Ranboo angst for the soul

book six: a bitterness unlike lemon

tw: self-harm, religious stuff

Ranboo looked to the sky, and let the rain fall on his face.

This wasn't a day unlike any other. The enderman was smart- he knew of the world he lived in. He knew the way it helped him- and the way it harmed him. Must he not take advantage of the gifts nature has so graciously provided? Is it better, to forsake it, like his peers around him? How they urge him to?

Nature has told him to not put himself first. He knows not what nature tells the others; he knows not if they even listen. You cannot tell the stars to stop shining, or the wind to stop blowing. So he stands in the rain.

He ponders if this gift is a punishment. It harms him. Burns litter his skin like pine needles around an evergreen. Some are not noticeable to the naked eye. Some burn bright purple, killing the tissue it touches. He wasn't made for the rain.

He was made for this world, but not all of it. Heaven forbid he be greedy. He has committed outrageous sins- A nun would faint should she hear of his terrors. If the son of God died for his sins, this is his punishment. Yet it is also a gift.

Clears his head, somehow.

So he stands in the rain. Sometimes for hours. Sometimes only for a few seconds.

He went inside a bit later. He tended to his wounds- he wasn't a fool, he needed to clean them up- healing himself with a masterfully brewed potion.

He enjoys brewing potions. It's a more healthy way to distract himself from the pain he faces and the pain he causes others. He takes hours to brew each one, hand grinding with a mortal and pestle instead of a machine. He'll sometimes not sleep for days, brewing and brewing to make the best quality potions seen on earth.

So he brews a potion of healing- He draws the water from the collect outside- and fills his cauldron, making sure it is clean first. Rust would be detrimental. He hand picks wild nether wart in the other dimension.

He knows of others who grow it in the overworld, yet only the best can grow in the harsh conditions of the Nether. Maybe to an intermediate level brewer, the only difference may be the smell and color, yet he knows that the properties of wild Nether wart outstandingly surpass those of farmed.

He gathers melons from the depths of the jungle- the conditions make them sweeter and more juicy. He takes gold from his storage- Exposure to monsters in the mines deteriorate the worth of them- his own have been cleaned and banished of any dust, chemicals, or anything that might hurt the potion.

Then he brews. He brews, brews, brews, and guess what? He brews again.

He sees the color become that of the most perfect potion, and he turns down the heat to a simmer. He inspects the smell, the opacity, everything. He gathers several bottles, and carefully draws the liquid, sealing the bottles with corks.

He drinks one- and feels the energy surge through him. One would compare it to honey- yet it is more thin than that when brewed correctly.

New scars gloss over, the old tissue flaking away, whispering goodbye as they disintegrate. New skin is formed, thin, virgin, newborn. He feels his heart beat stronger, his lungs draw more air, his blood flow thicker.

That is what a healing potion does.

Had he used a commercial value concoction, the effect would merely be cosmetic with only little repair.

He hummed a bit, grabbing a piece of parchment and tagging each of the bottles and their brew-date. He discarded any unuseable expired potions, keeping the ones that fermented for battles.

He felt content once he was finished.

This one only took into midday next day. He has refined his technique, yet he does not take shortcuts.

Others could not change him, he realized. They sing a song of concern, of "you mustn't do that, it hurts you."

It hurts him. On his last life, he didn't much care anymore.

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a/n: THIS WAS A LITTLE SAD OKAY. OKAY. I AM SAD.

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