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“Give them back!”
Viking’s laugh was manic, gleeful in a near cruel way, as he once again dodged Shadow’s sharp claws — just barely — by jumping through a wall. His grin stretched from ear to ear as he heard the muffled curse through the wood.
He threw a pair of gloves up in the air only to catch them again with ease. They were black, made from faded but firm leather. Shadow was never seen without them. Well, not until he’d left them on a table to be picked up by invisible thieves such as himself. It was just a bummer he’d heard him sneak through the floor to grab them.
But he’d give them back … eventually. For now? It was too fun to play cat and mouse, hide and seek, and tag with him. He waited to hear Shadow storm away towards the door so he could taunt him by stepping back inside the moment he got close.
He did not expect the planks to break right in front of him, nor did he expect Shadow to step right out after him with his enchanted, netherite axe gripped tightly in those terrifying claws of his. Viking let out a very manly yelp, jumping and backing away from him, the gloves held closely to his chest.
Really, the smartest move would be to give them back now. But he was only most of the time smart. Okay, sometimes. Occasionally. It didn’t matter, he wasn’t being smart now.
Still, he didn’t want to wipe the mischievous grin off his face. This was usually the point where people got desperate and tried actually attacking him. And, as terrifying as it was to have an axe or sword glide straight through him without knowing for sure if this time it wouldn’t hit him, it was funny to see people get frustrated when even their attacks failed.
Shadow did … not do that. He held onto his axe a little tighter, glared at him and even made himself a little taller, but he didn’t attack. He didn’t even reach out to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. The look on his face was not as frustrated as it was desperate.
“I don’t want to ask you again, Viking, just give them back,” he ordered, the threat obvious in his voice — even as Viking stopped believing how much he’d actually go through with said threat.
He could sink through the floor and escape again, but he paused, faltering. Something on Shadow’s face stopped him from teasing him more. The question sat on his tongue; why? Why hadn’t he attacked him yet?
It came to him before he could ask. Shadow wasn’t getting any closer to him, axe held almost defensively. He was begging him to give the gloves back. Viking’s eyes shot to the claws gripping the handle of his weapon like his life depended on it. The wrappings around the handle were black. Black with wither.
“You can’t touch me.”
The words were a realisation but Shadow seemed to flinch. “Exactly. So give them back.”
He couldn’t help the way his mouth fell open slightly. All of his behaviour suddenly fell into place. The way he stayed distant from everyone, how he bit back any physical contact, the armour and thick clothes that covered every part of his skin except half his face and, now, his hands. He withered the people he touched, so he stayed away from them.
It was so obvious in hindsight, and he grimaced. No living thing could get anywhere near him. Sneve and Legundo were his only close friends but he seemed to stay away from them as well.
No living thing. He swallowed the lump in his throat despite the fact that he didn’t need to swallow, he didn’t even need to breathe. And that was just it, wasn’t it? Viking didn’t belong to the living things.
So he reached out, slowly, tentatively, carefully like one would approach a scared dog, gloves in his other hand. This was a bad idea. He shuddered as he forced his body to take a more tangible shape, hand finally appearing in a spectrum Shadow could properly see.
He was eyed warily, but not stopped.
“Surely it’s not so bad, right?” he asked out loud, a nervous chuckle escaping him. Maybe it would hurt and he was a massive fool. Shadow looked about as convinced as he felt. Still, he tried to smile. Nerves made it hard to do so. “Give me your hand.”
His hand was trembling when he finally managed to wrench it free from his iron grip on the axe. He looked so unsure, physically preparing to pull his hand away the second he could tell it damaged him. There was nothing but doubt in his dull, purple eye. “This is a bad idea.”
“I know,” Viking replied, but grabbed onto his hesitantly outstretched hand anyways. He waited, a moment, two moments.
His hands did not turn black. They also didn’t start burning or stinging in pain. Hope flared in his chest. They both frowned at where they were loosely holding hands, in confusion, before he let out a huff of a laugh and Shadow joined him.
