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liloinkoink · 2 years

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might be best to not look back

“Traitor!” Grian vaults over Bdubs’ body, not sparing the corpse a moment of consideration on his single-minded path toward Scar. His boots send water sloshing out in waves, but the sound is covered by the clanging of diamond on diamond. His sword crashes down on Scar’s chestplate, just short of slicing one of Scar’s eyes. Scar stumbles back, dropping to the ground, water splashing out from under him.

“Traitor! After everything we’ve been through!”

When Scar looks up, it’s to red eyes, shimmering with equal parts fire and water. Scar’s mouth clicks shut as the blade of Grian’s sword slides in below his chin, resting against the skin of his neck.

“What?! Nothing to say for yourself?!” Grian snaps, though his voice shakes, fumbling the rage that’s carried him this far.

Grian holds grudges, Scar knows, but anger can only fuel a person for so long before it burns itself out, revealing devastation in its coals. The fire at Grian’s heels is already sputtering.

Grian’s hand trembles, just a bit, around the hilt of his sword—Scar feels it in the way the tip of the blade bobs up and down against his throat.

Scar has always been an expert talker. At least, he assumes he has. He doesn’t remember anything before waking up in the forest months ago, but he assumes those skills must have some basis, to have saved his hide as many times as they have. He wouldn't have lasted nearly this long otherwise, or else Ren or Martyn or Skizz or Impulse or Bdubs or Cleo or anyone, really, would have stuck an arrow in his throat months ago.

(Grian knows it, too, has seen firsthand the way he’s escaped a hundred deaths with nothing more than a smile and some empty words. He pauses to ask for Scar’s last words anyway, though he doesn’t dwell on why.)

Scar has never goaded anyone into killing him before.

It’s not that Scar’s never done anything to make anyone want to kill him. He’s threatened, he’s insulted, he’s wounded and poured salt. A thousand times Scar has put on a voice and a too-sharp smile and laughed his way into making enemies of every person on the server. But even taunting a half-crazed, crossbow-wielding Bdubs, he’d been careful not to do anything that could rile the man up enough to raise his weapon with the intent to draw Scar's blood.

That was a line he’d never crossed. And why would he? What could he possibly have to gain by pushing someone over that edge? What could be more important than protecting his own life?

Grian—loyal, dependable Grian, always at his side, watching his back—standing in front of him with fury and grief blazing in watery red eyes. Seeing his sword and shield, his armor and his castle and everything that kept him alive and made living worth it cry, all Scar wants to do is apologize. He wants to take it all back, to take Grian’s hands into his own and beg for forgiveness.

But there can only be one winner. Grian has stayed by his side this long. Dying is the least Scar can do for him.

“Yeah,” Scar says, and despite everything, he scrambles to think of anything to say that isn’t I’m sorry, ”I shouldn’t have let Bdubs kill you.”

Grian lowers his blade, just a bit, his resolve and rage already receding at the hint of an apology. Scar bites his tongue to keep himself from giving it.

If Grian feels half the affection for Scar that Scar feels for him, he’ll never act without some great push. When Scar releases his tongue from between his teeth, he forces into his voice every ounce of fake cruelty he can muster.

If all that stands between Scar and the victory he desires is Grian and a bit of charm, then he can do away with both.

“We spent so long together,” I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, “I should have finished you myself.”

The last thing Scar ever sees is a flash of heartbreak in Grian’s eyes. Scar doesn’t have time to decide if Grian winning is worth Grian looking at him like that.

Scar slumps back into the pond, his body falling into the shallow water. He gurgles something, though whether it’s some last words or just a noise of pain is lost in a spray of blood and bubbles. A few more bubbles shoot out of his mouth, his nose, and the gash in his neck, though Grian doesn’t watch as the last of Scar’s life leaves him.

Grian doesn’t check if Scar has any decent items on him, either. He never wanted the enchantment table, anyway, so Scar can keep the stupid thing for all Grian cares. Grian doesn’t need it, anyway. He won. He won.

There will be no need for enchantment tables, not anymore, not when there are no kingdoms to defend himself from. No need for gleaming diamond forcing sharper and faster swords to pierce it just to stand a chance at winning, and no flaming swords or infinite bows forcing stronger and stronger armor just to keep the two of them alive.

…Or just the one, now. Just Grian.

Just the victor, knee-deep in a shallow pond. How does victory feel?

Why, Grian wonders, does his chest feel so hollow?

Grian shakes his head. It’s probably just the adrenaline wearing off. He’s been running on fumes since he woke up in his bunker, hunting down the two traitors all night and day without stopping to sleep or rest or think or breathe. He just needs to find an in-tact bed, and with a bit of rest, he can enjoy his win.

For a moment, he considers returning to the bunker, but his gut twists at the prospect. He’s exhausted, he decides, far too tired to walk all the way back… Joel’s house is still mostly in one piece, bar part of the roof, and Grian’s swaying on his feet at the base of the hill it rests on.

Without another glance to the pond, Grian starts trekking up the hill. The first rays of sunlight are already coming up on the horizon, but that doesn’t matter. Golden hour sunlight illuminates the battered cottage, and to Grian’s too-tired mind, the rays streaming through the charred roof could pass as divine.

Grian’s never been a poet, however, nor prone to any flights of fancy. There’s no hesitation to watch the shining sunbeams, to appreciate the first sunrise earned as the cruel game’s winner.

No, Grian simply pushes open the door and stomps up the stairs to the open-air bedroom. He doesn’t bother to take off his armor before falling face-first into Joel’s bed, only adjusting himself long enough to pull the thick blanket over his head and hide from the light.

By some act of celestial kindness, Grian dreams of nothing at all.

Grian has not slept alone in months.

He and Scar had rolled out their blankets in the space between the chests and the furnaces in their first night in the desert, close to each other and the furnaces' smoldering coals. They’d resorted to burning surplus dark oak in a bid to survive the freezing temperatures, way back when the Sandcastle was only foundation and imagination, and slept near to each other even as Scar’s newest burns still stung from his death just hours before.

Scar had never been far after. This was a habit that had carried over even after the Sandcastle was constructed, with beds pressed together in the tiny tower that served as a bedroom. The chill was lessened when they were no longer sleeping in open air, but the windows still let in too much of a draft, or so Scar complained, and so they stayed near. Cold necessitated closeness, after all. There’d been hesitation when Scar had come back ashy, but only from Scar—red eyes and a cold heart didn’t stop Scar from sleeping shirtless, and Grian wouldn’t have his charge freezing to death, regardless of whether or not Scar claimed he could still feel it.

And the desert was always cold, a fact which did not stop being true when they moved to the bunker, as the desert’s underground was no more forgiving than its surface. The excuse changed from fighting cold to easing paranoia when they moved out of the desert entirely, sleeping within arms’ reach at all times to pretend they could protect each other from being stabbed in secret on unfamiliar soil. It would have been wiser to sleep in shifts, but at no point did either man think to point it out, and somehow they'd ended up lucky enough not to pay for their sentimentality.

But this is the prize of the winner; to wake up alone.

The sun crawls across the sky and sinks below it, the moon giving chase from one horizon to the next. Without a threat hanging over him for the first time since Scar went red, Grian sleeps away the whole day and succeeding night.

