Chapter Text
It's been a while since his stamina has been reduced down to its dregs.
He's on his last legs, at this point– running is more rote than an actual, conscious decision, and it's less running than stumbling awkwardly wherever his feet manage to carry him. He's not safe to be around people. He knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his hunger would take control immediately– and then there would be torment, and hurt, and agony. He'd be sated, but at what cost? No, he has to keep moving, away from people, into the farthest reaches of the universe he can find, until–
Until–
Until what?
Grian, for the first time in days, stills. The hunger claws at him, twisting not just his stomach but wringing him inside out, no longer drowned by the sensation of his exhausted, pumping legs. He doesn't have a destination. Never has, except away– where he can't hurt people, where he can't be seen.
But that's not really sustainable, is it?
He has to stop at some point. Preferably before the hunger snaps him and he goes, clawing and seeking for a chance to feed. And then what? People will die. Maybe not permanently, but they'll wish they had. He'll hurt people.
It doesn't help that he knows, with the deep, intrinsic knowledge of a wounded animal, that he's being chased. He's felt flickers of their presence on his tongue these last few days; hasn't dared probe too deep, in case he's right. It makes sense the Hermits would want revenge, that blacklisting him hadn't been enough. They're good people, and he's dangerous. Something like him shouldn't be allowed to roam the world.
And, Grian realizes, with a flicker of– of something undefinable (he can't say it's excitement, because he isn't actually keen to die– but it's something. A bit like hope, a lot like loss, in the shape of grief and threaded, ultimately, with desperate relief)– that if he dies between servers, it will be permanent. The starry planes he lopes across are not meant to harbor eternal life. If he dies here, then he dies forever, code unraveling and recycling itself back into the universe. And that, he thinks, is probably as good a way to go as any.
Certainly easier, and faster, than waiting for himself to starve.
Abruptly, the fatigue drops him. Grian only barely manages to get an arm underneath him before he crashes, panting and shivering, as his legs turn to lead and his stomach wails. He can feel it, now, the tendrils of unreason clawing for purchase in his mind. If he waits much longer, emaciated as he is, then he'll break. He'll break, he'll feed, and then he'll run, disgusted with himself and the trail of pain that will inevitably follow him. And the cycle will begin anew.
He has to break the cycle. The thought rings clear as a bell in his head, parting the muddy fog that has dogged him since he was banned from Hermitcraft. It's up to him to do this, to keep himself from hurting people– and it's up to the former friends chasing him as well. Doing this alone isn't an option; he needs insurance. And he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that one of them will step forward and end this miserable game for all of them.
It shouldn't be as much of a relief as it is. Grian hopes, desperate, sobbing, that Scar is within the party hunting him. He hopes it's Scar who strikes the final blow. He hopes Scar will be kind enough to hold him as he slips away.
Grian curls his arms around his waist, shivering. He needs to– to help. In any way he can. He can wait for them to catch up, but he's still too strong. He needs– weakness. Weakness potions, at least three, which would be fatal for a normal person and is, indeed, dangerous for himself in this state.
But it would help them. He wouldn't be a threat anymore.
Mind made up, Grian staggers to his feet. Clumsy, swaying; the stars churn in front of his vision, a dizzying map of light and void. Xisuma must be with them, he thinks faintly, if they're able to chase him to this place. Only Voidwalkers and other Watchers are able to traverse these planes.
He hopes Xisuma is alright. Taking people with you into the void is no small task.
His powers are watery and weak like this, but he spreads his awareness out in front of him anyway, and to the sides– not behind. He cannot bear to look behind. Servers– singleplayers, multiplayers, hubs and cities– all roll back from the darkness like galaxies splayed before him, brilliant and wavering. Grian stares at them, exhaustion plucking at him with insistent fingers. He wants nothing more than to sink to the ground (whatever counts as ground here, in this great nothing) and simply stop– but it's not safe. Not for his– his friends. Even after all of this, he can't help but think of them as his friends.
Grian swallows, and turns his Attention to the nearest singleplayer world.
It's not too far off– and the risk is minimal. Still dangerous; if he isn't careful, if he isn't perfectly precise in how he does this, a stranger might get trapped with a hungry monster. But if he can log in quickly, maybe while the owner is asleep... they might have potions. And even if they don't, Grian knows how to make these like the back of his own hands.
He's in luck when he pierces the protective code surrounding this singleplayer world. Nobody is online– the owner must be off-world, which isn't uncommon. Grian had had a singleplayer once, though it's long been abandoned now, perhaps even subsumed by the universe. His heart pangs at the thought: it's been so long since he's thought about his past as a player, as a person. In all technicality, that title has never even belonged to him; he was born of copied code and implanted memories, a parasite that shredded its host on the way out. Is he really Grian? Certainly not the one who had died for his creation, even if they do share the same memories.