“I guess I’m dead enough not to be affected by the wither, huh?” And, really, that shouldn’t have brought as much joy to either of their faces as it did. Being undead was generally considered pretty bad and both of them could attest. But now?
Shadow grabbed onto his hand a little tighter, and it twitched in his hold, face settling into a more serious one that was entirely a facade to try and hide what he really felt. “I guess so,” he replied, unable to look away from their hands.
Whatever quip or tease was forming on Viking’s tongue died at the expression he wore. He knew this wasn’t the time — kudos to him, if Legundo ever heard of this. When he gave back the gloves, wordlessly, he watched the other tremble as he took them.
“When is the last time-” he paused, unsure how to finish the sentence. How did one ask something like this? When was the last time Shadow got any decent physical contact? When was the last time he’d gotten a hug? The others avoided touching him like he had the plague, which, well, it was fair. But it wasn’t fair to Shadow himself. It brought a bitter taste to his tongue.
The other still didn’t look at him, and he bit at his lip. “It’s been a while,” he admitted quietly, like it was something to be embarrassed about.
“Shadow …” He shook his head. Reaching out his other hand, he let it hover over his shoulder. “Can I- ?” And if the whole evening was gonna be filled with half-spoken questions and confessions, that would be just fine by him. They didn’t need to talk about it to actually talk about it. Seeing the look on his face, Shadow had to be thinking the same.
He just got a nod in return. It was all he needed to not only grab onto him a little more firmly, but to pull him into a hug as well.
For a moment, Shadow froze. Viking feared he’d gone too far, but then, slowly, though desperately, those claws dug into his hoodie. A weight seemed to fall off his shoulders as he leaned into him, burying his face in his shoulder. He couldn’t exactly call it warm, when he couldn’t tell if Shadow was actually warm, but something inside of him definitely melted a little. He gladly held onto him, patting him on the back. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t needed one of these too, his ghosty self didn’t appeal much to the others either.
Neither of them could get themselves to talk. Not that any words were needed, nor did they know how to say what they’d want to say. Viking just held on a little tighter, trying to swallow the overwhelming feelings down. Shadow wasn’t scared of him.
When they finally broke apart, after a long while, there was an understanding between them. A thankfulness, some kind of promise hard to get into words. Shadow’s eye shone with tears that Viking couldn’t help but wipe away the moment they fell, despite the fact that liquids always felt so weird on his skin.
“You should come over to my base sometime,” he said to finally break the silence. “We can hang out, I could show you around.”
Shadow cleared his throat and nodded. “Yeah, that’s-” still, his voice broke. “That sounds fun.” At least his smile was genuine.
The moment was gone when someone called out to Shadow. The both of them jumped, looking towards the house to realise it was Sneve. Viking tried not to let his smile freeze when Shadow pulled his gloves back on. He hated it.
“I’ll see you around spawn then, at the graveyard, ” he grinned, turning just as Shadow sent him an alarmed frown. Then he left, towards the nether portal, quietly wondering if he’d ever have the guts to ask any other player for a hug. Probably not, only Shadow would understand him.
Things felt … wrong.
Now, Viking was used to things feeling wrong, it was his whole vibe after all. He had a haunted pumpkin patch, wrote his friends’ names on gravestones for fun, scared everyone on a daily basis at least twice. But this? This was in every sense of the word wrong.
The usually chipper sound of Otherside did nothing but show how empty his house still was. It played through the walls from the outside, distantly, faintly, and it seemed almost like nothing filled this house even with him walking around inside of it. He trailed his hand over his piano, barely touching its surface.
Nothing was happening. Why did he still feel so uneasy?
Scoffing, he sank through the floor and walls and dropped in front of his window. Outside, the jukebox sat innocently in the snow. He glared at it, clenching his fists and pushing his face up even more against the window. He didn’t like this one bit. Sure, he was trying to summon Shadow, if that was even possible, but that didn’t mean the whole world had to try and suffocate him where he stood. Even as a ghost that didn’t need to breathe, it seemed the weight of the sky wanted only to crush him.
