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Chapter Text

It was a perfectly regular day on the Hermitcraft server for Mumbo Jumbo.

Quite ordinary, he thought as he climbed Scars newly created mountain. Pleasantly routine.

His elytra spread as he glided from the peak of scars mountain and spotted Grian at the entrance to the Midnight Alley. Grian was quite uncharacteristically staring intently into the mouth of the cave, his eyes wide as he looked into the recreation of the night sky. There was an emotion there Mumbo couldn’t quite place. It could have been admiration, but— no, it was filled with something else. Confusion? Fear? Mumbo thought it could even be sheer panic. But it was laced with something new. Sadness? Or even… grief?

Mumbo’s brow furrowed in concern- it was unlike Grian to be so troubled. Mumbo knew he could get easily anxious, and certainly startled- Mumbo had been the creator of several pranks that had ended in squawks and screaming on the part of his red sweatered friend. But it was never quite on this scale. He looked rooted in place, frozen in his emotions. Readying himself for a swoop, he tucked his elytra and dived, picking up speed before pulling out a few feet behind Grian. He stumbled a little on the landing- the fact that Grian didn’t instantly know it was him and mock his flying skill added to an increasingly long list of worries- and cleared his throat.

“You alright bud?”

The shorter man nearly jumped out of his skin.

He turned round to face Mumbo and the colour drained from his face in an instant, blanching him almost white, his eyes widening even further. Mumbo could’ve sworn Grian nearly fainted in shock.

“Woah woah woah.” Mumbo wasn’t used to being quite so gentle but he took a step forward to steady his friend. This had completely the opposite effect- in a frantic effort to step away from the moustached man, Grian tripped over his own feet and landed quite hard on the ground, a strange pop coming from his arm as he stifled a cry. Come to think of it, Mumbo observed, Grian’s arm was already bruised- in fact his whole body was littered with injuries. Small scars, burn marks, his elbows stained with gunpowder and ash, his clothes pierced with holes from crossbow bolts.

Good Lord, thought mumbo, what happened?

“Hey it’s ok,” he said, now starting to panic himself, as he raised his hands up defensively, “did you have a run in with the Octogon?”

Grian’s voice shook as he tried to speak, but whether it was from the pain in his arm or the terror in his eyes Mumbo couldn’t tell..

“Wh..huh..”

“Or was it the Big Eyes? Surely not, Keralis wouldn’t—“

The words that escaped Grian’s mouth in that moment sent a cold rush of shock through Mumbo, confused and pained shock.

“What are you?”

————————————

He had sobbed when no one was watching. Gone back to the battle site to mark a grave, flowers and a spyglass in hand. He had knelt by the body, clutching it, his sword still covered in his best friends blood, and sobbed apologies into his shoulders, begging him to come back. He squeezed onto the shoulders of the now limp corpse, and the coldness of it all just brought fresh tears. Complete grief consumed him as his sobs turned to silent screams. And then just silence.

When he finally felt brave enough to open his eyes again, he wasn’t in the Southlands. He wasn’t anywhere he recognised.

He stood before a vast cave, staring into the maw of the night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 2: LAST LIFE SMP

It had been, to put it mildly, quite a shocking day for Grian.

He had just been texturing the mountainside that made the entrance of the Midnight Alley, chiselling away the the rock face until the stone darkened into deep slate and the grooves were jagged yet precise. He’d never loved terraforming- though he was skilled in it all the same- but he couldn’t deny it was satisfying to see the results. He had merely placed down his tools for a second and shut his eyes, allowing the sunlight and the fresh breeze of Boatem village to wash over him for a moment, floating his hair with the wind. He felt the cool stone against his back and the shadow of the boatem pole darkened what little perception of light he had through his closed eyelids.

When he opened them, he paused for one infinitely horrified moment, then a scream ripped through his throat with raw fear and shock.

It couldn’t be real, he thought, so why was he still screaming?  Nothing he was perceiving could be real. Mumbo had been climbing scars mountain with an elytra on, and gleaming netherite pants. So how was it that now he lay across the ground which Grian knelt on, with burn marks and scarring flooding his skin and a final wound to the chest still gleaming blood?  How was it he lay there with nothing but his old suit, not even a scrap of armour?

How was it Mumbo was dead?

A small part of Grians brain thought it was fine, that he would respawn, but the longer he stood and screamed the more panicked he became that the body wasn’t disappearing, wasn’t moving, wasnt getting up to cackle at Grian and tell him it was all a joke. Grian felt his breathing start to quicken and his hands start to trembling, the blood covered sword too heavy—

Blood covered. Mumbos blood covered that sword.

He dropped the weapon into the ground, now silent as he backed away slowly save for shallow breaths and small whimpers. He couldn’t put the pieces together. Why was he holding the sword, where was he, why was mumbo dead, why did he kill mumbo why did he kill mumbo why did he kill mumbo—

Ironically almost, it was the sight of a second body, a young blonde man Grian had never seen before, still smiling a final cheery grin as he lay lifeless across the dirt, his back broken from a high fall and a gash in his shoulder, that made Grian bolt away.

He ran blindly in his panic, constantly somewhere between passing out or throwing up. He’d never panicked this hard before. He’d had moments of panic: snuck up on by a particularly stealthy creeper, falling into the Boatem Hole, his elytra breaking mid flight. But those were all easily remedied, a moment to breathe after a startled shout, a quick respawn and at worst a few hours of mining to regain his items. He’d always been so certain that death wasn’t permenant. All those things had been fleeting panic. Nothing like this.

Gasping for breathe through tears, his lungs burning as he kept sprinting, he couldn’t even comprehend where he was. Maybe that was what was truly sending him over the edge. Where was he? He definitely wasn’t in Boatem, and much as the Octogon guys could do crazy things with mechanics, he didn’t think he was anywhere on the server. He hadn’t even recognised where he had found Mumbo’s body- he didn’t even know where his best friend died. The landscape was all new, nothing felt familiar, nothing was the same.

Lost in his unravelling spiral of thoughts, he began to cry harder, as unaware of his own voice as he was of the new voices that had begun to talk, first in recognition of him, then in concern. He was still crying as he crashed into someone’s shoulder, he knees finally giving way as he lent all his weight on their shoulder, shaking in massive sobs.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” the voice was soft, and Grian welcomed the safety of the hug, not strong enough to push his memory to put a name to the voice, if he even could. His words were catching in his throat and only one word of the millions of questions he wanted to ask escaped.

“Mumbo…” was all he could say before descending into a wailing sob again.

“Shh, Grian, you did what you had to do.” The mans words were soothing and gentle, yet left Grian with a hundred more questions. How was this man so calm? Who was he? How did he know what Grian had seen? Why did Grian have to do something? What was it? What had Grian done?

Those questions were to be answered another time, when the exhaustion of his grief and panic had subsided. For right now, all Grian could do was sob into the shoulder of his friend, his tears hitting a copper spyglass that hung from the man’s belt, mourning his loss as they knelt outside a cobblestone wall marked with watch towers.

Just how much he had lost, he was yet to know.

The thunder rumbled as the red words blazed through the night sky.

“The Boogeyman will be chosen in 5 minutes”

——————————————————

Had killing Mumbo been worth it? Grian had no idea. The immediate aftermath of his death had left him stunned into denial.

“They went for me” he said, refusing to look at the body, instead focusing on the weaponry and tools that had scattered as Mumbo had fallen to the ground. Jimmy’s body lay at the foot of the bunker, and a slight glance at it didn’t make the ball of guilt building up in Grians chest any smaller. He hadn’t quite processed that death yet. Jimmy hadn’t always been the most faithful Southlander- at least from what Grian had heard about the passing of the lives- but killing his former ally was never going to sit right.

None of this was right.

As he readied himself to re-enter the Southlands with Martyn, he turned his back on his former friends. He wasn’t thinking about how they wouldn’t respawn. He couldn’t. Not now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 3: HERMITCRAFT SMP

Mumbo had gone completely cold.

Why didn’t Grian recognise him? It wasn’t like they had just met- they were long time friends, best friends even, they had been through hundreds of days together, mining together, building together, laughing together. They were in Boatem together, for heavens sake. Mumbo couldn’t help but feel a stab of pain in his heart. How could Grian be staring right at him, looking him in the eyes, and ask him that?

Was he really that forgettable?

He felt tears start to sting on his eyes and in an attempt to hide it he ran his right hand through his hair, still clutching fireworks in his left. He glanced a look at Grian, still on the floor, and felt the hurt in his chest loosen a little, replaced by twice as much confusion. Grian didn’t look like he didn’t recognise mumbo. He just looked… frightened. That was the closest Mumbo could come to explaining it. He couldn’t even begin to place half of the emotions on Grian’s face. There was a slight apprehension, a mingling of guilt and grief, fear and failure all that Mumbo couldn’t see, hidden behind Grian’s expression. And right before Mumbo’s eyes even that was giving way to a terror stricken blankness, panic widening the gap between the world around him and whatever he was seeing in his head. Mumbo was trying not to cry, but Grian didn’t seem to realise he was crying, silent tears streaking down his face as his eyes unfocused, glazed over.

Wherever his brain was, it wasn’t here.

Mumbo tried again to go closer to the shaking man on the ground. Grian looked so much smaller somehow. Lacking in his usual boisterous energy, his good natured laugh that echoed between the mountain walls. Mumbo had often heard it ringing from within the Midnight Alley. He wasn’t sure what to do, if he was honest. But he slowly sat down on the grass and shifted himself nearer, little by little, until he was close enough to reach out and put a hand on Grian’s shivering arm. Grian tensed up at the touch, his breath hitching. The blond tried to steady rate at which air flowed into his lungs but choked on his tears and started coughing violently, flinching away from Mumbo and eventually resorting to curling his knees up to his chest and burying his head in his hands.

Mumbo sat watching for a minute, completely stunned. He had so much to ask, but he couldn’t bring himself to, not whilst Grian was like this. Slowly, he stood, ducking his head as to not make his height so intimidating. He tried to make his words sound calming, but they shook just a little with his breath.

“I’m going to get Pearl, ok?”

Grian’s shoulders stopped shaking, and if Mumbo had been paying more attention he would’ve seen the very slight shiver that remained. His breathing shallowed to an almost imperceptible level, and there was a long silence, a hesitation that would’ve struck Mumbo as strange if the situation wasn’t already bizarre enough. When Grian finally did speak, his words were calculatedly measured, the tone flat with a very, very forced calm.

“…right.”

Mumbo began to back away slowly, walking towards Pearls base.

“Just stay there I’ll be back soon ok?”

If Grian said anymore, Mumbo didn’t hear it. He turned eastward and began to walk to the base of Pearl’s mountain, too stunned to fly as he climbed higher, ever nearer to the base of her unfinishedcastle. The sun was rising above the spires and as Mumbo neared the castle’s shadow blocked out the sun in a looming glory. On an ordinary day he would have stopped to marvel at her buildwork, the grandeur of the dark towers the perfect contrast to the sleek white in the towers, the circular rimmed roofing gorgeously stylised, hints of red the perfect highlights, bright against the rising sun. But this was no ordinary day.

Mumbo’s pace quickened as he reached the entrance, and he pounded on the giant door with more frantic energy than he knew he had.

“Pearl! Pearl!”

“Mumbo?”

A light swish of wings marked her elegant landing, her fingertips lightly dusted in concrete powder and her light brown hair flaked with snow. A smile lit up her face and Mumbo envied for a moment that she was oblivious to all this confusion. He hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should break her happiness. Would Pearl even do anything? Would she be irritated that Mumbo was taking her time, whilst she was so busy? Would she even believe him? Would she dismiss it, uninterested, and leave Mumbo to go fix it himself? But it was a moment too long- genuine concern crossed her face instead.

“Hey, are you alright?”

The care and softness in her voice felt reassuring, and Mumbo lost all thought of trying to hide the situation fled his mind in an instant. Pearl wasn’t going to judge him for panicking. Pearl wasn’t going to be angry. Pearl was his friend. Pearl cared.

“I think there’s something wrong with Grian.”

The shock on her face was one that Mumbo felt as well. He was a little surprised he hadn’t tried to dress it up at all. He normally would have asked ten questions first- Have you seen Grian recently? Did he seem normal to you? Anything weird?- but the urgency of the situation overtook him. He watched for her reaction. Panic and confusion crossed her face, but Pearl gathered her resolve in less than a second.

“Where is he? Is he safe?”

“I- I think so? He’s by the G Train but he’s… really off,” he attempted to explain, already readying himself for an elytra flight.

“This better not be a prank mumbo or I’m shoving you in the Boatem Hole,” said Pearl, but her voice lacked the usual joking conviction as she extended her wings. She had believed Mumbo as soon as she had seen his face, and Mumbo had never been more grateful for her trust. As they neared the ground, it took just a second of looking around for all of Mumbo’s fears to increase.

Grian was gone.

“He was right here, I swear Pearl-“ he started, but she held a finger to her lips in a quieting motion. There was a second of silence. Just a moment after Pearl he heard it too- a metallic scrape from under the train behind him. Pearls eyes widened as she reached for her belt.

“MOVE, MUMBO!”

Mumbo turned to his left and was confronted with the meeting of two blades, just to the edge of where his head would have been. Pearl had only just caught the strike on her axe hilt and was struggling as Grian pressed a sword towards her neck. He had gravity on his side, and he didn’t lose the advantage, the weight of the netherite sword that had been more difficult for him to lift than he was used to now his friend rather than his enemy. Mumbo couldn’t help but freeze for a second, unsure of what he could do, before snapping back into his senses and pulling out an obsidian block, readying the end Crystal to place.

The effect was instantaneous. Grian released all pressure on Pearl and backed away in horror, shielding his face with his arms, falling back to the ground and bracing himself.

“NO! Mumbo please don’t, you’ll die!”

Pearl and Mumbo exchanged one alarmed glance before running over to him. Grian pulled his knees into his chest and started whispering to himself, and as Mumbo leant in to hear him he tended up even further, eyes clamped shut.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please I’m sorry—“

It would’ve been funny if it was a joke. But Mumbo couldn’t even think of laughing right now. Pearl looked even more confused, but she reached a hand out gently and began to rub her hand on Grian’s back, in slow gentle circles, reassuring him.

“It’s ok. You’re ok. You’re with us, yeah?”

Mumbo took Grian’s hand in his, not really sure of what to do, but Pearl speaking softly seemed to be helping a little so he started tracing his own small circles on Grian’s hand, copying her as best he could.

“Yeah, bud, everything’s fine. Uh, breathe? Don’t be- don’t be scared. I’ve got you, ok? I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

Despite Mumbo’s lack of experience with anything like this, Grian seemed responsive to what he was doing, leaning his head further towards him and eventually resting his forehead against Mumbo’s suit, still sobbing quietly. Mumbo placed a gentle hand on the back of Grian’s head, in a protective sort of gesture, holding him closer. Mumbo only just caught his next words.

“Is Impulse here?”

“Yeah Impulse is here,” Mumbo said gently, “we can go get him if you want-“

“How did he die?”

Mumbo looked up at Pearl for an answer, but got only his own bewilderment reflected back through her blue eyes.
—————————————————————
He knew exactly how Impulse had died to get to red life. It had been painfully similar to his own red fall. He still kicked himself for not yelling sooner. He had looked up and seen Impulse on the edge of the wall, jumping back with every pickaxe swing from Mumbo. As the moustached man reached the top of the ladder, Grian had watched him pull out a sword. The cry rose to the edge of his lips.

But there was only silence as Mumbo ran the blade into Impulse’s chest. As the brown haired young man locked wide eyes with Grian for half of an instant before losing his balance, tumbling over the edge to the bedrock below. If Grian hadn’t known better, it could’ve just as easily been him falling, Joel’s arrow in his back as he plummeted from the sky. Is this what it had looked like? Did Mumbo kill Impulse here to show Grian what his death had been? It was twisted, certainly. But red life’s were a little twisted. You always are when you have nothing to lose.

Too slow, the voices reminded Grian. Too slow.

Too slow to warn him. To slow to block Mumbo’s entrance. Too slow to reach out a hand and catch him. Oh, he’d tried. And he’d screamed.

But both too late for it to really matter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 4: LAST LIFE SMP

The Boogeyman? What? There were words in the sky. Why were there words in the sky?? What was a boogeyman?

Where was he?

Grian’s confusion started to strip away at his shock as he took in his surroundings for the first time. They stood outside of a quite simple stone bunker. Grian blinked, then turned his head slightly to look over the shoulder of.. well whoever was comforting him. No, it wasn’t his imagination. This bunker had a hole in it. Straight through the roof. And.. yes, from the corner of his eye he could see it. A wooden button in the doorframe. Grian was no stranger to decorative buttons- it had always been a bad habit of his to press any and all buttons haphazardly, one which had many a time caused mumbo to sigh in great exasperation from the inevitable breaking of a complex redstone machine.

