Work Text:
He wasn’t going back. Scar wasn’t going to go back, not this soon.
It had only been a few days, and he knew he could stay awake for far longer than that. If he fell asleep he would go back there, and he couldn’t do that. It hurt too much.
When he’d first gotten home to Hermitcraft he thought it was only a nightmare, and he only had a couple days in Scarland before the new season started, so maybe the next one was just from the stress of starting in a new world. It didn’t mean anything, right? It didn’t mean anything that it felt so real. That he could still hear the whispers and feel the sunflower petals under his fingertips for a moment after he woke up each time.
Now he was fighting to keep his eyes open once again. These days he wasn’t sure if Hermitcraft or Secret Life was the dream, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know. Either way, he had to stay here. He had to stay awake. Working on the train tracks had proven to be a good way to keep himself moving without worrying about the drunkenness of sleep deprivation making his building sloppy. He couldn’t have that, no matter what else might be going on. He had a reputation to uphold, after all! That, or it brought some sense of normalcy and stopped the other hermits from worrying too much. Scar was just too focused on some big build idea to take care of himself, they had all been there.
The train was coming along rather well, Scar had gotten quite a few compliments on it already and he was excited to keep expanding it. The next train car could wait for when he had energy, for now he was placing gravel and stone to support the tracks. Digging out some dirt around the area and filling the holes in wasn’t particularly hard work, so he was able to let himself zone out a little instead of fighting to keep his mind where it should be. A few hermits seemed to be catching on to how tired Scar was, so he needed to conserve his mental energy for putting on his usual smile and staying present for those conversations. For once his habit of tripping over his words was coming in handy. Him misspeaking and rambling wasn’t a sign something was wrong, it was just regular old Scar being Scar!
Piling up the gravel was easy, and Scar found himself forming a rhythm as he worked. It was soothing, it was…
It was starting to put him to sleep. No, he couldn’t have that. He needed to stay active and awake. He could go back to tunneling into Magic Mountain to make space for the tracks, that was something. He’d had to stop a few times when the exhaustion became so great that just swinging his pickaxe felt like lifting a hundred-pound weight, even with the beacon’s effects, but he wasn’t at that point yet. It would be more exertion so ultimately more tiring, but it would keep him awake for now. If he pushed himself far enough and got lucky, adrenaline would kick in and give him a few more hours of alertness, maybe a day. A little longer before he had to go back was far more important than his health, and Scar was a betting man.
He started walking over to the Mountain but was having trouble seeing the rails in front of him and tripped every few steps. When had it gotten dark? Either he’d been on the train tracks for a lot longer than he thought, or had started later than he meant to. It didn’t matter, time got hard to keep track of after this many hours awake, however many that was. There wasn’t any point in trying to keep track anyway. All that mattered was that he kept going.
Scar heard the screech of a phantom overhead and looked up to find several pairs of shiny green eyes circling him. They knew he was weak, that he was heavy with exhaustion and wouldn’t put up a proper fight. He stared blankly as his brain tried to catch up, and only realized they were coming for him after one swooped down towards his head. Right, phantoms! How did he forget they would be there? He’d gotten used to them after so many nights awake. His brain wasn’t that spent, right?
Scar quickly grabbed his sword and tried to swing as they dove, but he was sluggish from the sleep deprivation and his sword kept cutting down empty air. Their bites stung, but they were nothing compared to what was waiting for him if he slept. In a way the constant threat helped keep his nervous system alert. They were just pests and kept him on his toes, nothing too bad! After the fifth or sixth pass he managed to land a hit and stumbled to grab the phantom’s tail and finish it off before it got out of reach. He had to drop his cane, but that was fine, he could stay standing by himself. The others got a couple more bites on him before they were cut down too. See, he was fine! Scar could still fight, and that was proof he was functional enough. He didn’t need any rest, not now. The panting and dizziness was normal and would be gone in a minute. It wouldn’t be too long before more phantoms came after him, but at least he had a little peace for now.
