Chapter Text
There are nights when Xisuma flings himself upright out of the dead of sleep, his brother's name on his panting tongue. And on these nights, Grian, Xelqua , comes to his faithful's aid.
Tonight is one such night.
Xisuma scrambles out of his bed, sheets and quilts and the throw blanket that really should be folded over the back of the couch, all twist around him. In his blind panic, it feels like a net.
Of course, if he were thinking, he would realize the cotton blend tugging at his legs is nothing like the rough burn of rope. But he cannot think, cannot see reason.
It is about this time in the panic attack, vision blurring, seeing his brother's leering face swimming above him and the stern brow of the militia hoisting him up, still ensnared by the net, that a new name shows itself to his lips.
"Xelqua," He gasps, "Xelqua, please help me. Please, I just wanted to help them, please they were children— please, how could you do this Exi-"
"Easy ᔑꖎ↸ᒷʖᔑ∷ᔑリ, I've got you."
Xisuma's breath whistles past his lips, and he leans back into the solid weight wrapped around him. He tilts his head up and glances at the face over his shoulder.
It is Grian— right yes, Xelqua. His friend of many years is the same god that did not answer his prayer on the worst day of his life.
But still, he relaxes, head tilted back and air allowed a clear passage to and from his heaving lungs. Grian’s hands snake around his sides and clasp together at his midriff, and he guides Xisuma slowly into a more reclined position, no doubt propping himself up on the bed.
“ᔑꖎ↸ᒷʖᔑ∷ᔑリ?” Grian murmurs, and there it is, a word in Galactic that Xisuma has yet to decipher.
“What are you saying?”
“Hm?” The vibration of Grian’s throat tickles where his forehead rests against it.
“That word, I don’t know it?” Xisuma whispers, voice hoarse.
Grian is silent for a while, and when Xisuma tosses a glance his way, he sees the god, bottom lip trapped between his teeth and a worried set to his brow.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Aldebaran.” Grian murmurs, and Xisuma falls silent. “It means Aldebaran, the star, the follower. Not all gods have one, but the elder gods among the folds of the universe’s wings have had many over the generations.”
Xisuma’s eyes droop under the weight of his fatigue, as they always do when Grian lures him back to the embrace of Lady Moon’s gift of sleep, and unlike many of the preceding nights of terror, Xisuma lets his body go limp. Stops giving into the creeping paranoia, the intrusive thoughts of there will be someone to drag you from your bed at the moon’s peak. You will be made to kill your mothers for their sin of not disposing of one of you. Your friends will betray you just like your b-
Tonight is different. And the change is a breath of fresh air in stale lungs.
***
At the end of the world, as all worlds have, there is a new beginning.
***
The morning is different too.
Different in a way Xisuma had perhaps privately dreamed of (though he would never admit to such thoughts about a married man, or his god, and more importantly his friend) and he realizes this as he awakens in the morning’s hush.
Grian is wrapped around him, a downy wing folded over him, heavy like a quilt, and his arms are wound around him, palms splayed across his chest. Xisuma’s face turns feverish in record time, and his tongue goes clumsy in his dry mouth.
He comes to his senses, and begins to do his best to withdraw himself from the god’s sleepy cuddle. But, as soon as he’s able to gently draw an arm away from him, and is beginning to slip his legs forward and out from the cover of the wings, Grian stirs.
He hums as he sleepily stretches his body, and his lips, resting as they are on Xisuma’s neck, cause the skin there to tremor which turns into a full-body shiver.
“Suma?” Grian murmurs, lips still tickling the back of his neck, and Xisuma desperately tries to arch away, but Grian’s grip is just firm enough that it’s uncomfortable to hold his neck away from him.
“Yeah?” Xisuma whispers, almost hoping Grian’d go back to sleep so he can have a second chance to escape unnoticed.
“Sleep. It’s still early.”
“Got to fix my farms,” Xisuma protests quietly, but even as he says it, his body relaxes again and his head clouds in warmth and his thoughts slow to a trickle.
