Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The desert. A barren wasteland.

The smell of smoke and iron fills the air on Monopoly Mountain, the desert sand slowly turning crimson in the heat. The remnants of a forgotten desert castle stand tall beside a grave, where a long-dead llama rests. A ring of cacti sprouts from the cracked earth, a silent witness to the destruction.

Grian watches as Scar’s knees buckle. The moment is too slow, too surreal — his companion, his love, collapsing before him. Scar hits the ground, broken and bloody, the sound a hollow thud in the stillness of the desert. One moment later, Grian is cradling him, his arms trembling as he holds the dying man close. The man he’s lived with. The man he’s protected. The man he’d die for.

The man he’s just beaten to death with his very own hands.

The instant Scar hits the ground, the ghosts go silent. The chants, the roars for blood — all of it vanishes with him, as if the very world itself is holding its breath.

And then, Grian can’t breathe. The weight of it crushes him, the suffocating heat of the sun bearing down as his tears stain Scar’s pained face. He can’t stop the tears. They come relentlessly, panic seizing him, a flood of devastation that swallows any trace of reason.

He feels a faint touch against his cheek. Scar’s trembling hand brushes away the tears, a fragile movement, barely there. Red eyes meet his, filled with exhaustion, sorrow, and pain — eyes that once shone with so much life, now dimming.

Red was never Scar’s color.

“Hey, G,” Scar whispers, his voice hoarse, strained as he forces the words through cracked, dry lips. “Don’t cry. It’s okay.”

Grian can’t speak. The flood of emotion drowns him, leaving him silent, only able to hold onto Scar, to breathe in the scent of blood and sweat, to wish he could undo what he’d just done.

“You can live now,” Scar says, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips, even as death hovers over him. “For the three of us.”

“Three..?” Grian chokes out, barely able to form the words, his heart shattering with every breath.

Scar’s smile remains, fragile but there. “You didn’t forget about Pizza… did you?”

Grian manages a broken smile through his tears. The words are a lifeline, a thread of memory tugging at him, but Scar’s energy is slipping, his consciousness fading. Scar chuckles weakly, but it quickly turns into a violent coughing fit.

The smile fades as Grian holds him tighter, the weight of the world pressing down on them both.

“I can’t—” Grian sobs. “...How am I meant to live without you?”

Scar’s hand falls, limp in Grian’s grasp. He’s unable to hold it up any longer, unable to do anything but slip away.

“You have to, songbird,” Scar whispers, the audacity of his words cutting into Grian’s soul. “Please… For me?”

Grian can’t answer. His sobs take over, wracking his body with grief. Scar’s smile lingers for a moment more, a final, fleeting thing.

“I love you,” Scar murmurs, his voice soft but clear. “Don’t forget about me.”

And then he goes still. His eyes, once so full of life, are now empty, staring blankly into nothingness.

And Grian screams , the sound raw and desperate. His wings spread wide, folding around them both in a fragile, protective embrace as he weeps, unable to stop, unable to escape the agony. He doesn’t know how long he stays there, crouched over Scar, lost in his sorrow.

And then, the chanting begins again.

“One more life to go…” they chant, their voices a hollow echo. “One more life to go…”

They scream in his ears, leaving no room to think about anything else.

And this time, Grian doesn’t even hesitate. 

His knees wobble as he pushes himself up, the world spinning, but he forces himself to stand. He doesn’t look back at the pool of blood staining the sand beneath Scar’s body — a body that once held so much warmth, now cold and still.

He walks to the edge of the cliff, looking out over the desert they once fought to protect. The wind blows softly, carrying with it the faintest whisper of memories. Grian closes his eyes, feeling the breeze brush against his useless, clipped wings, a strange ache in his chest. His avian mind reaches for the sensation of flight, but it’s a hollow imitation now. His wings will never carry him again.

He takes a deep breath, stepping forward, his taloned feet finding only the air beneath him.

And then he’s falling.

It felt like flying.

——

Grian’s mind awakens slowly as the darkness begins to lift.

And then, all at once, the memories crash over him like a wave.

The desert.

Dogwarts.

The battle.

The betrayal.

The cactus ring.

Scar.

Oh, Scar.

His mind wakes faster than his body, the weight of what happened settling heavy in his chest. His senses return more gradually, trickling in like water through cracked stone.

First, he feels the sand — coarse, clinging, everywhere. It’s in his feathers, packed under his fingernails, tangled in his hair, buried in the folds of his clothes. He feels dried blood caking his knuckles, the dull ache of bruises blooming across his skin, and a sharp, persistent throb in his right leg. His left knee isn’t much better.

And then… he feels bed sheets.

Soft, warm, unfamiliar sheets under his aching body.

This must be the afterlife, then.

The thought almost makes him laugh. He smiles faintly, imagining Scar waking up in a bed like this after everything— after Grian had…

He swallows hard.

He hopes Scar ended up somewhere better. Somewhere Grian wasn’t. He doesn’t deserve to be near him, even in death.

Sound reaches him next. A breeze rustling gently outside. Birds chirping — bright, melodic, familiar. Grian's instinct twitches at the urge to chirp back, but his throat is too dry, his voice lost in the desert.

Something thuds softly in the distance. A muted, rhythmic sound, like wood striking earth.

And then — he smells it. Woodsmoke. Earthy. Real.

That’s what finally forces his eyes fully open.

He’s in a bedroom.

It’s not grand. Not heavenly. Just… a room. Warm light spills across wooden walls. There’s a window cracked open to the breeze, sunlight filtering through sheer curtains. A shelf with books. A table. A pitcher of water.

Definitely not what he pictured for the afterlife. But if this is what he gets, he’ll take it.

He tries to sit up, but the moment he lifts his shoulders from the mattress, the world tilts sideways. A wave of dizziness slams into him, and he collapses back into the pillows with a sharp gasp.

His eyes dart down to his legs — the last time he saw them, they were perfectly fine, saved from the bloodshed of the war by some strange miracle.

Now, blood has soaked through his trousers, dark and tacky. His right leg lies at an angle no leg should ever lie.

He lets out a shaky sigh, closing his eyes and waiting for the dizziness to pass.

Well. This might be the worst version of a non-hellish afterlife imaginable.

Figures. The Universe only hands out miracle healings when you’ve got lives to burn.

He’ll need potions. Strong ones. And soon.

But then — he hears footsteps. Loud. Heavy. The kind of weight that comes from someone tall, on the broader side — someone built similarly to Skizz, from the sound of it.

His heart jumps. Instinct takes over as he reaches for his sword — only to grasp at empty air.

Nothing.

His blood runs cold. No weapon. No defense. Just an aching, broken body in a strange place with a stranger approaching. His eyes dart around the room, scanning for anything — anything at all.

Then they land on a chest. Unfamiliar, almost ominous. It sits in the far corner, sticking out like a sore thumb against the rest of the room. It’s unlike any storage he’s ever seen — crafted from polished obsidian, heavy and sharp-edged, with a strange, unblinking eye emblazoned on the front.

The footsteps grow louder, closer, now just outside the room.

Adrenaline surges through him, dulling the nausea as he pushes himself out of bed. Dizziness once again crashes into him like a wave, but he grits his teeth and keeps moving. The moment his feet touch the floor, white-hot pain rockets through his legs. His right leg screams with every movement, the pain deep and violent. His left knee throbs, angry and swollen, but functional. Barely.

Good enough.

He limps toward the chest, ignoring the searing pain, ignoring the blood still crusted on his knuckles. His vision blurs at the edges, black creeping in, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t afford to stop.

He throws the chest open.

To his surprise, it opens easily despite its heavy build — silent, smooth. Inside, it glitters.

Stacks of diamond blocks. Netherite ingots. Resources they’d kill for in the desert, things that would’ve taken him and Scar months to obtain, even with Scar’s undeniable conning skills. Months they didn’t have.

And there, nestled in the riches like a crown jewel — enchanted diamond tools, glimmering faintly in the filtered light.

His fingers close around the sword’s hilt just as a knock echoes from the door.

“Hello? Grian?” a male, british voice calls, muffled but close. Friendly. Too friendly. Grian doesn’t recognize it. “Are you there?”

He freezes, breath caught in his throat. He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move.

Silence might be enough to make the stranger go away. Hopefully.

But the voice persists.

“Grian? I heard footsteps.” A pause. “I’m coming in, alright?”

Grian’s fingers tighten around the hilt. He draws the sword, wings flaring behind him in a reflexive display — making himself bigger, more dangerous.

There’s no more time. The door creaks open.

Grian lunges.

Pain ignites in his legs like wildfire, but he pushes through it, moving on instinct. He crashes into the man in the doorway, knocking him to the ground. In a flash, his blade is pressed to the stranger’s throat, his left hand bracing himself on the floor.

Up close, he finally sees the intruder properly.

Dark green armor. A strange grey helmet that hides everything but the eyes. And behind the visor—

Confusion.

Not fear. Not aggression.

What?

Grian meets his gaze, and in those reflective eyes, he sees himself — wild, panicked, bloody.

He quickly schools his face into something colder, more dangerous. His voice is a low snarl.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?”

The man under his blade doesn’t resist. Doesn’t speak for a long moment. Just… stares.

“Uh… Grian?” The voice is slow, cautious. “It’s me. Xisuma. Your… admin?”

Grian blinks.

The name means nothing. 

But that last word. Admin , or whatever it was… He’s heard it before — though he’s not sure where.

Xisuma’s confusion deepens, shifting to something heavier. Concern.

“Grian,” he says, gently now, “do you… remember me? You’re on Hermitcraft—”

“What’s a Hermitcraft?”

That lands like a slap in the silence.

Xisuma’s eyes widen behind the visor, face tightening with visible concern. Grian sees it — he registers it even through the pain — but it only makes his skin crawl.

Why is he looking at him like that?

Why isn’t he answering the damn question?

“What do you want from me?” Grian snaps, louder this time, the fear and pain bubbling over into fury. “Why are you acting like you know me? How do you even know my name?”

Xisuma doesn’t answer fast enough.

Grian shoves the sword closer, jaw locked tight, breath ragged. His whole body trembles — not just from the pain, but from the sheer frustration of not understanding anything.

“Answer me,” he growls. “Or I’ll kill you.”

Xisuma stares up at him, unmoving. Not flinching. Still just… waiting.

Grian doesn’t like it. Not one bit.

And then — footsteps. Another set. Grian’s entire body tenses. He whirls around, sword already pointed at the door, one arm still braced against Xisuma’s chest to keep him pinned to the ground.

Two against one while injured. Not ideal odds.

But then again, he’s never been the kind to roll over. If this is how he goes out, he’ll make it costly.

He braces—

And freezes.

Because the man his sword is now pointed at is someone whose face he knows better than anyone else.

A man who he last saw caked in blood, sand and tears, twisted in pain and covered in bruises, cradled in Grian’s arms.

A man he killed.

A man whose eyes, once blazing red with fury and death, are now clear. Green. Familiar. Three lives.

Scar.

Grian’s sword clatters to the floor before he even knows he’s dropped it. One moment he’s holding Xisuma down, and the next he’s throwing himself into Scar’s arms, clutching at him like a lifeline.

“Scar— I’m— I’m so sorry—” he chokes out, voice breaking, face buried in Scar’s chest. "I didn't— I just—"

Scar stumbles slightly with the force of the hug but catches him with ease, arms wrapping tight around him.

“Hey, G,” he murmurs, gentle as ever. “What are you apologizing for? It’s okay. No need to cry.”

When had he started crying?

Grian blinks against Scar’s shirt. Void. Get it together. Scar being here doesn’t make this place any safer. They’ll talk later. Hopefully.

And good thing, too — because behind them, he hears the sound of Xisuma shifting, starting to stand. Instinct kicks in. Grian tears away from Scar, sword back in hand before he’s fully upright, wings spreading once more as he pushes Scar behind him.

Xisuma raises his hands and quietly sits back down. Passive. Again. Not even trying to fight back.

It doesn’t help. It just makes Grian more on edge. Why isn’t this man defending himself? What kind of trap is this?

This has to be the afterlife. It’s the only way Scar could be here. But then… who is this man? Is he—?

“Grian,” Scar says softly behind him. “Why are you pointing a sword at X?”

Grian lowers his wings slightly, enough to glance back. Scar’s face is confused, gentle. Trusting, as always. Of course he’d trust this guy. He was always the more trusting out of the two of them.

They must’ve talked while Grian was still— 

Whatever. It doesn’t matter.

“Scar, we don’t know this man. We can’t trust him,” Grian mutters, eyes locked on Xisuma like he’ll vanish if he looks away.

“What do you mean we don’t know him? He’s our admin— we’ve known him for years—”

Scar’s words are cut off as Xisuma begins to rise again, and Grian reacts instantly. His wings flare, sword tightening in his grip as another spike of pain shoots through his legs, nearly buckling him.

“Scar,” Xisuma says, quiet but firm. “He doesn’t remember.”

That shuts everything down for a moment. Even the pain.

Grian freezes.

Xisuma turns to face him fully now. “Grian, we want to help you. You — and seven other Hermits, including Scar — have been missing for three months. You started returning one by one three days ago. The others don’t remember what happened to them while they were gone. But you…” He pauses. “You seem to have the opposite problem, from what I'm seeing.”

Grian stares, mouth dry. His mind scrambles to process what he’s saying.

A part of him — deep down, traitorous and small — wants to believe him. Xisuma’s voice is calm. Measured. Familiar in a way Grian doesn’t understand, but his instincts react to anyway.

Curse his birdbrain.

“Grian, you’re…” Scar says softly behind him, “You’re injured. Please, sit down. Let us help you.”

Grian doesn’t move. Doesn’t respond.

“What do you want from us?” he says to Xisuma, voice colder now. More controlled. “Leave. I won’t ask again.”

The admin’s expression shifts — heavy with something between pity and worry. Grian scowls. He doesn’t need this man’s pity.

“Okay,” Xisuma says at last. “I’ll leave you with Scar, then. Scar — keep me updated. Please.”

Then he walks past them, not making a single sudden movement, and vanishes through the door.