Unfortunately, his still-beating heart demands he wake eventually, and so despite himself, he does. Light crawls onto the blanket, prodding at Grian’s eyes, drawing him back to the land of the living. His stomach rumbles, having barely been fed since he last died. Their combined efforts succeed only motivating him to reach across the bed.

His hand closes on cold fabric.

Grian sits up, shoving the blanket off himself, barely coherent. Scar isn’t here, where is Scar, Scar is—

Scar is on his back in a pond at the base of the hill.

Scar is dead. Months at Scar’s side and Scar is dead.

Grian swallows, staring blankly at the forest below him. If he stood up and craned his neck, he imagines he might be able to see the pond from here.

…The roof needs to be fixed, Grian thinks, if he’s going to stay here, in Joel’s cottage. Can’t have the sun waking him up every morning, and how will he sleep if it rains?

Not that Grian can really remember the last time it rained here. He doesn’t think it has once since they arrived, but he’s spent so much time under dry desert skies…

With a shake of his head, pulls himself from the bed. He must be hungry, he decides, and he’ll finally be able to appreciate his win once he’s eaten and cleared the hollow feeling from his chest.

Joel’s farm, Grian finds, has seen better days. Certainly it was better before Grian breezed through here yesterday—two days ago?—and raided the place trying to refuel before his fight, but, well. There’s still mutton in Joel’s storage that Grian is more than happy to help himself to, and he can figure the farm out later.

The meal is a quiet affair. It’s been a long time since Grian has been able to simply sit and enjoy some peace and quiet, without needing to worry about any unseen dangers.

So Grian takes a seat out in the yard, back against the outer wall, in a spot where the sun casts light over the side of the cottage. It wouldn’t have been safe to sit so exposed, but with no one left to take a shot at him, he can simply lean his head back, roll his shoulders until they’re loose for the first time in months, and sunbathe.

How does he feel? Does he feel good?

The warmth, he decides, is nice, much more comfortable than the smothering, sweltering hot he’s gotten used to over the last few months. He feels it against his back, soaked into the wall behind him, and against his face. There’s no immediate risk of burning, but a gentle glow, perfect for learning how to relax.

As he sits there, enjoying the day, his eyes fall on the village.

For all the damage the server has taken over the last few weeks, the village is relatively untouched, having suffered the bulk of its battering in the very first week. Most of that had been Scar, of course, with the flint and steel he’d been given by Grian himself, but Grian will admit he’d taken out a few terracotta walls, too. Not that he’d gotten to use them, as he’d soon run off to the desert, and…

At the thought, Grian’s stomach turns, traitorous as the man he’d just been thinking of. So much for a good meal, he thinks, pushing off the ground and brushing himself off. Even now, he brushes sand out of the red fabric of his clothes, and he cringes as he watches it fall.

The village is tainted with the memory of Scar, and really, what isn’t? Can a single thing remain untouched when Grian still tracks sand with every step?

There’s a shattered window in Joel’s cottage, and a dark oak roof replaced by Scar’s hand. Two craters in the desert, once home, made deadly by Grian and killed dead by Scar. Two of Grian’s lives, even. Not taken directly by Scar’s hands, but the loss of which Scar initiated. A lever flicked too late, a sword pointed at his open back without hesitation.

Grian gave everything to a man who clearly didn’t return the sentiment. Scar had been a conman, and Grian had been bought with honeyed words and sweet flowers. He’d been used and betrayed and abandoned.

And despite it all, he’s won.

How does he feel?

He’s free, he decides, from Scar. The backstabber, the madman. Grian had said for months he’d cut free as soon as he could, had spent weeks in the desert thinking about where he would go as soon as the chain snapped. Grian knew it would end like this, had warned every single person Scar had smiled at not to ignore the sharpness of his teeth for the way they shined. He knew, he knew, and the sword in Scar’s hand hadn’t shocked him, hadn’t hurt him.

Doesn’t hurt him. Can’t. Because if it does—if he doesn’t feel good about this, about winning—then how does he feel?

They’re even now, at least. He’d owed Scar his life and Scar had taken it, pulled the lever on Grian himself, trapping him in his own moat so Martyn could finish him off. He’d thought it an accident and gone running back, desperate to make sure Scar wasn't next, but in light of Scar’s betrayal, he has to wonder. Had Scar only been waiting for the chance?

There will never be a chance to ask. Only a hundred fond moments casting sinister shadows as they’re examined under the mid-morning sun.

Grian turns over in his head a hundred times he’d turned his back to Scar—running from Ren and his Army, pulling Scar’s wrist in his hand. Standing out front the Crastle with Scar at his back and a crossbow aimed between his eyes. Overlooking Dogwarts, face alight with a wicked smile as the grief-stricken Hand consoled his soot-stained King.

Standing on the peak of Monopoly Mountain, one of Scar’s arms around his shoulder, the other gesturing at a poorly-lit desert. Walking together on a dozen petty errands without so much as a glance at Scar over his shoulder. Cooking, back when the Sandcastle still had a kitchen, as Scar filled the air with useless chatter somewhere behind him. Scar popping a disc into a jukebox and pulling Grian out onto a patch of sand between their meager farm and Pizza’s grave, trying to convince Grian to dance with him. Sleeping soundly, night after night, unconsciousness unremembered and unconcerned.

On a platform high in the air above it all, bow drawn back and pointing at this foe and that, Scar over his shoulder with a dumb joke, asking for another flint and steel. Grian had asked for Scar’s true allegiance, then. In the end, he’d got an answer.

With his betrayal, Scar took from Grian every happy moment, every roaring laugh, every victory.

Well. Every victory but one.

So Grian won. Claimed the ultimate victory, conquered kingdoms, toppled castles. Outlived friend and foe and people who were both. Where, exactly, does that leave him? How does he feel? Does he feel good?

He does, he decides. He has to.

What else does he have?

#goodtimeswithscar #grian #desert duo #third life #third life fanfiction #lew writes #lew library #alt. desert duo finale #in which scar does not tell grian it's okay to kill him. and the winner does not change #i am of the opinion scar not only threw the final fight #but that he turned on grian and teamed w bdubs to goad grian into killing him and winning by taking revenge #but doubled back on this plan so that they could have a proper fight and genuine closure #which. ;)

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wasitapossum · 2 years

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The recognition isn’t what breaks grian, no it’s the words that follow after that tear into his already broken heart.

“Do we have to live together?”

And when he looks into the eyes of someone he’s grown far to fond of when he knows he shouldn’t have, he doesn’t cry. He wishes he could feel remorse for all he’s lost and all they’ve forgotten. For the curse of the victor is to remember, and oh does grian remember.

He remembers a castle of sand in a desert that stretched for miles, he remembers a llama and a bee, he remembers a man who he once called home.

But that man doesn’t remember.

Scar doesn’t remember.

The numbness grian felt at this was familiar.

And as he stares into the eyes of his soulmate, someone he was bound to until the two of them die and are sent to the next game; He gives a hollow smile to the world that was kind to no one. For these gods are ones of mischief and chaos, and grian is nothing if not their broken vassal.

And together, they are destined to tear the world apart.