“Shhhh, ᔑꖎ↸ᒷʖᔑ∷ᔑリ,” Grian hushes, and just like that, he is out like a light.
***
And in that end, there, standing alone are the sole survivors; the brightest star, Polaris. And his follower, Aldebaran.
***
“Is he still asleep?” Xisuma stirs slightly, breathing picking up pace as his body lifts from the shroud of sleep.
“Not for long now,” Grian teasingly replies, and Xisuma whines quietly as the hands carding through his hair still. An amused huff, accompanied by a puff of air ruffling Xisuma’s hair, and he pulls himself the rest of the way up to consciousness.
And then freezes. There in the room, is Grian at his back, still holding him tightly enough that it should be bothersome but is actually quite comforting, and then Mumbo, sat on the side of his bed, his hand in Xisuma’s hair (and shit—his face is surely turning red again), with Scar relaxing in a plush armchair, his wheel—er legchair… scuttling about as if it has a mind of its own.
That is what gives him a shot of adrenaline, as he jolts up and manages to dislodge Grian’s firm hold. The man squawks and his wings are thrown from their covering of Xisuma as he tries to rebalance.
“And what is that?” He exclaims, pulling himself away from the edge of the bed, and unfortunately placing himself right back into Grian’s reach, who also looks uneasy at the appearance of the chair, and pulls Xisuma right back into his hold.
Scar grins widely, “Why, my dearest admin, this right here is the Scar Patented Personal Swaggon Wheelchair, designed for rough terrain and accessing previously inaccessible infrastructure!”
And Scar is so bright and enthusiastic about his new design, that Xisuma can’t help that even with the terror that looking at the legchair evokes, he still feels a smothering wave of pride for his Hermit.
Curiously, the chair is cute in a very horrifying way. The way spiders are fluffy and wide eyed past the blind fear of catching sight of one in the periphery.
“Xisuma,” He turns to face Mumbo, whose face is tight with worry, and for a moment, Xisuma’s hand raises only an inch as if to smooth the creases from his face. But he is able to regain control of himself just in time for his misstep to be unnoticable, and Mumbo continues on, “I’m worried about you,”
Xisuma glances away nervously, eyes to the door, but pulls his eyes back to Mumbo as quickly as they strayed, “Well—that’s. You don’t have anything to worry about, I’m fine, it’s just a few bad dreams really,”
He makes the mistake of glancing back to Grian, whose eyes are dark with—anger? Has he done something wrong, had Grian seen his hand jump from his lap, has the god read his intent, has Xisuma finally spoiled it all?
“It’s not though, is it?” Grian whispers, but the sound not only comes from his mouth but from between the folds of the curtains, the seams between bricks, the grain of the warped planks.
Xisuma blinks and pulls away, as the air spikes with something like electricity, both searing hot and ice-cold. Grian’s face turns apologetic and he hears Mumbo let out a soft hiss at the discomfort and Scar winces from where he is across the room.
“I don’t want to look into your dreams without your permission, so please just tell us how to help you,” Grian says, and the atmosphere dissolves back to equilibrium.
Xisuma’s mouth goes dry, and shame floods him— how dare he think so poorly of his patron, how dare he question the infinite patience and judgement of Fou—oh.
“I—I don’t know?” He croaks out, “I just need to, to just get over it? I don’t know. It was the past. No one can change what happened, and even if no one came to help me then, it doesn’t matter because I’m fine and nothing even happened to me, but I just—why can’t I just let it go?”
He pries his eyes open, even as he doesn’t remember when exactly he closed them. Grian is frozen on the bed, staring up at him with glassy eyes. Mumbo is the one who reaches for him, callused hand wrapping around his wrist, touch feather light.
“Xisuma, why don’t we all go back to Scar’s tree and get something to eat, then we can talk more about this, ok?”
