Chapter Text
Grian wasn’t really sure when he came to awareness.
The first thing he knew, really knew, was that it was quiet. For the first time in almost two days, no voices rang in his ears, screaming for the final life to be sacrificed. It was a relief, almost, certainly enough for his addled, exhausted mind to drift for a few more minutes, unaware of anything but the blissful silence in his ears.
Eventually, though, he realized that he was still… well, aware . Which, considering the fact that he’d thrown himself off a cliff the last time, was surprising. Grian had never had much time to consider if he were a religious man, but he realized with a jolt of surprise that he hadn’t been expecting anything… after.
An afterlife, huh? Grian mulled on the question for a moment, then discarded it when his brain caught up with his emotions. He didn’t really care if there’s an afterlife, he decided. The fear from before was gone now, and he was left feeling just so very tired.
So he drifted back under for a little longer. This state of semi-unconsciousness was nice. He didn’t have to feel or think about anything. There was a vague understanding of quiet , and it’s enough of a balm to his soul for him to relax. He has his first true rest… since… he can’t quite remember the last time he hadn’t slept lightly. This deep sleep is new.
Nice. What an odd feeling.
A few times, he swung back up to consciousness, but every time, Grian managed to shift himself just slightly (he was laying on something soft, absurdly soft) and go back under. It was quiet, and he was resting, and honestly that was all he wanted.
An indiscernible amount of time later, he woke up.
It wasn't voluntary. Grian hadn’t been expecting to ever wake up, if he were honest, and now that it was an option, he found that it was one that was thoroughly unappealing. He didn’t open his eyes, and tried to slow his breathing. Why couldn’t he just sleep forever? Frankly, he wasn’t interested in whatever the afterlife has cooked up for him. Something in his chest felt empty, and in its absence had come a startlingly strong sense of apathy.
Apathy wasn’t enough to turn off his senses, though. He knew he was lying on top of the covers of a bed, though it’s a bed finer than anything he’d ever seen, with a plush pillow and thick duvet underneath his fingers. There was a slight breeze ruffling his hair, and a bright light sneaking through his eyelids.
Grian found that, even though he was aware of these things, he didn't really care about them.
Something changed, at some point. He wasn’t sure what it was, perhaps a shift in the wind or a new scent, but a moment later he heard footsteps.
Whatever. He just wants to go back to sleep.
“Grian!” Someone called out, and he couldn’t help the wince that ran through his body. It was loud, too loud after the silence, too similar to the voices . Despite how much he tried to shut it out, the singular voice continued. It was female, he realized, but didn’t sound anything like Cleo’s crisp accent. “Grian, love, where are you? I—” the voice cuts off. “Are you alright?”
I will be when you go away, he wanted to say, but the words felt stuck in his throat. So instead he just turned and buried his head into the duvet. He wasn’t interested in any afterlife, he just wanted to wallow here forever.
“Oh dear,” the voice said. “I— oh. Grian, are you hurt?”
“Go away,” He managed to force out. It hurt to speak, he realized. His throat was dry and thick, and forcing his vocal chords to move sent sharp lances of pain up and down his neck.
He wasn’t sure if the woman didn’t hear his whispered words, or if she simply discarded them. Either way, there was a sudden pressure on his shoulder ( touch, he’d been touched) that had him violently flinching away. He wanted to bury himself further into the recesses of the pure softness of this bed, to simply float away and not face whatever the eternity has planned for him.
“You’re hurt!” The woman exclaimed, and Grian closed his eyes even tighter in a futile attempt to drown her out. It didn’t stop him from hearing her worried tutting, and the tell-tale tapping of a communicator.
All he wanted was to be left alone. Couldn’t he be given that, at least?
A minute or so later, the hand returned to his shoulder. This time, when he flinched away, it didn't leave, instead exerting a soft, yet steady, pressure. A few seconds passed, and then it pushed. And despite everything, Grian couldn’t find the energy in himself to stop her from rolling him over.
He opened his eyes, finally, though he wasn’t sure why. He blinked a few times, squinting through the light as his eyes adjusted to the change.
The woman was leaning over him, watching him with a clear expression of worry. She had brown hair, curling at the edges around mid-neck, and wore a flower crown like Cleo’s, though her petals were pink, and a bit more delicate looking. Her eyes were a darker shade of the same color, watching him worriedly.
She looked… soft.
Eh.
“You’re filthy!” She exclaimed. “Oh, we were all so worried about you, love. Everyone else has already come back, we were wondering if you were ever going to make it—”
“Who are you?” He interrupted her, voice scratching painfully in his throat. It’s almost worth it for the few seconds of blissful silence that follow.
“Grian?” The woman asked, and oh, now she sounds sad. “It’s me, Stress. We’re friends, remember?”
He looked at her blankly. What was she going on about? The only woman he’d known was Cleo, and well… Cleo was green .
“This is worse than I thought,” the woman, Stress, mumbled, eyes flickering. “Well, X is on his way here—hopefully he’ll be able to figure things out! He’s our admin, you see. There must be something wrong with your code.”
