Chapter Text
White.
It burned.
He did not know what he was looking at, did not know there was something for him to look at, but there it was: a new light shining through the endless abyss. For a moment he thought it was a final act of cruelty from his dying imagination, yet it lingered.
For an eternity it had gnawed at him, swallowing thought, swallowing time, until he was nothing; one with the void. But then, for a brief moment, he dreamed of the sun. He dreamed of the grass, of the trees, of the flowers, of the animals. The void shifted, perhaps offended by his absence of nothingness, and its jaws opened wide, filling the void with something.
Despite his rotten mind, he knew the light that broke the void with every inch of his being.
And so he clawed at the edge of the world, nails scraping against bare stone. He thought about how much easier this would’ve been if he had some dirt on him to pile up, or a ladder to climb, or a water bucket, or even a pickaxe. He thought of the fields that awaited him, of the warmth of the sun whose presence still lingers on his back, of the cool of the ocean. He dreamt of what he would see again in this world—no, in his world.
Over and over he sunk his nails into the stones, paving his way forward as the world resisted him. The light faded, replaced by a darkness he was all too familiar with, but, this time, he believes it will return again. It has to.
At some point, the stone gave way to a softer material—dirt, he recalls. The new light bled through the cracks, this time closer than ever.
And by pure will alone, the last of the dirt crumbled beneath his hands. Soil piled underneath his nails as he pulled himself up into the open air. Light seared his eyes, and though he could not see it yet, with the warmth on his face, he knew one thing:
He was finally home.
The first warmth spilled across his skin like a slow tide, tugging away at the stillness that clung to him. He did not rise.
The ground pressed cool and uneven beneath his back, each blade of grass bending beneath his weight and springing free when the breeze stirred. Above him, the sky grew brighter with every passing heartbeat, shifting from the faint dark blue of the early morning into something fuller—something alive.
He let the warmth seep into him, let the sun crack into his skin. He liked this new light—the light with color and life to it.
The air tasted clean and sharp when he drew it in, filling places that had ached hollow for so long. He held it until his chest burned, then released it in one long, steady breath.
There had been no threats in the night; no glowing eyes from the darkness, no rattling bones, no groans creeping behind the trees. That absence—or, perhaps, avoidance—probably should have tugged at him, but he only welcomed it. The peace was enough—the warmth was enough.
For a time, though he could not say how long, he stayed that way: half awake, half lost to the music of the land. The hum of crickets rising with the heat, the trickle of water hidden from his view, the rustle of leaves shifting restlessly from the morning breeze. As the world sang around him, he laid in the center of it, letting the song wrap around the hollow that had followed him.
But even rest can run its course. His fingers twitched, his leg shifted beneath him—all aching for motion. He dragged his hands through the grass, felt the damp earth cling to his sore fingers, and with a sigh, reluctantly pushed himself upright.
The world stretched out before him, endless and green, and for the first time in so long, he thought of what came next: shelter, tools, a place to hold his weight—a home. It was strange that a world he once roamed for so much of his life could still feel so new. Perhaps things do change with time afterall, and he will be the first to discover what his world could offer.
And so he walked.
The land shifted beneath his slow steps, dipping and swelling as if it breathed with him—he liked the way it dipped beneath his weight—yet the motion was uneven, the soil sinking a little too late as though the ground were adjusting to him rather than moving with him. Each step sank into the earth with a muted crunch, the blades tickling his bare feet. He did not know where his shoes were, but as an old memory attempted to surface, he decided he did not care. The world was alive and so was he, and that was all that mattered.
The horizon stretched wide before him, and although he did not recognize the land, he did not need to to know he was finally home.
This, he decided, is where he’d settle.
Small clusters of color—flowers, though he did not yet call them that—rose from the earth in uneven patterns: Red, pink, white, blue, and oh, there were so many colors he thought he could only dream of! He picked up a few before he remembered that this was going to be his home—a home!—and he had to keep the scenery pretty. He decided giddily to keep the ones he already plucked so he can later plant them in pots, but first, he needed to actually build said home.
