Archive of Our Own

1.

The Hero of Terraria, King of the World, Slayer of Cthulhu, among many other titles that they have yet to earn is.. well, put politely, they have a set of very well rounded skills. Lots of potential. They could surely choose to specialise in any class they pleased with nothing to hold them back, considering they had no real current specialisation of their own. What was that saying.. "jack of all trades, master of none"? The Hero fit that bill perfectly.

Although, watching them wave their Copper Shortsword around, trying (and failing) to stab the green slime made him wonder if they were a jack of any trade at all.

Which was fine! If they weren't, that is. Even if they had absolutely 0 skills whatsoever, it would be fine. He's the Guide, it's his job to make sure the Hero would be ready to face everything that the world would throw at them regardless of their current skill level. Or lack thereof. And if they learnt a little slower, well- a little death never hurt anybody. The respawn system would definitely catch a soul as bright and brilliant as the Hero's and safely return them to their body, which was more than he could say for the common monster which populated the world. Sometimes they respawned. Sometimes not. But the Hero certainly wouldn't be affected, and with enough gravestones, they could even build a Graveyard biome to aid their crafting! It wasn't a bad deal at all.

It really is a sad sight, though- the Hero of Terraria, defeated by a single green slime and lack of aiming skills with a Copper Shortsword.

"Of all the things to be.." the Hero snarls, voice trailing off into a series of angry grunts he can't quite decipher, pausing to visibly gather themselves before they thrust their sword out, finally connecting it to the slime with a wet schlorp. The victory seemingly empowers them enough to lash out with their sword correctly again, killing the slime for good.

The balance of the world shifts- so subtle that it is akin to a single grain of sand being removed from the beach it belonged to- and the world stirs, attention drawn to the newly introduced variable that has dared defile its precautious balance.

The Guide breathes.

He knows this balance better than anyone. 

"Did you know you can use your axe to cut down trees? Wood is a valuable resource!" The Guide- his name is Brandon- chirps in his best friendly tone. The Hero side eyes him so briefly that he isn't sure if they are simply skimming the entire world and he was included, if they are the nervous sort who couldn't hold eye contact for longer than a second, or if they are throwing him a stink eye. He hopes it's the first option. The latter two options would be terribly unfortunate, what with the major monsters' general affinity for having eyes in places they absolutely had no business having eyes in, and the fact he was supposed to work with the Hero but he couldn't exactly work with someone who hated his guts respectively.

He doesn't think he'd actually need to do much, though. The Hero carries themselves with the prose and grace of a seasoned warrior, despite their extremely poor display of skill with the Copper Shortsword earlier.

"When you have enough wood, create a workbench. This will allow you to create more complicated things, as long as you are standing close to it," the Gui- Brandon tries, noting that the Hero had already cut down 2 fairly tall trees. That would be more than enough wood for a work bench. He doesn't get a response. Oh well. The Hero didn't strike him as the particularly chatty type, anyway.

They look.. not unlike him, honestly. Their hair is a little longer- long enough to fall into their eyes and be a general nuisance, and he has no idea how anyone could tolerate that kind of hairstyle, much less choose to have it- and a few shades redder than his own. They wear a faded grey vest over a light blue, long sleeved shirt, held together with a belt, while he simply wears a plain shirt. They have the same pair of pants in different colours- a light brown for the Hero and blue for his own. But that's where the resemblance stops- the Hero's eyes are brown, curious, sparkling with something Other and hardened with something More. His eyes are.. well. He did say the major monsters had eyes in places they had absolutely no business having eyes in, didn't he? What is he, if not a major monster?

The Hero is busy laying wood down on a flat plain that they have created from mowing down the trees in the immediate area, without his prompting to do so. First comes the general structure of the house in the form of a box, then the walls, followed by 2 doors, a workbench, a chair, a couple of torches.. It is either the work of an inexperienced worker trying to build a worthy house but stuck in the mindset that a house should be geometrical, or the work of an experienced worker simply going for the option with the most efficiency. He wonders which category the Hero falls into. They behave like they are experienced, but the Copper Shortsword incident was truly appalling. The Hero's hands jerk in an entirely unnatural manner and th- Brandon can tell the house has been assigned to him.

Well.

At least he has a house.

The Hero is already off, headed to the left, and if he squints after their retreating form he can see the glimmer of a unexplored map resting under their fingertips, faint and flickering in and out of existence. It's not meant for any eyes other than those of the Hero, after all. Too bad he has too many eyes in too many places; he sees the map anyway. Going exploring and possibly caving, then. He'd know soon enough by the type of monsters dying.

He doesn't pay too much attention. The Hero is destructive, for a lack of better words, cutting their way across hi- the world, plundering everything the world has to offer no matter if it was in the form of pots or chests, bulldozing their way through his- through the cavern layer, and-

He thinks his entire focus might be on the destruction that demands he carves a piece of himself out and offer it to the Hero as sacrifice. He thinks the monsters stir and respond to his distress and throw themselves at the Hero in a futile bid to stall or halt their approach. He doesn't think he cares. He cannot afford to care. It hurts too much to care.

"Greetings, [         ]," he greets the Hero, with a name he does not know but his mouth says anyway. He makes himself friendly, and approachable, and nice. He is the Guide. This is his job. "Is there something I can help you with?"

The Hero brushes past him wordlessly. He didn't want to talk to them anyway.

The box house expands into a row of box houses. It looks, for a lack of better words, like the construction of a child put into reality. Actually, even children might have better design sense than this. Some of the roofs are of unequal heights, differing by one or two blocks, as if The Hero had simply built a general box shape without checking the dimensions of said box shape they were building. People start filing in anyway as The Hero continues to provide suitable housing to live in and hits the requirements to attract an NPC to stay- 50 silver, an extra 20 health, a bomb, a gun, an orange bloodroot..

Brandon folds himself into his house and tries to breathe. The walls hem in, pressing ever closer in an attempt to suffocate him. The air is stale, recycled among too many people to possibly be fresh; if he paces too far he will inevitably bump into another resident; his assignment is to this house and he is bound to it, no mater how far he strays; he cannot move and he cannot breathe and he cannot escape-

He collapses a Hungry into the form of a human- just how his mother would turn her own features into that of the Lost Girl to lure prey closer much like a textbook siren would- and he almost immediately falls over, gasping for air. The body is too small, forcing the flesh it contained to near collapse in on itself, even though he'd (wisely) only turned a Hungry into the shape of a human, instead of trying to cram his entire mass into the required shape. The body is too small, there is no space, his form presses in on himself closely and there's no escape-

He flails in distress, howling his displeasure for the whole Underworld to know and whipping the rest of The Hungry around sharply. He doesn't know how to undo it. He doesn't know, he cannot breathe, and his body is too small and it's too small and it's too small-

He stands in the field outside of his house, content to bask in the warmth of the sun and let the wind ruffle his hair into a rat's nest. He stands until his feet ache, but he would rather stand and ache than to sit and suffocate in a too small house and a too small body, so he stands.

Sometimes he opens the door even though it's night, even though he knows there are zombies outside, even though he's the one to warn the Hero, "you should stay indoors at night. It is very dangerous to be wandering around in the dark", because he'd rather die than sit and suffocate a moment longer in a house that never fails to grow progressively smaller the longer he stares at its walls. He knows it's selfish. But he cannot help it.

