Archive of Our Own ^beta

The sand feels harsher than usual. Grittier. More grating on Grian’s skin when he kneels, digging his hands into the ground. He can feel the grains in between his fingertips, under his nails, threatening to swallow him whole. 

The weight of his wings is heavy on his back as he hunches over, choking on a desperate, sobbing plea. First to the ground, which cannot respond to him, and then to the sky, which will refuse to do so even as it watches and watches and Watches, the sun and the moon flickering into prowling and intrusive eyes whenever Grian looks too close. 

Eyes, eyes, eyes—his own are red, a sharp and bloody crimson. They weep tears that he doesn’t deserve to shed, and he swipes them away furiously, not giving them the chance to fall to the desert sand. This place has consumed enough of him already. He will not give it this. 

Grian’s body aches. Arms, legs, chest. His wings, dirt lodged between twisted feathers. His face, bruised and cut. Still, he is not as injured as he should be. 

(His knuckles burn, throbbing in tandem with his heartbeat.)

All around him, the cacti reach for the sky above, stretching their spiny fingers to the heavens. They enclose him in a circle that has been sealed with smoke and fire; an arena made of pain, and made to cause pain as well. The sand is stained with the same ghastly color as Grian’s eyes, and the sun is slowly sinking below the horizon, and Grian can’t bring himself to look behind him but he knows what’s there. It’s burned into his mind like a brand. 

The world shimmers around him, like a mirage. Grian is not unfamiliar with mirages; he’s lived in a desert for the past month and a half, and some days are hot enough that Grian thinks he can see Hermitcraft, glistening in the distance, waiting for him like a distant paradise. It’s never anything more than a taunt, though, and he has learned to ignore it. 

Just as he’s ignoring the ghostly apparitions of the people who were once his friends and are now his allies or his foes. Ren, staring down at him with an unreadable expression. Scott, holding hands with Jimmy as their press their shoulders together. Bdubs, lips pursed in an uncharacteristically solemn expression as he exchanges a glance with Cleo. Impulse, and Etho, and BigB, and Martyn, and Tango and Skizz and Joel and—

Grian shakes his head violently to dispel the visions that are plaguing him. They all dissipate, disintegrating into the air and fading back into the atmosphere—all but one. 

“I should have known you would stay,” Grian says aloud to Scar’s transparent form as it hovers behind him, just above the corpse that used to be its home. “I don’t even know why I’m surprised. You never could bring yourself to leave me behind.” He huffs bitterly. The sound echoes through the empty server, all too stark in the silence. “You should have. Maybe then you would’ve won, instead of me.” 

Scar doesn’t respond. Grian doesn’t know what he expected from a hallucination. 

“Although, maybe it’s for the best,” he muses softly. The air seems to grow stale and cold around him, even in the desert heat. “You wouldn’t have wanted to be the last one. You’ve never liked to be alone.” A beat passes. “I don’t like to be alone, either,” Grian admits. “Doesn’t matter what I like or don’t like, though. It’s not going to change anything, is it.” 

He waits, as if to give Scar a chance to speak, then moves on when there’s no response. 

“I miss Scott and Tim,” Grian murmurs. “I hope they’re okay, wherever they are. Hope they’re happy.” He tilts his head. “I’d like to think they’re still living in those ridiculous little flower cottages.” It’s irrational, he knows—Scott and Jimmy are dead—but he can allow himself some irrationality. He’s already hallucinating; what’s one more delusion to add to his list? “It’s stupid, really,” he mumbles, more to himself than to Scar’s hovering figure behind him. “Who makes a flower cottage in a death game? Stupid. Entirely stupid.” 

His left ring finger twitches as he pictures the tiny private wedding they held for Scott and Jimmy. Grian and Scar were the only ones invited—Scar was the officiant, and Grian was the best man for both of the grooms. They took their roles very seriously at the time, as if nothing in the world had mattered. 

It had been less than two weeks before that illusion disappeared in a haze of grief and violence. 

“I wish they were here,” Grian breathes. “I could use some ridiculous stupidity right about now.” 

The world is too quiet around him. Grian hasn’t had a moment of true, genuine silence for as long as he’s been on this curséd server. Even in the middle of the night, when the violence was put on hold, the bloodlust that comes with your last life is never truly dormant. Grian was fortunate enough to not experience it until the bitter end. Scar was not nearly so lucky, and the nights were long when the bloodlust got the better of him. 

Now, he can only think back on those nights with a tight chest and a heavy weight on his shoulders. 

Grian has grown used to the noise and chaos of this death game, and so the silence that surrounds him now is uncomfortable, almost eerie. He hums to himself to ease the unsettled feeling in his stomach. It doesn’t help. If anything, it makes the sense of isolation worse, so he stops. 

“It’s too quiet here without you,” he says instead, directing his words once again to Scar’s ghostly form. “I don’t know how long I’ll be able to handle it. I don’t like being here with you gone. Feels wrong.” He pauses, thinks. The wind filters through his feathers, tangles his hair. It stings his eyes, and they water as he blinks rapidly. “I don’t think I’ll be allowed to stay here, anyways,” he murmurs, and there’s a shift in the air. “I think They’ll want me to make a choice.” His heart beats, steady and constant in his ears, and he pretends that it’s Scar’s. “I don’t want to have to choose. I just want to stay here forever. With you.” 

It’s a pointless wish to speak into existence, up on this mountain where the world is so silent and empty, save for the eyes on the back of his neck and the haunting presence of his only true ally. The one person he trusted, from beginning to end, regardless of everything that happened between them. 

(A slip of paper that decided his fate, and inevitably, Scar’s fate as well. Grian rubs a thumb over his knuckles. They still sting.)

“Not sure what choice I’ll make, if I’m honest,” Grian confesses. His wings rustle. His knees ache from kneeling in the sand for so long. He doesn’t make an effort to change positions. “I’m not even entirely sure what the choices are.” He snorts. There’s no humor in the sound. “It would be nice if They were straight with me, for once. Wishful thinking, am I right?” 

He lifts his eyes up, as if he’ll be able to meet the eyes that are Watching him. “I’m talking about you, y’know. You—all of you are on thin ice.” He rethinks. “Actually, I’m pretty sure the ice is broken already. Absolutely shattered. No ice skating, here.” He doesn’t even really know what he’s talking about, anymore. The words flow from his tongue unrelentingly, without ever registering in his brain. “I miss ice skating,” he mumbles distantly to himself. “Hard to ice skate in a desert, isn’t it.” 

Grian hates the sand. It gets between his feathers, and in his hair, and in his bed. He hates the cacti—hates that after so long, he began to get used to the dull sting of spines digging into his skin. He hates the heat of the sun as it beats down on his shoulders and neck and leaves his skin tender and pink. He hates the desert; he always has. 

He came here anyways, because Scar asked him to. How could he have said no? Besides, at this point, he thinks he’d rather just stay here forever than bend to the Watchers’ will and make the choice they want him to make. 

He’s stalling, now. He knows it, and the Watchers know it, and the ghostly vision of Scar knows it as well. A whisper is carried on the wind—one more, one more—and Grian knows that the time he’s been given to choose has almost run out. The words echo in the voices of the fallen, in Scott’s soft murmur and Ren’s false accent and Joel’s blunt tone. Not Scar’s, though. Scar still doesn’t speak. 

“One more life to go,” Grian whispers. He feels his blood pumping through his veins, his heart beating in his chest, and the pieces click into place. “Ah. I understand.” 

The choice he’s been given isn’t a choice—not really. The Watchers never intended to allow him to decide the result. The outcome itself was always written in stone. The only real choice he’s been given is how his game will be concluded, in the end. 

Grian sighs. He can’t even bring himself to be upset, anymore. He’s just…tired. 

