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“If you could just send me an RSVP as soon as possible, that would be great,” Mumbo explained, gesturing to the invitation in Pearl’s hand. “I need to figure out how many seats you save, you know the drill.”
“And–” Pearl is paler than any person should be. Her freckles stand out like splashes of ink against her paper white skin, that usual rosy cheer drained from her face. “And, this is an invite for what, exactly?”
“My funeral, of course!”
Hermitcraft Season 10 will be coming to an end soon, and – with the full shock of white hair that Mumbo is now rocking – that means it’s almost time to immortalise himself in the robotic shell he has built on the cliff above his town. It’s exciting, the prospect of living forever in such a wonderful place.
At first, when Mumbo started suddenly greying with no obvious cause, the concept scared him. But he’s had time to get used to it; time to finish his town and fall even more deeply in love with it; time to build himself an amazing, robotic body to inhabit. Mumbo is far more excited than he expected, he wants the end of the season to arrive now, but there’s still work to be done on it all.
Maybe that’s why the idea of holding a funeral was so appealing. It kept him in contact with the Hermits while he chugged along on completing M.I.N.D’s research and installing a way for his robotic self to interact with the others. Plus, it sounded like a pretty great time! What a hilarious way to play into all of this crazy ageing stuff he has going on – it’s totally different from any party Mumbo has held in the past!
That doesn’t explain why Pearl looks so nauseous as he stands on her doorstep, though.
She looks as though she could collapse, so shaky and pale that Mumbo worries he might need to catch her at a moment’s notice – he’s not too sure that he has the strength for something like that anymore, and his balance isn’t what it used to be. Pearl stares down at the invitation in her hands almost listlessly, her glazed eyes scanning over the black and grey invite like it contained something truly grotesque.
Maybe she doesn’t want to come? Maybe she just isn’t a fan of the design…?
“Uh,” Mumbo shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. “I worked quite hard on the invite, I thought that it… well, you know I’ve been big into my graphic design this season, and–”
“It’s not that,” Pearl interrupts him.
“... Then, what is it?”
Pearl opens and closes her mouth wordlessly, her expression pinched. Her eyes rove over him with such intensity, taking in every new line on his face and the growing looseness of Mumbo’s suit. It’s uncomfortable, standing there under such an intense gaze, but Mumbo gets the impression that disappearing right now would probably be a bad move.
Instead, he prompts, “... Pearl?”
She shudders with a quick breath, then nods. “I’ll be there.”
—
“Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…” Mumbo counts out the chairs that he has set up so far.
The chosen location for his funeral is the flat of slightly-polluted grass next to the Surplus Corp factory. It felt fitting, when he was umming and ahing over potential spots. He’d been so proud of the building when he finished it, completely taken by the towering smokestacks and giant fans. The whole area was perfectly industrial, with the soothing noise of redstone clicking in the background as farms chugged away inside.
The funeral was still almost a week away, but Mumbo had been too excited about the festivities – about living forever in his perfect, idyllic town – to do nothing. Everyone else was getting ready for the end of the season as well, it’s just that his ending looked a little different.
There were still a few invites to hand out too. Mumbo hasn’t been too fussy about catching everyone online to invite them in-person, but delivering to the base of every active Hermit took a big toll on his aging body. It was a struggle just to fly to the shopping district and back, visiting every base in a day was impossible. He’d decided to just take it slow, giving himself plenty of time to see everybody before the big day, and – who knows! Maybe some of the Hermits he hadn’t visited yet would have heard via word-of-mouth anyway.
There’s been some hubbub about the funeral, and Mumbo just hopes everyone is as excited for it as he is.
“Right,” he groans, running a hand through his silver hair. “Break time, I reckon.”
With a sigh, Mumbo settles into one of the seats, and turns to look at his glorious town on the other side of the river. It’s beautiful; so full of colour and life. The vibrant buildings and big personalities fill the town with warmth, a tight-knit community that Mumbo can’t wait to be a part of. It’s so quaint and picturesque and…
A little lonely, from this side of the river.
All of that life, all of that joy, it’s just out of reach. The bustling individuals manning their shops and enjoying the sunny day from the other side of the river… he can’t make out their expressions. He can’t hear their chatter or take part in their friendships.
Mumbo feels strangely... out of touch, like this. Too far away from the people he adores to be connected to them.
His body aches, plagued by new, constant pains that won’t ease no matter what he does. Mumbo can barely even get comfortable anymore, too thin and bony to enjoy sitting or standing or… anything much at all. He’s cold and frail and his balance is absolutely shot.
It’s definitely approaching time to move on. Time to become something better, easier.
Maybe, after M.I.N.D puts his consciousness into the robot, Mumbo will feel closer to his loved ones. Maybe they’ll visit, and he won’t be alone.
A shiver clambers up his spine as Mumbo sits in the shadow of the Surplus factory. It’s so cold over here, grey and shaded in comparison to the warm community across the river. His back aches, his hips creak.
Mumbo wonders, sitting as he is in a chair prepared for his upcoming funeral, whether the procedure will give him what he wants.
—
Writing your own eulogy is a strange thing.
