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Philza and Technoblade had attacked the prison, and Fundy had gone. Because he had signed Quackity’s contract, and because he didn’t want to lose a home to them a second time.
He lost his second life to a mishap. The side of Pandora’s Box had been burst open, and lava had poured from it. Strangely, from afar, it had looked to Fundy like a cracked open skull, leaking blood and brain. It had been into that lava he had been pushed. Thoughtlessly, effortlessly. He doesn’t even think Technoblade had meant to kill him, let alone take a life.
Still, when he sat up in his bed – placed just outside the prison, on Quackity’s instructions – it had been with the wracking pain that meant a life had been lost. He had looked at his arms, and seen patches of fur missing. The scar of barely healed burn wounds stared back at him instead.
He isn’t sure why that push, that lave was enough to cost him a life. But when had things ever been fair for him?
He had gone back into battle. What other choice did he have?
Run, he thinks to himself, as Philza looms over him, you could have run.
“Take this as a lesson,” says his grandfather. The fire around them frames him, paints him as some spirit of death and retribution. He sounds angry and old and resigned. As if Fundy has disappointed once again, and he is at a loss. Still, a part of Fundy wants to yell at him. To ask what lesson, exactly? Most of him, however, is too preoccupied with the fact that he is about to die.
Fundy has just enough time to appreciate the irony – like father, like son, right? – before the blade plunges into his chest.
He thinks he hears something like a scream, before he hears nothing at all.
He wakes up next to a river.
It’s not one he’s ever seen before. For one thing, it is pitch black. For another, it and he is surrounded by nothing but stars.
He sits down upon the night sky and watches the black water flow.
“Fundy?” calls a voice. “Fundy, it’s been so long.”
He turns and sees a woman. She is tall. So tall. He’s seen shorter spruce trees. Her dress is a colour that is somehow darker than the river, and her face is shadowed by a veil. For a second, he thinks stars litter her, but then he looks closer and sees that they are fragments of bone. Clearer in their macabre nature are the three fox skulls that rest on her left shoulder, and the three crow skulls that rest on her right.
He tries to not be concerned.
“We’ve met?” he asks. Which, he has never met this woman. At least, he thinks he hasn’t. There is something about her though. A presence that is simultaneously settling and unsettling, chilling and warming. He feels like he is sitting in front of a grave that is also a fireplace.
“Oh, it was a long time ago,” she says. She crouches down, one of her fingers brushing the side of his face. Instinctively, without thought, he leans in. “When you were just a kit. And only for a handful of minutes. That was as long as I could hold you, without keeping you forever.”
Fundy reaches up his hand. Holds her finger to his cheek. “You held me?”
“Yes,” she answers. He can see a gentle smile, beneath her veil. “Then I returned you to Wilbur. He cried so hard, you know. It broke my heart. But I just needed to hold you, once.”
He looks at her. His mind feels clouded. So much doesn’t make sense. But enough does to know this:
“You’re Death,” he says. He remembers a story. Told by his father, when he was tired and rambling. About how Fundy had been born cold and still. And now, years later, he is cold and still again, and she has come to collect.
“Oh Fundy,” she says. “I’m you grandmother.”
“What,” says Fundy.
That makes her laugh. The sound reminds Fundy of crows.
“I suppose the two aren’t mutually exclusive,” she says. Then she freezes, as if hearing something, and her smile is gone. “I would love to explain everything to you. And for you to explain your life to me. I would trade an eternity for that. But an eternity is not something we have right now to trade away.”
“I’m dead, though,” says Fundy, and oh. He’s dead. He hopes someone takes care of Yogurt. Foolish, probably. He already has children; what’s one more? And he hopes Yogurt remembers him fondly, or with contempt. Whichever helps him move on. “Doesn’t that mean we do have an eternity?”
The woman – or, rather, Death, who is apparently his grandmother – stands up, and takes away her finger. Fundy lets out a sad whine before he can stop himself.
“I need you to listen carefully,” she says. “When you wake up, tell Philza to stop. Now. And that his wife wants to have some words with him. Words about how, among other things, he has now killed not only their son, but also their grandson.”
“When I wake up?” asks Fundy. Does Quackity have some access to the revive book? Then he remembers that Death is his grandmother, and the possibility of him being brought back to life is suddenly very real. Except…
“Why didn’t you bring back Wilbur?”
“The rules of the gods are… complicated,” she explains. “Full of technicalities and loopholes. I’m sure you’ll have a fun time with them, one day.”
Fundy opens his mouth – he finds it’s always like this; answers lead to more questions which lead to more answers, continued into infinity – but she is still speaking.
“Believe your visions, but do not trust them. They are equal parts trap and key. The same is true of him. Be afraid of the ability to create and destroy, but do not let that stop you from exploiting it.”