“Right. Okay, then. I suppose I’ll….” He exhales. “Right.” He doesn’t move, though he knows that the Watchers are itching to finally See the end of Their sadistic game. His wings twitch under Their impatient gaze. Other than that, he does not acknowledge Their eyes. He’s learned after so long that it’s best to just ignore Them. He focuses on Scar’s familiar presence behind him, instead. Never mind that it’s a figment of his imagination. 

Grian begins to hum once again, growing weary of the constantly smothering silence. It carries oddly on the wind, and the pit in his stomach worsens, but he doesn’t allow himself to stop, this time. 

(He refuses to admit that it’s because Scar taught him this song, on a starless desert night. The Watchers don’t know this, and if Grian has his way, they never will.) 

“One more to go,” Grian sings quietly to the same soft tune that he’s been humming. “One more, one more….” 

 Choose, something hisses in his ears—not the voices of his friends, this time. Something warped, inhuman. It speaks again: Choose!

“Alright, alright,” Grian mutters. His ruffled feathers betray that he’s not nearly as unbothered by the voice in his ears as he’s trying to be. “No need to be so impatient. There’s all the time in the world.” He huffs. It sounds strange to his own ears. “You’d think you’d be satisfied, by now. What with all of the—the death.” He only stumbles over his words once. Really, it’s better than he had expected from himself. 

The Watchers aren’t pleased by his words. The world rumbles around him, and the air hums with a dangerous sort of static, like the air just before a lightning strike. The hairs on the back of Grian’s neck stand up, and he shudders briefly before lifting his eyes to glare at the sky. 

“Oh, calm down,” he grouses, ruffling his feathers in irritation even as his throat closes up. “You’ll get your entertainment. Just….” He exhales. “Just give me a few minutes.” 

He waits, shoulders tight, until the buzzing tension in the air eases. Only barely, but enough that Grian can tell that this is his moment of reprieve. He sighs. “Thank you.” 

Does it feel wrong to thank the godlike creatures that have ruined his life and killed his friends? Of course it does. But he’s not willing to risk the potential consequences if he commits any sort of transgression against the Watchers. It’s not worth it, not even to preserve what sliver of dignity he’d like to think he still has. 

The only thing left to do now is to decide how he wants to spend his final minutes, before he returns to being one of the Watchers’ pawns. And really, there has only ever been one option, hasn’t there?

At last, Grian turns around to look at Scar’s ghostly form. His breath catches instantly. 

The first thing he notices is that the version of Scar that his mind has created doesn’t have red eyes. He doesn’t have sunflower yellow eyes, either, nor are they glinting like emeralds. Rather, Scar’s eyes are a warm green—not the green of having lives to spare, but the green of moss, and Earth, and a type of life that’s softer than the one they have here on this server. 

Grian can’t look away. He can’t even bring himself to blink. Irrationally, he can’t help but feel ashamed of his own crimson eyes. 

Scar looks…softer, too. Over the past weeks, he had grown sharper, darker. Violent and dangerous to others, and overprotective to the point of possessiveness when it came to Grian. Not that Grian had minded. Not that he hadn’t treated Scar the same way. 

The death games had changed Scar, over time. The lines in his face grew deeper, and his eyes were stony, and his lips had always been curled into either a furious scowl or a sadistic smirk. Unless he was looking at Grian, of course. His face always softened around Grian. 

Now, though, there is no hint of the last few weeks in Scar’s face. His mouth is set in a small, warm smile, and his head is tilted in gentle knowing. He hovers just above the ground, the tips of his boots brushing the sand, bobbing up and down as if floating in water.

It’s the Scar that Grian remembers from before the death games, and it’s almost physically painful to look at, after so long without it. 

“Well,” Grian breathes shakily, fighting valiantly to stay in control of himself. He doesn’t mind unraveling before Scar—God knows he’s done it before—but he refuses to fall apart in front of the Watchers. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” 

Scar’s smile widens. “Hello, there.” 

And Grian can’t stop a sob from escaping his chest when the vision of Scar finally speaks. It bursts out of him, unbidden, sending him doubling over. He wraps his arms around his stomach, wings flaring. Any drop of self control that he’d managed to keep disappears as soon as he’s faced with Scar. 

He can feel the Watchers laughing gleefully, leaning in, snickering. He should care. He doesn’t. 

“Scar,” Grian gasps, then again, more choked, “Scar.” 

Scar crouches in front of him. He reaches out—his fingers ghost along Grian’s cheek—and even though the touch feels like nothing more than a breeze across his skin, it’s enough to make Grian’s face crumple. 

“Hi, G,” Scar murmurs. His eyes are so, so warm. “What’s wrong?” 

And Grian can only laugh, uncontrollably, feverishly. Because what isn’t wrong, at this point? His friends have been killed, and he has a choice to make, and Scar is dead at Grian’s hands. Everything is wrong, and Grian wipes hysterical tears from his cheeks as Scar waits patiently, eyebrows furrowed. 

“What’s wrong?” Grian echoes hoarsely once he manages to regain his composure. His wings spasm. Another short, frenzied laugh escapes him. “Scar.” 

It’s all he can manage to say. Scar winces sympathetically, then nods. “Yeah, maybe that wasn’t the best question. Sorry.” 

“Don’t—” Grian shakes his head. “Please don’t apologize.” 

Because Grian doesn’t think he could handle it if Scar tried to apologize for anything at all. Not when all of this is Grian’s fault—the death games, the Watchers. Even the ghostly version of Scar that hovers before him, flickering in and out of view every few moments. 

All of it is Grian’s fault. 

Scar takes his hand—not really, of course, not when Scar’s fingers just phase through his skin. It’s like a taunt, like the world is dangling the only thing he wants in front of him. It’s like he’s being given a taste of everything he needs, but he’s not allowed to have it. 

“This is unfair,” Grian breathes, tortured. “This is so unfair.” 

Scar nods, and tilts his head. He continues to hold Grian’s hand as well as he can when he’s nothing more than a hallucination. “Yeah?” 

“Mhm.” Scar’s thumb mimes rubbing over the back of Grian’s hand, and he wants to cry. “You’re here, but you’re not—you’re not here.” 

Scar hums. “I’m not?” 

“No.” Grian wishes Scar would stop being so gentle. He thinks it would hurt less if the touch was actually painful. “You’re not.” 

Scar grins at him. It’s so real; the way Grian’s mind conjures up Scar is so realistic that Grian can hardly bear it. “Well, I think I’m here. Isn’t that what matters?” He tries to squeeze Grian’s hand, but it doesn’t work. It just leaves Grian feeling worse. “Besides, I am here, you know.” 

Grian shakes his head. “Stop.” 

“I am!” Scar insists, and Grian chokes on a sob. “Really, I am, I’m right here, G—” 

“Stop,” Grian begs. “Please, whatever this is—I don’t, I don’t know if it’s just my imagination, or if it’s the Watchers playing one final trick on me, but I can’t—I can’t do this, Scar. Please, I can’t.” 

“Grian…” Scar starts softly, but Grian just shuts his eyes against the sadness in Scar’s face. He doesn’t want to see it. Not if it’s not real. 

“Please don’t,” he whispers desperately. His wings curl, wrapping around him in a futile attempt to protect him. “Please—please go away.” And he knows—he knows he’ll regret this later. He knows that he’ll want Scar by his side when the time to choose inevitably arrives, even as a hallucination. But it appears that Grian just can’t help but keep hurting everyone—including himself. 

“G—hey. Grian.” Something cool brushes against Grian’s cheeks. “Grian, can you look at me, bud?” 

Grian has never been able to say no to Scar. 

His eyes flutter open. Scar has leaned in towards him, smiling worriedly, cupping Grian’s face in his hands. Grian can’t feel the touch, not really, but he can pretend, at least. He’s been deluding himself for this long, hasn’t he?

“Hi,” Scar murmurs. His eyes are gentle, and they brighten when they meet Grian’s. “Welcome back.” He grins cheekily at Grian. “Did you miss me?” he teases. Grian knows Scar well enough to understand that this is an attempt to lighten the mood, but he’s not particularly in the mood to joke around. 

