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3rd life seemed like a good idea at the time; it was just a hardcore server with extremely loose rules. What could go wrong? Hermitcraft was too peaceful for some of the pranks Grian wanted to pull, and the stress of having to be amiable with everyone all the time (lest those involved in any friendly conflict get hate for it from the viewers) was just getting to be too much for Grian’s more chaotic tendencies.
He didn’t expect to have any genuine repercussions from the game other than a few jibes here and there once it was all over, and he sure as hell didn’t expect to be the sole member to recall anything that happened once the game came to completion.
Waking up on Hermitcraft was a jarring experience. Grian’s hands still felt tacky from Scar’s blood, his feet still felt like they were going to sink into sand with every step he took. His wings ached from being bound for so long, and his fragile mental state hadn’t fully recovered from what led to his final fall.
The cactus ring. The fall. Oh god, what did he do? He swore his loyalty and then he… How could he have given that final blow? How could Scar have believed Grian bought that pathetic act of “trying” to hit him while forcing himself upon the cacti every chance he got? It didn’t matter now, Scar was dead and it was Grian’s fault and there’s nothing left for him and he should just-
“Grian!” He was welcomed by a few voices coming closer. Mumbo and…Scar.
His eyes welled up with tears as he scrambled to his feet, flinging himself on his newly revived teammate.
Scar let out a small ‘oof’ as he was tackled. “Woah there! How’s it going?” Scar hugged him back, just as tight, but more out of joy than the need to ground himself. After a few seconds of silence, Grian’s breathing started to grow heavy and a few hiccups escaped. “G, are you crying?” Scar tried to pull back to look at him, but Grian just held on tighter. Scar looked to Mumbo in confusion, who simply shrugged, just as lost as him.
“I don’t know what’s got you so upset, but, um…we’re here for you?” Scar tried, rubbing his back a bit.
As if he didn’t know. As if Grian clinging to Scar wasn’t the only thing reassuring himself that Scar was alive in that very moment—that he wasn’t going to fall limp onto the sand below, eyes going from red to gray, a haunting smile on his visage.
Grian eventually pulled away and rubbed at his eyes. “Sorry, I guess leaving the game just made me a bit emotional.”
“Ah,” was all Scar said for a few moments. Then, he managed to shatter Grian’s world with a handful of words: “I don’t really recall much of 3rd Life. I think I had fun, though! Did…you not?”
If anyone could understand what Grian was going through, it would’ve been Scar. But there Scar stood, with his eyes a wonderful, beautiful green, and looked at Grian with care and worry radiating off him, and told him he didn’t remember what they had gone through. So, over the next few days, Grian decided to ask around to see how people found the game. Ask if they had fun, ask if they remembered much from it. Each answer was more disheartening than the last.
Sure, some players had vague memories and got the general gist of the games: three lives, green, yellow, red, traps and explosions, and sometimes they even remembered who their teammate was, but almost never more than that. Even Scar was confused to wake up a few days later in Hermitcraft with a poppy and a lilac tucked behind one ear, as if placed there with care. All in all, despite no one fully remembering what happened, every participant seemed more rejuvenated than Grian had seen them in months—it seemed like his goal of letting loose with his friends was accomplished, even if he might be slightly suffering for it.
Grian quickly decided it would be better to pretend he didn’t remember much, either (even when Scar came up to Grian, poppy and lilac in hand, and asked him if they could still be friends if he knew who gave them to him). So, in the beginning of Season 8, he played off his nerves as simply being overly cautious; he was just glancing behind himself every few seconds and lighting up every cave until it was as bright as day because he didn’t have good armor yet and he didn’t want to die to any mobs—not because the thought of reviving and seeing his previously white name change color terrified him.
A few hermits who were there during 3rd Life gave him solemn, understanding looks each time he jumped at the sound of a creeper. (They may have early memories, before the game’s effect really took hold, Grian noted. He ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach to think that one of the only coherent memories people may have from the game was of Grian killing Scar). Grian knew they didn’t understand his anxieties to the extent they thought they did, but Grian took the comfort for what it was and moved on, not wanting to give any indication he knows more than he’s supposed to.
He wasn’t sure why he remembered more, but it wasn’t exactly something he could talk about with the admin and figure out; he was the admin. He might’ve considered talking to Xisuma about it later, see if it was something in his code that X could help him out with, but that wasn’t high on his priority list at the moment. No, it was acting normal and building a starter base.
