Chapter Text
Hollow winds whisper through the night,
Echoes of shadows, lost to sight.
Lonely voices scream in vain,
Pulling us deeper into pain.
The void is limitless, hypnotic, and utterly alive. It pushes and pulls, sways and twists. It sings in meaningless echoes and whispers across the very fabric of space and time. At first, it appears wholly and impossibly black. Pure darkness with no foreseeable end. But then, when your eyes begin to adjust and you’ve lost count of the days that have passed, you see it. There’s purple, and pink, and blue, and streaks of green. They mix and swirl together. So dark, yet so bright.
The void has a heartbeat. It pulses in a steady rhythm of dark and bright. A hundred tiny stars explode and alight the darkness. How beautiful destruction can be.
This place is a fitting home for Them.
Home. What an interesting word.
The darkness never leaves. It only briefly fades away.
How long has it been? Time is so fickle. It lost its meaning long ago.
F ɹ 33 Đ ǫ ɯ
The void is speaking to him. Perhaps that should be concerning.
Ł ī Ƃ ē Ꞧⱦ ⱥ ꞩ
He turns his gaze to the rough cream stone beneath him. There are short, spindly cracks from long-forgotten escape attempts. It was pointless. They took anything that could have helped him. Punching the endstone only resulted in bloodied knuckles and harsher punishments. Even if he could escape this cage, the real prison exists in the beautiful, deadly void around him.
He never stood a chance.
pɹᴉq ǝʅʇʇᴉʅ ,ʇɥᵷᴉꓞ
Beneath the sky, where shadows cling,
A soul takes flight with fragile wings.
In battle's roar, it dares to fight,
Yet knows that death is in the night.
When he opens his eyes, he’s not met with the boundless void. He squints against the sudden flash of blinding golden light. He’s not in the End. Below him is lush green grass that stretches on for miles. The sky is a shimmering shade of golden ivory. Light fills every inch of the space. It’s warm, like soft sunlight.
His eyes water. How he’s missed that warmth…
This place – despite being unfamiliar and mysterious – has a certain safety, a certain comfort to it. The afterlife, he thinks. He briefly wonders how he died. It’s been a while since he’s seen Them. Perhaps They finally forgot about him. He could have starved to death, or suffered from dehydration, or he could have simply given in to the relentless pull of death. He doesn’t remember.
He sits up slowly. His back still aches, and the pain sets him on edge. He doesn’t know much about the afterlife, but he has a feeling he shouldn’t be in pain. He runs his fingers through the blades of grass. They’re impossibly soft, like the feel of a well-loved blanket. The more he sits in this weird golden space, the more he doubts it’s reality. He’s had many dreams of far-off, safe places during his time with Them. It’s a coping mechanism for when he truly feels like he can’t take anymore. This place – lovely, and safe, and enchanting – isn’t real. It’s just another dream with an expiration date.
A breeze blows past him, ruffling greasy hair and pressing against the purple cloak settled heavily on his shoulders. It’s a pleasant sensation, one he wishes didn’t have to go. He’s tired of the icy and barren air of the End.
The wind, flecked with odd specks of gold, swirls in front of him and twists into a small cyclone. He’s entranced by it and gingerly reaches out to touch. The wind playfully dances away, twisting to avoid his touch. He watches in wonder as the wind flurries together quicker and quicker, the gold flecks blending into solid sheets and forming a figure.
With a flash of golden light, the wind fades. Left in its wake is a cloud-like figure draped in shiny, golden robes. The material is something of wonder: smooth and thin like fabric but rich and iridescent like pure gold armor. The figure before him is not human, not even something from the overworld. Its body seems to be made up of the fluffiest clouds and it towers over his still crouched figure. He also notices the figure is not standing but rather floating gently above the ground. Whatever this being is, they’re powerful, and this is likely their home. He’s not particularly fond of being kidnapped by strange immortal beings.
“Hello,” the figure greets, tilting what he assumes is their head. Their voice is distorted but also somehow melodic. “Fear not, young one.”
“What is this?” he asks. It seems like a solid all-encompassing question.
“A dream,” the cloud figure replies. “It’s the easiest way for us to speak.”
“Who are you?” he asks, even though a terrifying suspicion is growing in his stomach.
The figure lifts their head and their body seems to relax in a way he can only assume is amusement.
“To some, an angel. To others, a God. To you, I simply wish to be a friend.”
A bell seems to follow his words, the sound soft and tinkling.
“Why?” The question falls from his lips unbidden.
The figure hums. Another airy breeze blows past, pushing stray hair out of his face.
“You excite me. Your spirit is something of great wonder.”
The words seem farther away, muddled in the sudden fogginess that overtakes his mind.
“Ah, it seems we’re out of time. Rest, young one. We will see each other soon.”
He has so many questions, but his eyes feel heavy and his body won’t obey his commands. The gold, the white, and the green all mix together as he feels himself begin to fall.
He’s slightly disappointed when he opens his eyes to the dim pulsing of the void. Hope is a desperate, useless thing he forsook a long time ago. At least, he thought he did. The dream of the strange cloud man was just that: a dream. A figment created by his tortured mind in a futile attempt to inspire a renewed dedication to survival. All he wants now is to float off into the void he spends all his time staring at longingly. He wishes for freedom, but he does not hope for it.
Though shadows fall, the stars will gleam,
A beacon bright, a hopeful dream.
For even in the deepest night,
Wings will carry me to light.
Xelqua…
He drifts between bouts of restless sleep. His back aches from being pressed into the rough endstone. He hasn’t eaten in weeks. Maybe They truly have forgotten about him.