Half of those sounds flew over his head, words like X, Admin, and Code lacking any real meaning. Grian didn’t ask though, deciding that his previous unconsciousness was much more pleasant compared to this, and closing his eyes once more.
A hand patted his cheek, forcing him back to wakefulness.
“Not now, my love,” Stress hummed, sounding almost sympathetic. “Don’t you wanna get cleaned up?”
“Mreh,” he grunted, opening his eyes again. Stress maneuvered his boneless body up into a sitting position, resting against the bed’s headboard, and Grian took the opportunity to look down at himself.
For the last two days, he hadn’t given much thought to his appearance at all. All that had really mattered had been finding the… the…
His hands were caked in dirt. Grian forced himself to study them intensely. Beneath it all, he could see the dried mud from the swamps, then the earthen dirt from Dogwarts, and finally a light dusting of sand from the desert. It clumped underneath his fingernails, uncomfortably now that he thought about it. He clenched his fists, and some of the dirt flaked off in chunks, dusting his legs.
“Can you stand?” Stress asked, and he couldn’t help the slight jolt as he remembered her presence. He considered her words slowly, mulling them over in his head, and decided he didn’t exactly care about any of this anymore.
He closed his eyes again, trying to find that place in his mind that had kept him in the throes of oblivion.
There was a long sigh above him, and then receding footsteps. Grian had precisely 30 seconds to try and knock himself out through sheer spite before the creaking of opening chests thoroughly prevented that option.
That didn’t stop him from trying, of course. It did stop him from noticing Stress’ return. When her hand touched his shoulder, he instinctively snapped his eyes open, lurching away and grabbing her wrist.
For a moment, they stood in silence. Stress’ lips were parted slightly, her eyes wide. She was holding a bucket of water. Seconds passed, and then, slowly, Stress dropped down, setting the bucket to the side and taking a kneeling position. The entire time she kept eye contact with him, each movement painfully obvious to predict before it happened.
“Grian,” She said, softly. A lot about her seemed to be soft. “You need to breathe, love. I’m sorry I touched you without asking.”
It took a few moments for his brain to catch up with the real world, and abruptly he could feel a burning in his lungs. Hesitantly, he tried to steady his breath. In and out. Simple enough.
“Could you let go?” Stress asked, a few moments later. Grian looked up and, sure enough, he still had her wrist in a bruising grip. Gradually, he made himself loosen his fingers, then drop his hand entirely. “Thank you. Can I wash your hands?”
He didn’t exactly care. What did it matter if he was clean, anyways? He’d been wearing the same red leather jacket since almost the start of the server. It had several tears in it now, and was noticeably burnt from the battle in the desert, but he’d never thought about changing it out.
But Stress was still kneeling there, watching him expectantly. Something in him twisted, just a bit.
He extended his right hand a few inches. Stress took it gingerly, as if it were made of gold. Her fingers were as soft as her voice, even through the grime, and brushed against his skin in such a way that almost made him want to sigh.
Then, her other hand came into view, holding a rag dripping with water. Gently, she placed it on his skin, not even pressing down or moving, just holding it there, letting him get used to the feeling of moisture. He relaxed, slightly, and ever so gradually, she started to move.
Whoever she was, Stress was pretty good at this. Layer by layer, she stripped off the dust, dirt, and sand, tutting to herself. As she reached the skin, cherry-red droplets of blood joined the debris as long-unnoticed cuts were cleaned out. Once he finished, she patted the cloth a few times, rinsed it, and then started with the other hand. The process was repeated, and he was left being able to see his skin again, albeit mildly bleeding.
“Thank you,” Stress said, smiling as if cleaning some stranger’s hands bought her some pure form of joy.
Grian grunted.
“...Grian,” she continued, smile falling into a more concerned expression. “Do you know where you are?”
Before he could answer, there was a distinct swishing of air. They both looked towards the entrance in surprise as a figure burst in through the door. Grian couldn’t help but draw back as a large figure in plated green armor he’d never seen before rushed inside. Every part of their body was covered, from thick, padded black boots to a full helmet covering all of his facial features, a black visor over his face.
He was sharp where Stress was soft, and it was then that Grian knew that he was in trouble. He wished, suddenly, that he hadn’t emptied his inventory at the end. He was going to miss the safety of a sword at his hip.
“Sorry, sorry!” The newcomer exclaimed, in a voice quite unlike his intimidating appearance. Grian wasn’t about to lower his guard, though (he knew better than most the uses of a charming persona, the ability to smile and swindle over swing a sword), like he’d already made the mistake of doing with Stress. “I was with EX in the Emporium, you know how it is over there, but I came as soon as I got your message. Grian, it’s good to have you back, my friend. We’ve been wondering when you would show up!”
Stress was making some kind of motion with her hands, but Grian didn’t put much effort into interpreting whatever she was doing, eyes trained on the newcomer as he entered.
It was then that it finally occurred to him to take in where he was. He looked up, registering the shell of a building around him. There were a few windows, and distantly he could hear the bleating of a sheep. He twisted his head a bit, still keeping the strangers in his sights, and noted that the back of the building was covered in trees.
