#martyn's last life lore had me by the throat so wrote this to cope! had a lot of fun :)

[unexpectedly-haunted]

martyn goes to hermitcraft season 9 but it would have been great if he knew what hermitcraft was first: the fic

InTheLittleWood-centric oneshot, Ren is also there, 3364 words, no warnings :D

“Please, just explain it to me.”

Surely, after everything that’s happened, everything he’s done for them, they could at least tell him something, anything more-

“No. We don’t think we will.”

The final words of the Shadow ring out in the nothingness, and something swells as everything fades to white.

___

Martyn wakes with a gasp, and his breathing doesn’t steady. He heaves in ragged breaths, wheezing and choking on air. His eyes are screwed shut, he doesn’t want to see, he doesn’t want to know. He’ll be back in that void, or he’ll be in another game, and he can’t handle either of those right now. His robes, robes of the Shadow Alliance, are suddenly too tight, too much, and he grips the fabric with shaking hands. Martyn waits for the voice, for the sound of approaching players, but all he hears is silence. 

As the silence stretches on, with no sound of danger, player or otherwise, he forces himself into some semblance of calm. Slowly, he manages to regain control over his breathing, and he lets himself sit, eyes shut, and rests his head on his knees. His hands unclench from his robes. Eventually though, he tilts his head up, and despite his heart hammering in his throat, Martyn opens his eyes. 

First glance reveals that he is alone, but exposed. He’s sitting, or more like collapsed, on a floor made from oxidised copper, with copper pipes rather than walls supporting a shelter made from trapdoors. Vines thick with glowberries hang from the ceiling providing a soft light, but blocking his view. Furnaces and chests are stacked along one side, with a series of signs next to them- if not obvious from the build, this confirms that there are other players here with him. Who knows who, or where, they are now. He staggers to his feet, gripping one of the pipes to help stand on shaking legs. He squints at the signs, and in the dim light he reads “HERMITS HELPING HERMITS, COMMUNITY RESOURCES.” Which, well. That doesn’t seem like something you’d  find in another death game. Not exactly the most community-minded environments, those.

He becomes aware that head is spinning, and his visions blurrier than he’d like. Pushing past some of the vines, he’s met with the night sky. The moon looms overhead, and its light, while faint, may well be a spotlight. Echoes of furious reprimands ring in his ears, but he shakes his head clear. He needs to check his communicator, see what colour his name is, see who’s here with him, but his pockets are empty. A horrible, hollow feeling rises in his chest, but his frantic searching is to no avail. He’s stranded, cut off from any potential contact or information on an unknown server. He can’t see far in the darkness, and his gaze lands on a bed under the edge of the shelter, covered in simple white sheets. He sways on his feet. You know what, he decides, fuck this. Whatever is going on is future-Martyn’s problem. He’s going to bed.

InTheLittleWood went to sleep. Sweet dreams!

__

When he wakes up, it’s a lot easier than the first time. Exhaustion is still set deep in his bones, but his head feels clearer, and he’s not even dead! He half expected to be killed in his sleep, so it’s quite the pleasant surprise. Martyn knows much better to assume that means he’s safe, but the danger isn’t as immediate as it could be. He sits up, rubbing at bleary eyes before checking for his communicator again. No luck. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. ‘Course it wouldn’t be that easy.

He gets up, and begins rummaging through the chests. Hopefully there’ll be something useful in here, before he starts looking for proper gear. Sleeping unprotected was already a bad enough choice, he can’t go any longer without some form of weapon or armour. The signs described this spawn as a community area, which seems very out of place for another round. The lack of communicator, isolated start, and no knowledge of lives he can understand as a new twist, as the fear, confusion and paranoia surrounding the unknown is something the Shadows would love. But this decorated area? Described as “hermits helping hermits”, whatever that means? It doesn’t fit with that idea at all. Honestly, Martyn wants to go back to bed and sleep for at least a week, but the familiar drive to explore, learn and above all else, survive, is back and burning within him.

The chests are disappointing, but anything is better than nothing. A stone axe, pickaxe and sword slot into his inventory, and he pockets carrots he hopes to turn golden later. A glance into the furnaces reveals a handful of iron ingots, and okay, that’s a little more like it! If he can find some trees, that’ll be a shield and sword in no time. For now, he draws his stone sword, grimacing at how light it is in his hands, and steps through the curtain of vines.

