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pixiemage · 2 years

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Through a Crack in the Void

Part 11 / ??? [ Previous | Next? ] [ Chapter List ]

[With the gift of clothes and the return of something long forgotten, Grian begins to feel more like himself again. In another part of the server, the admin ponders conversations, both past and future.]

{This story can also be found on Archive of our Own}

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Trying on clothes ended being both more and less of an ordeal than Grian had anticipated. He had realized fairly quickly that he wouldn’t be able to actually try on most of the shirts Bdubs had brought along thanks to his wings, but Cleo had convinced him to basically do a one-man fashion show with everything else in the shulker box. A few things fit him fairly well despite the height difference between himself and Bdubs. A greater majority simply weren’t his style or didn’t sit well on him, but a few pants and shorts were set aside for Cleo to alter and one or two of the shirts were added to the same pile - ‘Since they look pretty close’, she had told him. (One dark gray tank top was immediately snatched up by Cleo for quick alterations, the back opened up and re-hemmed along the edges to allow room for his wings all while Grian kept trying on the remainder of Bdubs’ donations. ‘For immediate use’, she’d quipped. Her muttered comments about how he was ‘Swimming in Iskall’s hand-me-downs’ left no room for his weak protests, no matter how much he wanted to tell her that he could wait a few days and that she didn’t have to rush to get anything done.

She called him a guest. He thought of himself as an accidental invader. He didn’t bother correcting her.

There had even been a few skirts in the mix, though it was never made clear if they had been donated to the cause by Cleo or if they had come from Bdubs’ closet like everything else. Those Grian didn’t even bother with. Even if he was the type to wear dresses or skirts for costume purposes, they weren’t the kind of thing he went for on a normal day. (And even if they had been it would have been an impractical choice for someone who relied heavily on flight.)

The strangest part of it all was the sensation of so many different fabrics against his skin, his rather limited wardrobe from the past decade thrown into sharp contrast to the wide variety Bdubs had brought along. Cotton and denim and linen and wool…some of them must have come from outside of Hermitcraft, from a non-vanilla server or a vendor at the server hub market. There was a silk or satin dress shirt in the mix that Grian was a little sad he couldn’t try on, just to feel what it was like to wear it. But it wasn’t something he thought he might have a need for so it wasn’t worth cutting it up just for the sake of a tactile experience.

Among everything, there was a lone pair of black jeans that fit Grian almost perfectly save for the length of the legs, but when he cuffed the bottoms it was as if they were made for him. These he kept, not even bothering with asking for alterations from Cleo. They were comfortable and durable and - most importantly - a wonderful contrast to the light, airy, loose-legged trousers he had been clothed in for most of the past decade. When he combined it with the sneakers (which also fit, a minor miracle in his opinion) and the tank top Cleo had already finished altering (another minor miracle; he couldn’t fathom how she had done it so quickly) the whole outfit felt so different from what he had been wearing under the Watchers’ hold. It felt new. It felt refreshing. It felt like rebellion and defiance and…

…and it felt, in his opinion, a whole lot like freedom.

Due to the lack of a mirror, Grian had taken to stepping outside and using the water pools in Mumbo’s wheat farm to get a look at himself while Mumbo caught up with his friends inside. It was so surreal, he realized, after years of seeing the same purple-toned reflection of himself in the dark surfaces of glossy obsidian pillars and walls. It was surreal to see something different standing there opposite him. If it weren’t for the color of his wings and the lingering outline of burns on his face, he could almost pretend he was looking through a window to the past, to a time before Evo had even happened.

The opening of a door and the sound of chattering voices drew Grian from his thoughts and he turned, spotting Mumbo standing in the open door to the base and tossing a laugh back over his shoulder toward his houseguests.

“No, no! Please,” he was saying, smiling all the while, “take your time. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

Then the door swung shut behind him, quieting the sounds coming from inside the house.

“What’s up?” Grian asked, straightening the hem of his new shirt self-consciously.

Mumbo’s smile turned to him and it brightened.

“Grian! Hey. I, er…actually, I have something for you.”

Grian blinked. He did?

“You do?” He glanced toward the door, toward where Bdubs and Cleo and the gifted clothes were hidden behind a wall. “I mean - I’ve already been given so much today.”

“Well - yes, I suppose so,” Mumbo agreed, chuckling slightly. He made a few movements in the air before him with his right hand as he approached, clear signs that he was going through his inventory. “But, er - this is…well, a bit different. Less of a gift, more of a return.”

“A return?” Grian’s brow furrowed and he cocked his head to the side. “What d’you mean? I haven’t given you anything.”

“Not recently, no. It’s from a while ago. I - well, here.”

