Archive of Our Own ^beta

He came to.

Body weak, disused to the effort of movement. 

It was dark, the air stiff, the vicinity he couldn’t see seemed to be enclosing him in an almost crushing hug. 

He took a gasping breath, hands flying forward to press against the unseen oppression. His nails hit wood. And not only that, his arms had strained in tension. What he thought was forward was not forward at all, it was up . 

The prisoner shifted his shoulders. The tension in them was quickly growing. 

What the fuck was going on?!

His hands blindly patted and kicked his surroundings. Walls, wooden, all around. Not tall enough to as much as kneel, not wide enough to move much. 

He took another gasping breath. 

The prisoner felt panic surge inside of him. With panic came fear, with fear came terror, and with terror came the only response that was ever familiar to him. Anger .

He punched into the wood above him. His knuckles stung. But he didn’t stop. Punch after punch he bashed his hands against the wood. Desperation clawed at the very little left of his rationale. He needed out, out out out out. The dark clung to him like the muddy swamp water, embracing him in a hug that was driving him out of his mind. 

His skin tore, fingers hurt. But bit by bit, wood splintered, cracked, the sound flashing as image into his mind-

- a heavy blunt object came down, colliding with his arm in with a resounding  crack , and he -

He screamed. 

The echo of that old pain was back, driving more adrenaline into his veins, clouding his mind further. 

Crack.

Crack. 

Crack .

The wood gave out and broke. 

But instead of light he expected, all it resulted in was something started passing in through the hole he created. Some sort of dust. It was slowly building at the top of his torso and weighting him down. 

What in the-

Where the fuck was he?

The last thing he remembered- the last- thing-

Thing.

Thing-

A new fear surged through him.

He- he couldn’t remember. And not just the last thing. He couldn’t remember any thing. Not how he got there, not why, not even who he was. 

What the fuck. What the fuck .

He needed to get out of there. Wherever he was. If he wanted to find answers it definitely wasn’t here. 

The prisoner resumed his punching effort. If he could make the hole big enough, he could try and crawl out and through that dust. And the bigger bits, and pebbles. What the hell was above him?

In between punches, he pushed the dust away to his sides and towards his feet. 

It took ages. With each advancement in the hole creation, more and more garbage was getting inside. Fucking dirt .

It was dirt , wasn’t it? 

A wooden prison, under layers of dirt. 

He was buried. 

He was-

The prisoner shrieked and punched harder. 

He felt pain, his skin tearing, his lungs expanding, his blood boiling. He could touch, he could smell. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t dead .

His fingers dug into the dirt, pushing, pressing, shoving. His knees curled a little, his upper body curled up. And he pushed. 

It was like swimming from the bottom of a swamp but worse. Much worse. The dirt was pressing on him, pressing into his ears, nose and mouth. Yet he kept pushing. Higher, higher. It was slow. Extremely slow. Even after he managed to pull his whole body out of the wooden box, there was still far more to go. 

Six feet more to go. 

When, after what felt like an eternity, his hand shot up, up against no resistance, he only barely held back a cry of relief. 

After that, it was much easier. That hand pressed down and helped him haul his body up.

He clawed at the dirt and threw it away to the sides. 

And then, he saw it. 

A crack in the dirt. 

A tiny crack that let the light into his oppressing prison.  

His sight was filled with the most beautiful light he had ever seen. The Moon. 

The prisoner shoved his upper body up with all the effort he could muster. And the dirt gave in. 

He hauled himself up, out, gasping and rasping, and coughing up all that awful bitter dirt. Ew. He felt something in his mouth moving. the prisoner spat it out like it personally offended him. He vaguely recognized it as a worm. A rather shook worm that looked as confused as he was. 

And oh boy, was he confused. 

The majestic silver light of the moon didn’t reveal to him much about his surroundings. He could tell he was around some trees, probably a forest. The air smelled of petrichor. 