He appears at what this world's spawn must be. It's a lovely place– all lush trees and flowing water, meadowgrass filling the air with the heady scent of spring. After so long in darkness, it makes his eyes burn with the adjustment, his senses flooding him with a deluge of new information. Grian trembles, curling his hands into fists, and begins to walk, following the vague trail that this server's owner has left for him to follow.
He finds their starter base not long after. Or, at least, he assumes it's their starter base. Hard to tell after so much time spent in Hermitcraft. It's a humble, medium-sized building, mostly spruce and a bit of mossy stone. There's the shape of something here, something that makes Grian itch to build again, to chisel at the marble until what comes out is a masterpiece. But there's no time for that kind of nonsense now– he needs weakness potions. He hopes, a bit wryly, that whoever owns this server doesn't indulge in chest monsters.
The inside is musty, quiet– its owner hasn't been here for at least a few days. Grian's in luck. His legs shake with every step he takes, and his stomach clenches in regular, gut-churning swoops, but he forces himself to take this slow, methodical. First a sweep of the lower floor, checking the label of each chest, checking inside if they aren't marked. Then the upper floor, curling his fingers under the lid of an enderchest before remembering it will be useless to him. For some reason, that thought is what threatens to break him– his vision grows cloudy as he sniffs, furiously swiping away the heat bubbling in his eyes. No, no time for that– he can't indulge in self-pity, he has work to do, and time is running out.
Just a little while longer, and all this will finally be over.
He doesn’t find any weakness potions in the stranger's chests (and they do have a chest monster, albeit smaller than any hermit's), but he finds the ingredients spread out across several chests, and a brewing stand in the bedroom. Grian gives in to the weariness then; he sits down on the bed as the potions bubble, unable to keep himself upright. Instead he topples, collapsing at the foot of the bed with his thin arms as a pillow, and takes a moment to simply breathe.
It hurts. Plain and simple– existing hurts. He's been running from the hunger as surely as he's been running from his friends, each faltering step only delaying the inevitable. Grian had known, the moment they blacklisted him from Hermitcraft– he wasn't going to survive this. He'd fought anyway, of course, instinct coursing through him, directing his Eyes and mouth. But it was never meant to last, unless he gave in and rejoined the ranks of his fellow Watchers. And that, Grian thinks, familiar terror thrilling up his spine, is something he will never willingly do.
It's tempting to sleep. Fatigue already has its hooks in him– he could just close his eyes for a moment, surely. Just a moment. Thirty minutes, maybe, or an hour– what difference does it make when this world's inhabitant has gone? If he could just take a second to rest–
Grian jolts back up, heart thumping its painful song in his chest. No, no, what is he thinking? The owner of this world could come back at any moment, and it's– he hates to admit it, but it's better if he stays weak and exhausted. He'll be easier to handle, that way. Safer, for everyone.
Grian presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, feels the responding pressure. For a moment, it's all too much; comes crashing down on him like a tidal wave. Embarrassing– crying has always embarrassed him, but especially now, when he's done everything to deserve this grief.
He cries anyway, because no matter how hard he tries, he can't get his eyes to stop. Can't force his chest to smooth out its fitful stutters, to calm the hitching sobs in his lungs. The devastation yawns in the deepest pits of his heart, in his very code, and threatens to tear him apart at the seams.
At some point, finally, the tears run dry. Grian is left wrung-out and shaky, breath trembling out of him; he wipes his nose on his sleeves, which is disgusting, but he doesn't exactly have a handkerchief lying around. The potions have been done for some time now; he collects them with shaky fingers, stows them in the loops of his belt, and takes one last glance at the quiet home around him.
"Thank you," he croaks, voice scraping the inside of his throat. It feels important to say that. This stranger has done more for him than they'll ever know.
He leaves the way he came: swift, stealthy, and without a trace of his presence beyond two single, scrambled lines of code in the game chat. Only a few stray birds bear witness.
It's only when Grian returns to the void-plane that he finally lets himself peer towards the direction of his friends.
It's a tentative kind of probing. He's not sure how much of it Xisuma will feel– the void is vast and dark, and carries within it countless eyes that could be watching. He's not sure if Xisuma will understand the difference between being watched, and being Watched– so he keeps it light. Gentle. A soft, quick series of glances, darting forward and registering the code of his former friends before dipping back. He needs to know their distance, how long it will take to reach him. He needs to know the exact point when he can take these potions without risking any of them.
He falters, though, as his Gaze scrapes over the party hunting him. Xisuma is spear-heading it, of course– they'd be lost without his voidwalking. But– but Mumbo is there. And Pearl. Tango. And...
Scar.