Martyn blinks in the daylight, and his jaw drops at what he sees. There’s so much happening he barely knows where to look- houses and buildings dominate the landscape, giant statues towering above him, and as he turns, he sees what is possibly the largest custom tree known to man. A giant alien perches atop a house, green glass encircling it as though being abducted, with an equally giant archer aiming its bow at the creature. A roof glitters with amethyst nearby a literal poolside mansion, and there’s a cruise ship sitting stationary in the river surrounding the island he stands on. Bridges cross the water, and the ground itself is artfully shaped and moulded, flowers and moss amongst the grass. It’s like nothing he’s ever seen before, far, far beyond anything he’s ever had the reason, time or resources to build. Creations of this scale, so extravagant, unnecessary and unguarded? It’s unthinkable.

His brows furrow as he scans his surroundings. This is the setting of the next round? This place, whatever it is, couldn’t be more different to the last two servers. It’s so clearly lived in, confirming what that sign said- this looks like an actual community. But that doesn’t make any sense, the game being here doesn’t fit with the scraps of information he’d been told. The Shadows have given up on him, but he thought his failures would mean punishment in the next rounds, like starting with less lives or continuously getting cursed, not whatever’s happening here. Unless the Shadows hijacked this existing server, rather than make their own? Maybe they’ve forced the inhabitants of this world to join the games, using this pre-established, broader environment as another change for the new round? It could be meant to make the game last longer, drag it out so the end is even more painful after all the time to form attachments and build tension. Yes, that could be it- Martyn can’t dare assume he’s safe, not when he doesn’t even know how many lives he has. 

Ok, so this place isn’t what he expected. That’s fine! That’s totally fine! He’s a traveler at heart, what’s a little more land to explore? It’s a shame he won’t be able to add any new players to his creeper scare compilation without his communicator, but if he can at least get a sense of the layout, and how far this border goes, that’ll be a win for today. Martyn heads out across one of the bridges, heading for the towering tree- if he can scale that, that’ll be a decent vantage point to start from.

He avoids the main path, ducking from behind one flowering bush to another. He makes his way to the entrance without seeing anyone, and takes the opportunity to hack some wood off the base of the trunk. Quickly making a bench, he rushes to craft a shield, thankfully having enough iron to make a sword and pick too. It’s not much, especially without armour, but it’s better than before. Hefting the shield in one hand, his new sword in the other, he decides to sneak around inside, see if there’s anything inside worth stealing.

__

From the top of the tree, he had a good view. He’s got a decent mental map now, marking out the different buildings and bridges between each, but there’s still so much he doesn’t know, like where the border is. From that height, he’d been sure he’d be able to see at least a corner, but no. Nothing! If the other servers felt claustrophobic, this one feels far too big, too exposed. If he’s going to try exploring someplace this size, he needs armour first, hence: mining. His arms already ache, but he can’t stop. He raises his pick and strikes again, stone crumbling at the impact.

The monotonous work completely fails to distract him. His mind is buzzing with questions and half formed plans. Martyn needs to know how many players there are, if there are new players from this world, how many lives everyone has, how many lives he has. He’s especially stuck on where everyone else is. Even assuming this world is much larger than the previous two, it’s odd he hasn’t run into anyone yet. He has no way of knowing who’s here, where the others are, if any new alliances have been formed. Still, he doesn’t want anyone to find him underprepared, so maybe it’s for the best? All he can do is keep swinging, until he finds a cave, or hits a vein. 

(“And then I said, well it’s funny you should ask Grian, because I’ve been hiding my diamonds right here!” 

Martyn smiles as Mumbo fights to talk through laughter.

“And we keep going, for ages,” Grian adds on, his face still flushed. “Until eventually Mumbo digs a line without saying it, and you’ll never guess what he found! The one time he didn’t say it!”

“My diamonds!” They both cry as Mumbo pulls the precious stones from his suit pocket, and the Southlanders laugh with them.)

His pickaxe cracks, wood splintering in his hands. He crafts another one.

