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Ashes

Summary:

Grian falters, silence falling over them. He says, finally, tired and the littlest bit broken, “It’s not that I won’t tell you, it’s just that – I don’t know where to start. There’s. There’s just so much.” He bites his lip. Scar’s tongue darts out as he winces, wetting his own lip.

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Or: Grian's still soul-linked to Scar, even after their return from Double Life. He's not dealing with it particularly healthily, but after three death games, who would be in the best frame of mind?

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

 

Ashes

 

 

After it’s all finished – done and dusted, their left-behind bones degrading to ash in a little caged world so very far away – the sun rises over Grian’s little house, glinting off the copper roof, the sparkling rivers running through the Season Nine spawn town, the flowers and the grass.

 

Grian should be in his mega-base, but he’s not. The cute little alchemist’s cottage build he made feels nicer to be in, less grand, less like hubris given form. Less like dreams so large they crumbled under their own weight, less like a heart so full of love it collapsed in on itself, unable to bear it.

 

It’s small. He feels small. His heart still has an echo, a second heart beating in tandem with his own, his soul still linked to Scar’s.

 

The spawn town is quieter, these days. Most Hermits have moved out, off to bigger and better things, as is the Hermitcraft way, though there’s nearly always someone around. No one comes to ask him how he is, because everyone thinks he’s hard at work at the mega-base he’s affectionately nicknamed Dwayne. They don’t know he’s here, and they don’t know what he’s come back from. What several of them have come back from.

 

That’s fine, it’s always been the way. Forget everything while you’re trapped there, playing the game, and forget the game when you’re free. Grian is just – unlucky. To be a rememberer.

 

The morning air is fresh and still cool as he digs his fingers into the dirt at the base of his house and plants lilacs and poppies there. He hopes one day that someone will look at them and recognise their significance, but it’s a slim chance indeed. Grian plants them anyway, makes the quiet statement anyway, because he can’t not.

 

(The goat horns aren’t here in Hermitcraft, not yet. The weight on his belt that should be there is absent, but that doesn’t stop Grian’s hands from twitching, wanting to grasp it, bring it to his lips, blow it and hear the echoes of others as they responded all up and down the land.

 

How those horns had petered out over time, less and less of them ‘til only one remained, half of the winning pair. How Grian had blown his horn, and sat in numb horror as no one answered.

 

An over-used sentence had sprung to his mind: the silence had been deafening.

 

He’s not going to get one when Xisuma updates Hermitcraft, no matter how excited he’d been for them before. The thought makes him feel sick.)

 

Grian grits his teeth as he rises with aching knees and a stiff back, the dewy grass leaving damp patches on his trousers. His hands are coated in dirt, but that’s better than them being coated in blood, or ashes, so he simply goes back inside and washes them in his sink. His heart aches in his chest.

 

 

Bruises bloom readily and easily along Grian’s body, linked as it is – heart, mind, soul, flesh – to Scar’s. The man has always been clumsy, a bit careless, confident and jovial. For so long, now, he’s held Grian’s heart in his fist, though until the last game it’d never been quite so literal.

 

Grian’s never told. He can’t, couldn’t, whatever. In Hermitcraft, the death games seemed so far away, like bad dreams, though Grian knows that they happened, that they were real. How is it that in a world of death and pain, their suffering entertainment, Grian had managed to kindle love in his heart, when in gentle Hermitcraft his lips seal shut?

 

It’s not that the love doesn’t exist, but – Grian’s love is not a soft love, is harsh and strong and resilient. Demanding, the way he knows he is, can be. Grian is not unkind, and neither is his love, but without that pressure he never manages to bring it forth from his heart and put it into words. His is the type of love that requires being pushed into the corner, blooming like an explosion in defence of himself, of Scar.

 

Because it is Scar. It’s always been Scar. That mischievous Hermit who Grian based next to, who Grian rose to meet in a battle of wits, laughter echoing across Season Seven and a friendship cemented quickly and firmly. How easy it is to love Scar – how difficult to say it. Scar the Hermit is different from Scar of the Red Desert, or Scar of Magical Mountain, or Scar, Grian’s bound soulmate.

 

There’s always been an inevitability to him, though, to them: Grian and Scar, Grian and Scar, GrianAndScar.

 

And Grian wonders, now, if Scar might remember. The last death game, if nothing else. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. They’re linked, after all, even now. His skin smudges with bruises and rubs raw with grazes and cuts, and – what if Scar remembers?

 

(What if he doesn’t?)

 

 

He has to, Grian decides. He doesn’t think he could take it if he didn’t.