The Hero moves him into a house that's a fair distance away from the other houses after a Blood Moon- the air had been particularly stale and heavy, pressing down on him with an invisible weight- where he let the creatures piling atop each other at the door in and they had massacred the entire population. His name is Colin now. At least he had respawned in the day and missed out on the rest of the night. His new house is another box house that presses in on him just as closely as the previous one, and he hates it as much as he hates the Hero for it. They are not inexperienced. He sees the way they skim across the face of the earth, steps a flurry from the Hermes Boots they are wearing, their Ivy Hook snagging the ground at prime positions to help speed their journey along, the way they weave and slash their way through the Eye of Cthulhu and the Eater of Worlds. He knows they do not lack the capability to build a nice house, or, at the very least, simply build a larger one. The margin for breathing is just a tad wider in his new residence, but it's still much too narrow for his liking; it still makes the walls press in and his breaths short, dizzying and terrifying in the worst of ways and he hates- hates the Hero at the peak of his panic, when the thunderstorm rages outside and the only thing he can do is sit in his chair and fight past the iron grip around his chest threatening to squeeze all the air out of him miserably.

But when the Hero tilts their head towards him in a rare show of attention, he does not voice his dissent. Nor does he ask for more. He smiles, "I'm quite fond of wandering through the Forest. I like it here."

It's easier than risking their wrath.

2.

He tells the Hero many things. Not as much as he could have, certainly, but he makes sure to squeeze as many tidbits of information in as he possibly can when he does manage to catch their fancy.

He tells them of how Fallen Stars might be crafted to Mana Crystals upon noticing the Space Gun they are carrying, and then about the Goblin Scouts that can be found at the Edge of the World upon seeing the gun's modifier is Shoddy. He tells them of the cursed Old Man who dwells in the Dungeon since they have yet to defeat Skeletron, despite having proven themselves to be a worthy foe in combat against the Eye of Cthulhu and the Eater of Worlds. The Dryad- and where did she come from?- is living proof attesting to the fact that the Hero is starting to live up to their title as, well, the hero.

Whenever they meet, the Dyrad throws him a shrewd glance. If she had tracked the disturbance in the energy of the world when the Hero slew a major monster, he has no doubt she is nowhere near fooled by the human skin he wears. Not that he has to see her much. The Hero had finally gotten around to splitting them up and setting up a Pylon network, which thankfully resulted in a much quieter neighbourhood (and a lack of the Dryad in general).

The houses are still too small. That is something that Colin does not tell the Hero.

He does not tell them, "you are ready to challenge the guardian of the Underworld. Everything you need for it can be found in the Underworld."

He does not tell them, "I am that guardian."

Well, technically he isn't. He is a Hungry, a small part of the aforementioned guardian, in the shape of a human. His main body is lying dormant somewhere in the Underworld- the Guide is an extension of the guardian, and having both be active at once simply wouldn't do. He doesn't have enough brainpower to micromanage all the small activities a human did while also overseeing the world he is in charge of and governing them in his main body. He may be a major monster, and the core and master of the world besides, but that didn't mean he could multitask to the extent demanded when you tried to pilot two very different bodies all at once. Maybe for a few minutes. Definitely not for the eternity he has existed for.

The point is, he does not tell the Hero anything related to that can of worms. He would have, eventually. Maybe after they raised their health beyond 220 and got some better equipment than Meteorite Armour and a Shoddy Space Gun. Alright, Meteorite Armour isn't that bad, but there are better sets, like Jungle Armour or Molten Armour. And Shoddy! On a gun! Even if the Hero wasn't willing to spend money on getting Mythical, the least they could do was modify away that frankly terrible title. Honestly.

The Goblin Army remains unsummoned and undefeated. The Goblin Tinkerer is not recruited. He's starting to think the Hero doesn't listen to the advice he gives them. Which- well. That's fine. Perhaps they were giving him the stink eye at the very start, after all.

What he expects the Hero to do in the coming days is to defeat Skeletron, give the Dungeon a quick exploration and get themselves some weapons from the Dungeon. Perhaps they would find and free the Mechanic while they were at it. From that point, they would be able to obtain a Shadow Key and pillage the Underworld for better equipment. He expects them to go after the Goblin Army at some point, find the Goblin Tinkerer and reforge their equipment properly. He expects them to build a nice, long bridge in the Underworld in preparation of the coming fight against him.

He doesn't like the idea of the Hero carving their way through the Goblin Army or the Dungeon or the Underworld any more than he had liked the idea of The Hero carving their way through the Cavern system, but it is what it is. It is a part of progression. It is what he expects.

He doesn't expect to die.

Well, more accurately, he expects to die at some point or the other because the Hero is the Hero of Terraria. He is a side character at best, if he is a character at all. He is the Wall of Flesh. He is a means to an end and so he expects to be used like the tool that he is and then discarded after. He has made his peace with that (mostly. Sometimes the thought still makes him sting). He expects to die, and that is fine. But he doesn't expect to die so soon, with Skeletron still undefeated, the Dungeon and Underworld mostly untouched, some walls in the obsidian brick houses broken but no real bridge spanning the Underworld. He had known the Hero was in the Underworld, of course, had felt the balance of the world shifting, the missing chunk of metaphorical sand the Hero steadily shovels away as they continue to fight their way through the minor (and major) monsters that dare cross paths with them. He had known that the Hero had slain a Voodoo Demon, that much had been clear from the wave of nausea that had crashed over him when the Voodoo Demon perished- the only minor monster whose death had such a strong impact on him (even his mother's death doesn't affect him as deeply- she is stronger than the average monster, and he feels her death more keenly as he would feel the death of any rare monster, but he does not think further on it than to take note that she has perished. The death of the Voodoo Demon, on the other hand, fills him with a deep seated unease and terror. He doesn't dwell on the implications of what that says about him as a person). But he does not die mere seconds after the death of the Voodoo Demon. It is not an accident that has destroyed the doll.

The Hero has summoned him, and he will answer.

The human body he puppets does not reflect the state of the Voodoo Doll. He does not go up in flames and nor does he crumple into ash. He does, however, collapse abruptly as one of the many dolls he's tied to burns to nothingness and his body shuts down. Well, his human body shuts down, but his main body stirs. He confuses himself sometimes. He is the Guide. He is the Wall of Flesh. The Guide is a Hungry and a part of the Wall of Flesh, but nevertheless he considers it as something of its own. It has held his full consciousness and therefore it is a part of him and it is him unlike how the rest of The Hungry simply were part of him. He is simultaneously both and neither. The technicalities were always confusing to think about, but the technicalities hardly matters now.

Now, his awareness slams back into his main body, shocking it out of dormancy and straight into battle. It's terribly inefficient. His movements are slow, sluggish, unused to the form he'd once reigned supreme in but now simply feels clunky and overwhelmingly large. The Hungry reach forward- eager, longing, hungry- with a mind of their own, flailing with a decided lack of any control whatsoever, concerned only with getting their jaws around something. He casts around futilely for a few seconds before it occurs to him to focus inwards, towards the middle of his form instead of at the top and bottom of the Underworld respectively, and his gaze finally lands on the one who had dared awaken him- although, he already knew who it was, didn't he?