He pulled his legs out and dusted himself off. He was dressed in dirtied, light, probably white, colored linen clothes. A burial garment. 

When he looked around, he expected to see a cemetery. Yet, he found none. It was just a forest. An expanse of trees that betrayed no special trait of this particular location. 

Well, except for one thing. A sign. A small sign crudely nailed into the ground a few meters behind the hole he crawled out of. Due to the weak light, it was difficult to make out what was written on it. The long shadows casted by the crowns of the trees weren’t helping either. It took him a while, but he managed to read it. Well, most of it.

‘In loving memory. 

Here lies ------------.’

The prisoner took a deep breath.

‘A friend, brother and a boy taken from the world too soon’

Too soon?

Another memory came to him in a flash. 

Dark obsidian room, bright burning orange light. And a figure. Green eyes. Pain, so much pain. A pleading cry at the tip of his tongue. A fist holding a stone flying towards his face. And then all went black. 

The memory left him gasping, digging his nails into the dirt to ground himself. 

He remembered those green eyes. Even if he couldn’t remember their name, as much as thinking of those eyes brought up a primal response in his brain. 

Fear.

The boy had died. 

He had been dead. 

Then how was he back? How can you come back from that?

Magic. Must have been. But that wasn’t his question. 

When someone is brought back they are mindless. The soul has already passed on. They were just puppets of whoever revived them. A zombie or a skeleton. A revenant. 

But his soul was still intact. He could feel it. 

The undead pushed himself up to his legs. 

He took another look at his pitiful grave. 

No flowers, no proper grave. The grass around has long since overgrown. 

He had been abandoned. 

The revenant gritted his teeth in anger. 

Whoever he had been, whoever ‘mister illegible name’ had been, it seemed that he had been forgotten. No one visited his grave. No one cared. 

A ‘friend’? A ‘brother’?

More like an afterthought. 

He growled. 

That man, that monster with green eyes, he will pay. And so will all those who had abandoned him. 

Something deep inside of him sang for blood to be spilled. For cattle to be slayed, for homes to be burned. 

This wrath. His tether. 

He gazed up at the Moon. Her brilliant light caressed his skin tenderly. 

The revenant took in a breath he now knew he didn’t need. 

He wanted to make them hurt. 

And he was going to enjoy every single minute of it.

---

It was a sunny if a little cool evening in Snowchester. Sunlight refracted from the everpresent snow and casted bright light through the windows. 

Ranboo entered the little study, sat down and opened their diary. They flipped through the pages, trying to get to the last one. A lot had happened that day and he needed to record it. 

In his other hand, he was clutching a drawing Michael had drawn for him. When his son handed it to him, he felt a tear sizzling into his skin. It was a drawing titled ‘ My family ’, a depiction of four figures. A green doodle of what he assumed was Tubbo, a very tall black and gray figure that was meant to be them and between the two was a small pink figure and a doodle of what they assumed was Michael’s chicken. 

He couldn’t wait to show this to Tubbo. The other teen had been working hard on running the place, the drawing would surely raise his spirits. 

After filling a few pages, they got up. They put their book in a bag and threw it over their shoulder. They went over to the ground floor and found Michael already waiting on a cabinet by the front door, fully clothed and ready to go. 

“ Hello, dad. ” the piglin signed. And then crossed arms over his chest. His son huffed and puffed.  

The enderman hybrid huffed. 

“Hi, Michael. Sorry for taking so long.” Ranboo said and signed at the same time. 

“ You said it would take five minutes.” Michael sighed frowning.

“It didn’t?” 

Ranboo took a quick glance at the clock. Shit, time really passes fast. 

The piglin sighed. “ At least you are here .”

“Sorry.” Ranboo cringed. 

The ender hybrid quickly put on his winter coat and scarf. When they were ready, they gestured to the door and Michael slid off the cabinet. 

“Time to go.”

Michael grinned and the moment the door was open, he ran outside. Ranboo followed suit. His son loved being outside so much. It was cute. 