Mumbo . His brain threatened to slip back into his grief but he held himself together with all his mental energy. It wouldn’t do Mumbo any good him just sobbing. Besides, there was probably a spawn point far away from here. Mumbo was going to respawn. He had to. That’s how it worked.

This button. Grian focused his whole attention onto the button, forbidding his mind from wandering any further. Half dig into the dirt in front of a building ringed in craters- this wasn’t decorative. This was a  machine.

A trap.

The two men spoke at the same time, bumbling over each other’s words.

“Please don’t hurt yourself—“

“What’s going on?”

“Grian—“

“No, stop it! Who are you!?”

The hooded blond man who stood before him stared for a moment in a disappointed sort of confusion before slapping Grian lightly but firmly in the head.

“What on earths gotten into you? Look I know killing Mumbo was tough but needs must, right? Get it together.”

Grian raised a hand to his head, rubbing the place where he’d been struck. It didn’t really hurt, but it didn’t answer any of his questions. Apparently his face betrayed his thoughts, because the other man sighed before reevaluating his grip on his diamond pickaxe, twirling it into a more usable position.

“It’s just us now. You and me, Martyn and Grian. No Impulse, no Jimmy, and no Mumbo. They can’t come back, what’s done is done, got it?”

The bitter harshness of his words almost brought Grian to fresh tears, but he nodded mutely. At least he had a name for the strange man who had comforted him- initially anyway, though now he seemed far too eager to just move on. How he was so calm right now Grian struggled to comprehend- until he noticed the shake in Martyn’s right hand, his pickaxe quivering, the heavy bags under his eyes which were slightly puffy from crying, the way his armour moved in disjointed breaths, the deep dents in his chest plate. Martyn was just as stricken as he was. Just better at hiding it.

The silence grew awkward, and Grian tried his hand at helping with whatever the situation was at hand.

“There’s a button here.”

Martyn scoffed. “Nice one, Sherlock, what are you going to do about it?”

The impatience in his tone stung, and perhaps Martyn realised, for he took a slightly slower breath and stepped towards the contraption.

“Have you got a bow? It looks wooden we can probably set it off from over here.”

A bow? Grian didn’t think so, but he numbly placed his hand to his belt, fumbling with a few different straps as he got to grips with what he actually owned. It wasn’t the same stuff he had had just minutes ago. He hadn’t had a bow on hand before, he’d just had his trident, sword and pickaxes- well, and his trusty spoon. He felt a sword and pickaxes on his belt, and the familiar weight was reassuring. Something so small to remind him of… home? The thought crossed his mind and confused him far more than he could understand. He had been home not thirty minutes ago, there was no way he’d gone anywhere. He had just closed his eyes for a moment.

Wait. Was he dreaming? Maybe he was dreaming. He thought to pinch himself, see what happened. No. Maybe not.

It would hurt to much to know it wasn’t a dream.

He patted down his red jumper and felt the wooden curve of the bow across his shoulder, unslinging it. He notched an arrow with unsteady hands. Grian hadn’t always been a good shot, but he’d been decent now for a while, missing far less than he did before. Although he just couldn’t keep his aim steady today. Eventually though, one struck true, and Martyn couldn’t hide his flinch as he heard the button click into place with finality. He braced himself behind a pile of dirt, fear creeping into his throat—

Nothing happened.

Slowly emerging from his cover, Grian shot again. And again. Arrow after arrow flew into the button, but nothing happened.

A fifth arrow stuck into the spruce, splintering it, and as if on cue thunder erupted across the sky into red text, making Grian gasp audibly in shock. He clamped a hand over his mouth, trying to shut himself up. He had been too much of a hassle today already, the least he could do is not fall into a blind panic at the slightest noise. Not when Martyn had taken the time to calm him down earlier, time that it was becoming ever clearer that couldn’t afford to be wasted. Hand still tightly over his mouth, he lifted his eyes to the sky, the text just starting to dissipate.

“The Boogeyman will be chosen in 1 minute.”

Grian still didn’t know what all this about a Boogeyman was. A boogeyman? Really? Like from fairytales? A gangly dark monster slithering it’s way through the walls, killing in the night? Grian might have scoffed if he was in a better place. He didn’t believe in fairytales.

But then he glanced at Martyn, who’s eyes had hardened in resolved but who’s face was blanched pale.

Real. Whatever this Boogeyman situation was, it was real. And scary.

Grian thought for a moment about what to say, what words would ask his question without actually asking, what would get the response he needed without being direct. It wasn’t something he was used to- the Hermits were just so much easier, but clearly what worked with them wasn’t expected right here. A hundred questions ran around begging for answers, but after a little bit, he tentatively opened his mouth to speak, trying to swallow the shake in his voice.

“Who’s it gonna be this time?”

As he asked, he notched another arrow into the bow and shot at the button again. He tried to look unbothered. Casual. Every muscle fibre in him wanted to collapse, he hadn’t realised how exhausted he was, his head hurt from trying to constantly think of the right words, but his voice stayed loyal, not betraying him for what felt like the first time today. Or was it? Maybe Martyn wasn’t fooled, and his nerves were on show like a pristine bell. Maybe everyone could hear how much he wanted to scream, maybe it was deafening, impossible to ignore—

“Dunno to be honest, we’ll have to wait and see”

The reply echoed every once of nonchalance that Grian had tried to convey, and inwardly he felt a small bundle of success. Maybe he was passing as calm? But with only a minute left he figured that one problem at a time would be at least somewhat of a plan. And before this minute was up, he had a machine to figure out.

The button seemed useless, so Grian stepped closer, scooping away the earth surrounding it and gathering the arrow shafts from the splintered wood. It was tightly packed dirt, but not in a very thick layer, and as he continue pushing the soil behind him, rimming his fingernails in dirt mingling with soot and ash, he uncovered a bright red casing.

As he did so, the red thunder responded to his discovery, providing an explosion of noise to serve as backdrop for his finding.

“The Boogeyman is about to be chosen.”

“Eyes on me” Grian heard Martyn say. He turned, and for a moment locked eyes with this man who was barely more than a stranger to him, and yet Grian saw true fear reflected in his eyes. And… hope? What did he hope for?

3

2

1

You are…

Grian didn’t see the sun appear from behind the clouds, but he felt it’s brightness flood his brain, almost painful yet flooding with relief-

NOT the Boogeyman.

He glanced up at Martyn, who paused for a second, then shook his head with a smile.

“So who else could it be then, if not us?” Martyn asked him.

“Uhh, not sure.” Grian tried to deflect the situation by turning back to his work next to where the now broken button lay. He brushed aside some more dirt with a swipe of his hand and felt his palm touch metal, iron cold under his fingertips. The rest of the red connected to an off white label, stained dark from being buried in the damp soil, but the name was clearly marked.

TNT.

Fear leapt up into his chest, a panther ripping into his throat, and his impulses were overtaken by it, ripping the sticks of dynamite out of the metal cart and stuffing them into his belt. The split second that followed was nothing short of ice filling up his veins, cold, raw shock bleeding into his very soul.

He had never checked the fuses.

There was a strange noise behind him, but Grian barely even registered it- he was more preoccupied with checking those red sticks, grabbing at them and almost collapsing to the ground in relief as he saw they had never been lit.  He wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead and put his hand on the smooth rock behind him, the sweat running down the inky blackness, turning it slick.

Wait. Black rock.

That hadn’t been there before.

Grian wasn’t very familiar with traps. Far less so with murder. But he had spent more hours than not with Mumbo Jumbo. And anyone who’d even met Mumbo knew the tell tale signs of an end crystal about to be placed. About to be detonated. About to turn your flesh to rubble.

Too slow. Too slow.

As Grian turned, he was only quick enough to catch the full force of the crystal blast to the face. There was blood drenching his hands as he lifted his arms weakly to stem the flow from a shrapnel cut in his forehead. Through the haze that had lifted he saw Martyn, face twisted almost unrecognisable with fury, desperation- one could have called it madness. He drew an axe and swung wildly, and it was all Grian could do to dodge, yelling for help.

“I HAVE TO!” Grian heard the choked voice scream out from behind him “IM SORRY I HAVE TO!”

An arrow pierced Grian’s right shoulder and he stifled an agonised cry. His vision was starting to swim before him, everything distorting in his pain. The world was making nauseating circles beneath him, swooping with every step he took. He wasn’t going to make it. He was going to die here. He was going to die like Mumbo, bleeding out in some alien hellscape with Boogeymen and explosions and death that lasted forever. And blood. Lots of blood.

As static started to fill his brain, Grian fumbled on his belt, clutching for anything he could. Anything to save him. Please. Because as much as dying was normally a joke on Hermitcraft, a day or two to regroup his tools, he had seen Mumbo. Lying there, lifeless, broken. He wasn’t ready to die like this. He wasn’t ready to die.

His fingers closed on a smooth green sphere and it was more his instinct than his consciousness that recognised it as an enderpearl. Desperately he threw it. If he had been thinking, he would’ve known he wouldn’t survive the fall.

But his only thought was pain, and so he threw. Anything to get away.

As he collided with the tree branch through the teleportation, he felt the final thread of his life snap and he drifted into the void of unconsciousness, with a final message creeping into the red circles invading his vision.

Grian hit the ground too hard whilst trying to escape SmallishBeans.

Wait… who?

—————————————————————

He remembered that first day, his first death. Gathered around the music box in the central spawn. It had seemed a little suspicious, but surely it would be fine. Right?

Oh how wrong he was.

Several sword wounds and a life down later, Grian had respawned with a new lesson: trust. No one.

So sure, he may have stayed with the Southlanders. And maybe a part of him (a very small, very quiet part of him) wanted to trust them. Wanted to be safe.

But that’s not how it works here. You don’t get trust. You don’t get friends. You don’t get to be safe. He knew that from the first Boogeyman kill, he knew it when he toppled from the sky at the ghast farm, he knew it when he could no longer come home because of his red name. He knew it as he knelt at the top of the ladder, pleading for everything his last life was worth for Mumbo to join him, for them to still be friends.

And he knew it when Mumbo blew a crater into the bunker he himself had built, and when he plunged a sword into Mumbo’s chest. He knew it even as he cried.

Trust nothing. Trust no one. Because no one lasts forever.

Nothing lasts forever.

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Chapter Text

CHAPTER 5: HERMITCRAFT SMP

Pearl broke the silence that had fallen over the group. It was more of a whisper intended for Mumbo. Or maybe more of a command to herself.

“I’ll- I’ll go get him. I’ll go get Impulse. Yeah.”

She gently readjusted herself so that Grian was resting on Mumbo, who tilted his head at her as shed mouthed a silent name.

“Scar?”

He looked at her and gave an affirmative nod. Mumbo was willing to accept all the help he could get, he needed all of Boatem here with him. Pearl nodded and walked away, casting a glance back that was filled with worry, pity in the kindest sense. Mumbo cast his focus back towards Grian, who was still crying into his shoulder quietly. He was speaking in soft whimpers, and Mumbo tucked his head down to even hear him at all.

“I’m sorry Mumbo… I’m so sorry…”

“Why are you sorry?” Mumbo asked, concern growing by the second, “you don’t have to be sorry, mate, what’s wrong?”

Grian’s voice broke off as he tried to speak again, the words cracking and blending with the heaves of his shoulders.

“I had to, Mumbo…”

“Ok, ok, what did you have to do?”

The cries were quieting, and Mumbo could see him making a marked effort to control his breathing. But he himself was more confused than ever. He’d barely seen Grian all of yesterday- had he been up to something? He’d been hanging around at Doc’s, maybe that was it? He’d given Doc a diamond block for life insurance or something- but that was tiny, a diamond block didn’t do this to Grian. Unless—

Unless it meant something more. Unless he’d given himself up to whatever Doc was up to. Where the payment was not the diamond block, but Grian himself. Or… Mumbo? Was this some sort of bargain where Grian had given up Mumbo’s life in exchange for insurance on his own?

For a moment Mumbo was aware of how alone they were.

Then rational thought began to take its hold. Grian was sitting here sobbing at his feet, scared beyond measure. Nothing made sense. Grian knew him too well- it would be so easy to convince him to turn up at the Octagon. Besides, this was Grian. His partner in crime, fellow Boatem crew, his best friend. Mumbo shook his head as the thoughts of being betrayed slipped away, letting them dissolve into the back of his mind. He turned his full attention back to the hunch figure on the ground. Whatever was the case, he couldn’t find it in him to be suspicious right now.

Even if Grian had done something wrong, he could forgive his red sweatered friend of pretty much anything.

Grian sniffed lightly, cautiously lifting a hand to wipe his tears.

“You don’t remember?”

“Haven’t got a clue mate.”

Conflict flitted across Grian’s face. His brows knitted together and his eyes unfocused and refocused rapidly on a single spot on the dirt beneath. His hands crossed over a seam in his sweater, newly stitched where he’d mended a tear that crossed over his stomach, his arms shielding his ribcage protectively.

“Listen, you know whatever happened Grian it doesn’t matter right?”

He spoke despite the quiver in Grians lip starting to increase, becoming more visible as he tensed up—

“Nothing you could have done can be that bad.”

Grian clamped his eyes shut and turned his head away from Mumbo. His mouth opened in a silent scream, a wail that would’ve broke hearts if it ever managed to claw its way past his throat, and he grabbed his hair in harsh fistfuls, pulling his head closer to his knees that dug into the dirt, his forehead only separated from the earth by his scarred palms. He wasn’t sobbing- every muscle in him strained not to scream, to wail out in complete agony. Mumbo could almost see the flames of guilt engulfing him, burning him away on the ground.

That was how Pearl and Impulse found them when they returned, with Scar following shortly behind. Mumbo standing over the pitiful image of a broken man. They all stopped for a minute, unsure of themselves. It was heavy. The whole air was thick with uncertainty.

Pearl was the first to move. She put her hand on Grian’s back, kneeling beside him and placing her arm gently over his shoulders, rubbing soft circles into his back with her other hand. The touch sent a flinch through Grian but he leant into Pearl after a second. Mumbo stepped forward to helo, but that’s when Grian started whispering urgently to Pearl, frantically, tripping over his words.

“I don’t know where Scott is Pearl, please, I didn’t see him, he’s off somewhere, not here, I don’t know I don’t know I swear—“

Pearl couldn’t help it, Mumbo knew that. He could hardly blame her. It was strained, it was puzzling, and they were tired. Exhausted. So very confused. But he wouldn’t have said what she said just then. He wouldn’t have dropped the bombshell.

“Grian, who are you talking about?”

For the first time, Grian seemed to look up and process them all, every person here. Mumbo could see the gears turn in his head as he tried to figure the dynamic of the group, see him analysing who was there. Calculating his surroundings, though what the question was Mumbo couldn’t tell.

It was when Grian laid eyes on Impulse that he spoke, slower and far more careful than he had before.

“…Why are you with these guys, Impulse?

“Because we’re a… team?” Impulse was taken aback, and Mumbo could see him trying not to outwardly show how perplexed he truly was.
“Why wouldn’t I be in Boatem with these guys, I don’t quite- I- I’m not sure…” he trailed off at the look on Grian’s face. Pure wonder, the kind of curiousity one only ever saw from a newly walking child was flooding his eyes, widening them further than they already were with a shine that (Mumbo noticed with a giddy level of excitement) was the first flash of hope he’d had all day.

“Boatem? So we’re not at the Southlands?”

“Uh no. What are—“ started Mumbo, but Grian cut him off, rising to his feet in what actually could have been excitement, fully addressing Impulse.

“Did we do it? Did we get out of the border? How did we make it so far? How did you convince Scar and Pearl? How…”

The words faltered, falling away back into the silence as Grian turned to Mumbo to ask his next question in a slightly thick voice tinged with anxiety.

“How is Mumbo alive?”

The entire Boatem crew stood there, stunned. Perplexed. Utterly dumbfounded. None of what Grian had just said had made sense, and they couldn’t even begin to unpack it. Why wouldn’t Mumbo be alive? Why wouldn’t Scar and Pearl be with them? And a border? What? They were lost. All of them were lost.

All of them except one.

“There’s no border here Grian. Did you have a nightmare?” said Scar.

“What do you mean there’s no border? Then how did we get out of it? Where is it?” Grian turned to Scar, the realisation that things were so much more different than he had anticipated starting to dawn.

“There’s no border in this whole world. This isn’t Third Life.”