The Hero is standing on the edge of one of the many obsidian brick towers in the Underworld, peering up at him through the hole they had dug in the frame of the tower to give themselves just enough space to walk through. He can't make out too much details at this distance, but he knows that they have crammed an Archaeologist's Hat on their head, leaving their already messy hair to stick out in tufts from under the hat, and is wearing both the Bee Sweater and Pants. Their hand is wrapped around a Space Gun. They look simultaneously tiny like that- dwarfed by the towering blocks of obsidian bricks, just barely peeking out of the hole they've dug like a mouse might stare at the world outside, and so far below his top eye- and bigger than the world around them- towering over his bottom eye, looking down their nose at him with a disdainful glint in their eye, tall and strong with his worm's eye perspective. He's used to meeting them eye to eye (even if he has eyes all over the world anyway, and the eyes in his human form had simply been two of many, and it wasn't like the Hero really ever looked at him anyway), being just a little taller, the Hero's gaze never failing to slide past him in a clear show of disinterest. Not anymore. Now he towers over the Hero in terms of sheer height and mass, and the Hero's gaze is locked firmly on him, tracking his movements sharply, and it makes something ugly stir in his chest- something like anger, something like betrayal, something like despair left out for too long and curdled into bitterness. Oh, he thinks, oh, I'll give you something to pay attention to, alright.

He roars.

---

Ryan the Guide has arrived!

---

He wakes up crying. The taste of ash and death lingers on his tongue, and he remembers the press of heat against his skin in home the Underworld still. It's cold. He curls his hands into the dirt, there is blood and dust under his nails- there must be, he had- had- fighting past the cloying nausea of a too small body just like he fought the Hero, silent but no less bitter for it, lashing out with a vengeance, like any form of retribution at all would cure the ache seated in his own heart. And it did. The Hero's pained hiss is a wonderful and sweet victory he really shouldn't treasure and manages to breathe. This body is too small. The other is too big. If he belongs in neither, where does he belong to now?

It is a good day. The sun beams down, warm and inviting. There is a faint breeze in the air, ruffling the grass playfully and kissing the petals of the flowers, although it is not strong enough to do much more than disturb the leaves of the trees ever so slightly. He is outdoors in the Forest, exactly where he loves to be. Ryan the Guide miserably buries his face in his hands and tries to remember how to live at all.

It's so cold.

3.

The Hero doesn't stop by his house often. He doesn't have much to offer. Not directly, of course, but the Hero doesn't have to know that he's busy dealing with the backend side of things what with the appearance of the Hallow and the subsequent fallout of balance in the world.

There's really a lot to do.

The Ancient Spirits of Light and Dark are running amok causing chaos. Granted, the Ancient Spirit of Light is weak right now, having spent a large portion of its power manifesting the Hallow, but it has always been the stronger spirit, and it shows- the Hallow is still spreading at the same rate as the Corruption; the taste of purity and perfection itself sits so heavily in the air it has crystalised into Crystal Shards underground, where the scent of purity remains undiluted by the surrounding Forest air; the Hallow matches the Corruption step by step in terms of monster strength and numbers. The Ancient Spirit of Dark had spent a portion of its power spawning stronger monsters too, and the smell of rot and decay that had always hung around the Corruption has intensified, but even then, the Clinger is the only monster which spat acid and sins out in the form of Cursed Fire, unlike the Hallow which grew Crystal Shards so freely. He'd recaptured a portion of the Ancient Spirits in his main body, because the least he could do was help do damage control. He is still the core and master of the world. It is his job, and even if it was not, if he did not step in to help stem the damage being inflicted onto the world by the Hero, he would be the one suffering the repercussions.

The tight knot in his chest and occasional burn through his veins as the Hallow and Corruption wage war across the world he is tied so closely to is already more than enough.

That's just the most major problem. All the minor monsters who had gotten displaced when the Ancient Spirits swept through the world have to be relocated and settled into proper placings in the world. On the flip side, more than a few monsters are starting spats about how to share their newly shrunk territory, and he has to go break those arguments apart too, and try to find a compromise. A lot of monsters are upset with the Hero. He is too.

More concerningly, the Souls of Might, Sight, and Fright are awake and angry. He had known they were being harnessed against their will for.. for something. That much had been clear from the way they murmured dissent, the terrible shriek of something unnatural, a disjoint harmony of two things that should not be and yet were. It's nothing like the quiet, peaceful hum of energy of the Wyverns harnessing the Soul of Flight to glide and soar through the air, performing graceful loops and cutting through the air with sleek and sharp movements. That is a mutual agreement. But whatever union the Souls of Might, Sight and Fright had been forced into is nowhere near mutual. Worse of all is the fact that he can feel that it's permanent. The Souls are as bound to the respawn system as any major monster would be. Simply defeating them would not suffice to break their bond, they would simply inhabit a reconstructed body that the world provided them the next time they were summoned, much like how he would simply inhabit his reconstructed body if he were to die again to the Hero's hands. And wouldn't it be lovely if the Hero summoned him while unprepared? He would seize them with The Hungry and maul them with his teeth. He would strike them out of existence, show them how it felt like when they hurt him-

The Guide- Ryan breathes. His name is Ryan. He is a human. He is the Guide. His job is to be helpful and friendly and nice. He can do that. He will do that.

He is the Wall of Flesh and he wants vengeance. He is the core of the world and he is hurt.

He boxes the hurt away for another day to deal with. Right now, there's the mystery of the Souls' situation to deal with. He doesn't know what's wrong, doesn't get any real clarification beyond the occasional whisper of wrong, help, hurt- but he'd already known that. He can feel it. There is something discordant and forceful tying the Souls to a vessel that he can't quite see nor feel- something inorganic, then, or something out of this world (he hopes it's the former. The only extraterrestrial activity he knows of is in relation to the Moon Lord and that's not something he wants to have to deal with anytime soon). What he needs to know is what exactly is wrong, so he can attempt to start untangling the mess of knots that has been created, in a way that would not explode and permanently damage the Souls. They probably wouldn't be overly grateful to be freed but be at a fraction of their original strength, or to be tied to something else and end up just as trapped as before.

He's sitting on his chair and spacing out, busy trying to settle all the problems in the world at once, when the Hero stops on his doorstep. It takes an embarrassing 14 seconds for him to blink back into awareness and greet, "greetings, [         ], is there something I can help you with?"

The Hero, predictably, ignores him. He would ignore them back in return, but he's the Guide, after all, and if there's anything he can help them with, then he would help them to the best of his ability. Honestly, he can think of 3 reasons why the Hero is here that doesn't involve him in the slightest- they are thinking what to do next, and hence stopped in the middle of nowhere while considering what they should be doing; they are accessing the Pylon system through the Forest Pylon that is in front of his house; they are sorting through their inventory and needed somewhere quiet to do it. There's always the possibility that they found something that they finally didn't know a use of and is searching for it to ask him about it, and that's the only reason why he's paying attention at all. He's supposed to give the Hero guidance in the form of tips as well as crafting recipes in relation to anything they might present him with, so that they could have a better idea of what they have to acquire and put together something. That is his job.

He's starting to hate his job.

Items cycle in and out of existence in the space above the Hero's hand- inventory sorting then. Lovely. The Gu- Ryan resists the urge to rub his hands over his face in a show of exasperation. He has a lot to get done in regards to the world, it's upkeep, and it's general status. He doesn't have time for this. Sure, the Dyrad might be the one who tells the Hero of the status of the world- he feels a tug in the corner of the mind each time she does so as she taps into the network of energy that makes up the world to check on its status, and it's impressive work, really, he just doesn't like the fact that her gaze cuts through him and leaves him wide open to her inspection that he is nowhere near human. He is the Guide. His name is Ryan. He is a human.

