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It had been a week since Secret Life ended, and Scar was still stuck in the world.
He’d tried everything. The buttons, the border, pleading with his captors. But he was well and truly stuck.
At least being alone helped him sort out the memories he regained from being the Fifth Victor. Fifth, because there were other Games he played. Games he enjoyed but lost, and therefore wasn’t allowed to remember.
He remembered now of course, along with a few extra tidbits his captors told him. The Sun, The Stars, The Moon and Mars. Those were the titles granted to his fellow winners. Scar was regarded as either “The Earth” or “Mercury.” The Watchers didn’t always unanimously agree on those things. Apparently Martyn was briefly referred to as The Ocean, but that was cast aside to keep with the astrological theme.
Scar didn’t really understand why They cared about stuff like titles. Names having power was more of a fae thing, but perhaps it was just one of the things They did because it was fun.
Watchers as a species were best classified as High Entities. No one knew where they came from, although it was theorized that a Player with a particularly notable permadeath would be reborn as one. They Watched Players with the instinct to protect. At least, that’s how it once was.
Somewhere along the way, Watchers switched from protecting Players to putting them in distressing situations for Their own amusement and to feed on the resulting negative emotions. The remaining Watchers who didn’t indulge Their appetite were really no better, since they tended to go overboard and essentially keep Players prisoner “for their own protection.”
That would sound like what Scar was currently experiencing, except that he’s pretty sure these Watchers, the ones that made Grian one of Them, were sadistic creatures that knew exactly how Scar would take the forced isolation. They relished his confusion, his increasing desperation, his despair from being away from his mischief for so long.
He was forced to refuel his vex and elf magic from the earth. He planted a whole field of sunflowers just to get a fraction of the magic he would have received from Grian or Gem’s presence. Resorted to killing hordes of mobs for a sliver of what Cub’s chats could replenish.
Sometimes he could see shadows. Hear whispers. Once, a few of Them had a whole conversation in front of him like he wasn’t even there. They spoke in a language he understood but the topic was lost on him.
(What even was a ‘blorbo?’)
Nevertheless, Scar was nothing if not adaptable. He would get out eventually. Maybe not by his hands, but he wouldn’t stay here forever. He was confident of that.
Sure enough, he was proven correct right at the start of week two.
The Secret Keeper’s was a spot Scar frequently visited. In the back of his head he thought ‘just one more time.’ If he pushed the succeed button enough times, surely They would let him go.
It was the morning of day eight and he’d pushed that button more than 100,800 times.
It was simply routine at this point. Instead of jumping off a ledge at sporadic times of the day and hoping he would end up back home, Scar just clicked a button. Over. And over. And over again.
There wasn’t much entertainment to be had with Watching him press a button for hours, even if he did hear some of Them say They Watched him sleep.
(He consciously didn’t think about that.)
As he approached the Secret Keeper’s, Scar heard frenzied muttering, a buzzing excitement he could practically taste in the air. Making it over the hill, Scar pressed his body against one of the rocks and peeked his head around. What he saw made his heart jump.
A gathering of Them hovered around Spawn, not too far from where the task buttons were. Some were snickering, others whispering excitedly, and a few were simply Watching silently.
The thing that had gotten them riled up was obvious: Grian was here.
It wasn’t often that Grian dropped the glamor of his normal avian Player appearance. He usually stuck to parrot colors, or on the rare occasion, the white of chicken feathers. But now his real wings were on display, all four magnificent ones. They were a dark indigo fading into a scarlet. The small ones on either side of his head were bristling.
Grian was surrounded by his fellow Watchers, much more tense than the rest. He stood like he was ready to pounce the nearest one. His thin tail lashed about like an irritated cat’s.
And his glare promised vengeance.
“Where is he?! What have you done with him?!”
“Void knows none of such fury as a fledgeling wronged.” One of Them spoke with amusement in their tone. “Fret not Xelqua, we only wished to observe him solely for a while.”
“How long?!” Grian snarled. “How long have you had him? I know how time works in Watcher domains!”
“It has only been a week!” Another chimed in. “We planned for much longer. A pity, you are so sensitive when your Players are unaccounted for.”
“I wonder why.” Grian replied sarcastically. “Where is he?”
“South of you, dear. Quite the curious one.”
