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The things that have occurred in the past half hour have been extremely, uncomfortably, and mind-numbingly nerve-wracking for Talking Mime.
The soles of his shoes click against the path as he follows Feinberg to the castle’s infirmary, the back of his shoes rubbing uncomfortably against his heels.
Mime curses under his breath, not because of the pain, but for fear of what he might see next.
“Damn it, Silverr…”
“Mime!” A thunderous boom travels across the village square, startling Mime out of the enjoyable munching of his lunch. He sighs knowingly, tutting to himself.
“Oh, well look who it is, Captain Feinberg. Finally remembered me, did you, ya fuckin’ asshole?” Mime spits out playfully, waving his sandwich. It’s a rest day for him.
Feinberg, in his uniform, is clearly working. Sucks to suck.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of the Captain of the guard visiting lil ol’ me?” Mime banters, swallowing the latest bite of his sandwich. “What, does the King need a new jester? Unless King Couri can give me a bestie pay raise, I'm not interested, man.”
Feinberg’s expression steels, his teeth clenching beneath his cheeks. Some sort of almost-panic dances in his eyes, poorly hidden by his sunglasses.
Mime’s playful mood drops as he reads the gravity of Feinberg’s presence. Feinberg isn’t here for a visit.
That’s not good.
Mime corrects his posture, facing Feinberg with full attention. It’s not uncommon that Feinberg is this serious; what concerns Mime is the look Feinberg has on his face.
“Silverr, he…” Feinberg’s usually stoney voice shakes as it trails off. Feinberg’s eyes are wide, and Mime unconsciously drags his gaze to Feinberg’s hands.
Feinberg’s gloved hands curl into fists, one gripping the hilt of the sword at his hip.
Feinberg clears his throat. “Has Silverr spoken to you in the past few days, Mime? It’s important.”
Mime blinks, looking up. “What the fuck? Yeah, duh. We live next to each other. What's the commotion ab–”
[Silverrruns has made the advancement: The End?]
Feinberg and Mime flinch in unison as the robotic voice in their heads spits out a sentence that freezes their blood.
“Fuck,” Mime swears as Feinberg turns and takes off toward the castle. Mime sprints after him, an unspoken agreement forming in a split second.
Stupid Silverr. Mime reiterates in his head, over and over. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He's got a death wish, doesn't he?
Mime shakes his head dizzy as Feinberg rushes him to the castle’s armory and tosses him a sword. Mime almost drops it, too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice the weapon in his hands.
No, no, stop thinking, Mime. Stop thinking. Silverr's smart. He's a good guy. He's talented as shit. He'll make it out.
Feinberg leads the way as Mime huffs and puffs behind him.
The two of them burst through HBG’s gates, staring down The Run.
Feinberg stops, turning to Mime.
“You still have it in you?” Feinberg grits out through clenched teeth, surprisingly not breathless.
Mime takes a deep breath, clutching the hilt of the sword that sits at his hip. Despite being a boring dude without a fancy title, Mime is still a Runner at heart.
Licking his lips, Mime exhales, nodding.
“Let's go save Silverr.” Mime mutters, taking off as his feet crunch under the dried leafy terrain that makes up The Run. The trees blur around Mime as he runs.
The air almost smelled nice, if you liked the smell of rain, wet grass, and roadkill.
“If I don't hear or see him by the end of today, I swear to the Universe bro. Mime takes a sharp breath in. “You’ll have a lot of explaining to do, and you will be dead to me.” Mime yells as he leaps over a sinkhole, the wind whistling in his ears.
It’s a wonder how Mime manages to keep his nerves in check, and that his beret hasn’t been swept away from his head. Or— oh, right. Mime has to focus to do it, but he can feel adrenaline pumping through his veins.
Universe, he missed this feeling.
Feinberg groans loudly somewhere to Mime’s right, sprinting so fast it almost looks like he‘s soaring.
The two come to a stop at a field. In the distance is a cave with torches that are burnt out. The stronghold.
Mime’s eyes widen as he spots a man with dark brown hair and a purple ribbon kneeling in the grass, tending to someone sprawled on the ground next to them.
A figure with black hair stands next to them, their posture crooked.
With every step Mime takes towards the trio, the air around him grows colder.