He can't be anything other. The Wall of Flesh wants to tear the Hero apart limb from limb, wants to send the wrath of the entire monster population crashing down on the Hero who has dared murder so many of them and wreck so many homes, wants to burst free of the too small skin he's trapped in and roar his misery to the whole world-

The Hero is holding a Guide Voodoo Doll.

The Hero extends the arm holding the Voodoo Doll, face unreadable, and tosses it with a surprising amount of gentleness into the nearest lava pit.

His skin prickles with phantom pain and magic as the doll disappears back into the Hero's inventory. They seem to be done with sorting, hand returning to clutching their weapon solidly. What he expects them to do is fire their weapon a few times to readjust themselves to the feel of the weapon, after having spent so long sorting their inventory, or to turn on their heel and leave, or to stand blankly in front of the Pylon before disappearing in a flash. Once they're gone, he can set about trying to shake the feeling of electricity dancing across his skin and scrub his hands clean of the blood that's on them (which he is fully aware doesn't exist, but every time he's reminded of his time in the Underworld he remembers lashing out at the Hero, one of The Hungry latching onto the Hero's ankle and dragging them closer, his own triumphant snarl as he hurts the person who had hurt him over and over and over-) in the nearest water source. Their actions fall well within his expectations- they flick their hand and fire their weapon.

The impact is lost on him. Because he could almost swear that he'd stumbled back from the force behind the shot, his shoulder burning from the influx of raw magic, except that the Hero isn't supposed to be able to hurt him, or any of the NPCs in general. He stares at the Hero with wide eyes, skin buzzing with something electric- fear? Phantom pain? Or is it the feeling of magic, dancing across his skin from his connection to the Hero's actions?- and he finds that he's backed up against the wall of his house all too soon.

He opens his mouth to call a name that he does not know but can say. He doesn't get to say it.

---

Bradley the Guide has arrived!

---

The sky is blue, the grass is green, Bradley the Guide is outdoors, just how he loves to be, and he finds he cannot think of anything.

What is he supposed to think about?

But that's not fair? Or I was supposed to be able to fight back? Perhaps, most importantly, why? How?- and wouldn't that be the question of the century.

The only warning he gets this time is the aggravated sigh from the Hero before he's sent stumbling forward from the impact of the Cursed Flame. He keeps moving even after the initial impact. Maybe, if he runs far enough he'll escape the Hero.

The Hero steps back time and time again, fingers tight around the Space Gun they're holding, running from him. What he can make out of their expression is panicked and grim. They have ran out of space, having to pause their attack constantly to dig through the obsidian brick towers to keep making space for themselves to keep running.

How the turntables. Now he's the one running. He's still the one being killed.

"I don't like this," he says, or maybe he doesn't. The Hero doesn't react. Although- when have they ever reacted?

---

Kyle the Guide has arrived!

---

Logan the Guide has arrived!

---

Asher the Guide has arrived!

---

Asher the Guide has arrived!

---

"Asher again?" The Hero gripes, "are you serious? Respawn as Andrew already."

It's the first time the Hero has directly addressed him- it's not that they can't talk, because he has certainly heard them mumbling to themselves or talking to the other NPCs. But the most they have done is to tilt their head towards him in prompting or acknowledgement.

He stares down the corner of the Cursed Flames spellbook, skin burning with magic and the Cursed Inferno debuff this particular spellbook inflicted, and finds that the first thing he wants to say is, "will you talk to me again if I let you kill me?"

The bitterness that wells up from the back of his throat is not entirely unwelcome. The grief that follows is entirely unwelcome. He shouldn't grief something he never had. Nor should he grief for someone who never loved him. But here he is anyway- he is the Guide. His name is Ry- Asher. He is human. And the price of humanity has always been grief.

---

Jeffery the Guide has arrived!

---

Hero: a person who is admired for their courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities.

The Hero sure doesn't feel particularly heroic right now, foot tapping impatiently against the wooden floorboards, flicking their weapon in agitation, the ghost of his deaths haunting the room they stood in. The little voice in the back of his head that catalogued and recorded every single thing he'd ever heard and seen helpfully informs him he's 1 step away from the spot he'd died at the last 4 times in a row. He steps back. There's no point in ruining the vibe of his entire house, after all.

---

Andrew the Guide has arrived!

---

The Hero beams as they kill him. He takes the beating as quietly in his human body as he'd taken it in his monstrous body.

There's no point in making a fuss out of nothing.

4.

The Hero doesn't stop by his house often he doesn't want to see them. He doesn't have anything to offer they'd stripped him of any value. The Hero wears a green cap it's showered in his blood.

He doesn't look at the Hero anymore. He stares at the space around them or at the ground when they pass by. If they have anything to ask of him, he doesn't hear it. He doesn't need to hear it. Why would he ever need to hear a single word they spoke to him? They hadn't needed a word he spoke to them, nor had they cared enough to listen to his idle chatter, why should he return the favour? He is the Guide. He is supposed to be helpful and friendly and nice- that is his job. He doesn't like this job. He doesn't like anything that has to do with the Hero, not anymore.

His hands are shaking. He folds them together in some semblance of stability. It doesn't help, but he can pretend that it does.

His days are peaceful, if idyllic. There's nothing left to do these days. The Ancient Spirits of Light and Dark are largely stabalised, more concerned with eating away at the land and spreading their current influence than anything else; he'd resettled all the minor monsters- not that there are as many of them as there were in the first place, thanks to the Hero- and mostly smoothed over any major spats; he'd solved the mystery of what exactly had gone wrong with the Souls of Might, Fright and Sight. He'd seen the answer to that particular mystery first hand.

He remembers the ground trembling under his feet. He remembers snapping his attention towards the disturbance in the energy of the world. He remembers It- something frightful, something unnatural, a screeching union of metal and Soul against their will, the cutting coldness as the very air wailed, protesting the fact that this.. this amalgamation could ever exist and dare mimic life-

He doesn't remember what It had looked like. He understands It as a concept, nothing more. He cannot understand It as anything more than a concept, and it's not from a lack of trying. He had approached the issue of the union with the concept of what was wrong, but as expected, being unable to see what he was supposed to be working with meant he could do nothing- he'd been unable to undo or even salvage anything. It is too far out of his jurisdiction of control for him to do anything at all.

And so he has nothing to do. He doesn't stay in his house, naturally. He's never liked the way the walls press in steadily the longer he looks at them. The lingering memory of cowering at the Hero's feet as they murder him in cold blood hardly helps, either. He stands and stares at the surrounding greenery of his house instead, stands and aches and does his best not to mind (because he cannot afford to mind- if he minds, the only place he can sit in is his house, a prison, the room where he'd burnt and died in over and over and over- the three are different names for the same thing). It is good to be outdoors. The clouds swirl into meaningless but mesmerising shapes, the sun beams down and warms his skin, the world breathes, alive, and if he closes his eyes he can pretend that the Hero has never arrived, and he's content enough with that.

The moment doesn't tend to last, if only because he's always been too curious for his own good and can't resist looking at what new destruction the Hero has decided to wreck upon the world, and he still feels it whenever the Hero kills any monster at all anyway. If the world was a beach, and the monsters that populated it were the sand, he's quite sure a good third of the original sand is now missing, and that isn't even accounting for the fact that a good chunk of the sand had been turned to Hallowed sand, either. The Hero is destructive. The Hero has always been destructive. But everything would be alright. This would be worth it. The Hero of Terraria.. they were the hero. They would save the world. They had to.