Every Watcher snapped their head to where Scar was and he flinched. It was a thing he tried to ignore, the fact that They always knew where he was and what he was doing. Even when They weren’t around, he could feel their closeness. Some of Them even found it amusing to get so close he could feel breathing on his neck.
Grian followed Their line of sight and locked eyes with Scar. Scar stepped fully out of his hiding spot, fidgeting with the hem of his tattered cloak. He’d done it a lot back in Third Life with his desert poncho, and again with his wizard cloak in Last Life. It was an old habit he fully indulged in once he realized there was a deeper reason he felt so comforted by his Secret Life cloak.
“Scar!” Grian ran up to him, then hesitated about a foot away.
“Gri…? Is it really you?” Scar asked, more vulnerable than he meant to. There had been a few hallucinations, but none so realistic as a rescue and a whole conversation with his captors.
(Yet.)
“Oh, Scar. I’m so sorry...” Grian reached up and held Scar’s face. Scar gasped softly. It was the first real contact he had in a week. Longer for a positive one. “They didn’t care for you at all, did They?” Grian glared pointedly at the Watchers.
“Oh quit your brooding. We’ve done no harm to your Scar.” A Watcher said. Their fellows snickered.
“You lot wouldn’t know how to care for a Player if they gave you a list.” Grian rebutted.
“How harsh! He was completely safe, we never let him near any Creepers!” One Watcher pouted.
“Unlike someone…” Another murmured.
A few gasped. “Don’t!”
“My goodness, did you at least kiss the brick before you threw it?”
“Aw, don’t be so dramatic, that was low hanging fruit.”
“Yeah, at least we don’t talk about Dee-Ell.”
“Don’t even mention Dee-Ell to me, I literally almost died.”
“Oh yeah, you’re the one who's allergic to angst. Are you here to expand your palate?”
“Fifth is my favorite Chosen.”
“Tell us something original, we’re all here because he’s a favorite…”
Scar tuned out the Watchers’ discussion pretty quickly. He’d gotten a lot of practice; They talked a lot, mostly in circles and about topics he was too out of the loop to follow.
Grian moved his hands from Scar’s cheeks to grasp both of his hands. He curled his wings inward, shielding Scar from the world he’d been stuck in for too long.
“Let me fix you up before we go home. Your hair’s a mess…” Grian scanned Scar’s face with a soft look and Scar couldn’t disagree. This could all be an elaborate facade for the Watchers to taste his hope and following heartbreak when he realized it was fake, but it was worth seeing even the illusion of Grian up close again.
The Watcher’s conversation cut off. Grian shifted his wings and revealed that they’d teleported from the Secret Life server to a place that was a never ending galaxy. Everywhere Scar looked, there was only a beautiful emptiness resembling the night sky.
“This is the Victor’s Void. It’s where you should have ended up after winning.” Grian explained.
“Huh…” Scar felt a dull pain in his chest. How would it have been, to win like the others? To be given near instant relief of the lone world he became the only inhabitant of, and end up in this place of serenity?
He would never know. He mourned that moment a bit.
“Are you… How are you?” Grian rephrased his question.
“Tired… My magic doesn’t work well if I’m alone for too long. And…” Scar grabbed at his hair. It was, like Grian said, a mess. He’d given up on preening without a proper brush early on in captivity, and the nightmares kept getting it messier every night.
Scar flushed at a Watcher he actually cared about seeing him in this unkempt state. Even without constant primping in a mirror, an elf’s magic would usually right their appearance. He had none to spare right now.
“I’ll take care of that.” Grian declared without prompting, and took Scar’s hand to lead him through the Victor’s Void.
The endless misty space changed not long into their walk, and in the distance Scar could see a line of chairs—no, thrones. A line of three, five thrones, each somewhat different.
The first throne was made of sandstone and the seat was occupied by around a dozen handmade toys. Palm sized plush dolls that, upon closer look, appeared to resemble the Players of the Life Games.
Scar’s eyes caught a glimmer and noticed a gold tiara encircling the doll that represented him. The doll rested on it like it was a personal mini throne.
“We can consider this a double victory, right?”
The sight tugged on Scar’s heartstrings.
Past Grian’s throne were two near identical thrones—cobblestone and dark oak marked with star carvings and the other marked with crescent moons. A long red string was wrapped across both backrests, unquestionably tying the two together.
Beyond that was a throne of glass decorated with kelp and small piles of red sand. It glistened like it had recently emerged from the sea.