Obsessively checking the player list to make sure everyone’s names were still white was definitely not acting normal, but it’s not like it was hurting anyone, and it’s not like anyone would notice him pressing a button on his comms and glancing at who was online.
Flinching from any contact other than Scar’s was also not very normal behavior for him, but he couldn’t help it. When the only touch you receive for months is driven by malice, of course you’d lean into the gentle hand that tends the wounds. He didn’t hold anything against his friends, of course, but that doesn’t mean he could just forget the cruelty they’re all capable of—that he’s capable of.
Not to mention that checking his base constantly for any traps and occasionally digging in through the wall instead of using the door was also extremely not normal for…well, anyone, but Grian could play it off as pranking one too many hermits recently and being afraid of retaliation.
Despite his best efforts to appear calm, cool, collected, and definitely not panicked at every snapping twig or usage of a pressure plate, Mumbo took notice of his off behavior.
Grian didn’t need to hear the footsteps of his friend to know he was on his way over; their starter bases were so close to each other that Grian contemplated making a tunnel underneath their bases, connecting the two again like they did in season 7.
Despite knowing Mumbo just took one of the tree war’s best soldiers down, Grian’s heart still raced at the glint of the diamond axe that was hanging at Mumbo’s side, wondering if he’d be on the wrong end of it by the time they’re done talking.
“You alright there bud?” Mumbo tilted his head and leaned slightly down in a halfhearted attempt to put his face in Grian’s line of sight.
His eyes snapped up to meet Mumbo’s, plastering on a fake smile a moment after. “Yeah, actually! I have this really cool idea for how to start my mega base.” He whipped around and started walking towards where he was planning on starting his next project, hoping the distraction would be enough to get him out of having a heart-to-heart or something.
Confused at the sudden switch, Mumbo stared for a moment as Grian walked away, rattling off some of his building ideas. He quickly regained his senses and jogged after him, grabbing Grian’s shoulder a bit harsher than intended, once he reached him.
Mumbo instantly learned that was a mistake as Grian spun around and sliced through him with his sword faster than he’d seen even the best PVP players do so. A quick death, a quick respawn, a million questions. By the time Mumbo made his way back to where he died, all his items had been placed in a chest with a sign that read:
“Sorry, Mumbo”
The words themselves were pretty standard for an “oops, sorry I killed you, here’s your stuff back” note, but when he looked closer, he could vaguely make out some words that he could tell Grian hastily tried to scratch off, but ran out of time before Mumbo got close:
“-opoly Mou-ain sends its regards. Enjoy.”
When he opened the box, he noticed Grian took his axe, but gave him some sand and sugar cane.
Grian eventually got a hold on his paranoia, and even got to a point where when he died and respawned, he didn’t frantically check what color his eyes were. (He walked over to the mirror calmly to do so).
A few hermits had messaged Grian asking about a new Life season. It wasn’t something he had necessarily thought people would enjoy so much, so despite his initial hesitation, he started planning a new season.
He occasionally bounced ideas off of Mumbo, and the more the two talked about it, the more he got intrigued by it. Mumbo eventually asked if he could join this next season, as well as Pearl and Lizzie.
Last Life went as horribly as 3rd Life did.
Oh sure, everyone had a great time once they respawned in their respective servers, but once again, no one remembered. He was alone in dealing with the trauma he just experienced. (Save for Scott, who messaged Grian wondering why he could recall this season but not the last. Grian didn’t have an answer for him, but Scott assured Grian that he was fine and had a lot of fun). Grian took that to mean Scott wasn’t dealing with too much trauma from the game, so he didn’t want to burden Scott with making him talk to Grian about his memories and deal with Grian’s memories as well, so he left it be. It’s not like the two of them saw each other often, anyways; they played on different servers, so communication wasn’t impossible, just difficult.
He didn’t need to talk to Scott about what he’s going through, he could manage well enough on his own.
He couldn’t look Scar or Mumbo in the eye, too ashamed of his own betrayals to even pretend like everything between them was just fine and dandy.
It’s fine, he told himself. He could just work on his base and avoid everyone while still trying to maintain the appearance that everything was fine and he was totally mentally stable.