Mumbo has been sitting at his desk for almost an hour now, jotting down ideas and then tossing them out. It’s the most stuck he’s felt throughout this whole process, struggling against the wicked tides of creativity as he reaches for words, only for them to float in the opposite direction.
Mumbo’s hand tremors as he writes, straining a bit pathetically to hold the pen. His vision is blurry too, in a way that it never was before, and he finds himself wondering if he needs glasses now. He can hardly reread the things that he writes, after all. The ink turns fuzzy on the page, spilling out in thick, indistinguishable lines like tar.
But despite it all, he’s too tired to leave his base today. So Mumbo is determined to write his eulogy.
“Dear Hermits,” he squints at the chicken-scratch writing before him, “We are gathered here today…”
He trails off. Mumbo can practically hear Scar finishing that sentence with ‘in holy matrimony!’
He might have to fall back on a punchline like that if he can’t figure out something else to say, and soon.
With a groan, Mumbo slumps backward in his chair. He rubs his eyes, cursing at the beginnings of a headache lurking just out of reach. Why is this so difficult? It’s not like it’s a big deal, he’s only writing it for fun! Mumbo only came up with the idea to hold a funeral because he thought it would be a funny bit for everyone to get involved in; a final hurrah as the Hermits said goodbye to the season and Mumbo welcomed his new body.
It’s just… odd to be working on a project like this. He tries not to let it get to him, but Mumbo was never supposed to age as quickly as he has. He wasn’t supposed to be so young and so old all at once, a spiralling contradiction that no one had been able to anticipate. Watching himself age, the M.I.N.D research into successful consciousness transfer, all of this… it’s a weird thing to come to terms with.
“Immorality,” he reminds himself. “Watching over your perfect town for the rest of time. Isn’t that what you want? Just…” Mumbo pauses as the words swim together on the page. “Just write the damn speech.”
Insecurity niggles at him, even so. It’s all well and good to have forever, but what if the Hermits don’t want to spend it with him? What if they don't visit him, once the season is done? What if they get too busy to check up on him?
He shakes his head, trying to banish the thought.
What a ridiculous worry! One so spoon-like and impossible that only Mumbo is certain he’s the only person to bother fretting over it! His friends will come to see him, of course they will. They wouldn’t leave him alone here, not knowing that he’ll never get to leave again…
Mumbo just needs to finish this stupid eulogy, and then everything will be okay.
…
God, what do people even say at funerals? Particularly… what do they say at their own?
Maybe he should just give up, or make the stupid marriage joke that he is certain Scar would, if given the chance.
Or maybe… he should give Scar the chance. Or, well, maybe not Scar specifically. But another Hermit!
They could write their speeches together! Mumbo could invite one of his guests to work on the project simultaneously, to make it easier for the both of them! That way, he’d have someone to bounce his ideas off of, and they could work out the details together! It’s so perfect that Mumbo can hardly believe that he didn’t think of it earlier.
Besides, he wants as much time with the Hermits as he possibly can. He needs to be close to them, to touch them and hold them for every second that he has left.
With a satisfied sigh, Mumbo sets down the pen once again. He’ll ask someone to work on this with him soon, but first… the headache isn’t just looming anymore, it’s blooming behind his eyes with a vengeance.
Mumbo turns off his desk lamp, plunging the room into cool darkness.
He really should invest in some glasses.
—
Mumbo is working on the blueprints for a letter display when Xisuma stops by.
He’s been at it for hours, trying to work out the best way that he might be able to interact with visiting Hermits in his new robot body. At first, Mumbo had chosen to make a seven segment display, but– no, surely that’s not the best way to go about it… what about a–
Fireworks overhead are the only warning he gets before Xisuma is swooping down over his town, landing with a grunt just a few metres away. He’s wearing his usual green and grey armour, a tough shell that everyone knows contains a soft interior. His visor glints in the sun, and Mumbo has to avert his eyes for a moment, until Xisuma turns and the dazzling light fades away.
“Mumbo!” Xisuma calls, waving at the taller man.
“Hiya, X,” Mumbo greets. “How are you doing?”
The admin nods politely, standing beside the little table Mumbo had set up with an awkward shuffle. “Alright, my friend. How are you?”
“Good as I can be,” Mumbo shrugs.
He knows that he’s a bit of a sight at the moment, with sagging skin and thinning hair. His once-glorious moustache is beginning to fail him, turning wispy and patchy as time takes its toll. Still, he’s feeling alright today. The usual aches and pains are still present, of course, but they aren’t bad enough to be at the forefront of Mumbo’s mind, at least.
“Ah,” Xisuma replies, “Yes, of course.”
He looks terribly out of place, uncomfortably shifting from side to side. Mumbo’s eyes narrow curiously.
“And… how can I help you today?” He prods, suddenly certain that Xisuma has come here with a motive greater than company.
“I–” Xisuma cuts himself off, clearing his throat and turning away briefly. The light flashes Mumbo’s eyes again, dazzling him as Xisuma bumbles in place. “Is there somewhere we can sit together?” He asks.
“Oh, uh– yes, follow me.”
