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Most people, when asked to describe Illinois, would first say flirty.
If they were pressed a little harder, they would inevitably say nosy.
Illinois himself preferred to say he was adventurous, but nosy worked in a pinch, and he had been called far worse over the course of his adventures.
As far as he was concerned, the two went together pretty well.
His flirtatious nature got him into places that would have been otherwise inaccessible, and that aided him in his adventures…and helped him be nosy.
It was a nice combination, and one he hadn’t had to use in almost four months.
Ever since he woke up in the Ego Manor after taking a tumble down a sizable chasm in a cave he was exploring, he had been allowed to explore…pretty much everywhere without being turned away. He had mapped the entire house from top to bottom, then front to back, and was fairly certain he had explored everywhere.
Well, except for the Host’s office.
There were a few people in the Manor who were a bit less appreciative of his exploratory efforts than others—Darkiplier, for example—but the Host was the only one who had specifically told Illinois to stay away from his space. It was an order that the explorer had managed to follow to the letter…for about five months.
Illinois had met everyone in the Manor.
He made friends with most of them; the Googles being a major exception, but they seemed to dislike everyone. He even roped a few of them into his explorations (re: Yancy and Eric), but he was beginning to get bored.
There was only so much to explore in the house, and most of the forest was off-limits for as-of-yet undisclosed reasons.
Illinois really wanted to know what those undisclosed reasons were, but that wasn’t important at the moment.
What was important was that he was bored, and the Host’s office was the only place he hadn’t explored yet.
So, of course, he had to try.
Roping Yancy into it was easy enough. The ex-convict could be timid around the various leaders in the Manor, but he and the Host seemed to be on pretty good terms. Illinois doubted any harm would befall his companion if the Host caught them, and Yancy seemed to feel the same way.
The two of them found themselves outside the Host’s office late one night, wind angrily lashing the trees outside.
Illinois quietly hoped the King of the Squirrels would be okay, before shaking the thought off. The strange young man was usually unbothered by the things nature threw at him, but strong winds were always dangerous to creatures that lived in the trees. Illinois had no doubt he was smart enough to retreat to the eaves for the night.
Beside him, Yancy let out a soft noise, and help up his lock pick triumphantly before carefully pushing the Host’s door open.
Illinois patted his companion on the back in silent congratulation, and they slipped quietly into the dark room.
There were various tv monitors and computers scattered about, along with radio equipment, and the two quickly set about measuring and marking things down. There was a lot to explore within the room.
Two closets, one on each side of the room, stored extra TV equipment and a few dusty suits.
A partially blockaded door at the other end of the office led to the bedroom, which was a simple, white walled thing with a tiny bathroom attached. There was a first aid kit in the medicine cupboard, and rolls upon rolls of extra gauze alongside it.
A quick glance in the trashcan beside the sink revealed wads of bloodied gauze in little plastic bags, and Illinois winced.
He had always wondered if the Host’s blinded and perpetually bleeding eyes hurt, but had never been bold enough to ask.
Illinois had at least some sense of self-preservation, and he rather liked being alive. He would much rather not know, if it meant avoiding the wrath of the Host. He had no wish to find out what the man could do when properly angry.
Mapping the bathroom quickly and finding nothing of interest besides the gauze, Illinois slipped back into the bedroom and explored there. He could hear Yancy moving around in the main office, but ignored his companion for now.
He had just found something far more intriguing.
There was an old shoebox underneath the Host’s little twin bed.
“Hello there,” he murmured softly, crouching down to carefully pull it out before ducking lower to peer under the bed frame and make sure he hadn’t missed anything. There was a slightly rusty metal baseball bat against the back wall, and a few dust bunnies, but nothing else, so Illinois stood up again and hurried out to get Yancy.
“Yance!” He hissed at his friend. “Look!”
Yancy hurried over to see, and gave Illinois an exasperated look.
“Youse can’t just take it,” he hissed back. “It doesn’t belong to youse!”
“Neither does the hat on my head, what’s your point?”
Yancy rolled his eyes, and Illinois grabbed his arm.