Mumbo’s hand stilled and something red appeared in his grip, red and soft and so achingly familiar that Grian couldn’t help the gasp and widened eyes that came forth when he realized what Mumbo was holding. It was a sweater. It was his sweater. He had completely forgotten - he had left it in Mumbo’s care before leaving for Evo, having remembered at the last minute that the configuration of wool had changed over the years and that his favorite sweater might not survive if he tried to bring it to an ancient update like the one Evo started on. He’d had to go dig out old clothes from years past that still conformed to beta code structures, something which some of his friends had followed his lead on once he sent out a message to the group about it. Leaving his sweater with Mumbo hadn’t been the plan, but it had still been in his inventory when he was leaving, and he didn’t have time to move it, and Mumbo had offered–

With reverent hands, Grian reached out and took the proffered clothing from his friend’s grip, letting out an involuntary trill at the familiarity of the soft texture, at the feeling of comfort it gave him.

“You…Mumbo…” his words were watery and so were his eyes, gratitude and relief and an emotional whirlwind he couldn’t name welling in his chest. When he looked up, Mumbo’s smile was bright and his eyes were suspiciously shiny. “...you kept it?”

“Mate, of course I kept it,” Mumbo told him as if it was a ridiculous thing to ask. “You told me to take care of it, didn’t you? I’ve had it in my long-term storage since you gave it to me, and then when Bdubs told me he and Cleo were coming over with clothes, I remembered and - well.” He shrugged, scuffing one shoe against the grass and tucking his hands in his pockets. “I thought you might like it back. If not, that’s alright too, I can just put it back, but I - oof!”

Mumbo’s ramblings were cut off by a sudden armful of clingy avian, Grian’s hug knocking him back a step and making him chuckle. Grian buried his face against his friend’s chest and let out a breath, his smile hidden against the dark fabric of Mumbo’s suit.

“Thank you,” he breathed. Mumbo returned the hug without hesitation.

“You’re more than welcome,” he returned gently, a smile in his words. After a long moment he pulled away, casting a glance toward the sweater Grian was still clutching in one hand. An anxious look flitted across his face for a fraction of a second. “It’s - I mean, it’s okay, isn’t it? Stasis didn’t do anything to it, right?”

Grian let out a startled laugh.

“Mumbo–” He snorted, rolling his eyes. “Mumbo, you spoon, it’s fabric. It’s not food. It’s fine.”

“Right! Right. Of course.” Mumbo nodded awkwardly, his face going a bit pink, though he brushed it away with a smile quickly enough. “Bdubs and Cleo are leaving soon, by the way. Just so you know.”

“Ah - right.” Grian threw a look over Mumbo’s shoulder toward the house. “I reckon I should say thank you, shouldn’t I?”

Mumbo let out a noise of fond exasperation.

“Grian, you’ve thanked them a dozen times by now. It’s fine. Though I think they’d like to say goodbye if you don’t mind.”

“Why on earth would I mind?” Grian asked, blinking his attention back to Mumbo.

“Well - I don’t know, do I?” Mumbo spluttered, throwing up his hands. “I don’t know why you do half the things you do. Here I am, just trying to be polite, and my best friend decides to tease me for–”

“Oh my goodness, Mumbo!” Grian groaned, laughing all the while, and shoved his taller friend toward the house. “Go back inside you nutter. I’ll join you in a tick.”

Once Mumbo’s chuckling form had vanished behind the closed front door, Grian dropped his eyes to the red sweater he was still holding. He smiled softly to himself and rubbed the soft fabric between his fingers. It was such a simple thing, really. It was only a sweater. Yet after everything that had happened, such a simple reminder of home and friendship and before warmed Grian’s heart like nothing else. He quickly undid the pair of zippers that were stitched into the fabric below each wing sleeve and pulled the sweater over his head, his fingers refastening everything with practiced ease as if it had only been yesterday that he last put it on. Once he had it on and the comforting warmth was beginning to wash over him he took a few steps closer to the wheat farm. This time, when he stared down at his own reflection in the water, Grian could finally say that he felt more like himself than he had in years.

Saying goodbye to Cleo and Bdubs wasn’t a very dramatic affair. Cleo made promises to get the altered clothes back to him as soon as she could, and Grian thanked them both - again - for everything while Bdubs shrugged it off with a grin.

“I should probably be makin’ my rounds though,” he told them as he glanced at the sun’s position in the sky. “I’ve still got a bunch o’ people to say hi to before I head back home.”

“Do you know when you might be back?” Cleo asked, finishing packing up her inventory as she did so.

Bdubs shrugged.

“I’m not sure. Might be a few more months. But hey–” He grinned, winking at them all. “–trust me when I say you’ll know when I’m back. I’ll make a big entrance and everything!”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Mumbo grinned, his hands tucked away in his pockets as their little group made their way to Bdubs’ and Cleo’s boat that still sat upon the shore. “Just don’t be a stranger, yeah? Shoot out a message now and again, even if it’s just to Xisuma. He’ll pass anything along if you want him to, you know that.”