Slowly, as is Mumbo’s default these days, the pair make their way toward the cliff edge in the town centre. A couple of camping chairs are set up in the lush grass, looking out towards the river and beyond. Mumbo wheezes as he takes a seat, and Xisuma stands by his side to help him down. Once Mumbo is settled, a sigh of relief escaping him as he gets off his feet, Xisuma carefully perches in the chair beside him.
“Right,” Mumbo grunts, “What’s this, then?”
“Mumbo, I– I wanted to ask…” Xisuma takes a breath, still just as stiff as before. His shoulders are practically by his ears, nerves radiating off of him in frantic waves.
Mumbo finds himself sucking in a nervous breath, his heart hammering in his chest. He feels vaguely cornered, like Xisuma has him pinned in place with something far more physical than his worried gaze.
Then, Xisuma says: “Are you sure about all of this?”
“... Huh?” Mumbo replies, dumbly.
That isn’t what Mumbo had been expecting in the slightest. His anxious brain had been running through narratives of a cancelled funeral, an early end to the season, or some other horribly calamitous thing.
But– is he sure about dying? Staying here?
Mumbo almost laughs as the admin’s words settle into his chest, the– the whole thing just feels so absurd! Of course he’s sure, and– and even if he wasn’t, what choice does he have? Wither away to dust or live, eternally, in his perfect town? It isn’t much of a competition.
Still, Xisuma keeps talking.
“I just… I’ve been doing research this whole time, you know that, and I found that this is– is most likely a shapeshifter trait, manifesting incorrectly. Maybe we can repair it in your code, or– or we can contact an expert to get a second opinion…” He pauses for a second, slightly breathless. “You could come with us to Season 11, Mumbo. Maybe… maybe you don’t have to stay here.”
Xisuma’s words settle like acid in his gut. They burn a hole through his body, dripping further down down down and leaving Mumbo absolutely floored. They ring like a gunshot in his head, rattling around with enough force to almost make him double over.
How on earth is Mumbo supposed to respond to that?
Emotions buzz like radio static in his chest, every switch of the channel bringing a new, visceral response to the forefront. These conflicting feelings bang against his ribcage with unstoppable fists, begging to be free. Mumbo can hardly distinguish them, can’t tell where one ends and another begins; can’t unravel them enough to know where they might be connected. It’s an unknowable flurry that curls around him like a snowstorm, tossing him back and forth with the flick of a wrist.
He’s built a wonderful paradise, somewhere to spend the rest of his existence. He’s built it through months of aching bones and trembling hands and painstakingly slow progress, and it’s come together into something that Mumbo is just so proud of. Leaving it behind, taking this insane, impossible chance that Xisuma seems to think they could reasonably entertain–
It’s gutting.
It’s a knife through the soft belly of a fish, insides spilling out in a single, gushing wave. It’s something that Mumbo does not know how to comprehend, a pain so sharp and betraying that he can hardly summon the strength to look shocked.
“No,” Mumbo says before he even realises he has made a decision. His voice is worn and exhausted, but still firm.
He decided long ago that he will live here forever; immortalised in a grave of his own construction. No one can take that away from him, not when he’s been living under the weight of that conclusion for so many months.
“Mumbo–” Xisuma tries to object.
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“We’ll miss you so much, we can figure something out so that you don’t have to–”
“Xisuma!” Mumbo raises his voice, and the other man falls silent. “I’m getting old, I’m tired. That isn’t something you can fix, as much as I know you want to. Please just… drop it.”
Xisuma looks as though he very much does not want to drop it, and for a moment, Mumbo is worried that he will keep arguing.
“It’s okay,” he tries to reassure the admin instead, “I’ll be just fine. You Hermits will come and visit me, and I’ll be perfectly happy living here, I promise.”
Mumbo watches Xisuma’s face crumble behind his visor. His brows draw together, a jagged pinch between them. His eyes are shiny and wet, exhausted from the sleepless nights he has surely put into his investigation.
With a shivering breath, Mumbo loops an arm over his shoulders, pulling him close. It’s not the most comfortable thing in the world – Xisuma’s armour is all sharp edges and tough shell, and Mumbo’s body is already aching from the day. Still, the admin leans into the gesture.
Xisuma whispers, “I don’t– I don’t want to take that choice away from you. But I can’t just be passive, knowing I might have been able to do something to save you.”
The burden in his voice is clear, a teetering tower of responsibility that Xisuma has been holding up for so long. It feels like a punch in the face, a sudden confrontation with the fact that… the reeling inevitability of Mumbo’s new reality is not just something that Mumbo himself has had to grapple with. But…
“I can’t– I can’t just wither away forever.” Mumbo says. “Besides, I’ll still be here. Nothing has to change, X.”
“What do you…?”
“You’ll still be able to visit me, all of the Hermits will!” Mumbo pulls back from their embrace to smile at his companion. “Plus, I’m working on a contraption that will let me communicate with you all, when you do! Originally it was just going to be a seven-segment display, but now I’ve got plans for something bigger, and it's really quite simple, just–”
Xisuma bolts upright, and Mumbo’s rambling is cut off quite suddenly.
The admin looks at him like Mumbo has just grown a second head; as though he’s taken a bite out of something sour. His entire body is rigid and startled, and he takes a step back as Mumbo gapes.
