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Somewhere in the world, in a spruce forest like any other, one-point-two million out, there is a house. It is made of the same spruce from the same forest, with frosted-over, cracked windows, and a brick fireplace that has not been lit in years. The house is a dilapidated thing. Partially collapsed in the front where rotted and split spruce beams cross over each other. The chimney is long gone, having tumbled down, down with a crash no one would ever hear. Snow coats the whole thing in a layer so thick that no one would see it from afar. They would pass right by it in the night, lantern-light their only guide, never bright enough to catch the glint of what could have once been beacon-light. They would give it a wide berth in the mid-day, because it could not be considered a suitable place to stop for shelter.
Rotten homes never were. Not in a world like this. Not on a server like this.
Because even homes filled with rot and mold hold memories. Warmth lingers in the crevices where hands can't quite reach, laughter echoes in the hearts that have already stopped beating. The memory of what once was, what has since passed, that now only remains in bitter flashes and sun-bleached vignettes.
A ghost of the past. Of a life lost and ruined and too much for one person alone to cradle.
Parrot cradles it anyway.
Because somewhere in the world, in a spruce forest not too dissimilar from what was a home, four-point-five million out, there is a player made up of memories. The world knows this player well. It gave him his wings, even if they're a little small and don't catch the wind just right. It gave him the spyglass he always keeps tucked away in a satchel, scratched up and dirty. It gave him many friends, because he could not hold himself up on his own at times, and because he cared for the world and the world cared for him in return.
And now both the player and the world mourn. Parrot's best friend is dead — he had been dead a long, long time — and he doesn't have a home.
His fur-lined boots thump the frozen ground heavily, snow kicked up in his haste. The avian has been running for a while. From what, he doesn't have the time to remember—he has run from a lot of things in his life, after all. He will always be running.
Parrot's lungs burn with exertion. The biting cold of the whirling snow won't give him reprieve, not even for a moment. It sinks its teeth deep into him. Nips at his fingertips despite his thick gloves, the back of his neck where his scarf the color of poppies slides slightly out of place. Pricks his cheeks and his nose and settles there until they tinge pink and red and burn too. Snowflakes catch lightly on his eyelashes, forcing him to blink them quickly away so he can keep running.
He should be flying, he thinks as his foot catches on a root. Stumbles with his wings flaring, then rights with his other foot and pushes himself into another sprint. Air frosting in front of him with each heaved breath.
Birds are meant to fly. The world gave him these wings for a reason.
But his wings are wrong. The world made them wrong, underdeveloped. Too small for him, they can only assist with gliding down from high up. They're nothing like Theo's, whose wings are bigger and stronger. Who could carry him across the Farlands when Parrot was too tired or when he just couldn't wear his elytra any longer. They're nothing like Wemmbu's, who he knows wasn't "born" with wings but flies like it's the only thing he's known for years. Even if his wings are deep purple leather and scale, not feather and hollow bone like him and Theo. They're no where close to Eggchan's. Because Egg has too many wings to spare, pure-white and ever-shifting, a sight so nauseating Parrot can't help but stare until the seraphim hides them away from the server's prying eyes.
Parrot is a bird grounded by his own anatomy. He needs an elytra to fly long distances; and of course, now of all times, it lays broken and shredded somewhere far. Lost in the snowstorm.
Something crashes through the trees behind him.
Parrot glances over his shoulder for only a second. There's a glimpse of shimmering netherite and diamond in the shape of an always-watching eye. He turns back with a ragged, half-choked breath that almost sounds like a hiccup.
He has to keep running. He has to. If he slows for even a minute, the Mafia will catch him. If he stops, they will kill him. It doesn't matter that his legs shake with every step, that his chest rattles with breath he can't collect, that it's so cold his tears have already frozen against his cheeks, his chin, his lashes. He can't die here. His best friend would have died for nothing. Parrot can't do that to him. To the memory of the house in the snow, to the bones beneath it all that the world grieves because he can't.
Parrot can't do that to Wifies. He can't he can't he can't he can't—
His boot hits something hidden in the snow at an odd angle.
It triggers.
The clang of heavy metal snapping rings out through the forest. Scaring two crows off into the sky.
Parrot hits the ground hard, white-hot pain flaring up his leg like lightning, like fire. An involuntary cry is torn from his lips, so raw it makes his throat sore — agonized beyond belief — barely muffled by the snowdrift. The pain does not subside.
For a few minutes, he doesn't move. He's on his stomach in the snow, rapidly blinking back new tears and trying in vain to reel in his breathing. The snow is falling slower now, but it still rests gently upon him. Melting only where it meets the frigid, pale skin of his face. It has already begun to seep into his clothes, his bones. Wet and icy and unforgiving; he does nothing to suppress his shivering. All he can hear is his heartbeat in his ears, thundering and desperate. Like a caged animal flailing to break free.
Maybe that's what Parrot is. A bird stuck in a cage of a world that loves him, but won't let him go. Not yet.
The avian tries to shift his leg up and forward to get on his knees—but stops short as the fire lances up with renewed vehemence. He has to bite into his cheek to stop another wail from escaping him.
This is bad, he thinks. This is very bad.
It takes him several minutes more of shuffling and dragging himself around — hiding whimpers into his trembling hand, the inside of his cheek bitten so hard once he can taste the blood between his teeth — before he's able to see the real damage of what's done. Yet, the sight does not ease his panic in the slightest.
His foot has been caught in a bear trap. A rusted thing meant for something far bigger for him, that sits jaw-locked around his ankle. Blood seeps through the leather of his boot, stark crimson against the powdered snow and dark steel of the leg-hold. There's not so much of it that it makes him sick, but it is dizzying all the same. When he leans forward to peer at it — still, fighting back tears that continue to fall — he sees that the teeth-like prongs are embedded concerningly deep. Skin-deep. Maybe even to the bone. Enough that he knows he cannot move much, lest he want to make this worse.