“Uh, De—Grandmother,” Fundy says, scrambling to keep up. “That’s a lot to proce—”
“Just because I am your grandmother, do not treat me lightly,” she continues. “Wilbur is my son, and yet I could not save him. I will take him again one day, and, if need be, I will take you again as well.” She is speaking faster and faster, as if she can see some hourglass he cannot. “If you have a choice of teacher – which, you should – Philza is a better flier than Quackity.”
Fundy is completely lost now. He tries to fit her words into his understanding of the world, but is distracted by something cold and wet and dark touching his legs. He looks down and sees the river has escaped its banks. As if aware that he has noticed it, it begins to rise faster and faster. It reaches his knees, then his waist, then his chest. He looks to his grandmother, desperate, but she is still talking. He has missed some words, but he catches these ones.
“—And know that I love you, and that those minutes holding you were, are and will be some of the most precious of my eternity.”
Then there is water in his ears, and he cannot hear anything more.
“Guys,” says a monotone voice. “Not to alarm anyone, but the corpse is on fire.”
This announcement is quickly followed by shouting. Fundy wants to tell them to shut up. He is warm and tired and honestly, he just wants to sleep. Couldn’t they be quieter? So what if some corpse was on fir-
Fundy’s eyes snap open and are greeted by the sight of flames covering his body.
He screams.
“And now the on-fire corpse is screaming,” observes Technoblade.
“Water!” cries Fundy, furiously attempting to put himself out. “Water! Get me… some… water…”
He trails off. He is clearly on fire. But he isn’t burning.
“Huh,” he says. He notices he is lying on the ground and goes to stand up, only for a weight on his back to send him tumbling down again.
He reaches behind him, and feels feathers.
“What the fuck,” says Quackity flatly.
Fundy finally looks around him and sees the fight has been stopped in favour of looking at him. Still, they all are holding weapons. Philza and Quackity are only a step apart.
“Okay,” says Philza slowly. "Okay. The wings make sense. The whole coming back from the dead thing, I can see that. But the fire? Yeah, you’ve lost me there.”
“What are you talking about?” demands Quackity.
“Genetics being weird,” he replies, and Fundy supposes that’s a fair enough answer.
Quackity looks between Philza and Fundy who, for the record, is still on fire. “So… you knew he’d come back?”
“Not at all.”
“So you did fucking take his final life! Knowingly!” yells Quackity, furious. Fundy can’t help but feel a little touched. Which, he has to wonder what it means, that his boss getting angry at his grandfather for killing him is a heart-warming moment in his life.
“For the last time! I didn’t know he was on his final life! I thought it was his second!” yells back Philza, and, to Fundy’s surprise, he genuinely sounds distressed. Which, again, Fundy isn’t sure if that’s meant to be a heart-warming moment, but to him it kind of is.
“That’s… still kind of bad,” says Foolish.
“Uh, I am here,” says Fundy. “And I would very much like to be not on fire.”
“Oh no, that’s a bad idea,” speaks up Slime. “Unless you want to start turning to dust again. Phoenixes and putting out fires are a bad match.”
“Wait he’s a phoenix now?” cuts in Technoblade. “So now you’re part fox, part fish, part human, part bird, and part fire? Pick a struggle. Kind of starting to sound like a Gary Stu.”
“Oh, you’re fucking one to talk,” snaps Quackity.
“Look, mate, I’m glad you’re alive,” says Philza to Fundy, who can’t help but notice how that isn’t exactly an apology. “But we’re still here for a reason. This isn’t suddenly over.”
“Uh, I was given a message for you,” says Fundy back. “So, it might in fact actually be… ‘suddenly over’, as you put.”
“Oh,” says Philza. And then, “Oh no. The wife. I’ve fucked up.”
“Yeah. She wanted me to tell you to stop, and that she wants some words with you. Amongst other things, about how you killed Wilbur, and then me. Also, something about you being a better flier than Quackity?”
“Hey!” protests Quackity. “It’s probably true, but still.”
“Also, I just. Have a lot of questions,” says Fundy. “And you did kill me, so…”
Fundy has a feeling that he’s going to be hit later on by that fact. Hard. But right now, he’s going to choose to delay emotionally registering that he did, in fact, just die.
Philza sighs. Looks to Technoblade. “Hey mate, do we mind if we have a talk right now?”
“… You’re lucky the voices like you.”
“Thanks mate.”
Quackity bristles, his wings rising above him. He goes to open his mouth, but Fundy looks to him. Catches his eye.
“Please,” he says.
Quackity looks around, his false eye gleaming in the light of the fire. Fundy looks around too, and sees blood and injury. Purpled has a nasty slash he’s gripping. Foolish’s golden skin has been stained with red, turning it to a more bronze shade. Sam is leaning on his trident.
“Fine,” Quackity concedes. And they start to talk.