“C’mon, we can come back later!”
“Noisy—!” Yancy’s protestations were cut off quickly as he was dragged along, and Illinois barely remembered to lock the door behind them.
The two of them hurried down the hall before quickly ducking into Yancy’s room, Illinois dragging the slightly younger Ego the whole way. Once the two were safe in Yancy’s room, the explorer sat down on Yancy’s bed and flipped the box open.
“Illinois!” Yancy chided again, and was ignored.
Illinois “ooh’ed” softly as he pulled out a few old VHS tapes, and then he let out a happy little cackle and tugged a dusty journal from the bottom of the box.
“Jackpot!”
“Youse can’t just look at that!” Yancy protested again, lunging forward to grab at it, and Illinois shoved one of the tapes at him.
“Can and will!” He crowed happily. “You check this one out—you have an old player.”
Yancy fumbled with the tape carefully for a moment, then huffed softly.
“Fine,” he grumbled. “An’ it’s not that old.”
“It’s old enough to be in a museum,” Illinois replied distractedly, already a few pages into the journal. “It’s…not a diary. It’s a story journal. Very disjointed, kind of badly written…the front page just says ‘Property of the Author.’”
“Huh,” Yancy mumbled from where he was hooking up his VHS player to the TV. “What’re the stories about?”
“Nothing really,” Illinois shrugged. “Just snippets…bits and pieces about a character named…Daniel, I think? I don’t know. The name is scratched out a few times. I don’t think the Author could decide.”
He flipped a bit further.
“The later bits are even more disjointed,” he mumbled to himself quietly. “It’s almost like the Author is getting frustrated with his Daniel charact—oh. Ohhhh!! The Author is the Host, isn’t he?!”
Illinois looked up at Yancy excitedly.
“Didn’t he used to be called the Author?”
“Think so?” Yancy huffed back, finally managing to get the VHS player plugged in. “There!”
Illinois set the journal aside to watch the tape. Yancy examined the side, then hummed thoughtfully.
“Did youse see a number one? This one’s labelled number three.”
Illinois fished the other two tapes out of the box and waved the right one in the air.
“Right here!”
“Perfect.”
The tape went in with a click, and the two leaned forward to watch.
The image was a bit grainy and pixelated, but they could both tell that it was the kitchen area on the lower level of the Manor. The sound filtered in slowly, and they leaned forward a bit to hear better.
As they watched, curiosity turned to confusion, then quickly turned to horror.
————————————
Forty-Five Years Before
The Author paced back and forth like a caged animal, eyes fixed on the floor as he mumbled under his breath.
His latest story was refusing to cooperate with him.
They had been doing that more and more often lately.
Every time he tried to write something, it was like the words would change themselves around in his head, and the result would come out all jumbled. Storylines made no sense, character dialogue was an absolute wreck, and the characters themselves did whatever they pleased.
The Author let out a furious growl and spun around to pace the length of the kitchen once more.
“Why won’t they just do what I want?!” He snapped to the empty air. “I’m not doing anything differently! I can see the stories so clearly in my head, so why won’t they be written?!”
Another furious growl left him, and he wheeled around yet again.
It made no sense.
Ever since that awful day in the forest when he had completely lost control of two of his characters, the Author had struggled with his writing.
Daniel and Ryan had been two of his favorite characters, and they had—they—
He squeezed his eyes shut, remembering the agony of a bullet in his back, and the betrayal of being left in the dirt by his own characters.
He might not have created them—he wasn’t that powerful—but they were his!
And they had betrayed him!
Another strangled sound tore out of his throat, a sort of mangled snarl-groan-sob that made him immediately clamp both hands over his mouth.
“Why?!” He groaned softly against his palms, wishing he understood.
Why had they left him?
Why had they hurt him?
Why was his writing refusing to cooperate?
And why, most importantly, did people always seem to get hurt when he did try to write?!
The last time he had tried writing—just a little thing about a girl and a puppy—it had actually come out pretty close to what he had seen in his mind. He had been almost satisfied with it!
