Among everything Isaac had held onto until his last breath was the hope that Scar wouldn't end up alone.
It was vague; the old bastard had never been particularly articulate about it, but the feeling behind it had been clear: he loathed the thought of Scar without him and without anyone else.
Scar had taken it seriously. His desire to live came first; that had been his parents' fight, and he carried it as his own. Close behind it was friendship. Companionship. The kind of thing that made the living feel like something.
But certain people had no interest in letting him have that. No interest in leaving the few meaningful things in his life untouched. The result of that was Emma, lying bedridden and unconscious somewhere, and her body doing the work of staying alive while everyone else waited.