Huh.
Stress was saying something. Grian started to listen.
“—thing’s wrong, he didn’t recognize me.” She was talking to the other stranger, wringing her hands in front of her. Her hand brushed his shoulder, and Grian drew himself back, but looked up at her nonetheless. “Grian? Do you know where you are?”
Grian heavily debated lying, or not answering at all. Admitting a lack of knowledge was a weakness, something that could very much be exploited. But... he was already dead, wasn’t he?
What more did he have to lose?
“No.” He finally said, and was reminded once more of why he was keeping quiet when Stress cringed slightly at the sound of his voice. “Some kind of messed-up afterlife, maybe.”
Silence.
“Afterlife?” The man asked, tilting his head. “Grian, what are you talking about?”
The words very nearly didn’t register. He was dead. He’d died three times, willingly giving up his last chance to stop the roaring of the voices. He had nothing left to live for. Everyone else was dead, and he had gone to join them.
“I died.” He said aloud, more to himself than to the other two. He had died. He was dead.
“...And?” Stress prompted. Her brown eyes were big and wide, like a doe’s.
Right?
“I died three times. That’s all you get. I’m dead.”
Except he didn’t feel any different. When he’d died before, in the desert battle and to Bdubs, there’d always been that brief moment of hanging in nothing before the inevitable respawn. He wished he had dwelt on that moment more, instead of just brushing it to the back of his mind. Was it only ever supposed to be a moment?
What was permanent death supposed to be like?
“Grian.” He looked up, and could help but jolt back when he noticed how close the strange man had gotten to him. His leg fiercely protested the full-body motion, and he had to suck in a sharp breath of air to stop himself from whining from the pain of it. He’d nearly forgotten about his leg.
Still, the man didn’t react to him, instead motioning Stress to take a step back, taking a knee at the side of Grian’s bed.
“Grian,” he repeated. “Do you know what’s happened in the last few months?”
The question made Grian pause, surprised by the simplicity of it. Of course he remembered the last few months. It was everything before that which had been a mystery.
Another thing he had never spent much time thinking about.
“Yes,” he replied, once he remembered that he could.
“Do you know whose house this is?”
“No.”
“Do you know me?”
“...No.”
The man didn’t move for a moment, before seeming to sigh as he stood back up and turned to Stress. He leaned in and said something to her, too quiet for Grian to make out. Stress bit her lip in response, eyes flickering between the two, before she stepped back.
“I’ll be back in a minute, love,” she said, with a smile that Grian could tell was forced even from a mile away. “We’ll figure this out, don’t you worry!”
With that, she left, hurrying out the door. A moment or two later, there was a distant “whooshing” sound from outside, then silence.
Grian had been left alone with a stranger. Well, Stress was a stranger, too, but Grian was at least marginally sure Stress wasn’t out to kill him. Grian had no idea what lives they were on, and he didn’t want to risk somehow getting cornered by a red.
“Alrighty, then,” the man said, pulling a chair out of his inventory and setting it on the ground a few feet away. He sat down, folding his hands together as he regarded Grian coolly. Or, Grian assumed he was regarding him coolly, with the helmet it was hard to tell. “I suppose we can start with introductions.”
Grian shifted, eyes flickering as he regarded the man, shifting to face him without bothering his leg too much. “Grian,” he said, shrugging. “But you already knew that.”
“I’m XisumaVoid,” the man replied softly. “The admin of the server you’re on.”
Grian blinked. There was that word again, admin.
Then the second word clicked.
“Server?” He asked, blinking.
“Yes.” Xisuma answered, still calm. “We call this server Hermitcraft. I have reason to believe that you were stuck on a different server for the past few weeks. You said you died, right? I think, instead of permadeath, you were taken here instead.”
Server. He was on a server.
And if he wasn’t on a server, then…
“I’m alive?” he whispered. Xisuma nodded.
“Hermitcraft has no life limitations,” he said. “We don’t limit our respawns here. Permadeath would be impossible.”
His throat was closing up. Grian bunched the sheets in his hands, struggling to control his breath. He was alive. He’d thrown himself off a cliff, wanting nothing more than to finally rest, and he couldn’t even do that right.
Was this part of the curse for winning? That he, and only he, had the ability to move on?
The door slammed open, jerking Grian out of his thoughts as the two looked to the front door. Grian was really starting to wish that he still had a weapon on him, with how often he was getting startled today.
A man stepped inside. He was dressed rather expensively, in clothes so nice Grian was astonished someone would put so much time into making them. A long red coat sat over a green vest and dark jeans, with a red top hat perched precariously on top of his head, bent over so Grian couldn’t see his face.
“Hey, Grian, are you really back?” The man says, and Grian stops breathing. “Stress came by a few minutes ago, said that she’d seen you and we really ought to start working on some deals—”
“Scar,” says Xisuma, voice curt but also strained. The man looks up.
And Grian knows that face.
It would be impossible for him to forget the last man he killed.