But then the ink on the paper had warped and he had been given the clear, unmistakeable mental image of that same girl, now older, being bitten by that same dog.
It was always the same.
The Author would write something, and then his stupid gift of foresight-or-some-such-nonsense would tell him that the same person was going to be hurt.
He was so tired of hurting people!!
Squeezing his eerily blue eyes shut, he scrubbed angrily at them. It made them sting, but he didn’t care. The pain helped him think.
Grumbling softly, he realized he had stopped pacing at some point, and started again.
Back and forth and back and forth, a perpetual, never ending circle in which he got absolutely nowhere.
He squeezed his eyes shut again, still pacing, and mumbled under his breath for a moment in quiet irritation, words unintentionally forming a path for him to walk.
The Author stopped.
Words.
Words.
What if…?
What if he had been doing it wrong all his life?
What if he wasn’t meant to write his ideas down to be acted?
What if, by writing, he was sabotaging his own mind?
Suddenly desperate to test his theory, he rushed to the window and looked out over the yard. Wilford was out there, along with Bim and Google Blue, though the Author had no idea what they were actually doing.
Satisfied that he had his test subjects, he closed his eyes again, and started mumbling under his breath.
“…on the lawn, standing between Wilford and Google Blue, Bim Trimmer takes a sudden step backward, a bee suddenly buzzing around his face.” The Author could see it in his mind as clearly as if he were watching it with his eyes open. “Frantically, as Google watches impassively and Wilford offers to help, Trimmer begins trying to scare the small insect away.”
Curiosity got the better of him then, and the Author opened his eyes slightly to peer out the window at the three.
Bim was flailing at something in the air, eyes wide with panic as he tried to swat away what could only be a bee.
The Author let out an incredulous little laugh, eyes flying wide, and the bee evidently lost interest and buzzed away. Bim calmed down again.
“It stops when I open my eyes,” the Author realized quietly. “I…I can’t control things with writing. It…it has to be spoken word—!”
He spun, circling the kitchen a few more times, an almost manic smile on his face.
“I just have to—to keep my eyes closed!” He started talking, a stream-of-consciousness babbling that could barely keep up with his mind. “I can’t look at anything!”
Almost immediately, he realized there was a slight issue with that.
The Author loved seeing the things around him.
He loved being able to see the colors of the world and the beauty of it.
But…but his writing was hurting people, and he couldn’t control or really narrate things unless it was verbal.
So…
“A blindfold maybe?” He mused under his breath, considering. “No, that would become cumbersome. I would take it off eventually. No, I need something more…”
Permanent.
His eyes landed on his writing pens, a pair of ornate silver dip pens, the tips wickedly sharp.
Almost as though he were in a trance, the Author stepped over to the counter and reached out to pick them up, one in each hand.
“This will fix it,” he murmured to himself, angling the pens toward his face. Everything felt fuzzy around him, like he was suddenly underwater. He didn’t really register anything other than the fact that these pens would help fix it.
“I won’t hurt anyone again.”
The Author drove the pens upward toward his eyes.
———————————————
Doctor Iplier was in the middle of organizing a few medical supplies when it happened.
An unearthly howl rang through the air, loud enough to rattle the windows, before it broke and turned into a hair-raising shriek that made his clamp both hands over his ears.
“What on earth—?!”
Darkiplier teleported into the room abruptly, an uncharacteristic expression of panic on his face as he looked at the doctor. The shadowy Ego’s blue and red aura was going absolutely wild around him, the red violently yanking itself one way while the blue jerked around spasmodically, too fast to be followed.
The Doctor snatched up his bag, jerked his head toward the general direction of the awful screeching, and the two ran.
“What is that?!” Dark snapped at him as they ran. “There was a surge in the Void.”
“Don’t expect me to know!” The Doctor replied, just as sharply. “All I can tell you is that it’s nothing good!”
The two of them all but flew up the stairs out of the medical floor, raced down the hall toward the dining room, and all but skidded around the corner into the kitchen.
Simultaneously, both of them froze, eyes wide as they took in the nightmare in front of them.