“I’m sorry,” Xisuma mutters. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Then, he takes off with the whoosh of a rocket. Mumbo watches, stunned silent, as Xisuma flies over the cherry mountain and disappears into the distance.
Loneliness surges like a storm in his chest.
—
The funeral is only two days away, and Mumbo still has a couple of Hermits to invite.
He’d woken up feeling energised this morning, getting out of bed with minimal struggle and preparing to drop in on the final few people throughout the day. He delivered an invitation to Ren first of all, taking a look around the werewolf’s base while he was there. Ren didn’t seem particularly keen to discuss the architectural decisions after being handed his invite, despite Mumbo’s best attempts to catch up, so the visit had ended shortly after.
Now, Mumbo has just taken to the skies in the direction of home when his communicator pings.
He glances down, squinting to read the message. It’s a server-announcement that Grian is back online, followed by a few routine greetings from other active Hermits – nothing momentous, nothing out of the ordinary. Except… Grian has been away for the past few weeks, barely appearing on the server for more than a few moments to grab something. Mumbo isn’t too sure what project he’s working on behind the scenes, but it’s certainly been enough to keep him busy, at least.
All that is to say, Mumbo has missed his best friend. It’s probably been a couple of months since they last hung out properly, and the unexpected time apart has been similar to a gaping hole in his side.
Besides, Mumbo couldn’t bring himself to just abandon a funeral invite at Grian’s base like he has with some of the others. He had wanted to deliver it in-person and ask whether Grian would be interested in working on a eulogy together, and Grian’s time away means he probably won’t have caught wind of the event yet. It’s perfect – if Mumbo swoops in now, then he should be the first one to invite Grian to the party! He can share the exciting news!
Correcting his course to Grian’s base is easy, they barely live a stone’s throw apart. Mumbo quickly spirals down in the centre of Grian’s little fishing village, looking around to try and spot the avian.
It doesn’t take long – Grian’s colourful plumage stands out like a sore thumb, and Mumbo chortles to himself as he watches the avian reach up for something at the top of his storage. His red and blue wings shake behind him, unconsciously mirroring his body language as he shuffles up on his tiptoes for a shulker. It teeters precariously over him, a looming threat that will surely fall directly on Grian’s face if Mumbo doesn’t do something about it.
With a few long strides, the taller man reaches over Grian to pull it down and hand it to him without a word. Grian whirls around, and – instead of some griping comment about not being short, and being perfectly able to reach it on his own – Grian’s wings shoot out behind him like he’s facing a threat. His feathers bristle, and his lips peel back to reveal clenched teeth. Alarm blares in his dark eyes, and Mumbo finds himself stumbling backwards out of instinct.
“Grian?!” Mumbo cries, surprise colouring his words as he desperately searches for his footing.
He watches the colour suddenly drain from Grian’s cheeks, as the avian’s eyes grow wide and razor-sharp. His pointed ears fold down, dipping lower than Mumbo has ever seen as they practically brush against his shoulders.
“M-Mumbo?!” Grian stammers, one hand shooting out to steady his friend. “Wh– is that you?!”
“Who else would it be?!”
Grian’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly as his gaze flickers across Mumbo’s frail form. He looks entirely stunned; uncertain of what to say, how to act..
“Blimey, Grian– you scared the pants off of me! What on earth was that, you spoon?!”
“I don’t… what happened?!” Grian stammers.
Mumbo’s face pinches with confusion. “What happened with what?” He asks, “What are you talking about?!”
There is a beat of silence as Grian’s hand tightens on his arm. Then, “You look… different.”
“Oh.” Mumbo could smack himself for being so blind. Of course his new appearance would throw Grian off, of course it would confuse him. “Well, I suppose I do. Don’t I?”
“Last time I saw you…” Grian trails off, but Mumbo knows just what he means.
Last time they saw each other, Mumbo’s hair was still speckled with streaks of youthful black. His skin didn't sag around his cheeks in quite the same way it does now – like it’s an ill-fitting garment that he missed the opportunity to exchange. Last time they saw each other, Mumbo was just complaining of a few new aches and pains, rather than almost being knocked off-balance by a simple surprise.
Things have progressed far more rapidly than either of them could have expected, and Mumbo can practically see the gears turning in Grian’s mind as he works out just how bad this timeline is.
“You look so different.” Grian gapes. “How did this even happen?”
Awkwardly, Mumbo shrugs. “Uh… time passed us by, I suppose? Not totally sure, to be honest with you.”
“Right.” Grian stares at him warily, his feathers rising and falling rhythmically. “But you’re… fine?”
The worry is a surprise, one that reminds Mumbo just how long it’s been since they’ve properly spoken. Grian hasn’t seen Mumbo’s excitement about his plan, he hasn’t been a part of Mumbo’s anticipation for living here forever. All Grian can see is the sudden change that Mumbo has undergone, a change that has left him frailer than before.
“I’m in tip-top shape, don’t you worry!” He comforts. “I’ll be undergoing the consciousness transfer soon, did you see the cool robot I made?”
Grian sucks in a deep breath, plastering a shaky smile on his face. “Yeah, I saw.”