Leaving Grian in a room that feels no less strange. No less dangerous.

“Scar—” Grian starts, breath catching.

“Grian, please .” Scar cuts him off, voice full of warmth and fear all at once. “Your legs— they don’t look good.”

Grian turns to him. Looks into emerald green eyes, filled with nothing but concern.

He exhales a long, shaky breath. The sword dips just slightly in his hand.

“…Fine.”

He lets Scar guide him back to the bed. Lets himself sit down.

That turns out to be a bad idea, because the moment he does, there’s nothing left to focus on but the ache in his body — and the pain of the final moments in the desert.

Scar watches him for a moment before speaking  “I’m… really not equipped to handle injuries like yours. I’m going to call Doc. Do you remember him?”

Doc? 

Who are these people?

“Scar, what do you think?”

Scar laughs faintly, already pulling out his communicator. He types a quick message — presumably to this Doc — and slips it back into his pocket. Then he sits down at the edge of the bed, careful of Grian’s legs.

“He’s on his way. He should be here in just a moment.”

Grian nods slowly, hesitating before speaking. “...Do you really not remember?”

He already knows the answer. But still — he hopes.

Scar smiles. Softly. Somberly.

Grian half expects him to take his hand, pull him close, offer comfort like he usually would.

But he doesn’t,

And that says everything.

...

It’s fine.

Grian doesn’t deserve it anyway.

“No… I’m sorry.” Scar sighs. Grian inhales sharply at the confirmation.

Scar keeps going. “No one does. Well— except you, I guess.”

Grian feels like he’s going to throw up, suddenly.

The pain wracking his body, the feeling of sand and blood still caught beneath his nails and in his feathers — it all presses down at once. Suffocating.

He forces the next words out. Anything to distract himself.

“Where… What is a Hermitcraft?”

Scar’s face brightens. “Why, it’s the name of your home server! You live here with the other Hermits — like me, and Mumbo. Oh! And speaking of Mumbo, he’s really worried about you. He’s missed you a lo—”

“Mumbo?” Grian interrupts, sensing the beginning of another one of Scar’s ramblings. “What kind of name is that?”

Scar blinks, a little startled. “I… don’t know, actually. I guess I’ve never really thought about it.” He chuckles, but it’s light. Forced. “He’s your best friend, Grian.”

Best friend?

Grian almost laughs, but swallows it. That’d be rude.

His best friend is right in front of him. It’s always been Scar.

He’s never had anyone else. Not since he spawned into the world that would later be referred to as Third Life by its inhabitants, knowing nothing but the rules of the game — and the names of the other 13 players.

“Best friend, huh.” Grian mutters, staring at the empty space next to Scar.

Scar watches him.

It unsettles Grian. He’s never liked being stared at. 

Then Scar speaks again. “What… happened?”

There it is. The dreaded question. The one he knew was coming.

It makes sense, he supposes.

If what Xisuma said is true — and this isn’t the afterlife — then of course Scar would want to know what happened during that three-month gap in his memory.

But Grian can’t bring himself to talk about it.

Scar deserves to know. Deserves to know what Grian did, so he can get as far away as possible. So he won’t have to risk losing one of his precious lives to Grian’s recklessness. 

Again.

Grian already cost him two.

And if— if somehow this is a reset, a miracle, a new set of lives… he refuses to be the reason Scar loses them again.

But he can’t say it.

He can’t speak it aloud.

That cactus ring was supposed to be the end. That cliff was supposed to be the end.

He wasn’t supposed to wake up.

He doesn’t deserve this second chance, no matter how much he secretly wants it.

Scar doesn’t remember.

No one does.

Only him.

Just Grian, left to carry the memories alone.

Is this what winning looks like?

Because it sure doesn’t feel like a victory.

And, if he were to tell him… how do you even explain all of it?

How do you explain the smell of blood caked into your skin, the sound of screaming that still rings in your ears, the way Scar’s dying words echo like they’ve been carved into your bones?

How do you say I killed you on your last life and expect the person sitting in front of you to stay?

Grian doesn’t look at him. Can’t. He stares down at his hands instead — bruised, shaking, and far too familiar. He remembers what they looked like clenched into a fist, punches flying until there was nothing left but—

“I…” He swallows. His voice feels thin. Brittle. “You don’t want to know.”

Scar’s quiet for a moment. Then:

“I do.”

Grian flinches. Still doesn’t look at him. His fingers twitch against the bedspread.

“You’re wrong.”

Another silence. The kind that stretches too long, fills the room until it’s choking.

And then — very gently — Scar says, “Did I hurt you?”

Grian’s breath catches.

He finally looks up, and the look on Scar’s face nearly undoes him. Soft. Aching. Guilt buried behind green eyes that doesn’t remember the war, the loss, the screams — and yet still, somehow, seem to carry it all.

“No,” Grian croaks. “No, Scar. You didn’t hurt me.”

I hurt you.

So many times.

But he can’t say it.

He doesn’t get to say it.

Because then, there’s a knock at the door. Three sharp taps.

Scar moves to stand — and Grian’s sword is back in his hand before Scar’s even fully upright. He doesn’t mean to move like that.

But his body remembers the game better than it remembers whatever “Hermitcraft” is.

Scar holds his hands up placatingly, taking a careful step back. “It’s just Doc,” he says softly. “Remember..? He’s here to help.”

Grian nods, but doesn’t lower the sword. Doesn’t say a word.

Scar crosses the room and opens the door.

The man who steps inside is taller than both of them. Broad-shouldered. His skin is the mottled green of a creeper, broken by jagged lines where metal meets flesh. Goat horns curl from his head, and one eye glows red, mechanical and unblinking. A heavy lab coat hangs off him, singed at the edges. One arm hums softly — not flesh, but machinery. 

He looks at Grian once — really looks — and something unreadable flickers in his gaze.

“You’re not bleeding out, are you?” Doc asks casually, like he’s asking about the weather.

Grian blinks. “…Not actively, I don’t think.”

Doc nods. “Cool. Then I’m not gonna bother with bedside manners.”

And then he marches forward, kneels by the bed, and starts unpacking a medkit from what looks like a strange, violet box made out of some kind of shell.

Scar shoots Grian a look that says "See? He’s safe."

Grian doesn’t respond. He just watches Doc’s every move, sword still clenched in his hand.

Because no matter how much Scar always wants him to, he doesn’t trust easily — and that isn’t changing anytime soon.

Doc picks up a handful of healing potions, the unmistakable red liquid swirling inside glass bottles. Scar watches anxiously as he lines them up on the nightstand.

“Alright,” the creeper hybrid says, voice even, almost too calm. “We need these off.” His claws move to the ruined trousers, fingers careful but firm as he tugs the fabric down. It sticks — blood, dirt, something worse — and Grian grits his teeth as it peels away.

Underneath is a wreck.

His right leg is a horror show: massive, blackened bruises stretching from thigh to ankle, skin swollen and taut in places, the telltale bend at the shin wrong in a way that makes Doc’s expression flatten. The left isn’t as bad but still awful — the knee is swollen up like a melon, blotched purple and red, the bruising already seeping down his calf. It looks like someone dropped him from ten stories and forgot to catch.

That’s not even too far from the truth.

Doc exhales sharply through his nose. “Right leg’s broken. No question. Left might be fractured — knee’s a mess.” He looks up, red eye glowing faintly. “Where else does it hurt?”

Grian snorts, bitter. “Everywhere.”

It comes out fast, sharp. Defensive. He knows how it sounds, but he doesn’t care — he’s been in pain for god knows how long and this is a stranger . 

Doc pauses, then nods once like he gets it. “Scar told me you’re not remembering things. That you’re paranoid.”

Grian scowls. Not paranoid. Careful. 

Smart.

“I’m not going to respawn you,” Doc goes on. “These injuries stuck after death. That means respawning won’t help — it’ll make it worse. I’m going to try healing potions instead, but they need the bones set and braced first, or they’ll fuse wrong. Is it alright if I do that?”

Grian hesitates. Everything in him is screaming don’t let him touch you , but the pain is chewing at his spine, and Doc’s not pushing. Just waiting.

“…Yeah,” he mutters. “Just do it.”

Doc checks the rest of him first — careful, efficient, mechanical hand steady as he feels along his ribs and spine, making sure nothing else is as bad as his legs. Nothing but bruises, thankfully. Nothing worse than what he already knows.

Then he gets to work. Fingers setting the broken bones into place with a precision that makes Grian clench his jaw. The brace follows — snug, mechanical, clicking into place around the limb. Then the potion: soft glow, sharp scent, fizzing where it touches torn skin. Magic rushes in like warm water, humming under the surface. The pain doesn’t vanish, but it stops screaming .

Doc leans back. “Should feel sore for a few days. But you’ll walk.”

Grian exhales, shaky.

There’s a pause.

Then Doc glances at him again, slower this time. “What the hell did you do?”

Grian freezes — and then almost laughs.

It’s not funny. Not even close. But something about the question — so casual, like Doc’s asking about a redstone project gone wrong and not about his successful suicide scratches at something behind his ribs.

He doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t want to, either. His hands are clenched tight in the sheets, knuckles pale. His leg still aches under the brace, potion or no, but it’s distant now. Background noise compared to the sudden, sharp weight in his chest.

What didn’t he do?

He jumped.

He jumped, and for a moment — one single, blissful, airless moment — it felt like peace.

Then he woke up. Alone.

“I fell,” he says, voice dry, brittle, like it’s been left out in the sun too long, which it probably has. He shrugs a shoulder. “Didn’t bounce.”

Doc’s silent.

Good. Let him be.

Because if he asks again — if he pushes — Grian isn’t sure that what’ll come out next will be all that pleasant.

Doc nods once, slowly and clearly onto him, and then gathers up the bits of gauze and glass vials he brought, movements all clean efficiency. The quiet stretches between them, steady and undemanding. Grian doesn’t thank him.

By the time the creeper hyrbrid leaves, the sun has started to dip lower in the sky — amber light pooling in long shadows across the floor. Grian shifts, testing the brace. It holds.

Scar clears his throat gently. “...Might I suggest taking a shower?”

Grian glances over. There’s something a little too careful about Scar’s posture, the way he’s holding himself in the doorway, not quite coming closer.

Still — Grian smiles, faint and fond. Of course Scar would be the one to say that. He always was. Back in the desert, when Grian got too wrapped up in survival — too sleepless, too sunburned, too sharp at the edges — Scar had been the one to keep him grounded. When it was Grian’s turn to keep watch on Monopoly Mountain and he’d refuse to wake Scar, claiming he needed the rest more, Scar would still rouse eventually, bleary-eyed and firm, and drag Grian to bed instead. Sometimes they'd just collapse into each other, limbs tangled, warmth shared, breathing in sync beneath the stars.

Scar always seemed to know what Grian needed before he even asked.

“Yeah,” Grian breathes. “That sounds like a good idea. I’ve got sand everywhere. My wings are killing me.”

Can you help me preen?

The thought is halfway to his mouth before he swallows it down.

It slips in too easily — the memory of Scar gently carding fingers through his feathers, murmuring half-jokes and soft reassurances, thumb brushing over sore joints, untangling barbs with an almost reverent care. That intimacy had been theirs. Once.

But that Scar is gone.

This one doesn't remember the long nights curled up in the sand. Doesn't remember the firelight on their faces. Doesn't remember the fall of Dogwarts or the rise of the Red King or what it cost them to hold each other up through it all.

So Grian bites it back. Pushes himself to his feet, jaw tight with the effort, and Scar steps in without a word to brace him. Grian mutters a quiet thanks. Scar only gives him a small, sad smile in return — the kind that says I wish I knew how to help.

Scar gives him directions to what he claims is Grian’s own bathroom — part of this base Grian barely recognizes. He nods along numbly and limps his way there.

The shower feels like a ghost. He’s so used to river water, cold and rushing and full of noise, that the quiet hiss of the faucet feels alien. Too clean. Too sterile. He steps under the stream anyway, lets it soak into his hair, drag rivulets of blood and grime down his back.

It should feel good. Should be a relief.

But no matter how hard he scrubs — until his skin is pink and raw, until his fingers ache — it doesn't come off. The desert lingers. The feeling of sand in his feathers. The phantom weight of Scar bleeding out beneath him.

And worse: the guilt. The way it clings, sharp and permanent, deeper than any cut.

When Grian finally steps out, toweling off with shaking hands, he doesn't feel clean.

He doesn't feel better at all.

Chapter Text

[“Hermitcraft Season 7” — Global chat] 

[June 8th, 2021 — 10:46 AM ]

[10:46] GoodTimeWithScar joined the game.  

[10:46] <joehillssays> Scar!  

[10:46] <Keralis1> sheshwammy  

[10:46] <xisumavoid> On it.  

[10:47] <MumboJumbo> Welcome back, Scar :)  

[10:47] <cubfan135> X, I’m coming.  

[10:47] xisumavoid reacted to cubfan135 with a 👍  

[10:48] <ZombieCleo> Welcome back, Scar!  

[10:48] <ImpulseSV> Now it’s just G-Man missing  

[10:49] <MumboJumbo> I really hope he’s okay.  

[10:49] ZombieCleo reacted to MumboJumbo with a ❤️  

[10:49] ImpulseSV reacted to MumboJumbo with a ❤️  

[10:49] joehillssays reacted to MumboJumbo with a ❤️  

[10:50] Tango reacted to MumboJumbo with a ❤️  

[10:50] Rendog reacted to MumboJumbo with a ❤️   

[“Hermitcraft Season 7” — Global chat] 

[June 8th, 2021 — 16:13 PM]

[16:13] Grian joined the game.  

[16:13] <Rendog> !!!  

[16:13] <Etho> Welcome back G!  

[16:13] <MumboJumbo> Grian!  

[16:13] <BdoubleO100> We all made it back!  

[16:13] <xisumavoid> I’m going to check on him.  

[16:14] <MumboJumbo> I’m coming, I just need to drop off some stuff.  

[16:22] <xisumavoid> Mumbo, don’t come over here just yet.  

