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Jamato’s been living well, so to speak.
He’s built himself a sturdy base deep in the Farlands, digging underground until he reached a crevice to call home. Every so often, he’ll indulge in his pastimes and fly out into the rest of the server, explore spawn, catch a glimpse of his flower-filled gardens as he soars past and turns the other way-
Jamato’s been doing okay. He’s decorated his base nicely, with roses- his favorite flower- strewn around, stuck in pots on either side of his bed. At night, he breathes in their comforting perfume, the one thing that convinces him to sleep these days.
He sees him in his dreams every day.
In one, Spoke is standing in front of him, fist over his chest, whispering accusations and apologies. In another, he’s kneeling armorless, pressing his fishing rod into Jamato’s hands.
In yet another one, Spoke is crawling towards him, bloody palms leaving handprints in the pitch black, screaming until Jamato’s ears ring and he falls to the floor. Spoke’s hands grip at his shoulders as Jamato pushes him away, but Jamato stares and realizes that Spoke’s chest is painted dark red, that his own hands are slippery with blood. Spoke sobs out, “You were supposed to protect me, please, we’re friends, Jamato,” and Jamato can’t speak, can’t shout, can’t do anything except watch as Spoke claws at his own throat, gore drips down his collar-
As much as he doesn’t want to, Jamato wonders how he’s doing. He always has, even before the mafia, before Ashswagg. When he was hiding in his base, he would briefly wonder, Has Ash gotten to him yet? before shaking off the thought.
Even now, he’ll think about him. The thought of casually traveling the world and stumbling upon wherever Spoke is hiding now has crossed his mind twenty times over, but he brushes it off and continues about his normal life, because normal is impossible if Spoke is present.
Jamato knows Spoke is a lost cause. He saw proof of it in the lighthouse, when Spoke unsheathed his sword and drove it through his back, blade trembling as green and yellow sparks popped around them. He chooses to ignore Spoke’s face as he coughed up blood, the anguish behind those empty eyes, and focuses on the fury painted over it instead. He knows Spoke is beyond salvation as he watches him stand over the grave, falling to his knees as he (laughs? Sobs? Jamato can’t tell the difference.)
Jamato remembers a time long ago, before the Farlands, before the Underworld, before the mafia. When it was just him and Spoke, reverent eyes peering up at him like he was a god come to earth to give holy revelation, when innocent hands took his redstone-trimmed armor gratefully and held the set like it was too pure to hold. Jamato chooses to forget how Spoke treats the last remaining piece now, how the chestplate is stored away carefully before every fight, still venerated like the last fragment of a long-gone deity.
Jamato dreams of this as well. Sometimes, he’s in his old base, laughing with Spoke as they duplicate hundreds of dirt blocks for whatever reason. Or, they’re hunkered down in a Wonder, trying to stay quiet as an unsuspecting player soars past up above. When they’re gone, both of them sigh in relief, then look at each other and start giggling quietly. Jamato leads Spoke out by the hand, urging him to follow as he shows him yet another exploit.
Jamato’s memory is getting foggy, because when he pulls away, he remembers a bloody mark imprinted onto Spoke’s wrist.
Spoke looks at him serenely in their underground bunker, clasping Jamato’s hands to his chest. “You taught me so much,” he starts, eyes glowing with love and wonder. “When I had nothing, you were there.” The hands around his form claws, digging into his palms as Spoke’s expression morphs into one of anger, eyes now shining with red tears that roll down his face, dripping onto their joined hands. “We were supposed to protect the server together, weren’t we? I had no one, Jamato, when you left me.”
Jamato wakes up in the Farlands, clutching at his own fingers, feeling the prickling accusations of eyes that aren’t really there. He sometimes misses the feeling of cold hands in his, but he shakes it off as he concentrates on the pain of talons piercing his flesh instead.
Jamato tries to forget the exploits- Spoke has changed and will never change again, he tells himself over and over. A once innocent player curious about the world turned manipulative and scheming, only knowing himself and what he wants.
Jamato tries to forget who made him like that in the first place.
There is no turning back now. Spoke has dug his own grave and will lie in it sooner or later. Jamato’s is already made, fresh dirt turned over in the plains next to the Farlands. Spoke will atone for his sins- and Jamato will too, because, after all, he is only human.
He cannot save Spoke, Jamato convinces himself.
He ignores the part of his mind telling him that he never truly tried.