The tunnel. Right, that’s what he was trying to do. Peace was nice, but it meant his body would try to rest and recover instead of doing what it needed to, which was keep moving. As long as he was building, fighting, mining, something active, he wouldn’t fall asleep. He needed to keep the momentum he had. He picked up his cane and sheathed his sword, trying to ignore the twinge of anxiety that came with having no weapon at the ready. It wasn’t like he’d need it, he was mining. A normal night mining.
Scar pulled out his pickaxe and tried to ignore how daunting the maw of the hole he’d bored into the cliff looked in front of him. He was fighting his stupid survival instincts as he tried to convince himself that more work to do was a good thing, not something to despair over. Activity was helpful, rest was dangerous, no matter what his aching body tried to tell him. The repetitive sound of the stone cracking under his pick was becoming a metronome that kept him in a steady rhythm. Yeah, that sounded better than it feeling like the ticking of a time bomb. Scar was just mining, and he knew he could keep that up for a long time. If his arms felt sore, that was only another sensation that proved his body was still moving and functional.
Mining was quickly becoming harder as Scar’s muscles stopped responding to him, any attempt at targeted movement turning clumsy and uncoordinated. It wasn’t too bad, he could go a little longer. Staying upright was becoming a struggle though, and his vision was starting to blur. It was only starting to, if he had trouble seeing before it was… something in his eye, or something like that. Scar was a-okay! He was only a little tired, and definitely could still think properly, and his body was functioning just fine, and he could not go back. Scar was going to have a lovely night on Hermitcraft working on his train build, and that was all. Still, as he tried to carve out the walls he found himself denting areas he didn’t mean to. Nearly early motion threatened to topple him over as the pickaxe’s momentum overpowered his futile attempts to stay grounded. He’d try to use it one handed so he could use his cane, but he wasn’t sure if he had the strength to. Scar was on the verge of tears from frustration. It felt as though he was losing control over himself with each passing second, his eyelids getting harder and harder to keep open. Building hadn’t given him the adrenaline and distraction he needed. He had to try something else, quickly.
There weren’t many options left. Scar absolutely couldn’t message one of the other hermits to have them keep an eye on him and make sure he stayed awake. They would ask questions and get concerned, and probably refuse to anyway. As far as anyone knew Scar was just a little too caught up in his build, and that was all they would know if he had anything to say about it. No, Scar had to handle this himself. There was one method that didn’t take much energy and almost always worked. He didn’t like taking more drastic measures like this, but it was necessary.
Scar’s fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword, sliding back and forth across the leather grip. Even though sleep wasn’t a threat he could physically hurt, he felt safer with a weapon. If nothing else, the texture of the hilt grounded him here, in Hermitcraft. Scar took a deep breath, then let go. He had other things to prep first. Rough fabric dragging across half-healed burns made him wince as he shuffled off his jacket. Knotting it around his waist took more effort than it should have as his fingers kept getting caught. Did he have any food or potions on him? It was fine if not, healing wasn’t that important anyway.
He glanced around to make sure nothing was sneaking up on him. The coast was clear for now. Mobs would be annoying and might overpower him in his current state, but he still had a good chance of winning that confrontation, or at least escaping. He couldn’t say the same for a conversation with any player that might come across him.
Scar took his sword again and held it up, letting his body adjust to the weight. The way the light from the beacon glinted off of it mesmerized Scar, making him temporarily forget what he meant to do. Tilting it to see the shine better quickly reminded him. The slight movement only accentuated how much even simple shapes warped and mingled with the darkness creeping into his vision.
Scar turned away from the entrance and leaned against the tunnel wall. The light was still writhing behind his eyelids as he tried to blink it away. With his feet planted firmly on the floor and back against the cold, rough stone he was able to stay oriented while his vision came back to him.