***
The first time the very concerning pattern of Xisuma being awoken halfway out of his bed, and drug into the street on the night of a full moon, he is only six, and his brother is stumbling by his side, and neither of their moms are with them but he knows the adults leading them down the brick laid road, so the twins gravitate towards each other and grasp each other's hands, and look wide eyed at the full moon. The night is bright under Lady Moon’s full face, and Xisuma can feel the chill of the air burn the back of his throat as he breathes.
They are lead to the Temple, which both Xisuma and his brother are familiar with now, they have been attending services for close to two years now, and they have learned how to hold the tithing bowl without spilling coin, how to pray, kneeling at the windows and hands cupped in his lap. Both he and his brother have lead the congregation in prayer before.
They breeze through the worship hall, and beyond the dias, they pass a short hallway before opening a door and leading them into a circular room they have never been in. Xisuma is lead to the right by the kind Mr. Respen who always wears a silly looking hat and tells stories they are told that they’ll, “understand when they’re older,” that make his mums glare and scoff and sweep his brother and him away.
His brother is ushered around to the left, on a pathway that goes around the far edges of the room, separated from the main area by marble columns.
“Mr. Respen?” Xisuma asks, his hand shifting where it is held in the man’s.
“Yes, Xisuma?” He asks, but his jaw is tense in the same way his brother’s is when he lies, and his eyes shift the same way his mama’s do when she is confused.
“What’s going on?”
Mr. Respen smiles, but it looks wrong .
“Don’t you worry young man. Abbess Yndri just needs to ask you two a few questions, and then you can get back to bed.” He explains. But again, Xisuma’s chest grows tight with panic. Something isn’t right. Where are his mums?
They finally reach the end of the pathway, and there facing him is his brother, hand held by Mr. Tekyg, and Abbess Yndri in the middle.
“Hello boys,” She smiles, eyes warm. But Xisuma, startled as he is, looks deeper into her face and finds worry in the creases around her eyes.
“Hello Abbess,” His brother says, voice raspy from sleep.
“Hello Abbess,” He murmurs, warily glancing about.
“I have received a very important prophecy from Exalted Four.” Xisuma cocks his head at this—it’s been a long time since their sect had received any kind of prophecy.
“And the both of you are very special it seems, because he mentioned you by name .”
The pit in Xisuma’s stomach grows.
“So, I just have a question to ask you, twins.” She says, cooley looking between them, “Tell me, where do you see the moon?”
His brother turns, and casts his eyes up, through a domed skylight, “I see the moon in the sky, Abbess.”
Abbess Yndri nods, “Xisuma?” She prompts and he licks his lips.
“I see Lady Moon in the sky, and her reflection on the marble floor.” He says, and when he looks back to the Abbess, he sees her eyes closed and face pinched.
“I see,” She mutters, face shadowed.
“Abbess?” He questions.
“Xisuma,” Her voice trembles, “Oh Xisuma, I’m sorry dear, but you answered incorrectly.”
***
Xisuma is a bit foggy as they lead him over to Scar’s overgrown tree, with only boots shoved on his feet and a light jacket over his pajamas, but luckily the hermits all chose to base closely together this season and it’s barely a three minute hike. Surprisingly, they bypass the kitchen table (and my, the last time he had been in that room had been the night before Pearl crash-landed on their server over three months ago) where Xisuma had expected them to settle in to talk.
He’s taken right up to Scar’s bedroom, overstuffed bed fitted with a velvety green throw, and too many pillows for his dizzy mind to count. He’s helped into bed, Scar moving to remove his hastily thrown-on boots, and Mumbo sliding the jacket from his shoulders. Meanwhile, Grian frets, flurrying about the room, fussing with the pillows and forming them into a comfortable looking crescent, and then turning away to grab even more blankets to pile onto Scar’s bed.
Scar laughs breathily as he watches, “Aw, you’re not getting out of this bed for a while,” He smiles, and Xisuma’s heart begins beating against his ribcage once again.
Mumbo and Scar get him tucked under the covers, and then Scar, the traitor, smiles and announces that he’s off to fix breakfast in bed for them. Grian seems to be happy with how he’s arranged the bed, and climbs in, cooing in Xisuma’s ear as he is once again wrapped in his embrace.