When did his hands become this clammy? When did his lip start to quiver and when did he start perspiring—wait, scratch that one.
Mime swears time slows down as he approaches who he guesses is the doctor among the trio.
Mime’s eyes travel to the doctor instinctively, who is cool as a cucumber giving instructions to Feinberg. Feinberg is arguing with them—Switch, he calls them—as he always does. Mime wonders how they keep themselves so calm. He wishes he could do that.
The black haired figure, Reignex, bites his fingernails. He seems significantly more anxious than the other two.
Mime can’t avoid the figure on the ground anymore, even though he knows what he’ll see. When Mime finds the telltale color of crimson red, he can’t help the whimper that slips from his lips. “S–Silverr?”
The arguing stops. Feinberg, kneeling just across from the doctor, Switch, and Reignex, are now staring at the figure lying on the ground.
Silverr, Mime’s friend. His best friend, maybe, lays peacefully in the grass. You'd think he’s sleeping if not for the injuries on every inch of his body. And boy, it’s awful. Mime sinks to his knees as he tries to sort through his thoughts.
Silverr is soaked in blood. Some fresh, Mime deduces, by the strong scent of iron in the air, but dark, dried blood stains his clothes, his hands, his hair. An unknown purple substance snakes up Silverr's neck, the corner of his lip ripped, bloody, and raw.
His horns are crumbling, cracking, the same violet sludge oozing out. Mime doesn’t notice until now that Silverr's eyes are uncovered. Usually, Silverr’s eyes are covered by his hair, but not this time. This time, they’re open, but glassy, his right eye obscured in blood.
Mime’s stomach turns. Everything about this is wrong. He shouldn’t be able to see Silverr’s eyes. He shouldn’t be kneeling in some unknown clearing near the Run, and he shouldn’t be crying.
“Silverr… No, no, no. C’mon dude. Get up. Please.” Mime’s voice cracks as he chokes out Silverr’s name, hot tears streaming down his cheeks. The dam that subdues Mime’s emotions is quickly crumbling, threatening to break at any second.
No, not here. Not in front of Silverr.
“Hey.” Switch gently taps Mime’s shoulder. “He's alive, by a miracle only Lady Universe could grant.”
Mime’s gaze never leaves Silverr, concentrating on his chest, his shirt and jacket red with blood. Yes, it is rising up and down, up and down, but it’s labored, stuttering at every breath.
Mime lets out a soft sob, throwing his gloves to the side and gripping Silverr's bloody hands. Blood, blood and blood. So much of it. It shouldn't be there.
The dam in Mime cracks and he weeps. Tears are running down his face, there's snot coming out his nose, and everything hurts, like Mime is the one gravely injured by the Ender Dragon.
Mime cries and cries, like he and Silverr are the only two beings on the surface of the damned Overworld. Mime’s thumb rubs against the back of Silverr's hand in a comforting manner, mumbling words of comfort into the air, even though he knows Silverr can’t hear him.
Mime is just glad. He is so glad that his best friend is alive. Barely, but he’s alive, and that’s enough. Everything else can be forgiven.
There's someone rubbing Mime’s back. Reign, he assumes. Looking up, Mime spots Feinberg a few feet away. Feinberg’s posture is unnaturally stiff, and he’s facing away from Mime. If Mime squints, he can see Feinberg’s shoulders trembling as he breathes. Mime can only describe it as ‘lowkey hyperventilating,’ but humor can only do so much when your best friend is on the brink of death in front of you.
After an infinity hour millenia while, Switch and Feinberg pull Silverr onto a piece of cloth attached to two sticks. A stretcher. Reign supports Mime as they trudge back to the castle, Reign’s left arm stretching across Mime’s shoulders, and Mime’s right arm supporting Reign’s waist.
The air is quiet, the silence only occasionally broken by Mime’s sniffles, Feinberg’s breath hitching at the sight of any oncoming mobs, and the squelch of rotted flesh as Feinberg’s sword pierces yet another chest.
Mime watches Feinberg skewer the poor creatures like kebabs, which is overkill, and Feinberg knows it. He’s probably coping in his own way, either by violently killing monsters or handling it all up in his head. Either way, Mime is glad he’s keeping it together.
Mime wakes, bleary eyed, to knocking at his door.
