Chapter Text
When Mumbo sees Grian for the first time since his disappearance, it’s a rainy day.
He has just set foot on the Hermitcraft season 6 server for the first time, clambering through the portal onto the spawn island, and it’s perfect. The new seed looks wonderful, filled with vibrant greens and new sea life that he’s never seen before— Mumbo’s not sure if he’s ever been so excited to begin a new chapter in his life on Hermitcraft.
The rain feels a little like a rebirth as it showers down, like it’s washing away the stress and progress of last season, stripping down layers of diamond armour and expensive tools, and leaving him a blank slate.
Mumbo finds that it’s always fun to start a new season, to build oneself back up from scratch with none of the items or resources backing you. Living becomes more akin to surviving again, for a little while, until the Hermits eventually work their way back up to the amenities that they’re used to.
All in all, he’s excited. He feels refreshed and creative and inspired, and he’s looking forward to getting started again, practically bouncing around the island as he waits for the rest of the Hermits to arrive. Iskall seems to take notice of the way he’s almost vibrating out of his skin, coming to stand next to him and nudging him with their elbow, offering him a bright, knowing smile. Thankfully, it doesn’t take too much longer for the rest of the Hermits to appear from the portal, stumbling out one by one and joining the gathering crowd, easily falling into the familiar chatter and banter that Mumbo has grown to adore.
Eventually, everyone has arrived, crowding around the portal where Xisuma stands above them, the last to come through. He types something into his comm, and Mumbo watches as the world-portal closes behind him, before clearing his throat.
“Hermits!” He calls excitedly, one hand pressed against the hollow portal frame. “Welcome to season six! As you’re all aware, we’re structuring the season around a district system, and I’m sure that you’ve all already chosen the locations of your bases. We don’t have any n-new hermits… uh—“
The spiel is familiar, but the way that their leader trails off is decidedly not, and Mumbo hums puzzledly as Xisuma straightens, something seemingly grabbing his attention away from the speech. His visor turns away from those before him towards the sky, glinting a little as he looks out over the crowd of awaiting Hermits.
Mumbo gulps as murmuring begins from the others, Xisuma’s sudden silence clearly striking them all as odd. He watches as heads begin to turn and bodies begin to shift, searching to figure out what’s going on. Mumbo follows suit, driven by a sort of anxious curiosity that sits like a familiar ghost in the pit of his stomach. He turns, eyes following the others’ to try and see what’s causing the commotion, before suddenly there’s a couple of Hermits rushing past him with stammered apologies.
He watches as they weave between those in front of him, annoyingly mobile in the crowd of twenty-something people that totally pin Mumbo in place as he tries to peer around them. The telltale sight of Stress’s cardigan and Keralis’s flannel disappears quickly past the Hermits who block Mumbo’s vision - Doc and Impulse - and he can’t stop himself as he asks, “What are they doing?”
No one around him seems interested in answering, muttering their own uncertain questions to each other as they watch. Mumbo tries again to peek over Doc’s shoulder, but the man’s towering frame blocks his view pretty entirely, broad shoulders and thick fur acting as a barrier that everything seems to disappear behind.
“What’s going on?” Mumbo asks again, this time leaning close to Iskall, and watching with poorly-contained fear as Joe weasels her way past Impulse, something strangely stoic in his expression. Iskall simply shrugs, muttering something about security under their breath.
It’s only then that Mumbo turns back to look at Xisuma, who is trying to make his way off of the mound that the portal stands on. He keeps glancing upwards, towards the sky, as he reaches for False’s hand to balance himself, as to not fall directly on top of his friends.
Almost unconsciously, Mumbo can feel his own puzzled gaze follow, trailing up until he spots a dark plume of smoke towering into the air, winding high to the clouds. It's coming from somewhere close, close enough that Mumbo isn’t sure how he didn’t notice it the moment that he first stepped out of the portal, but he still can’t see exactly what’s causing it. He can’t help but be entranced by the sight, nonetheless.
There’s something… almost otherworldly about it. About the way that the smoke moves through the rain, twisting and turning in a complicated dance. It’s as though it’s avoiding every droplet, untouched and undisturbed by the simple force of nature around it. Bouncing on his heels nervously, Mumbo wonders once again what’s causing it. Perhaps it’s something magical, he thinks as he sniffs the air and breathes in nothing but ash and cinders.
Suddenly, Xisuma calls from somewhere in the crowd, still behind Mumbo but certainly making his way closer, “Everyone, stay calm!”
“What?” Mumbo hisses to Iskall. He thinks the words are probably supposed to be comforting, but all they do is make him panic more- what is he supposed to be staying calm about? Is there something wrong?