What else would his suffering have been for?

Something like a tug pulls him out his spiraling thoughts (which is the one activity he finds himself falling into time and time again. There's really nothing much else to do these days) and he can tell he's been assigned to a new house. He hesitates. It's not that he's ungrateful to have been assigned a new house and escape the ghosts of his deaths that haunted the room, silent but no less fearful for it as they huddled in the same corner, backed up against the wall where he'd had had no more room to run to, and the only thing left to do was stare and wait to die again

And there it is, his second most common past time these days: struggling to breathe past the all encompassing panic that seizes him at it's own fancy despite the fact that he's outdoors. He can't help the bitter laugh that escapes him.

It's not funny.

---

When he finally turns up at his new house, he's surprised to find a surface Glowing Mushroom biome- now that was something you didn't see everyday! Glowing Mushrooms are found underground for good reason, needing the Cavern's controlled air to maintain itself in good condition, with most of its inhabitants being surprisingly fragile to elements outside of the little world they live in. Just a few minutes outside of the mushroom biome is enough for any inhabitant to lose their signature glow from the spores, and a few minutes more would see them dying of their own accord. He hadn't expected the Hero to have managed to cultivate such a delicate biome up on the Surface against all odds.

His neighbour is the Truffle- the most intelligent species to inhabit the Glowing Mushroom biome. It's not too much of a surprise the Truffle had been drawn to this biome, most of the Glowing Mushroom monsters having enough sense to leave one of their own alone, but nevertheless being unlikely to provide any much conversation. He has no real qualms towards either the Truffle or the Mushroom biome, and so he dips his head in a half bow and introduces, "greetings. I'm Jacob the Guide, it's nice to meet you."

The Truffle stares at him. He smiles politely and waits for a response. It doesn't come. He has no idea what Truffle customs are- he knows them as a species, of course. He knows that, while nomadic and generally individualistic in living, Truffles share a strong link with each other and keep in touch through some form of spore exchange, likely the same way how Glowing Mushroom inhabitants always recognised one of their own (covering himself in spores is not enough to pass off as one of them, apparently). But he doesn't know of their culture, not specifically. He knows what goes on in his world, and largely this means knowing how things work, but that's not always the case.

"Um.." he hopes his smile doesn't look too strained. Is the Truffle even blinking? "What's, ah.. what's your name?"

The Truffle's face (face? Upper body?) goes purplish. Oh, bother, he probably stank of whatever Forest grass smelt like to Truffles. They are holding their breath. They are most certainly holding their breath because he stinks. His own face flushes red with embarrassment.

"Muscaria," the Truffle says in a rush before he can back away or apologise. Their voice is coloured with an unrecognisable accent, and the only reason he knows they're saying their name (as well as what said name is) is because he pulls up the message log supposedly only the Hero can access, pushing past the flickering display and general resistance the message log puts up as he brute forces his way in in order to read the Truffle's spawn message. Muscaria the Truffle had arrived! blinks at him tauntingly among a sea of his own death and arrival messages. He ignores both the messages and the way his own stomach turns at the reminder of the Hero looms over him, despite being a couple inches shorter, face cast in shadow, eyes dispassionate and blank, pointing the spell book at him- he blinks away the memory and forces his mouth up into a shaky smile.

"That's a nice name," he says weakly, "I'm Jacob."

The realisation sinks in a second later and he flushes, blurts, "oh wait, I already told you that..", and promptly disengages from the conversation before he can ruin it any further. With any luck, that awkward conversation will simply be brushed off as a bad first impression.

Lady luck is not on his side, it seems.

Despite his best efforts to be helpful, friendly and nice (the way his job has always demanded him to be- he boxes that fact away for another day to deal with), the Truffle is cold at best, and downright aggressive at worst. It's probably because he's breaking some kind of cultural boundary, but the Truffle doesn't say so either, so it's not like he can correct himself. They don't talk much in general. Not to him, at any rate; they talk just fine to the Hero when they do drop by.

He pushes down the bitterness and anger that rises in his throat, boxes away the welling hurt in his heart, ignores the voice in his head that whispers, maybe it's you; maybe there's something wrong with you, and can you really blame them for ignoring you if you're the one who's wrong?

He goes about his day as best as he can manage. There's no Forest to stand in for hours on end, until his feet ache and the only thing he wants to do is collapse into a chair and sleep the whole night away. There's no real task to do in relation to the world, besides it's general upkeep and waiting for his stomach to flip in on itself when the Hero inevitably slays the next major monster. There's just the small little world he lives in now, him and the Truffle.

Him, and the Truffle that, he's 90% sure, harbours murderous intent towards him.

From the moment that he startles awake, on the verge of toppling out of his chair, he can feel a pair of eyes on him. It isn't even hard to catch the Truffle staring, considering their eyes and mushroom cap glows blue, just like the Glowing Mushrooms, and with how dark the Mushroom biome is, their glowing eyes are a dead giveaway. He gives up catching them in the act after 2 days, because the second he breaks eye contact with them, they're back at staring at him, plus, they aren't even ashamed about the fact that they're staring, making it a point to meet his gaze challengingly for a moment before they look away. It's weird, creepy, downright terrifying to have someone tracking his movements at all times, but.. he adjusts. Kind of. Not really. How is he supposed to adjust to having his potential killer track his day to day life?

The staring wouldn't be creepy if- well, it would still be creepy, but it wouldn't be so threatening if the Truffle didn't also make it clear at every turn they had some kind of problem with him. Every time they interact their face goes purple- he's decided it either means they are holding their breath or they're mad, which, well, he'd take the option that he stank and they were holding their breath, thank you very much- and their words are stilted. It's not that they cannot speak English- they talk fluently enough with the Hero, although what he can hear of their vocabulary is relatively simple- but when they talk to him their words are short, clipped, tone monotonous and clearly looking forward to ending their conversation with him if the way they inevitably go purple and their words get increasingly clipped is any indication.

He doubles down on his efforts to be polite, picking his words carefully, cautious of offending the Truffle. They tip their head up and flare their nostrils at him in reply, and- look. He knows he can be dense at times. He can't read the mood, he doesn't "get it", implications and double meanings fly over his head, but he can clearly tell the Truffle has a problem with him. What else is flaring your nostrils supposed to mean? A declaration of love? Please.

"I.. I'll take my leave, then," he manages weakly, and flees from the Truffle before they can do anything drastic.

The Truffle makes it a point to get into his personal space and flare their nostrils at him a few more times anyway. He huddles at the window and stares out at the Mushroom Grass outside like it's the most interesting thing in the world in reply, which, well. It might as well be. It would be the most interesting thing in the world if it would save him from having to acknowledge the Truffle is trying to pick a fight or deliver some kind of threatening message. Yeah. Yeah, he's just going to ignore the fact that they're staring at him, trying to get his attention to turn towards them, no doubt, so they can flare their nostrils and follow that up with a location and a date for a fistfight. He's had enough of being beaten up to last him a lifetime, thank you.

Not that the Hero has specifically beaten him up, technically. Because, technically speaking, they had been using magic it burns but he doesn't dare scream, doesn't dare incite their further wrath, is a coward and isn't willing to put his life on the line to bargain with even though he's always known and accepted he was going to die

He bursts out of his house in what he pretends is a completely calm and reasonable manner and prays the Truffle won't follow him. Now would be a terrible time for a fight. Now would be a terrible time for much of anything, actually. He folds his shaking hands together, pretends that that helps, pretends that he's not having difficulties breathing, pretends that nothing at all is wrong.

