Chapter Text
In the trenches of the worst summer heatwave ManePear has ever had the misfortune of enduring, moving even an inch has him feeling like he’s being boiled alive. The sun blazes down on them relentlessly, as if determined to bake the Earth until it burns. The air is so muggy that it feels sticky and suffocating; when the sunlight hits it at a certain angle, it seems to shimmer through space like a sheer veil, unable to contain the feverish temperature of the atmosphere. Even with all the doors and windows thrown open, the air indoors is unbearably stuffy. The only thing to do in heat like this is to lie very still and hope that it goes away quickly.
Sprawled out on the farthest reaches of the tree—on branches still as thick as their torso—the combination of shade and the breeze passing over their limp limbs is enough to make the heat only just tolerable. ManePear lays chest down on the cool wood with his eyes closed, listening to soft notes ring out from where the draft knocks their wind chimes together. It would feel almost nice, if it weren’t for the constant layer of sweat that’s been covering every inch of his skin for the last few days. Twenty-two years of life, and he swears he’s never been this hot before, ever.
Every once in awhile, he cracks one eye open to sneak a peak down at Flame lazed out on his own branch. The cub had long perfected his balance, but Mane couldn’t restrain the instinct to keep checking on him. It’s not that he thought Flame was going to fall, he just had to be sure. Unwavering awareness kept him too alert to fall asleep out on the branches.
Flame, on the other hand, had no such reservations. He’d been asleep for awhile now, confirmed by the egregious snoring carried over to Mane’s ears by the gentle wind. The noise might be annoying to anyone else, but to ManePear it served as a constant auditory cue that Flame was still alive and breathing.
When he was younger, he liked to lay on Mane’s chest when he couldn’t fall sleep, confessing once that the sound of his heart helped him relax. He would never admit something like that now, of course. Things had changed so much in so few years.
From where Flame sleeps peacefully on the branch across from him, Mane can just make out the faint sound of purring beneath his offensive snores, content and thriving in the hot weather. ManePear is filled suddenly with such an overwhelming fondness that it takes his breath away.
Flame was already fifteen years old. Most players condemned to die young would have already done so by that age; it was a good sign that he would likely live a long life, at least long enough to reach adulthood. His natural fighting instincts had a lot to do with it. He was bloodthirsty, an animal. The spirit inside of him raged like an immortal flame. He was competitive, stubborn, and naturally skilled beyond belief, all traits fueled ever more by Mane’s influence; he could see his own features reflected back at him in the cub’s eyes. It was all too obvious that he was destined to become one of the greatest fighters the server had ever seen, right alongside ManePear himself.
Yet, at the same time, Mane felt he was eternally youthful. The cub was beyond lucky to have survived for so long, yes, but it felt also like he had barely lived much at all yet; he was still so young. He would still groan and complain like a child when ManePear woke him up too early in the morning. His favorite foods were still chocolate cake and cereal. His favorite pajama pants had little dogs on them. A regular set of netherite armor was still slightly too bulky on him to fight in.
Sometimes, he still cried when ManePear pushed his training too far, too fast; not always, but sometimes. One time, last summer, it had gotten really bad. It had been a hot day—not as hot as today, but close. They had been training all day, pushing long into the night, longer than Mane should’ve let it go on for. There was a particular move Flame just couldn’t seem to get right; it was so insignificant in the grand scheme, Mane can’t even remember what the mechanic was exactly. Flame had been so insistent they keep going, struggling at it for hours and hours, determined to get it right. Mane had encouraged it, saying they shouldn’t rest until he had perfected the move. To him, it seemed like a good chance to teach perseverance and dedication.
He should’ve known better. As the eldest, it’s his job to know better. Heat exhaustion had muddled his mind; if he had been thinking clearly, he would have ended the training session and told him to try it again later. Instead, he let the cub run himself ragged, even feeding into it. With how talented and devoted he is to fighting, it’s easy for ManePear to forget how young he still is. Inevitably, he’d ended up hurting himself. One wrong move, one slip of his sweaty hands—still too small for the grip of a regular sword—and he had cut himself on his own blade.
Mane had been quick to abandon the training session after that, rubbing the tears from Flame’s eyes while cleaning and covering the wound with red and oranges bandages. The stupid kid was honestly more upset about the blow to his ego than the injury itself. It left a rare scar on Flame’s skin, a permanent reminder of the fuck up Mane would never forgive himself for.
He’d never felt such a responsibility towards any other player in his life, but Flame was different. His little brother was all he had.
It dawns on him that he would do anything to keep him from harm. He would burn the entire server, conquer nations, betray an Empire. Whatever it takes to keep his brother safe, ManePear would do it.
Maybe Flame was still a bit more childish than Mane was at his age, sure. But maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. A normal, safe, easy childhood was the best thing Mane could give him.
The sound of FlameFrags being rudely awoken drags Mane out of his nostalgic spiral. Perched on the branch next to him—pecking at him insistently—is a messenger owl, an envelope tied to it’s leg. Flame sits up on his branch, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and dutifully unties the message before throwing it over to Mane to read. The envelope feels thick and expensive, and the front is adorned with a golden-yellow wax seal, stamped with a crown symbol.
He breaks the wax open, unfolds the message within, and narrates it out loud for both of them.
With each word that passes, he can feel Flame buzzing with growing excitement. A formal invitation from a Prince to his Empire. The formation of royal guard force comprised of the server’s strongest fighters. It’s like something out of a fairytale.
When he finishes reading the letter, Flame looks up at him hopefully. “So are we gonna go then? We’re totally going, right?”
Something in ManePear’s gut turns. The easygoing, boring life they had lived at the tree all these years would be another world entirely compared to the life of royal guards to a Prince. Although, he knew better than to ignore a royal summons like this. If anything, they could always visit the Prince and his Empire, decide they didn’t want to serve him, and leave.
“Fuck it man, why not? Let’s do it bro. What’s the worst that could happen?”