“Ah! And, that reminds me. I was actually swinging by to invite you to an event I’m organising!”
“An event?” Grian echoes curiously.
“Yes, yes,” Mumbo fetches an invitation from his inventory, and holds it out for the avian to take. “Here you go, have a read!”
“Uh– and this is…?”
Mumbo grins, “It’s an invite to my funeral. I wanted to give it to you in person, to ask if you would speak at the ceremony! It’s just, uh,” he chuckles, “Writing the eulogy has properly stumped me, mate. I thought it could be fun to work on together!”
Really, Mumbo expects Grian to chime in with something about Mumbo not being able to do anything without him, or maybe a joke about Mumbo being the clingy girlfriend this time. Instead, silence answers Mumbo’s words, an unnatural sort of quiet that seems so out of place when Grian is around. The avian stares blankly at the invitation, his hand trembling ever so slightly, and Mumbo is abruptly worried that he’s asking too much.
He backtracks frantically, hands waving in the air like white flags of surrender. “Um, it’s alright if you don’t want to! Maybe I can just get your thoughts on some of the aesthetic decisions, then?
That seems to shock Grian out of his stupor, as his head snaps upwards to stare at Mumbo instead. He chokes, “W-what?”
“Um,” Mumbo stammers, and his hands are suddenly clammy. “Well, it’s nothing much right now, but I’ve got some seats and a stage set up by the factory. It’s a pretty spot for it!”
Grian does not comment, and when Mumbo looks, it’s as if he’s frozen in place. The avian stands stock-still and unblinking, like a rabbit cornered under the shadow of a fox. The quiet rise and fall of his chest is his only movement, the quiet rustling of wheat in the nearby fields is the only sound.
“I was thinking about it, uh. And I wanted to ask,” Mumbo rambles to fill the silence, as Grian’s bottom lip is strung tighter tighter tighter.
One flick and it – he – will snap.
“Do you think it’s too much for me to dig a grave?”
Grian’s shoulders draw back, tense and firm. His feathers prick up like the metal toward a magnet, climbing until Mumbo can make out the pale skin underneath.
“What…?”
“I just don’t want the funeral to feel like it’s missing something, aesthetically.” Mumbo says, and he is barely sure what he’s saying anymore; too desperate to fix the strange air between them. “If the Hermits notice that there isn’t a grave, maybe they’ll feel like there’s something missing and it would throw the whole thing off, so I…”
Grian just stares at him as though he’s someone totally alien; like Mumbo has aged another fifty years in that split-second. The quiet is unbearable, a clawing apprehension that climbs Mumbo’s ankles like a particularly attention-hungry cat. Has he really read the situation wrong enough to upset Grian? Maybe the project he’s been away for is more intense than Mumbo realised, and Grian is going away again before the season ends?
The wind whips up around them, whistling through the wheat and into the village with a shrill cry. The expression on Grian’s face – the encroaching darkness behind his eyes – is unreadable, and Mumbo can hardly stand the uncharacteristic quiet between them. He doesn't know what else to do but prod. And–
Flick.
“Grian? What do you think?”
“... Are you kidding me?”
The avian’s voice is low and grave, filled with an unexpected anger. Mumbo finds himself tensing up in reply.
“Um, is that a no?”
“Mumbo, tell me that you’re joking.” Fury burns through Grian’s tone like a meteor to earth. “You can’t seriously be asking me that. You can’t seriously be asking me to attend your funeral.”
“W-well, why not? I’m inviting everybody, it’s gonna be a lot of fun and I–”
Grian slams the invitation into Mumbo’s chest with all the force of a punch. It leaves the taller man winded, a sharp jab that knocks the air from his lungs and makes him wheeze.
He raises his head to demand some answers – why is Grian acting like this? What the heck was that for?! – but the look on his face is enough to get Mumbo to shut up.
In fact, Mumbo can’t recall a time where he ever saw Grian so wholeheartedly, genuinely furious. Sometimes he plays up being mad at someone for a bit, but this– this is something entirely new. It’s something dangerous.
He screams, “Are you out of your mind? What the hell are you talking about?!”
“Grian–”
“No, shut up! This– this isn’t fun, Mumbo! You need to take this seriously, the fact that you’re dying isn’t a game, or some stupid– bit for us to get involved with!”
Grian storms forward, his wings spread wide and face pressing up towards Mumbo’s own. He is barely a breath away, filling Mumbo’s vision with his anger. Grian’s eyes are wild and dark as he jams his hands against Mumbo’s chest and pushes him back again.
“You’re going to be dead, Mumbo! You– you should see yourself, you look so awful and you’re dying and–” He sucks in a gasp that sounds hollow and reedy, breaths speeding up dangerously fast. “God, you’re so infuriating! Do you seriously think that we’re gonna have a party to celebrate that you’ll– you’ll be dead?”
“Well,” Mumbo babbles uselessly, and he doesn’t know what to do. “I’m… not going to be dead. I’ll be here.”
“You’ll be here.” Grian seethes.
Nodding frantically, Mumbo finds himself uncertain whether he should reach out or run away. Grian has never acted like this with him before, and– and it’s not like Mumbo is wrong, either! The funeral will be fun, it’ll be a celebration of a major moment in all of their lives – with the Hermits moving on to a new season, and Mumbo staying behind.