A chorus of “third life? What?” shimmered through the Boatem crew, but Grian’s shoulders tensed, his hand rising to his mouth in shock and horror, his face turning pale before their eyes. If Mumbo had to guess he looked about ready to pass out there and then.

“I didn’t know you remembered,” was all that came out of his mouth.

Scar turned to the rest of the group, face steady with classic and ever present Scarrish wisdom.

“We need to talk to Iskall.”

—————————————————————
Third Life? No. No. Scar remembered. And oh Lord what Grian wouldn’t have given to make Scar forget. To make himself forget. Leading the creeper towards Scar silently, hoping to elicit a small shriek of panic, a jump, and raucous laughter. He hadn’t anticipated the strength of the blast. Being knocked to the floor. Coming to, a bruise forming on his forehead, to see Scar’s body flung like a rag doll, broken on top of the grass, bones bent at sickening angles and shards of them protruding from his flesh. He wanted to forget the days in the sand, feeling as though he would burn alive in the sweltering heat. He wanted to forget the Red Desert. The sand erupting into a towering wave with the blast. He wanted to forget dying. But most of all, he wanted to forget the final fight. Laying his fist into Scar’s head and ribs again and again, his knuckles raw and red, coated in blood and scars, tears finally starting to flow with his friends blood as Scar finally lost his final life in the arena that had been forged from sand and cactus.

Killing his best friend of the world to sustain his own miserable existence, reminded afterwards that without them he was well and truly alone. ‘Well’, thought Grian.

Some things never change.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 6: LAST LIFE SMP

Grian’s eyes opened to complete darkness. He was shrouded in it, encased, fully trapped in a space barely large enough for him to breathe. His lungs were filled with icy panic, he was drowning in it, and he sat bolt upright, gasping fearfully, tears of shock making him cough and splutter as he tried to breathe deeply. He was shivering, as cold as he was frightened, uncertain as he was in pain.

Was this hell? Could this be what death felt like?

No. He was alive. The creaks of the splintering bed beneath him were the only reason he knew he had respawned, but he could hear it. He slowly tapped each of his fingers against his palm, feeling the movement more tangibly than he had ever cared to before. Alive.

Something was different though. He could sense every ache that he felt ten times as strong as before he had died, still feel the phantom pain of the shards of end crystal splitting his forehead open. He ran his fingers over the light coloured scar that had sunk deep into his shoulder and nearly cried out in pain as he felt it hit again. He had to look down to be sure it hadn’t. To be sure he was safe. Each scar felt as though it was a fresh wound, and each burn and bruise felt like it burrowed deep into his flesh.

He brought his knees to his chest and rested his head in his knees, letting himself rest, taking a moment to recover. It did very little for his anxiety- his nerves were completely shot, and every footstep he thought he heard was starting to make him jump. Slowly, though, his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he just made out the outline of a chest behind him. He opened it up, unable to see its contents and shoved it all hurriedly into the backpack that lay by the bed. He’d assess the contents later. He felt his fingers curl around bars of iron, and with precious few diamonds- Grian had only counted three of the smooth crystals as he swept the inside of the chest in the dark- he began to craft a crude set of iron armour. He saw it rattle and dent, and suddenly he felt far less protected than he had in his usual diamond.

What on earth was happening?

He pounded his fist into the wall and felt it shift. Curious, he went again, and then one more time, and a small whole pierced the cave with the light of the night sky. Little by little, the space widened until he was able to make his way into the fresh air of the night.

Grian had no idea where he was. The only indicator of direction was the smoke rising in the distance, and he followed its marking, a beacon of navigation in this strange, strange place. The smoke was his only guidance, obscuring the stars and the moon, the light that would have given him direction. Instead, it was darkness that led him.

Feeling barely armoured, running through the tree line deeper into the forest, uncertain of every chest he saw, each patch of grass potential death. It had been a long time since Grian had felt this desperation. So accustomed to his diamond armour that he could retrieve in a matter of hours that now, in mere iron plating, he felt like he was shielded by little more tin cans. His head still hurt immensely- he kept raising a hand up to where he could feel the blood dripping down the cut only to pull it away clean and dry, the splitting wound just another scar.

In what felt like only minutes since he’d seen Mumbo dead, he’d accumulated so many scars.

Scar. His brain wandered away to the building extraordinaire. It’s funny how the brain wanders when all you need it to do is stay focused, stay alive. Grian could have used the focus as he tripped in tree roots and uneven ground, but ye couldn’t help but think of the Boatem crew. Where were they? Mumbo he had found (the image of his body slashed and bleeding, the ground steeping with blood and the air thick with dust- that image wouldn’t leave his minds eye, and Grian didn’t know if he could forget if he tried). But he hadn’t seen anyone else from Boatem. Where had they gone? It hadn’t been long, but it didn’t have to be- Grian missed them. He missed Scar randomly flapping in from a shaky elytra flight to present him with his new hat- he was presented with a small moment of fondness as he recalled donning his custom made stylish hat, taller than his whole head, a monocle attached to the brim. He had felt special then. Cared for. Loved.

That feeling was so far away now. He could barely remember trusting. The sensation and memory slipped away like blood drops off an axe.

Thunder rumbled through the sky, with more and more red words blossoming from the clouds. Death was displayed brazenly through the storm. Most Grian didn’t recognise- someone he’d never met blowing up was the only message he really saw before lapsing back into thought. There was no sign of anyone from Boatem in the sky- Grian was secretly grateful, as every message that passed only seemed to show death. The sky was silent of all mention of Scar and Pearl and Impulse.

He remembered Pearl, raising mountains and castles from the edge of a simple plain, battling wind and snow to forge her palace, building and rebuilding to mend the slightest misstep- Grian nearly remembered how to laugh as he recalled the embarrassed whisper that her boat had been the wrong way round, and so she had torn it down plank by plank and constructed all again in a day. She put Theseus’s Ship to shame. And yet somehow she was always there, always around to be a comfort, a safe haven, her door wide open- or however open her door could be with its mysterious hinges (Grian had never liked that door, but now he felt a small twang thinking about it. It was almost longing).

And Impulse—

Impulse was right in front of him.

Grian blinked. He blinked again. No, he wasn’t seeing things, Impulse was walking out of the cobblestone wall that linked together the looming towers before him. He recognised the bunker that lay off to the side- without a name for it, he was referring to it as Mumbo’s grave in his mind. Lost in his thoughts, had had barely noticed the trip through the forest, and yet it had led him right back to where he had started.

But how was Impulse here? And, failing to answer that- which Grian at this point  resigned himself to thinking was likely- why?

“It’s me!” Impulse’s voice was slightly louder than usual as he called out to Grian, an edge of caution lacing the greeting, “We’re good! Look at us, we’re back together!”

Relief flooded through Grians very veins. Back together with Impulse. Oh thank god someone he recognised that wasn’t dead.

Then the sky bloomed with thunder and another message ripples through the sky.

Tango blew up

“Tango?” whispered Grian, but Impulse just chuckled darkly.

“Martyn got him I think.”

At the mention of Martyn, Grian felt his blood turn to lead, and his heartbeat drummed fast and less steady than a moment before. His eyes widened a little, and it became hard to focus on Impulses words.

“He tried to kill you didn’t he, shame Joel got it. I kinda feel bad for Joel, honestly, he’s been red for so long—“

“Impulse I don’t know where we are.”

The confession came as a shock to them both. Grian wanted to slam his palm into his lips, push the words back down his throat and ignore them forever. He wanted to see Inpulse reveal how the joke worked, show him all the redstone he could never understand. But Impulse cocked his head to the side and squinted in confusion.

“You’re at the Southlands? At the gate?”

“I don’t know where that is. I don’t know where we are. I dont know what’s going on. Impulse- are we even still on Hermitcraft?”

Impulse’s blank stare and the silence that followed said enough.

————————————————————

Seeing Mumbo again in his new surroundings had been all the confirmation Grian needed that he had gone to hell. He opened his eyes to see Mumbo’s ghost in front of him, and no amount of movement seemed to make him run fast enough. Somehow he ended up on the floor, his mind racing as he shielded his face from whatever retribution the spirit of Mumbo would have struck him with.

But it never came.

Mumbo called him ‘bud’. Bud. Like friend. Grian remembered the last time he told Mumbo they could be friends.

Both of them, all but next to each other on the thin cobbled bridge in the nether roof, and yet the metre gap between them could have been half the world as Mumbo backed away in horror from Grian swinging his pickaxe into the ground, cracking the stone with violent vigour.

“You could join me!” he said in a voice that wasn’t his, accompanied with a laughter that could barely be distinguished from tears.

“We could still be friends!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 7: HERMITCRAFT SMP

“Iskall? Iskall’s miles away, Scar, what’s he got to do with this?” Impulse asked with an exasperation that he couldn’t attempt to hide.

“Yeah, Scar, what’s going on?” Mumbo followed. At this point he was thoroughly done with being confused. The sun was starting to set by now, the only mark of the many hours that had passed here. He was tired, he was emotional, he could feel the tension in his muscles and the familiar hint of a headache from being awake too long and under the stress of finding Grian so peculiarly terrified. It wasn’t like Mumbo to give up. He could complain about tricky things. Put them off, certainly. Dance on top of his own specially constructed trap doors whilst his brain grumbled of a lack of creativity when the houses he was constructing just wouldn’t look right. But he never gave up. He always pulled himself through, however grudgingly, until the task was done and he could smile and laugh blissfully at his progress, a small seed of pride planted in his chest. But right now, exhausted and befuddled, he had never wanted to give up more in his life. To sit down on the floor and curl up or just collapse. This whole situation was just too big for him.

As sun fell and gave way to the moon that rose up and bathed the group in light, Mumbo had never felt so small.

Scar turned to face all of them, lowering his voice a little. Mumbo didn’t know what Scar would do about Grian being right there but, rather the opposite of what he would expect from the devious waffle haired man, Grian immediately stepped away and crouched next to a chest near the G train. Whether or not he was out of earshot was hard to tell, but as Scar spoke Mumbo figured it wouldn’t really matter. The answers were for all of them, in the end.

“A long time ago, I had a dream where I woke up in a land far away from Hermitcraft. I had nothing, barely even clothes. There were other Hermits there, and some people I didn’t know. But Grian stayed with me for a long time.”

Scar paused, his expression turning thoughtful as he spoke.

“I don’t remember everything. I thought it was just a dream, not really anything important. I do remember there was a desert. And a drop from the sand into a ravine. I fell, and then I woke up.”

He stopped for a second, and Impulse and Mumbo glanced between each other, somehow more intrigued with this discovery than puzzled as to where Scar was going with this story.

“But there are a few other things I remember. There was a shimmering edge to the world. If you tried to cross it it was like walking into a wall. That was the border. And there was something else. Everyone there didn’t call it Hermitcraft, not even the people I recognised. Not even Grian. They all called it Third Life. I was confused, but I didn’t say anything. I figured it was part of the dream.”

He took a deep breath, swallowing, and looked Mumbo in the eyes with a confidence that Mumbo sorely craved right now.

“But the more I thought about it, and the more I looked into it, the more I didn’t think it was a dream. I think I went there. I think there’s a place called Third Life.”

The stunned silence that befell the group lingered in the sky for a second, then two, then three, drawing out into the night air as the group processed it. Mumbo couldn’t believe what he was hearing. There was a world beyond Hermitcraft? How did that even make sense? The whole world, the universe, was Hermitcraft. How could there be another.. place? That they’d never heard of?

The silence broken, against all odds, by Grian himself.

“Last Life.”

All four heads of the rest of Boatem turned to look at him, and he stepped away instinctively, hands flinching into balled fists for just a moment.

“There was Third Life. But we all died. I was… I was the last one left. You died Scar.”

The words left his mouth in a whisper, terror lacing them.

“But eventually we respawned. Even after we’d lost all our lives. It took a long time, and there were more people. So many more. You were there. All of you. And instead of Third Life, they called it Last Life.”

Grian looked up at the group. His face was an open book- he might as well have been openly pleading for approval, any sign that they understood, that what he had said made any sense. Because they understood now. Well. Somewhat. They had just a sliver of an inkling as to what was going on.

Impulse spoke hesitantly, trying not to make the revelation seem overbearing.

“So you’re… Grian?”

The young man nodded.

“From Last Life?”

Another nod.

“And now you’re… here? But then where’s, you know, Grian? Like, our Grian?”

“Well, if Iskall is right, then our Grian is currently in Last Life.”

Scar’s words made sense. A swap. Yes, that was logical— or as logical as you could get ten minutes after finding out that the universe as you knew it was a lie.

“I don’t know why.” Grian’s voice had refilled with urgency, flooding with a level of panic that was threatening to bubble over, “I’m so sorry. Please, I don’t know why I’m here, I know I shouldn’t be here, I’ll do anything—“

Scar approached Grian and put both hands on his shoulders. The reaction was instant. The floodgates opened- Grian sank to his knees and gripped the cloth of Scar’s shirt tight in his fingers, holding on with all the might he possessed.

“Scar I’m so sorry…. Scar I had to, I had to—“

“Hey, no hard feelings, you stayed with me the whole time,” Scar replied, but it didn’t seem to help. If anything Grian started crying harder, his words stumbling out of his mouth in an unstemmed flow of sorrow.

“But I brought the creeper over— and— and I didn’t— the cliff— and they made me, Scar— they— we were so close, please…”

Incoherent, incomprehensible sobs completely took over. Scar wrapped an arm around Grian, a tight hug that Mumbo took one look at and instantly joined, wrapping his friend into a tight embrace and shielding him from the cold night air. Pearl and Impulse were quick to join, and though the wind was cold there was warmth shared between the Boatem crew. There was so much to do, so man my questions to be answered. But right now, thought Mumbo, they could all wait. This moment could have gone on till sunrise and he wouldn’t have suggested leaving.

Pearl spoke softly to them all, still tightly wrapped in the hug.

“Shall we go see Iskall in the morning then?”

Mumbo had nearly forgotten the mention of Iskall, his Swedish companion who was undoubtedly the closest thing he had to a brother. They were best friends- not in quite the same way he and Grian were, but a different kind of best. He couldn’t have described it, they were equal in their own ways. Iskall had known him for so long, the oldest duo Mumbo had really felt at home in. But Grian, though not known for as long, simply clicked immediately.

Iskall, his oldest friend. Knew something about the formation of the universe, different worlds, travelling between them. And he hadn’t told Mumbo.

Thank god. Mumbo couldn’t even be annoyed. If it hadn’t been affecting him right now he would’ve been far happier not knowing. Hermitcraft was all he had ever known, and however strange it could get, it was his world. His home. It was safe.

Mumbo didn’t want to imagine what world had caused Grian to end up like this.

“Where should he sleep?” Scar asked, “I can pitch a bed somewhere in the Swaggon—“

“No I shouldn’t sleep,” said Grian quickly, pulling away from the hug, “I don’t want anyone to turn up and, you know, I don’t know—“

“Grian, it’s ok. We can stay with you. It’s fine. Besides, no one would hurt you here anyway.”

Pearl kept her soothing tone the whole time, and Mumbo saw Grian begin to very gradually relax with every word, his breath deepening and the crease in his forehead becoming shallower. His stance became less guarded, his hand releasing from the hilt of his weapon even though his shoulders remained tense.

“I can get a second bed in my van. No worries,” Mumbo offered. No one spoke for a moment, everyone waiting for Grian to give his response, letting him choose.

The nod was small and barely perceptible, but it was there.

That was how Mumbo found himself at midnight, having just nailed a new red bed to the floor of his already crowded van, carrying a plate of milk and cookies to the bewildered Grian. He had figured that it would relax him, but Grian just looked at the plate and then back at Mumbo with apprehension. Well, thought Mumbo, maybe he wasn’t one for food, so Mumbo broke a cookie in half and tried to start a conversation. Not that he knew what to talk about. He barely knew how this Grian was different to… original Grian? No, that wasn’t right, why would one Grian be the original instead of the other— real Grian? No, the messy, waffled haired young man in front of him wrapping his fingers in fraying yarn from his jumper was definitely real.

His Grian. This wasn’t his Grian.

And yet, as Mumbo watched him stare at a button in the wall, and on discovering no apparent redstone mechanism attached began pushing it with a cat like curiousity, he couldn’t help but think they weren’t so different after all.

“I once made a whole game about buttons,” he blurted out.

Grian jumped a little, his hand flying back from the button as his whole frame jerked in shock.

“Sorry!” Mumbo said, raising his hands in a half defensive, half placating sort of gesture, “I didn’t want to startle you.”

Grian folded his hands on his lap and looked down, still in the silence. It extended for quite a while, the quiet bordering in awkward before Grian spoke.

“It’s ok. I scare easy.”

