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Heavy sinks the traitor, his guilt pressing him down.
Ten feet underwater. He’ll bleed out soon if he doesn’t drown first.
Maybe he’s right where he belongs. He’s sinking further and further, the hungry ocean digging its tidal fingernails into the cuffs of his trousers and dragging him to the seafloor, wherever that even is.
It doesn’t hurt. Not really. Not yet. Sure, when Quackity kicked him off the pier the boot connected with his spine a bit aggressively and the shouts of everyone hurt his ears a bit, but it doesn’t hurt hurt. For a drowning man he’s oddly peaceful. It’s quiet.
When Ranboo looks up he’s looked back on by a dozen faces whose smiles swim in the contorting blur of waves that soar above him, ravenous teeth swept away by the swirling haze of the sea foam. Perhaps it’s not from the water itself or the tears he so desperately tries to cry out, but the needle-like pain the salt prickles into his eyes, clambering deep behind them. He can’t shut his eyes. He doesn’t want to try. Gods forbid the ocean will burn them shut and the last thing he’ll see will be some lonely little void behind his eyelids. Peaceful might’ve been the wrong word. The water’s getting awfully deep.
Can it just be over soon? The beak of the saltwater tears into his skin, ribbons of crimson and lime bloom into the sea, swirling, clashing, dancing like a dirty paintbrush on canvas. He opens his mouth to scream only for the water to nip at his lungs, rushing in and tearing at yet more flesh. He’s going to die. There’s a crowd of two dozen glossy eyes pinning him down and he’s going to die in front of them. All of them.
This is no longer beautiful. This hurts .
He no longer bleeds a painting, tender and poetic, he bleeds a visceral pain. Not a melodic little rainbow to dye the ocean into the sunset, only frenzied, burning nerves. The flowering colours from his body are not prose, it’s blood, painfully ripped from his capillaries and into the cold ocean blue, and there is no soft way to sew it back into his skin.
He stretches out his fingers, unsure if they’re still even attached to his hands, and tries to grab onto something, anything-
And all is quiet.
“… didn’t think the water would fuck him up that badly. I know, I know. He’s part enderman. I don’t think I get the whole- life-after-life thing?”
Through the silence cuts a voice and the gentle pitter-pattering of rain.
Something is in his hand. Or someone. Are they holding it? Ranboo keeps his eyes shut- just in case. If it’s something else trying to kill him, well, he’d rather not see its face this time.
Wherever he is now it’s much warmer than the ocean. A fire crackles in the corner next to a deep voice humming to itself. Ranboo smells the familiar slow-roasting of meat permeated by a mild aroma of freshly cut pine trees, all peppery and warm. He’s in someone’s house. Dear Gods, someone’s home. And a home full of love it seems.
“Phil, you got any bandages?” a new voice says accompanied by a gentle rummaging. “The kid’s not awake yet. Only slightly worrying. Can’t have the main character dying on us.”
Phil chuckles from across the room followed by a light thud on the floor.
“Huh! Thought you’d catch it.” His chuckle grows into a cackle.
“Hey, hey, hey- I’m an anarchist, not an athlete. Cut me some slack, man.”
Directly next to Ranboo’s head he hears the clinking of glass bottles, followed by another scent that overtakes the air- cherries. Cherry pie, to be exact. Healing potions always made him hungry. Come to think of it, he hasn’t had anything to eat in a good few hours.
Whoever was holding his hand lets go and begins to bandage up his arm in a soft winding motion, tenderly holding it up so as to not disturb him. Firm, but nothing uncomfortable. He feels like he’s a toddler again, getting a grazed knee patched up. Only this time, instead of his mothers, it’s two kind revolutionaries he’s not sure if he’s even met before.
Pop. And a fizzle. Cloven hoofed hands dab a potion-soaked cloth across the lower parts of his face, light tickling sensations spreading up to his eyebrows and down his nose as his flesh softly reforms itself. He didn’t even notice the tightness the water scars had sliced into his face until he felt them relieve. The potion drifts down into his muscles, massaging beneath his skin, trickling down so far as to re-adjust the part of his spine Quackity had so kindly kicked in.
Another pair of footsteps amble across the floor to his bedside and a hand falls onto his hair. It hesitates for a second then ruffles it before flinching away at a deer’s pace, almost ashamed of itself.
“… reminds you of him, huh?”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
“I still feel like shit. Y’know, about the whole…” Phil continues, choking on an awful attempt to swallow down a sob. “At least I could save this kid if not my own.”