Finally, they approached Scar’s throne.
It notably stood out in the line up: made of pure gold and with a cushioned seat. A simple large sunflower was etched into the backrest, and slightly below it was another carving of a circle sandwiched between symbols that Scar thought were supposed to be simplified wings.
Scar sat down and was immediately comforted by the softness of the throne’s cushion. He absentmindedly wondered who built the thrones in the first place. Where, and what, even was the Victor’s Void?
Grian tapped the side of the throne and Scar startled at the sudden retraction of the backseat, effectively changing the chair into a strange stool. Grian stood behind Scar and placed his hands on the vex elf’s head.
Taloned fingers buried passed knots and massaged Scar’s scalp. He sighed softly. Even if this was a trick, it was nice to be pampered for a bit before being thrown back into torture.
“Let’s see… Ah, here we go…” Grian murmured. Scar heard a crispy scraping sound and felt the movement of his hair. A brush Grian had gotten from somewhere. Summoned, most likely.
Grian started at the split ends and slowly worked out the knots. Little by little, Scar’s tangled bed of hair became a curtain of silky, fluffy strands.
Scar emitted a rumbling purr as Grian’s hands sunk into the mass of locks and separated it into three parts perfect for braiding.
There was no conversation as Grian weaved. Scar remembered having long talks about nothing and everything in the desert while he sifted sand out of wings, and discussing new builds while Grian helped Scar with more intricate hairstyles on Hermitcraft, but this preening was nice too. Preening as a quiet activity reflected the peace it brought. The white noise of shifting hair or feathers being the only sound as intimate as the fact that you were surrendering your most prized reflection of self.
Grian paused his braiding mid way and Scar opened his eyes (when did he close them?), making a noise of confusion.
“…I know you’re Watching.” Grian declared. “Show yourself.”
For a moment there was nothing. Then, the form of a Watcher rippled into visibility. They looked much like the others—long purple robe obstructing their figure, creepy mask hiding their face, hood over their head, imposing wings—but with one key difference.
They were tall.
They towered over the two Hermits, a whole three heads taller, staring down at Grian. “Hello, little Trickster.”
“Elder.” Grian greeted plainly. “I won’t give him back.”
“No, how selfish you’ve grown. It is an endearing sight.” The Elder Watcher commented.
“You’re just here to chat?” Grian asked, caution in his voice.
“If you’ll allow me.”
“Don’t mess with Scar.” Grian replied instantaneously.
“Only the best for your Players.” The Elder mused. “When you’re not feeding of course.”
Grian slowly resumed braiding Scar’s hair. “At least I don’t kidnap and shelter anyone away from basic resources.”
“In the olden times, that was the correct protocol. How else would the Universe expect Players to be safe? Peaceful servers are still lacking the full safety measures.”
“It’s nothing but cruel, what you did to him.” Grian snapped. “You Watch, you all know a lot more than you proclaim. You know exactly why this was bad for him.”
“And what of it then? We are not like the olde ones, nor like you. We feed because we want, and we can. You wouldn’t understand the hunger, not like we do.”
“You could be more sensible and try a more positive diet. I know it’s possible for Watcherborn, it’s not just a me thing.”
“I’m afraid that is more of preference, dear Xelqua.” The Elder practically purred. “There are… anomalies with unusual taste, but every Elder Watcher agrees the best meals are from the most unsettled Players. Betrayal, heartbreak, desolation and melancholy. These are the high tier flavors.”
“Does sadness taste that good…?” Scar blurted out, and immediately regretted drawing attention to himself. The Elder Watcher tilted their head in Scar’s direction. Scar could feel their piercing gaze from behind the smooth slate that was their mask.
“Bold, isn’t he?” The Elder noted. “Why have you not stamped it out?”
Scar shuddered at the callousness. A purple and red wing hovered over his side like a shield. The slight barrier between him and the Watcher who was a stranger instantly put Scar at ease. Grian was here. Grian wouldn’t let anything happen to him.
“I like him like that. All of them. They’re perfect just the way they are.” Grian said firmly.
“So you have not considered an Ascension?”
“What would be the point? I’m terrible at sharing, as you know, and I assume a fledgeling training another, more ignorant one is a recipe for disaster.”
“Our kind desires the company of others even when discourse is inevitable. It is… satisfying.”