“Well, do you have a lot to be scared about?” Mumbo tried asking, “I mean, you’re safe, you’re in here, you’re with me—“

“Yeah, well, a couple of hours ago I thought you were a ghost, so.”

The interruption was unexpected, and Mumbo was torn between his confusion and a sudden compulsion to laugh. The comment was quintessentially Grian- the trademark sarcasm, the slight quirk of his head as his eyebrow raised, the refusal to finish the full sentence and leaving Mumbo to fill in the gaps. If it had come from his Grian, Mumbo thought, he’d know exactly what to say.

But this wasn’t his Grian. And this wasn’t a gap he knew how to fill.

“Why did you think I was a ghost?”

Grian broke eye contact, curling his knees into his chest and making himself as small as possible in the bed. Mumbo came to sit at the edge of it, refusing to let the question go.

“Why, Grian?”

“Because you were dead!” Grian yelled, his harshness shocking Mumbo backwards slightly as Grian’s hands shook in frustration and anguish, “Because you were on red life! Because— BECAUSE I KILLED YOU!!“

He was cut off with a hiccoughing sob that tore it’s way through his chest, trying to strangle the words in his throat, to stop his admission from guilt. Grian vaguely registered a cry, a strangled cry he could hear. He barely recognised his own voice, the sound emanating from him the sound of pure terror and grief and guilt.

Mumbo drew closer again, and Grian frantically tucked his head into his knees which he had pulled against his chest, shielding and covering the exposed part of his head with his arms, trembling with the fully fledged sobs that came with finally admitting what he had done. The words ‘I’m sorry’ we’re crossing his lips but in a manner that was barely comprehensible, an apology or a beg for mercy hardly differentiated.

And yet it was a gentle arm that he felt wrap around his shoulder instead of one that would hit him. Instead of being shoved away from Mumbo he was pulled closer into a hug, a warm hug, a safe hug. The words from Mumbo weren’t accusatory, they weren’t harsh, they weren’t laced with the blame and anger Grian had been expecting.

All that was said was soft and whispered.

“It’s ok.”

Grian still cried himself to sleep, wracked with the guilt of it all. But with Mumbo there to comfort him, and remind him he was safe, whistling gently through the air of the night sky, sleep did eventually come.
——————————————————————
It felt like it had been a hundred sleepless nights, yet it hadn’t even been one full cycle of day turn night since his fall from the ghast farm when he finally found Martyn and Jimmy. Standing next to Joel, the two red life’s facing Grian’s former allies, former friends, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of longing to go back to the Southlands. That twinge was turning into a fully fledged want, a craving for things to be normal. For everything not to be dangerous. To not be on red life, every step a step closer to death.

It wasn’t like that, he knew it. But it didn’t make telling Jimmy “we can’t be friends anymore” sting any less. Nor did it hurt less when they agreed. Nor did it lessen the urge to run after them, run with them as they headed back to the Southlands. His home.

Nothing lasts forever. Everything will be dust. He knew that.

So he laughed to cover up his sadness, because you can laugh yourself to tears and it’s as good an excuse as any. After all, his murderer was standing next to him propositioning friendship, and Grian could hardly turn Joel down. After all, killing someone doesn’t mean you care for them any less. It’s just the way it goes on Last Life.

He never thought he’d have to learn that lesson the hard way.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 8: LAST LIFE SMP

“What? Grian, come on, I need you focused bud, we don’t have time for this.”

Impulse sounded confused, but Grian thought he heard a hint of concern behind the comment. He hoped he had anyway. Impulse was the first member of the Boatem crew he had seen alive, he needed him to fix this. Whatever this was. But Impulse had sounded so confused by the mention of Hermitcraft. What if…

Ice cold dread washed over Grian, the inevitable tsunami after the tide rolls back. What if this wasn’t Hermitcraft? It made— it made sense, as much as Grian didn’t want it to. Impulses confusion, the strangers he didn’t recognise, Tango’s death- even Mumbo’s death made sense if this place didn’t follow the rules of Hermitcraft. Some people were the same, some weren’t. The landscape was unfamiliar. Every building of hermitcraft had seemingly disappeared. Too long of running had given him the time to rule out nearly every other possibility. Grian wasn’t in Hermitcraft.

Where he actually was, well, that was another question entirely.

“Grian!” Impulse’s urgency snapped Grian from his thoughts, but it still took him a moment to register the hand on his shoulder, the slightly rough shake that Impulse had given him— well not that rough, it had only been a little shake, to catch his attention. It hadn’t hurt. Much.

“Impulse, where are we?” Grian said with a little more force, but that just sent Impulse into a drawn out eye roll as he lifted his face to the sky in exasperation. Grian couldn’t help but step away. After all, if people didn’t follow the rules from home, then Impulse might not be so patient as he always was. And Grian had seen enough of Martyn to know the strangers here, at least, were unpredictable, volatile and certainly not to be trusted.

Impulse dropped his head back down as he sighed.

“Look Grian, please just give me the skulls. You have them, right?”

“Wh—“

“Oh for— open your backpack, jeez!” Impulse slammed his fist into the cobbled wall behind them, punctuating his outburst. Grian flinched back, raising up his hands, too slowly for if there was really any attack, but more in a gesture of compliance. He would’ve spoken. He would’ve responded verbally. But they were simply words Grian couldn’t speak because of the fear closing up his throat. Impulse took a breath- a calmer one, but only slightly- and muttered a slight apology. If it was meant to comfort Grian, it failed on every account. It only made impulse sound more angry, more frightening, more bitter.

Wordlessly, trembling, Grian’s hands unlatched the backpack he had so hastily picked up as he had left the cave. He pulled the top flap open and looked down in horror to discover two empty voids of eye sockets looking back at him.

He’d seen wither skulls before. He’d hunted for them, spent days in nether fortresses to collect the rarities. He’d fought the wither before.

He’d also died fighting it.

Mortality as a concept had never really had too much impact on Grian. Hermitcraft had always been a place where death was more of a reset than an ending. An opportunity to try again. But right now, every bone in Grian’s body aching with the weight of his last death, he couldn’t help but think that it didn’t work like that here. That dying was saying goodbye, not see you later. That to fall was more of a ‘good try’ than a ‘try again’. That every death was one step closer to ending up like Mumbo.

“Ok, good,” Impulse muttered, mostly to himself, as Grian watched him pull a skull of his own from his backpack and hold it out to Grian. A moment of hesitation passed before he clasped the black bone between his fingers, a charcoal like residue of black dust coating his fingers. The skull was cold, almost like ice, and if they hadn’t been empty of eyes Grian could’ve sworn it was staring right through his soul. He tucked it into his bag, careful not to blend it with the fine brown dust of soul sand that lay at the base of the satchel.

“Alright so where— you know what, let’s go find Joel,” said Impulse as he adjusted the grip on his own backpack and started making his way across the wooden bridge behind them. As Grian started following he heard the mutter under Impulse’s breath clearly not meant for anyone but himself.

“If he hasn’t gone insane too.”

“Ok, I’m coming, but Impulse, I am so confused,” Grian said, stumbling behind the taller man, “Genuinely I have no idea what’s going on or where we are, please—“
“Grian, I know turning red sucks, but—“

“Impulse I don’t know what that means? What is turning red? Why is it bad? Why does everything hurt so much? Where’s Pearl and Scar and Mumbo—“

“God knows where Pearl is, she’s been dead silent, scars probably still up on magic mountain— and hey! Don’t where’s mumbo me, you know better than I do!”

“I know, I found him dead! But why hasn’t he respawned Impulse?” Grian’s tone grew more desperate as they hurried through the plains, although the shorter of the two had no idea where the were heading.

Impulse stopped short, his hand gripping a tight fist around his sword as he turned to face Grian. Anger fought with pity and sorrow on his face, and Grian could only shrink back into himself, as afraid as he was confused.

“Grian, don’t.”

“I—“

“No, don’t. He was red. You knew he was on his last life. I know you had to do it, but don’t expect me to be happy.”

Impulses voice broke off, and his breath became shakier, but Grian was having a hard time with his own breath. The pieces of a puzzle he had been thrown into were starting to connect.

Mumbo had been red. On his last life. Impulse had called Grian red only moments before. Mumbo had died on his last life— and he had not come back.

If Grian died now… it was all over.

Was this a fear of death? Every step Grian took suddenly a risk? Every chest could be trapped, every patch of sand could be rigged to collapse, every gravel path could be the disguised entrance to a death through pits of lava. Every cave was where creepers could emerge from to take his final life away. Every cliff was a way to fall.

Only one question still remained frighteningly unanswered.

“Impulse, what did I have to do?”

Impulse turned to face Grian in full, and Grian only then truly registered the darkness behind his eyes. How tired this man was. He felt his own pain from every injury and registered how long Impulse must have spent feeling pain just it, agonising in it, tortured by it.

“Grian, you killed him.”

His heart stopped. It had to have. He could feel the blood sitting still in his veins, cold and thick with horror.

“…no, no I couldn’t have, I would never—“

He barely noticed that he had fallen to his knees, bringing a hand to his forehead in some feeble effort to steady himself. The tears started falling before he realised they had started, and small voiced pleas of ‘why?’ crossed his lips unanswered.

Certainly unanswered by Impulse, who stood beside the broken man, looked down and watched his tears fall.
——————————————————————
Maybe if he hadn’t persuaded Mumbo to join the Southlands he would still be alive.

Maybe he would’ve thrived on magical mountain with Scar and Joel, safe in the caves below Scars wizarding house.

Maybe he didn’t have to push Jimmy over the edge. After all, Jimmy couldn’t have really killed him, so was it necessary? Mumbo might not have fought him then, neither of them needed to die—

All those thoughts crossed Grian’s mind in the moments after Mumbo’s death, and none of them he could ever speak aloud.

After all, what’s done is done.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 9: HERMITCRAFT SMP

Mumbo awoke in his van to the last traces of moonlight giving way to the morning sun. Barely sunrise, but the light was coming. He rubbed the back of his neck where it had grown tight from his unconventional sleeping position- he realised he’d never moved from the edge of Grian’s bed and had slept the full night sitting up against the wall, Grian’s head resting very gently against the outside of his leg. The smaller man was curled in on himself as he lay on his side, his holding the top of his head with his knees tucked into his chest, his breathing tense but deep. Slowly, as quietly and gently as possible, Mumbo rose from where he sat and made his way to the window of the van. He could see Pearl talking to Scar from the window, though their words didn’t carry up to where he stood. All he could see was Pearls face filled with curiousity and an etching of concern.

Mumbo was left little time to wonder before he heard a shuffle behind him. His head turned round to see Grian slowly pushing himself up, freezing when they made eye contact.

“How you doing? You sleep ok?” Mumbo said smiling. It was an attempt at normalcy, casual conversation, any sort of distance from the strangeness of their situation.

“…yeah. Good sleep.”

Mumbo noted the hesitation, the suspicious caution in his tone, the way Grian wasn’t quite looking up to him, and decided to leave it there.

The morning brought a new journey for the Boatem crew. They had thought to fly to Iskall’s home in the savannah, but Grian didn’t have an elytra and it felt wrong to take from the missing Grian’s chests. Besides, Iskall had made it perfectly clear his home was friendly to all the wingless amongst them. So in a fashion akin to their name, the Boatem crew prepared seperate rafts for each other. Scar was going alone, since he knew the way most confidently. Impulse was taking Grian, leaving Mumbo and Pearl to share the final oak rowboat that they pushed off the coast.

There was a small silence before Mumbo decided to ask about what he had seen.

“So, uh, I saw you talking to Scar.”

“Oh, right. Yeah it was— it’s been a lot to think about.”

“What’s up?”

Pearl looked off distantly for a moment, her face filled with a careful wonder.

“So he, like, switched around with another version of himself right?”

“I think?” Mumbo was still highly confused, but that was what he had understood from all of this. Pearl nodded, stopping for a moment.

“I think I might’ve done the same.”

“What?!”

Mumbo’s shocked exclamation carried beyond the edge of the boat and he saw from the corner of his eye Impulse turn to look over his shoulder at them, Grian flinch at the raised tone.

“Not while I’ve known you guys!” Pearl hurried to clarify, but only succeeded in gaining an even more confused look from Mumbo. She sighed and shook her head as she tried to collect her thoughts.

“I mean, sort of? It’s weird. I don’t really remember a lot. I just remember a lot of fighting. Shooting at people. There was some sort of— arena? I guess? It was more like a stadium sometimes, people would watch us shooting. Or we’d watch them shooting. I died a lot— it was never anything permanent,” she added quickly as Mumbo’s face fell.

“I sort of got used to it after a while, it was just… numb. Annoying. And there’s huge gaps in what I remember, it’s really strange. It’s like I would go to sleep, wake up, fight for my life and then… sleep again. But it wasn’t sleeping. Just— black. Void.”

Pearl’s voice had turned distant and she scrunched her forehead in an effort to remember. Mumbo pushed to ask a question that was now nagging at his chest.

“How did you get here?”

“I don’t know. I went… to sleep… one day and I woke up with all of you. And I’ve been awake ever since— well, not awake, but— oh for goodness sake,” Pearl slumped her shoulders in frustration, and there was silence for a moment.

“I thought I still had dreams about it sometimes. Nightmares. But when I was talking to Scar… I feel the same as him. I don’t think they were nightmares.”

Mumbo had a million questions, but equally couldn’t bring himself to ask Pearl about them all. He doubted she knew— it didn’t seem the people who were doing this knew why or how. The only question he could have possibly asked her had just reached his tongue when Scar called out from ahead:

“Eyes up, friends. We’re here.”

The shattered savannah had always entranced Mumbo, and appearing through the morning mist which lay on top of the water it truly felt as though a mountain had risen out of the clouds. He looked up the falling water that streamed down from the small houses inset into the cliff faces, the rock looking over them casting a shadow across the sunrise.
—————————————————————
Sunrise in the Southlands was a small occasion for Grian. It was something he never let his friends see. Climbing to the top of one the Southlands towers and peering through his spyglass into the morning sun. It was a rare moment alone in all of the hectic scramble for survival.

He would climb back down as his friends woke up, and him and Martyn would sneak away together to listen to Mumbo get ready. It was an odd quirk of Mumbo that he spoke to himself, and one Martyn mocked ruthlessly.

As he held the body, Grian would’ve given anything to hear it again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 10: LAST LIFE SMP

It felt like an age later, but the sun hadn’t moved in the sky when Impulse reached a hand out to help Grian to his feet. When the young man on the ground didn’t respond, Impulse closed his eyes and took a long, steady breath before kneeling down to get level with Grian, who was still crying, though rather more quietly.

“Listen, I’m— I’m not mad, ok? I’m just getting a bit caught up in it all,” he said quietly, trying to resolve all the issues with a single sentence, not really having the energy to try and delve deeper.

“Impulse I can’t have killed him why would I have— I wouldn’t have—“

“Ok, Grian.”

The impatient bite began to creep back into his voice.

“Let’s say you’ve… forgotten some things… since you’ve turned red, ok? When we’ve got more time, I can sit down and explain it to you, any of your questions. But right now we have a wither to spawn and we need to go now. Got me?”

Grian looked up, bringing his face away from his sleeves and locking his tearful eyes with Impulses, stuttering a little on his response.

“You- you promise you’ll tell me?”

“Yeah, sure, fine, now let’s go,” Impulse had as good as stood up before he’d even finished talking and Grian hurried to follow. He had spent what must have been a full day-surely a full day- chasing answers, and no matter how wrecked he was finally someone had agreed to give him some answers. On one condition, of course.

Grian could do it. He’d spawned withers before, he’d killed withers before. But he had been killed by them too. And he knew the stakes were higher than anything he had ever seen on Hermitcraft.

Death. Final death. He had never had to think about it. But now it never left his mind, the fear of it threatening to consume him at every turn. Each snap of a branch could be a skeleton that would shoot through your neck and— gone. You were finished. A wrong flicked lever could take the floor from your feet, any pressure plate could be as good as a landmine. The paranoia, the constant state of high alert- it was not just terrifying, but draining. The mental energy of constant vigilance needed for survival was exhausting him, which in turn piled the stress higher as a another contender in the tricky balancing act of trying to live in this new world.

And watching Impulse run through the woods in front of him, careful of every step, every muscle tense, constantly gripping his weapon with a muscle memory Grian couldn’t even begin to mimic just yet— Grian saw behind his anger how tired Impulse looked. He wondered how long Impulse had been afraid for.

That would be his first question when they had time.

They trudged through the forest for what felt like hours until they reached a clearing that led out to a cliff edge. Grian ran forward to look closer at where they were, missing the way Impulse crouched low to the ground, ducking into the shadows of the trees that surrounded them. A set of white walls— bright white, the most brilliant white Grian had seen in quite a while— appeared across his vision.