No one questioned why he looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks—yes, it was because he hadn’t, but everyone knew that and it was a fun little bit because of the moon! No one had to know that it was truly because every time he closed his eyes for more than 10 seconds, he was either back in the desert or within the cobblestone walls, sword to Scars throat as he gives Grian permission to slay him, or slashing wildly at Mumbo after he tried to obliterate him with a crystal.
His panic attacks were frequent and exhausting, but they still never managed to tire him out enough to let him rest. Each rumble of the ground sent adrenaline coursing through his veins, fearing that the shaking was actually the time he accidentally set off a trap because he wasn’t careful enough, he wasn’t observant enough to see the pressure plate, he wasn’t quick enough to dodge the impact, he was too slow and too late and he was going to die and he was on his last life but he didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to go yet, he wasn’t done-
“Breathe, Gri.” A calm and gentle voice commanded. He tried, god he tried, but they just came out as broken sobs. “Good,” the voice lied. “That was really good. Can you try that again for me?” The voice became a firm hand pressing against his back, rubbing soothing circles into it. His next breath was slightly less broken, but still not great. “Perfect,” the voice complimented. It took some exemplary deep breaths, imploring Grian to do the same.
After a few breaths, the voice and hand became a warm body pressed against his own. “Can you name five things you can see?” It prompted, gentle and warm.
Grian’s eyes were too unfocused to tell anything apart, but he faintly registered what should have been around the pair, and that was enough for him. “Charged creeper…floating candles…sweets shop…my hand, and…the moon.” He tried to take slow breaths between each answer, but a few ended up more like gasps.
“Wonderful, G. Can you name four things you can touch?” It was a man’s voice. It was kind, far too kind for what he deserved.
“Uh…my shirt, the, uh…the ground…you, and my hand again?” He kept breathing slow and deep, touching each thing he listed. When did he sit down?
“I’ll accept repeats. You’re doing amazing. Three things you can hear?” He finally registered the voice as Scar’s.
“Your voice, my voice, and…the creeper, again.” Hey, he said he’d accept repeats. Why make it harder on himself?
“Two things you can smell?” Scar sounded more relaxed, now that Grian’s breathing has mostly evened out.
“The dirt I was just scaffolding with and whatever deodorant you’re using,” he weakly tried to joke.
That got a chuckle. Scar reached into his inventory and pulled out a golden carrot, placing it in Grian’s hand. “One thing you can taste.” It wasn’t a question.
Grian gave a small smile at the carrot and took a bite. “Thanks.”
“Anytime, G.” Scar looked a bit contemplative. “You haven’t had an attack like that in a while…can I ask what was wrong?” Grian could tell what he really wanted to say was ‘tell me what’s wrong,’ but they both knew their relationship was a bit too strained for that at the moment.
Grian just shook his head. He didn’t have the heart to tell him those attacks had been daily, nightly, sometimes multiple times each, as of late. “It’s nothing…So, what brings you over to The Midnight Alley?” Grian stood and extended a hand to Scar to help him up. He was still shaky, still exhausted, but he managed to make his voice steady and unwavering.
Scar looked unimpressed at his segue, but didn’t push it as he accepted the help up. “Just coming to check on you. Haven’t seen you around in a bit, I was getting a little worried.”
Grian waved him off casually. “I’m fine, I’ve just been busy with my build,” he did a little spin, gesturing to the magical little pocket world around them.
Scar’s expression looked pained. “Gri, I know that’s-…you look like hell.”
The partial curse made him stop in his tracks, but he quickly recovered. “I know, I know. I haven’t been sleeping. But neither have you, my fellow mooner! It’s what we do!” He was talking with his hands, not paying too much attention to Scar as he slowly approached.
Scar gently pushed Grian’s arms down, studied his face, then met his gaze with far more gentleness than Grian believed he deserved. “You’re not yourself, Grian. Something’s wrong and you’re not letting anyone help.” Grian dropped his bravado, cracks forming in his façade. Scar raised a hand to cup Grian’s cheek, wiping away a tear he didn’t even know he shed. “Please don’t push me away.”
For the briefest moment, looking into Scar’s eyes, they were back in the desert. They were next to the ravine Scar fell into—the ravine that took Scar’s second life. The ravine that Grian dug down into to gather up his teammate’s items, ignoring the splatters of blood, waiting for him to return. The ravine that Grian stood next to dutifully, waiting with bated breath to see if Scar would still have him on his team. The timid, hopeful look on Scar’s face as he begged Grian to still be friends heart-wrenchingly echoed the one he wore in that moment, begging Grian to let him in and tell him what’s ailing him.
