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Evil Xisuma
It was warm.
Unnaturally so. The heat that bore down upon him was something which the empty, unfeeling void he’d grown so accustomed to knew it was incapable of producing.
He inhaled deeply, the air which flooded his lungs was sharp, more hostile than that of the End. As if he was breathing through a straw. (A wonderful creation he’d only gotten to try once as a child). Yet still, despite its weakness, the air brought relief to his aching muscles. Through the armour, it was difficult to feel what was in front of him, his sense of touch was- muted, somewhat. However, through the thick material of his gloves, he could feel something soft. Something unnatural- grass?
[EvilXisuma joined the game]
[Mumbo] Uh, guys
He stretched further, revelling in the use of his limbs. They bent and twisted, contorted and moved fluidly, all except his left leg, which was oozing blood ominously underneath his suit. The short blade he kept strapped to his leg had penetrated a weak spot in the protective gear as he had fallen. He grimaced at the pain which restricted him from moving much further. He was not unaccustomed to injury, despite his barren homeland. Life in the End was brutal, even for those born there. Whilst no wind blew to push him over, and no sun beat down on his back, he always managed to bruise, cut or scrape himself on the hard obsidian of the towers, or the stone of the floor.
The End was a casm, empty. A black hole at the centre of existence. He was hungry, all of the time. The chorus fruit present did little to ease the void inside of him, and the risk that accompanied their consumption had nearly resulted in his respawn more times than he could count.
Death was strange there too, he came back- sure, but he had no spawn point, logistically speaking- he shouldn’t have been able to respawn at all, it was a glitch in his code- or in the End or- somewhere. For the day and night cycle did not exist there. There was no moon to rise, no sun to set, just- darkness.
After his stint in Season eight, Ex had found himself growing used to sleep and he missed the cold comfort closing his eyes and not feeling- anything for a few hours provided him. Although, he knew, even if it had been possible, sleep would’ve come sparse and unenthusiastically.
Xisuma had never outwardly banished him from his server, his family.
However, when the moon had finally collided with their Empire, something he should’ve seen coming- Ex had died, combusted, just like the rest of the Hermits, waking up in his homeland. Ironic, calling it that when the dimension was nothing but sharp and hostile, not homely at all, and certainly not welcoming. Dark corners and cutting edges, yet- it was all he had.
The Voidwalkers had migrated now. Heaven knew where to, all Ex has known was that they weren’t there. Inhabiting empty End cities for centuries, the civilisations of his species, rare as they were, were gone. Very few signs of them remaining. And he’d looked! Oh, how he’d looked. Walking until his limbs grew weary, exploring until he could crawl no more. There was no way out, no lit portal, nothing. Even the dragon was gone, dead? Perhaps. He had no way to know. All that was left was the shulkers and the Endermen. Neither of which made particularly great company. The tall, grotesquely stretched figures had always scared Ex. Although he would never let his brother know that. They used to play games with the silent inhabitants, seeing who could look at one the longest.
But now he had kept his head down as he walked past, unwilling to remember, to dwell on memories that would never occur again. Irrelevant, faded to black and white with age.
Get up, you’re back.
Do it again. Beat them again. Rule them again.
Xisuma used to call it ‘The Shadow,’ the voice, that was. The Shadow had been with Ex all his life, had loomed over him as a baby, casting his crib into darkness. Whilst Xisuma’s had probably shone with predestined valour and courage, all that bullshit that his brother possessed, qualities Ex could only dream of. He used to think it was embarrassing, his brother’s loyalty to his Hermits, his love for his husband- Kermit, was it? But gradually it had dawned on him that Xiusma’s loyalty was not foolhardy, for those he was loyal to were also loyal to him. There was no risk of betrayal because the concept would never be entertained, never toyed with nor considered, for even a minute. Because Xisuma had something he didn’t, something he could never have, he was loved. And to be loved was to be valued.
So when he’d found his way onto Hermitcraft Season 8, Ex had discarded his plans for world domination, let them have their peace. If he couldn’t laugh and joke, he would spend his time doing something productive. Something easy. And that was what Derpcoin had been. Cold, mindless money, oh- sure, it was all a scam, but- Well, Ex never really cared about being rich. Why would he? What use did diamonds have to a nondescript alien entity who had never once set foot in the Shopping District? Besides, the Hermits were rolling in those things, he’d hardly made a dent in their piles of riches. So did he regret it? The swindling, the building, the gathering? No. Not one bit.