[16:22] <MumboJumbo> ???  

[16:22] <MumboJumbo> X, why not? He’s okay, right?  

[16:22] <MumboJumbo> X?  

[16:25] <xisumavoid> Okay, I left him with Scar.  

[16:25] <xisumavoid> We have a problem.  

[16:25] MumboJumbo reacted to xisumavoid with a ❓  

[16:25] Keralis1 reacted to xisumavoid with a ❓  

[16:25] Docm77 reacted to xisumavoid with a ❓  

[16:25] Etho reacted to xisumavoid with a ❓  

[16:25] BdoubleO100 reacted to xisumavoid with a ❓  

[16:26] joehillssays reacted to xisumavoid with a ❓  

[16:26] <joehillssays> Problem? Is everything alright?  

[16:26] Rendog reacted to xisumavoid with a ❓  

[16:26] ImpulseSV reacted to xisumavoid with a ❓  

[16:26] <Tango> X what’s going on 

[16:26] FalseSymmetry reacted to xisumavoid with a ❓  

[16:27] <xisumavoid> I want everybody to calm down and let me explain. Give me a second.  

[16:27] <MumboJumbo> Sorry.  

[16:27] <Tango> Sorry we’re just worried  

[16:30] <xisumavoid> I went to Grian’s mansion, and upon entering I quickly discovered that he also has memory problems like the rest of you — but in reverse.  

[16:30] <MumboJumbo> What does that mean?  

[16:30] <ZombieCleo> Mumbo, wait.  

[16:31] <xisumavoid> Grian does not remember Hermitcraft. From what I can tell, he only has memories of wherever the people who went missing were.  

[16:31] <FalseSymmetry> Oh my god  

[16:31] <ImpulseSV> What?

[16:31] <Zedaph> Seriously?  

[16:31] <MumboJumbo> youre joking  

[16:32] <xisumavoid> I’ve left him with Scar now, who seems to be someone he still trusts. I ask you to please not overwhelm him and wait for confirmation before interacting.  

[16:32] <MumboJumbo> im coming over  

[16:32] <Keralis1> Sweetface, please wait a second.  

[16:33] <MumboJumbo> sorry it’s just  

[16:33] <MumboJumbo> im really worried  

[16:33] <MumboJumbo> does he really not remember anything?  

[16:34] <xisumavoid> Not from what I can tell, no.  

[16:34] <xisumavoid> I’m going to try my very best to fix this. Don’t worry.  

[16:34] <ZombieCleo> Of course, X. We trust you, right everyone?  

[16:35] <ImpulseSV> Of course  

[16:35] <MumboJumbo> right

[16:35] <Zedaph> Whatever happened, I’m sure we’ll figure it out together!

[16:35] <GoodTimeWithScar> doc can you coem here  

[16:35] <GoodTimeWithScar> bring med kit

[16:36] <Docm77> omw.

——

Grian huffed as he scrolled through the world chat on his communicator.

Seriously, what is up with this place?

Half the names lighting up the screen belonged to people he’d watched die with his own eyes. Some of them by his hand. Some of them by Scar’s. The others were names he’d never seen before.

But it only confirmed what he already suspected: this had to be the afterlife. A strange, blocky limbo full of familiar names and familiar betrayals.

Hermitcraft .

An odd name for the afterlife, but Grian wasn’t about to argue semantics.

Still, a few names stood out, hitting sharper than the others.

Impulse. The double agent. His messages were full of concern. It would’ve been believable — if Grian didn’t know better.

Impulse never stuck to one side for long. He followed the tide, fought with Ren and Dogwarts one day, then flipped to fight alongside Grian and Scar the next.

Grian never had much patience for people like him. 

Etho. A man with a wool castle — the one Impulse burned down, with Etho trying to save it and burning with it as everything turned to ash.

And then, Bdubs.

Scar had bought his loyalty with a clock.

A clock . That was all it took.

BdoubleO, the same man who stood next to Scar during the betrayal that almost ended it all.

(Three men on a hill. The game near its end.

Grian glances at Scar, waiting for the signal. They’ll kill Bdubs, claim the win. Simple. Easy. 

But Scar doesn’t give it. His eyes are uncertain, unfocused. Grian’s stomach turns.

Then, without meeting Grian’s gaze, Scar pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket.

“Whoever picks this up, I won’t kill,” he says, and drops it to the ground.

Grian’s blood turns to ice. 

After everything they’ve been through?

He lunges. Bdubs lunges. They hit the dirt.

Grian fumbles the paper.

Bdubs snatches it.

Scar still avoids his eyes as his sword plunges through Grian’s chest.)

Grian clenched his fists and took a deep breath.

He refuses to cry again.

Tears don’t help. They never had.

His eyes drifted back to the communicator, scanning for the next name.

His attention lands on that Mumbo guy. The one Scar insists is his “best friend.” The most distraught of all of them.

It's… disorienting. A stranger caring about him this much.

Grian slipped the communicator back into his pocket, unease crawling beneath his skin.

Scar is sitting in the corner, typing something. Probably reporting back to Xisuma. Probably spinning some story about Grian’s condition. About how he’s fragile. Confused. Unstable.

Traitor.

The thought came fast and bitter, but it’s fleeting — because right behind it came the memory of the cactus ring.

Grian’s own hands, stained in grief and guilt.

He had no right to be angry. Not anymore.

This wasn’t peace.

It wasn’t a second chance.

This place — this afterlife — was a curse.

He would’ve taken the desert over this place — resting peacefully with the only person he’s ever loved, instead of being dragged back to this cruel imitation of life.

One where his enemies are concerned for him.

One where strangers insist they know him.

One where Scar doesn’t remember.

Doesn’t love him.

He stares at Scar for a long moment.

Scar looks… fine.

Not bloodied. Not bruised. Not like someone who’d died in his arms.

That made sense. This wasn’t his Scar, anyway.

“Hey,” Grian said, before he could talk himself out of it. His voice came out hoarse, scraping over the silence.

Scar looks up, surprised. “Yeah?”

Grian hesitated. The words jammed somewhere behind his teeth.

But he pushes through it. “That Mumbo guy,” he said carefully, “You said he was my best friend?”

Scar blinked, then smiled — soft, tired, almost relieved. “Yeah. I did.”

Grian frowned. “Why?”

Scar tilted his head. “What do you mean, why?”

“I mean,” Grian said, his tone edging sharper, “why is he so upset? Why does he care so much about me?”

Scar paused, before answering simply. “Because you’re his best friend.”

“I don’t know him.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

Grian looked away, jaw clenching. The floor was easier to focus on than that face. That smile. That voice, who insists he knows a man he’s never met, and no longer remembers how it used to say his name.

He scrambled for an out, latching onto the first thought that surfaced.

“So… Hermitcraft?”

Scar was definitely onto him, but he didn’t pry. Grian was quietly grateful.

“Yeah. Our home server.”

“What, so this is a server?”

“Yeah?”

Scar looked puzzled, but it was nothing compared to the storm churning in Grian’s head. Still, he kept his expression locked down. He was good at that.

“…So you’re saying we’re not dead?” Grian asked after a long silence.

Scar’s brow furrowed. “Dead? Why would we be dead?”

Grian sighed, the weight of it barely contained. “Just— forget it.”

Scar didn’t buy it, Grian could tell. But he didn’t push, either. 

Then he spoke again, softer this time. “Do you want to see it?”

“See what?”

“The server,” Scar said. “I could give you a tour. If you want.”

Grian went quiet. Again. He’s been doing that a lot lately, now that he thought about it.

He wanted to say no. He should say no. This room — whatever it was — felt like the only place that wasn’t lying to him. But the thought of sitting here alone, haunted by everything he couldn’t explain…

A distraction sounded nice.

“…Sure.”

——

As Grian stepped off the final stair of the long staircase that led up to the mansion he’d woken in, he paused — eyes catching on the gigantic structure before him. 

The place was nothing short of awe-inspiring: a sprawling stone estate perched on the edge of a carved cliffside, with towering dark prismarine roofs and spires that reached for the sky. Bridges arched between towers like delicate veins of architecture, and waterfalls spilled from the edges, cascading down the rock face below. Staircases wove in and out of the structure, layered like something out of a dream or a high-fantasy painting. It looked less like a home and more like a palace — a fortress pulled straight from someone’s imagination.

“You built this, you know?”

Scar’s voice pulled him abruptly from the thought, and Grian turned to find him standing close behind, leaning on his cane and expression unreadable — but almost… fond.

“I did?” Grian asked.

Scar nodded, glancing up at the structure, where a giant letter G was emblazoned across the front. “Why of course! You spent months on it. Designed every corner. Mined and hauled every block. It’s kind of amazing.”

Grian looked back up at the mansion. And yeah… he could almost believe it. He could imagine himself getting lost in a build like this, with endless time and infinite materials. 

Maybe that was why the tower on Monopoly Mountain had come together so effortlessly.

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense.  During the game, he’d never even considered that there could’ve been a Before, but maybe there was. A world. A life. A version of him that wasn’t soaked in blood and grief.

But it seemed too good to be true. He knew not to trust things that were too good to be true. He’d watched Scar scam everyone on that server using promises that were just that. 

Still, seeing it in front of him made it hard to cast aside.

And if there truly was a life here for a different version of him, he didn’t want to taint this Scar’s perception of that him, either.

Safe to say he felt incredibly lost.

Scar seemed to catch on, clearing his throat gently and nodding toward the dense green beyond them. “Me and Mumbo have our bases in this jungle, too. We’re neighbors.”

Grian didn’t respond — just turned and started walking, slipping into the trees without a word. Scar scrambled after him, cane tapping softly against the mossy path.

They stepped into a quiet clearing. A wide hobbit hole nestled into the hillside, its rounded archways and soft-lit windows half-hidden by vines and bamboo. The structure was all smooth wood and soft earth, curved into the terrain like it had grown there, not been built. Peaceful. 

Behind him, Scar finally caught up, breathless and smiling. “Ah, your starter base!”

Grian said nothing.

“You and Mumbo were hobbits at the start of the season,” Scar continued, his voice lighter than the moment could hold. “It was hilarious — you dug this secret tunnel between your bases, turned it into a whole messaging system. Mumbo barely used it, so you just kept spamming him like some needy girlfriend. Your words, not mine.”

Scar chuckled. Grian didn’t.

He felt something twist in his chest. Scar meant it as a joke — probably — but it grated. Not just the glibness. Not just the idea of a life full of light and inside jokes he couldn’t remember.

But how everything, somehow, seemed to circle back to Mumbo.

Mumbo this. Mumbo that.

Grian miraculously kept his tone even as he spoke next. “Where’s your base, Scar?”

Sure, it was a cheap attempt at deflection, and he knew he’d have to talk to this man who apparently saw him as his best friend eventually , but he was quite fond of deflecting, and he would do it for as long as he could, thank you very much.

Scar blinked at the sudden pivot, then smiled, once again probably catching on but letting it slide. “Just over the ridge. Elven village, lots of trees, very dramatic.”

Grian made a noncommittal noise and started walking again.

He had to admit he much preferred the climate in this jungle over the desert. Maybe it was the shade, or the wet air, or how the canopy kept the world close. Probably something to do with the useless, vibrant, far-too-eye-catching parrot wings on his back — dead weight in a fight. Easy targets.

They didn’t end up getting very far, though, before he heard voices somewhere in the distance. His hand, still covered in dried blood and sand, flew to grab the sword resting at his side. He quickly pivoted toward the noise, Scar watching him cautiously.

Grian kept a close eye on the man behind him as he snaked through the jungle greenery. Whoever this was, he wasn’t about to let himself and Scar get caught off-guard.

It was easy to fall back into old habits, even here — in this strange afterlife-but-not-actually-afterlife , or whatever it was. Scar, leading the charge, all fire and flash and silver-tongued confidence. Grian, the one who followed in the shadows, quietly laying the groundwork. Planting the traps. Making sure no one crept up behind while his partner was too far gone in the red haze to notice.

Watching Scar’s back had always been second nature. It still was.

(Even though Scar only ever died around him.)

He pushed a cluster of leaves aside, sword still tight in his hand. There, by a large lake, were two men. One was tall and lanky, raven black hair and moustache matched with a clean and fancy suit. And next to him…

Ren.

The Red King. Their sworn enemy.

Leader of Dogwarts. Opposed to him and Scar until the bitter end.

The last time Grian saw him, Scar’s arrow had driven clean through Ren’s chest. He could still hear the desperate cry of Martyn, a follower watching his king fall.

Scar had killed Ren.

And then he’d killed the Hand.

And then they’d all died.

But now Ren was here, chatting lightheartedly with a stranger.

The next few moments were a blur.

Grian lunged forward, sword in hand, and pushed an extremely startled Ren to the ground. He drove the sword through Ren’s chest, his body disappearing in a puff of smoke and items scattering around them.

Grian heard footsteps behind him as he stood up — Scar, probably — and a sharp gasp from the stranger to his left.

“Grian?”

He turned to the stranger, sword still in hand, wings once again flaring out in a stance of intimidation. “Don’t try anything, I will kill you.” 

The stranger stared at him with a confused and concerned expression. Void, Grian was getting tired of those.

“Hey, it’s me… Mumbo?”

Grian rolled his eyes. So this was the man Scar couldn’t stop talking about. A silly bloke with a moustache and suit, who practically radiated anxiety. 

At least he wasn’t a threat, Grian supposed.

Then, it seemed Scar had once again caught up to him, as he felt a hand on his shoulder.

And no — Grian didn’t flinch, actually.

“Grian, why— why did you kill Ren?” Scar panted, quickly retracting his hand from Grian’s shoulder.

Grian turned toward him, genuinely baffled. “He’s our enemy?” he said, and—oh. Right. Green eyes.

Scar blinked, clearly thrown. His voice softened into something gentler, almost careful.
“He’s been our friend for years, Grian. We’re not enemies.”

Grian grit his teeth, jaw tight, and swallowed down the bitter frustration climbing his throat. He wanted to laugh. Or maybe scream. He was getting real sick of everyone looking at him like a lost child. First Xisuma. Now this Not Scar.

