Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

Scar was absolutely correct when he said that Xisuma would not be leaving the bed for quite a while. He has been trapped in the bed for nearly half a day now, and annoyingly, he isn’t all that upset.

He is stressed, yes, because he is having a very hard time keeping his unwanted feelings for the three men at bay while they snuggle up to him and talk in hushed tones, like he is something worth this intimacy of sharing a bed.

And a new problem pops up when he begins to drift in and out of sleep, heavy with nightmares and chilling flashbacks.

“Suma,” Grian murmurs and Xisuma sighs heavily, trying to expel the crushing anxiety from his lungs with the breath. It’s just him and Grian, he realizes as his mind dispels the fog of sleep.

“Hm?”

“Do you want to talk about it now?”

Xisuma’s lips twist into a scowl, “I don’t— there’s nothing to talk about? Nothing even happened. I. Like I said, I just need to forget about it. Get over it.”

“That doesn’t sound like nothing, though.” Grian argues, but there’s no bite and Xisuma’s not sure if he could handle such a tone from his own god .

Xisuma sighs again, and Grian is quiet, only thoughtfully peering at his face, a slight frown set into his lips.

“Just talk to me?” Grian asks, with the same reverence Xisuma reserves for prayers.

“Okay—ok, um.” He worries his lip, “I grew up… worshipping Four,” He flinches at the charged atmosphere, and Grian smoothes down his hair apologetically.

“I grew up and, I had a— My brother and I were really close. As kids. But. There was a point in our childhood when, when we were separated and… our Abbess received a prophecy that one of us would go on to doom our god—Four that is.” He swallows, “And they gave us a test, and—” He tilts his head back, staring, unseeing at the ceiling, “And I failed and my brother passed, and our Abbess. She—”

Grian’s eyes are cloudy with concern when he looks to them—and what he is searching for, he himself isn’t quite sure.

“Well. Twins were always a bit taboo among voidwalkers. So, I was really lucky enough that my brother and I had lived that long anyways.”

“What did they do?” Grian whispers, but the sound rattles the clock on the bedside table and the window panes shudder in their frame.

Xisuma squeezes his eyes shut.

“They gave my mums an ultimatum; either I am sacrificed for my transgressions, or one of them would be.”

Grian’s touch seems to burn him.

***

“Zee’Lanah?” Lily jolts, a small jerk of muscles that are banefully out of reach of her self-control.

“Drei’Stahl,” Lily breathes, a huff of annoyance at the start she has caused, but nothing more. The emotion is washed away as the breath leaves her lips.

“I don’t—I can’t get this right?” Drei’Stahl offers a misshapen grass block and Lily feels a smile tug at her lips. It’s a little funny. She wouldn’t laugh but. It’s certainly not the best grass block she’s seen.

“Alright, show me how you’re summoning it.”

And they sit down and Lily watches shrewdly as Drei’Stahl  pulls at the code lines of the universe. She is lucky to catch a slip, one that not many high-level summoners might catch, as instinctive as it is to them, and can help Drei’Stahl correct it.

Later, as Lily watches the flock sleep, she nearly cries as she realizes; she has done it again.

She has disobeyed the key tenet of being a Watcher; No Connections.

Does she believe that gods don’t have connections? That the universe is strict and orderly?

She does—but she hadn’t always. But ever since Xelqua escaped, her only escape became the obedience instilled in her. Surely, if these principles weren’t true, then the universe would have given her a sign by now?

“Zee’Lanah.” She does not jump this time. She only freezes, fear washing through her.

She turns, and there, masked in white and towering over her, the bird-like head of Two quirks at her.

“Two.” She nods respectfully.

“I need you to tell me the truth.” Two says, voice wispy and old as the Universe.

“Always.” She burns as she says it. She does not know Two’s curse—nobody does. And the unknown is dangerous.

“Is he safe?”

Lily's tongue turns dry, "Who?" She asks through her clumsy mouth.

"Xelqua; The Protector." Two stares and Pearl feels as if her soul is being judged, "He suffered here. You allowed his escape. All that risk and you do not know that he is safe?"

Lily… doesn't know what to say.