He's pretending a lot these days, too.

When he finally goes back in the Truffle is sitting in his chair, peering at him with their luminous blue eyes. He wonders if it would be rude to look away and pretend they never met his gaze, but the Truffle beats him to making the first action, tilting their head and asks, "are you ok?"

He stares at them. They stare at him. His mouth feels dry, even though the Mushroom biome air is always humid, making it near impossible to have a dry throat.

"I'm feeling quite alright, thank you for asking," he finally chooses to say, voice miraculously even. The Truffle flexes their hands like they'd like to wrap their hands around his throat and choke the life out of him, but their face isn't purple for once.

"Ok," they say quietly.

The Truffle is back to going purple in the face and flaring their nostrils at him the next day, and now they occasionally flex their hands too. It's not as threatening as it should be- now that he's putting the pieces together, the Truffle is mostly likely the nervous sort. Impeded by a communication disorder, perhaps? That would explain why they flushed purple when they felt put on the spot to talk, and why they grew increasingly short the longer the conversation dragged on, and had nervous ticks like flaring their nostrils or flexing their hands. He makes it a point to greet them and keep their conversations short after that realisation. The Truf- Muscaria is honestly pretty friendly, communication issues aside.

He throws up when the Hero slays Plantera. He wakes up tucked into the mushroom bed in the Truffle's room, the vague memory of a spongey hand carding through his hair, a pair of glowing blue eyes watching him keenly from across the room.

"Are you ok?" The Tr- Muscaria asks, flexing their hands. He nods as way of answer, folding his shaking hands together, and he sees the way Muscaria's eyes flicker down towards his hands. They won't stop shaking.

"Ok," they say quietly anyway, and it's in that moment that the Guide realises that Muscaria, Truffle, non-human and impeded with a communication disorder, treats him more humanely than the Hero ever has. A bitter chuckle slips past his lips, and Muscaria doesn't comment when the chuckle turns into a sob. They really aren't the bad sort at all- he could live with that. It's more than he's ever had.

5.

Something is Wrong.

Usually, when the Gui- Jacob, his name is Jacob (something Muscaria never fails to remind him of with how excessively they use his name), realises that something is wrong, the follow up identification of what is wrong doesn't take long at all. He is not the world, but he's tied so closely to it that seeking out what is wrong is as easy as simply pointing out which part of his body hurt. The spread of the Hallow and Corruption burning through his veins; the tender feeling of a bruise from a meteor crash; the inevitable nausea that crashes over him with the death of a major monster or the Voodoo Demon.. it's not all bad. The giddy euphoria of a successful respawn offsets the nausea of the monster's death. Mostly. Anyways.

This time, he spends a good 4 hours scouring the world before he identifies what is wrong. That is the first red flag.

The second red flag is that the source of Wrong takes the form of 4 figures clad in azure and gold worshipping.. something. Something he can't see, no matter how he squints and tries to push past the way his eyes simply slide off the.. the Thing. He is the master of this world. Everything in it should bend to his will. The Thing remains mysteriously obscured.

The way the flow of energy warps and twists around and into whatever the cultists are worshipping, identical to the way energy warps and twists around It is the third red flag.

It doesn't take anything more than that for him to deduce that the figures are the ones behind the unnatural binding of the Souls of Might, Fright and Sight to their vessel unwillingly. If they were any normal monster, major or minor, he'd have borne down on them with the weight of the entire world, and thoroughly erased them from existence itself. As it is, the way the energy spins and twists around the Thing presents the same problem that the binding of the Souls to their vessel had presented (and still presents). He cannot see what exactly is wrong. He cannot correct nor alter the flow of energy. Whatever this is, it's something above his jurisdiction of control- and there's very few things above his jurisdiction of control, considering that he's at the very top of the chain of command. This is something otherworldly and extraterrestrial.

Something is Wrong.

And there's only one thing he knows of that could be so Wrong.

He reaches out to the Hero- another unknown variable that he cannot control; the Hero is above him both in name and reality, now that they have bested him- and attempts to press a sense of urgency upon them to check the Dungeon. He might not be able to control the Hero, but at least the flow of energy around them is something he can understand and influence. More chaotic than the world's natural flow, working in its own order and its own order only, gleaming with something More and hardened by something Other, but human all the same, moving with the world's natural flow of energy seamlessly. He doesn't know if he succeeds in urging them to the Dungeon (and really, the thought in general of asking for their help or working with them is.. unpleasant, to say the least), doesn't even know if he can trust them to help him, but he'd take the lesser evil (the Hero) in this situation. At least their energy is something familiar to him.

The Hero heads to the Dungeon. He doesn't particularly care if it is of their own violation or not, as long as they're doing it.

It feels like the whole world is holding its breath as the Hero slays the lot of robed cultists standing at the Dungeon with frightening efficiency- wait, no, there's one more.. right? He squints but can't quite see past the mess of energy that both is the Thing and that surrounds the Thing. The Hero flaps their way to stand on top of the Dungeon, every line of their body tense with anticipation, hand tight around their weapon. Th- Jacob firmly ignores the part of his brain going haywire remembering how the Hero looms over him and strikes him down his heart flutters, watching the Dungeon closely.

The Thing the robed figures were worshipping.. dissipates? Unwinds? No.. being absorbed, perhaps, or possessing someone (the last cultist he thought he'd seen?)- the way the energy warps around the Thing makes seeing anything with the world's eyes difficult at best and impossible at worst, but he can guess at what's happening by judging the general movement of what he cannot see. It makes him reel, trying to process the fact that whatever magic the cultists had been worshipping is potent enough to exist in a raw form, and alive enough to take shelter in a new vessel when threatened, but the Hero shows no such qualms. In fact, their stance is eager, flicking their Spectre Staff to loosen their wrist and instantly firing an assault of magic at the Vessel as it starts attacking. They duck and weave, movements impatient, and th- Jacob makes a noise of frustration as flecks of the Thing burst into life all over the place, obscuring the entire Dungeon from his view. He can barely pick out the Hero's energy from the mess of energy the Dungeon has devolved into. There is no secret in this world that he isn't privy to. There is no location that he cannot see. He is the Wall of Flesh. He is the core and master of the world. He has eyes in absolutely every corner of the world and there is no hiding from him, and yet, for the second time, he is rendered effectively blind from this magic. It's frustrating. It leaves him feeling lost and helpless it reminds him of being murdered by the Hero.

He shakes off the memory and focuses on the Dungeon firmly. His head pounds, some internal pressure trying to push it's way outwards, but the magic around the Dungeon is dissipating and the Hero is back in town. The Thing is gone, and he stares at the Dungeon bricks for a moment longer just to assure himself that he can see again, then sweeps the world for anything that might be causing his headache. Nothing is out of place. It's rare that his human body is the one that is acting up, but not impossible, especially with his tendency to forget to practise activities like eating and sleeping. In his defense, it's not like he's ever had to do anything like that as the Wall of Flesh, nor did his mother ever tell him that wearing a human skin for prolonged periods would mean that he would have to start needing what a human needed too. Well. He'd fix the sleeping part right now with a quick nap. He starts towards his chair-

"Jacob! Jacob!" There are a pair of hands on his shoulders, and the Truffle.. Muscaria, that's right. Muscaria the Truffle is.. above him? That's not right. He's walking towards his chair. He blinks a few times.