The moustached man beside them shifted awkwardly. “Grian? Do you… do you really not remember me?”

Grian turned. The man’s expression cracked something in him — eyes wide, voice unsteady, face open and heartbreakingly hopeful. Like he was waiting for Grian to say something that would make everything make sense again.

It felt wrong. Foreign. And Grian didn’t know what to do with that kind of grief.

He didn’t know how to hold it, or how to soothe it — which was the strangest part, because something in him wanted to.

So he just shook his head. And turned back to Scar, who was gathering Ren’s items and placing it in a chest.

“Where were we going again? Your… village?”

Scar and Mumbo exchanged a look. One Grian couldn’t decipher, but it radiated pity and concern.

He hated it.

Scar turned back to him with practiced brightness, slipping on a smile like it was armor.
“That’s correct! You know, after all that running around, I think we should just fly there instead. My legs are killing me.”

Grian blinked. Fly?

Instantly, guilt pooled in his chest. He hadn’t thought once about Scar trying to keep up with him, cane and all. But still—fly?

Scar didn’t have wings. And Grian’s didn’t work.

Mumbo turned to Scar, concern now shifting toward him. “Do you have your wheelchair?”

Scar laughed it off, waving a hand as he pulled an unfamiliar item from his inventory. “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry. I’ve got it stashed back at my base somewhere.”

It looked like a cape — sleek, dark, iridescent. The material reminded Grian of something ancient. Something draconic. He couldn’t recall ever seeing a dragon, but the knowledge settled in his head like it had always been there.

Scar clipped it on with practiced ease, grabbing fireworks. “Follow me! Right this way!”

Then he took off — vanishing into the trees above, wings of smoke and fire trailing behind him.

Leaving Grian alone. With Mumbo.

“Are you not going to go after him?”

Grian looked at the other man — who, now that he was really looking, was… tall. Way taller than he remembered anyone being. If they got into a fight, Mumbo would probably win.

He shook the thought away. He'd killed enough people to convince himself that's true. “I can’t fly.”

Just a casual confession. The kind you toss out and expect to be met with a shrug. But Mumbo’s face didn’t shrug. His whole expression crumpled into one of horror.

“You… can’t fly? Why? What happened?”

Grian’s brows knit. “I’ve never been able to. They can’t carry me.” He motioned vaguely to his wings.

Mumbo stared.

Then the whistle of fireworks cracked above them. Scar landed with a flourish and a forced smile, dusting ash from his sleeves.

“Grian? If you didn’t want to go, you could’ve just said—”

“Scar,” Mumbo interrupted, voice low, “he just told me he can’t fly.”

And whatever careful mask Scar had been holding up crumbled in an instant.

“What? Oh my god. Why not?”

Grian shifted on his feet. He didn’t understand what the big deal was.

Unless—

He had been able to fly Before.

That also felt too good to be true.

“Well, I don’t know. They’ve always been clipped.”

Scar and Mumbo both looked — quite frankly — horrified.

“Not always” Mumbo said slowly, voice rising slightly with alarm. “But… always? Did they not molt? That’s— that’s not good, is it?”

“No, uh— G?” Scar hesitated, glancing at him. “Would it be okay if we checked? Just to see if they’re still clipped?”

Grian instinctively folded his wings tight against his back, taking a step away from Mumbo. “Scar can.”

Mumbo looked… hurt, weirdly. But he nodded, even if his shoulders sank a little.

Scar shifted awkwardly. “Grian, are you sure? Mumbo’s seen your wings more than I have, I’m not exactly—”

“I trust you,” Grian cut in, voice low but certain. He slowly unfurled his wings. “And anyway, it’s not like they’ll magically be unclipped now.”

Scar stepped forward slowly, like Grian might spook if he moved too fast. His hands hovered for a moment before settling gently on the base of Grian’s wings, careful and hesitant. Grian didn’t flinch, but he didn’t meet his eyes either.

He missed when Scar didn’t feel the need to be so careful.

Scar ran his fingers along the colorful feathers with the kind of caution that suggested reverence more than fear. It was quiet — even Mumbo didn’t say anything, just watched with furrowed brows and folded arms.

Then Scar spoke.

“Grian…” he said softly, brushing a thumb along the edge of a feather. “They’re not clipped.”

Grian blinked. “What?”

“There’s nothing wrong with them. No signs of cutting. They’re whole.” Scar looked up at him, eyes warm and reassuring. “You should be able to fly.”

Grian took a step back again, wings half-folded, disoriented.

That couldn’t be right. His wings had never worked. Not when it mattered. Not when he needed them to. They were flashy, sure — good for intimidation, and for making him stand out in all the wrong ways — but functional ? No.

He looked from Scar to Mumbo, suddenly off-balance. “That… that doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe they healed when you came back,” Mumbo offered, voice gentler now. “That means you can fly.”

Grian didn’t answer. He just stared down at his wings like they didn’t belong to him — like he was looking at a memory that had been planted in his body, not something he'd lived with. They stretched at his sides, whole and feathered and perfect. It felt wrong. It felt mocking .

None of his injuries had healed when he woke up here — the cuts, the bruises, his legs — but his wings?

They were magically functional now?

Something twisted deep in his gut, a sharp, sour thing that made him feel suddenly nauseous.

But then he glanced at Scar.

Scar, who was always smiling through pain. Scar, who never complained unless it was too much to bear. Scar, leaning heavier than usual on his cane, trying not to show it.

Right.

He had to at least try. For Scar.

Without saying anything, Grian stepped back, took a breath, and spread his wings fully. The motion was instinctive, natural — like breathing, like coming home to something long-forgotten. His muscles moved before he consciously told them to, and before he knew it, his feet had left the ground.

The wind caught beneath his wings instantly. It wasn’t clumsy or unsteady — he was balanced, fluid. It was pretty easy, actually. The air slipped through his feathers like water through his fingers, and for the briefest moment, he felt free .

Then—

Sand.

The sound of wind, rushing.

Feathers catching the current.

The long fall off a cliff.

The sickening quiet before impact.

Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe.

Grian’s wings snapped in tight and he dropped like a stone, crashing to the ground with a panicked gasp. The moment his feet hit dirt, he stumbled back and braced himself against a tree, breath sharp and shallow.

He pressed his back to the bark, eyes wide but unfocused, hands trembling. He felt like he was going to be sick.

Scar rushed toward him, half-panicked. “Grian? Are you okay? What happened?”

“I’m fine.” It came out too fast. Too harsh.

“But—”

“I said I’m fine .” He didn’t look at him.

There was a long pause, heavy and awkward. Then Mumbo stepped forward, hand resting gently on Scar’s arm.

“Scar, mate— go ahead. You’ve been on your feet too long already. Grian and I can walk. We’ll catch up.”

Scar hesitated, clearly torn, but Grian still hadn’t looked up. After a moment, Scar nodded. “Alright. Just… be careful, okay?”

Grian didn’t answer. He just stayed rooted to the tree, breath slowly beginning to even out, as Scar took off again with one last, worried glance.

Mumbo stepped up beside him, keeping a respectful distance. His voice was soft. “Come on. I’ll walk with you.”

Grian didn’t respond, but he didn’t pull away either.

They walked in silence.

The jungle around them was quiet, save for the soft rustle of leaves underfoot and the distant call of birds. Mumbo led the way, guiding them along a worn path toward Scar’s so-called elven village , which, Grian realized, wasn’t actually that far from where they’d landed.

He found his thoughts drifting, unbidden, back to Ren.

He had killed him. No warning, no hesitation. Just — gone.

Ren hadn’t even done anything, really. Not here, anyway.

A twinge of guilt twisted in his chest. Maybe… maybe they didn’t have to be enemies in this world. Maybe there wouldn’t be another red war, another cycle of alliances shattered over enchanting scams and desperation-fueled betrayal. Maybe things could’ve been different.

But then again— he’d already burned that bridge, hadn’t he?

Ren had lost a life thanks to Grian’s instincts. A gut reaction, one that didn’t stop to consider whether they were still at war. And that probably ruined any chance of peace.

Which meant Ren might come after him now.

Or worse — Scar.

Void. All he ever did was ruin things. Get people hurt. Put Scar in danger. Again, and again, and again—

“What are you thinking about?” Mumbo asked, cutting gently into the spiral.

Grian blinked, caught off-guard. He was silently thankful, though he’d never admit it. “Nothing. Just… I killed Ren.”

“You did,” Mumbo agreed, a little too casually. “It’s alright though. He’s a chill dude.”

“I wouldn’t be chill if I lost one of my lives,” Grian muttered.

Mumbo came to a stop and looked over at him, brows furrowed. “One of your lives ?”

“Yeah, like… he died. That means he has two left?”

There was a pause.

Mumbo’s expression twisted, his usual cocktail of confusion, concern, and that quiet, persistent pity Grian hated. “Grian… Hermitcraft has infinite respawns.”

Grian laughed. Out loud.

A sharp, incredulous bark of a laugh. “Right. Sure. Infinite. And next you’re gonna tell me this isn’t the afterlife.”

Mumbo blinked. “It’s not…?”

His voice was slow, almost careful.

“This is Hermitcraft,” he continued. “Just a regular server. Not— why would this be the afterlife?”

Grian didn’t answer.

He didn’t want to answer. Not to this stranger who remembered some other version of himself and kept looking at him like he was broken glass taped back together.

Mumbo seemed to pick up on that.

“Grian,” he said, more gently this time. “I think you should talk to Xisuma. You don’t have to explain everything. Just— he’s been trying to figure out what happened to you. For months . He deserves something. And maybe it’d help. A little.”

Grian stayed silent.

The idea of sitting down and spilling everything to Xisuma made his skin crawl. But he knew, deep down, the conversation was inevitable. X was the admin, after all. 

He exhaled. “Maybe later.”

Mumbo nodded, accepting the answer without pushing further, and gave him a quiet, reassuring look.

Then they kept walking, the jungle closing in gently around them.

Chapter Text

After a short while of walking, Grian and Mumbo reached what was — presumably — Scar’s elven village.

It was a strange place, with wooden houses arranged in a circle, a magical fountain bubbling in the center, and towering, fairy-like mushrooms that seemed to sprout directly from the wood itself. Giant trees loomed around them, their branches connected by long bridges, with lanterns scattered generously along their lengths, casting a soft, flickering glow. Beside one of the houses, there was also something... odd. A large, somewhat grotesque shape, like a snail? But not just any snail — this one had a diamond beard and a door in the side of its shell, as though someone lived in it.

As Grian took it all in, he couldn't help the little laugh that slipped out. Of course, this was Scar’s base. For all the time Scar spent with his head in the clouds, rambling about fairytales when he should have been killing people, it was almost strange that Grian had expected anything different. Scar had always been one to leave a place more magical than he found it, his mere presence lighting up every space he entered with his optimism and that infectious, larger-than-life smile.

Grian missed him.

It wasn’t that he was gone, exactly. Scar was right here, standing tall, good as new, with three shiny new lives to live, or infinitely more, if he believed Mumbo. He’d even managed to build this beautiful place in this other world, which suggested the magic was still there.

It was just that he wasn’t the same. Scar didn’t remember him — not in the way Grian remembered. Maybe he remembered some other version of him, some distant echo, but it wasn’t the same. He didn’t remember their nights spent in their desert, or the days fighting side by side.

Grian didn’t want him to be “good as new.” He wanted his Scar back, the one who remembered everything — even if he didn’t want to be near him after all that had happened. 

Because if Scar remembered the game, it would mean that what happened was real. That Grian wasn’t losing his mind. That he wasn’t crazy for feeling the way he did about all of it.

But instead, everyone here just looked at him like he was some confused, lost soul.

Maybe he was confused, or at least, that’s what Scar and Xisuma seemed to think, thanks to his so-called “memory loss.” But that didn’t mean he couldn’t piece things together. He had been in worse situations before, and he had always found a way out.

It still felt unbelievable that he wasn’t dead, though. It was getting harder to deny at this point.

But if he wasn’t dead, that opened up a whole new set of questions. Why hadn’t they died? Why had they fought in a bloody war until the end in that other world, killing everyone they loved and hated, assuming they’d never come back, only to find themselves here? Was this really their world? And if it wasn’t, why was it just Grian who seemed to remember it all?

It felt almost... personal.

Then again, Grian had been the last one standing — because he refused to call it a victory — and it made a strange kind of sense that it would be him who remembered.

Grian briefly wondered, though, if there was any way for him to also forget it all.

Grian was jolted out of his thoughts when he spotted Scar rolling out of one of the houses, seated in a wheelchair. It was a beautiful piece, made of dark oak, with intricate carvings winding across the frame and gems glinting on the wheels and armrests. Scar rolled toward them, his trademark smile lighting up his face.

In the desert, Scar hadn’t had a wheelchair. Instead, there were days when he had to rest, or he pushed through the pain because resting wasn’t an option. The only thing he had was his cane, and Grian had helped him as best as he could, though it never felt like enough.

Part of Grian was relieved that Scar didn’t have to struggle to that same extent in this world. He could move, could live without the constant weight of pain.

Then, Grian noticed the furry creature curled up in Scar’s lap. It was a white and grey thing, with a long, fluffy tail and pale green eyes that blinked lazily in the sunlight. Grian’s heart did a little flutter—he had always loved cats, and it seemed Scar did, too.

Scar had always had a soft spot for animals. It started with Pizza, their llama, and then the bee he’d somehow managed to put on a leash, whose name he had proudly announced as “Mr. Bubbles.” Both absurd names, really, especially for the bloody and violent world they’d been living in.

Grian found himself lost in thought again, briefly wondering if Pizza and Mr. Bubbles had somehow ended up in this world, too. He was pulled out of his musings when Scar’s voice broke through.

“—Right, Grian?”

Oh. Mumbo and Scar were talking to him. He should probably listen.

“Sorry?”

Scar and Mumbo exchanged a quick glance before Scar leaned forward, his smile mischievous. “I said, I’ve probably got the best base on the server, right Grian?”

