The Emissary

by mildflower

When the Hero vanquishes the Wall of Flesh, the Guide comes back as the same person he always was. Except he isn't.

1. Chapter 1 - Sometimes Dead is Better

Humanity's first sin was trust.

Before townships were erected on every corner of the globe, before civilization rocked in its cradle, before humanity drank from the pond of war, there was only a garden and a tree of apples.

Eve sunk her teeth into one because the serpent told her to, and she trusted her creator, but she trusted it too. Adam ate one from the palm of Eve's hand—because he lived in the garden, but he needed her to live.

?

The Guide was in Hell.

That wasn't a metaphor, or anything: It had finally happened. Everything he'd been working towards had come to fruition. The Hero had reached the Underworld, and challenged him in battle. The Guide doll had gone up in flames, triggering his awakening as the Wall of Flesh. He had put up a decent fight, even if his heart wasn't in it. The Hero had won. His job was over. He had taught the Hero all they'd needed to know.

He could shed this mortal vessel like a corn husk, watch it burn and blister in the pits of the Underworld, and return to inhabiting the form he'd taken when he'd served as the sleeping dam between cosmic pandemonium and the world at large.

His job was over. Why was he respawning?

?

The sunlight was blinding.

It was the Arms Dealer and the Demolitionist who hauled him from the dirt, brushing the soot from his hair and dusting his cape off with rough, jerky movements.

Oh, that was so like them, he thought, not a refined bone in their bodies.

Wait a minute. Cape—that was new.

The Guide would have helped, tried to pull himself from the ground or climb out of the grave, but there were dandelion roots catching at his shoes whenever he tried to move, and after being killed twice by the Hero in one day he was tired. He felt worse than he did the day after the Ostara The Mechanic had challenged him to a drinking contest.

The two gave a heave, and with a final tug, The Guide was pulled out of the grave he'd come back in—and, despite every attempt to avoid doing so, flopped gracelessly onto the ground.

The grass under his cheek was a welcome feeling. Holy Hell, he would never pull weeds from his garden again. He would have stayed there if it weren't for the stares he was receiving from the townspeople. Shakily, he pushed himself up, and it was as he wiped the last of the soot out of his eyelashes that he realized his hands were darker than they were before.

He stared up at the gathered crowd—a crowd. Whenever one of them had died and come back before, their welcoming party was usually only one or two of their closest friends, digging them up the next sunrise with a pack of ale, and a heroic death story to regale them with. It was never a crowd.

He swallowed dryly. And they never looked so hostile.

As he got to his knees, he met their gazes one by one, distantly aware that he should probably be unnerved by the amount of animosity he found there: They were all crossed arms and pursed lips. The Nurse in particular had her hand on a syringe, like she was ready to tranquilize him.

He met every pair of eyes in the crowd with a neutral expression: it didn't make any sense for them to attack him, but if they did—well, he wasn't going down without a fight.

After a beat of silence passed, he nonchalantly began to dust himself off, brushing ash from his shoulders, his hair, and the ornamental cloak he was wearing. As he looked down at his hands, he noticed the charcoal-colored stain that seemed to be crawling up his arms, watering his veins. He looked back up at the crowd, beginning to legitimately feel unnerved.

The Hero was at the front and center, half bandaged, staring right back at him with cautious eyes.

"Wyatt," they said hesitantly, "You have some explaining to do."

?

When he was pulled from the other side, he came back knowing three things:

There was dirt in his mouth. (Uncomfortable.)

He wasn't The Guide anymore.

Good and Evil as he'd once defined it were relative. They were nothing. There was only order, and chaos, and as it stood—order wouldn't be around for very much longer.

?

He lasted three days.

It was hard enough trying to get people to trust him before he'd shown his true colors, The Guide mused, stirring a sprig of Petunia into the cup of tea he was making. He'd never been popular, but after he came back as The Emissary the townsfolk had been avoiding him like a leper.

The Guide knew he came back different. He wasn't a fool.

(Er, not that he was a fool beforehand.)

He knew what the cloak he'd been donning ever since he'd clawed his miserable way up from the Underworld meant. He knew what sinister wall the lurid fuschias of it alluded to, that the flowering golden finery atop it had teeth—he knew, that was his job.

Was. He stirred the Petunias into his tea with a perfectly reasonable amount of aggression. Was his job.

The Guide prided himself on his rationality. There was an amount of satisfaction, he argued, in compartmentalizing one's emotions; in knowing that the experiences of sorrow and fury and joy were just that: experiences. They were as fleeting as the wind and rain and were always destined to fade into a wash, like watery ink into paper.

Emotional Repression—sorry, Compartmentalization—wasn't the only thing he was good at. Possessing a sharp mind in tandem with the knowledge of Terraria's inner mechanisms made him exceptionally adept at decision-making. It was him who the townsfolk went to when they had a question; when they wanted to know more about the history of the world, or how much gold a certain mob carried, or Hey, Guide, should I eat this mushroom I found in the forest?

(For the record, the answer was always no. But that didn't stop the Angler from trying.)

For the love of god, he was a literal walking encyclopedia. He may not have been able to fire a rifle, or concoct medicines, but he knew his strengths lied in his other areas: His knowledge. His judgement. His logic. And logically, he knew as the newborn Emissary between the cosmic forces of chaos and order, he had no choice but to accept his new role.

...But some obstinate, irrational part of him clung to what he did best: Guiding people. Studying things. And so, he shirked his duties as the Emissary in favour of curling up with a good book on the classification of magical mushrooms in the solace of his kitchen.

What? He was only…

The Emissary knocked on the wooden door of the house, hoping it wouldn't be muffled by the rain. He had to stoop over a little to keep to book in his hands from getting wet.

"Tinkerer!"

The hour was late, and he'd have felt bad if not for the warm citrine lights glowing through the windows—a product of the goblin's own invention. He'd explained it to the Guide before: growing tired of working by the torch, he'd captured lightning in a bottle, and codified it into neat little bulbs—the filaments of which would never grow dim or blow out in the wind like candlelight did.

Light Bulbs, he'd called them. The Guide wrote as quickly as possible as he explained how they worked, eager to take in all of the details, to note every mechanism down—like every other machine the Tinkerer had ever built.

The Guide knocked again.

"Tinkerer! It's Wyatt. I have your book."

The ambient, mechanical noise that had been in the background suddenly died, and the Guide saw the familiar shadows of a pointy-eared scientist get up from the desk he was hunched over, and turn to look at the door.

The Guide knocked again. Honestly, he chided the goblin internally, sitting in that position for the amount of time that he did was going to wreck his posture.

Footsteps echoed on a wooden floor. This time, it swung open, and the Tinkerer looked at him—hesitantly.

"... Wyatt?"

The Guide waved, with a faint smile.

"The very one. Working on a new machine? At this hour? I know you know staying up late kills neurons."

The Guide expected him to fire back with, 'You're one to talk, I bet you spent the past few hours reading that!' or 'I certainly do! Must be why you're so slow on the uptake these days', but instead, the Tinkerer was oddly quiet.

"Yes. I am. Was there something I could… help you with? A specific machine or part you're in need of?"

Well that was… cold.

No, it was frigid, the Guide thought, laughing nervously.

"Er… Well, yes. I have the book you lent me last month."

The Guide pulled a copy of The Goblin Sorcerer from his cloak, holding it out in front of him.

"It was fantastic, by the way. Thank you very much for trusting me with it- your taste in fiction is impeccable, as always," the Guide rambled, trying to recreate the high spirits that he was usually greeted with, "I can't believe you managed to get through all two-thousand pages in a week. I suppose I'll have to try harder if I want to beat your record, no?"

The Tinkerer's ears were drooping, and his eyes burned with an odd sort of intensity.

The Guide shifted nervously.

"Is… there something wrong?"

The Tinkerer opened and shut his mouth a few times, as if he were contemplating what to say, before blurting out:

"I'm sorry, it's just that- well, it's just, we don't really know for certain, if you're... dangerous... right now."

It took a moment for his words to sink in. The Guide's heart fell.

"Dangerous?"

We?

The way the Tinkerer's eyes swept over the fuschia cloak was unmistakable.

"Wyatt- Guide- Emissary, I'm sorry if this comes across as antagonistic, because I mean this in a purely reasonable manner, but- but don't take me for a fool. I know what that cloak stands for..."

As he pointed to the object, the Guide noticed that the Tinkerer was slowly but surely closing the door on him—or perhaps, more accurately, trying to hide behind it.

"...And I know that you're at least part of the reason why things have been so- so haywire, lately. Monsters are spawning that we haven't seen before. The sun eclipsed yesterday."

By now, the warm yellow glow emanating from inside was just a sliver, silhouetting the Tinkerer and casting long shadows over his face.

Oh, no. This was—the Guide had miscalculated. This wasn't how he'd thought this would go at all.

The Tinkered continued on.

"So- I'm sorry, for rambling. I don't care if you're the Wall of Flesh, or a demon birthed from the Moon Lord's forehead, or some sort of sentient meat puppet for the darker forces of the universe. The fact of the matter is, you're holding an unprecedented amount of power, and until we- er, the townsfolk- figure out if you'll turn that against us like you did to-"

"I didn't want to fight the Hero."

"Right. But until we know you're not one of the… hostiles, you should- I should keep my distance. It's simply a matter of common sense, to stay away from the things that could harm us. Nothing personal. You understand, right? You were always good at that."

Wyatt. Guide. Emissary.

"...Yes. Of course. My apologies for the intrusion."

The Guide set the book onto the porch table. His mouth was feeling dry.

"I'll just- Leave this here, then."

…Perhaps human wasn't the best word for what he was. At least, not in the same way the Arms Dealer or the Nurse or the Hero were. Maybe not even in the way the Clothier was, wasn't, and then was again. Regardless, whether monster or demon or Wall of Flesh, he was a slave to the same base desires that every other living thing in Terraria was bound to—namely, doing whatever the hell he wanted—and damn it, Magia Agaric was calling to him.

Just as he sat down at the table to do so, he heard a knocking at his door.

"Son of a-!"

The Guide swung the door open, lips pulled into a rictus.

"Yes, what is- oh. Dryad."