"I don't-"

Two gasps, and if Lily didn’t know better, she would say the Watcher sounded sad, "You, though. Have you suffered? Tell me, child. Have you suffered by our hand?"

***

Grian advises her to start her own build. Gem invites her to build opposite hers and another hermit's land.

Pearl accepts.

She doesn't have much else to do.

She relearns the game, relearns the rules of being a Player and not a Watcher. Gem helps her, takes her to the end, guides her through avoiding the Enderkind, then through conquering the remnants of the End Cities, populated only by feral, unsocialized shulkers.

Gem teaches her to make food, from constructing a simple sandwich to stirring a complicated stew. Unfortunately for her, and Impulse, the other hermit who joins them for dinner, Pearl really shouldn't be in charge of a task that requires so little intention to give potent effects.

She ladles a spoonful into her mouth and it's like she is in the tower again, or under the brilliant full light of Lady Moon, the world shimmering around her, the threads of code coiling together, and curiously she notices that she is starting to host a thinly spun web of code, leading to other players.

It's easy to identify when one, rose hued in color, connects to the chest of Gem, where she too hosts a webbed mess of strings.

And when she goes to look Gem in the eyes, to see the universe's brightness reflected back, to share the joy of inspection, she only sees Gem squinting her eyes, brow drawn in pain, and a tag looped into the chord each player has around their throat that reads Blindness .

Ah. Pearl is still a god, no matter how she masquerades as a player.

"Ack—  you, you blinded us!" Impulse cries, but he also laughs in delight and Pearl’s heart lifts, just a little bit more. Gem is also laughing, though she’s splashed some soup into her lap with the motion and Pearl grins, but goes to distribute napkins to her… friends? Hm. Friends or not, they are Hers or so says the universe, and the twirling cords that tie their souls together.

“What did you put in this?” Gem giggles, wiping gathering tears from the corners of her eyes.

Pearl feels the effect wearing off, and Sees that the blindness also wears off of Gem and Impulse, which is at least a relief.

Pearl shrugs her shoulders once she’s sure their vision has returned. She grins wickedly when she takes another bite, and foolishly, they follow her lead and are, once again, blinded.

Gem shrieks in disbelief and Impulse huffs out a startled laugh.

"I don't— I don't know why I did that!" He laughs, bringing a hand up to scrub at his eyes.

"Whyyyyy," Gem laments, jokingly and all Pearl can do is hide her grin behind another bite of suspicious (well-intentioned) stew.

***

The first time Zee’Lanah sees the overworld (and oh, this is Zee’Lanah, no one less, and certainly no one more), it is during one of the final evaluations. She and Xelqua arrive with their proctor, a lesser Watcher below the counsel of The Numbered.

It is always Xelqua and Zee’Lanah, like sun and—

And?

Sun and…

The sun is high in the sky, and blinding to the fledglings after being raised in the dark blanket of the void, and they cower for as long as their proctor readies themself, then are made to stumble half-blind into the streets of a village.

There, they pass the day by completing the first section of the evaluation. Xelqua trails one villager in particular, shrouded in a weave of invisibility code, and a tag pinned to his target. Zee’Lanah follows along, bare feet bitten by the uneven cobbled roads.

When it is her turn, she instead slips a blindness effect into her game’s code, and then tags them and tracks them as they return home and retire to bed after contracting a mysterious blindness.

Afterwards, they set off to the forest where they familiarize themselves with the Overworld creatures and fauna which they had learned of in the texts.

And once the proctor notices the world tiring around them, they allow the fledglings to make themself camp. They leave the two of them, alone in the wilderness to fend for themselves as the third part of the test—survival.

For Xelqua, it is easy and bittersweet, after many years of his life living off the land in Evo. For Zee’Lanah, it is a confusing, headache-inducing mess. She cannot follow Xelqua’s instructions to stoke the fire without folding over, clutching at her temple, in the eerie light of the moon. So naturally, she is benched, curled up on a bed of springy moss and fresh leafy boughs of the birch trees, clamping her jaw tightly in hopes that it will stop the tears that spring to her eyes.

She feels like her brain is goop being whisked out of shape, leaving only pain and fear and wrongness .