Grian couldn’t help it, he had always been curious. This was all so new to him, this land, these buildings, these places. He didn’t even register the new people standing at the entrance.

He just wanted to look.

And by the time he saw the gathering of people, he was too late to do anything but watch the arrow fly at him. He turned around slowly, time turned to treacle, thick and slow as he tried to run.

The arrow pierced in his back and the force knocked him into the dirt ground, making him lurch forward as the pain overtook his brain. It was sickening, nauseating, blinding pain, overtaking his vision and thought. He opened his mouth to cry out but no sound escaped for a moment as his legs acted free of his mind, running back the way he came, desperate to leave, to flee, anything to escape the pain in his shoulder that was eating him alive. He could feel the blood on his back, could see the blood on his front and was drenching his hands in blood, trying to stem the flow but only really succeeding in painting his fingers crimson.

“Oh wow. They’ve got a machine gun there.”

The sarcasm in Impulses tone was mixed with a nonchalant carelessness that Grian, mind filled and hammered with blinding pain, couldn’t even begin to understand. He could almost hear Impulses eyes roll— maybe he would’ve done if the sound of his shoulder joint grinding against the flint tip of the arrow wasn’t the first thing that reached his ears.

“That… that almost killed me.”

It was the only response Grian could muster, and yet admitting it— admitting it seemed to heighten his senses, tripling the pain. His hand gripped around his shoulder trying to hold himself together as he wrestled with the truth. He had almost just died forever. Grian didn’t want to die.

Whatever Impulses response was going to be was cut off by a second arrow, this one threading the needle thin gap between Impulse’s and Grian’s faces and embedding itself in the base of a spruce tree, cutting through the air between them.

The panic was overwhelming, pounding in his whole skull. His vision blurred and flickered and every nerve in his body was as numb as it was on fire. He barely even noticed Impulse rip a small piece of cloth from his pocket and fashion it into a crude bandage, stopping the blood from seeping out of Grian’s shoulder quite as fast as it had been. Impulse grabbed his hand, and he let himself be led, no energy left in him to resist being taken anywhere. No energy to fight back, and no willpower even if he could.

“Stay silent,” said Impulse, and despite it all Grian could have laughed. It was all too much. Speech was far beyond both his physical and mental capabilities at the moment.

In the underground crannies of the white castle, a hand was placed over Grian’s mouth, and he didn’t flinch. Maybe, despite knowing the rules were not the same as Hermitcraft, he couldn’t bring himself to be afraid of Impulse, his kind hearted helpful friend and neighbour. Maybe he hadn’t learnt to flinch in Hermitcraft, where slow reactions were an inconvenience, not an invitation for death. Or maybe he knew he should flinch, but his muscles simply wouldn’t follow— they had flinched enough. Regardless, as Grian sat in the tight space next to Impulse, he couldn’t help but lean gently into his side, exhausted. Impulse, keeping his hand around Grian’s mouth, didn’t stop him.

For some stretch of time— only the birds know how long— the world was still, the only sound the pair’s breathing and the occasional wince as Grian tried to hold back tears whilst his shoulder blazed in pain.

Then—
“Who’s there? Who is it?”

It was a harsh voice, demanding and commanding in equal measure, but Grian knew he heard a vulnerability in it. Fear. The fear in the voice shocked Grian, because he wasn’t sure if it warped the voice almost to the point of being unrecognisable or whether it was the only thing he could hear of the voice he knew.

Bdubs. He would’ve exclaimed if Impulses hand hadn’t been clamped so harshly.

“Show yourself!” the voice cried out, and now the slight waver in Bdubs’ voice was unmistakeable. The urge Grian felt to run to him, to fix whatever this was, was overwhelming, and Impulse’s hand was truly the only barrier between him and his instincts.

Time crawled and the seconds trained out longer and longer, but Bdubs’ calling out for them to reveal themselves quietened after a while, replaced with other voices that were faint and Grian, even straining, couldn’t really identify. Impulse released his hand as silence fell once more and led Grian up a small dirt path and through a crooked door in the side of the castle. The pair made no noise as they crept through the entrance way. As soon as they were within the walls, Impulse took the blackened wither skulls and a spattering of soul sand and shoved them into Grian’s grasp.

Grian’s eyes widened in astonishment and incredulity, but any questions were silenced by the look that Impulse gave him, steely and certain, determination and ferocity in the whole of his gaze.

No wasn’t an option— as if Grian had those anymore.

With trembling but nimble hands, Grian began to construct the small tower of soul sand, cold against his fingers. Across the widened top of his sand construction, he placed one skull, then a second. Then a third.

The ground in front of him came to life.

The whole place shook as blackened bones began to form from within the sand and swirls of arcane shields protected the skulls that seemed to double in size with each swirling groan of the growing beast.
Grian’s voice found itself in this new moment of chaos.

“Go! Get out of here!” he cried as he grabbed Impulse’s hand and sprinted for the door, but not before Impulse could call out his witty exit.

“Bye! Hope you enjoy!”

“Enjoy?” Grian seemed to echo with a disbelieving glance at Impulse as he ran down the path, “Get out!”

His final statement was a high pitched screech in his panic, but Impulse was already outside the walls, a low manic chuckle escaping him. The laugh grew louder and higher in pitch until it was merely a maniacal high pitched sigh, neither laugh nor breath but some crazed exclamation in between. In that moment Grian could not put himself in the shoes of this man who seemed to find life in the chaos, sustenance in the adventure, his heart only beating with the danger. Grian had no interest in putting himself in those shoes anyway— his feet were far too busy running from what he had done.

“Where is it?”

This new voice caught Grian completely off guard, and he stumbled to a stop as he looked into the face of an old friend.

“Did you summon it right over the base?” Tango’s excitement was infectious, and Grian nearly forgot his surroundings— laughing at death was so commonplace back home. Impulse returned him to reality, addressing Tango and cutting off any response.

“Don’t. Don’t even. Being reds made him…” Impulse clicked his tongue and whistles sharply, circling his finger next to his head in the universal symbol for ‘crazy’.

“He’s gone, man.”

Grian looked at the two men— one he had seen laughing in the wake of a homicidal plan he had put into action and the other with eyes blazing with excitement and the prospect of all the destruction, and thought perhaps he was not the one too far gone from saving among them.

“… the curiousity! I don’t care if I die!” Tango grabbed Impulse by the hand and started leading him back, back to the walls, back to the castle, back to where the Wither was.

Grian stood still for a moment, frozen in fear, utter terror, and complete confusion, before taking one step forward. Then another. Then another. And suddenly, he was following them.

His curiosity was his fatal flaw, Mumbo had always told him. Grian felt sick at the thought.

As they ran back, Grian heard a stunned scream, a crash of wood and thorns, and the group hesitated in their running for a second as the sky flashed golden with bright words stunning the sky.

“BDouble0100 fell from a high place.”

Impulse and Tango fell again into peals of laughter, rejoicing the death, and a horrified pit grew in Grian’s stomach and settled in his heart. Was Bdubs dead? He hadn’t thought any of this through, but his mind was racing now— he wanted to beat his head into the floor and pound his fists against the ground to try and understand why he hadn’t been thinking, and why his hands had let him act without doing so. Bdubs— a friend, someone he had known, laughed with— dead forever. By his hands. Because it was his hands after all. Maybe that’s why Impulse had made him place the skulls. Maybe he didn’t want the blood of the world on his hands.

Grian had enough of his own blood on his hands. He really didn’t need any more.

It struck him that it could have very well been Bdubs that shot him, and therefore everything was justified, but the thought grew the guilt in his chest and made him feel dizzy and sick. Justifying the murder he felt he had committed made him want to rip his brain out of his skull. A strange small part of him wanted to blame himself for all of this, to put it on his shoulders, to at least find some semblance of control in all this chaos. But there was nothing to be found. In a world of chaos, he was merely the catalyst. That, at least, he could blame himself for.

The flash of pink that swished in the corner of his eye made him startle, and he turned to see a scruffy haired man putting his arm around the shoulder of a shorter woman with vibrant pink hair. The man himself wasn’t much taller than Grian, and had his own coloured hair— bright red in a single streak parting the rest of his straight chocolate fringe, matching with a scruffy, unkempt beard. Grian recognised neither of them. The two new faces kept walking into the group, and as the man spoke a new, completely unfamiliar voice break through the night.

“Guys, where the heck is the wither?”

The disbelieving strain and apprehension in that sentence made Grian feel a little less isolated. Whoever this was seemed to have at least an instinct of how serious the danger was. Grian watched the man tighten a protective yet gentle grip around the woman’s shoulder, but as she raised a loaded crossbow up to her shoulder level ready to fire Grian couldn’t help but think she didn’t need it in the slightest.

The question went unanswered as a figure barrelled straight through the centre of the whole group and barged past Grian, yelling harshly.

“Very funny, all of you! Very funny!”

Emotion hit Grian from every angle— relief, hurt and confusion the dominant blows. Bdubs was alive. Grian could’ve melted into the ground with joy and the breath he had been holding finally released. Bdubs could’ve pushed him aside all he wanted, Grian couldn’t find it in him to care even though it hurt. Bdubs was alive. He hadn’t murdered him. He wasn’t a killer. Even without intention, he felt the guilt would’ve eaten him alive.

He would never understand why anyone could find anything funny in what was going on. But that thought only served to isolate him as a burst of laughter rang out from the red names around him. High pitched, destroyed, broken laughter. He might have called it hysterical. But it was laughter he heard.

“Where is it? Where is it?” said the unfamiliar voice again, and Grian barely registered starting to walk as the group burst out into conversation. All of his senses were overwhelmed, as if someone had turned on a fully static radio directly through his brain. Only a snippet made sense of the conversation.

“I think Etho’s soloing it.”

Grian wanted to stop the world and make it tell him why, but it wasn’t the time.

The group of red names scaled the white walls of the castle, and Grian followed, pulling a bow off his shoulder more out of instinct than choice. He knew the wither wasn’t going to be taken down with a sword— not by him anyway. That was for someone braver or, more honestly, someone with less to lose. His head whipped from side to side and then, just to the left of his vision, he saw it— vast and ghastly, grotesque and dark, the skulls and ribs of the wither trying to breathe life through the dead.

Grian shook off an unfamiliar dread as a chill shook his spine. This wasn’t new. This, at least, was nothing worse than home.

Notching an arrow, he began to fire, arrows pinging into both dirt and blackened bone as he shot towards the wither. The group of fighters around it were slightly too far to make out, but Grian could see odd flashes of features: a swinging axe, a headband rippling, a blond man pulling back a bow and aiming it away from the wither and straight at—

“AH!” The arrow hadn’t gone through his shoulder— thank god, or that would’ve been the third time— but it sliced just below, snaking across the edge of his rib and tearing away the skin. As Grian loaded another arrow, stumbling back, he looked over and saw Impulse looking back at him, elation in his eyes as another of his arrows struck true. In that moment any and all animosity he had had for Grian was clearly forgotten, sunken like a long lost wreck, replaced by an electric bond between them. And both amidst and despite the chaos and pain, Grian began to smile.

It was the final time they locked eyes.

As Impulse broke eye contact, Grian saw the electricity replaced with a sudden dread, shocked and uncontainable fear reeling from him in an aura. Grian followed his gaze and looked down towards the ground he came face to face with a set of angry eyes burning with ferocity. The eyes were blue, icy blue and glaring with rage and vengeance. And they weren’t looking at Grian. They were looking at Impulse. And the hands that belonged to those cold, hating eyes was grasped around a well enchanted bow.

The arrow sunk through Impulses stomach with sickening speed. He was dead before he hit the floor, and he hit the floor before he could scream.

ImpulseSV was shot by Smajor1995.

Thunder broke the sky as it delivered the red text, but Grian didn’t need to read it. He couldn’t have looked up if he tried. It was as if Grian’s knees had stopped holding him up and his muscles stopped holding him together. He fell backwards, collapsing into a weak patch of wall behind him which disintegrated underneath his weight and plummeted to the earth. Grian barely registered the sickening crunch in his left ankle, the unnatural rolling noise that came from his knee as he landed in a crumpled heap on the ground.

“Time to go” he heard from somewhere, but he didn’t know from who. Frankly, it wasn’t Impulse, so he didn’t care. He wanted to run back to Impulse’s body and beg it to stand again, or at the very least look him in the eyes one more time. He had just been looking in his eyes, and now they were all he could see, shocked then lifeless. There were hands pulling him through the woods, away from the flying arrows and chunks of rubble, but his whole mind was screaming and he was barely sure his body wasn’t doing the same. His hands were clutching his chest but he couldn’t even feel his fingertips, his eyes were unblinking but he could barely see past the smell of blood.

Impulse was gone. The last thing he had of Boatem. The only thing he had of Boatem in the strange new world with lives and murder and boogeymen. Now more than ever, Grian felt truly alone.

“Grian! Grian I’m bloomin terrified,” said a hurried voice, the same voice of the man with the red streaked hair, and slowly Grian’s vision refocused onto reality, with these new, red eyes looking back at him instead of Impulses glazed over dead ones.

“What’s going on?” the man said, and Grian couldn’t even begin to form an answer. Why was anyone looking to him for guidance here? He had arrived here and within days lost everything he’d ever loved. He was in no place to be a leader. And yet a band of red names had formed around him, seeming almost expectant. The bearded man held a hand out for his pink haired partner and Grian watched him grasp it tightly, holding on for dear life. And he realised that although he had lost everything, there were people here with so much to live for. So much more to lose.

“Shall we run and hide in a corner for a while?”

It was a half serious answer— in all honesty Grian didn’t have the energy for anything else— but a small ripple of laughter bloomed and died in the group in front of him.

“Beg mercy? Call it a truce?” Tango said, nudging the red streaked man.

“We should— AH!” came an alarmed shout from the girl next to him. The whole group turned on a ragged zombie clawing desperately in the dirt, and within seconds it was reduced to hunks of flesh on the ground, the smell of it only adding to the atmosphere. Grian hadn’t even noticed he had struck the killing blow to its head with the blunt end of an axe.

“Look what we can achieve while we’re together guys, that zombie didn’t stand a chance!” came a sarcastic brag from the strange man that Grian was only now realising he needed a name for if he was going to laugh at his jokes.

“How did they— how did he do that?” asked Tango disbelievingly.

“He like soloed it—“

“No, Scott and Cleo were helping.”

“You know, Ren and Cleo are teaming too, the ultimate betrayal—“

Familiar names, familiar names— Etho, Ren, Cleo— and yet Grian knew that they would be such unfamiliar people when he saw them again. Scott, however, he didn’t recognise. And there had only been one stranger on the ground fighting the wither— aside from Etho, Cleo and Ren, Grian had begrudgingly identified the blond man that had shot him. Martyn. The first living face he had seen after finding Mumbo’s body. The pain of that was quickly replaced with anger as Grian thought of the final fighter, the stranger on the battlefield. The blue haired man. Scott was the owner of the icy eyes. Scott was the man who had killed Impulse.

Grian didn’t fancy himself a killer. But he felt right then that maybe, just maybe, he could.

“You guys think it’s all fun and games all of a sudden?” Bdubs’ voice exploded into the group as all eyes and ears turned to him.

“Bdubs we’re more concerned with the fact that Etho just soloed the Wither” said Tango, his harshness making Grian feel unsettled and yet understood. There was still a drumming anger in his veins, grief having quickly left denial behind this time around.

“He didn’t solo it! I helped!” Bdubs cried indignantly, but he was spoken over by the red eyed man calling out a warning to the pink haired girl.

“Be careful Lizzie.”

“Are you blowing it up?” Lizzie replied.

Both Grian and Bdubs turned their heads to the sound of an explosion, a blast of gunpowder throwing fistfuls of rubble and soot into the air.

“WHAT IN THE WORLD WAS THAT?? JOEL WHAT—“

Joel? Something inched into Grian’s memory, tainting it, teasing it—

“They we’re watching. I wanted to give them a show.”

It was more than a little unhinged, but Grian couldn’t have blamed Joel for the world. He suddenly felt the urge to pull Bdubs into their group, away from everything they had just witnessed, away from the man with the blue eyes. And he knew what was holding Bdubs back— some things never change, even between worlds. All the anger he had felt at Impulse’s death came rushing up his lungs and into his voice which burst out at Bdubs like an angry horse, a firework setting off.

“Bdubs Etho has no loyalty to you! He’s just immediately teamed up with the next guys that’ve come along, you think he cares about you?”

“He’s a survivor man” Tango backed him up, standing by his side, and the flame in Grians chest swelled with confidence, “He survives that’s all he does.”