Barely scraping five feet tall, most people had to crouch down to talk to her at eye level. The Guide knew better.

He angled his head down with deference. She couldn't care less about politeness, but standing like this, she was at the perfect angle to tear his throat out with her teeth.

Which he knew she had no real qualms with doing, to most people. He shuddered.

The Dryad nodded airily, slipping past him through the doorway.

Luckily for him, the Guide was not most people.

His facial expression softened as she marched into the house, depositing her woven satchel onto his counter.

"It's good to see you. Finally back from your last expedition?"

The Dryad made a little mhmm of affirmation as she began to root through his spice cabinet.

"It's been a while. Two months, in case you've forgotten," he reminded her, before adding "I'm glad you're unharmed."

She turned around at that, staring at him with a piercing eye. He met it with his own.

Don't back down in front of a Dryad, a voice inside of him whispered. They are predatory.

"It would take a lot more than what Terraria has to offer to kill me," she answered.

The Guide smirked, leaning against the table with a cross of his arms.

"Humble as ever, I see."

The Dryad turned back around, pulling different wares from her bag and shuffling the contents of his cabinet around to make room for them—a sprig of Deathweed switched out with his Rosemary, Moonglow petals where his salt once was. He thought he even spotted a freshly-pulled-

"Oh!" he exclaimed delightedly, marching over to peer over her shoulder, "Is that a Fireblossom? For me?"

"It's going into your cabinet. I believe that makes it yours, yes."

"The gesture is appreciated. I've been looking for one of those, but you know how I hate dirtying my hands…" he replied, before adding uneasily "You've never gone to the Underworld before."

The Dryad closed the cabinet, turning around to face him. Her eyes ran down the length of his hands, stained with an infernal soot that would never come clean. He was thankful she wasn't meeting his gaze—his own eyes were no stranger to the more alien parts of Terraria, but the Dryad made looking right through him into a sport.

"Your hands look dirtied to me, Emissary."

He swallowed dryly.

"It's not actual dirt. They're just- colored now, I suppose." he croaked, "They were like that when they pulled me out of the ground. I can't wash it off."

"That's not what I mean."

The silence hung heavy in the air for a moment, choking whatever words he formed before they left his mouth. In spite of himself, he was rattled. How did she know?

What a stupid question, he thought, it's the Dryad. Of course she knows.

The Dryad looked away, and whatever strange aura had filled the air dissipated as she scampered over to his fruit bowl, pulling an apple from it. She perched atop the table as she grasped it with both hands, peering at him a little wildly. He couldn't help but be reminded of a feral little cat.

"You and the Hero," she said as she bit into it, juices dribbling down her chin, "You did battle three days ago."

"... Yes, we did."

"You nearly killed them."

"They're alive now." he added, a touch defensively.

She licked her lips, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"So they are. I'm not accusing you of anything. I am only stating facts."

Damn it. She always got him like this. The Guide drew in a breath, steadying himself. He chose his next words very carefully.

"If I had a choice. I wouldn't have chosen… this."

He turned around, pulling up the drapery of his cloak. He dropped it almost immediately—the tattered edges reminded him far too much of his other form. He wanted to keep as much distance between it and the Guide as possible.

"It looks kind of ridiculous, right?" he asked, rhetorically. "So much filigree and ornamentation. The gold is just tacky- and it doesn't match anything I have in the closet. You'd think being brought back as the diplomat between the cosmic powers, I'd be entitled to choosing my own uniform."

Some sort of weight was lifted off of his shoulders. It felt good to say it aloud to someone who understood what on Terraria he was talking about. He forgot how much he'd missed her. He wished the Dryad would spend more time in town.

Well, no, that wasn't quite right: he wished she'd hate spending time in town a little bit less.

"A uniform's a uniform," she said nonchalantly. "Taking it off would be renouncing the role you play."

He'd heard this lecture before, on clothes, when she was trying to justify why she'd walked around half-naked—though he'd had yet to reach a solid answer as to what it meant.

"Along with who I am?" he finished for her.

The Dryad's face scrunched up.

"No, it's different with uniforms. Are you the Wall of Flesh?"

He paused, turning the question over in his mind. He knew she knew he was. She knew everything about Terraria; it was why they got along so well… So there must have been some ulterior motive behind it. Some sort of conclusion she was pushing him towards.

"Of course. But I'm also the Guide."

Her eyes narrowed.

"The Emissary."

"The Emissary too."

She turned the apple over to the uneaten side, holding it out to him in her outstretched palm. The skin of it gleamed like a brilliant red ruby in the sunlight.

"Want a bite?"

Against his better judgement, he sauntered over, and took one.

?

Like the Dryad, the Guide had never placed any particular importance on names. The most they were good for was sorting things into phylogeny trees or distinguishing them from one another. The latter never really aided him—it may not be as obvious to the other townsfolk, but as the Wall of Flesh, he was always comfortably aware that everything on Terraria was made up of the same matter; the same atoms grouped together into different shapes and sizes.

As a human, he was forced to humour the concept anyways.

The Hero crouched low to the ground, eyeing the weed like it was something finer than it was. They looked ridiculous—the horrid straw hat they'd insisted on weaving together was brushing the grass, and their face was basically touching the dirt with how closely they were examining it.

The Guide snorted, pulling an identical straw hat down lower over his eyes. Really, it was ridiculous. They were going to get a disease down there.

"It's just a daybloom, Hero. You don't need to look that closely."

He crossed his arms as the Hero yanked the flower up from its roots anyways.

The sun was leering down at them from the midday sky in a way that felt distinctly vulture-like. It was sweltering, and humid, and no matter how far he rolled his sleeves up or unbuttoned his shirt down, the air clung to his skin—one of the many disadvantages of having any.

The heat had never bothered him this much before, and he'd spent the vast majority of his life in hell.

The Guide would trade every one of his carnassials to be sitting under the shade of one of the many trees surrounding the clearing rather than teaching a novice hero how to distinguish between herbs, but he had promised they'd go out as soon as the Hero had finished building them a house. It was an underhanded agreement: the Guide assumed the Hero would be too exhausted to do anything else in this weather once they'd finished building, and he'd be free to spend his afternoon reading, or studying the geography of the area via map, or generally doing anything that didn't involve exerting himself physically at all.

But lo and behold: The Hero, by some providence bordering on the supernatural, was unaffected. As soon as they'd placed the last wooden block, without missing a beat, they'd excitedly asked the Guide to show them all of the flora and fauna in the surrounding forest, and the Guide was reluctantly obligated to do so.

"I'm just being thorough!" they replied, so honestly that the Guide couldn't find it in him to chastise them further. The Hero turned around, holding the stalk up to the light. Their eyes were covered by the brim of their hat, but the Guide could see the curve of their grin, and the beads of sweat dripping down their face.

"Good job on the identification, Hero. They're everywhere, but small enough to easily miss."

The Hero tilted the hat up, showing their eyes—wide, and earnest, but not dull.

"Thank you kindly. What does this do, anyways?"

"Dayblooms are mostly used in potion breweries. They're what's known as a backbone ingredient, one that experienced alchemists will use to activate or amplify the magical essences of other ingredients. Since they're so simple, they don't add anything unique to a potion, but due to their uncomplicated makeup they don't flush out the magical pulse running through Terraria like many others of their ilk."

"Oh. So they're like- hmm- the water you add to your tea, almost? That gets the flavour out?"

"Precisely. Think of the additive ingredients as the herbs, and the backbone ingredients as the boiling water that releases the flavours within them. There are other backbone ingredients too, like blinkroot, but those cannot be found as easily."

The Hero looked at the Guide, and he knew what was coming.

"We are not-"

"Can you pleeeease show me the blinkroots too? Please?"

"It's far too hot out to go-"

"But if you'd teach me now I could brew potions for us!"

"We don't have a-"

"But having the knowledge could still be useful! Besides, you're the one who said it's better to get things done sooner rather than later!"

"That's… true, but we've been searching for potion ingredients all day, are you not-"

"If we go, I won't bother you about them tomorrow. And I'll reorganize your bookshelf!"

"I'll go if you SPECIFICALLY stay away from my bookshelf."

"Deal!"

They found themselves in one of the deeper parts of a cave near their shelter. Predictably enough, they ended up far past the depths at which blinkroots grew. Once the Guide had pointed out their grisly, leering branches peering at them from further into the cave, the Hero had yanked them up by the roots, stuffed them into their bag, and asked the Guide to tell them the name of the vines cloistered in an alcove just ahead. When they'd gotten close enough to examine those, they'd discovered that it was already nightfall—and since they had a steady supply or torches, but very little in the means of weaponry, they'd be safer going further into the cave anyways.

They'd been on a steady descent since. He'd expected the cave system to be quiet and undisturbed, and near the surface it had been—but the lower they'd gone, the more aware he became of the susurrus of activity within. Whenever they'd pause to gaze at the massive stalactite formations, or to mine some of the minerals embedded in them, he could hear the scuttling of small, living things, the sounds of which were no longer hidden by the surface world's wind or the echoes of their footfall. The pools of water they came across, dyed fantastic hues of green and red, were even more fascinating until they'd spotted pale, eyeless water-creatures swimming to the surface, drawn to the flames of their torches like subterranean moths.

The caves were quiet, but they weren't still by any means: there was an ecosystem contained within its bounds, alive and active miles beneath their shelter.

He had to admit, it was resplendent, in a scientific sense.

And incredibly dangerous.

"Would it kill you to treat these ledges with a little more apprehension?!"

The Guide yelled into the darkness below the overhang he was standing on, but he doubted the Hero was paying attention. Besides, it's not like there was much he could do: they had already leaped off of it, plunging into the unknown depths below as naturally as a bird would spring off a branch to take flight.

He pointed the torch over the edge with bated breath, listening for the impact of the Hero's landing—or the crunch of bone as they butchered it. Thankfully, he heard a massive splash instead, and then a sputtering noise as the Hero emerged from whatever body of water they had landed in.

The Guide pinched the bridge of his nose as the momentary panic that had seized him passed. The Hero was fine.

"Guidey, could you toss me a glowstick? I can't- ohmyGOD SOMETHING BRUSHED MY FOOT! TOSS ME ONE NOW! NOW!"