#hermitblr #hermitcraft #grian #goodtimeswithscar #desert duo #I’m sobbing over them #someone send help #double life #third life smp #double life smp #last life smp #third life fanfiction #double life fanfiction #double life spoilers #trafficblr #mcyt

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smp-shippers-bangevents · 1 year

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Soulmate Bang Sign-Ups

It's here, it's time! The SMP Shipper non-RPF Soulmate Bang sign-ups are now open (and wow that is a mouthful)! Writers, Artists, and Pinch Hitters are welcomed to join! So excited to collaborate with y'all!

You can fill out the participant form here!

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slippersthatarepurple · 1 year

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Random idea

theory: Not your typical kinda watcher fic. Canonically, we are the watchers. The audience. So what if we decide what happens in the life games. We bully Jimmy cause it’s funny. We ship Scarian. Grian is the only one who truly knows us, and can speak to us. Martyn, BigB and Jimmy know we exist, but can’t converse. Grian can. He talks to us about the life games, theorising on what the next twist could be.

Someone continue this if you want, my brain is dead. Feel free to use the idea if you think it’s any good, but lemme know plz so I can read it lol

edit: been thinking abt this and realised what a disaster it would be lmao all the gen z’s having infinite godly power

#third life fanfiction #last life fanfic #double life smp #idk how to tag stuff #or use this thing #Hi tumblr #scarian #desert duo #Watchers #evo smp #ao3 fanfic #fanfic idea #i might write this #idk #first post #grian

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aphsgarden · 2 years

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idk how to format shit on tumblr

hellooo okay im aph and this is my first post! yay! im gonna drop a third life/hermitcraft ship oneshot annnnnd we’ll see how it goes

ps. this is formatted weird because it was written for discord LMFAOAOHSK

follow me! @aphrodites._.garden on insta

text me! 𝗮𝗽𝗵𝗿𝗼𝗱𝗶𝘁𝗲 <𝟯#5946 on discord!

—;

grian and scar were friends.

grian knew that, of course he did. they had been friends for years, and even when they fought in wars, or ran against each other in mayoral elections, or when scar let bdubs kill him over a piece of paper, grian forgave him. and yet, here he was. sitting on his llamas grave, ready to duel his best friend to the death. *“its okay grian. for all you’ve done to keep me alive this long, you may slay me.”* scar had said. he wouldn’t believe it. how could he? scar- god he loved scar. how could he kill him? **“Do it Grian. We want blood.”** the spectators called. and grian knew he had to answer. No matter what he’ll tell himself in the coming months when he’ll wake up in a cold sweat, screaming for someone or something to stop the nightmares, it was *Grian* who took off his armor. it was *Grian* who threw away his sword. it was *Grian* who kept his eyes shut while he beat scar with his bare fists, and it was **Grian** who ended scars final life.

**[ GoodTimeWithScar was slain by Grian ]**

he won. but he never truly did. he’d be used for another experiment like this, he’s sure. the watchers seemed to find ‘betrayal’ fascinating. not that they care about grian’s feeling towards hurting his friends. atleast he had some spare time in hermitcraft. they left him alone when he was in the hermitcraft world. Grian sobbed, holding scar and just apologizing. he couldnt stop.

“Its okay, Little Bird. You can rest now.“ the watcher spoke. That one was a bit nicer, at least he gave him time to grieve. But grian couldn’t really feel any sort of kindness back towards the thing. The blonde slowly moved, picking up his bent glasses off the ground. *‘Scar didnt fight back. you killed him for NOTHING. You’re a monster.’* grians mind screamed. and you know what? it was right. he couldnt-he couldnt stay like this. this was hardcore. maybe if he died here, he wouldn’t respawn. or maybe he would, all the way back on evo.

he could stay and never fight the enderdragon. he wouldnt be taken in by these monsters, and he could be happy. Grian looked over the body again, and stood up. He was gonna do it. there wasnt anyone left to stop him. He walked over, shifting his weight on his feet once he stood by the edge of the mountain. his voice rang out to the empty desert, thanking the viewers for watching this unforgettable experience. unforgettable for *him,* anyway. he teetered closer to the edge, and after a deep breath, he jumped off.

**[ Grian fell from a high place. ]**

*When scar got a knock on his trapdoor at roughly 3am, he definitely wasn’t expecting grian to show up. he had gone mia for a while, which-actually happened semi-regularly. this one was for a lot longer than usual though. 3 whole months, and god mumbo practically went insane. everyone was worried, but scar and mumbo had been worried twice as much. so when Scar heard pounding at his trap door, and the creak of it opening, he expected mumbo to show up exhausted again, with some wild theory about where grian went. he grabbed his cane, hobbling downstairs so that he could comfort his friend “Mumbo? cmon dude, its the third night in a r-“ he was interrupted by a higher pitched shakey voice, whispering “Scar?” And his heart dropped. He rushed over, dropping his cane as he fell into his friends arms. “Grian? holy moly- where have you been?? have you- jeez louise, you gave us quite a scare man.” he chuckled, his heart fluttering at the return of his lost friend. scar lost every happy butterfly as soon as he heard his friends voice, barely a whisper, choke out “im-im so sorry.”

Scar broke the hug, holding onto grians shoulders. “what? no no, im sorry i was joking. don’t apologize. you’re okay dude. what-what happened?” grian shook his head, choosing to wrap scar in a tight embrace; wings n all.

*Scar could feel his pajama shirt get wet as grian began to sob, and he had nothing better to do then to pick up his cane and lead his poor friend back to his bed. he let grian cry for a long while, because god it seemed like he needed a good long sob. and that’s alright! scar sat next to him, holding him close and playing with his hair to help calm him down. and even long after grian passed out from exhaustion, scar still held onto him. After he fell asleep, grian must have woken up and moved out of his house. because in the morning he was flooded by his communicator pinging, having practically every hermit lecture grian for going MIA. And when scar rolled out of his house on his wheelchair? Grian gave his signature “Heyo scar!” like nothing was wrong. Scar couldn’t believe it. he was just, so happy. he chirped along, starting a build inside a mountain. it must have been rough for him, so of course grian wouldnt wanna mention it. he understood, so scar never talked about it.*

Scar never spoke of that night. And Grian couldnt be more thankful. Honestly, he never wanted to even show up at his door, but he had to make sure he was okay. he just had to. Because he loved scar, he loved him with his whole heart. he was his best friend and taking his life caused grian nightmares every. single. night. he couldn’t imagine living without him by his side, always there to start a war, or to run in competing businesses, or to fight over stupid things like who’s copper was who’s, and just to have around.

Because grian loved scar.

and grian could never forgive himself for killing him.

#scarian #kinda? idk #you can see it as platonic #its implied #trafficshipping #trafficblr #third life grian #third life spoilers #third life gtws #third life fanfiction #hermitshipping #hermitcraft s8 #no beta we die like men

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martynsimp69 · 1 year

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With the rise of the Red King and his prophesied Red Winter bearing down on the server, Ren finds that Martyn hasn't returned from a supply run before the blizzard hits Dogwarts. He hasn't answered his comm, night has begun to fall, and the temperature is only dropping the longer he waits.

Ren ventures out to find his Hand.