Oh. He's on the floor. That explains a lot, actually.

"I- I'm alright," he mumbles, sitting up and blinking past the headache that instantly makes its presence known. His entire brain feels numb and sluggish. There's a moment of silence where Muscaria blinks as well, then they explode, "no! You fainted!"

It's the first time they have disagreed with his assessment of his own well being.

"It's not ok! You're not ok! You-" Muscaria makes a series of weird sounds that rolls off their tongue smoothly, which is no doubt their native tongue, but he has absolutely no hope in guessing nor understanding, then huffs in frustration and settles on saying, "Jacob, please."

His head pounds. He blinks and says, "I'm alright, I'm just tired. I'll get some sleep, alright?"

Muscaria stares at him, large luminous eyes brimming with emotion, but ultimately ducks their head and quietly agrees, "ok. Sleep in my bed. Please."

Th- Jacob is fairly sure the only reason there's a bed at all is for the Hero's convenience involving setting their spawn, than out of consideration for any of them going to sleep. The alternative is that they cared enough to provide a bed for the Truffle and not him, which is a thread of thought that would no doubt feed into his bitterness, so he chooses not to entertain that thought at all. He curls up in the Mushroom Bed, firmly facing the wall (a habit he'd picked up whenever the Tr- Muscaria insisted he slept in their bed, so he wouldn't have to stare at them staring at him trying to fall asleep). His head still pounds. Lying down hasn't alleviated it at all. He sweeps the world, seeking the Hero's presence (he may have some very complicated feelings in regards to them, but their energy has always been something that eased his mind).

He can't find them. He checks two more times, stomach sinking, before it occurs to him to check for something he can't see instead.

Oh.

Oh, that's not good.

There are 3 areas of the world he distinctly cannot see, diverting his eyes to slide right off it. It's the same magic as the Thing (if a bit weaker). There's a distinct taste of acid and something sour that almost lingers on his tongue if he focuses on these areas hard enough. The mess of energies on the right are spaced equally from each other between the midpoint to endpoint of that half of the map, but the blotch of energy on the left is located to the far right of its half of the map. Strange. The Thing must have split up into multiple parts upon being defeated by the Hero initially. Considering he can't sense them, they must be in the middle of one of those areas, hopefully sorting the issue out and putting an end to this madness-

Muscaria stands by the bedside, expression wild and concerned. He's sitting up in bed. His entire body throbs with the aftertaste of the intense pain that flooded him.

The first thing he does is to scan the world. The Hero has just reappeared on the right side of the map via a Pylon, and is heading towards the mess of energy on the far right. The left side is void of any disturbances.

"Oh," leaves him in a breathless rush, "that's not right."

"What?" Muscaria stares at him like he's lost his mind. He shakes his head as way of answer, forcing his way into the message log, ignoring the way he starts to shake at the additional exertion, and reads the most recent 3 messages:

Celestial creatures are invading!
Your mind goes numb..
You are overwhelmed with pain..

Celestial creatures; otherworldly magic he can't see; a cult; something above his jurisdiction of control; 4 pillars; unnatural, wrong, horrifying and terrifying pain; Cthulhu, the Moon Lord, his father.. whatever; did it really matter at this point?

The Hero isn't fixing anything. The betrayal that wells up is entirely unwelcome.

"Jacob," Muscaria says, "are you ok?"

No, he thinks, the world isn't ok at all. The Hero is killing it. They are supposed to save it, and look at it now.

But I am saving it, he can almost imagine the Hero would say, I am saving it by conquering it.

That's what I said too, a voice that he doesn't want to recognise whispers in his ear, and that's the only warning Jacob gets before his head explodes into a cacophony of what must be at least a hundred different voices screaming and trying to say something. He (unfortunately) doesn't black out for this one. It almost makes him miss the white hot pain that had cut through him, so sharp and potent he'd been unable to put it in words at all.

By the time the voices fade, and he has the presence of mind to check on the world, the Hero is nowhere to be found. They must already be at the last pillar. Muscaria has entered a trance-like state (he suspects they should have fallen into this state much earlier, they were simply fighting it off out of sheer concern. Their concern towards him is curious, if endearing. The other NPCs must be in a similar state, he's probably the sole exception- although, to be fair, he is less of an NPC and more of a monster). The message log outright rejects his attempts to view the latest message. His hands shake. They won't stop shaking. He's never been so weak as to be unable to access the message log of all things. The thought makes him shake harder.

Half of his eyes have shut down, either from the sheer pressure of being directly exposed to otherworldly magic, or because the effort of existing far outweighed his current energy levels. It's probably the latter. For the first time in his life, his connection to the monsters of the world is foggy. He can't quite hear or feel them. They probably can't hear him. He feels fragile, like a single wrong touch would send him crumpling into nothingness. He folds his hands together- it's never helped.

He doesn't need to see the message to know impending doom approaches when the Hero clears out the final pillar. The suffocating dread that presses down on him is more than enough of a message. The world itself trembles under the weight of the incoming judgement, everything in it threatening to fall apart- or maybe he's just shaking too much and too hard and his vision blurs. He shuts down the rest of his eyes manually. It's not like he'll be able to see anything anyway, and he needs the energy more than his sight right now.

The world trembles. His hands shake. They are one and the same. He is the Guide. He is the Wall of Flesh. He is not the world but he is tied so closely to it it might as well be an extension of his consciousness. His name- and does it even matter what his name is, at this point?- is Jacob. His job is to be helpful and friendly and nice. His job is to prepare to die and allow the Hero to wreck the world and use him as they please. His job is to be helpless, because all the power in the world means nothing in the face of what the Hero wants.

He doesn't know if the way his stomach swoops is because he's thinking of the Hero or because the Moon Lord has made an appearance. He doesn't think he cares enough to find out.

+1.

[         ], The Hero of Terraria, King of the World, Slayer of Cthulhu, among many other titles that they earned many times over is.. well. A menace. Destructive. Frightening. There is no polite or gentle way to put it.

They look nothing like him. Their messy hair sticks out in tufts from under their Green Cap- if he squints hard enough he can almost still see the invisible blood (his blood) on that particular piece of accessory- and is several shades redder than his own. They wear a Hunter Cloak around their shoulders, an Elf Shirt under that, and a pair of Bee Pants, while he wears a simple shirt and blue pants. The Hero's eyes are rusted, cold, gleaming with something Other and hardened by something More. His eyes haven't worked the same way since the Moon Lord. He's a lot more tired these days, so maybe that's why.

He doesn't know what he expects when the Hero stops by his house. No matter the reason, his heart twists and he hides his shaking hands behind his back so the Hero won't see it. His voice is miraculously as even as ever when he smiles, "greetings, [         ]. How may I help you?"

The Hero closes the door instead of replying. That isn't concerning at all. They brush past him, closing and blocking the door between his and Muscaria's room, effectively locking the room, before circling back around to stand in front of him. He curls his hands around each other tighter and waits. His skin prickles with phantom magic and pain. They've hurt him and slain him, they've stripped him of every value, what more did they possibly want?

"I think you owe me an apology," the Hero says.

"I'm- sorry, what?"