The Guide sat down, letting his feet hang off the rock ledge. He swung them merrily, knowing that the Hero could see him well against the torchlight.

"Hmm, I don't know. We're running low. I'd better just use these last few to make my way back to the surface."

"DO NOT JOKE ABOUT THAT!"

A sly grin spread across the Guide's face.

"You can wait down here in the dark for an hour or two while I go back and get more glowsticks, right?"

"THIS ISN'T FUNNY! GET DOWN HERE!" they yelled back, and then added in a quieter voice, "Please, don't actually leave me."

Alright, too far. The Guide tossed them a glowstick, watching the green light plummet a good thirty or so feet before breaking the surface of the water.

"Relax. If you look beneath you, you'll probably find a blinkroot tangled in your bootstraps. Remember that monsters make noises."

The Hero's relief was audible.

"Oh, thank the lord..."

A moment of silence hung in the air as the Hero dove beneath the surface to grab the glowstick. The Guide was left alone with his thoughts, and he contemplated what had just happened as he swung his feet over the ledge.

What kind of idiot jumped off of a ledge without being able to see what was beneath it? They could have been dashed on the rocks below had the water not been there to break their fall. Sure, they would respawn, but dying was never a pleasant experience.

Furthermore- who just blindly trusted that the person behind them would still be there to fish them out?

He tried to craft an apology for threatening to leave them, but they all soured on his tongue. Terraria was full of monsters, some human and others not, and they would all use any means of deceit or subterfuge to take what they wanted from the Hero.

This… fledgeling, that had imprinted on him in a matter of hours, was the warrior meant to bring balance between the rapidly-unstabilizing cosmic forces; a dull blade handpicked by the world itself, just as the Guide was handpicked to sharpen it.

He was responsible for them. He was to be their maker, and if he didn't succeed, their-

The weight of his role hit him for the first time in the past week. He had begun to realize that the question of how he would most successfully go about fulfilling it was one of the first problems that had truly vexed him.

When they broke the surface again, he tried to apologize. It came out as,

"If I left you down here, who'd catch me dinner?"

A daybloom seed hit him in the eye.

"OW! Did you just- shoot me in the eye with the pipe you found?"

He could hear giggling from below.

"Oh, sorry, did it hit you in the eye?"

"So it was you! You little- I'M COMING DOWN THERE!"

More splashing sounds. Were they… swimming around?

"I thought you were too scared to jump?" the Hero prodded.

The Guide pulled out a length of coiled rope from his utility belt, along with the nail that he'd use to anchor it on. Carefully, he tied the rope around the nail, before feeding it off of the ledge.

"Not too scared- too sensible to go blindly charging into danger." he parsed out, carefully making his way down the length, plunging deeper and deeper into darkness. "And civilized enough to use a rope when I decide to go surprise spelunking."

"You go spelunking? I thought you read books and drank tea all day."

The Guide didn't grace them with a response.

Suddenly, the rope was jerked from the lower end. The Guide's grip on it became vice-like in an instant.

"HERO."

He could hear their snickering from below. They were up to something.

"HERO. I want you to listen very carefully to me: do not tug on that rope again."

"Hurry up and get down here, then. You were right, it was just blinkroots. The water's nice!"

Another tug on the rope made his head spin. He was still so high up… He tried explaining calmly.

"Hero, if you pull on that rope again, I will fall and die, and-"

With a final pull, the rope came loose from its anchor, and the Guide was hurtling towards the darkness, closer and closer to the water. Oh lord of the moon, he was going to die. While he was waiting to respawn in the morning the Hero's progress would slow down exponentially, and the corruption would be eating away at Terraria while they were waffling around like a fool, and his cosmic superiors were going to yell at him, and-

Instead of cracking his neck on a stalagmite, or being pulled under the icy depths of a brine pool, he crashed into something softer at mach speeds.

"Oof!"

The landing was hardly any gentler than being submerged in the water, but at least he didn't get wet, and when he dared crack open his eyes…

The Hero's grinning face beamed down at him, the angles of their cheekbones illuminated by the light of the glowstick, face given a new sharpness by the neon. The Hero had somehow pulled the rope from its anchor, calculated roughly where the Guide would fall in consequence, and caught him without dropping him into the pool from thirty feet below.

"Got you." They crooned.

The Guide swallowed, at a loss for words.

Maybe- maybe this hero had promise after all.

"Woah, Guidey, if you keep staring into my eyes like that I'll start thinking you've-" the sentence was broken up by the sound of them desperately trying to contain their laughter- "FALLEN for me!"

Whatever reverie had overtaken him, the Guide snapped out of it immediately. He began to thrash out of their grip.

"Dream on, you dolt! You almost killed me!" The Guide sniped, but there wasn't any venom in it as he reached over and tried to yank their hair. He got a fistful of straw instead.

"HEY, let go of my hat!"

The Hero pulled his arm away, putting the Guide in a headlock as the two of them grappled in the water. In this part of the pool, it only went up to their waists, but they were both getting thoroughly soaked.

"We're in a cave! You don't need a sunhat!"

"It's for comfort! FOR COMFORT!"

"You're an idiot! How could you just jump down here without knowing where you'd land?!"

"I could HEAR the water flowing! OW! Don't bite me! I thought you were civilized!"

The Hero let him go, and without their weight stabilizing him, the Guide fell into the water. He sputtered, wiping his tongue off on his hand, and for a moment he contemplated the life decisions that had led him to this point. He was civilized, damn it. Up until this point the thought of biting anyone was ludicrous.

No. It was still ludicrous. He was acting like a lunatic.

"I didn't say I was civilized," he gasped as a chill ran through him, "I said I was civilized enough, and that's still leagues more than you are. How are we going to get back up, Hero? You pulled our escape route down with me."

For once, the Hero had the decency to look sheepish.

Good, the Guide thought. Let them sit with the consequences of their actions.

"You, uh," they huffed, "You think we can manage to lasso the rope around that nail?"

?

An hour later, they'd found themselves at the end of the cave. After the Hero, through sheer force of will alone, had managed to get the rope back onto the nail above them, they'd continued their expedition through Terraria's' cave systems on two conditions:

The Hero was entirely responsible for getting the rope back onto the nail. (it was only fair after they'd been the one to pull it down, of course.)

The rest of their journey would be spent in peace- and if they ran into more danger than they could handle, they would turn back.

The Guide shivered, holding the newly-lit torch closer. It was getting colder—they were in the deeper part of the cave by now for sure. The Hero was snuffling around the dead end as the Guide crept closer to better-illuminate the area. A massive crack was running up the length of the wall, but it was inches wide at best, and so narrow neither of them could see anything along the lines of an adjacent room or more cave to traverse through it.

"I don't think you'll find anything else here, Hero. This seems to be as far as the cave goes."

The Hero was unusually silent. Instead of responding, they elected to raise their head, closing their eyes as if they were feeling a breeze on their face.

"Hero?"

They turned back around, peering at him.

"Do you hear that sound, Guidey?"

He scoffed. "You'll need to be more specific. I can hear many sounds."

The scurrying of unseen crustaceans moving across the ground. The dripping of water as it ran down a stalactite… The muted thud of footfall on the ceiling above them. Groans from a far-off cavern echoing down the tunnels. Stars above, he hated the underground. Literally worse than hell.

The Guide wrapped his arms around himself tighter. They needed to go back soon.

"... There's wind flowing down here." the Hero remarked.

The Guide's eyes widened, and he turned to face them.

"From the crack?"

"I think so. I'm surprised you didn't notice it. I can feel it on my face too… It smells… sweet?"

The Guide strained his ears, and realized that the Hero was right—under the crackling of the torch's flame, beneath the sound of small, scurrying things and the living darkness that consumed them, there was another undercurrent: the murmur of fresh air, steadily blowing through the crack in the wall.

The Guide crouched down next to the Hero, trying to get a better look through the crack. It was fruitless: Although it spanned the wall from floor to ceiling, it was only an inch or so wide, and it only seemed to get narrower the further in you went. He couldn't see anything inside.

The Guide turned to the floor around it, looking for clues as to what could lie beyond—trying to see if he could spot the radiant green of jungle spores littering the gravel, or the shriveled petals of deathweed growing through the cracks.

If there was, he mused, he needed reading glasses. Nothing must have been able to get through the crack.

The Hero turned, facing him with the same hopeful eyes that had gotten them into the cave instead of back at home after their daybloom identification study.

"Hero." he warned.

Their eyes continued to shine.

"Hero. We are not going any further into this cave."

"... Can't we just-"

"NO. I'm tired, and hungry, and-" the Guide peeled his shirt sleeves off of his arm for emphasis, "Soaking wet. We've reached the end. We're going back."

"What if I just take a peek? You can just, um, sit back here! On that rock over there. I'll only be a minute."

The Guide leveled them with an icy gaze. Who would protect me then? he thought, but didn't dare voice it aloud. He was not going to let the Hero know how much power they held over him in this form.

He sighed as he sat down on a rock, refusing to look at them.

"I suppose there's no stopping you, is there?"

The Hero took it as permission enough.

"I swear, I'll only be a few minutes! I won't leave you alone here for too long. Here, take the torch so you won't be scared!"

"I'm not scared," the Guide added defensively, but took the torch anyway.

He couldn't stay miserable for long—not when the Hero set a torch down onto the ground, and began to strike at the crack with their pickaxe, trying to deepen its groove. The Guide snuck a glance at their back, watching the corded muscle there tighten with every swing of the axe. So little armor there, he couldn't help but think. How could he let them go down this far without making a ramshackle wooden set to cover their… squishier parts?

It would be so easy for a cave bat to tear the arteries of their neck open with its teeth, or for a skeleton to drive a sword through their torso.

The thought made him wildly uncomfortable.

Maybe he should stop them now, while the barrier between them and whatever potential dangers lurked on the other side of the wall remained intact.

Maybe—maybe the Hero didn't have to advance so quickly. Terraria wouldn't suffer for waiting a little longer. For the Guide slowing down the Hero's training a bit. Better to give them more time to prepare for their battle against the Wall, after all; and then the dam would break on the problems riddling the world, and the real challenge would begin.