Snowchester was a slowly, but ever growing, commune. For now, it was a tiny town of wooden houses and gravel roads. There were a couple establishments. A pub, restaurant, a market area. Even a newly opened toy store. Tubbo was always looking for new skillful individuals to join them. 

As they walked, a couple people recognized them and gave them a quick greeting. Ranboo didn’t know most of them, or rather didn’t remember knowing them, but politely went along and greeted them back.

Snow crunched under their legs in a steady rhythm.

After a few minutes, Michael slowed down and more or less kept pace with him. 

They were going to an area not that far away from the town. It was a relatively small snowy hill that was always filled with kids. Skiing, sleighing, playing snowballs fights, you name it. Kids would go and play there, while parents were at work.

“ So, when will father come home today? ” Michael asked. 

Ranboo shook their head. “I don’t know, Michael.”

Michael pouted and kicked at some snow. “ He has been so busy lately .”

The enderman hybrid smiled sadly and ran a hand through their son’s hair. “Being a reeve isn’t easy. He has a lot on his plate.”

The piglin’s eyes were downcast. “ I know. I miss him .”

His son was valid for that. Tubbo had been barely home lately. Always away, always dealing with something. Even when he was home, he was like a ghost. And Ranboo had a suspicion the boy hasn’t slept for a few days now. All that stress and work couldn’t have been healthy.

Ranboo put a hand on his son’s shoulder to stop him and then crouched in front of him. Michael still had to look up from their faces to meet, but it was the best they could do. 

Michael had hands clasped in front of him and avoided his eyes. 

“Listen, Michael. I will talk to Tubbo.”

The piglin hybrid looked at him. His eyes were blown wide. 

“ You will?! ”

Ranboo nodded. 

Tubbo was trying so hard to make this commune work. But he needed to rest too. 

“I’ll stop by to see him today and ask him if he could take a few days off.”

Michael beamed and threw himself and Ranboo, hugging them tightly. Then he pulled away to quickly sign, “ You are the best, dad! ” only to embrace him again.

And oh, the tears were flowing. Ranboo held Michael close and whispered to him how much he loved him. Michael whispered it back, taking all that affection in like a happy little sponge.

---

Ranboo dropped Michael off at the Hill. One of the few mother’s keeping watch noticed them and gave them a wave. Ranboo waved back, holding onto his son tight. 

Probably seeing his sudden hesitancy, the woman gave him a nod and thumbs up. ‘ I’ll be keeping watch’ as if she said. 

The enderman hybrid sighed and after gazing down at his son’s excitement, let the kid go play with his friends.  

It was time to go to work. 

Ranboo walked through the snowy streets awkwardly. Michael wasn’t with them now, they didn’t need to force their anxiety down anymore. 

Some aspects of being a parent were difficult sometimes, but the reward was worth it. They would do anything to keep their son the happy little sunshine he was. 

Soon enough, Ranboo made it to the forge. It was a rather big brick building in the more industrial part of the settlement. It had a green brick roof and a chimney that never stopped letting out thick black clouds of smoke. 

Ranboo fixed the bag on his shoulder and walked through the front door. 

The forge was run only by three people.

The entrance part of the forge was the shop part. It was a small room. The only furniture to speak of was the desk that was currently empty. Dozens of tools and weapons were hanging from the walls or on two racks that almost didn’t fit into the room. 

Despite nobody being in the front room, the place definitely wasn’t empty. A loud banging-clanging sound was coming from the back rooms.

Ranboo made it past the front desk, grabbed his apron from the hanger and made their way towards the noise.

“I’m here!” Ranboo called out loudly, to be heard over the clangour that was getting progressively louder as they were coming closer.

The sound led them to the middle of the most important room of the whole building, the smithy. There, hammering away on an anvil was a tall man with short dark red, almost dark brown, hair that faded into bright yellow at its tips. 

The man stopped his work for a moment to wipe sweat off of his forehead and that is when he finally noticed Ranboo. 

