Chapter Text
“Within them, there will always reside a certain evil.” He said as he leaned against the slanted steel and warped wood of the toolshed. “It doesn’t matter if it’s inside or outside— that’s not why we walk.”
Ranboo’s hands ached.
Behind the blacksmith’s in late summer, Ranboo was hunched over a tin basin, its rim digging into their arms and neck as they propped their head against it. Behind them, their mentor’s gaze was keenly felt, like the yellow eyes of a hawk.
Ranboo’s mentor was… unfamiliar. A foreigner hired by the palace, though he had been employed in the End for far longer; he was one with pale, papery skin mottled with freckles and silvery scars. He often donned embroidered capes and dark aketons, which made him look as though he’d just leapt out of a story book.
He looked much like an Overworlder, but his features were too sharp. His hair, tan like dried hay or sun-bleached bones, was long and unkempt, as rough and as coarse as a piglin’s pelt. His eyes, which were brighter than the Eyes of Ender, were larger than an Overworlder’s, as if stretched wide in fright. He rarely blinked.
Despite all of this, his face was slack and relaxed, and his hair often obscured his eyes, so all that was left was a sort of unsettling… wrongness… to them.
Still, he was not winged nor armored. He could not be a shulk or an elytrian and, of course, he could not be a piglin or an enderian. He was nothing Ranboo knew, though even if he was, he’d still be a mystery all on his own.
Ranboo did not sigh, but it was a very near thing. He needed to focus. He had a knife in one hand— sleek and sharp with an elegant obsidian handle, which was just about the only thing even remotely princely in the area— and a writhing sturgeon in the other.
The sturgeon flailed as they readjusted their grip, sliding their claws into its gills and pinching its flesh. Its lower body lay in their palm, where barbed fins smacked against the top of their hands as it shook about.
“Remember, the abnormality’s location isn’t important. We just need to know how common it is.” Said their mentor, the spindly tendrils of wineroot crunching under his boots as he paced.
Ranboo stayed silent, watching the sturgeon slowly grow limp, as though transfixed. He didn’t even wait for it to die, merely slotting the hooked end of his knife into the gills he’d pried open and beginning to cut.
His mentor work was a lot like making jam with chorus fruit, only less fun. He would crack open the tough shell— and he meant that metaphorically, of course, because sturgeons with shells were typically sent to Sector 2B, which was a department interns and apprentices were prohibited from entering— and peel out the fruit, transmogrifying its innards into a wet clump of gunk.
…It was a lot more gory when there was fish blood and organs instead of soapy, syrupy juice and glistening, sticky-sweet meat.
“It’s definitely a Terra subsection.” Ranboo said, his voice scratchy from disuse, as blood dripped down his hand and intestines dangled like torn ribbons. “The jaw has the same structure as the westward classifications, but it’s only notable abnormality is the scales’ discoloration. Not a fine breed of proficiency, and I suggest closure of the area.”
His mentor nodded, though he wasn’t sure if it was in approval or just acknowledgement, and crouched down beside him. He dug his fingers into its spine, prying a long strand of blue-black, still-twitching sinews free. Ranboo was still, staring at the raw data babbling before him, wincing as the loops of viscera were pressed against his palms.
His ears ached.
“There’s more than that. You’re thinking about it like an enderian when you should be thinking about it like a god.” He said, jabbing their cheek with a hot, glow-stained finger. Ranboo tried to scowl, but it looked more like pouting.
“But I am an enderian! All this god stuff is superstition— none of it has any logical value. The council just wants my input because they’re old and stupid.” He snapped, but he must have gestured a bit too wildly, because all he earned was a warning look. He quickly put the knife down, squeezing the muttering threads in his palm. It was still talking. It was stupid, though, because Ranboo didn’t speak fish, so it should really be quiet so Ranboo’s head would stop hurting.
“A lot of it is superstition,” his mentor agreed, “but it still matters. It gives us a framework, a base to work upon. It’s a way of thinking that will make sense to all of your subjects. Even if they’re wrong, there’s still something… different… about you. You can see something they can’t.”
Ranboo was quiet for a while, looking down at the remains of the fish. Beneath a sticky coat of slick, foul-smelling blood, there were thin, rubbery scales pulling at his skin, making it seem ill-fitting and dull. He didn’t know if they were the sturgeon’s or his own.