Maybe another second to rest would be good. Letting the wall take more of his weight was okay, it was just a little support. It wasn’t much different from letting his cane support him. The blinding light was gone now, that was nice. It was fully dark, actually. Scar’s eyes flew open. He didn’t realize they’d closed, that was bad. That couldn’t happen again. He needed to stop stalling. Scar couldn’t go to the fields again. If he did, he… No, no, he wasn’t going to think about that, about them, it hurt too much.
The tendons and veins shifted under Scar’s skin as he turned his arm up. Even with the beacon just outside it was hard to make out where they neared the surface without any torches or moonlight to see by. He’d have to just estimate where to go. Scar lined up his sword perpendicularly and very gently slid it down his arm. If he couldn’t see, he would feel. Scar knew the marks that littered his skin like a map, and the burns weren’t far above where he needed to go. Closer to the wrist so he’d feel it more, far enough away from the wrist to not be visible. The blade caught slightly on a large, deep X shaped scar he’d learned was around the perfect spot—the fact that he knew that meant nothing—and he stopped. This wasn’t a regular thing for Scar, he only did it when he absolutely had to. How many days had it even been since the new season began? How many times had he slept since then? Scar knew it was a number small enough to count on one hand, but remembering the details of anything was difficult at the moment.
He lifted the sword from the dent of the scar and pressed it against the flesh just above. No more stalling. Scar let out a hiss as he drew the first line across his arm. He tried not to think about how similar the sawing motion was to butchering a mob. Pulling the blade back and forth. He wouldn’t just be food for them. That’s why he was doing this, that’s what all the headaches and sleepless nights were for. Back and forth. He wasn’t going to go back. Never again—until the exhaustion inevitably caught up with him. This was just a different kind of stalling. Back and forth. Well, the fewer times he had to go back the better. If the damage from never resting cut his lifespan short, all that meant was even less time he’d have to deal with them, and with that horrible place. A shudder ran through his body and jostled the sword from the groove it’d carved in his arm. He took a deep breath and moved the sword up, then began again. Press in. Saw back and forth. What happened to his body wasn’t important. Heck, Scar wasn’t even sure it was real. He wasn’t sure about anything anymore.
He almost cried out as the blade caught on a nerve. The pain was electric, spiking down to his hand and up through his shoulder. That was okay. That was good. Scar’s breathing was fast and his eyes were open. The tears that momentarily welled up in them didn’t matter, what mattered was that his nervous system was alert. He looked down to see how bad the damage was, but it was impossible to tell under the blood. Hopefully the nerve wouldn’t cause even more issues. Well, the tissue that had been a nerve before it was torn into the mess it was now, probably the start of another jagged scar. He could worry about that later. Move the sword up again. Press it in again. Saw back and forth until something hurts badly enough. Repeat. Swap arms. Repeat. It was almost second nature to him now, after… however many times he’d ended up at this last resort.
What if he hadn’t won? Would someone else be stuck in the same loop he was now? …Had all of the winners gone through this? No, he knew Grian had died after. Grian hadn’t had to tell Scar, it was obvious as soon as Scar finally got the chance to see him again. He’d still confirmed it one night after Scar had found him crying. He couldn’t check what happened for Scott or Martyn as easily, but it probably wasn’t a universal winner thing. Besides, Scar would’ve noticed if Grian or Pearl were constantly stressed and… hiding away, and… hurt, and…
The bare reality of what he was doing suddenly hit him. He was alone, hiding from his friends while he cut himself and tried to pretend he could escape from the eternity of torture he was sentenced to. He was alone in an unlit area at night with a barely functional body and only mutilating it more, because that was the best option he had. Scar paused to look down at his arms. He wanted to try to count the cuts, but the blood seeping from them pooled together and ran down his arms in a singular smeared mess. All he could tell was that there were a lot, and that they were deep. Probably not too deep, but for some reason it was hard to feel exactly where they were, or feel much of his skin at all.
Scar felt cold. When had it gotten so chilly outside? He should get back home, he was a sitting duck right now and it would be far too easy for something—or someone—to corner him in the tunnel.
