Archive of Our Own ^beta

A good friend and neighbor.

"What?" Bdubs yells, but he knows that voice before he even finishes the thought. The basement of the monolith has forked again and in its new branch he finds an improbable Etho. “No way! I had no idea this was back here.”

“It’s been here all along... for a day or so.” Etho shrugs and laughs in the way he does when he thinks he’s getting away with something, which Bdubs supposes he already has. 

“All along for a day or so!” It does only look half-finished, a sketch of an old hideout already taking shape. Eventually it really will have always been there, given enough time. He can see it, more wood supports, the slope of a thin staircase, the warmth from a fireplace not yet made casting an orange glow over the present. “What in the world have you been up to?”

Concise as ever, Etho shuffles backward to show off his hideout and says, "Tango exiled me and now I'm back.” He shrugs and does a complicated, inscrutable gesture with his hands that Bdubs takes to mean it’s a story he doesn’t want to tell yet.

"Who died and made Tango king, anyway!" Bdubs says. 

“Some old fool, I heard,” Etho says, and Bdubs starts to take it as the insult he expects but when he jerks his head to harass him, Etho’s truly distracted digging through his things and starting to talk again. “I’m behind on all the new history around here. You'll have to fill me in."

“You really wanna get caught up? You know, there’s this story about this story about a greedy old king...”

“Tell me,” Etho says, and Bdubs does.

A small crown presented.

“I dub thee Parkour King,” he says to complete the ritual, because repetition of what’s already believed makes it real. When the blackened metal rests on Tango’s bowed head his shoulders are already pulling back, spine straightening, the tension of anticipation replaced by a great weight that calls him to rise.

Tango smiles back at him, all teeth and princely self-satisfaction. He runs fingertips along the crown’s peaks, gentle despite his visible excitement. “Is this metaphorical, or is that the, uh, symbology of your tower, with the banners at the top?”

“This is reminiscent - this is the crown forged in the actual stone of the ruins, to resemble the ruins,” Bdubs says, reduced to explaining himself. “That’s why - the ritual - you read the book, didn’t you? It’s the Shroomlight Ruins.”

“Yeah, yeah. Weird book about abandoned mines, greedy king, a million years pass,” Tango says, waving one hand back and forth like he’s flipping through pages. “I got it.”

“Exactly. This is a crown with history. It’s made of history.” Bdubs sizes up Tango - feet planted firmly in the ground, standing tall, smiling. "Wear it with pride.”

Wrought iron as anchor, faith as tether, a symbol returned to again and again, quiet reminder. Tango does.

There blossomed a King

“This is the Tree of Whimsy, where I crown Tango King of Parkour. We’re here because I would like to see you as king as well. Of the whole server.”

“Geez, okay,” Ren said, eyebrows raising above the rim of his glasses. “Go on.”

“As king of the whole server, you’ll have a lot of people that you’ll need to melt and bend to your will. Just like you would on this anvil,” he said, placing a palm on the anvil’s surface. It was warm to the touch from the shroomlight below and morning sun above. “Sometimes, it takes a little heat. This anvil would be the symbol of your leadership.”

“That’s - that’s kind of a lot, Bdoubleo.”

Bdubs inclined his head; so they were at formalities, then, with the weight of the anvil between them now. It gave him hope for the future. “You don’t have to say yes right now,” he said soothingly, “and you can take as much time as you like. I’ve got plenty of it. We can come back to this another time, that’s all I’m asking.”

“I don’t know,” Ren said. But there was a serious furrowing in his brow, glasses slipping down his nose as he contemplated a patch of grass where the sunbeams danced. 

“I’m giving you as much time as you need,” Bdubs promised. 

It was as easy as sleeping, to give his time away in service of the man he would like to see as king. If Ren said yes - when he said yes and became king of the server, it would be his responsibility to give more at his request. Space and time were the same thing, in the end, when freely given. 

So he kept his promise; time given, he carved out a little more space and changed the day.

The Clock Man did shape.

"The banners of greedy old King Bdubs," Tango pronounces, staking the pole right outside the monolith. "Is that who you’re named after?”