———

treebark oneshot about the cold and comfort and stumbling through love while staring down a rapidly-approaching bitter end, and what it means to stay loyal despite it all

#treebark #trafficshipping #third life #dogwarts #third life fanfiction #advertising this here for once LMAO. woe treebark etc etc etc

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plasticghostbird · 2 years

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alright i’m talking about my au real quick

i’m writing a Cowboy/Western Desert Duo au. it’s still very much in the works but here’s a little summary.

i’m calling it By the Fire In Your Eyes. Grian receives an invitation from Mumbo to live with him in a new settlement he found along his travels. to get there, he must cross hundreds of miles of desert to the other side. he recruits the help of an eccentric cowboy, Scar, and they cross together. Grian learns the cowboy life,; riding horses, escaping the law, fending off monsters, and he learns how to love life. chaos ensues as soon as the reach the settlement. old rivalries crop up, new enemies made, and Grian can’t help but stick with Scar through all of it.

it’s a tragic story with a happy ending. A story about learning how to be yourself again, how to trust others when it’s the only option, finding new solutions to old problems, and that love might be worth it.

there’s a whole lotta world building and a lot more to the summary but that’s a snippet :)

anyone interested?

#bird speaks #By the Fire In Your Eyes au #desert duo #traffic smp #third life series #third life gtws #gtwscar #third life grian #grian #desert duo cowboys #third life fanfiction #fanfic

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lovelesslittleloser · 2 years

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Before you say anything yes this is based off of Grian’s and/or Scar’s perspective of Third Life shut up the Desert Duo is perfection

So. Writing prompt. Kinda fantasy RPG-ish because why not.

Imagine a world where humans are put in boxes based on their soul’s color, of which there are three: yellow, green, and red. It’s not based on heritage, so two greens could make a red, and vice-versa.

Yellow souls are stereotyped as basic, average people. Kinda boring, but they take up most of the population, so there’s no wide-scale discrimination. Maybe if there’s like a town of only reds and/or greens they would, but that’s your choice, buddy.

Green souls are stereotyped as kind, pure souls, who could never hurt a fly. Technically, they can’t do much damage even if they attack something, and they can heal themselves and others, so they’re more valuable as healers. Even monsters are less likely to attack them.

Red souls are stereotyped to be violent monsters who would slay both the dragon and the entire city. They are incredible fighters, and monsters will go out of their way to avoid or kill them, depending on their strength.

In this story, a red and a green team up to go on a journey for glory and power. Funnily enough, the red would rather not hurt anyone (although he will attack if provoked and has quite the penchant for arson), and the green is conniving and trigger-happy.

The red seeks glory; to be praised as a hero, and given rightful recognition (and perhaps a cookie). The green seeks power; to control a nation or continent, if not the whole world under his rule.

The story progresses as the green uses his red friend as a willing scapegoat for all his power-hungry endeavors, and as the red uses his green friend to prove the world of his goodness.

TLDR: Red Mc = looks like could kill you, is actually a cinnamon roll, Green Mc = looks like a cinnamon roll, could actually kill you and your entire extended family and the entirety of your nation’s government and also maybe your cat (but he’ll replace it with an identical one so you’ll never know).

#writing prompt #writing prompts #grian #goodtimeswithscar #desert duo #third life smp #third life grian #grian third life #third life scar #scar third life #someone write this #please I’ll beta read for the price of free #third life fanfiction #kinda

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crowblock · 2 years

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Trust is not an easy thing for Grian.

Being the one who remembers doesn’t make it easier.

(It always goes like this:

Scar falls.

Grian doesn’t catch him.)

A Third Life/Double Life Scarian fic I wrote for @lightning-skys, featuring Watcher!Grian unraveling a bit and Grian and Scar having wildly different ideas of what kind of story they’re in.

#trafficshipping #scarian #third life fanfiction #double life fanfiction #my writing

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theyareprisons · 1 year

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MCYT Shipping Bang

Awesome news, I will be hosting the SMP Shipper Bang! The sign-ups will open on December 15, 2022 and the prompt is ...

Soulmates!

The soulmate concept can be used in any way by the author as long as it's a main theme throughout the fic. Any non-RPF MCYT ship is allowed. Please refer to this doc for important information on the sign-ups / expectations / schedule for this event! The schedule alone can be viewed here.

I’m really excited for the event and I encourage everyone to follow @smp-shippers-bangevents or join the SMP Shipper Discord Server for up-to-date news or reminders.

Thanks to everyone for their interest and response :D

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liloinkoink · 2 years

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Wooden Mausoleum

Ren, for all his talk of valiant violence and brutal bloodshed, is not a man meant for the battlefield.

He could act the part, certainly, with a deep and steadfast sense of conviction and pride. He looks the part, too, the way his smile gives way to snarling, wolfish canines, or the way his brow is always smudged sticky, wet, and red beneath his gleaming crown.

However, when the Red King first rose, it wasn’t Ren with his hands dirty. It was Martyn, the green Hand, standing red-handed on the altar.

Ren’s crown dripped as he picked it up, but for all the terror the bleeding gold invoked, the flood always came from within, soaked into the gold at Ren's own execution. Ren is an excellent shot with a bow and vicious with a blade, but he still sobs in Martyn’s arms after one too many of his blows land their final, decisive marks.

Ren’s thirst for blood is theater. A wondrous and powerful show, but acting all the same.

Martyn, on the other hand?

Blood was never really what Martyn was after, not in the way he'd seen in the rest of this server. Chaos is more his speed, but Martyn isn’t afraid to make someone bleed to sate his hunger for it.

He wonders if that was why they took an interest in him. Discord is so similar to chaos, after all, and Martyn’s hands are already dirty. He’s sure they must think that it would be nothing at all for him to feel Ren’s blood under his nails again.

Must not have been paying attention, then, when Martyn went down to the river at Dogwarts's edge and washed his hands until the sun was high above the horizon.

Martyn is a lot of things. He’s trouble, by his own admission. Reliable, by Ren’s. He’s not particularly serious, except in the things he vows, in which he is deadly serious. He listens, even when he wishes he wouldn’t—listens when Ren puts the axe in his hand, listens when they whisper into his ear with demands for treachery and spring.

In that list of things which Martyn is, “traitor,” he once believed, would never find a home.

Then Cleo launches into Skizz’s blade. Scott stumbles in the forests as Ren hunts him down. Even a pack of wolves cannot save Joel from the jowls of the Red King. Etho’s persistence finally rewards him with a cannon capable of crumbling the Crastle and its stubborn, solo occupant. Tango topples without his allies. Impulse’s turncoat tendencies twist a blade in his back. An arrow shot off Ren’s bow dispatches Scar, sinking him into the sand.

Grian had been the hardest to be rid of, with how jealously he’d guarded each and every one of his lives, but he’d become sloppy after being forced to bury his reason for living under the desert’s blistering sun.

They lose some of their own as well, of course. Skizz flies too close to the sun and burns for it. Martyn himself sinks rapidly to red in short order, followed none-too-closely by BigB. If it weren’t for the fire resistance potion Etho had been lucky enough to carry on him, they probably would have already lost him for good.

Each and every one of the Red Army’s foes falls before them, and as their enemies dwindle in number, Martyn becomes more and more aware of an ugly truth.

Ren, he knows, believes that with their enemies vanquished, they’ll be able to return to peace in Dogwarts.