“Yes,” he admits honestly, and Scar’s expression shifts into something more pained. He pulls his hands back, and although the touch was as intangible as a breath in the night, Grian misses it already. 

“Yeah?” he whispers, and for a moment, his voice is sweet enough that Grian can forget about the eyes on them. “Well. It just so happens that I’ve missed you, too.” Grian flinches. Scar doesn’t comment on it, but his eyes flicker with something sad and familiar. “That’s why I came back.” 

The lump in Grian’s throat refuses to clear. “But—you’re not—” 

“I am,” Scar corrects him patiently, then, more forcefully, “I am.” It’s tender and strong and caring at the same time, like a vow. “I’m—I can’t touch you.” There’s a hint of agony in that, a tortured desperation that Grian knows to be the same thing constricting his lungs. “There are Rules, for this.” The eyes on them blink in agreement. “But I’m here. I came back.” Scar grins at him, teeth sharp, eyes wild, more akin to the Scar that Grian remembers, save for the shade of his irises. “They couldn’t keep me away from you, G. I’ll always find you. I don’t care what I have to do.” 

Something must be tearing Grian apart, starting from the inside and moving outwards. There’s no other explanation for the pain that he’s feeling. 

“They’re Watching,” he breathes in a dizzied response to Scar’s words, as if that matters at all right now. As if he can bring himself to care. 

As if echoing Grian’s scattered thoughts, Scar shrugs. “So? Let Them Watch. They’ve been doing it the entire time, haven’t They? It never stopped us before.” 

“They’re waiting,” Grian says instead of agreeing, though he knows that Scar’s words are true. “They want me to choose.” 

The winds whisper harshly in his ears, agreeing with him, stealing his breath and replacing it with demands that he make a choice, choose, choose, Choose. 

Grian gasps desperately, presses his hands over his ears in a useless attempt to block the voices. It’s entirely and utterly futile; the words are echoing through his skull, all the way through his bones, and there’s no way to escape it. Not when it’s surrounding him, swallowing him, consuming him—

“I don’t care,” Scar speaks, loudly, his voice rising above the rest and cutting through the clamor in Grian’s mind with a sharp sort of clarity. “They can wait for longer. I don’t care what they want.”

“I have to choose,” Grian emphasizes, voice wobbling dangerously, and Scar’s face—twisted in anger, sadness, indignation—softens at the sound. 

“Okay,” he agrees gently, as if Grian is made of glass and will shatter if he’s not careful. Grian’s not entirely sure that he’s wrong. “You have to choose. Right?” Grian nods. He can’t decide whether to be relieved that Scar isn’t fighting him, or devastated that his fate is really, truly sealed. “But…you don’t have to choose now, do you?”

The winds still. The air goes stale around them. Scar’s form, which had been flickering dangerously, has never been so steady. Stable. 

“Do I have to choose now?” Grian says slowly, weakly, tasting the words on his tongue. The wind doesn’t speak. He can no longer feel the eyes on the back of his neck. “I…They want me to choose. They’re waiting for me to choose.” 

“But do you have to?” Scar presses harder, and Grian falls silent. He doesn’t know, and the wind gives no answers. 

Scar breathes. It’s loud in the silent air. “You have to choose eventually,” he murmurs, delicately, as if he’s trying to gently inform Grian of something he already knows. “If we want to go home, you have to choose something. Anything. But—”

Grian shakes his head unsteadily and ruffles his wings. An odd sort of dizziness had swept over him as Scar continued to speak, and he missed the second half of Scar’s words. “Sorry, I didn’t—could you repeat that?” 

Scar furrows his eyebrows. “What—the part about going home, once you choose? Like, back to Hermitcraft? As soon as all of us are dead, we get to go home.” 

Grian groans. He rubs at his forehead and clenches his jaw, swallowing back the bile that has risen in his throat. “Scar, I—I don’t know what you’re saying.” He doesn’t. He physically doesn’t. Whatever Scar had just been saying, his mind skipped over it like a broken record, and he doesn’t know what Scar had been trying to communicate.

“Grian, what? Oh.” Scar falls silent. His eyes spark angrily, and Grian is positive that he catches a reddish glint among the green. “I see. Oh. Oh, those bastards,” he spits vehemently, and Grian recoils, eyes wide. He’s never heard Scar like this before. 

“Scar.” Panic builds in Grian’s chest, spreading from his nail beds to the tips of his wings. “Scar, I don’t—I couldn’t understand what you were saying. I didn’t understand—I can’t—”

“Shh, shh,” Scar soothes, immediately discarding his boiling fury in favor of calming Grian down. “It’s okay, I know. It’s not your fault, you’ve done nothing wrong.” And even after everything, Scar can ease Grian’s worries with so little effort. His wings ease, from where they were held tense. “There’s some stuff They don’t want me to tell you,” and Grian tenses, but Scar quickly reassures him, “and that’s fine! It’s okay, it doesn’t change anything.” 

It doesn’t change that Grian will, at some point, have to choose. 

“For now, though—we can just sit here, yeah? We can talk.” Scar smiles at him. He hates how much he craves the sight. 

“Talk?” Grian manages. He laughs hoarsely. “What is there to talk about?” 

Scar is quiet for a moment. “I…think there’s a lot to talk about, honestly.” And now he’s glancing behind him, over his shoulder, where his body still lies motionless on the ground. 

Grian feels dizzy. His mind is reeling, and his lungs are burning, and he hates the reminder that Scar isn’t really here. He’s here, if Grian hasn’t gone entirely insane, but the fact remains that he’s dead. That Grian was the one to kill him. 

Grian isn’t sure if he believes Scar’s words. He isn’t sure if Scar is actually here, if he’s actually somehow returned, or if it’s all in Grian’s mind. It doesn’t matter. It’s real to Grian, at least for now, and he has to answer for his sins. 

“A lot to talk about,” he echoes, and his voice sounds distant to his own ears. His eyes slide past Scar’s face and to the limp form directly behind him. “Yeah. You could say that.” 

His fingertips are tingling, and he feels numb. Even when Scar says his name, concerned, he can’t rip his eyes away from the body. 

“Hey.” Scar’s face fills Grian’s vision. “Stop that. Come back.” 

Grian blinks—slowly, like his eyelids won’t respond to him. “Hm?” he mumbles, and it’s only when Scar clicks his tongue that he realizes just how far he’s drifted. 

“You’re shutting down again,” Scar warns him, and it brings back memories of sitting in the tower on Monopoly Mountain and floating so far away that it would take hours for Scar to bring him back. “Don’t shut down. You’re here. With me. Okay? We’re here.” 

But where Scar’s touch would normally ground Grian enough to plant his feet firmly in the earth once again, Scar cannot touch him right now, and Grian is left untethered. 

“Hey,” Scar repeats, sharper, and Grian startles. “Stay with me.” His voice dips into something more emphatic, more pleading. “You can’t—you can’t just disappear so you don’t have to talk about this. We have to talk about this.” 

“I’m not…” Grian starts, but he trails off before he can remember the point he was trying to make. Scar understands, because he knows Grian better than Grian knows himself, and he exhales softly. 

“I know,” he allows, gifting Grian with a grace that he doesn’t deserve. “I know you’re not trying to do it. I know you can’t control it. I promise, I know.” Scar moves to touch Grian’s hand. Grian can’t feel it, of course. He’s not sure he’d be able to feel it even if Scar’s hands were tangible. “And I also know that you’re strong, and you’re able to beat it. Especially if I’m here to help.” 

“You’re not, though,” Grian breathes hazily, and he knows it’s an echo of the same thing he’s been saying, but it’s all his mind will conjure up. Scar inhales, says something, but Grian doesn’t hear it. “You’re here, but you’re not. And you’re not here, because you’re dead—” but that’s not fair. It doesn’t encapsulate the truth. “You’re not here because I killed you. I killed you, and it’s all my fault, and I—I—”

He’s gasping, now. Wheezing, unable to regain his balance when the sand is shifting so drastically beneath him, wings mantling as if they can protect him from whatever unseen threat must be hurting him. But there’s nothing to protect him from, because Grian brought this upon himself. It was Grian’s hands that drew Scar’s blood, Grian’s fists that painted blooming bruises on Scar’s skin, Grian’s fingers that wrapped around Scar’s throat and squeezed until Scar stopped moving at last. 