Grian dropped the end of the finished braid and moved a hand to caress his fingers under Scar’s chin. “You wouldn’t understand having friends. I don’t need to change my Players to be satisfied.”
Scar let out a shaky sob. The physical contact, the blatant possessiveness. It was a deeper reassurance than anything else. Vex weren’t biologically made for solitude. They needed community, magic kin, care. And being one of Grian’s Players, undeniably connected to others, made Scar’s vex instincts sing.
Cautiously, Scar reached out with his magic. He immediately felt it blanketed by Grian’s, a balm to the ache of his soul. It cradled him preciously, a juxtaposition to the aggressive magic of his captors that prickled and suffocated whenever he tried to reach out for comfort previously.
This, more than anything, proved that it was all real. Every magic being had a unique signature that could not be replicated. Grian was here. He was going to take Scar home, back to Hermitcraft. Words could not describe his relief.
The Elder, whose presence no longer bothered Scar, looked between him and Grian. “No, I suppose not. Perhaps it is different for one who used to be on the other side. The watched.” They said contemplatively.
Grian stepped fully between them and Scar. “We’ll be leaving now.” He stated with no room for argument, before turning to Scar with kinder eyes and tone. “Let’s go home, Scar.”
Caught up in finally having peace, Scar could only nod in a daze and take Grian’s hand, his other reflexively coming up to feel the braid Grian had just finished.
Done up hair after days of no upkeep was a new experience; usually Scar brushed it out every morning. An elf without properly cared for hair was like seeing an avian whose wings were unkempt; Either was a sign of something deeply wrong.
Scar was so focused on his head feeling lighter and tangle free that he practically blinked and Grian had teleported them directly to Hermitcraft, bypassing the need for World Hub travel. The perks of Watcher powers.
“Home sweet home.” Grian’s eyes flashed bright purple for a moment, an indicator he was checking on where the other Hermits were. It was a habit he developed in Third Life, Scar now remembered. With how the vex elf had been held back in Secret Life, the habit would likely only grow more frequent. The paranoia of losing a Player would be hard to shake.
They spawned in the main car of Scar’s train. It looked just as he’d left it, albeit a bit dusty. Scar breathed in deeply, refamiliarizing himself with the smell of the train—furnished wood, a dusty bed, feathers and fur, and an abundance of tingling magic that lingered on his tongue.
It grounded him. It was nothing like the packed dirt, rotting graveyard, or too powerful sunflower smell of Secret Life. There were no shadow people whispering harshly around him. The only sound here was the gentle breeze and Grian talking to him.
“Scar?” Grian stared at Scar with no small amount of concern.
“…Can I have a hug?” Scar asked hesitantly.
Grian immediately captured him in an embrace in response. Scar grasped him back just as desperately and went boneless, purring contently. It was funny, to leave the scrutiny of a bunch of Watchers and go willingly into the arms of another.
This Watcher was his though. The Hermits’ Protector. It was only natural to feel safe with Grian. He became the guardian of Hermitcraft almost immediately upon joining in Season Six. Unlike Watcherborn, Grian followed the original purpose of Watchers; his entire being was dedicated to protecting his Players.
Grian led Scar to his bed tucked away in a corner and he laid down on his side. It was comfier than he remembered. Way more satisfying than the one he had in Trader Scar’s.
Grian removed Scar’s boots and threw a thick quilt over him. He fussed over tucking him in for a few moments, trilling continuously.
A part of Scar internally protested at being put to bed like a child. It’s quieted by him knowing that Grian isn’t trying to be demeaning, simply in the throes of some instinct Scar doesn’t fully understand.
And it’s easy, after a week of forced isolation and the rough Game he had, to let himself be coddled. To be one of Grian’s Players, whatever that entails. Pleasant things for sure. For all his sharp edges, Grian’s care for his Players should never be put into question.
Grian rubbed Scar’s back, more for the comfort of a warm touch than a true massage. “You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”
“Mm, don’t leave…?” Scar mumbled, given up on keeping his eyes open.
“I’ll be right here when you wake up.” Grian reassured him. Scar doesn’t doubt he'll follow through.
“Thanks, G…”
Grian cupped Scar’s cheek and placed his lips on Scar’s forehead in a soft peck. “Goodnight, Scar.” Grian whispered.
And Scar fell asleep to the ghost of his Watcher’s touch.