“Oh! Good afternoon! I didn’t notice when you arrived, Ranboo.” the man greeted him in a low rumbling voice. 

“Good afternoon, mister Favilla.”

The blaze hybrid grinned tiredly. 

By the lack of their other coworker, the enderman hybrid assumed the blacksmith's son had to be away getting materials again. 

Ranboo nodded to themself and walked over to the door of their office. 

Before they could enter, their boss spoke. 

“I almost forgot! A friend of yours came by last night.”

Ranboo frowned. A friend? Who? Ranboo didn’t have many friends, or at least they didn’t remember to have many. It could have been someone from the Syndicate- oh, but that would be bad. Really really bad. Ranboo didn’t tell them about Snowchester, or his involvement for a reason. 

The same reason he never told Tubbo about the Syndicate. Those were two worlds Ranboo lived in that were never meant to meet. If Tubbo would find out about Ranboo being with the Syndicate- it could spell disaster for their relationship. He couldn’t hurt Tubbo like that, nor could they stand the thought of what consequences of it would mean for Michael. 

But if the Syndicate found out about Snowchester, then the entire settlement was in danger. 

“Did- did they- uh- say what their name was?”

The blacksmith shook his head. “No. I didn’t recognize his voice either. He was wearing a hooded cloak.”

‘He’. So a man. That didn’t narrow it down much. 

Ranboo’s boss continued. “He said he came here to see you and I told him you weren’t here. Your friend asked a few questions about you. Then when he heard what you do for me, he handed me his rusty sword and scribbled down some instructions for it. It’s on your desk.” 

The enderman hybrid took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

Mister Favilla nodded and went back to his work. Ranboo should get back to theirs.

They opened the door to their office and closed it behind them. 

Their office was small but cozy. Small window, a grindstone, rows of books, an enchanting table and a smaller rune imbued anvil. All an enchanter would need. 

Next to the anvil was his desk, on which many tools and weapons laid waiting. Unlike the blacksmith and his son, Ranboo didn’t deal with the physical side of smithing, he dealt with the magical one. 

They magically repaired tools, retouched fading enchantments or imbued new ones according to the needs of the people who commissioned them.

Enchanting was a rare and difficult art that required years of practice and talent that not many people had. And they weren’t talking only about the rune language. No, enchanting required you to understand the world differently, to have a feel for magic, to not just engrave some symbols onto an inanimate object, but to truly imbue that power onto them. 

One small mistake could lead to unforeseen consequences. Sometimes good, like that one time when he discovered the Thorns enchantment. And sometimes- not so good. 

Ranboo put their bag down and sorted through the items. Some of those commissions were almost done, just needed a specific enchantment or two, some he didn’t have the time to start on yet. It didn’t take him long to find the new one.

The sword was rustier than he imagined. It looked old, worn and bent. Almost like something taken from a zombie. The enchantment on it was dulled and faded, it could only barely be recognized as Sharpness. Whoever owned the sword didn’t handle it with care. 

Ranboo put the sword back down and grabbed the paper of instructions that was sitting next to it. 

Only it wasn’t a note with instructions.

As he read the harshly scribbled letters again and again, he felt his stomach twist. 

Somewhere is the back of their mind, they knew this handwriting. They tried to desperately remember who it belonged to, it felt almost at the tip of their tongue. So they read it again and again, trying to understand.

‘ Memory is fickle, isn’t it? ’

‘ History lies and forgets and omits. And yet you depend on it where your memory lacks. ’

‘ Commit this to memory, Ranboo. Not much else can be trusted soon. ’

Ranboo didn’t understand. What was his friend talking about? 

Memory. Forgetting. 

It was making them very uneasy. 

This was a threat. But from who?

The handwriting was so damn familiar. 

Ranboo pulled out their diary and flipped through the pages desperately. And they found it. It was a page very early in the book. A short rude note was glued to the page. The handwriting matched perfectly. There was just one issue.

It has been a year since Tommy died.