Xelqua , the void whispers.
He ignores it.
It’s time.
He hums, turning onto his side in an attempt to ease the burning pain in his spine. A familiar figure appears before him. The bright white clouds seem so out of place in this dark wasteland. He wishes his mind would just give it up and let him rest.
“Hello, Xelqua,” the cloud figure says, voice still ringing like a soft bell.
“The mind is truly remarkable,” he drawls, voice scratchy from disuse.
The figure tilts its head. “You don’t believe me. Or rather, don’t believe in me.”
“I’m tired,” he says, praying some part of his subconscious will hear and end this charade.
The figure stands still for a moment before slowly sinking to the ground in what must be a sitting position.
“I know, young one, but you must not give up now.”
It’s funny how assuredly your body will press for survival even when your mind cries for surrender.
“I cannot save those who do not wish to be saved,” the figure adds. “Tell me, Xelqua, do you still wish to feel, to love, to live?”
Something strikes in his chest like flint to steel. A lone ember flickers alive, the tiniest spark in the greatest darkness.
“Of course,” he says.
Memories of a time before darkness, before pain, before Them flash through his mind. Warm sun and green grass. Bright smiles and echoing laughter. Boisterous conversation and comforting touches. Buildings, and pranks, and nothing but love coursing through his veins.
A shimmer of golden light emits from the figure. Its shoulders relax and its head tilts up. If it had a face, he imagines it’d be smiling.
“Very well,” they say, rising gracefully to their full height. “Close your eyes and remember what inspired you to fight in the first place.”
The command is odd, but he finds himself following it anyway. A wave of unfounded comfort flows over him. The aching pains drift away into the background as he thinks of his friends and the boundless world that was spread before them. He grasps for the excitement he felt as he first opened the server, the hopeful energy that brewed in the air as more and more players entered, and the curiosity that shone in their eyes as they observed the beautiful world around them.
For the first time in a long while, he feels warmth, safety, and happiness. He can feel tears making their way down his face, but he keeps his eyes firmly shut. He holds on to the visions sparking behind his eyelids. He takes a deep breath and distantly notes the floaty sensation filling his bones. He feels weightless and untethered. It’s terrifying for a moment, but something compels him to relax.
Is this what dying feels like? He thinks.
He blows out a long breath and sinks into the feeling. It’s the safest he’s felt in years. The corners of his lips quirk in a distant and unfamiliar motion. Soft darkness creeps in and, with the visions of all that could have been, he lets it.
Be free, player.
He awakes to a bright blue sky and sunlight glaring into his eyes. He sits up with a groan, his entire body aching. His hands meet prickly blades of grass and his eyes snap open despite the harsh glare of the sun. He feels his heart stutter as he takes in his surroundings. Tall, ancient oak trees, a multitude of brilliant and vibrant flowers, and rolling hills of green that stretch on for miles. He breathes in fresh, light air as tears spring to his eyes. This world is beautifully, heartbreakingly, and imperfectly alive .
He can hear the rushing of distant water and the soft buzzing of bees. He can feel the world shifting beneath his fingers. A breeze blows through the air, rustling flowers and wayward strands of hair alike. A huff of breath leaves his lips, and then he’s falling to the ground with full-body laughter, loud and unapologetic. A million questions flash through his mind, but he sets them aside in favor of embracing the stunning miracle he’s been given.
He grins as he stares at the sky above and traces the edges of fluffy clouds with his finger. He breathes, and laughs, and smiles, and does a hundred other things he thought he’d never do again. Slowly, he readjusts the feeling of being in the overworld. The multitude of inputs begin to swirl together into the simple, lovely feeling of being alive.
As he lays in the grass, a thought strikes him. By instinct mostly, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small device. The screen lights up immediately. In the top right corner, an all too familiar name gleams at him. Grian chuckles as he shakes his head and mindlessly navigates to the tab list. His smile quickly fades away as a long column of foreign names appears in front of him. Okay, so, not a single player world like he expected.
As if to confirm his worst fears, a branch snaps somewhere from within the forest next to him. Not good, not good, not good!
He scrambles to his feet, trying to push past the adrenaline flooding his veins to think about this logically. It’s probably just an animal. No need to worry. Another branch snaps, this time followed by distinctly human grumbling. Oh snap .
Grian swivels his head around, looking for anything that could be useful in defending himself. Of course there’s nothing considering he’s in the middle of a very lovely but very unhelpful plains biome. The sound of footsteps grows louder. Grian thinks about running but quickly deems that idea futile. Whoever is in the forest almost certainly has more food than Grian does. Plus, spending several years solely in the end likely hasn’t left him in the most athletic state. The only other option is to hide, but unless he wants to try his luck hiding behind a literal tree, that’s not going to work either.
So, with no other viable option, Grian accepts his fate and prepares to face the unknown player. He turns toward where the sounds seem to be coming from just in time to see a man step into the clearing he’s in. The first thing he notices is the player’s jet-black hair. He’s wearing a slightly rumpled suit and has a truly fantastic mustache.
Grian’s head pangs with something oddly close to familiarity, but he dismisses the odd sensation quickly. The player probably reminds him of an old friend… although now that he thinks about it, he can’t actually remember any of his old friends. He’s certain he had some, he just can’t remember what they looked like, or sounded like, or acted like.
Grian turns his attention back to the strange player standing in front of him. The man has spotted him and frozen still in shock. Countless emotions flicker across his face and he drops the sticks he has gathered in his arms. The wood tumbles to the ground as the two stare at each other.
Then, the man speaks in a voice tinged with hurt and confusion, “Grian?”