When Xelqua turns in, fire lowly smoldering, curling at her back, and gently blanketing her with a wing, she is quick to sleep, if only to escape whatever fresh hell she has stepped into.

She wakes up to Xelqua holding a hand over her mouth, his lips drawn halfway between a furious snarl and panicked desperation.

Be quiet, he growls, and she gasps raggedly, but no matter how great of an inhale she manages, her lungs only continue to constrict.

I she gasps, lashes fluttering against the ceramic of her mask, I can’t remember what she looks like—

***

There is a new king on Hermitcraft, separate from the authority of the resident gods and admins.

The crown is heavy, and carried with it is a heavier greed.

"Well done," Seven says, far from the realm, and though it is blocked from her sight, it is not blocked to a player, and well. A fledgling is not quite a god, and not quite a player, so they make quite the perfect tool.

Her hand squeezes the fledglings shoulder and he flinches. Her lips thin and he grits his teeth, doing his best to maintain connection.

"Keep this up ᒷ ̇/╎𝙹リᔑ, and you might just make the cut, as unconventional as your ascent might be," She praises, and the man, mask fixed to his face, can only nod and bite his sharpened teeth into his lip.

"Thank you," He murmurs, voice steady and composed even as his hands tremble, a criss-crossed scar over the flesh of his palm pale against his smoke-gray hands in the Tower’s light.

Chapter Text

“Sorry—” Grian interrupts Xisuma telling his story, and Xisuma only hums and blinks sluggishly at him, feeling very far away from his body, “But why are twins taboo?”

Xisuma sighs again, “Well. It’s a long story. And, weirdly, I think it might answer why the Watchers took Pearl.”

Grian stiffens at his back, and Xisuma intertwines their hands where Grian’s arms wind around his chest.

“Twins are heavily correlated with the Moon in mythology.”

“Ah, the sun and moon, right?”

“Exactly… And the Watchers and Lady Moon have been at odds for a long time. So, it’s not a great look for my mums to have twins, refuse to do what was traditionally done with twins; which was to choose one to sacrifice to the Watchers as a denial of Lady Moon’s influence.” Xisuma explains, “But, you see. My sect at the time was not very traditional, and my mums even less so. As far as I remember they did their best to raise us to be respectful and open to other cultures and religions.”

“But that fell apart just a bit when our Abbess received a prophecy that one of us twins would betray Four.”

“ Just a bit ,” Grian echoes.

Xisuma laughs softly, “Yeah. Just enough to y’know. Kill my mu—”

His breath catches in his throat and his eyes burn with the threat of tears, "Sorry," he gasps.

Grian holds him tighter.

"We were taken very different ways after that— I had proven myself to be the dangerous twin, and our Abbess she— I don’t know.” He is quiet in a moment of thought, “She just got… mean. ”

Xisuma pauses, and Grian, curiosity burning in his chest, asks, “Mean how? What did she do?”

“She just got weird about food, and clothes, and books. Couldn’t eat if I hadn’t done my chores—since our mums weren’t around anymore we were raised by the Abbess and her attendants. And we wore weird clothes that weren’t anything like what we used to wear, or anything like the other kids around us! I just remember being so embarrassed when we were able to play with the other kids and they got to wear normal clothes.”

“And I was barely able to read any books, only the ones about the Watchers’ myths. I think that’s when I realized a lot of the harmful rhetoric and planned to leave. But—” Xisuma drags a hand down his face, “I also realize now that those books told me exactly why the Watchers would have taken such an interest in Pearl.”

Dread creeps up Grian’s throat, “And why would that be?” He whispers.

Xisuma glances at him, seeming guilty .

“Kinda weird that we haven’t heard from the Lady of the Sun,” He murmurs and Grian only cocks his head in confusion.

“I think Pearl exists because Lady Moon needs an heir. After her twin disappeared, Lady Moon’s time has been running out. And if the Watchers could take Pearl away, and the moon was left without an heir, it would leave them with one less enemy. And the sun and moon can’t exist without the other so without the moon the sun would—” He stops abruptly, “Or well, that’s just my theory.”

Grian bites his lip, “Right,” He murmurs, “Just a theory.”