The Guide put his head in his hands, breathing through his nose. Of course Terraria would suffer. It had been suffering, and the Hero had been put into place as a last-ditch attempt to carve out the dark and light spots on its surface and restore it to a state of peace.

Besides, the Guide thought, as he looked back up again at the Hero. It had only been a minute or so, and they were close to breaking a human-sized hole through to the other side. They didn't seem like the sort who was good at taking things slowly.

With one final swing of their pickaxe, the Hero gave a cheer as they broke through to the other side. The Guide's lip curled up as he watched them from his place on the rock, chin resting on his hands. Ridiculous. They were utterly ridiculous.

The Hero kicked their way into the hole, widening it, and they were through. The Guide could hear a sharp intake of breath, alongside the little sound of awe they made as they breached the wall.

...Well now he was just curious.

The Guide had no intention of actually staying behind, of course. There was no way he'd let the Hero go off somewhere potentially dangerous just two weeks after they'd arrived in Terraria—at least, not without his supervision. He got up, taking a moment to stretch his legs and get comfortable in his boots, before walking over to the hole.

Something—some sort of radiant, blue dander rode the draft from the hole and landed on his cheek. The Guide picked it off with irritation, and then, upon recognizing what it was, panic.

A glowing spore, dispensed by one of the giant, underground mushrooms that signified they'd stepped into dangerous territory.

The Guide ran through the hole.

Glowing mushroom biomes were rare at this depth, but not unheard of. The monsters that lurked within them—nothing but corpses of animals caught inside, made embryonic again in mycelium cocoons—were far stronger than what he or the player were equipped to deal with.

The fungus wasn't necessarily harmful on its own, but at certain times of the year, the spore clouds were thick enough to choke anything unlucky enough to stumble across them. This was on purpose: it was a self-fertilizing system, and the mushrooms needed organic matter to feed off of. The blood of many creatures were spilled to water their gardens of rot.

A clever design of evolutionary biology, but a mistake on the Guide's part: he shouldn't have let the Hero go anywhere near it. He shouldn't have let them keep digging themselves into a deeper hole.

"Hero!"

When he stumbled through, the Hero was, thankfully, not too far ahead of him. It seems as if they were too awestruck to jump in headfirst as per usual. It looked like they had broken out of whatever trance they were in, however, and they lifted a leg, as if they were going to walk further.

"HERO!"

The Guide grabbed their arm. They turned to look back at him, shocked.

"Guidey? Are you… okay?" they asked tentatively.

The Guide recoiled instantly.

"I'm fine. But we need to get out of here. It's not safe."

The Guide's eyes followed the Hero's pointed hand like an arrow. They were right: it seemed as if the end of the cave system was a deception, for the cavern they had stumbled into was enormous. From where they stood just outside of the crack, perched atop a small rock cliff, they could easily overlook the entire domain.

Massive, fungal plumes stretched up to the ceiling of the cave, the mottled blue-and-white caps searching for sunlight they would never find. Mimicking the trees of the surface world, their stalks had branches; tendril-like offshoots that smaller mushrooms grew from, nursing from the stem.

Below them, what looked like a peculiar cerulean shade of grass engulfed the dirt floors, emitting a dim, ghostly light—the filaments of which seemed to be the source of the hair-like vines hanging from the top of the room.

The Guide winced. There was no sun down here to fuel grass growth. It was all mycelium.

And if he remembered correctly, that mycelium was what linked them all together somewhere at the center of this room: it was all one creature, too.

"Isn't it beautiful?" the Hero asked.

The Guide studied them. They were turned away, but he could still see their silhouette, the length of their neck, the way their cheeks lifted as they grinned; all outlined by the alien glow of the forest.

"Yes. Yes, it is."

The Guide pulled his shirt over his nose when he caught wind of a faint aroma.

"Pull your shirt up over your nose, Hero. Remember it has spores."

The Hero turned to him, raising an eyebrow.

"It? Which one?"

The Guide waved his arm, motioning to the massive ring of tree-sized mushrooms at the center of the room.

"All of them. See how they're all growing in a circle? Every mushroom you see there is connected by the same root system, growing outwards from the center. It's one plant."

"Oh, lord, is that- is all of the grass down there part of it too?"

"Yes. Yes, it is."

The Guide hooked a thumb through a loop on their utility belt and pulled them with him, "Now come back. Mushroom fields are dangerous, we need to get out of here."

"Woah! Okay, okay, uh- wait, don't pull so hard, I'll fall off the edge!"

"It's a good thing that crack opened up onto this cliff," the Guide said, "Do you hear that buzzing?"

"What about it?"

"That's the sound of the ladybugs that grow down here, feasting on the fungus. If you were on the ground, they'd swarm you."

"I like ladybugs."

"Not when they're three feet tall."

"Woah! You're joking."

The Guide smiled.

"I never do."

The Guide put his foot into the dirt of the crack, and the Hero bent down to follow.

Or, they would have, were it not for the light that whizzed past them at that moment. It went through the wall just inches from the Guide's head, and he could feel the ghost of it warm his face when it soared into the opening, burying itself explosively into the rock he was sitting on earlier. It missed the Hero, thankfully, but it wasn't enough: they flailed their limbs to get out of its path, lost their balance, and slipped.

"HERO!"

The Guide watched their face go over the edge. He didn't have the time to sit there in shock: A second blast landed a few feet above the first, sprinkling his head with displaced dirt as it hit the wall. He grimaced, biting his lip as he heard the Hero slide down the slope and hit the ground below.

"OW!... I'm okay!"

The Guide exhaled. They were fine. The idiot was fine.

He turned to the direction of the blast, narrowing his eyes as he scanned the area. He couldn't tell his own hand from his face in the low lighting, but he could detect motion from the top of one of the mushroom trees further down into the cavern.

He cursed how pitiful his darkvision had become. How did humans live like this? Couldn't they have evolved in the Underworld, like-

Another blast of magic soared by him in a merry arc, and the Guide ducked to get out of its way. The resulting collision between it and the wall shook the ground a little.

Crouching lower to the cliff, he scanned the area, and spotted a familiar shape staring back at him. The figure perched on the mushroom was skeletal below its royal blue robes—no, that wasn't right. As it raised its arms maniacally, preparing to unleash a new blast of whatever magic it was conjuring, the Guide realized that it was a skeleton, cloaked in sorcerer's robes and a wizard hat.

"TIM!"

He yelled.

If skeletons could grin, it was doing so.

"TIM, YOU TROGLODYTE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" The Guide yelled.

Somehow, despite lacking both the lungs and lips it would take to whistle, it whistled.

"Guidey!" it crowed. "Is that what you're called these days? That's just adorable."

The Guide's face began to burn. He could just feel the delight it took in mocking him.

"Shut up, you windbag!" he lashed out, "You almost killed the Hero!"

Tim giggled, swaying from side to side on the mushroom cap like he was about to fall off.

"Are you DRUNK?!" The Guide seethed.

The skeleton pointed a finger at the Guide, pathetically.

"Only a little," it contended in a raspy voice, "It helps steady my-" it hiccuped, "-aim."

The Guide gritted his teeth, trying to calm himself down. He and Tim never got along before he adopted his new role—when he was still just a wall, watching over Terraria's hellish underbelly—but back when they'd sniped at each other and traded acerbic back-and-forths when he wasn't preoccupied with maintaining his human form, if they'd ever gotten as far as taking up arms with one another, he could take it blow-for-blow. Now he wasn't sure if he even had the energy to make breakfast.

Well, that first bit was a got along perfectly fine with everyone it met. It just didn't care if its habit of pulling people into murderous, magical duels made it hard for everyone else to get along with it.

Whatever coincidence, foresight, or divine intervention had led them to cross paths again, the Guide didn't have the time for it. He couldn't deal with Tim's boredom right now, and he sure as hell couldn't afford for it to spill any important details about the Hero's destiny, loose-lipped as it was on the drink.

"I-" his voice was achingly hoarse, "I don't have time for this right now, Tim. Just let us pass. We'll duel another day."

The Guide's hands were shaking with the expenditure—an unfamiliar feeling. Internally, he kicked himself at how weak he'd become.

Tim sat its ass right on top of the mushroom.

"That's so cute! You were never this cute before… Guidey? 'Sthat your title now?" it slurred. "God, that'sa really weird title."

Tim laughed to itself, as if it were privy to some sort of inside joke. The Guide wanted to ram his head straight into the wall.

"But I'm not interested in you. I mean, you're just a human now. Name a bigger downgrade, RIGHT?!"

(Its voice was uneven, shifting wildly in pitch and tone. It was hammered.)

Tim turned his finger to point to the Hero. The Guide's eyes followed, pulse quickening. They had long-since recovered from their fall, now standing at the bottom of the slope, eyes wild as their gaze darted between the Guide, Tim, and the area around them.

The Guide bristled.

"If you…" he began.

But the threat was cut short. If Tim what? What could the Guide even do in this form?

A chill swept over him as he realized that the answer was, at best, fire a volley of arrows at it to buy time for the Hero to run away. If he tried to get into an honest-to-god match with the wizard, he'd probably die.

He re-worded his warning.

"As it stands, the Hero is under my protection. To get to them… You will have to go through me."

"Ooooh, I'm shaking in my pointy little- HIC- wizard hat."

Tim conjured another blue blast of magic, aiming it at the Hero.

"HERO! GET OUT OF THE WAY!" The Guide shouted reflexively.

Thankfully, he hadn't needed to tell them. As soon as Tim pointed at them, they'd scrambled under the nearest mushroom, taking shelter away from its malicious gaze. When the burst of magic hit the ground, it exploded in a phantasmagoria of light and sound, and the entire cavern shook in the earth.

Of course he hadn't needed to to tell them that, the Guide kicked himself mentally. What kind of idiot wouldn't move out of the way of danger? If the Hero hadn't possessed that basic instinct of self-preservation, Terraria really was doomed.

The Guide took a moment to steel himself as the Hero made it to safety. The two of them weren't dead yet.

And, you son of a bitch, He thought, pulling his bow from where it was around his quiver. Two could play at this game.

He nocked one of his arrows, and drew it back before releasing, watching it take flight.

Something dormant within him itched as he watched it land right in the skeleton's eye socket. Tim stumbled backwards with the force of the blow, and slipped off of the mushroom cap, taking a long tumble to the floor of the cave.