Not far off, tall shapes stood close together, their tops thick with sprouted greens that danced in the breeze. He paused at one such shape floating in front of him and pressed his palm into its rough surface. Splinters caught against his already bruised skin as he brushed against it, though he paid it no mind as the texture stirred something deep within him; a memory half-formed, as though he had dreamed of this very moment countless times before.
The word came slowly, but when it did, it felt solid.
Wood.
Yes, that was it. He smiled slightly at the revelation.
He curled his hand and knocked his fist against the trunk. The sound answered back as his knock rang through the woods and into his ears. He slammed his fist against it, knuckles digging against it as pieces flew free. Shelter, warmth, and creation were all locked inside of it. The motion felt both clumsy and practiced, as if his body remembered long after his mind had forgotten.
Yet, as the first block fell, he realized that something in this tree was wrong; its body was incomplete, even before he had broken part of it. The lower section had been carved away long before he came, but a single log remained supporting a crown of leaves, stubborn and untouched by gravity. He tilted his head at the sight, but carved away the remaining log.
The wood served him well, and with it he created something that stirred the corners of his memory once more as one block became four, then four became one. He leaned onto his creation, pressing his palm into its surface. A familiar feeling warmed his chest and his fingers twitched with an anticipation he did not grasp the severity of. This, this was something that could never be taken from him. It was his very will pressed into the world; the possibilities with it were endless.
He stared at it for longer than he meant to, twiddling the other logs in the arm he was not supporting his weight with, his red slowly painting them with every movement. His mind was running, and although it was too fast for him, one idea managed to stand out.
The day stretched forward, pulling him along with it. He playfully swung his newly made axe between his fingers before slamming it into the trunk of another tree, stripping away more wood. As he finished removing the logs, the leaves fell to the ground and a sapling bounced off his head. He plucked it out of his hair and pressed it back into the ground back where its mother had been, patting the earth around its roots. He told himself the order pleased him. He could not say why.
Still, he passed more trees with only their bottoms carved away. It’s been a while since he’s been in his world—since he’s been himself—but this he cannot recall to be of his doing.
Had he made this? His memory faltered; his mind felt lost in a fog. Perhaps he had, long ago. He may not be the same person he once was—he’s not sure if he knows the person he once was. His world isn’t the only thing he’s rediscovering, or perhaps simply discovering. It has shifted in his absence, that much was obvious, but this? He told himself not to dwell.
And yet, the thought trailed with him.
When the ground dipped, he followed it into the shadows. The air cooled as stone walls surrounded him, carrying him deeper into the earth as it swallowed the light and sent a shiver down his spine. He did not like the cold, did not like what it brings.
He liked the dark, though it was not as dark as it should have been; a faint white light illuminating his path as he pressed forward—a light he was all too familiar with—but he did not mind. It was not intense, and it was not all-consuming. That, he could live with it. He blamed the strange light on some even stranger vines growing on the walls, emitting something similar. It added up, he thought. He thinks he could get used to this change. He has to.
In the distance, he could make out a weak, warm glow, the color of the loving sun, fighting against the darkness. As he approached it, he slowed, every sense alive. He stopped right before it.
There it was, a beacon of light placed in the center of his path. The flame licked at the air gently, refusing to die from the coolness this deep within the earth. He squatted to observe it closer. A piece of coal was tied to a stick, fueling the flame above it. His eyes fixed on the wavering flame, scrambling through his mind. Had he been here before? Had he left this behind long ago and forgotten? A torch’s flame could burn for an eternity, so he must’ve. That was the only explanation, wasn’t it?
As he looked up, he caught another light dancing in the distance. He picked up the torch already in front of him as he stood and made his way over. Another torch, and in the distance, another, then another and another. The cave twisted deeper as he followed and the stones darkened. A half empty vein of coal, holes in the wall where a vein once was—all things he couldn’t remember. He did not like remembering.
As he reached the last torch, the cave’s floor abruptly ends. The single torch he was still holding was not enough to light up the path ahead, so with a sigh he squatted down and yanked up the last torch on the path for an extra light. Except, for whatever reason, he did not pick it up with the hand he was supposed to. He stares at his right arm, once helpless, now wielding the other torch. He flexes that hand, feeling his muscles move to his liking. He thinks he should compliment this later, but the sudden feelings that arise at that thought make him change his mind.