And yet, Scar is still at his side. Scar is talking to him, begging him to breathe. Scar clawed his way back from death to be with Grian. Scar stared the Watchers in the Eyes and forced Them to let him come back, just to return to the person who took his life. 

Grian doesn’t deserve Scar. If anything he deserves to have taken Scar’s place, lying in the sand, eyes wide and glassy and blank. He can picture it, even. Wings splayed out, feathers crumpled, the sand stained red just like his eyes. He can imagine it; it’s almost a comforting thought. 

Soon, he promises himself dazedly as Scar tries to get his attention. Soon, he’ll make his choice. And no matter what he chooses, he’ll end up by Scar’s side. Or, maybe, he can convince the Watchers to put him in Scar’s place. Just like he deserves. 

“Grian,” Scar pleads, as if from underwater. “I—it’s okay.” But both he and Grian know that’s false, so he changes directions. “You didn’t have a choice—”

“I did,” Grian gasps. “I should have—I should have—” He wheezes. “I don’t know.” 

“Please, Grian,” Scar begs, and he reaches out to cup Grian’s cheek, but Grian flinches away. He knows he wouldn’t be able to feel the touch, anyways, and he doesn’t know if he could handle that. 

Scar looks devastated. He opens his mouth to say something, but he never gets the chance to speak. 

The air stills around them. Scar freezes. 

A whisper in his ear that somehow echoes throughout the server: Time’s up. 

“No,” Scar breathes, horrified, then shouts, “No! No, get out, you promised him that he’d get more time, you can’t just—” The feeling of being Watched intensifies to the point that Grian gasps and doubles over. Scar just sucks in a sharp breath, shakes his head. “No, no, stop that. Just—just give him a few more minutes, just a few more minutes.” Scar is begging, now, babbling desperately, tripping over his words. “I swear—I swear, he’ll make a decision, we just need—he just needs a few more minutes, please.” 

The wind howls furiously at Scar’s words, and Grian keens, pressing his hands against his ears. CHOOSE, it screams, and nothing Grian does can block it out, anymore. The voices duplicate, doubling and tripling until there are too many to count, and They all shriek in tandem. Choose, choose, choose. 

(And make it entertaining, a lone voice hisses, and Grian sobs.)

“Ignore Them, Grian,” Scar snaps, and it’s almost inhuman. “Don’t listen to Them. Ignore Them. They don’t matter, They don’t know what They’re talking about—you don’t have to choose—”

“I do,” Grian breathes. Tears stream down his cheeks, hot and unrelenting, and he doesn’t bother to wipe them away. “I—you don’t understand, Scar, I have to. I have to, They’ll—if I don’t, They’ll—” He shakes his head. “You don’t want to know what They’d do. I don’t want to know what They’d do.” He gasps for air that refuses to enter his lungs. “I have to choose. I have to make it entertaining, or They’ll—”

“They’re bluffing, G,” Scar pleads, cutting through his desperate words. “I know—I know you don’t understand, yet, but no matter what you do, no matter how you—how you die, it won’t change anything! I swear to you, it won’t change anything. No matter what, we get to go back to Hermitcraft. Both of us.” 

“Scar,” Grian sobs, wings spasming. “Scar, I don’t understand. I don’t know what you’re saying. I don’t understand.” 

Good try, little Player, the Watchers croon, and Scar snarls wordlessly at Them. But you know how this goes. You understand the Rules. There’s no use in trying to spoil the game before it can be played. 

“Monsters!” Scar shouts at Them, voice cracking. “All of you—you’re monsters.” 

The Watchers just cackle. 

Scar returns his focus to Grian. “Grian—G—listen to me, bud, it’s not worth it. They can’t—They don’t have as much power as you think They do. Please, if you have to do this—if you have to die—be kind to yourself. Please.” 

Grian shakes his head, pulling his wings in.  “No….” 

“A weakness potion,” Scar rambles desperately, ignoring Grian’s soft plea. “Any potion, if you have to, if you do it right it would be quick, it wouldn’t hurt—doesn’t matter, just—just something, Grian. Please.” 

“I’m sorry, Scar,” Grian croaks. He stands, and staggers towards the edge of the cliff. Scar wails, reaches out for him, but his hand phases through Grian’s skin uselessly. 

Grian leaps. He doesn’t let his feathers catch the air beneath him. 

The winged winner falls at last, the Watchers hum, pleased. A fitting end. 

Grian plummets.

— / — / — 

Hello. 

Grian starts, wings flaring as his eyes open. “H—hello? Who’s there?” 

The world—if it can be called that, really—is dark. Not the dark of the night, or the dark of a cavern or cave, but a familiar darkness, nonetheless. It’s the darkness of the End—or, rather, what exists beyond it. It’s the darkness of the Void.

Grian looks all around him—left and right, up and down. He can’t tell how he’s positioned in this space. Come to think of it, he’s not even sure that he is positioned in this space. When he really focuses on his body—his arms, his legs, his wings—he can feel their absence. 

He chokes down the panic that rises in his throat, except it doesn’t, because he doesn’t have a throat right now. “Hello?” he calls again, louder, but any sound is swallowed. “Is—is someone there?” There’s no response. He tries again. “Where am I?” 

This gets a response, at last. This is the space between Everywhere and Nowhere—All and Nothing. This is the moment in between an Inhale and an Exhale. This is a space that is Known to all, but Understood by none. Grian, somehow, feels dizzy. The voice, whatever it may be, softens. To you, however, this is a kindness.

Grian doesn’t understand. Nothing makes sense—he feels unstable, slipping between realities, not quite able to grasp onto one or the other. If the voice is speaking the truth—and, inexplicably, Grian trusts it to do so—then this place is both real and not, and Grian can’t quite grasp onto it. Nothing feels solid enough to hold. 

“Why…why am I here?” His words drift in the Void unbidden, almost against his will, as if each thought manifests as something tangible in the darkness. 

The voice hums. It reverberates through Grian’s bones, as immaterial as they may be. Your soul is unprepared to return to your body. So, instead, you’re here with me.

“With you,” Grian echoes. “And…who are you?” 

A soft, gentle laugh. A kind question, but an unimportant one. You are you. I am me. What more does one need to know? 

“But—but am I, me?” Grian shakes his head. At the same time, he doesn’t move at all. His body isn’t real, here. “I’m not, like—” He waves phantom arms around. “Here.” 

True, the voice agrees. But your perception of yourself allows you to exist, nonetheless.

“Right,” Grian mutters. “Right, of course.” A sharp, shrill warble escapes his throat, courtesy of his avian instincts. He chokes it down, then manages, “Makes—makes perfect sense.”

You do not require understanding, Player, the voice murmurs. It’s gentle enough to make Grian shudder, and it wraps around him in a way that—somehow—feels familiar. It reminds Grian of Pearl, and of Jimmy, and of their wings curling over his shoulders. You only have to accept the lack thereof. 

“Of course.” Grian repeats shakily. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll just—I’ll just skip past that, I think.” He misses his wings. He can imagine pulling them in to protect him, and he can even feel them respond to him, but he knows that they aren’t actually present. There’s a sort of emptiness in his chest, and he can’t handle the feeling. The shadows of his feathers rustle in discomfort. “Uh—how long will I have to be here?” 

That is your decision. 

“My decision,” Grian echoes. “Okay, okay, cool—can I decide to go back, right now?” He can’t hide the hint of stress in his words. 

My apologies, Player. I should have clarified. The voice is smooth and calm, and despite everything, it soothes something in Grian’s chest. It is the decision of your subconscious—your code, rather. When your code is able, it will bring you home. 