He knew it would only daze it, but the Guide's lip curled up in a spiteful smile anyways. His marksmanship was always something he'd taken pride in.

As soon as Tim was knocked into a stupor, the Guide carefully used the last bit of rope he had to create a handrail to make the climb up the slope easier. By the time he had fastened one end of it securely onto the nail, Tim was already getting up, leaning on the trunk of the mushroom it'd just fallen off of for support. It rubbed its bony temples.

"Ooooh, I'm going to have a nasty hangover tomorrow!" it whined.

The Guide's eyes widened in alarm as Tim raised its drunken first again, charging up a new blast. The light of it was bleeding through its phalanges, casting strange, dark shadows across the cavern. It and the Hero were both standing within the circle of mushrooms now, facing each other from opposite ends of the cave, and the Hero's face was tightened, waiting for Tim to strike.

Oh, shit.

The Guide skidded down the slope, blindly running over to the mushroom ring, but it was too late: Tim fired, and the blast of mana traveled to where the Hero was standing in an instant.

"DON'T TELL ME THIS IS THE HERO MEANT TO SAVE TERRA!", it warbled, "YOU RECKON IF I KILL THEM HERE THEY'LL-" It broke into a fit of giggling, "THEY'LL SEND YOU A NEW ONE?!"

The Guide nocked another arrow, drawing it far enough to where he could feel the fletching graze his cheek when he fired. He was aiming for the skeleton's hand, hoping to cut off the flow of magic from the crystal that was currently serving as its sternum, but it moved at the last minute and the arrow lodged itself into another mushroom halfway across the clearing. The Guide cursed—it had been his second-to-last—before surveying the immediate area for the Hero.

The impact site of Tim's magical pulse was charred and sizzling. Any organic matter there had been burnt away, leaving a dark mark, bordered by curdled black tendrils of mycelium.

No Hero.

Charred impact site.

No Hero.

The Guide's heart skipped a beat. Did they die?!

They emerged from behind a mushroom, unharmed. From the Guide's angle, he could see them clearly, but Tim was still looking around the room for the Hero, unaware of their hiding place.

The Guide shuddered, resting his hands on his knees for support.

The Hero waved to him covertly, and as Tim recharged its spell, they motioned with their hands: holding their right arm against the trunk of the mushroom, they made an arrow with two of their left fingers, using it to 'pin' it to the trunk.

Trust me, they mouthed.

The Guide's face twisted. Trust was such a monumental thing to ask for.

But he nocked the arrow, taking aim anyways.

The arrow fired, whistling as it sliced through the air. Miraculously, it landed square in the center between Tim's radius and ulna bone, fletching preventing it from sliding its arm off of the arrow .Tim whipped its head around, seeming to snap out of whatever inebriated haze it had been riding the high of moments before.

The Guide didn't breathe as they stared each other down. His heart—at least, what he was fairly certain was his heart—was beating so fast. Should it be- that couldn't be normal, right?

It opened its jaw to speak.

"You've become too human, you know. Everyone thinks so. I mean, come on, it hasn't been that long." it rasped with sobriety.

The Guide bared his teeth, and somewhere deep in the bowels of hell, the tendrils of something massive stirred in defiance.

Too human. What an insult.

He forced himself to swallow his pride, and replied quietly,

"I don't care. This is the job I was given. I will keep the Hero alive by any means necessary."

The Hero chose that moment to bodyslam the trunk of the damaged mushroom. Now that it had a weakness on one side, he was able to tip it over, and with a massive groan it fell onto its neighbor. The Guide turned to stare in amazement: The Hero had begun a chain reaction. One by one, the ring of mushrooms began to topple, falling on top of one another like a line of dominoes.

"HELL! FUCK SHIT! OH WORM FUCK!"

Tim shrieked as the movement got closer and closer to where it was pinned to the trunk. By the time it managed to yank itself away (by the arm socket—its hand, forearm, and upper arm were still dangling from the Guide's arrow) it was too late—it was crushed beneath the falling trunk, too inebriated to dodge the fall. The sound of the crash filled the entire cavern; the collective noise was deafening, and the shower of spores each fallen fungus released from their gills obscured the Guide's vision in a glowing haze.

The silence as the spore clouds dissipated felt too quiet by comparison. The Guide stared at the direction of the fallen shroom, waiting for… something. For Tim to teleport behind him and shout 'Huzzah! You thought getting my bones crushed to a fine powder would kill me?!' before- he didn't know, before it stabbed him with a knife or something.

How hard he flinched when the Hero's hand took him by the wrist was unprecedented.

Their face wasn't completely visible through the spores, but the tip of their straw hat was enough.

"Come on," they murmured, "let's go before that skeleton guy wakes up."

The Guide let himself be pulled, a little dazed, and thoroughly amazed that Tim was really incapacitated. He turned back around. The spore cloud was settling, covering the fallen ring of mushrooms in a fine, luminous dust—and there was no sign of movement. His eyes searched the spore settlements for footprints leading away from the ring, but it was undisturbed, like a layer of noxious snow.

The Hero had thought of that. This was the Hero's plan in action—he had no part in this.

The Guide turned to study them from behind as they pulled him along at record speeds, reassessing some things.

The two of them climbed up the slope in nervous silence, and the Guide was too used to Tim's antics to not keep checking behind him as they went. It seemed as if the skeleton really was too inebriated to pull anything: both the Guide and the Hero left the cavern as quietly as they had come in.

The Guide led them back to the upper levels of the cavern, quietly instructing the Hero to seal off the crack leading to the mushroom fields, but he said nothing else as they made the trek back to the surface. They were both taking pains to extinguish the torches they had left behind, to not tread through gravel, to muffle the sound of their footfall. The promising frontier of darkness that had once been in front of them on their way down took a new shape as they made their way back up again; predatory, stifling, like Tim was waiting to spring out of it the moment they broke the silence.

The Guide's hands had stopped shaking half an hour ago, and his breath had been coming in and out at a steady pace since. Now that the amazement at the Hero's brief moment of ingenuity had passed, he found his steps had unconsciously been outpacing the Hero's.

How could they be so reckless?

As he retraced the steps they had taken to get here, he felt something heavy and constrictive in his throat, like someone had wrapped a band around it and was pulling it tighter. This ordeal had all started from a simple lesson in daybloom identification, and how the Hero had insisted on going into the caves to check for blinkroots, and how they had kept pushing for them to go deeper, and into darker parts of the cave, how they had pulled his rope down when they were in the pool of water, how they didn't turn back when he asked them to, how they went ahead with investigating the crack against his wishes…

Why didn't he just. Why didn't he just say no?

"You've become too human, you know."

Tim's words echoed bitterly, long after it'd said them. What the hell was that even supposed to mean?

His nails were digging into the wood of the torch, and he loosened his grip on it, trying to slow his breathing down. He bit his tongue to stop himself from- from doing something.

Maybe it was the exhaustion catching up to him. He felt like collapsing. How was he supposed to keep this idiot alive? Was this part of his job?

The two of them had gotten far above the cavern layer before either felt safe enough to break the silence.

"Who was that?" the Hero asked from a few yards behind, before continuing, "Or, uh, what was that? That was terrifying," they laughed, "Good thing we got through that, right?"

For some reason, it incensed him. He didn't respond.

"... Hey, are you mad?" they asked, trotting a little faster.

"No."

"... Your, uh. Hand is bleeding."

The Guide stopped momentarily. His free hand had been clenched earlier. When he unfolded it, upon examining his nails, he realized they were caked with blood.

"So it is." he said cooly, and continued walking.

A moment of silence passed.

"... It really feels like you're mad at me. Um, sorry. Sorry for getting us into trouble. Sorry for killing your friend."

The Guide whipped his head around incredulously.

"Tim?! That cave-dweller isn't a friend! Stars above, I couldn't be more delighted that you put it in the ground. It's where it belongs. Damn overgrown trilobite."

The Hero snorted.

"Careful, it might hear you."

The Guide sighed, beginning to walk again.

"Hero. We could have died in a very gruesome way back there, you know that, right?"

"Right. I know."

The Guide sighed, loudly.

"No, you don't know! It doesn't matter how many times I warn you. You just keep jumping into mortal danger like an idiot."

The Hero winced.

"I'm sorry."

The Guide realized his voice had gone up a few octaves. He toned it down.

"You're wasting time like this," he hissed, "Not just yours, but mine as well. I'm exhausted, and damn it, I'm still soaking wet," the Guide shuddered as he tried to peel his shirt off of his skin, only to find blue spores clinging to him in its wake.

" We should have gone back when we had found the blinkroots." he finished.

"But you came with me…"

The Guide forced himself to breathe through his nose.

"Yes. That was my fault. I'll leave you to die in the cave next time."

Was that unnecessarily acerbic? Yes. Did it feel good to say it? Absolutely.

The Hero flailed their arms.

"Well, you were laughing with me. What was I supposed to think? I thought you wanted to come!"

The Guide squeezed the bridge of his nose.

"I didn't-"

Sign up for this, is what he wanted to say. But he began to realize that he did, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth. He signed up for this when he acquiesced to the Hero's request to search for dayblooms. He signed up for this the moment he began inhabiting this vessel.

If he had just. Said no. This wouldn't have happened.

"... Just listen to me when I say something's dangerous in the future. You're the Hero that is destined to bring balance to Terraria—to seal away the Corruption,"

The Hallow, too. But they didn't need to know that yet.

"This world is rotting, but it's not dead yet. Your death will only waste time."

A moment of silence followed.

"Why do you keep calling me that?" they asked.

The Guide turned back to face them.

"What?"

" 'The' Hero. There's no 'The'. It's just my name."

They peered at him curiously, waiting for an answer.

The Guide's face heated up.

"I- I- I thought it was a role, like mine."

Serious atmosphere was broken. The Hero chuckled, covering their mouth with their hand.

"Were you just-" they snorted, "wrong about something?"

The Guide sputtered, at a loss for words. Him? Wrong? No, that couldn't be right. He was never wrong. That wasn't his own arrogance talking- encyclopedic powers came with their perks.

The Hero laughed harder.

"You look like a deer in the crosshairs!"