Sudden hands on him had him screaming. He phased through the wall, turning on his heel as he did so. He jumped back out a couple blocks further, and scrambled to grab any kind of weapon. He looked over his shoulder, catching sight of four completely black figures.
Viking tumbled back out of his house before he knew it. Nearly slipping in the snow and twitching at the crisp air, he took a moment to recompose himself. Right. Sword, axe. He forced out a laugh. Four mobs, he could take that.
He jumped back through the wall and quickly assessed the danger. Three of them were bunched up in a corner, the last heading for the stairs. He tried not to linger on what they were. He’d had time enough before to take a look at these humanoid beings; skin dark as the void, robes the same colour, sometimes bearing claws, other times bearing wings, limbs broken and punctured like they’d been chewed on by something massive.
“Hello there, friends!” he said, happy as ever, as he jumped towards the one by the stairs. “Get … out … of … here!” Punctuating every word with a swing of his sword, he managed to cut down the first with relative ease.
The remaining ones swarmed him then, and as much as he could bat off one mob, three were just a little too much for his liking. As their claws grazed his body, a haze fell over the world; a darkness he couldn’t blink through. The figures blended in almost perfectly. Cramped up in this corner, he thought he would be trampled — he wasn’t quite claustrophobic, but like this, it seemed they were everywhere. So, after one last swipe, he ran and phased half through the wall half through the creatures themselves.
Otherside rang in his ears, echoed through the house. He huffed out a laugh and turned around to stab the closest mob in the guts. “Otherside! The perfect background battle music!”
More mobs grabbed at him from behind, and he yelped. Trying to shake off their hands, claws and whatever else they had, he shivered and backed up. “There’s more of them?” he yelled to no one in particular, eyes flicking between all of them to take in how many there were. These stupid things made no sound at all. The only thing that could give their presence away were their clumsy footsteps. Other than that, everyone just had to be lucky enough to notice them or the black smoke drifting from their shoulders into the air.
It took him no time at all to realise there were way too many. If he didn’t watch out, they’d overwhelm him in a heartbeat.
So, laughing, he jumped up into the wall and dragged his way up. “Why are there so many of them?” he asked no one in particular. The mobs tried to follow, for just a second, but slowed to a stop pretty quickly when they couldn’t see him anymore. He would have to be careful about this. He would jab at them when he could, and use his intangibility to his advantage.
When they’d all wandered off a little, he jumped back down. “Alright, get over here!” A manic grin painted his lips. At least it was a challenge. He hadn’t had the excuse for a good fight in a little while.
The mobs all turned to face him, but the closest had no chance at defence as he cut across its back with ease. He bared his teeth at the others, which all formed a neat line just for him. With not three slices of his blade, the group thinned out significantly. He could deal with them easily enough, by sinking through the floor just a little to get out of reach of their grabby hands, and finished off the last one by freeing its head from its shoulders.
He slumped a little, and let his head fall back on his shoulders. If he could heave for air he would. Instead there was just a dull ache with no obvious source — ghost bodies were weird, man.
But he didn’t get long to rest. Right by his front door, new mobs spawned, locking onto him in an instant, forcing him to raise his sword again from where the tip was resting on the floor. He groaned, voice lowering a pitch in annoyance. “Why are there so many of them?”
He dodged and swiped at the eight that ran straight for him. He danced through the living room, shouting nonsense, laughing at their evaporating bodies when they fell, and climbing his way through walls to escape their greedy claws. If he could sweat, he’d be drenched from the effort of clearing them out and surviving. But there was just the pain in his limbs that he’d learned to associate with exhaustion.
“Do you guys like the music? I think you like the music.” He punched another in the face, without a flinch at the sound of its jaw shattering, and backed off into the living room. With the darkness affecting his eyes, he couldn’t tell how many there were left.
It dissipated enough to notice when the door was kicked in and Shadow barged in, a heavy broadsword in his hand.
“Shadow?” escaped him, voice breaking as he stumbled backwards, fell straight through the wall and landed in the snow outside his house. He could only stare at the wall for a second, eyes wide.
He was back. A shimmer of hope surged through Viking, forced him back onto his feet. Shadow was back!