Grian hesitates. “And—and home. Home is—” He can’t bring himself to say it. He doesn’t know what this voice considers his home, at this point; he doesn’t know if he’ll be sent back to Monopoly Mountain, or if he’ll finally be sent home. Hermitcraft. 

Home, the voice tells him softly, is wherever you believe it is. 

A quiet chirp escapes Grian’s throat, and he winces. “Sorry,” he croaks, then whispers, “So—so I can go back? Back to Hermitcraft?” 

The voice—the voice croons, and it’s such a familiar sound, so reminiscent of his flock cooing in his ears, and Grian gasps, his ears ringing and his senses clouding over with a pleasant, hazy white for just a moment before he shakes it away. God. He misses his flock. He misses Pearl and Jimmy, and he misses the non-avian members of his flock, too. Mumbo and Xisuma—even Scar, though he saw the man so recently. 

(Scar, who will hate him when he finally makes it home.)

You can go home, Player, the voice says, and Grian sobs. You can return home at last. 

“Thank you,” Grian breathes, choked. “I—thank you.” 

The tears that stream down his cheeks dissipate instantly in the dark of the Void, as if they were never there at all. The voice does not reassure him, nor does it rebuke him for his cries. It just waits, patient and sturdy and as unending as the Void itself, as Grian manages to calm himself down. 

After that, Grian doesn’t speak—he’s not sure if he could without falling apart, anyways—and the voice doesn’t prompt him to. It allows the silence to sit between them, but it’s not as suffocating as it could be. It’s just…silence. 

And Grian, slowly, recovers. 

He isn’t sure how long he waits, hours or minutes or days, but the more time he lets the Void sink into his veins—calm his blood, soothe his wings, stitch together his code—the stronger he feels, and he’s not quite ready to leave, but he can feel himself growing closer to Hermitcraft. To home. 

Ah, the voice says suddenly, as if in realization, and Grian startles. You have a visitor, it seems. Are you ready to greet them? 

“A visitor?” Grian’s breath stutters. “It’s not—it’s not the Watchers, is it? Because I am—” He laughs, sudden and high pitched and hysterical. “I am not on good terms with those guys.”

No, Player, the voice promises him softly, and a rush of something washes over Grian, strong enough to send him spiraling. It is not Them. They cannot reach you, here.

“But something else can.” The panic in Grian’s chest builds. “Something—something powerful?” Something worse? Something that will hurt me? 

He doesn’t ask. He’s afraid to know the answer.  

Powerful, yes, the voice agrees. But he is yours. 

Grian’s mind stalls. “…What?” 

“Grian!” 

It’s earnest and breathless and tortured and so, so relieved, and Grian knows this voice. Grian knows this voice.

“Xisuma,” he breathes, and he can’t see his admin, but he knows Xisuma’s presence like it’s his own, and he reaches out blindly into the darkness with intangible fingers as if a gloved hand will grasp his own. “Xisuma!” 

“Grian—dear Lord, Grian, you’re here. You’re okay.” Xisuma’s voice sounds like it’s on the verge of tears. Grian searches desperately, but he can’t find Xisuma. Only the echo of his presence. “We were so worried—Scar came home days ago, he said you should be back, soon, but then you didn’t show up, and we started looking—God, Scar will be so relieved—”

“Xisuma,” Grian gasps again, and it’s all he can say, because Xisuma is here, his admin is here, he’s safe, but he forces himself to rasp, “I—how—”

“I talked to Keralis—he thought that he felt something odd, with the space around the server—” Xisuma exhales shakily. Somehow, Grian can tell that his admin is drawing closer. “I decided to come out here, to see what I could find—good Lord, I’m so glad you’re here. I’m so glad you’re here.” 

Grian still can’t quite grasp the ease with which Xisuma comments that he decided to venture out into the Void. As a Voidwalker, it must be second nature to him, but to Grian, the Void has always been a danger. There’s a reason everyone is so cautious in the End, and a reason no one digs past bedrock. On a server, a death in the Void will only result in a respawn, but it’s inherent in nearly all living creatures—save for Voidwalkers, and other creatures of the Dark—that the Void is to be avoided at all costs. There’s no telling what will happen if you find yourself in the Void outside the server. 

Though…Grian supposes that’s where he is, now. It’s almost surreal to even think about; it shouldn’t be possible, not for him. But yet, here he is, and now that he pays closer attention, something is cradling him, keeping him from dissolving into the darkness and never returning. 

Grian doesn’t understand. He’s not sure he’s supposed to. 

Hello, Xisuma, the voice greets, and Xisuma sighs, relieved. 

“Hello,” he responds simply. He doesn’t address the voice by name; perhaps it doesn’t have a name, at all. “Thank you for taking care of him. From the bottom of my heart—thank you.” 

He is my Player, young Voidwalker, the voice murmurs softly, and, well—there are multiple things wrong with that, because there’s no chance Xisuma is young—Grian has always considered him to be older than the Nether itself, though that can’t possibly be true—and anyways, Grian is Xisuma’s Player. No one else’s. But Xisuma just hums in quiet agreement, as if he understands something that Grian doesn’t. Same as you. Same as all of your Hermits. I look after my Players. 

“Yes,” Xisuma breathes. “I—I know. But still, thank you—”

Xisuma, the voice chides, and it’s gentle, but it’s powerful, and even that makes Grian’s breath stutter. He feels rather than sees the reverent way Xisuma bows his head. Take your Player home. 

“Home,” Xisuma agrees, and suddenly, something cold but familiar is wrapping around Grian’s wrist, the first tangible thing he’s felt since opening his eyes in this Void, and it’s jarring, to the point where his wings flare and he releases a short, startled squawk. 

“It’s just me, Grian,” Xisuma murmurs, closer than he’s been in what must have been months, after how long Grian was stuck on the death game server. “I’ve got you. It’s just me.” 

“Xisuma,” Grian wheezes, scared, and he can’t stop himself from shrinking away, trying to escape, but Xisuma hushes him, soft and gentle and tender. 

“Easy, mate,” Xisuma soothes. “I’m going to take you home, if you’re ready.” 

Grian’s head is spinning. “Home,” he croaks, and Xisuma hums. “You mean—you mean Hermitcraft?” 

“Unless there’s somewhere else you’d like to be.” 

“No!” Grian blurts desperately, wings spasming fearfully. “No, please, I want to—I want to go home—”

“Shh, shh,” Xisuma whispers. “I know. I know. We’re going home. I promise. We’re going home. We’re going to Hermitcraft.” 

“Xisuma, I’m scared—”

And Grian isn’t entirely sure what he’s scared of, anymore. Maybe he’s scared that Xisuma will lose his grip on Grian, and Grian will be lost to the Void. Or that, somehow, his code will stop bearing the weight of the darkness, and it will unravel. Or that the Watchers will find him, and They’ll take him, and he’ll be stuck once again, trapped in whatever new torture they’ve concocted for him—

(Or, maybe, he’s afraid to look Scar in the eye. Maybe he doesn’t know how to handle it.) 

“I know, Grian.” Xisuma sounds as though he’s going to burst into tears. The cool tendrils wrapping around Grian’s skin tighten gently, just a bit. Not to restrain, but to comfort. “Just let me take care of it. It will be okay. Just close your eyes, let me handle it—”

“X, I don’t—” Grian laughs, wild and hysterical. “X, I don’t have eyes, right now.” 

“I—” Xisuma huffs out a sad, gentle laugh. “I know, G. I know. I understand. The sooner I bring you home, the sooner you can—have your eyes back.” A beat passes. “Everyone misses you. Me, obviously, but also—Mumbo, and Scar….” 

Grian flinches violently. “Don’t,” he begs. “Please, don’t.” 

Xisuma doesn’t speak for a long moment. “Grian, Scar…told us what happened.” He hesitates. “You know—you know it’s not your fault, right?” 