Crimson smears painted part of the countertop, a splattering of droplets further across the granite indicating spurting. There were smears of more blood along the side of the counter and across the floor, and in the midst of it all…
“Author—!” Dr. Iplier rushed forward without a second thought, ignoring the awful shrieks the other Ego was still letting out as he writhed on the floor, blood-soaked hands clutching at his mangled eyes. “Easy, easy now…I have you…Dark! Help me hold him!”
Darkiplier scrambled forward, shaken out of his apparent daze, and carefully helped lift the Author up into a half-sitting position against his chest.
“Hold his arms still, I need to look at his eyes,” Dr. Iplier directed quickly, and Dark reached up to pin the Author’s arms to his chest.
The awful shrieks changed as the Author realized he wasn’t alone, turning to a series of frantic pleas and garbled cries of agony that were somehow worse than the shrieking.
“—STOP, MAKE IT STOP, PL-PLEASE—IT HURTS—!!”
Dark pinned the Author’s arms a bit more firmly as the younger Ego thrashed, wailing in anguish as Dr. Iplier took hold of his blood-covered face and angled it so that he could see the wounds.
“N-no, stop—! Stop, please—! Please!” The Author thrashed, sobs mixing with his agonized cries.
“Easy…steady, Author…breathe, I’m almost done,” Dr. Iplier soothed quietly as he turned the Author’s head back and forth a few times.
“Will he be alright?” Dark asked, speaking over the awful sounds leaving the person in his arms.
“It’s not fatal,” Dr. Iplier replied as he reached into his bag for a syringe and a bottle of a heavy sedative. “Bilateral enucleations rarely are, though I’ve never actually treated one. Author, if you can hear me, I need to give you a sedative, alright? I don’t want you to be in any more pain.”
The Author didn’t seem to hear the Doctor over his own sobbing. Dr. Iplier gave Dark a remorseful glance, then quickly injected the contents of the syringe into the Author’s thigh.
“What did you give him?” Dark asked as the Author slowly began to stop thrashing, muscles relaxing gradually.
“Midazolam and Droperidol. They’re more commonly used sedatives in situations like this because they’re so fast-acting, and they don’t tend to cause extra problems.”
Dark nodded quietly as Dr. Iplier moved the Author onto his back, and carefully shrugged off his jacket to slip under the other Ego’s head.
“What…what happened here?” Dark asked after a long moment, watching silently as the Doctor carefully worked gauze into each eye socket before putting bandages over both.
“Check the counter,” the Ego replied, glancing up at his shadowy companion. “I have a feeling your answer is up there.”
Dark stood slowly, bones crackling softly as old breaks shifted painfully. He barely noticed the pain, too focused on the crimson mess on the counter.
The Author’s pens sat in the midst of it all, covered in blood, the tips—
Dark had never had a weak stomach, but he had to forcefully bite back the retch that tried to force its way up his throat.
“He—he gouged them out?” Dark rasped, throat feeling suddenly dry. “Why…Why would he do that?”
“I have no idea,” Dr. Iplier replied. “Help me lift him. He’s heavier than he looks, and I need to get him to the medical center.”
Dark turned to carefully help, and the two lifted the Author between them, the younger Ego letting out a tiny whimper of agony as he was shifted.
“We need to move quickly,” the Doctor said urgently. “I need to get him on a drip. Can you teleport us?”
“Of course,” Dark nodded, and a moment later the three of them were in one of the medical rooms.
“Lay him here,” Dr. Iplier instructed, nodding his head at the medical bed.
They carefully maneuvered the Author onto the sheets, and Dark stepped back to let the Doctor work.
The Author was so…still.
Dark would have thought he was dead if not for the fact that he was breathing. He had to watch the slow rise and fall of the younger Ego’s chest for quite a while before he was able to fully calm down.
Dark hated seeing any of the Egos hurt.
As their de facto leader, Dark took great pride in keeping all of them safe and healthy. The occasional newcomers were always warmly welcomed, even if they were hostile.
