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Going from a death game back to Hermitcraft was a hard thing to adjust to.
One minute, Mumbo was red. Murderous thoughts filled his every waking second, he felt restless unless there was a sword in his hand or a trap planned. Then, the next minute, he was back in Hermitcraft. Laying in a soft bed, in his little van. The murderous thoughts gone for the first time in days.
He can actually think again.
Yet all his thoughts feel as if they had been dunked in a vat of icy cold water. Fear filled him, made his heart beat faster and his hands tremble. He was terrified, terrified of what he had done, terrified of what he had become, terrified of what had stopped him. Terrified of Grian.
He never thought he would be scared of Grian. Never thought that his avian friend could even be counted as scary. Grian was shorter than him, and Mumbo knew from experience he could easily lift the other up and throw him around. Grian had never shown any sign of aggression, always loud and happy and kind. They shared so many good moments together, from Grian teaching Mumbo how to preen his wings to the tree war, to even moments from seasons before.
Yet every single time Mumbo heard that man's name, -- they were friends once, best friends, yet he couldn't even think of calling Grian that now -- Mumbo just wanted to run. He wanted to run and hide, bury himself under the blankets of his bed in his van and hide away from the world, staying quiet enough that nobody could ever find him. He wanted to lock himself up somewhere safe, somewhere that nobody, especially Grian, could hurt him.
It was easier before Grian got back.
Boatem was very quiet, it was strange. Then the others started returning. It wasn't easy, but it wasn't hard either. He had been close with some, but none had betrayed him the way Grian did. He still trusted them, somewhat.
The day Mumbo saw the message in chat announcing Grian's arrival back on the server, its like Mumbo's heart just stops.
The world around them feels like it closes in on him, crushing him between its mountains, ripping the air from his lungs and leaving him suffocating. He gasps for breath, and finds himself back in his van.
The texture of the soft blankets isn't enough to comfort him. He can't breathe, he can barely think through the icy chill that has settled over his brain.
His hand is tight around the handle of his sword, knuckles white from the pressure. His body trembles, and he gasps for air, shadows wrapping around his sight. His eyes are stuck on the window of his van, trying to watch and see if anyone approaches his base.
Nobody does.
Nights pass. The moon seems a bit bigger, but Mumbo doesn't notice that, still focused on the window. His mouth grows dry, but he doesn't stand for water. His stomach burns in hunger, yet he doesn't leave to go get food.
His hands feel numb as they grip the handle of his sword, constantly ready to attack.
Finally someone comes.
There a loud crash as something lands on the top of his van. Mumbo swears his heart stops beating, yet he can hear it loudly in his ears as the thing bends down and peeks through the windows of the van.
The moment Grian's curious brown eyes meet Mumbo's wild red ones, Mumbo is attacking.
He tumbles through the window of his van, slashing at the air where Grian once was. Grian manages to dodge, simply standing up again, but Mumbo falls, air rushing past him before he slams into the grass below the van. His body erupts in pain as he hits the hard dirt, but he barely gives it any thought as he tries to stand again, pushing himself up with aching arms.
He doesn't manage to stand on his legs before they're giving out, sending his trembling body tumbling to the ground. His legs burn as if he had just gone out for a swim in lava, and he gasps for air, finding it hard to breathe as every movement makes the pain worse.
Mumbo's vision is blurred, yet he can still identify the shape of Grian as the man approaches -- there's something in his hand, a sword? Will he kill him again, slit his throat and let him bleed out? Mumbo remembers the feeling of the cold in his neck as the blade slid through his skin, remembers feeling almost as if he was drowning as the world around him grew dark -- speaking in a soft voice, that is muffled by the deafening sound of Mumbo's own heartbeat.
Mumbo tries to crawl away, hands grabbing uselessly at the grass, clawing at it until dirt is under every fingernail. He manages to crawl until stone, which scrapes his clawing hands, blood staining his pale skin as he keeps trying to escape. There are hands grabbing him, trying to pick him up, trying to get him in a better position to kill him, and he hears someone screaming as he tries to shove them away. He smacks at them, mouth open in what he quickly realises is the scream he hears. Yet the person doesn't drop him, and his screams turn into sobs as he keeps trying to get away, pushing and clawing.
They move him a bit, getting a hand under his knees to try and pick him up better, but as they touch his legs he watches as the world greys into static, a loud ringing in his ears drowning everything out as he falls unconscious, the pain and panic too much for him.
When he wakes up, he's in his van. Theres nobody else there, only him and the moonlight that shines through the windows. He sits up, wincing as pain shoots through his body. His legs are bandaged up, as well as his hands, which had been covered in scrapes from clawing at stone and grass.
A potion sits on the table next to him, the sickly bright red colour of healing. He's never realised until now how close that colour is to potions of harming, how easy it'd be to change a promise of safety and painlessness for a harsh suffering.
He doesn't drink the potion.
At the end of his bed is feathers, bright and colourful. He knows those feathers well, knows how they feel on his hands, knows how precisely they need to be positioned. One time those feathers offered him comfort, offered him a feeling of safety as he touched them, helping clean and position them back into place, but now as he looks at them in the dark room, all he can feel is a sense of dread filling his heart, throat closing up on him.
He stands up, ignoring how his legs burn at the simple shift to having weight on them. He stumbles to his chests, digging through piles of miscellaneous things until the familiar weight of a flint and steel is in his hands. He heads back to his bed, and slowly hits the two together until a spark flickers, and the feathers start to burn.
The fire offers a strange sense of warm to his body, which is still cold from an unyielding fear.
He uses his hands to put out the fire once the feathers are only ash. Stabbing pain shoots from where the fire touched his skin, but he doesn't let it bother him. He sets the flint and steel to the side, and looks through his window, where shattered glass lets the cool night breeze fill the small van.
He can kinda see Grian's house from here, lights on. He knows where Grian is. He knows the other can't get to him without Mumbo seeing him right now.
He knows Grian could have killed him earlier. But Grian didn't.
Mumbo's body still is filled with an icy cold blizzard, trembling as he thinks of what Grian can do, of the pain his "best friend" can cause. He can feel the blade slicing through his throat again, can feel blood dripping down his pale skin, staining the collar of his suit.
He knows it'll be a long time before he ever feels good about Grian again.