Martyn knows better.

Whatever it is that orchestrated this event, whatever those whispering creatures are that placed them here… They won’t be satisfied with four winners.

BigB doesn’t really seem the type to sink into bloodlust, but Martyn has no idea what he’ll do when his back hits the wall. Etho, Martyn hasn’t truly trusted since the start. Ren...

Ren's bloodlust is theater.

Ren loves Etho and BigB both, just as surely as he loved Skizz, just as surely as he loves Martyn. He was crushed to learn Impulse a traitor. He’ll be shattered to pieces to realize the truth of this game's ending, to hear their audience bray for him to spill the blood of his bannermen.

To take the life of one you love is an agony Martyn understands far too well. It’s not something he’d wish on anyone—not on his worst enemy, and certainly not on his dearest friends.

Least of all would he wish it on Ren, who wept even when covered in the blood of Scott and Joel, blood which he’d gleefully drawn himself moments before.

To win this game would fracture Ren beyond repair, leave him stranded without a single soul to help him pick up the pieces. To walk alone over the bodies of his friends would be a fate worse than death to Ren, one Martyn knew his King did not deserve

And, well.

After every Winter, that awful voice had said, there comes a Spring.

Were this a better world, Martyn would have gladly followed Ren to the ends of the Earth. In this, he’ll follow Ren to the end of the world.

As it stands, all Martyn can do is be happy he spent any time with the man at all.

As it stands, all Martyn can do is repay the man in the only way he knows how.

Martyn’s hand hovers over his sword, dripping red at his waist.

Their final battle, fittingly enough, lands them just outside the walls of Dogwarts. There’s still a hole in the door, but their home stands, mostly unscathed. Certainly, it’s made out better than Monopoly Mountain or the Crastle, both of which are more crater than structure by now.

When Martyn finds the rest of the army, they're clustered together a dozen paces from Dogwarts's front gate. BigB sits with his back against the mountain under his home, watching Martyn's approach with a smile and a wave. Ren has his arm around Etho’s shoulders, grinning with all his teeth. His smile hasn’t been the same since his head came off—the rolling and reattachment, Martyn suspects, must have shaken some tooth loose and left it all forever altered, forever off.

It unsettled Martyn at first, up until he realized Ren still laughs the same as always. That Ren’s wicked smile now softens on the edges, appearing almost like before, when he looks upon any of his men. That this is especially apparent when that man is Martyn, a privilege Martyn cherishes, has lived and died to be worthy of.

The edges of Ren’s smile soften, even now, as Martyn finds his way towards their little victory party. Martyn returns BigB's wave, Etho smacks Ren's back behind them, unhooking his arm from Ren with some happy send-off Martyn doesn't hear. Everything about Martyn’s job becomes instantly harder, yet all the more necessary, as Ren pulls his arm free from Etho and staggers over to Martyn’s side, tail wagging behind him.

“My Hand!” Ren’s hands are on Martyn’s shoulders immediately, and he feels Ren’s shaded eyes checking him up and down more than he sees them. He knows he looks worse for wear, but he also knows not all the blood is his own. “You’re all right? No grievous injuries we need to worry about?”

He feels Ren's eyes linger on a gash in his armor, his smile tugging down into a frown. Martyn pats at it with one of his hands, effectively covering it from Ren's view. He'd got it from Impulse, he thinks, wielding a sword enchanted with far more power than his battered chest plate could withstand. It had bled, but not enough to kill him, and a bite from a gleaming apple had cleared it right up.

“No. No, all good here,” Martyn says. "I had a couple close calls, and my armor needs some repairs, but I'm alright."

Ren’s smile returns, and it is all teeth, and Martyn would do anything to keep it all his life.

This, he thinks, will have to be the next best thing.

“Sweet. You had me worried for a bit there!” Ren laughs, squeezing Martyn's shoulders, only to remove his hands from Martyn entirely.

Then Ren leans forward, his arms out in a gesture Martyn has seen before. Martyn wants to let Ren sweep him up and hold him one last time, but he knows he won’t get a chance like this again. That he won't get the nerve again.

Martyn steps back, yanking his sword free from his hip and thrusting it upward, allowing Ren, trusting and open and rushing to meet him, to toss himself onto the blade.

It embeds itself eagerly through the front of Ren’s throat, threading under the scar Martyn left there just weeks before.

Ren chokes around diamond and blood, and Martyn thanks anything and everything that might be listening he can’t see Ren’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, m’lord. You have to understand,” Martyn says. His voice is even, compensating for hands that shake. Though his voice doesn’t sound it, he pleads for Ren to understand, “There could only ever be one winner.”

If Ren understands—if Ren even hears—Martyn will never know.

He rips the blade from Ren’s neck and, with a wet, gurgling cough, Ren collapses. Martyn doesn’t—can’t—look down, and with Ren out of the way, he sees Etho and BigB staring back at him. BigB has leapt to his feet, though there's nothing that either of them can do for their King now.

“Martyn?! How could you?!” BigB shouts, Martyn, mechanical, allows his sword to disappear from his hand, replacing it with his bow.

Etho’s eyes widen. His own shield, blood-red with Ren’s banner, materializes in his hand. BigB's hand hovers over the sword at his waist, but he hesitates.

“BigB, your shield!” Etho yells.

Neither of them are holding their weapons, not yet. Even now, they hesitate to draw any weapon on their friend.

Martyn loves them, and so, as his last gift both to them and to Ren, he won’t make them.

He draws back his bow.

Martyn is nowhere near the shot Ren had been, but his skills are nothing to scoff at, either. He looses an arrow, and perhaps luck is on his side, after all, as it sails between BigB’s eyes.

BigB sags against the stone behind him, smearing a line of blood on the rock face as he drops to the ground.

Etho lunges, shouting, sword in one hand and shield in the other. Martyn jumps back, calling forth his shield to block Etho’s second swing. He shoves it outward, throwing Etho off himself.

Martyn switches the shield to his left hand, freeing up his right. His axe appears, and with a practiced ease Martyn slams it down on Etho. Etho raises his shield, for all the good it does him.

Wood, Martyn finds, cracks far easier than bone, splitting the red banner straight down the center. Etho’s shield splinters apart with a loud, damning creak, revealing mismatched eyes burning with rage.

If looks could kill, Martyn is sure he would be dead.

As it would have it, axes are far more lethal.

Martyn swings again, slicing the axe through the side of Etho’s neck. It’s no clean, clear-through cut, but it doesn’t have to be. It only has to be enough.

And enough it is, but not quite. Raising the axe leaves Martyn vulnerable, and Etho is no amateur. He takes the opening to thrust his own weapon forward, pushing all his strength into one last blow.

It’s not clean, but it doesn’t have to be. It only has to be enough.

Etho's blade, clear and true, finds the gash in Martyn’s armor, sinking deep into the flesh below.

Etho slumps under the weight of Martyn’s axe. Martyn doesn’t bother to try to take it back as Etho falls, the blade embedded too deeply in Etho's flesh. He flails, releasing his sword, but the wound is fatal, even if Etho's razor-sharp eyes haven't noticed yet.

"I'm sorry," Martyn tells Etho. He hopes Etho will carry it to Ren and BigB, wherever the lot of them go.