There weren’t many of them yet, but Dark knew there would be more, and he wondered how he was going to keep them safe if he had already failed so badly.
Sighing heavily, Dark turned and slipped out quietly to let Dr. Iplier work in peace.
He could visit the Author later.
———————————————
It was dark when he woke up, and his face hurt.
No, his eyes hurt.
A lot.
A strangled noise of pain left the Author’s throat as he woke up fully, the wrecked muscles left in his eye sockets flexing slightly, sending pain shooting through his skull.
“Easy,” a soft voice soothed to his side, and the Author’s head snapped toward the noise. The movement made a wave of agony ripple out from his eyes, and for a few long seconds, all he could hear was his own blood rushing in his ears.
And then his hearing came back, and he could hear someone sobbing.
“Easy, Author,” the voice murmured again. There was a gentle prick in the back of his hand. “Breathe. The pain will go away in a moment.”
And it did.
There was a ripple of cold up his arm, and the agony faded to a dull pulsing.
“There we go,” the voice hummed. “Better.”
Swallowing thickly, the Author turned his head carefully toward the voice.
“Wh-where—?”
“You’re in the infirmary,” the voice soothed. “You’re safe.”
“…Doctor?” Author asked carefully, uncertain.
“Yes. You’re safe.”
The Author relaxed slowly now that he knew where he was and who was talking to him. The Doctor fiddled with something near the Author’s face, and gauze shifted gently against his skin before settling again.
“What…what happened?”
“You don’t remember?” The Doctor sounded concerned.
“Not…not really?”
This will make it better.
“No…wait…” he shifted his head anxiously against his pillow. “I…my eyes…didn’t I—?”
There was a sudden rush of blood from beneath the bandages, and the Author whined in fresh misery at the pressure and the hot spreading of fluid across his bandages.
His eyes.
He took his own eyes.
Panic made his heart race, and he reached up frantically to claw at his face, trying to feel the damage. The Doctor caught his wrists and held them tightly.
“Stop, Author! Don’t touch your face. Its alright. Its just blood—I can change the bandages.”
“Eyes—!” The Author choked out. “My—my eyes—!”
He remembered the cold slide of his silver pens against flesh that never should have felt it. The hot, molten agony that followed. The rush of hot blood, flooding out over his hands and hitting the counter with a wet splat.
He remembered screaming.
“My eyes—!!” He sobbed, struggling furiously against the Doctor’s hold before giving up and pressing his forehead forward against the man’s chest. A hand landed firmly on the back of his head for a moment, holding him steady as he fell apart.
Why?!
Why had he done that?!
What on earth had driven him to do such a thing?!
He remembered using his words to make something happen, but he never would have blinded himself—!
Unless…
The Author stopped struggling.
What if…
“A narrative shift,” he rasped.
“What?” The Doctor asked, sounding confused.
“There…there was a narrative shift,” the Author croaked out. “A executive, external decision. I had…I had no choice. No control. My powers have changed, and their conduit with them.”
“That sounds accurate,” a new voice spoke up, echoing eerily.
Darkiplier.
“There was an energy surge in the Void,” he said softly. “It didn’t occur to me until a few minutes ago that it might have been external. Markiplier changed something about your character—or acted on an old idea.”
A wet sob left the Author’s throat.
“I didn’t…I don’t want this,” he choked out. “I realized my powers were stronger when I couldn’t see my surroundings, but I never wanted this! I love—I love—”
Another broken sob left his throat.
“I loved sight,” he finished in a shattered whisper.
A hand landed lightly on his shoulder, cold as ice and making his arm feel like it had gone to sleep. Phantom touches rippled over his hair and back simultaneously as Darkiplier tried to comfort him. The Author made no attempt to move away.
“I’m sorry, Author,” Dark whispered softly.
It suddenly felt so easy, accepting that things would never be the same again.
“The Author is gone,” he mumbled, voice barely audible. “I can never write again. What is an author without his writing?”
He sat silent for a few long moments, before turning his head in the direction of the cold touch.
“The Author is dead,” he said softly, voice almost monotone. A narrator’s voice. The voice of— “The Host is what is left.”