“…It’s like raiding end ships.” He murmured at last, furrowing his brow. “I have to chart a course around the shulks, right?”
“Bingo.” Came a new voice, sharp as ice and cold as wriggling eels submerged in snowmelt. Ranboo jerked his head back up.
And there, his mentor was gone in favor of an elytrian with all sorts of emotions swimming round his head like serpents, hissing in the tallgrass. An elytrian with prayers shrieking in his skull, rattling around Ranboo’s head like pinballs, and a scar like bone and wings like gold.
Ranboo stared at him and held his breath, and the truth spilled out like blood.
The elytrian was his charge, the man he’d made a deal with, and Ranboo was a god, trapped by duty once more.
-
Ranboo wakes up… slowly. This does not mean it’s a pleasant experience.
The first thing he notices is the sky. It was blue. Clear blue. Not star-studded or black or, really, dark at all. He wasn’t in Limbo and he wasn’t in the End. Given that there was a sky at all, Ranboo had a pretty good guess on where he was.
He was here, at last, in the Overworld. And in truth, he didn’t know he felt about it.
-
“Are you coming?”
“Coming? To what?”
“The party, silly! Everyone is going to come, even the hyades.”
The crackling of static.
“Oh. Oh! Well, I oughta go. I can’t miss something like that.”
“Oh, Boo, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“No, no. Of course I’ll come. If I don’t, I’m sure Clementine will make rubies fall out of my tongue, and you’ll never let me live that down.”
A laugh.
“I don’t think she would do that. But if she does, I’ll— I’ll turn her into gillyflowers and feed her to the Glare.”
“Ha! Don’t worry, though. I don’t think she’ll get the chance— you’re so nice and quick as a hare, you’ll whisk me away before the thought even comes to her!”
“Don’t put all your eggs into one basket, you silly goose. If you keep talking like that, it’ll be you who turns into gillyflowers!”
“Pfft— no way!”
“Yes way! I’m serious, Boo!”
“ Sure , Mister Forget-Me-Not. If I’m a silly goose, then I’m a goose that lays golden eggs, so take that !”
“Oh, shush.”
“Aw, don’t pout—“
“I’m not pouting! I don’t want to put you out of a job!”
“…I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. I’m just messing with you, but even if she does catch me, I think I’d rather rubies than coal.”
“Eugh, don’t remind me!”
The rustling of fabric.
“…You will come, won’t you?”
A hum.
“Of course. I don’t think anyone will miss it.”
-
Ranboo is… coping. Maybe. He likes to think that he is, but he’s not so sure. Regaining a few scraps of your memories and learning you’re a freaking god all in one night did that people.
…A god. God, he thinks, is a funny sort of word. A three-letter word for something so… so big . So grand, and all they can think is one syllable, three letters. It feels so silly, so insignificant. It doesn’t fit at all.
Ranboo sighed. He doesn’t really know how to be a god. He doesn’t even know how to be an enderian! How was he supposed to be a god ?! He must’ve known, once upon a time. He’d been one in the past, afterall— though, he couldn’t remember much. All he had was a vague impression, like someone’s reflection in the water. Overall, it was rather unhelpful.
Ranboo isn’t much of a god, not like the fixtures he spies mortals— people , they’re people, Ranboo— worshipping. All of those sagely and all-knowing and orderly characters don’t quite suit him. No, definitely not. It makes his head spin, even if he’s been a god, apparently? That feels like important information, so how had he forgotten it? What else was he forgetting?
Ranboo shook his head, trying to chase these worrisome thoughts away. He didn’t want to think about that.
…It’s quiet outside. He likes it that way. In the broad meadow outside the stronghold, Ranboo sits still, gazing out into the infinite color of the Overworld. He doesn’t belong here, yet it feels… homely, in an odd sort of way. More homely than limbo, anyways.
The stronghold was honestly in disarray— though, he supposed it made sense. It wasn’t as though there were any attendees to upkeep the place. Still, he wasn’t sure where Quackity was, and if he planned to lock away the stronghold for later use, he’d need to vacate the place first.
Like bonfire’s smoke and autumn’s breeze, Ranboo stood and strode forwards, weaving and wading his way through the shattered halls of the stronghold. He wanted to make sure his charge hadn’t gotten injured— though, realistically, he probably hadn’t. With how well the portal was protected, he’d have to be really stupid to get hurt, which… was not out of the question.