Etho tries to reply, but his tongue seizes on the words, expelling blood rather than sound. Martyn gets the message.

Etho's sword comes loose from Martyn's stomach with barely a sound, save the involuntary suck of air that whistles between Martyn’s teeth. He drops it, then his chestplate, clattering against the sword when it hits the ground. Martyn rolls up his shirt, though he suspects what he’ll find even before he sees it.

The cut isn’t terribly wide, but it's deep. Without anything obstructing it, it bleeds easily. If Martyn isn't careful and doesn’t treat it soon, he’ll probably bleed to death.

Martyn doesn’t look down at the man fading away at his feet, though suddenly, Martyn is unbelievably grateful to him.

Perhaps Etho had understood. Perhaps he’d just wanted to make sure Martyn had no time to enjoy his victory. Martyn will never know, but whatever Etho had been thinking, Martyn can’t thank him enough.

Not that Martyn has time to. If he’s only got minutes to live, then Martyn has something far more pressing to tend to.

Holding one hand over his wound, Martyn turns, making his way back to Ren. The fight hadn't carried him far, at least, but with it over, adrenaline pumps less freely through him. Martyn already wants to rest, but he can’t afford it, not when he has no idea how long his strength will last.

Out of everyone in this world, Ren, he thinks, most deserves a proper burial. Failing that, Martyn can at least bring him the rest of the way home.

Martyn doesn’t look down as he trudges to Ren’s side, unwilling to look at his handiwork. Thankfully, he doesn’t need to. All he has to do is close his eyes and reach down, scooping Ren up into his arms.

Ren isn’t light, but Martyn isn’t weak, either. On a better day, he’d have been able to carry Ren… perhaps not effortlessly, but he'd certainly have managed it alright.

In his current state, Ren may as well weigh as much as the sky itself. Martyn shoulders him anyway. This is the closest thing to an apology he can offer Ren, and he refuses to compromise it. Besides, Ren is not the heaviest thing he has carried today.

Martyn stands, Ren in his arms, and he walks, one shambling foot over another.

The journey from the little field to Dogwarts’s half-destroyed door is not a far one, but with the adrenaline in Martyn’s blood leaking out of the gash in his side, each step Martyn is a greater trial. The idea of lying down tempts him, but he doesn’t dare entertain it. He'd shake it out of his head entirely if he had the energy to spare to twist his neck.

Martyn can’t even look down. To do so would be to look at Ren, and that, Martyn cannot do. Instead, he keeps his eyes trained on the familiar cobblestone walls closing in ahead, and he walks, one laborious foot over another.

Ren’s body has been cold to the touch ever since he went red, winter taking up residence in even his bones. Martyn had, in his own head, likened the feeling to that of a corpse, though he hadn't then known what that felt like.

As Ren’s head lolls into Martyn’s neck, Martyn realizes he’d been wrong. Ren had been cold, but it had been nothing like this. Ren’s cheek on his neck is like ice, a sharp, burning cold, taking accusatory snaps at the heat of Martyn's skin. Martyn thinks that Ren reaching up and slitting the skin there would hurt less.

He wouldn't know, of course. He fancies the idea that such a death would be so quick, the victim would never even feel it.

He can't ask, obviously, and so he walks, one trembling foot over another.

The gates of Dogwarts are a crater. They have been for weeks, though not since Grian first blasted it open has Martyn resented this fact quite as much as he does now. If he trips into the hole, he knows he won’t be able to pull himself back out, let alone Ren, and he has no desire to let Ren rest here two times over.

Martyn picks his way around the crater as best he can, staggering and stumbling over dirt and stone, balancing his way across the skinny shelf hanging over the crater’s edge. Sweat beads on his brow, but the tie in his hair keeps it from moving any further down his face, a small but wonderful mercy.

Martyn's legs shake. One of Ren's dangling legs bumps his thigh, and through the boot Martyn imagines shocks of ice rocketing up and down the meat of his leg. He squeezes Ren just a bit tighter against himself, bracing his hands against the ice of Ren's flesh, and he soldiers on, one shuddering foot over another.

Stepping over the threshold with Ren in his arms is all the cue his body needs to give up. Martyn's arms sag against his will, then seize with the effort to regain control. He can't hold Ren a moment longer—he barely has enough control of his limbs to allow Ren a semi-graceful descent into a carrot patch rather than just dropping him into the dirt.

Martyn sinks to his knees, bent over Ren, and he closes his eyes so as not to meet his King’s. They're so close, so close, his legs can't abandon him now.

Ren spent a lot of time tending to his field, sure, fond and diligent, and Martyn can think or worse places to leave the body of his King. But this it not where the Red King will rest, not if Martyn has the ability to stand, not if there's anything left in Martyn's body to do about it.

Ren isn’t a carrot, for crying out loud. He's a King!

Without standing, Martyn shuffles over to Ren's head. He hooks his hands under Ren’s armpits. He braces himself, closing his eyes and taking just a moment to double over, pressing his forehead to Ren's below him. The chill he feels against him this time is, mercifully, that of Ren's crown, the cold metal still sticky even now.

Martyn takes a long, steeling breath, in his nose and out of his mouth. Ren's hair smells metallic and salty, mixed with blood and sweat, and as Martyn exhales, he can picture the way Ren's ears would twitch under the affectionate, ruffling hand of a strong breeze.

His heart aches, his side throbs, his eyes burn. His shoulders sag, then hitch, the movement catching on something thick clotting up his throat.

Martyn is so very tired.

He forces himself to his feet, his knees wailing in protest. The cut in his side spits furiously at being strained. He's tired, but more than that, he's close. He's crossed this lawn a thousand times, and he won't let a bit of blood loss keep him from crossing it one more time.

Thus, Martyn begins the arduous and undignified process of dragging his King across their lawn.

Martyn watches over his shoulder as their final destination draws nearer and nearer. One foot, another foot, over and over, Ren weighing behind him.

When Martyn's heel catches on the first step, he thinks he could weep with relief.

Martyn drags Ren’s body up the short stairs, to the doors of what had once been Renchanting. It’s empty now, save for a few chests and a crafting table, as well as a third of its roof, splintered across its floor.

More than that, though, it’s home. It’s the place he had first met Ren, the heart of the Kingdom that Ren had built with his own two hands. From inside Renchanting's fence-post walls, Martyn can see all of Dogwarts. Every rolling carrot-top field, all the stone walls and spruce pillars, every dirt path and gentle podzol pocket. He can see the little campfire over the hill, and the iron golems loitering around it, cracked and limping.

Beneath it is their base of operations. Their stores and their treasures, their secret rooms and winding mines. Below him he can hear the muffled humming of villagers at work, the eager bleating of Ren's sheep. They'll look after each other, he hopes, though it's out of either of their hands now whether or not it actually happens.

Renchanting is the center of everything the two of them worked for. If Ren must rest, Martyn will make sure he does so inside—where everything started, it too shall end.

For only a moment, Martyn releases Ren with one hand to shove the doors open. Pressure plates click beneath them as he drags Ren across the threshold, shutting himself and Ren inside their wooden mausoleum. He lies Ren down in the center, in a clear patch, and finally lets his King go.