Grian flinches back from the familiar code. Oh, Scar, he thinks helplessly, and curls in on himself, a little ball of misery. Some of his closest friends are here to kill him, and–
Well. It makes sense, doesn't it. He betrayed them. He hurt them. Violated their trust. Of course they would take offense. Of course they would be the ones to hunt him down.
He's distantly curious about Tango, though. Would've figured Bdubs or Cleo would be here instead, thirsty for revenge. He remembers their disgusted fury, the boiling fear in both their eyes as they regarded him in a new, hideous light they had every right to flinch from.
But Scar is here. Grian's not sure whether he's truly grateful for that or not. Out of everyone in the server, he's injured Scar the most.
Out of everyone on the server, it's Scar who he wants most to strike him down.
It's a challenge not to stare longingly into Scar's code, the very essence of his being. Grian aches with the urge to run his eyes over it, See Scar in ways Scar can't even dream of. But he's never really had the right to do that in the first place, so he shuts his Eyes and takes a deep, unnecessary breath to recenter himself. Time is hard to measure in this place between worlds, but he estimates he has maybe two hours before they find him. The wait tugs at him, hooks vicious claws in the lining of his lungs to make them stutter. They're so close. So, so close. Close enough to See, to Taste–
Grian yanks himself back from that thought, eyes burning. No, no, he won't. He can't. This is the end of this wretched game he's been playing for years. He won't hurt anyone anymore. Not more than he already has.
Grian grits his teeth, then lifts his hand and opens his mouth, sinking them into the base of his thumb. Copper sings on his tongue; the spike of burning pain forces his eyes inward, drawing his attention and keeping it there as blood fills his mouth, thick and tacky. Grian's breath hisses out through his nose in one great exhale, jaw tightening. Soon. It'll be over soon. He just has to hold out a little longer.
When they're close enough that the taste of their fear, their anticipation, soaks through the haze of blood and pain, Grian rips his hand away from his mouth. Two crescents mar the skin there, blood welling to the surface and falling back into the void. Methodically, he rips the corks from each weakness potion, letting them scatter from his hands, and hefts one of them in the well of his good palm. Then, with only a second of hesitation, he lifts it to his lips and knocks it back.
The liquid is syrupy, too-sweet and cloying on his tongue. Grian fights the urge to gag and swallows it down, wincing with each mouthful. Too late to pause now, though– he drops the bottle and moves onto the next, grimacing as he drains it. He has to wait for a minute after just to retch, breathing heavily as if he's just completed a race– then it's onto the final bottle, pinching his nose to try and mitigate the taste.
When it's drained, Grian lets the empty bottle fall from his fingers with a soundless clatter. The weakness is already creeping through him, spreading through his veins and amplifying the exhaustion that's dogged his steps since he was forced off Hermitcraft. Grian shuts his eyes, taking a deep, laborious breath– and then lets himself slip sideways, wings jerking before he settles into as comfortable a position as he can. It weighs in his bones, turning them to lead, and the stars go hazy as he blinks, too tired to even shudder. The wave of sudden dizziness stuns him, and Grian sinks in on himself, awareness shrinking, and knows in a deep, distant part of him, that the potions have done their job.
His friends will be safe from him now. Everyone will be.
He's not sure how much time passes after that. With his awareness narrowed so harshly, he simply floats in the black abyss– nothing to tether him as he drifts. He doesn't think, or sleep, or dream; only exists, the hunger a distant tangle in his gut, the aches and pains of the past few months fading away into mere whispers. He's so tired. It's so peaceful. If only he could drift a little further, into the soft, clinging edge of darkness–
Something, some prickle along his spine, alerts him that he is no longer alone.
Grian's eyes flutter open.
His former friends stand in a ragged semi-circle in front of him, too far to reach, but close enough to study. Xisuma, as he'd assumed, is in the front; his expression is inscrutable behind the helmet. Maybe if Grian weren't so tired, starved within an inch of his life, he'd be able to tell what Xisuma is actually feeling. But he can't– can only taste the faintest aftershocks of horror and fear, too far from his reach to even try and feed off of, so he lets his tired eyes slip over everyone else.
Mumbo and Tango stand together, eyes wide, with Pearl slightly behind and to their left– all three of them stare at him like they've never seen him before. Grian supposes that's fair; he hasn't exactly seen anybody for months at a time, but he knows he's atrophied fast: bones sticking out of skin, wrists too thin, cheekbones hollowed out. Ribs showing beneath the sweater that now hangs off of him, swamping him in cloth that never feels warm enough anymore. Grian's eyes slide to the right, then, and– there. There he is. Even the weakness potions aren't enough to keep his heart from jolting when it sees Scar.
Grian blinks at them all, noting the careful distance, then sighs and lets his eyelids flutter shut.
