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The violet haze of the End was thick enough to taste, a metallic tang that always signaled safety to those who knew how to find it.
Tucked within a hollowed-out cavern of end stone, the trio was a small pocket of warmth against the infinite, silent void.
Egg sat on a weathered shulker box, Wemmbu’s left wing draped across his lap like a heavy, broken sail.
His fingers moved with rhythmic, soothing precision, picking out splinters of obsidian and smoothing the ruffled barbs of the feathers.
Occasionally, his hand would brush against the base of the obsidian-dark horns protruding from Wemmbu’s hair, and he’d take a moment to gently wipe away the soot clinging to the ridges.
Minute sat on the ground in front of them, his heavy armor discarded to the side.
He looked less like the Guardian of the End and more like a man who had spent too many hours worrying.
He pressed a cloth soaked in a glowing health potion against a deep gash on Wemmbu’s ribs.
"Stop squirming," Minute grumbled. His voice was a low, parental rumble—the kind that carried more weight than a shout ever could.
"You’re lucky that lawman had bad aim. Two inches to the left and I’d be trying to patch a lung instead of just a rib."
Wemmbu hissed through his teeth, his long, spade-tipped tail lashing irritably against the end stone floor, fingers digging into the pale rock beneath him.
"I had it under control, Minute. I was leading them away from the main island."
"By acting as target practice?" Minute snapped, catching the twitching tail with his free hand to keep it from knocking over the potion bottles.
He held it firmly but carefully, a grounding weight, his eyes flashing with a mix of fury and relief.
He began wrapping the wound with practiced, heavy-handed efficiency.
"I didn't carve out this sanctuary just so you could treat it like a gladiator pit. You’re supposed to be faster than The Law, not a martyr."
"I would've clutched the landing if the second wave hadn't shown up," Wemmbu muttered, though his wings and tail both betrayed him, drooping heavily under the weight of the gray dust and dried blood.
"You would've been a crater," Minute corrected flatly.
He tied the bandage with a sharp, final tug that made Wemmbu yelp.
"The Lawmen is organized now. They’re using tactics, Wemmbu. If I hadn't been patrolling the outer islands to pull you out of the crossfire, you’d be floating in the void right now."
From behind, Egg’s touch remained steady, his quiet focus acting as the bridge between Minute’s temper and Wemmbu’s pride.
He moved from the wings to the base of Wemmbu’s tail, smoothing the ruffled fur and scales near the tip.
He used a small pair of shears to trim a scorched quill, his voice a soft murmur that cut through the tension.
"Minute’s right, Wemm," Egg said, not looking up from the wing.
"You’re getting predictable. You’re relying on your maces too much and your surroundings too little. You can't fight a whole army by just hitting things harder."
The dual lecture finally seemed to break through.
Wemmbu let his head hang, his horns casting long, jagged shadows against his knees.
"I just wanted to push them back," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly.
"They’re getting closer to the portal every day. If they take the End, we have nowhere left to go." Minute’s gaze softened.
The hardness in his shoulders collapsed into a heavy, grounding exhaustion.
He reached out, his calloused hand settling firmly on the back of Wemmbu’s neck—a silent, steadying weight that offered more comfort than any words.
"The End is my domain, Wemmbu. I protect the borders so you two have a place to actually sleep," Minute said, his voice dropping to a rougher, kinder tone.
"I can’t protect a ghost. Next time The Law shows up, you fall back to the pillars. You don't play the hero alone. Do you hear me?"
Egg finished smoothing the last row of downy feathers and leaned forward, resting his forehead against the curve of Wemmbu’s shoulder blade.
"We’re a team. I can't keep your wings flight-ready if you keep bringing them back in pieces."
Wemmbu let out a long, shaky breath, his tail curling contentedly around Minute’s wrist.
The ozone of the void finally feeling like home again.
"Fine. Next time, I fall back."
"See that you do," MinuteTech grunted, standing up and gathering the bloodied supplies.
"Now, Egg, finish up. I’m starting the fire for the chorus stew. If either of you falls asleep before you eat, I’m making you do the perimeter check tomorrow."
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
The fire didn't crackle with wood; instead, it hummed with the strange, rhythmic pulse of burning end-rods and chorus stalks, casting a flickering violet glow across the walls of their stone shelter.
The air, usually cold and sterile, was finally beginning to smell like something other than iron and ozone.
Minute stood over a heavy iron pot, stirring a thick, pale stew.
He moved with a heavy-eyed deliberate slowness, the adrenaline of the rescue finally replaced by the domestic weight of "dad duty."
He ladled the broth into three mismatched bowls—scuffed wooden things they’d brought from the Overworld a lifetime ago.
"Sit," Minute commanded, though there was no bite left in it.
He handed the first bowl to Wemmbu, who was wrapped in a thick, scratchy wool blanket that covered his freshly bandaged chest and carefully folded wings.
Wemmbu took the bowl with trembling fingers, the warmth seeping into his palms.
"Thanks, Minute."
"Don't thank me, just eat. You lost enough blood to power a beacon," Minute grunted, dropping onto a stone bench next to Egg.
Egg took his own portion, blowing softly on the steam.
His hands were still slightly stained with the gray dust from Wemmbu’s feathers, a physical reminder of the hours he’d spent painstakingly cleaning tthem
He nudged Wemmbu’s shoulder with his own.
"It's the stuff with the chorus fruit skin left on."
The three of them ate in a silence that wasn't heavy, but rather the kind of quiet that only exists between people who have seen each other at their worst.
For a few minutes, the fight with The Law, the borders of the End, and the constant threat of the maces were miles away.
"You put too much glistering melon in this," Wemmbu mumbled after a few bites, the color finally returning to his ccheeks
"It’s sweet." Minute didn't even look up from his stew.
"It’s for the saturation. I’m not spending all night watching your health bar flicker because you’re too stubborn to eat your vegetables."
Egg let out a small, genuine huff of a laugh.
"He’s right, Wemm. You’re a tactical nightmare when you’re hungry."
Wemmbu grumbled something incoherent into his bowl, but he didn't stop eating.
He leaned his weight slightly against Egg, his bandaged wing twitching under the blanket.
Across from them, Minute watched the movement, his eyes softening just enough to show the relief he’d been hiding behind his scolding all evening.
He reached out, ruffling Wemmbu’s hair with a hand that had spent the day gripping a weapon, now only offering a grounding touch.
"We stay in tomorrow," Minute said, his voice firm while gently rubbing Wemmbu's horn making him relax.
"No scouting. No 'pushing back.' Just the End, the silence, and making sure those feathers stay aligned. Got it?"
Egg smiled, leaning his head back against the cold stone wall.
"Got it, Minute."
Wemmbu hummed, his eyes already growing heavy from the combination of the warm meal and the safety of the dark.
"Yeah. Got it."
The fire eventually died down to a low, violet simmer, leaving the trio tucked in the shadows of the end stone.
With the Lawmen a world away and the silence of the End acting as their shield, Wemmbu finally drifted off, his head resting on Egg’s shoulder and his tail tucked securely around his own ankles while Minute kept a silent, watchful vigil by the entrance.
They were battered and hunted, but here, in the heart of the void, they were still a family.