The Guide huffed, turning away.

"I- Oh, whatever. I was wrong about one thing. So what? I've still been right about the other two hundred."

"I dunno. This might be marking the end for you. Could be a slippery slope from here on out- first it's my name, then you won't be able to tell torches from glowsticks…"

"Big words from someone who thought they could eat slime gel."

"Hey! That was one time!"

The Hero trotted up to fall in step with the Guide, bumping his shoulder playfully.

"So what's your name, then?" they asked him.

"What?"

"Your name. I can't just keep calling you 'Guidey'. It's been, what, two weeks, and I haven't learned your name yet- oof!"

The Guide caught them as they tripped over a tiny stalagmite, helping them steady themselves as they continued their ascent.

"Does 'Guide' not suffice?" he asked.

"Well, I guess…" the Hero conceded, "but you said that was a title, didn't you?"

"More of a-"

"More of a role, yeah. Like how my name's Hero, but my role's the Hero too. I don't want to call you by your role… that seems kind of, um, dehumanizing?

That's the point, the Guide muttered internally.

"I suppose it is. But there's nothing else I go by."

Well, nothing else he wanted the Hero to know about.

"You don't have a name? Seriously? Even I have one, and I was-"

"Born two weeks ago, yes!" the Guide finished, with no small amount of exasperation. " Lord of the moon, you've been saying that since the day you got here."

If the Hero picked up on their exasperation, they didn't show it.

"Hmmm.." the Hero hummed. It was a rare sound to hear, considering it meant they were thinking about something.

"Well, what name do you want then?"

The Guide sighed.

"Do I really have to choose one? Is it that important?"

"Uhh, duh. Of course. They're part of who you are. What about Jake?"

"...No, too simple. That sounds like something you'd name a dog."

"Bradley?"

"No, that's not… well, I just don't like that one."

"Catherine?"

"Er, wrong gender, Hero."

"Oh, sorry. Leaf? Blue?"

"Those aren't even names."

The Hero beamed. "Anything can be a name if you name something with it!"

"Whatever you say."

The Guide was not smiling. He wasn't.

"Andre, then?"

The Guide's face scrunched up. "Ugh, no. That sounds horrid."

"Kyle."

"Absolutely not."

"Huh… Wyatt?"

"That's… elegant enough. Wyatt is acceptable."

"Woohoo!"

The Hero pumped their arms in the air, and the Guide winced, ducking out of their way.

"How are you this energetic? We've been in this cave system for a day and a half."

The Hero's grin stretched even wider. "Are you kidding? I'm ready to do that all over again!" they said enthusiastically. The grin fell as they saw the dark look the Guide was giving them.

"Er, not that I would. I mean, will."

They were close to the entrance of the cave now. The sun had risen, and judging by the birdsong echoing down its entrance, it was close to morning.

The Hero was staring straight ahead, face surprisingly sober-looking. As the Guide looked at them—hair tangled, lip split, covered in blue spores (oh, hell, were those in his hair too?)—he found that, despite the energetic exterior, they looked pitiful. And shaken up.

He decided the appropriate course of action was to apologize.

"I'm sorry. About earlier. I... should have had more 're new to this world."

He'd be more clear about when it was time to stop next time.

They gave him a shaky smile.

"Nah. I should fucking be sorry, right? I was the one who got us into this mess."

The Guide swallowed miserably.

But I'm your guide, he wanted to- he thought. It's my job to keep you safe.

The Hero bopped him on the shoulder as they passed him up through the cave entrance.

They ran into the daylight with a whooping noise, but the Guide stayed behind, taking a moment to stare down into the darkness of the cave mouth.

No more caves, he thought. Not until the Hero had armor, at least.

?

On the fourth day after his return, the Guide went into town to get supplies for the Dryad's latest expedition.

They're becoming more frequent, he thought with a grimace. Undoubtedly because of the changes Terraria had undergone recently. The Dryad had always been prone to leaving suddenly, keen on keeping tabs on the state of its ecosystem, and was always gone for months at a time.

More often than not, she'd come back with curios she'd saved for him on her travels: a sprig of deathweed from the corruption, a jar of spores from the cloying depths of the jungle, a feather from a harpy (how the hell did she even get that?)—the souvenirs built up in his cabinet, cluttering them over time with a strange assortment of odds and ends. It was like having the top inch of the tallest mountains and pebbles from the deepest of caves right in his closet.

He supposed, with no small amount of fondness, that it was her own way of showing affection. It's why he couldn't bring himself to throw any of them away.

(That, and he didn't have the courage to find out what she'd do to him if he ever did.)

This time, she'd made her plans of setting off known as soon as she'd dropped off the fireblossom. She had sensed the astronomical change in Terraria's energy, and apparently, that was how she'd put two and two together that the ball had finally dropped, the Wall of Flesh had been awoken, and he'd unintentionally been put down by the Hero's sword.

Now she needed to pinpoint where the Hallow had spawned, but that land was difficult to navigate even for her. The monsters that inhabited it were technicolor war machines, and as much as it pained her to embrace modernity, she'd need proper medical supplies from the Nurse if she hoped to come back in one piece.

She'd asked him to go into town and get them, and although he knew better than to question a request from a Dryad, it still irritated him. Could she really not pick up on the undercurrent of tension that had rippled through the town in his wake? He knew they found her a bit off-putting, but they hated-

They feared him. For now.

The nights were getting cooler, he mused, as he walked down the dirt path leading to the Nurse's office. There was no need to bring a torch with him—the moon hung over town square like a watchful eye, and he walked by the light of its rays. It was late enough to where he was sure she'd have no customers that would be scared off by his presence, but not early enough in the morning that she'd be closing up and heading to bed.

He stopped just outside of the steps leading to its front door. Lamplight was glowing through the glass transom, but he couldn't hear any movement from inside.

An uncharacteristic prickle of nervousness ran down his spine. He hadn't seen any of the other townspeople in close to a week, and their last confrontation had left a poor taste in his mouth. Not that he had thought telling them he was the monster responsible for nearly killing the Hero wouldn't, but he had no other way to explain how his home had caught alight the same night the Hero crawled up from the Underworld—nor the cloak he donned now that marked him as part of it.

Maybe he should come back later. Wait for tensions to simmer down further.

He steeled his nerves as he caught himself putting the visit off. He'd been doing it all day—first by telling himself the Dryad could use an extra day of rest, then with the notion that it was better to avoid alarming the townsfolk by coming during the busy hours. He needed to get this over with already.

The Guide put his hand on the doorknob, forcing himself to turn it. He stepped into a quiet parlor—wooden, well-lit, and decorated so minimally that it looked almost bare. The Nurse was lounging behind the counter, reading a magazine, but she straightened when she heard the shopkeeper's bell above the door chime. Her face fell by a fraction when she saw the Emissary walk in.

"Oh, Wyatt…" she said slowly, eyes drawn to the cape. "Hello. What can I do for you?"

Her voice was soft and uncertain. He didn't blame her: she must have just recently put together why he'd come in so often with lava burns, and was unsure of what to make of his new role.

She's not the only one, he thought.

He nodded cordially.

"Good evening, Nurse. I just came in to get some supplies."

The Guide feigned a polite look out of the window. "Sorry, I hope it's not too late?"

The Nurse closed her magazine with fervor, letting it fall to the table with new bravado. "Nope, not at all! I don't close up for another hour or so."

She hopped off of her bench, pulling open drawers left and right.

"What can I get ya?" she asked roughly.

Well. At least it wasn't outright animosity.

The Guide walked up to the counter, idly watching her root through her supply cabinet.

"Not for me, for the Dryad. She's going on another one of her expeditions."

The Nurse looked up at him for the first time, raising an eyebrow.

"You're kidding. Didn't she just come back yesterday?"

The Guide's lip turned up.

"I know. But she's already going off again to-" he cut himself off before he could mention the Hallow, "find some ingredient for an enchantment," he covered smoothly. "She'll need enough healing potions to last her for a week or so. Some bandages, medical supplies, and the like would also be appreciated."

The Nurse sighed, pulling up medical-grade sutures and bandages from the drawers behind the front desk, putting them on the counter.

"That girl never rests, does she? Always in town one day and out of it the other. We worry about her, you know, honestly… This is the first time she's ever asked for medical supplies, though. Is where she's heading that dangerous?"

YES.

"I'm not sure. She wouldn't mention where she's going, but who's to say this is for her? Maybe she's going to visit a great, injured beast, or something," he replied, before adding gently "But I'm sure she'll be fine. She's always come back before."

The Nurse hummed appreciatively, bending over to write some log of his purchase into the account book.

"I saw her hanging like a bat from the great Oak tree in town center last night. Is that how she sleeps? Honestly, I'm not even sure if she's human." she quipped.

They shared a chuckle at that. Probably for different reasons, but the Guide felt himself loosening up. He was surprised at how well the Nurse had taken his transformation—he was expecting this meeting to go much worse.

"Say, Wyatt, does that… cape... ever come off?"

Oh. There it was.

She had tried to frame it as a casual question, but she refused to look him in the eye as she said it, and was shifting from foot to foot. His smile became strained.

"No, I'm afraid it doesn't."

"Ah…"

An awkward silence hung in the air, before the Nurse clicked her pen and set it onto the countertop.

"Alright, it seems like I'm running low on healing potions, so I'm going to go place an order for a new shipment over at Edmund's place. The merchant's shop is just a hop away, so I'll go swing by real quick, and once I come back with the potions I'll bill you. Would you mind waiting a minute or two?"

"No, I don't mind at all. Thank you."

The Nurse nodded, giving him a stiff smile, before heading into the backroom. The Guide heard the sound of a door opening, and he assumed she left through the back entrance.

He sighed, looking around the room aimlessly. That could have gone… worse. He was stupid to think that she wouldn't ask him about the cloak at all, especially not with how he had seen her eyeing it earlier, but he was glad she had at least stayed away from the subject of his hands.

… And that she had bothered to swap pleasantries with him.

He knew he'd have to reintegrate into society at some point. He wasn't a fool.

But it would probably be in his best interest to wait for a while before doing so. Show the townspeople that he meant no harm, in spite of what he did to the Hero.