“Aww, I know,” Bdubs grinned back. “Don’t worry about little ol’ me. I’ll be back before you know it!”

By the time the pair had vanished out of sight behind a distant shoreline, a peaceful sort of silence had settled over the little island. Grian felt eyes on him, felt Mumbo watching him, but he didn’t speak, simply taking in the sight of the sunset as it painted the sky above the ocean in a soft and brilliant array of colors.

“You seem happy.”

Grian blinked, Mumbo’s quiet words taking him by surprise. He quirked an eyebrow at his friend.

“Is that surprising?”

“Well, no, I meant–” Mumbo trailed off, taking in Grian’s appearance with a soft smile. “...you’re more like yourself today. More like your old self. You seem happier than you were when you first arrived. It’s just…nice to see you like this.”

“...oh.”

Grian’s expression softened and he looked back out over the water again, watching the pinks and oranges and purples in the sky slowly darken with the setting sun. The twitch of a genuine smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“I…I guess I am. Happy, I mean.” His wings fluttered behind him, his feathers rustling as they settled more comfortably against his back, ever mindful of how sore they were from that morning’s flight. “I dunno. It’s like it’s finally sinking in that I’m safe here. That I’m free here.” For however long it would last.

Mumbo leaned down slightly to bump shoulders with him, a bright smile lighting up his eyes.

“Good. I’m glad.” There was a pause, a quiet moment where they both seemed to be watching the sunset and enjoying the light sea breeze. Then– “You overworked your wings this morning, didn’t you?”

Grian spluttered, shooting Mumbo an offended look, but the knowing smirk on the taller player’s face had him deflating in an instant. He scowled and folded his arms over his chest, his wings drooping against the ground behind him

“How’d you even know that?”

“You were favoring them the entire time you were doing your little fashion show for Cleo,” Mumbo mused, amused. “Plus I know how you hold yourself when they’re sore. I still remember when you broke your wing a few years ago. Your constant whining made it fairly memorable.”

“Mumboooo,” Grian groaned, shoving the other player away from him. “You’re just taking the mick now.”

Mumbo’s eyes sparkled with mirth and his mustache curled with his smile.

“Heh, a bit, yeah,” he admitted. He spun on the spot and nodded toward the house, all but abandoning his shorter friend with his long strides. “Come on then. I’ve got a few of those healing potions Stress left behind. I’m not saying you should make a habit out of it, but we’ll get you sorted this once.”

“Only the once?” Grian pestered, darting to keep up with the redstoner. “That’s not a very good health care policy, now is it?”

Mumbo huffed in exasperation.

“Well maybe you’ll learn a lesson or something and take it easy if I threaten to leave you in your misery the next time you don’t follow doctor’s orders.” It took little more than a shit-eating grin from Grian for Mumbo to sigh and add: “Though if I know you as well as I think I do, that wouldn’t do much to stop you, now would it?”

Bright laughter broke out over the island as the sun set on Hermitcraft, soon joined by a lower chuckling that made the moment feel light and warm. It was a good day.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Xisuma checked the clock on his communicator for the umpteenth time, having not registered the small digital digits the last few times he had glanced at it. His thoughts were in a bit of a jumble, so he could forgive himself the repeated spaciness this time around. He wouldn’t have bothered checking the time at all really if he hadn’t told Grian he would meet him later that afternoon, and despite how reluctant he still was about being the administrator of Hermitcraft, he’d be damned if he fell flat on his duties when a new member was involved. True, he had given a few trusted Hermits certain administrative privileges to ensure there was always someone around to help keep things running smoothly, but this particular responsibility fell to X alone.

Plus he had promised Grian that nobody else would be allowed to view his player code besides himself and TFC, a promise which he intended to keep to the best of his abilities.

After checking his communicator for a fifth time, Xisuma sighed and banished it to his inventory along with the string he had been utilizing for the AFK fishing farm he’d been trying to build. (Admittedly, it was a bit of a cheat that took advantage of an odd string of coding in vanilla worlds, but it wasn’t as if he was the only person using one on the server. Right?) He slipped outside and sidestepped into the main storage room of his base, making sure the door had closed behind him before removing his helmet. It was set aside on a chest with a dull thunk as he scratched at his jaw, the quiet scritch scritch of his gloves against his beard barely registering.

“What do you know about Watchers?”

TFC’s question from the other day floated back to him, the same conversation that had been looping in his head since it had happened. What did he know about Watchers? More than most, he’d imagine. He was a voidborn after all and Watchers were from an adjacent realm. He’d heard stories growing up and knew full well how powerful they could be. How vengeful, if they weren’t the friendly sort. How aloof and self-righteous, even if they were. How possessive they tended to be either way, and how some - outliers mostly, but some - even went so far as to steal players away from their homes as if they were little more than toys to play with.