Then, he tugs Xisuma closer and blankets him in downy feathers, and Xisuma takes that to mean the conversation is over… for now.

***

The message pings Xisuma’s comm as he’s going over the world seed for Season 6, and he nearly ignores it. But as luck, or the Universe’s pull would have it, he pulls it out just to be sure it’s not urgent and—

<MumboJumbo: Xisuma, I need your help.>

Panic lances through him— Mumbo's been particularly cagey recently, ever since well. Since whatever the hell happened while he was off server that caused him to stumble home covered in blood and bruised black and blue.

So, Xisuma panics a little at such a vague message. But luckily—

<MumboJumbo: An unregistered player is on my testing world and critically injured.>

Well. He’s certainly glad he listened to that particular siren’s call.

<Xisuma: On my way. Stay calm. Try not to move them.>

He places his hands down on his table, feeling the wood grain under his fingers just for a moment, pressing down to keep them from shaking.

He takes a breath. Another. Then, he stands and purposefully moves slowly through his base, grabbing the necessities, a shulker of potions and another of more sophisticated medical equipment. He triple checks his supplies, and even stops to drink a glass of water.

He knows Mumbo, the man is probably working himself into an anxious spell and Xisuma will need all the calm and patience he can get.

He tucks his supplies into his inventory and clasps his helmet onto his suit.

Then, pulling up a panel, he navigates to the world transport menu and selects the address Mumbo had sent for his redstone testing world.

“Xisuma!” Mumbo gasps, as Xisuma spawns into his world. For a moment the world is dark as he adjusts to the spawn, and feeling returns to his body in pins and needles.

“Mumbo,” He returns, kneeling down next to him, spotting the badly burned player cradled in Mumbo’s arms.

“How’d this happen?” He asks, already pulling out the shulkers and throwing them down.

“I don’t know,” He shakes as he holds the player in his arms, “I don’t know what to do, I don’t—”

“Mumbo,” He places a hand on his shoulder and winces when the man flinches, drawing Xisuma’s eyes to the bandage wound around his neck and chest, “Ah, sorry—” His hand falls from his shoulder, but he catches Mumbo’s eye, “Hey, it’s going to be okay. The best thing you could’ve done was call for help, which you did —so don’t worry. I can take care of this from here.”

Mumbo bites his lip, eyes tearing up, but he nods and shakily inhales.

“Alright, let’s get them sorted out, yeah?”

***

“What’s this?” Grian asks, staring at the newly erected building in the shopping district.

Pearl grins, hands on hips, a beautiful picture of bravado, “ This ,” She exclaims, “Is my shop!”

Grian squints at the sign, “Twinkly Trash?” He reads under his breath, “What do you even sell?”

“You’ll see!” She bounds up the stairs and flies through the doors, and Grian groans, but follows easily.

As he pushes the doors open, he nearly trips on a thin string pulled taut along the floor, yelping as he skips away from it, and trying to regain his balance, and in his confusion, he doesn’t dodge out of the way of the crashing glass bottles raining down on him.

They shatter on impact and he shrieks again as he’s doused in foul smelling liquid.

He gags, “Pearl, what the fuck?”

Pearl just cackles, and when he looks up, nose pinched shut so he doesn’t actually throw up , he watches as a particular kind of madness dances in her eyes.

“Isn’t this what players do? Prank each other?” She asks, still clutching at her sides and gasping for breath.

Grian casts his eyes skywards indignantly, even as he’s fighting back a grin.

“This is a nightmare,” He breathes, fond amusement rounding the edges of his sharp tone.

***

Mumbo watches, high strung and dizzy with anxiety as the strange player hovers between waking and sleeping. The player's done this a few times; tossed and turned in a way that suggested he might wake again.

Each time, Mumbo has had the same reaction— drop everything to haunt the player's bedside just in case .

In case of what exactly, Mumbo isn't so sure. He just knows he was certainly relieved to see his friends by his bedside when he woke from his week-long stay in a coma.

"Hmm?" The player mumbles, and if they meant to form words, they certainly failed.

"Hello?" Mumbo murmurs, fiddling with his tie anxiously and eyes sweeping over the player's bandaged body, trying to parse any change.