He examined the materials on the countertop: some bandages, gauze, sutures. Insect repellent—he could use some of that for himself, honestly. He hadn't noticed she had new wares in stock since the last time he'd visited. Maybe he should come here more often- I mean, she was the only person in town aside from the Dryad who hadn't iced him out, and it might pay to show her that he was harmless.

He was mentally forming his plan for societal reintegration when the shopkeeper's bell at the front door rang. The Guide jumped.

"What are you doing here?"

A harsh voice barked at him from behind.

The Guide turned around, seeing a familiar figure standing in the doorway, propping it open with a well-muscled arm. The Arms Dealer stared at him icily.

Oh, great. The local firearms lunatic.

The Guide cursed his luck. Out of everyone who could have showed up to the Nurse's office in the ten minutes he was going to be here, it had to be the person who had taken every opportunity to make it known that he openly hated his guts.

The Guide nodded stiffly.

"Arms Dealer."

Oddly enough, he wasn't wearing his signature trench coat, leaving his arms bared by the sleeveless red shirt underneath.

Good. The Guide knew he kept his weaponry in there. Less guns to shoot me with.

The Arms Dealer let the shop door close, cracking his leather-covered knuckles.

"I said, what are you doing here?" his tone was more aggressive this time.

The Emissary regarded him with an indifferent cool. His human adversary may have had a few inches on him in this form, but the Guide was no weakling, and the Arms Dealer didn't know what he was capable of.

The answer wasn't actually all that much, but he could still use that ignorance to his advantage.

"Just picking up medical supplies. That's all."

He spoke curtly in an attempt to avoid confrontation. Just because he wasn't going to back down from a fight didn't necessarily mean he felt like getting shot in the foot today, either.

The Arms Dealer laughed with derision.

"Really? Not sneaking around, planning to finish what you started with the Hero?"

The Guide clenched his teeth, forcing himself to speak slowly.

"I assure you, I have no ill-intent. I'm only here because the Dryad requested I get her some necessary medical supplies."

Somehow, his attempts to calm the Arms Dealer down only succeeded in bristling him further.

(Was it the facial expression? The Guide thought to himself. I'll need to get better at controlling those.)

"Likely fuckin' story, mate. The Dryad hates this place. She'd never even step foot near one of our modern shops. I know she wouldn't use any of our medical supplies."

The Arms Dealer stepped closer, and the Guide couldn't help but step back. Even when he wasn't packing heat, the Arms Dealer cut a frightening figure.

"You have some real nerve showing your face around here again after what you did."

The Guide grimaced. Oh, wonderful. He was being pulled into a confrontation. This was exactly what he was afraid of.

"I always knew there was something off about you. I fuckin' called it! Just like how I called the Eye of Cthulhu, or the King Slime, or the Clothier, god. But did anyone listen to me? No."

As the Arms Dealer accosted him, the Guide studied his movements, trying to assess how to best de-escalate the situation. Screw the medical supplies. He could come back for them another day. If he didn't get away from here now, he would either pop a blood vessel, or have one popped for him via uppercut.

The Guide looked to the Arms Dealer's hands: they were trembling.

That can't be good.

The Arms Dealer took a step closer, raising a finger to point at him.

"And look where it got us! The Hero just barely resuscitated from the brink of death, and the rest of us living in fear of what you'll do next. I don't know what you're thinking, coming back to town like nothing happened. Do you know what you're doing to the townsfolk? How much weird shit has been happening since you came back?"

The Guide stayed silent, backed against the countertop.

"Answer me, motherfucker!"

The Guide... started laughing. The Arms Dealer's eyebrows furrowed, and he stared, open-mouthed, swinging wildly between extremely angry and... extremely confused.

"... What? What are you laughing at?"

The Arms Dealer was looking more alarmed by the second.

When the Guide managed to pull himself together, he gave the Arms Dealer a hateful smile, tilting his head to the side.

"What do you want me to say? That you were right?" he chuckled, "You were right, Arms Dealer! You called it, long before anyone else had a clue. I'm a monster! Congratulations. Actually, I'm impressed. I have no idea how you called it, but you were right!"

The Arms dealer balled his fists, biting his lip.

"Listen to me-" he started, but the Emissary cut him off.

"No you listen to me, Arms Dealer. I might be patient, but even I have my limits. I may not have any intentions of harming anyone in town, but that is subject to change." he hissed.

The Arms Dealer clenched his teeth, looking a little wild. The Guide, laughing as he was earlier, was now glaring at him with a look that could melt iron. Distantly, he mused that the two of them must have looked like two animals, sizing each other up before a fight, waiting for the other to make the first lunge.

It didn't come. Instead, the Arms Dealer quietly seethed, before saying.

"Except for the fucking Hero, right?"

This time, he hit his mark.

"Don't." the Guide breathed. "Don't talk about the Hero."

The Arms Dealer paid him no mind. His explosive anger had cooled into venom.

"You don't think I know what you're doing to them, you manipulative little creep? That none of us have caught on to how you've made them dependent on you? That you think they're some pawn in your fucking 'cosmic game' bullshit?"

The Guide's face heated up. He dug his nails into the countertop.

"You don't know anything about the Hero and I." he spat dangerously, curling his lip up.

The backdoor swung open, and the Emissary and the Arms Dealer were temporarily snapped out of their quarrel. The Nurse walked in a moment later, carrying a crate of about a hundred or so glass jars, each scarlet-red and glass-bright in the lamplight. She raised an eyebrow, seeming to pick up on the tense atmosphere.

"Andre? I didn't- what are you doing here?"

The Arms Dealer laughed. It was raucous, and cold, and aggressive, just like the person behind it—and it was giving the Guide a headache. He could hear his pulse in his ears.

"Nothing, Allison. Just pointing out that I know for a fuckin' fact, that at the end of the day—Wyatt?" he pointed to the Emissary, who was angrily recoiling away from the countertop, looking like a feral cat.

"Wyatt hurt the hero more than any of the monsters he promised to protect them from ever did. He didn't warn them about what they'd find in the underworld, and he didn't tell any of us what would happen after."

The Nurse's face grew panicked. She set the crate of potions down onto the table, looking at the Arms Dealer with a flinty expression.

"Andre, that's enough." she warned.

He ignored her, continuing on.

"He's been hiding that he's the Wall of fucking Flesh since Day one! He lied, to all of us! And he's still keeping secrets!"

He turned back to the Guide.

"Fuck! You didn't even bother sticking around town to make sure they were okay afterwards. Are you that cruel? That you'd just turn your back on the person who'd do fucking anything for you once you're- you're done with them?!"

The Guide's eyes were burning. He knew anger was an emotion he'd felt before, but what he felt now was nauseating.

"ANDRE!" the Nurse yelled.

He looked at her with regret.

"Don't. Don't push him."

The Arms Dealer took a deep breath, face becoming stony. He had one last thing to say.

"They were always too good for you, you know."

The Guide leapt over, balling his fist up, and struck him square in the jaw.

?

So, the Guide thought to himself as he sipped at his tea the next day. He had failed to show the townspeople that he was harmless.

He supposed it should have been predictable enough that punching the Arms Dealer would have been framed as an attack. It was suspicious enough that the gunsmith didn't just wipe the floor with the Guide in the Nurse's Office last night, but the Guide had chalked it up to his new, fearsome status as the Emissary—but this morning he'd realized that if the Arms Dealer had retaliated, it would have been a demonstration of the fact that the townsfolk, at large, were an even match for him; that he wasn't as dangerous as they thought he was.

Damn that clever bastard, the Guide thought. Did he plan this?

The Guide sat at his kitchen table, staring out the window. Although his home was a good deal smaller and farther away from town than most of the others, the Hero had made sure to build a window that gave him a direct view of the town square. (His one-room dwelling was built on the cliffside bordering the town to that end.)

He had been watching through it since the previous night—first too angry to sleep, and then, too- Too vigilant. Near sunrise they had begun to congregate in front of the great oak tree at its center: first the Arms Dealer and the Tavernkeep at the crack of dawn, then the Demolitionist had walked out of the bar to join them. Half an hour later, the Stylist had passed by the oak, and after conversing briefly, was convinced to stay. The Angler was starting to peep out from behind the Nurse's office, looking curious, but he was scared off when its sole occupant had gone out to talk to the crowd.

The Guide's brow furrowed as the Nurse and the Arms Dealer shared a few aggressive-looking gestures, but in the end, she went back inside her office, looking listless.

By the time early noon rolled around, half of the town had joined them. The Arms Dealer and the Tavernkeep began recruiting in earnest by ten o' clock in the morning, recounting what the Guide assumed was the story of how the Arms Dealer had been brutalized last night with zeal. The Guide could spot the ginger hair of the mechanic, pacing nervously at the edge of the crowd, the indigo turban of the dye trader looking vaguely displeased, the painter wiping a pallet knife on his apron...

He'd go down himself and check to see if the Tinkerer was within their ranks, but—he swallowed, sizing up the crowd.

Not that he was scared to check on why several of the townspeople were gathering down there, looking very angry, with torches and pitchforks and… semi-automatics, or anything.

Not at all. He just didn't want to agitate the crowd further, is all.

When they began to move westward, towards his house, the Guide stood up in alarm. Tea spilled from his mug with how hard his hands had slammed the table, but he paid it no mind—he watched their advancement like a hawk.

Led by the Tavernkeep, they began moving closer in a disturbing march. Their facial expressions were grave: brows furrowed, eyes baleful, lips pulled into a thin line.

Oh my god, this was it. He had lasted five days of walking the knife's edge. They were going to kill him.

The Guide grabbed his satchel from its place on his coat rack and shoved several of his most prized books inside of it. He razed his cabinets, trying to determine which of the Dryad's tokens would be most useful while he was fleeing from town, before just haphazardly grabbing a fistful and cramming them into the side compartment.

(When he burnt his hand on the fireblossom, he waved it around wildly, cooling his fingers on his tongue. He didn't have the time for this, damn it!)

What else would he need if he was going to live the rest of his life out as a mountain hermit, isolated from society? He grabbed the Emissary's cloak from his chair, fastening it around himself at record speeds, before realizing he still had his pyjamas on. Shit, how am I going to climb over the mountain in these?!