 

Scar’s never been particularly careful, but less so, here on Hermitcraft. The lack of life limit has mellowed him right back down. Grian often has minor injuries hammering themselves across his body, little things that stack up over time. Something ugly inside his chest keeps him from smearing healing splash potions on them, or munching on golden apples. It feels – grounding, to have them on him. Proof that he’s still Scar’s soulmate. Pain as payment for the fear and hurt he’s caused others over three death games.

 

He still hasn’t seen Scar, which is unusual, but – maybe Scar doesn’t want to see him? If he remembers, then he might remember the first game, or the second. Might remember the way Grian betrayed him, got him killed, or actively killed him in a world where death held a much greater weight.

 

Grian winces as pain blossoms in his shoulder, the type of wound that comes from clipping something while flying with an elytra. His arm shakes before he re-tightens his grip on the block in his hand – copper, unwaxed, he’s setting a couple of stacks out to age – and glances around him, trying to see if Scar’s there, or approaching.

 

The sky is empty, though, and Grian is alone.

 

 

Grian’s talking with Mumbo, teasing him about his vault, when it all comes to a head. It’s several weeks after his return to Hermitcraft, and he’s finally gotten back into the groove of working on his mega-base, though his manner is still stilted at times.

 

He knows that Mumbo’s noticed, but the man has always been awkward, and it’s also clear that he has no idea how to breach the subject of Grian disappearing from the area for a few weeks before coming back and acting – badly – like nothing is wrong. Grian knows that given a bit more time, the whole thing will slide into the past – where it belongs – and reach a point where Mumbo will realise that the time period to broach the topic has gone, and then they’ll mutually continue to not talk about it, and finally it will be water under the bridge.

 

The potential of the topic managing to go unaddressed disappears quite spectacularly, however, when Grian feels sudden and sharp pain bloom all along his front, and then he – quite unnecessarily dramatically – dies on the spot in front of Mumbo.

 

GoodTimeWithScar experienced kinetic energy

 

Grian died

 

He wakes up in his bed, placed on the floor of his mega-base and less than two hundred blocks from where Mumbo is still standing shocked out on the bridge, surrounded by Grian’s items.

 

Grian squeezes his eyes shut, grits his teeth, and gets up. His limbs shake. His heart beats hard, loud and fast in his ears, and he firmly reminds himself that Hermitcraft has unlimited lives – this means nothing.

 

He walks out and retrieves his items. He says that Mumbo’s redstone talk was so boring he died to escape it, and neither of them comment on the shakiness in his voice as he tries to tease and lie as he bullheadedly avoids Mumbo’s flustered and panicked questions.

 

He does squeeze Mumbo’s hand, though, when his friend puts it on his arm. It’s not quite comfort, and not quite an apology, but Mumbo knows him well enough to accept the token for what it is. Grian goes back into Dwayne with Mumbo’s eyes heavy on his back and his communicator vibrating with confused messages in the general chat. ‘Died’ is, after all, not a common death message.

 

 

“Grian?” comes Scar’s unmistakeable voice, echoing from the entranceway. “Grian, you in here?”

 

Grian swallows, knelt down by a chest and frozen at Scar’s voice. “Through here,” he calls out when he manages to unstick the lump in his throat.

 

Scar’s footsteps approach, and then his shadow is over Grian. “Grian…”

 

“Hey, Scar,” Grian says, still facing the chest. “What’s up? Is there something you need?”

 

“Where’d you get that bruise?” Scar asks, quiet, ignoring Grian’s small talk.

 

Grian glances at his forearm, a large purple and brown splodge covering most of it, lightening into yellow around the edges. It’s a few days old. He doesn’t reply, because he doesn’t know what answer Scar wants to hear.

 

“Because it looks mighty like a bruise I got last week, escaping from a ravager,” Scar goes on.

 

“A ravager?” Grian asks, exasperated but not particularly surprised. “Why were you running around with a ravager? I didn’t think that Tango’s new Decked Out was up and running yet.”

 

“Oh, it’s not,” Scar says. “But – listen. Grian. I died yesterday, just me being myself, you know how I am, and then you died too. And, okay, could be a coincidence, but you know what? Hermits have been talking, Grian. They can’t not talk – not when one of our own is walking around with bruises all over him and refusing to say where they came from.”

 

“Ah,” Grian says. He grimaces; he hadn’t really realised. It feels like he’s been floating through life for the last few weeks more than living it, and now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t really recall many details of what he’s been doing. He’s talked to people, he knows that, but he can’t really remember what their conversations were about.

