The Reds whisper, from where They regrouped to lick their wounds. Along the crossroads as they gather more to their side, They tell stories of a man. One they fear. One that even while on careful yellow they would whisper to stoke flames, if only to see the fire consume Him.
It is at the crossroads that They make him into a figure of legend. In hushed voices on the road. In load proclamations upon remains of a withered fort. They call him The Survivor. The one who soloed the wither, the one who moved on to another group as soon as his ally fell. The one who didn’t care, even as his fallen friend adorned in shades of R e d swore that He loved him, that he still cared as They laughed and denied it. They speak, bitterly, of the threat, perhaps even more dangerous that the ones still left in shades of deep and vibrant green.
They’re wrong. On so many accounts, on almost all of them. For They did not see the desperation, of a healing potion a moment too late before a misstep turned into a deadly fall. They didn’t see the way the Others rallied around the man, coming to His aid to take down the strongest being in the game. They didn’t listen to the one who knew best, putting an arrow in his back after he betrayed Them. Or could it even be called a betrayal, when his faith and allegiance had always lied with the snowy survivor?
They don’t know of the deal, of the promise of a life for a life, a desperate bid when fragile red breaks all bonds and an excuse was needed- They don’t know of the cry that filled the ravine, of light green laments of being too late- they don’t know just how far from the truth they are as they tell their stories that manage to brush so close all the same.
They speak of a bitter survivor and a threat, and of that much is true. But not in the ways They might think. So close yet so achingly far that it echoes in hollow places and makes it easier to pretend.
They are not the only ones pretending, as teams regroup, as alliances are formed that cannot last, and as a whisper graces the ravine as mourning speaks softly amidst laments, as grief is packed away and people move on as the body yet cools with an arrow in his back and a name on his lips.
You played the game well, it says. Good game, my friend.