Grian snorted, slipping back into the easy banter like it was second nature. “I don’t know, Scar. I saw this huge mansion just over there. Might be a contender for me, personally.”

Mumbo chuckled, shaking his head. “Aww, not my ancient monument over there?”

Grian followed Mumbo’s gesture and looked over at a large stone temple, draped in vines, with strange, stone sculptures scattered around it.

He had to admit, it looked pretty good.

“No, no…” Grian grinned, raising an eyebrow. “None of you have anything on that beautiful mansion, which I’m sure was built by the most handsome man alive.”

Scar and Mumbo burst out laughing, and for a brief moment, everything felt almost normal. It was a strange feeling, considering Grian only remembered one of the men in front of him, yet something deep down told him this was right.

The moment was abruptly shattered by Scar’s communicator pinging.

Mumbo leaned in, peering over Scar’s shoulder, his expression shifting as he read the message.

Scar sighed and tucked the communicator back into his pocket, locking eyes with Grian. “It was Xisuma.”

Grian felt his stomach drop. He had been perfectly content to let the lighthearted moment stretch on forever, pretending that the world was still simple. But, of course, it wasn’t. He braced himself, knowing what was coming. “What did he say?”

Scar glanced at Mumbo, who gave him a subtle gesture to just say it. Scar sighed again, a weight settling on his shoulders. “He wants to talk to you. About… what happened.”

Mumbo shifted, his voice taking on a more serious tone. “You don’t have to, of course. We’re not going to force you, but just… think about what I said earlier. It might be for the best.”

Grian's jaw tightened, and he turned his face away, looking anywhere but at them.

Talking to Xisuma meant talking about the game. Talking about how they’d all killed each other even though they’d all thought they’d never return. Talking about the way it had all ended — the way Scar had died, and how Grian had followed him.

But it also meant unloading everything. Letting it all spill out, no matter how much he dreaded it. Maybe it would clear the air. Maybe it would silence the questions, give him a moment of peace, and finally get everyone off his back.

So, after a long pause, Grian exhaled sharply and shrugged. “It’s fine,” he muttered, his voice tight. “I can try talking to him.”

He could tell how they tried to hide their relief, the tension in their shoulders easing as Mumbo gave him a nod of reassurance and Scar picked his communicator back up, fingers eager as he began typing out a message to Xisuma.

——

The room felt cold as Grian sat down opposite Xisuma, despite the warm cup of tea in his hands.

Mumbo and Scar had accompanied him back to the mansion, where Xisuma had said he was waiting. They’d walked in silence to the kitchen, before Grian had, as politely as he could, asked them to go elsewhere or at least wait outside.

That, of course, meant he might’ve snapped at them a bit.

It often felt like the other two were babysitting him, unnecessarily so. He didn’t need them constantly in his space, hovering and checking on him like he was some toddler who might wander off.

He understood they just wanted to help, of course.

It was just a lot, on top of an already overwhelming situation.

Grian tried to ignore the blood on his knuckles as he watched Xisuma type something on his communicator.

The admin put his communicator down, watching Grian for a moment before speaking. “Hi, Grian. I appreciate that you wanted to speak with me. I understand this is very confusing—”

“Can you just get on with it?”

The words slipped out before Grian could stop them. He didn’t necessarily mean to sound that way, but the way Xisuma spoke felt almost patronizing, like he was walking on eggshells, ready to treat Grian like some ticking time bomb. He had self-control, thank you very much — he’d just woken up in a bad headspace.

Xisuma blinked in surprise behind the visor of his helmet, clearly caught off guard by the abruptness. After a beat, he collected himself, his tone softer. “Right, sorry. I was just hoping you could tell me something — anything really — about the disappearance.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I don’t know. What do you remember?”

Grian’s thoughts drifted back to the start of the game, that disorienting moment when he woke up alone in the grass, surrounded by flowers and trees, birds chirping around him. Confusion had settled in, followed by a flash of anger — though he couldn’t remember why. He remembered not having any memories from before, but strangely, it hadn’t felt alarming. All he knew then were the names of the others in this place, and that they only had three lives.

Then he’d run into BigB, and they’d talked briefly before heading into a cave together.

Maybe he could start there.

“I woke up in a forest. No memories from before. All I knew was everyone else’s names and that we had three lives.”

Xisuma raised an eyebrow, cautious but intrigued. “Three lives?”

Grian shrugged. “Yeah. But Mumbo told me that’s not a thing here.”

Xisuma nodded slowly, reaching for his communicator to type something. “That’s correct. We have infinite respawns here.”

Infinite respawns. It felt like this place was some sort of impossible dreamland, where anything was possible.

He pinched himself.

“Was it a hardcore world?” Xisuma asked, looking at him again.

Grian avoided his gaze, feeling his pulse quicken. “No. I mean— sort of? When you were red, it was.”

Xisuma nodded again, typing something on his communicator. Grian scowled. It felt like an interrogation, or maybe a therapy session — though he couldn’t remember ever having done either.

“When you say ‘red,’ what do you mean by that?”

Grian tensed. Stupidly, really. It was just a question — a core part of the game — but still, he hesitated. “When you were on your first life, you were green. Yellow on your second. Red on your third.”

“Did the colors mean anything?”

Grian glanced away, his discomfort building. The feeling of sand in his feathers, blood on his hands — it was getting harder to ignore. “No... well, kinda.”

“What did they mean?”

He inhaled sharply, his wings shifting uncomfortably. Curse those stupid things. All they ever did was betray him—

“Grian?”

Xisuma’s voice was softer. Grian blinked, realizing he’d drifted off.

“Sorry.” He cleared his throat, trying to focus. “You were neutral on green and yellow. On red... you were hostile.”

Xisuma’s expression, usually so readable, went unreadable in that moment. His face went blank.

“Hostile?”

Grian shuddered, his discomfort palpable now. He couldn’t bother hiding it anymore. “Yeah... uh... You wanted to—”

He closed his eyes, biting his tongue. Void , this was just a simple question. A part of the game. Why was he making it feel so much bigger than it was?

Xisuma stayed silent, waiting patiently, giving him space to collect himself.

Eventually, Grian sighed. “...You wanted to kill the other players.”

Xisuma’s brows furrowed, but his expression didn’t change, still calm. “Permanently?”

That question. The one Grian had been dreading. The one he didn’t want to answer.

Still, he pressed on. Xisuma was just trying to help, if he believed Mumbo.

(Why was he trusting Mumbo? He’d only just met him.)

“Yeah.” Grian’s voice was clipped. “Or at least, that’s what we thought.”

“Huh.”

Grian’s frustration surged beneath his skin. “Huh?” Was that all Xisuma had to say? They’d killed each other, cold-blooded, and all he got was “huh”?

“Who else was there?”

He furrowed his brows, making sure he remembered everyone.

“Me, Scar, Bdubs, BigB, Impulse, Martyn, Ren, Tango, Etho, Scott, Joel, Skizz, Cleo… and Tim,” he said, counting each name off on his fingers as he spoke. Fourteen players. That’s everyone.

“Okay, that’s everyone who disappeared. I can let Fwhip know it’s connected then.”

Grian nodded absentmindedly. He didn’t know who that was. Probably another admin.
A thought struck him then.

“Where did Scott and Tim go? I haven’t seen them.”

Scott and Tim. The flower husbands. They’d been his and Scar’s only real allies — the only people Grian had truly trusted besides his partner. Hobbits, the two of them, tucked away in the flower forest in their cozy little hobbit holes, just like the starter base he’d apparently built here.

Timmy had been shot by Skizz in the bunker, and Scott... Scott had gone after the red army, blinded by grief and trying to avenge his husband.

Grian hoped they were together again.

Xisuma stopped typing on his communicator, turning to face him. “They’re okay. They’re back on their server — Empires. I don’t know if you recognize that, but that’s where they are now. Fwhip, their admin, told me they came back a few hours before you and the other missing hermits started showing up here.”

Empires. He hadn’t heard of it. Probably another server. Another detail tugging at the frayed thread that maybe he wasn’t dead.

He probably needed to stop convincing himself he was. At some point, it was getting hard to argue with the facts.

The admin sighed softly, then looked back at him. “I know this is probably a loaded question, so answer it however you feel comfortable...”

Already a bad start.

“...What happened on that server?”

Grian sighed.

How was he even supposed to answer that question without making everyone here never speak to him again?

He’d deserve it. But that didn’t mean he wanted it.

So he settled for being vague. As vague as he could be.

“There was a war. We died.”

Xisuma looked puzzled now, fingers pausing mid-type on the small communicator in his hand. “A war?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you mean—”

“Can I have a different question?”

Xisuma’s eyes softened, and Grian saw it again — pity. Of course. That seemed to be all anyone here felt toward him. He didn’t want it. He didn’t need it. He didn’t need them tiptoeing around him like some wounded animal.

“I’m sorry, Grian. I’ve already asked all the other questions I had. I’m just trying to understand so I can help—”

Grian stood abruptly, nearly knocking over the forgotten tea as his chair scraped back against the floor. “I don’t need your help. I don’t need your pity either. If you don’t have anything else to ask, we’re done.”

“Grian…”

“Do you have any other questions?”

He could feel the heat in his eyes, the sharpness in his voice. He wasn’t trying to be cruel. He didn’t want to be cruel.

But Xisuma, like Icarus, had flown too close to the sun — and now he was feeling the burn.

When the admin said nothing, Grian didn’t wait.

He stormed out of the kitchen, bloody hands clenched into fists and wings folded so tight against his back they twitched with every step.

He didn’t know where he was going, he just needed to get away.

Eventually, he found himself outside of the hobbit hole starter base. Looking at it now, it reminded him of his allies. It felt safe, in a way. Familiar in a world where everything was unfamiliar. 

He was just about to push the door open, when he heard the now familiar fizz of fireworks behind him. 

Scar, flying in fast, a folded wheelchair strapped to his back under his strange artificial wings. It was almost graceful, the way the chair started to unfurl mid-flight, all enchanted wood and polished gold catching the light. For half a second, it even looked cool.

And then Scar hit the ground like a meteor.

There was a thud. A bone-deep one.

A puff of smoke, and items flew, scattering everywhere.

Scar had died.

Scar had died.

Right there. In front of him. One second flying, the next—

He hadn't even had time to scream. Just a puff of smoke and now Scar was—

Gone.

He stumbled back, a breath catching in his throat like it didn’t belong there, couldn’t get out. His wings twitched violently behind him as he started shaking.

His communicator buzzed again in his pocket. He didn’t check it. He knew what it said. He could still see it, scorched into the back of his eyes.

[18:46] GoodTimeWithScar experienced kinetic energy.

Kinetic energy. Like a punchline. Like a joke.

But it wasn’t funny. It wasn’t funny at all.

Scar was yellow now. Two lives. Just two.

And Grian—

Grian had just let it happen.

His chest was too tight. His feathers itched. He clawed at the collar of his turtleneck like that would make it easier to breathe, but it didn’t help, it never helped. His vision was swimming and the edges of the world were closing in and—

Why hadn’t he caught him?

Why hadn’t he done something?

Water bucket, cobweb, a slime block — anything!

He was right there—

Scar had died.

And he’d just watched.

His knees gave out. He barely registered hitting the ground. The grass scraped at his skin but he didn’t care. His hands were in his hair, tugging, digging, as if peeling away layers of himself might reveal some version of him that hadn’t failed. Again.

He couldn’t do this again.

He couldn’t lose Scar.

Not like this. Not again.

He was supposed to protect him.

That was the whole point. That had always been the point. 

He was supposed to be better this time.

But all he’d done was stand there and watch.

And Scar had died.

Scar was on yellow.

Scar was one life closer to red.

Scar was—

Oh, Void, he was going to die again.

“Oh, wow… Grian, do you have my items— Grian?”

Scar.

Scar’s voice.

Grian’s head snapped up. Scar was standing there, brushing dirt off his sleeves, slightly disheveled but otherwise — fine.

Scar was fine.

Grian scrambled up. Legs unsteady. His hands were on Scar’s face before either of them could process it, turning it side to side, searching for blood, bruises, anything.

And then he saw his eyes.

Green.

Still green.

How—

Right.

Hermitcraft. Infinite respawns.

“Grian, are you okay?”

Scar sounded worried.

Grian realized suddenly that he hadn’t said anything. That he was probably still shaking. That his hands were still on Scar’s face.

He yanked them back, tried to stand up straighter. Collected himself. Tried to, anyway.

“Sorry, just… you died,” Grian said, voice hoarse.

“I did. I do that a lot,” Scar replied, chuckling hesitantly.

Grian laughed, too. A small, empty sound. “Yeah. You do.”

But Scar didn’t look amused. He was still watching him, eyes narrowing just slightly. Still worried.

“Should we go inside?” he asked, gentle.

Grian nodded. He didn’t trust his voice not to break again.

Together, they gathered the scattered items, fingers brushing in the grass. And then they disappeared into the hobbit hole.

Once inside, Scar led him to the living room, where they both sat down on the couch. Grian wanted to brush it off, pretend it was nothing.

But he knew Scar could tell it wasn’t. For all his distractions, he was far from stupid.

Grian stared at his hands. He wasn’t sure how to avoid this conversation, but he was stubborn. If Scar wanted to talk, he’d have to start it.

“Are you okay?”

No.

“Yes.”

Scar sighed. “I’m not dumb, you know?”

Grian felt a flicker of guilt for lying, but then he scowled. This still wasn’t his Scar.

“I know,” he muttered instead.

“X sent me to check on you. He said you stormed off.”

So they weren’t talking about the panic attack? Grian wasn’t going to complain.

“Yeah,” he said, still staring at his hands, his bloody, sandy hands that never seemed to get clean. “He didn’t have any more questions, so I left. Needed to be alone .”

He stressed the last word, and if he had to guess, Scar probably looked hurt.

Good. He should stay away.

“Why did you react like that when I died?” Scar asked, the question cutting through the tension. “Hermitcraft isn’t hardcore. You know that, right?”

Grian exhaled sharply. “I know. Can you leave now?”