“Who?” Bdubs says absently, locking the front door. The keystone in the archway rattles with the handle when he sees that it’s secure. “That was the job, to reclaim the banners.”

“You read the book, right? The Shroomlight Ruins. Abandoned mines, greedy king...”

“A million years pass,” Bdubs finishes, frowning. “I’ve heard it before. In fact, I’m going to grant you a prize.” 

Tango doesn't hear him. "These were not easy to get!" The fabric flaps as he knocks a hand into the poles, the sun emblazoned on the banners wavering as if their rays were the source of the afternoon heat.

“This brings back memories,” says Bdubs, lifting the dark heavy crown with his fingertips admiringly. Wrought iron with carefully cut edges limned in a simmering gold, made in the image of a place more concerned with extraction than artisans; it sits a little crooked, proof of imperfect human effort. Tango will wear it well. “I will grant you a prize. Now, this prize must be forged only above a shroomlight.” 

When he looks over his shoulder while adjusting the anvil, he sees Tango restlessly peering around the edges. 

“No peeking! There’s a ceremony. Kneel before me.”

“I’m kneeling!”

When he turns around, cloak fluttering in the late morning breeze around his ankles, Tango is on one knee, as promised. Bdubs is satisfied with his posture, the way it looks practiced and familiar, unshaking. 

“I dub thee, the Parkour King of the Server!” he says to complete the ritual, because repetition of what’s already believed makes it real. The crown fits just snugly on Tango's head, as if it had been made for him, slotting into place like puzzle pieces once separated and now rejoined, restored to wholeness. “Wear your crown with pride, and rub it in everybody else’s face.”

And Tango does.

A Dungeon this King then did buildeth

When the basement arrives, sinking lower and lower into the earth until it's rooted so deep beyond seeing, the only thing to do will be descend. His dominion may only extend to the sun and things that grow under it, but Bdubs knows too well the precarity of stable orbits, of inertia - and downhill momentum will be a blessing that keeps him going down and down and down, past twists and turns that suggest other passages, other diversions. 

It’s a question of belief, even then unanswered, and Bdubs will believe, will always already have believed. Some histories take longer to settle in, but some come quick.

There'll be time for those questions, later, after he retrieves the book that will start the story, that will send him back up into the light, pendulum-weight bringing him back to the beginning and then past it again.

Quests thus fulfilledeth.

“The more it's repeated the more it spreads and changes, right? You won't be in charge of it anymore. How can you make it perfect if you don't have control?”

Bdubs rolls his eyes. "That's success right there, bringing something to life. I'm not gonna listen to a lecture on being predictable from you of all people.

"I don't lecture," Etho whines, putting on his most innocent, affronted face like Bdubs hasn't seen it a thousand times before. "You don't care how it turns out?"

"Keep telling yourself that and maybe it'll come true." He snorts. "Now, a redstone genius like myself doesn't have to deal with this since my redstone is perfect on the first try, but surely you've kept trying to make a contraption work and started over?"

“Yeah, to get something that wasn't working to start. You make it do what you want, not some other different thing it’s not supposed to."

"And so it is with stories! Sometimes you gotta rehearse it and workshop it, but you get the right scenes in the right order eventually."

Now it's Etho's turn to roll his eyes. "Uh-huh, right. People aren't machines, though."

"That's what I'm telling you. Making stories bend is an art, not a science.”

"Until it breaks."

"Says the guy who broke in and made himself at home!"  

It does feel homey, even here underground full of warmth from the fireplace and the signs of a place well lived in. It’d be cozier with a couple armchairs, a side table, somewhere to sink into, somewhere to rest. 

"I've been here too long for you to kick me out. Squatter's rights."

“More like a cellar rat,” Bdubs says. “Intrusive species. Too stubborn to be worth trying to get rid of, especially since we’re about to have more company anyway. So you might want to prepare yourself for that, hurry up and finish your sitting room.”

Etho throws a glance over at the fireplace, blinking several times like it’s the first time he’s seeing it. “Hey, what’s the time? I’m gonna need an explanation, but it’s hard to tell how long I’ve been working underground.”