Grian screws his face up—or, he would, if he had a face. “Please, don’t,” he repeats in a bare whisper. “Please.” 

“Grian….” 

“I just want to go home,” he pleads. “I wanna go home. Please.” 

“Okay, Grian,” Xisuma whispers to him. “We’re going home.” 

This time, when the cool tendrils wrap around Grian’s limbs and caress his skin, he doesn’t resist. 

— / — / — 

Xisuma joined the game

Grian joined the game

— / — / — 

Grian spawns on Hermitcraft and immediately drops to his knees, a sharp warble escaping his lips as he doubles over and wraps his arms around his stomach. He can feel his sweater brushing against his skin, and his feathers rubbing together, and he shudders violently, unused to having a physical form. 

The world darkens at the edges, and for a moment Grian thinks, hysterically, that he’s back in the Void, or back on Monopoly Mountain, but he’s not. He knows he’s not, because this is grass under his knees and clenched tightly between his fingers, not sand, and not shadows. And for the first time in weeks, there are no Eyes on him, and Grian can’t handle it. He can’t.

He retches. He aches. 

(He can still feel something Watching him, even if nothing is. He can feel it, and he’s not safe. He’s not safe, he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to do.)

Every little sensation is just—too much. It’s all too much. Even just the way the wind ghosts against the back of his neck makes him want to tear his skin off, because he can’t handle it, and now there are cold, gloved hands wrapping around his wrist and there’s a voice begging him to breathe, please, Grian, you’re home, you’re safe, and the voice is familiar. It’s so familiar, but Grian can’t see the source—can’t see much of anything, right now, honestly, with the way his vision is dark even though his eyes are open. And because he can’t see, the voice seems to be coming from nowhere at all, and nothing good happens when voices come from nowhere, so Grian screams and he yanks his arms away, expecting resistance, but the hands release him immediately and he topples backwards in the grass, a desperate whine bursting from his throat. 

He’s begging, he realizes distantly as words spew from his mouth unbidden. He’s pleading for—something. Some sort of kindness, or mercy, or grace, or even just a few more minutes, just a few more, please, he’s not ready, he’s not ready, he doesn’t know how to choose—

A soft sound—a melody, lilting and intimate—filters through the ringing in Grian’s ears, and he freezes. He listens. 

It’s gentle and constant and unceasing, and Grian knows this. This is familiar, despite the thoughts roiling through Grian’s head. He knows this. This is the same sound that has calmed him hundreds of times in the past. And every time before now, it was when he was sitting on the harsh desert sands at the top of Monopoly Mountain, and he’d been so afraid, but something about this promised him that he was safe. And he’s not on Monopoly Mountain, not anymore, but he’s afraid, and he’s in danger, but—maybe not as much as he thought he was. 

He breathes. He listens. 

The melody doesn’t stop, and the longer Grian forces himself to stay quiet and calm his wheezing breaths and track the sound, the more he comes back to himself. His vision clears, and his skin stops buzzing quite so violently, and he can finally register the feeling of warm, rough hands resting on his own. Not restraining—just there. 

(He knows these hands. He knew these hands even when they were cold and pale and still. He doesn’t think he could ever not know these hands.)

The melody—a soft hum, he realizes now—finally pauses. “You back with me, G?” someone murmurs, and Grian chokes on a sob. 

Scar. 

His eyes are soft and tender, and there’s no anger or fury or hatred in them even though there should be because Grian killed him, Grian killed him, and yet, he’s being so gentle, and he shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t. He should yell and scream and curse at Grian, or pull out a sword, or lunge forward and wrap his hands around Grian’s throat because it’s only fair, after everything Grian did to him. It’s only fair. 

Scar lifts a hand, and Grian forces himself to stay still. He doesn’t let himself flinch away; it wouldn’t be fair to Scar.  

(His wings twitch, though. He doesn’t have nearly enough control over them to stop them.)

But—but Scar doesn’t curl his hand into a fist, and he doesn’t swing it forward towards Grian’s face, and, worst of all, he doesn’t reach for Grian’s neck. He just cups Grian’s face in his hand, and it’s the same as before, when he was on Monopoly Mountain and the Watchers were demanding compliance, but he can feel it now. He can feel the way Scar’s fingers twitch against his cheek, and the way his hand trembles, and it’s so familiar and it’s so unfair because Grian doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve this kindness. He deserves—

(Blood and bruises and pain pain pain—)

“Easy,” Scar whispers. “Easy.” 

And even just that brings Grian out of his mind, enough that he manages to gasp in a breath and meet Scar’s eyes—and Void, were they always so green? He hadn’t realized how green they were when Scar was just an apparition. They’d been so…washed out, before. Dull, like an imprint, or an echo. Now, Grian can see them in all their glory, and they’re beautiful. Despite everything, they don’t remind him of the toxic green hue of being on your first life. How could they? They’re Scar’s and Scar’s alone, and they don’t belong to the Watchers. Not anymore. 

Grian, on the other hand—he belongs to the Watchers, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever escape that knowledge. He’s belonged to Them for too long, now. He’s Theirs. 

But—but he’s also Scar’s, because Scar is holding him, and Scar is here, and Grian thinks, desperately, that he’d do just about anything if Scar would keep him. If Scar would let him stay. 

Scar isn’t the only one here, though, and Grian tenses, jerking away from Scar’s touch as he glances wildly around himself. Xisuma is here, wringing his gloved hands anxiously—and, oh, that must have been who gripped his wrists, earlier. Mumbo stands off to the side, lips pressed together to keep them from trembling. And Impulse, and Etho, and Cleo, and Keralis and Wels and Jevin and Doc and all the Hermits are here, but Grian can’t focus on them, because Scar is right here, and Scar is being too kind and too gentle and Grian can’t handle it. He can’t.

He reaches up, wraps his fingers tightly around Scar’s wrist until his knuckles go white. “Scar,” he croaks, and it’s the first thing he manages to say. Scar’s face lightens. 

“Yeah, G?” Scar rubs his thumb over Grian’s cheek. “What’s up?” 

“Please,” he wheezes, and the soft pride in Scar’s expression drops into concern. “Please—please, you—”

“Hey, hey—” Scar whistles to get Grian’s attention. “Listen to me, yeah? I’m not going to hurt you. I wouldn’t do that. You know I wouldn’t.” 

That’s not—that’s not it. That’s not what Grian is trying to say. 

He shakes his head wildly, gasping for air. “No, no, please—you have to—please.” 

“Please what, Grian?” Scar breathes. “I need you to talk to me, bud.” 

“Hurt me,” Grian begs. His wings spasm. “Please, hurt me. Kill me. Kill me.” 

Scar freezes, and Grian can feel the fingers press harsher into his cheek. “Grian—” he chokes, and cuts off. Grian has known Scar for a long time, and he’s gotten to know him even more recently, and he can tell that Scar isn’t breathing as evenly as he should be. “No, no—” he laughs, unsteady and high-pitched. “You can’t—you can’t be serious. You’re not serious, are you? You’re not.” 

Grian exhales desperately. “Please,” he rasps. “Please, please, please—”

“No!” Scar’s face is stark white, now, and he’s looking at Grian like he’s never seen him before. “No, I’m not—I’m not going to kill you, Grian, that’s—that would be so messed up, you realize.” 

He flinches almost immediately, as if realizing his mistake. “I mean—it wasn’t your fault, you know. It wasn’t. I swear, G, I don’t—I don’t hold it against you, no one holds it against you. It wasn’t—you didn’t have a choice.” 

“Scar,” Grian pleads. “Scar, I can’t—I can’t. Please. Please.” 

“Oh-kay, I think I’m just gonna—” Someone shuffles in, gently batting Scar away and sliding into Grian’s view, taking up his vision. Their eyes are wide and earnest and gentle, and they rest their elbows on their knees as they crouch, tilting their head to the side. 

Joe Hills. 

