle you are not. Every person you pass catches your eye and suddenly there’s a weapon in your hand. Your way of greeting people is to shoot them. Plus, Joe kept telling me that he smelled bloodlust all over you. You’ve always been one to wear your emotions on your sleeve, and this is no different.”

“Then why is it happening, Cleo? I feel feverish, like it’ll never end, like the world is in rose tinted sunglasses but it’s blood instead of roses!” Scar could have dropped to his knees to emphasize, but Cleo looped his arm with her own, and they continued their slow walk down the peaceful river.

“I have a theory. Well, okay, Joe had a theory and I’m taking it for my own, because I helped think it through. You remember Last Life, don’t you?” Scar nodded. “Well, and forgive me if I’m misremembering, but you were intertwined with illness during it, right?” Scar nodded again. “You had many lives, and it didn’t matter because you sunk to death so fast, it was almost painful to witness. You were alone. I didn’t really know you all too well in there, but I remember hearing about a wizard alone on a mountain, buying friendships with crystals and sly contracts. All brought to a halt by a random arrow in a random fight. And we were all too busy fighting to really remember you. And then we came back to hermitcraft and there was the moon and everything was insane and there was no time for any other thought. I think the bloodlust never got spent out as it should have. The Scar who wasted away on that mountain lives within you, festering and calling for blood.”

Scar was quiet. The two sat down on a bench and watched the sun begin to set.

“But how do I fix it?” Scar asked eventually. “It’s all-encompassing. I just want to kill everyone in sight.”

Cleo sighed. “I don’t know, honestly, Scar.”

She still had her arm looped through his, and she patted it softly. Scar could feel her crude stitches against his skin. “Maybe we just need another death arena. They say three is a magic number.”