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“Grian!”
The word is a scream, something angry and charged that makes the man in question flinch, before there’s a fist grabbing his collar and shoving him bodily into the wall of the Season 8 spawn egg. Voices clamour behind the figure pinning him down, but Grian pays them no mind as he stares into Ren’s eyes, frightened and guilty.
Ren tightens his fist enough that Grian is sure his claws are puncturing the thick wool of his jumper, as the taller man practically spits in his face, “What the hell was that, man?!”
"W-what?" He plays dumb, hands shaking.
He knows what Ren is talking about, now that they're out of the game. He knows exactly what he means.
He knows that they caught him, this time around.
Ren makes a distressed noise, something that rattles in the back of his throat like a snake lying in wait. "You were- you were talking to those Watchers! The ones that put us there!"
The words don’t come as a surprise, because he was, but still. Even the expectedness of them doesn’t stop it from feeling like a punch to the nose.
Grian thinks that he wants to cry as Ren stares furiously into his eyes- to wail and beg and apologise over and over. He wants to ask for forgiveness, to explain himself and his own hatred for the situation, but he knows that it'll do no good. He’s tried so hard to hide his association with the Watchers - especially the ones orchestrating the games that have been so, so traumatising for his servermates - and he's finally failed. They’ve finally figured out that he’s working with them. That he’s one of them.
There's no coming back from that.
It makes him flush with shame and guilt to know just how red-handed he's been caught. Maybe if he had just been seen with the Beings at the end of the game, he would have been able to play it off, but... Grian knows that the ghosts would have been able to hear the whole conversation that he had with the overseer of the arena. He knows that he’s finally been caught, discussing the practicalities of the games and the rankings of the players, as casually as one might discuss the weather.
He knows that they're painfully, terrifyingly aware of his involvement with the orchestration of the games.
Regret and grief and terror all flood him at once. What now? Does he lose everything? All of the people that he cares about, all of the friends that he’s made?
Grian doesn't really know what excuse he's trying to give, as he stutters, "I-I didn't-"
"-Didn't what?" Ren looks furious as he interrupts the smaller man, shoving him back again with bruising force that makes his head knock painfully against the brick wall. Ren’s head is tilted down, his ears pulled back, and Grian hates that - for just a moment - he looks exactly like he did the first time over. Like the Red King.
Grian simply squeezes his eyes shut, tears welling in his eyes as he shakes his head frantically.
Ren continues to shout, "You didn't mean to get us thrown into a world where we'd torture each other? Didn't mean to kill so many of the people that you've made yourself out to care about? Huh?"
"G," another voice joins in, Impulse’s, and this time it’s teary. Somehow, the Hermits' upset is worse than their anger. "G- why did you do this? Let- let him go, there’s gotta be some- some good reason or something..."
Gnawing, chewing guilt festers in his stomach, wriggling uncomfortably in his gut like an animal curling up to die. He doesn't turn to follow Impulse's voice, and he doesn't meet Ren's eyes again as he peers through his lashes at the uneven oak floor. He doesn't know what to say- doesn't know how to quell them. He wants to explain himself, he really does, but- but- does he deserve to excuse himself?
They're right, after all: he's done something awful. His excuses don't erase that truth.
His silence seems to be taken as guilt - which, really, it is - because Ren practically tosses him to the ground with a low growl. He yelps as his back collides with a jutted out plank of wood, winding him and sending pain spiking up his spine.
No one apologises as he writhes in pain for a moment; no one asks if he's alright.
He deserves it.
"Sorry," Grian whispers through the breathlessness, pulling his knees to his chest.
The muttering around him doesn’t stop, angry, upset voices blurring into one. He wants to hide, wants to crawl away from the noise and curl up forever. He doesn’t want to hear what they have to say, he doesn’t want to see their judgement and their hatred, their disappointment and their shock.
Facing this — any of this — feels like too much. Like he’s going to shatter into pieces or be swallowed by the void.
Grian knows that he deserves whatever scorn they give him, he knows that he would deserve it if they decided that he was no longer welcome on Hermitcraft, but he- he still doesn’t want that. He wants to be selfish, to stay in his home with his family, even though he has betrayed them all so terribly.
Even though he’s been unwillingly lying to them for months—
“Are you one of them?” Scar asks, suddenly. He doesn’t sound particularly shocked, just… expectant. Like he already knows Grian’s answer.
The avian nods without a second thought, shivering at the phantom sensation of a mask over his face and eyes in his mouth.
Scar doesn't say anything more, and Grian watches with absent horror as he turns on his heel and marches out of the room.
"I-I-" Grian wants to tell them what's really going on, he wants to tell them just how much he hates what he's doing. How he has no choice.
But- would they even believe him?
"I didn't mean for- for you all to get hurt," he whispers, clutching at himself desperately; making himself small. "I never wanted to hurt you."
Flashing memories of blood and wings and threats, of involuntary cooperation and crushed rebellion, pass behind Grian's eyes. How can he explain something like that? How can he explain just how badly they've ruined him?
He had thought that he was safe on Hermitcraft, once, but then the blanket was pulled from under his feet and he was left in freefall, unwillingly helping the Beings that have destroyed him over and over. Forced into servitude as they proved to him again and again that they are capable of killing everyone that he loves; destroying everything that he cares about.
Worst of all, Grian thinks that he would do it again, if he was given the chance.
"I couldn't let them hurt you," he whispers, so quietly that he is certain the others don't hear. He squeezes his eyes shut as more and more Hermits retreat from the room, leaning on each other and patching each other up as the scars from Last Life remain, burning and painful.
Tears slip pathetically down his cheeks, the few remaining voices discuss what to do with him. They don't bother to restrain him - a detail that doesn't escape Grian's notice.
He's not going anywhere anyway, and he thinks that they know that.