What he regretted was making Xisuma do so too. He’d originally planned to convince his Brother to join him, apologise for Season Five, grovel- if he had to. But upon seeing Xisuma again, feeling the connection that only two blood-linked Voidwalkers could- The shadow had risen up, taken hold. Had it forced his hand? No. He wasn’t under a spell, his actions were his own. The shadow was smart, it was effective. It took away his ability to contemplate, to consider the circumstances of any action, warped his morality (or whatever was left of it). The Shadow made right look like wrong and wrong look like worse. Xisuma didn’t want to? No bother, just make him! Simple as that. No harm done! The Shadow was like a blanket of fog around his brain, and the longer he spent with Xiusma the darker and thicker it grew.
They had always been different, him and his older brother. Xisuma was good and Ex was evil, he the was light where Ex was dark. That was how it was meant to be, how it always had been. As much as Ex resented his Brother, resented the life he had and the people he held dear, he did not hate him. He never had, and as days(?) had passed in the End, after the moon had struck, the fog had lifted and the reality of what he had done struck him hard across the face.
Which is why he would never have chosen to be here, not willingly.
He was ashamed, embarrassed by his manipulation of Xisuma, Ex didn’t want to be here. The server he now knew was the one he’d not long departed.
But-
A strong hand gripped his helmet and dragged his head up. A powerful figure looked down upon him, her skin was a muted green and their hair and vibrant, fiery orange. They pressed a sword roughly into his neck, it had a strong blade and a well-crafted handle, beautiful designs intricately carved into the wood. The warped expression of loathing she wore outwardly on her face ensured that Ex knew that the promise the position of her sword enacted should be taken seriously.
“Cleo!” Another voice piped up in warning.
“It’s fine, Joe. He’s completely out of it.”
Ex didn’t know what was meant by that, probably some odd player slang. His vision swam as his attacker examined his face, lightheaded from the sudden change of position. Maybe the leg injury was a bit worse than he’d thought.
With one hand still on the back of his neck, holding him upwards, and the other holding their weapon steady, ‘Cleo’ spoke again.
“Why are you here, Evil Xiusma? You’ve tried to conquer the server before and it always fails! Haven’t you learnt yet?”
He chuckled lifelessly,
“Go on,” he drawled, knowing she wouldn’t.
“Do it. I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me to be.”
A crowd of Hermits had formed around them now, and Ex spotted many unfamiliar faces, although admittedly he hadn’t done much socialising when busy conquering the economy.
“Cleo, put him down.” A creeper hybrid with a strong accent ordered. The way the player spoke indicated a well-respected reputation, along with a vague disinterest in everything that was going on around him.
The redhead spluttered indignantly,
“What?! He tried to kill you, Doc! He tried to kill all of us! He’s killed Xisuma more times than I can count! He trapped Ren in that game-“ The hybrid stiffened at the mention of the other man. Ex, who, now he thought about it, did have a vague recollection of, the one with the… dog ears?
He’d never actually seen a dog.
“Look, Xisuma wouldn’t want-“
“Xisuma isn’t here!”
Oh, thank god.
“Well, what do you wanna do, Doc? He’s a monster! And he’s proved several times that he’s a danger to all of us, let alone the server!” A new, raspier voice joined the fray, his objection met by murmurs of agreement from various other Hermits.
Ex’s neck hurt awfully, being forced to hold the awkward position by the scary player’s intense strength was agonising. Yet he still turned to look at the speaker. Who was- familiar to say the least. Although Ex could not remember ever meeting the man before. It was as if he had heard stories but never connected the name to a face, the name which- evaded him still.
The man seemed to smoke with anger, as Ex surveyed him. His muted ginger hair faded into various oranges and reds as it progressed, (not unlike a bonfire). It was- interesting, unique. Ex decided he liked it. Although the man himself seemed like an arse. His hair was tied up in a short, messy ponytail, large strands had escaped from the tie and framed the player’s face in a ragged, carefree manner, getting in his eyes. Which were hidden by large, expressive sunglasses. Everything about his demeanour screamed ‘tense’ it reminded Ex of a cat ready to pounce, skittish, unsure, afraid.
Cleo huffed a sigh and dropped his head, letting his body slam to the floor. Ex wanted to lay still, revelling in the moment of peace. But his instincts told him to move, and he scrambled up, into a sitting position, making sure to put a few metres of distance in between him and the crowd of players.
He didn’t know what to do, to say, Hell- he didn’t even want to be here. There were so many of them and it was too much. All Ex knew was that he couldn’t let them throw him in prison again. He’d just escaped one cell and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let them throw him into another.
“Where… is Xisuma?” He asked tentatively. He was too tired to pretend to be threatening or to activate his voice changer which made his voice much deeper than it was.
“Why? So you can hurt him again?” Spat the player who had spoken before.