Bdubs does the courtesy of checking his pocketwatch, secure under his mossy cloak and ticking quietly as it always does. He takes the opportunity to wind it, just a half-turn, the familiar resistance of gears approaching capacity as the crown’s rotation slows assuring him it’s working as it should. “I’m not even sleepy yet, so it’s fine. I suppose I can make a little time. You’ll get a kick out of this, so there’s this anvil...”

The King then decreed

The sun beat down from above, but the many reaching branches of the Tree of Whimsy above them kept them from the worst of it and cast dappled shadows that danced across Ren’s unusually serious face. He was picking at a stray thread on his shirt in between glancing over the bridge of his nose up at the series of pulleys and levers Bdubs had begun to scaffold into place.

“Go on,” said Ren.

"As king, you'll have a lot of people that you will have to melt and bend to your will." Bdubs checked the rigging on the anvil, winding the rope that tethered it directly above Ren's head. "Just as you would on this anvil, sometimes it takes a little heat."

"Is this for real? We’re just playing, right?"

He leaned over the edge of the scaffolding and smiled down at Ren, who fidgeted in an unkingly manner under his gaze. There might have been sweat forming on his brow, the early afternoon warmth just beginning to rise. He was not quite yet king, but Bdubs smiled at him wide. "Yes, this is real. It will be. Now, this is the important part."

He waited a breath, the only noise the rustling branches and the tick of the clock at his waist until Ren leaned forward by a single degree. It was barely a movement, but it was more than before, enough to fix the inertia of the conversation.

"The anvil is your symbol of leadership on this server. Once this falls, from that moment on, you rule.”

“That’s some heavy responsibility to put on my shoulders, dude.” Ren eyed the anvil above, eyes tracking the faint swaying from the wind.

“I have faith in you. You made the roads, you’ve got the skills and the drive - but you don’t have to decide right now. I don’t want you to take a job you don’t want so, just - think about it, for me? I’ll give you as much time as you like.”

“Give me a little more time,” said Ren. “If you can spare it.”

He can, and so Bdubs does.

He doth needed to pause.

He’ll take his ax and cut a clearing only after he settles the seed of whimsy into a patch of fresh dirt. The book in his new old basement will speak to him of sunlight, but down in the darkness he had shut it and looked up to a flickering facsimile of the night sky surrounding the last of its kind. His toes itch, curl, digging into nothing, and he knows there will be no rest until it had roots.

He chops and chops and lets the light soak into him as the sun rises to its peak, pulling his spine straight like he’s tethered at the start of his spine. When his work is done, he’ll dig into the earth with bare fingers pushing down like roots, putting it in place. 

It will be right. The day will turn, and turn, and turn again, the sun always returning to its seat in the sky above, the seed resting in the soil below. Sometimes, it takes a little faith; sometimes, it takes a little heat.

Never insaner. / The Clock took up

Tango arrives at the Monolith’s front steps in the late afternoon, the Tree of Whimsy casting its shadow in long, warping shapes across the landscape behind them.

“This brings back memories,” Bdubs says, holding up the blackened metal crown that matches the one already on Tango’s head. 

"Wow, that thing is old. How long have you been holding onto that?"

"Not that long," Bdubs demures. "It was carved in the shape of the ruins, to resemble the ruins. But the ruins must have already been old then, to make the crown in their image so this thing is made of history. Literally. It's well made if it makes you think it's more ancient than it is."

"It even looks like the kind of thing you'd need a ceremony for." Tango kneels and mimes receiving it with practiced mock seriousness. He holds the pose unbowed, straight as a rod, and when he places the imaginary crown above his ears he smiles and tilts the real one there. "Too bad I already got one."

"So you do," says Bdubs, surprised to find himself surprised, as if Tango hasn’t had it glued to his head for ages straight now. "Parkour King of the Server, and always rubbing it in everybody's face."

"It's basically the only requirement for the job, so I'm told."

“You should learn not to listen to greedy old fools,” Bdubs says primly, but he’s grinning wide as ever. 

