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skala · 3 years

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The Exile

(I already posted this fic on discord a few days ago, but I figured I’d put it here as well.)

Summary: Purple is banished, not only from his kingdom, but from his computer. This story follows the events of AvM 9 and 10, before Purple’s encounter with Bronze.

Length: 1780 words

The last rays of the evening sun shone dark and red through the bars of the prison, its somber hue a consequence of the smoke still hanging over the village like a heavy shroud. Inside the cell, Purple drew his knees to his chest and pulled his cloak tightly around himself, as if to suffocate his guilt. This morning, he had been a king. A misguided quest to steal a dragon’s egg had lost him his crown, his new friends, and the trust of those who had once revered him; a trust he could never hope to regain.

But none of it mattered, Purple told himself. This prison was never meant to hold him. A few more hours until nightfall, then he would break through the cobblestone, delete his minecraft save files, and reset the game. He repeated the words under his breath like a mantra: delete, reset. Delete, reset.

A small voice inside his head, a voice Purple hated, admonished him for his cowardice, for the ease at which he abandoned all he cared about. He shook his head to silence it. Delete. Besides, it wasn’t as though he would be harming anyone. The villagers’ memories their town’s destruction, like their memories of Purple, would merely be erased. When he reloaded this world, they would welcome him with open arms and make him their king, just like before. Only this time he would be a better ruler, more generous; more humble. Reset—

The iron door slammed open, startling Purple out of his ruminations. A cleric Purple knew well entered the prison, followed by a stonemason who beckoned him outside.

“Come. A verdict has been reached.”

Purple stared at them in bewilderment. “You’re not going to leave me here?”

Though the cleric had been one of Purple’s closest advisors, he now regarded his former friend and ally with contempt. “The ways in which you manipulate this world have never been clear to us. But we’re not stupid. We know you possess the means to…” the cleric paused, searching for the right word. “The means to eliminate us.”

Purple wished he could melt into the wall. They knew? He thought of Blue and Green, the stick figures he had betrayed. Had they warned the villagers? As if in a trance, Purple let himself be led out into the fading dusk. The stonemason directed two irons golems to position themselves on either side of Purple, and with a wave of his hand they started forward, in the direction of the town square.

Despite their simple natures, the villagers were a remarkably efficient people—already, much of the ender dragon’s damage had been repaired. And yet, as Purple glanced about himself, he found the rebuilt homes oddly deserted: no smoke rose from their chimneys; no candlelight shone through their windows. The usual rhythm of barter and trade had been replaced with an eerie silence broken only by metallic plodding of the golems as they continued their rigid march. Above the rooftops, the crumbling towers of Purple’s castle loomed like the skeletal remains of some great beast, stark and unadorned.

But when they reached the square, Purple nearly lost his footing. His throne hall had been utterly demolished, sealing the end portal beneath the rubble, and a makeshift podium had been erected in its place. Every villager had gathered here. Some wielded pickaxes, others held blocks of obsidian.

Out of habit, Purple gripped the golem’s arm to stabilize himself as he watched them build an arch of the volcanic rock and light it with a strike of steel against flint—within moments, the nether portal was complete.

Ascending to the dais, the cleric raised his hands to silence the chatter of the crowd.

“The time has come. Our former leader has brought enough destruction upon us already: we must not give him the chance to erase us from existence.” The cleric turned to address Purple. “We know that not even a hundred layers of obsidian could hold you forever. To let you remain here, even as our prisoner, would put us all in danger.”

“But I can’t survive in the nether!” Purple protested, trembling as the villagers forced him closer and closer to the portal, towards the shimmering curtain that separated his empire from the inhospitable underworld that lay beyond. “This is my home!”

“Not anymore.” The cleric’s voice held no trace of sympathy. He spoke a command to the golem beside him, and at once fingers of iron closed around Purple’s body, lifting him into the air, above the heads of the onlookers. One part of him wanted to hurl obscenities at these peasants, these barbarians who dared threaten him. Another part wanted only to beg their forgiveness. And yet, as Purple gazed past the faces of the men and women and children he had sworn to protect, at his city lying in ruins beneath a flame-tinted sky, he knew there was nothing left to say.

Then the iron golem heaved him through the portal, and the overworld disappeared from view. When Purple’s vision cleared, he found himself in an unfamiliar part of the nether, upon a narrow ledge high above an ocean of lava. Heedless of his precarious position, he scrambled to his feet and lunged back towards the portal, reached out—and hesitated.