Bdubs looked at them, a stunned silence overtaking the night air as emotional conflict raged on his face. Grian could see a man on the brink of breaking, falling apart and yet trying to hold it together.

“He loves me.”

Grian wanted to throw his arms around Bdubs and never let him see harm, and at the same time he wanted to throttle him where he stood.

“He loves you? Go say hello to him see what happens.”

“He cares—“

“You’re the only one left.”

Tango’s words were harsh and mocking, but Grians final remark made Bdubs’ face twist in anguish as silent tears began to fall, horror and hurt boldly displayed. Grian wanted to tell him he knew how it felt. To have everything change, everyone turn on you and to not know why. He wanted Bdubs to come with them, be safe. But could he forgive siding with Impulses killer? That man— Scott— was out there, and the way it looked to Grian, Bdubs was on his side. And Grian was not about to let that happen. This world had robbed him of his niceties.

Bdubs breath started to slow from panic, and he began to follow them, the group walking to god knows where. Joel and Tango were talking about a secret base, and it was all Grian could do to follow, unspeaking. As daylight broke, the red lifers were exhausted as they trekked through the forest, following in the footsteps of the more fortunate killers that laid the trail. They approached the edge of the mountainside, a clearing in the forest leading to a cliff edge away from the broken castle ruins.

Grian had always been one for vengeance— pranks were common enough on Hermitcraft and he loved the thrill of one upping every trick thrown his way. But he’d never sought to do it with blood before. He was taught with apprehension and the prospect.

“Do I hear voices?” Lizzie said, shattered from tiredness, “this could be a trap.”

“Uh oh,” replied Bdubs, equally weary but not at all scared.

It was a split second. He would’ve caught it sooner if he wasn’t so unbearably tired. But Grian heard the threat in Bdubs voice too slow.

Too slow.

“AH! WHAT—“ Lizzie began to scream as black brambles started sprouting from a wither rose in the dirt, freshly placed by Bdubs. As Lizzie backed away, scrambling in horror, he pulled an axe from his belt and started to swing wildly screaming with maniacal cries.

“I HAVE TO!! I HAVE TO!!—“

“I HAVE TO!” Grian heard the echo, Martyn swinging his weapon desperately through the smoke—

Smoke erupted as a firework went off, the crossbow firing at Bdubs and scouring his face with ash. Through the yellow burst of light from the firework Grian saw the final swing of the axe as Bdubs shoved the pink haired girl away from him. Off the edge of the cliff and to her death on the rocks below.

Two sounds erupted, and Grian couldn’t tell which one sickened him more. One was Joel’s cry, grieving and anguished, splitting his throat raw in a bellow that could’ve ripped through the world. The pain reached every corner of him and flooded into Grians veins as he finally watched someone lose their whole world in an instant, just like he had done only hours ago.

The other was Bdubs triumphant, jubilant cry.

“YES!! AHA!! I HAD TO!!”

Red anger clouded Grians vision. He loaded an arrow into his bow and began to fire. Bdubs wasn’t like he was in Hermitcraft. He was just like Scott. Murderer. Murderer! All thoughts of forgiveness had fallen off the cliff and now lay in the pool of blood at the base. More bows started to join his and arrows flew toward the cheering killer who fled from them.

He was nearly out of sight when Grian loaded a final arrow and released his grip on the bowstring. The arrow flew directly into Bdubs spine and stopped him in his tracks. For a moment— one sickening moment— Grian felt pride to have hit the shot.

Then Bdubs body fell and all his anger faded, realisation gripping his heart. Thunder and ted text erupted as if in applause, for in this world the killing was celebrated.

Grian wanted to be sick.
——————————————————————
He had been proud to set up his contraption of execution with Joel when they were red for a brief moment together. They would’ve killed Scar in that thing if he hadn’t handed over his lives— the wizard collected souls like treasure, ready to bargain at any opportunity. The nagging voice telling him that Scar didn’t deserve it was overshadowed when Joel clapped him on the shoulder and congratulated a finally successful redstone contraption.

As the sun rose on the water over their boats, Grian had never felt more ashamed of his past. Mumbo, Scar, and so many more on his list of kills.

And he wouldn’t have stopped either.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 11: HERMITCRAFT SMP

The shattered savannah had always entranced Mumbo, and appearing through the morning mist which lay on top of the water it truly felt as though a mountain had risen out of the clouds. He looked up the falling water that streamed down from the small houses inset into the cliff faces, the rock looking over them casting a shadow across the sunrise.

Once the boats had been safely tied down in the water, the trek up the mountainside began. Thankfully for the weary Boatem crew, huge tangles of vines hung from the side of the mountain, and alongside the cleverly engineered water elevators, ascending the mountain was easier than would be suggested by the sheer cliff face. It took all their focus anyway— gripping the right vines, grasping the right stones, placing their feet lightly on the gravel beneath them. And the higher they climbed, the farther the fall for failure.

Eventually, dirt and stone gave way to smooth planks of wood, and they could grip on sturdy fences and railings in place of the slippery fickle vines. Mumbo hauled himself over a particularly steep patch of earth and onto the oak landing and took a moment to catch his breath— not easy given the high altitudes and the morning mist. Grian had made it up before him and was sitting alone on a stumped log by the stairs. Mumbo turned to pull Scar up with a helping hand before refocusing his attention back on their new surroundings. He hadn’t visited Iskall in… he couldn’t even remember when the last time was. He barely remembered this place, the hanging houses and the shadowed windows inset into the cliffs, the rocks spearing the sky and plunging into the ground with small plateaus of moss. The stone arches caked in dust barely let him look into the amethyst gems pressed into the ground. The hum of creepers was steady in the darkness below them all. Maybe that was the reason Mumbo was so on edge. Or was it?

Something was wrong. Mumbo could see the way Pearl was eyeing the surroundings cautiously, from Impulse being slightly too quiet to hide his nerves, from Grians hand tightening around his weapon as his eyes widened. He had a hunters gaze and a careful tread, and every creak of the floorboards made him statue still, waiting for danger to lunge out of the darkness.

“The darkness” Mumbo mumbled in realisation.  It was so dark here.

“Iskall?” Scar called out, and even through the echoing caverns Mumbo could pick out the concern in his tone. But there was no reply but the fading sound of Scars own voice, and as the Boatem crew waited  it seemed only the stone would answer them.

“Where is he Scar?”

“Not sure. He might just be out somewhere. Some crazy expedition, you know him, yeah,” Scar trailed off towards the end of his sentence, not even managing to convince himself.

“Well let’s split up and look for him. You never know, he might be around.”

Leave it to Pearl to get down to business, thought Mumbo, and he couldn’t help but be grateful for her focus and leadership as she directed them around the precarious shattered savannah base. He set off, but even though he was concerned for Iskall whereabouts he couldn’t help but take in the beautiful work of engineering. Perfect spruce bridges, brick lampposts that had burned dry of fuel and left only the faded lantern lights, warped wood facades into rooms with rusted doors. Iskall had always been a gorgeous builder, and the combination with Etho’s expertise left a beautiful mark on the mountain.

Mumbo looked out across the chasm towards the hanging house— the most precarious construct of them all— and felt the air change as Grian approached him timidly. The ocean breeze below them flew up and tousled the shorter man’s hair, a trio of leaves dancing past his pale skin as his eyes took in the spectacle of a view from this staggering height. It struck Mumbo that he might never have seen something this high up before, lost in the clouds like this. He might never have seen a view like this in his life. Mumbo realised he knew frighteningly little about anything this Grian had experienced. Only that it was worlds away from here.

There were still so many questions. What was his home like? What was his world like? Who was in this ‘Last Life’ world? Who were his friends? Mumbo could gather that he had existed in that world, but was he… himself? Or was there some cursed, twisted version of him in another universe? One that could drive this Grian to murder?

On the ledge of the bridge they looked over, Mumbo made the decision that he would never be that person.

“Did you have places like this?” The question was posed in a manner Mumbo hoped was conversational, trying to mask his curiousity slightly.

Grian was silent for a short moment as his gaze grew slightly distant.

“Not exactly. There were some nice places, but nothing this gorgeous, nothing… nothing like this.”

He gestured  out across the horizon, and Mumbo nodded in understanding.

“What were the nice places?” Mumbo asked, the search for Iskall giving way to a search for a few answers, even if they didn’t give much. At least Mumbo was talking to this Grian without creating an uncontrollable panic.

“There‘s — I mean, my home was the Southlands,” Grian started, “and that was nice. Sometimes.”

He stopped, and for what felt like the first time he looked Mumbo directly in the eyes.

“You know when something feels nice because it’s home?”

Mumbo nodded— he already missed his camper van.

“It was like that. I didn’t— I love the Southlands, but it’s hard. It’s really hard. Staying is rough but leaving is impossible because everything I have is there. Everyone…”

The pause was bitter, and the next words were slightly choked.

“Everyone I had was there.”

Mumbo nodded and reached out a hand to comfort Grian. Because he did get it. New was scary. He knew it from the moment he had begun constructing the giant temple waterfall, shifting nature under his thumbs and terrified of every moment. Because sometimes, although it was tiny, that camper van of his was all he needed to get through a day. And it was so much easier to get through a day rather than live it. Grian leant into Mumbo’s side to make the hug easier, exhaustions apparent as he exhaled deeply.

He muttered a low whisper sleepily, and Mumbo looked at him curiously.

“Sorry what was that?”

“The towers were beautiful,” Grian said, the ghost of a smile starting to form even as his eyelids fluttered in his tiredness, “we had watchtowers looking over the whole forest. You wouldn’t build a tower, you built a tiny little bunker. Idiot.” The nostalgia of reminiscing seemed to relax him as he fought off sleep with calmer, steadier breaths than Mumbo had ever seen from him— though whether it was due to genuine calm or complete emotional exhaustion Mumbo’s couldn’t guess.

If any thought of Mumbo bringing up the fact that it wasn’t him who did that, and that his counterpart was in fact dead, he didn’t mention it. Grian seemed happier when it slipped his mind, and even though he might not have known this Grian for long, Mumbo liked seeing him happy. He had been going to ask more about himself in this other world, but he found he didn’t need to any more. He thought he could guess. After all, this Grian, he concluded, was just like his— just forged by a different path. What that path was, Mumbo could find out later. For now, he only needed the glow of the morning sun on top of the two of them resting, and the moment was complete.

Short lived. Everything good is so short lived.

“Guys!” Pearls voice echoed out from inside the dangling house, alarm and fear tainting her voice. The two resting men jumped up together and scrambled running, reaching an edge of the cliffs before hesitating on how to get over. Scar was already there, blindly calling out to Pearl in a seemingly futile attempt to reassure her- the lack of an answer did little for their nerves. Impulse came over last, hauling over a thin plank of wood and resting it on the ground, nailing it through the dirt and stone and making it secure. In this way, it formed a narrow, tightrope like walkway to approach the hanging house.

“How did you get in there Pearl?” said Scar, as Mumbo began to help Impulse.

“I just… I jumped I…” Pearl voice trailed off, but Mumbo could see that the gap was jumpable. Treacherous, perilous, but just doable without the bridge. And one mistake leading to you crashing to the rocks below. No thank you.

Impulse and Scar started walking across, cautiously but with urgency. Impulse was steady with his eyes dead set on the doorway, measured and sure in every step. Scar was slower, and his footsteps were deliberate but cautious, and each came with a balance check that was a little too close to a wobble. With a slight tremble to his hands but steeling his nerve all the same, Mumbo got on the creaking wood and turned to check on Grian.

His eyes were wide and teary, his breathing had become ragged and shallow, shaking hands gripping the edge of his sweater as a small whimper escaped.

“Grian, it’s ok—“

“Mumbo please I can’t.” His voice was so conflicted it hurt Mumbo just to hear, some sort of fear fighting guilt whilst terror laced the both of them.

“What are you afraid of?” said Mumbo reaching out a hand.

“I don’t want you to die.”

“I’m not going to die,” said Mumbo with a lot more certainty than he should have had from that height. Grian looked up with anguished eyes but couldn’t hold his gaze.  Mumbo stayed still, keeping his hand outstretched. An offering for the shorter, more fear stricken man. As soon as Grian’s eyes dropped to the stone below, a new wave of fear overtook the grief on his face, and he took two hurried steps backwards.

“I- I don’t want you to kill me!”

Mumbo would have reacted with more shock if they weren’t a thousand feet in the air on only a thin log. Kill Grian? Mumbo could never! Well, not seriously. Not like, forever kill. If that was on the line he could never.

Right?

“Grian look at me,” Mumbo said, ignoring his racing thoughts and locking eyes with Grian, taking a step back towards him, “I would never. I don’t know what happened, or what I did, but I promise you now, I am not here to hurt you. You are not going to die. Not on my watch. And my watch is pretty fantastic if I do say so myself, so nothing is going to happen to you.”

Mumbo could hardly bare to watch as Grian stood halfway through making his decision, his emotions torn in two, wanting to trust Mumbo but not knowing how.

“Grian,” Mumbo said louder, “I’m right here.”

“Joel’s here…” came the faint reply, shaky and distant. Mumbo shook his head slowly, keeping his eyes locked in Grian’s face. Who Joel was— that was a question for later.

“No one’s here. Just you and me. Eyes on me, ok?”

Mumbo had kept his hand extended the whole time, hoping that Grian would take it and they could cross the bridge together. He was quite confident in his ability to stay balanced— his work on the towering cliffs he was building had given him the skills needed to keep steady at great heights. He’s never helped someone else balance over a thousand foot drop onto sharp spires of jagged stone, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

Right now there was just this bridge. And an outstretched hand.

Slowly, shakily, trembling in his red sweater, Grian reached out and wrapped his fingers around Mumbo’s hand.

Mumbo gave a small smile of triumph that didn’t convey the way his heart was beating out of his chest, and internally he was ready to leap across the gap in a single bound. But outwardly he stayed calm and steady, and after adjusting their grip slightly the two of them began to walk ever so carefully across the narrow beam. Each step was accompanied by a concerningly loud creak of the wood as it fought to hold the weight of two. Each shift in their foot placement made the beam edge slightly to the left. But the pair were steady, moving in sync and joined in the grip of their hands, tighter than ever. In that moment, Grian couldn’t even imagine letting go.

Mumbo reached the edge of the hanging house and caught a glimpse of Impulse’s face coming closer to the doorframe to make sure the pair were ok. He stepped off the beam gently. As he did so, Grian felt beneath him the board shift lightly again, and creak slightly louder now that all the pressure was contained under just one pair of feet.

Both of them heard the snap.

A sharp and startled cry came from the shorter of the two and Mumbo felt a sudden pull on the hand he hadn’t realised was still gripping Grian’s. He spun round, digging his feet into the gap under the oak doorframe. It worked to slow him down, but the weight of holding up another person was causing him to strain harder than he had in a long time. His hands grew sweaty from the nerves and he could feel the hand start to slip slowly through his fingers, and he tightened his grasp with renewed strength fuelled only by terror. He moved his other hand from the doorframe to help him grip the dangling Grian, who was reaching up, whimpering quietly in fear, petrified as he hovered seconds from falling. As Mumbo moved his hand, the extra hold he had on the doorframe gave way, his feet now the only barrier, and he began to tip over at a treacherous angle.

As he leant forward again at his will and saw the rushing water against the jagged cliff edges, Mumbo had a distinct and vivid image of hurtling into the water and having his spine smashed against a column of rock, drowning as he was pulled under and unable to swim, the water running over his face rendering breathing impossible, the pain overtaking him.

For a split second, he leant further forward and shut his eyes as he became convinced that his thoughts would become reality. All he could hear was the rushing water and a small, scared but resigned voice. He couldn’t be sure what it said. He thought it said “let go”.

Then he felt a strong grip around his waist, two arms locked around him from behind, pulling him back, and he heard Impulse speak in a strained voice that came from the exertion of trying to hold them back.

“Don’t let go!” He said as he pulled, and Mumbo felt Grian start to lift away from the edge and up to safety, “I’ve got you!”

Finally regaining his balance and his foothold, Mumbo was able to use all his strength to pull, and little by little they managed to lift Grian through the doorway and safely inside. Impulse sank to the floor  to catch his breath and Mumbo all but folded in half in exhaustion, wheezing heavily. Grian remained curled tightly in a ball on the floor, inhaling rapidly with shaking breaths, eyes clamped firmly shut. He was mouthing something, or maybe whispering— Mumbo couldn’t tell, so he got a bit closer, sitting on the floor of the workshop.

“Grian? Hey, you’re ok,” he started, but the words were falling on deaf ears. Grian’s breathing was starting to slow but the expression on his face was becoming more concerning, a look of hopeless resignation, the look you give to the enemy on the battlefield when you’re too wounded to stand and fight. And Mumbo could finally hear what he was whispering.