“Grian, I just want to make sure you’re okay—”

“I know. Everyone just wants to make sure I’m okay. Make sure I don’t run off, or snap like some ticking time bomb. It’s like everybody thinks I’m either insane or that I’m some toddler that can’t take care of himself. I’m getting real sick of it, so could you please leave now?”

Scar fell silent for a moment, before speaking again.

“That’s not my intention, I’m sorry it came off that way,” he said, his voice soft. “It’s just… how would you react if you woke up after three months of being missing, remembering none of it, and your best friend only remembers being missing and nothing else?” Scar tentatively put his hand on Grian’s shoulder, giving it a gentle massage when he didn’t pull away. “We’re just worried about you. I’m sure it’s a lot to deal with alone.”

Grian didn’t answer. He hadn’t considered Scar’s perspective — faintly, but not really. If he had been in Scar’s position, he’d probably act the same. 

And yes, it was a lot to deal with. He was completely alone on this.

He’d been alone before, but not like this.

And somehow, in that moment, the dam broke.

For the first time since that final moment in the desert, he cried.

Maybe it was the comfort of being with Scar, or maybe it was how he had said it. Maybe it didn’t matter.

Either way, Grian buried his head in Scar’s chest and cried.

In that moment, he didn’t care that this wasn’t his Scar, or that he didn’t remember the desert or the love they’d shared. He just needed to feel the warmth of the man he loved, even if it wasn’t the same anymore.

Scar seemed surprised for a moment, but quickly recovered, wrapping his arms around Grian. He rubbed circles on his back, careful not to touch his wings.

They stayed like that for a while. As the tears slowed, Scar murmured, “I’m sorry, I understand it’s hard. We shouldn’t have pushed you.”

Grian couldn’t bring himself to respond. It wasn’t their fault. They were just trying to help. He was the one being dramatic.

“Should we talk to X and see if he’s made any progress on figuring out the problem with our memories?”

Oh, right. 

Xisuma had said he would try to fix it. Maybe he had found something out. Maybe Grian’s memories of Hermitcraft weren’t completely lost. Maybe Scar’s memories weren’t, either.

He didn’t know if he really wanted Scar to remember, even though he missed his Scar terribly. The memories were a lot to carry, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted the other to have to carry them as well, much less if he was ready to face a Scar that remembered.

Grian nodded faintly, his head still buried in the other’s shirt. “Tomorrow.”

Scar nodded as the sun disappeared below the horizon outside the window.

Chapter Text

He’s in the void.

An endless, cold abyss — black as oblivion, and just as quiet.

He floats, weightless. Limbs numb, fingers curled, spine pulled tight like wire.

He can’t move.

He tries to speak, to scream, to whisper — anything.

Nothing comes out.

No breath. No sound.

His throat burns.

Like swallowing embers.

Taloned fingers rake across his neck, desperate, frantic, digging for sound that won’t come.

Still nothing.

The silence isn’t empty. It watches.

And then—

Eyes .

Eyes everywhere.

Eyes nowhere.

They blink into existence, slow and deliberate, as if they’ve been here all along, just waiting to be noticed.

They manifest in the dark like blooming stars.

Moving in patterns that make his head ache, glowing faintly — purple, patient, eternal.

They do not blink.

They only Watch.

         SEE
              SEE
  WATCH
                  WATCH
       WATCH

DIAMOND

OUR DIAMOND

Their gaze presses down on him like gravity.

It pins him in place. It knows him.

A weight curls in his chest.

Familiar, yet foreign.

Like remembering a nightmare he’s never had.

He realizes he’s not breathing.

But he’s not dying either.

He’s just floating— 

adrift in this black, watching sea,
               with them.

And then—

They speak.

“ᒣ⍑╎ϟ ⍑ᖋϟ ᕊᒷᒷリ ᒷリ⋮ᒍ॥ᖋᕊ|:ᒷ"

This has been enjoyable.

”∴ᒷ ⍑ᖋ⍊ᒷ ᒲ╎ϟϟᒷ↸ ॥ᒍ⚍․⎽ ↸╎ᖋᒲᒍリ↸”

We missed you, Diamond.

”ᒍ⚍∷ ↸╎ᖋᒲᒍリ↸”

OUR DIAMOND.

”∴ᒷ ϟ⍑ᒍ⚍|:↸ ↸ᒍ ᒣ⍑╎ϟ ᒲᒍ∷ᒷ ᒍ⎓ᒣᒷリ.”

We should do this more often.

”॥ᒍ⚍ ᖋ∷ᒷ リᒍᒣ ᖋϟ ᖋᒲ⚍ϟ╎リ┤ ∴⍑ᒷリ ॥ᒍ⚍ ᖋ∷ᒷ リᒍᒣ ϟᔮᖋ∷ᒷ↸.”

You are not as amusing when you are not scared.

”ᔮᒍᒲᒷ ⍑ᒍᒲᒷ․⎽ ↸╎ᖋᒲᒍリ↸.”

Come home, Diamond.

”॥ᒍ⚍∷ ⎓∷╎ᒷリ↸ϟ リᒷᒷ↸ リᒍᒣ ᒷリ↸⚍∷ᒷ ᒣ⍑╎ϟ ᒷリ↸|:ᒷϟϟ ϟ⚍⎓⎓ᒷ∷╎リ┤.”

Your friends need not endure this endless suffering.

”ᒣ⍑ᒷ॥ ∴╎|:|: ᕊᒷ ⎓∷ᒷᒷ․⎽ ᖋϟ ∴╎|:|: ॥ᒍ⚍.”

They will be free, as will you.

”ᔮᒍᒲᒷ ⍑ᒍᒲᒷ.”

Come home.

”ᔮᒍᒲᒷ ⍑ᒍᒲᒷ.”

Come home.

”ᔮᒍᒲᒷ ⍑ᒍᒲᒷ.”

Come home.

”ᔮᒍᒲᒷ ⍑ᒍᒲᒷ.”

COME HOME.

——

Grian woke up screaming.

The sound tore from his throat like a wound, raw and involuntary, echoing off the wooden walls of his hobbit hole. He bolted upright, chest heaving, heart thrashing like a trapped bird behind his ribs. Sweat clung cold to his skin despite the warmth of his blankets, and the air around him felt too thick, like trying to breathe through wet cloth.

Then — footsteps. Quick but uneven.

The door creaked open, and Scar stepped into the room, blinking sleep from his eyes. He was dressed in soft, mismatched pajamas and leaning slightly on his cane.

“Grian?” Scar’s voice was low, careful. “Hey, hey. You’re okay. It’s just— just a dream.”

Right. 

After the conversation they’d had last night, Grian had asked him to stay over. Just in case.

Paranoia had been gnawing at the edge of his mind since the game. The fear that one of the other players would show up in the middle of the night and ambush him while he was asleep. It was why he and Scar had been taking shifts keeping watch, back in the desert. 

Back then the fears had been justified.

Some feelings are hard to let go of.

Scar had offered to crash on the couch downstairs. Said he didn’t mind, not one bit. And knowing he was close by had been the only thing that let Grian fall asleep at all.

Now, though?

He wished he’d just stayed awake.

Grian’s whole body shook. Panic twisted inside him, cold and vicious. His skin crawled. His lungs still wouldn’t work. It was like something was sitting on his chest, something heavy and ancient and cruel. His vision blurred at the edges, dark and static-flecked.

He barely registered the hand on his shoulder. Scar’s voice was distant, muffled — like sound filtered through glass and water.

What was that?

That… really hadn’t felt like a dream.

Not like the scattered nonsense his brain usually cooked up.

That felt real.

Even worse, he felt this strange sense of déjà-vu thinking about it.

Eyes — so many eyes — and various voices blending together that spoke in twisting glyphs and broken starlight. Words in an ancient language he had no idea he could understand. 

And that weirdly familiar feeling lingered, sticky and suffocating.

He tasted ash.

Why were the voices speaking like they knew him?

What was that stuff about diamonds?

His stomach lurched. He might throw up. Or scream again. Or both.

He still couldn’t breathe.

“Grian,” Scar was saying, louder now, firm. “Do you hear me? It was just a dream—”

But Grian couldn’t answer. Couldn’t look away from the place the shadows pooled most deeply in the corner of his room.

He always hated the feeling of being watched.

Scar was saying something — low, steady, looping between gentle encouragement and quiet grounding. His voice wove through the fog in Grian’s mind like thread through fabric, tugging him toward something solid. A hand squeezed his shoulder.

“Breathe with me, okay?” Scar murmured. “Just in… and out. You’re safe.”

The words themselves barely registered — like sound underwater — but the cadence did. The rhythm. The familiarity in Scar’s voice, soft with concern, careful not to push.

Slowly, Grian’s chest began to loosen. His breaths came in ragged gasps, but they were there. His fists unclenched from the bedsheets, nails leaving crescents in the fabric. The tremble in his limbs dulled from a storm to a shiver.

He dragged his gaze away from the dark corner of the room, where the shadows still sat too heavily.

Scar knelt next to him now, eyes wide and full of concern, blinking away sleep. His expression was open — raw in the way it could only be when you cared.

Scar had always been far too caring.

“Are you okay?”

Grian didn’t respond, breaths still heavy.

“...Do you want to talk about it?” Scar asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Grian shook his head. Words caught like thorns in his throat.

A beat of silence passed.

“I just feel so lost.”

He wasn’t sure why he’d said it, truth be told. It wasn’t the same between them. He had no right to put this burden on Scar. No excuse to need this anymore.

And yet.

Some stubborn, treacherous part of him clung to that feeling — of warm sand underfoot, of hushed strategy meetings within sandstone walls, of Scar’s laugh seemingly carrying across the whole server...

Even here, in this too-peaceful place where no one else remembered, he couldn’t let go.

He knew it would hurt when Scar inevitably pushed him away. Of course it would. But he couldn’t stop.

Grian hated himself for letting himself get so attached. He’d killed Scar. Punched him to death in that cactus ring. He didn’t deserve all this kindness.

Scar didn’t speak. He didn’t offer platitudes, or pretend to understand. But something in his face shifted — a quiet, pained softness that Grian hadn’t seen in a long time. The kind of look he remembered from quiet nights, when the adrenaline had worn off and they were sitting under the moonlight, tired but still smiling after a long day under the scorching sun.

And then he moved.

This time, it was Scar who leaned in. He wrapped his arms around Grian, warm and careful, like he might break if he held on too tightly.

Grian melted into the embrace embarrassingly fast.

Once again, he always seemed to know what Grian needed before he even asked.

Even if he didn’t deserve it.

The moment broke far too quickly with the buzz of a communicator on the nightstand. Grian pulled away and reached for the device.

[03:55] <xisumavoid> Hi Grian, sorry for the late message. Just thought I’d let you know I might’ve found a way to get your memories back. Message me when you see this.

Oh.

Right. His memories.

Had Xisuma really found a way to get them back?

He smiled, though it didn’t reach anything past his mouth. At least he might get answers to some of his questions. It wouldn’t stop the guilt from festering, but maybe it could give him some answers.

His fingers moved before he could stop them.

[03:56] <Grian> Hey Xisuma. It’s okay, I was already awake. What did you find?

It took a moment before the reply came through.

[03:56] <xisumavoid> I think it could possibly have something to do with a code-block, but to confirm that I’d have to check your code. Do you think it’s possible for you to swing by my base in the morning?

A code-block.

That was familiar. Sort of. He’d heard the term before, but couldn’t place the context. Still, it made sense — a line of code, quietly lodged somewhere deep in a player’s being, locking away memories behind a wall of syntax. Obvious, now that Xisuma had said it.

But the idea of someone looking at his code made the nauseous feeling come surging back.

“Who is it?”

Grian looked up from the screen. “Xisuma. He thinks he might’ve found a way to get my memories back.”

Scar physically lit up — in the most literal sense of the word. “That’s great! Do you want to try it?”

Did he?

That was the question.

Of course, he wanted his memories back. Supposedly, he’d lived an entire life here — long enough to build a mansion, hoard netherite, laugh for hours with people who apparently mattered. A server with endless time, endless lives, and endless second chances.

But the problem was the code.

Something about it made his skin itch. Made his thoughts bend sideways.

Maybe it was the code-block. Maybe it was something else. He didn’t know.

All he knew was that trusting his gut had never let him down.

(Except for when he listened to the red haze, and the ghosts screaming for blood)

The very thought of someone poking around inside his very being — even just to remove something that was hurting him — made his stomach turn.

Still, the possibility of remembering what he’d lost was too tempting to ignore.

Grian nodded.

“He asked me to come by in the morning,” he said. “But I don’t know where his base is.”

Scar smiled. “That’s alright, I do! I can show you, and then head out after.”

Grian would come to hate himself for what he said next.

“I’m okay with you staying.”

Scar hesitated — clearly surprised — but then smiled, soft and a little startled. He squeezed Grian’s shoulder, then looked down at the communicator, brow furrowing.

“Void, is X really still awake? We told that man that his well-being is just as important as ours. Staying up this late isn’t healthy!”

He patted at his pockets, came up empty, and looked sheepish. “I think I left my comm downstairs. Can I use yours, quickly?”

Grian rolled his eyes fondly and handed it over.

Scar typed something quickly, then passed it back.

[04:04] <Grian> hi scar here! we will come by in the mroning, but the better queston is why arent you asleep mister??????

[04:05] <xisumavoid> uh

[04:05] <Grian> im gonna call keralis

[04:05] <xisumavoid> Okay okay, I’m going to bed. I’ll see you later.

[04:05] <Grian> good night x sleep well

[04:05] <xisumavoid> Good night, sleep well. Both of you. <3

[04:05] <Grian> <3

Grian smiled faintly and powered off the communicator, setting it back on the nightstand.

He didn’t want Scar to leave. But he also didn’t feel right asking him to stay.

Scar was watching him closely. “Will you be okay?”

Grian didn’t answer right away. Then nodded.

Scar got up. Took a step toward the door. Hand on the knob, he paused.

“...Do you want me to stay?”

“…Can you stay?”

They both froze. Met each other’s eyes.