All his energy finally spent, Martyn drops once more to his knees at Ren’s side. His vision is swimming, draining in the corners, and all he wants to do is collapse. With nothing left to keep him upright, he does, pitching to the side. What little control is left in him he uses to guide his descent, resting himself beside his King.

For the first time since Ren fell, Martyn looks into Ren's face.

Ren lies on his back, his head tilted toward Martyn. His crown is coming loose, and though it hasn't yet fallen off his head, it's slid enough to mess up Ren's already-rumpled hair. One ear droops lamely over the crown, revealing the clean white fur underneath.

Blood smears all down Ren's neck and chest, across his flesh and staining the shirt below it. The red fabric does nothing to hide the blood, bright red contrasting sharply against wine-dark. The cut on his throat still dribbles a viscous, clotting stream onto the wooden planks below him, but it's slow. It'll stop soon, Martyn thinks, but he won't live to see it.

Ren's sunglasses are gone, though Martyn has no idea when he lost them. Their absence reveals wide, red eyes. By some small miracle, whatever look he’d had when he’d died has slackened off his features. Martyn reaches one trembling, feeble hand across the space, closing Ren’s eyes.

He pulls his hand back, glancing down at the space between them. One of Ren's hands lies, palm down, by Ren's waist, and Martyn allows himself the small comfort of using the last of his strength to chase it down. Martyn locks his fingers in Ren's, squeezing once, and closes his eyes.

Ren’s hand, he notices, drifting away, doesn’t feel quite so cold.

#inthelittlewood #rendog #renthedog #renchanting duo #third life #third life smp #third life fanfiction #ethoslab #bigbst4tz2 #(briefly)#dogwarts #lew writes #renchanting #lew library #tw graphicish violence and character death. its third life fic idk what you want #will be rb'ing this w an ao3 link in. a few hours #top hits #red king

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wasitapossum · 2 years

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Grian thinks that maybe this is their way of reparation. An attempt to say sorry.

That they can see the suffering it's victors have gone through and decided giving them a twisted version of what they once had was repayment enough.

The moment Grian locked eyes with Scott at spawn, he knew that whatever they had in store for them next would hurt; and he knew scott could see it too.

Because Grian can’t remember anything of last life but it’s victor, and Scott couldn’t remember third life except that Grian had won. The curse the two are forced to wear like a crown, studded with jewels containing their friends memories of a life they can’t remember living.

But unfortunately a crowd is waiting for them to put on their best.

So with heads held high and faces as straight as stone, the curtains rise and the show begins.

Grian can only hope that whoever wins this time, it won’t be him.

#grian #scott smajor #goodtimeswithscar #trafficblr #double life spoilers #double life #third life fanfiction #third life smp #third life #last life smp #hermitblr #hermitcraft #I’m sobbing my eyes out still #why do I write #it hurts me too y’know #desert duo

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mosscloakenthusiast · 1 year

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 3rd Life | Last Life SMP Series Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Martyn Littlewood | InTheLittleWood/Rendog, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Jimmy | Solidarity/Scott | Smajor1995 | Dangthatsalongname, Charles | Grian/Ryan | GoodTimesWithScar Characters: Martyn Littlewood | InTheLittleWood, Rendog (Video Blogging RPF), Charles | Grian, Scott Major | Smajor1995, Jimmy | Solidarity, Ryan | GoodTimesWithScar Additional Tags: homoerotic beheading, Mutual Pining, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, ??? - Freeform, adding things to canon that werent shown onscreen, and changing events a little bit, vague description of violence, Ficlet Summary:

It’s hard to give your Hand orders when you’re hopelessly in love with him, Ren realises.

Martyn swiftly discovers that it’s hard to kill your King when you can’t stop looking at his lips when he’s talking

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Very Gay retelling of Ren's beheading

#finally posted a fic i wrote #wrote this a WHILE ago but ngl i quite like it #that being said Do Not Percieve Me #treebark #third life #third life fanfiction #idk if this is how youre supposed to post these things either this is all uncharted territory for me so i apologise #but yeah enjoy #trafficshipping #trafficship

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lavalazulikelp · 1 year

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ATTENTION PEOPLE THAT FIND THIS!

I am of the 3rd Life brainrot variety, and I DESPERATELY need ideas for stories. Like really, my mind is melting and I need ideas.

So I decided to let random strangers on the internet come up with ideas for me based on songs that I like.

And this is how’s it’s gonna go:

1. Pick out a song you want me to write something for

2. Send me a request

3. Maybe I’ll write it (some songs aren’t very write-able. heh)

4. I’ll post the story here on Tumblr

It might take, like, SEVERAL weeks for me to write something. Sorry not sorry /j

3rd life, last life, double life, maybe hermitcraft and MAYBE empires if I feel like it. Cant make any promises about empires. (also rats smp exists ig)

EVO/WATCHERS AND LISTENERS ARE VERY WELCOME BUT BE AWARE THAT I KNOW ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ABOUT CANON WATCHER LORE!

Give me ideas, I’m running out of space in my brain that isn’t 3rd life :’)

Songs that have already been made:

Blow My Brains out

This is my main Spotify playlist:

#3rd life #3rdlife #hermitcraft #I’d do from my rewind but my taste has changed so much in a month #just give ideas please #my mind is about to explode #stories based on songs #last life #lastlife #double life #doublelife #life series #fanfiction #Hermitcraft fanfiction #third life #thirdlife #third life fanfiction #last life fanfiction #double life fanfiction

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caelenjester · 2 years

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“Do you normally take this shitty care of yourself, or is it just for me?” Cleo’s voice was loud, and he winced, sitting up.

“Huh?”

“Don’t act dumb, you must have known what happened. First I’m busy trying to ignore your existence, next, you do it for me.” For having her wish granted, she seemed pretty pissed off. Martyn shook his head.

“Why are you talking in riddles?! ‘Suppose it’s bound to happen to us all though, it’s only a matter of time.” Martyn spat bitterly, thinking of the watchers.

“I don’t know what that means, and you know what? I don’t care. Don’t even know why I came over here if you weren’t going to be useful.” Cleo huffed, looking out the cave. Martyn finally recognized they were in a cave. The cave he had built the nether portal in, with the lava pit. It was sweltering hot.

“Why the hell are you in here?”

“How did you find me?”

Cleo gave him a withering look and he shut up, not interested enough in the answer for whatever consequences Cleo would give for asking it. She didn’t want to tell him and so neither would he.

“I’m waiting.”

“No, go ahead.”

There was silence for a minute before she processed that meant he would continue to let her wait.

“I’m getting real sick of you, and your lack of self care- tell me, I’m curious- are you- well, are you always like this?!”

He was running through the forest. He didn’t mind the cuts from the trees. That was far better than the alternative. His skin was cracked and red in some places, a result from keeping the torch too close. He repeated phrases over and over in his mind.

I’m not scared.

I’m not hungry.

I’m not tired.

I’m not about to die.

After awhile, it actually seemed to work. Later he learned what dissociating was.

Cleo was staring at him.

Oh.

“Uh- yeah.”

To his shock, he actually told the truth. He hadn’t meant to, it just came out. Thankfully, he didn’t elaborate, or force himself to say any more.

“Oh. Well. Yeah, that’s all of us at some point. You have someone who’s literally feeling your pain, can’t you…you know…do a little better? Please?”