He tossed the extra torch ahead and it dipped down into the area ahead. For a split moment, as he had tossed it into the air, it illuminated some stone-things hanging from the ceiling, then fell downwards, and it went down, down, and down. He doesn’t hear the torch hitting the ground for several seconds.
After a thunk, the drop was now illuminated. This cave truly was massive, and yet, as he searched the clearing from the safety above like he had long ago—his mind wavered, telling him to let go, that it's not worth remembering—there was not a creature in sight. No glowing red eyes, or the echoes of rattling bones and groans off the walls, or any hint of life. There was not a being in this cave except him and him alone.
Now, the cold had finally gotten to him. The caves were never this deep. No, the caves were small and practically useless. He remembers how he had to create his own tunnels to find ore because of how useless the caves were. He remembers a flat plain stretching wide when he had first stood in his world, how only a few hundred steps carried him to its end, where nothing stretched beyond. He remembers a house of reddish wood built with clumsy hands, two brothers giggling at its entrance. He remembers the thrill when rails first carried them across the land, and the brothers figured out how the carts would keep moving without rails underneath the sea. He remembers their contraption of pistons and slime, how they rode it together until it clanged at the very edge of the world.
He remembers. But not this cave. Not these veins. Not these torches. Not these trees.
Not this land.
The cave walls flickered against the light. He focused on that instead.
Eventually he rose, leaving the glow behind him, though it lingered in his mind like ember. He was not prepared to venture so deep, not yet at least, but beyond that, no thoughts came to guide him—he wouldn’t let them.
As he turned to leave, gleaming faintly in the dark was another seam, though this one untouched.
Iron.
His hand moved before his mind did, chipping the pieces free one by one. This was real. This was his.
He stared at the chunks in his palms, which he had almost mistaken for redstone. He pressed it tight in his hand and winced when his fingers cried out in pain. Since when had he been bleeding? He rotated his hand, slowly to not aggravate it anymore, staring at the lack of skin at the tips of his fingers and his damaged, if not outright missing, fingernails. The fingernails with soil trapped underneath, with bits of cobblestone clamped together.
…Ah.
He dropped his hands to his side, still holding the ore tightly, uncaring of the sting that came with it. Still, he could craft himself something nice with this. It was nice to finally find a vein untouched. He bit the inside of his cheeks at that thought. He didn’t like where this was going.
And so, he walked onward.
By the time he emerged from the cave, the sun had begun to set on the horizon. He quickly pulled out the table he had made earlier and shaped iron to his will. His new tool reflected the last remaining rays of the sun; a pickaxe.
He held the torch up to light his way. It reminded him of the one in the cave. The one he had not placed. The one he could not explain.
He turned away from the thought before it could settle, focusing on anything else.
It was dark, and he needed shelter. Though the first night no mobs had come near him as he gazed off into the sky, he did not want to test his luck again. Perhaps the mobs spared him because it was his first night? No. This is not his first night in his world. He winced and stretched his shoulders, shrugging the weight of it all off. Or, at the very least, he tried to.
The hill he had wanted to settle on was not far, or so he believed, though the journey was too risky this close to night, so with some hesitance, he turned on his heel back towards the cave and bunkered in for the night. He sealed off the entrance with some planks, leaving enough room for a door, and walled himself in on the other side just in time as he saw the last remaining rays of sunlight disappear beneath the horizon.
He sat on the cold floor and hugged his knees tight, fighting back the urge to shiver as his body awkwardly twitched. He did not mind the darkness—he much preferred it—but the cold? He could not stand the cold. He could not stand the silence that came with the cold. Once, he welcomed the silence, but now with no one by his side to join him in it, it was, somehow, overwhelming.
Surrounded by nothingness once more, memories began to stir, finally breaching the barrier he had held for so long, slipping into him like light through a crack. Flashes of feelings, smells, colors—all long forgotten. No longer did he bite his cheeks or shrug it off. His muscles relaxed as he leaned against the cool wall, feeling his hands throb and blood—the warmth—leave his body, finally letting everything wash over him as his vision blurred.