Plus– also, it’s not like Mumbo will be gone, anyway! He’s going to be immortalised, he’s going to spend the rest of time in his perfect town, watching over the people and taking in the views. He’s going to enjoy paradise, because the alternative is steadily crumbling to dust while his body and mind fail him.
He doesn’t understand Grian’s anger, doesn’t understand his hesitation. None of this is… it isn’t a big deal, it can’t be, because if it is then– then Mumbo doesn’t know how he’s meant to go through with it.
Mumbo stammers, “After— after the procedure, I can live here forever, and you can visit me–”
“You’re such an asshole,” the avian’s eyes narrow into slits, his face pinching uncomfortable. His voice is fiery hot and loaded with vitriol that doesn’t suit him. “I won’t visit at all, not if you keep treating this like– like it’s some joke!”
“You… won’t?”
Maybe the world simply goes silent again at that, or maybe the wind picks up again. It’s difficult to tell as burnt, roiling static floods Mumbo’s ears and a sudden pressure tips him to the side. Through blurry vision, Mumbo watches the ground rise to meet him; a sea of mud and gravel that he can barely feel under his fingers as he goes crashing to the floor.
Grian’s words ache like a picked scab; a rough surface that is yanked away before it is ready, or twisted too far until it tears open again. Those words burn like hot blood pouring from Mumbo’s chest and streaming from his mouth, eating away at his insides until all that is left is hollow and ash.
He won’t visit? Grian really won’t come to see him?
That reality is one that, in all of the unpredictable turmoil of the past few months, hadn’t even crossed Mumbo’s mind. A future where he never sees his best friend again is… insurmountable. It’s the hissing flare of a fire, or the impassable peak of a mountain. It is something that Mumbo is sure he could never return from; a future where he is consumed by a void of loneliness and trapped, facing it forever.
In what world does Mumbo never see Grian again? In what world does Grian choose to stay away?
There are arms around him suddenly, as Mumbo sobs like a wounded animal; something so wild and afraid. He doesn’t want to stay like this, so old and hurt and delicate, but he doesn’t want to be alone either. Grian isn’t going to visit him, so he may as well–
“–so sorry, I didn’t mean that, I’m so sorry–”
A familiar voice cries into his cheek, and there is the outline of a face pressed against the side of Mumbo’s own. Grian’s hair tickles his nose, sandy curls falling into Mumbo’s vision as he cradles the taller man close.
“Come back to me, Mumbo, please. I’m so sorry, that was horrible, I didn’t mean that at all.”
Grian sounds so heartbroken, like his heart is trying to force its way up his throat as he begs Mumbo for forgiveness. He weeps as if he’s grieving, and Mumbo has no idea what to do with something as profound as that.
Warm wings blanket the pair of them, and Mumbo suddenly notices that he’s being held by two strong arms. Grian is doing all of the work keeping him upright, but Mumbo can’t bring himself to pull away.
“I-I don’t want to go,” he cries into Grian’s sweater, and aching as Grian only sobs harder above him. “I don’t want to- to be alone either.”
“I’m so sorry,” the avian wails. “I promise I’ll come and visit you, you’re never getting rid of me. Even when you’re a robot, I’ll be here.”
Mumbo is sure they make a right pair like this, curled together on the dirt floor, sobbing until they run out of tears. His face must be red and puffy, if Grian’s is anything to go by, but Mumbo can hardly bring himself to care. He just wishes things were easy.
Grian sniffles, “I love you so much, Mumbo, you’re my best friend.”
He isn’t certain how long it takes for the pair of them to calm down, but eventually, Grian is trying to coax Mumbo to stand.
He loops an arm around Mumbo’s middle and braces him with a carefully positioned wing. Mumbo has never felt quite so old and frail and confused, struggling to walk on his own and blinking blearily as he tries to make out the path ahead. With the final remnants of tears still occasionally slipping down his cheeks, they stumble towards Grian’s house and into his nest.
Mumbo knows that collapsing into the nest on the floor will be hell on his joints in the morning, but he can’t resist the thrall of the plush pillows and soft blankets. He’s more exhausted than he ever used to get, barely able to hold his eyes open as Grian tucks him in like a child. Mumbo can’t bring himself to complain, he knows he wouldn’t be able to do it on his own.
“Get some rest,” Grian whispers, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll be right here when you wake up. I’m not going anywhere.”
It only takes a few seconds, then Mumbo is out like a light.
—
The funeral is a mournful affair.
Somehow, even with Grian’s rather… explosive reaction, Mumbo didn’t expect it to be quite as dreary as this. He’d wanted a party, a celebration of both the end of the season and this new change in his life. Party games were set up on the grass and finger food decorated the tables, set up for the Hermits to pick at, but all of the festivities still remained untouched.
Glancing around, their little community looks even odder than usual. Some of the Hermits are dressed in black from head to toe, while others are in their normal clothes. It’s like a child playing dress-up, awkwardly sliding into an outfit far too big for them while they work out their role in the game. It’s an event that doesn't quite know what it is, with guests that don't quite understand where they are.