No. Not yet. As he stared into the swirling, hypnotic spirals, Purple faintly heard a shout of triumph from the other side, followed by the sounds of breaking stone. Then, silence. Yet the portal did not disappear; that translucent veil remained sheer and unbroken, gently rippling as if stirred by a passing breeze. Having never traveled to the nether himself, the cleric must not have known that a portal destroyed in one dimension remained intact in the other.

Purple breathed a sigh of relief, almost laughing at the villagers’ ignorance. They believed he was trapped here.

But as he stepped back from the obsidian frame, he heard a hideous shrieking sound from somewhere in the caverns above him, and he turned to see one wretched ghast preparing an attack. He ducked, and fireball hit the portal, instantly extinguishing the veil.

Purple screamed incoherently, flailing his arms as if to catch the fading particles as the nether portal vanished, and with it, his only means of returning home. The ghast responded with another fireball. Cursing in frustration, Purple took shelter behind a pillar of basalt and searched through his inventory. The villagers had taken his weapons and tools, as well as anything else that might have been useful, including his elytra. All that remained were a few carrots, some quartz, and a single allium flower, its magenta petals already beginning to wilt in the nether’s oppressive heat.

Purple tensed as a second blast shook the foundation of the pillar. A third might bring down an avalanche. But the ghast’s cry was cut short, its attention diverted by an unknown foe. Crouching low to avoid detection, Purple ducked out from his hiding place just in time to see a robed woman slay the fiendish mob with a well-timed arrow.

She was a witch, Purple realized. Her form appeared to shift and flicker, as though the molecules in her body were constantly rearranging themselves. In one instant, she assumed the form of an enderman, dark as a silhouette as she teleported across the lava. In another, she became a shambling mass of fiery limbs and smoke, indistinguishable from a blaze. Mesmerized, Purple didn’t notice the ender pearl until was too late. Before he could react, the witch had teleported onto the netherrack beside him, brandishing her crossbow.

“Don’t point that thing at me!”

“I’d wager I just saved your life, stranger,” she said, her voice like the grating of a rusty hinge. “That was my kill, and my reward.”

The ghast’s tear had landed not far from where Purple stood. He kicked the white gemstone over to her and tried to regain his composure. “Have it. I’m no hunter of ghasts.”

The witch looked Purple up and down, her eyes lingering on his regal attire. “Now this is pretty,” she mused, running crooked fingers along the fur trim of his cloak. “Are you a monarch?”

“I used to be.”

The witch’s voice grew slightly softer. “Ah. Now there’s a sadder tale in four words than any you might have spun.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Purple shrugged off his mantle, holding it out like an offering. “It’s valuable. I’ll trade it for flint and steel.”

“Keep your fineries,” the witch laughed, “I have no use for it. This, on the other hand—” she drew out the withered allium and held it aloft. “In the right brew, such petals as these can grant fire-resistance strong enough to wade through lava as if it were water.” She pocketed the flower with the ghast’s tear, and returned Purple’s cloak, along with a fire charge.

Purple glanced back at his ruined portal, turning the fire charge over in his hands. His key home suddenly felt less valuable.

“Could… could you teach me?”

His question surprised the witch. “I admit, these excursions to the underworld have taken their toll on me. I suppose I could use an apprentice. What say you, fair prince? Will you help me?”

Not waiting for an answer, the witch began to bridge out from the ledge. But Purple had already made up his mind. He refastened his cloak, and strode out onto the narrow path, across the molten sea.

The following evening, Purple wandered through the bracken and mossy willows of the marshland, through teal-toned mists and valleys that folded over each other like wrinkled fabric. He had spent the morning underground, collecting spider eyes for the witch’s next batch of potions. Now he sought red-capped mushrooms, the last ingredient he needed.

He brushed aside a curtain of leaves, searching for the elusive fungi among the gnarled roots of a willow, and paused to watch a trio of fireflies dance through the air. It was peaceful here. Cicadas trilled in the distance, and frogs called to each other from their lagoons.

Purple wondered if he would ever see his home again. He thought of his villagers, rebuilding their homes and farms without him. He thought of Blue and Green and the other stick figures, together on their creator’s computer.

Purple was alone. He was still in exile, still powerless, living in the company of a mysterious witch he didn’t fully trust. And yet, as he leaned against the trunk to watch the last rays of the setting sun flicker through its vines, for the first time in his life, Purple felt free.

#animation vs minecraft #skala writes

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