“Isn’t it amazing, ‘Suma? I’m so much stronger now! They taught me, they showed me–”

“–told me it’s the only way to finish my training. I won’t let you stand in my way. It’ll all be destroyed, and there’s nothing you can do to–”

Stop it.

Xisuma banished the old memory, though its similarity to some of the things Grian had told him was something he didn’t fail to notice.

“I don’t like doing it,” Grian had said, the day Xisuma had stopped by to ask him some questions about his arrival on the server. “They taught me how, I didn’t ask to learn, they taught me and trained me and then–”

And then. And then something must have happened that warranted Grian wanting to escape, that warranted him needing to, but for all his curiosity on the subject Xisuma wasn’t about to pry. It wasn’t his place, and he had already learned so much - too much - from Grian’s player code and from what TFC had found out from that friend of his.

“When I was still runnin’ with those circles, Watchers tended to be a pretty uniform bunch. Protectors of worlds, creators of new life, breathing code into the universe - all those folk tales people tell? Well, a lot of ‘em aren’t wrong. ‘Course, I’ve been away for a while, and my old friend told me a few things have changed since I was more in touch with everyone. See, some Watchers started spending too much time around players, and they got curious. They learned. I reckon a majority of ‘em are still like all those old stories - distant and holier-than-thou and such - but a decent number of ‘em started breaking off and forming factions. Some of ‘em took up different names - Kristin mentioned something called the ‘Listeners’, though I didn’t ask about it. Some of the factions are friendly, some of ‘em not so much. The friendlier ones’ll take in lost players and teach ‘em their magic, which sounds a bit like what happened to our new kid - but not quite. See, trouble is, it wasn’t just the friendlier ones that got curious about players. Some of ‘em see us lowly folk–”

“Tin, I’m not sure you can count yourself as part of ‘us lowly folk’.”

“...well, I’m close enough these days. But - right, some of ‘em see lowly players as nothin’ more than playthings. They’ll take ‘em in, sure, and they’ll teach them their magic, but it's often against their will and they’ve done unspeakable things to the people they steal away from their homes. If the original Watchers are what all those ‘protectors of worlds’ stories spawned from, then some of these darker factions? They’re why ‘destroyers of worlds’ is even a name people attach to ‘em.”

“...and you think they’re who got ahold of Grian?”

TFC’s eyes had turned dark at the suggestion and he had nodded, something pained and sad in his expression.

“Oh, I almost guarantee it.”

And later in the conversation, when Xisuma had told the older Hermit that Grian had given them the okay to look at his player code–

“You said he was on some server called Evolution before this, right?”

“He was. Why?”

And the old miner had let out a weary sigh, scratching at his beard and staring at the little distorted line of text on Grian’s prior server list in his player code.

“Well…if it’s the place I think it is, I think your boy’s old server became the site of an interdimensional turf war without his knowledge. There’s skirmishes an’ such that’ll break out between some o’ the factions every few decades or so, Kristin said, and servers can get caught in the crossfire. I’d bet you anything Evolution was one of ‘em.”

Xisuma was the admin, but it was situations like this that made him wish Generik had handed the role over to someone else - anyone else - back when the older player had chosen to leave Hermitcraft behind. X wasn’t built for this. He wasn’t great at this. He could handle misbehaving coding just fine, and he could make decisions for the greater server if need be, but large conflicts and complex player histories and emotional turmoil–

X took a breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, his ever-present headache returning tenfold.

Grian deserved to know about all this, just in case any of it was true. But Xisuma was reluctant to bring it up so soon lest he set off another panic like the last time he had spoken to the young avian. For now though - for now he could start with the basics. He could lay some things out on the table, see if Grian was willing to share any of his story, and when all was said and done - whether Grian opened up to him or not - Xisuma would add him to the whitelist with Grian there to see it with his own eyes. Whatever happened after that was up in the air.

Though - Xisuma summoned his communicator and checked the time, this time actually registering the numbers lighting up his screen - with how chaotic Hermitcraft tended to be, if there was anything X had learned to be good at it was improvisation. He’d figure it out.

And if it turned out he couldn’t, then Joe Hills would certainly be up to the task.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

[A/N: The red sweater! ^^ I've had that scene planned for a very long time. I didn't know how it would play out exactly, but I did know Mumbo would be the one who had been keeping Grian's sweater safe. (And since Grian was using his Link skin in Evo, it was fun to write in some universe-building stuff along with it.) And then we see a glimpse of the aftermath of X's talk with TFC...huh. Wonder how that chat with Grian is gonna go...?]

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