__

Martyn emerges from the mines a day later, with tired eyes and hands blistered and bleeding, but a diamond sword gleams in the morning sun, as does his chestplate. He only has iron for his legs and boots, but a sudden terror of being hunted through narrow, underground tunnels had struck him in sleepless delirium- ahem. He got a bit tired, and decided he had enough already. Anyway! Now slightly more geared up and at least somewhat armed, his next goal is enchanting. There’s still a lot to explore, and if he can find someone or somewhere with an enchanting setup while he’s looking, that’ll be two birds with one stone.

He’s squinting in the daylight after the darkness of the mines, hand raised to shield his eyes. Damn, he wishes he had sunglasses right now. He remembers Ren giving him a spare pair back in Third Life, all the better to plan a heist with. Such a shame he hadn’t been able to act out most of his plans there, and the one heist he did pull hadn’t worked as he’d hoped- if Joel hadn’t lingered breeding extra cows they surely would’ve gotten away scot free! And Scott free! Martyn grins at his wordplay, but the smile falls when there’s no one around to hear it. God, he’s already far too sentimental for early game, that’s not good. Especially if the others have already started alliances, he might have to be the loner this season, full Joel-and-his-ridiculous-number-of-dogs style.

His thoughts are interrupted by a shout from across the spawn island. Summoning his shield to hand, he scans the landscape- has he been spotted by someone, or is it a group? 

A shout again, louder this time- the person must be getting closer, but where are they? Invisible, maybe? They must have seen him.

“Martyn!!” 

Martyn is tackled from behind, the shock of it sending him and his attacker sprawling to the ground. He’s about to swing when he realises- he’s not being attacked, but very aggressively hugged. What?

“Sorry dude, didn’t mean to knock you over!” The person- Ren?!- rolls off him, quickly standing and holding out a hand. “It’s just so good to see you again!”

Martyn, dazed and more than a little confused, takes his hand instinctively and is helped to his feet. Soon as he’s up, he’s swept into another hug, Ren actually managing to pick him up and spin him round.

Once he’s set down, he staggers back a little, trying to regain balance and an understanding of literally anything that’s going on here. 

“Ren,” he begins, but words escape him as Ren outright beams at him, tail wagging furiously. 

Why in the world is he so happy to see him? They were trying to kill each other in the finale of last round, their Shadow Alliance abandoned, but here he is, greeting Martyn like an old friend.

“How’ve you been?” He manages, the words clumsy on his tongue. This interaction already feels wildly off balance, like there’s something he’s missing. He feels like he should be reacting differently somehow, but he has no idea what or why.

“Great!” Ren answers, thankfully not off put at all, “I’ve just been to visit my family, and it was wonderful to see them again! Still, always good to be back on the server, especially when I’ve got so many plans. And now you’re here! What a surprise, I wish I’d been able to prepare! Ooh, I’ll have to show you Gigapies, and the mooshroom island, give you a proper tour- ”

“Ren,” Martyn says again, trying valiantly to pretend his worldview isn’t rapidly collapsing around him. “What in the world are you talking about? You went to see your family, you- you had a holiday!?”

“Um, yes? Dude, I know I can get carried away sometimes but I do take breaks!”

Is he hallucinating right now? Is that what this is, some kind of fever dream?

“How do you take breaks during a death game?” He says, throwing his hands up. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?!”

Ren’s mouth shuts with an audible click. Martyn can’t see his eyes behind the tinted lenses, but he can feel the weight of his stare.

“Wait,” Ren says, ears flicking down to press against his head. “Wait, Martyn, what do you think this server is?”

“It’s the next round of Last Life? Or whatever it’s called this time, I haven’t actually run into anybody else yet.”

“Oh dude,” Ren says, “No, it’s not. This is Hermitcraft, I’m sure I’ve told you about it?”

Hermitcraft? Like Hermits, on that sign?

“It’s not like either of those worlds, we’re safe here, it’s infinite lives and everything-”

“Infinite lives?” He interrupts, suspicion rising like bile. “Ren, what? If this is a trick, you’re on my list when I go red.”

“No, I’m being honest, swear! Haven’t you seen your comms? Our names aren’t coloured, and you can see all our deaths, way more than three or six!”

Martyn shakes his head. “Lost my comm between worlds.”

“Mkay.” Ren sighs, “Well, can’t blame you for being sceptical, jeez.”