“Calm,” Iskall repeats, squeezing his hand. There is something determined in their expression, in the way that their brows tick downwards and their jaw clenches. “We don’t know what’s going on, so there’s no reason to worry about it. The others have it handled.” They manage to keep their voice steady even as Xisuma finally shoulders past the pair of them, shoving around Mumbo and then between Doc and Impulse, before the crowd of Hermits swallow him up.
He tries to let the words soothe him, squeezing Iskall’s hand in time with a rhythm that only he knows, as he tries to stay calm. He tries, he really does, but then the plume of smoke grows darker and thicker, and those who have gone towards it begin to yell loudly enough to be heard over the claustrophobic muttering of the others, and Mumbo is pretty sure he hasn’t felt this stressed since he first lied about his age to join the server.
It could be glitch, is the first thing that his mind goes to as his free hand climbs to his hair, running through it in a familiarly stressed, anxious tic. It could just be a glitch. Maybe they spawned near a lava pool, and firetick hasn’t been disabled properly, or- or—
But then he hears a high, wavering moan of pain, and suddenly Mumbo is more scared that it’s a hacker.
“Everyone-!” Xisuma shouts again, and doesn’t say anything more, interrupted by a second noise, something choked and gagging.
He whimpers a little as the sound grows gurgling, almost gruesome, and watches as Doc curses something colourful and brash before rushing towards the source of the smoke. His departure finally gives Mumbo a decent view of the scene that has grabbed everyone’s attention, and he watches with horror as Doc falls to his knees beside a Player-shaped figure that cries and shakes and smoulders like a bonfire.
They’re burning, with thick rivets of smoke pouring off of their clothes and twisting into the clouds, and Mumbo is almost certain that he can see blood soaking into the grass below them. Ashes and cinders dance around them playfully, a terrifying contrast to the literal fire that consumes the Player who is not welcome on their world.
“Fuck—“ he hears Iskall breathe as the admins and medics surrounding the figure down fire resistance potions, and Stress brings their head into her lap.
“Fuck,” Mumbo aptly agrees, as she demands something and brushes their hair out of their face, one palm outstretched towards Xisuma.
And then–
Impulse shifts in a way that blocks Mumbo’s view as their features are finally uncovered, so Mumbo misses whatever it is that rips a wave of gasps from the crowd around him.
“Is that-” Tango whimpers, and Bdubs makes a gagging noise to his right as Cleo stutters, “Oh my God.”
“What?” Mumbo asks for a third, unanswered time as he tries to peer around the man.
Iskall curses, something Swedish which he only understands as a curse because of the countless hours they’ve spent in each other’s company. “Nej,” they continue, a few shades paler than they were before, pulling on their joined hands firmly, “Mumbo, let’s go—“
“Huh?” The redstoner questions, untangling his fingers from Iskall’s own and moving forward. His eyes are glued to the scene that Impulse is hiding from him. He needs to know what’s happening- he knows that it’s important. “No, I need to—”
Then Iskall's hands are clinging onto the bulk of his jacket as they try to tug him away, and the way that his vision is being blocked feels a little more intentional. He can see Xisuma’s head shoot up, his worried eyes connecting to Mumbo’s own in an instant as whispers wrack the hermits, and it only serves to make him fight Iskall harder.
“Now, Mumbo!” They exclaim, their grip beginning to slip as the pair of them pull in opposite directions, “C’mon, we gotta-”
And then Mumbo is stumbling forwards as the seam of his jacket rips under the force, a muffled thud sounding behind him as Iskall goes crashing to the ground. He daren’t even waste time turning around to check they’re okay, too afraid that someone will stop him, so Mumbo instead uses the momentum to shove bodily, and guiltily, past Impulse.
“Hey—“ someone cries, as another hand tries to latch onto him and another body tries to hold him back.
But it’s too late.
Everything feels as though it’s underwater, a strange sort of disconnected from the facts of the situation as a coldness blooms through every inch of his body. Mumbo’s eyes grow wide as he stares blinklessly ahead, lurching forward with a desperate, unconscious cry.
He feels a little bit like a caged animal, desperately trying to escape its restraints, as everything aside from that face fades into the background. He’s not concerned for the people around him anymore; he’s not paying attention to the people that he is scratching and clawing as he hauls himself between clamouring bodies. He’s not, because-
Because the face that greets him, turned upwards towards the sky behind a flickering overlay of burning hot red and yellow and blue, is one that he has seen many times before.
It’s one that he hasn’t seen in years.
It’s one that steals the breath from his lungs, and the words from his lips; one that has him falling to his knees in the wet dirt of the starter island.
It’s one that brings tears to his eyes, as he crawls along the muddy ground to cradle that face, that face.
Gri—