"ꖎ╎ꖎ||?" The player mumbles, but to Mumbo's ears it sounds only of static and the pitchy ringing of feedback.

"What?"

"ꖎ╎ꖎ|| ╎ℸ ̣  ⍑⚍∷ℸ ̣ ᓭ. !¡ꖎᒷᔑᓭᒷ ᒲᔑꖌᒷ ╎ℸ ̣  ᓭℸ ̣ 𝙹!¡." Again, the sounds only read as static to Mumbo's ears. He winces and grits his teeth at the grating sound.

"I can't understand you…" He bites out.

The player opens their eyes.

Blue green brown gold red blue yellow red red green blue brown. Mumbo presses his palms over his own eyes, and when he opens them again, the player's eyes stay brown.

"Mumbo Jumbo," The player says, shaking Mumbo to his core.

Mumbo is silent, staring in frozen fear. How do they know my name.

"Mumbo… Jumbo?" They say, laughter cutting the edge from their voice and Mumbo realizes that they were simply reading his name, and sure enough when he follows the player's eyes over his shoulder to the spot on the wall behind him, there is his framed diploma, declaring his degree in redstone engineering.

Mumbo smiles shyly, "Yep. That's me."

The player coughs, though it could be confused for a laugh.

"What's your name?"

The player looks to him, eyes dark and face shadowed, and as Mumbo is about to apologize for whatever boundary he has crossed (Was it Avians who are picky about names? He can't recall… If he's going to be more involved in this side of the world now, he might need to find out…).

"Grian," The player says, holding a hand out daintily.

Mumbo goes to shake it, but as he grasps his hand, the player instead draws it in until his knuckles brush Grian's chest, and then Grian briefly bows his head, then guides Mumbo's hand away again and releases it.

Mumbo… isn’t sure what to do about that. So, he elects to simply let it go, and push on.

“Grian,” Mumbo nods to him, “I’m glad to see you awake.”

Grian nods, “Right. Well, I ought to get off this creative world if I’m going to heal up.”

Mumbo balks at that, “No! You’re not in a good enough condition to go anywhere, this place is engineered to freeze a player’s condition—you need to stay—AAAHH,” He shrieks as Grian lunges at him, knocking both of them to his floor.

Immediately, Mumbo’s thrashing about, desperate to get the player off of him . Grian, however, just calmly holds on, pinning Mumbo in place, and waits for Mumbo to give up and still.

“Here’s what is going to happen.” Grian says, glaring down at Mumbo, whose heart is beating lightning quick against his ribcage, “You are going to let me off world, and never tell anyone you saw me. Do you understand?”

Mumbo wheezes, out of breath from Grian’s knee biting into his chest, “Please—” He groans, thoughts blurry and racing, “Please let me go, I don’t want this— I don’t—”

He can’t feel his fingers.

It’s happening again. He’s going to die this time, he won’t escape a second time.

He goes limp, closing his eyes, exhausted as his body continues to panic, lungs restricting with his shallow pants and tingling, stiff fingers.

Stay down Mumbo sobs at the voice ringing in his head. Stop fighting, c’mon just give in.

There are hands on his back, strong arms tugging him up, and he lets his body remain a deadweight. It didn’t matter, even if he fought, he wouldn’t get away.

“Sorry,” Mumbo’s brain feels like it’s flipping over in his head, “Shit— ohhhhh no.”

The hands guiding him into an upright position fly away from him, and he topples over again, his teeth clicking together and accidentally sinking into the flesh of his tongue, filling his mouth with a copper-tang.

Shuffling, Mumbo hears them leave the room, and he takes the opportunity to curl up, head tucked and sheltered as best as it can and his knees drawn up to his chest to protect the soft of his stomach.

Faint talking from the room over, Mumbo squeezes his eyes shut and waits .

“Mumbo,” A familiar voice calls, and Mumbo’s eyes snap open, “Mumbo hey, it’s okay, I’m here.”

He stares at Xisuma, mouth dry. He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, and struggles to swallow.

“X, I—,” He bursts into tears, feebly reaching out and Xisuma immediately moves to gather him into his arms and hold him in a tight hug.

“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” Xisuma repeats, like a prayer.