“ᔑꖎ↸ᒷʖᔑ∷ᔑリ,” Grian hums in his ear, and Xisuma has come to understand it as Aldebaran, the follower. What exactly it means, Xisuma is too blind to the intricacies of the universe to understand, but from the way Grian’s voice takes on that reverent air, he knows it’s important.
“You know we love you, right?” And a smile crawls across his face as he recognizes the words as an echo of the intervention they very dramatically staged before Grian’s secret was exposed to the server.
“Yeah,” Xisuma sighs, “I know— it’s just. Well. It’s hard. To believe it? Sorry, I—”
Grian hums and he falls silent, “I can be the same way sometimes.” And Xisuma’s heart twinges in his chest, “But you and Mumbo and Scar help to remind me.”
He presses a kiss to the crown of X’s head, and X flushes red with panic. That is not helping my issue Grian he thinks, despairingly, I’m trying not to fall in love with you over here, show some respect!
***
Only a few weeks after the invasion of the Watcher Four, Pearl visits for tea and as Pearl sits across from him, reminiscent of one of their first one on one conversations, Xisuma feels that he is now in the hot seat by the way he feels pinned by her gaze.
He squirms in his seat and lifts his tea to his lips to give himself something to do.
“So.” Pearl starts, and Xisuma bites the inside of his cheek, “You… I got a very concerning text from Grian.”
Xisuma sighs, “I, listen. It’s really not a big deal—”
“Xisuma,” Pearl fixes him with another stare, and he shrinks back into the plush armchair’s embrace.
“Grian is an independent little fucker, and if he’s bringing me into his lovelife , then there is clearly—are you alright?”
Pearl stares at his face, which he’s sure has gone white as a sheet, and his jaw hangs open, though his body is as stiff as a rock.
“Suma—”
“I think you should go,” Xisuma croaks, his teacup clinking against the table as he sharply deposits it. He stands and Pearl looks spooked for half a second at the way he towers over her, and he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and loosens the rigid line of his shoulders, and when he opens them, he nearly regrets it, because now Pearl is angry (though he’s a little bit proud of himself because she feels she can show her anger to him even though he was threatening half a second ago, it only goes to show how implicitly she trusts him.)
She rises to her feet slowly, with all the grace and calculation of a predator, a wolf stalking a rabbit, and Xisuma’s heart cannot help but to kickstart and play the part of the prey. There, the sheen of her eyes reflects a prismatic display of neons, and his throat stops up.
“You do not tell me what I can and can’t do,” Pearl growls, every bit the god that she crash landed on Hermitcraft as.
Zee’Lanah, Lily of the Valley; rebirth, sincerity, humility—and where the fuck has the humility gone? When was that burned out of her, the same way security was burned out of Grian?
The sincerity though—that Xisuma can see even through the rage clouding her stance, “Zee’Lanah,” He speaks softly, trying to shape the galactic the right way around his tongue, “Everything is okay, I just need to be alone for a while, that’s all.”
Pearl scoffs, but the hairs on the back of his neck fall from where they were electrified to stand at attention, and he lets the breathe whistle out of his lungs.
“You,” Pearl jabs him in the chest with a finger, “Need to sort yourself out before I get involved. I am not bound by the same moral obligations as Grian. I will look through each and every one of your dreams and nightmares like pathetic little papers in a flimsy filing cabinet, and I swear to the Universe, I will make you get better.”
And with that… threatening? Statement. She leaves.
Xisuma feels a little threatened. And yeah, he could absolutely imagine Pearl sorting through each and every one of his insecurities and examining them under a microscope if only to make her life a bit more convenient, like some kind of fucked up scientist.
He sits down in his armchair, staring at the dent she left in the couch for a long time. When he goes to pick up his tea, it is cold in his hands.
Lovelife she had said. Lovelife!
Fuck. So much for not being a homewrecker.