“Hey there, G,” Joe greets him. “Looks like you were in a bit of a pickle, yeah? But that’s a-okay, because you’re home, now. No need for any hurting or killin’ of any kind, dontcha think?” 

He doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t. But it’s Joe, and Grian’s not about to argue with Joe. So he nods, though the tightness in his throat is stopping all air from entering his lungs. 

Joe nods, pleased. “Good. Good, there ya go. Good job, buddy.” He doesn’t reach for Grian. He doesn’t try to touch Grian’s shoulder, or take his hand, or wrap his fingers around Grian’s throat. He just stays still, looking at Grian with no judgement and no anger. Even though Grian deserves every drop of anger Joe could possibly muster. 

“Scar…” he breathes, because Scar is far more important than he is, and he can no longer see those familiar green eyes. He tries to look around, but Joe clicks his tongue, and Grian’s eyes flicker back over to him. 

“No worries, Grian, Xisuma’s got him.” He tips his head off to the side, where Xisuma must be standing with Scar. “Just look at me. Yup, just like that. Doing great.” 

“I hurt him,” Grian says desperately, because he needs to make Joe understand, but Joe just nods, unbothered. 

“Mhm. I know. Scar told us.” He raises an eyebrow at Grian. “He also happened to tell us that you were hurt, quite a bit, as well. Would you agree?” 

His voice is entirely neutral. Grian knows that, no matter what he says—whether he agrees that he was hurt, or protests and claims that he was the one who did the hurting—Joe will listen and accept his words. He won’t try to convince Grian otherwise, and that gives Grian the strength to admit the truth. 

“Yeah.” His voice is hoarse, and it cracks as he tries to speak. “I—I was hurt. But Scar—” 

“Ah!” Joe lifts a finger. “Don’t think about Scar, right now.”

Grian laughs, high and hysterical. “Easier—easier said than done, Joe,” he gasps, and Joe shrugs. 

“You’re tough. You can do it.”

And Grian laughs again, more desperately, because he certainly doesn’t feel tough. 

“Joe, you—you have no idea,” Grian breathes, raking a hand through his hair. His fingers catch on the tangled strands, and he tugs, hard. “You have no idea what happened—it was bad, Joe, it was so bad—”

“Scar told us about it,” Joe assures him. “And the others, as well. Me, I heard quite a bit from our very own ZombieCleo.” 

Cleo. God. Grian and Scar had their differences with the Crastle, throughout the games, but they were allies at the very end. When it all mattered. Except it didn’t matter, because they’re home, now, and it’s as if nothing ever happened, and all Grian can remember is everything he did to hurt his friends. Like Cleo. Like Bdubs. Like Scar. 

He closes his eyes. “I’m—”

A murderer? A monster? He doesn’t know where he means to take the sentence. 

Joe understands. Of course he does—words have always been his specialty. “Now, don’t go talking like that, Grian,” he chides lightly. “The rest of us disagree, you know.”

Grian chokes on a broken laugh. “Ask someone who was there. Ask anyone who was there. They’d tell you—everything.”

“They did tell us everything,” Joe agrees, and Grian tenses. “Well—everything is an overstatement, of course, but we do know a good amount.” His voice drops into something gentler. “We know what happened at the end, there. To an extent, at least; no one seemed to be able to recount who you were talking to, when it wasn’t Scar.”

“It was the Watchers,” Grian whispers, voice cracking, and he flinches almost as soon as the words have left his mouth, like They’ll appear if he speaks Them into existence. “They—They took us, and it was my fault, because I was the one They wanted.” He balls his hand into a fist and drives it sharply into his thigh. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as he wants it to, but Joe makes a quiet sound and reaches out to stop him from doing it again.

“Grian….”

“If I had just—gone with Them, when They asked—They asked me to go with Them, did you know that, Joe?” Grian wishes Joe would hurt him. He wishes someone would hurt him—anyone. Any punishment he could face wouldn’t be enough, but it would be a start. “They asked me to go with Them, right after—after EVO,” and his voice cracks on the name of his old server, “and I escaped, just barely, but I should have—I should have known.”

Joe shakes his head. “You couldn’t have known.”

“I could have,” Grian cries. “I know Them better than just about anyone, Joe, and this is just the type of thing They’d pull. I could’ve guessed, and I could’ve gone with them when They asked, because then at least everyone else—” Jimmy and Scott and Ren and Cleo and Martyn and BigB and Bdubs and Etho and Tango and Skizz and Impulse and Joel and Scar—

Grian gasps. “At least everyone else would have been okay,” he weeps. “They would’ve been okay.”

“And you?”

Grian freezes. Joe is looking at him expectantly, but Grian doesn’t know what he’s expecting. “…What about me?”

“You. Where would you be?” Joe waves a hand. “Or, to phrase it better—what would happen to you?”

“I—” Grian fumbles. “With. With Them, I suppose.” And Joe is still looking at him, so Grian fidgets, and adds, quieter, “why does it matter?”

“Well, this might sound crazy, G,” and Joe nudges him lightly, here. “But I actually do want you around, and so does everyone else.”

A short bark of a laugh escapes from somewhere deep in Grian’s chest. “You shouldn’t.” The panic has ebbed, now—Joe’s presence is soothing enough that Grian finds himself breathing easier—but the weight of everything is still deep in his stomach. It sinks into his bones, making him feel heavy. “If I had never come here, then things would have been—fine.” The Watchers would have never found Hermitcraft. It would have remained the safe haven it was before Grian arrived and tore it to pieces with his bare hands.

“But Grian,” Joe says sadly. “If you’d have never come, you’d have never become a Hermit.”

Grian closes his eyes, refusing to admit even to himself how much that idea hurts. “It would have been for the best,” he whispers, trying to convince himself more than Joe.

“It wouldn’t have.” And Joe sounds so sure about it, but he wasn’t there—he doesn’t know—so Grian ignores him.

“Is Scar okay?” he can’t help but ask. He spent so long using all of his focus to protect Scar; it’s become second nature to worry about him. When he doesn’t know where Scar is, his entire body is on alert, and he can’t relax until he knows that Scar is safe. “I didn’t mean to upset him.”

Even if Grian meant every single word he said. Even if he still means it.  

“I’m sure he knows that,” Joe assures him, as if that matters, because all Grian can ever do is hurt Scar. “Xisuma’s taking care of him, now. You trust Xisuma, don’t you, now?”

“Of course,” Grian agrees tiredly, though he doesn’t know if it’s true anymore. Doesn’t know if he trusts Xisuma with Scar, at least, but then again, he doesn’t really trust anyone with Scar, anymore. Least of all, himself.

Joe hums. He doesn’t speak, and Grian swallows. He doesn’t know what to do, anymore. 

He decides to go home. 

He chooses not to fly, even though he could. He was technically allowed, back on the death server—there was nothing physically stopping him, at least—but it felt wrong in the way it feels wrong to stick your hand in a fire. So he just walks, wings dragging behind him, feet dragging beneath him. 

His mansion feels oddly empty, and dark and lonely and so painfully defenseless that it’s almost too much to even exist in the space. He walks in and looks around—the walls, the carpet, the grand staircases and the diamond chandelier and God, what was he thinking? Why did he ever think any of it mattered? None of it is important. The only thing that’s important is making sure that it’s safe. And right now, it’s not. 

So he sets to work. He fortifies the walls, and he changes out the wood for stone to make the place less flammable, and he adds a tripwire just on the inside of his door—because no one should be coming inside without his permission, anyways—and he begins to dig an escape route that leads straight through the floor of his mansion and out. 

(He doesn’t realize where he makes it lead until he pops his head up through the dirt and soil, wiping sweat off his forehead, and is left staring at Scar’s base. Because where else could he have possibly gone?) 

He moves his bed to somewhere safer, somewhere hidden, and he hides, because his options are to cower or to kill, and he doesn’t want to kill any of the Hermits. He’s killed enough of them already. So he hides, and he lets himself curl up and cry and hate himself for all of the pain he’s brought upon this beautiful server.