He picked up his cane and started to stagger back towards his base, keeping all his focus on putting one foot in front of another. The train tracks were his savior as he tried to stay moving in the right direction. Only when he paused and looked around as the tracks curved did he realize why he was so cold. Oh, right, it was nighttime and his jacket was off. He got halfway through untying it from around his waist before he remembered why he had taken it off in the first place. Bloodstains would invite questions.
He could bear the chill, its sharpness kept him vividly aware of his own body. This was good, this was helping. He probably wasn’t far now anyway. Things like time and distance were hard to judge in his state, but—there, perfect timing! Scar took a couple steps back, having nearly wandered straight into the back of the train car. He hadn’t hit it though, which was proof he was very alert and aware! He wound up having accidents like that even when feeling his best. Scar carefully stepped over the edge of the tracks and over to the ladder.
The ladder up to the cab looked like it stretched on into infinity. Scar grabbed the first rung and rolled his palm across the wood, trying to focus on the texture. Any little thing that would keep his mind and body here, in Hermitcraft. Somehow despite his vision swimming he managed to toss his cane up. He was doing great, just look at that! He was doing great, the tiny act of climbing a ladder wasn’t intimidating. He just had to take a step up, grab the next rung, and repeat. For how dizzying the ladder’s height looked, Scar was stumbling over the top and inside in no time.
Being in the cab definitely felt better than being outside, but without proper walls there wasn’t much to shield him from the night air. Scar exhaled and tossed his hat and jacket to the bed after a brief fight with the knot he’d tied. He kneeled to turn on the furnace, appreciating the bit of extra light and heat it provided. The flickering glow reflecting off the machinery that spread across the inside of the cab was mesmerizing. Scar could sit and watch it for hours. As soon as Scar settled onto the floor his weight began to sink into the planks. After working nonstop, this was nice. His head lolled and eyelids began to droop. He could take a short break to bask in the warmth of the furnace. Just a minute would be alright. He wouldn’t…
With a gasp Scar shot back up. He’d been on the floor, Scar hadn’t noticed he tipped over, he almost—that was too close, that was way too close.
He wasn’t going to get any rest tonight. Each time he lifted his hands from the floor he started to sway, but after a few tries he managed to balance himself in a kneeling position. Scar took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. He wouldn’t cry. He should have expected this.
Scar’s eyes darted around the inside of the cab. The train didn’t offer more options to try and force himself awake than the outside world did, at least not in the state he was currently in. His gaze paused on the bed for a moment before lowering to the furnace, then himself. Now he found himself at this so-called last resort yet again.
He’d tried using a campfire a few times, but that had gone abysmally with how uncoordinated he was. His raw, blistered arms were proof of that. Burns were effective at keeping him awake, at least until his nerves were scorched through, but they raised more questions than cuts. That was assuming someone only saw a little of them around his cuffs. If they saw the rows of even slices down his arms he had no chance of getting away with brushing them off. There was only so much he could blame on being clumsy.
There wasn’t much he could do quickly, and thinking up a plan was becoming harder and harder. Thinking at all was a struggle, but if he let go he’d be out in no time. The waking world felt like a dream, everything around him growing faint and hazy. Somehow he hadn’t realized it until now, but he could barely hear anything. He wasn’t sure when that had started and wasn’t sure if he wanted to know. That didn’t matter. All that mattered was grappling with his consciousness and forcing it to focus.
Scar reached his arm out, but the flames barely licked his hand. Was the furnace really that far away? It looked so much closer, but… No. With a sigh Scar brought his hand back down. He had to accept that he wasn’t seeing properly anymore. Maybe if he fully woke up instead of only teetering on the edge of consciousness it’d get better, but for now he had to grit his teeth and do what he had to do.
He had to accept the pain to keep his body going. Yeah, every time he did this it was only to give himself that boost of adrenaline he needed. That was all. He didn’t want to hurt himself, he had to.
Scar scooted himself across the floor until he was sat directly in front of the furnace. The bright reds and yellows coiled and danced before his tired eyes. He reached his fingers towards the flames before thinking better of it. He needed his hands as functional as they could be. There were better, less vital areas to give up. Less visible areas.