***
Mumbo is very tired, he’s been working for hours now, and beyond that, he’s been at work for so long the days are blending into weeks, and yeah, he has messages piling up in his inbox from concerned Hermits, but the convenience of off-world testing is that he knows he won’t be interrupted by the pesky (and well meaning, of course) hermits.
And he is so damn exhausted that he’s hit an all time low; hallucinating.
Because the next time he checks his communicator he sees a strange message:
<̇/ᒷꖎᑑ⚍ᔑ has joined the game>
He blinks at it, wrestling the exhaustion out of his limbs as he flicks around on his communicator, checks the time, 18:04 , and then sees that the join message was received at 13:56.
Shit . Mumbo races to safety proof his current project, a prototype of a melon and pumpkin farm, and then tries a series of commands to try and locate the player. It’s been hours, and an unsupervised player in a world of half-stable-at-best machines is dangerous, and Mumbo is not prepared to handle a hostile unarmed player, much less one that has access to his first-tries at a robotic T-Rex and an army of robots.
He’s halfway through dialing Xisuma—even though he’s desperately trying to be independent and not embarrass himself—when his eyes click over the player stats, and beyond the strange corruption of most of it, he spots one clear as day; HP 3/20 .
Ok. Still a problem. Just not nearly as pressing as he had thought. Yes. There’s a critically injured player on his world, but his world is also custom-made to be something close to a creative mode world and even the most critical injuries essentially become static.
Mumbo presses his head against the cool metal of his nearby machine and just breathes for a few moments. Then, he straightens himself up and checks the player’s coordinates, jots them down in pen on the skin of his inner wrist, and grabs his travel pack.
He spends a while just regaining composure, hand on his chest, fingers sliding under his suit jacket, and he moves to fidgeting with his silky tie, rolling it between his index finger and thumb.
Then, he grabs an emergency shulker, and takes a last glance at the coordinates and starts heading over. As he approaches the coordinates, ducking and weaving through the monoliths of half-built, abandoned machinery, his eyes scan for the surely fallen form of whatever player has found their way into his world.
He spots them easily enough, the white robe they wear stained grey and brown from wear, stands out against the polished white of the quartz structures. Mumbo approaches with far more caution than any player confident in their PVP would, but Mumbo has learned his lesson by now, (the bandages around his neck tighten a little at the thought) and he is certainly not confident in PVP—for good reason too!
But. He approaches. And the player’s eyes flutter open, and he has to blink a few times because at first the player's eyes keep changing color each time he tries to focus on them before returning to a steady honey brown.
The player groans, and Mumbo snaps into action, “Ah! Um, okay, I have some healing potions in here somewhere!” He assures and the player only stares blankly at the sky.
Mumbo pulls out a vial of a rose hued concoction, and winces as he takes in the extent of the player’s injuries. He is burned so badly, much of the fabric of his clothes have melted into the mess of raw skin and leathery patches. His hair is burned and singed in uneven patches, as are the delicate feathers of his wings, splayed out beneath him at awkward angles.
Revulsion drops through him, sweeping his stomach and fuzzing his mind. He has to look away and take a deep breath, regaining his hold on his stomach and the bile rising in his throat.
He grabs a wad of wool and pours the vial onto it, then begins to gently press it into the burn in the worst places—he’s worried that wool fibers might stick to the skin, but not as worried as he is about how the burn might become infected if it isn’t treated. He’s careful not to break the blisters, some first aid knowledge foggy from time swimming to the forefront of his mind.
He’ll attempt to clean it when he can get the player back to spawn, where he has a mini base setup for times when Mumbo is too absorbed or tired to return to Hermitcraft. For now, he finishes dabbing the potion where he could and tosses the soiled wool to the side. He should probably call someone for help. He is not equipped to handle third degree burns, much less on an avian or their wings!
He glances to his communicator and hovers over one of his contacts. His stomach twists at the thought of calling for help, but. But. Xisuma said anytime he needs. And. This isn’t really about him, honestly. It’s not his life on the line.
He types out a shaky message and hits send.