Martyn looked back at the lava, watching it bubble.

“Yeah. Sure.” It came out short. Cleo grew annoyed, and he heard her angrily walk away. He must’ve passed out, then. Exhaustion, lack of food- he stared at the lava, mesmerized. Dehydration.

He hated it. Everyone else seemed fine, but of course he was paired with the single worst person that could have been chosen. He was cold. Or rather, Cleo was cold. But she didn’t notice, not having the nerves to register it. None of them had really thought about the possibly of being paired up with someone of the supernatural variety. He shivered and debating just throwing himself in the lava altogether.

But that wouldn’t change anything, and even in death, he’d probably still feel the same.

Don’t think about it, it’s in the past.

Frost blew through the land, and Martyn cried out. No, no, no-

He blinked at the lava, feeling the hairs on his arm start to burn- too close. He expected anger from her. But it was just overwhelming tiredness. It made him want to cry, a distant memory at the feeling.

”I don’t know what would happen, hand.” The king, his king, stared out at the land, a worried look on his face.

“If what, m’lord?” Martyn got up, walking over and seeing what he was looking at. It was nothing. Just the land.

“What would happen, hand, if summer never came? Would winter last forever, or would the strength of the sun’s rays cast it back before it crept out under the moon’s gaze?”

“I’m not following, m’lord.”

Ren turned and smiled, but he still looked worried. “Ah, well. I’m praying ye never have to find out.” He left, muttering about going to meet Scar to talk about the table. Martyn noticed on the ground there were small specks of white snowflakes.

Martyn got up, shaking his head, trying to right himself before forcing himself to move away from the lava. It was cold. He was used to it. That wasn’t what bothered him.

He didn’t want to think about what was.

He ended up at Big b and Ren’s place, in the end. Stupid. It wouldn’t do anything, it would only make things worse. He distracted himself by……trying to find a way to get in, actually. They didn’t have a door. Who just casually doesn’t have a door, what the hell’s wrong with these two? He hesitated before knocking on the wall, committing.

“Who’s down there?!”

“Rapunzel, let down your hair, I just must see your humble abode.” Bitterness seeped into his monotone call slightly and he tried to hide it by yawning. “Anyone else tired constantly?”

“Hold on, I’m coming down. And yeah. Ren snores.”

There was a startled sound from somewhere inside the hideous block. Distantly, Martyn heard “I do not snore!”

“Sure, sure.” Big B’s voice was muffled behind the wall before he broke an entrance for Martyn before brightening. “So, what can I do for you? What- what brings you here?”

“Oh, just, yknow, visiting. I haven’t seen your guy’s base yet, and I don’t uh…” he said offhandedly before trailing off, staring at big b.

“I don’t have a soulmate,” he admitted finally, after big b’s confused expression.

“What- but- I thought that everyone- huh?”

“Yeahhh, well. I do, but I don’t. Mind if I come in?” He switched the topic, forcing a smile.

“Sure, yeah! Of course! Right this way,” Big b led him inside, showing him the slightly better interior compared to the exterior. He went on a brief seven minute tour that went a little longer than necessary because big b felt the need to show off any cool item he thought Martyn wouldn’t have (he either did or did not care about it).

“-and this is the not-so-second floor.”

“The ‘not-so-second-floor’,” Martyn quoted before laughing.

“Listen! Listen! It’s a- it’s a work in progress, alright? Leave us alone.” Big b laughed with him before Ren poked his head around a corner.

“I’ve been working on some things, sorry! Trying to make a bedroom but all that’s been yielded for my hard work is-“

And arrow flew past him, nicking his ear and big b and Ren both hissed, hand instinctively going to it.

“Yeah- well- that. Nothing but a mob farm up here.”

“Uh oh, that’s not good!” Martyn laughed, “need any help?”

Ren snorted, offhandedly saying, “nah, don’t want your soul bound getting angry at us if you die! There’s quite a lot of mobs.”

“Woah, hold on, then you shouldn’t be up there either then if there’s that many, right?” Big b protested. Both of them ignored how Martyn’s jaw clenched. “‘Cuz I am also not chill with you dying!”

A bit of being injured never hurt her. I’m not so sure if she can even feel it to be quite honest. But he didn’t say that, instead nodding politely as Big B started shouting at Ren to be careful.

“Careful, m’lord! They’re coming from all sides! We’re surrounded!”

“Hand.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

He had noticed it too late, Scar creeping up behind him with the bow. He must have been low, too low, to save.

“My king!” Martyn shouted, no, screamed as frost covered the land, much more than was usual for him, too much for him to have been able to control. He hadn’t found out either, in the end. Not only did he fail his king, he died in the same carnage that had taken him. He hadn’t found out what he had meant.

He wasn’t sure if any of them had.

He shook his head violently, trying to forget it. Distantly, he heard laughter between Big B and Ren. He looked up to see Ren had covered the entrance to the room with dirt, while Big B was shaking his head, a smile on his face.

He wasn’t sure why he was here. In last life, Ren hadn’t contacted him much at all. A passing hello. That was it. He had moved on. They all had, it seemed. Everyone except him.

He muttered some excuse about needing to get wool or something and left. He wasn’t sure if they had even noticed. Everyone was having fun with their pairs, and there wasn’t a single person who wasn’t with them- or, rather, a single person Martyn could talk to.

He had already burned the bridges with the one other person who knew how he felt, but those flames didn’t warm him at all.

Because Pearl didn’t know how he felt. Not a single person physically could. He had a constant reminder of the past tied to him via his souldbound, and Cleo didn’t even realize. With a start, Martyn realized it was getting to be night. He looked around, confused, as he had just been at Big b and Ren’s. Now, he was climbing up the hill that was spawn.

He made a shack in the stone, in a small staircase down that lead to nowhere. He holed up, waiting for day. The torch he had placed flickered. There was nothing for him to do. He had tried mining deeper, before realizing he didn’t care about getting more resources. He didn’t want to go out and risk pissing Cleo off more.

So he just sat, and waited. Having nothing to distract himself felt scarier than a hostile mob.

He stared at the explosion of frost, refusing to believe what he saw. He would say red seeped into the ground, but it didn’t. It hung like icicles in the air and spiked up, frozen around where the king had fallen onto the earth.

He didn’t see Scar approaching. He didn’t see the way the light seemed to warp around the weapon, charged with malevolent energy. He didn’t see the relief in Scar’s eyes as Martyn didn’t move to protect himself, to attack. He didn’t see the way his king reached for his aid, his help, in death. He didn’t notice the tears falling to the earth.

He didn’t.

He remembered why Cleo’s bone deep tiredness bothered him.

Fire was just as bad, honestly. It made him think of the Southlands, the way the flames licked at the wood and taking every broken promise of loyalty with it. But at least he could choose that.

Oh.

With a start, Martyn laughed, suddenly finding the whole situation funny. He at first thought it was some joke by the watchers, tying him to someone he didn’t have any interest in befriending, someone who he was polar opposites with. He very clearly finally understood what Cleo wanted from him.

It was to get as far, far away from him as possible, to ignore fate pushing itself onto them.

He snorted. He could do that.

Perhaps Cleo and him weren’t so different after all.

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