Ranboo tried not to think about it, instead walking into the battered remains of a kitchen. Center-stage, a bruised cauldron lay, tipped over and leaning against a burnt cabinet, thick with the acrid stench of blood and smoke. He grimaced. What had happened here?
Brushing aside broken tiles and the battered carcasses of long-dead animals with a black, eye-speckled wing, Ranboo pricked his ears. He could feel the thrum of Quackity’s amulet, distant yet ever-present. Had he escaped?
…if so, why was he hearing scuffling?
Ranboo silently slid towards the sound, exiting the room and drawing near the ruins of an archway. He leaned over and pushed aside a lump of stone brick, and there! There was… not a human?
At first, Ranboo thought it was dead. It looked very dead, because it was a limp fox that smelled like blood, and those sorts of things tended to be dead. The source of this blood was pretty easy to find, because it oozed out around the fox’s limp head in absurdly high quantities, though it probably didn’t hit its head. Instead, it looked like it had gotten slashed by a piece of falling debris, and the blood dripped sluggishly out of its mouth and the somewhat shallow cut that extended out of the left side of its mouth.
Ranboo kind of wanted to poke it with a stick, to see if it twitched. He nodded to himself and walked a few steps over, looking for any nearby sticks, hoping to enact this ingenious plan.
…Wait, no, that’s not just a fox, that’s a hybrid , look at his clothes, you buffoon ! Some part of his mind corrected, just as he found a nicely shaped stick, and twenty-seven eyes widened in tandem. He’d need to get better at that— hybrids weren’t in short supply in the Overworld.
Ranboo dropped the stick in favor of leaning over the hybrid, squinting inquisitively at the strange little lump of fur shoved in the corner. He was unconscious, shivering and curled up in a ball. Aside from the smell of blood, there was also a strong, nauseating scent of sulphur and dust that seemed to have burrowed deep into his fur, blinking its beady little eyes at Ranboo in mockery.
Mindful of his injuries, Ranboo gently lifted the fox. At this, he frowned. Ranboo was pretty weak, but carrying the fox was like holding a bunch of grapes. And sure, the fox was pretty small and scrawny, but it was still abnormal.
If this guy is local to the area, I can see why Quackity needed help. Ranboo thought, entering one of the nearby rooms. The fox was unconscious— he couldn’t have made the sound. That was his name right?
Quackity’s a dumb name, but its better than, like, Brian. He thought absentmindedly as he examined the room. He pried a rotting closet’s doors aside, revealing the source of the noise— as his expected, it was his charge.
Quackity was… disheveled, to say the least. He wore an ill-fitting suit, damp and suspiciously stained in shades of dark red and murky green. His slick and dirty gold wings seemed to twist oddly, as though he’d broken a bone and it hadn’t healed quite right. He was clawing at the ground, pale and sweaty and gasping like a fish out of water. How bothersome.
I guess I shouldn’t make fun of him— I always thought I had a weird name! Still, maybe that’s because I’m a god or something. What’s his excuse? He thought, hefting the man over his shoulder. His charge groaned, but the fox was considerably more injured, so Ranboo didn’t mind giving him the backseat. Plus, he had a stupid name.
For a while, the walk was silent. Quackity let out terrible groans and incomprehensible murmurs, clawing at the back of Ranboo’s black, star-speckled gown, but the fox was quite behaved— which made sense, given the whole unconscious thing.
Eventually, Ranboo found a patch of grass so soft it felt like bedding, and laid the men atop it. Beside the grass, there was a lake overlooked by hills and forests, and a large white willow with bark like birch and roots that extended to the lake, with horsetail and rose tangled in its thralls. In the fields, rabbits and lambs and mice and cows begin to stirr, scurrying or bumbling all about.
As the sun begins to crest over the lake, bringing about more colors than Ranboo knew, he folded his legs atop a wide rock, its surface river-smoothed and rounded by countless waves, and clasped his hands together.
Behind his veil, Ranboo’s face was well hidden. And as the brilliant glow of sunshine permeated the field, the luminescence of Ranboo’s eyes dulled. Soon, at least for a little while, he wouldn’t be a god, but a mere silhouette— a neutral observer surveying the land.
At last, Ranboo smiled serenely, his anxieties easing in the crisp morning air, and slid his eyes shut.
And then Quackity woke up.