But that also means Parrot is trapped. He is stuck here, in a forest he doesn't know, with no one to set him free.
Waiting for the wolves to find him.
He cannot die here.
With grit, bloody teeth, he wraps his hands around the trap's jaws. Unaware of the grunts that express his pain and effort he fails to contain, the way they taper off into more whimpers. It hurts so bad. If he does get out of this — which, he really doesn't think he can — he's sure he won't be able to run. He has to run.
After another minute, he gives up on trying to pry it open. It won't work. He knows that. Parrot should've known not to try in the first place.
The avian lets his head drop onto his knee with one last whine. Wings shaking as they fold around his shoulders. His eyes squeeze shut, tears flowing in droves down his cheeks. He's trapped. He's trapped and he can't get out. Out of this stupid place—this stupid server that hates him so, that's wanted him dead at every turn. It is a cage of his own making; in some twisted, laughable way that sounds a lot like ClownPierce's dark chuckle. Like Ash's throaty cackle.
A crow watches him from the low branches of a spruce tree.
Something steps into the clearing, snow crunching quietly under a heavy netherite boot.
Parrot jolts to attention instantly. Across from him, the diamond-trimmed soldier that has been chasing him for the last half hour stands. Blank shield held in one hand, netherite sword in the other. They are silent, always silent, and just.. standing there.
They might be staring at him, the same way he's watching them. It's hard to tell; the Mafia's soldiers have always just been suits of floating armor, covered head to toe in netherite riddled with runes he can only sort-of read. Silent as they are, he can't even hear the rhythm of their breath. Can't see the faint rise of their chest or shoulders. There isn't a single wisp of visible breath compared to him, who still feels the way his lungs freeze and seize up. He remembers once that Theo likened them to stone statues.
The thought made it easier for him to blow them up.
Fresh blood slides off the sword into the snow.
Parrot refuses to move. Like a deer caught in headlights.
Slowly, so, so very slowly, the soldier takes a step forward. Footfalls fitting into the indents Parrot left—they're being careful to avoid what might be other bear traps, he realizes.
His lungs seize again. The fear pushes the words up his bobbing throat and past his lips before he has a chance to think about it.
"Please,"
The soldier halts.
Parrot swallows thickly. He's smarter than this. It is a fact he has prided himself on since the early days of the server, the world. A fact he would playfully argue about with his dead best friend, a fact extended to both of them. Parrot is a smart guy.
But he is not above begging, he supposes.
"Please," he tries again. The waver in his voice stays, unable to fight it. Curls into himself just a tad with his wings wrapped tight. With wings he hates. "Please let me go." his voice cracks then just a fraction. The diamond-trim player becomes a swirl of dark colors as a sob tears itself out of his throat.
"Please just let me go—you already took everything from me—he's gone, he's gone, you won—" another sob, this time from his chest. He clutches a hand over his sternum, struggling anew for breath and reason alike. "I won't come back, I won't—please—"
The diamond-trim shifts some, but he can't see through his tears clearly enough to pick out what they're doing. Regardless, he keens something that might be words or might not be. Too far gone to understand even himself. All he knows is his pleading ramble, the rattle of too-heavy armor, of a weight settling in the snow beside him—too close, too close, too close—
A hand that is far more gentle than he deserves lands on his knee. Again does he jolt, a wrecked cry pulled out of him as he jostles his ankle. The bear trap holds, clinking in his attempt to get away.
But the soldier won't let him. The world won't.
Another hand grasps at his arm, fingers digging and yanking him forcefully out of his trembling fever. He sobs, hiccups some until the soldier grips him tighter and makes him look up at them.
Parrot thinks they lock eyes. He's not really sure. Whatever it is, it must mean something, because their grip on him softens. Just for a moment.
In that moment, Parrot notices two things. Their shield has been strapped to their back and their sword is sheathed. Their shoulders are relaxed. They did not approach him to kill him.
He glances down at his leg, watching as the diamond-trim lays their hands carefully on either side of the bear trap. Atop the iron levers that hold the jaws in place. The avian's not sure how he didn't notice them.
"Are you—"
The diamond-trim puts pressure onto the levers, carefully easing the clamp of the jaws as the teeth dislodge, and the trap opens.
Parrot stares at the other invisible player. They stare back, silent.
He sucks in a watery breath, still shaking a bit as he slowly lifts his foot away from the trap. Once he's free — free, free, free, he's no longer stuck here — he's quick to scoot back a few paces. Away from the player, away from the trap. Sucking in more gulps of frigid air as he watches the soldier finally let go of the bear trap.
It snaps closed again with that same heavy metal clang. They both flinch.
The crow flies off.
In the silence that follows, Parrot and the soldier stare at each other for a minute longer. This time, Parrot is sure that he's meeting their eyes—or, at least they're meeting his.
"Thank you." he whispers.
The diamond-trim remains silent. All they do is drop a black sack a few feet from him, clinking with what sounds like potion bottles—and then they're gone.
Disappearing into the trees just as quietly as they came.
Somewhere in the world, millions and millions and millions out, there is a spruce forest unlike any other. It is a pattern of the same copse of stand-still trees, of the same snowdrifts, of the same lone wolf. A repeating pattern of a single, bright red poppy that leads into a line; and if someone were to follow that line, they would find a house. It is a beautiful thing. Filled with warmth from a fire that never goes out, its windows a mosaic of white and yellow and white and yellow again, a true home.
A home that is only a memory. Carried by the world and a single player who will never know the home exists millions out.
A home to a single ghost, an echo of time. Of a best friend whose bones could never be buried, who lives on only in that memory.
The world cradles it so; because the world loves its players, even if so few love it back.