Hermits gather in small groups, each keeping their conversation quiet and unobtrusive, and Mumbo finds himself floundering in the centre of it all; a tiny ship lost at sea, surrounded by inky black waves. He has borrowed a cane from Scar to try and lessen the strain on his struggling muscles, and finds himself leaning on it heavily as he talks to everyone.
Mumbo invites them to play, to dance and let loose and have some fun, but the atmosphere is far too low for anyone to make the first move. No one knows how to act, and Mumbo even spots a few people crying and trying to hide it from him, wiping away silvery tears as they mourn.
This isn't what Mumbo wanted at all.
Dread fills his veins as he steps up onto the stage, tar-heavy and sluggish. A handwritten speech is folded between his hand and the cane, and a pair of brand new glasses glint on Mumbo’s nose – a gift from Doc that had been slid into his breast-pocket when Mumbo dropped off his invitation. He takes a breath, stumbling into place behind the podium, and unfolds the paper that Grian had helped him write.
“Ah, Hermits,” Mumbo wheezes a little into the microphone, trying desperately not to shrink into himself as everybody’s attention turns his way. “T-thank you for coming,” the words sound disingenuous, forced. It does nothing to help with the low energy.
He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a breath to gather himself, before Mumbo looks down at the page and– and all of the words swim together. His practiced speech vanishes from his mind, words flooding away like a dam being opened. An inconvenient moment of brain fog settles in as he stares out at the gathered hermits. His family.
“I–”
Suddenly, Mumbo is wrought by emotions that he did not know were bubbling under the surface.
Every miniscule detail of this moment – the ache in his back, the smooth handle of a cane under his hand, his blurry, fuzzy vision that distorts the features of his loved ones into something nearly unrecognisable – it sharpens. It turns bright and bladed, bundling together until Mumbo can’t spot the beginning or end. The exhaustion of his body, the weakness of his legs and eyes, his age spins into knots; into one giant, terrifying reality that Mumbo does not want to face.
He’s dying. He’s dying.
It’s the first time that Mumbo really feels the need to admit it, faced by the grieving, loving presence of his entire family, and–
“Oh,” he realises with a start that he has begun to cry.
The grave that he had eventually decided to dig – much to Grian’s chagrin – sits empty and looming in the ground beside the stage; haunting the corner of Mumbo’s vision like a ghost. His knees go weak and not even the cane can support him anymore, as he collapses clumsily to the floor with a sob.
Even this leaves him winded. Crying takes so much out of him that he can barely breathe.
It is not the same, blinding panic he felt when confronted by Grian’s refusal to visit him. No, this is months of pent-up anguish, of forced normalcy and bravado as he pretended to have come to terms with his fate. Mumbo cries on the ground like a child, like a ghost haunting his own funeral. He feels breathless and old and tired. So, so tired. The sort of tired that he can not even begin to describe.
“I’m s-so sorry,” he wails, guilty gnawing at his lungs as he weeps pitifully on the floor.
The Hermits shouldn’t have to deal with him breaking down like this, he shouldn’t be making this harder for them than it already is.
“You can go home,” Mumbo wipes his eyes, but new tears quickly replace any dryness. “You don’t– don’t have to be here when I’m like this. But– but–”
Even now, he wants more than anything to have company. Mumbo does not want to be alone. Not now, not ever.
He can’t bring himself to say it, and appear more pathetic than he already does.
There is barely a beat of silence, just a single moment where the over-the-top party music playing in the background can be heard, before a stampede of footsteps is clamboring up the stairs. The Hermits rush to hug him, and Mumbo’s head practically spins as he is suddenly surrounded by a sea of strong arms and comforting voices.
The Hermits hold him close and tight, like he might slip through their fingers if they aren't careful. It honestly feels like that might be the case. He's so thin now, so bony. His suit hardly fits, hanging awkwardly off of his shoulders and pooling around his waist. Mumbo had taken to using a shoelace as a belt these past few weeks, as he lost weight rapidly enough for none of his belts to fit. He's falling apart, turning to dust, and he's just so scared.
Mumbo sobs wetly into someone's shoulders, apologising for ruining the day. For staying here. For growing old.
His family shush his guilt and hold him tightly, whispering comforts to him for as long as he needs.
It is way past sunset when they eventually pull apart.
—
The day that Mumbo dies is uneventful.
The Hermits had established a schedule of caring for him shortly after the funeral, as Mumbo began to struggle with getting out of bed. There would always be someone with him, to help with whatever Mumbo might need.
It feels… scarily like hospice. Like end-of-life care, which remains a daunting, unfathomable concept even now.
His family feed him small spoonfuls of soup or walk with him to the bathroom, and Mumbo appreciates the company, but it’s mortifying to be so incapable… it’s terrifying to need so much help.
His time is coming to an end, and everyone can tell.
More Hermits have been arriving with red-rimmed eyes in the past few days. Many of them look constantly on the verge of tears as they sit vigil by his bedside, and Mumbo knows they are only holding it together so they don't make him any more scared than he already is.
… The day that Mumbo wakes up, opens his eyes and cannot see a thing, he knows it is time.