The day before was an absolute shitshow. The last thing Mime remembers is watching Switch wheel—no, push—Silverr into the infirmary.
“Hey, uh, Mime?” Feinberg’s voice rings out through his house. Mime checks the window. It’s still dark. Mime groans, slipping a sweater and a pair of shorts on as he pads to the door.
Feinberg flinches as Mime yanks open the door.
Mime hopes he looks normal, except for the fact that he definitely has bags under his hazel-brown eyes.
“Yo, unless someone is dying, do not ring me up bro.” Mime’s voice is thick with sleep. “I need my beauty rest. Watching your best friend almost die isn’t great for one’s complexion,” Mime slurs out, his brow in a tight frown.
Mime watches Feinberg’s expression, although still stoic, seep in a small amount of concern. “No, it’s nothing like that—“
“Okay? Goodnight, loser,” Mime cuts in, tugging his sweater off as he tries to shut his door.
“Dumbass, wait up. You know I wouldn’t show up at your door in the middle of the night if it wasn’t important.” Feinberg prevents the door from closing with his arm. “It's about Silverr.”
Mime opens the door so quickly it almost slams into his own face. His eyes are now wide, almost glowing amber. “I don't have all night. Hurry up.”
Feinberg freezes, his teeth clenched in annoyance, but his anger quickly vanishes.
“Well,” Feinberg says. “Switch wanted me to tell you that Silverr's… Okay. He's definitely steady, and he's bound to wake up soon.” Feinberg hesitates after he says Silverr's name, as though it left a sour taste in his mouth. “That's all. Sorry for interrupting your sleep, Mime.”
Feinberg turns to leave, but Mime steps outside, leaving the door wedged open behind him.
Stiffening as Feinberg turns back around, Mime sighs deeply. “Fuck, no, I'm sorry, Fein. I'm just...” He trails off, not sure which word to use.
Tired? Scared? Absolutely fucking drained of all vitality?
“I'm concerned. I… I really had faith in that Silverr asshole. Fuck, he's more talented than me, you know?” His voice wavers, wet with emotion.
Feinberg’s eyebrows narrow as he approaches Mime. He folds his arms over his chest.
“Silverr has endless potential, sure,” Feinberg begins, watching Mime’s now watery eyes meet his own. Feinberg raises an eyebrow. “You're a big fuckin’ idiot, you know that, right? You have your own good sides. Don't start comparing yourself. That's stupid.”
Mime pauses, wipes the tears from his eyes, smirking. “Shit, you're right. I... I have to beat him one day.” Mime lets out another breathy laugh as he grips onto his door frame tightly.
Feinberg nods as he starts walking away from Mime’s home. Mime notices the bruise on Feinberg's knuckles as he walks away, but says nothing. Feinberg must've punched something before visiting. Something, or someone. Mime hopes it's not the latter.
As Mime slides his sweater off, he tiredly drags himself to his bed, flopping onto the comfortable mattress. He hugs his pillow tightly in his arms. If only Mime paid attention to how Silverr acted a few days before Silverr went to the end. If only Mime asked Silverr what was wrong, if he could help with anything.
Maybe then Mime wouldn’t need to deal with the overwhelming guilt that comes with watching your best friend wave from death's door.
Mime lets his eyes shut, drifting into dreamless sleep.
Surprisingly, Mime doesn’t hear from Feinberg until two days later.
Feinberg runs up to Mime in a hurry, all over again, just like deja vu. All Mime understands from Feinberg’s words is Silverr, and he runs .
Mime slams open the infirmary doors, causing a visibly stressed-out Switch to flinch.
“Really? Not even a knock? Or a hello, maybe a small ‘hi’, Mime?” Switch raises his eyebrows and clicks his tongue distastefully.
“Sorry Switch. Wheres–” Mime starts, before getting cut off by Switch.
“Straight ahead, room to your right. Please do not bombard him, he just woke up, you may overwhelm him.”
Mime nods, and speed-walks to the room Switch directed him towards, careful not to scare Silverr with the sound of his footsteps.
Mime stands in front of the door, letting out a shaky sigh. His hands shake as he reaches for the doorknob.
Mime is afraid of what may greet him beyond the door.
Images of blood from that day flash in his mind and he takes a step back.
