bugg :p

Grian was the only evidence those horrible worlds ever existed. He alone remembers everything outside of the games. The watchers allow him just enough power over the game to ensure his players come out as unscathed as possible, enough to wipe their memories clean, to stitch up their gaping wounds and send them home. But he needed to manually switch the memories to empty bliss. This meant his knowledge of the games had to stay intact, meaning he had not a soul to talk of the betrayal, the anguish, the hurt. He was truly alone, and Grian believed he had deserved it.

He could only save the other members of the games from so much, he had no power over what they remembered inside the games, the watchers often cherry picked who remembered what from each game, mostly clouding the happy memories of victories and hopeful moments, and bringing those of backstabbing and pain to the forefront.

It was only fitting that the one who pulled them into the games to begin with, before the watchers wormed their way in, was to be forced into an emotional exile he now found himself in. He could never again mend their bonds he had weakened, unable to look his friends in the eye in other worlds, after being present to the blood thirsty husks of their true selves he had created. And Grian could feel the pain that flowed out of his friends in waves at the start of each game. He had trapped them in an endless loop of pain and torment he would never forgive himself for, and now he had made a barrier between them he had no intention of breaking.

This is what left Grian feeling a build up of guilt once they had reentered the Hemitcraft server after Past Life. He still shuddered at the thought of him and Martyn's final dance within the Square Hole, in an act of red life desperation he had loosened the grip he subconsciously kept on his watcher energy, let it lap over the edges, enough that Martyn could sense it, in those final moments Grian could see it on his face that Martyn had pieced it together, and with that anger fueling him, charged and killed Grian. Now Martyn visited the Hermitcraft server to say hello to his friends every once in a while, and he would greet Grian like nothing had happened, because it hadn't to him. Grian should have been punished far worse than simply losing the game,he didn't give half a damn about winning those games, they shouldn't look at me the same, he would think over and over during long nights that seemed to stretch forever while he played every moment in his head again and again, once he had tried to write it down, but it didn't seem to help in the least, too many memories, they blurred together, abstract, and a single stream of thought put into words had failed him. This was the reason for him to search for some other outlet, some other way to plaster the events that had been haunting him for years somewhere outside the overfilled halls of his mind. So when he had built his observatory, when he planned for stained glass windows, he knew what images would be constructed. 

He was never a master of any art form, certainly not glass making, yet when others offered to help he refused. This was something he had to do alone. Even when Cleo had offered a shulker of glass panes, Grian couldn't accept. First were the designs, carefully he planned each and every window, except for his own, which he decided to plan when he got there. At first the worry was that his friends would recognize themself, but that fear was quickly overlooked when he realized his drawing and glass cutting skills were subpar, meaning the figures would have less defining features, enough they wouldn't give it away yet still holding on to those memories. Then the materials, painstaking hours collecting sand in the desert dug up more than a few unpleasant sensations and memories, which just served as more motivation than before. 

Soon Grian had a surplus of both currently smelting sand and glass, and he began the very, very slow process of organizing, scoring, cutting and soldering. Slowly but surely they began to take shape. Weeks on end of constructing the huge windows started to take a toll on Grians, and his progress slowed, even as he got better at not cracking the glass in the wrong spot, but soon enough they were completed. 

The first one was of Scott, the window was primarily a deep blue, stars created a halo above his head, as he pointed his bow up towards the sky, where the deep blue faded to a purple. Grian definitely made the process much harder on himself trying to get every detail he declared important into it. This included the enchanter at his feet, along with a cottage in the background, swirls of orange and red creating a border of lava around him.

Then Pearls, her wolves circling at her feet, with her tower looming behind her, her figure framed by billows of smoke, spreading from an unseen explosive. A cartoon heart was placed into the center of her chest, with a string that hung limply, disconnected from its other half. The border was decorated by falling snow. She had her hands cupping around the heart. 

Martyns stood proudly next to her. One arm raised triumphantly, clutching a bloodied sword, while the other hung at his side, holding a clock, both hands pointed exactly to where twelve would be. The border decorated with sea life

Scars stood looking over his shoulder to the viewer, amongst a field of sun flowers, the Secret Keeper stood its ground behind him as he clutched a rolled up scroll to his heart. The border was filled to the brim with poppies and lilacs. This one had been finished last.

Joel was what Grian tried to seem like a laughing position, his car proudly took his place behind him, hints of the wild cards dotted around the scene, the shape of snails far off in the distance, dice made up the borders. 

He attempted to make Martyn's second one different from the first, Grians memories of him were tainted by their final moments, and he couldn't help but shake the feeling this one seemed angrier than the others, most had victorious or proud stances, while Pearl and Scar’s had a loneliness to them, this one seemed to like it hated him, he couldn't put his finger on it, and hated to admit it was a bit sloppier than the last. 