He lifted his arm, turning the back of it towards the heat. He guided it forwards and the rest of his body toppled with it. Scar gasped and lurched away, barely managing to throw his weight to the side in time for him not to fall head-first. Maybe he had to admit he was too far gone to be handling fire. Too far gone for that, but not to keep trying. He had time. He still had time.
Not having the furnace at his disposal was fine. He didn’t mind cutting himself instead. No, he did mind, but it was still necessary. This was all necessary. The hiding, the lying, every cut and scrape, the sleepless nights spent trying to hold back tears, it was all for a purpose. It was still less miserable than going back to that place.
Scar pulled himself to his feet, wobbling but managing to throw his arms out to catch himself. This worked. This could work. It was fine! Scar let one hand fall to his pockets, trying to find something soft in his inventory, and braced the other against the wall. Nobody should’ve been close enough to hear if he cried out, but Scar pulled out a scrap of leather and bit down on it just in case.
He tightened his grip on a small outcropping on the wall and unsheathed his sword once again. Squeezing his eyes shut, Scar took a few deep breaths. He’d allow himself this one moment of darkness. He breathed in, and out. In, out. In, a hiss of air between gritted teeth—and he plunged his sword into his arm.
The adrenaline kicked in almost immediately, shooting through his body with the pain. Any hazy desire to sleep was washed away by base fight or flight instincts. Scar slowly pulled the sword back out, not daring to open his eyes and see how far through his flesh it had gone. That didn’t prevent him from feeling the blood rushing up and out from the wound.
He let out a sharp exhale. That hadn’t hurt as much as he expected. The pain felt muffled and distant this time around. He had stabbed himself, hadn’t he? It was hard to tell with his vision swimming and old and new wounds blurring together. His whole body felt distant, in fact. Distant, cold, and weak.
Still, it was working. He had to keep going. With shaking hands Scar drove the sword in again, feeling the tip scrape against tendon and bone. Again. Every time he had to lift the sword it felt a little heavier, and every time he tore it through him the pain took a little longer to hit.
Whenever he thought he had a proper grip it slid on the blood streaming down his arm, but he still forced it in anyway. Anything was better. Anything. Even if there was the slightest chance he’d have the adrenaline to stay awake a few more hours, a few more minutes, the cost didn’t matter.
The sword felt like it weighed a ton, and Scar was having difficulty controlling his movements. His hand was shaking so badly he couldn’t keep the blade in place over his arm anymore, let alone use it. He was forced to stop for now. Maybe he could go back to using the furnace, or… something, he’d manage to make his brain come up with something, no matter how hard it was to think.
He tried to set the sword down, but even that movement made him nearly fall into the window next to him. The sword clattered to the floor. He kicked it away, not trusting himself to stay on his feet if he tried to bend down to grab it.
He still needed to try and move away before he slipped on the slick blood-covered floor. The moment his hand came off the wall it took all his stability with it. His head was spinning. No no no, this was all wrong. He had to stay conscious, he had to be fine, he had to. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.
Scar stumbled back and forth in an awkward dance as he tried to keep his balance. If he was upright he was conscious. He could ignore that his vision was only vague colors and shapes now, he could ignore that he couldn’t feel most of his body anymore. He was conscious, he was fine. Scar was fine! His feet slid on the blood dripping onto the floor. How was there so much? The train was a mess of blacks, browns, and reds smearing around him. It didn’t matter, he wasn’t going back, he couldn’t do that again, couldn’t feel their eyes again. Why did he still feel so cold? Why did he feel so weak? Scar barely noticed as his boot caught one of the chests near the back of the cab. The black was filling most of his vision now and—oh, he could see the stars. Where had the roof gone? It didn’t matter, what mattered was that he was awake. He couldn’t go back, not again, please, not again. The night sky spun as he fell over the edge and into the air. He was awake, he was awake, he—
Scar was gone before his head hit the ground.
