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Ghostboo was in his house. He wasn’t sure why he had it. Well, he remembered building it, and he knew houses were important to living people, but he couldn’t remember the emotional attachment to it. It was just a house. Just a shelter, that he didn’t need because he was dead. But it was his, or at least it belonged to the living him, so he used it.
He didn’t know how long it was before he saw people outside his house. Usually, he ignored people. He didn’t know them, or at least not well enough to remember any sort of emotion associated with them. Feeling—remembering— an emotion was rare, saved exclusively for things like the purple alliums and Tommy. Things that had mattered enough to Ranboo for Ghostboo to feel it. But these people, or at least two of them, he knew.
Tubbo and Technoblade.
Something welled up in him, something that felt like bubbles and tasted like the color of gold. He couldn’t name it, but it was powerful. These people must have mattered to his living form. They must have mattered so much.
The other one with them, Eret, was familiar, but living Ranboo must not have known them very well, so Ghostboo didn’t pay much attention to them.
Ghostboo walked outside, subconsciously following the golden bubble feeling. He knew they’d noticed him because their expressions morphed into ones of shock, eyes wide and staring.
And as Ghostboo neared, he saw the boat.
There was a child in it, a child with pinkish, decaying skin, overalls, one brilliant, rose-red eye, tiny fingers that had wrapped around his so many times.
“You got him,” Ghostboo whispered.
Technoblade’s eyes tracked him as he moved closer, and the man spoke with surprising gentleness. “We got him. We got your son. I understood your message.”
Ghostboo remembered this child. Michael. His son. He’d loved him so much. From the moment he’d seen him, he’d loved him. He’d cared for him, kept him safe, wished he could speak Piglin so Michael would know how much his father adored him. He’d learned to fight for him. He’d asked Technoblade to teach him everything he knew so he could protect his family. He’d died for him. Had knelt on a grassy hill in front of his friend, his teacher and let the sword pierce his heart, all for this little boy.
Ghostboo looked at the child—at Michael—and something new crashed over him. It was overwhelming. Like a tidal wave breaking over his head. It broke and reformed him, brought a stinging tightness to his nose, the need to cry even though ghosts couldn’t cry. Swirling up his throat, into the tips of his fingers, his mouth, his toes, fogging his mind, and he couldn’t stop the tremor in his voice when he said, “thank you.”
There was something sad in Technoblade’s eyes. “You’re wounded.”
Oh, yes, the gash across his chest. That didn’t matter. That had no emotion in it that Ghostboo could remember. “I know. It’ll be fine.”
Because Michael was in front of him. Michael was safe, and he’d died for that.
Ranboo had died for that.
And he’d do it again.
Ghostboo could feel it.