“Let go.”

“GRIAN!”

Mumbo grabbed Grian by the shoulders and shook them firmly. It had the desired effect— his eyes opened, wide and petrified and filled with the horror— and he started backwards, flinching.

“I’m sorry, I just, you weren’t all here,” Mumbo tried to explain.

A moment passed as they looked at each other, Grian finally registering that he hadn’t fallen. That Mumbo had not let go. His breathing became slower and his eyes refocused until he was looking directly into Mumbo’s eyes. Then, quietly, he spoke.

“Why didn’t you drop me?”

There were a hundred thousand answers Mumbo wanted to give, ranging from telling Grian he didn’t deserve that to asking him why he would even consider that a possibility. But he settled for an affirmation of the promise he had made on the bridge only moments ago.

“I would never.”

The smaller man blinked, then raised a hand to his eyes quickly and looked away.

“Thank you,” he said, soft but sincere. Mumbo could only nod in reply, throat too tight for words.

Grian took in the room around them, and Mumbo got his first good look as well. The room was cramped and cluttered, with various tools hung on the walls. A cartographers table lay in the far back corner covered in maps and scrawled notes. Mumbo could recognise Iskall’s handwriting, but it looked rushed, frantic, hurried, as if he had started writing with meticulous detail and slowly descended into panic. What was panicking him was a secret hidden in these hastily written words that would take Mumbo quite a while to decipher, and he couldn’t do it with just a light glance.

The main focus of the room however, was a large sculpture in the centre, or perhaps more of a model, a layout of a vast stadium of sorts. Mumbo couldn’t tell exactly. There were several different sections split onto floating islands held together by string pulleys with tiny figurines of both people Mumbo could recognise and not— a cityscape burning  around a tall fountain with a figure of a young man, blonde with bright eyes filled with fiery determination and a hint of mischief as he swung a sword against a woman Mumbo recognised as False; an elaborate labyrinth of sandstone filled with zombies and lava and piles of sand; a tall man with a ferocious boar mask and a red cape that had been intricately crafted to appear as though flowing in the wind as he leapt across hanging chains next to a slightly shorter figure apparently formed out of bright green slime, but humanoid in form; a courtyard rimmed with hedgerows and blood as Mumbo saw, shockingly, a figure of Iskall jumping out with a deadly sharp blade at the same blond man he had seen early, but caught on the edge of another sword from a brown haired man Mumbo didn’t know. Most impressively crafted, however, was the massive arena with a yellow and blue floor, divided down the centre with a thick black line, spectators jeering and cheering surrounding 8 figurines locked in battle, bows drawn or leaping to dodge lethal shots. Mumbo noticed that one of the little figures had failed to dodge and was lying on its back, an arrow stuck in its chest. What struck Mumbo as more disturbing than anything else he had seen was the youth that the sculptor had managed to capture in the figures eyes— it was of a young boy, fifteen Mumbo reckoned, definitely not older than sixteen,  his bright blue eyes staring unseeing upwards into the sky and blood staining a red and white shirt, carefully painted. Mumbo knew Iskall must have painted all of these, and could imagine the many hours he spent carefully painting this fallen soldier. This child.

“This is it,” Pearl whispered in a hoarse voice, looking between Scar and Mumbo.

“Wait you mean—“

“Yes. Where I was before,” Pearl said, her voice starting to catch and break.

“This is my nightmare.”

Mumbo looked down at the statue of the dead child, and he started to understand.

He turned to face Grian, who was taking in the model with a fresh face of horror. There was less fear in his eyes, instead replaced by a haunted shock, wide eyes drinking in the scenes. He turned to face a statue Mumbo hadn’t noticed yet in the labyrinth of sand, a steadfast man with a dark grey headband holding a lock of yellow hair away from his eyes. Mumbo didn’t recognise him. But Grian clearly did.

“Martyn?”

Gently and cautiously, before Mumbo could stop him, he picked up a model of the blond man Mumbo had noticed earlier, the man with the mischievous eyes, and let out a confused, stunned whisper.

“Jimmy? But he’s dead, I— I— I’m sorry—”

He carefully knelt closer to the edge of the various battlegrounds, tears starting to form.

“They’re here,” he said, shoulders beginning to shake with sobs, “they’re all here.”

He bowed his head against the table, and Pearl sat beside him, pulling him closer as both of them shared some solace in knowing they were not the only ones to have killed without mercy.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out into her shoulder, and all Pearl could do was close her eyes and hold him tight.

—————————————————————

Killing Jimmy had not felt good. He hadn’t even really intended to. Jimmy had just been pushing his luck, annoying him at a stressful time, firing that stupid bow— it wasn’t even enchanted there was no chance of hurting him— even when he clearly shouldn’t have been attacking. He had come back to the Southlands looking for trouble, and Grian had finally snapped.

It was only a little push really. The hilt of his sword slamming into his chest, but he hadn’t stabbed him, only knocked him over.

Off the roof.

Jimmy’s terrified cry had made Grian want to reach out, grab him as he fell, stop the clock for a second, take it all back. But ‘he needed to learn’ said the small voice that commanded death, and that had made him hesitate.

A little push means everything if it’s a long way down.

In a way, it was being safe that was breaking him. He was finally learning to breath without worrying about being heard. Mumbo had caught him. He was going to fall and Mumbo caught him. That would never have happened before. But seeing the figure of the broken child on the battlefield, blond with bright eyes, so much like Jimmy, Grian couldn’t help but remember that he had pushed him over the edge. Just like Mumbo pushed Impulse. Just like Joel had shot him. And none of them had even tried to stop the fall.

It was a bitter comfort in Pearl’s arms, to realise they were all monsters.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 12: LAST LIFE SMP

The echoes of the thunder hadn’t fully left Grian’s head when a hand wrapped around his wrist. Grian could hear a voice speaking, knew the words were an encouragement to follow the pull on his arm, and though he could follow he could barely reach a vague understanding of anything being said around him. It felt as though every dead face had overtaken his mind, swimming in his vision as he blundered through the tree line, unaware of where he was headed. His surroundings blurred with the sounds of whistling arrows, grief stricken screams and thunderous explosions ripping through his mind. Impulses eyes flickered between life and death, the moment before he fell to the floor as embedded in Grian’s thoughts as the image of the body after, a growing rose of blood blooming from the centre of his stomach. Bdubs collapsing in the distance by Grian’s own arrow, shocked and helpless, the cheering as loud as the thunder. And Lizzie. The pink haired girl, eyes wide as she fell. She had looked so confused, no realisation dawning as she fell. Just terror. Confused, blind terror as she fell to certain death, not knowing what she did or why it was her falling.

Grian had only just learnt her name.

The heat of the morning sun started blazing into him and he had little idea how much time had passed. A nighttime could have come and gone and he wouldn’t have known, for he was so lost in thought and memory. Grian was beginning to feel the ache of walking and the skin of his palms was starting to become rough and cracked from the gaze of the hot sun. He was grateful, then, for a shadow to drop over him and lend him a blissful breeze of cool air, and he looked up to see what had given him this respite. A cobblestone boulder looked back, though it wasn’t natural— Grian could see the chisel marks and the places where pebbles had been pressed into planned formations. Large tendrils of rock reached from the main body, forming the silhouette of a looming creature. An octopus, to be precise.

Grian heard a door being flung open angrily and was pulled through a small doorway at the base of the sculpture. As the floor changed beneath his feet, dry grass giving way to wooden floors, he started to become more aware of his surroundings. The room was quite bare, and Joel— it was Joel who had been dragging him through the woods— released the grip on his wrist and went to put down his sword and shield for a second. He paced agitatedly, and Grian was struck by how much smaller he looked with his weapons down— more anxious, less sure. His hands were unburdened by the weight of his sword and with no weapon to wield instead twisted a ring on his left hand, a smooth golden band, which somehow, despite their circumstances, looked like it had been polished recently. There was only fresh blood tinting the edges. Nothing dried.

“What’s the plan?” Grian asked, less tentatively than he would’ve done perhaps an hour ago. A tired edge was creeping into his voice, an incomprehensible monotony despite everything that should’ve conjured the most heightened emotions. In the exact moment that he spoke, Grian wasn’t contemplating the fact he’s murdered Bdubs. Impulse wasn’t flickering in his vision and falling to the ground again in front of him. He wasn’t even thinking of Mumbo. And it frightened him. It frightened him to think he was losing them again. It frightened him to think he could forget.

“I don’t have a plan” came the short reply, snappy and bitter, strung with stress, and Grian couldn’t help but flinch backwards at the harshness of it. Instantly the anger seemed to leave Joel, and he turned his head away to look at the wall opposite them.

There was silence for a moment. Grian saw Joel’s shoulders rise slowly and he took a deep breath, trying to make it steady and sure. He was tense for a second. He began to quiver slightly, as if his whole being was trying to hold him still whilst something inside him was ripping him apart. Grian didn’t see him blink or see the tear tracks form on Joel’s face in the silence. He only saw Joel standing there, still for a moment.

Then his shoulders fell, shaking uncontrollably, and the bitter sobs weren’t halted by gritted teeth which soon separated as a guttural wail tore through Joel’s throat and ripped into the world. It was anger, it was sadness, it was grief and despair, it was every ounce of hatred mixed with equal parts of pain. It was confusion. It was anguish. It was loss. Raw, unfiltered loss.

“WHY DID SHE HAVE TO DIE?!”

Grian had nothing to say, and the question wasn’t really for him anyway. It was thrown into the infinite expanse of the universe, daring someone, anyone for an answer.

“I love her. We stood at the top of the walls and I told her I loved her. That was yesterday!” Joel’s voice was more than shaking, it was heaving with tears, the words flowing faster than thought, everything rushing out at once, “She was just here! And he pushed her away and I— I couldn’t— I didn’t even get to say goodbye!” Joel stepped towards Grian, and though he flinched at being approached he softened as Joel put his whole weight into leaning his head against the crook of Grian’s neck and wrapped his arms under Grian’s shoulders in a tight hug, the emotion pouring out of him like he’d never been able to speak before, and now the dam had broken there was nothing to contain him.

“She didn’t deserve that,” came more broken sobs, “no one does. Not even— I wouldn’t even— Bdubs—“

“I know,” said Grian, tears starting to come to his own eyes as he returned the hug with every bit of comfort he could as he felt himself start to shake with the weight of it all coming crashing down.

“But she was so wonderful, and she loved me, and she was so good and she cared, she— we had to do things here but she would’ve never, she was so kind and happy and— and alive and— and— IT’S NOT FAIR!” The final sentence was more of a muffled screech, screamed into Grian’s shoulder but most likely meant for the void, the howl of a broken heart meant to be swallowed up by the darkness. But Grian heard him, and he clung to Joel tighter, shifting a hand to his hair and running it gently through as Joel sobbed, still screaming.

“IT’S NOT FAIR IT’S NOT FAIR IT’S NOT FAIR IT’S NOT fair it’s not fair it’s not fair…”

And all the while Grian kept holding him, with his fingers softly brushing the red streak of his hair that cut through the chocolate brown tangled mess that covered the rest of Joel’s head, his own tears falling in quiet tracks down his face and dropping gently onto the skin of his hand. Because although he hadn’t known Lizzie, the pink haired girl with the rocket crossbow and the courage of lions, he had felt what she did for the people around her. Specifically Joel. Because although this world had taken so much from him, and although his grief was closer for Impulse and Mumbo, his heart could still hurt more watching someone else suffer as the world shattered under their feet, he could still feel the ache of sadness knowing there was no time left. He would never know more of the pink haired girl. And neither would the man now weeping in his arms, barely able to stand as he carried the weight of this grief. That was a damage he could not repair.

“I just wanted a little more time…”

The world gave them a moment to hold each other. To lose something together, and feel the loss. Or maybe the world gave them nothing and they simply couldn’t see the rest of chaos burning. But for a minute, there was only this. The tears, the pain and the memories.

Grian was grateful for that. That this place, no matter how cruel, gave him a minute to be human.

But he knew as that minute came to an end, there must come a minute after. A minute in which after collapsing Joel would have to stand. Grian would have to stand.

“Here,” he said softly, standing and offering a hand out, “if you don’t have a plan, then we should make one together.”

Joel hesitated, his hand making the move to hold on to Grian’s but seeming to stop itself mid motion.

“I— I can’t keep doing this. I can’t just act like I’ve… forgotten her.”

“You’re not forgetting,” said Grian, taking a gentle step forward as he felt his own fears reflected and tried to comfort both Joel’s and his own “that’s clear to anyone. You’re just… living.”

Joel sniffed, wiping the tears off his face with a hasty brush of his hand.

“I can’t imagine living without her.”

Grian nodded. He understood. And in that moment, he allowed himself to remember. He remembered the first day of Boatem, laughing as they sat in precariously stacked boats one on top of the other, nearly falling as the makeshift tower shook. He remembered planting countless saplings that grew into tangles of trees around him and Mumbo’s bases, escalating into hilarity as they left planting trees behind and moved on to building intricate wooden sculptures of beautiful hand made trees, and tree monsters that picked up the little camper van and lifted it to the sky. He remembered when end crystals were a prank and not a murder weapon, when the explosions were equally of laughter as they were of the fresh ground next to each other. He remembered Scar’s wagon, steam rising off the copper in swirling plumes, enormous and towering yet somehow dwarfed by Scars own snowy peaks that he had raised. He remembered the chocolate factory, towering over the ocean, billowing smoke and smokestacks ringed in gold, Impulse’s great creation. He remembered Mumbo’s hand built mountain, covered in a symphony of colour by tiny radiant houses, singing in light next to the waterfall. He remembered Scar’s laughter. He remembered smiling. He remembered Mumbo’s eyes.

“You’re not without her,” he said, a faint and calm smile hinted with sadness starting to form, “she’s still with you.”

Joel looked into Grian’s eyes for a second and his face softened ever so slightly. He huffed out a small laugh, an edge of sarcasm in his tone.

“When did you get so good at pep talks?”

Grian’s smile widened a little more genuinely, “I’ve given a few.”

Joel rolled his eyes good naturedly, the dark shadow clearing from his gaze momentarily, “was Mumbo really that much of a wreck?”

Grian looked across at Joel sharply, his head turning cleanly and locking exactly to look him in the eyes.

“Excuse me?”

Joel’s eyes had widened before Grian had spoke, clearly more horrified with his own words than Grian’s attention, and Grian couldn’t help but feel a little bad. That sort of joke he would have made happily only a few days ago.

“I didn’t— I didn’t mean to say that. I’m so sorry, I didn’t think—“

“No, it’s ok,” said Grian, “he wouldn’t have minded.”

He didn’t think as the next words passed his mouth.

“He would’ve liked you.”

Joel laughed briefly and in one breath, a short, bitter barking laugh, before clamping a hand over his mouth as if to stopper the noise.

“What?” said Grian.

“…Listen Grian, I don’t know how much you remember, and I know you’ve gone a bit… funny, since you’ve turned red— and not like I, it’s not anything on Mumbo he did what he had to—“

“What do you mean?” Curiousity was building in Grian’s voice but there was an edge of horror.

Joel looked down, almost sheepishly.

“Well, all I meant was. I wouldn’t be like this if it weren’t for him. You know.”

“…right. Yeah. Of course.”

There was a moment of pause as Grian made his decision. Because he did not, in fact, know what Joel was talking about. And he didn’t want to. For the first time since Mumbo’s death, Grian decided he had all the answers he wanted. A small part of him knew, for instance, that the Mumbo in this world had probably done terrible things to bring his new companion to the brink of death and the edge of insanity. He knew in turn that if given the chance he might have seen Lizzie fire that crossbow not in self defence, but with the full intent of rage. And he knew he did not need those answers to tarnish them. He had good memories and a heart full of determination to live up to the friends had had left behind. The friends he had lost. The person he had been only days ago.

Him and Joel needed a plan to survive this. And he couldn’t have all of them dying in vain.

——————————————————————

Grian knew he was powerless to his surroundings. It hadn’t been an easy few days for him, with this strange new place and its new expectations. He had tried to fight, tried to plead, tried to run, tried to figure out what was happening. But over the last day or so, he had started accepting this place. This world. Because it wasn’t so bad, really. He was fed and he was warm, and the people here cared. People who could and would save him if things went wrong. People who, he realised, didn’t need him to die to stay alive.

And he felt bad sometimes, that he liked it here. He knew that his friends from what remained of the Southlands— so, realistically, Martyn— were fighting for their lives, for their everything to keep themselves safe. They had no backup anymore. Nothing to help them. And Grian could only imagine the resentment they would level at him if they knew he was being sheltered by the comfort of strangers.