“Damn. I-I mean, I miss the guy too, it’s just… heh, it was a bit rocky for both of us. Those last couple months of his life.”
In the silence that ensues there is not a hint of judgement, only understanding. There’s a quiet mourning in the air, thick like nectar, and the world freezes for a minute.
“We’re good people, Techno. ‘Least I bloody hope so. If not good, then just.”
Phil takes over dressing the wounds, muttering words about how such kind people meet such violent fates. How dare the world scar the innocent and churn flitting souls into but a piece of burning flesh. He curses each and every hand to hold a sword or to strike a match, all the fingers that snap bones and draw blood.
Then he freezes. Sighs. Ranboo’s scared to wonder why.
“You gonna wake up, mate? We don’t bite. And there’s food.” he whispers with a half-laugh.
Ranboo winces, shuddering throughout his entire body before allowing his eyes to flutter open. He does recognise this place- only ever so briefly.
“Told you food would slap him out of it.” Techno remarks, already getting to work taking meat off the fireplace. “Now, Ran…boo. You better not tell me endermen are vegan or anything or else this whole healing process is gonna take a lot longer.”
Ranboo’s laughter quickly turns into a splutter as it feels like the inside of his throat is peeling itself dry, like he’s drinking down a cup full of knives every time he’d open his mouth.
Phil scrambles another potion out of the brewing stand, springing the cork off and shoving it down Ranboo’s throat with just enough gentle force that allows the poor boy to still breathe.
“You alright?” Phil returns to a mask of a more stoic expression, asking only what’s necessary. He acts like there isn’t a child half-bleeding out in front of him. He’s acted like this before.
Ranboo nods. He prods himself up onto his elbows, gawking around like a disheveled meerkat to get a better view of the room. He’s lying on a very makeshift bed- a couple blankets, pillows, and feathers stuffed inbetween, all on top of a few crafting benches. Three to be exact, yet his feet still dangle over the edge. It’s closer to a nest if anything. To his far left is a wall made entirely of chests. Chests with leaves and herbs peeking out through the lids, chests so full to the brim with ores and minerals that cracks form from the pressure. Next to it open a couple windows, cracking in the morning’s crest of light, coating the room with a soft reddish hue. Outside the snow blankets the floor, thicker than he’s ever seen.
His eyes can’t help but widen- it’s all a bit overwhelming.
“I- Phil?” He barely coughs out. “Where’s everyone else?”
“We don’t have to worry about them.” He snaps in response, tone bitterly laced. By the sounds of it all of the watching eyes could’ve drowned along with him and he would’ve watched and waited.
It wouldn’t be surprising, at least. Phil and Techno are criminals. Hardened ones at that. Sly, strong men formed from stones and snakes with every scar that slivers up and down their skin yet another trophy to show off. Archeological remnants of struggle- not of their own, but those unfortunate enough to meet the points of their blades and boots of their feet.
But they do make really good potions. And they haven’t exactly decided to kill him yet. If they were bloodthirsty monsters- or whatever tale Quackity spun of them- they were pretty bad ones.
There’s a sword beside the bed. Netherite. Gleaming against the sunlight with a thick violet haze. One swing to his neck and he’d beckon the void into his chest once more; he wouldn’t be waking in a half-stranger’s house this time. Gods. His chest is heaving madly. Snowfall could begin again outdoors- if he runs off, he’d die. And if he stays, well…
Phil sighs, plucking out a few loose downy feathers to stuff into Ranboo’s makeshift nest. “Make yourself comfy, c’mon. You’re not a government, we’re not trying to kill you.”
Heavily loves the beating heart that would bleed one thousand men.
He rests his hand on the boy’s head again, softly combing his fingers through the back of his hair, “I can practically feel you overthinking. You’re in safe hands.”
For a moment Ranboo hesitates. He wants to say something, to scurry away, to hide like he’s always done. His heart beats a furious rhythm up into his ears, a cacophony of alarm bells singing in dissonance to the warm voice shushing him.
He leans into the touch and his eyelids droop again.
Is this what people mean when they talk about family by bonds and not blood? An intrinsic bud of a lily that’ll intertwine people closer, until they forget that there was ever a time they didn’t know one another? He doesn’t trust these people, sure, but some day. When the bud blooms. When he’ll find himself tomorrow, tucked in again, by faces that morph themselves from strangers into protectors. Into friends.
Tomorrow, he will wake and find himself afraid less of the wind and snow, slowly opening his clenched fists into palms.
“Well?” Technoblade butts in, hands full. “We eating tonight or what?”