“Alright Mime, don't be an idiot. He's awake. He’s fine. Stop tweaking like a bitch.” Mime murmurs to himself as he reaches for the doorknob.
The dark oak door creaks open, and Silverr's eyes flutter open in response to the sound, wincing.
Half-lidded eyes turn to his side as Silverr watches his friend, no, best friend, stare at him with wide hazel eyes.
Mime walks in, shaking.
“Mime?” Silverr mumbles out, jaw hanging slightly, reaching for Mime. “Is that… you?”
Mime sniffs and nods with a small smile. “Yeah, you idiot, it's me.” Mime rushes forward and kneels down to Silverr's eye level.
Silverr lets out a relieved sigh as he watches Mime kneel before him, a small smirk on his face. “Heard from Fein that you didn't leave your house for almost a week straight.” Silver laughs weakly, eyes creasing. “Ooh… TalkingMime is soft now? Oooh…”
“Just shut up.” Mime presses his cheek into Silverr's hand to confirm that he is indeed real, tears beginning to trickle down his face. A quiet laugh escapes his lips.
The two stay like that for a while, glad that each other are alive and well, relieved to see one another.
“Silverr Runs. If you do anything stupid like that ever again, I'm going to get Couri to kick your ass, I swear to the Universe.” Mime chuckles, holding Silverr's hand again, rubbing his thumb against Silverr’s knuckles, the same way he did when Silverr laid in front of him half-dead.
Silverr frowns, mumbling a soft, “I was so close to killing her,” before earning a flick to the forehead from Mime.
Feinberg and Switch watch the two from the room door. Switch, with a soft smile on his face, and Feinberg, who lets out a small sigh of relief.
At least for now, nobody in HBG will try to fight the Ender Dragon.
They already have seen what's described as the best possible outcome if you manage to survive.
“Switch,” Feinberg calls after he and Switch leave Mime and Silverr alone.
Switch stops mid-stride in the hallway, turning to Feinberg. “Yes?”
“He shouldn’t be alive.” Feinberg jerks his thumb in the direction of the room they left Mime and Silverr in. “Nobody survives injuries like that.”
Switch frowns, gazing over Feinberg’s shoulder. “I know.”
Feinberg lets out a short sigh. Switch clearly doesn’t want to have this conversation. Too bad for him, because he needs to.
Feinberg takes a step toward Switch. “Switch. What did you do?”
“It wasn’t me,” Switch says, almost too quickly. “Silverr’s condition was even worse before you saw him. You’re right. He should have been dead long before that, but he wasn’t. Something kept him alive before I got there.”
Feinberg crosses his arms. “Who kept him alive after you got there?”
Switch presses his lips together.
Feinberg trots over to Switch’s side. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you clinging to him for dear life back there. If Mime weren’t there, I would have called your ass out.”
“Yeah,” Switch replies with a roll of his eyes. “Cause Mime was there, not because you were scared out of your mind, too—“
“Stop deflecting, Switch,” Feinberg snips. “Skies, you’re just like Couri.”
“Fine.” Switch throws his hands to the side. “Yeah, I healed Silverr. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Feinberg levels his gaze with Switch. “You and I both know that’s not what this is about.”
Switch’s hands return to his pockets, his brow scrunching in confusion. “Fein, are you worried about me?”
“No shit I’m worried about you,” Feinberg admits, feeling only a little embarrassed. “You can’t fool me. I know how your power works. You could have died.“
“I know my limits,” Switch says defensively, his shoulders tensing.
Feinberg studies Switch’s expression. It’s guarded, but still apprehensive. “Are you thinking about your limits when it comes to one of us? Or are you willing to do everything you can to save a life, even at the cost of your own?”
“So what if I am?” Switch snarls, stepping forward.
Feinberg has struck a nerve. He has to admit, it feels good after Switch plucked at Feinberg’s heartstrings so many times in the past.
Feinberg takes a deep breath. “Switch, if you keel over trying to save somebody, who’s going to heal you? Do you really think you’re that dispensable?”
Switch’s eyes gloss over.
For a moment, both men stand in the empty corridor in silence. Feinberg can barely hear Mime and Silverr chatting in the other room.
“Pot calling the kettle,” Switch mutters, defeated.
Feinberg lets out a quiet laugh, but nothing is humorous to him. “It takes one to know one.”