"You owe me an apology," the Hero repeats, tilting their head. He stares at them, struggling to process what exactly they're demanding from him and what he has possibly done that warrants an apology- and how dare they, how dare they demand an apology from him when they are the one who has hurt him and killed him, when they should be the one begging for forgiveness and trying to make amends-

"The only thing I owe you is vengeance," he says hotly, resentment heating his face, an entire journey's worth of bitterness and hurt rising up his throat, "we're supposed to work together as a team, but not only were you unwilling to do so, you ignored me and actively disregarded any advice I gave you. You destroyed the world you were trying to save. You killed me for a vanity item-!"

He chokes off into a wheeze as the Hero squeezes the Voodoo Doll they're holding.

"Oh. So you do feel that," the Hero observes, watching with clinical detachment, "I didn't think it'd actually work. Makes the farming worth it, I guess."

The death of the Voodoo Demons the day prior suddenly makes a lot more sense. He'd thought they had been in the Underworld for another reason, and the death of the Voodoo Demons had been an unfortunate consequence. As usual, the Hero finds ways to subvert his expectations and do something much worse. They graciously release their grip on the doll after a moment more, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

"Well?" The Hero prompts, squeezing the doll lightly. It is so light it could well be an idle movement, but he recognises it for what it is- a threat. It doesn't help quell the bitterness in his chest at all.

"..my apologies if I've caused you any inconvenience or harm in any shape or form. It was not my intention," he allows, dipping his head in submission. If the way the Hero tightens their fists- it's not hard to know that by the pressure vicing around him- that's not at all what they want to hear. Well, it's not like he wants to apologise to them of all people either. But here they are anyway.

"The zombies," the Hero snaps, forcibly releasing their grip. It takes a moment for that one to sink in.

Oh. Well, he is sorry about this one. He'd regrettably killed many a NPC he'd been neutral on or even liked to some degree from opening the door, especially on the Blood Moon. He's pleased that it'd caused inconvenience to the Hero, though. Still, "my apologies for opening the door, allowing the zombies to enter and often causing harm to the other inhabitants."

"And for being annoying," the Hero adds expectantly.

He blinks as he processes that one, trying to push down the rising indignation. "I think being a greedy, self-fulfilling, tyrant threatening an apology out of me is the greater sin here, don't you think? While we're at it, how about your-" -and there it is. The artificial shortness of breath almost feels like victory- no, not victory. Vindication, maybe, or spite. He opens his mouth to continue his tirade anyway, but the Hero beats him to speaking.

"I know you're the Wall of Flesh," the Hero says quietly. It's loud in the resulting silence. "So explain. Apologise. You're annoying and won't shut up for more than 5 seconds, especially because you aren't trying to help. You open the door to the zombies and hinder me. You're," he sees the bestiary flicker into existence under the Hero's fingers briefly as they quote, "the core and master of the world, so tell me why every monster out there wants to kill me, why you're withholding the drops I want from me, why you aren't helping at all when, supposedly, you have more power than I do. Then you blame me for failing to be a hero?! It's your fault!"

The Hero is shouting at the end of their speech, and their grip on the doll has gone from tight to crushing. He heaves for air, struggling to even begin to reply to the Hero's somewhat correct but very twisted concept. It's not true! He is trying to help. It's his job (it's always been his job; he's bound to the role whether he likes it or not). His other job is to oversee the world- not control it, or dictate it, but oversee it- and both he and the world are separate entities, anyway. He can control the monsters in the world, it's true. He just doesn't. It's more likely to backfire on him than anything else (the last time he'd puppeted the entire monster population was when they were revolting against him. It'd been a massive headache. He'd felt that one for weeks after), and besides, he doesn't like the idea of exercising the power he's been granted so freely. What was that saying, "with great power comes great responsibility"? He opens his mouth to say just that, but the only thing that escapes is a thin wheeze. 

"You-" the Hero cuts themselves off and exhales loudly, easing their grip. A couple of coughs escape him, and he has to take a few seconds just to breathe before he feels like he has enough air in his lungs to speak.

"I'm the Guide," he settles on saying. It comes out weaker than he'd like. But it's true. He is the Guide. His name is Jacob. He is a human. He cannot be anything other, because the Wall of Flesh is hurt and it wants vengeance. It wants vengeance that he cannot deliver.

"And you're the Wall of Flesh," the Hero adds on bitterly, crossing their arms.

He shakes his head, searching for a way to deny it, then, "you killed me."

"You attacked me."

"You summoned me."

The Hero throws their hands up. "You would have told me to."

"You hurt me," he replies instead, desperation clogging his throat. It's just one of many crimes the Hero has committed against him, but this one stings the most. He wants- he needs the Hero to acknowledge this. They can't force him to apologise for withholding the fact that he's the Wall of Flesh if they aren't going to apologise for killing him in that form. That's not fair at all. He is the Guide. He is the Wall of Flesh. He is not the world but he is tied to closely to it that any destruction wrecked upon it might as well be wrecked upon him. The hollow ache in his chest is more than enough proof of that. The Hero regards him with something like disbelief and anger, crossing their arms again, mouth opening to deny it, or tell him off for being dramatic, perhaps-

"You let me."

They tap their foot against the floor in a steady rhythm. "You're the core and master of the world, take some responsibility. Don't push everything on me. You could have flooded me in Blood Moons and boss battles. You could have despawned Voodoo Demons once I defeated you- seriously, don't tell me you don't know what you dropped and if that fit with my crafting goals. You could have-"

"How am I to blame when you're the one choosing to hurt me?" He interrupts, face hot with anger, "I didn't let you do anything, you just came here and upended my whole life!"

"If you hate me so much, then why are you a willing sacrifice for me to summon the Wall of Flesh?!" The Hero demands, swinging back into anger with full force, "if I went down to the Underworld, right now, and threw this," they wave the Voodoo Doll, "into some lava pit I'd bet anything you'd be summoned!"

He shuts his mouth with a click.

"Should we try it? Right here, right now?" The Hero demands, stepping forward aggressively, the doll disappearing and changing into a Demon Conch. He takes a step back to match their advance, and they stop where they are standing. Their expression is unreadable.

"..no. That's alright," he finally says stiffly, looking away. There's another long silence as the Hero clutches the Demon Conch tightly, looking tempted to go try it anyway, but they switch it back out for the Voodoo Doll with an aggravated sigh at last.

"You let me hurt you. So stop blaming me," the Hero's voice is stern.

"Right. My apologies. That is my mistake," he dips his head and stares at the floor. The Hero's Amphibian Boots are shiny. He wonders how they manage to keep their equipment so clean considering that they run through quite a number of less than pleasant things daily. Such is the mystery of the world.

"And for being annoying," the Hero prompts.

"And for being annoying," he concurs.

"And for the Wall of Flesh business."

He grits his teeth and buries his anger and hurt 6 feet under, where it'll never see the light of day, and dutifully repeats, "and for the Wall of Flesh business."

There's a long silence before the Hero switches the doll in their hand into a Rainbow Staff with a "whatever", firing the weapon a couple of times to readjust themselves to the feel of the weapon. He yelps as one of the shots graze him, leaving his skin burning with the aftershock of the mana charged shot.

"Oh, yeah.." the Hero starts muttering to themselves, switching out a pair of wings for the Voodoo Doll in their equipped slot- was that why the second doll had been able to affect him?- and sorting through their inventory with no small amount of frustration. They don't provide any sort of apology for the shot. Nor do they provide any kind of closure to the conversation they just had. They simply unblock the door to the Tr- Muscaria's room and disappear in a flash via the Mushroom Pylon.

The Guide doesn't know why he's disappointed.