Somewhere in front of him, Mumbo actually swears. The rapid rustle of cloth is his only warning before hands are on either side of his face, lifting his head and grazing into his hairline. "Grian?" Mumbo's voice is sharp. "Hey now, you– come on, open your eyes, alright? Don't be a spoon about this, please. You're not– come on. Eyes open. Grian, listen to me."
It's so automatic, to follow what Mumbo asks of him; Grian forces his eyes half open again, struggling to keep his friend in focus. Mumbo is kneeling in front of him, face very pale against the pinprick stars of the void; Grian still can't read the expression on his face, but it's tight, pinched around the mouth and eyes.
Despite his obedience, the tension creasing Mumbo's face somehow deepens. "That's it," he says, and there's a strange cadence in his voice that speaks of halting encouragement, reassurance– though who he's trying to reassure (and why), Grian has no idea. "Perfect, just like that. Can you–" he falters, swings his head back to look at Xisuma. Whatever he sees must spur him on, because he turns to look back at Grian with uncharacteristic seriousness. "Right. Um, can you talk, G? Tell us what's going on?"
Grian blinks back at him. Isn't it obvious? He fumbles with his own potion-thick tongue, the muscle clumsy in his mouth; he can't quite wrap it around the words he wants to speak. He blinks again, longer this time. It'd be so easy to slip away into that safe darkness again, give in to the heavy weight of exhaustion and let it drag him down, down, down, until nothing hurts anymore and he can be free. But Mumbo makes a panicked noise in the back of his throat, fingers tightening around Grian's face, so Grian forces his eyelids to lift again.
If they want him to face his death with eyes open, it's the very least he can do for them.
Another rustle to his right: "Grian," another voice pipes up, and Grian's heart does that funny, agonizing flip again, because Scar's voice is shaking in a way he hasn't heard before. He sounds scared. "Grian, hey– hey. Look at me?" Grian looks at him, struggling to focus, the fog clouding his mind in one thick blanket. He's unfairly lovely with this backdrop of stars, and his face is pale too. "Grian, what are these?"
He's holding up one of the empty bottles. All at once, it clicks– they think this is a trap. And why wouldn't they? Grian hasn't exactly proven his trust to them. He swallows, a painful, heavy drag of his throat, and cracks his jaw open to whisper. To set this right.
Weakness, he tries to rasp; it comes out garbled, so he sucks in a long, slow breath and tries again, lungs trembling with the effort. "Weak– weakness."
Scar drops the bottle like it's burned him. "You took three weakness potions?" he chokes out, and that seems to break whatever trance Xisuma, Pearl, and Tango have been in this entire time. They rush forward, eating the distance between them in rapid strides, until they're all crouched around Grian.
Grian shuts his eyes again, before remembering he isn't supposed to do that. He wants to say sorry. What he says instead, is: "It was– safer. Like this. For you."
It amounts to about the same thing.
In front of him, Mumbo blanches. "Gri," he says, and now his voice is urgent, "Gri, how long ago did you take these?"
Before Grian can formulate an answer, Xisuma nudges Mumbo an inch to the side, carefully crouching down next to him. "What do you mean, safer?" he asks with measured calm.
Grian breathes in. Breathes out. Counts the beats of his heart, however many are left. "If you kill me here–" he breaks off, has to take a second to breathe. "If you kill me, I won't– respawn." The faces around him swirl dizzily, wavering like ripples in a pond, and Grian has the absurd thought that maybe he's just hallucinating. He doesn't have the strength to shake his head and clear it, so he settles for another purposeful exhale, eyes falling shut again. "Didn't want to– didn't– I can't hurt anyone like this."
Somewhere by his head, Pearl makes a noise like a wounded animal. "Grian, we're not– we aren't killing you," she chokes, and the sheer appall in her voice is palpable. "Oh my god, Grian."
Scar also makes a strange noise, like he's been punched in the throat. "Grian," he says, rapid and urgent, "we've been trying to find you for ages, make sure you're okay– we don't want to kill you. We've been worried sick." Then: "Grian? Grian? Hey– hey, c'mon." A nervous laugh, trailing off into sticky silence. "G, can you open those big ol' eyes for me?"
He's slipping back into that dark place. The quiet one, where everything that makes him ache is a distant torture. To his credit, Grian does try– his lashes flutter, but he can't quite make them part. A hand lands on his shoulder, jostling him slightly, then with more urgency.
Xisuma's voice, this time: "Grian," he says, low but tinged with rising alarm, "stay with us, alright? You're alright, we've got you, but you have to stick around for just a bit longer–"
They do have him, Grian thinks with a swell of sudden relief. And if he can just fade enough to not feel it when he dissolves– that's all he wants. No more pain. No more hurting people on accident. A chance to set this right, in the only way he truly can.
Voices rise around him in a cacophonous symphony, but Grian no longer has the strength to parse them. He sinks, dribbling into the abyss like molasses from a bottle. The darkness consumes him. He does not dream.