 

“So, you know, that looks – really not great,” Scar says, carefully. “Very concerning, actually. And I’ve thought about coming to see you, be a good friend, declare that I’ll shoot whoever’s hurting you with all my Hawkeye skill – but you’ve been avoiding me. You’re never where I frequent, you get shifty when I come up in conversation – a couple of different Hermits have told me that – and even now you can’t look at me.”

 

Grian stays silent. He stares at the open chest – logs, torches, some flowers, leaves, a random nautilus shell – and feels numb.

 

Scar puts his hand on Grian’s shoulder. Grian – doesn’t flinch, but he does stiffen. Scar’s warm palm is like fire. “Gri…” Scar whispers. “What’s going on?”

 

He doesn’t remember, Grian realises. He doesn’t remember. He – he doesn’t know.

 

“You don’t… remember?” Grian mumbles out, because – because he has to check, he has to.

 

But his suspicions are confirmed: “Remember what?”

 

Grian’s fingers tremble as he slams the lid of the chest shut. He stands, Scar’s hand falling away. “It’s not…” he starts, but stumbles into silence. He can’t say it’s not important, because it is. It is so important.

 

Grian whips around, takes Scar’s hand, grabbing it and bringing it up to his face. He presses a kiss on the back. Scar’s skin is familiar, builder’s calluses on his fingers, warm and smelling the way it should; earthy, coppery, Scar’s soap intermingled. He shouldn’t have done that, it’s out-of-character for Grian the Hermit, but – he can’t not do it, he can’t. This is his soulmate. This is Scar.

 

Grian takes a deep and shaky breath. “I thought…” And it feels cruel, now, to have thought this of Scar. Selfish and self-centred, mean and petty. But he has to be honest. “I thought you were punishing me,” Grian admits on a whisper.

 

Scar stares at him in horror and confusion. “For what?” he asks. “How?”

 

Grian straightens, lets go of Scar’s hand. He wavers a moment, and then brings out his axe, enchanted netherite glowing in the room. From the start, he angles it down, makes it as clear as he can that he didn’t bring it out to hit Scar with it. “It’s easier to show you.”

 

It takes Scar a moment to realise what Grian’s about to do, and by the time he does it’s too late. “Wait, Grian, no!” he says frantically as Grian puts the pad of his thumb to the axe blade and presses in, making a shallow cut there.

 

Blood drips down from the tiny wound. Scar makes a noise of pain as a mirroring cut appears on his own thumb. He raises his hand and stares at it; Grian puts his axe away and presents his own cut.

 

“We’re – we’re soulmates, Scar,” Grian says. It’s only the start of the explanation – no, not the start, somewhere in the middle, if he’s being honest – and it’s entirely inadequate, but it works for this purpose. “My pain is your pain. Your pain – is mine. We live and die together.”

 

Scar runs his bloody thumb against his fingers, smearing them with red. He looks at Grian’s dripping thumb, Grian’s face, back to his thumb, to the healing bruise on his arm, and says, “How did this happen? You – you said I don’t remember. What’s going on? I’m – why would I be punishing you? I would never.”

 

Grian falters, silence falling over them. He says, finally, tired and the littlest bit broken, “It’s not that I won’t tell you, it’s just that – I don’t know where to start. There’s. There’s just so much.” He bites his lip. Scar’s tongue darts out as he winces, wetting his own lip.

 

Scar’s eyes – green, wonderfully green – stare at Grian for a moment, measuring. Then he pulls a golden apple out of his inventory and presses it into Grian’s hand. “Eat that,” he says, borderline ordering Grian. “We’re taking this to Xisuma. This is – this is something for an admin to sit in on.”

 

Grian’s heart lurches. No. No. It’s not that Xisuma scares him, or that he doesn’t think that the time for Xisuma to know what's been going on with some of the Hermits is long overdue, it’s that he doesn’t want his and Scar's bond to be broken.

 

He doesn’t actually know if it’s even possible, but it likely is somehow. Their player-data must be linked by the soulmate code, and Xisuma could – edit that. Get rid of it. The thought is terrifying, for all that the link is still relatively new, all things considered.

 

No,” Grian begs. “Please, Scar, I’m sorry – please, don’t break it. Don’t tear us apart. I can’t – I’m sorry, I want to be your soulmate, I love you, I can do better by you, please.”

 

Scar looks at him, not exactly gaping, but still a little stunned. “Grian…” he says, softly. “Grian, I’m… I’m hurting you.” As though that’s the most important part. It’s not. The pain is worth it when paired with everything else that comes with the bond; the deep certainty and connection underpinning everything.

 

“Not intentionally,” Grian says, panicking. “I know that, I do! And – and I hurt you, too, my pain is your pain. Yours is mine – I’ll – I’ll gladly share in your pain, I’ll bear it with you, please, just – just don’t split us apart. Not again. Please.”