In the haze, he could see a row of colors. It was a new world, and he was filled to the brim with blocks. Every world, his brother had gifted him new toys to play with, and that time he had wanted to return the favor. The blocks were a rainbow in his palms, soft as cloth and stupidly cheerful.
He had built a long tunnel of wool by himself that ran from where they had started all the way to the heart of a mountain, an infantile path to cross between the sun and fear. He remembered being small and wrapped in those colors, holding his brother’s shaky hands in his own as they murmured stories of the horrors they’ve been hearing from beyond.
“As long as you stay here, I can protect you,” he had whispered one night.
His brother looked even smaller as he nervously glanced at the tunnel’s mouth where the moonlight poured in, his dark eyes darting about, searching the unknown. “From what?”
“From the evil monsters who come out at night.” He playfully nudged his small brother, earning a quiet noise of surprise from him. “Here, we’re going to be safe. Just don’t leave my side, okay?”
His brother’s hands were warm in his.
“Okay.”
The memory—the heat of their embrace—lingered for a beat longer, as if savoring those last words, before faltering.
There was a jungle that smelled thick and green. Treehouses of jungle wood stitched together with clumsy bridges reigned high above the land. They had lived up there like kings, giggling and running from room to room, safe from the creatures below.
Somewhere in the thicket and humidity they found a trick: if they shoved their head into a glowing block, the world would thin and they could see through. They would press their faces into the light and stare, peeking into the world below without ever stepping foot on to it. They never went down, because fear was a clever anchor, and instead they peered into distant caves like gods.
“Where did you get the glowing stone from?” He had asked once, studying the contraption they had made. “And the sticky thing that pushes it?”
“Oh, you know…” As his brother trailed off, he rolled his eyes knowingly.
“I said no cheats!”
The smaller one’s mouth opened, shut, and then opened again. “Y-You have a jukebox! We’ve never even been to a cave!”
He huffed, and gave his brother a teasing shove. “I would never do whatever… nonsense you’re implying!”
They both giggled at that, knowing full well he was the worse offender between the two of them.
The scene faded and a new one took its place. He was now sitting on a new contraption they had built together, looking down at the world below them. This one was far more intricate: a self-moving machine that would soar the skies.
The machine pumped itself forward, pulling and pushing itself as redstone pulsed within it, and the two brothers held on for their dear life. It was loud, but it worked, and that much they praised themselves for. Besides, this was the furthest from home they had been; that certainly was an accomplishment all on its own.
The wind blew through his dark hair, tangling it greatly, but he did not mind; at least he had hair. They snickered about it amidst the machine’s clanks when they spotted their destination in the distance.
The jungle stretched on behind them, but ahead, the sky reached on endlessly with no horizon stopping it. They hopped off the machine onto a tall tree and made their way down as their machine continued on without them, eventually colliding into something unseen. It clanged once, then fell still. Beyond it, the world had simply… ended.
The only sounds were the quiet humming of the machine as it attempted to pass an immovable force and their shallow breaths and gasps.
He had slowly made his way to the edge, careful not to slip despite knowing he would be caught, and crouched to get a better look of the view.
“What… is this?” He asked, his eyes glued.
“The end,” his brother had giggled from beside him. “Get it?” When he received no response, his grin faded and he sighed. “Well, the world can’t go on forever so… this is where it ends.”
He looked downwards and watched the underworld sprawl out beneath him; it almost felt like he was using that trick they had discovered to spy on caves.
“So there’s nothing out there?”
His brother shook his head. “Not really. ‘The End’ has something to do with it, or it has something to do with ‘The End.’ It works, even if I don’t really know how.”
He frowned at that, but let it drop. “Why’s it so bright?”
At that, his brother’s face lit up. “That one I know! The sky’s the only thing that never ends, so its light fills the empty space, even on the darkest of nights.” He rambled fast, as he usually did when he was excited, but he slowed down as he continued. “What you’re seeing is the world without mobs, without blocks, without… anything. It’s nothing.”
He stared into the expanse and it stared back at him. He could not shake a feeling he could not place a name for.
He thought about it for a while. “What’s it called?”
When no response came, he tore his gaze away to look at his brother, but the white never left his vision. His brother hesitated, then spoke his next words softly.
“The void.”