It was too much to handle.
Furiously blinking away tears, Grian took off into the sky. He spammed rockets until he ran out and he didn’t stop gliding until there wasn’t a single structure or bit of foliage he recognized. He semi-crash landed in a flower meadow, pointedly ignoring two flowers in particular, and finally released what he was holding inside since he woke up in Hermitcraft for the first time.
It took one day for Grian to return, and one more day for Scar to come visit and apologize for whatever he may have done wrong.
The genuine sorrow on Scar’s face sent a pang of hurt through his chest, knowing that he was the cause of Scar’s suffering.
It gave him great inspiration for the next Life game, though, if anyone was interested.
At a certain point, Grian realized the games had become a form of self-harm. He didn’t know when it happened, he just knew that he was punishing himself, hurting himself, and dealing with it in the unhealthiest way possible.
The flash of heartbreak and betrayal on Scar’s face when he learned about Grian’s cheating was proof enough that Grian deserved every cut and hit that Scar put him through, whether intentionally or not. Sure, he was actively making his own situation worse, but at least it gave him justification for why when the game was done, he didn’t bother fixing the glitch in his coding that de-synched his and Scar’s health bars. He deserved it.
Cuts and scars and bruises littered Grian’s entire body the first few weeks after Double Life. He didn’t dare venture out of his base for fear of taking damage and Scar learning what he did (or, well, didn’t do). In all that time spent inside, Grian somehow figured out how to turn off his death messages so that no one could see that he died whenever Scar died.
The first time Mumbo dragged him out of his house since Grian and the others returned was to show off his copper (in a completely casual, totally not trying to edge Grian into pranking him kind of way). Scar was nearby. He fought off a hoard mobs but took a lot of damage in the process—it took everything within Grian to not shout or groan in pain.
He glanced over at Scar and almost sobbed when he bit into a golden apple. Quickly averting his gaze, Grian checked his comm to see his health bar; low, as expected, and unmoving once the effects of the apple hit. He knew golden apples broke the soul bond, but he didn’t expect it to be gone so soon. Scar barely took any damage while they were tied—not that he wanted Scar to be in pain, he just knew it would’ve been well within his right to clip a few extra walls or get shot a few extra times if he knew 1. That they were bound, and 2. What Grian did.
Lost in thought, Grian didn’t notice Mumbo’s first couple attempts at getting his attention. He eventually lightly punched Grian’s arm to make him notice, and he watched as Scar’s lack of reaction confirmed that the bond was really broken.
“Earth to Grian. You with me, buddy?” He chuckled. Grian shook his head to clear his mind and looked up at Mumbo, smiling.
That smile immediately disappeared when Scar got shot once more in the chest. Grian let out a pained “ow-!”, clutching his chest, and died unceremoniously.
He respawned in his bed, confused. He checked the marks on his body, recounting each time he got hurt versus when Scar got hurt (the score was about 1:36). He doesn’t understand. The marks should be gone along with the soul bond.
He felt another phantom arrow hit his right arm and Grian checked where it would have hit, only to find no weapon, but a small patch of blood seeping into his sweater sleeve.
Scar ate the apple, breaking his tie to Grian.
But that doesn’t mean Grian’s tie to Scar was broken.
He let out a small, disbelieving huff. That worked out better than he could’ve imagined; now, he doesn’t have to worry about taking damage and hurting Scar, but he still shares Scar’s pain.
It went on for much longer than it should have.
Grian’s past few weeks went a bit like this:
Wear covering clothing, even when it’s hot
Cover any visible bruises with makeup
Avoid Scar
Semi-avoid other Hermits
Work on base whenever someone starts approaching.
Honestly, he’s surprised he got away with that kind of schedule for as long as he did.
Sure, Hermits visited and checked in on him, but no one ever stayed for too long. He didn’t mean to kick them out or make them feel unwelcome; he just hadn’t been in the mood for company in quite some time. Honestly, he couldn’t remember half their conversations. His brain was too foggy with the shared pain and lack of general taking care of himself to focus on much past the standard greeting and asking how they are.
Eventually, the meetings trickled and slowed until no one had visited him for about two weeks. He ignored his comm, he ignored his health bar, he ignored his hunger, and he ignored the knocking on his door. He stayed in bed. He could barely register the knocking at all, let alone gather enough energy to welcome whoever is outside.
