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It wasn’t cold anymore. As the click of his boots echoed over stone streets, Scar knew that logically it shouldn’t be cold anymore. Scarland was a place for laughter and carefree fun, not for the empty silence that Scar wished something would fill. He usually liked the silence; it was easier to focus with.
Now, though, all he could think about was bloodied hands and fear. Not just one game. Five. Five worlds he had never known suddenly came crashing into his mind the moment he realized that Pearl was dead.
He knew that there had been games—he had heard vague retellings from those who did remember, but that was before.
Sometimes, over the last two Hermitcraft worlds, Scar would greet Grian with his classic friendly smile, but Grian would act as if he’d just attacked him. Scar knew that Grian avoided sand, and cactus, and Scar. But he had never known why.
Sometimes Scar would hear sobs coming from Pearl’s base as he flew by. He wondered now if she would ever forgive him.
He understood. With shaky hands opening the door to the place in Scarland he’d been living in for over a year, he understood.
There was something about the way he was still cold. The way he knew he had friends everywhere on Hermitcraft, but he was still as deeply alone as he had been in that game. In all the games, really.
He had plucked poppies and lilacs from around his base in that game because they smelled like home and that familiarity was enough. Looking back, Scar didn’t know if he would rather have known why.
Out of everything, it was the desert that had shocked him the most. When memories had been breathed into him and he knew that he wouldn’t forget, it was the memories of that first game that had hurt the most. He knew why Grian flinched when they flew over deserts, now.
He had been alone. Even when he hadn’t been technically by himself, he had been alone. Grian was bound to him by obligation, then he had bought friends who never acted like it, then Grian was bound to him again, then there was family that never truly knew him, and then he was alone.
Scar was starting to understand why Grian avoided him, both in the games and directly after them.
He dragged a hand through his hair and watched his shaking fingers fall back to his side. They were cold.
Vaguely, Scar wondered whether Grian struggled with this after every game or if it ever numbed. He hoped it would numb, because the aching in his chest at what he did, what he had to do, was so strong that he could hardly breathe.
Scar exhaled. Spiraling into his thoughts wouldn’t contribute to anything, no matter how much he hyperventilated. Sometimes a game is just a game, and he had to remember that his friends were alive. Grian was alive, Pearl was alive. They just kept going; so he would, too.
He tried to stand.
Well, he supposed that one day in bed wouldn’t hurt too much. He could find something to occupy his thoughts. He couldn’t even move, though; he was sitting on the side of his bed staring at the ground, thinking of sunflowers.
Scar didn’t know how much time passed. He was having trouble keeping count of anything, waiting for a book to fall into his hands with something new that would make him the villain.
But no book came, and he kept breathing.
Eventually, the door opened cautiously and a person shuffled in. Scar looked up, unable to gather up enough energy to smile at Grian. He just stared at him.
“I understand now,” Scar muttered, voice hoarse. Grian’s face fell into something sympathetic, and he approached.
Scar flinched. It wasn’t intentional, and he knew that Grian knew that, but the hurt was still evident in Grian’s eyes. Grian stopped, standing in front of Scar.
“You won.” His tone was neither congratulatory nor bitter. Scar was glad for it; he had gotten a little sick of the smiles plastered on everybody’s face as they congratulated him as if they knew what he had done. Grian stated it like a double-edged blade—winning wasn’t the hard part, and Scar knew that now.
“I didn’t mean to.” Scar was shocked by the honesty in his own voice. Grian hesitated before approaching again, sitting cautiously next to Scar.
There was something unreadable in Grian’s eyes, something like sympathy but without the pity usually accompanying sympathy. “I know. None of us did,” Grian admitted. “I take it you can remember—”
Scar frowned. “Yeah.” The way that he had been so overbearing to Grian, so insistent that he ally with him each game. If only he had known, he would have stopped after seeing the negative impact it had on Grian. How it was only the two of them out of necessity or fate.
“If I’m honest, I don’t think I ever left that cactus ring,” Grian said into the silence. “I feel like I’m still there, all the time, after five games.”
Scar nodded. He couldn’t imagine how Grian must have felt, knowing every single time without being able to say anything. Living with the knowledge of that first game, living a repeat of it five times, and going back to a peaceful world where he would have had to just pretend… Scar didn’t know how Grian did it.
“Do you still feel the loneliness?” Scar asked, voice raw. Grian had alliances every time. Scar didn’t know if Grian even knew the same isolation that he did. The way that he was forced to play the role of villain, highlighted most clearly in Secret Life.
“No,” Grian responded, as Scar predicted he would. “I don’t think I ever had that. It was mostly—well, it was mostly trying to cope with the fact that I’ve gotten the people I care about most killed every single time.”
“Except in Third Life and Double Life. There, it was just me.” Scar’s attempt at humor fell flat, and Grian stared at him incredulously.
“What?” Grian’s eyes were wide. “You were the first. And once in Last Life. Then, in Double Life and Limited Life. It was always you.”
It was always you.
“It was just because I was holding on without knowing. Even with the flowers this season.” If Scar focused, he could almost feel the soulmate bond that had been such a present comfort throughout Double Life. It was as if there was a phantom string still bringing him back to Grian each time.
“I mean, I did just say that I don’t think I ever left that desert,” Grian said quietly, “I don’t think it was your fault. At all.”
“But… you always avoided me.”
Grian took a deep breath. “I was—I was terrified of hurting you again. I still see your blood on my hands when I close my eyes, and I couldn’t handle that again.”
“Oh.” Scar hadn’t thought of it like that. Now that he knew, it was hard to forget the tears in Grian’s eyes in that cactus ring. The fear in his eyes when they were soulbound. Even the little connections in the other games that had seemed so miniscule, now made sense.
It was silent for several long moments.
“How do you get through it?” Scar asked. “The memories.”
Grian paused. He seemed to think for a long time before responding. “I don’t think I ever did. I must have died with you that first time, in that cactus ring, because I haven’t gotten over it or anything else since.”
“So you just, what, smile and pretend?” Scar asked, even though he already knew the answer.
“There’s nothing else to do.” A beat. “Sometimes I talk to Pearl about it. The two of us were the only ones on Hermitcraft who understood, but… now there are three. And I’m so, so sorry that it had to be you.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It is. It’s my fault that They hate me, and I care about you. So They hate you, too.”
“That was frustratingly vague,” Scar muttered. “‘They’?”
“It’s—It’s complicated. Pearl knows and… I mean, maybe she and I could help you understand all of that, but right now all I can do is tell you that it really is my fault,” Grian said.
Scar looked down again. “So I just have to pretend I didn’t kill all of my friends?”
“Now you’re getting it,” Grian said dryly, with a false smile. “I’m sorry that it had to be you.”
“Nothing we can do about that now,” Scar responded bitterly, “I’ve won.”
“We move forward.” Grian spoke like it was a resolution, rather than a step toward healing. Still, Scar agreed.
“We move forward.”
Scar didn’t know if he could ever be the way he was before. He remembered, and that meant that he had to deal with the consequences of it. The headache may never go away, but he had people who understood. He wasn’t alone anymore.