Ex sighed and reached up to rub his temple where the beginnings of a migraine were undoubtedly forming. Being unable to effectively soothe the pain, he unclipped his helmet begrudgingly and placed it close to his side.
The crowd around him gasped, and he stared at them confused, and honestly- kind of pissed off.
“What?” He snapped.
“You look just like him.” One of the Hermits closest to him said quietly.
“Well obviously.” He replied, running a gloved hand through his tangled, black hair, wincing when it came into contact with where his scalp was bleeding. He looked up again and caught one of the Hermits staring at him. Large purple eyes peeked out from behind the angry Blazeborn(?). They seemed… woeful, worried, nothing like the expressions of everyone else. Ex opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted again.
“Look I’ve sent a message to Xisuma he should be back soon-“
“Why would you do that?! He’s on holiday!”
“Well, what do you suggest, False?”
Chaos erupted again and Ex searched the crowd for those eyes again. The ones which felt so familiar, a different shade of purple than his brother’s irises, a deeper, bluer indigo. One that spoke of the sea at night, the void in the End. Yet they were gone now, vanished completely.
Ex’s vision blurred and he zoned out the noise of the argument, their voices all merging together to form one constant droning noise. His head hurt and his entire body ached from whatever- however he had gotten here, his leg still smarting in agony. Server hopping was fairly uncomfortable, but this was different- this was tangible. He could feel the lingering effects of whatever had brought him here, sinister or good, its mark remained on him regardless. And it was only when someone suggested sending him back to the End and sealing the portal did he snap out of the trance. His hand flew to his sword like an animal baring its teeth, they wouldn’t send him back. He’d rather be warm than cold.
As if she’d been waiting for him to act out, Cleo pounced once more. Using one foot to topple him over, his back slamming into the dirt once more, the player kicked his sword away and aimed her own directly at his chest, its sharp end indenting the chest plate beneath it.
Behind her, Ex heard a commotion. The ginger man he’d been arguing with was fighting, jostling with someone.
“Zed? What are you doing- Don’t go near him!”
“Let go, Tango!”
Various shouts and cries followed this, but Cleo’s blade blocked the majority of Ex’s vision.
Fighting through the gaggle of Hermits, the player finally appeared in front of him. He brushed the zombie hybrid off to the side, causing her to stumble and nearly drop her sword. The man in question did not look overly strong at all, and, judging by the expressions of everyone around him, Cleo’s retreat had been out of shock rather than fear.
He stood above him now, breathing heavily. The first thing Ex noticed was his eyes, the same stunning colour he’d caught a glimpse of in the crowd, which gleamed like geodes in the mid-afternoon sun.
The second thing he noticed was the bracelet tied around his wrist, peaking out from underneath a warm brown knitted jumper, it consisted of two strands of string, red and black. Beautiful in its simplicity, the thread was old and fraying at the edges, a symbol of its time. Ex would recognise it anywhere, seeing as he’d made it. Perfectly matching the pink and yellow one he kept tucked under his armour, a shameful reminder of what he had lost.
The third and final thing he noticed was the man’s hand, extended towards him, an invitation. A chance. He took it without hesitation, the blonde hoisting him to his (unsteady) feet.
There was a minute where the pair simply stared at each other, Ex’s mouth was slightly agape, taken aback by the reappearance of his one and only friend.
“Wormman.” He whispered.
“Exy,” came the response, voice raspy with emotion. Zed took his shoulders kindly and pulled him in for a hug, clutching Ex’s shaking form tightly. Who grappled back, holding on to his friend despite the pain in his legs.
He gasped as his bare face hit the soft wool of Zedaph’s jumper, such a gentle sensation he’d never felt before. He heard murmurs and shouts as he gingerly placed his hands on Zedaph’s back, burying his fingers in the soft material of his clothing.
When they parted Zed turned to face his fellow Hermits, “Ex is going to be staying with me until he’s feeling better. If any of you have a problem with that, feel free to bring it up with Xisuma.”
“Zed! What the fuck?” The Blazeborn cried in anger.
“Tango-“
But the man was gone, walking quickly away, scorching the grass underfoot. Two men hastened to follow him, one short and brunette, the other tall and lanky with angel wings. Ex had so many questions but Zed guided him away from the gaggle of stunned Hermits, placing a firm hand on his back to support him as he limped.
“We’re going to go home, you’re alright I promise.”
Ex nodded, stunned.
“Oh,” the sheep added almost as an afterthought, “Don’t worry about Tango, he’ll come around eventually.”
”He- seemed pretty mad.”
“Yeah, well, I can be pretty persuasive.”
Zedaph winked cartoonishly at him and Ex felt himself laugh for the first time in what felt like centuries.
He was going to be alright.