Etho is the one by his side that morning. He can hear the man humming to himself quietly, as he often does when they’re waiting together. Mumbo can never quite make out what song he sings, but the tune is lovely, nonetheless.
He feels guilty interrupting such a lovely sound, but time truly feels as though it’s of the essence. Now, more than ever.
“Etho,” Mumbo interrupts quietly, and the man in question immediately falls silent.
“Morning.” He says, and Mumbo can hear him stand. “How did you sleep?”
Mumbo grimaces, and whispers a quiet apology. He cannot bring himself to beat around the bush.
“I think it’s time.”
There is a second of pause, and Mumbo mourns the loss of Etho’s peaceful humming. He wishes he could turn back time, he wishes he could have longer than this.
“Time…?” Etho asks, “Oh. Right, time.”
“I… I can’t see. I have to get to the laboratory.”
For a moment, Mumbo worries that Etho will panic or deny him; that he and the Hermits will cling on longer than Mumbo is able as his body steadily shuts down. He wants to stay with them just as desperately, but the window is closing, and Mumbo is not prepared to let his life end.
It’s such an irrational and terrified thought, as Etho considers Mumbos’ words. It’s the fear of a cornered animal, searching for an escape.
Then, Mumbo can hear the rustling of fabric. There is a gloved hand on top of his own.
“Come on,” Etho says softly, “I’ll help you.”
Slowly, gently, Etho pulls down his blankets and gets a hand under the small of Mumbo’s back to help him sit up. Weak and near-immobile, Mumbo follows his lead. It’s slow going, as the pair slowly shuffle across the room. Mumbo can’t help but dwell on the way that Etho handles him – like he’s fragile, breakable. He wishes that he could say it’s demeaning, but really… is that so far from the truth?
Obscured behind the darkness of Mumbo’s failing vision, Etho carefully asks, “Do you want me to call everyone? Let them know that we’re heading to M.I.N.D?”
Maybe it should be a difficult decision. Maybe Mumbo should feel some hesitation about what he says next, but…
“No,” he does not waver as he speaks. “Watching the procedure… it won’t be easy on any of them. I’d- I’d rather they didn’t know.”
Is that cruel? Is that selfish? He’s taking the decision out of their hands but… the vision of his family breaking down beside him as he takes his final breath is just too much to bear. No, Mumbo can’t allow them to face such an awful sight. He needs to protect them, even as the idea of dying without their company aches like an open wound.
“W-would you be able to help me to the lab?” Mumbo asks, “You don’t have to stay, but I… don’t think I can get there alone.”
“I’ll stay with you. If you want me there,” Etho responds without missing a beat, and Mumbo feels his hand hold on tighter.
He whispers, “Are you sure?”
A shift of fabric that almost sounds like a nod, then Etho replies, “Absolutely. I won’t tell anyone else so that we don’t worry them, but I can stay. I’m more than happy to keep you company.”
There is a drop of wetness on his cheek as Mumbo whispers a short breath of thanks, before he is being helped out of bed. It is slow going, but together, the pair shamble down the stairs of Mumbo’s home and wander through his town one last time.
They are quiet, contemplative, and Mumbo cannot bring himself to ask Etho what he’s thinking about. Instead, Mumbo imagines the colourful buildings and cheerful faces that must surround them, as he is led between the buildings for a final time. It's easy to picture the well-trodden path and the clustered stores, even if he cannot see them. The way that the daylight filters between stocked shops and cozy homes is ingrained into his mind, and Mumbo is scared for the changes that are coming, but he has to admit that… if he had to be anywhere, he is glad this is where he gets to rest.
Entering the M.I.N.D building feels surreal, and the sudden change in temperature catches Mumbo off-guard. It is so much colder in the laboratory than outside, under the welcoming rays of the sun. A shiver runs up his spine, for reasons that might be deeper than just the sudden chill, and Etho’s arm squeezes comfortingly around his waist for a second.
The M.I.N.D scientists are ready for him, waiting eagerly for the final stage of their research. They usher him further into the lab, and grumble as he slowly hobbles down the hallway with Etho’s unwavering support.
Soon, too soon, Mumbo is laying down on a sterile cot. There is chatter around him, words that roll over him like a crashing ocean wave. Someone asks if he is ready, and Mumbo must nod, because Etho brushes his hand against Mumbo’s own one final time before he hears the pop of a potion cork.
Mumbo is not alone as the world fades to black.
—
When he opens his eyes, Mumbo is looking out over a beautiful horizon.
The sun is just about to set, peering cheekily over the rolling hills of the Hermitcraft 10 server. It paints the grass in liquid gold and sets the river ablaze under vibrant light. The sound of the breeze curls around Mumbo’s robotic body, and he hardly finds himself missing the sensation as the noise soothes him so carefully.
His vision pans down, and Mumbo’s perfect town is nestled just below him; a bustling collection of bodies and personalities that he watches with an overwhelming fondness. The Surplus factory sits on the opposite bank of the river, curling smoke rising from the smokestacks and towering into the sky dreamily.
It’s perfect, and as the Hermits gather at the base of his mechanical body to talk to him, it is everything that Mumbo wanted.