Oh, to hell with it, he thought, pulling his hiking boots on over them anyways. He didn't have time!

What else, what else?

He looked at the provisions lining his pantry, but he realized he'd have to leave Linen 101 and The Encyclopedia of Bookcloth behind to fit any of them in his bag. His eyes darkened. Not an option. He could just hunt for wild game.

Speaking of hunting: he pulled his bow and quiver from their place at his bedside, fastening both over the emissary's cloak in the rush.

Books. Tokens. Cloak. Quiver.

What else did he need? He was only skipping town and disappearing into the woods forever. It's not like he'd need much. Calming tea would be a nice addition, but that could be brewed from mountain herbs.

The Hero could do without him, he thought, struggling to hook his bow over the cluster of arrows he'd packed into his quiver. They'd broken past the Wall. His job had long-since been over. The Hero could figure out what to do from here—and besides, it's not like they would be lonely. The townspeople adored them.

For some reason, the thought sent a pang of despair through him, but the Emissary shoved it down.

The Guide scurried over to peer out of the window before he bolted out of the front door, but to his amazement, the crowd had stopped. A hundred or so yards away, the Hero stood in front of them, blocking their way. They held a long, cobalt-colored sword in an outstretched hand—the Muramasa—preventing the throng of people from advancing any further.

It looked like they were trying to placate them, the Guide observed, face pressed against the glass. He watched as the Hero dispersed the crowd. They waved the Muramasa around wildly, which deterred a few citizens, but the crowd remained mostly unbroken until the Hero got closer to exchange words with the tavernkeep personally.

They drove their blade into the earth, leaning on it comfortably. Whatever the terms they were outlining, the tavernkeep seemed to consider them for a moment before reluctantly agreeing.

The mob slowly began to scatter, breaking off into pairs and groups of three. The Tavernkeep, Arms Dealer, and Demolitionist all retreated into the tavern, and the dye trader, mechanic, and painter followed them soon after, successfully diverted. The Guide breathed a sigh of relief.

Then, however, the Hero pulled their blade from the ground, tucking it away in its sheath, and began their ascent on the steps to the Guide's home—alone.

The Guide felt his stomach lurch. He hurried to yank off his weaponry, placing it haphazardly onto the kitchen table. Arrows spilled onto the floor, but he would pick those up later. He shrugged off his satchel, throwing it onto the bed, and was about to straighten his cloak just as there was a knock on his door.

"Oh, lord…" he muttered.

The Guide rubbed his temples, trying to ground himself. He walked over to the door, before pausing as a realization dawned upon him. The Hero was still carrying a weapon—not one quite as potent as the blade they'd use to slay him in the Underworld, but one that was still perfectly capable of slicing into the squishy meat vessel he was currently inhabiting.

Did they- did they come here to finish the job personally?

His head reeled. He didn't take them for the type of person who was keen on revenge, but he knew beneath the softhearted exterior laid an iron core. If anything threatened the safety of the town they'd built, they would make sure it was eradicated in the end, gentle nature be damned.

"I may not have any intentions of harming anyone in town, but that is subject to change."

Damn his running mouth. There was little chance the Arms Dealer wouldn't have let that slide without telling the townspeople. The Hero had most certainly heard about it by now.

It was just something he'd said out of impulse! He didn't actually mean it!

Another knock came from the door, and the Guide opened it hesitantly.

In front of him stood the Hero. Although they still had their sword strapped to their belt, they had taken their armor off, electing instead to wear a simple, tattered flannel. Their facial expression was unreadably neutral beneath the brim of their straw hat, but as soon as the door swung open they stared at him quizzically.

"Hero. It's good to see you up and about."

The Nurse had managed to sew up all of the places where the Wall's hungry mouths had torn them apart, and the healing potions had done their job: it seemed as if their injuries sustained from the fight had already faded into scar tissue, and even those were just silver slivers.

They nodded, hesitantly. "... You too."

You could cut the tension in the air with a knife, the Guide mused, before carefully pulling the door open further.

"...Would you like to come in? I have tea and apples, but not much else in the form of snacks, I'm afraid."

Or food in general, he thought, but the Hero didn't need to know that he hadn't been by the market at all.

As the Hero's gaze shifted to them, he realized with some embarrassment that they weren't very appetizing: their brilliant crimson color had been tarnished by maturity, fading to withered rust. The Guide looked back to the Hero, who had poked their head into the door to look at them. He hoped it was the thought that counted.

"Have you tried them yourself?" they asked.

The Guide shook his head.

"I'm afraid not, but you're welcome to take some from me."

"... I think I'll pass."

The silence in the air was deafening. The Hero stared at him, saying nothing, and the Guide shifted on his feet. Suddenly they spoke up.

"Sorry, are you. Wearing silk pyjamas and hiking boots?"

"...I must have been sleepwalking."

The Hero raised an eyebrow.

"With your cloak on?"

The Guide coughed. "What? It's comfortable."

The Hero chuckled lowly, and the Guide felt the tension leave his body. What was he thinking? The Hero, raising their blade against him? He was seriously out of it.

"... How are your wounds?" he asked tentatively,

The Hero folded their arms nervously, avoiding leaning against the doorway like they'd done so many times before.

Still upset.

"They're okay. Nurse Allison, got me uh, good as new. Right as rain."

Their gaze trailed to the Guide's arms.

"Are your hands-"

"They're fine as well. The coloring on my arms is nothing to be concerned about. It's just a product of my-" the Guide avoided mentioning his second death, "revival." he finished breathily.

A silence hung in the air, and the Guide searched for something to say—something tactful, something that would placate the Hero's uncertainty while drip-feeding them information to get them to trust him again, but not reveal too much about what the Emissary knew—

But the Hero beat him to the punch.

"How could you not tell me?" they demanded. The intensity of it shocked him.

"I…" Something that won't tip them off. Something that would make it clear you aren't a threat. Something to get them to trust you again. "If there was another way, I would have taken it. I didn't want to fight you."

"I don't care about the fight." they argued.

Oh, lord. Just what he was afraid of.

"I just can't believe that you didn't… tell me you were born in, in the Underworld. Do you know how upset the rest of the villagers are? That if you had just- told us, this could have been, avoided, maybe?"

The Guide's jaw firmed as he crossed his arms. Oh, sure. Next time I approach a human township I'll be upfront about being the keeper to the gates of Hell. I'm sure that will go over well.

The Hero continued rambling. It was as if a floodgate had opened, everything that had been brewing over the past five days was coming to the surface in a jumbled, incomprehensible stream.

"And what you did to Andre-"

"I didn't attack him unprovoked." the Guide hissed.

"I know. I know you didn't," their voice had raised a few octaves, "But have you considered, that maybe everyone's pitchforks and torches and whatever are out now because you didn't bother to explain that you weren't a threat? You just, dropped that bomb on us that you were the Wall of Flesh, and that you were testing me, and then left?!"

The Guide felt his hands shaking. He took a deep breath before answering.

"I didn't want to incense them further. I thought I'd give the situation some time to settle down."

The Hero looked angry.

The way it distorted their features was alien to the Guide. He'd never seen them this furious before, and something in him shrunk down as it sunk in that it was directed at him.

"You'd hide up here and wait for me to clear it up, you mean." they said frustratedly.

The Guide felt his face heat up.

"You are under no obligation to protect me. I can handle this on my own." He said coldly.

The Hero put their arms up, gesturing wildly.

"So what was I supposed to do? Let them just drive you out?!"

They sighed, rubbing their temples.

"I just—can you please just make an effort to communicate with them? Show them that you're not, I don't know, going to, burn the town down in their sleep?" the Hero pleaded, before adding, "They set up a twenty-four hour watch, y'know."

A twenty-four hour watch, like he was just waiting in the shadows, ready to strike. Like he would strike. Like the thought had even crossed his mind.

The Guide felt venom building up on his tongue. He wanted to… to say something that would inflict pain.

"In case you forgot: I am not your Guide anymore." he declared sharply.

This is a terrible idea, he thought as he spoke, you are burning the only bridge that quite possibly stands between you and getting stoned by a horde. But he couldn't stop.

He straightened up, pulling the tassels on his cape tighter, feeling a cold comfort in the crimson cloak wrapping itself around him.

"My job with you is done. You are free to do as you please. You owe me nothing."

It was, as clearly as the Guide could elucidate it, a rejection.

The Hero's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. Apparently, it had rung clear as day. The Guide became uncomfortably aware that they were holding a sword.

"Are you not living in the house I built for you? Eating the- the fruits that I watered?"

They unsheathed the Muramasa, holding it up to the light, and the Guide backed away.

"Is this- is this not, the sword that you gave to me?"

Their voice was getting strained.

Distantly, he realized that everything had been building up to this. He'd known he'd have to break the news to the Hero at some point since the very beginning. He knew he'd never be a permanent fixture in their life, that his time with the townspeople was limited—he just didn't expect to be resurrected to deal with the aftermath. Why was it bothering him now?

The Hero opened their mouth as if they were going to say something more, but instead…

Whatever their argument had been building towards, it halted in its tracks. They simply shook their head, beginning to walk away, like the Guide was a lost cause.

Damn it. You idiot. Too far.

"Hero, wait, I-" the Guide stepped out of the doorway, reaching out to grab their arm on instinct before stopping himself. The Hero turned around, steadying themselves on the handrail as they watched him vacantly from the first stair down.

"I'm sorry, alright?" he stammered. "For not telling you that I was... I didn't think you'd go through with it if I had."

The Hero gave him a remorseful smile.

"I guess we'll see if you are, Emissary. If you- if the townsfolk don't lose their fear of you… We might have to relocate you."

?

When The Guide wakes up the next day, miserable, cocooned in the quilt he slept in, and fully expecting to find a dead crow or some other sort of small prey animal on his doorstep (how the Dryad had learned to express her displeasure), he is instead pleasantly surprised to find a small sachet of tea leaves waiting for him on his windowsill.

There's a note attached to them, scrawled in the Dryad's unsteady handwriting.

My name is Titania. You've still got me.

A smile settles on his face—a rare, genuine, gentle one. It immediately turns into a grimace when he flips the note over.

"Tell anyone and I'll slit your throat?... Lord, Titania, you don't pull punches, do you?"