Darkiplier moved back, slowly.
“Very well,” he nodded quietly. “Welcome to the Manor, Host.”
The Host nodded slowly and sank back against the blankets, taking a slow, deep breath.
“…Darkiplier and the Doctor left the room to give the newly named Host a chance to gather his bearings. They thought nothing of his soft murmurings, now to be a constant part of life in the Manor. A part of their central narrative had shifted irreversibly, but in a place like the Manor, such things were normal…”
Unnoticed by all, a streak of white rippled through the Host’s hair as his new powers steadied, pictures of a life he would never see again solidifying in his mind.
Fresh blood dampened his bandages and ran down his cheeks, tears of grief that would never stop falling, no matter how many years passed.
The Author was dead.
His writing would never harm another soul.
———————————————
Illinois and Yancy sat in shocked silence as the last video tape ended, the Host still murmuring on the pixillated screen.
“I didn’t…” Illinois trailed off, shame curdling in his stomach.
Neither of them heard the door open.
“The Host was wondering if there would be any remorse once Yancy and Illinois were finished unearthing his most private memories.”
The dry, flat tone of the Host broke the silence, and both of the younger Egos jumped hard, heads snapping toward the figure in the door.
“I didn’t—” Illinois cut himself off, deciding that now was not the time for excuses. “I…I’m…sorry, Host. I’m sorry. I should never have…I’m sorry.”
The Host tilted his head, lips moving soundlessly as he narrated the scene in front of him, doubtless to See the details more clearly in his mind. Yancy hung his head, ashamed, and Illinois found himself watching as a fresh drop of blood ran down the Host’s cheek.
“The two know now,” the Host stated calmly. “The Host can do nothing about it. However, he would like his tapes and journals to be returned.”
Illinois scrambled to gather the items, setting them gently into their shoebox before holding it out to the Host. He had the uncanny feeling that the older Ego was staring right at him.
“Are you satisfied, Illinois?” The Host asked softly as he took the box back. He did not address Yancy, who had only been an accomplice and would doubtless have his lecture later. “Have you finally learned a valuable lesson today?”
Illinois nodded quickly.
“I…yes. I think I have, sir. I…I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”
The Host tilted his head slowly.
“The Host would prefer if Illinois never calls him ‘sir’ again,” he drawled slowly. “The Host is merely the Host, nothing more.”
Illinois tried to apologize again, only to be cut off.
“The Host wishes to know why the apology sounds like it is for more than stealing his personal property.”
Illinois balked, unsure how to respond.
“I…it…I don’t—”
“Will you tell the others?” the Host asked, voice steady even though he had begun shifting slightly with what looked like nervous energy.
“No,” Illinois immediately shook his head. “I never should have gone poking around, I know that, and I won’t talk to anyone about it, I promise, I won’t—”
The Host held up a hand to silence him. He had relaxed again.
“Good,” he stated calmly.
Then, so softly that Illinois had to strain to hear him, “tell me, what does the spring look like?”
Illinois blinked, caught off guard for a moment.
Had the Host just spoken in first person?
Illinois looked over at the window and out over the gardens.
If you were to ask someone to describe Illinois, they would first call him flirtatious. Then, if pressed, they would go on to call him nosy.
But, if you asked again, specifically of those who knew him well, they would eventually admit that he was also a romantic, and soft words flowed in his blood just as adventure did.
“The trees are coming into leaf,” he murmured as he looked out over the gardens,“like something almost being said. The recent buds relax and spread, their greenness is a kind of grief.”
The Host tilted his head again, silent for a long moment.
Then, softly, “Philip Larkin.”
The blood on the Host’s cheeks had dried. There was no new wetness dampening his gauze.
For the first time in a long time, someone had spoken words that he could see without having to See.
“The Host accepts your apology,” he said, blinded eyes seeming to stare deep into Illinois’ soul. “And…thank you, Illinois.”
All the explorer could do was nod.
He had learned a valuable lesson that day, and with it, he had gained yet another new friend.