Then — small smiles. Mutual surprise. A breath of something like understanding.

“Thank you,” Grian said quietly, as Scar slipped under the sheets beside him.

It didn’t mean anything. This wasn’t the desert.

That’s what he told himself, head tucked beneath Scar’s chin, strong arms wrapped around him just like so many times before.

— — 

Xisuma’s base wasn’t far. It sat nestled in a jungle biome up north, smaller than the one Grian had woken up in mere hours ago.

Still, it had taken them a while to get there. Navigating an uninhabited stretch of dense jungle with a wheelchair and a flight-capable but stubbornly grounded bird turned out to be a longer ordeal than either of them had hoped. Scar’s wheelchair was apparently infused with vex magic to help it handle uneven terrain — vines, roots, rocks, all the works — but even enchanted wheels had their limits. Especially when one member of the duo was too afraid to fly.

And that was on him. He knew it was. Knew Scar would never say anything about it, would keep chatting and smiling and pushing through like it didn’t matter, but the guilt still gnawed at him. They could’ve been there in minutes. But he couldn’t. Not with how everything still twisted in his chest at the thought of leaving the ground.

So yes, it had taken a while. But that only made arriving at Xisuma’s modern white and grey towers feel more like a triumph — even if the reason for the visit made Grian’s feathers want to molt themselves off one by one.

They were here so someone could look at his code. Rip it open. Root around. Fix it.

He still hated the very idea. But what choice did he really have?

Live like this — half a person, with memories ghosting just out of reach — or grit his teeth and rip the bandaid off.

Whatever reason his subconscious had for disliking people looking at his code in the first place couldn’t be that bad. Probably something stupid. Embarrassing, maybe. He could live with embarrassment.

When they arrived, Xisuma was already waiting outside.

“Hello, glad you could make it!” he said, cheery as ever — which was impressive, considering the last time he and Grian had spoken, Grian had pinned him to the floor with a sword at his throat.

“We’re thankful you took the time to find the issue, right Grian?”

Scar had taken over the talking, apparently. Grian had been too deep in his own head again to register the cues. He nodded, barely.

Xisuma didn’t seem to take it personally. He led them inside, down a hallway into a room lit by humming screens. A wall of large monitors blinked to life with idle lines of code, surrounded by all sorts of incomprehensible devices, wires snaking between them like vines. Grian sank onto a couch tucked against the far wall, careful of his wings. A moment later, a cup of tea was shoved into his hands.

Xisuma took his place at the desk, then spun the chair around to face them. “Like I said over message,” he began, “the only explanation that fits is a code-block. I don’t want to look at anyone’s code without explicit permission, and I also won’t do it unless you’re in the room.”

Void. He was actually going through with this.

“You—” Grian’s voice caught immediately. He swallowed hard, trying again. “You have permission.”

Xisuma nodded once, something in his posture softening. “I’ll try to be quick. You’ll be able to see everything on the monitor. I swear, admin’s honor — I’m only removing the block. Nothing else.”

Grian gave a short nod in return, then sucked in a breath as Xisuma turned back to the computer, typing something in rapid bursts. A list of usernames appeared across one of the monitors — Hermitcraft’s tablist, he guessed.

It was a little terrifying, actually. That the very code that made them who they were could be accessed this easily. But if anyone had to hold that kind of power, he was sort of glad it was Xisuma. The man had admin status and infinite access and still waited for consent before touching anything. He seemed stable. And Scar trusted him.

That had to be enough. For now.

“G, do you really want me in here during this?” Scar asked, voice quieter now. “I’m probably going to see—”

“Yes,” Grian blurted, too fast, then tried to walk it back. “I mean—if you’re okay with that. I just… I really don’t want to be alone.”

It wasn’t just about moral support.

He didn’t know what he’d do if he was left alone again. And he didn’t want to find out, either.

Scar nodded. No judgment, no questions. 

“Are you ready?” Xisuma asked. There was worry in his voice now, gentler than before.

Grian nodded again. He hoped the admin saw it, because he wasn’t sure his voice wouldn’t fail him.

And then — he felt it.

Eyes on his very soul. Like something peeled him open and started sorting through the pieces. Everything raw, exposed, fragile.

He shut his eyes tight, hand shooting out until Scar’s fingers closed around his own. Anchor.

Somewhere far off, he heard Scar make a sound of confusion, strangely — probably watching the code unspool on the screen — and then Xisuma’s low voice: “Found it. Just as I thought.”

And then came the pulling. A presence, mechanical but not. Like disembodied hands sifting through his being, poking at things that weren’t meant to be touched. Trying to dislodge whatever had buried itself deep in the heart of him.

He nearly threw up. It took every ounce of control not to.

Xisuma made a frustrated sound under his breath. “It’s so strong— who made this?”

Grian couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even think properly, actually.

It kept going — seconds or minutes, he couldn’t tell. Time had gotten slippery again.

And then—

It stopped.

The eyes vanished. The pressure lifted. Something gave way.

And then, it was like a tsunami washing over a city.

Memories slammed into him all at once — not in sequence, not with logic or grace. Just all of it. Shoved back into his head like a storm.

Laughter. Screaming. The void. Eyes. Crashing. Explosions. Warm hands. Building. Falling. Flying.

A rush of bright, fractured moments. Broken timelines snapping back into place. People he’d forgotten he loved. Pain he hadn’t realized he was still carrying.

Suddenly, all the questions that had been gnawing at him for the past day had answers.

All of it was too much.

Chapter Text

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence.

Grian exhaled slowly.

The couch felt like too much beneath him, suddenly. Actually, everything felt like too much, now that he thought about it.

His headwings twitched — once, twice — before falling still.

He cracked his eyes open.

Scar and Xisuma were sitting in front of him, watching with a kind of quiet, steady worry.

Right. Xisuma.

His admin. Someone he’d known for years. Someone he’d trust with his life, if it came to that.

Void, he’d missed him.

But—

They’d seen his code.

A cold weight dropped in his stomach, heavy as stone. His hand moved on reflex, fingers brushing the side of his neck — the Watcher mark, still there, still hidden beneath his turtleneck, thank Void.

They didn’t know. He was sure they didn’t know. They couldn’t. If they had, they wouldn’t be sitting there so calmly. He’d be banned already, that was certain.

The Watcher-code — Their code — was buried deep. Twisted into the base layer. Far below the memory-block X had just removed. Base-code governed what kind of entity a player was . His hybridity, appearance, age, gender. All that stuff.

The memory-block would’ve realistically been placed higher up — in the brain code. Higher-level functions. Personality, cognition. That layer was the most intricate layer of code.

Of course he knew that. 

He knew exactly how that worked because he’d gone to admin school. Graduated top of his class. He could navigate code-layering blindfolded.

He could’ve easily removed the block himself, without having anyone else seeing and changing his code.

If he’d remembered he could.

But he hadn’t, because—

Grian’s thoughts stuttered.

Oh.

Oh, Void.

They’d found him.

A sick, hollow feeling opened in his chest.

That much was obvious. They’d dug into his code — again — and left a little gift. A memory block. A small change, just to see what would happen. To make Their game more fun.

He’d let them alter his code again.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

It was clear the death game was a punishment.

For him.

For running.

And They’d dragged his friends and family into it now.

He remembered the dream now. Their words, confusing mere minutes ago, slotted into place with perfect, horrible clarity:

“Your friends need not endure this endless suffering. They will be free, as will you.”

Then They’d beckoned him to come home and chanted that wretched nickname They always used.

He hated it.

“Diamond”

Yeah, right . How much more on the nose could you possibly get?

He remembered the other words, too:

“This has been enjoyable. We should do this more often. You are not as amusing when you are not scared.”

His hands curled into fists. They’d done it because he didn’t give Them the satisfaction of seeing him scared before he left.

He was scared. Of course he was.

But beneath it — flickering like lava pools — was pure, white-hot fury .

They thought They could play with him again. Hurt his friends. Turn his life into another performance for Their endless eyes just like back on Evo. This whole ordeal was just another entertaining game to Them.

As if taking him, changing him, and twisting his code until it barely resembled what it used to be wasn’t enough. They’d turned him into one of Them and then punished him for running.

Which brought him to the other huge, glaring issue.

This was his fault.

The guilt hit like an anvil dropped from build height.

Everyone was suffering because of him.

He knew how the Watchers worked. If he gave in, They’d leave the others alone. They always loved a tidy trade.

But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t go back. Not to Them.

He was selfish. And terrible. And so godsdamned tired .

“Endless suffering.”

They’d meant that. They always chose their words carefully. There would be more games. More pain for all of them, that much was certain.

All until he caved.

Until he went back.

He dragged in a breath through gritted teeth.

Oh. Right.

Scar and Xisuma were still sitting there. Watching him. Waiting.

Normal. Be normal. Everything’s fine. Nothing’s wrong.

“Grian?” Xisuma’s voice was careful, low. “Did it work? Are you alright?”

Grian forced a smile — just a little too wide. “Yeah,” he said. His voice wasn’t shaking. Not technically. “It worked. I’m alright.”

Scar squinted. “I dunno much about code,” he said, slow and wary, “but… yours looked wrecked , man.”

Grian let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Yeah. That checks out.”

They didn’t press.

He appreciated that.

Scar turned to X, his expression brightening with that familiar flicker of hope that never, ever meant anything good.

“Do you think the rest of us have the same issue?” he asked, and Grian’s stomach sank like a stone.

Because Void, he knew exactly where this was going.

X looked like he was about to answer — probably confirm Scar’s suspicions — but Grian cut in before he could.

“No. Absolutely not.”

Both pairs of eyes snapped to him. He didn’t look at either of them.

“You do not want those memories back.”

And maybe five minutes ago — when he was still reeling, half-lost and stumbling through the fog — maybe then, he had wanted Scar to remember more than anything else. Wanted someone to know the truth, even if it meant never speaking to him again.

But that was before.

Before he stopped being a lost amnesiac and went right back to being himself.

Because if the hermits remembered the game, they’d remember all of it. Every bloodstained moment. Every betrayal. Every desperate move.

Grian could barely face himself with those memories. He couldn’t imagine facing them, either .

And at least right now — at least in this awful, broken present — he had the small comfort of knowing they didn’t know. They were safe from it, even if they weren’t really safe at all.

If X removed their blocks too?

Grian didn’t know if he’d ever be able to look any of them in the eye again.

Scar’s voice cut through the silence, soft but firm. “You know… That’s really not up to you, G.”

Grian exhaled hard. “Yeah. You’re right. It’s not.” He rubbed a hand down his face. “Just... trust me on this.”

“Why shouldn’t we want to remember?” Scar pushed. “You won’t tell us what happened, and if I’ve got three months of blank space in my head, I’d like to know what happened during it.”

Grian flinched. That was fair. Of course it was fair. But Void , he hated hearing it out loud.

“I’m serious,” he said, voice low. “It was bad. Be glad you don’t have to remember.”

“I’m not, though!” Scar shot back, frustration bubbling to the surface. “I want to know what happened. You— Grian, I’ve never seen you like this before. And I want to be there for you, I do , but how am I supposed to help if I don’t even know what’s hurting you?”

Grian’s jaw clenched tight.

He didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t want this — this version of caring, this kindness laced with knives. He didn’t want someone willing to dive into hell just to hold his hand through it.

“I don’t need you to be there for me,” he snapped. “I’m fine. ”

Scar’s eyes narrowed. “You’re clearly not—”

“ Fine! ” Grian barked, rising to his feet. “Remove the block then! Go ahead. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

And that was it.

He turned on his heel and stormed out before he could see their reactions. Before he could change his mind. Before he could let the weight of Scar’s words do anything more than echo.

Scar cared too much.

It wasn’t fair.

And if he was going to get his memories back, then Grian couldn’t be there when he did.

He didn’t have the strength to watch as he lost Scar.

Not again.

——

Grian went to Mumbo’s base.

The path there was mostly muscle memory. His feet knew the way despite not seeing the area from above, since he still refused to fly. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the server, painting everything in familiar colors that still somehow felt just a little bit off. Like stepping back into a painting you used to love and realizing someone had changed the brushstrokes while you were gone.

He’d missed his best friend terribly. And thankfully, Mumbo had been spared from the death games entirely — kept out of that nightmare. 

Which also meant he wouldn’t confront him about what happened.

The other hermits who’d gone missing wanted their memories back too. Xisuma had been more than willing to help them. Of course he had, ever the responsible one.

Grian couldn’t face them. Probably not ever.

He slipped inside the base silently, and followed the sound of rustling shulker boxes and muttered frustration. Sure enough, he found Mumbo in his storage room, clearly elbow-deep in some redstone project. His eyebrows were furrowed in intense concentration as he sifted through a bin of comparators, then moved to another.

Grian grinned.

Perfect.

He crept forward, carefully placing each footstep like a cat on the prowl, not making a sound. Closer. Closer—

“Hey Mumbo!”

The reaction was glorious . Mumbo flailed backward like he’d been electrocuted, knocking into a chest with a loud thunk before whirling around, eyes wide with horror.

Grian nearly doubled over with laughter, gripping his stomach as he wheezed. Void, he’d missed this. The desert had its moments, sure, but nothing — nothing — could compare to being home, messing with his best friend.

Mumbo clutched his chest like he was seconds from cardiac arrest. “ Grian! You can’t just— do that!”

“Awe, shucks! Don’t be like that,” Grian teased, still grinning. “I thought you’d missed me at least a little!”

“I— I did! ” Mumbo spluttered, hands flailing. “Just—! You scared me!”

Grian crossed his arms, smug. “I’ll do you one better. I have my memories back.”

There was a beat of silence as that registered.

Then Mumbo’s jaw dropped so fast it was a miracle it didn’t hit the floor. “You’re— You’re serious?”

Grian’s smirk turned into something softer. He nodded, eyes a little shiny. Then opened his arms wide.

Mumbo didn’t even hesitate.

The hug hit like a freight train. Grian wrapped his arms tight around his friend and just held on. There was a tremble in Mumbo’s shoulders, and after a second, Grian felt something wet soak into his shirt.