He did a few smaller murals, painted, he was quite sick of glass, throughout the rest of the building, to represent the winners of the smaller games and the players who hadn't won yet. Along with important moments and builds. Painting came easier to him, it was more of an effort to make the portraits lack resemblance to his friends.

Finally, he felt as if he was required to finish the saga. While the others stood the winners all alone in all their horrible glory, Grian was only able to portray them that way because they were just moments he witnessed, he didn't know what the winners truly felt, all alone on a destroyed world, but he knew how he felt, and that when he made the decision his portrait would be of himself, cradeling Scar's body. It was the only way he could live with that guilt. The first friend who had perished from his hands, the first weight that seemed to drag him downward. Cactus circled them, with Bubbles and Pizza in the background. They were circled by poppies and lilacs. 

When the final scaffold had been removed, Grian stood proudly in his observatory, the dreadful memories had the afternoons light shine through them, changing them, into something lighter, soon the color of  red blood became just another part of the shades that overlapped each other in that circular room, a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, the guilt still lingered, it would never be truly gone, but it was less, and than all he could ask for. He was truly happy for the first time in what felt like forever, at least since the start of the games, he spun, basking in the warm, colored glow. His horrors had been sculpted into something else, something beautiful.

////

Which Scar knew they didn't. They hurt each other, they hurt their friends, and worst of all they enjoyed it. He felt it in Grian, he had felt it in himself. The grace of his partners hands as he set up traps, armed tnt. The stance he took when he had drawn his bow. Aimed at the heart of people who he might have, in some other world, remarked as friends. 

But at this moment, he did not want a gentle ending, it was not what they deserved. In this horrible bloody end, he was allowed to be close to Grian, allowing their blood to mix together. They could never have had this before, but under the guise of anger, of violence, they could be seen as one tangled mass, right now, and never again. There were too many what ifs and dangers of allowing them to draw near under any other  circumstances, room for rejection, but that was all absent on the blood soaked sand. They could be one. Death did not see them as two beings, their fates would forever be laced together, cloth stitched, one plot point in a gruesome tale. One killed the other, then the other died. There was no other way to tell the story without including them both, no way Scar would rather have it. 

And he didn't miss it, he didn't miss the gleam in Grian’s eyes as he grew weaker, the faint glow of purple that sparkled in dark pupils. It had always been there, during the games at least. Driving him, to the extent he went. Pushed him to create this reality, to trap his friends with him, dragging them down, all falling down the same steep hill. It was infectious. Or maybe it had been a kindling in Scar that just needed to be prodded. Just needed an excuse, needed a reason to grow, to burn. And Grian had laid it all out for him on a shining platter. That urge to feel blood drain from an enemy, a friend. To see the look in people's eyes when they realized this was the end. To reap joy from that.

Scar believed this was something that existed in him well before the games, in a time with foggy memories and blurry faces, he simply could not imagine a life without it. 

So when he woke up, safe at home, on the rightful server there was something missing. He could feel it, like a predator forced into a life of captivity and pre-slaughter meals. He sat up in bed with his head in his hands. Feeling his face, no broken jaw or bleeding nose, no red life. He was free. And yet was denied freedom. He wanted the thrill of a red life back. Wanted it, yearned for it, needed it. His second thought was his partner. Yet as he was about to stand up from his bed, reaching for his cane, there was a voice that called to him from the other side of his bedroom door.

“Are you awake?” “Yes’ Scars voice sounded desperate, ‘please come in” the oak door creaked open and a short man stood there, Grian, he wore something clean, something nice. A white tank top and a brown skirt. No blood stains, no dirt, no tears or holes. No sign of what he had gone through.

He swiftly glided to the side of the bed and promptly sat down. Scar was about to apologize, yet it struck him there was nothing he felt the need to apologize for, as they stared into each others eyes, he felt it deep down that their time together had been a gift, had been something sacred, to be cherished, under the blood and gore, at the heart, something holy sat. and they both understood that. It might have been the fact Grian had bent reality to his whim to create the game, it might have been the fact they had elevated from being two separate people, to one pulse, one life, on that sun scorched mountain. Something undeniable inhuman. 

Grian cupped Scars face in his hands, their breathing synced. With a small moment of hesitation, he placed a single kiss on Scars forehead before slowly drawing back. Avoiding eye contact. 

Something so gentle, calm and humane, something wrong, horribly, horribly, wrong. After feeling his hands close around his throat. A kiss felt oh so distant. Scar leaned forward, resing his head on to Grians shoulders.

“You feel it too?” Grian asked, which in response Scar nodded slowly.