Scar awoke to the sound of wind rustling through the fields. He could feel the soft leather cover of the task book in his hand and tried not to cry. He could keep his eyes closed for a moment longer. He knew what it would say, the same thing it did every time. If he stayed like this maybe he could pretend it wasn’t there.
Scar opened his eyes to the sunflowers gently swaying in the breeze. Tears silently ran down his cheeks. He didn’t know how long he lay there staring at the sky.
He wished he could return to somewhere else, somewhere he was safe. Somewhere he wasn’t so painfully alone. The echoes of it in a dream were already fading in the morning sun.
Whispers were starting to sneak in, carried along the wind. Scar wiped the tears from his face and sat up. Shadows danced around the edges of his vision. It was impossible to tell what was from the sunflowers and what was them. It didn’t matter much either way. Real or not, it all formed an empty blur that dragged him through each day. Another task. Another day. Never ending.
He finally lifted the task book and stared at it for a long moment. Scar took a deep breath, and began again.
A glow in the distance past his eyelids pulled Scar from unconsciousness. He blinked a couple times, letting the world around him—Hermitcraft—slowly come into focus. Already the memory of what happened was melting away, leaving just a deep, hollow pain in its wake.
He let his head loll to the side only to meet another pair of tired eyes. Grian was staring down at him, his face twisted in concern. The reds and purples of the early sunrise beautifully illuminated him like a halo.
Scar took a moment to take in his surroundings. The train wasn’t far, casting a long shadow over the grass. Slowly he realized his joints should hurt more after lying on the dirt. Some pile of fabrics had been fashioned into a makeshift cushion that he’d been rolled onto. Distantly his brain put together the sweater Grian wasn’t wearing and the softness under his head.
“Hey, Scar are… are you okay?”
Scar looked into those dark, concerned eyes. He wished he could tell Grian. He wished desperately that he could talk about it all and someone would understand, and be able to do something to help, or at least hold him and pretend they had a way to make it all okay. He didn’t bother to try putting everything they did to him into words. How could Scar even begin to explain?
“Yeah, I… I just had a nightmare.” It took monumental effort to bring any cheer back to his voice instead of letting it turn into agonized wailing. “Nothing to worry about! I already forgot most of it anyway.”
Grian’s expression barely changed. If anything, he looked sadder than before. “I’m sorry.” Grian started to reach for Scar before flinching and pulling back. There wasn’t time for him to react before Scar shot up and wrapped him in a hug. He melted into Scar’s arms, holding him as close as he could. “I’m so sorry.” Grian shook gently under him, his face hidden in the crook of Scar’s neck. He wasn’t… crying, was he? No, Scar’s brain was probably still addled from waking up back home. He gently squeezed Grian, trying to comfort and ground them both.
The pressure sent a jolt of pain through Scar’s arms. He leaned back and Grian quickly let go. Only then did he look down at himself and realize his clothes were stained with blood. Without his jacket each cut and burn was out in the open, but they’d been coated with healing potions and painstakingly bandaged.
“Oh—G, it’s not what it looks like—”
“I know, you—you don’t have to explain.” Grian said, his voice shaky. Scar breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to if Grian asked. “But please tell me you weren’t trying to… You would respawn if you—”
“No—no, it’s not that. Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,” Scar offered with his best attempt at a smile. Maybe Grian winced, or maybe Scar imagined it. He’d stopped trying to hold onto hope that he’d escape this wretched cycle a long time ago. Hoping hurt more than accepting he was too far gone.
Grian opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated. He quickly wiped his eyes and dove back into Scar’s arms, holding him tight. “Please don’t,” He whispered.
It wasn’t a promise Scar could make, and the tremor in Grian’s voice suggested he knew it too. Scar didn’t think he’d ever be getting free, but if Grian needed him here, he’d have to try. At least he could pretend this wasn’t going to be his forever. “I’m not going anywhere.” If he kept saying it, maybe someday he could believe it. “I’m not going anywhere.”