Grian stays there for days. He doesn’t eat, doesn’t drink—he doesn’t think he could, even if he wanted to. He thinks he wouldn’t be able to keep it in his stomach. 

He sleeps. Sometimes. When the nightmares don’t make him jolt awake, and when the memories don’t keep him staring at the ceiling. He doesn’t leave. It’s not safe, and besides, he doesn’t think he can face any of the others.  And then there’s an explosion—by the entrance to the mansion, where he set up the tripwire that he never thought would be used, because none of the Hermits were supposed to try to break into his mansion without permission. They were supposed to let him be. He was supposed to be safe, here. 

(Hermitcraft was supposed to be safe.)

There’s a sword in his hand and a helmet on his head and a glimmer of scarlet in his eyes before he even begins to think about his actions. His strides are quick, and his wings are held aloft, and his grip on the sword is tight enough that his fingers ache, but he doesn’t stop. He just continues towards the entrance of his mansion—if he’s calculated correctly, it should take anywhere between two minutes and ten minutes to get back to the mansion after respawning, depending on how far away the attacker’s base is, and how prepared they are—and he doesn’t have time to prepare. 

A flash of movement in front of him, and he slashes forward, the edge of his sword glinting in the light. The intruder yelps and stumbles back, hands raised. 

“Grian, wait—”

Grian slashes again. He only misses very narrowly. He’s gotten far better at fighting than he used to be. He forces the intruder to their knees and levels the point of his sword at their throat, breathing heavily, vision flickering in and out of focus. 

“Grian, please, I just wanted to talk!” 

“Then talk,” he snarls as the world spins around him. He increases the pressure of the sword on the intruder’s skin and relishes in the fear as they swallow, eyes wide and scared. Scared of him. 

The intruder is familiar. 

Grian drops his sword. It clatters to the ground harmlessly between himself and the person in front of him. 

“Mumbo?” he breathes, and Mumbo tries for a shaky smile. 

“Hey, mate.” 

Mumbo.

Grian collapses. Mumbo jolts forward to catch him before he hits the ground, and he curls his wings around himself to shield him from Mumbo’s eyes. He can’t let Mumbo see him. He can’t. 

“It’s okay,” Mumbo whispers, over and over again. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” 

“Mumbo,” Grian sobs. “Mumbo, I was going to—I nearly—”

“Shh, I know,” Mumbo soothes, then again, “It’s okay. It’s okay.” 

“I would have killed you,” Grian cries. “I killed you once, already—” with the explosion. The tripwire. The stupid tripwire. “—I would have done it again.” 

“I would have forgiven you,” Mumbo promises. “I do forgive you.” And Grian sobs even harder. “You shouldn’t be here,” he croaks, just barely, before his lungs constrict and another choked gasp escapes his lips. Mumbo hushes him and strokes his hair, then his wings. 

“I was worried,” he admits. “I haven’t seen you in a week, G. Have you even left your base?” 

Grian hasn’t. 

“Have you eaten anything? Anything at all?” 

He hasn’t. 

“Even just a glass of water?” 

No. Not even just a glass of water. 

Mumbo exhales, sounding devastated. “That’s why I’m here,” he whispers. “That’s why I’m here, bud. I’m gonna make you take care of yourself. I don’t care what you say. I’m making you take care of yourself.” 

“I am,” Grian tries, because he’s sleeping, at least—sometimes—but Mumbo arches an eyebrow at him, and he tries not to throw up. 

“I need you to drink something,” Mumbo says first. “Then eat, and then we’re going for a walk.” 

“No!” Grian blurts immediately, struggling to straighten in Mumbo’s arms, and Mumbo startles. “I—I can’t, Mumbo, it’s not safe.” 

“It’s—not safe?” Mumbo questions, and Grian nods, praying for Mumbo to understand. 

“They’re—they’re going to hurt me, they’re going to kill me, and I can’t—I can’t let them, Mumbo, you have to understand, I can’t.” Grian only has three lives to spare. He needs to save them for Scar, because Scar is the only one who deserves to take them from him. 

This is Hermitcraft. People don’t want to hurt him, and even if they did, he would never die permanently. He doesn’t believe it, even now. It’s just too good to be true. 

“They aren’t going to hurt you. They aren’t going to kill you,” Mumbo swears up and down. “They wouldn’t.”

Grian is quiet. “I just tried to kill you,” he points out, voice wavering, and Mumbo winces.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s—that’s true, I suppose. I won’t let them, then. How’s that? I won’t let them hurt you.”

Grian scoffs wetly. “You couldn’t stop them if you tried.”

“I stopped you,” Mumbo points out. Grian shakes his head.

“No, you didn’t,” he says quietly, and Mumbo breathes shakily, then hardens.

“They still wouldn’t,” he says, as if saying it confidently will make it true. “I mean, Bdubs? Come on, can you really imagine that guy killing someone?”

Grian flinches. A flash of paper in front of his eyes, and a glint of a blade, and pain—

“Yeah, I can,” he says, voice ragged and rough. Mumbo takes one look at his face, and exhales, tortured. 

Mumbo doesn’t speak for a long moment. When he does, it’s hardly a whisper. 

“Please, G. Just—work with me here?”

And, because Grian loves Mumbo (and because he’s hurt his friends more than enough in the past month), he agrees.

The smile he’s met with in return almost makes it worth it.

Mumbo sits with him, as he drinks three full glasses of water. He waits patiently as Grian chokes down what little food he can stomach. And then he offers out a hand and asks, “are you ready?”

And they walk.

The first walk goes…badly, to say the least. They happen to pass by Ren, and Grian—he can’t control his response to seeing the ex-leader of Dogwarts, and Ren is in the same boat. They don’t fight, but it’s a near thing, and only they only barely manage to stop themselves when Mumbo gets in between them and begs them to think about what they’re doing.

Grian goes home and locks himself in his room for the rest of the day, after that, ignoring Mumbo’s pleas to let him in.

On the second walk, they take a different route—one that allows them to avoid any other Hermits. They take this route on the third walk as well, and the fourth and fifth, and onward—the eighth, the ninth, the tenth….

On the eleventh walk, nearly two weeks after Mumbo showed up at the mansion, they come across Scar.

For a moment, Grian just stops, and he stares. Scar does the same. Mumbo moves towards Grian, worried, but Grian just ignores him. He only has eyes for one person. 

One moment, they’re standing fifty feet apart. The next, they’re in each other’s arms, clutching each other close as if they’ll be able to meld into one solid form. Grian and Scar, GrianandScar, and there’s no telling where one ends and the other begins, and Grian sobs, and Scar sobs, and they fall apart as Mumbo watches quietly, tears streaming down his own face. 

Scar apologizes as Grian begs for forgiveness, and neither of them can quite get the words out, and everything from before—everything from when Grian first returned—disappears. It doesn’t matter. How could it?

“Come with me,” Scar pleads, gesturing towards his base behind him. “Come with me.”

Grian glances at Mumbo, conflicted, but Mumbo just smiles encouragingly. Grian looks back at Scar, vision blurred with tears.

“Always,” he breathes, and he goes with Scar.

After that, Scar becomes a staple of their walks. On the few occasions when Grian and Mumbo don’t happen to pass him on their route, their day feels strangely empty. 

One month after Grian comes home, he starts going on walks by himself, without Mumbo present. The first place he goes is Xisuma’s base.

Xisuma welcomes him with open arms and a cup of tea, then ushers him over to the couch so they can sit. Grian goes easily, not bothering to worry that it could be a trap. He knows it’s not.

When they’re both settled in, and the tea is all but gone, Grian asks how he was found. How he was saved. It’s been long enough—he’s healed enough—since the events of the death games that he’s okay with asking, because it’s in the past. And Xisuma is a comfort, now, like he used to be, rather than a threat like he became.

“The Universe is kind, Grian,” is all Xisuma says, a soft smile crinkling at the edges of his eyes. “The Universe is kind, and It loves you.”