He didn’t say anything — just slipped a napkin from his inventory and offered it silently.

They stood there for a while. The room was quiet except for the occasional sniffle and the soft hum of redstone mechanisms ticking away in the background.

Eventually, Mumbo pulled back just enough to speak, his voice thick. “Sorry— It’s just— Mate, you were missing for so long, and it reminded me so much of last time that happened, and I started worrying—”

Grian rubbed slow, soothing circles into Mumbo’s back. “You don’t have to explain yourself,” he murmured. “It’s okay. I’m here now. We’re okay.”

Mumbo nodded, wiping his nose with the napkin. “We’re okay,” he echoed, with more weight this time. “Wow. Mate, you’re not kidding?”

Grian laughed. “Why would I joke about this? No, X removed the memory block!”

“That— That’s amazing!” Mumbo ran a hand through his hair, still looking a little stunned. “I— Wow, mate, I’m just… I’m so glad you’re back to yourself again. Having your best friend forget you is… not fun.”

“I can imagine,” Grian sighed, gaze flicking away for a second. He pointedly ignored the sharp twist in his chest, fully aware that Mumbo would have to go through this again. Whether he wanted to or not.

“I’m sorry for leaving again,” he said, quieter now. “I didn’t know—”

But Mumbo cut him off with a look. “No way you’re apologizing for going missing. Mate, seriously?”

Grian’s cheeks burned. Of course Mumbo was right. He always was. He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. “I just thought—”

“No, nope! I won’t hear it!” Mumbo slapped a hand on his shoulder and started steering him out of the storage room like a man on a mission. “Come on, you and I have lots to catch up on.”

Oh.

Right.

The server hadn’t stopped just because Grian and the others had vanished. It hadn’t frozen in place, waiting patiently for him to return. He’d half-hoped — selfishly, foolishly — that everything would be the same when he got back.

But of course it wasn’t.

It’d been three months, after all.

And time doesn’t wait for anyone.

Still, he and Mumbo had a long conversation about what the hermits had gotten up to while he was gone.

Before the game, the server had been gearing up for Season 8. The usual end-of-season scramble. Mumbo had apparently finished his projects about a month before everyone came back — industrial district, base, shops, all of it checked off and done. After that, he’d been helping Keralis, trying to keep Xisuma from completely burning out digging through server after server for the missing players.

Grian didn’t say much to that. Just nodded along and tried not to let the guilt show.

They didn’t mention what he’d been doing. They didn’t mention what it was like for the ones left behind, either. Not directly. The words hovered in the space between them, heavy and obvious and impossible to touch.

Too much, too soon. He didn’t want to explain it, and Mumbo didn’t ask.

Eventually, the topic shifted to next season. Fresh start. One big continent, surrounded by ocean. Two new hermits were joining. 

That part caught his attention.

Xisuma hadn’t shared names, just said they were both girls and both scarily good at building. That was enough to make Grian vaguely curious. He had no doubt they’d fit in just fine. Everyone always did. The server was weird like that.

And for a little while, it was… fine.

Just him and Mumbo. Talking. Like none of the last three months had happened. 

Eventually, the sky outside began to darken, clouds tinged with lavender as the sun slipped lower behind the hills. Long shadows spilled across the floor like ink, stretching with the promise of night. Grian glanced out the window, watching the light fade, and let out a quiet sigh. It was getting late. Time to head back before the mobs came out.

Mumbo waved him off with a distracted smile, already lost in redstone. That was that.

The walk home was quiet. Not peaceful — his thoughts were far too loud for that — but quiet in that soft, unsettling way twilight could be. His boots crunched over gravel and grass, the familiar landscape blurring past him in a haze of orange and purple. The closer he got to his base, the more restless he felt.

He paused on the path, eyeing the fork that led to the mansion and the hobbit hole. Both were his. Neither truly felt like home anymore.

Still, he veered toward the starter base.

The mansion had always felt too big anyway — cold and echoey, more monument than refuge. Unfinished, too. Another thing he could thank the Watchers for.

The door creaked open under his hand. The air inside was still. A little musty. Familiar.

He stepped in, letting the door fall shut behind him with a soft click — and that was when he realized something was off.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up a half-second as his eyes caught movement in the corner of the room.

There was someone standing in his living room.

His heart dropped as he recognized them.

Scar.

If Grian had seen him through the window, he probably would’ve gone straight to the mansion. Maybe even stayed with Mumbo. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but this.

But he hadn’t.

And now it was far too late to walk back out and pretend none of this was happening. Scar was here. In his base. Looking at him with that unreadable expression, standing still as stone.

Grian froze, blinking like maybe if he looked away and then back again, Scar would be gone. 

No such luck.

“AH! Void— Scar!” he yelped, stumbling a step back. “You scared me!”

His voice came out too loud in the quiet. He winced at how it echoed against the walls.

Scar didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Just… stood there, watching him with something unreadable in his eyes.

Grian’s pulse was still thudding in his ears, loud and erratic. He cleared his throat, trying to cover it with some version of composure that was long gone.

“I—uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly very aware of how small the hobbit hole was. How close the walls felt. How hard it was to breathe. “What are you doing in my base…?”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Ah. So that’s how he wanted to do this.

Fine.

Grian’s jaw tensed. He clenched his teeth, doing everything he could not to meet those too-sharp, too-knowing green eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “I have.”

Scar didn’t react — not visibly. But something about the way his shoulders shifted, just slightly, looked… hurt.

“Why?”

That one word landed like a stone in Grian’s stomach. It wasn’t accusatory. It wasn’t angry. It was soft. Tired. Almost pleading, in a way.

Grian squeezed his eyes shut. His breath came shakier than he’d meant it to. “Why do you think, Scar?”

Scar didn’t respond. Seconds passed — long enough for Grian to start doubting himself. Had he said it wrong? Was this going to break whatever fragile thing still tethered them to each other?

And then—

“I’m not mad at you.”

Grian blinked, startled by the words. He looked at Scar properly this time.

Scar looked… hollow, now. No trace of the usual sparkle in his eyes, no smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Just a deep, aching weariness. Sadness. The kind that came from the bone.

Void, Grian hated seeing him like that.

The words stuck in his throat. He swallowed them down and forced himself to speak. “What?” he said, voice rasping. “What do you mean you’re not mad?”

Scar shifted slightly, the tip of his cane digging into the floor. The pain had calmed down a bit, then. “Why would I be?” Scar asked. “Grian… I told you you could kill me. After everything you did to—”

“No, Scar.” Grian stepped forward before he even realized he had. “Don’t. I don’t want to hear that. I murdered you.”

His voice cracked, raw and sharp like splintered wood.

“You need to— stop. Just— Just stop!”

He didn’t mean to snap. It came out before he could leash it. But the words were molten, bubbling from somewhere deep inside. Scar didn’t deserve it. Scar hadn’t messed up. This wasn’t Scar’s fault.

“Stop what?” Scar asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Grian breathed in hard through his nose. “Stop being so damn forgiving , Scar! Stop being calm. Stop acting like it was just some accident.” His voice rose. “I killed you. In cold blood! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?!”

Scar winced, but he didn’t flinch away. 

“We didn’t have a choice,” he said softly. “The ghosts demanded blood—”

“ Screw the ghosts!” Grian shouted, loud enough that it echoed off the stone walls. “I could’ve said no. We could’ve found another way. We could’ve waited it out, or— I don’t know, gone out together. Anything would’ve been better than that cactus ring. ”

His hands had started to shake. He didn’t even notice until he clenched them into fists.

“You need to be kinder to yourself, Grian,” Scar murmured. “It was the red haze. We weren’t—”

“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, Scar. I still did it.”

Silence.

Scar looked down at the floor, his hand tightening slightly around his cane. “You killed yourself,” he said at last.

Grian’s chest seized. “You died, Scar. You don’t know what happened—”

“I saw.”

The words brought the world to a standstill.

Scar’s voice was almost too calm. “I became one of the ghosts.”

Grian stared at him, unmoving.

The silence that followed wasn’t just quiet — it was heavy, pressing down like a weighted blanket soaked in grief.

“I watched you,” Scar continued. “After.”

Something in Grian cracked. His breath hitched sharply, and he turned away, hand over his mouth like that might stop it. It didn’t.

He didn’t remember how they ended up in his bedroom — only that the tears had already started, and Scar was there, arms around him, grounding him.

Why wasn’t Scar angry? Why wasn’t he yelling? Why wasn’t he blaming him?

Grian needed him to blame him. Needed someone to say it out loud — that he was wrong. That what he’d done was unforgivable.

But Scar didn’t. He just held him.

Eventually, when Grian’s breathing had evened out a little, Scar whispered, “You did kill me. And it hurt, yeah… but I could never hate you for it.”

Grian’s breath caught again.

“I said you could kill me,” Scar said, gently, like saying it too loud might shatter something between them. “And I meant it. I don’t regret it, Grian. I really don’t.”

He kissed the top of Grian’s head.

“The game had to end one way or another. And I… I wasn’t brave enough to do it myself. I gave you that burden, and I didn’t think — didn’t realize — what that would do to you. I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”

His voice cracked again.

Scar, who always smiled through everything, was breaking .

Grian looked up to find his cheeks streaked with tears. Scar didn’t even bother to wipe them away.

Grian reached up with shaking fingers and brushed one aside.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” Scar whispered. “And I hate it. I’m so scared you still feel like you did after the cactus ring. And I wasn’t there. You were alone , and—”

“Scar.” Grian cut him off, quiet but firm. “ Stop. ”

Scar froze.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Grian said again, more solidly this time. “It’ll never be your fault.”

He let out a long breath. “I don’t feel like that anymore.”

The words hung between them.

Scar still didn’t speak.

So Grian pushed himself a little further. “We both did things we regret. But I shouldn’t have—”

Scar shook his head, cutting him off. “No. It’s not about what we did. None of it is. It’s the game and whoever put us there. Not us.”

Grian stared at him, stunned into silence. There was nothing to say to that. Nothing that could argue against it.

He let out a bitter, watery laugh. “Void, Scar… we’re a mess.”

Scar leaned his forehead against Grian’s. “Yeah.”

They sat like that for a while. Not speaking. Just breathing.

Eventually, Grian broke the silence.

His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. “...I just couldn’t stand a world without you in it.”

The admission hung there, suspended in the stillness like dust in sunlight. He didn’t look at Scar when he said it. Couldn’t. His heart was hammering against his ribs, as if trying to break free of the cage he’d kept it in for far too long.

Scar drew in a breath, slow and trembling, like it hurt to take. He didn’t speak right away.

But then he smiled, soft and somber. “I couldn’t stand a world without you, either.”

Grian’s throat tightened. He looked at him — really looked at him — and felt his chest ache. Scar looked so tired. Not just from today, but from everything. 

And yet… he was here. Still here.

Grian reached out and cupped Scar’s face in his hands. His thumbs brushed gently across damp cheeks, wiping away remnants of tears that hadn’t fully dried. Scar leaned into the touch like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

“I…” Grian hesitated. His voice cracked, just a little. “We’ve got a lot to talk about. So much. But—” he swallowed hard, “for now… would you like to try again? Give us another chance?”

Scar closed his eyes for a moment, just breathing. And when he opened them again, they were full of something warm and steady and achingly gentle.

“I don’t think you’ve ever said anything better.”

Grian leaned in before he could second-guess it. Scar met him halfway.

The kiss was clumsy and tear-soaked, but so real . Not some grand cinematic moment. Just two people holding each other together, lips brushing through broken sobs and quiet laughter, through relief and longing and the ache of something almost lost. It wasn’t perfect.

But it was theirs .

When they finally pulled apart, breathless and flushed, Grian kept his forehead pressed lightly against Scar’s. “I missed you,” he whispered.

Scar smiled, eyes still glassy. “I missed you, too…” He paused, then added with a teasing lilt, “...And to think you didn’t want me to remember all of that?”

Grian made a face, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Of course I didn’t. It was horrible.”

Scar chuckled, brushing a strand of Grian’s hair behind his ear with the same softness he always used. “I meant the good parts, silly.”

“There weren’t many.”

“Of course there were!”

“Like what?”

Scar tilted his head dramatically. “When we chopped down that whole dark oak biome for a monopoly, only to find out there was another one right across the map?”

Grian groaned. “That was horrifically embarrassing.”

“Okay, fine — what about when we rescued Pizza? Or when we stole BigB’s cookie?”

“I had no personal stakes in either of those.”

Scar gasped. “Aw, songbird, don’t be like that. You loved Pizza!”

“Nope,” Grian said, deadpan. “Definitely didn’t.”

“You did!”

“Did not.”

Scar tackled him with a mock-offended squawk, and they fell sideways onto the bed in a flurry of feathers, tangled limbs, and laughter. Grian couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like that — unburdened, sharp with joy instead of grief.

When the giggles had softened into quiet hums and content sighs, they ended up curled together. Scar’s arms wrapped around him like a shield. Grian pressed close, his face tucked against Scar’s shoulder, and Scar’s calloused fingers gently carded through his hair and feathers in a soothing rhythm.

Then Scar spoke again, voice low and full of that breathless wonder he sometimes got when watching the sun set over the desert.

“If you’d have told me last year that I’d be cuddling in bed with my long-time crush, after going through a death game where we fell in love, killed each other, became amnesiacs and then kissed after getting our memories back…” He laughed, breath huffing against Grian’s hair. “I think I would’ve called you insane.”

Grian burst out laughing. “ You’re definitely a bit insane anyway.”

Scar gasped again, mock scandalized. “ Me? ”

“Yes! You were unhinged on red.”

“I’m always unhinged.”

Grian pulled back just enough to meet Scar’s eyes — black meeting green, grief and love coiled together in both. Scar looked at him with that same dopey, lovesick smile that had once made him furious, then terrified, and now warm.

Grian kissed his cheek, gently. “Good thing I like a bit of unhingedness.”

There would be more death games. The Watchers weren’t done with them yet, and they wouldn’t stop until he gave in and came back.

But right now, none of that mattered.

Grian had his Scar back.

And for now, that was enough.