Despite the lack of response, the door creaked open. “Grian?” Scar hesitantly called inside the dimly-lit house.
Just the person he didn’t want to see.
“Grian, are you in here?” He walked further into the house, clearly not planning on leaving until he confirms Grian’s absence.
Unfortunately for Grian, his hiding spot was not very good. It was his bed.
It didn’t take long for Scar to spot him, face morphing from surprise to concern. He knew he looked wretched; it still didn’t feel great to see the distress it caused his best friend. “Oh, G, are you sick? What’s wrong?” Scar pulled up a chair and sat next to Grian, leaning over him fretfully.
“’m fine. Please leave.” Grian drowsily blinked up at Scar, despite knowing that nothing would make that man move from his spot. Of course he gave Grian the benefit of the doubt first, assuming he was ill before anything else.
And of course he knew Grian better than anyone else, so he knew he wasn’t really sick. “Grian, please. This isn’t just a normal cold, is it?” Scar held his hand and his eyes bore into Grian’s.
Grian looked away ashamed. “I’m not sick, Scar,” he stated the obvious.
Scar’s efforts doubled. “Then tell me what’s wrong.”
He stayed silent for a moment, then two. “…you should eat something.”
Confusion overtook the previous concern. “What?”
Grian met his eyes. “You took damage on the way here. You should eat something.”
Scar returned his gaze with trepidation. “How did you know that?”
Grian chuckled weakly. It was a miserable sound. “Because we’re soulmates, Scar. Your pain is my pain.”
Scar’s face drained of all color. “No…this whole time?” He spoke barely above a whisper.
Grian didn’t reply. He knew Scar remembered the rules of Double Life, so he knew Scar understood what that entailed.
“But I’ve died so many times!” Scar pulled out his comm to check the death messages in chat.
“I turned my death message off,” he explained, too tired to lie anymore.
Scar looked…heartbroken, to say the least. “Grian, why didn’t you say anything? We could’ve taken this to Xisuma, see if he could figure out how to undo it, or do literally anything than just let you rot here, suffering for months!”
Grian just shook his head and quietly spoke: “I deserve it.”
Those three words stopped Scar’s rant before it got a chance to start up again. “What?” He asked, timid, afraid of what Grian will say.
“I said,” Grian sat up. “I. Deserve it.”
Scar shook his head in disbelief. “Grian, you can’t possibly think you deserve to be tortured for months like this-“
“I do!” he snapped. “You don’t remember! You don’t know how I treated you in those games! I deserve it, Scar, and I deserve so much worse revenge than what you’d ever consider giving me because you’re too damn nice and I-” Grian cut himself off, unsure of what he wanted to say. He tucked his face between his knees and started tugging at his hair as the dam of hot tears finally broke once more.
Scar gently tried to untangle his fingers from the death grip he has on his hair. “G, you don’t deserve to hurt. You don’t deserve to make me make you hurt…and I don’t deserve to be tricked into making you hurt.” There was more pain in his voice than Grian had ever heard before.
And oh, that last line caused more pain than any explosion, any trap, any death ever could have. It made Grian’s stomach turn to a stone pit, feeling shame wash over him in overwhelming waves. He shook his head. “You’re right. You don’t deserve that…I’m so sorry, Scar,” his voice broke as he realized what he had just done to Scar.
He forced Scar into the role of his torturer, his abuser. He was too cowardly to hurt himself so he got one of the kindest, sweetest people on the server to do his dirty work for him, and it made him repulsed with himself.
Scar just joined Grian on his bed and opened his arms, inviting him to a hug. Grian eagerly accepted, sobbing into Scar’s shoulder and Scar just held him, trying to ignore how light he’s gotten.
Once the sobs had calmed down to the occasional hiccup, Scar finally spoke, “G?”
Grian hummed in response.
“You know we’re going to talk to Xisuma about this, right?”
Grian sighed. “I know.”
After contemplating for a moment, Scar decided to push his luck a bit. “And…maybe talk to someone about what’s been going on in that pretty little head of yours?” He asked, brushing some hair off Grian’s forehead.
Grian weakly chuckled. “I guess after three death games, I might have a little bit of trauma.”
“How much do you remember?” Scar asked softly, scared for the answer.
“Everything.”
“We’re definitely getting you a therapist.”