 

But what if, Grian’s relentless mind sneers, Scar doesn’t want to bear your pain? Why should he?

 

“Oh, there is so much stuff that I don’t know, isn’t there?” Scar says as he wraps his hands around Grian’s wrists, holding him there. He’s fallen from horror to a sort of stiff composure. The golden apple is still clung tight in Grian’s fingers, uneaten. “Long story, huh?”

 

Grian nods, forcing himself to not avoid Scar’s eyes, though he so very much wants to.

 

Scar breathes in, measured and careful. “You know, there have been a few Hermits who’ve asked if it’s been me who’s been hurting you. You know, with how you were acting and everything.”

 

Grian’s mouth gapes open in horror. “No,” he says.

 

Scar’s mouth falls into a tight line. “And I was so confident when I said no, it’s not me, repeatedly. But it was me. And that’s – that’s not okay, Gri.”

 

“I want this,” Grian says, the truth falling out of his mouth. “I mean – being hurt all the time isn’t – great. And, I, er. Maybe haven’t been. Dealing with that stuff all that well.” Honesty burns like poison, but – yeah, okay, it’s true. If Scar wasn’t hurting him as punishment – and, in true honesty, even if he was, as terrible and wrong as the concept is – then Grian not healing himself is – not great, objectively. He can recognise that. “But I want this – I want you.”

 

“You should have told me,” Scar says, desperation tinting his words. Hurt, fear, and a bit of anger, too, if Grian’s hearing it right. “It’s – a new thing, relatively, yeah? So you should have said. Also there’s clearly some other things that should have been said, but maybe that’s another conversation.”

 

Grian’s wary. “Other things?”

 

Scar looks at him. “You kissed my hand. You said you loved me. You’ve rather heavily implied some stuff that I don’t think you would have admitted to or said were you not so upset.”

 

Grian flushes red, and this time he does look away.

 

“Grian,” Scar says.

 

“Maybe some stuff did happen,” Grian says, forcing himself not to mumble it. He aches to take hold of Scar’s hand again. His double heartbeat thrums in his ears. Some stuff. As though that could encompass everything. As though that could hold a desert and a cacti ring, a lonely mountain and a trap catching someone it was never meant for, a world where pain was doubled and shared, lives interlinked so viciously.

 

“Eat the apple,” Scar repeats. His voice brooks no compromise.

 

Grian raises the golden apple to his lips and bites into it. His stomach clenches as he does so, hunger suddenly curling there; he must not have eaten for a while. He hadn’t noticed.

 

Scar’s hands are still loosely wrapped around his wrists, and they’re – bony, thin, thinner than they should be. Grian stares at them as he swallows, feeling the regeneration magic flow through his body. “I think…” He stares at Scar’s collarbones, unable to meet his eyes. “I think I need some help,” he admits, very quietly.

 

Scar’s hold on him shifts, his hands running down Grian’s arms to clasp around his back. Grian is pulled into a hug, and he unashamedly presses his face right into the side of Scar’s neck, burying it there. “I think it’s brave of you to admit that,” Scar murmurs into Grian’s hair.

 

“I think I’ve needed it for a while,” Grian says. He feels tears pressing against the back of his eyes, ones that are long, long overdue. He trembles a little as he admits it. “Three death games kinda take their toll, I guess.”

 

“… Okay, we will return to death games when we’re at Xisuma’s base,” Scar says. He sounds a little overwhelmed, a bit shaken. His grip on Grian tightens. “But right now you’re here on Hermitcraft, you’re home, and we’re gonna get you some help, okay?”

 

Home. Every other home Grian has ever built – ones from the death games, ones where home meant people more than it did builds – has turned to ashes, and he’s tired of having it all fall through his fingers like so much sand. He's tired of Scar falling through his fingers, unable to hold onto him through cruel design.

 

Grian nods, letting Scar pull him from his base, twisting his own fingers into the back of Scar’s clothes, clinging to the fabric and the soulmate wearing it with desperate hands.

 

“Okay,” he whispers into Scar’s neck, their hearts beating in tandem. He wonders if Scar can hear them. “Okay.”

 

 

 

Notes:

I can't believe that Grian really went with Soulmate AU for the twist on Double Life but I am certainly not complaining. Yes, this fic is gonna get jossed so hard in the next few weeks, but I don't care. Think of it as a what-if.

EDIT: it's already been jossed so hard by the reveal that golden apples desync your hearts from your soulmate in Double Life canon so just like. ignore that bit of canon when reading this. please. also that because health is shared, healing is also shared; in this fic, they both get the injury, but they heal individually.

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