But he felt safer here than he had at home. Even when all the world was new. And he couldn’t help but take solace in that. Because slowly, very slowly, he was starting to think he might deserve it.

“I could never,” Mumbo had said. And for the first time, Grian really believed him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: HERMITCRAFT SMP

The world didn’t need to move for a minute as Grian and Pearl sat on the floor next to each other. Mumbo wanted to join them and add his own reassurances, but as he watched Pearl whispering softly and Grian’s breathing slowly start to reach a level pace, he felt he couldn’t offer anything to either of them. Grian’s shoulders started to move rise and fall more deliberately, and with less of the trembling that resulted from his panic and confusion. His eyelids began to close slightly, relaxing into Pearl’s side, and eventually the effort of comfort turned into a comfortable silence for the two of them, simply breathing side by side.

“Oh,” said Pearl quietly, and Mumbo just caught how soft and protective her voice had gone, “he’s asleep.”

And he was. The short, messy haired Grian, who could barely be in a room alone with any of them only a few days earlier, who had dark circles under his eyes that had shown weeks of being awake, was now sleeping quite comfortably with his head rested on Pearl’s knee.

Pearl looked down at Grian, capturing the moment in her head, before pulling her red cloak over his shoulder to keep him warm.

Impulse was looking over at Mumbo, not really sure how to react. Mumbo didn’t really have any desire to interrupt the moment. Instead, he turned to Scar, who was staring with a distraught expression at something in his hands.

“Scar?” Mumbo questioned, worried, “what’s wrong?”

Scar swallowed deeply before reaching out a small piece of paper, better written and in a different ink to all the scattered notes.

“You should read it,” he said, “I think you were always meant to.”

Mumbo took the paper in his hands and flipped it around so it was no longer upside down. His hands shook slightly and the apprehension was building, but he began to read anyway.

“To whoever might come looking,

I would love to say you’ve just missed me going to gather some leafs or amethyst for the base, or perhaps gone to burn some diorite. But it is a little different, and I don’t think I will be back for some time. The truth is, a long while ago I discovered that our home was not the only home we had. I was transported to a place, a terrible battle arena that I couldn’t escape for what felt like hours. At first I thought it was a dream. But no, I still have the scars from that place. That was no dream.

I reconstructed a model of it to try and find any place like it here in Hermitcraft, but nothing. And I was confused. Then Scar came to me. And he told me about his dream that wasn’t a dream. It was like mine, so real and yet so nothing we’d ever seen. But I realised a difference. People had seen Scar on Hermitcraft when he said he was ‘dreaming’. And, come to think of it, no one had ever noticed me disappear either. So my theory has become different. That perhaps we are not being transported alone, but are rather swapping with a version of ourselves from another home. Some place different with different circumstances and rules and objectives.

If this is true, there may still be another version of myself in that battle arena forever, and quite frankly, I am not ok with that. I don’t know yet what causes the swapping to take place, but I have some guesses I need to look into. As much as I would love to tell you where I am, I cannot. It is safer that you remain far away from me. My good fortune to be returned to my home may not be extended to everyone who experiences this. After all, it would have been the good fortune of that other me to stay right here forever.

If Mumbo ever finds this, how’s it going brother? I am sorry I didn’t tell you what had happened, and I’m sorry to leave you without answers. I just want you to know, I hope this work will save you from ever being taken some place where you would face the horrors I have faced. In some places death means everything. In others it is as cheap as sport. I am so grateful, to Mumbo or to whoever reads this, that our lives mean more than our deaths, and that, of however many worlds are out there, I was given this home to meet you.

From a friend,

Iskall.”

Even though it felt like lead had filled his muscles, Mumbo lifted his head slowly and looked back at Scar, who’s eyes had started to go misty. Impulse had started reading over Mumbo’s shoulder, and his own expression flickered somewhere between sorrow and determination. Determination that Mumbo couldn’t fathom the origins of.

“So you mean, to get him back… they have to swap back?” Impulse asked.

“Looks like it,” Mumbo’s voice said, and it was so hollow he barely recognised it as himself.

Scar turned away from them both, his head facing the wall, but Mumbo knew he wasn’t really looking. Behind them, Pearl looked up from where she was sitting with the now peacefully sleeping Grian, and Mumbo knew she had heard enough to piece together what they knew.

“Maybe if we look at the model we’ll figure out some way to make it happen?” Impulse suggested, leaning down and examining the replica arena with keen, inquisitive eyes.

“What, like force it?” Pearl asked, clear as day but quietly so as not to wake Grian, who had subconsciously curled himself tighter into Pearl’s cloak as if in a cocoon.

Mumbo felt he heard a slight edge of steel in her tone, and as he looked up her eyes were blazing dangerously.

“I mean, yeah. That’s what Iskall’s been trying right?” Impulse didn’t seem to have picked up on anything strange, so his expression was startled when Pearl’s voice rose a little, just as quiet but ten times as harsh.

“And we’re just going to let this one here go back and deal with it, is that right?”

“Look Pearl, I know it’s not nice, and it’s all strange but—“ Impulse was cut off once again, and this time there was absolutely no missing the anger in Pearl’s whispers.

“No but that’s what you’re suggesting isn’t it? That we just carry on here living our happy perfect lives, and forget this Grian ever existed, and the rest of the world can just bear whatever they have going on—“

“I don’t like it Pearl, none of us do—“

“But you’re fine with it?” Pearl had unclasped her cloak and let it fall to the floor, shrouding Grian even further in the dark fabric. She shifted to place Grian on the ground and stood up, locking eyes with Impulse from the other side of the miniature arena.

“You’ll even try to make it turn out that way?”

“Of course I’m going to try, Pearl! Don’t talk to me about forgetting right now! Our Grian, our friend is probably frightened out of his mind, he could be hurt, he could be actually dying— don’t you care about that?!”

Impulse’s tone wasn’t angry, but there was frustration laced with worry, and Mumbo could feel himself wrapped up in the words of them both. Because Impulse was right. Their Grian was in mortal danger, and Mumbo knew that between all of them was a silent unspoken bond, a moral obligation to defend each other, to protect each other. Mumbo could almost picture him huddled in the darkness, flinching at every turn like his counterpart had done once before, afraid to even sleep. They couldn’t just turn on that. They couldn’t just leave him.

But Mumbo turned his head downwards to look at the red sweatered young man wrapped snugly in an equally red cloak, chest rising and falling as he rested on the ground, his brows furrowed in what Mumbo could only assume was a dream, and he felt his chest tighten with a sharp pang as he realised what Pearl meant. This Grian was not in mortal danger. This Grian was safe under their protection. This Grian had done nothing wrong. This Grian could sleep. When just a few days ago they knew he had been afraid of losing a second of his life to slumber, to let his guard down for even a second, afraid beyond belief to close his eyes, now they watched him sleep.

How could they take that away from him?

“Guys come on, don’t fight. We don’t even know anything about how to make this happen,” Mumbo tried to say, but his voice lacked conviction and he would be the first to admit he sounded a little desperate.

“Exactly. What’s the harm in trying?” Impulse chimed in.

“And who knows? Maybe we… find a way to… keep them both here?” Mumbo’s voice trailed off completely as many eyes turned on him. Some held disbelief. Some held pity. Some held a slight disappointment. Mumbo felt all of their gazes, but none more so than Scar’s, which was filled with a resigned, crushing sorrow.

“You know that won’t happen.”

“We don’t know for sure,” Mumbo tried, but it came out weaker than a whisper, practically pleading.

“Alright, so we do try,” Scar said, voice cracking slightly, “we figure something out, and we find out how to swap them before we find out how to save them both. What then?”

The silence was long, and heavy, and loud. And it was broken by a small sad voice from the ground.

“You do it. You send me back.”

Everyone turned to Grian. No one knew how long he’d been awake, but the look on his face told Mumbo all he needed to know. Long enough. Long enough to know what the debate was. That they were arguing over his life.

“Impulse is right. More than any of you can ever know,” he said softly, in a tone bordering on reminiscence.

“Last Life is my home. It’s where I was before I came here and it’s not your battle to deal with. It has traps and curses and Boogeymen and betrayal and —“ his voice began to hitch, “I’m not any better than anyone else there. I have loved so much of being here with you, even if I haven’t always shown it. But there’s no reason I should have this. Your- your Grian belongs here.”

His mouth quivered slightly as he tried to continue.

“I don’t belong here.”

“Grian—“ started Pearl, but he cut her off.

“I’m sorry. I know you care about your friend so much and he’s done nothing to deserve being there. I’m sorry that I’m here and he’s there. He was never meant to be there.”

The air in the room seemed to grow cold for a second, and Mumbo could swear he felt a chill up his spine. But when Scar spoke, his words were warm and fierce.

“You were never meant to be there either. No one is meant to be there. No one deserves that life of pain and worrying and betrayal just to survive. You’ve told us how it works, and I saw it when I was sent there, and I know I never want to see that again. Your life shouldn’t be contingent on the downfall on others. You shouldn’t have to suffer so they can win.”

Tears were streaming down Grian’s face in hot streaks, and Scar’s eyes were threatening to spill over at any moment. There didn’t seem to be dry eyes in anyones faces, and Mumbo brushed a sleeve across his eyes as Scar and Grian pulled together for a tight hug. It was warm and gentle, but strong— so strong it felt like Scar could shield Grian from every sound in the universe. Grian felt Scar gently breathe in and out and felt a wash of care sweep over him. Like he had been welcomed home after a long time away.

“It doesn’t matter though does it,” whispered Grian, the tears still falling gently, “it doesn’t make a difference.”

“You matter.”

Mumbo hadn’t expected Impulse to be the one to say it. Impulse wasn’t looking at any of them, but a look at his ears gave away how red and blotchy his face was from crying. His breathing was unsteady, but he sounded measured when he spoke.

“It’s true that I don’t know you. Not well enough. And it’s also true that I will do anything to help the Grian I know. He is part of Boatem.  He’s practically family. But we’re not in Last Life. We’re in Hermitcraft. We’ve built mountains

mightier the earth itself. We could build the world again if we had to. We can do anything. Scar’s right. We won’t just make you suffer without trying to save you both. And that’s a promise.”

The room broke into chaos. Scar held on to Grian as he collapsed into fresh tears, endless “thank you’s” and apologies crossing his lips yet barely comprehensible. Mumbo join them in a hug on the ground, not really knowing how he could promise to keep him safe given the circumstances, but saying it anyway. He and Scar kept speaking in a ramble of caring words, to remind this Grian that there should be no thanks for mortal safety, that he could do nothing to deserve the hand he had been dealt.

Pearl ran to Impulse and wrapped her arms around him, her crying silent, the teardrops just sliding down her cheeks.

“Thank you,” she said, “for showing me you care.”

Impulse returned the hug tight and steady.

“How could I not? He was sad.”

Grian felt almost overwhelmed by the amount of care that was being showered in him. It was in the way Mumbo held out a hand to help him off the ground. It was in the way Scar squeezed his shoulder to show him it was all going to be ok. It was in the way Pearl rubbed her thumbs across his cheeks to dry the of tears, in how Impulse lowered a set of vine woven rope to the water, in how they all made sure he was so secure he could never fall as they lowered each other down. Everything was careful. Like they wanted him alive. Like they wanted him at all.

It was a strange feeling.

Mumbo hesitated for a moment before leaving, his eyes cast back to the letter on the table, the last trace of Iskall for who knows how long. He found himself wishing he could talk to his old friend, longing for his company, his laugh, his friendly smile. He picked up the letter again and read over just the last few lines, carefully penned out in the neatest handwriting around the room.

“I am so grateful, to Mumbo or to whoever reads this, that our lives mean more than our deaths, and that, of however many worlds are out there, I was given this home to meet you.”

“Me too, Iskall,” Mumbo said softly as he replaced the letter and made his way to the vines ladder.

“See you soon.”

——————————————————————

Grian felt the boats rock beneath him as they sailed back to Boatem, with him pulling the oars while an exhausted Mumbo slept in the back of the boat. He was only following the wake of Scar’s boat, but it felt nice to be doing something. Something to help the group.

He had come clean about everything. Everyone he killed back on Last Life. How the last time he had a group like this— a family— it had all been destroyed in a matter of weeks. How he was the centre of all that destruction. He even told them about his victory at Third Life.

He hadn’t been able to look Scar in the eye for that one.

But it was Scar who sat by his side and told him he understood. Mumbo who told him it was going to be alright. Impulse who told him they didn’t think of him any worse. Pearl who told him it didn’t have to matter anymore. He was free to live his own life now. He was free.

He was never meant to be there.

H̸̟̟͆͑e̵̟͕͔̲͈͗̈́̊̿́͗̃̃͑̆͘͘ ̵̧̮̠͍͔̪̈͐̍̌͗͛͊̆̀̈́̀̑̉̉͠w̵͍͔̘͍̠̮̬̙̪͚̦̝̺̒͌̀͘a̸͙̳̘͙͙̥̥̰̯̞̝͉̞͆s̴̡̰͍̘̞̲̺̙̩͔̃̀ ̶̢͖̹͈̟͂̄͗̂̾̃̽̚͝o̶͕̹̯̪̯̘̿̅ñ̶̠͖͕͇̯̣̦͚̪͕̤͉͂̿̃͑̄̏ͅl̵̡͉̪̣̗̱̼̙̠͖͛̓y̷̧̢̨̘̩̪̮̰̟̳̤̺̯̜̳͋̓ ̵̧̹͈̫̞̠̟͎̼̯̘͂̓̉̉̋̉͌̓̾͗̒̀͘̕͝ẹ̵̛̳̰͔̲̀̒͗͋̂́̅̇͂̋͘̚͠ͅv̴͕̀̂͒̽̌ͅe̶̛͓̫͓͙̩̮̘̪͎̭̾̋͗̉̔̒̀̊͊͠r̷̥̘̻̲͙̆͆̑͋̀̒̎̈́̄̇̚͝ ̵̘̓̍̾̀̉m̷̛̀̈́͌̑̈̐̾̓̚̚͜͝e̸̬̮̟̭̦̥̲̙̮̳͈͈̩̤̭͛̏̄͗̏͗͛̇̚à̴̛̫̱̬̎̈͐̃̃̿ṉ̸̨̳̽̐̀͊͂͘t̶͍̗͗̍̇̎̈́̆ ̸̠̱͙̫̝̣̜̥͖̹̓̒̎͗̒͒͊̅́̕ͅṯ̴̖̥̭͔̬͈̎̈́̈́̔̈́͛̿̍̚͜͝ó̷̥̗͕̫͔͇̪͚̰̙̗̬̋͋̄̈́̑̆ ̴̡̮̱̫̭̝̈́̑͜w̵̫̲͇̝̹̆̑̈́͗͋̉̃͊͝ą̴̟̻̪̝͇̦͙͒͛̈́̿̓͌̃͠ṯ̴̛̳̏͆̋̇̅̾̇̅̉͗̚͝c̴̜͉̮͚̰͙͕̮̖̺̞̖̮̍̃́̐̎̂̉̈́̈͊̕͝h̶̢̧̟̲̼͚͖̺̗̭̮̺̥͓͙̑̔̆.̵͇̪̐͌̉̇͑̓̃̈́͋́̆͑́̕͝

Chapter Text

heyyyyyyy

so um, it's been a while. And there haven't been a lot of updates to this. Super sorry about that, I just wanted to say the fic is NOT ENDED and I am also NOT ENDED. Basically throughout august I was doing some other writing in support of the Sarcoma Foundation America (check out my works for that if you're interested), so I didn't have a lot of time nor creative energy left over to work on some of these chaptered works. That was by no means a bad thing, I'm super proud of what I wrote that month and I'm glad I did it. September had me going back to university and also as I tried getting back into writing these chapters I realised a month off had made me need to get unfamiliar with the story and where I wanted to go with it (also mentally have not been taking names and kicking butt. Picture a pacman ghost floating through the backrooms and you have a pretty accurate depiction of my brain for the last month).And then add several more months of very much the same. I have been Backrooms Pac-Man for a while now.

I am so excited to get back to writing this but I’m struggling with the motivation. motivation comes in waves for me, so I might get a big burst one evening and finish a whole chapter. It is what it is!

I hope you all enjoy this, please let me know what you've thought of the story so far! All your comments fill my heart and the kudos make my soul so happy I started wiggling :]

(Also follow me on twitter @crissycrossgmin for updates on my writing and other things)

TLDR NEXT CHAPTER IS COMING IM JUST STRUGGLING A BIT SUBSCRIBE IF YOU WANNA READ IT FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER IF YOU WANNA READ IT