“Speaking of,” Tango says, and pulls a book from his pocket so he can toss it carelessly toward Bdubs’ chest. “Figured you could get some more use out of this than me since it’s about the banners you got up there. Might be good for the - uh, the symbology of your towers.”

“Shroomlight Ruins, huh,” Bdubs murmurs as he flicks though the pages awkwardly with a thumb, unable to make out much when he’s holding it with only one hand, crown dangling from the other. “I’ll find a good home for it in the Monolith. It’s getting a little snug, but -”

Tango raises an eloquent eyebrow. “That why you made that new fancy top up there all of a sudden?”

“Nope, but you’ll see eventually. It’s almost ready, but I just have to give it a little more time.” Bdubs winks aggressively. "Believe me, I promise I'll share soon."

And Tango does, because Bdubs keeps his promises, in time.

The king’s rise and fall.

“Hold still,” he said, unwrapping the rigging from around his hand. He placed his palm against the anvil’s side to steady it, leeching warmth from the sun-scorched metal. He didn’t look down, trusting Ren to listen, to respond, to be ready. 

“This is for real,” said Ren, well-tempered steel in his voice. “So this anvil will be my symbol of leadership on the server, from this moment on."

“As king of the whole server, you’ll have a lot of people that you’ll need to melt and bend to your will. Just like you would on this anvil, and so it will be your symbol,” Bdubs affirmed. “The weight of that responsibility hangs above you, but we’ve been waiting a long time for you to take it up. And you’re ready now.”

"Alright, yeah," breathed Ren. “I am. I’m ready.”

And Bdubs watches Ren watching the pocketwatch on his hip for only a tick before the anvil falls.

Once friend and once neighbor.

“Is this for real?” asks Etho.

“No, I’m just making things up for no reason. Yes, it’s for real. This is going somewhere, Etho, whether you’re paying attention or not.”

“I pay attention - look, I’m taking notes!”

Bdubs peers imperiously at Etho’s upside-down chicken scratch.  “Good on you. I know you don’t like getting in the middle of all this kind of thing even though you’re just about the nosiest roommate I ever had, but it’s good to get ahead of the curve. This stuff doesn’t happen with just one person keeping a record. The more the merrier, I say.”

“Afraid your story won’t be good enough on your own, huh?” As Bdubs blinks, Etho laughs, sharp-honed for shallow cuts. 

“I’m perfect,” he retorts automatically, and Etho snickers, the riposte complete. “What kind of king don’t got anybody to rule over? A mad, bad king is what kind. So you tell the story of a good king, a great king, the kind of king anybody could get behind. If you get people talking and taking notes, you get people believing in it. That’s what makes the king. I just help the story start.”

“It’ll be as perfect as you are then,” says Etho.

Bdubs sticks his tongue out in response. “If it ain’t perfect, it ain't done yet. Even if it means starting over! And over and over! This is gonna be something with so much life of its own people forget it wasn't always there. A good story makes you excited about what comes next. Even if you know it's trouble coming, then you got problems to solve and things to do.”

“Not everybody is going to want to work for a king.”

“Exactly. Problems for everybody to solve, even if they think the problem’s something different than the other guys.”

Etho rolls his eyes, acting irritated that his warning’s ignored as if Bdubs hasn’t seen him play against any authority he’s ever come across, more or less. “And so it won’t be your fault things get ruined if you make other people take control. You stay perfect if you never make anything that isn’t.”

He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, then whistles low. He forgets, sometimes, the way Etho can go for the jugular with casual precision. “Come on, that’s not - you know that’s not it.”

Etho snaps his journal shut, gives a one-shouldered shrug as he sets it on the pile on little table next to his chair. The accumulation of papers and storage on every surface were as big as Bdubs had ever seen Etho let them get in all the years they'd known each other, always being coaxed into order against the entropy of daily routine. He could have been here a week; he could have been here before the basement appeared, the stairs twisting out of his way so he could emerge after a century into the monolith, inevitable.

Real apologies for things he means are rare, but there’s resignation just shy of gentle pity in his voice when he says, “I know.”