Jumping back through the wall, he ran towards the door to hopefully slam it back shut — though it wouldn’t do anything against the mobs spawning inside of his house. “Hey, Shadow!” A nervousness coloured his voice. He laughed, the fear bleeding right through. He’d heard the stories, he knew what the other had been doing. “Hey Shadow- hey! What’s- what’s up, man?”
All the hope he’d been too stubborn to let go of finally slipped from his translucent fingers when the man in question turned to face him. His whole body was tense, ready to fight. A focussed frown sat on his face, lips pursed and unmoving like they’d been stitched together — he didn’t want to check, because wasn’t that a horrifying thought? There was no recognition in that ominously glowing eye of his.
Before Shadow could storm at him with that dangerously glinting sword of his, another mob jumped him. Viking screeched, sinking through the floor pulling himself through the wood and stone to get down under his base and then back up again. Through the blocks, he could make out the other trying to follow him down on the spiral staircase.
He held his own sword tightly, following him down without showing himself. Maybe he needed to knock him down a peg. Maybe he needed to be taken down so he’d finally give some sort of explanation for all of … this.
At that thought, the grin came right back to show those sharp fangs of his. “Above you!” Dropping down from the ceiling, he struck Shadow across his back and hopped back into the stone. It merely deflected off the highly enchanted armour. He didn’t even flinch, dangit.
“What’s up, Shadow?” he said with a gleeful sneer as he swiped the sword across his armour and backed off through the wall again. Once again, it did nothing but create some sparks not unlike a struck flint and steel.
The third time he hopped out of the wall, Shadow was prepared. He turned on his heel the moment he appeared, ignored the attack like it was nothing and reached after him when he tried to escape. Gloveless, razor-sharp claws dug into an armourless spot on his arm to stop him from running. It tore a scream from his throat as he was yanked back, all the momentum he had turning against him as those claws tore through phantom skin and muscle.
Shadow’s grip was clumsy and he couldn’t hold on, but when Viking tried to pull his arm to his chest, in the safety of the wall, it simply … refused to pass through.
He let out another scream, turning his eyes to his arm in pure horror. Where he’d been clawed, his skin was black and eroding, veins that didn’t carry blood anymore turning as dark as the night. Trying to turn his arm intangible only helped to send violent waves of pain to his head, vision instantly blurry with white-hot, searing agony.
Shadow recovered quicker than him. Seeing his inability to pass through the wall, he seized him by the wrist and yanked the rest of him back out. In a move that was both beastlike and calculated, he ripped the parts of his armour off that should’ve protected his shoulders and neck.
When he was thrown against the wall those claws scraped against his skin. It tore him open, forced another part him back into tangibility, left him biting down on his tongue to stop him from screaming out. Drops of wither so condensed it had turned into a liquid seeped into his armour.
During this all, Shadow’s expression wasn’t angry, or excited, or anything one could expect from someone doing this. Instead it was a void, emotionlessness to where he almost looked bored.
From this close up, Viking had no choice but to look into his eye. It glowed a violent purple. Where one would expect a pupil, the crescent shape of a moon sat, the same shape as the one in the sky outside and just as blood red. It was the most obvious proof that Shadow was no longer himself but a part of the hordes that came with blood moons. A mob, a weapon.
“Shadow-” he tried. His throat burned. He’d never felt more alive than he did right then, and he hated it with a passion. It felt like the withering brought him back to life just to kill him all over again.
He’d remembered once how the wither did nothing. Shadow had accidentally nicked him — more than once — and it had been nothing but a slight sting that healed over easily enough. They’d spent countless moments together, often wordless ones where they’d just nap with someone that wasn’t afraid of them. Those were cherished moments they never actually talked about, but both knew the worth of them.
After Shadow disappeared, Viking was left with no one again. But this? This was worse.
Claws wrapped around his throat, ready to rip it apart or slam him against the wall hard enough to knock him out, when Shadow twitched. It was the slightest movement, but something fearful crossed his face. His lips finally parted — Viking didn’t want to look at the wither coating his teeth, which had definitely sharpened — and he let out a shaky exhale. He had to swallow, seemingly looking for something.