A pause. Martyn can’t bring himself to believe something so- so monumental, not just like that, not on words alone, but the idea that Ren would tell him such a bold and dangerous lie doesn’t sit right. Ren seems at a loss as to how to continue. Then, an odd expression crosses his face.

It sometimes feels like years since Third Life, but right now it might’ve been yesterday, because Martyn recognises that look. The crease of his eyebrows, the set to his jaw, speaks to apprehension, stubbornness, and a refusal to admit fear despite it being warranted. To be blunt, it means Ren’s about to do something stupid and he knows it.

‘I’ve got an idea,” he says, “I think I can prove to you that Hermitcraft is- that’s it’s safe, but you’ve got to hear me out, alright?”

“Right,” Martyn says slowly, “But I mean it Ren, if this is some kind of joke, you’ll be my first target.”

“Hearing you loud and clear, dude,” Ren smiles, tense. “So, my idea is, how about I die? I can do it myself, or you can kill me, but either way, you’ll see how different respawn is here. I’ll be completely unaffected, and I can die again, as many times as you want. How’s that?”

He’s stunned into silence. Ren’s offering to die for him, as many times as he wants? That’s not an offer to make lightly. But what if it’s a trick, and he’s on yellow now?

“Only if you can give me some assurance that if you go to red, you won’t kill me. I want a no kill pass.”

Ren pulls a pen and paper from his back pocket, and scrawls something on it before handing it to him.

It reads “Rendog’s Certified No Kill Pass! 100% legit, no take-backs :D”

“Huh,” Martyn says, “Yeah, that’ll do it.”

“So, um, the me-dying thing? Like, I can shoot up and sort of catch the arrows, or go drown maybe, but it would be quicker and probably less painful if you did it, so would you mind? I can give you my sword to make it easier, it’s fully enchanted.”

Does Ren have some kind of complex? Seriously, what is with this guy? At least it’s not an axe this time, he supposes.

Martyn takes the sword offered, and they both carefully avoid eye contact. It’s another bright and sunny day, but for a moment, he feels a phantom winter chill.

He adjusts his grip on the weapon, taking a second to check the enchantments, and damn; Martyn knew he was a skilled enchanter, but this is stunning, deadly work. And he’s going to decapitate Ren with it, because that’s just how his day is going, apparently. 

“You sure about this?” 

“Yup! Try and make it quick, the waiting is sorta stressing me out-”

Martyn swings.

Ren’s body evaporates, golden green orbs left floating where he’d stood. 

That- that is different. He blinks away the image of a bloodied corpse, staining the snow red at the steps of an altar.

The sword is clean. 

Still, he holds it defensively, shield raised. He’s got the pass, ink still wet on the page. Corpse or not, Ren has just lost a life. Will this pass actually save him if he comes back red?

The vines at spawn rustle, and Ren steps out, jogging over with a wave. 

“Nice one, that was a good clean kill! Barely even felt it. And look, no changes, see?”

He does a little spin to prove his point. 

“Also! No scar, not even a scratch.”

He tilts his head up, exposing his neck, and Martyn steps forward. He could use this chance to kill him again, but he can’t find a reason to. The skin on Ren’s neck is clear, no mottled scar tissue, no angry red inflammation. Nothing, just like he’d said. 

“Take your glasses off?” He asks, cursing himself for not checking his eyes earlier.

Ren flicks them up onto his head, and clear blue eyes meet Martyn’s. No trace of green, yellow or red, not a rim of colour or flicker of light. Just blue. 

Okay. Okay. So, the evidence. Much larger server, pre-established and definitely lived on. Out of character and strikingly different to previous rounds. Large and elaborate building projects not possible in a game environment. Sign by an apparent community resources area, hermits helping hermits. Ren said this place was called Hermitcraft. Death is different, apparently casual, painless, and without lasting impact. Eyes clear- no indication of a limited life system. Ren. Excited to see him, unafraid. Vacation, seeing family? Not trapped. Safe. Free.

Martyn breathes in, breathes out. 

“You know what? Sure, I believe you. Do you have somewhere I could crash?”

He sheaths the sword, and lets Ren take him by the hand.

#ghost writing #inthelittlewood #rendog #hermitcraft #last life smp #fanfiction #martyn's last life lore had me by the throat so wrote this to cope! had a lot of fun :)