It’s close enough to letting him off the hook: not agreement with the protest, but understanding what Bdubs actually means. If Etho minded Bdubs’ tendency to sideline himself or the pedestal Bdubs liked to put him on, he hadn’t breathed a word of it in years and years, too many repetitions of worlds to count now. He spent a long time learning the joy of joining someone else’s woven threads to make a new tapestry, has always understood the utility of artifice that sets something else at its center since he started. 

The fact Etho doesn’t invent his own enemies anymore and Bdubs offers himself up as one to fall to others makes his criticism as good as a concession; the old pattern is coalescing, Etho taking up against the rule Bdubs advocated for, and the gratitude settles with diffuse warmth across his body. Repetition always helps make it real.

There are other roles to cast, still, but - inevitable, inevitability.

There may yet be redemption.

He’ll make the ruins not in the image of the crumbling form they’ll come to inhabit, but the living breathing story he sees in his mind’s eye as he considers the project. It will have been many ages, by then, forgotten even by himself once he builds the legacy with stone on stone on stone, physical structures rendered in visible light to the plain eye overwriting the image in his imagination, reducing it to memory, wearing it down as time carves a gulf between what is now and what would have once been.

Each time he’ll fail a jump, cursing his own parkour skills - grateful that his incompetence will ensure its success, because if he can do it anyone could - the rehearsal will make the ruins more real. It will be true, when he’s done and ready to share his creation-turned-discovery with friends, that the ruins have seen countless attempts to have the banners reclaimed. It won’t yet be tradition, but it’ll be good enough for something hidden, something lost, something that asks more questions than it answers.

A suggestion, an anchor, a story; something returned to, and returned to again. Not contingent upon the first success, but meaningful because of the going back, the second failure, the fifth, the hundredth, the last. 

It’s enough to be a pivot, a tool for gathering momentum. It’ll have been enough, in the end.

For a baker who makes humble pies.

“I don’t really know what to do now,” Ren says, looking down at his hands. The tips of his fingers tap out an unheard rhythm in slow red waves, catching the sunlight streaking between the leaves. He finally looks up to meet Bdubs’ eyes and left a streak of red dust at his temple from adjusting his glasses, another thin slice of color along his neck from rubbing at his chin. He had been working, building a contraption when Bdubs had stolen him away an age ago - a mere few hours, perhaps, but an era had already ended; a new day was waiting on the other side of the horizon.

Bdubs smiles and checks the time. The day isn’t yet over, but the evening coolness is creeping up out of the shade and into the wider world. “You’ll figure it out, I know you will.” With his free hand he claps Ren on the shoulder and turns him gently in the direction of the shopping district, the warm reddish stone outlines of roads Ren had paved just barely visible through the trees.

Ren frowns, rubbing at his palm squeezed between forefingers and thumb. "Can I call on you? Every now and then."

"Of course," Bdubs replies, and despite the hesitation in Ren's voice - even now, even after everything to come and before everything that already has - when Ren's spine straightens at the acceptance, Bdubs feels his own shoulders roll back, relaxing. The precarity of circling momentum resolves into a familiar old stable orbit. "My time is your time, any time you need me. Unless I'm sleeping, you know, my own duties to attend to -"

"Of course," Ren echoes. "Everyone's got their own responsibilities. You do an excellent job, I wouldn't interfere."

"And so you'll do an excellent job yourself." Bdubs pauses, glancing down at his watch one last time before putting it away. He looks to the horizon when he says, "You don't have to be perfect, you know. You won't have to do it alone, not just me, but we'll get everyone on board. It'll take a little time, maybe, but..."

The sun is just beginning its descent below the earth, and he thinks of crowns forged in ruined images, heaps of broken stones, of deep dungeons and quests and green, green, green things, things that grow if you drag them up into the light. Things that become, more than they started as, if you give them space, give them time.

His throat closes, and he clears it. Looks at Ren, limned by golden sunlight, and smiles. "Have a little faith in yourself."

And eventually, in time, Ren, king and once and future baker, does.