“Viking-” he finally managed. The word was forced out, voice rough with disuse.
He could only stare. Was the first time he’d talked since disappearing, since the first blood moon? Despite the pressure on his throat, he leaned forward, ready to jump on any clue Shadow would give him. Anything to solve whatever was going on.
“Help me.”
He froze. Help him? Was he stuck? Was he being mind-controlled? His mouth fell open with questions he couldn’t get out, and he reached his shaking hands up to grab at the arm pressing him into the wall. No living person could’ve stayed this long without breathing, but he was fine, if not for the way his hands darkened immediately to a sickly purple and then actual black.
Before he could say a thing, Shadow’s expression dissipated again. The threat was obvious: this was no longer him.
Viking tried pushing the arm away. He was only successful in agitating him, and he gasped as his head was rammed into the wall, vision turning white for a moment, claws scraping over his face and creating three jagged lines on his cheek that quickly turned black.
He had no time to see him turn around and run. He fell, and he couldn’t even sink through the floor to save himself. No, instead, he felt the sting of the fall course through him as the knees took the brunt of it on the stone floor, his hands catching him as he fell forward. He could only describe the feeling of the world dragging him down as breathlessness.
Still, he pushed himself up with a miserable groan, all those withering burns protesting with every move, and stumbled towards the winding staircase. He couldn’t hear Shadow’s heavy footsteps over the high note in his ears. But he needed to catch up. He couldn’t lose him. Not now, not when he got the first hint to this mystery. Logically, if he could actually think at that moment, he would’ve known he could never catch him on his own. He needed Legundo, Sneve, Taneesha, anyone that might’ve been close by. Like this, he was just going to get his ass kicked again.
He didn’t pride himself on his voice of reason. If the urgency of going after Shadow didn’t, the pain would’ve overridden it easily.
Barging into the wood of the stairs, he tried his hardest to climb up with haste. He wasn’t used to not compensating for sinking through everything. With more effort than he was willing to admit, he ran up and out the door.
And he was barely able to dodge a projectile sent straight for him, slipping on the snow and falling just as it hit the door and exploded. He looked up just in time to see Shadow, hand in the air and a floating skull above it, and he scrambled back to his feet when the skull was thrown his way. This one landed right behind his feet. He screamed, running the other way.
A look back told him that more of the withered mobs had spawned, cluttering into a group as they chased after him, hiding his- his friend from view. His hands trembled as he took his sword in hand and swiped it towards the first mob, more a threat than an attack, but it didn’t flinch.
He fought them off, one by one, being forced further back towards the peak of the mountain. The music was starting to come to a close and it felt too much like it meant something. As if this moment underneath the blood moon would end with the song.
“Shadow!” he tried. But even jumping up didn’t give him a view of the man. Where did he go?
The song finally stopped. It seemed the mobs lost most of their aggression. Viking could slash his way through the remaining ones, wounds throbbing with pain with each movement. When he finally stabbed the last one through the heart, he nearly fell to his knees again. His eyes stung with tears — and wasn’t that a surprise? — as the withering reached up to them. He groaned, trying to blink past them with no success, searching for Shadow.
He was gone. Everyone was gone.
He sagged to the ground anyways. His eyes fell to the disturbed snow. Shadow was gone, in more ways than one. ‘Help me,’ and it had been said to him of all people. Someone Shadow could trust months ago, who was the only one who understood him, who could stand the withering. It was … stupid, unfair.
He needed to find someone. Maybe Joy, to help cure him of this wither. Maybe Legundo was around. He wrapped his arms around himself, biting at his bottom lip in his misery. The tears were blinked away — he wasn’t going to cry, especially not if he was going to see others.
As he forced himself to his feet, the moon stared down at him. He wanted to glare at it, shout at it to explain itself for what it did to Shadow. He couldn’t open his mouth.
Silent in the wake of the mobs, he started his way down the mountain, arms still hugging himself in what he pretended was comfort.